nobody really knows me

“I am forever in your debt. I’ll pay it off with coffee,” she smiles and leans back on the wall, stretching her legs out — black scrubs pants, grey sneakers, a sigh of relief.

And you think — suddenly and stupidly, because that’s how your brain’s now wired — of that one time Jack brought you the same drink. Sat with you on this same spot. Looked at you with his eyes crinkled at the corners, his usual smirk turned into a softer smile. You don’t even remember what he talked about, but the feeling stayed: of just how calm his presence made you. How comforting it was.

For a good minute, your coffee loses taste.

You blink. Take another sip. Look up — and see him walking through the door. And then it feels like you’re losing it in general. You pinch yourself. He doesn’t disappear.

“Long time no see,” Jack says, very much real. Casual. He goes to look for something in the fridge, a crumb of time for you to get yourself together. Then he looks back at you. “Tough shift?”

Tough week. Or month. Actually, life’s been pretty tough since you stopped working by his side. But you remind yourself that it was your decision.

“Bearable,” you say, pretending to take interest in the thick swirls of syrup on the inside of your cup. Hoping he’d take a hint. And yet, despite him being good at many things, Jack is perpetually bad at leaving you alone.

You left him first. You thought he’d hate you.

Instead, you hear his voice tinged with warmth:

“Didn’t you just patch up the guy with a ruptured aorta? That was badass.”

His compliment feels like a glass of water, and you’ve been parched with thirst.

“Yeah,” you meet his gaze, because you’ve missed him terribly. He’s looking at you like he hoped you would. And you can’t help the smile. “I guess it was.”

He doesn’t stop there. He comes a step closer, crossing his arms over his chest — unreasonably, sinfully buff arms — and stares straight at you:

“Remind me where’d you learned that clamping trick?”

He’s being smug now, and you have missed this too. Slowly, the room is narrowing to the small space he takes. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I might have more tricks up my sleeve. Can teach you somethin' else.”

He holds your gaze. Pins you to the spot with his. And just as always, he makes you feel like no one in the world exists except you two —

But you aren’t really alone.

You catch movement out of the corner of your eye. No doubt, it’s Javadi wishing she could blend in with the wall. And when you snap back to reality, Jack follows.

He clears his throat, taking a step back. “Teach you in the ER, I mean. If you want to or—or if you ever decide to come back, you know. But no pressure or anything.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Dr. Abbot,” you tell him, in the politest tone that you can master. Already grieving that small moment you knew could never last.

Javadi can barely wait for him to leave — before her face breaks into a smile. “Aw, he has a crush on you.”

“Which you have told me a dozen times, and I’ll continue to reply that no, he doesn’t,” although your own face treacherously heats up.

“He flirted with you just now.”

“He flirts with everyone. He’s like an energy vampire, that’s why he doesn’t look his age.”

Trinity groans somewhere behind you. She takes her earbuds out and sits up, stretching her shoulders. “To be fair, his flirting isn’t that impressive.”

“I think half of the ER would disagree,” Javadi eagerly retorts. If there’s one thing these two don’t ever get tired of, it’s bickering.

“Oh no, he is charming. With everyone but her,” Trinity turns to you with a shit-eating grin. “With you, he’s awkward. Which, don’t get me wrong, is hilarious to witness. But Crash does have a point — he’s totally into you.”

“Did you two just agree on something? I must be hallucinating.”

Javadi rolls her eyes. Santos just huffs a laugh. She grabs her backpack, smartphone and an already opened silvery-blue can.

“He’s also been very moody since you moved to the upper floor. Just saying,” she winks at you and walks out, loudly gulping her Red Bull.

Your mood hasn’t been good either. It gets a little worse once you realise you reached the bottom of your frothy drink. And somehow, your second wind didn’t kick in.

“Can you develop a high tolerance to coffee? I feel like I should be way more awake. This cup is literally the size of a newborn.”

“Babe, you know there’s barely any coffee in it,” Javadi says, no judgment, just a little bit of pity. “You just crave sugar because your body needs some fuel to continue functioning.”

“But what if coffee isn’t working anymore... What’s the next best option? Cocaine?”

“You can’t afford cocaine.”

“I’ll sell a kidney.”

“Can’t do that either, you need them both.”

“I didn’t say I would sell mine.”

The laugh she gives you sounds half-hearted. Her face looks serious when she notes. “I know that humour is your defensive mechanism, but sometimes it’s okay to actually talk about what’s bothering you.”

“I’m very bothered by the amount of unsolicited therapy you keep bringing into our friendship,” you quip. And your regret is instant. “Sorry, I genuinely don’t remember the last time I slept for more than five hours.”

“Has Park been riding you too much? You know you are allowed to take breaks, even if he doesn’t think so.”

“No, it’s not that I don’t have free time, I just— I can’t fall asleep. I drag my feet and doze off ten times a day, but the second my head hits the pillow — nothing. My body is not... bodying or whatever the fuck it’s called.”

And then you watch her worry bleed into a different expression. She looks at you, a little coy, a little bit excited.

“I might have an idea. But I need you not to laugh at me.”

“Vic, I am physically closer to a zombie than to a human being. If there’s any way to help me fall asleep faster, I’ll try it.”

“Okay, there’s this app... With a collection of audios. Recorded by men and women, you can pick. They sort of play out different imaginary scenarios, like meeting you for the first time and getting to know each other. And maybe, like, kissing or —”

“Just to clarify, you recommend that I listen to some porn?” you’re trying to drag out some of the whipped cream with a straw.

“It’s not porn!” she hisses, adorably ashamed. “I mean, not always. They aren’t all explicit. The ones I’ve listened to, they were... Really immersive. And it just feels nice. Helps to take your mind off things. I don’t know, I kinda thought you’d be into it.”

“Masturbation? I feel like I should be offended.”

“No, the whole... Talking thing.”

With your mouth full, you raise a brow at her, somewhat confused.

“I mean, isn’t that why you liked working with Abbot? He was explaining everything to you, always talked you through the procedures and stuff. And now you are super annoyed because Park barely speaks. Just glares at people.”

“I assure you, I’m not at all annoyed that my attending does not turn me on.”

Javadi giggles, leaning toward you. “So what you’re saying is that... Abbot turned you on?”

“You know what, now I actually want to kill myself.”

“No, you still have an hour of your shift left. And then,” she rubs your arm with small, comforting circles, back to her serious self. “You will come home, take a scalding shower, just as you like it, pop in a couple of melatonin gummies, and get some sleep.”

“Those gummies don’t do shit. I ate four last time and then stared at the ceiling for two hours.”

She playfully nudges your shoulder with hers. “Well, there’s always another option,” Javadi laughs at your grimace and gets up. “I need to go back to other unstable people. Text me when you get home. I’m serious.”

“Will do, mom.”

She flips you off on her way out.

Whatever little caffeine’s been in your drink, it helps you look less dead and more like a person who can be trusted with a scalpel. The OR floor is quiet and cool, and from afar, Park can be mistaken for a statue: a tall body made of sharp lines and muscles, staying completely still as he looks through a patient’s file.

He waits for you to reach the nursing station. Gives you one quick look, his eyes deep blue, cold like ice.

“Got enough coffee to keep you standing? Don’t want to scrape you off the floor.”

You give him a dry chuckle. “When have you ever scraped me off the floor?”

One corner of his mouth moves up, merely an inch. “Fair,” he says, his gaze back to the tablet. “I’d like for it to stay that way.”

“So who’s the last one for today? Anything exciting?”

“Male, 63, a proximal humerus fracture. It’s all in his file. I’ll see you in ten.”

Big fucking thanks for the detailed reply.

“They say that brevity is the soul of wit, but no one tells you it’s also such a mood killer,” you mutter, not bothering to keep your voice down.

Park makes a sound that’s more of a long hum than a real laugh. He throws the words over his shoulder: “I’ll let you do the CRPP.”

“Thanks, I’m smiling on the inside.”

He never really smiles. Or says more than he needs to. And sometimes you’re thankful that he doesn’t: it unironically makes him almost the perfect mentor for you.

Unlike the previous one.

You may never admit it out loud, but you’ve come to enjoy working with Park. He’s harsh at times, yes, but he is also quick and talented and not that bad at teaching. The problem isn’t that he doesn’t talk much. You don’t mind doing your own research, and you’re actually okay with him being closed off.

The real problem is Jack Abbot. Who has been driving you insane.

At first, there were no signs of trouble.

You picked the night shift for your rotation because you’ve always been more of a night owl, and you enjoyed the challenge that comes with the variety of traumas. You two clicked from day one — Jack carried just the right amount of confidence to seem trustworthy, but his male ego didn’t get offended by someone else’s talent. He smiled at you and made small talk and always offered answers to your questions. He also smiled and talked to literally everybody else, so you didn’t think much of it. At least, you tried not to. You told yourself that you came to the ER to learn, that you wouldn’t allow your feelings to interrupt your job.

Even when said feelings turned into a crush. That felt like an addiction.

It started with you waiting. Wanting. More of his words, his gaze, his flattering attention. Jack always knew exactly how to land a compliment — his words were short, sure. Accompanied by that hint of a smile. He’d stand close, just on the edge of inappropriately close, his steady voice providing guidance. He’d push you when he knew that you could handle it. He’d tell you all the necessary steps and walk you through them and somehow make you feel like you succeeded on your own. “Yes, that’s the move.” “Look at you taking risks, kid.” “Good” —

— “girl”, you wanted Jack to add.

So good for him, you wanted him to think.

You wanted him. God knows, you wanted him so badly.

It didn’t help that Shen soon started calling you “Jack’s favorite”. Sometimes in front of Abbot, who hasn’t denied it once. Ellis discreetly (so she thought) tried leaving you alone with him more often. And even Crus once told you that you were the only resident Jack paid so much attention to.

It could’ve been a picture-perfect start of a love story, if only not for one crucial piece missing: Jack never crossed the line.

Even after you’ve caught his gaze lingering, his hands reaching for you, his warmth grazing your shoulder or your spine. On more than one occasion. And still, it led nowhere. There were no accidental touches, no flirting outside of the ER, he didn’t even try to get your number.

Inevitably, it made you feel self-conscious. Stupid. Pathetic even. What’s worse, his presence was distracting, and losing focus was the one thing you absolutely couldn’t do.

So you looked for a way out that’d let you save your dignity and your career. Switching to surgery helped you with both. Despite the fact that you had to restart your year. Despite seeing the very obviously hurt expression on Jack’s face when you informed him. He didn’t try to stop you, though. You didn’t tell him why exactly you were leaving. Instead, you dived right into work: from dealing with small fractures and arthritis to sports injuries, torn muscles, spinal disorders and crushed bones. It was in no way easy, but it felt empowering — knowing that you could fix something so strong and weighty, the living tissues made of minerals and collagen, the bony structure that allows people to move.

And on the rare occasions your paths crossed, Abbot kept being friendly. But you kept your distance.

Even if deep down, you still missed him.

His gaze, his guidance. Most of all, his voice.

It takes you two more days to finally give up and ask Javadi about the app.

Hey, so that app that’s totally not audio porn... Can you please give me the name. And then forget I asked.

Actually, forgetting might not be enough. Next time you come over, I’ll need you to swear on the Bible.

There’s no way you have a Bible at home.

Well, another option is a blood oath.

I’m this 🤏 close to admitting you into our psych ward.

Just say you miss me and want to see me more often. There’s no shame in it!

Please, get fucked (literally 😛).

You click the App Store link she sent, then press on the newly downloaded icon on the screen.

The layout is pretty simple — pale colors, normal-sized fonts, a short video guide. You don’t waste time and tap on the male voices' section to look through their audio titles. They aren’t at all exhilarating. A Trip to the G-spot (thanks, been there), Hold on to my nuts! (yikes), Your Daddy’s Home (double yikes), The Song of Praise and Cum (this calls for a lobotomy). You spend another minute on it, already battling frustration — and you’re about to log off, when finally a title catches your attention:

A Helping Hand.

“Okay, a little on the nose,” you mumble to yourself.

It is a series of recordings, about half an hour each. It seems that he is relatively new, but he’s got great reviews. His nickname is Nightcrawler. He has no profile photo. His bio says: “I guess, this is my new hobby.”

You’re positive that it won’t work on you.

You take a shower, put on your pajamas and your noise-cancelling headphones. You sit in bed, your back against the pillows. With zero expectations (except maybe to find it all ridiculous and cringe).

You press play.

At first, there’s just silence.

And then he starts, his voice unhurried like a rustle of the wind:

“Hi, baby. You look so tired,” he murmurs. “You’ve had a hard day, I can tell.”

You pause immediately. But not because you hate it. It startles you — how much you like him from the get-go, how just a sentence of this stranger’s voice made heat flash in your stomach.

You try to sit a little straighter. Then press play again.

“All that tension in your body, that slight soreness of your muscles... We really need to do something about it, honey. I can’t have you going to sleep so tense.”

Yeah, you don’t want that either.

His every quiet word strikes home: your limbs are heavy with exhaustion, your mind is clouded with it. You let out a breath you didn’t realize that you were holding. And you don’t think that him saying all that is a hell of a coincidence. Instead, it actually feels nice: for someone else to talk about your struggles. For it to sound like understanding.

“Don’t worry, I can fix that. You just lie down and listen to my voice.”

So you slide lower in your bed, the pillows now behind your head and shoulders. And when he asks to close your eyes, you do.

You follow every single one of his instructions. His raspy, gently voiced commands: he’s telling you to take deep breaths, to slowly stretch out your arms and legs, to draw small circles over your temples, to put your hands lower and massage your neck. He’s telling you he wishes he was there to help you. That he would know exactly where to rub and press. And that his fingers would’ve felt much better.

Then he’s instructing you to put hands on your chest, to run them up and down your body to get your blood flowing. You do just that. And soon you feel your skin prickle with warmth.

“Need you to relax, to shut off that beautiful brain of yours,” he says, with a controlled and hushed insistence. “Don’t think about anything. It’s just you and me, sweetheart.”

Your thoughts are light; there’s nothing on your mind but him. Your muscles pliantly unravel as he continues speaking. About how warm your skin must feel, how pretty you are looking — laid out for him on your bedcovers. And there’s another feeling that feeds off his voice: a spark of fire that grows and spreads and makes you ache for more.

You hear him telling you to move your hands down to your stomach. He says he wishes he could touch you there, to slowly drag his fingers down to your navel —

“Wish I could feel how wet you are right now.”

Your eyelids flutter open.

You probably should’ve predicted this turn of events. And truthfully, you aren’t as opposed to it as you thought you would be. You’re just not sure it will work. But when you slide your hand beneath the waistband of your panties —

you find the fabric in between your legs already soaked.

All that from someone talking to you nicely?

There must be something in his voice.

That same voice whispers:

“Touch yourself.”

Barely a second passes before you do.

This isn’t your first time, but somehow, it feels very different. More satisfying. Way more intimate. Pads of your fingers move against your clit, exactly how he tells you:

“want you to go slow for me, baby. rub it in circles, ju-ust like that,”

“apply more pressure with your index finger — feels good, yeah? c’mon, don’t stop,”

“now move a little lower, feel what a mess you’re making. I know you must be dripping”.

He’s right, you are. And then your eyes fall shut again, a whimper tumbling from your lips.

“I bet you’d feel so tight around my fingers,” he says hoarsely, making you clench around nothing.

If he was here, in your room, you’d shamelessly beg for more. A long-forgotten pleasure starts coiling in your stomach.

“Want you to put a finger in,” he orders. “Imagine that it’s mine.”

You start with one. Just one, and yet, it’s getting difficult to focus on his words. And fleetingly, with your chest heaving, you wonder what his fingers would feel like. As if he reads — or guesses — where your thoughts are wandering, he tells you, a smirk heard in his voice:

“But mine would be a lot thicker, so I need you to add another one,” — you slip the second finger in, and he lets out a hum, like he can see you, — “There you go. Don’t rush it, we’ve got time. I’d never rush it with you, honey.”

Despite you trying to move slowly, you’re getting dangerously close to cumming. You want to drag it out, you do, but he is making it too hard. When he is whispering to spread your legs wider. To set a rhythm, to start moving your hips a little. When he is telling you that you’re doing so good.

When he wants you to use your free hand to touch your nipples. When he says, teasingly, how much he wishes he could put his lips on you.

When you can hear him sigh, like all this also turns him on.

“Want you to go faster,” his words come out in low grunts. “Yes, keep going, don’t stop. Keep fucking yourself. Need to get you loosened up and ready for me. Fuck, your cunt would feel so perfect wrapped around my cock —”

Your orgasm crashes over you, sudden and shuddering.

You’re gasping, too loudly to hear what he is saying, your body floating in the waves of bliss. It takes a moment for you to catch your breath.

The audio ends abruptly on his own heavy breathing.

You are left stupefied and sweaty. And satisfied beyond description. Your headphones end up thrown across the bed, but you’re too tired to move an inch. It is a very pleasant kind of tired.

Before you know it, you are fast asleep.

What’s meant to be just a one-off soon turns into a habit. And you don’t really feel ashamed about it.

There is a certain thrill to it — having a secret you don’t want to share, the one thing you can’t wait to get home to. It does help you to take the edge off, yes: with just his words, he makes your tension melt away, makes all the worries disappear. Leaving you dazed and gasping at the thought of how good he’d fuck you.

But sometimes, as you come down from your high, your thighs wet and hands trembling, and he is soothing you back into consciousness — the stranger’s voice reminds you of Jack’s.

It can’t be him, of course.

You wish it was.

You also wish you could move on. Unstitch him from your memories that he’s been woven into, his face and arms and words seemingly always on your mind. They shouldn’t be, not when your feelings are so obviously one-sided.

So, since you’re able to wake up well-rested, you start to pile on more work.

You take your time to learn about non-invasive treatments: you get to know the PTMC’s physician and psychiatrist, you print out studies about injections and post-operative care, you spend your breaks leafing through the countless pages. You learn fast. You grab at every chance to practice. You ask to scrub in on some of Garcia’s cases, you’re lucky to assist Javadi’s mother a few times. And even though you feel that Park’s a little bit suspicious of your ardor, he asks no questions.

You don’t see Jack. He’s still on nights, and you are mostly up in the OR, and even when you do come down, you do your best to stay away. You hope that a tight schedule and your daily orgasms will be enough of a distraction. That at some point, your crush will quietly die down.

It’s no surprise that you’re working on the 4th.

And it’s predictably a shitshow: the waiting room is packed with patients, swamped with the summer heat, every new injury is worse — and way more gruesome — than the other. You deal with fractured, broken bones, you get to help with torn-off fingers, bashed-in skulls and penetrating wounds. You rush from one OR into the other. You barely get time to take a breath. And once you finally do, you get called down to the ER.

“Look who it is. Since when does surgery send its best residents to us poor mortals?” Robby puts on a smile to greet you.

“Garcia is still operating on Howard, Park’s dealing with your water slide case. I’m just happy to treat someone with intact bones for a change.”

“Can’t promise it will be a pretty sight.”

“Didn’t count on it.”

He cackles, his gloved hand pointing toward the sliding doors the gurneys come through. “Here’s the reason we called for a consult. Yours is the one with Old Glory jammed in his chest.”

And in the next second, your own chest tightens, anxiety bruising your ribcage like a seatbelt in a crash. Because the aforementioned patient is rolled in by Jack.

He doesn’t see you yet. You can’t help but notice — the tension roped around his back, the sheen of sweat around his forehead, faint sleepless shadows spilled under his eyes. Reflexively, you step out of the way so he can move down the hall without bumping into you. So you can stay unnoticed.

The injured man is in the middle of a screaming match with some guy whose cheek is slashed in half.

“I’m gonna take that thing out of my chest and shove it down your ass!”

“You hit me with a fucking Rolling Rock, man!”

“Because you are a cheater! And now my chest fucking hurts!”

“You’re the one who broke the rules! You know every detail must be —”

“Take yours into trauma 2 before I go deaf on one ear,” Abbot mumbles to Ellis, then tries to shush his patient. It isn’t working.

And you can tell that Jack is low on patience.

He grips the gurney with both hands and pushes it into the room, his voice coming out low and clipped:

“Sir, we are gonna get you more pain meds, but you need to shut your fucking mouth.”

It is a quick remark, maybe a little out of his character — too blunt, too rude; although acceptable under the current circumstances. And in the never-ending noise and busyness of the ER no one would ever waste their time on lecturing him. You aren’t even sure they heard.

But you freeze. As if a bomb just went off. The world around you is momentarily devoid of all the other sounds.

It isn’t the specific words, but the emotions you could hear behind them — intensity Jack usually reigns in, the punctuated heat of anger that slipped through his “shut” and “fucking”. You aren’t surprised he said those words. Or used that tone. Or lost his self-restraint for a few seconds.

You’re struck by the realization that you have heard him talk like that before.

“If his heart was damaged, he surely wouldn’t be yelling,” Robby comes up to you, eyeing the rowdy patient. “But the stabbing’s definitely within the cardiac box. What do you think?”

“Cardiac box it is. I’d bet on a pneumothorax,” you say, on some miraculous autopilot. But you aren’t looking at the patient.

Jack grabs the scissors to remove the man’s clothes, his hands working around the wooden stick he is impaled on; his gaze grazes you. On accident or maybe out of habit Jack hasn’t managed to unlearn. He turns to throw away the ruined, blood-stained fabric — then stops. And then his eyes come back to you, this time with purpose. He meets your gaze, his own confused a little, one of his brows crawling up. Because you’re staring at him, and he has no idea why.

It’s almost funny to imagine how you’d explain to him your stupor. Hey, Jack, is there a chance you like recording steamy audios? 'Cause I believe that I’ve been getting off to the sound of your voice.

But at the moment, you aren’t laughing.

You make an effort to drag your gaze away, your heartbeat loud in your ears. This can’t be happening. It cannot actually be him.

“Do an ultrasound to get a confirmation, I’ll go up to prep the OR,” you say to Robby flatly, eager to leave the room, to have a minute to yourself.

You take the stairwell, thoughts rushing as your feet are. And very quickly, your shock gives way to irritation. Surely, Jack is allowed to do whatever in his free time. But now that you suspect it’s him — his low voice that is so masterful at saying all those dirty things — you don’t think you’ll be able to relax. It would also be kinda inappropriate to continue listening to that.

But then you spend another seven hours on your feet. Three surgeries, two breaks (about ten minutes in total), a lot of blood and bones, a few of Park’s dry words. You miss the fireworks, the get-together with your former colleagues, the friendly chatter that maybe could’ve helped you to unwind. And by the time you cross the hall of your apartment, you find it hard to care about propriety.

You put the headphones on, fully aware that you’re about to hear Jack.

It doesn’t ruin things for you. It only turns you on instead.

Because it’s not some random guy — it’s Jack who puts you on all fours. Jack who tells you to put your fingers in your mouth. To suck them, to then take them deeper, to gag on them, just like he could’ve made you gag around his cock.

“Ass up for me, baby,” he instructs, his every word now carrying more weight — you cannot stop imagining him being here, whispering it all into your ear. “Bet your pussy is wet enough to take two fingers right away. C’mon, be a good girl. Show me.”

You never even think about reaching for your toys. You don’t need to: not when his voice alone makes waves of heat roll through your body, makes you pulsate with want, moan with longing.

“Want you to think of my cock slowly stretching you,” Jack rasps, “Because it’s all I think about,” and you’re imagining his chest pressed to your back, the sounds he would make while thrusting deep, deeper, relentless movement of his hips, his lips grazing your neck, “I know you’ll take my cock so well. Like it was made for fucking you.”

His big hands roaming over your body. His hot breath on your skin. Him, him, it has always been him.

“I’d make you feel so good. Until you drip all over my cock. Until you’re sobbing for me to fill you up,” he whispers heatedly. “I will. Just so I can fuck my cum back into you when we go for round two. I know my girl is always greedy for more.”

And he is right, you would be.

“Like you were made for it. For me.”

You cum as hard as always, breathless and shaking. And this time, with his name helplessly gasped against your pillow. A few long seconds after that, in your sweet postorgasmic haze, you get a very clear thought: you still want Jack, now more than ever.

And you two really need to talk.

You press Call before you can come up with yet another argument for why this is a bad idea. She picks up in four seconds, but you don’t let her say a word.

“Hey, so do remember when you guys went out last time, and I couldn’t go because of that leg amputation thing, and you told me you ended up in some new bar, with those big plants or whatever, and Abbot was there too?”

“Wow, are you already on cocaine?” Javadi laughs.

“No, I just had a good night of sleep, so please keep up. You’re coming to the same bar this Friday, right?”

“Yep, that’s the plan. You decided to join us?”

“I’m thinking about it. But I’m gonna be at least an hour late, cause I’d have to get home to change and then —”

“Or you can just come right after work. The place isn’t that fancy. You can do casual.”

“I don’t want casual. I wear jeans 360 days a year, it’d be nice to actually feel pretty for once.”

“Oh, cut the crap, I know you’d look great in anything!”

“That’s very kind of you to say, but I’m not calling to discuss my wardrobe. I was wondering if you can... If by any chance Jack shows up again —”

“O-ooh.”

“No, don’t oh at me. You don’t even know what I’m about to ask.”

“If Abbot shows up, I’m gonna tell him that you are coming too, so he’ll stay and wait for you.”

“Okay, you can add mind-reading to your resume, you witch.”

“You’re both kinda predictable,” Javadi notes with a chuckle. “When he came last time, he left immediately after he found out you weren’t there.”

“Or he just remembered he left the stove on and didn’t want his flat to burn down. It’s not like he explicitly told you why he was leaving.”

“He didn’t need to,” she argues. “He came in, went straight to the bar where we were hanging out, ordered a beer and managed the small talk for barely a minute before he flat-out asked if you were there. Looked like a kicked puppy when I told him you didn’t come. Wished us a good night and took off, didn’t even take his beer.”

That does sound like he came to see you. You find it cute. But only for a moment — until you get a stinging thought: if he wanted to see you outside of work, why has he never asked you out?

“I’ll text you when I’m done,” you say, trying to sound unconcerned, unruffled by the possibility of your months-long feelings being reciprocated. “The spinal fusion should take about three hours.”

“Ugh, it sounds so cool when you say it, but then I remember what that process actually is like.”

“It is pretty cool.”

“And I am very glad you think that,” she’s quick to reassure. “Go fuse some vertebrae, so we’ll have something to drink to!”

The surgery takes four hours.

It is a slow, meticulous procedure accompanied by Park’s curt advice and your own strategic guesses — and usually, something like that would leave you drained. Hardly in the mood for socializing. But this evening, you step out of the OR with a wide grin.

“Good call about rotating the metal plates,” Park says, his voice emotionless. Like he’s not sure himself that it’s a compliment.

Still, you take it.

“Thank you, I did some reading beforehand,” you tell him, throwing away your dirty gloves and gown. “Should help with healing, too. But knock on wood, we’ll see what his post-op scans show.”

And you’re already doing some non-work-related calculations in your head. 10 minutes on filling out the patient’s file, 10 more for ordering a cab and waiting for it, then if you’re lucky, you’ll be home in 20 —

“Abbot was right about you.”

That makes you stop. Makes an uncomfortable feeling settle in your stomach. You haven’t seen Brendon and Jack talk once. And you cannot imagine them talking about you.

You turn to Park, not smiling anymore:

“Care to explain?”

“He wrote you a recommendation letter. Didn’t he tell you?” he casually clarifies. “Not that I asked for it. But he delivered it himself, four pages in Times New Roman,” the straight line of his mouth curves a little. Almost a smirk, but not unkind. And he does seem sincere when he adds, “Abbot was right, you are great. Glad to have you on our team.”

“Hold on. I just want to get a few facts straight,” and your tone is astonishingly calm, despite it feeling like your blood is simmering. “So he came to you. With a printed-out letter. And then what, you guys talked?”

“Yes. About the letter.”

“About me, you mean.”

“The letter was about your competence and skills. What else was there to discuss,” he deadpans. “Is this interrogation over?”

“Oh, come on, that was only two questions. Don’t act like I am waterboarding you,” you huff, hands on your hips.

Park breathes out through his nose, then shakes his head. You’re half expecting him to grouse about it some more. But he does what you expect the least.

“He talks about you, you talk about him,” Park muses coolly. “You guys just need to fuck it out.”

He shoves his own gown in the trash, turns on his heels and leaves.

And under other circumstances, you would’ve been so glad to hear it. Jack talked about you! Jack seems to care!

Except, he had a perfect chance to actually show you that. But on your final day in the ER, he barely said a word. It stayed stuck in your memory, the last nail in the coffin where your hopes were buried: Jack’s weird avoidance, no jokes, no flirting, none of his usual penchant for eye contact. He spent the whole shift painfully indifferent to your departure. Only once you started saying your goodbyes, he came by to wish you luck. To say that he was sure you’d do great. Two sentences was all he managed.

And yet, he had no trouble talking about you with Park?!

You’d really like to get a fucking explanation.

You don’t go home to change. You come straight to the noisy bar, in your plain jeans and baggy shirt. And wrapped up in anger. You scan the crowd for familiar faces and spot Victoria from afar: some tipsy guy is cornering her, wildly gesticulating with his hands. She doesn’t really seem scared, mostly annoyed. But you are in no mood for being civil.

You unceremoniously walk up to them and grab the stranger by the shoulder to pull him back.

“Her face clearly suggests she’s not interested. Get lost.”

“Hello to you too,” he whistles, leering at you. “You wanna be our third, babygirl? I’m always down for... some new experiences.”

“I can help you with that. You ever heard about a comminuted fracture? It’s when a bone is broken in two or more places. Which you are about to experience if you don’t leave in 10 seconds.”

“You’re into human anatomy? That’s hot,” the man grins drunkenly, but his flirting sounds less sure.

“I’m an orthopedic surgeon. There are 3 long bones in your arm, 27 in your hand. Which one would hurt more when broken, how do you think? You’ve got seven seconds. Six —”

“Geez, fucking chill, girl,” he mutters and steps back to hastily retreat.

Javadi snorts a laugh. “Thank you, he was so annoying, I just didn’t want to make a scene. You’d think the "Let’s go, lesbians!" t-shirt would help him get a hint but —” and then she takes you in — your searching gaze and furrowed brows and pursed lips. “What’s wrong?”

“Where’s Abbot?”

“It depends. Am I gonna be an accomplice to murder if I tell you?”

“You may be a witness.”

“I don’t think that’s any better,” but luckily, she knows you well enough to figure out that there’s no point in questions. Javadi holds both hands up in surrender. “Okay-okay, last time I saw him, he was at the bar.”

You go for it, barrelling through the crowd like an icebreaker through the frozen water. You notice Trinity, Dennis, Mel, Frank and Jesse nearby. You only have eyes for one man in particular. But at the long table where the drinks are being poured and paid for, there is no sign of Jack. You stop and wait; one minute, two, three pass by. And just as quickly, your determination crumbles.

You wanted him to tell you that he needed you to stay, all these days back, in person. You wanted him to wait for you today. Both times, he didn’t.

It makes you feel self-conscious again. Stupid. Even more pathetic.

You turn around, suddenly too overwhelmed by your own feelings.

The music is too loud now, the smell of alcohol mixing with sweat and perfume, and making your head hurt. You faintly hear someone call out your name, but you don’t stop, too desperate to get back to the exit. Too tired of waiting for the one thing that clearly isn’t meant to be.

The street is quiet, and the air is cold; it doesn’t help to cool you down. You’re walking a thin line between infuriated and upset. It gnaws away at you — that you spent so much time delusionally sure that Jack felt something for you. Cared for you. You think about his watchful gaze on you, the tension hung between you two, his hands he kept a little bit too close, his words that guided you through surgeries and orgasms, his goddamn voice —

You are so deep in your frustrations, you miss the sound of the door opening, the footsteps rushing toward you.

“Hey,” he says it carefully, and yet, you flinch. You turn around to find Jack standing at arm’s length already. Black jeans, grey t-shirt and black denim jacket; he looks unfairly handsome. He also looks concerned. “Is everything alright? The way you left got me worried.”

“Yeah, everything’s just peachy.”

But Jack ignores your sarcasm — or rather looks right past it, reading the very clear displeasure on your face. “Is it Park? Did something happen?”

And his concern doesn’t sound feigned.

It all comes to your mind at once — the unsaid words, unresolved tension, the longing gazes thrown at each other, the shamefully short distance your bodies never crossed. It roars your emotions to a boil.

“Why does everyone assume— You know what? Park is actually perfect,” you snap at him. “He barely speaks to me in the OR, he hates small talk, he is allergic to long sentences and, I suspect, to any sign of real human emotion. So I just clock in every shift to spend 15 hours trying to help people with very little to no guidance. And turns out, I still rock! Even when my mentor is as emotionally evolved as a toothpick!”

“Ok-kay,” Jack draws, “I’m not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing?”

“It’s freaking amazing. Especially compared to the alternative,” and then you step to him, your palms angrily pushing against his chest. “Because you made me feel like I couldn’t breathe!”

Your hands don’t hurt him. But your words do. His eyes go wide, he’s speechless for a moment. Then slowly, very quietly, Jack says:

“Wait, what?”

“You wrote me a recommendation letter, but you couldn’t say a word when I was leaving? After the months we worked together, all you could manage was good luck? The hell is wrong with you?!” and his shell-shocked expression only spurs you on. “You act all nicely, you’re glued to me in the ER, with your advice and your attention and your— your smirking! And what’s with the intense eye contact? How was I supposed to work with you looking at me like that? You know how hard it was for me to focus?! It’s not like I was holding scalpels half of the time!” you huff angrily.

Still, he isn’t moving.

“Sure, it didn’t mean anything to you, you don’t like me like that. And I love surgery, I’m glad I transferred, I wouldn’t want to waste my time on someone who is emotionally mute. But then I find out — oh, you’re actually very talkative! And it’s not like I wanted to find out, I just needed something to help me unwind, anything, because it’s been so damn exhausting — not just the job, but also you and your mood swings and your stupid voice and—” you cross your arms over your chest and add, with an unbridled boldness, “And honestly? After everything, I should be the one you lend a helping hand to.”

The dim streetlights can offer some discreteness — but not enough to cover the flush of color that spreads over Jack’s cheeks. You don’t back off — instead, you take your phone out and click the app’s icon to show it to him on the screen. His gaze flicks down to it. Then back to your face.

You stare at each other.

And then you think: he is about to tell you you’re an idiot. A sleep-deprived one, because it wasn’t really his voice. He has no clue what you just talked about, he obviously isn’t on any apps nor is he —

Jack breathes out a laugh.

He clasps his hands behind his back, the muscles of his chest pulling his t-shirt tight. His gaze is locked on yours. Then it falls lower — to your lips, then your neck, your chest and stomach, leaving a hot trail down your body.

“It got that bad, huh?” a corner of his mouth twitches up. Not condescending but amused. And then his voice drops — to that exact honeyed murmur that dragged so many orgasms out of you. “F’course, I can help you out. Should’ve asked me sooner, sweetheart.”

The sound knocks the anger out of you. The air, too.

You knew he sounded good on audio, when his words reached you through the headphones, when he so charitably helped you reach your high.

But in reality, he’s lethal.

When this same voice is paired with his gaze, with the intensity and confidence that you’re disarmed by. Entranced by. When Jack comes closer, you stay frozen.

“Mine or yours?” he asks calmly.

“W-what?”

“My place or yours?”

You catch small specks of golden light lost in his hazel eyes. You blink twice to stop staring. “Mine is about 40 minutes away.”

Emotion flashes across his face — surprise that’s borderline on worry. He lets it slide. He takes your hand in his, firmly, putting his fingers between yours.

“I live much closer. My car is parked around the corner,” Jack notes and leads the way, carefully pulling you along.

You let him.

You know it’s impolite to gawk, but you can’t help it — you’re pretty sure his hallway alone can fit half of your flat. It is a spacious, very minimalistic place: tall walls, a lot of lights and very little furniture. You guess that he hand-picked each piece — from wooden shelves and cupboards to small colourful pouffes. You also don’t think he spends too much time in here.

“So how many roommates do you have?” you ask cautiously as you get out of your shoes.

“None,” Jack chuckles. “It’s my apartment.”

“You live here by yourself? This place could fit a football team,” your own chuckle is nervous. As is your involuntary blabbing. “I’m serious, 11 full-grown men could stay here, and half of them won’t even see each other. Is there a bowling alley somewhere? A golf course? Ten jacuzzis? —”

He wraps his arm around your waist, pressing your back into his chest. Solid and warm, and rendering you silent.

“How about I do the talking,” his breath scatters against the side of your neck. Both of his hands find your hips, and very slowly, he turns you to face him. His eyes look a shade darker when he says, “I’ll walk you to the bedroom.”

And then his mouth is on yours.

There is no build-up and no hesitation — he kisses you so hungrily and deeply, like he’s been starving this whole time. Just like you were. Your shuddering breath turns into a moan. His lips move seamlessly, matching his insatiability to yours, in a deliberately slow pace that leaves you dizzy, heated, panting. Your memory is wiped clean of every other man you’ve kissed before him.

You can only crave more.

Jack starts walking without breaking the kiss. He gently pushes you forward, his hands maneuvering your body around the furniture and into doorways — you’re blindly following his lead. Until he stops you.

He tsks against your lips. “Careful, you almost ran into a wall.”

“Well, it’s not like I can really see —”

Jack silences your protests with another kiss, one of his palms laid flat over your spine to steady you. Not once do you take a peek at your surroundings, entirely too focused on the movement of his mouth, and with his every touch, your heart grows louder.

All of a sudden, your legs bump into something — and in a second, your back hits layers of bedcovers, the fabric silky to the touch. You exhale shakily, taking a couple of seconds to collect yourself. The task proved to be impossible under his heavy stare.

The room is dim, drowned in the colors of the sunset that sinks in through the big uncovered windows. He took the jacket off somewhere along the way, and you watch as the coppery light sneaks into his curls, contours the lines of veins and muscles of his arms, his body standing right next to the bed, legs almost touching yours.

You guess that he is stalling in case you want to stop.

“Aren’t you gonna tell me what to do?” you want your words to sound like a challenge — instead, they come out as a plea.

You don’t mind. There’s nothing on your mind but him.

Jack gives you just a ghost of a smile, a low hum coming from deep in his chest.

“Ask me nicely,” he says, in that gravelly voice that makes desire spark up in your bloodstream.

And he already knows that he won’t meet resistance — Jack leans over the bed, palms firmly gliding up your thighs until he finds the zipper of your jeans. He takes the slider between two fingers but doesn’t pull it down. And you’re glad that you aren’t standing, because the way he’s staring at you makes your whole body weak, your bones and muscles turning liquid.

“Please, I’ll do anything,” you whisper.

You do not need to ask him twice.

Jack yanks the slider down and pulls your jeans — down to your knees, then fully off. He parts your thighs with his leg, his gaze drawn to your panties, to where the fabric is already dampened with your arousal. You watch him slowly wet his lips, your body shivering in anticipation of his touch. And then he’s climbing on the bed, his body propped up on his arms, his weight between your thighs. He doesn’t hover over you — because he’s equally impatient: instead, he leans down to eagerly capture your mouth with his.

His lips trap you in place — while his hands undress you: his fingers are unbuttoning your shirt to take it off, then sliding beneath your cotton tanktop, dragging it up over your ribcage —

then Jack sucks in a breath.

His words are muffled, his lips brushing yours:

“No bra?”

“I don’t— don’t like the feeling of it,” you explain bashfully.

That earns you a pleased smirk. He actually pulls back to take a look, to hastily pull your last piece of clothing off. Then Jack ducks his head.

“And how’d you like this?” he asks before catching your nipple into his mouth.

You cry out at the sensation, and Jack uses one hand to pin you to the bed. He pulls more sounds out of you, swirling his tongue around your nipples, biting and sucking at them, his hunger mixed with admiration. Your heartbeat’s pounding in your ears, the pleasure surging through you like a heat wave —

But unexpectedly, Jack pulls away.

He reaches out to click the lamp on the nightstand. The light is faint, warm, draping your shadows over the silk. Jack lies down on his side, keeping his face close to yours.

“Show me how you do it.”

“You— Um. You want me to show you how—”

“Touch yourself for me,” he orders.

Blood rushes to your cheeks. But you comply, too eager for his praise. For all of his recorded promises to finally come true.

Jack watches raptly as your hand moves lower, slowly, just like he taught you the first time — until your fingers dip under the fabric of your underwear. You bite your lower lip, stifling a whimper, feeling the arousal leaking out of you. You spread your legs wider, the thin cotton not leaving much to the imagination as you start toying with your clit.

Jack swallows noisily, his breath uneven. But his voice stays measured. “I want these off. Need to see you, baby.”

You hook your thumbs under your panties and tug them off, a bit too hastily, but Jack makes no attempts to slow you down. Although unvoiced, his own desire is so palpable, it sets your nerves on fire. And when the cool air grazes your wetness, you can’t help but moan.

You do not wait for his command — you spread your legs further apart, your fingers drawn to rub your aching clit. You feel Jack’s cheek pressed to your shoulder, his gaze glued to your hand.

“So what’s the preference? Do you like circling it or just the up-and-down motion?” he muses with a grin. “I see, I have some room for improvisation,” and then his breath skates up your throat, the words mouthed against your pulse point, “You’re doing so good for me. You can pick up the pace.”

You do immediately, your movements quick and frantic, and Jack’s not keeping his hands to himself. He cups your breast, pinching your nipple into a peak, rolling it expertly between his fingers, his lips wrapped tightly around the other one. Your back is arching into his touch, heat pooling in your lower belly, your fingers gliding faster up and down your slit — and then one slips inside.

Jack pulls his mouth off with a pop. “Would you look at that,” his voice is low, teasing, “Your pussy’s drooling all over the bed.” And then he smiles, hungrily baring his teeth, grazing your collarbone with them as his palm lies flat on the inside of your thigh. “Go ahead, make yourself cum.”

He is still clothed, and the material of his t-shirt rubs constantly against your naked skin as he continues his arousing, agonizing torture. You feel him everywhere — Jack’s warm breath on your neck, your cheek, his mouth placing kisses along your jaw. His hands are steadying your body as your two fingers plunge into your cunt, as you’re so diligently coaxing yourself into an orgasm. But something’s missing.

“What’s wrong? Your fingers aren’t enough?” Jack taunts. “Does my girl want me to help her?”

You nod desperately, rocking your hips into your hand, trying to get some extra friction, trying and failing to reach that sweet high on your own. He easily catches your wrist, forcing you to halt all movement, your moans reduced to needy cries.

“Tell me what you want,” Jack whispers, lips to your ear.

“I w-want your fingers. Need your fingers inside me, please —”

But just as you’re about to pull your hand away, he covers it with his.

His wide palm firmly cups your mound, pushing your fingers back into your clenching hole. Jack drags his index and middle fingers through your folds, collecting your creamy arousal. And then he eases his slicked digits into you.

He watches as your lips part in a silent moan, your thighs twitching involuntarily as you’re adjusting to the fullness. With two of your fingers already in, it is a very tight fit.

“Relax for me. I know you can take all four,” Jack coos, although his voice gets a bit strained as he feels your walls clamp down around him.

Your hand stays limp, so he pulls his thick fingers out — then ramms them back in, knuckles-deep. A choked cry leaves your mouth; but you don’t try to crawl away from the intrusion. He puts your fingers between his and starts moving them all together, unhurriedly, carefully stretching your wet cunt, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit, your juices trickling down on the bedcovers.

Before you even realize you’re doing it, you push your hips back against his palm.

“Yes, just like that,” Jack murmurs. “Feels good, doesn’t it? About to get even better.”

This time, only his hand is moving while he’s staying still, drinking you up — your body quivering, skin bathed in a sheen of perspiration, your pussy slurping around the unrelenting fingers. The sounds you’re making are downright obscene, loud moans mixed with incoherent pleas as you’re getting lost in the pleasure he gives you so freely.

Jack’s other hand comes up to turn your face to him:

“Eyes on me.”

And as you look at him through lidded eyes, he curls your own fingers inside you, pushing them up against your G-spot. The sudden pressure drags you into a climax, so powerful, you’re blinded for a second, your lungs emptied with a long-drawn exhale as you keep soundlessly mouthing his name.

Jack pulls out his fingers first, then yours. Your hand is drenched and numb, and you barely register as Abbot brings it to his mouth. He licks your fingers clean, one by one, and you are coming to your senses at the sight: his mouth sucking in your digits, your wetness smeared across his lips, his gaze piercing as he keeps eye contact. And just like that, it threads through your veins and bones: your craving for him you’re yet to satisfy.

Before you can even ask him for a kiss, he leans in to give it to you.

It’s hot, it’s messy, his tongue darting between your lips, your hands tugging at his t-shirt, then sneaking under it to feel him tense under your touch. One of his hands grips your hip, the other moving back between your legs, where you’re still sensitive, making you whimper into his mouth.

“Wanna get a proper taste,” he mumbles, his lips already trailing lower.

But you have something else in mind. You close your legs and clutch his t-shirt, your fingers roughly crumpling the fabric, making him meet your gaze again.

“Jack, I’m very grateful for the offer, but I need you to fuck me,” you don’t bother hiding your impatience. “And please, take your damn clothes off.”

He grins, and this is a command he is willing to follow. Jack brings a hand behind his neck to grab the collar of his t-shirt and pulls it up over his head in one swift motion. Your eyes rake over the broad planes of his chest, his toned arms, his freckled skin flushed pink. Before he can think of his next move, you straddle him, leaning to nibble at his neck, your fingers tracing his flexing muscles.

“Someone’s very eager,” he notes with a chuckle.

And yet, the gravel in his voice is thinned out by his own keenness. When your gaze drops down, you see his cock straining against the coarse fabric of his jeans.

“Makes two of us,” you note cheekily and palm him through the denim.

His chuckle turns into a low, long groan. Like he is breaking character, like it is not as easy for him to keep his feelings under control.

You hide your smile, taking his jeans off to throw them on the floor, barely half a minute before you’re climbing back onto his lap. The bulge is now even more prominent beneath his boxer briefs: he’s thick and big, way bigger than you thought, than you imagined, than you’ve ever had. Your mouth parts on the inhale; you are dazed just from the look of it. You feel yourself already getting wet again.

Your words are stumbling out, while your brain is still somewhat functioning:

“I have an IUD, I’m clean. Haven’t been with anyone for a while.” 

“Me neither. For way longer than you probably,” Abbot admits in a half-whisper, watching you attentively. Getting as drunk on the anticipation as you are.

Your fingers go for the waistband at his hips when you catch faint light glinting off the metal. Your palm briefly lies under his scarred knee.

“This okay?”

Him leaving the prosthesis on, you mean. But it is getting harder to put words into coherent sentences.

Jack gets it. “Yeah, m’fine. You want me to...?”

Remove it, is what he wants to say.

For just a moment, it comes up to the surface: his lack of confidence, not necessarily in himself but maybe in how he can be perceived, in what he looks like in your eyes. Being so close, so open, naked.

But this has always been exactly what you wanted.

“I couldn’t care less,” you whisper and tug down his briefs to free his cock.

Then you look down, and your breath hitches.

He is thick, fully hard, the tip red and already weeping. And instantly, you wonder how he tastes. How warm, how heavy he’d feel in your hand. When you reach it impulsively to wrap around him, Jack stops you, his voice a low warning:

“We both know I don’t need that.”

You almost want to whine. But you smother your discontent and move your hands up to his shoulders, holding your hips up, hovering just above his girthy length. A sigh spills from your mouth when his cock brushes your slick entrance —

And right then, Jack’s hands clamp around your thighs. His grip not bruising, but it is firm enough that you can’t move. Can’t lower yourself on him.

“Now, where are your manners, sweetheart?” he asks, playfully cruel.

He knows you’re trapped. You know it too. To prove his point, he rubs his tip against your clit, more slickness gushing out of you at the mere contact. You do let out a miserable whine, your thighs are shaking. But he stays unmoving.

And so you beg. Just like you thought you would.

“I want you, please, I want you so fucking much,” your words pour out rushed and heated, all in one breath, “Want you to fuck me, Jack, please, been thinking about it for months. Before the app, when we were still working together, each time you— you stood next to me or leaned closer during surgeries or talked me through them or— fuck, it was anything, everything, I could barely focus, only kept thinking how much I wanted you to touch me, please-please-please—”

Jack hums. His hands relent. He repositions them so he can guide you instead of stopping you.

“Months, huh? I know the feeling,” he murmurs, with unexpectedly raw honesty.

It lingers. It almost sounds like a confession. But you do not get time to catch the meaning of his words before he starts pushing his cock into your throbbing warmth.

You gasp. He’s easing you down slowly. As your nails dig into his shoulders, his grip tightens; but he keeps composure. Jack’s watching you — your eyes screwed shut and brows pinched together, your body shifting, mouth gulping air as you’re allowing him to stretch you open. He moves one of his hands to draw light circles on your clit, to help you take him, all of him, until you’ve bottomed out.

Your body stills. He feels you clench around him, your pussy gripping him so tightly, he chokes back a groan. Your forehead dips forward, helplessly.

“You are— s’big, so-o —”

“Breathe for me,” Jack instructs, both palms secured at your hips, sounding a little out of breath himself. He watches as your chest rises and falls, the uneven cadence of inhales and exhales. He mercifully gives you a minute to adjust. “Need you to start moving, baby. Yeah?”

You scramble for an answer, all your words slurring out into whines, your body barely used to the stretch. But you want to be good for him. And so you lift your hips. Just a few inches. Then sink onto his cock again, trembling at the overwhelming ache of being stuffed so full.

The pause lasts for barely three seconds.

Then your hips start moving up and down on their own, because it feels too good to stop, because the ache is quickly dissipating into pleasure.

“There she is.”

He lets you find and set the rhythm, at first more grinding and slow, your pussy swallowing him whole each time. As you let the sensation build, as it spreads and turns searing. Euphoric. And your head tips back with a moan.

“Look how well you’re taking me,” Jack praises, his voice husky with lust. “Just like I knew you would.”

His hands grip harder at your hips, and without warning, he starts bouncing you on him. His pace is quicker, harsher, the fat head of his cock rubbing against the spot that makes your vision blur. Jack leans closer to rasp the words into your ear:

“Who do you think I thought about—” his fingers move down to open your legs wider, “While making all these audios—” and he plunges deeper, “For my favorite girl—” and your moans pitch louder, “After her tiresome shifts?”

You’re too cockdrunk to even think of a reply. You’re only capable of moving your hips in time with his, nails scraping at his sweat-covered skin, your slick oozing down to his balls.

“I’m— I’m close,” you mewl. “M’gonna cum, Ja-ack.”

“Think I should let you?” he says through gritted teeth, his own control already slipping.

“P-please,” you stutter out weakly as his hips snap up, “Wanna cum, wanna— want you— t-to make me cum, please.”

A grunt escapes him, and Jack adjusts his hold, his chest heaving against yours, skin rubbing against skin. His mouth latches onto your throat, each word punctuated with a trust:

“That’s a good — fucking — girl.”

His hands drop lower to cup your ass, giving it a squeeze — and then the world around you spins as he effortlessly flips you on your back.

Your legs fall open for him, and he manages to keep his cock nestled so perfectly in your fluttering hole. He doesn’t slow down for a second: Jack shifts his weight on his left leg, angling his hips a little to hit that spot inside you over and over, making your eyes roll back in your head. The room fills with your breathy moans, your cunt squelching around his thick length, your body caged under his weight. In stark contrast, his lips are weightless — against your chest, your collarbones, your arm, mouthing pet names or more praises — or just the letters of your name, you honestly can’t tell. The meaning of his words escapes you.

“Yeah, that’s right. Need your head empty,” Jack groans, breath ragged, his pace relentless. “Need you to only think about how good I’m fucking you.”

He surely is.

Your whole body tenses.

You are so close.

And then you feel his forehead against yours, a pressure of his fingers on your clit, a command given with the utmost softness:

“Let go, baby. I got you.”

The second orgasm tears through you, white-hot and all-consuming. You cum with a sob falling from your lips, your fingers scrabbling at his shoulders as your pussy spasms wildly around his cock. He fucks you through it, he does try to last a little longer, but the combination of all this — the way you look, feel, finally his — pushes him over, his own pleasure so intense, he’s powerless against it. Jack’s hips jerk as he cums, filling you up, his broken groans pressed into your neck.

The room is still.

You wait for your breath and heart to calm. His hand brushes a loose strand of hair out of your face, and he whispers, still a little breathless:

“You good?”

You nod first. Then open your mouth:

“That was—” you have to swallow the slight hoarseness of your voice, “Literally the best sex I’ve ever had.” Three heartbeats later, you add with a tired laugh. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Too late.”

You feel him smile against your cheek before he places a kiss there.

Jack pulls out carefully, leaving you empty — you have to stop yourself from reaching for him, from chasing his familiar warmth. You quietly watch him clamber off the bed and pull his briefs up, then close your eyes so he won’t catch you staring. You listen to him walk out of the room, and suddenly, a realization kicks in: his footsteps sound uneven.

Like he is limping.

Jack comes back with a wet towel and gently cleans you up, then helps you put your panties on and brings you a glass of water. And every time you look at him, your gaze catches on how he is obviously leaning on his healthy leg.

You slowly stretch your neck and shoulders, then tap on the spot next to you. “Come here.”

Jack sits down, a little bit unsure where this is going. And very much tense in the exact place you thought he would be. You move your hands to his right knee and feel his hamstrings flex involuntarily.

“You spend too much time on your feet,” you say, working your fingers over his muscles. “And you put too much pressure on it. Your leg feels like it’s made out of concrete.”

Without even looking, you can tell that now he’s tense all over.

You have seen Jack take the prosthesis off, short moments of reprieve that he allows himself too rarely for your liking, only after particularly long shifts. He isn’t shy about his disability, but he doesn’t like bringing attention to it, you’ve noticed. Like living with it isn’t hard, like it’s not that big of a deal. You also know that he’s got no one to take care of him.

You take your time massaging the scarred tissue, mostly applying pressure with your thumbs as they move from the socket up, then back down. And you know that it’s working when you hear him exhale, his breath a little ragged. Relieved.

“I try to take breaks, but you know how it is. We’re always busy,” Jack counters, with that same boyish stubbornness you can’t possibly be angry at.

“Shen’s an attending now, which is supposed to make your job easier. Don’t act like the ER’s gonna blow up if you sit down for 10 minutes,” you turn your head to look at him.

Jack doesn’t meet you with defiance — he’s sitting with his shoulders slumped and gaze mellow, way too relaxed to hide it. The sight is so endearing, your heart lurches behind your ribs. You fight the urge to kiss him. Instead, your fingers glide down to the edges of the prosthesis’s socket. You do not push it; you let him decide if he wants to be this vulnerable with you. Jack just gives you a nod. A small, barely noticeable movement. Also an immeasurable sign of trust. You carefully remove the artificial limb, then take the sock off to let his skin breathe. Your touch lingers: you lightly trace the white uneven scars, faded reminders of something horrible he managed to survive.

He lets you.

Silence fills up the space between you two, and you don’t know what to do next. Technically, you only needed sex, and Jack didn’t say that it would happen more than once. This would be the perfect moment for you to thank him and head out.

So you remove your hands —

Jack puts his arm around you, firmly. His lack of hesitation helping yours to fade away. He scoops you back, until you’re pressed to him, your back met with his bare chest. His chin is placed on your shoulder, his words warm:

“You really like it in surgery, don’t you?”

“I do,” you answer honestly. “Way more than I thought I would. I was afraid it’d be too challenging, too much pressure, too many new things to learn... But it’s not that hard. And I love learning.”

He laughs, a soft low sound you love just as much. “Even with an attending who’s as emotionally evolved as a toothpick?”

“I think us working together is mutually beneficial, actually. Park’s teaching me how to mend bones, I’m giving him lessons on how to hold a conversation for longer than a minute.”

Jack’s smile is tickling your neck as he pulls you back into bed, so effortlessly, like he has done it many times. You readily curl up against him, resting your palm over his chest. He tugs the blanket up to cover you, his fingers gently moving from your shoulder to your collarbone.

But then your eyes meet his, and it is a discovery you never thought you’d make: he looks self-conscious. He is the one searching for words to put his feelings into.

“You said I made you feel like you couldn’t breathe,” Jack recalls.

“I didn’t mean literally... I guess I was a little bit dramatic,” you avert your gaze. Okay, maybe you should’ve found a better way to tell him how you felt. Preferably without it looking like a crash-out.

“No, it’s not that. It’s just—” his hand cradles the side of your face, gentle and reassuring. “From the first day you came to the ER, with your humor and your curiosity and your quick thinking... To me, you were like a breath of fresh air,” he skims his thumb over your lower lip, his touch light, his words heavy with the emotions he’s been holding back for months. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I was working up the courage.”

His heartbeat is hushed under your palm. Steady with certainty. It radiates from him like light, your insecurities melting away under his gaze like snow under the sun.

After a moment, you speak up: your voice is teasing. “Funny how you had just enough courage to record raunchy audios.”

“My therapist said I needed a hobby. Unfortunately, I suck at golf,” Jack leaves a kiss on your forehead. “But you were the one who gave me the idea.”

“Um, for all the great ideas I am famous for, that one definitely wasn’t mine.”

His chest vibrates with laughter. “You don’t remember it? Your third week in the ER, the nightcrawles on a night out. I walked you out to wait for your cab, and you said — and I quote — that I’ve got a very soothing voice. That I should narrate audiobooks or something.”

You cover your face with your palm, groaning. “Oh my god, I can’t believe I said that out loud. I had five shots of tequila. I hoped you would forget.”

“I didn’t,” Jack says and pulls your hand away. “Everything you do and say is very memorable to me,” he presses his lips to your wrist. Then puts your hand back on his chest and holds it there, his thumb brushing yours. And out of nowhere, very nonchalantly, he asks. “So, does it actually take you 40 minutes to get to work?”

“Yeah. Give or take,” you tell him vaguely.

He doesn’t buy it. “And if we’re being more specific?”

“Closer to an hour,” you admit reluctantly. “But the rent is pretty low, and most of my neighbours are nice, and I finally got my shower fixed last week so —”

“You can move in here.”

Your words die down in an instant as you stare at him, trying to discern a hint of humor, of pity, of anything to suggest he doesn’t mean it.

“You aren’t serious,” you mumble, but his unblinking gaze confirms that he is. “No, I really— I can’t.”

Jack props his head up on one hand. “Why not?”

“Because it’s your apartment. You’re living on your own, and I wouldn’t want to bother you or— or take up too much space.”

“Didn’t you say this place can fit a football team? So unless you’re gonna bring another 10 people with you...”

“No, it’s just me,” you say timidly and hesitate for a few seconds. But since you’re out of arguments, the only thing you’re left with is the truth. “I don’t want you to regret it later on.”

“I won’t regret it.”

“You barely know me.”

“I know you plenty. We worked together for half a year.”

“Yeah, but that was us in the hospital. Which isn’t exactly informative, because I can be a total mess in my everyday life. What if you come home to find my clothes lying around everywhere? What if I’ve got questionable coffee preferences or weird food habits?” you absentmindedly draw circles on his skin, stumbling over the excuses you are nervously coming up with. “And then we’ll start getting into fights because I was too tired to iron the bedsheets or I accidentally took your favorite t-shirt or ate your favorite ice cream because I got my period and acted bitchy or —”

Jack tilts your chin up, the small movement making you close your mouth. A smile pulls at his lips, soft just the rest of him — now, in this moment, with you: soft touch of his strong hands, soft grey curls, a little ruffled (totally your fault), soft gaze that is a vortex of green, amber and gold. His voice carries the same softness when he says:

“You usually take your coffee black with just a splash of soy milk. But when you’re tired, you go for these obnoxiously sugary drinks that barely have any caffeine in them,” his smile grows wider. “You do not throw things around, not when the inside of your locker is strategically organized by shelves. Your only weird food habit is thinking a protein bar can be considered a full meal. I don’t iron my bedsheets, you can wear any of my t-shirts, and I’ll make sure to stock up on ice cream. I’ve never seen you being bitchy, but you can get a little uncooperative when you’re upset or nervous. Which I can handle,” but there is no pressure behind his reasoning — instead, he adds with hope, his eyes not leaving yours, “I know enough, and I’d love to learn the rest. If you let me.”

The feeling rolls all over you, familiar and very long-awaited one: of calmness that his presence always brings you. Of just how comforting it is to be with him. Jack makes it sound too easy for you to harbour any doubts.

“Okay,” you manage quietly.

And when your hands cradle his face, he leans in first to close the distance.

You kiss him slowly, like you are trying to spell out your gratitude, your ever-growing fondness, your feelings you are still afraid to name. He holds you close like he can understand exactly what your lips are saying. You want to drag this moment out for longer; but then a yawn bubbles in your throat.

“You’re not leaving this bed until you get at least eight hours of sleep,” Jack notes, more caring than stern, his nose bumping into yours. And you can tell his eyelids are already drooping. “What time do you need to wake up?”

“M’not working tomorrow. Turned off my alarm already,” you mumble.

“Good,” he nods with his eyes closed, wrapping both arms around you — and then adds in a tender whisper, “Good girl.”

You smile into his chest, happily and drowsily, and you know you’re about to fall asleep. And just before you do, you think:

no, this definitely isn’t a one-time thing.

The splatters of it dried up on his hands and vest. It’s been a while since he had to treat an injury this bad. Out in the field, under active fire, with the adrenaline blazing through his bloodstream. Except, that feeling he once loved and chased has recently become less thrilling. More unnerving. And underneath the layers of the synthetic fibers and his years-old restraint, a heaviness has settled in his chest. Jack knows it’s not about the bleeding — at least, not the one he did manage to stop.

Because as they ride through the tunnel, the light flickers — from bright to dull fluorescent one — and Hiro’s face is momentarily replaced by someone else’s.

Someone way younger, in his twenties, his eyes widened in horror, his mouth opening to push the panicked words out. His teeth are colored red —

Then Jack blinks. The sunlight floods the car again.

“How are we doing back there, doc?” Levington asks him from the driver’s seat.

Abbot feels Hiro’s pulse — it’s slow, thready. “Not great. He’s getting harder to bag.”

“Those damn beaners got him good. But your guys will patch him up, right? 'Cause I’m supposed to be one of his groomsmen, and let me tell you, those tux rentals ain’t cheap —”

“Lev, can you just shut the fuck up and step on it?” a gruff voice interrupts.

“Got it, Sarge!”

The engine roars.

The weight in Abbot’s chest sinks deeper. But he is nothing if not pro at pushing his emotions down. So he does just that.

They ride straight to the ambulance bay, and two paramedics help them transfer Hiro on a gurney. The numbness in Jack’s wrist gives way to tingling as he moves his hand a little; he keeps his fingers clasped around the bag. He keeps his calm. Pretending that he doesn’t feel the pain stinging his shoulder blade, a deep graze where the bullet missed him.

And there’s some relief in coming into the ER, a safe space with the well-known faces — Robby’s the first to greet him, already on alert.

“Intubated neck wound, sats not great,” Jack explains, his hands moving on autopilot — one pressing on the bag, the other checking Hiro’s pulse. “You got a trauma room open?”

“Trauma 1,” Robby nods, helping to move the gurney in the right direction. “What’s the story?”

“Officer Hiro, high-velocity GSW. Warehouse robbery gone sideways,” Jack lists, avoiding further details.

Because if he says more, he’ll have to deal with questions he has yet to find the answers to. Because he’s used to making clean cuts, having a clear conscience, taking a clear course of action. But the truth is messy. And he doesn’t have time for that.

Instead, Abbot takes notice of Hiro’s barely moving chest, just as they roll the gurney in, Santos and Perlah already in the room.

Trinity’s gaze flits between two men in uniform, not with dismay but with her usual curiosity. With the excitement some might consider odd. Jack doesn’t. He also wonders when was the last time his job made him excited. He can’t remember. Definitely not today.

“Did you do this intubation?” Santos takes the bag from him.

“Under active fire, yeah. I go in with the team in case there’s an injury,” Jack tells her casually, a pair of scissors already in his hands, the metal blades hastily cutting through the bandages.

“That’s badass,” Trinity notes with a small grin, her eyes bright with amusement.

Jack only shrugs. His face expression stays unfazed. Behind it, there’s a roaring concern: with how much air he’s been pumping into Hiro’s lungs, they should inflate way more. They should make his chest rise and fall, a steady breath-like pattern. A vital pattern.

The monitor goes off.

“Sats down to 85,” Robby warns.

A respiratory failure means that they have to act fast. It also means that he missed something. And getting confirmation hurts Jack way more than being shot at.

“Shit, his trachea’s transected,” he grunts as he removes the dirty bandages, “I didn’t notice.”

“So if we intubate again, it will come straight out the wound,” Trinity guesses from behind his shoulder.

“Bingo. Need another plan,” he takes the plastic tube out of Hiro’s mouth, and she promptly puts the mask on him, with the same bag attached to it.

It’s the same working principle: her fingers squeeze the bag, the air goes in. And Jack helplessly watches as it leaks through the neck wound, blood bubbling at the edges.

The beeping doesn’t stop.

Robby shakes his head. “Sats down to 83.”

“He’s not moving any air,” Jack mumbles, “Can’t send him up like this.”

Robby catches his gaze, hums, thinks it over. “How about a neonatal mask?”

“A neonatal?” Santos sounds confused. “But how can it —”

“Put it to his neck,” Jack realizes. “Seals the wound, allows the air to go where it’s supposed to.”

Trinity nods. Then runs up to the supply cabinet, and just a tiny bit of her excitement does rub off on him. Jack lets out a breath, sweat beading on his brow; his heart is still restless with worry. Seconds drag out while he waits, and the neonatal mask actually works — sats climb up to 98, the oxygen finally filling up the lungs. But Abbot knows it’s not a permanent solution.

Robby knows, too. He steps back to give a call to the OR.

Jack figures out a way to keep his hands busy in the meantime: a syringe with a needle and two ampules he asks Perhal for — lidocaine for numbing and epi to reduce the bleeding. He carefully works around the wound, peppering it with injections, as Trinity checks up the lungs.

“Good lung sliding, no pneumo,” she reads the monitor.

This is good news. They are unfortunately followed by Robby hanging up the phone with a loud sigh.

“The OR is packed, they can take him in 20 minutes at best.”

“Wish I could say I am surprised,” Jack huffs, feigning a tone that will not give away how much he hates it — wait, and uncertainly, and feeling like he’s failing someone. “It’s always on this day when people collectively decide to lose a few of their limbs.”

“More like a few of their brain cells,” Perlah mutters, earning a laugh from Santos.

“Think he can hang in there for 20 more minutes?” Robby asks.

“I don’t want to sit and wait,” Jack counters and puts the syringe away. “Any suggestions?”

“Mine would be to sit and wait.”

“That’s just lazy, man.”

“Well, sorry I’m not a wellspring of ideas, some of us been working since 6 a.m.”

They aren’t seriously bickering — it’s just a way to keep Jack’s mind distracted, an impromptu grounding technique. Robby’s aware, so he plays along. Jack welcomes it.

“What do you think I’ve been doing? Does this camo make it look like I returned from a vacation?”

“I’m starting to think you just enjoy watching people shoot at each other.”

“Says the guy whose definition of fun is riding a bike without the damn helmet.”

“Which only happened once, meanwhile you continuously —”

The door swings open, putting their conversation to a halt.

And then a smile stretches Robby’s lips as his eyes land on someone else.

“Do you ever take breaks?”

“Do you?” you quip and hastily throw on a gown. “Cause you aren’t leading by example, that’s for sure.”

Jack instantly turns to the sound. He doesn’t recognize your voice — confident, brazen even — nor your hair color. He only glimpses your profile before you put a mask on, your movements quick, honed. Not hesitating once. He’s yet to learn your name, but your dark scrubs give him a hint: you’re a surgeon.

The one Robby already seems acquainted with. He keeps his gaze on you while you reach for the gloves.

“And why is it always you who comes down to us?”

“That is a weird way of saying thank you.”

“I just don’t want our promising new hire to burn out too fast. And I am seeing some troubling signs.”

“What you are seeing is eight hours of sleep paired with a healthy dose of caffeine. Not that you’d know what it looks like,” you scoff at Robby, mirth in your voice. “Also, promising? What a compliment.”

“We’ve only been working together for two weeks, I can’t go soft on you. Or people will start talking,” Robby steps back to let you take his place, like he is used to it. Like there is a rhythm you two have learned to fall into.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you tell him bluntly, but your attention is on Hiro — you quickly look over his bloodied chest and wounded neck, a slight furrow between your brows. “The neonatal mask was a good call.”

Then finally, you spare Jack a glance.

Your eyes catch on his uniform for a perceptible few seconds, then dart up to his face. And Jack involuntarily, immediately tenses. Because it feels like he is staring down the barrel of a gun, and your gaze is loaded. Like there are words you want to fire at him, a shot that will be deadly.

His heartbeat stutters.

But you don’t say a thing.

You silently look back at Hiro. And suddenly, a thought comes to Jack’s mind: something about you is incredibly familiar.

Robby stands right behind you, oblivious to any tension and still smiling. “You aren’t gonna let me win, will you? Emery warned me —”

“You bring her up so often, I’m starting to suspect you have a crush, Robinavich,” — you throw a look at Trinity, “Santos, help me cut down a 6-0 ET tube,” — then, back at Robby, “Sorry to break it to you, but you are not her type.”

“Is it the beard?”

“Among other things,” you chuckle.

Jack really wants to interfere with your banter — it feels like things are slipping out of his control: no one is asking for his opinion or his help, although it’s his friend who is about to bleed out on the table.

But you’re a natural at multitasking.

You talk while your sharp gaze does the inspection, while you draw up a plan. You tell Trinity where to cut the tube and ask for clamps, your fingers pulling up the mask from Hiro’s neck, your gloves already covered in his blood.

“The problem must be in my erratic working schedule,” Robby muses teasingly, watching you work.

Your eyebrows flicker up at his remark. Behind your mask, there’s an expression that Abbot guesses is a smirk. “No, I’d say it’s more about your pathological refusal to commit to a serious relationship and instead fucking around and calling it casual. Which does sound funny coming from a man in his fifties,” you deadpan.

Perlah gives Robby a pointed look, not hiding that she does agree with you. Santos is trying very hard (and failing) to hold back a laugh. And unexpectedly, despite his whirlpool of emotions that are far from funny, Jack feels his mouth smiling too.

You keep your focus on the wound and add nonchalantly: “Please tell me you haven’t been casual with anyone in this room.”

Robby is blushing — profusely, from his ears to his cheeks. “You overestimate my charm.”

“I’m yet to find any. But somehow that doesn’t stop so many other women,” you tsk. Then mercifully grant him some reprieve. “His sats will tank, he’s in need of an airway. Trinity, come help me with the tube.”

“Allow me,” the words come out before Jack can rationalize them, his body leaning slightly toward yours across the table.

Like he is following a pull.

You don’t object. But now that he is standing closer, Jack catches how your eyes dart to the side, your brows pinched together. Almost as if you fight the urge to look at him again, to say something.

But for the second time, you don’t.

And even though Abbot is not inclined to think about it too hard — of how he looks and how he carries himself, and what effect it might have on people — he cannot help but wonder if your discomfort comes from that. Maybe you also feel the pull, maybe you’re trying to be professional about it.

He doesn’t mind the quiet. It drapes over you two as you work in accidental tandem: Santos gives Jack the tube, and he waits patiently for you to find the distal trachea. He checks the monitors. Although he’s drawn to keep his eyes on you. As much as Abbot is still worried, he is also undeniably intrigued.

His tension slowly eases —

Until the door creaks open, and Levington clumsily pushes half of his body in. The holster on his hip bumps against the wall, the handle of the gun making a dull sound.

“How’s it going, guys? This one didn’t kick the bucket yet?”

Jack doesn’t want to get distracted — or worse, to distract you. Not when you’re concentrated on the task, the metal shanks bloody and gleaming as you rotate them, trying to grip the windpipe and leave everything intact. Abbot looks up at Robby.

Robby first looks at you.

He then loses his smile and the amiability he usually uses around patients. Which is weird. He turns to Levington.

“It’s better if you wait outside, and we’ll update you once he’s out of surgery,” Robby says dryly. His voice drops slightly when he adds, “Should be more careful with the gun.”

“The safety’s on,” Levington brushes off, then chuckles. “Wouldn’t want to shoot myself in the leg and end up on the table too.”

“Weapons of any kind aren’t allowed in the ER,” you say without looking at him, way louder than Robby.

And there’s a stark change in your tone — it’s lacking playfulness, it is completely void of any warmth, each word spoken so firmly that you sound almost... Angry. Jack catches on to that.

Levington doesn’t.

“Oh, I’m a big boy, I can handle —”

“Wasn’t exactly a suggestion,” you cut him off. “You aren’t allowed in here, period. Go flash your gun some place else. Am I being clear?”

For just a second, you do look at him, a brief turn of your masked face in his direction.

And Levington — six feet tall, almost two hundred pounds of chiseled muscles and blissful ignorance — flinches under your stare. He throws both hands up.

“S-sorry, already leaving,” he stutters and backs out of the room.

The sats drop down to 91.

“I got it,” you say in the same second.

Jack’s part is easier: he only needs to place the tube in. Gently, securely. His face inches closer to yours, his gaze grazing the high points of your cheeks, the lines of your throat. You surely can feel him staring, but you don’t move away. Eventually, he does.

“I’m in. Balloon up.”

The chestpiece of Robby’s stethoscope glides over Hiro’s chest. The number on the monitor is climbing up. Everyone shares a sigh of relief.

“Good breath sounds,” Robby confirms, a corner of his mouth curling. “Not bad, you guys.”

But when Jack tries meeting your gaze, you don’t give him the satisfaction, your face not softened one bit. Nor is your voice when you say coolly:

“Good thing that whoever shot him couldn’t aim for shit.”

That scratches off some of Jack’s pretense. Most of his nonchalance. Because you masterfully fish out not only the trachea, but also the damned memories he has been trying to suppress.

The rows of corridors, the piles of packaged and hastily abandoned goods. Shadows that move across the floor, hide behind structured rows of shelves. Hushed conversations. Hectic decisions. They are on the run.

Hiro’s voice booming.

“Kid, you don’t even know how to use that thing! Just put your weapon down!”

Shots fired — intentional, precise, hitting the targets as expected. But one is sudden, accidental, the bullets ricocheting off the metal with bright tiny sparks.

Hiro gets hit.

His hand clasped weakly over his neck, red pouring through his fingers until Jack can apply more pressure. Until they rush him out of the building.

There are two dead bodies left behind.

The third one is still fighting against the imminent demise. Convulsing limbs and bloodied teeth and scared eyes — looking straight at Jack.

Robby’s palm on his shoulder brings him back.

“— don’t have to stay for this,” he repeats, “We can take it from here.”

He sounds more cautious, like he can finally feel that something’s off. But he can’t figure out what exactly. Robby steps to where you’re standing.

“I’ll sew the trachea to the skin. Can’t let you do all the work around here.”

You don’t argue. But your gloved hand brushes Hiro’s half-naked body, your fingers moving to his side. You pull away the piece of his torn t-shirt. There is a spot beneath his ribs — big, blooming violet.

“Missed a bruise. Left upper quadrant.”

Santos picks the ultrasound transducer. “Wasn’t he wearing body armor?”

“High-velocity projectile doesn’t have to penetrate to damage,” Jack notes.

He stays to help Robby with suturing. You take the transducer from Trinity, maneuvering your body and your hand to move around Abbot so you can get an image while still keeping your distance.

And this doesn’t feel like you are fighting an attraction to him, no. It comes off as avoidance. Dislike even.

But why?

“No fluid in the suprasplenic space. Looks like a subcapsular hematoma of his spleen,” you say, ignoring Jack’s existence as if your arm isn’t bumping into his.

“So he needs an abdominal CT,” Santos suggests.

“CT angio of the neck first. Then CT chest, abdomen, pelvis.”

“Geez, I wonder what the other guy looks like,” Trinity mumbles.

Abbot pretends he didn’t hear the question. But now that he’s the one ignoring something obvious, you glance at him. He feels it — your gaze comes with the safety off. And he remembers that he also has a gun. The chances that you haven’t noticed aren’t very high. Which may be what’s been bothering you.

“How did that even happen?” Santos wonders, and this one time Jack wishes she could be less curious. Trinity adds, a tad bit awkward. “I mean, if it’s not a top secret.”

Since everyone is staring at him, he can’t help but talk.

“Some guys naively thought today was the day to rob a goods warehouse. Didn’t think about how long it would take to load the appliances,” Jack explains half-heartedly. “They panicked when the SWAT rolled in. All hell broke loose.”

“His recovery will also feel like hell,” Perlah nods toward Hiro with a small, sympathetic frown.

“Good thing someone else didn’t catch a bullet,” Robby remarks, both disapproving and concerned, his gaze fixed on the wound.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack notices you move away. As if you aren’t very interested in this discussion. But Perlah is — she squints at Jack, and there’s more confusion than disapproval in her words:

“Why’d you volunteer for something like that?”

You snap your gloves off, one then the other; then your mask.

“My therapist said I needed a hobby,” Abbot says.

It’s an excuse packed as a joke, but both work poorly — there is a glaring proof of how unsafe the job is, with Jack’s hands still on Hiro’s wounded neck. Proof that it isn’t just a fun, carefree pastime.

Because there’s no enjoyment in watching someone die.

And Jack has seen too many deaths already. He doesn’t know how long he can keep pushing it all down, deeper, until he will start cracking at the seams. So he has made it into a habit to talk his way out of situations he struggles to process.

“I mean, they just need someone to help them if things go south,” he continues, seemingly unruffled. “It’s a high-risk job. These guys put their life on the line.”

There is a sound — a huff mixed with a laugh, not airy and mirthful but instead cold and sharp. The sound comes from you.

“Do they really?”

His head snaps in your direction, and there’s no hiding how flabbergasted he is by your tone. You give him no chance to recover.

“You mean the men in military-style tactical gear who usually show up armed to the teeth? In teams, with vests, shields and helmets? Which, by the way, they get paid really well for. So how high is the risk exactly?” You glance at Hiro. “At least this one came in one piece. How many were brought in body bags today thanks to you?”

The room goes silent.

Jack’s face grows hot. And only now, belatedly, he realizes: for you, there is no pull. The only urge you’re fighting is to tear him to shreds.

Correction: you aren’t fighting it.

“Shit happens,” Abbot tries to argue. “You point a gun at a police officer, and they’re allowed to engage.”

“Are they allowed to negotiate first? Or do you usually prefer to skip that part? Sorry, my bad — not you, your team buddies.”

The truth is, he’s not really involved in the decision-making. He stays back and he follows orders, and there is no time to question them. He does sometimes, though. It has been happening more often.

You stare him down like you can read his thoughts.

“Are you allowed to help the other guys? Like, if some criminal is bleeding out on the pavement. Or does the Hippocratic Oath apply only to the upstanding citizens with a clean record and high morals?”

His heart pounds, no doubt fueled by adrenaline that’s triggering the body’s “fight or flight” response. Jack’s always been a fighter, he has learned to be — he went from jumping into fights at school to jumping out of helicopters straight into war zones. But none of that experience can help him.

His vest, his self-restraint, his wit are suddenly all useless against you.

“There are priorities of life. Civilians first, then the acting officers,” Jack forces out, because it feels unbearable not to fight back or at least try to. “The criminals come —”

“Aren’t they innocent until proven guilty? Pointing a gun at someone isn’t against the law.”

“Shooting at people is.”

“Undoubtedly, yes. Shouldn’t they be prosecuted for that?”

“Undoubtedly,” Jack echoes, not wryly but warily, like he’s afraid to walk into a trap. He does.

“Would be hard to do that when they are dead,” you note swiftly, your voice level, but your gaze is burning. Always on him. It makes Jack’s grit falter, so when you change topics, he is caught off guard.

“Where’s that warehouse you mentioned?”

Robby is finishing the stitches, his brown eyes glancing between you two with ever-growing apprehension. Perlah and Trinity are gazing at you like they just got front row tickets to some drama show. Jack doesn’t find any of this entertaining.

“I’m not sure I can disclose that information.”

You let out a hum. Dismissive. Like that’s exactly what you expect from him, like your expectations of him aren’t very high.

“Since he didn’t bleed out, and your hand didn’t fall off from pumping air into his lungs, it can’t be too far. The warehouse in Millvale sounds about right.”

Abbot’s jaw clenches. Your mouth twitches, as if you’re about to sneer.

“Isn’t that the one owned by Amazon? I’m sure one of the world’s richest men is ugly crying over a few boxes of packaged goods someone tried to steal from him.”

There’s so much tension in Jack’s face, he is about to start grinding his teeth.

“I don’t think we should let people steal whatever shit they want.”

“And I do not encourage stealing,” you retort, easily grinding on his nerves, “I’m saying you should take guilty people to court. Not kill them on the spot.”

“You ever heard about self-defence?”

“You ever tried not shooting people in the head?”

“I don’t shoot anyone. Or give orders to.”

“But you work for the men who do. Kinda sounds like you don’t have a problem with it.”

An irritated deep sigh burns his throat, but Abbot holds it back. So you push on.

“I’m not judging,” but it sounds like you are. “The job probably pays well. Wouldn’t hurt to get an extra check in this economy.” He doesn’t buy into you being conciliatory. You prove him right when you add. “I heard that ICE is hiring.”

There’s an immediate shift in the air. The silence deafening, all eyes on Jack again, as if he has to actually prove that he’d never consider that job offering.

“Since you’re so fond of law enforcement —”

“I’m not gonna join fucking ICE,” Jack hisses as he fully turns to you.

Your words send redness creeping across his cheeks, the color of both embarrassment and indignation. You turn a blind eye to his feelings.

“Oh, you have a moral compass? Would you look at that.”

The guilt is back, and now it takes the shape of a dumbbell, the weight so heavy, it’s threatening to crush his chest. At least, that’s what it feels like. His voice comes out a little strangled.

“You seem to like rushing to judgment.”

“I was merely asking. ICE loves recruiting cops.”

It’s in this moment when Robby tries to interfere. He walks closer, his eyes moving from Jack to you and back. “Guys, maybe you should —”

“They will recruit any uneducated douchbag, it has nothing to do with what the SWAT does,” Abbot insists.

“The unit of the public institution that is responsible for quarter of a million civilian injuries a year? I think my judgment is just fine,” you say, adamant in your aversion. “Those are the same guys who do forced-entry raids and treat human rights like a suggestion they are free to ignore.”

“They don’t —”

But Abbot finds himself unable to finish that sentence. We wants to say they aren’t like that, except he actually can’t be certain. He and Hiro did form a surprisingly tight friendship, but Jack has never cared to hang out with the rest. He has a schedule and a full-time job, he gets tired faster, he sometimes feels too old to get their jokes.

He’s getting irritated at how effortlessly you can sniff out his hesitation.

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“But you don’t know it either, do you?” you challenge.

For him, it takes a lot of effort — to push back his emotions, to stop himself from bluntly asking Did something happen to make you so uncompromising? There is a lot of sense in what you’re saying. But Jack sticks to his own version of truth.

“From my experience, many of them are not bad people.”

It backfires. As quickly as if he stepped on another mine. You tell him, ruthlessly straightforward:

“From my experience, half of them choose that job to flaunt their power, the other half just love cosplaying their old army days because they are adrenaline junkies who can’t be left alone with their thoughts.”

Your words land like a punch into his sternum. Because you read him like you’ve got a PhD in Jack Abbot’s supposedly complex internal turmoil. He exhales sharply. Takes a breath and bristles.

“Are you a therapist now too?”

“Am I wrong? Sorry, did it hit too close to home?”

“Guys!” Robby barks out, and that does shut you both up.

You and Jack look at him, and he glances intently at the table. At Hiro, who you two almost forgot about. You only now notice that he’s starting to wake up, his eyelids fluttering as his head moves slightly to the side.

Abbot is sombre and distrustful — he doesn’t want any of your prejudice to hit Hiro, who’s in no shape to argue or to even speak. He watches you with narrowed eyes. You briefly check — the fluids Hiro is hooked up to, his stitched-up neck. And you don’t look at Jack at all.

“Welcome back to consciousness,” you keep your voice down — and you’re believably polite. Perfectly amiable. “You may feel some discomfort in your throat, there is a tube placed there to help you breathe. It’s temporary, and we will take it out during surgery. It won’t take long, and you won’t feel a thing. You may want to stay out of karaoke for a while, though.”

Hiro’s lips curve up a little at the corners.

Jack’s guilt could take half of the room. The floor. (The building?)

He makes his face look less sour as he walks closer. It helps that he is genuinely happy to see Hiro doing better. (Most importantly, not dead.)

Jack pats him on the shoulder, although the touch barely lands. “You’re gonna be okay, Hiro. You’re in good hands.”

Your argument (or was it a fight?) has momentarily gone from sizzling to smoldering. Robby moves to stand between you, a self-proclaimed referee.

“What’s the plan?”

“The Radiology first. Head and Neck will have an OR ready with thoracic standing by,” you explain.

“How soon can they take him?”

“We’re still backed up with Westbridge patients, but I can speed things up. Let’s start with CT.”

“Can I ride up with you?” Trinity asks, never apologetic for her ambitions.

And you must like it, because you give her a half-smile as you nod. “The more the merrier.”

It stings Jack’s pride a little how easily you get along with people. With anyone but him.

He helps to transfer Hiro on a gurney, and you two stand shoulder to shoulder for a moment. You only level him with a glare. Your eyes unreadable, your body moving out of the room like you wish to never share it with Abbot.

The space’s left empty, save for him and Robby.

“What the hell was that?” Jack says under his breath, eyes still glued to the place where you were standing.

“That was our new surgeon,” Robby informs him casually, his tone suggesting you and him work pretty well together. “She likes to come down between the surgeries to check up on the critical cases, see if she can help. No idea when she manages to actually take breaks, but I’m not complaining.”

Jack watches as Robby pulls down his gown, feeling his emotions simmer, his cheeks still warm. “That’s not what I’m asking.”

Robby sends him a glance, then lets out a long exhale.

“Wish I could give you an answer,” although he doesn’t sound too bothered by the lack of it. “Last week, a couple of cops brought in one of theirs, tried to stick by while he was on the table. And she almost dragged them out of the ER with her own hands,” Robby takes off his gloves and tosses them into the trash can. “To be fair, their buddy did shoot himself in the thigh, and they all reeked of beer. So she didn’t seem totally unreasonable, and I didn’t want to push her. Maybe she’s anti-gun, maybe something happened to her? Hell if I know. It’s none of my business unless it affects her job. And it doesn’t. You saw it too.”

Jack can’t argue with that.

He also can’t stop thinking about it — your voice laced with aversion, your words biting, your eyes never shying away from his. You. He doesn’t know how to stop thinking about you.

Robby must see in his face — or maybe he just knows him well enough to guess. He asks Jack quietly:

“She did get under your skin, huh?”

Jack’s mouth is set into a straight line. He cannot master a reply, and Robby knows better than to force one out. He briefly closes his eyes, bringing his hand up to rub his neck.

“Listen, I’m as clueless as you are. But if you want to get some inside scoop, maybe try asking—”

“Dr Robby?” Mel peeks into the room. “Sorry, we’ve got a trauma incoming. A 12-year-old kid, a firecracker exploded in his hand.”

“Not again,” Robby grumbles. “Anyone ever thought of banning those fucking firecrackers? I think we should.”

“Start a petition, I’ll sign it,” Dana chuckles as she walks by.

Robby relents and steps toward the door, his hand landing on Jack’s shoulder to give it a supportive squeeze. Unknowingly, he touches his wound, and Abbot barely manages to hold back a groan.

This time, the pain in his back lingers.

And when he’s left alone, in the room that smells like blood and antiseptics, what lingers on his mind is the thought of you.

Jack looks for an empty exam room so he can quickly change and clean the wound. He doesn’t want to ask for help, knowing how busy this day’s been, which also serves as an excuse for him to stay for a few hours.

He tells himself it has nothing to do with you. It sounds like a lie.

Jack tiredly removes his sweat-stained long-sleeve, wincing when the material drags over his bruised shoulder blade. He takes the holster off, makes sure the gun is safely placed inside, then slowly pulls up his t-shirt. He barely has time to take it off when he hears quick footsteps approaching.

“Mr Diaz?” Samira calls out, loud and excited. The door clicks open. “Mr Diaz, I have a surprise for you,” she yanks the curtain to the side. Her eyes widen a little at the sight of Abbot, her tone quickly dulled to apologetic. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Jack says, a bit self-conscious, hands fumbling with the t-shirt.

Mohan pays him no mind, looking around the room. “Have you seen my patient? Orlando.”

He shakes his head. “This room was empty.”

She curses under her breath, and her face crumbles into an expression of unease that’s borderline on panic. Her eyes wander back to the hall, unsure, until they stop on someone Jack can’t see.

“Have you seen Mr Diaz?”

“The diabetic? He’s up in the med-surg. They’re gonna put him on an insulin protocol and monitor him for a couple of days.”

Jack’s fingers clutch the t-shirt tighter at the sound of your voice. He takes a step back and almost stumbles when he sees you. There’s a short pause while Samira’s scrambling for words.

“Wait, are you— Are you sure? He refused to get admitted, I barely could talk him into staying here, in the ER.”

“Yeah, it looked like he wasn’t gonna stay for long, because I caught him on the stairs in his hospital gown,” you say, a small chuckle tucked in after the last two words. “He seemed very agitated and definitely not in the best shape to leave. So I called for a psych consult.”

“Oh. I didn’t think about that,” Samira sighs, shaking her head, no doubt already taking all the blame. “I should’ve thought about that, I didn’t even— Thank you so much.”

Remarkably, as you approach her, your demeanour changes — your voice goes softer, and so does your gaze; your palm caresses her shoulder in a soothing manner.

“That’s not on you. Today’s been pretty rough, and you have to juggle dozens of cases. You can’t think of every single thing,” and you wait until Samira looks at you, until she breathes out with somewhat of a relief. “Besides, I wasn’t the one to persuade him, it’s all Kiara.”

“Guess I need to thank her too,” Samira mumbles, a bit bashful, way more hopeful.

You nudge her in the direction of the elevators, a hint of a smile on your lips — sincere and friendly, something Jack wishes he could get from you. Your gaze follows Samira as she walks away. You add:

“Maybe grab a snack on your way up. I’m pretty I haven’t seen you sit down once since the morning.”

Mohan is out of Jack’s sight, but she does something to make your almost-smile turn into a wide one, your eyes crinkling at the corners as you laugh. Jack has to sit down. He’s quick to memorize it — joy on your face, the sound of your laugh, your whole stance relaxed, if only for a couple of seconds.

He doesn’t wait for the inevitable change that will come once you see him.

Abbot averts his gaze and reaches for the medkit to take out everything he needs — alcohol wipes and cotton swabs, a tub of Vaseline, gauze pads and band-aids. It is an easy process. And yet, all he can think about is that he didn’t hear you leave. That the door is open.

And even now, after you argued, after you glared at him, after you made it evidently clear how much you hate his principles and choices, the pull is still there. So he glances up.

To find that you’re already looking at him.

Your face unsmiling and emotionless, no softness in your voice when you say:

“You are Hiro’s emergency contact.”

Jack nods and holds your gaze for a long moment. Then looks away, picking a cotton swab to scoop up a globe of Vaseline with it. He’s definitely skipping a few steps. His heart skips — not just one beat, but a couple — as you confidently move into the room.

“He doesn’t want his fiancée to freak out if something happens,” he explains, trying to focus on his wound. “So usually it’s one of us. I’m his pick for the summer since I’m not going on vacation any time soon,” Jack cannot reach his shoulder blade, and each attempt makes him feel more annoyed. Clumsy. He puts the cotton swab down, shifting in place under your stare. And yet, he’s stalling.

“He’s doing alright up there?”

“Neck angio is negative. A small splenic injury, but no free fluid in the abdomen. He’s getting prepped for the surgery,” you tell him flatly.

Nothing in your voice or face suggests you find his company enjoyable. So Jack’s expecting you to turn and go away.

You don’t.

Your gaze sweeps over his body, from his shoulders and chest down to his hands. You suddenly step to the wall to grab a pair of gloves. Before he even thinks to ask what you’re doing, you move closer and take the cotton swab from him.

Then your fingers graze the raw skin on his back.

Jack goes rigid all over.

You don’t ask questions, silently examining his wound. And Abbot doesn’t expect you to be particularly gentle with him. He almost wishes that you won’t be. If you are rough, then your presence will be something he just needs to tolerate. Sit here and wait for you to get it over with.

That’s not what happens.

Because despite your sharp voice and unfriendly attitude, your hands are warm. He feels it even through your gloves, he’s startled by that feeling: you touch him — and goosebumps rise up on his back. You must notice, it would be hard not to. But you don’t comment on it.

You work fast, as you always do: you use a wipe soaked in alcohol to clear the wound, pressing it firmly in a patting motion over the graze. You ditch the cotton swab, choosing to apply the Vaseline with your gloved finger, spreading it carefully in a thin layer. And every time you come in contact with his skin, his body’s drawn to lean into your touch. A treacherous, unfathomable yearning. Of course, Jack stops himself. He’s sitting with his hands crossed over his chest, mentally counting seconds, hoping his torture will be over soon.

Hoping you’ll stay for longer.

Hoping he’ll somehow manage to erase this moment from his memory. And already knowing that he won’t.

You cover his graze with a gauze pad and put four band-aids at the corners of the fabric to secure it in place. You smooth it out with your thumbs —

and then you’re done.

Then comes the part where Jack searches for the right thing to say. His arms still locked together, his heartbeat erratic, just as his thoughts are. He only manages two quiet words:

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

And there’s no stalling on your part because you promptly step away, the gloves off, the shield of your indifference already up.

“I mean that. Don’t bring this up ever, it was just a one-and-done,” you tell him, and now you do turn away, and he isn’t audacious enough to reach for you. But as you’re about to leave, you stop. “And it’s three, by the way.”

His shoulder doesn’t hurt, but something in his chest does. It claws its way out, spills into his arteries and veins, and fills him down to his bones: guilt. Jack knows what you’re about to tell him.

Still, he asks:

“Three what?”

“Three dead bodies,” and when it’s just the two of you, you are less feisty, and you mostly sound tired. Not of your job, he thinks; no, it must be something else — personal, painful, haunting. But you look at him with the same heavy gaze. “They were diverted here from Westbridge. Two were in their mid-thirties, GSWs in head and chest. Probably died fast. The third one was seventeen. Two bullets in his lungs, one in his spleen, one in his arm. Isn’t that too much? He wasn’t a rapist or a murderer, he was just a kid. There should be hope for someone like him. Rehabilitation, reintegration into society, a second chance,” you yourself don’t seem hopeful as you give him the explanation. “Instead, he had to lie there and wait for the blood to fill his lungs while choking on it. But hey, your friend? He will be fine. He was wearing a vest,” and this is so much worse — when you address him not with anger but with disappointment. “As were you.”

You don’t wait for him to come up with a reply, and Abbot watches you walk out into the hall.

His guilt stays.

He sits with it, puts clothes over it, gets on his feet and carries it around as he goes back to the nurse station. He picks a chart, but he’s having a hard time focusing on names and numbers. The noise of the ER is muted while he’s deep in thought.

It’s not a hobby, and there’s rarely any enjoyment in it, and everyone (his therapist included) has found ways to tell him that they do not approve. So why does he keep doing it?

Should he keep doing it?

Someone is walking up to him — Jack catches movement out of the corner of his eye.

“Hi there,” Emery leans on the table, hands in her pockets. “Met the new surgeon?”

Jack barely registers the question, not really in the mood for talking. “Yeah.”

“This is the part where you’re supposed to tell me that I’m the more talented one,” she smirks and tilts her head a little, trying to catch his gaze. Despite it being evident that his attention is elsewhere, she continues. “Okay, talent runs in the family would be a nice second option.”

It takes Jack a second to understand what she just said. And that does make him turn his head to look at her. “What family?”

“She didn’t tell you? I saw you two talking, so I assumed you knew.”

Walsh stares back at him, one of her brows raised, like she is waiting for a punch line. But Jack’s face is a canvas of indeniable confusion. Slowly, a smile tugs at her lips, a little bit amused — and very satisfied that she’s the one to tell him:

“She’s my half-sister.”

He lets her words sink in. And then it hits him — the familiarity he noticed came from you and Emery having the same eyes. The same eye shape and, most importantly, the same gaze — direct, intense and unapologetic. That made him feel like he owed you an apology, but he is yet to figure out what for.

“Wow, Jack Abbot rendered speechless, that’s a new one. What, did she leave that good of a first impression?” Emery chuckles.

That is one way to put it.

Jack is not sure how to tell her that you made him reevaluate the choices he was dead set on. The ones he kept making for months. But he can’t have this conversation with her now, here, when he’s in disarray and operating on barely five hours of sleep.

He manages a smirk. “Maybe talent does run in your family. Hard for me to tell when I’ve barely worked with you.”

“Memory loss is one of the symptoms of senility, you know,” she pats his arm with a mocking sympathy but with no offence. “I’ll make sure to make our every interaction memorable for you from now on.”

There’s a glint in her eyes, not threatening but invigorating, and that’s what Jack has always liked about her: even if their methods clash, even when they argue (which happens often), Emery never holds a grudge.

“Can’t wait for it, Dr. Walsh,” Jack grins.

She flips him off on her way to the elevator.

His phone vibrates.

Jack pulls it out of his pocket and looks down at the pop-up on the screen.

Levington:

You still up for next Friday? We’re placing bets, mine’s on some gang shit. Haven’t gotten one of those in a while, seems sus.

The same question starts flashing through his mind, like a red light at a crossroad. Should he keep doing this?

Hiro will still be in recovery, and he’s the only one Jack usually hangs out with. Except, no one takes on that job to hang out, and all the common reasons don’t resonate with Jack: he isn’t on it for the money, he doesn’t go out on calls to render justice, his morals have become quite flexible over the years. They’ve got enough time to find another medic for the task. And he really should find himself a better hobby.

So Abbot bites the bullet and types a short reply.

Sorry, something came up, I have to pass on this one. I’ll text Sarge.

He turns on silent mode and puts the phone away.

It comes to him way easier than he’d imagined. The harder task will be to not give in when he’s alone in his apartment, when he’s got day-offs and not too many friends to spend them with, when he’ll have to dissect his logic for his therapist.

The hardest will be trying to talk to you.

If not for giving an apology, then just to offer you an explanation. It feels important to let you know he isn’t who you think he is, to get a chance to make things right. To get a chance to be in your proximity for any reason, really.

Because deep down, he grows infatuated with that jarring contrast — your words harsh, but your fingers gentle.

Your voice cold, but your touch warming his whole body up.

And somehow, he craves both.

✧ soooo is this anything? would anyone want a part 2?

the idea behind the fic was to explore how a person’s views can change with time and/or under some dire circumstances. but also what it’s like to fall for someone who’s done things in the past you don’t agree with. I think it would be interesting to find out why Abbot joined the army and how it affected him, but also why he decided to help the SWAT team. because I have a sneaking suspicion that the show will not answer any of these questions... aaanyways, I didn’t want to write a super long oneshot, I think it’d work best as a three-parter, so this is the first one. sorry there’s no smut, I know that’s what everyone cares about these days. I spent almost a week debating if I should even post this fic. but it’s been on my mind for a while, and I just want to move on lol but thank you to the few people who will read this <3 (also, to clarify — yes, reader does have her reasons to hate cops. but the statistics I mentioned are very much real).

You have a recurring dream. Or is it more of a nightmare? You can't tell.

In your dream, your human form transforms into that of something markedly inhuman, a grotesque thing to see unfold behind your eyelids.

Your skeleton shrinks to a size just a fraction of what it is now, the excess skin, with nothing to cling to, spreading in a fleshy pool on the floor. Your spine bends out of shape like a pole vaulter's pole over the high horizontal bar, canted forward at an extreme angle and forcing you on your hands and feet. Bones break; your pelvis shortens, your arms lengthen, and what were two hands become two feet. Like the dinosaurs that evolved to carry their massive weight, you've become quadrupedal.

The excess skin retracts, like the tape of a leash being pulled back, and snaps securely into place. And you have a little tail, starting right around the sacral region, an extension of the canine spine.

Metamorphosis: the worst part of the dream. Becoming something other than human. The simulated pain that comes with it. But after, you're happy. Loved and cared for by a shapeless owner. You're a dear thing to them.

A pet.

But distantly, even while using your baser brain, you can tell that something is wrong. You're not meant to be like this.

And yet, you're happy.

So. Nightmare, or not?

You don't know, but you don't have the time to dwell on it. Your half hour lunch break is almost up, your ramen cup is empty, and today you're stationed at the cash registers.

It's a slow day—slower than usual, at least—though. Pittsburgh is just coming out on the other end of a big, freak snowstorm, and there is but one customer in the store right now.

You clock back in on the employee app and exit the break room to tend to him, tossing your empty cup into the bin on your way out.

"Ready to check out, sir?"

So, even though you told yourself to drop it, as you scan and punch in his purchases for dog food, chew toys, and other assorted items, you think back on your dream.

Being employed here should explain its origin. You see these kinds of owners all the time: people who cherish their pets, spoiling them rotten. Who wouldn't want to be doted on? Loved? Asked for nothing but companionship in return.

Hey!

The snapping of fingers rings out, cutting and sharp.

Are you there? Can you give me my receipt already?

You startle, and you're brought back down to earth. You shake your head.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, sir." You rip the glossy paper from the receipt printer, holding it out to him. "Here's your receipt. Thank you for shopping at Animal Kingdom."

The man scoffs, snatching it out from your hand. He collects the handles of his paper bags and murmurs, "space case," before leaving the store.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

You were daydreaming again. In front of a customer. If your boss had happened to see that exchange, you would have never heard the end of it.

You can't lose this job. You don't have much else going for you.

The next day.

Or the next week.

Does it matter?

Work. Home. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

That is a short summary of your life as of the past near decade since you graduated high school and have been working at the pet store. It's not much, but you make do. There is the noticeable absence of a social aspect in your routine...

nothing new there, though.

You do not hate your life, but there is not much to love. It flashes by, but it is also stagnant. And it is lonely.

You peer into a tank, sighing when you see a dead one. The black of the comet goldfish's eyes stare inanimately at you. Its brethren clear the way as you scoop it out, then bag it, throwing it into the dumpster in the back of the store.

Goldfish do not have a three-second memory, as the myth suggests, but retain memory for up to three months. Its brothers could be mourning it in its death, for all you know.

Sometimes, you daydream about the ocean. Seahorses come to mind. Being one in a pair of mates. Having a partner for life. It's a heartwarming thought, but you imagine that the ocean is one hell of a scary place for a pair of frail seahorses.

You can't have it both ways. Tank or ocean.

So, then, maybe instead of a seahorse, what you are is a remora in need of a shark. Feeding on its bacteria and dead skin, you'd be set to roam the big blue, accompanied and safe. Survival by way of symbiosis. A sad existence, though, to need a creature so much more than they need you.

Scratch that. Tanks are safe. Not the ones here, but a good owner would take care of their fish.

The PA system squeals with feedback as it's turned on.

Associate to aquatics for tank five cleanup. Associate to aquatics for tank five cleanup.

You sigh. More dead goldfish.

You're stocking shelves in the avian aisle when a customer softly calls out to you. Finches and parakeets chirp in the background, rowdy in their cages.

"Excuse me, miss?" he says, approaching you, his steps audible and heavy.

You turn around and almost drop the bag of birdseed you're holding.

Hazel-green eyes and a sinful scruff. Middle-aged or so.

The man is handsome. More handsome than anyone you've ever laid eyes on in the store. Maybe even in the small world you live in between here and your apartment and the bus ride to the grocery store. You've never seen him before, but you get the feeling that you recognize him from somewhere.

"Let me help with that," he offers, taking the bag from your hands and placing it on the bottommost shelf beside you where it belongs. He shifts his weight to his left foot when he stands to full height again, a flicker of pain sweeping over his features.

"Thank you, sir. You didn't have to—"

"It's not a problem. Mind helping me with something in return?"

You nod, clasping your hands in front of you. "How can I be of assistance?"

The man holds up a dog collar from his cargo pocket.

"I'm adopting a dog soon. Want to make sure that I'm gettin' the right size."

"Oh, well, all our collars are adjustable and should be able to fit any size dog. May I?" You hold your hand out palm up so he can pass it to you, but he shakes his head.

"This one isn't. I think I got the right one, but I'd just like to check."

You're not sure where he got the collar. You look at it more closely and are stumped when, yes, it's a slip-on. Non-adjustable. It tightens when the leash is pulled, a corrective action, and is loose-fitting otherwise when the dog is compliant. There must be a new supply of them that was put up that you were unaware of.

He clears his throat and clarifies, "could you try it on?"

"Try it on?" you repeat, stunned. "Uh, that's..."

Your eyes widen slightly when you catch sight of your boss standing a few feet behind the man, nodding his head and giving you two thumbs up, as if he had heard the conversation and were encouraging you to... try on the collar.

The customer experience is our number one priority.

You gulp. Why does this make you nervous? Just get it over with.

"Sure. Anything to help."

The man releases the tension in his shoulders, relieved that you agreed. "Thank you, miss. You're a lifesaver." He stands closer to you, raising his hands up to your head to collar you.

You duck down a bit to make it easier for him, looking at the gray vinyl floor. You think of your dream, your body breaking and bending and twisting from a force beyond your control.

The dog he's planning on adopting must be a larger breed, because though you would consider yourself to have an average-sized head, it does in fact fit.

It sits, weighty yet comfortably, around your neck. You instinctively touch the cool, metal sliding ring resting at the hollow of your throat with your fingers.

"Beautiful," he says.

You're starved enough for attention that you pretend he's saying it to you and not to the fit of the collar itself.

He winks cheekily. "I think this'll fit my girl nicely."

He's adopting a female dog, then.

"Will that be all?"

"Yeah, I'm ready to check out."

You go to remove the collar yourself, your fingertips brushing the polyester material of the climbing rope, but he interrupts you.

"Here, I got it."

His fingers, thick, you note, graze the sides of your neck when he removes the collar. You smile shyly at him once it's no longer around your neck, your faces a bit too close to be polite.

You follow him to the register to ring him up, making idle conversation, "the weather's been nice lately, hasn't it?" "It sure has. I hope you take advantage of it, miss," and hand him his receipt, and then he's gone.

That was not the strangest thing you've experienced in this store, but it was strange.

You double-check the aisle with the collars, rubbing your fingertip along the circumference of the metal ring of the exact one the man had purchased. You don't know why you felt the need to confirm that they were here.

What attracted you to this position out of high school was that it had decent benefits, decent pay, and it was one bus ride away from your parents' home and then, when you moved out, walking distance to your apartment.

What's keeping you here now, though, you're not too sure. You planned to go to the community college at some point when you had saved up enough money to study something, but that never came to pass. You got trapped in the comfort zone.

A little too late now to regret not having done more for yourself, so you try not to. There's still time if you were to somehow get the courage to change your life.

The bell rings as a couple strolls in. You recognize them as two kids, now adults the same age as you, who went to your high school. It's been years since you've come across anyone from then, and you had almost convinced yourself you were the last of your class in Pittsburgh.

They don't recognize you when you ring up their cat food. A few cans of the wet variety.

It's better they don't. You don't have the fondest memories of your high school years.

"You two are a cute couple," you say, bagging the cans. Not for any reason besides to make some small talk.

Engage with the customers. Communicate. Connect. That's what separates us from them.

"Thanks! We just got engaged," she says, holding her left hand out, a giant, gleaming rock on her wedding finger. "Are you in a relationship?"

"Me?" you ask, almost appalled. "No, I haven't had the, uh, best of luck in the dating department."

She beams. "There's this speed dating event happening soon. I'm one of the organizers. You should consider signing up."

She hands you a flier from her purse, and you skim through the details before folding it up into squares, placing it in your pocket, knowing you'll likely find it in the washing machine later, torn to shreds.

"Thanks. I'll think about it." You pass her the receipt and bag of cat food. "Have a great rest of your day, you two."

Your boss, Mark, tends to hover. And in his hovering, he tends to overhear.

You're eating lunch in the break room with Katy, a woman who's long in the tooth and has a mean bite. She tolerates you, though. You're not sure what that says about you as a person, but you won't shoo away company.

Mark takes a seat beside you in what was an empty chair, and Katy stands up, her chair screeching as it's pushed back. She doesn't like Mark, so her lunch is as good as over.

He stares holes into her retreating back before turning his attention to you. "I happened to overhear that customer inviting you to a speed dating shindig. Are you going?"

You shrug, twirling your soggy noodles over and over again in the cup. "Um. I dunno. I haven't thought about it, to be honest."

"You have to go. How many years have you been working here, and you're still single?"

You're taken aback. "Why does that matter?"

He shoves his phone in your face, a selfie of him and his wife lounging on the deck of a beach bungalow, sick in love.

You remember when Mark went away on his honeymoon last year. You were temporarily assigned manager. It was one of the worst weeks of your life.

"You have to take chances. Put yourself out there. I swore off the apps, but I gave it one more chance, and look. I got married."

You don't know on the dot when you two got close enough for him to speak to you like this. But you are his longest-lasting employee and younger than the rest, so maybe he feels paternal toward you.

You do see him more than your actual father now that you think about it.

You sigh, yielding. "I guess it wouldn't hurt to check it out."

What do you have to lose? The event is Friday, and you're not scheduled to work. You can dip out the moment your anxiety spikes too high.

Mark claps a hand over your shoulder. "Excellent!"

He leaves you alone in the break room, and soon enough you can hear him getting into it with Katy.

Looking down into your cup, you frown. Your noodles are not only soggy but have now turned a ghoulish gray. You wouldn't feed this to your pet.

An elderly man brings in his sick cat, thinking that the pet store is an animal hospital. He's dizzy with worry and scarcely gets his words across. You feel bad for the pair of them and look up directions to the nearest clinic.

The cat, cradled in the arms of its owner like a baby, then pukes all over the front of your shirt and on the floor, some splashing onto the toes of your sneakers. Mark takes over, directing the man two streets down to a veterinary clinic, and you excuse yourself to clean up, using the paper towels in the employee restroom to fruitlessly wipe away the stains on your shirt. Of course you don't have spare clothes in your locker. You smell like cat puke the rest of the day.

One day, you're going to quit this place.

Mark and Katy get into a spat about pricing inaccuracies.

"I only label the prices. I don't set the prices. Don't pin this on me, Mark."

"But you're supposed to check that it matches the one in the POS before you stick them on the merchandise!"

And when you try to break up what is looking to become a fistfight, Katy accidentally slaps you across the face.

"Look at what you fuckin' made me do! Are you okay, hun?"

You're going to quit this place.

Today nothing bad happens. You clock in, and you clock out. But all through your shift, you have this crushing, despairing feeling in your chest because you know you're never going to quit this place.

Tomorrow is the speed dating event. As you think about what you're going to wear while mopping the floor along an aisle, a pair of boots comes into view.

The same ones he had on last time. You look up, and there he is, the man who collared you.

"Hey, there. Remember me?"

How could you forget? That interaction didn't leave your mind for days afterward. Every time you passed by the shelf with those collars, you thought of him.

"Of course. Is everything alright?"

You don't see too many repeat customers. Customers in general, quite frankly. Big box stores and online shopping and pet subscription boxes are forcing stores like these to close. It can be a ghost town at times. The dirt and dust tracked in from the outside are more imaginary than real.

You almost want it to happen—the store closing. Then you'd be forced to move on. You're not so lucky, though.

He rubs the nape of his neck. "I need to return the collar I bought."

You peer out past the endcap and look to the cash registers crowded in the middle of the store, a few aisles down.

Empty.

"Someone should be manning the registers. So sorry about that."

You set the mop and bucket to the side, the wooden handle leaning against a shelf with a wide array of cat and dog treats, and place down a wet floor sign.

He shakes his head. "I'm in no rush."

You lead the way to the registers and process his return, typing codes into the computer. You ask, curious, "is there a reason why you're returning this? Something wrong with it?"

He mulls over his answer. "No, it's not that."

You glance at him, quirking a brow. The cash drawer pops open, and you hand him his cash back, his fingertips skimming yours.

"The adoption fell through," he explains, shrugging. "Have no use for it now."

You wonder what made the adoption go sideways. Was it a behavioral issue, or was it simply a matter of personality? "Sorry it didn't work out. But I'm sure there's a dog out there waiting for you to be their owner."

He huffs a laugh. "You might be right."

You're home, immobile on the couch, when you should be on the bus that goes downtown. There's another one arriving in twenty minutes.

You showered and put on some makeup, but if you don't get dressed now, you're going to be late. And if you're late, you'd rather not go because then you'd be giving a bad impression.

Is anything good going to come out of this, though? Speed dating, as far as you know, is hit or miss. And you're like a magnet for misfortune.

Your phone vibrates in your lap. A text from Mark.

I want to hear all about your dates tomorrow!

You groan. You should've switched your schedule around to have tomorrow off of work.

Though you drag your feet, you get off the couch and get dressed. At the very least, you can tell him you went and showed your face. You make it to the bus stop just in the nick of time and are the last to board.

It rained earlier, and the inside of the bus smells like the aftermath of getting caught in it. Except worse. Like a damp dog instead of damp human skin intermingled with petrichor. You hope it doesn't rub off on you.

The speed dating is held at a small party venue. You feel out of place among the other women, who are dressed in nicer clothing and have bigger, prettier smiles. Your dress is itchy, and your heels pinch your toes. Already, you're regretting this.

You arrived a little too late to get yourself a drink at the cash bar to untangle your knotted nerves. You get signed in and are given a nametag, then are seated at a table by one of the volunteers. You're told to wait.

"We'll be bringing out the other half of the participants soon. Your first date will be here shortly."

The other half being the men, you suppose. The flier said this was a straight speed dating event. Currently only women are seated at the tables.

They must be waiting around in one of the connected rooms. After a few minutes, a set of double doors on the far end of the room open, and a diverse group of men file in. Skinny, heavyset, short, tall, black, white, and everything in between. All in their twenties to fifties. All handsome.

Last to enter is someone you least expect. It's as if he can tell you're watching him, because his eyes cut to yours instantly.

The man from the store heads straight toward you and sits across from you. The man isn't just "the man" anymore, though. His name is Jack, according to the name tag stickied onto his polo shirt. It's funny. How he has known your name from the moment you met, pinned to your work shirt right above your breast, but only now are you learning his.

"This is unexpected," he says, chuckling in a low, deep voice. "Looking for love too, huh."

In this slant of light, much more vibrant than the dull fluorescent in the pet store, his eyes look wolfish, almost. Angled at the inner and outer corners. An almond shape. The outer iris is a dark, forest green with flecks of amber splashed around it. The full, gray head of hair on his head and white, scruffy beard round out the animalistic look.

His shirt fits him like a glove, the bulge of his biceps glaring and distracting. The topmost buttons are popped open, and you sneak a peek at the skin of his chest, flushed pink. A little white fur there, too.

You snort, a heat rising to your cheeks. Your heart is hammering. Meeting him here has to mean something. Doesn't it?

You allow your delusions to take root, your confidence seemingly growing and blossoming from nowhere.

"Maybe I've found it already," you tease. "What are the odds we'd meet again here?"

The corner of his lip ticks up. "Don't get ahead of yourself. Let's see how well you can hold a conversation."

Each couple has ten minutes together before an alarm rings and the men are shuffled to the next table. 

Two minutes, everyone! Start wrapping up your conversations!

You've managed to hold yourself above water for eight of them. Jack is easy to talk to, though, so you give him most of the credit.

You're amazed he doesn't just up and leave.

On top of his looks, after learning he's an emergency physician over at PTMC and a decorated combat medic veteran, "medically discharged on account of my leg being blown off. It's okay. You can laugh about it. I do," you think your chances with him are even lower than where they're buried six feet under.

"Do you have any pets?" he asks. "Maybe take advantage of an employee discount?"

You huff a laugh. "There's no discount, unfortunately. But no, my apartment doesn't allow pets."

He hums. "One of the nice things about owning a house."

You nod. And a whole lot nicer to live in than your shoddy apartment, you're sure.

"So, um..." you start, floundering.

Time is running out. You should make the most of the minute and thirty seconds you have left with him, but you don't know what else to say.

He picks up the slack. "A few more things I want to ask, sweetheart."

The pet name stirs up something in you. Makes you feel like a lovestruck puppy. You try to keep calm. "Go for it."

"What would you consider your biggest strength?" His elbows on the table, he interlocks his fingers, resting his chin on his hands.

You choke on a laugh. He arches a brow.

"Sorry. Just feels like an interview question."

He chuckles, the fine lines around his eyes creasing. Your face lights up because you made him do that. You want to see what he looks like when he smiles big and wide, his canines exposed.

"You can interpret it as one. Isn't that what speed dating basically is?"

"Good point." You chew on a fingernail. "Maybe loyalty? I've been at Animal Kingdom for almost ten years and have no intention of quitting." It's not loyalty as much as it is you chickening out of handing in your two-week notice time and time again. You hold back a grimace. "And, you know, if we were to be in a relationship, I'd be loyal to you, too. But that goes without saying."

"Loyalty," Jack repeats, mumbling to himself. "And your biggest weakness?"

"That's… harder to answer," because I have so many, all equally detrimental, you don't say. "I tend to daydream a lot? Get lost in my head," you decide on. "It's a thing at work. My coworkers tease me about it. It's not really been an issue, though."

He shakes his head. "That's not a weakness. I find that endearing. The world needs more dreamers like you."

The alarm sounds out, almost shocking you out of your chair. Time is up.

He watches you for a moment, glued to his chair when he should be moving to the next table.

"Why don't we get out of here?" he asks. "You said you rode the bus, right? I can drive us back to mine."

Your brows shoot up to your hairline. "What, really? Don't you want to talk to the other women?" You gesture around the room.

"I don't need to. I found you, and I'm taking you home, if you'll allow me." He stands, offering his hand to you, and adds, "my perfect match."

Jack brings you back to his house. A one-story rancher with a sleek, gray shingled roof and a manicured lawn. You wonder with his schedule if he does the upkeep himself or pays someone to do it.

During your date, he told you that on the weekends, or his version of them, anyway, he used to volunteer for TEMS as a SWAT physician. He has healthier hobbies now, though. "Got shot one too many times." But with how long his shifts run at the hospital, it's a miracle he has free time at all.

You shut the passenger door of his truck and follow behind him as you walk up the stone path. He unlocks the front door and gestures for you to enter.

As you remove your heels in the doorway, you take in the view of his house. The walls are professionally painted, and the floor is waxed. Open concept with ample room for him to navigate in his wheelchair. The couch is made of natural fabric and is gorgeous, especially compared to the tattered one you have back at home. The coffee table is bare, save for several open and scattered medical journals with their pages dog-eared.

On the minimalist side. Not a photo is hung up in sight, like all he has space for are the bare necessities. A home absent of traces of anyone but him. It seems he's been on his own for a long time.

"Come on," he says, leading you gently by the elbow and nodding his head at the couch. "Sit. Let's talk a little more. You want somethin' to drink?"

"Water, please."

Your glass of water is left untouched.

Conversation is a pretense for what Jack wants to do with you. Part of which involves capturing your lips with his and slipping his tongue into your mouth. Running papillae over the white of your teeth.

When was the last time you kissed someone?

He doesn't let go of you when he guides you toward his bedroom, clumsily walking backward in the hallway, his arms wrapped around your waist and his lips on yours, not giving you a chance to catch your breath.

"Ever been with an amputee?" he asks, parting from you, humor in his voice.

You fill your lungs, chest rising and falling fast. You're so out of practice it's embarrassing. "I can't say that I have," you admit. "But it doesn't bother me at all."

"Good."

You make it to his bedroom, and he gently guides you to sit back on his bed. It dips as he plops down beside you. He lifts his right pant leg and, with a stifled groan, works the socket loose and removes his prosthesis, along with his socks and liner, and massages his residual limb, rough hands rubbing down swollen tissue.

His wheelchair sits by the bedside as well as a pair of forearm crutches that lean against the nightstand.

"I've been on my feet for too long today. Usually take it off as soon as I get home." He tuts. "Skin is irritated as all hell."

"Is there anything I can do?" you ask sincerely.

He smiles wryly, a combination of hurt and relief on his face. "You can come 'ere."

He draws you in with an arm around the waist for another kiss, his other hand cupping the back of your neck. His lips feel warm on yours. Rough from being slightly chapped, too. He bites your lower lip, and you feel those canines you wanted to see in a smile earlier. Hard. You gasp into his mouth.

"Sorry, sweetie. Just got a little excited," he mumbles. The skin of your lip punctures, splits open, and is raw. His teeth are sharper than you would've expected from a red-blooded man. He swipes his tongue over your throbbing lip. "Forgive me?"

You can smell the blood like a bloodhound. You nod. You don't mind the pain.

"Is it okay if we take things further?" he asks, resting his forehead against yours.

"You want to?" Though you feel a bit stupid for asking. What else would he have brought you back for?

"Course. Unless you don't. We can stop here, and you can stay the night, sleep in my guestroom. Don't want you going home at this hour."

"Jack, I'm flattered, but... why me?"

"Why not you?"

You stumble over your words. "I—I dunno. I just. You didn't even give those other women a chance." You shrug. "It's just hard to believe ten minutes was enough to decide you wanted me."

He pats your thigh, giving it a little squeeze. "I think you're special. This was meant to be. Maybe you don't see it, but I do."

You look down at your lap, unsure. He tilts your chin up with his thumb and forefinger.

"Look at me. Don't get lost in your head. Just try to enjoy this. I'll make it easy," he says, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

You whisper "okay," wrapping your fingers around the thick of his wrist.

You trust him. Maybe too implicitly.

A tiny drop of blood wells up from your lower lip. He swipes it away with his thumb and brings his thumb to his mouth, streaking red across his lips before kissing you again.

You haven't had the most sexual partners. But of all the ones you've slept with, this time with Jack proves to be the most... white-hot and passionate.

You were more than happy to accommodate any position he was comfortable with. You offered to be on top, but he wanted to "see what you look like panting under me."

A pillow is placed under your hips to give you a bit of lift, which puts less pressure on his knees as they support his lower half, his body draped over yours. His forearms are braced by the sides of your head, and he leans down to capture your lips in a heated kiss.

His thrusts are punishing. You can barely reach far enough into your mind to pause to ask if his stump is causing him discomfort, let alone string together words. He seems fine, though. Or more so focused on your pleasure than on his pain.

Then again, he's been fucking like this for as long as he's had his amputation, and that was some time ago—years of experience under his belt during which you were in high school. The thought spreads more heat to your belly.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer to you. Sweat sticking you together, a drop trailing down the valley of your breasts. His pelvic bone grinds into your sensitive, swollen clit, fat with arousal, insistent with every rock of his hips.

When Jack had undressed and you got sight of his cock, flushed an angry red, you couldn't contain your moan.

He asked, honestly, "see what you do to me?" while stroking himself to full mast. "How can you think I don't want you? Just need some cock to set you straight."

You whimper into his mouth as his cockhead punches far inside of you. Your nails scratch down his back, leaving welts in their wake.

He parts from your lips, breathing out against your ear. "Gonna let me come inside this pretty cunt? Give me a litter?"

You whine, nodding, crystalline tears falling freely down the sides of your face to your ears when the head of his cock hits your cervix. You're distantly aware that you're on birth control, but that doesn't come to the front of your mind when you tell him, "yes, come inside me, Jack."

And he does. His come spits out of his cockhead and sprays your inner walls, flooding your cunt. Your inner muscles work his length, work as much of his come into your womb as they can.

Once your heart rates have settled, Jack rolls over and carefully scoots himself onto his wheelchair by the bedside.

"I'll be back. Need to wash up my leg."

You sit up, covering your chest with the comforter. "Would you like any help?"

He shakes his head. "Don't worry about me—you should rest."

"I'm not worried. I'm offering because I want to."

Your straightforwardness surprises you both.

He smirks, chuckling softly. "Alright, then."

He bends forward at the waist to collect his boxers from the floor, shuffling into them, and then tosses you his t-shirt to wear.

You throw him a toothy grin as you put it on and follow him into the ensuite, willfully ignoring the come slowly leaking out between your wobbly legs.

You slide the glass shower door and help him from his wheelchair onto the shower bench, one of his hands clasped in yours, his other around a grab bar.

You reach for the detachable showerhead and open the tap, check that the temperature is a comfortable warm, and then hand it to him. You sit on the edge of the tub as he proceeds to lather his stump with antibacterial soap, rinse, lather, and rinse again.

He watches you watch him, a glint in his eye. "You're a good girl, aren't you."

"What—what do you mean?"

"Watching and learning my routine, I can't help but think this is you preparing for the future."

"The future? Isn't that a bit presumptuous?"

"No, because I'm hoping this isn't going to be just a one-night stand. I want to take you out. On a real date." He reaches for a towel on the nearby rack to dry off his residual limb, now clean. "One turns into two, two into three, and the rest will be history. You'll let me wine and dine you, right?"

You scoff, though mirthfully, not quite believing what you're hearing.

"So?" he urges. "Don't leave a man hanging."

You shake your head, laughing. "I'd love to go out on a date with you, Jack."

"So, what happened with the adoption?" you ask. It's not been bothering you not knowing, per se, but the question has been bouncing around in your head, and your curiosity has gotten the better of you. "Like, was the dog misbehaving or something?"

He beats around the bush. "We just, uh, didn't see eye-to-eye."

"Explain that statement."

He rubs his palm down your back, kneading tense muscles. "She was more… high-energy than I was prepared for. I don't think she would've been happy with me. It's not good to force a dog into a home."

That feeds your curiosity, though you can't come up with a worthwhile response. You yawn and cuddle up to his side, dropping the subject. His thick fingers manipulate your body with ease, loosening hard muscle that connects to tendon that connects to bone. Sleep takes you.

He prepares you both a light breakfast before he leaves for his double shift. He lets you spend the better half of the morning here, asking that you lock up before taking the Uber he ordered for you home, which will get you back in time to get ready for your midday shift at the pet store.

He kisses you on the cheek goodbye. You capitalize on the moment and steal the shower for yourself. You use his products. They smell like him. Woody sandalwood and vetiver and something inherently masculine. In the bedroom, you get changed into a pair of boxers, a plain t-shirt, and some sweats he left behind for you, your underwear conveniently missing and your dress rumpled from last night.

Your Uber is arriving soon.

You make sure you have your phone and purse before you leave. On the ride home, you have a stupid smile on your face.

The text reads, when are you free for our first date?

You start seeing each other casually.

Matinee movie showings to bottomless mimosas (and manmosas) at brunch. It offends him when you pull out your wallet, so he pays for everything.

Normally one-night stands are just that, but somehow you have beaten the odds.

He picks you up for coffee, and afterward, you both decide to take a stroll in a park a little drive away, which has a number of benches throughout in case his leg aches.

You've been here before when you were but a child. There's a pond in the near distance that serves as the marker for the halfway point for the trail. You rush ahead of him to get to it.

All you hear is the gust of the wind blowing past your ears as you run, excitement bubbling up within you like you're that child again.

Then, he whistles. Loud and piercing; enough to make you stop in your tracks. Birds caw as they fly from the surrounding trees.

You're such an idiot. It's an unconscious thing but a behavior you'll need to correct: leaving him behind because he can't walk or run as fast as you can. On account of the prosthesis and, well, his age.

You turn back around and jog to make up the distance between you.

"I'm sorry, Jack. I wasn't thinking." You offer your hand. "So I don't run away again."

He grunts, interlocking your fingers. "Careful, or I might have to put you on a leash next time."

A farmer's market on a Sunday. You stop at a stall to sample the pierogis, rich and warm, the scent of buttermilk and clean dough lingering like the press of a kiss on your forehead—a cozy, nostalgic kind of scent.

You're a messy eater, you. You get sour cream all over your chin, lips, and fingers and lap the tang clean. He watches the pink tip of your tongue coat itself in white as if hypnotized. Dips his finger into the dollop of sour cream on his own plate and brings it to your lips. You laugh, but then suck the tip of his finger into your mouth, humming around the sun-warmed salt of his skin and sour-fresh goodness.

He pulls his finger out of your mouth with a pop and dips it into the sour cream again. Offers it to you again.

"Lick it this time," he orders. "Slowly."

A blur around you; the stall and the market are too busy for anyone to notice or care that you're licking cream off his finger like a kitten with a bowl of fresh milk. You are in your own world.

He invites you over for dinner on one of his nights off. After some back-and-forth, you wear him down enough that he relents and lets you help him prepare it. Next to the pot, on the kitchen counter, is a film packet of De Cecco spaghetti. On a baking sheet lined with parchment paper, two halves of a loaf of fresh Italian bread with garlic butter spread on top.

You excuse yourself to the restroom while he watches the garlic bread bake and the spaghetti boil, standing in the kitchen on his forearm crutches.

At the dining table, you recreate the iconic Lady and the Tramp spaghetti scene, as cheesy as it is. When your lips meet, it's a little gross: the grease of meaty tomato sauce coating lips, pieces of pasta trapped between teeth, saliva dribbling down your chin when he kisses you like he's trying to swallow you whole.

He chuckles when you pull apart. "You look a mess," he teases. He wipes the lower half of your face with a paper towel.

You can't remember the last time you were this happy. Jack tells you the same.

A half turn of the season since you've started dating. He offers you a key to his house.

You're a bit worried about how fast your relationship is progressing and refuse it, but you're over so often that he says, "might as well," and presses it into your palm.

"Thank you for trusting me." It's not as if he's asking you to move in. Still, you don't take advantage of it. It's left dangling on your keyring, untouched.

That is, until you decide to treat him after a miserable week of work. He should be coming back from his shift in the next ten minutes or so. You spent the morning preparing a feast of all his favorite breakfast foods.

As you dry the last of the dishes with a towel, you hear the jangling of keys and the front door opening. Jack is home.

He calls out your name, sensing your presence, and you smile as you walk up to him.

"I knew it was you," he says, the corners of his lips curling up. His nose scrunches up as he inhales the salty smell of bacon. He looks to the dining table, whereupon lie heaps upon heaps of food. "Sweetheart, did you make us breakfast? For the week?"

You nod, giggling and stealing his backpack from where it's slung over his shoulder and hooking it onto the rack. "I did. And I did it after finally using the key you gave me."

With a hand to the back of your neck, he brings you closer, planting a kiss on the tip of your nose, dusty with pancake mix.

"I love coming home to you."

Your pupils dilate and your heart leaps.

If you had one (dreams don't count), your tail would be wagging.

Man has a total of two hundred and six bones in the body. Canines have approximately three hundred and twenty-one. Yours crack, splinter, pierce internal organs as they fragment to make up for that one hundred and fifteen number difference. In the first few minutes, you feel nothing. You just hear the snap, crackle of collagen yielding to the force of the transformation.

Then, devastating pain. It is the worst pain you have ever felt. And in the liminal space between wakefulness and sleepiness, you can register it all along your body.

You wake up breathless, swiftly scanning your torso and upper and lower extremities under the covers.

Human.

You turn to Jack. He is fast asleep, puffing out soft breaths. You sneak out to the kitchen to get a glass of water, chugging it down to calm yourself.

You return to bed and, after some tossing and turning, fall back asleep, picking up where the dream left off. The pain is gone. You're something dog-like again. Your owner comes into view.

They have a material quality to them now. Not shapeless and indeterminate like they were before; the shape of a man. But like a mannequin in shadow, he has no discernable features.

He pets your head and tells you it's going to be alright. You roll over, show your belly to him. He is proud.

In the morning, you wake with a yawn and a stretch, feeling much better than when you had woken up in the middle of the night.

Jack is looking down at you, resting his head on his hand, his elbow propped on his pillow. He pets your head, swipes his thumb across your sleep-glossed cheek.

"G'morning. Sleep well?"

Lunch at work is spent not with a ramen cup but with finger foods and cake.

Mark is throwing Katy a retirement party.

Though she's been here just shy of five years, she's old enough now to receive benefits and has decided, "I'm fuckin' done with this shit."

Mark was over the moon when she came to him with the news, and he hired someone right away to replace her.

Animal Kingdom is small, one of the smaller branches in the small food chain of stores. There's a total of ten employees, and the others are a mix of full- and part-timers.

Everyone is here today for the party, though. Except the new kid who's watching over the store in the meantime. You feel a bit silly wearing the dog ears headband you were handed at the breakroom door, but the others have them on, and you don't want to be a spoilsport.

You wish Jack were here. And at the same time, you don't. This place has its way of sinking its teeth into you. And he has better things to do than be your shoulder to lean on at a work party that you'd rather clean out litter boxes than be at.

As people gather around Katy as she says a few parting words, "good fucking luck, the lot of yinz," you're tapped on the shoulder.

You turn around, your eyes widening.

"Jack? What are you doing here?"

He regards your dog ears with mild curiosity before his eyes drop to yours. "I thought I'd stop by and bring you lunch. Young man at the register led me back here. Is this a party?"

You pull him by the wrist to the corner of the room before anyone can spot him. "Yeah, one of us is retiring." You look down at the lunch bag by his side. "What'd you get?"

"A sandwich and chips from that place you like."

You hold up your plate of half-eaten pigs in a blanket, sticks of carrots, and sheet cake. "You should've told me you were dropping in. I would've saved my appetite."

He shrugs. "It's fine. You can eat it later. I really just came here to see you. I missed you."

You flash a smile. "I missed you, too."

He jerks his chin toward the group exchanging war stories. "Do you have to stay?"

"I mean, it's either this or I go back to work."

"How about a third thing?"

He encloses your wrist in his hand and leads you out of the room. None of your coworkers notice, too wrapped up in Katy's commemoration.

"Is there a storage closet or somethin'?" he asks, looking up and down the hallway.

You giggle. "Seriously, Jack? Here? I could get fired."

"Would that be so bad? You could just stay home with me," he says nonchalantly. "In fact, why don't you quit? You know I'll take care of you."

"I can't just quit. This job is all I have besides you."

You're joking. But not really. But Jack, he is joking. Or at least you tell yourself that. But he doesn't really seem to be joking, either.

"Uh-huh. Well, tell me where we can get some privacy, and you won't get fired."

You point to a room a few doors down from the break room, walking toward it. You hand him your plate and fumble with your set of work keys, singling out the one to the storage closet. The door opens, and he ushers you inside, locking it behind him.

The plate and the sandwich get set on a shelf among some cleaning supplies. Immediately, Jack is pushing you back against the wall, untucking your work shirt from your slacks, which he then unzips to pull your underwear down around your mid-thigh.

"Fuck, Jack, slow down," you whisper. "We have time. The party won't be over for another, like, fifteen minutes."

"'m sorry. Just want you," he mumbles before pressing his lips to yours.

He frees himself from his jeans and boxers and pumps himself to hardness. You can hear the slick motion of his fist moving up and down his shaft. You clench your thighs, your cunt sticky-wet.

He secures a hand on your hip, and with the other, rubs his cockhead through your folds, gathering your slick to line himself up and sink into your cunt. Once he's to the hilt inside you, his hand goes to cradle the curve of your jaw, his fingers making contact with the temple pieces of your headband.

"Fuckin' love seeing you wear this. So cute. My puppy," he emphasizes with a sharp thrust of his hips. The ears flap with your movement.

His words simultaneously make your stomach turn and a heat spread across your cheeks.

"You like it? I thought it was silly," you half giggle, half moan against his lips.

His hand reappears on your hip to join the other, his fingers bruising your flesh in a tight squeeze as he all but spears you onto his cock. The wall at your back prevents any escape. Your hands grip his shoulders, fingernails digging in, barely contained moans tumbling past your lips.

"Why don't you be a good girl and give me a little bark, huh?"

It's not lost on you how bizarre this is. The headband is bad enough, but Jack's request is a little too on the nose. What was an ambiguous, happy, and horrifying dream is bleeding full tilt into reality.

The dreams have not stopped and, in fact, have persisted since meeting him. Have become a closer mimic of reality, however uncanny.

And yet, you do it anyway. You indulge him with a pathetic bark.

"Ruff!"

He throbs inside of you, picking up the speed of his thrusts. His pubic bone bullies your clit, and you clench down on him, an orgasm pulled out of you embarrassingly fast.

"Fuck. That's it. That's my good puppy. Come on your daddy's cock."

He slaps a hand over your mouth to keep you quiet as you keen, your eyes squeezing shut and your legs shaking like jelly as he fucks you through the tail end of your release.

He spills inside of you, and after, he asks you to "get on your knees, puppy. Wanna gag you on my cock."

When you return to the break room after seeing Jack out of the store, the salt of him lingering on your tongue, the party is over.

"Where have you been?" Mark asks, transferring the leftover sheet cake to the fridge. "You know what? Never mind. Can you take over for the new guy? He let someone walk out with an aquarium."

"Turn around. I wanna see you," he says.

Facing him, the spray hits your back and shoulders. Warm, soapy water cascades down into a swirl at your feet.

Jack is just in front of you, sitting on his shower bench, lathering shampoo onto his head of curly hair. By his side is the detachable showerhead, the flow of water reduced to a trickle. He presses the button, the flow returns in full force, and he rinses his hair.

"You're so pretty, puppy," he says, voice throaty with lust.

After the tryst in the supply closet, the pet name stuck.

His eyes scour your body, and instinctively you cross your arms over your chest and cross your legs, despite him having seen your naked body more times than you can count.

He pats the empty space next to him, setting down the showerhead. "C'mere."

You sit beside him, mumbling, "this is such a waste of water."

He chuckles. "Forget the water. You're right where you belong."

He pulls you closer so you're half seated in his lap and cups one of your breasts, slippery with soap, squeezing the curve of it until the fat plumps up in his hand. He leans down to suck a bruise onto the side of your neck as he thumbs your nipple.

You whimper, your spine tingling, your sore cunt clenching down on nothing. It seems no matter how many times he makes you come, no matter how many times he fucks your cunt full, you can never get enough of him.

Just before this, he took you from behind, his body weight like an anvil on your back, your neck trapped in the crook of his arm. Yet it was tranquilizing, as if you had been slipped something; you were too high off his body heat and the drag of his cock along your walls to know fear.

With one word, one snap of his fingers, one puppy-dog-eyed look, you come crawling. And when he's away during the day, your brain is so wired to him that even the scent he leaves behind on his pillow makes you salivate, your clit throb.

He stops the attack on your neck and angles his head lower to lick along your collarbone, but you pull him by the scruff of his neck before he can get carried away.

You level him with a serious look. "Please don't take what I'm going to say the wrong way, but I feel like... I feel like I'm getting Pavlov'd by you. Calling me 'puppy' doesn't help matters."

He stares at you, unblinking. Like he's stuck processing what you just said. Then he laughs. You laugh, too.

A ridiculous notion after saying it out loud. No, if anything, what you feel for him is closer to love than a response to classical conditioning.

Still, maybe it's easier to swallow, to say you're no better than a dog, than to admit such big, human feelings.

"What are you trying to say?" he asks.

The words fall from your lips before you can stop them. "I think I like you too much. Is what I'm trying to say. It's not a bad thing. It's just. You make me a little crazy. Is all."

He laughs again, his chest spasming against your back. You fight the urge to press your thumb into the tip of his canine to test how much pressure you need to apply before it bleeds.

"If we're pouring our hearts out... I also think I like you too much."

He says it so sincerely your heart nearly beats out of your chest.

After a second, he adds, "I can stop calling you puppy. Just tell me what you want," he murmurs, nosing your pulse point, fingers gripping your thighs to pull them apart.

He thickens beneath you, the head of his cock poking your ass cheek.

"No, I think—" You break on a moan when his fingers run along the seam of your cunt, splitting you in two. You can hear how wet you are with every upward and downward motion, even over the running shower water, and your face feels like it's on fire. "I think it's growing on me."

"Good," he rasps, teasing the rim of your hole before breaching it with the tips of his fingers, stretching you open. "Let's get out of the shower. I want to eat puppy's cunt."

You are at his house more than you are at your apartment. Before his shift tonight, he fucks you nearly into an early sleep.

Puppy, puppy, puppy—

It rolls off his tongue so often you're not fazed by it anymore.

He ruts into you from behind as you lie on your side, cocooned by his strong arms and thick thighs. His chin hooked over your shoulder, he pants heavily onto the side of your neck, licking stripes up along delicate skin, and then the stabbing of possessive, sharp teeth breaks skin, ensnaring you, like he's a dog with a bone afraid to lose the one good thing he has.

Daddy, daddy, daddy—

He comes inside you and lazily grinds his hips against your ass, plugging you up.

Daddy and his puppy. Daddy and his puppy.

After, he sits by the bedside in his wheelchair as you're curled up under the covers, thumbing the apple of your cheek. You worked a closing shift last night and an opening shift this morning. You're bone-tired.

"Catch up on some sleep, puppy. I'll be back to wake you up in the morning. You're off tomorrow, right?"

You nod, murmuring something nonsensical. He presses a light kiss to your hairline, and then he's wheeling out of the bedroom to the ensuite to take a shower.

On the cusp of unconsciousness, you hear him return and rifle through the drawers for his scrubs, roll his liner and socks onto his stump to attach his prosthesis, and return his wheelchair to its spot. A routine so familiar to you, your ears are sensitive to the slightest deviation in it.

It's odd. He's moving slower than usual this morning. By now he would be in the kitchen putting on a pot of coffee and tuning in to the evening news. lagging behind not on account of his prosthesis but as if he were delaying getting to work.

You're already asleep before you hear him shut the front door.

When you stir, you feel something wrapped around your neck.

You impulsively scratch at it with one hand, panic chipping away at the corners of sleep clouding your mind, and with the other, push the covers back to get up to check the mirror in the ensuite.

Why does it feel like...

You stop dead, your eyes popping open, wide awake, once you see what it is that is encircling your neck.

You gingerly press your fingers to the black choker collar, the word "pup" written in cursive across the front of the titanium heart-shaped lock dangling in the center of it.

You must be dreaming still.

You pinch yourself, rapidly blinking at your reflection.

No, you're not asleep. This is life.

A million questions pop up in your head at once:

Did Jack put this on while you were asleep? How did you not wake up? How did you sleep through the night with it on? Why the fuck did he collar you? Again?

With shaky hands, you reach your fingers to your nape, checking for a buckle or clip. You feel bile rising up your throat when you don't, though you guessed as much.

The keyhole on the heart isn't just for aesthetic purposes. You need the key to unlock the pendant and take off the collar, which you suspect Jack has somewhere on his person. The leather band is thick, and unless you want to risk nicking your carotid artery using one of his kitchen knives to cut yourself out of it, you're left with no option but to wait for his return.

Pieces of the puzzle suddenly fit into place in your mind but bring with them more questions.

The collar he had you try on at the store. Was that so he knew what size to get you to fit into this one? But that would mean he had planned to pursue you before that encounter, wouldn't it? The adoption. Was that a lie fabricated to talk to you or a genuine truth that preceded this turn of events? You don't know for sure. His fascination with calling you his "puppy." At least that seems cut and dry.

The implication is becoming clear. All this time, Jack has been waiting for what he thought might be the right time to collar you and make you his.

He didn't bother asking permission to do it. He didn't have to. In his mind, you had already given it.

This is too much. You are disgusted by his violation of your body. And yet, you feel as though you should be more disgusted than you are.

The line is blurring. You ask yourself again, is this a dream or a nightmare?

You grip the sink and take a deep breath, your mind made up, your heart not so much. You've never picked a lock before, but it shouldn't be too hard to learn. At home. You hastily gather what of your things you have sitting around the house into one of Jack's old army bags and order a rideshare back to your apartment.

Just your luck, though, that as you're about to run out the door, he walks through it.

He eyes the duffel bag in your grip and the choker collar around your neck.

"Sweetheart," he drawls, hands held out in front of him, careful to approach, like any sudden movement of his and you'll bolt. "I can explain."

You shake your head. "Let me go, Jack. Why don't you give me the key and—and let me go. Please. This... this isn't working anymore."

He steps closer. "I thought you would be open to it. We've been dancing around this for a while now. Got it custom made for you and everything."

"You can't just collar me while I'm asleep and not expect me to freak out!" you shout.

The skin of your neck itches. Sweat creeps up along your nape. You grip the heart-shaped pendant, pulling it side to side, rubbing your skin raw as the collar rotates.

"Let's talk about this, alright? I wasn't planning for—you woke up earlier than I thought you would." He curses to himself. "I should've been here."

You scoff. "Like it fucking matters whether you were here or not. You don't... you don't do this without discussing it first! Please, just give me the key. Now."

You stare each other down for a few more seconds before he drops his hands by his sides and sighs, digging one into his scrub pocket. He flashes the key and then tosses it to you.

"I wish you'd hear me out, but I won't force you to stay." Below his breath, just within earshot, he mumbles, "I thought you were the one."

You don't respond. Instead, you pocket the key and shoulder past him to rush out the door. A far enough distance away from his house, on the walk down the street where your ride awaits, you sling the duffel bag over your shoulder and fight with the lock to take off the collar.

You feel like you can breathe again once you hear a click. You unhook the shackle of the lock from the loop, and the collar comes loose. You're tempted to throw the collar, lock, and key into one of the neighbor's trash bins, but for some inexplicable reason, you don't.

As you hop into the backseat, tears roll down your face.

Jack was the one good thing you had.

He doesn't reach out to you, and perhaps that's a good thing.

But despite doing what you thought was right in leaving, it hurts that he let you go in the first place. But it doesn't hurt as much as it should because you see him every day. At least you think you do.

On the walk to the pet store, you see a head of curly hair in your periphery, a bit of natural copper clawing through the silver.

At work, you catch a figure passing by the storefront window out of the corner of your eye, too quick for you to be sure it was him. But how else do you explain the sudden swivel of your head if not pure instinct?

On your day off, while at the grocery store picking up ingredients for the week, you stumble into the arms of a man after being pushed by the cart of a rambunctious kid recklessly steering it for his parents. He catches you by the waist, asking, "are you okay?"

You nod absently, turning your head to the apologetic-looking kid behind you. When you face the man again, he's already disappeared, the heat of his hands on your waist gone with him. Only then do you register that his voice sounded familiar.

That same evening, you look out the window of your bedroom. The shrubs bordering the sidewalk shake, and you watch as a man-shaped shadow stretches out along the pavement, growing in size as he walks away from the street light.

You're either seeing what you want to see, or Jack is keeping tabs on you. You're inclined to think the former, but pitiably, you wouldn't be too put off by the latter. Though you tell yourself you're done with him, inwardly you feel conflicted because it's possible you overreacted.

He was right, after all. You two had been circling around a specific dynamic, for lack of a better term. And instead of catching your tail, you tucked it out of his house.

Prophetic, almost, what with the dreams you've been having to enter into a relationship with him. But the way he went about collaring you frightened you, as it would anyone. This fallout could've been avoided had he just communicated his desires better.

Since leaving his house that day, your dreams haven't felt much like nightmares. When you wake, all you remember is the latter part of the dream. Head scratches and belly rubs and endless, endless praise.

What truly is there left to be afraid of, you wonder.

The mold spreading out on the ceiling is the tipping point.

It is fascinating, though, despite it being a nuisance. How little it needs to subsist on to stay alive. How it branches out to seek more decaying organic matter to feed its belly, voracious.

The unit upstairs reportedly left the water in the kitchen sink running overnight, clogging the compromised, fragile plumbing system that runs through your apartment building and causing it to leak into your bedroom ceiling.

When you turned in for the night, there was nothing but an off-white popcorn ceiling. And like magic, when you woke, there was nothing but diseased black and green tucked between all of its bumps and ridges.

For the sake of covering his ass and not for the sake of your health, your landlord is asking that you spend a few nights elsewhere. The mold remediators won't be able to come in for another week.

It's been just over a couple of weeks since you broke things off with Jack and a little less than that since you stopped seeing him in every corner.

You are tempted to call him, but call your father instead. Your childhood home isn't too far from here. You haven't spoken to him in months now, but this is an emergency. You can't afford a hotel.

I'd love to have you, but now's not a good time. You should be able to figure something out. Why don't you crash at a coworker's? You're still working at the pet store, aren't you?

You hang up. It'll be another few months before you call him again, if that.

Another night sleeping under the mold won't kill you, you suppose. But you'll have to figure out something soon.

You fall asleep. You dream. You are already transformed.

Your owner appears, and he—

He went through a transformation, too.

Back when the dreams started, he was incomprehensible—an enigmatic entity that was felt more than seen. Then he was the shape of a man, a mere silhouette. Now he is just man.

He has hair on his head and eyes and a nose and lips. Freckled and sun-spotted skin. Two arms and two legs, one of which is a prosthetic leg.

But maybe he was always this way. You just couldn't see him for who he was. How could you have. You hadn't met Jack yet.

He says something you don't understand, but you know he's disappointed in you; his voice is lower pitched, drenched in resignation.

Bad dog. 

You wake up feeling nauseous and have a rotten taste in your mouth.

The mold smells. The mold is alive and breathing and healthy, and it smells. The mold is affecting your dreams.

The mold is why you reach for your phone on the nightstand and call him.

He picks up, and immediately you start.

Can I stay over for a few days? I have fucking mold on my ceiling, and it's making me sick, and I don't have anywhere else to turn.

The line is silent for a few seconds. Then, do you want me to pick you up?

Yes. If it's not a bother.

I'll be outside in thirty.

Both of you are silent in his truck; he steals glances at you at every red light, but you look straight ahead.

Out the window, from the corner of your eye, you see a man walking his dog, which stops at a red fire hydrant so it can take a leak.

As soon as you walk through the front door of his house, you say, "we need to talk."

He nods and gestures to the couch.

You throw your (his) duffel bag stuffed with a week's worth of clothes onto the floor by your feet as you sink into the cushion.

"Do you want to start, or should I?" he asks, settling in beside you, not too close, but not too far, either.

"You can start." You wring your hands. "I'm still figuring out what I'm going to say."

"You sure?"

You nod.

Alright. About what I did—"

"You could've asked me," you blurt out. His maw snaps shut. "You could've asked me what I thought about wearing a collar. About incorporating kink into our relationship. Instead, you forced it on me while I was asleep like a creep."

His shoulders sag. He looks so tired. Lifeless, almost.

He must have been hurting as much as you were in your absence, doubly so because of the guilt you can clearly see reflected in his eyes.

A stab of pain washes over you.

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I should've talked to you about it first. It was shortsighted of me not to."

A dry laugh. "It was. I would've heard you out."

He sighs. "It's not an excuse, but a small part of me thought you might run if I had brought anything up." His hand hovers over yours, but after a moment's hesitation, he sets it back on top of his knee. "I fucked up. We were still new and fragile, and I should've waited until we had that discussion. But as soon as I had the collar in my hand…" he trails off. "I was overeager. An old, overeager creep, as you put it."

"I didn't say old," you murmur.

"If all you want is a place to stay, then please, stay. Take the guest room. I won't bother you while you're here." He pauses, his stare burning a hole through you. "But I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss you every fuckin' day."

You're the one reaching your hand to his this time, as calloused, familiar, and warm as you remember.

"I—I missed you, too, Jack. Maybe I should've let you explain your side of the story before storming off, but I was… overwhelmed."

He shakes his head. "No, I get it. I don't blame you for it. It was my fault."

You angle your body more toward his, your knees brushing. "Look. I'm willing to pick back up where we left off. Even… try some things, if you catch my drift—as long as we're on the same page at all times."

He raises his brows, a small smile pulling at his lips. "Yeah? You're sure?"

"Part of why I'm here is because I have no other place to go… but I've also had time to think. I want to do this with you. I guess the mold was the push I needed to clear the air. We'll start slow?"

He brushes his thumb over the pulse point of your wrist. Your pulse ticks.

"Whatever you want."

With that, you gently pull your hand away from his to rifle through your duffel bag, retrieving the collar and giving it back to him.

You reattached the heart lock, though you lost track of the key's whereabouts.

He stares at it blankly for a moment, turning it around in his hands like it holds some world-shattering secret, before meeting your eyes again.

"You kept it?" he asks.

"I couldn't get myself to throw it away," you admit.

"But what do I with it? It was supposed to be for you."

"I dunno. Save it as a memento? It's pretty, but it's not really my style. And I'd like to pick my own."

"Pick your own," he parrots, stupefied.

"If and when I'm ready for one, yes."

You take off work for the week using the last bit of vacation time you have. He does the same (though he has a lot more time to burn than you do).

"I'm not lettin' this week go to waste," he says. "Gotta lot of catching up to do."

That first night, you sleep in the same bed like no time has passed, cradled in his arms, his broad chest rising and falling against your back, soft breaths puffed out along the sensitive shell of your ear.

At sunrise, you feel him hard and insistent, slowly grinding his cock against the curve of your ass, a pathetic wetness pooling between your legs.

"Mornin'," he grunts, anchoring a hand on your hip, drawing you closer into the bulk of him.

"Good morning to you, too," you tease, pressing back against his erection, voice soft with sleep and longing.

Too impatient and with a cunt too empty to take your time, you turn around in his arms and push him onto his back, hovering over him, fumbling to pull his cock out of his boxers.

With some spit and a few strokes of your hand, he's stiff, bobbing up toward the ceiling, pre-come dribbling from his slit.

You peel off your underwear and sink down on him inch by painstaking inch, a pleasurable fullness curling your toes once you're seated on his cock.

You've never felt as complete as you do when he's inside you.

"Take what belongs to you, baby. Fuck, this cunt missed me, didn't she?"

He grabs fistfuls of your ass and bounces you on his cock while thrusting up into you, watching your breasts shake beneath the cotton of your sleep gown, your hard nipples poking through the thin fabric.

"Gonna come, Jack. Oh God—please, please, please—"

"My pretty baby. My pretty baby and her tight, puppy cunt—"

Hearing "puppy" again tightens the coil living in the pit of your stomach, a dormant, hibernating thing if not for Jack. A choked cry, and then you're falling apart, landing on his chest, bawling into the crook of his neck because you have him again.

You do away with slow. You just can't help yourself when it comes to him.

He orders a collar—strictly for play, a removable one—and leash set online. Not custom-made quality like the collar before, but it will suffice.

The material of the collar is black leather with gold-plated metal used for the buckle and the O-ring. The chain of the leash is the same gold-plated metal; the handle is the same black leather.

The set arrives the next day.

Breakfast (and brunch and lunch and dinner) at home because he doesn't want to share you with the world just yet if he can help it, hoarding the sweet, honey-ripe scent of you so no one can get a whiff.

Like a dog caching his prized possession.

And afterward, hands fisting the sheets, face down, ass up, you're a sticky, syrupy mess of sweat and slick.

His hands are like hot stones over the flesh of your hips, deliciously warm, fucking you back onto his cock with every thrust, a pillow placed under his residual limb for maximum comfort, his weight distributed more to his left side to put less stress on his right knee.

You feel him more deeply in this position. Digging through your stomach, clawing up your throat.

He wraps the excess length of the chain around his hand and tugs, forcing an arch to your back, choking you firmly yet tenderly, his grip taut but controlled. You grow lightheaded; it's a difficult thing to breathe around the thick of his cock and the tug of the leash.

Adrenaline pumps through your veins. Your cunt clamps down on him, your hole leaking with nectar.

He loosens his grip on the leash, and your head drops forward onto the mattress. Oxygen enters your bloodstream with every ragged intake of breath.

Your brain feels fuzzy. A warmth settles over you. Your orgasm is indulgent, saccharine, so much so you can taste it: fresh spring air and sifted sugar and milkweed nectar. You're a trembling, twitching thing under Jack, who continues to ram your cunt, chasing his release.

"Who's daddy's good girl, huh? Tell me."

He slaps his hand over the skin of your ass cheek when you don't respond.

Your tongue thick in your mouth, your voice wrecked, but you manage to cry out, "me—I am—I'm your good girl!"

"That's right, puppy."

It starts when the headband makes itself at home on your head. A reminder of the years you spent working with Katy that you brought with you because you knew he'd love seeing you wear it again.

He's thick in his hand, pumping himself as he sits in his wheelchair, cockhead leaking and swollen, a slick glide of his fist along his shaft, wet with pre-come and a copious amount of your saliva.

Kneeling by his feet, your tank top is pushed up over your breasts, your nipples stiffened into little peaks. The chain of the leash dangles between you, clink, clink, as he grips the handle.

You suck on the tip of his cock as you massage his heavy balls with one hand, the other gripping the armrest on his chair. A frothy, milky mess coats the base of his cock, dripping down to his balls and soaking your fingers.

"Sit back," he grunts, his voice a thick rasp.

You obey. Your hands rest in your lap, fingers itching to touch him again.

He continues to stroke his cock with one hand. He stares at your breasts, the saliva dripping down your chin, your glassy eyes, your furry little ears, the collar around your throat. "Fuck, puppy." He spills into his hand, a strangled groan passing between his lips, come sticking to his fingers. He scoops as much of his seed as he can, reaching his fingers to your lips.

"Lick me clean."

And you obey.

The sticky salt of him coats your tongue as you wipe his fingers clean, sucking them into your mouth from pointer to pinkie. He pets your tongue, pressing his fingers into the pink meat of it, and then shoves them as far down your throat as he can until you're a blubbering, choking wreck.

"That's my good girl," he praises. "How about I feed you daddy's come in a dog bowl next time? Would you like that?"

The white of your eyes goes bright, and you nod.

He pulls his fingers out of your mouth, wiping the spit on your heated cheek. "I can't hear you, puppy."

"Ruff! Yes, daddy."

After a scene, there is a comedown.

You bathe together in the bathtub, bubbles floating in the water, foamy, thick, and dreamlike, seated between his legs, your head resting on his chest, your fingers tracing the lines on his palm, reading what offshoots led him to you. To this.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot," he says, his chest rumbling when you adjust yourself in his lap, the hand you're not occupied with, resting on the soft curve of your belly, possessive and protective, squeezing in warning.

"Were you really adopting a dog? When you first told me about it in the store, I mean."

He shakes his head. "No. That was just an excuse to talk to you. And…" He hesitates for a second, and you crane your neck to meet his eyes. "And get a measurement for the collar I had planned for you."

You huff a laugh. He's such a freak.

What does that make you?

"Okay, I thought that might be the case. And when you came back to return it?"

"Another excuse to talk to you," he says, smirking.

"So, then, what about the speed date?"

"That was a happy coincidence. A work buddy of mine forced me to go because he said my loneliness was depressing him. I couldn't get out of it. It took one minute for me to know I had made the right choice in chasing you. The rest of the date was just a bonus."

You sit with that for a moment.

"Where did you first catch wind of me?"

"Take a guess," he says.

"PTMC?"

You last went when a coworker got bit by a dog someone had brought in for grooming and were the one to drive them (in their car) to the emergency room. They ended up quitting, and grooming services were discontinued.

He hums in affirmation. "I was passing by as one of the interns stitched up the dog bite on the patient's forearm. You were there on the other side of them, holding their hand. You caught my attention. Somehow I knew you were who I've been looking for all my life."

"Huh. I guess I was too distracted to notice you," you muse. "But you… you sensed something in me."

"You could say I sniffed you out. Part of me was impressed by how calm you were. It was a nasty bite, but you didn't flinch."

You shrug. "I wasn't the one who got bit, though. I'd have more than flinched if it were me. But dogs bite. That's what they do if they're nervous or scared. It's not fair to blame them for following their nature. All I could do was try to be there for my coworker."

He holds you tighter to his chest, the heat of his palm searing your water-slick, slippery skin. "But you're a good puppy," he whispers in your ear, teasing. "You wouldn't ever bite me, right? Give me a reason to muzzle you?"

You giggle. "I could. Dogs also bite out of love, you know."

"Or possessiveness," he grunts.

He sinks his teeth into the side of your neck, as if proving his point.

What he likes, you like, and vice versa. You feed off each other. One continuous feedback loop of codependency tying you together.

He can't keep his hands off you.

Father-like, in the way that he takes care of you after unmaking you like no father should. Whispers of praise after "taking my cock like a good girl." Epsom salt baths he runs for you and your sore muscles after stretching your body like a rubber band. Feeding you at the dining table because you're still a messy eater and "daddy's messy, messy girl." Like some owners feel their pets are, to them, their children.

Though, at times, it feels like he is the feral mutt.

In his wheelchair parked right at the edge of the bed, he eats you out as you lie on your back, your legs thrown over his shoulders, ankles digging into the wide expanse of his back.

His fingers dimple the fat of your thighs, bruising them in his firm grip. His tongue laps your folds, swirls around your swollen clit; his teeth nip at the delicate, divine crease of skin that separates inner thigh from cunt, half man, half beast. You yank the hair on his head; to push or pull him away, you don't know, but regardless, he doesn't separate from you until you're crying against the flat of his tongue.

He likes you best naked, or as close to it as possible, your body accessible to him at all times.

"This cunt is mine," he growls when he splits you in half with his cock. "No one else's."

His, his, his, his, his.

He likes when you crawl to him naked on all fours, collared, your asshole stuffed with the fluffy tail plug he ordered along with the collar and leash set, the chain of the leash dragging along the wooden floor behind you.

He twists the bulb of it around inside you, pulling a mewl from your lips.

"Such a dirty pup, letting me play with your asshole like this, huh? Maybe I stuff her with my cock next time."

He likes watching you piss yourself on his boot outside in the backyard like the filthy pup you are, a sobbing, hot-cheeked, and humiliated, inconsolable mess after a full day of being plied with water, letting go in just your panties and a little T-shirt that is translucent and clings to you after he jerked off and pissed on your chest. Animals being animals.

You like pleasing him. You like being the sole proprietor of his attention. You like being his.

He whistles as soon as he gets through the door. He left for a few hours, though you begged him not to.

"You're supposed to be on vacation, Jack. You're supposed to be shacked up with me."

"They called me in for an all hands on deck. I have to go, pup. I'm so sorry. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Wearing just one of his oversized T-shirts, you come crawling and stop a few feet from where he stands in the foyer, hooking his backpack up on the rack.

He whistles; you crawl.

"There she is, my good girl," he greets. "I thought about you all day today."

You giggle. "Oh, did you, now?"

"Yeah," he grunts. "And that pretty cunt of yours."

He has a smirk on his face, but a flash of something hurting crosses over his handsome features, and you notice.

You cock your head, your brows furrowing, and drop the act. "Jack. Do you want a massage?"

He sighs, holding his hand out to help you up from the floor to lead you to the bedroom.

"You always know just what I need, sweetheart."

He perches himself on the edge of the bed, and you kneel by his feet, looking up at him with a compassionate smile, lifting the pant of his scrubs to release the locking mechanism on his prosthesis and shrug it off his residual limb.

You step away for a second to retrieve the prosthetic ointment in the ensuite so you can lather it on his skin.

Massaging his limb for him, hearing his groans of "pup" and "that's a good girl," steepling fingers into sore muscle, rubbing prosthetic ointment on his residual limb, on the scar of his suture line, his hand on your nape to tether himself to you, you know this is where you are meant to be.

Your landlord says the mold has been removed, and you can return to your apartment unit.

The past week felt like a fever dream. Skin-to-skin throughout most of it all. Waking up with the sun and falling asleep under the moon together. There's no part of you that Jack hasn't claimed.

But all good things must come to an end. You both will return to business as usual. Though, fundamentally, things have changed.

You're with Jack. And he won't be letting you go. Mold or not, you won't be seeing your bedroom ceiling again except to say goodbye.

On your first day back at the pet store, you're tasked with overseeing the adoption event that has been planned for a few months. A big playpen in the middle of the store near the cash registers, where puppies of various breeds chase each other's tails and nap under the sticky heat of a pet store with the rooftop HVAC unit shorted out.

Perhaps it's the swelter stalling the cogs where your rationality functions, but one puppy in particular stares at you like a baby or a child would when it's processing new information, and it seems to follow you around with its eyes as you circle the playpen to help customers fill out their adoption applications.

There must be something about your face it finds interesting. Or maybe it sees the invisible but common thread between you, as if it knows what you and Jack get up to in your free time.

Laughable how your mind plays tricks on you, but you're a touch unsettled regardless. It's too much, isn't it? Working at the pet store. Walking through the door to a man that calls you "puppy." The dreams.

You hope all of them get adopted today. They deserve good homes.

Yours is with him.

It seems like Jack will be getting his wish, after all.

"I quit."

Mark looks up at you from a stack of paper over the rim of his glasses. 

"You quit," he repeats, dropping the paper and interlocking his fingers on the desk. "On the spot, or are you giving me notice?"

Your throat bobs.

Mark has been a good boss to you, but it's high time you get out of here, preferably before you hit a decade spent in this time sink. 

"On the spot."

He clicks his tongue.

"I can't say I expected this, if I'm being honest. Especially since we lost Katy not too long ago. But I'm happy for you, truly. The question is how quickly can I find a replacement…" he mumbles.

"You're happy for me?"

"Of course. I think you're a bright young lady. The world is your oyster, and I believe you can do whatever it is you want in this life."

Your brows shoot up. "Oh, wow. That's… that's very kind of you to say, Mark."

He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "So, what are your big plans?"

Trade one leash for another.

You can't tell him that, though.

"Well, remember the speed date I told you about? Um, I've actually been seeing the same guy for a while now, and, uh, I dunno. I dunno what's in store for me. But he'll be there to help me figure it out." 

Mark smiles. "Good for you. Aren't you glad I pushed you to go to that thing? Don't say I never did anything for you."

The dreams have stopped. It doesn't matter why, but you speculate it's because you quit your job and moved in with Jack. There is no reason for a prophecy to mask itself as a dream anymore if it has been fulfilled.

Your dreams are as boring and mundane as they can get nowadays, but at least when you wake, you have him.

Late in the summer, in the Spanish villa he rented out with a view of the sparkling sea just outside the balcony doors; the position you first had sex in all those months ago, except the backs of your knees are hooked over his broad, freckled shoulders.

Over the past two weeks you have done nothing but tan half naked under the sun, sipping on tinto de veranos by the beach with Jack by your side, his standard prosthesis switched out for his waterproof one.

One of your hands held in his, his other around the handle of his cane padded with a sand tip, he strolled with you along the shoreline, gawking at you as you wore the little bikini he then ripped off you later, biting into the sun-kissed skin of your ass and breasts and tracing tan lines with his tongue.

Now, though, he bears down on you, and he fucks your cunt mean, a bit viciously, an arm wrapped under your waist, his other hand gripping the side of your neck, forehead to sticky forehead, your collar glinting against the sunlight streaming in through the window.

He went alone to the local square to get bocadillos for dinner: crusty, fresh bread smeared with tomato pulp and drizzled in olive oil, stuffed with jamón serrano and Manchego cheese.

"I know you're up to something, baby. But fine, I'll indulge you. If I come back to you touching yourself like the horny pup I know you are, we're going to have a problem."

When he returned, you were in bed, naked, and in your hands was the day collar you chose and bought for yourself a few weeks prior—paid for with his money, because you're his pup, his responsibility, his baby—as well as the key and screw that went along with it.

You were waiting until the last day of your vacation, a vacation he couldn't be pulled in to work from, for him to put it on you.

A subtler choice than the one he initially picked for you, a dainty, thin chain laced with diamonds that stops just above your collarbone. No one will bat an eye at it unless they look close and see that the only way to remove it is with a hex key the size of a toothpick.

He dropped the sandwiches on the floor and didn't bother taking off his prosthesis, too emotional about collaring you, about having your trust to wear this symbol of his love and his ownership around your neck at all times. With trembling hands, he fastened the ends of the chain around your neck, tightening the screw with the hex key, and then pressed a kiss to your nape.

You've been wearing the play collar for so long it's become something of a comfort to you. You started to miss the feeling of it around your neck when you were done with a scene and went to bed in his arms.

But now, you have this.

You angle your head down to bite his neck so hard ripe blood pours into your mouth, so hard he groans, his chest rumbling, his thrusts stuttering. Along with the iron of the blood, you taste the meat of him: sun-screened, Spanish sun-shined, and sweat-slicked.

"Fuck, puppy. That's—that's a bad fuckin' girl. This is the thanks I get?" But you know he likes when you mark him. "Maybe what you need is a time-out. Put you in a cage." But you know his threats are empty.

He's a sucker for you. If you were to be thrown in a cage, he'd throw himself right in there with you.

You smile wide at him, your teeth stained red. "I love you, Jack. You can't blame a dog for telling you that in the only way she knows how."

He bites you, too, on your collarbone, on the stretch of skin right below your chain, though a lot more delicately because "I fuckin' love you. My baby, my puppy."

You tremble like a leaf in his arms when you come, and he spills inside you not long after, a trail of your combined release leaking down the cleft of your ass, your legs scrumptiously sore after being folded in half and fucked through the mattress.

Your love for each other, a sick kind of dependency, obligate mutualism. One species can't survive without the other. You need him, and he needs you.

He's man and beast and yours all at once.

And you're his baby pup.

You're his.