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Simply thinking about Jack Abbot correcting your posture.Â
Heâs a doctor, so sure it starts there, in the territory of alignment and strain and long-term damage, all the tiny indignities a body absorbs when nobodyâs paying proper attention to it.
And he worries about you, of course. Worries about the set of your neck and the rounded drag of your shoulders, about how you curl in on yourself over your charting like the screen might swallow you whole, about how you hunch over your phone texting those ridiculous little emoticons and memes he glances at with visible suspicion.Â
So he makes an effort to fix it.
A broad hand behind your chair, angling it closer to the desk until your spine has no excuse but the lengthen. Two fingers slipped beneath your chin when youâre bent out of shape around your phone on the couch, tilting your gaze upward until the vertebrae stack properly and the ache in your neck eases. Even in transit â plate to sink, fridge to stove â he stops to cup your shoulders, easing them from your ears with a downward glide of his thumbs.Â
A silent reward hums through the touch: a silent good girl, there you go.
âSit up, sweetheart.â âUncross your legs.â âLaptop higher.â âRelax your jaw.âÂ
He knows heâs a perpetual nuisance, aware he sounds like someoneâs dad, can practically hear the eye-roll you swallow every time.Â
He also knows it embarrasses you, especially at work, where your face goes warm when he corrects you within earshot of other people. And it isnât that he sets out to make you squirm, though heâd be lying if he said he got nothing out of that quick little fluster he can pull from you with a word, a hand, a look.Â
Itâs just that once he notices you folded in on yourself for too long, something in him firms. His voice drops into that clipped, authoritative register, flipping a switch to brisk certainty and command, and by then itâs already too late to pretend youâre not going to listen.Â
So when he catches you slouched at the station again, practically kissing the monitor, he doesnât hesitate.
Steps in behind you. His palm fits against the ridge of your upper back, heat seeping straight through the thin cotton.
âUp.â
You mutter, âI hate you,â eyes never leaving the vitals grid, and Jack takes it as the green light it is.
His thumb glides from back to shoulder to nape. The opposite hand curves under your jawâs hinge, guiding your head until your spine clicks back to neutral while the entire nursesâ station pretends their screens are riveting.Â
Public proof that your posture, and maybe the rest of you, answers to Dr. Abbotâs touch far faster than to your own irritation.Â
âThereâs a whole skeleton under all that,â he observes dryly. âTry using it.â
You bat at his hand, a half-hearted slap. âStop manhandling me at work.â
He ignores that, drops the chair one notch (ignoring your surprised squeak too), angles the monitor to proper eye level, then squares your shoulders with both palms. A measured squeeze follows, equal parts reassurance and warning.
âBetter,â he decides. âAnd if I catch you bent over that phone again, Iâm taking it.â
He likes the line of you best when heâs the one arranging it.Â
You figure that out later, breathless and flushed, forehead buried in his sheets while he kneels behind you, two sure hands repositioning your ass in the air like heâs smoothing kinks from an instrument only he can tune.
âUh-uh,â he grunts, and youâre too far gone to know what he means until his palm presses between your shoulder blades and eases you down, down, down, your hips staying high as your face sinks into the pillow. âArch for me â câmon, deeper bend, donât cheat your lower back.âÂ
Your breath catches when he palms the dip heâs just created, fingers splaying and then heâs sliding his cock in your folds slow. It earns a pleased mewl from you, angle perfect because heâs engineered it that way.Â
Every push has a tiny corrective tap â shoulders down, knees wider, perfect girl â until your pussy clenches and drips all over his rigid stomach and he finally lets you break form, hips snapping while his palm settles, triumphant, at the very spot that first straightened you hours ago.
MARIA NOTE hello this is my trying out little blurbs/drabbles bc this random thought rlly evoked something in me... don't know how to feel it ab. it feels naked without my fun graphics but alas! and the tiny text??? what do we think?? yes or no i'm in the middle right now so feel free to share opinions... it looked a little strange as regular but idk i'm lowkey having an existential crisis over this ok bye
when the codys plan a heist for a luxury gentlemenâs club in los angeles, the last thing pope expects is to connect with the clubâs most coveted and profitable dancer. right away, he feels thereâs something different about you. little does he know, you arenât working there of your own free will. your father is indebted to the clubâs owner, and his life and yours are on the line if you donât keep bringing in money until the debt is paid.
warnings/tags: canon level violence, strip club/nightclub setting, shitty and abusive men (not pope duh), death (not reader or anyone in the cody family), reader knows how to pole dance, reader is afab and goes by she/her pronouns, love at first sight vibes, reader is kinda a man-hater but itâs justified, some angst and some fluff, pov switches, reader goes by a stage name but her real name is never stated, no use of y/n, possible strip club inaccuracies, kissing, not explicit smut but mdni, pope is protective af, no baz or smurf, takes place after lena gets adopted but pope is still living in bazâs old beach house. flashbacks are italicized!
authorâs note: woooo-weeeeee. my longest fic ever. holy shit. i cannot believe it is finally done. thank you endlessly to @fru1t4fr0gs and @thethyri for reading over this for me and letting me talk about it for weeks and weeks. this is by far the most challenging fic i have ever written and at times i wondered if i should just give up on it, but iâm very glad that i kept going and can share it with you all. i hope you love it as much as i do.
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Tonight was supposed to be your first Friday night off in years.
In hindsight, you had been an idiot to not realize thatâs too good to be true. Friday and Saturday nights are always Solsticeâs busiest nights, and you arenât exactly in a position to pick and choose your shifts. Weekends are mandatory for anyone who brings in decent money, and youâre no exception.
You shouldâve known it was a simple scheduling error, an oversight from whichever manager had been responsible for this weekâs schedule, but the thought of getting take-out and spending your Friday night catching up on a few of your favorite shows that youâve neglected the newest episodes of had been too tempting for you to think about questioning why your name wasnât listed under Friday, as it usually is.
Then, at 9:15 pm, precisely fifteen minutes after your shift's typical start time, your phone rang. Right away, a ball of nausea wound tight in your stomach. You didnât even have to look at the screen to know whose name was displayed across it.
You also knew better than to risk not answering.
âYes?â
âWhere the fuck are you?â
Silas is pissed. Thatâs nothing new. Silas has been in a perpetual state of pissed off since the day you had the misfortune of meeting him. Pissed is his default.
âNot at work.â
A loud, sarcastic guffaw sounds from your speaker. âYeah, I fuckinâ see that. Why the hell do you think Iâm calling you? To ask about your overall wellbeing?â
âOh, Iâd never think that,â you mutter under your breath, too low and quick for him to make out over the roar of R&B music that blares in the background. âI wasnât on the schedule tonight,â you say more clearly, digging your nails into your palm in an effort to keep your voice level.
âYeah, and your buddy Trevor is getting his ass chewed out for that, too,â Silas spits. âYou always work Friday nights. The only exception was the time you got food poisoning because I didnât want you shitting on a customer during a dance. You know that.â
Damn it. Trevor is your favorite of all of the floor managers - the only one who talks to you like a human being. Why couldnât it have been Gregory? That pervert getting in trouble would almost be worth this phone call and whatever punishment Silas has in mind for you not being at work right now.
âItâs not my fault that Trevor fucked up the schedule,â you say, voice still lethally calm. âI show up when Iâm told to. Nothing more.â
âI donât give a ratâs fat ass whose fault it is,â Silas hisses. âAnd Iâm telling you to show up now, so you better get here before ten oâclock orââ
You donât want to hear whatever heâs about to threaten you with. It could be anything from not letting you perform a solo routine on center stage tonight to taking a bigger cut of the money you make from private roomsâŠto even worse.
âOkay, okay. Jesus fuck. Iâm on my way.â
You hang up before his voice can give you a migraine before you even arrive at the club.
Forty minutes later, after doing your hair and makeup in record time, throwing on the first cute lingerie set you can find thatâs clean, and speeding at least ten over the speed limit the entire drive to the club, you show up with less than five minutes to spare.
Luckily, Silas is nowhere to be found when you enter through the back door. You know that heâll bitch at you some more whenever you see him, but right now, youâre relieved to start your normal rounds while heâs otherwise occupied. Likely smoking himself to death with a hotdog-sized cigar in his office.
You walk the main floor, making small talk with a few regulars that arenât complete pieces of shit as far as men who frequent strip clubs go. You book your first private room of the night, and Gregory is a little too happy to inform you that Silas will be taking sixty percent of your earnings tonight as opposed to the standard fifty.
As annoying as that is, you canât help but feel a little relieved. As far as punishments go, a ten percent increase in his cut is mild. Last time you were reprimanded (for not fucking smiling enough), Silas added an additional five grand to the already exorbitant amount of money that your father owes him.
The exorbitant amount of money that just so happens to be the very reason you are working in this shithole in the first place.
Not even two hours into your shift, and youâre already over it. So over it that you offer to take out a bag of trash for the bartenders just as an excuse to get some fresh air for two fucking minutes.
This part of Los Angeles isnât exactly quaint - thereâs a near constant stream of car horns blaring and police sirens wailing but itâs white noise to you at this point. At least the night air is a nice reprieve from the stench of cheap weed and cheaper cologne even for only a moment.
It says a lot that you consider hanging out by literal dumpsters more appealing than being inside.
You shouldâve been out of here a long time ago. It wasnât supposed to take more than a year to clear the debt that isnât even your debt to clear.
You didnât even know that your dad was sick. Not until you came home from college on a random weekend, hoping to surprise him, and found him far thinner and more frail than you had ever seen him, hooked up to a dialysis machine to keep himself from dying of kidney failure.
Heâd tried his hardest to keep it all from you. He didnât want you to worry, didnât want you to drop out of school to take care of him. He tried to handle the medical bills that accumulated rapidly on his own for as long as he could.
And when he accepted that he couldnât, he got desperate.
He thought Silas was just a lender. Someone who would help him stay afloat long enough to get a transplant, recover, and get back to work. He didnât realize exactly what kind of man he had borrowed from until Silas showed up at his house, uninvited and unannounced, waltzing right in like he owned the place.
So vividly you can remember the look of shame on your fatherâs face when Silas revealed the truth, and the panic that quickly bloomed when he looked directly at you and said the words that changed the trajectory of your life.
âYou failed to mention that you have a daughter,â Silas purrs. âShe sure is pretty. You know, I think sheâd do real well working in one of my clubs. Yeah, sheâd be popular. Make me a lot of money. How does that sound? You wanna help your poor, sick daddy out?â
Your dad had instantly refused, pleading with Silas to just give him a little more time, but you could tell that Silas wasnât really asking. He was telling you what you were going to do. And because you were scared, for your own life and your fatherâs, you agreed.
Here you are, three years later, with no true end in sight.
The clubâs back door screeches open, and you know that your ninety seconds of the closest thing you can get to peace around here has come to an end.
âThe hell are you doing out here?â Silas booms, interrupting the relative quiet of the alleyway. âItâs almost time for you to go on center stage. Youâre lucky that Iâm even letting you go on at all tonight. I wasnât planning on it, but thereâs a group of guys in there requesting you.â
You resist the urge to roll your eyes. The last thing you want is for him to change his mind at the last second and give your solo slot to one of the other girls. âIâm coming. I was just taking out the trash.â
You take a step to walk past him, but he blocks the doorway, his clammy hand shooting out to catch you by the elbow. His grip isnât quite hard enough to bruise, but still makes bile churn in your gut.
âDonât get cute with me,â he spits. âYouâre already on thin ice tonight.â
You donât say anything, biting your lip to hold back the overwhelming desire to spit in his face. Silas leans in, his breath foul with the stench of whiskey and cigar smoke.
âMaybe youâve forgotten whatâs at stake here.â His fingers tighten just a fraction around your arm. Just enough to make you wince. âMaybe your dad needs a reminder.â
You taste iron from where your teeth break the skin of your lip. âI said Iâm coming.â
Silas snorts, satisfied for now. He lets go of your arm with a shove that is more dismissive than violent and turns back toward the door.
âAnd try not to fuck up your set,â he snaps over his shoulder. âThose guys in there are blowing their money on you. Donât make me regret doing you any favors.â
And then heâs gone, letting the metal door slam closed behind him before you can follow him inside.
You stand there for a moment, breathing in and then slowly exhaling when movement from your peripheral vision catches your eye.
Great. Just what you fucking need right now. An audience. Men, of course. Two of them. Just close enough to have heard every word.
âWhat are you looking at, boys?â You call, voice void of emotion as you make direct eye contact with the stocky, curly-haired one.
Heâd be cute, you think, if he wasnât the kind of guy to spend his Friday night outside of a strip club. The sandy blond looks slightly surprised that youâre acknowledging them, but his buddy remains stoic.
You jerk your chin towards the door Silas slammed behind him.
âThe showâs inside.â
âïœĄâ§ËÊâĄÉËâ§ïœĄâ
Pope all but forced Deran to switch tasks with him at the last second.
Originally, he was supposed to be the one keeping a close eye on Silas Leary, Solsticeâs owner, while Deran scopes out the clubâs main floor for the heist that Craig, of all people, is orchestrating.
He shouldnât be surprised. A luxury gentlemanâs club based heist is quite possibly the most Craig heist possible.
But now, instead of watching the balding, sweaty jackass who had berated you in the alleyway not even ten minutes ago, heâs watching you on stage.
Youâre more pleasant to look at, at least.
Heâs never really seen anything quite like it - the way you dance. This isnât his first time at a strip club. His brothers have coerced him into going to strip clubs before, though every time prior to tonight was for pleasure, not business. Still, he isnât unfamiliar with the scene. Heâs watched women pole dance before, but not like this.
Youâre the only thing in the room that he can concentrate on. For the entirety of the five minutes and some change that your set lasts, he forgets that heâs technically here for recon. He and his brothers made this trip to Los Angeles to get a feel for the buildingâs layout, to see how operations work, to check out the security systemsâŠnot watch the strippers.
He tells himself heâs keeping up appearances. It would be weird to not watch you. Everyone in the room is - even the other dancers, though they watch with less enchantment and more disdain than the patrons.
The song comes to an end all too soon, and Pope continues to watch as you make quick work of collecting all of the bills that had been thrown onto the stage. He stands just a few feet away, close enough that he can see the body glitter dusted across your chest sparkle in the glow of the neon stage lights.
When you stand up, thick stack of cash in hand, your gaze locks with his for one tense but fleeting moment. The look in your eyes is the same as when you had made direct eye contact with him outside the club.
Just as fast as you had appeared on the stage, you then disappear, leaving Pope staring after you.
He thinks back to what he and Deran had witnessed in the alley. He had instantly recognized Silas Leary from pictures heâd seen online, so he and Deran hung around to witness the brief interaction, hoping to get some idea as to what Silas is like in person before entering the club.
It came as no shock to Pope that his reputation precedes him. Harsh, volatile, cruel seemingly for the sake of being cruel. That isnât what made Pope freeze in place in the alley. Itâs what Silas had said to you.
âMaybe youâve forgotten whatâs at stake here. Maybe your dad needs a reminder.â
And your response. You didnât agree or disagree. Didnât fight him on it. You looked Silas dead in the eyes, expression unreadable, and barely flinched. Like you had heard the threat a thousand times before, like you were used to the way he grabbed you by the arm. Like it hardly even phased you.
Popeâs first instinct had been to intervene, but he knew doing so would have tanked the job before it began. He couldnât risk drawing attention to himself and Deran, and deep down, he also knew that stepping in would have likely made things worse on you, too, in the long run.
So he watched from the sidelines, feeling more at peace than ever at the prospect of stealing loads of money from someone, knowing Silas Leary deserves whatâs coming for him.
Deran knew it, too, playing it off with a joke that sparked an idea in Popeâs head.
âShit. You think she hates the fucker enough to help us rob him?â
Pope had said nothing at the time, but he was unable to shake the thought. The entire time that he watched you on stage, the look of unadulterated hatred on your face kept replaying in his mind.
But for just a few minutes, as you danced on the center stage, you seemed different than you did in the alley. Different than you did when you were collecting the dozens of tens, twenties, and hundred dollar bills off of the stage floor. For a few moments, Pope saw himself in you. The way you seemed to completely dissociate while you performed, like there was no one else in the room but you and nothing else mattered. In his own way, heâs been there. With skateboarding, and with boxing. For him, those things are escapes.
He canât help but wonder if thatâs what dancing is for you. An escape from this place.
He supposes thereâs really only one way to find out - if heâs right, and if Deran could possibly be right, too.
Good thing Craig had suggested they all bring plenty of cash with them. To keep up appearances, he had said. If youâre going to a strip club, you should always have cash on you. This is just recon, but you never know.
Heâd smirked when he said it, as if he already had plans to spend said cash in ways that werenât relevant to recon, but he still made a fair point.
Popeâs eyes scan the crowded room, searching through all of the dancers and customers in hopes of finding someone who might be of some help. He notices a short, pudgy, middle-aged man who appears to be scolding another dancer.
Gregory, Pope sees that his name tag reads once he approaches him.
âThe dancer that just finished up on stage,â Pope asks him, âWhatâs her name?â
A creepy, almost unsettling smile grows on Gregoryâs face. âOh, that would be Soleil. Why? You want a room with her?â
What Pope wants is to wipe that perverted look off of his face, but rationally he knows that would be counterproductive right now, so he settles for a curt nod. âYeah, I do.â
âHalf hour? Or a full hour?â
Pope knows that heâs supposed to meet his brothers and nephew where they parked a couple blocks away in less than an hour, so he isnât really sure why he lets the next words come out of his mouth, but for whatever reason, he does.
âFull hour.â
âïœĄâ§ËÊâĄÉËâ§ïœĄâ
Gregory barges into the locker room without so much as knocking.
Youâre dressed (as dressed as you possibly can be in a place like this), just counting the money you made from your solo set, but his sudden presence still unnerves you.
âYouâve got a private room,â he barks, not bothering to be subtle with the way his beady little eyes trail up your legs. âRoom two. Full hour. This guy asked for you after watching your solo performance, so you better not disappoint him.â
You cram the rest of your money into the locker and snap it shut, trying not to give Gregory the satisfaction of seeing how irritated you are - at the way he thinks he owns this place and can enter a changing room without knocking, and especially at hearing you have to do another private room. For a full hour.
You donât bother asking who the private room is with. Youâre confident itâs one of the men who had convinced Silas to let you go on center stage tonight. A group of four or five sat as close as possible to the front, several familiar faces throwing bills at you every few seconds. Any given one of them looks like the type to drop six hundred dollars on an hour-long private room.
âOh, Iâll try my hardest,â you breathe sarcastically. âNow can I have a second to freshen up? Alone?â
âHurry,â Gregory snaps. âHeâs waiting for you.â
You wait until the door clicks shut behind him to curse under your breath. Sometimes, you think you might hate Gregory as much as you hate Silas - if thatâs even possible.
After reapplying your lipgloss and spritzing on a little more perfume, you reluctantly make your way to the private room where youâll spend the next hour of your life.
At least once itâs over, itâll be after midnight, which means the rest of the shift likely wonât be quite as busy, and youâll be able to go home soonâ
âHi,â you chirp, slipping into the room with a forced smile and your best customer service voice. âIâm Soleil. Thanks so much for booking a room with me tonight. And whatâs your naââ
You freeze as soon as you turn around from shutting the door behind you, the question dying on your tongue.
Not one of the men from the eager group that sat right next to the stage. You do recognize him, though. He too had stood close to the stage, by himself.
One of the men from the alley.
âOh,â you quip, voice rising an octave. âYouâreââ
âPope,â he interrupts, and youâre thankful for it, because you didnât really even know where you were going with that sentence. âMy name is Pope.â
âItâs nice to meet you, Pope,â you smile, taking a tentative step closer to where he stands awkwardly in the middle of the room. âWould you like to sit down?â You ask, gesturing towards the couch behind him.
He nods. You hover for a moment, giving him space as he lowers himself stiffly onto the couch. He looks around with uncertainty, like this entire process is completely unfamiliar to him and he isnât sure what exactly he is supposed to say or do.
âLet me guess,â he starts, settling into the velvet couch. He runs his palms over jean fabric that conceals his bulky thighs. âYour name isnât actually Soleil?â
You snort a laugh as you take a seat in the empty space beside him. You tuck your legs beneath you, one arm relaxing across the top of the couch, your hand coming to rest just behind his head. Instinctively, your fingers inch towards the base of his skull to toy with the reddish brown curls there, but you stop yourself at the last second, instead smoothing your fingertips over the soft, velvet material of the couch.
Normally, you wouldnât hesitate to show physical affection for such high-paying clientele - that is what at least 95% of them are here for, anyway - but something about the way he stiffens at your sudden closeness makes you think twice before touching him.
âThat depends,â you counter. âIs Pope actually your name?â
He turns his neck to look you in the eye - now close enough that youâre able to see his hazel irises and the light dusting of freckles across his skin.
Pretty, you think - even if he is the kind of man to spend an asinine amount of money on a nearly naked and complete strangerâs attention, you canât deny that heâs pretty.
âNo,â he says lowly. He pauses, swallowing. âPopeâs just a childhood nickname. My real name is Andrew.â
âAndrew,â you repeat with a slow nod. âAnd which would you prefer that I call you?â
A slight blush appears on the apples of his cheeks. âYou can call me whatever you want to.â
It doesnât really make a difference to you, considering youâll likely never see him again after the hour he paid for comes to an end, but you canât help but think the way he blushed when you said Andrew was oddly endearing.
âWell, Andrew,â you hum, âyou are correct in assuming that my name is not really Soleil. Thatâs just the stage name I chose to go by.â You nod towards the sign on the opposite wall that spells Solstice in neon, cursive lettering. You give a small shrug. âI thought it pairs well with the name of the club. Soleil at Solstice.â
Thereâs something close to a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. âIâm sure youâre already aware that soleil means sun in French.â
Yes, you are aware of that, but youâre slightly surprised that he knows that. Most men that come here donât know their left from their right.
âThat it does,â you agree. âKind of ironic, actually.â
His eyebrows pinch together a bit. âHow so?â
Because there isnât actually any sun in a place like this. A dark, dystopian fucking hellscape.
But you canât say that, of course. God forbid you say anything even slightly negative about this place and word somehow gets back to Silas. That would be your third strike of the night, and heâd likely tack on an additional twenty grand to your fatherâs outstanding balance for the hell of it.
You instantly regret saying anything at all.
âOh, nothing.â You shake your head in dismissal. âJust meant the only thing thatâs bright here is the strobe lights.â
He stares at you for an extended moment before responding, his gaze heavy on you. âI wouldnât say the only thing.â
You exhale a breathy laugh, your cheeks warming more than they should at the sentiment. It fills you with a bit of shame, really - the fact that youâd feel even slightly flustered over a vague compliment from a stranger paying for your company.
âSo, AndrewâŠâ you say, breaking the brief but loaded silence that had settled between you. âYou paid for this room. What would you like to do in it?â
You dread what comes next. You always do. The kind of âdancingâ that you hardly even consider dancing. The stripping, the touching. Thereâs supposed to be boundaries, of course, but most men think that if theyâre paying then that gives them a right to cross them.
But private rooms are part of the job. Silas has made that clear from day one. He lets you perform your solo routines because they generate too much revenue to deny you the one part of the night that you donât absolutely despise - but your sets last five, maybe ten minutes at most. Your shifts run about six hours. That leaves five hours and fifty minutes to keep the money flowing if you want to keep Silas appeased, which means doing every soul-sucking part of the job you hate: the floor dances, the private rooms, the mandatory mingling and endless flirting.
Every now and then, though, someone will book a private room and pleasantly surprise you.
âI just wanna talk,â Andrew says simply. âIf thatâs alright with you.â
You have to hold back the urge to sigh in relief. Talking you can do. And the fact that Andrew doesnât reek of body odor and stout liquor like the majority of your customers makes the thought of conversing with him for the remainder of the next hour even less painful.
Six hundred dollars (well, significantly less once Silas takes his sixty percent cutâŠ) and all you have to do is sit and talk to a decent looking man who isnât belligerently drunk? Youâve had far worse nights.
âOf course,â you smile, and for once it isnât completely forced. âYouâre paying. If you want to talk, then we talk.â
Andrew is silent for a moment, as if heâs considering what to say next. His stare is unyielding, but not in the way that would normally make you cringe so hard that you risk breaking a tooth. Instead, it feels like heâs really looking at you. Not Soleil, but you.
âI watched your set earlier,â he says when he finally speaks. âThat was very impressive. How long have you been dancing?â
Ah. Yes, you had noticed him towards the very front of the crowd when you finished your routine. Heâd looked every bit as serious and solemn as he had when you first saw him in the alleyway earlier tonight.
âDancing? Since I was four. Ballet, tap, jazz, lyricalâŠâ You list off all of the weekly classes you remember taking throughout your childhood. âPole dancing, though? About three years.â
Andrew looks surprised by the answer, his brows lifting slightly and hazel eyes widening. âOnly three years? I wouldâve thought a lot longer than that. Is that how long youâve worked here, then?â
You nod, retracting your arm from where it had been resting behind his head now that itâs clear that - for whatever reason - Andrew is only interested in conversation. You let yourself relax a bit, relieved that you donât have to put up the usual facade that makes most men swoon.
âYeah, right at three years now. I practice a lot at home, though. I even got a pole for my apartment. If you work here, youâve really gotta know your way around a pole, soâŠIâve put in the hours.â
He looks impressed at that - or maybe surprised. Or maybe something else entirely. You arenât sure. You canât read his facial expressions or his body language nearly as easily as most of the men that enter this room.
âWow,â Andrew hums with what appears to be a nod of approval. âThatâs dedication. You must have really wanted to work here to put so much effort into learning such a specific skill.â
You barely manage to hold back a cackle at that. If he only fucking knew.
You give a half shrug, playing it off. âWhat can I say?â You sigh. âGuess I really needed the money.â
Itâs the truth. Not the whole, disgusting, gritty truth, but it is accurate. As accurate as you can be without trauma dumping and jeopardizing your lifeâŠand your fatherâs.
Andrew nods, looking down at his hands splayed across the tops of his thighs. âYeah. I get that. Iâd be lying if I said that I havenât made money in some unconventional ways.â
That piques your interest. âOh? Anything youâd like to share with the class?â
He exhales a small laugh before bringing his eyes back to yours again. âAs long as you promise not to tell anyone. If I tell you, it canât leave this room.â
You make a motion with a hand across your mouth as if youâre zipping your lips and throwing away the key. âMy lips are sealed. Pinky promise.â Then, for good measure, you hold out your pinky finger to him in offering.
He stares at your littlest finger for a long moment, the slightest hint of a smirk beginning to tug at the corners of his lips again before he finally lifts a hand of his own, pinky finger upright. He wraps the digit around yours, giving it a firm squeeze before slowly pulling away.
âYears ago,â Andrew starts, âI robbed a bank. It didnât go as planned, and I spent a few years in prison for it.â
You blink, and wait for him to laugh, or say that heâs kidding. But then five, ten, fifteen seconds pass, and heâs still looking at you with the exact same unreadable expression.
âYou robbed a bank?â You ask incredulously. âJesus, I thought you were going to say that you sold pictures of your feet online or something.â
He doesnât smile or flinch, just holds your gaze for a second longer. âYeah,â he says simply. âI wouldnât say that Iâm proud of it, but I did.â
You know that your face must give away your surprise. His revelation should freak you out - if heâs capable of bank robbery, what else is this stranger capable of?
Maybe youâve become somewhat desensitized to the concept of people going to extremes for money. Your dad. Silas. Even you. A few years ago, you never would have imagined that youâd be here right now. But you have your reasons, and you are. Even though it isnât your first choice, you wouldnât want anyone to judge you too harshly for doing what you feel you have to do.
You donât know Andrewâs past. You have no idea what happened in his life that led him to make the decision to rob a bank. It probably wasnât because he woke up bored one morning and decided that it sounded like a fun thing to do. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and you know that all too well.
âWell,â you huff a laugh, âI canât say that I really blame you. I mean, Iâd never be able to execute something like that, but itâs fun to fantasize about on occasion.â
âOn occasion?â Andrew repeats in a low, curious tone. His brows lift in question. âLike when youâre here?â
You snort, shaking your head. âPlease, if I was planning a bank robbery every time that Iâm here, I wouldâve been locked up years ago. But this placeâŠâ You trail off, searching for the right words for what you want to say but know you shouldnât, âthis place can get to you sometimes. Makes stupid ideas sound less stupid. No offense.â
Andrew makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a hum. âNo offense taken.â
The rest of the hour drifts by far easier than you expect. Andrew tells you some stories from his time in prison, and about how he grew up not too far from here, in Oceanside. He talks about his siblings, looking down at his lap when he reveals that heâs a twin, but his twin sister, Julia, passed away somewhat recently. You try not to talk too much about yourself, but when he asks you questions, you answer as honestly as you can - telling him that you had been in your third year of college when you started working here, and that one day, when the time is right, youâd like to finish your degree.
By the time a knock sounds at the door signaling that the hour is up, youâre almost startled. It barely feels as if sixty minutes have passed.
âHuh,â you muse, rising from the couch as he does. âThat went by a lot quicker than time usually does here.â
Andrew is silent for a moment, his gaze lingering on your face, still as serious as when you had first made eye contact with him in the alley. Then, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a small envelope.
âHere,â he says quietly, holding out the envelope for you to take. âThis is for you.â He pauses. âJust you. Not your boss.â
Your eyes shoot up to his in surprise. Not at the fact that heâs offering what you presume to be a tip, but at the last three words. Not your boss.
When your brain catches up, you accept the envelope, clutching it in both hands. âThank you,â you murmur, trying to keep an even, neutral tone, though youâre sure your face betrays you. âIt was, uhâŠit was nice to meet you, Andrew.â
He gives a small, polite smile as he takes a step towards the door. âIt was nice to meet you, Soleil.â
Only when he reaches for the doorknob do you stop him by uttering a single word. He looks back over his shoulder, his eyebrows raised.
You repeat yourself once more. âThatâs my name,â you clarify. âMy real name.â
He says your name softly. Barely audible. As if just testing how it feels to say it. Then, with a slow nod, he turns the doorknob and exits the room without another word, leaving you staring after him.
Only after his footsteps fade down the hallway do you open the envelope and find that he has given you a thousand dollars.
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âYouâre joking, right?â
Jayâs voice fills the silence that had settled over Smurfâs living room following Popeâs suggestion.
âNo,â Pope says, trying not to let impatience slip into his tone. âIâm not joking. I really think she would be willing to help us.â
The three men take turns looking at each other before turning their stares back to Pope.
âThe stripper?â Craig snorts. âThatâs your big idea? I mean, I love strippers as much as the next guy, but you canât be serious right now.â
âIt was technically Deranâs idea.â
âWhat the hell are you talking about?â Deran pipes up.
âWhen we saw her in the alley,â Pope says, like itâs obvious. âYou asked me if I think she hates her boss enough to help us rob him. The answer is yes. I think she does hate him that much. I think she hates that whole place that much.â
No, you hadnât blatantly said so, but you didnât need to. He could see it in your eyes, and hear it in your tone. It may as well have been written across your forehead.
âJesus Christ, man, I wasnât being serious.â
âStill,â Pope implores, âI spent an hour talking to her. Itâs clear she doesnât want to be there. And after what we witnessed in the alley? It wouldnât surprise me if she doesnât really have a choice in the matter.â
His brothers and nephew are silent again, exchanging glances amongst each other.
âSheâs been there for three years,â Pope continues. âShe knows the layout. She knows when Silas comes and goes. And Iâm willing to bet she knows exactly where that safe is and how to get to it, too.â
âSo she hates her job,â Craig shrugs. âDoesnât mean sheâs cool with risking a felony charge.â
Pope shakes his head. âShe didnât seem too put off when I told her that Iâve done time for armed robbery.â
All three voices erupt at once.
âYou told her what?â
âWhy the hell would you do that?â
âDude, are you insane?â
âI wanted her to know that she can trust me,â Pope says simply. âAnd she reacted fine. More than fine. She seemed to understand.â
Jay clears his throat. âLook, if we do this, she canât be a liability. She needs to know what sheâs doing, and she needs to keep her mouth shut.â
âShe will,â Pope says instantly. âI know she will.â
Deran squints. âHow? You spent one hour with her. You donât actually know her.â
Pope meets his eyes with an unblinking stare. âYou think Iâd risk all of our asses if I wasnât sure? I know enough to know that Iâm not wrong.â
Popeâs stare is locked on Craig. Itâs his operation and therefore he gets the final say. If it were solely up to Jay, or even Deran, he wouldnât think thereâs a chance of getting them to agree. But Craigâs a little riskier than they are. If he thinks thereâs even a slight chance that itâll increase the odds of the job being a success, heâs likely to agree.
âFuck it,â Craig finally mutters, shaking his head. âFine. Weâll try it your way. But we arenât sharing our cut with her. If she gets anything, itâs coming out of your share. Iâm not sacrificing my payday because you have a crush on the stripper.â
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Pope knows a guy who knows a guy who somehow knows everything about everyone. And if that guy doesnât know, he has ways of finding out.
Well, technically Smurf knew him, but Pope uses that connection to his advantage.
The information doesnât come cheap, but Pope needed to know with absolute certainty before waltzing back into Solstice and asking you to help him rob your boss.
Except now he isnât just asking for help pulling off the heist. Heâs going to ask for help pulling off an execution, because he doesnât just want Silas Learyâs money, he wants him dead.
It may have cost him three grand, but Pope now has confirmation that his suspicions were correct and somehow worse than he had thought. Not only are you essentially being trafficked, but youâre doing so because your life and your fatherâs are on the line.
Now he knows, without a doubt, just how desperate you must be for a way out. And even though heâs only met you one time, Pope wants to give you that way out.
If only youâll be willing to take it.
Pope makes the hour and a half long drive from Oceanside to Los Angeles again the very next night without any confirmation that you would even be working, but itâs a chance heâs willing to take. Craig and the others want to get on with the job, and Pope wants to get you away from the likes of Silas Leary as quickly as possible.
He goes over it all in his head the entire drive to the club. Everything he knows about you, from what he had witnessed the moment he first saw you in the alley, to every word you said to him in the private room, to what the private investigator informed him of.
But thatâs not all he thinks about. He also thinks about the way your pinky finger felt wrapped around his when you offered the symbolic gesture to keep his secret, and the intoxicating smell of your perfume that he had to fight the urge to inhale the entire hour that you sat beside him on that tiny couch. He thinks about how sweet it sounded to hear you say his name, his real name, and how it sounded even sweeter when you told him your real name.
Maybe Craig is right. Maybe he does have a crush. Thatâs the most logical explanation for why Pope suddenly no longer cares how much money he pulls from this job. There will always be another job - if he wanted to, he could rob another bank by himself next week. He cares more about getting you out of the unfortunate predicament youâre in, and ensuring that Silas can never bring harm to you or anyone else ever again.
When he arrives, itâs close to midnight and the club is packed. He can barely get through the dense crowd of dancers and patrons that occupy the main floor, his eyes carefully scanning the crowd as he makes his way to the bar, where he orders a beer to keep up appearances until heâs able to spot you.
He waits for over half an hour. He doesnât move from his seat at the bar, where he has the perfect view of center stage, the main floor, and the doorway to the hallway that leads to the private room he shared with you last night.
Just observing it all is overstimulating. From the loud music that pulsates through Popeâs barstool, to the neon strobe lights that make his eyes throb, to the smell of bodies and liquor that hangs heavy in hot club air, he doesnât know how you have done it for three years without losing your sanity. Even just sitting here, all Pope can think about are all of the germs on every surface of this place.
When you finally appear at the mouth of the small hallway that leads to the private rooms wearing a pale pink, ruffled bodysuit that looks like it was custom made for you, Pope momentarily forgets why heâs here.
He watches as your eyes flicker around the main floor of the club, as if youâre dreading stepping back into the chaos of it all. When you finally glance towards the bar, your gaze locks with his and Popeâs skin warms at the way your face lights up with surprise. He offers you a small smile and wave of his hand, and thatâs all you need to walk the short distance to where he sits.
âAndrew,â you breathe, coming to stand next to where he sits. âI didnât expect to see you again so soon.â
âSoleil,â he greets, a teasing edge to his tone. He almost lets your real name slip out, but thinks better of it at the last second. He isnât sure why you trusted him enough to let him know your real name after only an hour together, but he gets the feeling that isnât something that you tell just anyone.
âI didnât expect to be back so soon, butâŠâ He trails off momentarily, glancing around the crowded room. Thereâs too many people. He has to speak too loudly in order for you to hear him over all of the voices and loud music, and he doesnât want to risk anyone overhearing. âAre you busy right now?â
You shake your head. âNo. I just finished up a private room. Iâve already done my solo set for the night. I was just going to walk around, make conversation with some regulars. Why? Are youâŠwanting a room?â
Pope canât help but think you sound a little hopeful. But maybe thatâs wishful thinking on his part. You are doing your job, after all.
âYeah, I am,â he says, standing up beside you. âIf you have time.â
You nod with a smile that reaches your eyes. âOf course.â
He follows as you lead him down the hallway, straight to the exact room that the two of you occupied last night. As he does, a terrifying thought occurs: you might say no. You might get scared, and deny everything, and refuse to help. You might tell him to get lost, and he doesnât know where the hell that would leave him. But as he walks into the room after you, he swallows that thought down, and focuses on what he does know: you want to be here even less than he does.
âIâm really glad to see you,â you say as you shut the door behind him. âAnd Iâm not just saying that because you tipped me a thousand dollars. Thank you, by the way. That was very generous of you.â
Pope takes a seat on the couch, the exact same spot he sat twenty-four hours ago, though he feels significantly more nervous now than he did then. âNo need to thank me,â he murmurs. âI really enjoyed talking to you.â
You take a seat beside him, relaxing against the couch. âIs that why you came back? To talk more?â
He nods. âIt is. If thatâs okay with you.â
âMore than okay with me. Is there anything in particular that youâd like to talk about tonight, Andrew?â
He hesitates for a second. He spent half the drive here rehearsing exactly what he was going to say to you to ensure that this would go as smoothly as possible, but now that heâs sitting beside you, he has forgotten how to string two words together.
He clears his throat slightly. âCan I ask you something?â
Your eyebrows twitch in curiosity. âSure.â
âIf you could walk out of this place tonight and never come back, would you?â
A small laugh escapes you, and you instantly drop his gaze, looking down at your hands in your lap instead. âThatâs a hell of a question. You know, most people that get me alone in this room just ask me if I have a boyfriend or what my favorite position is.â
Pope watches you for a moment. âWell, Iâm not most people.â
You look back up, your lips pursed. âNo,â you agree quietly. âYouâre definitely not.â You pause just long enough to make Pope wonder if youâre going to say anything else at all. âYeah. I would. What makes you ask?â
He exhales slowly, only mildly surprised by your honesty. âI heard what happened in the alley yesterday.â
Youâre visibly taken aback, your body going rigid and your eyes going wide, and he can understand why. In the entire hour you spent together last night, he didnât bring up the incident in the alley. You probably assumed he hadnât been able to hear what Silas had said, or that he at least hadnât thought anything of it, but now here he is, bringing it up unprompted.
âOh,â you start, your voice unnaturally high, âthat was justââ
He cuts you off by shaking his head. âIâm not asking you to explain anything to me,â says lowly. âBut I know who Silas is. Thatâs why me and my brothers came here last night. We were supposed to come here, get information, and leave.â
You donât move as you stare at him in silence, either too stunned or too scared to speak. He continues so you donât have to.
âBut then I met you. And now I canât just pretend I didnât see that.â
You study him for a long moment. âWhat kind of information?â
âRemember when I told you that I did time in prison?â
Your eyebrows scrunch together before realization blooms across your face a fraction of a second later. Instinctively, you change your position on the small sofa, putting more space between the two of you. âJesus,â you hiss. âYou were going to robââ
You donât finish your sentence, looking from Pope, to the door just a few feet away, to a security camera in the corner of the room.
âYouâre lucky that thing doesnât have audio,â you spit under your breath.
Pope holds back a laugh. âI know it doesnât have audio. I know what Iâm doing.â He pauses, then offers a small, almost shy smile. âMost of the time.â
âOh, most of the time?â
Pope shrugs. âMost of the time.â
You sigh, running a hand down your face as you look around the room again.
âLook,â you whisper, âI donât care what you and your brothers do to Silas, but I canât get involved.â
Pope doesnât respond right away. He was expecting you to say something along those lines. But you arenât screaming at him to get out, or running away to find a security guard, so he still feels hope.
He murmurs your real name for the first time since you had first told him what it is last night. It causes your expression to soften the tiniest bit, a glimpse of vulnerability appearing in your eyes.
âI know that heâs got something over you. And I swear I can help you, if youâll let me.â
You purse your lips as you stare at him, as if searching for any sign that he could be lying to you.
âI know you donât know me,â Pope adds delicately. âI wouldnât blame you for not trusting me. Iâm just asking you to hear me out.â
Another beat of loaded silence. âOkay,â you say, barely audible. âBut we canât talk about this here. Itâs too risky.â You nod towards the door. âI donât get off until three.â
âThatâs okay,â Pope says, and he hopes that his relief isnât too evident in his tone. âI can wait.â
âïœĄâ§ËÊâĄÉËâ§ïœĄâ
When you first noticed Andrew sitting at the bar, grinning as if just waiting for you to walk in the room, you wouldâve assumed that would be the most surprising thing to happen to you tonight.
That assumption proved to be dead wrong, because five minutes later, he revealed that heâs planning to rob your boss.
(Correction: heâs planning to rob him, and knows that heâs a huge piece of shit who is blackmailing you).
The surprises donât stop there, though. Next, you surprise yourself by inviting a practical stranger into your home.
Your self-preservation skills have always been lacking. That was evident the day that you willingly agreed to work for Silas to help pay off your dadâs debt instead of fleeing the state of California and never looking back.
But this might just break the record for most reckless and foolhardy thing youâve ever done.
Andrew waits for you in the parking garage down the block from the club until you get off just after three oâclock in the morning. Your body is exhausted, but your mind has never been more awake as you drive back to your apartment with him tailing you in his truck.
Your thoughts reel with all of the ways that this could go disastrously wrong.
You do not actually know this man. Youâve spent less than a collective two hours with him. Your gut tells you that heâs being honest, but is it worth the risk? Heâs a bank robber. A convicted felon, who apparently comes from a crime family. Is it possible that you could just be trading one Silas for another? Andrew claims he can help you, but how? And at what cost?
Moments after you arrive at your apartment, Andrew pulls into the parking spot directly next to yours and then follows you wordlessly to your unit.
You have every intention of telling him to make himself comfortable on your couch and offering him fresh coffee. It is well after three oâclock in the morning - most people who donât work the nightshift would be asleep at this time. But as soon as your front door clicks shut, you suddenly forget all pleasantries.
âYou said that you know heâs got something over me.â You stand before Andrew in your small kitchen, looking him dead in the eye. âHow much do you know, exactly?â
He meets your gaze with an equally level stare. It isnât harsh, but it is hard for you to read. Youâre quickly learning that to be the norm with Andrew. Difficult to read.
âI know enough,â Andrew says calmly. âI know Silas is a loan shark. I know youâre working for him to pay back money that you didnât borrow.â
You nod slowly, dropping your gaze to the floor as you lean against your kitchen counter. âAnd how do you think you can help me with that, exactly?â You glance back up. âDonât get me wrong, I would love to believe you, but I just donât see how you and your brothers robbing the guy magically frees me of him. I mean, if he were to find out that it was you, and that Iâve even talked you outside of the club, he wouldââ
âHe wouldnât find out,â Andrew cuts you off, voice even and low. âI would make sure of that.â
âHow?â You take a step towards him without thinking, your hands clasped in front of you. âHow would you make sure of that? If you know why Iâm working for Silas, then Iâm assuming you know about my father. It isnât just my life on the line here, Andrew.â
His hazel eyes soften at that. âI do know about your father. I also know thereâs a lot of people stuck in situations like you and your father, because of Silas. A lot of people who would all be better off if SilasâŠwasnât around anymore.â
Your eyebrows lift halfway up your forehead. âWasnât around anymore?â You echo. As soon as they leave your lips, the implication becomes clear.
Wasnât around anymore. Gone. Deleted. Erased.
Andrew doesnât verbalize a response. He just watches you from where he stands an armâs length away and waits for you to process what heâs telling you.
That heâs offering to kill Silas. Or have him killed. You donât really know. Thereâs a shrill, high-pitched ringing in your ears thatâs making it impossible to think clearly.
You finally manage to get two words out. âYouâre serious.â
It isnât posed as a question.
âI am,â Andrew says simply. âIf you want me to be.â
You snort at that, because what the fuck are you supposed to say? âYeah, off with his head!â and âoh no, please donât hurt him!â somehow feel equally wrong.
You look to the floor again. And then around the room. To your houseplants that need watered, and then to last nightâs dishes that still need to be put in the dishwasher. Anywhere but Andrewâs intense, unyielding honey colored stare that you could probably get lost in if it werenât for the bizarre circumstances for which he is in your apartment right now.
Finally, you exhale. âI thinkâŠI want some coffee.â You turn to the espresso machine behind you, and then glance at Andrew over your shoulder. âWhat about you?â
He looks surprised for a split-second, then nods. âYeah. Coffee sounds good.â
Upon your invitation, Andrew takes a stiff seat on your couch while you use the few minutes that it takes you to brew and prepare the drinks to attempt to process what the fuck has transpired since the two of you entered your apartment.
It does little good. You still have just as many questions as you did on the drive home. Even more now. Andrew is offering to kill for you? Has he killed before? Was he really in prison for bank robbery? Or was it something else? Should you be trying to secretly dial 911 on your watch right now?
Probably. If you were smart. But youâre not smart. Youâre desperate, and Andrew might just be offering you a way out on a silver platter.
Although it could come back to bite you in the ass, right now, youâre willing to be an open book. You meant what you had said to Andrew at the club tonight - you donât care what he and his brothers do to Silas. Rob him, or worseâŠhe deserves it. And after the hell he has put you, and your father, through these last three years, you have very little hesitation helping Silas get his karma.
âHypothetically,â you start, sitting down on your small loveseat directly across the table from him. âLetâs say I agree to thisâŠwalk me through it. How would you and your brothersâŠgo about this? What would you need from me? And what aboutâŠafterwards? What would I owe you?â
The questions pour out of you faster than you can stop them.
Andrewâs brows scrunch together. âYou wouldnât owe me anything,â he says, like itâs obvious. âIâm not Silas. I just want to help you. And if you have any information that could potentially help us, then that would be great, but if notâŠI still want to do whatever I can to get you out of this mess.â
He says every word so sincerely that it makes you feel silly for even thinking otherwise.
Of course he isnât Silas. You might not know Andrew very well, but you know that he isnât Silas. Silas takes what he wants with zero regard for anyone but himself. Andrew has given you every opportunity to express discomfort, to change your mind, to tell him to fuck off. Even now, if you told him to get lost and never contact you again, you donât doubt that heâd honor your wishes.
Andrew stares so heavy that you swear he can see right through you. His voice is low and steady when he speaks again. âYou donât deserve what Silas is doing to you. But he does deserve whatâs coming to him.â
You donât know if the next words out of your mouth mean that youâre crazy, or just desperate.
âWhat kind of information do you need?â
âïœĄâ§ËÊâĄÉËâ§ïœĄâ
Pope didnât want to leave you in Los Angeles, but he had to come back home to Oceanside to work out all of the details of the heist with his brothers.
He knows youâre capable of taking care of yourself. Youâve been doing it for years. You donât need a man that you met two days ago playing bodyguard. But heâd be lying if he said that the thought of you working even one more shift at Solstice, or the thought of you being in close proximity to Silas, or the thought of a random sleazebag laying so much as a finger on you in that place doesnât make his blood burn white-hot.
He takes comfort in knowing that after tonight, you only have to step foot into that place one more time. And that time, he will be there, too.
Still, he hates knowing that as he sits on his couch in Oceanside, youâre at the club in LA. Pope had suggested that you call out tonight, but you had shot that idea down quickly. You explained that you always work Sunday nights, and you didnât want to risk drawing any negative attention to yourself before the heist that is now planned for this upcoming Friday night.
Currently, it is 3:46 in the morning, and Pope is wide awake, even though he shouldnât be, and thinking of you, even though he probably shouldnât be doing that, either. He wonders if youâve made it home from work yet, and if your shift went okay or if Silas was there tonightâŠand he subconsciously grits his teeth at the thought of that.
He manages to hold out until 3:58 before he finds your name in the recently added section of his contacts and presses call.
You answer just after the first ring.
âAndrew,â Your voice pours from his speaker softly, slightly hoarse. âIs everything okay?â
Right away, heâs relieved at the lack of background noise. No music blasting and no drunk frat guys yelling over it. No car horns honking or sirens wailing. Itâs safe to assume that you have made it home already.
âEverythingâs fine,â he answers. âI just wanted to make sure you got home safely. See how your shift went.â
You exhale a hum of soft laughter. âJust walked through the door a few minutes ago. Work was busy. Really busy for a Sunday night. Iâm glad itâs over. Almost.â
âAlmost,â he agrees. âAt least youâre off for the next few days. The next time you step foot in that place, itâll be the last.â
Thereâs a brief pause before you speak. âAs long as everything goes according to plan,â you murmur, and Pope can hear the nerves in your voice.
âIt will,â he assures you. âLet us worry about that, alright? You just try to relax in the meantime.â
You snort. âEasier said than done.â
âKeep yourself busy so you donât think about it too much,â Pope suggests lightly. âDo you have any plans this week?â
âNot really,â you grumble. âLos Angeles isnât really my scene. I wouldnât be here at all if it werenât forâŠâ You trail off momentarily. You donât have to finish the sentence. âAnyway. I go to work, I go home, and sometimes I go to the beach. Thatâs about it.â
âYou like the beach?â
âI do,â you hum. âItâs one of the very few things I like about living here. My apartment is only about a twenty minute drive from Venice Beach. Well, really more like forty with all of the trafficâŠâ
Pope is silent for a moment. During those few seconds of silence, he can hear waves crash against the shore just beyond the front door of the small beachfront house. If he were to step outside and walk mere yards, his feet would touch sand. He can glance out of the window in front of him and see moonlight dance across the water. Thereâs nothing separating him from the ocean but the walls of the house.
âI live right on the beach, you know,â Pope says, going for casual but probably failing. âThe beach is my front yard.â
âReally?â You chirp. âGod, that must be nice. I mean, you saw where I live in LA. Just about anywhere beats this shitty apartment, and the shitty traffic, and all of the endless noise, but living on the beach? I can only imagine how peaceful that is.â
Thereâs an idea forming in Popeâs mind, and he knows itâs irrational and naive, but he has already offered to kill for you after knowing you for one day, so how crazy could anything else really be?
âYou ever been to Oceanside?â
âïœĄâ§ËÊâĄÉËâ§ïœĄâ
Against your better judgment, later that day you drive to Oceanside with the address Andrew sent you typed into your GPS.
You almost turn around at least a dozen times.
You donât want to turn around, but what little common sense you possess nearly convinces you to do so. What would you say if one of your coworkers told you that they have packed a bag and are going to stay with a mysterious man who booked a private room with them only forty-eight hours ago, tipped them a thousand dollars, came back the very next night, and revealed that heâs planning to both rob and kill your boss?
You would tell them that the next time you see them, itâs going to be on a missing personâs poster or a Dateline episode.
Yet here you are. Doing exactly that. Because for reasons you do not fully understand, Andrew makes you feel safe. Maybe youâre just so used to feeling unsafe that true safety has become a foreign concept to you. Maybe your judgment is clouded. But when he told you that he has a spare room and offered it to you for the days leading up to the heist, it hardly took any convincing for you to say yes.
Now, less than twelve hours later, with only a duffel bag in your passenger seat stuffed full of beach attire and toiletries, youâre driving to him.
Andrew had offered to come get you, too. And even though you ultimately insisted that you were fine with driving yourself to Oceanside, you canât deny that the offer made your whole body feel irrationally warm and fuzzy - the fact that heâd be willing to make a third trip to Los Angeles in the last three days because you had made an off handed comment about your distaste for LA traffic.
Youâre excited. Not only to get away from the hustle and bustle of Los Angeles for a few days, but also to see Andrew again. This time not inside a private room at Solstice or in your tiny apartment at four oâclock in the morning. Youâre eager to get a feel for who he really is outside of the club environment, to see how he is when heâs somewhere that heâs comfortable, to learn about the man who has done nothing but surprise you time and time again since you met him only days ago.
When your carâs GPS announces your arrival, you donât have to question whether or not youâre at the right place. Heâs waiting for you on the front porch.
Like every time that you have seen him so far, he wears a short sleeve button-up shirt and a grave expression that would make you question if heâs actually glad to see you if it werenât for the fact that he wastes no time trotting down the porch steps to greet you at your car.
He opens your door for you before you have the chance.
âYou werenât exaggerating when you said that the beach is your front yard,â you laugh, grabbing your duffel bag from your passenger seat that Andrew immediately reaches to take from you. âIf you were any closer, youâd be in the water.â
When you stand up, Andrew shuts your door behind you and then rubs the back of his neck with his free hand, his cheeks flushing slightly. It dawns on you that this is the first time that youâve seen him in the daylight. Before now, youâve only seen him in the neon fluorescents of the club and the low lighting of your apartment in the middle of the night. But now, in broad daylight without so much as a cloud in the sky, you feel like youâre really seeing him for the first time.
You already knew he has freckles, but now you could count every single one, if you wanted to. You knew that his eyes were hazel, but now you can see the tiny flecks of gold around his irises. And you thought that he was pretty the very first time you saw him in the alley, but you canât help but think heâs even prettier in the sunlight.
âI may have said that to make you want to come,â he admits sheepishly. âBut it wasnât a lie.â
Your own face warms at the admission. âWell, clearly it worked. I came.â
Andrewâs mouth upturns slightly at the corners, his eyes crinkling around them. âCome on,â he nods towards the house. âIâll show you around.â
The place is relatively small - a single story two bedroom, but in comparison to your studio apartment, it feels like a castle. And itâs clean. Spotless, actually. You hadnât been expecting a pigsty by any means, but the exceptional tidiness is still a pleasant surprise. Thereâs not a decorative pillow out of place or so much as a dirty dish in the sink.
He carries your bag to the doorway of the first bedroom and lets you enter before him.
âThis is the, uhâŠâ Andrew trails off for a fraction of a second, searching for words, âThis is the guest room. All yours while youâre here.â
You take in the appearance of the small room. Like the common areas of the house, itâs clean, but thereâs certain characteristics that stand out to you. A pastel pink, floral comforter. A stack of childrenâs books on the dresser. A handful of small clothes hangers in an otherwise empty closet, and a ladder of pencil markings on the wall right beside it. At first, they look like random scratches in the paint, but as you take a step closer, you realize that they are height measurements. Each spaced a few inches apart, with dates scribbled next to each line. Some of the handwriting appears more feminine, whereas the more recent markings seem childlike.
You glance at Andrew over your shoulder, where he still stands in the doorway, watching you. âDo youâŠhave children?â You ask, curiosity getting the better of you.
His gaze shifts past you, to the pencil markings in the far corner of the room. âNo, I donât,â he answers, a hint of melancholy in the words. âThis room was my nieceâs, but she doesnât live here anymore. I justâŠcanât bring myself to erase it.â
Judging by his tone and dejected expression, he doesnât seem particularly eager to talk about the subject, so you donât press it any further, instead locking the information away with everything else youâve learned about him in the last few days.
His childhood nickname is Pope. He had a twin sister named Julia. He drinks his coffee black. He has a niece, and as of last summer, she was approximately 45 inches tall. He did time in prison for armed robbery, and heâs prepared to kill someone for a woman he barely knows.
You offer a small nod. âWell, itâs a really nice place. Thank you, again. For inviting me. You have no idea how glad I am to be away from LA, even for a few days.â
Andrewâs expression softens. âYou donât have to thank me,â he says, voice calm in a way that youâre quickly growing to find very comforting. âIâm happy that youâre here.â
You plop down on the edge of the mattress and grin up at him. âSo, whatâs the plan for today? You gonna show me around Oceanside?â
âI was planning on it.â He leans against the doorframe, his thumbs in his pockets as he smirks at you. âWe can do whatever you want. Go to the beach, the pier, just ride around. We do need to go to the grocery store at some point so I can grab some things for dinner.â
Your eyebrows lift in surprise. âWe can do whatever I want and youâre going to make me dinner? Youâre quite the host, Andrew.â
He blushes at that, the apples of his cheeks turning a pretty shade of pink. The thought crosses your mind right then and there - you would never in a million years guess that heâs capable of doing what he plans to do later this week just by looking at him. This blushing, thoughtful man who has been nothing but respectful and considerate of you since the moment you met. Heâs going to put a permanent end to the problem that has plagued you for years?
Thereâs more than one side to people, clearly. But that doesnât bother you. Not in the slightest. In fact, youâre interested in getting to know every side of Andrew Cody. The soft-spoken version of him standing before you, and the version of him capable of the kind of violence youâve only ever let yourself fantasize about.
âïœĄâ§ËÊâĄÉËâ§ïœĄâ
Oceanside is - quite literally - a breath of fresh air compared to Los Angeles.
It isnât exactly a small town, but it feels like one by comparison. Thereâs less people, less noise, less traffic, less smells. The ocean is five minutes away no matter where you go.
Los Angeles may be less than a two hour drive from Oceanside, but it feels like itâs worlds away. You feel like you can actually fucking breathe here.
By the end of your very first day here, you dread ever returning to LA. To Solstice (even for just one more shift). To your cramped, overpriced studio apartment that youâve tried your hardest to make feel like home but never really has.
But here? Oceanside? Even just a few hours after your arrival, you can tell that this is a place that could easily start to feel like home to you. Partially due to the relaxed nature of the beach town, and partially due to the curly-haired man who is currently cooking you dinner as you watch from across the kitchen bar.
âWhatcha gonna make for dinner?â You ask as Andrew pulls into the grocery store parking lot.
He puts the truck in park and unbuckles his seatbelt before turning slightly to face you. âThat depends entirely on what youâd like to eat.â
You had tried to insist that you were fine with whatever, but Andrew is quite convincing when he wants to be. He had refused to leave the grocery store until you told him what to make for dinner. Not wanting to be an inconvenience, or high maintenance, or too picky, you suggested the first relatively simple and inexpensive meal that you could think of on the spot.
Now, you sit across the counter from him, watching as he cooks fettuccine alfredo for the both of you.
As hard as you try not to let your eyes wander, you canât stop yourself. Andrew seems oblivious, and if he notices he doesnât say anything, but your eyes are drawn to his broad shoulders, thick arms, and bulky chest. His curls are wind-blown and skin sun-kissed from an afternoon spent walking on the beach near his house, making his freckles more visible than ever.
He catches you smirking at him as heâs plating up the food. A bashful grin appears on his face. âWhat is it?â
You shake your head with a small shrug. âNothing. Youâre justâŠnot at all what I thought youâd be when we first met.â
Andrewâs eyebrows arch slightly. âYou mean the kind of guy that normally books private rooms with you at the club?â
You snort a laugh. âYeah, something like that.â You pause, grinning. âI mean, obviously most of them donât recruit me to help them rob my bossâŠâ Andrew chuckles lowly at that. âBut they also donât cook me Italian food and let me stay at their beach house.â
âWhat can I say?â Andrew slides your plate across the counter. âIâm full of surprises.â
You canât disagree with that.
Andrew takes a seat beside you and the meal is eaten in companionable silence for the most part, giving your thoughts time to stray to all of the things that you have tried your hardest not to dwell on too much since you arrived here today.
Youâve tried not to think about whatâs to come at the end of the week, and all of the ways that it could go disastrously wrong. As hard as you try to think positively, you canât help but worry about someone getting hurt. Andrew, or one of his brothers, or a random dancer at the club who somehow gets caught in the crosshairs, or even yourself. Your brain conjures worst case scenarios, causing visions of anyone other than Silas dying to replay on a loop until you snap yourself out of it.
But with Andrew sitting next to you, itâs a little easier to silence those scary thoughts and replace them with better ones. Like maybe, just maybe, if this whole operation doesnât go to shit, there could be more moments like this.
âïœĄâ§ËÊâĄÉËâ§ïœĄâ
Pope isnât particularly eager for you to meet his family, but he knows itâs bound to happen sooner or later. Especially if he hopes to maintain a regular presence in your life once this week is over.
He doesnât expect you to want the same, but he does hope.
So, on your second day in Oceanside, he bites the bullet and drives you both to the family home after asking his brothers and nephew to meet there to go over everything for the heist a final time.
You assure him you donât mind, but youâve never met his family before. Heâs slightly comforted by the fact that he never has to worry about you meeting Smurf, but thereâs still Deran and Craig, who act like teenagers more than half the time.
âLook,â Pope stops you with a gentle hand on your arm before he reaches for the front door, âIf they say anything inappropriate, or weird, just ignore them. Theyâre children. Weâre just here to go over the plan and then weâll leave, I promise.â
You exhale a laugh. âI can assure you that Iâm used to inappropriate and weird, Andrew. They cannot possibly be any worse than the men that I have dealt with on a regular basis the last three years.â
He hesitates a moment, his hand still on your arm as he watches for any sign of reluctance, but you give none. Grudgingly, Pope opens the door and lets you enter before him.
Inside, thereâs less noise than Pope expects, and it gives him the tiniest bit of hope that everyone will be on their best behavior. He leads you through the house, where the two of you find Craig, Deran, and Jay already gathered in the living room.
All three pairs of eyes immediately land on you as soon as you and Pope enter the room.
âStill,â Craig shrugs. âI didnât believe that she would actually be willing to hear Pope out and not immediately run screaming to the cops.â He stands then, walking the short distance to where you stand beside Pope, extending a hand to you in offering. âCraig, by the way.â
âAh,â you sigh, briefly shaking his hand. âThe mastermind behind this operation, I hear.â
Craig winks, clicking his tongue. âYouâve heard correctly.â
Jay and Deran then introduce themselves, clarity blooming on your face as you recognize Deran from the brief encounter in the alley. Youâre perfectly friendly, but the tension in your shoulders and the way that you clasp your hands in front of you doesnât go unnoticed by Pope.
He canât blame you for being nervous. You are in a room full of criminals, all of whom are strangers to you - himself included - to plot not only the financial but also physical demise of the man who has made your life hell for years.
Anyone sane would be nervous. But it speaks volume to Pope how much trust youâre putting in him (and how desperate you must be for any chance at freedom, no matter how risky it may be).
With a featherlight hand on the small of your back, Pope nods to an empty section on the couch for you to take a seat. He sits directly beside you, just close enough for the side of your thigh to brush against his.
Craig immediately launches into the logistics of the plan for Friday night. Jay is to disable all security cameras inside and around the perimeter of the club, and then waits with the getaway car. After the cameras have been disabled, Craig, Deran, and Pope will all enter through the basement. Once they are in the safe room, Pope is to signal to you through a discreet communication device that youâll wear in your ear.
ââŠand then youâll tell your creepy floor managerâŠâ
âGregory.â
âGregory,â Craig repeats, âthat you saw a customer open the basement door and go downstairs. But only if you know that Silas is distracted at the time. We donât want Silas coming down before we make Gregory open the safe.â
âRight,â you nod. âSo then Gregory opens the safe, Deran takes the money and leaves, you and Andrew make Gregory call for Silas to come downstairs, and thenâŠ?â
âAnd then Craig and I take care of the rest,â Pope answers simply. He doesnât want you worrying about the specifics as to what happens once Silas enters the basement. The less you know at that point, the better. âWhatever you do, you stay upstairs. Finish your shift just like you would any other night. By the time you get off, itâll all be finished.â
Youâre silent for a moment, glancing around at each of the men in the room before you turn your head just enough to look Pope in the eyes. âAre you sure thereâs nothing else I can do to help? Kinda feel like Iâm not really pulling my weight here.â
âWeâre sure,â Pope says before any of the others have a chance to speak up, his tone final, leaving no room for objection. âBetween the information youâve given us and what youâll say to Gregory, youâve done more than enough.â
You glance down to where your hands are interlocked in your lap. Then, in a smaller voice with a humorless laugh, âEnough for you to kill a man for me? To risk going back to prison?â
The question makes him forget that the two of you are in a room with three other men. He instinctively reaches out, placing a hand on top of both of yours. Your eyes dart down in surprise to where his hand rests on yours and a thick silence settles over the room before Pope slowly retracts his hand before answering you with absolute resolution.
âYes,â he implores. âIâve told you once, and Iâll tell you again. You donât have to do anything to earn this. Iâm offering. Because I want to.â
He wants to for you. Since the moment he first saw you in that alley and he stood and watched as Silas grabbed you by the arm, a part of him has wanted to ensure that Silas never touches you again. That desire has only grown stronger since meeting you, talking to you, and getting to know you these last few days. The only thing that could possibly stop him from sending Silas to an early grave is if you personally begged him not to, and even then, Pope would still want to with every fiber of his being.
You stare at Pope, pursing your lips, and he halfway expects you to argue. But he doesnât drop your gaze, doesnât even blink, and eventually you exhale a shaky breath.
âLetâs do this, then.â
âïœĄâ§ËÊâĄÉËâ§ïœĄâ
âYou nervous about tomorrow?â
Youâre hardly able to make out the words over the crashing of waves against the shore and the squawking of a seagull just a few yards away from where you and Andrew sit on the beach.
You turn your gaze away from the sun that has started to set over the Pacific Ocean to find that Andrew is already looking at you.
âOf course,â you admit with a breathy laugh. âAre you nervous?â
Andrew lifts his shoulders in a small shrug, looking back out to the water. âWeâve pulled off more complicated jobs than this before. Not too long ago we infiltrated a military base. A strip club is nothing compared to that.â
Your eyes widen in surprise, as they tend to do anytime youâre learning new information about the man sitting beside you. âA military base?â You echo in disbelief. âJesus. How exactly did you guys even get into this kind of thing, anyway?â
Robbing banks. Offering to kill a man for a woman heâs only just met. And apparently, infiltrating military bases. That kind of thing. The kind of thing that should send you running in the opposite direction but for some reason makes you want to lean in closer.
Andrew shakes his head, a quick snort of laughter escaping him. âOur mother,â he answers. âShe taught us everything we know. Iâve been doing this since Craig and Deran were still in diapers.â
âJesus,â you mumble. You donât know the exact age difference between Andrew and his brothers, but he canât possibly be all that much older than them. He was just a kid. âAnd youâŠenjoy it?â
Andrew thinks about it for a moment, leaning back with his palms pressed into the sand. âI wouldnât say that enjoy is the right word. Itâs just all that Iâve ever known.â
You nod slowly, contemplating the words. This lifestyle is his baseline for normal. If you struggle to remember what life was like before you got dragged into working at Solstice only a few years ago, you can only imagine the complex feelings that come with being groomed into an entire lifetime of crime.
âHave you ever thought about what else you would do?â You ask hesitantly. âIf you werenât doing this?â
Again, he doesnât answer right away. You watch as his eyes narrow in thought, his stare locked on the pink and orange horizon ahead of you. âIâve thought about it,â he murmurs, a hint of restrained emotion in his tone. âNever for long enough to act on it, butâŠmaybe Iâd open a skatepark. Eventually settle down, start a family of my own.â
âReally?â You canât hide the surprise from your voice. You arenât quite sure why the answer surprises you as much as it does - you did literally just meet this man less than a week ago, but you didnât exactly peg him to be the chasing toddlers, Pee-wee soccer game on a Saturday morning kind of guy. âYou want to have kids?â
âMaybe one or two,â he shrugs. âI probably wonât, though. Itâs just something I like to think about sometimes.â He pauses. âWhat about you? What are you gonna do when this is all over?â
Thatâs a question that youâve been asking yourself for years. Up until now, it has only felt like a distant fantasy. Even now, youâre trying not to get your hopes up too high for fear that it wonât work out. That things will take a turn for the worst. That someone will get hurt, that Silas will somehow get away and find out what youâve tried to do. Even with freedom almost close enough to touch, you wonât let yourself believe itâs yours until youâre actually holding it in your handâŠand until you are, itâs difficult to imagine what life could possibly look like.
You exhale. âIâll probably start by visiting my dad. I havenât seen him in a while. I wanna let him know that me and him are gonna be okay. And thenâŠâ You trail off momentarily, âand then Iâm gonna get the fuck out of LA. Maybe go back to school eventually,â you shrug. âI guess I havenât let myself think about it too much either.â
Andrew hums in thought at the response. Then, he sits up straight, pulling his knees awkwardly to his chest and looking at you with the same serious expression that youâre no closer to being able to read than you were the night you first met him.
âYouâre always welcome here. If you need a place to stay while you figure out what you wanna do.â
The offer warms you more than the evening California sun. Not only the words, but the way you canât help but think he sounds nervous, and maybe a little hopeful, when he speaks them.
And because you donât know how to express your gratitude in words, you place your head on his shoulder, instead. He tenses in surprise for a fraction of a second, then relaxes into the embrace, nuzzling the side of his cheek against the top of your head.
âI do like it here,â you hum. I like you, too, you think to yourself. âI might have to take you up on that.â
âïœĄâ§ËÊâĄÉËâ§ïœĄâ
âCameras are officially offline. Soleil, if you can hear me, cough two times.â
Jayâs voice pours through the tiny communication device that Andrew had helped place in your ear only an hour ago. Youâre able to make out Jayâs words, but theyâre muffled, as the club is already extremely busy tonight - which youâre far more grateful for than you usually would be. Tonight, the more noise, the better. Boisterous laughs and obnoxiously loud music means that patrons and dancers are less likely to hear anything out of the ordinary.
As inconspicuously as possible, you raise your arm and cough twice into your elbow.
âGood,â Jay replies. âEveryone keep to the plan. Pope, let us know when you guys are in.â
The line then goes silent, leaving you to attempt to act calm, cool and collected for however long it takes Andrew, Craig and Deran to get into the basement and then the safe room without being caught.
You havenât even been here for an hour yet, and you already feel the need to reapply deodorant due to the intense nervous sweats that youâre currently experiencing. Youâve already been to the bathroom twice because your stomach is so tied in knots that you are convinced youâre going to get sick.
Maybe you should have listened to Andrew and called out tonight. He had tried to assure that they would find a way to make everything work without you there, but you stubbornly insisted on helping.
What if your anxiety gets the best of you and you get sick on center stage tonight? What if someone notices how antsy you are? What if your earpiece falls out while dancing?
Oh, thatâs just a hearing aid. I somehow went partially deaf in the last few days.
It doesnât help that Silas is exceptionally irritable tonight, barking at every dancer and employee for every little thing. You spend the first part of the night maintaining as much distance between yourself and him as you possibly can while also keeping a careful eye on him. Itâs sheer dumb luck that no one requests a private room with you during the first hour of the night so youâre able to monitor both Silas and Gregory from a reasonable distance while simultaneously conversing with customers.
And, if you were having any second thoughts about playing a part in Silasâ demise, those go out the window the minute that he approaches you that night.
Youâre standing at the bar, waiting on some drinks for a table you have been entertaining, when he eases up beside you. Call it a sixth sense, but the way that your skin crawls at the sudden presence tells you itâs him before you even glance over.
âEnjoy your days off?â Silas asks, voice low enough for only you to hear. You cut your eyes in his direction to find him smirking at you, the look in his eyes making it clear that he isnât just making friendly conversation.
âI did,â you answer shortly, eyeing the bartender to see where sheâs at with the Jack and cokes. Not that itâs any of your concern, you bite back.
Silas hums, swirling the ice in his glass. âIâm glad to see you tonight, you know. I was starting to worry that maybe you skipped town.â
Your hands clutch the edge of the bar to steady yourself, your stomach sinking. He doesnât know. Thereâs no way that he knows. How would he know?
âAm I not allowed to go out of town for a few days when Iâm not working?â You snort, trying to play it off, hoping your horror isnât displayed across your face. You donât deny it, because if heâs bringing it up, then he already knows. You just donât know how much he knows. âI have to run my vacation plans by you now?â
A low chuckle escapes him as he takes a slow sip of his drink. âWhatâs in Oceanside, anyway?â
Fucking hell.
Just as the last word leaves his lips, and the room around you seems to freeze, the bartender slides the tray of drinks across the counter to you. Your hands are shaking, but you force yourself to pick it up. Youâre vaguely aware of Andrew whispering your name in your ear, his voice panicked, but you canât respond yet.
âThe ocean,â you spit, turning around and walking away with the drinks before Silas can say another word.
When youâre halfway across the room, Andrewâs voice pours through the communication device again.
âAre you okay? What the hell was that?â
You still donât risk responding. You drop the drinks off at the table with exaggerated pleasantries and quickly excuse yourself before the men have a chance to drag you into whatever it is theyâre now animatedly conversing about. A fleeting glance in the direction of the bar lets you know that Silas is now occupied by a customer, and only after confirming that his attention is no longer on you, do you take off in the direction of the employee bathroom and lock the door behind you.
âAndrew?â You hiss under your breath. âHow much of that did you hear?â
âAll of it,â Andrew answers right away. âHow the hell does he know?â
âI have no idea,â you whisper, sitting down on the closed toilet. Now that youâre alone and can begin to process what the hell just happened, your heart is racing and your body is shaking and youâll be lucky to walk back out of this room without collapsing. âI havenât told anyone about my trip to Oceanside. He must have someone keeping tabs on me when Iâm not here.â
The realization makes bile churn in your gut. Heâs watching you. Even when youâre not here, heâs watching. He knows when you come and when you go, and he knows where you go. Who fucking knows how many times heâs had someone spying on you when you were just buying groceries or getting your nails done orâ
âBreathe,â Andrew says, somehow able to detect your panic without even seeing you. âHeâs just trying to scare you. He might know that you went to Oceanside, but he doesnât know our plan. This doesnât change anything, okay? Weâre already in. Weâre doing this. And you wonât have to worry about him anymore after tonight.â
You inhale, then exhale, then repeat, trying your hardest to convince yourself that what heâs saying is true. You know he believes it, and you trust that he wouldnât lie to you, but right now the small amount of self-preservation that you possess is screaming at you to abandon ship.
But then you think of Andrew, in the basement, only one floor separating you from him. You think of all heâs risking by what heâll do for you tonight. You think of your time spent together in Oceanside, and how you long for more, and how that isnât a possibility unless you leave this bathroom and do what you came here to do.
One more deep breath. âOkay,â you exhale. âOkay, Iâm okay.â It sounds like youâre trying to assure yourself as much as you are him.
âGood,â Andrew encourages softly. âWeâre in the safe room now. No sign of anyone down here. I need you to get Gregory to come downstairs now, okay? Remember the plan?â
Even though he canât see you, you nod. âI remember.â
Just in case someone is standing outside the door, you flush the toilet and turn the sink on momentarily for the sake of keeping up appearances as you take in your own appearance. Your makeup is slightly patchy from beads of sweat that have gathered on your forehead, but all things considered, you look normal enough.
You pause with your hand on the bathroom doorknob, taking one last, steadying breath before reentering the main floor of the club. A large group of men are huddled around center stage as another popular dancer performs her solo set, and sensuous music blasts loudly through the room.
Silas has moved from his seat at the bar, relocating to a far corner where he sits conversing with a table of regulars with his back to you. Good. And as for GregoryâŠ.
Gregory stands next to one of the newest dancers, who currently looks as if sheâs being held hostage by whatever Gregory is saying to her.
Now or never, you suppose, forcing one foot in front of the other as you walk across the room.
âHey, Angel,â you greet her with a cheerful voice and smile, hoping it sounds genuine. âThereâs a guy at the bar asking for a private dance with you. I told him Iâd send you over.â
Right away, she looks relieved to be freed from her conversation with Gregory. âThanks,â she breathes before heading in the direction of the bar.
Gregory starts to walk off - knowing that you wonât engage in casual conversation with him like the newer hires who feel obligated to - when you speak up.
âHey, I saw a guy trying to open the basement door just a minute ago,â you tell him, relieved when the words come out with just the right amount of faux concern. Gregory immediately looks in that general direction, beady eyes narrowing as he tries to find who you could be referring to.
âHe was jiggling the handle,â you continue, hoping it prompts him in that direction.
âA guy?â He repeats. âWhat guy? What did he look like?â
You shrug. âNever seen him before. He was about your height, middle aged, short black hair.â
Gregoryâs eyes dart between you and the hallway behind you. âOkay,â he huffs, taking a step away from you. âIâll tell Silasââ
âI already told him,â you blurt without thinking. âHeâs busy. He told me to tell you to check it out.â
To both your surprise and relief, he doesnât question you further. He just huffs in annoyance, muttering something under his breath about having to do fucking everything around here and storms in the direction of the basement stairway.
For the briefest of moments, you almost feel bad for him. Then, you remember all of the times he has walked in on you and other dancers in the changing room, or tattled on you to Silas for not smiling enough, or stared directly at your tits with zero shame, and then your guilt disappears just as quickly as it had appeared.
You arenât quite sure what Andrew and his brothers plan to do with Gregory. You didnât ask, and you arenât going to. You figured that Andrew would likely give you the same answer he has to the majority of questions youâve asked over the last few days: the less you know, the better.
You do your best to appear subtle as you watch Gregory approach the door that leads to the basement of the club. He glances around, seemingly looking for the mystery man that you had made up a description of on the spot. When he sees no one that looks as you had described (because of course he doesnât), he jiggles the handle to find it still locked. Your stomach sinks as you worry that Gregory will chalk that up to good enough and turn around to report to Silas, but then he reaches into his pocket and retrieves a set of keys, still visibly muttering under his breath and shaking his head.
You breathe an audible sigh of relief when he opens the door and he slips into the stairwell without drawing any attention from Silas, who still has his back to the entire incident on the other side of the room.
âHeâs coming,â you murmur under your breath, âGregory is coming downstairs now.â
Thereâs a quick whisper of confirmation, so fast and low that you arenât even sure whose voice it was, and then the line goes silent. Your part of the job is over, and youâre left to wait. Wait until you see Silas walk to the stairs when Andrew makes Gregory call for him. Wait as you hope that he never walks back up those stairs. Wait until you hear from Andrew, wait until your shift is over.
And waiting might just be the hardest part of it all.
âïœĄâ§ËÊâĄÉËâ§ïœĄâ
âIâm gonna ask you one more time to open this fucking safe.â
Like a rat after a piece of cheese, Gregory had walked right into the trap. He clearly had not actually expected anyone to be down here, because he walked right inside the safe room, muttering to himself about not getting paid enough, where Craig and Deran snuck up behind him, overpowering him within seconds. He didnât even have a chance to yell before a handkerchief was crammed into his mouth.
Popes gotta hand it to Gregory, though. He fully expected the cowering, sniveling little shit to open the safe the very first time the three masked men demand he do so. But so far, he has yet to cave. Even with the barrel of Popeâs gun pressed to his temple.
Heâs trembling, and whimpering, and he has definitely pissed himself, but he is also refusing to put the code in the fucking vault. Heâs loyal to Silas, even if heâs nothing else, and that makes Pope feel the slightest bit better about what he plans to do with Gregory whenever they no longer have any use for him.
Pope and his brothers like to avoid casualties if at all possible. But after all youâve told him about Gregory and now how stubborn heâs being? Pope has a hard time feeling bad.
âI donât fucking have time for this,â Pope grunts, pulling the Glock away from Gregoryâs forehead and instead aiming it towards the lower half of his body. He tries to shout, tries to protest, but the cloth crammed inside his mouth makes it all sound like muffled gibberish.
Pope doesnât hesitate to pull the trigger, sending Gregory crumpling to the floor with a shot to the thigh that has him screeching around the gag; a high-pitched, animalistic sound. Upstairs, the music continues to blast, the bass vibrating through the floor. Even if Popeâs gun didnât have a suppressor, he doubts anyone would have heard the shot over all the noise in the club.
Craig and Deran yank Gregory back upright despite his cries of pain. âThe next shot wonât be to your leg. You think weâre bluffing?â Craig bellows. âYouâre gonna find out if you donât open that fucking safe right now.â
Gregory frantically nods. Craig and Deran haul him forward, and he raises his bound wrists to the safeâs keypad and begins typing with shaking hands. After a few seconds, the safe door clicks open. Deran pulls Gregory out of the way, allowing Pope to open the door.
âOh, fuck yes,â Craig laughs in relief at the sight inside. âThis has gotta be even more than I thought.â
It is a lot - too much for Pope to take an accurate guess as to exactly how much, but it has to be in the hundreds of thousands. He canât get too excited yet, though. Not when Gregory here is bleeding through his pants and youâre still upstairs with Silas.
Pope and Craig make quick work of emptying the safe, shoving the stacks of cash into backpacks that Deran and a soon to be masked Gregory will wear out of here to where Jay awaits with the getaway car while Pope and Craig deal with Silas. But firstâŠ
âYou got your phone on you?â Pope asks Gregory.
Gregory nods with an unintelligible noise of confirmation through the handkerchief still in his mouth.
âGood,â Pope lifts a hand to remove the gag, pausing before pulling it out. âIâm gonna take this out now. You scream, you die. Understand?â
Gregory nods, eyes wide with fear. Pope then yanks the cloth out of Gregoryâs mouth, and he immediately begins to hyperventilate.
âWhereâs your phone?â Craig demands.
âBack - back pocket,â Gregory pants.
Deran reaches into the back pocket of Gregoryâs pants, retrieving the cell phone and tosses it to Pope. Pope holds the phone up to Gregoryâs face, letting Face ID unlock the screen. He goes through Gregory's call history and quickly finds Silasâ name.
âHereâs whatâs going to happen,â Pope says coolly, looking Gregory dead in the eye. âYouâre going to give your boss upstairs a call. Youâre gonna stay calm, and tell him that you need him to come down here right now. When he asks why, you tell him thereâs an issue with the safe. If he tries to question you, you pretend you canât hear him over the music and reiterate for him to come down here. Am I clear?â
Craig speaks up before Gregory has a chance to agree or disagree. âIf you try to warn him, youâll be bleeding from your other leg, too. Or worse. Got it?â
Gregory nods with a panicked sound of agreement, and Pope presses Silasâ name. He answers after the second ring, pop music pouring through the phoneâs speaker.
âWhat?â Silas barks.
Gregory doesnât speak right away. He opens his mouth like heâs going to, but then closes it, his eyes darting between Pope, Craig, and Deran. Pope wiggles the phone in his face, giving Gregory a look that dares him to test his luck.
âHey,â he squeaks. âI - uh - I need you to come downstairs for a minute.â
âWhat?â Silas snaps. âWhy? What are you doing downstairs right now?â
âIâŠIâŠuhmââ Gregory stutters, his voice unnaturally shrill and shaky. He looks between Pope and his brothers again in hesitation, unable to force the next words out. Deran nudges Gregoryâs ribcage with his gun in a reminder of whatâs at stake.
Thereâs one last, loaded second of silence before Gregory opens his mouth and seals his fateâŠand yours.
âSoleil told me she saw a man going to the basement, Iâm sorry Silas, they made me do itââ
ïœĄâ§ËÊâĄÉËâ§ïœĄ
You watch Silas from across the room the moment that he raises his cell phone to his ear.
It could be someone else calling him. Maybe it isnât Gregory, yet. But it only takes about ten seconds for any doubt to fade away, because Silas looks over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the room until they lock with yours.
You try to look away, to play it off, to pretend you werenât just watching him like a hawk, but itâs too late. He noticed. He definitely fucking noticed. And whatever was said to him during that short phone call, makes him stand up and head directly towards you.
âWhy donât we take a little walk?â Silas says, low enough for only you to hear. âThereâs some things that we need to talk about.â
Your knees buckle and the room around you begins to spin. âIâŠhave a private room in a few minutes. Canât it wait?â
Thatâs a lie, but youâre trying to do whatever it takes to do what Andrew had asked of you. Stay upstairs.
âNah, it canât.â Silas glances around briefly before sliding a hand into his coat pocket. The movement looks innocent enough but then the unmistakable outline of a gun straining against the material catches your eye. You look back up, your blood running cold, and heâs smirking at you. âAnd Iâm not asking.â
He doesnât give you the chance to object before he grabs you by the arm and starts hauling you across the overcrowded dance floor, everyone too drunk and distracted to pay any mind to either of you.
âWhere are we going?â You ask, trying to play dumb. You say the words loudly enough that Andrew, or anyone listening downstairs, will be able to hear.
He vibrates with low, chesty laughter. âI think you already know the answer to that.â
It takes every ounce of concentration just to put one foot in front of the other and keep yourself upright. Your thoughts are reeling with worst case scenarios. What will you find when you enter the basement? Did Andrew and the others get caught? Did Gregory have a gun on him? Is someone hurt? Once you walk down these stairs, will you ever walk back up?
Neither of you speak again until Silas opens the stairwell door, pushes you inside, and pulls it closed behind him.
âIâve always known that youâre a flight risk,â Silas grumbles, steering you down the stairs with one hand gripping you by the shoulder and the barrel of his gun now pressed to the small of your back. You couldnât escape even if you tried. âYou really think I wouldnât notice if you left town for four days? To fuck off to Oceanside?â
You donât answer. His grip on your shoulder tightens enough that youâll still feel the imprint of his hand hours later.
âThe tracker that I put on your car sure came in handy,â he chuckles low, the sound sending chills down your spine. âLed me right to the Cody residence. I had to do a little digging after that, but imagine my surprise to learn that the Codys have quite the reputation.â
You reach the bottom of the stairs, and he shoves you up against the concrete wall and brings the gun to the side of your temple. You canât stop the whimper that escapes your lips.
âI just didnât think you would risk your dadâs life trying to pull some bullshit like this. Clearly I underestimated just how stupid and naive you really fuckinâ are.â Heâs close enough that spit sprays across your face with nearly every word that he says.
âSo this is what you are going to do if you want your sweet old daddy to live to see another day,â he murmurs, voice lethally calm in a way that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand straight.
Your dadâs face the night Silas first showed up at his house to collect flashes through your mind. The night that would eventually butterfly effect into you standing right here, right now.
âWeâre going to walk in there exactly like this.â He presses the gun harder against your temple for emphasis. âAnd youâre going to tell whoever is in that room to put my money back where they found it. After theyâve done that, youâre going to tell them to get the fuck out of here unless they want to clean your brains off of my floor. And then Iâll deal with you after.â
He pulls the gun away, and the small device in your left ear suddenly feels impossibly loud despite the silence on the other end.
You can only hope that Andrew has heard every word and knows what is coming.
ïœĄâ§ËÊâĄÉËâ§ïœĄ
The door to the safe room is wide open, and you see Gregoryâs motionless body crumpled on the floor before you even step foot inside, a bullet wound dead-center of his forehead.
The second thing you notice is that Craig and Deran begin to lower their weapons as soon as you, and Silas directly behind you with his gun still aimed at your head, come into view.
The third, and most concerning thing? Andrew is nowhere to be seen.
After you get over the initial shock of realizing that Gregory is dead, presumably killed by one of the boys after saying whatever the hell he said that made it click in Silasâ head that you have very much played a part in all of this, the realization that you have no idea where Andrew is and that Craig and Deran are surrendering their weapons hits you like a brick.
You were so, so stupid to have ever thought this would work. To have actually believed that things wouldnât go to shit, that everything would go according to plan, that this would end in your freedom. Now itâll be a miracle if you and every member of the Cody family makes it out of this building alive.
Where the hell is Andrew?
He wouldnât leave his brothers behind. He wouldnât leave you behind. Youâre sure enough of that. Not if there were any other way.
âWell?â Silas barks, pressing the muzzle of the gun into your temple. âTell them.â
But your mouth has gone bone dry. Andrew. Andrew. Where is Andrewâ
Craig and Deran exchange a look that lasts a mere second before Craig opens his mouth to speak. âLook, man, we donât want anyone else to get hurt. Let her go and weâll leave. Just take it easy.â
âEasy?â Silas repeats incredulously. âYou conspire against me, break into my club, kill one of my employeesâŠâ He tips his head in the direction of Gregoryâs lifeless body. ââŠand you want me to take it easy?â
Craig and Deran are both silent.
âKick the bags over,â Silas sighs, his patience already wearing thin.
âDo what he asks, guys,â you manage to force out. âHeâll let you go. Just give back the money.â
Another second of hesitation, another glance between themselves, and then they nudge the backpacks across the floor.
Silas laughs quietly from behind you. âSmart choice.â
Itâs then that you notice Craigâs eyes shift past Silas, the movement too quick and minute for Silas to even register as he starts to reach down for one of the backpacks.
Then all hell breaks loose, and the following thirty seconds feel like something out of a fever dream.
One second, Silasâ gun is pressed against your head, and the next, itâs flying across the room with a shot that goes right through the wall. Your body gets propelled forward by a blunt force from behind you, and you go tumbling to the floor with a sharp cry.
When you look up, thereâs chaos all around you, but most importantly, thereâs Andrew.
The door to the safe room, which had been wide open just seconds ago, is now nearly shut. He had been here the whole damn time, just waiting for the perfect moment to pop out and strike Silas from behind.
Andrew drives into him like a freight train, wrapping both arms around Silasâ torso and carrying him into a metal shelving unit. The entire thing rattles violently on impact, random boxes and loose paperwork falling from the shelves and scattering across the floor. Silas lets out a startled, animalistic grunt, but he recovers surprisingly fast for a man pushing sixty.
Then Craig and Deran jump in, and the four men crash together in an aggressive tangle of limbs and curses. It all happens so fast that itâs impossible to tell who throws which punch and whose blood is dripping onto the concrete.
All you know is that youâre the reason that they called Silas down here in the first place, and you see someoneâs gun on the ground, no more than an armâs length away from you.
Before you can give it a second thought, you grab the gun and force yourself to your feet.
Your hands are shaking so hard that it looks as if you have Parkinsonâs disease, and youâre terrified to take the shot for fear that youâll hit anyone other than Silas, but every horrible thing he has said and done in the last three years is suddenly replaying in your mind as your finger dances over the trigger and you know without a doubt that you have to do what youâre most scared to do.
You yell. A deep, guttural sound that tears through you, loud enough to get the attention of all four men in front of you. Deran, whoâs positioned slightly in front of a beaten and bloodied Silas, instantly moves out of the way, giving you a clear shot.
You hear Andrew say your name, you see Silas start to attempt to lunge towards you, but you donât let either of those things stop you from squeezing the trigger.
Time slows down. Despite the fact that the gunshot hadnât been very loud thanks to the suppressor attached to it, thereâs still a shrill, high-pitched ringing in your ears.
For only a fraction of a second, you wonder if you hit him at all. Then, your question is answered when dark crimson begins blooming across the fabric of his cream colored button-down, just over his heart.
Silas opens his mouth to speak, but only blood comes out, and then he falls forward, collapsing on the ground beside Gregory.
Youâre still aiming the gun right where Silas had been standing with shaking hands when Andrew takes a tentative step towards you.
âI killed him,â you whisper, voice trembling. âI killed him.â
Andrew slowly and carefully peels your hands away from the gun and takes it from you. Youâre still glued to the spot, both your mind and body in shock from what just happened. From what you just did.
You killed him. You killed Silas. You killed someone. Murdered them. And yes, they deserved it, but you still fucking pulled the trigger and shot them in the chest.
âNo, you didnât,â Andrew murmurs, giving Silas a kick to the shoulder with his foot. Silas lets out a weak groan that makes you instinctively jump back. âHeâs still alive.â Then, before you can spiral any further, Andrew aims the gun directly at the man lying on the floor and fires it again, hitting Silas in the head.
He turns to face you, holstering the gun. âSee? You didnât kill him. I killed him.â
âSo much for not shooting him in front of her,â Deran grumbles as he picks up one of the backpacks and slides it on. Him and Craig begin to move around the room, but you arenât paying attention to what they are doing, because your eyes are locked on the body on the floor in front of you.
Bodies. Plural. Two of them. Silas, and Gregory. And blood. A lot of it.
Andrew steps in front of you, blocking your view of it all.
âWe need to clean all of this up now,â Andrew tells you gently. He raises his hands as if heâs going to place them on your shoulders, but stops himself at the last second, his hands hovering awkwardly for a moment before dropping them back to his sides. âI need you to do one last thing for me, and then this will all be okay. Okay?â
His voice is steady and calm, but his hazel eyes are serious and pleading, like itâs taking every ounce of his willpower to maintain composure for your sake.
You give him a shaky nod to confirm that you heard him.
âI need you to go back upstairs. I need you to keep watch and make sure that no one tries to come down here, and warn us if they do.â
Youâre shaking your head before he finishes speaking. âWhat? No, no. I canât go back up there. I canât. I wonât be able to keep it together. I canât pretend likeââ
âYou can,â Andrew interjects, voice firm. âItâs for your own safety, too. People will be suspicious if you disappear at the same time as Silas. You need an alibi. Go upstairs, show your face, book a private room or two, and pretend like everything is normal. Just for a few more hours.â
You swallow, inhaling and exhaling. What he says makes sense. All of the individual words make sense. But how the fuck are you supposed to walk back upstairs and act like everything is normal when you just killed a man?
Okay, Andrew technically killed him. But you still shot him in the lung. He would have eventually died from that alone even if Andrew hadnât taken the gun from you and put a bullet in his brain.
âJust stay until the end of your shift to cover your own ass. Do you know if anyone noticed you come down here?â
âUhââ you stutter, trying to remember everything that led up to this moment. âUh, no. I donât think so. The clubâs really crowded tonight, everyone seemed busy and distracted.â
âGood,â Andrew nods. âYou were never down here, okay? The cameras are offline, so you were never here.â
You nod, still unsure of how youâre going to will your legs to carry you back up those stairs, or how youâre going to keep the utter shock of what has transpired in this basement off of your face for the next few hours.
âWhat - what about you guys?â You ask him. âHow are you going to get rid of all of this?â
Andrew shakes his head in dismissal. âYou donât need to worry about any of that. Weâll handle it. The bodies, the blood, the money, weâll take care of all of it. Just go upstairs and keep an eye out for us.â He pauses, his eyes scanning your face. âYouâve trusted me so far, yeah? I just need you to trust me again for a few more hours.â
You have. You do. You donât know if you trust yourself to not have a full blown panic attack in the middle of the club, but you do know that you trust Andrew.
You canât quite bring yourself to verbally agree, but you nod.
Andrew takes a step closer and raises a tentative hand to your face, gently tilting your head to the side. âEarpiece is still in place,â he murmurs.
You expect him to pull away once heâs satisfied with his inspection, but he doesnât. Instead, the soft pad of his thumb sweeps beneath your eye, wiping away a streak of smudged mascara. The touch is so tender that under different circumstances, you might have leaned into it. Might have closed the distance between you entirely. But right now, with blood still drying on the floor, all you can do is stand there and let him.
It gives you the much needed inspiration to get through the next few hours without completely falling apart, at least.
ïœĄâ§ËÊâĄÉËâ§ïœĄ
It takes every single last ounce of Popeâs self-restraint to not abandon Craig, Deran, and Jay to deal with the aftermath of the heist by themselves while he whisks you far the hell away from the city of Los Angeles in the middle of the night.
Truthfully, the only reason he doesn't do just that is because he doesnât want it to come back to bite you in the ass.
He has to make sure everything is cleaned up. Everything. Every last drop of blood, every fingerprint, every strand of hair that could have fallen from your person to the floor of that safe room has to be eradicated before he feels comfortable leaving the clubâs premises, and he sure as fuck doesnât trust Craig or Deran to be as thorough as him. Deran lets his dish sponges get filthy and he doesnât trust Craig to properly wash his own ass.
Finally, in the early hours of morning just before dawn, Pope can confidently say that the job is finished. Through the combined efforts of Craig, Deran, Jay, and himself, the safe room is cleaned spotless, the bodies of Silas and Gregory are disposed of, and the haul of cash makes it back to Oceanside.
Getting both bodies out wasnât exactly easy, but Pope had planned for shit to go sideways. Jay was on standby in the getaway truck with an appliance dolly in case they were unable to retrieve the money from the safe while inside the club.
It was Craigâs idea, actually, to cram both bodies inside the safe and haul the entire thing offsiteâŠto the middle of the fucking desert where all four men spent several hours digging a hole big enough for a six hundred pound safe.
No, things didnât go according to plan, but they rarely do. It all proved to be worth it when the cash count ended up being just shy of half a million.
And if Popeâs share of more than a hundred grand wasn't enough to make the entire ordeal feel worthwhile, the relief on your face and the way you fling your arms around his neck when he shows up at your apartment later that day sure as hell does.
Maybe itâs a combination of everything that has happened in the last twelve hours and sleep deprivation, but it takes Pope a moment to register that youâre hugging him in your doorway. When he does, he wraps his arms around your torso and hugs you back, pulling you tight against his chest without a word.
âSorry,â you breathe when you pull back, just far enough to look up at him. âIâm sorry, IâŠIâve been so worried.â
He instantly feels guilty. He had sent you a singular text to let you know that they had left the city when they were on their way to the desert, but after that, he had been so preoccupied with disposing of Silas and Gregoryâs corpses that he hadnât provided you any further updates. He had been operating on autopilot, going through the motions of shoveling dirt, driving his brothers and nephew back to Oceanside, and then driving all the way back to Los Angeles after only a shower and two shots of espresso.
âNo, Iâm sorry,â Pope murmurs, reluctantly dropping his arms back down to his sides. âI shouldâve texted, or called, I justâŠâ He glances around to make sure that none of your neighbors are lingering around outside. You notice his hesitation and move to motion him into your apartment. He steps inside, only continuing once you pull the door closed behind him. âJust wanted to make sure everything was taken care of.â
âAnd?â You ask, biting your bottom lip in the way Pope has noticed that you tend to do when you are especially nervous about something. âIs it? Taken care of?â You add in a smaller voice.
Pope nods. âYeah. Everything has been taken care of. Thereâs nothing that you need to worry about now. No one will ever find them.â
You audibly exhale in relief, your shoulders visibly relaxing as you lean against your kitchen counter and cross your arms over your chest. âAndrew, IâŠI donât even know how to say thank you.â
âYou donât have to thank me at all,â he says simply.
Heâs told you already, but heâll tell you again, he did this because he wanted to.
He saw you in that alleyway and knew you didnât belong in that place. He saw you dance on that stage and knew that he had to talk to you. He had one conversation with you and knew that he would be willing to kill for you.
And he would do it all over again, even if he didnât gain a penny from it all.
Which reminds himâŠ
He pulls out a large, thick envelope tucked beneath the waistband of his jeans and holds it out to you. âActually,â he clears his throat, âyou can thank me by taking this.â
Your eyebrows scrunch together as you accept it from him. âWhatâs this?â
âItâs your cut.â
You pause before starting to open it. âMy cut?â
âYeah,â Pope shrugs. âYour cut from the money we pulled last night.â
You donât even look inside before youâre trying to hand it back to him. âAndrew, no. I canât take this. You killed a man - two men - for me, and then cleaned up the mess and dumped their bodies in the middle of the oceanââ
âDesert, actually,â he corrects softly, and your mouth snaps shut into a tight line, but he can tell by your eyes that youâre fighting a smirk.
âStill,â you implore. âYou have done more than enough for me. Taking your money wouldnât feel right. Not when youâve already given me a second chance at life. Thatâs worth more than any amount of money ever could be, Andrew.â
God, he needs to go to sleep, because the last thing he should be thinking about right now is how much he likes to hear you call him by his name.
He hums a laugh, reluctantly accepting the envelope that youâre practically shoving against his chest, then takes a slow step towards you that leaves very little space between you. Youâre slotted between him in front of you and your kitchen counter behind you, but you donât appear the least bit put off by the tight space.
âThought you said that you wanna get out of LA?â He murmurs. He reaches beside you, placing the envelope on the counter behind you. Then, instead of dropping his hand back to his side, it hovers for an awkward moment before falling to the edge of the counter, right next to your hip. He isnât quite touching you, but if he moved his hand over a quarter of an inch, he would be. âGo back to school eventually? Start a new life?â
Youâre smirking up at him now. âI did say that.â
He quirks a brow. âThen youâll need money to do that.â
Youâre silent for a moment, your eyes trailing over his face. You raise a tentative hand to his jaw, the soft pad of your thumb brushing a featherlight touch over a bruise that he had sustained in the brief but intense scuffle with Silas. Without thinking, he leans into the touch. The bruise is tender, but the feeling of your skin against his outweighs any discomfort.
âI thought you said that Iâm always welcome at yours,â you hum. He opens his eyes to find you grinning slyly. It makes the back of his neck warm.
âYou are,â he answers automatically. âAlways. Is thatâŠsomething you think you would want?â
You donât answer with a yes, or a no, or even a nonchalant shrug. You just stare at him with that same soft, teasing expression as your eyes flicker between his eyes and his mouth, your hand still caressing his face.
Thereâs barely enough time for him to wonder if youâre thinking of doing what he has wanted but held back from doing since you pulled into his driveway in Oceanside before you lift onto your toes and press your lips to his.
His breath catches in his chest as your lips, tentative and impossibly soft, brush over his and every coherent thought leaves his mind at once. One moment, heâs standing in your kitchen trying to convince you to take sixty thousand dollars in cash, and the next he canât remember how to breathe because the feel and smell and taste of you is overtaking his senses.
You linger just long enough for him to pull away if he wants to.
He does not. Of course he doesnât.
His hand moves from the counter to your waist, and yours still resting on his jaw shifts to the back of his neck where your fingertips toy with the hair at the base of his skull. He leans down into the kiss, angling himself closer until thereâs barely any space left between the two of you.
Itâs soft, and hesitant, as if youâre both worried that if you move too fast, the moment will end all too soon. Warm lips move tenderly against his, your tongue sweeping lightly against his in permission that he eagerly grants.
Itâs probably the last thing he should be thinking about in this particular moment, but heâs glad that he didnât talk Craig out of his idea for a gentlemanâs club based heist. Really, really fucking glad.
When you pull away, you release a small, breathless laugh that ghosts across his lips.
âDonât worry,â you breathe, âthat wasnât me trying to say thank you or anything. I just wanted to do that.â
âYeah?â He murmurs, brushing his lips over yours a final time. It isnât quite a kiss, but it sends goosebumps down his spine nonetheless. âI take that as a yes, then? Youâll come to Oceanside with me?â
You nod, the tip of your nose nudging his. âI think Oceanside with you is exactly where I need to be.â
ïœĄâ§ËÊâĄÉËâ§ïœĄ three months later ïœĄâ§ËÊâĄÉËâ§ïœĄ
âAre you sure you canât see anything?â
Your eyes are wide open, and all you see is pitch darkness. Andrew is apparently as meticulous at securing bandannas around a personâs forehead as he is everything else he does in life.
No surprise there.
âHoney, Iâm positive,â you laugh, repeating yourself for the third time since you got home from class no more than five minutes ago. Andrew had been waiting to greet you, as he usually is, with a blindfold in hand. That part was unexpected, but you have quickly learned to expect the unexpected when it comes to Andrew. He never disappoints.
He had asked if you trust him (he knows that you do) and proceeded to secure the black cloth around your eyes before guiding you down the hallway to the spare room of yours and his new place, which he recently set up as a study room for you.
âReady?â He murmurs, one hand on your lower back as the door creaks open.
You step into the room. âI donât know. Am I?â
He chuckles softly, bringing his hands to where the cloth is tied behind your head and then pauses. âIf you donât like it, Iâll take it down.â
âTake it down?â You echo, brows scrunching beneath the fabric.
He answers by letting the cloth fall away from eyes.
What you see is the very last thing you expect.
Right in the very center of the room, directly in front of where you stand, is a dance pole. Damn near identical to the one you had in your Los Angeles apartment. The one you hadnât bothered to bring with you to Oceanside, because you had been so eager to leave everything about your life there behind. Everything.
Or so you had thought, until very recently when you began to find yourself missing one, and only one, thing. Dancing.
Not dancing for money, not dancing for men, but just dancing. By yourself, for yourself.
You had mentioned it to Andrew in passing only yesterday, that you wish you had kept your dance pole when you packed your entire life into your car and happily drove from Los Angeles to Oceanside to be with him.
Now, not even a full twenty-four hours later, he has both acquired and installed one since you left for class this morning.
You donât even realize that youâre just staring at the pole, wordlessly, until Andrew clears his throat.
âLike I said, I can take it back down. It isnât a big deal.â
âWhat?â Your gaze snaps to him. âNo, itâs notâŠitâs perfect. I was just thinking,â you murmur.
His eyebrows lift slightly. âWhat are you thinking about?â
Since you came to Oceanside three months ago, you and Andrew have taken things relatively slow in your relationship, aside from the obvious of living under the same roof.
Things started in such an unexpected and unconventional way, but once you got here, your newfound dynamic was able to settle with a sense of normalcy. You may have met in a strip club, killed your boss together, and had your first kiss all in a weekâs time, but Andrew still took you out on a proper first date and has been nothing but patient with letting the relationship progress at a pace that youâre comfortable with - physically, mentally, and emotionally - while processing everything that youâve been through in the last few years and starting your life over at the same time.
Never, in a million years, would you have expected such beauty to come from such trauma, but it did. Because of him, it did. He was the light waiting for you on the other side of the darkness.
You shrug, grinning softly. âAbout how much I love you.â
Andrewâs hazel eyes widen in surprise. Itâs the first time you have said those three words aloud. Itâs not the first time you have thought them, but it is the first time you have verbalized them.
After the initial shock fades from his face, itâs replaced with the grin that youâve fallen in love with waking up to every morning. He takes a step toward you, closing the distance between you by taking your face in his hands and slotting his lips against yours. Your arms instinctively wrap around his thick torso, melting into his embrace as he kisses you in a way that is both familiar and takes your breath away.
He murmurs the next words out of his mouth against yours in between kisses, his voice low and sincere.
âI love you very much.â
âïœĄâ§ËÊâĄÉËâ§ïœĄâ
thank you SOOOO much if you read to the end of this!!! as always, comments and reblogs are very much appreciated and will make me love you forever.
also, if anyone reading has watched season 2 of the punisher, iâm sure you caught the reference in the heist scene đ
I could see him getting this when he just started in the military. Young, stupid, and way too drunk to make a smart decision of getting a tattoo that obscene.
You finally see it one night after too many drinks at the barâyou both getting close and touchyâfinally realizing that the both of you have had the hots for each other for a long time. HR be damned.
You donât even make it to the bedroom. Hair tossed, clothes strained from its previous position, and lips red and kiss bitten. Youâre on your knees going for his belt buckle.
His cheeks flush a deeper red than they were before from the tequila you got him to buy at the bar. His hands are in his face as he lets out an embarrassed huff of a laugh at your wide curious eyes and growing smile.
âIt was a long time ago,â he tells you in his gravelly voice.
You shrug your shoulders, âI like it.â pulling the waistband of his underwear to watch his cock spring free. Itâs achingly hard, the tip flushed a dark peak with the tip leaking. Your mouth waters as your tongue eagerly licks the salty residue.
Jackâs head falls against the head of the couch as groan comes out of his mouth, deep and heavy as you finally enclose your lips on him. His hands go to you hair, he lifts his head up and watches you take him.
summary â the first rule of sleeping with your attending was to make sure it meant nothing. youâd been very good at that right up until you werenât.
warnings â 8.1k words. 18+ Minors DNI!! (explicit sexual content, oral [m! recieving], unprotected p in v, power imbalance [attending/resident], friends with benefits dynamics, mild dom/sub dynamics, hair pulling, a lot of talking during sex, can be read as slightly coercive maybe?), hurt/comfort, commitment issues, fear of emotional intimacy, lightly implied widower undertones, age gap (jackâs 50/readerâs a resident, implied to be late twenties), jack jokes about paying for sex, alcohol
notes â this one started light in the beginning and ended pretty heavy like idk where all that came from i wrote the first half when i was in a better mood and finished it when i got this request and i guess i was just feeling like i wanted to make it hurt even more
Jack Abbot came with his perks. Heâd taken you under his wing when you first joined the PTMC as a second-year-resident, and somewhere over the space of a year, heâd taken you to his bed. Youâd built him as a man who lived in a sad bachelor pad with the way heâd taken you to his house after a shitty shift; no preamble, just a jerk of his head toward the parking garage and a raspy âcome onâ that youâd followed like he was still your attending after-hours.Â
And fuck, you couldnât lie and say it didnât feel slightly good to see a floor-to-ceiling windowed penthouse and drink something amber and expensive after youâd spent the last few years of your life not seeing the other end of what your work could bring you. It was grim and improper, you knew, fucking your attending in the early hours of the morning before the sun fully rose, but you knew it was coming; half the ED had placed bets on it and Cassie and Javadi were yet to know they were right.Â
Heâd taken you against the window the first time.
âYou afraid of heights?â heâd asked, and the question moved through you like warm liquid rather than reached you. Youâd shaken your head, or tried to. âNo,â heâd murmured, your jaw in his hands. âDidnât think so.âÂ
Heâd taken his prosthetic off after, wryly claiming that the position felt good but the leg disagreed. That had somehow lead to another round, slower the second time with him on his back and you set over him.
A part of you wondered often the sort of impression youâd given Jack, what heâd seen, exactly, that made him sure he could have you like this and keep it weightless. Whatever it was, it had to have been right to some degree because youâd spent more nights in his penthouse than your own apartment for the past six months without ever calling it anymore than what it was.Â
He was a better lay than youâd ever had. He was probably the best option around to get steam off while you worked your way through residency. It helped that he was your attending and you shared the same strange hours.Â
You kept the books carefully and columns balanced. Sex, sleep, the occasional terrible four a.m. meal that didnât count because eating was maintenance, not intimacy. You never stayed for coffee â you took it to go â and you didnât learn his middle name on purpose. Youâd never seen the inside of his closet. You left before you could risk having to go to work together. A woman in trouble would linger, and you did not linger. Therefore.
But the stupid books had started running a quiet deficit you hadnât accounted for. You knew exactly how he took his coffee. The toothbrush in the second drawer that you reached for now without looking, muscle memory in a place youâd sworn was temporary.Â
And even though you could admit that Jack knew his way around you and never made you ask twice for anything in that bed, that wasnât the line item that worried you. Bodies learned bodies. It was that youâd stopped taking your coffee to go some mornings without ever noticing the change; youâd sit at his counter with a mug that was somehow yours now, and drank it there while he read something on his phone and never told you to leave. Youâd started to become a woman that lingered, and even worse, one who liked to do so.
And that had to stop, because Jack had told you point-blank what this was on the first night while you were still putting on your shirt with his mouth print blooming under the fabric.
This doesnât have to be a thing. Iâm not looking to make it one. Is that alright?
Heâd said the words while putting on his briefs, and youâd agreed too fast, because at that time, it had cost you nothing. Youâd wanted a body and a break, and he was offering both. Heâd been more honest than any man youâd let touch you. Heâd told you the terms up front and never moved them.
So, you simply had to put yourself out of the arrangement.
Jack found you by your car in the parking garage. Heâd put on his coat a heavy thing that shouldâve swallowed him but instead he was able to fill out almost perfectly.
âJack,â you said, trying to find an even voice as he closed the distance between you. Before he could even ask, you forced out, âIâm not going home with you.â
His brows furrowed and he looked confused. For good reason, you supposed. Friday mornings had become sort of a usual for you, the easiest compensation in your life for missing Friday nights.Â
âYou good?â He stepped close and tipped his head, and you watched him give you a complete once-over, eyes dropping to your hands and the set of your shoulders like you were a patient. âYou looked a little out of it today. Come â Iâll make you soup.âÂ
You pinched your eyes shut at his words. âWhatâs that even supposed to mean â I was fine.âÂ
âDonât take it personal,â he said. âCome on, soup.â
âSeriously, I was fine.â You were almost offended now, which was clearly his intent, the bastard. âIâve been awake for nineteen hours, Iâm not sick ââ You caught yourself getting pulled into it, defending your honor, exactly the kind of dumb circular thing youâd let him rope you into a hundred times because arguing with Jack was sometimes fun. You shut it down. âIâm not going home with you,â you said again, this time with a sharper edge.Â
He pursed his lips and crossed his arms over his chest, giving you another once-over as he recaliberated the situation in real time. âDid I upset you?âÂ
âNo, itâs not a fight,â you said fast. You dragged a hand down your face. âIâm not mad at you, Jack. Iâm done with this. The whole â all of it.â
He tipped his chin down when you gestured vaguely with your finger between the two of you, at the whole abstract nature of you. Then, he said, âYouâre calling it?â
âYeah, very much,â you said, voice dropping a register as you leaned against the driverâs side door of your car. Then, when you saw how his brows furrowed and how he looked just slightly caught off-guard, you added, dumbly, âSorry. I guess.âÂ
He held your eyes a long beat, something working in his mouth, and then closed the last of the distance between you. His hand came up to your jaw, and you felt your face turn to liquid as you involuntarily leaned into it; his thumb dragged slow along your cheekbone and his gaze followed it, and you stood pinned to your own cold car door and let him, because telling him to stop would mean pretending you didnât want it, and youâd never once been able to sell that lie for either of you.Â
âYou mean it?â he asked, voice rough, and his forehead dropped to yours. When you nodded, he mimicked your movement. âAlright. Then letâs at least end it properly.âÂ
When you showed no urgency to decline, his mouth found yours before you could decide whether you trusted yourself enough to end it properly. One of his hands stayed at your jaw while the other one fitted you back against the cold of the car. He smiled against your mouth, and you used your palm to push him by the chest.
He went back, just slightly, dropping his head to your forehead again. âIâm guessing thatâs a yes?â
âOne time,â you said quietly, almost in a whisper. âAnd then I mean it. It wonât change anything.â
âI believe you,â he said. âLast time, then. Make it count.â
Jack was making it obscenely difficult for you to make it count. The rhythm youâd settled into with him at around month two â the one where the two of you skipped the drink and went straight into his bed â had disappeared tonight. He just really needed a drink tonight, and then another, and then he really didnât want to shut his mouth.Â
He poured the second one without offering you a top-up and stood at the window instead of coming to you, two fingers of amber catching the lamplight. You watched him and watched him, answering his questions until the two of you finally ended up in the bedroom.Â
Heâd opened his mouth to argue something and you got his belt open instead slowly, and whatever heâd been about to say faded elsewhere. The city sat out past the glass, unblinking, that audience he never drew the blinds against. His hand found your hair, resting with his thumb at your ear, almost gentle and completely fucking distracting.Â
âSlow,â he murmured when you took him into your mouth, and the word came out scraped down to nothing. His head went back against the headboard. âFuck.â
You went the opposite of slow; you knew that taking your time with it, acknowledging the last time of it all, would crack something open in your chest you couldnât afford to have open. You did everything you knew undid him â six months of evidence, a body of proof â fast and certain, and the breath punched out of him and his fingers curled into your hair and the smug, talkative version of him went quiet for about four seconds.Â
âYou â huh â last time. Really?â he managed to say, fingers tightening against your scalp, the blunt fingernails scraping against the skin. You slid your tongue down his length, and he let out a short groan, letting out a wrecked, âGood girl.â His hips lifted a fraction before he caught them, forcing himself still under your hands. âGood â yeah.âÂ
Youâd have smiled if your mouth wasnât otherwise occupied, so you settled on humming around him. You let yourself think youâd won the quiet, and then his thumb moved against your temple slowly, and he ruined it.
âYou really mean it?â he asked quietly, words aimed somewhere at the ceiling. âYouâre done?â
You ignored him and kept your rhythm. It wasnât a question you were going to dignify with him in your mouth and your resolve already pooled somewhere on his bedroom floor.Â
His hands flexed in your hair at the silence, then tugged, a frustrated little pull that went straight down your spine and that he absolutely felt you react to, because his thumb pressed flat behind your ear like he was talking to your pulse there.
âDonât go quiet on me,â he said, rasp going uneven, breath catching somewhere between the words, his whole stomach drawn tight. You watched the muscle there jump when you took him deeper as his jaw worked. âYou hear me. I know you â shit.â
Youâd found the underside with the flat of your tongue you slowly dragged, and the sentence collapsed. His head dropped back and your eyes caught the tendon at his throat standing out. One of his heels dug into the mattress and you felt the tremor run up his thigh under your palm.Â
Youâd have been lying if you said this wouldnât be missed. Not the talking, but this, the privilege of watching Jack Abbot lose a fight with his own body, a man who controlled every room he stood in coming apart by degrees because of what you were doing. You pressed your thumb into the crease of his hip and felt him shudder. You took him to the back of your throat and swallowed and he said your name that came out of his mouth breaking.Â
âYouâre really gonna â â He inhaled sharply, hand fisting tighter on your head. â â gonna do this and walk, youâre â â
You pulled off of him with a slow, wet, and deeply unflattering sound and sat back on your heels and looked up at him, lips swollen, thoroughly out of patience, your hand still working him just enough that his hips chased it. His eyes were closed, and he let out a large exhale.
âAre you kidding me?âÂ
He cracked an eye open, then shifted his head to the side against the pillow. âWhat?â he muttered.
âWhy wonât you shut up?â You squeezed deliberately and his jaw clenched against the noise that almost got out of him. âYouâre acting like a child.âÂ
âActing like a child,â he huffed, head tipping back. âIâm pretty aged out of the tantrum bracket.â
âCouldâve fooled me.â You dragged your thumb up the length of him slowly. âYouâve been throwing one since we got off.â
His hand left your hair and closed around your wrist instead â the one still working him â stilling it, and then he was pulling with his unarguable strength, drawing you up over him until you had to crawl up his body or be dragged.Â
You ended up straddling his waist. He stayed flat on his back beneath you, one arm folding behind his head while the other spread warm and heavy over your thigh, and he looked up at you with his chest still heaving and the gray stark at his temples.Â
âBetter,â he muttered. âNeck was startinâ to go, watching you be stubborn down there.â The hand on your thigh slid up slowly, settling at your hip, thumb working a lazy circle into the bone. He tilted his chin up slightly. âWhatâs this really about?â
You went still because you had too much of an answer, and it was the sort of one that you didnât believe could survive being said out loud over a man whoâd made it clear exactly what this was on day one.Â
âYou know,â you said.
âMaybe. But humor me.â His eyes stayed on your face, looking patient as ever, as the circle of his thumb continued moving. âThought we had something nice going and now â â He tilted his head slightly against the pillow. âSo, whatâs going on up in that pretty little head of yours?â
âI want more than this,â you said plainly. âThatâs whatâs in my head. I want the whole thing â the relationship and dates and stuff. I think Iâve got enough time to â get into that.â
âYeah?â he said, voice coming out in a breath His thumb stilled on your hip. He looked up at you and his other hand came up and pushed a piece of your hair back off your cheek.Â
You had to press your lips together, because you obviously werenât expecting him to offer, and yet youâd been holding your breath anyway.Â
âYeah,â you said. âI do.â
His hand stayed on your cheek a moment longer, the pad of his thumb resting just under your eye. Then his hand dropped back to your hip where it was safe.
âYou should,â he said after a moment, swallowing. âGet into that. Youâve got the time.â
âThatâs it?â
âWhat do you want me to say?â His hands flexed at your hip, his hips still beneath yours and the want still humming under all of it. âNot gonna talk you out of one thing you actually deserve. Even Iâm not that selfish.â His brows furrowed, like heâd just processed his own words. âMost days.â
His hand left your hip and found your waist, and then he was turning you, guiding you off of him onto the side on the mattress beside him, leaving the two of you laying facing each other in the gold dark. His thigh slid between yours.Â
This close, you could see everything you usually didn't get to study: the silver threaded through the stubble at his jaw, the small white seam of an old scar through one eyebrow, the way the lines around his eyes weren't from laughing. He had one arm folded under his head and the other draped heavy over your hip, fingers spread at the small of your back, and he just looked at you, the want and the conversation both still hanging in the air between you, neither resolved.
âSâit somebody at work?â he asked. âHas to be. You donât have time yet to meet anyone who isnât.âÂ
You shook your head slightly against the pillow, and your brows furrowed together at the idea. âNo â no one. I havenât met anyone yet.âÂ
He huffed. His eyes dropped from yours to somewhere near your collarbone, then came back up.Â
He turned his face toward the pillow for a second, as if to hide his face from you, then met your eyes again. âYouâd rather have no one than me, huh?âÂ
âWow,â you breathed out in almost a gasp. You pulled back an inch against the pillow to look at him properly. âNow thatâs mean, Jack. I can find someone, you know.âÂ
âYeah?â His brow lifted, scar catching the light. âCourse you can.â His hand slid off your hip and down, palming the back of your thigh, drawing your knee up over his. âAlways hear someone in the hospital talking about you.â
âDonât patronize me.â
âMânot.â He hitched your leg higher, fitting himself into the space it opened, and you felt the blunt heat of him press where you were already aching for it, rubbing slowly against your folds. âI mean it. Itâs about time you got out from this old man.âÂ
âDonât call yourself that.â
He dragged the length of him through you again, catching you over and over where you wanted him and not giving it. âItâs what I am. Fifty, boring life, no good to you past this.â His mouth ghosted the corner of yours, breath warm and uneven. âYou should be out with someone who can give you the whole thing. Iâve already done my time.â
You could do it again, you wanted to say. You could be the whole thing. But the words sat behind your teeth, because you already knew what heâd say and do if youâd said them, and you couldnât take hearing it kindly. Especially not with him notched against you like this when it was supposed to be the last time.
You let your hand find his jaw instead, the rough of the stubble, the silver, and you watched his eyes flicker at the touch, at how your lips moved from one side to the other as you tried to keep the words down. It seemed like heâd understood whatever you didnât say.
âYeah, baby,â he muttered and pressed his thumb to the back of your thigh, eyes fluttering shut at the touch of you. âI know.âÂ
He pushed in then, slow, all the way, mid-breath like it was just the next thing between you. The shudder rolled clean through him as he sank into you, his exhale breaking ragged against your mouth. Your spine arched off the mattress. His arm hooked under the small of your back and dragged you flush, no space left, no air, the two of you pressed chest to chest in the gold hush.
âFuck,â he breathed against your mouth, holding there, buried to the hilt and not moving as he felt you clench around him. âSpoiling me rotten and then telling me youâre leaving.â
âShut up now â â
He drew back slow and sank back in deep, and the sound you made came out somewhere against his shoulder. Each roll of his hips pressed you up the sheets. âGet me used to this and then â what? Go hand it to someone who hasnât earned it.â He laughed brokenly against your throat. âSelfish girl.âÂ
You got a fistful of his hair and pulled, hard enough that his breath stuttered. âGo find â someone else yourself,â you said through your teeth, because opening your mouth seemed like something embarrassing would follow. âYouâre not lacking options â â
âBut I like having my cake,â he breathed, and there was almost a laugh under it. âEating it, too.â
âGross,â you mumbled against him.
One month was meant to be enough time. Lying awake the first week, youâd assumed itâd take thirty days to unlearn a person. It had worked on the obvious things. Youâd stopped reaching for your phone at the end-of-shift and stopped seeking him out by the lockers. Youâd slept in your own bed and not found it lacking, mostly. But nobody warned you that being in a car for four hours would call it all into question.Â
One month of calling him Dr. Abbot across the bay, crisp and so weightless, handing him a chart without your fingers brushing his. Youâd gotten good at it. Then Robby floated the conference. Some emergency medicine thing four hours upstate;Â a block of credits, a hotel with a conference rate, a chance to put PowerPoint slides between yourself and the actual work for two days. Dana volunteered the department van before anyone could think of a reason not to, already half out of her scrubs spiritually, determined to get a few days of being a person instead of a charge nurse.
Like these things usually did, the seating assembled itself, which was to say it was assembled badly. Robby drove while Dana drove shotgun. Trinity somehow won the entire back row. And the middle row was you, Dennis, and Jack.Â
You in the middle, because the universe worked in fucked-up ways. In this case, the universe was named Dana.
âYouâll fit,â Dana had said, and pressed a duffel of granola bars into your arms like a consolation prize, steering you into the gap between the two men before you could mount a defense.Â
You fit pressed thigh-to-thigh with Jack Abbot for four hours up interstate, his arm slung along the seatback behind you because there was genuinely nowhere else for a man his sizeâs arms to put it, the heat of him bleeding through your sleeve like a low fever. You knew that arm. You knew the weight of it, the places where his hand fell when it wasnât thinking about where it fell. It was a quarter-inch from touching you, which was worse than actually touching you, and you suspected he knew that, too.Â
The van pulled out of the lot at five in the morning. Dennis had his headphones in before the drive even started. Up front, Dana was already arguing with Robby about the music. Trinity was sprawled in the whole back row to herself, scrolling on her phone.Â
Thirty minutes into the drive, Jack broke the seal.Â
âExcited?â he asked, eyes still out the window, profile flat and bored as anything. His voice was pitched low enough that it lived in the space between his mouth and your ear and nowhere else.Â
You kept your head tipped back against the seat. âMore excited about sleeping in a comfortable bed than the conference.â
His brows narrowed as he turned to look at you. âSome Marriot-adjacent mattress? Youâre aiming low.â
âItâs horizontal and not on-call. Iâm easy to please.â
âSince when?â he drawled, bone-dry, eyes going back to the window. But his thigh had pressed a degree closer against yours, a shift you couldnât call a thing without admitting you were keeping track. Up-front, Dana won whatever argument sheâd been having and something with a heavy bassline filled the van. Jack let the noise ring and leaned half-an-inch closer that nobody would ever catch. âYou used to say my sheets were scratchy.â
âFor a man with that penthouse, they were scratchy â â
âFinally,â he breathed out, satisfied, like heâd been fishing for exactly that and reeled it in. Something in his face eased and you hated, a little, how much you wanted to have done that. âI almost forgot youâd been in it.âÂ
God. You hadnât forgotten anything. That was the whole problem. You knew the place, the cold floor on the way to the bathroom, the exact freckles on his chest up close. You knew he wore a ring you had never once asked about and heâd never once explained, and that youâd both kept your eyes politely off the subject the way you keep your eyes off a wound that wasnât yours to dress. You knew all of it, and all you could do was keep promising yourself it didnât count anymore.Â
âCan we stop at the next exit?â Trinity said from the back. âI need coffee and the bathroom. In that order.â
Dana hummed. âThereâs a Sheetz coming up in ten. That good?â She looked through the map on her phone. âEverybody go when we stop. Weâre not pulling off twice.â
âWorks for me,â Robby said.Â
Dennis plugged out one of his earphones and glanced over everyone in the car. âWeâre stopping?âÂ
âYup,â Dana confirmed. âBathroom, snacks, ten minutes, back in the van. Whitaker, you want anything, you decide now.âÂ
Dennis considered, then put his earphone back on, apparently deciding the whole thing was beneath the commitment.Â
Jack leaned in from beside you, barely. âSingle stall in the back of those places, you know?â he said, voice low, barely audible over the music. âThereâs a lock on the door and everything.âÂ
You kept your eyes on the windshield in front of you. âWeird thing to know off the top of your head.â
His thigh pressed warm against yours through the curve of an off-ramp that didnât strictly require it. âHow much would it take?â His eyes flickered back out to the window, even as his shoulder now pressed up against yours. âYou and me in there. Ten minutes. Name a number.â
âCanât be bought.â You forced your eyes to the windshield. âSorry. Not for sale.â
âNo?â His voice dipped, amused. âEverybodyâs got a price.â
âNot me.â You turned your head and found him already closer than heâd been a second ago. âYou really think you could afford me?â
âCould take a run at it.â
âWouldnât get far.â
âFifty,â he said, and you could see the slight grin crawling onto his lips.Â
You let out a short laugh, then immediately pressed your mouth over your lips before it became any louder. âI donât get out of bed for fifty dollars, Abbot, let alone on my knees.â
âOof.â He winced, mock-wounded, dragging a hand over his chest. âExpensive date.âÂ
âItâs never a date with you.â
He bit his lip at that, eyes raking over you, the grin caught behind his teeth. âRight. Hundred, then.âÂ
âIâm gonna report you to HR. Youâre my attending.âÂ
âGood luck with filling out the history we have for that.â
You turned to look at him, and let your mouth curl. âYou really think Iâm the sort of girl to do it in a gas station bathroom?â
You watched the grin go still on his face, watched his eyes drop to your mouth and drag back up, the warmth in them tipping into something darker. âWould you?âÂ
You scoffed, shaking your head. âIn your dreams, Jack.â
âFrequently,â he said, not missing a second. âVividly, too.âÂ
You leaned in enough to feel his breath catch. âKeep dreaming, then. Itâs all youâre getting.âÂ
You sat back before he could answer, fingers playing with the seatbelt, sweet as anything.
âChrist.â He dragged a hand down over his jaw, his head tipping back against the seat and looked at you sideways through the gray morning light, and the bit fell off his face. âMissed you.â
Before you could even process the words with his attention on you, because he was who he was, his jaw worked once and looked back out the window, ending it himself before you could, handing the silence back to you to do with it what you pleased.Â
Your chest squeezed just slightly at that, and you had to be the one to force yourself to look away, catching sight of Dennisâs head bumping against the window as he soundly slept, oblivious, lucky.Â
At some point past the gas station you lost the fight with your own exhaustion. Nineteen hours of being awake before the drive, and the van was warm, and the bassline had mellowed into something Dana hummed underneath her breath, and the road had gone smooth â almost hypnotic â interstates often did when theyâd gone out of the clutches of the city. Youâd meant to stay awake. Youâd made the small private rule about it, too; you went under anyway, somewhere between a stretch of dead farmland and the next, your head listing by degrees toward the warm solid thing on your left because your body, again, moving without giving a single shit about how you felt.Â
When you surfaced, it happened slowly. The light had changed; it was full morning now, white and flat through the windshield. Your cheek was pressed against something that rose and fell in a long, even rhythm, and your brain took its time arriving to the fact of it. Youâd fallen asleep on Jack's chest. One month clean and your face was tucked into the seam of his jacket like it had never stopped being there.Â
You werenât proud of how you didnât want to move just yet, so you didnât move.Â
You could feel his breathing under your cheek, slow enough that he might have been asleep, too. There was a smell to him youâd made yourself forget and were now remembering, completely against your will. It was nothing fancy, just clean cotton and something warm. The Gatorade bottle youâd been clutching was in the cupholder against your knee now, and you had no memory putting it there. Which meant there was a slight chance Jack had worked it out of your sleeping hand at some point so it wouldnât tip into your lap, and set it down.Â
You cracked one eye to assess the damage to your dignity. Dennis had leaned in the same stretch of road, toward you, hood up and mouth open, gone to the world. And somewhere in all that, Jackâs arm, the long span of it along the seatback, had come down around you with his hand had ended up resting flat on the top of Dennisâs skull, holding it off your shoulder, fingers spread over the kidâs hair like a melon he was deciding whether to buy.Â
Youâd furrowed your brows at the arrangement, reeling, when the camera shutter went off.Â
Jack came awake all at once. He always did; he was never groggy, never had a transition. It was like there was an off and on button to him, as though his nervous system had been trained somewhere that didnât allow the luxury of waking up slowly. He clocked it in a half second: the phone, you against his chest, the unexplained weight under his own palm. He followed his arm down to where his hand was cradling a sleeping residentâs head and his face crumpled slightly.Â
He smacked it off, open-palmed, off the top of Dennisâs skull.Â
âOw.â Dennis jolted awake, flailing upright, a crease pressed into his cheek from your sleeve. âWhat â Dr. Abbot â what ââ
âWrong shoulder, kid,â Jack said.
âI wasnât ââ Dennis took in the angle for himself and recoiled. âSorry. God. Sorry.âÂ
Youâd started to sit up to peel yourself off Jackâs chest and salvage some dignity to sit back into the cold neutral air of your own seat where you belonged. His palm came up to your forehead and pushed you back down against him.
âNot you,â he said. His hand stayed flat on your forehead. âYouâre fine where you are.âÂ
You reached up and pulled his hand off your forehead, sitting up out of the warmth of him.Â
âCâmon,â he said quietly, under the music, softer than a command.
You paused with your hand still around his wrist and turned to look at him full-on. He was already looking at you, none of the previous needling present in his face.
You shook your head once, a small gesture. You didnât trust the words to come out the way they needed to, so you let your face carry it instead.
He held your eyes a second, then his jaw shifted slightly and the corner of his mouth went to a worn-down half of a smile. He gave you the smallest nod. His eyes fell shut and he tipped his head back with a small shake of his head as he eased his wrist out of your hand.Â
You put your hands in your lap where they couldnât get you in trouble, and stared out at the flat white morning coming up over the interstate, and made sure to not look at him again.
The conference threw a networking event the first evening, which meant a low-lit ball room, a cash bar charging eleven dollars for wine that came from a box, and a couple hundred physicians standing around in lanyards pretending theyâd be here without the boxed wine.Â
Youâd lost the group almost immediately. Dana was drawn to a cluster of people she knew in a previous life; Robby to someone heâd done a residency with; Dennis to the food; Trinity to one of her college buddies. It left you working the edge of the room with a plastic cup of wine, doing a slow orbit as you read badges, when a man peeled off a nearby conversation and aimed at you.
He was older. Closer to Jackâs range, give or take. He had silver coming in at the temples and an unbothered ease that made you wonder if heâd ever had it hard. His badge put him outside Columbus. He had a good face and seemed aware of it without leaning on it, and no wear that graced his features; a man who slept fine, you assumed, and didnât own a single thing he refused to speak about.Â
âPace yourself with that,â he said, tipping his own glass in the direction of yours. âIt comes up to you pretty quickly.âÂ
âBit late for that,â you said, lifting the cup up an inch. âThis is already number three.â
âThen Iâm too late to save you and might as well make it worse,â he said, offering a hand. âMark. Philly. I run the shop out there.âÂ
You introduced yourself. He had a good handshake, dry and brief, none of the holding-on the men sometimes did at these things.Â
He tipped his head to look at your badge. âPittsburgh Trauma. You like it?â
âMost days.â
He shrugged. âAnybody who says every day is lying or hasnât been doing it long enough.â He took a sip and let his eyes come back to your face. âLet me guess. Senior resident. Somebody made you come.âÂ
You were going to say something backâyou had something, youâd half-built itâand then there was a hand at the small of your back. You knew the weight of it, the breadth, where the fingers fell. It settled low against your spine and stayed, warm through the dress.Â
âMark,â Jack said from beside you. He had a club soda in his free hand and an easy nothing on his face. âJack Abbot. Pittsburgh.âÂ
âJack.â Mark did a quick thing, the hand, the half-step Jack had folded into the space between you without seeming to take it, the way you hadn't stepped out from under his palm. Something recalibrated behind his face, pleasant and unhurried. He stuck the hand out anyway. âI think Iâve read you ââ He referenced one of Jackâs studies you knew all too well, something heâd handed over to you once in his bed like it was a bedtime story.
âThatâs me.â Jack took the handshake. His thumb moved once at your spine, where the angle hid it from the third person entirely. âPhilly? You inherit the department or build it?â
âLittle bit of both. Mostly inherited the problems,â he said lightly. âYou enjoying the conference?âÂ
âItâs a conference,â Jack said, lifting his glass half-an-inch. Then, his head tilted in your direction. âYou know this oneâs my best trauma resident? Iâd put her on anything. Watched her run a procedure last month half the seniors I came up with couldnât have called that fast.âÂ
âThat so?â Mark looked at you again, interest sharpened. âHe doesnât seem the type to hand those out.â
âHeâs nice to everyone.âÂ
âSheâs underselling it.â Jackâs hand spread a degree wider at your back, the heel of his palm settling into the dip of your spine, fingers easy along your hip. âYouâll be reading her name in a couple years and remembering you met her here, of all places.â
It got the laugh Jack wanted it to. Mark took a sip, easy, regrouping, and you watched him do the math the way smooth men doâfast, behind a pleasant faceâand land on a play.
âWell.â He tilted the glass toward Jack. âI wonât monopolize you. Iâm sure youâve got the room to work â everybody wants a minute at these things.â
The thumb that had been moving at your back stilled, and Jackâs features crossed into something amused as he narrowed his brows at the man.Â
âSâalright,â he said pleasantly. âGot everyone I need right here.âÂ
Mark recaliberated again, watching him take Jackâs measure one more time; the hand, the half-inch of space that hardly qualified as space. You watched him arrive to the easy conclusion that whatever was happening here had been decided before he ever walked over.
âFair enough,â he said, setting his empty cup down at the nearest high-top. âPleasure. Good luck with the residency.â He nodded at you, then to Jack. âAbbot.â And then he was gone, folding back into the room, off to find the next conversation that wasnât already spoken for.
Jackâs hand was still on your back, and you stepped out from under it. You turned to face him, and felt the thing that had been climbing in you all night finally find a target.
âWhy would you do that?â you asked, shaking your head and pressing your lips shut to keep yourself from saying anything more.Â
âDo what?â he said mildly, the glass loose in his hand.Â
âDonât.â You kept your face arranged for the room, tamping down your voice so it wouldnât carry over to strangers. âYou know what you did. Youâre not stupid.â
âI said you were good at your job.â He had the gall to look reasonable. âBecuase you are.â
âThatâs not what it was and you know it â thank you.â Your jaw tightened. âYou donât get to walk over and put your hand on me when Iâm talking to another man and act like â â Your fingers moved between the two of you, a small and sharp movement. â â like youâve got any claim. We agreed to this a month ago.â
Jackâs lips pressed in a thin line at the words, and his eyes raked over your face. âHeâd have you in his bed by ten,â he said, calmer now. âGuys like that â itâs their whole game at places like this. One night, gone by checkout. You didnât lose anything worth keeping.âÂ
Your brows furrowed at that, and you felt something go hot in your neck. âYeah?â you asked, voice going quieter. âIsnât that what you were?âÂ
He looked away for a second, one hand coming up to rub over the bottom half of his face. âIf you canât tell the difference between me and a guy like that,â he said evenly, and there was something genuinely stung underneath as his eyes met yours, âthen I really donât know what to tell you.âÂ
âMaybe there isnât one.â
His face twisted at that, and he let out a disbelieved laugh. âThatâs how you think of me?â
âThatâs not â â You stopped, because his face had knocked something loose in you and you had no idea what you thought anymore. âThatâs not what I said.âÂ
âIt sounded a hell of a lot like it.â He shook his head. âSix months and youâre putting me next to a guy you met ten minutes ago. Alright.âÂ
âJack â â
âYou wanted it, too. Okay?â When you let out a small âwhat?â he continued, âYou heard me. Youâre acting like you just went along with it, and you never once asked for more either.â His voice had dropped low, and heâd walked closer to you before you even realized. âYou never once asked for more until the night you walked. So donât put it all on me.âÂ
âI asked,â you said, voice cracking just slightly, and you looked around the room to see if anyone was close to you. âYou were the one who told me to go find someone else. You said youâre no good past what we were doing.âÂ
âI said it because itâs true,â he said quickly, dragging a hand down his face. âIâm not the guy you build the rest of your life around. I tried to do the decent thing.â
âThen stand on that,â you said. âYou donât get to tell me to find someone and stop it the second anyone shows up. Pick one. You donât get to keep me in your life like this forever because you canât stand to either let me in or go.âÂ
âIâm trying to do right by you,â he said roughly.
You pressed two fingers above your eyelid, shaking your head. âWhy are you doing this?â You shoulders came up to your ears. âI donât â it was never going to be us, Jack. You said so yourself. I donât get why â I need to move on.âÂ
He closed his eyes at that for a moment. âI know you do,â he said quietly, the fight gone all out of him. His eyes flickered down to his hand for a second, then made a loose fist out of them. âI â can we go somewhere else?â He leaned in slightly, body stiffening up. Reading the hesitation on your face, he said, âPlease.âÂ
Youâd watched him avoid the word in a dozen rooms, so you nodded slowly and forced yourself to not look too hard at why. You couldnât, because if you stopped to let yourself consider it, itâd make your body hurt even more, and youâd still do it.Â
The stairwell was the only door on the floor that wasnât a room or a lobby. It was fire-exit cold, raw concrete, a fluorescent light overhead. The reception came up through the floor as bass and nothing else, the words gone out of it. The door sucked shut behind you both and took the noise with it. You both walked four floors up, apparently neither of you being ready to do anything about it. And then there was simply the buzz of the bad light and Jack, six months and one month and four floors and a whole conference away from you, standing with his back to the cinderblock and his hands jammed in his pockets.
You crossed your arms and your eyes involuntarily flickered up to the ceiling because you werenât sure you could talk. But when he let the silence drag on, too, you said, âJack â â
âDid you want it to be me?â he said immediately, like your voice had spurred him into action.Â
âWhat?â
âThe whole thing you said you want. Dates, the rest of it.â His body was stiff against the wall. âWas that â did you ever imagine me, or just, someone else. Someone who would.âÂ
You took in a shaky breath. âYou.â It came out more plainly than youâd expected, like your body had been ready to be rid of it, to place it somewhere in the open. âI left because I wanted more â with you, and you made it pretty clear I could never have that.â
His hands jammed in his pockets. The light buzzed overhead, that sick fluorescent flutter, and somewhere four floors down the reception kept going, two hundred people who'd never know this was happening over their heads.
âI donât think I can give you that,â he said.
âOkay.â You forced yourself to nod, and your eyes went hot. âThanks for telling me that, then.â
He raised a palm just enough that it caught in your eyesight. âI didnât â didnât say I never wanted to. Donât think that.â He tilted his neck up to meet your eyes properly. âWanting you that way wasnât hard. Iâve been doing that against my own advice the entire time.â
He'd come off the wall a step without seeming to know he'd done it, and his face had lost the arrangement it usually wore, the bored set of it, and underneath was something you'd caught glimpses of and never the whole of. His eyes shifted to the wall, the stenciled number, anywhere but you.
âI did years of this already. And it ended about as badly as it could end.â He laughed wryly, no humor in it. âI stopped letting myself want things â I thought itâs a lot easier to get through a night if thereâs nothing youâd be hurt to lose.â His muscles tensed on his face, the lines deepening as he pinched his eyes shut and shook his head. âFeels like Iâm losing you, and it hurts like hell.â He looked up at the ceiling. âI donât know when it happened. It wasnât meant to.â
You pressed a finger against the underside of your eye then, determined to catch anything that could possibly leak out.Â
âBut you donât know if you can do it,â you said, words coming out shakily.Â
He tugged his bottom lip between his teeth and shook his head slowly. âNo,â he said honestly, and it was worse than any lie he couldâve told. âI donât know.â
You nodded again, because there was nothing else for you to do.Â
âBut â but, I donât wanna lose what Iâve got with you,â he admitted, voice dropping into something shameful. âI know that the nights youâre not on are longer. And if I canât have you, I want you to know you do that for me. It started being pretty serious a long time ago â for me, too.âÂ
The light fluttered overhead and you let the finger drop from under your eye, gave up on holding it, let whatever wanted to come just come. Somehow, they were words youâd always wanted to hear and yet they arrived wrong, off-rhythm. Youâd kept careful track of everything he wouldnât give you, a whole running tally of it, and he'd just gone and paid the entire balance in one breath in the worst-lit room, and the awful part â the part that made your blood run even hotter â was that it counted. It counted, anyway.Â
âSo what do we do with that?â you said. âI donât â I donât know where that leaves us.â
He was quiet for a moment. You watched him sit in the question instead of dodging it, which was new, which was maybe the most heâd ever given you in one night.
âIâd want to try,â he said finally, words careful, like he was setting something down that might break. âNot the old way. I mean the other thing. What you wanted.â He let out a breath. âIf you still want it. I wasnât very great the first time, and Iâm out of practice, too.âÂ
You wiped your cheek, and winced as you felt your hand scrub at your skin a little too roughly. âYou were okay with it a month ago â â
âIt hurt,â he said immediately. âIt hurt, you walking out. I didnât have anything better than to let you, but donât â donât think it didnât.âÂ
He moved when you didnât respond, stepping closer than the conversation needed. His hands came up and settled at your arms, just below the shoulders, loose, holding you in place or holding himself there, you couldn't tell which, maybe both.
âLet me try,â he said roughly. His thumbs moved once against your arms. âI want to learn this with you.â
You looked up at him. He held it â your eyes, the closeness, all of it â instead of glancing off the way he had all night. You realized distantly that this was a sort of contract youâd be signing, and he was laying out the option for you to not do so.Â
âYou canât disappear on me,â you said instead of considering the second option, âwhen it gets hard. I donât ever want to feel like I made up something I didnât.â
He nodded stiffly. âIf I do, you can drag me back out.â
His forehead came down, to the top of your head, his chin resting in your hair, his arms folding the rest of the way around you like he'd finally run out of reasons not to. You felt him breathe out, the whole tense length of him going down an inch against you.
âJust let me try,â he said again, into your hair, voice a whisper. âPlease. Iâm asking. I donât do that a lot.â
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SUMMARY: After weeks of begging from Jake and Robby, you finally agree to supervise Jake and Leah at Pittfest. Nothing could prepare you for the tragedy that occurs on the day, and nothing can stop you from trying to help Leah even as a bullet rips through your own body. All that keeps you going is adrenaline and the voice of your husband over the phone.
NOTES: Gun violence, mass casualty event, gunshot wounds (non-fatal to reader), Leahâs death, references to past trauma (combat, wife death), survivor guilt, alcohol references, angst, 5.5k words.
REQUESTED BY: @maxinebxrnes !
A/N: At risk of sounding insane, I loved writing this. This is exactly my kind of angst/comfort. I know Trinity is on her first day and I did not write it as such but sheâs my babygirl so. We ball!
NAVIGATION | PITT MASTERLIST | KO-FI
You nearly stayed at home. That is the stupid thing your brain keeps circling after Pittfest. Not the gunshots, not the blood, not even the screams of pure terror. Just the fact you stood in your kitchen for ten full minutes debating whether you could really be bothered to deal with loud music and overpriced drinks and crowds of drunk university students.
Jake had begged you to come, and Leah had joined in after. Apparently the two of them âneeded normal adults presentâ, as per Robbyâs request, to stop Jake attempting something humiliating in front of Leahâs friends.
âYou are aware I work nights in an emergency department,â you had told him flatly. âThis is the last place I want to be, buddy. And not a lot about me says normal adult.â
âYouâre more normal than Abbot.â
Jack had still been half asleep when you left the house, one arm hooked lazily around your waist while you sat at the edge of the bed and tried to tug your shoes on.
âTell Jake if he gets arrested Iâm not bailing him out,â he mumbled into your shoulder.
âYou like Jake.â
âHeâs still an asshole sometimes.â
You laughed quietly and leaned down to kiss him anyway. Jack barely opened his eyes for it, just pulled you closer with a rough hand against your hip and kissed you slow enough to make you consider calling out sick from life entirely to be in this moment forever.
âYou staying in bed all day?â you asked against his mouth.
âMm, absolutely.â
âJealous.â
âShould be, but I wish you were here with me.â His thumb brushed once beneath your jaw. âText me when you get there, sweetheart.â
You texted Jack, and then you forgot your phone existed for the next two hours.
PittFest is chaos in the way all music festivals are chaos. Sticky floors. Warm beer. Suncream and sweat and bass vibrating through your ribs hard enough to feel sick with it. Jake and Leah disappear into crowds every five minutes only to reappear holding different food.
You mostly just watch them. Young and stupid and happy. Leah keeps taking blurry pictures of Jake while he complains about it dramatically, which only makes her laugh harder. She slips easily into your space too, arm linked through yours while she talks over the music about gossip you barely follow.
It feels normal. God, it feels painfully normal.
Jakeâs midway through telling you both some ridiculous story when the first gunshot goes off.
Nobody reacts properly at first. A sound too sharp to belong there. Then another follows. Then screaming. The crowd shifts all at once.
Panic spreads faster than fire. One second people are dancing and laughing and filming videos on their phones, the next they are shoving each other hard enough to fall trying to get away. Your stomach drops instantly.
âNo,â Leah whispers.
Training is ugly sometimes. Instinct before thought. Your brain already cataloguing exits and cover and casualties before the fear even catches up.
âDown,â you snap.
Jake grabs Leah instinctively. Another gunshot cracks through the air, too close for comfort. People are crying. Running. Somebody slams hard into your shoulder trying to push past and you nearly lose your footing.
Then Leah jerks violently beside you. For one hopeful second you think that she just tripped. Then you see the blood, and Jake screams her name, and everything narrows.
You hit the ground beside her so fast your knees crack painfully against concrete. Leahâs staring at you in confusion more than pain, hands shaking as they press instinctively against her abdomen. You donât need a medical degree to know that thereâs too much blood already.
âOh my God,â Jake chokes. âOh my God.â
âPressure,â you order immediately. âJake, pressure now.â
He freezes. Completely freezes.
You grab his wrists and physically force his hands over the wound. Blood spills between his fingers instantly.
âLook at me.â Your voice sharpens hard enough to cut through panic. âYou do not move your hands.â
Leah makes a soft, terrified sound. âIt hurts.â
âI know, sweetheart.â Your chest feels tight suddenly as you smooth a hand over her hair, trying to offer comfort in an impossible situation. âI know.â
Gunshots still sound somewhere nearby. Your pulse pounds so hard it makes you feel sick. Jake is breathing too fast. Full panic and shock setting in right in front of you.
âSheâs gonna die sheâs gonna dieââ
âNo.â You catch his face hard between both hands. âNot happening. Stay with me.â
People keep running past. Nobody stopping to check if you need anything, if the girl on the floor who is far too young to be in this position is okay. You understand why. Fear makes people cruel without meaning to.
Your phone vibrates against your hip in your pocket. You answer immediately.
âWhatâs wrong? Is something happening over there? I heard something but didnât get the details. Are you okay?â
âThereâs a shooting.â
Silence. Not real silence. You can hear the hospital behind him faintly. Voices. Movement. A monitor somewhere. Still, something inside him goes absolutely still.
âWhere are you hurt?â
You blink hard. âIâm notââ
Another gunshot. Closer. You duck instinctively over Leah. Something tears through your upper arm. The pain arrives hot and brutal a second later. You suck in a sharp breath.
âSweetheart?â
Your hand flies to your arm automatically and comes away slick red.
âOh,â you say faintly.
Jake stares at you in horror. Jackâs voice changes instantly. Lower. Controlled in that terrifying way he gets when something is catastrophically wrong.
âYouâve been hit.â
âJust my arm.â
âHow bad.â
You press hard above the wound, vision swimming unpleasantly for a second.
âThrough and through, I think.â
âListen to me carefully.â Every word clipped precise now. Doctor mode. âCan you move your fingers?â
You flex them. âYeah.â
âGood. Keep pressure on it.â
Leah cries out suddenly and your attention snaps back to her. Blood soaking through Jakeâs hands faster now. You shrug your jacket off one-handed and bunch it hard against Leahâs abdomen to reinforce pressure. Jakeâs shaking so violently he can barely keep hold.
âJake.â Your voice softens despite everything. âNeed you to stay with me, honey.â
âI canât lose her.â
The fear in his voice cuts straight through you.
âYou wonât.â
âIâm sending units your way now,â Jack says through the phonee. âStay on the line with me.â
You know heâs already moving while he talks. Already taking over. Organising. Commanding. The image of him striding through the Pitt with that expression on his face flashes painfully through your mind. You want him here so badly your chest aches with it.
Another scream sounds somewhere nearby. Leahâs skin is turning grey. Jake looks close to vomiting.
Your own arm throbs violently. Blood slipping steadily between your fingers no matter how hard you press. You promise yourself that you wonât pass out, not here, not while they still need you.
âSweetheart.â Jack again, quieter now somehow. âTalk to me.â
You swallow hard. âSheâs losing too much blood.â
âHowâs her breathing?â
You check automatically. Wet. Uneven. Bad. Your stomach twists.
Jake sees your face change and immediately starts panicking harder. âNo, no, no, tell me what to do!â
âYou keep pressure there,â you say firmly. âYou keep talking to her.â
Leahâs eyes find yours. Terrified. You smile anyway because people always look less frightened when medics smile at them.
âYouâre alright, angel, Iâm here.â
It feels monstrous saying it while blood pools beneath her body. Sirens finally echo somewhere in the distance. Too far away, too slow.
Your vision flickers strangely at the edges. Adrenaline only carries you so long before the body starts demanding payment. Jack must hear something in your breathing again.
âHow much blood are you losing?â
âIâm okay.â
âThat wasnât the question.â
You almost laugh despite everything. âIâm fine,â you insist weakly.
âSweetheart.â Warning this time.
You press harder against your arm. Your hand is slippery with blood. Leahâs or yours, you genuinely cannot tell anymore.
Jake suddenly grabs your sleeve hard. âThereâs blood on your face.â
You touch your forehead automatically and come away red again. Your hearing feels distant for a second. You know that feeling. Jack knows it too apparently because his voice sharpens immediately.
âStay awake.â
âI am awake.â
âYouâre fading.â
âNo Iâm not.â
Itâs a lie so obvious that even you hear it. The world tilts unpleasantly. You force yourself to focus on Leah instead. On Jake. On pressure and breathing and survival. Easier than thinking about the fact your husband is listening to all of this happen over the phone while trapped miles away.
âBaby,â Jack says suddenly, very soft now. Dangerous soft. âListen to me, please.â
Your throat tightens painfully at the desperation in his voice. You can practically see him in your head. Jaw locked. Hand pressed against the back of his neck. Fury and fear buried underneath clinical calmness.
âI need you to stay conscious until the paramedics reach you, okay? You know the drill.â
Your eyes sting unexpectedly. âIâm trying,â you whisper. âIâm sorry. Iâm really trying, Jack.â
Then Leah stops responding properly, and everything gets worse.
âLeah?â
No response.
Jake says her name again, louder this time, voice cracking apart so badly it barely sounds human anymore. Your stomach drops.
âJake.â You force steel back into your voice despite the dizziness crawling steadily through you. âTalk to her.â
His hands are drenched red now. Blood pushed deep beneath his fingernails. He keeps looking at you like you might be able to undo this through sheer willpower alone.
âLeah, baby, câmon.â His breathing stutters violently. âPlease.â
You press trembling fingers against her throat again. Weak. Too weak. Your own pulse pounds hard enough to make your injured arm throb in time with it. Every heartbeat feels wet. Hot blood still slipping through your grip no matter how hard you hold pressure.
Jackâs voice crackles through the phone near your knee where you dropped it onto speaker. âWhatâs happening?â
You swallow hard. âSheâs crashing.â
Silence. Not real silence. You hear movement behind him. Orders being barked across the ER. Metal trays clattering. The Pitt already preparing for the casualties heading their way.
Jack knows exactly what kind of scene youâre sitting in. Exactly how bad it probably looks.
âShe conscious?â
âBarely.â
You can feel Jake staring at you, waiting for something. You hate this part, you have always hated this part. The space between trying and failing where everybody still looks at you hopefully.
Leahâs eyes flutter weakly. âCold,â she whispers.
Jake breaks completely at that. His whole face crumples. Tears running unchecked while he bends over her like he can physically shield her from dying through proximity alone.
You grip the back of his neck hard. âJake.â He looks at you immediately. âNeed you to breathe.â
âI am breathing.â
He absolutely is not. His chest is heaving so fast you feel panic rising in yourself just watching him. The shock is setting in ugly now. His shoulder is still bleeding too, forgotten entirely beneath Leahâs worsening condition.
You grab the discarded sleeve of your jacket and shove it hard against his wound.
âPressure there.â He obeys automatically, and you thank every cosmic force that might be out there.
Your vision blurs suddenly. You squeeze your eyes shut hard once and feel the world tilt sickeningly underneath you.
âSweetheart?â Jack again. Immediate. Alert.
You hadnât even made a noise. âIâm okay.â
âYou keep saying that.â
âYou keep pestering me.â
A horrible little laugh escapes him unexpectedly. Sharp with stress. âJesus fucking Christ.â
You know that laugh. The one dragged out of him when heâs overwhelmed enough that humour becomes the only thing stopping him putting his fist through a wall.
Sirens are closer now. Leah makes another weak choking sound and your focus snaps back instantly. Blood bubbles faintly at the corner of her mouth. Itâs bad enough that you already know where this is going. Jake sees your expression change again.
âNo.â
You hate how small his voice sounds.
âSheâs okay,â you lie.
âSheâs not.â His face twists violently. âDonât fucking lie to me like that. Itâs fucked up.â
Your throat tightens. People think medics get used to this. They donât. You just learn how to keep moving while it happens.
The first paramedics finally break through the crowd. Relief hits so hard your hands start shaking worse. One of them crouches beside Leah immediately while another reaches for you.
âIâm fine,â you snap instinctively.
The paramedic looks unimpressed. âYouâve been shot, maâam.â
âNot dying though.â Your words slur slightly at the edges.
Jack hears it too. âHey.â Sharper now. âStay with me. Let them help you.â
The paramedic starts peeling your blood-soaked hand away from your arm and pain explodes through you white-hot and vicious enough to make your stomach lurch.
âOh, fuck.â
âThere she is,â Jack mutters darkly through the speaker. âKnew you were concussed or dying when you stopped cursing.â
Despite everything, your mouth twitches weakly.
The paramedic assessing Leah suddenly barks for more gauze. Jake flinches hard enough to nearly fall over.
âShe needs transport now,â another voice says urgently.
Jake grabs Leahâs hand desperately while they start loading her onto the stretcher. He keeps trying to climb beside her despite the blood loss making him unsteady too.
âSir, we need you checked out as well.â
âNo.â
âJake,â you say firmly.
He looks at you with tears streaking his face.
âIâm not leaving her.â
âYou arenât.â
His breathing catches painfully.
Your own head feels strangely heavy suddenly. Hard to hold upright. The paramedic wrapping your arm is talking to you but the words drift oddly in and out.
Jackâs voice cuts through the fog immediately. âWhatâs her BP?â
The paramedic glances towards the phone. âWho is this?â
âHer husband. Dr Jack Abbot.â
Something in Jackâs tone must land correctly because the paramedic answers instantly after that.
âPressure is dropping.â
You hear the silence on the other end. Not empty silence, calculating silence. Dangerous silence.
Your chest aches unexpectedly at the thought of him hearing numbers instead of seeing you himself. Jack trusts his own hands more than anything else in the world. You know he hates this. Hates being trapped at the hospital while you bleed somewhere he cannot reach.
âTheyâre taking us to the Pitt?â you ask weakly.
âYeah.â
Good. You need Jack. The thought arrives suddenly and honestly enough to hurt. Not Dr Abbot. Not your attending physician. Just your husband. Your Jack. The one who sleeps with one heavy hand spread across your stomach every time like he needs proof youâre still there.
Jake climbs into the ambulance beside Leah while they try to convince him to let somebody examine his shoulder properly. You force yourself upright too fast trying to follow and immediately regret it. The world blacks at the edges. Strong hands catch you before you hit the ground.
âEasy,â the paramedic says.
You feel weirdly detached from your own body now. Floating somewhere slightly behind yourself.
Jackâs voice sharpens again instantly through the phone. âShe pass out?â
âNearly.â
âSweetheart.â Fear leaking through now despite all his control. âTalk to me.â
You try. Nothing comes out properly. Your tongue feels thick. The paramedic starts asking questions rapidly. Name. Age. Allergies. Orientation. You answer automatically between breaths while they push you towards a second ambulance.
Blood loss. Shock. Probably more injured than you first thought. Your arm burns savagely.
âYou still with me?â Jack asks.
âYeah.â Barely.
You hear Jack exhale quietly. âGood girl.â
The words hit you straight in the chest. So familiar. So him. Usually murmured against your skin in the middle of the night instead of through a phone while you bleed through dressings.
Your eyes sting unexpectedly. The ambulance doors slam shut. Everything becomes sirens and fluorescent lights and movement. A paramedic cuts your sleeve fully away and swears under his breath at the amount of blood.
âLooks worse than it is,â you mumble.
âThat what you tell all your patients?â
Jack actually snorts faintly through the speaker.
âYeah,â he says. âShe does.â
You can practically picture him now. Leaning over a desk somewhere in the chaos of the ER. One hand braced against the surface hard enough to ache later. Eyes distant and furious all at once.
Somebody in the background says his name. You hear him switch instantly. âWhatâve we got?â
Pure attending voice now. Steady. Cold. Commanding. You have seen entire trauma bays settle the second Jack walks into them, like everybody unconsciously trusts him to carry the worst parts. He comes back to you a second later, softer again somehow.
âNearly there, baby.â
You close your eyes briefly. So tired suddenly.
âDonât you dare,â he says immediately.
Your eyes open again. âBossy.â
âYeah.â No hesitation. âEspecially with you.â
The medic checking your vitals suddenly goes very still looking at the monitor. Your stomach sinks.
âWhat?â
He looks up sharply. âDo you know how much blood you have lost?â
Nobody tells you the answer to that question. Which is answer enough on its own, really.
The ambulance feels too bright. Too loud. Every bump in the road sends pain shooting through your arm and shoulder hard enough to make your vision flicker. You focus on the ceiling instead. On breathing. On staying conscious long enough to get to the Pitt.
Jack keeps talking. You realise after a while he is doing it deliberately. Filling silence before it can turn dangerous.
âYou remember Santos trying to tell me how to run a trauma bay last week? Pulling that shit again today.â
A weak laugh catches painfully in your throat. âSheâs brave.â
âSheâs annoying.â
âWe like her. Sheâs fun.â
âUnfortunately.â
The medic beside you presses fresh gauze against your arm and you hiss through your teeth.
âEasy,â he says.
âNot my favourite word.â
Jack hums quietly through the speaker. âThatâs true.â
Your chest aches with missing him. It feels stupid. He is only across the city. You have survived deployments and distance and night shifts and grief and all the ugly things life threw at both of you. Still, all you want suddenly is his hand around yours and his mouth against your forehead and the certainty that comes with him being close enough to touch.
You feel sixteen different kinds of exhausted.
âLeah?â you ask faintly.
The medic hesitates. Bad sign. Your stomach twists violently.
âSheâs alive.â
Alive. Not stable. Not okay. Just alive. You nod once anyway.
The ambulance doors finally burst open into noise and fluorescent light. Controlled chaos already swallowing the ambulance bay whole. Stretchers moving. Nurses shouting vitals. Blood on the floor somewhere.
The Pitt. Home, in the worst possible way.
You barely make it two feet before spotting Jack. He is halfway across the bay giving orders to somebody when he sees you.
Everything stops.
Not literally. The ER still roars around him. Staff moving constantly. Sirens outside. Chaos everywhere. Still, something in Jack goes completely still the second his eyes land on you.
You have seen that look exactly twice before. Once overseas. Once after his wife died. It hits you hard enough to hurt.
âJesus Christ,â he breathes.
Then he is there. Hands on your face first. Immediate. Grounding. Like he needs physical proof you are standing in front of him. His eyes move over you rapidly after that, taking in blood loss, sweat and tears, and the dressing wrapped round your arm already soaked through.
You watch anger flood him in real time. Not at you. At the situation. At the blood. At the fact you got hurt where he could not protect you from it.
âHey,â you whisper.
Jack grabs the back of your neck and kisses you hard enough to shut you up entirely. Desperate. Furious. His hand shakes once against your jaw before he gets control of it again.
âYou scared the fucking life out of me.â
The words come rough and low. You almost cry at the sound of it.
âIâm okay.â
âNo, you are not.â
Pure Jack. Sharp enough to cut.
A nurse approaches carefully. âAbbot, we needââ
âGive me a minute.â
Nobody argues. You sway slightly where you stand and Jackâs entire grip tightens immediately.
The adrenaline is disappearing. Fast. Your body suddenly feels unbearably heavy.
âJake,â you manage. âLeah?â
âTheyâre in trauma.â
Alive then, at least for now.
Jack guides you backwards towards an empty stretcher with one hand firm against your waist. You can feel him slipping fully into doctor mode again despite the fear still sitting raw underneath it.
âSit.â
âI can still help.â
âNo.â
âJack.â
âNo.â Harder this time. âYouâre done.â
You hate how emotional that makes you unexpectedly. You do not want to be done. You want to keep moving and helping and fixing because the second you stop everything catches up.
Jack sees it happen on your face instantly. Always does. His expression softens just slightly.
âBaby.â His thumb brushes beneath your eye before you even realise tears escaped. âSit down before you drop down. Please.â
You obey mostly because your legs are beginning to shake badly enough that you genuinely might collapse. Jack kneels in front of you immediately to assess your arm himself despite multiple staff hovering nearby ready to do it for him.
His hands are steady. Only his jaw gives him away.
âYou got lucky,â he mutters after peeling the dressing back carefully.
âAlways do.â
He shoots you a look. Not amused. Blood covers his fingers now. Yours too. Familiar in the ugliest way. You watch him mentally catalogue damage with frightening speed.
âYou should see the other guy,â you mumble weakly.
Jack stares at you for one long second before a broken little sound leaves him halfway between a laugh and something else entirely.
âShut up, sweetheart.â
His forehead drops briefly against your knee. That scares you more than anything else has tonight. Jack does not fold. He bends maybe. Cracks quietly where nobody can see. Never folds, especially not in the Pitt of all places.
Your hand moves automatically into his hair. âHey.â
He breathes once. Twice. Then straightens again before anybody else notices. Professional mask back in place.
âYouâre getting fluids and scans,â he says flatly. âAnd if you try arguing with me Iâll sedate you myself.â
âThere he is.â
His mouth twitches despite himself.
The curtain nearby suddenly gets shoved aside and Trinity stumbles through looking wrecked. Blood dried across her scrubs, hair a complete mess.
âFuck,â she says immediately. âWhat do you need?â
The words slam straight into your chest. Jack stands instantly. âItâs okay. Iâve got her.â
Trinity looks at you then and visibly pales. âYouâre bleeding through that.â
You glance down. The fresh dressing is already red again. Jack notices at exactly the same moment and something inside him finally snaps.
âGet me another pressure dressing now,â he barks sharply at a nurse nearby. âAnd where the hell is her trauma consult?â
You stare at him slightly dazed. Trinity does too. Jack never raises his voice unless things are bad. Seconds later, Trinity is called away to treat another casualty, and you watch Jack pale as if he needed that extra lifeline in the room just this once.
âIâm stable,â you try weakly.
Jack rounds on you so fast it almost startles you.
âYou do not get to tell us youâre stable while bleeding through gauze every five fucking minutes.â
The nurse returns quickly with supplies while Jack drags a hand hard over his face like he regrets snapping immediately.
âSorry,â he mutters roughly without looking at you.
Your chest aches. âJack.â
He crouches back in front of you again, pressing fresh gauze carefully to your arm this time. His touch gentler now. Almost unbearably gentle. He presses one quick kiss against your forehead.
âDonât move.â
âBossy.â
âYeah.â His hand squeezes the back of your neck once. âYou married me anyway.â
Jack exhales slowly. The attending disappears first, but your husband stays.
âYou scared me,â he says quietly.
No sharpness left in it now. No irritation. Just honesty stripped raw. Your chest aches immediately.
âI know.â
Jack pulls the stool closer and sits in front of you with a pained wince before carefully peeling back the soaked dressing around your arm. His touch stays precise but impossibly gentle at the same time. You know all the versions of him by now. The trauma doctor. The exhausted veteran. The husband who wakes instantly from nightmares with his hand already reaching for you.
This version is frightened. You feel it in every careful movement.
âYou shouldâve let somebody help you sooner,â he mutters while inspecting the wound.
âThere were people worse off.â
Jackâs eyes flick to you with a frown. You look away, standing by that ugly instinct to keep going until your body physically gives out because somebody else always needs more.
âSweetheart.â His voice softens dangerously. âYou were bleeding through your clothes.â
âI know.â
âYou nearly collapsed in the ambulance bay.â
You swallow hard. He starts flushing the wound carefully with saline and pain burns viciously through your arm. Your face tightens automatically.
âSorry, baby.â
âYou didnât shoot me.â
âNo, but Iâd still like to kill whoever did.â
That nearly earns a laugh from you. Exhaustion hangs too heavily for humour now. Adrenaline burned off enough to leave everything underneath exposed and shaking.
Jack notices immediately. âYou dizzy?â
âYes.â
âNauseous?â
âLittle bit.â
âHead?â
âHurts.â
âGood. Means youâve still got one.â
You snort softly at that despite yourself. Jackâs mouth twitches faintly in quiet satisfaction before settling again. His hands are steady.
âYou sounded scared on the phone,â you say quietly after a moment.
Jack keeps his eyes on your arm while wrapping fresh gauze into place. âI was terrified.â
The honesty knocks straight through you. âYou never sound scared.â
âThatâs not true.â
âIt is with everybody else.â
His hands pause briefly. âYou arenât everybody else.â
Emotion climbs sharp into your throat so fast it hurts. Before you can say anything, the curtain suddenly jerks open.
Jake stumbles inside looking destroyed.
Your stomach drops instantly.
Blood has dried down the front of his shirt. His eyes swollen raw from crying already. He looks barely upright.
Jack stands immediately. âWhat happened, buddy?â
Jake opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. Then suddenly he folds in on himself completely.
âShe died. Leah died.â The words break apart halfway through. âShe died and I wasnât there and she was asking for me and I wasnât fucking thereââ
âOh, Jake.â
You are moving before you even think about it despite the pain ripping through your arm instantly. Jake drops heavily into the chair beside your stretcher and puts both hands over his face like he physically cannot hold himself together anymore.
âI left her,â he chokes out. âI shouldnât have left her.â
âNo.â Your voice comes sharp automatically. âNo, honey.â
Jack glances at you once before stepping back slightly, giving you space. Jakeâs shoulders shake violently beneath your hand when you touch his arm.
âThey said she coded again and they couldnât get her back and I wasnât thereââ
âYou listened to medical staff,â you say firmly, throat burning already. âYou were injured too.â
âI shouldâve stayed with her.â
Guilt. Pure, ugly survivorâs guilt already setting in. You know the shape of it intimately.
Jake starts crying harder. Full body shaking with it now. Young and heartbroken and completely lost. Something inside your chest caves painfully inward at the sound.
âShe was scared,â he whispers.
You think suddenly about Leah lying on the concrete with blood soaking through your jacket. Her tiny voice saying how cold she felt. Jake holding pressure with shaking hands because you told him to.
Jack rests one hand briefly against the back of your neck. Grounding. Steady. You lean into it automatically while keeping your other hand wrapped around Jakeâs wrist.
âYou stayed with her,â you tell him softly. âYou hear me? You stayed.â
His face twists apart completely. âI loved her.â
The room goes painfully quiet. Jack looks away briefly. You know why. Leahâs death hits him too. Every loss does, no matter how hard he tries to bury it beneath protocol and movement and work.
The hooks of the curtain scrape against the pole as Robby pulls it to step inside. Exhaustion hangs off him in visible waves. Blood on his scrub top. Eyes hollowed out by the night.
He takes one look at Jake. âCome on, kid.â
Jake looks up at him with a completely shattered expression. Robby crosses the space quickly and grips the back of his neck firmly. âCâmon.â
Jake doesnât move. âI canât do this.â
âYes, you can.â Robby says it quietly. Certainly. Like fact.
Jake wipes violently at his face. âI left her.â
Robbyâs expression tightens for one brief second.
âNo,â he says firmly. âYou got shot trying to save her.â
Jake starts crying again anyway. Robby pulls him gently upright after a second, keeping one steady hand between his shoulder blades.
âCome sit with me for a minute.â
Jake looks back at you once before leaving. Lost. Apologetic somehow. You squeeze his hand weakly.
âThis isnât your fault.â
His face crumples again at that before Robby finally guides him back out into the chaos beyond the curtain. The second they disappear the room feels heavier somehow. Jack turns back towards you slowly. You realise suddenly your cheeks are wet too.
âOh, sweetheart.â
He moves immediately, stepping between your knees and pulling you carefully against his chest despite the IV line and bandaging. You go willingly, forehead pressed hard against him while everything finally catches up at once.
The gunshots. Leah. Jake crying. Jack hearing you bleed over the phone unable to reach you.
Your body starts shaking properly. âI couldnât save her,â you whisper brokenly.
Jackâs arms tighten instantly. âThat wasnât on you.â
âI knew she was dying.â
His hand cradles the back of your head carefully.
âI knew.â Your voice cracks painfully. âI still kept lying to him.â
Jack pulls back just enough to look at you properly. âYou gave him hope while she was alive.â
Your throat burns. You start crying harder at that. Quiet, ugly crying pressed into the front of Jackâs scrub top while he holds you through it without hesitation. Nobody ever talks about this part properly. The aftermath. The helplessness. The guilt medics carry around in their pockets like spare change.
Jack knows though. Of course he does.
âIâve got you,â he murmurs against your hair.
The words nearly finish you off entirely. Eventually, your breathing evens out again enough that he can guide you gently back onto the stretcher. His hand never fully leaves you.
âYou need scans before I take you home,â he says quietly.
Home. The word lands soft. You look up at him tiredly. Really look. Exhaustion carved deep into his face now that the crisis is slowing. Tiny flecks of blood still near his jaw. Eyes red-rimmed from stress and lack of sleep and fear.
âYou need rest too.â
Jack huffs quietly. âYeah, well. You first.â
Your mouth twitches weakly. You love him so much it feels unbearable sometimes.
Later, after scans and stitches and far too much arguing over whether you can walk unassisted, Jack finally gets you home sometime near dawn.
The house is dark and still, as safe as you need it to be. Jack helps you out of your ruined clothes with unbearable gentleness before settling you carefully into bed. Clean shirt pulled over your head. Pain medication pressed into your palm. Water forced into you until he looks vaguely satisfied.
Then finally, after stripping off his bloodstained scrub top and unfastening his prosthetic with the exhausted familiarity of routine, Jack gets carefully into bed beside you.
The second the mattress dips, you move towards him automatically. Your face tucked against his throat. One arm curled carefully around his waist while he wraps himself around you just as instinctively.
For a long time neither of you speak. Jackâs fingers move slowly against your spine.
âYou awake?â you murmur eventually.
âYeah.â
Your eyes sting again suddenly. âJakeâs gonna blame himself forever.â
Jack goes quiet for a moment. âProbably.â
Honest. Always honest with you.
âHe shouldnât.â
âNo.â His arm tightens slightly. âNeither should you.â
The emotion lodged in your chest aches horribly.
Outside, somewhere beyond your windows, the city keeps moving.
Inside, wrapped tightly around each other in the dark, the two of you finally stop trying to.
â COME AND JOIN MY TAGLISTS !
ALL FICS: @ilocuras24 @the-annoying-fan @paankhaleyaaar
summary: you've always kept things casual. it's just easier that way. you've got a roster, a routine, and absolutely no intention of changingâuntil you realise you've made one very inconvenient mistake: falling in love with dr. jack abbot.
notes: okay, this took way longer than it should have because i burnt out trying to make all the "medical stuff" absolutely perfectly, then when i picked it back up i feel like the rhythm changed a little? hopefully for the better? i'm not sure if it's worth the wait, but i really hope y'all still enjoy! and as always, please let me know what you think!
warnings: swearing, blushing, italics, fwb type situation, jealousy, implied age gap, reader is in serious denial, medical descriptions, medical procedure descriptions (not graphic), most definitely incorrect medical information, sexual references, implied sexual relationships, making out (on shift), and one irritatingly handsome and unreasonably reasonable night shift attending.
word count: 15620
âHeyâoh, thank God.â You kick the door shut behind you. âCan you wait for me? I just need, like, five minutes.â
Ellis sighs. âReally? I was just about to leave.â
âFive minutes,â you say again, already moving toward your room.
You donât bother shutting the door. You just drop your bag at the foot of your bed, pull the faded old U.S. Army shirt over your head, and shove your sweatpants down. Then you grab a fresh set of scrubs and pull them on, tying the drawstring quickly before opening your bag to check for your badge and stethoscope.
âArenât you gonna shower?â Ellis calls from the living room.
âWe showered before I left,â you say, âbut I didnât have a clean pair of scrubs.â
Ellis gags. âGross. Whyâd you have to say âweâ?â
You sling your bag over your shoulder as you step out of your room, grinning.
âBecause we had some really great shower sex too.â
Ellis makes a dramatic vomiting noise as you both head out the door, her keys jingling as she turns to lock it.
âI thought Deran was your usual Thursday morning appointment,â she says.
You shrug. âScheduling conflict.â
She turns and starts down the hall, glancing at you from the corner of her eye. âYou are the schedule.â
âIâm restructuring,â you say lightly, falling into step beside her. âDonât think Deranâs making the cut.â
Ellis doesnât say anything else. She just watches you for a secondâeyes narrowing, brows drawing a little tighterâbefore shaking her head and turning toward the fire stairs door. You both make your way down to the parking garage in silence, crossing the dimly lit basement until you reach Ellisâ car.
The drive to the hospital isnât long. Ellis fills most of it complaining about a patient she handed off to McKay this morning who insisted his diagnosis was wrong because heâd googled itâand sheâs still muttering angrily by the time she pulls into the hospital parking lot.
âI swear,â she says, yanking the parking brake a little too hard, âif I hear the words âbut I googled itâ even once tonight, Iâm going to lose my mind.â
You snort softly as you climb out of the car, slinging your bag over your shoulder before shutting the door. You both head inside through the ambulance bay, keeping out of the way of an arriving trauma as the paramedics wheel the gurney throughâsomething about chest pain, you overhear.
âTrauma oneâs open,â Dana calls.
âDr. Toomarian, with me.â
Your head snaps up at the sound of Jackâs voice, your gaze landing on him beside the gurney as he guides it through the trauma bay doors, that familiar mask of focus already in place.
Then he looks at you, something flickering across his face.
âHeyâdonât disappear. I need to talk to you after this.â
You lift your hand, pointing a finger at yourself. âMe?â
He nods once before turning into the trauma bay, the glass door swinging shut behind him.
âOoh,â Ellis murmurs as you both turn down the back hall. âYouâre in trouble.â
You roll your eyes. âYeah, right.â
âMaybe heâs restructuring,â she adds, the corner of her mouth lifting. âThink youâll make the cut?â
You shoot her a flat look. âVery funny.â
Ellis smirks as she opens her locker, shrugging her bag off her shoulder and shoving it inside. You do the sameâmoving on autopilot as you sling your stethoscope around your neck, clip your badge at your hip, and stuff your backpack in your locker before shutting the door.
You head back toward the hub side by side, both peering into the trauma bay as you pass. The patient is stable now, half-conscious on the bed while Jack gives orders and Jesse preps for transfer to a room for monitoring. Dr. Robby is in there too now, looking as tired as always with his arms folded and protective glasses pushed up on top of his head.
âEvening, ladies,â Lena says from behind the nursesâ desk. âGet a good sleep?â
âAlways,â Ellis replies as she grabs a tablet from the rack.
âGood enough,â you mutter, tipping your head back to read the board.
âMm.â Lena peers at you over the top of her glasses. âWell, maybe you should start prioritising sleep over extracurriculars.â
Ellis snorts beside you.
âLena,â you gasp, voice thick with mock offence. âI donâtââ
You stop short as Jack steps up beside you, offering Lena a polite nod before looking back at you.
âYou have my badge.â
You frown. âWhat?â
âMy badge,â he says again, already reaching for the badge at your hip.
He unclips it from your scrub pants and holds it up, brows lifting just slightly.
âAttending physician, huh?â
You shrug. âThought it was time I got a promotion.â
He huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head as he fastens the badge to his scrub top and fishes your badge from his back pocket. Then he steps in closer, his fingers grazing your hip as he tugs on the waistband of your pants and clips the badge where his had been.
âTry to keep track of it,â he mutters, already turning away.
You donât respond. You just roll your eyes and turn back to the nursesâ station, where Lena is still watching you over the rim of her glasses, utterly unimpressed.
âYou didnât even notice?â Ellis asks.
You lift one shoulder. âI just grabbed it off the floor.â
âOkay,â Lena mutters, glancing back down at her chart. âIâm choosing not to know.â
Ellis shakes her head. âYouâre unbelievable.â
âI know,â you say, tipping your head back again to read the board. âBut you love me.â
She snorts, not even looking up from her tablet.
âCome on.â You bump your shoulder against hers. âLetâs go check out the elbow dislocation in One.â
âFine,â she sighs, âbut Iâm not doing traction.â
You roll your eyes for what feels like the umpteenth time as you start moving, heading toward the North corridor with Ellis at your heel. When you pull back the curtain at North One, the man lying there is exactly what you expectedâmid-twenties, gym shorts, red with embarrassment and trying not to wince even though the shape of his shoulder is very wrong.
âAlright, Mr. Donovan,â you say, pulling on a pair of gloves. âLetâs have a look at that shoulder.â
His eyes flick up to your face, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
âAre you a doctor?â
âSure am,â you reply as you step closer to the bed. âAnd with me is Dr. Ellis. Sheâs going to help me get that bone back in place, but first youâre going to have to tell us how you did it.â
He grimaces as you gently prod his upper arm.
âYeahâuhâI was just at the gym,â he starts, voice strained.
âBenching?â Ellis asks.
He nods. âYeah.â
âLet me guessâpersonal best?â
He nods again. âYeah. How did youââ
âHappens more often than you think,â you cut in, your fingers finding the pulse at his wrist. âMove your fingers.â
He wriggles them slowly.
âAny numbness?â
He shakes his head.
âI was just putting the bar back,â he says. âMy arm twisted a bit and it just⊠popped.â
You glance over your shoulder at Ellis, and she nods.
âOkay, Mr. Donovanââ
âYou can call me Chase,â he interrupts, the corner of his mouth lifting a little higher.
You nod once. âAlright, Chase. Weâre going to give you something for the pain and a muscle relaxant so itâs easier to get it back into place. Then Dr. Ellis and I are going to do the reduction.â
âWill it hurt?â
âNot much,â Ellis replies. âMaybe a little discomfort, but itâll be quick.â
âOkay,â he mutters, wincing again as he tries to shift in the bed.
You look at Ellis. âFentanyl and midaz?â
She nods, already turning away to find a workstation.
âWeâll be back in about five minutes,â you tell Chase. âJust as soon as a nurse administers the medication and it has enough time to kick in.â
âFive minutes, huh? Thatâs just enough time for me to figure out how to ask for your number.â
You snort. âLetâs just get your shoulder back in first, then see how you feel.â
âOuch,â he chuckles. âIs that your subtle way of saying you have a boyfriend?â
You hesitate, taking half a step back from the bed.
âUhâno,â you mutter. âNo boyfriend.â
He smirks. âSo I have a shot?â
You shake your head as you turn away, a faint smile pulling at your lips. âLike I saidâletâs see how you feel after I manhandle your humerus back into its socket.â
He doesnât say anything elseâjust lets out a quiet breath of laughter as you turn and step out of the room.
Your gaze flicks up as you reach for the curtain, and only then do you notice Jack standing thereâarms folded, shoulders set, his hazel eyes fixed on you like heâs waiting for something.
âOhâhey,â you say. âNeed me?â
He shakes his head. âNope. Just doing the rounds. Want a hand with the reduction?â
âNah, Iâve got Ellis,â you reply, starting back toward Central. âBut youâre more than welcome to supervise.â
He scoffs, falling into step beside you. âYou donât need supervising.â
âI know.â You glance at him from the corner of your eye, a smirk tugging at your lips. âBut I know how you like to watch.â
His mouth quirks, like heâs trying not to laugh.
âCareful,â he murmurs.
âOr what?â you tease, stopping just before the nursesâ station.
His eyes are a little darker now, the tops of his cheeks dusted pink.
âYou donât want to find out,â he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear.
Something twists low in your bellyâand you get the sudden, distinct feeling that you do, in fact, want to find out.
âAbbot,â Lena calls before you can say anything else. âTrauma inboundâcyclist versus vehicle, ETA three minutes.â
Jack pauses for a half a secondâthen nods. âAlright, letâs prep Trauma Two.â He looks at you. âYou in?â
You pull a face, all mock disappointment. âOh, I wish I could, but Iâve got that reductionâŠâ
He gives you a flat look, the corner of his mouth pulling just slightly. âMm. Tragic.â
âGood luck, though,â you add, flashing him a grin.
You turn away before he does, moving around the hub to grab a tablet and find your next patient. It isnât long before the paramedics come crashing through the ambulance bay doors with a groaning patient on the gurneyâand you take that as your cue to get back to the shoulder dislocation.
âAlright, Chase,â you say, pulling back the curtain. âLetâs do this.â
He gives you a lopsided smile. âI was hoping Iâd see you again.â
Ellis snorts. âMidaz is working.â
You laugh softly as you step up beside his affected arm, adjusting the bed slightly before pulling on a pair of gloves. Ellis does the same, moving into position on the other side and bracing one hand against his good shoulder.
You look at her. âReady?â
She nods once.
âOkay, Chase,â you say, one hand wrapping gently around his wrist. âStay loose for me.â
You place your other hand at his elbow and bring his arm out from his body, easing it into position.
He lets out a breath, the tension in his body easing.
âThatâs it,â you murmur, starting to pull his arm outward.
You feel the resistance from the dislocation, holding his arm steady untilâhis shoulder drops.
Ellis nods. âGood. Now rotate.â
You carefully rotate his arm out, slow and controlled, until you feel a small shiftâthe soft clunk of the bone slipping back into place. Chase flinches, inhaling sharply, thenâ
âOhââ He blinks. âOh, thatâsâthatâs way better.â
You give him a small smile as you guide his arm back in, keeping it supported while Ellis grabs the sling.
âMove your fingers,â you tell him.
He does.
âAny numbness?â
He shakes his head.
âGood.â
You move aside as Ellis steps in with the sling, fastening it over his shoulder before adjusting the bed again.
âComfortable?â she asks.
Chase nods slowly. ââM tired.â
âThen have a nap.â
You peel your gloves off and drop them in the waste bin, squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm as you turn back toward Chase.
âWeâre going to keep you here for a bit, okay? Just to monitor you and get an X-ray to make sure everythingâs back in place.â
âYouâre leaving me?â he mumbles, eyes half-lidded.
You shake your head, letting out a quiet laugh. âIâll be back in a bit to see how youâre feeling, alright?â
He mutters something else as his eyes slip shut, but itâs too soft for you to hear.
Then, after a beat, Ellis looks at you. âGonna give him your number?â
You roll your eyes. âUm, no.â
âWhy not?â
âBecause I'm notââ
âRosterâs looking a little thin,â she says as she turns and steps out of the room.
You follow her, frowning. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
She shrugs. âNot that Iâm keeping track, but⊠by my count, youâre down to one.â
You let out a short, disbelieving scoff. âOkayâwell, not that itâs any of your business, but Andrew moved to Canada, and Craig got back with his ex.â
She glances at you from the corner of her eye. âAnd you dropped Deran, soââ
âLike I said,â you cut in, lifting your chin just slightly. âIâm restructuring.â
âRestructuring,â she repeats mildly, âor retiring?â
Before the words have even landed, sheâs goneâslipping into North Five with her tablet in hand and that stupid little smirk still curled at the corner of her mouth. You can faintly hear her greet the patient as the door eases shut, leaving you confused and alone in the middle of the North corridor.
Retiring?
You blink, your brows drawing tighter.
Retiring?
What the hell is that supposed to mean? Retiring from what?
From having fun? Having casual sex? Blowing off a little steam in the most enjoyable way you know how?
Itâs not like youâre some irresponsible party animalâyou barely go out, you only drink on occasion, and the hardest drug youâve done since starting med school is ibuprofen. In fact, youâd argue that youâre the opposite of irresponsible. You take your casual sex roster very seriously. You donât take risks, you make sure every single one of your partners has regular sexual-health check-ups, and you make sure to actually get to know them before you even sign them up.
Which is exactly why youâre not going around giving out your number to random patients.
You need to know someone before you start something casual. You need to know that theyâre not going to ask for more, that theyâre going to be mature and understand exactly where you both stand.
You need to know that you can trust them not to be irresponsible.
Because the last thing you need is some trigger-happy idiot who isnât wearing a condom getting caught up in the moment and finishing inside you. Not that you ever go without a condom.
Except for...
Wellâexcept for Jack.
But thatâs different. He knows what heâs doing. You trust himâand youâre on birth control.
So it doesnât really matter if, occasionally, he finishesâ
âYou good, or are you just going to keep staring into space?â
Your head snaps up, heat flooding your cheeks as you meet Hendersonâs gaze.
âUhâyeah, sorry, I was justââ
He chuckles. âNo need to apologiseâbut if youâre bored, I could use an extra set of hands in Eight.â
You tilt your head. âWorth it?â
âForearm lac. Exposed tendon.â
You nod. âIâm in.â
The next few hours blur together in a steady stream of night shift weirdnessâa woman with a mystery rash whose story evolves from laundry detergent to poison ivy, someone who decided Gorilla Glue was a reasonable substitute for hair gel, a fish hook through a hand with the fish still attached, and a DIY dentistry job with half the tooth left and a lot of blood.
You barely catch a break until your patient in Central Twelveâwhen you and Ellis absolutely have to leave the room before you both burst out laughing at the mortified man who insists he slipped and fell on a Buzz Lightyear action figure. Because how else would it get stuck up there?
In your defence, you had managed to maintain some semblance of professionalism right up until Ellis muttered under her breath, âTo infinity and beyond, I guess.â
Thatâs when you lost itâmuttering the first excuse you could think of before slipping out the door and doubling over with laughter.
âOh my God,â Ellis says, wiping the corner of her eye. âI love the night shift.â
You press a hand to your stomach, still aching from the laughter.
âStopââ you gasp, shaking your head. âI canât go back in there.â
âIn where?â Shen asks, appearing in front of you.
You and Ellis both go still for a second, the laughter dying down as you exchange a look.
âActually,â Ellis says, turning back to Shen with a smirk. âI think this case might be perfect for you, Dr. Shen.â
You nod. âOh, absolutely. We could really use your expertise on this one.â
Shen frowns. âWhatâs the case?â
âItâs hard to explain,â Ellis says quickly. âYouâre better off seeing it for yourself.â
Shen isnât stupid, obviously, but he is incredibly curiousâas most doctors are. So despite the fact that both you and Ellis are doing a terrible job of hiding your amusement, he takes the tablet from your outstretched hand and opens the door to Central Twelve.
Ellisâ eyes go wide, but before either of you can say anything else, someone calls your name across the department.
âTrauma Oneâget in here,â Jack says, waving a hand.
You let out a sigh, tipping your head back for a split second before jogging across Central to meet the paramedics.
âTwenty-four-year-old maleâfell onto a plastic prop sword,â the first paramedic says, guiding the gurney into Trauma One. âPenetrating injury to the left thigh, object still in situ. Bleeding controlled, pulses intact, GCS fifteen. Fentanyl given en route, vitals stable.â
You almost snort when you realise the man is dressed in a pirate costume, his plastic cutlass wedged about four inches into his anterolateral thigh.
âAlright, weâll take it from here,â Jack says. âCan you tell us your name, sir?â
âJosh,â the patient replies, his voice strained.
âStabilise the leg,â you tell Mateo, moving into position opposite him. âOn my countâone, two, three.â
You shift the patient from gurney to bed, and the paramedics clear out.
âJosh!â
A young woman rushes into the room, clearly from the same partyâwearing what can only be described as a very short, very inaccurate interpretation of a nurseâs uniform.
âOh my God. Is he bleeding out?â
Jack glances up, his lips twitching when he spots the woman. âI donât remember approving that uniform.â
You shoot him a look. âVery funny, Dr. Abbot.â
His eyes linger on you for a beat too long.
âNot that Iâd object,â he murmurs.
You arch a brow. âThe nurses might.â
âIâm not a nurse,â the woman says, indignant. âIâm a sexy doctor.â
You look her up and down again, your gaze catching on the small, laminated name badge pinned to her chest with âDr. Feelgoodâ printed in bold pink letters.
You hum. âRight.â
âStill not the sexiest doctor in the room,â Jack mutters as he moves around the bed.
Your eyes flick up, meeting his for half a second, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly before you catch yourself and turn back to Josh.
âHave you had anything to drink tonight, Josh?â you ask.
Somewhere behind you, Dr. Feelgood starts to answer for him, but Bridget quickly steps in and guides her out of the trauma bay.
âIâve got a dorsalis pedis pulse,â Jack notes.
Josh groans, mumbling something unintelligible under his breath.
âWeâre going to get you something for the pain, alright?â you say, watching Olive insert the IV. âBut first, I need to know what happened and how much youâve had to drink.â
Mateo carefully cuts up the leg of Joshâs pants, fully exposing the entry site.
âIânghâI fell on itââ Josh manages. âItâs not evenânot even realâfuckââ
Mateo turns away quickly, hiding his amusement.
âWhat about alcohol?â you ask again.
âLikeâtwo beers,â he replies.
âAny drugs?â
âNoâahâno drugs.â
You nod. âOkay. Letâs give another twenty-five of fent.â
âCan we get surgery down here?â Jack asks as he steps back from the bed.
Mateo moves to grab the phone. âCalling now.â
Jack nods, folding his arms and lifting his head to look at you. âAlright. Whatâs next?â
âRepeat neurovascular exam, stabilise the object, donât remove it, and get imaging before anyone touches it.â
He nods again. âGood.â
You try to ignore the way heâs watching you as you move to the foot of the bed, going through the motions of the neurovascular checks a little slower than he had just a minute ago.
âPulses still intact. Cap refill under two. No numbness,â you report.
âGood,â he says again. âKeep checking. If that changes, we move faster.â
You nod once before turning back to Josh.
âDo you know when your last tetanus shot was, Josh?â
He shakes his head faintly. âNo.â
âOkay, tetanus boosterââ you glance up at Jack, âand antibiotics.â
âWhich antibiotic?â
âCefazolin?â
He watches you for a beat, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightlyâthen he turns to Olive. âYou heard the doctor. Get him some cefazolin.â
You drop your head, biting back a smile as you watch Mateo start to clean the entry site.
âLetâs flag contamination risk for surgery,â Jack says, pulling off his gloves. âAnd X-ray forââ
âPosition and fragments,â you cut in, finishing for him. âAnd CTA left leg to clear the vessels before removal.â
He tosses his gloves in the bin and turns back toward you, brows raised.
âAlright,â he says, mildly amused. âI can see Iâm no longer needed in here.â
You flash him a small, smug smile before turning back to the wound.
âEntry looks clean, bleedingâs controlledâletâs pack around it and get him to imaging.â
Mateo nods and moves to grab more gauze, helping you pack carefully around the plastic blade so it doesnât shift during transport. Jack lingers just long enough to make sure youâve got everything under control before he steps out of the room, slipping back into the quiet chaos of the night shift.
You and Mateo quickly finish stabilising the leg before the nurses prep him for imaging. Theyâre just about to wheel the bed out when Walsh arrives from the OR, fighting a smile when she sees the pirate impaled by his own sword. You give her a brief rundown as you pull your gloves off and squirt a pump of sanitiser into your hands. She nods along, asks a few questions, then mutters something about prepping an operating room while they wait for imaging.
When you finally step out of the trauma bay, you spot Jack standing with Lena at the nursesâ station. You donât quite catch all of their conversation as you walk past to grab a tablet, but you do hear something about ETA three minutes and decide to make yourself scarce before youâre dragged into another trauma.
You scan the board briefly, pick your next patient, then head toward the South corridor, already pulling up the chart for South Twenty on your tablet. Youâre halfway through the patientâs intake whenâ
You stopâthen take two steps back, turning your head toward South Seventeen.
âDeran?â
The man in the bed glances up, blowing a lock of dark blond hair out of his eyes.
He smiles. âHey, doc.â
âWhatâre you doing here?â you ask, despite the obvious.
Heâs got his left hand cradled in his lap, wrapped loosely in an oil-stained rag thatâs already soaked through in places, blood seeping into the fabric and drying in dark blotches. His knuckles underneath are split and swollen, his pinky finger sticking out at an odd angle, the rest of his hand already blown out around it.
âI was helping a friend with his truck,â he says, glancing back down at his mangled hand. âThe prop rod slipped, and the hood came straight down.â
âOuch,â you murmur, stepping forward.
He huffs out a short laugh. âYeah. Ouch.â
âMind if I take a look?â
âGo for it.â
You set your tablet at the foot of the bed and step up beside him, leaning in as you gently lift the rag to get a better look at whatâs underneath. Itâs not that deformedâjust swollen, and his pinky finger is obviously broken, but otherwise itâs mostly just bruising and superficial cuts. At least he wonât need stitchesâmaybe some steri-strips and a splintâbut youâre more concerned about the dirty rag heâs got wrapped around it.
âWhat dâyou think?â he asks, the corner of his mouth lifting. âAm I going to make it?â
You tilt your head. âMaybe. If we act fast.â
He laughs softly, the sound ringing almost too familiar in your ears.
You straighten quickly, clearing your throat. âDo youâuhâhave you seen a doctor yet?â
He shakes his head. âNo. Just you.â
You nod once and pick up your tablet, flicking out of South Twentyâs chart.
âCool. Iâll be your doctorââ You pause, glancing back at him. âUnless you think thatâs a conflict of interest?â
His smile widens. âYou mean the prettiest doctor in Pittsburghâs gonna fix me up?â
You roll your eyes. âJust Pittsburgh, huh?â
âWell, I couldnât say the worldâthatâd be way too cheesy.â
You snort. âAll your lines are cheesy.â
He gasps. âAll of them?â
âAll of them,â you echo, keeping your eyes fixed firmly on your tablet.
âWow,â he mutters. âTough crowd.â
You shake your head, trying not to smile as you pull up his chart and make a quick note, effectively assigning yourself as his physician. Then you set the tablet back on the bed and turn to grab a pair of gloves.
âAlright, I just need to have a closer look before I can get you some pain relief.â
You nudge the stool closer to the bed and sit down, leaning in as Deran gingerly shifts his hand. You peel the rag back properly this time, murmuring an apology when he winces, and set the dirty thing aside before reaching for gauze and saline.
âThis might sting a bit,â you say, already starting to clean the dried blood from his knuckles. âLet me know if you want me to stop.â
âDo I need a safe word?â he asks smugly.
Your gaze flicks up, unamusedâthen back down to his hand without a word.
âIâm gonna go with meatball,â he decides. âBecauseââ
ââyour favourite thing in the world is a meatball sub from that deli on Carson,â you cut in. âI know.â
His brows lift. âWow.â
Your eyes flick up again. âWow what?â
He shrugs, wincing slightly as you turn his hand. âNothing. I just⊠didnât think you paid that much attention.â
You donât look up this time, unsure what you could possibly say that wouldnât turn this into a deeper conversation than youâre willing to have right now.
After a beat, Deran hums. âStill doing the whole unavailable thing, huh?â
You roll your eyes. âItâs not a thing, Deran. I work fifteen hours a day with hardly any phone reception, and my days off are spent catching up on paperwork and sleep. I am unavailable.â
âYeah, I know,â he says, glancing back down at his hand. âI guess I just figured since I hadnât heard from you in a while, maybe some lucky guy finally managed to sweep you off your feet.â
You scoff, focusing a little too hard on wrapping fresh gauze around his hand. âYeah, wellâyouâd be wrong.â
He grimaces when you turn his hand again, being careful not to bump his pinky finger as you finish dressing the cuts. Then you gently set it back in his lap and start cleaning up, swivelling on your stool to toss the oily rag and all the bloodied gauze into the waste bin.
âAlright,â you say, turning back. âLift your hand for me.â
He lifts it slowly.
âCan you move your fingers?â
His eyes go wide.
You give him a flat look. âJust try.â
His expression twists as he slowly flexes his fingers, letting out a low, pained groan.
âOkay, thatâs enough,â you say, scooting forward again. âAny numbness or tingling?â
He shakes his head. âNo.â
You reach out and press gently against the tip of his pinkyâuntil it turns whiteâthen watch the colour return beneath his nail.
âCap refillâs good,â you mutter, more to yourself.
He winces again as he lowers his hand back into his lap.
âSo, whatâs the verdictâis my weekend ruined?â
You snort. âNot entirely. Iâll get you some pain relief and order an X-ray. We might have to reduce the pinky, but I want imaging before I touch itâI need to see exactly where the fracture is first.â
âWell then,â he says, smirking as he lifts his right hand and holds up just the index and middle finger. âGood thing Iâm right-handed.â
It takes a moment for the joke to land. You tilt your head, frowning faintly as you stare at his fingers.
Then it clicks.
âOh my God,â you laugh, grabbing his hand and forcing it back down. âWhat is wrong with you?â
He grins. âWhat? You said it yourselfâmy weekend isnât entirely ruined.â
You shake your head. âI didnât think you meant that.â
âWell,â he says slowly, leaning in, âI donât have plans yet, but if youâve got time between paperwork and sleeping, maybe we couldââ
âEverything alright in here?â
You turn to see Jack stepping past the curtain. He stops at the foot of the bed and clasps his hands behind his back, eyes flicking curiously between you and Deran.
You straighten a little and nod. âYep. All good.â
âExcept my hand,â Deran adds, lifting his injured hand.
âRight.â You shake your head once. âDeran, this is Dr. Abbotâheâs the senior attending on shift tonight.â
Then you glance back at Jack.
âCrush injury to the left hand after a truck hood came down on it. Significant swelling through the fifth digit with an obvious deformity at the pinky, plus some superficial lacerations across the knuckles. Neurovascularly intactâcap refillâs good, no numbness or tingling. Iâve cleaned and dressed the cuts, and I was just about to send him for imaging before we decide if the finger needs reducing.â
Jack nods once. âGood. Any pain management?â
You stand and nudge the stool back, picking up your tablet from the end of the bed.
âI was just about to order some ibuprofen and Tylenol.â
He nods again. âSounds like youâve got everything under control.â
You give him a small smile before turning back to Deran. âHang tightâIâll come find you once I get your X-ray results.â
He pouts. âYouâre just going to leave me here?â
You roll your eyes, already turning away. âUnavailable, remember.â
Jack slides the curtain shut before following you out, falling into step beside you as you head back toward Central.
âYou know him?â
You glance up from your tablet. âUhâyeah. Old friend.â
He lifts a brow. âFriend?â
You give him a look. âWhat do you want me to say?â
He shrugs, letting out a quiet laugh. âFriend works.â
âGood,â you mutter, stopping at one of the workstations and setting your tablet down.
Jack pauses beside you. âMeet me in Central Twelve once youâve put the orders in.â
You frown. âWhy?â
The corner of his mouth twitches.
âBecause Iâm your boss, thatâs why.â
Then heâs gone, moving through the department with that faint hitch in his stride and an ass that absolutely should not look that good in scrubs.
You shake your head and turn your attention back to the computer in front of you, swiping your badge to log in. You quickly pull up Deranâs chart, make a few notes, and order the ibuprofen and Tylenol. Then, just because you can, you try to pull up Central Twelveâs chartâif only to annoy Jack by getting a head startâbut thereâs nothing in the system.
Great. Must be a brand-new patient.
You let out an irritated little sigh before logging off and grabbing your tablet again.
The door to Central Twelve is shut when you get there, which isnât unusual, but immediately makes you fear the worst for whatever case Jack has waiting for you inside.
You take a breath, turn the handleâand freeze when you spot the empty bed.
âShut the door,â Jack says, without looking up from the supply drawer heâs rummaging through.
You hesitate. âAm I in trouble?â
He sighs. âDo you ever just do what youâre told?â
You finally step into the room, shutting the door behind you before setting your tablet on the room cart.
âSometimes,â you say. âDepends whatâs in it for me.â
Jack straightens, turning toward you. âThatâs a remarkably transactional approach to life.â
You shrug. âI believe in reciprocation.â
He takes a step closer. âThatâs not what reciprocation means.â
âReally?â you ask. âBecause last time I checkedâin the shower, by the wayâyou were getting a pretty good deal.â
His mouth quirks. âAre you saying I owe you?â
You step forward. âWhoâs keeping count?â
âMaybe I am,â he murmurs.
Before you can say anything else, his fingers catch the hem of your shirt and he tugsâjust enough to pull you off balance. Then his mouth is on yours. Slow, deep, unhurried. As if there isnât an entire emergency department waiting on the other side of that door.
He presses closer, his hand moving beneath your shirt, rough fingers digging into your hip as his mouth parts lazily against yours. His tongue slides along your bottom lip, pulling a breathy little sigh from the back of your throat as your fingers curl into the front of his scrub top. You tilt your head, leaning in, chasing moreâand for a second it almost feels like heâs going to give it to you.
Then he pulls away.
Your lips follow instinctively, and he chuckles, taking a deliberate step back.
You blink. âWhat was that?â
He lifts a shoulder. âNothing.â
âNothing?â
He steps toward the door.
âDr. Toomarianâs got a patient to present.â
You stare at him. âSeriously?â
He reaches for the handle.
âSouth Sixteen.â
Then heâs gone, and youâre left watching the door swing shut with something strange and unfamiliar stirring beneath your ribs.
That was weird.
Not unpleasant. Not by any means. Just... unusual.
It takes you a little longer than it should to remember how to move. How to suck in a full breath, pick up your tablet, and head back out into the chaos of the night shift past midnight.
The department is exactly as youâd left it. Patients complaining about pain that could have been prevented with a little common sense. Doctors running on nothing but caffeine and questionable protein snacks. And Lena in the middle of it all, her glasses perched low on her nose as she scans the tablet in her hand.
âHey,â you say, stepping up to the nursesâ station. âGot anything easy for me?â
Lena glances over the top of her glasses. âEasy left three hours ago.â
You sigh. âCome on. Thereâs got to be something.â
Her eyes flick back down. âIâve got a Ms. Callahan in Central Nine. Migraine, vitals are fine.â
âPerfect. Iâllââ
âIâve got this one,â Jack says, appearing beside you. âDr. Toomarian needs a resident in South Sixteen.â
You frown. âBut Iââ
âNow.â
You stare at him for a second, wondering how the hell a man can kiss you breathless one minute then start barking orders at you the next.
âFine,â you mutter, gripping your tablet a little tighter. âBut when Iâm admitted for emotional whiplash, I want it documented that youâre the reason why.â
Then you turn and head for the South hall before youâre tempted to say something even less professional.
You donât normally snap like thatâespecially not at an attendingâbut something about the last fifteen minutes has crawled beneath your skin and stayed there, impossible to ignore. Your pulse still hasnât settled properly. Your cheeks are still warm. And every time you think about Jackâs stupid little half-smirk after heâd kissed you, youâre annoyed.
You just canât figure out why.
He doesnât normally kiss you in the middle of a shift.
He doesnât normally order you around like youâre a lost med student.
And he definitely doesnât volunteer to see migraine patients.
But you donât normally get this irritated. Especially not at Jack. The two of you are always messing around. Playing games. Flirting. Itâs what you do. So whatâs so different about tonight?
âHey.â Ellis grabs your arm, stopping you just outside of South Sixteen. âYou good?â
You blink. âYeah. Why?â
âYou look like youâre contemplating homicide.â
âAnd if I am?â
âIâd be obliged to remind you that weâre here to save lives, not end them.â
âDamn. Guess Iâll just have to wait until after my shift.â
Her eyes narrow, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly. âIs this about who I thought I saw being taken up to imaging?â
You frown. âWho did you think you saw?â
âDeran.â
âOh.â
You glance over her shoulder at the empty bed in South Seventeen.
âThat was fast,â you mutter.
Her brows lift. âWait. Youâre his physician?â
You shrug. âYeah.â
âIsnât that a conflict of interest?â
âIsnât my life a conflict of interest?â
She stares at you for a moment, amusement tugging at her mouth. âItâs one of those nights, huh?â
You sigh. âYep.â
She puts a hand on your shoulder. âGood luck.â
âThanks.â
Then she gives you a brief nod and continues down the hall, humming a tune you donât recognise as if to rub it in that sheâs having a far more pleasant shift than you are.
You spend the next half hour alongside Nazely, talking her through a chest pain workup and reassuring the patient whoâs convinced every twinge in his left arm is the beginning of the end. By the time youâve reviewed the ECG for the third time and convinced him that googling symptoms at two in the morning isnât a substitute for medical advice, youâre finally able to move on.
The shift settles back into its usual rhythm after that. Patients. Notes. Consults. A never-ending stream of questions from the new med student stuck on nights and equally never-ending complaints from people who should have gone to bed instead of doing dumb things that landed them in the ED.
It isnât until two a.m. that you finally find yourself back at the nursesâ station with Ellis, sipping a vending machine energy drink sheâd forced into your hand while the department enjoys a rare moment of relative calm.
âShen said the Butt Lightyear guy went up for surgery.â
Lena tilts her head. âButt Lightyear?â
âYou donât want to know,â you murmur into your drink.
âThey tried removing it manually but were worried about the wings,â Ellis explains.
âThe wings?â
She smirks. âYeah. You press a button and the wings pop out.â
You shut your eyes. âOuch.â
âLet me guess,â Lena says, peering over the rim of her glasses. âHe slipped?â
Ellis nods. âYep. Total accident.â
âYeah, and the toy just happened to be completely covered in lube too,â you add.
Lena sighs. âEvery day I learn something new against my will.â
You and Ellis both laugh as Lena turns away, seemingly done with this conversationâand the people of Pittsburgh judging by the defeated look on her face. Youâre about to reach for your tablet to pull up the X-ray images off poor Butt Lightyear when a bright laugh cuts through the quiet hum of the department, drawing your attention toward Central Nine.
You narrow your eyes. âWhy is he still in there?â
Ellis shrugs. âNot sure. I thought it was just a migraine.â
âLaughing pretty hard for someone with a headache,â you mutter.
Ellis glances at you. âDo you know who she is?â
âNope.â
âHuh.â
You look at her. âWhat?â
She shakes her head. âNothing.â
âI have no idea who she is,â you say, grabbing your tablet. âAnd frankly? I donât care.â
Ellis nods. âOkay.â
âGood.â
Then you turn away before she can say anything else, heading toward the North corridor even though you have no idea which patient youâre actually on your way to see.
It isnât long before you find yourself passing through Central again, peering into Ms. Callahanâs room to see if sheâs been discharged yet. Which she hasnâtâbut at least Jackâs not in there anymore. Not that it really matters to you, but you canât imagine the rest of the department is thrilled about an attending wasting half the night on a migraine patient.
Ten minutes later, you walk past Central Nine again. Not because youâre looking this timeâyouâre genuinely just passing on your way to find a free workstationâbut sheâs still in there. And she certainly doesnât look like sheâs in pain anymore.
If you were her, youâd be demanding discharge papers by now.
The third time you glance at Ms. Callahan, she catches your eye, and you offer her a small, awkward smile before quickly glancing back down at your chart. The same chart youâve been pretending to work on for the better part of fifteen minutes without writing a single coherent sentence.
âYou know thatâs Abbotâs ex, right?â
You blink. âWhat?â
Shen nods toward Central Nine. âMs. Callahan. Sheâs Abbotâs ex.â
You glance back at the gorgeous blonde woman scrolling through her phone, not at all looking like someone suffering from a migraine.
âOh.â
Shen nods slowly. âAnyway. Heâs looking for you.â
You frown. âWho?â
âDr. Abbot.â
âWhy?â
Shen shrugs. âDidnât say.â
You sigh. âGreat.â
He watches you curiously as you log out of the computer and push your chair back.
âDid he say where?â you ask.
âSouth.â
You nod once. âThanks.â
Then you turn and head toward the South corridor, but not without one last glance at the woman in Central Nine. The woman who apparently used to date Jack. The woman who, for reasons you still donât entirely understand, is suddenly very difficult to stop thinking about.
You spot Jack standing beside the workstations in the middle of the South hall, frowning at something on his tablet. He looks tired now, his curls standing at odd angles thanks to the way he drags his hand through them after every stressful trauma patientâand heâs leaning his left hip against the side of the desk, shifting the weight off his right leg because three a.m. is always when it starts aching. Not that heâll admit it.
âShen said you wanted to see me.â
He glances up. âYour friendâs imaging came back.â
âAnd?â
âHand surgery wants him,â he says, offering you his tablet.
You take it, glancing down at the X-ray images. âFracture and tendon damage. Fantastic.â
You flip through the images and skim over the surgeonâs review.
âOkay. Iâll send him up.â
Jack takes the tablet back, his brows pulling together slightly.
âHave you eaten?â
You frown. âWhat?â
âHave you eaten anything tonight?â
âI had an energy drink.â
He stares at you. âThatâs not food.â
You shrug. âI havenât had time.â
âMake time.â
You roll your eyes. âFine. I didnât bring anything.â
He lets out a quiet sigh, glancing down at the tablet as he flicks out of Deranâs X-rays and brings up another patientâs chart.
âThereâs a container in the fridge.â
You blink. âWhat?â
âTop shelf. Left side. Blue lid.â
Your brows lift. âYou brought me food?â
He glances up again. âI brought extra food. Itâs that pasta you like.â
As if on cue, your stomach grumbles. Loudly.
âGo eat,â he says. âI doubt surgeryâs coming to collect your friend in the next twenty minutes.â
You want to argue. You really do. Because you donât need to be looked after. You donât need him to bring you food and make sure you eat and be all quietly caring like this. But God is this man a good cook, and youâd have to be an idiot to turn down free pasta at three oâclock in the morning.
âFine,â you mutter, already turning away. âIâll eat.â
âYouâre welcome.â
You donât look back. Because if you do, you might see the stupidly smug look on his face and it might make you smile. Then heâll know he was right, and you absolutely cannot give him that satisfaction. So instead, you drop your gaze and watch your shoes move against the speckled linoleum until you reach the break room door.
You donât even notice that someone else is in there until you reach the fridge and finally glance up.
âOh. Hey.â
Ellis waves her fork. âHey.â
You pull the fridge door open and immediately spot Jackâs blue-lidded tupperware.
You donât answer. Not explicitly, at least. You just glance over your shoulder with what could be considered a very brief nod, then turn back toward the microwave and set the container inside.
âSheâs his ex, by the way,â you say without thinking.
âHuh?â
You press the start button on the microwave before turning to face Ellis properly, leaning back against the kitchenette counter.
âThe woman in Central Nine. Shen just told me sheâs Jackâs ex.â
âOh. Yeah.â Ellis stabs a piece of broccoli with her fork. âI know.â
You tilt your head. âHow do you know?â
âI asked Dr. Abbot how he knew the patient,â she says, as if it were obvious.
âOh.â
You glance back at the microwave, still humming, Jackâs container rotating slowly inside.
âWhatâd he say?â
Ellis sighs, stabbing a piece of carrot this time. âJust that they dated about a year after his wife passed, but he realised he wasnât ready to move on yet, so he ended it. It was amicable. Now theyâre friends.â
You frown. âFriends? Heâs never mentioned her to me.â
Ellis finally looks up, something sharpening in her expression. âWhy would he?â
You hesitate. âBecause weâreâwell, you knowâŠâ
Her mouth twitches. âI thought it was casual.â
âIt is,â you say quickly. âI just thought he wouldâve mentionedââ
âDoes Abbot know who Deran is?â
You blink. âWhat?â
Ellis smirks. âYou know, the guy currently sitting in South Seventeen? Mr. Thursday mornings, orââ she tilts her head, âI guess itâs former Mr. Thursday mornings now.â
âWellânot exactly, but thatâsââ
The sharp beeping of the microwave cuts you off, and you turn quickly to silence it.
âThatâs different?â Ellis offers.
You grab the container out of the microwave, shut the door, then yank open the cutlery drawer to grab a fork before turning back to face her.
âYes,â you say firmly. âItâs different. Jack knows weâre not exclusive, but he doesnât need to know who the other guys are.â
Ellis snorts. âOr were.â
You glare at her.
âAlright,â she says, leaning back in her chair. âThen why do you need to know who she is?â
You stab a piece of pasta. âI donât. Iâm just... curious.â
âYou mean jealous.â
Your head snaps up. âIâm not jealous. I donât care what he does when heâs not with me. He can sleep with whoever he wants. He can sleep with every bottle-blonde in Pittsburgh for all I care.â
âI am not,â you protest. âItâs casual. We both know that. If he wants out, he can just say so. I donât need him. I donât need anyone. I mean, sure, itâs fun when theyâre good, but I am perfectly fine on my own. I donât need someone interfering with my life. With my routine. Iâm happy exactly the way things are.â
Ellis nods slowly. âOkay, Miss Independent. I get it.â
âThank you.â
âJust to be clear,â she says, pushing her chair back, âyouâre standing here eating his food because he told you to. Right?â
You open your mouth to argue, but she keeps going.
âYour hair smells like his shampoo. You walked into our apartment this morning wearing his shirt, and Iâm pretty sure those are his socks.â Her gaze drops briefly to your feet before returning to your face. âYou havenât slept in your own bed once this week and, unless Iâm forgetting somebody, you havenât seen another guy in...â She pauses, pretending to think. âWow. Almost four months now.â
You stare at her.
âAnd when you got that stomach bug last month,â she says, grabbing her container as she stands, âhe called out of work just to sit on the bathroom floor with you for eight hours.â
She steps up right beside you, dropping her container in the sink.
âThatâs not casual.â
The water runs for a few seconds as she rinses the container beneath the tap, then she sets it beside the sink and turns toward the door.
âAnyway,â she says lightly, reaching for the handle. âLet me know when youâre ready to admit youâre in love with him.â
Then sheâs gone, leaving you alone with your pasta and your rapidly fraying nervous system.
You donât move. You just stare at the door, trying to remember how to breathe. Trying to think about anything that isnât that strange and unfamiliar feeling lodged beneath your ribs, insistent on being felt.
No.
Itâs notâ
It canât beâ
You would know if you were inâ
Fuck.
You turn quickly and drop your container of food beside the sink before it ends up on the floor. Then you press both palms into the edge of the counter, as if that might somehow ground you.
This is ridiculous.
Ellis is just messing with you. She has to be.
Youâre not inâ
God. You canât even think about that word.
You drag in a deep breath and grab the fork again, lifting it to your mouth.
Itâs almost annoying how good it is. Infuriating, really. Because apparently being an emergency doctor, a SWAT physician, offensively attractive and unfairly charming isnât enough. No. Jack Abbot just has to be an excellent cook too.
Jerk.
You finish the rest of the pasta as quickly as you can, trying not to be disappointed when the container is empty. Then you rinse it beneath the tap and set it beside Ellisâ tupperware.
Your heart is still beating a little too fast when you step out of the break room, and you have to shove your hands into your scrub pockets to keep them from shaking. You keep your head down as you make your way back toward South Seventeen, trying to focus on what youâre going to say to Deran and not how you may or may not feel about your attending.
âHey,â you say, pulling the curtain back. âHow are you feeling?â
Deran glances up. âHey, doc. Long time no see.â
You squirt a pump of sanitiser into your palm and rub your hands together as you step up beside the bed.
âBeen busy,â you say. âAre the painkillers working?â
He lifts his hand, wincing. âA little.â
You glance at the clock on the wall. âYou could probably get some more soon.â
His brows pull together slightly. âIs that your way of saying Iâm not heading home any time soon?â
You sigh quietly, dragging the stool closer to the bed and dropping down onto it.
âNot tonight, no. Iâm sorry.â
He groans, tipping his head back against the pillow.
âI know,â you murmur, leaning in. âBut one of our hand surgeons reviewed the images, and youâve got a fracture right here.â You gently tap the base of his little finger near the knuckle. âI was expecting a break, but itâs lower than weâd like and close enough to the joint that this isnât something we can safely reduce and splint in the ED.â
He lifts his head.
âThereâs also some concern about the tendon around it,â you continue. âThe finger was pulled pretty hard out of position, and the surgeonâs worried it may have damaged one of the tendons that helps it move properly.â
âWhat does that mean?â
âTheyâll take you upstairs, get better imaging if they need it, and most likely repair everything at the same time rather than risk you losing function later.â
His brows draw tighter. âRepair?â
âThe fracture. The tendon. Anything else they find once theyâre in there.â
He lets his head fall back again. âGreat.â
âYouâll be okay.â
âI know,â he says, the corner of his mouth lifting. âJust not exactly how I pictured getting to spend more time with you.â
You roll your eyes. âReally?â
âWill you be here when I wake up?â
You snort. âHopefully not. If all goes well, Iâll be at home asleep.â
He sighs. âDamn.â
You push the stool back and stand. âAny other questions before I sign you off to surgery?â
He lifts his head, frowning slightly. âYeah, actually. I wanted to ask you about that guy.â
You tilt your head. âWhat guy?â
âThe one that came in here before. The attending.â
Your stomach drops.
âWhat about him?â
âI thought he was your boss.â
You fold your arms. âHe is.â
âHuh.â
âWhat does that mean?â
âItâs justââ He hesitates. âI donât know. You just donât usually look at your boss like that.â
You stare at him for a moment, trying to ignore the rush of your pulse in your ears.
âYou sure you didnât hit your head?â
His brows lift. âWait. Did I hit a nerve?â
âNo.â
âYou sure?â
Your eyes narrow. âWhy donât you just focus on the fact that you need surgery? Do you need me to call anyone?â
He shakes his head. âI already called my mom.â
âGood,â you mutter, already turning away. âGood luck in surgery.â
âTell your boss I said hi.â
âBye, Deran.â
His laughter follows you out into the hallway, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of looking back as you yank the curtain shut.
You shake your head as you start down the corridor toward Central, as if that might somehow knock your errant thoughts back into place. You can still hear your pulse, still feel the heat crawling beneath your skin, your scrub top suddenly too warm and too tight.
The lights overhead are almost painfully bright now, the way they always get in the late hours of the night shiftâbut tonight their glare feels personal. Offensive, even. As if those buzzing fluorescent bars are shining brightly on everything youâve worked so hard not to acknowledge. Not to feel.
Not that youâre feeling anything.
At least, not whatever it is Ellis thinks youâre feeling.
You just need a minute. One minute of quiet to come up with perfectly reasonable explanations for every stupid little thing she pointed out. Then your mind can stop running circles and you can finish your shift, go home, and get some much-needed sleep.
By tomorrow, all of this is just going to feel ridiculous.
Because thatâs exactly what it is.
Ridiculous.
âDr. Abbot,â Bridget calls from behind the desk. âCan you take a look at this for me?â
You stop short halfway between South and Central, watching as Jack moves from one end of the nursesâ station to the other. Bridget is already holding up her tablet, pointing at something on the screen while Jack leans in, brow furrowing just slightly as he squints at it.
He needs to wear his glasses. Youâve told him this countless times. Yet for some reason, he insists on reserving them exclusively for news articles, novels, and recipes.
Apparently, the PTMC emergency department isnât worthy of his clear vision.
Your stomach lurches as your traitorous thoughts remind you of the time heâd worn them during sex. The time heâd insisted on keeping them on as he settled between your legs because he wanted to see you properly. He wanted to see everything.
You shake your head again, trying to push the memory away.
Jack leans a little closer as Bridget starts explaining something you canât quite make out. Not that you really care to hear what sheâs saying. Youâre too busy watching the way Jackâs left hand grips the edge of the desk, his weight shifting toward it, lessening the load on his right leg.
It must be really sore tonight.
He nods along, murmuring something low as he taps on the screen. You know what comes next before he even does it. He lifts that same hand and it drags across his jaw, tilting his head just slightly as he tries to concentrate on whatever it is Bridgetâs askingâbut heâs tired. You know heâs tired. From the set of his shoulders to the way heâs shifting almost all his weight off his right leg, you just know that heâs counting down the hours to the end of shift.
Maybe you should feel guilty for not letting him get enough sleep yesterday.
His left hand adjusts its grip, the tendon in his forearm flexing as it does and for some stupid reason, you forget how to breathe. Just for a second.
âYou alright?â
You blink. âWhat?â
Henderson frowns slightly, suddenly standing beside you with his tablet in hand. âThatâs the second time I've caught you completely zoned out tonight. Whatâs going on?â
âUhââ
You glance back at Jack just as he looks up, his gaze meeting yours briefly, a small smile tugging at his lipsâand your treacherous heart leaps. It actually leaps.
What the fuck?
You clear your throat. âYeah. No. Iâm fine.â
âYou sure?â
Hendersonâthe perceptive bastardâglances toward the nursesâ station, and his eyes widen.
âOh, shit. Did something happen between you two?â
Your stomach flips. âWhat?â
He gestures vaguely toward Jack. âYou and Abbot. Did you break up or something?â
âWhat?â you say again, louder this time. âWhy would you evenâI mean, weâre notâweâve never dated. Why would you think that?â
He tilts his head. âReally? I thought Ellis saidââ
âEllis?â
âNot just Ellis.â
Your eyes go wide. âWho else?â
He shrugs. âEveryone assumes you guys are together.â
âTogether?â
He frowns. âYouâre not?â
âNo,â you say, almost too fast. âNo. Weâre not together, weâre justâitâs⊠casual.â
His brows lift, the corner of his mouth twitching. âCasual?â
âYes,â you mutter, dropping your head into your hands. âAre you telling me the entire ED thinks Jack and I are dating?â
Henderson laughs. âActually, now that I think about it, I donât think Iâve ever heard Shen mention it.â
Your head snaps up. âPeople talk about it?â
Henderson shrugs. âItâs gossip.â
You open your mouth, ready to deny everything, whenâ
âTrauma inbound,â Lena calls. âMale, twenties. Motorcycle crash. Hypotensive in the field. ETA two minutes.â
âShit,â Henderson mutters. âThatâs not gonna be fun.â
Jack glances over at you again, calling your name across the floor. âTrauma Two. Letâs go.â
You hesitate, taking a step back. âIâI canât. Sorry.â
âItâs alright,â Henderson says quickly. âI can jump in.â
Heâs already moving before heâs even finished speaking, weaving through the growing rush of staff converging on Trauma Two. You watch him for a second, taking another slow step back, then anotherâand just before you turn away, you glance at Jack.
He hasnât moved. Heâs still standing by the nursesâ station. Watching you.
Your stomach twists.
Then you turn away and keep walking down the corridor.
And fortunately for your rapidly deteriorating grip on reality, it isnât long before Dr. Toomarian pulls you into a room to present a patient and youâre forced back into work mode.
The distraction helps, at first. You focus on the patient, answer questions, review scans, place orders, and for a few blessed minutes your brain remembers how to function. Then someone says Jackâs name and your pulse jumps for no reason. You hear a voice that sounds vaguely like Jackâs and your head snaps up. Someone calls for an attending and you catch yourself looking.
By the time youâre halfway through reviewing another chart, your pulse still hasnât settled and youâre no closer to understanding what the hell is wrong with you, only increasingly certain that whatever it is, itâs getting worse.
Eventually you find yourself moving back through Central, your nose buried in your tablet as you scan the next patientâs intake form, determined to stay distracted. Youâre just about to turn down the North corridor when you finally glance upâand there he is.
His brows lift, just slightly. âA word?â
Shit.
âUm. Sure.â
You tuck your tablet under one arm as you follow him around the corner toward the ambulance bay. Not quite all the way outside, but far enough from the nursesâ station that no one nosy can overhear.
When he finally stops and turns to face you, youâre remindedâquite aggressivelyâjust how unfairly attractive Jack Abbot really is.
âWhat was that?â
You take a small step back. âWhat was what?â
He nods vaguely toward Central. âYou completely dodged that trauma back there.â
âYeah. Sorry.â You look away. âI justâI had a patient I needed to get back to.â
âWeâve all got patients,â he says, folding his arms. âBut this is the ED. We treat the most critical patients first. That means traumasâyou know that.â
You glance back at him, then down at your shoes. âI know. Iâm sorry. Iâm just... a little distracted tonight.â
âDistracted?â he echoes. âIs this about your friend?â
Your head snaps up. âMy friend?â
âThe one you just sent up to surgery.â His jaw tightens, just briefly. âIf Iâm being honest, Iâm not even sure you shouldâve been his physician.â
You frown. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
âItâs a conflict of interest.â
You scoff. âA conflict of interest? Seriously?â
He folds his arms a little tighter, making the sleeves of his scrub top strain around his stupidly thick biceps in the most distracting way.
âYes.â
You lift your chin. âAlright. Howâs Ms. Callahan, then?â
He blinks. âWho?â
âCentral Nine. Your ex.â
He stares at you for a second.
âWho told you that?â
âIt doesnât matter,â you say quickly. âWhat matters is if you can treat your ex without it being a conflict of interest, then I can treat some guy I used to sleep with.â
The corner of his mouth twitches.
âSo heâs not just an old friend.â
You tilt your head. âYou knew that, Jack.â
For a brief moment, neither of you says anything. You can feel your pulse in your throat now, fast and uneven, and judging by the way Jackâs looking at you, youâre not doing nearly as good a job of hiding it as youâd hoped.
âLook,â you say, desperate to end this interaction. âIâm sorry I ducked the trauma. Really, I am. But Henderson was right thereâitâs not like I left you hanging. I knew heâd jump in.â
Jack rubs a hand across his jaw, looking away for a second before glancing back at you. âYouâre right,â he says. âIâm sorry. Henderson was there, I could have called either of you.â
You nod once, the knot in your stomach finally easing slightly.
âGuess I should stop playing favourites, huh?â
You frown again. âFavourites?â
He lifts a shoulder. âYouâre always the first person I look for when I need a second set of hands.â
Heat rushes up the back of your neck, but you refuse to let him see it.
âWhat about Dr. Robby?â you ask, shifting your tablet against your chest.
He leans in slightly. âIâd still choose you.â
The words hit you square in the chest, settling somewhere deep behind your ribs. For a second, your lungs forget how to work entirely, and by the time you finally figure out how to breathe again, Jack is already gone.
You stand there for a moment, staring after him, waiting for your brain to catch up with whatever the hell just happened. Waiting for those words to make sense. But they donât. Not entirely. They stay lodged in your chest even as you clear your throat and press a hand against your sternum, turning slowly back toward the chaos of the ED.
Whatever.
Maybe they donât mean anything.
You shake your head as you glance down at your tablet, pulling up the chart youâd been focused on before all this. Before Jack told you heâd still choose you over his own best friend, who also happens to have more experience, more qualifications, and significantly better judgement than you.
Ridiculous.
You spend the next half hour cleaning gravel out of a drunk college studentâs knee after he fell down the porch steps at a house party. Then you help Henderson with a nine-year-old girl who split her forehead falling from the top bunk of her bed, distracting her while he does the sutures. After that, you work through a mild pneumonia case with Nazely before treating a middle-aged man with a kidney stone. The orders, pain meds, scans, and paperwork all blur together, and by the time you finally check the clock again itâs almost seven.
âShit,â you murmur, dropping down at desk near the nursesâ station.
You need to catch up on your charting if you plan on getting out of here any time soon.
âHey.â Henderson sits at the computer across from you. âLittle girl with the forehead lac just got discharged.â
You glance over at him. âOh. Nice.â
âHer mom wanted me to thank you for helping her.â
You snort. âBetween the drunk college kid and the old guy coughing up half a lung, it was my pleasure.â
Henderson huffs a laugh. âApparently sheâs been saying she wants to be a doctor since she was six.â
Your brows lift. âReally?â
Henderson grins. âAnd now she wants to be a doctor just like you."
âYeah? Did you tell her not to go into emergency medicine if she values her soul?â
âAssuming you had one to begin with,â Robby cuts in.
You glance up just as he walks past, wearing that familiar half-smile of weary amusement with a coffee in one hand and his bag slung over his shoulder.
âAnd here I was worried youâd be in a good mood this morning,â you say, smiling sweetly despite your words.
His eyes narrow, but the corner of his mouth lifts a little higher. âCareful.â
You roll your eyes playfully, turning back to the screen in front of you as he continues through Central.
It takes exactly eight minutes before youâre interrupted again. Bridget taps you on the shoulder asking for your signature on a prescription, and just as you hand it back to her, the red phone rings. You watch Lena answer it with a tired sigh, both Jack and Robby looking up to hear what kind of chaos is inbound.
âAlright,â Lena says as she hangs up the phone. âMale, forties. Single-vehicle MVC. Hypotensive in the field, positive seatbelt sign. ETA four minutes.â
âIâll take it,â Robby says, setting his coffee down. âLetâs prep Trauma One.â
He glances around the unusually empty floor.
âIâll jump in,â you offer, pushing your chair back.
Henderson shoots you a look as you stand and turn toward the nursesâ station, pulling a pair of gloves from a box. Itâs not that you really want to jump in on another case ten minutes before the end of your shift, but you havenât had a trauma since Captain Stabby and his sexy doctor friend, and youâre starting to feel a little guilty about it.
âSee,â Robby says, pulling on his own gloves. âThereâs hope for you yet.â
You roll your eyes again as you follow him out to the ambulance bay, and it isnât long before you hear sirens.
The ambulance careens in and pulls up right in front of you, the back doors flying open as the first paramedic climbs out, holding a tearful young girl in his arms. She couldnât be older than four.
âThirty-eight-year-old male, restrained driver in a single-vehicle MVC versus a tree,â the paramedic says. âPositive seatbelt sign, abdominal pain, hypotensive on scene, improved with fluids. GCS fifteen. Two IVs in place. Daughter was restrained in the back seat and appears uninjured.â
The second paramedic circles the van from the driverâs side and starts helping Robby lower the gurney.
Robby nods toward the daughter. âYou check her out?â
âWe did a quick assessment on scene, but weâve been focused on Dad,â the paramedic says, still holding her.
âAlright. Weâll get somebody to take a look at her.â
The young girl starts crying harder as Robby and the other paramedic begin wheeling the gurney inside. You stay beside them, one hand on the manâs forearm as you watch his eyelids droop.
âStay with me, sir,â you say, squeezing his arm. âCan you tell me your name?â
âBarry,â he murmurs.
âWhere does it hurt, Barry?â
He winces. âMyâmy stomach.â
The gurney rolls through the second set of doors, and suddenly youâre back under the bright fluorescent lights.
âAbbot,â Robby calls. âCan you take a look at the kid?â
Jack appears before you can even glance over your shoulder.
âHey, sweetheart,â he says, his voice soft as he gently takes the daughter from the paramedicâs arms. âYour dadâs in good hands. Come on, letâs get you checked out too.â
You continue moving with the gurney into Trauma One, where Jesse and Olive are already prepping monitors and equipment.
The paramedics help shift the patient onto the trauma bed before clearing out, making room for Jesse to start attaching monitors.
âPressure one-oh-four over sixty-eight,â he reports.
Olive quickly cuts Barryâs shirt open.
âSeatbelt sign across the lower abdomen,â you say, pressing gently along his stomach.
He grimaces when you reach his left side.
âLeftâs worse.â
Robby holds out a hand. âUltrasound.â
Jesse hands him the probe as you squirt gel onto Barryâs abdomen.
âRUQ,â Robby says.
You glance up at the ultrasound screen. âClear.â
âLUQ.â
âClear.â
âPelvis.â
âNothing obvious.â
âGood,â Robby says. âFAST negative. Heâs stable enough for CT.â
You turn to Olive. âCT chest, abdo, pelvis with contrast.â
She nods, moving toward the phone as the whole room finally takes a breath. The negative FAST isnât a guarantee, but itâs a promising start.
Barry groans, trying to lift his head. âWhereâs my daughter? Whereâs Ellie?â
You press a hand against his shoulder.
âHey, donât try to sit up. Your daughterâs okayâsheâs just outside with another doctor.â
âSheâs okay?â
You nod. âSheâs okay.â
He lets out a strained breath, settling back against the mattress and tipping his head back.
âHold on.â
You move closer, gently pushing his hair back.
âForehead lac,â you tell Robby. âAbout three centimetres.â
He glances over. âAlright. Weâll close it up before he goes to imaging.â
He strips off his gloves and reaches for a new pair while Jesse preps the suture tray. Olive is already cleaning up around Barry as you reach for some gauze to start cleaning the cut, gently pushing his bloodied locks of hair out of the way.
âLidocaine,â Robby says.
You grab the syringe from the tray and hand it to him, more than happy to let your attending do the work while your adrenaline wanes and that familiar end-of-shift exhaustion sets in.
âStay still for us, Barry,â you murmur, cupping the crown of his head. âThis might sting a little.â
He winces as Robby injects the anaesthetic.
âSaline,â Robby says.
You hand it over before carefully plucking the last few stuck strands of hair away from the wound.
âHowâs the pain?â you ask.
ââS okay,â Barry mumbles.
âForceps.â
You hand Robby the forceps, then the needle driver before he can even ask.
âLight,â he murmurs.
You reach up and adjust the luminaire until he raises his hand, signalling that itâs in the right spot. Then he pinches the edge of the laceration with the forceps and slides the needle through the skin. Easy. Effortless. Boring.
You glance up at the monitor, noting that Barryâs heart rate has finally dropped below a hundred.
âScissors,â Robby says.
You grab the scissors from the tray and hand them to him, then go back to reading Barryâs vitals.
âYou with us, Barry?â Robby asks.
âYeah,â Barry murmurs.
âCanât feel the needle, can you?â
âNo.â
âGood.â
You let your eyes move slowly around the room, already holding gauze for Robby before he can ask for it. You feel him take it from your hand just as you turn your head toward the glass doors, gazing out at the beginning chaos of morning handover.
But it isnât Ellis and Langdon arguing about God knows what that gets your attention.
Just outside the trauma bay, perched on the edge of a bed parked beside the nursesâ station is Barryâs daughter. Ellie, apparently. Her eyes are still red and puffy, but sheâs not crying anymore. Sheâs got a pink hospital gift shop teddy tucked under one arm and her other hand wrapped around the tubing of a black stethoscope.
Jack is sitting on a stool in front of her, gently helping put the earpieces in her tiny ears with a soft smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. Her little hands grip either side of the headset, adjusting it with a very focused look on her face.
Jack hands her the chest piece as he scoots a little closer to the bed, then points to his chest. You canât hear what heâs saying, but you can make an educated guess.
Ellieâs tiny hand grips the bell as she presses the diaphragm against Jackâs chest, a small crease forming between her brows. Jack is watching her with that amused little half-smile, his gaze soft, one hand braced lightly on the mattress beside her so she doesnât topple backwards.
Ellie says something, and Jack nods, schooling his expression.
Sheâs taking her job very seriously right now, and Jack is taking her very seriously.
âDoctor.â
You blink, glancing back at Robby.
âYeah?â
He gives you a look. âScissors. For the third time.â
âOh. Sorry.â
You hand him the scissors and watch him snip the tail on the second-last suture, then you turn your attention back toward Jack and Ellie. Sheâs giggling now, with the diaphragm pressed to Jackâs cheek as he gently shakes his head, laughing too.
âForceps.â
You grab the forceps and hand them to Robby.
His eyes flick up. âYou alright?â
âYeah. Why?â
âYouâre smiling.â
âNo, Iâmââ
Oh my God.
You are smiling.
You turn back toward Jack, and your stomach drops.
Oh my God.
Youâre in love with Jack Abbot.
âAlright, Barry,â Robby says, peeling his gloves off. âWeâre gonna send you upstairs for some imaging now, make sure we didnât miss anything.â
You take one unsteady step back from the bed.
âCan someone call my wife?â Barry asks, his voice strained.
Robby nods. âI'm sure somebody already has, but Iâll check.â
Your hands shake as you pull your gloves off.
âWhat about Ellie? Can I see her?â
âOf course,â Robby says. âSheâs right outside.â
Barry lifts his head slightly. âAm I okay?â
âWell, youâre talking to me, your pressureâs holding, and your FAST was negative. Those are all good signs.â Robby looks at you. âIsnât that right, doctor?â
Your head snaps up. âHm?â
He frowns. âYou sure youâre alright? You seemââ
âIâm fine,â you snap, tossing your gloves in the waste bin. âI justâI have charting to do.â
Then you turn and march right out of the trauma bay, keeping your head down as you take an immediate sharp left. Ignoring the familiar voice that calls your name and makes your pulse scatter.
You donât stop until you reach the picture wall. Only then do you drop down onto the bench, squeeze your eyes shut, and bury your face in your hands. You canât scream. Canât shout. Canât drop to the floor and have a panic attack right here in the middle of the ED. So you just⊠breathe.
Okay. Maybe youâre being a little dramaticâbut can anyone blame you?
You donât want this. You canât want this. You donât have time for this.
Casual sex is easy. No strings, no stress, no reason to worry about anything other than saving lives and finishing your residency. Thatâs all you want.
Or⊠all you wanted.
Now?
Now youâre not sure what you want.
Of course you still want to save lives and survive your residency, but now you canât imagine doing either of those things without Jack.
You canât imagine another shift without knowing Jack is somewhere in the department. Or getting a difficult case and not being able to talk through it with him. You canât imagine going home and not immediately texting him. Or having a bad day and not being able to talk to him about it.
You canât imagine anything without Jack.
Which is terrifying.
Because it isnât just sex anymore. It isnât flirting or late-night texts or teasing glances across the floor. Itâs the way heâs somehow worked his way into every part of your life without you even noticing. Every shift. Every conversation. Every stupid little story you save up to tell him later. Heâs just there. Everywhere.
And now... he matters.
You sit up and drag in a deep breath.
You need to pull it together. This isnât the end of the world. Itâs not even a thing. Itâs only a thing if you let it be a thing, which⊠youâre not going to do.
With another deep breath, you push off the bench and start heading back toward Central. All you have to do is finish your charting, then you can leave. You can go home, turn your phone off, and talk yourself off the ledge.
You just need a little space. A little time away from the hospital, away from Jack, and all these ridiculous feelings willâ
âHey. You okay?â
Your heart lurches, but you donât stop.
âI was going to come over there,â he says, keeping his voice low, âbut I didnât want toââ
âIâm fine,â you murmur, without even looking at him.
His hand closes gently around your wrist, and your stomach flips so hard itâs almost nauseating.Â
âYou sure?â
You finally stop, glancing up at him. At the concerned crease between his brows and the little downward quirk at the corner of his mouth.
âIâm fine,â you say again, pulling your arm out of his grip. âSeriously.â
He gives you a look. Not one that says heâs offended or at all upset by your attitude, but one that says he doesnât believe you. A look that makes you feel far too seen. Far too known.
âI need to finish my notes,â you mutter, turning away before he can say anything else.
You turn down the North corridor and donât stop until you reach the desks just outside the break room. Then you drop into a chair, swipe your badge to log in, and force your trembling hands to steady themselves over the keyboard.
It takes a significant amount of effort to focus on your charting. You stare at the blinking cursor for minutes at a time before finally managing to squeeze out a fewâmostly coherentâsentences. You type Jackâs name at least five times without meaning to, and every time you do, your heart thuds obnoxiously hard beneath your ribs.
Fortunately, no one tries to interrupt you this time, and after forty painstaking minutes of glaring at that computer screen and forcing your wayward thoughts to stay on track, you finally finish.
Now you just need to handover your patients.
You find Langdon by the nursesâ station, standing just below the workboard with his hands in his pockets as he reads through the list of patients and their ailments.
âHey.â You step up beside him. âYou got a minute for handover?â
He glances at you. âOh. Hey. Didnât know there were still any night crawlers left.â
You frown. âEveryoneâs gone?â
âEveryone but Dr. Abbot,â he says. âAnd you.â
Your eyes go wide. âEllis is gone?â
He nods. âSaw her head out about fifteen minutes ago.â
You scramble to grab your phone out of your pocket, unlocking it to find two new notifications from Ellis. Seventeen minutes ago.
Ellis: Abbot said heâs giving you a lift, so Iâm headed out.
Ellis: Need anything from the store?
Your stomach drops.
âEverything alright?â Langdon asks.
âUhâyeah. Fine.â
You tuck your phone back into your pocket.
âIâve only got two patients. Can you take them?â
He nods. âOf course.â
âAlright. Central Twelve came in with chest pain. Trops negative, ECGâs clean, waiting on the repeat. If thatâs negative too, he can go home.â
âMhm.â
âAnd South Nineteenâs the pyelo. Got fluids, ceftriaxone, feeling better. Medicine said theyâd come see her, but I wouldnât hold my breath.â
Langdon snorts. âGot it.â
You nod. âGreat. Thanks.â
âAnything else?â
âNope.â
He smiles. âGreat sign-out.â
âI try,â you mutter, already turning away.
You hurry across the floor toward the lockers, pulling your phone back out of your pocket to type a reply to Ellis as you walk.
You: Youâre dead to me.
You: And toothpaste.
When you finally reach your locker, you quickly key in the code and pull the door open. You donât bother removing your stethoscope or badge, or taking time to actually put your jacket onâyou just gather everything into your arms and slam the door shut again. Then you turn and make a beeline for the ambulance bay.
Maybe you can catch a bus home. Orâhellâyouâll pay for an Uber if you have to.
âHey, slow down,â Dana says as you rush past the nursesâ station. âWhatâs the hurry?â
âSorry,â you call over your shoulder. âJustâreally need to get home.â
Youâre moving too quickly for her to press you any further. Thank God. Because the last thing you need right now is Dana and her infuriating habit of knowing things she has absolutely no business knowing.
You keep your head down until you make it all the way outside, and only then do you finally feel like you can breathe. You nod to a patient having a cigarette by the garden bed before turning the other way, pulling your phone out to order an Uber.
Only, you canât remember the last time you ordered an Uber. Do you even have the app?
âYou ready?â
You flinch. âJesus Christ.â
Jack huffs a laugh. âNot quite.â
You glance back down at your phone, clutching it a little tighter.
âIâm this way,â he says, nodding toward the other side of the parking lot.
You hesitate. âIâuhâI was just going to grab an Uber.â
His brows lift, but he doesnât look all that surprised. âYou were?â
You nod. âYeah. Iâm good. Thanks.â
âYou sure?â
âYep.â
You turn away, but he doesnât leave. He just stands there, waiting, one hand holding the strap of his backpack thatâs slung over his shoulder, the other buried in his pocket.
âIs there something going on that I should know about?â he asks finally.
âNope,â you reply, too fast.
Then, for some ridiculous reason, you start walking.
âWhere are you going?â
âThe bus stop,â you say, without looking back.
He follows you. Because of course he does.
âYouâre going to catch a bus?â
âYep.â
He laughs again, but this time itâs more disbelief than dry amusement.
âIâm offering you a perfectly good, no strings attached ride home, and youâd rather catch a bus?â
That makes you stop.
You turn around. âNo strings attached?â
He lifts a shoulder. âIf thatâs what you want.â
âWhat I want?â
âIf you want me to just drop you off, Iâll just drop you off.â
You stare at him for a second, your pulse pounding in your ears.
âJust drop me off?â
He nods slowly, his brow creasing slightly.
âAnd then what?â you ask.
He tilts his head. âWhat do you mean?â
âThen you just leave?â
âIf thatâs what you want.â
Your throat tightens. âStop saying that.â
He frowns. âSaying what?â
âIf thatâs what I want.â You drag a hand through your hair. âYou keep saying it like this is entirely up to me. Like none of this has anything to do with you. Like itâs my choice and you donât get to say anything orâor feel anything, and thatâs not fair.â
He studies you for a moment, folding his arms across his chest in the most irritatingly distracting way.
âWhat are we talking about here?â
âI donât know!â You throw your hands up. âThis. Us. Whatever this is. I donât know what weâre doing anymore, Jack. I donât know what Iâm supposed to do with any of this, and you just keep showing up being completely reasonable all the time, which is really fucking annoying.â
His eyes narrow. âIâm... too reasonable?â
âYes! Godââ You laugh once, sharp and humourless. âWhy are you always like this? Why are you always so calm about everything? We never talk about what you want. We never talk about how you feel. We just keep pretending everythingâs fine and maybe thatâs worked up until now, but I don't think itâs working anymore.â
âOkay,â he says evenly. âTell me whatâs not working, and we can talk about it.â
âTalk about it?â You stare at him. âTalk about what? Thereâs nothing to talk about, because thisâthis isnât anything. This is casual, Jack. Itâs supposed to be casual. And maybe thatâs the problem. Maybe weâve spent too much time together. Maybe we just need some space orâor something.â
His brows lift. âIs that what you want?â
You fold your arms, trying to reclaim some semblance of control. âYes.â
Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face, but he schools it quickly.
âOkay,â he says again. âIf you want space, I can give you space.â
âSeriously?â You let out another sharp laugh. âOf course thatâs your answer. Do you see what I mean? This is exactly what I mean. I stand here and tell you maybe we need some space, and youâre just... okay with it? Just like that? No questions, no argument, no nothing.â
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. âDo you want me to argue?â
âMaybe!â You throw your hands up again. âI donât know, Jack! Maybe I want something. Anything. Just some indication that this means something to you. Because every time I say something, you just... accept it. You just nod and go along with it like none of this affects you at all. Like if I said I wanted space, youâd give me space. If I said I wanted to end this, youâd end it. If I said I never wanted to see you again, youâd just stand there being completely calm and reasonable and tell me thatâs okay too.â
You let out a shaky laugh, shaking your head as you look away.
âAnd donât tell me thatâs not true, because you spent half the night in Central Nine with your ex and I spent the rest of the shift pretending I wasnât paying attention to that, which is insane, by the way. Completely insane. She was a patient. Youâre a doctor. I know that. I know Iâm being irrational.â
You tip your head back, squeezing your eyes shut for just a second before looking back at him.
âAnd thatâs the worst part, because I know none of this is actually about her. Thatâs the problem. Itâs not about her at all. Itâs about the fact that youâre always fine. Youâre always so calm and so reasonable and so completely unbothered, and I donât know how you do that.â You let out an unsteady breath. âIt's likeâlike none of this matters to you. Like you donât care. Like you could just walk away from everything, from me, and be completely fine.â
Your chest is rising and falling too fast now, your heart is beating so hard youâre almost sure he can hear it.
He doesnât say anything right away. He just watches you, the corners of his mouth softened by something that looks suspiciously like fondness. And suddenly youâre struck by the horrible suspicion that he understands exactly what youâve been trying so hard not to say.
âYou think I could just walk away from this and be completely fine?â he asks, his voice soft. âYou think I could walk away from you?â
He steps closer, the toes of his boots barely inches from yours now.
âWhen this started, it was casual. I knew that. I knew you were seeing other people. I knew you didnât want a relationshipâand if thatâs still not what you want, then okay. Iâm not going to pressure you into something youâre not ready for. Iâm not trying to be overly reasonable, and Iâm certainly not trying to make you feel like youâre losing your mind.â
The corner of his mouth twitches.
âWhen I ask you what you want, itâs not because I donât care what happens. Itâs because I do. Itâs because Iâd rather be patient than push you into something before youâre ready for it. And if space is what you need right now, then Iâll give you space.â
His gaze holds yours.
âBut donât mistake that for indifference. Because thereâs no version of this where walking away from you is easy. Thereâs no version of this where I donât care. And if one day you tell me thatâs what you really want, then Iâll respect it. Not because itâs what I want. Not because what I feel doesnât matter. But because I respect you.â
His expression softens again.
âDo you understand?â
You nod slowly, your throat suddenly too tight for words.
âNow listen to me.â
He lifts a hand and pinches your chin gently between his thumb and forefinger.
âI know youâve had a long shift. I know youâre exhausted. I know youâre standing here trying to convince yourself you haven't completely lost your mind, and Iâm not trying to make your day any harder than it already isâbut I need you to hear this.â
His eyes search yours, earnest and unguarded.
âI love you too.â
For a moment, all you can do is stare at him. With your breath caught somewhere in your chest, your mouth slightly open, and your heart trying to punch its way through your ribcage.
His lips quirk. âYou alright?â
âNo,â you breathe.
And then you grab the front of his shirt and kiss him.
His hand drops from your chin to your neck, fingers pressing in just slightly as he kisses you back. Firm, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world and has decided, without hesitation, that he only wants to spend it on you.
He steps closer, tilting your head back as his mouth parts against yours. A soft, helpless little noise breaks at the back of your throat, and you can feel his lips curl in satisfaction. Then he kisses you harder, deeper, his other hand finding your waist as his tongue presses past your lips.
You step in until thereâs nothing left between you. Nothing but hospital scrubs and the fact that youâre standing in the middle of a public parking lot right now.
And for a second, neither of you seems to care.
The hand at your waist slides higher, pulling you closer as his mouth moves slower. Not because he wants less, but because he knows heâs got you. Because after months of patience and uncertainty, he knows he can finally take his time.
Your fingers bunch tighter in the front of his shirt, and he smiles again.
âDonât,â you murmur against his mouth.
He doesnât say anything. He just kisses you again, gentler this time. A lingering press of his mouth against yours. Then another. His thumb brushes against your neck as he tilts his head, stealing one more kiss that feels almost unfairly tender after the way heâd just been holding you.
Then he pulls back completely.
You stare at him.
He stares back.
Your lips are still tingling, your hands are still fisted in the front of his shirt, and your heart is still beating hard enough to crack a rib.
The corner of his mouth lifts a little higher.
âStill catching the bus?â
You immediately let go of his shirt. âShut up.â
He laughs properly then, letting you turn away and start marching toward one end of the parking lot.
âMy carâs the other way,â he calls.
You stop, close your eyes, then slowly turn around.
Jack is still standing exactly where you left him, with his hands in his pockets and looking entirely too pleased with himself.
âShut up,â you say again.
His smile only widens.
You roll your eyes and start walking again, brushing past him with as much dignity as someone can reasonably muster after having a complete emotional breakdown and then immediately making out with their boss.
You donât need to look back to know heâs following you.
You just know.
And by the time you finally reach his car, you realise youâre smiling.
WHAT 2 year and 7k follower celebration event!
WHEN june 7 - june 13
TAGS #mariassummerinsantorini & #mariaversegetaway
THE EMAIL â PASSPORTS â PLAYLIST â MAIN EVENT POST â LET THE GODS DECIDE YOUR FATE â MOODBOARD
DAILY DOSE OF VITAMIN SEA
SUNDAYâ airbnb listing - day 1 recap
MONDAY â what's in your suitcase? - day 2 recap
TUESDAY â which pitt character do you hook up with on vacay? - day 3 recap
WEDNESDAY â drunk texts - day 4 recap
THURSDAY â build your drink - day 5 recap
FRIDAY â the girls' digital footprint - day 6 recap
SATURDAY â villa closet tour
UNPLANNED PIT(T) STOPS
airbnb rules
flight seat assignments leaked
claim your boarding pass
passport stamp reblogs
DRABBLES
â REBLOGS KEEP FANDOM ALIVE â
đ€ fluff đŠč angst đŒ smut
MICHAEL ROBINAVITCH
đŒ WATERMELON SUGAR robby makes eating watermelon look indecently seductive, and youâre convinced heâs torturing you on purpose.
đ€ HELIOPHILIA one flimsy bikini, twelve ignored sun lectures, and robby decides to turn preventative medicine into a hands-on experience
đ€đŠč PHTHONUS during a midnight swim, robby watches you laughing in the water with whitaker and realizes just how ugly his jealousy can get.
FRANK LANGDON
đŒ THE PERFECT DEATH you and frank get caught having sex in the outdoor shower when a coworker comes looking for it after the beach
đ€ HINDSIGHT 20/20 langdon discovers you wear glasses!
đ€ STRINGS ATTACHED (SOMETIMES) during a beach volleyball match, a wardrobe malfunction forces frank into an awkward rescue
đ€ SEE SOMETHING YOU LIKE? during a night out, frank gets cornered by your relentless flirting and finds himself giving in more than usual
đŒ GUILTY PLEASURE you hook up with frank while his girlfriend is upstairs and the line between pleasure and guilt gets very blurry, very fast.
đ€ GOOD AS NEW frank tries to impress you with a stolen rental scooter. it goes about as well as expected. at least he helps take care of the damage.
đ€ BRACHYURA langdon discovers your weakness: being correct. you discover his: needing to argue with you about it
đ€ MRS. LANGDON HAS A RING TO IT after a swim leaves your hair tangled, frank ends up helping you brush it in the bathroom.
đ€ IF SELENE IS LISTENING frank coaxes an overtired tired, tipsy you into his lap and takes over the job of being your caretaker
JACK ABBOT
đ€ DIAMOND CUT after your engagement ring causes a small injury, you seek comfort from your favorite doctor
đŒ A VERY PUBLIC OFFERING you and jack finally get a second alone on vacation, so he bends you over the balcony and fucks you while everyone else drinks downstairs.
đ€ HERODEON you set out to explore athens alone, only to end up with an uninvited travel companion
đ€ PARASITIC you get caught in a sudden rainstorm with jack
đ€ TIGER SHARKS you lose your bikini top and decide to use jack as a human shield
đ€ ANDROMEDA the girls keep trying to set you up on vacation. that is, until they find the senior attending in your bed and realize why you keep shutting them down
đ€ LITTLE MISS PRIM-AND-PROPER when the crew discovers your secret tramp stamp, jack accidentally reveals he knows far more about it than he should
đ€ MERLOT ON GRAY COTTON when your suitcase gets lost on the way to greece, jack abbot lends you clothes to get by. between nosy coworkers, spilled wine, and jack's teasing, the situation becomes much harder to survive than it should be.
đ€ MISSED OPPORTUNITIES you're oblivious; jack's permanently flirting. turns out all you needed was a nudge (and a kiss).
đ€ SISTINE CHAPEL you are trying to read on the beach. jack abbot is nearby shirtless. this proves to be a problem.
đ€ VACAY-YOU on vacation abbot realizes the version of you from the er isn't the only one that exists
pairing â underground fighter!andrew âpopeâ cody x fem!reader
summary â pope codyâs got himself a girl heâs sweet on who works on him between rounds, and thereâs no part of him that can imagine the thought of leaving you.
warnings â ( 14.5k words ) 18+ MINORS DNI !! explicit sexual content ( p in v, m!receiving oral, popeâs got a size kink, marking, scratching, praise kink, softdom!pope, slightly needy!pope? heâs also rly awkward during sex) slow burn-ish, no physical appearance described of reader (small hands + general size difference noted in relation to pope, no other physical descriptors) obsessive!pope, guns and threat at gunpoint, financial exploitation of reader - sheâs paying off a debt by working, brief harassment scene, hurt/comfort and hurt/no comfort, violence, blood + injuries, emotional ending, incarceration, brief mentions of drug use, absent parent, protective!pope, readerâs guarded / slow to trust, unwanted touching (not from pope), pope has a heavy savior complex in this, no use of y/n, popeâs pov, canon-compliant (ish) but itâs pre-season one.
notes â this one got a little away from me and iâm already Sorry itâs a shawn hatosy summer!!! also iâm laughing to myself ab this fic bc the original plot was gonna be so different but this is just the way the cookie crumbled while writing + experimented with a different writing style bc i just think popeâs pov would feel like a lot at once
Craig had made some pretty stupid decisions in his life. He blew his money on blow and bikes most of the time, but once in a blue moon, he made decisions that really cut it, like putting in over three grand into Pope across a single night. Money Craig didnât even have, money heâd borrowed off a man people didnât borrow off, because he watched Pope punch a bag by the pool and put a body on the concrete in a parking lot behind a bar and decided his older brother was an investment.Â
It was, as it turned out. Pope won. Craig got his three grand back and then some, and that was how the basement off Atlantic became a regular thing, because Craig had a taste for it now and Pope had a use for cash that didnât run through Smurfâs shady fingers first.Â
The crowd there was the worst heâd stood in front of, and heâd grown up in Smurfâs living room, so that was a measurement that meant something. Men who bet money they needed and meant to take the loss of someoneâs skin. The air thick enough to chew, smoke and sweat and the bitterness of a room full of people whoâd collectively decided this was the night their luck was going to turn.Â
Pope wanted to lose just so theyâd fuck off.Â
It was run by a guy named Leo whoâd met Craig at a party, late, both of them lit and certain they were about to make each other rich. Leo had the basement, the crowd, the connections that made cops uninterested, and a way of talking that made one-track-minded guys like Craig feel like they were cut in on something even as he was lifting your wallet. Pope didnât trust him. Pope didnât trust anybody, but he distrusted Leo with a specificity that felt like respect.Â
Leo ran the place like a man whoâd thought about every cent in a dollar twice. Nothing in that basement was there by accident, which was how Pope knew, eventually, that you werenât either.Â
The first night he didnât put it together. He came up out of the third round with his ears ringing and his knuckles screaming and somebody pressed a wet rag to the back of his neck, and his body did what it always did. He came around with his elbow up and the words already out of his mouth. âGet the fuck off me.âÂ
You went still. You were crouched down close enough that he could see youâd done your eyes earlier in the night and theyâd worn through, smudged soft at the corners, and that should have made you look tired and instead made you look like youâd been left out in the weather, gentled by it. There was a smear of someone elseâs blood drying brown along your jawânot yours, you didnât have a mark on you, you were the only clean thing in a room built for ruining peopleâand you hadnât wiped it off because your hands had been busy all night being careful with men who were far from deserving it.Â
âOkay,â you said, and that was all. You stayed crouched in front of him, an armâs length back now, holding the rag out where he could take it himself if he wanted it.Â
He felt like garbage. It all arrived once, the way it did with him, fine one second and then sick with it. You couldnât have been much more than a bucket and tape to anybody else in that room, just the girl who patched them up, and heâd snapped at you like you were one of the men in the room baying for his blood.Â
He took the rag off your hands.Â
And you just went back to it. You pulled his hand into both of yours like nothing had happened, like he hadnât just shown you the worst of himself in the first ten seconds of knowing you, and started cleaning the wreck of his knuckles with a little furrow between your brows. Devotional, almost. Like his hand had been lent to you and you were supposed to return it in good condition.Â
It was then he realized Leo had gotten way too lucky with you. He was sure you were used as nothing but a front. You were something soft to put at the edge of all that ugliness so men had a reason to keep their money in the room a little longer. A girl who patched up fighters, sure, but mostly a thing for them to look at, to crowd, to reach for between rounds.Â
Pope wouldnât admit it to Craig, or any of his brothers, ever, that the only reason he came back the next time was to see you again. He knew his words and then his sudden muteness probably made you read him as one more man to be careful around. Heâd handed you that impression himself, and now he had to live inside it.Â
The second night, you didnât tend to him. There was another girl near the bucketâolder, harder, a cigarette tucked behind her ear and no softness in her hands at allâand she did his corner between rounds like she was wiping off a dusty counter. Pope sat there and let her and looked for you over her shoulder the whole time, which was how he found you across the room, working the cash, the cigar box against your chest as your lips moved over the count.Â
Pope hardly believed in coincidences. He was sure heâd snapped and youâd adjusted by putting a body between yourself and the man whoâd shown his teeth. It was the smart thing. It was exactly what heâd have told you to do if he were anyone other than the man it was being done to. It sat in his chest all night like a swallowed stone, the understanding that heâd gotten precisely what he deserved and hated every second of it.Â
He won. He always did; that was the whole problem with him, the thing that made his Craig rich now and him useful to Smurf and left Pope standing in basements full of people who wanted to watch him hurt somebody. The crowd howled, money changed hands, and Pope barely heard whatever Leo was saying because he was watching you seal the nightâs take into a zip bag and press the air out of it with the flat of your hand carefully.Â
He found you after, by the stairs, when the room had thinned to the stragglers and the smell of it had gone stale. He came up slow, hands where you could see them.Â
âYou drew the short straw last week,â he said, the words coming out of him too rehearsed, because thatâs what heâd been doing since he noticed you and while getting his guts punched. âPatching me up.â
You looked up at him. Up close, your worn-soft eyes were tired. âI just asked Kate to take your corner tonight.â
So, not a coincidence. Heâd already known, yet it did something ugly to him. He already had people who heâd known his entire life scared of himâbrothers who were career criminalsâand heâd made peace with it, like he had to with everything he couldnât change. But it landed differently from you, because you didnât have the years to back the wariness up.Â
âRight,â he said, because what else was there to say?
You tilted your head, just slightly, and scanned his face like you were checking it for swelling. He knew there was none, not today. He still held still. He realized heâd have held still for anything you wanted to do to his face.
Whatever you were looking for, it seemed like you hadnât found it. Or maybe you had. Your gaze caught on his mouth, under his jaw, and you clicked your tongue.Â
âYouâre not ââ You shook your head faintly. âItâs easier,â you said finally, âto not get in the way of guys like you. Thatâs all. Itâs nothing personal.âÂ
Guys like you. Jesus. He wanted to ask you what that meant, even though he knew. He was guys like him. Heâd spent thirty-some years being exactly that. But he wanted, with an intensity that made no sense, to be not that to you.Â
Any other guy would have let it go. A smarter man, a less stupid one, wouldâve said that was a fair enough explanation and left you to your transparent zip bags and never come back to you unless you did to him.Â
âIt is though,â Pope said, voice too rough. âPersonal. I wasnâtâright, after the third round.â The words, his voice, everything came out clumsy, and he briefly wondered if his eyes had dropped down his face and his nose had turned upside down. âYou donât have to put Kateâor whoever there. Iâm not gonnaââ He wasnât sure how he wanted to end the sentence. âIâd rather it was you.âÂ
He suddenly felt like a complete idiot all over again when he watched your brows furrow slightly and your lips press together as you looked at him almost sadly. Then you let out a disbelieving chuckle as you shook your head as you twisted your neck slightly to look around.Â
âIs this gonna be a problem?â you said, lowering your voice, glancing off to the side. Checking, he realized, who was still on the stairs, who might be close enough to hear.Â
That was its own answer to a question he hadnât been able to ask yet. It told him there were people you didnât want knowing this, even though there was hardly a âthis.â
âWhat?â Pope asked, playing dumb just so he could hear the words from you.
âYou.â You brought your eyes back to him, and he felt slightly shaken as you pinned him with a glare that seemed almost gentle. âSaying things like that.â Your voice stayed even, but there was an edge working into it now. âI do my job here. I keep my head downâthatâs better for me, okay?â
He didnât get that. Not really. But he heard the need in it.Â
âNobodyâs gonna bother you,â he said roughly. It came out flat and certain, it always did when he was truly sure of himself. âNot while Iâm here.âÂ
You just looked at him like that again. âGo home, Popeââ
âAndrew,â he said, and he didnât even know why he did.Â
He hated that name just as much as Pope. It was just another thing Smurf had handed him that never fit anywhere in his growing life. To the room he was Pope. On the cards he counted, he was Pope. Heâd been Pope so long he sometimes forgot there was anything under it. But he didnât want to be Pope to you. Pope was guys like him. Pope was the thing on the cards coked-up wishful men put their money on. He had no clean self to offer youâGod knew he didnâtâbut he had the name hardly anybody used often, and so he gave you that, stupidly, like itâd be worth something to you.Â
His pulse climbed into his throat. He had the sick, racing feeling he got right before things went sideways, the one that had been wrong about as often as it was right and that he'd never once been able to switch off.Â
âAndrew,â you said, testing it quietly in your mouth, where Pope felt everything landed differently for some reason. And then you looked at him again, and said, âGo home, Andrew.âÂ
Thankfully, by some grace of God, Pope realized he may not have done it all wrong when you came to patch him up after the first round the following week. You dropped down onto the concrete in front of him with the bucket and the brown bottle and a roll of tape gone soft at the edges from your thumb.Â
You took his hand like nothing had been said, as though the conversation on the stairs had been filed somewhere and this was the conclusion youâd come to on your own time, and Pope felt that he should let that be, instead of pointing it out. Heâd learned that much, and tamped down the feeling like his entire week had paid off.Â
âYou lead with right too much,â you said, looking at his hands. âWhen youâre tired. You drop the left and lead with the right. Thatâs how they got your eyebrow.âÂ
Pope parted his lips and blinked. âYou watch me?âÂ
âI watch the cash.â You pressed the tape down over his knuckle. âFights are what make them move, but yeah.â You shrugged, and it was stiff. âYou drop your left.â
Pope stayed silent for a moment, then asked, dumbly, âYou a fighter?âÂ
It was meant to land as dry, a joke, but it never quite did with him.Â
You let out the smallest of chuckles. âI watch men get hit everyday.âÂ
Pope swallowed, not sure how to respond to that. So he watched the top of your head instead, the part in your hair, the concentration you put into doing a job that probably paid no extra if you did it well. You wrapped him efficiently, all business now, and Pope felt that youâd closed a door he hadnât realized youâd opened.Â
It should have frustrated him. Instead, it made him want to earn that inch back slow, the way youâd coax anything that didnât trust easy. He knew that wanting. He had it about a dog once, a half-feral thing that lived in the corners of the Cody Compound for a summer, that heâd fed in silence for weeks before it let him near. Heâd never told anyone about that dog. He thought about it now, crouched-down you and careful tape, and didnât enjoy what it told him about himself.Â
âYouâre done,â you said, and stood briskly.Â
âHey,â he said, the word coming out before he could think it. âThanks.âÂ
You looked at him a second, and whatever you found in him, it earned him the corner of a smile. You must not have been used to being thanked very often. Pope flexed his wrapped hand, feeling something close to proudness. He wasnât sure for what, exactly, but it felt good for the moment.
For three weeks, you rationed out small jokes that he was almost sure you didnât realize were jokes, taped him up, and left Pope driving home with whatever youâd given him that night turning over in his chest.Â
His fight hadnât started yet. He leaned up against the support post by the stairs, hood up, trying to do everything he could to make himself look very still and very boring so the crowd would forget to look at him. From there, he had a clean line of the cash table, which meant he had a clean line on you, which was the actual reason heâd stood there.Â
There was a man at your table. Big, going soft in the middle, a Lakers cap on backward and loose, oozing the sleazy confidence of someone past four beers and good judgement. Heâd been talking to you a while, Pope noticed. You were wearing a smile aimed past his shoulderâa small, pleasant, and all around absent thingâand Pope watched you do it with a protective switch under his thumb.Â
The man reached over and tucked a bill into your bra, slowly, like it was funny. Two fingers folded the bill below your collarbone, and you went rigid, smile staying in place while everything behind it moving.
You went somewhere way back behind your own eyes the way Pope had watched you go a dozen times, and the man laughed at his own joke and left his hand there a beat too long.Â
The trouble with Pope was that most of the time, he never decided. One second he was against the post and the next he had the manâs wrist in his hand and he was bending it back off you, almost politely.
âWrong,â Pope drawled, plucking the bill out of your collar with his free hand and pressed it to the manâs palm. He closed the manâs fingers over them. âCash goes in the box.â
âThe hellâre you ââ The man turned to get a real look at him, and got the whole of him. The hood and the wrapped hands and Popeâs uncanny stillness, and Pope watched the recognition arrive, and the bluster went out of him like the air on your sealed bags. âPopeâhey, man. No harm. No harm.â
âSure.â Pope let go of the wrist and the guy immediately melted back into the crowd. The whole thing had taken maybe nine seconds and Popeâs pulse hadnât even climbed, which it shouldâve, but some animal thing under him had considered this easy.Â
âWhy would you do that?â you said, voice quieting.Â
âHe had his hands on you.â His voice came out defensive, which he hated, because it made him understand that heâd done something wrong before he could even process it. âIâm not standing here watching some creepââ
âThat was Reyes,â you said, like it meant something. It didnât, not to Pope, and your face did something between fury and despair as he realized this. âHe runs paper for Leo. You justââ You pressed your lips together and looked around quickly, the same way youâd done on the stairs except this time he could see real fear attached in it. âI donâtâI donât need people thinking a Codyâs got a thing for me,â you finished, quieter. âYou donât.âÂ
âWhat if Iââ
âYou donât, okay?â It came out sharper than youâd intended, and he saw how you caught it. âItâs fine. Itâs no big deal.â You were already looking away, gathering the cash box against your chest, busying yourself. âI really am better when people donât worry about me, Andrew.âÂ
You tucked a piece of hair back, gave him a quick, tired ghost of a smile that didn't reach anything, and stepped back into the crowd with your box like the last nine seconds could be put away with everything else you put away.
There was that horrible feeling tightening in his stomach again. He knew heâd done the right thing, but there was a frustration in him of being right about the wrong thing. The thing heâd done to help you had immediately become another thing for you to be frightened of, clean up, another manâs decision landing on your plate.
Youâd probably spent your entire life cleaning up after other peopleâs choices and heâd just handed you one more.
He fought ugly and won ugly, which was somehow worse than losing altogether. The crowd got what it paid for and then some, and Pope walked out with a rib that clicked when he breathed and a cut over the eye heâd earned by leading with the right all night like the idiot youâd warned him not to be.Â
He collected off Leo without a word. Pope wasnât even sure why the guy even bothered to grin and laugh and talk to him while he counted the money; Pope had said around two words to him and won him more than two grand.
He didnât bother hearing the complimentsâthe fake, complimenting bit to make sure he came backâand took his roll of cash and shoved it inside his pocket and left out the back.Â
He went up the concrete steps, into the lot behind the building where the air was at least air instead of four hundred people breathing the same lungful.Â
He leaned against the cinderblock wall in the dark, in the orange wash of one working lot light, and pressed the heel of his hand under the bad rib and breathed shallow and concentrated on not being anywhere, on going behind his own eyes the way he'd watched you do it, somewhere the night couldn't reach him.
The door opened and shut carefully, and the latter action made him not need to look to know.Â
âYou walked out without letting anybody look at that,â you said.Â
âIâm fine.â
âNo, I can tell,â you said drily, almost amused. Your footsteps came across the lot and stopped a few feet off, not crowding himâyou never crowded himâand giving him the room he hadnât asked for and needed anyway. âI basically heard your ribs.â
He huffed something close to a laugh. It pulled at the rib and he stopped.Â
Your hands hovered around his body, like you were asking for permission to take a look without saying the words.
âAre you okay?â he asked, forcing the words out roughly. Because he needed to, itâd been gnawing at him for too long. âIs he hurting you?â
Your hands when still where they hovered. You took the rag instead, wet it from the bottle, and reached up to the cut over his eye as though heâd never asked the question.Â
âHold still,â you said.Â
âThatâs notââ He caught your wrist, palm loose around it, but he caught it. âI asked you something.âÂ
In the orange light, Pope could see the smudge of your makeup, dark and worn through around your eyes, and the rings on your fingers catching the light each time your hand moved. You let him hold your wrist without pulling away, your eyes dropping to his chest like youâd decided against looking at his face.
He could feel your pulse under his thumb, thrumming. He let go of your wrist with a sigh, and you stepped back into the work, dabbing at the cut, close enough he could feel the warmth coming off you.Â
You said, after a moment, evenly, âDonât try to help me.â
âDonât try to help me.âÂ
âI didnât sayââ
âItâs written all over your face.âÂ
You pressed the rag a little harder than the cut needed and let you, kept his face still, watching yours. You narrowed your eyes at him when he didnât react to the pressure, as though his stillness annoyed you. Pope didnât know how you hadnât realized heâd let you do anything. Heâd let you press the rag as hard as you wanted and heâd sit there and take it. Heâd stopped having a choice about it a while ago.
That, and the fact that your hands, so small compared to the enormity of him, were the furthest things from the worst heâd taken.Â
âAre you trying to hurt me?â he asked, amused despite it all.Â
âIf I were, youâd know.â But the corner of your mouth tugged, just barely, before you caught it and put it away. You eased up on the rag. âSorry.âÂ
âDonât be.â
For a second, it felt easier between you two again. Then, you remembered yourself, and he watched as your lips pursed.Â
âI mean it, though,â you said. âDonât. Whatever youâre sitting there cooking up.â
âYou donât know what Iâm cooking up.âÂ
âAndrew,â you said his name flatly, and he felt like a dog at how quickly it got his neck to tilt up to meet your eyes. You hadnât even spoke and he was looking at you like youâd asked him a question he wanted to get correct.Â
âYouâre not the first one to try this,â you said softly. âIt always goes the same way.âÂ
âYeah?â A muscle ticked in his jaw. âTell me, then.âÂ
âEither he gets in over his head and screws up.â You wiped the last streak of blood from his brow, your hand coming to rest light against his face to hold him still. He leaned into your palm, the warmth of your hand and him moving into it like it was the most natural thing heâd ever done.Â
One of your rings sat cool against his cheekbone and he felt that, too, the small contrast of it, cool metal and warm palm, and he was very aware you were still talking and he was having trouble with that.Â
â âor he sticks around for long enough to figure out itâs too much trouble, gets bored, and quits. He leaves, and either way Iâm standing here worse than before,â you said, conversationally, and he did believe it was a tale as old as time for you.Â
âI wonât get bored,â he managed to say. âIâm good at what I do.âÂ
âThey all say that, too.â You smiled that sad, soft smile again.Â
You took your hand back off his face and he felt the loss of it like air. He was already thinking about how to get you to put it back, which was probably the most pathetic thought heâd ever had, and heâd had some bad ones.
âWhen do you fight next? You shouldnât, for a while. For your ribs.âÂ
He let you change the topic. He noticed you did that often.
âNext week, probably,â he said. âMy brotherâs already running his mouth about it.â
âTell your brother your ribs are hurt.â You crouched to gather the bottle, the rag, the soft-edged tape, packing them back into the bucket.
âWhere do you go? After this,â he asked.
He watched the careful machinery turnâwatched you weigh whether it was a real question or a way inâand then something in you must've been too tired to keep the door shut, because you let it swing.
âHome. My momâs,â you said. âSheâs around, justânot a lot.â You gathered the bucket against your hip. âSo itâs me and my brother mostly. Heâs eleven.â
The whole shape of you tilted and resettled in the space of the word. Why you watched every dollar like it held something up. You weren't just keeping your own head down. You had a kid behind you, in the blind spot, where the room couldn't reach him.
âHe know youâre here?â Pope asked.
âHe thinks I wait tables.â The corner of your mouth went up, rueful. âThinks Iâm terrible at it. The tips are all over the place, so.â You shrugged.Â
Pope cleared his throat. âAre they?âÂ
âThis week, yeah,â you said.Â
âDo you want to?â Pope found himself asking, âWait tables.âÂ
You looked at him for a long moment that he almost thought you wouldnât answer. âItâd be nice, I guess. To have steady cashflow and all that.âÂ
âLeo pays you enough?â
You shifted the bucket against your hips. âHe doesnât reallyââ You stopped yourself, then started again. âThe tips are what they are.â
Pope hummed. âThat cover everything?â
You looked at him sideways, catching what he was doing. âMost weeks,â you said hesitantly.
âThis week?â
You looked off past him, and he watched you decide whether to say it. âMy brotherâs shoes split,â you said finally, and itâd come out in a small voice. âBottomâs gone right through it, so.â You shrugged, making a small face as you pinched your eyes shut, like you hated saying it. Â
Pope took the roll out of the jacket, thumbed off a fold of it without counting and held it out.
You looked at it, then at him. âNo.âÂ
âFor the kid.â
âAndrew.âÂ
âTake it.â He kept his hand out. âItâs shoes.âÂ
âThatâs notââ You stopped. Your jaw worked. He could see all of it going on behind your face, the pride and the rule and the thing you'd spent the last few minutes telling him. âThatâs just what I told you not to do.âÂ
âYou said not to help you.â He pushed his hand further toward you. âThis is shoes for a kid I never met.â
He watched your eyes rise to look at the sky and you shook your head. âYouâre making this really hard.âÂ
He tipped his chin down. âJust take it. I donât need it.â
You took it slow, your fingers closing over his for a second before they took the bills, and you didn't say thank youâhe was glad, thanking him wouldâve made it a transactionâyou just held on to his hand a beat longer than you needed to, and breathed out, shaky, and let it go.
âPlease donât make this a thing,â you said, voice thick. âI canâtâI canât say no to the money. I wish I could.â You looked at the bills in your hand. âI donât wanna take things from you.âÂ
He felt himself shrug, eyeing the top of your head as you looked down. âIâd let you.âÂ
Heâd meant to keep that to himself. Or he hadnât. He didnât really care, though. The money itself was nothing; what heâd just handed you was a rounding error, less than what his brothers dropped in a single night without blinking. It was the kind of number that moved in the Cody household without anyone thinking to count it; money theyâd find between the cushions from five years ago.Â
He had more coming in than he knew what to do with and nowhere clean to put it. You had a kid to help out with and yourself to take care of, and the situation was so simple it almost made him angry.Â
It became a thing without either of you calling it one. It was a thing, in Popeâs mind, obviously, but he was sure that telling you wouldâve spooked you and he wasnât ready for that.Â
Youâd started taping him differently. Early on youâd wrapped him all brisk and businesslike, done before heâd thought of anything to say. He had to watch his words in general, but he had to try even harder with you, for he never wanted to say the wrong thing. Somewhere in those weeks, you slowed. You took longer than the wrap neededâsmoothing the tape down twice when once wouldâve held just fine, turning his hand over in both of yours to check the knuckles youâd already checkedâand Pope started to pretend he didnât notice.Â
Heâd sit on the folding chair with his hand lent out to you and watch the top of your head and feel his pulse come down out of his throat, slow, the dog talked off the thing. One night, he let his thumb find the inside of your wrist while you worked, resting there against the thrum of you.
He started taking on more fights and ending them earlier. He told himself it was because of his ribs, the cash, any of the reasons a man might want a thing over with. All of it when the reason was that when the basement emptied after, it was just the two of you, and Pope had started living for the after the same way men lived for the fight.
You started watching the fights nowânot the cash, himâand he knew because one night he had a bad one, a hook he missed that snapped his head around. He looked for your face before he looked for anything else, and found you already wincing.Â
Your hand had come up halfway to your mouth. You caught yourself and dropped it. But heâd seen it and carried it home for a week, a proof of what, he didnât know.
Pope really, really hated asking Craig anything. He knew that heâd make him pay the toll one way or another. Sometimes by talking for forty minutes about something nobody asked about, or remembering the question to bring it up at the worst possible time. So Pope sat on it for a week; he iced the rib, didnât fight, and drove past the ring twice without going in. He knew it was fucking pathetic.
Pope found Craig by the pool, sunburnt and shirtless and rolling something on a paper plate.Â
âYou know the girl,â Pope started, âat the ring, the one who does the cash?âÂ
He found that he wanted to keep your name to himself, in case Craig hadnât already caught onto it.Â
âWhich one?â Craig asked without looking up.
âThe one that does the cash, man.â
âThereâs like three girls.â He licked the paper and twisted the end. âYou gotta be more specific. Thereâs the older chick, the meanââ
âYounger. Quiet.â Pope forced his voice to stay even. âPatches people up.â
Craig looked up at him then, a slow grin spreading. âOhhhh.âÂ
âDonât.â
âNo. No.â Craig held his hands up, waving them slightly, delighted. âCanât believe youâre asking me about a girl, man.âÂ
âForget it.â Pope turned to go.
âHeyâhey,â Craig said, standing from the lounger. âIâm messinâ with you. Câmon. What do you wanna know about her?âÂ
âWhyâs she there?âÂ
Craig shrugged. âPretty sure she owes Leo.â
âShe owes Leo?â Pope asked, letting the surprise show in his voice. âFor what?â
âPretty sure sheâs collateral.â Craig lit the thing, talking around it. âSome guy that was around. Dad. Stepdad. Who knows?â He waved the smoke out of his face. âPretty sure sheâs just workinâ the square until it pays itself off.â
âHow much?â Pope asked immediately.
Craig rolled his eyes, shaking his head. âDonât be stupid, man.â
âJust say it.â
âIâm not his accountant,â Craig said. âAnd sheâs not worth it. It wonât work, and Iâm pretty sure sheâs been working there longer than she hasnât.âÂ
Pope ignored that. âItâs not even hers,â he said, quietly, almost to himself. âSheâs down there holding it for a guy who took off. Kid at home, no money, and sheâsââ
He stopped talking once he noticed the amused and incredulous expression on Craigâs face.Â
Craigâs hand moved to the side, waving vaguely in confusion. âSheâs got a kid?â
âItâs her brother.â
âJesusâhow much have you talked to this chick?â Craig dragged a hand down his face. âReal talk. You go pay the guy offâsay you even can, say he gives you a number and itâs a real one, which it wonât beâyou know what happens? He realizes Pope Cody just dropped twenty grand on a girl who pours drinks and puts bandages on people.â He spread his hands. âBest case. Best case, man. We donât know what else the guyâs got her doing. Sheâs been there a long time. Girls donât stay in places like that just counting cash.âÂ
Pope felt his teeth grind. âShe counts cash and she patches people up,â he said, tipping his chin down slightly to pin Craig with a glare. âThatâs what she does.âÂ
Craig looked at him for a moment and shrugged. âAlright, man.âÂ
âAnd even if sheâshe doesnât just do that. It doesnâtââÂ
Popeâs jaw worked, and he had to look away from Craig. He had no words for it. It didnât matter what you did in the basement, what Leo had you doing or what Craig was implying. You were still you, and Pope knew that.Â
If the situation was larger, then Pope saw it as more of a reason to get you out, not less. That was the thing Craig wouldnât understand.Â
âIt doesnât change anything. For me,â Pope said flatly. âShe shouldnât be there, thatâs all.âÂ
Craigâs lips opened like he wanted to say something, then caught the look on Popeâs face, and said, âYeah, man. She probably shouldnât.â
Heâd hoped that Craig would never have to meet you, at least not in the way he did.Â
It happened on a night Craig hadnât wanted him there at all. Craig had come for the first few of Popeâs fight, and realized he actually didnât have to see his older brother take down a man twice to know the money was good. He could simply hand over the bet and go do anything else with his night. So most weeks, he dropped his cash with people and disappeared upstairs and reappeared only to collect.Â
This week, he hung around the edge of the ring, three beers in, restless, and that was how he was standing right there when Pope took a cut over the cheekbone bad enough you came down to the corner with your supplies before the round was properly called.
Craig noticed it. The dumb piece of shit. One second Pope had your hands on his face, turned away from the crowd so nobody would notice your closeness, and the next he could feel the exact attention of his brother sharpening as he moved down to catch the interaction.
You were too deep in the work to notice Craig, lips pressed flat, that furrow between your brows, going fast because the round was coming. âThis oneâs gonna scar if you keep splitting it open,â you murmured, tipping his head toward the light. âYouâre doing it on purpose at this point. Youâre gonna ruin this face.âÂ
âWhat do you think about this face?â Pope said before he could think the words through.Â
You rolled your eyes, lifting a hand off his face just to smack his shoulder lightly before it went right back to the cut.
âYou talk too much when youâre losing blood,â you lied, but the corner of your mouth had gone soft. âHold still.â
âYou didnât answer.â
âYouâre fishing.â You pressed the butterfly closed over his cheekbone, your thumb lingering there a half-second past the job, warm against his face, and you dropped your voice even though there was nobody close enough to hear. âAsk me again when youâre not bleeding on me and Iâll think about it.âÂ
He felt his mouth want to move closer to yours then, and he tamped down the urge. But he mustâve let something through because when his eyes flicked up over your shoulder, there was Craig, beer halfway to his mouth, forgotten.Â
You followed his eyes, found Craig, and Craig found you. Your hand came off his face and your spine went straight. âYou know him?â you asked, quietly, gathering your bottle and tape as you stepped back to a safe distance.Â
Pope caught your wrist. âMy brother. Heâs nobody. Heâs dumb.â
Your eyes went over the crowd that was distracted. âYou tell him anything?â
âThere somethinâ to say?â he asked, raising a brow that made him wince.Â
You gave him a flat look, unimpressed by the deflection. âDonât try to be cute.â
Pope generally blamed his anger on a rage that had been planted in him from a tender age. Smurf had put it there the way you put a seed in dirtâpatient, deliberate, knowing exactly what itâd grow intoâand then spent thirty years acting surprised at the sheer size of it. He never thought about it. Thinking about it wouldnât beat it away. It was just thereâlow and perpetualâlike a pilot light heâd learned to turn down because the alternative was what happened in the ring when he forgot to.Â
He forgot to that night. It had nothing to do with the guy across from him. The guy was a nobodyâsome gym rat Leo had matched him with, all shoulders and bad footworkâand Pope would, on any other day, put him down clean in two rounds because there was no reason to make it ugly. But Pope had spent a week with a number he didnât own and a plan he couldnât run with yours and Craigâs voice saying âdonât.â The whole impossibility of you had stacked up in his sternum with nowhere to go, and when the guy clipped him, caught him good across the mouth first, something in Pope just opened the valve.Â
He didnât remember most of it after, and that was how he knew it was bad. The parts that came back later were wrong-angled and too bright (the kidâs head snapping, the wet sound, the way the crowdâs noise changed, going from hungry to something quieter, pulled back). Crowds like this roared throughout all of it unless they were watching a man go somewhere they wanted to stay back from.Â
Somebody got between them. There were hands on his chest and a referee he had no idea even existed shouting something and the guy on the concrete not getting up the way he was supposed to. Pope was standing over it with his chest heaving and knuckles split open through the wrap and no memory of the ninety seconds at all.
The crowd parted for him when he started walking and that shouldâve told him something, the way grown men stepped out of his way. He'd looked for you on the way through.
He'd looked for you the way he always did, automatically, and he'd found you at the edge of the cash table with the box held up against your chest, and you'd been looking right back at him.
Pope was distantly and too closelyâboth at the same time, two things too large for himâable to register you hadnât looked at him the way you usually did.
You'd looked at him the way the crowd had. Youâd gone still and careful, your eyes wide and fixed on him like he was the thing in the room, the dangerous thing, and you'd held that box to your chest like it could go between you and him. Just for a second. Just one. Then you'd caught yourself and your face had closed over it, gone professional.Â
He went upstairs, and into the gap behind the stairs where there was a cot and a mop sink. It smelled like bleach. He put his head against the cinderblock and slid down it to the floor and tried to get his breathing under whatever was happening in his chest.Â
Pope let himself sit on the floor with his hands ruined, the pilot light still guttering too high, and he let the worst story about himself tell itself all the way through. Youâd finally seen the actual thing. Youâd patched him up and made jokes and told him things about yourself, and then you had to watch him nearly kill somebody over nothing, and now you knew. Now you looked at him the way everybody did, just the way his mother had intended.Â
He heard the door open, and he had to shake his head even though he wasnât sure you could see it.Â
âDonât,â he said, and his voice came out wrecked. âYou donât have to help me or anything. Go help the guy.â
âAndrewââ
âI mean it.â His hands hung between his knees, split and shaking, and he kept his eyes on them. âGo check on him. I donâtâI donât need it.â
He heard the door shut behind you, and then your footsteps came across the little room. âHeâs up,â you said. âHeâs fine. Heâs got people. Concussed, probably, but heâll be fine.â You paused, then added, âI came back here for you.âÂ
That made his chest pull tighter. âShouldnât have.âÂ
You set the bucket down by his feet, and then you were crouching in front of him, and he could see the toes of those wrong gray shoes in the edge of his vision and still couldn't make himself look higher. âCan I have your hands?âÂ
âNo.â
âTheyâre split to the bone. Andrew, give âem here.âÂ
He didnât. The muscle in his jaw ticked as he sat there, and before he could stop himself, he asked, âAre you scared of me?â
You stayed silent for a second, and he felt his chest seize. Then, he felt your handâcold to the touchâagainst his face, turning it gently so heâd look at you. He kept his eyes trained to the ground.Â
âLook at me,â you said quietly. When he refused again, your thumb slid against his cheekbone. âIâm not.â
When he said nothing, you continued, âYou scared me a little out there. But look at you, youâre hiding behind the stairs. Câmon. Scariest man alive.âÂ
He huffed and let his eyes come up anyway, finally, and you were just looking at him. âYou mean that?âÂ
Your bottom lip pushed the top, and you looked at him as you tilted your head. âYeah. I mean it.âÂ
The plainness of the words got him. You said that as though it cost you nothing to mean it when it was the most expensive thing anyone had handed him in years. You had no idea the things heâd done so many times they stopped feeling like anything at all. Youâd seen one bad night. And he wanted to tell you that maybe you should have been scared.
He kept his mouth shut. He looked at you looking at him and decided, quietly and completely, that he was going to spend whatever time he had making sure you never had a reason to find out you were wrong.
You were close. Youâd been close the entire time, crouched between his knees with your hand cold on his face, and heâd been waiting for you to flinch that he hadnât realized how close you were.
He felt it now. Like always, he didnât decide. The same broken wiring in him was pointing somewhere new, because one second he was looking at your mouth and the next his hand had come up, ruined knuckles and all, and curved around the back of your neck.Â
He stopped a breath short to give you an inch, some last careful piece left in him left it up to you, hung there close enough that he could feel your breath go uneven, waiting to see if youâd close it.Â
You did, soft, slower than heâd expected. Heâd always been waiting for quickness and hardness, things that got over with, and instead your mouth settled against his and stayed. Your hand came up light along his jaw, and the split in his lip stung but he didnât move away from it. He was sure he couldnât have this without paying for it.Â
His hand was still at the back of your neck, knuckles wrecked, and he held you there carefully, just keeping you close. His thumb moved once behind your ear. You made a small sound against his mouth and he felt it more than heard it, felt it go down through his chest.
Your fingers curling at the collar of his shirt, your breath warm and uneven against his cheek between kisses.
His rib ached when he leaned into you. He leaned in anyway. He could feel the warmth of you all down his front, your weight tipped against his knees, your other hand finding his ruined one where it sat between you and holding it.Â
It felt like such a stark difference to how you usually held his hand, to clean it, Pope distantly thought.
You broke off to breathe, but neither of you went far. Your forehead hovered over his, and your breath stayed uneven against his mouth. He let his hands hesitantly drift down to your waist, letting his palms run over the shape of you.Â
You let them, your waist, the dip of it, the warmth coming up through your shirt, and you watched him do it with your bottom lip caught between your teeth.
âDo you like this?â Pope asked, hesitance creeping into his voice despite how hard he tried to push it out. He hated how it came out, like he had no trust in himself. But he had to knowâhad to hear itâbecause heâd just spent too long thinking youâd seen the worst of him, and now you were warm in his hands and he couldnât quite square the two.
Your mouth curved, soft, and you tipped your forehead down against his.Â
âYeah, Andrew,â you said, like it was obvious. âI like it.âÂ
Your thumb moved along his cheekbone, and he let his lashes flutter slightly at the feel of your skin against so many parts of him all at once.Â
âBeen liking you a while,â you added, lower, a little dry, a little shy. âIf you wanna know.â
Popeâs hand tightened at your waist. âHow long?âÂ
âNot saying,â you said, smiling when you kissed him again, and he felt it against his mouth, and that was better than the answer would've been anyway.
He kissed you slow at first and then not slow, his hand sliding up your spine to press you closer, the other still spread wide and certain at your hip.Â
You shifted down into him and he broke off with a rough breath, forehead dropping to your shoulder, his grip going tight to hold you still.
âHang on,â he managed to say, low against your collarbone. All the wanting you stacked up behind his ribs with nowhere left to go, and you were so warm and so real on his lap, and he was trying not to be what he always was, too much, too fast.Â
âWe donât have toââ you started.
âI know,â he said, voice rough. He lifted his head to look at you. âI wanna. I justââ He pushed his lips around, trying to find the right words. âI donât want you doing anything back here. In this building.â His thumb moved at your hip. âYouâre better than this place.âÂ
Your hands pressed against his chest, and he registered the smallness of them against his broad frame, and you pulled yourself back slightly and let out a staggered breath. For a second, you looked at him. Stunned, almost, like the words hadnât landed anywhere familiar, like nobodyâd ever told you that before. He watched it cross your face quickly.
One of your hands left his chest and slid up, slid back, fingers pushing slow into the short hair at the nape of his neck, your nails digging light against his scalp. Your fingers worked through his hair and curled at the base of it, and the newness of the touchâthe pure uselessness of it, a touch that wasnât for anythingâwent through him like a current.Â
It got a low and rough sound out of him and his eyes slid shut. His face went hot at the helplessness of it, a man his size coming apart under fingers in his hair, but he couldn't stop it and he didn't pull away. He pressed back into your hand instead, into the slow drag of your nails, chasing it.
âSo are you,â you said quietly after a moment.
He fluttered his eyes open halfway.Â
âBetter than this place,â you clarified.
Popeâs mouth twitched, wanting to tell you he wasnât. He wanted to tell you every single bad thing heâd ever done. He wanted to lay all of it down between you so you'd see he didn't belong anywhere clean, least of all up against you, you who had never chosen to work in this shithole, you whoâd probably never hurt a goddamn fly.Â
The words stayed sealed, because he had a feeling youâd hand them all back if he tried.Â
âCome on,â he said instead. He shifted under you, wanting to ease into the position while having to force himself to move. âGet your stuff and clock out. Iâll drive you.â
You blinked. âWhere?âÂ
He let out a short-lived laugh. âWherever you want to go.â
You looked at him like heâd just done a trick. âI have to be home,â you said slowly. âMy brother waits up.âÂ
âAlright.â Pope eased you off his lap, and got a hand against the cinderblock. âSo Iâll take you home.â
âYou donât have toââ You were saying from the ground.
âCâmon.âÂ
He held a hand out to you, then you took it and let him pull you up.
Pope was uncomfortable about everything. His entire life, heâd been uncomfortable, whether it was in his own skin, in his house, in rooms full of people. So it came as no surprise when he had no fucking clue what to do with you. He hadnât thought this far; heâd wanted to get you the hell out, not get you. And now you were hereâor as here as you couldâve beenâand he didnât have the next part. Nobody had ever handed him a good thing and let him keep it. He kept waiting for the catch, turning his pockets out for the cost of it, and the cost wasnât coming. And that was uncomfortable, waiting for a hit that never landed.Â
So he did the only thing he thought he couldâve done, which was keep it quiet and keep it close.Â
The cab of his truck. The back room after the basement emptied. Your mouth on his, his hands learning you slow, because he wanted toâPope wanted to learn you the way other men wanted to win. It was the only ambition heâd ever had that belonged all to him. He wanted the map of you. He wanted to remember the exact spot in your ear that made your breath catch, that heâd found once on accident and gone back to like a man returning to the one warm room in a house that was freezing. The way you said his name, the real oneâAndrewâthat fit in nobody elseâs mouth but yours.Â
Pope had to be clear with himself about the fact that it was nothing like a life, even in his own head, because hoping for more than the thing in front of him was how you got hurt.Â
When the basement ran late and your house was a long quiet drive, sometimes youâd let him take you back to his place instead, and youâd sleep there. You would actually sleep, hard and deep, in a way youâd once told him you couldnât at your own home.Â
He watched you sleep. He knew it was a strange thing to do but he did it anyway; propped on an elbow in the gray lights off the blinds, because it was the only time your face went all soft. Awake, even with him, you kept some of it back, the watching, the careful, the part of you thatâlike himâwas always waiting for the next bad thing.Â
Asleep, you let it all go. You looked younger, and Pope thought this was how you wouldâve looked all the time had the world dealt you a different house.Â
He mustâve shifted, or his breathing mustâve changed, because your eyes cracked open. You found him in the dark, found him watching you, and your mouth curved, slow and sleep-heavy.
âCreep,â you mumbled into the pillow.Â
âYeah,â Pope said in a whisper.Â
You shifted toward him, unhurried, still half in sleep, and your hand came up to his jaw as your fingers traced the line of it.Â
âYou donât sleep,â you murmured. Youâd noticed it weeks ago.
âNo.â
âCâmere, then,â you said, rough, tugging lightly at his jaw, and he came.Â
He kissed you slow.
He always started slowâit was the only speed he trusted himself atâand you let him have it slow for a minute, warm and half-asleep against his mouth. Then you werenât half-asleep anymore, he felt the change in you as your hand slid back into his hair and curled and pulled. The sound that the pull had dragged out of him was embarrassing.
âQuiet,â you breathed against his mouth, throwing his own word back at himâI can be quiet, heâd said onceâand he huffed a rough laugh into the crook of your neck and got a hand spread wide and certain against the small of your back to pull you flush against him.Â
Your leg hooked over his and your breath went uneven against his ear, and Pope allowed himself to stop thinking.
He dragged his mouth down your throat, slow, to the soft place that made your breath catch, the spot he'd mapped weeks ago and gone back to since like the one warm room in a freezing house. Got there. He felt you go boneless and then not boneless, your fingers tightening in his hair, your hips shifting against his, and he made a low sound into your skin and pressed you down into the mattress with the careful weight of him.
âAndrew,â you said, rough against his collarbone.Â
âYes?â He lifted his head to look at you, and found you already looking at him.Â
Your hair was loose around your face and your lips were swollen and your eyes were dark. Pope felt a sort of satisfaction heâd never felt before knowing heâd done that, that youâd come to his bed neat and composed and heâd taken you apart this much already.
Your hand still in his hair tugged him down to your ear. âTake my shirt off.âÂ
He went still for a second, eyes closing at the words, then he regained himself and pulled back enough to look at you.Â
You lifted your arms. He got it over your head and dropped it somewhere and then he just stopped, brain short-circuiting as his body immediately reacted, shifting underneath you. His hand came up and hovered over your bare waist, not quite touching, just close. Deciding where to start.
His hand settled finally, warm and certain against your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breasts. He let out a shaky breath. âYouâre so pretty,â he murmured.Â
You let out a soft breath, and he let his thumb move, again, slow, up and he rubbed over the swell of your breasts through the bra, watching your face with his whole attention.
He pushed himself up onto one elbow to get a better look at you and you let him, lying there with your hair spread out and your eyes on his face. He took his time, and he could tell it made you want to squirm, and his free hand settled on your hip, holding you still.Â
âCome here,â you said softly, reaching for him.Â
âIn a minute.â His thumb traced the underwire of your bra, following the curve of it. His eyes followed his own hand and his jaw was tight the way it got when he was concentrating.Â
âAndrew.âÂ
âGive me a minute.â His mouth came down on your sternum and pressed there, warm, just breathing for a second, his hand still moving over your ribs, your waist, the dip of it. His lips moved to the curve of your breast, the soft skin at the edge of the fabric, and you felt his breath go unsteady against you.
âCan Iââ he started.
âYes.â
He reached around you, unclipped it with one handâslightly clumsy, which was so unlike himâand drew it off you slowly, and then he just stopped again, forgetting how to move when he looked at you.
His mouth found you properly then, warm and slow, and you let your head tip back and your hand tighten in his hair and he made a low sound against you.
He worked his way back up to your throat, your jaw, found your mouth again, and kissed you slow until your hands were pulling at him and your hips were shifting and youâd stopped being patient entirely.Â
You pressed at his chest. He went, rolling onto his back and taking you with him, and you sat up over him in the gray light and watched his face as you settled your weight down against him, and his hands went to your thighs and gripped and his eyes went briefly shut.
You leaned down and kissed him once, soft. Then his jaw, his throat, the way he'd done to you, finding the places that changed his breathing.
His hands moved up your back, down again, restless, unable to settle. You felt him swallow when your mouth reached his collarbone.
You moved lower. His stomach tightened under your mouth and his hand came up to your hair, resting there, heavy and warm, the way he did everything when he was trying to hold himself back. You looked up at him from where you were and found him already looking down at you, jaw tight, throat working.
âAre youââ
âMhm.âÂ
You got his briefs off and he lifted his hips to help you without being asked, which made you press your lips together against a smile. You settled between his thighs and took him inside your hand first, and he let out a shaky, breathless sound as your fingers tightened around his length, small fingers tugging slightly.Â
You shifted down, and pressed your lips to the inside of his thigh first, just to feel him react, Pope understood. His whole leg went rigid under your lips. You stayed there a moment, and his fingers curled in your hair out of impatience he wasnât proud of at all.
âCâmon, heyââ
You did it again, the other side, taking your time, and heard him exhale hard through his nose.
Then, you started from the bottom, tongue gliding over him, base to tip, and Popeâs jaw dropped open and stopped pretending he wanted any sort of control in this situation.Â
His hands fisted in your hair. Not pushingâhe wasnât going to do thatâbut holding on, because he really, really needed something to hold onto and you were it, you were all of it, had been all of it for months, and now you had your mouth on him and your small hand wrapped around the base of him while looking through your lashes at him like you knew exactly what you were doing to himâyou absolutely didâand he wanted to do nothing about it except lie there and take it.
You took him into your mouth properly and his hips came off the mattress before he caught them, hand pressing down against his own stomach, jaw locked.
âChristââ It came out mangled, just sound.
You set a pace that was sure to kill him, so deliberate with everything and focused attention on him entirely, and he had the distant thought that heâd never been on the receiving end of attention like this. His thighs tensed around you and his free hand found the sheets.
You pulled off just enough to say âdonâtâ when his forearm moved toward his face, and he dropped it back, exposed, staring at the ceiling, throat working. Your hand worked what your mouth couldnât, and he felt his vision go slightly sideways, hand in your hair tightening involuntarily, fingers curling against your scalp.Â
âLet meââ He stopped when he noticed how wrecked he sounded, barely his own voice. His grip tugged you up. âCan youâCan Iââ
He stumbled over the words, but you still moved up.Â
You settled over him, knees either sides of his hips, and he got his hands on your waist immediately. His chest was heaving and he was sure he looked completely undone.
âCan Iââ he tried again. His thumb moved against your hip, pleadingly. âI need toââ He tried again. âWill youââ
You looked down at him. âAre you asking me something?âÂ
âYeah.â His jaw tightened. âTrying to.âÂ
âSo ask.âÂ
He took in a sharp breath, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass. âCan I be inside you?âÂ
You held his eyes a second. âYeah,â you said. âYeah.â
The sound he let out at that was quiet and involuntary and you felt it in your sternum. His eyes closed for just a second, like he needed that, you saying it had done something to him before anything had even happened yet.
You reached between you and his breath caught audibly, hands tightening on your hips, feeling it happen, needing to feel it happen somewhere in his palms.
You sank down onto him slow and his head went back and his throat worked and his hands on your hips pulled you down the last inch with a low, helpless sound that he clearly hadn't planned on making.
Heâd never felt this way before, so all-encompassed. You were so warm and close in way the months of wanting had never prepared him for, your hands braced on his chest, your weight settled on his lap, and he could feel your pulse where you were joined and his own pulse and everywhere else.
He stayed there a second, both hands spread wide on your hips, breathing.Â
âYou okay?â you asked, quiet.
âOne second.â
You gave him the second. He sat up after that, and his arm banded around your waist and pulled you flush against him and that made you gasp, hands grabbing at his shoulders, his neck.
He was so much bigger than you like this, your knees hardly finding the mattress either side of him, and he held you there, mouth finding your throat.
âDo you like this?â he asked into your skin.
âYesâyeah,â you said, slightly breathless.Â
He bit down lightly at your pulse point, just enough, and your nails raked down his back in response, and the sound that got out of him was dark and satisfied, his hips rolling up into you slow and deliberate.
His hips set a pace after that, one hand spread flat against your lower back holding you exactly where he wanted you, the other gripping your hip, guiding you down to meet each roll of his hips. You could feel everything. He made sure of it, and he knew by the way your walls clamped down on him.
âAndrewââ
âFeels so good,â he said through a groan, mouth set on your throat. âYou feel so good.âÂ
Your nails found his back again and he groaned into your neck and his hips stuttered, losing the rhythm for just a second before he found it again, deeper this time, and you made a sound against his shoulder that you felt him collect, felt him file away, his arm tightening around you in response.
âThat good?â he murmured.
âItâsââ you started, breath catching.Â
âYeah?â His hand moved from your hip to the small of your back, adjusting the angle, pressing you down onto him, and whatever you'd been trying to say dissolved entirely into something that wasn't words at all. âThere?âÂ
âJesus, Andrewââ you said, a punch in your words as he pushed you down onto him. âWhereâd you learn this?â
He pulled back to look at your face, and the look on his was almost amused, almost, underneath all the want. âJust wanna make you feel good,â he said, âwith me.âÂ
Your hands coming up to his face without deciding to, cupping his jaw, and he turned into it immediately, that same helpless lean he always did when you put your hands on his face, like he couldn't help it, like you'd found the one soft spot in him nobody else had ever found.
You kissed him then, different from the others â slower, more deliberate, saying something you didn't have words for yet, and he kissed you back the same way, his pace going slow and deep and unhurried, like the night had gotten longer suddenly, like neither of you were going anywhere.
His forehead dropped to yours when you broke off, both of you breathing uneven, his hand moving up your spine, vertebra by vertebra, just feeling you.
âYou with me?â he murmured.
âYeah,â you said. âI am.â
His hand pressed you further into him, like there was any space. âPromise me.âÂ
It came out rougher than he meant, needier than he'd have liked, and he felt it land between you in the dark and couldn't take it back and didn't try.
You looked up at him. Whatever you found in his face made yours go soft. âPromise,â you said.
He exhaled against your mouth and his hips rolled forward and you made a small sound and your hands slid up into his hair, pulling, and whatever had gone tender between you tipped back into heat, his pace picking up, deeper now, one hand gripping the headboard above you and the other finding your hip, holding you where he wanted you.
Pope had come to the basement earlier, before his fight. He had no good reason for itâthe fight was in an hour, the place was half-empty, the crowd still trickling inâbut heâd gotten restless at the apartment and figured heâd find you early, steal a few minutes before the room filled up.Â
He came down the concrete stairs and heard Leoâs voice before he saw anything, and the sound of it stopped Pope three steps from the bottom. Pope had never once in his life heard the guy yell, lose control, and the voice coming up was low and almost patient, like youâd talk to a child or a dog.Â
â âcount it again,â Leo was saying. ââCause I counted it, and Iâm coming up short. Thatâs a problem, you know that, right?â
âI counted it three times,â you said, your voice flat and so, so careful it gnawed at him. âItâs all here. I swear, itâs allââ
âDonât swear to me, sweetheart. Count.âÂ
Pope came down the last steps quiet. You were at the cash table with the box open in front of you and your hands unsteady on the bills. Leo was standing close to you, like that was the pointâlooming, using the size of himselfâas he crowded you back against the table. He was making you do the math all out in a flat, dead voice, your shoulders up around your ears, and Pope watched you flinch when Leo shifted his weight even though the guy hadnât done anything.
âYouâre light,â Leo said, soft. âYouâre light and youâre trying to swear. You know what happens to my count when one of my girls gets light.â He let his words hang, tilting his head. âIt comes out of the square. Adds to it. Youâre going backwards, sweetheart, after all this time. Going the wrong direction.â
Leo reached and took your jaw in his handâalmost gently, tipping your face up out of the countâand your body went still, and that was the second you saw Pope behind Leoâs shoulder.Â
âDonât touch her,â Pope said, without thinking about it.Â
Leo turned, unhurried, his hand still loose at your jaw before he let it drop, on his own time. He was making a point of it, Pope realized. âItâs off.â He spread the hand, easy, showing him. âSee? Weâre just talking. Business.âÂ
Then, he turned to look at you, chin tipping down. âYou really messing around with this guy? I thought it was just people making shit up.âÂ
âPeople talkââ you started to say.
âYou were just waitinâ around for some rich guy to come along?â He looked at you, shaking his head. âThat it?â Then, he turned to Pope. âShe couldâve gotten out a lot earlierâyou know that right?â He shook his head, like he was disappointed. âCouldâve taken the back room, cut the number down to nothing in a couple months. Easy. Plenty of guys asking. But no, she just wanted to do it the long way.â He tipped his chin at Pope, lazy. ââAnd then go and give it away to you. For free.â
Popeâs pulse shouldâve been climbing. It had gone flat and slow and cold. âWatch your mouth.â
âOr what?â He asked, almost fond. âYou gonnaââ
The gun was out before he decided to pull it. His hand went to the small of his back and came around and then the thing was there, level, steady, muzzle a few inches off Leoâs forehead.Â
The guy stopped smiling. He didnât flinchâPope gave him thatâbut he went very slow, very careful, his hands drifting up off his sides. His palms were loose and open.
âOkay,â Leo said, quiet now. âOkay. Easy.â
âAre you kidding me?â Pope muttered, shaking his head. âYou donât have a damn gun on you?âÂ
âI donât need a gun in my own place,â he said through gritted teeth. His eyes flicked to the stairs, then back to the muzzle. âYou wanna put that down before you get stupid over nothing?â
Heâd half-hoped that Leo wouldâve been carrying, show any sign that he felt afraid. âHer number. Say it.â
âThatâs notââ He huffed, almost a laugh, disbelieving. âThatâs not howâthereâs a process to this, thereâs people I gotta answer to.â
Popeâs lips flattened, eyes flicking to the ceiling, annoyed. âYou know Iâll do it, man. I donât care enough not to.âÂ
Leoâs smile dropped then. âHalf the roomâs had their hands on her, you know that? Sheâs not somebodyâs girlfriend, man. The second she doesnât need either of us, sheâs not looking back at you any more than sheâs looking back at me.âÂ
Pope let out a short chuckle. âNow youâre getting whatever Iâve got in my pocket or Iâm shooting. Your call.âÂ
âYouâre making a mistake,â the guy said, his last call, Pope realized. âYou canât pull a gun on me and ââ
âThatâs tomorrowâs problem.â Popeâs hand stayed still. âRight now, you take the money, sheâs square, she walks.â His head tipped, slight. âSay yes, man. Youâre a smart guy. Say yes.â Pope nudged the gun slightly further into his head. He leaned his head closer to the guyâs ear, voice dropping into a register that wouldâve been too low for you to hear. âIâve put people down for less than this. You know that.â
Leo took a beat. âFine.â The word came out flat, bitten-off. âFine. The money. Sheâs square. Get it out slow, I donât want your fucking hand movinâ fast near me.â
Pope reached into his jacket with his off handâthe gun never leaving Leo's faceâand pulled the roll, the whole fight roll, thick and rubber-banded, and tossed it onto the table by the box. It landed heavy. Leo didn't look at it. He kept his eyes on Pope, and his hands stayed up, and the deal sat there in the dead air between them, made.
Leo looked at it, and a long moment passed. He let out a short, disbelieving breath through his nose. âThatâs it?âÂ
âYou shouldâve said yes the first time. You knew I was good for it,â Pope said. âSay it,â he added. âSheâs good. Tell her so she hears it.âÂ
âYouâre square,â he said to you, the words ugly. âYou donât owe me shit. Donât come back.â A muscle jumped in his cheek. âEither of you.âÂ
Pope held the gun where it was a beat longer than he had toâlong enough to make it clear the leaving was his idea, not Leo's permissionâand then he lowered it, slow, and stepped back, and reached out without looking and found your wrist.
âLetâs go,â Pope said roughly to you.Â
You didnât move at first. He had to tug your forearm once, and then you came, stumbling off the spot youâd been rooted to, and he put himself between you and Leo and walked you up the concrete stairs and out the side door into the lot, into the air that was finally air, with the gun cooling against his back and your pulse hammering under his fingers where he still had your wrist.
Pope let out a shaky breath as he tipped his neck back to look at the sky. Heâd assumed that one day, he wouldâve figured it out, how to help youâit would have been cleaner, probably, and wouldnât have happened right in front of youâand he hadnât thought itâd be fucking today.Â
He still had your wrist. He made himself let it go, and turned to look at you. You were looking at nothing, at the chain-link past the lot, your arms coming to wrap around yourself, holding your elbows.
âGet in the car,â he said to you.Â
You stayed still.
Pope shook his head once, pressing his lips together. He nodded at the truck. âCâmon. Just get in the truck.â
You stayed rooted there in the orange light, arms folded over yourself, shaking your head faintlyânot at him, not a no exactly, just somewhere else, somewhere he couldn't reach you. He felt the impatience climb in him, the adrenaline still draining, the gun still warm against his back and the tomorrow-problem already stacking up behind his ribs, and it came out rougher than he meant.
âJustâget in the damn car.â He dragged his palm down his face and exhaled.Â
You went around to the passenger side and shut the door. He got in beside you, and for a second, neither of you said anything. He pulled out the lot and drove the way he always did with you, to his apartment. You sat against the window with your knees pulled up and your arms still around yourself, and he kept glancing over, waiting for it, the thing he could feel build up.
âYou mad at me?â he asked, the words coming out choked, almost like he was forcing them out.Â
You took in a breath and looked out the window. âAre you gonna be fine?â
He snorted. âYeah. Donât worry âbout me. Iâm safe.âÂ
You nodded, even though he could tell you didnât believe it. He wanted to tell you that he was probably the most safe guy in Oceanside, part of a family that would make sure nothing happened to anyone in it, even if they all may hate each other deep down.Â
âI didnât want it to happen like this,â you said a moment later. âI wanted to do it myself.âÂ
Pope knew what you meant, but he wanted you to talk more, just so he could justify it. âYeah?â
âI was gonna work it down to nothing,â you continued. âAnd one day itâd just be done, and Iâdâwalk out. And itâd be cause I did it. Me. The one thing that was gonna be mine.âÂ
âYou werenât getting out.â When you snapped your head to look at him, eyebrows furrowed, he forced to keep himself looking at the road. âIâm sorry, but you were never getting out. Donât be dumb. I know you wanted to.âÂ
âDonât call me dumb.â
âThen donât be.â He shook his head. âYouâre paying off a debt thatâs not even yours when you could beâwhat? Working anywhere that gives you an actual paycheck. He wasnât gonna let you have that. Thereâs no fucking contract making sure he lets you out.âÂ
You looked back at the window, jaw tight. âI didnât want you buying me,â you said quietly. âThatâs exactly the thing I didnât want. Now IâmâI donât want to owe you, Andrew. I like you.â
âYou donât owe me,â he said, voice rough, trying to ignore what the words did to his chest.
âThatâs not howââ
âItâs how it works with me,â he said flatly. âI didnât buy you. Donât say shit like that. I bought you out.â His hands tightened on the wheel. âThereâs nothing you owe me.â
âI wanted it to be clean,â you said, and Pope almost wanted to shut you up. âUs. I wanted to get out and just beâsomeone you liked. Not somebody you had to save or something like that.â
âWell, thatâs too bad, then,â he rasped. âYou can come with me. You can go wherever you want. Youâre out, you can choose.â He killed the engine as the car reached his apartment. âYou are someone I like already. I never liked who you had to be, but I like youâthis, whatever it is. Alright?â
A part of Pope knew he shouldnât have taken the job. Robberies were always a mess, but Baz had a fondness for them. And Baz had a kid and a whole life balanced on not going inside, and Pope had a girl who he wasnât even sure was his girl, and no good reason in the world to be holding the bag when it went wrong.
So now there was a phone bolted to a cinderblock wall and a line of men behind him and a number heâd memorized. Thank God heâd memorized.Â
It rang twice.Â
âHello?âÂ
The sound of your voice did something itchy to his sternum. Heâd last heard it three weeks ago, before the job, when youâd been half-asleep against his shoulder in the truck outside your place. Youâd told him to call you when he got home.Â
âAndrew?â you asked immediately, like just an exhalation of his breath, you could recognize. âYouâre in jail?âÂ
He forced out a dry chuckle, because the opposite wouldâve gotten him kicked. âFolsom County.âÂ
âJesusâwhy?â
âRobbery. It was aâa family thingââ He kept it short. The line was recorded; half of what he wanted to say, he couldnât, and the other half, he wouldnât. Especially not to you, not like this, with a guard at his back and a clock ticking somewhere.Â
âCan I visit you?â you asked immediately. The hope in your words tightened something in his chest so hard he had to close his eyes to loosen it even a fraction. âHow long are you in there for?âÂ
âNoâdonât. Hey, listen,â he said, voice shaking and he hated it. âYouâyou gotta be safe, okay? If anything happens, I need you to look forââ
âWhat are you talking about?â
âI canât take care of you from here,â he said through gritted teeth. âI need to make sure youâll be okay.â
âHow long are you in for?â you asked, weary, like youâd read somewhere between the lines and realized that you were going to hate the answer.
âSix years,â he said, letting out another sigh. Then, because he couldnât help himself when he heard you go silent on the other end, he said, âIâm sorry.â He pressed the phone harder against his ear, as if that did anything.Â
âFuckâfuck, Andrew. Six yearsâ?â you said, voice so sharp he could feel it cut through him. He heard you breath, trying to collect yourself. âOkay. OkayâI can come there, to you. Visit you and stuff, alright?â
âYouâre not living the next six years meeting me behind a glass, alright?âÂ
âI donât care about that.âÂ
âI do.â It came out rougher than heâd intended. He pressed his forehead to the cold block, eyes shut as his free hand came up to tug at his hair. The line of men and the guards and the whole gray space fell away from him for a second, and it was just your voice in his ear and him trying, failing, to do one right thing for you. âYou just got outâIâm not putting you back in. You got out, and youâyou can do whatever you want.â
âI donât want it without you,â you said, voice breaking clean down the middle, and it about took him out at the knees, standing there in his county blues with a telephone crushed to his ear.Â
âYouâre not thinking right,â he said, trying to get the words out slowly, like saying it that way would make you believe them. âYouâre not waiting for me for six years. You know how long that is?âÂ
Pope was at a loss in this; heâd never had to push someone away before. Every person heâd needed gone, before he even knew he did, heâd made himself ugly enough to push it out. He didnât have the ugly to use on you; heâd used up every bad thing in front of you already and youâd stayed anyway, and now he had nothing left to drive you away with except the truth, which was that Pope loved you too much to let you do this to yourself.
He couldnât say that either because maybe then youâd really never leave.
You only breathed on the other end, and he could hear the hitch of your voice when you started to try saying something, then stopped.Â
âI wonât like it,â he said, quieter now, âif you wait for me.â
It was a lie and you both heard it. He didnât try to sell it harder and let it sit there, all wrong, and moved on before you could call him out from it, because he had something he needed you to have more than he needed to win the argument.
âListen,â he said, forcing his voice to steady. âYou got something to write with? Or open something on your phone to get it.âÂ
âAndrewââ
âPlease.âÂ
Something in his voice mustâve reached you, because he heard you shift.Â
âOkay,â you said, voice thick. âOkay.â
He recited the number, slow and twice, so youâd have it right. âThatâs Baz. Alright? Barry Blackwellâwrite that down, too. My brother.â His teeth gritted. âYou donât ever have to call it, but you keep it. And if anything everââ His jaw worked, and he pinched his eyes shut at the horrible thoughts. âIf money gets tight or if people come sniffing around even though they shouldnât. If you get caught up in anythingâsomebody gives you trouble, or anything, the car dies, whatever it is. You call him. You say youâre mine, say Pope said to call. Heâll help.âÂ
âI donât want your brother toââ
He didnât want his brother to, either. Baz had a bad track record with people Pope considered his, people Pope loved. He pressed his molars together at the thought of Baz with you, of all people. Despite how much love he held for his brother, he didnât like the thought. Six years was a long, long time.Â
Six years was long enough to forget a voice, long enough for the thing youâd been holding in your hands to shift without noticing, long enough for a warm and present man to become more real than a memory behind a glass. Baz wouldnât. But he canât imagine Baz ever meeting you and not seeing what Pope loved about you, what everyone could love about you.Â
âItâs the only way I can do anything for you,â he said quickly, making sure youâd understand. âItâll make me happy.â
He heard you choke slightly on the other end. âCan you call me, then? If I canât visit you.âÂ
He wanted to say yes. It would've cost him nothing in the moment and it would've ruined you slow, six years of you living from phone call to phone call, your whole life arranged around fifteen minutes of a recorded line, waiting on a man in a cage. And he knew heâd rightfully deserved to be caged. Heâd seen what waiting did to you. Heâd pulled a gun to get you out from under exactly that.
âNo,â he said. âYou stay out. You got out. Stay out of all of it, including me.â
And a part of him believed he was doing you a favor, despite it all. Heâd never quite gotten you all the way like heâd wantedâmerged your life into his and his yoursâand maybe that was for the better. As long as you were wrapped up with him, you wouldâve been wrapped up with his family, the jobs, the heists, the next county lockup waiting for him somewhere down the line.Â
Your little brother deserved a sister who could come home clean, someone who didnât have a Cody-shaped problem following her through the door. Heâd been told he was the worst of them; he was built up for a purpose and it wasnât the kind of thing you brought home. Pope cared about you enough to know that; it was hard not to realize it, standing in prison.Â
He heard you say a jumble of words in one breath, and he couldnât quite catch any over the ringing in his own ears. The guard said he had sixty seconds left.
âIâd do it again, I swear,â he said, fast, before your voice cut off. âIâm sorry I couldnâtâit was short.â
Your breath stopped for a second, then you asked, forcing an even voice, âHow will I know youâre okay?âÂ
âIâll be fine. I got people watching my back, I swear.âÂ
âPlease, justââ
âBye,â he said, forcing his voice gentle. âTake care of yourself, okay? And the kid.âÂ
The sound you madeâwet and broken, landing like a wound heâd probably carry for six yearsâwas the last of you he let himself take. He set the receiver down slow, like slow made it kinder, before you could say his name again. Because he never would've managed it if you'd said his name again.
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A metaphor for vast physical or emotional distance, used to explore themes of loneliness and longing in an estranged relationship, with the Atlantic Ocean symbolising separation.
Jack Abbot has had a terrible eighteen months. Truly one for the books. Losing his mother, and then you, sometimes he wonders what the point is. If things will ever look up. Until you turn up at the Pitt, with a little girl who looks exactly like him.
warnings: this blog is 18+, mdni! this fic deals with grief, difficult births, depression, anxiety, and canon medical gore. it will also eventually contain explicit sexual content
âKnow I wanna beat it, wanna beat it bad
Oh, everyone looks happy in a photograph
I've crossed the county line, I cannot go back
I'm always on my own.â
-All Them Horses, Noah Kahan
summary: your family is in town for the annual âparents berating their kids for their decisionsâ get together. jack overhears you talking about how much easier it would be if you had a boyfriend to shove in their face, and offers his services. No strings attached, of course.
wc: 15.7k (steak is too juicy lobster is too buttery)
tags/tropes: jack falls first and harder, reader is an eldest daughter (but not the eldest child) to a large judgmental family who are constantly disappointed in her, jack pretty much uses the fake dating as a chance to show reader what a good boyfriend he COULD be to her if she let herself have nice things, jack 'i'll pay for it' abbot, jack is YEARNING in this one, a teeny bit of mean dom jack as a treat
a/n: how are we all feeling about the latest noah kahan album. Doors is great. i do NOT repeat timestamp 2:14-2:21 of All Them Horses. iâm normal and can be trusted with noah kahanâs discography. fic has been crossposted on ao3 and is linked below :)
acknowledgements: thank you @wesandresons for the amazing gif and @saradika-graphics, @chrisssiren, and @uzmacchiato for the dividers! and thank you @leeknowpegger for your work in keeping up morale and being deranged with me
masterlist | ao3
âYour familyâs in town?â
Youâre at the nurses station, tucked into a corner with your head in your hands while Shen, of course, drinks what has to be his third Dunkin coffee of the day. Where heâs getting them is one of the worldâs strangest unsolved mysteries.Â
You canât see his face, on account of the heels of your hands being pressed into your eyes so hard stars are bursting and swirling behind your eyelids, but you can hear the grimace in his tone.Â
âYeah. I moved out here to get away from them, but they decided to host the annual family dinner circuit here in Pittsburgh instead. My mom always complains about how itâs such a huge imposition to have the entire family fly out, but I never asked to do it and offered to just fly to them on multiple occasions. Apparently, my work schedule is too hard to work around.â
âDinner circuit?â
You wave a hand. âItâs actually a lunch circuit now, since I work nights. Basically, for every single day that theyâre here everybody has to attend a lunch, no matter what. Most of the time theyâre at different restaurants, but sometimes my mom demands to have them at my place.â
âYikes,â The attending says, sipping on the last bits of his coffee, âAnd the whole successful doctor thing doesnât work on them? It got my parents off my back.â
You shake your head. âIâm the only doctor in the family, but they thought I shouldâve been a hospitalist or go into general surgery.â
The sound of ice being shaken in a plastic cup rings in your ears. âThereâs money in emergency medicine. Eventually.âÂ
âThereâs money in all medicine eventually,â You groan, lifting your head and leaning against the wall, blinking dazedly up at the flickering fluorescent lights. âIâm sure if I'd picked general surgery they wouldâve found a problem with that too.â
âSo your fucked, basically.â
Your eyes slip shut again. âYep. Anything short of showing up with a rich boyfriend and a promise of grandkids on the way wonât get my mom off my back.â
Shen clasps you on the shoulder. âBest of luck with that. Youâre the only intern the night shift has got, so weâd rather you donât off yourself via poisoned wine.âÂ
âI wouldnât do poison. Iâd choke on bread so theyâd have to live with the guilt of not being able to save me.â
âJesus fuck, man. I mean, clearly, they suck, but thatâs brutal.â
You shrug. âNot as brutal as my mom not coming to my med school graduation.â
He gapes. âWhat reason could she have possibly had for not showing up?â
âI told her at dinner the night before that I was going into emergency medicine.â
âThatâsâŠâ Shen trails off, flabbergasted, ââŠWow. Now I'm worried youâre going to kill one of them.â
âWay too much effort. They arenât worth the jail time.â
The attending tosses his now empty coffee in a nearby trash can. âWell, if you snap and kill them all in a fit of extremely valid rage, please donât call me. I canât afford to be implicated.â
âYou saying I canât hide a body myself?â
âIâm saying I canât hide a body.â
âWhoâs hiding bodies?â Jack says, sidling up to the two of you with a tablet and a chart open in his hand.Â
Shen jams a thumb in your direction. âSheâs killing her parents later today.âÂ
You roll your eyes. âIâm not. Honestly, so long as I agree with whatever my mom says and donât bring up any trigger topics, Iâll be fine.â
Jack snorts. âYouâre describing being held hostage by someone mentally unstable.â
âDr. Intern?â Ellis interrupts, using the stupid nickname Santos picked for you when she found out youâre the only PGY1 on the night shift, âThereâs a woman in the lobby here to see you. Says sheâs your mom.â
Your stomach drops to your feet and your heart seizes in your chest. âItâs six in the morning. Oh my god. Oh my god.â
Someone behind you says âHoly shit,â but youâre already gone. As youâre speed walking you whip out your phone, checking the dates of their flights that youâd only had a chance to skim andâ fuck. They got in an hour ago. Why the fuck would she stop here? At the PTMC?
You practically slam the doors open and make eye contact with your mom across the crowded lobby.Â
âMom?âÂ
âThere you are sweetie. I was trying to explain that thereâs nothing wrong with me and I was here to see you, but they wouldnât let me. Something about a security issue?â
âItâs not safe. Weâve had incidents in the pastââ
She waves a hand, dismissing you. âIâm your mother. Honestly, I wouldnât have had to come down here if youâd just respond to my texts.âÂ
âIâve told you mom, Iâm really busy here and I donât get very much time to look at my phoneââ
âYour brothers take the time out of their busy schedules to text me back,â She sighs, then continues on, âDid you get time off this week for dinner?â
You frown. âI thought we were having lunch.â
âWell, I figured since weâre all making it easier for your work schedule to come to you, you could manage to take a few days off for your family. But if we need to make an extra effortââ
âItâs fine, mom,â You tell her with a gritted-toothed smile, âI can make something work. Can you just send me the dates again?â
âItâs this Friday and Saturday.â
Before you can even open your mouth to respond, a large, warm hand settles on your shoulder. Accompanied by the hand is a steadying one on your lower back, a familiar, rich scent and a low voice.Â
âCan I help you, maâam?âÂ
Jack.Â
Jack fucking Abbot.Â
Hottest man in the ED. Probably in the world.
Your mom blinks, clearly caught off guard, before regaining her judgy senses and narrowing her eyes at him.Â
âIâm trying to have a conversation with my daughter. Donât tell me youâre security.â
You know for a fact that Jack has his stethoscope around his neck and his keycard in his scrub pocket that says âDOCTORâ on it, so your momâs just being bitchy. Figures.Â
Jackâs hand in your shoulder gives you a tiny, reassuring squeeze before he speaks.Â
âIâm Dr. Abbot,â He sticks out a hand for her to shake, the one that was on your shoulder, âIâm an attending here at the ED.â
And my boss, you mentally add. Your mom probably hears it anyway.Â
âYou work with my daughter?â
âYes maâam. Sheâs the most promising intern we have here on the night shift.â
Your lips twitch at his words. Heâs joking. Testing your motherâ youâre the only PGY1 on the night shift. If your mom remembers that, sheâll pick up on his joke.Â
She doesnât. She purses her lips for a moment before giving him one of her big, fake smiles.Â
âWell thatâs good to hear. Weâre very proud of her.â
Proud of the money I send home, maybe.Â
âIf youâll excuse us, I need her working on patients.â
âOh yes, of course,â Your mom gushes, clearly already charmed by Jack. He has that effect on people. âI didnât realize she was so important and busy here.â
You would if youâd ever let me talk about work before interrupting me and telling me what I should be doing better.Â
Jackâs thumb makes tiny sweeping motions on your lower back, little tingling motions that distract you enough to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders.Â
âIâll text you as soon as I can, okay mom?â
Your mom sweeps you into a hug, a rare show of affection. Putting on a show for Jack, more than likely.Â
âNo rush. Whenever you get the chance, sweetheart.â
Jack gives her a parting nod, but you wait until your momâs turned around and walking out of the lobby before allowing Jack to steer you back inside.Â
The second the doors close behind you and youâre enveloped in the sounds and smells of the heart of the PTMC, you shut your eyes and release a long exhale.Â
âI,â You start, âAm so sorry. I never thought sheâd show up here, I got the flight times mixed upââ
âHey,â Jackâs voice is low and steady, a much needed anchor. He uses the hand still on your lower back to turn you towards him, âNone of that was your fault. We deal with patients like that every day. It is not your job to keep your mother in line.â
âI know. I know. Still, Iâm sorry. She can be⊠difficult.â
He snorts. âUnderstatement of the year. But seriously. Donât worry about it. If I didnât want to get involved with her, I wouldnât have swooped in there.â
You huff a laugh. âMy hero. Iâm pretty sure if youâd introduced yourself as my boyfriend she wouldâve had an aneurysm. Or a heart attack.â
âAre those desired outcomes?â
âMostly.â
He slides his hands into his pockets and leans against the opposite wall. âMight be worth a shot, then.â
Itâs a very well kept secret that youâve harbored an embarrassing, âthink about him while youâre falling asleep at nightâ crush on Jack.Â
So naturally, your response is to laugh. Loudly. And semi-awkwardly. Because he has to be joking. Obviously.
âYeah, right,â You say, looking down at your feet because eye-contact has never been your forte and Jackâs gaze is too intense, âCould even take you to dinner with me. Maybe my dad would have a heart attack too. Really just wipe out the whole family.â
âYou could.â
âWipe out my entire family?â
âTake me to dinner with you.â
Jackâs body is relaxed and his tone is even. Not light and humor-filled. Thereâs no mischievous uptick to the corner of his lips. He looks like heâs serious.Â
âAre you joking?â
He canât really be serious. Heâs probably just fucking with you. He wouldnât actuallyâ
âNo.â
You run a hand over your hair. âYeah, sure, laugh it up, hahaââ
âIâll go to dinner with you. As your boyfriend.â
What. The. Fuck.Â
âNo.â You gape, incredulous.Â
âNo?â He raises an eyebrow.Â
âNo, I meanâ fuck. Dr. Abbotââ
âJack.âÂ
You purse your lips. âJack. You canât just⊠pretend to be my boyfriend at a family lunch.â
âWhy not?â
âWhy not?â You sputter, âFor one, we hardly know each otherââ
âYouâve been working here for three months. Weâre hardly strangers.â
âYouâre my boss, your way older than me, youâreââ You cut yourself off before you can say something embarrassing like âyouâre ridiculously fucking hot and I havenât washed my socks in monthsâ, âIt wouldnât even be believable. How would we even have met?â
âIn the ED, obviously.â
âHow long have we been together?â
âMonth and a half.â
âWhy are we even dating?â
âBecause youâre a beautiful and intelligent woman, not to mention a good doctor.â
Your mouth goes dry, and your stomach does an entire gymnastics routine.Â
âHave you⊠thought about this?âÂ
He makes a noncommittal hum, tilts his head back a bit. âWould it work?â
âAre you rich?âÂ
Thereâs that devilish, pants dropping smile.Â
âIâm a senior attending on night shifts in an emergency department. Iâm comfortable.â
You worry your lip between your teeth. âI still canât⊠I appreciate the offer, but I canât subject you to my family. No one else should have to suffer through these lunches and dinners.â
âBut you do?â
âTheyâre my family.âÂ
Jack doesnât respond, but he doesnât move off the wall and walk away either. Distantly, you really hope a patient isnât coding somewhere.Â
You sigh. âWhy would you even offer, anyway?âÂ
âYou need help, and Iâm in a position to give it. Plus life has been kind of boring recently. My therapist told me to pick a new hobby that doesnât involve people dying or getting shot at.â
âSo you thought spending an evening being subjected to backhanded questions, comments, and not very subtle micro-aggressions was a good substitute?â
âBeats drinking beer in the park.â
You canât say yes. Itâs crazy. One, it would make your crush a million times worse and you might never recover on that fact alone, and two, when this inevitably blows up in your face, your family will never let you live it down and bring it up in literally every conversation for the rest of your life.Â
On the other hand, if it works, it will work. Your mom would probably get off your back for a while. You wouldnât be a complete and total disappointment. If it works, it would be a much needed win.Â
âSo. Weâve been dating for a month and a half?â
Jack nods, another smile playing at his lips. âI asked you out, of course.â
âFlowers?â
âNaturally.â
âYou pay?âÂ
âFor every meal.â
âWhatâs my favorite color?â
âNavy blue. Mine?âÂ
You roll your eyes. âBlack. What are we going to tell my mom when she pokes at the age gap?â
Someone rushes by, pager beeping, and you both wordlessly start moseying towards your respective patients.Â
âWill she really be that upset about it?â
âProbably not, but sheâll definitely ask about it. My dad will probably be angry, but heâs easier to placate than my mom is.â
Jack hums thoughtfully. âWhenâs the lunch today?â
âTwelve-thirty, at that Italian place that has that mussel dish.â
âHow about this,â He starts, apparently not needing anymore clarification on the location, âLets focus on finishing our shifts right now. Then go home, get some sleep, and Iâll pick you up at eleven so you can pick my brain for every detail that you want to make this work. Deal?â
Last chance to back out. Say hell no, this is a crazy idea, why would you even volunteer for it, I changed my mind.Â
âDeal.â
â
Holy fucking shit. Jack Abbot is your boyfriend.Â
Fake boyfriend. But for the next few hours, heâs as good as yours. Kind of.
In a way.Â
Youâre standing in front of your bathroom mirror, dressed in the outfit you picked out for the stupid lunch when your mom texted you the plane ticket details a month ago.
Neither your makeup nor your hair are cooperating and you really need them to because you have to be perfect, so you need your mascara and stop clumping and your hair to stop laying like that and you just donât want to fucking go.Â
Before frustration induced tears can ruin your half-done makeup, a knock sounds at the door.Â
You rush through your apartment, nearly cracking your skull open on the corner of the couch when you trip over a stray shoe.
Shit, heâs here and youâre not ready, god heâs going to be so upset you have to make him wait itâs so rudeâ
âHi!â You swing open the door and plaster what you hope is a cute-frazzled smile and not a panicked one. Itâs a thin line between the two, âIâm almost ready, Iâm so sorry, you can come in and sit down wherever, I promise I wonât take too long to finish up. Sorry.â
You turn, unable to bear the anger or frustration on his face and dart away (an old methodâ hiding and disappearing is much better for everyone in the long run) but a hand encircles your wrist before you can successfully escape.Â
âWoah, easy girl. Nobodyâs mad at you. We have time, remember?â
Your smile is definitely coming across as panicked.Â
Your nails wander and find a hangnail to pick at while you talk. âI know, but that was so weâd have time to plan and itâs rude to make you wait and I really need time to plan, but I canât get my makeup to look rightââ
Jack nudges you into the house and you cut yourself off with another apology. Right. Cause heâs just standing in the hallway and youâre rambling on like someone deranged. God. Why canât your brain just work? Get into gear? Actually function properly?
âFirst of all,â Jack starts, gently steering you towards your couch, âYou look beautiful.â
Why does he have to say these things? Has he no care for what heâs doing to your heart? Is he unaware that Simone Biles would be impressed with the flip routine your stomach is currently doing?Â
He places a throw pillow in your hands which were previously clenched in your lap. Itâs your favorite throw pillow, actually, because the texture is very soothing. You squeeze it and rub your fingers across the grain.Â
âSecondly, we donât have to do this if you donât want to. I can go home and go to bed and if you want, Iâll never bring it up again. Not even to Robby.â
You crack a wobbly smile. âNot even to Nurse Evans?â
âSheâd probably guess on her own, but I would never confirm her suspicions.âÂ
You tuck your feet under your legs, shrinking into the corner of your couch. âI couldnât even if I wanted to. I already texted my mom to add a person to the reservation, and if I show up without a plus one thereâll be hell to pay.â
âYou could swap me with someone else?â
âDo you think I would have agreed to let my boss be my fake boyfriend if I had someone else to bring?â
The corner thread of your throw pillow has begun unraveling, and your wandering fingers pull and tug at it erratically.Â
âIâm sorry. Iâm not usually this neurotic, I swear. My family brings out the worst in me.â
âI ainât judging, sweetheart,â Jack soothes, âBesides. Weâre ER doctors. Weâre all a little neurotic.â
Steadfastly avoiding his gaze (again, just a little too knowing, like he can see every insecurity youâre trying to hide) you stand on shaky legs and rush to the bathroom.Â
âIâll just. Finish up. Sorry again.â
âIâm gonna start a tally of unnecessary sorryâs. Youâre gonna owe me an hour of overtime for each one.â
Oddly enough, getting ready (the rest of the way) feels much more manageable and much less difficult with Jack nearby. He doesnât critique how long it takes you, the fact that you change earrings three times, or tell you that you look good enough and should just go.Â
He just hangs out in your living room, on the couch, practically oozing calm and nonchalance. The foolish, romance-starved part of you wants to cancel on your mom and spend the rest of the day curled up next to him on the couch, like a cat. Lazily dozing while Jack watches TV or something sounds like a much better way to spend your time after work than experiencing all five stages of grief over the course of one lunch. Repeatedly.Â
Finally ready, and with your sanity intact thanks to Jack, you pause by the kitchen and debate the merits of taking a shot to loosen your nerves. Unfortunately, your mom would undoubtedly somehow smell the alcohol on you and no doubt chew you out for a minimum of twenty minutes. Heaven forbid you make the event bearable.
Ever the kind host, you peek your head around the kitchen wall. âDo you want a shot, Jack?â
âYouâre aware that Iâm fifty?â
Right. That's probably an unhinged question.
âJust thought Iâd offer,â You say, meekly tucking the bottle back under the shelf, slightly embarrassed, âSometimes alcohol is the only way I can survive these things.â
Heâs leaned up against the couch, hands in his pockets when you exit the kitchen. âIt was very considerate, thank you. But I think the days of vodka and tequila shots are behind me. Iâm more of a whiskey man, anyways.â
âIâll keep that in mind when we end up at a bar afterwards to drink away memories of the lunch.â
Jack raises an eyebrow. âYou act like weâre going to be hung, drawn, and quartered after showing up.â
You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. âSorry. I just donât want you to be unprepared, because theyâre not always bad but when theyâre bad theyâre bad, you know? And I just donât want to scare you off, and ruin the day you could be spending sleeping, and I really am thankful, by the way, I just donâtââ
âDo you always ramble when youâre worried?â Jack interrupts, tilting his head to the side.
âUm. No? I donât know. I try not to. But like I said. My family brings out the worst in me.â
He searches your face for a moment, then taps the underside of your chin with a crooked finger, raising it slightly.Â
âWe got this, okay? Iâm not easy to scare. Combat med vet, remember? Plus, if it really gets that bad, Iâll fake a call from the hospital. Say there was some horrible accident and weâre being called in.â
âWonât my mom get wise when she never hears it on the news?â
Jack shrugs. âItâs the city. Something horrible is always happening here.â
He holds the front door open for you when youâve got your shoes on and purse ready, but as youâre sliding past him, he leans down, the angle of his jaw almost brushing the side of your neck, and breathes in deeply.Â
âYou smell good.âÂ
Fuck the gymnastics routine. Your stomach is going for Olympic Gold.Â
âOh,â You exhale, a shiver running up your spine and a pleasant tingling sparking where your skin barely brushed his, âUhâ Thanks. Vanilla and spice. I like layering scents.â
âItâs nice. Suits you.âÂ
You manage to squeak out another awkward âThanksâ before hastily locking the door, hoping he canât tell just how flustered he keeps making you. Judging by the smile playing at his lips, your hopes are in vain.Â
The car ride to the restaurant is longer than it should be, on account of Pittsburgh traffic, but the time goes by quickly as you pepper Jack with questions to prepare for the million and one that your mother will no doubt ask.Â
(âWhat should I say if she asks if weâve slept together?â
âDo you really, honestly, truly think your mother is going to bring up the topic of sex at the table, in a nice restaurant, with your entire family present?â
âFair point.â)
By the time you arrive, youâve picked and torn every single hangnail and loose cuticle around your fingers down to raw flesh and tiny dots of blood. Jack parks the car (parallel parks easily in one go, no repositioning needed, in downtown Pittsburgh. Itâs one of the hottest things youâve ever seen in your life) a good distance away from the restaurant, so that your family wouldnât be able to see you if you decided to flee to his car to escape them.Â
At least, thatâs what he says.Â
âI want you to hang onto the car keys, okay? If they get too much, you can sneak out through the kitchen and go to the car. Iâll meet you there.â
You canât help but smile at his efforts. âAnd what will you be doing while Iâm sneaking out?â
âSinging your praises, of course.â
Exhaustion from the shift you worked in what seems like a lifetime ago lines your limbs, but as you step out of the car (through the door Jack insists on opening for you âIn case theyâre still watching,â) and loop your arm through Jackâs, you feel⊠almost capable.Â
The lunch is going to suck. Thatâs a given. But Jack assured you heâs seen worse (âProbably done worse, sweetheart,â) and will not leave the lunch in a fit of rage and cause a scene. His arm is firm and solid âand fucking huge, how are his biceps that bigâ under your arm, and his presence is steadying.Â
As you cross the street and begin your final walk towards the building, he un-loops his arm from yours, but after you make a questioning noise in your throat, worried youâd be completely untethered (how pathetic to already be this reliant on a man, but thereâs no time to unpack that now) but instead he wraps his arm around your waist instead, drawing you to his side and effectively grounding you to his body.Â
The entire left side of your body lights up at the contact, and if this were your apartment, it would be very difficult to refrain from climbing him like a tree or doing something equally embarrassing, like plastering yourself to his side and begging him to never stop touching you.Â
Youâve almost managed to come off unaffected, but then he leans down, lips almost brushing your ear, and whispers:Â
âYouâve got this, baby. And if you donât, I do.â
Forget your family. Jack Abbot is going to be the death of you.Â
When you walk into the restaurant, hyper-aware of Jackâs grip on your body (your delusional mind has you thinking how⊠possessive the hand almost feels, if you ignore the fact that this is all fake) your family is waiting in the foyer, talking amongst themselves.Â
Your mother immediately zeroes in on you. âHoney, weâve talked about you being on time to these things. You canât be late to important familyââ
You watch in real time as your motherâs gaze finally flicks to Jack, and the shades of recognition, shock, almost disgust, and confusion before settling back into forced pleasantness.Â
Your father, however, looks downright murderous. Looks like the age gap isnât going down too well.Â
If Jack is at all nervous or put off by the several stares and outright glares from your family, he does not show it. He exudes cool confidence, the same unflappable energy he has during chaotic night shifts. The same calm that makes him so alluring to you in the first place.Â
He sticks out his hand for your mother to shake, a mirror of earlier that day in the PTMC lobby.Â
âI believe weâve met before, but Iâll introduce myself again. Iâm Dr. Jack Abbot.â
Your mother shakes his hand, but looks between the two of you like youâve just spilled wine on her Persian rug that she canât afford in the first place.Â
âYouâre my daughterâs plus one?â
Jack nods. âHer boyfriend, yes.â
Your brotherâs gape. Your dadâs glare intensifies. You want to kiss Jack.Â
âHoney,â Your mother says, gaze darting to you, âYou didnât sayââ
âI didnât want you to meet him at the hospital,â You tell her, hoping the lie doesnât come across as too rehearsed, since you did rehearse it several times with Jack in the car on the way over, âThe lobby of the hospital isnât the best place to introduce people. And we really did have patients to get back to.â
Your mother purses her lips. âWhy the last minute addition? If youâd told me that he was coming before today, it wouldâve been easier to make the reservation.â
Jack is quicker to respond than you. âThatâs my fault, actually. I didnât think I was going to be able to come, what with my shifts as a senior attending, but when we met in the lobby I understood how important it was to make the time.â
You have to try hard not to smile at Jackâs not-so-subtle flex. Senior attending.Â
âYes, well. My daughter doesnât always stress the importance of these things.âÂ
Jackâs grip on your waist tightens ever-so-slightly at the backhanded remark, and your motherâs gaze darts to the point of contact. But your father jerks his head towards the tables before she can say anything. âIâm starving.â
Everyone files in behind him, with you and Jack at the back of the line. Again, he leans down to whisper to you.Â
âHowâd I do?â
You elbow him in the side. âWeâll discuss your performance after this is over.â
âLooking forward to it.âÂ
The hostess leads everyone over to a large table near a window (your mother is particularly about seating) and everyone finds a seat. One of your brothers, either as a test or just to be a shit (your moneyâs on the latter) slides into the open seat next to you before Jack can.Â
To his credit, Jack doesnât cause a scene, but he doesnât back down either. He just stares at your idiot brother for awhile before finally asking:Â
âDo you really wanna do this right now?â
Your brother must sense that Jack Abbot is not a man to be fucked with (just a man you want to fuck), and scurries to his own seat, tail between his legs.Â
Once everyone is seated and the food is ordered (you donât bother ordering anything other than the salad; Jack orders the most expensive thing on their menu. Heâs never seemed like one to care for finery and expensive Italian restaurants where you practically have to order in Italian, but again, his unfazed demeanor makes him fit in anywhere) your family immediately begins peppering him with questions. Questions you knew theyâd ask and appropriately prepared him for.Â
âSo. Dr. Abbotââ
âJust Jack is fine.â
ââHow long have the two of you been dating?â
âA month and a half.â
âWhyâd you start dating?â
You take a generous gulp of your wine.Â
âBecause your daughter is an incredible woman and an even better doctor.â
âDo you think sheâs pretty?â One of your brothers chimes in.Â
Jack takes it in stride, despite that not being a question you prepared. âIâd have to be blind and stupid if I didnât.â
You feel hot from the tips of your ears down to your toes.Â
Thatâs going in the mental folder.Â
âHave you always wanted to be a doctor?â
âPretty much. Took a bit of a detour as a combat medic first, though.â
âWhyâd you leave?âÂ
âHonorably discharged after I lost my right leg. Below the knee amputation.â
You drain the rest of your glass and inconspicuously motion to the waiter for more wine.Â
The table is silent for the customary length of time after someone drops the âgot a limb chopped offâ bomb. Your family is clearly mildly uncomfortable, but Jack just keeps sipping his drink, his free hand drifting down and brushing the side of your thigh.
Your dad clears his throat. Here we go. Home stretch. Final questions before weâre in the clear.Â
âMr. Abbotââ
âEither Doctor or Jack works.âÂ
Ooo. There was some bite in that one.Â
Your Dad frowns. He does not like to be interrupted or corrected. Youâve been on the receiving end of far too many hour long lectures (read: berating and borderline verbal abuse) to know better.Â
But Jack isnât his daughter. Jack is pretty much his equal. Actually, the fact that Jack not only served but is now a doctor places him above your father, by social conventions.Â
This no doubt infuriates your father. Heâs always hated it when he couldnât tear somebody down to his level. A true coward.Â
âJack,â Your dad continues, a trademarked forced smile to save face, âYouâre a smart man, yeah? Havenât you ever considered the age difference between the two of you might be a little much?âÂ
Yikes. Questioning Jackâs competency is not the way to go. Jack is very competent. And smart. And capable. Itâs really hot.Â
Your fake-boyfriend just reaches over and grasps your hand, over the table, and looks at you with such devotion in his eyes that you forget how to breathe.Â
âWar doesnât really lend to longevity. Iâve learned to hold on tight to things I care about.âÂ
For a moment, it doesnât feel fake. Thereâs raw, punched emotion in his voice, and his thumb rubs your hand gently. Like he really does care that much. Like he wants to hold on.Â
But then your brother fake-gags and your fake boyfriend looks away with that, heâs passed the tests, and the conversation moves onto to different topics. Jack laughs at all the right moments, doesnât bring up any argument-starting topics, doesnât rise to bait when itâs thrown his way.Â
Heâs perfect.Â
Eventually lunch is drawn to a polite close. You have one last glass of wine while Jack settles the bill. Himself. With one card. He doesnât even look.Â
Your mom sends a smirk your way after he waves off your fatherâs attempt at splitting the bill or offering to pay. Itâs probably the third time sheâs actually looked at you for the entire duration of the lunch, but since itâs positive, youâll let it slide.Â
Pretty soon bags are grabbed, hands are shook, and Jackâs hand magically finds its way back to your lower back and youâre being (very gently) escorted out of the restaurant and to the car.Â
âWow,â You breathe as you slide into the passenger seat of his car. âI think thatâs the smoothest a lunch with my family has ever gone in my entire life. Youâre really good at this.â
Jack doesnât respond though. Doesnât make any kind of noise that he heard you. His hands are nearly white knuckled on the steering wheel and heâs staring straight ahead.Â
âJack?âÂ
âThey didnât even talk to you.â
You blink.Â
âWhat?â
âYour family never tried to include you in the conversation. Didnât even ask you any questions.â
You snort. âTrust me, itâs better that way.â
He hasnât started the car yet, just keeps staring off into the middle ground. He canât be old enough to start doing a thousand yard stare already, right?
âYou ordered a salad.â He says, a very prominent frown on his lips.Â
âSo? It wasnât too expensive, was it? I swear, if I knew you were gonna pay for the whole bill I wouldâve looked at something cheaper, I donât know why salads are so expensiveââ
âPlease donât apologize for ordering a salad,â Jack says, voice pained, âEspecially because I know you hate salads.â
Oh.Â
âHow do you know that?â
âI overheard you talking to Dr. King that time you two were discussing the merits of Olive Garden. You said the salad there was the only kind you like, because of the dressing and the pepperoncinis.â
Your cheeks heat. âI never said I hated all salads. I said I like that one in particular.â
âYou hardly ate anything during lunch.â
âMy family tends to have that effect on my appetite.â
Jack does not look placated. He doesnât take the out that your little joke provides. Doesn't so much as huff. He looks upset. Distressed.Â
Something about what he said goes ding! in your mind.
ââŠMel and I had that conversation like, last month. You seriously remembered that?âÂ
He frowns harder, like the answer to your partly rhetorical question should be obvious.
(Itâs not. Why would he remember that conversation? Why would he care at all?)
âOf course I remember.âÂ
There isnât much to say after that. Youâre not really sure what in particular has upset Jack, what possibly blunder or error youâve made to incur him going completely monosyllabic and frowny. Ever eager to appease, you refrain from any attempts to cajole him, make conversation, breathe too loudly, or make any kind of indication that youâre still present.Â
The tension in the car is thick and uncomfortable. It prickles at your skin and the hairs on the back of your neck, but the only thing you dare to do is scroll through Pinterest, only looking at the safest, basic boards in case Jack glances over (he doesnât.)
But then he does glance over. He just doesnât look at your phone.Â
Jack just keeps looking at you.Â
Heâll look over, eyes darting over your face like heâs looking for something, and then heâll look away. Over and over for almost the entire course of the drive. He only stops when you accidentally time your staring (monitoring) of him wrong and make eye contact.Â
He parks by your place (he once again sexily parallel parks with ease) and then puts the car in park. And then he starts talking.Â
âYouâre so much more than them.âÂ
Jack has the heat on, but the air in the car suddenly feels cold.Â
âWhat?â
âYour family,â Jack clarifies, like that was the confusing part âYour parents. I hated watching you⊠disappear like that. You deserve better than that. You are better than that.âÂ
You try to swallow, almost choking on the sudden lump in your throat.Â
âListen,â You start, unaware of how to even begin processing what he said, let alone formulating the best response because your brain is just flashing abort! Abort! Abort! in big neon letters,, âThank you for today. I really appreciate it. But if this is all just too much, I can handle things from here. Really. I can say that someone called out and you had to cover shiftsââ
âNo.â
Jack says it with such vehemence, bordering on vitriol, that it startles you, and you flinch backwards ever so slightly.Â
An old habit.Â
Something flashes across his face âgone before you can decipher itâ and he noticeably forces himself calmer. Â
âI wouldnât be able to live with myself if I let you go alone again. Ever.âÂ
Your brain starts short-circuiting at his words. âI really canât ask you toââ
âItâs a good thing youâre not asking me then.âÂ
âJackââ
âPlease.â
Youâre stunned silent at the rawness in his toneâ the pain.Â
He said please. He said it like he was begging. He is begging.Â
âI donât know how you do it,â He continues, jaw working, âI can see it on you, plain as day. How you hate what they do, how it makes you hurt. But you keep going.â
You shrug uselessly. âIs there another option?âÂ
Jack reaches out for you, then falters, like he thought better. A tiny part of you wishes heâd followed through; bridged the yawning gap between the two of you thatâs made up of the center console in his car, a couple decades, and your own unwillingness to try at vulnerability.Â
âIâll walk you to your door.âÂ
The walk to your door is a stark contrast to the walk to the restaurant. Thereâs no mischief on his face now, only a mask of stony distress.Â
At the doorway to your apartment building, you pause. It seems customary. Appropriate. Necessary.
Really, you just want to look at Jack some more. Try to puzzle out why the lunch that felt like it went so well made him so upset. Where youâre getting signals wrong and crossing wires. Why success to you is failure to him.Â
(As an ED resident, youâve seen child abuse cases. Youâve seen foster care children littered with cigarette burns and criss-crossing scars of broken bottles and the corners of coffee tables and haunted eyes. Â
You know your family isnât great. But there arenât any cigarette burns or glass scars or eyes that track fast movement.)
You have this burning inclination to apologize to Jack. Logically, you know you havenât done something wrong, but you feel like you have because heâs upset so maybe you can make it better?Â
âYou have that look on your face.â
You frown. âWhat look?âÂ
âThe âIâm gonna apologize for something stupidâ look.â
âI wasnât going to.â
âYou were thinking about it,â Jack ducks down, catches your eyes, âHey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.âÂ
âItâs freaky when you do that.â
âDo what?â
âYou always know what Iâm thinking.â
Jack just huffs; shoves his hands in his pockets.Â
Emboldened by his reassurance, you ask: âWhy are you upset?âÂ
âBecause your family treats you like shit, and I want to fix it, but I canât.âÂ
âOh.âÂ
Itâs not that bad. It canât be that bad. Youâve seen bad. This isnât it. Itâs hard, but itâs not bad.Â
He stays quiet, seemingly sensing the inner turmoil his words have sparked. That, or he really is that good at reading you.Â
Jack nods towards your door. âWe can talk later. Get some sleep. We both have shifts tonight.â
Right. Yeah. All of these events roughly occurred over the course of six hours. Time makes sense.Â
Despite the fact that you are exhausted and desperately need to sleep if you have any chance of surviving your âquickly approachingâ shift, you linger.Â
âHow am I supposed to repay you for all of this?âÂ
The question thatâs been burning a hole in your pocket since he said Iâll do it.Â
He just shakes his head. Like itâs simple. Easy. âThis isnât something I want repayment for. Now go. Youâre no good to me as a zombie.âÂ
âIâll just have some of Shenâs Dunkin.â
âHe doesnât share that shit. Besides, heâs off tomorrow.â
âMaybe Iâllââ
âSleep,â He points at your door, âNow.âÂ
You smile at his insistence. Heâs sort of like cold coffee with sugar. Seems all bitter but then you get a bit of that sweet crunch, so it balances out. He balances out.Â
Sometimes it feels like he balances you out.Â
âGoodnight.â
He gives you a little smile of his own.Â
âGoodnight.â
â
Jack Abbot does not take his own advice. Mostly because he knows if he doesnât talk about what happened during that lunch from hell, heâs going to do something that will end in him being thrown in prison and having his medical license revoked. More importantly, if that happens, he wonât be around to take care of you.Â
So instead he collapses on his couch, works his prosthetic off to give his stump a needed break, and dials the number at the top of his favorites in his contact list.Â
âThis really isnât a good timeââ
âRobby,â Jack starts, âThey didnât even fucking talk to her.âÂ
âJesus, okay. Whitaker! Cover for me a sec, will you? I gotta deal with this.â
âThey justâŠâ Jack continues, genuinely at a loss for words. His vocabulary feels woefully unequipped to relay the depth of anger he feels about the events of the lunch, ââŠIgnored her. They talked over her, didnât ask her questions, hardly ever let her finish speaking when she did finally get a chance to speak, and threw jabs at her constantly. It was fucking awful.â
The background noise quiets over the phone, and Jack knows Robbyâs moved to either the break room or an empty patient room.Â
âShe fight back at all?â
âNo. Just⊠grinned and beared it. It was fuckinâ unsettling, man. Iâve seen her yell back at rude patients, watched her stand her ground to EMTâs who think they know better. It was like she hollowed herself out to sit at that table.âÂ
âChrist.â
âShe flinched away from me. Afterwards, in the car, when I raised my voice on accident.â
âFuck. Do you thinkââ
âI donât know. Maybe when she was younger. They donât live in state, so if they are, sheâs safe.âÂ
Jack scrubs a hand down his face. âGod. I donât know what to do, Robby. It doesnât seem like sheâs got⊠anybody. She didnât even understand why I was upset. She doesnât get why that would be upsetting.âÂ
âSheâs friends with Mel and Santos, right?âÂ
âAnd Whitaker by extension, yeah. But those are recent friends. Iâve never heard her mention anybody from back home. No boyfriend or best friend or anything. Sheâs just been doing everything on her own.â
Jack can picture Robby nodding. âWeâve done our fair share of that.â
âYeah, and look where that got us. I canât just leave her here. Fuck, it was like watching someone kick a puppy, over and over.âÂ
âThat bad?âÂ
âYeah.âÂ
The line goes silent for a bit, both men stewing on the subject at hand.Â
âSheâs always had these habits. I thought they were just personality quirks, you know. I mean, weâre all fucked up, but watching it happenâŠâ
âItâs different.âÂ
âYou could say that,â Jack sighs, âShe soaks up praise like a fucking sponge. She looks surprised every time I do something nice for her. And she keeps trying to make me happy.â
âYou lost me on that last one.âÂ
âIt doesnât⊠Sheâs not doing it to make me happy, exactly. She just does everything she can to keep me from getting mad.âÂ
âIs there a difference?â
âThere is. Eager to please versus eager to appease.â
âAre you sure you want to get involved?â
âBit late for that.â
âYou could pull back.â
âFuck no, I canât. Then Iâd be kicking the puppy.â
âShe is a grown woman.â
âWho happens to look like a kicked puppy.â
He scrubs a hand down his face, groaning into the microphone.Â
âYou finally realize how ridiculous you sound?â
Jack grunts. âIâm not giving you the satisfaction of answering that.â
The line crackles with the staticky sound of Robby chuckling. âThatâs an answer in it of itself, and you know that.âÂ
He lets the line go quiet again, briefly debating just hanging up.Â
âI donât know, Robby. Itâs justâŠâ
âWorse than you expected?â
âYeah.â
âCome on. You knew that was a possibility. Has it put you off, at all?â
âFuck no.â
âExactly. Now please, go to bed so I can get back to saving lives? Whitaker is covering for me and heâs only gone through two pairs of scrubs so far today. Iâm not a betting man, but if I were, Iâd bet money that heâs moved onto his third during this conversation.âÂ
âI save lives too.â
âYou wonât save any if you fall asleep on the drive over and die.â
âI would never fall asleep behind the wheel.â
âThatâs what they all say.âÂ
Jack really does hang up after that, plugging his phone in and rushing through everything he needs to do before bed.Â
But even as exhaustion pulls his body down into deep, dreamless sleep, he canât stop thinking about that hollow look on your face. And he knows, even half-asleep, that he wonât be able to let it go.
â
The next night at work is weird, because nothing has changed, except now you know what the inside of Jackâs car looks like and how his voice sounded when he begged you to let him help.Â
Itâs jarring, to say the least. Unsteadying and mildly world-rocking if youâre being honest.Â
But gossip travels fast within the walls of the PTMC, so by the time night shift is halfway over, youâre convinced youâve heard every variation in existence of the same two questions:Â
âDid you and Jack go on a date yesterday?âÂ
And:Â
âWhatâs Jack like on a date?âÂ
The answer to the first question is complicated and embarrassing, so you donât answer it or any of itâs variants. The answer to the second question is not complicated but it does, however, stir some very complicated feelings, so you refrain from answering that one too. You just try to refrain from thinking about or seeing him in general.
Youâre not avoiding Jack, per se. Just keeping busy. With other stuff. Thatâs conveniently nowhere near him.Â
Ellis keeps shooting you entirely too knowing looks, Mckay, whoâs pulling a double, pats your shoulder and tells you sheâs there if you want to talk, Shen is absent as Jack said he would be, and Jack himself is acting like nothing happened and everything is normal and heâs never been to your apartment smelled your perfume.Â
(ââŠI like layering scents.â
âItâs nice. Suits you.â)
Itâs all too much.
Hence the avoiding.
You try to curb your own ridiculousness for the sake of your patients, but itâs oddly difficult. Youâve always been amazing at compartmentalizing. If your family gave you any kind of skill, itâs the ability to shove your feelings in a box, and then shove that box in a corner of your mind you wonât access consciously until you end up on public transportation with your headphones. You should be more than capable of gathering up all the loose feelings labeled âFor: Jack Abbotâ and tucking them all nice and neat in that little box and then shove it in a dark mental corner.Â
But you canât. And along with the flurry of Jack Abbot causing a hurricane in your head, thereâs a lesser storm that is the result of your family. More specifically, how they look to Jack.Â
All roads lead back to Rome. Or, in your case, to Jack.Â
You catch yourself during every spare moment or menial task that doesnât require 100% of your brain power analyzing every interaction he had with them. Everything they said, everything they did, and how Jack wouldâve taken it. And why. Because clearly, the act of dealing with them isnât the problem. The ease and finesse in which he did so crosses that off the list. So itâs something else.Â
Itâs how they treat you.Â
You understand, logically, that it would be upsetting, from his point of view. If you were in his place, youâd also probably be upset too.Â
But this feels different. Jackâs reaction is different. Jack is different.Â
Itâs just never really been something that anyone should be upset over. Your family are who they are. Not great, but not truly bad either. You deal with them sparingly. You donât even live in the same state anymore. Itâs not a big deal.Â
âWhy are you hiding from me in a supply closet?âÂ
You whirl around, a box of gloves clutched in your hands.
âIâm not hiding from you.â
Jack crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. âThis is the third time youâve been here in two hours.â
âSo? I just want to be⊠on top of things. Iâm a productive person.âÂ
âYou are,â He amends, âBut all of your productivity tonight has been pretty strictly nowhere near me. Funny how that works.â
You sigh, placing the gloves back on the rack. âThings are just⊠weird, okay? I donât know how youâre being so normal about all this?â
Your fingers wander and find a loose piece of skin on the edge of your cuticle, and you begin absent-mindedly picking at it.Â
You canât exactly disagree with him, right here, in the supply closet at the hospital. But you canât quite bring yourself to agree eitherâ because whether he acknowledges it or not, things have changed. Seeing him outside the hospital, perfectly placating your family into one of the most peaceful get-togethers youâve had in years isn't just nothing.Â
Itâs everything. And you, for one, canât just pretend that it didnât happen.Â
âHey,â He calls your name softly, âWhatâs on your mind? Whatâs bugging you?âÂ
âNothing.â
He snorts, pushing off the doorframe and shutting the door behind him, so itâs just the two of you alone. âLiar.â
He doesnât probe any further, just leans against the now closed door with his hands in his pockets, eyes flitting over you like theyâre looking for an answer. An answer youâre too hesitant to give.Â
âIâm just worried.âÂ
âYou? Worried? No.âÂ
You cut him a glare, âThereâs a very real chance that this could all go horribly awry, you know.â
âSure,â Jack dips his head, âBut thatâs not what youâre really worried about.â
âAnd how do you know that?â
âBecause that doesnât address the fact that youâre avoiding me.â
You sigh, scrubbing a hand across your face.Â
âWhy do you care?âÂ
The question thatâs been nagging at you since the beginning. The little itch in the back of your mind that you just canât seem to get rid of. The puzzle you canât figure out; the tune you canât place.Â
Youâre a logic driven person. You like knowing how things worksâ why they work. Why things do the things they do.Â
You like having the why. Having the why makes the world make sense.Â
Nothing about Jack Abbot makes sense.Â
âWhy do I care about what?â
âThis,â You gesture vaguely to the air, âMe. I donât buy that you just didnât have anything better to do or whatever it was you said. People donât just⊠do that. Youâre really ruining your life for an entire week for what? So I'm a little less uncomfortable? Me? At the end of the day, weâre just coworkers. I know how important your down time is for you, so I just donât get why youâre so okay with being miserable just for my sake. Iâm not that important. These stupid lunches arenât that important.âÂ
Itâs a stupid confession. Much too vulnerable for a supply closet and a man youâre harboring feelings for.Â
He doesnât respond right away. Hums, stares at his shoes for a bit. Re-adjusts so his prosthetic isnât taking so much weight.Â
âYou are important. Youâre important to me, to this hospital, to your patients. And for the record, I am not âruining my week.â If it was that easy for my week to be ruined, I never would have become a doctor, let alone joined the military.â
âBut why?âÂ
âJesus, you watched a lot of the science channel growing up, didnât you?âÂ
You snort. âGuilty as charged.âÂ
Now itâs his turn to sigh.Â
âYou⊠seem to have this misguided belief that caring is reciprocal in nature.â
You frown. âIt is.âÂ
âIt isnât. At least it shouldnât be, but I donât think anyone ever told you that.âÂ
You scoff. âSo this is about my family.âÂ
He shrugs. âAmongst other things.â
âTheyâre not that bad.â
âThey are.âÂ
âOther people have it worse.â
âItâs not a competition.âÂ
You resist the urge to throw your hands in the air. âWhy is this such a big deal to you?âÂ
âBecause itâs a big deal to you.âÂ
The air gets quiet and tense. Like the supply closet and all the medical supplies in it are holding their breath. If they were alive, if they were holding their breath, youâre convinced theyâd all be looking at you.Â
Itâs Jack who speaks first though.Â
âI can see it. You do everything yourself, get back up even when itâs hard. You look out for other people more than you look out for yourself. Youâre selfless and kind and I donât think very many people give that back to you.âÂ
A reflexive smile pulls at your lips, a habit you never quite managed to kick after years of people telling you âsmile, look grateful, stop looking so upset, thereâs nothing to cry about.â It feels awkward and clunky on your mouth but you donât know what else to do. Thereâs no pre-written protocol for something like this.
âI still donât really get it.â You murmur, more to yourself than to Jack.
Jack sends you a light grin. âWeâll work on it.âÂ
âWe will?âÂ
âSure,â He shrugs, âAlready started anyways.âÂ
âIf youâre sure.âÂ
âIâm sure,â He opens the door, âNow get back out there. And bring the gloves too.â
You roll your eyes but comply, snagging the box off the shelf where youâd left it and following him out.Â
The rest of your shift passes much smoother than before, even with the routine influx of patients as the time inches closer to morning. Jack doesnât hover, but doesnât pull the disappearing act that you (totally fairly) pulled on him either. He truly seems unfazed. Like it really, actually doesnât bother him.Â
Well. Correction. It does bother him, but not because itâs something heâs doing for you, the part that bothers him (apparently) is how all of this affects you. All this caring makes you feel like a deer in the headlights.
You recall something he said that night. Something that had made you shiverâ something that hit the nail right on the head.Â
âHey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.âÂ
He always seems to know exactly what to say to you. How to act, what to do, what specific worry youâre feeling and the best course of action to soothe it. Itâs great but itâs also difficult, because thereâs a part of you that wants to let him keep doing it, but then thereâs the part of you that bristles every time and wants to snap that youâre completely capable of doing things yourself.Â
That probably wouldnât even work. Heâd just say something infuriating and sexy, like âI know, but I want to do this for you.âÂ
He would. He totally would.Â
The thought is equal parts haunting and reassuring.Â
(And maybe, also, a little, kind of really sweet?)
â
The next two lunches go great. Jack is still freakishly incredible at charming your family. And, with his help, you actually manage to hold a (mostly) civil conversation with your parents for the first time in⊠years.Â
The lunches are fine, but the part youâve started looking forward to is the before and after. Before, Jack comes to pick you up, and sometimes he comes early and helps prepare (which mostly involves him either talking you off the ledge, pouring a shot or two, or assuring you that your makeup and outfit look great. Not fine, great) or just to hang out. The hanging out part is nice, because he never comes with any sort of expectation. Heâll sit on your couch and scroll through his phone and entertain all the inane chatter you like to get out of your system beforehand but never had an outlet for before.Â
The after is even more fun. You run through the highlights of the night and hate on all the annoying things your family said to you. This usually also involves stopping somewhere for food (only for you, Jackâs never hungry because he eats t=at the restaurants but youâre never allowed to order anything that isnât a salad) and then the two fo you fight over who pays. You always insist since youâre the only one actually eating any of the food, but then Jack usually takes your card, puts it in his pocket, and uses his own.Â
Itâs as frustrating as it is hot.Â
But for the most part, the lunches and your shifts at work have actually been pretty goodâ as good as night shifts in a trauma center can be, anyway. Jackâs presence is⊠steadying, even when heâs not physically there. Heâs always present in some wayâ whether itâs little reminders he leaves at your favorite spot for charting (he only uses blue sticky notes) or a real lunch left for you in the breakroom fridge (you werenât previously aware he actually knew how to cook, or that he knew how picky you are when it comes to what youâll actually eat for lunch and how often you get too busy to properly make something.) Sometimes heâs there in your head; in little things heâs told or taught you that you remember in the moment.Â
Itâs nice. To have someone be around. Someone you can relax with, joke withâ someone who hasnât looked down on you for the the way you turned out.Â
You were pretty ready to declare smooth sailing ahead, but then on the third lunch your mother shows up and is decidedly not in a good mood and the seas turn choppy and the boat smashes into the rocks below.Â
At least, two peach bellinis in, thatâs what it feels like.Â
âHonestly,â Your mother puffs, âI donât understand why making some simple appetizers could take so long. This is why I hate going to restaurants during lunch hours, the staff just gets so lazy. The menu is always better at dinner anyways.âÂ
You ignore the thinly veiled dig and instead choose to quietly drain the rest of your third peach bellini. They taste like juice and take a much needed edge (or two) of the evening. Lunch. What-fucking-ever.Â
Jack, ever aware of the best way to survive these functions (somehow) whilst keeping his sanity, remains silent as your mom huffs and puffs, seeming to understand that trying to placate her when she gets in these moods is a fruitless endeavor that only leads to your mom getting more upset and everyone else more annoyed.Â
You, made slightly optimistic by the wonderful powers of alcohol, attempt to put her in a better mood.Â
âI have the next three days off, mom. Weâll be able to do dinners instead.â
Your mother, however, only scoffs. âThatâs no good to anyone now. Weâve already spent half this week dealing with poor restaurant service. I mean, no respectable job would have such a ridiculous schedule."Â
âIâm a doctor, mom. It doesnât get more respectable than that.âÂ
Jack nudges your leg with his, either a silent laugh, show of support, or quiet question of your sanity. Maybe all three.Â
Another bellini appears in front of you, this one heavier on the alcohol than the last. Your server is getting a giant tip when this is all over.Â
âYou work in the emergency department, dear. Thatâs hardly stable, and stable is respectable,â Jack clears his throat, and your mother at least has the manners to look mildly sheepish, âNo offense, Jack.âÂ
He smiles thinly. âNone taken.âÂ
Conversation from there is stilted at best with even your brothers tip-toeing around your mother. No one wants to be the subject of a nitpicking lecture, even when the version she gives them is a slap on the wrist compared to what you endure.Â
So you keep drinking your belliniâs and they keep coming. After your fourth, you think you should maybe slow down a little, but then your dad starts grilling Jack about his life (again) and you decide that alcohol is, in fact, necessary.Â
âHave you ever been in a serious relationship before, Jack?âÂ
That one almost makes you ask the server for a shot of vodka, straight. Thatâs a question you ask a nineteen year-old pimple-faced boy, not a fucking fifty year old man.Â
âI have, yes. But, like most things in life, they were learning experiences. Iâve moved on.âÂ
Your dad snorts, then gestures to you. âYou could teach her a thing or two about moving on.âÂ
Your blood runs cold.Â
Jack sets his glass down. âAnd what do you mean by that?â
Itâs your mother who answers. Because one vulture circling your soon-to-be carcass wasnât enough.Â
âIâm surprised she hasnât told you. It was all she ever talked about for years. Sheâs had exactly one boyfriend before youâ what was his name honey?â
âChristopher,â You answer hollowly, stomach churning.Â
Your dad snaps his fingers. âThatâs it. It took ages for her to get her first boyfriend. We were fairly convinced it would never happen, but then one day she came home with Christopher. Whole family wanted to throw a partyâ finally found someone to put up with all that attitude!â
Your family laughs, but Jack doesnât.Â
âWhereâs the funny part, in all this?â
Your mother clears her throat, just a tad awkward. âWhen she broke up with him it was awful. She refused to leave her room for works, cried all the time. Honestly, I would have understood if he had broken up with her, but it was all her decision.âÂ
Your dad nods in agreement. âWe had to have a sit-down conversation with her about decisions and consequences before she finally stopped crying and hiding in her room. Christopher was such a nice boy, we hated to see him go.â
Jack opens his mouth, poised to fire something back and defend you, but you beat him to the punch.Â
âHe cheated on me with my best friend.âÂ
At that, your mother frowns. âThatâs not what Christopher said. You were in your teen angst era, remember? Always picking fights? He told your brother that you were so distant with him he didnât know you were still together.âÂ
âI wasnât distant, I was really busy. I was studying for the MCAT. He knew that. He knew how important medical school was to me.âÂ
Your brother rolls his eyes. âMed school was all you talked about. Itâs not like you were putting out.â
Your mother snaps her fingers once. âThat is inappropriate talk for public. You know better.âÂ
âCome on, mom. Itâs true. Everyone knowsââ
âSorry to interrupt,â Jack says, not at all sounding sorry, âBut the hospital just texted. Thereâs an emergency, and weâre needed, so we have to go.âÂ
Jack does not wait for your mother or father to excuse him. He just stands, offering you his hand. It turns out that you need it, because there is, apparently, such a thing as too many peach bellinis. Your mom sends you a pointed glare as you stumble once, after which you make a concerted effort to look more sober.Â
Neither you nor Jack bother saying proper goodbyes. Once he grabs your jacket and purse (and your vision stops swimming so much and youâre sure you can walk in a convincing approximation of a straight line) youâre both gone. You pass your server on the way out, who is slipped a very generous cash tip for the excellent bellini service.Â
By the time you get to the car, you realize that youâre about to have to save patient lives and you are very, extremely, drunk. There is no way you are capable of doing any life-saving at the moment.Â
âJack,â You mumble, fumbling with your seatbelt, âI think Iâm too drunk to go in. Did they say how serious the emergency was? Can I just get a banana bag?âÂ
âThere is no emergency,â He says calmly, batting your hands away and buckling you in properly, âI made it up. I figured youâd be okay with ducking out of there.âÂ
âOh. That was nice of you.âÂ
He clicks you in and gives you a wry grin. âTold you I would handle things.â
You nod, the movement exaggerated and lopsided. âI hate it when they bring up Christpher. They always take his side. Like, is there ever a situation where itâs okay to cheat on a girl with her best friend? I was studying for the MCAT. I didnât even wallow or break up with him when I found out. I waited until after I took the exam so I didnât fuck up my score.âÂ
âThatâs my girl.âÂ
âChristopher was an asshole. He was a real dickhead. The whole situation sucked. I lost the only two people who I thought cared about me at the same time. My family acted like I was the fucking anti-christ for being upset about it, too. It was fucking terrible. Iâm so glad I donât live with them anymore. I mean, I still love them, and I care about them, cause theyâre my family, but everything is just so much easier when theyâre not around.âÂ
âYouâre allowed to hate them, you know.âÂ
âI know,â You say, fiddling with a hangnail. âI know I probably should.âÂ
You sigh, tilting your head back against the headrest. âI always keep holding out hope, you know? That one day theyâll apologize, figure their shit out, care about me in a way that matters. I know itâs stupid.â
âItâs not stupid.âÂ
You frown. âItâs not? It kinda seems stupid. Youâd think by now I would know better.âÂ
âNo,â Jack eases the car out of the parking space, âWeâre biologically wired to love our families. Itâs the reason why they can fuck you up so bad. Your brain canât compute why the people who are supposed to love you above all else just⊠donât. Not in any of the right ways.âÂ
You blow air through your lips. âI think my parents fucked me up. I was so happy when I matched into the Pitt, because it was so far away. But then I got out here it just kind of hit me, all at once, that I was alone. My best friend was gone, my ex boyfriend sucked, and I was too busy in med school taking care of myself and my family to make any friends.â
Shit, that sounds so whiny. âBut it turns out it wasnât so bad. Now I've got Mell, and Santos, and Iâm pretty sure Iâm friends with Shen too. Mckay is nice too. I like her. Sheâs cool.âÂ
Jack huffs something that could be a laugh, and you turn to study him; the angles of his face awash in the glow of the red light youâre currently stopped at. From here, you can see the tiny bits of tension he carries in his faceâ a slight pinch in his brow, the tiniest downturn of his lips. Itâs the only evidence that heâs not as unaffected by your family as he pretends to be.
Then the light turns green, and his face isnât illuminated the same.Â
âAnd what about me?âÂ
Oh. Well. Thatâs a loaded question.
The alcohol emboldens you to answer honestly. âI donât know what to think about you.âÂ
âOh really?âÂ
âMmm. Nope.âÂ
âHow come?âÂ
"You're soââ You gesture vaguely, âConfusing. I canât figure you out. For a while there, I was pretty sure you hated me, but then you offered to help me with this and you keep saying you care so I think Iâm wrong.âÂ
âYou think youâre wrong?â
âStill canât figure you out.âÂ
âAnd how can I show you that I mean it?âÂ
Thatâs. Hmm.
âI donât know. I think what youâre doing is working,â You pause, debating the pros and cons of continuing to just say whatever the fuck you want before deciding youâre too tired to care, âIt helps that youâre really hot.âÂ
His lips twitch. âOh, does it now?âÂ
âMhm. Youâve got this whole⊠capable thing about you. Itâs hot. Competency is in.â
âIf you say so.âÂ
âI do say so. I feel like if I had a problem I could call you or something and you would fix it. Youâre soâŠâ
âCompetent?âÂ
âThatâs the word.â
If heâs at all irritated, annoyed, or otherwise put off by your stupid rambling, he didnât show it.Â
âYou should call me whenever you have a problem. Chances are, I can fix it.âÂ
âAre you like Bob the Builder?â
âIâm a doctor, so no.âÂ
âYouâre kind of like Bob the Builder.âÂ
âWhatever you say,â He pauses at an empty intersection before continuing on, âBefore I start heading towards your place, do you want to stop by mine? You didnât even get to eat your salad, and I have leftovers. You can say no.â
âAre you gonna be mad at me if I say no?âÂ
âNo.âÂ
âThen yes.âÂ
âYou sure? I wasnât lying.âÂ
âI know. But I like your cooking.â
You spend the drive to Jackâs continuing to ramble about nothing and everything, to which he entertains with a seemingly endless amount of patience. The only time he interrupts is to hand you a bottle of Gatorade he procured from his back seat. Apparently, he bought a few to keep in his car after the first lunch. âFor any alcohol excursions.âÂ
Itâs freaky how prepared he is for every situation.Â
When you arrive, he unbuckles your seatbelt for you (unbuckling is just as difficult as buckling when youâve had an unknown amount of peach bellinis) and helps you up the stairs to his apartment.Â
His gigantic apartment.Â
âWoah,â You mumble as you shuffle through the doorway, pulled along by your hand in Jacks, âI didnât know they made apartments this size.âÂ
âIts not that big.âÂ
âI think, like, four of my apartments could fit in here. Your living room is the size of my entire place.âÂ
You stumble once, heel catching on the little rug on the entry way, and heâs immediately motioning for you to sit on the little bench by the door and pats his thigh once. You clumsily raise your leg, barely managing to land your foot on the general area he gestures to. He pulls the first shoe off, then repeats with the second with an air of total calm. Like this is normal and he does this all the time for you. Like you regularly find yourself drunk in his apartment.
You decide to unpack the moment when youâre sober.Â
âOne, itâs not that big, and two, thatâs what you get for renting a studio apartment.â
âLike you could afford better when you were an intern.âÂ
He snorts, leading you to his couch and gesturing for you to sit. âIf you want to change clothes you can borrow some of mine.â
You chew on your lip. The outfits you choose to look nice for your mother are never exactly comfortable, and when else are you going to get the chance to privately live the scenario you fantasize about several times a week before falling asleep?
âOnly if you donât mind.âÂ
âI wouldn't have offered if I wasnât. Stay there.âÂ
Jackâs only gone for a few minutes before he reappears with a dark grey sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants in a slightly lighter shade. The sweatshirt is oversized and looks well worn, but the sweatpants are suspiciously new, close to your size, and look eerily similar to a pair you changed into after a shift a few weeks ago.
He hands them to you. Neither of you mention the sweatpants. âYou can change in the bathroom. Door locks from the inside. Iâm gonna change too, and then Iâll heat up the food.âÂ
Jack shows you the bathroom (you donât bother unpacking why exactly he felt the need to tell you that the door locks and from the inside, thatâs for when youâre significantly more drunk than you are now and when youâre not in his fancy-ass apartment.)Â
Because heâs a man and men take approximately three seconds to change, heâs already in the kitchen setting stuff on the counter by the time you emerge from the bathroom. His countertops are solid granite, because the apartment is clearly expensive and heâs a man. Theyâre an inky black color with tiny flecks that sparkle when the light hits them just so.Â
âWhat are you doing?â Jack asks when he turns from the fridge to find you tilting your head this way and that.Â
âLooking at the sparkles.âÂ
âOookay. Do you want me to heat up the vodka pasta or the chicken?â
âYou made vodka pasta?âÂ
He shrugs. âYou said you liked it.âÂ
You slide into a seat at the kitchen island, a flush creeping up your neck. âThe pasta, please.âÂ
Suddenly exhausted now that youâre in soft, comfortable clothes that smell like Jack, you decide to just rest your head on your arms for a bit. And close your eyes. But youâre not going to fall asleep. Youâre not.Â
âDonât fall asleep. You need to eat something first.âÂ
âMâ not fallinâ asleep.âÂ
âMhm. Sure.âÂ
With great effort, you blink your eyes open and watch Jack while he heats up the pasta and prepares something else. A salad maybe?
âWhatâreâyouâ making?â
âJust a little salad. In case the pasta is too heavy for you.âÂ
âOh. How come?âÂ
âBecause I donât want you to throw up.âÂ
âI promise I wonât throw up on your furniture. I donât usually throw up when Iâm hungover.âÂ
âYou drink often?âÂ
âNo,â Your head lulls to the side, âIâm too busy. Iâm actually not-so-secretly very boring. I donât really like partying. I much prefer staying at home.âÂ
âThought you went to that thing with King and Santos?âÂ
âYeah, but that was âcause Trinity really wanted me to come and I felt bad and I didnât want her to think I was a boring, uptight bitch.âÂ
âI see.âÂ
âYeah. I kinda had fun, though. I wished you were there.â
âReally?âÂ
âYeah,â You sigh, probably a hint too dreamily, âMakes me feel better when youâre around.âÂ
âIâll keep that in mind.âÂ
He slides a little bowl with a light salad in it to you across the counter, and it's perfectly refreshing. Not at all heavy like the pasta ends up being.Â
âSorry I couldnât finish it,â You say, forcing down a yawn and resisting the urge to burrow into your arms and go to sleep right there, âI feel bad that you went through the trouble of making it and heating it up.âÂ
âIt wasnât that much effort. Besides, now you can just eat it for lunch tomorrow instead. Iâll send it home with you.âÂ
âMhm.â You hum, slowly inching your arms forward and down onto the counter, your head quickly following suit.Â
Jack chuckles, and you can hear the light step of his feet as he rounds the corner of the island and nudges you in the arm.Â
âCome on, sweetheart. You wanna get home to bed, donât you?â
âNo,â You shake your head, âI wanna sleep right here. Itâs comfortable.â
âIt wonât be when you wake up.â
You whine, curling away from him.Â
He just puffs another little laugh. âYou can either sleep in your bed, or my bed. You canât sleep on the kitchen island.â
âWhy not?â You finally lift your head, âAnd why is your bed an option?â
âOne,â He lifts up one finger in front of your face and slowly drags it back and forth, âBecause the kitchen island is not a bed. Two, Iâm not letting you sleep on the couch.â
âWhy? Is your couch uncomfortable?â
âNo,â He says, shuffling back over to where the leftovers are and tucking all the food away in the proper places, âItâs just not right to make a woman sleep on the couch.â
âI like sleeping on couches.â
He shoots you a look over his shoulder, âIâm sure you do. But youâre still a little drunk, and my bed is closer to the bathroom than the couch is.âÂ
You prop your head on your hand. âWho said Iâm even staying here tonight?â
Jack closes the fridge. âDo you want to? Because I donât care either way. We both have tomorrow off.â
âItâd be weird to wake up here.â
âWhy?â
âBecause youâre my boss.â
âAnd Iâm faking being your boyfriend so your parents get off your back. Pretty sure weâre past coworkers.âÂ
âWhat would we even do in the morning?âÂ
âSleep.â
âI donât want to kick you out of your bed. Iâll sleep on the couch.âÂ
âYouâre my guestââÂ
âYouâre already doing so much for me,â You blurt, stomach clenching, âIâ You know me. I can only handle so much. Let me do this one thing? Please?âÂ
Jack glowers for a bit, then sighs.Â
âOnly because you asked nicely and I believe in rewarding good behavior. And because I know my couch isnât uncomfortable. Iâll help you make it up.âÂ
Jackâs apartment is surprisingly tidy for the fact that a man lives in it (Christopherâs room at his parentâs house always looked like shit) and he pulls down a couple options for bedding. You go with the plain black sheet and its matching thick, fluffy comforter. He insists on making up the couch himself (despite the fact that the alcohol has mostly worn off by now) and even sets up a glass of water, a liquid IV packet, and a bucketâ âJust in case those belliniâs donât love you back.âÂ
The sight of it all is almost too much. Itâs just so much care. All of it. The fact that heâs helping out with you and your disaster of a family, the way that despite the horribleness of it all he hasnât judged you at all for how you deal with them. He refuses to let you drive yourself, always pays for every lunch for your entire family and the little snacks you get afterwards. Listens to you rant and he makes you food and gets you blankets andâ
âYou okay there?âÂ
âMhm,â You hum, âJust thinkinâ.âÂ
He leaves you be for a moment, busies himself with fixing your pillows and and tugging the comforter into its proper place.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn, throwing your arms around Jackâs middle and burying your face in his chest.Â
âThank you,â You say, voice muffled by the fabric, âFor doing all of this. Thank you for looking out for me.âÂ
Jack is still for a second, just long enough for you to second guess initiating physical contact âa line you were previously too scared to crossâ but then his hands come up and it's so, immediately, remarkably over. Because youâre never ever going to draw that line again. You can never go back to your life without having this. Without having him.Â
Jackâs hands are big and deliciously warm as they slide up, around your waist, lingering to rub a few circles on the mid of your back before moving on. One arm stays, tightening around your waist and drawing you closer while his other glides further up, up, up, his callused palms sliding over the knob at the very base of your neck before his hand settles around your nape, fingers just barely brushing the edge of your hairline.Â
You barely manage to suppress a whine at how warm and incredible it feels to be fully enveloped by him. You never want him to let go. Goosebumps erupt everywhere he touches, little sparks of electricity lingering under your skin in his wake.
âI will always,â He presses the lightest of kisses to your temple, just a feathering of his lips, âLook out for you, baby. Iâm always gonna be right here.â
His arms tighten around you, drawing you inâ closer, closer, closer. Wrapped up in everything that is Jack you canât help but sag, going completely boneless in his grip and allowing yourself to just bask in him.Â
âYou smell good.â You mumble into his shirt, completely lost in the moment.Â
âDo I?â
âYeah. Good. Like man.âÂ
He chuckles, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your cheek. âThank you sweetheart.âÂ
âWhy do you call me sweetheart?âÂ
âBecause youâre a sweetheart.âÂ
âI am?âÂ
âDonât play dumb now,â He pulls back a little, just enough to get a good look at you, fingers curling in the fine hair at your nape and tugging down, angling your chin up so youâre forced to look at him, âYou know you are.âÂ
You shrug, eyes darting to the side, your cheeks flushing, âI donât know. I was just making sure.âÂ
âMhm.â He hums, tone almost mocking, fingers tightening around your hair just before the precipice of pain.
You stay like that for a few moments of charged silence. Jackâs eyes shamelessly rove over the planes of your face, mapping it out in his mind. He keeps his grip on your hair, not completely forcing eye contact but keeping your head firmly in place.Â
Itâs possessive. Bold. Probably too intimate for two people who (supposedly) are not actually dating
And you love it.Â
Jack only lets his hand (and your head) drop when your jaw opens in a splitting yawn.Â
âOkay,â He huffs, taking a step back, âTime for bed. Get going.âÂ
Embarrassment is the only thing keeping you from whining at the loss of contact and impending reality of sleeping on the couch alone. But you made your bed (figuratively) so now you have to lie in it.Â
The couch does look comfortable. Especially since Jack put all the blankets together.Â
He waits until youâve crawled under the comforter to bid you goodnight, followed by a parting reminder to âWake him up if you start aspirating on vomit.â Itâs a very Jack thing to say.Â
Youâre out almost the second Jack turns the lights off. You fall into deep, blissful sleep, dreaming of that final moment in the living room, your eyes boring into each other.Â
Except in the dream, you tilt your head up those last few inches, and kiss your fake boyfriend as hard as you can.Â
â
Generally, the annual lecture event ends with a massive blow out argument. Something dramatic and filled with expletives, after which your mother will refuse to answer any texts or calls you send before finally telling you thatâs sheâs sorry if (always if) something she said offended you, but talking to you is just so hard sometimes so she doesnât want to unless youâre ready to be more civil. By the time the two of you are on neutral terms again, itâs time for the next annual lunch circuit.Â
Youâre a mess of nerves in the hours before the last one. Like usual, your mom requested that the last dinner be held at your place. âSo it can feel like a real family dinner.â While you know that there isnât any saying no to your mother, you also know that there is no way youâre cramming your entire family in your tiny ass studio apartment. It happened once. It will not happen again.Â
You originally asked Jack during a last minute shift you both got called in to cover if he would help you move some of the furniture at your place to accommodate them, and then heâd gotten this incredulous look on his face and then told you to tell your mom that youâre having dinner at his place.Â
âJack,â Youâd gaped at him, âItâs fine. My apartment isnât that small, and you donât have to help move the furniture if you donât want to. I can ask Dennis to give me a hand instead. I really donât think you want to host my family.âÂ
âSweetheart, itâs just logic. Youâve seen my place.â
âOkay. No need to rub it in.âÂ
Heâd just rolled his eyes and pinned you with a firm look. âCome on. You know this is the best option. If your mom throws a fit, tell her I insisted and give her my number.âÂ
âDo you have a death wish?â You hiss, âThatâs asking for torture.âÂ
Jack had just shrugged. âWould having it at my place be easier for you?âÂ
â...Yes?âÂ
âThen weâll do it there. Youâre off in a bit, right?âÂ
Youâd nodded.Â
He fishes something small and shiny out of his pocket and tosses it to you. âThatâs my spare key. Iâll be here later than you, so just let yourself in if you want to get there earlier to start setting up. Iâll be home soon.âÂ
Robby shouted his name soon after and Jack was whisked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the ED, holding the fucking spare key to his apartment, gaping like a fish.Â
The line between real and fake has become so blurred youâre not sure if it ever was there to begin with.Â
Heâs started calling you sweetheart more and more oftenâ sometimes when no one's around. No familial audience to be persuaded into the romantic lie youâre selling. Is it still a lie if it doesnât feel like one anymore?
The question and accompanying feeling follows you all day. All throughout your harried dinner preparation. Even now, with a solid hour until your family is supposed to start showing up, you canât help but pace the length of Jackâs kitchen, heeled feet clicking on his floor. Jack himself is similarly dressed up, wearing a pair of dark jeans (âIâm not wearing slacks in my own home, and Iâm not old enough to start wearing khakis with everything.â) and a black button down shirt with the first two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He makes a very nice view and under other circumstances you might take the opportunity to climb him like a tree. But alas. Anxiety.Â
âTake your shoes off if youâre going to pace. Youâre gonna give yourself blisters.âÂ
You ignore him, chewing on an already stinging cuticle.Â
âThings have been pretty good this far, right? Do you think sheâs just waiting until the very end to bring up some secret thing that sheâs upset about?â
Jack begins preparing the wine âyour mother only likes redâ for decanting. âI think if your mother were that upset about something she wouldnât be able to hide it.âÂ
âTrue. But what if?â
âIâm not going to help you spiral.âÂ
âWhy not?â You whine.Â
He looks at you with a heavy glare and points to the shoe tray at the door. âShoes. Off. You can put them back on when they get here.âÂ
You grumble under your breath the entire way but comply. Only because your feet were starting to hurt.Â
When your family finally does arrive, it ends up being annoyingly anti-climactic. You spend the entire time on the edge of your seat (literally and figuratively) waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for conversation to turn sour, arguments to erupt, someone to choke on a piece of lettuce and die despite professional intervention.Â
But the argument never starts, conversation remains what it usually is and becomes no worse (or better, unfortunately) and no one passes away due to unevenly chopped vegetables.Â
The torture is over fairly quickly. Most everyoneâs flight back home leaves early the next morning and your dad is paranoid about flight times.Â
Pretty soon itâs all just⊠over. They leave, your mother bickering with your father on the way out about something that probably doesnât matter, and then itâs just you and Jack and the entire scheme is just done. Finished. Just like that.Â
There won't be anymore knee's brushing under the table, no more shared glances and pecks to the cheek when you make a joke that actually lands. No more excuses just to sit and watch him under the guise of playing the adoring girlfriend. No more late night milkshakes.
You'll just go back to being coworkers-- People who pretend not to know each other intimately. Jack probably won't struggle with it. But to you, right now, the idea of just not having him anymore seems like a another wound, right over top all the others.
You don't want him to become another person who used to know you.
Youâve been staring at the closed door for upwards of five full minutes, clenching and unclenching your fists when Jack comes up next to you. He hands you the same clothes you wore the last time you were there and jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom. Â
âWhy donât you go and change, huh?â
Your lip wobbles a bit as you answer. âBut I want to help you clean up.âÂ
âYou can,â He soothes, âAfter you change.â
âButââ
âHey,â He interrupts, âNo. Youâve been stuck in those clothes for hours. Go change. Iâll wait for you.âÂ
Jack keeps his word. Heâs leaned up against the kitchen island when you emerge, rubbing at your ânow bare, having had the foresight to bring makeup wipes with youâ face.Â
He looks up when the door opens. âBetter?âÂ
âYeah. Thanks.âÂ
He just hums, heading back over to the kitchen table, stacking plates and cutlery. You follow in silence, and he thankfully doesnât push for conversation.Â
Cleaning up doesnât take long enough. Jack has a fancy dishwasher (and probably doesnât want to stay standing any more than he has to this late in the day) and there arenât any leftovers to pack up. Your brothers are bottomless pits when it comes to free food.Â
It canât just be over like this. It can't.
When everything is finished and there isn't anything left to do, Jack wordlessly leads you to the couch and puts something quiet and calm on the TV. The white noise washes over you as you attempt to get comfortable, but the knowledge that it's all over proves to be an itch under your skin that you just can't seem to squash.
âSo,â You say after the two of you are seated on opposite ends of the couch, âThatâs it then.âÂ
âSo it is.âÂ
âGuess I owe you big time, huh?âÂ
âIâve already told you I donât care about that.âÂ
âRight,â You look down at your lap, âYeah. Sorry.âÂ
You lapse into silence.Â
Jack sighs. âSweetheartââ
âWas it fake to you?â You blurt, jiggling your knee, still staring at your lap, âWere youâ did you mean it?â
It never felt fake. It never felt like pretending.Â
It felt real.
It felt like, for the first time in your life, things could be easy.
Maybe easy isn't the right word. But it life sure as hell didn't feel as hard.
When you look up, uncomfortable in his silence and hoping thereâs answers in his face, but instead of finding something like disappointment or irritation, heâs grinning.Â
âWhat do you think?âÂ
âI donât know.âÂ
He dips his head once. âYes you do. Youâre a smart girl, I think you can figure it out.âÂ
Your fingers are curled around the hem of his sweatshirt, white-knuckling the fabric as if to stabilize yourself. Like youâre liable to somehow float away if you donât dig your heels into the couch and hold on tight.Â
âWhat if Iâm wrong?âÂ
âYou wonât be.â
A scoff escapes your lips, âYou canât know for sure.âÂ
He taps his pointer finger on his leg in an unhurried rhythm.Â
âYou do.âÂ
Your stomach is rolling in a combination of leftover anxiety from the dinner that went better than it was supposed to and the weight of Jackâs gaze on you.Â
âI thinkâŠâ You pause, worry threatening to overwhelm you, and take a deep breath before continuing, âI think you might like me.âÂ
âYou think,â He drawls, âI might.âÂ
âI donât want to be wrong!â You cry.Â
Jack huffs, throwing his head back in a good-natured sigh.Â
âCome here.âÂ
You scoot further down the couch, sitting criss-cross right in front of him. This is not going the way you thought it would. You were almost certain youâd walk away shamed and embarrassed, forced to fake your death and flee the country out of the sheer humiliation of thinking your boss would actually have a crush on you.Â
Jack does love to prove you wrong.
âSoo,â You start, still hesitant, âYou do like me.âÂ
Jack props his head on his hand, his expression something youâre starting to recognize as fond. âYes.â
âMore than a little?âÂ
âYes.âÂ
âAnd you werenât faking anything. You were serious about theâ You know.âÂ
âUse your words.âÂ
âThe flirting.â You clarify, ears burning.Â
âAll correct,â He nods, âThough I would have said it differently.âÂ
You frown. âAnd how would you have put it?âÂ
âI would have said,â He reaches out, snagging your arm and tugging until you fall down onto his chest with a little oof, âThat you have a hard time believing things that are good, so I had to audition for my role. Like old-fashioned courting.âÂ
You want to be offended, but unfortunately, it did work.Â
You frown.Â
Wait.Â
âHave you known I liked you this whole time?âÂ
Jack snorts. âOverheard you talking to Whitaker about it during your second week.â
Heâs known since the second week?
âOh my god.âÂ
âDonât worry, I didnât tell anyone. Except Robby. Heâs been hoping you would figure it out for awhile now.â
âOh my god.â
âI thought it was cute,â He smoothes a hand over your hair, âYou were so much more nervous back then. Youâve come a long way.âÂ
You shift uncomfortably at the praise, but Jackâs having none of it. He wraps his arms around you, holding you in place.Â
âCan you take a compliment?âÂ
âNo.âÂ
He re-positions under you, getting more comfortable. âWeâll try again later.âÂ
âAm Iâ Can I stay here tonight then?âÂ
âOf course,â he murmurs, âMy one condition is that youâre not sleeping on the couch.â
âFine,â You sigh, long and drawn out, âI suppose we can share.âÂ
âHow kind of you to share my bed with me.âÂ
âI have been told Iâm kind.âÂ
You both smile, and everything just feels so right and so perfect that you can't help but lean up, clearing the last few inches, and pressing a hesitant, gentle kiss to his lips.Â
Itâs just like your dream.Â
Only this time, itâs real. And Jack is kissing you back.Â
warnings: 18+, dom!jack & sub!reader, switching pov, lots of fingering, rubbing over underwear, premature ejaculation (coming in pants), mentions of oral (fem!receiving), guiding through a blowjob, loss of virginity, sex on a table, calling him dr abbot, sir + brief daddy kink, light choking, all of the sexy stuff happens in his office. jack is a widow, brief angst in the middle but love confessions later (!!), hurt/comfort, jack is jealous and possessive but has an #ethicaldilemma: the fic
a/n: i tried to be vague with the backstory, but reader craves academic validation, doesnât have many friends, has implied familial issues and is introverted and avoidant. seeing the pics of him literally sent me into heat i fear iâll never recover and so naturally i churned out this incredibly self indulgent fic during my finals aha can u tell i'm suffering from academic stress? #anyways have fun pls be nice. not beta read. | divider credits: @strangergraphics | soundtrack: fuck it i love you by lana del ray
Jack Abbot had always been a man of remarkable composure, the sort of composure that had been his armour, carefully built after the death of his wife, reinforced brick by brick through routine, discipline, and relentless work.Â
While other men sought comfort in distractions, Jack prided himself in the fact that he buried himself in academia. Entire nights disappeared beneath journal articles, lecture plans, and grading sociology essays, until the loneliness that waited for him at home was little more than a dull ache he could almost ignore.Â
Last week at the bar, well, that had been a mistake. A brief lapse in judgement, that's all. One too many whiskeys after a particularly long week and a pretty young thing asking him for help with some creep who wouldn't leave her alone - what exactly had he been supposed to do? Ignore her? Tell her she was on her own? Any decent man would've stepped in, at least that's what Jack keeps telling himself.
The problem is that a week later, he still can't get you out of his head.
He remembers the dress first. God, that dress. The dark fabric had clung to your figure, hugging every curve, and he'd spent the entire evening irritated with himself for noticing at all.Â
He remembers the way the dip of your waist had fit beneath his palm when he'd guided you behind him, the startling softness of you, the instinctive way you'd moved closer when the man started getting aggressive. The tiny stutter in your breathing as he'd told the asshole to âfuck off and stop bothering his girlâ in a gruff voice, the way you'd looked up at him with those wide eyes, somewhere between embarrassed and grateful, as though he had done something remarkable when all he'd really done was the bare minimum.
Worst of all, he hates that he remembers the warmth of your body as he pinned you against the wall of the men's bathroom, mouths hovering over each other, not kissing, but breathing in wine-tinted lips.Â
God, the way your warm walls stretched around his fingers, your clit under his thumb, still made him achingly hard. Jerking off in the shower had been futile ever since that night, ever since he felt your soft fingers around his cock, your moans spilling into his mouth. And your soft whines when he called you a good girl, fuck. Heâs hard, again, in the middle of reading through the PHD proposals sent his way. He sighs, pulling his cock out his pants.Â
It was becoming ridiculous. Which is precisely why he is looking forward to the start of semester.
But the universe has a fucked up way of derailing his plans. By the time he arrives at the lecture hall the next morning, coffee balanced in one hand and laptop tucked beneath his arm, he's almost managed to convince himself that the entire thing was behind him.
Then he walks through the door. The lecture hall blurs into meaningless shapes and colours, and in the centre of it sits you.Â
The girl he couldnât take out of his brain for the past seven days.Â
Jack forces his legs forward, somehow making it to the front of the room without visibly embarrassing himself. He places his coffee on the desk. Sets down his laptop. Connects the HDMI cable twice because he misses the port the first time. His fingers feel too clammy, his pulse too fast.Â
Jack opens his mouth to introduce himself. Â
"My name is-"
But the words die there. Because he makes the mistake of looking back at you, again.Â
Those same eyes he'd spent an entire week trying to unsuccessfully forget are fixed directly on his, wide with disbelief.
For a fraction of a second his mind goes entirely blank. Then your eyebrows lift. Just slightly.
And he realises with a jolt of horror that you've noticed the way his words catch. Jesus Christ.
He clears his throat and looks away, pretending to adjust something on his laptop despite the fact that absolutely nothing needs adjusting, acutely aware of the warmth crawling up the back of his neck, and onto his cheeks. It's ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.Â
He's a respected academic pushing fifty years old, not some nervous graduate tutor fumbling his way through his first class.
"My name is Dr Jack Abbot," he says again, his voice steadier this time, lower too, the words settling more naturally now that he's managed to regain some semblance of control. "I'm the lead lecturer for the sociology department.â
His eyes catch yours.Â
âIt'll be my greatest pleasure to work with all of you this semester."
Youâre this close to fucking shitting your pants.Â
The sexy old man that had fucked the shit out of you with his fingers, while you could barely wrap your hands around his girthy cock in the corner of a dingy bathroom, was your professor. He was in front of you speaking in a voice too gravelly for his own good, and donned in what youâd deem an outfit way too slutty.Â
Tweed blazer that somehow actually showed how broad he was, how fat and juicy his biceps were. A soft wool polo underneath that stretched around his fat pecs.Â
And those brown pants, for fucks sake, those pants should be an abobination. You could see the bulge of his dick, the print, as he moved around the room.Â
Whatâs worse though? His fat fucking fingers. As he gesticulates while talking about the content, which you donât give a fuck about, all you can think about is how they felt inside of you, curling up to reach that sweet spot, and making you come faster and harder than your vibrator.Â
As the flashbacks of him pounding into you fade, and you focus, you see something black and shiny glinting as it catches the overhead lights. You blink. Adorning one of those delicious fingers, is a ring. Fuck. Itâs a wedding ring.Â
You stare at it for a second too long before immediately snapping your gaze back to your laptop. Heat floods your face. You rack your brain trying to remember whether he'd been wearing it that night. You don't think so, you're almost certain he wasn't. Yeah, he definitely didnât have it on that night in the bar, you wouldâve felt it against your pussy, that fucking slut.Â
You clench your jaw and look away, typing away to start making notes. Youâd hooked up with an older married geratric. Yeah, maybe you should just drop out. Hurl yourself off the chair and out the door and withdraw from your course and fade into the abyss and die in a hole.
But what's worse is the way your cunt is clenching around nothing at the thought of this older man fucking you with his fingers while he had a wife at home- no, stop. How deeply unfeminist of you. You cunt.Â
Yet still, when you look up and accidentally make eye contact with Jack Abbot, it feels like a punch to the vagina.Â
By the time the lecture ends, Jack has spent nearly two hours forcing himself not to look at you. It has been a miserable failure. Not an obvious one, nobody in the room would have noticed. Years of teaching and having to discreetly catch students on their phones have made him an expert at disguising where his attention is actually resting.Â
But every time his gaze swept across the theatre, every time a student asked a question, every time laughter rippled through the room, some part of him remained acutely aware of where you were sitting.
Which is precisely why, as students begin packing their bags and filtering towards the exits, he decides to do something incredibly stupid.
He tells himself it isn't stupid. He tells himself it's necessary. Professional, even.
After all, the two of you know each other in some capacity. There was the bar, there was what occurred inside of that bar, that lapse in judgement. There is now the unfortunate reality that you are one of his students. A conversation needs to happen. Boundaries need to be established, expectations clarified.
At least that's the excuse he gives himself. The truth is considerably less flattering. The truth is that he wants an excuse to speak to you.
He calls out your name. The words leave his mouth before he can reconsider them.
You freeze halfway through sliding your laptop into your bag. For a second you look almost startled that he's addressed you directly. Then your eyes meet his, startled.Â
"Could you stay for a moment?"
Several students glance between the two of you before continuing out the door. Jack immediately regrets saying it publicly. Excellent start, Abbot.
By the time the last student leaves, you're making your way slowly towards the front of the room, one loop of your backpack slung on your shoulder.
As you slow to a stop in front of him, his eyes map your face. Your wide eyes, your slightly messy hair, the shape of your lips- Stop. Jesus Christ.Â
He forcibly redirects his gaze towards his laptop on the podium. Professional. Remember, professional.
"You wanted to see me?" you ask softly.
Jack clears his throat.
"Right. Yes."
Very articulate.Â
"I just thought it would be best if we acknowledged..." He gestures vaguely between the two of you. "The situation."
You blink.
"The situation?"
"The fact that we've met before."
"Oh."
You glance down at the strap of your bag, fingers tightening around it.
"Yeah. I noticed."
The dry response catches him completely off guard. A smile threatens at the corner of his mouth.
"Um, sorry, Dr Abbot," you add quickly, stumbling over the words. "I didn't mean to make things weird."
Jack immediately shakes his head.
"No, it's okay. You're good."
Dr Abbot. Dr Abbot. His brain plays your lips wrapping around his name again and again, perhaps in more precarious positions. He rubs his neck, looking away, willing for his cock to stop fucking stiffening.Â
"I just wanted to clarify," he starts carefully, "I'd appreciate it if what happened stayed private."
Your eyes immediately narrow, apparently offended.
"Dr Abbot, I'm not stupid."
His eyebrows lift at your sudden confidence. He puts his hands out in front of him in defence.Â
"I wasn't suggesting-"
"No, I know," you interrupt. Then your eyes widen, immediately looking mortified for interrupting him. "Sorry. I just mean... I'm not exactly planning on standing up in tutorials and announcing that I fu- I met my professor in a bar."
Jack closes his mouth. Fair point. And suddenly he becomes aware of how ridiculous he sounds.
You aren't the problem here. You haven't done anything. If anything, you're handling this better than he is. This sort of âcasualnessâ is probably the usual for someone as beautiful as you, as young and brilliant.
"Right," he says finally.
A silence settles between you as he continues staring you down.Â
You shift your weight awkwardly beneath his gaze, looking everywhere except directly at him now, and suddenly he's struck by how young you seem standing there.Â
Then, before he can stop himself, in some hope to keep you standing there in front of him, he hears himself say, "If you ever need help with coursework, though, my office hours are listed on the syllabus."
The second the words leave his mouth, he knows they weren't necessary. Your eyes flicker up to his face in shock, before immediately dropping back down again. Interesting.
For someone who'd managed to argue with him thirty seconds ago, you seem remarkably incapable of holding eye contact for more than a few moments.
Then you nod, still staring at the floor.Â
"Okay."
"Okay. Yeah, good."
Another silence. Neither of you moves, seems entirely unsure on how to end the conversation. Eventually you shift your bag higher up, and take a small step backwards.
"I should go."
"Yes, thank you for staying back."
You hesitate for a second, then whisper as you turn and walk away from him.Â
âGoodbye, Dr Abbot.â
Jack stares at your ass through your jeans as you depart, he canât help it. You sick, sick old man, Abbot.
The second you're gone, he drops his head down, groans, rubs a hand over his scruff.Â
That conversation was supposed to make things better, supposed to reassure him that whatever happened at that bar was firmly in the past.
Instead, all it has accomplished is proving that being around you is a nightmare. Â
It's been four weeks since that conversation and you cannot get him out of your head. Every time you enter those lectures where he stands in the front of the room with another blazer, another pair of form fitting pants, twice a week, you leave with a pool of slick.Â
You refuse to acknowledge the way he looked at you when you let your attitude slip, his furrowed brows, hazel eyes narrowing. He looked⊠mad almost. Like he wanted to tame you. Of course you're being delusional, he has a wife for fucks sake.Â
And weeks of observing him has made you realise that he has an immense proclivity for eye contact, with everyone. Basically, youâre not special.Â
And, so your avoidant ass refuses to take him up on that offer to see him at his office. Youâre doing well academically, you presume, in all your subjects. Which is not surprising given it's the only thing youâve got going for you, being an antisocial chud, but these days, rather than studying, a lot of your time is spent replaying that night in the bar. The sense of comfort you felt pinned against the wall by him, the way heâd protected you against that creep. Nobody had done that for you before.Â
God you sound fucking pathetic.Â
And specifically, his suggestive line of âmy office hours are listed on the syllabusâ reverberates around your skull, like the start of those Wattpad stories you used to read as a teen. And so, you and your vibrator have the time of your life at all odd hours of the day, imagining him and you in those situations.Â
In hindsight, being overtaken by lust to distract from your crippling loneliness was a poor decision to make, that much you clock when you receive one of your midterms back today. With a big fat fucking 60% written on the front. In Dr Abbotâs class at that too.Â
Humiliation takes over you, cheeks warm as he walks by to return the paper, refusing to look at him but feeling his gaze on your face.Â
Around you, students are already discussing their marks, complaining about feedback, celebrating distinctions, debating whether certain deductions were fair, while you're busy boring holes into the godforsaken paper with your eyes as though sheer hatred might cause it to burst into flames.
As someone who quite literally had nothing going on for them other than academic success, it's a stab to the heart to realise youâve fallen off in any capacity. For your wretched brain, one poor mark isn't just a mark, it's indicative of you falling behind, lacking in the one thing that defines you.Â
Academics have always been your thing, the one area of your life you've been able to control through sheer stubbornness and hard work, the one thing you've quietly built your entire sense of self around. You aren't particularly outgoing. You don't have a huge social circle. You don't possess some secret hidden talent waiting to be discovered.
And now a bright red sixty is staring back at you from the top of the page like a personal attack.
The feedback only makes it worse.
Critical analysis underdeveloped.
Needs greater engagement with course material.
More depth required.
Each comment feels less like academic criticism and more like somebody taking a hammer to your ribcage.
Especially because you've spent the last month thinking about fuckass Jack Abbot far more than you've spent thinking about sociology. You've replayed conversations that lasted less than five minutes. Analysed glances that probably meant absolutely nothing, and constructed entire fictional narratives from harmless comments that any reasonable person would've forgotten weeks ago.
Meanwhile half your readings have been sitting untouched in a browser tab.
You stare down at the paper again, jaw tightening.
Perhaps this is the universe intervening. Perhaps this is your sign to get a grip. Perhaps this is your sign to finally take him up on that offer he'd made four weeks ago.
Not because you're harbouring some pathetic crush. Absolutely not.Â
Purely for academic reasons. You need to know what went wrong and you need to know how to fix it before your anxiety makes this into something worse and you have another one of your depressive episodes.Â
And if that means sitting in Dr Jack Abbot's office while he explains why your argument was underdeveloped and your analysis lacked depth, then so be it.
The thought alone makes your stomach perform an alarming little flip, which is deeply unfortunate.
Because that's probably another sign that you're not thinking nearly enough about sociology.
After stalking the stupid university website youâve discovered that Dr Jack Abbot apparently remains on campus until after five o'clock most evenings, like some sort of psycho freak.Â
Doesnât he have a wife to go home to? Surely no sane person voluntarily spends that much time at a university.
Still, at 5:17 PM, you're standing outside his office clutching your assignment paper so tightly it's beginning to crumple around the edges.
You knock on the door and hear his gruff voice let out a âcome inâ. You walk in. Â
Fuck your life.Â
His blazer is off, sleeves of his beige shirt rolled up to show veiny forearms, as he types away on his laptop.Â
âOh it's you. Hello sweetheart.â He winces at the slip of the pet name.Â
âSorry Miss-â he pauses. âUm, just have a seat, please.â
You hope to God that he can't hear the beating of your heart as you step in, closing the door shut behind you, avoiding eye contact as you sit on the seat opposite him.Â
You set your paper on his desk and mumble.
âI just wanted to review the feedback I got on this.â
âYeah of course, whatâd you want to ask?â
You hesitate, his soft tone suddenly making you want to spill everything.Â
"I just..." You stare at the desk. "I thought I'd done better than this. So I wanted more clarity on all the comments you made."
He nods and picks up the paper, starts reading through it, then squints.Â
He sighs.
âWait, let me get my readers on.â
You sneak a glance up.Â
Oh fuck.Â
He puts his readers on. Some fucking high prescription glasses that enunciate the size of his stupid hazel boba eyes and delicious eye wrinkles.Â
Yeah, pussy exploded.Â
You look back down on the table, and inhale to calm your heart.Â
When Jack finally finishes, he sets the paper on the desk.Â
"You know," he says carefully, tapping one section of the essay, "the reason this stood out to me wasn't because the writing is bad."
Your eyes lift despite yourself. He slides the paper slightly closer.
"It's actually the opposite."
âWhat?"
"The writing is strong, and your arguments are quite clear. You've obviously got the ability."
The knot in your chest loosens slightly. Only slightly.
"But?" you whisper.
His mouth twitches.
"But I don't think you pushed yourself."
Jack studies your expression for a moment before leaning back slightly in his chair.
"You understand the material," he continues. "I don't have concerns about that. What I'm seeing is somebody who's engaging with the content at a surface level when they're capable of going much deeper.â
Right, so youâre failing. You ridden with lust, and doing god knows what in hopes to distract yourself from the sheer loneliness and mundanity of your life and now you canât even understand the content the way you want to understand it and-
âHey sweetheart, are you feelinâ okay?âÂ
You look up at him in confusion and realise your breaths are heavy, uneven. Your hands are trembling slightly where they're resting on your lap.Â
Fuck, the beginnings of a panic attack.Â
âIâm so sorry Dr Abbot, I just- Iâve never done poorly in a test really, and so this is all soâŠâ your voice cracks. âI don't even know what Iâm saying I just-â
He gets up and walks over to you as you break off, letting out a shaky laugh that sounds suspiciously close to a sob.
He leans against his desk, in front of you, bending to reach your eyes. Â
âHey, it's okay angel, breathe for me.â Â
He inhales.Â
âLook, follow my breathing.â
You try to, but it comes out stuttered.
"Fuck, I'm sorry."
"Nothinâ to apologise for, sweetheart, just keep trying. Câmon, take a deep breath in, and out."
He holds your hand and brings it to his chest. You feel his heart beat steadily under your palm. He exaggerates his breathing to help you.
âIn, and out, just like that.â
It seems nice to just let go. To have someone else take over your brain, follow their instructions and shut the noise, the anxieties and the worries.Â
Once your breathing slows, he moves your hand away from his chest.Â
âYou breathinâ better now?â
You nod slowly, still feeling shaky, still mortified by the fact that you've just had what can only be described as a minor psychological collapse in your professor's office.
âIâm so, so sorry you saw me like that Dr Abbot, I didnât mean to-â
âHey, itâs okay, sweet girl.â
He pauses, seems occupied gathering his thoughts.
You busy yourself staring at the floor. Then he exhales softly through his nose and settles back against the edge of his desk.
"After my wife passed away, I used to get them all the time."
The words are so unexpected that your head lifts immediately.
Jack's gaze remains fixed somewhere over your shoulder rather than directly on you, his expression thoughtful.Â
"My therapist taught me a few tricks," he says with a small shrug. "Matching breathing patterns was one of them."
Your heart races again, for different reasons this time. The ring, the fucking black ring. Heâs a widower. You donât know whether to laugh or scream at the fact that heâs not married, and you arenât a homewrecker. But then you feel real fucking horrible for different reasons, youre brain sabotaging again.Â
âIâm sorry about your wife. Iâm sorry if that reminded you of back then, or whenever it happened I donât know, I don't want to assume-â
âShh, take a deep breath for me. Youâre good, sweetheart.Â
 He brings a palm to your cheek, engulfing it. Â
âYeah? Itâs okay. Donât worry âbout it. It was a long time ago.â
You breathe in slowly for the fucking hundredth time that night, calming down. Â
âYou feelinâ better now?â He asks gently.
You nod, biting your tongue to stop from apologising again.Â
âYes, thank you.â
It slips out before he can stop it.Â
âGood girl.â
Your thighs instinctively clench, and you see him stiffen as he notices. You both stare at each other, feeling tension coil in the air between you. A moment passes.Â
âI could help you, you know.â
You blink, confused.Â
He rubs your cheek gently, eyes boring into yours. His expression is blank, neutral.Â
âI could help you relax, get out of your brain for a little.â
He pauses.
âLike that night in the bar. You liked that, didn't you? Somebody taking control.â
Your breath hitches, and you mumble a âyes.â
âLouder, sweetheart. If weâre gonna do this, you need to speak clearly.â
His voice is stern, gravelly. And your brain is calm for the first time in weeks, since that night. The validation you crave so desperately, the sense of comfort that would help with escaping your brain, perhaps it is held in the palm of Jack Abbotâs hands.Â
Slowly, you nod.Â
âYes Dr Abbot, Iâd like you to help me.â
He smirks, the edges of lips pulling up.Â
âAtta girl. Câmon then, get up for me.â
You follow his lead, mind hazy as he holds your hands and guides you to his chair.Â
âIâm gonna sit, then you're gonna sit right here, on my lap. And then Iâll help you, yeah?â
You nod again.Â
âWords, sweetheart.â
âYes, Dr Abbot.â
He smiles, proudly. Your brain turns to mush again, pussy fluttering.
Heâs so handsome. Â
Pulling you onto his lap sideways, your legs draping over his thighs, he caresses your hair. Fuck, it feels so good. You nuzzle your head into his neck, whimpering softly as he coos, "such a good girl, my smart girl, yeah? smartest in the whole damn class.â Â
Then he brings his fat fingers to your skirt, tracing circles on yout thighs near the hem. Inching close, but never slipping under.Â
âPlease, please Dr Abbot, touch me.â
âYeah, you want me to touch that little pussy? Want me to make you feel good? So you can rest your pretty brain?âÂ
He taps your head.Â
You whine âyes, yes please sir.âÂ
You feel his cock jerk up under you. He groans. Â
âFuckinâ hell, sweetheart. Say that again.â
âPlease, Sir, please touch me.â
âWhatever you want, pretty girl.â Â
Then he finally flips your skirt up, and starts rubbing slowly over your panties. On your lips, your folds, through your soaked underwear. You wrap your arms around his neck, begging him, please.Â
He brings a finger to your clit, mutters lowly, âright here sweetheart?â and you nod, whining.Â
He rubs gentle circles on your clit, your slick helping his finger move smoothly even over your panties. Buries his face in your hair as he continues rubbing. He breathily exhales, as if simply your pleasure was turning him on .Â
âThatâs it, just let go sweetheart. Let me take care of you, yeah?â
âFuck- right there.â
You buck up in his hold.Â
And he stops, a hand splaying over your thighs to stop you from squirming.
âFuckinâ stop that, or this is going to be over a lot quicker thank youâd like.âÂ
You feel the hardness of his cock under you, prodding below your ass. Your brain is mush, the words slipping by themself. Â
You nod tucking your head in his neck, âYeah, yeah sir Iâll stop, please- fuck. Please keep going.âÂ
âThatâs my good girl.âÂ
And he starts rubbing over your clit again, kissing down your cheeks, down your neck, murmuring âyeah? yeahâ as he inhaled your musk.
You whimper, arching your neck as you get closer to your release, feeling it build up low in your stomach the faster his circles get. Â
âFuck Iâm going to come! Pl- please let me come sir.â
âYeah? Is my good girl gonna come? You gonna come for Dr Abbot?â He groans, low and husky.Â
And fuck, that gets you. You close your eyes as your orgasm hits you, pleasure washing over.Â
You mutter whimpers of his name as you come, squirming as much as he lets you, clenching your thighs in his palm.
In the haze of your orgasm, you hear him, moaning. He jerks up, moaning in your ear, face pressed against your hair, babbling. Â
âFuck- sweetheart, did so good for me, fucking coming all over my fingers, fuck!â
The last word comes out as something resembling a whine. His hips buck up once, twice, before you feel warmth spreading under you.Â
Did he just⊠orgasm?
Both of you pant harshly, him into your hair, forehead pressed against your head. And you look down, seeing your soaking panties, his hands splayed over your thighs. A smile overtakes your face, god, you felt alive.Â
And he came. In his pants. God, you love old men. But as a giggle bubbles up in your throat, he stiffens.Â
You see his hands leave you, and before you can even process what's happening, he's gently but firmly moving you off his lap, tugging your skirt back into place.Â
"Fuck."
The curse leaves him under his breath, as he immediately turns away in his chair, one hand dragging through his curls.
You stand there, still dazed as he refuses to look at you.Â
âFuck, um. You should leave and I- I think-â
The words die halfway through. You watch him struggle to find them.
âYeah, you should leave,â he awkwardly mutters as he covers the wet patch on his pants. You're still breathing heavily, and furrow your brows.Â
What the fuck?
Youâre so utterly mortified. Still in the post orgasmic haze, standing there feeling horribly exposed, your brain sluggish and foggy and vulnerable.
And through that stupid fog you pick your bag up from the seat, smooth out your skirt. Avoiding eye contact, you wobble out of the room, tears pooling in your eyes.Â
Fuck old men. You hate old men.
After hours of sobbing into your pillow, and spiralling about how people will use you for your body, and nobody will be able to save you, and youâre going to die alone, you reached a conclusion. Probably a delusional conclusion, but a conclusion nonetheless.
He was embarrassed, thatâs all. The man had simply come in his pants. Which, admittedly, would be humiliating for anyone. Youâre so young and sexy that he was embarrassed he came in his pants. He definitely still wants you.Â
The thought soothed you enough to stop crying, enough to prevent you from throwing yourself dramatically into the nearest body of water.
It's when youâre holed up in your dorm room, buried under the blankets reading a fic, when your spiral begins again.Â
Because you get a text from an unknown number.Â
Hi. I wanted to apologise for yesterday. Â
That was incredibly impolite of me, I got way in over my head.
Then two minutes later.Â
And I wanted to check in.Â
Are you feeling better?
Chat, what if you fucking killed yourself?Â
The perfect grammar and punctuation made your stomach churn in lust. The way you could hear him grumble that out in his husky voice, gravelly warmth beneath every syllable.Â
Stop.
Objectively speaking, this man had sent you into an emotional crisis less than twenty-four hours ago. He basically kicked you out after giving you another toe curling orgasm.Â
And yet somehow all it takes is three perfectly punctuated texts and you're smiling into your pillow like an idiot. Whatever, stay nonchalant.Â
So you ignore his apology and reply to the latter half.Â
Hey, iâm okay thanksÂ
Wow, look at you go.Â
His reply is almost immediate.
Good.Â
Good girl.Â
You take a deep breath in, pull your blanket over your head. Fuck. Fuck this stupid old man and his ability to make your pussy throb with two words.Â
You genuinely have no clue what to reply, stupid. Stupid woman who canât even formulate a reply and be flirtatious.Â
You type something.
Delete it.
Type something else.
Delete that too.
Your chest develops a familiar buzzing anxiety. This, by the way, is exactly why maintaining relationships has always felt so difficult. Everyone else seems to possess some innate understanding of social interaction that you're missing entirely.Â
What are you supposed to say?
Thanks for checking on me after kicking me out?
Sorry for crying in your office?
Please stop being unexpectedly kind after making me come so hard because it's making this significantly harder?
After two minutes of spiralling, or five, or ten, you donât even fucking know at this point, your phone buzzes again. Â
Can I see you?Â
Please.
Your breath stutters.Â
yeah sure
When do your classes finish today?
At 3pm
Okay. Iâll meet you at Sapphos.
Fuck, you hate how he doesnât ask you. Just makes a statement, tells you what to do. You hate how that turns you on, and even worse, how good it feels to not have to make decisions for yourself, for once.Â
But also, that cafe was off campus. Realistically, should you be potentially jeopardising your academic career with this emotionally unavailable older man, who will definitely be using you for your body if this continues? No, but are you lonely and so fucking bored with the stangancy of your life? Well, yes.Â
And so unfortunately, rational thought has never stood much of a chance against loneliness. Against the quiet ache that follows you home every evening, and the possibility of spending a few hours with somebody who sees you.
So your dumbass agrees.Â
Okay ! iâll see u soonÂ
See you soon, sweetheart.Â
Sitting and staring out the window of some cafe he randomly picked, Jack doesnât know what the fuck heâs doing. He doesn't know how many times a man can call something a lapse in judgement before it stops being a âlapseâ and starts becoming a conscious choice.
He got in way over his head after making you come on his lap, spiralling. Yes, it was the sheer humiliation of coming in his pants (which was a nightmare to clean off, by the way) but also, there was the humiliation of losing control of himself after years of carefully maintaining it, the mortifying reality of having to go home and sit alone with the consequences of it all. Â
What was worse was somewhere along the way you'd managed to reach inside him and pull loose something from his heart he'd thought had calcified years ago, something he'd buried beneath research papers, lecture halls, and the endless routines he'd constructed around himself after his wife died.
And he knows, he knows, you deserve someone better. He was a widow for Christ's sake, probably three decades or somewhere very close to that, older than you. And youâre young. Thoughtful. Young enough that your entire life still seems stretched out in front of you. Even your anxieties, the things that weigh you down, feel temporary in a way his never will.Â
You still have time to become whoever you're meant to be.
Jack feels as though he's already become whoever he's going to be.
He thinks about the way you looked during your panic attack, how hard you'd been trying to keep it together even as everything was falling apart. He thinks about how quickly you apologised for taking up space, for having feelings, for being overwhelmed.
And he didn't pity you, God, no. It wasn't that. He understood it. The loneliness. The exhaustion. The feeling that if you stopped holding yourself together for even a second, everything might collapse.
But he also saw the way your brain shut down, the way you trusted him. It made something ache inside his chest, a warm ache, the sort that spread through his ribs and settled somewhere dangerously close to hope.Â
And hope was precisely the problem. Because he couldn't give you anything. Not with the grief and sense of routine buried in him before his teaching, in the chasm of his heart, since his time in the godforsaken military where half his limb was gone.Â
He can't offer you anything but his fingers, or his mouth, between your legs, and you deserve someone better than that.Â
But if that was the only way heâd be able to get you out of his head, then so be it.Â
Jack exhales heavily and rubs a hand across his jaw.
And then you enter. Looking around with an adorably confused look before you spot him, and dare he say, your eyes light up.Â
Abbot, no.Â
But the words slip out as you reach him.Â
âHey sweetheart.â
âHi Dr Abbot.â
You sit opposite him, glancing up at him briefly before staring back down at the table. He hates how endearing he finds it, how he wants to reach across the sticky table and pull your jaw, hold it, and force you to look at him. He wants to see your eyes glaze over the way they did the day prior.Â
He chooses instead to slide the menu across to you, and once you order, he leans back.Â
âDid you have a nice morning?â
He withholds a wince at the awkwardness.Â
âUm, yes. Classes were okay. Thank you?â
The end of the sentence rises almost into a question, as though you're unsure whether that's the correct answer, and something about it makes his chest tighten.
âGood, thatâs good.â
Then an awkward pause. Jack sits there like a complete fucking idiot.
For Christ's sake heâd called you here. And now that you're sitting in front of him, he can't seem to form a coherent sentence.
Get your shit together, Abbot.Â
"Look," he begins, rubbing a hand across his jaw. "I wanted to apologise for yesterday."
Your eyes finally lift from the table.
âIt was wrong of me to let you go like that. Quite frankly I donât even have an excuse I justâŠâ
He trails off, looking behind you out the window for a second. What exactly is he supposed to say?
That the sight of you crying made me feel physically sick? That for one terrifying second Iâd felt something dangerously close to happiness sitting in that office with you? That after years of carefully maintaining the same dull routine Iâd somehow started structuring entire days around whether Iâd see you?
None of those seem particularly appropriate, too intense.Â
"See, no man my age enjoys being reminded that he's still capable of behaving like a teenager."
That makes you smirk a little. His heart warms.Â
âYou mean, you.. coming in your pants?â
Jack groans softly and drags a hand down his face.
âI didn't want to put it so crudely, but well... yes."
"I thought so."
You giggle. And the sound catches him off guard enough that he finds himself smiling despite the mortification currently trying to consume him.
"To be honest," you continue, "I think I understood once I calmed down."
His shoulders loosen slightly.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
You shrug.
"But I'm not going to lie, it didn't feel very good. You kicking me out like that."
The honesty makes him wince.
"And that's exactly why I wanted to apologise, sweetheart." His gaze settles on you properly. Giving you a look that he hoped was earnest. "That was real shitty of me. Iâm truly very sorry.â
You look at him for a few moments in silence, mapping his face. Then once seemingly finding what you were looking for, you reply.Â
âApology accepted.âÂ
The waitress arrives then, setting down your coffee, some monstrosity involving whipped cream and probably enough sugar to send him into cardiac arrest.
Jack eyes it suspiciously, humorously.Â
"What?" you question.Â
"That isn't coffee."
"It literally is."
"Sweetheart, that looks like it barely has any caffeine."
You let out a giggle, again. God, youâve got to fucking stop that if you want his heart to survive. Â
"It has espresso."
"Buried beneath, what? Three inches of whipped cream."
"Whatever, youâre just old and grumpy."
You grin. The grin grows wider when he continues staring at the drink with visible disappointment.
For some reason that finally breaks whatever lingering awkwardness remains between the two of you. The conversation begins flowing after that.
He makes a witty remark, you giggle. And you manage to make him laugh as well, coming out of your shell.Â
Then the conversation shifts to that night at the bar.Â
âYeah so if he wasn't that buff and scary, I wouldn't even have called you over. I would've told him to suck my strap and choke.â
Jack nearly chokes on his coffee, coughing violently. You immediately burst into soft laughter. He wipes his lips with a napkin, grinning.
"Sweetheart."
"What?"
"Please give me some warning before you say things like that."
Your grin grows, eyes sparkling.Â
"Why?"
"Because I'm fifty."
That seems to make your eyes widen imperceptibly, and you look down towards the coffee you ordered, chugging it.Â
Interesting.Â
Neither of you acknowledge the elephant in the room, instead you continue talking, skirting around the edges. Circling the obvious without ever touching it.
And eventually your drinks are empty. People around you start leaving.
Yet neither of you seems particularly eager to end the conversation.
Jack glances at his watch. Then back at you. He really, really shouldn't. But he wants to give you a way out. While still offering you a choice.Â
"I don't have any classes after tomorrow's lecture."
The words leave his mouth casually.
Your eyes flicker up.
"Oh."
A pause.
"I could come see you."
"In my office?"
You immediately look embarrassed.
"Only if that's okay."
God. There it is again, that instinct you have to ask permission for existing.
"Sweetheart."
Your eyes lift.
"It's okay."
The relief that flashes across your face is so immediate it almost hurts to look at.
"Okay."
"Okay."
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
When the bill eventually arrives, he picks it up before you can.
"Dr Abbot-"
"No."
"I can pay for myself."
"I know."
"Then-"
"I know, I know youâre a self sufficient woman. Youâre brilliant. But let me. Iâll pay for it."
Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Jack watches the entire internal battle play across your face.
Then you nod softly, muttering an âokay, thank youâ.Â
Jack's heart clenches again. Genuinely fuck his life.Â
So you think youâve somehow ended up in a situationship or whatever the fuck with your fifty year old professor.Â
Over the course of the past five weeks, you show up in his office after the lectures, and even a few times throughout the week, and he sets you on his lap, or on his desk while he laps at your cunt.Â
Occasionally, he lets you pull out his cock and suck it. Sometimes under his desk, riding his boot as he's grading papers, God, his fucking whimpers when he comes.Â
Unsurprisingly, he also does help you with understanding the content and doing your assignments. Has his own unique methods of doing so.Â
Jack had you sitting on his lap, back to his chest, completely clothed while you were naked, bare.Â
He hooked his face on your shoulder, whispering filth in your ears, telling you to âfocusâ as he rubbed slow circles over your pussy. Smearing the slick oozing out your cunt over your folds, avoiding your clit.Â
You whined and tried to clench your thighs, whispering against his stubbled cheek.Â
âPlease, pl- touch me, Dr Abbot.âÂ
But he'd splayed one wide palm, tightly, over your thigh.
âNo. Type out the rest of the essay, câmon. Then you can come, pretty girl,â heâd muttered in a low voice.Â
And once you did, he'd shoved his fat fingers inside of you, thrusting fast, the other hand alternating between your neck and your nipples, pinching, squeezing. Â
Youâd squirted that day, for the first time, creating a mess of his pants, some landing on his desk.Â
Heâd made you lick it off.Â
Surprisingly, however, you hadnât kissed, not even once. Nor had you fucked, in the penetrative sense.Â
The latter youâre grateful for, because you were a virgin. It was too humiliating of a thought to ever bring up in your twenties now, but thankfully he never brings it up either. You suspect he knows though, from the little details you've unveiled to him over the course of the past few weeks.Â
Talking about your feelings has always been.. difficult. The words choke up and clog the back of your throat when you go to speak. Entire relationships - well, lack of relationships - have been built around your inability to say what you need.Â
But it's easy, sometimes, with Jack. When your brain shuts off in a post orgasmic haze, and you sit in other's company, his hand resting in your hair, or his head buried in your chest, the words bubble out of you.Â
Snippets of memories of your family that you left behind, of the few friends back home, the lack of romance. When you stop speaking halfway through a sentence because you've forgotten how to explain yourself, he simply waits.
Surely he's put two and two together. Â
And you think he has some avoidant issues of his own, the old fuck.Â
He'll spend forty minutes analysing a political institution and somehow avoid answering a direct question about his own feelings.
Yet occasionally things slip through the cracks.
A memory about his wife. An offhand comment about the military that lingers in your mind long after he's moved on to another topic.
You'd had a lengthy conversation one day about that, your radical opinions spilling out before you could stop them, about systemic exploitation and imperialism, about how much you despised the military as an institution. Youâd accuse institutions of manipulating vulnerable people; He agreed more than you'd expected him to. Told you about his journey of basically being forced into it to help his family, about the machinery of poverty and patriotism that pushed kids toward enlistment before they were old enough to understand what they were signing away.
He takes your ideas seriously, but he also looks genuinely delighted when you disagree with him.
And god, thatâs what you were starting to like most about him. The intellect. Yes he has a girthy cock that would probably annihilate you in the best way when (if) the time came, and incredible arms, and his fat pecs. But his brain. Wow.Â
Intelligence has always been your love language, whether you've admitted it or not. And Jack speaks it fluently. Thereâs a sense of strange intimacy and letting others hear your thoughts and opinions. And the ability to be able to talk and have someone just listen, or banter with you â it was rare. Especially for someone as reclusive as you.Â
Unfortunately, you're also smart enough to recognise reality. Whatever this is, it isn't heading anywhere permanent. Because Jack never talks about the future, never makes promises, or gives any indication that he's looking for something lasting.
And honestly? You aren't sure he can. Not after everything he's lost, not with the gap of decades between you. So you tell yourself you're enjoying things exactly as they are. You tell yourself that spending time with him is enough.
And for now, maybe it is.
The problem is that every time he looks at you like you've said something brilliant, every time he remembers some tiny detail about your life, every time his face softens when you walk into a room â this lie gets a little harder to believe.
Five weeks. Jackâs âbriefâ lapse in judgement has lasted five fucking weeks.Â
Every time he sees you enter the lecture, you exchange a secret look, your eyes fluttering, him blushing. He feels like heâs twenty again. It's exhilarating.Â
But the âethical dilemmaâ of it all sat permanently in the back of his mind, festering like an untreated wound.
He knows that every time he let himself enjoy your company, every time he answered one of your messages, every time he found himself smiling at something you'd said hours after the conversation had ended, he was stepping further into territory he had absolutely no business occupying.
The way you trusted him, allowing him to lick into your cunt or set you on his lap and caress you, felt nice. It felt real fucking good to be wanted and desired in some capacity, especially after being touch starved for nearly a decade since his wife.Â
And seeing you under him sucking his cock, fuck.
âDr AbbotâŠ.â you whined in a teasing tone, laced with humour.Â
He groaned, placing his forehead on your back from where you sat on his lap. You definitely wanted something.Â
âWhat?â he huffed out.
Still facing your laptop, you breathed out your next words.Â
âWhen are you going to let me suck your cock?â
He jolted, hips thrusting up.
âJesus Christ sweetheart, warn a guy.â
You said his name again, more firmly.Â
âStop dodging the question.â
He paused.Â
âThis whole⊠us. It's about you, about helping you relax so you can focus on studying. Itâs not about me or my pleasure or-â
âJack.âÂ
He lifted his head from your back, stilling. Youâd never said his first name before.Â
âWhat if doing it would give me pleasure, hm? What then?â
He stayed silent.Â
You twisted in his lap, neck twisting to face him.Â
âI want to taste you, please.â
Widening your eyes, and pouting, you all but begged him. Brought a hand to his stubbled cheek. Â
âPlease, Dr Abbot. Let me do it.âÂ
He sighed. Jack Abbot was a weak, pathetic man when it came to you. Â
âFine,â he grumbled.Â
âGet off, câmon.â
Yeah, it was worth it for the blinding smile you gave him, kissing his cheek. Â
He gently lifted you off his lap, and pulled his chair back to give you some room.Â
Jack nodded, glancing down pointedly.Â
âIf you want it, you gotta do it yourself.â
You kneeled immediately, settling yourself in the gap between his desk, between his open thighs.Â
Unbuckling his belt, staring at his bulge with those doe eyes the entire time, you slowly pulled his cock out.Â
It was hard, leaking, tip red and aching. Your soft hands wrapping around his dick made a drop of precum roll down. He moaned, a low sound emanating from deep in his chest.Â
You slowly twisted your hand up and down his cock, fingers barely stretching around.Â
Jack couldnât wait. He gripped your hair, not too hard, but enough to lift your head up to face him.Â
âYou gonna put your mouth on it or do I need to shove it in?â
You smirked, you vixen.Â
âShove it in, I dare you.â
He groaned, muttering âyou fuckinâ bratâ as he pushed your hands off his cock.
âOpen up, sweetheart.â
You did, tongue lolling out. A drop of drool dripped onto his thighs, and he moaned under his breath.Â
He couldnât wait any longer. Gripping his cock, he fed it into your mouth. Inch by inch.Â
Until you gagged.Â
Feeling your soft throat close around him, he couldn't help but groan your name.
âFuckinâ hell.â
Your hands came up to stroke whatever didn't fit in - which truth be told, was more than half his cock, but it's okay, he'd train you eventually.Â
âCan I help you, sweetheart? Teach you how to take your professor's cock down your throat?â
You nodded quickly, moaning, his cock still in your mouth.Â
Then he guided you through it, holding your head as you sucked him. Muttered praises, filth, to guide you.
âJust like that, sweetheartâ.
âYeah, grip it harderâ.
âSuck the tip, just like that.âÂ
And right before he came, he ripped you off him and wrapped a hand around himself. He whimpered as jerked off furiously over you, until drops of his pearly cum splattered over your tongue.Â
He had never come that hard in his life.Â
Panting harshly, he patted your head.Â
âSwallow.â
Other than the sex, there were also the days where you'd walk into his office and start talking about some article you'd read, your entire face lighting up with excitement, and everything in him would melt. Heâd pull you onto his lap, or set you in front of him, on his desk, and let you talk, feeling the softness of your thighs under his palm as he traced small circles. It was nice to let someone in, fill the void and the silence in his life.Â
There wasnât a label on what you two were, if you even were anything.Â
While at first heâd thought it was common for you to be used to this sort of âcausalnessâ or a friends-with-benefit type situation (or whatever the fuck somebody born two generations after him would call it), he'd come to realise you were actually the opposite. Not that heâd have any issue with either.Â
But from the scattered stories you'd told him about your past, the way you spoke about relationships, and the cautious vulnerability that appeared whenever the subject drifted too close to âfeelingsâ, he'd begun piecing together a picture of someone who felt things deeply and trusted people slowly.
He could calculate you were likely a virgin. And so he never pressurised you, never made the first move to initiate sex, kept his cock to himself, waiting for you. No matter how much he wanted to feel the tightness of your pussy around him.Â
However, his patience is wearing thin, growing precarious with every instance of you bringing another small thing that wedges itself beneath his ribs and refuses to leave.Â
Now he's left with the deeply inconvenient problem of wanting things he really shouldnât want. Not just a warm body near him, but wanting your company, your attention. He wants those afternoons in his office where you do nothing but talk to last a little longer.
All of this wanting, this yearning, is quite frankly, far more than he has any right to want.
Which is exactly why today is proving so unbearable.
He often feels a pit of something bitter bubble in his chest when you interact with someone other than him. Not that it happens frequently - you're quite reserved. But not today. Today, specifically, you seem to be chatting up a boy.Â
When he enters the lecture this morning, you arenât sitting alone like usual, but instead, thereâs some boy next to you. Some boy your age. Dressed in some sort of hideous baggy outfit that hangs off his lanky frame. Is that fashion now? God that fucking punk.Â
Why was he sitting next to you? Distracting you?Â
As he sets up his laptop on the podium, seething under his breath, he hears a giggle. Your breathy giggle, the one he thought only came out with him.Â
His jaw tightens. The lecture hasn't even started, for Christ's sake.
Jack spends the next five minutes attempting to focus on setting up his stupid slides while simultaneously becoming aware of every interaction occurring in your vicinity.
Looking up, he realises it's a grave mistake. Because now you're touching. Touching that punkâs arm.Â
Fuck.Â
Something ugly immediately twists in Jack's stomach, his brows furrowing. Anger bubbles up in his chest.
But he canât do anything but continue on, beginning his lecture, as if he isnât seething with jealousy.Â
Halfway through the lecture, he catches himself directing a question towards your side of the room and immediately wants to launch himself into the sun.
Because you answer, of course, brilliantly as usual. But the boy next to you looks at you with stars in his eyes.
Yeah, Jack wants him expelled.
After a torturous two hours, students begin filing out of the room. Normally, this is the part where he'd catch your eye, maybe exchange some silent look that promised you'd be appearing in his office within the next ten minutes.
Instead, you're still standing beside that boy. And the little prick is making you laugh now. Then you reach out and lightly smack his arm, again.
Jack immediately decides prison might be worth it.Â
He shoves his laptop into his satchel with considerably more force than necessary, and effectively storms out of the room without giving you a second glance.Â
If you wanted to fuck about with some kid your age, then fine, Jack was not going to stop you.Â
By the time he reaches his office he's practically fuming, throwing his bag onto his desk and immediately hating himself for it.
Because what exactly are you guilty of?
Making a friend? Talking to somebody?
The answer is nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Yet that doesn't stop the ugly feeling sitting beneath his ribs. Yeah, heâs going to commit a fucking crime tonight.Â
Jack Abbot has managed to elicit yet another strange emotion in you. You're staring at the doorway he'd just disappeared through, confused as fuck.Â
He'd packed up and left so quickly you'd barely had time to process it, when usually, you walk to his office together.Â
Once James - the man you were talking to - leaves with your Instagram to âorganise a study sessionâ, a strange sinking feeling begins to settle in your stomach.
You gather your things slowly, trying not to overthink it but failing spectacularly.
The thing is, you had actually been excited, embarrassingly excited. Somehow, after weeks of mostly keeping to yourself, after spending the majority of your university experience drifting between classes and then disappearing home, you'd accidentally made a friend today randomly. For the first time somebody actually came and fucking sat next you and talked to you.Â
And the first person you'd wanted to tell was Jack. Which was probably concerning. You know how ridiculous it is that every interesting thing that happens in your day somehow circles back to him.
You'd actually spent the last ten minutes of class thinking about it, thinking about walking into his office and saying, "I made a friend today." And hearing whatever sarcastic response he'd inevitably come up with as he pulled you into his lap. Maybe teasing you about finally socialising - a topic he often teased you about -Â or maybe pretending to be shocked.
Instead he'd practically fled the room.
By the time you reach his office, the excitement has mostly dissolved into uncertainty, and a sick, sick feeling. Your brain convinces you he hates you, heâs sick of you. The affair with the pretty young thing is over.Â
Your hand hovers over the door, then knocks.
A gruff voice immediately answers.
"Come in."
You push the door open, and there he is standing beside his desk.
His jaw is clenched, his shoulders rigid.
And suddenly you're no longer excited to tell him anything. Instead you're left standing there wondering what exactly you did wrong.
He stalks up to you, and shuts the door behind you with enough force to make you jump. For a moment he simply stands there, broad chest rising and falling, staring at you as though he's trying to decide whether to throttle you or kiss you.
âWho the fuck was that boy?â
Youâre confused.Â
âWho?â
âDon't play games with me, sweetheart.â
âJames?â you ask, tilting your head. âOh heâs just a⊠friend I made. We decided to share notes for the course.â
His jaw visibly tenses.
âThe fuck you mean you âshare notesâ?â He exaggerates the last two words, mocking the phrase in a deliberately high-pitched voice. âDonât I give you enough notes to go off? I'm not teachinâ you well enough, so now you gotta go to some punk to share notes?
âJack, itâs not like that, I just-â
âDr Abbot.â He interrupts.
The correction slices straight through you.
âWhat?â
He walks up closer to you, until your back hits the door and youâre pinned against it. He tilts his head down to peer at you.Â
âItâs Dr Abbot when youâre in my office, sweetheart,â His voice drops lower. âIâm still your professor.âÂ
You scoff at that, hurt. Itâs not hot to you, no. In that moment your brain forces you to think about how every moment you've spent together has happened in this room, only in this room. And maybe that's all there is, and maybe that's all there ever was. You convince you that you guys canât exist out of this space, this dynamic that exists between the two of you.Â
Can he just not have a civil conversation? Why is pretending to act jealous? If he wanted to fuck you he could just ask.Â
You swallow hard.
âRight,â you say lowly. âMy professor.â
The words taste bitter.
âThe one who only seems to want me when we're in here.â
His brows furrow immediately.
âThat's not what-â
âNo, itâs okay. Let me finish. The one who shoves his face between my thighs when he feels lonely to cure whatever fucked up grief he keeps bottled up inside of him. The one who refuses to see me outside the four walls of this godforsaken office-â
âEnough.â
You see something that resembles hurt flash across his face, his brows creasing. The lines around his eyes deepen.
âIs that really what you think of me?â He whispers, staring at you.
You twitch uncomfortably under him, looking at the floor, confidence evaporating now that you've actually said out loud what youâve been spiralling over ever since this began.
âI just...â Your voice cracks slightly. âLook, you don't have to act possessive, okay? Whatever we have this- this thing. I know it doesnât mean much to you.â
Jack immediately opens his mouth, but you keep rambling.
âWhich is fine. Seriously. I'm okay with that.â Your hands shake slightly at your sides. âBut just donât give me false hope. Iâm happy with you being my professor, or my dom, or whatever the fuck. And I like that you help me study and talk and get out of my head and feel good, but thereâs no need to act like you- like you care. I can't handle feeling like you care one minute and then being reminded none of this is real the next.âÂ
You're panting hard by the end of your rant, still refusing to look at him.Â
âSweetheart, look at me.â
You shake your head, tears of frustration welling up at letting yourself be seen like this, vulnerable. You promised yourself you wouldnât ever tell him. Stupid.Â
Sex, thatâs easy. Itâs the meshing of two bodies, itâs clinical - you orgasm, your brain feels hazy and good while he drives you there. But this, talking, about feelings of all things, fuck. You canât let anyone see you like that. Because then, they get sick of you, and then they leave.Â
âCâmon, look at me,â he pleads.
You wipe your eyes, about to tell him to move back so you can leave, but then he says your name. Softly. Not sweetheart. Not pretty girl. But your actual name.
âPlease.â
You look up then, tears pooling in your eyes. And your breath catches.
Because Jack looks devastated. His eyes are red around the edges, and his mouth is pulled into a frown.Â
His hand rises slowly, cupping your cheek. He gently swipes a thumb under your eye.Â
âHey, I need you to know - this is real. To me.â
His voice cracks.
âIâm not using you as some sort of placeholder or whatever self sabotaging bullshit youâve created in your head okay?â
Then he inhales deeply.Â
âYou've become the best part of my day. I wake up and mentally map my days around you. Hearing you talk loosens the constant ache I feel.â
Jack closes his eyes briefly.
Then opens them again. His hand tightens against your cheek.
âSweetheart, I love you.â
You still.Â
Your lip quivers as you stare at him.Â
You bring your own hand up to cup his, and look up through your lashes.Â
The words get stuck in your throat. God. He loves you. Somebody loves you. Somebody saw through rot and the cage around your heart, and said he fucking loves you.
âI do. Too. That thing,â you wince at your awkwardness. âI just, I want to say it but I-"
âHey pretty girl, itâs okay.â
Jack smiles sadly. He leans his forehead down to yours.
âI do,â you whisper desperately. âI do. I just-â
âShh.â
His mouth nearly presses against you as he whispers again.
âI love you. And Iâll wait however long you need me to say it back, okay?â
Your breath shudders as he says that, a sob catching in your throat. Because for the first time in a very long time, nobody leaves.Â
Your eyes squeeze shut. Tears roll down your cheek, overwhelmed.
You barely register them before you feel Jackâs lips against your skin, kissing your tears. He mutters soft, âI love youâs as he presses kisses all over your face, cradling it. He presses one last one on your forehead before he tucks you into him.Â
Your cheek rests on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
You wrap your arms around his waist. And you genuinely think you can control it, for about ten seconds at most, then you sob. Uncontrollably, for the first time in years in front of another human.Â
Because God. You have spent so much of your life believing that love was something you had to earn, something you had to perform correctly for your family, the people around you, to accept you. Something that disappeared the second you became too much, too emotional, too difficult, too needy.
But he stayed. And he saw you.Â
You stand there, wrapped in each other's embrace until the tears slow. Jack gently wipes your cheeks with both hands.
âSorry for making you cry, princess,â he pouts, lip jutting out exaggerately.Â
A watery laugh leaves you at that, and you cup his cheek. Jack immediately leans into your palm.
Jack watches you with an expression so openly adoring it nearly steals the breath from your lungs. As though he's still struggling to believe you're real.
Your thumb traces the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, mapped with years lived longer than you.
Then your hand drifts lower, brushing against the silver-grey scruff along his jaw, littered with specks of auburn, and you rub it gently, feeling the coarseness between your fingertips.
That was it, was it not? The stark difference between you, the thing that made all this so exhilarating.Â
Jack had lived a life that existed before you. And somehow, impossibly, it had still found its way to yours. As though he's spent years wandering through darkness and has suddenly found something worth staying for.
And perhaps, you realise, so have you.
Thatâs when you know.
âIâm ready,â you breathe out.
Jack's eyes widen, his hand coming to hold yours where it rests on his jaw.
âAre you sure? I donât want you to feel pressured into it.â
âJack. Iâm sure. I want this, I want you.â
He shudders, exhaling hard, bringing his face down to yours.
âYeah?â He whispers against your lips, brushing them.
âYeah.âÂ
Then his lips slam down onto yours, for the first time.Â
And God, its everything you fucking imagined.Â
His mouth presses against yours and soft whimpers escape the both of you. Thereâs a certain desperation in the way his mouth moves against yours, in the way your tongues immediately find each other.Â
After a few brutal minutes of grinding against each other, moaning, Jack succumbs. He lifts you into his hands, your thighs wrapping around his waist, as he carries you to his desk and sets you on it.
Mouth still pressed against yours, he rips your shirt off, pulls your jeans and panties off, shoving them to the floor.Â
He whines as you detach your lips from his to pull his blazer off. Looking up at him, naked on his desk, you unbutton his shirt. Trail your fingers down the dusting of salt and pepper chest hair, down, over his pecs, slightly raking your nails over his nipples.
âFuck yeah, use your nails on my chest,â he grunts out as he unzips his pants.
You moan, pressing against him harder.
âI canât wait any longer, fuck. Please, sweetheart, let me fuck you.â
You nod.
âIâm ready, Dr Abbot.â
He groans mutters âyou fucking minxâ as he pulls his pants and boxers down, standing bare in front of you.
His cock hits his soft stomach, curving to the left, precum coating the tip, the way you love.Â
You glance down at his prosthetic.Â
âYou sure you want to do this here, Jack? We can go on the sofa if you want.â
He looks at you with so much adoration, a soft smile gracing his face.
âNo sweetheart, I'll keep it on for now. Wanna fuck you on my desk. â
Then he pinches your nipples as he leans in.Â
âAnd I still need to fuck the brat out of you.â
You whine.
âWhat are you waiting for then?â
He brings a hand down your stomach, fingers pressing up against you.Â
âGonna finger you a little bit, yeah? Get you ready for your professor's cock, sânot gonna fit in this tight pussy otherwise.â
A whimper escapes you at his crude words, god can this old man dirty talk. Â
He slowly slips two fingers inside of you, thrusting, then three once youâre ready. Circles your clit softly, the way heâs learnt after many nights on this same desk.Â
Whispers filth against your lips, kissing you, desperate now that he knows what your lips taste like after many weeks.Â
Once you come, he finally presses his cock against you. Rubs the tip over your folds, coating it in your slick.Â
âYeah? You ready sweetheart?â
You nod, whisper a soft âpleaseâ against his lips.Â
Then he pushes his tip into you. And oh fuck. Heâs just so fucking thick.Â
He immediately brings a hand up to hold his base to stave off his orgasm, puts his head on your shoulder. Breathing harshly.Â
It hurts a little but you want more, you crave the feeling of him pressed up against you. So you buck your hips.Â
âPlease, Jack, fuck. Put it in,â you whine.Â
âOh- oh shit. Fucking stop that.â
He lays a hand flat on your thigh. Breathes deeply.Â
âIâm trying not to blow my load here, sweetheart, gimme a sec.â
You giggle softly, pleased. Having this old man at your mercy, your dreams come true.Â
âTake your time, old man.â
He stills at that, grips your waist harshly.Â
Looks up at you, his eyes darkening.Â
âFuck you,â he snarls.Â
Then he presses into you, inch by inch, until all of him is buried inside. His thighs shake with the effort of not coming, and you breathe deeply through the pinch of pain.Â
âFuck princess, so tight for me, my good fucking girl,â he babbles in your ear.Â
You whimper against him, waiting for the pain to subside.Â
Then you nod. And he begins thrusting, slowly. And it's so fucking euphoric, the feeling of sex. It makes sense why they call orgasms âa little deathâ in French, because god, you know your body will leave your soul once he starts properly fucking you.Â
With every deep thrust of his cock into you, his grey pubes brush against your clit. You both moan softly. He grips your waist, shoving faster, harder.Â
âOnly man thatâs ever gonna be in this pussy yeah? Yeah?â
Youâre half gone drooling against his neck, letting out high pitched whines.Â
âNod for me, câmon. I havenât fucked the brains outta you yet.âÂ
Jack grips your hair tight, pulling your head away from where it was buried against his neck.Â
You nod, slurring your words.
âYeah Dr Abbot, sâonly your pussy.â
âThatâs it, good fucking girl.â
Then he starts thrusting, faster. Your hands rest on his shoulders, his face buried in your neck. His body slamming into yours is so hard it makes the table squeak under you.Â
When he brings a hand to your clit, you whimper loudly. He covers your mouth with his palm, and stops immediately.Â
âQuiet, you donât want anyone to hear right?âÂ
He roughly pants, trailing a line of kisses up your neck.Â
âDonât want them to know your professorâs fucking you, right?â
You shake your head, words muffled under his palm.Â
âIâll be quiet please, fuck please!âÂ
He starts thrusting against faster, the table shaking. You toss your head back in pleasure, his cock reaching a spot deep inside you. He stares at you, at your face twisted in pleasure, the way your tits bounce as he thrusts into you.Â
âYeah that is it, baby, good fucking girl.â
God it feels so good, and youâre there, you're nearly there, egged on by his rough groans and whimpers in your ear. You bring a hand down to your clit, starting to rub it to reach your orgasm but he shoves it off. Pushes you onto the table, your back hitting the desk.Â
âThatâs my job sweetheart. This pussy is mine.â
Then he hovers over you, eyes boring into yours as he fucks you harder, rubbing circles on your clit. The pleasure is so, so overwhelming and you close your eyes.Â
He pulls your head towards him, gripping your jaw.Â
âCâmon, look at me sweetheart.â
You open your eyes, moaning.Â
âSay it,â he grunts. âSay youâre mine. Say it.â
âFuck- Dr Abbot, Iâm yours.â
He moans gutturally then pushes his lips onto yours again. You both moan into each other's mouths, sloppily kissing as you build towards your peak. Â
âFuck yeah sweetheart, just like that- good girl, so fucking tight.â
He continues to mutter filth against you while all you can do is softly moan. Your brain is mush, filled with thoughts of him, jackjackjack.Â
You clench tightly around him when he bites your bottom lip.
âCâmon tell me how good you feel,â he pants, nearing his own orgasm.Â
âFuck, Daddy, feels so good.â
His hips buck once, harshly, then he stills.Â
âWhatâd you just call me?â
Your eyes come into focus. The fog clearing a bit.Â
You stammer, âUm nothing, sir, I was just-â
âNo. Repeat it.â
He trails a hand to your neck, squeezing gently once, then more harshly
âWhat did you call me?â
âDaddy,â you whisper out.
He pouts mockingly.Â
âYeah? Daddy makinâ you feel good, baby? Thatâs why you're grippinâ this cock so tight, right?â
And then he starts thrusting, harder than before.Â
âJust. Let. Daddy. Take Care. Of. You,â He harshly thrusts between each word, one hand covering your mouth as your moans get louder.Â
Then you feel your orgasm approaching, the flutter building up again, clenching around him.Â
He looks into your eyes, only a thin ring of hazel left, his pupils so dilated.
âYou gonna come for your Daddy? Yeah?âÂ
You nod, whining, then you bite his palm. Hard.Â
His hips stutter and you feel the warmth of his spend pooling in your cunt. He whimpers and babbles your name as he comes, âfuck, fuck I love you. I love you so fucking much.â
You moan at his words. But you still have to come.Â
âJack please, please keep going.âÂ
He groans gutterly as his cock begins to soften, overstimulated but he continues thrusting jerkily.Â
He grips your chin in his palm.Â
âFuckinâ come for me. Now,â he grunts out, pinching your clit roughly.
And then it happens. You write, moaning under his hands as the coil of pleasure snaps, closing your eyes.Â
He whimpers soft praises and coos of âI love you, did so good for meâ as his cock spurts out more cum, twitching.
You pant against each other's mouths for a few long moments, his scruff tickling your chin, his forehead resting against yours, both of you trying and failing to steady your breathing.
âFuckinâ hell, sweetheart,â he murmurs, a breathless laugh escaping him. âThat live up to your expectations?â
You laugh softly nodding.Â
âMhm.â
He leans his head back to look at you properly once heâs cooled down, and holds your face in his palms.Â
After a few long seconds of just staring, something grave passed over his face.
âDonât think I got a lot of years left, sweetheart.â
Your brows immediately furrow.
âJack-â
He presses a finger to your lips when you go to interrupt, shushing you.Â
âLet me speak.â
You sigh, but nod.Â
âI've spent most of my life thinkin' there'd only ever be one great love for me,â he says quietly, his thumb brushing beneath your eye. âAnd after I lost her, I figured that was it. Figured whatever part of me knew how to belong to somebody had gone with her.â
Your breath stutters.Â
âThen you came along. In that fucking bar, wearing that tiny dress, asking me to help you. â
A watery laugh escapes you.
âAnd whatever years I have left, I wanna spend them with you. I wanna hear every thought that gets trapped in that head of yours. I wanna know what articles you're reading, what you're writing, what you're dreaminâ about at three in the morning.â
He pauses.Â
âI wanna be the person you come home to.â
Your breath catches.
âAs your other. If youâd want.âÂ
You breathe out, seeing his face dimly lit by the lamp in his office. Mapping out his wrinkles near his eyes, the silver threaded in his slight beard and his soft smile. And suddenly it comes spilling out of you before anxiety can stop it.
âI love you.â
Jack stills completely. His eyes pool with tears.Â
âYeah?â He whispers, half surprised, half in awe. Â
You nod, leaning up and brushing your nose against his.
âAnd Iâd love to be yours.â
Relief washes over his face so intensely it almost hurts to witness. His eyes glisten as he kisses you softly, a slow, reverent press of his lips against yours for a few quiet moments.
Then he moves back to start cleaning up, cock still inside you.Â
As he leans up, his back cracks, loudly.Â
You both still. Before you burst out laughing.Â
âYouâre so fucking old⊠yeah youâre not making it very long, I canât lie.â
He groans dramatically, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.  Â
âFuck you, shut up.â
You bite your lip. His gaze travels there. Â
âMake me, Dr Abbot,â you say, exaggerating a whimper, only half serious.
His eyes darken, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumps beneath the skin. Yet despite the stern look he's trying to give you, a pink flush begins creeping across his cheeks, spreading over the tops of them and disappearing beneath the scruff along his jaw.
âYeah sweetheart, about that⊠Iâm not gonna be able to get it up for a while.â
You break, laughing harder as he laments. Heâs so fucking old.Â
Once you calm down, he slowly pulls his cock out of you, both of you moaning, you at the loss of the fullness, him at your shared cum oozing out.Â
âBut my mouth still works,â he smirks.Â
Your breath hitches as he plugs you with his fingers to stop more of your cum from spilling out. Leans in close, and whispers.Â
âMy legâs killing me, sweetheart,â he begins, breath fanning over your face. âBut I'm going to lie on that sofa right there. And you're gonna ride my face till you come. Again. And again.â
You whimper softly against his mouth.Â
âOkay.â
âOkay, who, pretty girl?â
âOkay, Daddy.â
He grins.Â
âGood girl.â
omg hi u made it ! guys when i tell you this is so personal to me, from the dialgoue to the experimental (?) writing style. i need this man to be my father figure SO FUCKING BAD i have had such a week.
anyways per usual thank you to @tempestfawn for perving out with me and tolerating me, and salima for being horny over this man among other things #fullhomo
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"All because my head is full of poison
And my heart is full of doubt
I got toxins in my bloodstream
You tried so hard to suck out
âthe cure, Olivia Rodrigo
summary: youâre the ray of sunshine and overly dependable smiling intern the night shift crew has been needing. But a certain attending begins noticing you might need more help than you let on.
wc: 11.7k (a short one sorry guys)
warnings: crippling perfectionism, high-key people pleasing, reader is bright and bubbly to compensate for how awful she feels day to day, one vomiting scene, service dom jack, santos is on nightshift bc i love her and i wanted her in this fic. trinity and dennis and reader r basically siblings, jackâs characterization in this is DEF andrew pope cody-esque panic attacks, mental health struggles, reader is an intern again but i swear itâs just cause i watch a lot of greys and interns r the only stage of medical career i know enough about to write semi-well T-T
acknowledgments: once again a round of applause for @wesandresons for the lovely gif, and @uzmacchiato and @cursed-carmine for the dividers!
a/n: iâm not rlly sure i like how this turned out but oh well @leeknowpegger i hope this keeps you company
masterlist
When you first get to the PTMC, Jack canât decide what he thinks about you.
He vaguely remembers youâ youâd done a rotation here, some time ago. One of the unfortunate ones whoâd drawn the short stick and been stuck on the night shift. He has a hazy recollection of your face during an MVC, your jaw hard set and a permanent smile to your face. He vaguely remembers, at the time, the only thing heâd really though was:
Jesus, this kid needs to dial it back.
The sentiment, of course, remains the same when itâs handoff time, and Robby is telling him all about what an awful fucking day itâs been, and of course now he says âOh, remember that med student you got stuck with awhile back? Smiley-face? You mustâve done something right, because she matched into the ED for her residency. She starts today.â
Not exactly the news an attending wants to hear right after the horror show the day has been so far. Especially when intern/baby resident in question is⊠charismatic.
âYou say that like itâs a bad thing,â Ellis says, her eyes trained on you as you soothe a crying teenager who just got wheeled in. âIf you ask me, we could use someone who actually smiles. Bit too dark and dreary in here for my taste.â
âYou like dark and dreary.â
She gives him an unimpressed raised eyebrow. âSo? We canât all be doing it. Like, weâve got Shen, but his is more iced-coffee induced than actual smiling charm.â
âI can be charming when I want to be.â
âNo, you can be flirty or suggestive. Thereâs a difference.â
Jack does not justify her response with one of his own, instead choosing to look down at his tablet and pretend to chart while he listens to how youâre interacting with the patient. The teenager seems to be calmed down, and the parents don't sound frantic or worried.
Maybe Ellis is right. Unfortunately, this tends to be the case fairly often.
He sighs and focuses on the chart heâs supposed to be doing and attempts to wipe his mind of bright smiles and glittering eyes.
â
The PTMC and Emergency Medicine in general was not, actually, your first choice. It wasnât even your second, or your third.
First was surgical. Everybody wants to be surgical. You wanted surgical. Itâs flashy, it pays well, and itâs cool as fuck. Plus, unlike some of your classmates, you actually have the stomach for it (one of the many things that eventually translated well to emergency medicine.)
Second was Ortho. Because bones are cool. Ortho surgeries are fun too, when theyâre not arthroscopy after arthroscopy.
Third was any kind of unit like Burn or ICU. A high stress program that wouldnât let you think, let you run on adrenaline all day.
But then you did your rotation in general surgery and absolutely fucking hated it.
Surgeons are assholes. Surgeons are uptight nerds who like to subject anyone they consider beneath them to cruel and unusual punishment.
Even in during the short duration of your rotation through surgery, it almost killed you. You could practically feel the light in your soul dimming at every pointed comment, every sharp correction, every barked insult and something or other cruel word.
And then there was the PTMC. The stupid ED that wasnât supposed to fun, was supposed to be grueling and exhausting (especially since youâd gotten assigned to the night shift.) But instead of awful you got amazing, which sucked.
Seems counterintuitive, but itâs true.
You wanted to like surgery enough to power though. But not a single rotation after the ED even came close to measuring up. The speed, the action, the gore, and the kind but firm guiding direction from the attendingâs and residents.
Matching into the PTMC was an event actually worth celebrating. As in, you decided to un-tense minutely and splurge on actual champagne that you drank in your apartment while dancing to your favorite music.
And now, youâre here. Determined to not fuck this up. To keep moving, keep going, and be a fucking excellent ED doctor.
Except your attending, Dr. Jack Abbot, one of the reasons you joined the ED in the first place, keeps giving you funny looks when he thinks youâre not looking.
Youâre not sure if heâs aware that you know that heâs staring at you. You do have a wider than normal field of peripheral vision, so maybe he doesnât know that you can still see him out of the corner of your eye?
Regardless of if he knows or not, itâs unnerving. Because heâs your boss. And you know heâs capable of being an incredible doctor and mentor, because you see it every single day.
Just not directed at you.
Heâs not really mean, or standoffish, or anything like that, heâs just⊠not necessarily kind. Not in the way that you see him with the other residents on his service or even with you, during your rotation as a med student.
Hell, heâs nicer to Santos than he is to you.
âDid I like, say something to offend him and I donât know?â
Trinity makes a face at you from over the edge of the monitor. âIsnât that more my area of expertise?â
âNo. You offend people on purpose.â
âTrue.â
You prop your head on your hands, resting your elbows on the counter above her. Your keycard, attached to your breast pocket via a red, heart-shaped badge reel is lovingly adorned with pink rhinestones and cute stickers. The pocket itself is filled with several glitter gel pens (and regular pens, just in case.)
âI just donât get it. Iâm nice, right?â
âDisturbingly so.â
âExactly. The only thing I can think of is that Iâve messed up or something, but itâs Dr. Abbot. Heâd tell me if I did. He doesnât exactly hold back.â
âDo you really need me for this conversation?â
You level her with a look, but she just groans.
âWhy do you even care? So what, one guy doesnât like you, boohoo.â
âHeâs not just some guy. Heâs my attending. And you mightâve secured your spot here, but iâm all shiny and new. I canât exactly earn peopleâs respect if our boss doesnât like me.â
Trinity doesnât immediately respond with a scathing remark, which usually means that youâve made a valid point.
âShould I talk to him?â
She sighs. âI think youâre overreacting. Youâve only been here for like, two weeks? Three? Heâll probably calm down the more you work together.â
âDid he stare at you all weirdly when you first started?â
âWell, no, but thatâs because I donât suck at my job.â
Now itâs your turn to glare.
âSorry. I guess youâre not completely hopeless.â
You roll your eyes. âThanks, Trin.â
She scrunches her nose up at the nickname like you knew she would, because she hates it, which makes it one of the only weapons you have against her.
Trinity wasnât as helpful as youâd hoped, and night shift means no Dana to ask for advice. Thereâs Dr. Ellis, but sheâs pretty close to Dr. Abbot, which means thereâs a high chance that whatever you ask her will make it back to him. You arenât really close enough to Dr. Shen to ask him âHey, how come Dr. Abbot stares at me when he thinks Iâm not looking and isnât as nice to me as he is to you guys?â
The question is stupid and kind of pathetic, so really, you shouldnât be asking anybody, but youâve always been crippled by an intense need to be well-liked. It feels like winning, and it feels good and safe. Safe is good. Safe is great.
Wanting the guy who's essentially your boss to like you is completely rational, right?
You just wish heâd tell you what youâre doing wrong, so you can fix it.
Also, itâs just driving you crazy.
Even if he just legitimately didnât like you, and made that apparent, itâd be something. You could work with that. You could figure out what it was he didn't like via intense pattern recognitin and fix it. Problem solved!
But he isn't obvious about it. He behaves indifferent and detatched- like you could die tomorrow and he wouldn't care.
Itâs the not knowing. If you could just ask him, if he could just give you an answer, then youâd know where you stood, and everything could be fine.
What changed? You want to beg, What happened after my med student rotation? Do you even remember that? What did I do? Where did I go wrong?
It eats away at you over the course of the week. It has been since you noticed, which was pretty much on day one. You donât show this outwardly of course, because youâre pretty sure you can get through to him and level out the wrong-footedness you feel around him through stubborn determination. Surely, at some point your unwavering nature will win out and heâll finally see there isnât anything he needs to hate about you. This is an incredibly healthy mindset to move through life with.
The week closes with an MCI around 5pm, which is just everyoneâs favorite thing in the world. The night shift gets called in, minus Trinity, who was already there working a double, and everyone sets in for the long haul. You do your best to focus on the patients and do not at all think about the ease and camaraderie between Mohan and Abbot, because that would be a very fucked up progression of priorities.
Eventually itâs all overâ patients are stabilized, some arenât. Overtime ends with phantom blood on your hands and being strong-armed into drinks in the park afterwards.
You feel awkward, because you donât work with the day shift people that often, so youâre not really sure how best to be yourself and not come across as weird. Neither of your âsafeâ people (Trinity and Dennis) are present, so thereâs no way in hell youâre going to be capable of relaxing.
You take the beer thatâs tossed to you, even though you think beer is gross (why does it taste like that? Why do people enjoy it?) and sip on it excruciatingly slowly, trying to hide a grimace and occasionally chiming in with mentally rehearsed and carefully crafted jokes and comments.
Itâs exhausting, and not at all how you wanted to spend your night after an MCI. In a dream world, you donât have the social backbone of a wet paper bag, and you say no, and you go home to your house and shower, then watch one, maybe two episodes of a tv show, scroll through Pinterest, and then go the fuck to bed.
But for the low low price of much needed rest, you get to drink one of the most disgusting alcoholic beverages known to man and worry if everyone thinks youâre being weird! Yay!
Also. Side note. Minor comment. Little issue.
Jack Abbot is sitting next to you. Like, right next to you on the bench. Because he came late and it was the last spot open. So heâs just right there. Posture loose and open and not at all like he didnât just help you try to save a girl your age who had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like two hours ago your elbows werenât brushing, elbow deep in a manâs organs, saving his life.
Jack, unlike you, looks comfortable to be at the park with everyone. He doesnât look like heâs analyzing conversation to determine the best thing to say next.
Jack isnât looking at everyone. Heâs not looking at anyone. Heâs looking at you.
You turn, give him a little smile.
Again.
Maybe he doesnât know you can still see him out of the corner of your eye. (No, heâs a vet, heâd definitely also have wide peripheral vision. But maybe he thinks that you donât have it, because youâre not a vet.)
(Youâre probably thinking too much about the peripheral vision.)
Jack doesnât stop staring at you. Instead, he reaches over to where your barely-drunk beer is in your hands, and says:
âHere, give me that.â
And then he just. Takes your beer. Straight out of your hands.
Jesus fucking fuck he so hates you.
â
âHe took your beer?â
âYes,â You groan from the kitchen island in Trinityâs apartment, âHe said âhere, give me thatâ and then just took it. He didnât say anything else to me for the rest of the night.â
She lets out a low whistle. âMaybe he doesnât like you. What could you have possibly done to make him not like you?â
âI donât know!â
âWell, you better fix it. Having your attending hate your guts will like, majorly suck.â
âI donât know how to fix it. Thatâs what iâm over here for. To brainstorm.â
âI thought you were here to steal the cookies Huckleberry made?â
Dennis peeks his head up from the couch. âWait, what?â
You wave a hand. âSemantics. Focus.â
âOkay,â Trinity taps a pencil on a notepad, âHave you tried sleeping with him?â
âHeâs like, probably over twenty years older than me.â
âSo? I know your type.â
You roll your eyes. âAs if heâd go after me, Trin. He doesnât like me.â
âHate sex is a thing.â
âName one time hate sex solved the hate part.â
âNo dice,â You sigh, âI canât bake for shit. Recipes never have enough context. Theyâre never specific enough.â
âTwo tablespoons of sugar isnât specific enough for you?â
âYouâre not helping.â
Trinity holds up her hands in mock surrender. âTo be fair, I never agreed to help. I just said weâd both be here if you wanted to come over.â
âI think you should just ask him.â Dennis pipes up.
He shuffles off the couch and slides into the second chair at the kitchen island adjacent to you. âDr. Abbot is a straightforward guy. He appreciates honesty. Doesnât beat around the bush. I canât imagine him being truly upset that you tried to fix a problem.â
âI want to, but thatâs like. Too straightforward. What ifââ
âOh my god,â Trinity moans, âJust ask him. Or fuck him. Do something so I donât have to hear about it anymore.â
You frown, opening your mouth to object, then close it with a sigh.
Sheâs right.
You have to just move on. Either deal with it or deal with it by⊠not dealing with it. Talk to him or donât.
Easier said than done.
â
It takes two more shifts of unrequited awkwardness for you to finally reach your limit. At a certain point, probably when you almost snapped at him for hovering (doing his job) while you were trying to intubate a patient, you realize that you cannot, actually, just get through to him via stubborn determination.
Damn.
So when you have a second, you corner him in one of the quieter hallways. The conversation has the potential to be horrifically embarrassing and mortifying, so itâs best if thereâs no audience.
âDo you have a minute, Dr. Abbot?â
He glances down at his watch, then crosses his arms and leans against the opposite wall.
He doesnât talk (unnerving, annoying) and his sharp, ever analyzing gaze makes your skin prickle as you cross your hands behind your back and mirror his position, leaning against the wall.
Heâs so irritating. He wonât even give you a fucking inch. Thereâs nothing to go on.
âDid I do something wrong?â
For the first time since you became a resident in the ED, he makes an expression: surprise.
âWhy do you think you did something wrong?â
âBecause you wonât fucking talk to me!â You hiss, absolutely fed up with Dr. Jack Abbot, âHalf the time you only look at me when you think I wonât notice. You donât talk to me unless itâs required for teaching, and even then, itâs short and stilted. Iâve seen how you interact with literally every other person who works here. I know you can be nice. Youâre just not nice to me, and Iâd like to know why.â
You pause. âAnd you took my beer!â
Thereâs a moment of silence, and then thereâs a breathy, almost wheezing sound that takes you a minute to place.
Heâs laughing.
Jack fucking Abbot starts laughing.
You honest to God want to kill him.
âSorry,â He says, eyes sparkling with mirth and shoulders loose, âI can see how all of that can be taken negativelyââ
âHow else was I supposed to take that.â
Jack levels you with a look, and you shut your mouth. âBut it was not my intention.â
He just stops speaking there, like thatâs a perfectly adequate explanation and not at all vague and almost more disconcerting.
âSoâŠ,â You drawl, âWhat was your intention?â
Something interesting, a little more heated than just analytical sparks in his gaze, and he tilts his head, eyes flicking up and down your body.
Under the silence and scrutiny, you resist the urge to squirm in place, hands squeezing themselves in an effort to subdue the itch.
âYou hate confrontation.â
Your chest feels like a cinder block just slammed onto it. âWhat?â
âYou,â He levels a finger at your chest, âHate confrontation. You hate it so much that you lie about yourself to people instead of saying things they might not like.â
You laugh nervously, voice high and reedy. âA lot of people do that. I donât think thatâs a crime.â
âItâs not. But it doesnât exactly make me want to trust you with my residents. With my team.â
âYouâre worried Iâll what? Get somebody in trouble? Do something shitty?â
âIâm worried that something is going to happen to you, and you wonât tell anyone about it.â
The hallway grows silent. In this distance thereâs beeping, someone shouting orders, a child crying. But not in the five feet of space you, Jack, and the conversion currently occupies.
âWhy do all of this?â You gesture vaguely to the space between you two, unwilling to be more specific. He does not deserve the itemized list you assembled in your head.
âI wanted to see if youâd confront me about it or not. Confirm my suspicions.â
âThatâsââ You wrinkle your nose, âActually kind of shitty of you.â
Jack just hums.
âSo what now? Did I prove myself to you?â Your tone is mocking.
He scoffs, âGod, you really hate confrontation, donât you?â
Your skin prickles again. âNo.â
âLying again.â
âShut up.â
He knows how uncomfortable heâs making you. Heâs doing it on purpose. And right then and there, you decide you donât care what Jack Abbot thinks, because if Jack Abbot is going to be a self-assured asshole, Jack Abbot can go fuck himself.
Your pager going off saves you from verbalizing any of this, and with one last glare, youâre gone.
â
If Jack was an obnoxious lurker before, it doesnât hold a damn candle to how he behaves now.
Heâs just. Everywhere. Around every corner. Driving you crazy.
When you bring this up to Trinity, she looks at you like youâve finally lost it.
Which. Okay. You probably have. But thatâs beside the point! The point isâŠ
âŠThe point is that Jack Abbot is getting on your last nerve and you really donât have any to spare. Life has been stomping all over the other ones, so the singular nerve Jack is stabbing with his annoying pointed looks and almost lingering touches and stupid little questions (âHey, that was a rough one, are you alright?â) is just worn out. It doesnât have anything left to give. You donât have anything left to give.
But, like you were brought up to do, you keep right on giving. And working. And smiling.
Because it goes a little something like this: Thereâs no one to pick you up if you fall. You pick yourself up when you fall, and youâve gotten pretty fucking good at it. All of your friends (read: Trinity and Dennis and maybe Mel) are doctors, which means you all have shitty work/life balance and no one would even be available if you called and said âHey, every morning I lie awake and stare at the ceiling and convince myself to get up while listening to Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley, after which I will inevitably cry on the bus to work. Would you mind helping me with my laundry?â
Okay. Well. Trinity would probably show up if you asked because once she decides that youâre her friend sheâs really intense about it (sheâs a bit like a Doberman or some other dog like that, not that you would ever tell her) and Dennis probably would too, but only because he never says no when someone asks for help so it kind of just feels like youâre taking advantage of him. Mel is far too busy juggling being an ED doctor and caring for Becca for you to even think about asking her without feeling intense, soul crushing guilt.
So yeah. You donât really have a best friend, unless one would count the singular romance book youâve read so much the spine is completely fucked and the pages are yellow from years of travel and rereading. Counting any book as a best friend is probably very pathetic. But hey, donât fix what isnât broken.
So you have a system and a method and crying before and after work every single day is totally, completely normal, healthy, and sustainable. Probably even more so in the medical field, and especially since youâre a PGY1. Interns gotta suffer and all that jazz.
Jack Abbot does not need to make the suffering worse by existing near you constantly. Things are really honestly bad enough.
âHey,â Trinity grabs your arm as youâre going by during a mellow shift, grip not tight enough to hurt but enough to be a bit past uncomfortable, especially for a girl not used to physical contact, âYou good?â
âNo,â You want to shout, collapsing on the floor in a heap of bones and tears, âI havenât done laundry in so long that Iâve started wearing my cleanest dirty socks instead of washing more. I donât have the energy to spend my days off doing anything productive, but every time I sleep instead of doing chores the anxiety eats me alive. I canât sleep at night because the guilt makes me so nervous sometimes I throw up. Sometimes I donât wash myself in the shower and I just stand in the water until it gets cold. Every day I wake up with the same headache, and then I take medicine for it, but by the time itâs gone Iâm going to bed and then I wake up with it all over again. I think my liver is shot from over-the-counter medication usage. Everything hurts. Iâm so tired.â
Trinity needs you to be okay. Trinity is too busy and under too much stress to worry about you. She needs you to be okay. Everyone needs you be okay.
âMhm!â You nod, lips spread wide, âPretty good day actually, all things considered.â
Itâs not a total lie. The headache relief youâve been taking religiously is kicking in faster than it usually does today.
Trinity scans your face, looking for signs of a lie, and she must find something (not shocking, itâs very hard to pretend that everything isnât awful when Everything Is Really Awful) because her grip tightens minutely and she does that pursed lip thing she does when sheâs worried and about to express it through anger or bitchiness.
âDonât fuck with me. I donât want to find out youâre like, doing drugs or something stupid like that. If youâre having a hard timeââ
âTrin,â You interrupt, skin prickling uncomfortably as she implies that youâre not capable of handling things on your own, âIf I need help, I know I can ask for it. And look,â
You tap your unbroken collection of glitter gel pens still intact in the front pocket of your scrubs. âItâs gotta be a good day. I still got my glitter.â
She wrinkles her nose, but drops your arm. âI donât even know why you keep those. You canât use them on like, anything. Itâs against hospital policy.â
You shrug. âGlitter is a great motivator and mood elevator. Plus, kids love âem.â
You manage to feign something important coming up and duck out of the conversation and then, when the coast is clear, dart into one of the lesser used bathrooms and tuck yourself in the darkest stall.
Even in a hospital, toilet seats are disgusting, but you canât quite summon any actual disgust as you plop down on the white porcelain, only lightly cracked, and cradle your exhausted head in your hands.
You have to keep going. There is no alternative. There is no other option.
Your chest feels tight and loose at the same time, and your skin feels clammy and wrong. Everything feels wrong. The lights are too bright and the material of your scrubs is scratchy and awful, and the longer you sit in the stall the more you want to throw up.
Someone knocks on the door before you get the chance to move down to your knees and start worshipping the porcelain altar. Assuming it to be Mel, who sometimes has a habit of showing up at the wrong time, you open the stall door to reveal none other than Jack Fucking Abbot.
You stare at him blankly for a few beats, too bewildered to feel sick. âYouâre not allowed to be in here.â
âIn the menâs bathroom?â
âThis isnât the menâs bathroom.â
âThe sign on the door would say otherwise.â
Embarrassment brings the nausea back tenfold. You hold the stall door in a white knuckle grip to keep yourself upright and from hurling onto your boss.
âOh my god, Iâm so sorry, I swear I didnât do this on purposeââ
Jack raises an eyebrow, his hands folded behind his back. Military man, right.
âClearly.â
You stumble forward. âI need to goââ
âWoah, down girl. I didnât knock because I cared which toilet you use. You work here. Use whatever toilet you want. Preferably not the one in the attendingâs lounge.â
âThereâs an attendingâs lounge?â
âNo.â He grins, a devilish upturn to just the corner of his lips.
âOh,â You pause, then catch up to the rest of what he said, âThen whyâd you knock?â
âCause it kind of sounded like you were dying in there, and Iâd rather if you didnât.â
âWhy not?â
âThe paperwork, for one. Two, Santos would probably shank me.â
âAh.â
âAlso,â He shrugs, âIâd miss you.â
You scoff. âNo you wouldnât.â
âI would.â
âYou donât like me. You donât even trust me.â
Jack gets this pinched look on his face; his lips pull down, his brows furrow and he narrows his eyes, just a bit.
He opens his mouth to respond when the door bangs open.
Jack doesnât even look up before heâs barking:
âFind another bathroom.â
âBut I have toââ
âFind another bathroom or Iâll cut your dick off.â
The guy grumbles away, but Jack never takes his eyes off you. Itâs unnervingâ to be the sole focus of his attention.
Youâre the first to break the now tense silence of the bathroom.
âThat seemed a bit extreme.â
âIâm not a man who does things by halves.â
âNo,â You sigh, âI suppose youâre not.â
Jack cocks his head to side, almost predatory. More methodical than anything. He looks at youâ really looks at you. Shamelessly drags his eyes up your body, likely cataloguing every mystery bruise, frown line, eye bag, freckle, and all the million lines of exhaustion that seem etched on your very being, right down through the bones and marrow.
He sighs, crossing his arms before leaning back on the opposite wall of the bathroom.
âWhat am I going to do with you?â
His words instantly have you on edge, bristling at all the unsaid things behind his tone.
âIâm not something to be dealt with. Iâm a person, not some fuckingââ
âYouâre like a stray cat,â He interrupts, âAlways hissing. Do I need to win you over with treats? Should I start bringing canned tuna?â
âYouâre an asshole.â
âAnd youâre drowning.â
Just like that, all the humor gets sucked from the room, replaced with the cold, sharp grip of reality. Suddenly exhausted by the weight of it all, you drop back down onto the toilet seat.
Jack gives you a few moments to respond, get angry, or defend yourself, but you donât. Heâs too good at reading you, it seems. What is there to say?
When you donât speak, he does.
âDid you think no one would notice?â
âNo one has.â
âAm I no one?â
You lean back, closing your eyes and awkwardly resting the back of your head against the wall and the back of the toilet.
âYouâre nosy.â
If this were any other moment, any other scenario with any other person, you would never ever act so contrary. But youâre tired and Jack seems to bring out the worst in you.
He makes an amused huffing noise. âYouâre good at what you do, Iâll give you that.â
âWhat, exactly, am I doing?â
âPretending.â
You scoff. âFuck off.â
âCome on, sweetheart. How much longer are you going to do this to yourself?â
You lift your head off the back of the toilet. âYou act like Iâm killing myself:â
âYou are,â His inclined his head, âJust really slowly.â
You scrub a hand down your face.
âLook. I understand why you think you have to care, but you donât. Iâm just going through a rough patch. Iâll get through them like I always do. Iâm not gonna crash and burn or endanger myself or do whatever it is youâre worried Iâm going to do, okay? So you can leave me alone. Iâm fine.â
Jack doesnât get to respond, because the second the words are out of your mouth the nausea thatâs been churning in your stomach since you made it to the bathroom rises all at once, and you barely have time to slide off the toilet and turn before youâre throwing up hard enough to almost choke.
The worst part is that you forgot to eat lunch so your stomach is woefully, painfully empty. Youâre throwing up nothing but bile, throat burning and tears streaming down your face.
âAlright, come on,â A warm hand rubs soothing circles on your back, and if you werenât busy hurling your guts out, youâd marvel at the feeling and juxtaposition between the Jack you know, whoâs all cold indifference, and the Jack currently holding your hair out of your face while you vomit.
âLet it out,â He soothes, hand still rubbing, âDonât fight it. Itâll be over soon.â
âI hate throwing up.â You choke, coughing and gasping.
âNo one does. But youâll feel better when itâs over.â
Over feels like itâs never going to come. But eventually your stomach stops clenching, you manage to stop heaving, and youâre slumped over the toilet, sucking down gulps of air, sweat beading on your forehead and the back of your neck.
âThis,â You mumble in between gasps, âMeans nothing.â
You canât see Jackâs expression, but his response is so quiet you almost miss it.
âOkay.â
You canât see his face, but you know this isnât over.
â
Jack sends you home once youâre capable of standing on your own two feet without shaking like a newborn fawn.
(âYou canât send me home.â
âYes I can. Youâre not allowed to come back to work after throwing up in the bathroom.â
âWe both know Iâm not the only person to do it.â
âYeah, but I havenât caught the other people in the wrong bathroom and held their hair back while they vomited.â
ââŠâ
âYou only have two hours left anyway. Go home.â)
The problem lies in the fact that the buses arenât running yet, which means that you canât, actually, get home. Your house is an hour away on foot. An hour youâd normally be capable of walking, but your phone is almost dead, youâre exhausted, and you still feel a little weak because of the vomiting.
So after retrieving your things from your locker, you find yourself sitting on the little bench outside the PTMC, waiting for the minutes to tick by. If you didnât bring at least one book with you everywhere you go in case of emergencies (like this one) you probably would have just walked into oncoming traffic.
Itâs cold out and your jacket is cheap so you have to burrow into it, hood up to retain any semblance of warmth. It would be almost cozy âhuddled in your jacket, watching the city go by, tucked into your favorite romance bookâ if the shift hadnât gone the way it had and if a grueling bus ride and half mile walk didnât await you once the buses finally start running. Waiting for you beyond that is just chores and an empty apartment.
Your fingers tighten on the edges of your book.
âWhy the fuck are you still here?â
You jolt in place, cracking your neck over to the side and blinking blearily.
Jack. Again.
He makes an expectant face at you as if to say âWell?â when you donât answer immediately.
Your eyes dart back and forth nervously, even though you know you havenât done anything wrong. âThe buses arenât running yet. Itâs an hour walk to my house.â
Jack scrubs a hand down his face and curses under his breath.
âHow long until your bus gets here?â
You check your phone. Shit. Only four percent left.
âAnd hour and a half. Maybe a little longer if itâs running behind more than usual.â
He seems put out by your answer, as if the busâs heavily fluctuating schedule is of personal consequence and offense to him.
âUm,â You start, both uncomfortable at having been caught reading a romance book in public and at the general air of frustration Jack seems to be venting at the moment, âIâm fine. I have my book. I donât mind waiting.â
Jack just sighs.
âDo you really think Iâm just going to leave you out here, in the cold, after you threw up in the bathroom, to wait for the bus, for nearly two more hours?â
You wince. âWell, it doesnât sound great when you put it like that.â
He works his jaw. âHave you eaten?â
âNoâŠ?â
He shakes his head.
âCome on. Youâre coming with me.â
â
âI have to admit, this isnât where I thought we were going.
Thirty minutes later finds you seated on the cracked vinyl seat of a booth in a cheap diner, staring at a menu and rationalizing spending your last $15 on what will probably be mediocre pancakes.
Jack is seated across from you, already two mugs of coffee âblack, but oddly enough, decafâ and not even bothering to pretend to look at his menu. He either comes here often or doesnât care to act like he isnât staring at you.
Probably both.
âWhere did you think we were going?â
Steam curls out of your own untouched mug of coffee âordered for you by Jack, also unfortunately decafâ and you debate just getting up and running out of here.
Too bad youâre too exhausted to run anywhere. Jackâs probably banking on that.
âI donât know,â You shrug, setting the menu down, âMaybe to Gloriaâs office to write me up or something.â
âWhat would I even be writing you up for?â
âDisobeying direction? Iâm sure you could come up with something.â
The waitress chooses that moment to appear, notepad in hand. âAre we ready to order?â
Jack rattles off his order, and then two sets of eyes turn to you expectantly. Before you can order the single fruit bowl you were planning on getting (the cheapest thing on the menu) Jack pipes up:
âOrder whatever you actually want. Not whatever you think is cheapest or easiest.â
The waitress, a middle aged woman who has probably seen much worse than whatever the two of you have going on, just chuckles lightly under her breath.
You hesitantly list the item youâd been eyeing and thank the waitress.
It isnât until after the menus have been taken and Jackâs coffee re-upped for the third time that you manage to courage to speak.
âYou didnât have to do this, you know.â
âI know.â
âNo, I mean,â your fingers curl on the edge of the table, desperate for something to hold onto, âI canâtâ Itâll be awhile until I can pay you back. I barely made rent this month.â
âDo you think I would take you to breakfast and then make you pay?â
âYesâŠ?â
âYouâre not touching the bill, kid. Iâm a gentleman.â
âOh,â You didnât really see that coming, âOkay.â
Jack gets a funny expression on his face, then resumes his drinking coffee and glancing out the window routine.
âSo,â You say after a beat, âWas there something you wanted to talk aboutâŠ?â
The silence just feels so awkward. Itâs killing you.
He raises a brow. âDo you want to talk?â
âIâm asking you.â
âAnd Iâm asking you what you want to do. What do you usually do when you come out to eat?â
âI donât? Eating out is expensive, so. But when I do itâs usually by myself, so I end up just reading.â
Jack gestures to your bag beside you. âDonât let me stop you.â
âWhat?â
âRead your book.â
âBut thatâsâ isnât that boring for you?â
He sets his mug down. âI didnât bring you here because I wanted something from you. I brought you here because you had a shitty day and it seemed like you could use some cheering up. If reading makes you feel better, then do it.â
You have to look out the window to avoid his gaze. You donât understand how your perfectly crafted facade just crumbles into fucking dust around him. How he manages to see right through you at every turn, how he manages to uncover every lie and every half truth.
âHow did you even know I like diner food?â
âBecause I pay attention to you.â
You finally look back over at him, arms folded across your chest; not really defensively, more like youâre trying to hold your entire body together by sheer force of will.
Jackâs lips twitch. Not really a smile, but almost. âYou bring it up every time Santos wants to get food after a shift. She always says no, because she hates it, but it never stops you from suggesting it.â
Itâs just one detail. One tiny, inconsequential detail that heâs apparently memorized and held onto because to him, itâs important. For some impossible to understand reason, he seems to care.
"Also," He shrugs, "I'd miss you."
You scoff. "No you wouldn't."
"I would."
âDo you hate me?â
Jack looks back at you, seemingly startled by the abrupt question.
âNo.â
You take a deep, shuddering breath.
âOkay.â
â
âYou did what?â
You wince from your spot lying face-down on Trinityâs couch.
âNot so loud, Trin. I have a headache.â
She ignores you, seated on the floor almost directly in front of you. âSo youâve gone from hating each other to going on a date?â
âIt wasnât a date,â You groan, âWe spent almost the entire time in silence. I read my book and he stared out the window and did⊠whatever it is men like him do when they stare out the window.â
âBrooding,â Trinity says, âHe paid. That means itâs a date.â
âNo it doesnât!â
It doesn't. It totally doesn't. Just because Jack said he doesn't hate you doesn't mean he likes you either. There are a lot of emotions in between hate and love. Like toleration, for example. Mild amusement. Exasperation. An appropriate amount of annoyance.
Trinity pokes you on the back of your head, having none of it.
"He likes you. Why else would he willingly hang out with one of us after work?"
"He goes out for drinks in the park sometimes." You mumble.
"Yeah, after an MCI."
What Trinity doesn't know is the events leading up to breakfast at the diner, because that would involve telling her about the whole throwing up from anxiety in the men's bathroom directly after a mini-panic attack because she confronted you about your unhealthy lifestyle (which all just sounds a lot worse than it is), so there isn't really a way to give her the kind of context necessary to get her off your back and dissuade her from her (insanely insane) belief that Jack likes you. Romantically.
"Trust me Trin, he was just being nice. Nothing romantic about it."
It was kind of romantic. Just eating surprisingly good food in the company of someone you don't need to pretend around, enjoying being in the company of another human being without worry or expectation.
Not that she needs to know that.
"Jack doesn't do nice. Have you seen him? What happened to the hating?"
You shrug. "You'll just have to ask him, because I don't know."
You do know. He told you. Explained it.
It doesn't make sense.
Trinity throws her hands in the air dramatically.
"Whatever. You two are impossible."
She finally withdraws, leaving you to wallow in your headache-induced misery by yourself on her couch.
Your phone vibrates on the floor next to you, and you groan, rolling further over to hide yourself in the crack of the couch, shunning the light like the reclusive vampire you are.
Your phone vibrates again.
âDennis,â your voice is muffled by the couch cushion so it ends up sounding more like âdenimâ, âCan you please see whoâs texting me and tell them to fuck off?â
Dennis, who was eating cereal at the tiny table near the kitchen when you first showed up fifteen minutes ago and has pointedly stayed silent throughout the entire exchange between you and Trinity, finally speaks.
âYour phone is two inches away from your hand.â
âI have a headache I donât wanna look at the screen.â
You feel rather than actually see him roll his eyes, but then thereâs the clink of a spoon against a bowl and the faint sound of socked âyouâve genuinely never seen him ever be barefoot under any circumstances, no matter what, heâs always wearing socksâ feet as they make their way over to your temporary pit (couch) of despair.
Thereâs a quiet rustle as he picks up your phone off the floor.
âOh.â
You whine, dramatic and upset. âWhat?â
âUm,â He grabs your shoulder, slowly rolling you over and away from the back of the couch, âItâs Jack?â
âWhat!?â You screech.
You throw yourself up, wincing as you immediately regret it when the pain in your head doubles, take a steadying breath to ignore it, and then grab the phone from Dennisâs outstretched hand.
You turn on the phone andâ yep. Sure enough. A text from Jack, complete with the stupid picture of a dinosaur you made his profile picture. Because heâs old.
(It was funnier at the time.)
Somewhere behind you thereâs a crash, and then the thump thump thump that can only mean a person running towards you at dangerous speeds for sock covered feet on cheap linoleum.
âIncoming,â Dennis mutters.
âDid I just hear that right?â Trinity gasps, nearly giving herself blunt force trauma via the back of the couch, âDid Jack just text you?â
âI donât know!â You cry.
âHow do you not know! Your phone is right in your fucking hands!â
âIâm tired! Stop yelling at me!â
âGuys!â Dennis shouts, holding up his hands, âI refuse to spend my day off listening to you two argue over the validity of romance with our attending. Give me the phone.â
He snatches the phone without waiting for a response, quickly typing in your password (if there was ever a moment you regret telling him in case of emergencyâŠ) and opening the text.
He makes an incredulous face at the phone before saying:
âHe asked what youâre doing today.â
Trinity claps once. âFucking called it!â
âTrinity!â Dennis snaps, before sighing and tapping at your keyboard, âIâm telling him that you have a headache and youâre at our place and to please not text againââ
âNo!â You squeal, launching yourself off the couch, arms outstretched, but your legs tangle over each other and you fall and slam, gloriously and beautifully, face first into the coffee table.
âOo!â Trinity winces, covering her mouth.
âOh my god!â Dennis balks, âAre you okay?â
âJust give me the fucking phone.â
Peeling your face off, you grab the phone, squinting at the screen and ignoring the black spots in the corner of your vision.
hi, you type, Iâm at Trinity and Dennisâs. Did you need something?
You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it.
âWe,â You haul yourself to your feet and stagger over to the kitchen table, âWill never speak of this.â
âI definitely am. When Iâm the maid of honor at your guys wedding, Iâm gonna give a speech and be all âyou guys, she gave herself a concussion the first time he textedâââ
âThere will be no wedding!â
âThatâs just what you think.â
Your phone vibrates again, signaling a response.
Just wondering how you were doing. Surprised to hear youâre not holed up in your apartment reading something.
Ah, sexy old men and their correct grammar and punctuation when texting. Shouldnât be endearing.
âWhatâs he saying?â
âGo away!â
You tap out a quick response.
Not today unfortunately lol I have a headache so no reading for me
Isnât this the sixth day in a row youâve had a headache? Should I give neuro a call?
You stomach flips.
nooo Iâm fine i get them all the time
Thatâs not exactly reassuring.
I went to the doctor for them awhile ago apparently theyâre normal
Who?
if I tell you, are you going to call him and make him send over my chart?
Yes.
Your heart is starting to pound a fluttering beat in your chest, and you hunch over your phone.
then iâm not telling you. itâs fine, really
they usually go away when i take over the counter stuff
So your plan is just to destroy your liver?
pretty much
We need to work on your planning skills.
we?
Iâm not doing all the work.
Now stop looking at your phone. Drink some Gatorade and take a nap.
this is a resident apartment thereâs no gatorade here just redbulls
Have either of them buy you one. Iâll pay whichever one it is later. Go to sleep. You need it.
You turn off your phone, shuffling back over to the couch and flopping down onto it.
âIâm taking a nap. Jack wants one of you to go buy me a Gatorade. He said heâd pay you back later.â
âHe said what?â
â
You end up sleeping the entire day away, which should have screwed up your sleep schedule, but thankfully you live in a state of perpetual exhaustion and are fully capable of falling asleep anytime, anywhere, no matter how much you last sleep. Itâs a gift.
Shockingly, the shift you work the next day is actually much easier to survive and your smiles arenât nearly as forced. Go figure. Who knew that getting an appropriate amount of sleep would be so helpful?
âSomebodyâs in a better mood today.â Jack mutters as you sidle up next to him under the board.
âIâm pretty sure I slept for like, fourteen straight hours. Thanks for the Gatorade, by the way. I woke up around hour three, chugged it, and then went back to sleep. No headache when I woke up!â
âWonderful,â He drawls, âItâs almost like taking care of yourself is actually beneficial.â
âI take care of myself plenty.â
He casts you a sidelong glance, expression pinched.
âWhen was the last time you drank water without being prompted?â
âThatâs different.â
âOkay,â He dips his head, âWhen was the last time you ever felt truly relaxed?â
You give him a beaming smile, so wide it hurts. âWeâre not going to talk about this right now!â
âYou started this conversation. Iâm trying to do my job.â
You snort. âYouâre waiting to see if someone else is going to take the sunburn guy.â
âAre you accusing an attending of cherry picking?â
âOf course not. Just observing, sir.â
Jackâs turned to look at you now, head tilted up, hands folded behind his back.
When you say sir, his eyes flick down to your lips, and then his jaw tightens.
The air suddenly becomes charged, the space between you two filled with something too electric to be air.
It smells like aftershave, hospital antiseptic, wanting, and something thatâs distinctly masculine.
You look away first, swallowing hard past the sudden dryness of your mouth.
âYou know,â You say, crossing your arms and looking up at the board, âTrinity thinks you like me. Romantically.â
âMm.â
âI told her that was dumb,â You babble, âObviously itâs not true, but. She wonât let it go, so if she says something, just ignore her. Or not. Whatever you want.â
âWhy wouldnât it be true?â
You whip your head around so fast youâre pretty sure something cracks. âWhat?â
âI mean,â Jackâs voice is gruff as he shrugs once, âIs that really so unrealistic?â
âOf course it is,â You sputter, âYou donât like me.â
âIâve actually never said that. That was a conclusion you came to on your own. I distinctly recall telling you that I donât hate you.â
âJust because you donât hate me doesnât mean that you like me, let aloneâ like that.â
Jack tilts his head, almost predatory, and all that sharp tension rushes straight back in.
âLike what?â
Something hot and dangerous is starting to unfurl in your chest, untethering from where it was previously lodged deep behind your ribs, out of sight, out of feeling.
âCode Blue en route, ETA two minutes.â
Jack jerks his head in the direction of the ambulance bay. âYou gonna go get that?â
âUh,â Youâre pretty sure youâre stroking out, having a seizure, or something, because the only thing youâre capable of comprehending is the fact that Jack just not-so-subtly implied to actually liking you. Romantically.
âGet going then.â
You scurry away, hot all over and absolutely done with emotions in their entirety.
â
The rest of the week is hell on Earth. Perks of being in your twenties.
Things could be worse though!
Kind of.
Itâs just that itâs been several days since Jack basically confirmed Trinityâs suspicions on romance and you canât stop thinking about it. Obsessively.
Itâs bad.
Bad enough that when Mel asked if there was any way you could cover her shift, you said yes.
âOkay,â Dennis stage-whispers as youâre downing your third coffee of the day, miserably charting at the nurses station, âI feel the need to ask how bad things can possibly be if youâre covering a day shift.â
âMel asked.â
Dennis blinks incredulously. âYou love Mel, but not enough to work a day shift voluntarily.â
âWhat exactly are you asking me here?â
âDid you and Jack hit a rough patch or something?â
âKeep your voice down!â You hiss, ducking your head as if you can hide from Princess and Perlah, âAnd for your information, no. We didnât. I just wanted to do something nice for Mel.â
âI donât believe you.â
âI donât need you to believe me.â
Day-shift crawls on in a whirlwind of chaos and a level of dumb-fuckery that can only be achieved from the hours of 8 a.m to 8 p.m. As usual, the place is understaffed, overcrowded, and filled with a lingering sense of impending doom.
By the time night-shift starts filtering in, youâre ready to completely give up and start a new life a sheep rancher in New Zealand. Itâs always been the plan if being a doctor didnât work out.
Jack finds you in the locker room once the handoff is over, sitting on the little bench in the same position Dennis found you in earlier. Face in your hands, heels in your eyes, methodically counting breaths and wondering if that fluttering feeling in your chest is from caffeine consumption or sleep deprivation.
Itâs fine. Your fine. Everything is fine.
âYou donât look too good.â
âIâmââ
âDonât say youâre fine.â
âBut I am,â You grit, âI just need a minute.â
âOkay.â
Thereâs the distinct sound of Jackâs slightly uneven footsteps, and then thereâs a warm weight pressed against your side.
You take another shuddering breath that feels less like breathing and more like placing a single brick in a wobbly foundation.
âShouldnât you be out on the floor?â
âI donât work tonight.â
You raise your head just enough to look at him. âYou donât? I thought I saw you on the schedule. Why are you here if you donât work?â
Now that youâre looking at him and not starburst patterns on the back of your eyelids, you can see that heâs wearing casual clothes, not scrubs, and he doesnât have his usual army-issue backpack with him.
âI got Shen to cover me. I came here for you.â
Your next breath in almost gets stuck in your chest, air struggling to move past that alive and wriggling thing that keeps moving every time Jack is around.
âWhatâd you do that for?â
The barest hints of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. âDennis called me. He said youâd need picking up after your shift.â
Shame, guilt, and embarrassment flood your veins, turning your blood into sickly-sweet poison that makes your stomach roll and twist.
âOh my god, Iâm so sorry, I have no idea why he did that. You really didnât have to drive all the way over here, I swear I didnât tell him to call you or something like thatââ
âI know you didnât,â Jack soothes, voice a rumbly, smooth timber that washes over your permanently-frazzled nerves like a balm, âWhich is why I came.â
âI donât understand.â
Jack stands, pulling your bag and change of clothes out of your locker.
âIâm going to ask you a question, and I need you to be honest with me, so you donât have to answer it again. Can you do that for me?â
You nod once.
âWords.â
âUhâ yeah. Yes.â
âGood.â
Thank god the locker room is emptyâ everyoneâs either on the floor or already left for their homes.
He closes your locker down, shoulders your bag, and hands you your clothes.
âIs it easier for you to accept help when you donât have to ask and donât get the chance to say no?â
It sounds so pathetic, hearing it laid out like that. The ugly guts of you; cut open, laid bare, and marked for research. Exhibit A, the inside of the girl no one ever needed to worry about.
You donât want to agree. You want to laugh it off, maybe run away from it. Sit up straight, wipe your face, take the bag from Jack and explain that this is all a big misunderstanding and youâre perfectly fine and he can stop worrying about you now.
âYes.â
Jack doesnât verbally acknowledge your response besides a single dip of his head, like he knows that if he does anything more itâll turn your response into a confession and thatâs just too vulnerable for the hospital locker room.
âIâll drive you home.â
âI donât mean to be this way, you know.â
The passenger seat of Jackâs car isnât somewhere youâd ever imagined yourself being. Not even late at night or on the bus when youâre pretending to be someone else whoâs better at chasing what they want.
âIt stopped being intentional a long time ago,â your hands are fisted into the material of your sweatpants, nails digging into the fabric, âIt was just the natural progression of things. I like being liked.â
What you donât say, what becomes an unspoken truth that lingers in the air despite not being verbalized, is the survival aspect of it. Why and how a person fuses this kind of thing to their personality; to their life. The circumstances that makes the natural progression of things end it being better for everyone if you just donât have needs.
âI know.â
âI know you know, I just⊠needed to tell you. Myself.â
Itâs odd seeing Jack illuminated by streetlights instead of fluorescent overheads. Itâs odd being able to watch his hand flex on the steering wheel, watching his forearm tense as he shifts gears in his old stick-shift.
âYou like being told what to do.â
Your face heats, but youâre determined not to lose face now. Especially after managing to survive being emotionally flayed open, willingly, by him.
âIt feels safe. If I know what yoâ someone wants, then I canât mess it up, and I can relax.â
You can practically see the gears turning in Jackâs mind.
âMakes sense.â
The rest of the drive is quiet, the silence only filled by the sounds of Pittsburgh around you and the gentle crackle of something from the radio turned down too low to hear.
And for the first time in longer than you can remember, you begin feeling something that approaches calm.
Jack doesnât have any expectations. There isnât any one particular way he wants you to act or expects you to behave like. Thereâs nothing he wants you to do.
So you do what you want to do.
You relax.
â
In the weeks following Jack driving you home, there is a quantifiable shift in behavior between the two of you.
He starts pulling back.
It strikes you as odd first, and your natural inclination is to pull back tooâ to guard the soft, vulnerable bits youâve showed him in case he throws them back at you.
But then you realize what heâs doing.
Instead of telling you how to proceed on a case when you come to him for advice, he asks you questions and steers you to the answer. He holds back when heâs evaluating a case with you, patiently following your lead and only interjecting when necessary.
Heâs making space for you try new things and learn without fear of rejection. Building your confidence bit by bit.
It feels more intimate than sex.
After much deliberation, screaming into your pillow, and Reddit forum searching for HR violations, you decide to get him a card. Because heâs actually been really kind and helpful and he makes you feel like you can actually survive residency.
âWhatâs this?â
âA thank you card.â
Youâre staring at your shoes, eyes flicking up and down between Jackâs face and the floor.
âWhat for?â
âIt says it in the card.â
You scurry away, attaching yourself to the closest patient to avoid seeing Jackâs face when he does finally open it.
But when you look back, heâs just staring at it, a small smile on his face.
â
Itâs the card that does him in.
Jack hasnât made his feelings for you a secret, despite your unwillingness to see him as anything other than standoffish in the beginning.
He came on too strong at firstâ that was his fault. He didnât yet understand how imbedded your need ran and how long itâd been since anyone bothered to look deeper.
Heâd hoped, at least, that you were letting Whitaker and Santos help, and though you let them closer than most, it was clear you still seemed intent on holding up yourself and everyone around you on your own.
But it wasnât just that. It was the way you oozed kindnessâ like it was a byproduct of your existence. He watched you get so wrapped up in being the perfect resident, perfect friend, perfect person, that no one ever stopped to let you know how good you were just by being.
He hadnât planned on developing feelings or anything of the sort. At first, youâd just been one of his residents. Smart and capable but lacking confidence in yourself to fully commit. Then there was that MCI, and drinks in the park afterwards where heâd painfully watched you sip a beer you clearly hated, and everything just clicked right into place.
He never intends to flirt with you. It just happens. He canât help himself. Heâs a weak fucking man when it comes to you.
And then you bring him a card. A fucking card. To thank him for doing his job as an attending, a job he shouldâve been doing better from the start. It has an illustration of bananas on it and says âThanks a bunch!â.
He knows heâs completely gone, then. He was capable of being in denial before, could delude himself into thinking that what he felt was casual, but the sight of you before him, hands nervously wringing, your glitter gel pens sparkling as they caught the light was just the final nail in the coffin.
He allows himself a modicum of flirting on a day to day basis, mostly because if he couldnât tease that real smile out of you at least once per day, heâd lose his mind.
Sometimes he takes you back to the diner, especially on longer days where none of your smiles reach your eyes and you start obsessively uncapping and capping your gel pens.
Even though you think it âlooks dumbâ youâve also taken to sitting shoulder to shoulder with him in the booth, and he pretends he canât see you sneaking fries off his plate because he knows how much effort it takes you to ask him if you can sit with him instead of on the opposite side.
Then he starts driving you home during a string of bad weather after you start sneezing from walking in the rain everyday, but even after the storm passes and the weather clears up he still finds you at the lockers, every day, car keys in hand. No matter how many times he does it, you always look so happily surprised that heâs still offering.
As if heâs not wrapped around your finger.
One day, after things have been mellow for awhile, Whitaker calls him and says that neither he nor Trinity have seen you in three days and you called out of work.
So naturally, as a calm and collected man, he showed up to your house.
Youâd answered the door after the third time he knocked (which was great, because he was gearing up to force the door open) and you just looked miserable. Your hair was a mess, you head blanket wrinkles imprinted onto your face, and your eyes were puffy.
âJack?â Youâd mumbled, squinting your eyes against the not very bright light in the hallway, âWhy are you at my apartment?â
âNo oneâs heard from you in three days.â
You wince. âI swear I meant to text Trinity. I just have a bad headache.â
His fingers twitch towards a penlight he doesnât have. âHow bad?â
âI donât know. Like a seven on the pain scale?â
âJesusâ Iâm coming in.â
âNooo,â You cry, but shuffle back from the door and put up very little fight as he ushers you to the couch.
Your apartment isâŠ.. exactly as messy as heâd imagined a resident who lives alone would be. For someone who doesnât drink enough water, there are an incredible amount of beverage bottles and cans littered about.
âDo you have headache relief?â
You gesture to the kitchen. âCabinet furthest to the left.â
While rifling through your very disorganized medicine cabinet, he spies an orange prescription bottle with your name on it, dated for the previous year.
âWhy do you have a prescription for a high level antihistamine?â
âStop snooping. Itâs for my migraines.â
âYouâve had a prescription this entire time and youâve been taking all that over the counter shit?â
âStop being mad,â You mumble into the couch cushion, âMy migraine meds put me to sleep, so I canât take them when Iâm working. Plus I donât have any refills left so I save them for when itâs really bad.â
âYou called out of work and havenât left your apartment in three days and you donât consider this bad?â
âCould be worse. Could be throwing up.â
He sighs. Sets the bottle on the counter, breathes in once, then lets it out slowly. Imagines all the ways he could murder whoever made you think suffering alone for three days is preferable to asking for help.
âIâm going to help you back to bed,â He starts, voice low as he rounds the couch, âAnd then youâre going to drink some electrolytes, have a snack, and take your meds. Okay?â
The migraine has clearly taken it out of you, because you put up zero fight as he manhandles you to your feet and helps you drag yourself back to your bed.
âMâ sorry my apartment is a mess. I was supposed to clean it.â
âIâm not judging, sweetheart,â He says, tucking the blankets up around you, lips twitching as you make grabby hands for a giant triceratops plushie that looks to be the size of your upper body. âIâm gonna make you a snack, so try to stay awake until I come back. Can you do that?â
âMhm. Iâll try.â
âGood girl.â
He manages to find a cucumber in your fridge, cuts it into slices and then adds a few pieces of lunch meat for protein. Last but not least, he snags a bottle of blue Gatorade from your pantry.
(He only knows they were there because he bought them for you a few weeks ago.)
He doesnât make you sit up to eat, but instead scoots you a little ways away from the edge of your bed so thereâs space for the plate.
You slowly nibble your way through, taking little sips of Gatorade when he nudges the bottle into your hands.
You finish the cucumbers, eat most of the lunch meat, and drink half the Gatorade before burrowing back into the blankets and declaring yourself done.
âCan I have my sleep mask please? I think itâs on the floor under my nightstand?â
âOf course you can.â
After your face mask is on and the curtains closed, he gives you the correct dose of your meds and gently shuts the door to your bedroom.
He fires off a quick text to Whitaker (he doesnât have Santosâs number) that says youâre fine, stuck in bed with a migraine, and that heâs handling it.
And then he gets to work.
Two hours later your apartment is clean, your laundry is started, and Jackâs relaxing on your couch, aimlessly watching the news.
He hears the door creak open but knows you hate feeling on the spot, so he keeps his gaze trained on the tv even as he hears the sound of you shuffling over to the couch.
And then you pause.
âJack.â
âYes?â
âDid you clean my apartment?â
He finally looks over to you, and when his gaze reaches your face his stomach drops.
Youâre crying.
He hauls himself off the couch (heâs thankful that he put his leg back on a few minutes prior) and stops in front of you, arms twitching at his sides with the need to fix, help, to stop whatever it is thatâs making you cry.
âWhatâs wrong? Did I overstep?â
âNo,â You warble, voice wet, âI just havenât had the time or energy to clean in here for so long, and itâs been stressing me out so bad I avoid staying here during my off days. Itâs just really, really nice of you.â
You look at him, eyebrows pinched and eyes wide with worry, âIâ Iâm not sure how to repay you for all of this. I know you said going to the diner was fine, but this isâ a lot.â
âSweetheart,â He starts, bracing one hand on the side of your face, thumb deftly sweeping across your cheek and wiping away the quickly drying tears, âIâm not doing any of this because I expect you to repay me. Iâm doing it because I care about you and I want to see you happy.â
You sniff hard. âThis is a lot of work, though.â
âI like doing it. I like taking care of you.â
Another sniff. âIt doesnât seem very fun.â
âI told you. Youâre like a cat. Had to coax you over and now look at you,â he thumb rubs circles over your cheekbone, âPractically purring.â
You wrinkle your nose. âI donât know if I like this metaphor.â
âGet used to it.â
You sigh, dramatic and long.
âI suppose Iâll allow it.â
âOh, youâll allow it, huh.â
You fold your hands behind your back, rocking back and forth on your heels. âYes. Iâll allow it.â
âWell, arenât I lucky.â
Later, when youâre lying on the couch, two movies into what Jack thinks is an unofficial early 2000s rom-com marathon (your favorite genre) you turn to look up at him from your spot tucked into his side.
âThis is romantic, right?â
He presses a lazy kiss to your forehead, because he knows how much you like physical affirmations as well as verbal ones.
âYes.â
âYouâre serious about this?â
âYou need confirmation?â
âIâd rather have it in writing, but this will do for now.â
He huffs a breathy laugh, tucks you closer to his chest.
âIâll put it in writing for you later.â
You hum, pleased, and snuggle back into him, letting out a content sigh.
Summary: Jack was no better than Robby when it came to relationships. He moved through life after his divorce using intimacy as a distraction rather than a connection. And then⊠he met you.
Warning: (MDNI 18+) acquaintances to lovers, wealth advisor reader (girl boss and very successful), starts off slightly angsty (jacks deployment and leg), mentions of infidelity, emotionally constipated jack, he fucks an original character (not descriptive at all, allusions of smut only), fuckboy/commitment phobe jack? language, competency kink (jack is very turned on by your intelligence), flirting, sexual tension, jacks intense eye contact, alcohol, feelings, mutual pining, reader has a dog, mentions of men threatened by success (your ex sucks), pet names, making out like teenagers, dirty thots, mentions of sexy time, fluff alert, domesticity, I think thatâs it
A/N: Thereâs totally a joke/interaction in this fic that I saw on this post, and I want to emphasize how funny this is. I did not come up with this. Full credit to @tanley GIF by @pittgifs found HERE.
Thank you for reading!! if you comment/reblog i love you so much <3.
For 5 years, Jack had been a husband. He wore the ring, paid the bills, and was building a life with his wife.
His second deployment occurred a couple of years after he made attending, which felt like a brutal, unnecessary interruption. The deployment was a 15-month stint. He served 10. The last 5 were erased in the flash of an explosion. The concussive roar replaced time with pain. He wasn't granted a graceful homecoming; he was medically discharged, shipped back to the States for good, and now a broken piece of 'machinery'.
He arrived home on a Thursday, the details blurred by painkillers and disorientation. Jack's wife helped him to the couch after crying profusely, her touch careful, and avoiding the bulky dressing on his residual limb. When she finally announced the pregnancy a couple of days later, it had felt like a miracle. He had gotten that last home visit at the 8 month mark of his deployment, when they had been intimate together. The doctor confirmed that she was about 10 weeks along.
That baby became his reason. The thought of holding his child fueled the brutal pain of learning to walk again on a prosthetic. For 5 months, he pushed through the agony of phantom limb pain and the pitying looks he received. All because he just cared about one thing: the image of a tiny hand in his.
The confession didn't come in a fight. It came one evening, over a beautiful dinner she had cooked. He was talking about converting the spare room and about safe paints for a nursery. His voiceâfull of fragile desperate hope finally broke something in her.
She put her fork down. The click of ceramic on wood was the loudest sound in the world.
"Jack," she said, and her voice was terrifyingly calm. "We need to talk about the baby."
He froze, a piece of chicken halfway to his mouth. "What about the baby?"
She took a breath, her eyes fixed on the tablecloth. "I don't⊠I don't know if it's yours."
The words hung in the air.
"W-what?" he stuttered.
"There's⊠there's someone else." The admission was flat, drained of all emotion except a weary finality. "Another teacher at the school. It started⊠after you deployed. It's⊠It's serious. I think I'm in love him."
Her reasoning, when she finally offered it, was delivered with a chilling simplicity. He worked too much, she explained. She admitted that she should have told him how she was feeling sooner, but she didn't know how since he was saving lives. Anyways, the point was, he was never there. He worked all the time. All the long hours at the hospitalâit felt like his job always came first. Then the deployment was the nail in the coffin. She felt alone, and the other man was just⊠there. Present. It wasn't a grand passion, she insisted; it was an easy, gradual slide into something that felt like being seen again.
The final unraveling was a cold, clinical procedure. The test results, a single sheet of paper, held the definitive verdict: 0.0% probability of paternity. She filed the divorce papers alongside the test results. There was no discussion of custody, no debate over visitation. He lost his wife to a man he had never fucking met, and he lost a baby that had never been his to lose. All that remained was the hollow, grinding pain in a leg that wasn't there, and the silence in his sad apartment with no spare room to convert.
He was furious for years. It was easier that way. He was the wronged party, after all.
But therapy, and the grim finality of his divorce, had sanded the anger down to a cold, hard truth. She hadnât been completely lying. The job had come first. Jack had thought that providing was love. He had been a good doctor, a good soldier, but an absent husband. Maybe he just wasn't built for marriage. Maybe his capacity for that kind of priority was broken.
Since his divorce, he was in a self-imposed exile from commitment. He dated, if you could call it that. He had casual relationships. He slept around. The first time after the divorce was nerve-wracking. It had been 2 years of "celibacy" before he met a beautiful graphic designer at a bar. In her dimly lit bedroom, the process of removing his prosthetic felt like some grotesque unveiling. His hands fumbled, his mind racing with imagined disgust. But she had just watched, her expression calm, then reached out and placed her hand over his, stilling the frantic movement. "It's okay," she said, simple as that. He truly appreciated it.
Experiences varied after that. Some women asked thoughtful, clinical questions about the amputation and the mechanics of the prosthetic. Others asked nothing at all, treating it as just another piece of clothing to be discarded. A few were awkward, their eyes flicking to it then away, their touch becoming hesitant. He learned to read the signs quickly. He preferred the ones who asked nothing; it allowed for a cleaner, more transactional intimacy. He became proficient in the art of the uncomplicated exit. A shared meal, a drink, a night in his bed or theirs, and then the gentle, firm disengagement. He was always kind, very generous, but emotionally impenetrable.
He was just as bad as Robby, but he never shit where he ate because the hospital was sacred ground, his last remaining temple of purpose and order. However, the core compulsion was the same as his buddy's: Use intimacy as a distraction, not a connection. A way to feel something without the risk of feeling everything. The relationships, such as they were, never went anywhere. He couldn't bring himself to commit. Not to a shared calendar, not to meeting friends, certainly not to the terrifying vulnerability of a future. He had done it once, with the full force of his being, and it had failed catastrophically. The memory of that failure was a more effective barrier than any physical limitation. He built a life that was professionally fulfilling with incredible friendships. Jack was, as he told himself, content. He had his work, his routines, and his pleasant physical connections here and there. It was enough. It had to be.
And then⊠he met you.
The hotel room smelled of stale air conditioning, cheap floral room spray, and sex. The muted glow of a floor lamp cast long shadows across the rumpled king-size bed. Jack stood by the window, his back to the fucked out form of Layla, a flight attendant based in Dallas that he had met casually a few months ago. They sometimes fucked whenever she was in town. She had taken a long layover to see her sister, who lived in Pittsburgh. They were going to go to dinner tonight. So, Layla suggested that she and Jack quickly grab drinks at her hotel bar midday. Her flight was at 7 AM tomorrow.
Jack was already pulling on his scrubs since he had 20 minutes to get to the hospital for the night shift.
On the bed, Layla stirred, the sheets rustling. She propped herself up on her elbow. He sat on the edge of the mattress, not necessarily to retreat, but to be closer as he pulled on his shoes.
"The walk of shame, but in scrubs. It's hot," she teased, watching him dress with a soft, sleepy smile on her face.
"Shame's not in my vocabulary," he quipped. Jack finished tying his shoes and didn't immediately stand. Instead, he leaned back on one arm, turning his body to face her fully on the bed.
She pouted playfully, tracing a finger along the seam of his scrubs. "Too bad you have to leave. I'm suddenly feeling a little... off. My heart's racing. Temperature's definitely elevated." She guided his hand, placing it over her bare chest just above the sheet. "Feel that? Irregular rhythm. Might need a doctor."
A slow, wolfish grin spread across his face. He reached out and gently hooked a finger under the edge of the sheet, tugging it just a fraction lower.
"Diagnosis: acute intoxication. Cause: exceptional company. Prescription..." He leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss full of the heat they had just shared before pulling back just enough to speak against her mouth."...a strict regimen of remembering every detail of the last hour until the next dose can be administered."
"Mmm, a delayed-release treatment. Cruel." She nipped at his jaw. "What if the symptoms get worse⊠maybe I need to schedule a return trip?"
"You have my number," His tone was light, almost dismissive as he checked his watch. "My real patients are waiting. Try to get some good sleep tonight before your flight, Layla."
He didn't wait for a reply. He gave her one last charming⊠but ultimately empty smile. Jack grabbed his wallet and keys from the dresser, then quietly opened the hotel room door and stepped into the hallway, closing it softly behind him without looking back. The drive to the hospital was a quiet transition. The ghost of Layla's perfume on his scrubs faded with the cold air from the AC vent. By the time he parked in the staff garage and walked through the automatic doors of the ER, he was ready to get to work.
The day shift team was bleary-eyed, finishing notes and handing off patients, while the night shift (Jack's nightcrawlers) was slowly filtering in. Jack stood near the main nurses' station as Robby slapped a printout onto the counter between them.
"You get to stroll in just in time for mandatory fun. 'Financial Strategies for New Attendings.' Conference Room B. Starts in five. Admin wants you as the night shift lead present for 'continuity' or some other HR bullshit buzzword."
Jack took a slow sip of his coffee, his expression one of amused tolerance.
"Continuity of boredom, maybe. But I'll suffer through. Ellis formally accepted her attending position last night." A genuine, proud grin broke through his usual cool facade. It was rare for residents to stay in the same hospital. Residents usually finished training and then took attending jobs elsewhere.
"Yeah, it's official. King, too." Robby said while shuffling his own paperwork. "She went to the AM session."
"Best part of this damn job is watching the good ones climb."
"Alright, Captain Midnight." Robby clapped Jack on the shoulder, a gesture of weary camaraderie. "The ship is yours. And for God's sake, get some real coffee."
Jack turned, his gaze sweeping over Shen, who was walking inâand of course sipping on his Dunkin coffee.
"Shen. Can you handle handoff with Robby? I have to be somewhere shortly."
"Sure thing," the junior attending replied.
Shen and Robby's conversation was suddenly a rapid-fire exchange of patient statuses and pending labs. Jack stood nearby, and he caught Ellisâs eye as she entered the bay. Â
"Alright, people." Jack's voice cut through. "Brief intermission from the usual programming." He waited a beat for the nearby chatter to die down. "For those who haven't heard the good newsâDr. Ellis is one of our new trauma attendings!" He started the applause himself, with a few sharp, loud claps. Some of the day shift who were still here, along with the trauma night shift team (other attendings, nurses, residents, techs), joined in immediately.
Ellis offered a humble wave, but the excitement in her eyes was undeniable.
"C'mon, Ellis," Jack started, "Your first official duty is absorbing an hour of financial literacy. Consider it your 'welcome to a real salary' tax."
Ellis groaned.
"Look, it's not all bad. It's the 'how not to blow your first attending paycheck on stupid shit' talk. Boring, but useful." He began guiding her toward the doors, then paused, looking back at Dr. Shen. He was already immersed in the patient handoff with Robby.
"Also, Shen? Make sure to do the chant. It's important for the team."
Shen didn't look up from his tablet, giving a dismissive wave. "Yes, yes, I'll do the chant."
As Jack and Ellis moved out of immediate earshot, Shen leaned closer to the team, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Please say we did the chant," he rolled his eyes. "The old man will be so upset with me if we skip it. Night crawlers, whoo!"
Robby snorted a laugh, shaking his head as he handed over another chart. Meanwhile, Jack led Ellis into the quieter hallway, the distant, half-hearted echo of a team chant (or perhaps the promise of one) fading behind them
"Congratulations are still in order, Ellis. Seriously. You earned every bit of it."
"Thank you, Dr. Abbot. It still doesn't feel entirely real."
He chuckled, pushing open the door to Conference Room B. The room was set up classroom-style, with a presenter at the front facing away and clearly setting up. There was a scattering of other newly minted attendings from various departments at the hospital. He was about to slump into his own seat when the presenter at the front of the room turned from the projector screen to face the audience. Jack stopped mid-motion, his hand still on the chair back.
He registered a woman's face. And⊠it wasn't just attractive; it was fucking disarming.
Gloria's voice cut in from the side, and she introduced you by name. She explained that you were a wealth manager at one of those fancy schmancy firms, "âŠour presenter,"
Then, as Gloria spoke, Jack's gaze inadvertently dipped. You were leaning slightly against the podium. He caught the elegant line of a knee-length charcoal skirt and the subtle shift of fabric. He looked away immediately, a reflexive, almost guilty flick of his eyes back to your face. He didn't mean to notice. He really didn't want to be that guy.
 "âŠBrown undergradâŠ" Gloria continued.
You smiled then, a brilliant, genuine flash of white teeth as you acknowledged Gloria's introduction. The smile transformed your face from severe beauty into something warm, approachable, and utterly captivating. It reached your eyes, crinkling the corners slightly.
Gloria kept rattling off your credentials and the firms you had worked at,"âŠHarvard Business School, and more than a decade on Wall Street before pivotingâŠ"
Jack slowly sank the plastic chair, which creaked under his weight. He wasn't a stranger to beautiful women, but there was a specific potent alchemy taking place here⊠It was the razor-sharp focus in your eyes meeting the unexpected warmth of your smile. It was wrapped in a package of undeniable sophisticated allure. You were intoxicating.
"...to wealth management. We're truly lucky to have her."
People started clapping, and you gave a gracious nod, your hands resting lightly on the podium. You waited for Gloria to sit down before your gaze swept over the attendeesâlingering for a half-second on Jack's frankly stunned face before moving on.
What the fuck were you doing in PTMC's sad little basement conference room?
He leaned back, folding his arms across his chest, his attention now fully locked on the front of the room.
Ellis smirked.
The polite applause died down. You let the silence hang for a moment before you spoke.
"Before, I get started. Everyone in this room... without a single shred of exaggeration... is a superhero." You let the word hang there, your voice thick with sincerity. You shook your head slightly, as if marveling at the fact. "You are walking into rooms every single day where people are at their most terrified and their most vulnerable. You hold hands and deliver unbearable news with more grace than should be humanly possible." Your own hands came together in front of you with your fingers loosely interlaced. Congratulations. Not just on becoming attendingsâwhich is a massive, huge accomplishment. But⊠for choosing this path every single day. And most importantly... thank you. Thank you so much for saving lives. Every. Damn. Day."
Jack's usual cynical expression was wiped clean. He looked at the new attendings around him who were clapping and high fiving. Tired faces lit up with smiles. Some were surprised, and a few even blinked back sudden moisture in their eyes.He had sat through a dozen of these mandatory workshops over the years. Every other speaker had just always clicked to the first slide, diving straight into compound interest and loan amortization. It was always transactional. Cold. No one had ever started by calling them superheroes. No one had ever thanked them.
"Alright, let's be honest for a second." A small, knowing smile played on your lips. "I know what you're all thinking. What the fuck am I doing here?"
A ripple of low, relieved laughter spread through the room. Jack, who had been staring at you, let out a short, surprised chuckle at your language.
"And I donât blame you," you smiled, feeding off of it. "But here's the thingâyou all are about to experience the most bizarre financial whiplash of your lives. For years, you make what, resident pay? Which is basically no money. You survive on caffeine, cafeteria mystery meat, and the grim satisfaction of keeping people alive." You paused, letting the nods of agreement continue. "And then, almost overnight, you become attendings. And suddenly, you're making⊠a shit-ton of money. It's fantastic⊠but it's also terrifying. Let me use my cousin as an exampleâhe's a cardiothoracic surgeon, and he's definitely my aunt's favorite child."
The room laughed again.
"So, my cousin finished his fellowship a few years ago. He got the fancy title, and the massive paycheck landed. First thing he did? He bought a beautiful house. A $1.5 million dollar house. Because he deserved it, right? He earned it. Then, surprise, his wife got pregnantâbaby on the way. Amazing. But now, between the monster mortgage, the prenatal everything, the life insurance he suddenly needed, and the new Volvo he just had to have⊠the pile of 'deserved' expenses started looking a lot like a mountain of debt. The money that felt infinite suddenly had very real, very large holes in it."
Your gaze swept the room, landing briefly on a few nodding faces before settling, almost casually, on Jack. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, completely still. His eyes were locked on yours.
"He's a brilliant surgeon. He can crack a chest and rebuild a heart. But he had zero framework for what to do with the money that skill generated. That's the disconnect. That's the whiplash. And nobody talks about it, because talking about money feels⊠vulgar. Especially when you've just started making it."
The room was quiet, absorbing the story. A new attending in Ortho near the middle, her hair in a messy bun and a coffee stain on her scrubs, raised her hand tentatively.
"Sorry, but... is your cousin okay? Like, financially? Did he have to sell the kid?"
You laughed. It was a genuine hearty sound that Jack wanted to hear more of. Â
"See? This is why I like doctors. Morbidly practical. No, the toddler was not liquidated as an asset, though I did float the idea when they started looking at daycare pricing." More laughter occurred. You were funny. He liked that. "But seriously, yes, he's fine. We mapped out his plan together when he realized he was in over his head."
A new attending in Peds with folded arms spoke up, his tone curious rather than anxious.
"Okay, but practically speaking, how? How did he actually get out of the hole?"
"The 'how' doesn't really matter," you smiled, tapping the podium lightly with your fingertips. "The point is: don't do what he did. Don't let the first big paycheck trick you into believing you're immune to reality. However, you should absolutely enjoy your life. You've earned a nice dinner. Buy the good whiskey. Get your own fucking place. No more roommates, and no more tiptoeing around or scheduling conflicts when you want to..." your expression turned sly "well, let's just say when you want your bed to be used for more than just sleeping," you delivered with a wink.
The line hit like a lightning bolt. The room didn't just laugh; it erupted. A wave of hoots, hollers, and howls of laughter crashed over you. Someone in the back let out a long, loud wolf-whistle. Jack's eyes were wide, his mouth slightly agape in genuine shocked delight. He looked from you to the roaring crowd and back, shaking his head, but the grin breaking across his face was one of pure, unadulterated approval. Gloria, however, had reached a new level of discomfort. But in the end, she gave a single slow nod as if acknowledging the practical (if indelicate) point about privacy. You grinned, letting the cheer wash over you.
You held up a hand, eventually quieting everyone down.
"Here is your first, your only, and non-negotiable financial directive: Obliterate your medical school loans as fast as you can. Be ruthless." You clicked the remote. A stark, simple statistic filled the screen behind you.
MEDIAN MEDICAL SCHOOL DEBT: $200,000+
AVERAGE INTEREST OVER LIFE OF LOAN: ~$150,000
The numbers sat there, heavy and silent.
"That's not just debt," you continued. "That's a second mortgage on your future, with a variable rate on your soul. Every dollar you pay off early isn't just a dollar. It's a dollar plus the 6, 7, 8 percent interest." You clicked to a new slide. This one had two simple, contrasting images. On the left: a sleek, new car. On the right: a bold, red "$35,000" with a line through it, next to a calculation showing how many months of loan payments that sum could erase.
"So, before any major purchaseâ" you paced a few steps to the side, ââyou should ask yourself: Is this a payment I could have thrown at this debt instead?" As you finished the sentence, you reached for the top button of your tailored blazer, popping it open. You shrugged it off your shoulders (the gesture was really one of shedding formality), revealing a crisp, well-fitted white blouse underneath.
You turned back to the room, rolling your shoulders. "Alright," you said, planting your hands on your hips. "Ask me fucking anything."
Nearly every hand in the room shot up immediately. And there, among a forest of armsâŠwas also Jack's.
The room had emptied, the buzz of conversation fading into the hallway. You were carefully coiling the HDMI cable when Gloria appeared at your elbow.
"Really, truly, thank you again. That landed perfectly. We'll definitely be in touch for next year's cycle."
"My pleasure, Gloria. Really. This group was fantastic."
You shared a quick smile as she headed out, and you zipped up your laptop bag and reached for your blazer. Jack was pretending to check his phone, but his posture was stiff. He looked up, made eye contact, then looked down again. Just as you slung your bag over your shoulder and took a step toward the exit, he moved, cutting a path to intercept you near the door.
"Hey. Uh. Sorry toâjust wanted to say, that was... really great." His real foot tapped a silent, rapid rhythm against the floor "Seriously. I've sat through a lot of these. They're usually a special kind of torture. That was... actually useful."
You leaned your shoulder lightly against the doorframe, tilting your head. "A special kind of torture, huh? Was it the boring breakdown of mutual funds versus ETFs, or was it the shitty PowerPoint animations on bond yields?"
Jack's composure seemed to fracture. His mouth opened, then closed, and he shook his head in a sharp frustrated motion.
"No, I just meanâ" he started, his voice tighter now, but you didn't let him finish.
You cut him off (not with words) but with a soft, understanding laugh. You held up a hand with your palm out, motioning a gentle 'you're fine' signal.
"I know. I know what you meant. This stuff isn't exactly the sexiest topic."
"Look, I... I really did appreciate the session. Seriously. You could tell the other attendings were actually listening for once, not just scrolling on their phones." He let out a short, awkward chuckle, his hand rising to rake nervously through his slightly unruly curls. He left his hand tangled there for a moment. "Hell, even Gloria looked awake." As he spoke, his other hand, the one not buried in his hair, found the seam of his scrubs pants, his thumb rubbing back and forth over the fabric in a quick, anxious rhythm. He caught himself doing it and abruptly shoved both hands into his pockets. An hour ago, Jack had been balls deep inside a woman. His hands knew exactly what they were doing. Why were they fumbling now, all over the place? He was standing here like a fucking intern who just got paged to a code blue for the first time. Why couldn't he have just said the workshop was good and walked away?
He decided to change topics.
"So, how did you get involved with this?" he asked curiously. "Not exactly the typical volunteer gig."
"My mother was in a car accident last year. A bad one. PMTC took care of her." You paused, the memory clear in your eyes. "The care was... it was everything. The nurse who was on my mom's case mentioned the hospital was looking for volunteers for financial literacy outreach. It seemed like a good way to help the hospital and pay it forward."
"How's your mom doing now?" he inquired with genuine concern. He didn't want to ask specifics just in case it was a triggering question. However, Jack noticed the slight, almost imperceptible widening of your eyesâa flicker of surprise at the question.
"Incredible, thanks for asking."
He nodded slowly, filing away the good piece of news in a place that usually stored harder things.
"Who was the nurse?"
"Dana Evans."
At the mention of the name, a warm smile broke across Jack's face, transforming his previously tense expression.
"Dana's great. I'm glad she was on your case. She practically runs the damn place. He shook his head slightly. "No, she does run it. We just pretend we're in charge."
The sound of your soft giggle at his comment made him feel like he was on top of the world.
"So, if she runs the place... what do you do?"
"I'm Dr. Abbot. Um. Jack." He extended his hand toward you, his movement now steady and sure. "Night shift chief senior attending.
"Nice to meet you," you shook his hand. He fell into step beside you as you both moved out of the room and into the dimly lit hallway of the administrative wing.
"Can I get your number?" He blurted it out, the question cutting through the comfortable silence. The moment the words were airborne, he seemed to recoil from his own abruptness. "Iâuhâmean your work number," His steps faltered for a half-second. You turned your head to look at him, and a smirk touched your lips. "I've actually been... thinking about restructuring some things. My portfolio's a little too conservative, maybe." He gave a small shrug, trying to make the lie sound smooth. "Could use a second opinion."
"The minimum account sizes we usually work with are usually $2 million," you stated, your voice devoid of inflection, simply stating a fact. "The clients we typically work with are generally those with a minimum net worth of $15 million or more."
Jesus Christ. The fact that the hospital landed you as a speaker was a miracle.
"Oh." The sound was a soft exhale, all the air leaving his lungs. "Yeah. I... I definitely don't fit that criteria." He swallowed, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before meeting yours again. "At least not the ladder."
"Not the latter," you repeated with an intrigued murmur. "Interesting clarification, Dr. Abbot."
"Jack." The correction was immediate. "Please. Just Jack."
Without a word, you shifted your laptop bag on your shoulder, unzipped a compartment, and retrieved a sleek matte black business card holder.
"Like I saidâJack," you emphasized his name. "I really respect PMTC. What they did for your mom... that matters to me. So here's my offer⊠forget the minimums. That's for my other clients." You gestured dismissively, as if swiping those imposing figures off a whiteboard, and then extracted a single card and held it out to him between two fingers. He took the card, his fingers brushing against yours, and read your title:
Senior Vice President, Group Director | Private Wealth Management
"You can call the number there. My executive assistant handles my calendar." Your tone was even and very to the point. "She can schedule a high-level consult. We can discuss personalized investment strategies that align with your financial goals and long-term priorities. And then, based on that, I can personally recommend you to financial advisors I trust. People who are good, ethical, and who won't treat you like a small fish. People who can actually help you build what you want."
He looked at you then, his gaze holding yours just a moment too long for it to be purely about finances. He didn't need advice. He had a VA financial planner he trusted implicitly. Jack just needed a reason (any fucking reason) to see you again, and this was the one he'd grabbed onto. He didn't see a ring on your finger, and that didn't necessarily mean you were single, but... fuck, he hoped it meant that you were.
"How much would this cost me?" he asked, the question rough. "Quite frankly, I don't think I can afford you."
"It's on the house."
He shook his head, a stubborn, flustered set to his jaw. "I can't accept that. It's... too much. I can't just take your time for free."
"Consider it my investment in some good karma, then," you murmured, shooting him a deliberate flirty wink.
You turned before he could formulate a response, and Jack simply watched you walk away. And yes, his eyes tracked the sway (and fucking) gorgeous, maddening curve of your ass in that skirt. But as the distance grew, the feeling that settled over him was confusing. It wasn't just lust. He wanted to know you. He wanted to understand the mind behind those sharp eyes. He wanted to know what you read, what you hated, what you dreamed about. It was a wanting that felt dangerously like the beginning of something⊠and it fucking terrified him.
You hated admitting that when your executive assistant, Pam, had put the call sheet on your desk with 'Dr. Jack Abbot - Personal Finance Consult' scribbled in the margin, your pulse had done a stupid, traitorous little jump. You had clocked him during the workshop because while the other attending checked their pagers or doodled on handouts, his eyes (those fucking intense hazel orbs) had been fixed on you. Not on your PowerPoint slides, not on the bullet points about 401(k) rollovers, but on you. He was listening with a focus so absolute that it had felt like a physical weight in the room. It had thrown you off your rhythm a couple of times. And when he talked to you⊠that brief, 5-minute exchange at the end of the session had left you feeling flustered and giddy in a way you hadn't experienced since⊠god, since forever.
You probably stared at his name on your call sheet for a full thirty seconds before you might have manipulated your schedule. So, calmly, you told Pam to slot him in for the following Thursday at 2 PM, knowing full well that the Thompson meeting was supposed to be there. But old man Thompson had cancelled at the last minute to play golf, and you saw an opening. You could have (should have) filled it with the Henderson portfolio deep-dive. That was the responsible, professional move. Instead, you told Pam to push Henderson back a week with a flimsy excuse about needing more data. A frivolous and utterly uncharacteristic decision.
And now, sitting across from Jack in your office, you were feeling an unprofessional schoolgirl rush of heat and light-headedness. It wasn't just his handsome face. It was the way he was looking at you again. His eye contact wasn't polite; it was intense. When you explained defensive portfolio strategies, his gaze didn't flick to the charts on your monitor. It stayed locked on your eyes, as if he were trying to decode a secret language written in your pupils. When you asked about his risk tolerance, he held that gaze, his answer measured, but his eyes... his eyes were speaking volumes you couldn't quite translate. It was unnerving.
You finished the session on autopilot, sliding the printed portfolio summary across the desk to him. "These are my initial recommendations, Jack. Based on our discussion, a balanced, moderate-growth approach seems appropriate."
He finally glanced down at the summary, his long fingers tracing the edge of the document without picking it up.
"You're in a remarkably strong position," you continued. "You're only in your 40s, with no debilitating debt, solid dual income streams from your profession and the rental property you purchased a few years ago. Your apartment is paid off. Frankly, you have the capacity and the time horizon to be more aggressive. Some of the capital you're currently parking in ultra-conservative savings vehicles could be working much harder for you."
When you finished, he was quiet for a long moment. Which made sense. Financial disclosure was intimate in ways people rarely acknowledged. It wasn't like revealing a secret; it was more like handing someone the keys to your choices, your fears, your discipline, or lack thereof. It represented decisions made, priorities chosen, and risks taken or avoided.
Since he wasn't a formal client with a contract, you had asked him to provide rough numbers and estimates (a ballpark) for your initial assessment since you wanted to respect his privacy.
Your assessment: Jack Abbot was doing just fine. More than fucking fine didn't begin to cover it.
"You're very persuasiveâŠAnd your assessment is... uncomfortably accurate," he grunted out.
You slid a paper across the desk, placing it deliberately on top of the printed summary. "These are three advisors I respect. They're more... entrepreneurial in their approach. They would likely recommend shifting a significant portion of your low-yield holdings into sectors with higher volatility but substantially higher long-term growth potential."
He ran a hand through his silvering hairâa gesture you were noticing he did a lot. "Can I be honest with you?"
"Sure."
"I have a financial advisor," he admitted.
Your eyebrow arched instinctively, a silent question hanging in the space between you.
"Apparently, a not so great one. Or at least, a deeply complacent one." He let out a short, frustrated sigh. What you just did in 30 minutes⊠you're obviously very, very good at what you do."
You appreciated his compliment. "Well, that's what second opinions are for. Even the most established plans can benefit from a fresh perspective."
"No⊠I probably need to let him go and find someone new." Jack's gaze dropped from yours for a split second before coming back. "But, that's not it. Iâuh only asked for your business card becauseâI really wanted to see you again." Then you saw itâa faint, warm flush creeping up the column of his neck, staining the skin above his crisp collar.
You leaned back in your chair.
"What a bold assumption. How do you know I'm single?" you asked, your voice a mix of amusement and direct challenge.
He didn't flinch. The blush on his neck seemed to stabilize, replaced by a look of quiet confidence. "The company website. The 'Our Team' section." He paused, letting the admission settle. "It ended with saying that you love caramel frappuccinosâwhich respectfully isn't real coffee. It's sugar," you smiled at his dry assessment, "âpickleball, and your 7-year-old Australian shepherd." His smile grew. "There was no mention of a partner. I checked. Thoroughly."
You felt a faint warm heat rise to your cheeks, and before you could stop it, your teeth caught your bottom lip. Your professional facade was crumbling, and for the first time in a long time, you didn't rush to rebuild it. Finally, you released your lip, a faint, tingling sensation remaining where your teeth had pressed.
"That's a rather aggressive form of due diligence, Jack," you teased, feeling an eager warmth in your chest.
"I-I was hoping thatâumâI could, uh, take you out sometime? If that's something you would even consider," he asked in a husky voice that felt too intimate for inside your office.
"Yes. I would like that." Your voice was clear and firm, leaving no room for misinterpretation.
"Good. That's... really good."
You were on FaceTime with your best friend, Mya, phone propped up against a stack of books on your dresser while you rifled through your closet. The screen showed her lounging on her couch with a glass of wine, already mid-rant about your outfit choices.
"Girl, if you're trying to get fucked on the second date, you need to step up your game," she said, pointing dramatically at the camera. "That black dress makes you look like you're going to work. Try the red one."
You sighed, holding up a red dress against your chest. "This one?"
"Closer, but still corporate. Where's that lace top I gave you? The black camisole with the thin straps?"
You pulled it from the back and held it up. "Really? You realize it's two sizes too big for my chest, right?Â
She laughed. "Okay fair. Skip that."
"Must be nice having perfect tits," you teased, slipping on another (shorter and skimpier) dress you thought of and turning for her approval. "How's this?"
"Yes!" she snapped. "Now we're fucking talking. Dr. Night Shift is going to forget how to speak when he sees you in that."
You posed, one hand on your hip. "You're acting like this is a sure thing."
"Honey, your ass in that dress is to die for."
"I guess," you muttered. Â
The memory of last week flashed through your mind. Jack had kissed you in his car after your first date, like he wanted to devour you with his hands gripping your waist and his tongue sliding hot against yours. The second you invited him inside your placeâhe froze up. He pulled back just enough to mumble something about covering a shift for his friend and colleague Robby in the morning. Jack looked equal parts frustrated and almostâŠrelieved? After he walked you to the door (such a gentleman), you went home alone, turned on, and were slightly confused.
The good news was that he was an immaculate kisser. The bad news was that you didn't know if he knew how to use his equipment. You were old enough not to need a 3 date minimum. Dating was hard enough without wasting time. Sometimes, you just wanted a good fuck, whether it led anywhere or not. Sadly, your past experiences with men had been mostly disappointing (emotionally, at least), so you preferred knowing early if the sex was bad rather than dragging things out with polite waiting. No more pretending to be coy when you knew what you needed.
"UhâŠhello?" Mya said, waving on screen. "You spaced out."
"Just remembering how he kissed me and then totally fucking bailed."
"Classic mixed signals. Tonight you cut through that shit. Wear that dress, and if he hesitates again⊠tell him your pussy has a schedule too."
You snorted.
"Did you buy your tickets yet?" she asked, already knowing the answer.
"Yes."
"It's just not the same city without you. I miss you."
"I wouldn't miss your opening for anything," you said, and meant it. The grand opening of her gallery was coming up, and you had already marked the date in red on your calendar. You'd been counting down since the day she officially signed the papers on the space. Mya had worked toward this moment for years. Gallery assistant, then manager, then curator. And now, finally, she was a gallerist with her own gallery.
You missed her a lot. She was always begging you to move back to Manhattan. She was relentless about it
"Come home," she would say.
The thing was, you had spent nearly your entire adult life chasing that 80-100 hour grind in investment banking. Mya had never experienced the 5 AM wake-ups for 6:30 client calls, or the weeks without sunlight, or that particular kind of exhaustion that made you forget to call your family back for almost two weeks straight. In an immigrant family, that was unforgivableâthey genuinely had been worried you had been kidnapped, and your overprotective father flew in to check on you.
You'd made the pivot 3 years ago into wealth management, and you now had a way more predictable schedule. Suddenly, staying in an expensive city didn't make sense anymore. Moving back to Pittsburgh meant giving up a lot (your incredible Chelsea apartment and even more incredible friends): the skyline, the neighborhood bars where everyone knew your name, the rooftop where you had watched a thousand sunsets, and fuck, the feeling of being in the center of everything. But it meant gaining something too: your family. Sunday dinners. Your mama knowing you were eating real food. Your old friends who still lived here, who got what it meant to be from here, and to be a yinzer in your bones.
Being home had given you back something you didn't realize you had lost over the years: yourself
"I miss you too," you said, watching her nod on the small screen.
"Wait, wait, waitâ" she leaned closer to her screen. "Lose the bra."
You reached up and slipped the straps off your shoulders. The bra came free from under your dress in one smooth motion, and you set it aside. Your hands slid inside the neckline, cupping your bare breasts directly. You lifted and squeezed them, adjusting the soft flesh to sit just right in the dress. Once you were satisfied, you winked at her.
She let out a low whistle, then shook her head with a wicked grin. "Go get laid, honey."
Jack walked you to your door, his hand resting at the small of your back. The kiss started soft but quickly deepened, his tongue sliding against yours as he pressed you against the doorframe. His hands found your ass, squeezing firmly while his mouth moved to your neck.
You fumbled with your keys, breaking the kiss just enough to speak. "We can take this inside."
Jack hesitated. "I should probably get home."
You pulled back slightly, studying his face. Your brows drew together as you searched his expression, trying to read what was going on behind those eyes. The way he kissed you made your stomach flip, but the sudden pause left you uncertain. You bit your lower lip, the same nervous habit you'd had in your office when he first admitted he wanted to see you again. Your fingers stayed loosely hooked in his belt loops, not quite letting go.
"What's going on?" you asked, your head tilting as you searched his striking face for an answer.
"What do you mean?"
"Look," you cut in, voice sharp with slight frustration, "is there a problem here? You can tell me if you're not into me like that, but your hands on my ass are telling a different story."
Jack's hands stayed on your hips, thumbs rubbing small circles. "I am very into you. I justâ"
"You just what?" you pressed.
Jack hesitated, his eyes looking almost green under your front porch light. "I don't want to rush things."
You let out a small laugh, "Rush? Jack, I'm not some teenager. I'm a grown woman. If you want to fuck my brains out. I'm not exactly offended. The feeling is mutual."
He blinked, clearly thrown, cheeks flushing. "You... really just say what you're thinking, don't you?"
"Yeah," you shrugged. Â "I guess I do."
He just stood there not responding for quite some time, and suddenly the heat of the moment had evaporated, leaving behind a cold, awkward residue. You pulled away, detangling yourself from his loose grip, and turned toward your front door.
"Well," you said, your voice flat and drained of all its earlier fire. "Um. Okay. These things don't always work out. Have a nice night."
Jack stood in the entryway, watching your back as you fumbled with the lock, and felt something crack open in his chest. The sharp edge of your wordsâthese things don't always work outâhit harder than he expected. He was being honest. He wasn't trying to rush things because he just legitimately didn't know how to date anymore. A lot of women he'd been with since his ex-wife had started the same way: a first meeting, then sex within hoursâsometimes a date (or fuck again) afterwards. Or a Layla situation. He wasn't proud of the string of one-night stands that had accumulated over the years, but he was always responsible about it. Jack tested regularly and never took unnecessary risks.
In today's day and age (when dating seriously), was he supposed to wait a certain number of dates before trying to get physical? Or months? He once read an article about a woman who wouldn't sleep with men until they hit the 90-day mark. Jack was willing to become best friends with his right-hand to be respectful and wait for you.
"Wait," he said, the word coming out way more desperately than intended. "Sweetheart⊠please let me explain."
You paused, one hand still on the deadbolt, and turned to look at him over your shoulder. Your expression was carefully neutral, but he could see the disappointment flickering in your face. "I'd rather do this without standing in heels," you said, with a sigh that sounded like pure exhaustion. It made him feel like an asshole. "You can come inside, but this is not an invitation for anything more," you turned the key and pushed the door open, "as you've effectively killed the mood," you muttered under your breath.
He heard you.
Goddammit. He had actually managed to fuck this up before it had even properly started.
Suddenly, a storm of white and tan fur exploded into the entryway. It skidded to a halt, placing itself squarely between you and Jack. It started barking at Jack with the kind of territorial intensity that made him take an instinctive step back. The dog's hackles were up, protective, and Jack realized with a sinking feeling that even your dog knew he messed up.
"Remmy, sit," you commanded, your voice dropping into a hard, authoritative tone.
Remmy immediately dropped his rear end to the floor, his barking ceasing mid-sound, though his eyes (one blue and one brown) remained fixed very suspiciously on Jack's face.
"Good boy," your voice shifted into something soft and soothing. "It's okay, sweetie," you murmured, kneeling to kiss the top of Remmy's head, your fingers scratching behind his ears. "This is Dr. Abbot. He's just gonna be here for a little bit."
Fuck, he had really messed this up. You were calling him Dr. Abbot again.
"He's harmless," you assured Jack, your hand still gentle on Remmy's head. The dog's tail had started a tentative wag, "Just curious about new people."
Jack's knees cracked slightly as he lowered himself to Remmy's level, mirroring your posture. Up close, he could smell the dogâthat warm, earthy scent mixed with whatever shampoo you used on him.
"Hey there, buddy," Jack said quietly, his voice stripped of its usual confidence. If the dog hated him, this was truly over. He extended his hand slowly, letting Remmy sniff his fingers before attempting to touch him. When the dog's tail continued its tentative wag, Jack's fingers found the soft fur behind Remmy's other earâthe opposite side from where your hand currently rested.
Okay, this was a cute fucking dog.
The thought hit him unexpectedly as Remmy's tail picked up momentum, the wag becoming less tentative and more genuine. Jack found himself smiling (actually smiling) at the way the dog's whole back end wiggled with the effort of it, like his tail alone couldn't contain whatever enthusiasm he'd decided to extend to a stranger.
The fur behind Remmy's ears was softer than he'd expected. Impossibly soft. Jack's thumb brushed against it again, and the dog leaned slightly into his touch, which shouldn't have felt like a small victory, but it absolutely did.
"I'm going to take him outside to the backyard so he can go nuts," you announced, as you stood back up, giving Remmy one last pat, and guided him past Jack. Remmy followed, but not without giving a final curious glance over his shoulder at Jack.
"Make yourself at home," you pointed down the hall. "The living room is straight ahead. I'll be back."
Jack walked forward and suddenly found himself standing alone in what was unmistakably a gorgeous space.
High ceilings with crown molding, hardwood floors that were softened by a patterned Persian rug in deep reds and indigos that gleamed under the soft glow of table lamps with cream-colored shades. The furniture was a mix of modern and vintage; a rich blue velvet sofa faced an antique fireplace with a white marble surround, and above it hung a piece of abstract piece of art. There were throw pillows in rich jewel tones scattered across the couch, and a soft-looking cashmere blanket was draped over one arm.
But what caught Jack's attention was the wall to his left.
Your vinyl collection was extensive. Floor-to-ceiling shelving, each record spine carefully organized, and even from a distance, Jack could see the quality of the collection. He moved closer without thinking, his eyes running over the names. It was a collection that refused to be confined to a single era or genre, each spine representing a different mood, a different story, and a different world. There were a ton of artists he didn't recognize as well.
Yet the vinyl was only part of it. The shelves continued across the adjacent wall, now lined with books. Finance textbooks dominated one sectionâdense, technical volumes with titles that made his head spin. Of course, you had a ton of practical money management books. He also noticed that you read a lot of legal thrillers, autobiographies (some of the same from his own bookcase), and had an extensive collection of cookbooks. It painted a picture of someone endlessly curiousâsomeone who could dive deep into fiction one moment and lose themselves in a stranger's life story the next, only to emerge craving something beautiful to cook.
Next to your books was a shelf of framed photographs. Jack found himself drawn to them, and he was in the process of leaning in when one image made him do a double-take.
There you were, several years younger, standing beside former President of the United States Barack Obama at what looked like a gala. In another frame, you were laughing with a renowned philanthropist he recognized from the news, both of you holding champagne flutes. Candid shots of you laughing with friends, a woman he assumed was your sister, you holding Remmy when he was a puppy, and a picture of you with your arms wrapped around an older couple who had the same warm smile.
His eyes snagged onto another frame. Holy fucking shit, was that a picture of you, Roger Federer, and Rafael Nadal? You looked deep in conversation at what looked like a fundraiserâyou had told him you were a big tennis fan.
Jack's mind spun back to your first date. You had mentioned your time in New York, your investment banking days, but you were casual about it in a way that now struck him as deliberately downplayed. He didn't know much about financeâhis expertise was in medicine, not markets, but he had a feeling that you were the best at what you did. At your office, he had noticed your back-to-back rankings on your wall from Forbes' Top America's Top Women Wealth Advisors List. The sound of footsteps interrupted his thoughts, and he turned just as you came down the hallway, Remmy trotting alongside you.
You had changed.
The dress (that had been driving him slowly insane) was gone. In its place were soft, oversized light green pajamas that looked so comfortable. Your feet were bare. Freshly painted toenails in a deep burgundy. You had washed off most of your makeup, and somehow you looked even more beautifulâmore real.
You settled onto the couch just as Jack moved to sit beside you. Before he could, Remmy wedged himself against your side, curling up possessively and taking up more space than his small frame should have. Jack chuckled and crossed to sit in one of the opposite chairs instead, making himself comfortable across from where you sat. The cushions were soft and smelled faintly of lavender.
"So," you said, your voice neutral. "Explain."
"We haven't really talked about previous relationships much," he started, running his hands over his thighs. "I know I told you I was divorcedâ"
"You did," you confirmed, and there was no judgment in your tone, but there was a firmness that made it clear you were listening closely.
So, he told you the story, which he hadn't really shared with anyone in a very long time. He let the words tumble out⊠the whole ugly truth of his marriage. "And well, I haven't really been in a serious relationship since," he said after finished talking. Your arms were still crossed, but your expression had shifted completely. The disappointment was gone, replaced by wide-eyed, stunned disbelief. Your lips parted slightly.
"Holy shit," you breathed, the words hushed. "That's⊠that's like some Maury Povich shit."
He rubbed a hand over my face. "Ugh. Yeah, I guess."
Then, without another word, you stood up. You just turned and walked out of the living room, leaving him sitting there. Great. He had overshared, and now you were gone? He heard a cabinet open and close in what he assumed was the kitchen. Glass clinked softly. His confusion deepened. Were you getting a glass of water? Preparing to politely ask him to leave?
Jack looked down at his hands, the weight of the entire disastrous evening pressing down on him. Then, he heard your footsteps returning. You walked back into the living room, but you weren't empty-handed. In one hand, you held two heavy-bottomed crystal tumblers. In the other, a bottle of Highland Park. You didn't look at him as you set the glasses down on the coffee table with a soft, definitive clink. You popped the cork, the sound loud in the quiet room, and began to pour. A generous two fingers in each glass. You slid one glass across the table toward him, then picked up the other.
"Bottom's up."
You took a slow sip, your gaze never leaving his over the rim of the glass. Then, you lowered your glass, holding it loosely in one hand. "That's a hell of a story. I thought my ex fucking sucked."
"What happened with your ex?"
You let out a short laugh through your nose. "Nothing like that."
He took a hearty gulp of his drink, his throat working as he swallowed, before turning his full attention back to you. His jeans were worn in just the right way, and the simple t-shirt stretched across his shoulders in a manner that was distractingly good. God, this man was fine as hell.
"Why don't you tell me about it?" Jack said, leaning forward just slightly, and resting his forearms on his spread knees. "I think it's only fair."
The memory rose up, sharp and sour. "I was engaged once."
You remembered the way he would change the subject when you talked about a win at work. You started hiding things. Stopped telling him about promotions, about big deals. You made yourself smaller⊠to make him feel 'better.' Your sister hated him from day one. Called him a dipshit with a trust fund. Your parents... they tolerated him. For your sake. 'We don't get it, but it's your life.' They had once told you.
"When he proposed, it felt so half-assed," you took a slow sip, the burn doing nothing to chase away the old sadness. "We were at some overpriced steakhouse he picked because he thought it was 'classy.' No knee, just him sliding a ring box across the tablecloth and saying "we might as well" like he was closing a business deal." The memory tightened your chest. "Which is the thing that really gets meâI'll never get that moment back, you know? That should have been special. And he made it feel... mediocre. Like I was a consolation prize he settled for." You finally looked up from your glass, meeting Jack's eyes again. The raw understanding of pain you saw there, without a trace of pity, was more potent than the whiskey. "I said yes anyway. Because I was so fucking in love with the idea of who I thought he could be. I wore that ring for 6 months, feeling it get heavier every day, until I finally took it off and left it on his kitchen counter and moved out." You looked away, your gaze drifting to the dark window, seeing not your reflection but the ghost of your own younger, hopeful face.
"Your ex didn't know what the hell he had." Jack shook his head. Jack could believe this guy had made you feel like you had to dim your light so he could feel big. What happened to real men being proud as hell watching their girl shine?
"I'm just tired of the contradiction," you admitted, reaching down to run your fingers through Remmy's soft fur. "Men say they want ambitious women. They say they are drawn to the drive, but I call bullshit. The moment you actually pursue itâŠ" you sank your hands deeper into his coat, and Remmy leaned into you, his weight solid and grounding, "that's when they start looking for reasons, and suddenly you're 'too focused' or 'not the person they fell for,' or some other lame fucking excuse." Remmy's tail wagged slowly, and he nudged his nose under your hand when you paused. "As if ambition were only attractive in theory, and something charming to admire from a distance," you whispered sadly.
Jack scoffed. "A decent guy wouldn't pull that shitâhe'd celebrate your success instead of feeling threatened by it."
You furrowed your brows, the creases deepening between your eyebrows as the weight of his words hit you.
"Hearing it said like that makes the whole thing feel even more pathetic."
"It's not pathetic. You loved someone who couldn't handle being loved by someone stronger than his ego allowed. That's on him, not you."
You started laughing then (really laughing) because the absurdity of it suddenly hit you. "Don't try to make me feel better when your wife tried to pass off another man's kid as yours."
Jack's expression cracked, and then he was laughing too. It wasn't a happy sound exactly, but it was real. You both sat there, shaking with it, the kind of laughter that bordered on hysteria. Remmy lifted his head from where he'd been sprawled across your lap, his expression shifting into clear confusion as he watched you both. He stared for a moment like he was trying to decode what was happening, then hopped down from the cushions with a soft thud. He padded over to his little rug in front of the fireplace (his favorite place) and settled onto it with a sigh, as if to say you two are on your own.
"I'm sorry," you said, catching his breath. "I meanâI guess it's good that she didn't go through with it."
He took another drink. "Yeah, well. Our marriage failing wasn't exactly all her fault. I wasn't exactly a present husband."
"That's not a pass for cheating, JackâŠ" you set your glass down deliberately, "I haven't known you long, but I have a feeling you're being too hard on yourself. I'm so sorry that happened to you."
Thank god, he thought, the tension in his shoulders easing a fraction. You were calling him Jack again.
"She should have talked to you about how she was feeling instead of just... holding it all inside and then blowing up your marriage like that."
He blinked slowly.
"If she felt neglected, she should have said something. Given you a chance to actually hear her, and to try and fix it. How could you have worked on a problem that you didn't know existed?" you shrugged. "She made her choiceâto cheat instead of to communicate."
You understood the weight of a demanding job. And sure, you were only hearing his side of the story, but he hadn't even bad-mouthed herânot once. Admitted that he took it too far, and let work consume everything. There was something in the way he talked about his marriage, a genuine regret that suggested he would have made adjustments if he had known earlier on.
"Well, you know what they sayâŠ'how you get 'em⊠is how you lose 'em.' Are they still together?"
"No, they're not⊠pretty sure he cheated on her, actually. At least that's what my mother says." He paused, deadpan. "My mother's a gossip."
You snickered.
"Look, it doesn't matter what happened between them. That's... that's their thing," he scratched his jaw. "The kid's the one who suffered. Families being torn apart is never easy."
Most people would've been ecstatic at their ex's misery. You hadn't met a lot of guys like Jack. And the fact that he gave a damn about the kid? That told you everything you needed to know about who he really was. He was a good man. Â
You leaned back, studying him with an expression that was more probing. "Look, thank you for being honest with me. That couldn't have been easy. But, I'm a little confused? Did you tell me this because you haven't... been intimate with someone since your ex-wife?" You had never been with an amputee (which you learned about Jack on the first date), and you wondered if that was adding a layer of additional nerves for him.
Jack stood up and took a couple of steps around the table and lowered himself onto the couch next to you, close enough that his thigh brushed against yours. Remmy lifted his head and let out a soft, warning whine at Jack's approach.
"Come on buddy, I need a moment with the pretty girl," Jack pouted. You stifled a laugh as Remmy's protective instincts flared. He gave a final assessing look. Then, with a quiet huff that seemed almost like a sigh of resignation, he lowered his head back to the floor. You bit your lip to contain your amusement. Jack turned his body fully toward you then, and he laced his fingers through yours before drawing your hands into his lap.
"Look⊠I don't want to lie to you. I've been with a lot of women since my divorce," he grunted out. "I'm single. And wellâŠ" his sentence trailed off. He didn't need to finish.
You appreciated his honesty. There was an unexpected pang of jealousy twisting in your gut, but you weren't blind. He was attractive. A 'silver fox' doctor with a hot bod and a smile that could melt hearts. Women were probably throwing themselves at him. And honestlyâŠwith his history, you weren't shocked he was fucking around. It was probably easiest that way.
"We just met. It's totally okay if you just want to have fun," you tried to sound understanding, to give him an out, and to protect yourself.
His expression grew guarded. "Is that what you want?"
After all this time, Jack felt like he had finally met someone he was fucking crazy about. He barely knew you. It didn't make sense⊠and he had never believed in perfection.
But goddamn it, you were pretty fucking close.
He was terrified that was what you wanted. Just fun. A casual fling. And he believed that he would deserve it if you did. Over the years, he knewâsomewhere in the back of his mind, that some of the women who had left his bed had wanted more. He saw it in their faces the morning after, a hope he deliberately extinguished with a polite smile and a firm goodbye. He was always honest with them about his emotional limitations, but honesty didn't erase the disappointment. Maybe this, you offering him the very emptiness he had offered others, was the price he finally had to pay. Maybe the universe was serving him his own medicine.
"I don't know," you said honestly. You let your gaze travel slowly down his body and back up to meet his. "If you had fucked me on the first date, I might have a better answer," you teased.
He smirked at your sarcasm. ButâŠyour playful mask slipped, revealing the genuine uncertainty beneath. You let out a slow breath, a vulnerability appearing in your voice. "I was just going to see how this went," you admitted, your gaze dropping to where your joined hands before finding his gorgeous eyes again. "And not really put any pressure on it." You shrugged, a small, self-deprecating gesture. "Whenever I get excited about something... about someone... it tends to just go south."
Jack's expression softened completely, and he reached out, his fingers gently tilting your chin up so you had to look at him.
"Well, I'd really like to take you on a third date," he said. "I haven't had one of those in a really long time," he joked, the lightness in his tone a gentle counterpoint to the heavy conversation. Before you could formulate a reply, he closed the small distance between you. His hand slid from your chin to cradle the back of your neck, and he kissed you. His lips were warm and insistent, moving against yours in a way that instantly turned you into a puddle. You could taste the faint trace of whiskey, feel the scratch of his stubble, and an extremely embarrassing sound escaped your throat as you kissed him back.
He pulled back just far enough to speak, "I really like you," he murmured, the words a soft, raw admission against your lips. "And I know I'm not supposed to say that, but I can't help myself.â
"I really like you too," you replied and kissed him again, your fingers threading through his luscious hair as he groaned into your mouth.
"I do want to fuck your brains out, by the way," Jack said roughly when you finally broke apart, both of you breathing hard. "Just so we're crystal clear."
You grinned against his mouth. "Maybe we can save that for our next date," you said, fingers still tangled in his silvery curls. "But can I entice you into a respectable PG-13 make out session? I wouldn't be against second base."
Jack let out a laugh that vibrated against your lips.
"Fuck, sweetheart, you're gonna kill me," he muttered, then dove back in to kiss you.
The couch felt smaller by the second. Cushions creaked under shifting bodies. Every wet sound of your mouths moving together filled the spaceâsoft gasps, low groans, the occasional curse slipping out when teeth grazed too sharp. Your pulse hammered in your ears, drowning out everything else except the way his stubble scraped your chin and the heat pouring off his body. You pushed him down onto his back, climbing over him as his hands slid lower. He grabbed your ass hard through the loose pajama pants, fingers digging in, pulling you tighter against the thick bulge in his jeans. You arched into the touch with a shaky moan that made him curse again.
"Jesus, the sounds you make," he breathed against your jaw, then sucked at the spot just below your ear. You tasted salt when you licked your lips, felt the rapid thud of his heart when you pressed closer. His cock strained against his jeans, thick and obvious, pressing up between your thighs every time he shifted.
Jack's thoughts were a filthy loop he couldn't shut off: how tight you would feel when he finally sank his cock inside you, how wet you would get, how loud you would get when he fucked you properly. He wanted to rip your comfortable pajamas off right there on the couch, spread you open, and bury himself to the hilt. But he didn't. Instead, he kept it to heavy petting and desperate kisses, letting the tension build until both of you were panting and half-laughing at how worked up you'd gotten.
Eventually, the kisses slowed, turning softer, almost sweet. His forehead rested against yours, both of you catching your breath.
"Third date can't come fast enough," Jack said.
Remmy barked in agreement.
Sprinklers clicked on in someone's yard as you and Jack made your way back to your place from the neighborhood park. Remmy trotted ahead on his leash, tail wagging like he owned the sidewalk. The proximity to the park had been one of the main reasons you bought the house.
Jack had taken the leash from you halfway through the walk.
You were still typing a reply to Mya about your flight details for tomorrow to attend her gallery opening this weekend when Remmy stopped to do his business. You reached for the roll of bags in your pocket, but Jack was faster. His fingers closed around the plastic before you could pull it out.
"I got it, baby," he said simply, already crouching down. It still threw you off when Jack did thatâyou could count on one hand how many times your ex had done it in all the years you had dated. He always reminded you that Remmy was your dog since you'd had him since before you two got together. Remmy had taken to Jack fast, and you could tell the feeling was mutual. By the time you reached your front door, the sun had dipped low enough to paint the sky in your favorite shades of purple and pink. Inside, you filled Remmy's bowl while Jack unclipped the leash and crouched on the living room floor playing with him. You pulled out your phone to text your sister and brother-in-law about what time to pick up Remmy tomorrow with their spare key.
Jack was dropping you off at the airport in the morning. He offered, and you said yes without overthinking it. You and Jack were existing in that strange, undefined space where you were sleeping together, seeing each other pretty regularly, but hadn't quite put a name to it.
After your third date (which occurred almost 2 months ago), you learned that his very fucking large equipment most definitely worked. Desperate kisses had turned frantic when he picked you up, and your hands wandered, tearing at each other's clothes. It wasn't exactly the classiest move fucking him before the date. But, later⊠when you finally did make it to pickleball, the afternoon felt electric, every moment reminding you of what had happened just before.
It was one of the most memorable dates you'd ever had.
You hadn't seen Jack yesterdayâhe was currently off for 3 days. The night before, you had hosted a dinner with some girlfriends and cooked cheesy spinach & mushroom tortellini. You wanted him to taste it, and you had set aside a generous portion for him to take home so it wouldn't go to waste while you were in New York. The leftovers from last night were still in the fridge, and you pulled it out along with some garlic bread you'd wrapped in foil. The oven beeped as it preheated, and you were sliding the dish inside when Jack appeared behind you. His mouth found the side of your neck, pressing an open kiss there.
"Smells good," he murmured against your skin.
"Thank you," you leaned back into him, just for a second. "20 more minutes."
"I wasn't talking about the food."
Heat bloomed across your cheeks. You turned around and swatted at him without much force, your hand connecting with his forearm as you twisted out of his embrace. He raised his eyebrows, a panty-dropping smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. You felt your downstairs area flutter at the way Jack's smirk lingered, that cocky tilt to his mouth promising trouble. Before you could protest, his hands gripped your waist, and he hoisted you onto the counter in one smooth motion, settling you between the cutting board and the half-unwrapped garlic bread. Your legs dangled, and he stepped between them, palms braced on either side of your thighs.
"20 minutes is a long time," he said, voice all fuckable and teasing. "Plenty can happen in twenty minutes."
"Is that so?" you managed, trying to sound unaffected despite.
"Mmm," he hummed, eyes dropping to your lips. "I could make you come twice. Maybe three times."
Jack didn't recognize himself anymore. He prided himself on understanding the human bodyâhe was a doctor after all. He could explain away attraction, compartmentalize desire as a series of chemical reactions. Except when he looked at you, he didn't just want your bodyâthough God knew he did, constantly, in a way that bordered on pathological. He wanted to know what you were thinking. He wanted to make you laugh just to hear that specific cadence of your voice. He wanted to fall asleep next to you and wake up to your face.
"Jack!" you squealed, swatting at his chest again.
"I'm being honest about my intentions."
"Behave," you warned, but there was no real bite to it.
He caught your wrist gently, pressing a kiss to your palm. "Where's the fun in that?"
A rational part of his brain (the part that had aced neurobiology) whispered about the oxytocin surge during new relationships and wellâsex. It created neural pathways and made you seek out that person again and again. Evolutionary biology, reallyâmammals bonding to ensure offspring survival. It was supposed to be temporary.
So why did the thought of this feeling ever fading away terrify him in a way that made no clinical sense?
"Okay, so..." you started, looking embarrassed. "I feel lame, but I've never actually... you know. On a kitchen counter."
Jack pulled back slightly, his eyebrows shooting up. "Really?"
You were adorable.
"Yeah." You bit your lip, suddenly very interested in the pattern of his shirt. "Maybe that makes me boring."
"You weren't boring the other day when youâ"
"Nope." You pressed a finger to his lips, cheeks burning. "We're not talking about that right now."
"We're not?" he asked innocently. "Because I seem to rememberâ"
"Okay, you know what?" You pulled your hand back and crossed your armsâthough your cheeks were hurting from how wide you were smiling. "You're definitely not getting any until after dinner now."
"Are you really going to reject a triple orgasm guarantee?"
You were fighting the urge to cave. Instead, you lifted your chin, meeting his heated gaze head-on. "I'm still going to get it. Just after my belly is full of food and wine."
"Fine," he relented after a beat, stepping back with a dramatic sigh. "You win this round. But you better be my dessert."
He turned to the cabinet and started setting the table without being asked, while you hopped off the counter. The fridge hummed quietly as he pulled open the door and reached for a bottle of wine. His phone buzzed loudly on the counter just then, screen lighting up with an incoming call.
"Dr. Abbot," he answered when he looked at the caller ID, tucking the phone against his shoulder as he grabbed two glasses from the cabinet. He poured wine into the first glass, then the second, and he slid one across the counter toward you, offering it with a quick wink before turning his attention back to the call.
"I can't, actually," he said, his voice slipping into that clinical and very sexy professional tone. "I'm dropping my girlfriend off at the airport tomorrow morning."
Girlfriend?
You caught fragments of the restâsomething about trading for a shift, coverage, logistics. His free hand gestured as he talked, wine glass held loosely in his grip.
Girlfriend.
Girlfriend.
Girlfriend.
You felt a little silly suddenly, for all the times you wondered if maybe he was seeing someone else, if this was just a convenient arrangement for him. You weren't needy or clingy or paranoid. But in your defense, men sucked. So yeah, you wondered. You worried. Especially after you two started fucking. You weren't proud of it, but there were definitely times you rescheduled dates (just cause), or took your time texting him back once you realized your feelings were getting stronger. That whole calculated performance of seeming less interested so he'd be more interested.
"Ask Shen if he can cover it," he continued, "but he's working tonight, so I don't know if he'll want to do a double. He did one a couple days ago."
He took a sip of his wine while waiting for a response, eyes meeting yours briefly over the rim of the glass. Remmy suddenly bounded over to his leg, demanding attention. Without missing a beat in his conversation, Jack crouched down, one hand holding the phone, and scratched along Remmyâs neck. Jack was now launching into details about some trauma case. You could tell he was still half-listening to the phone conversation, his responses coming at appropriate intervals, but his attention was genuinely split now.
"I know, I know," he said, this time unclear if he was speaking to the person on the phone or Remmy. Jack's eyes crinkled at the corners, and his hand trailed down to Remmy's chest where he gave a few firm, affectionate pats.
This man literally picked up your dog's shit on walks. Of course, you were his girlfriend. Maybe men his age didn't need to spell things out. Maybe it was implied in the way he would fuck you, pressing you into his mattress, groaning into your mouth:Â You're mine (or your pussy is mine)
He finished the call a moment later and turned to look at you, his expression shifting to something more curious. "What?" he asked, straightening up from where he'd been playing with Remmy.
You bit your lip, fighting the smile that wanted to break free. "Nothing," you said, turning back to the oven. But it wasn't nothing. It was everything.
After dinner, you both relaxed for a solid twenty minutes to let the food settle before moving to the bedroom. He did, in fact, make you finish 3 times that night. You made a mental note to christen the kitchen counter for when you returned from your trip.
Let's just say that your boyfriend needed zero convincing.
I'm genuinely passionate about financial literacy (I taught in this space in grad school) so this story was basically my excuse to indulge myself and geek out. I'm treating this as a companion piece to 'You Look Good on Vacation.' I know some people were eager for a certain follow-up scene, but oops, I ended up writing how they met instead. However, this story does provide crucial context for why Jack would be so anxious about making the reader's vacation truly unforgettable. TBD (I make no promises) on that one.
That said, this absolutely works as a standalone if you prefer to read it that way!