Ginger_I_Am

You hold the thin sheet to your bare chest and shift further up the headboard, bending your knees to accommodate his body when he sits on the edge of the mattress to tie his laces. Your eyes soften, waiting for him to look back at you.

He never does.

More quietly, you tell him, “I asked if you wanted to order food. ‘Cause I don’t really feel like cooking right now and, depending on what you want, we should probably wait to order ‘cause Love Island doesn’t come on for another hour, and—”

Jack’s scruffy chin brushes the thin fabric of his shirt as he turns his head slowly to look at you. There’s a distance in his eyes that cuts you off, like you’re a quick fuck that doesn’t know when to stop talking, like he’s waiting for you to stop so he can get away.

“I think I’m gonna head out now, actually,” he tells you, then returns to knot his laces.

“Oh…” you hum, half-breathless, and pretend his foreign dismissiveness doesn’t tear your chest in two. “Are you… Are you okay—?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs and rises from the mattress. “I’m fine. I just— Need to get home.”

You follow him with wet eyes as he rounds the bed for the opposite side, where his phone and wallet sit on the nightstand and his branded rucksack rests on the floor. “Well, do you want me to wait to watch it with you? ‘Cause then I have to text Princes and tell her not to spoil it for me in the morning—”

“Go ahead,” Jack shrugs, with a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, as he slides the camo strap over his broad shoulder. “I think I’ll survive a week without it.”

Your frown deepens at his joke.

“Did I do something?” you wonder in a meek voice that makes his chest ache.

“No,” he scoffs. “Of course not. Why would you ask that?”

“I don’t know…” you murmur shyly, shifting on the mattress and grimacing slightly when the sticky sheets cling to your thighs. “You never leave right after we have sex, so I— I didn’t know if, maybe… It wasn’t good for your something, or if I said something—”

“No, it was great—” Jack interjects, but cuts himself off quickly thereafter, like he was about to say something he shouldn’t.

The word ‘honey’ was about to roll off his tongue the way it always does when he’s talking to you, but it feels wrong to say it now, for a reason he still can’t name that threatens to strangle him all the same.

“I just gotta go now. Okay?”

At a loss for what else to do, or what else to say that might make him stay, you just nod with a sad smile. “Sure…”

Jack leaves with a polite nod — like the sex was some sort of mindless transaction he’s thanking you for and not something you’ve done quite regularly for the past several months. He doesn’t speak another word to you when he walks out, and doesn’t look back at you once when he shuts the door behind him.

You stew in his absence and forget to eat.

Your tired body functions the following day on nothing but heartache and half a granola bar.

You drown in the bustling emergency department, and in the void of the white screen ahead of you, where you try and fail to do your charting. You can’t quite garner the strength to use your hands, much less use your brain to put letters on the screen that’ll just look like alphabet soup to you anyway. You’re stuck idling in the emptiness inside of you, where your heart withers along with your stomach.

Robby watches from afar, studying you as he flits between patients and residents requiring his attention. He has, self-admittedly, quite the soft spot for you — because you’re the smartest person on this floor and the most sensitive, too, which makes for a great doctor but very often the saddest person you’ll ever meet. He waits for you to correct yourself before he has to step in, and potentially make your day worse than it’s obviously already going.

You don’t move for six minutes straight.

He timed it.

“What is going on over here?” Robby wonders slowly, leaning over the top of the desk and peering down at you with a pair of stern brown eyes.

You blink rapidly to clear the haze of rumination from your vision and shrink into your cushioned seat like a scolded child. “Charting…” you answer with an unconvincing waver in your voice.

“Looks like it,” Robby scoffs with a hint of a smile that gets lost in his greying beard. He taps the desk with his palm and stands to full height again, nodding his head and urging you to follow him. “C’mon. Walk with me.”

He saunters off in the opposite direction of the work station, taking a tablet that Dana hands to him as he goes. It takes a long moment for his words to compute, and you scramble to your feet when he throws you an expectant look over his shoulder. You fall into step with the older man as he drags his glasses from the shirt pocket of his black scrubs.

Robby sets the black frames on the bridge of his nose and wonders aloud with his gaze turned to the screen in his hand, “What’s going on with you today, kid?”

“It’s nothing,” you shrug dismissively, sticking close to the man’s side as you weave within the crowded hall.

He flashes you an unenthusiastic glare in return. His eyes dart between your furrowed brows, to your anxiety-bitten lips (where your teeth dig into the delicate skin even now), to where you wrench the hem of your long-sleeved undershirt into trembling fists. Whatever it is, it’s very clearly not nothing.

“I’m not asking to be polite, kid,” the older man tells you, firm but not entirely unkind. “I can tell something’s wrong, and it’s affecting your work, so— Just tell me.”

You swallow hard and struggle to find the courage to speak, or to meet the man’s gaze as your eyes dart everywhere but back at him.

“It’s about your friend…” you confess in a sheepish murmur that gets lost in the droning of the bustling E.R.

It takes Robby a moment or more to catch your meaning.

“Jack?” he presses, because he knew the two of you were seeing each other, but not that it was quite so serious to warrant the off-day you’re having now. He makes a mental note to ream Abbot out for it the next time he sees him — ‘cause he can’t have any of his residents upset, least of all you.

You nod with an averted gaze. “He’s just… been off—”

“He’s always off,” Robby scoffs.

“Well, not with me,” you tell him, foreignly firm in your quiet argument. “And now he’s not talking to me, and I have no idea what I did…”

“Well, knowing Jack, you probably didn’t do a damn thing,” Robby concedes with a heavy sigh and flashes you a sympathetic look as you turn the corner. “Just give him some time, alright? He’ll come around. He always does. For now, you’ve got a patient in 8 that’s asking for you—”

Before you can make a guess on who it is — though you think you already know the answer — a strong hand wrenches suddenly around your wrist.

The man’s fingers are warm, calloused, and unwavering against your delicate skin. Your heart lurches into your throat at the sudden panic as your chin snaps towards the man towering over you. He’s tall, bearded, rugged, and so angry he’s red in the face.

“I have been waiting out there…” the man starts, taut voice wavering with a withheld fire. “…For four hours. When the hell am I gonna see somebody?”

“How did you get back here?” is the first thing you think to squeak out, because you vaguely recall McKay sending him back to Chairs after taking his vitals some time ago.

Robby steps in then, cutting between you and the stranger to urge him backward and away from you. You rub at your tender wrist when the man’s brutal touch is gone.

“We’re seeing the sickest patients first, sir. So count yourself lucky you aren’t back here,” Robby explains in an even voice, sounding much calmer than he really feels. “But touch anybody in here like that again, and you won’t be seen at all. Got it?”

The man caves with a heavy breath and with his weathered palms splayed in surrender. “I was just asking a question, man…”

“I’ll handle it, boss,” Ahmad cuts in, rushing towards the three of you after catching sight of the altercation from down the hall. He steps between the two of you and the angry patient and ushers him back toward the waiting room.

“Don’t touch me,” you hear the man spit, but complying anyway.

“Trust me, man,” Ahmad quips. “I don’t want to.”

It takes you a long moment thereafter to catch your breath.

It was certainly not the first time you’ve been grabbed by an unhappy patient, and it would certainly not be the last, but you can never quite get used to the fear. The panic is slow to ebb from your veins, even as the man is escorted back to Chairs. You find him sneering silently at you when you catch his eyes, moments before the door shuts behind him.

Robby steps into your tunnel vision, ducking down to meet your gaze with dark eyes glimmering with worry. “You alright, kid? Did he get you?”

“I’m fine,” you answer on muscle memory and muster a smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “I’ve seen my fair share of assholes, Robby. Today, even.”

“Well, yeah,” the man scoffs playfully. “You’re with Abbot— I’m sure you’re an expert at dealing with assholes by now…”

By all accounts, you were not supposed to have favorites at the PTMC. And you didn’t really; everyone who stepped foot into the E.R. got the same level of medical care from you — even the assholes. But Louie Cloverfield was different, special. He was the first patient you ever saw as an R1, and when he kept coming in, and you kept picking up his cases, he became your patient.

If Louie was in, and you were on shift, you were the one tending to him. Always.

So, you stay by his side when he loses his pulse, even when the rest of the E.R. reduces to the inevitable chaos of the afternoon rush — even when you know the rest of your co-workers could probably use your help out there now — even when you know there’s nothing more you can do for Louie to keep him alive.

Sweat beads on your forehead as you kneel at his bedside, pounding firmly at the man’s chest in a feeble attempt to keep his heart beating. You’ve lost feeling in your arms now — they’ve gone from aching, to burning, to utterly numb — but your attempt at resuscitation never stops, not even as dark crimson blood spits from his breathing tube; the clearest sign of blood in his lungs.

Robby watches from the back of the room, keeping a close eye on you and the bodies donned in camo outside the window — as the TEMS unit treats a trauma patient across the way, with Jack Abbot among them. He catches the man glancing around the crowded E.R. for a moment, peering over passing heads for a glimpse of you, before the work inevitably drags him away.

Robby knows you have not yet noticed Jack’s presence.

You’ve got the sort of tunnel vision you always get in a crisis, when you refuse to move on until you’ve helped the person in front of you first — which has undoubtedly made you the very backbone of the PTMC patient satisfaction score, though at a detriment to yourself perhaps. Because you never know when to stop; and then, when you inevitably have to, you’ll always find a way to blame yourself for it.

“Three minutes since the epi,” you hear Perlah say, over the sound of your pounding heartbeat in your ears.

“Hold compressions,” Robby commands.

You stop on instinct, and feel the ache done into your bones. You exhale heavy breaths as you wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your gloved hand, careful to avoid the drops of blood spotted there. You feel like your chest is tearing in two when that same, menacing beeping sound fills the air.

“Aystotle,” Robby sighs. “Resume compressions.”

“Give me another amp of epi— and more suction,” you say through panted breaths, situating your palms back over the older man’s sternum. You look past the rogue flyaways falling over your eyes and the nurses crowded around you, peering at Robby with a determined but no less pleading gaze. “What do we do? Should we— Should we give PCC?”

Robby shakes his head with his arms crossed over his chest. “No, it’s too late for that…” he hums sympathetically. “And he’s not an ECMO candidate, so—”

“Well, can you tell me something that we can do?” you snap, harsher than you mean to.

Robby only softens further, dark eyes going tender around the edges as he tells you, “There’s nothing else we can do for him, kid…”

“Robby,” you whimper, flinching like he’s hurt you, but never once stopping your compressions. “C’mon. Please, we can— We can think of something— We still have two more rounds of epi, maybe it’ll—”

“He’s gone, kid…” Robby tells you, voice taut. “It’s okay.”

You exhale a punched-out breath, like not being able to save Louie hits you like a fist to the stomach. Your aching arms tingle with numbness when you part from the unconscious man. That wretched beeping fills the air once more, ringing through your ears and pounding skull.

“12:07,” you hear Robby announce the time of death, as Perlah’s soft hands grasp gently at your shoulders.

“C’mon. I’ll clean up,” the woman tells you, sniffling. “You take a second.”

“I’m fine,” you shrug, half-strangled, as you slip the bloodied gloves from your half-numb hands. You blink back burning tears as you walk them to the trash.

“You’re not,” Robby murmurs, head bowed to meet your averted gaze. “And that’s okay. Just take a second.”

You remind yourself to breathe — in for seven beats and out for eight — as the muffled exam room breaks away into the chaotic E.R. The rest of it becomes a blur in your tunnel vision, and the calls for concern turn to inaudible slurs in your ears.

“Whoa… you okay?” you only vaguely hear Trinity ask as you storm past the work station.

“Fine,” you squeak on instinct, despite the obvious.

“Oh, yeah, he totally croaked in there,” Ogilvie murmurs, as though to gossip with her, but forgetting to be subtle about it.

“Do you ever think before you speak?” Santos quips. “Or is the stupidity genetic?”

Your heavy eyes search for an empty room to duck into, to at least muffle your screams before you cry in front of everyone. There is no patient in the bed in Central 15, so you burst into that one, still struggling to catch your breath.

Your much-needed inhale gets caught in your chest at the sight you find in the corner of the room — Jack Abbot, stripped off his shirt and wiping blood from his stomach, with Samira standing just behind him, tending carefully to the scrape on his back.

Your sneaker scuffs the tile as you still suddenly in place.

The sound of your sudden presence makes them freeze, too. Their heads dart in your direction, gaping with wide eyes and parted mouths as if you’d just caught them doing something terrible. In a way, it feels like you have.

It feels like you’ve stumbled upon some achingly tender moment between them, of which you had been deprived for some time now — because even when Jack was with you, he was a thousand miles away. You wonder if, maybe, a part of him wanted to be here — with Samira, perhaps — and if that’s why he had left you so abruptly last night, as if it had only occurred to him then that you were no longer what he wanted.

You wouldn’t have blamed him for it, if that were the case. You just wish he would’ve told you before now, so it would feel like less of a white-hot knife lodged into the center of your sternum to find him this way.

“Sorry,” you just barely manage to choke out, though it gets lost in a whimper as you fight back the urge to cry.

Jack’s scruffy chest pinches with worry at the crack in your fragile voice and the visibly frazzled sight of you, all wild-haired and glassy-eyed. It hurts him far worse than the wounds burning red-hot on his pale skin now.

“What happened?” he asks, greying brows lowered in concern.

Samira stills with her soft fingers on Jack’s broad, freckled shoulder, touching him with a tenderness he hasn’t let you give him in some time.

“Are you okay?” she wonders, soft with a worry that is always sincere coming from here, but finds you more like a slap in the face just now.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you answer on muscle memory, then sniffle as you shake your head at yourself. “I’m not, actually— I don’t know why I said that— Louie just died. Pulmonary hemorrhage. And I was just looking for an empty room to cry in, I didn’t mean to… to interrupt…”

“You didn’t,” Jack assures you, parting from Samira to take a step closer to you.

It takes quite a lot of strength from you to turn away from him, instead of leering at his shirtless form or cowering at the gentle look in his light eyes. “I-I’ll see myself out,” you stammer hopelessly. “Sorry…”

You just barely hear Jack calling your name before the heavy glass door shuts behind you.

With nowhere else to go, and not willing to face the embarrassment of walking back the way you came, you make a beeline for the ambulance bay. The automatic doors part for you, and the cool air outside takes your breath away a second later.

Your chest hitches as you inhale a sniveling breath, trying and failing to regulate your breathing. You stand at the edge of the curb with one hand balled into a fist and one hand clutching your aching chest. Your heart’s telling you that you’re having an embolism and you’re about to keel over at this very moment; your brain’s telling you that you’re just having a panic attack and you need to suck it the hell up.

“Hey,” a man calls from further down the sidewalk.

Your head snaps in the direction of the familiar voice. You tense at the sight of the man who had grabbed you earlier, and your aching heart forgets to beat when you see him storming over to you. You find he’s wearing a smile on his bearded face when he’s close enough, but it looks more cynical than kind.

“You’re the nurse who got me kicked out earlier, aren’t you?” he asks.

You don’t have the breath or the bravery to correct him now.

“I’m sorry, sir…” you sniffle, wet-eyed, and turn away. “It’s just… It’s been a long day, okay? I didn’t mean for you to get escorted out. You just scared me, that’s all. I’m—”

You turn to face him again when he’s standing ahead of you. But before the words of an apology can spill from your mouth, his weathered fist collides with your nose.

You hear a sharp crack, a wet whoosh, and then the dull slap of your body hitting the pavement. You grimace when the back of your skull meets the concrete, and struggle to blink away the black spots from your vision.

The very first face you see is Langdon’s, though you’re not quite sure how long it’s been since your eyes have closed — a few seconds, maybe, or several minutes. You’re still lying on the rough pavement when you come to, with Frank’s gentle fingers brushing the hair out of your eyes with one hand and shining his penlight into your eyes with the other.

“There you are…” the man coos. “What happened to you out here?”

You hardly hear him, like he’s speaking to you from underwater. You answer him with a question of your own, lifting your trembling fingers to the dull throbbing sensation in your nose.

“Is… Is it bad?” you wonder aloud, half-slurring. You grimace first at the wet feeling on your cupid’s bow, then at the bright scarlet blood staining your fingertips. You whisper, voice breaking. “Ow…”

“Whoa, careful there…” Mel wavers, rushing from behind Langdon to help you when you try to sit up on your own. She crouches down beside him and takes you by the elbows in a pair of gentle hands. She squints behind her glasses when your inhale rattles in your chest. “Did you fall on your back?”

“Did somebody hit you?” Langdon presses from her other side, bushy brows lowered in worry.

“Wow…” you mumble, blinking hard, and wincing when you taste blood in your mouth. “So many questions…”

Mel and Langdon share a panicked look you don’t see.

“Yeah, c’mon. Let’s go,” the older man sighs, urging you up by the elbows and steadying you when you sway softly in place. “Come with me…”

“I can walk,” you protest through your ragged breaths, and through the blood dripping from your cupid’s bow and into your mouth. You pull your arm out of his grasp when the strength to do so returns to you, and stagger the rest of the way to the entrance until you regain your footing. “Just… Be normal, alright?”

“Right…” Langdon scoffs and fights back the urge to laugh — because you obviously have no idea how you look right now, with the lower half of your face all covered in blood, as if you’ve just been rescued from a bar fight. There’s hardly anything normal about that.

You try to be, anyway, as you stroll through the crowded E.R., hoping to be blanketed by the chaos inside. Everyone’s too busy charting or rushing to patients to notice your being there. You’re five or more steps away from making it to the bathroom when Robby’s eagle-eyed stare locks in on you from behind his computer.

“Jesus fucking Christ…” the older man blurts, sliding off his glasses and rising from his chair. He abandons his work without a second thought and rounds the workstation to rush to your side.

“I’m okay,” you tell him with a dismissive wave of your hand, pressing onward even when you hear his footsteps nearing you. He stops you with a gentle hand on your shoulder and steps in front of you to block your path.

“What the hell happened to you?” he wonders aloud, looking past you to Langdon and Mel as he drags a pair of gloves from his scrub pockets.

“We found her like this,” Frank shrugs.

“I told you to take a break, not get into a bar fight.”

“Ha-ha,” you monotone, then flinch when it hurts to smile. “Ow…”

“Who did this, huh?” Robby asks, cupping your bloodied face in his gloved hands. He runs his fingers over the back of your head first, to make sure you have no wounds there, before pressing his thumbs gently to the apples of your cheeks. “It wasn’t that asshole from before, was it?”

“I didn’t see him,” you lie through your teeth.

“Any trouble seeing? Any double vision?”

You shake your head against his hands, then inhale another rattling breath.

“Did you fall on your back?” he asks you then.

You nod once.

“What about a headache?”

“I always have a headache,” you answer. “I’m fine, Robby. I just need to get cleaned up—”

“Look at you— You’re not fine,” the man snaps. “Now, c’mon. You’re coming with me.”

You have no choice but to follow him when he wraps a firm, gentle hand around your arm, ushering you to walk ahead of him. You ignore the looks and calls of concern from the coworkers around you, except for Mel’s voice, which comes from behind you.

“Should I find Dr. Abbot?” she wonders aloud.

Your head snaps over your shoulder to look at her, and it makes your vision swim.

“Absolutely do not do that,” you answer, a little harsher than you mean to.

“O-kay…” she stammers and trails off.

“In here,” Robby urges, swinging open the door to the nearest empty room. He keeps a steady hand on your back to keep you stable and turns back to Mel before he follows you inside. “Find Abbot,” he tells her.

You lie on your back on the hospital bed while Robby does an impromptu exam. He presses the cold chestpiece of his stethoscope to your skin and listens to your breathing until it evens out again, from where the air had rushed out of your lungs after the fall. He finds your pupils both equal and reactive, and your nose free from swelling or cracking — “Nothing that mother nature can’t fix,” he says, and takes to cleaning you up instead.

“These beds are so hard,” you murmur, shifting uncomfortably with an icepack pressed to your nose, which Princess had brought by some minutes ago. “We should really get new ones in here. How are patients supposed to be comfortable in these?”

“Yeah, I’ll go tell Gloria,” Robby scoffs, dabbing at your nose with a wet wipe. “I’m sure she’ll get right on that…”

He parts from you to chuck the red-tinted napkin into the bin at his side and waits for you to laugh at his stupid joke. You stay silent. You don’t even give him a pity giggle, and you always, at the very least, give him a goddamn pity giggle. His brows furrow in a mixture of confusion and concern.

“Can I ask you a stupid question?”

“Better than anyone I know, Dr. Robby…”

“Ha-ha,” he deadpans, reaching for another wipe with a gloved hand. It’s freezing against the burning skin of your neck as it dabs it gently there. “Why didn’t you want me telling Abbot about this, huh?”

“Because he doesn’t care…” you mumble cynically, almost inaudibly so.

“Oh, c’mon,” Robby scoffs. “Even you don’t believe that.”

You don’t. Not really. You know Jack cares, if only because it’s in his blood to do so. His basic human empathy is what made him such a good doctor. You just aren’t sure that he cares about you in the way you thought he did — in the way you wanted him to — and you’re not quite sure how to voice that to Robby now.

“He’s busy right now,” you answer instead, still half-hidden behind the icepack. “Too busy for me, and I don’t wanna bother him, so… Just drop it.”

Robby flashes you a sympathetic smile that you don’t see as he swipes at the last bit of blood from your skin. “I know he may not act like it, kid, but he does care about you.”

“You’re right,” you mumble. “He doesn’t act like it—”

Jack Abbot bursts into the room like a red-hot flame through a burning house. His broad chest heaves with panted breaths beneath the thin navy shirt he wears in place of his tactical gear, though his camo pants still sit heavy on his waist.

His wild eyes scan your form. “What the hell’s going on in here?” he blurts.

You glare at Robby from behind the icepack. “I hate you.”

“Yeah, I know…” the man sighs, dropping the crumpled wipe into the trash beside him.

“What happened?” Jack presses, more firmly this time.

“Nothing,” you murmur shyly, unable to meet his gaze when he towers at your bedside with his hands on his hips. “It’s not the first time someone’s swung at me—”

“Yeah, but it’s the first time it’s been this bad. Bad enough that someone had to come get me,” Jack argues, made a bit harsher with the concern pinching at his chest. His head whips over his shoulder. “Who the hell did this?”

“Some guy from Chairs, I think,” Robby shrugs. “Name’s Driscoll. Ahmad’s already handling it. He’ll deal with the police.”

“Good,” Jack nods, firm in a way you’ve always adored about him. He was inherently resolute where you were perpetually indecisive. It mostly came in handy when you struggled to figure out what to eat for dinner, not usually in situations like this. “‘Cause we’re pressing charges on this asshole, alright?”

“Honestly, Jack, I don’t care what you do…” you sigh. “But my head is really starting to hurt, and I really don’t feel like handling this right now.”

“On it,” Robby nods, taking the hint and stalking out of the room. He shuts the curtains after him and dims the light as he goes. The noise of the Pitt muffles again when the door closes behind him, leaving you and Jack alone in the not-quite-silence and the not-quite-dark.

“Here. C’mon,” the man urges suddenly, motioning with his chin. “Make room for me.”

“What?” you ask, eyes squinted in confusion as the man turns to sit on the edge of the twin-sized bed, adjusting his prosthetic to swing it over the side.

He gives you an expectant look over his shoulder. “Scooch,” is all he says, in a strangely strong voice despite the very silly command.

You shift on the thin mattress despite your better judgment to make room for him. Jack urges his right leg up first, then his left one second. He settles in beside you and urges the railings up to keep him from falling off the side. You try to do the same, though you possess a lot less strength with only one hand than the man beside you.

Your breath catches when he reaches over you with a strong hand, helping you lift the barrier the rest of the way.

“Thanks…” you mumble, half-shy.

“Don’t mention it,” he huffs politely, with one arm on his stomach and the other curled around your shoulders, keeping you close to accommodate both your bodies on the twin-sized bed. He smells of sweat and musky cologne and antiseptic. It takes everything in you not to melt into his warmth. You remain tense beside him, feeling slightly strange in his hold in a way you never have before.

“I’m sorry about, Louie—”

“You don’t have to do this—” you blurt simultaneously.

His head snaps over to you. He has to jerk his scruffy chin back to look at you properly from the dwindling proximity between you. His eyes dart between your averted gaze and the slowly melting icepack you fidget with like a stress ball.

“Do what?” he asks.

“I didn’t mean to walk in on you and Samira, okay?” you confess quietly, ‘cause any octave higher, and your voice will start to shake. “I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to make it a whole thing, you know? So you don’t have to come in and pretend to be all nice just because you think I’m upset, ‘cause I’m not.”

(Your rambling is hardly convincing in the matter, but he makes no mention of it.)

“Okay. I hear you,” Jack murmurs gently, always so patient with your rambling, even though he can only halfway comprehend it a lot of the time. “But I’m still not sure what Mohan has to do with this—”

Honey, he wants to say, but doesn’t allow himself.

“If you want to be with her, that’s okay— Or if it’s just because you don’t wanna be with me, that’s okay, too,” you explain in a strangely even voice. “But I wish you would’ve just told me, instead of bailing on me last night—”

“I didn’t bail on you—”

“—So then I wouldn’t have to catch you and Samira doing…” you trail off, face screwed. “Whatever the hell you were doing back there.”

“Catching us?” Jack echoes with a laugh you can feel rumbling against your shoulder. “That would imply we were doing something worth getting caught. She just walked in on me while looking for her patient, that’s all.”

“Yeah, well…” you hum, gaze averted to the icepack in your lap. “It seemed pretty intimate…”

“It wasn’t.”

“More intimate than you’ve been with me,” you argue sheepishly.

“Well, not to be crude here, but…” Jack trails off with an audible smile in his voice. “We literally had sex last night.”

“Yeah, and you left,” you spit, turning to look at him for the first time since he stormed in. You wear a wet look in your glassy eyes and a bruise blooming on the bridge of your nose. “And I cried myself to sleep about it. Which means I didn’t get to watch Love Island, which means I forgot to eat, which means I’m running on fumes on what has arguably been the worst shift of my whole life.”

You take a much-needed breath when the words are gone from your mouth.

Jack does not jump immediately to defend himself. He knows he doesn’t deserve it now. He just lets himself stew in your fiery words instead, so you know they’ll have a real impact on him before he responds.

“You’re right,” he sighs after a few long moments. “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be sorry,” you shake your head at his apologetic tone. “Just don’t… Don’t be so mean, you know? If you don’t wanna be with me anymore, why can’t you just say?”

“Because I do want to be with you,” he answers, weathered features screwed in offense. “How would you ask me that?”

“Because you aren’t acting like it—”

“Because I almost told you that I loved you,” Jack blurts suddenly, in a stern tone of voice that snatches the breath from your lungs. He swallows hard and continues. “Last night, I mean, when we… I almost said it… Because I felt it, but then I… I realized I hadn’t said that to anyone since my wife passed, and it freaked me out.”

“But…” you start in a broken whisper. “Why does that have to be such a bad thing?”

“‘Cause it makes me feel guilty,” Jack answers. “The way I love you makes me feel guilty, like I’m abandoning her. And I… I don’t know what to do with all that… grief.”

You feel your heart aching, for the third or hundredth time that day. You notice Jack’s right hand hanging on your shoulder, how his fingers fidget anxiously there, and how his left hand scratches at the rough fabric of his camo pants — made overwrought by his confession, and unsure what to do with it now.

“Why don’t you just give it to me?” you wonder quietly, then shrug at the confused look Jack gives you a second later. “Your grief, I mean. I can take it. You know, make it a little more bearable for you. So you don’t have to carry it all on your own.”

The softness of your words knocks the breath from Jack’s lungs.

The corner of his mouth quirks in a wavering smile as he blinks burning tears out of his eyes. “Jesus, we're a couple of goddamn sad sacks, aren’t we, honey?” he scoffs a sad laugh and runs his free hand down his scruffy face.

Your lips twitch upward, feeling giddy but fighting it. “That’s the first time you called me that in two days…” you observe distantly.

“What?”

“Honey.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I’m sorry for that, too…”

“Don’t be sorry,” you repeat, this time with a smile. “Just— kiss me or somethin’…”

“Gladly,” Jack says with a wider grin.

You tilt your chin up to meet him halfway when he leans down to kiss you. His nose bumps into the side of your bruised one, as your hand reaches for his wounded shoulder. You flinch against each other in tandem.

“Ow,” you whimper.

“Ouch,” Jack winces. “Shit, honey— Sorry.”

“Are you okay?” you ask with a sympathetic scrunch to your features, cupping his scruffy face in your delicate hands. “I haven’t checked in on you yet, I know you’re hurt—”

“I’m fine,” he assures with a shake of his head, leaning instinctively into your touch. “I got a little banged up, but… I’m good now.”

“Promise?” you whisper, swiping an eyelash from his cheek with your thumb.

“I promise. I'll tell you about later,” he nods once and smooths his calloused fingers across your temple, looking at you with a tenderness you’ve been craving all day. “What about you, honey— Are you okay?”

You inhale sharply through your bruised nose and nod on a slower exhale.

“I will be,” you answer honestly for the first time all day.

You’re only about three or four months into your recent move to Pittsburgh when you get sick. And you’re one of those, special, lucky people who has the immune system of an un-vaccinated Victorian orphan, so despite having several hours worth of college assignments waiting for you, you’re currently lying on your bathroom floor, face smashed against the cool tile.

It is, genuinely, the only comfortable place in your shitty apartment. (At the moment.)

You pull the thermometer out of your mouth and slowly blink at the reading:

100.2 degrees.

Like you usually are. Just barely outside the normal range. Well, normal range can eat bricks because there’s no way having a mild fever is making you feel this bad. And you’re not being dramatic. Your throat genuinely feels like it’s on fire, and every breath is laborious and agonizing. Your face and head feel like they’re about to explode, and you’re pretty sure someone or something is stabbing you over and over again in your legs and lower back (which also feel like they’re on fire.)

Time passes in a weird way on the bathroom floor. Not really slow, but the pain and discomfort of each breath keeps it from moving too quickly.

You recognize, distantly, that you’re really sick. Really sick even for you.

There usually comes a certain point in the common cold that never fails to absolutely destroy you when it faces a fork in the road: get better or get much, much worse.

It’s fairly obvious which path your immune system decided to take.

There’s a large puddle of drool wetting your cheek because swallowing hurts too bad, and it’s not like you can breathe through your nose anyway. You don’t even have the energy to be grossed out.

You never really do.

Being sick is all about distracting yourself from how much pain you’re in until the worst of it passes, but right now you’re only getting worse. You can’t keep anything down, not even water, which means you’ve just been digesting snot for the past two hours which is bound to make you throw up (again.) No matter what kind of sickness you get, you always end up throwing up.

You measure how much time has passed by how large the puddle of drool grows. When it surpasses hand-sized, you attempt to haul yourself up, maybe take some more ibuprofen (you really shouldn’t, your liver is honestly toast at this point) but upon making an effort, you find that you can’t.

It feels like executive dysfunction. You want to get up. You need to get up. You cannot get up.

You’re so tired.

Alarm bells are ringing in your head. The same alarm bells that went off the time you had walking pneumonia and genuinely came to terms with dying in your sleep. It’s a spike of panic in your chest, a small dump of adrenaline and cortisol that’s just barely enough for you to haul yourself upright.

The action takes more energy than it feels worth, and you feel like your heart is going to beat out of your chest.

You kind of feel like you’re dying. And honestly, with how bad you feel, you wouldn’t mind going to sleep and not waking up.

And that isn’t a usual thought to have when you’re sick, not to level of sheer apathy and exhaustion you’re feeling now, so you think that maybe it’s time to go to the Emergency Room.

You come to that conclusion about the same time that your roommate, who you aren’t quite friends with, comes into the bathroom and promptly screams when she finds you lying on the floor. (You don’t remember lying back down.)

“Hey,” She says, kneeling down and shaking your shoulder, “I think you need to go to the hospital.”

—

On another day, maybe when you don’t actually feel like death warmed over, you might be thankful that there is at least someone to take you to the hospital, to grab your hospital bag (you’d had to tell her where it was when you first moved in, and being a medical student herself, had understood your need for it) and to already have the route to the ED memorized. Probably because she currently works there.

“You’ll be fine,” Victoria rambles as she pulls into the parking lot with practiced ease, “I’ve worked with the night crew before, they’re great. They’ll make you feel better.”

Unlikely, you think.

Maybe you look particularly awful, or maybe it’s not that busy in the ED, or maybe you get some sort of special treatment as the roommate of a medical student, but before you know it, you’re shivering in a triage bed, still drooling uselessly into a wad of paper towels Victoria had been kind enough to shove into your hands.

It’s weird being in a hospital that doesn’t know you.

Nurses come and go, asking questions you barely answer and poking and prodding and you think, probably, that you should communicate that while on the worse end of the spectrum, this is still fairly normal for you. Being this sick from the common cold.

You think Victoria is talking to whoever is working on you, and then you’re in a wheelchair, and then they run more tests you don’t remember and then you’re in a bed.

“Dr. Abbot is gonna come see you,” Victoria tells you, looking mildly uncomfortable in a chair to your left.

She's honestly been so nice for this whole thing. Like, way too nice, considering that you guys aren't really friends (yet?)

“You should go home,” You tell her, speech really only possible because of the Toradol they gave you a few minutes ago, “You have work in the morning.”

She purses her lips and looks like she’s going to argue, so you painfully swallow and speak again.

“Go. I’ll be fine here. You said it yourself.”

It takes a few minutes to get the words out, and you have to pause more than once, which probably isn’t very reassuring, but logic seems to win out because she makes sure that you have everything you need before heading out.

And then you’re alone.

You attempt to pass the time by sleeping, to no avail. Discomfort, ever the unwanted companion, makes itself incredibly known. The Toradol helps, but since it’s basically just ibuprofen in IV form, there’s only so much it can do.

You’re just about to slip into a doze when a knock on the door frame rouses you. As the current pulls back, you have exactly one thought:

Victoria could’ve warned me that Dr. Abbot is insanely fucking hot.

“Hello there,” The man says, grabbing some hand-sanitizer which only served to extenuate the rippling muscles and veins of his forearms and biceps, “I’m Dr. Abbot. Javadi told me you weren’t feeling so good?”

Okay, focus. He can definitely see the heart-rate spike on the monitor. He’s just another doctor. You’ve had hot doctors before.

(Not like him.)

You shrug with the non-chalance of a twenty-something year old who has designated hospital clothes.

“Been better.” Kind of.

“Well, let’s see if we can’t get you better.”

He asks the same series of questions that Javadi helped you answer before since your brain still feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, but Dr. Abbot is patient and listens attentively while you stumble through answering every single one.

“Any pre-existing conditions?”

“Yes and no.”

He raises an eyebrow, finger hovering over the tablet in his other hand. “That sounds like a story.”

You wince. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be difficult.”

“You’re totally fine,” He immediately soothes before you can continue, voice rich and smooth like high-quality chocolate, “You’re actually the nicest patient we’ve had so far tonight.”

“Really?”

“Yep. No screaming, no cursing, you haven’t asked a billion and one questions or needed anyone to explain every single thing we’re doing.”

He grabs one of the spinny-stools on the other side of the room and wheels it over, sitting down with his tablet in his lap.

“Now. About those pre-existing conditions?”

You slowly and painfully explain your situation— very obviously chronically ill to pretty much everyone except the doctors you need to diagnose you.

Dr. Abbot doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t defend the doctors you’ve seen, just dutifully jots down everything you tell him.

“Any history of heart issues?”

You nod. “I went to a cardiologist last year and did a few tests. Second degree AV block, um, I think Mobitz one? And mild diastolic dysfunction.”

Another eyebrow raise. “And your cardiologist didn’t decide to move forward with any sort of treatment plans?”

“Just diet and exercise. He told me to drink more water.”

“That’s bullshit.”

Your eyes widen. “Sorry?”

He sighs, looking up from his tablet. “I apologize, that was unprofessional of me. I agree that Mobitz one is normally benign, so long as you’re asymptomatic or old. But coupled with that ‘mild’ diastolic dysfunction and the fact that, from you’ve told me, you are experiencing symptoms means it’s something that should be addressed.”

Oh.

Dr. Abbot barrels on. “I’m going to give you a referral for a cardiologist I know. She’s good.”

“Thank you so much,” You croak, barely able to believe what’s happening. "I don't know how to thank you. Um. Other than saying thank you."

He gives you a tiny grin, like this interaction is some sort of secret you're sharing. Is he not aware of the effect he has on patients? On you?

"Don't worry about it, kid. Call it duty of care."

Kid.

The way he says it doesn't make it seem condescending or pitying. It's an acknowledgment.

It makes your skin feel hot.

(That might be the mild fever.)

He breezes through the rest of the preliminary examination, questions all answered and typed into his tablet, which just leaves the physical examination.

He has gloves on, stop freaking out. And there's like, no way he isn't married, and he's literally your doctor for crying out loud. Don't make this weird.

No amount of internal begging to keep your rampant issues under control actually keeps said rampant issues under control. At the very least, you hope it isn't too noticeable when you bask in the feeling of his blissfully warm (you're already running a fever, so really, it should be uncomfortable) hand as it palpates here and there. Checking for internal bleeding, probably. Or an inflamed appendix. Or something like that.

Palpating is likely one of the least sexy touches a human being can experience, and yet, presumably due to the fact that hospitals are actually nostalgic to you and palpating is an experience you go through more often than most other people, and, you know, your issues, you genuinely manage to get a little... hot under the collar.

Like, his hands are right there. Gloved, sure, and he's not actually touching your skin, just the battered band t-shirt you've been wearing since you got sick three days ago, so again, really not hot circumstances, but his deliciously freckled and really enticingly well-muscled forearms are right fucking there.

Can Toradol make you high? Are you having an allergic reaction to the fluids? Has the common cold finally decided to snatch your soul, leaving you the shuffle miserably off this mortal coil?

He glances up at the monitor.

"Bit of a heart-rate spike there."

Oh sweet mother of Christ.

Dr. Abbot gives you a little knowing smile, which does nothing but make you want to crawl in a hole and die, and finally finishes his palpating.

"So from the look of things, you really do just have the common cold--" He winces when you groan, "I know, I know. But you do have a touch of strep-throat, which I think might be contributing to your general awfulness and malaise. Your labs came back a little all over the place, so we're going to send you home with a prescription for some broad-spectrum antibiotics. Have you ever taken Azithromycin before?"

You shake your head no.

"The coarse is only for a week, and you'll take them twice a day. As for your cold symptoms, I'd have to recommend your basic over-the-counter cold medicine and lots of rest. Sound good?"

You nod. "Thank you so much."

Another heart-rate-spiking smile. "Anytime. I hope you feel better, but come back straight back here if you feel any worse, okay?"

You agree, and offer him another thanks and pretend like you're not going to be silently wondering if this is who your roommate works with every day.

—

A few days of antibiotics later, you're staring at yourself in the mirror after a late-night everything shower, and you think you might be cursed.

"Hey Victoria?" You shout through the door to where you know she's studying in the nearby living room. "What are the normal symptoms after taking Azithromycin?"

"Uh, none?"

"Thanks!"

Motherfucker. Who the fuck is even allergic to antibiotics? They're antibiotics.

You stare at the rash-slash-hives that's developed on your arms and legs (you convinced yourself it was razor burn the first two days) and wonder how life threatening it really is. Like, what could even really happen?

You skip lotion and throw on what was supposed to be a cute-pajama set, but now the striped tank-and-shorts combo serve to be functional— no fabric touching the sensitive skin where the rash covers and for ease of access, because of course you're going to run it by Victoria before you jump to any sort of conclusions about severity and allergic reactions.

Maybe this just one of those things. Like when doctors say "Just a little pinch" or "You'll feel some pressure" and then you go on to experience a level of agony previously only experienced by mafia traitors.

Like, maybe you won't even have to go to the ER. It might be a low-level twenty-four-hour-clinic type of deal.

—

So apparently between the rash, your flu-like symptoms (you thought you were just sick) and the fact that your heart rate has been all over the place since starting the antibiotics, Victoria does, in fact, insist that you go to the ER. Again.

At least this time you're lucid enough to drive yourself.

You've only just checked in, settling in the moderately-empty waiting room, cursing your existence when a familiar face walks in the front door, backpack slung over his shoulder and a cup of coffee in his hand.

It's pure coincidence that you happen to be sitting in like, the only seat in his direct eye-line as he glances down and then comes to a full-body stop. You shove down the shiver that threatens to overwhelm your body as a sharp, calculating gaze scans up and down your body before coming to rest on the visible rash on your legs.

He blows out a breath.

"Oh, kid."

Dr. Abbot leaves in the waiting room with the promise to return shortly after he clocks in and does his... whatever it is doctors do upon clocking into work. Rounds? Or is that a general medicine thing?

Before he walks through the door, he points a finger at you and says:

"Stay."

Like the loyal dog you are, you comply. First of all, where would you even go, (do patients jump ship often??) and secondly, like there is any universe in which you are arguing with that man.

YOUR DOCTOR, you mentally correct. HE'S YOUR DOCTOR. THERE ARE LITERALLY LAWS IN PLACE FOR THIS KIND OF THING. HE'S ALSO PROBABLY MARRIED. GET A GRIP.

It doesn't take him long to return to you, and like, isn't that unusual? Don't nurses and whoever usually get patients instead of like, the doctor on shift?

He gets the door for you (which is hot, even though he literally has to since it's only opened via staff-issued key-card.)

You feel kind of bad for skipping the line, cause there's other people in the waiting room, and surely some of them have more pressing medical concerns than your little rash?

You paraphrase this to Dr. Abbot as he leads you down the hallway towards one of the triage rooms, but he just snorts.

"You questioning my triage and risk assessment skills?"

Horror fills every aspect of your being.

"No no no no no, no, of course not, I didn't mean—"

Then he starts laughing.

"Relax, kid," He huffs, shoving his hands in his pockets, eyeing you from the side, "I was just poking at you. I think it's very... sweet, that you're worried about the other patients, even if it's unnecessary. I promise, if someone else had a more pressing medical concern, they would get seen first."

You deflate a little at his reassurance, though you still feel thoroughly mortified.

"Besides," He continues, pulling back a curtain and gesturing for you to take a seat in one of the large triage chairs, "You're having a fairly serious allergic reaction. I'm guessing this started after you started taking the Azithromycin?"

You nod as you situate yourself. "Yeah, sorry. Um, it started—"

He holds up a hand, and you cut yourself off.

"Respectfully," He starts, his hands clasped in front of his mouth. "What the hell are you apologizing for? And don't say being allergic to Azirthromycin."

"Um... For having to bother you again..? Right when you get on shift?"

"Kid," That shouldn't be hot, that shouldn't make your stomach flip-flop around, "Didn't I tell you to come back if you got worse?"

"Yes."

"And did you come back because you got worse?"

"...Yes?"

"Yes, you did. It was good that you came back," He says the second sentence slow and careful, like he's trying to cement it into your brain.

"It says on your intake form that you were experiencing fast and irregular heartbeats and dizziness accompanying the rash and hives, is that correct?"

"Yes. I thought I was just having a flare-up. And I kind of thought the rash and hives was just razor burn, but I don't shave my upper-arms, so."

He nods slowly. "...Right. I know that you've had a lot of unfortunate experiences with doctors and treatment in the past, but that's not going to fly with me, understand? There's a very real chance that if you'd ignored your symptoms you would've gone into anaphylactic shock. And while I trust Javadi to recognize the symptoms of a severe allergic reaction, I also know that she spends most of the day at the hospital or at lectures, meaning that if you had gone anaphylactic, there wouldn't have been anyone home to help you."

Dr. Abbot leans down when he notices you staring at your lap, sheepish, avoiding his gaze. "I don't say any of this to scare you. I just need you to understand the seriousness of your reaction."

He snatches the tablet off the cart. "You can't minimize your health issues. They're real. If you do, doctor's won't take you seriously. And you get enough of that without contributing to it or doing it yourself."

There's a few beats of silence while he types some things on the tablet and you digest his words.

"Thank you, Dr. Abbot."

He flashes you a grin, a little sharp. "Like I said before. Duty of care."

—

Victoria is happy that you had such a nice experience at the PTMC —"I told you they were great!"— and both of you are happy that the new antibiotics are working the last dredges of your cold are fading.

Since you finally feel (relatively) well, you decide to go to the coffee shop Victoria has been trying to convince you to go to for ages. Apparently, she loves their coffee so much she gets it there on hospital days and lecture days, despite it being much closer to the hospital than it is to the university. Thankfully, the apartment you share is fairly close to the hospital (a win both for your constant medical issues and for your roommates chosen career) so the coffee shop is within walking distance. Honestly, living in the city like this, there aren't a lot of things that aren't within walking (or bus, depending on the weather) distance.

You arrive to the cafe roughly around the time it opens, desperate to get as many hours studying and playing catch up as you can. Most of your professors were understanding when you explained your frequent health problems and the fact that you had to go the ER twice in the span of a week, and gave you extensions, but there's always a few no-nonsense hard-asses who think a 6,000 word paper can easily be accomplished from a hospital waiting room or bed, even when you explain how incapacitated you were. And to top it all off, in your endless wisdom, you hadn't thought to ask Dr. Abbot for a doctor's note that you could've held over the aforementioned hard-asse's head's, since they have to comply when you have actual evidence of illness, signed by a medical doctor.

So yeah. Lots of work, very little time.

You order yourself a gigantic coffee with several extra shots of espresso, heart-problems be damned, because there's no way you're accomplishing the amount of assignments you have without drugs, and since you can't do drugs, medically inadvisable amounts of caffeine is the next best thing.

Sure, the caffeine kind of makes your chest feel like it's floating, but the study work-flow you manage to accomplish is unparalleled.

With your headphones on and your eyes glued to your laptop screen your neck might as well be made of stone. Which means you don't really notice the man who's approached the table in the corner you've tucked yourself into.

"Do I even want to know how many shots you had them put in there?"

You jump, launching yourself backwards and straightening, causing your skull to crack rather unpleasantly against the wall behind you. You hiss in pain at the same time that Dr. Abbot says "Shit."

"Sorry," He rumbles, stepping forward. "Can I see?"

He really didn't have to ask. He could've just told you that he was going to look and you wouldn't kick up a fuss. You'd like it actually, if he told you what to do. What's that line from Fleabag? “I want someone to tell me what to wear every morning. I want someone to tell me what to eat. What to like, what to hate, what to rage about." Yeah. Dr. Abbot could do all of that for you.

Still technically your doctor you depraved lunatic.

You must've nodded or made a noise of affirmation or something (or maybe he got tired of waiting for you to respond) but he steps forward and. Well. Okay. You had this idea, in your head about what him 'seeing' actually entails, and conceptually, you understood that it involves him touching you, without gloves or a sterile, anti-septic wall between the two of you, but actually feeling his large, warm hands (is he always this warm, then? You remember how warm they were at the hospital) cradling the back of your head, fingers rubbing along your scalp, checking for a bump or scratch or whatever is a completely different ballpark.

If you thought the palpation was difficult to endure, it doesn't hold a goddamn candle to him leaning over you, dressed in his own clothes that smell like him, hands bare (!!) and actually touching you, skin-to-skin. There's no rumpled band tee or blue latex gloves between you now.

"No bump," He affirms after a few (unrequited and one-sided) sexually charged moments. "Sorry about that."

"No, it's not your fault. Coffee makes me jumpy."

His eyes skate down to the large, mostly empty cup next to your laptop. "And I'm sure the quantity was helpful."

You smile, more than a little embarrassed. He's charted your medical history. He knows exactly how stupid it is for you specifically to be drinking a twenty-four ounce iced cold brew with five extra shots of espresso. Realistically, that is an unhinged and borderline masochistic coffee order for a normal person.

"Enlighten me," He starts, his head tilted to the side, eyes once again looking you up and down. But this time, his gaze isn't clinical. Maybe you're imagining it, making things up to feed your delusions and issues, but right now, it's almost like he's looking at you like he's... hungry.

"Why would little-miss-mild-diastolic-dysfunction be drinking a concentrated heart attack?"

Jesus H. Christ.

"—Little-miss—“

This is genuinely becoming a very serious problem. You might have to leave Pittsburgh forever. Forget your master's program. Maybe your professors will understand that you ended up with a giant, overwhelming, unhinged, and slightly insatiable and completely inappropriate crush on the ER doctor you are definitely going to be seeing a lot of.

That's it. You can never come back to this coffee shop. Or go to the ER again. Ever. You'll just die next time you have a health problem, thanks.

Oh, fuck. How long have you been just staring at him?

He's smiling at you, all teeth and a knowing sparkle in his eyes and you know what, you actually hate him, he's such an asshole--

"You know I'm willing to bet I'd see a spike if you were still hooked up to that heart monitor."

"Oh, fuck you," You laugh, your shoulders relaxing.

"She does bite back," He says, humor clear on his features. "Was wondering if I should start concussion protocol."

You roll your eyes. "If you must know, I have a mountain of homework to do and very little time to do all of it, so."

You gesture to your coffee cup. "Caffeine it is."

"You know, as your former doctor, I'd have to advise you against finishing that. Please tell me you at least ate something with it?"

"... I had a pack of fruit snacks from the bottom of my bag?"

Dr. Abbot sighs, looks heaven-ward and mutters "kids" under his breath and, in a mirror of the week prior in the hospital room, points one finger at you and says:

"Stay."

Again. You're not sure where you would go and you are very inclined to listen. Probably too inclined to listen. Whatever.

He returns after a few minutes with a large iced water, a ham-and-swiss croissant on a plate, and another coffee, this one hot.

Then, smooth and confident, he moves your laptop back to make room, and sets the plate and water in front of you.

"Eat that," He points to the croissant, then to the water. "And drink that. All of it."

Your eyes widen. "Dr. Abbot, you didn't have to--"

"Jack."

"What?"

"We're not in the hospital. And I'm not your doctor."

Your face feels so hot. It has to be on fire. Are you on fire?

“I really can’t—“

“You can,” He assures, self-confident and jeez-us there is no way you’re not thinking about that in bed tonight. Or like, maybe forever?

You want to fight him on this, maybe push back a little, because there’s absolutely no universe in which this means what you want it to mean, but—

There’s a certain temptation to give in. Plus, who knows what other downright sinful things he’d say if you kick up more of a fuss?

“Okay,” You acquiesce (it feels a lot more like melting, though.)

Dr. Abb— Jack doesn’t say anything as you dutifully sip the water and take a bite, he just—

Watches. It’s almost worst than anything that could come out of his mouth.

“There we go,” Okay, you take it back that is a million times worse, “You’d better finish that, you hear me?”

“I will. I promise.”

Jack hums, then pulls a pen out of the pocket of his hoodie and scribbles something on a napkin. He hands it to you, then says:

“Call me.”

And then he just. Turns around, and walks out the door, coffee in hand.

What. The. Fuck.

—

Two things occur after your interaction with Jack in the cafe. Well technically, don’t occur, since the first thing is that you don’t tell your roommate that her kind-of boss maybe possibly flirted with you a teeny bit and gave you his number?

There isn’t really a way to bring that up organically, so you just. Don’t.

The second thing is that after an embarrassing long time about what to even name him in your phone (you settle on Dr. Jack Abbot, keeping the Dr. part as if you’re going to forget) you do not, in fact, call him. Or text him.

So yeah, actually, two things do not occur. There is no occurring. There is a severe lack of occurring.

It’s not that you don’t want to text him (you really do) you’re just not sure how to go about doing so? Like, what does that first text even look like?

‘Hey, thanks for not medically gas-lighting me, wanna get coffee? Except you probably don’t want to get coffee with me, because you’ve seen first hand how neurotic coffee makes me. So, drinks?’

No. Not happening.

You mainly just try to focus on staying busy. Which is easy, because master’s programs are so incredibly good at making sure you never have a waking moment to yourself. It’s so great. (You’re dying.)

Weeks come and go in a blur of late nights, intense study sessions, and minor breakdowns over your workload that turn into major breakdowns about your life (you are now the not-so-proud owner of homemade nose piercing, courtesy of you, Victoria, and two bottles of rosé.)

Soo the nose piercing probably wasn’t the best idea, but now you’re kind of too scared to take it out and honestly it doesn’t even hurt. Victoria made sure that everything was clean and sterile, and honestly she did an amazing job with the placement, so no complaints there.

You just now have a semi-permanent reminder of why not to get drunk when you’re having a bit of a breakdown. At least you didn’t tell Victoria about Jack. You might’ve given yourself bangs.

As it stands, though, the whole “don’t get drunk when you’re having a breakdown” apparently didn’t stick, because a dark Wednesday evening has found you at a bar Victoria told you was great, nursing a a third or fourth beer you really don’t have the money to be drinking.

(It was the cheapest thing the bar sold, anyways.)

You stare at the ring of condensation on the counter in front of you, thinking about the un-texted and un-called contact that’s currently burning a hole in your pocket. For some reason, no matter how busy you get, you never really manage to forget that it’s there.

“Call me.”

God, you think to yourself, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes, the memory of the low timber of his voice and how warm and nice it felt to be the center of his gaze; the center of his attention.

The memory makes your skin flush, so you throw back the rest of your beer so you can blame the heat on the alcohol.

It’s an unconvincing lie and a miserable action.

“Didn’t know you were old enough to drink.”

You really need to stop taking Victoria’s recommendations. Or maybe remember where she works.

You don’t bother turning to face him, because he sidles up next to you at the empty bar seat.

“I’m legal,” You mumble, the tiniest bit buzzed from the beer.

Glancing over turns out to be a mistake, because he’s wearing a button down with the sleeves rolled up, which means that the arm he has propped on the bar is exposed in all it’s deliciously muscled and freckled glory.

And he’s looking at you. Eyes a little narrowed, tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

He’s a bad idea, is what he is. Just like the sparkling stud in the side of your nose. Except that tiny piece of jewelry doesn’t look nearly as fucking good as he does.

You might be a little more than buzzed, if how much you want to kiss him is anything to go off.

“You stare more than you talk,” Jack says, curling his fist to prop his head up, absentmindedly waving the bartender over. “Always looks like there’s a lot going on in that pretty head of yours.”

“Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Cause I’m not sure you mean them.”

The silence between you too isn’t really silence. Not with the dull sounds of bar chatter and shitty bar music and Jack telling the bartender to pour him a drink.

Whiskey, neat.

Figures.

“I would’ve told you that I meant them,” He tosses back the whiskey, almost all in one go. Leaves a tiny bit at the bottom of the glass, swirls it around before continuing. “If you’d called.”

More not-quite silence.

“I wanted to.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” You turn your body to face him, newly mirroring his position, “…I almost did. A few times.”

“Why?”

“Why didn’t I?”

“Why did you almost call?”

You swallow, nearly choking on the sudden lump in your throat. “Um.”

Very eloquent, you are. Truly, a master of poise and class.

“Need some liquid courage, sweetheart?”

“I’ve been drinking beer all night,” You say, sheepish. Sweetheart. God. It’s like he’s trying to torture you.

Is he?

“That’s not real alcohol. Come here.”

The next chain of events are much too sexually charged to happen in a cheap bar with a man who used to be your doctor.

It happens anyway.

You don’t move closer— frozen stock-still in something like apprehension or fear. But not necessarily the unpleasant kind?

The ‘Come here’ must’ve been figurative or metaphorical or something, or maybe he knows that you’re too nervous to comply (even though something in you desperately wants to) because he moves.

Jack reaches a hand up— slow enough that you could back up or push it away if you wanted to.

You don’t. You don’t want to, anyways.

His fingers ghost up your neck before settling on the edge of your jaw, his thumb pressed firm against your chin. He tilts your head back, just a slight angle, and then—

He takes his glass, the one with that little bit of whiskey in it (oh god, did he plan this? Did he leave that whiskey in there on purpose?) and raises the glass to your lips, letting the rum rest heavy against your mouth.

“You ever had whiskey before, kid?”

You shake your head no. You probably have, at some point, but relaying that would require a certain amount of effort and speaking skills— neither of which you are in current possession of.

“It’s gonna burn a little. Swallow it quick.”

What the fuck? Is—

He—

Then he tips up the glass, and you really don’t want whiskey on your face, so you part your lips enough to let the amber liquid be poured into your mouth, and he’s right, it does burn, and it kind of tastes gross.

You screw up your face at the flavor, but do your best to swallow it quickly, feeling the burn of it lick down your throat before settling like a warm, heavy weight in your stomach.

Like that was a normal thing to do, like nothing out of the ordinary just happened, he sits back onto his stool, releasing your face and resuming his position propped up on the bar.

“So. When did you almost call me?”

You don’t drink often. It’s honestly way too expensive, you despise hangovers (you have headaches and migraines all the time, why induce one?) and you don’t much care for the taste of most alcohols.

All of that to say. You are an embarrassingly easy lightweight. A cheap drunk, if you will.

“First time was two weeks ago,” You mumble, maybe not loud enough for him to hear over the shitty bar music, “Got a tea instead of a coffee to study with. Wanted to text you a picture.”

Jack has this easy, warm, but also simultaneously shit-eating expression on his face, which you take to mean that he’s aware of your incredible intolerance for alcohol.

“And what reason did you whip up in that pretty head of yours as to why you shouldn’t?”

You shrug. “Thought you wouldn’t care. Like, maybe you just want to hookup.”

“I do not want to hookup.”

“Oh.”

He motions to the bartender, who pours him more whiskey. What is it with men and whiskey?

“And the other time?”

This one you don’t really want to tell him, but with the alcohol burning away in your stomach and Jack’s equally burning stare, you give in.

“… Wanted to call you and ask you to yell at one of my professors. Cause he’s a dick and doesn’t believe in giving extensions or allowances even if you go to the hospital.”

He snorts. “And why didn’t you?”

You let your head flop onto your arm, halfway on the bar halfway off. “Didn’t wanna bother you. Seemed stupid. Plus, I managed to catch up on all my homework.”

Jack finishes the rest of his drink, then nudges your head off the bar and back onto your arm with the back of his hand. “Don’t lay on there. It’s gross.”

You whine. Your arm isn’t as comfortable as the solid bar top.

He didn’t really respond to your explanation (at least not in any normal way) so instead you decided to amuse yourself by just staring at his face. It’s a nice face.

You narrow your eyes at him. “Did you get me drunk on purpose?”

“No.”

“Then how come I’m drunk?”

“Because you’re a lightweight and whiskey has a higher alcohol content than beer.”

“Oh. Was that flirting? With the—“

You gesture vaguely to his glass and then to your lips. He just raises an eyebrow.

“Do you really need confirmation?”

“Yes.”

His face makes a funny expression. “Yes, that was flirting. The thing at the cafe was too.”

“Oh. That’s good to know. I wasn’t sure.”

“You weren’t sure?”

“Yeah,” Your neck is starting to hurt from lying there, so you prop it up with your hand. It’s only mildly more comfortable. “People don’t flirt with me very often.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“It’s true.”

“Have you ever considered that maybe they are and you just don’t notice?”

“I would notice.”

“Kid, you just asked me if hand-feeding you my whiskey was flirting.”

You shrug, jostling your head and nearly slipping. “I don’t come to bars like, ever. Maybe that’s normal bar etiquette.”

“If you don’t come to bars, then why are you here tonight?”

You arm is too tired to keep holding your head up and your vision feels like it’s processing at a lower frame rate, like an old video game, so you put your head back on the bar top. Jack does a funny little huffing noise, and sticks the palm of his hand under your head right before it lands on the table, so you’re lying on his hand instead of the bar.

“Your hand is warm.”

“Is it now?”

“Yes.”

“Good to know.”

His eyes catch on the piece of jewelry now adorning your nose.

“When’d you get that?”

“Last week. Got drunk with Victoria— uhm, Javadi.”

“I know what her first name is, thank you sweetheart.”

“Right. Anyways, she had some nose jewelry from her mom, and kept drinking rosé and crying about our workload, I mean, hers is like, definitely worse than mine, you know, medical student and all, but we were drunk and we thought why not? Like, she’s a doctor, she knows how to sterilize stuff and keep it clean. She chickened out and wouldn’t let me give her one. Which makes sense. Cause I didn’t give myself a nose piercing. I had her do it.”

“You been keeping it clean?"

“Mhm. Twice a day.”

“Good girl.”

Jack sighs a little, the thumb that’s pressed against your temple beginning to sweep back and forth.

“You don’t belong in a place like this, kid.”

“I don’t?”

“No.”

“Oh. Okay. I think I wanna go home.”

Jack just nods, still rubbing your temple. It feels too intimate for a bar, but it feels really nice, and you don’t really want him to stop.

“Do you have a ride?”

“No. Victoria went to sleep before I left. She has an early morning. She works really hard.”

He hums. “I’ll walk you home.”

“You don’t have to,” You mumble, “I know you’ve got the. The leg.”

Some sort of unreadable look flashes across his face, the kind of look you probably wouldn’t be able to decipher even if you were sober and fully in possession of all your faculties.

“I know I don’t have to. But I’d feel better if I saw you get home safely with my own two eyes.”

You huff. “This isn’t some sort of sex thing, right? Like, you get me drunk so you’ll have to take me home, and then you know where I live, and then you take me to my room and then I’m drunk so i’m easier to coerce—“

“Fuck, no. Has someone ever tried that with you?”

“No. I’ve heard about it, though.”

“Look at me,” He raises your head a little with his hand, eyes searching your face. “You ever feel uncomfortable or unsafe, in any way, call me. I don’t care what time it is or if you think you’re bothering me. You’re not. Okay?”

That’s probably too intense for… whatever thing you guys have going on. But you’re not really normal, and it just sounds so nice, having someone to call.

“Okay.”

Jack nods again. “Alright. Let’s get you home. Come on, up we go.”

He manages to get you too your feet after a minor amount of stumbling on your part —“Jesus, kid, you are a lightweight”— and keeps one stabilizing arm around your waist as he helps you home.

“Your arm feels nice.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t talk very much except little mutterings here and there.

“Careful— there’s a big crack there.”

“Don’t walk into that trash can.”

“Keep your eyes open.”

“Almost there.”

The walk back to your house isn’t far, like most of the places you go to since moving to Pittsburgh.

“I can get up there myself,” You say, motioning to the stairs that lie in front of you and lead up to you and Victoria’s apartment, “Thank you, though. I’ll text you in the morning. I promise.”

Jack let’s go of you and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Don’t forget to drink water before you go to bed. At least a full glass.”

You clasp your hands behind your back. “Goodnight, Jack.”

“Goodnight, kid.”

—

Two days later finds you sitting at your tiny table, phone sitting face-up, Jack’s contact open and painfully empty.

You forgot to text him in the morning, because your hangover was fucking awful (You can’t even think about whiskey without getting nauseous again) and then you had school and… well. Now it’s been two days, and you still need to text him.

Victoria walks past you, two steaming mugs of coffee in her hands. She sets one down in front of you and sits down at the table.

“Still haven’t texted him?”

Apparently, Victoria had set an alarm on her phone to check if you’d made it home okay and ended up seeing you and Jack outside the apartment. She’d had the kindness to wait until the next morning before asking:

“So, you and Dr. Abbot?”

Vomiting had saved you from answering immediately, though you did end up telling everything that had happened after you finished worshiping the porcelain altar. Talking and throwing up don’t mix.

“No,” You answer her miserably. “I just don’t know what to say.”

“I mean, it’s pretty obvious that he’s into you. Based on,” She winces, “Past evidence. I doubt a text is going to put him off. Probably?”

“I told him I’d text him yesterday morning.”

“In your defense, you spent pretty much all day yesterday dying, so. I’m sure he figured that might happen.”

You take a generous gulp of coffee. “Should I just say hi?”

“I’m really not the person you should be asking for romantic advice.”

You take her by the shoulders. “You’re all I have, Victoria.”

“Um,” She sets her mug down. “Maybe something like, hello? Say sorry for not texting?”

You hum, typing out the sentiment, then slide the phone over to her. “Does that sound awkward?”

“Again. I really do not think you want to ask me.”

You chew on your lip, drink the last of your coffee in one go, totally burn the shit out of your tongue, then send the text.

You promptly stand, your chair screeching loudly as it nearly tips over, and run over to your fridge.

“Fuck. Do we have any of that rosé left?”

“It’s seven in the morning?”

“Desperate times, Victoria.”

She leans over, glancing at your phone, then gasps. “He’s typing!”

“Already?!” You screech, running back over to the table and hunching over your phone. Sure enough, the little bubble is on your screen, little dots jumping.

“What’s he saying?”

“I don’t know! You read it!”

Victoria snatches your phone and stares at it with the same amount of focus that you’ve previously only seen when she’s an hour deep into some medical textbook.

“Oh my god.”

“What? What?!”

She shoves the phone into your face.

Don’t worry about it, kid. Thought you might be hungover. You could always make it up to me, though.

“Oh my god,” You repeat. “Is it weird that I think it’s hot when he calls me kid?”

“Like, in the grand scheme of things? No. But probably.”

You pick absentmindedly at your hangnails. “I’m gonna text him back."

You type out a quick message and hit send before you can chicken out.

How am I supposed to make it up to you?

The dots reappear for a few seconds.

Let me take you on a real date.

You slam your hands (and phone) onto the table and whip your head to Victoria.

“He wants to take me on a date!”

The apartment becomes filled with the shrill squeals and screams of hysterical joy.

“Say yes!” Victoria screams. “You have to say yes. Please. For both of our sakes.”

“Shouldn’t I play hard to get? Don’t guys like that?”

“I don’t know. Haven’t you like, already unintentionally done that? Plus, Abbot is a pretty straightforward guy.”

“You’re right.”

When are you free next?

Tomorrow. You?

I have class until 3 :/

I’ll pick you up at 5.

You squeal again, practically jumping out of your seat and running to your room, throwing yourself on your bed.

Victoria follows a few minutes after, though in a much calmer manner.

“I can’t believe this is happening. You’re going on a date with my boss—“

“Oh my god, don’t say it like that.”

“So we’re ignoring the age gap?”

“No.”

“No judgement here, I know some people think experience is quite the kink—“

“Shut up—“

She laughs, leaving your room but leaving your phone on the nightstand by your bed.

You’re actually going to do it. You’re going on a date. With Jack Abbot. He wants to go on a date with you.

You only manage to stop screaming into your pillow when the downstairs neighbors shout for you to stop.

—

5 pm the next day arrives in a whirlwind of panic, about two million outfit changes, desperate makeup application, and way too much deliberation over what panties to wear for somebody who never has sex on the first date. Or like, ever, really.

By the time Jack has arrived (bearing a bouquet of flowers. Not roses, not the cheap dyed ones, but the kind of selection that takes time to make and time to choose) you’ve worked yourself into a frenzy about possibly being both under and over-dressed at the same time.

All Jack says, however, when meet him downstairs is a sort of winded:

“You look beautiful.”

And then you’re off.

The date itself is actually relaxing and easy, like being in Jack’s presence usually is. He asks about your schoolwork and classes and actually listens when you tell him what you’re studying. He doesn’t belittle your major or make himself seem self-important, like his job and career are better than yours. He actually says that he’s impressed that you manage to balance your health and workload so well, to which you respond by pointing at your nose stud and say “Not all that well.” which makes you both laugh.

He glares at you when you even glance at the check, which kind of makes you want to punch him and kiss him senseless.

He walks you home and, when you hesitate to initiate, pushes you against your apartment door and kisses you so hard your lips are tingling when he whispers a breathless:

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

After that, Victoria bans you from speaking about anything beyond talking or hanging out that happens on your dates, because: “I still have to look him in the eye at work, and I really don’t want to hear about how good my boss’s tongue feels in your mouth.”

You can’t exactly blame her for that.

One date becomes two which becomes three, then four, and then you start staying over at his place a couple times a week because it’s way nicer than yours anyway.

One of the adjustments of your boyfriend (can you call him that? Are you guys dating? Or just going on dates?) being a doctor, and also apparently caring about you as a human being on a fundamental level, is that he actually worries about your health. Like, always.

“Put the ibuprofen bottle down, you’ve already had five today.”

“Are you tracking my medication usage?”

“Yes. Who else is going to stop you from giving yourself liver failure?”

Or:

“What’s your heart rate average been today?”

“…One-forty?”

“So do you think having an energy drink for breakfast is a good idea?”

“…”

“That’s what I thought.”

In some ways, it’s annoying. But in a lot of other, overpowering ways, it’s so… relaxing, to have someone around to think of you. You don’t really understand why or how he gets fulfillment out of helping you manage your life day-to-day, but he does, and does anything else really matter?

There are, of course, hiccups. There is the awkward moment where a two-week long flare sends you to the PTMC because you faint at school and school protocol requires they dial 911, and then even after the paramedics arrive and you explain to them that your body just hates you, your heart rate won't lower from the low 120's so then they insist they take you to the hospital, where Dr. Robby gets to meet you for the first time. And the entire day shift. It's about as awkward as it sounds.

Sometimes Jack has bad pain days too. He gets a little waspish, a little snappy, because being the man that he is (and just a man, at the end of the day) he doesn't like acknowledging that not having a leg means he has limitations. But just like he doesn't pity you or make you feel incapable when you hate your body or get sick for the thirty-millionth time, you do your best to make sure he knows that you get it, and he's still the ridiculously hot doctor you wanted to bang even with a 100.4 degree fever.

"It was actually 101.4," He likes to correct from the bathtub, steam curling around his neck and shoulders. "Your heart rate would spike every time you looked at me."

You bear through the reminders of your own awkwardness for his sake. Plus, it's hard to hate him for it, especially when he's always coming up with new and inventive ways to thank you for taking care of him (even though you insist he doesn't have to, because he's literally been taking care of you since the day you met.)

And, you know. There are worse ways to spend one's time.

No two days in the emergency department were ever the same.

Some nights were quiet, with only a couple of patients coming in with fevers or coughs. Other nights were utterly chaotic, ambulances rolling in back-to-back, alarms blaring, doctors and nurses moving like a storm through the hallways.

But one thing never seemed to change: the patients who thought the emergency department was the perfect place to find a date.

You learned that lesson after just a week of working in the ED.

It didn’t matter if someone had a broken arm or had suffered a heart attack; some men still found the energy to wink, grin, or make comments that made your skin crawl while you were trying to work. Sometimes it was harmless. Most of the time, it wasn’t. And there was no running away when you were their doctor.

So you developed a plan.

When you transferred to PTMC and started working the night shift, the solution became routine. You weren’t married. But a simple ring on your finger changed everything.

It wasn’t flashy, just a simple silver brand that lived on your left hand whenever you had to work a shift. Most people assumed it was a wedding ring from a happy marriage, and you let them think that. In reality, it had cost ten dollars from an online store.

But it worked.

Some patients would never see you as their doctor, someone who had spent years in med school at the top of their class. Instead, they only saw a pretty woman standing close enough to flirt with.

However, when was there a ring on your finger? Suddenly, you were someone’s wife.

So the comments stopped. The winks. The “you got a boyfriend?” question. Everything disappeared. Apparently, being someone’s wife made you off-limits in a way that simply saying no never did. Like you were someone else’s property, it made them hesitate. Stupid, but the logic worked, so the ring stayed.

If any of your new co-workers noticed it, they never mentioned it or just assumed the obvious. Except Jack.

Jack Abbot noticed everything around him.

It was a habit from years as an army medic and now attending in one of the busiest emergency departments in the city. Jack didn’t just see charts and symptoms. He saw the small things, the way someone held their shoulder, the slight limp in their step, the tremor in their hand.

And he noticed your ring. Not only because he was staring, but also because it was always there. You had a habit of twisting it when charting. It tapped against the counter when you were thinking. It left a bump under your gloves. It was a small detail, but Jack’s brain catalogued it anyway.

You were still new, and the few details that Jack knew about you had him intrigued: married, new to the hospital and worked well under pressure. And then there was something else he couldn't quite place, the pull he felt towards you.

This night shift had started like any other, chaos in bursts but slowed at times. You were tucked into your usual rhythm, moving between patients, checking vitals and charting. 

It wasn’t until the trauma phone went off that it paused your movements.

“Level two trauma, motor vehicle collision," Lena shouted as she answered the call. “Five minutes out.”

Your adrenaline spiked, and Jack was already moving, tablet in one hand, gloves snapping as he prepped for the incoming patient. You were paired on this trauma together, moving almost instinctively as a team.

The patient arrived bloodied, unconscious, and chest rattling with each forced breath. You slid the IV line into the patient’s arm while Jack called out instructions for the rest of the team. 

Jack’s eyes were everywhere at once, vitals, monitors, and the team's movement, but his gaze happened to flick across your hand. And that's when he noticed. Your ring. It wasn’t there.

A small detail that others would have overlooked, but made him pause for a fraction of a  second. A movement he couldn't afford in a place like this. He didn’t realize until now how much he had noticed it, how automatic it was to look at you during shifts and see that silver band wrapped around your finger. Tonight, it was nowhere to be found.

Jack quickly turned his focus back on the patient, but the details lingered in his mind.

Minutes passed in a blur of intubation, transfusion, chest compressions, and desperate interventions. Despite the skill and precision of the team, the injuries were too severe.

The patient coded. The monitor went flat. Time of death was announced.

You stepped back, heart sinking, and Jack’s hand went to your shoulder, not to blame, but to ground you as the weight of loss pressed down on the team. Sometimes, despite doing everything right, it wasn’t enough.

By the end of the shift, the ED was quieter than usual. The hum of machines, the footsteps of staff cleaning up, and the weight of loss hung heavy in the air. Jack glanced at you while filling the final chart, noticing that your finger remained bare.

“Are you going out too?” He asked. Shen had suggested that everyone go out for a drink to cope, and no one seemed to argue.

“Yeah… I could really use a drink.” Your hands hovered over the keyboard, trembling slightly.

Jack’s gaze lingered on you, a mixture of concern and something softer, harder to define. “Yeah… me too,” he muttered. The unspoken weight between you decided for you.

There was a bar a few blocks down from the hospital where everyone gathered after shifts. It was louder than usual for a weekday, the low thrum of music and conversation filling up the air. It had discounted drinks and dim lighting, a place where no one asked the doctors or nurses what had just happened when it looked like they had been through hell. 

Jack was sitting in a booth near the back with John, nursing a half-finished beer. His scrubs had been swapped for a dark jacket, but exhaustion still lined his face.

John exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand down his face. “Hell of a shift.”

Jack nodded once, staring at the condensation on his bottle. “Yeah.” Silence followed, heavy but not awkward. The burden of the night weighed on him.

His eyes drifted across the bar and landed on you. You were on a stool near the counter, chatting with one of the nurses, a drink in hand. Your laugh was softer than usual, slower, the kind that came from alcohol loosening the edges of the hard night.

His gaze dropped to your hand once again.

Still no ring.

“Hey,” John said, standing and grabbing his empty bottle. “I’m getting another. Want one?”

Jack lifted his bottle slightly. “I’m good.”

John nodded and disappeared into the crowd.

Jack leaned back in the booth, letting his eyes wander again. They found you on your way over, movement slightly unsteady, yet deliberate.

“Hey, Doc,” you muttered, sliding into the seat across from him, sighing softly as your forearms rested on the table.

“You okay?” he asked immediately. It wasn’t unusual for Jack to see his coworkers like this after a shift, but he still wondered if this was normal for you.

You huffed out a small laugh that didn’t sound very amused. “Define okay.”

Jack didn’t answer right away. Instead, he studied you, the tired eyes, the way your shoulders slumped, the weight of the night still sitting on you.

“Rough one,” he said finally.

Your gaze dropped to the table. “Yeah.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The noise of the bar filled the silence.

“I kinda like this part,” you admitted quietly.

Jack tilted his head slightly. “The bar?”

You shrugged, tracing the rim of your glass with your finger. “Yeah… not why we’re here, exactly. But the team gets together. Feels… lighter. Less like you’re carrying it alone.”

He softened. He’d seen too many new doctors burn out trying to carry everything. He understood.

“At my last hospital,” you continued, your voice a little looser from the alcohol. “Everyone just… went home. Pretended nothing happened. But here you guys carry the wins and the losses together.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It helps.”

You nodded, shoulders relaxing slightly as you took another sip. Even in your tiredness, there was a warmth to you now.

For a second, Jack just studied you again. The way the tension slowly left your posture. The way you still looked tired but lighter now that the shift was behind you.

Then his eyes drifted back down to your hand. Bare,

He hesitated before speaking. “So… everything alright at home?”

You blinked up at him. “At home?”

Jack nodded subtly toward your hand. “You usually wear a ring.”

You stared at him, surprised. Then laughed, soft, tipsy, a little embarrassed. “Oh my god… alright, I’ll let you in on a secret.”

Jack’s brow lifted.

“What?”

You held up your hand, wiggling your fingers slightly.

“It’s fake,” You leaned back in the booth a little, clearly amused. 

“…Your ring is fake?”

You nodded, taking another sip of your drink before explaining. “Patients, some of them get… handys. Especially at night. You say no, you ignore them, but it doesn't always work.”

Jack’s jaw tightened slightly. Yeah. He’d seen that.

“So I bought a ring,” you continued, tapping your bare finger. “Ten dollars online. Suddenly, I’m someone’s wife. The flirting stops. It’s like magic. Stupid, but it works.”

Jack studied you quietly for a moment. It wasn’t the confession itself that caught his attention; it was the way you said it so casually, as you’d simply adapted to the world instead of letting it push you out of a job you clearly loved. 

“That’s… actually pretty clever,” he admitted.

You grinned. “Right?”

Jack’s gaze lingered, softer now. “So the husband doesn’t exist.”

“Nope.”

Jack smiled into his drink, a warmth threading through him. Somehow, hearing this made him admire you more.

“Well,” he said casually, taking another sip of his beer, “if you’re going to invent a husband…”

You raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by where this was going.

“…you should at least give the guy a decent name.”

You laughed softly. “Oh yeah?” you asked. “What would you name him then?”

Jack pretended to think about it for a moment, leaning back in the booth.

“Hm.”

Your eyes narrowed playfully. His gaze met yours, something teasing sparking there.

“Jack,” he said.

You blinked.

“Jack?”

He shrugged lightly, a small grin forming.

“Sounds reasonable.”

You stared at him for a second before laughing, the sound warmer this time.

“Wow,” you said. “That’s bold.”

Jack lifted his bottle slightly, clearly enjoying himself now.

“Just saying,” he replied. “If you’re going to make up a fake husband, you might as well pick a good one.”

You shook your head, still smiling into your drink.

“Careful, Abbot,” you said lightly. “People might start to think you’re volunteering.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on you a moment longer than necessary.

“Would that be so bad?” he asked quietly.

The question hung between you for a beat before the noise of the bar swallowed it again.

The next shift felt strangely normal after the night before. 

Did you drunkenly flirt with a fellow attending? Yes, but did you regret it? Nope.

The ED hummed with its usual controlled chaos; it almost felt strange that the world kept moving after a shift like that. You were currently charting at the nurses’ station, twisting the silver band on your finger without really thinking about it.

“Nice to see your husband’s back.”

You looked up. Jack was leaning against the counter across from you, tablet tucked under his arm, the corner of his mouth curved in that quiet, knowing smile.

“Oh my god,” you laughed, shaking your head. “Are you really going to start with that today?”

“Of course,” he said, a small, confident grin tugging at his lips. “I’m hoping to get an audition to play him.”

You blinked at him, half amused, half exasperated.

“What?” you said, lifting an eyebrow.

“If you’re going to invent a husband,” he continued, voice low and teasing, “someone has to audition for the role. And I think I’d be perfect.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous, maybe,” he admitted, “ but if I'm going to audition for the role properly.. I should probably take my lovely wife out… maybe for dinner or coffee sometime. To make sure I'm playing the part right.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the smoothness of it. “Jack Abbot, are you asking me out on a date?

Jack’s grin widened, confident but teasing. “Call it a test run. Coffee after shift, and I can show you my best husband skills.”

You felt a blush creep up your neck and laughed softly, shaking your head. “I… Yes, that sounds perfect.”

“Good, I’ll see you later, wifey.” With that, Jack left the nurses' station, heading into a patient room.

He knew this was stupid, plainly a terrible idea. On any other day, the thought wouldn’t have even crossed his mind, but today wasn’t any ordinary day. Today was his birthday. Fifty-five years old, and he had never felt more lost in his own life. Nothing had turned out the way he’d once imagined it would. If someone had told him, back when he was a resident, that he would still be coming home to an empty apartment at this age, no wife curled up on the couch waiting for him with a tired but loving smile, no chorus of small feet thundering toward the door, shoving drawings into his hands and saying “Look what I made for you today, daddy!” he would have laughed in their face and called it a cruel joke.

Yet here he was. No relationship had ever survived the weight of the hours and the way his mind stayed trapped in the ED long after he left it. He couldn’t be present anymore, not the way a partner deserved. The job had hollowed him out in ways he hadn’t noticed until it was too late.

It had been almost a year since he ended things with Noelle, not long after he returned from his sabbatical. He’d told himself it was the right thing to do. Maybe it really was better this way. At this point in his life, trying again felt pointless, almost selfish. He was saving whatever good women were still out there from the inevitable complications of loving Michael Robinavitch.

But today the emptiness hit differently. The apartment felt quieter than usual, and his thoughts were louder, circling like a vulture. He knew it was the birthday doing this to him. Birthdays had a way of dragging the sorrows out into the light, every missed milestone, every abandoned version of the life he thought he’d have. Jack had tried to pull him out of it, offering a beer after shift, but Robby had politely declined. He wasn’t in the mood for forced cheer, for anyone raising a glass to another year of the same.

He’d made it clear to the whole department that he didn’t want any birthday cake, no cards, no presents, nothing. Still, the well-meaning murmurs had followed him all day: “Happy birthday, Dr. Robby,” each one met with a progressively wearier smile until the words blurred together. By the end of the shift, he was only managing quiet nods of acknowledgment, the kind that said thank you and please stop at the same time.

So here he was, in an apartment that was too big for himself, lying on a couch that felt even bigger, downloading Tinder on his phone. He rubbed a hand over his face, he’d tried Tinder once, maybe two years ago. Downloaded it, swiped for a week, then deleted it when the superficial nonsense started bothering him too much.

He started with the basics. Photos. Robby opened his gallery and scrolled slowly through the meager collection. Most of the images were work-related, grainy screenshots of charts, or blurry shots of trees and roads he’d taken during his bike rides. After a long hesitation, he picked a silly selfie he’d sent Jack a few weeks earlier. He was holding up the book the two of them had been texting about, half-smiling at the camera like he felt ridiculous even taking it. It wasn’t terrible, he supposed. He looked… friendly. Approachable, maybe. 

Next, he chose one from the department barbecue he’d actually forced himself to attend last summer. He was wearing the sleeves rolled up on a button-down shirt, and holding a beer in his hand. He didn’t hate it, it showed a version of himself that still showed up for people, even when he didn’t feel like it. The last one was from the hospital fundraiser gala two years ago. He looked elegant in that photo in a black suit, but he had to crop Jack out of the frame, his face was still half-visible over his shoulder. Three photos, not exactly a compelling portfolio, but they were honest, he wasn’t pretending to be anyone other than himself.

He moved on to preferences. Gender: Women. Age range… His thumb froze. At first, he set it to 50–60. Women at the same stage he was, maybe divorced, maybe widowed, or just tired of feeling alone. But then something flickered in his chest, part curiosity and part desperation, and before he could talk himself out of it, he dragged the lower end down. Twenty to sixty. The wider net felt reckless, almost embarrassing. But what if the love of his life existed somewhere in that range? What if he missed her by something as stupid as a single year on a slider?

As if the love of your life was sitting on Tinder on a Sunday night, he thought. Don’t be fucking stupid, Robby.

He stared at the screen for a long moment, and with a quiet sigh that sounded too much like surrender, he tapped confirm. Now it was time for the bio. Robby stared at the blank field for a long minute. What the hell was he supposed to say? He wasn’t looking for anything specific. Company? Distraction? Someone who wouldn’t mind a man who came home at crazy hours, sometimes covered in blood and whocarried more baggage than he could carry?

He typed slowly what felt the most honest: “ER doctor in Pittsburgh. Love long bike rides to clear my head and 70s rock. Not entirely sure what I’m looking for here, but if you can handle sarcasm and odd hours, we might get along.”

He read it back. It sounded stiff, after all, he wasn’t used to this. But it was him, and so he hit save before he could overthink it more. The app prompted him to start swiping. Robby leaned back against the couch as the profiles began loading, smiling faces, pictures of holiday destinations, and bios full of lists of requirements. He swiped left on most without much thought. 

Left. Left. Left. Some of the women seemed nice, but nothing pulled him in. He kept going until the endless scroll of faces started blurring together. No one stuck, just the same hollow feeling that had driven him to download the damn thing in the first place.

But then your profile appeared. Robby’s entire body froze. The photo loaded first: you, one of his own residents. You were standing in scrubs outside the Pitt with the same smirk you got after a particularly chaotic shift. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered as the heat crawled up his neck. Awkward didn’t even begin to cover what he was feeling right now. 

At work you were talented and dedicated, but still green enough that he rode you hard during shifts. And here you were on Tinder, of all places. The thought that you, or anyone else from the department, might stumble across his profile made his stomach twist with embarrassment. He could already imagine the gossip: Dr. Robby on Tinder. How pathetic.

He should swipe left immediately, delete his profile, and pretend this never happened. Instead, curiosity won. Robby tapped on your profile, telling himself it was just… professional concern. Making sure you weren’t doing anything stupid. He cared about his residents. Yeah, that was it.

Your bio loaded beneath the main photo: “If you like girls who will force you to watch her Letterboxd top four and then talk your ear off for hours about the hidden meaning behind her favorite songs, then I’m your girl. Emergency med resident with zero free time. Not looking for anything serious, just fun, meeting people, seeing where it goes.”

Robby let out a chuckle despite himself, the sound was unexpected in the quiet of the moment. He had only ever seen you in the chaos of the ED, running on adrenaline and too little sleep. But this version of you felt… different. He found himself thinking about how little he actually knew you. How little he’d allowed himself to know.

He didn’t know where you were from, or what your family was like, whether you had siblings who called too often or parents you tried to make proud. He didn’t know what you did outside of the hospital besides the occasional beer in the park, or what made you laugh until your sides hurt. All those small and ordinary pieces of a life that existed outside the emergency department.

It felt strangely intimate, seeing you like this. Like stumbling across a part of you he wasn’t supposed to have access to. A version of you that wasn’t filtered through the hierarchy of resident and attending. Up until now, you had been “his resident”, contained within the professional boundaries he’d carefully maintained.

He started swiping through your photos. The second picture was you laughing in what looked like a group hike, with your hair windblown and your eyes bright. You looked undeniably pretty. Objectively, he’d always known you were attractive. The kind of natural attractiveness that turned heads in the hospital corridors even when you were exhausted and covered in sweat. But once again, he’d never thought about it. You were a resident, he’d gone down that path before, and it’d ended badly. That made you off-limits, end of story.

The third photo was of you in a cozy sweater, curled up with a book and a mug of coffee. It was cute, almost sweet. The kind of image that made the loneliness in his chest ache. He kept swiping until the last photo hit him like a defibrillator. You were on a beach somewhere sunny and sandy, wearing a bikini. Your skin was glowing under the sun, and you were smiling at the camera in a confident pose, the kind of effortless beauty that could stop any man cold. Holy fuck, your body barely contained by the fabric of the bikini, the photo capturing the gentle swell and the way the light played across your body. 

Robby’s mouth went dry, the heat flooded his face and then lower down his body. He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t let himself imagine you like this, outside the hospital, undeniably a woman and not just one of his residents. His pulse kicked up, the nervousness made his hands shake and his grip slippery. He fumbled the phone, trying to swipe left fast. Swipe left, damn it, he thought.

But he accidentally jerked his thumb the wrong way, to the right, and the screen lit up with that unmistakable animation. 

It’s a Match!

On the other side of Pittsburgh, you had been lying in bed, still trying to unwind after another brutal twelve-hour shift. Sleep felt miles away, so you’d given in to the guilty habit of late-night Tinder scrolling. Sure, swiping at 1 a.m. probably looked desperate to anyone else, but who cared? It wasn’t like you had much of a life outside the hospital anyway.

You swiped left with efficiency. Guy whose entire bio was just a link to his podcast. Left. Gym mirror selfies and nothing else. Left. Self-proclaimed “entrepreneur in the crypto market” with a Lamborghini in the background that probably wasn’t even his. Left.

How was it this difficult to find someone even remotely decent? You weren’t expecting to meet the love of your life in this digital dumpster, but was it really too much to ask for a man with basic social skills and a profile that didn’t scream immediate red flags? Someone whose opening line wasn’t just “u dtf?”

Guy who still clearly lived with his mom. Another left. “No feminists” in the bio, followed by a rant about “high value woman.” Left.

Then your thumb froze mid-swipe. Michael Robinavitch. Your heart slammed against your ribs. There he was, Dr. Robby, looking straight into the camera in one of the photos, that familiar half-smile you’d seen a thousand times in the ED, only now it was on a dating app.

You sat up straighter in bed, suddenly wide awake. What the hell was Dr. Robby doing on Tinder? You’d scrolled through this app for weeks and never seen him before. He must have created the profile recently. The man you’d been quietly (and not-so-quietly) thirsting over since your very first day of residency was right here. One match away. 

How could you not like Robby? He was everything you’d ever wanted in a man, strong, steady, impossibly smart, and so damn capable it made your legs weak every single time he gave you a calm and yet authoritative instruction in the middle of a trauma.

You’d lost count of how many times he’d gently reprimanded you for being distracted while charting. He always assumed you were just tired from the long hours. He had no idea that you kept getting lost in vivid daydreams about him: running your fingers through the silver-flecked hair and that coarse, greyish beard, feeling those big hands wrap around your waist, pulling you close.

You loved the way his eyes crinkled warmly behind his glasses when he smiled, the way his voice dropped into that gravelly register when he needed to command attention in the ED… it did things to you. Dangerous, addictive things. Sometimes getting in trouble with him felt more exciting than it had any right to.

His Tinder bio was unexpectedly adorable. He looked a little lost, like he wasn’t entirely sure he belonged on the app but was willing to put himself out there anyway. That bike is not the only thing I’d like to ride, you thought, as a little smile tugged at your lips.

His pictures made you melt and sigh at the same time. That warm, contagious smil, the glasses that struck the perfect balance between hot and endearingly sweet. The silver threading through his beard that made you press your thighs together at the mere thought of feeling it against your skin, between your legs, specifically. 

You swiped slowly through the rest of his photos. Those wide shoulders, that tall and solid frame, that soft belly under the button-down shirt… you wanted him in a way you had never wanted anyone before. 

It was almost pathetic the way your heart did a little skip every time he complimented your work on a tough case. The way your thighs squeezed together almost involuntarily whenever he stepped in close during a complicated procedure, guiding you step by step, his voice low and patient near your ear. “Yeah, grab the blade like that… make a two-inch incision, softly, very gently.” “Hold the tube with your left hand, tight, don’t move it.”

It made your mind wander to dangerous places. Was he like that in bed too? The kind of man who talked you through it, calm and devastatingly attentive? In your fantasies, he absolutely was. Late at night, alone in this very bed with nothing but your hand and your imagination, you could almost hear his voice murmuring against your skin: “Keep your legs open for me, nice and wide… just like that.” “Look at you… already making such a mess. I’m gonna start with one finger, okay? Think you can be good and take it for me?”

Should you swipe right? It felt like the only logical choice. If he swiped left, which seemed like the most likely outcome, he would never even know you’d swiped on him. But if he did swipe right… then maybe, just maybe, you could end up in Robby’s bed.

Your hopes stayed low. Never in a million years did you actually expect Robby to be attracted to you the way you were to him. You would’ve noticed something by now, maybe in lingering stares, subtle flirting, or any shift in the way he treated you. But he didn’t. He treated you exactly like the rest of the residents: a young doctor he needed to teach, who could sometimes be frustratingly distracted.

Still, you couldn’t contain the tiny, thrilled scream that escaped your lips when the screen lit up:

It’s a Match!

Robby had matched with you. He wanted you too.

“Shit!” Robby dropped the phone onto the couch like it had burned him. It bounced once and landed face-up, the match confirmation still glowing on the screen. He and you had just matched on Tinder. All thanks to that goddamn bikini photo and his clumsy, nervous fingers.

He stared at it, feeling his heart hammering harder than it had during the worst trauma cases. This was mortifying. You’d seen his profile, you’d swiped right, and now you were going to see that he’d swiped right as well. Part of him, the tired and lonely part that had downloaded the app and widened the age range, wondered what you’d think. 

A dozen what-ifs tumbled through his mind. What if you saw his profile and laughed? That disbelieving laugh when something genuinely surprised you. What if you messaged him first? Maybe it had been a mistake on your end too. Maybe your phone had slipped, or you’d been swiping too fast after a long shift, half-asleep and a little buzzed. Or maybe… maybe you’d swiped right on purpose, just to tease him. He could already picture the text popping up on his phone: “Oh my god, Dr. Robby. What are you doing on Tinder? lol.”

Robby ran both hands through his hair, exhaling sharply. He picked the phone back up, looking straight at the Send message button. He shouldn’t. The responsible thing would be to delete the app, pretend this night never happened, and go back to being your attending, not your Tinder match. 

Instead, he opened your profile again. Robby tried to move past it, he really did, but his eyes lingered on that last photo far longer than they should have. You in a bikini, your skin glowing under warm sunlight. He couldn’t believe that was what you looked like underneath the baggy scrubs you wore every day in the ED.

It felt wrong. Like he wasn’t allowed to see you like this, like he was intruding on something deeply private, crossing a line that should never even be approached between an attending and his resident. Guilt twisted in his stomach, but it wasn’t enough to make him look away.

His body reacted anyway, a sudden heat stirring unwanted, a throb of arousal he hadn’t felt this sharply in longer than he cared to admit. He shifted uncomfortably on the couch, hating himself for it even as the reaction deepened. What the hell is wrong with you, Robby? he told himself, but the self-reproach did nothing to dull the pull. What could he do? You were a woman. A beautiful one, and for the first time, he was seeing you not just as his resident, but as someone undeniably, breathtakingly desirable.

Before he could delete his account and go to bed as he should, your message popped up.

You: hii :)

Robby’s breath hitched in his throat. For a split second, he swore his heart actually stopped. Then it slammed back into rhythm, pounding so hard he could feel it in his ears, in his temples, in the tightness of his chest. The little smiley face stared back at him from the screen, innocent and cheerful, as if it hadn’t just flipped his entire night upside down.

You had matched with him. At eleven at night. On his lonely fucking birthday. What the hell was he supposed to say to you at 11 pm. after accidentally matching with her on Tinder? “Hey, funny seeing you” here felt pathetic. “This is wildly inappropriate” felt like a lie because the rush of heat still lingering in his veins said otherwise.

He set the phone down on the coffee table for a moment, dragging a hand over his face for the millionth time. Part of him wanted to delete the match immediately, pretend it never happened, and go to bed like the responsible, professional attending he was supposed to be. But another part, the part that had been sitting alone on his fifty-fifth birthday, couldn’t bring itself to swipe left on this one unexpected connection. So he picked the phone back up and stared at the blinking cursor in the message box.

Another message came through a minute later.

You: robby? it’s me from work... guess you saw my profile too haha

Robby let out a long breath, he couldn’t avoid it now that you’d initiated a conversation with him. It was better to be direct, explain the mistake to you, and shut this down before it got any more awkward.

Robby: hey yeah, I saw it listen, this is embarrassing as hell, i was messing around with the app, dropped my phone and it must have swiped right by accident sorry about that, didn’t mean to make things weird

He hit send and immediately regretted how cold it sounded, but it was the truth. The phone stayed quiet for a moment that stretched too long. He had his eyes fixed on the screen, waiting for your reply so he could shut down this awkward conversation and delete this stupid app before he accidentally matched with anyone else from work. 

You: oh. so it was a mistake? damn, i thought you had swiped right on purpose. bummer.

Robby’s eyes widened. You were being direct, not beating around the bush or deflecting by saying it had been a mistake on your end as well. He could practically hear your voice saying it with a teasing edge.

Robby: Sorry about the confusion  i know it might be awkward finding me on here. probably the last person you expected, i don’t usually do this. 

You: honestly it was surprising. didn’t peg you as the tinder type at all.  but hey, we all have our moments i guess

Robby: i’m not the type this is my second time ever downloading it and i already regret it, should probably delete the whole thing before i make an even bigger fool of myself.

You: yeah i get it. i thought the match was mutual so i figured i’d say hi. sorry for texting if it was just an accident. didn’t mean to make it weirder

Robby read your message twice. Thought the match was mutual. The words echoed in his brain. You had swiped right on purpose, not as a joke, not out of morbid curiosity about your boss’s sad dating life. You had chosen him willingly. The realization of what that meant sent a confusing rush through him. You liked him, that had to be it. The thought of you… having a crush on him made a warm feeling run through his body, one he immediately tried to shove down.

Robby: What do you mean you thought it was mutual?

You: idk... i saw the notification and figured you wanted to match with me since it happened. that’s why i said hi right away. didn’t want to leave it hanging if we were both curious

He stared at the screen, his heart beating a little harder. You were so honest and blunt about your feelings, he found himself almost intimidated by it. Some rational part of his brain was trying to tell him this had to be a big joke, there was no way in hell you could like him. You were… you. What would you see in a man like him?

Robby: you wanted us to match? seriously?

You: lol yeah i did swipe right, didn’t i? your profile was actually really nice. the book pic is cute and the 70s rock mention made me smile. plus... i don’t know,  you’re interesting. figured why not. no pressure though

Robby: i thought maybe you did it out of curiosity or just to see if I’d swiped on you didn’t expect you to actually want that

You: well i did. but if it was an accident on your end then no big deal. we can pretend this never happened and go back to normal tomorrow. i won’t mention it at work or anything. promise

Robby let his head fall back against the couch, closing his eyes for a long moment as he exhaled heavily. He knew exactly what the responsible Chief of Emergency Medicine should do right now: unmatch immediately, delete his profile, and pretend the entire night had been nothing more than a lonely fever dream.

But tonight… tonight he didn’t want to be responsible. He didn’t want to be Dr. Robinavitch, the attending who had sacrificed nearly every personal connection, every version of a fuller life, on the altar of the ED. For once, he wanted to be Michael. Just Michael. The man who had matched with you on Tinder. The man who was currently staring at his phone with his heart hammering like he was twenty years younger.

Before he could piece together a polite but firm way to end the conversation and retreat back into the safety of professional distance, another message appeared.

You: i think your profile’s part of the reason i swiped right. the book pic’s really nice

He smiled faintly at that, a rare genuine twitch at the corner of his mouth. Robby leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees.

Robby: your profile’s pretty good too, better than most of the ones i’ve seen tonight

You: aww thanks. your’s so much better than the usual bullshit on here which is not that hard to be but still finding you here is a nice change :)

Robby: you on this app a lot? seems like you’ve got the profile down

You: not really. i’ve been on a couple dates from here but it’s honestly exhausting. hard to find someone decent in this city. most guys are either looking for hookups with zero conversation or they’re boring as hell. you know how it is

Robby: fair enough. your age range must be set pretty high if it pulled me up fifty five isn’t exactly the usual crowd for you or is it?

You: haha yeah well  i like older men

Those four stupid words hit him square in the chest like a defibrillator. “I like older men.” Robby reread them slowly, feeling a dangerous warmth bloom low in his belly and spread outward through his chest. He was an older man, and apparently, that fit exactly into your preferences. Was that flirtation? Were you subtly implying that he was the kind of older man you liked? Or was it just a casual, throwaway comment, something you’d say to any guy on the app who happened to have a few gray hairs?

No. He was spiraling too deep, overthinking it the way he always did. Your words didn’t carry some hidden, special meaning meant just for him. They couldn’t. And yet… No matter how hard he tried to talk himself down, he couldn’t ignore the flicker of validation that lit up inside him. He felt desired, really desired. Not just by anyone, but by you: someone younger, and so strikingly pretty it almost hurt to look at your photos for too long. Someone who, in his mind, was clearly way out of his league.

Robby: It’s okay to have preferences  everyone does.

You: yeah exactly. i just find older guys more attractive than the ones my age. they’re usually more mature, know what they want, have actual life experience. it’s... hotter, i guess. plus the conversations are better

He swallowed hard, feeling his throat suddenly dry. He could practically see your face as you typed those words, maybe biting your lower lip in that teasing way you sometimes did right after nailing a difficult procedure.

Then the bikini photo from earlier flashed unbidden through his mind, and the heat in his body flared hotter. He pictured you exactly as you’d looked in that shot: sun-warmed skin, curves barely contained by the fabric. The thoughts he had no right to entertain came rushing in anyway, pulling him deeper. Thoughts of having you all to himself, of finally being able to run his hands slowly over every inch of that bare skin, tracing the line of your waist, sliding up your ribs, cupping the soft weight of your breasts. Of putting his mouth on you and every sensitive spot until you were trembling beneath him.

Robby: makes sense i usually go for women closer to my stage of life we have more in common that way

You: do age gaps bother you?

Robby: in what way?

You: like as a concept. are they a problem for you?

Robby: i’m okay with consenting adults doing what they want as long as everyone’s on the same page it’s not my business.

You: have you ever been in an age gap relationship or anything like that?

Robby: i once dated a woman a bit younger than me but usually around my age

He paused before sending the next part, he shouldn’t keep engaging in this deeply unprofessional conversation, but curiosity was getting the better of him. And you were simply so easy to talk to that he couldn’t stop himself from letting his walls down a little.

He typed before he could second-guess himself.

Robby: how much older are we talking anyway? the men you usually like i mean.

Your reply came fast, like you’d been waiting with the phone in hand.

You: usually over fifty up until their sixties or so. around that range. but it’s just a preference, nothing crazy. i feel like older men usually treat you better. they’re more gentlemanly, know how to actually listen, and they tend to understand what a woman wants... in every way, if you know what i mean ;)

Robby read the message twice. Three times. Four. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Fuck me. You weren’t just being polite or making casual conversation. That winky face, the implication hanging there about “every way”. You were deliberately flirting with him, there was no other way to see it. He shifted on the couch, suddenly very aware of his own body and the fact that it had been a long damn time since anyone had spoken to him like that.

He took a slow breath and replied, trying to keep some semblance of control.

Robby: do you date men closer to your own age too?  or is it mostly the older crowd?

You: i have tried guys closer to my age. some of them are sweet but a lot are still figuring their shit out. you should try dating a woman younger than you sometime though. maybe it’s exactly what you need.

Robby didn’t know what to say. The words hung there, full of possibilities around them. He was still wrestling with a response when another message from you popped up.

You: anyway sorry again for the confusion earlier. i’ll leave you alone so you can keep scrolling through profiles. i’ll go back to robbing the graves haha (joke, get it? because i like older guys... sorry that was sooo bad)

Robby chuckled despite the whirlwind in his head. The joke was cheesy, so perfectly you that it cut through some of the tension. But it also gave him an out, you were offering to back off and let this weird moment fade into nothing before tomorrow’s shift made everything awkward as hell. Part of him wanted to take the exit ramp, wish you a good night, unmatch, delete the app, and pretend none of this happened. But another part, the one that had been sitting alone on his birthday didn’t want the conversation to end.

He tapped over to your photos again, almost against his will. There it was the last one. You on the beach in that bikini, with the perfect swell of your tits catching the sunlight. Holy fuck. He wanted you, the realization hit him all of a sudden, making him switch back to the chat and move his thumbs almost on autopilot.

Robby: Nothing to apologize for honestly you’ve kept me better company tonight than I expected

You: see? younger women can be good company too :) you shouldn’t close the door so fast. you could meet someone nice if you give it a chance

Robby: you shouldn’t close the door on guys your own age either there are decent ones out there, you’ll find someone who can keep up with you

You: out of all the guys i’ve matched with here... you’re easily the best one. no contest

Robby: Really? that can’t be right  you’re selling yourself short.

You: no i mean it. you’re exactly the kind of man i’d usually go for. tall, older, smart... and hot

The word hot hit him harder than it had any right to. His face flushed deeper, his clothes felt constricting, his pants uncomfortably tight. Robby’s cock was already half-hard, thickening and pulsing insistently against the zipper of his jeans with every new message.

All because you’d called him hot. Just a little cheeky, playful comment, and it was enough to unravel him. The touch starvation wasn’t helping. It had been so damn long since anyone had looked at him with real interest, longer still since he’d felt this fluttering feeling low in his stomach. This rush of ego, this sharp need to be close to someone, to be wanted, to touch and be touched.

Robby: thanks i guess you’ll meet someone worth your time, you’re a good girl 

The message was sent before he could fully reconsider the wording. The second it went through, Robby winced. It sounded weirdly sexually charged, maybe it was because he was feeling sexually charged, painfully so. A Freudian slip at its finest.

You: good girl? 😏

Robby: shit i didn’t mean it to sound weird just a figure of speech i suppose.

You: should i call you daddy then? ;)

Robby nearly dropped the phone again. The winky face, the bold suggestion, the way it played so perfectly into the tension that had been building sent a bolt of pure want through him. He could imagine your voice saying it, teasingly so, with that mischievous glint in your eyes. His mind supplied far too many vivid images: you in nothing but your skin looking up at him, you saying it in person with a flirty smile. He was fully hard. Actually hard, just from a fucking text conversation.

The professional alarm bells were clanging loudly in the back of his head. This was his resident, the age gap, the power dynamic, the fact that you’d have to face each other at the Pitt in a few short hours... it was all wrong. But god, it felt good. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel quite so alone.

He glanced down at the obvious bulge in his sweatpants, his cock straining against the fabric like a flagpole. He couldn’t believe it. One flirty text from his resident and he was rock hard. Don’t get hard for your fucking resident, he thought. She’s one of your own. Off-limits. This is insane. He adjusted himself uncomfortably, trying to will it down through stubbornness, but the ache only sharpened.

You: too much? sorry i was just messing around lol

Robby exhaled and typed back, trying to sound more composed than he felt.

Robby: Don’t worry about it i know it was a joke, no harm done

You: it was... unless you don’t want it to be a joke 

He let out a surprised laugh, his cock twitched again at the follow-up, you were relentless, and something told him you were noewhere near done.

Robby: you’re funny, i’ll give you that.

You: that’s what i’ve been told. glad you’re having fun with me tonight

Robby: Well, I guess I should let you get some sleep early shift tomorrow and all

You: i don’t mind staying up. i swiped right on you, remember? yk for a minute i really thought you were gonna flirt with me or maybe even ask me to come over to your place or something

The words hung there. You had been excited, you had hoped he would flirt. The image flashed through his mind, you showing up at his door in the middle of the night, stepping inside and… He shifted again, pressing his hand down against his insistent erection through his sweatpants, trying to get some relief even as guilt gnawed at him. This was crossing so many lines he’d promised himself he wouldn’t cross after Heather. But the loneliness that had driven him to download the app in the first place was quieter now, replaced by an electric tension.

Robby: that would be very inappropriate i’m your boss and there are lines we can’t cross

You: but you’re not dr. robby my attending in here. you’re michael robinavitch, 55, the guy who loves 70s rock and long bike rides. and i’m not your resident in this chat. i’m just a girl who likes movies and older men... and who is really, really into you right now

You were separating the roles so cleanly, drawing a line between the hospital and this private space. It was tempting, dangerously tempting. 

Robby: you know it doesn’t work like that we can’t just turn it off when the shift starts tomorrow

You: nah i’m pretty sure i can

Robby: No.

You: If we really can’t meet then we can do it over text, you know.

He stared at the screen trying to guess if you really meant what you were saying. 

Robby: what do you mean?

You: sexting, duh

He let out a short breath, Jesus fuck you were actually gonna kill him tonight.

Robby: that’s basically the same thing.

You: no it’s not. technically we’re not doing anything if it’s just messages. no one has to know.

Robby rubbed a hand over his jaw, his mind was screaming at him to shut this down, but his fingers were already moving. He couldn’t believe he was actually considering to do this.

This was a terrible idea. What difference did it really make whether it was real sex, his hands on you, feeling your heat around him, or just describing it in detail over text messages? A line was still a line. One he had promised himself he wouldn’t cross again. He didn’t want this to end with you giving up your residency, transferring to another hospital, another city, once things inevitably fell apart.

But fuck, his cock was achingly hard, straining against the front of his pants like a caged animal that desperately needed to be freed. The thought of you right now, maybe lying in your bed in, pressing your thighs together, that sweet slick already soaking through your panties because of him… it made it impossible to think straight. He couldn’t leave you like that, so wet, so needy, aching for him.

Robby: what do you want me to say?

You: i don’t know… just say something hot. you’re goot at being hot  

He hesitated, he wasn’t sure of what to say. He was scared of seeming naive and old school to you, but he wasn’t used to this whole… sexting thing. The most spicy exchange over texts had been insinuating pictures before asking someone to come over. Okay think Robby, if you can save someone’s life under extreme preassure then you can sext with a woman, just say something typical, he thought

Robby: who’s been a naughty girl?

The second he hit send he regretted it. He winced, already typing another message to backtrack when your reply came through.

You: lmao that was the best you’ve got?

Robby groaned out loud, dropping his head back against the couch. 

Robby: forget it. i’m going to bed

You: nooo wait. let’s try again :(

He should’ve put the phone down. He really should’ve. Instead he waited to see if you had anything else to say.

You: you’re so good at giving orders and guiding me at work. maybe you could do that now too? tell me what to do

You were right, in theory. He was good at instructing, guiding, teaching. It came naturally to him to step into that mentoring role, he had always been the one others looked to for direction.

Robby: i  feel stupid doing this.

You: pleeeease. i’ve always thought you were the kind of guy who talks people through it in bed. it’s the same here, just write it instead of saying it. tell me how you want me to touch myself

Your words hit him hard. He reread the message twice. He had never consciously thought about it before, but yes… that did sound exactly like him. Fragments of memory surfaced unbidden: the commanding tone he’d used with past partners, the way he’d instructed them. “Open your legs for me.” “Turn around.” “Look at me.” He remembered the way their breathing would change, the way they’d tremble under the weight of his voice and his hands.

Robby: you really want me to talk you through it, sweetheart?

You: yessss that was so much better. keep going

If anyone had asked you how it happened, you honestly wouldn’t have been able to explain it. You weren’t even sure yourself. One moment you were typing a slightly embarrassed apology to Robby for matching with him and the next, the conversation had taken a turn and you were the one demanding he sext you so you could get off. It was bold, stupidly reckless, and yet it felt inevitable.

Robby: good girl that’s exactly what I wanted to hear, i want you to get those pretty legs spread nice and wide for me, can you do that?

You whimpered softly and obeyed him instantly, letting your knees fall farther apart on the mattress. The cool air hit your exposed pussy making you shiver. 

You: yes. they’re open

Robby: Perfect i’d be on my knees between them right now if I could run your fingers up the inside of your thighs for me slowly, feel how soft they are

As you trailed your free hand up one thigh, you imagined his callused palms and the scratch of his greying beard following the same path.

You: doing it… feels so good thinking about your hands instead.

Robby: that’s my girl  now slide two fingers through your pussy and ell me how wet you are for me

You did exactly as he says, gasping as two fingers glided easily through your slick heat. You were soaked, embarrassingly so, the wet sounds filling the quiet bedroom as you stroked yourself.

You: So wet… i’m dripping. all because of you.

Robby: fuck i knew you would be i want you to circle your clit for me now Do it slowly and imagine it’s my tongue instead, licking you just the way you need i’d take my time, taste every inch of you

Your mons got louder, tipping your head back against the pillows as your fingers obeyed, traxing circles around your clit that sent sparks up your spine. In your mind, it was Robby’s mouth devouring you while his strong hands pinned your thighs down.

Robby: how does that feel, sweetheart? tell me

You: so good, i’m so sensitive. keep talking please

Robby: Good now slide one finger inside that tight pussy, nice and deep curl it up just like I would, searching for that spot that makes your legs shake i’d be watching your face the whole time, telling you how beautiful you look spread open for me, how good you are for listening

When you pushed a finger inside yourself, you curled it upward as instructed to hit that sensitive spot while your other hand kept working your clit in circles. 

Robby: add another finger and stretch yourself open i’d be so much thicker than your fingers, but we’ll start like this imagine me pumping them in and out while i rub your clit

Adding a second finger, you continued fucking yourself to the rhythm of his words on the screen. It was not enough, it was nowhere near enough to calm the hunger and desperation that was threatening to consume your whole being. You knew nothing would be enough, only feeling him inside of you.

You: wish it was you inside me. can’t get off like this. i need you robby please

Robby: you were the one who told me to do this 

You: i know i did. but it’s not enough send me your address

He was tempted, so tempted that for one second his fingers almost started typing on an impulse. But the reality crashed back in immediately. The risks, the morning after, the way he’d have to look at you during rounds, knowing what you’d done. He was rock hard and aching for you, but the responsible part of him still refused to crumble completely.

Robby: what for?  you’re not seriously thinking about coming over right now, are you?

You: robby i’m literally only like 2 miles away from you. are you dtf? not as dr. robinavitch and his resident, but as two adults who casually matched on tinder tonight. there’s no title or hospital here. it’s just us.

Two miles. You were so close. He stared at your message, feeling his heart slamming against his ribs. His cock gave another insistent throb, the head already leaking a little against his underwear. The thought of you actually coming over, right now, in the middle of the night, made his mouth go dry.

Robby: Send me your address and I’ll order you a ride. 

You sent your address a moment later. It really was only two miles away. He confirmed the ride, watching the estimated arrival time tick down. Fifteen minutes… only fifteen minutes until you’d be at his door.

You: this is exactly what i meant earlier about older guys. so much more gentlemanly. taking care of the details instead of just telling me to get there

You had no time to get ready, and honestly, you didn’t care. Makeup? Hair? None of that mattered when you were this desperate, this aching for him. You climbed out of bed still wearing the thin tank top and soft sleep shorts you’d worn to bed, and threw an oversized jacket over everything, one that swallowed most of your body and made you look far more put-together than you actually felt.

Your hands were shaking as you grabbed your keys and phone. The rideshare arrived sooner than you expected. The drive across the city felt both endless and far too short, but eventually the car pulled up outside his building.

You stood on the sidewalk for a second, staring up at the apartment complex, suddenly hit with the full weight of what you were doing, showing up at your attending’s door in the middle of the night, soaked and trembling with need, because a stupid Tinder match had spiraled completely out of control.

But you didn’t hesitate for long, you took a deep breath, pulled the jacket tighter around yourself, walked toward his door and knocked on it.

Robby opened it right away. He didn’t say a word, the second you were in reach, you had one of his strong hands cupping the back of your neck as he pulled you into a kiss. It was electric to say the least. His mouth claimed yours with a hunger that stole your breath. His beard was scraping deliciously against your skin as he moved his lips with experienced urgency. You melt into it instantly, fisting your hands in his shirt, tasting the pure, overwhelming taste of him. Finally. Here he was, kissing you like he’d been starving for it just as much as you had.

He kicked the door shut behind him without breaking the kiss, wrapping his other arm around your waist and pulling you flush against his taller frame. You felt the warmth of his hands roaming everywhere, gripping your hips, sliding up your sides, squeezing the curve of your ass through the fabric of your shorts. In your mouth, he groaned, making a vibrating sound that went through you as he explored every inch he could reach, like he was memorizing the feel of you. 

Your breasts were the next to get his attention, he was cupping them with his big hands through your tank top, brushing his thumb over your already hard nipple, while he tangles his other hand in your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss.

You pulled back just enough to gasp against his lips, “It took you long enough.”

Robby chuckled, the sound coming out breathless. “Took you long enough. You have any idea what it’s like waiting twenty minutes for you with a hard-on?” He pressed you closer, letting you feel the thick and insistent bulge against your stomach. 

As if they had a mind of their own, his hands couldn’t stop moving, squeezing, caressing, claiming, running down your back, over your thighs, everywhere he’d fantasized about touching. Before you could respond, he bent slightly and lifted you effortlessly. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively. 

The strength in his arms, the way his broad chest felt against you, sent a fresh rush of heat between your legs. He carried you through the house with purposeful strides. The door to your room swung open and he layed you gently on the bed, climbing on top of you immediately until his full weight pressing you deliciously into the mattress. 

The kissing resumed instantly, slower now but no less intense. Robby’s mouth was moving from your lips to your neck, sucking lightly and scratching you with his beard in the most perfect way. Now his hands got bolder, continuing their exploration but this time sliding under your tank top, pressing his palms against your bare skin. He lifted the fabric higher, exposing your breasts to the cool air of the room.

“Fuck,” Robby groaned, and maybe it was your mind playing tricks on you, but you could see his soft brown eyes turning darker as he stared down at you. “Look at you. These tits… so perfect. So fucking pretty.” His voice was rough with want, the same commanding tone. He cupped them reverently, as if they were something precious, circling your nipples until they pebbled tighter under his touch. “They’re made for my hands. For my mouth.”

He leaned down and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking it gently at first, then harder, swirling his tongue around the sensitive peak. The wet touch of his tongue made you arch into him with a moan, threading your fingers through his hair as he kept lavishing attention on your breasts. 

From one side to the other, Robby switched sides, licking and sucking the other while his hand massaged the first, rolling the nipple between his fingers. The dual sensation, the tingly heat of his mouth and the firm squeeze of his callused hand, had you writhing beneath him, making you so wet you were soaking through your shorts.

The humming of his mouth against your skin sends sparks straight to your core. “So responsive,” he murmured, switching back to the first breast and sucking it harder than before. “These tits are going to ruin me. I could spend hours right here.” Sliding his free hand down your side, Robby gripped your hip possessively, continuing with the worshipping of your chest, licking broad stripes, sucking marks into the soft flesh, massaging and kneading until he had you panting and grinding up against the hard line of his cock through his pants.

The age difference between you only heightened everything, his experience was showing in every skilled touch, in every perfect flick of his tongue. He was being patient but hungry, like he’d been holding back for far too long. You could feel how hard he was, he was making you feel it, pressing insistently against your thigh. The knowledge that you did this to him made you even wetter.

Robby lifts his head briefly to lock his eyes on yours. His lips were swollen and his beard slightly damp with his saliva. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he said, but his hands never stopped, squeezing and caressing, teasing your sensitive nipples with his thumbs as he waited for your answer.

You shook your head, pulling him back down. You’d rather die than stop right now. “Don’t stop. Please.”

His mouth trailed a hot path down your sternum, over your stomach, scraping you teasinglywith his beard against your skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. His hands followed strong, sliding down your sides and gripping your hips as he settled between your spread thighs. The weight of him, the sheer size and presence of this man, made your core clench with anticipation.

“These shorts have been teasing me since you walked in,” he murmured with the same steady tone he used in the pitt, but now turned intimate and commanding. Robby hooked his fingers into the waistband and slowly peeled them down your legs, taking his time as he revealed more of you. “Lift your hips for me, sweetheart. Good girl.”

You obeyed instantly, lifting your hips so he could slide the fabric off completely, leaving you in just your thin panties and the tank top. Robby smoothed his hands up your thighs, spreading them wider with gentle but firm pressure. “Keep your legs open like that,” he instructed you. “Nice and wide for me. Don’t close them unless I tell you to.”

You were already moaning softly, and he wasn’t even touching your core yet. Robby dropped his eyes to the damp spot on your panties, making the fabric cling to your pussy lips, and he let out a groan of desire and hunger. He cupped you over the fabric with one hand, pressing his palm firmly against your heated pussy while his thumb found your clit through the material and began rubbing slow circles.

“Oh god,” you moaned, twitching up your hips into his touch, seeking more of the contact. The friction was simply perfect, it was teasing, and it kept building higher and higher. Robby’s callused thumb was applying just the right pressure on your swollen nub. 

He watched your face intently through his hooded and lustful eyes as he worked you higher. “Feel good?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady even as his own breathing grew heavier. “You’re so wet already. Soaking through these panties for me. That’s it… rock against my hand, sweetheart. Show me how much you need this.”

Your moans only grew louder and more unrestrained, as he kept rubbing your clit with precision. The fabric added a delicious layer of friction, and every circle sent sparks shooting up your body. He got you gripping the sheets, your thighs already trembling as you fought the urge to close them around his hand.

Robby leaned down to kiss the inside of one thigh, scratching your skin deliciously. “You want my mouth? Want me to taste this pretty pussy? You gonna wrap these gorgeous legs around my neck while I do it?”

“Yes,” you gasped, nodding frantically. “Please, Robby. I need it.”

He hooked his fingers into your panties and tugged them down slowly, revealing your glistening, bare pussy to his hungry gaze. “Fuck… look at you. So wet and perfect.” He kissed along your inner thighs, taking his time, brushing his lips and beard against the sensitive skin as he worked his way closer. “Wrap them around me, sweetheart. Lock your ankles behind my head if you need to. I want to feel you holding me right where I belong.”

You did exactly as he said, wrapping your legs around his broad shoulders and pressing your heels into his upper back. The position left you completely open to him, vulnerable and exposed. Robby groaned, the sound vibrating against your core as he finally leaned in.

The first lick of his tongue was broad and slow, dragging from your entrance up to your puffy clit. The sensation was overwhelming, and it made you cry out loudly, threading your fingers into his greying hair as he began to devour you with the same intensity he brought to every procedure at work. He licked and sucked with precision, alternating between long and flat strokes to tight and quick circles around your clit. 

His beard was scratching your inner thighs and outer lips in the most delicious way, adding a kind of texture that made your toes curl. “Robby… Oh fuck, that feels so good,” you moaned, rolling your hips against his mouth. 

He hummed in response, pulling back with his lips glistening with your arousal just so he could speak to you. “Tell me how it feels, sweetheart. I want to hear it.”

“So good… your tongue—oh god, your mouth, Robby. It’s driving me crazy. Don’t stop, please.”

“You’re being so good for me,” he praised, diving back in to suck your clit into his mouth, flicking it rapidly while applying suction with his lips. 

Before you could register it, he teased your entrance with two thick fingers, slowly sliding them inside you, letting your own greedy hole swallow them. Once he curled them upward to find that perfect spot, the sensation had you moaning loudly and arching off the bed. 

Robby pumped his fingers steadily, matching the rhythm of his tongue with his digits. A few moments later, he stopped again briefly, looking up at you with lust-filled eyes and shiny lips. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this. Spread open for me, taking my fingers so well. This pussy is perfect, made for me. Keep moaning for me. Let me hear how much you love my mouth on you.”

You obeyed, your moans spilling freely as he returned to his task with renewed hunger. The pleasure built fast and faster, making your thighs tremble around his head and your feet dig into his back as you held him exactly where you needed him. Robby gripped your hip with his free hand, holding you steadily while he worked you closer and closer to the edge with expert skill. Every command, every praise, every flick of his tongue pushed you higher. 

Robby didn’t relent, he kept his mouth latched onto your clit, sucking with rhythmic pressure, devouring you like a man starved. “Robby—oh fuck, yes!” The pleasure was overwhelming, every single nerve ending in your body was alight as he worked you higher. 

“Keep those legs open for me, sweetheart,” he growled against your clit. “Don’t you dare close them. I want to feel you squeezing around my fingers while I eat this pretty pussy.” He added a third finger slowly, stretching you wider, the burn blending perfectly with the pleasure. “That’s it… take three for me. Feel how full you are? You’re doing so well. Such a good girl taking everything I give you.”

The wet sounds of his fingers plunging into your dripping pussy and his mouth sucking hungrily on your clit filled the air. You were soaking his beard, his chin, his wrist, but he didn’t care. Robby slid a hand under you, grabbing a firm handful of your ass and lifting your hips slightly off the bed. The new angle let him bury his face even deeper, working your clit with more precision while he fingerfucked you harder. “Just like that,” he praised you between licks. “Grind on my tongue, baby. Use my mouth. Show me how bad you need to come.”

You obeyed helplessly once again, rolling your hips and bucking them against him as the coil in your belly tightened unbearably. The pleasure built in powerful waves until your thighs started to shake violently around his head. Robby kept talking you through it, pushing you closer to the edge.

“You’re getting so close, aren’t you? I can feel this tight pussy clenching around my fingers. Come on, let go. Cum all over my tongue. I want to taste it. I want to feel you fall apart for me.”

The orgasm crashed over you with blinding intensity, making your back bow off the bed, a loud and broken cry tearing from your throat as your pussy spasmed hard around his digits. Your thighs were squeezing his head tightly, your heels digging into his back as wave after wave of pleasure ripped through you. Robby didn’t stop though, he kept sucking your clit through the peak, curling and thrusting his fingers to draw out every last shudder.

You came harder than you ever had. So hard that your vision went white for a moment as the pleasure bordered on overwhelming. Your moans turned into whimpers as the orgasm slowly ebbed, leaving you limp and gasping on the bed.

Robby finally eased back, gently lowering your hips and kissing softly along your inner thighs. He looked up at you with dark and satisfied eyes. “That’s my girl,” he murmured. “So beautiful when you cum for me.”

You lay there panting, your thighs were still twitching, completely wrecked and already aching for more of him. Robby climbed back up your body, kissing you deeply so you could taste yourself on his tongue. He was so close that his hard cock was pressing insistently against your thigh through his pants. 

“That was… amazing,” you whisper with your voice hoarse from moaning. “So much better than I ever imagined.”

Robby chuckled softly, the sound warm and genuine against your neck as he pressed a kiss there. “Yeah? Better than your hand?” His eyes were sparkling with lust. 

You laughed breathlessly, nodding. “So much better. Your mouth… God, Robby. I’ve never felt anything like that.”

He hummed in satisfaction, grinding his still-clothed erection slowly against your bare, sensitive pussy. The thick ridge of his cock was being pressed perfectly against your clit, giving him some much needed relief while teasing you both. “I loved doing that for you,” he murmured. “You were so good for me, sweetheart. So responsive, so wet. The way you moaned my name and squeezed my head with those pretty thighs… fuck, you have no idea what you do to me.”

Robby rolled his hips deliberately, the friction making you whimper and arch up into him. You could feel how achingly hard he was and how much he’d been holding back. You slid up your hands down his chest, feeling the soft flesh beneath his shirt.

“I want you,” you breathed, looking up at him with need. “Please, Robby.”

He stilled for a moment, as if to pulling himself together. “Tell me what you want. Be specific.”

You bit your lip, feeling the warmth invade your cheeks. “Your cock. I want you to fuck me. I need you inside me.”

Robby let out a groan, sitting back on his knees between your spread thighs. He reached for the waistband of his sweatpants, drawing out the anticipation. You sit up slightly, eager to help, moving your fingers to tug his pants down along with his underwear.

“I’ve been dying to see you,” you confessed as you pulled his pants down his hips. He caught your wrists before you could push his boxers down.

Robby looked almost nervous, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Wait… I, uh—” He cleared his throat, flicking his eyes away for a second. “I haven’t trimmed down there in a while. This whole night was… unexpected. I would’ve cleaned up if I’d known we were gonna end up here.”

He said it like it was something to be embarrassed about. Like it might actually make you want him less. It made you soft, you cupped his jaw, turning his face back to yours.

“Robby. Do you honestly think I give a damn about that? It’s just hair.”

He let out a self-conscious breath, still looking a little defensive. “I know. I know it’s just hair. It’s just… it’s probably a fucking jungle down there right now. You don’t have to— I mean, you don’t have to do anything if it’s too much.”

The way he was trying to give you an out was almost painfully endearing. You shook your head. “Just let me see you,” you whispered.

You slid his boxers down his thighs and freed his cock, it sprang out, thick and hard, the head flushed in a dark red with arousal. It was beautiful, so long, girthy, with a slight upward curve, prominent veins running along the shaft. Exactly like he’d warned, there was a thick, dark mat of coarse hair at the base, dense and untrimmed. He looked completely natural, it was so him, deeply masculine and unpolished.

A fresh rush of wetness slipped down your inner thighs. Your fingers twitched with the need to touch him there.

You looked up at him through your lashes “I love it,” you slowly carded your fingers through the thick hair at the base of his member. “You look so fucking hot like this. I like every single inch of you.”

Robby’s whole body shivered under your touch. “God…” he rasped as he stared down at you. “You’re gonna kill me tonight.”

Almost with instinct, you wrapped your hand around it, stroking the shaft slowly from base to tip, feeling the heat and weight of his member.

Robby hissed in pleasure, twitching his hips forward into your grip as he watched your hand move up and down his cock. “Fuck, your hand feels good,” he groaned, letting you stroke him for a while, savoring the sight of your smaller hand working his thick length, making a bead of precum leak from the tip.

After a few moments, he gently stopped you, wrapping his fingers around your wrist. “Lay back down for me, sweetheart. Keep those legs open nice and wide. Just like before.”

You obeyed, lying back against the pillows and spreading your thighs for him. Robby reached over toward the nightstand, stretching one arm past you as he pulled open the top drawer. He rummaged through it for a few seconds, before his hand closed around what he was looking for.

A moment later he sat back, a condom held between his fingers. He held it up, searching for your eyes with his. “I’ve got this if you want me to wear it.”

You shook your head, reaching up to touch his arm. “No. I want you bare. I’m on the pill.”

You both knew it might not have been the smartest option, doing it raw, with nothing between you. But there was a deep, unspoken trust between the two of you, forged through long shifts, that made you feel safe. And in that moment, that trust felt solid enough to lean on.

The hunger that had taken over both of you made anything else almost unbearable. The need to feel each other completely bare, skin on skin, heat on heat, with nothing separating you, was overwhelming.

“Fuck, you’re gonna kill me.” He tossed the condom aside, leaning down to kiss you deeply again. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” you whispered against his lips. “I want to feel all of you.”

He groaned, positioning himself between your legs and nudging the thick head of his cock against your slick entrance. The anticipation felt electric, this was the culmination of over a year of longing, of hours of texts, and now all that was left was this desperate connection. Robby gripped your thighs, spreading you wider as he looked down at you with hunger.

The night is only beginning, and the way he’s looking at you promises he’s going to take his time ruining you in the best possible way.

As his cockhead was being rubbed up and down your folds, teasing your clit with every pass, coating itself with your juices, the sensation felt maddening, promising everything you’d fantasized about for so long. You whimpered, twitching your hips up instinctively to chase more contact.

“Eyes on me, sweetheart,” Robby commanded you softly, the same authoritative tone that had guided you through countless procedures was now guiding you through this. He cupped your chin gently, tilting your face so your gazes locked. “Keep looking at me the whole time. I want to see you while I fuck you.”

You nodded shakily, unable to look away even if you wanted to. Robby continued rubbing the head of his cock against your entrance, coating himself in your wetness, drawing out the anticipation until you were squirming beneath him.

“That’s it,” he whispered against your mouth. “So wet for me already. This pussy is going to take me so well. Breathe for me, relax and let me in.” He pressed forward slowly, breaching your entrance with only the tip. The stretch was immediate and intense, opening you up inch by inch as he sank deeper. Your mouth fell open in a silent moan, but you forced your eyes open, locking them on his as he watched every flicker of pleasure cross your face.

“Easy, baby,” he cooed, stroking your thigh soothingly while the other braced beside your head. “You’re doing so good. Feel how you’re stretching around me? So tight and warm… fuck, you feel incredible.”

You moaned loudly as he continued sliding in, the deliberate thrust filling you completely until he was buried to the hilt, until his hips were flushed against yours. The fullness was overwhelming, his thick cock stretching your walls like nobody had stretched you before, pressing against every sensitive spot inside you.

Robby stayed still for a moment buried deep, resting his forehead against yours as he looked straight into your eyes. “There you go. All the way in. You took every inch.” He started to thrust with deep rolls of his hips that drag his cock along your walls with exquisite friction. “Wrap your legs around me. Hold me close while I fuck you.”

You did as he said, locking your legs around his waist and digging your heels into his lower back. The new angle let him sink even deeper, and you cried out in pleasure, digging your nails into his shoulders. Robby kept talking you through it, just like he knew you liked.

“That’s my girl. Feel that? I’m hitting that spot inside you, huh?” He angled his hips slightly, grinding deep on every stroke. Robby slid one hand up to cup and squeeze your breast, rolling your nipple as he thrusted harder.

Robby moved his hand from your breast to cup your chin. His grip was gentle enough not to hurt, yet firm enough that you felt every one of his fingers pressing against the bones of your jaw. “Look at me. Don’t look away. I want to see how good my cock feels inside this tight pussy.” He tilted your face up and held it there, leaving you no choice but to meet his eyes.

And God… what a glorious sight he was. This handsome man, with his face flushed, his brow glistening with sweat, devouring you with his gaze as he kept driving his cock into you.

His face was only inches from yours, and he kept fucking you in long strokes while he held your chin like that, as if he were starving for every single expression that crossed your face. He loved watching the way pleasure wrecked you. The way your lips parted around helpless moans, the way you bit down on your lower lip only for it to slip free again with a broken sound. The way your eyes went glassy and pleading, silently begging him for more even as your body trembled around his cock. He drank it all in like a man who had been thirsty for years.

With his free hand, he gripped your waist, holding you in place so he could drive into you with more power. Every slide of his cock stretched you perfectly, dragging the fat tip along your g-spot like that was what it was made for.

“Robby—oh god, yes!” You moaned loudly, raising your hips to meet his thrust and tightening your legs around him. Your tits were bouncing with every powerful stroke, and he leaned down to suck one nipple into his mouth again, flicking his tongue as he continued fucking you.

“You feel so good,” he groaned against your skin, switching to the other breast. “So tight and wet around me. This pussy was made for my cock, wasn’t it? Taking me so deep.” His hand on your waist slid down to grip your ass, lifting your hips slightly to change the angle as he thrusted harder. “Lift your legs higher for me, sweetheart,” he said against your neck,kissing and nipping the sensitive skin there. Ronny held the back of your thigh, helping guide your leg up. “That’s it… over my shoulder. Let me get deeper.”

You whimpered as he assisted you, hooking your leg over his shoulder. He did the same with the other, folding you nearly in half beneath him. The new angle allowed him to sink impossibly deeper, until he was pressing the head firmly against that perfect spot inside you with every thrust, grinding against your g-spot relentlessly.

“Fuck—Robby, it’s so deep like this,” you moaned, fluttering your eyes shut for just a moment as the intense sensation washed over you.

“Ah-ah-ah,” he chided gently but firmly, cupping your jaw with his hand to tilt your face back to his. “Eyes on me, sweetheart. Keep them open. I want to watch you while I fuck you like this. Don’t look away.”

You forced your eyes open, locking onto his hungry gaze as he continued hammering into you. The eye contact made everything more intimate and overwhelming. The feeling of his hand leavinf your jaw and sliding down between your bodies made you shiver. Robby found your swollen clit and began rubbing tight circles in time with his thrusts.

The combined stimulation was devastating. The pleasure was burning higher in your core, so close to finally exploding. Your body was arching and squirming beneath his frame as you scratched down his back and trembled over his shoulders. Every thrust, every rub of his fingers on your clit, every moan and grunt that escaped his mouth pushed you closer to the edge.

“That’s it,” Robby groaned, never removing his sight from yours. “Look at you taking my cock so deep. You’re getting close again, aren’t you? I can feel it. Cum for me, baby. Let me feel you cum all over my cock. Keep your eyes on me when you do.”

You bowed your back off the bed as your climax took over your body. A loud cry tore from your throat as your pussy clenched rhythmically around his length. Your thighs shook violently over his shoulders and you dug your nails harder into his back when the waves of pleasure crashed through you. Robby sekpt thrusting through it, drawing out your orgasm with deep strokes and continued pressure on your clit.

“You look so beautiful when you cum for me… that’s it, sweetheart. Give it all to me. You’re being so good.”

By the time he finally slowed and gently pulled out of you, you were still trembling and gasping. Robby layed back on the bed beside you, with his cock hard and glistening with your release. “Come here, baby,” he said. “Get on top. I want to watch you ride me.”

He helped you shift positions, gripping your hips firmly to guide you as you straddled him. “Easy, sweetheart. Take your time… that’s it. Feel me right there? Let me watch you take every inch.”

You positioned the head at your slick entrance and began to sink down, inch by inch. The stretch was intense all over again, his girth opening you up as you lowered yourself onto him. Robby kept his hands still on your hips to steady you, stroking your skin soothingly while watching every expression on your face.

“Fuck, look at that,” he groaned. “You’re doing so well. Keep going… take a little more. Feel how full you are?”

Louder moans left your mouth as you sank lower, the fullness was overwhelming in the best way. Bracing your hands on his broad chest for balance, you finally took him to the hilt, resting your ass against his thighs. Robby squeezed your hips encouragingly. “Ride me. Roll your hips like that… yes, just like that.”

Whn you started moving, rolling, and grinding your hips in a steady rhythm, the pleasure built quickly. His cock was dragging along your walls as you found a rhythm that made your tits bounce and your clit grind against his pelvis.

Robby kept moving his eyes are everywhere, watching where your pussy stretched around his shaft, sliding up to your bouncing breasts, then locking onto your face. He reaches up with both hands, cupping your tits and rolling your nipples as you ride him.

“You’re so fucking beautiful. You’re doing so well, sweetheart. Keep going… faster if you want. Take what you need from me.”

Without a word, you grabbed the hem of his shirt and tugged it upward. He sat up just enough to help you pull it off, and the second the fabric cleared his head, your hands were on him.

God, you loved his body. Your moved your palm slowly over his chest, feeling the coarse hair and the thud of his heart beneath your fingertips. You dragged your hands lower, mapping the soft, rounded curve of his belly with desire. It turned you on more than any gym-honed torso ever could. As you pressed your palms into the softness, your fingers dag in gently. Then you smoothed your hands over it again and again, savoring the way it yielded under your touch.

You were mumbling praises and moans between gasps, completely lost in the sensation. “Robby… you feel so good… so deep… fuck, I love your cock inside me…”

At one point, Robby planted his feet firmly on the bed, bent his knees, and started thrusting up to meet you. The change felt devastating, he was now fucking you from below with powerful strokes that made you cry out loudly as he droveinto you. 

The slap of skin on skin grew louder when the slamming into you intensified. “Fuck—Robby!” you moaned, letting your head fall back as the pleasure overwhelmed you.

“Eyes on me if you can, sweetheart,” he growled, moving his fingers down to rub your clit again. “I’m getting close. You feel too good. You’re gonna make me cum.”

You were a moaning and squirming mess on top of him, riding and grinding as he thrusted up harder. His fingers on your clit and his cock hitting deep pushed you toward another peak, but it was his impending orgasm that had you focused on him.

“I’m gonna cum,” he groaned, snapping his hips up faster. “Fuck—can I cum inside you? Please, I want to fill you up.”

“Yes,” you gasped, riding him desperately. “Cum inside me, Robby. I want it. Fill me up. Please—”

With a deep groan, Robby thrusted up hard one last time and came, pulsing nside you, flooding your pussy with thick and warm ropes of cum. He held you down on him, gripping your hips tightly as he emptied himself completely. The feeling of him cumming inside you, fully claiming you, triggered your own smaller orgasm, making your walls clench rhythmically around his pulsing cock.

You both stayed locked together, panting. Robby stroked your back and thighs as you came down from the high befor pulling you down against his chest, kissing your forehead, keeping his cock still buried deep inside you as his release slowly leaked out around him, so much that you could feel the hot nd sticky evidence of his climax.

There were no more walls, just the two of you, finally giving in to everything you’ve both wanted and repressed for so long. You stayed draped on top of Robby for a long stretch of time, both of you catching your breath as the intensity slowly ebbed. Eventually, you lifted your head and looked at him. “That was… amazing. I wouldn’t even have dreamed that it’d be that good.”

He hummed in agreement, continuing his soothing path along your back. “It was. Better than I let myself imagine. You felt perfect.”

The praise made a warm feeling bloom in your chest. After a few more quiet moments, Robby gently helped you sit up, easing you off his cock with a shared sigh. You both winced slightly at the loss of connection and the feeling of emptiness, but he pulled you down beside him on the bed, wrapping his arms around you again as you cuddled into his side.

“So… you don’t regret it, do you?”

He met your eyes as a small smile began tugging at his lips beneath the beard. “Right now? I can’t regret having amazing sex with you. My mind is still somewhere up in the clouds.” He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “I don’t know what will happen tomorrow when reality hits, but tonight… no regrets.”

You nestled closer, throwing one leg over his. The cuddling felt easy, natural, like you’d been doing this for years. For tonight, the outside world, the hospital, the guilt, the what ifs didn’t exist. There was only the two of you, and Robby might be right about reality hitting tomorrow, but right now, in the darkness of his room, everything felt right.

A/N: Two attempts at posting this fic, and two times Tumblr’s stupid AI mistakenly flagged it😭 I’ve spent days trying to figure out what was causing the problem and doing everything I could to finally get this fic posted for all of you. So if you’re reading this, it means it worked. Hopefully.

If you end up enjoying the fic, I’d really appreciate it if you could help me share it with a reblog (only if you enjoyed the fic) cause I’ve put a lot of work on it

Well, I hope you enjoyed this little something I worked on when inspiration finally struck me. I don’t know if I read it somewhere or if we all collectively decided it, but Robby absolutely feels like the type of guy who talks you through it. You’re telling me the man who spends all day teaching med students and residents how to do procedures wouldn’t also be guiding his girl in bed? It’s literally in his nature!!! This TikTok also got me inspired because, yes, he absolutely looks at you through it too.

I also think Robby’s canon texting style is weirdly inconsistent. In that scene in season one where he’s texting Jake, sometimes he starts messages with capital letters and sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he ends sentences with a period, sometimes he doesn’t. In my head, he has perfect grammar but deliberately tries to sound Gen Z and chill when he’s texting someone younger than him lol. Anyway, I tried to replicate that here too.

Thank you all so much for your patience. I really appreciate it, and I hope I can stick around for good this time🩷

It’s hot as balls outside. You’re covered in sweat, which mingles in a sticky and unpleasant mix with the sunscreen you’ve been dutifully applying since the afternoon to avoid frying like an egg. When the sun finally set, you no longer had to worry about the burgeoning threat of skin cancer, but the heat doesn’t break. In fact, it almost seems to get worse, because more and more people arrive to crowd you as night descends and the bigger names with larger fanbases grace the stage.

You’re waiting for Beth outside of the bathroom facilities. She's been ingesting a steady stream of margaritas since sundown, so she leaves you holding the bag, literally. At least it's a nice excuse to separate yourself from the throng of jumping, sweaty bodies gathered by the stage.

It’s nearly two in the morning. You’re hungry. Your feet are killing you. You have a headache from the festival’s sugary cocktails. You’re sweating through the top Beth lent you. And on top of everything else, your ovulation cramps are kicking in like a motherfucker.

Growing desperate, you dig through Beth's bag, searching for the little Altoid tin that she always keeps her pain meds in. At long last, your hands make contact with the metal tin at the bottom of her tote. Nearly crying with relief, you pop an aspirin in your mouth and wash it down with the tepid bottled water you’ve been clutching for the last hour.

Beth's voice rings out from behind you, talking over the din of the nearby DJ set. “What are you doing?”

You turn towards her, and see Beth staring at the tin in your hand. “I have cramps,” you explain, and just as you’re about to shove the tin back in her bag and hand it to her, she grabs your wrist.

“…please tell me you didn’t just take one of those,” she says urgently.

You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because those are not aspirin, babe.”

Your blood runs cold. Your brain quickly does the math — Beth had told you how much she’s looking forward to meeting up with her rave friends tomorrow for the second night of Pitt Fest. Beth has always been quite the partier. And she often partied with her good friend Molly.

Your eyes widen in horror. “Oh no.”

Pitt Fest, as always, is a huge pain in the ass for the night shift.

Handoff gets messy. There's a shit ton of substance cases, even more of heatstroke. Robby stays longer than he should and snaps at everyone, clearly in his feelings remembering last year’s Pitt Fest. Understandable, yes, but it also makes everyone’s life that much harder when they’re within sniping distance of him.

Needless to say, Jack is already over this shift, and it’s not even halfway done. It doesn't help that his favorite resident happens to have the night off, which deposits his mood firmly in the hospital basement. Which, coincidentally, happens to be the location of the morgue.

Now that Robby has been politely ordered to go the fuck home, Jack feels like he can finally focus on his job instead of doing damage control with the med students. As he walks down the hall, Lena catches his attention from the hub desk.

“We have an ambulance two minutes out with a mid-20s female, collapsed at Pitt Fest,” she informs him. “Probable dehydration, likely drug-related, because, well… Pitt Fest.”

This festival truly is the gift that keeps on giving. Jack cracks his knuckles and eyes the ambulance bay doors. “All right. Let's get ready to receive the party girl.”

A few minutes later, the gurney is wheeled in by two paramedics and received by Lena and Parker. Parker shoots an alarmed and confused look over her shoulder at Jack, who steps forward to supervise.

“Dr. Abbot!"

Of all the things Jack expected to see tonight, this is at the bottom of the list. You're strapped to the gurney, scantily clad and gleaming with sweat, a goofy smile on your face and your pupils blown so wide they nearly swallow your irises.

Jack scrubs a hand through his hair. “You're shitting me.”

This is quite the surprising turn of events.

After Lena sets you up in South 16, Jack discreetly shoos away Parker so he can handle your examination himself. He doubts you would be comfortable with one of your fellow residents seeing you like this, considering your condition and your current state of dress.

Jack closes the door behind him and saunters over to you. His eyes snag on your tight, strappy top, and the strategically placed cutouts baring sections of your midriff and chest. He’s holding onto his professionalism by a thread, especially with the way you’re shifting around on the exam table, causing the hem of your miniskirt to ride up.

He has no choice but to focus up. You need medical attention, not the kind of attention his brain and body really want to give you right now. First, Lena takes your temperature and shows him the number on the display. 100.2 degrees F. It's coming down from what the paramedics recorded in the ambulance, and not so high that he’s still worried about heat stroke. But you’ll need cooling down regardless.

“That’s quite the outfit you got on,” he mutters as he gently raises your chin and shines his penlight into your pupils.

“Do you like it?” you ask, beaming up at him even as you squint. “I borrowed it from my friend. She’s so nice.”

Your pupils are so dilated that your eyes are almost completely black.

“Yup.” Jack clicks off the light and sighs, turning to Lena. “She’s rolling, all right. Let’s get a tox to make sure there’s nothing else to be worried about.”

You don’t seem to even register the pain of the needle prick, but you let out a delighted little hum when Lena smooths a bandage over your arm and adds gentle pressure over top of it.

“That feels good,” you murmur with a lazy smile.

“I bet.” Jack crosses his arms and tries to give you a stern look. “Can I ask what my best resident is doing taking ecstasy at a music festival?”

“I didn’t take it on purpose, I swear,” you protest, your eyes widening in a brief panic. “It was my friend’s. I thought it was aspirin, for my cramps.”

“You’re menstruating?” he asks, picking up his tablet and sitting in the edge of the exam table next to you to amend your chart.

You shake your head and say matter-of-factly, “Ovulation cramps.”

His eyebrows shoot up towards the ceiling in surprise. 

You continue babbling, unaware of the grenade you just lobbed at Jack. “She tried to get me to throw it up, but I couldn’t because I don’t really have a gag reflex.”

Jack takes a deep breath to prevent his brain from completely short-circuiting. 

Your face breaks into a sheepish smile, and you giggle, “Oops. Sorry, that was probably too much information.” Leaning forward on the exam table, you bring your face inches away from his and observe with a sigh, “Your eyes are really pretty.”

From behind him, Jack hears Lena snickering under her breath. He clears his throat and straightens up to standing.

Avoiding Lena's eyes, he instructs her, “Let’s, uh, get her some fluids and cooling packs, huh? Maybe a Saf-T-Pop, too. Keep her mouth occupied, so she won’t say any more nonsense she’ll regret in the morning.”

Lena just shoots him an amused look and heads off to gather supplies. Nurses, he thinks ruefully to himself. They see everything.

Movement and sound draw his attention back to you. You're laid back on the exam table, eyes fluttering closed. And you’re running your hands through your hair, letting out a pleased little noise like the sensation is better than sex. 

Jack breathes carefully through his nose. He needs out of this room with you, before this becomes mortifying for everyone involved. His phone buzzes in his pocket, giving him the perfect excuse for escape.

His voice is thin when he speaks, and for a moment, he’s glad you’re too high to notice. “You sit tight, sunshine.” 

As he turns to leave the room, your hand catches the edge of his scrubs.

“You’re leaving?” your mouth turns down into a pout, those huge eyes shining up at him. He very nearly gives in, very nearly reaches out a hand to stroke a thumb across your cheek just to hear the kind of sound it would pull from you. But his phone buzzes insistently, so he briefly pats your knee instead.

“I have other patients to see. But I'll be back before you know it,” he assures you, pulling open the door and diving headfirst back into the glorious chaos.

At least it’ll be a convenient distraction from the thought of you, eagerly waiting in south fifteen for him to return.

He shakes his head in disbelief. Ovulation cramps. You’re gonna be the death of him.

An MVA, a ketamine overdose, and a cardiac event later, the Pitt finally slows down enough for Jack to breathe. Enough to check your tox screen and sigh with relief that the MDMA you mistakenly took wasn’t cut with anything. Alcohol is the only other thing in your system, in levels not high enough to be concerning. Although, combined with the ecstasy, it means you probably won’t remember much of this exciting little escapade.

At long last, he manages to find some time to check on you. 

In his absence, Lena had set you up with a gown to preserve a little more of your modesty. You’re laying on the exam table amongst the cooling packs, an IV attached to your arm and a Saf-T-Pop in your mouth that’s turning your tongue red. 

A smile breaks like sunrise over your face as soon as you see him.

“Hey there, sunshine,” he greets you, approaching you with a little more warmth now that Lena's sharp eyes aren’t here to observe.

“Hi. I missed you,” you sigh.

Jack smirks. “Did you now?”

You nod happily. “Mm-hmm.”

“How are you feeling?” he asks, his gaze attentive, checking you over.

“Cold,” you answer, wrapping your arms around yourself.

He reaches up a hand to feel your forehead. Still warm, but still steadily coming down over time. He’s satisfied enough with your progress. You'll be out of here in no time.

The prospect disappoints him just a little.

“Yeah, your body is having trouble regulating its temperature,” he explains, his thumb stroking delicately along your hairline. “We’ll need to keep these cool packs on you a little while longer.”

Just as his hand retreats, your hand catches his wrist. You press his palm to your cheek, almost nuzzling into it like an affectionate kitten.

“Your hands are so warm,” you murmur, eyelids slipping shut as you revel in the sensation.

The gesture catches him off guard, but he doesn’t pull away. He couldn’t even if he wanted to, and he certainly doesn’t want to.

“Easy there, gorgeous,” he chuckles softly. “I need that hand for doctoring.”

Your eyelids flutter halfway open, and you look up at him with a lazy grin, clearly pleased as punch. “You think I'm gorgeous?”

Jack freezes for a moment. The word had slipped out without him even registering it, familiar and endeared and entirely too revealing. 

“I plead the fifth,” he replies, warmth creeping up his neck.

You giggle again. God, that sound does things to his heart that are medically concerning.

“I think you’re gorgeous,” you mumble dreamily.

Jack blinks in surprise.

He’s been a little too fond of you for a while now, been staring a little too long when you brush past him in the halls. And he’s suspected before that it might not be completely one-sided. He sees how you receive his attention and praise differently than the other attendings, how you look at him with more than just the admiration of a mentor. But suspecting it and having it be confirmed are two different things. Especially since you wouldn’t be saying any of this if you were sober.

He tries to laugh it off before his ego can run away with the compliment. “I think you’re high.”

You shrug. “Maybe. But I always think you’re gorgeous.”

Removing his palm from your cheek, you examine it with fascination, running a finger along the deep set lines. “I think about these,” you say thoughtfully. “All the time.”

Jack is a little ashamed at how quickly that comment goes straight to his cock. His favorite resident, fantasizing about his hands, maybe even touching yourself to the thought of them, wishing your own fingers were his—

He drags his free hand over his face and mutters, "Jesus Christ."

“Can I tell you a secret?” You peer up at him again, that goofy, starstruck smile returning. “I’ve got, like, the biggest crush on you.”

Unfortunately for Jack, there is very little time to process this very interesting information before his phone buzzes again. Just beyond the doors, he can hear the familiar sound of what is likely a high-priority trauma heading into the bay. Voices overlapping in urgent tones, gurney wheels on tile floor, grunts and yelps of pain from a patient.

Jack crosses to the door in two steps, and speaks over his shoulder to you. “Hey, baby, I gotta handle something. Stay out of trouble, okay?”

As the door swings shut behind him, he just manages to catch the sound of you happily mumbling to yourself, “He called me baby.”

Which is how he heads into Trauma 1 with a smile on his face, entirely too cheerful for a man facing down a compound femur fracture. 

The shift that would never fucking end is almost fucking over. And all Jack can think about is you. You and your moony, lovey-dovey eyes and your wide, childlike smile. You gazing up at him and crooning I have the biggest crush on you. You giggling and telling him point-blank that you’re ovulating.

As he rolls out of yet another demanding trauma, Lena updates him on your condition. You’re rehydrated and back to a normal temperature, pretty much ready for discharge if you can be released to someone who will take care of you. He returns to your room, finding you unhooked from your IV and cold-pack-free, happily set up with another lollipop.

“Jack, you’re back!” you exclaim, and then laugh at your accidental rhyme.

Still rolling, he thinks. He checks his watch. According to your best guess of when you took the ‘aspirin’ in your friend’s purse, it’s been about four hours. You'll be due to start coming down anytime in the next two hours or so. He's due to head out, but he can’t bring himself to go home until he knows you’re leaving in capable hands.

“Hey, sunshine.” He offers you a tired but warm smile. “Seems like you’re in pretty good shape here, and you should be tapering off pretty soon. You got anybody to take you home, keep an eye on you?”

A little crease forms between your brows as you think hard. “I don’t know where my friend went when the ambulance came. And I think my phone died,” you add pathetically, gesturing to the device in your lap and its terminally black screen.

Jack pinches the bridge of his nose. He can’t in good conscience leave you to your own devices, especially when you’ve never taken ecstasy before. At worst, there’s still a chance you could have some kind of reaction. At best, the comedown is sure to knock you on your ass. 

He can only think of one thing to do. It's not the best idea. It might not even be a good idea. But his brain is too addled from the long shift to come up with anything better. And you need someone to take care of you.

“Jesus. Okay,” he mutters to himself, then sits on the edge of the exam table, bringing his face level to yours. “Listen up, sunshine.”

You gaze at him intently, attention vacillating occasionally between his eyes and his mouth. Jack has a feeling that what he’s about to say will go in one ear and right out the other. But there’s a chance you’ll retain it, so he says it anyway.

“You're gonna have a pretty serious crash when you come down. All those happy little chemicals that are making you feel good right now?” He gives you a soft little tap against your temple, and you giggle softly. He continues, “They’re gonna go on vacation for a day or two. I don't want you dealing with that on your own. So I'm gonna take you to my place, just to watch out for you until you’re feeling a little more like yourself.”

You’re quiet for a minute, your brain catching up and computing the meaning of what he just said. When it finishes, the lightbulb goes off behind your eyes, and you ask excitedly, “We’re having a sleepover?”

Of course that would be your takeaway. 

He chuckles as he helps you to your feet. “That's right. You got it.”

When Jack drapes his hoodie over your shoulders and guides you out of the Pitt to his car, he’s reminded of all the reasons that this is probably a terrible idea.

He sees the watchful eyes and the knowing smirks of the nurses. He sees Parker and Crus snickering behind their hands. He sees Shen counting up his winnings from the betting pool, because he wrote down molly and tripsitter Abbot.

And he feels your hand clinging to his bicep, sees how you gaze up at him with a dreamy expression as he walks you out to his car. He’s knows he’s really going to need to behave himself for a few hours, because there’s a very good chance that you won’t, and Jack doesn’t want to accidentally take advantage of your… impaired judgement.

You spend most of the ride with your face by the cracked car window, feeling the wind on your face, eyes blissfully closed. Jack thanks his lucky stars that he thought to give the apartment a once-over before shift, so he isn’t bringing you into a total mess.

He walks you into his bedroom and gestures to the en-suite. “Bathroom’s there, if you want to take a shower. I'll find you something a little more… comfortable to wear,” he adds, peeling his eyes away from your tiny little shirt and how you’re already fussing with the straps.

As he turns to his bureau to find you a t-shirt, he feels arms wrapping around his middle, your body molding to his back as you embrace him with a sigh. “Thank you for being so nice to me.”

Jack swallows and delicately removes your hands, stepping out of your embrace and ushering you in the direction of the bathroom.

“Go on, then,” he instructs you. “While you’re still upright.”

You barely even register it as rejection, heading towards the shower and wiggling out of your top before Jack even has the chance to close the door behind you. Which he does, quickly and with his eyes glued to the floor.

His instincts were right. He will very much need to behave himself while you’re here.

He busies himself while you shower by changing out of his scrubs and assembling a meal. It's a humble offering — just a couple of sandwiches and frozen french fries heated up in the oven, but it’s better than nothing. 

After about twenty minutes, you emerge from the bedroom with damp hair and your face scrubbed clean, clad in one of his t-shirts and a pair of his boxers, smelling like his soap. You lean on his kitchen island with a contented little sigh. 

Jack repeats it to himself like a mantra — behave yourself.

“Time to eat something,” he says, sliding one of the plates toward you.

“I’m not hungry.”

“I know. But I'm trying to set you up for success here, so you don’t feel as awful when this is out of your system. When's the last time you ate?” he asks.

You rest your chin on your hand as you think back. “I had… lunch.”

“Thought so.” He puts the plate into your hands and steers you in the direction of the couch with a hand on your lower back. “You and I are gonna eat these sandwiches, drink some water, and watch Planet Earth.”

You gasp in delight and plop down onto the couch. “I love Planet Earth!”

He knows you do. You'd gushed about it being your favorite docuseries at work, and he’d bragged about owning the box set. It had been the first day you and he had really started to bond.

Once the tv is on, it thankfully keeps you occupied. You chew your food slowly, enraptured with the beautiful imagery on the screen. Managing a decent effort with the meal, you eat half the sandwich and most of the fries before you start to lose a little steam.

You abandon your plate on the coffee table, then take Jack completely by surprise as you lean over to lay your head in his lap.

He goes still for a moment, unsure if he should be allowing this. But he doesn’t have the heart to push you away, so he puts his plate aside and lets a hand come to rest on your shoulder.

You sigh happily and snuggle closer.

It's been so long since Jack has taken care of someone like this that he’d almost forgotten what it feels like. How good it feels to be needed. The easy intimacy of sharing a space, sharing a meal, of letting someone melt against you after a long night.

Affectionately, he brushes a stray lock of hair out of your face, and you practically purr in response, leaning into his hand. So Jack keeps doing it, keeps gently stroking his fingers through your hair, preferring to watch your relaxing form instead of the polar bears on screen.

The two of you spend nearly an hour like that, until your breath starts to take on that even, drowsy quality and Jack’s own brain starts calling for rest. He gently eases you off his lap to sit up, takes you by the hand and leads you to bed, already resigning himself to the aching back that a couch nap is going to earn him.

Jack sets you up with a glass of water and the best blankets in the linen closet. As he turns to head back to the living room, your hand grabs his arm, pulling him back.

“Stay.”

Your voice is low and warm. You're sitting up in his bed, his sheets pooled around your knees. Your eyes are dark, tempting, pleading.

Jack knows dangerous territory when he sees it.

Still, your serotonin is due to start dropping any time now, and hurt feelings are only going to be worsened once it does. Jack sits carefully on the edge of the bed, maintaining a few inches of distance, his other hand gently cradling your cheek.

“Sorry, sunshine. Not a good idea.”

You move closer, your gaze fixed firmly on his mouth. “Why?”

Best behavior, Jack. 

“Because you’re still tapering off. Plus, I just worked a long shift and I need to sleep.” He takes in a deep breath as he feels your hand slide across his shoulders. “And I've got a feeling I won't be getting much rest next to you.”

In a move so surprising that Jack is momentarily powerless to stop it, you rise up onto your knees and shift to straddle one of his thighs.

“What if I promise to be really, really good?” you murmur sweetly.

Jack knows he should stop you, and he almost does. But then you rock your hips on his thigh, the tiniest little life-ruining movement, and you let out the softest, neediest little sound. Suddenly, Jack is hanging onto his sanity and self control-by a thread. And that thread is fraying rapidly.

“Baby,” he whispers, half warning and half plea. His hands come to your hips, torn between stopping you and spurring you on.

Your hips rock again, more purposeful this time. “Please,” you beg quietly, so close now that your lips just barely brush against his.

For a few shameful moments, Jack forgets about his fatigue and the ache in his leg and he wonders… how morally reprehensible would it really be to just let you get off on his thigh? You’d said yourself that you’re ovulating, probably making you even needier. Fuck, he can feel how badly you want it, wetness soaking through the boxers you’re wearing and Jack’s sweatpants. Would it really be so awful of him to sit passively as you hump his leg to get the relief you’re clearly so desperate for? To take pity on you and let you use him for your pleasure? 

But he knows it would be wrong, because he’d be getting off on it even if you didn’t touch him. You're not in your right mind, and he doesn’t want to make you come for the first time when you’re whacked out on MDMA.

Summoning the will from deep inside himself, he stills your hips and eases you off of his thigh, ignoring your whines as he nudges you back onto the pillows.

“It wouldn’t be right. I'm not touching you until you’re sober,” he says firmly.

Jack gets to his feet and tucks the blankets around you. “I’ll see you in a few hours. Wake me if you need anything.” He laughs softly at the pointed pouting look you shoot his way. “Other than that.”

“You’re no fun,” you call after him as he retreats into the living room.

Once the bedroom door is shut behind him, he collapses on the couch and wrestles off his prosthetic, punching a throw pillow a few times to soften it before going horizontal. Even after what felt like the longest shift he’s had in months, he’s unsure how much sleep he’ll actually manage to get knowing you’re in the next room. Probably snuggling one of his pillows as if it’s him, probably squeezing your thighs together until the last of the drugs leave your system.

He groans and rolls over, willing his body and his still half-hard cock to go to sleep.

You wake feeling like death warmed over.

You’re in a bed that doesn’t belong to you, but smells familiar and comforting. Same with your clothes. A few memories make it through the fog, blurry and out of order. Planet Earth. Jack’s hand, warm and pleasant on your cheek. An ambulance ride. Lena ruffling your hair and handing you a lollipop. A shower with a chair and a grab bar and soap that smells like Jack.

You’re at Jack's apartment, you realize with a start.

Checking the time groggily, you observe that you've slept from the early morning until late afternoon. Thank god you’d asked for tonight off as well, anticipating you’d need recovery time after Pitt Fest. 

You can vaguely recall the warm, fuzzy feelings you’d experienced last night. In the abstract, at least. Now, you feel mostly guilt and shame and embarrassment and anxiety. How could you have been so stupid?

Sounds of life echo from the kitchen, which means Jack has woken up ahead of you. Your guilt sharpens. Jack is spending his hard-earned downtime taking care of you, because of your own carelessness.

Fatigue clings to your bones as you shuffle to the bathroom. The reflection in the mirror is less than kind. Dark shadows frame your eyes, worse than the usual bags worn by the night shift crew. Your hair is a mess, and you sigh as you comb your fingers through to tame it.

Time to face the music.

You trudge out into the kitchen, where Jack is wearing an apron over a t-shirt and sweats and cooking an omelette, looking awfully chipper for having slept seven hours on the couch. He looks so good that it briefly makes you angry. Fuck him for looking so good, while you look and feel like utter dogshit.

Of course, that annoyance turns to guilt again when he looks up and smiles.

“Hey, lover girl,” he greets you warmly as you lean on the kitchen island. “How are you feeling?”

You rub your eyes and groan, “Like I got hit by a Mack truck.”

He squeezes your shoulder fondly and grabs a plate from an overhead cabinet. “Let’s get some food and water in you.”

“Thank you,” you mutter sheepishly. “I’m sorry about… all this.”

“Don't even worry about it, sunshine.” 

Jack hands you a glass of water and starts making you a plate. You accept it with a grimace. “I'm not feeling very sunshine-y right about now. I can't remember half of what happened after I went down at the concert.”

“I hope we’ve learned not to go digging for meds in that particular friend’s purse.” He smirks and sets a plate in front of you. A vegetable omelette and buttered toast. Your appetite hasn’t yet returned to its normal levels, but your doctor brain knows that you really need to eat, so you reach for the toast first.

“Never again,” you vow as you take a bite.

In the light of day and out from under the influence of Beth's ‘aspirin,’ you get a good look at Jack's apartment for the first time as he assembles his own plate. It's not spotless, but it’s generally tidy, and it’s a very nice place. Good furniture, great windows with better blackout shades, a nice floor plan. Its niceness only makes you feel smaller.

You poke at your omelette, stewing. “Jack?”

“Yes?”

“Don't take this the wrong way, but…why am I here?”

He plates his own omelette and leans a hip against the kitchen island. “You’d never taken MDMA before, and I knew you’d be in for a hell of a drop. I didn't want you to be on your own.”

You resist the urge to frown. This whole saga is doing nothing to remedy your tragic crush on him. Did he have to be so nice and caring on top of everything else? It feels a little unfair at the moment.

“That’s… very considerate,” you mumble.

“What can I say? I'm a considerate guy.” He pops a bite of omelette into his mouth with a wink.

A thought occurs to you that briefly makes your stomach turn. “Does the whole Pitt know?”

Jack's expression tells you everything you need to know before he even speaks. “There… might have been a betting pool on the subject. Shen cleaned up.”

You drop your face into your hands. “Awesome. That's really awesome.”

Every single one of your coworkers knows that you spent the night rolling. Tears prick at your eyes beneath your palms, which only worsens your humiliation. The last thing you need right now is to cry in front of Jack Abbot. Even if it’s just because the chemicals in your brain are out of whack, it doesn't make it any less embarrassing.

“Hey.” Jack's hand finds your shoulder again. “Don’t worry about it. They're good people, no one is judging you.”

Despite your best efforts, a mortifying little sniffle slips out at the kindness in his voice. 

 “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Come here.”

You can’t bear to look up, but your breath hitches in surprise when Jack pulls you into his arms. Instantly, your brain begins to quiet, focusing on the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, the reassuring weight of his arms around you, the slow arc of his thumb rhythmically stroking your shoulder blade.

It's medicine. Oxytocin and dopamine, feel-good chemicals produced by physical touch, bolstering your brain against the sapped well of serotonin the ecstasy left in its wake. It also makes your heart flutter pathetically in your chest.

He holds you for a long moment, his grip tightening when you finally loop your arms around his waist and return the embrace.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” you whisper, allowing the comfort to sink into your skin and fill your lungs. 

“Of course.”

Jack only pulls away when you do, gently swiping a calloused thumb underneath your eye to banish the straggling tear that managed to escape. 

“Let’s get comfortable on the couch,” he says, a hand settling on your back to guide you. “You’re still on the comedown.”

You worry you might be overstaying your welcome. But Jack seems to be in no rush to get you out of his apartment, content to let you rot on his couch as long as you need to. Surely he must have better things to do on his night off than take care of you, but he sits sentry at your side without complaint.

After some consideration, Planet Earth is tabled for the time being — even if you’ve seen it before, animal death is sure to bring back the waterworks in your current state. Flipping through channels, you settle on a cheesy mid-2000s rom-com that you’ve seen before and snuggle back into the couch cushions. 

Through it all, you feel the comfort of his steady presence, his hand rubbing idle circles on your back, like an IV drip of Vitamin Jack straight to your brain. You give into the feeling, too worn out to fight it, curling into his side. Eventually, you feel a gentle graze at your scalp as he idly plays with your hair. It surprises you for a moment, but you’re not complaining in the slightest. You melt into it, eyes fluttering closed until you’re slipping in and out of a light doze.

Afternoon fades to evening, to dinnertime, to nighttime, to bedtime. Even after your intermittent sleep, your fatigue is still bone deep, and Jack insists you can stay the night. You really try to convince him to let you take the couch, but he refuses, insisting that your body needs proper rest to return to baseline. At the end of the night, he sends you off to bed with a smirk.

When you wake up in Jack's bed for the second time, it’s much less disorienting. It helps that you’re much clearer than you were seventeen hours ago. The clock reads 9:05 am — you have the whole day ahead of you to shower, change, and steel yourself for the humiliation ritual that is bound to be your shift tonight.

You stumble into the living room, bleary-eyed. Jack is reclined on the couch with a laptop and readers perched on the end of his nose. Ugh, fuck him again for looking so good.

His eyes find yours over the edge of the screen. “Hey there. You sleep good?”

“Mm-hmm,” you reply, stretching. “I'm feeling much better, I think.”

His mouth curves at the corner. “Good.”

Leaning on the edge of the couch, you sigh and glance at the clock on the wall. “I should probably head home soon, get my life together before shift tonight. Would you be able to drive me home?”

“Sure thing, sunshine.” 

After you eat breakfast and shower off the cast of bedrotting from the day before, you change back into the clothes you arrived in, which Jack took the liberty of washing for you. As much as you appreciate the gesture, you blanch at the idea of Jack handling your underwear, and try very hard not to think about that mental image.

As the quiet car ride progresses, you ponder your looming fate, mentally preparing yourself for the teasing you’ll get from the nurses and other residents. It's disorienting to not know what you’re walking into, to have been mentally absent for most of it.

You can’t resist the urge to ask anymore. “Was I a total mess?”

He nods, amused. “Yes. But a very cute mess.”

“God, this is so embarrassing,” you groan. “What did I say?”

“Are you sure you wanna know?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

That makes you pause, glancing at him warily. “…was it bad?” 

“You got a little fixated on hands for a while.” Jack pauses, like he isn’t sure how much to reveal, if you’re ready to handle it. “Said you think about mine all the time.”

Suddenly, you feel a bit sick, even though the car is headed in a straight line down the road. If that's just where it starts… if that’s not the worst of it, then what is?

“Oh god,” you whisper in horror. 

“You said you think I'm gorgeous,” he continues, voice thick with amusement. “And that you have a big ol’ crush on me. And… you might’ve tried to seduce me a little at bedtime.”

Your cheeks flare hot. This is quite possibly the worst outcome of the situation aside from death. At the moment, death feels preferable.

You stare straight ahead, sinking in your seat and pressing your hands to your forehead to try and keep your brain from exploding. “Excuse me, I'm just gonna open the door and go lay down in traffic.”

He laughs, the sound warm and fond and doing absolutely nothing to temper your embarrassment. “It's okay.”

“It is completely not okay, Jack,” you protest, turning your body away from him and towards the passenger side door, like that will save you from this conversation.

Jack places a hand on your thigh.

All the systems in your brain go down simultaneously.

His palm rests just above your knee, not high enough to be too inappropriate, but it’s intimate. Especially because your choice of garment for Pitt Fest leaves your leg bare and exposed to his touch. Never once does he take his eyes off the road.

“It was flattering,” he says coolly, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over your knee. “And extremely cute.”

He lets the assertion hang in the silence, and he doesn’t move his hand, letting it rest warm and comfortable against the soft skin of your thigh.

After some considerable effort, you remember how to breathe. Once the oxygen makes it to your brain, you manage to peel your hands away from your face and peek sideways at him. 

“…really?” you ask, because you need the confirmation. Does Jack Abbot — your mentor, the object of all your desires, and the man who just babysat you through an unwitting MDMA trip — really think you’re cute?

He gives your thigh a gentle squeeze. “Really.”

There isn’t much else to say for the rest of the car ride. Jack keeps his hand on your thigh until he turns down your street and throws the car in park. You try and fail to suppress a smile the whole way, and allow him to walk you up to your building’s front step, palms tingling with anticipation.

“I’d like to do this again sometime,” he says as you unlock the main entrance. “Minus the party drugs.”

You grin up at him, slightly emboldened by the revelations that occurred in the car. “You wanna have another sleepover?”

“Very much.” His eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles back. “See you tonight?”

“See you tonight.”

You turn to head inside, but Jack catches your elbow. “Hey. One last thing.”

Before you have time to register his closeness, a hand slides along your waist, another cupping your jaw, and Jack is kissing you.

A warm, pleasant feeling floods you from top to toe, a high rivalling the chemical one you’d experienced twenty-eight hours ago. He kisses you like he’s been thinking about it that entire twenty-eight hours. It's tender and hungry at the same time. By the time he pulls away, your lips follow after his and you almost stumble forward into his arms.

You open your eyes and blink up at him, feeling a little dazed and starstruck again.

“Had to wait until you were level,” Jack murmurs. He gives you a lingering peck at the corner of your mouth and descends down the front steps to his car.

You beam after him.

Reid hums as he glances back down at his book. “Interesting how your clothing choices become statistically less practical in direct correlation to Hotch’s proximity.”

Your stomach flips. “Spence.”

He lifts one shoulder. “What? He’s not listening.”

You glance back at Morgan, whose eyes are glued to his phone, brow furrowed just slightly as he waits for the whirring coffee machine to fill his cup.

“That’s not the point, Spencer,” you mutter, turning back to him. “You need to—”

The conference room door swings open again and Hotch walks in—files tucked under one arm, the rest of the team trailing behind him.

“Morning,” he says, dropping the files on the table. “Hope everyone had a good weekend.”

Morgan snorts. “What weekend?”

“Yeah,” Prentiss mutters, dropping into the seat beside Reid. “I was here until five on Saturday finishing geographical profiles.”

“That’s because you alphabetise your paperwork,” you point out.

She gives you a look. “I enjoy being proficient.”

“Well,” you say lightly, leaning back in your chair “some of us managed to finish our paperwork on Friday and still have a very enjoyable weekend.”

Garcia gasps dramatically as she falls into the last empty chair, coffee in hand. “Ooh, look at you. Was there a man involved?”

You shrug one shoulder, biting back a smile. “I’m choosing to plead the fifth.”

Morgan points across the table. “That means yes.”

“Or,” Reid says without looking up from his book, “it means she enjoys making people speculate.”

“Aw, Spence,” you tease. “Don’t sound so bitter.”

He finally looks up from his book and fixes you with a look so flat it borders on threatening—because he knows what you’re doing. It’s what you always do. It’s how you manipulate their perception. How you keep your secret.

You perform.

You scroll through dating profiles, talk about men, brag about your weekends without ever being too specific. You flirt with almost everyone on the team—Reid more than the rest, because he’s your scapegoat... and your best friend.

He’s the only one who can see through the charade. Not because he’s emotionally perceptive, but because he did the math. He noticed the pattern. He realised very quickly that every time Hotch walks into a room or says your name, you react in a way that can only mean one thing:

Hotch is the secret you’re trying so hard to hide.

Because if you give a team of profilers an easy explanation—harmless flirting with a messy dating life and a weakness for attention—they won’t notice the way your entire body betrays you whenever your infuriatingly gorgeous boss gets too close.

Hotch clears his throat. “Well, lucky for all of you, it’s a quiet week.”

Reid shuts his book and sets it on the table.

“No active cases as of this morning,” Hotch continues. “Which means we’ll be catching up on consults, court reports, and the mountain of paperwork everyone’s apparently been neglecting.”

His eyes meet yours for the briefest second, and your pulse skitters.

“I’m bored already,” Morgan sighs, leaning back in his chair.

Hotch ignores him. “We’ve got two local consult requests from Fairfax County and a follow-up review from the Richardson case. Dave, I’ll need your notes finalised by this afternoon.”

Rossi nods once. “You’ll have them.”

“Garcia,” Hotch continues, “the Milwaukee office wants that digital forensic review by Wednesday.”

Garcia gasps softly, pressing a hand to her chest. “But I already colour-coded my entire week. That review wasn’t supposed to be due for another fortnight.”

Morgan blinks. “You colour-code your schedule?”

“Obviously,” Garcia says. “How else would I maintain my sparkling personality under crushing institutional pressure?”

Reid straightens. “Technically, organising information activates the same reward pathways as—”

“Don’t,” Prentiss says immediately.

Reid frowns slightly. “I was just going to say gambling.”

You snort softly before you can stop yourself, covering it quickly with your hand. Reid shoots you a look. Prentiss just shakes her head. And when your eyes finally flick back to the front of the room, Hotch is already watching you.

Not the team. You.

Your stomach twists.

That signature Hotchner scowl should not be as hot as it is. It shouldn’t make you cross your legs a little tighter or make your heart race the way it does. You should be used to that scowl by now. You’re on the receiving end of it often enough—whenever you crack a poorly timed joke or flirt a little too hard with Morgan.

Yet somehow, you still feel like you can’t breathe until his gaze finally shifts.

“Moving on,” he says evenly, “JJ will forward the consult details after the meeting.”

He spends the next thirty minutes briefing the team on consults and court appearances while you do your best to stay focused—but it’s hard. It’s hard because every time you look at him, your gaze drops to his mouth and your mind fills with all sorts of filthy ideas. Then he starts moving his hands as he explains something and you can’t help but wonder what they might feel like wrapped around your waist, your thighs, your throat.

His voice is a low rumble at the back of your mind, warm and firm, but you have no idea what he’s actually saying. All you can do is think about how that voice might sound, wrecked and rough, telling you how pretty you look when you—

“The briefing ended three minutes ago,” Reid says.

You blink hard. “What?”

He closes his notebook with a sigh. “The meeting’s over. You can stop internally monologuing now.”

You frown. “I’m not—”

He gives you a look.

“Ugh,” you groan. “You’re so annoying.”

You push up from your chair and walk out of the conference room without waiting for him, but you’re not surprised that he’s right behind you by the time you reach the bullpen. You drop down at your desk with another indignant huff, watching Reid do the same from the corner of your eye.

Everyone else is already settled at their desks—keyboards clicking, pens scribbling—and there’s a fresh stack of files next to your computer with a sticky note on top that reads: Fairfax files. Prioritize pages 12–18. – Hotch.

You want to laugh at the little sign-off, as if anyone else would have put these files on your desk. Your fingers trace over the note once before you peel it off and stick it to the bottom corner of your computer screen.

Reid snorts. “You know most people throw those away, right?”

You glance sideways at him. “I don’t want to forget the page numbers.”

He hums. “Sure.”

“You know,” you say, turning your chair to properly face him, “you’re being particularly judgemental today. What’s your problem?”

He stares at you for a moment, then glances back at the sticky note still attached to your monitor.

“I’m experiencing prolonged second-hand embarrassment,” he says plainly. “And repeated exposure tends to increase irritability.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well—you’re increasing my irritability.”

He nods. “Good.”

You frown.

“I’m attempting corrective behavioural conditioning.”

Your eyes narrow. “By being annoying?”

“Exactly,” he says, already turning back to his computer.

You glare at the side of his head for a long moment, searching for a comeback—but your mind is completely blank. So with another irritated sigh, you turn back to your own screen, scoot your chair into the desk a little harder than necessary, and settle in for what’s shaping up to be a very boring Monday.

The next two hours pass by in a blur of interview transcripts, witness statements, and crime scene photos. The Fairfax County PD files detail the death of a woman in her late thirties who accidentally overdosed in her Reston home early last week. No prior history of substance abuse, financial instability, or high-risk behaviour—until forty-eight hours before her death.

In just two days, she withdrew a large amount of money, missed work without explanation, visited several bars she’d never been to before, and bought herself thousands of dollars’ worth of expensive jewellery and lingerie.

To anyone else, it might look like some sort of breakdown—an impulsive spiral that led to the kind of recklessness you can’t come back from. But to you, the behaviour feels too... artificial. As if someone is trying to construct the narrative of a troubled woman—checking all the right boxes to give investigators an easy explanation for a tragic overdose.

Only there isn’t enough concrete evidence to support your instinct. No stalker. No ex. No clear unsub who could have orchestrated this kind of ruse to cover what might actually be homicide.

You sigh. “Reid.”

“Hm?”

“Tell me if I’m overthinking this.”

Reid pushes back from his desk and scoots across the narrow stretch of carpet between your workstations. He doesn’t stop until his chair bumps the side of your desk, causing your pen cup to topple over and spill across the files you’ve got carefully laid out.

“Oops,” he says absently, pushing the pens aside.

You roll your eyes and start gathering them while he scans the files.

“The behavioural shift feels manufactured,” you say, dropping the pens back into their cup. “But there’s enough legitimate stressors here that I can’t tell if I’m forcing a pattern because it’s too clean.”

Reid examines the highlighted timeline for another few seconds.

“You’re focusing too much on the existence of the stressors,” he says. “Stress explains escalation. It doesn’t explain inconsistency.”

You frown slightly.

“She suddenly becomes impulsive socially, financially, and sexually, but her organisational habits never change.” He taps the timeline. “She still pays bills early. Still meal preps. Still attends a dentist appointment two days before her death. Real behavioural deterioration isn’t usually selective.”

Your brows lift. “So, I’m right?”

Reid nods, leaning back in his chair. “You’re right.”

“What’s she right about?”

You nearly jump at the sound of Hotch’s voice—low and even, a little rough around the edges in that way that always makes your stomach tighten.

“She thinks the behavioural shift is staged,” Reid says. “And I agree.”

He scoots back slightly as Hotch leans in, one hand braced on the back of your chair while the other pulls the file closer so he can read it properly. His tie falls forward, brushing lightly against your thigh—and suddenly, you can’t breathe.

He’s close. Way too close. You can feel the heat of his breath on your skin. Smell the bitterness of coffee beneath his cologne. Hear the quiet creak of leather from his belt as he leans in further.

“It’s too compartmentalised,” Reid says, his voice more distant than it was just a second ago. “Real behavioural spirals usually bleed into every aspect of a person’s routine. Sleep disruption, missed payments, changes in grooming habits, social withdrawal—something.”

Hotch lifts his hand off the desk and presses his thumb to the tip of his tongue—then flips the page.

Your pulse jumps so hard it almost hurts. Heat crawls up the back of your neck. Your whole body feels too hot, your clothes suddenly too tight, the bullpen too small—but you can’t move. Not with Hotch’s hand still on the back of your chair.

“But this is curated,” Reid goes on, tapping the timeline with the end of his pen. “The impulsive behaviour escalates while the foundational routines stay completely intact, which suggests intentional narrative construction.”

Hotch turns his head just slightly, dark eyes finding yours. “You caught that?”

You clear your throat. “I just... thought the escalation pattern felt off.”

“Her behavioural analysis is spot on, actually,” Reid says. “I can’t find a flaw in it.”

Hotch hums quietly as his eyes move back over the file.

“Good girl,” he says absently.

Your entire nervous system short-circuits.

“Keep it up,” he adds, smoothing his tie as he straightens.

You don’t say anything as he turns and walks away. You couldn’t even if you wanted to.

Reid just sits there, hands folded in his lap as he watches Hotch disappear into his office before slowly turning back toward you.

“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “the age-gap preference is actually more interesting than the authority fixation.”

You finally blink. “What?”

“Because the authority thing makes perfect sense. High-pressure careers tend to reinforce attraction to competence, decisiveness, emotional restraint—especially in workplace environments where leadership qualities become psychologically linked with safety and stability over long periods of exposure.”

You frown. “What are you—”

“But the older man preference is statistically more complicated because you don’t actually display the attachment markers usually associated with paternal absence or instability.”

Your eyes go wide. “Spencer—”

“You have a healthy relationship with your father, no documented authority issues, and relatively secure interpersonal attachment patterns, which suggests the preference is less psychologically compensatory and more rooted in behavioural reinforcement.”

“Reid.”

“For example,” he goes on, ignoring you completely, “you spent your formative professional years surrounded almost exclusively by older men in positions of intellectual and behavioural authority. Gideon, Rossi, Hotch—which likely created a reinforcement pattern where emotional competence became unconsciously associated with attraction, arousal, and sexual interest.”

You freeze. “Reid, I swear to—”

“You don’t react this strongly to older men generally,” he continues. “You react strongly to Hotch because he’s emotionally controlled, professionally authoritative, intellectually intimidating, and—”

He pauses, tilting his head.

“Very obviously your type.”

You glance frantically around the bullpen, scanning the desks for the rest of your team.

Morgan has his headphones on, completely focused on whatever report he’s typing. JJ’s desk is empty, as usual—she’s probably with Garcia. And Prentiss is only halfway back from the kitchen, still stirring her fresh cup of coffee.

Your gaze cuts back to Reid. “You are so lucky no one heard that, Spencer.”

He shrugs. “Wouldn’t matter if they did.”

Your brows pull together. “What’s that mean?”

“You’re good at redirecting attention,” he says, slowly pushing his chair back toward his desk. “You’re less good at hiding physiological responses.”

Your hand flies up to your cheek, palm pressing flat against the burning skin.

“Whatever,” you mutter. “It’s warm in here.”

Reid glances around the bullpen. “It’s sixty-eight degrees.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

You shoot him one last glare before turning back toward your computer, aggressively waking up the monitor with your mouse.

You stay chained to your desk for the next few hours, finishing up the victimology report for the Fairfax files before taking them to Rossi for final review. Then you head out with JJ to grab a late lunch from the deli down the street, and when you get back, there’s a brand-new stack of files on your desk—only this time, with a tall takeaway cup of coffee set on top.

“Hotch got dragged into some last-minute Section Chief meeting across town,” Morgan says, pushing his headphones down. “Said he needs those cross-referenced before tomorrow morning.”

“Great,” you mutter, dropping into your chair.

Morgan chuckles softly as he pulls his headphones back up, turning back to his own pile of reports.

You grab the coffee from the top of the files and find a sticky note stuck beneath it—written quickly but still in his unmistakable handwriting: I owe you one. – Hotch.

Your stomach flips.

God. That’s pathetic.

You peel the note off and drop it into the top drawer of your desk, not wanting another psychoanalytic lecture from Reid if he were to spot that note stuck to your monitor.

The rest of the day passes the way every other caseless Monday afternoon does. JJ’s the first to head out—not long after five—taking advantage of the slow week to spend a little extra time with Henry. Rossi leaves about an hour later, announcing to the bullpen that he’s got a date with a bottle of wine and reruns of his favourite medical drama. Morgan manages to clear the files on his desk before seven, finally putting his headphones away before bidding the rest of the team farewell.

Prentiss and Reid linger until nearly nine, and only when the motion sensor lights blink out does Prentiss finally glance up, realising how late it is. She gathers her things and nudges Reid, who’s been firmly stuck in hyperfocus mode despite the rest of the world quietly slowing down around him.

“You coming?” he asks, adjusting the strap of his satchel.

You look up slowly, your brain buffering as it untangles itself from the files spread across your desk.

“Not yet,” you reply, blinking tiredly. “Hotch needs these by morning.”

Reid tilts his head. “Want me to wait?”

You wave a hand. “Nah, go ahead. I’ll get security to walk me to my car.”

“Alright,” he says, already turning away. “Just remember that positive reinforcement loses effectiveness when the subject becomes emotionally dependent on it.”

You glare at his back. “I’m reporting you to HR.”

“You’d have to explain the context,” he calls over his shoulder.

You roll your eyes as you turn back to the last file on your desk, taking a deep breath and flipping it open.

With the bullpen almost completely silent and the promise of sleep so close you can taste it, you manage to get through it in record time. You even give it a quick second pass to make sure you didn’t miss anything glaringly obvious in your tired state—but you’re used to working through sleep deprivation, and by ten p.m., you finally start packing up.

You organise the files back into a neat pile, then open the top drawer of your desk for Hotch’s note. You stick it to the top file and grab a pen, scribbling just below the words he wrote: Dangerous thing to promise me.

And, just as he did, you sign off with your name.

Then you gather the whole stack in your arms and cross the bullpen toward his office. Unlocked, as usual. You nudge the door open with your foot, warm lamplight casting an orange glow over the quiet space. It smells faintly like coffee and his cologne—enough to make your heart start racing the second you step inside.

You set the files neatly on his desk, trying not to linger on the quiet traces of him scattered throughout the room.

There’s still half a mug of cold coffee abandoned beside some paperwork, and the cashmere sweater he’d been wearing beneath his jacket this morning is draped haphazardly over the back of his chair. Quiet evidence of just how suddenly he’d been called away.

It makes you feel a little better knowing you really have helped him out.

You adjust the files until they’re perfectly straight, then take the sweater from the back of his chair and fold it neatly before setting it on the chest of drawers beside his desk. You hesitate for just a second before grabbing the mug of cold coffee and heading out of his office, straight for the break room. You empty it, wash it, dry it, then return to his office, placing it back on his desk exactly where you found it. Then you switch the lamp off on your way out, pulling the door most of the way shut behind you—the way it’d been before you stepped inside.

It doesn’t take long for you to gather your things, head down to security, and badge out. One of the guards escorts you to the parking garage, waiting until you’re safely inside your car with the engine running before he takes the elevator back up.

Once home, you quickly feed the yowling Leia—your cat, who’s very unimpressed by your late arrival—take a quick shower, change into your comfiest, threadbare sleep shirt, then crawl into bed with your laptop balanced on your knees. You know you should just try to get some sleep, but you’ve been ignoring a few personal messages and emails for a couple days now, and you know that if you don’t get to them soon, you’ll start to feel guilty.

You open your emails, reply to a couple, then pull up a new browser tab and type in the login address for the dating site Garcia set you up for. Not that you couldn’t have set up your own profile if you’d really wanted to.

No—this profile is just the unintentional byproduct of your ongoing attempt to redirect attention.

One slow Thursday evening in the bullpen, while you’d been loudly complaining about how impossible it was to meet men with a job like yours, Morgan had the brilliant idea of making you a dating profile. Garcia immediately lit up at the idea, pulling the site up on her computer while Reid launched into a rambling statistical analysis about the probability of finding genuine compatibility online.

Hotch hadn’t contributed to the conversation, but you’d known he was listening.

That had been the whole point. You always perform a little harder when Hotch can hear.

The site finally loads and you type in your credentials, waiting a few seconds for your profile to pop up.

Twelve notifications.

You click on the ‘messages’ tab and start scrolling. There are a few old conversations that fizzled out and you’ve long since decided not to reply to. There are a couple of messages from people you never intend on starting a conversation with. Then there are two new messages—ones you’d seen pop up on your phone but couldn’t be bothered to engage with over the weekend.

After all, you’re not actually looking to date anyone.

But one of the messages catches your eye.

DCRunner00: You seem like the kind of person who’s either very funny or very mean. I’m willing to risk it.

You snort, then type out a reply.

You: Unfortunately for you, those traits aren’t mutually exclusive.

Just as you hit enter, Leia leaps up onto the bed.

“Hey, sassy girl,” you coo, moving your laptop to reach for her.

Your fingers graze her soft coat, and she gives you an incredibly disapproving look.

You roll your eyes. “Alright. Sorry for loving you.”

You settle back against the pillows as she makes her way to the other side of the bed, curling up as far as she can possibly get from you.

Ping! Ping! Two more messages pop up.

DCRunner00: That’s probably the best possible answer you could’ve given. DCRunner00: So what’s your worst personality trait? I feel like that’s more interesting than hobbies.

That answer comes a little too easily.

You: Workaholic. You? DCRunner00: I get bored easily. DCRunner00: Which usually means I either start running or annoying people for entertainment. You: Sounds like a public safety issue. DCRunner00: Depends who you ask. DCRunner00: You should probably get some sleep, Workaholic. It’s late.

You glance over at Leia as she rolls onto her side, stretching her front legs, and only then do you realise you were actually smiling at your screen.

You shake your head, typing quickly.

You: Yeah, I should. You: Night, Running Man.

Then you shut your laptop before he can send another message.

TUESDAY 9:50AM

“Morgan, you’re with me at district court this afternoon,” Hotch says, closing the file in front of him. “The defence attorney’s pushing back on the Richardson testimony, so we’ll need to review our timeline before the hearing.”

He’s wearing a grey suit today.

You can never think straight when he’s wearing a grey suit.

Morgan sighs dramatically. “Nothing says excitement like four hours in a courthouse basement.”

Hotch ignores him completely.

“JJ, I want the media requests filtered through Strauss’s office before lunch. Reid, finish the geographic overlays from the Fairfax case and send them to Rossi when you’re done.”

He glances once around the table.

“If anything urgent comes in, you’ll be notified. Otherwise, continue using this downtime to catch up on reports.”

Then he gathers the files into a neat stack and stands, turning toward the door.

The rest of the room starts moving slowly. Morgan mutters something to JJ about the court hearing, Prentiss turns to Reid, asking something about a case you don’t quite catch, and Garcia is already explaining something on her laptop to Rossi, who’s watching the screen with quiet concentration.

Which leaves you to shamelessly stare at your boss’ ass as he walks out of the room.

“You should probably blink.”

Your head snaps toward Reid, frown already forming. “I’ll blink when I want to blink.”

He presses his lips together to keep from laughing, and you know he’s fighting the urge to launch into some deeply unwanted psychoanalysis of your behaviour—but thankfully, the rest of the team is still too close for him to risk it.

Eventually, everyone starts filing out of the conference room and back into the bullpen. You end up being the last to leave, behind Reid and Garcia who are chatting animatedly about some new phone app they’re both obsessed with.

You’re just about to pass Hotch’s office door when—you hear your name.

You turn your head, and he gestures for you to come in.

Reid glances briefly over his shoulder, an irritatingly knowing look on his face as you turn and step into Hotch’s office.

You clear your throat, stopping a few feet from the desk. “Sir?”

“How late were you here last night?” he asks.

You lift a shoulder. “About ten.”

His jaw shifts as he leans back in his chair. “That’s late.”

“Morgan said you needed them done by the morning.”

“I didn’t mean first thing,” he says, smoothing the end of his tie. “You could’ve finished the rest before lunch.”

You blink. “Oh.”

His gaze holds yours for a second too long.

“You don’t need to stay late to impress me.”

Your eyes widen slightly before you force out a small, awkward laugh. “Oh—uh—good to know.”

He glances briefly at the navy-blue cashmere sweater still folded neatly on the chest of drawers.

“Still,” he says, lower this time. “I appreciated it. The files, and… everything else.”

Your breath catches softly in your throat.

“Anytime, sir,” you manage.

He nods once, then drops his gaze back to the paperwork on his desk.

You don’t need any more of a dismissal than that, so you turn quickly and step out, pulling the door shut behind you. He prefers it closed, even if he won’t admit it because he doesn’t want the team to think he’s shutting them out. He’s just more comfortable in private—it helps him focus.

By the time you get back to your desk, everyone else is already settled and working quietly. Not even Reid glances up or offers a teasing remark.

You drop into your chair and wriggle your mouse, grabbing your phone while you wait for the screen to wake up.

Two new messages from DCRunner00.

DCRunner00: Running Man? DCRunner00: Great book. Slightly concerning nickname, though.

You can’t help yourself, so you type out a quick reply.

You: Better than ‘Workaholic’. You: You read Stephen King?

“Hey, you busy?”

You glance over at Reid. “Aren’t we all?”

He tilts his head. “You’re on your phone.”

“I could be working.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

“Good,” he says, shuffling the files on his desk. “Hotch wants us to prep the full geographic and timeline package for the Fairfax files in case it turns into an active investigation.”

You sigh, already pushing back from your desk. “And by ‘us’ you mean...?”

“I could use your help.”

“Fine,” you mutter, setting your phone down.

He scoots over as you roll your chair toward his desk, settling in beside him. The files are all laid out, including your victimology report with Rossi’s few annotations. There are crime scene reports, autopsy summaries, witness statements, geographic overlays, and maps—everything needed to justify escalating the case into a full BAU investigation.

“Where do you want to start?”

“I’m trying to rebuild the geographic timeline digitally,” he says, “but half the field reports were logged out of sequence and now the movement patterns don’t align.”

You nod. “Okay, walk me through where it stops making sense.”

Three hours later, you feel like your eyeballs are bleeding. You’ve read the same witness statement at least twenty times now, but with every pass it only makes less sense. How could Annabelle Hutton possibly be placed in two different counties less than forty minutes apart?

“It’s physically impossible,” you mutter, rubbing your eyes.

Reid hums quietly beside you. “Not necessarily.”

You stare at him. “Care to elaborate?”

“Well, depending on traffic conditions, inaccurate timestamp reporting, and the reliability of eyewitness memory retention, there are at least four scenarios where the timeline could still technically work.”

You sigh, leaning back in your chair and staring up at the ceiling. “If you know so much, then why can’t you figure this out?”

He still doesn’t turn away from his screen. “I will. Eventually.”

You groan softly, dragging both hands down your face just as a familiar voice cuts through the quiet bullpen.

“No, listen to me carefully.”

Both you and Reid glance up automatically.

Hotch is walking slowly past the desks with his phone pressed to his ear, expression calm but impossibly stern in a way that immediately makes heat crawl beneath your skin.

“You don’t need to explain the problem again,” he says evenly. “You need to tell me how you’re fixing it.”

He pauses briefly beside Reid’s desk, listening.

“Then prioritise the transfer first,” he says. “If the paperwork isn’t filed before opposing counsel reviews discovery, the timeline becomes vulnerable and the entire testimony gets picked apart.”

He rests a hand on the partition between the desks, gaze fixed somewhere distant as he listens to the person on the other end.

“No,” he says after a moment, voice lower now. “I’m not asking you to stay late. I’m telling you this needs to be finished tonight.”

Your stomach flips.

This absolutely should not be as hot as it is.

“Good,” he says calmly into the phone, straightening again. “Call me when it’s done.”

Then he keeps walking, cutting through the bullpen before turning sharply toward his office.

You stare after him, the thought slipping out before you can stop it. “Do you think he talks you through it?”

“Probably,” Reid says, turning back to his screen. “High-control personalities usually prefer maintaining verbal direction in intimate situations because it reinforces predictability and compliance dynamics.”

You go still. You hadn’t actually expected an answer.

“Someone like Hotch would probably place a pretty high psychological value on responsiveness,” Reid continues. “The immediate compliance aspect reinforces authority, which means verbal direction would likely become part of the overall intimacy dynamic rather than just communication.”

Your face heats.

“Especially because he’s not impulsive enough to rely on unpredictability. He’d want constant awareness of how the other person is responding emotionally and physically, so talking them through things would help maintain control of the situation while also reinforcing trust.”

Oh my God.

“And honestly,” Reid goes on, “people with highly structured leadership personalities usually develop pretty strong positive associations with obedience because it confirms stability, attentiveness, emotional investment—” He pauses briefly. “Which means he’d probably find it disproportionately attractive when someone follows instructions immediately or responds well to praise because it validates both the authority dynamic and the emotional trust beneath it, so statistically speaking he’d—”

He stops.

Then slowly turns toward you.

“...I crossed a social boundary somewhere in there, didn’t I?”

You nod slowly, your voice coming out unnaturally high. “Just a couple.”

He sighs, dropping his chin slightly as he turns back to his screen.

You huff out a breathless laugh and lean back in your chair again. You need a minute to recover from that, because now you’re hot all over and the only thing you can think about is your boss hovering over you, praising you in that low, steady voice while his hand settles around your throat—

Fortunately, it doesn’t take Reid long to start rambling about geographic overlays again. You do your best to focus on what he’s saying, but after another hour of scrutinising the timeline inconsistencies, you decide you need an actual break.

You grab your phone and your jacket and head out of the office, sending a quick text to the team chat asking if anyone else would like a coffee from the cafe down the road. It’s a thousand times better than break room coffee.

When you step out of the elevator on the ground floor, you bring up your messages with DCRunner00. You’re not sure why, because normally you only check your profile when you feel like you need to keep up the act, but something about this guy keeps making you want to reply.

DCRunner00: I’ve read a few. DCRunner00: What does a workaholic do for fun?

You type your reply as you step out of the building.

You: Work, mostly. You: And sleep.

By the time you return to the office with a tray of four coffees, you have two new messages—but you can’t reply to them until you set the tray down at your desk.

“Thanks, pretty girl,” Morgan says as he takes one, flashing you a grin.

You smile back. “Anything for you, gorgeous.”

Then you pull your phone out of your pocket and bring up the message thread.

DCRunner00: What’s your schedule even like? DCRunner00: You strike me as an “answers emails at midnight” type of person. You: Nah. That’s my boss. You: My schedule is chaos, though.

“Thanks,” Reid says as he takes his coffee, leaving only two.

You set your phone down and take the last two coffees out of the tray, leaving one at your desk before taking the other to Hotch’s office. You can see through the window that he’s not on the phone—for once—so you knock twice on the slightly ajar door before stepping inside.

He glances up, his brows pulling together slightly. “I didn’t ask for coffee.”

“I know,” you say quickly. “But it’s almost three, and you always need another coffee around three, and I figured you probably didn’t answer the team message because you still feel bad about me staying so late last night, which you shouldn’t, by the way.”

He straightens, brows drawing tighter.

“And I know you’ve got court with Morgan this afternoon, and you’re going to try to leave early, but someone’s definitely going to call at the last second and derail that plan, so you’ll only have enough time to get to the courthouse—not enough time to stop for coffee.”

You set the cup down in front of him.

“So,” you tilt your head, “coffee.”

He leans back in his chair, studying you for a second.

“That’s some pretty solid profiling, Agent.”

Your face heats instantly.

“Well,” you say, backing slowly toward the door, “maybe now you owe me two.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly, but it’s enough for the butterflies in your stomach to explode. You can’t help but grin as you turn away, slipping quickly out the door before your lungs forget how to work entirely.

You spend the rest of the day at Reid’s desk, finishing the case package for the Fairfax files and complaining about unreliable witnesses. Hotch and Morgan head off to court just after three, announcing to the rest of the team that they won’t be back. JJ is the first to head home again around five, followed by Prentiss, then Rossi—then you and Reid finally decide to call it a day just after six.

Which is also when you finally check your messages again.

DCRunner00: Chaos how?

You type a quick reply while you wait for your car’s AC to warm up.

You: Long hours. You: Weird hours. You: And a deeply unhealthy relationship with caffeine.

Then you tuck your phone away and head out of the parking garage.

Leia is already yowling by the time you step through your apartment door. She’s always hungry, even though she has an automatic feeder for dry food—but apparently that isn’t good enough. She prefers the wet stuff.

You quickly peel open a packet of fishy-smelling chicken jelly sludge and drop it into her bowl before washing your hands and moving into your bedroom. You flip the ensuite light on and start the shower, pulling your phone out of your pocket while you wait for the water to warm.

DCRunner00: Ah. So you’re one of those people. You: Rude.

He replies almost immediately.

DCRunner00: Accurate, though? You: Unfortunately.

You drop your phone on the bed and start undressing.

Ping!

DCRunner00: What do you actually do?

You hesitate. It’s not like you can just say you’re in the FBI. Contrary to what some people might think, real FBI agents can’t just go around bragging about their highly classified work status. It’s dangerous.

You: Mostly admin. You: Governmental stuff.

You toss your phone back onto the bed and turn into the steamy ensuite. You shower quickly, dry off, run product through your damp hair, then pull on a shirt and a pair of sweatpants before heading back out into the kitchen.

You’re not in the mood to cook tonight, so you grab a protein bar out of the cupboard and start boiling the kettle while you check your phone for what feels like the hundredth time.

DCRunner00: Sounds boring. DCRunner00: Do you get days off, though?

You drop a teabag into your mug before typing out a reply.

You: Sort of. You: But if my boss calls, I answer.

He replies instantly again.

DCRunner00: I’m starting to think you secretly enjoy being overworked. You: I think I’d get bored otherwise.

You pour the boiling water into your mug and watch his next reply pop up.

DCRunner00: That sounds suspiciously unhealthy. You: Probably. What about you? What do you do?

You tuck your phone into your pocket, then grab your tea and protein bar and head to the couch. There’s nothing you’re really interested in watching—since you don’t usually have the time to keep up with any shows—so you turn on the nightly news before grabbing your laptop and pulling up a new browser.

He’s already replied by the time you log in.

DCRunner00: Run. DCRunner00: Read. DCRunner00: Annoy people professionally. You: That sounds made up.

You open your protein bar.

DCRunner00: It mostly is. DCRunner00: So your boss actually calls you outside work hours?

You hesitate at the sudden redirection. Most men on dating apps prefer talking about themselves. Their jobs, hobbies, gym routines, childhood dogs—whatever makes them seem interesting—but this guy seems far more interested in observing than being observed.

You type out a vague response.

You: Sometimes. You: Occupational hazard, I guess. DCRunner00: And you always answer? You: Pretty much. You: He’d only call if it mattered.

His next reply takes almost two minutes to come through.

DCRunner00: Hm. DCRunner00: I’m starting to think your boss gets more attention than I do.

You almost choke on your tea.

That’s... weird.

Maybe you have mentioned your boss a little more than strictly necessary, but he’s the one asking all the questions about your job. It’s a little hard not to mention your boss when your life practically revolves around him—in more ways than you care to admit.

You: Jealous already, Running Man? DCRunner00: Should I be?

You sit up straighter, suddenly a little nauseous.

You: I think you’re spending too much time talking to strangers online. DCRunner00: Maybe. DCRunner00: You still replied, though.

“Okay,” you say, startling Leia who was half-asleep on the other end of the couch. “That’s enough.”

You: I’m going to sleep. You: Try not to spiral while I’m gone.

His last message pops up just before you shut your laptop.

DCRunner00: No promises.

WEDNESDAY 8:10AM

“Come on,” you mutter, mashing the elevator button for the doors to close.

You’re a whole thirty minutes earlier than usual this morning. You didn’t even make a coffee in your travel mug before running out the door. You just woke up, brushed your teeth, checked your messages—and decided you needed to talk to Garcia immediately.

“Hey—woah.” Reid steps out of your way as you rush into the bullpen. “You’re early.”

You drop your bag on your desk and quickly shrug off your jacket.

“Is Garcia in yet?”

He frowns slightly. “I think so. Why?”

You pull your laptop out of your bag.

“I just—I need her.”

You’re already walking away before he can press any further, moving back through the bullpen with your laptop hugged against your chest. You’re just about to round the corner toward the elevators when—

“Hey—” Hotch stops short just as you nearly run into him. “Slow down. You alright?”

His hand is hovering near your waist—not quite touching, but close enough for you to feel its warmth.

You blink up at him. “Sorry. Yeah. Uh—totally fine. Just going to see Garcia about... a case.”

His brows pull together slightly.

“Alright, well, Garcia’s not going anywhere,” he says evenly. “Take a breath.”

You nod slowly, already stepping around him.

“Right,” you mutter. “Breathing. Got it. Sorry, sir.”

You can almost swear you see the corner of his mouth lift—but then the elevator dings behind you, and you have to hurry to slip through the doors before they slide shut.

It feels like an eternity before they finally open again, but once they do you practically sprint down the hall to Garcia’s lair and burst through the door without warning.

She startles so hard she nearly drops her coffee. “Sweet mother of encryption, knock first!”

“Sorry,” you say, breathless. “I need you.”

“Well, obviously,” she mutters, checking her shirt for any spills. “I’m the backbone of this entire operation.”

You drop down into the spare chair and open your laptop, setting it on her desk.

“You cannot judge me for what I’m about to show you.”

She glances up, brows lifting. “Oh. So this is serious?”

You grimace. “I don’t know.”

“Okay,” she says slowly. “Slightly less reassuring than I was hoping for. Tell me what’s happened.”

You take a deep breath, then let it out in a rush.

“You remember the dating profile you set up for me?”

She nods.

“Alright, so, I won’t lie, I haven’t really met anyone on there yet, but I check the messages occasionally. When I’ve got time, you know? And I don’t have a whole lot of ongoing conversations, but this one guy sent me something that was kind of funny, so I responded, and the conversation was pretty normal for the most part. I couldn’t reply all that quickly, but he didn’t seem to mind.”

You shift awkwardly, scooting your chair closer to her desk.

“Nothing really felt out of place until—well, he wouldn’t talk about himself much, which is strange because most people on dating apps are usually more interested in presenting themselves than gathering information. He kept asking questions about my job, actually. Not that my job is on my profile, but he was really curious about my schedule, or—I guess—lack of schedule.”

You wince.

“So now that I think about it, that was probably the second sign something might be off. Or maybe he just wanted to meet up, I don’t know.”

You hesitate.

“But then he sent me this message at like... two a.m.”

She squints at the screen.

DCRunner00: Bet you answer your boss faster than you answer anyone else.

“Mmm. Nope. Don’t love that,” she says, shaking her head. “That is not a normal amount of emotional investment for a stranger.”

You sink back in your chair. “That’s what I thought.”

She starts scrolling back through the messages.

“Have you told Hotch?”

“Nope.”

She glances at you from the corner of her eye. “You answered way too fast for that to be a normal response.”

“Because the answer is no,” you say firmly, leaning forward again.

“Mm-hm.” She keeps scrolling. “Okay, well... technically this could still be nothing. He could just be some lonely basement cryptid with Wi-Fi and poor social skills.”

You groan, dragging both hands over your face.

“You do mention Hotch kind of a lot.”

Your head snaps up. “He’s my boss.”

Garcia gives you a long look.

“Okay,” she says slowly. “Sure.”

“Garcia.”

“I’m just saying, if a man talked about a woman this much online, we’d all be making faces.”

You point at the screen. “Focus.”

“Right. Yes. Creepy internet man. Sorry.”

Her expression settles into something more focused as she turns back toward her array of monitors.

“Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. Don’t block him yet.”

You sigh. “I don’t love that idea.”

“Neither do I, babycakes, but if he’s routing through the website normally, I might be able to pull connection data if we keep him talking long enough.”

You frown. “In English?”

She gives you another look. “Timestamps, login patterns, regional pings, possible VPN usage, device signatures if he slips up—basic digital stalking fun.”

“Oh, of course,” you say sarcastically. “Normal stuff.”

“For me, it is normal.” She points toward the laptop. “Now reply to him. Something casual. I want to see if he responds immediately again.”

Your fingers hover over the keys for a second before you type out your reply.

You: I thought I told you not to spiral.

He replies so fast that even Garcia flinches.

DCRunner00: Relax. It was a joke. DCRunner00: Mostly.

She stares at the screen. “Okay, I officially don’t like him.”

You lean back in your chair again, nausea twisting low in your gut. “I feel sick.”

Garcia’s expression softens slightly. “Maybe you should tell—”

“No.”

She sighs quietly. “Okay. Fine. Can you keep replying from your phone?”

You nod.

“Good. Don’t overdo it, just enough to keep him engaged.” Her fingers start flying across the keyboard. “I’ll work my magic down here and call you if I find anything.”

You push yourself out of the chair, clutching your phone a little tighter.

“You’re the best, Pen.”

“I know.” She waves a hand without looking away from her screens. “Now go pretend to be emotionally stable upstairs.”

By the time you get back to your desk, almost everyone is already in the conference room ready for the morning briefing. You drop your phone beside your keyboard—too anxious to have it with you during the meeting—then quickly unpack your things and grab a notebook before making your way up.

Reid nods at you from his usual seat, gesturing to the empty one beside him.

“Hey,” you mutter as you drop down next to him.

His brows pull together. “Everything alright?”

You nod. “Yeah. Fine. I’ll explain later.”

Hotch keeps the morning briefing quick. He goes over yesterday’s court hearing, outlines the Fairfax briefing package in case it escalates into an active investigation, then gets JJ to run through the highest priority consultation requests.

You spend most of it toying with a loose thread on the cuff of your blouse. You’re pretty sure it’s the first briefing in years where you haven’t spent at least part of it staring at Hotch instead of your notes—and when the room finally relaxes and everyone starts to filter out, Reid turns to you.

“Okay, now I’m concerned,” he says.

You glance at him. “Why?”

“You didn’t look at Hotch once during that entire meeting.”

You roll your eyes. “Spence—”

“Something must be seriously wrong.”

You let out a long exhale, glancing briefly around the almost empty room. Only Morgan and Rossi are left, halfway to the door, deep in discussion about something that happened at the court hearing yesterday afternoon.

“Okay,” you say quietly, turning back to Reid. “I’m having some... trouble, I guess, with a guy.”

His brows shoot up. “A guy—”

“Online,” you add quickly.

He tilts his head. “I’m confused again.”

You sigh. “Remember that dating profile Garcia set up for me?”

“You mean the profile you allowed Garcia to create as part of your increasingly unsustainable performative dating strategy?”

You glare at him. “Yes. That one.”

“Then yes, I remember it very clearly.”

“Well,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I had this guy message me a couple days ago. It was normal at first but now it’s gotten... weird. So, I’m getting Garcia to look into it.”

His forehead creases. “Have you told—”

“No.”

“Maybe you should—”

“I said no.”

“Alright.” He raises both hands in surrender. “Okay. I’m dropping it. It’s just…”

You narrow your eyes at him.

“Well, statistically speaking, the majority of uncomfortable online interactions don’t escalate into actual stalking behaviour. Most people displaying premature emotional fixation online are socially isolated rather than violent.”

You lift a brow, waiting for the punchline.

“However,” he adds, “cyberstalking offenders also tend to develop parasocial attachments disproportionately quickly because the perceived emotional intimacy bypasses a lot of normal social barriers, which means escalation patterns can become highly personalised in a very short period of time.”

You stare at him.

“In cases where the fixation becomes grievance-oriented, the offender is usually highly organised rather than impulsive, so the behaviour tends to be significantly more deliberate and psychologically targeted.”

He pauses, frowning faintly.

“That was supposed to be reassuring.”

“…Thanks, Reid,” you mutter, turning away from him slowly. “Now I feel so much better.”

When you get back to your desk, you decide it’s time to reply again. You grab your phone and bring up the messages, taking a minute to think about what to type—knowing Garcia will be seeing the conversation too.

You type out the only mildly casual response you can think of.

You: You’re weird.

He replies just as fast as usual.

DCRunner00: You disappear a lot. You: Workaholic, remember. You: I told you my schedule was chaos.

You’re about to turn your phone over on your desk when a different notification pops up—from Garcia.

Garcia: If this is your version of flirting, baby girl, I think I just figured out why you’re still single.

You snort softly, typing out a quick reply.

You: Trust me, that’s not the reason. Garcia: So there IS a reason? You: Shh. I’m working. Garcia: Boo!

You huff another quiet laugh as you turn your phone over, nudging it toward the edge of your desk in the hopes that you might be able to focus on work rather than creepy internet man for at least a few hours.

It doesn’t work.

Barely half an hour later, you lift your phone to check for another notification—but there’s nothing there. You pull up the message thread again and scroll up, checking the timestamps to see if he’s ever gone quiet on you before—but he hasn’t. Not really. So you type another message.

You: You went quiet. Should I be concerned?

It’s a calculated move. If he’s paying attention to response patterns—and at this point you’re pretty sure he is—then following up first helps maintain the illusion that nothing has changed. No sudden distance. No obvious discomfort. No reason for him to think you’re pulling away.

If he is dangerous, the last thing you want is for him to feel rejected.

An hour later, Rossi drops a legal pad onto your desk, asking you to take another look at a witness timeline that doesn’t feel right—which keeps you occupied for a good forty-five minutes. Then Morgan leans over the partition between your desks, asking if you can translate Reid into English. That takes up another hour of your day, and by the time you grab your first afternoon coffee, you’ve got three notifications.

One is a missed call from Garcia. The other two are from creepy internet man.

DCRunner00: Depends. Are you worried about me? DCRunner00: Blue looks good on you, by the way.

Your stomach drops. “Oh my God.”

You immediately call Garcia back.

She answers on half a ring. “Are you wearing blue?”

“You saw me this morning.”

“I can’t remember,” she says. “Are you?”

You drag a hand through your hair. “Yes.”

“Holy shit,” she whispers. “You’ve got to tell—”

“No.”

“Are you insane?”

“Maybe, but—” You squeeze your eyes shut for a second. “Okay, just—hear me out. Blue is a statistically safe guess. It’s a neutral professional colour with high frequency in workplace attire, especially in government buildings.”

Garcia goes quiet for a second.

“And does this unsub know you work in a government building?”

“Don’t call him that,” you snap. “And—well, kind of. I didn’t tell him exactly, but I said... government adjacent.”

“I swear to God,” she mutters, “if I have to identify your body next week, I’m going to kill you.”

You press your free hand against your forehead.

“You won’t,” you say firmly. “Alright? We’re getting ahead of ourselves.”

Garcia scoffs loudly.

“Seriously,” you insist. “It could still be nothing. A weird coincidence, maybe an awkward guy with boundary issues and too much free time. We deal with actual predators every day. I can handle a few creepy messages.”

The line goes quiet again—then she sighs.

“Why are you so against telling Hotch?”

“Because I don’t want to bother him,” you say quickly. “We’ve got a quiet week, he finally seems slightly less stressed, and I don’t want to cause a whole fuss over something that might turn out to be nothing.”

She sighs again, louder this time. “Fine. I won’t go to Hotch.”

Your shoulders sag. “Thank you.”

“On one condition,” she adds. “I’m sleeping over tonight.”

You nearly choke. “What?”

“Non-negotiable.”

“Penelope, that’s insane.”

“No,” Garcia says firmly, “what’s insane is you trying to casually explain away potential stalking behaviour while actively refusing to inform your unit chief.”

“He is not stalking me,” you protest, keeping your voice low.

“Mm-hm.”

“You’re overreacting.”

“And yet,” Garcia says, “if you die, I become morally complicit because I knew about creepy internet man and failed to intervene.”

You frown. “…Morally complicit?”

“Accessory to murder-adjacent,” she corrects. “And my guilty conscience requires eight hours of sleep minimum, so congratulations. We’re having a slumber party.”

You let out a long sigh. “Okay. Fine.”

She hums, satisfied.

“I need to reply to him again.”

“Well, don’t ask me,” she mutters. “You’re the one who’s apparently fluent in creepy internet freak.”

You laugh despite yourself. “Thanks, Pen.”

“Mm-hm. And just so we’re clear, tonight we are watching wholesome romantic comedies and eating enough sugar to kill a Victorian child.”

“I was actually thinking psychological thriller marathon.”

“Absolutely not.”

You smile faintly, leaning back in your chair. “Fine. Romantic comedies it is.”

“Good,” Garcia says firmly. “Now hang up before I change my mind and march upstairs to Hotch’s office myself.”

You roll your eyes as you hang up, then open the message thread again. You don’t have to think too hard about what to type. You don’t want to escalate or accuse him, but you need him to stay engaged. You want him to explain himself to see how he reframes the behaviour.

You: Lucky guess.

The next few hours slip by in a strange blur of routine tasks and fragmented conversations.

At about three o’clock, Prentiss drops a file on your desk and asks if you can double-check a victim timeline while she’s stuck on the phone with Chicago. Then Rossi calls you into his office to sanity-check a profile theory he’s working through out loud—which means fifteen minutes of listening to him argue with himself while you sit there trying not to focus on Hotch’s voice through the wall.

When you finally get back to your desk, Reid spends twenty minutes walking you through a probability model nobody asked for but everyone somehow ends up listening to anyway. He only stops when Hotch appears, carrying a stack of files from the Richardson case he wants Morgan to look over before he signs them off—and for the first time in God knows how long, you don’t stare shamelessly at his ass as he walks out of the bullpen.

By six p.m., JJ and Rossi are gone, Prentiss is helping Morgan with the Richardson files, and Reid is building a tiny tower out of paperclips while he reads over a file Rossi dropped on his desk before he left.

At exactly six-fifteen, your desk phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Pack your things, baby girl. Your government-issued sleepover is about to begin.”

You snort softly. “Alright. I’ll see you soon.”

You hang up the phone and start clearing your desk, organising paperwork into piles and packing away stationery while you wait for your computer to shut down.

“See who soon?” Reid asks.

You glance at him. “Garcia.”

He tilts his head.

“She’s staying over tonight.”

His brows lift. “Because of your stalk—”

“Girl’s night,” you interrupt, eyes widening. “That’s all.”

His gaze narrows. “Should I be worried?”

You scoff. “About me? Never.”

You slide your arms into your jacket then finally pick up your phone, finding two new notifications from creepy internet man waiting for you.

“Really?” Reid asks, turning his chair to face you. “Because you’ve spent most of the day staring at your phone like it’s a bomb, you spent most of Rossi’s profile discussion peeling the label off your water bottle instead of contributing, and you reorganised the same stack of paperwork three separate times.”

You pause mid-motion.

“Also,” he continues, “you usually correct Morgan when he misquotes case statistics and today you let him do it twice, which honestly might be the most concerning—”

“Okay!” you cut in quickly, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Good talk. Love the observational skills. Bye.”

He doesn’t say anything else as you walk away, murmuring goodbyes to Morgan and Prentiss as you pass, but you can still feel him watching you. You’re just about to press the button for the elevator when—

“Agent.”

You stop automatically, turning to find Hotch with a file tucked under one arm and that signature frown etched between his brows. Only this time it isn’t frustrated or disapproving—it’s curious.

You force a small smile. “Sir.”

His eyes move over your face briefly. “You alright?”

You nod once. “Of course.”

He takes a step forward, his voice dropping lower. “You sure?”

Your breath catches.

He’s close now. Too close. You have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. You can smell his cologne, feel his warmth, count the beauty marks dotted across his cheek.

“You’ve seemed distracted today,” he says.

You swallow hard. “Uh—no. No. Sorry, I just—I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

His brows draw a little tighter, and he opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something else—press harder, maybe—but then seems to think better of it.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “Get some rest tonight.”

Then he nods once and steps back, his jaw tightening for just a second before he turns away.

You don’t move immediately. You can’t. Your mind is reeling, your pulse is still hammering, and your breath is caught somewhere between your ribs while your lungs try to remember how to work.

“Hello?” Garcia calls from behind you. “I cannot hold these doors forever, babycakes.”

You shake your head. “Shit. Sorry.”

You turn and hurry into the elevator, slipping in beside her just before the doors slide shut.

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

Then—

“So, that thing you said earlier about there being a reason you’re still single…”

You shut your eyes. “Penelope.”

“I’m just saying,” she continues lightly, “unless I hallucinated whatever just happened in that hallway, I’m starting to develop theories.”

You ignore her, watching the numbers on the elevator slowly descend like counting down the days you have before the entire team figures out your secret. Because if this guy really is a creep, if you do have to tell Hotch, then it’s only a matter of time before the BAU are dissecting your dating life and realising what a ruse it really is.

And you know better than anyone that once these profilers start looking too closely at something, they rarely stop until they’ve pulled it apart completely.

The second you step through the door to your apartment, Garcia rushes past you to sweep the place. Leia startles almost immediately, running from the couch to your bedroom while Garcia complains about the fact that Leia is the only cat she’s ever met that doesn’t like her.

“Leia hates everyone,” you tell her, kicking your shoes off by the door. “Even me.”

Garcia just rolls her eyes, continuing from room to room to check the window locks and balcony doors.

Once she’s satisfied that everything is secure, she sets her laptop up on your kitchen counter and starts running a program that looks like hieroglyphics to you.

“Have you seen his latest messages?” she asks.

You shake your head, setting your phone on the counter. “No.”

She opens your laptop and logs into the dating site—because apparently she knows your password now.

DCRunner00: Maybe. DCRunner00: Or maybe you’re just easier to read than you think.

You type out the first response you can think of, not wanting to seem like you’re overanalysing this.

You: Or maybe I’m just not trying so hard to be mysterious.

Garcia then spends the next ten minutes trying to explain her process to you in terms that almost make sense. So far she’s managed to narrow him down to a general region through login patterns and routing behaviour, but she still can’t lock onto a direct IP address. Not because she can’t—apparently that part would actually be pretty easy—but because doing it properly would mean running requests through systems that leave a trail. And right now, this definitely isn’t an official investigation.

“The second I start pulling the fun federal strings,” Garcia says, typing furiously, “there’s paperwork, access logs, oversight, and approximately twelve thousand ways for this to become a whole thing.”

You lean against the counter. “We don’t want that.”

“Not yet.” Her expression sharpens slightly. “Also, if creepy internet man is more sophisticated than he seems, there’s always a chance he’s monitoring for targeted tracing attempts. If he realises someone’s looking too closely at him before we know who he is, he could disappear completely.”

Your stomach twists. “Or escalate.”

You spend the next couple of hours keeping creepy internet man engaged while Garcia rambles tech jargon that makes less sense the longer the night wears on. At some point, you order pizza, then you migrate to the couch, and eventually you both end up sitting through the credits of Two Weeks Notice while waiting for one last reply in the hopes that he might finally answer something about himself.

DCRunner00: Refreshing DCRunner00: Most people hide too much. You: Depends what they’re trying to hide. DCRunner00: What are you trying to hide? You: Besides the fact that I’m exhausted? Nothing. DCRunner00: You seem distracted tonight. You: Long day. DCRunner00: I noticed. You: How was yours?

You wait until almost midnight before finally deciding to call it a night.

Garcia checks all the windows and doors again while you brush your teeth and change into pyjamas. When you step back out of your bedroom to say goodnight, Garcia is trying her hardest to lure Leia onto the couch with her, but Leia is very stubbornly curled up beneath the TV unit.

“Night, Pen,” you murmur, rubbing your eyes. “Thanks again... for everything.”

“Night, gorgeous,” she calls, peering over the back of the couch. “Wake me up if you hear literally anything suspicious. Or if Leia finally decides it’s my time.”

You laugh softly, blinking slowly as you turn back into your room and fall face first into bed.

THURSDAY 6:45AM

You’re not sure whether to be relieved or concerned when you wake up to no new messages from creepy internet man. He hasn’t gone quiet for this long before—but if he is just a normal, slightly awkward guy with boundary issues and an internet connection, well... it’s not that hard to believe he might just be sleeping.

Garcia is already up making coffee by the time you step out of your room, trying to bribe Leia out from under the couch with a tube of tuna paste.

The second she sees you, she jumps up and launches into another long-winded explanation about login activity and movement patterns across different access points. Apparently, creepy internet man logged in from three different geographical locations over the course of a few hours last night—which is normal, right? That means he was out doing normal human things, not just lurking in his mother’s basement, stalking women online.

Garcia isn’t entirely convinced that him moving locations is enough to get him off the hook as the BAU’s next unsub, but it at least shuts her up until you’re both back at the office.

“Hey,” Reid says as soon as you walk into the bullpen. “You haven’t been murdered.”

You frown slightly. “Good morning to you too, Spence.”

Morgan glances up from the file on his desk. “Uh—why are we getting murdered?”

Reid gestures vaguely in your direction. “Because she’s potentially being cyberstalked by a—”

“Oh, wow, look at the time,” you interrupt, glaring at Reid. “Wouldn’t it be such a shame if we all started minding our own business right about now.”

Prentiss turns in her chair, brows raised. “Cyberstalked?”

“Nobody is cyberstalking anybody,” you say as you drop into your chair. “And nobody’s getting murdered—but great start to the morning, everyone. Love the energy. Now leave me alone.”

Morgan chuckles quietly. “Damn. Thought you said you got laid last weekend.”

Your hands slip off the desk as you try to pull yourself closer.

“Technically,” Reid says, “she only implied it by refusing to answer Garcia’s question during Monday morning’s briefing.”

“Ah.” Morgan leans back in his chair. “I knew this was a drought issue.”

You scowl at him. “A drought issue?”

“Statistically speaking,” Reid adds, “people experiencing prolonged romantic or sexual dissatisfaction often display lower frustration tolerance and increased agitation in familiar social environments.”

Morgan looks at him. “Man, just say she needs to get laid.”

“Oh my God,” you snap. “I do not need to get laid. I am having a completely normal amount of sex already, thank you very much—and frankly I think it’s deeply inappropriate that you’re all this invested in whether or not I’m orgasming regularly.”

Reid tilts his head. “You’re having sex?”

Morgan’s brows shoot up, Prentiss chokes on her coffee, and you open your mouth to fire back at him when—

Someone clears their throat behind you.

Heat crawls violently up your neck—but you don’t turn around. You can’t.

“Briefing room. Five minutes,” Hotch says, his voice dangerously even. “JJ’s got an update on the custodial interview with Wallace.”

Morgan presses a fist against his mouth, trying—and failing—to smother the strangled sound of laughter.

Very slowly, you turn in your chair.

Hotch is standing at the edge of the bullpen with a coffee in one hand and a file in the other. His expression is almost perfectly composed, but there’s something dangerous lurking beneath it—something suspiciously close to amusement in the tightness of his mouth.

“Be right there, sir,” you blurt, lifting two fingers to your forehead in the most ill-timed attempt at a salute the FBI has ever seen.

Hotch just looks at you, the muscle in his jaw jumping once before he turns away.

You want to die.

The second his office door clicks shut behind him, Morgan drops his fist and smacks his palm flat against the desk with a choked laugh.

“Oh, you are never recovering from that,” Prentiss mutters, smirking behind her coffee cup.

Morgan leans back in his chair, grinning. “Baby girl, that was painful to watch.”

You drop your head into your hands.

“You somehow escalated the situation at every possible opportunity,” Reid says thoughtfully.

“I hate you all,” you mumble into your palms.

You spend the next half hour with your nose buried in your notebook, avoiding eye contact with the entire team while JJ explains the month-long back-and-forth that it took to finally get approval for the Wallace interview.

Apparently, the prison is limiting the interview to a single hour and reserving the right to terminate it early if the inmate becomes uncooperative—which Rossi thinks is less about policy and more about Wallace trying to dictate the terms of the interaction.

It’s not ideal, especially considering you were the one who convinced Hotch to push for the interview before Wallace is transferred to death row. His case was one of the first you ever studied during the BAU training programme, and there isn’t much you wouldn’t give to pick the sociopath’s brains. One hour with him feels dangerously short—that is, assuming Hotch actually picks you to be in the interview with him.

“We don’t have enough time to waste managing personalities in the room,” Hotch says, gathering the files in front of him. “I’ll decide on a second agent and send out the interview schedule later today.”

Chairs start scraping back almost immediately, files and notebooks snapping shut as everyone gathers their things and starts filtering out of the room—but you don’t move. You stay firmly planted in your seat, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of your cheek while you debate whether to follow Hotch into his office and ask to be part of the interview. You don’t even have to be asking the questions, you just want to be there. You were the one pushing for it in the first place.

But then your brain very helpfully reminds you that Aaron Hotchner heard you say the word orgasming less than an hour ago and suddenly, being on death row yourself feels infinitely preferable to making eye contact with your unit chief.

“You alright?” Reid asks, lingering beside you.

You sigh heavily, finally closing your notebook. “Yep. Just thinking about how I’ll probably have to fake my own death and change my name after this morning.”

He shrugs. “Hotch probably isn’t even thinking about it anymore.”

You glance up at him hopefully.

“Morgan definitely is, though.”

You roll your eyes, letting out another resigned sigh as you stand up and follow him out of the briefing room.

The rest of the morning manages to pass without incident. You stay chained to your desk, reviewing reports and processing any files that come your way while very deliberately not glancing up any time Hotch steps out of his office. At around eleven, Morgan and JJ head out to the cafe down the street and come back with coffees for the whole team. Then there’s a printer jam that gives the rest of the office a rare glimpse at just how angry Emily Prentiss can get when frustrated.

It isn’t until just before midday that you finally get up to go to the bathroom, and when you return to your desk, there’s one new notification in your inbox.

From: Aaron Hotchner Subject: Wallace Interview You’re with me next Thursday. We leave at 0700.

Your stomach flips.

“Wow,” Reid says, suddenly standing right beside your desk. “He picked you pretty quickly.”

You shoot him a warning look. “Spence.”

“I’m just saying, he usually deliberates longer.”

You glance back at the screen, rereading the first five words that make your pulse skip a little faster.

“You and Hotch do work unusually well together in confined conversational environments,” Reid adds.

You turn back to him, frowning.

He tilts his head. “That sounded more suggestive than I intended.”

You open your mouth to tell him how deeply unhelpful he’s being when your phone buzzes twice against your desk—like it does several times a day, but something about it feels different this time. Wrong.

You reach for it slowly, your stomach twisting tighter as you turn it over.

Two new notifications from creepy internet man. The first since last night.

You open the message thread—and your stomach drops.

DCRunner00: [Image attachment] DCRunner00: Did you and your friend have fun last night?

The image is of your apartment building. It’s grainy, slightly crooked, clearly taken from somewhere across the street—but your living room windows are unmistakable. Warm light glowing through the glass. The blurred silhouette of someone inside.

Ice floods your bloodstream.

You stop breathing.

“Is that... your apartment?” Reid asks, leaning over your shoulder.

You don’t answer him. You can’t.

The bullpen dissolves into white noise around you.

Until—

“I’m done!” Garcia’s voice cuts through the static. “I can’t do this anymore!”

She’s marching right toward you, your laptop—that she’d still been monitoring—tucked under one arm.

Reid gasps. “Wait. Is that—”

Morgan straightens in his chair. “What’s happening?”

“Hotch’s office,” Garcia says, her expression dangerously stern as she stops beside your desk. “Now.”

You nod slowly, your shoes almost slipping against the carpet as you push your chair back. Reid steps aside just enough to let you stand, but before he can get too far, you reach out and wrap your fingers around his wrist, silently dragging him with you as you follow Garcia back through the bullpen.

Hotch glances up the second Garcia pushes open his office door.

“What’s going on?”

His tone is calm, automatic, already slipping into that low, calculated cadence he uses when he’s trying to talk someone down from the ledge. His gaze moves from her to you—and something in his expression shifts. Hardens. That muscle in his jaw ticking just once before he turns back to Garcia.

“What happened?” he asks, sharper now.

Garcia crosses the room quickly, opening your laptop and sitting it on his desk while you hover uselessly in the doorway with Reid still caught in your grip.

Hotch glances at the screen, his eyes flicking through the messages.

Then he looks back up—right at you—and something unreadable settles across his face. Something dangerous.

“Who sent this?”

Garcia spends the next five minutes explaining the entire situation at hyper speed while you just... stand there, leaning slightly against Reid like the whole world has tilted on its axis.

It’s funny how you can spend years building a career around finding bad people. Thinking like them. Predicting them. Profiling them. But the moment something happens to you—something real—that’s when all the theory suddenly stops feeling theoretical. And maybe it’s because you know exactly what people like this are capable of, or how quickly situations like this can escalate once someone decides they’re emotionally invested in you.

Or maybe it’s just the horrifying realisation that some part of you knew where this was heading all along. And you still didn’t do anything about it until now. Not until you put yourself—and your friend—in danger.

“Get everyone in the briefing room,” Hotch says the second Garcia finishes. “Now.”

Garcia nods once before slipping back out the door, and only then do you finally let go of Reid’s wrist—making a mental note to apologise later for the excessive physical contact.

Hotch’s eyes drop down briefly, following the movement almost automatically. Something tightens in his expression for half a second before his attention snaps back to the laptop still open in front of him.

“Reid,” he says. “Print the entire message history and document everything. Full timeline, screenshots, attachments—all of it. I want copies ready for the team in ten.”

You swallow hard. “The—the entire message history?”

“Yes,” Hotch says simply. “Every message.”

Could this day get any worse?

Fifteen minutes later, you’re back in the briefing room with the entire team flipping through printed copies of your dating profile and messages. It almost feels like an out-of-body experience. Like one of those mortifying dreams where you watch everything unfold from above without any real ability to stop it.

“Okay,” Prentiss says. “Where do we start?”

“Victimology,” Morgan answers immediately—then he glances at you. “Sorry, baby girl.”

You wave him off. “Reid’s been profiling me all week. Go for it.”

There’s a quiet ripple of laughter around the table, but Hotch barely blinks. He’s sitting on the opposite side, between Prentiss and JJ, with his arms folded tightly across his chest and gaze fixed on the copies spread out in front of him like he’s trying very hard not to look directly at you.

“We need to be careful building a victimology this early,” he says evenly. “Especially considering how well we know the victim. Personal familiarity creates bias.”

Reid tilts his head. “Normally, yes. But stalking crimes are often highly individualised.” He starts flipping through the printed messages as he talks. “Statistically speaking, stalking victims are usually targeted for a very specific reason. The motivation is generally rooted in either resentment, fixation, revenge, or romantic obsession.”

You grimace. “Fantastic.”

“Most victims also know their stalkers,” Reid continues. “Approximately seventy-five percent of stalking cases involve some form of prior relationship or perceived emotional connection.”

“Okay,” JJ says carefully, looking toward you. “Is there anyone you can think of who might hold a grudge against you? Someone you arrested, rejected, testified against—anything like that?”

You snort quietly. “Does every criminal I’ve ever interviewed count?”

The room goes still for half a second.

“Wait,” Prentiss says, sitting forward slightly. “Actually, that makes sense.”

Hotch’s eyes flick up as Prentiss pushes one of the printouts into the middle of the table, tapping the page.

“This escalation happened fast. Less than a week. That’s not somebody slowly building emotional trust from scratch—that’s somebody who already came into this interaction emotionally invested.”

“Or angry,” Morgan adds.

“Exactly,” Prentiss says. “He doesn’t lash out until she has Garcia over. That’s jealousy. Possessiveness.”

You sink lower in your chair.

“And he starts reacting every time she brings up her boss,” Rossi says, flipping through the printouts. “That’s territorial behaviour. He’s fixating on a prominent male figure in her life.”

“Not the only one fixating on him,” Reid murmurs beside you.

You elbow him immediately.

“Ow.”

Hotch glances up sharply. “Something to add, Reid?”

Reid straightens. “Uh—no. No, I think Rossi covered it.”

Hotch’s eyes narrow slightly, like he knows there’s something he’s missing, but he lets it go.

“Garcia,” he says instead, “tell me you found something useful.”

“Oh, I found things,” Garcia says immediately, the rapid clacking of her keyboard echoing loudly through the conference room speaker. “Deeply unsettling things. Our creepy little internet goblin has been very busy.”

Prentiss frowns slightly, mouthing ‘internet goblin’ across the table to JJ.

“Okay, so—profile was created nine days ago using a burner email and a VPN bouncing between three different states, which normally would make me want to set my computer on fire, but our boy got sloppy.”

Hotch leans forward slightly. “How sloppy?”

“Sloppy enough that one login pinged off a public Wi-Fi network less than six blocks from her apartment last night,” she says. “And before anybody asks, yes, I’m already pulling traffic cams.”

Hotch nods once, already shifting into command mode.

“Morgan, Prentiss—start canvassing within a ten-block radius of her apartment. Garcia will feed you anything useful from the traffic cams. JJ, coordinate with local PD and see if there’ve been any complaints of suspicious activity in the area. Peeping, prowlers, stalking complaints—anything that fits this escalation pattern. Rossi, start pulling names from old cases. Anybody with a history of fixation, stalking behaviour, or inappropriate attachment to investigators. Garcia, keep digging and keep me posted.”

Everyone starts moving immediately, papers shuffling and chairs scraping back as the room shifts into motion.

“I want to help,” you say suddenly. “This is my mess, let me fix it.”

“You can help,” he says evenly, “by going home, locking your doors, and staying there until we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”

You open your mouth to argue.

“I mean it,” he adds, voice low.

“I’ll take her,” Reid offers immediately.

“No,” Hotch says, gathering the printouts into one neat pile. “You go with Morgan and Prentiss.”

Then his eyes flick up, meeting yours.

“I’m taking her home.”

The next hour is one of the strangest of your life.

Hotch tells you to take your laptop back down to Garcia, who’s already in full FBI investigation mode—her screens covered in maps, metadata, CCTV stills, and enlarged screenshots of your own dating profile staring back at you in horrifying definition. When you finally make it back to your desk, Rossi spends twenty straight minutes walking you through every violent offender you’ve interviewed in the last three years, forcing you to revisit dozens of interactions you’d long since filed away as routine.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, Morgan drops a schematic of your apartment building onto your desk and starts questioning you about entrances, exits, blind spots, and security cameras while Reid quietly replaces the coffee you forgot existed an hour ago. It isn’t until Morgan leaves and JJ immediately takes his place beside you that you realise nobody has let you out of their sight for more than a few minutes at a time.

Then, finally, Hotch steps out of his office—files in one hand and his go-bag in the other, like he fully intends on staying the night if necessary.

“Ready?” he asks, stopping beside your desk.

You stare at the go-bag for one long, deeply horrified second.

“Yep,” you manage, voice tight as you slowly push out of your chair.

Hotch drives. You don’t even try to argue. You just sit in the passenger seat with your knees pressed together and your heart beating out of your chest. It’s not like you haven’t been in the car with him before. You have, plenty of times. This just feels... different.

Neither of you speak until he cuts the engine in the parking garage of your building, and you have to try very hard not to dwell on the fact that he hadn’t asked for directions the whole way here.

“Wait,” he mutters before climbing out of the car.

He grabs his bag from the back, then moves around the car and opens your door.

It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to unbuckle your seatbelt—your hands are shaking and your pulse is still pounding hard enough to make you dizzy—but once you finally do, you slip out of the car and lead him toward the fire stairs.

He never leaves more than a foot of distance between you. Never checks his phone. Never glances down. He stays glued to your side like a real protection detail. And thanks to your avid and wildly inappropriate imagination, you’ve already mentally written an entire bodyguard romance plot starring Aaron Hotchner and yours truly by the time you finally reach your apartment door.

“I—uh—wasn’t really expecting company,” you say as you push the door open. “Sorry.”

The second you step inside, Leia leaps off the couch with a loud, rumbling trill—probably wondering why you’re home before dark for the first time in years.

Hotch pauses, his brow furrowing slightly. “You have a cat.”

You glance back at him as you kick your shoes off and nudge them out of the way. “Is that really the most surprising thing you’ve learned about me today?”

He watches Leia for another second before glancing back at you. “It’s unexpected.”

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart skips when he quietly toes off his shoes beside the door without even asking. Like he already expects to stay awhile.

Leia chirrups again as she pads through the living room toward you, no doubt about to demand an early dinner—until she catches sight of Hotch and abruptly stops short. Her ears flicker, her tail waving from side to side as she assesses the new man in her apartment.

Hotch crouches slightly, holding one hand out toward her.

“Oh, she doesn’t really like people,” you say quickly. “So don’t take it personally if she—”

Leia immediately walks straight up to him. She sniffs his hand once before pressing directly into his palm with a loud purr rumbling through her entire body.

Your eyes go wide.

Traitor.

Hotch’s mouth twitches faintly as Leia leans harder into his hand.

Oh my God. Are you jealous of your cat right now?

He gives Leia one final scratch behind the ears before straightening, the softness in his expression fading almost immediately as he slips back into work mode. He scans the apartment briefly before setting the files down on your tiny dining table and shrugging his jacket off, draping it over the back of a chair.

You stand there for a second longer than you probably should, watching him move through your apartment with the same calm focus he brings to crime scenes and briefing rooms and interrogation tables. He checks the windows, the balcony doors, glances briefly—thank God—into your bedroom, then double-checks the locks on the front door.

The whole thing feels weirdly surreal. You’ve imagined Aaron Hotchner inside your apartment a thousand times in a thousand different ways—just not like this. And nothing you imagined could have possibly prepared you for the reality of it. The way everything feels so much smaller. Warmer. More exposed.

Every object in every room suddenly feels mortifyingly personal.

If he lingers long enough in your kitchen, he’s going to notice the unusually empty trash can and realise you survive almost entirely on caffeine and convenience. If he looks too closely at your bookshelf, he’s going to find an unhealthy collection of romance novels with more trigger warnings than plot points. And if he looks into your bedroom again and turns his head just a little more to the right, he’s going to see your vibrator sitting on the nightstand—and then you’ll actually have to fake your own death.

Because you’ve spent years carefully curating a version of yourself that keeps people from looking too closely. Flirty. Casual. Detached enough to joke about bad dates and hookups and sex without anybody ever realising that none of it means anything. It’s easier that way. Easier to let everyone assume your attention is scattered in every direction instead of fixed very specifically on the one person you absolutely cannot have.

But this?

This feels dangerously close to being found out.

The next couple of hours pass in strange, uneven waves of normalcy and low-grade psychological torture.

Hotch sits at your tiny dining table without complaint, dwarfing it as he hunches over files and asks careful questions about your routines, your neighbours, and whether anyone in the building has seemed overly interested in you recently. His phone rings a lot, which isn’t unusual, and every time he answers it you spend almost the entire conversation staring unashamed at the way his shirt pulls tight across his back when he reaches for another printout.

Which is wildly inappropriate considering the circumstances, but you can’t really help it. You’re strung out, on edge, and, as Morgan so helpfully pointed out this morning, severely under-fucked.

And Leia, unfortunately—but not unsurprisingly—remains no help whatsoever.

By seven o’clock she’s fully abandoned you in favour of draping herself across Hotch’s lap while he reviews new data from Garcia, completely oblivious to the fact that you haven’t been able to breathe normally since he walked through the door.

“Are you hungry?” you ask eventually, moving back into the kitchen as if you have anything in there to offer.

Hotch glances up from his laptop, one hand resting absently against Leia’s back while she purrs in his lap.

“I’m fine.”

You lean a hip against the kitchen counter, folding your arms tightly across your chest. “Any updates?”

He glances back down at his screen. “Garcia narrowed the traffic footage down to three vehicles that stayed in the area longer than they should have—Morgan and Prentiss are running the plates now. And Rossi’s pulling relatives connected to your previous cases. Family members who attended trials, sentencing hearings, interviews. Anyone who might’ve had access to your name outside the official reports.”

You nod slowly, silence settling again for a moment before you exhale sharply.

“Are you sure sitting here doing absolutely nothing is really the best use of me right now?”

His eyes flick back up, that signature Hotchner scowl set between his brows.

“You think this is nothing?”

His voice stays calm, but there’s something firmer underneath it now.

“You’ve spent the last four days being threatened, surveilled, and followed by someone we still haven’t identified,” he says. “Morgan, Prentiss, and Reid are out chasing leads because somebody targeted you. Rossi’s pulling case files because somebody targeted you. Garcia’s been at her desk for six straight hours because somebody targeted you.”

His jaw tightens slightly.

“My job right now is making sure nothing happens to you,” he says quietly. “Let me do that.”

Your breath catches, something warm and uncomfortably familiar twisting in your chest as Aaron Hotchner just sits there watching you like he hasn’t said anything unusual at all.

Which, to him, maybe he hasn’t.

He’s just doing his job. Looking out for his team. He’s not here because he wants to be. He’s here because someone threatened one of his agents.

That’s all.

You clear your throat, pushing away from the counter before the silence stretches too long. “I’m—uh—I’m just going to shower quickly. If that’s alright.”

He nods once. “Want me to clear the—”

“No,” you say immediately. “God, no. No. It’s fine. Totally fine.”

His brows pull together slightly, confusion flickering briefly across his face before you turn and hurry into your bedroom, shutting the door a little harder than necessary behind you.

Then you take the longest shower known to mankind. You stand beneath the scalding spray for at least ten minutes before even touching anything. Then you scrub, exfoliate, shave, condition, rinse twice, and stand there for just a little longer before finally gathering the courage to step out. All the while trying desperately not to think about the fact that your unit chief is only two thin walls away while you’re dripping wet and completely naked.

You rummage through your dresser until you find an oversized sweater that isn’t totally threadbare and a clean pair of pyjama shorts. Technically, they’re just striped flannel pants you cut into shorts, but at least they’re not as short as the rest of your pyjama collection that definitely needs replacing.

If only you actually had time for things like shopping... and emotional stability.

“No, wait for Morgan before you approach,” Hotch says as you step quietly back into the living room, phone pressed against his ear while he paces slowly beside the dining table. “If the registration’s fake, I don’t want you making contact until we know exactly who’s inside.”

He pauses, expression sharpening slightly.

“Alright. Keep me updated.”

He lowers the phone slowly before looking over at you for the first time since you re-emerged—and for half a second, he visibly loses his train of thought. It’s only tiny. Barely there. Just a brief pause before his expression shutters back into place.

“Garcia tracked one of the vehicles from the traffic footage to a motel outside Arlington,” he says, glancing back down at the files scattered across the table. “The driver’s been masking his activity through multiple VPNs, so she couldn’t pull a clean trace from the motel Wi-Fi, but only one room in the motel was actively using the network.”

Your stomach tightens.

“The name on the reservation was fake,” he continues, “but the room was paid for using a credit card belonging to Daniel Mercer.”

The name hits you immediately.

“Ethan Mercer’s brother,” you say quietly.

Hotch nods. “Rossi confirmed it about twenty minutes ago. Morgan and Prentiss are waiting for local PD before they move in.”

You nod slowly, your pulse fluttering anxiously in your throat as you move toward the kitchen. Not because you actually need anything in there, but because standing still feels almost impossible right now.

“Ethan barely spoke during the trial,” you murmur, folding your arms as you lean back against the counter. “I don’t think I ever even met his brother.”

“You wouldn’t need to,” Hotch says, already gathering the files into a neat pile. “People build attachments to investigators without ever interacting directly. Especially when they’re looking for someone to blame.”

Your skin prickles. “You really think it’s him?”

“It fits,” Hotch replies evenly. “Established emotional investment, personal motive, no prior record. Which explains the inconsistency. The escalation without follow-through. The long gaps between contact attempts. He knows enough to be cautious, but not enough to stay controlled.”

He straightens, turning back toward you—and for the briefest second, his eyes drop to your bare legs before snapping back up to your face almost immediately.

He clears his throat. “This probably isn’t something he’s done before. But his brother has.”

The apartment falls quiet again after that. Hotch returns to collecting files while you stare absently toward the dark balcony doors, your pulse still refusing to settle beneath your skin.

“Well,” you mutter eventually, gripping the edge of the counter to hoist yourself up. “On the bright side, I still think I’ve dated worse.”

The joke leaves your lips lightly enough, the same way they always do—easy, detached, halfway between genuine and ironic so nobody ever pauses long enough to look too closely.

Except this time Hotch does pause.

“Why do you do that?”

You frown. “Do what?”

“Deflect.” He straightens again, one hand still holding a stack of printouts. “Every time something gets too serious, you make a joke. Or you flirt. Or you say something just inappropriate enough to throw people off balance.”

You lift a shoulder. “Maybe I’m just charming.”

“No.” His eyes narrow slightly, brows pulling together. “No, because it changes depending on the situation.”

Your pulse stutters.

“With Morgan it’s competitive,” he continues, setting the papers back on the table. “You tease him because he pushes back and it keeps conversations superficial. Garcia gets exaggerated stories because she responds emotionally instead of analytically. Half the things you say to Reid are specifically designed to make him flustered enough to stop examining what you actually mean.”

“Wow,” you murmur, shifting your weight against the countertop. “Starting to feel a little attacked here.”

But Hotch doesn’t seem to hear you.

“The dating profile doesn’t fit,” he says, almost to himself. “Neither does the apartment.”

Your stomach twists as his gaze moves briefly across the room. The bookshelves. The carefully organised clutter. Leia now curled up asleep on the couch.

“You project someone impulsive. Social. Sexually confident. But nothing in here supports that.” His eyes flick back toward you again. “You live like someone who protects their space carefully. Even the cat.”

“Leave Leia out of this.”

“She doesn’t like strangers.”

“She likes you.”

The words slip out too quickly, and something in his expression shifts.

“You keep people at a distance,” he continues slowly, close enough now that you can hear the quiet rasp beneath his voice. “Even the team. You let people think they know you because it keeps them from looking closer.” He hesitates, brow furrowing. “Except Reid.”

Your fingers tighten instinctively around the edge of the counter.

“You trust him,” Hotch says. “Not just socially. Behaviourally. You anchor yourself to him when you’re stressed. Physical proximity. Eye contact. Redirecting conversations through him.” He pauses, watching you carefully now. “And earlier you said he’d been profiling you all week.”

Oh God.

“Which means Reid already noticed the pattern.”

He goes quiet for a moment, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly as he looks back over the last few months—years—in real time. You can practically see it happening behind his eyes. Every interaction. Every joke. Every look you thought you’d hidden quickly enough.

“You track me.”

The words come quieter now. Less certain. Like he’s still realising them.

“You know my routines,” he continues slowly. “You anticipate questions before I ask them. You look up when you hear my office door open even when you can’t see me.” He steps closer again. “You know when I need coffee before I do. You watch my reactions before anyone else in the room.”

Your breath stutters.

And Hotch notices immediately.

His expression shifts slightly as his eyes flick across your face, your posture, your hands still locked around the edge of the counter hard enough that your knuckles have gone pale beneath the kitchen lights.

“Your breathing changes when I get too close to you,” he says quietly.

He takes another slow step forward, close enough now that you have to tilt your head back slightly to keep looking at him.

“You stop fidgeting,” he continues. “You go completely still.” His gaze drops briefly to your hands before lifting again. “Like you’re afraid movement alone is going to give you away.”

Your heart is beating so hard now you’re half-convinced he can hear it.

“You lose verbal fluency,” he says, voice lower now. “You trip over words you normally wouldn’t. Your pupils dilate. Your heart rate increases. And every single time I get close to noticing it—”

His eyes lock onto yours.

“You redirect.”

You can barely breathe now.

He’s standing right in front of you, close enough that the heat rolling off him sinks straight into your skin, close enough that one more step would put him between your knees where you’re perched on the counter.

And somehow the worst part is that he still sounds calm. Thoughtful. Like Aaron Hotchner is profiling you with the same careful focus he’d bring to an unsub—except this time the thing he’s slowly uncovering is the fact that you’ve been hopelessly in love with him this entire time.

You swallow hard, your gaze catching just briefly on his mouth before you drag it back up to his eyes, pulse hammering so hard you can barely think straight.

“Figured it out yet, Agent Hotchner?” you ask softly.

He goes still for half a second, something unreadable flickering across his face as his eyes drop to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again.

The apartment suddenly feels oppressively quiet.

His throat shifts slightly.

And then—

His phone rings.

He steps back immediately, his expression shuttering back into something careful and unreadable.

“Hotchner,” he says, pressing his phone against his ear.

You don’t hear much after that. Not really. You recognise Morgan’s muffled voice, but you can’t quite hear what he’s saying. Not while Hotch slowly paces your living room. You catch fragments of the conversation. Questions. Short answers. The low, steady cadence of his voice slipping effortlessly back into work mode while your own nervous system continues actively collapsing in on itself.

Because holy fuck.

Holy fuck.

What the hell just happened?

“They got him.”

Your head snaps up. “They what?”

Hotch moves back to the dining table and starts gathering his things.

“It was him. Daniel Mercer,” he says. “Morgan and Prentiss found him in the motel room with multiple burner phones, printed screenshots from the dating profile, and enough surveillance material to establish intent.”

“Oh.”

“Local PD recovered notebooks too,” he continues. “Names, schedules, work addresses. Everyone connected to Ethan Mercer’s conviction. Judges, prosecutors, witnesses. You were first because you were the arresting agent.”

A cold shiver slips down your spine.

“Garcia also confirmed the motel Wi-Fi matched the same VPN chain used to access the dating profile,” Hotch adds. “Once Mercer realised the Bureau was involved, the direct contact stopped. After that he shifted to surveillance. Morgan said the room was covered in trial material. Photos. Notes. Newspaper clippings. He’d been building the grievance for months.”

He pauses, then looks at you.

“But they got him.”

“Good,” you say quietly.

Hotch nods once before turning back to the dining table, slipping his laptop into his bag with careful efficiency before gathering every file and printout into one neat pile.

“Local PD will hold Mercer overnight until federal transport clears,” he says, sliding the papers into his bag. “Garcia’s already started coordinating with the U.S. Attorney’s Office. You’ll need to give an additional statement tomorrow regarding the dating profile.”

You nod. “Okay.”

Hotch reaches for his jacket, draping it over one arm.

“There’ll still be additional officers patrolling the area tonight,” he says. “And if you don’t want to be alone, I can have Reid or Garcia stay here.”

“I’ll be fine,” you mutter, glancing down at the kitchen tiles. “You can stop babysitting me now.”

Hotch stills.

Then slowly, deliberately, sets his jacket on the table.

“Babysitting?” he repeats.

“You know what I mean.”

He steps toward you, brows drawn. “I don’t think I do.”

“You solved the case,” you mutter, heat crawling up the back of your neck. “You profiled me. Thoroughly. So congratulations, I guess. You figured out the whole sad little secret, the weird avoidance issues, the entire personality disorder cocktail—” You let out a short, humourless laugh. “You can go back to pretending none of this ever happened now.”

He closes the distance between you before you even fully realise he’s moving, stopping directly in front of the counter again. Exactly where he’d been when you asked him if he’d figured it out. Close enough that you can feel his warmth. Close enough that you can see the day-old shadow of stubble lining his jaw.

“You’re being deliberately provocative now because you’re embarrassed,” he says. “But embarrassment isn’t actually your primary response here.”

His gaze drops to your mouth again, and your pulse stumbles.

“If it was,” he adds quietly, “you wouldn’t still be looking at me like that.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

You want to say something. Anything. Another joke. Another deflection. Something sharp enough to cut through the tension in the air and stop him looking at you like this. Exposing you like this.

But you can’t.

All you can do is stare at him. At the steady intensity in his eyes. At the way his tie has loosened slightly over the course of the night. At the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath the white shirt you’ve spent an embarrassing number of years picturing on your bedroom floor.

You swallow hard, and he notices. Of course he does.

Something shifts in his expression then. Something softer. Less guarded.

His hand comes up beneath your jaw, his thumb pressing gently into your chin as he pulls you closer. You fall forward without hesitation, and he leans in, dark eyes still searching yours as if he isn’t entirely sure he has permission yet.

Then he kisses you.

It’s not rushed. Not messy. If anything, the first press of his mouth against yours feels almost unbearably controlled, like he’s still holding himself back even now.

But the restraint doesn’t last long.

Your hand catches his tie, tugging him closer, and something rough slips from the back of his throat as he steps in, his hips slotting between your thighs. His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, fingers tightening just enough to tilt your head back exactly as far as he wants it.

Your lips part against his with a broken sound, and he deepens it slowly, his tongue moving against yours like he has all the time in the world. Tasting you. Learning you. Mapping every small sound and ragged exhale with the same focused intensity he brings to everything—and somehow that’s what undoes you the most. Not urgency. Attention.

His breath mingles with yours, hot and uneven, and when his teeth catch your bottom lip it’s deliberate, measured—a sharp little spark shooting straight through your spine. Your hips roll toward him without permission, and his answering groan rumbles through his chest, vibrating beneath your palm and making you ache everywhere you’ve been starving for him.

Then he pulls back just enough to look at you properly again. His hand still tangled in your hair. Thumb dragging once across your jaw. His eyes move over your face with the same intensity he uses in every debrief, every case, every crisis, except right now you are the thing he’s making sure of.

Like he needs to be absolutely certain this is real.

“Aaron—”

“Bedroom,” he says immediately, voice low and rough enough to send heat crashing straight through you. “Now.”

FRIDAY 6:15AM

Your alarm blares somewhere beside the bed, startling you awake hard enough that your heart immediately starts pounding. You reach for it blindly, determined to silence it before it wakes—

Oh God.

The second your hand hits the snooze button, you freeze.

Your heart is beating faster now, your pulse thrumming in your throat as you turn slowly—so slowly—toward the other side of the bed, where Aaron fucking Hotchner stirs sleepily.

Your stomach swoops.

You slept with your boss last night.

With a shallow, shaky breath, you carefully start to move. His arm is heavy at your waist, but you manage to slip out from underneath it without fully waking him. You shove the covers off and shiver at the sudden exposure, leaning over the side of the bed to find your discarded sweater. You pull it over your head before quietly padding toward the ensuite, refusing to glance back at your very hot, very naked unit chief still tangled in your sheets.

You only just make it around the other side of the bed before something tugs at the back of your sweater. You stop, glancing back to find Hotch half-awake, eyes half-lidded with one hand caught at the hem of your sweater.

“Do you really get up this early?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Most days.”

His brows pull together slightly. “Why?”

You let out a small, breathless laugh. “Because my boss is kind of a hard ass about punctuality.”

Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face.

“Sounds like a terrible boss,” he murmurs.

Then he tugs on your sweater again—hard enough this time that you let out a startled laugh as you stumble backward onto the mattress and into him. He catches you easily, one arm wrapping around your waist before you can even fully recover, pulling you back against the warmth of his chest.

“Yeah,” you murmur, laughing softly as his mouth brushes beneath your ear. “He’s awful. Very demanding.”

He hums, breath warm against your skin.

“He’s really hot, though,” you add, smiling despite yourself. “So I like having time to put in a little effort, you know? Hope he notices.”

“Oh, he notices.”

Your stomach flips. “Really?”

“Mhm.”

His arm tightens around your waist. “He notices the skirts.”

Heat floods your face. “Aaron—”

“He notices the tights.” His mouth brushes against the nape of your neck. “The ones with the seam up the back.”

“Oh my God.”

You try to turn your face into the pillow, but he just holds you tighter, pressing his lips firm against your neck.

“And the red bra,” he murmurs.

Your breath catches.

“Noticed that so much I had to wait until everyone left the conference room before I could get up.”

You let out a strangled sound, squirming in his arms, but it’s no use. His chest vibrates against your back, something suspiciously close to laughter.

“My washing machine broke that week,” you whine. “It wasn’t my fault.”

“Mm, sure.”

You twist around immediately. “I’m not lying.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, like he doesn’t quite believe you, but before you can protest again—he kisses you. Warm, slow, sleep-soft. His mouth moves against yours almost lazily, his hand tightening slightly at your waist when a pathetic little whimper slips out before you can stop it.

“Careful,” you murmur, breathless against his mouth. “Don’t want to be late.”

You feel his lips curve.

“Good thing I’m the boss.”

10:35AM

You made it to work well on time. Even after three orgasms, a shower, and an awkward attempt at a ‘What Now?’ conversation—that ended in the aforementioned third orgasm. Because fortunately for your rapidly fraying nervous system, Hotch hadn’t even hesitated when you’d finally asked what happens next. In fact, he’d answered a little too quickly.

The first thing he’d asked was whether you’d be comfortable keeping things quiet for a while. Not because he’s worried about the team finding out—he trusts them. Trusts you. The concern is Strauss, and the Bureau, and keeping you in the BAU while he figures out exactly how much trouble the two of you have just created for yourselves. At some point he’d even started muttering about reporting structures and supervisory chains, half-thinking out loud while pulling on his tie. Something about possibly moving your reporting line over to Rossi. Something else about needing to review the Bureau’s fraternisation policies before making any moves.

That was when you kissed him—effectively, and very quickly, kicking off round three.

Because he’d clearly been thinking about this for a while, which means Aaron Hotchner has been noticing a lot more than just short skirts and inappropriately coloured underwear. It means that the second he decided to kiss you in your apartment last night, he’d already known exactly what he was getting himself into.

“Alright, gorgeous,” Morgan says, startling you as he raps a knuckle against your desk. “They’ll be ready for you downstairs in ten.”

You glance up at him, brows drawn—and it takes an embarrassingly long second for you to figure out what he’s talking about.

“Oh.” You blink. “Right. Yeah, I’ll head down soon. Thanks.”

Prentiss looks over from her desk. “You gonna be okay?”

You lift a shoulder. “Sure. What’s another case report?”

Morgan frowns, dropping into his chair. “It’s not exactly every day you’re the victim, baby girl.”

“Yeah, but nothing really happened.”

Morgan and Prentiss both stare at you.

“Because of the team,” you add quickly. “You guys caught him before he actually did anything. So... you know, nothing bad happened.” You plaster on a smile that feels reasonably convincing. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

Prentiss narrows her eyes, but before she can say anything else, Reid appears.

“You’re in a remarkably good mood for someone who was being actively cyberstalked twelve hours ago,” he says, stirring his second coffee of the day.

You turn back to your screen, trying to ignore the heat creeping into your cheeks. “Maybe I just have a newfound appreciation for life.”

Reid studies you for a moment, clearly unconvinced—but he doesn’t push. He just moves slowly back toward his desk, setting his coffee down with unnecessary care while the rest of the team turn away, finally deciding to mind their own business.

You force your attention back to the report in front of you, determined to at least look productive for the next ten minutes—when a familiar voice cuts through your concentration.

“Rossi’s taking Wallace with you next week,” Hotch says, setting the file down on your desk.

You blink up at him. “I thought you were leading the interview.”

“I was.”

Something in his expression tightens briefly before he lowers his voice.

“Wallace has a long history of using sex, intimidation, and emotional targeting to destabilise people during interviews,” he says. “Especially women.”

You frown. “Hotch, I—”

“And if he says something to you in that room,” he continues evenly, “or looks at you the wrong way, I need to know the agent sitting beside you is still capable of thinking objectively.”

Your stomach flips as his eyes meet yours—steady, intense, devastatingly honest.

“Right now,” he says quietly, “I’m not sure that’s me.”

Then he’s gone. Moving through the bullpen back toward his office like he hasn’t just set your pulse racing and your head spinning. You watch after him for a moment before shaking your head, glancing back at your computer screen as if you’d been focused on it at all in the first place.

“…Huh.”

You turn toward the sound and find Reid staring at you again. Not rudely. Just watching with the same focused curiosity he’d been wearing since your suspiciously cheerful comment about cyberstalking.

He tilts his head.

Then—

“Oh my God.”

You close your eyes. “Spencer… don’t.”

"But it sucks."

A corner of his mouth tugged upward, a faint, bittersweet smile. He reached out, his large hand coming down on top of your head, affectionately rustling your hair the way he always did when he thought you were being dramatic. "You’re going to college in the spring. You’re getting out of here. You just have to hold down the fort for a few more months, okay? If you need anything, you call me. I’m cutting ties with him, not you."

It was a safe promise. 

And suddenly the suffocating reality of how much you loved him, how much you had loved him since he first showed up to drag your dad out of a bar, boiled over. 

"I’m going to marry you someday." you said.

Jack froze. His hand stayed resting on your head before he slowly lowered it, his dark eyes blinking in confusion. "What?"

"You heard me." You shoved your hands into your jacket pockets so he wouldn't see them shaking. "I'm going to marry you someday. Plan accordingly."

The confusion on his face morphed into a booming laugh that rattled right through your ribs. He shook his head.  "Jesus, kid." he chuckled, leaning his hip against the truck tailgate. "You really are losing it. I think the stress is finally liquefying your brain."

"I am entirely lucid." you insisted, your heart hammering against your sternum.

"Sure you are. Look, I know I'm a catch." he teased, his eyes glittering with amusement as he pointed a finger at you. "But I'm twelve years older than you, I have a bad knee, and my current retirement plan is hoping the lottery works out. You're nineteen. Go find some college kid who thinks a romantic evening is sharing a box of cheap pizza, and leave the old men out of it."

"You're not old."

"I'm ancient by your standards. Now get inside before you freeze." He waved a dismissive hand, turning back to his truck to close the tailgate. 

You turned and walked toward the porch, the gravel crunching beneath you. You didn't look back. 

As you reached for the doorknob of the house you hated, the lighthearted mask you’d worn slid completely away. Your chest felt tight, a wild, terrifying spark of certainty settling deep into your bones.

He thought you were joking. He thought it was a silly, dramatic crush from a teenage girl who had a bad dad and a soft spot for the guy who saved her.

But as you pulled the door open and stepped into the dim hallway, you knew with absolute clarity that you had never been more serious about anything in your entire life.

It was unfortunate then that you wouldn’t see Jack Abbot for another eleven years. 

…

Now

"I think we should go with the eggshell white for the table linens." Meg said, waving a heavy, binder in front of your face. "Standard white is too aggressive. It screams hospital cafeteria, and we want understated elegance. Thoughts?"

You blinked, pulling yourself out of the haze that had taken over your brain three months ago when wedding planning officially began. "Is there a difference between eggshell and ivory?"

Meg looked at you with the pity of a maid of honor who was single handedly dragging a reluctant bride across the finish line. "One has warm undertones, one has cool undertones. Do you want your guests to feel cozy or intellectually stimulated while they eat their prime rib?"

"I want them to be fed and silent." you muttered, resting your chin in your hand.

You were sitting in your apartment, the coffee table entirely buried under fabric swatches, floral arrangement lookbooks, and a seating chart that confused the hell out of you. 

From the bedroom, the sound of typing drifted through the cracked door. David. Your fiancé. A man who possessed a master’s degree in data analytics, an impeccably organized sock drawer, and a temperament so blindingly stable it felt like a weighted blanket for your chaotic soul. David didn't yell. David didn't forget to pay the electric bill. David didn't bring volatile drama into your life.

He was safe. He was exactly what a girl who grew up with a father like yours was supposed to want.

"You're doing that thing again." Meg observed, tapping her pen against the binder.

"What thing?"

"The thing where you look at your engagement ring like it’s a tiny handcuff instead of a three carat symbol of eternal devotion."

You instinctively dropped your hand into your lap, the platinum band suddenly feeling incredibly heavy on your finger. "I am not. I love the ring. I love David. I am just tired. Decision fatigue is a real medical phenomenon, Meg."

"Right. Well, the good news is David already approved the catering invoice." she said, flipping a page. "He made a spreadsheet comparing the price per head of four different vendors against their Yelp reviews. He’s very efficient."

"He is." you agreed, forcing a smile. "He's incredibly efficient."

When David asked you to marry him six months ago after a perfectly pleasant dinner, it had made total, logical sense. Your twenties had been a blur of trying to stabilize your life, working a steady job, and actively untangling the emotional wreckage your father had left behind. 

David was peace. He was the quiet harbor.

So why, as you looked at the eggshell fabric swatch in your hand, did you feel like you were suffocating?

"I need a drink." you announced suddenly, pushing yourself up from the couch. The walls of the apartment felt like they were closing in.

Meg raised an eyebrow. "It's a Thursday night."

"Exactly. The perfect night for a gin and tonic. Want to come?"

She looked longingly at the mountain of swatches, then at her watch. "I can't, babe. I promised my mom I’d call her by eight. But go. Escape. Command David to join you for a celebratory beverage."

You glanced back toward the bedroom door. The typing hadn't stopped. 

"No." you said quietly, grabbing your jacket from the back of the chair. "David’s working. I'll just slip down to the bar on the corner for an hour. A little solo decompression."

…

You pushed the heavy wooden door to the bar open, the overhead bell chime was immediately swallowed by the hum of a Thursday night crowd. The air inside was warm with the low murmur of conversations and clinking of pint glasses.

You threaded your way through the standing crowd toward the far end of the bar, finding a rare, empty leather stool near the service well. You sat down, sliding your purse onto the counter, your fingers instinctively finding the band on your ring finger. You began to rotate it. A nervous habit. 

The bartender wiped down the wood in front of you. "What can I get you?"

"Gin and tonic, please. Lime if you have it."

He nodded and vanished. You let out a long breath, closing your eyes for a fraction of a second to let the frantic pacing of wedding checklists drain out of your head. 

"I’m telling you, if the CT scan shows a retroperitoneal hematoma, you don't wait for the labs." a voice echoed from across the room, slicing through the noise of the bar. "You call trauma surgery immediately. If his pressure drops in the middle of the night, a spreadsheet of his blood counts isn't going to save him."

Your entire nervous system seemed to short circuited.

The sound of the bartender dropping ice into your glass faded. Your breath hitched, freezing right in the middle of your chest. You didn't move. You couldn't. Because your brain, despite eleven years of therapeutic distance and deliberate forgetting, recognized that voice with instantaneous accuracy.

Slowly, you turned your head.

You looked past the crowded center of the bar, your eyes tracking the sound toward a large, dimly lit booth in the far back corner. There was a group of four or five people sitting there but your brain entirely bypassed them.

It locked directly onto Jack Abbot.

Eleven years had done things to him. Unfair, frustrating things. 

He was sitting with his back partially against the wood paneling, one massive arm stretched out across the top of the booth’s leather cushion. The boyish edge to his jawline was entirely gone, replaced by a rugged permanence that only came with time and the unimaginable stress of running an emergency room. 

His hair was mostly silver now, but he still had those curls that you used to love so much.

You just stared. You took him in like a person dying of thirst who had unexpectedly stumbled into an ocean. You watched the way his fingers loosely gripped a lowball glass of amber liquid, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners as a resident across the table nodded rapidly, absorbing everything he said.

Then, one of the residents cracked a self deprecating joke and Jack threw his head back and laughed. It was that uninhibited sound you used to listen for through the floorboards of your childhood bedroom. The sound that meant the storm had passed and you were safe for the night.

But as the laugh faded, Jack’s head came back down. His gaze drifted casually across the crowded bar, tracking the room with a lazy, relaxed familiarity.

Until his eyes hit your face. And stopped.

The change in him was instantaneous. The easy, relaxed posture vanished. Jack was frozen, his entire frame locking up as his eyes widened, just a fraction, in shock. 

His glass stayed suspended halfway to his mouth. The lazy amusement in his face was entirely wiped clean, replaced by a stunned, piercing gaze that was pressing against your chest from across the room. 

He stared at you as if he were looking at a ghost. As if he couldn't quite determine if the alcohol or the dim lighting was playing a cruel trick on him.

Panic taking over, you abruptly tore your eyes away. You spun your stool back around to face the bar, your hands trembling so hard you had to clasp them together in your lap.

"Here you go. Gin and tonic." the bartender said, sliding the glass in front of you.

"Thank you." you breathed, your voice sounding thin and reedy even to your own ears.

You grabbed the glass, your knuckles white, and brought it to your lips. You took a long sip, the sharp bite of the gin doing absolutely nothing to calm the wildfire currently roaring through your veins. You kept your eyes glued to the rows of liquor bottles on the wall, staring intensely at a bottle of cheap vodka as if it held the secrets to the universe.

Just leave, your internal monologue screamed. Pay for the drink, stand up, and walk out the door.

But you didn't move. You sat there, sipping nervously, your ears hyper tuned to the noise behind you, waiting for the inevitable.

You didn’t hear his footsteps over the chatter of the bar, but you felt him. The pressure shifted, the light dimming as a towering shadow fell over your left shoulder. The scent of rain and something deeply, inherently Jack invaded your senses.

He stopped right beside your stool, not saying a word at first. He just stood there waiting until you finally found the courage to look up.

When you did, he was looking down at you, his jaw tight, his eyes searching your face.

"I’d know the back of that head anywhere." Jack murmured. "Even if you did finally change your hair."

…

Your vocal cords felt like they’d been sutured together. You just stared up at him, your fingers around your gin and tonic, desperately hoping the dim bar lighting didn't betray the frantic pulse at the base of your throat.

"Jack." you finally managed.

A grin broke across his face. Without asking, he slid into the empty leather stool next to yours, his shoulder brushing against your arm. The casual dominance of his presence immediately erased the rest of the crowded room. He flagged down the bartender. "Bourbon. Neat. And whatever she’s having, put it on my tab."

"I can pay for my own drink, actually," you shot back, the old defensive reflex kicking in before your brain could stop it. You anchored your heels onto the brass rung of the stool, trying to match his height as best you could. "I have a big girl job now. I’m a fully functioning member of the tax paying public."

Jack tilted his head, his face doing that infuriating amusement you remembered all too well. "A big girl job? Is that right? I know you're an adult. I just heard you order a cocktail that tastes like pine needles and regret. Nineteen year old you would have demanded something neon green and loaded with sugar."

"It’s a sophisticated palate." you sniffed, taking a defiant sip. "And I overheard your little performance back there. 'You call trauma surgery immediately.' Honestly, do you ever stop playing god, or do you just like terrifying your underlings in public so they know you're the smartest guy in the room?" You couldn’t help being a brat. The feelings of him leaving you bubbling up, making you pissed off all over again.

"They’re interns." Jack corrected smoothly, leaning an elbow on the bar, shifting his torso so he was completely facing you. The scent of him was overwhelming. "And they need to be terrified. If they lose their heads because a patient's blood pressure drops, they don't belong in my ER. It's called guidance, kid."

"It's called being bossy.”

Jack let out a chuckle, a sound that rattled right through your ribs, agonizingly familiar. He shook his head, his eyes darkening as he leaned a fraction of an inch closer. "God, I missed your mouth." he murmured.

The words hung in the air between you. The banter evaporated, leaving a silence. Jack’s gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before lifting back to your eyes, searching them.

Fuck.

“Listen up. Central 7, 8, 9 is now the blood donor center,” Abbot shouts across the ER, “anyone who's O-neg or O-pos, we need you to donate now. Hands where I can see them, Dana?” 

“OK, let's do this,” Dana answers, headed towards you. You finish your bag and Dana’s wrapping hot pink gauze around your arm, your foot bouncing in anticipation.

“All set kid,” She says.

“Thanks D,” you say, already back on the floor, running alongside a new patient who’s in desperate need of intubation.

“Need some help with an airway!” You call out.

“What is it?” Abbot steps next to you.

“GSW to the neck with expanding hematoma and distorted anatomy…” you say, your hand on his neck, “I can't intubate him, probably hit the carotid.”

“OK. I'll do the airway,” Abbot steps across from you.

“What do we need? A 6.5 and a bougie?” you say, grabbing them. 

“I got the bleeder. Foley catheter with a 30 cc balloon.” Abbot says, his finger in the patient’s neck. Jesse hands you the Foley and the balloon. Your eye catches the tube running down Abbot’s leg, a blood bag held around his ankle by gauze.

“Are you donating?” You smile up at him.

“What can I say,” he smiles back at you, “you inspired me,”

“Uh,” you bite back a smile shifting your focus back to the patient, “it's too bloody to see a bougie,”

“Not for this. Three-step process. Step one, scalpel. Step two, finger. Step three, bougie. OK, railroad in the tube.” Abbot says, and you gently push the tube in the patient's neck, “good, that's far enough, bag him.”

“Walsh, you have an OR for a head-and-neck case? MCI-48,” you call to the surgeon.

“We've got 16 ORs up and running,” Emery answers, “we've got room for one more.”

You and Abbot push the gurney towards Walsh who grabs it along with a few nurses, pushing towards the elevator. Just before they get onto the elevator Gloria steps out into the chaos of the ER. 

“Robby, are you okay?” Robby kind of half nods at her, not giving her his full attention. “Well, I got some good news. County Public Health is sending out a truckload of supplies from Magee-Womens and Mercy.”

“Gloria, are we gonna have to call in more blood donors?” Dana calls across the room.

“Already done,” Jesse says.

“Donated!” Samira adds.

“Wait, hold on. W-what does she mean, more blood donors? You didn't use unscreened blood donations, did you?” Gloria crosses her arms. 

“We did what we had to do to save as many people as we could.” Robby bites back.

“You're killing me, Robinavitch,” Gloria throws her hands up.

“Better than killing patients,” Robby turns his back to her, heading towards the doors to the ambulance bay, another patient being wheeled in. You shoot Abbot a quick, concerned glance and he gives a small shrug and nods you over to where a new patient, a young cop, is wheeled in. Princess already has a clamp in the young man’s neck.

“Ah, too much blood,” you shake your head, “move that kelly to the right a little bit,”

“Any better?” Princess asks.

“Not really,” you click his tongue, “radial pulse?”

“Still has it, maybe a little weaker,” Princess says with her fingers on his wrist, “I can try and give you a bubble?”

“Yeah, yeah, go for it,” You say, and she gives a firm push on the patient’s chest, you shake your head, “no, nothing. I'm not seeing anything, let's bag him. I wanna prep the neck.”

“You don't have a bougie,” Princess furrows her eyebrows.

“I have an 11 blade and a prayer,” you say, scalpel in hand.

“Without a bougie, you could create a false passage on top of the trachea and kill him,” she says.

“You're doing a crike?” Abbot steps up beside you.

“Yep. No skin hooks, no bougie…” you say, bending forward towards the patient, “old school,”

“I got a tactical airway in my bag here,” Abbot says, reaching into his go bag and pulling out a small plastic tube.

“What is that?” You furrow your eyebrows.

“It's a control crike kit,” he smirks at you.

“Woah, that's perfect,” you look up at him with a little disbelief and a lot of admiration. 

“Use that on the battlefield,” Abbot says, “works in the pitch-dark when you're under fire. I can do these with my eyes closed,”

“Keep ‘em open for now,” you scrunch your nose.

“For you, okay,” Abbot says, starting the procedure, “the knife leaves a trach hook behind, so you can't miss, right? Just... good. You slide in the introducer, feel the tracheal rings… Good. Bob's your uncle.”

“Are you always that fast?” you smirk at him.

“Eh…” he smirks back, “balloon is up,”

“Why don't we stock these?” You ask.

“No room in the budget,” Abbot shrugs. 

“Yellow on end-tidal,” Princess says.

“He’s okay now?” The officer who brought him in asks from along the wall.

“Yeah,” Abbot nods at him.

“Thank you, Dr. Abbot.” you say to him, fluttering your eyelashes at him.

“Okay, let's pack the oral cavity with Kerlix and see how fast Head and Neck can take him up to the OR,” Abbot playfully rolls his eyes at you as he speaks.

“What else you got in your go bag?” You smirk, walking towards the door where another patient is being rolled in.

“Oh, just wait and see,” He says, eyes following you as you walk away, a small smile on his face.

9:00PM

“Dilated right atrium and right ventricle,” you say, pressing the ultrasound to your patient's chest, “right-sided strain with bowing of the septum.”

“Sounds like a PE,” Walsh crosses her arms, “He threw a clot from having the tourniquet on?

“Way too soon for a DVT. Trendelenburg ASAP,” Abbot says to Jesse.

“What for?” You furrow your brow at Abbot.

“Intracardiac air embolism. All that running around introduced air into the femoral vein right up to the heart. Now it's blocking blood flow to the lungs.” Abbot says.

“Need a CT to confirm.” Walsh crosses her arms.

“They're still backed up with other patients,” you say with frustration. 

“Well, maybe the cath lab can take them. They have fluoro. I'll go check.” Walsh says, leaving the room.

“I need a central line kit and a 5 French pigtail catheter.” Abbot looks across the room to Jesse.

“He doesn't have a collapsed lung?” You say, confused.

“Yeah?” Abbot looks at you with an eyebrow raised.

“So what are you going to do?” You look at him incredulously.  

“I'm not gonna do anything.” Abbot smirks. “You are.”

“The fuck am I gonna do?” You say with a short laugh.

“You’re gonna aspirate the air with the pigtail cath,” Abbot says, handing you the line kit.

“Uh,” you take the kit reluctantly, hands shaking a little.

“Hey,” Abbot rests his bloody hand on your shoulder, “I know you can do this,”

“Ok,” you say, leaning fully into his confidence in you. You make an incision in the young man’s side, “I got the IJ,”

“Okay,” Abbot stands beside you, watching closely, steady and calm, “guidewire and introducer,”

“What the hell are you doing?” Walsh storms back into the trauma room and you flinch and almost imperceptible amount but Abbot notices.

“She is about to pull air from the right atrium and right ventricle,” Abbot says firmly.

“With what?” Walsh walks further into the room with fury.

“5 French pigtail catheter,” you say, voice low, eyes trained on the ultrasound screen.

“What the actual fuck?” Walsh snaps. “If it's showing air, then you need to dive him in the hyperbaric chamber.” 

“He'll be dead by then,” you say desperately. 

“Not if you kill him first with this banana-pants procedure,” Walsh huffs.

“We don't have time to wait for your fancy-pants machine,” Abbot turns to her with an annoyed look on his face.

“Everyone stop saying pants,” you say sharply, firmly holding the central line, “if we don't get the air out of his heart, he'll die,”

“This is not the standard of care,” Walsh bites.

“Oh, fuck standard of care,” Abbot tries to shrug Walsh off on your behalf, “If we want to save him, we go in now.”

“Maybe I should…” you say, pausing your movements, eyes flicking up to Abbot.

“Thread in the pigtail? Excellent idea, doctor.” Abbot says with a firm nod, “Go down to 24 centimeters, and then we'll confirm with X-ray,”

Your hands move with slow, steady precision, threading the pigtail catheter through the incision, hooking up the plastic syringe to the end of the tube.

“Good.” Abbot says, calm and measured. “Now aspirate, see what you get.”

“Pulling back blood from the heart…” you pull back the plunger slowly, blood filling the tube and with a small pop, an air bubble enters the chamber, you let out a breath of relief, “along with some air.”

“How about that?” Abbot looks pointedly at Walsh, before turning back to you, his whole demeanor shifting back to his calm, commanding nature, “pull the pigtail back to the RA.”

“Step aside,” Walsh tries to push between you and Abbot but he holds an arm out, keeping her in place.

“Pull the pigtail, doctor,” Abbot looks at you with a knowing confidence, “you got this.”

“Normal sinus rhythm, 92.” Jesse says, reading the monitor. “Pulse ox is improving. BP's 112 over 84.”

“Not too shabby, huh, Dr. Walsh?” Abbot stands to his full height and crosses his arms. “I think we can admit him to General Surgery now.”

Walsh’s mouth tightens into a thin line. You and Abbot watch as she grabs the edge of the bed, wheeling the patient out. You let out a sharp breath, feeling an immense weight lifting off your chest.

“You were incredible,” Abbot turns to you.

“That was your save, not mine,” you say, almost laughing.

“Take the win, doctor,” he says and you can’t help but smile at him, “besides, it was a little too risky for me to do myself.”

“That’s so not funny,” you say, shaking your head with a small smile still on your face.

FRIDAY 7:00AM 

You stand looking up at the board drinking your coffee and trying to fully wake up while the ER moves around you, humming and fuzzy in the background. You only snap to attention when you see Robby out of the corner of your eye. 

“Hey Robby,” you give him a soft smile and he lifts his mug towards you as a greeting.

“Gloria is looking for you,” Dana says to him, looking over her glasses.

“No guts, no Gloria.” Robby says, “must be time for my weekly spanking.”

“Try to be nice, for all our sake.” Dana gives him a once over.

“Yeah… has anyone seen Abbot?” Robby says.

You sigh and point upwards, indicating to Robby that his buddy is on the roof.

“Again?” Robby sighs and you and Dana watch him disappear up the stairwell. 

“Surprised you didn’t go lookin’ for him…” Dana says, pushing her glasses up to rest on her head before giving you a once over, 

“Me?” You turn back to her. “Why?”

“You know he’s got… a soft spot for you,” Dana says warmly. 

“Please,” you breath out a laugh, sitting in front of a computer, keying in and pulling up yesterday's unfinished charts, “Abbot would flirt with a chicken sandwich if it was in front of him,” 

“Not what I’m talkin’ about,” Dana gives you a knowing smile. You look back at her, biting back a smile of your own.

“Well, I’m sure I don’t know why you mean,” you turn towards the computer and spot Robby and Abbot walking off the elevator. A naked patient runs across their path with his IV bag dragging on the floor with Perlah and Princess in pursuit.

“Look at the bright side…” Abbot says, keying into the computer next to you, “...at least it’s a quiet day.”

“Jesus, Abbot,” you cross your arms looking down the hall where the naked patient ran off to, “what were you doing last night?”

And as if the universe is playing a little joke on you, a mother and her newborn baby are being wheeled behind Robby on a gurney right in your line of sight.

“Dr. Abbot!” The mother says as she rolls by slowly, reaching out towards him, “thank you again for everything. You’re a miracle worker.”

“My pleasure.” Abbot turns and smiles down at you, “I was performing miracles”

“Oh please,” you playfully roll your eyes, “women have been having children on their own for a million years.” 

“Not with complete breech presentations,” Abbot smirks.

“I hope she got one of your fan club t-shirts,” you say mockingly as you lean back in your chair.

“Will you two give it a break? It’s seven in the morning,” Robby says. You hold your hands up in surrender.

“Rounds in five?” Abbot says, as Robby nods before he heads to the staff lounge to fill his coffee mug.

“Hey, do you have a minute? I wanted to ask you something before you take off,” you turn to Abbot touching the side of his boot with the toe of your sneaker, you don’t notice the tips of his ears go red, “that french pigtail cath aspiration during pitt fest…”

“I remember,” he nods with a smile.

“I was thinking of writing up a case report and trying to publish it…” you say, seeming a little sheepish in a way Abbot had never seen before, “maybe in a cardiology or emergency med journal…”

“Ok…?” Abbot crosses his arms with an eyebrow raised.

“Well,” you scoff with a smile, “do you think it’s a good idea?”

“Of course,” Abbot pulls his head back a bit, almost shocked you feel like you have to ask.

“Do you- would you co-author it with me?” You ask, looking at him with a vulnerability that tugs on his heart.

“I- yeah- yes-” Abbot stammers.

“Yeah?” You raise your eyebrows, a look close to glee on your face, “ok, I’ll uh, I’ll do a write up and send it to you? Or, is it fucked up I assume you prefer prints outs?”

“Ha ha,” Abbot fake laughs as you stand and round the desk, a cheeky smile on your face.

“So I’ll print it,” you scrunch your nose at him, resting your hand on the hub in front of him for a second. His eyes linger on you for just a moment too long but your head is already turned towards the board where Robby gathers the day shift.

“Careful,” Dana says, stepping next to him, looking down at the tablet in her hand.

“What?” Abbot scoffs.

“Pretty young resident…” Dana shrugs, “just keep your head on straight,” 

“I’m not gonna- my head is straight,” Jack shrugs on his back pack.

“Yeah, that’s the problem…” Dana chuckles, “but for what it’s worth… I get it, she’s-”

“She’s smarter than all of us,” Jack says, eyes still fixed on you.

Dana pats Jack on the shoulder with an expression somewhere between sympathy and pity before shifting back to her computer. Jack sighs before walking towards the ambulance bay. Of course he’s thought about it, you’re a brilliant, beautiful, confident doctor. You’re not afraid to bend the rules a little if it means saving a patient or sticking it to insurance companies. Gloria is certainly not your number one fan but with the second highest patient satisfaction score in the ED it’s in her best interest to keep you around, a point that Jack has reminded her of multiple times. 

You just have a way of knowing exactly what a patient needs: a laugh, a gentle touch, a little tough love… of course you have a bit of a stubborn streak, going toe to toe with a couple of less-than-cooperative patients or family members when they got in between you and your plan of care. Hence, second highest score. But Jack likes that about you, you aren't a push over, you're grounded and principled… and gorgeous. It wasn’t a line he ever planned to cross, but you continue to be a subject of his fantasies…

THURSDAY 6:00PM

“How’s your Le Fort patient?” Robby says, stepping beside you at the hub.

“Floating face?” You grit your teeth and take in a sharp breath, “he’s on his way to the ICU-”

“Hey, Fruitcake.” A raspy, old voice cuts across the ER, making you turn your head. Simultaneously you have opposite reactions, Robby lets out a sigh of distress and the corner of your mouth curves up into a smile.

“Hey, I'm talking to you, Fruitcake,” Myrna says as Robby reluctantly turns to face her.

“Myrna, I told you a hundred times my name is Dr. Robby.” He says, almost pleading, he turns back to you and mumbles under his breath, “Jesus.”

“Hey, don’t take it personally,” you tilt your head to the side sympathetically, “you’re just not her type,”

Robby cocks an eyebrow.

“And what would you know about her type?” Robby crosses his arms, his expression shifting from annoyed to amused. Your smile only widens.

“Hi Myrna,” you turn to the wheelchair bound, or shackled, woman, giving her a soft smile.

“Fruitcake, it’s a crime you’ve got a girl with legs like that wearing those pants all day,” Myrna gestures up and down in the direction of your body and you shoot her a little wink. You turn back to Robby with a look of utter glee on your face, scrunching your shoulders up with a devious little grin.

“I don’t even wanna know,” Robby holds his hands up before turning and walking away from you.

“Don’t be jealous, Robinavitch,” you call after him, “it doesn’t suit you!”

He gives you the middle finger as he continues down the hall of the south corridor.

“Hey,” you turn to Myrna with a pointed finger, “behave yourself,”

“For you angel, I will,” Myrna folds her hands in her lap as you shake your head with a smile. Out of the corner of your eye you spot Abbot.

“Abbot, hey,” you catch up with him as he walks out of a patients room, “I have a very, very rough draft for you, I left it with Lena in case I didn’t catch you,”

“Good, yeah,” Abbot says, clearly focusing on the incoming trauma that Lena just gave a two minute warning for, “I’ll take a look,”

“You’re the best!” You call after him and he gives you a thumbs up over his shoulder.

FRIDAY 8:00AM

Abbot is just leaving the hospital, today’s handoff taking longer than usual, and he’s certain it’s because you aren’t working today. He gets into his truck, slamming the door shut and taking a deep breath in the silence. He pulls out his phone and sends you a text.

Abbot: Hey. I didn't know you were off today. I have notes for you. 

He doesn’t expect it but you respond immediately.

You: jesus, that bad?

Abbot: What? No, it’s really good.

You: oh

You: you just sounded like you hated it

Abbot: I don’t hate it. It’s good.

You: do you always text like this?

Abbot: Like what?

You: Curt.

Abbot can’t help but smile at the way you mimic his texting style.  

Abbot: I don’t know how to text any other way.

You: lol ok

You: can i swing by and grab it from you? is that weird? 

His heart tightens briefly. 

Abbot: No, not at all. I’m just leaving the hospital. I’ll be home in twenty.

You: i can just grab it from your mailbox or something ??

Abbot: I can just hand it to you. 

Abbot: 5139 Penton Road

You: Okay, Dr. Abbot.

You: ur the best !! 

You: is now ok?

Abbot: Yes, now is ok.

You: ok i’ll be there asap

Abbot drives home faster than usual, feeling a little ridiculous at his eagerness to see you. After all he had seen you the day before, and in between he spent half the time he should have been sleeping pouring over the draft you left him. The draft was not ‘rough’ as you had claimed, it was clear, concise, and thoughtful. Was there anything you couldn’t do well? 

He makes it home in record time and paces around his living room trying not to be so anxious. He never feels this way around you. If anything you calm him down more than most people. But the idea of you in his house… the boundary he swore he’d never cross feels like it’s getting hazier. The doorbell snaps him out of his thoughts. He walks to the front of the house, his leg aching against his prosthetic after a chaotic shift.

Pulling open the door his breath hitches slightly. You’re wearing a white t-shirt and blue jeans which hug the curve of your hips in a way he can only describe as unfair, your hair is half up, flyaways framing your face like a portrait. You get one look at him and the corner of your mouth turns up.

“Tough night?” You say, in a tone that blends sympathy and amusement. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He says in mock offense.

“You look tired,” you say, something in your voice softer now, “I’ll- uh- I won’t keep you- if you have the paper,”

“Oh- yeah-” he says, the tips of his ears turning red, having temporarily forgotten that the paper is the only reason you’re here. He walks back into the house to where his backpack sits, haphazardly thrown on the counter, pulling the paper out of his bag. 

“It- uh- it’s really good so far-” he says, eyes moving across the first page as he walks back to the front door where you wait with your hands in your pockets, “I just had a few suggestions and minor corrections,” he hands the paper to you and you take it.

“Thank you for doing this,” you say, looking down at the notes he had written in the margins before flicking your eyes back up to him, “I owe you one,”

“Nah, you don’t owe me anything,” he says, running his hand up the back of his neck, trying to ignore how warm it is, “it’s no big deal,”

“Well, it is to me,” your gaze drops back down to the paper, “really, I- thank you,” you hold the stack to your chest like he had just given you something precious. 

“Happy to help,” he gives you a small smile and the two of you just stand there for a second looking at each other, before you take in a sharp breath.

“I’ll uh- let you get some rest-” you say, slowly backing down his front walk, as if you don’t want to go.

“I don’t look that tired,” he says, crossing his arms, playfully furrowing his brow. You suck in a breath through your clenched teeth.

“You’re putting all your weight on your left leg,” you say, turning slowly before looking over your shoulder, “go sleep.” 

Abbot shakes his head, a smile on his face as he pushes the door closed. He glances out the glass panel alongside his door, watching you get into the car. After you shut the door before holding the paper up, he assumes you’re going to sit there and read it but you don’t… you take the paper and literally press it against your face, you seem to let out a deep breath. You pull the paper back, looking down at it, your bottom lip between your teeth, biting back a smile. You place the paper in the passenger seat before starting your car and driving off.

After a hot shower he does get into bed, the black out curtains wrapping him in darkness, but as tired as he is he can’t fall asleep, his mind unable to move away from you. The simple beauty of you in jeans and a t-shirt, no more revealing than your scrubs but for whatever reason it felt much more intimate to see you like that, at his house… If he had asked you to come inside would you?

He feels his cock twitch in his boxers. God, this is wrong, and he knows it. But you’ll never find out, no one will ever find out, he thinks as he moves his hand down his body, palming his crotch lightly. He imagines you on your knees in front of him, gagging and sucking as he fucks your face. He grasps his firming cock in his face, picturing how it’d feel to hold your soft hair back for you as you choke on his dick. He thinks of your soft mouth wrapping around his tip, your hands furiously stroking his hot shaft as he does the same to himself. 

He imagines his name on your lips, how sweet it sounds coming from you. Jack, he can almost hear you saying it right now. He wonders how you’d taste, how you’d feel squeezing around him, how you would sound as he fucked you. He can feel heat building around his pelvis as he tightens his grip. You flash before his eyes as he closes them, your mouth, your skin, your scent, smile, eyes, he wants to be consumed by you. 

He quickly brings his hand up spitting on it, increasing his pleasure as he twists his fist around his cock, pushing hips up in desperation. He runs his fingers over the thick vein along the underside of his cock, brushing his thumb over his tip. He moans your name out loud, imagining his hand is yours. His stomach flips as the tension releases, he groans as a hot ribbon of cum shoots up over his pelvis and hand. His body shivers in contractions of pleasure. 

After laying still for a moment, his softening cock still in his hand, Jack slowly sits up assessing the mess he made, what you had done to him… and you weren’t even here. 

SATURDAY 4:00PM

Having time off as a night shift doctor is always a little strange and wanting to keep his sleep schedule as consistent as possible Jack is only starting to get up in the evening. He checks his phone and tries to ignore the twinge in his stomach when he sees that he has a text from you.

You: hey, i know ur not working this weekend, would it be presumptuous to ask you some questions about ur notes?

Jack smiles down at his phone, typing out a reply.

Abbot: How do you know I’m not working?

You: i asked robby 

You: is that weird?

Abbot: No, it’s not weird. 

Abbot: You can ask me anything. What’s up?

You: i didn’t mean over text !!

You: at least let me buy you a beer or something for your trouble

Abbot: That’s not necessary. I’m happy to help.

You: can you just say yes?

Abbot: How about you just bring a six-pack to my place and you can ask me as many questions as you want?

Shit. Maybe that was too forward. He throws his phone across the bed. He should have waited until he was more awake before answering you. The thought of you in his house was clearly still lingering in his mind after yesterday. You probably don’t want to come over to your boss’ house and drink with him… his phone buzzes and he flops over, reaching for it desperately reading your text and his breathing slows.

You: yes!!!

You: what time is good? i don’t want to mess with your fucked up sleep schedule

Abbot: 8?

You: i’ll be there :) 

He lies back down, resting his hand on his forehead. You were about to be in his house. The two of you, alone, without the prying eyes of the Pitt staff. He tries to slow his breathing and his racing mind. This was purely a work related meeting that happened to be taking place at his house, that is the only reason you’re coming. But still, he can’t help but feel excited.

7:30PM

 The closer it gets to your arrival the more jittery Jack gets. At the hospital he knows all the rules, all the expectations. He’s your superior, and sure, he flirts with you, but he flirts with everyone. But as time went on he started to realize he actually meant it with you. It seems that others, Dana at the very least, have begun to pick up on that as well. Of course it doesn’t hurt that you happily flirt back, and you never miss a beat, always prepared with a cute chirp for whatever he throws at you. But here, at his house, the rules aren’t so clearly defined. Are you just you and is he just Jack? Or is he still Dr. Abbot, one of your attendings? 

By the time you ring the doorbell he’s decided that he’s Dr. Abbot and you’re here to work. The paper is work related and so he’s going to keep it professional. He kept his prosthetic on to try and keep this whole thing as close to working in the hospital as possible but as he pulls open the door he feels his resolve wavering. You’re trying to tuck your hair behind your ear but the warm breeze is blowing it across your face. 

“Hi,” you breathe with a smile.

“Hi,” he swallows, trying not to let his eyes wander down your body but he can’t help but notice the small cut out on the neckline of your black tank top held together with an iridescent button. He feels like he’s buffering, wondering if you had been wearing that all day or if you put it on just for him, before he steps to the side, “uh, come in,” 

“I, uh, hope you like lager,” you say holding up the six pack, “I just guessed,” 

“No, that’s great,” he wanders towards the kitchen table and you follow, sitting next to him instead of across, setting the beers on the table.

“So,” you pull out a notebook, and a stack of papers, the paper he had given you yesterday, right down to business, he thinks. You sigh, looking down at the small pile you just created, then reach across the table and grab two beers out of the pack. You use the first bottle to open the second one, and then grab the disposed bottle top, pressing it between your hand and the sealed bottle, making a little leaver, popping open the second. Your eyes flick up to him as you slide one of the bottles towards him. 

“Sorry,” you say, “I’ve been working on this all day, I need to not think about it for one second.”

You clink your bottle against his and bring it to your lips and take a long drag. Jack feels his heart in his throat.

“How the fuck did you do that?” He says, bringing the bottle slowly to his mouth.

“Oh, just a little party trick I picked up in college,” you smirk. 

“You are full of surprises,” he says, setting his bottle back on the table.

“You have no idea,” you say, putting down your beer as well, “uh- so, ok,” you shift your papers around pulling his copy of notes out and setting it next to your new draft, “can I just tell you what I added and then talk about if it’s ok?”

“Yeah,” Jack sighs, his mind still lingering on your little bottle cap trick and how sexy he thought it was.

“Ok, so, first I added a section about methods for prolonged pleural space drainage in the beginning where I say, ‘blah, blah, blah, application of a pigtail catheter for pleural effusion,’” with your right hand you hold up your imaginary catheter, “enter the rib space slightly above the rib below, to avoid major neurovascular bundles running underneath the rib, and collaterals running above the rib,” keeping your eyes on the paper you reach towards him, running your finger along the side of his chest, feeling for his ribs. Jack’s breath catches in his throat and hopes you don’t notice. Clearly you don’t, focusing on reading your notes and doing a mock performance of the procedure.

“Advance your needle in small increments,” you pretend to push the imaginary needle in, “aspirate first, and then inject. After you enter the pleural space, pull back again until you feel resistance again. Does that make sense?” your eyes flick up to his, your eyebrows are furrowed.

“Yeah, no, that’s good,” he says, sitting back in his chair and you move to tuck your hair behind your ears.

“Ok, yay,” your eyes move back down to the page that you then push in front of him so he can read it better, “then I added the thing you said about reexpansion pulmonary edema…”

The two of you sit around his kitchen table for hours, pouring over the paper, other case studies you printed out, making notes and plans for scans and x-rays you need to get a hold of. Eventually the two of you devolve into talking about the craziest cases he’s worked on.

“CIPA?” You say in disbelief, “you diagnosed someone with congenital insensitivity to pain with anhidrosis? No way, I don’t believe you.”

“Swear,” he holds up his hands, “a guy in my battalion, didn’t even realize he had been shot,”

“That’s called adrenaline,” crossing your arms, empty beer bottles scattered across the table. 

“No, no,” he shakes his head with a laugh, “we did tests in the field hospital after,”

“There have been, what, three hundred documented cases ever?” You raise an eyebrow, “you’re such a liar,” 

“Why would I lie?” He crossed his arms back at you, a small smile on his face.

“To impress me,” you tilt your head to the side. He can feel himself blush as he looks down to his lap, shaking his head.

“What would it take to convince you?” His eyes flick back up to you and you’re biting back a smile.

“That you diagnosed someone with CIPA?” You look up to the ceiling and purse your lips, pretending to think hard. “Uh, his medical records and a diagnosis from someone not named Jack Abbot.”

“I might be able to make that happen,” he smirks, “and if I’m right?”

“I will cover any holiday you want for the rest of the year, including arbor day,” you smile. “And when you’re wrong?”

Jack laughs, looking around his kitchen, his eyes drift to the bar cart in the living room, standing and walking through the house. You follow, quick on his heels, all whipped up from this little debate. He pulls a bottle off the cart as you plop yourself on his couch, eyes fixed on him.

“This is a Macallan Highland single malt scotch whisky,” he holds it up. 

“Ok…?” You squint your eyes at him.

“I will give you this really nice bottle of scotch if I’m wrong,” he says, running his finger over the label.

“I don’t even know if I like really nice scotch,” you say with a mischievous grin. He sighs playfully, setting the bottle down and pulling a crystal decanter with dark amber liquid and a matching glass, sauntering over to the couch and sitting next to you. You turn towards him as he sets the glass on the table pouring a finger of scotch, then holds it out to you.

“Hm,” you say, taking the glass from him as he tries not to enjoy the feeling of your fingers brushing against each other so much.

“Cinnamon, orange zest, walnuts, nutmeg, lemon oil,” he says as you bring the glass up to your lips and he tries not to watch your mouth too closely.

“Yeah, you’re full of shit,” you laugh, coughing on the burning liquor, “that taste like lighter fluid,”

“Ok, but,” Jack laughs, “smell it, you gotta try smelling it,”

“Ohhhh ok,” you roll your eyes bringing up the crystal glass to your nose, “mmm… smells like lighter fluid too,”

“Are you always this difficult?” Jack cocks an eyebrow with a small smirk on his face.

“Tell me honestly that you smell cinnamon, or lemon oil, or whatever other bullshit you just said,” you shift onto your knees moving closer to him, so close that your knees are almost brushing against his thigh, and hold the glass up to him. He shakes his head with a laugh and leans in, his nose an inch away from the glass, taking in a deep breath. You raise your eyebrows.

“Yes,” he practically whispers.

“Are you always this difficult?” You murmur. He grabs the glass from you and throws back the rest of the scotch, placing the empty glass on the coffee table.

“Yeah,” he smirks, you drop your mouth open in shock.

“My disgusting drink!” You laugh, “that was my disgusting drink,”

He looks at you and shakes his head, a smile on the corner of his mouth. And the way you’re looking at him… he just can’t stop himself from leaning forward.

He places a soft, lingering kiss on your lips. You go still against him. He pulls back in a sharp jerk. Your face has completely changed, the flirty smirk you had before has melted away to an unreadable expression, your lips parted and an almost astonished look in your eye.

“Sorry,” he says, a look close to horror on his face, before he buries his head in his hands, “I am so sorry,” 

“Jack,” you say softly, resting your hand on his forearm.

“I’m sorry-” he presses his palms into his eyes.

“Jack,” you cut him off, reaching across him, taking his jaw in your hand and pulling him back so he’s looking at you. You let out a short breath, eyes flicking down to his mouth, moving towards him slowly. You press your lips against his with tender intention, sliding your hand up his neck, threading your fingers through his silver hair. It’s his turn to go still as you pull back only slightly, looking up at him through your dark lashes, a blush spreading across your cheeks. 

Jack whispers your name, almost pleading. The two of you press into each other, mouths moving slow but desperate. He brings his hand up to your face, cupping your cheek and dragging his finger against your smooth skin. His chest aches at how soft your lips are, at the little breaths that escape you, at the feeling of your fingers in his hair. Your lips part against his and you slip your tongue in his mouth, tangling together with eagerness. 

His hands glide down your side, past your waist as he grabs your hips lifting you into his lap. You straddle his legs, sighing into his mouth, you pull back just barely so your mouth brushes against his before pushing back in. You bite down on his lower lip lightly, grazing your teeth across his mouth and he lets out a throaty groan against you. He slips his fingertips beneath the hem of your shirt, you take in a sharp breath at the feeling of his rough fingertips against your plush sides. He smiles into the kiss at your reaction to his touch.

“Take it off,” you breathe against him.

“Are you sure?” He rasps, gripping down on your skin.

“Yeah,” you sigh and his eyebrows furrow in desperate anticipation. His knuckles drag against the soft skin of your sides, pulling your shirt over your head, tossing it to the side. He leans back against the couch, looking up at you while your hands rest on his stomach.

“Jesus Christ,” he runs his hand through his hair, eyes tracing the black lace of your bra. You bite your lip smiling and shaking your head, “come here,” he says, voice gravely. Before bending forward you grip down on the hem of his t-shirt, pulling it over his head. Your hands immediately find his face again, fingers running along the silver pinpricks of his scruff as his big, warm hands travel down the expanse of your back, pulling you flush against him as he falls back into the couch. You lick against his cupid’s bow and he pushes his tongue into your open mouth with a desperate whimper.

Jack feels like his heart is in his throat. You are on top of him, smooth skin pressing against one another, sighing and panting into each other’s mouths. You roll your hips down into him, slowly grinding yourself on him, denim rubbing on denim as you both make pathetic sounds at the pressure. He wraps his arm around your waist and you make an adorable gasping sound, gripping on his silver curls as he tips you over so you’re flat on your back and he can’t help but smile against your mouth again. Your lips move together fast and feverishly as you slide your hands from his hair.

Jack pulls back slightly, resting his forehead against yours, aching at the loss of contact, but his chest tightens as he watches you unbutton your jeans, squirming out of the denim beneath him. Fully out of your pants Jack lets out a groan at the sight of you in your lacy black bra and matching panties. He sits back slightly, running a hand down between your tits, over your stomach, settling on your hipbone, tracing small circles on your black lace thong.

“Did you put this on for me?” Jack says, voice low and rough. You bite back a smile and let out a breath like a laugh, grabbing his wrist and pulling him back down on top of you.

“You fuckin’ wish,” you smirk before wrapping your arms around his neck, molding your lips against his. 

“I do,” he groans into your mouth, cupping your tit in his warm hand, running his thumb over your hard nipple through the thin fabric. You let out a little whimper at the sensation and you’re having trouble focusing before you manage to speak, “take off your pants,”

“I need to take off my leg,” he breathes, feeling a prick of heat spread in his chest.

“That too,” you whisper without missing a beat. He forces himself to push off of you, immediately missing the warmth of your body beneath him. You sit on your knees next to him, hands already trying to get his belt off, your mind hazy with lust.

“Leg first,” he says with a smirk, resting a hand over your frantic ones. 

“Ok,” you breathe before you lean forward, pressing hot kisses to his neck as he pulls the leg of his jeans up. He rolls the sleeve down his shin, exposing where the prosthetic meets his leg.

“Step on the foot,” he instructs, voice still raspy with desire.

“Step on your foot?” You repeat with a touch of hesitation, and it’s just so endearing he grabs your neck and pulls you in, kissing you deep and firmly.

“Don’t worry,” he pulls back, running his thumb along your jugular, “I won’t feel it,”

“Ha ha,” you say, flatly, a small smile playing on your perfect mouth. You swing your leg off the couch and press your foot down onto the sneaker. He pulls his leg straight up and barely yanks the sleeve the rest of the way down before your hands are on his belt again, tugging it off, pulling his jeans down his muscular thighs.

“Come here,” he tugs you back towards him, your back to his chest, hauling one of your legs over his lap so you're spread out for him. He unhooks your bra and yanks the lace down your body. 

“Fuck, you’re so perfect,” he says, moaning at the sight of your perfect tits, full and round, nipples hard, aching to be touched. You reach your hand up behind you, snaking it around his neck, twisting your fingers into his curls at the back of his neck, pulling him towards you, lips pressing together with heat and passion as you slip your tongue back into his welcoming mouth.

“Jack,” you whisper against his lips with urgency, “touch me.”

He lets out a soft moan, before grasping your tits in his hands as your tongues twist together with desperate, aching fervor. He slides one hand down your body as his other hand massages the soft flesh of your tit. He traces the hem of your panties at a teasing pace before cupping your clothed pussy, making you whine into his mouth and try to press back into him further. He slips his hand beneath the damp, black fabric, dragging a finger up your wet slit and he can’t help but gasp against you.

“Fuck, pretty girl, you’re so wet,” he says, lightly toying with your clit. You let out a pathetic whimper as he starts to rub slow, tight circles on you. He can’t believe how slick your pussy is just from kissing him and he’s dying to make you drip and cream and squirm all night. His thick fingers rub so deliciously against you that you can already feel your orgasm building in your stomach.

“Jack, please,” you whimper, “fuck me with your fingers,”

He groans hearing those filthy words fall from your mouth, something he’s fantasized about so many times before he can hardly believe it’s really happening. You, in his lap, soft and wet and at his mercy. As bad as he wants to make you beg for it he wants to hear the pretty sounds you make more, so he slips his middle finger all the way inside you. You make a whining squeak that goes right to his cock, straining against his boxers, as he slowly starts to pump his finger into your tight pussy. The way you squeeze and tremble around his one thick finger… he can hardly imagine what you’ll feel like gripping down on his cock. He can’t get over how sensistive you are, he’s been fucking you on one finger for only a minute and you’re already shaking against him gripping his thigh with one hand and the edge of the sofa with the other.  

“Fuck,” you whine, leaning your head back against his shoulder, “I’m gonna- I’m gonna come-”

He drops his head forward, sucking on your neck, his left hand cupping your tit, flicking and teasing your pretty nipples, his right hand pumping his middle finger in and out of you at a relentless pace. He’s curling up inside you, hitting your g-stop over and over, making you feel like you’re on fire.

“Come for me beautiful,” he growls into your skin, addicted to the squelching sounds your pussy is making. Your nails dig into his thighs and he feels your walls start to flutter around his finger. You squeak out, gripping his thigh with your right hand, grabbing his left wrist with your other hand as he tweaks your nipple which aches with sore pleasure.

“Jack-” you feel the coil inside you break and you tuck your head into his shoulder, biting down on his neck as you come, hips shaking, “I’m coming- I’m coming- I- fuck-”

Jack keeps fucking you on his fingers through your orgasm, only slowing his pumping as you try to come down, shaking against him, already a mess. He pulls his finger from your pussy in a long, deliberate drag, making you let out a little oh sound as the loss of him inside you. He brings his finger up to his mouth, sucking off all the cum you just gave him. Your chest is still heaving, his eyes fixed on your perfect tits, one of which is still in his warm hand. He gives your breast a soft squeeze which makes you take in a sharp breath and look up at him. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, his warm breath fanning over your flushed cheeks. He brings his hand up to your face, cupping your jaw and pulling you into another slow kiss. You sigh against him, keeping your lips pressed to his you stand between his legs, resting your hands on his meaty thighs. You pull back from his mouth, ghosting your lips down to his neck, kissing, licking, and sucking your way down his body. He runs his fingers through his hair in aching anticipation, just the sight of you on his knees in front of him makes his stomach feel hot and tight. You hook your finger in the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down his legs before gathering your hair to one side.

Jack holds his breath as you lick a long flat line up the underside of his aching cock. Your spit drips down his throbbing shaft and he drops his head against the back of the couch. If he’s gonna last anywhere close to a respectable amount he can’t look at you, he can’t focus too hard on your warm wet mouth and how it feels, fuck, how it feels closing around his tip. You let out a small moan, sucking on him like he’s a fucking lollipop. You drop your head down further, twisting his shaft with your soft hands while you lick around the head of his dick. 

Jack grips the back of the couch trying to think of anything other than you on your knees between his legs and his cock in your pretty mouth. Pleural effusion, neurovascular bundles, pulmonary edemas, anything other than the sound you make as you press your nose to his pelvis: wet, gags as you swallow around his cock. Jesus Christ, he can’t help but drop his eyes down to you but the second he does he wishes he hadn’t. Your lips are swollen as you suck on his pink tip, hand shimmering with your spit as you pump up and down, your other hand… Fuck. Your other hand is in your panties. You’re touching yourself while his cock is down your throat.

He grabs a handful of your hair, pulling you off his dick with a wet pop. You look up at him with his cock still firmly in your grasp, your lips shining with spit, and a look he can only think of as innocence. God, you’re so young. His chest tightens. Should he even be doing this with you? He doesn't think he’s ever wanted anything more. But he’s your boss. And you’re such a brilliant doctor. And he knows something like this would follow you around much longer than it would follow him. And you’re standing, and pulling your little black panties down, and climbing into his lap. And he’s not stopping you. Because he doesn’t want to. He just can’t. He grips your hips as you straddle his legs, taking his face in one hand, pressing a searing kiss to his lips.

Jack’s breath catches as you grind your glistening core against the hard line of his cock. Your mouth is on his neck and you’re biting and sucking and he is just melting. He can’t believe you’re about to let him fuck you raw… he’s clean and he implicitly knows that you are too, that you would never put him in harms way. But is he putting you in harm's way by doing this? 

“Jack,” you whisper, snapping him out of his spiral, “are you okay?”

He’s gone partially rigid beneath you. Your fingers are twisting into the curls on the back of his neck and the way you’re looking at him, desperate and hopeful and almost smitten… he silently decides that this is it. He’s only going to let this happen once, right now, so he’s gonna fucking enjoy it. He takes your face in his hands, pulling you into him, placing a sweet kiss on your lips.

“I’ve just-” he strokes your soft cheek with his thumb, forehead resting on yours, “I’ve wanted this for so long.” You let out a breath like a laugh at his earnestness.

“Me too,” you whisper, a small blush spreading across your cheeks. You rest one hand on his shoulder before you reach between the two of you, gripping his hard shaft before pushing yourself onto your heels, rubbing the throbbing head of his cock against your slick, little pussy.

“Fuck,” he groans, looking down between the two of you, his mouth dropping open as you sink down, sucking his cock up inside you. He grabs your hips, not sure if he wants to slow you down or slam you onto him, your skin under his fingertips turning shades lighter at the pressure he’s applying. You bring your other hand up to his shoulder, clinging onto him. The way he’s stretching you creates a delicious, aching, burn in your core.

“Fuck- you’re so big- I” you whimper, moving down his shaft at a glacial pace, trying to get used to the way his girth is splitting you open.

“Come on, pretty girl,” Jack almost growls, forcing himself to keep his hips still, “that’s it,”

You’re halfway down his cock and Jack loses all ability to speak, overcome with the way you pulse around him. He watches himself squeeze in between your legs, his mouth open letting out a low moan as he tries to focus on making this last as long as he can. Finally, you sit with your ass flushed against his thighs, his dick fully inside you, the pair of you already breathing heavily. His stomach tightens, making his cock flex inside you, and you squeak out a small sound. He leans forward, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss, then you raise your hips and he reflexively bites down on your bottom lip.

Jack whimpers your name and you let out a breath into his mouth, slowly starting to move up and down on his hard shaft. He reaches up, taking your soft tits in his hands, kneading them, tweaking your nipples, trying to get more sounds out of you. 

“Jack,” you whine and start riding him faster, the sound of your skin slapping together filling the room. He watches your tits bounce with a hunger that he has never felt before. Your eyebrows furrow together in pleasure as his thick cock stretches out your pussy, hitting that sweet spot deep inside you over and over. You already feel like you’re ready to come again just looking down at him: his cheeks flushed, lips parted in burning desire, salt and pepper curls wild.

“Fuck-” Jack groans as you bounce on top of him, “your pussy- so tight-” 

“You feel so fucking good,” you say, switching your movement from up and down to back and forth, hips grinding down on Jack. He sucks one of your nipples into his mouth, rolling the other around in his fingers. Your clit catches on his abs as you push yourself backward and your hips stutter. 

“Play with your clit, pretty girl,” He manages to groan. He takes your hand in his and pushes your fingers into your own mouth and pulls them out sharply. A string of spit falling from your mouth to your fingers, catching on one of your nipples as you bring your hand in between your bodies.

“Jack,” you moan as your legs twitch, you grab the back of his neck trying to hold yourself up. He takes your face in his hands, kissing you hard. Your kiss turns sloppy, tongues rolling against one another, mouths sleek with spit, sucking each other's lips between teeth. You moan into him as you rub tight circles on your clit, feeling the warm pressure crescendoing in your core as you grind down harder.

“That’s it,” he groans, the feeling of your pussy fluttering around him, “you gonna make a mess on my cock? You gonna come for me again?”

“Yeah-” you whimper against his lips, “I wanna come for you-”

“Where do you- want me to come, gorgeous?” He sighs, feeling his orgasm rising in his abdomen, “ah- fuck- you’re so perfect,” 

“Inside me,” You breathe into his mouth, fingers rubbing tightly against your clit, and with this request Jack feels the tension inside him snap.

“Holy shit- I’m- fuck-” he whimpers.

“Jack- I’m coming-” You squeak, burying your face in his neck and he pulls your hips up and down, impaling you on his cock over and over.

 “I’m coming- I’m-” He pushes forcefully up inside you, pulling your body tight against him filling you with his creamy load. He grabs your jaw, holding you in place, kissing you hard. The two of you grip onto each other like lifelines as you ride out your synchronized orgasm, shaking and panting against each other. 

As his come drips slowly out of your pussy his kisses turn soft and unhurried, licking against your tongue languidly. You let your full weight come down on Jack who relishes in the feeling of you pressing him down into the sofa. He runs his fingers down the line of your back, the feeling of your sticky body against his, his cum dripping down your legs and onto his stomach, is euphoric.

SUNDAY 11:00AM

The sun streams through Jack’s bedroom window, his blackout curtains hanging open. This rare occurrence of him going to sleep at night had rendered them almost pointless and he couldn’t be happier that the morning light is filling his room because it illuminates you in his bed. You’re sleeping on your stomach, the sheets bunched up around your waist, your hair tousled and fanning over your face obscuring it from his view. He turns to his slide, leaning on his elbow and watches the slow rise and fall of your breath, tracing the long line of your spine with his eyes.

The two of you had gone to bed last night deliriously giddy. After laying together on the couch in a tangled sweaty mess for a while you had slipped on your panties and his t-shirt while he pulled on his boxers. He watched you disappear around the corner heading for the bathroom and was delightfully amused when you came back riding his wheelchair like a scooter, your knee resting on the seat while the other pushed you towards him. 

Jack had pulled you down onto his lap, your back flushed to his chest, before rolling the two of you towards his bedroom. He playfully bit your neck when you asked him what the mileage on this thing was, drinking up the sounds of your giggles. He watched you crawl onto his bed before hauling himself up next to you. 

“You’re probably gonna want to take this off,” he gripped the hem of his t-shirt which hung loosely on your body, “don’t want you to overheat,”

“Mm,” you hummed with a smile, “is that your professional opinion, Dr. Abbot?”

“Oh, definitely,” he smirked, sliding his hand up your side, pushing his shirt up as you lifted your arms. He threw his shirt across the room, before he pulled you on top of him and dragged the fluffy comforter over the pair of you.

“You’re so warm,” you sighed, stretching your arm across his chest snuggling yourself into his side.

“I told you- overheating is a real risk,” he smiled as he wrapped his arm around your shoulder, tucking you against his body.

Jack can’t help himself any longer and reaches forward, brushing your hair out of your face with a gentle swipe and something about seeing you like this, so vulnerable and innocent sends his mind back to the promise he made himself last night: this was a one time thing. His chest is already starting to pinprick with nerves. The last thing he wants is for you to feel used or, god forbid, taken advantage of, but he needs to cut this off, before it gets out of hand, for your sake. He knows you’re a big girl and you can make your own choices about your body and what, or who, you do with it, but he has experience… and this could get messy. Jack isn’t willing to let his relationship with you suffer because he can’t keep his dick in his pants.

At such an early point in your career you’re already such an amazing doctor. There goes the future of medicine, he has caught himself thinking multiple times as you walked by him in the Pitt. He wants to be a springboard for you, not a weight around your ankles, and if whatever this is happens again he fears that he could become the thing that holds you back personally and professionally. No. He wants to be the person in your corner pushing you forward. You’ll understand. You’ll probably already be thinking the same thing he is. The two of you just operate on the same wavelength… 

Your breath shifts as you turn your head into the pillow letting out a soft groan. You turn your head in his direction, tucking your messy hair behind your ear, barely opening your eyes before closing them again. You reach your hand out for him, rolling onto your back and pulling him on top of you. You wrap your arms around his neck, breathing in deeply as he buries his face in your hair.

“Mmm,” you groan softly, “good morning.” Jack smiles against your locks, his resolve already wavering. 

“Morning,” he murmurs, tracing a long line down your side with his fingers, “did you sleep ok?”

“So good,” your voice is raspy with sleep and he tries to push away the thought of how much he likes it. Hearing your tired voice. Having you in his bed. He tries to hold his ground, rolling onto his back, but you just follow, settling yourself onto his broad chest. Fuck you’re making this hard and you’re not even trying, you’re still half asleep for christ’s sake. You let out a soft, content hum and start tracing small swirling patterns on his chest. Fine. After you leave today, this will be done. Jack wraps his arms around you, trying to memorize the feeling of your smooth skin beneath his rough palms.

“Jack,” you say gently, shifting in his arms so you can look up at him, “I think we should talk about… what this means…”

“Ok,” he says, entirely unsure what direction you’re about to take this and having trouble focusing with your naked body pressed against him.

“I- I’m really glad this happened-” you start slowly.

“Me too,” he says, his heart fluttering at how you look away shyly before flicking your eyes back up at him.

“I just- I don’t know if this is a good idea-” your eyes flicker with sadness which ripples through Jack’s chest, “not because I don’t want to- you know- do this again- I just,” you pause and take a deep breath, “please don’t be annoying about what I’m about to say,”

“Ok,” He furrows his brow.

“I love working with you,” your eyes drop down to where your fingers trace little stars on his chest, “it’s one of my favorite parts of my job. And if something bad happened between us, and we couldn’t, or wouldn’t, work together anymore… I don’t know… I think I’d be really upset,”

“I’d be upset too,” Jack’s heart feels like it’s bursting at your sweet confession, but he’s trying so hard not to be overly sentimental so he pivots, “does this mean I’m your favorite attending?” He says with a cheeky smirk. You let out a little breath, rolling your eyes with a smile, god he adores your smile.

“Do you really need me to answer that?” You say, a small blush spreading across your cheeks. 

“Well you’re my favorite resident,” he says, brushing his thumb across your shoulder… have your faces been this close together this whole time?

“I already knew that,” you murmur, your nose almost brushing against his.

“Yeah?” He tilts his head the slightest bit and you let out a shaky breath.

“Yeah,” you whisper and it’s like the two of you just can’t help yourselves.

You press up into him, molding your mouths together with a slow eagerness, his hand cupping your jaw trying to keep you close. You’re already all whimpers and breaths, twisting your fingers into his curls trying to get him closer. He rolls over to his side so your tits squish against his chest, his cock hardening at the feeling of your supple skin against his. He traces the curve of your body while you slip your tongue into his mouth, rolling against each other in aching passion. He hitches your leg up over his hip, gripping down on your thigh and you let out a little gasp which he gladly swallows. You roll onto your back, pulling him between your open legs the pair of you grabbing at each other desperately.

“Just one more time, ok?” you say breathless.

“Yeah,” he pants, “one more time,”

You tilt your hips up, pressing your knees to his side are you rub your core against his shaft, fuck, you’re already slick. Jack groans at the feel of your sticky pussy grinding up his cock. 

“Fuck-” he groans your name, “you’re already so wet for me,”

“Jack,” you whimper, shifting beneath him, “please fuck me,”

He reaches down, takes his hot cock in his hand and gives two little taps to your clit with his flushed pink tip making you jolt. He dips the head in just barely before pulling back out, smearing your wetness across your pussy lips.

“Don’t tease,” you squirm below him, pushing your hips up, trying to force him inside of you. He holds the base of his cock with one hand, the other hand resting on your knee which pushes up against your chest. He takes his bottom lip between his teeth, notching himself into you before pressing in at teasing, slow pace.

“Oh,” you squeak as his thick cock stretches you out deliciously. You watch him squeeze inside you with your mouth parted, you can hardly believe he fits. Jack’s eyes are locked on you, your plush lips, the blush on your cheeks, your brows furrowed in anticipation, your chest heaving with pleasure. 

“Eyes on me,” he rasps, and you listen, your gaze flicking up to him as you take one of your fingers into your mouth, biting your nail. The pair of you stare at each other, faces painted with desire as he fully pushes into you. You look so pretty, so desperate. Jack stops for a moment after he’s fully inside you, overwhelmed by the feeling of your pulsing around him. You dig your fingernails into his shoulders as your breath shakes at the sensation of his dick flexing in you. You’re both breathless at the feeling of him stretching you out.

“Fuck,” he says hanging his head forward, resting in the crook of your neck, “your pussy feels so fucking good.”

“Jack,” you moan, rocking your hips up, trying desperately to get some relief at the ache burning inside you, “fuck”

You grip onto the back of his neck, tangling your fingers into his salt and pepper curls as he starts to fucks you slow and hard. He’s pushing in with such force that your tits jiggle with every thrust, brushing your nipples against his hard chest making them sore with pleasure. You feel entirely consumed by him: the weight of his broad body against yours, his cock stretching you out creating a hot coil deep inside you, his lips on your neck, his whimpers in your ear.

“Play with your clit, pretty girl,” he says against your throat. You slide your hand between your bodies, rubbing quick circles on yourself. The whimpers and moans you make are intoxicating. Feeling his own orgasm already building in his abdomen he pushes himself up on his arms so he can look down at you, your face flushed, tits bouncing, body glistening with sweat. You’re a mess, the look on your face is one of pure bliss and it’s all for him. He cups your jaw, trying to memorize you like this but you turn your head slightly and suck his thumb into your mouth.

“Oh my god,” he groans as he thuds his cock into you over and over, “you’re so fucking sexy,” he pulls his thumb from your swollen lips, rubbing the spit across your top lip before dropping down to his elbows, kissing you with reckless desire. You lick into each other's mouths, devouring one another’s breaths and whines.

“Jack,” you whimper, your fingers moving faster, “I’m gonna come,”

You look up at him with desperation in your eyes and he can't believe he has you like this, falling apart on his cock. His stomach tightens as he feels his orgasm rising in his core.

“Yeah?” he says, a small smile on his face. You pull him down to kiss his lips again, rolling your tongue over his passionately.

“Mmn,” you sob into his mouth, “I'm gonna- I'm coming- ”

“Good girl,” he manages to groan out before the pulsing and throbbing of your pussy around his cock sends him over the edge, “fuck- I’m coming,” his abs flexing and hips stuttering, as he bites down on your bottom lip and releases his hot load deep inside you. He keeps fucking you through both of your orgasms, the sound of his cum squelching out of you filling the room as his lips stay pressed against yours. His thrusts slow until he stills, staying pushed inside you as your arms remain wrapped around his neck, his hands gripping your waist. 

The two of you are heaving, sweaty messes, pressed up against each other. After a moment you shift your hips slightly and his softening cock slips out of you as you begin running your fingers up and down his back.The room seems to be filled with a heavy sense of stillness, both of you unwilling to move much because once you do then this moment, the two of you together, will be over. He moves first, turning his face into your neck and places light kisses along your throat. 

“Jack,” you whisper, running your fingers through his soft curls.

“Mm,” he hums against your neck.

“I meant what I said,” you say softly, trying to bite back a smile at his sweet affection.

“Me too,” he says between kisses, “not gonna happen again,” kiss, “you’re too important to me,” kiss, “my favorite doctor,” kiss.

“I’m telling Robby you said that,” you blush. Jack lets out a groan and rests his forehead against your shoulder.

“Please don’t talk about Robby right now,” he murmurs as you giggle. Jack lifts his head, unable to do anything besides smile at you.

“He’s the perfect mood killer,” you say, pushing a curl off his forehead. The two of you stay like that for a moment, looking at each other with longing before you sigh, “I- uh- I should probably go,”

“No- yeah- ok” he says, reluctantly shifting to his back, sitting up against the headboard, pulling the duvet back up over his lap. He watches you climb out of his bed and slip on your panties, padding out to the living room where your clothes had been discarded the night before. Jack tries not to linger on your body for too long. You come back after a minute fully clothed and sit next to him on the edge of the bed.

“I- we probably shouldn’t tell anyone at work about this,” you say, looking down at where your hand rests on the crisp, white bedspread, dangerously close to his. You move your pinky just slightly so it brushes against his and he flexes his hand in your direction too. 

“Probaby not, no,” Jack says, his voice raspy. Your eyes flick back up to his and you cup his face, running your thumb over his jaw, a look on your face that Jack can only think of as wistful. 

“Bye Jack,” you say softly before standing.

“I’ll- uh- see you Monday,” he says, scratching the back of his neck as you back out of the room.

“Yeah,” you give him a gentle smile, “see you Monday,”

“Honestly, Huckleberry, if there’s a fifty‑fifty chance of disaster, you’ll hit the disaster ninety‑nine percent of the time. It’s a real talent.” Trinity’s jab snapped your attentions back to the group.

Whitaker squinted at her, then nodded with the solemnity of a man accepting his fate.

A laugh escapes you, the kind that comes as naturally as breathing. “Trinity that cant be true.”  

“It is,” she insisted. “I’m pretty sure if he bought a lottery ticket and won, he’d still end up bankrupt.”

“Well don’t worry Whitaker I would help take care of you if that happened.” You pat his hand with a small smile.

Jack would have something to say about that. Probably some dry teasing comment about you wanting to take care of everyone. But you knew he would do it if you asked. He had a hard time saying no after you smiled at him.

And that thought, that soft truth, made the empty space where he should’ve been feel even heavier. Another five minutes passed before you excused yourself with a soft smile and slipped through the crowd, weaving between tables and tipsy strangers. You wanted to go back to Jacks place—curl up in his bed, breathe in the scent of his laundry detergent, and let the world quiet down.

The cool night air washed over you as soon as you pushed the door open. It was a welcome contrast to the suffocating warmth inside. You inhaled deeply, letting the quiet settle around you like a blanket.

Jack wasn’t on the patio like you expected. No familiar silhouette leaning against the railing. No soft glow from his phone screen. No low laugh shared with Robby.

They were at the end of the patio, a streetlight outlining their figures. They didn’t turn toward you. Didn’t notice you at all.

 You froze mid‑step.

Something in their posture told you the conversation wasn’t casual. That it wasn’t light joking. It wasn’t anything you were meant to walk into.

You didn’t mean to eavesdrop. You didn’t even think you could—until Jack’s voice cut through the air, sharp and tired in a way you’d never heard directed at you.

“I can’t do it any more Robby. She talks nonstop all the time.”

Your breath stilled. Completely.

Like your lungs forgot how to work.

Robby exhaled. “Have you tried to tell her?”

“Yes, but I can never get a word in.”

The words hit like a punch you weren’t braced for. They were Clean. Precise. Brutal.

They confirmed every fear you’d ever whispered to yourself at three in the morning, every insecurity you’d tried to smother with optimism, and the hope that love made your quirks endearing instead of exhausting.

You knew you talked a lot. God, you knew.

You’d even gone to therapy hoping someone could teach your brain how to slow down. To be able to survive in normal silence instead of fearing it might swallow you whole. Instead, they handed you an ADHD diagnosis and told you it was okay. A quirk. A part of you. Something that made you you.

But hearing Jack say it like that, like it drained him, felt like someone had taken all your insecurities and carved it into your ribs with deliberate, merciless precision.

Your eyes burned, and throat tightened. You swallowed hard, forcing a breath to stay quiet as you backed away, slipping inside before either of them could see you. Your body was moving on autopilot.  

You knew you couldn’t go back the table. If you sat down, Trinity would take one look at you and know something was wrong. Then Mel would smile at you with some encouraging words, and you would break. You would start crying right then and there. And then she would tell jack. It would become a whole thing.

So, you ducked into the bathroom, pushing the door open with trembling fingers. You leaned against the sink, palms flat on the cool granite, trying to breathe through the sudden ache in your chest. Jacks’ words echoed, and with slinking certainty you realize you were as easy to love as you had hoped.

A cruel laugh escapes you. Your father had warned you—Men don’t like when woman talk a lot. They will leave you. You thought he was cruel, and hated you. But he was right. You talked to much and now jack wanted to leave you.

Fuck. You thought everything was going well.  You had been together just over six months, it had been filled with laughter, feeding him all your baking experiments, of you rambling about everything. He always listened earnestly, whether it was about childhood movies, or the new recipe you were perfecting. Or, you thought he did.

Now you felt small and unwanted. Like every happy moment had been a misunderstanding you’d build a future on.

You wanted to go back to your home, and crawl into bed. Pretend this was all simply a nightmare you could wake up from. Pretend that the man you were irrevocably in love with didn’t secretly resent the way your brain worked.

Another cruel laugh escapes. When the thought occurs to you that he could have told you. That was the part that sung the most. He could have said something—anything—before it became a complaint whispered to his befriend on a street corner.

With a small pep talk and a promise that you could cry as soon as you got out of the building, your forced your legs to move. Each step you took felt like it belonged to someone braver than you.

You plastered on a smile when the group looked up, the expression stretching too tight across your face.

“Hey I can’t find Jack, can you let him know I walked home. I don’t want to take him away from his friends on his one night off.”  You rushed out, desperate to escape before anyone could ask anything that might crack you open.

Trinity’s eyes narrowed, sharp and preceptive. “Are you okay?”

You grabbed your coat, shrugging it on like a piece of armor. You needed to leave before Jack came back and saw the truth written all over your face. Because he would. That man could read you like a book. Every gesture, every shift in your voice, every tiny hesitation—he noticed all of it.

“Yeah,” you lied, voice light. “Just need some sleep, I’ve got to finish a massive order for an engagement party coming up.”

“Are you sure? You don’t look ok.” Mel cut in.

You took a second to breathe then forced your smile to widen. “I promise. I just need sleep or my deserts will suffer.”

“Are you making those triple berry macarons again?” Melissa asked, brightening at the mention of your baking.

Warmth flickered through your chest. Mel adored your treats, and half the time you made extra for her in particular. She was one of the few people who understood you without making you feel like you were too much. Maybe it was because of her sister, maybe it was just who she was, but you adored her even more for it.

“I am,” you said softly. “I’ll send some over.”

You waved, turned, and made your way outside. Purposefully avoiding the are you knew jack and Robby were standing.  

Five minutes in to the walk home, a sob finally rips out of you. It’s loud, ugly and impossible to swallow. A person passing on the street glances over, curious, but keeps walking. You pressed shaking fingers to your lips, trying to hold the next one in, trying to keep yourself from unraveling right there on the street.

God, you hated crying. It felt humiliating between the blotchy skin and the snot that built up slowly suffocating you.  

Your phone vibrated incessantly in your pocket. First two calls. Then a string of messages, one after another.

Jack: I would have driven you home love Let me know when you’re safe Love you  

Love you.  

Those words felt mocking to read. They made your chest cave in, because he didn’t mean them. They were just words coming from him. He tolerated you. He merely put up with you. He must have only been with you because he was lonely and he didn’t have to do much to entertain you. You did most of the work by talking all the time.

Part of you wanted to ignore him. Let him sit with the silence he wanted so much. But you knew Jack, if you didn’t respond, he’d show up at your door, and you couldn’t face him right now. Not with your nose red and your heart cracked open.

So, you typed the shortest message you’d ever sent him.

Got home don’t worry.

No warmth.

No rambling.

No I’m home, going to shower then head to bed. Early morning tomorrow, love you bunches.

If it bothered Jack, he didn’t say a word.

The bakery was already warm by seven a.m., the air was thick with the smell of sugar and butter, wrapping itself around you like a familiar hug. Normally you would fill the space with chatter; updates about your latest recipe experiments, stories about customers, random facts you’d learned at three in the morning. You were the heartbeat of the kitchen, the one who made the early shift feel less like work and more like a cozy, chaotic family.

But today you were silent.

You didn’t hum.

You didn’t ramble. You didn’t even comment on the new shipment of vanilla beans, which was practically a red flag in itself.

Brianna was the first to notice how the quiet clung to you. Like someone turned down the volume on your entire personality. She kept glancing at you at from the mixer, brows pinched waiting for you to speak.

Oliver caught on next, his eyes narrowing as he watched you pipe filling whipped ganache with mechanical precision. He shared a look with Bri.

“Hey,” Bri said finally, wiping her hands on a towel as she approached. “You good?”

You nodded without looking up. “Yeah. Just… focusing.”

It wasn’t convincing. Not in the slightest. The lie hung in the warm bakery air, thin and fragile, and everyone could see straight through it.

Oliver stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You’re never this quiet.”

You kept your eyes on the pastry bag, squeezing out perfect spirals like your life depended on it. “Just tired.”

Brianna exchanged another glance with Oliver, then gently nudged your elbow. “Sweetheart, you’re piping like you’re trying to win a Michelin star. What happened?”

Grant arrived, cheerful as always. “Morning!-“ The moment he saw you, his smile faltered. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

You forced a tiny smile. “Yep.”

You didn’t. But they didn’t need to know that.

Everyone in the kitchen shared a concerned look. The kind of look that meant they were about two seconds from staging an intervention.

“Babes do you want to take a break? You have been here since 5 a.m.” Oliver tried to grab the tray of macrons’ s from you.

“No.” you responded immediately. “I have to keep moving.”

“Okay…” Bri tried a different angle. “What’s the plan for the engagement party? I know the cake bases are prepped.”

You loved talking about recipes. Loved it. It brought you joy to share them with people.

“It’s on the clipboard by the stove.” You mumble.

You wanted to cry again, Jacks words were still at the front of your mind. But you were pretty sure one more tear would dehydrate you completely. Besides cookies with a side of salty tears were not professional. Nor delicious. And absolutely against your brand.

Jack had tried to call you that morning, and you ignored it. Facing him would make everything hit harder, and you weren’t ready for that. You would have to face him sooner or later.

While you weren’t looking, Grant quietly swiped the clipboard and tucked it behind a stack of sheet pans. “It’s not there, chef. So, you gotta tell us what the plan is.”

“It was literally just there.”

Brianna, Grant, Oliver all just stared at you waiting.

With a deep breath, you set the piping bag to the side.

“So the bride mentioned she likes tart flavors. We’re going to make a lemon‑raspberry cake filling and keep the decorating easy, clean.” You didn’t even realize it, but for a moment you felt… okay. “Then the macarons—we’re making strawberry, chocolate, and key lime. I wanted to do triple berry, but maybe it’s too sweet, and I don’t want it to be too much. Which reminds me, we should experiment with a pomegranate flavor in a—”

You stopped.

Mid‑sentence.

Mid‑you.

Your throat closed up. Your stomach dropped. Speaking suddenly felt dangerous. Like you were annoying everyone in the room without meaning too.

“Sorry,” you whispered, stepping back. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to… talk so much.”

The room went still.

Grant blinked. “Honey…What?”

But you were already moving. You set the tray down, wiped your hands on your apron, and headed straight for the walk‑in freezer.

You slipped inside, letting the heavy door seal shut behind you. The cold air grounding you. You leaned back against the metal shelving, pressing your palms to your eyes as the chill seeped into your bones. You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to hold in the hurt, trying to keep your thoughts from spiraling back to Jack’s voice, Jack’s words, Jack’s exhaustion.

You’d always talked too much. You had warned him when you first started dating.

Just a minute, you told yourself. Just one minute to fall apart before you had to go back out there and pretend everything was fine.

Your phone vibrated. Jacks name flashing on your screen for what felt like the 50th time.

He knew you were up. You were always at your bakery ridiculously early.  

You hit a button declining it.

A message came through immediately.

Jack: Are you ok sweetheart? Call me back please.

You squeezed your eyes. You would not cry again. You would not let this effect you. Not here. Not in front of your team. Not when you were supposed to be the steady one, the cheerful one, the one who made mornings feel lighter.

You typed out a quick, clipped reply.

I’m ok, just busy making cakes.

No emojis.

No warmth.

You shoved your phone back into your apron pocket and stepped out of the freezer before you were taken to the ED for hypothermia. Then you would really have to face jack.

Midafternoon the bell over the door rang.

You didn’t look up too focused on smoothing frosting over a cake layer. Grant was hired to deal with the customers anyway. You trusted him to charm anyone who walked in.

“Is she in the kitchen? I brought her lunch.”

Your heart lurched. You froze mid‑swipe of your spatula.

Jack was there. With food and probably expecting to see you. Maybe he was here to finally break up with you, which really would be fucked. He knew this order was a big deal.

Oliver caught the panic on your face instantly. He didn’t hesitate to slip out to the front, cutting Grant off mid‑greeting.

“She’s not here.”

“She said you guys were busy?” Jack sounded confused, worried, trying to make sense of something he couldn’t see.

Grant jumped in with a smooth lie. “She came in early, but she wasn’t feeling great. Went home to sleep it off.”

A beat of silence.

You could picture Jack’s face, brows drawn, mouth tight, that worried crease forming between his eyes.

“She didn’t tell me,” Jacks voice softened.

Oliver’s tone softened too, but only slightly. “She probably didn’t want to bother you.”  

That line felt like a bruise being pressed on.

Because it was true.

Because it wasn’t supposed to be true.

“Did he do something?” Brianna whispered, suddenly appearing beside you.

You jumped back.

“It’s… a long story.” you murmured, marking off the delivery checklist with shaky hands.

Brianna didn’t push. She just stepped closer. “Well, We’ve got you whatever is happening, you aren’t alone.”

A burning rose behind your eyelids. This team you built had become a family. You all worked together so well. You loved them more than anything.

“Thank you, Bri,” you whispered. “I think I’m going to take a few days off. I know you three can run things.”

She nodded immediately, no hesitation, no doubt. “We’ve got it.”

You exhaled, shaky but relieved.

For the first time all day, you didn’t feel like you were drowning alone.

Jack texted you shortly after he left your bakery.

Jack: Sweetheart, are you doing ok? Grant just told me you went home sick. Do you need anything?

You didn’t respond just started at the messages, thumb hovering. You couldn’t come up with a response that didn’t feel like a lie or came across as snarky.

Another text came through after about ten minutes of just staring at it.

Jack: Please call me. I am starting to worry. I miss your voice.

You let out a scoff while your stomach twisted so hard you thought you were going to vomit. You knew those words weren’t true. Not after last night.

He doesn’t get to say that after complaining to Robby.

You started typing out a response but stopped deleting the message. It was to mean and you couldn’t bring yourself to be rude to him. He was still a really nice guy who brought lunch to work.

Your phone buzzed again, lighting up the dim kitchen.

Jack: Sweetheart? Please… just tell me you’re okay.

He was probably watching the text chain, waiting for those three little dots to pop up—waiting for proof you were alive, reachable, still his.

You did as he asked and typed:

I’m fine. Just trying to rest.

It wasn’t a complete lie. You were about to head home—Bri had left with the order, and Grant had practically shoved you out the door, telling you to “go find inner peace or whatever chefs do.”

Outside your front door there was a bag neatly placed. It was filled with medicine that would take care of any problem you could possibly have like cold and flu tablets, throat lozenges, electrolyte packets. A container of soup from your favorite café. And a bouquet of flowers soft pink peonies—your favorite.

Your throat tightened.

Because if he didn’t like you, and found you to be exhausting enough to gripe about behind your back then why was he being so nice? Why did he bring flowers?  Why did he bring your favorite soup?

You sank onto your couch. The flowers trembling in your hands as you traced your fingers over the petals. Part of you wanted to throw them straight in the trash and the other part wanted to selfishly hold on to him.

Your phone buzzed again.

Jack: Sweetheart, please call me. I’m really worried. I don’t understand what’s going on. Just… let me hear your voice.

The words blurred and you chewed on the skin by your fingernails. Because now he wanted to hear your voice, not he missed it. When not even twenty-four hours ago he said it never stopped.

You turned the phone face down on the cushion. You would eventually deal with this, but not tonight. You deserved better than another night of tears.

The phone began to go off again. You ignored it. Then it rang again, and again, and again.

You curled up on the couch, flowers pressed to your chest, trying to find a way to breathe through all the self-doubt.

Your phone vibrated once more letting you know he left a voice mail.

You didn’t listen. You couldn’t.

The first morning off felt strange.

There was no alarm dragging you out of bed before dawn. No rush to preheat ovens. No mental checklist of pastries and deliveries. You just lay there, staring up at the ceiling, replaying Jack’s words over and over until they blurred together. Like one of those catchy songs that got stuck in your head.

I can’t do it anymore. She talks nonstop.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Jack: Morning sweetheart, I hope you slept well. How are you feeling? Do you need anything else?

You stared at the message until the screen dimmed, the glow fading like your ability to pretend everything was fine.

Finally, you typed the smallest truth you could manage:

I just need some space. I will call you when I can.

The moment you hit send; you turned your phone off. Space felt like the only thing you could ask for and the only thing you could control.

You turned onto your side and pulled your comforter up to your chin. Hoping the quiet apartment would let you sleep some more. It didn’t.

Instead, more questions crept in, sharp and unwanted.

What other part of you was Jack choosing to endure? Was there anything to like about you?

The day stretched on, slow and heavy. Every passing second breathing felt like work. You stayed curled in bed, letting the silence settle around you, trying to figure out how to move forward when the person you trusted most had unknowingly broken something fragile inside you.

For the first time since that night, you didn’t cry. You simply were.

You just lay there, letting the space you asked for expand between you and Jack, hoping it would give you clarity.

Hoping the solution, you came up with wouldn’t hurt as much as it did.

You spent the next day off cleaning your apartment. Like aggressively cleaning your apartment. Scrubbing the counters like they had personally offended you. You moved everything off the shelves dusting and taking photos of Jack down. Anything to keep your hands busy while you tried not to spiral.  

This all started after you turned your phone on to make sure your bakery was still in one piece and not up in flames. Grant liked to “help” in kitchen sometimes. It was a whole thing.  

There was a set of messages from Jack.

Jack: Okay. I’ll give you space. But please tell me if you need anything. I’m here. Always.

So here you were attacking your tub with a scrub brush like it owed you money. And as you scrubbed you debated on the future of your relationship. It was the kind of debate that felt like you were pacing inside your own skull.

Should we take a break? Maybe we should end things. I could pretend nothing happened…. because maybe my dad was right, I was hard to love.

The thought felt like it was going to rip your heart out, and leave it right there on your bathroom floor. you paused your scrubbing, gripping the edge of the tub, breath shaking.

You knew you couldn’t avoid Jack forever. He would eventually show up at your door eventually trying to fix this. To fix something he unknowingly broke.

The toxic part of you wanted to ghost him. Pack up and move. Not tell him where you were. Change your number too. He would show up at the bakery though. You could use the whole mess as an excuse to expand your bakery like your team had been talking about—find a new place for you and Brianna to renovate. Start fresh somewhere else.

He would forget about you eventually. 

But you weren’t that person. You had to see things through. So you stood in your bathroom, sponge in hand, wondering how one trivial sentence could unravel you.

Day three you sat on the couch, blanket pulled around your shoulders, staring at the Soft pink peonies he’d left. They were opening beautifully, petals curling like they were reaching for you.

You wished you didn’t love them. You wished you didn’t love him.

It would make everything so much easier if you didn’t love him. Because at four a.m., after hours of tossing and turning, you came to the conclusion that it was time to break up. You just didn’t know how to do it. People usually dumped you. You didn’t have practice in being the one who walked away.

Jack tried to give you space. It took thirty‑six hours before you heard from him again.

Jack: Baby, please… I’m really worried. I don’t know what’s going on.

You stared at the message blinking.

You knew it was shitty to break up with someone over text. Someone had done it to you once with a voice note. A thirty‑second recording that shattered you for weeks.

But the idea of seeing Jack made your stomach burn.

Made your hands shake.

Made you furious.

And now you really wanted to punch him. To make him feel the pain you have been going through. You wouldn’t though, you weren’t a violent person. But the anger was still there, running hot through your veins.

And it wasn’t like he wanted to hear you talk anyway.

Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard, breath shaking, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might bruise your ribs from the inside.

I think we should end things.

You weren’t what part hurt more—losing him, or realizing this was reaching an end for him way before you heard the words.

Your phone rang, and like every time before it, you declined it.

Jack: Can we talk about this please? I cant lose you. I can fix this I promise I can fix this. Sweetheart please let me fix this.

Then another call.

You closed your eyes, letting the tears fall.

Twenty minutes later there was frantic knocking at your door.

“Sweetheart?” His voice cracked on the word. “Please open the door.”

Your throat tightened painfully. But you didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

There was thump at the door—what you assumed was his forehead hitting it in defeat. “Please. I don’t— I don’t understand what’s happening. Just talk to me.”

You scoff at the word talk. Thought I did too much of that for you.

He knocked again, harder this time, panic bleeding into every movement. “Baby, please. I’m begging you. Just let me see you.”

Inside, you sat frozen on the couch, staring at the peonies like they might tell you what to do.

“I love you. I don’t know what I did, but please… please don’t shut me out.”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

Because you loved him too. He sounded so wrecked like he was breaking the same way you were.

His voice came again, barely audible. I’ll stay out here all night if I have to. I’m not leaving until I know you’re okay.”

He wasn’t yelling.

He wasn’t defensive.

He was scared.

And that made everything harder.

You stood slowly, legs trembling, blanket still around your shoulders. You walked toward the door, each step feeling like you were wading through wet cement.

Your hand hovered over the lock. I can do this, I can talk to him. 

You turned the lock. The click echoed through the apartment like a gunshot. You sucked in a breath, reminding yourself again that you could get through this, and then you opened the door.

Jack was only a few feet away. It was the first time you had seen him in days, and he looked like a mess. His curls looked like he’d been running his hands through them for days now.  There was a tenseness in his shoulders like he was being held together by sheer force.  

He stepped forward instinctively, then stopped himself, hands hovering like he wanted to touch you. But he remembered he couldn’t. Not right now.

The two of you stare at each other, wrecked and shaking, neither of you spoke.

Jack stepped forward again, and you took a step back keeping the space between you two. “Sweetheart, please—”

Something inside you snapped.

“Don’t call me that.” Your voice came out sharp, louder than you meant. “You don’t get to call me that.”

Jack flinched as if you slapped him. “Okay. Okay. I won’t. Just—please talk to me.”

“Oh, now you want me to talk?” Your laugh was bitter, broken. “Funny, considering you were bitching about it the other day.”

You started at the wall over his shoulder refusing to look at him.  

Jack moved so you were forced to look at him. His forehead creased, “What are you talking about?”

You scoffed, wiping angrily at your cheeks as tears started falling. “Don’t- don’t pretend you don’t know.”

Jacks hand twitched like he wanted to wipe your tears away and comfort you, but one look at your body language he knew you didn’t want that. You were still shut off to him.

“I don’t know!” Jack’s voice rose.

“You said you couldn’t do it anymore!” you yelled, chest tight, breath shaking. “You said I talk nonstop. You said I exhaust you.”

Jack’s mouth fell open. “I—what? No. No, sweetheart, no, I didn’t—”

There was that nickname again. The one you normally loved to hear but now it filled your stomach with acid.

“Don’t call me that!” you snapped again, voice cracking. “Just tell the truth. Tell me what you really think about me Jack!”

Jack ran his hands through his hair tugging at it hard, pacing the length of you entryway.

“I love you!”

You shook your head frantically, taking three more steps back that he mirrored. He wasn’t letting you escape.

“I heard you Jack,” A sob tore out of you. “I heard you say it!” 

“Whan?” Jack demanded voice cracking. “When did I say something so cruel?”

“The night at the bar. You were talking to Robby.”

Jack froze. Eyes widening, and his breathing stilled. It looked as if the ground had dropped out from under him.

Checkmate you thought bitterly.

“Oh my God,” he whispered. “Oh my God, no. No, no, no. Baby, that wasn’t about you.”

“You don’t have to lie to me Jack. I know I am a lot. I told you I talked a lot at our first date. So, I don’t get why you have to be so cruel about it. You could have told me!” You wipe more tears from your face, your bottom lip trembling. “That’s what’s killing me you could have told me. Instead, you have made me feel pathetic. Like I was a burden.”

You collapsed on to your couch, pulling your knees up to your chest.

“You made my dad right. ‘I can’t do it any more Robby. She talks nonstop all the time.’ That’s what you said. And every insecurity I ever had of myself became the only thing I saw Jack. That’s what you did to me. So, we need to break up.”

Jack was kneeling on the floor in front of you now. And because you still cared for him, you worried about his leg.

“I need you to listen to me, please. If you still hate me, I’ll leave. I promise.” Jack’s voice was even despite the tears falling.

Maybe because you needed to hear Jack say he hated you out loud, or because a part of you hoped you two could save this, you nodded.  

“There’s a new resident,” Jack said quietly. “She was switched from day shift for insubordination.” He held up a hand when you opened your mouth. “They ignore everything I try to teach them. They talk over me. They think they know better than everyone. I was venting to Robby about them. I didn’t want to get HR involved.”

You pressed your lips together, shaking your head. You didn’t know what to believe. It seemed too convenient. But then again… you had heard about a know‑it‑all resident from Trinity.

Jack kept going,” I would never say that about you. Never. You’re—God you are my favorite person to talk to. You are the one I want to talk to the one I want to listen to. I love your voice sweetheart. And not hearing it has killed me.”

You shook your head, tears falling harder. “But you said—”

“I said it about them.” Jack’s voice cracked. “I swear to you. I swear on everything. I wasn’t talking about you.”

You covered your mouth with your hand, sobbing. “I thought— Jack I thought you hated me,  that you were just putting up with me.”

“No, never. I love you. I love you so much. I was ready to have Trinity and Whitacker come barge in to get answers.”  

You cried harder, shoulders shaking. “I’m a lot I know. My brain works different than most peoples, so I would get it if you told me to stop.”

Jack reached forward, placing a shaking hand on your knee. Silently begging you to look at him. “You’re not too much. You are never too much. I want to marry you one day. I love everything about you.”

You let out a broken sound, somewhere between a sob and a gasp. “I want to forgive you. But I hurt so much. You may have not meant me, but my brain was convinced you meant me.”

“Then don’t forgive me,” Jack said softly. “Let me grovel. Let me take care of you the way you’re meant to be taken care of, let me buy you a bouquet of flowers every day.”

A tiny smile tugged at your lips

“Theres my pretty girl.” Jack teases. “I will spend every day making sure you know you are not too much, and honestly? You don’t talk enough if I am being honest.”

You snort. “Yeah right.”

“You don’t. I still have time to talk so-“

You grabbed his shirt, pulling him forward, and snot‑nosed, tear‑streaked, you kissed him. It was quick, messy, but enough to tell both of you that you were okay. That you were going to make it through this.

“Shut up and hold me.” You whispered.

And jack didn’t have to be told twice. He got up on the couch and pulled you in to his lap, holding you like he’d been drowning for days and finally reached air. You sighed burying your face in his shirt. You could feel quiet, shaking breaths against your hair.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered over and over. “I’m so sorry you thought that. I’m so sorry you were hurting alone.”

You shook your head against him. “I should’ve asked. I should’ve talked to you.”

“New rule,” Jack murmured, tightening his arms around you. “We always talk about our problems. No regressing. Both our therapists would be upset with us right now.”

You laugh breathing him in.

His lips press to the top of your head.

You held onto him harder, the weight of the last three days finally breaking open. “I love you, Jack.”