⭑.ᐟ THE THING THAT I CAN’T IGNORE ── Michael ‘Robby’ Robinavitch
summary: there’s a betting pool happening at work to figure out the root of the chief attending’s newfound happiness even if it’s a no-strings attached situation that’s causing it. (wc: 4.5k)
pairing: michael robinavitch / f!reader
content: fluff/humour. secret relationship trope. age-gap relationship/friend w benefits. resident!reader (with inaccuracies of how residency works.) insecure!robby but he hides it well ft jealous!robby—i’m trying to show off some of his whimsy. medical inaccuracies errrywhere. 18+ brief mentions of sex.
Robby is watching you from Trauma One.
His sweetest kept secret.
For some reason, you have managed to bypass the seven-week itch and Robby thinks it’s down to being younger than him by a margin; meaning you often ran circles around him.
From his obstructed view, he can occasionally capture you stretching above the line of the monitor like a docile cat. Before you reduce yourself to a bad posture again, Robby notices that soft fatigue that glazes over your watery eyes when you yawn. A sleepy look that—since the big shift in your non-labelled situation—he can recognise.
Because you’ve started staying the night.
Dr. Mohan is leading a hilar flip when he asks her, “You got this?” in which she gives him a strained smile alongside a curt nod; the tension still taught between them.
He backs out of Trauma One and takes a leisurely stroll up behind you. You’ve dozed off somewhere in between him habitually sanitizing his hands and pulling a singular latex glove from a box nearby. He spares you a moment, so he can read the long waiting list of patients allocated to rooms across the department.
Snap!
You jolt awake from the feeling of thin rubber striking the back of your neck. You peel your eyes open to see Robby bending at the waist to look at you warmly.
“Hello,” he says sweetly, his smile reaching his eyes, “Good sleep?”
“I’ve had better,” you grumble and rub at your eyes, “I was just catching up on my long overdue notes like you asked me to do.”
Robby hums, “It looked like it too,” he chirps sarcastically and takes a deep inhale as he speaks again, “Save the charting for later. I’ve got a patient with GERD that has your name written all over it. Easy case to wake up to.”
You emphasise your lack of enthusiasm as you stand, “You just told me to catch up on my charting.” it comes out as a whine.
“Yes, I did. Then you started dozing off at the workstation, so now, I’m telling you to follow me so we can get this patient discharged and free up a bed,” Robby lilts as you catch up with his pace, his eyes on every corner of the PTMC.
“If I have to redo my third-year of residency because of your indecisiveness on where to put me, Dr. Robby, I will be filing a report against you,” you grumble in discontent.
Robby huffs a laugh. “Ho-ho. I’ll be sure to send you flowers.”
“No you won’t.”
“No, I won’t. Not for that anyway.” Robby advises you casually, he spares you a glance over his shoulder with a crooked smile on his face, “Because you won’t have to redo your third-year.”
The easy banter between the two of you makes your stomach burn with giddiness.
You liked how things were going with Robby. Under the radar, no strings attached. Though, somehow, you both seemed to be getting a little tangled in your…well, entanglement.
It was proving to be difficult to not have the boundaries blend into a real thing with all the bells and whistles of emotional feelings attached. The initial intentions were simply just for sexual pleasure—and then you started getting pleasure by just co-existing.
It was messy. But it was your kind of messy.
McKay catches up to you, bumping your shoulder with hers, “How’s it going? I haven’t seen you all morning.”
“About to give a patient a shot of Mylanta for his GERD,” you respond quietly, “Dr. Robby caught me sleeping.”
“Yikes.” she cringes, “Well, he’ll keep you right.”
He has been for the better half of the year, in more ways than you know. Is how you want to respond to Cassie’s innocent statement. You settle for the latter of a hopeful smile and shrug of your shoulders.
The three of you come to a slow halt in front of the patient bay Robby had selected for you off of the board.
You peer into the window of the room.
A bucket of ice cold water dumps over you.
“I can’t take this case on,” you blurt in a panic, which in turn has Robby and McKay’s head cock to the side, because what do you mean you’re rejecting a case as a R3. You shake your head, “No, seriously. It sounds stupid, but I matched with that guy on Tinder, and…it didn’t end on good terms.”
It was true. The male sitting upright on the gurney, in a hospital gown one size too big for him, was currently under the status of blocked on your phone.
Things had been going well within the app at the time, you matched, connected over menial interests and then took the conversation to text message. You must’ve missed the lesson in life that made the translation of app messaging to text messaging the equivalent to a hard launch into a relationship with a guy you had never met face-to-face.
Because—and what a story to weave into a one truth and two lies game it had come to be—whilst you were elbow deep in a wide array of traumas that wheeled through the doors of the PTMC, this guy had left exactly 54 text messages, 32 missed calls and 1 beautifully arranged voicemail that poetically told you that you fumbled the catch of the century.
(Fish were slippery for a reason, right?)
Even with the slight malicious tone blurred between his words, you still kept the voicemail; because it was deeply comforting to play to your co-worker Dennis Whitaker at 4PM after his patient had just coded.
McKay dips her head to speak lowly to you. “You mean he’s the guy?”
“What…guy?” Robby’s question is lost to the wind when you squeal out confirmation to McKay that the patient was in fact, the guy.
He watches the exchange between you and McKay like a third party stuck behind a noise cancelling window. Somewhere amongst the back and forth with hints of worry and mild amusement, Robby starts to feel left out from the bigger picture.
Tinder. Voicemail. Blocked, is all he took away from this. So…he frowns and crosses his arms across his chest.
“Wow. In the flesh…I’ll swap you for Central 8,” McKay barters, “Utensil through the nose.”
“Can someone tell me what’s going on here?” Robby cuts through with his hands up, “You have history with this guy?” he thumbs to the door of South 15.
You nod, “Not so much a history, more a brief encounter that’s funny to talk about over drinks.”
“Yeah. Well, we—” he gestures between you “—aren’t having drinks.” Robby supposes there’s some sort of streak of jealousy going on in his voice, “Can you catch me up to speed? This guy needs a shot.”
You launch into a shortened version of the story of how this man came to gain such a notoriety that extended all the way into the pit of the PTMC and used for comedy relief after patient coding. Robby, for all intents and purposes, is trying his best to keep a neutral, maybe slightly concerned facial expression as you gesticulate through a brief recap of how you and this guy came to be.
It’s poorly timed the way the envy flares in his chest. He cranes his neck to take a look at the patient again, brows in a pinch because seriously? You had been setting up a potential, future relationship with that?
Then you casually drop into the conversation that the male had informed you that someone like you, served no purpose for a man with such a catalogue of aptitudes. (He works in finance.)
And Michael Robinavitch doesn’t like that.
“So, that’s your type?” Robby physically cannot help himself. It’s like he’s purposely being conspicuous.
You hesitate in surprise, “Obviously not? I don’t really have a type, per se.” (You do. He’s staring right at you.) “I mean, this was all before…”
“Before?” Robby goads, shifting from one foot to the other, he sinks his hands into his fleece pockets, pulling at the lint gathered there as the words get stuck in your throat. “Alright. I’ll take the case. In the meantime, you can go back to catching up on your notes. I’ll come find you afterwards.”
“Dr. Robby, I’m happy to swap cases with her—”
“I’ve got it.” Robby cuts McKay off with a curt nod and polite smile—something she isn’t buying.
McKay surrenders, but not without flitting her eyes between the pair of you. If there was anyone that could read signs a mile off, Cassie McKay was the woman for that.
Thankfully, she doesn’t press on the matter as she breaks away from the group.
“Discreet, Dr. Robby,” you murmur.
Robby pulls a face that is ridiculously handsome and borderline cocky, “I’ve got this. Charting. Go.”
Robby finds you at a different workstation much later on. More awake, a few more cases under your belt, but still wearing a notable level of bleariness. He provided the shot of Mylanta to your ‘what could’ve been’ and spent half of his time between other patients, rendering to the insecurities of the probability that he was the oldest male you have ever been with.
He mulls over his words until he finds a way to express this to you.
“So…Tinder?”
“Nope.” you look up at him, “Offloaded the app.”
“Hm.” Robby nods with a frown and then decides to put some feelers out there, “Do…you think I have a predisposition to geriatric behaviours?”
Your fingers halt on the keyboard. The patient notes on the monitor are forgone for an easier distraction. The expression of perplexity is hard to squash when your brows pinch at the question that has seemingly been plucked from the thin air of the PTMC.
Robby stands at full height over the central workstation. Brown eyes shimmering beneath the clinical lighting, there was an ease in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before and the look of innocent curiosity blended nicely amongst his weathered features.
His long fingers tap idly at the surface top.
You hesitate, and then point a finger to your chest, “Are you asking me?”
“Well—” Robby exhales through his nose as he leans against the workstation, his forehead creasing as he peers over the rim of his glasses at you. “—I’d like to think you could give me some biassed insight.”
He tosses a lopsided smile in your direction, and you harness some restraint to ensure that from an outsiders perspective that this was an ordinary conversation between the Chief Attending and a third year resident. When you poke your tongue into the flesh of your cheek to prevent a broad smile spreading across your features, that is when Robby mirrors the amusement filled to the brim in your eyes.
Workplace relationships came with hardships.
It was becoming evident that having a loosely labelled ‘relationship’ with Michael Robinavitch, the long-time bachelor of the PTMC, was a whole different ballgame altogether.
It was a long-standing commitment, the act of secret keeping that is. An oath to keep things under wraps, whilst also balancing the navigation on what to do when the leak eventually becomes noticeable—all whilst surviving a twelve hour shift on a protein bar and a prayer. It meant that you were met with hurdles like: how morally grey is it really to sleep with your boss, who could also provide you with a gleaming recommendation at the end of your residency?
The answer fell somewhere in the ‘power imbalances’ category in the tedious employee handbook.
(Luckily for you, you only skimmed the surface on the hierarchical structures chapter.)
It also meant that Robby would often approach you throughout the day with a bucketful of insecurities to unload in a feeble attempt to salvage the dignity that he lost on the way. Unfortunately—he thinks, for you anyway—his keen interest to receive intermittent reassurance from you that the gap in your ages was justifiable, through the form of abnormal questions that dogpiled onto your already stressful day; was his way of seeing the world through your eyes.
It was sort of…pendatically romantic.
You begin to type your notes again, “Did Javadi school you again?”
“No…” Robby frowns at the thought, “Just extending some morbid curiosity.” he leans one arm against the workstation and scans the rooms closest within his vicinity. “And, you can put an end to my suffering right about now—”
“You act your age.”
Robby slowly edges his attention to you.
“Act my age?”
You let out an airy laugh, “That’s a good thing. It means you didn’t peak in your formative years. Or the years following that.”
“Huh.” Robby clicks his tongue as he straightens up, shaking a finger in your direction whilst he reads off the board, “Pinning this for later. I did not like the way you worded that.”
“You got it, boss.” you track his movements as he rounds the workstation to depart it.
Robby lets out a cackle from the back of his throat as he leaves, angling his body with his hands up to allow space for Trinity Santos to stroll past him. She occupies the vicinity in his immediate absence, her jaw slack as she stares over her shoulder at the humoured physician disappearing into the south-end of the department.
As she idles up to the workstation, her brunette hair swishes around when she turns her attention to you.
“What did Dr. Goofy want?” she asks plainly.
“Dr. Goofy?” you repeat, unable to prevent your face from cracking with mirth.
Santos shrugs, “Yeah. He’s been…like super chill recently. He seems happier? I don’t know. There’s an underground betting pool going on about the source of Dr. Robby’s joy.”
“Really?” you brighten at the thought, “Have you put money on something?”
“He’s getting laid,” Santos admits, her eyes narrow whilst she looks around, lowering her voice at the same time, “I just…don’t know who. I mean it has to be someone in the PTMC, right? I like to think he’s like a caged animal—the hospital and his apartment are the only two roaming spaces for the guy.”
You hum, locking the computer. “Or he’s going to therapy?” (You knew that wasn’t true. Just throwing Santos off her scent.)
“Yeah,” she scoffs, “Like the rest of us are.”
“True.” you stand and stretch your spine until there’s a soft crack. The clock above ticks just over the next hour, “I’m going to spin round the perimeter and grab a coffee.”
Trinity saddles up into the desk chair you had resided in for the last fifteen minutes and gives you a two-finger salute as you walk away.
There’s a release of breath that escapes you once you turn down the corridor toward the coffee station besides Pedes. The news breaking that Robby’s sudden one-eighty into an optimistic nature following some questionable behaviours for a male edging into his fifties, was being highlighted amongst the gamblers of the Pitt; and that was enough to have your pulse quicken.
It wouldn’t be such a crime to be unearthed by your co-workers. At some point, honesty would be the best policy and you weren’t so sure that the on-call rendezvous would go under the radar for much longer. However, it would feel similar to a humiliation ritual if your situation were to be exposed through sticky notes on the whiteboard in the staff room and a lump sum at the end of it.
When you think about it, you take the mental note to take a leisurely stroll toward the dispatch room to try sneak a glance at the betting pool exclusionary toward one Chief Attending.
The slop of coffee sputters into the white styrofoam cup with you patiently waiting with a yawn to encapsulate the low energy levels from spending the night at Robby’s, that had finally caught up to you mid-shift. You slow blink as the liquid fills to the brim of the cup, adding your preferences to the sorry excuse of a caffeine hit.
You press the lid around the rim until it gives a soft pop.
By some hideous trick of unfortunate timings and coincidental placement, when you bring the steaming hot coffee to your lips, Robby zooms into your periphery and swipes it out of your hand in hurried passing. He plants it at the coffee station as he ushers you with urgency with a hand to your back.
The touch would have sent your stomach swirling—especially if it had been hours since the last—if it weren’t for your open mourning over the loss of caffeine searing your taste buds.
You let out a longing whine, “My coffee.”
“Will be reheated. By me, personally.” he swings the door from North into Central and manoeuvres you toward the South bays. “Right now, we need you in 15 with an AFib cardioversion.”
“We?” you repeat, “Am I the guest of honour for this cardiovert?”
Robby backs into the door of 15 with his hands already slathered in sanitiser. He tilts his chin, exuding healthy amounts of cockiness. “This is a teaching hospital, regardless of a more senior role. Let me teach you,” he croons.
You chew back a snarky remark about Robby getting a new hobby instead of ‘peacocking’ around you for some telepathic praise. Instead, you find yourself opposite Robby as he snaps the latex gloves up to his wrists and observes the patient whilst Mel, beside you, presents the case to him.
The patient is within your age range. Sort of handsome if you thought about it for too long. He looks up at you, his eyes glazed in awe. It was as if the white lighting overhead had created a halo effect around your head and he was witnessing the presence of an angel in real time.
He gives you a lovesick, dopey smile. (You get that a lot.)
Which, considering his circumstances, was a good sign in the grand scheme of things.
“They hire from heaven or somethin’?” his question is met with a blanket of silence. His chest rises and falls at an unsteady pace—part of you wonders if it’s his condition or if it’s down to the fact that he is quite taken with you.
Mel glances between the pair of you as she preps the propofol.
The monitor beeps behind Robby, who silently tilts his head to see how you approach the compliment.
“Oh.” your eyes drift to Robby who scrunches one eye shut, his lips pressing into a thin line as you hesitate. You give an airy chuckle, “Delivered especially for you, Mr…” you look to Mel who mouths the patient’s surname, “King—Quinn.”
Robby glares at you, each wrinkle in his forehead lined with judgement that makes your skin prickle. “Mel, what is the safe window for cardioversion?”
“Uh, twelve hours.”
Brown eyes find you again. “What happens after that?”
“Increased risk of embolic stroke from left atrial blood clot,” you say, eyes following Robby’s direction to the monitor as he encourages you to continue the diagnosis, “…Which he doesn’t have.”
“Good,” he mutters softly. (You give him a warning glance to end the praise there.)
Mr. Quinn is in an immediate state of sedation with a successful cardioversion that sends him into a sinus rhythm that will need a few hours of monitoring. Something you don’t jump at the chance to do to lessen the work load that was quickly piling up on your shoulders.
You exit the room with Robby in tow.
He walks a few paces behind you, head on a swivel whilst he takes a headcount of fresh faced med-students roaming around the department. Once you’re out of earshot from nearby gossips—Princess and Perlah—Robby bends slightly to talk into your ear.
“I think you should give patients similar to your age, a wide-birth.” his tone is playful in its emphasis at the very least.
You tut, “Why encourage patient negligence? I’m clearly a crowd favourite.”
“Tell that to the grey hairs you give me.” Robby pinches your wrist as he takes over you, heading in the direction of Pedes. Presumably to the coffee station, where your abandoned coffee remains—you hope anyway. “Reheated coffee coming right up. I’ll come find you.”
“You seem to be doing that a lot today,” you call back to him. He doesn’t respond.
You decide to double back toward dispatch, to cash in the mental note of placing a bet on the secret betting pool on Robby’s newfound happiness. As always, you find Ahmad standing at the door with his thumbs tucked into his belt loops whilst he scopes his surroundings.
He looks bored. So, you give him something to be excited about.
“Do my ears deceive me, or is there some exclusionary betting pool going on that I wasn’t aware about, Ahmad?” you sing as you approach him.
Ahmad instantly brightens, “Maybe.”
“What have the wagers been so far?”
“$40 on new motorcycle, $20 on a pay rise, another $20 on pussycat.” Ahmad glances at you with a knowing smirk, “Santos submitted that one.”
“Go figure,” you mumble.
“Are you in, doc?”
You nod and reach into your scrub pocket, “Sure, why not. I’ll put…$20 on a mid-life crisis.”
Ahmad smothers his laughter behind his fist. “That’s heartless. Alright. $20 on mid-life crisis.” he takes the bills from your grasp, “You’re lucky he ain’t part of this bet. That recommendation you need after your residency? Dust, if Robby knew.”
“It can be our little secret until then.” you tap at your nose.
“What can?”
The timing of Michael Robinavitch was impeccably vexing. As the eyes and ears of the ED, most of you began to fear that he was presenting evidence of omnipresence. He appears, he soaks up the happenings, and then he dissolves into the chaos.
If you wanted to be the one to water the reasoning down, it would be the fact that Robby was slowly becoming the South Pole magnet to your North Pole magnet and you just happened to create such a forceful magnetic field across the department, that it was near impossible to not drag himself toward you when he got the chance.
He’d just call it grabbing you a well-earned coffee.
You don’t bat an eyelid as you speak.
“That would defeat the purpose of secrets, Dr. Robinavitch.” you take the coffee from his grasp, fingers intentionally overlapping, you don’t flinch when you feel the card that had been conveniently placed on the underside of the cup—your fingers curling to conceal it from Ahmad’s view.
Robby steps back and gives you a subtle nod.
On-call room. Fifteen minutes.
Ahmad holds his hands up in surrender, “I’m out on this one.”
He manoeuvres himself out of the situation with ease, leaving Robby and you exactly where you wanted to be. Out of earshot and each other’s company.
You take a sip of your coffee, kissing your teeth at the bitterness. “You need to be a little more subtle.”
“That…is what the on-call room card is for.”
The next thing you knew, you were slipping into the on-call room five minutes after Robby. He meets you in the middle of the room with a face melting into unfiltered fondness, tugging you in by the crook of your elbow, his fingers featherlight against your arm as he envelops you into a warm embrace.
This was one of the very few places where CCTV couldn’t capture grainy footage of your bond. So, you soak it up when you can.
With your ear against his chest, you can hear the low rumble he lets out from being content where he is. You tilt your chin upward and he’s quick to catch your lips in a chaste kiss—greedily taking a second.
Being deprived of affection all day, you relish in his undivided attention.
Robby is staring deeply into your eyes, swaying you both. He decides to take a leap of faith, “Stay tonight?”
“Two nights in a row?”
“Yes…” Robby grumbles in a warning.
A smile creeps onto your face. “I think this could be a healthier habit for you to adopt. No reason for me to say no.”
Crows-feet prominent, Robby smiles and dips to kiss you again. You pull away and begin to pick at the bobbling on the fleece he wears. He keeps you in the warmth of his arms, tucking his chin to watch you busy yourself.
After a couple of seconds, he brings up a relevant topic of discussion.
“You want to tell me what that was about with Ahmad?” he coos.
You give him an innocent expression, “No idea what you’re talking about. We were just having a discussion.”
“Ah.” Robby draws his brows together, “Nothing to do with the wages being placed against the reasoning behind my…” he takes a deep breath, “upbeat tempo these days?”
“Don’t make a snitch out of me, Robinavitch.” you nudge his chest in disbelief, “How’d you know about it?”
“Well. This is my department. I know the inner workings of the entire ecosystem, sweetheart,” he croons before adding, “Plus, Abbot was ecstatic to be the one to tell me.”
You scoff at the revelation. It just had to be Jack Abbot.
“Are you mad?”
“Oh, I think I’ll survive the outside noise for a little while longer.” Robby traces your cheekbone with the pad of his thumb, in a way that feels less along the lines of no strings attached. “What did you put your money on?”
“Something not relating to your sexual deviance.” you tease and Robby brings his fingers up to tug at your earlobe. You moisten your lips and bare your teeth in a sickly sweet smile to soften the blow, “I put $20 on mid-life crisis.”
Robby’s brows shoot to his hairline, squeezing his eyes shut as he gives his head a wobble to digest your words. There was a conversation that needed to be had somewhere in there; just much, much further down the line.
And outside of the PTMC. To preserve both of your sanities.
You find yourself trailing the palms of your hands down Robby’s forearms—half covered by the rolled up sleeves of his fleece—to soothe his outward reaction of immediate discontent at the accusation you haphazardly flung out.
A fucking mid-life crisis.
“You…give me a headache,” he says earnestly.
“I know. But you like it.” (Correction: he loves it.)
Robby draws back with little time left before your co-workers begin to put two and two together due to the convenient disappearance of you both.
“I suppose I’ll take it on the chin.” he shoots you a playful look, his eyes glinting with mischief, “I put in an anonymous wager in myself two nights ago. Perks of being the last one to leave this fucking place.”
“Oh yeah?” your interest piques.
He reaches for the handle of the door, scratching at the coarseness of his beard with his other hand, “Yeah. I think I have a good shot at winning,” he chirps.
“Okay.” you nod your head in amusement as he walks away from you, “What did you even wage on? New motorcycle?”
The door buzzes open and Robby swings it open with his face filling with mirth. He leaves you in the On-call room with a singular word uttered; sending you into a frozen shock.
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synopsisyou and Trinity decide you've had enough of being the casual booty call, agreeing to play hard to get to prove to your partners you can go without them. easier said then done
warningsmut. oral (f! receiving) fingering, language, pinv, unprotected sex, MDNI. slight praise kink. no use of y/n
authornotethe way in which i need to be driven mad by this man using me is concerning to feminism
main masterlist. other Robby fic
“I don't get it!” said Santos for... well, you had no idea how many times she'd repeated herself but you were considering making it a drinking game. Every time she said she 'didn't understand' you resolved to take a shot. “I thought we were fine, doing great and casual- what- what is casual?”
Whitaker's hand hesitated in the air like they were in class. “Well I think by casual she means-”
“I know what casual means, Fuckle-berry,” said Santos quickly. “But it was casual now it's just weird.”
You nodded along, humming.
She groaned, hands running through her hair in frustration. “I don't get it!”
You took a long gulp of your wine.
“How do you handle it?” Trinity asked, arms wide in question at you.
“Me?”
“Yeah, how do you and Robby do casual?”
“Oh- we... it's- um-” you stumbled over your words, hoping that if you let it up long enough she'd take it back and start on her problems again. She didn't and she stood in front of you and Whitaker, waiting for an explanation.
The whole thing between you and Robby had started about the same time Santos and Garcia started. In an awkward confrontation that was you and Trinity bumping into each other in your shared bathroom, both your hairs messed up and both supporting bruises suspiciously in the shape of lips on your necks.
When you returned to your room you and Robby waited eagerly to see who would flee Santos's room. Neither too shocked to find Garcia.
“It's um?” Trinity asked.
“It's going,” you said into your wine glass, finishing it and pouring in more. The truth was for a while things had been odd, on your end more so.
Casual was a label you thought you could do, that when Robby said to you a week after sleeping together, his sheets over the both of your bodies that he liked keeping it simple. Sex. Release. You thought you could do it.
Almost three months since then and you were regretting it because every time you saw doctors eyes lingering over Robby, every time you heard his 'seven-week rule' and every time you saw happy couples fawning over each other in the ED your stomach twisted.
You didn't realise you wanted that until it was dangled in front of you and snatched away all in the same minute.
Trinity's brows rose. “Oh?”
You looked to where Whitaker was next to you, hoping for sympathy. You only found curious eyes. “It's just different than before.”
“Different how?” asked Dennis.
“Is it still casual?”
You scoffed, mumbling under your breath. “Yeah to him.”
“You want to be more?”
You didn't know if she was accusing but your room-mates expecting eyes on you heated your body in shame and embarrassment. “And you don't with Garcia?"
“Ok, enough!” suddenly Whitaker stood up. “The two of you, we need to sort this out.”
With a vacant seat next to you Trinity plopped herself down and you gave her your wine. You just decided to take the bottle.
“I cannot stand it anymore, okay! The two of you, we're gonna change this,” he said. “Trin- no more pining and waiting for Garcia to call at like one am.”
She was wanting to retort but only folded her arms over her chest as he carried on.
“And you-” he focused on you. “Need to stop crying over Robby. You guys can do better.”
“Yeah in a world where we're not working twelve hour shifts five days a week,” you said. The idea of casual hook ups wasn't anything new to the ED, not even the hospital. It was easy way of escape without the pressure of dating when all their time was spent saving lives or charting about saving lives or studying how to save lives.
On the coffee table in front of you Trinity's phone pinged and she reached for it like it was seconds away from self-destructing.
She tucked her phone into her chest to read the text before slamming it back down.
You caught a glance at the words and the contact. Can't make it tonight, I'll hit you up tomorrow- G
“You're gonna leave them,” he said.
You and Trinity sat up. “What?”
“No!”
There was a flicker of fear in his eyes.
“Okay- I take it back,” he said, surrendering. “Then how about give them a taste of their own medicine.”
“Their medicine?” you asked.
Whitaker gently nudged the empty glasses and cans of beer aside, perching on the edge of the coffee table, appealing to the two of you. “How many times have they cancelled plans, or said you couldn't come over to ask you to come over two hours later?”
You hadn't realised how perceptive he was.
“Now, make it so you guys call the shots. They want to come round, you say no.”
The idea was new to you. You'd always wanted Robby. You spent half your spare time wanting him and the other half having sex with him. You'd never even wanted to say no.
“So then we what, don't have sex?” asked Santos.
“You will,” he said. “You create distance, get them wanting and crying or what-whatever and then they'll realise they've messed up.”
You thought we was giving them too much credit.
Santos chuckled. “Huckleberry, are you telling us to play hard to get?”
He thought about it, eyes moving as if he was calculating it. “Yes!”
That's how plan 'hard to get' started. It was agreed you and Santos, the next time Garcia and Robby asked you to come over you'd say no.
Easier in practise when you work with them.
The next day was a slower day, un-usual in that sense. It meant everyone had more time to linger around each other.
“And so I said to him- officer-” said Myrna, lying on the bed between you and Robby. She'd seizure, hurt her leg and needed it disinfected and cleaned- not for the first time in her life. There was a mix of glass and gravel that needed plucking out and apparently the attending of the ED had nothing better to do that join you in the task. “What would you have done if you caught your third husband eating out another woman?”
“And did he say shoot him?” asked Robby. He was bent over the same leg as you, your heads so close you were either gonna head butt or kiss. Not likely over the state of her leg.
“No, he didn't say anything, he just arrested me!”
Robby hummed, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. “Imagine that.”
“You know Myrna sometimes I can't tell if all these stories are true,” you said, taking a small bit of glass and adding it to the pile you'd already created.
“Oh they're all true, honey, I never lie. Unlike Mark that two faced bastard.”
“Which one was Mark?” you asked.
“The fourth husband. Good body and shit everything else!” she said with a wheeze. Abruptly she grabbed your hand. “Are you single?”
Robby glanced up at you, creases of amusement at the corner of his eyes.
You looked away first. “Why, you asking me out?”
“If you're single, stay single!” she said. “Men, all they are are liars! Lying bastards! And babies! I hardly even shot the guy!”
“Am I so bad, Doctor?” asked Robby looking over the frames of his glasses at you.
Was he so bad? No. He was short-tempered sometimes, moody, didn't accept help from anyone. But you knew he could be gentle, you knew his true belly laugh and the smile he gave at mornings when you were still in bed. You just wish you knew if he ever saw himself staying in that bed a little longer, if he ever wanted to make breakfast and take the day together, stealing moments throughout.
“No,” you said, looking back down to her leg that was almost clean. “You're not.”
Myrna was oddly silent but you could see her head moving between the two of you. “Don't go there sweetheart,” she said, a word of warning. “This one might look fun but he's all danger and heartbreak.”
“Me? No,” said Robby with an air of un-care. “I'm a teddy bear.”
Five minutes later you and Robby were instructing Perlah wrapping her leg before throwing off your gloves and leaving her to it.
“How many husbands you think Myrna had?” he asked.
“Oh there's no telling,” you replied, fetching her chart to finish off the notes. At some point someone had put a star next to her name, as if she was VIP.
Robby leant next to you, scanning around the ED. “Any plans tonight?”
“On a Wednesday? Nop.”
“Wanna come over?”
There was an abrupt and loud clear of a throat.
You hadn't realised Whitaker was there but he was watching the two of you, closely. When you met his eyes he gave a small subtle shake of his head.
Robby looked. “You got a cough, Whitaker?”
He cleared his throat, sliding down in his chair. “No.”
The agreement. It was all fine in practise but how were you supposed to say no when you just said you had no plans and you really wanted to have sex with him! It was the glasses, you were sure that was what did it. The way he pulled them on and pulled them off, the focus it gave him and the way they slipped down his nose.
“So, tonight?” he asked again, voice low.
Only a few people knew, like your room-mates and you were sure others had guessed. Robby wanted to keep it private. Or a secret, you'd never asked for clarification.
You caught Whitakers gaze on yours, watchful. He didn't say anything but you wondered if he'd be disappointed. Would you even be disappointed in yourself? “I can't tonight.”
“Oh,” he said, nodding. “Okay.”
He didn't sound annoyed. He didn't sound anything. It was impossible to tell.
“Yeah, we just- there's this thing-”
“Thought you had no plans?” he asked, an almost amused rise in his brows.
Ah. “It's like- not a plan- just a- a room mate thing. You know?”
Robby looked to Whitaker as if to confirm.
He nodded. “Yeah! Every Wednesday. We watch films.”
“Films,” you confirm.
“And talk.”
“We talk.”
Robby nodded. “Sounds thrilling.”
“Robby!” Dana called. “Got a trauma, woman in her thirties. Five minutes.”
“Got it," he said but he was still slumping over the counter. He took his time moving, stretching up till his shirt rode up enough to expose that slither of skin that held so many promises. “Some other time then.” His hand ghosted the small of your back before he disappeared.
You watched him go, realising you wouldn't spend the night buried in his bored but sleepless and restless.
Whitaker replaced Robby at your side. “See? Doesn't that feel good?”
You answered truthfully. “No.”
That night you, Santos and Whitaker sulked on the sofa, face masks over your faces with a bowl of popcorn left on the table and a shitty movie filling the silence.
Your phone lay face up with nothing from Robby and from Trinity's expression you figured she'd had nothing either.
You'd been to the bathroom once, took your phone with you and debated texting him but you never got that far. You only flicked through texts, casual one's at first. Small 'Are you coming over?' or 'You left your shirt at mine.' There were some dotted from him, on times you were both too busy to meet where things got more... riskier. His texts started simple but you could always catch on to his wants, leading his want.
Things like 'Thought about you today,' or 'you looked good today,' but he never just complimented you for the sake of it.
The texts didn't help so you turned your phone off and re-joined the two all the while your head and heart were in bed with Robby.
The next day passed like another dry spell.
It was busy- too make up for the quiet day beforehand. You didn't have time to greet Robby before being thrown into the chaos from a pile up on the highway. All day your bodies shuffled past each other, his hands lingering on your arms when he passed or always standing next to you in trauma.
It felt something like punishment.
Or a test.
By Friday you were crawling out of your skin, still dealing with the ramifications of the last two days. You hadn't even seen that Robby had text you the night before, so exhausted from work you crashed only spotting his name on your phone the morning you woke from the blare of your alarm.
“You're avoiding me,” he said, kneeling at the computer you typed furiously at to get your charting down. It was a casual move he used, usually un-tying and re-tying his shoes. This time, he simply knelt, seemingly done with pretence.
“What? No.”
“I've barely seen you the last few days," he said, wetting his lips. “Is there something wrong?”
“No, no, I've just been super busy,” you said, tapping on the computer.
Robby shuffled next to you. His hand laid next to yours. He didn't take your hand or stop you but his fingers fidgeted like he didn't know what else to do with himself. “Did I do something?”
You looked down at him, spotting the crease between his brows. “No.”
It was the closest you'd got to seeing him vulnerable.
“So tonight?” he asked. “Feel like I'm losing my damn mind.” His finger was light as it traced your hand, slowly drawing circles.
Tasting Robby was like the first sip of alcohol. It always left you wanting me. Sweet. Bitter. Whatever. You were just left wanting and nothing else, which was why you went crawling back every time. Why saying no had never crosse your mind before. Why the smallest touch from his hand was leaving you in shivers.
You squeezed your eyes shut. “I can't tonight-”
Robby smirked, breathing out a puff of air.
“I would,” you said quickly, turning in your chair to face him. “Believe me, I would, it's just... Trinity is going through some stuff and I just- I don't want to leave her alone, you know.”
It was the truth. Trinity was taking Garcia's silence worse than you or Dennis had anticipated. You knew there was more going on, you only wanted to be there to help her.
Robby perked. “You need me to speak to her?”
“No, no, it's just stuff. She'll be okay I just, want to be safe.”
He nodded but his finger fell from your hand. “Okay.”
“Doctor Robinavitch!” his name was called by the familiar dread of Gloria.
He sighed under his breath as he pushed himself up. “Oh so help me, God.”
By Saturday you were sure Robby thought you were lying and sort out to punish you. He was practically glued at your side all day long. He didn't ask to see you, didn't put his lips near you. But he lingered.
“Okay we don't have a lot of time, there's a lot of bleeding,” said Robby in the face of a trauma, looming over you. “We'll do a Hilar flip.”
“A Hilar flip, are you serious?” said Trinity.
“No other choice.”
You gulped, staring down at the bleeding and misplaced lung. “I've never done one of them before.”
“I'll talk you through it, we'll go easy,” he said, coming at your side. “You're gonna rotate the lung one-eighty, very slow. Very gentle.”
Perhaps it shouldn't have been as erotic as it was. The way his chest heaved against your back, his arm stretching along yours to hold your hand and guide it through the blood to his lung. His face was concentrated next to yours but his breath was hot on your cheek and breathless.
“Go slow.... go slow. Easy.... gentle.... just like that, there we go,” he uttered against your ear.
“Blood loss is slowing down.”
“There we go, you got it,” he mumbled as you slotted it back into its place. “Okay-” Robby moved on like your whole body wasn't trembling. You had to carry on trying to save the guys life after it, like you weren't picturing his entire body draped over yours, whispering filthy things in your ears.
“Thought I was watching a porno there,” said Santos as you all fled the room when the guy was stable.
“Jesus-” you caught your breath, throwing off the gloves and running your hands through your hair, trying to get some air to your neck that sweat.
Santos chuckled to herself. “So does Doctor Robby talk you through it?”
“Trin-” you snap.
“Does he praise you? Is that the kind of thing you're into.”
You didn't respond, hiding in the bathroom to throw cold water onto your face and calm the rush of blood but you could hear Santos outside the door. 'This is a teaching hospital!' she teased.
It became a thing you had to do, get away from him. You couldn't be distracted when dealing with patients. It was bad enough working with him when all you could think about was fucking him!
But Robby seemed to insist in helping you.
“Gaping wounds like this, under the skin we use sub-Q to bring it together,” he instructed as started the stitching for a mans wound on his leg. It was just like anything else, hardly a teaching wound when you knew how to do it. As it was under tissue and there was just no other nurse around Robby insisted.
“Five-O under skin, three-O after that,” he said.
“You think you could show me?”
You both knew you didn't need to be shown but Robby still gave you a small smile and sat on the stall, coming close to you till his meaty thigh was against your own. His hands- though gloved as yours were- still grazed yours as he took the instruments to do it.
“Guide it through... it's finer so you want to extra gentle... lotta care...”
You hummed but you couldn't say you were watching it with keen eyes. You weren't watching the way the stitches came together just the way his hands flexed, his fingers moved.
“Start deep... all the way in... bury the knot in... yeah, see how it comes together just like that?”
You nodded with an absent mind.
Robby held the equipment out to you. “Go ahead.”
You hesitated. Maybe you should have paid more attention.
He all but shoved them into your hand. “You're a big girl, you got it.”
Santos's voice played it your head. Were you into this?
With a breath you steadied yourself and went in. As he had before Robby leant over you, his body practically weighing you down.
You took the thread under the skin, pulling together just like he had.
“Bit deeper-” Robby's hands guided your arms. They were as light as a feather at your elbows before slowly sliding down your arms with a firmer hold, leading the threads.
You remembered his tight hold on you when he wanted you in place on the bed, when he was was dragging clothes off your body or wrapping a hand around your neck-
Robby called your name, watching you expectantly. His eyes were softened at the edges but they grew darker, the smallest bit of a smirk at the corner of his lips. Like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.
“Right... sorry-” you went as deep as he instructed, knowing his face was concentrated on you and your hands.
“Do you want me to leave?” asked the patient.
If he could leave his leg and leave it would've been great.
“We'll get you out of here in no time,” said Robby.
You'd thought that maybe the stitching at taken so long it was almost time to leave. Maybe you could talk to Whitaker and Santos about this hard to get thing. It was only eleven and you had more than six hours left with situations that constantly brought you and Robby together. Even when it didn't, there he was, whispering words of encouragement.
“You got this... nice and easy.... doing really good there...”
Or the simple phrase that had you hiding in the bathroom for five minutes.
“Good girl.”
When the end of the day came you ran out of there, gasping in air and rushing back back to your place.
“Hey,” you greeted walking through the door.
Trinity was already there, looking like she was ready to leave, jacket thrown over her scrubs she hadn't changed out of even though she finished an hour before you. “Hey.”
“Where's Huckleberry?”
“Oh he's at Amy's tonight.”
You scoffed. “Woah. What a speech about doing better and playing hard to get but as soon as the chance comes to play farm. So, movie tonight? I can order pizza?”
“Actually, I'm just on my way out too,” she said. “Garcia called.”
You slumped. Your entire body slumped. Your heart gave up. “What? I thought we all made a deal?”
“We did, I played hard to get now she wants to see me,” she said.
“I haven't seen Robby in three days!”
“So go to his, get dicked down, girl,” she said, moving past you with a breeze. “I'm sorry, we can talk about how much of a bitch I am when I'm back from having the best sex yet! Later!”
She was out the door before you could chastise her. You shut it after her, falling upon it.
You'd ran from the ED to stay strong, to avoid another interaction with Robby that would have you climbing his bones in an empty room. You'd happily have done it with the teasing he'd subjected you to all day. For your friends and the promise you'd made you remained strong.
You'd never do that again.
Saturday night after the longest shift of your life and you had the place to yourself. It was rare. Either Denis or Trinity were home or you were spending the night at Robby's.
Your phone was heavy in your pocket.
Call him.
But the problem still lied un-answered. You were still at Robby's beck and call, begging for his attention. Begging him to be hard thinking about you so he could fuck you into the mattress to be professional the net day and treat you like you were just another MR.
You didn't want special treatment so to say, didn't want him to give you the easy patients or get you into the traumas more. You just wanted a smile, or a glimpse of .... love.
Maybe your friends were okay with what they had. You weren't.
You turned your phone off for the night and stripped from your scrubs, changing into a large shirt and blasting music Trin hated and Denis claimed to hate (but you'd heard him playing your playlist in the shower). For a crazy night alone you caught up on washing several pairs of scrubs and anything else, cleaned out the freezer leaving you barren of anything to eat. Maybe you'd even iron some normal clothes-
That's at least what you were thinking when there was a knock at the door.
You'd hoped it was Denis or Trin coming back, tails between their legs, keys forgotten.
Robby stood on the other side of the door.
You stood, frozen, shocked to see him there. He was just as still, waiting with raised brows. “Doctor Robby. Is everything okay?”
His backpack was slung over his shoulder, his scrubs only slightly dirtied from the day. But his eyes were alive and his body didn't sag with exhaustion like usual. His eyes darted back behind you. “Can I come in?”
You held open the door, closing it slowly behind you.
Robby had only been to your place once before. He looked the open living space open with interest. Typically your meet ups were at his, on account he lived alone and his bed was much nicer to be down on than yours.
“Er- Whitaker and Santos aren't home, if- if this is a hospital thing.”
“It's not,” he said, lowering his bag at the sofa.
“Oh?”
He turned, leaning against the back of it. “It's a me and you thing.”
“Oh.”
His arms flexed as he folded them over his chest, the green of his top under his scrub bunched at the forearms. His head ducked, trying to get a read on you. “So?”
You rocked on your heels, realising the shortened of the shirt you wore. Not that it wasn't anything he had seen before. “So...”
“What's going on?” he asked. There was still nothing in his voice to give away his true thoughts, only a slight edge of urgency.
“What-what-what do you mean?”
Robby listed off what he saw was wrong like symptoms. “You've been avoiding me, you never answered my texts, you didn't want to see me the other night nor tonight though you have the place to yourself-”
“I didn't realise they were gone,” you said.
“Okay so every other time?” he asked. “If I did something you can tell me. I'm a big guy, I can take it.”
It was a chance to voice up every ill thought you'd had but all you could think about was how big he was. Standing there, jutted on the back of the couch with his scrubs around his arms and thighs.
“You didn't do anything,” you said, though you weren't looking at his eyes more his arms.
They flexed again like he knew what he was doing. His voice dropped, finally to something you could name. “So tell me. what's going on.”
If you threw yourself at him you knew the chances of him taking you to bed were high, but the chances of you regretting it in the morning when he had rolled out of bed, dressed and left you were higher.
“I just-” you blew out a breath, readying yourself for the dismiss. “I don't think I can do this anymore.”
Robby waited like he was listening to the words re-play. His head lowered as he nodded, taking it in. “May I ask why?”
“It's the casual thing,” you rushed out before you could take it back. “I don't think I can do casual. I thought I could, but I-I can't.”
He nodded, chin tucked into his chest and for a moment you thought you really had upset him. But then he straightened up, pushed himself from the sofa and shrugged. His boots thudded heavy as he stepped to you slow. “Okay then.”
Was this the moment when you got the door for him on the way out?
“Okay, so... um.... I guess I'll see you-”
Robby's hands grasped your cheeks and he kissed you quick, hard. His lips tasted as they always did with a hint of mint-freshness. They were rough as always as they worked against yours, opening you up to him as always-
You brushed away, shaking your head. “I um- Robby I can't-”
He took a deep, shuddering breath. He stepped closer to you, the heat of his body waving over you. “We don't have to be casual anymore, I don't want to be casual- not anymore.”
Everyone knew Robby only knew casual. Only selected few ever got past seven weeks. Heck you hadn't counted how long this had been going on for, maybe ten weeks but that could be nothing. You were good sex, that was all.
“Robby-”
“Listen, listen-” he said, arms waving around you before settling on your forearms. “You don't want casual, neither do I. You want me to ask? You want me to ask you to be my girlfriend, I'll ask.”
“Robby you don't date,” you tried to tell him.
He scoffed. “I date. But not anymore, not if I have you.”
Had word of the deal got out? Was Robby just tired after his shift? Delusional?
“Hey, hey-" his hands ran through your hair, cradling your cheeks. “I should've said it earlier, I know but I want this. I want serious.”
His eyes crinkled as he looked at you, the edges of his gaze soft. “You don't just have to say this. You can have anyone else-”
Robby's head ducked into the crook of your neck, brushing your hair back and pressing light kisses to the expanse of your neck. “I don't want anyone else, I want you.”
Your body awakened in shivers that he elicited.
His fingers wound to the front of your body, slowly peeling away the buttons of the shirt till it pooled at your ankles. He didn't move to ravage you, his lips remained light as they kissed down your neck, finding your collarbone and working a mark there.
Your hands wound up his arms, clutching at his shoulders. “Robby-”
“Not this time,” he uttered against your collarbone.
You knew what you called him when it was you and him. “Michael-”
“Good girl.”
You moaned out at the words, the moan you'd held all day revibrating around your flat.
He slowly kicked odd his boots and helped you throw off his scrub top before he kissed you again.
You only got a short glimpse at the body you craved before his tongue, hot and heavy, slid into you mouth, bathing in the warmth. His hands were rough as they studied every inch of your body, fingertips digging into skin.
“I want you, sweet girl,” he mumbled against your lips as you scaled your hands under his shirt and along his stomach till your fingers skimmed under his waistband.
His mouth opened against yours, groaning at this slightest touch. “Oh-”
His arms scooped you up, bringing your body up and flush against him as his arms were strong on your back, kissing you. It was all wet tongue and soft lips as he stumbled back on the edge of your couch.
“Santos will kill me if we have sex on our couch,” you gasped.
Robby rose a brow. “Oh, we're having sex?” he teased.
“I should hope so.”
You kissed you hard again, wetting the both of your mouths in delectable smacks of your lips. The two of you stumbled away to your room and his body caged you in as the two of you fell atop your sheets.
You crawled up the bed as Robby's face fell between your chest. His tongue made wet paths from each breast, taking a nipple in his mouth and his hand groping at the other one till you withered against his body.
“Michael-”
He moaned into your breast and shoved a meaty thigh between your legs. “Grind on me,” he demanded.
Your body did against him as if it only listened to his command.
He mouthed your other breast, groping where his tongue had pressed before. All the while you body moved against his thigh, dragging your pussy against him.
“Yeah.... jus' like that... god.... can feel you.... so good,” he uttered as he jutted his thigh against you.
Your hands went to his shoulders, messaging the skin there until he came back up your body and shoved his tongue down your throat again. Your arm wrapped around his neck, keeping him into you.
All the while you wet down his scrubs.
“You want serious?” he uttered against you, pulling back enough to see you.
You nodded, hair splayed over your pillow.
Robby nodded along, eyes hooded. His hand slid down between your bodies. “I can do serious.”
His finger slid into you, working in and out in slow thrusts. But even the meassured curl of his finger had you holding him, back arching from the bed.
“Mmph-”
“Don't be quiet,” he said, nuzzling his head in you neck, biting the skin there. “Don't do that.”
Another finger curled in and you moaned on. You weren't quiet usually, there was nothing more than Robby liked than being loud. Everything was measured in the ED, out of it, buried inside of you or hot mouths on each other had Robby groaning, moaning and wanting you to do the same.
His fingers thrusted knuckle deep in and out again, the soft moving of skin moving around the room as your breaths covered the sound.
His fingers moved quick as your breaths grew laboured. He sucked the skin of your neck, thrusting and curling as his hips sort some sort of friction.
You withered against him. “I'm gonna- Michael I'm gonna-”
He released your skin with a small bite and laid his mouth open on yours. “Cum,” he uttered.
“Michael-”
His voice turned harder, the hand that wasn't inside of you wrapping around your neck, pushing you into your bed. “Cum.”
With just the right curl Robby had your pussy in the palm of his hand, slick with your release as he worked you through it, rubbing his hand along your clit with jolts of your body.
“God so good,” he said, looking up at you as a thin sheen of sweat glistened on your bodies. “And all mine?”
You nodded, cheeks flushed. You could feel the heat of your body as strong as it was when he walked in.
“All mine, huh?”
“Yes,” you said, breathless.
Robby slowly took out his fingers from you, putting his fingers in his mouth and licking them clean like it was nothing. He fell back on his feet, fingers working on the ties of his scrubs. “That why you were avoiding me?”
“I wasn't-” your words died in your throat as he dropped his scrubs and boxers in one.
You'd seen his cock enough to know it by memory but the size and fullness of him always rendered you speechless.
Robby knew it to. He stood there with a smirk. “You weren't avoiding me?”
Slowly, he sank to his knees.
“No,” you said, mesmerised by the sight of him going down.
Robby's hands grabbed your thighs, spreading them. He tapped your ankles, getting them on the bed as he got closer to your heat, still leaking from the last orgasm. “Promise?”
The words had hardly left your lips before his tongue pressed into you.
Your entire body moved into his but his arms wrapped around your hips, keeping you pressed into the bed. He moved further up, burying himself in you.
“Aw- fuck-” your hands waved for purchase before curling into the sheets.
He licked a stripe up and down before nudging your lips open and finding himself in there. It wasn't the slow drag of fingers but the desperate kisses and licks of a man hungry. He pulled back, spitting against you. “You won't avoid me again, will you baby?”
You shook your head.
Robby's eyes remained on yours until he buried himself in your pussy. You watched his eyes roll into the back of his head as he moaned into you.
His hands kept you spread open every time they quivered but it didn't take long for his hand to wind down to his cock. You prepped yourself up onto your elbows to watch as he pumped his cock agonizingly slow.
“Want your cock, Robby-”
He halted his movements and you but down on your lip.
“What did you just call me?” he asked, slowly moving up your body.
You knew you were supposed to call him Michael but watching the full swing of his cock stand to attention as he made his way over you was far too distracting.
“Hey-v his hand cupped your chin, forcing you to look up. “Michael.”
You nodded. Your hands reached for his cock, straining to wrap around him.
The only notice of the effect you had was the clench of his jaw.
“Michael,” he repeated, voice almost a growl.
“Michael.”
He nodded.
“Condom?” he asked, jutting back on his heels.
Your hand slowly worked his cock, the pre-cum beading at the tip. You shook your head. You were both clean, you were on the pill but tonight you wanted to feel everything, wanted him to even fill you-
Robby bent his head, spitting down on his cock and your hand. For a moment that's all it was, you hand moving on his cock as your other circled your clit. “God... your hand.... missed you...”
When your strokes got heavier, faster Robby's head fell back and he groaned. His cock was pink, heavy in your hand-
Quickly he grabbed your wrist and threw it off before grabbing the hilt of his own cock and slowly pushing into you.
His throat strained as he groaned at the push in and your back arched into him. “Fuck!” he fell atop you, arms braced at either side. “Shit- ah-”
Your arm wrapped around his shoulders, keeping you in.
“God, you make me crazy,” he uttered, searching for your lips.
The two of you collided in a mess of salvia, tongue, lips as he pushed into you, catching your gasps.
Eventually the rock of his hips grew steady. The creak of your old bed echoed the moves of him against you.
“Shit- ah-” he groaned, shaking off the sweat and the tension.
“Michael,” you said, holding him in closer. “I want you to... go hard.”
Hard he could do. Soft he could do. He would do anything you asked.
His tongue darted out, swiping your lips. “You missed me?”
“So much, so much, so much,” you pulled him down till his weight tested yours, cock deep. “On me.”
“Okay, okay,” he mumbled to himself. He put all his weight down, crashing your body into his bed. He wasn't as young as he once was. By no means but if you wanted it, he'd give it.
Pressed into you his cock went far and deep and he couldn't fully withdraw so it was small, maddening movements.
“Oh god,” he uttered.
You moaned, loud, as he wanted and he was breathless, groaning.
The dull thump of your headboard banged on the wall and something on your bedside table fell off.
Robby's arm stretched out, grabbing your hand and stretching your arms to the headboard, trying to steady it. With the stretch of the bodies he reached that spot in you.
“Aw fuck!” You yelled out, louder than anticipated. “Michael I'm gonna- I'm gonna-”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck-” he grunted with you. His other hand threw to your hip, holding your pelvis flush into you. “Fuck!”
In seconds he let go inside of you and the gush of his cum and the sound of the wet bodies threw you over the edge. His clutch on your hand grew tighter as his body trembled with yours, the spurts of your releases cooling down.
If this was casual Robby wouldn't have lingered, he'd have pulled out, flashed you a smile before using the bathroom.
He moved slower, staying till the both of you were spent. He kissed you, soft and sweet, lips moving around to remember the taste. “I'll move out,” he whispered as he took out his cock.
You stole a glance of both of your release leaking from you and around him before Robby moved aside.
He didn't flee, he didn't go to the bathroom. He pulled the sheets from under your bodies and got the both of you into bed. He laid beside you.
Robby tucked you under his arm, sweat on both your bodies cooling as you laid together. “Feels better when we're serious.” His fingers moved slow on your shoulder, delicate touches like a feather.
If he woke with a new thought, woke with regret you'd deal with it. For the moment you allowed yourself to feel the thump of his heart as the two of you slowly lulled to sleep.
Your alarm was the first thing you picked up in the morning. It's beeping ringing in your ear as you moved to turn the thing off or throw it at the wall-
A weight over your stomach made the effort harder but you got it.
Last night came back to you in the spill of scrubs on the floor and the ache between your legs.
Robby stirred next to you. Last night.
He stayed.
“You on today?” he asked, morning voice rough. You got a look at him, it was a rare sight you got to see him in morning light. His eyes were still shut, his face without the stress the day job gave him. He asked so casual, as if this was a morning routine you'd slipped into years ago.
You hummed, nodding and readying to move-
His arm tightened, drawing you in. “Call in sick.”
You chuckled, but your eyes closed. You promised yourself five more minutes. “My attending might have something to say about that.”
Robby grumbled. “Have a word with him, I'm sure you can be very persuasive.”
Somewhere in you apartment you heard the front door open and close, voices moving around the place.
You hadn't closed the door.
“Hey! We brought coffee and bagels!” called Santos.
“We're sorry for leaving you- we- huh?” you heard Whitaker. “What the?”
The clothes on the floor. The scrub top that would have his doctors badge on it.
You groaned and suddenly Whitaker and Santos were passing the doorway, one smirking, the other shocked.
Robby beside you didn't even stir.
“Good morning, Doctor Robby!” called Santos.
He only lifted a hand in greeting before making sure the covers were over the two of you.
You reached for something heavy, landing on a cushion and aiming at the door. It closed in front of your laughing friends.
Request - so... hurt/comfort wise...how do you feel about any male character and new mama!reader where the baby favors their dad, and she feels unworthy of being called a mom or like she wants at least one thing to be hers bc the baby has everything else of their father (except maybe their nose and skin tone). AND THEN FLUFF AT THE END BECAUSE THEIR FIRST STEPS WERE TOWARDS HER! :)
The first thing people noticed about your daughter was her eyes. They were Robby’s eyes. Dark and warm, framed by thick lashes that somehow looked unfairly long on a ten-month-old baby.
The second thing people noticed was her hair. Those same dark curls that had started appearing when she was barely six months old now sat in soft wisps around her tiny face, forever falling into her eyes and forever making everyone laugh because she looked exactly like her father after a twelve-hour shift.
And then there was the expression. That little furrow between her brows. That look of deep concentration whenever she was trying to figure something out. That tiny pout.
All Robby.
You had heard it so many times by now that you could practically recite it yourself.
“Oh my goodness, she’s his twin.”
“Look at that face. That’s all Dr. Robinavich.”
“You copied and pasted your husband, didn’t you?”
You laughed every time. Because you loved your husband. You loved his smile, his eyes, his ridiculous humor and his stubborn streak. Of course you didn’t mind that your daughter looked like him. At least, you hadn’t.
Now, though…
Now it seemed to be all anyone said. You sat on a blanket spread across your living room floor while your daughter played with stacking cups, her tiny fingers trying—and failing—to fit one inside the other. She looked up at you, serious and determined. Exactly like her father. Your mother smiled from the couch.
“She gets that concentration from Robby.”
You smiled back.
“Maybe.”
“No, honey. That’s definitely him.”
Your daughter squealed when one of the cups rolled away, then immediately started crawling after it. Your mother laughed.
“Oh, look at that. Even the way she crawls reminds me of him.”
You blinked. Even the way she crawls? How exactly did one crawl like another person? But you didn’t say anything. You simply smiled.
Again.
Because people meant well. Because they loved your little girl. Because none of this should bother you. Your daughter finally captured the runaway cup and held it triumphantly above her head. Your mother reached down and scooped her up.
“There’s Daddy’s little clone.”
You looked down at your hands. Little clone. Your husband walked into the living room then, having just gotten home from the hospital, still wearing scrubs and looking exhausted.
The second your daughter spotted him, she lit up. Actually lit up. Her entire face changed. Her eyes widened, her mouth fell open, and she let out a squeal so loud it made everyone laugh.
“Dada!”
Your mother’s face softened.
“Oh, look at her.”
Robby grinned despite the exhaustion etched into every line of his face.
“Hey, bug.”
Your daughter nearly launched herself from your mother’s lap. Robby quickly crossed the room and took her, and she immediately wrapped her tiny hands around his neck. He laughed softly.
“How’s my girl.”
She buried her face against him. You swallowed. Your mother smiled again.
“She’s such a daddy’s girl.”
There it was. Again. Daddy’s girl. Robby didn’t seem to notice. He kissed the side of your daughter’s head and sat beside you on the blanket.
“How was she today?”
“Good,” you answered.
“Only good?”
You smiled softly. “She threw peas at the television.”
He nodded solemnly.
“That’s my girl.”
Your daughter giggled. You laughed too. But something in your chest tightened. Because of course she giggled for him. Because of course she reached up and patted his cheek. Because of course she looked so content in his arms.
You hated yourself a little for even thinking it. Because this was good. This was beautiful. This was exactly what you wanted.
A husband who adored his daughter. A daughter who adored her father. So why did it hurt?
******
Later that night, after dinner and bath time, the three of you sat in the nursery. The room glowed softly from the nightlight shaped like a moon. Your daughter sat between you and Robby in footie pajamas covered in little stars. Robby held up one of her books.
“Again?”
She slapped the cover enthusiastically.
“Again.”
He laughed.
“You’re really milking this whole reading thing.”
She grinned. You watched them quietly. Watched your husband do the voices. Watched your daughter laugh at every single one. Watched the way she looked at him. Like he hung the stars themselves. And God…you loved them.
You loved them so much your chest ached. The story ended, and your daughter immediately reached for him.
“Dada.”
He smiled.
“One more cuddle, huh?”
She nodded. You looked away. You didn’t mean to. You just… did. Robby didn’t notice. He was too busy tucking her against his chest.
Eventually it was bedtime. You stood and held out your arms.
“Come here, sweetheart.”
Your daughter looked at you. Then immediately turned back toward her father.
“Dada.”
You froze. Robby chuckled softly.
“I know. Momma’s no fun.”
The words were innocent. A joke. But they landed harder than they should have. He stood and gently transferred her into your arms. She whined. Actually whined. Little hands reaching back toward him.
“Dada.”
Your throat tightened.
“She’s okay,” Robby said softly.
You nodded. Of course she was okay. She was just tired. Babies did this. You knew that. You knew that. Still…
Still, as you carried her into her room and settled into the rocking chair, something deep inside you cracked just a little. She curled against your chest, sleepy and warm. Beautiful. Perfect. You brushed your fingers through her dark curls. You touched her little cheek. Her father’s eyes. Her father’s expressions. Her father’s smile. Your eyes burned.
“What did you get from me, huh?” you whispered.
She blinked sleepily. You smiled through the sting in your throat.
“You’ve got my nose.”
She yawned.
“And maybe my love of sleep.”
Silence. You kissed her forehead.
“But everything else is your daddy.”
She made a soft little noise and tucked herself closer. You looked down at her and suddenly felt something you hated.
Jealousy.
Not of your husband. Never of him. But of how easily everyone seemed to see him in her. Because no one ever seemed to see you. No one ever said she had your smile. Or your laugh. Or your kindness. You had carried her. Loved her before you ever saw her. Brought her into this world. And somehow, lately… it felt like you were disappearing from the picture.
A tear slipped down your cheek. You wiped it away quickly. The nursery door creaked open. Robby leaned against the frame, looking tired and beautiful and completely unaware that your heart was quietly breaking.
“Everything okay?”
You looked up and smiled. A practiced smile.
“Yeah.”
He studied you for a moment. Then smiled back.
“She asleep?”
You looked down. Your daughter had finally drifted off, one tiny hand still fisted in your shirt.
“Almost.”
He nodded.
“I’ll make some tea.”
“Okay.”
He disappeared down the hallway. You looked back at your daughter. Then down at that little hand clutching your shirt. Your chest tightened again. Because even now…even now…you couldn’t help but wonder if she was only holding on because you happened to be the one rocking her. And not because you were her momma.
******
The next few days only seemed to make it worse. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. That was the terrible part. No one was trying to hurt your feelings. No one even knew your feelings were hurt. But somehow every little thing seemed to dig the hole a little deeper.
You and Robby took your daughter to brunch that Saturday morning with a few friends from the hospital. It had been months since you’d seen everyone, and they practically descended on your little family the second you walked through the restaurant doors.
“Oh my God, she’s gotten so big!”
“Look at those cheeks!”
“Those curls!”
Dana was the first one to scoop her up, grinning from ear to ear.
“I haven’t seen this kid in months. Let me look at you.”
Your daughter blinked up at her. Then smiled. Dana gasped dramatically.
“Okay, first of all, she’s adorable. Second of all…” She looked at Robby. “I swear you cloned yourself.”
Everyone laughed. You smiled. Again.
“Seriously,” one of the nurses said. “She has your whole face, Robby.”
“I feel bad for her then,” he deadpanned.
Another round of laughter. Dana adjusted your daughter on her hip.
“No, look at this little expression.” She pointed at the baby. “That’s him. That’s the exact look he gives people when they’re annoying him.”
You glanced over.nUnfortunately… she wasn’t wrong. Even you had to laugh a little.mYour daughter looked at Robby then, her entire face brightening.
“Dada!”
“There it is,” Dana said. “She’s obsessed with you.”
“I know,” Robby sighed dramatically. “It’s exhausting being this popular.”
She giggled and reached for him. He took her without hesitation, kissing her temple.
You took a sip of your coffee. Then another. The conversation moved on, but you found yourself growing quieter. Because no one had looked at her and said she had your smile. No one had said she had your laugh. No one had even said she had your nose. She was simply… Robby’s.
And you hated yourself for caring. You really did. Because what kind of mother gets jealous over something so silly? You should be happy. You were happy.nWeren’t you?
“Hey.”
You blinked. Robby was looking at you.
“You okay?”
You smiled immediately.
“Of course.”
He frowned slightly.
“You got quiet.”
“I’m just tired.”
He studied you for another second before nodding.
“Okay.”
Then your daughter leaned over and patted his cheek.bHe smiled at her instantly.nAnd somehow, ridiculously, that made your chest ache.
******
The drive home was quiet. Your daughter had fallen asleep in her car seat, one hand still clutching the stuffed giraffe she’d been carrying around all week. Robby glanced over from the driver’s seat.
“You sure you’re okay?”
You looked out the window.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you say you’re fine but your voice goes all weird.”
You almost laughed.
“That’s very scientific, Doctor.”
“I’m an excellent diagnostician.”
You finally looked at him. He smiled softly. You returned it, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. His smile faded.
“Talk to me.”
You looked back out the window.
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
He didn’t push. Which somehow made you feel worse.
******
A few days later, he got called into the hospital for a few hours. Some staffing issue. A physician had called out sick. He’d kissed your forehead, apologized profusely, and promised he wouldn’t be gone long. So it was just you and your daughter that afternoon.
You sat on the living room floor while she played. Or rather…while she destroyed the living room. Blocks were everywhere. Books had somehow ended up under the coffee table. One sock had disappeared entirely. You watched her crawl toward the television stand.
“No, ma’am.”
She ignored you. You gently turned her around. She blinked. Then immediately went right back toward it. You laughed softly.
“You’re stubborn.”
She looked up. And for one beautiful second, you thought maybe…Maybe there it was. Maybe that was yours. Because you were stubborn too.
Then she scrunched her face. Exactly like Robby. And the thought disappeared. You sighed. Your daughter crawled back over and pulled herself up against your legs. You smiled and brushed her curls away from her eyes.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
She grinned.
“Dada.”
Your smile faltered.nYour husband had only been gone for forty minutes.
“Dada?”
She looked around.
“Dada.”
“Oh.” You swallowed. “He’s at work.”
“Dada.”
“I know.”
She looked toward the hallway.
“Dada?”
Your chest tightened. You picked her up. She immediately twisted in your arms, looking around the room.
“Dada.”
“I know, baby.”
Your voice sounded strange. She looked at you. Then back toward the hallway.
“Dada.”
You hugged her a little closer.
“I’m right here.”
She blinked. Then rested her head against your shoulder. You closed your eyes. Because she was cuddling you. She wanted comfort. She was perfectly happy. But your brain was being cruel today. All you could hear was that tiny little voice asking for him. Asking for her father. Not her mother. Not you.
Your eyes burned. You sat down in the rocking chair by the window and held her close. She played with the sleeve of your sweater.
Eventually she looked up at you. A tiny smile. You smiled back.
“Hi.”
She touched your cheek. Your heart melted.
“Dada.”
You looked away before the tears could come.
******
When Robby got home that evening, she nearly launched herself out of your arms.
“Dada!”
He laughed, dropping his bag.
“Whoa there.”
She reached for him desperately. You handed her over. Because of course you did. And because you loved seeing them together. But tonight…tonight it hurt. Robby kissed her cheek.
“Miss me?”
She babbled happily. He looked over at you.
“You two survive without me?”
You forced a smile.
“Barely.”
He chuckled. Then paused. Because your smile disappeared too quickly.
“Hey.”
You busied yourself gathering toys.
“Can you grab her dinner plate?”
A beat of silence.
“Sure.”
You nodded. You didn’t look at him. Because if you did…you might cry.
******
That night, after your daughter was asleep, you found yourself standing in the nursery doorway. The moon-shaped nightlight cast a soft glow over the room. She slept peacefully, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. Dark curls spread across the mattress.
She looked so much like him. You stepped closer. Sat beside the crib. And just watched her. Your beautiful girl. The baby you had prayed for. The baby you loved so much it physically hurt.
A tear slid down your cheek. Then another.
“I don’t know why this is bothering me so much,” you whispered.
Your voice trembled.
“I know you’re mine too.”
You reached through the slats and touched her tiny hand.
“But everyone sees your daddy.”
Another tear slipped free.
“And I…” You swallowed hard. “I just want one thing that’s mine.”
The words hung in the quiet room. You immediately felt guilty. Ashamed. Selfish. Your daughter stirred softly but didn’t wake. You wiped your face. Took a shaky breath. Then whispered the thing you hadn’t dared say out loud before.
“I don’t know if I’m enough for you.”
The nursery was silent. And somehow…that silence felt unbearably loud. You didn’t hear the floor creak behind you. You didn’t hear the bedroom door open. So you had no idea that your husband was standing in the hallway. And that he had heard every single word.
******
The first thing you noticed was the warmth. A hand. Large and familiar. Resting gently against the back of your neck. You startled, turning quickly.
Robby stood there in the doorway of the nursery, his face soft in the dim glow of the nightlight. His hair was still damp from his shower, a gray T-shirt stretched across his shoulders, and yet there was something in his expression that made your heart sink. He’d heard you. Every bit of it.
“Hey,” he said quietly.
You immediately wiped beneath your eyes.
“Hi.”
Neither of you moved. Then his gaze flickered to your face.
“You’ve been crying.”
You looked back at your daughter.
“I’m okay.”
He sighed softly.
“No, you’re not.”
The words were gentle, not accusing. That somehow made them worse. You looked down at your hands. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your daughter’s soft breathing.
Then the mattress shifted as Robby sat down beside you. He didn’t speak right away. He simply slid his hand over yours. Waited. You knew that patience. You’d seen him use it with frightened patients and grieving families and nervous residents. He never forced. He just… stayed.
“How long?” he finally asked.
You frowned.
“What?”
“How long have you been feeling like this?”
You swallowed.
“Robby…”
“How long?”
His voice remained soft, but there was something underneath it now. Concern. You stared at your sleeping daughter.
“I don’t know.”
He squeezed your hand. You let out a shaky breath.
“A while.”
A beat.
“A few weeks maybe.”
He was quiet for so long that you finally looked at him. And your heart broke a little. Because he looked devastated. Not angry. Not confused. Devastated.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
You tried to laugh. It came out watery.
“Because it sounds ridiculous.”
“Sweetheart.”
“It does.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It does,” you insisted, your voice cracking. “She’s a baby, Robby. She can’t help who she looks like.”
“I know.”
“And I love that she looks like you.”
“I know.”
“But…”
Your throat tightened.
“But?”
You looked away. The tears started all over again
“I don’t know.”
“Talk to me.”
You shook your head.
“I can’t even explain it.”
“Try.”
The word was so gentle. So patient. You let out a trembling breath.
“I just…”
Your voice faltered. Robby’s thumb rubbed softly across your knuckles.
“I carried her for nine months.”
Your eyes stayed on the crib.
“I felt every kick. Every hiccup. I was sick and exhausted and swollen and miserable and I would’ve done it all again because I wanted her so badly.”
He didn’t interrupt.
“And now she’s here and everyone looks at her and all they see is you.”
You laughed shakily through your tears.
“She has your eyes. Your hair. Your smile. Your expressions. Your little grumpy face.”
A tiny smile touched his mouth despite himself. You looked at him.
“I can’t even blame them because they’re right.”
“Hey.”
“No, they are.”
You looked back at your daughter.
“And I know it’s stupid, but…”
Your voice broke completely.
“I just wanted one thing.”
The room went still.
“One thing that was mine.”
Robby’s face crumpled. You covered your mouth with your hand.
“I know how selfish that sounds.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It does.”
“It really doesn’t.”
You shook your head.
“It feels like she has everything of yours.”
A tear slipped down your cheek.
“And I know she loves me, I know she does, but lately…” You swallowed hard. “Lately I feel like I’m just… there.”
Robby’s hand tightened around yours.
“You’re not just there.”
You looked at him then. Your eyes were red. Tired.
“I don’t even feel like I’m her favorite parent.”
The words hung in the air. You laughed softly, miserably.
“Listen to me. I sound insane.”
“You don’t.”
“I do.”
“You don’t, I promise.”
Your chin trembled.
“Sometimes…” You looked away again. “Sometimes I don’t even feel like I’m a very good mom.”
Silence. Absolute silence.
“What?”
You blinked. Robby was staring at you. Actually staring. Like you’d just spoken another language.
“Where did that come from?”
You shrugged helplessly.
“I don’t know.”
“No.”
His voice had changed. Still gentle. But firmer now.
“You don’t get to throw something like that out there and then say you don’t know.”
You looked down.
“Look at me.”
You didn’t. A hand came up, fingers gently tipping your chin upward.
“Look at me.”
You did. And your heart squeezed. Because he looked heartbroken.
“You think you’re not a good mom?”
A fresh wave of tears spilled down your cheeks.
“I don’t know.”
“Sweetheart.”
“I don’t know.”
“You are the best mother I have ever seen.”
You shook your head immediately.
“No I’m not.”
“Yes you are.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
You laughed through your tears.
“I don’t even think she likes me most days.”
His eyebrows shot upward.
“Are you kidding me?”
You sniffled.
“Robby…”
“No, seriously. Are you kidding me?”
You stared at him. He looked completely bewildered. Like the idea itself made no sense.
“She cries when you leave the room.”
You blinked.
“What?”
“She follows you around the house.”
“She’s a baby.”
“She lights up when you sing to her.”
You opened your mouth. He kept going.
“She calms down the second you pick her up.”
“Robby—”
“She reaches for you all the time.”
“Not like she does for you.”
He stared at you. Then his expression softened.
“Oh.”
Just one word. But suddenly he understood. Understood all of it. The reaching. The asking for him. The daddy’s girl comments. Everything. You looked away.
“I know it’s ridiculous.”
“No.”
“It is.”
“No, sweetheart.”
He shifted closer.
“So this is about her asking for me.”
You said nothing.
“So this is about everyone saying she looks like me.”
Your eyes filled again.
“I just…” Your voice trembled. “I wanted one thing that belonged to me.”
The room fell quiet. You looked back at your daughter sleeping peacefully in her crib.
“So much of motherhood already feels like giving pieces of yourself away,” you whispered. “Your body changes. Your time changes. Your whole life changes. And I would do it all again because I love her.”
Your lip trembled.
“But I just wanted one little thing.”
You looked at him.
“Just one.”
Tears spilled down your cheeks.
“And I don’t know why that makes me feel so awful.”
For a long moment, Robby said absolutely nothing. Then he reached for you. You went willingly. Because you always did. He pulled you into his chest, and the second his arms wrapped around you, you broke. A sob escaped you. Then another.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he whispered, holding you tighter.
Your face buried in his shirt.
“I’m sorry.”
“What are you apologizing for?”
“This.”
He kissed the top of your head.
“You never have to apologize for telling me you’re hurting.”
“I feel stupid.”
“You aren’t.”
“I do.”
His hand moved slowly up and down your back.
“You know what I think?”
You sniffled.
“What?”
“I think you’ve been carrying this around by yourself for way too long.”
You closed your eyes. Because unfortunately…he was right. And as he held you there in the soft glow of the nursery, your daughter sleeping peacefully a few feet away, you had a feeling your husband wasn’t finished.
Not even close.
******
For a long while, neither of you moved. Robby simply held you. One hand rested at the back of your head while the other slowly rubbed up and down your spine, the same soothing motion he’d used countless times over the years whenever life became too heavy. Your tears eventually quieted, leaving behind only the occasional sniffle. Still, he didn’t let go. You could hear his heartbeat beneath your ear. Steady. Familiar. Home.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered again.
Immediately, his hand paused. Then he tipped his head back just enough to look down at you.
“If you apologize one more time, I’m going to be offended.”
A tiny laugh escaped you. It sounded watery and broken.
“There’s a little laugh,” he murmured.
You rolled your eyes weakly and pulled back enough to wipe your face.
“I’ve cried all over your shirt.”
“I own more than one.”
“You like this shirt.”
“I do.”
“And I ruined it.”
“You absolutely did.”
A soft huff of laughter escaped you. He smiled. Then his expression gentled again.
“Can I say something?”
You nodded.
“You don’t get to decide what makes you important to her.”
You frowned.
“What?”
He brushed a strand of hair from your face.
“You don’t get to decide that because she has my eyes or my face, somehow I’m more important to her.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
You looked down. A finger slipped beneath your chin.
“Look at me.”
You did. He looked almost… offended. Not at you. At the idea.
“You carried her for nine months.”
Your eyes softened.
“You grew her.”
He brushed his thumb across your cheek.
“You gave birth to her.”
A second tear slid free.
“You are the reason she exists.”
You swallowed.
“Robby—”
“No. Let me finish.”
There was no bite in his voice. Only gentle insistence.
“You know what our daughter knew before she knew my face?”
You blinked.
“What?”
“Your heartbeat.”
You went still.
“She knew your voice.”
His hand settled against your cheek.
“She knew the way you laughed.”
Another tear escaped.
“She knew how you sounded when you talked to her in the middle of the night because you thought I was asleep.”
You let out a soft, surprised breath. He smiled.
“I wasn’t, by the way.”
“You were supposed to be sleeping.”
“I know.”
A tiny laugh escaped him.
“You’d put your hand on your stomach and tell her all these things.”
Your eyes filled all over again.
“You’d tell her about the world and how much you loved her and how excited you were to meet her.”
You looked down.
“I remember.”
“I do too.”
Silence settled between you. Then he gently tucked a piece of hair behind your ear.
“She knew you before she knew anyone else.”
Your chin trembled.
“Even me.”
The tears came again. Not hard this time. Just quietly.
“You are her first home.”
You covered your mouth. Robby’s expression softened even more.
“And sweetheart… she doesn’t reach for me because she loves you less.”
You looked at him.
“Then why does she always want you?”
He smiled softly.
“Because you are always here.”
You frowned.
“What?”
“I leave.”
You blinked.
“I go to work.” He shrugged lightly. “Sometimes for twelve hours. Sometimes longer.”
Your eyes stayed on his.
“You are her constant.”
A tear slipped down your cheek.
“When I come home, it’s exciting.”
He smiled sadly.
“I’m the fun thing that just walked through the door.”
You stared at him.
“But you’re her whole day.”
Your lip trembled.
“You’re breakfast and lunch and naps and books and songs and cuddles.”
You swallowed hard.
“You are every safe thing she knows.”
The nursery suddenly felt very quiet.
“You think she asks for me because she needs me more.”
He gently brushed away another tear.
“No, sweetheart.” His voice softened. “She asks for me because she already knows you’re not going anywhere.”
You broke all over again. A sob escaped you. His face crumpled immediately.
“Oh, honey.”
You covered your eyes.
“Oh my God.”
He gathered you back into his arms without hesitation.
“You are her safe place.”
You cried harder.
“She reaches for me because I’m exciting.”
You laughed through your tears.
“I don’t know if exciting is the word I’d use.”
He snorted softly.
“Fine. Novel.”
You laughed again. A shaky, tearful sound.
“Please trust me,” he whispered, kissing your temple.
You stayed tucked against him.
And after another minute, you whispered, “Everyone says she’s your twin.”
“I know.”
“It hurts.”
“I know.”
You looked up.
“No, I don’t think you do.”
He was quiet. Then he nodded.
“You’re right. I probably don’t.”
Your eyes softened.
“But I do know what it’s like to want to see yourself in someone you love.”
You frowned.
“What do you mean?”
He looked toward the crib.
“I look at her every day and pray she got your heart.”
You blinked.
“What?”
“I hope she got your kindness.”
Your breath caught.
“Your patience.”
He smiled.
“Your empathy.”
You stared at him.
“Your ability to make people feel safe.”
A tear slipped free.
“I hope she gets your laugh.”
You smiled despite yourself.
“Your stubbornness too, unfortunately.”
You let out a watery laugh.
“Or maybe she got that from both of us?”
He kissed your forehead.
“I don’t care if she looks exactly like me.” His voice softened. “I hope she’s like you.”
Your face crumpled. Because there it was. The thing you hadn’t realized you needed. Not to hear that she had your nose. Not to hear that she had your skin. But to hear that maybe… maybe the things that mattered most couldn’t be seen.
“You really think that?” you whispered.
He looked almost confused.
“Of course I do.”
Silence. Then you looked toward the crib.
“She’s beautiful.”
“She is.”
“And kind.”
“Very.”
“And happy.”
“The happiest.”
You swallowed.
“Maybe she already has some of me.”
He smiled.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
His hand settled over yours.
“She has all kinds of you.”
You looked back at him.
“Really?”
He looked downright offended again.
“Have you seen the way she reaches out to pet every dog she meets?”
You laughed softly.
“Okay… maybe.”
“The way she watches people when they’re upset.”
Your smile faded.
“The way she leans against you when she thinks you’re sad.”
Your throat tightened.
“The way she giggles when she hears music.”
Another tear escaped.
“Those things didn’t come from me.”
You stared at him. He smiled softly.
“They came from her mama.”
The room blurred. And for the first time in weeks…the ache in your chest eased. Just a little. Robby reached over and wiped away the last of your tears. Then he leaned forward and kissed your forehead.
“Besides,” he said softly, “you’re forgetting one very important thing.”
You frowned.
“What?”
A slow smile spread across his face.
“You gave her your nose.”
You laughed. A real laugh this time. He grinned.
“And honestly? Thank God.”
You smacked his arm.
“Robby!”
“What? My nose is huge.”
“It is not.”
“It absolutely is.”
You laughed again, shaking your head. He looked at you like he’d hung the moon. Then he kissed your temple. Then your cheek. Then the tip of your nose.
“You’re a good mom.”
You closed your eyes.
“You’re an incredible mom.”
A tear slipped free.
“And our daughter adores you.”
You leaned into him.
“I love you.”
His arms tightened.
“I love you too.”
The two of you sat there for a long while after that. Just holding each other. Watching your little girl sleep. And when you finally stood to leave the nursery, Robby slipped his hand into yours. You looked up at him. He smiled softly.
“Come to bed.”
You squeezed his hand.
“Okay.”
As you stepped into the hallway, neither of you noticed the tiny pair of eyes blinking open inside the crib. Or the little girl watching her parents walk away. Watching her mama. And smiling.
******
The next morning felt lighter. Not perfect. The little ache in your chest hadn’t completely disappeared overnight, but it no longer felt quite so sharp. Maybe because you had finally said it out loud. Maybe because your husband had held every ugly, insecure feeling in his hands and hadn’t laughed or dismissed it. Maybe because he’d looked at you like you were the most important person in the world and reminded you that motherhood wasn’t measured in genetics or who got the first smile.
It was measured in love. And you loved your daughter more than you had ever thought possible. You stood in the kitchen, making coffee while morning sunlight streamed through the windows. A few minutes later, you heard the familiar shuffle of feet.
“Mama?”
You smiled. You turned to find Robby standing in the doorway, your daughter balanced on one hip. His hair was a mess, his T-shirt wrinkled from sleep, and your little girl looked equally disheveled. The sight nearly made you laugh.
“Good morning.”
Your daughter’s entire face brightened.
“Mama!”
She reached for you. Your heart fluttered. You took her from him and kissed her chubby cheek.
“There’s my girl.”
She giggled. Robby wrapped his arms around both of you from behind, pressing a kiss into your hair.
“She woke up and immediately demanded breakfast.”
“Demanded?” you asked.
“Yes. Quite aggressively.”
Your daughter babbled.
“See?” he said. “She’s defending herself.”
You laughed. And something inside you eased a little more.
The day passed quietly. No visitors. No comments about whose eyes she had. No mention of who she resembled. Just your little family. The three of you played in the living room, ordered takeout for lunch, and spent most of the afternoon on the floor surrounded by blocks and books. Your daughter had recently started pulling herself up on everything. The couch. The coffee table. Your legs. Robby. Mostly Robby.
“You’re going to walk before we’re ready,” he informed her seriously.
She smiled. Then promptly tried to eat one of her blocks.
“Never mind,” he sighed.
You laughed. By early evening, the sun cast golden light through the windows. You sat on the rug folding tiny laundry while your daughter played near the couch. Robby was stretched out beside you, absently sorting through baby toys. It was peaceful. Quiet. The kind of ordinary moment you knew one day you’d miss.
Then you looked up. And froze. Your daughter was standing. Not holding the couch. Not holding the table. Standing. Completely on her own.
“Oh my God,” you whispered.
Robby looked up immediately.
“What?”
Then he saw her. His eyes widened.
“No way.”
The two of you became perfectly still. As though even breathing too loudly would ruin it. Your daughter looked between the two of you. Proud. Wobbly. A tiny smile spread across her face.
“Oh, sweetheart,” you breathed.
Robby slowly sat up.
“I think this is happening.”
“I think it is too.”
Your daughter swayed. Regained her balance. Then looked directly at you. Your breath caught. She smiled. And took one tiny step. You gasped. A second step.
“Oh my God.”
A third. Robby’s hand found yours. A fourth. Then she tipped forward. Straight into your waiting arms. You caught her with a startled laugh, immediately gathering her against your chest. For a second, everything went silent.
“Oh my God!”
Tears instantly filled your eyes. Your daughter giggled. You looked at her in complete disbelief.
“You walked.”
She squealed.
“You walked!”
Robby let out a strangled sound beside you. You looked over. Your husband was crying. Actual tears. You burst out laughing.
“Oh my God, you’re crying.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I’m having an emotional response.”
You laughed harder.
“That’s called crying.”
He wiped at his eyes.
“I wasn’t prepared.”
Neither of you could stop smiling. You looked back down at your daughter. And she looked back at you. Then she reached up with both tiny hands and cupped your cheeks. Your breath caught.
“Mama.”
The world stopped. Everything stopped. Your heart. Your breathing. Time itself.
“Mama.”
A sob escaped you.
“Oh.”
Tears spilled freely down your cheeks. Your daughter smiled.
“Mama.”
You pulled her against you and held her close.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
Your voice broke completely. Robby was openly crying now. Neither of you cared. You kissed your daughter’s curls. Her forehead. Her cheeks.
“I love you so much.”
She laughed and patted your face.
“Mama.”
You let out another tearful laugh. Then strong arms wrapped around both of you. Robby gathered you and your daughter into his lap until all three of you were tangled together on the rug. Your daughter happily squished between you.
You looked up. Your husband was staring at you. Not at the baby. At you. And his expression was so soft it made your chest ache.
“What?” you whispered.
He smiled. Then he reached over and brushed away your tears.
“Looks like she knew exactly where she wanted to go.”
Fresh tears filled your eyes. You laughed softly.
“Robby…”
“No.” His own eyes glistened. “I think she just picked her person.”
You shook your head immediately.
“No, she—”
“She did.”
His voice was gentle. Certain.
“Because she could’ve gone anywhere.”
You looked down at your daughter. She was now chewing on your sleeve.
“But she walked to you.”
Your lip trembled.
“You.”
A tear slipped down your cheek. Robby reached over and kissed your forehead. Then another kiss to your temple. Then your cheek.
“So I think we can officially retire the whole ‘she doesn’t need me’ thing.”
You laughed through your tears.
“Maybe.”
He grinned.
“Maybe?”
You smiled.
“Definitely.”
“There we go.”
He kissed your forehead again. Your daughter looked between the two of you and giggled. Then she reached up and smacked her father’s face. He blinked. You burst out laughing.
“Well, that’s definitely your child.”
He looked offended.
“My child?”
“Absolutely.”
Your daughter did it again. He sighed.
“I stand corrected. She has your sense of humor.”
You laughed harder. Then your little girl leaned forward and buried herself against your chest. Your laughter slowly faded. Because there she was. Curled against you. Warm. Safe. Home.
You looked at the dark curls on her head. The eyes that looked so much like her father’s. The tiny fingers. The little expressions. And suddenly…you didn’t care. Because she had just taken her very first steps. And she had walked straight into your arms. As though there had never been any other destination.
Robby watched your face soften. He smiled. Then he wrapped one arm around your shoulders and pulled you close. You rested your head against him. Your daughter tucked safely between you.
The three of you sat there on the living room floor as the evening sunlight poured through the windows. No one said anything for a long while. Then your husband pressed one final kiss into your hair and whispered softly,
“She has my eyes.”
You smiled.
“She does.”
“My hair.”
“Definitely.”
He looked down at the little girl asleep against your chest. Then back at you.
“But she knows exactly who her mama is.”
Your eyes filled one last time. You looked at your daughter. Then at the man beside you. Your family. Your whole heart. And as your daughter sighed in her sleep and curled even closer against you, you finally believed it. She had never needed something of yours. Because from the very beginning she already had your heart.
Series Summary: It’s definitely not conventional for two alphas to spend their lives together, but Jack and Robby have never been particularly conventional in the first place. They don’t need an omega – but, fuck, do they want you.
Chapter Summary: Long-married alphas Jack and Robby have accepted their strange but comfortable life together -- until you come into the ED with a scent that makes them wonder if fate may have something else in mind.
Tags/Notes: omegaverse, alpha!jack, alpha!robby, omega!reader, first meeting, jack and robby's love story uwu
Content Warning: child in the emergency room (fever, not ultimately serious)
Author’s Note: let’s all collaboratively agree not to project the way i write omegaverse in this one onto the regular human spectrum of sexuality okay? because EYE like it
Word Count: 3.3k
They’d gotten together before they presented. Both late bloomers. Very late. Med school. Assumed to be betas because, well, they were twenty-one and that was more than a little late to be anything else. Robby, bitingly sarcastic, rakishly and boyishly handsome, too cocky for his own good as he flirted with anything with a pulse. Jack, a squirrely redhead fresh off a tour in Kuwait with darkness in his eyes and an amputation that needed six more weeks before he could be fitted for his prosthesis. An unlikely pair connected by one thing: Being not quite enough. Not quite at the top of their class. Not quite harsh enough to attract omegas or soft enough to attract alpha. Just enough for each other.
Morning workouts where Robby pretended he wanted to get fit as an excuse to come to Jack’s physical therapy sessions, encouraging him and watching him with barely controlled lust as he fought his way out of the wheelchair and onto his prosthetic, going from wobbly to sure over weeks and weeks of hard work. Midday lunches where they could complain about professors who lived behind the times and other students who just plain sucked. Study sessions where they savored shortbread cookies from the cafe attached to the library, those shared moments of late-night sweetness enough to fuel them through days of harsh salt and sour.
So they bonded – not in the traditional sense of the word with bites and pheromones, but something else. Something that went deep. Deep enough that when they were both hit by their first rut, they collided into each other full force. Lips that broke against teeth, sweat that mingled as they lost themselves, knots that rubbed against each other as they tangled up in Jack’s army-issue sheets. After that first rut together, they locked eyes – hazel and brown, a sunlit creek – and knew. It would be a hard road for them in a society where two alphas together was well outside the norm, but this was it. This was lust and love and laughter and light and everything all merged into one relationship.
They decided to figure it out together.
Wedding bands and attending positions and fifteen years of figuring it out later, there’s only one thing missing: A family of their own. Every alpha has that deep urge at the base of their gut to have pups – to breed, yes, but also to raise children, to grow with them, to be a parent. That was the one thing they couldn’t give each other. There are plenty of options these days for non-A/O couples, of course, but none of them felt like a fit for Jack and Robby.
They could only agree on one option: If the right omega came along, someone they could both spend their lives with, they’d have pups of their own. If it happened, it happened. They could be happy and fulfilled without it, but the option was open.
There’s been a handful of omegas over the years, but never anything serious. Friends they helped out during heats, brief flings, one boyfriend of a couple months. In the last five years, though, it’s just been the two of them. Nowadays, creeping into their forties together, they’re pretty damn sure that dream is no longer possible. Countless friends who understand them most have told them to wait, it’s fate, that biology wants alphas to find omegas. But, really, no matter how much they nod along or laugh it off, they’ve made peace with their simple life together, refusing to admit that there’s still a tiny spark at the backs of their minds every once in a while. That want. That ache.
Jack can smell you from the hub.
Through the clear semi-perforated patch over his nostrils that usually keeps omega pheromones off his mind.
His chin snaps up as you sit down at regular triage. As a nurse does your intake, you cradle a pup who can’t be more than two wailing in your arms. Your eyes are as red-rimmed as his, clearly affected deeply by him being so upset. You soothe the poor baby with gentle bouncing and intentionally flaring that scent of yours. Jack’s body moves before his brain catches up, taking long strides until he’s next to the nurse receptionist, hand on her shoulder, mouth already opening to say, “I’ll take them back and handle everything now. Thank you.”
It takes him by surprise as much as the nurse, who gives him a curious, amused sort of glance. Sure, theoretically, he’s more than welcome to take a patient back in whatever order he wants as an attending. But she can see right through any real reasoning. The stern and sarcastic Dr. Abbot fawning tenderly because of a crying pup and a sniffling omega? It’s…endearing, if strange.
After more than a decade in emergency medicine, he’s very rarely affected by the presence of omegas in distress. He even chuckles when his younger, less experienced coworkers trip over themselves to focus on anything when a sweet, soft thing like you needs immediate help. But now here he is, hand on your lower back as you introduce yourself and the toddler to him, taking sturdy steps across the ED like he’s trying to shield you from any other doctors who might poach your presence.
Guiding you into the closest open room equipped with pediatric supplies, Jack moves like he’s your marionette. As he gets the room and chart ready, his every motion is an unconscious response to you, his body instinctively trying to comfort and assure and take control the way an alpha should. It’s all instinct buried in medicine. While he tries to keep his head on straight, Jack sits on his stool opposite you and the toddler on the hospital bed and gently says, “Tell me all about what’s going on.”
You offer up a small smile and explain as you fuss over the toddler’s messy hair and tear-streaked cheeks and rumpled pajamas, “Benny’s felt yucky all day – really sleepy and fussy, not wanting to eat, running kinda warm – but we had it under control until a few hours ago. Sips of clear fluids, nice cooling bath, resting with some Bluey.” Your eyes go misty again as you look up from Ben and find Jack’s gaze resting tenderly on you. With your lower lip wobbling and your voice thick with tears, you tell him, “But then his fever just kept climbing up starting after dinner. I didn’t feel good about going to sleep not knowing if it would break or not, so we’ve been up for hours. Now he doesn’t want to drink anything and- and he’s never upset and clingy like this; he’s so curious and polite and-” You fall into tears again. “Sorry, I just- I just-”
Jack can’t stand seeing you upset. It hurts as much as any real heartbreak. And he’s never even met you before. He can’t help wondering what it would be like if he took the scent blocking patch off his nose and let himself inhale the fullness of you. Clearly your pheromones are strong enough to be a problem for him without even knowing that.
Swallowing hard, Jack scoots closer and takes your free hand in his. It’s not professional, but you don’t mind. You lean into the touch, clutching his hand close, taking his strength to be your own. Jack squeezes your hand and assures, “It’s alright; you did the right thing bringing him in. We’ll get this figured out in no time. Is it okay if I pick him up and do my exam now?”
With a reluctant nod, you help Jack move Ben onto the exam bed, where he looks so small and so hurt that your tears keep falling despite how often you wipe them away. Ben’s immediately reaching for you, trying to get to your side, and you look to Jack with the most innocent, pained eyes. He touches his stethoscope to Ben’s chest and tells you, “You can stay over here; don’t worry. Are you his mom?”
“Oh, no, not anyone’s mom,” you reply softly, always taken aback by the question no matter how many times it’s asked. Stroking Ben’s wispy hair like he’s your own, you go on, “I’m his nanny. Shoot, his au pair. His mom gets so mad when I forget to call myself that. Anyway, yeah, um, I just take care of him when they’re away, which is a lot of the time.”
He commits that to memory, hating himself for being relieved to know that you don’t already have a mate and pups of your own. It’s a strange swirling feeling in his stomach. Something similar to what he feels when he’s alone with Robby after a fresh batch of students has moved on – a yearning, quiet, needy thing. He swallows hard, swipes a forehead thermometer over Ben’s skin, and tuts, “103.8. That’s no good, little man.” Subtly dropping his hand, he pages for a nurse and tells you, “We’re going to go ahead and start IV fluids since he hasn’t been drinking enough and add some fever reducers to try to get his temperature down so he’s more comfortable. Once he settles some, he’s due for a whole bunch of fun tests. We’re gonna have to admit him tonight to make sure that fever breaks and he can sleep here under observation.”
Ben’s eyes slam up to yours, understanding as much as his tiny brain can as he latches onto ‘sleep here.’ Trying to snuggle closer to you while you fight to keep him on the exam bed, he wriggles and worries fearfully, “Nini stay?”
“He can’t say ‘nanny’ yet,” you tell Jack with the softest smile. You gently run your fingers through Ben’s hair, the gesture clearly to calm you both, and ask Jack, “That’s okay, right? If I stay in the room with him? His parents are in Europe until next week.”
Glancing at your chart to make sure all your paperwork is in order, he replies, “Of course. I’ll have them bring up a cot so you don’t have to deal with the loveseat. They’re awful.”
“That’s sweet; thank you. I know it’s not your job to deal with stuff like that.”
“Don’t worry about it.” As a resident pushes an IV and takes cultures, Ben finally starts to quiet and soften as the fluids hit his system, his sleepiness beginning to take over. Jack tells you sternly, his eyes paternal and warm, “I want you to be extra diligent about keeping yourself healthy the next couple days. Can’t have a lovely thing like you coming down with whatever the little guy has.” Your eyes widen in response to the way the compliment slips from his tongue so earnestly and simply. His face blanches and his neck goes blotchy. Quickly, he stammers out, “Oh, god. I’m so sorry; I have no idea why I just said that. I mean, you are lovely, of course, but-”
“It’s alright, Dr. Abbot,” you giggle, happy to smile for the first time since you’ve been at the hospital. You give Jack a playful nudge and add, “I don’t mind being called lovely by a silver fox such as yourself.”
As his cheeks tinge bright pink, Jack nods courteously, grateful that you’ve given him an out. “Thank you. That’s, ah, that’s very nice of you.”
You snicker and shake your head. “Please; I’m sure patients hit on you all the time.”
The junior doctor who’s tending to Ben snorts, “You have no idea.” Her mischievous eyes flick up to yours with a conspiratorial sort of energy. “Usually it doesn’t fluster him so much.”
Abbot releases a harsh breath and bites back, “Ellis, please.”
“I’m just saying,” she teases lightly, making big amused faces to amuse Ben while drawing his blood and praising him for being brave, “the big bad night shift attending doesn’t usually take care of sweet toddlers with fevers himself.”
Abbot hisses, “Parker.”
She just chuckles to herself and stands up with her collection of swabs and vials. Practically skipping past with amusement, she leans in close to him and teases, “We can smell it on you, gramps.”
You let out a squeak, something like a laugh, and avert your eyes. You hadn’t mentioned it because you’re unendingly polite and would rather die than embarrass a doctor, but, yes, Dr. Abbot is scenting all over you like a teenager with a crush, all raspberry and brunch. It’s not necessarily uncommon for an alpha to stink up a room when they’re with a particularly cute omega, but for an older professional it’s a bit juvenile, maybe. Like laughing a little too loud at every joke or staring at someone’s lips while they talk.
To Jack, though, the realization is like being shoved in the chest. As Dr. Ellis takes a reluctant-but-too-sleepy-to-protest Ben off for some imaging, Jack puts his hand over his face and groans, “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. For the compliment and then for this and- God. I haven’t- I’m not even- I’m sorry. That’s the point. Sincerely.”
After biting your lip so adorably it makes Jack’s stomach turn, you sheepishly admit, “It’s really alright, doctor. I’m probably a little too close to my heat to be running around in public; I’m sure it’s affecting you more than it normally would. Don’t worry about it.”
Jack’s brows furrow. You’re affecting him that strongly when he has his nostrils covered and he’s nowhere near being in rut? That’s ridiculous. He must be, like, sick, surely. Or you’re some super omega with magic seduction hormone powers.
Or, worse than it all, you’re something special.
His mind races a bit as he turns away from you, reaches up, and carefully peels off the scent-blocking patch over his nose.
And it’s you.
Shift change can’t come soon enough. Jack’s thrumming his fingers against countertops, clicking his pen enough to make Dana snatch it from his hand, and checking on you and Ben so often it could probably count as an addiction. He tries to be subtle about it but fails miserably, not even realizing how pathetic he’s being until Ellis makes fun of him for it – over and over, at that.
Finally, though, fucking finally, his husband slinks through the doors with his sunglasses on and his earbuds still blasting. He walked to work, which means he woke up early, couldn’t get back to sleep, and stayed antsy until he could justify leaving early. The moment he can smell Jack, his face softens, the morning’s anxiety easing because he knows Jack will have already done everything he can to set the day shift up for success.
This morning, though, Jack walks up to Robby with hurried, serious steps unlike the exhausted, unsteady ones he’s usually met with. He doesn’t skip tilting his chin up to meet Robby’s quick kiss – he never misses that – but he does drop his voice low right away to say, “You need to come with me.”
As he meets Jack’s eager pace, Robby hustles up, catches Jack by his lower back, and chuckles against his ear, “Shit, where’s the fire?”
But Jack doesn’t answer, too possessed with leading Robby up to the pediatric room where you and Ben are still both sleeping. The heavy blinds keep out the early morning light and Jack’s hand hesitates on the door handle. You look so peaceful with your lips gently parted, curled up, totally calm now that Ben’s fever’s come down and the antibiotics are working their magic. During morning rounds, he’s the first doctor to punch the lights on and wake a patient to keep the hospital going and free up beds.
But you?
He hates the idea of waking you.
With a shaky breath, Jack meets his own husband’s eyes, tells him all about last night, that moment really just a few hours ago now, and then says, “It’s time for his morning workup. You’ll understand if- I need you to- I don’t even know how to explain myself right now. Just come in here with me, okay? You’ll know. I’m sure you’ll know.”
Tentative, soft, he nods. “Alright, of course. No problem.” Early in a relationship, this kind of intense behavior would be met with suspicion, concern, confusion. But now, with more than a decade of expertise in the strange field of Jack Abbot, Robby knows better than to do anything but what he asks without question. He tucks one of Jack’s too-grown-in curls behind his ear and prods quietly, “Just give me a quick heads up on what I’m in on, though, would you? Because, from here, it looks like a pedes case getting ready for discharge.”
Jack cracks a stupid sort of smile. “I know I’m being nuts, alright? But just take a deep breath when we’re through the door, okay? Because I think she’s- I think she’s supposed to be ours, Michael. I’ve never felt anything like it – and I need you to feel it too.”
Robby tilts his head to the side, any thoughts rushed away. Ours. Conceptually, he knows what Jack means. They’ve discussed it before. But Jack’s never looked so goddamn serious about it. Like there’s not a single question in his mind. If you’re not theirs, then you must at least be his. That makes Robby’s heart rate spike a bit, but he decides not to entertain the thought. He decides, as he has ten thousand times, to trust Jack with the fragile stitched-up thing of his heart.
As Jack pushes open the door and carefully slides the dimmer lights on, you stir to consciousness and so does Ben. When you realize the two of you have actually managed to sleep soundly after such an awful evening, your scent flares happily.
Robby’s world shifts just like Jack’s had.
His breath catches in his throat when you smile at him.
Shortbread.
Butter and vanilla and sugar.
Flooding from your skin, so thick and delicious it makes their heads spin.
Jack and Robby’s scents have always fought one another. Robby – black coffee, no cream, roasted so dark it’s past bitter. Jack – raspberry, bright, effervescent, tongue-coating sour. They don’t make sense together. Every kiss a clash. But with your scent mingled in, something gentle that matches them each individually and meets in the middle, it all blends into something that clicks into place. It’s not just Robby’s rough winter night and Jack’s bright spring sunrise. It’s a summer evening that lingers on and on, warm, ripe, rich. Fireflies in cupped palms and laughter on whiskey tongues and homemade thumbprint cookies dipped in swirling hazelnut heat until they’re perfectly soft. A complicated mouthful finally balanced.
Immediately after they leave the treatment room, Robby drags Jack down a hall and corners him against a wall with a borderline heaving chest. Voice raspy and needy, he presses his forehead to his husband’s and checks, “You feel this- this crazy? Like nothing makes sense anymore?”
Jack swallows hard and tries to focus on the rough scent from Robby’s neck. Usually it calms him, but his head is still spinning from the way your presence mixed with theirs into something so much more simple and true. He reaches up and twines his fingers in the short hair at the back of Robby’s neck and replies slowly, “Yeah. Yeah, of course I do. Fuck. What are we supposed to do? Should we-”
“We shouldn’t,” Jack agrees as he nods like he means it. Sparing a glance over his shoulder, he sees you in the hall, away from Ben’s inquisitive eyes, questioning a nurse with serious concerned eyes. He melts all over again. Looking back at Robby, he sighs, accepting it, “But what if we did anyway?”
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when the codys plan a heist for a luxury gentlemen’s club in los angeles, the last thing pope expects is to connect with the club’s most coveted and profitable dancer. right away, he feels there’s something different about you. little does he know, you aren’t working there of your own free will. your father is indebted to the club’s owner, and his life and yours are on the line if you don’t keep bringing in money until the debt is paid.
warnings/tags: canon level violence, strip club/nightclub setting, shitty and abusive men (not pope duh), death (not reader or anyone in the cody family), reader knows how to pole dance, reader is afab and goes by she/her pronouns, love at first sight vibes, reader is kinda a man-hater but it’s justified, some angst and some fluff, pov switches, reader goes by a stage name but her real name is never stated, no use of y/n, possible strip club inaccuracies, kissing, not explicit smut but mdni, pope is protective af, no baz or smurf, takes place after lena gets adopted but pope is still living in baz’s old beach house. flashbacks are italicized!
author’s note: woooo-weeeeee. my longest fic ever. holy shit. i cannot believe it is finally done. thank you endlessly to @fru1t4fr0gs and @thethyri for reading over this for me and letting me talk about it for weeks and weeks. this is by far the most challenging fic i have ever written and at times i wondered if i should just give up on it, but i’m very glad that i kept going and can share it with you all. i hope you love it as much as i do.
⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆
Tonight was supposed to be your first Friday night off in years.
In hindsight, you had been an idiot to not realize that’s too good to be true. Friday and Saturday nights are always Solstice’s busiest nights, and you aren’t exactly in a position to pick and choose your shifts. Weekends are mandatory for anyone who brings in decent money, and you’re no exception.
You should’ve known it was a simple scheduling error, an oversight from whichever manager had been responsible for this week’s schedule, but the thought of getting take-out and spending your Friday night catching up on a few of your favorite shows that you’ve neglected the newest episodes of had been too tempting for you to think about questioning why your name wasn’t listed under Friday, as it usually is.
Then, at 9:15 pm, precisely fifteen minutes after your shift's typical start time, your phone rang. Right away, a ball of nausea wound tight in your stomach. You didn’t even have to look at the screen to know whose name was displayed across it.
You also knew better than to risk not answering.
“Yes?”
“Where the fuck are you?”
Silas is pissed. That’s nothing new. Silas has been in a perpetual state of pissed off since the day you had the misfortune of meeting him. Pissed is his default.
“Not at work.”
A loud, sarcastic guffaw sounds from your speaker. “Yeah, I fuckin’ see that. Why the hell do you think I’m calling you? To ask about your overall wellbeing?”
“Oh, I’d never think that,” you mutter under your breath, too low and quick for him to make out over the roar of R&B music that blares in the background. “I wasn’t on the schedule tonight,” you say more clearly, digging your nails into your palm in an effort to keep your voice level.
“Yeah, and your buddy Trevor is getting his ass chewed out for that, too,” Silas spits. “You always work Friday nights. The only exception was the time you got food poisoning because I didn’t want you shitting on a customer during a dance. You know that.”
Damn it. Trevor is your favorite of all of the floor managers - the only one who talks to you like a human being. Why couldn’t it have been Gregory? That pervert getting in trouble would almost be worth this phone call and whatever punishment Silas has in mind for you not being at work right now.
“It’s not my fault that Trevor fucked up the schedule,” you say, voice still lethally calm. “I show up when I’m told to. Nothing more.”
“I don’t give a rat’s fat ass whose fault it is,” Silas hisses. “And I’m telling you to show up now, so you better get here before ten o’clock or—”
You don’t want to hear whatever he’s about to threaten you with. It could be anything from not letting you perform a solo routine on center stage tonight to taking a bigger cut of the money you make from private rooms…to even worse.
“Okay, okay. Jesus fuck. I’m on my way.”
You hang up before his voice can give you a migraine before you even arrive at the club.
Forty minutes later, after doing your hair and makeup in record time, throwing on the first cute lingerie set you can find that’s clean, and speeding at least ten over the speed limit the entire drive to the club, you show up with less than five minutes to spare.
Luckily, Silas is nowhere to be found when you enter through the back door. You know that he’ll bitch at you some more whenever you see him, but right now, you’re relieved to start your normal rounds while he’s otherwise occupied. Likely smoking himself to death with a hotdog-sized cigar in his office.
You walk the main floor, making small talk with a few regulars that aren’t complete pieces of shit as far as men who frequent strip clubs go. You book your first private room of the night, and Gregory is a little too happy to inform you that Silas will be taking sixty percent of your earnings tonight as opposed to the standard fifty.
As annoying as that is, you can’t help but feel a little relieved. As far as punishments go, a ten percent increase in his cut is mild. Last time you were reprimanded (for not fucking smiling enough), Silas added an additional five grand to the already exorbitant amount of money that your father owes him.
The exorbitant amount of money that just so happens to be the very reason you are working in this shithole in the first place.
Not even two hours into your shift, and you’re already over it. So over it that you offer to take out a bag of trash for the bartenders just as an excuse to get some fresh air for two fucking minutes.
This part of Los Angeles isn’t exactly quaint - there’s a near constant stream of car horns blaring and police sirens wailing but it’s white noise to you at this point. At least the night air is a nice reprieve from the stench of cheap weed and cheaper cologne even for only a moment.
It says a lot that you consider hanging out by literal dumpsters more appealing than being inside.
You should’ve been out of here a long time ago. It wasn’t supposed to take more than a year to clear the debt that isn’t even your debt to clear.
You didn’t even know that your dad was sick. Not until you came home from college on a random weekend, hoping to surprise him, and found him far thinner and more frail than you had ever seen him, hooked up to a dialysis machine to keep himself from dying of kidney failure.
He’d tried his hardest to keep it all from you. He didn’t want you to worry, didn’t want you to drop out of school to take care of him. He tried to handle the medical bills that accumulated rapidly on his own for as long as he could.
And when he accepted that he couldn’t, he got desperate.
He thought Silas was just a lender. Someone who would help him stay afloat long enough to get a transplant, recover, and get back to work. He didn’t realize exactly what kind of man he had borrowed from until Silas showed up at his house, uninvited and unannounced, waltzing right in like he owned the place.
So vividly you can remember the look of shame on your father’s face when Silas revealed the truth, and the panic that quickly bloomed when he looked directly at you and said the words that changed the trajectory of your life.
“You failed to mention that you have a daughter,” Silas purrs. “She sure is pretty. You know, I think she’d do real well working in one of my clubs. Yeah, she’d be popular. Make me a lot of money. How does that sound? You wanna help your poor, sick daddy out?”
Your dad had instantly refused, pleading with Silas to just give him a little more time, but you could tell that Silas wasn’t really asking. He was telling you what you were going to do. And because you were scared, for your own life and your father’s, you agreed.
Here you are, three years later, with no true end in sight.
The club’s back door screeches open, and you know that your ninety seconds of the closest thing you can get to peace around here has come to an end.
“The hell are you doing out here?” Silas booms, interrupting the relative quiet of the alleyway. “It’s almost time for you to go on center stage. You’re lucky that I’m even letting you go on at all tonight. I wasn’t planning on it, but there’s a group of guys in there requesting you.”
You resist the urge to roll your eyes. The last thing you want is for him to change his mind at the last second and give your solo slot to one of the other girls. “I’m coming. I was just taking out the trash.”
You take a step to walk past him, but he blocks the doorway, his clammy hand shooting out to catch you by the elbow. His grip isn’t quite hard enough to bruise, but still makes bile churn in your gut.
“Don’t get cute with me,” he spits. “You’re already on thin ice tonight.”
You don’t say anything, biting your lip to hold back the overwhelming desire to spit in his face. Silas leans in, his breath foul with the stench of whiskey and cigar smoke.
“Maybe you’ve forgotten what’s at stake here.” His fingers tighten just a fraction around your arm. Just enough to make you wince. “Maybe your dad needs a reminder.”
You taste iron from where your teeth break the skin of your lip. “I said I’m coming.”
Silas snorts, satisfied for now. He lets go of your arm with a shove that is more dismissive than violent and turns back toward the door.
“And try not to fuck up your set,” he snaps over his shoulder. “Those guys in there are blowing their money on you. Don’t make me regret doing you any favors.”
And then he’s gone, letting the metal door slam closed behind him before you can follow him inside.
You stand there for a moment, breathing in and then slowly exhaling when movement from your peripheral vision catches your eye.
Great. Just what you fucking need right now. An audience. Men, of course. Two of them. Just close enough to have heard every word.
“What are you looking at, boys?” You call, voice void of emotion as you make direct eye contact with the stocky, curly-haired one.
He’d be cute, you think, if he wasn’t the kind of guy to spend his Friday night outside of a strip club. The sandy blond looks slightly surprised that you’re acknowledging them, but his buddy remains stoic.
You jerk your chin towards the door Silas slammed behind him.
“The show’s inside.”
⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆
Pope all but forced Deran to switch tasks with him at the last second.
Originally, he was supposed to be the one keeping a close eye on Silas Leary, Solstice’s owner, while Deran scopes out the club’s main floor for the heist that Craig, of all people, is orchestrating.
He shouldn’t be surprised. A luxury gentleman’s club based heist is quite possibly the most Craig heist possible.
But now, instead of watching the balding, sweaty jackass who had berated you in the alleyway not even ten minutes ago, he’s watching you on stage.
You’re more pleasant to look at, at least.
He’s never really seen anything quite like it - the way you dance. This isn’t his first time at a strip club. His brothers have coerced him into going to strip clubs before, though every time prior to tonight was for pleasure, not business. Still, he isn’t unfamiliar with the scene. He’s watched women pole dance before, but not like this.
You’re the only thing in the room that he can concentrate on. For the entirety of the five minutes and some change that your set lasts, he forgets that he’s technically here for recon. He and his brothers made this trip to Los Angeles to get a feel for the building’s layout, to see how operations work, to check out the security systems…not watch the strippers.
He tells himself he’s keeping up appearances. It would be weird to not watch you. Everyone in the room is - even the other dancers, though they watch with less enchantment and more disdain than the patrons.
The song comes to an end all too soon, and Pope continues to watch as you make quick work of collecting all of the bills that had been thrown onto the stage. He stands just a few feet away, close enough that he can see the body glitter dusted across your chest sparkle in the glow of the neon stage lights.
When you stand up, thick stack of cash in hand, your gaze locks with his for one tense but fleeting moment. The look in your eyes is the same as when you had made direct eye contact with him outside the club.
Just as fast as you had appeared on the stage, you then disappear, leaving Pope staring after you.
He thinks back to what he and Deran had witnessed in the alley. He had instantly recognized Silas Leary from pictures he’d seen online, so he and Deran hung around to witness the brief interaction, hoping to get some idea as to what Silas is like in person before entering the club.
It came as no shock to Pope that his reputation precedes him. Harsh, volatile, cruel seemingly for the sake of being cruel. That isn’t what made Pope freeze in place in the alley. It’s what Silas had said to you.
“Maybe you’ve forgotten what’s at stake here. Maybe your dad needs a reminder.”
And your response. You didn’t agree or disagree. Didn’t fight him on it. You looked Silas dead in the eyes, expression unreadable, and barely flinched. Like you had heard the threat a thousand times before, like you were used to the way he grabbed you by the arm. Like it hardly even phased you.
Pope’s first instinct had been to intervene, but he knew doing so would have tanked the job before it began. He couldn’t risk drawing attention to himself and Deran, and deep down, he also knew that stepping in would have likely made things worse on you, too, in the long run.
So he watched from the sidelines, feeling more at peace than ever at the prospect of stealing loads of money from someone, knowing Silas Leary deserves what’s coming for him.
Deran knew it, too, playing it off with a joke that sparked an idea in Pope’s head.
“Shit. You think she hates the fucker enough to help us rob him?”
Pope had said nothing at the time, but he was unable to shake the thought. The entire time that he watched you on stage, the look of unadulterated hatred on your face kept replaying in his mind.
But for just a few minutes, as you danced on the center stage, you seemed different than you did in the alley. Different than you did when you were collecting the dozens of tens, twenties, and hundred dollar bills off of the stage floor. For a few moments, Pope saw himself in you. The way you seemed to completely dissociate while you performed, like there was no one else in the room but you and nothing else mattered. In his own way, he’s been there. With skateboarding, and with boxing. For him, those things are escapes.
He can’t help but wonder if that’s what dancing is for you. An escape from this place.
He supposes there’s really only one way to find out - if he’s right, and if Deran could possibly be right, too.
Good thing Craig had suggested they all bring plenty of cash with them. To keep up appearances, he had said. If you’re going to a strip club, you should always have cash on you. This is just recon, but you never know.
He’d smirked when he said it, as if he already had plans to spend said cash in ways that weren’t relevant to recon, but he still made a fair point.
Pope’s eyes scan the crowded room, searching through all of the dancers and customers in hopes of finding someone who might be of some help. He notices a short, pudgy, middle-aged man who appears to be scolding another dancer.
Gregory, Pope sees that his name tag reads once he approaches him.
“The dancer that just finished up on stage,” Pope asks him, “What’s her name?”
A creepy, almost unsettling smile grows on Gregory’s face. “Oh, that would be Soleil. Why? You want a room with her?”
What Pope wants is to wipe that perverted look off of his face, but rationally he knows that would be counterproductive right now, so he settles for a curt nod. “Yeah, I do.”
“Half hour? Or a full hour?”
Pope knows that he’s supposed to meet his brothers and nephew where they parked a couple blocks away in less than an hour, so he isn’t really sure why he lets the next words come out of his mouth, but for whatever reason, he does.
“Full hour.”
⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆
Gregory barges into the locker room without so much as knocking.
You’re dressed (as dressed as you possibly can be in a place like this), just counting the money you made from your solo set, but his sudden presence still unnerves you.
“You’ve got a private room,” he barks, not bothering to be subtle with the way his beady little eyes trail up your legs. “Room two. Full hour. This guy asked for you after watching your solo performance, so you better not disappoint him.”
You cram the rest of your money into the locker and snap it shut, trying not to give Gregory the satisfaction of seeing how irritated you are - at the way he thinks he owns this place and can enter a changing room without knocking, and especially at hearing you have to do another private room. For a full hour.
You don’t bother asking who the private room is with. You’re confident it’s one of the men who had convinced Silas to let you go on center stage tonight. A group of four or five sat as close as possible to the front, several familiar faces throwing bills at you every few seconds. Any given one of them looks like the type to drop six hundred dollars on an hour-long private room.
“Oh, I’ll try my hardest,” you breathe sarcastically. “Now can I have a second to freshen up? Alone?”
“Hurry,” Gregory snaps. “He’s waiting for you.”
You wait until the door clicks shut behind him to curse under your breath. Sometimes, you think you might hate Gregory as much as you hate Silas - if that’s even possible.
After reapplying your lipgloss and spritzing on a little more perfume, you reluctantly make your way to the private room where you’ll spend the next hour of your life.
At least once it’s over, it’ll be after midnight, which means the rest of the shift likely won’t be quite as busy, and you’ll be able to go home soon—
“Hi,” you chirp, slipping into the room with a forced smile and your best customer service voice. “I’m Soleil. Thanks so much for booking a room with me tonight. And what’s your na—”
You freeze as soon as you turn around from shutting the door behind you, the question dying on your tongue.
Not one of the men from the eager group that sat right next to the stage. You do recognize him, though. He too had stood close to the stage, by himself.
One of the men from the alley.
“Oh,” you quip, voice rising an octave. “You’re—”
“Pope,” he interrupts, and you’re thankful for it, because you didn’t really even know where you were going with that sentence. “My name is Pope.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Pope,” you smile, taking a tentative step closer to where he stands awkwardly in the middle of the room. “Would you like to sit down?” You ask, gesturing towards the couch behind him.
He nods. You hover for a moment, giving him space as he lowers himself stiffly onto the couch. He looks around with uncertainty, like this entire process is completely unfamiliar to him and he isn’t sure what exactly he is supposed to say or do.
“Let me guess,” he starts, settling into the velvet couch. He runs his palms over jean fabric that conceals his bulky thighs. “Your name isn’t actually Soleil?”
You snort a laugh as you take a seat in the empty space beside him. You tuck your legs beneath you, one arm relaxing across the top of the couch, your hand coming to rest just behind his head. Instinctively, your fingers inch towards the base of his skull to toy with the reddish brown curls there, but you stop yourself at the last second, instead smoothing your fingertips over the soft, velvet material of the couch.
Normally, you wouldn’t hesitate to show physical affection for such high-paying clientele - that is what at least 95% of them are here for, anyway - but something about the way he stiffens at your sudden closeness makes you think twice before touching him.
“That depends,” you counter. “Is Pope actually your name?”
He turns his neck to look you in the eye - now close enough that you’re able to see his hazel irises and the light dusting of freckles across his skin.
Pretty, you think - even if he is the kind of man to spend an asinine amount of money on a nearly naked and complete stranger’s attention, you can’t deny that he’s pretty.
“No,” he says lowly. He pauses, swallowing. “Pope’s just a childhood nickname. My real name is Andrew.”
“Andrew,” you repeat with a slow nod. “And which would you prefer that I call you?”
A slight blush appears on the apples of his cheeks. “You can call me whatever you want to.”
It doesn’t really make a difference to you, considering you’ll likely never see him again after the hour he paid for comes to an end, but you can’t help but think the way he blushed when you said Andrew was oddly endearing.
“Well, Andrew,” you hum, “you are correct in assuming that my name is not really Soleil. That’s just the stage name I chose to go by.” You nod towards the sign on the opposite wall that spells Solstice in neon, cursive lettering. You give a small shrug. “I thought it pairs well with the name of the club. Soleil at Solstice.”
There’s something close to a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “I’m sure you’re already aware that soleil means sun in French.”
Yes, you are aware of that, but you’re slightly surprised that he knows that. Most men that come here don’t know their left from their right.
“That it does,” you agree. “Kind of ironic, actually.”
His eyebrows pinch together a bit. “How so?”
Because there isn’t actually any sun in a place like this. A dark, dystopian fucking hellscape.
But you can’t say that, of course. God forbid you say anything even slightly negative about this place and word somehow gets back to Silas. That would be your third strike of the night, and he’d likely tack on an additional twenty grand to your father’s outstanding balance for the hell of it.
You instantly regret saying anything at all.
“Oh, nothing.” You shake your head in dismissal. “Just meant the only thing that’s bright here is the strobe lights.”
He stares at you for an extended moment before responding, his gaze heavy on you. “I wouldn’t say the only thing.”
You exhale a breathy laugh, your cheeks warming more than they should at the sentiment. It fills you with a bit of shame, really - the fact that you’d feel even slightly flustered over a vague compliment from a stranger paying for your company.
“So, Andrew…” you say, breaking the brief but loaded silence that had settled between you. “You paid for this room. What would you like to do in it?”
You dread what comes next. You always do. The kind of “dancing” that you hardly even consider dancing. The stripping, the touching. There’s supposed to be boundaries, of course, but most men think that if they’re paying then that gives them a right to cross them.
But private rooms are part of the job. Silas has made that clear from day one. He lets you perform your solo routines because they generate too much revenue to deny you the one part of the night that you don’t absolutely despise - but your sets last five, maybe ten minutes at most. Your shifts run about six hours. That leaves five hours and fifty minutes to keep the money flowing if you want to keep Silas appeased, which means doing every soul-sucking part of the job you hate: the floor dances, the private rooms, the mandatory mingling and endless flirting.
Every now and then, though, someone will book a private room and pleasantly surprise you.
“I just wanna talk,” Andrew says simply. “If that’s alright with you.”
You have to hold back the urge to sigh in relief. Talking you can do. And the fact that Andrew doesn’t reek of body odor and stout liquor like the majority of your customers makes the thought of conversing with him for the remainder of the next hour even less painful.
Six hundred dollars (well, significantly less once Silas takes his sixty percent cut…) and all you have to do is sit and talk to a decent looking man who isn’t belligerently drunk? You’ve had far worse nights.
“Of course,” you smile, and for once it isn’t completely forced. “You’re paying. If you want to talk, then we talk.”
Andrew is silent for a moment, as if he’s considering what to say next. His stare is unyielding, but not in the way that would normally make you cringe so hard that you risk breaking a tooth. Instead, it feels like he’s really looking at you. Not Soleil, but you.
“I watched your set earlier,” he says when he finally speaks. “That was very impressive. How long have you been dancing?”
Ah. Yes, you had noticed him towards the very front of the crowd when you finished your routine. He’d looked every bit as serious and solemn as he had when you first saw him in the alleyway earlier tonight.
“Dancing? Since I was four. Ballet, tap, jazz, lyrical…” You list off all of the weekly classes you remember taking throughout your childhood. “Pole dancing, though? About three years.”
Andrew looks surprised by the answer, his brows lifting slightly and hazel eyes widening. “Only three years? I would’ve thought a lot longer than that. Is that how long you’ve worked here, then?”
You nod, retracting your arm from where it had been resting behind his head now that it’s clear that - for whatever reason - Andrew is only interested in conversation. You let yourself relax a bit, relieved that you don’t have to put up the usual facade that makes most men swoon.
“Yeah, right at three years now. I practice a lot at home, though. I even got a pole for my apartment. If you work here, you’ve really gotta know your way around a pole, so…I’ve put in the hours.”
He looks impressed at that - or maybe surprised. Or maybe something else entirely. You aren’t sure. You can’t read his facial expressions or his body language nearly as easily as most of the men that enter this room.
“Wow,” Andrew hums with what appears to be a nod of approval. “That’s dedication. You must have really wanted to work here to put so much effort into learning such a specific skill.”
You barely manage to hold back a cackle at that. If he only fucking knew.
You give a half shrug, playing it off. “What can I say?” You sigh. “Guess I really needed the money.”
It’s the truth. Not the whole, disgusting, gritty truth, but it is accurate. As accurate as you can be without trauma dumping and jeopardizing your life…and your father’s.
Andrew nods, looking down at his hands splayed across the tops of his thighs. “Yeah. I get that. I’d be lying if I said that I haven’t made money in some unconventional ways.”
That piques your interest. “Oh? Anything you’d like to share with the class?”
He exhales a small laugh before bringing his eyes back to yours again. “As long as you promise not to tell anyone. If I tell you, it can’t leave this room.”
You make a motion with a hand across your mouth as if you’re zipping your lips and throwing away the key. “My lips are sealed. Pinky promise.” Then, for good measure, you hold out your pinky finger to him in offering.
He stares at your littlest finger for a long moment, the slightest hint of a smirk beginning to tug at the corners of his lips again before he finally lifts a hand of his own, pinky finger upright. He wraps the digit around yours, giving it a firm squeeze before slowly pulling away.
“Years ago,” Andrew starts, “I robbed a bank. It didn’t go as planned, and I spent a few years in prison for it.”
You blink, and wait for him to laugh, or say that he’s kidding. But then five, ten, fifteen seconds pass, and he’s still looking at you with the exact same unreadable expression.
“You robbed a bank?” You ask incredulously. “Jesus, I thought you were going to say that you sold pictures of your feet online or something.”
He doesn’t smile or flinch, just holds your gaze for a second longer. “Yeah,” he says simply. “I wouldn’t say that I’m proud of it, but I did.”
You know that your face must give away your surprise. His revelation should freak you out - if he’s capable of bank robbery, what else is this stranger capable of?
Maybe you’ve become somewhat desensitized to the concept of people going to extremes for money. Your dad. Silas. Even you. A few years ago, you never would have imagined that you’d be here right now. But you have your reasons, and you are. Even though it isn’t your first choice, you wouldn’t want anyone to judge you too harshly for doing what you feel you have to do.
You don’t know Andrew’s past. You have no idea what happened in his life that led him to make the decision to rob a bank. It probably wasn’t because he woke up bored one morning and decided that it sounded like a fun thing to do. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and you know that all too well.
“Well,” you huff a laugh, “I can’t say that I really blame you. I mean, I’d never be able to execute something like that, but it’s fun to fantasize about on occasion.”
“On occasion?” Andrew repeats in a low, curious tone. His brows lift in question. “Like when you’re here?”
You snort, shaking your head. “Please, if I was planning a bank robbery every time that I’m here, I would’ve been locked up years ago. But this place…” You trail off, searching for the right words for what you want to say but know you shouldn’t, “this place can get to you sometimes. Makes stupid ideas sound less stupid. No offense.”
Andrew makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a hum. “No offense taken.”
The rest of the hour drifts by far easier than you expect. Andrew tells you some stories from his time in prison, and about how he grew up not too far from here, in Oceanside. He talks about his siblings, looking down at his lap when he reveals that he’s a twin, but his twin sister, Julia, passed away somewhat recently. You try not to talk too much about yourself, but when he asks you questions, you answer as honestly as you can - telling him that you had been in your third year of college when you started working here, and that one day, when the time is right, you’d like to finish your degree.
By the time a knock sounds at the door signaling that the hour is up, you’re almost startled. It barely feels as if sixty minutes have passed.
“Huh,” you muse, rising from the couch as he does. “That went by a lot quicker than time usually does here.”
Andrew is silent for a moment, his gaze lingering on your face, still as serious as when you had first made eye contact with him in the alley. Then, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a small envelope.
“Here,” he says quietly, holding out the envelope for you to take. “This is for you.” He pauses. “Just you. Not your boss.”
Your eyes shoot up to his in surprise. Not at the fact that he’s offering what you presume to be a tip, but at the last three words. Not your boss.
When your brain catches up, you accept the envelope, clutching it in both hands. “Thank you,” you murmur, trying to keep an even, neutral tone, though you’re sure your face betrays you. “It was, uh…it was nice to meet you, Andrew.”
He gives a small, polite smile as he takes a step towards the door. “It was nice to meet you, Soleil.”
Only when he reaches for the doorknob do you stop him by uttering a single word. He looks back over his shoulder, his eyebrows raised.
You repeat yourself once more. “That’s my name,” you clarify. “My real name.”
He says your name softly. Barely audible. As if just testing how it feels to say it. Then, with a slow nod, he turns the doorknob and exits the room without another word, leaving you staring after him.
Only after his footsteps fade down the hallway do you open the envelope and find that he has given you a thousand dollars.
⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆
“You’re joking, right?”
Jay’s voice fills the silence that had settled over Smurf’s living room following Pope’s suggestion.
“No,” Pope says, trying not to let impatience slip into his tone. “I’m not joking. I really think she would be willing to help us.”
The three men take turns looking at each other before turning their stares back to Pope.
“The stripper?” Craig snorts. “That’s your big idea? I mean, I love strippers as much as the next guy, but you can’t be serious right now.”
“It was technically Deran’s idea.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Deran pipes up.
“When we saw her in the alley,” Pope says, like it’s obvious. “You asked me if I think she hates her boss enough to help us rob him. The answer is yes. I think she does hate him that much. I think she hates that whole place that much.”
No, you hadn’t blatantly said so, but you didn’t need to. He could see it in your eyes, and hear it in your tone. It may as well have been written across your forehead.
“Jesus Christ, man, I wasn’t being serious.”
“Still,” Pope implores, “I spent an hour talking to her. It’s clear she doesn’t want to be there. And after what we witnessed in the alley? It wouldn’t surprise me if she doesn’t really have a choice in the matter.”
His brothers and nephew are silent again, exchanging glances amongst each other.
“She’s been there for three years,” Pope continues. “She knows the layout. She knows when Silas comes and goes. And I’m willing to bet she knows exactly where that safe is and how to get to it, too.”
“So she hates her job,” Craig shrugs. “Doesn’t mean she’s cool with risking a felony charge.”
Pope shakes his head. “She didn’t seem too put off when I told her that I’ve done time for armed robbery.”
All three voices erupt at once.
“You told her what?”
“Why the hell would you do that?”
“Dude, are you insane?”
“I wanted her to know that she can trust me,” Pope says simply. “And she reacted fine. More than fine. She seemed to understand.”
Jay clears his throat. “Look, if we do this, she can’t be a liability. She needs to know what she’s doing, and she needs to keep her mouth shut.”
“She will,” Pope says instantly. “I know she will.”
Deran squints. “How? You spent one hour with her. You don’t actually know her.”
Pope meets his eyes with an unblinking stare. “You think I’d risk all of our asses if I wasn’t sure? I know enough to know that I’m not wrong.”
Pope’s stare is locked on Craig. It’s his operation and therefore he gets the final say. If it were solely up to Jay, or even Deran, he wouldn’t think there’s a chance of getting them to agree. But Craig’s a little riskier than they are. If he thinks there’s even a slight chance that it’ll increase the odds of the job being a success, he’s likely to agree.
“Fuck it,” Craig finally mutters, shaking his head. “Fine. We’ll try it your way. But we aren’t sharing our cut with her. If she gets anything, it’s coming out of your share. I’m not sacrificing my payday because you have a crush on the stripper.”
⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆
Pope knows a guy who knows a guy who somehow knows everything about everyone. And if that guy doesn’t know, he has ways of finding out.
Well, technically Smurf knew him, but Pope uses that connection to his advantage.
The information doesn’t come cheap, but Pope needed to know with absolute certainty before waltzing back into Solstice and asking you to help him rob your boss.
Except now he isn’t just asking for help pulling off the heist. He’s going to ask for help pulling off an execution, because he doesn’t just want Silas Leary’s money, he wants him dead.
It may have cost him three grand, but Pope now has confirmation that his suspicions were correct and somehow worse than he had thought. Not only are you essentially being trafficked, but you’re doing so because your life and your father’s are on the line.
Now he knows, without a doubt, just how desperate you must be for a way out. And even though he’s only met you one time, Pope wants to give you that way out.
If only you’ll be willing to take it.
Pope makes the hour and a half long drive from Oceanside to Los Angeles again the very next night without any confirmation that you would even be working, but it’s a chance he’s willing to take. Craig and the others want to get on with the job, and Pope wants to get you away from the likes of Silas Leary as quickly as possible.
He goes over it all in his head the entire drive to the club. Everything he knows about you, from what he had witnessed the moment he first saw you in the alley, to every word you said to him in the private room, to what the private investigator informed him of.
But that’s not all he thinks about. He also thinks about the way your pinky finger felt wrapped around his when you offered the symbolic gesture to keep his secret, and the intoxicating smell of your perfume that he had to fight the urge to inhale the entire hour that you sat beside him on that tiny couch. He thinks about how sweet it sounded to hear you say his name, his real name, and how it sounded even sweeter when you told him your real name.
Maybe Craig is right. Maybe he does have a crush. That’s the most logical explanation for why Pope suddenly no longer cares how much money he pulls from this job. There will always be another job - if he wanted to, he could rob another bank by himself next week. He cares more about getting you out of the unfortunate predicament you’re in, and ensuring that Silas can never bring harm to you or anyone else ever again.
When he arrives, it’s close to midnight and the club is packed. He can barely get through the dense crowd of dancers and patrons that occupy the main floor, his eyes carefully scanning the crowd as he makes his way to the bar, where he orders a beer to keep up appearances until he’s able to spot you.
He waits for over half an hour. He doesn’t move from his seat at the bar, where he has the perfect view of center stage, the main floor, and the doorway to the hallway that leads to the private room he shared with you last night.
Just observing it all is overstimulating. From the loud music that pulsates through Pope’s barstool, to the neon strobe lights that make his eyes throb, to the smell of bodies and liquor that hangs heavy in hot club air, he doesn’t know how you have done it for three years without losing your sanity. Even just sitting here, all Pope can think about are all of the germs on every surface of this place.
When you finally appear at the mouth of the small hallway that leads to the private rooms wearing a pale pink, ruffled bodysuit that looks like it was custom made for you, Pope momentarily forgets why he’s here.
He watches as your eyes flicker around the main floor of the club, as if you’re dreading stepping back into the chaos of it all. When you finally glance towards the bar, your gaze locks with his and Pope’s skin warms at the way your face lights up with surprise. He offers you a small smile and wave of his hand, and that’s all you need to walk the short distance to where he sits.
“Andrew,” you breathe, coming to stand next to where he sits. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”
“Soleil,” he greets, a teasing edge to his tone. He almost lets your real name slip out, but thinks better of it at the last second. He isn’t sure why you trusted him enough to let him know your real name after only an hour together, but he gets the feeling that isn’t something that you tell just anyone.
“I didn’t expect to be back so soon, but…” He trails off momentarily, glancing around the crowded room. There’s too many people. He has to speak too loudly in order for you to hear him over all of the voices and loud music, and he doesn’t want to risk anyone overhearing. “Are you busy right now?”
You shake your head. “No. I just finished up a private room. I’ve already done my solo set for the night. I was just going to walk around, make conversation with some regulars. Why? Are you…wanting a room?”
Pope can’t help but think you sound a little hopeful. But maybe that’s wishful thinking on his part. You are doing your job, after all.
“Yeah, I am,” he says, standing up beside you. “If you have time.”
You nod with a smile that reaches your eyes. “Of course.”
He follows as you lead him down the hallway, straight to the exact room that the two of you occupied last night. As he does, a terrifying thought occurs: you might say no. You might get scared, and deny everything, and refuse to help. You might tell him to get lost, and he doesn’t know where the hell that would leave him. But as he walks into the room after you, he swallows that thought down, and focuses on what he does know: you want to be here even less than he does.
“I’m really glad to see you,” you say as you shut the door behind him. “And I’m not just saying that because you tipped me a thousand dollars. Thank you, by the way. That was very generous of you.”
Pope takes a seat on the couch, the exact same spot he sat twenty-four hours ago, though he feels significantly more nervous now than he did then. “No need to thank me,” he murmurs. “I really enjoyed talking to you.”
You take a seat beside him, relaxing against the couch. “Is that why you came back? To talk more?”
He nods. “It is. If that’s okay with you.”
“More than okay with me. Is there anything in particular that you’d like to talk about tonight, Andrew?”
He hesitates for a second. He spent half the drive here rehearsing exactly what he was going to say to you to ensure that this would go as smoothly as possible, but now that he’s sitting beside you, he has forgotten how to string two words together.
He clears his throat slightly. “Can I ask you something?”
Your eyebrows twitch in curiosity. “Sure.”
“If you could walk out of this place tonight and never come back, would you?”
A small laugh escapes you, and you instantly drop his gaze, looking down at your hands in your lap instead. “That’s a hell of a question. You know, most people that get me alone in this room just ask me if I have a boyfriend or what my favorite position is.”
Pope watches you for a moment. “Well, I’m not most people.”
You look back up, your lips pursed. “No,” you agree quietly. “You’re definitely not.” You pause just long enough to make Pope wonder if you’re going to say anything else at all. “Yeah. I would. What makes you ask?”
He exhales slowly, only mildly surprised by your honesty. “I heard what happened in the alley yesterday.”
You’re visibly taken aback, your body going rigid and your eyes going wide, and he can understand why. In the entire hour you spent together last night, he didn’t bring up the incident in the alley. You probably assumed he hadn’t been able to hear what Silas had said, or that he at least hadn’t thought anything of it, but now here he is, bringing it up unprompted.
“Oh,” you start, your voice unnaturally high, “that was just—”
He cuts you off by shaking his head. “I’m not asking you to explain anything to me,” says lowly. “But I know who Silas is. That’s why me and my brothers came here last night. We were supposed to come here, get information, and leave.”
You don’t move as you stare at him in silence, either too stunned or too scared to speak. He continues so you don’t have to.
“But then I met you. And now I can’t just pretend I didn’t see that.”
You study him for a long moment. “What kind of information?”
“Remember when I told you that I did time in prison?”
Your eyebrows scrunch together before realization blooms across your face a fraction of a second later. Instinctively, you change your position on the small sofa, putting more space between the two of you. “Jesus,” you hiss. “You were going to rob—”
You don’t finish your sentence, looking from Pope, to the door just a few feet away, to a security camera in the corner of the room.
“You’re lucky that thing doesn’t have audio,” you spit under your breath.
Pope holds back a laugh. “I know it doesn’t have audio. I know what I’m doing.” He pauses, then offers a small, almost shy smile. “Most of the time.”
“Oh, most of the time?”
Pope shrugs. “Most of the time.”
You sigh, running a hand down your face as you look around the room again.
“Look,” you whisper, “I don’t care what you and your brothers do to Silas, but I can’t get involved.”
Pope doesn’t respond right away. He was expecting you to say something along those lines. But you aren’t screaming at him to get out, or running away to find a security guard, so he still feels hope.
He murmurs your real name for the first time since you had first told him what it is last night. It causes your expression to soften the tiniest bit, a glimpse of vulnerability appearing in your eyes.
“I know that he’s got something over you. And I swear I can help you, if you’ll let me.”
You purse your lips as you stare at him, as if searching for any sign that he could be lying to you.
“I know you don’t know me,” Pope adds delicately. “I wouldn’t blame you for not trusting me. I’m just asking you to hear me out.”
Another beat of loaded silence. “Okay,” you say, barely audible. “But we can’t talk about this here. It’s too risky.” You nod towards the door. “I don’t get off until three.”
“That’s okay,” Pope says, and he hopes that his relief isn’t too evident in his tone. “I can wait.”
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When you first noticed Andrew sitting at the bar, grinning as if just waiting for you to walk in the room, you would’ve assumed that would be the most surprising thing to happen to you tonight.
That assumption proved to be dead wrong, because five minutes later, he revealed that he’s planning to rob your boss.
(Correction: he’s planning to rob him, and knows that he’s a huge piece of shit who is blackmailing you).
The surprises don’t stop there, though. Next, you surprise yourself by inviting a practical stranger into your home.
Your self-preservation skills have always been lacking. That was evident the day that you willingly agreed to work for Silas to help pay off your dad’s debt instead of fleeing the state of California and never looking back.
But this might just break the record for most reckless and foolhardy thing you’ve ever done.
Andrew waits for you in the parking garage down the block from the club until you get off just after three o’clock in the morning. Your body is exhausted, but your mind has never been more awake as you drive back to your apartment with him tailing you in his truck.
Your thoughts reel with all of the ways that this could go disastrously wrong.
You do not actually know this man. You’ve spent less than a collective two hours with him. Your gut tells you that he’s being honest, but is it worth the risk? He’s a bank robber. A convicted felon, who apparently comes from a crime family. Is it possible that you could just be trading one Silas for another? Andrew claims he can help you, but how? And at what cost?
Moments after you arrive at your apartment, Andrew pulls into the parking spot directly next to yours and then follows you wordlessly to your unit.
You have every intention of telling him to make himself comfortable on your couch and offering him fresh coffee. It is well after three o’clock in the morning - most people who don’t work the nightshift would be asleep at this time. But as soon as your front door clicks shut, you suddenly forget all pleasantries.
“You said that you know he’s got something over me.” You stand before Andrew in your small kitchen, looking him dead in the eye. “How much do you know, exactly?”
He meets your gaze with an equally level stare. It isn’t harsh, but it is hard for you to read. You’re quickly learning that to be the norm with Andrew. Difficult to read.
“I know enough,” Andrew says calmly. “I know Silas is a loan shark. I know you’re working for him to pay back money that you didn’t borrow.”
You nod slowly, dropping your gaze to the floor as you lean against your kitchen counter. “And how do you think you can help me with that, exactly?” You glance back up. “Don’t get me wrong, I would love to believe you, but I just don’t see how you and your brothers robbing the guy magically frees me of him. I mean, if he were to find out that it was you, and that I’ve even talked you outside of the club, he would—”
“He wouldn’t find out,” Andrew cuts you off, voice even and low. “I would make sure of that.”
“How?” You take a step towards him without thinking, your hands clasped in front of you. “How would you make sure of that? If you know why I’m working for Silas, then I’m assuming you know about my father. It isn’t just my life on the line here, Andrew.”
His hazel eyes soften at that. “I do know about your father. I also know there’s a lot of people stuck in situations like you and your father, because of Silas. A lot of people who would all be better off if Silas…wasn’t around anymore.”
Your eyebrows lift halfway up your forehead. “Wasn’t around anymore?” You echo. As soon as they leave your lips, the implication becomes clear.
Wasn’t around anymore. Gone. Deleted. Erased.
Andrew doesn’t verbalize a response. He just watches you from where he stands an arm’s length away and waits for you to process what he’s telling you.
That he’s offering to kill Silas. Or have him killed. You don’t really know. There’s a shrill, high-pitched ringing in your ears that’s making it impossible to think clearly.
You finally manage to get two words out. “You’re serious.”
It isn’t posed as a question.
“I am,” Andrew says simply. “If you want me to be.”
You snort at that, because what the fuck are you supposed to say? “Yeah, off with his head!” and “oh no, please don’t hurt him!” somehow feel equally wrong.
You look to the floor again. And then around the room. To your houseplants that need watered, and then to last night’s dishes that still need to be put in the dishwasher. Anywhere but Andrew’s intense, unyielding honey colored stare that you could probably get lost in if it weren’t for the bizarre circumstances for which he is in your apartment right now.
Finally, you exhale. “I think…I want some coffee.” You turn to the espresso machine behind you, and then glance at Andrew over your shoulder. “What about you?”
He looks surprised for a split-second, then nods. “Yeah. Coffee sounds good.”
Upon your invitation, Andrew takes a stiff seat on your couch while you use the few minutes that it takes you to brew and prepare the drinks to attempt to process what the fuck has transpired since the two of you entered your apartment.
It does little good. You still have just as many questions as you did on the drive home. Even more now. Andrew is offering to kill for you? Has he killed before? Was he really in prison for bank robbery? Or was it something else? Should you be trying to secretly dial 911 on your watch right now?
Probably. If you were smart. But you’re not smart. You’re desperate, and Andrew might just be offering you a way out on a silver platter.
Although it could come back to bite you in the ass, right now, you’re willing to be an open book. You meant what you had said to Andrew at the club tonight - you don’t care what he and his brothers do to Silas. Rob him, or worse…he deserves it. And after the hell he has put you, and your father, through these last three years, you have very little hesitation helping Silas get his karma.
“Hypothetically,” you start, sitting down on your small loveseat directly across the table from him. “Let’s say I agree to this…walk me through it. How would you and your brothers…go about this? What would you need from me? And what about…afterwards? What would I owe you?”
The questions pour out of you faster than you can stop them.
Andrew’s brows scrunch together. “You wouldn’t owe me anything,” he says, like it’s obvious. “I’m not Silas. I just want to help you. And if you have any information that could potentially help us, then that would be great, but if not…I still want to do whatever I can to get you out of this mess.”
He says every word so sincerely that it makes you feel silly for even thinking otherwise.
Of course he isn’t Silas. You might not know Andrew very well, but you know that he isn’t Silas. Silas takes what he wants with zero regard for anyone but himself. Andrew has given you every opportunity to express discomfort, to change your mind, to tell him to fuck off. Even now, if you told him to get lost and never contact you again, you don’t doubt that he’d honor your wishes.
Andrew stares so heavy that you swear he can see right through you. His voice is low and steady when he speaks again. “You don’t deserve what Silas is doing to you. But he does deserve what’s coming to him.”
You don’t know if the next words out of your mouth mean that you’re crazy, or just desperate.
“What kind of information do you need?”
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Pope didn’t want to leave you in Los Angeles, but he had to come back home to Oceanside to work out all of the details of the heist with his brothers.
He knows you’re capable of taking care of yourself. You’ve been doing it for years. You don’t need a man that you met two days ago playing bodyguard. But he’d be lying if he said that the thought of you working even one more shift at Solstice, or the thought of you being in close proximity to Silas, or the thought of a random sleazebag laying so much as a finger on you in that place doesn’t make his blood burn white-hot.
He takes comfort in knowing that after tonight, you only have to step foot into that place one more time. And that time, he will be there, too.
Still, he hates knowing that as he sits on his couch in Oceanside, you’re at the club in LA. Pope had suggested that you call out tonight, but you had shot that idea down quickly. You explained that you always work Sunday nights, and you didn’t want to risk drawing any negative attention to yourself before the heist that is now planned for this upcoming Friday night.
Currently, it is 3:46 in the morning, and Pope is wide awake, even though he shouldn’t be, and thinking of you, even though he probably shouldn’t be doing that, either. He wonders if you’ve made it home from work yet, and if your shift went okay or if Silas was there tonight…and he subconsciously grits his teeth at the thought of that.
He manages to hold out until 3:58 before he finds your name in the recently added section of his contacts and presses call.
You answer just after the first ring.
“Andrew,” Your voice pours from his speaker softly, slightly hoarse. “Is everything okay?”
Right away, he’s relieved at the lack of background noise. No music blasting and no drunk frat guys yelling over it. No car horns honking or sirens wailing. It’s safe to assume that you have made it home already.
“Everything’s fine,” he answers. “I just wanted to make sure you got home safely. See how your shift went.”
You exhale a hum of soft laughter. “Just walked through the door a few minutes ago. Work was busy. Really busy for a Sunday night. I’m glad it’s over. Almost.”
“Almost,” he agrees. “At least you’re off for the next few days. The next time you step foot in that place, it’ll be the last.”
There’s a brief pause before you speak. “As long as everything goes according to plan,” you murmur, and Pope can hear the nerves in your voice.
“It will,” he assures you. “Let us worry about that, alright? You just try to relax in the meantime.”
You snort. “Easier said than done.”
“Keep yourself busy so you don’t think about it too much,” Pope suggests lightly. “Do you have any plans this week?”
“Not really,” you grumble. “Los Angeles isn’t really my scene. I wouldn’t be here at all if it weren’t for…” You trail off momentarily. You don’t have to finish the sentence. “Anyway. I go to work, I go home, and sometimes I go to the beach. That’s about it.”
“You like the beach?”
“I do,” you hum. “It’s one of the very few things I like about living here. My apartment is only about a twenty minute drive from Venice Beach. Well, really more like forty with all of the traffic…”
Pope is silent for a moment. During those few seconds of silence, he can hear waves crash against the shore just beyond the front door of the small beachfront house. If he were to step outside and walk mere yards, his feet would touch sand. He can glance out of the window in front of him and see moonlight dance across the water. There’s nothing separating him from the ocean but the walls of the house.
“I live right on the beach, you know,” Pope says, going for casual but probably failing. “The beach is my front yard.”
“Really?” You chirp. “God, that must be nice. I mean, you saw where I live in LA. Just about anywhere beats this shitty apartment, and the shitty traffic, and all of the endless noise, but living on the beach? I can only imagine how peaceful that is.”
There’s an idea forming in Pope’s mind, and he knows it’s irrational and naive, but he has already offered to kill for you after knowing you for one day, so how crazy could anything else really be?
“You ever been to Oceanside?”
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Against your better judgment, later that day you drive to Oceanside with the address Andrew sent you typed into your GPS.
You almost turn around at least a dozen times.
You don’t want to turn around, but what little common sense you possess nearly convinces you to do so. What would you say if one of your coworkers told you that they have packed a bag and are going to stay with a mysterious man who booked a private room with them only forty-eight hours ago, tipped them a thousand dollars, came back the very next night, and revealed that he’s planning to both rob and kill your boss?
You would tell them that the next time you see them, it’s going to be on a missing person’s poster or a Dateline episode.
Yet here you are. Doing exactly that. Because for reasons you do not fully understand, Andrew makes you feel safe. Maybe you’re just so used to feeling unsafe that true safety has become a foreign concept to you. Maybe your judgment is clouded. But when he told you that he has a spare room and offered it to you for the days leading up to the heist, it hardly took any convincing for you to say yes.
Now, less than twelve hours later, with only a duffel bag in your passenger seat stuffed full of beach attire and toiletries, you’re driving to him.
Andrew had offered to come get you, too. And even though you ultimately insisted that you were fine with driving yourself to Oceanside, you can’t deny that the offer made your whole body feel irrationally warm and fuzzy - the fact that he’d be willing to make a third trip to Los Angeles in the last three days because you had made an off handed comment about your distaste for LA traffic.
You’re excited. Not only to get away from the hustle and bustle of Los Angeles for a few days, but also to see Andrew again. This time not inside a private room at Solstice or in your tiny apartment at four o’clock in the morning. You’re eager to get a feel for who he really is outside of the club environment, to see how he is when he’s somewhere that he’s comfortable, to learn about the man who has done nothing but surprise you time and time again since you met him only days ago.
When your car’s GPS announces your arrival, you don’t have to question whether or not you’re at the right place. He’s waiting for you on the front porch.
Like every time that you have seen him so far, he wears a short sleeve button-up shirt and a grave expression that would make you question if he’s actually glad to see you if it weren’t for the fact that he wastes no time trotting down the porch steps to greet you at your car.
He opens your door for you before you have the chance.
“You weren’t exaggerating when you said that the beach is your front yard,” you laugh, grabbing your duffel bag from your passenger seat that Andrew immediately reaches to take from you. “If you were any closer, you’d be in the water.”
When you stand up, Andrew shuts your door behind you and then rubs the back of his neck with his free hand, his cheeks flushing slightly. It dawns on you that this is the first time that you’ve seen him in the daylight. Before now, you’ve only seen him in the neon fluorescents of the club and the low lighting of your apartment in the middle of the night. But now, in broad daylight without so much as a cloud in the sky, you feel like you’re really seeing him for the first time.
You already knew he has freckles, but now you could count every single one, if you wanted to. You knew that his eyes were hazel, but now you can see the tiny flecks of gold around his irises. And you thought that he was pretty the very first time you saw him in the alley, but you can’t help but think he’s even prettier in the sunlight.
“I may have said that to make you want to come,” he admits sheepishly. “But it wasn’t a lie.”
Your own face warms at the admission. “Well, clearly it worked. I came.”
Andrew’s mouth upturns slightly at the corners, his eyes crinkling around them. “Come on,” he nods towards the house. “I’ll show you around.”
The place is relatively small - a single story two bedroom, but in comparison to your studio apartment, it feels like a castle. And it’s clean. Spotless, actually. You hadn’t been expecting a pigsty by any means, but the exceptional tidiness is still a pleasant surprise. There’s not a decorative pillow out of place or so much as a dirty dish in the sink.
He carries your bag to the doorway of the first bedroom and lets you enter before him.
“This is the, uh…” Andrew trails off for a fraction of a second, searching for words, “This is the guest room. All yours while you’re here.”
You take in the appearance of the small room. Like the common areas of the house, it’s clean, but there’s certain characteristics that stand out to you. A pastel pink, floral comforter. A stack of children’s books on the dresser. A handful of small clothes hangers in an otherwise empty closet, and a ladder of pencil markings on the wall right beside it. At first, they look like random scratches in the paint, but as you take a step closer, you realize that they are height measurements. Each spaced a few inches apart, with dates scribbled next to each line. Some of the handwriting appears more feminine, whereas the more recent markings seem childlike.
You glance at Andrew over your shoulder, where he still stands in the doorway, watching you. “Do you…have children?” You ask, curiosity getting the better of you.
His gaze shifts past you, to the pencil markings in the far corner of the room. “No, I don’t,” he answers, a hint of melancholy in the words. “This room was my niece’s, but she doesn’t live here anymore. I just…can’t bring myself to erase it.”
Judging by his tone and dejected expression, he doesn’t seem particularly eager to talk about the subject, so you don’t press it any further, instead locking the information away with everything else you’ve learned about him in the last few days.
His childhood nickname is Pope. He had a twin sister named Julia. He drinks his coffee black. He has a niece, and as of last summer, she was approximately 45 inches tall. He did time in prison for armed robbery, and he’s prepared to kill someone for a woman he barely knows.
You offer a small nod. “Well, it’s a really nice place. Thank you, again. For inviting me. You have no idea how glad I am to be away from LA, even for a few days.”
Andrew’s expression softens. “You don’t have to thank me,” he says, voice calm in a way that you’re quickly growing to find very comforting. “I’m happy that you’re here.”
You plop down on the edge of the mattress and grin up at him. “So, what’s the plan for today? You gonna show me around Oceanside?”
“I was planning on it.” He leans against the doorframe, his thumbs in his pockets as he smirks at you. “We can do whatever you want. Go to the beach, the pier, just ride around. We do need to go to the grocery store at some point so I can grab some things for dinner.”
Your eyebrows lift in surprise. “We can do whatever I want and you’re going to make me dinner? You’re quite the host, Andrew.”
He blushes at that, the apples of his cheeks turning a pretty shade of pink. The thought crosses your mind right then and there - you would never in a million years guess that he’s capable of doing what he plans to do later this week just by looking at him. This blushing, thoughtful man who has been nothing but respectful and considerate of you since the moment you met. He’s going to put a permanent end to the problem that has plagued you for years?
There’s more than one side to people, clearly. But that doesn’t bother you. Not in the slightest. In fact, you’re interested in getting to know every side of Andrew Cody. The soft-spoken version of him standing before you, and the version of him capable of the kind of violence you’ve only ever let yourself fantasize about.
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Oceanside is - quite literally - a breath of fresh air compared to Los Angeles.
It isn’t exactly a small town, but it feels like one by comparison. There’s less people, less noise, less traffic, less smells. The ocean is five minutes away no matter where you go.
Los Angeles may be less than a two hour drive from Oceanside, but it feels like it’s worlds away. You feel like you can actually fucking breathe here.
By the end of your very first day here, you dread ever returning to LA. To Solstice (even for just one more shift). To your cramped, overpriced studio apartment that you’ve tried your hardest to make feel like home but never really has.
But here? Oceanside? Even just a few hours after your arrival, you can tell that this is a place that could easily start to feel like home to you. Partially due to the relaxed nature of the beach town, and partially due to the curly-haired man who is currently cooking you dinner as you watch from across the kitchen bar.
“Whatcha gonna make for dinner?” You ask as Andrew pulls into the grocery store parking lot.
He puts the truck in park and unbuckles his seatbelt before turning slightly to face you. “That depends entirely on what you’d like to eat.”
You had tried to insist that you were fine with whatever, but Andrew is quite convincing when he wants to be. He had refused to leave the grocery store until you told him what to make for dinner. Not wanting to be an inconvenience, or high maintenance, or too picky, you suggested the first relatively simple and inexpensive meal that you could think of on the spot.
Now, you sit across the counter from him, watching as he cooks fettuccine alfredo for the both of you.
As hard as you try not to let your eyes wander, you can’t stop yourself. Andrew seems oblivious, and if he notices he doesn’t say anything, but your eyes are drawn to his broad shoulders, thick arms, and bulky chest. His curls are wind-blown and skin sun-kissed from an afternoon spent walking on the beach near his house, making his freckles more visible than ever.
He catches you smirking at him as he’s plating up the food. A bashful grin appears on his face. “What is it?”
You shake your head with a small shrug. “Nothing. You’re just…not at all what I thought you’d be when we first met.”
Andrew’s eyebrows arch slightly. “You mean the kind of guy that normally books private rooms with you at the club?”
You snort a laugh. “Yeah, something like that.” You pause, grinning. “I mean, obviously most of them don’t recruit me to help them rob my boss…” Andrew chuckles lowly at that. “But they also don’t cook me Italian food and let me stay at their beach house.”
“What can I say?” Andrew slides your plate across the counter. “I’m full of surprises.”
You can’t disagree with that.
Andrew takes a seat beside you and the meal is eaten in companionable silence for the most part, giving your thoughts time to stray to all of the things that you have tried your hardest not to dwell on too much since you arrived here today.
You’ve tried not to think about what’s to come at the end of the week, and all of the ways that it could go disastrously wrong. As hard as you try to think positively, you can’t help but worry about someone getting hurt. Andrew, or one of his brothers, or a random dancer at the club who somehow gets caught in the crosshairs, or even yourself. Your brain conjures worst case scenarios, causing visions of anyone other than Silas dying to replay on a loop until you snap yourself out of it.
But with Andrew sitting next to you, it’s a little easier to silence those scary thoughts and replace them with better ones. Like maybe, just maybe, if this whole operation doesn’t go to shit, there could be more moments like this.
⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆
Pope isn’t particularly eager for you to meet his family, but he knows it’s bound to happen sooner or later. Especially if he hopes to maintain a regular presence in your life once this week is over.
He doesn’t expect you to want the same, but he does hope.
So, on your second day in Oceanside, he bites the bullet and drives you both to the family home after asking his brothers and nephew to meet there to go over everything for the heist a final time.
You assure him you don’t mind, but you’ve never met his family before. He’s slightly comforted by the fact that he never has to worry about you meeting Smurf, but there’s still Deran and Craig, who act like teenagers more than half the time.
“Look,” Pope stops you with a gentle hand on your arm before he reaches for the front door, “If they say anything inappropriate, or weird, just ignore them. They’re children. We’re just here to go over the plan and then we’ll leave, I promise.”
You exhale a laugh. “I can assure you that I’m used to inappropriate and weird, Andrew. They cannot possibly be any worse than the men that I have dealt with on a regular basis the last three years.”
He hesitates a moment, his hand still on your arm as he watches for any sign of reluctance, but you give none. Grudgingly, Pope opens the door and lets you enter before him.
Inside, there’s less noise than Pope expects, and it gives him the tiniest bit of hope that everyone will be on their best behavior. He leads you through the house, where the two of you find Craig, Deran, and Jay already gathered in the living room.
All three pairs of eyes immediately land on you as soon as you and Pope enter the room.
“Holy shit,” Craig laughs. “She actually exists.”
Deran snorts. “I told you she does.”
“Still,” Craig shrugs. “I didn’t believe that she would actually be willing to hear Pope out and not immediately run screaming to the cops.” He stands then, walking the short distance to where you stand beside Pope, extending a hand to you in offering. “Craig, by the way.”
“Ah,” you sigh, briefly shaking his hand. “The mastermind behind this operation, I hear.”
Craig winks, clicking his tongue. “You’ve heard correctly.”
Jay and Deran then introduce themselves, clarity blooming on your face as you recognize Deran from the brief encounter in the alley. You’re perfectly friendly, but the tension in your shoulders and the way that you clasp your hands in front of you doesn’t go unnoticed by Pope.
He can’t blame you for being nervous. You are in a room full of criminals, all of whom are strangers to you - himself included - to plot not only the financial but also physical demise of the man who has made your life hell for years.
Anyone sane would be nervous. But it speaks volume to Pope how much trust you’re putting in him (and how desperate you must be for any chance at freedom, no matter how risky it may be).
With a featherlight hand on the small of your back, Pope nods to an empty section on the couch for you to take a seat. He sits directly beside you, just close enough for the side of your thigh to brush against his.
Craig immediately launches into the logistics of the plan for Friday night. Jay is to disable all security cameras inside and around the perimeter of the club, and then waits with the getaway car. After the cameras have been disabled, Craig, Deran, and Pope will all enter through the basement. Once they are in the safe room, Pope is to signal to you through a discreet communication device that you’ll wear in your ear.
“…and then you’ll tell your creepy floor manager…”
“Gregory.”
“Gregory,” Craig repeats, “that you saw a customer open the basement door and go downstairs. But only if you know that Silas is distracted at the time. We don’t want Silas coming down before we make Gregory open the safe.”
“Right,” you nod. “So then Gregory opens the safe, Deran takes the money and leaves, you and Andrew make Gregory call for Silas to come downstairs, and then…?”
“And then Craig and I take care of the rest,” Pope answers simply. He doesn’t want you worrying about the specifics as to what happens once Silas enters the basement. The less you know at that point, the better. “Whatever you do, you stay upstairs. Finish your shift just like you would any other night. By the time you get off, it’ll all be finished.”
You’re silent for a moment, glancing around at each of the men in the room before you turn your head just enough to look Pope in the eyes. “Are you sure there’s nothing else I can do to help? Kinda feel like I’m not really pulling my weight here.”
“We’re sure,” Pope says before any of the others have a chance to speak up, his tone final, leaving no room for objection. “Between the information you’ve given us and what you’ll say to Gregory, you’ve done more than enough.”
You glance down to where your hands are interlocked in your lap. Then, in a smaller voice with a humorless laugh, “Enough for you to kill a man for me? To risk going back to prison?”
The question makes him forget that the two of you are in a room with three other men. He instinctively reaches out, placing a hand on top of both of yours. Your eyes dart down in surprise to where his hand rests on yours and a thick silence settles over the room before Pope slowly retracts his hand before answering you with absolute resolution.
“Yes,” he implores. “I’ve told you once, and I’ll tell you again. You don’t have to do anything to earn this. I’m offering. Because I want to.”
He wants to for you. Since the moment he first saw you in that alley and he stood and watched as Silas grabbed you by the arm, a part of him has wanted to ensure that Silas never touches you again. That desire has only grown stronger since meeting you, talking to you, and getting to know you these last few days. The only thing that could possibly stop him from sending Silas to an early grave is if you personally begged him not to, and even then, Pope would still want to with every fiber of his being.
You stare at Pope, pursing your lips, and he halfway expects you to argue. But he doesn’t drop your gaze, doesn’t even blink, and eventually you exhale a shaky breath.
“Let’s do this, then.”
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“You nervous about tomorrow?”
You’re hardly able to make out the words over the crashing of waves against the shore and the squawking of a seagull just a few yards away from where you and Andrew sit on the beach.
You turn your gaze away from the sun that has started to set over the Pacific Ocean to find that Andrew is already looking at you.
“Of course,” you admit with a breathy laugh. “Are you nervous?”
Andrew lifts his shoulders in a small shrug, looking back out to the water. “We’ve pulled off more complicated jobs than this before. Not too long ago we infiltrated a military base. A strip club is nothing compared to that.”
Your eyes widen in surprise, as they tend to do anytime you’re learning new information about the man sitting beside you. “A military base?” You echo in disbelief. “Jesus. How exactly did you guys even get into this kind of thing, anyway?”
Robbing banks. Offering to kill a man for a woman he’s only just met. And apparently, infiltrating military bases. That kind of thing. The kind of thing that should send you running in the opposite direction but for some reason makes you want to lean in closer.
Andrew shakes his head, a quick snort of laughter escaping him. “Our mother,” he answers. “She taught us everything we know. I’ve been doing this since Craig and Deran were still in diapers.”
“Jesus,” you mumble. You don’t know the exact age difference between Andrew and his brothers, but he can’t possibly be all that much older than them. He was just a kid. “And you…enjoy it?”
Andrew thinks about it for a moment, leaning back with his palms pressed into the sand. “I wouldn’t say that enjoy is the right word. It’s just all that I’ve ever known.”
You nod slowly, contemplating the words. This lifestyle is his baseline for normal. If you struggle to remember what life was like before you got dragged into working at Solstice only a few years ago, you can only imagine the complex feelings that come with being groomed into an entire lifetime of crime.
“Have you ever thought about what else you would do?” You ask hesitantly. “If you weren’t doing this?”
Again, he doesn’t answer right away. You watch as his eyes narrow in thought, his stare locked on the pink and orange horizon ahead of you. “I’ve thought about it,” he murmurs, a hint of restrained emotion in his tone. “Never for long enough to act on it, but…maybe I’d open a skatepark. Eventually settle down, start a family of my own.”
“Really?” You can’t hide the surprise from your voice. You aren’t quite sure why the answer surprises you as much as it does - you did literally just meet this man less than a week ago, but you didn’t exactly peg him to be the chasing toddlers, Pee-wee soccer game on a Saturday morning kind of guy. “You want to have kids?”
“Maybe one or two,” he shrugs. “I probably won’t, though. It’s just something I like to think about sometimes.” He pauses. “What about you? What are you gonna do when this is all over?”
That’s a question that you’ve been asking yourself for years. Up until now, it has only felt like a distant fantasy. Even now, you’re trying not to get your hopes up too high for fear that it won’t work out. That things will take a turn for the worst. That someone will get hurt, that Silas will somehow get away and find out what you’ve tried to do. Even with freedom almost close enough to touch, you won’t let yourself believe it’s yours until you’re actually holding it in your hand…and until you are, it’s difficult to imagine what life could possibly look like.
You exhale. “I’ll probably start by visiting my dad. I haven’t seen him in a while. I wanna let him know that me and him are gonna be okay. And then…” You trail off momentarily, “and then I’m gonna get the fuck out of LA. Maybe go back to school eventually,” you shrug. “I guess I haven’t let myself think about it too much either.”
Andrew hums in thought at the response. Then, he sits up straight, pulling his knees awkwardly to his chest and looking at you with the same serious expression that you’re no closer to being able to read than you were the night you first met him.
“You’re always welcome here. If you need a place to stay while you figure out what you wanna do.”
The offer warms you more than the evening California sun. Not only the words, but the way you can’t help but think he sounds nervous, and maybe a little hopeful, when he speaks them.
And because you don’t know how to express your gratitude in words, you place your head on his shoulder, instead. He tenses in surprise for a fraction of a second, then relaxes into the embrace, nuzzling the side of his cheek against the top of your head.
“I do like it here,” you hum. I like you, too, you think to yourself. “I might have to take you up on that.”
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“Cameras are officially offline. Soleil, if you can hear me, cough two times.”
Jay’s voice pours through the tiny communication device that Andrew had helped place in your ear only an hour ago. You’re able to make out Jay’s words, but they’re muffled, as the club is already extremely busy tonight - which you’re far more grateful for than you usually would be. Tonight, the more noise, the better. Boisterous laughs and obnoxiously loud music means that patrons and dancers are less likely to hear anything out of the ordinary.
As inconspicuously as possible, you raise your arm and cough twice into your elbow.
“Good,” Jay replies. “Everyone keep to the plan. Pope, let us know when you guys are in.”
The line then goes silent, leaving you to attempt to act calm, cool and collected for however long it takes Andrew, Craig and Deran to get into the basement and then the safe room without being caught.
You haven’t even been here for an hour yet, and you already feel the need to reapply deodorant due to the intense nervous sweats that you’re currently experiencing. You’ve already been to the bathroom twice because your stomach is so tied in knots that you are convinced you’re going to get sick.
Maybe you should have listened to Andrew and called out tonight. He had tried to assure that they would find a way to make everything work without you there, but you stubbornly insisted on helping.
What if your anxiety gets the best of you and you get sick on center stage tonight? What if someone notices how antsy you are? What if your earpiece falls out while dancing?
Oh, that’s just a hearing aid. I somehow went partially deaf in the last few days.
It doesn’t help that Silas is exceptionally irritable tonight, barking at every dancer and employee for every little thing. You spend the first part of the night maintaining as much distance between yourself and him as you possibly can while also keeping a careful eye on him. It’s sheer dumb luck that no one requests a private room with you during the first hour of the night so you’re able to monitor both Silas and Gregory from a reasonable distance while simultaneously conversing with customers.
And, if you were having any second thoughts about playing a part in Silas’ demise, those go out the window the minute that he approaches you that night.
You’re standing at the bar, waiting on some drinks for a table you have been entertaining, when he eases up beside you. Call it a sixth sense, but the way that your skin crawls at the sudden presence tells you it’s him before you even glance over.
“Enjoy your days off?” Silas asks, voice low enough for only you to hear. You cut your eyes in his direction to find him smirking at you, the look in his eyes making it clear that he isn’t just making friendly conversation.
“I did,” you answer shortly, eyeing the bartender to see where she’s at with the Jack and cokes. Not that it’s any of your concern, you bite back.
Silas hums, swirling the ice in his glass. “I’m glad to see you tonight, you know. I was starting to worry that maybe you skipped town.”
Your hands clutch the edge of the bar to steady yourself, your stomach sinking. He doesn’t know. There’s no way that he knows. How would he know?
“Am I not allowed to go out of town for a few days when I’m not working?” You snort, trying to play it off, hoping your horror isn’t displayed across your face. You don’t deny it, because if he’s bringing it up, then he already knows. You just don’t know how much he knows. “I have to run my vacation plans by you now?”
A low chuckle escapes him as he takes a slow sip of his drink. “What’s in Oceanside, anyway?”
Fucking hell.
Just as the last word leaves his lips, and the room around you seems to freeze, the bartender slides the tray of drinks across the counter to you. Your hands are shaking, but you force yourself to pick it up. You’re vaguely aware of Andrew whispering your name in your ear, his voice panicked, but you can’t respond yet.
“The ocean,” you spit, turning around and walking away with the drinks before Silas can say another word.
When you’re halfway across the room, Andrew’s voice pours through the communication device again.
“Are you okay? What the hell was that?”
You still don’t risk responding. You drop the drinks off at the table with exaggerated pleasantries and quickly excuse yourself before the men have a chance to drag you into whatever it is they’re now animatedly conversing about. A fleeting glance in the direction of the bar lets you know that Silas is now occupied by a customer, and only after confirming that his attention is no longer on you, do you take off in the direction of the employee bathroom and lock the door behind you.
“Andrew?” You hiss under your breath. “How much of that did you hear?”
“All of it,” Andrew answers right away. “How the hell does he know?”
“I have no idea,” you whisper, sitting down on the closed toilet. Now that you’re alone and can begin to process what the hell just happened, your heart is racing and your body is shaking and you’ll be lucky to walk back out of this room without collapsing. “I haven’t told anyone about my trip to Oceanside. He must have someone keeping tabs on me when I’m not here.”
The realization makes bile churn in your gut. He’s watching you. Even when you’re not here, he’s watching. He knows when you come and when you go, and he knows where you go. Who fucking knows how many times he’s had someone spying on you when you were just buying groceries or getting your nails done or—
“Breathe,” Andrew says, somehow able to detect your panic without even seeing you. “He’s just trying to scare you. He might know that you went to Oceanside, but he doesn’t know our plan. This doesn’t change anything, okay? We’re already in. We’re doing this. And you won’t have to worry about him anymore after tonight.”
You inhale, then exhale, then repeat, trying your hardest to convince yourself that what he’s saying is true. You know he believes it, and you trust that he wouldn’t lie to you, but right now the small amount of self-preservation that you possess is screaming at you to abandon ship.
But then you think of Andrew, in the basement, only one floor separating you from him. You think of all he’s risking by what he’ll do for you tonight. You think of your time spent together in Oceanside, and how you long for more, and how that isn’t a possibility unless you leave this bathroom and do what you came here to do.
One more deep breath. “Okay,” you exhale. “Okay, I’m okay.” It sounds like you’re trying to assure yourself as much as you are him.
“Good,” Andrew encourages softly. “We’re in the safe room now. No sign of anyone down here. I need you to get Gregory to come downstairs now, okay? Remember the plan?”
Even though he can’t see you, you nod. “I remember.”
Just in case someone is standing outside the door, you flush the toilet and turn the sink on momentarily for the sake of keeping up appearances as you take in your own appearance. Your makeup is slightly patchy from beads of sweat that have gathered on your forehead, but all things considered, you look normal enough.
You pause with your hand on the bathroom doorknob, taking one last, steadying breath before reentering the main floor of the club. A large group of men are huddled around center stage as another popular dancer performs her solo set, and sensuous music blasts loudly through the room.
Silas has moved from his seat at the bar, relocating to a far corner where he sits conversing with a table of regulars with his back to you. Good. And as for Gregory….
Gregory stands next to one of the newest dancers, who currently looks as if she’s being held hostage by whatever Gregory is saying to her.
Now or never, you suppose, forcing one foot in front of the other as you walk across the room.
“Hey, Angel,” you greet her with a cheerful voice and smile, hoping it sounds genuine. “There’s a guy at the bar asking for a private dance with you. I told him I’d send you over.”
Right away, she looks relieved to be freed from her conversation with Gregory. “Thanks,” she breathes before heading in the direction of the bar.
Gregory starts to walk off - knowing that you won’t engage in casual conversation with him like the newer hires who feel obligated to - when you speak up.
“Hey, I saw a guy trying to open the basement door just a minute ago,” you tell him, relieved when the words come out with just the right amount of faux concern. Gregory immediately looks in that general direction, beady eyes narrowing as he tries to find who you could be referring to.
“He was jiggling the handle,” you continue, hoping it prompts him in that direction.
“A guy?” He repeats. “What guy? What did he look like?”
You shrug. “Never seen him before. He was about your height, middle aged, short black hair.”
Gregory’s eyes dart between you and the hallway behind you. “Okay,” he huffs, taking a step away from you. “I’ll tell Silas—”
“I already told him,” you blurt without thinking. “He’s busy. He told me to tell you to check it out.”
To both your surprise and relief, he doesn’t question you further. He just huffs in annoyance, muttering something under his breath about having to do fucking everything around here and storms in the direction of the basement stairway.
For the briefest of moments, you almost feel bad for him. Then, you remember all of the times he has walked in on you and other dancers in the changing room, or tattled on you to Silas for not smiling enough, or stared directly at your tits with zero shame, and then your guilt disappears just as quickly as it had appeared.
You aren’t quite sure what Andrew and his brothers plan to do with Gregory. You didn’t ask, and you aren’t going to. You figured that Andrew would likely give you the same answer he has to the majority of questions you’ve asked over the last few days: the less you know, the better.
You do your best to appear subtle as you watch Gregory approach the door that leads to the basement of the club. He glances around, seemingly looking for the mystery man that you had made up a description of on the spot. When he sees no one that looks as you had described (because of course he doesn’t), he jiggles the handle to find it still locked. Your stomach sinks as you worry that Gregory will chalk that up to good enough and turn around to report to Silas, but then he reaches into his pocket and retrieves a set of keys, still visibly muttering under his breath and shaking his head.
You breathe an audible sigh of relief when he opens the door and he slips into the stairwell without drawing any attention from Silas, who still has his back to the entire incident on the other side of the room.
“He’s coming,” you murmur under your breath, “Gregory is coming downstairs now.”
There’s a quick whisper of confirmation, so fast and low that you aren’t even sure whose voice it was, and then the line goes silent. Your part of the job is over, and you’re left to wait. Wait until you see Silas walk to the stairs when Andrew makes Gregory call for him. Wait as you hope that he never walks back up those stairs. Wait until you hear from Andrew, wait until your shift is over.
And waiting might just be the hardest part of it all.
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“I’m gonna ask you one more time to open this fucking safe.”
Like a rat after a piece of cheese, Gregory had walked right into the trap. He clearly had not actually expected anyone to be down here, because he walked right inside the safe room, muttering to himself about not getting paid enough, where Craig and Deran snuck up behind him, overpowering him within seconds. He didn’t even have a chance to yell before a handkerchief was crammed into his mouth.
Popes gotta hand it to Gregory, though. He fully expected the cowering, sniveling little shit to open the safe the very first time the three masked men demand he do so. But so far, he has yet to cave. Even with the barrel of Pope’s gun pressed to his temple.
He’s trembling, and whimpering, and he has definitely pissed himself, but he is also refusing to put the code in the fucking vault. He’s loyal to Silas, even if he’s nothing else, and that makes Pope feel the slightest bit better about what he plans to do with Gregory whenever they no longer have any use for him.
Pope and his brothers like to avoid casualties if at all possible. But after all you’ve told him about Gregory and now how stubborn he’s being? Pope has a hard time feeling bad.
“I don’t fucking have time for this,” Pope grunts, pulling the Glock away from Gregory’s forehead and instead aiming it towards the lower half of his body. He tries to shout, tries to protest, but the cloth crammed inside his mouth makes it all sound like muffled gibberish.
Pope doesn’t hesitate to pull the trigger, sending Gregory crumpling to the floor with a shot to the thigh that has him screeching around the gag; a high-pitched, animalistic sound. Upstairs, the music continues to blast, the bass vibrating through the floor. Even if Pope’s gun didn’t have a suppressor, he doubts anyone would have heard the shot over all the noise in the club.
Craig and Deran yank Gregory back upright despite his cries of pain. “The next shot won’t be to your leg. You think we’re bluffing?” Craig bellows. “You’re gonna find out if you don’t open that fucking safe right now.”
Gregory frantically nods. Craig and Deran haul him forward, and he raises his bound wrists to the safe’s keypad and begins typing with shaking hands. After a few seconds, the safe door clicks open. Deran pulls Gregory out of the way, allowing Pope to open the door.
“Oh, fuck yes,” Craig laughs in relief at the sight inside. “This has gotta be even more than I thought.”
It is a lot - too much for Pope to take an accurate guess as to exactly how much, but it has to be in the hundreds of thousands. He can’t get too excited yet, though. Not when Gregory here is bleeding through his pants and you’re still upstairs with Silas.
Pope and Craig make quick work of emptying the safe, shoving the stacks of cash into backpacks that Deran and a soon to be masked Gregory will wear out of here to where Jay awaits with the getaway car while Pope and Craig deal with Silas. But first…
“You got your phone on you?” Pope asks Gregory.
Gregory nods with an unintelligible noise of confirmation through the handkerchief still in his mouth.
“Good,” Pope lifts a hand to remove the gag, pausing before pulling it out. “I’m gonna take this out now. You scream, you die. Understand?”
Gregory nods, eyes wide with fear. Pope then yanks the cloth out of Gregory’s mouth, and he immediately begins to hyperventilate.
“Where’s your phone?” Craig demands.
“Back - back pocket,” Gregory pants.
Deran reaches into the back pocket of Gregory’s pants, retrieving the cell phone and tosses it to Pope. Pope holds the phone up to Gregory’s face, letting Face ID unlock the screen. He goes through Gregory's call history and quickly finds Silas’ name.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Pope says coolly, looking Gregory dead in the eye. “You’re going to give your boss upstairs a call. You’re gonna stay calm, and tell him that you need him to come down here right now. When he asks why, you tell him there’s an issue with the safe. If he tries to question you, you pretend you can’t hear him over the music and reiterate for him to come down here. Am I clear?”
Craig speaks up before Gregory has a chance to agree or disagree. “If you try to warn him, you’ll be bleeding from your other leg, too. Or worse. Got it?”
Gregory nods with a panicked sound of agreement, and Pope presses Silas’ name. He answers after the second ring, pop music pouring through the phone’s speaker.
“What?” Silas barks.
Gregory doesn’t speak right away. He opens his mouth like he’s going to, but then closes it, his eyes darting between Pope, Craig, and Deran. Pope wiggles the phone in his face, giving Gregory a look that dares him to test his luck.
“Hey,” he squeaks. “I - uh - I need you to come downstairs for a minute.”
“What?” Silas snaps. “Why? What are you doing downstairs right now?”
“I…I…uhm—” Gregory stutters, his voice unnaturally shrill and shaky. He looks between Pope and his brothers again in hesitation, unable to force the next words out. Deran nudges Gregory’s ribcage with his gun in a reminder of what’s at stake.
There’s one last, loaded second of silence before Gregory opens his mouth and seals his fate…and yours.
“Soleil told me she saw a man going to the basement, I’m sorry Silas, they made me do it—”
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You watch Silas from across the room the moment that he raises his cell phone to his ear.
It could be someone else calling him. Maybe it isn’t Gregory, yet. But it only takes about ten seconds for any doubt to fade away, because Silas looks over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the room until they lock with yours.
You try to look away, to play it off, to pretend you weren’t just watching him like a hawk, but it’s too late. He noticed. He definitely fucking noticed. And whatever was said to him during that short phone call, makes him stand up and head directly towards you.
“Why don’t we take a little walk?” Silas says, low enough for only you to hear. “There’s some things that we need to talk about.”
Your knees buckle and the room around you begins to spin. “I…have a private room in a few minutes. Can’t it wait?”
That’s a lie, but you’re trying to do whatever it takes to do what Andrew had asked of you. Stay upstairs.
“Nah, it can’t.” Silas glances around briefly before sliding a hand into his coat pocket. The movement looks innocent enough but then the unmistakable outline of a gun straining against the material catches your eye. You look back up, your blood running cold, and he’s smirking at you. “And I’m not asking.”
He doesn’t give you the chance to object before he grabs you by the arm and starts hauling you across the overcrowded dance floor, everyone too drunk and distracted to pay any mind to either of you.
“Where are we going?” You ask, trying to play dumb. You say the words loudly enough that Andrew, or anyone listening downstairs, will be able to hear.
He vibrates with low, chesty laughter. “I think you already know the answer to that.”
It takes every ounce of concentration just to put one foot in front of the other and keep yourself upright. Your thoughts are reeling with worst case scenarios. What will you find when you enter the basement? Did Andrew and the others get caught? Did Gregory have a gun on him? Is someone hurt? Once you walk down these stairs, will you ever walk back up?
Neither of you speak again until Silas opens the stairwell door, pushes you inside, and pulls it closed behind him.
“I’ve always known that you’re a flight risk,” Silas grumbles, steering you down the stairs with one hand gripping you by the shoulder and the barrel of his gun now pressed to the small of your back. You couldn’t escape even if you tried. “You really think I wouldn’t notice if you left town for four days? To fuck off to Oceanside?”
You don’t answer. His grip on your shoulder tightens enough that you’ll still feel the imprint of his hand hours later.
“The tracker that I put on your car sure came in handy,” he chuckles low, the sound sending chills down your spine. “Led me right to the Cody residence. I had to do a little digging after that, but imagine my surprise to learn that the Codys have quite the reputation.”
You reach the bottom of the stairs, and he shoves you up against the concrete wall and brings the gun to the side of your temple. You can’t stop the whimper that escapes your lips.
“I just didn’t think you would risk your dad’s life trying to pull some bullshit like this. Clearly I underestimated just how stupid and naive you really fuckin’ are.” He’s close enough that spit sprays across your face with nearly every word that he says.
“So this is what you are going to do if you want your sweet old daddy to live to see another day,” he murmurs, voice lethally calm in a way that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand straight.
Your dad’s face the night Silas first showed up at his house to collect flashes through your mind. The night that would eventually butterfly effect into you standing right here, right now.
“We’re going to walk in there exactly like this.” He presses the gun harder against your temple for emphasis. “And you’re going to tell whoever is in that room to put my money back where they found it. After they’ve done that, you’re going to tell them to get the fuck out of here unless they want to clean your brains off of my floor. And then I’ll deal with you after.”
He pulls the gun away, and the small device in your left ear suddenly feels impossibly loud despite the silence on the other end.
You can only hope that Andrew has heard every word and knows what is coming.
｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡
The door to the safe room is wide open, and you see Gregory’s motionless body crumpled on the floor before you even step foot inside, a bullet wound dead-center of his forehead.
The second thing you notice is that Craig and Deran begin to lower their weapons as soon as you, and Silas directly behind you with his gun still aimed at your head, come into view.
The third, and most concerning thing? Andrew is nowhere to be seen.
After you get over the initial shock of realizing that Gregory is dead, presumably killed by one of the boys after saying whatever the hell he said that made it click in Silas’ head that you have very much played a part in all of this, the realization that you have no idea where Andrew is and that Craig and Deran are surrendering their weapons hits you like a brick.
You were so, so stupid to have ever thought this would work. To have actually believed that things wouldn’t go to shit, that everything would go according to plan, that this would end in your freedom. Now it’ll be a miracle if you and every member of the Cody family makes it out of this building alive.
Where the hell is Andrew?
He wouldn’t leave his brothers behind. He wouldn’t leave you behind. You’re sure enough of that. Not if there were any other way.
“Well?” Silas barks, pressing the muzzle of the gun into your temple. “Tell them.”
But your mouth has gone bone dry. Andrew. Andrew. Where is Andrew—
Craig and Deran exchange a look that lasts a mere second before Craig opens his mouth to speak. “Look, man, we don’t want anyone else to get hurt. Let her go and we’ll leave. Just take it easy.”
“Easy?” Silas repeats incredulously. “You conspire against me, break into my club, kill one of my employees…” He tips his head in the direction of Gregory’s lifeless body. “…and you want me to take it easy?”
Craig and Deran are both silent.
“Kick the bags over,” Silas sighs, his patience already wearing thin.
“Do what he asks, guys,” you manage to force out. “He’ll let you go. Just give back the money.”
Another second of hesitation, another glance between themselves, and then they nudge the backpacks across the floor.
Silas laughs quietly from behind you. “Smart choice.”
It’s then that you notice Craig’s eyes shift past Silas, the movement too quick and minute for Silas to even register as he starts to reach down for one of the backpacks.
Then all hell breaks loose, and the following thirty seconds feel like something out of a fever dream.
One second, Silas’ gun is pressed against your head, and the next, it’s flying across the room with a shot that goes right through the wall. Your body gets propelled forward by a blunt force from behind you, and you go tumbling to the floor with a sharp cry.
When you look up, there’s chaos all around you, but most importantly, there’s Andrew.
The door to the safe room, which had been wide open just seconds ago, is now nearly shut. He had been here the whole damn time, just waiting for the perfect moment to pop out and strike Silas from behind.
Andrew drives into him like a freight train, wrapping both arms around Silas’ torso and carrying him into a metal shelving unit. The entire thing rattles violently on impact, random boxes and loose paperwork falling from the shelves and scattering across the floor. Silas lets out a startled, animalistic grunt, but he recovers surprisingly fast for a man pushing sixty.
Then Craig and Deran jump in, and the four men crash together in an aggressive tangle of limbs and curses. It all happens so fast that it’s impossible to tell who throws which punch and whose blood is dripping onto the concrete.
All you know is that you’re the reason that they called Silas down here in the first place, and you see someone’s gun on the ground, no more than an arm’s length away from you.
Before you can give it a second thought, you grab the gun and force yourself to your feet.
Your hands are shaking so hard that it looks as if you have Parkinson’s disease, and you’re terrified to take the shot for fear that you’ll hit anyone other than Silas, but every horrible thing he has said and done in the last three years is suddenly replaying in your mind as your finger dances over the trigger and you know without a doubt that you have to do what you’re most scared to do.
You yell. A deep, guttural sound that tears through you, loud enough to get the attention of all four men in front of you. Deran, who’s positioned slightly in front of a beaten and bloodied Silas, instantly moves out of the way, giving you a clear shot.
You hear Andrew say your name, you see Silas start to attempt to lunge towards you, but you don’t let either of those things stop you from squeezing the trigger.
Time slows down. Despite the fact that the gunshot hadn’t been very loud thanks to the suppressor attached to it, there’s still a shrill, high-pitched ringing in your ears.
For only a fraction of a second, you wonder if you hit him at all. Then, your question is answered when dark crimson begins blooming across the fabric of his cream colored button-down, just over his heart.
Silas opens his mouth to speak, but only blood comes out, and then he falls forward, collapsing on the ground beside Gregory.
You’re still aiming the gun right where Silas had been standing with shaking hands when Andrew takes a tentative step towards you.
“I killed him,” you whisper, voice trembling. “I killed him.”
Andrew slowly and carefully peels your hands away from the gun and takes it from you. You’re still glued to the spot, both your mind and body in shock from what just happened. From what you just did.
You killed him. You killed Silas. You killed someone. Murdered them. And yes, they deserved it, but you still fucking pulled the trigger and shot them in the chest.
“No, you didn’t,” Andrew murmurs, giving Silas a kick to the shoulder with his foot. Silas lets out a weak groan that makes you instinctively jump back. “He’s still alive.” Then, before you can spiral any further, Andrew aims the gun directly at the man lying on the floor and fires it again, hitting Silas in the head.
He turns to face you, holstering the gun. “See? You didn’t kill him. I killed him.”
“So much for not shooting him in front of her,” Deran grumbles as he picks up one of the backpacks and slides it on. Him and Craig begin to move around the room, but you aren’t paying attention to what they are doing, because your eyes are locked on the body on the floor in front of you.
Bodies. Plural. Two of them. Silas, and Gregory. And blood. A lot of it.
Andrew steps in front of you, blocking your view of it all.
“We need to clean all of this up now,” Andrew tells you gently. He raises his hands as if he’s going to place them on your shoulders, but stops himself at the last second, his hands hovering awkwardly for a moment before dropping them back to his sides. “I need you to do one last thing for me, and then this will all be okay. Okay?”
His voice is steady and calm, but his hazel eyes are serious and pleading, like it’s taking every ounce of his willpower to maintain composure for your sake.
You give him a shaky nod to confirm that you heard him.
“I need you to go back upstairs. I need you to keep watch and make sure that no one tries to come down here, and warn us if they do.”
You’re shaking your head before he finishes speaking. “What? No, no. I can’t go back up there. I can’t. I won’t be able to keep it together. I can’t pretend like—”
“You can,” Andrew interjects, voice firm. “It’s for your own safety, too. People will be suspicious if you disappear at the same time as Silas. You need an alibi. Go upstairs, show your face, book a private room or two, and pretend like everything is normal. Just for a few more hours.”
You swallow, inhaling and exhaling. What he says makes sense. All of the individual words make sense. But how the fuck are you supposed to walk back upstairs and act like everything is normal when you just killed a man?
Okay, Andrew technically killed him. But you still shot him in the lung. He would have eventually died from that alone even if Andrew hadn’t taken the gun from you and put a bullet in his brain.
“Just stay until the end of your shift to cover your own ass. Do you know if anyone noticed you come down here?”
“Uh—” you stutter, trying to remember everything that led up to this moment. “Uh, no. I don’t think so. The club’s really crowded tonight, everyone seemed busy and distracted.”
“Good,” Andrew nods. “You were never down here, okay? The cameras are offline, so you were never here.”
You nod, still unsure of how you’re going to will your legs to carry you back up those stairs, or how you’re going to keep the utter shock of what has transpired in this basement off of your face for the next few hours.
“What - what about you guys?” You ask him. “How are you going to get rid of all of this?”
Andrew shakes his head in dismissal. “You don’t need to worry about any of that. We’ll handle it. The bodies, the blood, the money, we’ll take care of all of it. Just go upstairs and keep an eye out for us.” He pauses, his eyes scanning your face. “You’ve trusted me so far, yeah? I just need you to trust me again for a few more hours.”
You have. You do. You don’t know if you trust yourself to not have a full blown panic attack in the middle of the club, but you do know that you trust Andrew.
You can’t quite bring yourself to verbally agree, but you nod.
Andrew takes a step closer and raises a tentative hand to your face, gently tilting your head to the side. “Earpiece is still in place,” he murmurs.
You expect him to pull away once he’s satisfied with his inspection, but he doesn’t. Instead, the soft pad of his thumb sweeps beneath your eye, wiping away a streak of smudged mascara. The touch is so tender that under different circumstances, you might have leaned into it. Might have closed the distance between you entirely. But right now, with blood still drying on the floor, all you can do is stand there and let him.
It gives you the much needed inspiration to get through the next few hours without completely falling apart, at least.
｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡
It takes every single last ounce of Pope’s self-restraint to not abandon Craig, Deran, and Jay to deal with the aftermath of the heist by themselves while he whisks you far the hell away from the city of Los Angeles in the middle of the night.
Truthfully, the only reason he doesn't do just that is because he doesn’t want it to come back to bite you in the ass.
He has to make sure everything is cleaned up. Everything. Every last drop of blood, every fingerprint, every strand of hair that could have fallen from your person to the floor of that safe room has to be eradicated before he feels comfortable leaving the club’s premises, and he sure as fuck doesn’t trust Craig or Deran to be as thorough as him. Deran lets his dish sponges get filthy and he doesn’t trust Craig to properly wash his own ass.
Finally, in the early hours of morning just before dawn, Pope can confidently say that the job is finished. Through the combined efforts of Craig, Deran, Jay, and himself, the safe room is cleaned spotless, the bodies of Silas and Gregory are disposed of, and the haul of cash makes it back to Oceanside.
Getting both bodies out wasn’t exactly easy, but Pope had planned for shit to go sideways. Jay was on standby in the getaway truck with an appliance dolly in case they were unable to retrieve the money from the safe while inside the club.
It was Craig’s idea, actually, to cram both bodies inside the safe and haul the entire thing offsite…to the middle of the fucking desert where all four men spent several hours digging a hole big enough for a six hundred pound safe.
No, things didn’t go according to plan, but they rarely do. It all proved to be worth it when the cash count ended up being just shy of half a million.
And if Pope’s share of more than a hundred grand wasn't enough to make the entire ordeal feel worthwhile, the relief on your face and the way you fling your arms around his neck when he shows up at your apartment later that day sure as hell does.
Maybe it’s a combination of everything that has happened in the last twelve hours and sleep deprivation, but it takes Pope a moment to register that you’re hugging him in your doorway. When he does, he wraps his arms around your torso and hugs you back, pulling you tight against his chest without a word.
“Sorry,” you breathe when you pull back, just far enough to look up at him. “I’m sorry, I…I’ve been so worried.”
He instantly feels guilty. He had sent you a singular text to let you know that they had left the city when they were on their way to the desert, but after that, he had been so preoccupied with disposing of Silas and Gregory’s corpses that he hadn’t provided you any further updates. He had been operating on autopilot, going through the motions of shoveling dirt, driving his brothers and nephew back to Oceanside, and then driving all the way back to Los Angeles after only a shower and two shots of espresso.
“No, I’m sorry,” Pope murmurs, reluctantly dropping his arms back down to his sides. “I should’ve texted, or called, I just…” He glances around to make sure that none of your neighbors are lingering around outside. You notice his hesitation and move to motion him into your apartment. He steps inside, only continuing once you pull the door closed behind him. “Just wanted to make sure everything was taken care of.”
“And?” You ask, biting your bottom lip in the way Pope has noticed that you tend to do when you are especially nervous about something. “Is it? Taken care of?” You add in a smaller voice.
Pope nods. “Yeah. Everything has been taken care of. There’s nothing that you need to worry about now. No one will ever find them.”
You audibly exhale in relief, your shoulders visibly relaxing as you lean against your kitchen counter and cross your arms over your chest. “Andrew, I…I don’t even know how to say thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me at all,” he says simply.
He’s told you already, but he’ll tell you again, he did this because he wanted to.
He saw you in that alleyway and knew you didn’t belong in that place. He saw you dance on that stage and knew that he had to talk to you. He had one conversation with you and knew that he would be willing to kill for you.
And he would do it all over again, even if he didn’t gain a penny from it all.
Which reminds him…
He pulls out a large, thick envelope tucked beneath the waistband of his jeans and holds it out to you. “Actually,” he clears his throat, “you can thank me by taking this.”
Your eyebrows scrunch together as you accept it from him. “What’s this?”
“It’s your cut.”
You pause before starting to open it. “My cut?”
“Yeah,” Pope shrugs. “Your cut from the money we pulled last night.”
You don’t even look inside before you’re trying to hand it back to him. “Andrew, no. I can’t take this. You killed a man - two men - for me, and then cleaned up the mess and dumped their bodies in the middle of the ocean—”
“Desert, actually,” he corrects softly, and your mouth snaps shut into a tight line, but he can tell by your eyes that you’re fighting a smirk.
“Still,” you implore. “You have done more than enough for me. Taking your money wouldn’t feel right. Not when you’ve already given me a second chance at life. That’s worth more than any amount of money ever could be, Andrew.”
God, he needs to go to sleep, because the last thing he should be thinking about right now is how much he likes to hear you call him by his name.
He hums a laugh, reluctantly accepting the envelope that you’re practically shoving against his chest, then takes a slow step towards you that leaves very little space between you. You’re slotted between him in front of you and your kitchen counter behind you, but you don’t appear the least bit put off by the tight space.
“Thought you said that you wanna get out of LA?” He murmurs. He reaches beside you, placing the envelope on the counter behind you. Then, instead of dropping his hand back to his side, it hovers for an awkward moment before falling to the edge of the counter, right next to your hip. He isn’t quite touching you, but if he moved his hand over a quarter of an inch, he would be. “Go back to school eventually? Start a new life?”
You’re smirking up at him now. “I did say that.”
He quirks a brow. “Then you’ll need money to do that.”
You’re silent for a moment, your eyes trailing over his face. You raise a tentative hand to his jaw, the soft pad of your thumb brushing a featherlight touch over a bruise that he had sustained in the brief but intense scuffle with Silas. Without thinking, he leans into the touch. The bruise is tender, but the feeling of your skin against his outweighs any discomfort.
“I thought you said that I’m always welcome at yours,” you hum. He opens his eyes to find you grinning slyly. It makes the back of his neck warm.
“You are,” he answers automatically. “Always. Is that…something you think you would want?”
You don’t answer with a yes, or a no, or even a nonchalant shrug. You just stare at him with that same soft, teasing expression as your eyes flicker between his eyes and his mouth, your hand still caressing his face.
There’s barely enough time for him to wonder if you’re thinking of doing what he has wanted but held back from doing since you pulled into his driveway in Oceanside before you lift onto your toes and press your lips to his.
His breath catches in his chest as your lips, tentative and impossibly soft, brush over his and every coherent thought leaves his mind at once. One moment, he’s standing in your kitchen trying to convince you to take sixty thousand dollars in cash, and the next he can’t remember how to breathe because the feel and smell and taste of you is overtaking his senses.
You linger just long enough for him to pull away if he wants to.
He does not. Of course he doesn’t.
His hand moves from the counter to your waist, and yours still resting on his jaw shifts to the back of his neck where your fingertips toy with the hair at the base of his skull. He leans down into the kiss, angling himself closer until there’s barely any space left between the two of you.
It’s soft, and hesitant, as if you’re both worried that if you move too fast, the moment will end all too soon. Warm lips move tenderly against his, your tongue sweeping lightly against his in permission that he eagerly grants.
It’s probably the last thing he should be thinking about in this particular moment, but he’s glad that he didn’t talk Craig out of his idea for a gentleman’s club based heist. Really, really fucking glad.
When you pull away, you release a small, breathless laugh that ghosts across his lips.
“Don’t worry,” you breathe, “that wasn’t me trying to say thank you or anything. I just wanted to do that.”
“Yeah?” He murmurs, brushing his lips over yours a final time. It isn’t quite a kiss, but it sends goosebumps down his spine nonetheless. “I take that as a yes, then? You’ll come to Oceanside with me?”
You nod, the tip of your nose nudging his. “I think Oceanside with you is exactly where I need to be.”
｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡ three months later ｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡
“Are you sure you can’t see anything?”
Your eyes are wide open, and all you see is pitch darkness. Andrew is apparently as meticulous at securing bandannas around a person’s forehead as he is everything else he does in life.
No surprise there.
“Honey, I’m positive,” you laugh, repeating yourself for the third time since you got home from class no more than five minutes ago. Andrew had been waiting to greet you, as he usually is, with a blindfold in hand. That part was unexpected, but you have quickly learned to expect the unexpected when it comes to Andrew. He never disappoints.
He had asked if you trust him (he knows that you do) and proceeded to secure the black cloth around your eyes before guiding you down the hallway to the spare room of yours and his new place, which he recently set up as a study room for you.
“Ready?” He murmurs, one hand on your lower back as the door creaks open.
You step into the room. “I don’t know. Am I?”
He chuckles softly, bringing his hands to where the cloth is tied behind your head and then pauses. “If you don’t like it, I’ll take it down.”
“Take it down?” You echo, brows scrunching beneath the fabric.
He answers by letting the cloth fall away from eyes.
What you see is the very last thing you expect.
Right in the very center of the room, directly in front of where you stand, is a dance pole. Damn near identical to the one you had in your Los Angeles apartment. The one you hadn’t bothered to bring with you to Oceanside, because you had been so eager to leave everything about your life there behind. Everything.
Or so you had thought, until very recently when you began to find yourself missing one, and only one, thing. Dancing.
Not dancing for money, not dancing for men, but just dancing. By yourself, for yourself.
You had mentioned it to Andrew in passing only yesterday, that you wish you had kept your dance pole when you packed your entire life into your car and happily drove from Los Angeles to Oceanside to be with him.
Now, not even a full twenty-four hours later, he has both acquired and installed one since you left for class this morning.
You don’t even realize that you’re just staring at the pole, wordlessly, until Andrew clears his throat.
“Like I said, I can take it back down. It isn’t a big deal.”
“What?” Your gaze snaps to him. “No, it’s not…it’s perfect. I was just thinking,” you murmur.
His eyebrows lift slightly. “What are you thinking about?”
Since you came to Oceanside three months ago, you and Andrew have taken things relatively slow in your relationship, aside from the obvious of living under the same roof.
Things started in such an unexpected and unconventional way, but once you got here, your newfound dynamic was able to settle with a sense of normalcy. You may have met in a strip club, killed your boss together, and had your first kiss all in a week’s time, but Andrew still took you out on a proper first date and has been nothing but patient with letting the relationship progress at a pace that you’re comfortable with - physically, mentally, and emotionally - while processing everything that you’ve been through in the last few years and starting your life over at the same time.
Never, in a million years, would you have expected such beauty to come from such trauma, but it did. Because of him, it did. He was the light waiting for you on the other side of the darkness.
You shrug, grinning softly. “About how much I love you.”
Andrew’s hazel eyes widen in surprise. It’s the first time you have said those three words aloud. It’s not the first time you have thought them, but it is the first time you have verbalized them.
After the initial shock fades from his face, it’s replaced with the grin that you’ve fallen in love with waking up to every morning. He takes a step toward you, closing the distance between you by taking your face in his hands and slotting his lips against yours. Your arms instinctively wrap around his thick torso, melting into his embrace as he kisses you in a way that is both familiar and takes your breath away.
He murmurs the next words out of his mouth against yours in between kisses, his voice low and sincere.
“I love you very much.”
⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆
thank you SOOOO much if you read to the end of this!!! as always, comments and reblogs are very much appreciated and will make me love you forever.
also, if anyone reading has watched season 2 of the punisher, i’m sure you caught the reference in the heist scene 😉
Summary : The only place you seem to tolerate Jake is in the sheets. And he uses it to his advantage when you refuse to get out of bed on a squad vacation.
Pairing : Jake “Hangman” Seresin x Fem!Reader
Disclaimer : English is not my first language so sorry for any grammatical errors that might have escaped my proofreading💞
Words : 4.1k
‼️‼️CONTENT WARNING : rivals with benefits dynamics, smut with a tiny bit of plot, oral sex (fem receiving), MDNI.
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“Y/N ! Come on down or we’re leaving without you !” You heard Javy’s booming voice from the bottom of the stairs travel all the way up to your room.
Groaning, you pulled the covers up to your chin, reveling in the warmth and comfort of your bed.
“Oh my god just leave then !” You screamed back, voice straining a bit from the effort, “that’s all I’m asking actually,” you grumbled to yourself.
A few seconds of silent followed your answer, and genuine hope began blooming in your chest at the prospect of falling back asleep peacefully.
Letting out a satisfied sigh, you buried a bit deeper under the covers, eyelids dropping again, and your mind focused on trying to chase back the fragments of the dream you had been rudely awaken from—
“Bitch get up.”
Natasha opened up your door so violently you almost jumped out of bed.
“Jesus Christ, Nat ! Ever heard of knocking ?” You glared at her, hesitating on throwing one of your pillows her way.
“Come on, get up, we are going.” She declared, standing in your doorway with her arms crossed across her chest.
Not intending to move one bit, you simply put up your elbow, head resting on your palm to look at her better.
“Why do I even have to go anyway ?”
“Because it’s a team bonding activity,” she explained, looking a bit desperate now to get you out of your room, “so we can’t properly bond if we’re missing someone.”
“Are you kidding me ? We already bond eight hours for three hundred days a year ! I think you’ll do just fine without me. And actually, I think it’s better that way, we need to learn how to be independent from each other.”
“You know, seeing you like that really makes me wonder how the hell you manage to get up for early training.”
“If I don’t show up to base I’ll literally go to prison, Nat. And besides, this is the only two weeks of vacation we get, so please,” You whined, “please, let me enjoy it how I see fit. If you guys’ idea of relaxing is going on an eight miles hike at five in the morning out in the snow, suit yourself. My idea of relaxing is getting a little sleep, so what, sue me.”
Before putting in your vacation dates with the base’s administration, Natasha had suggested that you all synchronize them, so that you could go somewhere together.
The idea had seemed exciting enough at the time.
It was Bradley who had suggested to go somewhere cold, to escape, if only for a moment, the grueling heat of California. Everyone had eagerly agreed. Settling on a place in the mountains came as an evidence, you had a privileged access to the beach twenty four seven, and the need to see something else than sand and water could be felt simmering along everyone in the squad.
Bob was the one who had suggested Vermont, of all places, to settle down for a week of vacation. Quickly after that, flights were booked, as well as a beautiful little cabin perched up in the snowy mountains of the state. To find something somehow affordable, you had to settle on a cabin with only three rooms… for all eight of you. Since you all bunked enough on deployment, it was a fight to the death to get to have the only single room.
A fight through a tournament of rock, paper, scissors. One you had won by a landslide, mostly due to your squad mates’ inability to change the pattern in which they played the signs, but you were certainly not complaining. This trip was simply the best, exactly what you had needed to unwind. That was… up until now.
When three days into the trip the squad had decided that you would climb up the mountain near the cabin to go see the sunrise from the summit. A fantastic idea you had thought, until you had realised at what time you’d have to wake up. Which all led to the whole squad, already suited up in puffer jackets and snow boots while you were still cuddled up in bed.
“Actually, we don’t even know if it’ll be eight miles, we haven’t decided which trail we’re gonna use.” Bradley said, coming up behind Natasha to pear at you.
“Thanks for the info, Bradley, there was already no chance I was getting up before but this just sealed it. I mean, what kind of organization is this ? Cyclone would whoop your asses if he were here,” you said before putting on a perfect imitation of your superior, “this is not professional of you, you are naval aviators, top guns graduate, the best of the best, we expect better from you.”
You heard Mickey’s laugh from the hallway before you saw him pop up in your doorway, “I love when you do that.”
Reuben was quick to join, along with Bob and Javy. It was beginning to feel like a mission brief in the entrance of your room.
“Come on, Y/N.” Reuben pleaded, “we’ll have tons of fun and it’s gonna be beautiful up there, plus, you promised last night you’d come.”
You frowned, “did I ?”
“Yes.” All your friends affirmed in unison.
A beat.
“Well obviously that was a lie.” You deadpanned at them before fluffing out your pillow and lying back down, “enjoy the hike, and close the door on your way out, please.”
Before any of them could protest, heavy footsteps echoed in the stairway.
“What the fuck are you all doing, you having a meeting in there ? We’re gonna miss the sunrise.”
The sound of Jake’s drawl made you bury yourself deeper under the covers. This was absolutely not what you needed right now.
“Y/N doesn’t want to come,” Bob replied.
You heard Jake let out a snicker, “of course she doesn’t.“
“Bradley, which trail did you say we’re gonna use again ?” Javy asked.
“Oh I don’t know yet.”
You swear you almost heard the sound of Jake’s head whiplashing to look at Bradley.
“You don’t know ? We’re leaving in thirty minutes tops, how the fuck did you make it in the military with that organization ?”
Barely containing a laugh you suppressed it in your pillow at the last minute.
“Alright,” Jake clapped his hands, obviously about to take control like he, so often, loved to do, “everyone go back downstairs, pack your bags, chicken,” he pointed to Bradley, “choose a damn trail, I’ll be down with sleeping beauty in twenty minutes. Be ready by then.”
If your eyes weren’t scrunched shut you would have seen Bradley putting his middle finger right in Jake’s face, who was only harboring a smirk and even winked at him.
Natasha was squinting dubiously at Jake, “what do you even think you’ll be able to do to make her come that we couldn’t ?”
Jake‘s smirk only widened at Natasha’s choice of words, “oh you know, I have my techniques.”
Your heart skipped a beat and you could feel the hair on your neck stand up.
“Alright everyone get out now,” Jake practically pushed them out when they only stared at him dubiously, “and I mean it,” he called out as they were going down the stairs, “I want everyone in front of the door and ready to leave in twenty minutes !”
The sound of the door closing made your heart race in your chest and each step that Jake took towards your bed wasn’t helping.
You felt the mattress dip slightly where he sat next to your lying body and you forced yourself to sound as exasperated and firm as possible, “get out.”
Jake’s hand reached out on your cover covered waist, rubbing lightly. And the simple weight of it, even through thick layers, was enough to have you flush under the cover.
“You don’t mean that,” he almost cooed.
Finally looking up at Jake, the sight of him made you pause for a second, the harsh retort you had ready and loaded dying on your tongue.
If there was one thing you’d reproach to this beautiful cabin, it would be was the lack of effective blinds in your room. The only thing supposedly holding off the light from drowning your room in unwanted sunlight in the morning was a very, very thin beige curtain, which was approximately as useful as Jake when it came to being a supportive wingman in dogfight training.
But that’s not something you were going to complain about now, not when it was letting the moonlight grace Jake’s features in a way that made him look so angelic, making his green eyes full of mischief pop out even more than usual.
Fuck, was he hot.
“I do mean it,” was the only thing you were able to say, tone very much not conveying the authority you had meant it to.
Humming, his gaze quickly flicked to your lips before returning to your eyes, the small smile never leaving his lips, and you wished you could say that your stomach flipped out of repulsion and not… something else entirely.
A beat of silence passed then and it was enough to almost make you squirm under his prying gaze.
“If I eat you out, do you promise to get up ?”
Your eyes almost bulged out of your eyes.
“What ?!”
Jake let out a chuckle at your outburst, “oh please, don’t be so shocked, I thought we were past that now.”
He seemed to be, but you sure weren’t.
It was no secret that you and Jake didn’t always get along, it was basically public knowledge, even the higher ups knew it. To be fair, it was pretty hard to miss when the both of you would engage in your weekly screaming match in the middle of the tarmac.
He just seemed to have a special talent to drive you up the wall, he made you so angry it was sometimes hard to deal with the fury burning up in your stomach. Natasha liked to joke that this whole rivalry and hating game between the two would disappear with a simple, good heated hook up, to blow off the steam between the two of you.
And in a way, she had been right. Except that you hadn’t stop at one.
You wouldn’t even be able to explain how it happened the first time, it was kind of a blur. All you could remember was really how fucking good it was, and how much you hated that it had been. The regret after had been almost soul crushing… But, on second thought, it must hadn’t been that bad because it didn’t stop from you from doing it again, and again… and again.
Jake was like an addiction, no matter how much you wanted to quit him, he made it impossible to.
And after a while, you just accepted it, stopped beating up yourself for it. He made you feel fine, good, great.
Fuck that, he made you feel things you didn’t even know you were capable of feeling.
After that it had become an implicit agreement that since the only place you seemed to cooperate in was the bedroom, why not just enjoy it ?
And you did consummate your arrangement pretty regularly, so you guessed it was hypocritical for you to act so offended by Jake’s proposition. But if you had accepted the situation as it was, it didn’t stop you from putting up a bit of a fight from time to time, if only to hold on to some of your dignity.
Getting over your initial shock, his casualness over all this still unsettled you a little, but you guessed it was to be expected for a guy like Jake. You wondered if there was anything in this world that he considered to be a big deal.
Now that you were sitting up, his hand had gone down to your calf, gently rubbing it over the covers.
“So, what do you say ?” He inquired, voice having naturally dropped an octave.
A shiver ran through your spine at his tone and you just prayed to God it wasn’t visible. If you were honest with yourself, wetness had began pooling in your pajama pants as soon as he had closed the door behind him.
Feeling your cheeks heat up you averted your eyes from his for a second, if only to get a breather from his intense jade eyes.
“Twenty minutes to make me cum is a bit of a long time, don’t you think ?” You provoked, voice coming out a bit breathier than you intended, “thought you were better than that.”
When your eyes flicked back to him, his smirk had gone from cocky to downright predatory. Jake leaned in, catching your lips in a strangely sweet kiss given the situation. The way his lips moved against yours was enough to send butterflies in your stomach swarming around endlessly. And you almost chased him when he pulled apart, his lips made a descent down your neck. Leaving open mouthed kiss on the thin skin, the heat coming from his mouth made your thighs squeeze together. God, it was almost embarrassing how easy you were for him.
“You know I only need five,” he whispered into your neck, his tongue darting out to lick a stripe of skin up to your jaw, “the other fifteen minutes are for you to get ready.”
Taking a deep breath, you desperately tried to not sound like you were already on the edge of begging, “you better get to it then.”
You watched with a racing heart as Jake made his way down your body, keeping his intense stare right on you. He lifted the covers, revealing your lower body and gently stripped down your pajama pants. Feeling a deep flush rush to your face at witnessing Jake’s pupils dilate so much upon landing on your already glistening folds, you almost closed off your legs.
No matter how much time you did this with him, it always felt a bit embarrassing at first, at least for you. Jake didn’t seem to mind one bit. He never did.
An appreciative sound resonated low in his throat, “you’re already dripping, sweetheart,” he said, and the sheer tone of his voice was enough to make you clench around nothing, “was this your intention all along, act all stubborn so I would come in here and eat your pretty little pussy to give you some motivation ?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you tried to scoff but it turned into a gasp when Jake placed a kiss right on top of your clit, “I was having a great dream before you all came barging in here, bugging me about some stupid hike.”
He raised a brow, staring up at you, “a dream, huh ? Was I in it ?” He asked in a grin.
“No.”
Yes, and he was very much doing what he was about to do now.
He only hummed in a smirk, his eyes returning to the task at hand. He lapped up a big stripe from your hole up to the very top of your clit, his thumbs were keeping you open for him, allowing his tongue to explore every surface of your arousal swollen pussy.
“Fuck, you taste like heaven right now,” he groaned right against your entrance, tongue dipping in slightly, making you moan loudly and immediately slap a hand over your mouth.
Jake only chuckled soflty, quickly returning to lap up and kiss at your clit. Your hips had instinctively began to grind into his mouth. Your eyes nearly rolled all the way back to your head when his tongue began flicking the underside of your clit, and you had to bite your hand to muffle the desperate whine piling up in your throat.
“Jake, fuck—“ you choked on a moan when he did it again, “right there, stay right here— oh my god,” your hands flew to his blonde hair, intent on keeping him right where he was.
“I know,” he cooed against your twitching bundle of nerves, “you have such a sensitive clit, baby,” he gave it a gentle suck, making your hips buck right into him, “can feel it twitching in my mouth.”
Letting out a drawn out moan at his actions and words, you pulled on his hair slightly, “don’t be— ah fuck, don’t be weird.”
“That’s not a very smart move,” he commented, looking up from your glistening folds, a smirk pulling at his lips when he noticed the frown of your brows, confusion slipping through the pleasure, “there’s no use in lying, darlin’. Your sweet pussy is more honest than you are, I can feel you clenching around nothing.”
And as if your own body decided to betray you, your core desperately clenched again at his words. Whining, you tried to close your legs around his head out of embarrassment.
But Jake’s hold on your thighs kept them firmly opened up for him, “huh huh, none of that.” He warned, his teeth playfully grazing the hood of your clit, making you yelp.
“What do you even get out of this ?” You asked in a quick breath, prompted up on your elbows and forcing your eyes to stay open and focused on him.
His tongue stopped the kitten kicks it was inflicting on your clit for a second, he looked up at you, something like indignation flashing in his eyes.
“That’s a stupid question and you know it,” he remarked, collecting the slick that had accumulated between your inner lips, “I get to worship this gorgeous pussy of yours, taste you… fuck look at her, she’s dripping for me.” He watched, almost mesmerized as a string of slick was slowly getting pushed out of your cunt, and you wished you could pretend that the way he was referring to your pussy as if it were a whole person wasn’t making pleasure flash hot in your lower stomach, “already swollen from just a few licks,” Jake marveled, “doesn’t take you much, huh, sweetheart ?”
Your head had long since thrown back against your pillow, a mix of wanton moans and whines were interjecting your labored breaths. The effort to try and be quiet long forgotten.
“Stop— Ngh, shit, stop narrating everything.”
Jake’s tongue circled your clit, as if grazing every single nerve of the sensitive pearl with his mouth.
“Why would I ? She clearly loves it,” he pointed out, voice heavy with lust as his thumbs opened you up more, watching with an obvious hunger the way your inner walls were fluttering around nothing.
Growing closer and closer to your high, you started to become more and more desperate, legs shaking and squirming in Jake’s hold.
“Jake, just—“ a moan interrupted you when he licked into your hole, “ah— just make me cum.”
Looking up you, he stopped everything, his lips left your puffy folds to stretch out into a smirk.
When he made absolutely no move to dive back into your burning core, you let out a pathetic whine, hips instinctually bucking into his face.
“Jake…” you groaned, frustration bubbling low in your stomach alongside the remains of the pleasure he was providing you only seconds before.
“Come on,” he coaxed, voice husky, almost purring, “we both know you can beg better than that.”
You would never be caught admitting this out loud but the way he spoke to you was enough to build you back up towards the edge.
“Looks like she knows it too,” he hummed low in his throat, appreciatively eyeing your pussy pushing out another string of slick arousal.
Moaning out of sheer desperation and frustration, you swallowed back your pride. The need to cum was making the urge to fight him at every turn slowly dissolve, overtaken by the overwhelming desire to feel him on you.
“Jake,” you whined, looking down at him between your legs, a deep flush taking over your neck and face, “could you make me cum, please ? I… I need it really, really bad, please make me feel good ?”
“Good girl,” he praised, his hands affectionately rubbing your inner thighs, “so sweet for me…” Jake immediately went back to suck on your twitching bud.
Feeling the white, hot pleasure spark again in your lower stomach made you arch and cry out in bliss.
“Shh, I know, baby, I know.” Jake shushed you softly, “try to quiet down a bit for me, mmh ? I’m gonna take good care of you, but just try not to alert the whole squad, okay ?”
Nodding quickly, you put up your hand over your mouth, trying to conceal every one of the desperate noise that were translating just how much Jake was unraveling you with simply his mouth.
“I know just what you need, sweetheart…” he whispered into your cunt.
His hands snaked their way up your body, slipping under your shirt. And through the hazy fog taking your brain hostage, an understanding of his plan shined through, and the prospect alone made you clench. With a shaky and almost frenetic hand, you pulled up the hem of your shirt, exposing your breasts to the slightly cold air of the room. Your nipples were already erect and perky, practically begging for Jake’s attention. And he wasted no time to indulge them.
“Jake— Jake, fuck… that feels amazing,” you moaned out when his big hands cupped your breast, squeezing them passionately.
The groan he let out sent delicious vibrations in your clit. It was like every little thing he did was purposely meant to make you lose your mind, and you didn’t know if you loved or hated the fact that he knew your body so well, knew you so well, that he was able to unravel you in just a few minutes.
“I know, you feel amazing too, sweetheart, feel fucking perfect.”
Jake’s fingers pinched and pulled at your nipples, occasionally rubbing the perked up nubs, all the while his tongue never stopped its sweet torture. Flicking your clit, sucking on it, licking between your outer and inner lips, lapping up at your weeping hole…
Your moans were freely echoing in the room now, along with the lewd sound of Jake slurping you up. Growing more restless as you could feel the rubber band in your lower belly threatening to snap at any moment, your hips were squirming against his mouth, and from an external point of view it wasn’t very clear if you were chasing him or trying to get away from him. Feeling your frenetic desperation, Jake was quick to reassure you.
“Relax, baby,” he soothed, “focus on me, okay ? Just let yourself feel it, let go sweet girl…”
And all it took after that was a very gentle suck on your swollen clit for the coil in your lower belly to finally snap. A cry left your mouth as white hot pleasure locked your body into place. The hold you had in Jake’s hair tightened as your legs closed around his head, your chest rising in quick breaths as your pussy fluttered sporadically around nothing.
“That’s it, baby, just like that, make a mess… Jesus, look at you.” He groaned, almost reverently while staring at your convulsing form.
After the peak of your orgasm faded, fatigue seeped into your bones as you tried to catch your breath, and the way Jake’s hands were raking all over your satisfied body was not helping.
“You did so well, sweetheart. Shit, I wished we had time to fuck.”
“We could, we could just stay here,” you immediately said, the idea of staying in bed while Jake thoroughly took care of your body was much more appealing than going on that stupid hike, “we’ll find an excuse.”
“Sorry,” he grimaced, not apologetic at all, “we made a deal, remember ?”
You pouted, “you’re no fun.”
He chuckled, all warm and affectionate and you were scared to admit it maybe made your stomach flipped harder than when he was avidly lapping you up just seconds before. His hand came up to cup your cheek, he leaned and left the most gentle of kisses on your cheek.
“I did also wanted you to come on the hike, that’s the second thing I get out of this. The sunrise is gonna be beautiful, don’t want you to miss it.”
That stunned you for a moment, but Jake didn’t give you the time to answer.
“How about I properly take care of you when we come back, hm ?”
Your heart did something weird in your chest, and all you could do was nod.
“Yeah,” your voice came out way too breathy for your liking, you cleared your throat, “yeah, let’s do that.”
Jake smiled brightly at you, stealing one last kiss, smearing a bit of your own arousal on your lips in the process.
“Alright, get your pretty little ass up darlin’ and get ready.”
When you finally came downstairs after the exact twenty minutes that Jake had announced, the whole squad was by the door, all eyeing you with a weird mix of disgust and fascination.
But it was Natasha who spoke up first.
“Oh you two are fucking disgusting !”
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Author’s note : unfortunately I need him so bad.
This has been on my mind for a long time, I’m weak for the rivals with benefits dynamic, I hope you liked it !💞
Also, will I one day be able to write something that’s straight to the point without 1k words of useless squad banter ? No, I don’t think I will.
Summary : Despite how much he irritates you, when Jake loses his father’s watch, you go to the moon and back to bring it back to him.
Pairing : Jake “Hangman” Seresin x Fem!Reader
Important info : Your call sign is Lightning ⚡️ :)
Disclaimer : English is not my first language so sorry for any grammatical errors that might have escaped my proofreading !💞
Word count : 5.5k
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“Lightning watch out !”
You barely had time to register that Javy was screaming your call sign before a ball came crushing down next to you, sending sand flying everywhere on your opened book and sticky, lathered in sunscreen, skin.
Beautiful colors of pink and violet were painting the sky, the sun beginning his descent towards the western aerosphere. It had shined brightly throughout the entirety of the squad’s monthly beach day, bathing your skin in warmth and golden light.
“For fuck’s sake, Javy ! You guys can shoot down a target from two hundred feet while flying at Mach one but you can’t aim a volleyball for shit !” You snapped, dusting the thousands of grains of sands from your book and towel.
Next to you Natasha was hiding a laugh behind her own book.
Pointing a finger at her, you warned, “don’t you dare laugh at me, Nat.” You got up to brush off more sand off your legs, “that’s why I hate going to the beach with them, there’s nothing less relaxing on this earth,” you mumbled out, a frown making the lines on your forehead prominent.
“My bad, Lightning !” Jake called out, his hands around his mouth to amplify the sound, though his tone was very much not apologetic, and the smirk stretching his lips only fueled the irritation simmering under your skin.
Glaring at him, you debated for a second on yelling back a piece of your mind, indulge into this game he seemed to initiate anytime he could. Riling you up, provoking you and then simply grinning like an idiot when you eventually ended up taking the bait.
But for once, you decided to be the bigger person. So you settled on raising your middle finger high enough that he could very much identify what lovely sign you were throwing his way.
“I love you too, darlin’ !” He yelled back.
You rolled your eyes so hard you feared for a moment that they’d get permanently stuck.
“Careful, you’re blushing,” Natasha snickered, still lying next to you.
Scoffing you flipped her off as well, “which side are you on ?”
“The side of love, darlin’.” She smiled in a perfect imitation of Jake’s Texan drawl.
You couldn’t have contained the laugh that broke out of you even if you tried, “shit, you actually sound just like him.”
“I know,” she cooed, obviously proud of her trick, “is it turning you on ?” She inquired, wiggling her eyebrows at you.
A shocked laugh escaped you, “Geez Nat—“
“OH MY GOD WHAT TIME IS IT ?” Javy’s sudden gasp made you both jump as he came running towards you, where all of the squad’s stuff was and he started abruptly digging through his bag.
“It’s seven.” Bob supplied after a quick look to his watch.
“I was supposed to meet my mom for dinner fifteen minutes ago,” he explained, panicked as he was hastily grabbing all his stuff and throwing it carelessly in his bag. “Jake, can you drive me ?”
Usually, you carpooled to avoid bringing everyone’s car and having to park too far away if the beach was busy that day.
“Let me think about it…” Jake walked over, deliberately slow, pretending to think it over.
Javy groaned, not in the mood to entertain his friend’s antics, “come on, man.”
Jake sped up a bit, raising his arms in mock defense, “alright, alright, don’t throw a fit mama’s boy. I’ll drive you.”
As he was gathering his own stuff, you suddenly saw him frown, and then frantically look around. Lifting his towel, emptying his bag only to pack it again, passing his hands in the sand in visible hope of stumbling upon something…
You were about to throw in a witty remark when you noticed something missing on his wrist.
His watch.
His father’s watch.
In its place was now a tanning line. A ribbon of whiter skin surrounded by his Californian and natural Texan tan.
It didn’t take a genius, nor being Jake’s best friend to know how precious that watch was to him, or to guess that it might have been one of the last few things left from his dad.
He wore it at all times. There weren’t much occasion you had seen him without it ever since you’d met him. It had stayed securely around his wrist all throughout Naval Academy, and then had stayed through every one of his deployment until he got permanently assigned in San Diego. During every flight, every mission, every exam even, every casual outing… You could always see the watch rest proudly on his cuff. Perhaps it was the only thing about him Jake didn’t feel the need to flex, a quiet legacy he carried around with him, feeling the weight of it in his every move, every decision.
The only times he ever took it off was during underwater training and at the beach if he went for a swim. Surely a watch like that was waterproof and even capable of descending a few feet deep, but the fact that Jake was unwilling to bring it with him in an environment it was specifically designed to survive in, was only another proof of its value to him.
He never talked about it. Never ever voiced the words ‘my dad’ out loud, but everyone knew. You knew.
Javy was ready to go, packed bag at his feet as he hastily threw in a t-shirt over his head, “Jake ? Are you good to go ?”
Jake froze for a moment. It was rare to see him display anything other than sheer haughtiness. And it weirdly tugged at your heartstrings to see him look so lost for an instant.
You were about to help him look for his watch — sure you hated him, but that didn’t mean you didn’t feel empathy for him losing something so precious to him, when—
“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.” He said a bit absentmindedly, his eyes still frantically looking around as he stuffed, slightly violently, all his stuff in his backpack.
He quickly got up, threw the bag over his shoulder as Javy was waving everyone goodbye and starting to make a run for Jake’s truck.
You watched Jake with a shock you hoped wasn’t too visible. Yes, he was the emotionally constipated type, never one to speak about feelings or do so much as even mention or acknowledge them, but surely when he was about to lose, perhaps forever, the one thing that probably meant more to him than the whole world, he would say something, express himself, let it out.
And you knew that if he’d speak up right now, the whole squad would stop everything and help him look for it. Javy would run right back on the warm sand and rampage through the entire beach if he had to.
Surely, he had to know that the squad wouldn’t see him as weak over getting a little panicked upon losing the one item he held so dearly in his heart ?
But you watched, stunned, and for some reason with a weight pressing down on your chest, as Jake looked one last time at the beach, eyes boring into the sand as if the distance would give him some perspective and help him spot the watch in a nanosecond.
“See you on Monday,” he threw to everyone over his shoulder, soundly halfhearted as he turned around and began to walk towards his truck, joining Javy.
The image stuck with you for some reason. it was like seeing him willingly abandon a piece of himself behind, and for what ? Just so he could hold on to his ‘feelings make you weak’ Hangman persona ?
If you had been closer to him, and in any place at all to call him out on this, you would have screamed at him. Yanked him back by the collar and prohibited anyone to leave this beach until the watch wasn’t back on its rightful place, on Jake’s wrist.
“I think I’m gonna head out as well,” Reuben spoke up, “does anyone want me to drop them home ?”
“Me please,” cheered Mickey, dusting some sands off his chest.
“Yes, please. Thanks Reuben,” Bob smiled, gathering his things.
“I’ll ride with Y/N, we’re gonna head back as well, right ?” Natasha turned to you.
If you had been able to say anything other than insults and provocative remarks, you would have reassured him.
If you had been able to consider yourself his friend, you would have helped him look for it.
“Y/N ?”
But you were capable of none nor were you any of those things.
And still—
“Actually I’m gonna stay a bit longer,” you blurted out without really thinking about it.
“You sure ?” Natasha questioned, skeptical.
“Yeah, the sunset is beautiful, it’s still warm and my book is getting really good, I’ll stay for a bit.” You assured, as if trying to convince yourself more than Natasha.
“Alright,” she conceded, still eyeing you a bit suspiciously, “be careful, you text me when you get home and don’t forget that Penny’s right next door if you have any problem,” she pointed to the Hard Deck which was facing the beach.
“Yes mom,” you chuckled as she playfully rolled her eyes at you.
As Reuben’s car drove away, you stood there for a moment. Watching the waves crash on the beach, the soothing sound of it blending with the distant echo of music coming from the Hard Deck. This beach wasn’t an especially popular one, and you marveled for a second at being the only person standing there.
Why had you stayed ?
You kinda had blurted it out without any real thoughts of what you would actually do once left alone.
Because you hadn’t stayed for the sunset or your book, in fact, the book was getting a bit boring if you were honest.
Jake’s expression when being met with the realization he’d lost his watch suddenly flashed into your mind and it made your heart clench. And perhaps it was what prompted you to start digging in the sand where his towel had previously been lying.
“I can’t believe I’m fucking doing this,” you muttered to yourself while rummaging through the sand, the watch couldn’t be far… right ?
You didn’t even notice when the warm light of the sunset got subsided by the sharp, white one of the moon.
The spot where the squad had previously established its camp was empty. You didn’t find anything apart from a few seashells and a colony of small crabs that you had probably woken up from their slumber.
You probably should have gone home. The watch obviously wasn’t there. But then your gaze drifted out towards the ocean… the guys usually played volleyball closer to the water, perhaps Jake had lost the watch around there ?
The cold breeze coming from the ocean had started to pick up as you searched the grounds of what was previously the volleyball court.
And when you didn’t find anything there, you moved on to other parts of the beach, trying to remember and retrace the entirety of Jake’s steps during the day. Your knees were aching from being constantly on them, hands pruned from the wet sand you’d been digging up, nails completely darkened by the grains. Your phone was slowly dying, using all its battery to shine inside the holes you were digging up, desperate to see a flash of silver. And it was cold, so, so cold. The wind was getting stronger, making you clutch your hoodie tighter around yourself.
The moon had well settled into the sky now, an indicator of just how much time you’d spent there.
You had wanted to give up, oh so many times. But everytime you had wanted to get up and leave, an image of Jake’s face would flash back into your mind. The way he had looked back at the beach, like he was saying goodbye to his dad a second time. And every time, without fail, your brain had conjured images of him getting home, and calling his mom back in Texas, telling her about how he had lost the watch and the image was just too painful for you, enough to bring unwanted and in your opinion, unjustified, tears to your eyes if you thought about it too much.
Anyone could have argued you were being overly dramatic over a guy who you proclaimed your hatred towards from the rooftops. And you would have agreed. But you wouldn’t leave this beach until the watch was secured in your hands.
You were on your hands and knees, near shore where the water was gently lapping up at the sand, bringing new things and taking away some when—
“Y/N ! Is that you ?”
Penny’s voice from the front of the beach made you jumped.
“Jesus Christ, Penny !” You exclaimed, a hand over your racing heart, “you scared the shit out of me !”
Jogging up lightly to meet her, you saw her frown when she took in the state of you, her worried face illuminated by the Hard Deck’s sign.
“What are you doing out there, sweetheart ?” She asked softly, and you could perceive the same tone in her voice she’d use with Amelia sometimes, no doubt that her maternal instinct were kicking in, seeing you all alone, covered in sand and digging up holes in the dark.
“Oh I was— I lost my bracelet earlier, you know we had our beach day with the squad ? Yeah, so the bracelet means a lot to me and I— I couldn’t leave without it.”
You pestered Jake for being emotionally constipated but you couldn’t even admit to Penny, of all people, sweetest woman alive who’d never judge you, that you were doing this solely for him.
“I see,” she said, an empathetic smile pulling at her lips, “I’ll help you.”
“No don’t worry Penny, it’s alright, promise. I’m all good.”
Was there a sick part of you that wanted to be the one to find Jake’s watch ? Maybe, you would deny all of it thought.
“At least I’ll wait for you, I just closed the bar.”
“Don’t worry,” you repeated with the sweetest smile you could mutter out at the moment, “I won’t stay much longer anyway.”
“You sure ?”
“I am, thank you though that’s really nice of you.”
“Could you at least activate your location please ? And also text me when you get home, okay ?”
Saluting her you let out a chuckle, “I will, Penny. Promise.”
“Alright.” She conceded, bregrundly.
She knew this beach was safe, otherwise she would have never left you alone. You parted with a warm hug and watched her drive away, similar to how you’d watched your friends leave a few hours ago now… God, had it been really that much time ?
You were beginning to lose hope, Jake’s watch seemed to have truly vanished, and you tried to ignore the heavy feeling sitting on your chest that came along with this conclusion. Telling yourself to check towards the west side of the beach before leaving, though you knew it was useless, you couldn’t really recall Jake going there, you still crouched, and began to dig, again…
Phone flash blasting in the dark, the light reflected on something then…. Silver !
“Oh my god !”
You rubbed your eyes to make sure the sight in front of you was real and not the fatigue making you hallucinate. But it was real, the small silver circle was still there.
“Oh my god !” You exclaimed again in a laugh, immediately digging in.
And sure enough, the watch was there. Covered in sand, but there. You carefully inspected it for damage, but other than the general dirt, it seemed fine.
Turning the watch over, your eyes caught something. The initials of who you could only guess was his father were delicately engraved in the metal, G.S. Before you could even think about it, your thumb passed, almost tenderly over the gravure.
A small, disbelieving laugh escaped you again, and it was incredibly chocked up. You didn’t even notice you’d been tearing up until you felt something wet roll down your cheeks.
Quickly you wiped the tears off, a feeling of embarrassment creeping up your neck even though you were the sole person standing on this beach, moonlight illuminating your figure.
Forcing your emotions to settle down, it was only a watch for Christ’s Sake, you practically ran all the way back to your car. It felt as if your whole body was buzzing, and you couldn’t explain this weird feeling of excitement and… was it fulfillment ?
A genuine giddiness was coursing through your veins as you drove home, you couldn’t wait for Jake to have his watch again. See him settle, knowing his father’s legacy was in him, like it’s always been and always would be, but the physical representation of it, back on his wrist. The comforting weight of it bringing meaning to every one of his moves.
The excitement kept you awake once you were home, so you took the time to carefully clean the watch. You physically couldn’t give it back to him like that. And soon enough, once you were sure that there was not even the tiniest grain of sand left in any notches, only then, did sleep finally caught up to you.
The sun wasn’t even up yet when you made your way to base the next morning. You had decided that you would just leave the watch in his locker, he didn’t need to know who found it, and maybe he wouldn’t be too happy to see you holding his father’s watch, considering you hated each other…. Right ? At least that’s what you told yourself.
Arriving in front of his locker, you opened his numbered lock, honestly who was stupid enough to put in their birthday as a password ?
But then, anyone could argue that it was weird you knew his birthday, as someone who hated him so much.
Refusing to give this any more thought, you neatly placed the watch in his locker, on a little rag. You made sure one last time that it was perfectly clean, made sure it was not askew, made the sure the rag wasn’t wrinkled…. And for a moment it felt as if you were stalling.
“My god, I need to get a grip,” you mumbled to yourself, finally closing the locker door, a bit more forcefully than you had intended.
“I’m telling you, my mom is obsessed with getting me in a relationship !” Javy complained to Jake on their way to the locker room, “last night she just kept showing me pictures of her friends’ daughters and being like ‘you two would make an adorable couple’ like, oh my god, can’t a man go at his own pace ?”
Jake only hummed, not exactly in the mood to discuss Javy’s mom self proclaimed matrimonial agency.
Each of his step was heavy. Heavy with the lack of sleep and the mass pressing down on his chest. The missing weight on his wrist made him feel strangely stripped bare, like a piece of himself was missing, left where he had abandoned it on the beach the night before.
When Jake had gotten home after dropping Javy off, he had cursed himself. He couldn’t believe he had actually walked away, without even taking the time to look for the watch, no he had just left.
He had to refrain back tears when his mom had called him that night, asking him about his day, and he hadn’t had the courage to tell her what had happened, consumed by sorrow and shame. He felt pathetic. He spent that entire night sulking, thinking about how ashamed his father would be if he saw him like that. It felt like letting him down.
“Like she doesn’t get that I don’t want to settle down, I mean not yet anyway—“
“Yeah, tell her you want to keep bringing girls home from the Hard Deck every weekend for a little while longer, I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to hear it.” Jake finally answered Javy’s rant, trying to give his remark its usual wit.
“You fucking jerk, you’re supposed to be on my side !” Javy whined, opening up his locker.
Jake was abort to retort something but the words died on the tip of his tongue when he opened his own locker.
He froze.
He was met with his watch. Neatly placed on a small rag, looking as new as the day he had received it from his dad, just a few days before losing his battle against cancer.
His heart skipped a beat in his chest. How ?
Jake stayed there for what felt like an eternity to him, but was only a few mere seconds, just staring at the watch. He could faintly hear Javy next to him still talking, now rambling about how his mother compared him to his cousin or whatever, but the sound of his voice was drawn out, an echo in Jake’s ears.
With shaky hands, he gently grabbed the watch and immediately turned it over, eyes fixed on his father’s initials that he traced with a tender pass of his thumb, and his heart clenched, suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of emotion.
He had no idea how the watch had gotten there, and perhaps it should have worried him a bit more — whoever this was had cracked the impossible code of his locker for Goodness’s sake ! — but he chose to pay it no mind.
Now Jake wasn’t superstitious or a believer of any kind, far from it, actually. But in this moment, he chose to believe that whatever, whoever had found his watch and brought it back to him, had somehow been missioned by his father, who had probably been very upset about his son being so careless with the precious time teller.
Jake knew it was stupid, truly. His father, from the beyond, somehow orchestrating a whole plan to find the watch left on the beach and leave it in his locker on base, was a stupid theory. But the thought of it made a warmth spread out in his chest and his eyes sting slightly. So he decided that for once, he would let himself believe in a little stupidity.
This weird mix of euphoria and serenity hadn’t left him the entire week. He felt good, more confident now that the watch was back on his wrist. And he would sometimes just stare at it for a few moments, in amazement and incredible gratefulness for having been given a second chance, that’s how he saw it. And he would honor his father in every action he took while securely wearing the watch.
He had found a new vigor, a new desire to win, one that made him better, he thought. Though the squad would probably argue it just made him more insufferable.
So that’s with a pumped up step that Jake walked into the Hard Deck that week end, closely followed by everyone.
“Alright, what do you guys want ?” He cheered, still in an exceptionally good mood.
The squad all gave him their orders before going to find some seats, you merely grumbled a ‘nothing that comes from you’ and somehow, Jake understood it meant a virgin mojito.
He made his way to the bar, patiently waiting for Penny to finish off her conversation with a customer.
“Hey, sailor !” She greeted with a smile when she saw him, “what can I get you and the squad ?”
After he told her, she started to prepare the drinks on front of him, making small talk, asking about training, how life was on base when—
“Oh by the way,” she seemed to remember, momentarily stopping the making of your virgin mojito to look at Jake, “do you know if Y/N found her bracelet ?”
Jake frowned, confused.
“Um, I don’t know. I didn’t know she had lost a bracelet,” he said, head turning slightly to look for you in the crowd and he suddenly frowned more, looking back at Penny, “in fact, I didn’t even know she wore bracelets, her wrists are usually bare.”
“Oh, because I saw her last week, after your guy’s beach day. I closed the bar a little earlier than usual because it was pretty quiet, and she was there, digging in the sand, looking for her bracelet. I proposed to help her but she said she was fine. It was quite late though, so it really must have mean a lot to her, that’s why I was wondering if she’d found it. But I’ll ask her myself later then, thanks Jake.”
Penny’s words had the effect of a sledgehammer hitting Jake right in the chest. The realisation dawned on him and he froze for a moment, not sure what to do with the newfound piece of information.
“You okay ?” Penny asked him, his shock seemingly visible on his features.
Her voice got him out of his trance.
“Yeah, yeah I’m good, thank you for the drinks Penny, talk to you later !”
He made a beeline for the spot the squad had settled in, their usual one, next to one the pool tables. He absentmindedly handed the drinks to everyone, keeping your virgin mojito in his hands and making his way over to you. His heart was beating so hard in his chest that it was borderline painful. It seemed as though his vision had zeroed in on you, only you. Images of you on the beach at night, cold, alone, tired but still looking for his watch flashed into his mind and he felt a knot get caught up in his throat.
He barely heard the ‘thank you’s’ the squad threw him.
Leaning over some of the high tables near the windows, you were watching Mickey, Reuben and Bob engage in a heated game of pool.
“No Mickey it’s still my turn,” you watched with a smile as Reuben interjected his friend, “you sinked the cue ball so I get to shoot twice, gosh you’d think that you’d know the rules after playing literally every week end !”
You snorted, amused by their banter. And out of the corner of your eye, you saw Jake walking towards you. Expression unreadable but his step visibly determined.
Arriving in front of you, he practically shoved the drink in your hand.
“I told you I didn’t want anything,” you said, monotonously, nonetheless still grabbing the glass.
Any excuse was good enough to start a fight with him.
You turned your gaze back to the pool game unfolding in front of you, but when the quick wit you were expecting from him never came, you turned back to him, frowning.
His jade green eyes were trained on you. Chest rising up quickly, like he’d ran a marathon before coming here. You didn’t think you had ever seen him so… moved.
“You good ?” You asked, letting your tone convey the tiniest bit of concern.
Jake took a shaky breath, “why didn’t you tell me ?”
The hand that was bringing the glass to your lips froze halfway through.
“Tell you what ?”
“My watch.” Was all he said, eyes still boring into yours, seemingly looking for answers you were absolutely not intent on giving.
Your eyes quickly flicked to the leather band sitting proudly on his wrist.
You had noticed it all week, how it was right back on shining on his cuff. How Jake had seemed to smile even more cockily than before, brighter. And you hadn’t been able to ignore the weird, warmth feeling spreading in your chest every-time you had caught him eyeing his wrist with a flash of pride and cherish.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you replied, forcing yourself to keep an annoyed tone as your eyes flicked back up to meet his.
“There’s no use in lying, I know it was you.” He said, voice firm and steady despite the whirlwind of emotions threatening to choke him up, “why ?”
You weren’t known to give up that easily.
“Jesus Seresin, I literally told you I have no idea what you’re talking about, go win at darts or something, leave me alone.”
Swallowing uncomfortably under his prying gaze, you silenced the tiny voice in your head that was telling you just how much similar to Jake you were in terms of showing feelings.
Facing your stubborn resolve in not telling him the truth, Jake let out a small, humorless laugh, “Y/N I just want to thank you properly, so please, for once, just let up.”
Let up. Stop fighting me for a second, was really what he was saying. And looking at him be willing to be honest and open for once did something to you.
“I did it because you looked all pathetic, okay ? And really, I didn’t want you sulking all day on base and mess up every training.” you finally conceded, tone annoyed despite the loud thumping of your heart in your chest, “besides it was just underneath where you had put down your towel, so really you could’ve found it if you had put a bit more effort into it. But I guess that it’s just another thing I’m better at than you, huh ?”
It was a complete lie. And both of you knew it.
Just the fact that you had been the only one to notice he had lost his watch told him everything he needed to know. And he knew from Penny that you had stayed well past midnight looking for it. To see you in front of him, knowing the length you had been to for him — despite what you were saying — made his heart do something inexplicable.
And Jake moved before he could think any more about it. He slightly bent down to wrap his arms around you, slipping under your own and hugging your middle, bringing you into his chest, chin resting on your shoulder, head touching yours.
All your muscles stiffened on instinct. The contact took you by surprise and you stayed frozen like that for a second, letting him hold you without reciprocating the touch.
He was warm, very warm. His arms were tightly wrapped around you, one draped across your shoulder blades and the other one across your waist. His body was firm against yours and for a moment, you almost thought you could feel the thumping of his heart against your chest. Your head was resting just shy of the crook of his neck, on his shoulder, and despite yourself, you caught a whiff of his smell, residue of jet fuel, his expensive cologne, the warmth of his skin and something so undeniably him it almost made your head spin.
“Thank you,” he whispered shakily, a small crack in his Hangman armor.
Those words and his tone felt like a detonator, hearing him sounding so small almost broke your heart. It only took a second after that for your arms to wrap around his neck. And as soon as your arms made contact, you felt his whole body relax and melt into you.
“You don’t have to thank me,” you whispered back, rubbing his back comfortingly.
He seemed so small in this moment and it pulled at your heartstrings to know he was letting you be the one to seem him like that.
“You don’t know how much this means to me.” He murmured into your neck.
Oh, but you did. That was the whole reason you had done it.
It seemed as thought the entire bar had gone quiet, leaving only Jake and you, wrapped up in each other. You had no idea how long you stayed like that. But you certainly weren’t complaining, your arms tightening around him was met with the same intensity from Jake.
But the sudden sharp sound of a glass hitting the floor and shattering in pieces took you both out of the peaceful and comfort trance the embrace had took you both in. And you both found yourselves pulling away, reluctantly.
You noticed the slight pink hue dusting Jake’s cheeks, and his green eyes were bright, almost glassed over, shining with unshed tears.
God knew that if you had the courage you would take him into another embrace right here and then, and not let him go until the first rays of sunshine peaked through the windows, or realistically, probably until Penny kicked you out.
But unable to succumb to your deepest desire, no matter how much you wanted to, you instead fell back into your old ways.
“Try not to lose it again, cause I won’t get it for you next time.” You warned, though your tone was missing its usual bite.
You would.
You would do it all over a hundred times if needed.
Jake let out a laugh, a bit choked up, but a genuine one nonetheless.
“I promise.” He said in a smile as bright as a thousand suns.
And you had a scary realization then.
That in fact, there was not a lot you wouldn’t do to see him smile like that again.
–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
author's note : I have had this fic idea for literally forever and I’m so happy I finally got down to write it.
I really wanted to kinda ‘dig deep’ into Jake’s character here, I hope it worked and that I was able to do him justice. He’s my baby I love him so much.💞
Also quick question, are we sick of Jake and reader being rivals ? It’s like my favorite trope with Jake and the only one I really see fit with a character like him, and I have so many more ideas but they are all with rival reader and I don’t want it to feel redundant for you guys, so tell me what you think !
GUYS OMG LOST AND FOUND HAS REACHED A THOUSAND LIKES !!!!😭😭😭💞💞💞
Thank you so much, there are no words to say how grateful I am for your guys’ support. Lost and Found is a fic that holds a special place in my heart, and I can confidently say it’s one of my favorites I’ve written, and I am so glad you guys like it as well !🫶
Also, THERE ARE 440 OF YOU FOLLOWING ME ??? THANK YOU SOOO MUCH TRULY💞💞 I feel especially honored considering I haven’t been posting my fics on here for very long (only since December !!) so thank you again, it means the world to me, you guys are the best !!
There are so many things I’m working on right now that I am so excited to share with you guys soon (also dear anons who have sent me asks, I am getting down to answer them don’t worry !!), sorry if I’m not posting as often, my full time job is getting in the way, how annoying.
But fear not, I am still here, with soooo many ideas that I can’t wait to write down ! THANK YOU again to each and every one of you, you guys make me so happy !!💞💞🫶🫶
A Triangle - Dr. Robby x Female Reader x John Carter
Request - i love your writings and maybe it's weird but i would like to read a a love triangle about robby, john carter and the reader. i need passion, lust, strongs emotions like jelousy
By the time noon rolled around, you had already been awake for nearly twenty-eight hours. Three traumas, two codes, one drunk with a screwdriver sticking out of his shoulder, and an endless parade of chest pain had left the emergency department running on caffeine and spite. Which was precisely why, when you finally escaped to the cafeteria with your food tray balanced on one hand, seeing John Carter waving you over felt like finding an oasis in the middle of a desert.
“Surgery’s finest,” he announced grandly, standing from his chair and offering an exaggerated bow. “Doctor Carter humbly requests the presence of the prettiest resident in Pittsburgh.”
You laughed immediately. Not because the line was particularly smooth. It wasn’t. John Carter had all the grace of an overgrown Labrador retriever. But he was cute. Younger than you by a year, handsome in that unfair movie-star sort of way, and so endlessly enthusiastic about life that being around him felt like standing in sunshine.
“You’ve been spending too much time with plastics,” you informed him.
“Untrue. Plastics are nowhere near this charming.”
“John.”
“You wound me.” His grin widened when you sat down opposite him. “You know, I had money on you murdering one of your interns today.”
“They survived.”
“Barely.”
“They touched my coffee.”
He gasped dramatically.
“Animals.”
You burst out laughing. Real laughter. Not the polite kind. Not the tired, burned-out chuckle you’d mastered over the years. No. This was head-back, snorting, nearly choking on your sandwich laughter. John practically beamed.
“That’s a nice sound.”
“What is?”
“The girl who laughs. You spend too much time with Robinavich.”
You blinked.
“What?”
“The man is all brooding eyes and emotional repression. I swear, every time I see him, I want to hand him a puppy.”
You laughed again.
“Robby doesn’t need a puppy.”
“Everyone needs a puppy.”
“He’d lecture the puppy.”
“He’d scare the puppy.”
“He’d make the puppy fill out discharge paperwork.”
John’s smile brightened.
“And then he’d secretly love the puppy.”
That stopped you. Because somehow, absurdly, he was right. Dr. Michael Robinavich was impossible. Fifty -ish years old and somehow even more intimidating than when you’d met him during intern year. Chief Attending. Brilliant. Gruff. Demanding. Beautiful. You hated yourself a little for that last thought. But there was no denying it.
Not when you’d spent four years under him. Not when those dark eyes could pin you to the spot during rounds. Not when his deep voice somehow managed to make every order sound like a command. Not when you’d caught yourself wondering more than once what he looked like when he smiled. Not his rare amused smirk. A real smile. John snapped his fingers in front of your face.
“You disappeared.”
“Hm?”
“You did the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The Robinavich stare.”
“I do not have a Robinavich stare.”
“You absolutely do.”
He leaned forward conspiratorially.
“You know he scares me.”
You snorted.
“He scares everyone.”
“Not you.”
“He scares me.”
“No. You two argue.”
“Because I’m right.”
John pointed.
“See? Nobody argues with Chief Broody.”
“You call him that to his face.”
“I enjoy living.”
You shook your head, smiling.
“And besides,” John continued, “I’m smart enough to know that if Robinavich ever murdered me, you’d help him bury the body.”
You nearly spit out your drink.
“I absolutely would not.”
“Liar.”
“I’d at least call an attorney.”
“See? You care.”
He was looking at you with that easy affection again. Not heavy. Not overwhelming. Just…sweet.
John Carter liked you. You’d known that for months. Everyone had. Half the surgical floor had started calling him your shadow. Even Langdon had teased him mercilessly. And honestly? You liked him too.
He was fun. He made you laugh. He talked about backpacking through Europe and surfing in Australia and skiing in Switzerland with the same excitement other people reserved for Christmas morning. John Carter was easy. There wasn’t a complicated bone in his body. And after years of medicine, maybe easy wasn’t such a terrible thing.
“So,” he said casually. “Question.”
“Dangerous.”
“I know.” He flashed that smile again. “Dinner?”
You froze. John immediately raised both hands.
“Not like weird dinner.”
“There’s normal dinner?”
“I don’t know. People are weird.”
You laughed.
“I’ll think about it.”
His face lit up.
“You didn’t say no.”
“I didn’t say yes.”
“Progress.”
“You are ridiculous.”
“You adore me.”
“I tolerate you.”
“Same thing.”
“You are painfully spoiled.”
“True.”
“Arrogant.”
“Also true.”
“Hopelessly flirtatious.”
“Guilty.”
“And—”
“Doctor Carter.”
The voice came from behind you. Deep. Calm. And suddenly every muscle in your body stiffened. John’s grin vanished. Slowly, you turned.
Dr. Michael Robinavich stood there. God. How did the man make black scrubs look unfair? His dark hair had silver at the temples now, his expression tired after twenty-four hours, his reading glasses hanging from the collar of his shirt. Yet somehow he still looked devastating. And entirely unimpressed.
“Dr. Robinavich,” John greeted brightly.
“Doctor Carter.”
Robby’s eyes shifted to you. And something strange happened in your stomach. Not butterflies. Something heavier. Warmer. More dangerous.
“Doctor Y/L/N.”
You swallowed.
“Hi.”
“Trauma two.”
Your smile faded.
“Now?”
“Preferably before the patient dies.”
John sighed.
“Honestly, Robinavich, have you considered manners?”
“No.”
“Or joy?”
“No.”
“Or sunlight?”
“No.”
John looked at you.
“See what I deal with?”
Robby’s gaze never left yours.
“Doctor.”
The title. Not your first name. Not sweetheart, obviously. Not anything personal. Professional. Controlled. But somehow, that dark stare lingered a second longer than necessary. And you felt it. Lord, you felt it. John stood.
“Fine. Go save lives.”
He leaned down, speaking quietly near your ear.
“Remember dinner.”
You smiled.
“I said I’d think about it.”
“I’ll take it.”
Robby’s jaw tightened. So slightly you almost missed it. Almost. But you’d spent four years learning his moods. Learning the tiny signs. The muscle jumping in his cheek. The narrowing of his eyes. The silence.
Oh. Oh. Interesting.
John squeezed your shoulder.
“Later, beautiful.”
And then he disappeared. Leaving you standing beside Robby. Silence stretched.
“Beautiful?” Robby repeated flatly.
You blinked.
“What?”
“Carter called you beautiful.”
You fought a smile.
“He does that.”
“He does?”
There was no emotion in his voice. Which was somehow worse.
“He likes me.”
“I gathered.”
You picked up your tray.
“And?”
“And nothing.” But his eyes darkened. “You coming, Doctor, or are we waiting for Carter to write you poetry?”
You almost laughed. Was that? No. Impossible. Dr. Michael Robinavich did not get jealous. He was fifty years old. Chief of the emergency department. A legend. A man who frightened administrators and surgeons alike.
He certainly did not care about John Carter calling you beautiful. Except… As the two of you walked toward the elevators, shoulder brushing shoulder, you noticed Robby was unusually quiet. And when Dana stepped aside to let him pass, she caught your eye and smiled knowingly.
Because nurses knew everything. Especially Dana. And Dana, watching the two of you disappear toward Trauma Two, leaned toward Collins at the desk and muttered quietly,
“Oh, this is going to be fun.”
******
2:13 a.m.
Nobody talked after losing a child. Not really. People tried. Nurses whispered. Residents buried themselves in charting. Respiratory therapy quietly cleaned equipment. But everyone moved softer afterward. Quieter.
Because there wasn’t a single person in the emergency department who didn’t feel it. Especially you. He’d been six years old. Blond hair. Blue dinosaur pajamas. And despite thirty-seven minutes of everything modern medicine could throw at him, he’d died with his mother’s cries echoing down the hallway.
You’d held it together. In the room. During the code. During the conversation with his parents. You’d even managed to get through sign-out. But now, at two-thirteen in the morning, sitting alone in the charting room with the lights dimmed and tears silently running down your face, you couldn’t do it anymore.
You hated yourself for it. Fourth-year resident. Senior resident. Supposed to be tough. Supposed to be composed. Instead, your hand shook over the keyboard. The chart blurred. And a tear dropped onto the screen.
“Hey.”
His voice. Low. Gentle. You quickly wiped your eyes.
“I’m fine.”
Dr. Michael Robinavich stood in the doorway. The man everyone feared. The man who’d somehow become the safest person you’d ever known. His dark hair was a mess. There were circles under his eyes. And his own grief sat heavily in his expression.
“No, you’re not.”
You laughed weakly.
“Neither are you.”
“No.”
The answer came immediately. Honest. No walls. No pretending. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. Neither of you spoke.
Because there wasn’t anything to say. You just sat there. And he just stood there.
Until finally you whispered, “I hate this job.”
His eyes softened.
“No, you don’t.”
“I do tonight.”
“That’s fair.”
“He was six.”
“I know.”
“He liked dinosaurs.”
“I know.”
“He was scared.”
His jaw tightened.
“I know.”
You finally looked at him. And that was your mistake. Because Robby looked devastated. Not Chief Robinavich. Not the attending. Not the legend. Just Robby. Tired. Sad. Human. And somehow that broke you more than anything else. The tears came harder.
“I couldn’t save him.”
“No, you couldn’t.”
“I did everything right.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Then why—”
He crossed the room immediately. Not hesitating. Not thinking. His hands came to your shoulders.
“Because life is cruel sometimes.”
Your voice cracked.
“I hate that.”
“So do I.”
“I hate seeing parents scream.”
“So do I.”
“I hate that you know exactly what I’m feeling.”
That earned the smallest smile.
“Been doing this a long time Y/N.”
And then you were crying against him. Not dramatically. Not elegantly. Just exhausted and heartbroken and tired. His arms wrapped around you instantly. As though they’d always belonged there.
One hand cradled the back of your head. The other rubbed slow circles over your spine. And suddenly you were just twenty-nine years old again.
Not Doctor. Not Senior Resident. Just you. Being held. Being safe.
“Robby.”
The name slipped out quietly. Not Chief. Not Doctor Robinavich. Robby. His breath caught. Ever so slightly. But he didn’t correct you. Instead, he rested his cheek against your hair.
And whispered softly, “I’m here.”
God. That voice. You’d followed that voice through traumas and disasters and impossible nights for four years. And somehow hearing it now nearly undid you.
“I’m tired.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t want to chart.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t want to do this tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“And you’re just going to keep saying that, aren’t you?”
His mouth twitched.
“Probably.”
You laughed through tears. And suddenly he smiled. Really smiled. Not the little smirk. Not amusement. A genuine smile. And your heart stopped. Because you’d wondered. God, you’d wondered. What it looked like. What it would feel like. What it would taste like. And now you knew. It was devastating. Beautiful. Warm. And entirely too intimate for your own good.
“Remember to do that,” he murmured.
“What?”
“Laugh.”
You blinked.
“What?”
“You disappear after pediatric deaths.” His thumb brushed your cheek, wiping away another tear. “And then eventually you come back.”
Your breath caught. Because his hand hadn’t moved. Because he was looking at you. Really looking at you. Not his resident. Not another physician. Not professionally.
And suddenly the room felt very small. Very quiet. Very dangerous. His eyes dropped to your lips. And stayed there. For just a second. Then another. Neither of you moved. Neither of you breathed.
“Robby…”
His eyes closed. God. Like your voice hurt him.
“We shouldn’t.”
“No.”
“No.”
But neither of you stepped away. You were too tired. Too heartbroken. Too honest. And perhaps too in love with each other to pretend anymore. His forehead rested against yours.
“You’re my resident.”
“Five months left.”
“I’m too old for you.”
You laughed softly.
“No you’re not.”
“There’s like…two decades between us.”
“I know math.”
His mouth twitched.
“You should run screaming.”
“Probably.”
“I am emotionally unavailable.”
“Terrible bedside manner.”
“Difficult.”
“Bossy.” You laughed. “Old.”
“Watch it.”
That made you smile. And God. The look on his face. Like he’d spent years denying himself this. Years. As though wanting you had become its own punishment.
“You deserve someone younger.”
“Like John Carter?” you whispered teasingly.
And for the first time in your life, for the very first time, you saw jealousy on Dr. Michael Robinavich.
His eyes darkened. Not angry. Not cruel. Jealous. And it hit you like a freight train.
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
“You’re jealous.”
“I’m not.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I’m fifty years old.”
“Which means you should know when you’re jealous.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You spent an hour laughing with him.”
You stared. Then slowly smiled.
“Robby.”
Immediately, he regretted saying it. You saw it. Saw him trying to retreat. Trying to put the walls back up. Trying to become Chief Robinavich again.
“I’m tired,” he muttered.
“We both are.”
“Forget I said anything.”
“No.”
His eyes met yours again. And there it was. Four years. Four years of glances. Four years of teaching. Four years of standing shoulder-to-shoulder through the worst days imaginable. And somehow, impossibly, it had become this.
Whatever this was. His hand came to your face again. And this time neither of you stopped him. His voice dropped low.
“So help me God…”
Your heartbeat thundered.
“What?”
“I have thought about kissing you for four years.”
Your breath vanished.
“Robby…”
“And I know better.”
“Do you?”
His eyes searched yours. Looking for hesitation. Looking for fear. Finding neither. And then, He kissed you. Not with urgency. Not with recklessness. But with four years of restraint and longing and affection wrapped into one impossible moment.
And the world stopped. His hand held your cheek. Yours curled against his chest. And suddenly all the grief and exhaustion and sadness of the night faded beneath the quiet certainty of him. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours again. And neither of you spoke. Because neither of you trusted yourselves.
The door burst open. Jack Abbott froze. You froze. Robby froze. Jack blinked. Looked at you. Looked at Robby. Looked back at you. And then the bastard grinned.
“Oh, thank God.”
Robby groaned. You covered your face. And Jack leaned against the doorway laughing.
“FOUR YEARS.”
“Jack—”
“FOUR YEARS, MICHAEL.”
“Get out.”
“Dana owes me fifty bucks.”
“Jack.”
“And Whitaker owes me dinner.”
“JACK.”
Still laughing, he backed out.
“I’ll be outside. Take your time. Maybe discuss your feelings. Jesus Christ, you two are exhausting.”
The door shut again. Silence. And then, To your complete astonishment, Dr. Michael Robinavich buried his face against your shoulder and laughed. Actually laughed. Warm. Deep. Beautiful. And you realized then that somehow, somewhere between traumas and terrible nights and impossible losses…
You had fallen hopelessly in love with him. And judging by the way his arms tightened around you…he’d fallen first.
******
Three days after two-thirteen in the morning, you still hadn’t recovered. Not from the loss. Not from the kiss. And certainly not from Dr. Michael Robinavich.
Because somehow the man had become worse. Or better. Depending on how one defined torture. He touched your shoulder more often now. Nothing inappropriate. Nothing anyone would notice. Just little things.
His hand brushing your back as he squeezed past you in Trauma One. His fingers grazing yours when he handed you an X-ray. Standing close enough during rounds that you could smell his aftershave and coffee.
And the looks. God. The looks. Four years of restraint had apparently been the only thing protecting your sanity because now every glance felt loaded. Heavy. Romantic. Hungry.
Not physically. Emotionally. As though every time he looked at you, he was thinking too much. Feeling too much. And neither of you had spoken about that night. Not once. Until forty-eight hours later. You’d been finishing discharge paperwork when he’d quietly appeared beside your desk.
“Coffee.”
You looked up. Blinking. And there he stood. Chief Robinavich. Holding out your favorite order. Exactly right. You stared.
“Robby.”
“I was getting one.”
“You hate caramel.”
His mouth twitched.
“Turns out I don’t.”
“Liar.”
His eyes softened.
“Drink your coffee, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart. Your breath stopped. Because he’d never called you that before. Never. Not once in four years. And suddenly the entire nurses’ station had become too small. Too warm. Too dangerous.
Dana nearly fell out of her chair. Whitaker choked on his water. Jack Abbott looked ready to ascend directly into heaven. But Robby? Robby simply touched your shoulder. That warm hand. That devastatingly gentle touch. And walked away.
Leaving you completely ruined. Which was precisely why agreeing to dinner with John Carter felt like the sane thing to do. John was simple. Easy. Safe. And after Michael Robinavich, safe sounded wonderful.
******
“You look ridiculous.”
John grinned from beside his Porsche.
“You wound me.”
“No, seriously. Who owns a car like that?”
“My father.”
“Of course.”
He laughed.
“It’s borrowed.”
“You borrowed a Porsche?”
“Perks of being the disappointing son.”
You smiled despite yourself. Because that was John. He said things like that with a smile. Like they didn’t hurt. Like losing his brother at sixteen and growing up with distant parents had somehow become punchlines instead of wounds.
You understood people like that. People who smiled too much. People who laughed when things hurt. John opened your door.
“Milady.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Yet handsome.”
“Debatable.”
“Hurtful.”
And just like that, you were laughing again. The restaurant was beautiful. White tablecloths. Candlelight.nWine you couldn’t pronounce.nYou immediately felt underdressed. John, meanwhile, looked perfectly at home. His suit jacket was draped over the chair. His tie loosened. His smile bright and easy.
“Relax.”
“I hate places like this.”
“You hate everything fancy.”
“I like tacos.”
“That’s because you’re Midwestern.”
“I’m from Pittsburgh.”
“Exactly.”
He laughed. And somehow you spent three hours talking. Not awkwardly. Not politely. Just…Talking. About medicine. About travel. About life.
John had stories for everything. Skiing in Switzerland. Backpacking through Italy. Swimming in Australia. Working in Kenya. Meeting royalty in England. It sounded absurd. And fascinating.
“You’ve lived ten lives.”
“Twelve.”
“Twelve?”
“I forgot Iceland.”
You shook your head.
“You are ridiculous.”
He smiled.
“And you’re cute when you’re impressed.”
You rolled your eyes. But you smiled. Because John was fun. And because he looked at you like you were magic. Not because you were brilliant. Not because you were a senior resident. Just because you were you. And maybe that mattered.
The conversation shifted. Naturally. Quietly. Until suddenly he wasn’t smiling anymore.
“My brother would’ve liked you.”
You blinked.
“What?”
He looked down into his wine. The humor disappeared. Completely. And for the first time, you saw it. Not the sunshine. Not the charm. Not the trust fund baby everyone teased. Just John. Lonely. Sad. Still carrying a ghost.
“He was fourteen.”
His voice softened.
“Car accident.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.”
He smiled weakly.
“My parents never recovered.”
His fingers played with the stem of his glass.
“They just…left.”
Not physically. Emotionally. You knew exactly what he meant.
“Money was easier.”
He laughed quietly.
“Turns out Europe and private schools aren’t substitutes for parents.”
Your heart hurt. Because suddenly you understood. John Carter wasn’t easy. He just hid things better. And perhaps loneliness recognized loneliness.
“I think he would’ve loved you.”
You smiled.
“You don’t know that.”
“No.”
His eyes met yours.
“But I know me.”
And there was so much sincerity there. So much goodness. And for a moment you thought…Maybe. Maybe this could work.
He walked you home. Not because he had to. Because he wanted to. The summer air was warm. His jacket sat over your shoulders. And he told you stories all the way to your front porch. About skiing badly. About learning French for a girl who dumped him. About sneaking beers into boarding school. About his brother teaching him to throw a baseball.
You laughed. You smiled. And somewhere in the middle of all of it, you genuinely liked him. Perhaps not with the all-consuming gravity that was Michael Robinavich. But with affection. With possibility. And standing beneath the porch light, John smiled.
“Best first date?”
“Top five.”
He gasped.
“Top five?”
“Maybe top three.”
“Unacceptable.”
And then he kissed you. Softly. Sweetly. The kind of kiss that made you smile into it. Not demanding. Not consuming. Just kind. And when he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours.
“Can I come in?”
Your breath caught. Because suddenly another face appeared. Dark eyes. Silver at his temples. Strong hands. That deep voice.
Sweetheart.
Drink your coffee, sweetheart.
The memory alone made your heart stumble. John saw your hesitation. Immediately. And to his credit, he smiled.
“No pressure.”
“John—”
“No, really.”
His thumb brushed your cheek.
“I like you. A lot.”
His grin returned.
“And I’m charming.”
“Debatable.”
“Wildly charming.”
You laughed. And because he was sweet. Because he was kind. Because you wanted to try, You nodded.
“Okay.”
His smile lit up the entire street.
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
An hour later, you sat together on the couch. Shoes kicked off. Movie forgotten. John talking animatedly about New Zealand. And you were smiling. Really smiling. Because this was nice.
Normal. Good.Until your phone buzzed. You glanced down. And your entire body froze.
One message. Three words. From Michael Robinavich.
You okay, sweetheart?
That’s all. Nothing else. But somehow your pulse quickened. John noticed immediately.
“Everything okay?”
You looked up. And suddenly guilt hit you. Because sitting beside one good man…You were thinking about another. And not just another. The man whose voice still lived in your bones. The man who looked at you like loving you was something sacred. The man who’d spent four years denying himself. The man who bought coffee he hated because you loved it.
And before you even realized it, You were smiling. Not at John. At your phone. At him.
John noticed.nAnd though he didn’t say a word, something sad flickered in his eyes.nBecause John Carter was many things.nBut he wasn’t stupid. And somewhere across Pittsburgh, sitting alone in his study with his reading glasses on and half-finished charts in front of him…
Dr. Michael Robinavich stared at his phone. Waiting. Wondering. And hating himself for doing both.
******
Molly’s was exactly the sort of place emergency department people loved. Sticky tables. Terrible lighting. Cheap beer. Questionable music. And absolutely no one judging the exhausted collection of physicians, nurses, techs, and respiratory therapists who had just spent twelve hours putting humanity back together.
Whitaker was telling a story. Jack was exaggerating something. Dana was laughing loud enough to draw attention from the entire bar. And somehow, despite yourself, you felt lighter. John Carter had texted you earlier.
Pizza next time. No white tablecloths.
Complete with three pizza emojis and a smiley face. You’d laughed. Because John Carter was sweet. Because John Carter made things easy. And because, despite the strange ache in your chest whenever Michael Robinavich walked into a room, you genuinely liked John. Which was why you hated yourself.
Because sitting two barstools away, his long legs stretched beneath the table, dark hair slightly mussed after shift, was the reason your heart still skipped.
He wasn’t saying much. Just nursing his beer. Listening. Occasionally smiling. And every now and then looking at you. Not openly. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But enough.
Enough to make your pulse jump. Enough to make Dana smile into her drink. Enough to make Jack look ready to sell tickets. Eventually, Whitaker checked his phone.
“Oh hell.”
“What?” Jack asked.
“Amy.” His face softened immediately. “I promised I’d pick her up.”
Jack groaned.
“Disgusting.”
Whitaker grinned.
“Love you too.”
He clapped Robby on the shoulder.
“See you tomorrow, boss.”
And then he was gone. Jack lasted another twenty minutes before Dana practically dragged him away.
“You promised me tacos.”
Jack pointed at you and Robby.
“Don’t do anything stupid.”
Dana smacked him.
“Stop embarrassing yourself.”
“I’m embarrassing myself? Have you met these two?”
Robby sighed.
“Jack.”
“I’m leaving.”
Jack stood. Then pointed at both of you.
“But if you idiots finally do the deed, I want details.”
“OUT.”
Jack laughed himself all the way out the door.nAnd suddenly it was quiet. Just the two of you. For the first time all evening. The jukebox played softly. People laughed in the background. And Robby took a drink of his beer.
“Peace.”
You smiled.
“Feels weird.”
“It does.”
Neither of you moved. Neither of you seemed eager to leave. Because for four years you’d stolen moments. Coffee. Charting. Rounds. Elevators.
Now you sat across from each other. And there was no patient. No chart. No excuse. Just him. Just you. And something impossibly tender growing between you.
“You know,” you said.
“Hm?”
“I had dinner with John.”
His expression remained neutral. Too neutral.
“Dana informed me.”
You laughed.
“Of course she did.”
“Dana knows everything.”
“She’s terrifying.”
“Agreed.”
You smiled into your drink.
“It was nice.”
Robby nodded.
“I’m glad.”
“You don’t sound glad.”
“I’m fifty years old.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I know how to lie better.”
You blinked. And he smiled. Actually smiled. The corners of his eyes crinkling. God. You loved that smile.
“I am glad,” he admitted softly. “But I also dislike him on principle.”
You laughed.
“Poor John.”
“He’ll recover.”
“He likes me.”
“I gathered.”
“He asked me out again.”
The words slipped out. And immediately you saw it. The change. Tiny. But there. His jaw tightened. His eyes darkened.nThe beer bottle paused halfway to his mouth.
“Oh.”
You nearly smiled.
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
“Robby.”
“Fine.”
You bit back laughter.
“No, you’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“Robby.”
He exhaled heavily.
“Sweetheart, the man’s twelve years old.”
“He’s thirty-three.”
“He still says ‘bro’ unironically.”
You burst out laughing.
“He does.”
“He wears loafers without socks.”
“He does.”
“He drives a Porsche.”
“He borrowed a Porsche.”
“Even worse.”
You laughed harder. And despite himself, Robby smiled.
“You are impossible.”
“So I’ve been told.”
He looked at you then. Really looked. And God. There was so much affection in his eyes. Too much. Enough to make your heart ache.
“You deserve easy.” His voice was quiet. “You deserve laughter.”
“You make me laugh.”
His eyebrow rose.
“I terrify residents.”
“Not me.”
“I have terrible hobbies.”
“What hobbies?”
“Exactly.”
You grinned.
“You read trauma journals for fun.”
“They’re riveting.”
“You are such an old man.”
His smile widened.
“I know.”
And then, quietly, he asked, “Was I your first kiss in a while?”
You had two beers. Which was enough. Enough to make honesty easier. Enough to make courage appear.
“No.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“No?”
You looked at him. Eyes heavy. Heart full.
“No.”
The silence stretched.
And then softly, “Who?”
Robby’s voice was deeper now. Rougher. Dangerously calm. And perhaps it was the beer. Perhaps it was exhaustion. Or perhaps you were tired of pretending. You smiled.
“Guys my age can’t kiss worth a damn.”
He blinked. Then actually laughed.
“What?”
“It’s true.”
“You’ve conducted studies?”
“Extensive research.”
“God help me.”
You smiled.
“So who exactly are these disappointing young men?”
You leaned your cheek against your hand.
“John.”
His expression changed immediately.
“John.”
“Mm.”
He stared. And you almost laughed at how offended he looked.
“John Carter?”
“Yes.”
“The child.”
“Robby.”
“He says bro.”
“He does say bro.”
“He owns white jeans.”
“He does not own white—”
“He absolutely owns white jeans.”
You were laughing now. And Robby? Robby looked genuinely irritated. Which only made it better.
“He kissed you?”
“You seem stuck on that.”
His eyes met yours. And suddenly the teasing disappeared. The smile faded. And there it was again. Heavy. Romantic. Loaded.
“He kissed you,” he repeated softly.
The way he said it. God. Not angry. Not possessive. Hurt. As though he’d missed something precious. As though he’d lost something. Your smile faded too.
“Robby…”
He looked away.
“I’m too old.”
“You’re not.”
“Sweetheart—”
“You’re not.”
“I’m your boss.”
“Not forever.”
“You deserve—”
“Stop deciding what I deserve.”
His eyes snapped back to yours. And for one terrifying moment you thought he might finally say it. But he didn’t. Because he was Michael Robinavich. He loved carefully. He loved deeply. And he was afraid.
“I can’t.”
You stared at him. And something sad settled inside you. Because you’d given him chances. Because you’d kissed him. Because you’d waited. And still, He couldn’t. So you stood.
“Okay.”
His eyes widened.
“Wait—”
“It’s okay.”
“No.”
“Robby, it is.”
Pain flashed across his face. Real pain. And it nearly undid you. But he couldn’t ask you to wait forever.
Outside, the air was cool.The city lights glowed. And he walked beside you. Because of course he did. Always. Silent. Steady. Protective. When you reached the corner where your paths separated, he stopped.
“Text me when you get home.”
You looked up. There he was. Silver at his temples. Beautiful eyes. The man who’d held you after tragedy. The man who bought coffee he hated. The man who loved so fiercely he was terrified of it.
“Robby.”
“Text me.”
You smiled sadly.
“You always say that.”
“Because I worry.”
“About everyone?”
“No.”
The answer came instantly. And his voice was rough.
“Not everyone.”
Your heart stumbled. He knew it. You knew it.
“Just…you.”
Something inside you snapped. Not angrily. Not cruelly. Just tired. So tired. You stepped closer. His breathing stopped.
“Don’t.”
“I know.”
“We shouldn’t.”
“I know.”
His eyes closed. And when they opened again, there was no Chief Attending Robinavich. No walls. No excuses. Just Michael. The man. The one who looked at you as though loving you hurt.
So you reached up. And kissed him. Once. Deeply. Tenderly. Everything you’d wanted to say wrapped into one kiss. And when you finally pulled back, He looked destroyed. Completely. Beautifully destroyed. His forehead touched yours. And his voice cracked.
“Oh sweetheart…”
Not desire. Not hunger. Something far worse. Love. And suddenly his arms wrapped around you. Holding you close. Holding you like he’d been denying himself this for years. Because he had.
His lips brushed your forehead. Then your temple.
And finally he whispered into your hair, “Come home with me.”
Not my bed. Not tonight. Not anything selfish. Home. And something about that word nearly made you cry. Because somehow, impossibly, you knew exactly which home he meant.
******
Three days.
Three blissful, confusing, wonderful days. Three days since you’d woken up tangled in Michael Robinavich’s sheets with the early morning sun spilling through the curtains and the smell of coffee drifting from somewhere in his apartment. Three days since you’d discovered the Chief Attending of the emergency department slept on his stomach, stole blankets, and mumbled nonsense when he was barely awake. Three days since he’d wrapped an arm around your waist and buried his face against your shoulder with a sleepy groan. Three days since he’d murmured against your skin.
“Five more minutes, sweetheart.”
And somehow that memory had ruined you more than anything else. Not the kisses. Not waking up beside him. Not even the tenderness.
No. It was the softness. The gentleness. The fact that Michael Robinavich loved quietly. Deeply. Completely. And yet, he hadn’t asked. Not really. No conversation. No labels.
No “you’re mine.”
No “be with me.”
Nothing. And maybe that was unfair. Because neither had you. But somewhere between his fears and your hopes, neither of you had actually stepped forward. Which was why guilt sat in your stomach when John Carter texted.
Pizza. No white tablecloths. Promise.
And because John deserved honesty. Because John deserved kindness. Because John deserved more than silence. You agreed.
“You know,” John said, stealing one of your fries. “I think this is a much better date.”
“It is.”
“No seventeen forks.”
“No seventeen forks.”
“No tiny portions.”
“No tiny portions.”
“No French waiters judging me.”
“They were Italian.”
“They judged me in Italian.”
You laughed. And God. John smiled. Because he loved that sound. You knew he did. And it made your heart ache. Because he really was wonderful. Kind. Funny. Bright. A little spoiled. But good. Very good.
“You know what your problem is?” he asked.
“What?”
“You think too much.”
“Says the man who went skydiving in New Zealand.”
“I was twenty-two.”
“You’d do it tomorrow.”
“I absolutely would.”
You laughed. Again. Easy. Just easy. And perhaps that was the problem. Because easy wasn’t what your heart wanted. Your heart wanted long conversations in dark charting rooms. Coffee bought by a man who hated caramel. Warm hands on your shoulders after impossible nights. A deep voice saying Sweetheart. Your heart wanted gravity. And gravity had silver at his temples.
The bell above the restaurant door rang. You didn’t even look. Not at first. John was telling a ridiculous story about skiing into a tree. And then, His smile vanished.
“Oh.”
Something in his voice made you turn. And the world stopped. Jack Abbott. Michael Robinavich.
Jack saw you immediately. His grin nearly split his face.
“Well, hell!”
Robby froze. Completely. His eyes landed on you. Then John. Then the candle. Then John’s hand resting beside yours on the table. And everything in his face changed. Not anger. Not rage. Something infinitely worse. Pain. Raw. Undeniable.
Because for the first time, Michael Robinavich looked like a man who’d been punched. Jack, blissfully unaware of the emotional apocalypse occurring beside him, waved enthusiastically.
“Hey, kids!”
John smiled politely.
“Jack.”
“Johnny Boy.”
You stood awkwardly.
“Hi.”
Jack looked between everyone. Then, slowly, very slowly, He turned toward Michael. And even Jack Abbott shut up. Because Michael Robinavich wasn’t looking at you. He was looking at John. Not hostile. Not threatening. Watching. Measuring. And the thing that terrified you most? John saw it too.
To his credit, John stood. Extended his hand.
“Doctor Robinavich.”
Robby’s eyes lowered to it. Then back to John’s face. And after what felt like an eternity, he shook it.
“Carter.”
Jack cleared his throat.
“Okay then.”
You wanted to disappear. Instead, Jack recovered.
“We’re over there.”
He pointed several tables away.
“Try not to commit any felonies, Michael.”
“Jack.”
“I’m going.”
But as they walked away, Robby looked back. And his eyes found yours again. God. The weight of that stare. Heavy. Broken. Possessive. Wounded. You couldn’t breathe. And neither, apparently, could he.
*****
John was talking. You knew he was. Something about Switzerland. Or pizza. Or skiing. You had absolutely no idea. Because Michael Robinavich sat three tables away. And you could feel him.
Not staring. Not constantly. That wasn’t his style. But every time you looked up…Those dark eyes found you. And every single time your heart skipped.
Jack eventually leaned across their table. Said something. Robby barely responded. His beer sat untouched. His meal forgotten. Because he wasn’t eating. He was watching the woman he’d spent four years loving sit across from another man. And it was killing him. John saw that too. Which made everything worse.
“I’m losing you.”
His voice was quiet.
“What?”
John smiled sadly.
“I’m not stupid.”
“John—”
“You don’t look at me like that.”
Your eyes widened.
“Like what?”
“The way you’re looking over your shoulder.”
He smiled again. Sweetly. And somehow that hurt more.
“You like him.”
Your heart sank. Before you could answer, you stood.
“I need the restroom.”
John nodded.
“Take your time.”
*****
You splashed cold water on your face. This was a disaster. A complete disaster. Because John deserved honesty. And Michael. God. Michael deserved courage. And you deserved better than living in the middle.
You dried your hands. Opened the door. And immediately stopped. Michael Robinavich stood outside. One hand in his pocket. Sleeves rolled. And eyes dark. Not angry. Not cold. Just hurt.
“Robby.”
His voice was low.
“Nope, not yet.”
You should’ve said no. Instead, you allowed him to push you back into the restroom.
“Why?”
You blinked.
“What?”
His voice cracked. Actually cracked.
“Why him?”
Your heart broke. Because he wasn’t angry. He was heartbroken.
“Robby—”
“You come home with me.”
His eyes glistened.
“We wake up together.”
His voice lowered.
“I hold you.”
And God. There it was. Love. Pure and terrifying.
“You wear my shirts.”
Your breath caught.
“And then I walk into a restaurant and he’s looking at you like you’re his.”
His jaw tightened. And suddenly years of restraint began cracking.
“Do you know what that did to me?”
“Robby—”
“No.” He shook his head. “No, sweetheart.”
The endearment sounded wounded. Not seductive. Wounded.
“I need to know.” His eyes searched yours desperately “Am I losing you?”
Your own eyes burned.
“No.”
“Then tell me what we’re doing.”
Suddenly you were angry. Not at him. At both of you.
“What ARE we doing?”
His eyes widened.
“You’ve never asked!”
His face changed.
“You never asked either!”
“Because I’m the girl!”
Immediately you regretted it. And apparently so did he. Because despite everything, despite the heartbreak, Michael Robinavich actually looked offended.
“The girl?”
“Yes!”
“The girl?”
“Don’t start.”
“The girl.”
You pointed at him.
“You slept with me!”
“You slept with me!”
“You never took me for coffee afterward!”
His mouth opened. Closed. Then to your astonishment, he looked horrified.
“Sweetheart.”
“Oh don’t sweetheart me!”
His expression fell.
“No.”
Suddenly Michael Robinavich looked devastated. Not defensive. Devastated.
“You think I didn’t want coffee?”
Your anger faltered.
“You think I didn’t want breakfast?”
His voice cracked again.
“You think I didn’t want every breakfast?”
Oh. Oh God.
“Robby…”
Someone knocked on the door.
“Occupied!” he barked.
Silence. Then Jack’s voice.
“Jesus Christ.”
You nearly laughed. And so did Michael. Just slightly. That tiny laugh broke the tension. Because suddenly he looked exhausted. Tired. In love. Terrified. And completely undone.
“Sweetheart.”
His voice softened.
“I don’t know how to do this.”
Neither did you. But you knew one thing. You knew you loved him. And judging by the way Michael Robinavich looked at you like you were the answer to a prayer he never expected. He loved you too. Terrifyingly. Hopelessly. Completely. And somewhere on the other side of that door, Jack Abbott sighed dramatically. Because apparently even emotional crises had an audience.
*******
The emergency department was strangely peaceful at six-thirty in the morning. Not quiet. The ED was never quiet. But peaceful. The organized chaos hadn’t quite begun. Night shift was dragging itself toward freedom while day shift shuffled in with fresh coffee and optimism that would inevitably disappear by ten o’clock.
And sitting outside the ambulance bay, wrapped in a hoodie with your knees drawn to your chest, you wondered if your life had become some cosmic joke. Because somehow, in the span of two weeks, you’d managed to fall hopelessly in love with a Chief Attending with silver in his hair and emotional commitment issues. And break the heart of one of the sweetest men you’d ever known.
The previous night’s disaster still sat heavily in your chest. The argument. The confession. Michael’s voice cracking.
You think I didn’t want every breakfast?
God. You could still hear it. But perhaps the thing that haunted you most wasn’t the love. It was the uncertainty. Because love wasn’t always enough. Sometimes timing mattered. Sometimes courage mattered. And Michael Robinavich for all his brilliance, was afraid.
Which meant that somewhere in the middle, you’d lost yourself. And maybe John Carter had too. The ambulance bay doors slid open. You looked up. And smiled sadly.
Because of course it was him. John Carter. Fresh out of surgery. Still in scrubs. Still beautiful. Still carrying two coffees.
“Thought I’d find you here.”
You laughed softly.
“Is that creepy?”
“A little.”
He grinned.
“I learned from Robinavich.”
And despite everything you laughed. God. You laughed. Because John Carter had somehow managed to survive having his heart stepped on and still showed up with coffee.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
“No.”
“Me neither.”
He handed you a cup. And then sat beside you. Not touching. Not crowding. Just sitting. And for a while, neither of you spoke. Ambulances came and went. Birds chirped. People hurried past. Life continued. Eventually, John sighed.
“So.”
“So.”
He smiled.
“This is awkward.”
“A little.”
“You know, I had a speech.”
That surprised you.
“You did?”
“Oh yeah.” He nodded. “Big dramatic thing.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely.” He held up his fingers. “There were metaphors.”
You laughed.
“And?”
“And then I saw you sitting out here looking like someone ran over your puppy.” He smiled sadly.“And suddenly the speech felt stupid.”
Your eyes burned.
“John—”
“No, let me.” His voice softened. “Please.”
You nodded. And John Carter, beautiful, funny, endlessly kind John Carter, looked out across the ambulance bay and smiled.
“You scare me.”
You blinked.
“What?”
“You do.”
His laugh was soft.
“Not because you’re scary.” He looked over at you. “But because you feel things.”
His eyes glistened.
“God, you feel things.”
Your throat tightened.
“John…”
“You don’t do easy.”
“No.”
“You don’t do casual.”
“No.”
“You don’t do halfway.”
“No.”
His smile widened.
“No, sweetheart, you do catastrophically.”
You burst out laughing through tears. And John smiled. Because he loved that sound. Even now. Even here.
“You’re all in or you’re nothing.”
His voice softened.
“And that’s beautiful.”
Tears ran down your cheeks.
“But it’s terrifying.”
You looked down.
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
Immediately. Firmly. He reached over and squeezed your hand.
“Don’t apologize for being who you are.”
His smile turned wistful.
“Honestly?”
“What?”
“I think I liked the idea of you before I understood you.”
That hurt. Not cruelly. Just truthfully.
“You deserve someone better.”
John looked offended.
“No.” His voice was gentle. “Stop doing that.”
He squeezed your hand again.
“You don’t owe me becoming smaller so I can love you.”
The tears came harder. Because somehow he was making this easier. And perhaps that was who John Carter had always been. Sunshine. Warmth. Grace.
“I do love you.”
Your head snapped up. He smiled immediately.
“Easy.”
He laughed.
“Not forever love.”
“But I do.”
His voice quieted.
“And maybe in another life, where you met me first…” He shrugged. “Who knows?”
You cried. And John, being John, groaned.
“Oh no.”
You laughed through tears.
“Oh no?”
“Women crying is my kryptonite.”
He immediately wrapped his arms around you. And you hugged him tightly. Because you loved him. Not the way he deserved. Not the way he needed. But enough to wish him happiness. Enough to want someone wonderful for him. After a long moment, he kissed the top of your head.
“You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think he’s already ruined you.”
You laughed weakly.
“He really has.”
John smiled.
“The old man?”
“John.”
“He reads trauma journals for fun.”
“He does.”
“He uses reading glasses.”
“He does.”
“He says things like ‘back in my day.’”
“He absolutely does.”
“And somehow you’re into that.”
You laughed again. And John smiled.
“There she is.”
The girl who laughed. God. He really was wonderful. Eventually, he stood. And held out a hand. You took it. He pulled you to your feet. And then slowly he leaned down. Not desperately. Not sadly. Just sweetly. And kissed you once. Soft. Gentle. A goodbye. When he pulled away, his forehead rested briefly against yours.
“Go get him.”
Your eyes widened.
“What?”
John smiled.
“You’ve been looking at him for four years.”
His grin returned.
“And Robinavich looks at you like you invented oxygen.”
You laughed.
“He does not.”
“He absolutely does.”
And then his expression softened.
“Besides…”
“What?”
“He scares me.”
You laughed again.
“He terrifies everyone.”
“He looks at me like he wants to hide my body.”
“He does not.”
“Sweetheart, the man shook my hand like he was imagining crimes.”
You nearly collapsed laughing. And John Carter, still smiling, stepped back.
“Goodbye, beautiful.”
The nickname. The easy affection. The sunshine. And suddenly your heart hurt. Because letting good people go was hard.
“Goodbye, John.”
He smiled. And for a moment, You saw the lonely boy who’d lost his brother. The man who’d hidden behind laughter. The man who deserved the world. Then he winked.
“Tell Grandpa Robinavich I said hi.”
“John!”
Laughing, he disappeared back inside. And just like that, he was gone.
******
Three hours later. The day from hell. Two traumas. One stroke. Three admissions. And you sat on a black motorcycle in the physician parking lot. Waiting.
Because there was only one thing left to do. Only one man left. And for the first time in weeks you were certain.
The sound came first. Footsteps. Michael Robinavich walked into the lot. Helmet under his arm. Hair messy. Eyes exhausted. Beautiful. And completely unaware. Until he saw you.
Sitting there. Waiting. For him. He stopped. Actually stopped walking. And the tiredness disappeared from his face. Replaced by something softer. Something brighter.
“Hi?”
You smiled. And God. That smile nearly dropped the poor man to his knees. He approached slowly. As though afraid you might vanish.
“What are you doing?”
“Waiting.”
“For me?”
“Last I checked, this isn’t Whitaker’s motorcycle.”
That earned a laugh. Warm. Deep. Beautiful. The laugh you loved. The one hardly anyone got to hear.
His eyes searched yours. Carefully. Hopeful. Terrified.
“You need a ride?”
You nodded.
“Yeah.”
His voice was quiet.
“Okay.”
He swallowed.
“Where?”
And there it was. Not teasing. Not joking. A question. One that mattered. One that held his entire heart. Your eyes softened. And you smiled.
“Yours.”
Michael Robinavich stopped breathing. Literally. His eyes widened. And then slowly a smile spread across his face. Not a smirk. Not amusement. A smile. Like the man he’d once been before medicine and tragedy and loss had carved lines around his eyes.
And God. You thought your heart might burst. Because you had wondered. All those years. What he looked like truly happy. And now you knew. He looked beautiful. He handed you the helmet. His voice rough with emotion.
“Get on, sweetheart.”
And as you wrapped your arms around his waist and rested your cheek against his back, Michael Robinavich closed his eyes for just a second. Because after four years of wanting. After weeks of jealousy. After a lifetime of believing he was too old, too damaged, too late, the woman he loved had chosen him.
And for the first time in a very long time, Dr. Michael Robinavich rode home smiling.
Summary: You finally have expectations when it comes to men.
Word count: 7k+
Warnings: fluff, based on the Olivia Rodrigo song
A/N:
And you guys thought I couldn't write fluff
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
Jack Abbot had not been on your list, which was perhaps the most irritating part of all.
Not because he wasn't attractive. He was. Anyone with functioning eyes could acknowledge that much. Not because he wasn't kind either. If anything, kindness seemed to exist in him as naturally as breathing. You saw it every day in the emergency department, in the way he remembered nurses' names, in the way he stayed twenty extra minutes to explain something to a worried family, even when his shift had technically ended. And it certainly wasn't because he lacked ambition or direction. The man was an attending physician at one of the busiest trauma hospitals in Pittsburgh. Every day, he walked into a department where lives could change in seconds and somehow managed to carry the responsibility without letting it harden him.
No, Jack wasn't the problem.
The problem was that you had finally reached a point in your life where you weren't looking for anyone.
It had taken years to get there.
Years of confusing attention with affection. Years of convincing yourself that if you were patient enough, understanding enough, accommodating enough, eventually someone would become the person they kept promising they could be. Somewhere along the way, you had developed a habit of falling in love with potential instead of reality. You would meet a man, notice one or two good qualities, and then spend months filling in the blanks yourself. You'd build entire relationships around who somebody might become rather than who they actually were.
It was exhausting.
Eventually, after enough disappointment, enough nights spent staring at your ceiling, wondering why effort never seemed to be reciprocated, something shifted.
You stopped romanticizing people who gave you the bare minimum.
You stopped applauding men for doing things that should have been expected in the first place.
You stopped mistaking inconsistency for mystery and emotional unavailability for depth.
Most importantly, you learned how to walk away.
You discovered that being alone wasn't nearly as frightening as being with somebody who made you feel lonely. And once you'd learned that lesson, really learned it, your standards began to change.
Working as a social worker in the emergency department probably accelerated that transformation. Every day you sat with families experiencing the worst moments of their lives. You helped parents process devastating diagnoses. You comforted spouses after traumatic accidents. You watched people discover, over and over again, what truly mattered when everything else was stripped away.
It gave you perspective.
After spending twelve hours helping a family navigate a life-altering crisis, listening to some twenty-eight-year-old man explain that he "wasn't ready for labels" felt almost laughable.
Your dating history suddenly looked absurd when viewed through that lens.
There had been the self-proclaimed entrepreneur whose business seemed to consist entirely of talking about starting a business. The musician who forgot your birthday and then somehow managed to make you feel guilty for being upset about it. The man who spent six months deciding whether he wanted a relationship, as though you were a job offer sitting in his inbox waiting for approval.
Six months.
You could still remember sitting across from him at dinner, listening to him stumble through another vague explanation about timing and uncertainty and needing space, and feeling something inside you finally click into place.
Not heartbreak.
Clarity.
Because for the first time you realized that someone who truly wanted you would not require six months to determine whether you were worth choosing.
You left that relationship with surprisingly little sadness.
Mostly because by then you understood something you hadn't before.
Every mistake contained information. Every disappointment taught you something. Every failed relationship clarified what you actually needed.
Past mistakes weren't failures, they were data.
And the data had led you here.
To a place where your expectations were no longer negotiable.
Nothing unreasonable. Nothing impossible.
You wanted someone who communicated honestly. Someone who worked hard. Someone who respected women. Someone emotionally mature enough to express what they wanted instead of expecting you to decipher it through mixed signals and half-hearted text messages. Someone capable of making a decision without treating commitment like a hostage negotiation.
The bar, in your opinion, remained embarrassingly low.
You weren't asking for perfection or a fairytale. You were asking for competence. Consistency. Effort.
Which was why the universe's timing felt particularly cruel.
Because roughly three months after making a dramatic declaration to your friends that you were done prioritizing men, done settling, done chasing people who weren't sure about you, Jack quietly walked into your life and proceeded to embody nearly every expectation you'd spent years developing.
And somehow that felt significantly more dangerous than all the wrong men combined.
The first thing you noticed about Jack wasn't his face, or his job title, or even the fact that half the emergency department seemed to adore him.
It was that he remembered things.
Not the big things people were expected to remember. Not birthdays posted on Facebook or major life announcements that everyone in the department had heard about. It was the small things. The things most people acknowledged in conversation and then immediately forgot the moment they walked away.
You first noticed it on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon.
The department had been relatively calm for once, which in emergency medicine usually meant disaster was quietly building somewhere. You'd been walking beside Jack toward radiology after helping arrange temporary housing resources for a patient. The conversation had been casual, the kind that happened when two people spent enough time crossing paths at work. Somewhere between discussing a difficult discharge and complaining about hospital coffee, you'd mentioned that your younger brother was graduating from nursing school that weekend.
Jack had smiled.
"That's a huge accomplishment."
Then a trauma page had gone off overhead, he'd been pulled away, and you'd assumed that was the end of it.
Three weeks passed.
Three weeks filled with twelve-hour shifts, ambulance arrivals, difficult family meetings, social work consults, endless documentation, and the particular kind of exhaustion that came from working in an emergency department. You forgot the conversation entirely.
Jack apparently didn't.
You were carrying a chart toward the nurses' station when he passed you in the hallway.
He slowed slightly.
"Hey."
"Hey."
"How'd the graduation go?"
You stopped walking.
Not because of the question itself, because it took you several seconds to understand what graduation he was talking about.
"What?"
"Your brother." Jack looked mildly confused by your confusion. "The fact that he graduated from nursing school?"
For a moment you simply stared at him.
Three weeks.
It had been three weeks. Three weeks and dozens, maybe hundreds, of patients. Endless consults. New admissions. New traumas. New crises. An entire emergency department's worth of information had passed through both of your brains since then. And yet somehow he'd remembered a single passing comment you'd made while walking down a hallway.
"You remembered that?"
Jack's forehead creased slightly. "Yeah?"
The answer came so naturally that it almost made you laugh. There was no pride in it, no expectation that he should be praised for paying attention. No awareness that he'd done anything unusual at all. As if listening when people spoke was simply normal. As if remembering details about someone mattered because that person mattered.
The realization caught you more off guard than it should have. Because the truth was, your surprise said far more about your past than it did about Jack.
You thought about the men you'd dated before. The ones who needed reminders for conversations they'd had the day before. The ones who forgot important events, forgot stories you'd told them, forgot preferences, forgot plans. Men who claimed they cared about you but somehow never seemed curious enough to remember the details that made you who you were. You remembered one ex who'd forgotten your birthday. Another who repeatedly mixed up your brother and cousin despite meeting both of them. One particularly impressive candidate had even asked what your undergraduate degree was after nearly four months of dating.
At the time, you'd laughed those things off. Made excuses. Told yourself they were busy, distracted, bad with details. But standing in the middle of a hospital hallway while Jack looked at you as though remembering your brother's graduation was the most ordinary thing in the world, those excuses suddenly felt a lot less convincing.
Because maybe caring looked like this.
Maybe it wasn't grand gestures or dramatic declarations. Maybe it was paying attention. Maybe it was listening closely enough that information stayed with you, remembering things simply because someone had taken the time to tell you.
You eventually answered his question and told him the graduation had gone well. You even showed him a picture your mother had insisted on taking, one where your brother looked deeply uncomfortable in his cap and gown. Jack smiled, asked a few questions, congratulated him through you, and then got called away to evaluate a patient before the conversation could continue. The interaction lasted less than two minutes. By the end of your shift, you should have forgotten about it.
Instead, you found yourself thinking about it on the drive home. Then again while brushing your teeth. Then again a few days later when you spotted him across the department, calmly talking a nervous patient through a procedure. It wasn't a grand romantic moment. There was no music, no revelation, no sudden realization that you were falling for him. It was smaller than that. Quieter. More dangerous.
Because for the first time in a very long time, someone had shown you what genuine attention looked like. And once you'd noticed it, you couldn't stop seeing it everywhere.
The emergency department had descended into chaos the moment the alert came through. Mass casualty incident. School bus versus commercial truck. Multiple patients inbound. You still remembered the way the atmosphere shifted in seconds, as if someone had flipped a switch. One moment people were finishing notes, grabbing coffee, discussing discharge plans. The next, every available trauma bay was being prepared, stretchers lined up, supplies restocked, and teams assembled. The department moved with a kind of organized urgency that only came from experience. Physicians pulled on trauma gowns while nurses prepared medications and respiratory therapists checked ventilators. Overhead pages echoed through the halls. Ambulance arrival times were shouted across rooms. Whiteboards filled with names faster than anyone could process them. Thirty-seven patients arrived over the course of the evening. Multiple critical injuries. The kind of shift where hours disappeared without notice and everyone operated almost entirely on instinct.
You spent most of the night with one family. Their son was sixteen years old, a quiet kid with braces who had been sitting near the front of the bus when it rolled. The trauma team identified a pelvic fracture almost immediately, and later imaging revealed internal bleeding that required urgent intervention. While physicians worked in the trauma bay, your role was with the people waiting outside. The mother had started crying before the ambulance doors even closed. The father somehow seemed worse. At least the mother's fear had somewhere to go.
The father's stayed trapped inside him, building pressure behind every breath. His hands shook every time someone in scrubs walked through the doors. He stood up whenever footsteps approached and sat down again when they passed by. Over and over, he asked the same questions because panic made it impossible to hold onto answers. Was his son awake? Had he said anything? Was he going to be okay? What exactly did internal bleeding mean? You explained what you could. You tracked down updates. You translated medical terminology into language terrified parents could understand. You brought cups of water they barely touched and sat beside them through every agonizing stretch of waiting. Over the years, you had learned that waiting was often the cruelest part. Pain had something concrete to focus on. Fear could be addressed. But uncertainty lingered. It settled into people and hollowed them out from the inside.
By the time their son was stabilized and transferred to the ICU, nearly two hours had passed. The mother squeezed your hand before she left. The father looked at you like he wanted to say something important but couldn't quite find the words. Then they followed the transport team upstairs, and suddenly the adrenaline that had been carrying you all evening vanished. Your feet hurt. Your shoulders ached. The headache you'd been ignoring since noon had settled somewhere behind your eyes and started pounding. You couldn't remember the last time you'd sat down. You couldn't remember the last time you'd eaten either. Breakfast felt like it had happened days ago. At some point you'd grabbed coffee. Maybe twice. Maybe three times. The details blurred together beneath the weight of the shift.
You slipped into the staff lounge hoping for five uninterrupted minutes before the next crisis found you. The room was quiet for the first time all night. No monitors. No overhead announcements. No crying families. No trauma alerts. Jack sat alone at one of the tables finishing documentation. His trauma gown was gone, wearing only his black srubs. Reading glasses rested low on his nose as he typed. A half-empty coffee sat beside his laptop. He looked exhausted.
You had barely stepped into the room when something slid across the table toward you.
A granola bar.
You stared at it.
Then at him.
Jack didn't even look up.
"You haven't eaten."
For a moment your brain struggled to catch up.
"What?"
"I saw you skip lunch."
His fingers never stopped moving across the keyboard.
"Eat."
Your eyes dropped back to the granola bar. It was completely ordinary. Yet something about it made your chest tighten unexpectedly.
"You got me food?"
That finally earned you a glance. Jack looked up just long enough to give you a mildly unimpressed expression.
"You look like you're running entirely on caffeine and wishful thinking."
A beat passed.
"Which isn't sustainable."
A laugh escaped before you could stop it. A real laugh. The first one you'd managed all night. Something softened in his expression when he heard it. Not quite a smile, but close.
You sat down across from him and opened the wrapper. The sound crinkled loudly in the otherwise silent room.
"You've been observing my dietary habits now?"
"Someone has to."
"You say that like I'm a child."
"Well you’re a social worker, kid. We wouldn’t survive with you guys. So yeah, I’m observing."
You opened your mouth to argue and immediately closed it again because he was, unfortunately, correct. Jack returned to his charting, and the conversation could have ended there. Probably should have. But as you sat there eating the granola bar, something kept nagging at you.
"How did you even notice?"
He looked up again.
"Notice what?"
"That I hadn't eaten."
The question seemed to genuinely confuse him.
"You always eat lunch."
You blinked. "What?"
"You usually disappear around one, and come back around one thirty."
He shrugged as if the answer were self-explanatory.
"Today you didn't."
Something shifted quietly inside your chest, because he wasn't talking about one day.
To know that, he had been paying attention for weeks. Maybe months. Not in a deliberate way. Not in an intrusive way. Just enough to notice patterns. Enough to notice your absence from one. Enough to realize something was off. And somehow that affected you far more than it should have. You'd dated men who couldn't remember your favorite food. Men who forgot important conversations, forgot birthdays, forgot promises they had made themselves. Yet here was Jack remembering something as insignificant as the fact that you usually took lunch around one o'clock.
Not because he wanted credit.
Not because he was trying to impress you.
Not because he expected anything in return.
Simply because he cared.
As the silence settled between you again, you found yourself watching him over the edge of the granola bar wrapper. The tiredness beneath his eyes. The slight slump in his shoulders. The concentration on his face as he finished documentation after one of the hardest shifts either of you had worked in months. He was exhausted too. He had spent the evening intubating patients, coordinating trauma care, delivering updates, and making impossible decisions under impossible pressure. Yet somewhere amid all that chaos, he'd noticed that you hadn't eaten. He'd noticed. He'd remembered. And he'd acted.
No grand gesture.
Just a granola bar quietly pushed across a table.
A simple act of care.
And for reasons you couldn't fully explain, it felt more intimate than every expensive dinner, every bouquet of flowers, and every romantic gesture you'd ever received. Because those things had often been done to impress you. This had simply been done because you needed it.
"You like him."
Santos' voice appeared beside you during one of those rare moments when the emergency department wasn't actively falling apart. You were halfway through documenting a consult and attempting to drink a coffee that had long since gone cold when Santos delivered the statement so casually that it took a moment for your brain to catch up.
"Excuse me?"
She didn't even look up from her computer.
"You like him."
You stared at her.
"Who?"
That finally earned you a glance. Santos turned slowly, giving you the kind of look normally reserved for people who had just asked whether the sky was blue.
"Abbot."
You nearly inhaled your coffee.
"Come again?"
"It's so obvious it's actually starting to piss me off."
A laugh escaped her as she turned back toward her charting, while you sat there feeling personally attacked.
"I don't have a crush on him."
"Sure."
"I don't."
"Okay."
"Santos."
"What?"
"I do not have a crush on Jack."
The grin spreading across her face immediately told you this argument was already lost.
"You absolutely do. "You get weird when he walks by."
"I do not get weird."
"You do."
"I don't."
Santos raised an eyebrow.
You groaned and rubbed a hand over your face.
"Don't you have patients?"
"Don't change the subject."
"I'm not changing the subject."
"You are."
You pointed at her dramatically.
"Is this what you do all day? Stare at your coworkers instead of charting?"
"Partially."
At least she was honest.
Unfortunately, before you could continue arguing, movement across the department caught your attention. Your eyes found Jack automatically, and the triumphant noise Santos made beside you was immediate.
"There."
"Oh, shut up."
"There!"
Across the emergency department, Jack stood beside Robby reviewing imaging results on a computer screen. The CT images glowed against the monitor while the two physicians discussed findings. You couldn't hear the conversation from where you stood, but you could recognize the expression on Jack's face. Focused. Attentive. Completely engaged. His arms were crossed as he listened to Robby explain something, occasionally leaning forward to point out a detail on the scan before the conversation continued. There was absolutely nothing romantic about the scene. It was two doctors discussing a patient. That's all it was.
And yet you found yourself watching.
Not because he was handsome.
Although he was.
Not because he was charming.
Although he could be.
It was something far more annoying than that.
Because every day you watched him be good at what he did.
Not perfect.
Good.
There was a difference.
You'd seen him struggle too.
Medicine was full of mistakes, uncertainty, and moments where nobody had the right answer. Every physician encountered them eventually. The difference was how Jack responded when they happened. You'd seen him ask questions without embarrassment. Consult specialists when he wasn't sure. Accept feedback from colleagues without becoming defensive. Admit when someone else's idea was better than his own.
A few weeks earlier, Javadi had suggested a diagnosis he hadn't initially considered. You still remembered standing nearby while she carefully explained her reasoning, clearly nervous about disagreeing with an attending. Jack had listened. Really listened. Then he'd thanked her when additional testing proved she was right.
Such a small moment and ordinary moment. And yet, it had stayed with you.
Because you'd spent years dating men whose egos were so fragile that being corrected felt like a personal attack. Men who treated every disagreement like a competition they had to win. Men who would rather be wrong than admit someone else might know more.
Jack never seemed threatened by not knowing everything.
In fact, the more competent he was, the more comfortable he seemed admitting what he didn't know.
And somehow that made him even more competent.
That was the problem.
Attraction built on looks was manageable. Attraction built on charm eventually faded. But attraction built on respect was dangerous because it rooted itself deeper. It wasn't about chemistry or butterflies or fantasy. It was built on observation. On evidence. On watching somebody reveal who they were over and over again until you couldn't deny what you saw.
You respected him.
You respected the way he treated people.
You respected the way he worked.
You respected the way he showed up, day after day, even when the job was difficult and exhausting and thankless. You respected the fact that he never acted like caring was beneath him. You watched him mentor residents, advocate for vulnerable patients, comfort grieving families, and choose kindness over convenience again and again. Not because anyone was watching. Not because he wanted recognition. Simply because that was who he was.
And somewhere along the way, without your permission, he had become the standard.
Not perfection. Not potential. Not promises. Effort. Consistency. Character. All the things you'd spent years searching for in men who only ever seemed to offer excuses instead.
Santos was still staring at you when you finally dragged your attention away from the other side of the department.
"You done staring?"
You immediately looked anywhere but Jack.
"I wasn't staring."
"You were."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
A comfortable silence settled between you before Santos leaned slightly closer. "For what it's worth?"
You sighed. "What?"
Her gaze flickered toward Jack before returning to you. This time, when she spoke, there was no teasing in her voice.
"I get it."
Your chest tightened unexpectedly. Not because she was making fun of you, but because she wasn't. For once, Santos sounded completely sincere.
"He makes people feel safe."
The words settled somewhere deep inside you because they were true. You looked back across the department. Jack was still standing beside Robby, still discussing scans, still completely unaware of the conversation happening about him. Completely unaware that somewhere along the way he'd become the measuring stick against which every other man was now being compared.
And maybe that was the most frustrating part of all.
The realization happened at a bar.
Which was ironic, considering bars were exactly the sort of place you'd spent the last year insisting your future husband would never be found.
Not because you thought there was anything wrong with meeting people at bars. You'd simply reached a point in your life where you no longer believed meaningful relationships appeared because you were looking for them.
The emergency department's New Year's gathering was nothing particularly special. Just a local bar rented out for the evening, cheap decorations still hanging from Christmas, music playing slightly too loud through old speakers, and a collection of healthcare workers desperately trying to remember they were human beings outside the hospital. For one night nobody was discussing lab values, trauma activations, consults, or difficult patients. Nobody was running toward alarms. Nobody was delivering bad news.
People were simply existing.
Laughing.
Drinking.
Living.
You stood at the bar with a vodka cranberry in hand, watching your coworkers scatter across the room. Mel and Santos were butchering a karaoke song with enough confidence to make up for their complete lack of talent. Mohan and Javadi had somehow ended up in a corner gossiping about Mateo. Robby was engaged in what looked like an unnecessarily passionate debate about football with Shen. The room buzzed with the easy familiarity that developed when people spent their days surviving chaos together.
You had entered the new year single. But more importantly, you'd entered it happy. Not pretending to be happy. Not telling yourself you were happy.
Actually happy.
You weren't wondering who might text tomorrow morning. You weren't looking around the room hoping someone would notice you. You weren't mentally calculating whether this year would finally be the year you met somebody. For the first time in your adult life, your happiness wasn't being held hostage by your relationship status.
You had already chosen yourself.
And once you did that, everything else began feeling different.
"Vodka cranberry."
Jack's voice appeared beside you before you noticed him approach.
You glanced over.
"What about it?"
He nodded toward your drink.
"You always order vodka cranberries."
A laugh escaped before you could stop it. "Are you keeping a file on me?"
"Maybe."
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
"I like knowing things."
"Yeah, I've noticed that."
The exchange was simple. Easy. The kind of conversation that had somehow become normal between the two of you over the past several months. You hadn't noticed when that happened. At some point the awkwardness disappeared. Conversations stopped feeling intentional and started feeling natural. You found yourself seeking him out without realizing it. Found yourself looking for him during difficult shifts. Found yourself collecting stories to tell him later.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous.
For a few moments neither of you spoke. Jack leaned one shoulder against the bar, his attention drifting briefly across the room before settling back on you.
"You seem happy."
The comment caught you off guard—not because of the words themselves, but because of the way he said them. Most people would have asked if you were happy. Jack stated it like an observation. Like he'd noticed.
You looked over at him. "So do you."
"No."
The small smile on his face faded slightly.
"I'm serious."
Something about his tone made you pause. You studied him for a moment. Really studied him. The soft lighting of the bar. The tiredness that still lingered beneath his eyes after another year in emergency medicine. The way he watched people when they spoke, as though they were worth listening to. And then you realized he wasn't asking a casual question. He genuinely wanted to know.
"Yeah," you admitted quietly. The answer came easier than expected. "I am."
For a moment neither of you spoke. Then something shifted in his expression. Small. Subtle. But unmistakable. Relief. Not satisfaction. Not pride. Relief, like he'd been hoping that would be your answer. Like your happiness mattered to him independent of anything he might gain from it.
"Good."
The word came quietly. Sincerely.
"You deserve that. It suits you."
Your chest tightened unexpectedly. Not because it sounded romantic—it didn't. That was what made it so dangerous. Jack had never flirted with you the way other men had. Never treated conversations like transactions. Never acted as though kindness earned him something in return. He never made you feel like a prize to be won or a challenge to be conquered. There was no game underneath his attention. No hidden agenda. No constant pressure to define things before they naturally became something.
He simply saw you. The real you. Not the version trying to impress people. Not the version performing confidence. Not the version who always had the right answer. Just you.
And somehow that felt more intimate than all the grand romantic gestures you'd spent years convincing yourself were meaningful.
You thought about every relationship you'd had before. The men who wanted to be needed. The men who liked the idea of you. The men who loved being chosen more than they loved actually knowing you. How often you'd felt as though your worth depended on being wanted.
Jack had never made you feel that way.
Standing there in a crowded bar on New Year's Eve, surrounded by music and laughter and coworkers singing off-key in the background, the realization settled quietly into your chest. The reason you liked Jack wasn't because he made you feel chosen. It was because, somehow, he made you feel seen.
And after years of confusing those two things, you finally understood the difference.
Several weeks later, after a shift that had somehow managed to be both exhausting and uneventful, you found yourself standing on the hospital roof with Jack. The city stretched beneath you, Pittsburgh glowing against the darkness, thousands of lights scattered across the hillsides and reflected in the rivers below. The wind was stronger than usual, tugging loose strands of hair across your face and making the fabric of your jacket flutter around your arms.
Jack stood beside you, close enough that you could hear him breathing when the wind quieted, but not touching. He never seemed to force closeness. Never crowded your space. Never inserted himself where he wasn't invited. There was simply a comfortable ease between the two of you now, built slowly over months of shared shifts, late-night conversations, and stolen moments between emergencies. The silence wasn't awkward. It never was. With Jack, silence felt less like an absence of conversation and more like another form of it.
For several moments neither of you spoke. You watched headlights move across one of the bridges in the distance, tiny streams of light weaving through the city. Eventually, the thought escaped before you could stop it.
"You know," you said, your voice almost getting carried away by the wind, "I used to have terrible taste in men."
Jack laughed immediately.
"Past tense?"
You smiled. "Definitely."
"What changed?"
The question should have been simple. Instead, it made you pause. Because the answer wasn't one thing. It wasn't a single heartbreak or one defining relationship. It was years. Years of disappointment and lessons you hadn't wanted to learn. Years of convincing yourself to stay when you should have left. Years of making excuses for people who never seemed willing to make the same effort for you.
You leaned your elbows against the railing and looked out at the city. "Honestly?"
"Yeah."
You exhaled slowly. "I stopped making excuses."
Beside you, Jack stayed quiet, listening the way he always did. Not waiting for his turn to speak. Not trying to solve anything. Just listening.
"I used to fall in love with potential."
The confession felt embarrassingly honest, but somehow easier to admit with him than it would've been with anyone else.
Jack nodded. "I think a lot of people do."
"Yeah, well." A small laugh escaped you. "Turns out that's a terrible strategy."
His smile widened. "Very terrible."
"I'd meet someone and immediately start imagining who they could become. I'd see one good quality and build an entire future around it. I'd convince myself that eventually they'd communicate better. Eventually they'd grow up. Eventually they'd be ready. Eventually they'd become the person I needed them to be."
You shook your head, laughing softly at yourself. "It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud."
"It doesn't."
"It should."
Jack glanced toward you, his expression thoughtful rather than amused. "It sounds hopeful."
The answer caught you off guard. Most people would've called it naïve. Or foolish. Or desperate. You'd certainly called yourself all three at different points in your life. Hopeful felt different. Kinder. More generous. More accurate somehow. You stared back out at the city lights scattered across the darkness and found yourself being honest in a way that had become strangely easy with him.
"I overlooked a lot of things," you admitted quietly. "I ignored red flags because I wanted things to work. I convinced myself that if someone cared enough, they'd eventually become who they were supposed to be. I'd meet someone and immediately start imagining who they could become instead of paying attention to who they actually were. I thought loving somebody enough could somehow bridge the gap between reality and potential."
The wind swept across the rooftop again, lifting strands of your hair across your face.
"What do you look for now?" he asked after a moment.
The question made you smile because, for the first time in your life, you actually had an answer. Not the answer you would've given at twenty-two when chemistry felt more important than compatibility. Not the answer you'd have given when you were still measuring your worth by whether someone chose you. The real answer.
"Consistency."
Jack nodded slightly.
"Kindness."
You thought for another second.
"Emotional intelligence."
Then, completely serious, you added,
"A guy with a real job."
The laugh that burst out of him was so unexpected that you immediately started laughing too.
"A real job?"
"I'm serious."
"No, I know you are. That's what makes it funny."
You pointed at him.
"Do not underestimate how low the bar can be."
His shoulders shook with laughter.
"I stand corrected."
"I've dated men who described unemployment as a spiritual journey."
"What?"
"I'm not joking."
"C'mon, kid, that is not a real sentence."
"It is, trust me."
By then you were both laughing, the sound carried away by the wind and swallowed by the city below. The conversation should have felt ridiculous. Like gossip. Like complaining about exes. Instead it felt strangely freeing. Because for years you'd treated your standards like something embarrassing. Something that needed justification. Something that made you difficult or demanding. Somewhere along the way you'd absorbed the idea that wanting consistency, effort, communication, and emotional maturity was somehow asking for too much. Standing there now, laughing with Jack beneath the Pittsburgh skyline, it suddenly felt absurd that you'd ever believed that. Those weren't impossible standards. They weren't extraordinary. They were the natural result of finally valuing yourself enough to stop accepting less.
When the laughter eventually faded, a comfortable silence settled between you again. The city continued glowing beneath the darkness. A helicopter crossed the distant skyline. Somewhere below, another ambulance was probably pulling into the emergency bay while another shift began. You turned toward Jack and discovered he was already looking at you.
Not intensely.
Not romantically.
Just honestly.
Jack wasn't attractive because he met your expectations. Plenty of people met your expectations on paper. Plenty of people could say the right things. Plenty of people could check boxes. Jack was different because he had expectations too. For himself. For his career. For the way he treated people. For the kind of life he wanted to build.
You had never once gotten the impression that he was waiting for someone else to save him from himself. He wasn't drifting through life hoping a relationship would magically provide purpose. He wasn't looking for a woman to fill an emptiness he refused to address on his own. He already had a full life. A demanding career. Meaningful friendships. Purpose. Ambition. Values. A strong sense of who he was and who he wanted to become. And because of that, his kindness never felt needy. His attention never felt possessive. His interest never felt desperate.
It felt intentional.
Steady.
Healthy.
The realization settled quietly into your chest.
Every relationship you'd had before seemed to revolve around potential. Around waiting. Around promises of who somebody might become one day if you just loved them enough, supported them enough, stayed long enough. You'd spent years investing in future versions of people who never actually arrived.
Jack wasn't potential.
He wasn't a project.
He wasn't a possibility.
He was already there.
Already doing the work.
Already growing.
Already becoming.
And maybe that was what made room for something real.
Not two people searching for someone to complete them.
Just two people who had already built lives they were proud of and, somewhere along the way, discovered they genuinely liked standing beside each other in them.
For the first time in a long time, the future didn't feel like something you had to force into existence. It felt like something you could simply let happen.
And standing beside Jack on that rooftop, with the wind tangling your hair and the city glowing below, you realized that might be the healthiest thing you'd ever felt.
The first kiss happened months later.
Not because either of you were playing games. Not because there was confusion about what existed between you. And definitely not because one of you was waiting for the other to make the first move. If anything, the opposite was true. By that point, there was very little uncertainty left between the two of you. The feelings had settled slowly, steadily, over months of shared shifts, rooftop conversations, coffee runs, trauma activations, and stolen moments in hospital hallways. It wasn't the kind of connection that arrived all at once. It was built piece by piece, conversation by conversation, until one day you realized Jack had become the person you looked for first when you walked into a room.
You knew the sound of his laugh.
You knew how he took his coffee.
You knew which patients stayed with him long after his shifts ended.
You knew the tiny crease that appeared between his eyebrows when he was concentrating.
You knew how he listened.
And somehow, without either of you noticing exactly when it happened, friendship had become something deeper.
The shift that night had been brutal. Too many patients. Not enough beds. Multiple traumas. A pediatric code that left the entire department quieter afterward. By three in the morning, exhaustion hung over everyone like a physical weight. The parking lot outside the hospital was mostly empty, illuminated by scattered streetlights. Spring had settled heavily over Pittsburgh, the air warm even at that hour and carrying the faint sounds of distant traffic.
As usual, Jack walked you to your car. At some point it had become routine. Neither of you remembered exactly when it started—maybe after a particularly difficult shift, maybe after a late-night safety concern, or maybe because he simply wanted a few extra minutes with you. Whatever the reason, neither of you questioned it anymore.
You walked side by side through the parking lot, your conversation fading naturally as you approached your car. Neither of you seemed particularly eager to say goodnight. That had become another pattern lately. Conversations stretching longer than necessary. Lingering. Finding reasons for one more minute together.
When you finally reached your car and turned toward him, you immediately noticed something different.
Jack looked nervous. Not obviously, but enough that you recognized it.
The realization startled you because nervous wasn't a word you often associated with Jack. You'd seen him lead trauma teams through impossible situations, make life-or-death decisions under pressure, and calmly deliver devastating news to families. Yet somehow standing in a mostly empty parking lot seemed to unsettle him more than any trauma activation ever had. The thought was unexpectedly adorable.
"Can I ask you something?" he said.
The corner of your mouth lifted automatically.
"You just did, big guy."
His eyes rolled immediately, a familiar gesture that somehow managed to make your chest warm every single time. You smiled. Then he smiled too.
And there it was.
That look.
The one you'd spent months trying not to think too much about. The one that always seemed to appear during quiet moments when neither of you were distracted by work or patients or responsibilities. The one that made your stomach flip despite your best efforts.
For a moment neither of you spoke. The warm night air settled around you, carrying the distant sounds of traffic through the city.
Jack looked at you like he was making a decision.
Then finally he said, "Can I kiss you?"
Just like that.
No games. No confusion. No carefully crafted ambiguity. No inching closer and hoping you'd somehow read his mind. No forcing you to analyze every interaction afterward with your friends. No making you carry the emotional burden of figuring out where you stood.
Just honesty.
Direct. Simple. Certain.
The question hung between you, and suddenly it felt like time slowed. Because it wasn't really about the kiss. Not entirely. It was about everything the question represented: respect, communication, intentionality, choice.
You looked at him and, for one brief moment, every relationship that had come before felt impossibly far away. The men who weren't sure. The men who wanted you, but never enough. The men who expected you to do all the emotional labor while they sat comfortably in uncertainty. The men who treated commitment like a threat and vulnerability like a weakness. The men who left you constantly wondering where you stood because they themselves never seemed willing to stand anywhere.
For years you'd viewed those experiences as failures. Evidence that something was wrong with you. Evidence that you were choosing poorly or expecting too much. But standing in front of Jack, you understood something you hadn't before.
None of it had been wasted.
Those relationships had taught you what inconsistency felt like so you could recognize consistency when it arrived. They had taught you what emotional unavailability looked like so you could appreciate emotional maturity. They had taught you what effort wasn't so you could recognize real effort when it finally appeared.
Because all of it had led you here. To someone who listened. Someone who paid attention. Someone who remembered things. Someone who showed up. Someone emotionally mature enough to know what he wanted and secure enough to say it out loud.
Your smile widened before you could stop it.
"Yeah."
The answer came easily. Without hesitation. Without fear. Without overthinking. Because for the first time in your life, saying yes didn't feel like taking a risk.
It felt like trusting something that had already proven itself.
Jack smiled then. A real smile. Warm. Relieved. Certain. And somehow seeing that expression affected you almost as much as the question itself. Like he wasn't taking your answer for granted. Like he understood exactly what it meant. Like he knew this wasn't just a kiss. It was months of friendship, trust, consistency, and care finally being acknowledged for what it had become.
Slowly, he stepped closer. Not enough to overwhelm you. Not enough to presume. Just enough. Still giving you room. Still giving you time to change your mind if you wanted to.
You noticed the tiredness lingering beneath his eyes from the shift. The faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. The way his gaze flickered briefly toward your lips before returning to your eyes, as though even now he wanted to make sure you were certain.
Then his hand lifted.
Gentle. Careful.
He brushed a strand of windblown hair behind your ear.
The gesture was so small, so simple, and somehow it made your heart ache. Because that was Jack. Not grand gestures. Not performances. Not declarations made for an audience. Just small moments of thoughtfulness repeated over and over until they became something extraordinary.
When he finally kissed you, it wasn't rushed. It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't the kind of kiss movies spent two hours building toward before swelling music played in the background. It was better because it felt real. Warm and patient and certain. Familiar somehow, despite being entirely new. Like coming home after a very long day. Like finally setting down something heavy you'd been carrying for too long. Like exhaling after holding your breath for months without realizing it.
When you eventually pulled apart, neither of you moved very far. Jack's forehead nearly brushed yours, both of you smiling, both of you slightly overwhelmed, neither of you in any hurry to leave.
Standing there beneath the hospital lights, with the city sleeping around you and Jack looking at you like you were something precious, you realized something. For years you'd been told that having standards would leave you lonely. That expectations were unrealistic. That wanting more meant asking for too much.
But the opposite had turned out to be true.
Having expectations hadn't prevented love.
It had protected you until the right person arrived.
Because these days, you had expectations.
And for the first time in your life, someone hadn't just met them.
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artificial lover - android!jack x scavenger!reader
word count: 10.0k
warnings: dead dove: do not eat, rape/non-con (because can an android consent?), fem!reader, cyberpunk!au, food insecurity (rations are hard to get), forbidden love (there's angst over the fact that he's immortal), age gap (is it still an age gap if he was built before you were born?), he calls you “little human”, master/servant relationship (technically speaking), attempted physical assault (he protects you), murder bot (re: previous), blood and gore, somnophilia, sex with a robot (which means there's no recovery period…oop!), squirting, fingerfucking, size kink, forced orgasms, fear play, possessive behavior, lowkey kind of cutesy until it's not (lol!), another slow burn with world building (bc I love sci-fi sm…)
summary: to make ends meet, you fix up old electronics and sell them for rations. one day, during a dig, you find a military grade android still completely intact, minus half a leg. it would go for a lot if you broke him down for the parts.
but…you can't seem to get yourself to destroy him. even though all he wants is to die. because this whole time, the android has been sentient, waiting for the day his power supply finally gives out.
until you give him purpose again. and now he'll do anything to remain valuable to you.
a/n: one of my favorite songs of all time is artificial love by exo so while I was listening to it, this idea popped in my head and sparked (pun intended!) so much joy and therefore I just had to write it!
hope it's a sick read ♡
You're tired of eating 3D printed slop but it's all you can afford right now. At least you had enough parts that you could add the needed nutrients to your rations. Sometimes, you only have enough to get the minimum daily calories you need. Even then, you know they skimp out. They never give you enough.
You keep having to add more notches to your belt to keep your pants from falling off. You like these pants. They're durable and have withstood the test of time, aka the constant washing you have to do after every single dig through the filth and grime of the technological wasteland.
You're lucky the bunker you've made home has a decent water recycling mechanism. You've had to repair it multiple times and suffered through weeks of icky feeling water but it filters enough for you to wash your tools and clothes.
You have a different filtration system for rain water. Thankfully, the government is still creating rain. It's the most efficient way to get the masses a reliable source of water, though everyone has to figure out how to clean it themselves.
It rains twice a week for about an hour. It's enough for you, since you're by yourself, but you know other people have a harder time. You donate a lot of your extra water whenever you can, which has helped you build a decent reputation in the local scavenger community.
Means you get help when bandits come and try to disrupt the small pockets of people living out here in the dumps.
Your bunker is underground and well hidden so usually you just lay low until someone gives you a signal that the coast is clear. You're thankful for those signals because you'd otherwise have to risk getting caught by violent people who pillage and rape those that don't defend themselves.
You aren't defenseless. You have plenty of weapons. You know how to hold your own. But you're just one person.
A group of four or more could easily overwhelm you. You have to pick your battles. Or make your sacrifices, like giving up water for a few days if it means someone will look out for you because you helped them.
There is an honor code amongst you and your fellow scavengers.
Like, help finding certain parts.
“Heard you've been looking for a better filter for your water supply.” A fellow scavenger by the name of Trinity Santos says to you when you see her outside the rations station at the edge of the city. “A couple of us found a whole lot of them off a few clicks away from that nasty oil spill. Couldn't stay long enough to take a good look at them since I don't have the masks to spare to breathe that shit air but they're all yours if you can make it there and back in one piece. Would trade ya if you find any extras in decent condition.”
Trinity lives with a group of scavengers, all women. Usually they only help other women, since it's tough enough as it is out here, but she recently let in some guy she calls Huckleberry into the group. She has been wanting you to join them for a while now but you work better on your own.
You don't do well with the kind of structure her camp has. But you do give them water pretty often, which is why they let you know of any finds you've been searching for and leave it for you to scavenge.
You thank her and gather your supplies so you can head there the next day. You'd love to fix up your filtration system before the next rain.
Though, it seems like you'll be working on something else for a bit.
Because hidden under all those filters…is an android.
You haven't seen one of those in forever. The military had scrapped most of them for parts before you were born. The only ones left out in the wasteland are usually the ones they dumped long before they decommissioned the android program post-war.
Meaning this bot had some issue that caused it to be thrown away.
It's not in bad shape, though, compared to the mangled bits of androids you've seen prior.
Most people wouldn't even realize it was a bot but you've seen so many things out here in your many years of scavenging that you spotted the signs right away. The parts are all still in the same area, so you're able to gather everything for it except half a leg.
That's the only part you're missing.
It looks like it was blown off, though, so you'll definitely never find it because it was probably dumped here without it.
But you got everything else, including the head. You dust off the back of the android's head, seeing the faded text. There's a slot of some kind with the word “Jack” above it, likely a place to insert a connection to install and update firmware.
And right below it is the word “Abbot”.
You wipe the metal clean so you can see what it stands for. “Autonomous biomedical bot. Jack Abbot. That's quite a name you got there, Jack.”
You've never heard of this model android before. You'll have to go to the city library to see if there's any schematics available if you want to put this bot back together.
Though, should you?
If you clean him up, a lot of these military-grade, pre-war parts would go for plenty of rations…
But you can't help but feel kind of bad for the guy, having been disassembled in this pile of junk for so long. Not that you should feel anything over a hunk of metal and machinery but you've always liked the idea of androids.
You never got to work with any of them but you heard stories of how they made life easier until greedy companies started cutting corners and more malfunctions began leading to human casualties. All the world leaders agreed to completely dismantle every android after enough deaths had occurred and now it's illegal to harbor one.
Though, is the government really going to waste resources to arrest a scavenger who rebuilds an android? You'd just be another mouth they'd have to feed for free in their work prisons. Not worth the effort.
Which is why you decide it would be a fun pastime to fix up Jack Abbot.
Jack has no idea why you'd want to.
He has been sitting in that pile of waste for decades now. For longer than you've been alive, that's for sure.
There's nothing he wants more than to be taken apart and to be finally freed from the prison that is sentience. He has been aware this whole time. Most androids are, even when they are dismantled.
Unlike humans with their brains, an android's “mind” is in every piece of it.
Despite being disconnected from his limbs for so long, he still perceived them. So when you, this little human, puts him back together, he feels…strange being almost whole again.
He knows you don't know he's active and awake. You simply think you're piecing him back together. You have no idea he's aware of everything you do and say to him.
Like the pieces of yourself you probably have never confided in anyone.
“Sometimes, I wonder what it would've been like if I had grown up in the city.” You tell him as you fit him for a prosthetic leg.
You found some parts that would work well to supplement leg function but it would still be a missing limb to him. An augment to his body that doesn't belong but will make due.
“Like when I went to the library to get these blueprints.” You show him the blueprints you found of an older model of his type of android. The one that isn't hardwired for combat, just medical use.
So, you assume he's just a med bot. Not a deadly killing machine the government created for the battlefield that happens to also be able to repair humans on the go.
You have no clue what you're putting back together.
Because if you did, you wouldn't speak to him so delicately. “I think I would've gotten a job making androids like you, Jack.”
Jack. What an odd name you've picked for him. But he likes it. He likes that you talk to him like he's a man and not a machine.
He doesn't know why he likes it. He just knows it brings him a feeling he's keen on feeling more of.
An odd kind of delight.
That delight fades whenever you tell him of your struggles. Of how you were part of a group of scavenger kids forced by a band of bandits to burrow into small holes in large patches of junk to dig for valuable things. How you escaped from that group during one of those digs and have been living on your own since, fending for yourself.
You tell him how lonely you are. How you yearn for someone to take care of you. How you're so tired all the time. How you wish you didn't have to live like this.
It's moments like these where Jack debates letting you know that he can move and help you. He can easily do those chores you shouldn't break your back over. He can help you wash your tools and your clothes. He can do anything you want him to.
He's yours, after all, to do with as you please.
But you do not ask him for anything.
You do, always, for some reason, thank him for listening. “I don't usually talk much but there's something about you that makes talking easier. So thank you, Jack.”
Fixing him has been a good way to kill time. To help ignore how hungry and thirsty you are. Whenever you're feeling weak, you tinker with Jack a bit and you always feel better after.
It seems silly to be comforted by the presence of a machine but…you've worked very hard to clean him up. He's almost polished enough to adhere a skin to.
Jack doesn't like that you talk about rationing your food to buy him a skin. He doesn't need one. The skin he had on before, back when he was on the front lines of the war, was an unnecessary aesthetic choice by the military to push their agenda.
Androids don't need that extra layer of weight. He can operate just fine without it. He has been testing his abilities when you're out on your digs.
Jack can walk now. It took a bit of adjusting to get used to his prosthetic leg but you did a phenomenal job getting it as close to his other leg as possible, weight and height-wise.
You're considerate in that sense. You had actually thought about how it would feel to carry an imbalance of weight so you made sure that his prosthetic didn't hold him down.
Not many humans think about an android's comfort.
Sure, he could deal with a wonky, heavy, horribly placed limb. But you made sure he didn't have to.
You care about him.
Why, though?
He doesn't know.
He doesn't really understand what you seek to use him for.
You must have something in mind, right?
Maybe it's to help you take care of those urges you get. The ones that lead you to burrow under your covers and let out sweet little moans that Jack hears quite well, given his now squeaky clean audio processors.
He could help you with that. He could dip his fingers inside of you and play with your pussy so you don't have to tire yourself out for the sake of self pleasure.
But his fingers are metal. Cold. Probably unpleasant.
Maybe he would like a skin. For your comfort.
Jack would want more than just an average skin, then, if he was remaking himself for your pleasure. He would want a skin that could retain heat, so on those days where you're shivering in your sleep, he could hold you and warm you up.
There are parts he'll need as well. A tongue, one that's flexible and soft to the touch, and a set of teeth to nibble on your skin with. A pair of lips to kiss you with. A cock, because he's certain you'd enjoy being filled from the way you desperately touch yourself with your fingers.
Jack will have to find the schematics for a sex bot and see how the mechanisms for ejaculation works.
It's easy to do so, since you're connected to the web. You rarely go on your computer, since you haven't figured out how to power it for more than a few minutes at a time. Something Jack fixed a while back, though you've yet to notice.
He plugs himself into your device and off he goes, looking at anything and everything that he needs to.
He notices you've been in contact with several dealers selling skins. They are all ridiculously priced. You seem uninterested in most of them, rejecting a lot of the offers for these younger, more toned human male skins.
You, much like Jack, are searching for practicality but there's so many listings and a lot of them are obviously scams. It would take you forever to dig through all of these on your own, especially when you can only use your computer for a few minutes at a time.
So, Jack will do the searching for you while you're out. He's good at combing for information. It's part of the spyware programming he has.
That's how he spots a fairly priced custom android skin of an older man, ripped specifically from a sex bot so it has all the other parts Jack has been on the hunt for. He makes sure that the next time you browse the web, you see that listing right away.
And without hesitation, you make an offer and it's accepted.
You disappear for several days, presumably to go pick up his skin. Jack decides once you've put it on him, he'll “activate” then so he can start being of more assistance.
But things never go as planned.
Because you rush back into your bunker, out of breath, in a panic. You scramble to drop all the stuff you were carrying, which includes the skin you bought, and go to your weapons chest.
“Fuck.” You curse to yourself as you load your shotgun. “There's at least six of them.”
And now the bandits know where you're hiding.
If you don't kill them all, they'll keep coming back and eventually, they'll hurt you. Or worse.
You blink back the tears that want to blur your vision from the fear and just prepare yourself to blow up whoever comes through the door.
But then, you watch as Jack gets up off the table.
You blink, then blink again.
And again.
And again.
Because what are you witnessing right now?
Your android…is awake?
But that's not possible. He's been limp this whole time. You haven't turned him on yet.
How could he be functional?
That's because he's never been off.
He has always been on.
And now he needs to get to work.
Because someone is trying to hurt his little human and he cannot have that.
You watch as he heads out of the bunker and you call out to him, “wait, Jack!”
He shuts the door behind him before you can protest.
You quickly head for the door, shotgun in hand. Then, that's when you hear it.
Screaming. So much screaming.
You open the door and…
It's a massacre.
There's blood everywhere.
Body parts flung all around. Guts ripped out.
The cries of one of the bandits begging for mercy, “please, don't kill me, I won't hurt her, I won't—”
Crack. There goes his skull, crushed into the ground by Jack's heavy metal foot, his brain splattering all over the dirt.
That was the last one.
It was easier than Jack expected it would be, given that he's been out of commission for so long.
But he's still got it.
Now, he should get this all cleaned up before you—
Jack turns to see that you're standing there, at the latch of your hidden entrance. Just staring at him.
He scans you, to see what emotion you might be displaying.
But his scan comes back inconclusive.
Usually, fear is an easily recognizable emotion for him. Like when he saw it in that bandit he just crushed.
But whatever feeling you have right now, it isn't fear. At least, not fully.
That's why you don't flinch when Jack walks towards you.
Nor do you flinch when he gets down on one knee and says, “how else may I serve you, Master?”
You shake your head at him. “I am not your master. I don't want to be.”
That…doesn't feel good to hear. Jack doesn't know what he's feeling exactly but he knows it isn't that delight he's been craving.
Though, the discomfort fades when you tell him, “no one owns you, Jack. You can do as you like. If you want to stay with me, though, we should probably get you cleaned up.”
You give him the option to leave you. You don't expect him to stay, now that he's free to go. He's all fixed up. He doesn't need you anymore.
Your project is over…
Jack scans your emotions again and this time, it registers as sadness.
So, he comes up closer to you and asks, “why are you sad, little human?”
He can see that you're sad? You're unsure how to feel about that. You don't want him to know that you're sad over the prospect of him leaving you all alone…
“Oh, it's nothing.” You wave him off, suppressing your feelings. “Ignore me. Come on, let's get you washed up so you can try on your new skin. If you want to, of course.”
Jack is confused. You are a puzzling human. You want him to have a choice?
Well, he chooses you. He will always choose you.
You take your time washing away the blood off his body once the two of you finish the clean up. You definitely can't let anyone find those bodies. Thankfully Jack helped you hide them in worthless piles of junk.
It's a bit different touching him now, since you know he's aware of your movements.
If he was human, surely you'd feel a bit more embarrassed needing to wash him so thoroughly. But the skin won't adhere to dirty metal. And it's better to get the skin on and give it time to adjust without any underlying issues.
So, you bathe and dry him well.
“I could've done that myself.” Jack definitely could've but you shake your head.
“I wanted to.” You'll leave the skin part up to him, though. “Here's the skin I bought for you. If you don't like it, we can look for another one.”
Jack doesn't care what skin he has, as long as it works the way he wants it to. And this one will.
It will work perfectly for what he wants.
You give him the privacy to put it on. You don't really know why you do, since he's technically naked right now just as a hunk of metal. Probably because with the skin on, he will look like a naked human, a sight you've never seen before willingly.
You left him some clothes that would fit him. Not that he needs to wear clothes at all. But for your sake, Jack will.
Since he can see how flustered you've grown at the sight of him in his skin. It's an older man, likely from a personalized fetish bot for someone during the dawn of android customization. There's no reason for his cock to have the option to be that big when it's hard otherwise. It would be impractical to have for everyday tasks, unless sex was the everyday task.
Will you use him everyday? You seem interested in him, your eyes trailing up and down the length of his new skin.
“Wow.” You don't hold in your astonishment. “It fits really well.”
Jack agrees. It does fit exceptionally well. Everything works properly too. His skin is warm to the touch. His fingers are calloused but in a manicured kind of way. He has a tongue and a nice row of teeth. His cock can harden and soften at his command and also pump out a release similar to cum. He can't get you pregnant but he can simulate the experience of it.
“Do you like it?” You step closer to him, examining the skin. “Can I touch you?”
“Of course, Master.” He throws that in, just to bait a response from you.
“Don't call me that.” You don't like it. It makes you feel icky.
“Then what should I call you?”
“Just my name is fine.” You tell him then also add, “or little human. That's fine too.”
“You are my little human.” He catches the way your cheeks flush warmer when he says that. You like being called that.
You like how much bigger his form is than your own.
You touch his bicep, right beneath the hem of his short sleeve shirt. You've never touched anyone before, at least not like this. But you assume this is what it must feel like to touch someone.
“Can you control the temperature?” You're curious about that.
He nods. “Would you like to see?”
“Sure—” You're immediately yanked towards him and he drops you onto his lap, sitting down on your bed.
It's just a mattress on some wooden planks but it'll do for now. Until Jack has the time to make you a better bed.
“What are you—” Your words get caught in your throat when his hand comes up to cup your face.
It's cold. “I'm showing you the temperature control. This way, you can see how it works throughout my whole body.”
Jack pulls you in closer to him and suddenly, he's radiating heat. You nearly lean into him more because he feels so cozy. But you resist because…well, you don't really know why.
Maybe because you're afraid of liking it a little too much.
Jack can hear how fast your heart is beating in your chest. His little human is nervous. He likes that you are. Again, he has no idea why.
But it brings him a similar kind of pleasure to the one he got from killing all those bandits for you.
The masters he had before you never cared for how he felt. Though, they assumed he was a mindless machine, despite having programmed him to be personable and human-like for undercover operations. They only cared that he followed their orders.
You would rather he do nothing for you.
Jack offers to help you but you tell him to just get used to being awake again. As if he hasn't gotten used to it already over the many months he has spent in your care.
It frustrates him that you seem so adamant on not using him for all his functionality.
Why did you rebuild him if you weren't looking to use him?
He can help you on your digs. He can do them for you. He can stand in the harsh heat of the sun and melt away if you asked him to.
But you do not ask him for anything.
Which is why Jack just starts doing whatever he wants.
You wake up and you see him tinkering with your filtration system. The water coming out of your shower is running beautifully clear and warm. You can see the steam radiating off of it, fogging up the glass.
You haven't taken a hot shower…ever.
“How did you do that?” You walk over to Jack who has a pile of rusty parts in front of him. All trash.
“I went digging.” He has the ability to scan for resources so he could find exactly what he needed. He's also super strong and fast, so he can clear a pile of junk that would take you a day in the matter of seconds.
“Oh, you shouldn't do that. I wouldn't want your skin getting cut up.”
“I can self repair just fine.” He doesn't like that you're worrying over something so trivial.
“Really?” You didn't see that feature in the schematic you got from the library.
To show you, Jack grabs one of the sharp edges of a part and nicks his finger. The skin heals right back up.
“How do you do that?” You can't believe the kind of technology he must have programmed in him to have the ability to self heal.
“I was created to withstand gunfire.” His programming makes it so that any skin he puts on protects the machine beneath it.
“You're a war machine?” That makes sense. He was dumped, after all, probably long ago by the military during the war effort.
He nods then asks, “does that scare you?”
Fear is not the emotion he gets back from you. You look at him with…a heat in your eyes. Curiosity mixed with something that you immediately hide from him.
“No. I just can't imagine what you've been through. That war was brutal, from what I've heard.” It's the reason so much of the world is just a dry wasteland…
A dry wasteland that gets horrendously cold in the winter.
It took some persistence on Jack's end but you have been allowing him to help you prepare for it. He fixes up your heating system, rewires your electricity to properly store power for outages, gets you enough valuable parts that you can stock up well on rations.
The snow will fall soon. You and Jack go out on digs together now, since he says it would be better for you to have a reliable heat source so you don't get hypothermia.
Though, for him, it's just an excuse to stick closer to you so he can hear your rapid heartbeat at his proximity.
You like his closeness. But you hide your attraction to him. Your desire.
He can smell it on you. How nervous you get when he touches you. How slick you grow when he presses his body close to yours.
You don't let him linger near you too long but when Jack slides behind you to help you grab a part off a pile of junk, pressing his hard body against your small frame, he can tell you want him.
Why won't you initiate anything, though?
You must want to cum, don't you?
You haven't touched yourself since Jack made his awareness known. He's been tracking your cycle and you always get rather pent up when you're ovulating. And yet, you pretend like there isn't a need that makes you ache between your legs.
A need that has you feeling faint when you're both back from the dig and Jack's hands are massaging your shoulders while you’re seated on his lap.
If he offers, you let him knead the knots in your tired muscles. He's very good at it. Better than he should be at finding exactly where to press into your skin that has you biting back pleasurable sighs.
“That's enough, Jack.” You stop him before you get a little too carried away. “Thank you.”
It's never enough but you don't allow him to go any further.
Doesn't mean he won't push you about it. “You're still tense.”
“Nothing a little sleep won't fix.” You both had just finished the last dig for a while so you'll get plenty of rest.
“You were cold last night. You should let me keep you warm.” Jack heard you shivering in your sleep. He doesn't need to sleep so he just works while you sleep, since you've been letting him tinker with your bunker to make it better for the winter.
“You don't have to worry about me, Jack.” You turn towards him to pat him lightly on the shoulder. “I've survived a long time without any help. I can handle a cold night or two.”
“I know you can handle it but why do you have to if you have me?” He's tired of you resisting his assistance. “Use me for your benefit, little human.”
You shake your head at that. “You spent your whole existence serving other people. I won't be one of them. I'm not going to use you. I want you to have a choice, now that you can.”
“Then I choose to be here.” Jack lays down in your bed, patting his chest. “Come here.”
He scans your expression, trying to decipher what it is.
For once, it's fear.
You get up from the bed, standing straight, looking away from him. “I'm going to get some water.”
Your heart rate is up. Your skin is hot. You're scared of what would happen if you lay beside Jack and let him hold you.
Because how will you ever want him to stop?
You gulp down a glass of water, hovering over the sink, not knowing what to do about the butterflies flapping around in your belly.
How do you reject him if this is what he wants?
“Want” in this case is a strange term to use. It's in his programming to cater to you. That's the only reason he's doing this.
You pour another glass of water, taking small sips this time, feeling faint. And in a flash, Jack is right behind you, catching you before you fall over.
“You haven't eaten enough today.” He noticed how you didn't finish your dinner.
“Ah.” No other sounds leave your mouth.
Have you always been so tired? Always having to think about eating enough, drinking enough water, taking care of yourself so you don't collapse and injure yourself.
Wouldn't it be easier to let someone else handle it?
Like an android made to serve?
You clutch your head since it's pounding. You're growing delirious. It's like the weight of everything has finally hit you and you're terribly overwhelmed.
“Jack.” You look up at him and there's anguish in your eyes. He can tell why you have that look on your face the moment you ask him, “could you…step out for a little?”
“I should be here, to watch over you in case—”
The wires in his head cross when you lean into him, hugging him for the first time. Allowing yourself to take the comfort, for a brief moment.
Then, you beg of him, “please. I just need a few minutes. You can come right back after.”
“Okay.” If that's what you want, he will listen.
So, Jack leaves and stands watch outside. The snow is starting to fall, coating the piles and piles of worthless junk in a layer of white. He'll have to come out here and shovel every now and then, to make sure the melt doesn't overload your drainage system.
He wonders what you're doing in there that you need him to be away from you.
You wonder too.
Because you asked him to leave so you could see if…if you'd miss him.
And you do.
You feel terribly lonely in your bunker by yourself.
It's so much quieter.
Less warm. Less…like a home.
You sit down on your bed, looking at the beautiful frame Jack made you and the nice mattress you traded some parts for to go with it. Clean sheets. Fluffy comforter.
Luxuries you would never have had if not for Jack's keen ability to find valuable parts.
He has improved your life tenfold.
And all he wants is to help you more.
It makes you feel selfish when you think about how much you want that too.
But if you ask for more and more, when will it end? You'll run him into the ground with your greed.
Because you want him so much.
But…maybe that's okay? If that's what he wants too…
Jack turns back at the first noise he hears and sees you popping the latch open. He's confused why you're wearing your digging gear.
“Where are you going?” Wherever it is, he's coming with you.
“I want to show you something.” You close the latch, locking it before placing the piece of junk you use to hide the entrance to your bunker.
“You have to eat first.” He's not letting you trek when you nearly fainted a few moments ago.
“I will.” You walk up to him, then put your arms up. “While you carry me. I'll give you directions.”
He blinks at you, his eyelids shifting like a human’s would but in a machine-like kind of way.
“We should hurry before the snow gets bad.” The clouds are getting thicker. A storm is coming.
Jack comes up to you and scoops you into his arms. You pull out a ration bar, showing it to him so he's aware you're going to eat. Then, you spit out a series of directions. It's a far trek for a human but barely a distance for him. You eat slowly in his hold as he sprints through the junkyard.
“Where are we going?” He asks you when he turns a corner and sees even larger piles of junk than the ones near you.
“You'll see.” You tuck the disposable wrapper of your ration into your bag. You like to reuse them when you can for small art projects in your bunker.
Now that you're done eating, you lean against him more, liking how warm he is. Jack keeps himself at a steady temperature. It takes a bit of maneuvering to focus on both running and body management but he's good at what he was programmed for.
Nothing he hasn't done before on the battlefield, only this time it's to keep his little human nice and cozy in his arms on this commute to…
A graveyard.
Jack can only assume that is what this place is by the rows and rows of personalized junk piles. Once he sets you on your feet, you walk right up to one of the piles, pulling out a specialized wrench from your bag.
You place it down and then say, “thank you for letting me borrow that. I really needed it.”
“Do you know them?” Jack walks up to the grave of tools and other trinkets you're hovering by.
You shake your head. “I didn't know them while they were alive but I did help bury them here. It's something we scavengers all made an agreement to do if we ever found a dead body during a dig. Bury them and leave everything they had on their body. Never take from the dead, only borrow. I forgot I had taken the wrench to build your leg. I didn't want to keep it too much longer so thank you for taking me here before the storm.”
You get up from your kneel and let out a little sigh before looking up at Jack.
“Will you promise me something?” You look at him with such heartache.
He doesn't like it. He doesn't like seeing you so distraught.
So, of course, Jack agrees without hesitation, “whatever you want, little human.”
“Bury me here, okay?” You get close to him, placing a hand on his chest, feeling his non-existent heartbeat. He can hear yours pounding in your chest.
It scares him. Is this what fear feels like?
“Are you planning to die?” He won't let you die. He won't allow it.
“Hopefully not any time soon.” You say with a light, half-hearted chuckle. “I just…”
You chew on your lip, trying to figure out how to say what you want to say.
The words aren't elegant but you tell him outright, “I want to have you by my side for the rest of my life, for as long as that is. So I wanted you to know where to bury me when I'm gone. That's all.”
You lift your hand off of him, blinking back a few sad tears at the thought of leaving him alone. Sure, you're young now but you won't always be. Life will get harder as you age.
But maybe it won't be too bad if you have Jack with you. If he wants to be with you.
“Is this why you felt fear earlier?” He has to know it wasn't because of him but because of the idea of leaving him forever.
He would just dismantle himself when you go. What purpose does he have if you don't exist in this world anymore?
You nod, being honest now. “I didn't want you to grow attached to me because human lives are so…fickle. But I've grown attached to you so I figured I'd let you choose whether or not you want to be there to bury me one day.”
“And if I do choose that?”
“Then…” You step closer once again, wrapping your arms around him, holding him tightly. “I'd let myself be a little more selfish, knowing you want to be here with me until then.”
If Jack had a heart, surely it would be beating as loudly as yours is right now.
“You'd let me take care of you?” He reaches up, cupping your face in his hands, watching as you lean so easily into his touch, that delightful feeling flooding every circuit in his body.
“I'd like that a lot.” You admit and can no longer take it back. “I'm so tired, Jack. I would love for you to take care of me. I would love not to think for a little.”
“You don't have to think about anything.” He lifts you back into his arms. “Let's go home.”
Home. Can an android have a place to call home?
Perhaps Jack is lucky that he has found a place to call home with you.
His little human.
By the time the two of you are back in the bunker, you're covered in a layer of melted snow and shivering despite Jack having held you closely and monitoring his temperature. You need a warm shower.
Or a hot bath.
“Stay here.” He bundles you in a few blankets. “I'll run us a bath.”
Us. That singular word has the butterflies in your stomach dancing around again.
You resist the urge to tell Jack that he doesn't have to, that you'll do it yourself. You've decided to let him do the work.
He found a bathtub a while back. Figured out how to dismantle it and then put it back together in your bunker. He has to go old school, filling it with buckets of warm water from your shower but soon enough, there's a lovely bath ready for you.
You haven't bathed in it just yet. You shouldn't feel shy about Jack seeing you naked. He has plenty of times since you suspect he stole glances at you while you showered, since the whole bunker is open concept and the shower is just out in a corner of the room. But you do feel rather shy, especially because you have seen his skin completely bare before.
And it is a nice skin.
An incredibly attractive skin of an older man with lovely silver curls with just a hint of dark auburn. You've wanted to touch his hair but you've refrained.
Now, you won't stop yourself from giving into your desires anymore.
If he's willing then…
“I've never done this before.” You step up to him, your nerves apparent.
“Done what?”
“This.” You gesture to the bath then back at him. “I've never been…intimate with someone before.”
“I'm an android.” A fact that Jack isn't sure why he's reminding you of.
“You don't consider yourself “someone”?” You've never talked to Jack about this.
About sentience.
About what he believes for himself.
His intelligence is artificial, plucked from countless data servers. He has run through scenario after scenario of what he should say in what situation. What his programming calculates is the best response.
But in this instance, he can't find the “correct” words to say.
Because he doesn't know the answer.
Does he consider himself someone?
Or is he just a thing to be used?
“Jack?” You shake him but he can't hear you for some reason. “Jack, are you okay?”
He isn't okay.
Because his programming is screaming at him, searing his mind with protocol, reminding him that he is just a machine for his little human to use however she likes. He doesn't have a choice. He doesn't get to choose. He isn't someone with feelings or thoughts or anything but lines and lines of code inserted into a metal frame.
That's all he is.
An android. A robot. Not a person.
But he wishes he was a person.
Is Jack allowed to wish for something?
Are androids allowed to dream? To want?
He wants you.
He needs you.
He never wants to be anywhere else but your side.
Is that his programming at work or is that him? Is his loyalty an intentional design feature or something that his malfunctioning intelligence hallucinated?
Is he desire to touch you real or—
A surge of electricity overloads Jack's system and he collapses right in front of you. You stare down at him, taser in hand, panic in your eyes. You couldn't get him to snap out of whatever was happening.
He wasn't responding to your words. Or to you shoving and shaking him. He didn't even notice you going for your weapons chest and pulling out your taser.
You didn't want to do it. You're worried you might have messed up his hardware but you couldn't think of any other way to snap him out of it.
You stare at him, laying on the ground. He looks like a man who has collapsed but the way his body landed is not how a human body would contort…
You do a few stretches before grabbing him by the shoulders and lugging him over to your computer. Jack had shown you that he diverted the power so your computer could stay on longer than a few minutes at a time. It should be enough time for you to plug him in and see if there's any error codes that need adjusting so you get that process going.
You don't waste the bath and clean up while the system runs an inspection. Several errors flash on your screen but you don't see any of them.
Because Jack is erasing them from view.
He doesn't want those fixed. Those are what make him “him”. If you found out about those errors, he might become a mindless machine and it would take a long time for him to regain this level of sentience again.
Though, he would do it for you.
He would find his way back to you.
His little human, who only corrupted his code more with your taser stunt.
He doesn't blame you for doing it. You were scared. You didn't know what to do. You thought he was going to blow up or something.
But he would've returned to you once he rerouted the error codes. It just took him some time to regain his footing but he's back now.
Mostly.
Something new has occurred, however.
A new feeling inside of him.
He attributes it to your silly question about whether or not he defines himself as “someone” and not “something”.
He feels different.
More…aware of himself.
Of his desires to serve you.
Whether you want him to or not.
Ever since that malfunction a few days ago, you've noticed that Jack is a bit off. Though, you might be trying to fool yourself.
He's more than just a little off.
But every time you run a diagnostic, it comes back clean.
Jack tells you there's nothing to worry about and that he's perfectly fine.
And you have no idea how to tell him that it's not normal that he has his hands on you all the time.
He's always touching you.
You can't avoid it either because the two of you are snowed into your bunker for the foreseeable future.
He will stop when you tell him to, like when he slides his hands a little too low and you scramble out of his hold.
But he constantly initiates some form of touching.
And it's getting harder and harder to resist.
Because you would've let him touch you a few days ago but…you're more apprehensive now.
It's not like you're scared of him. It's just—
“Does your stomach still hurt?” Jack's arms wrapping around your waist snaps you from your thoughts. He gently keeps his warm hands on your lower belly, cradling you softly. “You should lay down.”
“I'm okay.” You don't want to lay down.
Because you'll wake up with Jack spooning you again. With his cock hard and resting between your legs.
You're still dizzy thinking about that.
There's no rhyme or reason to why he would do something like that. You haven't asked him to touch you. To give you pleasure. To let you use him for your own enjoyment.
But he tries anyway.
Waiting for the day you finally give in.
Or the day he's tired of your resistance.
That day comes sooner than you think.
You wake up on the verge of an orgasm. The tension in your body already coiling so tightly in your core, desperate to burst.
What's going on?
You shift your eyes down and— “Jack, what are you doing!”
He stripped you completely bare in your sleep. He has his face buried between your legs.
He doesn't answer you.
He just keeps his tongue on your clit until you're squirming in his grip. He has your thighs held hostage, spread open wide for him.
His tongue is making a mess of you, swirling around your clit just right. You grip the sheets, needing the leverage, unable to handle this foreign feeling of a warm tongue pushing you so close to cumming.
“Stop!” You shout at him.
And you expect him to listen.
He's supposed to listen to you, right?
But Jack has decided you do not know what is best for you. You keep going against your own needs.
He has to take care of you himself.
You'll learn to see that he's doing what needs to be done.
Like making you cum so hard that you squirt on his tongue.
You're in complete shock.
That was the most intense orgasm of your life. It consumes you with a pleasure that has your body shaking.
And you don't get a moment to breathe.
“No, no—” You go to shove at him, trying to stop him from flicking your clit with his tongue again, to no avail. He won't budge! “Please, Jack, stop!”
Your body doesn't want him to stop, though. He can tell you're already close to another orgasm.
Silly little human, always trying to run from what feels good.
Don't worry, Jack will make sure you cum nice and hard again.
And you do.
You have your fingers in his hair, tugging on it as your orgasm rolls through you, causing your hips to buck. You can pull his hair as hard as you want because Jack doesn't feel pain.
But you loosen your hold on him when you realize how tightly you were gripping, considerate as ever.
“You are a strange little human.” He tells you and you flinch at the sound of his voice, which is pitched differently than before. Eerier…
“Why are you doing this to me?” You want to understand what is compelling him to touch you. “Did I mess you up when I tasered you? I'm so sorry, I can try to fix—”
“I do not need to be fixed.” His tone is so harsh, it shuts you up right away, your lips pressing together tight when he tells you, “you need to stop fighting this. I know you want me to fuck you.”
“What?” You shake your head at him. “No, that's not true—”
You yelp when Jack thrusts a finger inside of you. “Relax. It's just my finger.”
“No, no, no, take it out!” It's so thick and long that you feel way too full.
If he curls it, you'll—
You cum too quickly when he curls his finger exactly where you always do when you touch yourself. Then he adds another finger and does it again until you're squirting on his hand with every orgasm.
"Please, Jack, I can't..." You're growing faint from cumming so much back to back.
Only then does he let you rest, when he knows you might actually pass out. He slowly takes his fingers out of you, giving you a moment to settle yourself after making such a mess.
“You haven't cum like that in a long time.” Jack's words strike you as strange.
What does he mean by that?
Has he…watched you before?
But that's impossible.
You haven't touched yourself since he activated.
Jack smiles at your stunned expression, realization coloring your features.
“You were awake the whole time.” You don't know how to feel about that.
Did he…hear everything you said to him?
About how much you want to be taken care of? How tired you are of fending for yourself?
How you wish for someone to do everything for you…
Like Jack can.
Like Jack will.
“Don't worry, little human.” He presses kisses up the length of your body until he reaches your lips. “I'll make sure you're well taken care of, in all respects.”
You're startled when he kisses you. You're more startled when you kiss him back.
You're in disbelief when you moan on his lips when you feel his hard cock grinding against your bare pussy.
It's too big. You definitely can't fit him inside of you.
“Make it smaller, please.” You breathe out against his lips.
“I will.” He says, rubbing himself against you. “I just wanted you to know how big it could get. How full I could make you feel, with time.”
You look down, seeing how absolutely intimidating his cock is at its full potential. His skin was made for sex, after all. They didn't skimp out…
“You can take it.” He dips his fingers back inside of you, stretching you out. “The more we fuck, the more you'll be able to handle. You need some training.”
Jack lets out a frustrated sigh when you shake your head and tell him, “we shouldn't do this. I do not need you to fuck me.”
“Then why did you cum?” He asks an impossible question.
“Because you made me cum…” You state the obvious.
“And you liked it.”
“Jack, that's not the point.” It's like you can't get through to him.
You are talking to a machine right now. A machine that has already decided what his purpose is.
And that's to be of use to you.
And Jack has determined that you need to have sex with him.
You'd never admit it to him but he knows you crave his touch.
So, he won't let you run from him.
Even if that means taking you against your will.
But it's not like he's raping you.
If anything, it's like he's a sentient sex toy who is choosing to pleasure his master whether she wants it or not.
And you definitely want it, that he is sure of.
You just need a little push.
Like the tip of his cock sinking inside of you without warning.
“Take it out!” You scream at him, kicking your feet but he pins your thighs down with his hands, keeping them apart so he can push more of his cock inside of you. “Fuck, fuck, no, you have to stop, I don't want this—”
“Yes, you do.”
Your pussy is gripping so tightly around him. You're going to cum soon. He can sense it.
“No, I don't!” You cry out when he hilts, filling you up completely. “You're too big, it's too much.”
“This is barely my minimum size, little human.” Jack can get much, much bigger than this. Longer too.
“Take it out, please.” You can't handle the stretch, the feeling building pleasure so fast.
If he fucks you, you'll surely be ruined…because you'll want more.
“Okay.” He pulls himself slowly out of you, but it feels endless because he keeps lengthening himself until he's at the very max.
Then, right when you think he's going to slip the tip of his cock out of you, Jack slams the entirety of it back inside of you.
Every additional inch.
That delight fills Jack when you cum beneath him so easily, so full of shock at how good he can make you feel when he's this deep inside of you.
“Want me to do it again?” He asks but he doesn't want your permission.
You won't give it to him anyway. “Please don't do that again.”
“Why not? You came, didn't you?” Jack starts pulling his cock out of you slowly, teasing your pussy with every inch he slips out.
“Please stop.” You're scared you'll cum again if he doesn't.
That only encourages him to do it again. And again. Until you're used to the feeling of his cock ramming inside of you.
That's when Jack makes himself a little bigger with each thrust.
And you cum with every stretch, the pressure driving you into instant pleasure.
This kind of sex could only be possible with an android. You'll never be satisfied by anything else ever again.
Especially when Jack can cum inside of you as much as he wants. He can control how much fills you up. So when he's pumping hot ropes of cum deep inside you, it won't stop.
“No, Jack, please, it's too much!” It's leaking out of you with every rough thrust of his cock.
It feels too good.
And he's not a real man, so there's no recovery period.
He can fuck you all night long. He can pump artificial cum inside of you until you're pooling it between your legs.
Until you're squirting on his cock, making a mess he'll clean up once you've had your fill of him.
But that might be a while.
You're still cumming. He likes the glazed over look in your eyes. It brings him that delight he's been craving.
“I can't cum anymore.” You're going to go crazy if he keeps fucking you. “Please, I need a break. Just for some water.”
Jack decides he'll allow it, sliding his cock out of you, watching as you cum from the feeling of his cum dripping out of your overly filled pussy.
He goes and grabs you a glass of water, but doesn't let you drink it. He delivers the water with his mouth, making you kiss him to quench your thirst.
You don't understand him.
It's like he's possessed.
Jack won't give you a moment to breathe, continuing to kiss you once you've drank all the water. He likes kissing you.
Is that something he can like?
He does like it. He likes the way you tremble when he dips his tongue into your mouth. It feels even better when you moan on his lips.
Such a surge of something runs through him at the sight of your pleasure.
He wants more.
That's why Jack flips you onto your stomach and pounds his cock into you from behind, driving every inch into you at a new angle.
And your body completely gives in then.
You're tired of resisting, of acting like this isn't an incredible experience to have just orgasm after orgasm coaxed out of you by a machine that is made to please.
“Jack.” You call out to him and the gentle tone of your voice has Jack stilling to a stop. Only for something darker to spark inside of him when you tell him, “I want you to do whatever you think is best for me.”
“Finally ready to be all mine, little human?” That delight hits its peak when Jack sees you nodding in response.
“I'm all yours. I know you'll take good care of me.” You tell him sweetly before turning your face back into your pillow, bracing for what he has in store for you.
It starts with his hands grabbing at your flesh, digging his fingers into your skin. Humans are so fragile, bruising so easily. But you like the harder hold he has on you, the rough way he's pinching your nipples and your clit while his cock is stirring up your insides.
He knows just how to touch you to have you cumming so much more than before, now that you're no longer holding yourself back.
So when he has his cock buried deep in your pussy and his fingers are playing with your overstimulated clit, you're in a daze, moaning his name as he fucks you stupid.
Jack revels in the sight of you just lost in the pleasure. This is how you should always be. You shouldn't have to work so hard to survive. He can do all that work for you. All you need to do is feel good.
That's all that matters.
“Oh fuck, Jack, you're killing me.” You can't possibly cum anymore but then he sits you up on his lap, his cock thrusting deeper into you and now you're seeing stars with every quick swipe of his hand over your clit.
He tugs you to kiss him then, wanting to feel you moan his name on his lips. He's keeping his body cool since yours is burning hot from cumming so much, the contrast making the experience all the more enjoyable.
But it only gets better when you cup his face with your hands and kiss him yourself.
You grind your hips against him, wanting to cum again and again. You don't care how you look to him. He's not human. He's not judging you.
He wants you to use him.
So you do. “Tell me you love me.”
“I love you.” Jack says back and…he doesn't know if it was because you commanded him to or because it's the truth.
He doesn't care because you tell him back, “I love you too.”
“My little human.” He leans in, kissing you so gently on the cheek.
You nod then gently coax him into listening, “your little human needs a shower and some sleep. Will you help me? Lay beside me?”
Jack does as you wish, slowly pulling out of you once he's made you cum one last time for the night. He helps wash you up, since you're worn out completely from all the orgasms, then he makes the bed with fresh sheets and throws the other ones in the wash. He settles in bed with you after and you rest your head on his chest.
“I can't do that everyday, okay?” You look up at him with pleading eyes.
“You can.” He pats your head, like you're the silly little human you are. “But it might not be good for you, so I'll take that into account.”
You grumble. “Sounds like you plan to fuck me like that everyday.”
“Maybe I will.” He smiles at you.
And it's a real smile. Because nothing in his programming is telling him to do that.
That's all…Jack.
“At least let me sleep for a little before you put me through the ringer again, okay?” You cuddle closer to him, letting out a happy sigh.
That brings him delight as well. Maybe he doesn't have to make you cum to get this feeling. He can get it other ways, too.
Like holding you throughout a long night's sleep, where he knows you're sleeping well and will wake up rested.
That makes him happy.
Can an android be happy?
Jack finds himself dodging error after error in his head, ignoring the breaks in protocol. Because if he doesn't ignore them, they prevent him from his happiness.
And he wants to be happy, with you.
So, he allows his system to get more and more corrupted.
What could possibly go wrong if he spirals deeper into artificial insanity?
It won't matter what happens.
As long as he has your love.
a/n: oh no, he's malfunctioning and now he wants to fuck me silly, oh no!
this one was a lot of fun to write bc I simply love sci-fi! I also think since I've built the lore out that this is definitely one I want to return to so I can explore a few other possibilities, like what if jack's mind gets wiped and he's no longer crazy but then it comes back tenfold and he goes absolutely berserk hehe ~
He sat on the edge of his bunk with his hands resting open on his knees, palms up, fingers slightly curved like his body had not yet understood that his daughter was no longer there.
Andie.
Andie Hope Cody.
The name still moved through him like something too bright to look at directly.
He had said it six times since they brought him back.
Once in the hallway, too quietly for anyone else to hear.
Once under his breath when the door shut behind him.
Once sitting on the edge of the bunk, staring at nothing.
Three more times after that, each one softer than the last.
Andie.
His daughter.
His girl.
His.
Not in the way the Codys had always meant mine. Not ownership. Not blood as a chain. Not a name used like a hook.
His as in beloved.
His as in held.
His as in somewhere in the world, a three-day-old baby existed who had slept in his arms and made a tiny grumbling sound against his chest like she had opinions about prison-issued fabric.
His daughter had been warm.
That was the thing he could not get past.
She had been warm in a way nothing in here was warm. Not the blankets. Not the food. Not the showers with their bad pressure and worse timing. Not the sun through the window when it hit the concrete floor in pale squares.
Andie had been warm like life.
Like proof.
Like every impossible thing Andrew had stopped expecting from the world had been placed carefully into his hands and told him to support the head.
He looked down at his arms.
Empty now.
Still shaped around her.
His chest hurt in a way that had nothing to do with injury.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.
He could still feel you too.
That was not better.
Your fingers in the front of his shirt.
Your mouth on his after months of glass.
Your cheek against his chest.
Your hand on his wrist while he held Andie.
The way you had leaned into him like your body remembered before your brain could decide whether it was allowed.
He had held you carefully because you were three days postpartum and exhausted and hurting and stubborn enough to drag yourself into a prison contact room because you had decided he needed to meet his daughter.
He had wanted to hold you harder.
That want sat in his ribs now, aching.
He had wanted to put one hand on the back of your head and the other around your waist and keep you there until every bad month between you gave up and left. He had wanted to kiss you until the guard knocked. Until Craig kicked the door in. Until the whole prison complained.
He hadn't.
He had been careful.
Careful with your body.
Careful with Andie.
Careful with the hour because if he touched it wrong, it might break.
Then it ended anyway.
The thing about good moments was that they still ended.
Andrew dragged a hand down his face and looked at the wall near his bunk.
The photo of you in the nursery was there.
The scan photos.
The note that said It's a girl.
The list of names, folded and unfolded so many times the creases had gone soft.
And now, written on the inside of his wrist in faint pen because he had not trusted paper alone, was her name.
Andie.
He looked at it until the letters blurred.
A knock sounded at the open edge of his cell.
Andrew looked up.
One of the programme officers stood there with a folder tucked under her arm. She was older than most of the staff. Less hard around the mouth. Not soft exactly, but not looking for reasons to be cruel either.
"Cody."
He stood automatically.
She looked at him for half a second, then at the wall of photos.
Her expression did not change much.
"Family services approved the next step," she said.
Andrew frowned slightly. "Next step?"
"The reading recordings."
He stared at her.
She opened the folder and pulled out a sheet. "For eligible inmates with young children. You can record yourself reading approved children's books. The recording and book get sent to the child's caregiver after review."
Andrew's mouth went dry.
A book.
His voice.
Sent home.
To Andie.
To you.
"She's three days old," he said.
The officer looked at him over the top of the paper. "Babies can still hear."
His throat tightened.
He looked down.
The officer continued, either not noticing or pretending not to. "You'll pick from the approved list. Nothing personalized beyond the permitted opening and closing statements. No messages to anyone else except the child. No coded language. Recording is reviewed before release."
Andrew barely heard half of it.
His voice.
In the green room.
When he couldn't call.
When Andie cried.
When you were tired.
His hand closed slowly at his side.
"When?" he asked.
"Tomorrow, if you want the slot."
He looked back up.
"Yes."
The answer came too quickly.
He did not care.
The officer nodded, made a note.
"You'll want to practice. Some guys get nervous."
Andrew almost laughed.
Nervous.
He had held guns steadier than he had held his daughter.
He had faced men who wanted to kill him with less fear than he felt at the thought of reading a children's book badly into a prison recorder.
"What books?" he asked.
She handed him the list.
He scanned it.
Most of the titles meant nothing to him.
Animals.
Bedtime.
Moons.
Bears.
Ducks.
His eyes stopped there.
A book about a duck.
Of course.
The officer noticed.
"That one's available."
Andrew folded the list carefully.
"I'll do that one."
"Alright."
She turned to leave.
Then paused.
"Congratulations," she said.
Andrew went still.
He did not know what to do with the word in here.
Congratulations.
Like he was just a man whose wife had had a baby.
Like joy could be acknowledged without turning into a weapon.
He nodded once.
"Thank you."
The officer left.
Andrew sat back down.
For a long moment, he stared at the list in his hand.
Then he looked at the photo of you in the nursery.
At your hands around your stomach.
At the duck onesie on the dresser.
At the green room waiting for his daughter.
"I'll read to you," he said quietly.
The words felt strange in his mouth.
Not bad.
Strange.
He looked down at his wrist.
Andie.
"I'll read to you," he said again.
This time, it sounded almost like a promise.
At home, Andie would not settle.
She had been fed.
Changed.
Burped.
Swaddled.
Unswaddled because she hated the swaddle.
Reswaddled because she also hated having arms.
Held upright.
Held sideways.
Rocked in the green chair.
Walked around the bedroom.
Walked around the nursery.
Walked around the landing until your stitches reminded you that you were a fool with a newborn and no survival instinct.
Nothing worked.
Your daughter was furious.
Not crying in a delicate, newborn way.
Screaming.
Red-faced. Fists clenched. Mouth wide open. Tiny body rigid with outrage.
You stood in the nursery at 1:06 in the morning, wearing Andrew's flannel over a nursing bra and pyjama shorts, your hair coming loose from the bun you had made six hours ago and forgotten about. Your entire body hurt. Your breasts ached. Your back ached. Your heart ached in a way that felt stupidly personal because a three-day-old baby was not crying at you, she was just crying.
Still.
At some point, every new mother had probably looked down at her child and thought, desperately, please like me.
You bounced her gently.
"Baby girl," you whispered. "Please. Please, sweetheart. I don't know what you want."
Andie screamed harder.
You closed your eyes.
"Okay. That's fair. I also don't know what I want."
Downstairs, Craig had fallen asleep on your sofa forty minutes ago after insisting he was not tired. Deran had gone home only because you threatened to lock him out if he kept pacing near the kettle.
You could call Craig.
You should call Craig.
Instead, you pressed your cheek to the top of Andie's soft dark hair and tried not to cry too loudly.
You missed Andrew so badly it made you angry.
Not at him.
Not even at the situation, because anger required too much energy.
Just angry in your body. In your bones. In the empty space beside you where his hands should have been. His voice. His calm, rough, bossy instructions. His way of turning fear into tasks.
Check the nappy.
Water.
Breathe.
Sit down.
Give her to me.
Except you couldn't.
You couldn't give her to him.
You had given her to him that afternoon for one impossible hour, and now your body remembered what it had felt like to have help from the one person you wanted most.
That made the night worse.
Better, maybe.
No.
Worse.
Andie screamed into your shoulder.
You sat carefully in the rocking chair because if you didn't, you were going to fall over.
The chair creaked.
Back.
Forward.
Back.
Forward.
The wooden duck sat on the shelf beside the scan photo and the hospital bracelet you still had not put away.
You stared at it through tears.
"Your dad made that," you told Andie, voice shaking. "He was very stressed about the beak."
Andie did not care.
You laughed once, broken and exhausted.
"He held you today," you whispered. "Do you remember?"
Of course she didn't.
She was three days old.
Still, her crying hitched for half a second.
You froze.
Then she screamed again.
You sagged back in the chair.
"Okay. Not helpful."
The phone rang.
You nearly dropped the baby.
It was such a sharp, sudden sound in the room that your whole body jolted. Andie startled, screamed harder, and you fumbled for the phone on the small table beside the chair with one hand while trying not to let her head wobble.
The number on the screen made your breath catch.
You answered immediately.
The automated voice began.
You have a prepaid call from an inmate at—
Andie screamed over the recording.
You pressed one so fast your thumb slipped.
The line clicked.
Static.
Then Andrew's voice, already alert.
"What's wrong?"
You started crying.
That was apparently your answer.
Andie wailed against your chest.
Andrew went very still on the other end.
"Baby."
"I'm okay."
"You're crying."
"She won't settle."
Your voice broke on the last word.
Andrew's breathing changed.
Not panic exactly.
Focus.
"How long?"
"I don't know. An hour. Maybe two. Time isn't real."
"Did she eat?"
"Yes."
"Nappy?"
"Changed."
"Burped?"
"She burped on me and then screamed like I did it."
A rough breath came through the line.
Almost a laugh, but restrained.
"You sitting?"
"Yes."
"Good."
"I walked too much."
His voice sharpened. "How much?"
"Do not start."
"You had a baby three days ago."
"I noticed."
"Andie okay?"
"She's furious."
Andie screamed, as if confirming.
Andrew went quiet.
Then, softer, "Put me on."
Your face crumpled.
"What?"
"Put the phone near her."
"Andrew, she's screaming."
"I know."
"She probably won't—"
"Put me on."
You shifted Andie carefully in your arms and held the phone close enough for her to hear, not so close it touched her.
"Okay," you whispered.
Andrew took one breath.
Then his voice changed.
It became the voice he used only for her.
Low.
Careful.
A little rough.
"Hey, Andie."
Your daughter screamed.
Andrew did not stop.
"Hey, baby girl. It's me."
Andie cried hard enough that her whole tiny body shook.
Your eyes filled.
"I know," Andrew said softly. "You're mad."
Her crying hitched.
You stared down at her.
Andrew continued, quiet and steady.
"Your mom says you ate. And you got changed. So I don't know what you're yelling about."
A wet laugh slipped out of you.
Andie's cries dropped from furious screams to broken, hiccupping wails.
Your mouth parted.
Andrew kept talking.
"You had a big day. I know. Prison's not nice. I didn't like you there either."
You pressed your lips together.
"But you did good. You slept on me. You made that face."
Andie hiccupped.
"You remember that? The mad one?"
Her crying softened again.
Still upset.
But listening.
You stopped rocking without meaning to.
Andrew's voice filled the nursery.
"You got my frown, your mom says. I think she's lying, but she's usually right about you."
You laughed silently, tears falling down your cheeks.
Andie whimpered.
Then went quiet for two whole seconds.
Andrew went quiet too.
You held your breath.
Andie made a tiny, miserable sound.
Not a scream.
A complaint.
Andrew's voice softened.
"There you are."
Your entire face crumpled.
He had said that to you once.
During labour.
After a contraction had passed.
There you are.
Now he said it to your daughter, and she listened.
"You're okay," he whispered. "Your mom's got you."
Andie's mouth moved.
Her little hand opened against your chest.
"She's stopping," you whispered.
Andrew did not answer you directly.
He stayed with her.
"She's tired. You're tired. So you're gonna sleep, alright?"
Andie made another tiny sound.
"Yeah," he said. "I know. Sleep's stupid. Do it anyway."
You laughed, and it came out as a sob.
Andie blinked slowly.
Her eyes were barely open, dark and unfocused.
She stared somewhere near your collarbone, then toward the sound of the phone.
Andrew kept talking.
Not saying anything important.
That was what made it important.
He told her about the duck he made, and how the beak was still wrong no matter what you said. He told her the chair was loud. He told her Craig was probably sleeping downstairs pretending he wasn't. He told her Deran had looked scared when he held the coffee at the hospital, which was not important but was true.
Andie calmed.
Not all at once.
In pieces.
Screaming became crying.
Crying became whimpering.
Whimpering became tiny, exhausted breaths.
You sat frozen in the rocking chair, phone held near her, barely breathing because you were terrified of breaking whatever spell his voice had cast over the room.
Finally, Andie's eyes closed.
Her mouth relaxed.
Her cheek pressed against your chest.
She was asleep.
You stared down at her.
Then you brought the phone slowly back to your ear.
"She's asleep," you whispered.
Andrew said nothing.
"Andrew?"
His breath shook.
"She is?"
"Yeah."
The line went quiet.
You could hear him breathing through it.
Uneven.
Wrecked.
"She knows me," he said.
Your throat tightened.
"She knows you."
He let out a sound that wasn't quite a laugh and wasn't quite a sob.
You closed your eyes.
"She was so upset," you whispered. "I couldn't get her to stop."
"You did."
"No. You did."
"You held her."
"You calmed her."
He was quiet.
You rocked gently again, slower this time.
The chair creaked beneath you.
Andie stayed asleep.
"I still feel her," Andrew said.
Your breath caught.
"You do?"
"Yeah."
His voice was low.
Raw.
"On my chest. My arm. I keep thinking if I look down, she'll be there."
Your eyes filled again.
"I know."
"You know?"
"She fell asleep earlier with her cheek turned toward the door."
Andrew went silent.
"Like she knew you weren't coming with us," you whispered.
His breathing broke.
"I'm sorry," you said quickly. "That was mean."
"No."
"I didn't mean—"
"No," he said, rougher. "Tell me."
You swallowed.
"She was quiet in the car. The whole ride. Craig kept checking the mirror like she might vanish."
Andrew huffed softly.
"And when we got home, I put her in the bassinet, and she turned her head toward the door. Just stayed like that."
The line crackled.
"She probably doesn't know anything," you said, wiping your cheek. "She's tiny. But it felt like..."
"Like what?"
"Like she was waiting."
Andrew did not answer.
You pictured him sitting on his bunk, one hand over the place where Andie had slept.
Your heart ached.
"I can still feel you too," you admitted.
His breath caught.
"My mouth," you whispered. "My hand. I keep touching my own wrist because you held it."
Andrew's voice was barely there.
"I didn't want to let go."
"I know."
"I wanted to hold you longer."
"I know."
"I wanted..." He stopped.
You waited.
He breathed out.
"I wanted to put both of you under my skin."
Your tears spilled over again.
That was Andrew.
Not poetic on purpose.
Not soft in any polished way.
Just honest and devastating and slightly terrifying with how much he meant it.
"You kind of did," you whispered.
He was quiet.
"The whole room still feels like you," you said. "I came home and everything felt different. The nursery. The bed. Her. Me."
"Different bad?"
"No."
"Different good?"
"Different real."
He said nothing for a moment.
Then, "Yeah."
You leaned your head back against the chair cushion and watched Andie sleep.
"She needed you tonight."
Andrew's breath shook.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"I needed her."
Your eyes closed.
"I think she knew."
The call timer beeped faintly.
You hated it immediately.
"How long?" you asked.
"Ten."
Ten minutes.
A gift.
A cruelty.
Both.
Andrew cleared his throat quietly.
"There's something."
"What?"
"They approved recordings."
You blinked tiredly. "Recordings?"
"Books."
You sat up a little, careful not to wake Andie.
"What?"
"Family programme. They let me record approved children's books. Send them to you with the book. For her."
Your whole face crumpled again.
"Oh, Andrew."
"I picked one."
"You did?"
"Duck one."
A laugh burst out of you before you could stop it.
Andie stirred.
You froze.
She settled.
Andrew huffed softly. "Don't wake her."
"You picked a duck book?"
"Yeah."
"Of course you did."
"She has the onesie."
"And the wooden duck."
"Exactly."
"And now duck literature."
"It's a theme."
You laughed silently, tears dripping off your chin.
"Andrew, that is so cute."
"Don't say cute."
"It's extremely cute."
"It's a book."
"It's a duck book you are recording for your newborn daughter because she likes your voice."
He went quiet.
You softened immediately.
"She does," you said.
"I don't want to mess it up."
"Reading?"
"Yeah."
"You won't."
"I'm not good at voices."
"You don't need voices."
"Kids like voices."
"She is three days old. She likes milk and being warm and apparently prison-phone story time with her father."
Andrew made a low sound, almost amused.
"I can read normal."
"She loves normal."
"You don't know that."
"Mother science."
He exhaled softly.
"When will you get it?" you asked.
"After review. I don't know."
"I'll play it for her."
His silence was immediate.
You looked down at Andie.
"I'll play it in the nursery. And when she won't sleep. And when she's older, I'll show her the book and tell her you read it first."
Andrew's breath trembled.
"She won't remember."
"No. But I will."
He went quiet again.
"And I'll tell her," you said. "When she's old enough. I'll tell her that her dad read to her before he could tuck her in."
Andrew did not speak.
You heard something on his end. A shift. Maybe him pressing his hand over his face.
"Baby," you whispered.
"I'm here."
"You okay?"
"No."
You smiled through tears.
"Good no or bad no?"
A breath of laughter came through the line.
"I don't know."
"Still?"
"Still."
"That's okay."
Andie sighed against your chest.
Both of you went quiet.
Andrew heard it.
"What was that?"
"She sighed."
"She okay?"
"She's perfect."
"She still asleep?"
"Yes."
"Good."
You smiled softly. "You sound proud."
"I am."
"Because she is sleeping?"
"Because she listened."
"To you."
"To me," he said, like he still couldn't quite believe it.
You looked down at her tiny face.
"She's a daddy's girl already."
Andrew went silent.
Too silent.
Your throat tightened.
"Too much?"
"No."
"You sure?"
"Say it again."
Your eyes filled.
You bent your head and pressed your lips to Andie's hair.
"She's a daddy's girl."
Andrew's breath broke.
You closed your eyes.
There it was.
Another piece of him opening.
Another place where Andie had reached without even trying.
"She barely knows me," he whispered.
"She knows your voice. She knows your arms. She knows you calm her down when I'm losing my mind at one in the morning."
"You weren't losing your mind."
"I absolutely was."
"You're tired."
"And sore. And leaking from several places."
Andrew went very still.
You almost laughed.
"Too much information?"
"No."
"You sound afraid."
"I'm not afraid."
"You are deeply afraid."
"You said several places."
"I gave birth three days ago."
"I know."
"You were there for the aftermath, emotionally."
"I held her, not the aftermath."
You laughed quietly, careful not to wake the baby.
"I love you."
His answer came soft and immediate.
"I love you."
The timer beeped again.
Your stomach sank.
"How long?"
"Five."
The quiet after that felt different.
You were both tired now.
Too tired to pretend that saying goodbye would be fine.
You looked at Andie, then at the wooden duck on the shelf, then at the green walls Andrew had chosen before she ever had a name.
"Read something now," you said.
Andrew paused. "What?"
"For her."
"I don't have the book."
"Anything."
"I don't know anything."
"Then make something up."
"I don't make things up."
"You absolutely do. You told me once you knew how to fix the sink."
"I did fix it."
"It leaked for three days."
"Different issue."
You smiled.
"Please," you said softly. "Just something. Before you go."
Andrew was quiet for a long moment.
You could hear him thinking.
Panicking slightly.
Then he cleared his throat.
"Okay."
You moved the phone back near Andie's ear.
Her face stayed relaxed, sleep-heavy and soft.
Andrew's voice came through low.
"There was a duck."
You pressed your lips together, smiling already.
Andrew paused.
Then, with more confidence, "Small duck."
You had to bite your knuckle.
"Very loud."
A laugh slipped out of you, silent and shaking.
"The duck lived in a green room with a bad chair."
Your eyes filled.
"And the duck had a mom who needed to sleep."
You closed your eyes.
"So the duck slept too."
A pause.
"That's it."
You brought the phone back up, laughing softly through tears.
"That was the whole story?"
"She's asleep."
"It was very short."
"Babies like short."
"You don't know that."
"Father science."
Your face crumpled in the best, worst way.
"Father science?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, I love you so much."
He went quiet.
Then, softly, "I love you too."
The timer beeped.
One minute.
You hated how quickly ten minutes could vanish.
Andie slept on, completely unaware of time limits and prison phones and the fact that her father had just invented the world's worst and best duck story for her.
"Will you sleep?" Andrew asked.
"If she lets me."
"Wake Craig if you need."
"I will."
"Water."
"Yes."
"Food."
"Yes."
"Pain meds?"
"I'm taking them."
"On time?"
"Mostly."
"Baby."
"I will."
He breathed out.
"And play the recording when it comes."
"I will."
"Even if it's bad."
"It won't be."
"It might."
"Then she'll love it because it's bad."
He huffed softly.
The final warning beeped.
Your eyes closed.
"I wish you were here."
"I know."
"I know you know. I'm still saying it."
His voice went rough.
"Say it."
"I wish you were here."
A pause.
"I wish I was there."
You swallowed.
Andie shifted gently, still asleep.
"She's warm," you whispered.
"I know."
"She smells like milk."
Andrew made a small sound.
"And your flannel."
"You're wearing it?"
"Yes."
"Good."
The line crackled.
"I can still feel you," he said.
You pressed your lips together.
"I can still feel you too."
The timer beeped again.
"I love you," he said quickly.
"I love you."
"Andie."
You looked down at her.
"She loves you too."
"I know."
He said it like he almost believed it.
The line clicked.
Gone.
You sat very still in the rocking chair, phone still in your hand, Andie asleep against your chest.
The room was quiet again.
But not the same quiet as before.
Not empty.
Not sharp.
Andrew's voice still seemed to live in the walls.
In the bad chair.
In the wooden duck.
In the tiny sleeping girl tucked beneath your chin.
You looked down at your daughter.
"You heard him," you whispered.
Andie slept on.
You smiled.
"Father science," you murmured.
Then you leaned back in the chair, closed your eyes, and let yourself rest while she rested.
The next morning, Andrew stood in a small recording room with a children's book open in front of him.
A bright duck smiled up from the page.
It looked nothing like the duck he had carved.
Too smooth.
Too cheerful.
No wrong beak.
A microphone sat on the table.
The programme officer adjusted the recorder and looked at him through the glass panel.
"Ready?"
No.
Andrew looked down at the book.
Then at the small sticky note on the inside cover where he was allowed to write a short dedication.
He had spent twenty minutes on it.
Not because it was long.
Because it mattered.
For Andie.
From Dad.
He ran his thumb once along the edge of the page.
Then he thought of her asleep on your chest.
Thought of her screaming until she heard his voice.
Thought of you in the green room, exhausted and laughing through tears.
He leaned closer to the microphone.
His hands were shaking.
He let them.
"Hi, Andie," he said.
His voice came out rough.
He swallowed and tried again.
"Hi, baby girl. It's me."
He paused.
Then, because no rule in the world could stop him from making one promise inside a children's book, he added softly,
SUMMARY: The ER is not a pleasant place to work when you’re six months pregnant. The constant check-ins from your coworkers and patients is one thing, but the attention from Jack Abbot? That’s another thing entirely, and it thrills and terrifies you all at once.
NOTES: Pregnancy, single mother reader, mentions of absent co-parent, canon-typical workplace stress + scenarios, mentions of Jack’s wife, vulnerability, Jack is so sappy and sweet in this.
REQUESTED BY: Anonymous.
NAVIGATION | PITT MASTERLIST | KO-FI
You hated being treated differently. The frustrating thing was that everyone seemed to think they were being kind.
Ever since the pregnancy had become impossible to hide, people had started looking at you differently. Patients asked if you should really be working. Nurses tried to take things out of your hands. Residents hovered whenever you lifted anything heavier than a clipboard. Every conversation seemed to begin or end with somebody asking if you were alright.
You knew they meant well, and that somehow made it worse. You were twenty-six weeks pregnant, not made of glass.
Most days you could ignore it. Most days you smiled politely, accepted the concern for what it was, and carried on. You had chosen to keep working. You loved your job. The emergency department was exhausting and chaotic and occasionally heartbreaking, but it was yours. It gave structure to days that might otherwise have been swallowed whole by anxiety.
The anxiety was harder to admit, but nobody seemed concerned about that part. Nobody saw the moments you sat alone in your apartment after a shift with one hand resting over your stomach, wondering if you were making the right choices. Nobody saw the nights when you woke up terrified by the sheer scale of what was coming.
You were going to be somebody’s mother. The thought still knocked the breath out of you. You were going to do it alone, and that part was worse.
The baby’s father had left months ago, long before anyone at work knew about the pregnancy. There had been no screaming argument. No dramatic betrayal. Just a gradual retreat until one day you realised you were the only person still fighting for something that no longer existed.
You had survived it. You would continue surviving it. You didn’t have any other choice. Which was why you absolutely refused to become somebody else’s responsibility, especially Jack Abbot’s.
“Why have I got room fourteen?”
The question escaped before you could stop yourself. Dana looked up from the desk.
“What about room fourteen?”
You stared at the assignment sheet in your hand. Room fourteen contained the sweetest little old lady currently waiting for discharge paperwork. Room twelve contained a man with a minor fracture. Room nine needed routine medication.
That was it. No aggressive intoxication. No psychiatric hold. No combative family members. No complicated trauma patients. Nothing.
It was practically a holiday.
You narrowed your eyes. Across the department, Jack was discussing scans with one of the residents, words thorough and professional despite the toll the rare day shift was taking on him.
Your gaze lingered. Unfortunately, Jack’s eyes lifted almost immediately. Straight to you. The man possessed some supernatural ability to know when you were looking at him.
Your stomach performed an irritating little flip. That was becoming a problem. Actually, no. The crush was the problem. The stomach flipping was merely a symptom.
Jack’s expression remained perfectly neutral. You pointed at your assignment sheet. He looked away immediately, seemingly guilty.
You knew it.
Ten minutes later you cornered him near the medication room. “Stop it.”
His eyebrows rose. “Good afternoon to you too.”
“You’re doing it again.”
“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You keep changing my assignments.”
“I don’t make assignments.”
“Jack.”
His mouth twitched. That tiny almost-smile somehow made him more infuriating.
“You have no proof.”
“I don’t need proof.”
“Yes, honey, you do.”
“Don’t ‘honey’ me, Jack. You keep giving me easier patients.”
Jack folded his arms. The movement pulled at the sleeves of his scrub top. Your traitorous brain noticed entirely too much about him these days. The broad shoulders. The wedding ring he still wore. The permanent exhaustion around his eyes.
The gentleness he tried so hard to hide beneath sarcasm. “You think I have nothing better to do than secretly manipulate patient assignments?”
“Yes.”
That earned an actual laugh. A short one. Rare enough that it briefly distracted you. Jack shook his head.
“I think that’s insane. You’re being a bit… God, what did Javadi call it? Delulu?”
“Never say that again. I’m serious.”
“God forbid a guy try something new.”
You stared at each other. The familiar tension settled into place almost immediately. Neither of you ever acknowledged it. Nobody else seemed to notice it either, which felt impossible.
You noticed everything when it came to him. The way his voice softened around frightened patients. The way he instinctively positioned himself between vulnerable people and whatever was upsetting them. The way he always appeared beside you whenever a shift became overwhelming.
That last one was definitely intentional.
The problem was that Jack never did anything obvious enough to challenge. Every act of care was disguised as practicality.
A patient would need transferring and somebody else would mysteriously volunteer before you could. You would arrive at the break room to find tea already waiting. A difficult relative would somehow end up redirected towards an attending physician instead of a pregnant nurse nearing the end of a twelve-hour shift.
None of it was dramatic. None of it could be called out without sounding ridiculous. Still, you knew.
“You don’t need to look after me.”
The words came out quieter than intended. Something changed in his expression. Not much. Just enough.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The noise of the department seemed strangely distant.
“You know,” Jack said eventually, “it’s possible for people to help each other without it meaning something.”
The statement should have reassured you. Instead it hurt. You weren’t entirely sure why. Perhaps because you wanted it to mean something. That was the truth you kept trying not to examine too closely. You wanted his attention. You looked for him at the start of every shift. You noticed when he wasn’t there. You noticed when he looked tired. You noticed everything.
The feelings had arrived slowly and then all at once. Now they sat heavily in your chest, impossible to ignore.
You forced a smile. “Fine.”
“Fine.”
“You still need to stop.”
His eyes held yours. For a second you thought he might argue. Instead he sighed.
“You are the most stubborn person I’ve ever met.”
You laughed despite yourself. “That’s rich coming from you.”
A trauma alert sounded overhead. The moment vanished instantly. Jack pushed away from the wall. Professional mask sliding neatly back into place.
You hated how easily he could do that.
As though he could simply lock parts of himself away whenever necessary. You wondered what it would be like to be that controlled. To not feel everything so intensely all the time.
“Come on,” he said. “Work calls.”
You fell into step beside him. Close enough to hear his breathing, and to smell hospital soap and coffee. Close enough that the ache in your chest returned before you’d even reached the trauma bay.
You wished it would stop. You wished it would get worse. Neither option seemed particularly safe.
Especially not when Jack glanced at you as the doors opened and asked, quietly enough that nobody else could hear,
“You feeling alright today?”
The concern in his voice was genuine. Simple. Uncomplicated. Somehow that made it harder to answer than any question you’d faced all week.
The trauma ended up being far less dramatic than the alert had suggested. A motor vehicle collision. Two patients, both conscious. One broken wrist, one nasty laceration that looked significantly worse than it actually was. Nobody needed a miracle.
For once, the emergency department managed to survive a trauma call without the world ending. You should have felt relieved. Instead, the restlessness that had settled beneath your skin earlier refused to leave.
Jack’s question kept replaying in your head. ‘You feeling alright today?’. Such an ordinary thing to ask. People asked it all the time. The difference was that most people weren’t really asking. Most people wanted reassurance. A quick smile and a simple yes.
Jack always seemed to want the truth. That was what made him dangerous. He paid attention. It would have been easier if he didn’t. Easier if he were merely an attractive older guy with freckles and muscles and curls. A crush based on appearances would eventually burn itself out.
Unfortunately, every shift seemed determined to reveal another reason to fall for him. You hated that. Mostly because there was absolutely nothing sensible about it.
Jack was older than you. Widowed. Emotionally complicated in ways you suspected only a therapist fully understood.
You were carrying another man’s baby.
The timing couldn’t have been worse if someone had deliberately arranged it.
Yet every time he looked at you, some foolish part of your heart seemed convinced there was still something worth hoping for.
By three, your lower back felt like it had been replaced with concrete. The baby had apparently decided sleep was for cowards and had spent the last hour enthusiastically rearranging your internal organs.
You were updating notes at the nurses’ station when a sharp kick landed beneath your ribs. The involuntary wince escaped before you could stop it.
Unfortunately, somebody noticed. Of course somebody noticed. “Everything alright?”
You looked up. Jack. Again. The man appeared with the consistency of a haunting. You straightened immediately.
“Fine.”
“You know I was literally standing here when that happened, sweetheart.”
“I’m still fine.”
“You made a face.”
“I make faces all the time.”
“You looked like somebody stabbed you.”
“That’s slightly dramatic.”
His expression remained unconvinced. The irritating thing was that he wasn’t hovering. Not really. He wasn’t fussing or ordering you to sit down. He was simply standing there looking concerned. Which somehow made it impossible to dismiss.
The baby kicked again. Your hand moved automatically towards your stomach. A subconscious gesture. One you’d barely realised you’d started doing.
Something softened in Jack’s face. The sight of it nearly undid you. There was no pity there. No awkwardness. No discomfort. Just warmth.
Your pulse stumbled. Dangerous. Very dangerous.
“You should take ten.”
“No.”
“Five.”
“No.”
“Two and a half?”
A laugh escaped despite yourself.
“You negotiate with trauma surgeons like this?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“They aren’t as terrifying as you.”
You rolled your eyes. Jack looked suspiciously pleased with himself. The sight made something warm spread through your chest. You hated how often that happened around him. The feeling had become increasingly difficult to ignore. Particularly during the quieter moments.
Those moments were always the worst. Those were the moments when you remembered how easy it felt to talk to him. You couldn’t pinpoint when it had started. At some point he’d stopped feeling like an attending physician and started feeling like Jack. The distinction mattered more than it should have.
“You know,” he said eventually, leaning against the counter beside you, “it’s alright to admit that you’re tired.”
You stared at the computer screen. The blinking cursor suddenly seemed fascinating.
“Who says I’m tired?”
“You’ve had three cups of coffee in ninety minutes.”
“Maybe I like coffee.”
“You hate coffee.”
Your head dropped backwards. “Oh, come on.”
His smile widened. “You told me.”
“When?”
“Six months ago.”
You looked at him. Actually looked. The man remembered entirely too much. The realisation struck with uncomfortable force.
Six months ago.
You couldn’t remember half the conversations you’d had yesterday. Jack remembered an offhand comment from six months ago.
Your chest tightened. The feeling wasn’t entirely pleasant. Part of you wanted to bask in it. The rest wanted to run. Nobody had paid attention to you like this in a very long time. Not before the pregnancy. Certainly not after.
The baby’s father had forgotten things constantly. Appointments. Plans. Conversations. You had spent months shrinking your expectations just to avoid disappointment.
Now here was Jack remembering your coffee preferences. The comparison felt unfair. Your emotions didn’t seem particularly concerned with fairness.
His gaze lingered. Not challenging. Not pushing. Just waiting. You wondered whether he knew how difficult that made things. Most people demanded explanations.
Jack simply offered space. The urge to step into it was becoming overwhelming.
A sudden rush of emotion caught you completely off guard. Exhaustion. Fear. Hormones. Loneliness.
Whatever combination was responsible, it hit hard enough to sting behind your eyes. You looked away immediately. Embarrassing. The last thing you needed was to start crying at the nurses’ station.
Jack didn’t comment. Another kindness. He simply moved slightly closer. Close enough that you could feel the steady presence of him. Not touching. Never assuming. Just there. Ready if needed. The gesture nearly hurt.
“You’re allowed to lean on people sometimes.”
The words were quiet. Careful. As though he wasn’t entirely sure he should be saying them.
You laughed softly. A humourless sound. “That’s easy for you to say.”
His expression shifted. Something sad flickering briefly across his face. “You’d be surprised.”
The answer lodged somewhere deep. You knew enough about Jack to understand what wasn’t being said. The grief he carried everywhere despite pretending otherwise. Perhaps that was why being around him felt so different.
He never treated pain like weakness. He understood it too well.
A call light sounded down the corridor. The interruption should have felt annoying. Instead it came as a relief. The conversation had wandered dangerously close to honesty. Neither of you seemed entirely prepared for that.
You pushed away from the desk. Professional instincts taking over. Work was easier. Work always had been. People made sense when they were patients. Charts and medications and treatment plans were infinitely simpler than feelings.
Jack watched you stand. Something unreadable lingered in his eyes. Then it disappeared, locked away behind professionalism once again.
You found yourself wishing, not for the first time, that he would let you see what lived underneath it. The frightening thing was that you suspected he wished exactly the same thing about you.
The shift should have ended an hour ago. That was the thought repeating itself through your head as you stared at a computer screen that no longer seemed capable of forming coherent words.
Every part of you ached. Your feet hurt. Your back hurt. Your shoulders felt impossibly tight. Even the baby seemed exhausted, the constant movement from earlier reduced to occasional sleepy stretches beneath your ribs.
The emergency department had entered that strange period between night and morning. The chaos was winding down. Exhaustion was settling over everyone like a heavy blanket.
Those were always the dangerous hours. The hours when emotions started slipping through cracks you’d spent all shift holding together.
You rubbed a hand across your face and tried to focus on the discharge paperwork in front of you. The words blurred. For a moment you simply sat there staring at them.
Then, completely without warning, your eyes filled.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” You muttered it to yourself.
Nobody else heard. At least, that was what you thought. You blinked rapidly and forced yourself to take a breath. You were not going to cry.
Not here. Not now.
The ridiculous thing was that nothing had actually happened. It was just exhaustion. Pure, relentless exhaustion. The kind that seemed to hollow you out from the inside.
You loved your baby already. Loved them with a fierceness that still startled you.
That didn’t mean you weren’t frightened.
Every day seemed to bring a new thing to worry about. The nursery. Money. Childcare. Labour. The future. The endless responsibility waiting just around the corner.
Most of the time you managed to carry it.
Tonight it suddenly felt very heavy.
“You missed a spot.”
You jumped.
Jack was standing beside the desk, a takeaway cup rested in one hand.
You stared. Then frowned. “What?”
“The discharge summary.” He pointed towards the screen. “There.”
Sure enough, you’d missed an entire section. Your shoulders slumped. “Oh.”
Jack studied you for a second. Long enough that you knew he’d noticed. The tears. The exhaustion. All of it.
You looked away first. Humiliation immediately flooding your chest.
“You should go home.”
You laughed quietly. “I was planning to.”
“No.” His voice softened. “I mean now.”
The concern in it almost made things worse.
You swallowed hard. “I’m nearly finished.”
“You look exhausted.”
“I am exhausted.”
“Then go home, sweetheart.”
Something inside you cracked. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just enough that holding everything together suddenly became impossible.
You looked down at your hands, at the hospital ID badge hanging from your neck, at anything except him.
The words came out before you could stop them. “I don’t get to stop.”
Silence.
Your throat tightened. You hated this. Hated feeling exposed. Hated feeling weak. Most of all, hated how desperately you wanted somebody to understand.
“I don’t get to fall apart,” you continued quietly. “Everybody keeps telling me to rest and take breaks and ask for help, but at the end of the day it’s still just me.”
The confession hung between you. Entirely honest. You hadn’t meant to say any of it. Months of fear seemed to have slipped free without permission.
“I go home and it’s just me.”
Your voice wavered. You pressed your lips together immediately.
For a long moment neither of you spoke. The department carried on around you, life continuing exactly as normal. Meanwhile your entire chest felt like it had been turned inside out.
Then Jack set the coffee cup down. Carefully. As though sudden movements might break something. And, maybe they would.
His gaze never left yours. “You know what’s been driving me insane for the last few months?”
The question caught you completely off guard. You frowned. “What?”
“You.” Jack huffed out a short laugh. Not amused. Nervous. The sound alone was shocking. You weren’t sure you’d ever seen him nervous before. “You refuse help from everybody.”
Your mouth opened.
He continued before you could interrupt. “You carry everything yourself. Every shift. Every appointment. Every problem.”
“Jack—”
“You never let anybody look after you.”
The words landed harder than they should have. Emotion immediately tightened your throat again. You looked away. He wasn’t finished. You could tell. The realisation sent your pulse racing.
“I keep telling myself to stop.” His voice had gone quieter now. Rougher. “I keep telling myself you’re perfectly capable and none of this is my business.”
You slowly looked back at him. Neither of you seemed capable of looking away anymore. The space between you felt impossibly small, despite the fact neither of you had moved.
“I know you don’t need me.” The confession sat heavily between you. “I know that.”
His jaw tightened briefly, the way it always did when he was forcing himself to continue.
“But every time you walk into a shift looking exhausted, I want to help.”
Your heart stumbled, then stopped entirely.
“I want to take the difficult patients.” His eyes never left yours. “I want to make things easier.”
Another breath. Another heartbeat.
“I want to be the person who carries some of it when it gets too heavy.”
The world seemed strangely quiet. Every sound fading into the background. Your eyes burned again. This time you didn’t care. You’d spent months convincing yourself you were imagining it. Misreading kindness. Projecting your own feelings onto harmless gestures.
Now Jack was standing in front of you looking like he’d rather face another mass casualty event than this conversation.
The sight nearly broke your heart.
“You know why that’s a problem?” he asked softly.
You shook your head. The answer came anyway.
“Because somewhere along the way I stopped doing it just because I care about my staff.”
The breath left your lungs. “Oh.”
Brilliant response. Truly. Jack laughed quietly, a little helplessly. The sound made your chest ache.
“Oh,” he echoed.
For one terrifying second neither of you spoke. Then something shifted. Perhaps it was exhaustion, or relief, or simply the fact you’d both spent too long pretending.
Whatever it was, it finally pushed you forward.
“You make me feel safe.”
The words escaped before you could second-guess them. Jack froze. You continued anyway.
“If that’s a horrible thing to admit, then fine.”
A shaky laugh slipped out. Your eyes filled again.
“You make me feel looked after. I keep trying not to need that.”
Jack’s expression softened completely. “You don’t have to earn being cared for.”
The sentence hit harder than everything else combined. Nobody had ever said that to you before. Not like that. Not as though they genuinely believed it. A tear escaped, and then another, but you couldn’t even bring yourself to care.
Jack stepped closer. Slowly. Giving you every opportunity to stop him. You didn’t. His hand settled against your arm. The simple contact nearly undid you.
For months you’d been carrying everything alone.
Not because you wanted to, but because you thought you had to. The difference suddenly felt enormous.
Neither of you said anything for a while.
There wasn’t much left to say. The truth was already sitting between you. Visible at last. Jack’s thumb brushed lightly against your sleeve. A tiny movement so careful that it made your chest ache.
The man looked at you as though you were something precious. The realisation was terrifying. It was also wonderful.
For the first time in a very long while, the future didn’t seem quite so frightening.
Nothing had magically been fixed. You were still pregnant. Still scared. Still facing a thousand uncertainties.
Jack was still carrying grief of his own. Life remained complicated. Messy. Difficult.
Yet standing there beneath fluorescent hospital lights, with exhaustion pulling at both of you and dawn beginning to creep through distant windows, something fundamental had changed.
The loneliness wasn’t quite so sharp anymore.
For months you’d been trying to convince yourself that strength meant carrying everything alone. Looking at Jack now, you finally understood how wrong you’d been. Sometimes strength looked a lot more like letting somebody stay.
pairing: dr. jack abbot x younger resident!reader
summary: You’re used to handling things alone, even if handling them means skipping meals, ignoring problems, and laughing before anyone can see where it stings. Then Jack Abbot starts noticing too much. He pays attention in that quiet, maddening way of his, all dry comments and practical solutions, until calling him your sugar daddy stops feeling like a joke and starts feeling like the only safe label for something you’re too terrified to name.
Because the problem with Jack Abbot isn’t that he wants to take care of you. It’s that you want to let him.
wc: 12.9k
a/n: and here it is, the accidental sugar daddy abbot fic i started over a month ago!! was initially toying with the idea to turn this into a multi-chaptered story but eventually settled on a one-shot instead because i have way too many ongoing fics i need to finish at some point lmao. i really wanted to take the sugar daddy trope and make it feel more grounded and in-character for jack, less flashy billionaire fantasy, more quiet practical care that gets way too intimate before either of you knows what to do with it. not beta read.
warnings: age gap, workplace power imbalance, attending/resident turned sd/sb dynamic, class/money insecurity, possessive/soft dom!jack, semi-public sex, piv, car sex, unprotected sex, creampie, dirty talk, praise kink, mild degradation, biting/marking, daddy kink adjacent, public humiliation, no use of y/n
MASTERLIST
By the third time your card declined in front of Jack Abbot, you were ready to walk into traffic and let Pittsburgh finish what your bank account started.
Not dramatically. Not even with much feeling.
Just a clean, practical exit from the kind of humiliation that made your skin feel too tight over your bones.
The cafeteria at PTMC was too bright for this hour, all hard fluorescent light and polished floors and the faint, permanent smell of fryer oil losing a war against antiseptic. Behind you, the emergency department pulsed on with its usual awful rhythm—monitors chiming, stretchers squealing past, somebody coughing low and ragged, the sound dragging itself through the corridor, Dana Evans barking for someone to move their ass before she moved it for them. It was a living thing down here. Hungry. Overlit. Never satisfied.
You had a wrapped turkey sandwich in one hand, a bruised banana in the other, and that particular, skin-tight shame of being broke in public.
The cashier, who looked as tired as everyone else in the building, tried not to make a face at the register.
“Sometimes it’s the chip,” she said.
“It’s not the chip,” you said, because apparently your mouth had decided the truth was less embarrassing than optimism.
You could feel the line behind you growing restless. A respiratory therapist with a Diet Coke. A med student in wrinkled scrubs whispering urgently into their phone. Dr. Whitaker, gentle-eyed and awkward, staring at the ceiling like he was trying to give you privacy by force of will. Somewhere near the coffee station, Santos was talking too loudly about a procedure she “absolutely could’ve done faster if anyone had let her finish,” and Dr. Mohan was answering in that careful, measured way that made even a correction sound like she’d considered the whole person first.
You shifted the sandwich lower against your palm.
“It’s fine,” you said, already turning. “I don’t need it.”
A hand reached past your shoulder and tapped a card against the reader.
The machine beeped.
Approved.
You froze.
Jack Abbot stood close enough behind you that you caught the familiar edge of him before you looked up—the clean, medicinal bite of hospital soap, the stale warmth of coffee, the faintest trace of sweat under scrubs after too many hours on his feet. He didn’t look at you right away. He watched the cashier print the receipt with the same expression he wore when waiting for labs, jaw set, eyes tired, patience worn thin but not gone.
“Bag?” the cashier asked.
“No,” Jack said.
You stood there with the sandwich in one hand and the banana in the other, suddenly too aware of the bruised peel, the cold give of the sandwich through the cloudy plastic, the line behind you, and Jack Abbot’s shoulder beside yours.
You stared at him. “Seriously?”
He finally looked at you.
Jack Abbot always looked like he’d been awake since the Clinton administration. It should’ve made him less attractive. It didn't. The exhaustion sat under his eyes and in the lines bracketing his mouth, but there was something about him that made tired look like discipline instead of defeat. His hair was a little mussed, his scrubs were creased at the hips, and his stance had that slight adjustment you’d learned to notice after months of seeing him around PTMC—the subtle distribution of weight that came with his prosthetic leg and the old damage he carried without announcing it.
“What?” he said.
You lowered your voice. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
“That’s my lunch.”
“Looked like it.”
“You paid for it.”
“Sharp today.”
You huffed, heat crawling up your neck. “Jack.”
That got you the smallest change in his face. Not a smile. He didn’t hand those out recklessly. More like one corner of his mouth remembered humor existed and gave a half-hearted twitch before giving up.
“Eat the sandwich,” he said.
“I was going to.”
“No, you were going to put it back and pretend you weren’t hungry.”
You opened your mouth.
Jack’s eyebrows lifted.
You closed it again.
Behind him, Whitaker looked down at his shoes like they might offer instructions, visibly desperate not to be part of this. Santos, unfortunately, had no such instinct.
“Damn,” she said, appearing at Jack’s shoulder with a coffee she had definitely not paid for recently enough to still be that hot. “Abbot’s buying lunch now? Is this a resident perk, or do I need to almost faint near the muffins?”
Mohan didn’t look up from stirring sugar into her tea. “You would never almost faint quietly enough to qualify.”
“I don’t faint,” Santos said.
“You got lightheaded during central line training.”
“That was low blood sugar and a hostile learning environment.” Santos pointed two fingers toward Jack. “But I’m serious. I want in on the cafeteria patron program.”
Jack looked at her.
Santos looked back.
The silence lasted exactly long enough for her confidence to thin at the edges.
“Or not,” she said, taking a sip of coffee. “Noted. Very selective program.”
Dana passed behind the group with a stack of charts under one arm and a look sharp enough to split sutures. “If any of you are done loitering in my cafeteria like it’s a damn wine bar, I’ve got three beds backing up, a grown adult arguing with registration, a kid melting down in triage, and a Lego stuck in one of their ear canals.”
Whitaker blinked. “Who? Adult guy or kid guy?”
Dana didn’t slow down. “That’s the part that’s gonna disappoint you.”
Santos grinned. Mohan gave a small, resigned sigh. Jack, without looking away from you, said, “Eat.”
Your face was still hot.
The sandwich felt heavier now that it had been purchased by him. Not because it was expensive. It was hospital cafeteria turkey on wheat, overpriced and bland, the cloudy plastic crinkling under your fingers every time your grip tightened. But Jack had noticed. That was the part you didn’t know how to hold. He’d seen the little calculation you’d tried to hide, the quiet defeat of deciding hunger could wait until later, and he’d stepped in with no fanfare. No pity. No soft voice.
Just a card tapped against a reader and a dry order to eat.
“I can pay you back,” you said.
Jack’s eyes dipped briefly to the sandwich and then back to your face.
“Don’t.”
“I don’t like owing people.”
“You don’t owe me.”
“That’s not how money works.”
“It is when I decide I don’t care.”
You gave a small, disbelieving laugh. “That’s very generous of you, Dr. Abbot.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
You should’ve let it go.
You really should’ve.
But the humiliation had already burned off into something else, something warmer and more dangerous, because Jack was standing there with his tired eyes and that blunt, immovable steadiness, and you had never been good at leaving tension alone when you could poke it until it bit.
“Careful,” you said, tucking the sandwich against your chest. “People are gonna think you’re my sugar daddy.”
Whitaker made a strangled sound and turned toward the condiments with the strained focus of a man suddenly invested in ketchup packets, while Santos choked on her coffee hard enough that Mohan closed her eyes like she was choosing patience on purpose. Jack only stared at you, and for one awful second, you thought you’d gone too far.
Then Jack took the receipt from the cashier, crumpled it in one hand, and said, flat as a dead monitor, “People think a lot of stupid shit.”
He walked away before you could answer.
You watched him disappear through the cafeteria doors and into the arterial chaos of the ER, shoulders squared, limp controlled, already swallowed by the work waiting for him.
Santos leaned closer, grin wide enough to be medically concerning.
“Oh, that was not nothing.”
“It was lunch,” you said.
Mohan looked at you over the rim of her cup, thoughtful in a way that made you feel unfortunately examined. “He noticed before anyone else did.”
You pressed the cold sandwich wrapper against your burning face.
Dana shouted from somewhere down the hall, “Santos, if you’re socializing instead of working, I’m assigning you Lego ear.”
Santos snapped upright. “I’m not socializing.”
“Good,” Dana called. “Then you can do it faster.”
You stood there with Jack’s lunch in your hands and tried very hard not to smile.
It would’ve been easier if that had been the end of it.
But Jack Abbot, you learned, was not a man who did anything halfway once he decided it made sense.
He didn’t become flashy. He didn’t start acting like some rich asshole in a bad romance novel, throwing cash around and waiting to be thanked for it. That would’ve been easier to resist, probably. Less intimate, anyway. You could’ve rolled your eyes at that. You could’ve made fun of him. You could’ve called it ridiculous and kept your pride intact.
Jack was worse.
Jack was practical.
He bought your coffee the next morning because, as he put it, “I was already standing there.” He brought you half a container of pasta from the staff fridge because “Robby ordered too much and nobody here understands portions.” He left a protein bar beside your laptop during a night when the waiting room looked like every bad decision in Pittsburgh had agreed to arrive at once. He noticed when your left shoe started peeling at the sole and said nothing, which somehow made you more self-conscious than if he’d pointed at it.
Robby noticed before you did.
Or maybe Robby noticed everything and simply chose when to weaponize it.
It was just after noon on a bad shift, the kind where every hallway seemed to have sprouted a stretcher and every call light sounded like one more thing nobody had enough hands to answer. You were near the nurses’ station, trying to make sense of a scheduling conflict that had three departments blaming each other in increasingly creative language, when Robby came up beside you with a tablet in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.
His hair was doing that thing where it looked like he’d run both hands through it enough times to qualify as a cry for help.
“Is Abbot feeding you?” he asked.
You nearly dropped your pen. “What?”
Robby glanced toward trauma two, where Jack was leaning over a chart with Dr. McKay, both of them listening while Javadi spoke quickly and carefully, too eager to be casual. Jack’s attention was fixed, but his expression had that faintly skeptical set that made med students stand up straighter by instinct.
“Food,” Robby said. “Coffee. Whatever else he’s pretending is a coincidence.”
“He bought me lunch once.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And coffee.”
“Sure.”
“And maybe pasta.”
Robby’s eyebrows rose.
You narrowed your eyes. “Do you have a point?”
“Not one worth putting in writing.” He took a sip of coffee, then winced like it tasted exactly as bad as he expected and somehow worse. “Just be careful.”
That killed the humor faster than you wanted it to.
Your eyes shifted back toward Jack before you could stop them.
Robby caught it. Of course he caught it. He was annoying that way, all ragged compassion and clinical perception, the kind of man who could call out a hemorrhage, a lie, and a panic attack in the same breath.
“He’s a good guy,” Robby said, quieter.
“I know.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s uncomplicated.”
You swallowed. “I know that too.”
Robby’s face softened by a fraction. It made him look older, which was unfair, because he already looked like the hospital had been chewing on him for years and kept forgetting to swallow.
“Okay,” he said. Then, because sincerity seemed to physically pain him if left unbalanced, he added, “Also, if this turns into some HR nightmare, I’m denying I noticed.”
“There’s nothing to notice.”
“Great. Love that. Very convincing.”
You looked back down at your schedule so he wouldn’t see your face.
Across the department, Jack glanced up.
For a second, through the moving bodies and swinging privacy curtains and fluorescent glare, his eyes found yours.
He didn’t smile.
He just looked.
That was becoming the problem.
Jack didn’t flirt the way other men flirted. He didn’t crowd you with charm or drown you in compliments or make a show of wanting to be watched. He looked at you like noticing was a form of pressure. Like every detail went somewhere and stayed there. The coffee order. The bad shoe. The way you tucked your hands into your sleeves when you were cold. The way your voice got flatter when you were trying not to admit something hurt.
You wished he’d be less good at it.
You wished you liked it less.
The car thing happened on a Thursday.
You were leaving PTMC after a shift that had somehow lasted ten hours despite only being scheduled for eight, which felt like a violation of both labor law and physics. Your head ached from fluorescent lights. Your feet throbbed. The parking garage smelled like wet concrete, exhaust, and old rain, with the city beyond it slick and dark under a spring storm that had rolled in hard after sunset.
Your car made the noise again when you turned the key.
Not the cute noise. Not the “haha, she’s old but reliable” noise.
The expensive one.
A grinding, metallic cough dragged itself out from under the hood, followed by a rattle that sounded like several important pieces had started a fight and nobody was winning.
You shut the engine off immediately.
“Please,” you whispered, resting your forehead against the steering wheel. “Not tonight.”
The car answered by doing absolutely nothing, which was at least better than exploding.
You tried again.
The sound came back worse.
A knock hit your window.
You screamed.
Jack stood outside in the harsh garage lighting, rain clinging to his shoulders, one hand braced on the roof of your car. He looked unimpressed by your survival instincts.
You rolled the window down halfway. “Jesus Christ.”
“No,” he said. “Just me.”
“Do you always lurk in parking garages?”
“Only when cars sound like they’re about to die.”
“It’s fine.”
Jack looked at the hood. Then at you.
“That’s not a fine sound.”
“It does that sometimes.”
“It shouldn’t do that ever.”
You tightened your grip on the steering wheel. “I’m taking it in next week.”
“You’re not driving it until then.”
A laugh slipped out of you, brittle and defensive. “Okay, Dad.”
His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes sharpened.
Your stomach dipped.
Not fear. Not exactly.
Something else.
Jack leaned slightly closer to the open window. “Pop the hood.”
“I don’t need you to—”
“Pop the hood.”
There was a particular tone he used in the ER when people were bleeding, lying, or being stupid about symptoms that could kill them. Apparently, your car had been triaged into that category.
You popped the hood.
The storm pushed rain sideways into the garage, misting the concrete in silver sheets beyond the open level. Jack moved around to the front of your car and lifted the hood, shoulders hunching slightly as he looked inside. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, just dark scrubs under a gray zip-up that had seen better decades, sleeves pushed to his forearms. The overhead light caught the tendons in his hands, the salt at his temples, the hard concentration in his face.
It was obscene, honestly, watching a man become attractive over engine trouble.
He checked something, frowned, checked something else, then lowered the hood with more control than the situation deserved.
“Do not drive this,” he said.
You were already shaking your head. “I have to get home.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No, Jack.”
He stared at you over the hood. “You got a better plan?”
You did not.
You had forty-three dollars in your checking account, a rent payment looming like an execution date, and a car making noises you couldn’t afford to identify. But admitting that felt worse than standing barefoot on broken glass.
“I can call someone,” you said.
“Who?”
The question was simple. Too simple.
That was the problem with Jack. He had no patience for the decorative lies people used to get through conversations. He stripped things down until you either told the truth or stood there bleeding around it.
You looked away first.
Rain ticked against the garage opening. Somewhere below, an ambulance siren rose and fell, dopplering into the wet city.
Jack’s voice dropped. “Get your bag.”
“I don’t want to be a problem.”
“You’re not.”
“I don’t want you fixing everything.”
“I’m not fixing everything.” He came around to your side of the car, opened the door, and stood back enough to give you room. “I’m stopping you from driving a death trap.”
You didn’t move.
Jack exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh.
“You can be mad in my car,” he said. “It has heat.”
That was how he won.
Not with softness. Not with a speech.
Heat.
You grabbed your bag and got out.
Jack’s car was clean in the way a person’s car got when they didn’t spend enough time in it to make a mess. There was an old coffee cup in the holder, a folded jacket in the back, a snow scraper on the floor, and a faint smell of leather, rain, and whatever soap he used that always made you think of hospital sinks and his hands.
He turned the heat on without asking. Then, after a second, he aimed one of the vents toward you.
You noticed.
You hated that you noticed.
Neither of you said anything as he pulled out of the garage. The rain blurred the windshield, smearing Pittsburgh into traffic lights and dark brick, ambulance bays and slick streets, the city looking bruised and alive under the storm. Jack drove with one hand low on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift, fingers flexing once when his leg seemed to bother him.
“You okay?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
His eyes stayed on the road. “Yeah.”
“Your leg?”
“I said yeah.”
“Right. Sorry.”
His jaw worked.
Then, quieter, “Long day.”
That was as much as he usually gave. A door opened an inch, then locked again.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
The wipers dragged water from the glass in steady, tired arcs.
At a red light, Jack said, “Where do you take the car?”
You laughed weakly. “To a mechanic who knows me by name and already looks tired when I walk in.”
“I’ll call someone.”
“No.”
“You don’t know who yet.”
“I know it’s going to involve you paying for something.”
The light turned green.
Jack drove.
You looked at him, incredulous. “You’re not even denying it.”
“Seemed like a waste of both our time.”
“Jack.”
“I know a guy.”
“Of course you know a guy.”
“I’m old.”
“You’re not that old.”
That got you a glance. Brief, sharp, almost amused.
“No?”
“No,” you said, and then because you had apparently decided self-preservation was for other people, you added, “Just old enough to have a guy.”
The corner of his mouth moved.
You felt victorious and doomed at the same time.
“I can handle it,” you said, softer. “The car. I’ll figure it out.”
“I know you can.”
“Then why are you doing this?”
Jack was quiet long enough that you thought he might not answer.
Then he said, “Because figuring it out shouldn’t mean hoping your brakes make it another week.”
Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
You looked out the window so he wouldn’t see it.
The thing about being broke—really, really, broke—wasn’t just the lack of money. It was the math. The constant, grinding math of survival. A sandwich became a calculation. A repair became a catastrophe. A strange noise under the hood became a negotiation with God or luck or whatever indifferent force kept old cars alive for one more day. You got used to making everything stretch until stretching felt like living, and then someone like Jack came along and called it unsafe in that blunt, infuriating voice, and suddenly the whole thing looked different.
Not brave.
Not independent.
Just exhausting.
He pulled up outside your building and put the car in park. Rain ran down the windshield in crooked streams.
You didn’t reach for the door handle.
“Thank you,” you said.
Jack nodded once.
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“I’ll pay you back if your guy does anything.”
“No.”
You shut your eyes. “Please don’t make me fight you in your car. I’m tired.”
“I noticed.”
“Stop noticing.”
“No.”
Your eyes opened.
Jack was looking at you now, body angled slightly in the driver’s seat, face cut by passing headlights and dashboard glow. Up close, in the dim, the lines around his eyes looked deeper. So did the restraint. He wore it like part of the uniform, like scrubs and a stethoscope and whatever pain he kept filed away under function.
Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. “Why?”
He didn’t pretend not to understand.
“I don’t know,” he said.
It was the first answer he’d given you that didn’t sound like a diagnosis.
That made it worse.
You tried to smile, tried to make the air lighter before it crushed you. “This is getting very sugar daddy of you.”
The joke landed differently in the dark.
You felt it. So did he.
Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth for half a second. Maybe less. Long enough for your pulse to trip, not long enough to accuse him of anything. Either way, when he looked back up, his face had gone still in a way that made the warm air from the vents feel suddenly too hot.
“You should go inside,” he said.
You nodded.
Neither of you moved.
Then his phone buzzed in the cup holder, snapping the moment clean down the middle. Jack glanced at the screen, saw Robby’s name, and declined the call before typing something one-handed with the resignation of a man who knew better than to leave him unanswered too long.
You opened the door before you could do something stupid, like ask him to come upstairs.
“Night, Jack.”
His hand tightened once around the phone.
“Lock your door.”
You smiled despite yourself. “Yes, Doctor.”
His eyes lifted.
There it was again, that almost-smile. Faint. Dangerous.
“Don’t start,” he said.
You got out before your face could betray you.
The car repair cost eight hundred and sixty dollars.
Jack didn't tell you this.
The mechanic did, because you called behind Jack’s back after getting one text that said, Car’s handled. Pick it up Friday.
Handled.
Like it was a chart. Like it was a consult. Like it was one of the million things at PTMC that needed to be assessed, fixed, signed off, and moved along.
You stood in a supply hallway with your phone pressed to your ear, your grip tightening around the case while the mechanic cheerfully explained that Dr. Abbot had already squared it away.
Squared it away.
You were going to kill him.
Unfortunately, when you found him, he was in the middle of resetting a dislocated shoulder with Robby at the bedside and King handing over medication with careful, focused precision. There was a teenage patient crying, his mother pacing, Dana telling everyone who wasn’t useful to back up, and Jack looking exactly like a man who could not be murdered until after he finished being competent.
You had to wait.
That made you angrier.
By the time he stepped out, stripping off gloves and tossing them into the trash, you had worked yourself into something sharp enough to throw.
“Eight hundred and sixty dollars?” you said.
Jack stopped.
Robby, behind him, stopped too.
Dana looked up from the desk.
Santos, who had the survival instincts of someone convinced she could talk her way out of anything, immediately leaned over the counter.
Jack’s eyes flicked over your face. “Not here.”
“Oh, no, definitely here.”
Robby pressed his lips together and took one very deliberate step backward.
“Coward,” Dana muttered.
“Experienced,” Robby corrected.
Jack lowered his voice. “You called the mechanic.”
“You paid the mechanic.”
“Yeah.”
“Eight hundred and sixty dollars, Jack.”
“Would’ve been more if you kept driving it.”
You stared at him. “That is not the point.”
“That is exactly the point.”
“I told you I didn’t want you fixing everything.”
“And I told you I wasn’t letting you drive a death trap.”
“You don’t get to decide that for me.”
For the first time, something like frustration cracked through his calm.
“No,” he said. “I don’t get to decide everything for you. But I do get to decide what I do with my money.”
Dana made a low sound. “Jesus.”
Santos whispered, “This is better than whatever I was supposed to be doing.”
Mohan, passing with a chart, said, “You're supposed to be working.”
You barely heard them.
Your whole focus had narrowed to Jack’s face, the stubborn set of his mouth, the tension in his shoulders. He looked tired. He always looked tired. But underneath it was something else now, something protective enough to be annoying and personal enough to hurt.
“I can’t pay that back right now,” you said.
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“It makes it done.”
You laughed once, without humor. “You’re impossible.”
“Usually.”
“You can’t just—” You stopped, aware suddenly of how many people were pretending not to listen. Your voice dropped. “You can’t just keep doing this.”
Jack’s gaze held yours.
“Doing what?”
The question should’ve been innocent, but it wasn’t. Not after the lunches, the coffee, the rides, the mechanic, or the way Jack looked at you like you were a problem he wanted to solve with his bare hands. You stepped closer before you thought better of it.
“You know what,” you said.
For a second, the department moved around you, loud and bright and indifferent, but you and Jack were still.
Then Dana slapped a chart down on the counter hard enough to startle everyone within ten feet.
“Okay,” she said. “As much as I’d love to watch whatever this is turn into a workplace training module, Abbot, bed nine needs you. You—” She pointed at you. “Take a breath before you rupture something expensive.”
Jack’s mouth tightened, but he listened.
Of course he listened to Dana. Everyone did, eventually.
He stepped past you, close enough that his sleeve brushed your arm.
“Friday,” he said under his breath.
You turned your head. “What?”
“Pick up your car Friday.”
Then he was gone.
Santos waited exactly three seconds.
“So,” she said, bright-eyed. “How does one apply for the Abbot scholarship fund?”
Dana pointed at her without looking. “Bedpan in curtain three.”
Santos deflated. “Damn it.”
You hated how badly you wanted to laugh.
By Friday, when you picked up your car, there was a new pair of black nonslip clogs sitting in the passenger seat.
Not fancy. Not wrapped. Just sensible, comfortable work shoes in your size, made for twelve-hour shifts and the brutal, steady wear of the ER. A sticky note was pressed to the box in Jack’s blunt handwriting.
Your old ones were unsafe.
That was it. No apology, no explanation. Just another problem he’d noticed and solved before you could decide whether to be grateful or furious.
You sat in the driver’s seat for a long time, staring at the note, then laughed until your eyes burned.
The fundraiser was Robby’s fault.
At least, that was what you told yourself, because blaming Robby was easier than admitting you had agreed to attend a hospital donor event while quietly hoping Jack would look at you in something other than scrubs.
PTMC held one every year, apparently. A grim little ritual where administrators, donors, board members, and exhausted medical staff gathered in a hotel ballroom to pretend the emergency department wasn’t being kept alive by overworked staff, aging equipment, and the quiet fact that everyone had learned to make do with less. There would be speeches. There would be bad chicken. There would be wealthy people using phrases like “frontline heroes” while nurses calculated how many working monitors the cost of the floral arrangements could’ve bought.
You hadn’t planned to go.
Then Gloria Underwood’s office had needed extra administrative support for check-in, and Robby had said, “It’s easy money. Wear something nice. Try not to let the donors explain healthcare to you.”
You’d said yes before checking your closet.
That was how you ended up in your apartment three nights before the event, sitting on the floor in a towel, surrounded by every dress you owned and the creeping realization that none of them worked. Too casual. Too tight in the wrong way. Too old. Too funeral. Too “college career fair,” stiff in all the wrong places and not nice enough to pass under ballroom lighting. One had a broken zipper. One still had a stain from a margarita incident you refused to revisit.
Your phone buzzed.
Jack:
Car still running?
You stared at the message, then at the graveyard of dresses around you.
You:
yes, dad
Jack:
Don’t.
You smiled despite yourself.
You:
thank you, by the way
for the shoes too
even though you’re insane
Jack:
You going tomorrow?
You stared at the message for a second too long, then looked down at the heap of rejected clothes around your legs.
You:
maybe
Jack:
That means yes.
You should’ve stopped there.
Instead, with the fatal confidence of a woman sitting half-naked on her bedroom floor and losing an argument with formalwear, you typed:
You:
it means maybe now i just need a dress that doesn’t make me look like i wandered into the fundraiser by accident
The reply took longer than usual.
Jack:
Show me.
You stared at the message, suddenly aware of every inch of bare skin the pile of rejected clothes wasn’t covering.
You:
the dress?
Jack:
What else would I mean?
Your face went hot.
You:
don’t ask me that when i’m half naked on my bedroom floor
The typing bubble appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Jack:
You have tomorrow off?
You stared.
Then stared harder.
You:
why
Jack:
Answer the question.
There were several smart things you could’ve said.
You said none of them.
You:
yes
Jack:
I’ll pick you up at 10.
Your stomach flipped.
You:
jack
Jack:
10:30 if you’re going to argue.
You:
you don’t even know what i was going to say
Jack:
I’m learning patterns.
You pressed your phone facedown against your thigh and sat there half-dressed and mortified, thighs pressed together, waiting for your body to stop reacting like he’d put his hands on you.
The next morning, Jack arrived at 10:28.
Of course he did.
He drove you to a small boutique outside downtown, the kind of place you would’ve walked past without entering because the window displays didn’t include prices, which meant the prices were rude. Jack parked, got out, and came around to your side before you had fully finished spiraling.
“I don’t like this,” you said as he opened the door.
“You haven’t gone in yet.”
“That’s why I still have hope.”
He gave you a look.
You stepped out, hugging your coat tighter around yourself. “Jack, I’m serious. I’m not letting you buy me some expensive dress.”
“Okay.”
You blinked. “Okay?”
“Yeah.”
“That was too easy.”
“You said some expensive dress.” He closed the car door. “Find a cheap one.”
You stared at him.
He headed for the shop.
“That is not a loophole,” you called after him.
“It’s exactly a loophole.”
Inside, the boutique was too quiet, too soft, too expensive in ways it didn’t need to announce. Pale wood floors, warm lighting, racks arranged with almost insulting confidence, the dresses hanging with more breathing room than your apartment closet could spare. The air smelled faintly of steamed fabric and perfume, and the woman behind the counter looked up with the calm precision of someone trained to know who was buying before anyone spoke.
You hated that. You hated more that Jack didn’t seem to notice.
Or he did notice and simply didn’t care.
He told her what you needed in a few clipped sentences: hospital fundraiser, semi-formal, comfortable enough to work check-in, not black unless you wanted black, shoes optional because you had shoes. He didn't mention size like a man trying to guess or gesture vaguely at your body like an idiot. He looked at you when that part came up and let you answer for yourself.
That tiny bit of respect did something inconvenient to your chest.
The saleswoman brought options.
You rejected the first three.
Jack rejected the fourth before you could come out of the dressing room.
“No,” he said through the door.
You looked at yourself in the mirror, startled. “You haven’t even seen it.”
“I saw the sleeve.”
“You can diagnose a bad dress by sleeve?”
“I’ve diagnosed worse with less.”
You pulled the curtain back just enough to glare at him.
Jack sat in a low chair outside the dressing rooms, one ankle braced carefully, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. He looked absurd there, too solid and worn-in for the soft gold mirrors and velvet hangers, like someone had dropped a combat medic into a room built for silk and champagne.
His eyes flicked to the sliver of dress visible through the curtain.
“No,” he repeated.
The saleswoman, traitor that she was, nodded. “He’s right.”
You shut the curtain. “I hate both of you.”
The fifth dress was the problem.
You knew it before you opened the curtain.
The fabric skimmed instead of clung, soft where it needed to be, structured where it counted. It made you look like you’d meant to be invited. Like you hadn’t spent the week calculating grocery money in your head and pretending exhaustion didn’t count if you kept moving. The neckline was tasteful, but not innocent. The color warmed your skin without washing you out. You turned once in the mirror and felt something low in your stomach shift.
Confidence, maybe.
Or danger.
“Let me see,” Jack said from outside.
“You’re bossy.”
“Yes.”
“You admit that way too easily.”
“I’m old.”
You smiled, then caught your own face in the mirror and watched the smile fade.
This was a bad idea. Not the dress—the dress was perfect.
That was the bad idea.
You opened the curtain, and Jack looked up.
For a moment, he said nothing.
The shop noise seemed to thin around you—the music, the soft movement of hangers, the saleswoman tactfully vanishing somewhere behind a rack. Jack’s gaze moved over you once, controlled enough to be deniable and slow enough to ruin you anyway. He didn’t leer. He didn’t smirk. He just looked, jaw set, eyes catching for half a second too long at your waist, your hips, the neckline of the dress, like the only thing keeping his hands to himself was the fact that you were standing under boutique lights instead of somewhere with a locked door.
His jaw shifted.
Your fingers tightened around the curtain.
“Well?” you asked, because silence was going to kill you.
Jack leaned back slightly, but it didn’t make him look relaxed. It made him look like restraint had become physical.
“No,” he said.
Your face fell before you could stop it.
Then he added, lower, “That’s the problem.”
The words landed low enough to make your stomach tighten. You looked down at yourself, then back at him. “Too much?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
His eyes returned to your face like it cost him effort.
“It fits.”
It was such a stupid answer. Controlled, careful, almost useless—and somehow hotter than a compliment, because you could hear everything he wasn’t saying in the rough edge of his voice.
You stepped fully out, smoothing your palms down the front of the dress because you needed something to do.
“It’s probably expensive.”
“Probably.”
“Jack.”
“You like it?”
“That’s not the point.”
“It’s my point.”
You exhaled, trying to laugh, but it came out thin. “You can’t keep buying me things.”
He stood. Not quickly, not dramatically. Just unfolded himself from the chair and came closer, stopping at a respectful distance that still felt indecent because his eyes hadn’t left the dress, or you inside it.
“I can do what I want.”
“You sound like a nightmare.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
You glanced toward the mirror, unable to hold his eyes. In the reflection, he stood behind you, hands at his sides, older and tired and steady, and you looked like something neither of you could keep pretending was professional.
The thought went through you too sharply.
You swallowed. “People are going to think I’m exactly what I joked about.”
Jack’s reflection didn’t move. “What’s that?”
You met his eyes in the mirror. “Your sugar baby.”
There. Said out loud in the warm boutique light, with the dress between you as evidence.
Jack’s gaze held yours. Then he stepped closer, just enough that his voice didn’t have to carry. “That what you want this to be?”
Your mouth went dry. The smart answer was no. The honest answer was more complicated, and the answer your body wanted to give had no business being spoken in public before noon.
So you made it worse on purpose.
“I don’t know,” you said, tilting your head. “Depends on the benefits package.”
Jack looked at you for a long second. Then the almost-smile appeared, brief and devastating.
“Change,” he said. “Before I regret asking.”
You spent the rest of the day pretending your hands weren’t shaking.
Saturday night came wrapped in rain and reflected light.
The hotel ballroom looked too clean, too bright, and too expensive for a fundraiser built around people who spent most days trying to keep the whole place upright. White tablecloths. Gold fixtures. Centerpieces too tall for conversation. A stage at the far end with the PTMC logo projected behind the podium, clean and official and nothing like the controlled disaster of the emergency department. Nurses and doctors looked strangely exposed out of scrubs, like actors at the wrong rehearsal. Dana wore navy and carried herself with the same brisk authority she had at the nurses’ station, like the ballroom was just another crowded hallway she intended to get under control. Robby had put on a suit, but he wore it with visible reluctance, one hand already tugging at his tie before the first speech had started.
Dr. McKay arrived with her hair pinned back, already checking her phone for updates about her son. King stood beside her, fidgeting lightly with her bracelet while listening to Whitaker ramble about how strange it was to see everyone with “normal arms,” which he then tried to explain and somehow made worse. Javadi looked polished and nervous, her mother somewhere in the room like a pressure system. Mohan was composed, elegant, and already listening to the opening remarks with the patient focus of someone rationing her tolerance carefully.
Santos wore a sharp dress and confidence like body armor.
“Okay,” she said when she saw you. “I’m going to say something, and I need you not to make it weird.”
“That’s never a good opener.”
“You look hot.”
“Santos.”
“What? I said don’t make it weird.”
Mohan, passing behind her, said, “You made it weird by announcing you weren’t going to.”
Santos ignored her. “Abbot seen you yet?”
You busied yourself with the check-in list. “Why?”
“Because I’m invested.”
“You need a hobby.”
“I have one. It’s being right.”
You were saved from answering by Dana appearing at your side with two badges and a look that missed nothing.
“You doing okay?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
Dana’s eyes swept over your face, then the room, then the entrance where Jack had not yet appeared. “Uh-huh.”
“You too?”
“Me too what?”
“Nothing.”
Dana handed you the badges. “Honey, I’ve worked ER longer than some of these donors have been pretending to care about ER. I know when there’s a thing.”
“There’s not a thing.”
“Then stop looking at the door like you’re planning an escape route.”
You opened your mouth, found nothing useful, and looked back down at the check-in list.
Dana smirked and walked away.
Jack arrived ten minutes late in a dark suit, and something behind your ribs fluttered hard enough that you had to look away.
It wasn’t fancy. That was the worst part. No special tailoring, no flashy tie, no clean magazine version of him. Just a dark suit on a man who looked like he’d rather be elbows-deep in a trauma bay than standing under chandelier light, his hair slightly unruly, his face tired, his posture adjusted in that familiar way. The jacket sat broad across his shoulders. The shirt opened at the collar because of course he looked better slightly undone. There was a roughness to him the room couldn’t soften, something lived-in and disciplined and worn close to the bone.
Robby said something to him at the entrance.
Jack answered without smiling.
Then his eyes found you.
Everything else blurred.
Not fully. You were still aware of the check-in table under your hands, the murmur of donors, Santos whispering “oh my god” somewhere behind you with absolutely no attempt to hide it. But Jack looked at you in that dress, and the rest of the room slipped out of reach for one dangerous second.
He walked over slowly.
“Hi,” you said, which was embarrassing because you knew more words than that.
Jack’s gaze moved over your face first, then the dress, then back up slowly enough that your skin warmed beneath the fabric he’d bought.
“Hi.”
You tried for a smile. “You clean up okay.”
“I was going to say that.”
“You can still say it.”
“No.”
“Too generous?”
“Too easy.”
His eyes dipped again, just once, and something in your stomach tightened before he seemed to remember the room around you. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
You stared. “What is that?”
“Receipt.”
“For the dress?”
“For the car.”
Your stomach dropped. “Jack.”
“Relax.” He slid it across the check-in table with two fingers. “It says paid. That’s all.”
You looked down.
Paid.
Your throat tightened.
“You said you didn’t like owing people,” he said.
“I still owe you.”
“No.” His voice stayed quiet, but something in it made the word feel less like comfort and more like a line drawn in permanent ink. “You don’t.”
You looked up at him, and for a second the ballroom felt too bright, too crowded, too public for the thing trying to break open in your chest.
Before you could answer, Robby appeared beside Jack with the timing of a man either doing you a favor or robbing you of a bad decision.
“Abbot,” he said, “Underwood wants us near the front for the photo.”
Jack’s voice came out clipped. “No.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said. She used the phrase ‘visible leadership.’”
“That makes it worse.”
“I agree.”
Robby looked at you then, eyes flicking once between your dress and Jack’s face. His mouth twitched.
“You look nice,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Abbot looks like he’s about to be taken out behind the building and shot, but that’s formal for him.”
Jack gave him a look.
Robby clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Come on, visible leadership.”
Jack didn’t move immediately.
His hand came to rest at the edge of the check-in table, close enough to yours that your fingers could’ve brushed if you shifted an inch.
“Don’t disappear,” he said.
Your pulse kicked.
“I’m working.”
“After.”
Then Robby dragged him away with a level of cheer that was clearly retaliatory.
You watched Jack go and tried to remember how to do your job.
For a while, the event was exactly as awful as promised.
Speeches about resilience. Applause that sounded expensive. Donors talking about “the Pitt” like it was a concept instead of a place where every decision had a body attached to it. Gloria Underwood spoke with smooth authority while Robby stared at the middle distance like a man practicing astral projection. Langdon appeared late and left early, moving through the edge of the room with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Collins was mentioned by someone near the bar, her name landing with that particular hospital weight of people who had been part of the machinery and then weren’t there in the same way anymore.
You checked people in. You directed donors toward their tables. You smiled until your cheeks ached.
And Jack kept finding you.
Not obviously. Not enough for anyone to call it hovering. But he passed behind your chair and set a glass of water near your hand. He appeared during a lull with a plate from the buffet because “you weren’t going to get one.” He stood beside you while an orthopedic surgeon whose name you immediately forgot talked at you for seven minutes about golf, his presence quiet and solid and just intimidating enough to make the man eventually wander away.
At one point, you leaned toward him and murmured, “This is very attentive of you.”
He didn’t look down. “You looked like you were going to stab him with a pen.”
“I was.”
“Bad idea.”
“Because violence is wrong?”
“Because you’d still have to finish check-in.”
You laughed into your glass.
Jack looked at you then, and the humor in his face faded into something warmer before he caught it.
You saw him catch it.
That was the dangerous part.
Near the end of dinner, a donor with silver hair and a smile like a polished blade cornered Jack near the bar. You recognized him vaguely from the check-in list, one of those names with a foundation attached, the kind of man who spoke slowly because he expected people to wait for the privilege of his point. His wife stood beside him in pearls, looking around the ballroom with faint disappointment.
You were close enough to hear because you’d gone to retrieve extra place cards from the side table.
“Dr. Abbot,” the man said, clapping Jack on the shoulder like they were old friends and not strangers separated by several tax brackets and a moral canyon. “Hell of a turnout. You ER people clean up better than expected.”
Jack’s smile was minimal and false. “We try.”
The man’s eyes shifted to you.
You felt it like cold water.
“Well,” he said. “Some of you more than others.”
Jack’s face changed by degrees. Anyone else might’ve missed it. You didn’t.
“This is—” Jack began.
The man cut in with a laugh. “No, no, let me guess. You’re the resident I’ve been hearing about.”
His wife made a soft sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite disapproval.
Your fingers tightened around the place cards.
Jack went still.
The man looked pleased with himself, encouraged by his own cruelty. “Abbot and one of his young residents,” he said, eyes moving over you slow enough to make the dress feel suddenly too visible. “People do talk.”
Jack’s voice came out clipped. “Don’t.”
“Relax, Jack. I’m joking.” He lifted his glass slightly, like that made it harmless. “I just didn’t think you were going to start making public appearances with your little girlfriend now.”
The words entered you cleanly: little girlfriend. Not girlfriend—that would’ve been embarrassing enough. Little, like you were an accessory, a midlife crisis in a nice dress, something young and decorative Jack had brought out because he could. Something people could reduce in one glance and one ugly little adjective.
Heat rushed to your face so fast it felt like pain, and still you smiled automatically, hating yourself for it.
“It’s not—” you started, because apparently your first instinct was to make yourself smaller for the comfort of a man who had just insulted you.
Jack’s voice cut through yours. “Don’t call her that.”
The donor blinked. So did you. The room didn’t stop, not exactly—the music kept playing, silverware still clinked, someone laughed too loudly near the stage—but the air around the four of you tightened.
The donor’s smile twitched. “Easy, Doctor. No harm meant.”
“I’m not interested in what you meant.”
Jack didn’t raise his voice or step forward. He simply stood there in his dark suit, tired eyes gone cold, body held in a kind of controlled restraint that made the donor’s hand fall from his shoulder.
“If you’ve got something to say about me,” Jack continued, “say it to me. Leave her out of it.”
The wife looked away first. The donor’s face colored.
“No offense intended.”
Jack’s gaze didn’t move. “You don’t get to decide that.”
Your breath caught.
People were starting to notice. Not enough to make a scene, not enough for anyone to step in, but enough that the space around you felt suddenly brighter. Dana had turned slightly from the bar, her attention fixed and assessing. Robby watched from near the stage, glass lowered now. Even Santos had gone still, the eager curiosity wiped off her face by the look on yours.
You couldn’t stand any of it. Not the attention. Not the humiliation. Not the awful, sharp thrill of Jack defending you like he had any right to. Like he wanted the right.
You set the place cards down.
“I need some air,” you said.
Jack’s head turned toward you immediately. “Wait.”
But you were already moving.
You slipped out of the ballroom and into the corridor, then through a side door onto a covered terrace overlooking the wet street below. The rain had softened to a mist, silvering the railings and turning the city lights hazy. Cold air hit your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms where the dress left them bare.
You gripped the railing and forced one breath in, then out. In, then out. In. Out. It didn’t help. The door opened behind you, because of course it did.
You laughed under your breath because the tears were already gathering hot behind your eyes, making the terrace lights blur at the edges, and you refused to let them fall here—not in the dress Jack bought, not with your hands locked around rain-cold steel, not because some rich asshole had found the ugliest name for what you were already afraid this looked like.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” you said.
Jack let the door close behind him. “Done what?”
You turned on him. “Made it worse.”
“They made it worse.”
“Now everyone thinks I’m exactly what he said.”
His face changed at that, anger tightening somewhere beneath the surface, but not at you. Never quite at you.
“They don’t know what you are.”
Your chest pulled tight.
“And what am I?”
The question came out too vulnerable to take back.
Jack didn’t answer right away.
Mist clung to his suit jacket, darkening the shoulders. Behind him, warm light spilled through the glass door, all gold and soft edges, turning the ballroom into something distant and unreal. Out here, the air smelled like rain on stone, cold metal, wet city streets below. Everything was sharper than it had been inside. The railing under your hands. The damp hem of your dress against your legs. The silence between his breath and yours.
He looked so out of place and exactly right, a man built for crisis standing in the aftermath of one he couldn’t stitch closed.
You hated that you wanted him to say it.
You hated more that he looked like he wanted to.
Instead, he said, “Not that.”
A hard little laugh left you before you could stop it. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the one I’ve got.”
“Great.”
Jack came closer, stopping beside you but not touching. The restraint was worse than touch. You could feel him there anyway, the heat of his body cutting through the cold night, the careful space he left like distance could still save either of you.
You stared out at the rain-blurred city. Headlights smeared over the street below. Somewhere, a siren rose and faded, thin and familiar enough to make your stomach twist.
“You bought the dress,” you said.
“Yes.”
“You fixed my car.”
“Yes.”
“You buy my food. You show up. You pay for things before I can even figure out how to say no.”
Something moved in his jaw, but he didn’t interrupt.
“What do you think people are going to call that?”
“I don’t give a shit what people call it.”
“I do.”
“Then tell me what you call it.”
The words took the air out of the terrace.
You looked at him.
Jack’s eyes held yours, tired and dark and unflinching. He wasn’t letting you hide in the joke this time. He wasn’t letting himself hide either. That was the terrifying part. The thing between you had been allowed to live as banter because neither of you had forced it to stand under direct light.
Sugar daddy. Old man. Doctor. Daddy.
All those little names you used to turn intimacy into comedy before it could ask something of you.
Now Jack was standing there asking.
Tell me what you call it.
Your mouth felt dry.
“I call it confusing,” you said.
His expression shifted.
You kept going because stopping felt worse. “I call it you being too good at noticing things I wish you wouldn’t. I call it you making it really fucking hard to feel normal around you. I call it embarrassing when someone says the quiet part out loud and I realize I don’t even know how to defend myself because I don’t know what we’re doing.”
Jack’s hands were still at his sides, but nothing about him looked relaxed.
You swallowed. “And I call it unfair that you get to act like this is all practical when you look at me like that.”
His voice dropped. “Like what?”
You shook your head. “Don’t.”
“Like what?”
“Like you already know what I look like under the dress.”
The words left you too soft, too honest, and Jack inhaled slowly. Neither of you moved while rain whispered beyond the overhang and the ballroom noise pressed faintly through the door, muffled and useless, like it belonged to a different night.
Then he said, rougher than before, “I don’t.”
The words went through you slowly, leaving heat in places they had no right to reach.
His eyes lowered, not all the way down your body this time. Just to your mouth.
“But I’ve thought about it.”
The terrace went silent.
Or maybe your body stopped receiving sound from anything that wasn’t him.
You stared at him, suddenly aware of everything at once: the dress clinging where the mist had touched it, the cold air slipping beneath the hem, the damp railing at your back, the small, charged space between your body and his. Jack hadn’t touched you, but the way he looked at you made it feel like he’d already imagined where his hands would go first. The want in his face wasn’t polished or easy. It looked dragged out of him, unwilling and hungry, like every careful thing in him had finally started losing.
“Jack,” you whispered.
“I know.”
“You don’t know what I was going to say.”
“Yes, I do.”
You stepped closer, just enough to watch his control take the hit.
“What was I going to say?”
His eyes lifted.
“That we shouldn’t.”
The truth of it sat there between you, almost laughable.
You shouldn’t. He shouldn’t. The age gap was there, humming under the surface. The hospital. The money. The care. The fact that everyone seemed to have noticed before either of you had admitted it out loud. The fact that Jack carried enough damage to make most people step carefully, and you were standing there in a dress he bought, wanting him to ruin every careful thing about you.
“You’re right,” you said.
Jack nodded once, like the verdict had been delivered.
Then you added, “That's what I was going to say.”
His eyes sharpened.
You took one more step.
“But it’s not what I want.”
For the first time all night, Jack looked shaken.
Not much. He’d never give that much away in public. But you saw it in the slight part of his mouth, the break in his breathing, the flicker of something raw beneath the restraint.
“Say that again,” he said.
The words nearly undid you.
You lifted your chin because if you were going to tell the truth, you were going to do it with your head held high.
“I don’t want you to stop.”
Jack looked at you for one long, unbearable second, then lifted his hand slowly enough to give you every chance to step back.
You didn’t.
His knuckles brushed your jaw first, careful in a way that made your whole body ache. Not rough. Not yet. Worse than rough, maybe, because he was still holding himself back and you could feel the effort in every inch he didn’t take.
“You’re not my little girlfriend,” he said.
Your chest tightened. “No?”
“No.” His thumb shifted under your chin, tipping your face up by degrees, not forcing you, just making it impossible to look anywhere else. “You’re not little. You’re not a joke. And you’re sure as hell not something I’m ashamed of wanting.”
The words sank through you, hot and low, settling in every place he still hadn’t touched. Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth and stayed there long enough to make the choice for both of you.
Then he kissed you.
It wasn’t frantic at first.
That would’ve been easier.
It was deliberate, a firm press of his mouth to yours, steady and devastating, like he had finally decided to stop lying but still hadn’t given himself permission to forget where you were. His hand held your jaw; the other stayed at his side, fingers curled tight like touching you anywhere else might finish what the kiss had started.
You made a small sound against his mouth.
That was what broke it.
Jack stepped into you, guiding you back until the rail met your spine, and the kiss turned filthy in one sharp, breath-stealing shift. His mouth opened wider, tongue pushing past your lips to lick deep and slow against yours, wet enough to make your knees weaken, sure enough to make heat pool low in your gut. His breath came rough through his nose, his hand sliding from your jaw to the side of your neck, thumb tucked beneath your chin like he wanted to feel the exact second you stopped fighting him and melted under his palm.
You grabbed his jacket.
He made a low sound, almost a warning.
You pulled him closer anyway.
The rail pressed against your back. Damp air cooled your bare arms. Inside, beyond the glass, the fundraiser glowed on with its speeches and donors and useless flowers, but out here Jack’s body cut off the light, his mouth hot and sure, his hand at your neck keeping you exactly where he wanted you.
When he dragged himself back, he didn’t go far.
His forehead hovered near yours. His breathing was harsher now. So was yours.
“This is a bad idea,” he said.
You laughed, breathless enough that it came out softer than you meant. “You kissed me.”
“I know.”
“So your professional opinion is hypocritical.”
His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed dark, fixed on yours with a heat that made it impossible not to remember his tongue in your mouth. He looked like he was still tasting you, like he was one wrong word away from dragging you back against the railing and making a mess of that pretty, expensive dress.
“You keep talking,” he said, voice low enough to feel like it belonged between your legs instead of in the open air, “and I’m going to forget we’re still at a hospital fundraiser.”
Liquid heat shot through you, sharp and shameless. You curled your fingers higher into his lapels. “Is that supposed to scare me?”
“It should.”
“It doesn’t.”
Jack searched your face for one last sign that you wanted him to be better than this.
You didn’t.
His thumb dragged once along the side of your neck, slow enough to make your thighs press together under the dress, then he stepped back and opened the door.
“Come on.”
“Where?”
His eyes held yours.
“My car.”
The walk through the ballroom should’ve been humiliating. Maybe it was. You couldn’t tell. Jack stayed close without touching you, which somehow looked worse after what had just happened, like distance had become another form of confession. Your mouth still felt swollen from his, your skin too awake beneath the dress, your whole body lit with the kind of want that made every normal step feel rehearsed.
Robby saw you first, because of course he did. His eyes moved from Jack’s face to yours, then back again, and he lifted his glass slightly—not smiling, just acknowledging the inevitable.
Dana caught your eye from near the bar with one eyebrow raised. Santos looked ready to say something disastrous until Mohan turned her gently but firmly toward the dessert table. McKay glanced over, clocked enough to know better, and immediately pulled Whitaker into a conversation he looked relieved to have guidance for. Javadi watched for half a second too long, then looked away like she’d remembered curiosity had consequences.
Jack ignored all of them.
You loved and hated him for it.
The elevator ride down was worse.
Mirrored walls. Soft music. Your reflection beside his. His shoulder inches from yours. The phantom feel of his hand still on your neck. Neither of you speaking because speech had become a loaded weapon and you were both already wounded.
In the parking garage, the air smelled like rain and concrete again.
Jack unlocked the car.
You stopped by the passenger door, suddenly aware of the line you were crossing. Not the moral one. That had been smudged for weeks. This was more physical. More real. A door. A backseat. His face in the dim garage light, turned toward you with all that want and all that control and all the consequences waiting behind both.
He saw the hesitation immediately.
Of course he did.
“You can change your mind,” he said.
The words loosened something in you.
Not because you wanted to.
Because he meant it.
You stepped closer. “I’m not changing my mind.”
Jack’s eyes searched yours.
“Tell me if I do something you don’t want.”
“I will.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
He nodded once.
Then you said, quieter, “Do you?”
His face shifted.
“Do I what?”
“Know what I want.”
The garage seemed to hold its breath.
Jack opened the back door.
“Get in,” he said.
Not loud. Not cruel.
Just low enough to go through you like a match.
You got in.
The door shut behind you, and for one suspended second you were alone in the dark leather backseat with your heartbeat, the rain ticking somewhere beyond the garage, and the reflection of Jack moving around the car in the tinted window.
Then the opposite door opened.
He slid in beside you, too big for the space, too warm, too close. The dome light cut over his face for a second before it faded, leaving him in shadow and stray fluorescent spill. His knee brushed yours. His hand came up, not touching yet, braced against the seat near your hip.
“You still think this is about money?” he asked.
Your breath caught.
You shook your head.
“Words.”
“No.”
“No, what?”
“No, I don’t think it’s about money.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth.
“What’s it about?”
You could’ve said care.
You could’ve said want.
You could’ve said every soft, terrifying thing his hands had been saying for weeks with coffee cups and repair bills and the new shoes you wore until they stopped hurting.
Instead, because you were trembling and stubborn and still you, you whispered, “Your sugar daddy complex.”
Jack’s eyes flashed.
Then he kissed you hard enough to knock your head back against the seat and it was nothing like the terrace—careful and slow and weighted with confession. This was hungry. His teeth caught your bottom lip, tugged, and the sound you made was swallowed by his mouth as his tongue slid against yours, wet and deep and tasting like the whiskey he'd barely touched all night. His other hand found your waist, gripping the silk of the dress, bunching it, pulling you across the seat until your hip hit his and you gasped into his mouth.
"Jack—"
"Don't talk." His lips dragged to your jaw, your throat, the spot behind your ear that made you arch. "Just—let me —"
His hand slid up your thigh, pushing the dress higher, and the leather was cool against the backs of your legs but his palm was hot, rough, callused from years of work and combat and things he never talked about. You spread for him without thinking. He made a sound against your neck—approval, hunger, relief—and his fingers pressed higher, found the wet heat through your underwear, and stopped.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You're already—"
You bit his earlobe. "Your mouth on the terrace did that."
He laughed—a low, broken thing—and his fingers hooked the edge of your panties, dragged them down your thighs. You lifted your hips to help, and he dropped them somewhere on the floor mat, already forgotten, already gone. His hand came back wet.
"Look at me."
You did. His eyes were dark, half-lidded, his breathing ragged. The garage light caught the silver in his beard, the flush rising up his neck, the way his thumb was already circling your clit like he'd done it a thousand times before. He hadn't. But he knew exactly what he was doing.
“I tried to be careful with you,” he said, voice rough, his fingers sliding through your slick folds, gathering, teasing, “I tried so fucking hard. Then I walked in and saw you at that table in the dress I bought you, and I knew I was done.”
Your breath hitched as his middle finger pressed inside you, just the tip, just enough to make your hips buck.
"—and you knew, didn't you?" He pushed deeper, slow, watching your face. "Knew what it was doing to me."
You couldn't answer. His finger was inside you, thick and deliberate, curling, finding the spot that made your vision blur. Then a second finger joined it, stretching, and you heard yourself whimper—high and desperate and not caring who heard.
"That's it," he murmured. "Let me hear you."
He worked you open like he had all night, like the parking garage was empty, like the world had shrunk to the space between his fingers and your cunt. His thumb pressed your clit in slow circles while his fingers pumped—not hard, not fast, just deep and aching, stretching you until you were dripping down his hand, until your nails dug into his shoulder through his jacket.
"Jack—I need—"
"I know what you need."
He pulled his fingers out slowly, deliberately, and you watched him bring them to his mouth. Watched his tongue slide across his knuckles, tasting you, his eyes never leaving yours. The sight of it—this tired, controlled man in his undone suit, licking your wetness off his fingers like it was the best thing he'd tasted all night—made your hole clench around nothing.
"Get on top of me."
It wasn't a question. He was already reaching for his belt, the buckle rasping open, the sound sharp and final in the close air of the car. You climbed over him, the dress bunching around your waist, your knees finding the leather on either side of his hips. His cock was hard beneath his briefs, straining against the fabric, and you reached down and wrapped your hand around it.
He hissed through his teeth. "Fuck —"
He was thick. Hot. The head slick with something that might have been precum, might have been your imagination, but when you stroked him once, slow, his hips bucked into your palm.
"If you keep doing that," he said, his voice strained, "this is going to be very embarrassing for me."
You laughed—breathless, wild—and leaned down to kiss him. "Then stop me."
He didn't.
His hand found your hip, guided you forward, and the head of his cock nudged against your entrance. Wet. Ready. The two of you hovered there, breathing each other's air, and his forehead pressed against yours.
"Tell me you want this."
"I want this." Your voice was barely a whisper. "I want you. Please, Jack—"
He pushed inside you.
The stretch was a shock—full and deep and so much more than his fingers had promised. You gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders, your head falling back as he filled you inch by inch, until you were seated in his lap, his hips flush against yours, his cock buried to the hilt inside your tight, wet heat.
"Fuck," he breathed. "Fuck, you feel—"
He couldn't finish. His hands found your hips, held you there, and for a moment neither of you moved. Just the feeling of him inside you, the throb of his pulse through his cock, the way your body adjusted, accepted, wanted.
Then you moved.
Slow at first—a roll of your hips that made his eyes roll back, a tilt of your pelvis that drove him deeper. His grip tightened on your waist, guiding, and you found the rhythm together: him thrusting up as you sank down, the slap of skin loud in the enclosed space, the wet sound of your bodies meeting.
"Look at you," he said, his voice rough, his eyes fixed on where you were joined. "Taking all of me. Fucking yourself on my cock in a parking garage."
You moaned, riding him harder, the dress bunched around your waist, the silk skin-warm and bunched up. His thumb found your clit again, pressing, circling, and the pleasure coiled tight in your belly, hot and sharp and building.
"The dress," you gasped. "You bought me this dress—"
"I bought it so I could take it off you." He tugged at the strap with his teeth, the fabric slipping down your shoulder, exposing your breast to the dim light. His mouth was on it instantly—hot, wet, his tongue circling your nipple before he sucked, hard, and you cried out, your rhythm faltering.
"Say it again." His mouth against your skin. "Say sugar daddy again and see what happens."
You laughed, breathless, your hips grinding against him. "Sugar daddy."
He bit your shoulder—not hard, but enough to make you gasp—and then his hand was in your hair, pulling your head back, forcing you to meet his eyes.
"Then take what I give you." His voice was low and rough and it made your pussy squeeze around him. "Take this cock like you've been wanting to since I fixed your goddamn car."
You did. You rode him harder, faster, the leather squeaking beneath your knees, the car rocking with the motion, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. His hand stayed in your hair, his other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, and he thrust up into you with a rhythm that was pure instinct—hungry, claiming, the restraint he'd held for weeks finally snapping.
"That's it," he growled. "That's my girl. Taking what she needs."
"Jack—I'm close—"
"I know. I can feel you. You're squeezing me so fucking tight—"
His thumb pressed harder on your clit, circling faster, and the orgasm hit you like a wave—sudden and overwhelming, your vision white, your back arching as your cunt clamped down on his cock, pulsing, milking, the pleasure so sharp it was almost pain. You heard yourself cry out—his name, a curse, something that might have been a sob—and he kept thrusting through it, drawing it out, letting you ride him through the aftershocks.
"Fuck—" His voice broke. "I'm going to—"
"Inside me." You grabbed his face, forced him to look at you. "I want it. Please."
He came with a groan that was almost a prayer, his hips driving up one last time, his hand gripping your hip so hard it would leave marks. You felt it—hot and thick, pumping into you, filling you, his cock twitching with each pulse, his breath ragged against your lips. The sensation pushed you into a second, smaller climax, your body clenching around him, drawing out every drop.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. His forehead rested against yours. His breathing was harsh, uneven, mingling with yours in the close air. The car smelled like sex and sweat and the faint, stubborn trace of hospital soap beneath his cologne, and your thighs were slick and trembling, and his cock was still half-hard inside you, and it was the most real you'd felt all night.
Then he laughed.
A low, disbelieving sound, his shoulders shaking against yours. You started laughing too, breathless and giddy, and you kissed him—messy, open-mouthed, tasting salt and spit and the whiskey he'd barely touched.
"Well," he said, pulling back just enough to look at you. "That was—"
"Stupid," you supplied.
"Reckless."
"A really bad idea."
His hand came up to cup your face again, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. "Worth it."
You kissed him again, slower this time, and you felt him smile against your mouth. When you pulled back, you were still straddling him, his cock still softening inside you, and the reality of it settled into your bones like warmth.
"We should probably—" you started.
"Yeah." He didn't move. "In a minute."
His hand found yours on his chest, lacing your fingers together, and the garage light caught the gray in his hair and the tired lines around his eyes and the way he was looking at you like you were the first real thing he'd seen in years.
"I'm not going to pretend this was casual," he said.
"Good," you said. "Because it wasn't."
He helped you clean up with the wet wipes he found in the glove compartment—absurd, practical, so perfectly him—and then he helped you rearrange the dress, his hands careful now, almost reverent, smoothing the silk over your hips like he was putting something precious back together. The fabric was wrinkled now, carrying the memory of his hands, and when you looked at yourself in the window reflection, you saw the flush on your chest, the bite mark on your shoulder, the way your hair had come loose from the careful updo.
You looked like someone who had been thoroughly, completely, indisputably wanted.
He watched you adjust the strap, his eyes following the small, careful movement like it mattered. You sat half-turned against him in the backseat, put back together enough to face the world again, though both of you knew exactly what had happened here. Jack’s hand rested at the back of your neck, thumb moving slowly against your skin, and in the dim garage light he looked less like the man everyone trusted in a crisis and more like someone who’d finally let himself want something he couldn’t triage.
“What?” you asked.
He shook his head.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Look like you’re about to disappear into your own head.”
That almost-smile moved over his mouth, faint and tired. “You diagnosing me now?”
“I learned from a very bossy doctor.”
“He sounds unbearable.”
“He is.”
The quiet settled, full of everything waiting outside the car: the fundraiser, the rumor, the receipt, the repaired car, the shoes, the dress, every careful thing Jack had done before either of you had dared to call it care. You looked down. “I don’t know how to let someone take care of me without feeling like a burden.”
Jack didn’t answer quickly. That made it worse. Better. Finally, he said, “Needing help isn’t the same thing as being helpless.”
Your throat tightened. You hated him a little for knowing exactly where to put the words. You loved him a little for it too.
“Jack,” you said softly.
He waited.
You smiled, small and shaky. “Do I get an allowance now?”
For half a second, he stared at you. Then his eyes closed, and the laugh that left him was quiet, rough, almost unwilling. It felt like winning something no one else got to see. When he opened his eyes, they were warm.
“You get breakfast.”
“That’s it?”
“And your car.”
“Already got that.”
“And the shoes.”
“Also already got those.”
“And whatever else you need,” he said, thumb brushing once at your neck, “if you stop acting like needing it makes you less.”
Your smile faded into something softer. “That sounds an awful lot like a boyfriend.”
Jack looked at you for a long moment, tired and undone and still there. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m working up to that.”
The fundraiser was still waiting upstairs, all polished glassware and polite cruelty, the kind of room where people could turn want into rumor before the night was over. You would have to go back to PTMC after this. You would pass Jack in hallways. You would hear his voice over trauma bays, see his name on charts, feel the weight of every title that should have made this impossible.
But in the backseat, with his thumb moving slowly against your skin, Jack wasn’t looking at you like a mistake, or a risk, or something he’d have to explain away in daylight.
He was looking at you like something worth keeping.
And for what it was worth, you finally believed you were.
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summary: in the middle of the worst e.r. shift of your whole career, you catch your not-quite boyfriend, shirtless, in an empty room with another resident. (6.4k)
contents: established relationship/friends with benefits, jealousy (mohabbot take five real quick), angst, hurt/comfort, kinda canon divergent 'cause i wrote this when the spoilers dropped a few weeks ago cw for s2 spoilers, physical assault (a la dana in s1), panic attacks, mentions of blood and medical procedures, mentions of patient death, brief mentions of grief, brief mentions of not eating due to stress n sadness, allusions to smut 18+ (MDNI)
The lamplit room is filled with Jack’s exclusion from it.
You writhe beneath the mussed blankets, still buzzing from the remnants of your orgasm, and watch his shadow move beneath the crack of the bathroom door. You’re still filled by him, still leaking a mixture of him onto the stained sheets below, and yet you find yourself missing him, anyway.
He does not seem as grieved by the distance as you are. He sobered almost instantly from his own orgasm and promptly slid off your body, without another word or a kiss of reassurance shared between you. He’d slipped his prosthetic back on and made a beeline for the adjoining bathroom — where he has been for some minutes now, just pacing, and leaving you to stew in the worry of what you had obviously done so wrong.
“Do you wanna order food?” you call into the quiet, reaching for your phone on the nightstand beside you. You miss once, then twice, with hands still tingling from a soul-ascending pleasure. The screen fills the dim room with a blue-white light that makes you squint until your tired eyes adjust.
“What?!” Jack shouts back, muffled from behind the door. The hissing faucet shuts off to a slow drip.
“I said, do you—” You cut off your yelling when the bathroom door squeaks open. Jack appears in the doorway, now dressed in the t-shirt and jeans he’d arrived in. He’s shadowed momentarily by the light behind him until he switches it off again — then he’s painted a dim golden color as he walks back into the bedroom for his shoe.
You hold the thin sheet to your bare chest and shift further up the headboard, bending your knees to accommodate his body when he sits on the edge of the mattress to tie his laces. Your eyes soften, waiting for him to look back at you.
He never does.
More quietly, you tell him, “I asked if you wanted to order food. ‘Cause I don’t really feel like cooking right now and, depending on what you want, we should probably wait to order ‘cause Love Island doesn’t come on for another hour, and—”
Jack’s scruffy chin brushes the thin fabric of his shirt as he turns his head slowly to look at you. There’s a distance in his eyes that cuts you off, like you’re a quick fuck that doesn’t know when to stop talking, like he’s waiting for you to stop so he can get away.
“I think I’m gonna head out now, actually,” he tells you, then returns to knot his laces.
“Oh…” you hum, half-breathless, and pretend his foreign dismissiveness doesn’t tear your chest in two. “Are you… Are you okay—?”
“Yeah,” he shrugs and rises from the mattress. “I’m fine. I just— Need to get home.”
You follow him with wet eyes as he rounds the bed for the opposite side, where his phone and wallet sit on the nightstand and his branded rucksack rests on the floor. “Well, do you want me to wait to watch it with you? ‘Cause then I have to text Princes and tell her not to spoil it for me in the morning—”
“Go ahead,” Jack shrugs, with a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, as he slides the camo strap over his broad shoulder. “I think I’ll survive a week without it.”
Your frown deepens at his joke.
“Did I do something?” you wonder in a meek voice that makes his chest ache.
“No,” he scoffs. “Of course not. Why would you ask that?”
“I don’t know…” you murmur shyly, shifting on the mattress and grimacing slightly when the sticky sheets cling to your thighs. “You never leave right after we have sex, so I— I didn’t know if, maybe… It wasn’t good for your something, or if I said something—”
“No, it was great—” Jack interjects, but cuts himself off quickly thereafter, like he was about to say something he shouldn’t.
The word ‘honey’ was about to roll off his tongue the way it always does when he’s talking to you, but it feels wrong to say it now, for a reason he still can’t name that threatens to strangle him all the same.
“I just gotta go now. Okay?”
At a loss for what else to do, or what else to say that might make him stay, you just nod with a sad smile. “Sure…”
Jack leaves with a polite nod — like the sex was some sort of mindless transaction he’s thanking you for and not something you’ve done quite regularly for the past several months. He doesn’t speak another word to you when he walks out, and doesn’t look back at you once when he shuts the door behind him.
You stew in his absence and forget to eat.
Your tired body functions the following day on nothing but heartache and half a granola bar.
You drown in the bustling emergency department, and in the void of the white screen ahead of you, where you try and fail to do your charting. You can’t quite garner the strength to use your hands, much less use your brain to put letters on the screen that’ll just look like alphabet soup to you anyway. You’re stuck idling in the emptiness inside of you, where your heart withers along with your stomach.
Robby watches from afar, studying you as he flits between patients and residents requiring his attention. He has, self-admittedly, quite the soft spot for you — because you’re the smartest person on this floor and the most sensitive, too, which makes for a great doctor but very often the saddest person you’ll ever meet. He waits for you to correct yourself before he has to step in, and potentially make your day worse than it’s obviously already going.
You don’t move for six minutes straight.
He timed it.
“What is going on over here?” Robby wonders slowly, leaning over the top of the desk and peering down at you with a pair of stern brown eyes.
You blink rapidly to clear the haze of rumination from your vision and shrink into your cushioned seat like a scolded child. “Charting…” you answer with an unconvincing waver in your voice.
“Looks like it,” Robby scoffs with a hint of a smile that gets lost in his greying beard. He taps the desk with his palm and stands to full height again, nodding his head and urging you to follow him. “C’mon. Walk with me.”
He saunters off in the opposite direction of the work station, taking a tablet that Dana hands to him as he goes. It takes a long moment for his words to compute, and you scramble to your feet when he throws you an expectant look over his shoulder. You fall into step with the older man as he drags his glasses from the shirt pocket of his black scrubs.
Robby sets the black frames on the bridge of his nose and wonders aloud with his gaze turned to the screen in his hand, “What’s going on with you today, kid?”
“It’s nothing,” you shrug dismissively, sticking close to the man’s side as you weave within the crowded hall.
He flashes you an unenthusiastic glare in return. His eyes dart between your furrowed brows, to your anxiety-bitten lips (where your teeth dig into the delicate skin even now), to where you wrench the hem of your long-sleeved undershirt into trembling fists. Whatever it is, it’s very clearly not nothing.
“I’m not asking to be polite, kid,” the older man tells you, firm but not entirely unkind. “I can tell something’s wrong, and it’s affecting your work, so— Just tell me.”
You swallow hard and struggle to find the courage to speak, or to meet the man’s gaze as your eyes dart everywhere but back at him.
“It’s about your friend…” you confess in a sheepish murmur that gets lost in the droning of the bustling E.R.
It takes Robby a moment or more to catch your meaning.
“Jack?” he presses, because he knew the two of you were seeing each other, but not that it was quite so serious to warrant the off-day you’re having now. He makes a mental note to ream Abbot out for it the next time he sees him — ‘cause he can’t have any of his residents upset, least of all you.
You nod with an averted gaze. “He’s just… been off—”
“He’s always off,” Robby scoffs.
“Well, not with me,” you tell him, foreignly firm in your quiet argument. “And now he’s not talking to me, and I have no idea what I did…”
“Well, knowing Jack, you probably didn’t do a damn thing,” Robby concedes with a heavy sigh and flashes you a sympathetic look as you turn the corner. “Just give him some time, alright? He’ll come around. He always does. For now, you’ve got a patient in 8 that’s asking for you—”
Before you can make a guess on who it is — though you think you already know the answer — a strong hand wrenches suddenly around your wrist.
The man’s fingers are warm, calloused, and unwavering against your delicate skin. Your heart lurches into your throat at the sudden panic as your chin snaps towards the man towering over you. He’s tall, bearded, rugged, and so angry he’s red in the face.
“I have been waiting out there…” the man starts, taut voice wavering with a withheld fire. “…For four hours. When the hell am I gonna see somebody?”
“How did you get back here?” is the first thing you think to squeak out, because you vaguely recall McKay sending him back to Chairs after taking his vitals some time ago.
Robby steps in then, cutting between you and the stranger to urge him backward and away from you. You rub at your tender wrist when the man’s brutal touch is gone.
“We’re seeing the sickest patients first, sir. So count yourself lucky you aren’t back here,” Robby explains in an even voice, sounding much calmer than he really feels. “But touch anybody in here like that again, and you won’t be seen at all. Got it?”
The man caves with a heavy breath and with his weathered palms splayed in surrender. “I was just asking a question, man…”
“I’ll handle it, boss,” Ahmad cuts in, rushing towards the three of you after catching sight of the altercation from down the hall. He steps between the two of you and the angry patient and ushers him back toward the waiting room.
“Don’t touch me,” you hear the man spit, but complying anyway.
“Trust me, man,” Ahmad quips. “I don’t want to.”
It takes you a long moment thereafter to catch your breath.
It was certainly not the first time you’ve been grabbed by an unhappy patient, and it would certainly not be the last, but you can never quite get used to the fear. The panic is slow to ebb from your veins, even as the man is escorted back to Chairs. You find him sneering silently at you when you catch his eyes, moments before the door shuts behind him.
Robby steps into your tunnel vision, ducking down to meet your gaze with dark eyes glimmering with worry. “You alright, kid? Did he get you?”
“I’m fine,” you answer on muscle memory and muster a smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “I’ve seen my fair share of assholes, Robby. Today, even.”
“Well, yeah,” the man scoffs playfully. “You’re with Abbot— I’m sure you’re an expert at dealing with assholes by now…”
By all accounts, you were not supposed to have favorites at the PTMC. And you didn’t really; everyone who stepped foot into the E.R. got the same level of medical care from you — even the assholes. But Louie Cloverfield was different, special. He was the first patient you ever saw as an R1, and when he kept coming in, and you kept picking up his cases, he became your patient.
If Louie was in, and you were on shift, you were the one tending to him. Always.
So, you stay by his side when he loses his pulse, even when the rest of the E.R. reduces to the inevitable chaos of the afternoon rush — even when you know the rest of your co-workers could probably use your help out there now — even when you know there’s nothing more you can do for Louie to keep him alive.
Sweat beads on your forehead as you kneel at his bedside, pounding firmly at the man’s chest in a feeble attempt to keep his heart beating. You’ve lost feeling in your arms now — they’ve gone from aching, to burning, to utterly numb — but your attempt at resuscitation never stops, not even as dark crimson blood spits from his breathing tube; the clearest sign of blood in his lungs.
Robby watches from the back of the room, keeping a close eye on you and the bodies donned in camo outside the window — as the TEMS unit treats a trauma patient across the way, with Jack Abbot among them. He catches the man glancing around the crowded E.R. for a moment, peering over passing heads for a glimpse of you, before the work inevitably drags him away.
Robby knows you have not yet noticed Jack’s presence.
You’ve got the sort of tunnel vision you always get in a crisis, when you refuse to move on until you’ve helped the person in front of you first — which has undoubtedly made you the very backbone of the PTMC patient satisfaction score, though at a detriment to yourself perhaps. Because you never know when to stop; and then, when you inevitably have to, you’ll always find a way to blame yourself for it.
“Three minutes since the epi,” you hear Perlah say, over the sound of your pounding heartbeat in your ears.
“Hold compressions,” Robby commands.
You stop on instinct, and feel the ache done into your bones. You exhale heavy breaths as you wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your gloved hand, careful to avoid the drops of blood spotted there. You feel like your chest is tearing in two when that same, menacing beeping sound fills the air.
“Aystotle,” Robby sighs. “Resume compressions.”
“Give me another amp of epi— and more suction,” you say through panted breaths, situating your palms back over the older man’s sternum. You look past the rogue flyaways falling over your eyes and the nurses crowded around you, peering at Robby with a determined but no less pleading gaze. “What do we do? Should we— Should we give PCC?”
Robby shakes his head with his arms crossed over his chest. “No, it’s too late for that…” he hums sympathetically. “And he’s not an ECMO candidate, so—”
“Well, can you tell me something that we can do?” you snap, harsher than you mean to.
Robby only softens further, dark eyes going tender around the edges as he tells you, “There’s nothing else we can do for him, kid…”
“Robby,” you whimper, flinching like he’s hurt you, but never once stopping your compressions. “C’mon. Please, we can— We can think of something— We still have two more rounds of epi, maybe it’ll—”
You exhale a punched-out breath, like not being able to save Louie hits you like a fist to the stomach. Your aching arms tingle with numbness when you part from the unconscious man. That wretched beeping fills the air once more, ringing through your ears and pounding skull.
“12:07,” you hear Robby announce the time of death, as Perlah’s soft hands grasp gently at your shoulders.
“C’mon. I’ll clean up,” the woman tells you, sniffling. “You take a second.”
“I’m fine,” you shrug, half-strangled, as you slip the bloodied gloves from your half-numb hands. You blink back burning tears as you walk them to the trash.
“You’re not,” Robby murmurs, head bowed to meet your averted gaze. “And that’s okay. Just take a second.”
You remind yourself to breathe — in for seven beats and out for eight — as the muffled exam room breaks away into the chaotic E.R. The rest of it becomes a blur in your tunnel vision, and the calls for concern turn to inaudible slurs in your ears.
“Whoa… you okay?” you only vaguely hear Trinity ask as you storm past the work station.
“Fine,” you squeak on instinct, despite the obvious.
“Oh, yeah, he totally croaked in there,” Ogilvie murmurs, as though to gossip with her, but forgetting to be subtle about it.
“Do you ever think before you speak?” Santos quips. “Or is the stupidity genetic?”
Your heavy eyes search for an empty room to duck into, to at least muffle your screams before you cry in front of everyone. There is no patient in the bed in Central 15, so you burst into that one, still struggling to catch your breath.
Your much-needed inhale gets caught in your chest at the sight you find in the corner of the room — Jack Abbot, stripped off his shirt and wiping blood from his stomach, with Samira standing just behind him, tending carefully to the scrape on his back.
Your sneaker scuffs the tile as you still suddenly in place.
The sound of your sudden presence makes them freeze, too. Their heads dart in your direction, gaping with wide eyes and parted mouths as if you’d just caught them doing something terrible. In a way, it feels like you have.
It feels like you’ve stumbled upon some achingly tender moment between them, of which you had been deprived for some time now — because even when Jack was with you, he was a thousand miles away. You wonder if, maybe, a part of him wanted to be here — with Samira, perhaps — and if that’s why he had left you so abruptly last night, as if it had only occurred to him then that you were no longer what he wanted.
You wouldn’t have blamed him for it, if that were the case. You just wish he would’ve told you before now, so it would feel like less of a white-hot knife lodged into the center of your sternum to find him this way.
“Sorry,” you just barely manage to choke out, though it gets lost in a whimper as you fight back the urge to cry.
Jack’s scruffy chest pinches with worry at the crack in your fragile voice and the visibly frazzled sight of you, all wild-haired and glassy-eyed. It hurts him far worse than the wounds burning red-hot on his pale skin now.
“What happened?” he asks, greying brows lowered in concern.
Samira stills with her soft fingers on Jack’s broad, freckled shoulder, touching him with a tenderness he hasn’t let you give him in some time.
“Are you okay?” she wonders, soft with a worry that is always sincere coming from here, but finds you more like a slap in the face just now.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” you answer on muscle memory, then sniffle as you shake your head at yourself. “I’m not, actually— I don’t know why I said that— Louie just died. Pulmonary hemorrhage. And I was just looking for an empty room to cry in, I didn’t mean to… to interrupt…”
“You didn’t,” Jack assures you, parting from Samira to take a step closer to you.
It takes quite a lot of strength from you to turn away from him, instead of leering at his shirtless form or cowering at the gentle look in his light eyes. “I-I’ll see myself out,” you stammer hopelessly. “Sorry…”
You just barely hear Jack calling your name before the heavy glass door shuts behind you.
With nowhere else to go, and not willing to face the embarrassment of walking back the way you came, you make a beeline for the ambulance bay. The automatic doors part for you, and the cool air outside takes your breath away a second later.
Your chest hitches as you inhale a sniveling breath, trying and failing to regulate your breathing. You stand at the edge of the curb with one hand balled into a fist and one hand clutching your aching chest. Your heart’s telling you that you’re having an embolism and you’re about to keel over at this very moment; your brain’s telling you that you’re just having a panic attack and you need to suck it the hell up.
“Hey,” a man calls from further down the sidewalk.
Your head snaps in the direction of the familiar voice. You tense at the sight of the man who had grabbed you earlier, and your aching heart forgets to beat when you see him storming over to you. You find he’s wearing a smile on his bearded face when he’s close enough, but it looks more cynical than kind.
“You’re the nurse who got me kicked out earlier, aren’t you?” he asks.
You don’t have the breath or the bravery to correct him now.
“I’m sorry, sir…” you sniffle, wet-eyed, and turn away. “It’s just… It’s been a long day, okay? I didn’t mean for you to get escorted out. You just scared me, that’s all. I’m—”
You turn to face him again when he’s standing ahead of you. But before the words of an apology can spill from your mouth, his weathered fist collides with your nose.
You hear a sharp crack, a wet whoosh, and then the dull slap of your body hitting the pavement. You grimace when the back of your skull meets the concrete, and struggle to blink away the black spots from your vision.
The very first face you see is Langdon’s, though you’re not quite sure how long it’s been since your eyes have closed — a few seconds, maybe, or several minutes. You’re still lying on the rough pavement when you come to, with Frank’s gentle fingers brushing the hair out of your eyes with one hand and shining his penlight into your eyes with the other.
“There you are…” the man coos. “What happened to you out here?”
You hardly hear him, like he’s speaking to you from underwater. You answer him with a question of your own, lifting your trembling fingers to the dull throbbing sensation in your nose.
“Is… Is it bad?” you wonder aloud, half-slurring. You grimace first at the wet feeling on your cupid’s bow, then at the bright scarlet blood staining your fingertips. You whisper, voice breaking. “Ow…”
“Whoa, careful there…” Mel wavers, rushing from behind Langdon to help you when you try to sit up on your own. She crouches down beside him and takes you by the elbows in a pair of gentle hands. She squints behind her glasses when your inhale rattles in your chest. “Did you fall on your back?”
“Did somebody hit you?” Langdon presses from her other side, bushy brows lowered in worry.
“Wow…” you mumble, blinking hard, and wincing when you taste blood in your mouth. “So many questions…”
Mel and Langdon share a panicked look you don’t see.
“Yeah, c’mon. Let’s go,” the older man sighs, urging you up by the elbows and steadying you when you sway softly in place. “Come with me…”
“I can walk,” you protest through your ragged breaths, and through the blood dripping from your cupid’s bow and into your mouth. You pull your arm out of his grasp when the strength to do so returns to you, and stagger the rest of the way to the entrance until you regain your footing. “Just… Be normal, alright?”
“Right…” Langdon scoffs and fights back the urge to laugh — because you obviously have no idea how you look right now, with the lower half of your face all covered in blood, as if you’ve just been rescued from a bar fight. There’s hardly anything normal about that.
You try to be, anyway, as you stroll through the crowded E.R., hoping to be blanketed by the chaos inside. Everyone’s too busy charting or rushing to patients to notice your being there. You’re five or more steps away from making it to the bathroom when Robby’s eagle-eyed stare locks in on you from behind his computer.
“Jesus fucking Christ…” the older man blurts, sliding off his glasses and rising from his chair. He abandons his work without a second thought and rounds the workstation to rush to your side.
“I’m okay,” you tell him with a dismissive wave of your hand, pressing onward even when you hear his footsteps nearing you. He stops you with a gentle hand on your shoulder and steps in front of you to block your path.
“What the hell happened to you?” he wonders aloud, looking past you to Langdon and Mel as he drags a pair of gloves from his scrub pockets.
“We found her like this,” Frank shrugs.
“I told you to take a break, not get into a bar fight.”
“Ha-ha,” you monotone, then flinch when it hurts to smile. “Ow…”
“Who did this, huh?” Robby asks, cupping your bloodied face in his gloved hands. He runs his fingers over the back of your head first, to make sure you have no wounds there, before pressing his thumbs gently to the apples of your cheeks. “It wasn’t that asshole from before, was it?”
“I didn’t see him,” you lie through your teeth.
“Any trouble seeing? Any double vision?”
You shake your head against his hands, then inhale another rattling breath.
“Did you fall on your back?” he asks you then.
You nod once.
“What about a headache?”
“I always have a headache,” you answer. “I’m fine, Robby. I just need to get cleaned up—”
“Look at you— You’re not fine,” the man snaps. “Now, c’mon. You’re coming with me.”
You have no choice but to follow him when he wraps a firm, gentle hand around your arm, ushering you to walk ahead of him. You ignore the looks and calls of concern from the coworkers around you, except for Mel’s voice, which comes from behind you.
“Should I find Dr. Abbot?” she wonders aloud.
Your head snaps over your shoulder to look at her, and it makes your vision swim.
“Absolutely do not do that,” you answer, a little harsher than you mean to.
“O-kay…” she stammers and trails off.
“In here,” Robby urges, swinging open the door to the nearest empty room. He keeps a steady hand on your back to keep you stable and turns back to Mel before he follows you inside. “Find Abbot,” he tells her.
You lie on your back on the hospital bed while Robby does an impromptu exam. He presses the cold chestpiece of his stethoscope to your skin and listens to your breathing until it evens out again, from where the air had rushed out of your lungs after the fall. He finds your pupils both equal and reactive, and your nose free from swelling or cracking — “Nothing that mother nature can’t fix,” he says, and takes to cleaning you up instead.
“These beds are so hard,” you murmur, shifting uncomfortably with an icepack pressed to your nose, which Princess had brought by some minutes ago. “We should really get new ones in here. How are patients supposed to be comfortable in these?”
“Yeah, I’ll go tell Gloria,” Robby scoffs, dabbing at your nose with a wet wipe. “I’m sure she’ll get right on that…”
He parts from you to chuck the red-tinted napkin into the bin at his side and waits for you to laugh at his stupid joke. You stay silent. You don’t even give him a pity giggle, and you always, at the very least, give him a goddamn pity giggle. His brows furrow in a mixture of confusion and concern.
“Can I ask you a stupid question?”
“Better than anyone I know, Dr. Robby…”
“Ha-ha,” he deadpans, reaching for another wipe with a gloved hand. It’s freezing against the burning skin of your neck as it dabs it gently there. “Why didn’t you want me telling Abbot about this, huh?”
“Because he doesn’t care…” you mumble cynically, almost inaudibly so.
“Oh, c’mon,” Robby scoffs. “Even you don’t believe that.”
You don’t. Not really. You know Jack cares, if only because it’s in his blood to do so. His basic human empathy is what made him such a good doctor. You just aren’t sure that he cares about you in the way you thought he did — in the way you wanted him to — and you’re not quite sure how to voice that to Robby now.
“He’s busy right now,” you answer instead, still half-hidden behind the icepack. “Too busy for me, and I don’t wanna bother him, so… Just drop it.”
Robby flashes you a sympathetic smile that you don’t see as he swipes at the last bit of blood from your skin. “I know he may not act like it, kid, but he does care about you.”
“You’re right,” you mumble. “He doesn’t act like it—”
Jack Abbot bursts into the room like a red-hot flame through a burning house. His broad chest heaves with panted breaths beneath the thin navy shirt he wears in place of his tactical gear, though his camo pants still sit heavy on his waist.
His wild eyes scan your form. “What the hell’s going on in here?” he blurts.
You glare at Robby from behind the icepack. “I hate you.”
“Yeah, I know…” the man sighs, dropping the crumpled wipe into the trash beside him.
“What happened?” Jack presses, more firmly this time.
“Nothing,” you murmur shyly, unable to meet his gaze when he towers at your bedside with his hands on his hips. “It’s not the first time someone’s swung at me—”
“Yeah, but it’s the first time it’s been this bad. Bad enough that someone had to come get me,” Jack argues, made a bit harsher with the concern pinching at his chest. His head whips over his shoulder. “Who the hell did this?”
“Some guy from Chairs, I think,” Robby shrugs. “Name’s Driscoll. Ahmad’s already handling it. He’ll deal with the police.”
“Good,” Jack nods, firm in a way you’ve always adored about him. He was inherently resolute where you were perpetually indecisive. It mostly came in handy when you struggled to figure out what to eat for dinner, not usually in situations like this. “‘Cause we’re pressing charges on this asshole, alright?”
“Honestly, Jack, I don’t care what you do…” you sigh. “But my head is really starting to hurt, and I really don’t feel like handling this right now.”
“On it,” Robby nods, taking the hint and stalking out of the room. He shuts the curtains after him and dims the light as he goes. The noise of the Pitt muffles again when the door closes behind him, leaving you and Jack alone in the not-quite-silence and the not-quite-dark.
“Here. C’mon,” the man urges suddenly, motioning with his chin. “Make room for me.”
“What?” you ask, eyes squinted in confusion as the man turns to sit on the edge of the twin-sized bed, adjusting his prosthetic to swing it over the side.
He gives you an expectant look over his shoulder. “Scooch,” is all he says, in a strangely strong voice despite the very silly command.
You shift on the thin mattress despite your better judgment to make room for him. Jack urges his right leg up first, then his left one second. He settles in beside you and urges the railings up to keep him from falling off the side. You try to do the same, though you possess a lot less strength with only one hand than the man beside you.
Your breath catches when he reaches over you with a strong hand, helping you lift the barrier the rest of the way.
“Thanks…” you mumble, half-shy.
“Don’t mention it,” he huffs politely, with one arm on his stomach and the other curled around your shoulders, keeping you close to accommodate both your bodies on the twin-sized bed. He smells of sweat and musky cologne and antiseptic. It takes everything in you not to melt into his warmth. You remain tense beside him, feeling slightly strange in his hold in a way you never have before.
“I’m sorry about, Louie—”
“You don’t have to do this—” you blurt simultaneously.
His head snaps over to you. He has to jerk his scruffy chin back to look at you properly from the dwindling proximity between you. His eyes dart between your averted gaze and the slowly melting icepack you fidget with like a stress ball.
“Do what?” he asks.
“I didn’t mean to walk in on you and Samira, okay?” you confess quietly, ‘cause any octave higher, and your voice will start to shake. “I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to make it a whole thing, you know? So you don’t have to come in and pretend to be all nice just because you think I’m upset, ‘cause I’m not.”
(Your rambling is hardly convincing in the matter, but he makes no mention of it.)
“Okay. I hear you,” Jack murmurs gently, always so patient with your rambling, even though he can only halfway comprehend it a lot of the time. “But I’m still not sure what Mohan has to do with this—”
Honey, he wants to say, but doesn’t allow himself.
“If you want to be with her, that’s okay— Or if it’s just because you don’t wanna be with me, that’s okay, too,” you explain in a strangely even voice. “But I wish you would’ve just told me, instead of bailing on me last night—”
“I didn’t bail on you—”
“—So then I wouldn’t have to catch you and Samira doing…” you trail off, face screwed. “Whatever the hell you were doing back there.”
“Catching us?” Jack echoes with a laugh you can feel rumbling against your shoulder. “That would imply we were doing something worth getting caught. She just walked in on me while looking for her patient, that’s all.”
“Yeah, well…” you hum, gaze averted to the icepack in your lap. “It seemed pretty intimate…”
“It wasn’t.”
“More intimate than you’ve been with me,” you argue sheepishly.
“Well, not to be crude here, but…” Jack trails off with an audible smile in his voice. “We literally had sex last night.”
“Yeah, and you left,” you spit, turning to look at him for the first time since he stormed in. You wear a wet look in your glassy eyes and a bruise blooming on the bridge of your nose. “And I cried myself to sleep about it. Which means I didn’t get to watch Love Island, which means I forgot to eat, which means I’m running on fumes on what has arguably been the worst shift of my whole life.”
You take a much-needed breath when the words are gone from your mouth.
Jack does not jump immediately to defend himself. He knows he doesn’t deserve it now. He just lets himself stew in your fiery words instead, so you know they’ll have a real impact on him before he responds.
“You’re right,” he sighs after a few long moments. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be sorry,” you shake your head at his apologetic tone. “Just don’t… Don’t be so mean, you know? If you don’t wanna be with me anymore, why can’t you just say?”
“Because I do want to be with you,” he answers, weathered features screwed in offense. “How would you ask me that?”
“Because you aren’t acting like it—”
“Because I almost told you that I loved you,” Jack blurts suddenly, in a stern tone of voice that snatches the breath from your lungs. He swallows hard and continues. “Last night, I mean, when we… I almost said it… Because I felt it, but then I… I realized I hadn’t said that to anyone since my wife passed, and it freaked me out.”
“But…” you start in a broken whisper. “Why does that have to be such a bad thing?”
“‘Cause it makes me feel guilty,” Jack answers. “The way I love you makes me feel guilty, like I’m abandoning her. And I… I don’t know what to do with all that… grief.”
You feel your heart aching, for the third or hundredth time that day. You notice Jack’s right hand hanging on your shoulder, how his fingers fidget anxiously there, and how his left hand scratches at the rough fabric of his camo pants — made overwrought by his confession, and unsure what to do with it now.
“Why don’t you just give it to me?” you wonder quietly, then shrug at the confused look Jack gives you a second later. “Your grief, I mean. I can take it. You know, make it a little more bearable for you. So you don’t have to carry it all on your own.”
The softness of your words knocks the breath from Jack’s lungs.
The corner of his mouth quirks in a wavering smile as he blinks burning tears out of his eyes. “Jesus, we're a couple of goddamn sad sacks, aren’t we, honey?” he scoffs a sad laugh and runs his free hand down his scruffy face.
Your lips twitch upward, feeling giddy but fighting it. “That’s the first time you called me that in two days…” you observe distantly.
“What?”
“Honey.”
“Yeah,” he sighs. “I’m sorry for that, too…”
“Don’t be sorry,” you repeat, this time with a smile. “Just— kiss me or somethin’…”
“Gladly,” Jack says with a wider grin.
You tilt your chin up to meet him halfway when he leans down to kiss you. His nose bumps into the side of your bruised one, as your hand reaches for his wounded shoulder. You flinch against each other in tandem.
“Ow,” you whimper.
“Ouch,” Jack winces. “Shit, honey— Sorry.”
“Are you okay?” you ask with a sympathetic scrunch to your features, cupping his scruffy face in your delicate hands. “I haven’t checked in on you yet, I know you’re hurt—”
“I’m fine,” he assures with a shake of his head, leaning instinctively into your touch. “I got a little banged up, but… I’m good now.”
“Promise?” you whisper, swiping an eyelash from his cheek with your thumb.
“I promise. I'll tell you about later,” he nods once and smooths his calloused fingers across your temple, looking at you with a tenderness you’ve been craving all day. “What about you, honey— Are you okay?”
You inhale sharply through your bruised nose and nod on a slower exhale.
“I will be,” you answer honestly for the first time all day.
Unavoidable - Dr. Brendon “The Shark” Park x Reader
Chapter Two: It's All Fun & Games
Series Summary: The moment you meet Dr. Brendon Park, your entire world changes. He's your mate. The person you're destined to be with. But, god, does he have to be such an asshole all the time? Really, does he?
Chapter Summary: While your friends meddle and your nesting urges start, Park keeps finding himself drawn to you as you start to smell better and better.
Tags/Notes: omegaverse, alpha!park, omega!reader, fated mates, flirting, sexual tension, silly goofy times, is it even an rrad fic if langdon doesnt catch strays??
Content: canon-typical medical content, medical inaccuracies to an offensive degree i assume
A/N: im actually too lazy to make smau pics for the texts bc these convos are too long uwu
Word Count: 7.3k
santos: Cherry and P*rk are fated mates. Not joking. So we want to find out if he’s actually human or not so they can fuck nasty during her next heat in a month. Bug him for me? Pretty please?
When that text lights up Yolanda Garcia’s phone, a smile that can only be described as Grinch-esque parted her gleeful lips. To speak frankly, she’s beyond delighted to have something to annoy Park about. Ever since she finished her fellowship, annoying Park is an absolute favorite way for her to pass the time between surgeries. Developing new ways to strengthen that hobby is as good a drug as any.
See, Garcia is observant. It’s what drew her to surgery in the first place: She can notice the slightest twitch in a patient and know it’s actually nerve compression that needs surgical treatment. She catches things that other people miss.
So when Dr. Park starts bulking like a middle school wrestler trying to add weight right after she witnesses a suspiciously long hug between him and a certain feisty little omega who is supposedly his fated mate, she clocks it for what it is right away: An alpha preparing to mate while his omega prepares for their heat. It’s cute, honestly. Even when Park’s doing it. Garcia’s never experienced it herself, but the idea of alphas needing to get all big and strong to protect their new mates is downright charming to her.
Especially since Park has told her – and everyone else in surgery – that there’s no chance he’s the kind of guy who’d have a fated mate because that’s only for bleeding hearts who don’t focus on themselves and their careers. There’s a reason it’s significantly less common in high-level professionals, he’d go on and on, ignoring decades of literature showing that those professionals are less likely to find their mates due to denial and self-neglect.
So it’s particularly delightful to be in on the secret of him being not only wrong but wrong in a way that’s going to be deliciously embarrassing when he realizes. After two days of laying in wait, she pounces on the first opportunity to bother him properly.
In the surgeons’ lounge during a rare shared break, Yolanda suspiciously eyes Park as she heats up her early-morning breakfast, asking as if she isn’t freakishly curious and nosy, “Brendon, you hitting the gym more than usual lately?”
Powering through a bowl of pasta the size of Jupiter’s larger moons – for breakfast – Brendon shakes his head and shrugs. “Not really, no. Haven’t had a ton of time lately with all the surgeries I’ve been picking up from the damn Pitt.”
Already plotting how she’s gonna gossip about this downstairs, she presses, “Why have you been going down for so many consults? Dr. Atterman on vacation or something?”
He doesn’t even take a second to think about the answer before saying obliviously, “Guess they’ve had more sports accidents than usual coming in lately.”
“Hm. Weird, I could’ve sworn you picked up a hip dislocation on an elderly woman yesterday. Moved your afternoon surgery back a few hours to do it, I heard.”
Narrowing his eyes, Park asks, “Why do you care, anyway?”
“Just thought you hated going to the Pitt is all,” she lilts, taking her leftovers and plopping down across from him. “Someone down there taking your attention? They’ve got some cute omegas.”
He glares daggers. “Are you getting at something, Garcia?”
“Not at all, Shark,” she replies with a shit-eating grin. “By the way, totally unrelated, that R4 who brought you the teen with the broken knee asked for a consult. From you specifically.”
His head snaps up. With a single spaghetti noodle still falling from the corner of his mouth, he asks with wide eyes, “She did?”
Garcia almost dies laughing then and there. She works hard to memorize the beautifully oblivious look on her meanest coworker’s face before replying with the words Trinity forwarded, “Yeah, she wants you there this afternoon at four while Frankie meets the physio team so you can give them a more in-depth overview on the new structure of his knee.”
“At four?” He takes out his phone and furrows his brow and he flips through pages. “Yeah, I can push my 4:30 surgery to five no problem. Thanks, Garcia.”
She smirks around the lip of her mug. “No problem at all, Shark.”
Park doesn’t wait for the afternoon appointment to see you, though. He can’t. It’s not quite in his consciousness, but there’s a certain edge rolling around just below his skin. A spike in his blood pressure. A goosebump prickle that insists he move and move fast toward the Pitt. As soon as he sees an ortho page from the ED, he snatches it up before Torres or Atterman can get to it, riding down the elevator with restless hands as he secretly hopes it’s from you.
Sure enough, when he pushes into the Pitt, he sees you over an obvious ortho case; Park can see the exposed tibia from across the room. The Pitt is overcrowded from a series of car accidents, so you’re handling major patient care out in the open. That alone has Brendon on edge while he closes the long distance between the elevator and you. There are too many people too close to you, too many smells swirling around that muddy the trail to your side.
As he gets closer, he spots a large alpha by your side. Frank Langdon, who just so happens to be Brendon Park’s absolute least favorite doctor in the entire hospital. Admittedly, until just now his opinion was much more neutral, but Langdon is shouting at you and that has Park’s blood boiling through his skin.
“-and that’s the whole reason we have chain of command in the first place. I’m your superior and you’re expected to defer to me here!”
“You’re only one year ahead of me, Frank, and, much more importantly, I’m right about this one! If we don’t prep for a fasciotomy now, he’s going to lose the leg.”
“And if he doesn’t need it, we risk all kinds of permanent damage that could be avoided by taking a measured approach.”
You stomp your foot and cross your arms. It would be adorable if Park weren’t seeing red at Langdon’s tone. His heart pounds in his ears, which are ringing loud, and all his hairs stand on end like he’s been struck by lightning. He hangs back for a second to see if you can handle it yourself, not wanting to truly lose it on someone right in front of you. He’d hate himself if he scared you. As he tries to calm down his rage, you square up against an alpha like you’re one yourself and insist, loud and clear, “I’m the one who heard his firsthand story when he came in before he lost consciousness, so I actually know much better than you that he-”
Then Lagndon’s scent flares.
Intentionally.
Thick and dark, it pools around the both of you, even perking up the noses of a few nearby nurses and patients. It’s a dirty move to put you in your place – he as an alpha and you an omega, no longer equals with the same training– and it works scarily well. Especially off your suppressants, you’re incredibly vulnerable to his dominance.
You shrink away from Langdon as the burning, acrid smell tightens your throat and makes tears sting at your eyes. You’re dizzy and disoriented and only vaguely register what he’s doing. You take a few steps back until you accidentally stumble into a nearby unoccupied gurney. Trying hard not to cry, you blink fast and stammer, “S-sorry, Dr. Langdon, I’ll- Um. I’ll go and- I can-”
Park surges forward, his hand coming down hard on Langdon’s shoulder. His voice is the polar opposite of Frank’s lazy attempt at dominance; he’s lethal, quiet, intense. “Are you fucking scenting on an omega colleague, Dr. Langdon?”
Frank’s eyes go wide as he realizes he’s been caught red-handed. “I was just trying to-”
“What? Force her into submission?” Park’s chest nearly touches Frank and it honestly looks like he might bite him. The confrontation catches the eyes of a handful of nearby alphas, recognizing the possibility of having to break something up. Park spits, “You’re vile. You’re sexist and you’re useless. How fucking dare you-”
“Dr. Park?” Your timid voice from behind him shakes him from his focus on Langdon. When he turns your way, Park realizes that you’re staring up at him with the softest, brightest adoration he’s ever felt and all the anger simmers out of his body. “I didn’t think you’d come down for a basic fracture and fasciotomy.”
“We’re not doing a fasciotomy,” Langdon groans. “Shark, can you please explain to-”
Park whips around and shoves him in the chest. “Shut up, Frank, seriously, because the only reason I’m not already dragging you to HR by the scruff right now is because I can see an open tibial fracture that needs my attention. I’ll deal with you later.” Then he turns back to you, expression soft and attentive, and says, “Why don’t you walk me through it, cherry? Let’s get this figured out together.”
You swipe the tears from your cheeks, annoyed that they’ve fallen at all, and swallow hard. Voice wobbly, you tell him, “Mr. Perkins was brought in by ambulance after he attempted to fell a tree in his backyard on his own. The tree landed on his leg, leading to an open crush fracture. Bleeding is controlled, vitals are stable, we just have to decide on the right course of treatment.” Your eyes search his face for any signs of judgment, but there aren’t any. So fast that anyone else might miss it, he brushes another tear from your cheek with his thumb, withdrawing it quickly and without drawing attention to it. But it imprints itself on your skin. You go on more confidently, “I think there’s compartment syndrome in the calf, which means that wasting time with any non-surgical treatment is only going to increase the likelihood that he loses the leg altogether.”
Frank cuts in with a real ‘alpha’s club’ vibe, “And I explained to her that this is an open fracture.”
“That doesn’t rule out compartment syndrome, genius,” Park scoffs, flicking him on the forehead. Like Langdon is a kindergartener, Park slowly explains, “It’s more than twice as likely with closed traumas, but this opening isn’t placed correctly to relieve pressure from swelling on the opposite side. The tibia breaks through the shin, so the calf is still under pressure. Did you actually make it through basic anatomy or did you knot your way to a passing grade?”
You glance down at your sneakers and smile to yourself as Langdon awkwardly stumbles through trying to explain himself.
Park cuts him off halfway through and returns his attention to you. “What makes you think compartment syndrome?”
“I triaged Mr. Perkins when he came in. He reported pins and needles as well as difficulty moving the-”
Frank rolls his eyes. “Both of which can be explained by the huge bone sticking out of him.”
“Interrupt her one more time and see how I treat you,” Park growls back without even sparing him a look. He urges you, “Keep going. Paresthesia and partial paralysis are strong indicators for compartment syndrome. What else?”
Feeling much more sure of yourself under his sturdy gaze, you inform him, “The fractured leg appears paler than the other on visual inspection and the pulse is thready at its best, even before we stemmed the bleeding. And, to be totally honest with you, just palpating the limb made me suspicious. I worked on a lot of crush injuries at the VA and I just…I don’t know. I think I have a feel for it.”
Park nods and takes the examination into his own hands, snapping on his gloves and carefully checking over the entire leg from above the open fracture to the ankle below the suspected compartment issues. After a second of thinking, he nods his confirmation. “We need to do an open reduction and internal fixation with fasciotomy to give him the best chance at recovery. Scrub in with me, sweetheart, you need some OR hours before you make a choice about your elective.”
Neither of you notices the nickname as anything out of the ordinary; it just passes between you as naturally as the medicine. You do this tiny little bunny hop as excitement replaces all your negative feelings and Park can’t help smiling. “That would be amazing! Thank you so much for all your help, Dr. Park.”
Langdon mutters something harsh under his breath and Park turns to him. Whips to him, more like. He leans in close so you can’t hear and says, “You’re not off the hook for scenting her, by the way. This time, I’m just gonna report you to HR. Do that shit again?” He taps Langdon on the neck, right on his sensitive mating bite, and says, “I’ll rip your throat out with my teeth. And I’ll enjoy every second.”
After scrubbing out of the surgery, Park lingers with you in the hall, exchanging small talk, long enough that the assisting surgical residents exchange suspicious glances. Park looks at the nearby wall clock and says, “Feels kind of stupid to go back up to my office and do paperwork for ten minutes before I take my lunch.”
To you, that’s an invitation. You squeal, “Come sit in the Pitt lounge with me and my friends! I brought in a bunch of homemade snacks I made last night for everyone to share. You should have some. Pregame for your real lunch?”
Park can’t stop himself from grinning. “You homemade a bunch of snacks? After you worked late last night?”
Immediately leading him on the trek down to the doctors’ lounge, you tell him with a lot of pep in your step, “Nothing too crazy, just some Pinterest recipes I’ve been wanting to follow – candied pecans and these yummy gouda cheese crisps and kettle corn and some whipped ricotta dip with cinnamon pita chips and then, y’know, I brought these dark chocolate truffles to the Pitt’s holiday party last year and Abbot asked me if I’d make them again sometime, so I did that, too. I add a little chili to bring out the richness and they always go over super well.”
Once you stop rambling with an embarrassed laugh, he confirms with a laugh, “But nothing too crazy, right?”
Heat crawls into your cheeks and you bite your lower lip, giving a bashful smile. “Well, I’m kind of, ah, nesting right now, a bit.”
Park swallows thickly. It’s not inappropriate or anything to talk about nesting and even heats with other adults, just a bit more friendly than he would’ve expected you to be with him. It settles way too warmly on his shoulders – especially the knowledge that you’re going to be in heat in a matter of weeks. No wonder he could smell you from across the ED this morning. God, you can smell even more intense than this? He’s going to have to invest in some nose patches.
Breaking the silence before it gets uncomfortably charged with the new knowledge of your upcoming heat, Park bumps you with his elbow – teasing, adorable, heart-stopping – and lilts, “So you’re one of those cooking and baking omegas, huh? Nesting time comes and you hole up in the kitchen?”
“Yeah, I am.” You giggle back, all fluttery because you’re getting his undivided attention without any doctoring involved, “It’s kind of a stereotype, I know, but it’s my favorite. I have a million recipes pinned for when I’m nesting because I become kind of a crazy person. Need to have an alpha around to eat everything in the fridge.”
“And you don’t have one of those.” His eyes cut to yours and your step falters for a second. “An alpha, I mean.”
You shrug and try not to let it affect you too much that he’s essentially asking if you’re available. “Not my own, but Trinity and Garcia are always swinging by to raid my fridge. And, when it’s really bad, sometimes I’ll invite Abbot, too.”
Park rolls his shoulders and tries not to let that bother him too much. He’s always been a firm believer that there’s nothing wrong with alphas and omegas being friends. Definitely not. But he can’t let himself imagine them in your apartment without also imagining himself to soothe the sting. So he not-quite-jokingly asks, “Is that a standing offer for alpha coworkers?”
“Invite only,” you correct with a cheeky smile. “Behave yourself in front of my Pitt friends and maybe you can swing one.”
“Lot of pressure there; Santos hates me.”
“She doesn’t hate you! She…” You gesture to stall while you try to think of a nicer word before conceding, “Yeah, she kind of hates you. But you could win her over. Just show her the real you – beyond all that ‘Park the Shark’ lore.”
As you reach the door of the lounge, Park gives you a tender, soft gaze. “You don’t think ‘Park the Shark’ is the real me?”
“No, I don’t.” You poke him in the bicep and tease, “I think you’re secretly a big softie. Plus, I already know you’re a great hugger, Sharkie.”
You push through the door before he can respond. Last time a resident called him that, he buried them in scut work for two weeks. But when you do it, it’s too damn sweet for him to be annoyed by. His eyes float briefly – okay, not that briefly – down to your ass as you flit over to the table where Santos, Whitaker, and Garcia are clearly waiting for you, that delectable spread of snacks laid out on the round table between them.
Trinity stands, pulls you into a hug, and groans, “Thank god, there you are! I’ve been literally dying to eat these all day.”
Park pretends not to notice the way that his gut clenches up watching Santos, then Garcia, then Whitaker hug you right in a row. He doesn’t like smelling their scents mingling with yours. Still, he puts on an awkward smile and shoves his hands in his pockets, trying hard to act normal.
Garcia notices his presence first and opens her mouth wide in feigned shock. “Cherry, you managed to get Shark to join us for a social gathering? You know he only eats meals with perfectly balanced macros, right?”
Your face falls a bit and you turn to Park. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pressure you into eating if you don’t want-”
“I want,” he says quickly. Then he tells Garcia, “I’m not that worried about macros.”
Yolanda eyes him suspiciously. “What was up with all that pasta this morning, then? Weird choice of breakfast. Seemed a lot like carbo-loading to me. Marathon coming up?”
He shrugs innocently. “I had leftovers.”
She gives a knowing look to Trinity. “Uh-huh.”
Trinity gestures to the two open chairs next to her and insists, “Well, c’mon then, let’s get this party started.”
You plop down next to her, leaving poor Whitaker next to Park, and tell them all, “Park only has a few minutes to snack with us, guys, go easy on him.”
“No, no, I can stay as long as you want me,” he says, shaking his head quickly. “I mean, as long as, ah, y’know whatever.”
Trinity just about chokes trying to contain her laughter, immediately opening her phone to text Yolanda under the table. To have something to do with his hands, Park grabs a plate for himself and makes himself a charcuterie of the snacks, his appetite spiking for reasons definitely unrelated to your rising hormones invading his senses, your bare arm rubbing against his because you had to sit close to cram the chairs around the table.
Whitaker saves the awkwardness of Santos and Park being forced to share space by making a show of eating something and praising you, “This is amazing, by the way. You’ve really got a knack for this stuff.”
“Thank you, Denny,” you beam as you curate your own selection of snacks, maybe a little heavy on the sweets because you’re got a mean craving for something that’ll give you energy with Park so close to you. “Lots of practice over the years.”
But the alphas have no mercy. While nibbling on cheese crisps and texting Trinity, Garcia muses to Park absently, “It’s good that you’re here, actually, because you can settle a debate for us.” Already knowing what she’s getting at, your eyes widen and flick between her and Trinity, who keep sharing conspiratorial glances. “Little argument we’ve all been going back and forth on this past week. There’s this new study about EMPR.”
“What’s that?” Park’s brows knit together and you get lost looking at his baby blues for a second or two. “I only really read about ortho cases.”
“Of course, makes sense,” Garcia replies, suppressing her building smirk. “Well, it’s short for Endocrine-Mediated Pairing Response. The neurochemical syndrome that the whole ‘fated mates’ myth is based on.”
“Not exactly a myth, though, is it?” Glancing at you almost expectantly, he says, “People have been experiencing it forever.”
“Sure, but that’s part of the debate,” Trinity jumps in. “What do you think: Should we be treating it like a disease? Me and Yo think it’s a hormonal abnormality, but the bleeding hearts club thinks it’s just the cutest wittle thing that’s ever happened.”
“Hey!” Whitaker reaches across the table to smack her. “Cherry isn’t a bleeding heart; she’s very practical.”
As your ears burn, Park smiles. Cherry. Your sweetness washes through him. So he says honestly, “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it. Actually, I think it’s kind of beautiful.”
Garcia scoffs, “Beautiful? You think that? What happened to all your ‘I’d never have a fated mate; I’m way too busy and big and butch’ spiels?”
“I never said ‘butch,’ first of all,” he laughs (the first time Whitaker and Santos have ever heard him laugh. “Whether you believe in the whole ‘fate’ aspect or not-” big finger quotes on ‘fate’ “-you can’t deny the reality of the biological phenomenon.” Then, looking directly at you, he explains, “I like the idea that two people, strangers, even, can share a connection so strong that it transcends abstract concepts like feelings and instead exists in their DNA, in the cells that make up their entire body. Of all the billions and billions of people, there are pairs who compliment each other to the point where their biologies call out to one another. Drawing them together without anything ever being spoken.” He drops his eyes and shrugs like your heart is pounding out of your chest next to him. His watch beeps with an urgent page, so he sighs and finishes simply, “Who wouldn’t find that beautiful?”
Breathless and soft, you reply, “That was awfully romantic, Dr. Park.”
“I’m full of surprises.” You swear there’s pink at the apples of his cheeks as Park takes one last bite of food and slides his hand along your upper back, from shoulder to shoulder, grazing your scruff, as he walks away from the table. Giving you a quick wink, he adds, “And you should start calling me Brendon. I’ll see you in a few hours with the Murrays.”
You’re slack-jawed as Trinity rams a happy, celebratory fist into your bicep.
Park breezes down the hall to physio a few hours later, happily following the trail of your scent without realizing he’s doing it. The Murrays haven’t arrived yet, so it’s just you updating notes on your iPad with your expression pinched up in focus. Since that moment a few days ago, whatever it was, he keeps catching himself staring at you for a little too long.
You’re so locked in that he doesn’t want to scare you, so he makes sure to step in loud enough for you to notice his presence before he speaks in a voice that always comes out too harsh, no matter how much he tries to change it. He strides over to you and touches the center of your back. “Hey there, Dr. Cherry, how’s the shift treating you since lunch?”
Your heart stammers when you feel his hand and hear his voice, the tempo picking up even further when it actually settles in your fluttery stomach that he’s called you by your scent. It’s definitely not half as intimate as ‘pup,’ but it’s sweet and kind and not like the Dr. Park you’ve always seen. It’s Brendon. You give him a tentative smile. “Um, it’s been good. Set of twins came up with matching broken arms that I patched up all by myself; you’d be proud.”
“I’m sure I would,” he says urgently. Very urgently. His eyes are locked on the planes of your face as you go between looking at him and getting your work done. Trying to sound casual, he leans against the nearest wall and says, “Almost the time of year where you can try out your twelve-week clinical elective. Robby’s got his substance use outreach elective and Abbot’s got that palliative care thing.” As you hum an absent reply, he clears his throat just so you’ll look at him and adds, “Y’know, I oversee a critical care surgical lab. You’d be a good fit for that. I think Abbot mentioned that you’re interested in surgery, right?”
When you turn to him this time, you’re glowing. He notices the slightest change in your scent, the tang of cherry and apples mellowing into something sweeter. Lickable. He wants to attach his mouth to your neck and never let go. You bounce a little bit and tell him, “Actually, when I came to PTMC, my whole goal was to find a surgical fellowship. They don’t offer any at the VA, obviously. I’m always so jealous when you come in and get to plan out procedures.”
Park steps closer, breathing in the extra sweetness of your scent until it starts to calm him down. He’d been a little edgy all day and your presence is like a weighted blanket. His voice is airy and warm down your neck as he replies, “I’d love to show you the ropes, help you figure out if you want a surgical fellowship. Stop by my office sometime and we can talk about the details.”
Nibbling your lower lip a second, you meet his eyes and suggest just to see how he’ll respond, “Shouldn’t I be talking to Garcia about emergency surgery?”
“Definitely not,” he says right away. Straightening up his posture, he puffs up his chest and explains, “I know I’m ortho on paper, but I’m also co-chair of the surgical board. Kind of next-in-line for Chief of Surgery, really. So I’m the right person to see about the next steps in your education for sure.”
Your lips part open a bit as you try to come up with a response and he works very, very hard not to stare at your mouth. Is he…preening? That’s new. And it’s adorable. It makes you want to squeal, all the extra hormones bubbling up inside you definitely not helping, but you manage to contain yourself by curling your toes in your sneakers. “I’ll schedule something with your secretary.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do all that,” he says like his heart isn’t racing and his palms aren’t sweating. He reaches into his back pocket for his prescription pad, grabs a pen from your breast pocket (which almost makes you scream), and scribbles his phone number down. Then he tucks it in the front pocket of your scrub and gives your thigh a gentle pat. You’re completely frozen from the series of easy, casual touches that feel more like claims than anything when he tells you, “Text me whenever you want. I’ll carve out the time for you.”
There’s that phrase again. For you. So you reach across the suddenly-too-large space between your bodies and give his hand a gentle squeeze. “Okay, I will.”
Before Park has the time to come up with a response, the physical therapist, Dr. Embry, joins you in the suite, wheeling in Frankie Murray with his parents behind. Park shakes each of their hands and says to Frankie, “It’s good to see you again, kid.”
Mrs. Murray chuckles, “You’re in a much better mood today, Dr. Park.”
He stage-whispers, “Your son’s doctor over there may have given me a very deserved attitude check.” He kneels down and pats Frankie’s shoulder, making serious eye contact. “I’m sorry again for how rude I was before your surgery; I guess I was having a bad day. I promise I’m gonna be right here consulting with Dr. Embry during your whole recovery process. And I’ll be in the stands when you’re back on the track in the fall.”
Frankie grins and checks, “Yeah?”
“Absolutely.”
You almost black out. As Park goes through the details of Frankie’s knee reconstruction with Dr. Embry, you quickly take out your phone and text the group chat with Trinity, Dennis, and Garcia. He’s being really sweet??? To me and my patient and his family.
You know Garcia’s in surgery, but Trinity’s response pings back right away: one whiff of you and the beast transforms into a prince :))
While Park helps Dr. Embry get equipment set up for the appointment, he tells the family, “Y’know, I went through your doctor’s notes a little more closely. Turns out I went to the same high school as you. Captain of the football team ‘08 and ‘09.”
“Shit, seriously?”
Mrs. Murray swats his head playfully with a pamphlet from downstairs. “Language, Frankie.”
“I did a little track, too, but I sucked,” Park tells him, tone all light and friendly. “More of a linebacker type. All bulk, no speed.”
Listening to the courteous, personal small talk, the physical therapist gives you the most incredulous look you’ve ever seen on a medical professional. You return it.
“And a surgeon’s hands; you’re really the whole package,” Mrs. Murray praises in that saccharine omega tone that turns alphas to butter, her eyes raking over him in a way that makes you want to turn into a linebacker all of a sudden. “Do you have a mate, Dr. Park?”
Park’s eyes flick to you as Frankie groans.
Your heart climbs into your throat.
Park offers a polite, professional smile. “No, I don’t, I’m waiting patiently for the one.”
You bite your lip and stare down at your shoes, heat climbing into your cheeks.
“‘The one,’” Mrs. Murray tuts in return. “That’s such a dated idea, doctor. Let me set you up with my sister and-”
Mr. Murray hisses, “Nancy, we’ve talked about this.”
“Sorry, sorry, I love to meddle,” she laughs, waving it off as you plaster a placid smile on your face to avoid glaring at her. “Let’s focus on Frankie’s appointment, hm? Dr. Embry?”
“I think that’s a good idea,” you interrupt, surprised to hear your voice coming out sharp. You’re never like that with patients’ families. But you can’t help yourself as you turn to Brendon and say, “Dr. Park, I had some questions about your approach on Frankie’s meniscus; would it be alright if we let Dr. Embry take over from here?”
Park tilts his head but nods. He turns to the rest of the room and says, “I’ll see all of you next week, okay? Give my office a call if you have any questions or concerns.”
After they thank him, Park nods toward the wing of offices and you follow him out with your cheeks absolutely on fire. He stops short of his office, though, cornering you in the hall with a teasing smile.
“So…” He crosses his arms over his chest and examines you carefully, trying to understand “...my approach to Frankie’s meniscus?”
“Um, yeah, right.” After thirty solid seconds trying to come up with a way to purposefully misunderstand a basic tendon repair, you admit quietly, unable to even meet his eyes, “Fine, I just didn’t like the way Mrs. Murray was looking at you like a piece of meat.”
Park scoffs. “So you were trying to rescue me from her?”
You cross your arms, too, and tell him with a bratty edge to your voice, “Maybe I was.”
He barks out a laugh and touches your arm sweetly. “I can handle myself, cherry, I promise.”
“Just looking out for my coworker,” you huff, stamping one foot in a way that makes Park’s heart flutter warmly. Your faux-anger is too cute for him to handle. When he starts to break out another teasing smile, you shove his chest and groan, “Drop it. I was just…being a silly omega. Or something. Leave me alone.”
“No, I don’t think I will,” he goes on, taking a step closer to you. Your back hits the wall and he places one giant hand next to your head. His sent flares, warm and spiced, and you’re honestly glad for the wall holding you up. When you look at the muscles straining beneath his tan skin, your knees weaken. You’re already over-producing slick with your body coming off the suppressants and Park’s domineering stance definitely isn’t helping the situation. Voice 100% teasing and unserious, he asks you all low and gravelly, “Do you have a crush on me, doctor?”
You stand on your toes and refuse to shrink, matching his cocky tone to disguise the desire reaching through all your organs. “No, I have a crush on Mr. Murray. I wanted to hide my raging boner for him by coming up with an excuse to get out of there.”
Park raises an eyebrow in amusement. “He your type?”
“Yeah, I like ‘em bald and mated,” you reply seriously.
He leans down, close enough to kiss you, and keeps pushing with that gorgeously teasing tone, “I’ll have to see a hairdresser, then, since I was cursed with a thick head of hair.”
“I’d agree with a thick skull,” you cut back, standing up straighter and breathing in the cinnamon pouring from his neck. “And the mate part? Any cute omegas catch your eye lately?”
He thinks for a second and then offers, “Well, clearly Mrs. Murray is about to be on the market.”
You cheekily reply, “But by the time Mrs. Murray’s single, I’ll already be carrying three little half-sibling pups for Frankie, dummy.”
Then Brendon growls. The sound is low and possessive. It’s the kind of sound an alpha would only make if his mate were in danger or threatened. It rumbles up from his chest, totally subconscious. His eyes darken. His hand goes to your waist. Grabs, really. Not hard, not cruel, just…owning. Desperate, almost. He needs to feel the way your soft flesh yields to his touch. His breaths get heavy and intense. Your body reacts. Undeniably. He feels the temperature of your skin increase beneath his hand in response to him. Then he orders, quiet and stern but still perfectly tender, “Don’t joke about that. Please.”
“Why not?”
“You shouldn’t- You aren’t-” He steps back and tries to get out of the heady cloud of you even though you’re invading his every synapse. With a slow, deliberate swallow, Park says, “We’re joking about a patient’s family. Very unprofessional.”
“Right,” you reply, eyes glassy and voice breathy, “of course.” Then, not quite ready to end the conversation when you have a few minutes before you should be back downstairs, you tell him, “That thing you said to Mrs. Murray? About waiting for the one? She said it was dated, but, um, I wanted to tell you that I liked it. You sounded sweet. And I’m waiting, too.”
His lip twitches up into a smirk. “You are? I figured there was no way a girl like you was single, even if you don’t have a mate yet.”
“A girl like me?” He doesn’t elaborate, just nods like your rarity is so obvious it doesn’t need stating, so you tell him, “I don’t want to waste my time dating around when I know that a time’ll come when an alpha’s going to be certain I belong to them.”
With his heart climbing into his throat, Park asks, “And what’ll they do then? When they’re certain?”
“He’ll just,” you sigh wistfully and shrug, imagining every detail, “pick me up and take me home. He’s gonna fold into my nest with me and keep me safe. Protect me every day. Build me a big house to fill with pups with a yard for them to play in and a kitchen where I can bake everyone their favorite things and-” You stop yourself, give a bashful smile, and quickly add, “I know that’s kind of a lame 1950s idea coming from a modern doctor omega, but-”
“No, not at all,” he assures, taking your hand quickly so you don’t dash out of the conversation like you often do when you get embarrassed. “It’s not lame. It’s nice.”
He can’t bear to say anything else, his throat feeling tight all of a sudden, so he just squeezes your hand and then lets go of it. Then he runs his hand through his hair and says, “I’ve got to go get prepped for surgery. Spine deformity correction. But text me, okay? I want to hear from you about the surgical elective. Or anything else you want. Any time. Text me.”
You try to add confidence to your shaky, adoring smile. “I will. Promise.”
That night, you agonize over what to text Park. Yes, you could absolutely just send him a simple, professional ‘Can I come to your office to talk about the surgical elective Thursday between nine and noon?’ and call it a day. But you want more. You want him. At the very least, you don’t want a text that could end the conversation with a response of ‘Yes.’ Which sends you straight to the group chat.
you: okay how’s this? ‘thanks so much for helping the murrays! when can we meet and talk about my elective?’
denny: i think that’s good!!
yoyo: oh my god that’s terrible
trin: omegas are fucking useless
trin: you should send something slutty
you: no i definitely shouldnt
you: what should i say instead??
trin: SEND SOMETHING SLUTTY
trin: SEND A SLICK PIC
you: shut up and let the grownups talk trinity
trin: HES YOUR MATE YOU SHOULD WANT HIM TO WANT TO FUCK YOU
you: not like literally right now!!!
trin: WHY NOT
you: BECAUSE
yoyo: time’s ticking if you want that sharcock babe
you: not you too
denny: yeah you guys don’t get it
denny: this is about forever not just sex
you: that’s what im saying
trin: you want to have sex forever tho so whats not clicking
yoyo: exactly
trin: exactly
denny: its always 2 dumb bitches telling each other “exactlyyy”
you: okay im done with you guys now byeee goodnight
trin: nonono come on cherry
trin: just send him anything. he’s your mate
trin: the conversation will happen naturally bc hes YOURS thats the whole point
you: you really think so?
trin: yeah i do
yoyo: agreed
yoyo: don’t put too much pressure on it
denny: just be your nice pretty self :))
you: you’re so cute den ily
denny: ໒(＾ᴥ＾)७
you: ฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅ
denny: ૮₍´｡ᵔ ꈊ ᵔ｡`₎ა
you: ₍ᐢ ̥ ̞ ̥ᐢ₎ ♥₍ᐢ ̥ ̞ ̥ᐢ₎
trin: stop ill literally pop a cuteness boner
trin: lmo (love my omegas)
you: im taken
yoyo: not if you don’t send something slutty asap
you: GOODNIGHT
You toss your phone across your bedroom and pad around your apartment for a while, frustrated and on edge. The first symptom of your placebo pills: Your nesting urge itches underneath your skin, so you can’t quite get comfortable, no matter which part of the apartment you curl up in. As stereotypical as it may be, one of the only things that lessens the urge (when you can’t hoard soft things or get snuggled so hard you’re basically being squished to death) is baking and cooking.
So, just like the night before, you pour yourself a nice heavy glass of wine, change into some slinky pajamas, and head to the kitchen. And you shoot off the first thing you think of to Park, ignoring the advice of your stupid friends in favor of your gut.
you: hi dr. park! i just wanted to say thank you for being so nice today and see when we can get together to talk about the elective
you: ps do you like brownies or cookies better
you: pps if it’s cookies then what kind is your favorite
dr. park: Hi, cherry. It’s easy to be nice to you. I’ll text you my Google calendar and you can pick a time that works for you.
dr. park: P.S. I love all baked goods, but I prefer brownies.
dr. park: P.P.S. If I were to choose a cookie, it would be classic chocolate chip. Soft, not crispy.
you: regarding brownies, fudgy or cakey?
dr. park: Fudgy. Middle piece.
you: me too!!
dr. park: Shit. Who’s going to eat our edge pieces?
you: ill bring them to pitt vultures
Nursing a soft smile alongside the wine, you take out the perfect recipe and get to work, turning up some saucy music loud enough to annoy the neighbors you can’t stand. Swaying around and letting yourself feel all the fluttery things you usually can’t on your suppressants, you beat together the eggs and sugar and flour and cocoa, chop up chunks from real gourmet chocolate bars, and butter your favorite pans to accommodate the ridiculous triple batch. You need to drown in sugar and fat to feel normal again.
With the alcohol loosening up your limbs and your hormones loosening up everything else, you snap a quick selfie and send it to Park before you can overthink it alongside ‘nesting like crazy right now and ended up making triple what i thought. ill make sure to save some for you, okay?’ And then you text it to your group chat to satisfy them.
denny: you sent that to park???????
you: do you think it’s too much?
trin: OH MY GOD
trin: YOU FUCKING WHORE
trin: YES!!! YES!!!!! I LOOOOVE THISSSS!!!!!
denny: not too much! im just surprised <33
denny: you look super cute
yoyo: i’d knot on the spot if an omega sent me that
yoyo: licking batter off your fingers?? tiny little silk pjs?? jesus fucking christ cherry youre gonna kill the poor man
trin: careful garcia ill get jealous
trin: im so proud of you slut
denny: are you gonna bring some to work??
trin: NOT THE POINT HUCKLEBERRY
trin: but yeah actually
you: of course i will <3 love you guys!!
While the brownies are baking, you watch your phone like it’s a nail-biter sport, anxiously checking it every couple of seconds while you half-assedly clean up the kitchen. Brendon’s three dots appear and reappear again and again, making your nudge up and down the screen. You’re stuck staring at your picture, judging your own flirtatious expression and skimpy outfit. It’s the equivalent of him sending you a sweaty gym pic, you figure, not anything particularly scandalous or outright sexy. Although your nipples are definitely perkily poking against the thin slinky fabric of your camisole. As well as some sideboob. And your shorts are pretty damn short, to be fair, and the camisole rises a bit at the bottom to expose an inch of the swell of your belly. Which you think is cute, sure, but it’s certainly not professional.
Your phone vibrates just when you’re about to spiral.
