єммα

the night had been long, even by jack abbot’s standards. the emergency department had churned nonstop, blunt trauma piled on top of overdoses and a stabbing that left streaks of dried blood on his shoes when he finally kicked them off inside the door. the house was silent when he stepped in, the kind of silence that pressed down on him instead of offering peace. he lived simply, almost spartan in his tastes, a modest two-bedroom with walls stripped bare of photographs, furniture chosen for function rather than comfort. there were no soft colours, no decorations, just hard lines and neutral shades that echoed his own restraint. the only warmth came from the stack of old paperbacks scattered across the coffee table and a few empty glasses left near the sink. he tossed his jacket over a chair, the fabric heavy with the smell of smoke from the night shift, and lowered himself onto the sofa in the dim glow of a single lamp. the bulb buzzed faintly above, the refrigerator hummed in the kitchen, and he sat in the hollow sound of it all, the kind of quiet that made his skin itch.

when he finally pulled his laptop open, he told himself it was habit, a way to decompress. but the cursor blinked at him, waiting, and before he could stop himself his fingers moved. pittsburgh escorts. he typed it fast, then deleted it. typed again, slower this time, as though dragging his own guilt out with every keystroke. pages filled the screen in bright, tasteless advertisements, all glossy hair, painted lips, and eyes empty of anything but salesmanship. he scrolled with his jaw locked tight, clicking through profile after profile that bled together into the same parade of neon promises. their smiles looked rehearsed, their words like slogans, and something in his chest recoiled. shame curled inside him, sharp and bitter. a physician, a veteran, a man who was supposed to know better, reduced to shopping for intimacy like it was something you could buy in bulk. and yet he kept scrolling, searching for something he couldn’t name, something softer, quieter, less like performance.

and then there was your site. not plastered across the first page, not loud or glittering, but buried deeper, like a secret someone whispered instead of shouted. the screen shifted into pale colors, all white and soft grey, clean font instead of flashing graphics. at the center was a photograph of you in a silk slip, knees tucked up to your chest, hair spilling over one shoulder. not obscene. not cheap. it looked like a moment caught in the dark, the intimacy of it pressing against the back of his teeth. beneath it was a single line: for company, for conversation, for the comfort you’re too tired to admit you want. the rest of the site was just as quiet, photographs that looked like fragments of life instead of advertisements. you blurred behind cigarette smoke. your lips wrapped around the rim of a coffee cup. the shadow of stockings cutting across your thighs. each frame was artful but unguarded, as though he had stumbled into something private. your age was there too. twenty-three. still early twenties, too young compared to him, though not a child. the difference hit him hard, his pulse skipping at the thought of your skin, unlined and new, your body still untouched by the wear that marked his own.

he stared too long at the page, thumb tapping restless against the plastic edge of the laptop. shame swelled in his throat until it tasted bitter, but so did hunger. the other profiles had looked like masks, plastic stretched tight, but you looked like someone who might see him, someone who might notice the things he kept buried. he shut the laptop once, hard, the echo sharp in the empty room. then, minutes later, he opened it again, because hunger had already sunk its claws into him. your contact page was as stripped down as the rest. an email. a phone number. no glittering commands, no hard sell. just discretion guaranteed. time and place negotiable. his fingers hovered over the keys, then typed. then deleted. then typed again. shame had never felt like this, like fire in his veins, but beneath it something else pushed harder. he sent a short note, clinical in tone, clipped and bare. i’d like to arrange a meeting. friday. discretion required. J. he clicked send, the sound loud as a gunshot in the quiet house, and leaned back, staring at the glow of the screen until the words blurred.

when he climbed into bed, the weight of it pressed heavier. he sat on the edge of the mattress, tugged his prosthetic free, setting it carefully against the wall with the care of ritual. the ache at the joint flared once before it settled, his skin raw and irritated, but he ignored it. he stripped down to his boxers and undershirt, body sinking against the sheets, but comfort never came. he thought about sleep, about the empty hours waiting for him, and knew it would not hold. the need was too sharp now, restless under his skin, eating at him in ways he had denied for too long. his hand moved to the waistband of his boxers, pushing them low, fingers wrapping around himself.

jack’s cock was thick, heavy in his hand, the veins running rigid under skin that had gone flushed with blood. he had watched porn before on nights like this, grainy videos to take the edge off, but not tonight. tonight the images burned hotter, clearer. your lips parted around a cup of coffee. your eyes half-lidded behind smoke. your mouth, red and soft, wrapped around him instead, your throat taking him deeper than he deserved. his fist moved slow at first, base to tip, knuckles dragging against sensitive flesh, the sound of skin slick against skin filling the quiet. he bit back a groan, teeth sinking into the muscle of his arm to stifle it, but the sounds still slipped through, low and guttural. his hips lifted against his palm without permission, his breath coming rougher, heavier.

he closed his eyes, but all he saw was you. the silk slip falling from your shoulders. the shadow of stockings. the thought of your mouth stretched around him, tongue pressed flat, throat opening as he pushed deeper. his grip tightened, hand pumping faster, each stroke pulling his abdomen taut, heat building at the base of his spine. he let the thought carry him, the shame of it only heightening the hunger, until his body seized and release tore through him. thick ropes spilled across his stomach, his chest, the sudden heat shocking against skin slick with sweat. his hand slowed, then stilled, and he exhaled a long, shuddering breath into the dark.

he reached for the nightstand without looking, fingers finding the packet of wipes he always kept there. practical, clinical, as though even his own mess had to be handled with the same efficiency he used at work. he wiped himself down, the cool wetness dragging across his stomach and chest, then tossed the used wipe into the small bin by the bed. the air smelled faintly of antiseptic now, layered over sweat and sex. jack lay back against the pillow, eyes open, the ceiling above him swimming in shadow. sleep did not come easily, not even now. all he could think about was the laptop waiting on the table, the message he had sent into the dark. he wondered if you had already seen it, if you would answer, if by morning the silence would be broken. hope sat heavy in his chest, unwanted but undeniable. shame had not been enough to stop him, and even after release, the need still burned.

── .✦

jack woke later than most of the city. the day was already spilling light through the blinds when he rolled over, the sun cutting pale stripes across the sheets. he lay still for a while, staring at the ceiling, letting his body remind him of the long night before. his muscles were heavy, his prosthetic leaning against the wall where he had left it, his skin around the joint raw from hours of wear. the hum of the refrigerator drifted in from the kitchen, a soft reminder of the silence that otherwise filled the house. finally, he pushed himself up, bare feet hitting the cool floorboards. the air smelled faintly of old coffee and the faint antiseptic scent from the wipes he had used the night before. his mornings were always simple, stripped down like the rest of his life.

he limped into the kitchen, the weight of his body uneven until he clipped the prosthetic into place with careful hands. his breakfast was routine: black coffee brewed strong, two eggs fried quickly in the pan, a slice of toast he ate standing up at the counter. there was no music, no radio, only the sound of eggs hissing in the skillet and the scrape of fork against plate. the house itself carried his silence— walls bare, furniture sturdy but plain, everything functional with little decoration. the windows framed a street already awake with the sound of tires on wet pavement, voices drifting faint from neighbors walking their dogs. jack chewed in quiet, his jaw tense, his thoughts drifting again and again to the email he had sent. part of him hoped to see your reply when he checked his phone. another part dreaded it, unsure what it would mean to want something so badly after years of convincing himself he didn’t.

after breakfast he set the dishes neatly in the sink, rinsed them with precision, and headed toward the bathroom. the ritual of the shower mattered to him, an almost meditative process. he turned the knobs, steam filling the small tiled room, fogging the mirror until his own reflection disappeared. peeling off his shirt and boxers, he stepped under the spray, the hot water rushing over his shoulders, trailing down scarred skin and muscle that carried too many years of strain. he scrubbed himself hard with unscented soap, the plain kind he always bought, working it into his chest, his arms, his abdomen until his skin flushed pink. he lingered at the joint of his prosthetic, cleaning carefully, massaging where the skin chafed. the sound of the water roared in his ears, filling the room with steady rhythm, drowning out thought. he stayed longer than usual, his mind circling back to images of your website, to the lines of your mouth, the way you had looked caught behind smoke.

when he finally stepped out, the air hit cold against his damp skin. he dragged a towel down his chest and legs, raking it roughly over his hair until it stood damp and stubborn. the mirror was clearing now, and his reflection stared back at him, hollow-eyed but sharp, shoulders broad, chest still solid despite the years of wear. he dropped the towel onto the rack and walked into his bedroom, the blinds casting sharp light across the floor. his outfits were simple, utilitarian like everything else. dark jeans, a plain black t-shirt, a heavy grey sweater for the chill of early autumn. his boots were lined against the wall, worn but cleaned, polished out of habit. dressing was efficient, practiced, each movement part of the rhythm of survival. by the time he sat back on the edge of his bed to tie his laces, his mind had circled back to the glow of his laptop screen, to the message he had sent that still waited in the dark of your inbox.

── .✦

you woke earlier than him. the air in your apartment was heavy with the faint sweetness of last night’s perfume mixed with the sharper scent of cigarette smoke. your space was nothing like his. where his was stripped bare, yours carried life. plants in mismatched pots leaned toward the morning light, books stacked in crooked towers along the walls, vinyl records scattered near the player on the low cabinet. the curtains were sheer, letting the city spill in, neon signs fading into daylight outside the glass. your work allowed you to live comfortably— not lavishly, but well enough to keep the apartment in a neighborhood where the streets still felt alive, where there was always a bar open late, always someone smoking out on the fire escape. freelancing meant you kept what you made, and you made enough to be selective.

the first thing you always did was check your messages. the inbox was usually filled with noise: men trying too hard to flatter, lacing their words with promises you had heard too many times, or worse, men sending unsolicited photos, crude images that arrived uninvited, always deleted without a second thought. so when you saw his message— short, sharp, stripped down to the bare bones— it caught you. no greeting, no performance, no attempt to charm you with words. i’d like to arrange a meeting. friday. discretion required. J. you lit a cigarette before opening it fully, the paper crackling as you exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. the record player spun low in the background, an old jazz record humming lazy through the room, the scratch of the vinyl blending with the drag of your inhale. the message was clinical, yes, but it intrigued you. men who wanted you always wrote too much. this one had given you only what mattered.

you tapped your fingers against the edge of the laptop, ash trailing into the tray beside you, considering how to answer. your business email was always under your working alias, never tied to your real name, never to the life you kept for yourself. the words you wrote were professional but edged with warmth, the same balance you used for everyone. thank you for your message. friday is possible. where would you like to meet. rates and discretion outlined as agreed. — A. the initials were never yours, but they had become you all the same. you hit send, the cigarette burning low between your fingers, the smoke curling into the early light. outside, a car horn sounded, the city still pushing forward, but in that quiet moment it was only you, your apartment, your cigarette, and the knowledge that someone different had reached for you in the dark.

jack didn’t know it yet, but by the time he looked at his inbox again, his chest tight with that strange pull between shame and hunger, your reply would already be waiting.

── .✦

jack read the reply almost immediately after it landed in his inbox. the brief, professional tone set a fire under his pulse, igniting a combination of relief and anticipation that he had not felt in years. he closed the laptop carefully, his prosthetic thudding softly against the floor as he stood, and reached for his phone. the house felt emptier than usual, the hum of the fridge and the distant rumble of traffic unable to fill the sudden hollow left by the quiet absence of her presence. fingers moving quickly, he booked a hotel room, tapping the keys with practiced precision. he chose a place that was clean, discreet, and sufficiently upscale to meet his own standards of privacy. the room was a small suite with muted gold wallpaper, a king-size bed with crisp white linens, blackout curtains, and a shower with good water pressure. the price made his stomach tighten slightly—three hundred and fifty dollars for a night—but he didn’t hesitate. it was worth every cent to ensure privacy, comfort, and the ability to indulge whatever needed waiting to escape.

once the reservation was complete, he sent a short message, precise in both time and location. friday night, 7pm. hotel name, room number, no frills, no unnecessary words. sending it brought an odd sort of relief, the kind that feels like letting a breath escape after holding it too long. he imagined her reading it, imagining the slightly spartan but clean elegance of the room, her curiosity as she interpreted his flat, clinical tone. the text sent, he leaned back against the wall, letting the quiet press into him again, his thoughts returning insistently to the anticipation of her presence.

you read his message slowly, cigarette smoke curling around your fingers as you leaned back in your chair, the low hum of the jazz record filling the room. the flat, no-nonsense tone made your chest tighten in a way that most men never managed, their attempts at charm or flattery always leaving you tired and indifferent. his message carried a weight of certainty, a subtle gravity that intrigued you. you imagined the hotel room, the muted gold, the king-size bed, and a flicker of curiosity sparked inside you. this man, a stranger with no unnecessary words, no premature compliments, had managed to pull your attention like few others had.

your reply was deliberate. you typed slowly, savoring the moment, inhaling the smoke between thoughts. confirmed for friday at 7pm. see you then. — A. simple, professional, neutral, yet carrying an edge of personal interest that even you were surprised by. curiosity coiled tight in your chest as you thought of him, wondering about the man behind the flat text, the way his words avoided theatrics while still commanding attention. the thrill wasn’t only about what might happen, it was in the restraint, the quiet assertion of presence without flattery, the sense that he saw exactly what he wanted and would not be distracted. you exhaled smoke and watched it curl lazily toward the ceiling, excitement threaded with caution, waiting for friday to arrive.

as the day stretched onward, jack kept himself busy, running small errands, cleaning the house, preparing mentally for the evening. each time he glanced at his phone, he pictured you reading the message, imagining your reaction, and it sent a subtle shiver through him. the emptiness of his apartment, the precision of his routines, the long hours in silence—all of it now felt like preparation, a quiet build-up to the inevitable collision of need and anticipation that awaited on friday. your professionalism, your refusal to adorn the interaction with cheap charm, had unsettled him in a way that was unfamiliar, and he realized with both shame and hunger that he had been waiting for exactly this.

── .✦

friday arrived slow, the city humming with its usual background noise of tires on wet asphalt, distant sirens, and the occasional murmur of voices from sidewalks crowded with early evening pedestrians. you had planned your preparations meticulously, every detail considered until it felt like a ritual, a performance you could inhabit fully. the dress you chose was a deep emerald silk, clinging to your curves in just the right way, long enough to skim your thighs while hinting at the red lingerie beneath. the bra and matching panties were lacy, daring, the red bright against your skin, the straps nearly hidden under the delicate fabric of the dress. you slipped into your heels, black patent leather, stiletto sharp and commanding, making your posture elongate, your gait measured and deliberate. your hair fell in soft waves over your shoulders, styled so that it looked effortless yet perfect, catching the light in the most flattering angles. your makeup was applied with precision, smoky eyes emphasizing your gaze, lips a soft red that matched the hidden lingerie, accentuating the promise behind the silence. the room smelled faintly of vanilla candle smoke and fresh perfume, blending with your nervous energy as you surveyed yourself in the mirror one last time, adjusting a strap here, a curl there, until every detail aligned with the image you wanted to present.

you drove through the city streets, windows down slightly, the air carrying the faint tang of rain from earlier in the day. one hand rested on the wheel, the other holding a cigarette, smoke curling lazily toward the roof of the car as you inhaled and exhaled slowly, grounding yourself in the ritual. your thoughts spun between the mundane and the thrilling: the hotel room waiting for you, the quiet efficiency of his messages, the mystery of the man behind the name. the city lights reflected on the windshield in elongated streaks as you navigated, the engine humming steadily beneath you. the drive was short, but each block seemed to stretch, anticipation building with every stoplight. you exhaled, letting the smoke drift past your lips, feeling your pulse quicken, imagining the moment you would step into the quiet room, the first confrontation of tension and curiosity.

arriving at the hotel, you parked quickly, taking a moment to smooth your dress over your hips before stepping into the lobby. the scent of fresh carpeting mixed with faint disinfectant hit your nose as you approached the reception desk. politely, you asked for the room number you had been given in the prior messages, using the alias you always maintained for work. the clerk handed over the key without question, the click of the keycard against the metal key box echoing slightly in the quiet space. the elevator ride up was short, the metallic hum vibrating through the small car, giving rhythm to your racing heartbeat. you reached the room and slipped inside, locking the door behind you with deliberate care, the soft thud of the deadbolt marking the transition from the outside world to the controlled environment you had prepared for this encounter.

the room was quiet, the king-size bed spread pristine under muted golden lighting that reflected softly across the walls. you set your bag carefully on the side table, removing your coat and letting it drape over the chair before moving to assess the space fully. the air smelled faintly of linen and subtle cleaning products, a sterile comfort mixed with the faint warmth of wood and wallpaper. you adjusted the lighting slightly, dimming the overhead lamp to cast shadows across the corners, creating a subtle sense of intimacy without revealing too much. the curtains were drawn tight, black velvet swallowing the outside light and giving the room a sense of cocooned privacy. soft hums from the air conditioning, a distant car horn, and the muffled footsteps in the hallway outside provided the background noise, a quiet reminder of the world beyond your temporary space.

as you moved around the room, you checked each detail meticulously. a small notepad and pen were set aside in case of communication, water placed on the nightstand, tissues arranged neatly within reach. your heels clicked softly against the hardwood floor as you paced lightly, hands smoothing the silk of your dress over your thighs. you inhaled slowly, letting the scent of your perfume mingle with the room, imagining how it would mingle with his presence later. anticipation wrapped tightly around your chest, a blend of curiosity, professionalism, and the thrill of the unknown. the thought of him arriving, the quiet mystery of the man who had reached out without artifice, kept your attention taut, every sense heightened as you prepared to meet someone who had intrigued you more than any client before. the clock ticked down slowly, and you perched on the edge of the bed for a moment, cigarette long since extinguished, eyes wandering over the room once more, imagining how the night would unfold, how the first moment of contact would feel, and how every detail you had curated might provoke the response you anticipated.

── .✦

jack left his apartment just as the late afternoon sun began to dip, casting long shadows across the streets and lighting the buildings in a muted amber. the day had been quiet, a slow stretch of routine that he had filled with small tasks to keep his mind off the anticipation gnawing at him. he showered with deliberate care, hot water cascading over his shoulders, scrubbing at the fatigue that clung to him from the previous night. his chest and arms were tight with lingering tension, the kind only long nights of trauma could leave, and he lingered under the spray, letting the steam curl around him, fogging the mirror until his reflection became a soft blur. when he stepped out, he dried carefully, rubbing the towel over each scar, each joint where his prosthetic joined his flesh, almost reverently.

he dressed methodically, selecting dark jeans and a crisp black button-up shirt, the fabric stretching comfortably over his shoulders but neat enough to feel precise. a leather belt cinched at his waist, and his boots, polished but worn at the edges, slid on easily. he glanced at the mirror once, adjusting his collar and the cuff of his sleeve, making sure he appeared collected, controlled. a flash of awareness ran through him, his pulse picking up as he imagined the woman waiting, her poised curiosity, the quiet authority she seemed to command even from a distance. he left the apartment carrying only what he needed, keys, wallet, and a phone that now felt heavier in his pocket, loaded with the message that had already been sent and read.

the drive to the hotel was uneventful, streets bustling with early evening traffic, tires hissing on damp asphalt, the faint smell of rain lingering in the air. he drove steadily, hands gripping the wheel with measured pressure, eyes scanning the passing buildings, headlights, and pedestrians. every now and then his thoughts flicked to her—the way she had responded, concise and professional, leaving no room for unnecessary flattery yet still pulling him in with something unspoken. it was an unfamiliar sensation, the mix of restraint and curiosity she commanded with a few short lines, and it made his jaw tighten in anticipation. he checked the GPS once, his thumb brushing the screen lightly, a habit he had developed over years of routine and precision, making sure he would arrive exactly on time.

pulling into the parking lot of the hotel, he found a space with deliberate ease, leaving the engine running for a moment as he gathered himself. the building loomed ahead, muted gold trim against neutral concrete, the windows reflecting the dying light of the day. he stepped out of the car, adjusting his collar and running a hand through his hair briefly before locking the door behind him. his boots clicked softly against the pavement, the sound grounding him, a rhythmic counterpoint to the rapid pulse in his chest. each step toward the entrance was measured, his thoughts alternating between logistics and anticipation, rehearsing introductions, calculating how much he would reveal and how much he would let linger unspoken.

the lobby smelled faintly of disinfectant and fresh carpeting, the quiet hum of the air conditioning a constant undertone. he moved to the elevator, pressing the button for the appropriate floor, the metallic vibration beneath his feet steadying him as he ascended. the hotel room number was on a small card in his hand, and his knuckles brushed lightly against the door frame as he approached. he paused outside, hand hovering over the knob, taking a slow, steadying breath. the faint murmur of the corridor, the subtle creak of distant footsteps, and the soft click of his own boots against the floor made him hyper-aware of the transition he was about to make from anticipation to encounter.

finally, his hand came down, knocking once firmly, a single, sharp sound against the door. he lingered for a fraction longer, feeling the tension coil tight in his chest, before preparing to enter, fully aware of the strange, compelling mix of restraint and desire that had led him to this moment.

── .✦

the knock at the door was steady, deliberate, and it carried a weight that made your stomach tighten in anticipation. your heels clicked softly across the carpet as you crossed the room, smoothing the hem of your dress one last time, fingers brushing over the curve of your hip to make sure everything sat in place. when you opened the door, the hallway’s light spilled in behind him, outlining his frame, tall and broad, his shoulders filling the doorway. his shirt was crisp, dark, and buttoned to the collar, his expression unreadable at first glance, though his eyes lingered on you in a way that felt like they were tracing every detail of you. he cleared his throat before speaking, his voice low, steady, but not unkind, carrying that practiced discipline you could already sense in him. “jack,” he said simply, as though no other introduction was needed.

“you made it,” you murmured, stepping aside so he could enter, the faint perfume in the room meeting the subtle scent of his cologne as he passed you. he didn’t waste words on flattery, didn’t offer any lines or cheap observations, but you caught how his gaze shifted, how it caught briefly on your neckline, then your legs, before returning to your face with controlled ease. he stood near the center of the room for a moment, as though orienting himself, his eyes sweeping over the space you had prepared: the warm lamplight pooling over the bedspread, the candle you had lit near the table, the faint thread of jazz humming low from your phone speaker. he took in the way the curtains were drawn just enough to soften the glow of the city beyond, the faint scent of smoke and sandalwood hanging in the air. “you set this up,” he said after a moment, his tone more observation than compliment, but the quiet acknowledgment still made heat rise in your chest.

“first impressions matter,” you teased lightly, closing the door behind you, your heels soft against the carpet as you moved toward him, tilting your head. “though you don’t seem like the type who’s easily impressed.” he finally let the smallest smirk tug at his mouth, not quite a full smile, but enough to change the lines of his face into something warmer, something you wanted to see more of. his hands were careful as he slid his wallet and keys onto the table, then unbuttoned his cuffs, rolling them up with an ease that spoke of ritual, settling himself into the room like it was unfamiliar ground. you reached for the minibar, letting your fingers trail over the small bottles before glancing back at him, brows raised. “drink?” you asked, voice light but deliberate, curious how he’d answer.

“whiskey, if they have it,” he said, watching you intently, his voice even, though there was a faint undercurrent of interest you caught in the way his eyes lingered. you poured slowly, letting the amber liquid catch in the dim lamplight, tilting the glass so it didn’t spill, aware of his gaze on your hands. when you handed him his glass, your fingers brushed against his, just a fleeting touch, but enough to spark awareness in the air between you, his hand warm, steady, though you caught the hesitation in him. he seemed like a man who rarely allowed small intimacies, and you tucked that knowledge away, deciding how to use it later. you raised your glass, the faint clink echoing in the quiet room, and smiled. “to… whatever this is,” you said softly, your eyes searching his.

he huffed out a low breath of amusement, just enough to make you lean closer, curious to hear it again. “that works,” he replied, his glass meeting yours with a dull chime that seemed to mark something unspoken between you. the whiskey burned smooth down your throat, heat curling in your chest as you let the silence stretch, only the faint jazz filling the space. you leaned back slightly, watching him sip more slowly, his movements controlled, every gesture deliberate, like a man who couldn’t ever quite let himself relax. with a playful tilt of your head, you slid your cigarette pack across the table toward him, your smile curling at the corner. “smoke?” you asked, your voice threaded with suggestion.

he shook his head once, no hesitation. “quit years ago,” he said, the tone final but not harsh, like it was an old battle already won. you lit one for yourself instead, the flame sparking against the paper with a soft crackle before fading, the ember glowing at the end. smoke curled through the air as you drew in, the sound of your inhale filling the brief silence before you crossed to the window. the city outside stretched out in flickers of neon and headlights, the hum of traffic seeping faintly through the glass, a living pulse beneath your quiet little world above it. you exhaled slowly, letting the smoke spill toward the glass, watching it blur the reflection of yourself in the pane. you didn’t need to look back to know he was watching you.

“you’re staring,” you teased, your voice lazy, drifting with the smoke as you turned slightly to glance over your shoulder. he didn’t deny it—his eyes caught yours, steady, unreadable at first, then softening, betraying something far more human. “you make it hard not to,” he admitted quietly, the honesty catching you off guard, though it was softened by the controlled way he said it. “dangerously close to flattery,” you teased, lips curling around the words, eyes bright with challenge as you flicked ash into the tray by the sill. he shook his head, a quiet chuckle breaking through, low in his chest, but his eyes didn’t leave you. “don’t get used to it,” he said, but you could see the faintest crack in his armor forming.

you turned more fully toward him, smoke curling past your lips as you studied him with open interest, enjoying the tension that hummed between you. “most men come in here with rehearsed lines, practiced charm, like they’ve memorized their own scripts before walking through the door,” you said softly, tilting your head as you exhaled again. “you? you’re quiet, deliberate. no ego, no flattery to crowd the air. you’re… an oddity, jack.” the word rolled from your tongue with playfulness, though the sincerity was sharp beneath it. he raised a brow, finally setting his glass down, the soft clink echoing in the still room, before he started toward you.

“oddity?” he repeated, voice low, and the space between you closed with each slow step he took. the warmth of him reached you before his hand did, his presence filling the small space by the window, the hum of the city blending with the muted notes of jazz behind him. you tapped out the last of your cigarette, placing it in the tray, and turned to face him fully, your shoulder brushing the cool glass. “mhmm,” you murmured, lips quirking. “you don’t make me nervous like you should. in fact, you make me curious.” his hand hovered near your hip, just shy of touching, a hesitation that made you ache to push him over the edge.

“you look beautiful,” he said finally, the words almost reluctant, like he had debated them before letting them free, but the raw honesty in them warmed you. you smiled, tilting your chin up slightly, your gaze sharp but amused. “and here i thought you didn’t do flattery,” you teased, though there was a gentleness in your tone as you leaned into his hesitation, inviting him closer. his jaw flexed slightly, his eyes flicking down your frame before returning to your face, something unspoken in them that hinted at wariness. you knew what it was—your age, the unspoken years between you, and you stepped closer, your voice lowering. “don’t worry about that,” you murmured, brushing your fingers over his wrist as if to guide him. “if i wasn’t sure, i wouldn’t be here.”

that seemed to ease something in him, though he still carried the faint coil of caution in his frame. his hand finally settled against your waist, warm and steady, his thumb brushing once against the fabric of your dress like he was still testing the waters. you tipped your head to the side, exposing the curve of your neck, daring him silently to take more. his breath was warm against your skin when he finally bent, lips brushing a tentative kiss against the line of your throat. you smiled faintly, eyes closing as you whispered, “you don’t have to be careful with me.” his second kiss was firmer, more certain, and when you exhaled, it wasn’t smoke but a soft, content sigh.

── .✦

you hadn’t expected him to gain confidence so quickly, but once he started kissing you, it was like something inside him cracked open and spilled out. his lips pressed hard against yours, stealing little gasps and whimpers from your throat as his hands roamed down your sides, calloused and warm through the thin fabric of your dress. you moaned into his mouth, fingers sliding down between the buttons of his shirt until you could palm the heavy bulge straining against his pants. he groaned low when your hand rubbed over him, his hips jerking forward without meaning to, like his body had been waiting for this release far too long. his teeth found your neck, scraping and biting gently until the sting melted into heat, and you knew he was leaving marks you’d see in the mirror later. when he finally tugged your dress down your shoulders, revealing the red lace clinging to your skin, the sound that rumbled from his chest was half growl, half reverence, like he couldn’t believe you were real.

your skin prickled as the cool air brushed over the lingerie, nipples tightening under the lace until they ached for his mouth, his touch, his anything. your thighs pressed together on instinct, the slick wetness between them growing embarrassingly fast, more than it usually did when you worked a client. this felt different, sharper, heavier, like your body responded to him before your mind could catch up. your hands slid up his arms, following the tense muscle of his forearms, squeezing slightly as if to ground yourself in the heat of him. you traced up to his chest, over his broad shoulders, loving how solid he felt under your fingertips, how much older strength lived in his body. when he kissed you again, it was rougher, hungrier, and when you finally broke apart, both of you were left panting, lips swollen, eyes dark with need.

you smirked as you slowly dropped to your knees, the sound of your zipper sliding down filling the quiet between your heavy breaths. your eyes never left his, even as you bit your lower lip, looking up at the older man with a mixture of mischief and hunger that made his jaw clench. his belt rattled under your hands, your fingers quick to unbuckle it, and then his pants and boxers fell away. his cock sprang free, thick and heavy, the flushed tip glistening with precum that caught the low light of the hotel lamp. you blinked up at him, licking your lips, feeling your pussy pulse hard at just the sight of him, heat pooling between your thighs so strong it almost hurt. “fuck,” you whispered under your breath, unable to stop yourself, and the sound made him groan as he rested one hand against the back of your head.

he was big, longer than most, with that kind of weight that promised a deep stretch, the kind you’d feel in your throat and deep inside your cunt. his shaft was thick all the way down, veins running along the sides, twitching slightly as you wrapped your hand around the base. the heat of him was startling, so alive against your palm, and you leaned in to press a soft kiss against the tip before parting your lips. the salty taste of him spread across your tongue as you sucked him in slow, taking him as deep as your throat allowed before easing back. a moan rumbled low in his chest, his hips rocking forward just a little, the control starting to slip as you hollowed your cheeks and sucked harder. your pussy clenched at the sound, slick dripping onto your thighs, needy and aching for more as you worked your mouth over his cock.

“jesus christ, sweetheart,” jack groaned, his voice wrecked, one hand gripping your hair while the other hovered like he was afraid of being too rough. you looked up at him, lashes wet, lips stretched around his cock, and the sight broke something inside him. he started thrusting slowly into your mouth, testing how much you could take, his tip hitting the back of your throat and making you gag softly, spit trailing down your chin. you welcomed it, moaning around him, drool slipping past your lips as you pressed your tongue flat against the underside of his cock, letting him fuck your throat deeper. he whispered broken praise, words spilling out between ragged breaths—“so good, fuck, you’re perfect, look at you taking me, pretty girl.” every word made your cunt pulse, slick soaking through the lace, your own moans vibrating around his cock.

when his control finally broke, he groaned something low and guttural, pulling you closer until his cock slid deep down your throat, your nose pressed against his stomach. your eyes watered, but you didn’t care—you loved how messy it felt, how his hips trembled as he lost himself in you. your hands dug into his thighs, steadying yourself, while you swallowed around him, the tight grip of your throat making him curse again. “fuck, baby, that mouth—” he gasped, pulling out only to thrust back in, his cock glistening with spit every time it slid past your swollen lips. you loved the way he looked down at you, eyes dark, jaw tight, like he was seconds from falling apart, and every desperate thrust sent sparks shooting down your spine. the sound of wet sucking and muffled moans filled the hotel room, mixing with the distant hum of traffic outside, until it felt like the whole world was narrowed down to this moment—you, on your knees, with jack abbot fucking your throat.

── .✦

his breath was ragged, each thrust into your mouth sharper, rougher, like his control was fraying by the second. his hand tightened in your hair, his head tipping back as a guttural groan slipped from his throat, and you knew he was close. you felt the heavy twitch of his cock against your tongue, the salty taste spreading thicker across your mouth, the tension rolling through his whole body. and that was when you pulled back with a wet pop, spit clinging to your lips and chin as you smirked up at him, your chest rising and falling with each breath. his eyes snapped down at you, wide and almost pained, his cock glistening in the low light, throbbing hard and desperate for release.

“not yet,” you whispered, dragging the back of your hand across your mouth before you licked your lips slow, teasing, letting him watch every second of it. his groan was almost frustrated, his hips rocking forward like he wanted to bury himself right back into your throat, but you leaned back slightly, keeping just out of reach. you climbed to your feet, fingers curling into his shirt as you pressed your body flush against his, the lace of your lingerie rubbing against his bare skin. your lips brushed his ear when you spoke again, your voice low, wicked, dripping with heat. “i’m gonna break one of my rules tonight,” you whispered, your hand sliding down between you until you wrapped it around his cock again.

his brows furrowed as he looked at you, still catching his breath, his voice rough when he asked, “what rule?” you grinned, pressing a soft kiss against the corner of his mouth, then another just below his jaw, enjoying the way his pulse raced under your lips. you tugged gently at his cock, guiding it up against your soaked lace, grinding yourself against him so he could feel just how wet you already were. the heat of him there made you shiver, your pussy clenching tight around nothing, desperate for him inside. “i don’t let clients cum inside me,” you said softly, your lips brushing against his as you spoke, every word deliberate, heavy. “but you’re not just a client… so tonight i want you to cum in my pussy.”

jack froze for a second, his jaw tightening, his eyes locking onto yours like he was trying to figure out if you were serious. his hands came up to hold your face, thumbs brushing over your cheeks, his voice strained and husky. “you sure about that, sweetheart?” there was a hesitation in his tone, like some part of him was still wary, still thinking of the age gap, the risk, the weight of what you’d just said. but you nodded without missing a beat, your grin softening into something genuine as you whispered, “yeah, jack. i want you to.”

the way his expression shifted then—like something inside him gave way—made your stomach flip and your pussy ache with need. his lips crashed against yours, hungrier than before, his hands sliding down to grip your hips as he walked you back toward the bed. the kiss was sloppy, wet, full of teeth and tongue, both of you moaning into it as the weight of what was about to happen pressed down on you. when the backs of your knees hit the mattress, he pushed you down gently, standing over you with his chest rising and falling hard. his cock rested heavy against your thigh, leaking, twitching, ready, and the thought of him spilling inside you made you throb so hard you whimpered out loud.

── .✦

jack’s shirt came off slow, like he wanted you to watch every movement, the muscles in his chest shifting under the dim hotel light. he tossed it to the side without breaking eye contact, the bare planes of his torso making your mouth water, scars and all, each one telling its own story. he crawled onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, and his prosthetic leg clinked faintly against the frame before settling steady, grounding him in place. his hands found your ankles, and before you could say a word he bent low, pressing a kiss to the delicate skin there. then another, then another, his mouth trailing higher and higher, each press of his lips deliberate, reverent, setting your nerves alight as he worked his way up. by the time he reached your knees, your chest was rising and falling too quickly, a soft whimper slipping past your lips just from the anticipation.

he didn’t stop. his kisses burned a path along your thighs, and when he reached your hips he lingered, biting down lightly just to hear the sharp inhale you made, the twitch of your body under his mouth. he moved up to your stomach, slow, unhurried, like he wanted to take his time exploring every inch of you, worshipping you. finally he reached your chest, and with one flick of his fingers your bra straps slid down your arms. he unclasped it and tossed it aside before lowering his head, sucking one nipple between his lips while his free hand cupped the other breast. his tongue circled, teasing, before his teeth grazed lightly, making your back arch off the bed as a moan tore from your throat. he switched sides, not leaving you neglected for a second, and when his hand slid down to massage the inside of your thigh you nearly lost it, your legs falling further apart on instinct.

his lips came back up to yours, wet and swollen, and when he kissed you again it was filthy, raw. his mouth moved hungrily, his hand gripping your jaw as he murmured against your lips, “give me your tongue.” your body obeyed before your brain caught up, slipping your tongue past his lips, and then his spit hit it—warm, salty, filthy—and he sucked it right back into his mouth, groaning low in his chest. you whimpered into it, the sound breaking against his tongue, your nails dragging down his back as he kissed you like he was trying to claim every part of you. the heat between your thighs grew unbearable, your pussy pulsing, clenching around nothing as you squirmed beneath him. the room was filled with the wet, obscene sound of your mouths together, your moans, his growls, the rustle of sheets.

jack shifted down again, his mouth leaving yours only to trail down your body, open-mouthed kisses dragging across your stomach, your hips, the top of your thighs. when he reached the waistband of your panties, he hooked them with his teeth, tugging slow, the lace dragging down your skin as his nose brushed against your mound. the sight alone made your breath catch—this older man, this war-hardened body, undressing you with nothing but his mouth. when the last scrap of lace slid off, he dropped it to the floor and settled between your thighs, pulling them apart with steady hands until you were spread wide open for him.

the cool air of the room hit your pussy first, making you shiver. you were wet—soaked, glistening, swollen from arousal, your clit poking out, throbbing, begging for attention. jack groaned the moment he saw it, low and guttural, like the sight alone undid him. his breath brushed hot over your folds before his tongue finally slid out, flattening against you in a long, slow lick that had your hips bucking off the bed. the taste of you hit his tongue and he groaned again, gripping your thighs tighter to hold you still. “fuck, you taste so good,” he rasped, voice muffled against you, before burying his face deeper.

his tongue circled your clit, flicking and lapping, then moved down to fuck into your entrance, shallow thrusts that had your head tipping back against the pillows. you moaned loud, unrestrained, your hands clutching at the sheets before sliding into his hair, tugging him closer. his prosthetic leg pressed solidly against the mattress as he adjusted, keeping himself balanced so he could devour you without pause. the contrast of the cool metal and warm flesh only made the moment more intense, grounding you in the reality of him, of what he was doing to you. each drag of his tongue sent shockwaves through your body, your pussy clenching hard, dripping against his mouth as he hummed like he couldn’t get enough.

jack pulled back just long enough to suck your clit into his mouth, harsh and wet, making your whole body jolt as a cry ripped out of your throat. you tasted yourself on his tongue, slick and raw, as he groaned against you like he wanted to drown in it. your thighs trembled, your hips rocking against his face without control, chasing his mouth, chasing the release that was building too fast, too sharp. his eyes flicked up at you through heavy lashes, locking with yours as his lips wrapped tighter around your clit, sucking harder, and the sight alone almost made you cum right there. “that’s it, baby,” he murmured against your swollen flesh, his voice gravelly, thick with lust, “so fucking sweet… let me have it.”

your orgasm hit fast, sharp, your whole body curling in on itself as your hands fisted in jack’s hair, yanking him closer, holding him right where you needed him. the cry that tore from your throat was raw, desperate, as your pussy clenched and throbbed against his tongue, soaking his mouth with everything you had. his tongue never let up, circling and flicking your clit, drinking you down like he’d been starving for you, groaning into you at the mess you were making on his face. your thighs trembled violently, closing around his head, but he only pressed closer, letting you ride out every last wave until you were shuddering and gasping for air.

and while you were breaking apart above him, jack’s hips were pressed hard to the mattress, grinding his cock against the bed like he couldn’t help himself. the rough drag of fabric against his cock made him groan low, muffled against your dripping pussy, his own body chasing friction while he devoured yours. you could feel it when his hips moved, the steady rhythm of him rutting into the sheets, desperate and messy, his cock leaking, straining for release. the idea of him getting himself off just from tasting you sent another shiver through you, your cunt pulsing weakly even after your climax had peaked.

when the sharp edge of your orgasm finally ebbed, you loosened your grip on his hair, tugging his head up just enough to see him. his lips and chin were shining with you, glistening in the low light, his tongue darting out to lick his lower lip with a groan that sounded half-crazed. his chest rose and fell hard, every breath heavy as he dragged himself up your body, grinding his cock once more against your slick thigh before settling over you. “fuck,” he rasped, voice shredded, “you just about killed me, baby.” his forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot and uneven, and you could still feel the twitch of his cock against your leg, needy and soaked.

── .✦

your mouth crashed against jack’s in a messy, desperate kiss, all teeth and tongue, your whimpers caught between you as your hand slid down between your bodies and wrapped around his cock. he groaned into your mouth when you stroked him, the thick weight of him hot and hard in your hand, precum smearing across your palm as you pumped him slow at first, then faster, feeling his hips buck against your grip. “please jack,” you gasped against his lips, your voice shaking as your legs spread wider under him, “fuck me, i need you inside me, right now.” he pulled back just enough to look down at you, his eyes burning and dark, jaw tight as though he was barely holding himself together.

he shifted lower, bracing himself with one arm, and you felt the blunt head of his cock slide through your soaked folds, dragging over your swollen clit and making you moan helplessly. the sensation had you arching your back, your pussy pulsing, wet and ready, every nerve alight with anticipation. he lined himself up slow, dragging the head against your entrance, teasing you until you whined his name, nails biting into his shoulders. when he finally pushed in, stretching you wide, the both of you groaned at the same time, your pussy clenching down around him like you never wanted to let him go. he bottomed out with a shudder, his cock filling you so perfectly it stole your breath.

his thrusts started deep and steady, dragging out the stretch of every inch before slamming back into you, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing through the room. your tits bounced with every rough drive of his hips, nipples hard and sensitive, the air cool on your damp skin as he pounded into you harder and harder. “fuck, baby, you’re so tight, squeezing me so good,” he growled into your ear, his voice rough as gravel, every word sending a new wave of heat through you. you cried out, clinging to him, scratching down his back hard enough to leave red streaks, and he only groaned louder at the sting.

your pussy was soaked, gripping his cock like it was made for him, the slick drag making him hiss as he thrust in deep again and again. every time he slammed into you, your moans got higher, sharper, mixing with his low grunts and the steady slap of his hips against yours. “that’s it, baby, take it all, fuck, you feel so good around me,” jack muttered through clenched teeth, kissing your neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks that would linger. you whimpered, clawing at his shoulders, whispering “harder, jack, please,” until he growled and drove into you rougher, the bed creaking beneath the force of it.

his cock hit deep inside, grazing spots that made your whole body jolt, your pussy dripping around him, soaking his thighs and the sheets beneath you. your tits bounced wildly as you arched up into him, back scraping against the pillows, every thrust shaking the breath out of your chest. “you’re so perfect, fuck, so perfect,” jack panted, his mouth hot against your ear, the weight of his body pressing you deeper into the mattress. you could barely hold back your moans, broken cries spilling from your throat as his pace grew more relentless, his cock stretching you open over and over until you thought you’d break.

the air was thick with the sound of your bodies colliding, the headboard rattling faintly, your desperate whimpers mixing with his low growls and gasps. you felt your nails dig deeper into his back, dragging down to his waist as you tried to anchor yourself against the overwhelming pleasure. “that’s it baby, take every inch, fuck, you’re mine tonight,” jack grunted, his voice raw, and you cried out at the claim, your cunt clenching tighter around him in response. your head tilted back, mouth open, moans tumbling out with every thrust, your whole body trembling as you took him harder and deeper, your pussy gripping his cock like it never wanted to let go.

── .✦

your whole body tensed as the pressure inside you snapped, and you came hard around jack’s cock, your cunt clenching and pulsing as wetness spilled down your thighs. your cries filled the room, broken and breathless, your pussy squeezing him so tight he swore under his breath, grinding into you to ride out every spasm. you shuddered against his chest, your nails raking down his back as waves of pleasure shook through you, leaving you dizzy and gasping. he didn’t stop, though. he pulled out with a groan, flipping you onto your stomach with rough, sure hands, his voice low and commanding when he growled, “hands and knees, now.”

you scrambled up, still trembling, and the mattress dipped under his weight as jack manhandled you into position, spreading your knees apart with his own until you were wide open for him. he gripped your hips tight, his big hands digging into your skin, leaving bruises that would ache tomorrow. the blunt head of his cock rubbed against your soaked slit, and you whined, pushing your ass back against him. he gave a dark chuckle, one hand sliding up your spine before fisting into your hair, yanking your head back just enough for you to gasp. “such a good girl,” he muttered against your ear, before slamming into you in one hard thrust that knocked the air right out of your lungs.

his pace was brutal from the start, his cock slamming deep into your pussy, stretching you over and over until your arms shook trying to keep you steady. the sound of his hips hitting your ass filled the room, wet and loud, your moans turning into desperate cries each time he bottomed out. his hands roamed greedily over your body, one squeezing your tits from behind, rough palms cupping your bouncing breasts, his thumb flicking at your nipples as they hardened again. you buried your face into the sheets, whimpering as every thrust forced your tits to sway wildly in his grip, his low grunts mixing with your breathless whines.

suddenly his hand cracked down against your ass, the sharp sting echoing loud in the room, and you squealed at the sudden smack, your cunt clenching hard around him in response. the pain melted into pleasure almost instantly, your body arching back as he groaned, spanking you again, harder this time, making your ass jiggle under his palm. “you love that, don’t you? fuck, you’re so dirty for me,” jack rasped, and you nodded frantically, too overwhelmed to form words, your voice breaking into needy cries. he squeezed the sore skin roughly, kneading your ass before pulling you back onto his cock with a bruising grip.

his thrusts grew wilder, each stroke deep and raw, your pussy gushing as you clenched down on him, sucking him in tight. your body rocked forward with every snap of his hips, the headboard rattling faintly as you dug your nails into the sheets, holding on for dear life. the coil in your stomach was burning again, and you whimpered his name, your body begging for another release. jack leaned forward, his chest pressing against your back, his breath hot and ragged in your ear as he growled, “gonna fill you up, baby. you want that, huh? you want me to cum inside this perfect pussy?”

you could only whine, nodding desperately, and that was all it took. with one last brutal thrust, jack groaned low and rough, his cock pulsing as he spilled deep inside you. you felt the hot rush of his cum filling your pussy, thick and heavy, leaking out around his cock as he ground into you, fucking it deeper with sharp little thrusts that made your toes curl. the sensation made you moan loudly, your body shivering as the warmth spread inside you, dripping down your thighs as your pussy clenched greedily to hold it in.

his big hands squeezed your tits again, his grip possessive and hot, before sliding down to rest firm on your hips, holding you tight as he rode out every pulse of his orgasm. you whined softly, collapsing onto your elbows as he stayed buried deep inside you, his cum still spilling from your cunt. the room smelled like sex, the sounds of your panting filling the silence now that his thrusts had stilled, your body trembling with the aftermath.

── .✦

the room was quiet except for the slow rhythm of your breathing and the hum of the hotel’s air conditioner. you lay sprawled on the tangled sheets, still trembling faintly, your thighs sticky and warm, your body heavy in the aftermath of everything he’d wrung out of you. jack eased out of you carefully, and you winced at the sudden emptiness, at the sensation of his cum spilling down your thighs. he muttered something low, almost apologetic, before grabbing the edge of the sheet and gently wiping between your legs. his hands were rough, calloused, but his touch was careful now, unhurried, as if he wanted to make sure you felt tended to before he pulled back completely. he smoothed a hand over your hip once, lingering a second too long, then drew away.

he sat at the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, his breathing slowing. you watched in silence as he reached for his clothes, moving with the mechanical precision of someone who had done this before. he slid his prosthetic back into place with practiced ease, then pulled on his dark jeans, the fabric stretching across his thighs. his shirt came next, the navy material clinging to the lines of his torso as he buttoned it back up. his fingers lingered on the last button, and you caught the flicker of something across his face — pride maybe, that high from having taken what he wanted, but shadowed almost instantly by shame. his jaw tightened, the muscles in his cheek twitching, and he shook his head as if trying to push the thought away.

he didn’t look at you as he asked, his voice low and hoarse, “how do you want me to pay? cash or transfer?”

you rolled onto your side, tugging the sheet across your bare chest, though modesty felt pointless now. your lips curved in the faintest of smiles as you replied, “cash is fine.” your voice was soft, steady, like this was just another night, another client. but inside, your chest ached strangely, like your body knew this wasn’t supposed to feel routine.

jack nodded once, curt, and dug into his wallet. the leather was worn, edges frayed, the kind of wallet a man keeps for years without replacing. he thumbed through a thick fold of notes and counted out your fee with practiced precision, laying the bills neatly on the bedside table. the sound of the paper hitting the wood seemed louder than it should’ve, final and transactional, cutting through the air between you.

he stood then, sliding his wallet back into his pocket, and finally glanced your way. just for a second, his eyes softened — that guarded steel of his gaze faltering long enough for you to catch the flicker of something deeper. he opened his mouth like he might say something, then pressed his lips together instead.

“take care of yourself,” he muttered gruffly, almost under his breath.

you swallowed, not trusting yourself to answer without revealing too much. so you only nodded, watching as he crossed the room. his hand hesitated on the doorknob for a moment, fingers tightening as though he was holding himself back, but then he pulled it open. the hallway’s yellow light spilled inside, and with one last look — brief, unreadable — he stepped out and let the door close behind him.

silence wrapped around you instantly. you exhaled slowly, your body sinking deeper into the mattress. your gaze drifted to the cash stacked neatly on the table, a reminder of what this was supposed to be — clean, simple, detached. and yet, your mind wasn’t on the money.

instead, it lingered on the man who had just walked out. there was something about him, something raw and electric in the way he touched you, the way he looked at you when he thought you wouldn’t notice. it left a strange spark burning low in your chest, an ache you hadn’t expected. you curled your fingers into the sheets, staring at the door like maybe he’d come back, like maybe this wasn’t the last time.

and though you told yourself it was foolish, you couldn’t help but hope you’d see jack again — that somehow, the universe would give you another chance to peel back the armour he wore so tightly and find out what else he was hiding beneath.

── .✦

jack’s boots hit the hallway carpet harder than he meant them to, each step sounding too loud in the silence of the hotel floor. the door had barely shut behind him and already his chest felt tight, like the walls were pressing in, like he’d just left something behind that he shouldn’t have. he shoved his hands into his pockets, shoulders drawn up, and tried to keep his breathing even. he could still smell you on him, your perfume clinging faintly to his skin, your taste lingering on his tongue no matter how many times he licked his lips. it made his stomach churn — with need, with guilt, with a kind of restless energy he couldn’t name.

by the time he stepped into the elevator, jack had yanked himself back into that stoic mask he wore so well. jaw locked, eyes on the dull reflection of himself in the polished steel doors, he almost didn’t recognize the man staring back. his hair was mussed, his shirt slightly wrinkled, and his face still flushed. he looked like a man who had just gotten off, not like the composed physician he forced himself to be every night in the er. he hated that contradiction, hated the messy line between what he wanted and what he thought he should be. under the humming fluorescent lights, shame prickled hot under his skin, even as his body still hummed with the high you’d given him.

when the elevator doors slid open, the chill of the lobby air hit him. he walked briskly, his prosthetic clicking faintly against the tiled floor, the sound drowned out by the muffled murmur of a late-night tv from the concierge desk. he kept his eyes forward, avoiding people, avoiding anything that might force him out of the storm inside his head. when he stepped out into the night, the city air rushed over him — damp, tinged with exhaust and rain from earlier. he dragged in a lungful, hoping it would clear his head. it didn’t. all it did was bring back the image of your parted lips, the way you’d begged for him, the way your nails dug into his back when you came.

he got into his truck with movements sharper than they needed to be. the leather seat creaked beneath him, and he gripped the wheel so tight his knuckles whitened. for a moment, he didn’t even start the engine. he just sat there, head bowed, forehead nearly pressing the steering wheel as he exhaled through his nose. he shouldn’t have touched you — he told himself that over and over. not someone that young, not someone he was paying. it wasn’t supposed to mean anything. it wasn’t supposed to get under his skin like this.

when he finally turned the key, the truck rumbled to life, filling the silence. he pulled out onto the road, headlights cutting through the damp darkness. the city slipped by in a blur of neon signs and wet pavement, but his thoughts stayed behind in that room, with you. he could still hear your laugh when you teased him, still see the way you smirked up at him when you broke your own rule for him. he slammed his palm against the steering wheel once, a frustrated growl escaping him.

because beneath all the guilt, beneath the shame pressing heavy in his chest, there was something else. a spark he couldn’t ignore. a pull. and as he drove through the empty streets toward home, jack hated himself for wanting more. for wanting to see you again. for knowing deep down that he would.

➜prompt one: the rules we break [11.6k] ➜summary: jack abbot never planned on letting it happen. he was supposed to just be another client, another face that came and went, paying for what he needed before slipping back into the night. but from the moment he stepped into your hotel room, everything unraveled. what began as nervous touches and stolen kisses turned into something raw, intense, and impossible to ignore.

disclaimer: the pitt and its characters, including dr. jack abbot, are the intellectual property of their rightful creators and owners. no copyright infringement is intended. this work is a transformative, non-commercial piece of fanfiction created for entertainment purposes only.

scene one ; the ride in

the streets were nearly deserted, the occasional passing car slipping by in the opposite lane with a hiss of wet tires. light rain traced silver rivulets down the windshield, each drop catching the glow from the streetlamps before the wipers swept them away with a slow, steady click. the hum of the engine filled the quiet inside the car, undercut by the faint bass of the song playing low on the stereo — dreams by fleetwood mac, its easy, rolling rhythm filling the spaces the rain left behind. every so often, your tires sliced through shallow puddles, sending up sprays you could hear more than see, a wet rush that disappeared into the darkness. a traffic light changed ahead, its green glow reflecting on the slick asphalt, and you eased through the emptiness of the city’s sleeping streets.

you could feel that invisible switch flip inside you, the one that shifted you from civilian calm into night shift mode. it was like the whole city was holding its breath, waiting, and you were headed toward the place where the breath would finally be let out. your mind drifted back to last night’s chaos — the way dana moved through the er like she had its blueprints etched into her bones, her blonde hair pulled into that perfectly neat twist that somehow stayed untouched no matter what. robby, always with that calm readiness, slipping into places just before the storm hit, his presence both grounding and sharp. they seemed carved into this place, part of its foundation. you, still new here, were learning the rhythms.

jack’s face hovered at the edge of your thoughts. he had been distant, focused, professional. you could not decide if it was habit, self-protection, or simply disinterest, but he never quite met you in the middle. you wondered, as the wipers swept another line of rain away, if there would come a night where he spoke to you like you were more than just a functional extension of the team. you told yourself it did not matter, but a small, stubborn part of you wanted to know.

a turn in the road sent your travel mug shifting in its holder, the metal clinking softly, and for a moment the sound wasn’t in the car at all. you were somewhere else entirely. there was no rain, only heat — suffocating, thick — and the clanging was louder, sharper, ringing off the inside of a cramped armored vehicle. outside, the night was broken by the staccato crack of gunfire. the smell was not the faint trace of coffee but dust and sweat and burned metal. you remembered the weight of the body armor, the way the straps dug into your shoulders, the taste of grit in your mouth as you crouched over a wounded soldier with your hands already slick with blood. your fingers tightened briefly on the steering wheel, forcing yourself back into the present.

at the next red light, the music still murmuring softly, you reached for the tube of lip gloss in the center console. the gesture was automatic, almost comforting, swiping the soft shimmer across your mouth before pressing your lips together. you caught your reflection in the rearview — hair tucked back, shadows under your eyes, the faintest smudge of color now in place. the light turned green and you drove on.

through the rain, the hospital rose into view, its lights sterile and unyielding against the night. the er entrance spilled pale illumination over the wet pavement, a beacon to anyone desperate enough to need it. you felt that familiar knot of readiness tighten in your chest, the steadying weight of knowing that whatever waited inside, you would walk straight into it. you always did.

── .✦

you pulled into your usual space, the one tucked in near the side entrance where the light from the lamppost was dim enough to leave most of the car in shadow. the rain had softened to a fine mist, drifting in under the hood of your coat as soon as you stepped out. it clung to your hair, the ends already curling slightly in the damp. the cold bit at your cheeks, sharpening the edges of your thoughts. you locked the car and slung your bag over your shoulder, the strap cutting a familiar diagonal across your chest. the pavement gleamed dark under the orange streetlamps, each footstep a muted splash.

as you walked toward the building, the hospital loomed larger, the quiet of the parking lot giving way to the hum that seemed to radiate from inside. you could see the er bay through the glass doors — silhouettes moving quickly, lights flashing across monitors, the kind of controlled urgency that had become its own language to you. somewhere between the curb and the entrance, you caught yourself thinking about jack again. maybe tonight, if the pace allowed it, you would try to talk to him properly. not just in clipped professional exchanges but in a way that chipped at the edges of that quiet wall he kept around himself. you were curious about what was on the other side, though you doubted he let many people find out.

inside, the air was warmer, heavy with the overlapping smells of antiseptic, old coffee, and the faint metallic tang that seemed to live in the walls. you swiped in, the little green light on the reader blinking before the lock released with a muted click. in the staff room, the fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead. you shrugged off your coat and hung it in your locker, tucking your bag away beside it. the muffled sound of voices from the hallway drifted in — laughter, a shouted request for someone to grab more saline, the steady beep of a distant monitor. you smoothed the front of your scrubs, took a breath, and stepped out into the main corridor.

the nurses’ station was already alive with movement, computer screens glowing, clipboards stacked high. robby was leaning against the counter, chart in one hand, coffee in the other, his glasses sliding low on his nose. he looked up as you approached, his mouth curling into that faint smirk he seemed to reserve for when he was about to give you a hard time.

"look who finally decided to grace us with her presence," he said, voice dry but not unkind. "you get lost in the parking lot again or were you just taking your sweet time perfecting that lip gloss?"

you gave him a look, setting your hands on the counter. "first of all, it’s called being fashionably on time. and second, some of us like to bring a little color into this fluorescent nightmare."

"oh, believe me," he said, taking a sip of coffee, "your personality already does that. in fact, if you get any more confident, the er might not be able to handle it."

you rolled your eyes, but there was warmth under it. "better than walking around here like a ghost. someone’s got to keep the place interesting."

"true," he said, leaning in just slightly, lowering his voice so it was just between you. "and for the record, i think jack could use a little of that. he’s… well, you’ve seen him. maybe you’ll be the one to crack that particular safe."

"or maybe he’ll keep pretending i’m part of the furniture," you replied, flipping open the patient log. "but thanks for the vote of confidence."

the log was already thick, cases lined up from the evening rush that had not yet tapered off. your eyes scanned down the list — chest pain in bay two, laceration with significant blood loss in bay four, abdominal pain in triage, psych hold in the far corner. the steady clatter of keyboards filled the air, along with the faint hiss of the coffee machine behind the desk. the phones rang intermittently, clipped voices answering before hanging up just as quickly.

you shifted your weight against the counter, jotting quick notes in your own shorthand as robby rattled off updates. his tone was quick, efficient, but every so often he threw in a side comment — a wry observation about a resident panicking over a routine procedure, a reminder that dana was in one of her no-nonsense moods tonight and would probably eat anyone alive who got in her way. you found yourself smiling despite the workload ahead.

the rhythm of the station was like the pulse of the er itself — constant, layered, familiar in a way that settled into your bones. in the back of your mind, the thought still lingered, quiet but insistent. maybe tonight you would find that moment to talk to jack, to step past the edges of whatever invisible line he kept drawn between himself and everyone else. and maybe, just maybe, he would let you.

scene two ; jack's walk in

out in the ambulance bay, the drizzle came down in fine silver threads that caught in the glare of the floodlights and then vanished into the black edges of shadow. the air had that damp metallic taste that clung to the back of your throat, carrying traces of exhaust and the sharp tang of disinfectant that never quite left the place. somewhere down the street, a siren began its slow, mournful rise, the pitch bending and stretching like it knew what kind of night it was heading into. the rubber wheels of an empty stretcher rattled over a seam in the concrete, the sound sharp and hollow before fading into the wet hush. a paramedic’s laugh cut across the air, warm and fleeting, quickly swallowed by the open space.

jack’s boots made a steady, unhurried beat against the slick pavement, the kind of rhythm that came from years of walking into places where the air felt heavier than it should. he didn’t look up at the hospital looming over him — he didn’t need to. every inch of it was mapped in his head, every shortcut, every place where the floor dipped just enough to trip you if you weren’t paying attention. in his mind, he was already inside. patient board, first glance: trauma bay full, two criticals stacked in the hall, psych holding in three, someone crashing in eight before the hour was out. it was the same mental drill every night, the quiet sorting of disaster into manageable pieces before the first disaster even landed.

the paramedics at the edge of the bay gave him short nods as he passed. he returned them without breaking stride. it was the unspoken language here — not camaraderie exactly, but recognition. they knew he’d be the one in the room when everything went wrong, and he knew they’d bring him patients who still had a fighting chance.

as the sliding doors yawned open, the first breath of hospital air wrapped around him — a stale mix of coffee, antiseptic, and the faint metallic tang of blood. his shoulders loosened almost imperceptibly, the shift so small you’d miss it if you didn’t know him. it wasn’t comfort, but it was familiar ground. this place didn’t demand smiles or small talk. it demanded precision, speed, and the ability to stay upright when everyone else started to go under.

you were at the nurses station with robby, leaning on the counter, flipping through the patient log with one hand and absently tapping your pen against the wood. robby was halfway through telling you a story about a med student fainting in the suture room when movement at the far end of the hall caught your attention. you looked up.

jack.

he was walking toward you, jacket unzipped, hair damp from the rain. he didn’t slow down, didn’t greet anyone more than a quick nod, but his eyes flicked over the room as he moved. when his gaze landed on you, it lingered for a fraction too long — not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for you to feel it. you held it, just for a beat, before glancing back down at the log like it hadn’t happened.

from his side, it was nothing. just another scan of the station, another quick cataloging of who was on and where they were standing. but there was a faint awareness now, a reminder of the way your voice had cut through noise last night, the way you’d handled yourself without hesitation. he brushed past it, turned toward the charting desk across the hall.

robby caught the exchange, of course he did. he leaned closer to you, lowering his voice. "you should actually talk to him sometime instead of staring at him like you’re in a slow motion commercial for coffee or something." you gave him a flat look and he grinned, leaning back against the counter. "c’mon, he’s not that bad."

"i don’t stare", you muttered, flipping another page.

"sure, and i don’t drink too much coffee." he arched an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself.

you tried to ignore him, but the truth was you had been thinking earlier about maybe trying to get past whatever wall jack had built between himself and everyone else. maybe just to see if there was something more there than the clipped instructions and curt nods. maybe because there was something about him you couldn’t quite name.

behind you, the low hum of the monitors and the shuffle of footsteps kept the background alive. a phone rang somewhere deeper in the department, followed by the muffled call for a respiratory therapist to trauma two. robby kept talking, his voice half amusement, half challenge, and you pretended to focus on the log, even as you could still feel the faint weight of jack’s glance like it had left a mark.

scene three ; multi arrivals

the rain came down in relentless sheets, pooling in the uneven asphalt of the ambulance bay, headlights and red strobes reflecting in slick, rippling puddles. the smell of diesel exhaust mingled with the sharp tang of wet concrete, heavy in the damp night air. you stood just under the overhang with robby at your side, the low growl of the idling ambulance filling the space between you. his voice was brisk but even, rattling off details as if his brain was already three steps ahead. “male, mid-thirties, gsw to lower abdomen, hypotensive since scene, two liters in, still barely holding a pressure. coded briefly, came back with compressions and epi.”

you tugged on a fresh pair of gloves, the sound sharp in the cool air, and glanced toward the bright rectangle of the ambulance’s open doors. inside, the paramedics moved with sharp efficiency, boots squeaking on the wet diamond plate floor. the patient lay pale and still beneath a thermal blanket, his skin slick with sweat, one arm restrained loosely to keep him from grabbing at the wound.

jack appeared at the far end of the bay, moving quickly but with that same unshakable calm, gown already tied, gloves on. the harsh floodlight cut across his face, catching the faint stubble along his jaw and the deep focus in his eyes. he didn’t waste a single word on greetings, just took in the scene with a quick sweep before stepping up to the stretcher beside you.

you caught the side rail as the medics lowered it, the cold metal biting through the thin latex of your gloves. “seven minutes from scene to now,” one medic answered when jack asked, his breath puffing white in the cold air.

inside, the warmth of the hospital wrapped around you both, though the tight hallway amplified every squeak of the stretcher’s wheels and the patient’s soft groan. you leaned close to him, your voice steady and grounding. “you’re at pittsburgh trauma. we’ve got you now. keep your eyes open for me.”

jack’s gaze was locked on the wound, scanning for an exit point, noting the rigid distension in the abdomen, mentally cataloguing the possibilities—liver, bowel, maybe iliac artery. he angled himself at the patient’s right as you rolled into the trauma bay, the bright lights flicking on overhead with a sterile hum.

you moved to the head of the bed without needing to be told, checking the airway, suction, and vent tubing in a smooth rhythm. jack’s hands were already at the wound, cutting away the sodden bandage the medics had slapped on, his movements decisive but controlled. without breaking your focus, you reached for a retractor and passed it down to him; he took it without looking, like it was second nature.

“labs, type and cross, two units o-neg now,” jack called, his voice cutting through the noise.

“central line?” you asked, cracking open the kit.

“do it,” he said, eyes never leaving the injury.

the antiseptic swab was in your hand before you even realized jack had passed it over, your gloved fingers brushing briefly. his eyes flicked to yours for the smallest fraction of a second—acknowledgment, trust—before snapping back to the patient.

over by the counter, dana leaned her elbows on the desk, watching the way you and jack moved like a well-rehearsed routine. “twenty bucks says they’re together before new year’s,” she murmured.

robb, still flipping idly through a chart he clearly wasn’t reading, snorted. “fifty says jack’s too stubborn to notice what’s right in front of him.”

“she’s army,” dana said with a smirk. “she’ll breach.”

“breach and clear,” robby replied, lips twitching faintly.

the monitor’s alarm cut into the moment, the patient’s pressure tanking hard. “he’s crashing,” you said, threading the catheter with quick precision, feeling the warmth of the patient’s skin against your gloves. jack’s hands were steady on the clamp, blood already seeping into the surgical drapes.

“get that bag in now,” he ordered, voice firm but controlled.

you connected the fluids, squeezing the bag hard, watching the monitor for any sign of a rebound. “flow’s good,” you confirmed, tension in your shoulders easing slightly as the numbers began to climb.

“nice work,” jack said, his tone softer than before, though his eyes were still locked on the patient.

the surgical team swept in with their gurney, and together you transferred the patient, every movement coordinated. your grip firm under his shoulders, jack’s supporting his hips to avoid stressing the injury. once the patient was wheeled away toward the or, the adrenaline that had been driving your movements began to ebb, leaving the faint buzz of exertion in your fingertips.

jack peeled off his gloves and gown, tossing them into the biohazard bin. for a brief second, he stayed there at the edge of the bed, eyes flicking to you as if he was about to say something. before he could, the pager overhead crackled with another incoming trauma, pulling his attention toward the door.

behind you, dana’s voice carried in a low, amused tone. “told you, robby. he’s already halfway gone.”

robby didn’t answer right away, but the quiet grunt he gave was paired with the faintest upward twitch at the corner of his mouth.

── .✦

the supply room was warm and quiet, the steady hum of the fluorescent lights pressing into the space as you worked. shelves lined in neat rows of gauze and tubing, the faint antiseptic tang clinging to the air. you had found your rhythm, sliding gauze packets into order, counting iv start kits one by one, letting the familiar monotony lull your mind. the noise outside was distant, softened by thick walls and the closed door.

the moment broke with footsteps—sharp, fast, purposeful. the door swung open and dana appeared, her voice clipped but urgent. “abbot wants you in trauma two. now.”

you froze for half a breath. abbot wants you. it wasn’t that you hadn’t worked with him before, but this was different. specific. deliberate. you had no time to dwell on it; your hands were already reaching for gloves, feet moving with the kind of speed that came from training and adrenaline. the shift from the quiet supply room to the main hallway was like plunging into cold water—monitors beeping, pagers chirping, the sharp scent of blood carried by the air.

when you stepped into trauma two, the brightness hit first. the surgical lights glared against stainless steel, white sheets, and the wet red spreading across the patient’s torso. a young man, maybe mid-twenties, his skin a sickly shade under the harsh light. multiple stab wounds, bleeding fast, the monitor screaming his dropping blood pressure. the resident at jack’s side was struggling—hands shaking, clamp slipping dangerously close to jack’s fingers. jack’s jaw tightened, eyes flicking to dana with silent precision. get her. now.

you crossed into the room, the contrast jarring. your bright pink scrubs blazed under the sterile lighting, absurdly cheerful in a scene that was anything but. jack caught the flash of color in his peripheral vision and felt something shift.

you slid into position at his left, movements confident, sure. gauze replaced where his hand had been before he even asked, suction passed to him at the exact moment he needed it. jack barely had to speak. every time he looked up, you were already there, anticipating the next step like you’d been reading the procedure off the same invisible page. it was muscle memory for both of you, but it was also something else—he realized, briefly, that he didn’t feel the usual strain of carrying someone else’s mistakes. you didn’t fumble. you didn’t hesitate.

off to the side, dana and robby stood near the foot of the bed, their heads tilted toward each other but eyes fixed on you and jack. “did you hear how he asked for her?” dana murmured, almost smiling. robby’s smirk was immediate. “oh, i heard. not just ‘get someone in here’—no, it was ‘get her.’” dana lifted her brows. “you think that means something?” robby finally glanced her way, grin widening. “i think it means i’m winning this bet.” dana snorted softly but kept watching, her gaze following the smooth way you and jack worked in tandem.

jack didn’t hear them, but if he had, he wouldn’t have disputed it. he was too busy watching the way your hands moved with unflinching steadiness, how you didn’t pull away when the blood spattered, how your voice stayed level when you called out the latest vitals. he could feel the tension in his own shoulders ease without him realizing it, the constant mental calculations shifting to make room for the knowledge that you had him covered.

the patient stabilized, heart rate climbing back toward safe territory, bleeding controlled. jack gave you a short nod to ease the pressure you were holding. you stepped back as he tied off the last suture, both of you moving in sync as you peeled away your gloves, the snap of latex breaking the room’s new quiet.

the trauma bay felt different now—empty, somehow echoing. you reached for the tie at the back of your gown, tugging until the paper pulled free, the sterile crinkle loud in the silence. jack stripped his gown in one smooth motion, tossing it into the bin, then looked at you.

there was no good work, no compliment, no light banter. just a nod—small, measured, but weighted in a way that landed deep. it wasn’t approval so much as acknowledgment, as if to say you’d been exactly where you needed to be and he’d trusted no one else for it. he didn’t say it, but you felt it.

── .✦

the hallway outside trauma two was quieter than the chaos you had just stepped out of, though the hospital never truly slept. the hum of monitors and the occasional sharp ring of a phone carried faintly through the corridor, and the overhead lights cast everything in that slightly too-bright glow that made it impossible to remember what time of night it was. you were still warm under your scrubs, the last traces of adrenaline ebbing from your system, faint marks of blood and antiseptic clinging to the fabric. you tugged at the cuff of your gown before peeling it away, tossing it into the biohazard bin with a soft rustle. your gloves followed with a muted snap, and the sudden absence of the protective layers made you feel lighter, if not entirely settled.

dana was leaning against the counter by the nurses’ station, arms crossed, a smirk already tugging at her mouth like she had been waiting for you. she didn’t say anything at first, just let her gaze flick toward trauma two, then back to you with deliberate slowness. the kind of look that said she knew exactly what had gone down in there. “so,” she began, her voice pitched low, like the words were just for you, “jack abbot personally asked for you.” the smirk widened a fraction, eyes narrowing in that way she had when she was watching someone squirm. “you know how rare that is?”

you froze halfway through adjusting your scrub top, blinking at her like you weren’t entirely sure you’d heard right. “i… was surprised when you called me,” you admitted, brushing a hand over your hair as though that would make the admission feel less strange. “i thought maybe there was a mix-up. i didn’t think he’d…” you trailed off, searching for the right words and coming up empty.

dana’s eyebrows lifted like she’d just confirmed a private theory. “oh, there was no mix-up,” she said, pushing off from the counter to stand straighter. “he was very clear. resident was fumbling, so he told me to find you. no hesitation.” she tilted her head, watching the way you shifted on your feet, your expression flickering between uncertainty and something you couldn’t quite name. “guess you’ve made quite the impression.”

you huffed out a quiet laugh, not sure whether to roll your eyes or believe her. “it’s not like that,” you muttered, though your mind replayed the way jack had looked at you in the middle of the case — calm, focused, his voice steady as he gave instructions you didn’t have to question.

dana clearly wasn’t buying your dismissal. “mm-hm,” she said, with the exact tone of someone filing the moment away for later teasing. her smirk softened into something almost approving before she glanced toward the direction robby had disappeared. “he went to go find jack,” she explained at your questioning look. “said he had to ‘check in’ with him. personally, i think he just wants to see if he can get the guy to crack.”

the thought of robby cornering jack to needle him made you laugh again, the sound easing some of the leftover tension in your shoulders. still, you found your gaze drifting toward trauma two, the memory of the steady rhythm you and jack had fallen into lingering in the back of your mind. you shook it off, turning back to dana, who was still watching you like she had all the time in the world to read between the lines.

“come on,” she said finally, looping her arm through yours in an easy, guiding motion. “supplies don’t restock themselves, and i’m not letting you hide in a hallway all night.” but as she led you toward the storeroom, that smirk didn’t fade, and you knew this conversation wasn’t over. not by a long shot.

── .✦

robby found jack exactly where he expected him to be, leaning against the far wall of the empty break room with a paper cup of coffee in hand, the steam curling faintly in the fluorescent light. the door swung shut behind him with a quiet click, muffling the distant hum of the er. robby crossed the room in that unhurried way of his, snagging his own cup from the counter before dropping into the chair across from jack. for a moment, neither of them spoke, just the faint sounds of coffee being sipped and the occasional creak of the chair legs on the tile. jack looked tired in the way only someone several hours into a night shift could, his shoulders loose but his eyes still carrying that sharp, alert focus that never really shut off.

“so,” robby started, stirring his coffee without looking up, “i hear you personally called for our new night shift nurse.” his tone was deceptively casual, the kind of lazy bait he knew jack would recognize but still sometimes take. jack didn’t respond right away, just glanced over the rim of his cup with the faintest shift of his expression, like he was debating whether to ignore it entirely. robby’s mouth curved into a grin. “come on. dana told me. she was practically glowing when she said it.”

jack set his cup down with deliberate care, the faint tap of cardboard against laminate marking his patience running thin. “resident was screwing up,” he said finally, voice steady, no inflection beyond the plain fact of it. “needed someone who could keep their head. she could.”

robbby leaned back, studying him. “sure,” he said, drawing the word out, “but you could’ve called literally anyone else on the floor. and you didn’t.”

for a long moment, jack didn’t answer, his gaze fixed somewhere on the table between them. when he finally spoke, his tone was quieter, like he was admitting something to himself as much as to robby. “i find myself wondering about her,” he said, almost offhand, but the weight in the words was unmistakable. his fingers tapped once against the side of his cup before he stilled them. “she’s sharp. fast. doesn’t rattle easy. but there’s more to it than that.” he exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing a fraction like he was irritated he’d said it aloud.

robby’s grin softened into something closer to curiosity. “wondering about her,” he echoed, leaning forward a little. “professionally or…?” he let the question hang, just long enough for jack to roll his eyes without answering.

“doesn’t matter,” jack muttered, picking up his coffee again as if the subject was closed. but robby knew better than to think a closed subject in jack’s mind was really closed. there was a tightness in the way jack’s jaw set, the way he glanced toward the door like he was half-expecting you to walk past.

robby let the silence stretch after that, sipping his coffee, filing away the admission for later. he knew jack wouldn’t say anything more tonight, but the slip was enough. and in the er, even the smallest slip could tell you everything you needed to know.

scene four ; quiet hours

the er had settled into that delicate, deceptive quiet that only came in the deepest hours of night. it was never true silence, not in a place like this — there was always the soft, steady beep of a monitor somewhere down the hall, the distant hiss of oxygen from a patient’s mask, the muted chatter of a nurse at the desk logging charts. but compared to the chaos earlier, it felt still. fragile. like a bubble that could burst at the first sound of an ambulance siren.

you stood in the supply alcove at the far end of the corridor, the shelves lit by a single overhead fixture that hummed faintly. the light made everything feel warmer than it was, soft shadows pooling in the corners. you were restocking the crash cart, your hands moving on instinct as you sorted through gauze packs, suction catheters, IV start kits. your bright pink scrubs stood out against the sterile whites and muted blues surrounding you, a defiant streak of color in a world that so often tried to strip it away. you didn’t think about it, but it had been noticed — more than once — by the man who had just stopped at the doorway.

jack leaned against the doorframe with a coffee in his hand, his shoulders loose but his mind restless. he told himself he’d just been walking by. that he was only checking to make sure the cart was stocked. that he wasn’t watching you. but the truth was, his eyes followed the way your fingers moved quickly and precisely through the supplies, how you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear with your wrist without breaking your rhythm. you moved like you belonged here, like the earlier traumas hadn’t rattled you — and that steadiness did something to him he didn’t want to admit. he caught himself wondering again, the same thought that had slipped to robby earlier in the night, and it lingered heavier now that he was looking at you.

you felt the weight of someone’s gaze before you saw him, a subtle shift in the air at your back. you glanced over your shoulder, surprised to see jack there, leaning with that quiet patience he carried everywhere. his expression was unreadable, but you knew enough now to catch the smallest shifts — the slight tightening around his eyes, the way his jaw wasn’t quite set but not entirely relaxed. you wondered what he was thinking, if he was replaying the stabbing case in his head, if he was irritated, or if — and this was the thought you brushed away almost as quickly as it came — he was thinking about you.

jack’s eyes flicked to yours when you turned, holding for a beat too long. “need something?” you asked, keeping your tone casual, like it was nothing unusual for him to be standing there watching you.

he gave a small shake of his head. “just checking in,” he said simply. it wasn’t much, but there was something in the way he said it — deliberate, low, like he’d chosen those words carefully.

you gave a short nod and went back to the cart, sliding a drawer shut, your hands steady even though your thoughts weren’t. you could still feel his presence there, even when you weren’t looking at him, and it left you unsettled in a way you didn’t entirely mind.

jack stayed a moment longer, his gaze lingering on the back of your shoulder before he finally pushed off the doorframe. as he walked down the hall, his coffee cooling in his hand, he didn’t bother pretending to himself that he hadn’t been watching you. he had. and he knew he’d do it again.

down at the far end of the corridor, robby leaned against the corner near the nurses’ station, half-hidden by the angle. he had been on his way back from the med room when he caught sight of jack in the doorway. he didn’t need to hear the conversation to know what he was looking at — or rather, who he was looking at. robby’s mouth curved into a slow, knowing smile, the kind of expression that said he’d be filing this moment away for later use.

he lingered just long enough to see jack finally step away from the alcove, the older man’s posture calm but his eyes shadowed with thought. robby pushed off the wall and kept walking, saying nothing, because he knew there would be a better time to bring it up. and when he did, he’d make sure jack knew exactly how obvious it had been.

tags!! @notsopunkrockdarling, @rainyraze, @a-sleepy-golden-storm, @glorifiedhelpermonkey, @maldepuerco, @bowls-bowls-all-types-of-bowls, @antithetical-bolter, @coubalts, @fveapplestall, @orangehibiscus, @ursweetener, @mayabbot, @qtmoonies, @punksnotdeadbutiam, @anitaxl, @caterpillarskimono, @flyinglama, @dozyisdead, @hiireadstuff, @iconicbookstore, @spooky-librarian-ghost, @hyungaway, @sillymuffintrashflap, @marvelousmissmaggie, @postgamevibes

scene one ; bubblegum and steel

the city is slipping into night by the time you start getting ready. outside your cracked-open window, the amber glow of the streetlamps hums faintly, their light falling across the sidewalk in hazy pools. traffic moves in a steady rhythm, the low swoosh of tires over damp asphalt blending with the occasional impatient horn. somewhere further away, a siren rises, bends around a corner, and fades before you can figure out where it is. a car passes beneath your window with the bass turned up so loud it rattles the glass, the beat dissolving into the warm summer air. two floors up, there’s the faint clink of cutlery on a plate, the scrape of a chair leg against tile, and a muted burst of laughter from someone you’ve never met.

inside, the apartment feels softer, safer. the air is faintly sweet from the vanilla candle still burning in the living room, mixing with the bright, sugary tang of citrus from the hair spray waiting on your bathroom counter. the counter itself is crowded with your things in what looks like chaos to anyone else but feels like order to you. lip gloss tubes lie scattered like bright candy wrappers, mascara wands rest like tiny paintbrushes beside their caps, bobby pins and hair clips are gathered into neat little piles. the curling iron is already hot, resting on its stand, emitting a faint wave of warmth that rises into the air. your primers are arranged from the sheerest to the heaviest coverage, your lip glosses lined up from barely-there shimmer to deep rose, and the hair clips sit in a straight row waiting their turn.

you begin as you always do, with coffee. iced, in a clear plastic cup, the sides slick with condensation that drips down to pool against your fingers when you pick it up. you shake it three times without thinking, the ice cubes chiming softly in the quiet. the first sip is cold and sweet enough to make you hum under your breath. setting it down, you take a section of hair and wind it around the curling iron, watching it fall into a smooth, loose wave. the scent of vanilla and citrus blooms with the heat, curling through the small bathroom.

as you work, your mind drifts. you think of desert heat, how the sun bleached your hair in uneven streaks and baked your skin until your freckles darkened. you remember braiding your hair tight against the wind to keep the dust from clinging, and how no matter how careful you were, there were always a few strands that slipped free. one of those stubborn strands is here with you now, refusing to curl. you fight it twice before tucking it behind your ear with a quiet, amused sigh.

on your bed, your scrubs are laid out like a uniform waiting for inspection. the bubblegum-pink top with its scattered cartoon hearts is folded perfectly, the matching pants stacked beneath it, and at the foot of the bed sit your pristine white sneakers. the glittery badge reel clipped to the waistband catches the lamplight when you pass, scattering small flickers of light across the wall.

your eyes stray to the dresser. the bookshelf beside it holds worn romance paperbacks next to heavy trauma medicine manuals, their spines lined up like soldiers. on top of the dresser, a framed photo waits. you’re in it, wearing desert fatigues, one boot kicked forward into the dust, your hair braided and your cheeks flushed from the heat. your arm is thrown around another army nurse and you’re both grinning like you’ve just been caught in the middle of a joke. you can almost hear the background noise from that day, the clatter of equipment, the distant rumble of a truck, the loud, easy laughter of your unit.

next to the photo, a shallow dish holds your keys and a worn challenge coin. you pick up the coin, rolling it between your fingers. the metal is cool and smooth along the edges where it’s been handled too many times to count. you’ve carried it for years, through sandstorms, in the back of medevac helicopters, now in the long fluorescent nights of the hospital. it isn’t luck exactly, more like a quiet promise to yourself. a reminder that whatever waits for you at work tonight, you’ve already survived worse.

the apartment is alive with small sounds. the click of your lip gloss cap, the faint hiss of the curling iron cooling when you switch it off, the soft creak of the floorboards under your bare feet. from the hallway, a door closes and the echo drifts past your open window. outside, the city is changing tempo. traffic slows to a steady hum, voices dip lower, a motorcycle growls and fades down the block.

you check your work bag like you always do. id badge, penlight, stethoscope, an extra hair tie, lip balm. you go through the list twice, then once more, because forgetting something is the kind of small irritation that can stick with you for hours.

your coffee is down to melted ice when your phone alarm trills from the nightstand. you slide into your pink scrubs, smooth the top over your hips, and sit on the bed to lace your sneakers. the fabric hugs your feet in familiar softness. you slip the challenge coin into your pocket, brushing it once with your fingertips before letting it go.

the mirror catches you on your way to the door. bubblegum gloss, soft waves of hair, bright cartoon hearts printed across your chest. you know that’s what they’ll see first when you step into the er. they always do. that’s fine. let them. the steel underneath is for when you choose to show it.

you lock the door behind you and step into the hallway. the air outside your apartment is cooler, sharper, carrying the hum of the city like a heartbeat you’ve learned to match your own to. somewhere in that pulse is the hospital, bright and loud and waiting.

and so is he.

scene two ; stoic rituals

jack’s apartment is so quiet you can hear the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the steady tap of rain against the single cracked-open window. the smell of it drifts in, damp and metallic, mixing with the sharper edge of black coffee cooling on the counter. a single lamp on the nightstand throws a warm, muted light across the space, cutting shadows deep into the bare walls. there’s nothing unnecessary here, only what he needs. the bed is made with military precision, sheets pulled tight enough to bounce a coin. faint scuff marks track across the floor from where his prosthesis lands in the same places every night, the wood worn just enough to catch the light.

his prosthetic leg leans against the nightstand, the metal polished to a soft sheen. the straps were checked earlier, every buckle and clasp secure. beside it lies a pair of trauma shears with worn grips and faint scratches along the blades, the kind that have cut through denim, leather, and worse. underneath them sits a folded piece of paper, edges frayed and soft from years of being handled, one corner creased in the exact spot where his thumb always rests. he doesn’t touch it. not tonight.

he dresses without hurry. dark scrub pants first, the fabric settling against his legs without a wrinkle. then the steel-gray top, flat and plain, no prints or colors, nothing to draw the eye. he checks his stethoscope, running a thumb along the tubing, feeling for cracks. the trauma shears are tested with a quick squeeze, the resistance familiar. the penlight in his breast pocket clicks on, then off, a habit more about certainty than necessity.

in the kitchen, the mug of coffee is still steaming, chipped at the rim in the same spot it’s been for years. next to it, the day’s newspaper is folded neatly, headline about a warehouse fire printed in bold black type. his eyes pass over it without stopping. there’s nothing there he hasn’t seen before.

his phone buzzes once on the counter. robby’s name lights up the screen, followed by a text: hope you’re ready for the circus tonight. i’m bringing popcorn. jack stares at it for a second longer than necessary, the corner of his mouth threatening to lift. but it doesn’t. he sets the phone down without replying.

he sits on the edge of the bed and fits his prosthesis with the same methodical care as everything else in his routine. straps tightened, alignment checked, weight shifted from left to right until it feels like an extension of him rather than a tool. he rises, retrieves his jacket from the chair, and slips it on one arm at a time, pulling it into place so it sits evenly across his shoulders. on the counter, his keys, wallet, and ID badge are laid out in a perfect line. he picks them up in that exact order before sliding them into his pockets.

he glances at the clock once — 8:42 — and never again.

outside, the streets are wet, the pavement catching fractured reflections of streetlamps in pale yellow pools. the rain is light but steady, the sound mingling with the low hum of the city. there’s a faint metallic click where prosthesis meets ground, swallowed almost instantly by the quiet. his steps are unhurried, steady, every movement controlled. her apartment, a few blocks away, will be warm and bright and smelling faintly of sugar and perfume right about now. his smells of coffee and rain and a hint of metal. she’ll be slipping into bubblegum-pink scrubs, hair curled just so, badge glittering. he’s in steel grey, all edges smoothed down, his armour invisible. different rituals. same destination.

scene three ; the first impression

pittsburgh trauma medical center stood like a beacon in the humid pittsburgh night, glass panels of the entrance catching the orange glow of the streetlamps. the hum of the city was low but constant — a bus grinding to a stop a block away, the hiss of its brakes echoing off concrete, a passing car sending the smell of wet asphalt curling into the air. a siren wound its way toward you, closer with every beat, until an ambulance swung into the bay in a blur of red and white. paramedics jumped out before the wheels had stopped turning, one calling out numbers and jargon over the clatter of the stretcher being pulled free. their voices cut across the lot, sharp and practiced, before fading under the mechanical hiss of the sliding doors opening.

the moment you stepped inside, the air changed. the antiseptic sting was immediate, undercut by the faint burn of over-brewed coffee and that metallic tang you had never been able to unlearn from your years in the field. fluorescent lights hummed overhead, bathing the scene in pale, unforgiving white. around you, the er pulsed with controlled chaos — phones trilled, sneakers squeaked, the steady blip of a cardiac monitor bled into the rapid chatter of nurses relaying orders. navy and ceil scrubs wove around you like purposeful currents, clipboards pressed to chests, hair pulled back tight, eyes scanning for the next fire to put out.

the front desk commanded the center of it all, and dana evans was planted there like she was carved into the structure itself. blonde hair twisted neatly at the nape of her neck, not a strand out of place despite the heat and noise. her uniform was immaculate, the pen in her hand tapping a crisp rhythm against her clipboard as her gaze darted between the trauma board and the staff darting past. she clocked you before you even reached the counter, her eyes skimming from the toes of your sneakers up to the bubblegum-pink scrubs that stood out like a dare against the neutral sea. her stare was sharp, but there was a flicker of humor at the corner of her mouth.

“new night shift rn” she said, not bothering to make it a question. “i’m dana. you’re with me until i trust you on your own. that might be never.”

you gave her a small smile, meeting her look head-on. “good thing i’m patient” you said, leaning just slightly on the counter.

“you’re going to need more than patience” she replied, sliding a folded assignment sheet toward you without looking down. “you’re starting in pods two and three. couple of frequent flyers, one septic workup, a kid in observation, and god help us if the drunks start early.”

“do they usually start early” you asked, tucking the sheet into your pocket.

her mouth twitched into a wry smile. “this is pittsburgh on a friday night. they start at lunch.” she was already answering a question from a passing resident, her voice sharp but efficient, when movement in the corner of your eye pulled your attention.

robby robinavitch breezed through the hallway like he was part of the building’s circulatory system, coffee cup in hand, scrubs wrinkled, hair tousled in a way that looked unintentional but somehow worked. he glanced over as he passed, and the second his eyes landed on you there was a glint of recognition — not because he knew you, but because he already knew about you. the faintest smirk played at his lips as he gave you a quick once-over, his gaze flicking to dana and back again. raising his coffee in a lazy salute, he said, “welcome to the circus. survive abbott and you’ll do fine.” before you could answer, he was already halfway down the hall, trading a joke with a paramedic like the two of them had been mid-conversation for years.

jack abbot was at the nurses’ station a few feet away, half-listening to a resident’s update while flipping through a chart. he heard dana’s voice before he saw you, the tone she reserved for new hires who hadn’t yet earned their footing. his first reaction was reflexive — another new nurse. it meant another few weeks of mistakes, corrections, and finding out if you would even last. the last one had quit before the month was out, and he had no desire to repeat the babysitting routine.

when he finally looked up, he took in the details automatically. the bright scrubs that didn’t belong to nights, sneakers that were solid and practical, the way you slid the assignment sheet into your pocket without rereading it. your hair caught in the fluorescent light when you shifted, and something about the way you stood — not stiff, but anchored — reminded him of people who knew how to move in chaos. there was polish there, but polish could crack. he found himself wondering, almost in spite of himself, if there was steel under it.

you stepped forward, starting to introduce yourself, but his eyes had already dropped back to the chart. “mm” he said in acknowledgment, not unkind but not warm either, and pushed away from the counter. adjusting the strap of his stethoscope, he started toward the trauma bays. in the back of his mind, his thoughts lingered — not about your name, which he hadn’t caught, but about whether you would still be standing here in three months. he thought of his own first weeks, all sharp edges and silence, and how easy it had been for veterans to write him off. maybe this was him doing the same. maybe it was habit.

dana caught the look you gave his retreating back and let out a short, amused breath. “don’t take it personally” she said, circling the desk to join you. “jack’s been here long enough to know better than to waste his energy on people who might quit.”

“and if i don’t” you asked.

she glanced at you sidelong, a faint smile curving her mouth. “then you’ll get more than an mm out of him.” she tilted her head toward the hall. “come on. you need to know where the supply closets are before the first code hits.”

you followed her into the current of the er, the din folding around you — overlapping voices, the squeak of wheels, the sudden shout from a trauma bay that sent a ripple of motion down the hall. somewhere behind you, you thought you caught the faint sound of jack’s voice giving orders, clipped and certain, before it vanished into the noise.

── .✧

jack moved down the hall at an unhurried pace, chart in hand, letting the movement of the er pass around him rather than through him. a tech pushed a vitals cart past with a quick nod, a patient in a wheelchair muttering into the hood of a sweatshirt as they were guided toward triage. he turned into a quieter alcove just beyond the trauma bays, the kind of liminal space where staff could pause for thirty seconds between demands. here, the fluorescent hum felt louder without the constant chatter to hide it, and the smell of antiseptic pooled in the air.

he set the chart on the counter, flipping it open more out of habit than necessity. the case was straightforward — low-priority, stable — but his attention wasn’t entirely on it. he was replaying the last few minutes, the clipped introduction he’d given you, the flash of bright scrubs in a corridor where most people opted for darker, forgettable colors. it wasn’t about the scrubs, though. it was about that unshaken posture you’d had, standing in front of dana while she appraised you like she was reading a full personnel file in your eyes. most new nurses — especially night-shifters fresh to this place — gave something away in their stance. tension, nerves, hesitation. you hadn’t. maybe that meant something. maybe it meant you were good at hiding things.

“you’re already thinking about the new one, aren’t you” robby’s voice slid into the space from behind, warm and edged with the kind of humor that suggested he’d been watching longer than he’d admit. he stepped up beside jack, coffee still in hand, the paper lid bearing the faint indent of his teeth.

jack didn’t look up from the chart. “i’m thinking about how long they’ll last.”

“mm” robby mirrored the noncommittal sound jack had given you moments ago, but his carried a grin you could hear. “bright scrubs, steady stance, didn’t flinch when dana looked her over like a suspect in interrogation. i’m giving her… three months before she either burns out or earns your approval. maybe both.”

jack let out a slow breath through his nose, eyes skimming the vitals on the page. “approval’s not the goal. survival is.” he turned the chart toward himself, his pen scratching in neat, deliberate strokes. “last one didn’t make it to four weeks. couldn’t keep pace. nights chew people up faster than days do.”

“yeah, but this one’s different.” robby leaned casually against the counter, his gaze angled toward the main hallway where you and dana had disappeared. “field nurse. seen real blood before. not the sanitized kind in a teaching hospital. she’s got that… edge.”

jack’s pen paused for half a second before moving again. “edges get worn down here.”

robby’s grin softened, not entirely in humor. “so do you. but you’re still here.” he took a sip of coffee, the bitter smell cutting through the antiseptic tang. “look, you don’t have to like her. but maybe don’t decide she’s gone before she’s had her first code. i’ve got a feeling about this one.”

jack closed the chart with a muted snap, setting it aside for the next shift. “feelings don’t count for much in trauma.”

“maybe not” robby said, pushing off the counter and starting back toward the noise of the er. “but they make the nights go faster.” he glanced back over his shoulder with that same quick grin. “come on. dana’s probably already told her where the good coffee’s hidden. you might want to make sure she doesn’t think that’s standard issue.”

jack followed, not because he was convinced, but because robby was right about one thing — nights were long, and even the smallest distraction could shift the weight of them. still, as they walked, his thoughts drifted back to you, standing steady in front of the desk like you had already decided you belonged here. it wasn’t proof of anything. but it was enough to make him keep watching.

── .✧

the supply closet was bigger than you had expected, more like a narrow galley room than a cramped cupboard, but it still carried that dense, slightly stale air of a space packed with too many things in too little square footage. shelves lined both sides from floor to ceiling, stacked with neatly folded linens, boxes of gloves in every size, and rows of sterile packages whose labels you only half-registered before you started to mentally map their positions. the faint hum of the emergency department out in the hall was muffled here, the constant symphony of voices, beeping monitors, rolling carts and shuffling shoes reduced to a soft distant murmur, as if you had stepped into a small eye of calm in the storm. the light overhead was slightly too bright for such a tight space, casting clean shadows across the shelves and making the sterile packaging glint faintly when you moved.

dana moved with the efficiency of someone who knew the exact dimensions of the space and every object in it. her blonde hair was still twisted neatly at the nape of her neck, not a single strand out of place despite the bustle you had just seen her command at the front desk. she walked ahead of you, her pen still in hand from earlier, tapping it lightly against the edge of a clipboard as she gestured with her other hand to the upper shelves. “linens, blankets, extra gowns up there. the good gowns, the ones without the busted ties, are on the left. they go fast. you will learn to grab them before the ortho team gets here on a busy night.” her voice had that mix of brisk authority and quiet familiarity that only came from years of repetition.

you followed her, eyes scanning the shelves, committing locations to memory. “what about trauma kits?” you asked, your voice quieter here though you were not sure why.

“back corner, left side. red bins. check them before you use them, do not assume they are fully stocked just because someone says they are.” she moved to a lower shelf, crouching briefly to pull out a box of suture kits and sliding them forward for easier reach. “you see something is missing, you restock it. does not matter if it is your patient or not. we keep each other’s backs here. or we are supposed to.”

the way she said it made you glance at her, and she caught your look with a wry half-smile. “some people play by those rules more than others. you will figure out who is who.” she straightened, pen tapping again, and handed you a small roll of medical tape. “pockets. always have one on you. scissors too. your stethoscope is already around your neck, good, keep it there. you will lose it twice this week and then you will start keeping better track of it.”

you smiled faintly, the corner of your mouth tugging up. “you sound like you have done this speech before.”

“about two hundred times. most people do not listen.” she started toward the other end of the room, and you moved with her, sidestepping a cart stacked with saline bags. “but you? you are listening. that is something.” she pulled open a drawer, revealing neatly organized IV catheters in rows of color-coded sizes. “twenties are the workhorses. eighteens for trauma, sixteens if you have a real bad bleeder and a doctor who likes to make the nurses curse under their breath.”

you bent to look, fingers brushing the packages as if memorizing the feel. “got it. twenties, eighteens, sixteens.”

“you have done this before,” she said, and it was not quite a question.

“field nursing,” you replied, meeting her eyes briefly. “army. mostly on the ground, some evac. ortho, trauma, critical care.”

something in her expression shifted, the smirk softening into something more like respect. “that explains the stance. you did not look like a newbie at the desk.” she paused, studying you for a beat longer than before. “still, hospital trauma is different. things happen fast here. you will get five people in at once, all with different needs, and you will have to decide who gets what first. and you will have a dozen sets of eyes waiting to see if you make the right call.”

you nodded, the weight of her words settling over you without surprise. “sounds like a tuesday.”

dana’s laugh was low and short, the kind that did not break her composure but acknowledged you had said something she liked. “yeah. maybe you will fit in after all.” she stepped past you toward the door, holding it open with one hand. “come on. i will introduce you to some of the other night crew before the first ambulance gets here. after that, it is a blur until sunrise.”

as you followed her back into the hall, the sounds of the emergency department swelled again. you heard the flatline tone from a monitor quickly silenced, the rapid shuffle of sneakers on the polished floor, the clipped voices exchanging patient details, and the muted but ever-present hiss of oxygen flowing in some unseen room. you could feel the pace of the place trying to pull you in, but dana’s steady presence was a guidepost in the current. somewhere out there, you knew, the doctor from the desk, abbot, was moving through the same space, already making judgments about whether you would last.

scene four ; the first case turns

trauma bay 3 is already alive with noise before the stretcher even clears the doorway. the squeal of the gurney wheels is high-pitched against the tile and the hiss of the oxygen tank joins the constant blip of the heart monitor in the corner. overhead, the intercom crackles with a code blue call for another bay while someone’s voice rises down the hall, maybe a family member arguing with security. the smell is sharp and cold, antiseptic cut with the faint metallic edge of fresh blood, and the air feels cooler here than in the rest of the er, the vents turned high to keep the room from heating under so many bodies moving at once. ems is talking fast, giving the report over the sound of their own gloves snapping off. “fifty-four year old male, construction accident, sheet metal laceration to left forearm, bleeding controlled on scene, vitals were stable, no loc, history of htn.” you catch the way the patient is breathing, a little shallow, his voice pitched up in irritation as he complains about “damn osha regs” and losing hours at work.

jack is already there, dark scrub top, sleeves pushed just enough to keep them out of the way. he has that look on his face that says he has already decided what kind of case this is and exactly how it will go. his voice is calm but clipped as he pulls on gloves. “hold this,” he says, pressing a wad of gauze into your hand before you can even introduce yourself to the patient. “hand me the saline.” you move, passing him the bottle, keeping your tone neutral. the monitor blips steady, the bp reading still holding at 118 over 78. jack leans over the wound, beginning to irrigate, the sound of the stream hitting metal echoing faintly in the pan. you keep laying out supplies like he asks but you are already watching the patient’s colour, already noting that his grip on the bedrail seems weaker.

the moment it shifts, you feel it before you see it on the monitor. his skin drains of colour, the lips paling, his breath catching. the alarm on the monitor chirps, bp sliding fast from 118 to 86 over 54, heart rate climbing sharp. your voice goes hard, clear, and the room pivots to you. “two large-bore ivs, wide open fluids now. get the ultrasound in here. resident, prep airway equipment.” you do not even look to see if jack will argue. your hands are already moving, securing the first iv, squeezing the bag as the saline hisses down the line.

for half a second the beeping of the monitor blurs and you are not in pittsburgh anymore. you are back in a tent pitched on desert sand, the air choking with dust and diesel, the heat sticking gloves to skin. the patient under your hands is twenty-one, shrapnel in his side, bp crashing just the same way. you are shouting over the roar of rotor blades, your own voice strange in your ears, the same snap of adrenaline clearing every thought but the next move. you push harder on the bag, hear the rush of fluid, see the numbers creep up.

then the present snaps back into focus, the vent’s cool air brushing your cheek, the hum of fluorescent lights above, the tight silence from jack beside you as the patient’s colour slowly returns. within minutes the bp is climbing, the heart rate settling, the monitor’s tone evening out to something steadier. you keep your eyes on your hands as you suture, but you can feel jack’s attention shift. he stops giving instructions. he makes space for you to move beside him instead of around him. when he hands you a tool, it is not with the absent air of a man delegating busywork but with a quiet nod like you are in this together.

you catch him watching you once, quick, almost hidden, but enough for you to feel the change. you try to ignore it, focusing on closing the wound neatly, but somewhere in the back of your mind you admit, begrudgingly, that the older man is attractive in a way that makes you irritated with yourself. he is gruff, unreadable, but there is something in the steadiness of his hands and the calm in his voice that hits a part of you you have not thought about in a long time. you shove the thought aside, tying off the last stitch as the patient thanks you both in a voice still shaky but grateful.

you step back, stripping off your gloves, the snap loud in the quiet that follows. jack meets your eyes just once before looking away, but there is no dismissiveness there now. it is not warm exactly, but it is something closer to respect, and it sits heavier in your chest than you expect. outside, you can hear robby laughing at something down the hall, and dana’s voice calling orders over the din. the er never stops moving, but in this moment, you stand in the hum of machines and cooling adrenaline, knowing you have shifted something you cannot yet name.

── .✧

jack walks out of trauma bay 3 with his gloves still on, fingers flexing against the stretch of latex as if the motion might help shake off the strange static under his skin. the hallway outside is a blur of movement and noise, the rush of a bed being wheeled toward imaging, the muted wail of a baby from the waiting room, someone shouting for respiratory to get to bay 5. the fluorescent lights hum above, faint but constant, casting their sharp white glow across every inch of the corridor. he pulls the gloves off one by one, the snap loud in his ears, and tosses them into the red bin without breaking stride.

he tells himself he should be thinking about the chart, about signing off orders, about whether that bp spike in bay 7 earlier was a fluke or a sign of trouble. but his mind keeps drifting back to the sound of your voice, low and steady as you took control of the case like you had been in that room for years instead of minutes. he had pegged you instantly when you walked in earlier — another new hire who would need handholding, maybe a little too confident for her own good. the kind who freezes at the first sign of things going sideways. but you had not frozen. you had moved faster than he did, sharper, every order on point, no wasted breath. it threw him off in a way he does not like admitting, even to himself.

he turns into the alcove near the med room, leaning briefly against the counter. from here he can hear the wheels of a med cart rolling somewhere behind him, the distant beep of a telemetry monitor, and dana’s voice clipped and commanding from the supply closet. he thinks about the way your hands had moved, efficient but careful, the line of focus in your face. he wonders where you learned that kind of precision. it was not textbook training. it had the same edge he has seen in medics who have worked too many nights in combat zones. there had been something in your eyes when you saw the numbers drop — not fear, but recognition.

“well,” robby’s voice cuts through his thoughts, dripping with amusement. jack doesn’t have to look up to know he’s leaning in the doorway with a coffee in one hand and that irritatingly smug expression on his face. “looks like someone’s got themselves a new muse.”

jack exhales through his nose, still staring at the chart. “muse?” he repeats flatly, as if the word itself tastes sour.

“yeah,” robby says, stepping fully into the alcove and resting his hip against the counter. “don’t think i didn’t see it. you walk in all stoic, ready to babysit the newbie, and five minutes later you’re following her lead like she’s been here longer than dana.” he takes a sip of his coffee, eyes glinting over the rim. “might be good for you. hell, maybe she’ll be your outlet. god knows you need one before you start talking to the walls.”

jack finally looks at him, unimpressed. “i don’t need an outlet. i need competent staff.”

“mhmm,” robby hums, unconvinced. “and it’s a miracle, because you’ve got one. and cute, too. bet that’s not hurting your mood.”

jack’s mouth tightens, but he doesn’t deny it outright. instead, he shifts his gaze back to the chart, letting the silence stretch. robby grins like he’s already won.

“anyway,” robby says, pushing off the counter, “just don’t scare her off. or do. either way, i’ll have a front row seat to watch you try to figure her out.” he walks away, leaving the faint smell of coffee behind him.

jack stays where he is for a moment longer, eyes on the page but thoughts elsewhere. he forces himself to focus, to think about the next patient, the next order, the next task. but the truth is, robby is right about one thing. you had surprised him. and whether he likes it or not, he already wants to know when you will do it again.

scene five ; the quiet end

the locker room is quieter than you expect it to be, a stillness settling over the space like a blanket after the constant hum and clatter of the er. the air smells faintly of detergent, old coffee, and the lingering sweetness of someone’s perfume from hours earlier. the fluorescent lights are dimmed, casting a softer, yellow-tinged glow on the rows of lockers. you sit on the long wooden bench, bent forward slightly, unlacing your work sneakers with slow, deliberate movements. your hands feel heavy, fingertips tingling from hours of gloving and ungloving, taping dressings, holding pressure. when you peel the sneakers off, your feet ache immediately, as if they’ve been waiting all night for permission to hurt. you pull on your beat-up slip-ons, the canvas worn thin, the heel folded just enough to slip your foot in without thinking. a lock clicks somewhere down the row and you hear muffled laughter drifting from the corridor outside, maybe from the day shift arriving.

on the other side of the hospital, jack is finishing up with a chart, his pen scratching quietly against the paper in a near-empty nurses’ station. his mind is not really on the paperwork, though, because it’s been circling the events of the night. he tells himself he is just evaluating the new rn like he would anyone else, but there is a reluctant acknowledgment somewhere in the back of his thoughts that you handled yourself far better than he had assumed. his initial impression, formed in the first thirty seconds of seeing you at the desk with dana, had been one of scepticism. new faces usually meant more work for him, more babysitting, more mistakes to clean up. tonight had not gone that way. the distant hum of an overhead vent and the low beep of a monitor pull him back to the present. he caps his pen, slides the chart into the bin, and starts toward the locker room to grab his jacket.

you are just leaning forward to shove your id badge into your bag when the sound of sneakers squeaking on tile draws your attention. dana appears, still walking with her usual purposeful stride despite the long night. her blonde hair, which had been twisted neatly at the nape of her neck at the start of the shift, now has a few strands slipping free, framing her face. she tosses her clipboard into her locker with a metallic clang that echoes briefly in the quiet. she looks at you with a kind of quick assessment, eyes sweeping over your slightly mussed hair and wrinkled scrubs, then softening just a touch. “you’ll fit in fine here,” she says, the corners of her mouth hinting at something close to a smile. her tone is simple, but there’s a certainty in it that you feel deep in your chest. you open your mouth to answer, but she’s already grabbing her bag, the zip of it loud in the stillness, and walking out. the door swings shut behind her with a soft thud.

jack steps into the locker room moments later, his jacket in one hand, his expression unreadable in the dim light. he glances toward you, a quick flicker of his gaze that lingers for only a second before moving on. he doesn’t say anything, just adjusts the strap of his bag on his shoulder and keeps walking toward the exit. in his head, though, there is a grudging note of approval. he thinks of the moment in trauma bay three when you took control without hesitation, your voice sharp and sure, and how the patient had stabilized faster than he had expected. he also remembers the way you had looked at him then, a mix of focus and quiet defiance, as though daring him to underestimate you again. the sound of his keys jingles softly as he passes the bench and heads for the door.

you watch him go, telling yourself you are only curious because you’re still figuring out who everyone is here. you’re not going to dwell on the fact that he is, objectively, unfairly good-looking for someone who has probably been awake longer than you have. you shoulder your bag, the weight of it pulling on sore muscles, and step out into the muted hum of the hospital’s early morning.

jack pushes the door open into the parking lot, the crisp air hitting him immediately. the sun is just beginning to rise, gold light spilling across the asphalt and catching in the hospital windows. he breathes in the quiet, the relative stillness compared to the night’s chaos, and feels that strange mix of exhaustion and lingering adrenaline. he knows the feeling will fade somewhere between his car and his front door, replaced by the silence of his apartment, but for now it is enough to stand in the cool air and let it wash over him.

you take your first sip of coffee, hot and bitter, and start walking toward the lot. the street is coming alive around you, a delivery truck rumbling past, a bus hissing to a stop, a jogger crossing against the light. the hospital looms behind you, tall and still busy despite the hour. the adrenaline of the night still hums faintly in your veins, softened now, but steady. as you walk, you glance back once at the building, and you know without a shadow of doubt that this was only the beginning.

tags!! @notsopunkrockdarling, @rainyraze, @a-sleepy-golden-storm, @glorifiedhelpermonkey, @maldepuerco, @bowls-bowls-all-types-of-bowls, @antithetical-bolter, @coubalts, @fveapplestall, @orangehibiscus, @ursweetener, @mayabbot, @qtmoonies, @punksnotdeadbutiam, @anitaxl, @caterpillarskimono, @flyinglama, @dozyisdead, @hiireadstuff, @iconicbookstore, @spooky-librarian-ghost, @hyungaway, @sillymuffintrashflap, @marvelousmissmaggie, @postgamevibes

SERVICE BACKGROUND: former army nurse corps, with primary deployment experience in forward-operating field hospitals and combat casualty evacuation zones. specialized in trauma stabilization, emergency surgical prep, and multi-casualty triage under high-threat conditions. decorated for rapid intervention under fire and commendation for cross-linguistic patient care in hostile environments.

QUALIFICATIONS & SPECIAL SKILLS:

Languages: English (native), Arabic, French, German, American Sign Language (ASL) – able to switch fluently mid-sentence under stress.

Advanced Trauma Training: Combat Lifesaver Certification, Advanced Cardiac Life Support (ACLS), Paediatric Advanced Life Support (PALS).

Triage Leadership: Proven ability to assess, prioritize, and direct teams during mass casualty events with minimal resources.

Psychological Resilience: Can maintain composure and humour even in prolonged high-pressure incidents.

Deceptive Persona Deployment: Known for disarming colleagues and patients with a “bubbly” demeanour that conceals a strategic, highly capable clinical mind.

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION (PER OBSERVATION): brightly polished nails, styled hair even on double shifts, colourful scrubs and accessories that stand out in the sterile er environment. frequently underestimated by new colleagues due to her glamor-forward presentation.

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE: outgoing, high-energy, quick to laugh. exhibits “bimbo” archetype tendencies intentionally — uses charm and light-heartedness to diffuse tension and mask battlefield-calibre focus. demonstrates strategic patience, allowing others to underestimate her until critical moments reveal skill and control. loyal to trusted colleagues, fiercely protective of patients. can shift from playful to deadly serious in under a second.

NOTABLE INCIDENTS SINCE HOSPITAL ASSIGNMENT:

successfully performed rapid sequence intubation coaching for a panicked junior resident (Shift: 1st week).

communicated fluently in ASL with a deaf trauma patient, preventing procedural delay.

took command of triage during a Code Black (warehouse explosion), directing both medical staff and EMT crews with military precision.

assisted in improvised cooling protocols during hospital-wide power outage, preventing multiple heat-related fatalities.

STAFF NOTES:

“Don’t be fooled by the lip gloss — she’s handled more chaos in a night than most will in a lifetime.” – Anonymous Trauma Tech

“If you ever hear her switch into her ‘commander voice,’ get moving or get out of the way.” – Dr. Jack Abbot

disclaimer: the pitt and its characters, including dr. jack abbot, are the intellectual property of their rightful creators and owners. no copyright infringement is intended. this work is a transformative, non-commercial piece of fanfiction created for entertainment purposes only.

ACT I – Collision Course - Chapters 1 through 5 theme: first impressions lie. tension brews under the hum of fluorescent lights. ➺ chapter one: graveyard shift [6.7k] ➺ summary: you walk into your first night shift all lip gloss, bright scrubs, and bubbly chatter. jack writes you off instantly, until a patient crashes and you take control with cool, battlefield precision, leaving him quietly recalibrating everything he thought about you. ➺ chapter two: first blood (and lip gloss) [5.8k] ➺ summary: a chaotic night in the er pushes you and jack into back-to-back traumas, where split-second teamwork and unspoken trust begin to blur the line between professional respect and something deeper, leaving both of you unsettled by just how easily you fall into step together.

➺ chapter three: ➺ chapter four: ➺ chapter five: ACT II – to be titled - Chapters 6 through 10 theme: ???

ACT III - to be titled - Chapters 11 through ??? theme: ???

disclaimer: the pitt and its characters, including dr. jack abbot, are the intellectual property of their rightful creators and owners. no copyright infringement is intended. this work is a transformative, non-commercial piece of fanfiction created for entertainment purposes only.