meep

You sprawled across the couch beneath a throw blanket, attention half on the movie playing quietly across the mounted television. Jack lay stretched out on his stomach between your legs, fully taking advantage of the position by using your stomach—and very intentionally your chest—as a pillow.

Like this was a normal, random Saturday off of work.

Like this was something you’d been doing for years instead of approximately forty-eight-ish hours.

Your fingers drifted lazily through his curls, scratching lightly against his scalp while his arms rested around your waist. Every so often, he’d shift just enough to get more comfortable, and every single time, you were forced to pretend not to notice the way he settled further into you with a quiet sound of contentment.

And maybe the worst part?

You liked it. Worse than liked it.

You were becoming alarmingly attached to it.

Jack shifted slightly again, nose brushing absentmindedly against your shirt as he adjusted his head more fully onto your stomach.

“You’re kind of crushing me,” you informed him lightly.

“Mhm.”

“I can’t breathe.”

“You can breathe enough to talk.”

You rolled your eyes fondly, fingers continuing through his hair anyway. His curls were softer like this after a shower, slightly damp still at the roots. Every once in a while your nails scratched lightly against his scalp and his breathing would deepen almost immediately.

Which was honestly an outrageous—and intoxicating—amount of power for one person to have.

“You realize,” you said slowly, eyes still on the television, “if anyone from PTMC saw this, we’d actually never hear the end of it.”

Jack made a low noise against your stomach that almost sounded like amusement.

“Robby would pass away instantly.”

“He already thinks we’re suspicious.”

“We are suspicious.”

“That’s not helping.”

Finally, he tilted his head just enough to glance up at you from where he was sprawled across your body. Fever still lingered faintly in the pinkness of his cheeks, though he looked far more healthy now than he had yesterday. You tried not to attribute that to your TLC, but it was too coincidental not to point out. 

“You seem pretty relaxed for someone worried about HR.”

You narrowed your eyes down at him. “You are literally using my boobs as a Tempur-Pedic.”

“They’re comfortable.”

“Jack.” 

“What?” His mouth twitched. “You brought it up.”

A disbelieving laugh escaped you before you lightly shoved at his shoulder. He barely moved.

“Unbelievable.”

“Still letting me crush you.” he murmured, eyes drifting shut again as he settled more heavily against you.

Your hand slowed briefly in his hair.

There it was again—that quiet thing underneath the teasing. The truth of it.

You looked down at him for a second too long, taking in the rare sight of Jack Abbot completely relaxed against you. No more walls were up. Just playful banter while your attending’s temple was pressed against the firmness of your underboob.

It felt like something dangerous in your chest.

So instead of acknowledging any of that, you lightly tugged his curls.

“You drooled on me earlier.”

One eye cracked open immediately. “Slander.”

“You absolutely did.”

“Can’t prove it.”

You smiled despite yourself, resuming the slow scratch of your fingers through his hair as his eyes drifted closed once more.

But the moment was quickly interrupted by the faint buzzing of your phone, buried somewhere beneath either a couch cushion or one of the throw pillows Jack inexplicably owned.

His brows furrowed immediately against your stomach. “Who is it?”

You twisted slightly, digging around blindly beneath the blanket and nearly smacking him in the face with a pillow in the process while he made zero effort to move out of the way.

“Hold on—”

The screen finally lit in your hand and your head immediately tipped back against the couch with a groan.

“It’s Trinity.”

“No.”

You snorted at the sheer immediacy of his response. “I’ve been dodging her calls for like two days now, Jack. She’s gonna think you murdered me.”

“Good,” he muttered, eyes already falling shut again. “Then she’ll stop calling you.”

“Yeah, and start calling the police.” You swiped to answer before he could protest further. “Trin, hey—”

Jack lifted his head just enough to send you an unimpressed scowl as you ignored him completely.

“Roomie,” Trinity’s voice exploded through the speaker immediately. “You’re alive.”

“Barely.”

“Bullshit. You sound suspiciously comfortable.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly. “What does that mean?”

“It means every time I’ve texted you this week you’ve answered like a woman being held hostage but in a weirdly content way.”

Jack’s shoulders started shaking slightly beneath your hand.

“What can I say, I’ve been busy.” You immediately cringed with how you could practically smell how she’d decipher that. 

“Busy, huh?” You knew the sound of her smirk. “Busy in what positions?” 

“Trinity,” you whisper-hissed, heat exploding across your face.

But it was already too late.

Below you, Jack Abbot had gone suspiciously still for half a second before slowly pushing himself upright, one hand bracing against your thigh as he sat up between your legs.

And for someone who was practically on his deathbed last night, he was somehow still entirely capable of weaponizing smugness.

His hair was a mess from laying on you, curls pushed every direction as he looked up with that infuriating glint in his eyes.

“What positions?” he echoed hoarsely, voice roughened from sickness. “Where to start?”

Your jaw dropped as you covered the mic. “You are sick.”

On the phone, Trinity made a sound so loud you nearly threw it across the room.

“Oh my god.”

“Trin, I swear to God—”

“Huckleberry!” You heard her call before her mouth dropped back to the phone. “You slept with him.”

“Hey! No one said that!”

Jack’s brows lifted slightly. “You didn’t?”

You whipped toward him so fast he actually laughed.

The sound dissolved into a cough almost immediately, forcing him to lean briefly into his fist before recovering with an exhausted sigh.

“You are unbelievable,” you muttered.

“You like me unbelievable.”

Trinity was fully losing her mind now somewhere through the speaker.

“I need details immediately.”

“You’re getting none.”

“Coward.”

“Boundary.”

Jack looked deeply entertained now, leaning back more comfortably against your legs like this was the best television he’d watched all week.

“Fine,” Trinity cut in quickly, but after a beat of silence asked, “So…how long would you say this has been a thing?”

“You’re fucked if you think I’m giving you anything—”

“You know,” he rasped toward the phone, “I tried telling her not to answer.”

“You are contributing to the problem!”

“Hey, he created the problem,” Trinity argued. “By apparently seducing his resident into climbing him like a tree during quarantine.”

You made a strangled noise while Jack outright laughed this time.

Again—followed by coughing.

“Actually,” he corrected mildly once he recovered, “she climbed me without asking.”

“Jack.”

“Oh my God,” Trinity shrieked. “He’s funny!?”

“Of course I’m funny—what is this?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Jesus Christ.”

“Was he at least better than the firefighter who—”

“Okay!” you cut her off loudly, cheeks burning. “We’re done here—”

But Jack had already grabbed the phone from your hands. “Bye, Santos,” He interrupted smoothly.

Your head whipped toward him in suspicion while Trinity immediately started yelling through the phone.

“No—” 

You hung up before she could finish, tossing the phone dramatically onto the opposite couch cushion with a groan.

“Why’d you say it like that,” you accused slowly.

“Say what?” 

“Santos,” You mocked his deep voice. 

Jack looked entirely unbothered, settling back against your chest like nothing had happened. “That is her last name.”

“You used it in a dismissive tone.”

“So?”

“You were jealous.”

That finally got a reaction.

He tilted his head back just enough to level you with a look. “Why would I be jealous of Trinity?” 

You gave him a deadpan stare.

“Not of Trinity, you shit.”

“Oh.” Understanding crossed his face a second too late. “Of some lousy firefighter? Please.”

You barked out a startled laugh. “Oh my God, you’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“You literally interrupted her mid-sentence.”

“She was about to annoy me.”

“She was asking about another guy.”

“That too.”

Your grin widened triumphantly as he sighed like he regretted saying it out loud already. “This is really interesting behavior from a man who spent years hating me.”

“Hey,” Jack scoffed, shifting just enough to look up at you. “I’m a man of science. I just want to know how I measure up to a firefighter. You know, as a decorated veteran, senior attending physician—”

“Oh, what else?” You grinned despite yourself.

“Homeowner.”

You snorted.

“Mentor.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Excellent hair.”

“That one’s subjective.”

“It’s really not.”

You laughed, shaking your head as he settled smugly back against you.

“And for the record, I never hated you.” He continued. 

“You were mean to me for, like, three consecutive years.”

“I was professionally challenging.”

“You once told me my sutures looked ‘visually upsetting.’”

“They did.”

You gasped in offense while he smirked against your stomach.

“See?” you pointed accusingly. “Mean.”

“I’m dating you now. I can’t completely lose my edge.”

Your fingers stalled briefly in his hair. The words landed strangely in your chest, each letter swirling around in your mind as your brain began to paint different pathways of how this all could inevitably blow up in your face. 

Dating.

Not sleeping together. Not whatever this quarantine thing was. Not dancing around each other until HR inevitably hunted you both for sport.

Jack must’ve noticed the split-second pause, because his head lifted immediately.

“What?” he asked carefully.

You huffed out a quiet laugh, suddenly very interested in the television again. “Nothing.”

“Sounds like something.”

You looked down at him finally, trying—and failing—to keep the sudden self-consciousness off your face.

“Are you?”

One of his brows lifted slightly. “Am I what?”

“…Dating me.”

Jack stared at you for a second before a slow smile pulled at his mouth.

“Thought I’d try the label on,” he said lightly. “Why? You don’t like it?”

“No,” you answered quickly, almost too quickly. “No, I just…” You trailed off, chewing briefly on your lip. “I don’t know how it feels yet.”

For the first time in what felt like days, the teasing eased from his expression completely. Something softer took its place, like he was realizing the weight of what he just placed on top of you both. 

“Okay,” he said simply.

You blinked. “Okay?”

“Take your time.”

The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten a little. Because there was no pressure in it. No hint of smugness or his usual teasing tone. 

Just Jack, looking up at you like he really meant it. 

The silence that followed stretched a beat too long—aware and awkward in a way neither of you usually let things become.

Then, suddenly—

“So,” Jack said casually, settling his cheek back against your stomach, “is it because of the firefighter?” 

You snorted so hard you nearly choked.

“Why are you genuinely threatened by a man from two years ago?”

“I’m not threatened.”

“You’re literally bringing him up unprovoked.”

“I just figured, if Trinity knows about him, he must’ve been hot shit.” 

“The reason she knows is because he couldn’t make me finish to save his life,”

You could practically feel the grin forming against the skin of your stomach. 

“Couldn’t make you finish, you say?” 

Later in the day, as Jack’s fever had finally begun to surrender, you adopted his task of making dinner.

Not that he’d accepted the demotion gracefully.

He insisted on helping, claiming he was “perfectly functional” despite the fact that last night he ran a fever high enough to qualify as a small furnace. The compromise landed somewhere in the middle: you manned the stove while he handled prep work as a quiet playlist drifted from the Amazon Echo.

The whole thing felt strangely familiar.

Not the cooking itself, but the way you moved around each other.

Without discussion, you slid aside when he needed something from the cabinet behind you. You passed ingredients back and forth without looking, somehow already knowing what the other needed.

The same choreography you’d shared in trauma bays.

Only now there were no monitors screaming in the background. There wasn’t any blood or urgency. No where to be. 

Just at the kitchen counter.

You found yourself watching him when he wasn’t looking, knife moving steadily through vegetables as music hummed through the kitchen.

Was this how it had always been? Under the arguments and sharp comments?

Beneath the constant push and pull, had this dance always existed between you?

You thought back to the countless shifts you’d spent orbiting each other. The way he always knew where you were in a crowded trauma room, like tracking you grounded him. The way you anticipated his next move before he’d made it, because even if you wouldn’t admit it, you had learned him years ago.

And the way everyone else seemed to notice your tension long before either of you acknowledged it.

Did they see this coming?

Were you both simply the last people to realize something everyone else had already figured out?

Your chest tightened unexpectedly.

Because if it was so inevitable…why had hearing him say ‘dating’ felt almost frightening?

The word itself wasn’t the problem. It was what came after. Dating implied a future.

And future required reality.

And reality was waiting patiently outside the walls of this house.

Fourteen days—that was all this quarantine was ever supposed to be. Fourteen days before the emergency department reclaimed you both. 

Before Jack became Dr. Abbot again. 

Before you returned to being his resident. 

Before HR.

Before questions neither of you had answers to yet.

When this all started, that countdown had felt like salvation.

Now it felt more like a period.

You tried not to think about it for too long, because doing so threatened to shatter the beautiful illusion you’d both built here.

And that illusion was slowly starting to peel away as the outside world crept in. 

Like now, when Jack’s phone lit up with a call from, of course, Robby. 

Jack glanced at the screen and immediately looked annoyed.

“I don’t want to answer it,” he gruffed.

“You have to. It’ll look suspicious if you don’t.”

“I dodge his calls all the time.”

“If I had to answer Santos, you have to answer Robby.”

That appeared to give him pause.

His eyes narrowed slightly, like he was begrudgingly acknowledging the fairness of the argument.

“I still don’t like it.”

“Answer the phone, Abbot.”

He sighed dramatically before finally swiping to accept the call.

“Hey, brother.”

“Hey,” Robby’s voice crackled through the speaker. “Just checking on you. How’s the fever?”

“Nonexistent.”

You rolled your eyes silently at the never-ending ego while stirring the vegetables sautéing in the pan.

The fever had absolutely existed. You were there, after all.

“Good,” Robby replied. “Because I can’t have all my night shift offense dying of a virus.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“You I can replace, but not my best R4.”

Jack glanced toward you, immediately catching your amused expression.

You smiled sweetly.

His eyes narrowed.

“Anyway,” Robby continued, oblivious. “You guys surviving over there?”

“Unfortunately.”

Oh, that’s how he was going to play this?

No.

He didn’t get to sit there all calm and collected with his best friend while Trinity had practically conducted a full-scale interrogation earlier. 

Meanwhile, Jack was somehow getting away with a casual check-in.

If you were going down, he was coming with you.

“Unfortunately?” Robby laughed.

Jack opened his mouth, undoubtedly preparing some sarcastic response, when you chose that exact moment to slide beside where he was now standing against the counter.

His words stalled—only for a second—but you noticed.

Interesting.

“Yep,” he continued, voice slightly tighter than before. “We’re surviving.”

Your lips twitched.

Because while Robby was busy talking about staffing shortages and patient volume, you were busy observing an entirely different phenomenon.

Namely, how much concentration it apparently required for Jack Abbot to hold a normal conversation.

His attention flickered briefly toward you.

A warning.

You ignored it.

“—and Santos accidentally discharged the wrong patient paperwork,” Robby was saying.

“Mm.”

“Did you hear a word I just said?”

“Absolutely.”

“No, you didn’t.”

You let your hand rest on Jack's hip. Light. Innocent, even.

His jaw tightened.

"I heard you," Jack said, his tone carefully measured. "Santos screwed up discharge papers."

"Right. So anyway, I had to—"

Your fingers traced a slow path downward, following the line of his quad muscle through the fabric of his pants.

Jack's hand shot down, catching your wrist.

He didn't push you away.

He just held you there.

A standoff. 

And historically, standoffs between you led to intense eye contact, gritted teeth, and heavy breathing. 

Yeah, okay, maybe you’d had sexual tension for a lot longer than you wanted to admit. 

"—completely ridiculous, right?" Robby finished.

"Yeah," Jack said. "Ridiculous."

There was a pause on the other end. "You okay, man? You sound weird."

"Fine."

You smiled sweetly at him, then deliberately slipped your hand free from his grip and placed it on his chest instead. Much more appropriate. Practically PG.

His eyes narrowed.

Good.

You let your palm slide down the front of his shirt, feeling the firm planes of muscle beneath the cotton. Slowly. Appreciatively. Your fingers traced the ridges of his hard abdomen, following each defined ridge downward.

"So listen," Robby was saying, "I wanted to ask you about—"

Your hand reached his belt.

Jack's breath hitched.

Just barely.

But you heard it.

"About what?" Jack's voice came out rougher than intended.

"About that conference next month. You planning to go? Heard Gloria saying she wants the attendings to go for some… ‘not mandatory but gently suggested training’,"

Your fingers worked his belt buckle open with ease.

Jack's free hand gripped the armrest of his chair.

"Haven't decided," he managed.

"Could be fun. It's in Miami, Shen said. We might actually, dare I say it, have some fun for once instead of—"

The zipper came down with a soft sound that seemed deafening in the quiet room.

Jack's eyes locked on yours.

A warning. A plea. You weren't entirely sure which.

Maybe both?

"Miami sounds…cool," he said, his voice strained.

You rose a brow mockingly as you sank onto your knees in front of him.

His pupils dilated.

"Right?" Robby continued, enthusiastic now. "And Dana’s been on my case about taking a actual vacation, so I figured—"

You palmed him through his boxers, feeling him already half-hard.

His hips jerked involuntarily.

"—we could make a long weekend out of it. Self-care and all that bullshit Mel talks about. What do you think?"

"I think—" Jack's words cut off as you freed him from his boxers, wrapping your hand around his length. "I think that could work."

"Yeah? Awesome. I'll send you the details."

You stroked him slowly, watching his cock harden fully in your grip. His knuckles were white where they gripped the counter.

"Great," Jack bit out.

"You sure you're okay? You sound—"

You leaned forward and dragged your tongue along the underside of his shaft, base to tip.

Jack's entire body went rigid.

"—distracted or something."

"Just tired," Jack forced out. "Didn’t sleep well."

"Right, yeah. I trust that it was helpful having an ER doctor around to help you battle COVID."

If Robby sounded suspecting, neither of you noticed. You took him into your mouth, just the head at first, swirling your tongue around the sensitive crown.

Jack's hand flew to your hair.

Not pushing. Not pulling.

Just anchoring himself.

"So anyway," Robby continued, "I was thinking we could—"

You sank down, taking him deeper, hollowing your cheeks as you sucked.

"Fuck," Jack breathed.

"What?"

"Nothing. Stubbed my toe."

You had to suppress a laugh, which created an interesting vibration that made Jack's grip in your hair tighten considerably.

"Graceful as always," Robby teased.

"Shut up."

You established a rhythm, bobbing your head slowly, deliberately. Your hand worked what you couldn't fit, twisting slightly on each upstroke.

Jack's breathing was becoming increasingly uneven.

"Anyway," Robby went on, completely oblivious, "Had to break up this fight between Santos and Whitaker the other day, think they’re going completely mental not having their mediator at home—”

You took him deeper, relaxing your throat, and Jack's hips bucked up involuntarily.

"—protein powder theft. You following?"

"Yeah," Jack rasped. "Following."

His voice was wrecked.

There was no way Robby couldn't hear it.

"Dude, seriously, are you—"

You pulled back and sucked hard on just the tip, your tongue working the sensitive spot just beneath the head.

Jack's thigh muscles were trembling under your free hand.

"I'm fine," he gritted out. "Just... headache."

"You want me to let you go?"

"No."

The word came out too quickly, too desperate.

You smirked around him and took him deep again, setting a faster pace now.

"Okay, well, I won't keep you much longer," Robby said. "Just wanted to check in. Make sure you haven't killed each other yet."

Jack's laugh was strained, almost painful. "Not yet."

"That's the spirit. Trinity says—what?" His voice became distant as he lowered the phone. “I’m not asking him about that stupid bet. Take that off the whiteboard like I asked a week ago. Trinity says hi.” 

You did that thing with your tongue that you'd learned drove him crazy, and Jack's hand tightened almost painfully in your hair.

"Tell her—" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "Tell her hi back."

"Will do. Alright, man, I'll text you those conference details."

"Sounds good."

You could feel him getting close. His cock was pulsing in your mouth, his breathing ragged despite his best efforts to control it.

"Talk soon?"

"Yeah. Soon."

"Feel better. Later, man."

"Later."

The second Jack ended the call, his phone clattered onto the counter and both his hands were in your hair.

"You," he growled, looking down at you with dark eyes, "are absolutely fucking evil."

You pulled off him just long enough to smile innocently. "I have no idea what you mean."

Then you took him back into your mouth, deep and fast, and his head fell back with a groan that he no longer had to suppress.

"Christ," he breathed, his hips rocking up to meet your mouth. "You're going to be the death of me."

You hummed in agreement, the vibration making him curse again.

His control was completely gone now, one hand guiding your movements while the other gripped the counter like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

"So fucking good," he muttered, his voice rough and unrestrained. "Your mouth—fuck—"

You could feel him right on the edge, his thighs tensing, his breathing harsh and uneven.

"I'm—" he warned, his grip tightening in your hair. "I'm gonna—"

You didn't pull away.

Instead, you took him deeper, sucking harder, and he came with a broken groan, his whole body shuddering as he spilled down your throat.

You worked him through it, swallowing everything, not letting up until he was gasping and oversensitive, his hand in your hair going from demanding to almost gentle.

Finally, you pulled off him with an obscene pop, looking up at him with satisfaction.

He looked completely wrecked.

Hair disheveled from running his hands through it. Chest heaving. Eyes still dark and unfocused.

Beautiful.

"You," he said again, his voice hoarse, "are in so much trouble."

You wiped the corner of your mouth with your thumb, grinning. "Worth it."

He huffed a breathless laugh, then reached down and pulled you up into him, kissing you hard and deep, tasting himself on your tongue.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes had that dangerous glint you'd come to recognize.

"Robby's going to call back," he murmured against your lips. "He always does when he forgets to mention something."

"So?"

His hand slid up your thigh, fingers teasing at the hem of your shorts. "So when he does, it's your turn."

Your breath caught.

"Fair's fair," Jack said, his smile sharp and promising. "And trust me, sweetheart—I'm much better at multitasking than you gave me credit for."

You woke up tangled together this morning.

It wasn’t intentional, at least not at first. But now after a second morning of waking up half draped over him with his arm locked around your waist like it was any other sunrise, there was no point in pretending otherwise.

The showers had become routine too. ‘Efficient’, supposedly—because Jack Abbot suddenly cared about saving water. 

“You won’t even be around to see the world lose its water supply,” you’d said as he handed you the sleek bottle of shampoo.

“Ouch,” he chuckled, sitting up a little straighter against the marble shower bench. “I’m letting you use the expensive stuff and here you are calling me old.”

You rolled your eyes, squeezing some into your palm before scrubbing your hands together. 

“Who said I’m using it?” you smirked, stepping closer.

His brows lifted slightly just before your fingers disappeared into his damp hair. And then he went still. Like the act caught him off guard, but in the best way. 

You worked the shampoo through slowly, watching with immense satisfaction as his eyes fluttered shut for a brief second, head tipping back just slightly into your touch before he caught himself.

“You would use Redken,” you teased softly. “Boujee bitch.”

A quiet laugh rumbled out of him, low in his chest. “What’s the point of being an attending if you don’t live lavishly?”

Steam curled thick between you both, warm against your skin and fogging the glass around the shower. You tried very hard to focus on what you were doing—your fingers in his hair, the water running over your wrists, the very normal task of washing shampoo out.

Not the fact that you stood between his thighs. Not the toned stretch of his shoulders directly in front of you.

Definitely not the water slowly tracing down his chest and making your brain short-circuit every couple of seconds.

You shifted your footing slightly and nearly slipped down the drain.

Jack’s hand shot out instantly, gripping your thigh to steady you before you could stumble backward.

“You okay there?” he asked, eyes squinting open now, amused.

“Wet floor,” you muttered weakly.

“Mm,” he hummed, not sounding convinced in the slightest. “Careful. This would be the worst way to tell all of our colleagues about us.” 

Your heart couldn’t help but flutter at the subtle mention of this stretching beyond quarantine—but you wouldn’t get your hopes up too high. You’d continue with this new routine, taking it one hour at a time. In the chance that, in four more days, this would come to end. 

So you focused on what was in front of you: now, breakfast. 

You stood at the stove in one of his faded police training shirts and sleep shorts, flipping pancakes while Jack stood at the island cutting fruit with a focus typically used for more intense operations. 

It shouldn’t feel this natural, you told yourself. 

“You’re burning them,” he said without looking up.

“I’m literally not.”

“You’re thinking too hard. Your pancake technique could use work.”

You scoffed. “My pancake technique?”

“Mhm.”

“You’re incredibly bossy in the kitchen.”

“Hasn’t kept you from it,” he murmured, finally glancing up. 

You pointed the spatula at him. “You’re getting cocky.”

“I’ve earned it, haven’t I?” He threw a blueberry into his mouth. “How many times was that last night?”

Your jaw dropped slightly. “Oh my God.”

That earned you a real laugh. Low and warm. It caught you off guard every time.

Because you wanted more of this version of Jack—the one who laughed in his kitchen at eight in the morning, hair still damp from the shower, looking at you like you were something he wanted around. 

This Jack felt almost…fake compared to the man you’d spent three years arguing with in trauma bays.

But somehow, both versions of him were real.

And that was something that still kept you on edge, blinking at the ceiling while he snored softly next to you. At what point would that version of him return? 

You slid a slightly burnt pancake onto a plate with a huff. “I liked you better when you were emotionally repressed.”

“That’s a lie.”

It was. 

“Yep. You’ve gone cocky on me.” 

“Not smug?” 

“You’ve graduated,” 

“Dangerous thing to tell a man,” 

And there it was—that intensity in his stare reserved only for you. He looked at you like this in moments of argument, and just recently, in moments of passion. Making you think back to how long he’s been looking at you in this way, and you couldn’t really remember a time when he didn’t. 

The realization made you pause for half a second too long. And unfortunately for you, Jack noticed everything.

His brows lifted slightly, satisfaction flickering across his face so quickly most people would’ve missed it. 

Which meant he knew he’d won that round.

You narrowed your eyes immediately. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“That.” You pointed vaguely at his face. “Whatever smug little internal celebration is happening right now.”

“Thought I was cocky?” he murmured.

You rolled your eyes so hard you thought you might actually topple over, which only worsened when he caught you around the waist before you could escape. A noise of protest left you immediately as he tugged you back against him, your shoulders hitting his chest.

“Get of—”

His laugh rumbled low against your ear, warm and entirely too pleased with himself as you attempted to pry his arms off.

“You’re the worst,” you muttered, squirming halfheartedly in his grip.

“You like it,” he said smoothly, tightening his hold just enough to keep you there. “Always have,” 

You huffed, stubbornly resisting on principle alone, but his embrace stayed firm around you. Quicker than you’d like to admit, though, you found yourself relaxing, your back settling more fully against him as his chin brushed your temple.

It was ridiculous. 

You were standing barefoot in your attending’s kitchen making pancakes while he held you against him like he’d been doing it for years.

But you knew you wouldn’t rather be anywhere else.

Later that afternoon, you were stretched across the couch pretending to read.

Pretending being the operative word.

Your book had sat open to the same page for the last fifteen minutes while your attention drifted toward the front windows every couple of seconds. Outside, the sky had turned overcast again, condensation thick on the glass from the faint drizzle that had started twenty minutes ago. 

And you missed him. There, you said it. 

You could admit that when he said he was going for his afternoon run—the one he did daily, and shouldn’t be a surprise to you—you were slightly bummed. So, here you sat, waiting. 

You heard the front door unlock before you saw him. Followed by the soft pad of running shoes against hardwood.

Your eyes lifted immediately.

And your stomach dropped a little.

He looked… off.

Subtle enough that most people probably wouldn’t notice it. But after ten straight days trapped in a house together, years of watching his every move, learning the cadence of his breathing and the look of his face when he was tired versus irritated versus relaxed—

Yeah, you noticed the things most people probably wouldn’t.

His cheeks were paler than usual beneath the flush of physical exertion, hair damp and pushed back from his forehead. His chest rose heavier than it normally did after a run, each inhale sounding rougher, congested somewhere deep in his lungs.

And then he spoke. 

“Hey,” he greeted, voice noticeably raspier than it had been that morning.

Your brows pulled together instantly. “You sound terrible.”

He snorted softly, toeing off his shoes near the door. “Very warm welcome home.”

You ignored the flip of your heart at that last word. 

“Jack.”

“What?”

You sat up straighter, book forgotten entirely now as he moved toward the kitchen. There was a stiffness to him too, you realized. Like his body ached and he was trying not to show it.

“You’re breathing weird.”

That made him glance over his shoulder, unimpressed. “Breathing weird?”

“Yes,” you said firmly, now standing with your arms crossed. “Like an eighty-year-old smoker.”

“Bit dramatic.”

You gave him a pointed look. “You sound congested.”

“I just ran five miles.”

“I know how much cardio you can do without losing your stamina.” 

That earned you a small hmph of amusement, though it dissolved quickly into a cough he tried to hide behind the back of his fist.

Tried.

Failed.

Your expression shifted immediately.

“Oh my God.”

“I’m fine.”

“Where’s your kit?”

“Absolutely not.”

The response came fast and sharp, his voice dropping instantly into that familiar tone of authority that used to make residents scatter.

It almost caught you off guard. Almost. 

“Jack, come on. You helped me—”

“I don’t need your help.”

Your brows furrowed immediately, that old spark igniting in your chest so naturally it was almost muscle memory. There he was. Your attending again.

“Oh, you don’t?”

“I don’t.”

“Funny,” you scoffed, crossing your arms, “I don’t remember needing yours the other day either, but you didn’t exactly give me a choice.”

“That’s because you did need the help.”

“Actually,” you fired back, stepping closer, “I manage just fine without you. I do it every single day outside of this quarantine, by the way.”

His lips pursed slightly. “You need me all the time.”

He may as well have dumped a bathtub full of gasoline on the fire in your chest. 

You barked out an incredulous laugh. “No, I don—”

“Who’s the first person you come to when you’re questioning a med dosage?”

“That is not—” but he continued before you could recover.

“Who do you look for across the ED after a bad code?” he cut in smoothly. “Who do you hand difficult family conversations off to when you know they’re getting under your skin?”

You could only stare at him, eyes narrowing. 

Jack pushed off the counter slowly, stepping closer despite the exhaustion still written across his face.

“And who,” he said quieter now, “goes up to the roof pretending to look for me when really you just want five minutes to breathe?”

Your stomach dropped a little.

Because that one…that one hit too close.

You blinked up at him. “You knew that?”

His expression softened just slightly, though his voice stayed rough from illness.

“You think I don’t know you by now?” He murmured. “‘Sides, I know the look of someone sneaking off to the stairwell,” 

Your brows pinched together. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

He gave you a look that immediately flipped the question back onto you. “Why didn’t you?”

You shrugged one shoulder, suddenly feeling strangely shy about it. “I figured you’d think it was weird I was kind of hijacking your spot.”

“I always hoped to find you up there at the same time.”

You physically felt some of your irritation thaw at the confession. Warmth slipped into your chest before your brain caught up.

Your gaze narrowed immediately. “No. Absolutely not. You do not get to flirt your way out of this.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Worth a shot.”

“You need to be examined.”

“I’ll do it myself.”

“You can’t treat yourself or family,” you shot back instantly. “You know the rules.”

“Then I’ll make it through the same way I did in the desert,” he said. “Tough it out.”

You stared at him flatly. “Jack.”

“I’m serious.”

“And I’m serious too,” you argued, “Your breathing sounds worse, you’re pale, you’ve been coughing every five minutes, and your voice sounds like you swallowed gravel.”

“Again with the dramatics.”

“You say that every time I’m right.”

That earned you a tired sigh of amusement, but it dissolved quickly when another cough caught him harder this time. He turned away slightly into his elbow, shoulders tightening through it before he exhaled slowly.

And when he looked back at you—

you saw it.

The exhaustion was clear on his face. The effort it was taking to pretend he wasn’t feeling as bad as he clearly was.

Your frustration softened immediately.

“Hey,” you said quieter now.

His eyes lifted to yours.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

Something in his expression shifted at that. Not fully falling apart—Jack Abbot probably wouldn’t know how to do that if he tried—but enough that you could see the crack in the facade.

“You’ve spent your entire career taking care of everyone else,” you continued gently. “Let somebody take care of you for like…ten minutes.”

For once, he didn’t immediately argue.

He just looked at you for a long second, jaw tight like accepting help physically pained him.

“Five minutes?” he asked, voice rough.

Your mouth twitched slightly. “To start.”

A reluctant smile pulled at his face despite himself. “Bossy,” he muttered again.

“Yeah, yeah,” you said softly, guiding him toward the couch. “Sit down, Abbot.”

He obeyed, though, letting you trail after him into the living room as he lowered himself onto the couch with a sigh. His head tipped back against the cushion for a moment before he lifted a hand vaguely toward the closet near the front door, silently directing you toward the medical kit.

You tried not to look too smug about the fact that he’d finally given in.

“Good choice,” you muttered as you crossed the room.

“I take it back already.”

“Too late.”

You found the kit exactly where he’d pointed, still organized in that irritatingly precise only Jack could. Everything was neatly stocked, every compartment was zipped and labeled like he took pride in it. Which, knowing him, he probably did. 

By the time you returned, he’d slouched slightly deeper into the couch, muscled legs spread out in front of him, eyes half-lidded with fatigue.

This felt very different than when he’d taken care of you. Then, every touch had been careful. Restrained. Heavy with tension and things unsaid.

Now, you moved toward him easily.

You pulled the stethoscope from the kit, slipping the earpieces in before slowly stepping between his thighs. You knelt down to be at his level from where he sat, but his eyes were downcast to you. 

“Shirt up,” you instructed.

One of his brows lifted faintly. “You enjoying this a little too much?”

“A concerning amount, actually.”

A tired laugh rumbled out of him as he reached for the hem of his shirt, tugging it up enough for you to press the diaphragm against his chest.

And there it was again—that irony. The ease of it.

You didn’t even pretend to hesitate the way he had with you. You didn’t hover in anticipation of what touching him might feel like.

Because you knew. 

Your hand settled naturally against his side to steady yourself as you listened to his lungs, fully focused now in the way practicing medicine always sharpened you.

Though unfortunately for your professionalism, his body did not help.

Warm skin beneath your fingertips. Damp from sweat still lingering from his run. His breathing deeper now that he was sitting still, chest rising slowly under the stethoscope as you moved it across different points of his chest.

“Deep breath,” you murmured out of habit. 

He obeyed, but immediately coughed afterward.

Your expression flattened. “Oh, that sounds fucked.”

”You always speak to patients this way?” He grunted. 

“Only my favorite ones.” 

“Oh, a compliment. Finally.” 

“I’m serious.” You pulled the stethoscope away slightly, brows furrowing as you listened again. “You’re thick.”

Jack tilted his head back against the couch dramatically. “Please never say that to me while sitting like that.”

You stared at him for half a second before a disbelieving laugh escaped you despite yourself.

“Calm down old man, we don’t need you any more tachy than you already are.” 

One of his brows lifted lazily. “Then change your position.”

Your eyes narrowed instantly before flicking downward, realizing how you were sitting—half perched between his knees, leaning in close enough to feel the tension rolling off him.

“The best thing you can do right now is rest,” you said, shifting back into doctor mode before he could capitalize on your embarrassment any further. “If yours follows the same timeline mine did, it’ll probably hit hardest tonight.”

His expression tightened slightly at that, subtle. You noticed anyway. 

Your voice softened a little. “Want some soup?”

“I don’t need you doing all this.”

“So you’ve said.”

“I just—” He cut himself off abruptly, turning away as another cough hit him harder this time. Lower. Throatier. The kind that made your own chest ache from just remembering how that felt. 

When it finally subsided, he exhaled slowly through his nose, clearly annoyed with himself more than anything else.

You watched him for a second before speaking more gently.

“Why don’t you go grab a shower,” you suggested. “I’ll bring you some meds after.”

One of his eyes opened excitedly. “In the shower?”

You stared at him flatly, though heat still crept annoyingly into your cheeks.

“Nice try.”

That earned you a tired grin—small, fleeting, but real. “There she is,” 

Despite your attempts, Jack didn’t let you help with much else.

He refused to eat in bed on principle alone, even though the effort it took to sit upright at the kitchen counter was visibly taxing on him. You watched him stubbornly straighten every time his posture started to slump, jaw tight with determination. 

“You know you’re not getting graded on this, right?” you’d muttered while setting a bowl of soup in front of him.

“I have an image to maintain.”

“You’re sweating into the soup.”

“I’m persevering.”

The medicine had somehow been worse.

You’d opened the bottle and handed him the appropriate dose only for him to squint at it suspiciously like you were attempting to poison him. As if you didn’t do this for your literal career. 

Then he said something that made you believe he didn’t do this for his career: “I’ll sleep off the fever.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Did it all the time overseas.”

“You mean in the military?”

“In the war, yes.”

“In the war.” You repeated, staring at him flatly. “That is the least medically sound sentence you’ve ever spoken to me.”

“I’m serious.”

“And I’m serious too,” you argued, shaking the pills slightly in your hand. “You’re running a fever, your lungs sound awful, and earlier, you coughed so hard I think it was autotuned. Take the medication.”

“I don’t like taking meds unless I absolutely have to.”

You scoffed. “You are literally a doctor.”

“Exactly. I know what side effects they all have.”

That’s how you ended up where you were now: leaning against the side of his bed sometime close to midnight, watching him sweat through a 102-degree fever. Sans medication.

You’d argued all evening over the smallest things. How much water he needed to drink. How many blankets to use. At one point, the two of you had spent a solid five minutes debating if he was technically “chillsy.” Then another two debating if that was even a word. 

And somehow, despite the fever burning through him, he still had enough energy to be the exact same Jack Abbot you knew in the PTMC. 

Arrogant. Stubborn. Positively infuriating.

“You’re hovering again,” he rasped from the bed without opening his eyes.

You stared at him in disbelief. “You have a hundred-and-two-degree fever.”

“Mhm.”

”You’re burning up. At least take a layer off.” 

“You just want to see me without clothes on.” 

“So far, I haven’t needed you to be sick to achieve that.” 

One corner of his mouth twitched faintly despite the exhaustion dragging at him. His dark hair was damp against the pillow, curls forming slightly at the ends from sweat as he shifted restlessly beneath the sheets.

You watched him for another moment, concern tugging harder in your chest than you wanted to acknowledge.

Because he looked bad now. Not catastrophically bad—you knew how to spot the difference—but bad enough that your brain refused to fully relax.

“You should really take something,” you tried again, softer this time.

“No.”

“Jack–”

“--I don’t need it–”

“You are not invincible!” you snapped.

The words came out louder than intended, sharp enough that his eyes opened immediately, squinting slightly up at you like the size of your reaction had genuinely caught him off guard.

“I know that—”

“Do you?” you cut in, quieter now but no less firm. “Because your hobbies are genuinely lethal, you hang out on the roof for Christ’s sake, and now you’re refusing to take simple acetaminophen for what? To prove some point?”

Jack exhaled slowly through his nose, looking suddenly exhausted, and not from the fever.

“…I don’t need you thinking I’m weak, okay?”

Your face twisted instantly. “Why the hell would I think you’re weak for taking Tylenol?”

“No,” he corrected tiredly, dragging a hand over his face. “The whole thing. Having to do all of this. Take care of me.”

The admission sounded rough coming out of him, like every word had to be pried loose by hand. But you weren’t going to get in the way of something real finally coming to the surface. 

He stared up at the ceiling for a second before continuing more quietly.

“I’m already a hell of a lot older than you.” A humorless breath escaped him. “Kind of a turn-off seeing me all fragile and dependent like this.”

This wasn’t about Tylenol. It wasn’t even about him falling sick.

It was about Jack—steady, capable, impossible-to-shake Jack—genuinely believing that needing care from you would somehow make you want him less.

You stared at him for a long moment.

“Jack,” you said carefully, like you were approaching something delicate. “You really think I look at you right now and see someone weak?”

“I’m just…not used to being on this side of it.”

Jack Abbot was the one people leaned on. The one people called into mass casualties because he would know what to do. The one who held the building together so everyone else could fall apart safely around him.

And the man who, at the end of those terrible days, took his suffering to the roof where no one had to witness its depth. 

Which begged the question: if he took care of everyone else, who took care of him? 

You scooted closer to the bed slowly, now slightly pressed against his torso. 

“Listen to me,” you murmured. “You being sick doesn’t suddenly make me stop…” You trailed off briefly, heat rising into your cheeks despite the seriousness of the moment. Hopefully, he would forget about it in the haze of the fever. “Feeling the way I feel about you.”

“You sure?”

“I’ve been trying to show you that all day.”

His eyes dropped for a moment, thoughtful, like he was debating something internally. You watched the conflict move across his face before he finally sighed and glanced back up at you.

“My leg is killing me.” 

Your brows furrowed softly, before you realized what he was asking of you. The air surrounding you suddenly felt thicker. 

Over the last few days, you’d grown used to the more private realities of Jack’s life. In the emergency department, he was put together. Efficient. Most patients didn’t even know that Jack Abbot was missing a major part of one of his limbs. 

But here, in his home, it was more obvious. The extra time it took after showers. The absentminded adjustments he made after long periods on his feet. You’d watched him move through it all with such practice that half the time you forgot there was effort involved at all.

But this felt different.

He’d never let you help. Not when you shared his bed, or when you showered together. This was something else entirely.

Something way more vulnerable.

You held his gaze carefully, giving him every opportunity to take it back.

But he didn’t.

Your head was nodding before your mouth moved. “Okay,” you answered quietly.

Something in his face loosened at your expression alone. His eyes held something close to…hope. 

Slowly, he pushed himself upright against the headboard, movements noticeably stiffer now that the fever had settled deeper. Your chest tightened watching him try not to show it.

“You don’t have to—” he started automatically.

“—Jack,” you interrupted gently. “It’s okay.”

He went quiet after that.

Carefully, you shifted closer as he reached down beneath the sheets. There was no embarrassment in the motion, no shame—just habit. Routine. But you still noticed the faint tension in his jaw when he detached the prosthetic, setting it carefully beside the bed.

Like some part of him was bracing for your reaction anyway.

Your eyes lifted back to his immediately.

Nothing about him looked smaller to you. If anything, the trust sitting between you now felt enormous.

“C’mere,” you murmured softly.

He hesitated only briefly before extending his leg toward you slightly.

Your hands moved carefully, mindful and gentle as you worked them along the muscles of his thigh, feeling how tight everything had become beneath your touch. He exhaled sharply through his nose the second your thumbs pressed into a particularly tense spot.

“There?” you asked quietly.

“Mm.”

You glanced up instinctively, only to find him already watching you. It wasn’t guarded, or tense, but it was…soft. Almost reverent. 

“You know,” you said lightly, trying to ease some of the intensity suddenly building in the room, “for someone who hates being taken care of, you’re being weirdly cooperative.”

A tired smile tugged weakly at his mouth. “Don’t ruin it.”

You breathed a quiet laugh, continuing to work your hands carefully over the soreness.

And after a long silence, his head tipped back against the headboard, eyes finally falling shut with trust.

You continued for several more minutes, gradually relaxing into the rhythm of it. Your hands moved slower now, more confident, learning him through touch the same way you had in every other aspect of this relationship—attentively listening for every subtle cue his body gave you.

The room had gone quiet outside of the soft rain tapping against the windows and the occasional roughness in his breathing. His fever still flushed his skin warm beneath your hands, but he looked more comfortable now than he had all evening.

You glanced up briefly and found him watching you again, lids heavy with exhaustion.

“What?” you murmured.

His thumb brushed absently against the comforter beside him. “Nothing.”

“That’s a lie.”

A faint smile ghosted across his face. “You’re very good at this.”

The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard.

You looked back down at his leg, focusing on smoothing your hands along the tense muscle there so he wouldn’t see the way your expression softened.

“I’m literally just rubbing your leg.”

“You’re taking care of me.”

The simple way he said it made your chest tighten unexpectedly.

“I, uh…” You suddenly took interest in where your thumbs continued to create circles into his muscle. “I don’t mind it. I like doing it.” 

“Thank you.”

That almost undid you entirely.

Because Jack thanked people all the time in the automatic, professional way doctors did. Quick acknowledgments between trauma calls and impossible shifts.

This was so much different.

“You don’t have to thank me for this.”

“I know.” His eyes stayed on yours. “Still wanted to.”

Heat crept slowly into your chest at the look on his face.

Not from desire this time, but from something way deeper, that you weren’t ready to name.

You cleared your throat softly, trying to recover first. “Your fever’s making you emotional.”

“Probably.”

“And needy.”

One of his brows lifted faintly, eyes darkening slightly. “Careful.”

You smiled despite yourself, looking back down before he could see too much on your face.

But your hands never stopped moving.