icarus, icarus

You slipped out of bed and moved to the kitchenette, brewing coffee while the sea breeze drifted in from the open balcony doors. Once it was ready, you carried your mug outside and settled into one of the chairs overlooking the glittering water. It was Day 4 of the trip. The first day had been quiet, just wandering Positano’s narrow streets until Jack pulled you back to the suite and fucked you deep and slow until you fell apart for him. You felt his warmth flood your pussy before you both passed out after the long travel day.

Day 2 started with you going down on him, but he stopped you before things could go further. He pulled you up, his breathing heavy, and pressed you against the wall on the private terrace. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he thrust into you with harsh rolls of his hips, the morning sun warming both of you. You came with your forehead against his shoulder, and he followed soon after, breathing hard against your neck.

You then went to the hotel pool. Jack had said he would join you after lunch, but ended up staying inside and told you he got wrapped up in a book. Later, you drove to Tramonti, toured the vineyard, and drank tons of wine and cheese for hours. You both were probably a bit tipsy by the time you came back for dinner to sober up with some food and water. Before you went to sleep, you enjoyed another round. Jack ate you out from behind before bending you over the bed, taking his time to reach that spot that had your vision swimming with tears and your voice breaking over his name while he whispered words of encouragement in your ear. His teeth bared when he pumped you full of his spend, and you continued to scream his name into the mattress.

Yesterday’s boat cruise was an 8-hour journey along a breathtaking coastline, featuring sights like Emerald Grotto, Furore Fjord, Amalfi, Maiori, Minori, Atrani, and Nerano. Despite the warm sun and the stunning scenery, Jack stayed in his T-shirt and jeans the entire time, while you relaxed in your bikini and cover-up. Both of you ended up talking with a lovely couple visiting from California. For most of the cruise, you hung out with them, sharing stories and enjoying the beautiful views together before returning to the hotel and just sleeping in each other’s arms.  

You sipped your coffee and cast a quick glance back inside. Jack was stirring, still half-asleep. You couldn’t stop thinking about how something was slightly off with Jack, and you weren’t an idiot. This was the first summer (and first beachy vacation) you’d taken together in the two years you’d been a couple. The other big trips had been travelling across the Maritime Canadian provinces one autumn, and exploring Japan one winter, hopping between cities on train platforms and staying bundled in layers the entire time. In his everyday life, it was rare for Jack to wear shorts unless he was in the privacy of your shared home—he even preferred his athletic pants when he ran every day back in Pittsburgh. But here, in this quiet, sun-soaked place, you hoped he might finally feel comfortable enough to shed those layers, to wear shorts or trunks like everyone else.

The soft scrape of crutches pulled your attention away from the glittering sea. Jack stepped onto the balcony without his prosthetic, the morning light catching the smooth, healed skin just below his knee. His chest was bare, and his boxer briefs hung low on his hips, revealing the sharp cut of muscle that disappeared beneath the waistband. His curls were mussed, eyes still heavy-lidded from rest. God, he looked so fucking good on vacation.

"You look beautiful," he said, voice gravel-rough from sleep, the corner of his mouth lifting in that familiar half-smile.

Warmth bloomed in your chest. "I never want to leave this place. It’s perfect."

Jack lowered himself into the chair beside you and set the crutches aside. You reached for the bare skin of his amputated limb, fingers gliding over the smooth, warm flesh to massage it. He let out a low, rumbling groan, head tipping back against the chair, throat working as his eyes fluttered half-shut. The sound vibrated straight through you, heat pooling low in your belly.

You leaned in to quickly kiss him, not thinking it would escalate to anything, but then his hand slid up your side, strong fingers curling around your waist as he pulled you onto his lap. Your thighs spread over him, the heat of his body pressing up between your legs. His mouth claimed yours again, tongue sliding hot and deliberate against yours. He cupped your breast beneath your shirt, thumb dragging slow circles around your nipple until it tightened into a stiff peak. You felt yourself growing slick, the fabric of your underwear clinging damply as he rocked you subtly against the thickening ridge in his briefs.

"Feel that?" Jack murmured against your lips. "See how fucking hard you make me?"

"I have plans for us this morning," you whined as you began to pull away. "Stop trying to distract me."

"We’re on vacation, pretty sure this right here is the plan," his hand drifted lower, palm pressing firmly between your thighs, rubbing slow, teasing circles over the damp cotton. You whimpered softly, hips twitching forward into his touch. Your lips parted, breath coming quicker as your fingers curled into his shoulders. Jack’s eyes stayed locked on your face, watching every flicker of pleasure cross your expression—the way your lashes fluttered, the soft sound that escaped your throat when he pressed a little harder.

"That’s it, pretty girl," he whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear. His palm rocked against your clit through the thin fabric, steady and deliberate, building the ache until your thighs trembled around him. You could smell the faint musk of his skin, hear the distant crash of waves below, feel the sun warming your back as your body grew hotter, wetter, needier.

"J-Jack," you moaned breathlessly, feeling yourself giving in.  

"Keep those perfect eyes on me," he demanded, his tone making you shudder.

You made sure to listen and Jack’s breathing deepened—chest rising and falling faster, jaw tight, pupils blown wide as he watched you. A low groan rumbled from him when you rocked harder, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours.

"God, you’re the most gorgeous thing. I want to lay you out right here, and taste every inch of you until you’re shaking." His free hand slid up your spine, fingers threading into your hair as he kissed you again...slow and fucking filthy.

You moaned into his mouth, hips rolling, the wet heat between your legs growing slicker with every teasing press of his palm. Your nipples ached against the fabric of your shirt, every nerve alive and begging for more. When you finally pulled back enough to speak, voice breathy, you said:

"I booked us that Arienzo Beach Club pass for today."

"Oh?" Jack’s expression shifted instantly. The heat in his eyes cooled, the easy warmth fading.

"Yeah, it’s a short walk away."

His hand stilled between your thighs. He looked away, a deep crease forming between his brows.

"One of the hotel concierge staff told me about this little walking tour. Kind of a hidden‑gem thing. Figured we might check it out." It was a flimsy excuse, and the lie was obvious—he probably hadn’t thought about it for even a second before saying it.

You leaned closer, voice dropping into something silky. "Don’t you want to be in one of those private cabanas with me?"

He withdrew his hand with a final, reluctant twitch of his fingers, then gently lifted you from his lap and settled you onto the chair beside him. Leaning over, he pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder.

"I don't want to take away from your beach time. You should go, and we can meet up afterwards."

Jack reached for his crutches, stood, and headed inside without another word. The door clicked shut behind him, and the sound of running water soon drifted out. The frustration (and horniness) hit you hard, twisting together in your chest as you sat alone on the balcony, the morning sun suddenly feeling too bright...and too empty.

The water hit Jack’s skin hard, almost scalding, but he didn’t turn it down as he sat on his shower chair. He braced one hand against the tile with his head bowed down. He hated disappointing you. Hated the look in your eyes when he shut down.

Traveling with him wasn’t simple, and he knew it. Checking his crutches at the airport. Packing the waterproof (swim leg) prosthetic. Making sure the shower chair fit in his duffle. Calling hotels ahead of time to double-check handicap accessibility, even when they promised everything was fine. It was exhausting. It required planning. It was stressful.

And he hated that you had to deal with any of it.

What he hated more was the thought that you might be pretending it didn't matter.

He pressed his forehead against the tile, letting the fear and self‑loathing churn through him. Jack’s insecurities about his leg didn’t usually own him. Most days, he moved through the world with his usual stubborn defiance. But trips like this, where his body was on display and mobility mattered… it brought every buried doubt roaring back. He hated the way he felt less on days like this—less capable, less appealing, less easy, less fun. He hated that he had to think about terrain, distance, accessibility, and pain levels. Hated that spontaneity wasn’t simple for him.

Jack also didn't want you dealing with the stares at the pool or the beach. The curious looks, the pitying ones, the ones that stuck around too long. He didn't want to slow you down. Didn't want to be the thing you had to work around. Didn't want to be the weight dragging down your plans. The truth was he wanted the cabana, the sun, and your skin under his hands.

He stepped out of the shower, steam curling around him as he reached for the towel. He dried off, sat on the bench, and reached for the prosthetic. The socket slid on with a familiar hiss of air, the weight settling against his residual limb. He flexed his foot experimentally, testing the response. Good. No pain today, at least. He dressed quickly, and when he emerged into the suite, you were already dressed. The cover-up was one of his favorites—that lavender cream-colored thing that fell from your shoulders and hinted at the curves beneath without revealing them. Your sunglasses were pushed up on your head, holding back your hair, and you were reaching for a book from the side table, your tote bag already slung over your shoulder.

His chest tightened. You'd been ready to go without him.

"No brunch together?" he asked, and even he could hear the wounded edge in his voice.

You glanced up, and he watched your expression shift—a flicker of something that might have been frustration, quickly smoothed over into something lighter.

"The beach club pass includes food and alcohol," you said, moving toward him with that knowing smile playing at your lips. "But I was waiting for you to get out of the shower to ask if you wanted to eat with me first. You know…if you have time before that 'walking tour' of yours." The sarcasm was gentle, but it was there.

He deserved that.

"I do have time," Jack said quietly. He closed the distance between you and kissed you, pouring everything he couldn't quite say into the press of his mouth against yours. When he pulled back, he kept his forehead against yours.

"I love you," he murmured. You were quiet for a moment, and he felt the weight of what you weren’t saying hang between you. He appreciated that you weren't calling him out, weren't demanding explanations or forcing a conversation he wasn't quite ready to have. But he also knew you deserved better than a man who was too afraid to just be with you at the beach.

"I love you too," you replied, and because you were perfect, you changed the subject as you both headed toward the door.

"There are rumors that George and Amal got here last night," you winked, stepping into the hallway. "They might be staying at this very hotel."

Jack followed, catching your hand and bringing your fingers to his lips as you walked toward the elevator. "I still can't believe you read celebrity gossip," he said, against your skin, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth as you pressed the elevator button. You were a highly respected wealth advisor at an institution managing over $10 billion in assets. Jack found it fascinating that you could dissect market volatility before breakfast and had an encyclopedic knowledge of who was dating who in Hollywood.

"It's Page Six," you squeaked in protest, as the elevator doors slid open. "It's basically required reading."

He grinned, watching you step into the elevator with that easy confidence you carried everywhere. God, he loved you.

"Oh, and Dua Lipa and Callum Turner just got married," you added as the doors closed, descending toward the lobby. "She looked so beautiful in her custom Schiaparelli skirt suit."

Jack paused. "Who?”

You gave him a look that suggested this was common knowledge as the elevator dinged softly. "You’re lucky you’re hot."

The sun blazed overhead, turning the water into liquid sapphire that stretched out in gentle rolls toward the horizon. You peeled off your cover-up in the cabana, the purple bikini clinging tighter than your usual suits, and the bottoms riding high on your hips. A quick squeeze of sunscreen across your shoulders and thighs left your skin gleaming. The beach wasn’t deserted, with couples lounging on loungers, and a few families splashing at the shoreline. But, the crowd was sparse compared to the packed stretches you had seen elsewhere. You wished Jack were here with you.

You settled into the padded chair, watching the scene unfold. A silver-haired man in linen shorts kept his arm draped around a much younger woman in a white micro-bikini; she laughed at everything he said and let him feed her strawberries from a silver bowl. Two cabanas down, another older man scrolled on his phone while his companion, maybe 22, knelt between his knees applying lotion to his calves, her ass in the air. The dynamic was clear everywhere you looked: older money, younger beauty, easy transactions wrapped in flirtation and sunblock.

A young waiter in crisp, white shorts and a polo shirt appeared at the edge of the cabana, a small notepad in hand.

"Good afternoon. Can I start you with any drinks from the beach bar?" he asked with a surprisingly Australian accent.

"A mojito, please."

"Right away, Signorina," the waiter said with a polite nod, already turning to head back to the thatch-roofed bar nestled among the trees. Less than five minutes later, the waiter was back, presenting a tall, frosty glass.

"Grazie," you said.

The mojito was perfect and just what you needed.

You cracked open one of the paperbacks you had packed, but then your phone buzzed with that unmistakable Outlook chime you had sworn you were ignoring this whole trip. You’d been doing a surprisingly good job of not checking work emails on this trip, but curiosity tugged at you until you finally reached for the phone, muttering to yourself that you were just as bad as Jack when it came to being too dedicated to your job. One new email sat at the top from a long-time client whose portfolio had taken a beating in the market downturn. The message detailed how he'd panic-sold half his positions at the bottom last week; now he was second-guessing everything and wanted to move the rest into cash. You sighed, closed the app, and tried to focus on your book instead.

After a while, the heat became too much. You walked down to the water, the first cool rush licking up your calves, then your thighs, until you dove under. The sea felt silky against your sunscreen-slick skin, the salt stinging pleasantly at the edges of your bikini. You swam lazy laps parallel to the shore, and the current tugging gently at your body. When your arms started to tire, you waded back out, droplets sliding down your stomach.

You were halfway to the cabana when a tall man in board shorts stepped into your path.

"Bella, you swim like a goddess," he said in a thick Italian accent, eyes dropping to your chest. You smiled politely and kept walking, but he matched your pace.

"You’re not from around here, are you?"

"Nope."

"That explains it," he said, grinning. "The locals don’t look like you."

"Lucky them," you muttered.

"I would love to buy you a drink," he said, stepping a little closer.

"I can buy my own drink," you said, tone still polite but firmer now.

He tilted his head, amused. "Ah, independent."

"I guess."

"Come on, bella. One drink. You’ll enjoy it."

"I’m not interested."

"Oof. You’re breaking my heart here," he said, acting wounded. You closed your eyes for just a moment, gathering patience.

"You’ll live." You sort of hated that you had to say the next part, "Also, I have a boyfriend," but it felt like he was operating under the assumption that your rejection needed a reason he would accept. A simple lack of interest wasn’t going to be one. Maybe if you referenced another man's 'claim' on you, he would take you seriously.

"If you looked like that and were mine, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight, bella."

"Good thing I’m not yours, then."

He opened his mouth to fire back, but then his expression shifted. Not toward you, but past you.

A familiar voice cut through the air behind you, calm but edged with steel.

"Is there a fucking reason you’re harassing her?"

You were shocked to see Jack standing shirtless in swim trunks and a t-shirt twisted between his hands. The afternoon light was catching the scatter of freckles across his shoulders, chest, and arms. His salt and pepper curls looked so fucking luscious on this trip. His jaw was clenched, his hazel eyes fixed on the man with an intensity that made the air itself feel heavy. He didn't raise his voice. Didn't need to. There was something about the way he looked at people…that did all the talking.

The Italian man straightened, but you could see the hesitation flicker across his face. Jack took a step forward, unhurried, and his waterproof prosthetic (swim leg) caught the light as his leg shifted beneath him with each measured stride. The man's eyes locked onto it for a fraction of a second, and his confident smirk faltered.

"I asked you a question," Jack said, his voice dropping lower, more dangerous. "You deaf, or just stupid?"

"Look, I didn't mean—"

"You didn't mean to be a disrespectful asshole?" Jack's smile was all teeth, no warmth. The man took an actual step back. Jack didn't move; he just continued to look at him, that cold, assessing stare that suggested he had already decided exactly what he'd do if this continued. 

"Listen carefully, you prick," Jack's voice was ice. "Women deal with enough without guys like you pretending that persistence is charming. She said she wasn’t interested. That’s your fucking cue to leave."

The man held up his hands and practically stumbled backward. "I'm g-going. I'm—I'm g-gone."

You stared at Jack, surprised and instantly warm between your thighs at the protective edge in his tone. He rarely swooped in, usually letting you fight your own battles and handle your own shit. But this was different; he had stepped in because someone had disrespected you, not because you were his property to protect. He did it without that ugly display of ownership and gross possessive edge some men mistook for devotion.

Jack balled up the t-shirt in his hand and tossed it into the cabana behind him before he grabbed your towel without a word and began drying you, slow passes over your arms, your stomach, the curve of your ass. The towel moved across your shoulder blades with surprising gentleness, and you realized his jaw had already unclenched.

"You okay?" he grunted, tossing the towel aside. You turned to face him, still damp, still warm from the sun and something else entirely.

"Yeah. I am."

He tucked a wet strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. "Good."

"That was a little caveman of you," you murmured, the corner of your mouth lifting.

"Yeah, well," he muttered, while a faint flush crept up his neck, settling high on his cheekbones. "He was out of line."

You stepped closer, nudging his arm with your shoulder.

"Relax, handsome," you said, smile widening. "I liked it." You pulled him into the cabana, the canvas flaps falling closed behind you. The waiter appeared almost immediately to take your drink orders. Once he returned, Jack took his beer and settled on the wide lounger, pulling you between his legs so your back rested against his chest. You set your second mojito of the day on the mantle nearby. His hands stayed on you, thumb stroking the inside of your thigh, fingers tracing the edge of your bikini bottom.

After the waiter left, the mood shifted. Jack’s fingers stilled. "I’m sorry about earlier," he admitted quietly. "Over the years, I’ve just… gotten tired of the stares. I didn't want you dealing with people looking at my prosthetic, wondering what you're doing with me. Honestly…" his voice dropped to a mutter, barely loud enough for you to catch. "…sometimes I wonder what you’re doing with me."

You turned in his arms, cupping his face, and his eyes that now looked green were fixed somewhere past your shoulder.

"Jack, look at me." You waited until his eyes met yours. "Talk to me."

"I can't remember the last time I went to a beach or a pool without dreading it. Years, probably. I've spent so long avoiding situations like this—all the stares, the questions people have asked, the way I've convinced myself that you probably regret travelling here instead of going with someone who could just... be normal."

"Hey." You tilted his chin up. "Stop. You are normal. And I'm not going anywhere."

"You say that now—"

"I'm not finished." You softened your tone but kept it firm. "I know you've probably convinced yourself that your prosthetic makes you less than, or that it's some kind of burden to be around." You traced his jawline. "But that's not the truth, Jack. Not even close." He exhaled slowly, his shoulders dropping slightly as he listened. "I love every part of you. Your leg doesn't change that—it never could." You kissed his forehead, then his temple, then his lips. "I love you."

His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer.

"And I really appreciate you for being here, and coming to the beach," you continued, your voice soft against his skin. "But I don't ever want you to put yourself in a situation where you feel uncomfortable either. It doesn't matter if we're here or in fucking Antarctica. I just want to spend time with you. That's it. That's all that matters to me." He pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression vulnerable. "If something doesn't feel right," you said, brushing a curl from his forehead, "you tell me. We figure it out together. We do what feels good for us—not what you think you're supposed to do or what you think I want. Your comfort matters just as much as mine."

His eyes glistened slightly as he nodded, his jaw working like he was fighting to keep his composure.

"For the record. I’m loving this trip, sweetheart. This might be the best vacation I’ve ever been on."

"Really?" you asked meekly.

Jack swallowed, his gaze locked on your mouth. "Really."

You leaned in and kissed him, slow and deep. His palm slid up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through the thin purple fabric, before he cupped you fully, squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch.

"7 more days of paradise," you murmured against his lips when you finally pulled back, voice dreamy. You had an early flight tomorrow flying out to Palermo to wrap up your vacation in Sicily and spend ample time visiting the island. It was a very much needed 2 weeks off.

Jack smirked, teeth grazing your bottom lip. "I could get used to this. You, half-naked all the time. Might never let you put clothes on again." He nipped at your jaw, then kissed the spot he’d bitten. You pulled back with a soft laugh, eyeing his pale, freckled skin (and the faint farmer’s tan he would absolutely deny having).

"We’re going to need another bottle of sunscreen just for you," you said as you reached for the bottle.

"For the record, I can tan," he rolled his eyes. "Eventually… After several medical interventions."

You giggled, squeezing sunscreen into your palms and began smoothing it over his chest and shoulders, careful and thorough. His skin warmed quickly under your hands, and he stayed still, letting you work while he reached down to cover the top of his thighs. Once you were done, he tugged you closer again. His hands never left you—stroking, squeezing, mapping every inch like he couldn’t get enough. The cabana stayed quiet except for the distant waves and the low murmur of your voices, the two of you wrapped around each other while the sun climbed higher outside.

"I haven’t seen this bikini before," he said, voice low. "It’s fucking sexy on you. Those little triangles barely cover anything. I keep thinking about peeling them off."

"You don’t think it’s too revealing?" you teased.

"Baby, it’s perfect. You look incredible. I can’t stop touching you." There was something almost disorienting about the way he was looking at you… like you were the only thing in his entire world worth seeing. It was still hard to understand why Jack saw you as sexy. Past boyfriends had never made you feel that way… but Jack? He fucking worshipped you. You had never experienced this kind of adoration before. Being someone's everything.

You lounged together for a while, then swam into the ocean. The water enveloped you both in its cool, briny embrace as Jack pulled you deeper, the waves lapping at your breasts while the sandy bottom shifted beneath your feet. The scent of sea air and his natural musk filled your nostrils, heightening every sensation as his breath mingled with yours in short, excited puffs. He leaned in, pressing his lips to yours, with your tongues dancing in a playful, teenage frenzy of sucking and exploring every corner of each other's mouths. Salty droplets ran down your faces, mixing into the kiss, while the smell of wet skin and ocean breeze enveloped you. His hands were on your hips, and he pulled you tighter against the hard evidence of his own arousal pressing through his swim trunks.

A sharp gasp hitched in your throat, your eyes flying wide.

"Jack," you whispered, your voice a shaky mix of awe and sudden, dizzying arousal. "What are you doing?"

A slow, utterly wicked smile spread across his lips, and his eyebrows lifted in a silent, unmistakable challenge.

"Shhh, just relax," he murmured, his lips brushing your ear. "I've got you."

You felt his fingers trace the edge of your swimsuit bottoms, a teasing hint that made your breath catch. "Jack, wait—" you breathed, your voice tight with a fear that was half genuine alarm, half intoxicating thrill. Your gaze shot to the shore, a frantic scan of the distant, blurred figures. "Someone could... what if someone sees."

"Half are asleep,” he whispered, his breath hot on your damp skin. "The other half are staring at their phones, trying to figure out if the weird shadow on their screen is a cloud or a notification that their life is profoundly boring." He dipped his head, his nose gliding along the column of your throat, inhaling the scent of saltwater and sunscreen on your skin.

His logic was a seductive trap.

"But..." you managed to say (not really knowing what else to say), as your hips gave a tiny, involuntary roll against his hard cock.

He hushed you gently, nuzzling into the damp hair at your temple. "I'm just finishing what I started earlier," he whispered. "Let me take care of you now."

His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, and your eyes went wide. A soft, surprised "oh" escaped you as he found your clit, circling with a touch that was electrifying. You could hear the distant laughter and chatter of beachgoers, the rhythmic crash of waves, but it all faded into the background.

Jack loved watching that little hitch in your breath. He loved that he could undo you like this. You were usually all sharp wit and raised eyebrows, but here…here you were just soft sighs and pliant for him. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, clinging for stability as your knees felt weak, even supported by the water.

"Jack," you breathed out, the name itself a plea. The sun warmed the top of your head while the underwater world remained your private haven.

"I know, baby," he murmured, his lips pressing a soft kiss just below your jaw. "You’re doing so good for me."

You were so responsive. Every little circle, every shift of his fingers, and you were shivering. He was looking at your face… and all the tension was gone. Just pure, sweet surrender. He could do this forever, just watching you fall apart. His fingers continued their gentle, persistent torment. Then, slowly, he began to slide a finger inside you. The sensation made you gasp sharply, your body tensing for a split second at the new, fuller pressure.

"Shhh, easy," he soothed, his voice a velvet command. He stilled his hand, letting you adjust, his thumb never ceasing its soft circles. "Just relax into it, sweetheart. There you go… that’s my girl."

As your body accepted him, he began a slow, shallow rhythm, his finger moving in and out with a slippery ease aided by the water and your own growing wetness. Your head lolled against his shoulder, your mouth falling open in a silent, overwhelmed gasp. The dual sensations were too much—the focused, maddening friction of his thumb and the soft, filling stretch of his finger moving inside you. A low, helpless moan finally broke free.

Jack caught the sound with his mouth, kissing you deeply, swallowing your noises as the waves gently rocked you both. His kiss was tender but consuming, his tongue stroking yours in time with the rhythm of his hand. When he broke for air, his praise was a hot whisper against your slick lips.

"Listen to you," he breathed, his own voice rough with want. "So pretty. So perfect.”

His movements became more deliberate with his thick finger curling slightly—and your entire body jolted against him. A sharp, broken cry tore from your throat.

"God, Jack, please..." you whimpered.

"There?" he asked, his voice thick with satisfaction. He pressed against it again, and your second cry was louder, less controlled, a raw sound of pleasure that echoed slightly over the water before being swallowed by a wave. Jack’s eyes, filled with lust, flicked toward the distant, indistinct shapes on the shore.

"Shhh, baby," he whispered, but there was a new, teasing edge to his tenderness. He pressed a soft kiss to your temple. "You don’t want everyone to hear, do you?"

He curled his finger again, rubbing that sensitive spot of yours. Another moan, high and desperate, was ripped from you as your hips jerked against his hand. You tried to stifle it, biting your lip, but it was useless. The pleasure was too overwhelming.

A low, husky chuckle vibrated against your skin. His lips were right by your ear. "Or… maybe you do," he murmured, his voice dripping with knowing amusement. "Maybe you like the idea that someone might hear how good I make you feel."

He added a second finger alongside the first, stretching you just a little more, the sensation making you whine. Every slight shift of your bodies rubbed him against you.

"Fuck," he groaned, the word strained. His fingers never stopped their sinful work, pumping into you with a steady, deepening rhythm now, his thumb a consistent counterpoint on your clit.

"God, I wish I could fuck you right now. Make you scream my name so loud the whole beach knows who you belong to."

The vividness of his words, the possessive heat in them, sent a fresh wave of arousal crashing through you. Your own sounds were becoming impossible to control—soft, choked sobs of pleasure with every inward stroke of his fingers.

"Jack..." your voice, a ragged, breathless mess against his neck. "Jack... I love you. I love you, don't stop, please don't ever stop..." The words tumbled out, unfiltered and soaked in pure, delirious pleasure. You were babbling, lost in the storm he was orchestrating with his hands. He shushed you again, but it was a mockery of comfort now. He loved this. He loved the raw, unfiltered honesty of your pleasure, the way you completely fell apart for him and him alone. Hearing you babble his name and those three little words while he had you at his mercy was the most potent aphrodisiac he'd ever known.

He trailed his mouth down your jaw, your neck, sucking a wet, salty path to your collarbone. The contrast of his hot mouth and the cool ocean sent shivers racing over your skin, pulling you tighter against his hard cock.

"I love you too," he murmured, while his eyes held yours, with flecks of green and gold that were endless. "You're going to come for me right here." His fingers continued pressing that perfect spot with unerring precision as he spoke. "And when you do, I want you thinking about how when we go back to the hotel room, I'm going to spend an hour between your legs, tasting you until you come over and over again, just from my tongue."

"Oh f-fuck," you gasped, feeling your orgasm building, a tidal wave of sensation starting deep in your belly, threatening to crest and drown you with the cool water lapping at your waist. Your hips began to move against his hand of their own volition, a frantic, shallow rhythm seeking more friction, more of him.

"And when you're shaking, when you're begging for it, that's when I'm finally going to fuck you."

He saw the panic and the pleasure warring in your eyes, the desperate clamp of your jaw as you fought to stay quiet. It only spurred him on. His thumb became relentless on your clit, a firm, circling pressure, while his fingers fucked into you.

"Hard and fast," he growled, his own breath starting to come faster, his control fraying at the edges just watching you. "I'm going to fill you up so completely that you'll feel me for days. You're going to come on my cock just like you're coming on my fingers right now, aren't you, baby?"

The command in his voice, and the vivid promise, was the final thread to snap. Your body went rigid, a silent scream locked in your throat as the orgasm detonated, a white-hot shockwave of pure, shattering pleasure.

He saw it the second it hit you—the way your eyes rolled back, the tears that instantly welled and spilled over. He captured your mouth in a deep, consuming kiss, swallowing every choked sob and whimper of ecstasy. His tongue swept against yours, tender and claiming, as he gentled the movements of his hand. He tasted the salt of your tears and felt the helpless tremors still coursing through your limbs.

You were a boneless, quivering weight against him, your face buried in the damp skin of his neck, breathing in the scent of salt, sunscreen, and him. His own breathing was ragged, his body a tightly coiled line of tension pressed against your stomach. For a long moment, he just held you, one arm a solid band around your back, the other hand gently cupping the back of your head.

"You did so good for me."

He shifted slightly, and you could feel him. The hard, insistent length of his cock straining against the fabric of his swim trunks, pressing into your stomach—a stark contrast to your own spent, liquid state. A weak sound of concern escaped your lips.

"Don't you worry about that." Jack gave a strained chuckle, the sound vibrating through you. "We'll take care of it later. Right now... we'll get you some water. And some shade."

He draped you over the broad expanse of his back. Your cheek rested against the wet skin between his shoulder blades; the world reduced to the sound of his breathing and the gentle lap of the water as he swam. He reached the shallows where the waves gently broke. With a grunt of effort, he stood up, the water dropping from his torso. He kept you secure on his back, your legs hooked over his hips, his hands firmly under your thighs.

Jack walked up the beach in an almost casual stride, nodding at a few scattered sunbathers who glanced your way and were probably staring at his swim leg prosthetic (or his raging hard-on). You, clinging to him, were just the tired girlfriend getting a piggyback ride from her attentive boyfriend. The perfect, innocent picture. He reached the private cabana, and with a final, effortless heave, he swung you gently off his back, depositing you onto the lounger.  You landed with a soft thump, your limbs still feeling like over-cooked spaghetti.

He turned and grabbed the bottles of chilled water that the waiter offered immediately. Crouching down in front of you, he uncapped it with a sharp twist.

"Open," he said, his voice low. He didn't hand you the bottle. Instead, he brought it to your lips. When you parted them automatically, he tilted it, the cold water pouring into your mouth. "Drink," he ordered, watching your throat work as you swallowed. A little trickled down your chin, and his gaze followed the droplet's path over your collarbone. You drank until the bottle was empty.

"Thank you," you whispered, the words barely audible. A shaky, sated smile touched your lips as you looked up at him through half-lidded eyes.

"Good girl," he said, his voice dropping that utterly intimate register of his. He leaned in, his lips brushing your forehead in a kiss.

"You wore me out," you mumbled, your voice thick and drowsy. Your head lolled back against the cabana bed. The sun felt like a warm blanket, and the intense pleasure had left your body feeling heavy, deliciously used, and utterly spent. "Just... gonna close my eyes for a minute..."

Your words slurred into a soft sigh as your eyelids fluttered shut. The world faded to the sound of the distant waves and the feeling of the warm lounger beneath you. You were already slipping into a contented, post-coital doze. He watched you, the bottle of water hanging loosely from his fingers. You were his masterpiece... and beautifully ruined. He sat down in the shade, the frame creaking softly under his weight, and leaned back, stretching his legs out.

"Come here," he said, his voice leaving no room for question. He patted his chest, right over his heart.

Still floating in that boneless, sated haze, you didn't hesitate. You crawled the short distance from where you were and settled against him, your head finding its perfect place on the solid pillow of his muscle. His arm came around you, heavy and secure, his hand splaying possessively over the curve of your hip. His other hand began tracing those lazy, hypnotic circles on the small of your back.

Your eyelids grew too heavy to hold open.

"I love you," you murmured.

"I love you," he echoed, just as you were slipping away.

You stirred, consciousness returning slowly, and pleasantly. The world came back in pieces: the dappled shade of the cabana, the distant cry of seagulls, the solid, warm weight beneath you. You blinked, your eyes adjusting, and glanced at your phone screen where it lay beside the lounger. 4:00 PM. You’d been out for over an hour.

You tilted your head up. He was awake, watching you from behind his sunglasses, a soft, unguarded curve to his mouth. You leaned up and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to his lips.

"Mmm," you hummed against his mouth as you pulled back just an inch. "I think I need a snack before dinner. All that... 'swimming'.. worked up an appetite." His hand slid from your back to cup your ass, giving it a firm, appreciative squeeze.

"Is that right?" he said, his voice gravelly with disuse. "What kind of snack are you craving?"

"Something sweet," you teased, nipping lightly at his bottom lip. "Maybe something I can eat right here."

"Tempting." His gaze was hot and appreciative. "But if I start feeding you here, we won't make it to dinner. Let's pack up." He gave your ass one last playful smack before releasing you. "Up you get."

You pouted dramatically, making a show of stretching your still-tingling limbs. He stood, pulling his t-shirt over his head, the fabric clinging to his torso.

"Watching the people here is fascinating, isn't it?" he mused, his tone conversational but his eyes locked on you. You followed his gaze out to the beach. A group of young women were taking an absurd number of selfies a little way down the shore, angling their bodies and drinks just so.

"Right?" you squealed, playing along, putting a hand on your hip and mimicking their poses with exaggerated flair. "The struggle is so real! Do I look aspirational? Do I look like I have my life together?

He chuckled, shaking his head as he finished smoothing his shirt.

"You," he said, stepping close and pulling you to the edge of the sofa bed, "look like you just got fucked senseless. Which is infinitely better."

You laughed and swatted his chest, and wriggled out of his grasp to reach for your cover-up draped over the back of a chair and shimmied into it. The two of you stepped out of the cabana and began walking hand-in-hand, but you were surprised when Jack started pulling you closer to the shore. You saw Jack raise a hand, catching the eye of one of the influencer girls from the selfie group. She was tall and clad in a minuscule neon green bikini, her phone held up as she surveyed the light.

"Scusi," he called. He made a frame with his fingers, pointing at you and himself, then pretended he was taking a picture with an invisible camera. She immediately lowered her own phone.

"Oh! Photo! Yes, of course, I speak English," she said. Her accent was a pleasant, unplaceable blend, as she gracefully stepped away from her own photoshoot.

He handed her his phone, while whispering to you. "Is it that obvious that I'm American?"

"Yes," you giggled.

She grinned, positioning you both close, his arm tight around your waist, his waterproof prosthetic clearly visible in the frame. The fact that he wanted the photo with his leg showing made your eyes sting. Influencer girl took a few steps back, expertly using the natural light and the stunning views as her canvas.

"Get closer! Yes, like that. Perfect."

He pressed a kiss to your temple as the girl snapped the first photo.

"Beautiful! Now look at each other. Give me a real smile!" she coached, moving slightly to adjust the angle.

You turned your face toward Jack, and the look in his eyes stole your breath. It was open affection, a quiet joy at simply being there with you, exactly as you both were. Your smile changed, becoming real and unguarded. The camera clicked several times in rapid succession.

"Amazing! You two are gorgeous. That light is everything."

"Grazie," Jack said, the Italian word clumsy but earnest.

"Thank you," you said.

As the girl returned Jack's phone, she lingered for a moment and asked the usual small talk question about where you were from. You answered, and within seconds, the conversation shifted with the realization that you and she had grown up in the same country. What a small world. Your attention was suddenly fully on her, and you were completely absorbed talking to her in your native mother tongue and discussing the last time you had been back home. Jack took advantage of the moment and opened his messages to Robby and attached one of the many photos.

Surprisingly, Robby answered almost instantly since it was a little past 10 AM, which was usually when he sneaked in a snack.

Robby: She’s so out of your league.  

Jack snorted under his breath. Out of his league? Absolutely. He’d known that from day one, and he still couldn’t believe you’d chosen him anyway. His thumb hovered over the send button for a full second before he finally tapped his next message.

Jack: I think I’m going to do it tonight.

Robby: Holy shit. About damn time, you’ve been carrying that ring around for a year.

Jack: I’m nervous as hell.

Robby: She’s perfect. Go get her, brother.

Robby then sent another quick message.

Robby: You look happy. Happier than I’ve ever seen you.

Jack thought about the man he’d been before he met you. He was convinced that good things weren’t meant for him. And then you showed up…and you made him want things he’d never let himself want.

When Jack looked up, you were turning back toward him, waiting with that patient little smile he loved more than he could ever say. Jack smiled, slipped the phone away, and reached for your hand as you walked back toward the hotel.

The words register like a punch to the gut. Heavy, dreadful and causing his insides to clench in instant worry. Jack’s body jerks into motion without thought, barely managing to throw a quick “Thanks!” over his shoulder, before he is rushing in the direction of the waiting room.

Countless thoughts barrel through his mind. He imagines harrowing injuries and heartbreaking outcomes, trying to make sense of why his mother would be coming to his workplace without a heads-up. His only consolation is the absence of a gurney transporting the woman into the ER, which hopefully proves nothing too severe has happened.

Still, he is quick to make his way over, pushing through the door separating triage from the waiting room.

His eyes search the crowded area, a cacophony of noise welcoming him, and he has to sort through multiple huddles of people gathered around before his eyes lock onto a familiar side profile, he would rather not see at his place of employment.

“What are you doing here? Are you okay?” he asks before fully reaching her. A quick scan of his mother’s body results in his worry lessening a fraction more, no obvious signs of injury or distress showing at first glance.

He concentrates on her face, studying the composed expression but not missing the tightly set jaw.

Janice Abbot had always been a force to be reckoned with, despite her petite frame. One look at her ramrod straight posture and keen eyes was enough to know that she was no ordinary woman and a certain degree of decorum had to be upheld when interacting with her. Even now, in her seventies, she still managed to exude an aura that made others around her sit up straight and stop any unsightly behavior.

Back in the day, Jack’s wife had explained that her mother in law carried an authority that was less like one of a sensible but strict school teacher and much more like a no-nonsense drill sergeant. Only if you were on your very best behavior did you get qualified for being respected, and only if you genuinely impressed her did you get the chance of possibly being liked by her.

Jack had never seen his mother like that at all. During his childhood she had always been loving and kind to him and his sister, had raised both of them with direction but utmost care and had always supported him in everything he wanted or had to do.

Only later in life had Jack understood that his mother’s composure and overall demeanor was a shield she had built in order to repel the people that didn’t fit into her life. It had always been for protection. In the end, nobody could really fault her methods, after all the ever expanding branches of their family tree willingly and happily gathering at his mother’s residence for frequent get-togethers was as much proof of her pure soul, as was her gaggle of loyal friends that seldom spent much time apart from each other.

Nevertheless, even a woman like her doesn’t manage to stand out too much between the many assorted patients mulling around the area, waiting to be seen and treated.

“There you are, darling. It’s good to see you,” she greets him, hand reaching out to pat his shoulder gently and a tight-lipped smile forming along her thin mouth. It soon falls again, being replaced by a disapproving look and shake of her head. “This place is a mess. We’ve been waiting for ages.”

Confusion layers thick on Jack’s mind and he tries his best to follow along and paint a picture that has his mother’s presence in the ER make sense. He fails miserably. “Are you hurt?” “No, I’m perfectly fine,” she waves him off dismissively, only furthering the curiosity in Jack’s body. He leans in a bit, trying to catch her eye and silently urging her to reveal more information for her sudden visit.

“Why are you here then? The plan was for you to go to my place once you arrived. Did you forget your keys?” “Oh, no. I made it home just fine. I’m here as an escort of sorts. You see, the elevator at your place was blocked by someone, so I had to bring my luggage up the stairs, but there was this nice young lady who helped me. One of your neighbors. Unfortunately she fell and I couldn’t just let her come here alone. After all it’s somewhat my fault that she got hurt,” she explains, a rather pitiful expression crossing her face.

“We’ve been waiting for an hour without having been triaged and I gave it the benefit of the doubt, son. I can obviously see how busy you must be and I know a severe case will always take precedence. But I can no longer disregard, that my connection to you should come with at least a little benefit, don’t you think? Could you not bump your neighbor up on the list a little bit? For my sake?”

Dread settles in Jack’s gut before he can do anything about it and his eyes start skimming over the people in the waiting room once again. This time in search for an entirely different familiar face.

He tries to muster some hope that you aren’t the person his mother is talking about, but he already knows there aren’t that many possibilities, and falling down the stairs fits your MO a little too well. Still, the longer it takes for him to find you, the more a false hope settles in his bones, convincing him he might simply be looking for the wrong neighbor.

“Where is she?” “Back in that corner over there,” his mother provides. Jack follows her vague direction, stretching his neck a little to see beyond the head of a pacing person.

His worst predictions are immediately confirmed when he catches sight of you, sitting pressed into one of the seats, eyes flitting around the room restlessly.

Jack freezes for a moment, heart skipping a beat and then your eyes lock across the room. He moves instantly, sliding past people, outstretched legs and mobility aids blocking his way.

He comes to a halt in front of you a few seconds later, assessing you with wide eyes.

“How bad is it?”

Perplexed you blink at him, lips pursed. “Jack, what are you doing here?” “You’re always asking this as if I have any less reason to be at the hospital,” he can’t help the amused tone, though there is less actual humor behind it, than in his usual reactions to your antics. He sighs, “But I guess at this point your being here is just as warranted.”

A grin spreads across your face and you shrug. “I meant, why are you standing here? Shouldn’t you be busy helping people?” With his eyebrows raised, he looks down at you critically. He doesn’t bite at your usual obliviousness. “Tell me your ailment and I will do just that.”

You scoff, as if he is telling a joke and shake your head. “I’m fine. It’s not my turn yet. There are clearly other patients that need treatment more urgently. I’ll wait.” Your eyes skip over the fully occupied seats again, missing the way Jack lets his head fall back in frustration at your selflessness.

Rubbing his still of disinfectant smelling hands across his face, he lets out another deep sigh.

“Do you seriously expect me to go back in there without you, now that I know you are here?” “Yup.” “You think so little of me!” he complains, leaning down to get more on eye level with you.

“Now come on. If you can walk on your own, follow me. Or do I need to get a wheelchair?” “Jack, I’m serious. Just because we know each other doesn’t mean I should get to skip the line. I’m pretty sure I only broke my wrist. That’s nothing major. Why not bring in that guy over there that has been coughing up the entire waiting room for an hour? I’m pretty sure he will start spitting blood any minute now.”

Jack can see your sincerity and he knows you are technically more rational than he is. But he doesn’t care. How could he just go back to treating other patients while his entire body is aware, that you are camping out only a few feet away from him? And hurt to top it all off.

He shakes his head again, bending even lower until his hands grabbing a hold of the armrests next to you, caging you in. He fully ignores the person sitting in the adjourning seat, his focus not once leaving you.

“That’s not going to happen. You are my VIP from now on. If you ever have to come into the ER again, you tell the clerk that you know me and they will come get me.” “What if you’re not on shift or it’s your day off?” you ask, as if that’s enough to interfere with the arrangement and show the flaw in his logic. “Then you should call me anyway and I will bring you in personally. That part we already discussed before.”

Jack is already making a mental note to let his colleagues know your name and maybe even add a picture for good measure. Everything to get you treated quickly the next time you come in–which is a given, sadly.

He is aware that it’s illogical for you to be prioritized without having a serious issue, but then again, he knows you wouldn’t haul your ass to the ER unless absolutely necessary in the first place. And nobody would follow his instructions if there really wasn’t a way of handling it.

“You’re being ridiculous,” you say dryly, rolling your eyes while a contradictory smile spreads across your lips. Jack feels an appeased smile of his own take over his features at once while he watches your resolve slowly crumble under his insistence.

He knows he is staring a little too long, that he should be leaning back and giving you space to stand up and follow after him. But you keep him locked in his bent over position, boxing you in on your seat, as if you have your own gravity that is specifically made to pull him in to you.

“Jack,” you say quietly, pleading for him to change his mind. For anything else you staring straight into his eyes like you’re doing right now might have done the trick. But not when the subject regards the risk your health. “Just let me check on you. Do it for me, yeah?” he almost begs. You only hesitate for another second before letting out a defeated huff and nodding. “Fine. Lead the way.”

Jack does as he is being told, carefully making his way back, but not without waiting for you and sending you a few appraising looks. He notes how you keep your left arm tucked close to your stomach, not trying to move it, and holding it extra still with your other hand. Sometimes your face contorts in a painful grimace that hurts him just as much as you judging by the way his insides cramp up.

He slides up to the registration, quickly letting the young clerk sitting behind the desk know about the escort of his VIP. Once he gets a thumbs up he resumes his path, ready to buzz you two through the door into the ED, when he remembers another important person.

Well…he is more or less reminded that someone else is here with you, because his mother falls into step next to you, brushing shoulders.

“Didn’t I tell you I would get you seen quickly, dear?” she says smugly, gently squeezing your upper arm. You give her a grateful smile in return, but Jack can see that you still aren’t fully on board with being prioritized.

He doesn’t really focus on that anymore, though. Not when the realization hits, that you have accidentally entangled yourself with his mother of all people.

Alarm strikes through his mind, panic making his stomach do back flips while he remembers every first impression of his mother other people have ever reported to him. He pauses with his ID card stretched toward the card reader and watches the two women with baited breath.

“Thank you, but that really wasn’t necessary. It’s not life threatening or anything. I would be fine waiting a little longer.” “Oh, nonsense. You took quite the tumble and I told you my son works here. This is the least I can do for causing you to fall,” his mother says decidedly, not skirting around taking the blame.

An entirely different kind of alarm bells start ringing in Jack’s head upon her words.

He wonders what new injuries you may have sustained this time; what aches and pains you don’t show openly, and what he might have to coax an admission out of you for. His fingers itch to examine every inch of your body and make it all better again. The need to fix you and hold you close, so you’ll never get hurt again takes the forefront in his mind, but the reality of that not having much merit yet is what keeps it at bay. He isn’t your partner. You might not appreciate a random old guy like him becoming all protective.

“It wasn’t your fault at all!” you insist, affronted, “I’m just super clumsy. But I’ll be fine. Thank you anyway for using your connections to get me seen quickly, even if it truly wasn’t necessary. You could say I have my own contacts, I just don’t want to overuse them, you see.”

You eyes flit to Jack for only a second, before quickly darting away, but a tiny uptick of the corners of your lips is proof that you think you two share a little secret.

If only he wouldn't simultaneously share one with the other woman as well…

Jack is pretty sure that you haven’t made the connection of his relation to his mother yet. He understands you well enough by now to know you wouldn’t be as calm if you were actually aware of who you talk to so casually, and Jack isn’t sure if that is a blessing or a curse.

On one hand at least you aren’t uncomfortable while being in the dark, but he wonders if it’s unfair to hide the truth from you and inadvertently throw you to the wolves, silently watching your every move, hoping you won’t misstep and end up being torn apart.

Maybe in a stroke of luck he will get out of this mess scot free and you won’t be aware of how soon you have met the very pillar of his upbringing. Maybe this day will end with all of you parting ways and officially meeting again in some months or years. Of course, only if Jack should ever find the courage to take the last few steps towards you and confess and provided that you should feel inclined to even accept him.

He hadn’t truly thought about the possibility of you meeting his family eventually. Usually, his fantasies regarding you and the future were more of the blissful and serene nature. Not actually realistic, messy situations, that could easily end in disaster if one variable wouldn’t fall into place perfectly. But here you are, chatting away with the person he trusts the most and who’s opinion could rattle every brick in this tower Jack has been trying to build and fortify for months.

“If you have connections, you should use them, dear. It’s better not to waste time by waiting around for something that can be solved quickly,” the elderly woman shares her wisdom and Jack notices the smallest of smiles on her thin lips.

It sends another worrisome notion through his mind.

Not only are you unaware of his family ties, but his mother is just as clueless about what and how much you mean to him.

The idea of her finding out has a nauseating feeling spreading through his stomach, shame for being infatuated with you, and anxiety that his mother will judge him for it, taking the forefront. The ever prevalent idea of being too old and not the right fit for you shows up again at full speed. Doubt tears at the seams of the carefully stitched parachute he had crafted in order to keep afloat, and not drown in the sea of negativity.

Jack wants to fight against it. He tries to find confidence in his actions and feelings so that he can stand tall and protect what he wants from any onslaught of judgment and peril. But he wonders if he really is strong enough, if he has any chance against the mighty force of his mother’s verdict, if she were to disapprove of his choices.

It had only ever happened one time but Jack remembers the day decades in the past as if it were yesterday. He had decided to join the military back then to go find his own purpose in life, despite his mother asking him to pick another path.

Jack has never forgotten the heartbroken look she had given him back then, nor the painful cut her disappointment of his choice had left on his soul. But he had ultimately defied his mother’s wishes and went ahead, shouldering the pain, and stuffing the gaping wound with ambitions of making everyone proud and finding what he had been looking for.

It had not only been one of the most painful things he had ever done, but also the most frightening. But even then his mother hadn’t stopped supporting him through it all. The relief of finding out he hadn’t lost her love due to his own willfulness had been immense yet bitter-sweet. He never forgot the sickening feeling of going against her, no matter that she not once had held it against him or told him she had always known better. Not when he confessed his doubts while visiting during leave, not when he lost his leg in active duty and not even when he came home a different son than he used to be.

She had welcomed him back time and time again, opening her arms for him and providing him with whatever he needed in that moment.

Still, Jack had held on to a small piece of guilt towards her all those years. She had always giving everything for him and he had repaid her with endless worries, and shaken her peace of mind. He knew he might never be able to repay the debt to her, but he had at least sworn to never defy her wishes again.

Now, with the possibility of differing on another matter, Jack can feel his heart squeeze in agony. He ponders who would end up more hurt. His mother if he went against her once more or him if he were to lose you.

“Is there a problem? What are we waiting for?”

The inquiring tone and the piercing look of his mother’s bright eyes falls upon Jack which is enough to snap him out of his panicked stupor. With an automatic movement his ID slides against the reader and the door buzzes as an invitation to enter.

Jack holds it open until both women have stepped through and he ushers them into the noisy emergency room, trying to push all his fears inside a box at the back of his mind. There are much more important things to handle first and no time to waste by spiraling out in the open.

“You really didn’t have to accompany me this far,” you say quietly, almost swallowed up by the buzz surrounding you. “Oh, it’s no bother. I have nothing better to do anyway. My son spends his nights working, so I would just sit around at home and bore myself to death. The older you get, the more likely that is. That’s why it’s most important to surround yourself with people that elevate your time and enjoy your company.” His mother leans closer to you, her voice taking on an uncharacteristically playful tone. “I wish the circumstances would be different, but nevertheless, being out and about with you serves as a little adventure. You see, my girlfriends will find it much more entertaining if I tell them about this mishap at our next meeting than if I told them I was just staring out the window at my son’s apartment. You don’t mind me sticking around, do you?”

You are quick to shake your head. “I don’t.” “Good. It’s settled then. We can share a taxi back home once we’re done here.”

Jack watches the spectacle unfold in front of him, unsure how to feel. Whether his mother bonding with you is a good thing or will lead to more chaos. He can’t really fault his own flesh and blood for taking a liking to you–he didn’t fare any better after all–but the timing being so turned around and both parties being oblivious about the social dynamics between him and everyone involved is rather concerning, to say the least.

Still, Jack doesn’t interfere. He doesn’t know how to defuse the invisible bomb safely, so he just tries to forget all about it and hope it will die on its own without a big bang.

His head swivels a little, trying to locate Lena among the bustle of people rushing around the nurses station. When he finally finds her, he only has to wait a second before her eyes peek over the rim of her glasses, assessing the newcomers.

“Got a VIP, Lena. Give me a room, please?” he asks loud enough to sail over the perpetual noise that never stops around here.

There is only another short moment of her checking out the two women by Jack’s side, then Lena nods and directs him to one of the free rooms. He sends her a grateful look, before steering his guests away.

Once they arrive and the curtain is drawn behind Jack he offers his mother a stool to sit on while instructing you to take a seat on the gurney.

“Tell me what happened in detail,” he requests while logging into the computer and bringing up your file. He doesn’t spare it more than a glance, aware that there are no notes from triage yet, only making sure there isn’t anything new noted that he has not yet seen before. Then he turns to grab a pair of gloves and puts them on.

“I tripped while going up the stairs, but I had my hands full so I couldn’t really catch myself and I pretty much just face-planted. I did land on my arm though, so that is where it hurts the most.”

You blink up at Jack innocently, while he is busy trying to keep his composure and stay professional. A part of him wants to just grab you and wrap you in cotton, so you simply won’t give him any more reasons to worry about you. Another part is acutely aware that he isn’t alone with you.

“It was my fault. She was just trying to help me,” his mother butts in resolutely.

Jack once again reminds himself how absurd this situation really is.

Swallowing, he tries to think of a way of how to handle this from here on out. He shouldn’t be too obvious with his affection for you, as to not make his mother suspicious, but at the same time, he can’t just turn it off like a switch and treat you like anyone else.

Because you aren’t just anyone else.

A fact that becomes clearer with every day he lets himself indulge in your presence.

You have undoubtedly drawn him in, and willingly or not, made him devote himself to you completely.

To now just act like there isn’t an abyss opening up, clawing at him with a desire to drown him in endless concern for your well-being might be a charade he isn’t talented enough to uphold. Not to mention that a sudden distance and cool demeanor towards you could easily give you the wrong impression and push you away.

That’s the last thing he wants.

“It really wasn’t your fault! I’m just unlucky. He can attest to that,” you say reassuringly and nodding towards Jack. He just stands there for a second, feeling two pairs of eyes on him, one more scrutinizing than the other. He ends up half-shrugging half-nodding in confirmation, not meeting his mother’s intense look head on and instead focusing on you.

Clearing his throat, he grabs a blood pressure cuff and steps closer. “Alright. I’ll check your vitals first, then I’ll take a closer look at what hurts.”

You nod and comply without any hesitation, letting Jack do his assessments without any hick ups. He goes through the motions efficiently, managing to treat you like any other patient and keeping a professional tone while asking a few more questions about the fall and its aftermath.

His worry is lessened with every normal vital sign he gets, but it never vanishes completely.

“It’s been a lot of hits to the head lately, don’t you think?” he comments lowly, while taking his stick light out and checking your pupils for reactivity. He tries hard not to be distracted by the tiny details in your eyes–small flecks of different nuances he shouldn’t be focused on right now.

“Luckily I have a thick skull,” you grin teasingly and make Jack suppress a chuckle. "Can’t argue with that. Does your head hurt? Your last concussion wasn’t that long ago. It’s never a good idea to risk another fall or hit to the head so shortly after.” “You make it sound like I fell on purpose,” you pout at him. “Well, you never know. Maybe you missed me and thought this was a sneaky way of getting away with seeing me again.”

Shocked you open your mouth and stare at him with an incredulous expression. “Ha! As if!” “What? You didn’t miss me?” he asks, not expecting you to actually confirm anything. Surprisingly, your next words come without hesitation, “Maybe I did. But I wouldn't stoop so low and stage something to see you. I could just ask you to come by and you would, wouldn’t you?”

You look at him with such earnestness, that Jack freezes in place, not sure how to react. There was no indication of doubt in your voice at all and his heart soars at the prospect of you trusting him enough to come at your every beck and call. You aren’t wrong in your conviction either. Jack has long since been past the point of being able to resist you. But hearing you speak of it so matter of fact is another wake up call for him.

“Yeah. I would,” he eventually manages to mutter under his breath. It earns him a victorious smile, which quickly turns into a wince and brings him back to reality.

“Where does it hurt?” “My cheek bone,” you admit. Your uninjured hand reaches up to the area in question, but before you can prod at it, Jack intercepts and takes your place. His gloved fingers gently touch your cheek, putting a little pressure on it and watching your reaction while simultaneously trying to feel if there is a noticeable depression along the bone.

“Any numbness?” “No, it’s just a little sore.” He instructs you to open your mouth, checks for bruising inside but refrains from asking your pain level. Instead, he watches your expression carefully, waiting to see when you squeeze your eyes closed or show any other sign of discomfort.

“Mhh. I don’t think you fractured anything but there is a little swelling. I’ll get you an ice pack in a bit,” he promises. “Let me take a look at your wrist now.”

You carefully raise your injured arm up and Jack takes it into his hands. Immediately you grimace at the slightest movement. “It hurts like a bitch, not gonna lie.”

Jack smirks a little at your profanity, then continues with his inspection, instructing you to try and move your wrist, then feeling along the tender skin. “Given the bruising and slight swelling along with the limited movement, I suspect you have a distal fracture–a broken wrist. We’ll have to do some imaging to see how bad it is and if we need to reset the bone or if you need surgery.”

Jack gently sets your arm back down on your thigh and watches you deflate a little at his diagnosis. “Dammit. I don’t know why I had any hope. This really shouldn't come as a surprise.”

“It could always be worse, no?”

Jack nearly flinches when his mother tries to console you and he straightens hastily. Had he really just forgotten that another person is in the room with you? His mother no less?

Nervously, he steps back to put on a more likely picture of a professional relationship between you two and to order the procedures you’ll have to undergo. He avoids his mother’s gaze intentionally, mind racing through the last few minutes and trying to remember if he did anything too incriminating.

He clears his throat again, moving over to the computer to put in all the data, glad to be forced to turn his back towards you.

“You know your way to radiology? Or do you need someone to take you there?” he questions. “Is Mateo on shift tonight?” you ask curiously. Jack tenses momentarily, his fingers freezing on the keyboard. A rather clipped “Why?” is all he presses out while staring daggers at the screen. “Uh… we’re friends? I just thought he could take me to get my x-rays taken. We haven’t seen each other in a bit.”

Sharing the night shift with someone else you’re fond of turns out to be quite nerve wrecking for Jack. Especially when the small devil on his shoulder reminds him constantly that he doesn't necessarily have any more claim on you than Mateo does. Not as long as he can’t jump his shadow and build up the courage to actually ask you out and secure exclusivity.

Still, his therapist’s voice echoes in his mind, reminding him that having murderous thoughts might not be the healthiest coping mechanism, so Jack tries to calm the raging jealousy in the compounds of his body until it simmers more or less dormant again.

“He is busy,” he relents after a few seconds of silence, not caring if he is telling the truth. Surely a little white lie like this is fair when it comes to protecting the fragile foundation of something he has been working towards for so long. Can he really be blamed for being selfish for once?

“Ah, figures. I can go by myself then.”

Jack risks a quick glance over his shoulder at your chipper voice and takes in your genuine smile. He has to look away again quickly in order to not let his adoration slip through the cracks of his composure. If he could, he would just kiss you right then and there to comfort his own heart.

He tries to focus back on the screen and enter the most important notes in your chart, but while his eyes might be fixed on the screen, all his other senses are stuck on you. He hears you shift from the gurney and walk the few paces towards the curtain.

Against his better judgment, Jack feels his body turn again. “I’ll try to be here when you come back,” he says and you halt shortly. Your eyes find his and maybe it’s his imagination, but he feels like something unspoken travels between you two.

“No worries. I know you’re needed elsewhere. I'll text you in case we miss each other.”

He watches yet another smile brighten up your face then you disappear behind the curtain.

Jack stays behind a little dazed up until there is a small “Ahem” and every nerve inside his body is shocked back into chaos.

Spinning in place, he is met by the penetrating gaze of his own mother. “What was that all about?”

Afraid to crumble under her attention, Jack turns around once more, feeling only the slightest bit of relief at not having to look at the woman. He can still feel her stare against his shoulder blades. “What do you mean?” “Oh, don’t play dumb, Jack. I have eyes, I have ears and a fully functional brain. Not to mention, that I am your mother.”

He knows the only way to possibly win this is by staying silent and pleading the Fifth. But Jack is also aware that his mother won’t just let him ignore her questions. Her determination is enough to crack even the hardest of nuts and Jack doesn’t even get close to claiming such a title.

“I suppose you two know each other beyond being neighbors?” Jack hesitates, mind reeling at the prospect of the house of cards falling due to his own obvious behavior. He thinks about what to say next, because despite not wanting to admit anything, he knows eventually his mother would find a way of making him talk. Or worse, she would go and find someone else to ask.

The idea of you revealing your connection to him on the drive home–somewhere he wouldn’t be able to intervene–is all he needs to open his mouth.

“We are…friends. She didn’t lie when saying she is clumsy. I had to take care of her a few times before. So, we know each other.”

Vague, no actual lie, no reason to suspect anything else.

Jack’s next exhale is purposely controlled–a successful attempt to hide the relief at his own competency to downplay the situation.

His mother doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, giving him hope that he truly appeased her curiosity. But of course, he should've known it wouldn't be this easy to get her off his back.

“I may have only known this girl for a few hours, but I’ve known you for half a century, son. Do you really not think it’s obvious that there is much more to this friendship, as you call it?”

Closing his eyes, Jack rubs a palm across his face, unsure how to proceed. He doesn’t want to lie to his mother, but at the same time he wants to protect both you and himself from scrutiny.

He curses at the timing of this debacle, wishes it would’ve happened some time in the future when things between you two were clearer and set in stone. Where he would have had time to think about meeting parents and family members and where he would have found the confidence to be with someone like you, without feeling like an inadequate old man.

“What do you want me to say?” he asks, sighing and leaning on the computer station for support. He can already feel a headache starting to form behind his eyes. “You make it sound like this is an interrogation and you did something wrong,” his mother chuckles dryly. “I just don’t want you to feel like you need to hide anything from me or lie for that matter.”

“What if it were something you don’t agree with?” “Jack, you are my son. But you’re also an adult. You didn’t have to ask for my permission about anything since the day you turned eighteen and left home. Does it really matter, what I think? ” “It does matter to me.”

The admission hangs in the air like thick, suffocating heat for a beat then his mother sighs.

“You have always made the right choices for yourself and I know it has never been without thinking about every possible outcome. Would I have chosen differently for you from time to time? Sure. But then you wouldn’t have been happy, nor would you have turned out the way you have. This is your life and while I feel flattered that my opinion matters to you, it’s not my responsibility to decide which path you walk on. The most I can do is let you know I don’t agree with whatever you’re doing, but we both know, if you really want something, my vote wouldn’t keep you from taking it. If my opposition would be enough to make you waver, you wouldn’t actually want whatever it is all that much.”

Jack hangs his head, watching the tips of his shoes in contemplation. His mother’s words are churning inside his head. Being so openly vulnerable rarely comes easy, but while his mother remained scarily calm and steady even in the most dire situations, Jack knows without a doubt that she would always listen and offer advice if wanted. There isn’t anyone else he has that much trust in, yet confessing to her that he likes you as more than just a friend has him feeling like he is a teenager all over again.

At fifty years old, Jack comes to the conclusion, that he never had enough practice at admitting to crushing on someone, because there had always only been one person for him before. He doesn’t know if he should be glad about it now or wish he would’ve gotten more experience so this would end up feeling more natural.

“Now tell me. Do you like her?” “She is young.” “That’s not the answer to my question,” his mother states matter of fact. Jack is glad to not be facing her yet. He is almost sure he would simply combust on the spot and spill every concern, every doubt and fear he has ever had about his relationship with you in front of his mother.

“I do like her. A lot. But she is young.” “So what?” “People will talk.” “Oh, come on, people will always talk. You don’t need to do anything crazy for someone to gossip behind your back. That’s just how it is. Are you afraid it will ruin your reputation?”

Jack scoffs. “I don’t care about myself. I don’t want her to be the target.” “Then don’t pursue her.”

That has Jack finally turning around again, a displeased scowl on his face. It’s clear as day how little he thinks of that suggestion, but when the woman in front of him starts to chuckle under her breath, he realizes that it was less an actual proposal and much more the bait to proof a point.

“I see that is out of question.” She clicks her tongue, lips lifting in a smile of resignation. Then she shrugs her narrow shoulders halfheartedly. “You know, me and your father had an age difference when we got married. Well, of course, that was just the way it went a lot of times back then, but if it’s done right, it doesn’t have to turn into a stigma. Your father and I loved each other until the very end and I miss him everyday. We had our great love story but it also came with rumors and gossip and people badmouthing him because others thought he wasn’t good enough for me. It never mattered to me, because I knew who he was, and who I was, and who we could be together. We both made it work, despite or possibly because of our differences. We always found a way to complement each other and in the end we raised two wonderful children and lived out happily ever after. Despite what others have said or thought in all those decades.”

“It’s not the same. Times have changed since then and probably nobody bat an eye at your age back in the day, just the social standing and reputation,” Jack says, crossing his arms in front of his chest, trying to not let his own words drag him down any further.

His mother is quick to wave him off dismissively, just like she had done when he was a young boy trying to convince her to let him ride a dirt bike at age ten–as if he just said something so ludicrous, he should be clever enough to know the answer without bothering to ask.

“Darling, what does it matter? As long as the both of you are happy and content you shouldn’t worry so much about what others have to say. Why not go for it and try to make it work? If she is up for it, don’t hesitate; don’t waste time and risk losing her. I have never known you to just wait around for something you want. Chances come and go. So, don’t miss the right moment because you’re too focused on the opinions of a third party. And if you can’t help it, at least let it be me you listen to.”

Jack can’t help but huff out a laugh at that, shaking his head. “I honestly didn’t think you would be this supportive. I’m sorry for doubting you.”

There is a slight shift in the air, the expression on his mother’s face tightening and then she pushes herself off the little stool to stand up. Jack notices the white knuckles of her hand gripping her purse and instinctively his muscles tense, getting ready for a blow. Nevertheless, the next words land like a club to the head regardless.

“You know, I haven't seen you like this since Skipper died.” It takes Jack a moment to get his bearings, the almost casual mention of his late wife’s nickname throwing him for a loop. He hadn’t heard anyone call her that in quite some time–a somewhat unspoken rule that had been created early on after her death when the simple word would lead to him losing it completely.

Everyone had silently started to avoid the nickname and eventually Skipper had turned into a distant wife. It hurt less to use an impersonal moniker, but being confronted by the name everyone had known his wife by without warning makes it so much more shocking.

Eventually, when breathing starts to feel somewhat normal again, Jack manages to blink away the stinging behind his eyes and brokenly asks, “Like what?”

He bravely manages to hold the pitiful look his mother sends him, acting much stronger than he feels right now.

“Like you are head over heels for someone,” his mother admits quietly. “You completely forgot everything else when you were looking at her and taking care of her just now. That has only ever happened with one other woman before. I have missed this. Seeing a possibility of you being truly happy again, of you finding someone new to hold onto. I was–” she pauses, maybe searching for the right words or having to gather the courage to open up like this, “I was afraid you wouldn’t get to feel like this ever again. That the part of you that died with Skipper that day was the piece holding all your love and joy.”

“I miss her,” Jack whispers, breath catching in the back of his throat. He feels his entire body deflate at the admission, but can’t find enough energy nor will to push against it any longer.

A gentle hand lands on his upper arm and squeezes comfortingly. “I do too. But she would want you to move on. You know that.”

Jack does know–remembers the conversation he once had with his wife about what either of them should do if the other passed away first. It had been a silly musing, nothing but a hypothetical that no one expected to need an actually follow up on in a long time. However, fate had other plans.

It leaves Jack with the crystal clear memory of his wife’s instructions back then, but no remembrance of her actual voice. He can merely imagine her tone, the lilt of her sentences he got used to for many years, but it’s only a disembodied, unfamiliar echo telling him to live a good life, to find happiness and something else to live for even after his favorite person will be gone.

Swallowing hard, Jack weakly argues back, “You never did after dad died.” “That’s different. I grew old with your father, but you have half your life still in front of you. Not to mention that I never looked for love again because there simply isn't anyone else out there for me. I had my one love and that was it and all I needed. Now I don’t want to deal with any other man ever again. It’s not worth the hassle. I want to live a long and happy life until I'm one hundred and two. And I will only be able to do that with the girls by my side, not a man. But you aren’t me. You have always come after your father. You’re not meant to walk alone, and while I appreciate your loyalty, I know Skipper would hate for you to be holding onto her for the rest of your life. She would want you to find happiness with another living person. Believe me. There is much more love you can give and I think you need it just as much in return.”

Before Jack can think any more about what his mother just said or deal with the uncomfortable ache spreading in his chest, the curtain is drawn back a little and Lena’s head peeks into the room. Her eyes only flick to his mother for a second, then she looks back at Jack.

“We have a Level One MVC coming. Hypotensive. Three minutes out.”

There is no need for her to verbalize that he is needed elsewhere and his VIP has to be pushed back. Jack is already falling back into his element, turning off any and all thoughts about the emotional conversation and cutting revelations he just had.

His head is back in the game, his body moving without delay. He just gives his mother an apologetic look, then he is jumping back into the fray, no longer torn or unsure what to do.

“Thank you again for coming with me,” you say and smile at the gray-haired woman gratefully as she holds open the entrance door for you to step into your apartment building. She matches your pace towards the elevator that no longer seems to be occupied and is quick to wave you off with her manicured fingers.

“Oh, it was nothing. Don’t worry about it. I’m just really regretful that you ended up with a cast because of me. Are you sure, you can handle everything by yourself?”

Your eyes land on the splint constructed to keep your wrist immobile and you shrug carelessly. “It’s fine. I’ve had worse and… the same before, so I know the drill.”

“Still, I’ll be staying with my son for a few days, so if you ever need help, just come and find me.” For a second you ponder over it, studying the elderly lady subtly and thinking about pointing out that it should rather be the other way around. But then you remember your unsuccessful attempt at helping her out the first time. Maybe you prejudice isn’t appropriate and she would have a better chance at managing life than you after all.

“Alright, I might take you up on that offer if it ever comes to it.” “And I’m sure my son will volunteer as well if there ever is something you need.”

You nod in agreement, despite not even considering to take her up on that offer. It’s nice, of course, but you fear she would be throwing her son into the mix like a sacrifice, against his will. A typical motherly move, taking the reigns in deciding where someone is best of use. You wouldn’t feel comfortable, knowing the man would get forced to help out. Not to mention that you’d rather wait things out and bother Jack again, instead of choosing to let a stranger take care of things.

Still, your mind wonders about who of the residents in this building could be the lady’s son. You don’t necessarily know that many of the renters here, barely being on a greeting-base with some and otherwise trying to avoid running into anyone other than Jack while roaming the hallways. Of course there is Miss Gertrude, but she had resorted to either ignoring you completely or at most sending you a sideways glance with an arrogantly raised chin that spoke volumes about her opinion on you. Not that you particularly minded her leaving you alone.

But other than that, you only ever saw a few people here and there, recognizing the ones living on your floor but not keeping track of anyone else.

“What apartment do you stay at?” you ask after stepping into the elevator and watching her press the button below yours. “3C,” she answers casually. It takes a few seconds for your brain to do the math and follow the imaginary floor plan in your head, finding where the apartment is located. But when it suddenly clicks, you could swear your heart comes to a standstill.

“3C?” you croak out, staring at the metal wall, wishing the woman got something mixed up. “Yeah, that’s right. That’s where my son lives. I guessed you knew, given that you seemed so familiar with Jack.”

Horror is too little to call the emotion that erupts inside your body. If your muscles wouldn’t be locked up tight in sudden shock, you’re sure you would simply crumble to the floor and melt into a puddle of embarrassment.

“You…you’re Jack’s… mother? As in Mrs. Abbot?” you breath out haltingly, slowly turning your head to gauge her reaction with your jaw on the floor. Your last hope that this is a misunderstanding disappears when the woman by your side nods in agreement.

Her pale eyes gaze at you, flicking over your face as if searching for something and after a few seconds a little, conspiratorial smirk edges itself into her features.

“The very one. I guess I should have introduced myself earlier. That’s my mistake, please forgive me, dear.”

You are quite frankly too stunned to speak, so you just trill out a hysterical note and continue to stare at Jack Abbot’s mother.

You really try your best to match their features, find anything that could’ve tipped you off earlier about their prominent relation to each other. But every cell in your brain seems to have been fried by this latest revelation and whether there are any similarities, you simply can’t tell.

The reality of the last few hours catches up to you, harmless memories turning into nightmare fuel with the new context, careless comments suddenly sounding like confessions that could ruin everything.

If a hole would open up in the floor right now, you’d readily and happily jump in and let it swallow you up, not caring how deep the fall might be. You would surely come out less scarred than out of this situation.

You barely register the elevator coming to a stop, barely react to the knowing smile Mrs. Abbot sends your war before stepping out. All you do, is watch and try to keep your composure long enough.

“It was really nice meeting you today. My offer still stands and I would love to have another little chat with you sometime. But for now, get some rest. Good night.”

The metal doors close in front of you and all you can do is collapse against the wall at your back, thinking about all your life choices and where the hell you went wrong.

next part

The passenger door shut, and the quiet almost hurt.

No bass. No flashing lights. No Santos yelling from the dance floor, no Robby laughing somewhere behind you, no Liv’s hand squeezing yours before she disappeared into the night with Brown Eyes and a location pin turned on. Just the low rumble of Jack’s truck when he started it, the clean, warm scent of him in the cab, and the fact that your mouth still felt like his. 

Your pulse did something stupid.

He did not look at you right away. He adjusted the mirrors, checked the lot, and kept both hands exactly where they belonged, like the steering wheel was the only thing in the city with a chance of keeping him civilized. Then his eyes flicked to you.

“Seatbelt,” Jack said.

You looked at him.

His gaze stayed forward. “Don’t look at me like that. Seatbelt.”

Your mouth curved before you could stop it. “Bossy in the car too?”

Jack’s jaw flexed. He put the truck in reverse. “You’re about five seconds from finding out I’m bossy everywhere.”

Heat moved through you so fast you forgot how to answer. Jack saw that. His mouth barely moved, but something in his expression sharpened as he backed out of the parking space. You reached for the seatbelt. The click sounded too loud in the quiet cab.

“There,” you said.

Jack glanced over once. “Good.”

The word landed exactly where he meant it to. Your thighs pressed together before you could stop them. Jack looked back at the road, but his hand tightened on the wheel. You noticed. He noticed you noticing. Neither of you said anything for a full block.

The club disappeared behind you, swallowed by the dark streets and yellow streetlights. The city moved past the windows in broken pieces. Storefronts. Parked cars. A crosswalk. The reflection of Jack’s profile in the glass beside you.

He drove like he did everything else. Controlled. Focused. One hand on the wheel, the other resting low near the gearshift. His forearm flexed every time he turned, the tendons shifting beneath skin you had already had your mouth too close to and your fingers wrapped around.

You looked at his hands. You knew you should not. You did anyway.

Jack exhaled through his nose. “Don’t start.”

Your eyes lifted to his face. “I’m sitting here.”

“I know,” Jack said.

His voice had gone lower. “That’s the problem.”

Your stomach dipped. You turned toward the window because looking at him was starting to feel like touching him, and touching him was the one thing you could not do with his hands on the wheel and both of you trapped in the unbearable quiet between the club and his house.

Your reflection looked back at you in the glass. Mouth swollen. Eyes too bright. Hair a little mussed from his hands, his door, his body crowding yours against the truck. You touched your lower lip before you realized you were doing it.

Jack’s eyes cut toward you. “Don’t.” 

Your hand froze. Slowly, you looked at him. “Don’t what?”

Jack kept his eyes on the road, but his jaw was tight enough to tell on him.

“That,” Jack said.

You let your finger drag once over your lip before lowering your hand. His grip tightened on the wheel. The reaction moved through you like a spark catching.

“You’re very observant,” you said.

Jack’s mouth barely curved. “Been told.”

You shifted in your seat, turning toward him more fully. The movement was small. The space was not. His eyes flicked down for half a second, then back to the road.

“You always this careful?” you asked.

Jack’s answer came too fast. “No.”

Your breath caught. He glanced at you then. Only briefly. Long enough for you to see the heat there. Long enough for it to matter. Then he looked back at the road.

“Just with things I don’t want to fuck up,” Jack said.

The words hit harder than you expected. Not because they were sweet. They were not, exactly. They were too blunt for sweet. Too low. Too honest.  

Your teasing fell quiet in your throat.

Outside, the streetlights moved over his face in flashes, catching on the hard line of his jaw, the tired set of his eyes, the control he kept putting back together every time your gaze touched him.

The truck slowed at a red light. For one suspended second, there was no motion to hide behind. Jack looked over. Really looked. His gaze moved over your face, your mouth, the bare line of your throat where his lips had been in the parking lot. His expression did not soften exactly, but something in it changed. Something quieter. More dangerous.

“You can still change your mind,” Jack said.

Your pulse tripped. There it was. Not a warning. Not a test. A door left open.

You looked at him. “Did you?”

His jaw flexed. The light turned green. Jack looked back at the road and drove through it.

“No,” he said.

Your stomach dipped.

Then his eyes cut toward you, dark and steady. “But you can.”

For a second, you forgot to breathe. It should not have made you want him more. It did. So much that it almost annoyed you.

You looked down at your hands in your lap, then back at him. “I’m not changing my mind.”

Jack’s hand tightened once on the wheel. “Good.” 

The rest of the drive passed in a kind of unbearable quiet. Not awkward. Not empty. Just full of everything neither of you could do yet. Your knee shifted once toward the center console, and Jack’s eyes dropped to it. His thumb moved once against the steering wheel. You watched his hand. He watched the road. Both of you pretended that was enough.

It was not.

When he turned onto a quieter street, your pulse started climbing again. You knew without asking. His place. The truck slowed in front of a townhouse set back from the sidewalk, porch light glowing soft over the steps. It looked like him, somehow. Quiet. Solid. Not showy. Lived-in without being messy. The kind of place a man came home to when he did not want the world following him inside.

Jack pulled into the drive and put the truck in park. The engine cut off. The silence after it was worse. Neither of you moved. Jack’s hand rested on the keys. Yours rested on the seatbelt. The house sat dark and quiet in front of you, and suddenly the night felt very real. Not like a club. Not like a parking lot. Not like heat and music and bad decisions hidden under flashing lights.

This was his driveway. His house. His door. His life, waiting on the other side.

You turned toward him. Jack was already looking at you. His eyes dropped to your mouth. Yours dropped to his. For one breath, you thought he might kiss you right there. You wanted him to. You leaned closer before you could think better of it. Jack’s hand tightened around the keys.

“Inside,” he said.

Your mouth parted. The word went through you with a warm, sharp pull.

You looked at him. “Still not here?”

His gaze moved over your face, slow and heated. “Not in my driveway.” 

You smiled. “You have a lot of rules.”

Jack unbuckled his seatbelt. His eyes stayed on yours.

“You keep making new ones necessary,” Jack said.

Then he got out of the truck before you could answer. You sat there for half a second, pulse loud in your ears, staring through the windshield at his front door. Then Jack appeared at your side. He opened your door and held it, one hand braced on the frame, the other offered to you. Not because you needed help. Because he wanted to touch you. Because he had decided this was allowed.

You put your hand in his.

His fingers closed around yours, warm and firm, and your body remembered the exact pressure of them at your hip, your jaw, your throat. You stepped down from the truck. The ground felt less steady than it should have. Jack’s hand shifted to your waist immediately, catching you before you could even pretend you needed it. You landed close to him, too close, your hand still in his and your chest inches from his.

His eyes dropped.

Your breath caught. For a second, the driveway disappeared. There was only the porch light, the quiet, and Jack’s hand at your waist, holding you like he knew exactly how easy it would be to pull you back against the truck and finish what he had stopped in the parking lot.

His jaw flexed. Then he turned, keeping his hand at the small of your back as he guided you toward the front door. The walk was short. It did not feel short. Every step was a decision. Every brush of his hand against your back was a promise he had not made out loud.

At the door, Jack reached around you to unlock it. His chest brushed your shoulder. Barely. You closed your eyes. Jack paused behind you. Just for a second. 

Then the lock clicked.

 The door opened, and he let you step inside first. The house was quiet in a way that made your skin feel too warm. No music. No neon. No bodies moving around you. No laughter spilling from the bar or bass shaking through the floor. Just the soft click of the door shutting behind Jack. Just the sound of him locking it.

Just the sudden, impossible awareness that you were inside his house with your mouth still swollen from his and your pulse still too high to pretend this was casual.

Jack moved past you, close enough that his arm brushed yours, and set his keys down on the small table by the door. The sound was ordinary. Small. Final.

Then he turned back to you.

For one second, neither of you moved.

The only light came from somewhere deeper in the house, low and warm, catching along the side of his face and the black of his T-shirt. He looked different here than he had in the club. Still controlled. Still guarded. Still Jack. But quieter. More real.

Your breath felt too loud.

Jack’s eyes moved over your face. Your mouth. Your throat. The red top that had apparently been a problem all night. His jaw flexed.

You swallowed. “What?”

Jack crossed the space between you. 

That was the only warning you got.

His hand came to your jaw, firm and certain, and then his mouth was on yours again.

Your back hit the wall beside the door.

The sound you made disappeared into his mouth.

Jack followed you in, one hand braced against the wall near your head, the other sliding from your jaw to the side of your neck. He kissed you slower than he had in the parking lot, but that somehow made it worse. Deeper. More deliberate. Like he finally had time and intended to make every second of it count.

Your hands caught in his shirt. Jack made a low sound against your mouth when you pulled him closer, and the hand at your neck tightened just enough to make your stomach flip.

There was no truck door at your back now. No parking lot. No reason for him to stop. The thought made you arch into him before you could help it. Jack felt it. Of course he did. His mouth left yours and moved to your jaw, then lower, dragging heat down the side of your throat.

“Jack,” you breathed.

His hand pressed against your waist.

“Yeah,” Jack said against your skin. “I know.”

You did not know what he knew. That you wanted him. That you were already losing your mind. That every careful thing he did made you worse. Maybe all of it. Your hands moved over his shoulders, down his arms, finding the warm strength of him beneath the sleeves of his shirt. You felt the flex of his forearm under your palm, and Jack’s mouth curved against your neck.

“You still want this?” Jack asked.

You huffed a breathless laugh, almost offended he had to ask.

“Yes,” you said. “So badly.”

His hand tightened at your waist. “Good.” 

The word went through you.

Your knee knocked against his when you tried to shift closer, and your shoe caught awkwardly against the edge of the rug. You stumbled half an inch. Jack caught you immediately, one hand firm at your hip, his mouth still close enough to yours that you felt his laugh before you heard it.

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t.”

His mouth twitched. “Didn’t say anything.”

“Your face did,” you replied. 

Jack’s expression shifted, amused and heated all at once. “That right?”

You pushed at his chest, but there was no force behind it. “Shut up.”

Jack kissed you again instead.

You forgot what you were arguing about.

Your shoe came off somewhere near the wall. Then the other. Jack stepped out of his own shoes without looking away from you, his mouth finding yours between every clumsy shift and half-laughing breath. It should have broken the tension. It did not. It made it worse. More real. More intimate. More like you were both trying to strip the night down to nothing but touch and heat and Jack’s hands on your body.

His fingers found the hem of your red top. He stopped. Not far away. Not cold. Just stopped. His mouth brushed yours once, barely there, and his eyes lifted to yours.

The question was silent. 

You answered by lifting your arms.

Jack’s jaw flexed. Then he pulled the top over your head.

The fabric disappeared somewhere near your shoes.

And Jack stopped again. Only for a second. But you felt it. The pause. The shift. The way his breath left him slower than before. There was nothing underneath but skin. Jack’s eyes dropped. His jaw went tight.

“Fuck,” he said.

The word was low. Rough. Almost unwilling. Heat rushed through you so hard your knees almost forgot their job.

Then Jack was on you again.

His mouth caught yours, hungry and deep, and his hands came back to your waist like he had run out of whatever thin patience had gotten you both inside. His palms slid over bare skin, up your ribs, across your back, learning the shape of you without apology now.

You made a sound against his mouth. Jack swallowed it. His hand spread at your back, dragging you closer, and the other moved up your side, thumb brushing high enough to make your breath catch. That was all the permission he seemed to need. 

His mouth left yours and found your throat again, hot and open, then lower, dragging over your collarbone with a rough breath that sounded too close to restraint breaking.

Your fingers caught in his hair. “Jack,” you breathed.

His hand tightened at your waist.

“Yeah,” Jack said against your skin. “I know.”

His mouth moved lower. The first touch of his lips against your chest made your back arch. A low sound left him, rough and pleased, and his hand slid to your lower back, holding you there as his mouth opened against you.

Your head tipped back. The wall was cool behind you. Jack was hot everywhere else. His tongue moved, slow and deliberate, and your knees threatened to become useless. You tugged at his hair without meaning to. Jack made another sound against your skin, and the vibration went through you.

“Careful,” he said, mouth still pressed to you.

Your laugh came out breathless and ruined. “I don’t want careful.”

Jack went still. His mouth lifted from your skin. For one second, you thought you had said the wrong thing. Then he looked up at you. His eyes were dark. Focused. Gone warm around the edges in a way that made your stomach dip.

“That’s not what careful means,” Jack said.

Your breath caught. His hand slid to your hip, firm enough to make the point.

“Careful means I’m paying attention,” Jack said.

His thumb pressed once into your skin. “Careful means I know exactly how hard you’re breathing.”

His mouth brushed your chest again, barely enough to count. “Exactly where you go quiet.”

Another kiss. Lower. Hotter. “Exactly what makes you pull my hair like that.”

Your fingers tightened in his hair before you could stop them. Jack’s mouth curved against your skin.

“There,” he murmured. “Like that.”

Heat rushed through you. You swallowed. “That’s not fair.”

Jack’s hand pressed into your lower back, keeping you arched into him.

“No,” Jack said. “It’s careful.”

Then he sucked, slow and firm, and the rest of your answer disappeared into a broken sound.

Your answer broke apart in your throat.

Jack stayed there for another second, mouth hot against you, hand firm at your back like he knew exactly how close your knees were to giving up.

Which was unfair. Because he was the reason. You dragged in a breath and tugged harder at his hair. Jack’s mouth lifted from your skin. His eyes found yours. Dark. Focused. Too pleased by what he had done to you.

“You look smug,” you said, but your voice had no strength behind it.

Jack’s thumb moved once against your waist. “Do I?”

“Yes.” You breathed. 

His mouth brushed yours. “Observant.”

You made a frustrated sound and caught the hem of his shirt again.

This time, Jack let you pull.

The black fabric dragged up his body, and your knuckles brushed warm skin, the firm plane of his stomach, the solid rise of his ribs. He helped only when your hands got impatient, reaching back and pulling the shirt over his head in one smooth motion before dropping it somewhere near yours. For one second, you forgot what you were doing.

The corner of Jack’s mouth shifted. “Problem?”

Your hands landed on his chest. 

“No,” you said, quieter than you meant to. “Not a problem.”

He was warm under your palms. Solid. Real. Not the fantasy you had built from forearms and black cotton and the way he leaned back in a booth like he owned the right to be tired. This was Jack without the shirt, without the club, without the convenient distance of a crowded room.

Your fingers moved over him slowly. His chest. His shoulders. The old scars and lived-in strength of a body that had been through things and kept going anyway. Jack watched your face as you touched him. You felt it immediately. Not insecurity, exactly. Not embarrassment.

But attention.

He was reading you with the same brutal focus he seemed to bring to everything else, waiting for the smallest shift. A flinch. A pause. Some sign that the reality of him was not what you had wanted.

He did not get one.

Your hands moved over his chest again, firmer this time, because now you could. Because you had wanted to know what he felt like all night. Because the answer was somehow better than your imagination, and your imagination had been doing impressive work.

Jack’s breath changed. You looked up at him. His eyes had gone darker, but there was something quieter under it now. Something more exposed. You touched his jaw. Jack turned his face just enough for his mouth to brush your palm.

The tenderness of it hit you so sharply that your teasing vanished. Then your hand slid down his chest. Lower. 

Jack’s hand closed gently around your wrist before your fingers reached his belt. 

You stilled immediately.

His breathing had changed again. Not colder. Not distant. Just careful in a different way.

You looked up at him. “Jack?”

His eyes stayed on yours. “There’s something you should know.”

For one awful second, you thought he was taking it back. You made yourself breathe. “Okay.”

Jack’s thumb moved once over the inside of your wrist.

“My right leg,” Jack said. “Below the knee.”

Your gaze flicked down before you could stop it. Not far. Not long. Then it came back to his face. He saw it.

“Prosthetic,” Jack said.

The word was plain. Controlled. Offered without apology. But something in his face had gone guarded in a way that made your chest ache. 

You did not move away. You did not let go of his hand. You did not look at him like anything had been taken from the room. Because nothing had. Your pulse was still too fast. Your skin was still too warm. His mouth was still too close, and you still wanted it back on yours badly enough to ache.

So you moved closer.

Slowly.

Close enough that he could stop you if he wanted.

He did not.

Your free hand touched his chest, light at first, then steadier when his breath caught.

“Okay,” you whispered.

You kissed the side of his neck.

Jack went still. Not cold. Not distant. Still.

Your mouth brushed the warm skin beneath his jaw, soft enough to ask, sure enough to answer.

“Tell me what you need,” you murmured against him.

Jack’s hand tightened around your wrist. Only once. His voice came lower. “I’ll handle it.”

You kissed him again, just below his ear, and felt his control shudder under your mouth.

“Okay,” you said.

Jack moved. Fast enough to steal your breath. His hand left your wrist and caught your jaw, firm and certain, and then his mouth was on yours again. Not careful in the slow way. Not hesitant. Not like the quiet had cooled anything down.

He kissed you like that one word had undone him more thoroughly than any teasing could have. Like the thing that finally broke his restraint was not your mouth at his neck or your hand near his belt, but the way you had listened.

The way you had stayed. The way you had said okay and meant it. Your back hit the wall again, and Jack followed, crowding you there with a rough sound low in his throat. His hand slid from your jaw to the side of your neck, his thumb beneath your chin, tilting you open for him.

You gave.

Jack felt it.

His kiss deepened, hot and hungry, and the hand at your waist dragged you closer until there was no space left between you.

When he broke the kiss, his mouth stayed close to yours. His breathing was rough. So was yours.

“Bedroom,” Jack said.

Your lips brushed his when you answered. “Okay.”

His eyes darkened at the word. Like it still did something to him. Like it might always. Jack kissed you once more, hard and brief, then took your hand. This time, when he led you deeper into the house, there was no pause at the door. No driveway. No almost.

Just Jack’s hand around yours, your shirt on the floor behind you, and the impossible knowledge that you were still going. That he still wanted you. That you still wanted him so badly it was starting to feel less like a choice and more like a condition.

The hallway was dim.

You caught pieces of his house as he moved you through it. A framed print on the wall. A pair of boots by the back door. A jacket thrown over the arm of a chair. A kitchen light left off. A living room that looked quiet and lived-in and entirely too Jack.

You wanted to see all of it later. 

Right now, Jack’s hand was warm around yours, and every step toward his bedroom made your pulse climb higher. He pushed the bedroom door open and let you in first. The room was dark except for the low light he turned on near the bed. Warm light spilled over rumpled sheets, a dresser, a chair in the corner, the ordinary intimacy of a space that belonged to him.

Your breath caught again.

Jack shut the door behind you. The click was softer this time. It still felt final. You turned toward him. He was already watching you. Shirtless. Mouth swollen. Hair slightly ruined from your hands. His gaze moved over you, bare from the waist up, standing in his bedroom like this was still something either of you could slow down.

Then Jack stepped closer.

His hand came to your waist again, familiar now, and the other brushed your hair back from your face with a gentleness that made the heat twist into something more dangerous.

“You okay?” Jack asked.

The question was quiet. Real. You nodded, then remembered him. Remembered the way his eyes sharpened when you tried to get away with less than words.

“Yes,” you said. “I’m okay.”

Jack studied your face for one more second. Then his thumb moved along your cheek.

“Good,” he said.

You smiled faintly. “There’s that word again.”

His mouth curved.

“Seems to work on you,” Jack said.

Your breath caught. His eyes dropped to your mouth.

Then he kissed you again.

The room seemed to shrink around it.

Jack’s hands found your waist, and yours found his shoulders, and for a few seconds there was nothing careful about the way you came together again. Your bare skin met the heat of his chest, and both of you made a sound at the contact. His was lower. Yours was less controlled. Jack noticed.

His mouth curved against yours. “There it is.”

You pulled back just enough to glare at him. “Do not sound smug.”

“I’m not,” Jack said.

“You are,” you said.

Jack’s hand slid down your side, slow and warm, and his thumb pressed into your hip. “Maybe a little.”

You bit his lower lip. Not hard. Enough. Jack’s smile disappeared. His hand tightened, and the next kiss was hotter, rougher, his mouth opening over yours as he stepped you backward toward the bed.

Your knees hit the mattress.

You sat because there was nowhere else to go. Jack followed, one hand braced beside your thigh, his body leaning over yours, mouth still on yours like he had not finished proving a point. You let yourself fall back onto your elbows, and Jack’s gaze dropped, moving over you with a heat that made your stomach pull tight.

Then he stopped.

Not abruptly. Not in a way that made the room cold. He just drew in a breath and pressed one last kiss to the corner of your mouth before straightening.

“I need a second,” Jack said.

You sat up immediately. “Okay.”

His eyes flicked to yours. Something passed over his face. Not surprise exactly. Closer to relief, maybe. You did not make him explain. You did not reach for him right away.

You just stayed where you were, sitting on the edge of his bed with your shirt somewhere by his front door and your heart beating too hard in your chest.

Jack turned slightly and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight. For a second, he was close enough that your knee brushed his thigh, and the ordinary intimacy of it hit harder than you expected. Not kissing. Not touching. Just being there in his room while he trusted you with the unglamorous part.

The real part.

Jack leaned forward and reached for his belt. You watched his face first.  His jaw was set, his eyes focused, his movements practiced and efficient. There was no ceremony to it. No apology. No invitation for you to make it softer than it was. So you did not. You let him handle it. Because he had said he would. Because you believed him.

He opened his belt, then the button of his jeans, moving with the same controlled precision he brought to everything else. You stayed quiet for exactly three seconds. Then you moved. Jack glanced over his shoulder as you shifted onto the bed behind him.

You settled on your knees, close enough that your bare chest brushed the warm skin of his back when you leaned in. His hand paused at his zipper. Your mouth touched the side of his neck. Jack’s shoulders went still. You kissed him again, softer this time, just below his ear.

His breath left him through his nose. “What are you doing?”

You let your lips move down to the slope of his shoulder. “Nothing.”

Jack huffed once. “That’s not nothing.”

You smiled against his skin and kissed lower, following the hard line of his shoulder, then the warm plane of his back.

He was solid beneath your mouth. Scarred in places. Tense in others. Real everywhere. Your hand slid carefully around his side, resting against his stomach, and you felt the muscles tighten beneath your palm. Jack’s head dropped forward a fraction.

“You’re making it hard to focus here,” he said.

Your answer was to open your mouth against his shoulder and bite him. Gently. Enough to feel. Enough to make his whole body react.

“Fuck,” Jack said.

The word came out rough and immediate. Your stomach flipped. You kissed the spot after, soft and pleased, and Jack turned his head just enough to look at you over his shoulder. His eyes were dark. Warning. Wanting.

“You think you’re cute?” Jack asked.

You let your mouth brush his shoulder again. “A little.”

His jaw flexed. “You’re trouble.” 

You smiled against his skin. “You keep saying that like you don’t like it.”

Jack stared at you for one heated second. Then he looked forward again, breathing a little harder than before.

“I’m trying to take my pants off,” Jack said.

You kissed down his back, slow enough to make his shoulders tense again. “I noticed.”

His hand closed over yours where it rested at his stomach.

“Behave,” Jack said.

The word should not have worked on you. It did. Your fingers curled lightly against him. Jack felt it. His thumb dragged once over your knuckles.

“Yeah,” he said, voice lower. “Thought so.”

You pressed one more kiss between his shoulder blades, then rested your forehead there for half a second. Not hiding. Not pitying. Just close. Jack’s grip on your hand changed. Softer now. Still firm.

You lifted your head. “I’m still here.”

He went quiet. You had not meant to say it like that. Maybe you had. Jack’s thumb stopped moving. For a second, the room held still around you. Then he brought your hand to his mouth and kissed your knuckles once.

Quick. Rough. Almost too small to count. But you felt it everywhere.

“I know,” Jack said.

Then he let go of your hand and finished handling his jeans.

You stayed behind him, kneeling on the bed, your hands resting loosely at your sides even though every part of you wanted to touch him again.

Jack moved with practiced efficiency. 

Jeans first. Then the rest. Then the prosthetic, handled and set aside with quiet care.

Just Jack, doing what he needed to do, exactly like he had said he would. You watched his shoulders while he moved. The shift of muscle. The old tension beneath his skin. The way his head angled slightly, focused and calm, like he had done this a thousand times and did not need you to make it easier by pretending not to notice. So you noticed. And you stayed.

When he was done, Jack sat there for half a second, one hand braced beside him on the mattress. You moved closer before you could overthink it. Your hand touched his shoulder. Lightly. Not asking for anything. Just there.

Jack turned his head. His eyes found yours over his shoulder. For one second, his expression was impossible to read. Then his gaze dropped to your mouth. That was easier to understand. You leaned in and kissed the corner of his jaw.

Jack’s eyes closed for half a breath. You felt it. The smallest surrender. Then it was gone. His hand came up, caught the side of your neck, and pulled you around into another kiss. You went willingly, shifting until you were beside him instead of behind him, one knee pressed into the mattress near his hip, your hand sliding over his chest as his mouth opened over yours.

The kiss was hot immediately.

No slow build. No careful return. Just the two of you crashing back into the thing you had interrupted, except now there was something else under it. Something steadier. More intimate. More dangerous than want by itself.

Jack’s hand moved down your back, then to your hip, pulling you closer until your bare chest met his again. You made a sound against his mouth. Jack swallowed it and turned into you, guiding you back against the bed. Your spine met the mattress. His mouth moved to your throat. Your hands went into his hair.

“Jack,” you said, already breathless again.

His teeth grazed the side of your neck. You arched. He felt it.

“You keep saying my name like that,” Jack said, voice rough against your skin.

Your fingers tightened in his hair. “Like what?”

His hand slid down your side. “Like you want me to do something about it.”

Your stomach flipped. You opened your mouth, but his hand moved to the button of your jeans before you could answer. He stopped there. Eyes on yours. The pause was not hesitation. 

It was a question.

Your breathing changed. Jack’s gaze sharpened.

“Words,” he said.

You hated him a little for how fast heat moved through you.

“Yes,” you said.

His thumb rested just beneath the waistband. “Yes, what?”

Your face warmed. Jack waited. Not impatient. Not smug. That was a lie. A little smug.

You swallowed and held his eyes. “Take them off.”

Jack’s expression changed. Barely. Enough to make your pulse jump.

“Good,” he said.

Then he did. Slowly. Too slowly. His fingers opened the button, drew the zipper down, and hooked into the waistband. He watched your face as he eased the denim over your hips, like every hitch in your breathing was something he intended to file away and use later.

You lifted your hips when his hands guided you. Jack’s eyes flicked up to yours.

“There it is,” he said.

Your breath caught. “What?”

His hands slid the jeans lower. “The part of you that listens.”

The words went through you so sharply your hips almost lifted again. Jack saw that too. His mouth curved, barely.

“Yeah,” Jack said, voice rough. “Thought so.”

You covered your face with one hand. Jack stopped immediately. His hand closed around your wrist and drew it away.

“Don’t hide from me,” Jack said.

You looked at him. He was not smiling now. Not teasing. His thumb moved once over your wrist.

“Not now,” he said.

Something in your chest went soft and hot at the same time.

“Okay,” you whispered.

Jack held your gaze for one second longer. Then he lowered his mouth to your stomach and kissed you there, just above where your jeans had stopped. Your breath caught. His mouth moved lower, following the denim as he eased it down your legs, kissing skin as he uncovered it. Not rushed. Not careless. Like he had meant what he said earlier.

Careful meant paying attention.

And Jack was paying attention to everything.

By the time your jeans joined the rest of your clothes, you were warm all over and unsteady in a way that had nothing to do with standing.

Jack did not move away.

His hands came back to your legs, sliding slowly up from your knees to your thighs, his gaze following the path like he had nowhere else to be and no intention of rushing. Your breathing caught when his thumbs brushed the edge of your underwear. Jack looked up at you. The pause was small. Barely a pause at all. Still, you felt the question in it. Your hands tightened in the sheets.

“Yes,” you said before he could ask.

His mouth curved.

“Good girl,” Jack said, low enough that the words felt like they belonged against your skin.

Then his fingers hooked into the fabric and drew it down your legs with the same infuriating patience he had used on your jeans. Slow. Controlled. Like he knew exactly what the waiting was doing to you. Like he liked it.

You lifted your hips when his hands guided you again, and this time Jack did not tease you for listening. Not with words. His eyes did it for him. By the time he tossed your underwear aside, your face was hot, your pulse was everywhere, and Jack looked entirely too satisfied with the state of you.

Then he looked up at your face, and whatever he saw there made his jaw flex.

“Come here,” Jack said.

You pushed yourself up on your elbows. He shifted back against the pillows, settling with the kind of practical ease that reminded you again that he knew his body. Knew what he needed. Knew exactly how to move without making you guess.

You thought he wanted you in his lap.

So you moved toward him. Jack’s hand caught your thigh.

“Not there,” he said.

You froze. His gaze lifted to yours. 

Then he nodded higher. “Up here.”

Your breath stopped. Jack watched as understanding hit your face. His mouth curved. Not smug.

No, that was a lie.

A little smug.

“Jack,” you said.

His eyes stayed on yours. “Hands on the headboard.” 

The words went straight through you. You stared at him. Jack stared back. Waiting. Patient in the most unfair way.

Your mouth felt dry. “You want—”

“Yes,” Jack said.

The answer was immediate. No hesitation. No embarrassment. No room for you to make it smaller than it was. Your thighs pressed together before you could stop them.

Jack saw, and his eyes darkened.

“Come here,” he said again.

This time, you moved. Slowly at first, because your body knew what he meant now, and knowing made every inch feel impossible. You climbed higher on the bed, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his head, one hand reaching for the headboard because he had told you to.

Jack’s hands came to your thighs. Warm. Steady. Guiding.

Not pulling yet.

Just showing you where he wanted you. You settled above him, breath already trembling, fingers curling around the headboard.

Jack looked up at you. 

The sight of him there should not have done what it did to you.

But it did.

His hair was mussed from your hands. His mouth was swollen. His eyes were dark and focused, fixed on you like the rest of the room had stopped existing. Like this was not a novelty to him. Not a performance. Not some half-drunk idea born from a club and too much tension.

This was a decision. Jack’s decision. And he looked entirely too calm about it. You were not calm. You were barely breathing. His hands slid up your thighs. You hovered. Not much. Enough. Jack’s eyes flicked to your face.

“Don’t hover,” he said.

Your stomach flipped. “I’m not,” you said.

His brows lifted. You huffed a breath. “Okay, maybe a little.”

His thumb moved against your thigh. “Why?”

You swallowed. The answer got stuck for a second, not because you did not know it, but because saying it out loud made you feel too exposed. Jack waited.

You glanced down at him. “I don’t want to make it harder for you.”

His expression changed. Not offended. Not hurt. Clear.

“Then listen to me,” Jack said.

Your fingers tightened on the headboard. His hands slid higher, firm enough to make your breath catch.

“If I need something different, I’ll tell you,” he said.

You nodded, but he did not look satisfied.

“Words,” Jack said.

Your breath shook. “Okay.”

His gaze held yours.

“You told me to tell you what I needed,” Jack said. 

His hands tightened. “I’m telling you.”

Heat went through you so hard you almost forgot how to stay upright. Jack’s arms looped around your thighs. Not tentative. Not careful in the way you had misunderstood. Careful in the way he meant. Certain. Attentive. Devastating.

“Right now,” Jack said, voice rough, “I need you closer.”

Then he pulled you down to his mouth. 

Your breath broke.

Both hands tightened on the headboard as sensation shot through you, hot and sudden and so sharp your hips jerked before you could stop them.

Jack held you there.

His arms locked around your thighs, forearms firm against your legs, keeping you exactly where he wanted you as his mouth opened against you. Not hesitant. Not polite. Not even close.

His tongue moved against you, slow at first, deliberate enough to make your spine arch and your fingers grip the headboard harder.

You gasped his name.

The sound tore out of you before you could make it pretty. Jack made a low noise against you, pleased and rough, and the vibration went straight through your body. Then his tongue pressed firmer. More certain. Your elbows nearly bent. His arms tightened.

“No,” Jack said, voice rough against you. “Stay.”

You whimpered. There was no other word for it. You hated that. You loved that. Jack’s mouth curved against you like he knew both things were true.

“Good,” he said.

Then he went back to it. His tongue found the place that made your hips jerk and stayed there.

Your head dropped forward between your arms. Your fingers gripped the headboard hard enough to ache. The world narrowed to Jack’s mouth, Jack’s tongue, Jack’s hands, Jack’s arms around your thighs, Jack beneath you and somehow still in complete control.

You had never understood how someone could be under you and still make you feel like you were the one being taken apart. Now you did.

Jack knew exactly what he was doing. That was the problem. Not guessed. Not hoped. Knew. He found what made your breath catch and stayed there. He found what made your hips jerk and did it again. He found what made you go quiet and changed the pressure until sound broke out of you.

Careful meant paying attention. Careful meant he was learning you in real time and using every bit of it against you. His tongue dragged over you again, slower this time, and your body gave itself away with a full, helpless shudder. Jack’s hands shifted on your thighs.

“There,” he said, rough and low. “That’s better.”

You made a broken noise. You could feel him smile. Your hips moved before you could stop them. Once. Then again. The motion was small at first, almost accidental, your body chasing the pressure of his tongue before your brain could catch up and tell you to be embarrassed.

Jack went still for half a second. Not stopping. Reacting.

Then a rough sound left him, low and pleased, and his hands shifted on your thighs like he had just found something he liked far too much.

Your face burned. You almost froze. Jack felt it immediately. His arms tightened around your thighs.

“No,” Jack said.

Your breath caught. His tongue dragged over you again, slow and devastating, and your hips rocked into his mouth before you could stop them. Jack groaned. Actually groaned.

The sound went straight through you.

“Again,” Jack said.

The word hit you like a command. Like permission. Like praise. Your hands tightened on the headboard, and you did it again, rolling your hips against his mouth with a broken sound you could not keep in your chest.

Jack’s grip turned firmer.

His tongue met you this time, pressure perfect, rhythm changing to match yours like he had been waiting for you to stop holding back.

You were not hovering now. You were not careful now. You were moving against his mouth because he had told you to, because he wanted it, because the sound he made when you did it again made you feel powerful and ruined all at once.

Jack loved it.

You could tell. You could feel it in the way his hands held you there. In the way his mouth followed you. In the way his voice came rough and pleased against you.

“That’s it,” Jack said. “Take it.”

You were going to die here.

That seemed obvious.

You were going to die in Jack Abbot’s bed with your hands on his headboard and his arms locked around your thighs, and the most humiliating part was that you were probably going to thank him for it.

The thought shattered when he changed the angle.

His tongue moved harder, more focused, and your breath caught so sharply it hurt. Jack noticed.  He stayed there. Your body went tight. Your hands slipped against the headboard. Jack’s arms tightened again.

“Don’t pull away,” Jack said.

Your breath broke. “Jack—”

He hummed against you. Like he knew. Like he could feel it coming before you could make sense of it. Your thighs trembled around his head, and the sound that left you was barely a word.

“I’m gonna come,” you gasped.

Jack’s grip turned almost punishing. Not enough to hurt. Enough to hold. Enough to make it clear he had absolutely no intention of letting you go anywhere. A rough sound left him, low against you, and then he dragged you closer.

“I’ve got you,” Jack said, voice rough. “You’re doing so good.”

That did it.

The words hit you at the same time as his tongue, and your body broke open around the feeling.

“Jack—oh—fuck, Jack!” You came saying his name.

Not quietly. Not prettily. Not with any of the control you had been pretending to have. Jack held you through it. He did not let you disappear from it. Did not let you pull away from its force. His arms stayed firm around your thighs, his mouth softer now but still there, his tongue easing you through every last wave until your body trembled so hard you could barely keep your hands on the headboard.

By the time the last of it rolled through you, you were breathing like you had forgotten how air worked. Jack eased his hold slowly. Carefully. Actually carefully this time. His hands stayed steady at your thighs as he guided you down, like he knew your body had forgotten how to do simple things.

Which was fair.

It had.

You ended up half-kneeling over him, one hand still braced against the headboard, the other pressed to his shoulder, staring down at him like he had just ruined the entire concept of sex for everyone else.

Jack looked up at you. Mouth wet. Hair wrecked. Eyes dark and too pleased with himself. Worse, he had earned it.

Holy shit.

The thought arrived slowly, almost stupidly, through the static in your head.

Holy shit.

That was the best orgasm of your life.

Not close. Not even in the same category. Your body knew it before your brain could make language out of it. There was no polite way to compare it to anything else, no reasonable little caveat you could attach to make it less dramatic.

It had not been like that before. Ever. You were not even sure you had known it could feel like that.

Jack’s thumb moved once against your thigh. Your eyes refocused on his face. And that was the problem. Because you were in so much trouble.

You were going to want that again.

Not vaguely.

Not in some distant, theoretical way.

You were going to want it again tonight.

Tomorrow.

Every time you saw his hands.

Every time he said “Careful.”

Every time his eyes dropped to your mouth, like he knew exactly what you tasted like.

Again and again and again.

Jack’s mouth curved. “There you are.” 

You tried to answer. Nothing came out. Jack’s smile faded by a fraction. Not completely. Just enough. His hand slid from your thigh to your waist, then higher, steadying you with a touch that had gone less possessive and more careful in the way he had taught you to understand.

“Hey,” Jack said.

You blinked down at him. 

His eyes moved over your face, sharp now. Focused. “Are you okay?”

You nodded too quickly. Jack’s brows drew together.

“Words,” he said.

The command should not have affected you after that. It did anyway. You swallowed. “Yeah.”

His hand stayed at your waist. “Yeah?”

You let out a shaky laugh, half embarrassed, half still somewhere above your own body. “I’m okay.”

Jack studied you for one more second. “You sure?”

You nodded, slower this time. “I’m sure.”

His thumb moved once against your skin. Only then did the edge leave his face. Not all of it. Enough. You looked at him again.  His wet mouth, his dark eyes, the absolute wreckage of his hair from your hands and heat rushed back in so fast it nearly made you dizzy.

Jack noticed that too.

His mouth curved again, but softer this time. “Good.” 

Your laugh came out breathless. “Good?”

Jack’s hand tightened at your waist, grounding you.

“Good,” Jack said again. “Because we’re not done.”

The words went through you like a spark catching.

Your body was still trembling. Your breath still had not figured itself out. You were still half-kneeling over him, one hand on his shoulder, the other braced near his head, trying to understand how the hell you were supposed to keep functioning after that.

And Jack was looking at you like he had every intention of making it worse. You should have said something smart. Something teasing. Something that made you feel like you had even one piece of yourself left.

Instead, you kissed him. Hard. Messy. A little desperate.

Jack caught you with one hand at your waist and the other at the back of your neck, steadying you as your mouth opened over his. You tasted yourself on him, and the realization made your whole body go hot again, fast enough to make you dizzy. Jack made a rough sound against your mouth.

You pulled back just enough to breathe. “I want you.”

His eyes darkened. Your hand moved down his chest, over the warm, solid strength of him, lower this time without stopping. Jack’s breath changed. Not cautious now. Not guarded. Hungry.

“You sure?” Jack asked.

You looked at him. Really looked. At his swollen mouth. His wrecked hair. The way his hand stayed firm at your waist, grounding you even while his eyes made it very clear he wanted you spread out beneath him again.

“Yes,” you said. “I’m sure.”

Jack held your gaze for one second longer. Then he shifted, reaching toward the nightstand. You watched him open the drawer. Your stomach flipped at the ordinary sound of it. The slide of wood. The small pause.

The foil packet in his hand when he turned back to you. Protection should not have felt like part of the heat. With Jack, somehow, it did.

Practical. Certain. Adult.

Like he knew exactly what he was doing and had no interest in pretending otherwise.

His eyes flicked to yours. “Still yes?”

Your breath caught. You nodded, then corrected yourself before he could.

“Yes,” you said.

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “Good.”

The word still worked on you. Annoyingly. Devastatingly.

He tore the packet open, and for a second your brain shorted out at the sight of his hands. Those hands. The same ones that had held your thighs open, guided your hips, kept you from pulling away when your own body tried to run from how good it felt. You were in so much trouble. You already knew that.

Jack rolled the condom on with efficient, practiced focus, and you hated how hot that was too. Everything he did was calm. Competent. Unrushed. Like he had all the time in the world to ruin you properly. When he looked back up, his gaze moved over your face.

“You with me?” Jack asked.

Your mouth felt dry. “Yes,” you said. “Very much with you.”

His hand came to your thigh. “Then come here.”

You moved before you had a chance to think better of it. Jack guided you into his lap, hands steady at your hips as you straddled him. The position should have made you feel in control. It did not. Not really. Not with the way he looked at you from beneath lowered lids. Not with the way his thumbs moved slowly against your skin. Not with the way he sat back against the headboard like patience was something he had weaponized.

Your hands settled on his chest. His skin was warm beneath your palms. His heart was beating faster than he looked like it was. That made something inside you turn over. Jack was not untouched by this. He was just better at hiding it.

You shifted above him, and his jaw tightened. There. You saw it. The crack. Small, but real.

Your pulse jumped. Jack’s eyes lifted to yours.

“You like that?” he asked.

You swallowed. “What?”

“Seeing what you do to me,” Jack said. 

Your fingers curled lightly against his chest. You wanted to lie. You could not.

“Yes,” you whispered.

Jack’s hands tightened at your hips. “Then look,” he said.

Your breath stopped. He guided you down slowly. So slowly, your whole body tensed with it. The first press of him into you made your eyes flutter, and Jack’s hands flexed at your hips immediately.

“Look at me,” Jack said.

You forced your eyes open. He was watching your face. Of course he was. The stretch of him filled your body inch by inch, slow and overwhelming, and your mouth fell open because there was no way to stay quiet through it.

Jack’s jaw locked.

His head tipped back against the headboard for half a second, and the sight of it almost ruined you. Then his eyes found yours again. Dark. Focused. Barely controlled.

“There you go,” Jack said, voice rough.

Your hands pressed harder against his chest. You sank down the rest of the way, and both of you went still. For one breath, there was nothing. No teasing. No smug little smile. No careful corrections. Just the two of you trying to survive the first full second of it. Jack’s thumbs pressed into your hips.

“Breathe,” he said.

You tried. It came out broken.

His mouth curved faintly, but his voice stayed rough. “Close enough.”

A laugh caught in your throat and turned into a moan when you shifted. Jack’s hands tightened. You felt him everywhere. Deep. Heavy. So real it made the room tilt. You looked down at him and thought, wildly, that this was what you had wanted in the club.

This exact thing. Jack beneath you. Jack watching you. Jack trying not to let you see how badly he wanted to take over.

You moved again. Slowly. His jaw flexed. You did it again. Jack’s breath left him through his nose. His eyes stayed on yours. Patient. Hungry. Dangerous. He was letting you have it.

That was the worst part.

He let you set the rhythm. Let you rock down against him, let you find what felt good, let you watch his control tighten and tighten and tighten beneath your hands. He let you see the exact second it started costing him.

You felt powerful for maybe thirty seconds. Maybe less. Then the angle caught something deep enough to make your rhythm falter. Jack’s mouth curved. Barely. Meanly.

“That all you’ve got?” he asked.

Your breath caught. The callback hit you low and hot. You glared at him, but it was ruined by the way your hips stuttered. Jack’s hands slid fully around your hips.

“Careful,” you said, breathless, trying to make it sound like a warning.

His eyes darkened. “We covered that.” 

Then he moved you. Your whole body jolted. His grip took over the rhythm you had lost, guiding you down onto him with a slow, firm pull that made your hands clutch at his chest.

“Jack,” you gasped.

His gaze dropped to your mouth.

“You wanted to see if I’d last,” Jack said.

His hands dragged your hips down again. Slow. Devastating. “Now you know.”

Your head dipped forward. He caught your jaw before you could hide. Not hard. Enough.

“Uh-uh,” Jack said. “I said look.”

You looked. You had to. His eyes were on you, dark and intent, watching every reaction like he had already decided to memorize them all and use them against you later.

Your thighs started to shake. He felt that too. Jack’s hands slowed, but the pressure did not ease. He let you feel every inch of him. Every drag. Every deep, overwhelming second. You were warm everywhere. Loose and trembling and still somehow wound too tight to breathe right.

Jack’s thumb moved at your hip.

“There,” he said, voice rough. “That’s it.”

You made a sound you did not recognize. His jaw tightened at it. The pleasure built differently this time. Not the sharp, blinding shock of his mouth. This was deeper. Heavier.

A slow heat gathering low in your body with every drag of him, every firm pull of his hands, every rough breath he let out when you moved just right. Your hands pressed hard against his chest.

“Jack,” you said.

His eyes sharpened. “Yeah?”

Your hips stuttered again. You tried to keep going. Tried to hold the rhythm. Tried to stay above him like you had any control left at all. Jack’s hands tightened.

“Oh,” he said, low and rough. “There you are.”

Your breath caught. He knew. Of course he knew.

“I’m—” you started.

Jack pulled you down harder, and the rest of the sentence broke into a moan. His mouth curved.

“You’re what?” he asked.

You hated him. You wanted him so badly you could barely see straight.

Your nails dragged lightly over his chest. “I’m close.”

Jack’s expression changed. The smugness did not disappear. It sharpened. His hands shifted on your hips, holding you steady as he guided you through another slow, devastating roll.

“Good,” Jack said.

Your whole body clenched. He felt it. His jaw flexed.

“Fuck,” he said, almost under his breath.

The sound of him losing that much control nearly did it by itself. Your rhythm faltered completely. Jack took over. From underneath you, somehow, he took over.

His hands held your hips exactly where he wanted them, guiding you down onto him again and again, each movement controlled and deep and timed like he knew your body better than you did.

Maybe he did. Maybe that was the problem. Your head fell forward. Jack’s hand came to your jaw again.

“Look at me,” he said.

Your eyes opened. Barely. Enough. His gaze locked on yours.

“There,” Jack said. “Stay with me.”

Your breath broke. “Jack—”

“I know,” he said.

His thumb moved against your jaw. “I’ve got you.”

You shook above him, thighs trembling, hands slipping against his chest. Jack held you there. Kept you moving. Kept you taking him. Kept you looking at him until there was nowhere for the feeling to go except through you.

“You’re doing so good,” Jack said.

That did it. Your body broke around him. You came with his name in your mouth, sharp and helpless, your hands clinging to his chest as Jack’s grip turned firm enough to keep you upright through every wave.

He watched you through all of it. His eyes dark. His jaw tight. His body locked beneath yours like watching you fall apart on top of him was testing every piece of control he had left.

“Fuck,” Jack said, rough and low. “That’s it.”

You were still shaking when Jack pulled you down into a kiss. Hot. Deep. Almost rough enough to steal the last of your balance. When he broke it, his mouth stayed against yours.

“Turn over,” Jack said.

Your whole body reacted. The words went through you before your brain could catch up. You stilled. Jack felt it immediately. His hand softened at your hip. His eyes searched your face.

“Only if you want it,” he said.

Your pulse hammered. You looked at him, at the care under the command, at the restraint under all that heat, and wanted him so sharply it nearly hurt.

“I want it,” you said.

His gaze held yours. “You sure?”

You nodded, then remembered. “I’m sure,” you said.

Jack kissed you once. Hard. Approving. Then his hands shifted, guiding you carefully off him and onto the mattress. There was nothing hurried about the way he moved you. Nothing careless. He was intense, yes. Hungry, yes. But every motion still carried that same infuriating attention.

Careful meant paying attention. You understood that now. You turned over because he had told you to. Because you wanted to. Because the sound he made when you did sent heat crawling up your spine.

Jack’s hand came to your hip. Then the other. He settled behind you, his palms spreading over your skin, and for one suspended second, he did not move. He just looked. You felt it. The weight of his gaze. The exact fantasy clicking into place. Your fingers twisted in the sheets.

“Jack?” you asked.

His hand tightened at your hip.

“This,” Jack said, voice rough at your shoulder. “This is what I kept thinking about.”

Your breath caught. His mouth brushed your skin.

“Your hips under my hands,” Jack said.

His fingers flexed. “Your mouth trying to stay quiet.”

Heat rushed through you. You pushed back without meaning to. Jack went very still. Then he laughed once. Low. Disbelieving. Rough enough to make your whole body tighten.

“Fuck,” Jack said. “You are trouble.”

Then he pushed back into you. Your arms nearly gave out. The angle was different. Deeper. Sharper. Enough that the air left your lungs all at once. Jack’s hands held your hips, keeping you exactly where he wanted you as he started to move. Not frantic. Not out of control. Worse than that. Controlled. Certain. Hard enough to make your fingers clutch at the sheets, slow enough to make you feel every second of it. You buried your face in the mattress to muffle a moan. Jack noticed. His hand slid up your spine.

“Don’t do that,” he said.

Your voice came out broken. “Do what?”

His mouth brushed your shoulder. “Go quiet on me.”

Your body clenched around him. Jack’s grip tightened.

“Oh,” he said, rough and low. “You like that too.”

You could not answer. Not properly. Not with him moving like that. Not with his hands on your hips and his voice at your back and the memory of his mouth still burning through your body.

“Words,” Jack said.

You dragged in a breath. “Yes.”

His hand slid around your waist. “Yes what?”

You made a helpless sound. Jack slowed. Cruel. Patient. Waiting.

Your fingers twisted in the sheets. “Yes, I like it.”

His mouth touched the back of your shoulder. “Good.”

Then he moved again, and your answer dissolved into a moan. It built differently this time. Not fast and blinding like before. This was deeper. Heavier. A slow heat gathering low in your body with every drag of him, every firm pull of his hands, every rough breath he let out against your skin.

Jack’s control was fraying. You could feel it now. In the way his grip tightened. In the way his breathing turned uneven. In the way his mouth found your shoulder and stayed there, open and hot, like he needed somewhere to put the sound building in his chest.

You pushed back again. His hips stuttered. Only once. But you felt it. Jack’s hand came down beside yours on the bed.

“Careful,” he said, but it was wrecked now.

Not the lesson from before. Not the warning from the truck. Something closer to a plea.

You smiled into the sheets, breathless and ruined. “I thought that wasn’t what careful meant.”

Jack’s hand slid to your jaw. He pulled you up. Not roughly. Not too fast. Just enough to bring your back against his chest, your body held upright by the steady grip of his hand at your jaw.

Not your throat. Your jaw. Firm. Certain. Keeping your face turned enough that he could see you. Keeping you with him. His other hand moved low over your stomach, spreading there with a pressure that made the feeling of him sharper, deeper, impossible to ignore.

Your breath broke. Jack felt it and his mouth brushed the side of your neck.

“There,” Jack said, voice rough against your ear. “Stay with me.”

You tried to nod. His hand at your jaw held you still.

“Words,” Jack said.

Your eyes fluttered. “I’m here.”

His hand pressed lower on your stomach. Just enough. Your whole body jolted. Jack’s breath went rough against your ear.

“You feel that?” he asked.

Your fingers scrambled for something to hold onto and found his forearm.

“Jack—”

His hand pressed again, careful and devastating. “You feel me?”

The sound that left you barely counted as an answer. Jack’s grip at your jaw tightened by a fraction.

“Words,” he said again.

Your whole body shook against him.

“Yes,” you gasped. “Fuck, yes, I feel you.”

A rough sound left him, and his forehead dropped briefly to your shoulder like the answer had done something to him too.

“Good,” Jack said.

Then he moved again, and there was nothing left in your head but him.

Only him. His chest against your back. His hand at your jaw. His arm around your body. The deep, relentless drag of him inside you, each thrust controlled enough to make you feel every second and rough enough to make your thoughts scatter before they could become words.

Your fingers locked around his forearm. Not pulling him away. Holding on.

His mouth brushed your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth from the side.

His breathing was rough now. Uneven. The kind of uneven that made heat curl low in your stomach because Jack had been so controlled all night. So deliberate. So infuriatingly sure of himself.

And now he was starting to sound wrecked.

His hand pressed low over your stomach again, and the angle made your whole body jolt. You clenched around him. Jack swore against your throat.

“Fuck,” Jack said, low and broken.

The sound did something to you. Not composed. Not smug. Not careful. Broken. You turned your face toward him as much as his hold allowed, and his mouth caught yours in a kiss that was more breath than anything else, hot and messy and badly aimed.

It was not pretty.

Nothing about either of you was pretty anymore. Your body was trembling. His breathing was harsh. The sheets were twisted beneath your knees, and your skin was damp where his chest pressed to your back. His hand at your jaw held you there like he could not stand the thought of losing your face now, not when he was this close.

“Jack,” you said, and his name came out softer than you meant it to.

His rhythm stuttered. Only once. But you felt it. His forehead dropped to your shoulder.

“Don’t,” Jack said.

You swallowed. “Don’t what?”

His laugh was rough and breathless against your skin. “Say my name like that unless you want this to be over.”

Heat curled through you, slow and vicious. You should have let him have that. You should have been merciful. You were not.

“Jack,” you said again.

His whole body went tight behind you. The sound that left him was rough enough to make your stomach flip. Not quite a groan. Not quite your name. Something worse. Something dragged out of him. His hand left your stomach and caught your hip, holding you steady as he drove into you with less control than before.

“There,” Jack said, voice wrecked at your ear. “Fuck, there.”

Your fingers dug into his forearm. He felt it. His mouth pressed to your neck, open and hot, and the next sound he made was unmistakable. A groan. Deep. Rough. Dragged out of him. His hand tightened at your hip.

“I’m gonna fucking come,” Jack said, voice wrecked against your skin.

Your whole body went molten. The words hit you low and hot, and you turned your face toward him as much as his grip at your jaw allowed.

“Jack,” you whispered.

His rhythm stuttered. Only once. Then he drove into you again. Once. Twice. A third time, harder, his breath breaking against your neck.

“Oh fu—” Jack’s voice snapped off into a rough groan. “Oh, fuck.”

His hand at your jaw gentled even as the rest of him went tense behind you. 

He came like that.

 With his mouth against your skin. With that broken sound still caught in his throat. With your name rough and helpless on the next breath. You felt every second of it. The hard shudder through his body. The broken rhythm. The way his grip on your hip tightened, then loosened, then tightened again like he did not know whether to hold on or let himself fall apart.

He held you through it.

Or maybe you held him. Maybe it was both. For a few seconds, neither of you moved. Jack’s forehead rested against your shoulder. His breathing was harsh against your skin. Your own body still trembled in little aftershocks, too sensitive, too warm, too aware of every place he touched you. Then Jack’s hand slid from your jaw to your cheek. Gentle now. So gentle it almost hurt worse.

“You okay?” Jack asked.

You nodded before you remembered.

“Yes,” you said, voice hoarse. “I’m okay.”

His thumb brushed your cheek. “Sure?”

You let out a quiet, shaky laugh. “Jack.”

“That’s not an answer,” Jack said.

You turned your face toward him, tired and warm and still entirely too aware of him. “I’m sure.”

His eyes searched yours for another second. Then his mouth touched your shoulder. Soft. Brief. Nothing like the way he had kissed you before. 

“Okay,” Jack said.

He helped you down carefully, one hand at your waist, the other braced beside you. The shift made you hiss softly, and Jack stopped immediately. Your hand covered his.

“I’m okay,” you said.

His eyes flicked to yours. You managed a faint smile. “That one was preemptive.”

Jack huffed a breath that might have been a laugh if either of you had the energy for one.

“Smartass,” Jack said.

His voice was softer now. Still Jack. But softer. He moved away only long enough to deal with the condom and get a washcloth. Practical. Quiet. No performance, no awkwardness, no sudden distance after all that heat.

You stayed where you were for a second, cheek pressed to the sheets, trying to convince your body it belonged to you again. It was not going well.

Jack came back and sat beside you on the bed. The mattress dipped. His hand touched your hip first, warm and steady. “Can I?”

You nodded into the sheets, then caught yourself.

“Yes,” you said.

His mouth curved faintly. “Good.”

You did not have the strength to be annoyed by how much that still worked on you. He cleaned you up with the same infuriating care he seemed to bring to everything, his touch gentle enough to make your chest ache and matter-of-fact enough to keep you from feeling exposed.

That might have been the worst part. Or the best part. The way he did not make tenderness feel fragile. The way he made it feel practical. Expected. Like of course he would take care of you. Like of course he would not leave you to figure out what to do with yourself after he had taken you apart.

Your throat tightened. You blamed exhaustion. Mostly. When he finished, Jack tossed the washcloth into his laundry basket and looked down at you.

His hair was a disaster. His mouth was swollen. His eyes were still dark, but the edge had gentled into something quieter. You pushed yourself up slowly. Your arms felt untrustworthy.

Jack noticed and reached for you immediately, one hand steadying your waist.

You let him. That should have worried you. It did not. You sat back on your heels and looked around for your clothes, reality creeping in around the edges of the room.

Your jeans were somewhere on the floor. Your underwear too. Your red top was still by the front door. Fantastic. You shifted like you were going to climb off the bed. Jack’s hand stayed at your waist.

“Where are you going?” Jack asked.

You glanced back at him. “Just getting my clothes.”

His expression changed. Not much. Enough.

“You don’t have to,” Jack said.

You blinked. “I don’t?”

His thumb moved once against your side. “Not if you don’t want to.”

The room went very quiet. Your first instinct was to make a joke. To shrug it off. To say something easy and casual and painless, because that was what people did after nights like this, wasn’t it? They found their clothes, fixed their hair, checked their phone, made the night smaller before it started asking for anything.

But you could not make this small. Not with Jack looking at you like that. Not with his hand still warm at your waist. Not with your body still aching in ways that made your stomach flip every time you shifted. 

You were in trouble. Real trouble. Because it had been one night. One bad decision. One club. One black T-shirt. And already you knew. You were going to want him again. Again and again and again.

Jack’s eyes moved over your face, and whatever he saw there made his mouth soften.

“Hey,” Jack said.

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

He reached for the black T-shirt he had dropped near the bed and held it out to you.

“Put this on if you’re cold,” Jack said.

You looked at the shirt. Then at him. Something warm and dangerous moved through your chest.

“Bossy after sex too?” you asked.

Jack’s mouth curved.

“You complained less during,” Jack said.

A laugh broke out of you, tired and unsteady. Jack’s expression shifted at the sound. Like he liked it. Like he was relieved by it. You took the shirt from him and pulled it over your head. It fell soft and warm around you, smelling like him, and that should not have done anything to you after everything that had just happened.

It did anyway.

Jack watched you for a second too long. Then he shifted back against the pillows and opened one arm. Not demanding. Not assuming. Just offering.

You hesitated for half a breath.

Then you crawled back into bed. Jack’s arm closed around you when you settled against him, careful with your body, firm enough that you knew he wanted you there. Your cheek rested against his chest, and his hand moved slowly over your side, grounding and warm.

For a minute, neither of you said anything. The quiet was different now. Still charged. Still too intimate. But softer around the edges. You listened to his breathing settle beneath your ear.

Your eyes grew heavy despite yourself.

Then the thought slipped out before you could stop it.

“So,” you said, voice muffled against his chest. “That was careful?”

Jack’s hand paused on your side. Then his chest moved under your cheek with a quiet laugh.

“For now,” Jack said.

Your eyes opened. “For now?”

His hand resumed its slow path over your side.

“Sleep for a little while,” Jack said.

You tilted your head enough to look at him. “A little while?”

Jack’s thumb moved against your waist. His eyes met yours, dark and warm and entirely too sure of himself.

“You’ll need it,” Jack said.

Companion piece to:

A Red Velvet Original - After doing a guest spot on Javadi’s podcast, Jack discovers there may be a niche for a voice like his.

NotTheDoctor - Jack's receives a surprise gift after his first foray into audio erotica goes viral.

The Quinn Archives:

Principessa – A forbidden romance between a mafia heiress and her bodyguard is threatened when her father insists it’s time for her to marry. [M4F] [Mafia Romance] [Starcrossed Lovers] [Older Man] [Age Gap] [MDom] [Fingering] [We Might Get Caught] [Possessive]

There’s a notebook at the nurses’s station.

One with red velvet cupcakes on the cover, all of them with happy smiley faces.  

Jack knows who it belongs to. But that doesn’t stop him opening it, from thumbing through the pages and seeing scores of detailed hieroglyphics crafted into Quinn episode formats. He understands some of the bracketed abbreviations like [M4F], [MMF]. Everything else is nonsense, a collection of squiggly lines and dots that make absolutely no sense to him.

“Who’s the shorthand expert?” Shen asks, appearing at his shoulder like a fucking ghost. The straw of his Dunkin is tucked into the corner of his mouth as he chugs iced coffee, the cubes clattering against each other.

“You can read it?” Jack snaps the notebook shut, his cheeks colouring at the implication. The last thing he needs is his Attendings thinking he’s a dirty old man… which he guesses he kind of is with his voice acting work…

“Hm, no.” Shen shakes his head as he speaks around the straw. “But one of my friends is a journalist and his notes look just like that. “Is someone finally vying to take down the establishment?”

It’s a joke, at least Jack hopes it is, because he certainly doesn’t need the rumour of a whistleblower reaching Gloria’s ear.

“Probably just someone that knows this hospital is full of nosy fucks like us.” Jack responds, placing the notepad back on the nurse’s station. “I’m sure they’ll come back for it.”

In fact, he’s banking on it. He’s going to set up a little sting operation right at the terminal that overlooks the nurse’s station, keep an eye on the notebook and see who it goes home with.

Today’s the day he finds out who Red Velvet really is, he’s sure of it.

He drops down onto the rolling stool, his bottle of water set up next to the computer, his protein bar in his pocket. From here, he has the perfect view of his quarry.

The thing he doesn’t factor in is how dumb the general public are. Wednesday mornings between 2am and 5am are usually the quietest times in the E.R. It’s when he usually manages to get all of his charting done.

Instead, they’re bombarded by idiots.

The frat boy who set fire to his friend’s pubes when he was passed out.

The guy who has half a garden gnome stuck up his ass.

The dude who’s secretly training for a hot dog eating competition and doesn’t want his wife to find out about his gastric issues because she threatened to leave him if he shits himself again.

They aren’t even challenging cases, but each and everyone requires his attention because of some crazy complication.

Genital skin grafts, a perforated bowel, esophageal rupture.

By the time he returns to the nurse’s station the notebook is gone, whisked away to God knows where and he still has no idea who Red Velvet is. Something that is like an scalpel being plunged into his brain after recording ten of her absolutely filthy scripts for his Quinn sessions.

“Do you know where the notebook went?” He asks you, his charge nurse, his fingertip impatiently tapping on the space where it used be.

“I didn’t see a notebook.” You tell him, tucking a strand of hair back behind your ear. Three piercings glitter in the intense fluorescents, a tiny gold rose, an ivy leaf and a stud. They were given to you six months ago at the garden party you’d had after you hit that milestone birthday. “But I can help you look.”

“No, no. Its fine.” He says brisky, running an agitated hand through his burnished silver curls. He can’t believe he fucked up such an opportunity, or rather the guy with the garden gnome did.

He’s still pissed off about the whole thing when Jesse turns up for his shift, dark square rimmed sunglasses on his features because it’s bright as fuck outside. “I heard you were trying to stakeout a notebook.”

“She figured out what I was doing?” Jack sighs as he sits at the nurse’s station, listening to you do your first handover with Dana. You’ve been his charge nurse for exactly twenty-four hours now, and it’s clear he made the right choice recommending you after Lena departed to do the death doula thing full time.

“Yeah, she’s pretty smart like that.” Jesse looks at Jack over the top of his shades. “And you weren’t that subtle.”

“Smart enough to leave her notebook lying around where anyone can find it.” Jack retorts grumpily, pushing himself up from his stool. He grits his teeth as the ache in his hip returns, reminding him he’s spent a little too much time on his new leg tonight. “You’re having great fun with this aren’t you?”

“Yeah.” Jesse drawls, his chin coming to rest on his palm as he leans on the counter. “It’s not often someone out manoeuvres you. I know the suspense must be killing you so we had a chat this morning and you can come with me to meet her on Friday if you want.”

“What’s the catch?” Jack asks because surely it would just be easier to introduce the two of them at a shift change or something.

“You have to go somewhere with me, and it has to be a secret.” The expression on Jesse’s face, it’s entirely serious, the same way it was when he showed Jack his Quinn profile.

“Are you planning to murder me, Jesse?” Jack asks outright and Jesse barks out a laugh as he shoves off from the desk to put his stuff in his locker.

“I guess you’ll have to find out.” Jesse shrugs as he backs away with a sly grin. “Remember curiosity did kill the cat.”

Like My Work? - Tip your friendly fan fic writer here! Or be a sweetheart and drop me comment or reblog.

getting wetter the longer he looked at you and he hadn’t even done anything yet. couldn’t even see your clit like this, just a glimpse of your inner folds, of your little hole as it tensed and then relaxed repeatedly. but the anticipation was enough, the scrutiny was enough. to make your belly warm, to cause the desire to spiral and tug.

jack had finally spread your pussy open with his fingers, his thumbs on either side, and exposed your clit, not even puffy, just beginning to peek out behind its hood. shy and barely awake like the rest of you, a little dazed as you came out of an impromptu nap. linen-creases on your arms and legs, body still warm with sleep. he exposed your hole too, the skin stretching taut and shiny with how wet you had become.

jack made a soft cooing noise, his breath ghosting over your clit and making your hips jump a little off the bed.

‘so pretty,’ he said, his eyes heavy between your legs, dragging over every inch as the heat in your cheeks suffused down your neck and your chest, blooming in your nipples, your mouth dropping open to suck in much needed air. ‘my baby’s pretty little pussy.’

you let slip a noise when he pressed a closed-mouth kiss to your mound, almost chaste in the same way he would often kiss the top of your head. close enough to your clit that it felt like a missing limb, something he was doing to deliberately tease you. he gave you another kiss and your belly twitched.

‘daddy just needs to make sure there’s nothing wrong with his little girl,’ he said, ‘gotta check her pretty pussy from the inside.’

and then jack had slipped his entire thumb inside your cunt and dragged the pad of it along your upper wall, right below your pubic bone.

‘nggngg—,’ you couldn’t help but moan, eyelashes fluttering, an unintelligible not-word from deep inside your throat. his big thumb felt particularly massive today, dipping in again and rubbing that perfect spot that always made you dizzy.

jack hummed in faux-concern. ‘so tight and wet around my finger, baby. you feeling alright?’

you looked away from the amused glint in his eyes, thought the embarrassment might burn right through you. so attuned to jack and the pleasure he gave you, that he barely had to look or touch you and your cunt was dripping, more than ready to take him inside.

your hole twitched around nothing as he slipped his thumb out, moving it over your clit, softly petting. your hips jumped again.

‘so sensitive too,’ jack said, lightly clicking his tongue. ‘daddy might have to bring you to work with him, baby, take a closer look at you.’

a vision of you completely naked in stirrups while jack looked deep inside your cunt with a speculum flashed in front of your eyes, and the noise you made was so high it couldn’t be classified as anything other than a desperate whine.

he huffed a quiet laugh that made you burn hotter. ‘yeah, you like that idea? being daddy’s perfect patient?’

you couldn’t look at him but you could nod your head, so you did, your hair sliding against the sheets.

jack began to slowly circle your clit with his thumb. ‘daddy’s gonna spread you out on his table and inspect every inch of you, baby. gotta take a look at all your pretty holes to make sure my little girl is exactly as soft and wet as she should be.’

oh my god. you squeezed your eyes shut.

he kept his thumb on your clit and slipped inside two fingers. your mouth opened, a shaky little gasp escaping, as he stretched you to the base of his knuckles.

‘think i'll start with this one, make it come all over my hand,’ jack said and started to undulate his fingers, pressing into that spot under your pubic bone again and again.

it was deliciously good and you whined, knees lowering so you could plant your feet and rock into it, increasing the pressure of his fingers, the angle they fucked in and out of you.

‘that’s it, baby, c’mon,’ jack said, keeping the same measured and devastating pace, ‘give daddy an orgasm before he goes off to work.’

you moaned, the sloppy sound of your cunt getting fingered so loud and obscene that your neighbors could probably hear it through the window.

‘harder, please,’ you begged him.

jack pressed an open-mouth kiss to the inside of your knee, and set his left hand onto the bed next to your hip, giving himself better leverage to increase the intensity of his fingers, the sloshing sound that was coming from deep inside your cunt.

‘good girl, baby, good girl,’ he encouraged, ‘come all over the bed for me. come on, i know you can do it.’

you grasped blindly at jack's shoulder, pleasure mounting so fast it frightened you a little, and snagged your fingers on the edge of his shirt collar, eyes locked onto his. the pressure behind your pubic bone near unbearable as he milked your g-spot, legs shaking.

‘do it cause i told you to. come on, baby girl, soak my fucking hand.’

‘oh,’ you squeaked, holding onto jack for dear life as your back bowed off the mattress, eyes wide and mouth working around a silent scream. your belly spasmed, cunt suddenly gushing around jack’s fingers as you squirted all over the bed.

‘that's my fucking girl,’ jack half-said, half-laughed, sounding utterly delighted by the way you had just ruined all his clean sheets. ‘knew you could fucking do it.’

he leaned down to press sweet, wet kisses to your forehead, humming against your skin, only slipping his fingers out of your pussy once you had stopped clenching around them. you were still holding onto his shirt collar, breathing hard, the lower half of your body experiencing a certain bonelessness, comparable to that of melted wax.

‘gonna take a shower and go to work, okay?’ jack murmured, after a minute of this, kissing your cheekbone a few more times and then your mouth. his stubble scratched a little as his lips moved against yours.

‘okay,’ you said, breathless, when he pulled back, letting go of his shirt, your hand dropping to the bed with a quiet thump.

‘please eat while i’m gone,’ jack said over his shoulder, fitting his arms into his crutches. ‘there’s leftovers in the fridge.’

‘okay,’ you repeated.

you promptly rolled over and fell right back asleep.

*

"come here," he says. low and a little strained. his hands find your shoulders and he hauls you up his body before you can protest, pulling you into his lap, and you go easily because you always go easily when he does that. "glasses," you say immediately, before anything else. he blinks. "keep them on." something crosses his face - almost embarrassed, almost pleased and he pushes them back up his nose and says nothing.

you sink down onto him slow and you both go quiet. he's thick and warm and your body takes him in with a softness that makes your breath catch, that stretch of him filling you so completely that for a second neither of you moves, just sits there in the full feeling of it. his hands grip your hips. his head tips back and then comes back down, like he needs to look at you, glasses still on and all, flushed and damp at his temples and so focused on your face.

you start to move and his grip tightens. you feel everything. every, slow slide of him through your slick walls, the wet silken pull of your walls each time you lift and sink back down, your body warm around him. he makes sounds he'd never make anywhere else, almost helpless, sweat beading at his hairline, glasses slightly fogged at the edges. "good girl," he murmurs, almost to himself, watching you move over him with those dark eyes. "yeah. just like that."

"jack-" it comes out broken, a whine caught halfway, your lips parted, and he looks at you for a second and then brings his thumb to your lips, pressing it past them without a word. you close around it immediately, suckling soft, tongue curling around the pad of it, and the combination of that and the steady roll of your hips does something to you. you feel yourself get wetter around him, that slick heat pooling deeper, your walls fluttering and gripping him tighter with every drag.

he feels it. you know he feels it because his whole body tenses and he exhales sharp through his nose, hips stuttering up to meet yours involuntarily. you moan around his thumb and he presses it a little further, watching your mouth with dark glassy eyes, and you suck harder and grind down and feel yourself absolutely drenching him, so wet it's audible now in the quiet of the room, slick and obscene. your hand flies up to wrap around his wrist, holding onto it, gripping hard and keeping his thumb exactly where it is as you take more of it past your lips, eyes wetting at the corners from the fullness of it. from the pleasure. his cock thick and throbbing inside you, his thumb heavy on your tongue, overstimulating you. tears slip down your cheeks and he catches one with his free hand, tilting your face up, and looks at you through those fogged glasses with an expression so open it almost undoes you faster than anything else has.

"you alright," his voice drops, thick with quiet certainty. "i've got you." a pause, his hips rolling up slow to meet yours. "go on. take what you need."

you do. you chase it, rolling your hips faster, and he watches you and says "yeah. yeah, fuck. come for me" in that low wrecked voice and that's all it takes. you come apart over him shaking and he works you through it, thumb still in your mouth, hips moving in steady motion underneath you, murmuring "good girl, there you go" into your hair until you go soft and heavy in his lap.

he holds you there after, both of you panting, his glasses fully fogged now and slightly askew. you reach up and straighten them and he looks at you and almost smiles.

"still think they're cute?" he says.

"more than ever," you say with a grin.

Ellis makes a dramatic vomiting noise as you both head out the door, her keys jingling as she turns to lock it.

“I thought Deran was your usual Thursday morning appointment,” she says.

You shrug. “Scheduling conflict.”

She turns and starts down the hall, glancing at you from the corner of her eye. “You are the schedule.”

“I’m restructuring,” you say lightly, falling into step beside her. “Don’t think Deran’s making the cut.”

Ellis doesn’t say anything else. She just watches you for a second—eyes narrowing, brows drawing a little tighter—before shaking her head and turning toward the fire stairs door. You both make your way down to the parking garage in silence, crossing the dimly lit basement until you reach Ellis’ car.

The drive to the hospital isn’t long. Ellis fills most of it complaining about a patient she handed off to McKay this morning who insisted his diagnosis was wrong because he’d googled it—and she’s still muttering angrily by the time she pulls into the hospital parking lot.

“I swear,” she says, yanking the parking brake a little too hard, “if I hear the words ‘but I googled it’ even once tonight, I’m going to lose my mind.”

You snort softly as you climb out of the car, slinging your bag over your shoulder before shutting the door. You both head inside through the ambulance bay, keeping out of the way of an arriving trauma as the paramedics wheel the gurney through—something about chest pain, you overhear.

“Trauma one’s open,” Dana calls.

“Dr. Toomarian, with me.”

Your head snaps up at the sound of Jack’s voice, your gaze landing on him beside the gurney as he guides it through the trauma bay doors, that familiar mask of focus already in place.

Then he looks at you, something flickering across his face.

“Hey—don’t disappear. I need to talk to you after this.”

You lift your hand, pointing a finger at yourself. “Me?”

He nods once before turning into the trauma bay, the glass door swinging shut behind him.

“Ooh,” Ellis murmurs as you both turn down the back hall. “You’re in trouble.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, right.”

“Maybe he’s restructuring,” she adds, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Think you’ll make the cut?”

You shoot her a flat look. “Very funny.”

Ellis smirks as she opens her locker, shrugging her bag off her shoulder and shoving it inside. You do the same—moving on autopilot as you sling your stethoscope around your neck, clip your badge at your hip, and stuff your backpack in your locker before shutting the door.

You head back toward the hub side by side, both peering into the trauma bay as you pass. The patient is stable now, half-conscious on the bed while Jack gives orders and Jesse preps for transfer to a room for monitoring. Dr. Robby is in there too now, looking as tired as always with his arms folded and protective glasses pushed up on top of his head.

“Evening, ladies,” Lena says from behind the nurses’ desk. “Get a good sleep?”

“Always,” Ellis replies as she grabs a tablet from the rack.

“Good enough,” you mutter, tipping your head back to read the board.

“Mm.” Lena peers at you over the top of her glasses. “Well, maybe you should start prioritising sleep over extracurriculars.”

Ellis snorts beside you.

“Lena,” you gasp, voice thick with mock offence. “I don’t—”

You stop short as Jack steps up beside you, offering Lena a polite nod before looking back at you.

“You have my badge.”

You frown. “What?”

“My badge,” he says again, already reaching for the badge at your hip.

He unclips it from your scrub pants and holds it up, brows lifting just slightly.

“Attending physician, huh?”

You shrug. “Thought it was time I got a promotion.”

He huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head as he fastens the badge to his scrub top and fishes your badge from his back pocket. Then he steps in closer, his fingers grazing your hip as he tugs on the waistband of your pants and clips the badge where his had been.

“Try to keep track of it,” he mutters, already turning away.

You don’t respond. You just roll your eyes and turn back to the nurses’ station, where Lena is still watching you over the rim of her glasses, utterly unimpressed.

“You didn’t even notice?” Ellis asks.

You lift one shoulder. “I just grabbed it off the floor.”

“Okay,” Lena mutters, glancing back down at her chart. “I’m choosing not to know.”

Ellis shakes her head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know,” you say, tipping your head back again to read the board. “But you love me.”

She snorts, not even looking up from her tablet.

“Come on.” You bump your shoulder against hers. “Let’s go check out the elbow dislocation in One.”

“Fine,” she sighs, “but I’m not doing traction.”

You roll your eyes for what feels like the umpteenth time as you start moving, heading toward the North corridor with Ellis at your heel. When you pull back the curtain at North One, the man lying there is exactly what you expected—mid-twenties, gym shorts, red with embarrassment and trying not to wince even though the shape of his shoulder is very wrong.

“Alright, Mr. Donovan,” you say, pulling on a pair of gloves. “Let’s have a look at that shoulder.”

His eyes flick up to your face, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Are you a doctor?”

“Sure am,” you reply as you step closer to the bed. “And with me is Dr. Ellis. She’s going to help me get that bone back in place, but first you’re going to have to tell us how you did it.”

He grimaces as you gently prod his upper arm.

“Yeah—uh—I was just at the gym,” he starts, voice strained.

“Benching?” Ellis asks.

He nods. “Yeah.”

“Let me guess—personal best?”

He nods again. “Yeah. How did you—”

“Happens more often than you think,” you cut in, your fingers finding the pulse at his wrist. “Move your fingers.”

He wriggles them slowly.

“Any numbness?”

He shakes his head.

“I was just putting the bar back,” he says. “My arm twisted a bit and it just… popped.”

You glance over your shoulder at Ellis, and she nods.

“Okay, Mr. Donovan—”

“You can call me Chase,” he interrupts, the corner of his mouth lifting a little higher.

You nod once. “Alright, Chase. We’re going to give you something for the pain and a muscle relaxant so it’s easier to get it back into place. Then Dr. Ellis and I are going to do the reduction.”

“Will it hurt?”

“Not much,” Ellis replies. “Maybe a little discomfort, but it’ll be quick.”

“Okay,” he mutters, wincing again as he tries to shift in the bed.

You look at Ellis. “Fentanyl and midaz?”

She nods, already turning away to find a workstation.

“We’ll be back in about five minutes,” you tell Chase. “Just as soon as a nurse administers the medication and it has enough time to kick in.”

“Five minutes, huh? That’s just enough time for me to figure out how to ask for your number.”

You snort. “Let’s just get your shoulder back in first, then see how you feel.”

“Ouch,” he chuckles. “Is that your subtle way of saying you have a boyfriend?”

You hesitate, taking half a step back from the bed.

“Uh—no,” you mutter. “No boyfriend.”

He smirks. “So I have a shot?”

You shake your head as you turn away, a faint smile pulling at your lips. “Like I said—let’s see how you feel after I manhandle your humerus back into its socket.”

He doesn’t say anything else—just lets out a quiet breath of laughter as you turn and step out of the room.

Your gaze flicks up as you reach for the curtain, and only then do you notice Jack standing there—arms folded, shoulders set, his hazel eyes fixed on you like he’s waiting for something.

“Oh—hey,” you say. “Need me?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. Just doing the rounds. Want a hand with the reduction?”

“Nah, I’ve got Ellis,” you reply, starting back toward Central. “But you’re more than welcome to supervise.”

He scoffs, falling into step beside you. “You don’t need supervising.”

“I know.” You glance at him from the corner of your eye, a smirk tugging at your lips. “But I know how you like to watch.”

His mouth quirks, like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Careful,” he murmurs.

“Or what?” you tease, stopping just before the nurses’ station.

His eyes are a little darker now, the tops of his cheeks dusted pink.

“You don’t want to find out,” he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

Something twists low in your belly—and you get the sudden, distinct feeling that you do, in fact, want to find out.

“Abbot,” Lena calls before you can say anything else. “Trauma inbound—cyclist versus vehicle, ETA three minutes.”

Jack pauses for a half a second—then nods. “Alright, let’s prep Trauma Two.” He looks at you. “You in?”

You pull a face, all mock disappointment. “Oh, I wish I could, but I’ve got that reduction…”

He gives you a flat look, the corner of his mouth pulling just slightly. “Mm. Tragic.”

“Good luck, though,” you add, flashing him a grin.

You turn away before he does, moving around the hub to grab a tablet and find your next patient. It isn’t long before the paramedics come crashing through the ambulance bay doors with a groaning patient on the gurney—and you take that as your cue to get back to the shoulder dislocation.

“Alright, Chase,” you say, pulling back the curtain. “Let’s do this.”

He gives you a lopsided smile. “I was hoping I’d see you again.”

Ellis snorts. “Midaz is working.”

You laugh softly as you step up beside his affected arm, adjusting the bed slightly before pulling on a pair of gloves. Ellis does the same, moving into position on the other side and bracing one hand against his good shoulder.

You look at her. “Ready?”

She nods once.

“Okay, Chase,” you say, one hand wrapping gently around his wrist. “Stay loose for me.”

You place your other hand at his elbow and bring his arm out from his body, easing it into position.

“Hey—relax,” Ellis says. “Don’t fight it.”

He lets out a breath, the tension in his body easing.

“That’s it,” you murmur, starting to pull his arm outward.

You feel the resistance from the dislocation, holding his arm steady until—his shoulder drops.

Ellis nods. “Good. Now rotate.”

You carefully rotate his arm out, slow and controlled, until you feel a small shift—the soft clunk of the bone slipping back into place. Chase flinches, inhaling sharply, then—

“Oh—” He blinks. “Oh, that’s—that’s way better.”

You give him a small smile as you guide his arm back in, keeping it supported while Ellis grabs the sling.

“Move your fingers,” you tell him.

He does.

“Any numbness?”

He shakes his head.

“Good.”

You move aside as Ellis steps in with the sling, fastening it over his shoulder before adjusting the bed again.

“Comfortable?” she asks.

Chase nods slowly. “‘M tired.”

“Then have a nap.”

You peel your gloves off and drop them in the waste bin, squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm as you turn back toward Chase.

“We’re going to keep you here for a bit, okay? Just to monitor you and get an X-ray to make sure everything’s back in place.”

“You’re leaving me?” he mumbles, eyes half-lidded.

You shake your head, letting out a quiet laugh. “I’ll be back in a bit to see how you’re feeling, alright?”

He mutters something else as his eyes slip shut, but it’s too soft for you to hear.

Then, after a beat, Ellis looks at you. “Gonna give him your number?”

You roll your eyes. “Um, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm not—”

“Roster’s looking a little thin,” she says as she turns and steps out of the room.

You follow her, frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shrugs. “Not that I’m keeping track, but… by my count, you’re down to one.”

You let out a short, disbelieving scoff. “Okay—well, not that it’s any of your business, but Andrew moved to Canada, and Craig got back with his ex.”

She glances at you from the corner of her eye. “And you dropped Deran, so—”

“Like I said,” you cut in, lifting your chin just slightly. “I’m restructuring.”

“Restructuring,” she repeats mildly, “or retiring?”

Before the words have even landed, she’s gone—slipping into North Five with her tablet in hand and that stupid little smirk still curled at the corner of her mouth. You can faintly hear her greet the patient as the door eases shut, leaving you confused and alone in the middle of the North corridor.

Retiring?

You blink, your brows drawing tighter.

Retiring?

What the hell is that supposed to mean? Retiring from what?

From having fun? Having casual sex? Blowing off a little steam in the most enjoyable way you know how?

It’s not like you’re some irresponsible party animal—you barely go out, you only drink on occasion, and the hardest drug you’ve done since starting med school is ibuprofen. In fact, you’d argue that you’re the opposite of irresponsible. You take your casual sex roster very seriously. You don’t take risks, you make sure every single one of your partners has regular sexual-health check-ups, and you make sure to actually get to know them before you even sign them up.

Which is exactly why you’re not going around giving out your number to random patients.

You need to know someone before you start something casual. You need to know that they’re not going to ask for more, that they’re going to be mature and understand exactly where you both stand.

You need to know that you can trust them not to be irresponsible.

Because the last thing you need is some trigger-happy idiot who isn’t wearing a condom getting caught up in the moment and finishing inside you. Not that you ever go without a condom.

Except for...

Well—except for Jack.

But that’s different. He knows what he’s doing. You trust him—and you’re on birth control.

So it doesn’t really matter if, occasionally, he finishes—

“You good, or are you just going to keep staring into space?”

Your head snaps up, heat flooding your cheeks as you meet Henderson’s gaze.

“Uh—yeah, sorry, I was just—”

He chuckles. “No need to apologise—but if you’re bored, I could use an extra set of hands in Eight.”

You tilt your head. “Worth it?”

“Forearm lac. Exposed tendon.”

You nod. “I’m in.”

The next few hours blur together in a steady stream of night shift weirdness—a woman with a mystery rash whose story evolves from laundry detergent to poison ivy, someone who decided Gorilla Glue was a reasonable substitute for hair gel, a fish hook through a hand with the fish still attached, and a DIY dentistry job with half the tooth left and a lot of blood.

You barely catch a break until your patient in Central Twelve—when you and Ellis absolutely have to leave the room before you both burst out laughing at the mortified man who insists he slipped and fell on a Buzz Lightyear action figure. Because how else would it get stuck up there?

In your defence, you had managed to maintain some semblance of professionalism right up until Ellis muttered under her breath, “To infinity and beyond, I guess.”

That’s when you lost it—muttering the first excuse you could think of before slipping out the door and doubling over with laughter.

“Oh my God,” Ellis says, wiping the corner of her eye. “I love the night shift.”

You press a hand to your stomach, still aching from the laughter.

“Stop—” you gasp, shaking your head. “I can’t go back in there.”

“In where?” Shen asks, appearing in front of you.

You and Ellis both go still for a second, the laughter dying down as you exchange a look.

“Actually,” Ellis says, turning back to Shen with a smirk. “I think this case might be perfect for you, Dr. Shen.”

You nod. “Oh, absolutely. We could really use your expertise on this one.”

Shen frowns. “What’s the case?”

“It’s hard to explain,” Ellis says quickly. “You’re better off seeing it for yourself.”

Shen isn’t stupid, obviously, but he is incredibly curious—as most doctors are. So despite the fact that both you and Ellis are doing a terrible job of hiding your amusement, he takes the tablet from your outstretched hand and opens the door to Central Twelve.

Ellis’ eyes go wide, but before either of you can say anything else, someone calls your name across the department.

“Trauma One—get in here,” Jack says, waving a hand.

You let out a sigh, tipping your head back for a split second before jogging across Central to meet the paramedics.

“Twenty-four-year-old male—fell onto a plastic prop sword,” the first paramedic says, guiding the gurney into Trauma One. “Penetrating injury to the left thigh, object still in situ. Bleeding controlled, pulses intact, GCS fifteen. Fentanyl given en route, vitals stable.”

You almost snort when you realise the man is dressed in a pirate costume, his plastic cutlass wedged about four inches into his anterolateral thigh.

“Alright, we’ll take it from here,” Jack says. “Can you tell us your name, sir?”

“Josh,” the patient replies, his voice strained.

“Stabilise the leg,” you tell Mateo, moving into position opposite him. “On my count—one, two, three.”

You shift the patient from gurney to bed, and the paramedics clear out.

“Josh!”

A young woman rushes into the room, clearly from the same party—wearing what can only be described as a very short, very inaccurate interpretation of a nurse’s uniform.

“Oh my God. Is he bleeding out?”

Jack glances up, his lips twitching when he spots the woman. “I don’t remember approving that uniform.”

You shoot him a look. “Very funny, Dr. Abbot.”

His eyes linger on you for a beat too long.

“Not that I’d object,” he murmurs.

You arch a brow. “The nurses might.”

“I’m not a nurse,” the woman says, indignant. “I’m a sexy doctor.”

You look her up and down again, your gaze catching on the small, laminated name badge pinned to her chest with ‘Dr. Feelgood’ printed in bold pink letters.

You hum. “Right.”

“Still not the sexiest doctor in the room,” Jack mutters as he moves around the bed.

Your eyes flick up, meeting his for half a second, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly before you catch yourself and turn back to Josh.

“Have you had anything to drink tonight, Josh?” you ask.

Somewhere behind you, Dr. Feelgood starts to answer for him, but Bridget quickly steps in and guides her out of the trauma bay.

“I’ve got a dorsalis pedis pulse,” Jack notes.

Josh groans, mumbling something unintelligible under his breath.

“We’re going to get you something for the pain, alright?” you say, watching Olive insert the IV. “But first, I need to know what happened and how much you’ve had to drink.”

Mateo carefully cuts up the leg of Josh’s pants, fully exposing the entry site.

“I—ngh—I fell on it—” Josh manages. “It’s not even—not even real—fuck—”

Mateo turns away quickly, hiding his amusement.

“What about alcohol?” you ask again.

“Like—two beers,” he replies.

“Any drugs?”

“No—ah—no drugs.”

You nod. “Okay. Let’s give another twenty-five of fent.”

“Can we get surgery down here?” Jack asks as he steps back from the bed.

Mateo moves to grab the phone. “Calling now.”

Jack nods, folding his arms and lifting his head to look at you. “Alright. What’s next?”

“Repeat neurovascular exam, stabilise the object, don’t remove it, and get imaging before anyone touches it.”

He nods again. “Good.”

You try to ignore the way he’s watching you as you move to the foot of the bed, going through the motions of the neurovascular checks a little slower than he had just a minute ago.

“Pulses still intact. Cap refill under two. No numbness,” you report.

“Good,” he says again. “Keep checking. If that changes, we move faster.”

You nod once before turning back to Josh.

“Do you know when your last tetanus shot was, Josh?”

He shakes his head faintly. “No.”

“Okay, tetanus booster—” you glance up at Jack, “and antibiotics.”

“Which antibiotic?”

“Cefazolin?”

He watches you for a beat, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly—then he turns to Olive. “You heard the doctor. Get him some cefazolin.”

You drop your head, biting back a smile as you watch Mateo start to clean the entry site.

“Let’s flag contamination risk for surgery,” Jack says, pulling off his gloves. “And X-ray for—”

“Position and fragments,” you cut in, finishing for him. “And CTA left leg to clear the vessels before removal.”

He tosses his gloves in the bin and turns back toward you, brows raised.

“Alright,” he says, mildly amused. “I can see I’m no longer needed in here.”

You flash him a small, smug smile before turning back to the wound.

“Entry looks clean, bleeding’s controlled—let’s pack around it and get him to imaging.”

Mateo nods and moves to grab more gauze, helping you pack carefully around the plastic blade so it doesn’t shift during transport. Jack lingers just long enough to make sure you’ve got everything under control before he steps out of the room, slipping back into the quiet chaos of the night shift.

You and Mateo quickly finish stabilising the leg before the nurses prep him for imaging. They’re just about to wheel the bed out when Walsh arrives from the OR, fighting a smile when she sees the pirate impaled by his own sword. You give her a brief rundown as you pull your gloves off and squirt a pump of sanitiser into your hands. She nods along, asks a few questions, then mutters something about prepping an operating room while they wait for imaging.

When you finally step out of the trauma bay, you spot Jack standing with Lena at the nurses’ station. You don’t quite catch all of their conversation as you walk past to grab a tablet, but you do hear something about ETA three minutes and decide to make yourself scarce before you’re dragged into another trauma.

You scan the board briefly, pick your next patient, then head toward the South corridor, already pulling up the chart for South Twenty on your tablet. You’re halfway through the patient’s intake when—

You stop—then take two steps back, turning your head toward South Seventeen.

“Deran?”

The man in the bed glances up, blowing a lock of dark blond hair out of his eyes.

He smiles. “Hey, doc.”

“What’re you doing here?” you ask, despite the obvious.

He’s got his left hand cradled in his lap, wrapped loosely in an oil-stained rag that’s already soaked through in places, blood seeping into the fabric and drying in dark blotches. His knuckles underneath are split and swollen, his pinky finger sticking out at an odd angle, the rest of his hand already blown out around it.

“I was helping a friend with his truck,” he says, glancing back down at his mangled hand. “The prop rod slipped, and the hood came straight down.”

“Ouch,” you murmur, stepping forward.

He huffs out a short laugh. “Yeah. Ouch.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Go for it.”

You set your tablet at the foot of the bed and step up beside him, leaning in as you gently lift the rag to get a better look at what’s underneath. It’s not that deformed—just swollen, and his pinky finger is obviously broken, but otherwise it’s mostly just bruising and superficial cuts. At least he won’t need stitches—maybe some steri-strips and a splint—but you’re more concerned about the dirty rag he’s got wrapped around it.

“What d’you think?” he asks, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Am I going to make it?”

You tilt your head. “Maybe. If we act fast.”

He laughs softly, the sound ringing almost too familiar in your ears.

You straighten quickly, clearing your throat. “Do you—uh—have you seen a doctor yet?”

He shakes his head. “No. Just you.”

You nod once and pick up your tablet, flicking out of South Twenty’s chart.

“Cool. I’ll be your doctor—” You pause, glancing back at him. “Unless you think that’s a conflict of interest?”

His smile widens. “You mean the prettiest doctor in Pittsburgh’s gonna fix me up?”

You roll your eyes. “Just Pittsburgh, huh?”

“Well, I couldn’t say the world—that’d be way too cheesy.”

You snort. “All your lines are cheesy.”

He gasps. “All of them?”

“All of them,” you echo, keeping your eyes fixed firmly on your tablet.

“Wow,” he mutters. “Tough crowd.”

You shake your head, trying not to smile as you pull up his chart and make a quick note, effectively assigning yourself as his physician. Then you set the tablet back on the bed and turn to grab a pair of gloves.

“Alright, I just need to have a closer look before I can get you some pain relief.”

You nudge the stool closer to the bed and sit down, leaning in as Deran gingerly shifts his hand. You peel the rag back properly this time, murmuring an apology when he winces, and set the dirty thing aside before reaching for gauze and saline.

“This might sting a bit,” you say, already starting to clean the dried blood from his knuckles. “Let me know if you want me to stop.”

“Do I need a safe word?” he asks smugly.

Your gaze flicks up, unamused—then back down to his hand without a word.

“I’m gonna go with meatball,” he decides. “Because—”

“—your favourite thing in the world is a meatball sub from that deli on Carson,” you cut in. “I know.”

His brows lift. “Wow.”

Your eyes flick up again. “Wow what?”

He shrugs, wincing slightly as you turn his hand. “Nothing. I just… didn’t think you paid that much attention.”

You don’t look up this time, unsure what you could possibly say that wouldn’t turn this into a deeper conversation than you’re willing to have right now.

After a beat, Deran hums. “Still doing the whole unavailable thing, huh?”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not a thing, Deran. I work fifteen hours a day with hardly any phone reception, and my days off are spent catching up on paperwork and sleep. I am unavailable.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says, glancing back down at his hand. “I guess I just figured since I hadn’t heard from you in a while, maybe some lucky guy finally managed to sweep you off your feet.”

You scoff, focusing a little too hard on wrapping fresh gauze around his hand. “Yeah, well—you’d be wrong.”

He grimaces when you turn his hand again, being careful not to bump his pinky finger as you finish dressing the cuts. Then you gently set it back in his lap and start cleaning up, swivelling on your stool to toss the oily rag and all the bloodied gauze into the waste bin.

“Alright,” you say, turning back. “Lift your hand for me.”

He lifts it slowly.

“Can you move your fingers?”

His eyes go wide.

You give him a flat look. “Just try.”

His expression twists as he slowly flexes his fingers, letting out a low, pained groan.

“Okay, that’s enough,” you say, scooting forward again. “Any numbness or tingling?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

You reach out and press gently against the tip of his pinky—until it turns white—then watch the colour return beneath his nail.

“Cap refill’s good,” you mutter, more to yourself.

He winces again as he lowers his hand back into his lap.

“So, what’s the verdict—is my weekend ruined?”

You snort. “Not entirely. I’ll get you some pain relief and order an X-ray. We might have to reduce the pinky, but I want imaging before I touch it—I need to see exactly where the fracture is first.”

“Well then,” he says, smirking as he lifts his right hand and holds up just the index and middle finger. “Good thing I’m right-handed.”

It takes a moment for the joke to land. You tilt your head, frowning faintly as you stare at his fingers.

Then it clicks.

“Oh my God,” you laugh, grabbing his hand and forcing it back down. “What is wrong with you?”

He grins. “What? You said it yourself—my weekend isn’t entirely ruined.”

You shake your head. “I didn’t think you meant that.”

“Well,” he says slowly, leaning in, “I don’t have plans yet, but if you’ve got time between paperwork and sleeping, maybe we could—”

“Everything alright in here?”

You turn to see Jack stepping past the curtain. He stops at the foot of the bed and clasps his hands behind his back, eyes flicking curiously between you and Deran.

You straighten a little and nod. “Yep. All good.”

“Except my hand,” Deran adds, lifting his injured hand.

“Right.” You shake your head once. “Deran, this is Dr. Abbot—he’s the senior attending on shift tonight.”

Then you glance back at Jack.

“Crush injury to the left hand after a truck hood came down on it. Significant swelling through the fifth digit with an obvious deformity at the pinky, plus some superficial lacerations across the knuckles. Neurovascularly intact—cap refill’s good, no numbness or tingling. I’ve cleaned and dressed the cuts, and I was just about to send him for imaging before we decide if the finger needs reducing.”

Jack nods once. “Good. Any pain management?”

You stand and nudge the stool back, picking up your tablet from the end of the bed.

“I was just about to order some ibuprofen and Tylenol.”

He nods again. “Sounds like you’ve got everything under control.”

You give him a small smile before turning back to Deran. “Hang tight—I’ll come find you once I get your X-ray results.”

He pouts. “You’re just going to leave me here?”

You roll your eyes, already turning away. “Unavailable, remember.”

Jack slides the curtain shut before following you out, falling into step beside you as you head back toward Central.

“You know him?”

You glance up from your tablet. “Uh—yeah. Old friend.”

He lifts a brow. “Friend?”

You give him a look. “What do you want me to say?”

He shrugs, letting out a quiet laugh. “Friend works.”

“Good,” you mutter, stopping at one of the workstations and setting your tablet down.

Jack pauses beside you. “Meet me in Central Twelve once you’ve put the orders in.”

You frown. “Why?”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“Because I’m your boss, that’s why.”

Then he’s gone, moving through the department with that faint hitch in his stride and an ass that absolutely should not look that good in scrubs.

You shake your head and turn your attention back to the computer in front of you, swiping your badge to log in. You quickly pull up Deran’s chart, make a few notes, and order the ibuprofen and Tylenol. Then, just because you can, you try to pull up Central Twelve’s chart—if only to annoy Jack by getting a head start—but there’s nothing in the system.

Great. Must be a brand-new patient.

You let out an irritated little sigh before logging off and grabbing your tablet again.

The door to Central Twelve is shut when you get there, which isn’t unusual, but immediately makes you fear the worst for whatever case Jack has waiting for you inside.

You take a breath, turn the handle—and freeze when you spot the empty bed.

“Shut the door,” Jack says, without looking up from the supply drawer he’s rummaging through.

You hesitate. “Am I in trouble?”

He sighs. “Do you ever just do what you’re told?”

You finally step into the room, shutting the door behind you before setting your tablet on the room cart.

“Sometimes,” you say. “Depends what’s in it for me.”

Jack straightens, turning toward you. “That’s a remarkably transactional approach to life.”

You shrug. “I believe in reciprocation.”

He takes a step closer. “That’s not what reciprocation means.”

“Really?” you ask. “Because last time I checked—in the shower, by the way—you were getting a pretty good deal.”

His mouth quirks. “Are you saying I owe you?”

You step forward. “Who’s keeping count?”

“Maybe I am,” he murmurs.

Before you can say anything else, his fingers catch the hem of your shirt and he tugs—just enough to pull you off balance. Then his mouth is on yours. Slow, deep, unhurried. As if there isn’t an entire emergency department waiting on the other side of that door.

He presses closer, his hand moving beneath your shirt, rough fingers digging into your hip as his mouth parts lazily against yours. His tongue slides along your bottom lip, pulling a breathy little sigh from the back of your throat as your fingers curl into the front of his scrub top. You tilt your head, leaning in, chasing more—and for a second it almost feels like he’s going to give it to you.

Then he pulls away.

Your lips follow instinctively, and he chuckles, taking a deliberate step back.

You blink. “What was that?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

He steps toward the door.

“Dr. Toomarian’s got a patient to present.”

You stare at him. “Seriously?”

He reaches for the handle.

“South Sixteen.”

Then he’s gone, and you’re left watching the door swing shut with something strange and unfamiliar stirring beneath your ribs.

That was weird.

Not unpleasant. Not by any means. Just... unusual.

It takes you a little longer than it should to remember how to move. How to suck in a full breath, pick up your tablet, and head back out into the chaos of the night shift past midnight.

The department is exactly as you’d left it. Patients complaining about pain that could have been prevented with a little common sense. Doctors running on nothing but caffeine and questionable protein snacks. And Lena in the middle of it all, her glasses perched low on her nose as she scans the tablet in her hand.

“Hey,” you say, stepping up to the nurses’ station. “Got anything easy for me?”

Lena glances over the top of her glasses. “Easy left three hours ago.”

You sigh. “Come on. There’s got to be something.”

Her eyes flick back down. “I’ve got a Ms. Callahan in Central Nine. Migraine, vitals are fine.”

“Perfect. I’ll—”

“I’ve got this one,” Jack says, appearing beside you. “Dr. Toomarian needs a resident in South Sixteen.”

You frown. “But I—”

“Now.”

You stare at him for a second, wondering how the hell a man can kiss you breathless one minute then start barking orders at you the next.

“Fine,” you mutter, gripping your tablet a little tighter. “But when I’m admitted for emotional whiplash, I want it documented that you’re the reason why.”

Then you turn and head for the South hall before you’re tempted to say something even less professional.

You don’t normally snap like that—especially not at an attending—but something about the last fifteen minutes has crawled beneath your skin and stayed there, impossible to ignore. Your pulse still hasn’t settled properly. Your cheeks are still warm. And every time you think about Jack’s stupid little half-smirk after he’d kissed you, you’re annoyed.

You just can’t figure out why.

He doesn’t normally kiss you in the middle of a shift.

He doesn’t normally order you around like you’re a lost med student.

And he definitely doesn’t volunteer to see migraine patients.

But you don’t normally get this irritated. Especially not at Jack. The two of you are always messing around. Playing games. Flirting. It’s what you do. So what’s so different about tonight?

“Hey.” Ellis grabs your arm, stopping you just outside of South Sixteen. “You good?”

You blink. “Yeah. Why?”

“You look like you’re contemplating homicide.”

“And if I am?”

“I’d be obliged to remind you that we’re here to save lives, not end them.”

“Damn. Guess I’ll just have to wait until after my shift.”

Her eyes narrow, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly. “Is this about who I thought I saw being taken up to imaging?”

You frown. “Who did you think you saw?”

“Deran.”

“Oh.”

You glance over her shoulder at the empty bed in South Seventeen.

“That was fast,” you mutter.

Her brows lift. “Wait. You’re his physician?”

You shrug. “Yeah.”

“Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

“Isn’t my life a conflict of interest?”

She stares at you for a moment, amusement tugging at her mouth. “It’s one of those nights, huh?”

You sigh. “Yep.”

She puts a hand on your shoulder. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Then she gives you a brief nod and continues down the hall, humming a tune you don’t recognise as if to rub it in that she’s having a far more pleasant shift than you are.

You spend the next half hour alongside Nazely, talking her through a chest pain workup and reassuring the patient who’s convinced every twinge in his left arm is the beginning of the end. By the time you’ve reviewed the ECG for the third time and convinced him that googling symptoms at two in the morning isn’t a substitute for medical advice, you’re finally able to move on.

The shift settles back into its usual rhythm after that. Patients. Notes. Consults. A never-ending stream of questions from the new med student stuck on nights and equally never-ending complaints from people who should have gone to bed instead of doing dumb things that landed them in the ED.

It isn’t until two a.m. that you finally find yourself back at the nurses’ station with Ellis, sipping a vending machine energy drink she’d forced into your hand while the department enjoys a rare moment of relative calm.

“Shen said the Butt Lightyear guy went up for surgery.”

Lena tilts her head. “Butt Lightyear?”

“You don’t want to know,” you murmur into your drink.

“They tried removing it manually but were worried about the wings,” Ellis explains.

“The wings?”

She smirks. “Yeah. You press a button and the wings pop out.”

You shut your eyes. “Ouch.”

“Let me guess,” Lena says, peering over the rim of her glasses. “He slipped?”

Ellis nods. “Yep. Total accident.”

“Yeah, and the toy just happened to be completely covered in lube too,” you add.

Lena sighs. “Every day I learn something new against my will.”

You and Ellis both laugh as Lena turns away, seemingly done with this conversation—and the people of Pittsburgh judging by the defeated look on her face. You’re about to reach for your tablet to pull up the X-ray images off poor Butt Lightyear when a bright laugh cuts through the quiet hum of the department, drawing your attention toward Central Nine.

You narrow your eyes. “Why is he still in there?”

Ellis shrugs. “Not sure. I thought it was just a migraine.”

“Laughing pretty hard for someone with a headache,” you mutter.

Ellis glances at you. “Do you know who she is?”

“Nope.”

“Huh.”

You look at her. “What?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing.”

“I have no idea who she is,” you say, grabbing your tablet. “And frankly? I don’t care.”

Ellis nods. “Okay.”

“Good.”

Then you turn away before she can say anything else, heading toward the North corridor even though you have no idea which patient you’re actually on your way to see.

It isn’t long before you find yourself passing through Central again, peering into Ms. Callahan’s room to see if she’s been discharged yet. Which she hasn’t—but at least Jack’s not in there anymore. Not that it really matters to you, but you can’t imagine the rest of the department is thrilled about an attending wasting half the night on a migraine patient.

Ten minutes later, you walk past Central Nine again. Not because you’re looking this time—you’re genuinely just passing on your way to find a free workstation—but she’s still in there. And she certainly doesn’t look like she’s in pain anymore.

If you were her, you’d be demanding discharge papers by now.

The third time you glance at Ms. Callahan, she catches your eye, and you offer her a small, awkward smile before quickly glancing back down at your chart. The same chart you’ve been pretending to work on for the better part of fifteen minutes without writing a single coherent sentence.

“You know that’s Abbot’s ex, right?”

You blink. “What?”

Shen nods toward Central Nine. “Ms. Callahan. She’s Abbot’s ex.”

You glance back at the gorgeous blonde woman scrolling through her phone, not at all looking like someone suffering from a migraine.

“Oh.”

Shen nods slowly. “Anyway. He’s looking for you.”

You frown. “Who?”

“Dr. Abbot.”

“Why?”

Shen shrugs. “Didn’t say.”

You sigh. “Great.”

He watches you curiously as you log out of the computer and push your chair back.

“Did he say where?” you ask.

“South.”

You nod once. “Thanks.”

Then you turn and head toward the South corridor, but not without one last glance at the woman in Central Nine. The woman who apparently used to date Jack. The woman who, for reasons you still don’t entirely understand, is suddenly very difficult to stop thinking about.

You spot Jack standing beside the workstations in the middle of the South hall, frowning at something on his tablet. He looks tired now, his curls standing at odd angles thanks to the way he drags his hand through them after every stressful trauma patient—and he’s leaning his left hip against the side of the desk, shifting the weight off his right leg because three a.m. is always when it starts aching. Not that he’ll admit it.

“Shen said you wanted to see me.”

He glances up. “Your friend’s imaging came back.”

“And?”

“Hand surgery wants him,” he says, offering you his tablet.

You take it, glancing down at the X-ray images. “Fracture and tendon damage. Fantastic.”

You flip through the images and skim over the surgeon’s review.

“Okay. I’ll send him up.”

Jack takes the tablet back, his brows pulling together slightly.

“Have you eaten?”

You frown. “What?”

“Have you eaten anything tonight?”

“I had an energy drink.”

He stares at you. “That’s not food.”

You shrug. “I haven’t had time.”

“Make time.”

You roll your eyes. “Fine. I didn’t bring anything.”

He lets out a quiet sigh, glancing down at the tablet as he flicks out of Deran’s X-rays and brings up another patient’s chart.

“There’s a container in the fridge.”

You blink. “What?”

“Top shelf. Left side. Blue lid.”

Your brows lift. “You brought me food?”

He glances up again. “I brought extra food. It’s that pasta you like.”

As if on cue, your stomach grumbles. Loudly.

“Go eat,” he says. “I doubt surgery’s coming to collect your friend in the next twenty minutes.”

You want to argue. You really do. Because you don’t need to be looked after. You don’t need him to bring you food and make sure you eat and be all quietly caring like this. But God is this man a good cook, and you’d have to be an idiot to turn down free pasta at three o’clock in the morning.

“Fine,” you mutter, already turning away. “I’ll eat.”

“You’re welcome.”

You don’t look back. Because if you do, you might see the stupidly smug look on his face and it might make you smile. Then he’ll know he was right, and you absolutely cannot give him that satisfaction. So instead, you drop your gaze and watch your shoes move against the speckled linoleum until you reach the break room door.

You don’t even notice that someone else is in there until you reach the fridge and finally glance up.

“Oh. Hey.”

Ellis waves her fork. “Hey.”

You pull the fridge door open and immediately spot Jack’s blue-lidded tupperware.

“You brought food?” Ellis asks, clearly surprised.

You don’t answer. Not explicitly, at least. You just glance over your shoulder with what could be considered a very brief nod, then turn back toward the microwave and set the container inside.

“She’s his ex, by the way,” you say without thinking.

“Huh?”

You press the start button on the microwave before turning to face Ellis properly, leaning back against the kitchenette counter.

“The woman in Central Nine. Shen just told me she’s Jack’s ex.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Ellis stabs a piece of broccoli with her fork. “I know.”

You tilt your head. “How do you know?”

“I asked Dr. Abbot how he knew the patient,” she says, as if it were obvious.

“Oh.”

You glance back at the microwave, still humming, Jack’s container rotating slowly inside.

“What’d he say?”

Ellis sighs, stabbing a piece of carrot this time. “Just that they dated about a year after his wife passed, but he realised he wasn’t ready to move on yet, so he ended it. It was amicable. Now they’re friends.”

You frown. “Friends? He’s never mentioned her to me.”

Ellis finally looks up, something sharpening in her expression. “Why would he?”

You hesitate. “Because we’re—well, you know…”

Her mouth twitches. “I thought it was casual.”

“It is,” you say quickly. “I just thought he would’ve mentioned—”

“Does Abbot know who Deran is?”

You blink. “What?”

Ellis smirks. “You know, the guy currently sitting in South Seventeen? Mr. Thursday mornings, or—” she tilts her head, “I guess it’s former Mr. Thursday mornings now.”

“Well—not exactly, but that’s—”

The sharp beeping of the microwave cuts you off, and you turn quickly to silence it.

“That’s different?” Ellis offers.

You grab the container out of the microwave, shut the door, then yank open the cutlery drawer to grab a fork before turning back to face her.

“Yes,” you say firmly. “It’s different. Jack knows we’re not exclusive, but he doesn’t need to know who the other guys are.”

Ellis snorts. “Or were.”

You glare at her.

“Alright,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “Then why do you need to know who she is?”

You stab a piece of pasta. “I don’t. I’m just... curious.”

“You mean jealous.”

Your head snaps up. “I’m not jealous. I don’t care what he does when he’s not with me. He can sleep with whoever he wants. He can sleep with every bottle-blonde in Pittsburgh for all I care.”

Ellis’ brows shoot up. “Wow. You’re really jealous.”

“I am not,” you protest. “It’s casual. We both know that. If he wants out, he can just say so. I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone. I mean, sure, it’s fun when they’re good, but I am perfectly fine on my own. I don’t need someone interfering with my life. With my routine. I’m happy exactly the way things are.”

Ellis nods slowly. “Okay, Miss Independent. I get it.”

“Thank you.”

“Just to be clear,” she says, pushing her chair back, “you’re standing here eating his food because he told you to. Right?”

You open your mouth to argue, but she keeps going.

“Your hair smells like his shampoo. You walked into our apartment this morning wearing his shirt, and I’m pretty sure those are his socks.” Her gaze drops briefly to your feet before returning to your face. “You haven’t slept in your own bed once this week and, unless I’m forgetting somebody, you haven’t seen another guy in...” She pauses, pretending to think. “Wow. Almost four months now.”

You stare at her.

“And when you got that stomach bug last month,” she says, grabbing her container as she stands, “he called out of work just to sit on the bathroom floor with you for eight hours.”

She steps up right beside you, dropping her container in the sink.

“That’s not casual.”

The water runs for a few seconds as she rinses the container beneath the tap, then she sets it beside the sink and turns toward the door.

“Anyway,” she says lightly, reaching for the handle. “Let me know when you’re ready to admit you’re in love with him.”

Then she’s gone, leaving you alone with your pasta and your rapidly fraying nervous system.

You don’t move. You just stare at the door, trying to remember how to breathe. Trying to think about anything that isn’t that strange and unfamiliar feeling lodged beneath your ribs, insistent on being felt.

No.

It’s not—

It can’t be—

You would know if you were in—

Fuck.

You turn quickly and drop your container of food beside the sink before it ends up on the floor. Then you press both palms into the edge of the counter, as if that might somehow ground you.

This is ridiculous.

Ellis is just messing with you. She has to be.

You’re not in—

God. You can’t even think about that word.

You drag in a deep breath and grab the fork again, lifting it to your mouth.

It’s almost annoying how good it is. Infuriating, really. Because apparently being an emergency doctor, a SWAT physician, offensively attractive and unfairly charming isn’t enough. No. Jack Abbot just has to be an excellent cook too.

Jerk.

You finish the rest of the pasta as quickly as you can, trying not to be disappointed when the container is empty. Then you rinse it beneath the tap and set it beside Ellis’ tupperware.

Your heart is still beating a little too fast when you step out of the break room, and you have to shove your hands into your scrub pockets to keep them from shaking. You keep your head down as you make your way back toward South Seventeen, trying to focus on what you’re going to say to Deran and not how you may or may not feel about your attending.

“Hey,” you say, pulling the curtain back. “How are you feeling?”

Deran glances up. “Hey, doc. Long time no see.”

You squirt a pump of sanitiser into your palm and rub your hands together as you step up beside the bed.

“Been busy,” you say. “Are the painkillers working?”

He lifts his hand, wincing. “A little.”

You glance at the clock on the wall. “You could probably get some more soon.”

His brows pull together slightly. “Is that your way of saying I’m not heading home any time soon?”

You sigh quietly, dragging the stool closer to the bed and dropping down onto it.

“Not tonight, no. I’m sorry.”

He groans, tipping his head back against the pillow.

“I know,” you murmur, leaning in. “But one of our hand surgeons reviewed the images, and you’ve got a fracture right here.” You gently tap the base of his little finger near the knuckle. “I was expecting a break, but it’s lower than we’d like and close enough to the joint that this isn’t something we can safely reduce and splint in the ED.”

He lifts his head.

“There’s also some concern about the tendon around it,” you continue. “The finger was pulled pretty hard out of position, and the surgeon’s worried it may have damaged one of the tendons that helps it move properly.”

“What does that mean?”

“They’ll take you upstairs, get better imaging if they need it, and most likely repair everything at the same time rather than risk you losing function later.”

His brows draw tighter. “Repair?”

“The fracture. The tendon. Anything else they find once they’re in there.”

He lets his head fall back again. “Great.”

“You’ll be okay.”

“I know,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Just not exactly how I pictured getting to spend more time with you.”

You roll your eyes. “Really?”

“Will you be here when I wake up?”

You snort. “Hopefully not. If all goes well, I’ll be at home asleep.”

He sighs. “Damn.”

You push the stool back and stand. “Any other questions before I sign you off to surgery?”

He lifts his head, frowning slightly. “Yeah, actually. I wanted to ask you about that guy.”

You tilt your head. “What guy?”

“The one that came in here before. The attending.”

Your stomach drops.

“What about him?”

“I thought he was your boss.”

You fold your arms. “He is.”

“Huh.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s just—” He hesitates. “I don’t know. You just don’t usually look at your boss like that.”

You stare at him for a moment, trying to ignore the rush of your pulse in your ears.

“You sure you didn’t hit your head?”

His brows lift. “Wait. Did I hit a nerve?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

Your eyes narrow. “Why don’t you just focus on the fact that you need surgery? Do you need me to call anyone?”

He shakes his head. “I already called my mom.”

“Good,” you mutter, already turning away. “Good luck in surgery.”

“Tell your boss I said hi.”

“Bye, Deran.”

His laughter follows you out into the hallway, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of looking back as you yank the curtain shut.

You shake your head as you start down the corridor toward Central, as if that might somehow knock your errant thoughts back into place. You can still hear your pulse, still feel the heat crawling beneath your skin, your scrub top suddenly too warm and too tight.

The lights overhead are almost painfully bright now, the way they always get in the late hours of the night shift—but tonight their glare feels personal. Offensive, even. As if those buzzing fluorescent bars are shining brightly on everything you’ve worked so hard not to acknowledge. Not to feel.

Not that you’re feeling anything.

At least, not whatever it is Ellis thinks you’re feeling.

You just need a minute. One minute of quiet to come up with perfectly reasonable explanations for every stupid little thing she pointed out. Then your mind can stop running circles and you can finish your shift, go home, and get some much-needed sleep.

By tomorrow, all of this is just going to feel ridiculous.

Because that’s exactly what it is.

Ridiculous.

“Dr. Abbot,” Bridget calls from behind the desk. “Can you take a look at this for me?”

You stop short halfway between South and Central, watching as Jack moves from one end of the nurses’ station to the other. Bridget is already holding up her tablet, pointing at something on the screen while Jack leans in, brow furrowing just slightly as he squints at it.

He needs to wear his glasses. You’ve told him this countless times. Yet for some reason, he insists on reserving them exclusively for news articles, novels, and recipes.

Apparently, the PTMC emergency department isn’t worthy of his clear vision.

Your stomach lurches as your traitorous thoughts remind you of the time he’d worn them during sex. The time he’d insisted on keeping them on as he settled between your legs because he wanted to see you properly. He wanted to see everything.

You shake your head again, trying to push the memory away.

Jack leans a little closer as Bridget starts explaining something you can’t quite make out. Not that you really care to hear what she’s saying. You’re too busy watching the way Jack’s left hand grips the edge of the desk, his weight shifting toward it, lessening the load on his right leg.

It must be really sore tonight.

He nods along, murmuring something low as he taps on the screen. You know what comes next before he even does it. He lifts that same hand and it drags across his jaw, tilting his head just slightly as he tries to concentrate on whatever it is Bridget’s asking—but he’s tired. You know he’s tired. From the set of his shoulders to the way he’s shifting almost all his weight off his right leg, you just know that he’s counting down the hours to the end of shift.

Maybe you should feel guilty for not letting him get enough sleep yesterday.

His left hand adjusts its grip, the tendon in his forearm flexing as it does and for some stupid reason, you forget how to breathe. Just for a second.

“You alright?”

You blink. “What?”

Henderson frowns slightly, suddenly standing beside you with his tablet in hand. “That’s the second time I've caught you completely zoned out tonight. What’s going on?”

“Uh—”

You glance back at Jack just as he looks up, his gaze meeting yours briefly, a small smile tugging at his lips—and your treacherous heart leaps. It actually leaps.

What the fuck?

You clear your throat. “Yeah. No. I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

Henderson—the perceptive bastard—glances toward the nurses’ station, and his eyes widen.

“Oh, shit. Did something happen between you two?”

Your stomach flips. “What?”

He gestures vaguely toward Jack. “You and Abbot. Did you break up or something?”

“What?” you say again, louder this time. “Why would you even—I mean, we’re not—we’ve never dated. Why would you think that?”

He tilts his head. “Really? I thought Ellis said—”

“Ellis?”

“Not just Ellis.”

Your eyes go wide. “Who else?”

He shrugs. “Everyone assumes you guys are together.”

“Together?”

He frowns. “You’re not?”

“No,” you say, almost too fast. “No. We’re not together, we’re just—it’s… casual.”

His brows lift, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Casual?”

“Yes,” you mutter, dropping your head into your hands. “Are you telling me the entire ED thinks Jack and I are dating?”

Henderson laughs. “Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve ever heard Shen mention it.”

Your head snaps up. “People talk about it?”

Henderson shrugs. “It’s gossip.”

You open your mouth, ready to deny everything, when—

“Trauma inbound,” Lena calls. “Male, twenties. Motorcycle crash. Hypotensive in the field. ETA two minutes.”

“Shit,” Henderson mutters. “That’s not gonna be fun.”

Jack glances over at you again, calling your name across the floor. “Trauma Two. Let’s go.”

You hesitate, taking a step back. “I—I can’t. Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Henderson says quickly. “I can jump in.”

He’s already moving before he’s even finished speaking, weaving through the growing rush of staff converging on Trauma Two. You watch him for a second, taking another slow step back, then another—and just before you turn away, you glance at Jack.

He hasn’t moved. He’s still standing by the nurses’ station. Watching you.

Your stomach twists.

Then you turn away and keep walking down the corridor.

And fortunately for your rapidly deteriorating grip on reality, it isn’t long before Dr. Toomarian pulls you into a room to present a patient and you’re forced back into work mode.

The distraction helps, at first. You focus on the patient, answer questions, review scans, place orders, and for a few blessed minutes your brain remembers how to function. Then someone says Jack’s name and your pulse jumps for no reason. You hear a voice that sounds vaguely like Jack’s and your head snaps up. Someone calls for an attending and you catch yourself looking.

By the time you’re halfway through reviewing another chart, your pulse still hasn’t settled and you’re no closer to understanding what the hell is wrong with you, only increasingly certain that whatever it is, it’s getting worse.

Eventually you find yourself moving back through Central, your nose buried in your tablet as you scan the next patient’s intake form, determined to stay distracted. You’re just about to turn down the North corridor when you finally glance up—and there he is.

His brows lift, just slightly. “A word?”

Shit.

“Um. Sure.”

You tuck your tablet under one arm as you follow him around the corner toward the ambulance bay. Not quite all the way outside, but far enough from the nurses’ station that no one nosy can overhear.

When he finally stops and turns to face you, you’re reminded—quite aggressively—just how unfairly attractive Jack Abbot really is.

“What was that?”

You take a small step back. “What was what?”

He nods vaguely toward Central. “You completely dodged that trauma back there.”

“Yeah. Sorry.” You look away. “I just—I had a patient I needed to get back to.”

“We’ve all got patients,” he says, folding his arms. “But this is the ED. We treat the most critical patients first. That means traumas—you know that.”

You glance back at him, then down at your shoes. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m just... a little distracted tonight.”

“Distracted?” he echoes. “Is this about your friend?”

Your head snaps up. “My friend?”

“The one you just sent up to surgery.” His jaw tightens, just briefly. “If I’m being honest, I’m not even sure you should’ve been his physician.”

You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a conflict of interest.”

You scoff. “A conflict of interest? Seriously?”

He folds his arms a little tighter, making the sleeves of his scrub top strain around his stupidly thick biceps in the most distracting way.

“Yes.”

You lift your chin. “Alright. How’s Ms. Callahan, then?”

He blinks. “Who?”

“Central Nine. Your ex.”

He stares at you for a second.

“Who told you that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you say quickly. “What matters is if you can treat your ex without it being a conflict of interest, then I can treat some guy I used to sleep with.”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“So he’s not just an old friend.”

You tilt your head. “You knew that, Jack.”

For a brief moment, neither of you says anything. You can feel your pulse in your throat now, fast and uneven, and judging by the way Jack’s looking at you, you’re not doing nearly as good a job of hiding it as you’d hoped.

“Look,” you say, desperate to end this interaction. “I’m sorry I ducked the trauma. Really, I am. But Henderson was right there—it’s not like I left you hanging. I knew he’d jump in.”

Jack rubs a hand across his jaw, looking away for a second before glancing back at you. “You’re right,” he says. “I’m sorry. Henderson was there, I could have called either of you.”

You nod once, the knot in your stomach finally easing slightly.

“Guess I should stop playing favourites, huh?”

You frown again. “Favourites?”

He lifts a shoulder. “You’re always the first person I look for when I need a second set of hands.”

Heat rushes up the back of your neck, but you refuse to let him see it.

“What about Dr. Robby?” you ask, shifting your tablet against your chest.

He leans in slightly. “I’d still choose you.”

The words hit you square in the chest, settling somewhere deep behind your ribs. For a second, your lungs forget how to work entirely, and by the time you finally figure out how to breathe again, Jack is already gone.

You stand there for a moment, staring after him, waiting for your brain to catch up with whatever the hell just happened. Waiting for those words to make sense. But they don’t. Not entirely. They stay lodged in your chest even as you clear your throat and press a hand against your sternum, turning slowly back toward the chaos of the ED.

Whatever.

Maybe they don’t mean anything.

You shake your head as you glance down at your tablet, pulling up the chart you’d been focused on before all this. Before Jack told you he’d still choose you over his own best friend, who also happens to have more experience, more qualifications, and significantly better judgement than you.

Ridiculous.

You spend the next half hour cleaning gravel out of a drunk college student’s knee after he fell down the porch steps at a house party. Then you help Henderson with a nine-year-old girl who split her forehead falling from the top bunk of her bed, distracting her while he does the sutures. After that, you work through a mild pneumonia case with Nazely before treating a middle-aged man with a kidney stone. The orders, pain meds, scans, and paperwork all blur together, and by the time you finally check the clock again it’s almost seven.

“Shit,” you murmur, dropping down at desk near the nurses’ station.

You need to catch up on your charting if you plan on getting out of here any time soon.

“Hey.” Henderson sits at the computer across from you. “Little girl with the forehead lac just got discharged.”

You glance over at him. “Oh. Nice.”

“Her mom wanted me to thank you for helping her.”

You snort. “Between the drunk college kid and the old guy coughing up half a lung, it was my pleasure.”

Henderson huffs a laugh. “Apparently she’s been saying she wants to be a doctor since she was six.”

Your brows lift. “Really?”

Henderson grins. “And now she wants to be a doctor just like you."

“Yeah? Did you tell her not to go into emergency medicine if she values her soul?”

“Assuming you had one to begin with,” Robby cuts in.

You glance up just as he walks past, wearing that familiar half-smile of weary amusement with a coffee in one hand and his bag slung over his shoulder.

“And here I was worried you’d be in a good mood this morning,” you say, smiling sweetly despite your words.

His eyes narrow, but the corner of his mouth lifts a little higher. “Careful.”

You roll your eyes playfully, turning back to the screen in front of you as he continues through Central.

It takes exactly eight minutes before you’re interrupted again. Bridget taps you on the shoulder asking for your signature on a prescription, and just as you hand it back to her, the red phone rings. You watch Lena answer it with a tired sigh, both Jack and Robby looking up to hear what kind of chaos is inbound.

“Alright,” Lena says as she hangs up the phone. “Male, forties. Single-vehicle MVC. Hypotensive in the field, positive seatbelt sign. ETA four minutes.”

“I’ll take it,” Robby says, setting his coffee down. “Let’s prep Trauma One.”

He glances around the unusually empty floor.

“I’ll jump in,” you offer, pushing your chair back.

Henderson shoots you a look as you stand and turn toward the nurses’ station, pulling a pair of gloves from a box. It’s not that you really want to jump in on another case ten minutes before the end of your shift, but you haven’t had a trauma since Captain Stabby and his sexy doctor friend, and you’re starting to feel a little guilty about it.

“See,” Robby says, pulling on his own gloves. “There’s hope for you yet.”

You roll your eyes again as you follow him out to the ambulance bay, and it isn’t long before you hear sirens.

The ambulance careens in and pulls up right in front of you, the back doors flying open as the first paramedic climbs out, holding a tearful young girl in his arms. She couldn’t be older than four.

“Thirty-eight-year-old male, restrained driver in a single-vehicle MVC versus a tree,” the paramedic says. “Positive seatbelt sign, abdominal pain, hypotensive on scene, improved with fluids. GCS fifteen. Two IVs in place. Daughter was restrained in the back seat and appears uninjured.”

The second paramedic circles the van from the driver’s side and starts helping Robby lower the gurney.

Robby nods toward the daughter. “You check her out?”

“We did a quick assessment on scene, but we’ve been focused on Dad,” the paramedic says, still holding her.

“Alright. We’ll get somebody to take a look at her.”

The young girl starts crying harder as Robby and the other paramedic begin wheeling the gurney inside. You stay beside them, one hand on the man’s forearm as you watch his eyelids droop.

“Stay with me, sir,” you say, squeezing his arm. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Barry,” he murmurs.

“Where does it hurt, Barry?”

He winces. “My—my stomach.”

The gurney rolls through the second set of doors, and suddenly you’re back under the bright fluorescent lights.

“Abbot,” Robby calls. “Can you take a look at the kid?”

Jack appears before you can even glance over your shoulder.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, his voice soft as he gently takes the daughter from the paramedic’s arms. “Your dad’s in good hands. Come on, let’s get you checked out too.”

You continue moving with the gurney into Trauma One, where Jesse and Olive are already prepping monitors and equipment.

“On three,” Robby says, positioning himself opposite you. “One, two, three.”

The paramedics help shift the patient onto the trauma bed before clearing out, making room for Jesse to start attaching monitors.

“Pressure one-oh-four over sixty-eight,” he reports.

Olive quickly cuts Barry’s shirt open.

“Seatbelt sign across the lower abdomen,” you say, pressing gently along his stomach.

He grimaces when you reach his left side.

“Left’s worse.”

Robby holds out a hand. “Ultrasound.”

Jesse hands him the probe as you squirt gel onto Barry’s abdomen.

“RUQ,” Robby says.

You glance up at the ultrasound screen. “Clear.”

“LUQ.”

“Clear.”

“Pelvis.”

“Nothing obvious.”

“Good,” Robby says. “FAST negative. He’s stable enough for CT.”

You turn to Olive. “CT chest, abdo, pelvis with contrast.”

She nods, moving toward the phone as the whole room finally takes a breath. The negative FAST isn’t a guarantee, but it’s a promising start.

Barry groans, trying to lift his head. “Where’s my daughter? Where’s Ellie?”

You press a hand against his shoulder.

“Hey, don’t try to sit up. Your daughter’s okay—she’s just outside with another doctor.”

“She’s okay?”

You nod. “She’s okay.”

He lets out a strained breath, settling back against the mattress and tipping his head back.

“Hold on.”

You move closer, gently pushing his hair back.

“Forehead lac,” you tell Robby. “About three centimetres.”

He glances over. “Alright. We’ll close it up before he goes to imaging.”

He strips off his gloves and reaches for a new pair while Jesse preps the suture tray. Olive is already cleaning up around Barry as you reach for some gauze to start cleaning the cut, gently pushing his bloodied locks of hair out of the way.

“Lidocaine,” Robby says.

You grab the syringe from the tray and hand it to him, more than happy to let your attending do the work while your adrenaline wanes and that familiar end-of-shift exhaustion sets in.

“Stay still for us, Barry,” you murmur, cupping the crown of his head. “This might sting a little.”

He winces as Robby injects the anaesthetic.

“Saline,” Robby says.

You hand it over before carefully plucking the last few stuck strands of hair away from the wound.

“How’s the pain?” you ask.

“‘S okay,” Barry mumbles.

“Forceps.”

You hand Robby the forceps, then the needle driver before he can even ask.

“Light,” he murmurs.

You reach up and adjust the luminaire until he raises his hand, signalling that it’s in the right spot. Then he pinches the edge of the laceration with the forceps and slides the needle through the skin. Easy. Effortless. Boring.

You glance up at the monitor, noting that Barry’s heart rate has finally dropped below a hundred.

“Scissors,” Robby says.

You grab the scissors from the tray and hand them to him, then go back to reading Barry’s vitals.

“You with us, Barry?” Robby asks.

“Yeah,” Barry murmurs.

“Can’t feel the needle, can you?”

“No.”

“Good.”

You let your eyes move slowly around the room, already holding gauze for Robby before he can ask for it. You feel him take it from your hand just as you turn your head toward the glass doors, gazing out at the beginning chaos of morning handover.

But it isn’t Ellis and Langdon arguing about God knows what that gets your attention.

Just outside the trauma bay, perched on the edge of a bed parked beside the nurses’ station is Barry’s daughter. Ellie, apparently. Her eyes are still red and puffy, but she’s not crying anymore. She’s got a pink hospital gift shop teddy tucked under one arm and her other hand wrapped around the tubing of a black stethoscope.

Jack is sitting on a stool in front of her, gently helping put the earpieces in her tiny ears with a soft smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. Her little hands grip either side of the headset, adjusting it with a very focused look on her face.

Jack hands her the chest piece as he scoots a little closer to the bed, then points to his chest. You can’t hear what he’s saying, but you can make an educated guess.

Ellie’s tiny hand grips the bell as she presses the diaphragm against Jack’s chest, a small crease forming between her brows. Jack is watching her with that amused little half-smile, his gaze soft, one hand braced lightly on the mattress beside her so she doesn’t topple backwards.

Ellie says something, and Jack nods, schooling his expression.

She’s taking her job very seriously right now, and Jack is taking her very seriously.

“Doctor.”

You blink, glancing back at Robby.

“Yeah?”

He gives you a look. “Scissors. For the third time.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

You hand him the scissors and watch him snip the tail on the second-last suture, then you turn your attention back toward Jack and Ellie. She’s giggling now, with the diaphragm pressed to Jack’s cheek as he gently shakes his head, laughing too.

“Forceps.”

You grab the forceps and hand them to Robby.

His eyes flick up. “You alright?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“You’re smiling.”

“No, I’m—”

Oh my God.

You are smiling.

You turn back toward Jack, and your stomach drops.

Oh my God.

You’re in love with Jack Abbot.

“Alright, Barry,” Robby says, peeling his gloves off. “We’re gonna send you upstairs for some imaging now, make sure we didn’t miss anything.”

You take one unsteady step back from the bed.

“Can someone call my wife?” Barry asks, his voice strained.

Robby nods. “I'm sure somebody already has, but I’ll check.”

Your hands shake as you pull your gloves off.

“What about Ellie? Can I see her?”

“Of course,” Robby says. “She’s right outside.”

Barry lifts his head slightly. “Am I okay?”

“Well, you’re talking to me, your pressure’s holding, and your FAST was negative. Those are all good signs.” Robby looks at you. “Isn’t that right, doctor?”

Your head snaps up. “Hm?”

He frowns. “You sure you’re alright? You seem—”

“I’m fine,” you snap, tossing your gloves in the waste bin. “I just—I have charting to do.”

Then you turn and march right out of the trauma bay, keeping your head down as you take an immediate sharp left. Ignoring the familiar voice that calls your name and makes your pulse scatter.

You don’t stop until you reach the picture wall. Only then do you drop down onto the bench, squeeze your eyes shut, and bury your face in your hands. You can’t scream. Can’t shout. Can’t drop to the floor and have a panic attack right here in the middle of the ED. So you just… breathe.

Okay. Maybe you’re being a little dramatic—but can anyone blame you?

You don’t want this. You can’t want this. You don’t have time for this.

Casual sex is easy. No strings, no stress, no reason to worry about anything other than saving lives and finishing your residency. That’s all you want.

Or… all you wanted.

Now?

Now you’re not sure what you want.

Of course you still want to save lives and survive your residency, but now you can’t imagine doing either of those things without Jack.

You can’t imagine another shift without knowing Jack is somewhere in the department. Or getting a difficult case and not being able to talk through it with him. You can’t imagine going home and not immediately texting him. Or having a bad day and not being able to talk to him about it.

You can’t imagine anything without Jack.

Which is terrifying.

Because it isn’t just sex anymore. It isn’t flirting or late-night texts or teasing glances across the floor. It’s the way he’s somehow worked his way into every part of your life without you even noticing. Every shift. Every conversation. Every stupid little story you save up to tell him later. He’s just there. Everywhere.

And now... he matters.

You sit up and drag in a deep breath.

You need to pull it together. This isn’t the end of the world. It’s not even a thing. It’s only a thing if you let it be a thing, which… you’re not going to do.

With another deep breath, you push off the bench and start heading back toward Central. All you have to do is finish your charting, then you can leave. You can go home, turn your phone off, and talk yourself off the ledge.

You just need a little space. A little time away from the hospital, away from Jack, and all these ridiculous feelings will—

“Hey. You okay?”

Your heart lurches, but you don’t stop.

“I was going to come over there,” he says, keeping his voice low, “but I didn’t want to—”

“I’m fine,” you murmur, without even looking at him.

His hand closes gently around your wrist, and your stomach flips so hard it’s almost nauseating. 

“You sure?”

You finally stop, glancing up at him. At the concerned crease between his brows and the little downward quirk at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m fine,” you say again, pulling your arm out of his grip. “Seriously.”

He gives you a look. Not one that says he’s offended or at all upset by your attitude, but one that says he doesn’t believe you. A look that makes you feel far too seen. Far too known.

“I need to finish my notes,” you mutter, turning away before he can say anything else.

You turn down the North corridor and don’t stop until you reach the desks just outside the break room. Then you drop into a chair, swipe your badge to log in, and force your trembling hands to steady themselves over the keyboard.

It takes a significant amount of effort to focus on your charting. You stare at the blinking cursor for minutes at a time before finally managing to squeeze out a few—mostly coherent—sentences. You type Jack’s name at least five times without meaning to, and every time you do, your heart thuds obnoxiously hard beneath your ribs.

Fortunately, no one tries to interrupt you this time, and after forty painstaking minutes of glaring at that computer screen and forcing your wayward thoughts to stay on track, you finally finish.

Now you just need to handover your patients.

You find Langdon by the nurses’ station, standing just below the workboard with his hands in his pockets as he reads through the list of patients and their ailments.

“Hey.” You step up beside him. “You got a minute for handover?”

He glances at you. “Oh. Hey. Didn’t know there were still any night crawlers left.”

You frown. “Everyone’s gone?”

“Everyone but Dr. Abbot,” he says. “And you.”

Your eyes go wide. “Ellis is gone?”

He nods. “Saw her head out about fifteen minutes ago.”

You scramble to grab your phone out of your pocket, unlocking it to find two new notifications from Ellis. Seventeen minutes ago.

Ellis: Abbot said he’s giving you a lift, so I’m headed out. Ellis: Need anything from the store?

Your stomach drops.

“Everything alright?” Langdon asks.

“Uh—yeah. Fine.”

You tuck your phone back into your pocket.

“I’ve only got two patients. Can you take them?”

He nods. “Of course.”

“Alright. Central Twelve came in with chest pain. Trops negative, ECG’s clean, waiting on the repeat. If that’s negative too, he can go home.”

“Mhm.”

“And South Nineteen’s the pyelo. Got fluids, ceftriaxone, feeling better. Medicine said they’d come see her, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

Langdon snorts. “Got it.”

You nod. “Great. Thanks.”

“Anything else?”

“Nope.”

He smiles. “Great sign-out.”

“I try,” you mutter, already turning away.

You hurry across the floor toward the lockers, pulling your phone back out of your pocket to type a reply to Ellis as you walk.

You: You’re dead to me. You: And toothpaste.

When you finally reach your locker, you quickly key in the code and pull the door open. You don’t bother removing your stethoscope or badge, or taking time to actually put your jacket on—you just gather everything into your arms and slam the door shut again. Then you turn and make a beeline for the ambulance bay.

Maybe you can catch a bus home. Or—hell—you’ll pay for an Uber if you have to.

“Hey, slow down,” Dana says as you rush past the nurses’ station. “What’s the hurry?”

“Sorry,” you call over your shoulder. “Just—really need to get home.”

You’re moving too quickly for her to press you any further. Thank God. Because the last thing you need right now is Dana and her infuriating habit of knowing things she has absolutely no business knowing.

You keep your head down until you make it all the way outside, and only then do you finally feel like you can breathe. You nod to a patient having a cigarette by the garden bed before turning the other way, pulling your phone out to order an Uber.

Only, you can’t remember the last time you ordered an Uber. Do you even have the app?

“You ready?”

You flinch. “Jesus Christ.”

Jack huffs a laugh. “Not quite.”

You glance back down at your phone, clutching it a little tighter.

“I’m this way,” he says, nodding toward the other side of the parking lot.

You hesitate. “I—uh—I was just going to grab an Uber.”

His brows lift, but he doesn’t look all that surprised. “You were?”

You nod. “Yeah. I’m good. Thanks.”

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

You turn away, but he doesn’t leave. He just stands there, waiting, one hand holding the strap of his backpack that’s slung over his shoulder, the other buried in his pocket.

“Is there something going on that I should know about?” he asks finally.

“Nope,” you reply, too fast.

Then, for some ridiculous reason, you start walking.

“Where are you going?”

“The bus stop,” you say, without looking back.

He follows you. Because of course he does.

“You’re going to catch a bus?”

“Yep.”

He laughs again, but this time it’s more disbelief than dry amusement.

“I’m offering you a perfectly good, no strings attached ride home, and you’d rather catch a bus?”

That makes you stop.

You turn around. “No strings attached?”

He lifts a shoulder. “If that’s what you want.”

“What I want?”

“If you want me to just drop you off, I’ll just drop you off.”

You stare at him for a second, your pulse pounding in your ears.

“Just drop me off?”

He nods slowly, his brow creasing slightly.

“And then what?” you ask.

He tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

“Then you just leave?”

“If that’s what you want.”

Your throat tightens. “Stop saying that.”

He frowns. “Saying what?”

“If that’s what I want.” You drag a hand through your hair. “You keep saying it like this is entirely up to me. Like none of this has anything to do with you. Like it’s my choice and you don’t get to say anything or—or feel anything, and that’s not fair.”

He studies you for a moment, folding his arms across his chest in the most irritatingly distracting way.

“What are we talking about here?”

“I don’t know!” You throw your hands up. “This. Us. Whatever this is. I don’t know what we’re doing anymore, Jack. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with any of this, and you just keep showing up being completely reasonable all the time, which is really fucking annoying.”

His eyes narrow. “I’m... too reasonable?”

“Yes! God—” You laugh once, sharp and humourless. “Why are you always like this? Why are you always so calm about everything? We never talk about what you want. We never talk about how you feel. We just keep pretending everything’s fine and maybe that’s worked up until now, but I don't think it’s working anymore.”

“Okay,” he says evenly. “Tell me what’s not working, and we can talk about it.”

“Talk about it?” You stare at him. “Talk about what? There’s nothing to talk about, because this—this isn’t anything. This is casual, Jack. It’s supposed to be casual. And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe we’ve spent too much time together. Maybe we just need some space or—or something.”

His brows lift. “Is that what you want?”

You fold your arms, trying to reclaim some semblance of control. “Yes.”

Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face, but he schools it quickly.

“Okay,” he says again. “If you want space, I can give you space.”

“Seriously?” You let out another sharp laugh. “Of course that’s your answer. Do you see what I mean? This is exactly what I mean. I stand here and tell you maybe we need some space, and you’re just... okay with it? Just like that? No questions, no argument, no nothing.”

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Do you want me to argue?”

“Maybe!” You throw your hands up again. “I don’t know, Jack! Maybe I want something. Anything. Just some indication that this means something to you. Because every time I say something, you just... accept it. You just nod and go along with it like none of this affects you at all. Like if I said I wanted space, you’d give me space. If I said I wanted to end this, you’d end it. If I said I never wanted to see you again, you’d just stand there being completely calm and reasonable and tell me that’s okay too.”

You let out a shaky laugh, shaking your head as you look away.

“And don’t tell me that’s not true, because you spent half the night in Central Nine with your ex and I spent the rest of the shift pretending I wasn’t paying attention to that, which is insane, by the way. Completely insane. She was a patient. You’re a doctor. I know that. I know I’m being irrational.”

You tip your head back, squeezing your eyes shut for just a second before looking back at him.

“And that’s the worst part, because I know none of this is actually about her. That’s the problem. It’s not about her at all. It’s about the fact that you’re always fine. You’re always so calm and so reasonable and so completely unbothered, and I don’t know how you do that.” You let out an unsteady breath. “It's like—like none of this matters to you. Like you don’t care. Like you could just walk away from everything, from me, and be completely fine.”

Your chest is rising and falling too fast now, your heart is beating so hard you’re almost sure he can hear it.

He doesn’t say anything right away. He just watches you, the corners of his mouth softened by something that looks suspiciously like fondness. And suddenly you’re struck by the horrible suspicion that he understands exactly what you’ve been trying so hard not to say.

“You think I could just walk away from this and be completely fine?” he asks, his voice soft. “You think I could walk away from you?”

He steps closer, the toes of his boots barely inches from yours now.

“When this started, it was casual. I knew that. I knew you were seeing other people. I knew you didn’t want a relationship—and if that’s still not what you want, then okay. I’m not going to pressure you into something you’re not ready for. I’m not trying to be overly reasonable, and I’m certainly not trying to make you feel like you’re losing your mind.”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“When I ask you what you want, it’s not because I don’t care what happens. It’s because I do. It’s because I’d rather be patient than push you into something before you’re ready for it. And if space is what you need right now, then I’ll give you space.”

His gaze holds yours.

“But don’t mistake that for indifference. Because there’s no version of this where walking away from you is easy. There’s no version of this where I don’t care. And if one day you tell me that’s what you really want, then I’ll respect it. Not because it’s what I want. Not because what I feel doesn’t matter. But because I respect you.”

His expression softens again.

“Do you understand?”

You nod slowly, your throat suddenly too tight for words.

“Now listen to me.”

He lifts a hand and pinches your chin gently between his thumb and forefinger.

“I know you’ve had a long shift. I know you’re exhausted. I know you’re standing here trying to convince yourself you haven't completely lost your mind, and I’m not trying to make your day any harder than it already is—but I need you to hear this.”

His eyes search yours, earnest and unguarded.

“I love you too.”

For a moment, all you can do is stare at him. With your breath caught somewhere in your chest, your mouth slightly open, and your heart trying to punch its way through your ribcage.

His lips quirk. “You alright?”

“No,” you breathe.

And then you grab the front of his shirt and kiss him.

His hand drops from your chin to your neck, fingers pressing in just slightly as he kisses you back. Firm, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world and has decided, without hesitation, that he only wants to spend it on you.

He steps closer, tilting your head back as his mouth parts against yours. A soft, helpless little noise breaks at the back of your throat, and you can feel his lips curl in satisfaction. Then he kisses you harder, deeper, his other hand finding your waist as his tongue presses past your lips.

You step in until there’s nothing left between you. Nothing but hospital scrubs and the fact that you’re standing in the middle of a public parking lot right now.

And for a second, neither of you seems to care.

The hand at your waist slides higher, pulling you closer as his mouth moves slower. Not because he wants less, but because he knows he’s got you. Because after months of patience and uncertainty, he knows he can finally take his time.

Your fingers bunch tighter in the front of his shirt, and he smiles again.

“Don’t,” you murmur against his mouth.

He doesn’t say anything. He just kisses you again, gentler this time. A lingering press of his mouth against yours. Then another. His thumb brushes against your neck as he tilts his head, stealing one more kiss that feels almost unfairly tender after the way he’d just been holding you.

Then he pulls back completely.

You stare at him.

He stares back.

Your lips are still tingling, your hands are still fisted in the front of his shirt, and your heart is still beating hard enough to crack a rib.

The corner of his mouth lifts a little higher.

“Still catching the bus?”

You immediately let go of his shirt. “Shut up.”

He laughs properly then, letting you turn away and start marching toward one end of the parking lot.

“My car’s the other way,” he calls.

You stop, close your eyes, then slowly turn around.

Jack is still standing exactly where you left him, with his hands in his pockets and looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Shut up,” you say again.

His smile only widens.

You roll your eyes and start walking again, brushing past him with as much dignity as someone can reasonably muster after having a complete emotional breakdown and then immediately making out with their boss.

You don’t need to look back to know he’s following you.

You just know.

And by the time you finally reach his car, you realise you’re smiling.

Which is annoying for several reasons.

Morning comes fast.

By E.R. standards, it had been a relatively slow night. The most exciting case was a drunk college girl who'd managed to snap her leg spectacularly after stumbling off a curb in six-inch heels. Beyond that, it had been the usual parade of forgotten medications, minor lacerations, kitchen burns, coughs, fevers, and people convinced that symptoms they'd ignored for weeks suddenly constituted an emergency at three in the morning.

Now day shift trickles in, filling the department with the scent of fresh coffee and half-awake greetings.

Jack's at the hub finishing the final comments on his last chart when a shadow falls across the counter. He looks up to find Robby, who jerks his head toward the elevator and leaves without saying anything else.

"Better get it over with," you say, logging off your computer.

He chuckles and follows your lead. "I guess. You'll wait in the car?"

You straighten and nudge his shoulder. "Mm. I'll probably call Olivia."

"Good idea," he says, standing. He catches your hand before you can walk away. "Good luck." He wishes he could lean in and kiss you, but you agreed on no PDA. Past him was a fool.

You squeeze his hand. "You too."

Jack waits until you've disappeared around the corner to the lockers before heading for the elevators. Five minutes later, the rooftop door swings shut behind him.

Robby's leaning against the railing, staring out across the waking city. He turns once he hears Jack's familiar stride, and a grin spreads across his face.

Jack groans as he steps beside him. "Just get it over with."

"What?" Robby asks. "The fact that I was right from the beginning? Or the fact that you should've listened to me ages ago? Or maybe"—he tilts his head—"the fact that this conference was exactly what you needed?"

Jack looks over at him. "You finished?"

Robby hums thoughtfully. "I could keep going—"

"Please don't."

"—but I do have a shift I need to get back to, so yes."

"Good."

Robby laughs and turns back to look out again. For a moment, neither of them says anything.

"I'm happy for you," Robby says.

Jack lets out a lighter breath than he would've managed a few weeks ago.

"She's good for you," Robby continues.

A smile tugs at the corner of Jack's mouth, his fingers curling loosely around the railing. "She is."

"You're good for her, too." Jack opens his mouth, but Robby continues before he can say anything. "Believe it or not, everyone else can see it."

Jack rolls his eyes.

"And if we've learned anything from this whole disaster, it's that you should trust my judgement."

Jack huffs a laugh but doesn't disagree. "It's weird."

"What is?"

He shrugs. "Getting something you'd already convinced yourself wasn't going to happen."

The teasing fades from Robby's expression, and he bumps his shoulder against Jack's. They stand there for another moment before Robby claps his shoulder. "I'd better get downstairs before they manage to burn down the place. I expect an invitation to dinner one of these days."

"Yeah, yeah." Jack waves him away.

Robby is halfway to the door when he calls after him. "Hey."

Robby turns.

"Thanks."

For a moment, Robby just looks at him. Then he dips his chin once before disappearing through the door.

Jack stays there for another five minutes, just breathing and watching the city. The hospital hums beneath him. Traffic slowly fills the street below.

For the first time in a long while, he lets himself enjoy the view before heading back inside.

With both your bag and Jack's grabbed, you head toward the parking lot, moving slower than usual as you try to summon the courage to call Olivia before you get there.

You've been avoiding her—to some extent—and you already know she isn't going to be happy about it.

So, you take small steps, unlock the car, and place the bags in the back before shuffling into the passenger seat.

It rings twice before she answers. She's at her kitchen table, staring at you with narrowed eyes. "Nice of you to finally talk to me."

You wince. "I know."

"You know?" she repeats. "That's all I get?"

You offer her a tentative smile.

She takes a bite of her bread, chewing while continuing to glare at you. Then her mouth twitches. "So?"

A large smile spreads across your face, and you nod.

She lets out a triumphant squeal. "I knew it! I fucking knew it!"

You laugh at her enthusiasm.

"This is the best news ever!"

You roll your eyes. "Okay, calm down. It's not that big a deal."

"Oh, it is."

"No, it isn't."

"It absolutely is," she says. "I've spent months watching you idiots ruin things for yourselves. It's finally over!"

You shake your head, but her glee is infectious.

"Tell me everything," she demands.

You tell her about the awkward car ride, meeting Jeremy and Warren, the fight, and making up. By the time you're done, Olivia's been grinning so hard her breakfast has gone cold.

"And then we..." you shrug, biting back a grin.

Her eyes widen. "No way! How was it?"

"So good."

Her jaw drops. "Yeah?"

You nod.

She leans back in her chair, looking thoroughly pleased. "Good. You deserve nothing less."

"Hey, I'm sorry for being such a mess these past months. You've been there through everything, and I'm so lucky to have you in my life. Thank you."

She waves you off. "No need to be sappy. You'd do the same."

"How's it looking on your end?"

She groans.

"What about Robby?"

"That wasn't really anything—just a kiss." She shrugs. "And I mean, I'm here, and he's in Pittsburgh, so..."

You suck your teeth in disappointment.

Her face sours. "Damn it."

"What?"

"I just remembered that I owe him twenty bucks. I thought Jack was going to confess first," she groans. "Should've trusted that my meddling skills were better than Robby's."

You laugh. "With betting like that, you're practically part of the Pitt crew already. Maybe you should consider moving? It solves two problems."

"Two?"

"Robby, of course," you grin, "and I don't have to miss you."

"Hm," she huffs. "Not sure about the first one..."

Movement catches your eyes before you can argue further. Jack's making his way across the parking lot, and without thinking, you sit up a little straighter.

"Oh, gross."

"Hey, be nice!" you chuckle. "Jack's coming."

"I gathered," she says. "Have fun. I'm expecting to be the godmother." She winks exaggeratedly.

"Love you." You roll your eyes and hit the end button.

Weeks slip by in that sweet, honeymoon-like bliss.

Surprisingly little has changed since you started properly dating. Jack still brings you breakfast, watches your terrible shows without complaints, and washes your scrubs. The only thing that's really changed is that he's finally shown you just how affectionate he is.

You wake up wrapped in his arms most mornings. He always seems to need a hand on you somewhere: your waist while you're cooking, your fingers while you're out walking, your ankle draped across his lap while you read on the couch.

Right now, though, his hands are firmly around your thighs, keeping them spread apart.

"Jack," you plead softly.

"What?" he hums, his voice warm with amusement as he deliberately lingers just out of reach. He presses a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh.

You let out a frustrated whine, wriggling your hips. His hold tightens, keeping you firmly in place.

He chuckles. "What do you want, sweet girl?" He brushes another kiss along the inside of your thigh, just a little higher than the one before. Then another, until his nose brushes the soaked pink fabric. "This?"

You shake your head.

"No?" He kisses the edge of your underwear, close enough that it sends a shiver up your spine. "Maybe this?"

You squirm again. "Jack, please."

He clicks his tongue, his dark gaze finding yours. "I know you can do better than that, sweetheart."

Heat creeps into your cheeks, your chest rising fast. His thumb brushes the corner of your underwear, staring at the wet material with a scorched gaze.

You gasp when he presses his thumb directly against your clit. "Please touch me."

"I already am," he says, amusement flickering across his face. His thumb leaves you again, stroking lazily across your hip instead.

You huff in annoyance, finally relenting. "Please touch my pussy."

"Oh, why didn't you just say that?" He grins. "With my fingers or my mouth?"

Head hazy with lust and impatience, all you say is: "Please."

Thankfully, Jack takes pity on you. He pulls the fabric aside, then descends on you. He licks broad stripes, groaning in appreciation when he gets your sweet taste on his tongue.

"Fuck. I'll never get sick of doing this."

You moan loudly, your fingers gripping his hair.

"You taste so good," he murmurs. "Doing so good for me."

He alternates between soft kisses, slow licks, and gentle sucks until the sensation becomes almost unbearable. All you can do is try to hold on, fingers gripping his hair, shoulders, arms—whatever you can get hold of.

It takes an embarrassingly short time for you to crash over the edge.

When you finally manage to climb back to yourself, Jack is looking up at you, his chin glistening and a thoroughly smug smile on his face.

"Better?"

You roll your eyes and swat his shoulder. His hand finds your chin as he crowds over you, pressing you into the mattress.

"I asked you a question."

You suck in a breath, staring into his eyes. "Yes."

"Good." He lets go of your chin and smirks when you push at his chest. He follows, letting you shove him down onto the bed. You swing a leg over him, and his hands find your waist automatically, helping situate you on top of him.

"Fuck," he swears as you sink down on him. Your mouth crashes into his as you slowly begin moving. Jack lets you set the pace for a moment before his hips snap up, setting a faster pace.

"Jack," you moan into his ear. His fingers grip your waist as he captures your mouth again. He comes with a drawn-out sound that reverberates in your chest. You let yourself sink against him, forehead resting against his shoulder.

His hands remain on your waist long after the moment has passed, thumbs absentmindedly stroking slow circles against your skin as the two of you catch your breath.

Neither of you says anything for a while. His heartbeat thuds steadily beneath you. Eventually, one of his hands slips up your back, his fingers combing gently through your hair. "Hey."

You smile into his shoulder. "Hey."

"Better?" he asks again, quieter this time.

You nod against him before lifting your head just enough to meet his eyes. "Much."

He grins, satisfied.

You trace lazy circles across the side of his arm. "You were incredibly annoying, though."

A laugh rumbles through his chest. "You complaining?"

You pinch his skin lightly. He catches your wrist, turning your hand over to press a kiss into your palm.

"You'll survive."

"I don't know," you sigh dramatically. "I may never recover."

He bites your hand lightly. "I'll take excellent care of you."

"Hm," you huff.

"I was planning on starting with water."

That earns him a genuine laugh. You lean down to kiss him again, slow and unhurried. He hums softly into the kiss. When you finally pull away, neither of you moves very far.

"I love you," he says softly.

You smile, brushing your nose against his. "I love you, too."

His arms tighten around your waist just a fraction before he sighs. "Now..." His eyebrows lift. "Go pee. I'll get you some water. Then we can cuddle again."

"Doctor's orders?"

"Absolutely."

You roll your eyes fondly as you climb off him, stealing one last quick kiss before you do. "I suppose I'd better listen to the professional."

He watches you climb off the bed with an unmistakably pleased expression. "You usually don't."

You glance back over your shoulder. "I make exceptions if my doctor's handsome."

"I think I'm gonna throw up." Parker slumps against the counter, staring blankly into the distance.

Shen spins around in his chair. "Maggots guy?"

"God, no." Parker's seen her fair share of disgusting things. Maggots don't even register anymore. "Abbot and Trouble in the supply room."

Lena snorts from her right. "Weren't you the one begging them to make up?"

"I was." Parker sighs. "But there are some things I never needed to witness."

Shen's eyebrows shoot up. "Hold on. They weren't...?"

"No!" Parker cuts him off before he can finish. She might need to bleach her eyes, but she's not letting that rumour start. "They were just making out."

"Oh." Lena pushes her glasses onto her head. "Then what's the problem?"

Parker just stares at her. "…His hand was on her ass."

There's a beat of silence before Lily, who's been quietly working at her computer, looks up. "I think you've been single for too long."

"I'm not that single."

"Not by choice," Shen says between obnoxiously loud slurps of his iced coffee.

Parker glares at him. "And I suppose you're drowning in admirers?"

He grins. "I don't kiss and tell."

"You don't kiss, period."

"Ouch." He clutches a hand to his chest, then grins as he takes another sip.

"The point," Parker continues, rubbing her temples, "is that I have to work with them. I don't want every room I walk into to be a potential traumatic experience."

"You're so dramatic," Lily says with a grin. She stands and gives Parker's shoulder a sympathetic pat. "Hit me up if you want to come on a double date sometime. My boyfriend has some cute friends."

Parker groans.

"Just be grateful," Lena says. "At least they're happy."

"They can be happy," Parker mutters. "Just... preferably behind a locked door."

"Good luck telling Abbot that," Shen says.

Parker drops her forehead onto the counter with a muffled groan.

"What are you doing?" Jack pauses in the doorway to the guest bedroom, still in his scrubs.

You peek out from the closet, sending him a smile. "Thought I'd clear out this room. Get rid of some old stuff and move the rest into our closet."

He looks around. Half the shelves are empty, and there are piles of clothes on the bed. Textbooks cover most of the desk alongside notebooks, loose papers, and other things you'd shoved in the drawers weeks ago.

"I keep forgetting I have things in here," you say. "And it isn't my room anymore, so I'm making space for your stuff, too."

"You don't have to," he says, pressing a kiss to your head. You shrug, grabbing another piece of clothing.

Jack wanders over to the desk, picking up one of the medical textbooks. "Are you keeping these or giving them away?"

"I'll give them away after my oral boards." You throw a dress onto the bed. "I figured some of the residents could use them. Med school's expensive enough."

"That's kind."

You shrug and toss another item onto the bed.

Jack continues sorting through the clutter, smiling at old photographs and forgotten receipts before unfolding a document. "What's this?"

He knows exactly what it is. The divorce papers that had haunted him for weeks with your signature sitting dry at the bottom of the page.

You look over. "Oh."

For a moment, Jack says nothing. "I can put them back if—"

You walk over, take the papers from his hand, and tear them cleanly down the middle. Then again. You drop the pieces into the nearby trash bin.

Jack blinks. "You sure?"

You glance at the bin, then back at him. "I thought I'd gotten rid of it already." A small smile tugs at your lips. "I don't need it anymore."

You lean up to kiss his cheek before returning to the closet. "So," you say over your shoulder, "should I donate this sweater or keep it?"

Jack doesn't answer immediately. His eyes drift to the trash bin.

"Jack?"

He looks up. You stand in the middle of the room that had once been yours with things that will find their place elsewhere in your shared bedroom.

He lets out a slow breath. "Keep."

During the next few weeks, Jack can't stop thinking about the divorce papers or how easily you had ripped them apart. It takes a situation at work for him to realise why.

Cyclist vs. vehicle. A pelvic fracture and a head wound that needed immediate attention. You had both snapped into action, dividing the work between you and taking control of the trauma room.

"Dr. Abbot, here—" a new nurse had called out, and Jack's head had snapped up. But it wasn't him she was talking to—it was you. He'd seen the nurse's face flush, but you'd answered before he'd even finished turning toward you. There'd been no indication that it had bothered you at all.

You had just responded like it was your name.

It hit him a couple of hours later. You had shown him just how much you wanted him. He had to make it clear to you that he wanted the same.

Things hadn't been done right the first time. A glitch. Rings bought out of necessity. And that was that. No romance at all.

You deserve a proper proposal—a real wedding. Something you can actually tell the others about in detail instead of repeating the same brief lie you'd been telling for months: that it had been a simple affair, that he'd proposed at home.

Jack wants to make the story real.

He buys a ring. A simple but flashy one. Then he spends days waiting for the right moment.

The opportunity comes when he's sitting on the couch waiting to pick you up from work. The entire drive is spent in a nervous haze, the box pressing insistently against his thigh.

He makes coffee as you head for the shower, so his hands have something to do. As it brews, he straightens the sugar bowl, then the coffee tin, then realises he's already done it twice.

You pad down the hallway, dripping water onto the floor from your still-wet hair. "What are you doing?" You watch him with narrowed eyes as you turn to the cabinet.

"Nothing?"

You huff, but decide to let it go, standing on your tiptoes to grab a mug. "Do you wanna go sit outside and eat—" your sentence cuts off when you spin back around.

Jack's on his knee, keeping it steady despite his prosthetic. He holds out the box.

Your mug slips from your fingers onto the counter with a soft click. "Jack?"

A shaky breath leaves him which almost turns into a laugh.

"What are you doing?"

"I think you know."

A watery laugh escapes you. "Is this—? Are you—?"

"Yeah," he chuckles breathily. "So do I get to say my speech," he teases gently, "or are you going to interrupt me the whole time?"

You press a hand over your mouth and nod.

His fingers tremble slightly against the box. "I've been thinking about us. About how we started."

Your hand tightens over your mouth.

"I wouldn't change it. Not really. If that stupid glitch hadn't happened... if Robby hadn't been stuck at work that day..." He shakes his head. "I would've never been lucky enough to have you to come home to every night."

You blink rapidly.

"The best thing that ever happened to me started as an accident." His voice grows quieter. "But I don't want our story to be that we got married by accident. I want it to be that somewhere along the way, after lots of dumb decisions—"

You laugh softly.

"Somewhere along the way, we fell in love. I want you to know that I choose to be with you. I choose you. Every day. And I want you to know that."

A tear trails down your cheek.

"So... Sweetheart. Trouble." He laughs softly, shaking the box lightly. "Will you marry me?"

You drop to your knees in front of him, laughing and crying all at once as you throw your arms around his neck. "Yes!" The word comes out broken by tears. "Yes, of course, I'll marry you. Again."

Jack buries his face against your shoulder, his whole body shaking with relieved laughter.

You pull back just enough to look at him, your cheeks damp with tears and your smile somehow brighter than anything he's ever seen.

"The ring," you remind him softly.

He lets out another breathless laugh. "Right."

The velvet box is still in his hand. You hold out your left hand without him asking. It trembles. A laugh escapes you when you notice his hand isn't any steadier.

"I've had a stressful morning," he murmurs. Carefully, he takes your hand. His thumb brushes once across your knuckles before he slides the ring free from its box. This time, there isn't a clerk handing it to him.

Just the two of you.

He guides the ring onto your finger slowly. It slides into place perfectly.

You stare down at your hand, tilting it to catch the light. He stares, too.

It sits just above the first ring that made you husband and wife. This one doesn't replace it—it gives it the beginning it always deserved.

He lifts your hand to his lips and presses a gentle kiss against your knuckles before looking back up at you. "I love you," he says.

"I love you, too."

He chooses you. You choose him.