hi! i'm lia, i actually have three names (shoutout my parents) but i mostly use lia online. i'm bisexual, an introvert, a shopaholic and a libra. i'm always desperatly looking for friends and moots, so if you feel like it, hmu! i haven't written much fanfiction before i created this account but i love writing so why not yk? any tips, tricks or requests are always welcome!
dividers by @v6que , @dollywons , @strangergraphics-archive
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A/N: this is longer and more angst than I planned. the trope is sort of friends with benefits x idiots in love.
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“You’ve been distant the entire week.” Dean said as if it was obvious, a bit frustrated that he didn't know if he had done something — his suspicion was almost always right — or if something else happened to you.
Malone's was filled with young energy and loud music. Everyone gathered off campus to enjoy some fun time, including the hockey team after practice.
“What? No, I haven't.” You mumbled distractedly typing away on your phone. The first tell, for Dean, was that you weren't paying attention to Allie's presentation and you always do. She was one of your best friends and he hadn't seen any group of friends closer than you, Hannah and Allie.
He let it go, of course.
But now you've been glued to your phone at Malone's, again, when everyone came here to have a good time.
You weren't having a good time. Not here at least.
“Yes, you have.” Dean inhaled deeply and his eyes drifted from you to the dance floor, where his friends were having fun. Where you both could be doing the same. “Let's dance. C'mon.” He offered you his hand, eyebrows twitching as he forced a smile on his lips. He didn't know what was going on, but he wanted to get your mind off of whatever was bothering you.
You looked up from the screen, the blue light reflecting in your eyes, and then looked down at his outstretched hand. His palm was calloused, warm, and completely safe. You were tempted to take it when the device buzzed against the table.
It wouldn't stop. Dean noticed the non-stoping texting and that was fine. Maybe it was an issue? But you've been glued to your phone almost to the point of obsession. Or was it fear? He hated that he knew that look in your eyes.
“Hey,” Dean’s voice softened, losing its edge of frustration and shifting into genuine concern. He dropped his hand and leaned in closer over the sticky wooden table, his blonde curls falling on his forehead as he tried to catch your downcast gaze. “You look like you just saw a ghost. What's on the phone?”
“Nothing,” you said, your voice a little too high. You quickly flipped the phone face down on the table, but the damage was done.
He didn't even need to ask who it was. That behavior told him everywhere he needed to know and Dean desperately needed to punch someone right now.
It happened before. You and your ex breaking up and going back together in the course of a month, never more than that. And he was there to clean up the mess and pull you out of the slump you put yourself into.
Dean stared at the vibrating device, jaw clenching. You could see the gears turning in his head, the sudden realization flitting across his features. It wasn't work, it wasn't Hannah, and it wasn't Allie. They were all accounted for.
Before you could snatch it away, Dean reached out and flipped the phone over.
“Dean, don't—”
It was too late. The lock screen was illuminated with a string of notifications from a number you hadn't saved, but the opening lines of the texts spoke volumes.
[Unknown]: Malone's? Really? With him?
[Unknown]: Pick up. We need to talk about last month.
“I thought you blocked him?”
He wished he had a poker face but Dean is as transparent as a window. He didn't necessarily wear his heart on his sleeve but he can't hide when something hurts him.
“That's a new number.” You said, exhaling through your frustration. “He just wants to talk—can you give it back? My phone?”
“Oh, this?” He pointed at your cellphone with an expression of innocence. “No, yeah. Here you go.” That smile was nothing but sincere and you sensed a lecture coming up. “Let me know if you guys worked it out. Again.”
“You can stop being sarcastic.” You rolled your eyes and took back your phone. But he did something you weren't expecting, standing up from the table, he pushed his hair back. “Where are you going?”
“To dance.” He shrugged. “You enjoy your evening with your nice guy.”
Something in your chest tugged slightly but you let it go. He could dance as much as he wanted with whoever he wanted — and who didn't want him, honestly? The guilt wasn't about that though.
Why did it feel like he was finally done with your bullshit?
The thought settled into your stomach. Dean never turned his back on you. He was the guy who, six months ago, sat on the floor of your bathroom at three in the morning, handing you tissues and rubbing your back while you cried over the exact same man who was currently blowing up your lock screen. He had been your anchor through every single tremor of that toxic relationship.
He watched you cry over your ex and all that shit. It couldn't be enjoyable to keep doing that.
You just didn't want to lose him.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Logan was holding his wallet and keys, literally a minute away from walking out the door. As soon as he sent a text over to Grace, telling her he was on his way to pick her up, the doorbell rang.
When he opened it, he wasn't ready for what he saw.
Quickly, he helped you to the couch, dropping everything he had on his hands to come to your aid.
There was a cut on your lower lip and you were limping.
“It's fine-Logan, it's fine.” Your tone carried an edge you didn't want to share with him but he was fussing over you, probably because of your few visible wounds. “Seriously, just…” You cut yourself off when you notice the door was still open. “Close the door and lock it. Please.”
Logan’s eyes darted from your bleeding lip to your frantic gaze, the urgency in your voice cutting right through his shock. He didn't ask questions, simply bolting back to the entryway to close the wooden door shut. The sharp click of the key echoed through the apartment, a sudden barrier between you and the dark street outside.
“It's locked. It's locked, you're safe,” Logan said quickly, turning back to the living room. He looked down at his green button-down, then at the blood smudged on his palm from where he’d helped you sit. He didn't care. “Jesus, what happened out there? Were you mugged? Did you walk here? Are you-”
“I got out of the car. It was still moving.” You interrupted his rambling, forcing your hands into your lap so they would stop shaking. Logan was like a brother to you but letting yourself be seen that vulnerable? The answer would always be no. No one but Dean had come to know that part of your life yet.
But desperate times call for desperate measures.
“You jumped out of a moving car?” Logan whispered, the color completely draining from his face. “Why? Who did this?” He hesitated on touching you even though he needed to see if you were hurt anywhere else. He didn't know if you wanted to be touched by anyone right now. Shit.
“Is the back door locked?” you interrupted, ignoring his questions as a fresh wave of panic hit you. You gripped your own knees, the fabric of your jeans rough against your trembling fingers. “Just—just in case.”
Logan blinked, snapping out of his daze. “Yeah. Yeah, it is, but I’ll check. I’m checking right now.”
Left alone in the quiet living room for a split second, the silence felt heavy, suffocating. The thumping ache in your ankle was getting louder, a rhythmic, hot pulse that synchronized with the frantic beating of your heart. You stared at the front door, the heavy wood feeling like a fragile shield against the outside world. Your lower lip stung where it was split, the taste of copper faint on your tongue.
I got out. I got out. I got—
“It's locked tight,” Logan called out, his voice breathless as he hurried back into the living room. He stopped a few feet away, running a hand through his carefully styled hair, completely disheveling it. He looked down at his green button-down, noticing a small smear of your blood near the cuff, but he didn't even blink. “Listen, do I need to call the police? Do I need to call an ambulance? Talk to me.”
You shook your head quickly, the mere thought of flashing lights and sirens making your chest tighten. “No. No police. Just... I just need to sit here for a second.”
Logan opened his mouth to argue, his protective instincts warring with his respect for your boundaries, when the heavy sound of the front door's lock turning made both of you freeze.
The front door swung open with a bustling energy of two men laughing about something.
Beau’s grip on the takeout bag tightened, the paper crinkling loudly as his eyes landed on the split, bleeding line of your lower lip, and then on the raw, gravel-torn skin of your forearm. “What... what happened?” Beau blinked, looking at Logan for answers.
Dean wasn't looking at Logan, his eyes found yours immediately and it was like a bucket of cold water had dropped on his head.
His face drained of color. His chest rose and fell in a sharp, heavy breath as his eyes locked onto yours, taking in your trembling frame, your tear-stained cheeks, and the way you were desperately guarding your injured leg.
“Sorry.” You said, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I didn't mean to barge in, I just-This was the closest to and Hannah wasn't picking up her phone-”
“Whoa, no. What? No. Why are you apologizing?” Logan quickly cut in, sitting down beside you again carefully to not hit your leg. “Hey, you're okay. You're family. You're staying. You guys.” Logan addressed the other two frozen near the doorway. “Shut the door. Lock it. Get ready in the kitchen or whatever. Go.” He sent a stern look that you didn't notice because you were burying yourself in the couch, maybe trying to hide from embarrassment.
Logan shifted beside you, blocking your view of Dean for a fraction of a second as he gently reached out, his hand hovering over your shoulder before lightly resting there to ground you. “Hey,” Logan murmured, his voice dropping into that rare, fiercely protective brotherly tone. “Look at me. Ignore them. You have absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about, okay? None of this is on you.”
You didn't look up, keeping your chin tucked against your chest, but you could hear the heavy, deliberate sound of footsteps crossing the hardwood.
Dean didn't listen to Logan's order to stay back. He couldn't.
He approached the couch slowly, any joy from being on a night out with his best friend gone as soon as he saw your situation. When he reached the edge of the sofa, he dropped heavily to his knees right in front of you, his large frame instantly cutting off the rest of the room.
“Get the first-aid kit from the bathroom, Logan,” Dean commanded. “Hi.” He tried to smile a little through the rage burning inside of his chest.
Logan glanced at his friend, saw the rigid tension in his shoulders, and nodded once. He squeezed your shoulder one last time before standing up.
The moment Logan left, the space between you and Dean felt suffocatingly small. He didn't touch you yet—his hands were hovering inches from your scraped arm, trembling so violently he had to ball them into fists to stop it. He was staring at your split lip, his jaw clenching so hard the muscles in his cheek ticked.
“Look at me,” Dean begged softly, the terrifying edge in his voice cracking to reveal something agonizingly fragile. He leaned closer, trying to catch your downcast gaze. “Please. Look at me.”
You slowly lifted your head, your vision slightly blurred by the threat of fresh tears. The moment your eyes met his, the sheer intensity in his gaze almost made you look away again.
“I didn't know where else to go. I didn't want to be alone.”
Dean inhaled sharply. “Here. You come here. Anytime. Anyday. You know that.” He paused, assessing your ankle. It was swollen. “Can I see that?”
You nodded weakly, swallowing down another sob as you slowly shifted your leg on the cushions. The movement sent a sharp flare of pain straight up to your knee, causing you to hiss through your teeth and instinctively grip the fabric of Dean’s shirt.
"I know, I know. I've got you,” Dean murmured instantly, helping you shift.
He didn't touch the joint itself—he knew better than to aggravate it—but he lightly pressed his fingers against the top of your foot and then the back of your heel, checking your circulation with practiced, steady pressure.
“Can you wiggle your toes for me?” Dean asked softly, his eyes lifting to meet yours, searching your face to gauge your pain.
You tried, gritting your teeth as you forced a tiny, trembling movement out of your foot. A sharp ache rippled through your ankle, but you managed it.
“Good. That's good,” Dean breathed, a fraction of the tension leaving his shoulders, though his expression remained incredibly grim. He glanced up at an incredibly awkward Beau over his shoulder. “It’s a bad sprain, maybe a hairline fracture from the impact. Grab an ice pack from the freezer. Wrap it in a clean dish towel. We need to get the swelling down before we can even think about moving her again.”
“On it,” Beau said immediately, turning away to do what he was told. Happy that he had something to do.
Right as Beau vanished into the kitchen, Logan hurried back into the living room, holding the plastic first-aid kit. He looked flustered, his hair a little messy from running his hands through it, but his focus was entirely on getting you what you needed. He set the box down on the coffee table with a soft rattle.
Dean immediately reached inside, his large hands finding the bottle of antiseptic and a pack of sterile gauze.
“I'm going to clean the scrape on your arm first, okay?” he whispered, his eyes locking onto yours with total seriousness. “It's going to sting a little bit. You can hold onto me as tight as you need to.”
You nodded in agreement, resting back against the cushions and closing your eyes for a second. Your body finally letting go of the fight-or-flight response, the familiar warmth of the apartment and the low rumble of the boys' voices signaling to your brain that you were finally in a safe environment.
A heavy, exhausted sigh escaped you, and despite the throbbing in your ankle, a tiny, weak smile tugged at the corner of your mouth—wincing slightly as it pulled at your split lip.
You opened your eyes and looked up at Logan, trying to inject a little bit of normalcy into the heavy air. “You're all dressed up,” you murmured, your voice a tired rasp. “You're probably incredibly late because of me. Go get your girl, John. I'll be fine. Thank you. And sorry for keeping you.”
Logan hesitated, shifting his weight from one shoe to the other. He looked down at his green button-down, then at you, clearly torn. “I'm not just going to walk out on you when you look like you wrestled an entire hockey team,” he muttered, though there was an anxious twitch in his jaw. What the fuck happened? Who did he have to kill?
Dean, who had been tearing open a packet of sterile gauze, paused. He lifted his head and exchanged a silent, heavy look with Logan. An unspoken understanding traveled between the two of them. I've got her, Dean’s eyes said. Go.
Logan caught the look and slowly let out a breath, his shoulders dropping. “Alright,” he said softly, reaching down to gently pat your uninjured shoulder. “But if you need anything—anything at all—you make this idiot call me, okay?”
“I will,” you promised with a small smile.
As Logan turned to grab his keys and phone from the entryway table, Beau walked back into the living room, holding a bag of frozen peas wrapped tightly in a clean checkered dish towel.
He handed it to Dean, still looking a bit like a ghost had walked into the room.
Dean took the ice pack, his focus instantly narrowing back down to you. He knelt closer, his thigh pressing against the edge of the couch as he adjusted enough to make you as comfortable as possible.
“Alright,” Dean whispered, uncapping the bottle of antiseptic. He gently took your hand, supporting your forearm with his palm. “Breathe through it. Grip my shoulder if it hurts. And Beau?”
“Here, man. Do you need-”
“Can you go do literally anything else?”
Beau blinked, his hands flying up in a defensive, half-surrendered gesture. “Yep. Loud and clear.” He pointed upstairs. “I'm gonna go check out Garret's… stuff? Yeah.”
The second the antiseptic-soaked gauze touched the raw, gravel-torn skin of your forearm, a sharp, white-hot sting flared through your arm. You hissed, your eyes squeezing shut as your fingers clamped down hard on his shoulder, pulling him closer.
Dean didn't flinch. He absorbed the pressure of your grip, his voice a low, rhythmic murmur against the quiet of the room. “I know, I know. Breathe. You're doing great. Just a little more.”
A ragged, choking sound tore from your throat, and then the tears just came, uncontrollable. You let go of his shoulder to press your uninjured hand over your eyes, your chest heaving as the ugly, suffocating truth crashed down on you.
Again. You had done this again. You had let the texts pull you back into the orbit, you had ignored your friends, you had shut out the one person who actually cared, and you had ended up bleeding on a couch because you couldn't just walk away the first time.
“Hey, hey... look at me,” Dean pleaded, his voice laced with instant panic as he shifted closer, his large hands coming up to gently try and pry your fingers away from your face. “Is it the arm? Did I press too hard? Talk to me.”
“You're not gonna tell me I told you so?” you sobbed out, the words muffled and broken against your palm. You forced your hand down, staring at him through a blur of tears, your split lip trembling. “Because you did. Multiple times, Dean. Months ago, this week, two nights ago at Malone's... you told me. How can I be this stupid?”
“Stop,” Dean shook his head, his voice dropping into a firm, grounding register that cut right through your spiraling thoughts. He moved until his knees were pressed hard against the edge of the sofa, forcing you to look at him. He carefully reached up and took your uninjured hand, squeezing it so tightly you could feel the frantic, heavy thud of his pulse. “Look at me. I am not saying that to you. Not tonight. Not ever.”
“But it's true,” you choked out, a fresh wave of tears spilling over your lashes, making his face blur in front of you. “You were finally done with my bullshit. I saw you walk away at Malone's. I brought this on myself. If I had listened—”
“You didn't bring a damn thing on yourself,” Dean interrupted fiercely, his voice cracking. There was nothing he hated more than seeing you like that.
He leaned closer, his chest heaving with a ragged breath as his eyes locked onto yours with an absolute, unwavering intensity. “You got caught in a trap by a guy who knows exactly what buttons to push because he’s spent years building them. That is not on you. You hear me? That is on him.”
"And I wasn't done with you," he whispered, his thumb brushing over the soft skin of your wrist. "I was hurt. I was being a selfish asshole because I hate seeing him occupy space in your head when I'm standing right in front of you. But I am never, ever done with you. Do you hear me?”
“You could call me at three in the morning, you could ruin every single plan I have, you could jump out of a hundred moving cars, and I will always be the one waiting at the door for you. Don't you ever call yourself stupid for trying to handle a monster on your own.”
Slowly, you let your forehead sink forward until it rested against his shoulder, burying your face in the familiar scent of his jacket. Another ragged sob shook your frame, but this time, it felt like a release.
“I'm sorry,” you whispered into the fabric, your voice small and completely spent. “I'm so sorry, Dean.”
“Stop apologizing.” He wrapped his arms around you securely, pulling you into his chest in a way that made you feel completely invisible to the outside world. He buried his face in your hair, his chest heaving as he took a deep, shaky breath. “You're here. You're safe. That's the only thing that matters right now.” And he was telling that to himself too. He didn't know what he would do if you hadn't gotten out of that car.
You hadn't meant to close your eyes, but the safety of his presence was an overwhelming gravity. Your head lolled to the side, settling into the crook of his shoulder, and within minutes, sleep had claimed you.
Dean sat unmoving for a long time, watching the tension finally bleed out of your face. He carefully slid his arm out from under you, wincing slightly as he tried not to jar your injured leg.
“Hey, angel,” he mumbled softly. “Let's get you into bed.”
You didn't answer, only letting out a soft, faint sigh. Moving with agonizing care, Dean slipped one large arm beneath your shoulders and the other under your knees, lifting you from the couch. He held you tight against his chest, hyper-aware of the slight wince that crossed your features as your swollen ankle shifted, but you didn't wake up. You just instinctively buried your face into his neck, your hands weakly clutching at the collar of his shirt.
Dean used his foot to gently nudge the door shut behind him before walking over to the bed. He pulled back the heavy comforter with one hand, then lowered you onto the mattress. He didn't move away immediately. He stayed bent over you, carefully adjusting the pillows beneath your head and lifting your injured leg to rest on a rolled-up blanket he’d grabbed from the closet, keeping the ankle elevated.
As he pulled the covers up to your chin, his thumb lightly brushed a stray lock of hair away from your forehead. He stared down at your sleeping face, the faint outline of the bandage on your arm and the split on your lip still visible.
The what-ifs didn't just leave his head the entire night. He stayed on the couch downstairs, laid on his back, staring up at the dark ceiling, one arm slung over his eyes to block out the world. He knew he wouldn't really sleep, not in case you needed anything.
Your ex better be fucking ready for the payback that was coming for him.
✮ Dean has an obsession with leaving hickeys on you !
the first thing dean does is pin you against the door of his room, his body a wall of heat and smug intent. that signature smirk curves across his lips as his hands find your hips, thumbs digging into the sharp jut of bone.
"y’know what happens now, don't ya?"
he doesn't wait for an answer.
his mouth is already on your neck, hot and wet, tongue tracing your pulse point before his teeth graze the skin.
you gasp and he chuckles against your throat in response, the vibration sending a shiver down your spine. his hands slide up your sides, pushing your shirt out of the way until your collarbone is bare. he doesn't waste time. he sucks hard, a purposeful, possessive pull that stings and aches in the best way. he pulls back just enough to admire the dark bloom spreading across your skin, his thumb rubbing over it with a satisfied hum.
"gonna mark you up so everyone knows." he murmurs, already diving lower. his lips find the curve of your shoulder, the hollow above your chest – he's methodical, leaving a trail of bruises in his wake. each one is a claim. his teeth scrape, his tongue soothes, and then he's sucking again, harder this time, until you're squirming under the pressure.
he pulls back to look at his work, eyes dark and half-lidded, that same infuriating smirk plastered on his face. "you like that, don't you?" he doesn't need an answer.
he knows.
by the time he gets you on the bed, you're covered in hickeys. there's a deep red mark just below your jaw, one on the slope of your neck, a bite on the curve of your shoulder, another on the inside of your wrist where he'd pinned you down just moments ago. he's trailing his mouth down your stomach now, pausing to bite at your hipbone, leaving a fresh bruise that he laps at with his tongue.
"deeean," you whine, and he looks up at you through his lashes, smug as sin.
"one more" he says, like he's doing you a favor. his mouth closes over the soft skin of your inner thigh. he takes his time, sucking slow and deliberate, making sure it's deep. when he finally pulls away, he grins at the dark, angry mark he's left behind.
"perfect" he purrs, and then he's on top of you again, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his lips finding a fresh spot on your body to ruin.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
The way Shawn Hatosy's face lights up when he talks about doing this for women. The little furrow in his brow as he explains stepping into this highly criticized environment, with intention, and doing it for women. And then his whole face lights up.
Shawn Hatosy loves women, and you can clearly see it. 👏👏👏
I am so happy to exist in a world and time where this wonderful man is willingly stepping into this space, bringing awareness and sex positivity to women and their desires. Thank 👏 you 👏 Shawn 👏 Hatosy 👏
synopsis: you're furious after finding out that a baby girl was dropped off in the ER, so you take it upon yourself to take care of her for the day. Jack, noticing your closeness, decides to confront you about a very touchy subject.
contains: angst, hurt/comfort, depictions of trauma, mentions of MSF, discussion about infertility, mentions of Robby, motherhood, mentions of wars, manipulation but in a good way, Jack Abbot loves his wife.
note: thank you so much to the anon who pointed this out for me!! you know who you are and I hope that your pillow is cold on both sides! comment your thoughts!!!
You’ve seen a lot of things in your career as a doctor.
Deglovings, c-sections, amputations.
The emergency room was wild and unexpected, and so was the world of obstetrics. Over the years, you had grown a second skin while on the job. A second skin that could only be destroyed by a few people.
You’ve never had to deal with a baby in the bathroom stall of your department.
Who would throw out a perfectly good baby?
What pissed you off the most was the fact that they didn’t even call you in for the baby. They just called you in for an emergency birth.
You weren’t really expecting your husband to be here. He was supposed to be in SWAT. But you weren’t going to complain when he wore those sexy camo pants.
You had just finished with Ms. Richards’ birth, urging the new nurse, Emma, to call over the father as you walked out of the trauma room, snapping your gloves off.
You watched as Joy diligently called out the triage board, giving her an encouraging thumbs up while passing by.
“Dr. Abbot.” You turned at the name, almost second nature now. Dr. Al-Hashimi walked up to you, staying at your side as you two walked around the department.
You smiled at her appearance. “Hey, Baran. What’s up?” You asked.
You and Baran had known each other for a while now. You had worked at the VA for a while after your wedding with Jack, and you two had a pretty stable friendship. You were the one who recommended her to Gloria as the new attending for the day shift. You felt that the place needed a bit of a woman’s touch.
“Now, I know that you’re an emergency OBGYN, but I need your help with something. A baby got dropped off this morning.”
You paused at that, looking into her deep brown eyes in surprise. “You’re kidding.”
Baran shook her head, lips in a sad smile. “Nope, we have our little Baby Jane Doe in PEDS. Dana’s name, not mine.”
You sighed at that, walking over to PEDS. “I mean…Yeah, I’ll do it. You should’ve called me sooner, Baran.” You scolded softly, watching her dip her head down slightly.
You opened the door, lips in a small pout as you saw the little baby in the radiant warmer.
“Hey there, princess.” You cooed, picking her up with a soft smile.
She babbled, shivering slightly as she leaned into your touch.
Baran cleared her throat, looking at you with the baby. “Dr. Robinavitch is…”
“A dick?” You proposed, rubbing the girl’s back as she huffed.
Baran raised her eyebrows. “Very possessive of his ER.” She answered with a slight smirk.
You cackled, throwing your back. “Michael can be annoying. Especially now. It’s…unusual for him to be so…rough.” You tried to explain. “You tell me if he gives you any problems. It’s his last day here but he’s basically my brother in law, I can figure a punishment out.”
Baran sighed in relief, thanking you before leaving.
The silence was comforting, filled with the small grunts of the baby.
Your heart ached at the ball of warmth that grew between your lungs. The tremors tried to creep back in, but you ignored them, focusing instead on the sheer oxytocin that pumped through your veins.
You rarely held babies. Not for a lack of trying. You basically babysat every baby in your family since you were a teenager. Into adulthood, you saw all your friends have babies.
You saw the joy that marred their features when they held what they created. And you couldn’t help but look from the sidelines.
You even babysat Baran’s boy when he was a toddler while they sorted out the divorce. It was human nature to help out a mother in need.
You took a deep breath, humming a soft lullaby to Baby Jane Doe.
40% percent chance. That’s what the gynecologist said after the surgery. Your chances of having babies dropped to forty after what happened in Afghanistan.
Jack had promised you that he would do anything you’d ask. He never gave up. He knew that you could do it despite the odds. But you never ended up pregnant.
It wasn’t like you two were trying right now, but still.
The smell of a baby was hard to replicate, but you couldn't mourn what you never had.
That had been your mantra ever since.
The door swinging open signified the entrance of staff, and you put back your armour instinctively before looking up.
Jack sauntered in, noticing your tense frame, and sighed. “Hey, baby.” He called out, closing the door behind him and glancing at Emma over at the station, giving her a small nod as if to say ‘make sure nobody goes inside.’
You sighed as you realized it was your husband, loosening your hold on Baby Jane Doe.
You smiled hesitantly, tilting your head slightly so he could place a kiss on your cheek.
Jack closed his eyes as he did so, leaning closer to you than usual.
His strong hands, ones that just earlier performed a tracheostomy, rested under your bra, thumb running over the edge of it.
You couldn't help but grin at his touch, carefully going over to put the baby girl back in the radiant warmer.
Jack’s hands didn’t leave you, instead dragging down to your waist and crossing his arms at hips, bringing you into his chest.
The ache in his muscles sat heavy now that the adrenaline of the SWAT emergency passed, his stump hurting more now.
He should’ve listened to you when you told him to put on an extra liner patch. But he didn’t want to think about that right now, not when he finally had you in his arms.
He rested his head on your shoulder blade, nose resting in your hair as he slowly rocked you from side to side, as if dancing incredibly slow.
“What are you thinking about, my beautiful wife?” He asked with a slight rasp.
You pursed your lips at that, looking down at Baby Jane Doe as she slept.
“She’s cute.” You noted gently.
There it was. Jack knew that you were acting weirdly, ever since you came in. When you were married to the same person for almost twenty years, you knew their tells by heart.
The wrinkle that appeared between your brows, your clammy hands and the constant fidgeting meant that you were anxious.
Now, Jack had three ways of curing that. Number one- physical touch always seemed to relax you, and he was more than happy to be used as a weighted blanket for you. Two- Simply ask. Not fix, just ask what’s up. Even if you didn’t answer the question, what you said always pointed him to the truth. And three- try to present a solution without trying to fix the problem.
Jack knew he was a genius when it came to you. He really should share some of his relationship wisdom with Robby.
“You like her?” He asked softly and you nodded, eyes glued to the warmer. He raised his eyebrow, lips turning into a soft smile.
“I like her too. She threw up on Robby earlier.” You let out a snort, tilting your head so it rested against his.
“Do you think we could..?” You dropped the question as Jack let out a soft hum.
“Protocol orders that we keep her here for twelve hours until any papers start coming.” He explained gently, assertive yet calm enough that it almost sounded like a question.
You nodded at that, resting your hands over his. “It…it wouldn’t be the first time we fostered. Maybe we could keep her for a while?”
Jack smiled, his chest warming at your hopeful tone. He sat up straighter, pressing a kiss to your nape. “That sounds like a great plan, baby. I love you. And I think our little Jane Doe will do you some good. And it will do me some good watching you take care of somebody else. Lets me get more reckless.”
You snorted, tilting your head to press a kiss against his jaw. “In your dreams Dr. Abbot.”
Summary: You didn’t know an abandoned baby was going to lead to a conversation about the future. God, you guys had only started dating a couple of months ago!
Content Warning: Fluff. Kissing. Explicit language. Discussion of your relationship. Secret relationship. Kissing.
Word Count: 1.2k
A/N: You are telling me I woke up at 3am and didn’t write smut? What is this world coming to?
AO3 Link
You both hear Dana at the same time, as she walks around asking the staff about kinship adoption for baby Jane Doe.
Your eyes stay glued to the computer screen in front of you as you chart on your patient, but you feel Jack's eyes on you, the stare like a brand on your skin. You both had agreed to keep your relationship under wraps for now as you had only been dating a couple of months.
You slowly drag your eyes away from the screen in front of you, finding Jack's in an instant. He gives you a ‘we could totally handle a baby’ look.
It stops you in your tracks, your face reacting before your mind has a moment to catch up. The confusion and bewilderment is clear on your face. ‘Absolutely not’ you shoot back at him with your eyes. God damn, you guys had just started dating essentially. He was already thinking about kids?
You jerk your head towards the supply room, motion telling him to follow you, as you log out of the computer and make your way there.
As soon as the door closes behind you, you turn to face him, finger pointed at him. “No! Get that look off your face, Mr. I-like-to-volunteer-with-the-SWAT-team-in-my-spare-time. We are not adopting a baby.”
His smirk is both infuriating and incredibly hot. “I didn't say—”
“You were thinking about it! You think I don't know you? I know you like—”
“What am I thinking right now?” He interrupts you.
“What?” You ask, his question throwing you off your train of thought.
“Tell me. What am I thinking right now?” He crosses his arms, waiting for you to answer him.
You rub your hand over your face, sputtering. “You are thinking that we could take care of a baby! Jack, we just started dating! We don't even live together!”
“Is that such a bad thing? That I think we could handle it?”
You chew the inside of your cheek when someone comes into the supply room, cutting off your conversation. “Dr. Abbott, they need you in trauma one. Another firework wound. Fifteen year old male with open wounds on his face and neck.”
He leaves you in the supply room, your mind still on the abandoned baby and the state of your relationship. You were dating a psychopath. That was the only explanation. A crazy, hot, super smart, sarcastic psychopath.
He finds you later in the room with the baby, bouncing lightly on your feet with the infant in your arms. You didn't even hear him come in as you whisper to the child. “And he is crazy. Even if he is the best person I've ever dated. Batshit crazy.”
He smiles, leaning against the wall, taking in the sight in front of him, as it melts his heart. One day you were going to make a wonderful mother. Make him a father if he has anything to say in the matter. The baby babbles back like she understood every word. Pushing off the wall, he says softly, hands in his pockets. “I'm not sure you should be cussing in front of the baby. You are making me rethink if we could handle this.”
Your body jolts, your grip tightening in the infant. “Jack, you scared me. You need to start wearing a bell. And we were having girl talk. You wouldn't understand.”
He chuckles, pushing himself off the wall to stand behind you, looking over your shoulder, down at the baby. “Girl talk? You are telling her I am crazy.”
You incline your head to look at him. “Am I telling her lies?”
His hand finds your waist, squeezing gently. “She is supposed to figure it out on her own.”
You scoff, looking at the baby as she stares to drift off to sleep. She really is adorable. “Jack. This isn't like adopting a pet. This is a life changing decision.”
He nods in agreement. “Definitely.”
“We would be stuck together for eighteen years.”
“Good thing when I think about the future, you are all I see.”
You set the baby down in the warmer. There is no way you heard him right. “What did you just say?”
Jack pulls you in front of him. “When I think about tomorrow, you are there. When I think about next week, you are there. A year from now? Five years from now? Sweetheart, you are still the one I picture with me. Waking up next to me. Complaining about how much coffee I drink and that I left my socks on the floor.”
He steps closer, fingers brushing away a strand of hair that had fallen in your face, fingers lingering on your cheek. “Ever since my wife died, I didn't want to think about my future for a long time. It felt like I was treading water just trying to get through each day. But now? You have given me a future I didn't think I would get to have again…and now I'm praying I'm not scaring you off by saying all that.”
Your hands reach for his face before you can think about how bad of an idea it is to be kissing him at your place of work, lips crashing together, both gentle and desperate. Your fingers tangle in his soft, short, gray locks as his arms wrap around you, bringing you closer, so there isn't an inch between the two of you.
When you finally pull back, you smile at him. “I guess I didn't realize how serious you were about me.”
He smirks down at you. “Since when do you think I do things half way?”
You scoff and he kisses you again, slower this time. Like you both have all the time in the world. Like you aren't in the emergency department of PTMC on the evening of the fourth of July. Arguably one of the busiest nights in every hospital in the United States of America.
“You are crazy.”
“Crazy for you.” He counters, and you roll your eyes in response.
“Are you really asking me to move in and foster a baby with you? After dating for three months?” You whisper, your hands having found their way to rest on his chest.
He glances back at the baby, asleep behind the two of you. “When you say it like that it sounds crazy.”
“No shit.”
“I take it back. You keep cussing around the baby. Clearly, this isn't the environment I want her to be raised in.” He teases.
You slap his chest playfully. “Says the man who curses more than me.”
“She would have no chance between the two of us, huh?” He whispers, his fingers slipping underneath the hem of your scrub top, rubbing against the skin of your waist. “Okay. Maybe we won't adopt the baby. But maybe you should try moving in?”
You bite your lip. “Can I think about it?”
“Of course. Take all the time you need.” He murmurs. “But you stay at my place at least three to four days a week, already…just saying. Practically halfway there.”
The sound of the door opening has the two of you jumping away from each other. Dana pokes her head in, eyes suspicious as she looks between you and Jack. “How is baby Jane Doe?”
“Asleep.” You squeak.
“Then get your asses back out here. There is plenty of work to do!” She chastises.
“Yes, ma'am.” You say, saluting her as you move past Jack out into the chaotic mess you call work, leaving Dana and Jack alone.
“You gonna marry that girl?” Dana asks point blank, looking up at the older attending.
Jack just watches you as you go into a patient room. “You have no idea.”
Warnings: heavy angst, MDNI!!! domestic violence, medical trauma, injuries, physical assault, abuse aftermath, self-blame, panic attacks, PTSD, guilt, slow burn
! comfort ending cause reader's feelings are sad enough can someone kill her ex pls
Summary: After surviving a brutal attack by an abusive ex, you awake to a dangerous and desolate world. Jack struggles with guilt over the signs he missed but he realizes he can offer you a safe place.
Part two of hidden bruises
Jack hadn't moved from the chair for hours. He was still wearing his blood stained scrubs, the dark patches now stiff against his skin. His eyes were fixed on the monitor above your head, watching the green line of your heart rate as if his own pulse depended on its.
Tucked under the sheets of the ICU, you looked like a broken doll glued back together.
"Police is at his house. He’s gone." Robby said quietly, leaning against the doorframe. "We pressed charges. Lena and a few nurses are testifing, you should too."
Jack didn't look up. "I let her walk out," Jack whispered, his voice heavy with a guilt that would never leave him. "Every morning. I watched her get into that car."
"You couldn't have forced her to leave him, Jack."
"I saw her a week ago. I saw him grab her. I saw the fear in her eyes and I let her tell me it was fine because I didn't want to overstep."
"You’re her attending, not her bodyguard," Robby countered gently.
"I’m a doctor," Jack snapped. "I’m trained to see the signs of a failing system. I saw her fading. I saw the isolation, the excuses, the change in her performance. And I didn't report it. I didn't call it in."
Jack leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands. "She had a bus ticket," Jack whispered into his palms. "It fell out of her pocket in Trauma 1. A ticket to her mom's town. I think she was trying to leave. She finally found the courage to run and that fucker tried to kill her."
Jack looked at your hand. It was swollen, the knuckles bruised where you must have tried to shield your face.
"I told her I couldn't help her if she didn't let me," Jack said, a lone tear finally escaping. "But I was wrong. I should have helped her even when she fought me."
He let his hand rest over yours, his thumb tracing the only patch of skin that wasn't purpled by trauma.
"Please wake up," he whispered, looking at your closed eyes, his voice cracking. "Wake up and finish your residency. Or take that bus ticket. Go wherever you want, doll. Just don't leave me with the silence of this room. I can't handle this silence."
-
For you, there was no light at the end of a tunnel, only the sudden intrusion of reality. You were ripped from the darkness by a sensation of suffocation. You tried to take a breath but your lungs refused to cooperate. Instead of air, you were met with an uncomfortable tube forcing its way down your throat.
Panic surged through you. You tried to scream but the tube made it impossible, only a gagging sound escaped. Your hands moved desesperatly with no direction, the pain in your chest was blinding, it felt like fire, but your mental terror was worse.
Where were you? Why was so dark? Where was he? He’s gonna attack you. He’s in the room. You could feel his presence coming to hurt you. To end what he started.
Every monitor in room began to shriek.
The line of your heart rate spiked, jumping into a frantic one.
"She's waking up! Get a sedative!"
"She’s going to tear the tube out!"
You couldn't see clearly but you saw shapes moving. You reached for whoever was over you, your fingers twitching, your mind screaming for someone to pull the thing in your throat out, to let you breathe, to save you but the hands that pinned your shoulders to the bed weren't gentle.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart, you have to stay still," you swear to God that you heard Jack’s voice talk to you but it sounded like it was coming from miles away.
A rush of cold fluid hit your veins and the world began to tilt. The last thing you saw before the darkness reclaimed you was Jack’s face.
When you woke the second time, the world felt softer. The tube was gone. Your throat felt raw as if you’d swallowed acid and every breath felt like inhaling shards of glass.
You shifted your hand and, immediately, a chair beside your bed snapped.
Jack was there. He looked like a ghost of the man you worked with, his eyes hollowed out by a exhaustion that twelve hours of sleep wouldn't fix. He stood up slowly and helped you to sit.
"Hey," he whispered. "Easy. Take it easy."
You tried to speak but your throat locked. You just stared at him, your gaze searching his face, looking for a safety you’d been searching for days. He took a glass of water from the hospital table and gave you some through a straw.
"You’re at ICU," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "You’ve been... you’ve been through a lot. You’re safe, I promise you. He’s not here."
The mention of he triggered a tremor. The memory hit you with violence. You felt the grip of his hands. You remembered the pressure of his fingers winding into your hair, the sharp jerk of your head back and the hollow pain of his boots against your ribs.
You checked the room, making sure nobody was there to hurt you.
"Do you remember what happened? He did this, didn't he?" He asked as soft as he could, trying to ease the panic in your eyes.
"I.. I left him, Jack," you whispered, your voice trembling as the tremor grew into a full body shudder. "I actually did it. I’d been staying at Sarah’s apartment... just two blocks away from here. I thought I was being... careful. I only went back to get my extra pair of scrubs the morning before he appeared."
Jack’s jaw tightened but he stayed silent, letting you speak.
"I bought a ticket," you continued, your eyes fixed on a nondescript point on the room as if you were watching a movie of your own life. "A weekend at my mom’s. To figure out how to fix things and ask her if I was doing the right thing. I thought if I could just get away for a few days to... breathe, he would, I don't know, miss me and be better."
You let out a nervous huff of a laugh that turned into a wince as your fractured ribs protested. "During days, I kept trying to think about what I did wrong. And then he was just... there. Waiting by the side gate. I didn't even see him until he had his hand in my hair. I remember thinking Why is he hitting me? Maybe if I hadn't stayed at Sarah’s? Maybe if I’d just talked to him one more time before leaving? He was always so sensitive about being left behind. He used to say I was the only thing that kept him level."
"He wasn't level," Jack said. "He was a ticking clock and you were just the one holding it."
"But he had such a hard year, Jack," you argued, your mind desperately trying to bridge the gap between the man who bought you flowers on the first date and the man who had just tried to crush your skull. "His dad’s illness, the layoffs... he was just so lost. I thought if I was a better partner, if I was more patient, he wouldn't feel the need to... to lash out. I told him I was going to my mom's and we fought and I end up breaking up with him. Why couldn't he just let me go for the weekend? It was just a few days."
You looked at Jack, begging him for a logical explanation that didn't exist. "Was it because I didn't answer his texts during my last shift? I saw them, but I was in a trauma... I thought he’d understand my job. Do you think that’s what did it? That he thought I was ignoring him?"
Jack’s hand tightened over yours. The warmth of his presence was the only thing keeping you from spiraling into the what-ifs.
"It wasn't the texts," Jack said with protective intensity. "It wasn't the weekend at your mom’s. He did this because he wanted to break what he couldn't control. You’re sitting here trying to excuse him but it’s... a simple logic. He just wanted to hurt you so he could keep breaking you."
You flinched at the words, reality slicing through your denial. You wanted to believe it was a misunderstanding, a terrible explosion of grief and stress. If it was a mistake, it could be fixed. But if it was who he was... then the world was a much scarier place than you were ready to face.
"I just ne- needed a few days to breathe," your thin voice broke as you sobbed, the tears finally overflowing. "I just wanted to come here and work. And- and- and then be with my mom." you hiccuped, letting the sadness overwhelm you. "He di-didn't have to be so cr-cuel... I- I didn't do anything to h-him."
Your heart raced and one of the machines started beeping, making you jump. Jack silenced it and signaled to one of the nurses who appeared in the doorway, indicating that physically, everything was okay. Your state was simply that of someone finally coming to terms with the reality they had long denied.
Jack held your hand while you collapsed, his heart breaking as he was stroking it with his thumb, a comfort as your soul shattered. Tears streamed down your face; you no longer understood why you were crying, if it was from the pain in your ribs or the ache of realizing that the person you loved only wanted to hurt you. But you felt the weight of a year's abuse leave your body.
-
The door creaked open and Lena stood there. Her eyes were fixed on your face, specifically on the way you flinched when you heard a loud sound.
You swallowed hard. "Lena, I—"
"Don't," she cut you off, not out of cruelty, but because she couldn't stomach the excuses. She moved to the side of the bed. "I saw you in the breakroom for months. I saw you checking your reflection in the mirror, trying to see if the makeup covering your bruises was holding." She looked up then. "We all saw it."
"It's not your fault," you whispered.
"It feels like everyone’s fault," Lena snapped. "You were living in a war zone and coming into work to... treat paper cuts and drunk people."
"He's still out there," Lena said, her voice dropping to a whisper that felt like ice. "The cops found his car by the river but not him. Half the night shift is at the station giving statements about every bruise they saw over the last two months."
Jack looked up at her, his jaw tightening. "Lena, stop, she just woke up."
"She needs to know what she's waking up to," Lena countered. "Police is going to ask her questions today. She needs to be ready."
"I know you mean no hurt but, please, leave. Don't make it harder than it is for her." Jack snapped when he saw new tears forming in your eyes.
Lena sighed and left; the door slid shut, leaving you with Jack’s hand caring yours while you cried and fears clouded your mind. He's coming back, he's going to hurt me, he is waiting for me to leave the hospital.
-
You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand but the movement was clumsy and stiff. "I felt... I felt a crack. " You took a breath that sent pain through your side. "When I was on the floor. I felt it when he kicked me."
You looked at him. "Please don't give me a you're safe speech. I've been a resident for two years. I know why my breath feels like this. What’s my diagnosis? The doctor didn't say anything earlier. Just checked my vitals."
Jack’s didn't want to say it. He didn't want to voice the reality of how close he’d come to loose you.
"You have four fractured ribs," he started. "Two were displaced. That’s the crack you felt. It caused a bilateral pneumothorax, your lungs collapsed, which is why we had to intubate you."
You nodded slowly. "And the abdominal pain?"
Jack took a shaky breath, his thumb tracing the back of your hand again, a small gesture of comfort in the middle of the hard data. A gesture that now seemed to calm you both.
"Grade 4 splenic laceration. You were hemorrhaging internally when you walked through those doors. We had to do an emergency splenectomy. You... you lost a lot of blood. I still can't believe you run two block in that state."
His eyes flickering to the bandage on your forehead. "Moderate TBI, along with a deep laceration above your left eye. And..." He stopped, his voice failing him for a second. "And some significant soft tissue damage. You been out for like ten days."
The silence that followed was heavy. It was a trauma sheet for a high speed car wreck, not a night walk to work.
"I almost died, didn't I?" you asked, the words feeling strange.
"You flatlined," Jack said, intertwining his fingers with yours. "We had to shock you three times. I thought… I-" He looked away, his jaw working as he tried to swallow the lump in his throat. You took his face on your unbruised hand and whipped his tear with your tumb.
You felt a fresh wave of tears, caused by the honesty in his voice. You looked at the man who usually demanded perfection completely undone by your fragility.
"Four ribs," you breathed, a small sad smile appearing on your torn lip. "No wonder it hurts to breathe."
-
Days later, the morning of your discharge arrived.
You were sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in an oversized sweatshirt Jack had brought from his own home. It smelled like him. You were staring at the plastic bag containing your personal objects.
A knock at the door made you flinch, a reflex that hadn't left you yet.
"It’s just me," Jack said, pushing the door open. "My car is downstairs. Robby and Lena are, too. They wanted to see you off."
"I don't know where I'm going, Jack," you whispered. "My apartment... the police processed it cause he spend time there but the locks are broken. And Sarah's place... I can't put her in that kind of danger. If he finds out I’m there..."
"You aren't going to Sarah's. And you're sure as hell not going back to your apartment." Jack walked over, taking the bag from your hand and setting it aside. "You’re on medical rest for at least three weeks. You can’t even lift a gallon of milk, let alone run a code."
"I can't go to a hotel. I don't have enough money. And I don't want to distress my mom."
"Stay with me."
You looked up, startled. "What?"
"My place. It’s a secured building. Doorman, cameras, filled up refrigerator," he said, looking nervous. "I have a guest room. You’ll have your own space. I’m out for twelve hour shifts anyway, so you’ll have the quiet you need to heal. But you won't be alone."
"I can't ask you to do that. You've already done too much."
"I'm not asking as your attending," he said as he reached out, he gently tucked a stray hair behind your ear, his touch lingering on the fading yellow bruise near your temple. "I'm asking as... as Jack. I spent days watching you breathe through a tube because I was too afraid to loose you. If I let you go to some anonymous apartment right now, I’m not going to be able to function."
The angst of the last days seemed to pull at the room: the memory of the blood on the floor, the "what-ifs" that haunted your dreams, the tears you couldn't stop.
"But I'm a mess, Jack," you said, your lip trembling. "I wake up screaming. I can't even hear a door slam without shaking."
"Then, we'll be a mess together," he murmured. "I'm the one who talks about arterial repairs in his sleep, remember? We’ll be a pair."
He reached down and took your hand, his thumb tracing the back of it, a gesture that had become a safety thing for you by now. "Let me do this, baby, please. I don't want to be at my place knowing you're out there feeling like you have to hide."
You looked at him and something changed in the way you looked at him.
A new feeling emerged, no longer seeing him as just your attending.
"Okay," you whispered. "Okay. Take me home, Jack."
He just let out a breath of relief, leaning to press a kiss on your temple. One that made the rest of the world, and the shadows waiting in it, feel just a little bit further away.
⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉
(the part where reader tries to understand why he did it broke my heart) (she just wanted her mom) (I cried a little while editing) (bring the tissues)
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"well men are victims of rape too" yess and its absolutely horrible and disgusting so go speak about it!! speak about it first and dont just bring it up when the topic of female victims is being discussed. go spread awareness and help the victims get better if u rlly do care and dont just bring it up to invalidate female rape victims
♡ synopsis: what begins as a good day with a service dog visiting the pitt because it's still in training nearly ends with you being admitted as you spiral during a horrible panic attack outside, due to believing that you're going to soon be without a place to live. until jack rectifies the situation.
♡ content: angst, hurt/comfort, reader has a panic attack, a sweet doggy, jealous robby (i am truly a slut for it), abbot coming to the rescue in every way he can
♡ a/n: requested by @styx03, ty!
A service dog has been brought in by a trainer to grace the Pitt today. A friendly golden retriever with an endlessly wagging tail and shimmering flaxen coat. Its purpose being, you've been told, to aid an individual with chronic anxiety and panic attacks once she's been deemed fit for service. Being an ED, one may wonder why it would be allowed in such a place, hectic as it is. But that's precisely the reason: so she can become accustomed to true chaos, as opposed to that of the simulated kind. Because while such a setting may send its owner into a spiral, Honey—that's her adorable name—will need to otherwise remain vigilant.
A soft paw plants itself atop your lap, causing the corner of your mouth to twitch.
"I'm trying to chart, girl," you say quietly while giving her a scratch on the head.
Once Honey has dropped her paw, your leg goes back to bouncing at the speed of light. Compulsive habit. Like a subconscious tick that can't be helped.
You've only gotten halfway through your current patient's workup before the paw returns.
"Yes," you mutter. "I have anxiety. No one is more aware than I am."
Especially now. Last week saw your world upended when you received a notice from your landlord via email that starting a month from now, your rent is to be raised another $250 more per month. A cost you cannot feasibly pay without plunging your bank account into the negative, which will only serve to harm you further when they proceed to then hit you with an overdraft fee.
You'd tried talking to your landlord over the phone during your break that same day, desperate to stop your downward spiral as you envisioned yourself living out of the back of your vehicle and freezing to death in it come winter, but they wouldn't budge. Not an inch. "Cost of upkeep in this economy" had been the bullshit line they fed you.
So in every spare moment you've had, you've been scouring the internet, and even the damn newspapers, for cheaper apartment postings.
You've found one which is hopeful. Not exactly in the best part of town, but only a hundred more than what you're currently paying now. Yes, you're already on a shoestring budget, and such an extra cost will leave you with no money left over whatsoever after pay day, but at least you'll have four walls and a roof over your head.
Honey lifts her paw, then pats your thigh once more.
You roll your eyes.
You think it sweet that she's here, but her presence beside you is only serving to distract, if not overstimulate. Attempting to concentrate in such loud and busy environs is bad enough, but being continually touched by a panting dog on top of it all is about to see you lock yourself in the women's restroom for a bit of peace and quiet.
"Think somebody is trying to tell you that it's time to take a break," remarks her handler, Joyce. She left Honey with you when she went off to the restroom herself just a moment ago.
"Can barely afford to take our scheduled ones around here," you reply. "Taking an extra just because she wants me to is sort of out of the question. But I appreciate the concern."
You never look up from your desktop when you reply.
Honey lies her head in your lap and you shake your own while biting back a smirk. Something is oddly comical about her behavior. Meanwhile, she probably finds your own perplexing. Or maybe distressing in that she probably feels like she's failing at her job to calm you.
"Sorry," you mumble. "But I really do need to get this done, Honey."
Your chest has grown impossibly tight and the breath in your lungs short. With a weakened grip, you keep your cellphone pressed to your ear. "Please," you choke. "I'm begging you. Time is running out at my current residence and I can't afford—"
"I truly am sorry, miss, but the decision was made by those well above myself."
Your chin wobbles. "I'll be homeless," you whisper. "And if the police decide one day to impound my car because they don't want me living out of it, I'll be on the streets."
From inside the Pitt, Honey sits patiently at Joyce's side—her wagging tail practically sweeping the floor around her as it oscillates from one side to the other. Then her head suddenly turns toward the glass doors which lead to the ambulance bay. She stands at alert, then tugs against her lead.
Joyce glances behind her, but the path between where they stand, and where the doors are located is clear. No patients are currently in the way.
Shrugging, she returns to her conversation with Javadi.
Honey tugs again in earnest, then barks.
Robby swiftly exits the exam room he's only just relocated a patient to and shakes his head while converging on Joyce. "Uh huh. We can't have any of that. PTMC is doing you a favor by letting you bring her here today, but—"
Joyce narrows her eyes at the glass doors, ignoring his directives to remove Honey from the ED before she causes a scene. Nodding her head toward them, she turns to him. "I'm going to check if someone is out there. She's after something."
"Probably dinner," Santos mutters from behind the nurse's station.
Barely dodging a supply cart, Jack wraps his stethoscope around his neck, speaking to Robby as he steps past. "130/95. Diastolic especially is way too high. He did say tachycardia is normal for him, but I still want to try and get his pulse down, too."
Nodding, Robby jerks his head toward the ambulance bay while pulling on a pair of sterile gloves. "Joyce seems to think somebody's out there. Can you—or just anybody—go and check before that dog eats a hole through the ED's walls?"
"On it," Jack quips while heading that direction.
Clutching at your chest, your phone slips from your grasp and clatters against the ground. Great. What if you just broke the screen? You certainly can't afford that now. You can't afford anything. You're going to be unhoused soon. That is the priority: keeping a roof over your head.
You'll lose your job here when you can no longer afford the gas to get you back and forth from... Whichever Walmart parking lot you decide to camp out in at night, you realize. And if someone breaks into what will be your new makeshift home? Where...where will you keep your belongings that you currently own? Your furniture? It took you years to accumulate it all, only to what? Sell it?
No, no, no. This can't be happening.
You double over and gasp for breath, but none is to be found.
You're having a heart attack! Oh God, how will you pay the bills? You can't let anyone see. It'll pass. It has to—
"Y/N!" Jack shouts, rushing out to meet you. Crouching in front of where you sit atop the half wall outside—balancing only on the balls of his feet—he reaches up and takes your face between his hands, forcing your focus to remain upon him, and him alone. "Tell me where it hurts."
Clutching at your shirt, you pat between your breasts. "Can't breathe," you wheeze.
Swiftly removing his stethoscope from round his neck, Jack situates the apparatus in his ears before pressing the chestpiece to your heart.
You grip his shoulder in an attempt to keep yourself upright and alert. Sweat pours from your forehead while your limbs begin to grow numb and tingly. Just stay conscious, you command yourself.
Draping it back around his neck, Jack returns to keeping a firm hold on you. "Your heartrate is elevated, but I don't hear anything which gives me cause for alarm."
Pushing down on his knees, he stands with a groan before seating himself beside you. Jack swings his leg over the side of the wall before settling a palm against your breastbone and the other at the small of your back. "Honey was starting to lose it in there, so I'm assuming that it's a panic attack. But about what?"
Slapping your hand over his, you dig your nails into the back of his hand. Loosing a ragged gasp, you shake your head. "I'm going to be fucking homeless," you spit, slowly coming back to yourself.
Jack's brows knit together. "What? Are you being evicted, or—"
You shake your head in exasperation. "My landlord is upping the cost of my rent, which I can't afford. I thought—" You fight against an ugly sob which wrestles its way up your constricted throat. "I thought that maybe I had found another apartment, but I just got off the phone with their office. They chose somebody else."
Staring at him through blurry eyes, your hand slips away and plops uselessly into your lap. "I don't...know if I'll be able to keep working here."
Jack rests his hand atop yours, gripping it sternly. "I'm not gonna let that happen."
Rolling your eyes in irritation—not necessarily at him, but rather from the dire situation you now find yourself in, which has surpassed making you panic to instead set your blood to boiling—you stand. "There's nothing you can do," you state while standing and brushing debris from the back of your pants.
You feel as if you skipped a couple steps in the five stages of losing your place of living as you finally accept defeat.
There's something sickly freeing about the thought of it, though: not having an apartment or job or any other form of responsibility to tend to.
Perhaps you've gone off the deep end.
"I have a spare room," Jack says reassuringly while running a calloused hand down your arm. "Only use I've made of it is throwing boxes inside that I should've really taken down to the basement instead."
He grins. "I got lazy. Stopped bothering with going downstairs." Jack shrugs. "Old knees, and with my leg it can be a pain in the ass."
A pang of sympathy spreads through you. "I'm sorry," you whisper. "But I can't. Living with my attending..." It's unthinkable: the prospect of sharing a home and common living spaces with him. Such as a fridge. And a bathroom.
Your eyes flit to his, then immediately away. Oh, do not picture him washing up in a steamy shower. You have bigger fish to fry right now.
"I'm not asking," Jack declares with a shake of his head. "You need a home and I have one to provide. You're going to let me be that for you. End of discussion."
You open your mouth to rebut, until he takes a step forward, crosses his arms, and stands at full height, forcing you to lean your head back to meet his eyes. "Don't argue with me." He jerks his head toward the Pitt. "Get your ass back inside." He smiles softly. "Honey's probably looking for you. Had her worried, you know?"
Lowering your shoulders in defeat—but with an unspoken, blossoming sense of appreciation growing in your chest, superseding the panic you'd felt just moments ago which Jack has now calmed—you obey.
Robby steps forward, flipping the stop switch on the elevator, halting the metal box in its tracks between floors. He waits until the annoying ringing overhead ceases before speaking. "You can't do this, Jack. It's unethical."
Grinding his teeth, Jack counts backwards from ten before replying. "And letting her live out of her car, or on the streets, or under a fucking bridge isn't?" He snaps from over his shoulder.
Robby leans back against the wall to Jack's side and slides his hands in his pockets. "That's not what I'm saying—"
Jack pivots on his heel to face him. "What are you saying then, Robby? Enlighten me."
He raises a brow. He never thought he'd ever see Abbot so testy, and over one of his subordinates, at that. "You're putting yourself at risk of scrutiny. And every time she climbs another rung in this place, everybody is going to assume it's because she's warming your damn bed."
Jack chews the inside of his lip. "What is this really about?"
Robby's brows draw together. "I don't know what you—"
"Ever since I told you, you've been avoiding me. When we do talk it's short—straight to the point. No more bullshitting or—"
"Because I'm trying to do my fucking job, Abbot. I don't always have time to stand around gossiping," he shoots back with vehemence
"Oh, Abbot now, is it?" He pinches the bridge of his nose. "I can't believe we're actually fucking arguing about this," he mumbles before lifting his head again. "This has nothing to do with me and everything to do with the way you feel about her."
Robby opens his mouth to retort, until Jack lifts a hand before slapping it down on his opposite one again. "I see the way you look at her. How you favor her." He chuckles, but it's devoid of humor. "I get it, because I do the same damn thing. It's why I think this entire conversation is stemming from a sense of resentment on your end."
"Resentment?" Robby scoffs with a humorless grin.
"That you didn't go out there instead to check on her. If you had, maybe it'd be your house she's moving into instead."
Robby snaps his mouth shut and glowers at Jack—all but confirming that he's laid bare what Robby has been trying so hard to hide.
He flips the switch back into place, and with a soft jolt, the elevator begins moving again.
Once they've reached the Pitt, Robby brushes past him. "Just trying to look out for you both. But you do what you want."
Standing at the threshold of your new bedroom—Jack even went so far as to give it a fresh new coat of paint; a rather pleasant color which you picked out, in fact—your eyes water.
Jack pads toward you from behind, then wraps his arms around your shoulders, pulling you against him until his chest is flush against your back. "Think we did an alright job?"
You trail your eyes along your newly situated furniture, appreciating the way soft afternoon light streams in from the floor-length window across the room before spilling across your fluffy duvet. You nod softly. "I do."
He gives you a peck on the back of your head, ignoring the way Robby's voice rings true in his head. Ignoring how...his reasons for moving you into his home and fully into his life weren't entirely selfless.
He steps back and releases you before turning to head in the direction of the kitchen. "I get any luckier and one day I'll have you saying that under an entirely different context."
Your brows furrow as you stare at the rug at the foot of your bed, wondering what he could mean— Oh.
Turning and facing the way which he's heading, you stare at his back with wide eyes, stemming from a complete sense of shock. "Wait. What?"
He chuckles while rounding a corner. "You heard me."
synopsis: you do a bar crawl with the night shift as a new couple with jack abbot and he’s concerned about your blood sugar
cw: established relationship (they’ve gone on one off screen date) flirting, reader is being babied by Jack a little if you squint, Ellis and Mateo are here too! Oh mention of cannabis (smoking and being semi high!)
Maybe you’re a little too dressed up for a bar crawl with the night crew, but you couldn’t care less. You’ve got on a red and black patterned slip dress that you’ve hemmed to sit just a couple centimeters under your ass, and cherry red boots on.
You’ve got a dramatic Smokey eye and red lips and a pair of sunglasses that should’ve retired two hours ago, but you can’t bring yourself to care.
You smell like tangerine and tobacco, and your skin glistens from your lotion.
You look hot, and you feel it, especially when you catch Jack’s eyes roving over you like a wolf stalking prey.
You and Ellis have made it a game to see how many free drinks you can get at each bar, and you’re currently on your fifth shot of tequila and your third Long Island Iced Tea.
“I bet you that girl is gonna come up and offer to buy us lemon drops to get your attention.” You’re slurring, but only slightly, and you watch Ellis smile as she sees the girl you’re talking about.
“You’re such a good wing woman,” she says and you smile, beckoning the girl over. She turns to tell her friends something before coming over.
“I try!” It doesn’t take long to chat the girl up between you and Ellis, before you’re sipping a drink and turning your back to Ellis and the girl whose name you learnt is Diana.
As you turn to give them some privacy, you notice Jack stalking towards you with a tray in his hand.
You can’t make out what he’s holding, besides your pretty black bag, but it seems important because he’s walking straight over, not caring who he bumps into.
“Eat something,” he grumbles by your ear as he sets the tray down on the bar counter.
“Where did you get these?” You stare at the chicken strips before picking one up.
“There was a fast food place still open. Eat one, sweetheart.” His hands are shoved into his pocket to stop himself from pulling the strands of hair currently stuck to your glossy lips.
“M’not hungry though. Have you ever heard never to mix food and alcohol? I thought you were old enough to know that at least, Jack.” Your cheeks are hot when you sneak a glance at him and find him fighting a smile.
“You’ve been drinking for the past three hours, princess. Your sugar is through the roof and it’s almost at 360.”
You frown, “How do you know that for sure?”
Even drunk you want to go back and forth with him; Jack could kiss you.
“Your password is your birthday,” you sense some sort of judgement there but you shrug, it’s easy to remember all the time. “Just humor me, yeah?”
His hand falls to the small of your back and he looks at you with those huge green gray eyes and who are you to resist the call of the foggy forest?
“I’m only having one.”
You have three and then pass the rest to him, resigned to sipping your now watered down drink.
“You haven’t said how good I look.” You state it frankly, watching Ellis and the girl from before stalk off to a corner.
Jack scoffs, “You’ve got hickeys up and down your neck, baby. You know how good you look.”
You give him a smile, watching as he drains his beer and his Adam’s Apple works with his swallow.
“Still is nice to hear.”
He shakes his head, leans in close and tucks his nose under your jaw. Pressing a line of kisses there till your earlobe that he takes a nip at. “You smell and look good enough to eat.”
You giggle happily, “I know.” The song changes and you gasp, “Come dance with me? This is my favourite song!”
Jack pushes off the counter immediately.
You don’t last long dancing with just him, Ellis comes to get you, then Mateo, then Walsh and all Jack can do is stand and watch you enjoy yourself with your friends.
You last four songs and then you’re finding him with a drink in your hand and your hair gathered up off your neck.
“I’m so hot,” you whine as you stand in front of him, his hands falling to your thighs. He can’t see, but he can feel the pearls of sweat on your skin. You let him take a tissue to your damp skin, drying you off a little as you sip your drink.
Jack can hear you humming along to the music and though you try to stay still, your hips move slightly to the beat. He needs another date night.
“Tinkerbell!” Your head whips in the direction of your nickname being yelled across the club.
Mateo’s holding something between two fingers and waving you over.
“I’ll be twenty minutes.” You promise to Jack, smearing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. You notice Ellis searching her pockets. “Maybe half an hour.”
Jack nods, kissing your lips properly before letting you go. “Don’t throw up.”
You scoff before walking backwards towards your friends, “You wound me, Abbot.”
He finds all three of you on the curb outside the club 45 minutes later, eyes bloodshot and silent.
“Jackie boy!” You squeal, stubbing the butt of the roll on in the cement. You hold your arms out to him and he joins you, tugging your calves over his thighs when he sits.
Mateo shakes his head, “This is still the weirdest thing ever.”
Ellis nods as she unwraps a stick of gum. “How’d the hottest R3 get stuck with him?”
Jack can feel your skin flush under the compliment. “I’d tell you but you’d never speak to me again.”
You sound so grave as you say it that they all can’t help but laugh. Silence descends again, comfortable and relaxing until you break it with a gasp.
“I have chocolate chip cookie dough in my freezer!”
Mateo laughs and turns to Abbot, “You’ve got about twenty minutes before her munchies actually kick in and you’re stopping at every fast food restaurant for a soft serve ice cream.”
His eyes widen, “Don’t tell me she got you and Ellis driving her around the city for ice cream before.”
You fake offense, “Don’t forget Mel! Mel loves the contact high every then and now.”
Ellis and Mateo laugh, “Now and then, babe.”
You save a hand at them, “Whatever, I just want my cookies.” You look up at Jack with most pathetic puppy dog eyes you can muster.
He turns to Mateo and Parker, “You guys need a ride?”
Ellis shakes her head, “I’m sticking around for a bit.”
You smile, “You’re taking Diana home aren’t you?”
She shrugs as she walks towards the door, “You’re going home with Abbot, what’s the difference?”
She’s got a point there.
You turn to Mateo, “Are you meeting Javadi after?”
He nods, “Heading home to sleep and then go get her. I’ll Uber though, I’d prefer not to get a backseat view of whatever you two get up to.”
Jack scoffs, “Don’t act like a saint. We’d keep it PG.”
Mateo rolls his eyes, “Nobody’s talking about you Abbot.”
You grumble out a weak, “Hey!” Before telling Mateo, “Text me when you get home.”
He nods, “You too, Tinkerbell.”
You salute as you watch him leave to order his Uber, your eyes bleary as you turn to Jack.
“Can we go? I can bake them before the high kicks in if we hurry.”
He pays your thigh before standing and then helping you up.
“Are you having them with milk?” He asks and you pretend to gag as he opens the car door for you.
“Milk is my number one enemy, Jackie boy.”
You say it so gravely he can’t help but laugh as he watches you buckle your seatbelt. “You’re so fucking strange it’s endearing.”
He starts the car and within seconds you’re rattling off every thought that pops into your mind. “Do you think an ice cream sandwich will push the blood sugar over the edge?”
Jack spares you a glance and calculates where your sugar should be mentally, “Not really. All the dancing and the chicken strips should have you at about 200 which is your norm.”
You fist bump, “M’gonna have three ice cream sandwiches.”
You have half of one before the high takes over and you’re mumbling about feeling static behind your eyes and then falling asleep on Jack’s shoulder.
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SUMMARY: When Jack takes you back to his place after the longest night shift, he is quick to warn you about the stubborn rescue dog living with him. However, in a beautiful turn of events, the dog takes a very strong liking to you.
NOTES: Established relationship, clingy rescue dog, mild medical references, cuddling, age gap exists but is not really referenced.
NAVIGATION | PITT MASTERLIST | KO-FI
By the time the shift hands over, you feel wrung out in a way that doesn’t quite show on the surface.
Paediatric emergency has a way of doing that, of leaving you outwardly composed, voice still soft, hands still steady, while something quieter underneath has been stretched thin from hours of being the calmest person in every room. You carry it well. You always have. It’s part of why the kids cling to you, why the parents soften the second you walk in, why even the chaos of the department seems to dip slightly when you’re in the middle of it.
It doesn’t mean it doesn’t get to you.
You’re leaning against the nurses’ station, half-listening to the tail end of handover, when you feel it, that subtle shift in attention that means someone’s looking at you with intent.
You don’t even have to turn to know who it is.
“Long night?” comes a voice beside you, low, familiar, edged with something that always feels a little too observant. You glance up anyway.
Jack looks exactly how he always does at the end of a shift, tired, but controlled, sleeves pushed up, expression unreadable unless you know what to look for. You do, now. Not fully, not perfectly, but enough to notice the slight slack in his posture, the way he’s leaning more into the counter than he was a few hours ago.
“Nothing exploded,” you say lightly. “That’s a win.”
He hums, like he agrees with the sentiment more than the wording. Before he can say anything else, another voice cuts in.
“Oh, that’s adorable.”
You close your eyes briefly. Samira leans in from the other side of the station, grin already forming like she’s been waiting for this exact moment all night. “You’re doing that thing again.”
You don’t even look at her. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“That,” she says, gesturing vaguely between you and Jack. “That thing. The soft voice, the little smiles, the—”
“Samira,” you warn, though there’s no real bite to it.
“You’re flirting,” she finishes anyway, completely unbothered.
Heat creeps up your neck. “I am not.”
“Mm,” she hums, unconvinced. “Sure.”
From somewhere behind her, Santos lets out a quiet laugh, the kind that says she’s been listening the entire time without needing to involve herself until now. “You absolutely are.”
You turn to her, mildly betrayed. “Whose side are you on?”
“Mine,” Santos replies easily. “Which happens to be the correct one.”
Jack exhales quietly beside you, something almost like amusement flickering there, though he doesn’t jump in. He rarely does. He watches. Lets things play out. It makes it worse.
“You’re both ridiculous,” you mutter, turning back to your notes like that’ll somehow save you.
“Robby!” Samira calls suddenly, far too loud for this time of morning.
You freeze. “Oh no—”
Too late.
Robby looks up from across the department, clearly already clocking that tone means trouble. “What?”
“Settle something for us,” she says sweetly.
“Robby, no,” you say immediately.
“Robby, yes,” she continues over you. “Are they flirting?”
There’s a beat. A pause long enough to feel deliberate.
Then Robby looks between the two of you, takes in the space you’re standing in, the way you’ve angled slightly towards each other without realising, the way Jack hasn’t moved away once.
“…painfully obvious,” he says.
You make a small, mortified sound.
“Right. Brilliant. Thank you for that.”
Jack huffs quietly beside you, not quite a laugh, but close enough. You risk a glance at him. He’s looking at you now, properly. There’s something softer there than before.
“Breakfast,” he says, like none of that just happened.
You blink. “…sorry?”
“You eaten?”
You stare at him for half a second, still catching up.
“No,” you admit. “Not unless coffee counts.”
“It doesn’t.”
You almost smile. “Thought so.”
There’s a pause, quieter this time. Less performative. Less watched.
“Come over,” he says, voice lower now, meant just for you. “I’ll make breakfast.”
Your stomach flips. Samira makes a noise that is absolutely going to haunt you later. You ignore her.
“You can cook?” you ask, softer now.
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m not,” you say, even though you are. “Just didn’t picture it.”
“What did you picture?”
You hesitate, then, “Takeaway. Black coffee.”
That gets you a proper reaction this time. A faint, real smile that shifts something in his face you don’t see often.
“Rude.”
“Accurate.”
“Debatable.”
You adjust your bag on your shoulder, suddenly very aware of how much you want to say yes.
“I’d like that,” you admit.
“Good.”
Behind you, Trinity makes a quiet, knowing noise. You pretend not to hear it.
His place is quieter than the hospital in a way that feels almost jarring at first.
No monitors. No distant voices. No constant undercurrent of urgency humming through the walls. Just stillness. Clean, controlled, deliberate.
It fits him.
You step inside, slipping your shoes off automatically, taking a moment to look around while he moves further in.
There’s something grounding about it. Something that makes your shoulders drop just a fraction. Then he stops. Turns back.
“There’s something you need to know.”
You glance up, brows lifting slightly.
“That sounds like a warning.”
“It is.”
You shift your bag off your shoulder. “Alright.”
He exhales, like he’s deciding how serious to make it. “I’ve got a dog,” he says. “Ex-service. Didn’t place well after.”
Your chest softens immediately. “Oh.”
“He’s not great with people,” Jack continues. “Might bark. Might growl. Don’t take it personally.”
“I won’t,” you say gently.
“I mean it,” he adds, a little firmer. “He doesn’t like strangers.”
You tilt your head slightly. “I’m not a stranger.”
Something flickers across his face at that. “Not to me,” he says. “To him, you are.”
You consider that, then nod. “Okay. I’ll let him decide.”
He studies you for a second longer, like he’s trying to predict how this is going to go. Then—
“Buddy,” he calls.
The response is immediate. A bark, sharp and alert, from deeper in the flat.
You still instinctively, pulse picking up just slightly, though you keep your posture loose, non-threatening without even thinking about it. It’s the same instinct you use with nervous children, a soft voice, open hands, and patience.
You hear him before you see him. Then he appears.
Big. Solid. A German Shepherd with the kind of presence that fills the space without needing to move much at all. He stops a few feet away, ears forward, body tense but controlled, eyes locked onto you with sharp, assessing focus.
You don’t move. Don’t speak. Just let him look.
“Easy,” Jack says quietly.
Buddy doesn’t take his eyes off you. You soften your stance slightly, letting your shoulders drop, your hands visible at your sides.
“It’s alright,” you murmur, voice low and warm. “I’m not going to bother you.”
There’s a beat. Another. Then Buddy takes a cautious step forward. You stay exactly where you are. Let him come to you.
He stops just out of reach, nose twitching faintly as he takes you in properly. The silence stretches.
Then, a nudge. Gentle. Right against your hand.
You blink, surprised. “Oh,” you breathe softly.
You lift your hand slowly, giving him time to pull away. He doesn’t. If anything, he leans in further. Your fingers slide into his fur, tentative at first, then more certain when he doesn’t react badly.
“Hi,” you whisper.
Behind you, Jack goes very still. “…you’re joking.”
You glance back at him, a small smile forming despite yourself. “I think he likes me.”
“That’s not my dog,” he runs a hand through his hair, genuinely thrown. “He doesn’t do that.”
Buddy nudges your hand again, more insistently this time. You laugh quietly.
“Alright, I get it.”
It doesn’t stop at cautious acceptance. If anything, it goes in the complete opposite direction.
Within minutes, Buddy has made a very clear and entirely unexpected decision about you, and he commits to it with the kind of certainty that leaves absolutely no room for doubt. He follows you into the kitchen as though it’s his designated role, staying close enough that you can feel the warmth of him at your side, occasionally brushing against your legs just to make sure you’re still there.
You try not to laugh at how insistent he is about it.
“Does he always—” you start, breaking off when Buddy nudges your hand for the third time in as many seconds, pressing his nose against your wrist like he’s reminding you of something important. “—do this?”
Jack is watching the entire thing unfold like he’s witnessing a glitch in reality.
“No,” he says flatly. “He absolutely does not.”
You crouch slightly, giving Buddy what he very clearly wants, your fingers slipping into the thick fur behind his ears. He leans into it instantly, the tension you saw earlier completely gone, replaced with something almost embarrassingly affectionate.
“He’s lovely,” you murmur.
“He’s not,” Jack replies, though there’s no real conviction in it now. “He’s selective. Very selective.”
“Apparently not that selective.”
Buddy presses his head more firmly into your hand as if he’s agreeing with you.
You smile, softer now, and something about the way Jack watches that makes your chest feel a little too full for something so small.
Breakfast becomes slower than either of you planned.
Not in a bad way. Just very stretched out, softened at the edges, shaped more by the quiet ease settling between you than any actual schedule. Jack moves around the kitchen with a familiarity that surprises you, the kind of efficiency that comes from doing something often enough that it doesn’t need thinking about.
You lean against the counter, watching him more than you mean to, still absentmindedly petting Buddy when he nudges for it, which is often.
“You’re staring,” Jack says without looking up.
“I’m observing.”
“Same thing.”
“It’s not,” you argue lightly. “Observing is clinical.”
“Right,” he says. “And this feels clinical to you?”
You hesitate, caught for half a second. “…no.”
He glances at you then, just briefly, but it’s enough to make your stomach flip in that quiet, disorienting way you’re still getting used to around him.
“Thought so.”
You look away first.
By the time the food is actually done, Buddy has firmly decided that wherever you are is where he’s meant to be.
You barely get as far as sitting down before he follows, circling once like he’s figuring out the logistics, then settling with surprising care across your lap. Not tentative anymore. Not cautious. Just certain.
You freeze for a second, more out of surprise than anything else. Then you laugh softly, looking up at Jack.
“Is this allowed?”
He stares at the dog. Then at you. Then back at the dog again, like he’s trying to reconcile the version of Buddy he knows with the one currently draped over you like you’ve always belonged to him.
“Apparently,” he says.
You shake your head slightly, amused, your hand coming up to rest lightly along Buddy’s neck. He lets out a long, contented breath, eyes slipping half-closed as soon as you start moving your fingers through his fur again.
“He’s very convincing.”
“He’s never done that,” Jack mutters, still not quite over it. “Not with anyone.”
You glance at him, something softer settling in your expression.
“Maybe he just needed the right person.”
The words come out quieter than you expect. He hears them anyway. Of course he does. There’s a flicker of something in his expression again, something you don’t quite name, but it lingers longer this time.
Conversation comes easily after that. Easier than it should for something so new.
You talk about the shift, about the cases that stuck with you, the small wins that matter more than they should, the moments that sit heavier than you let on in the middle of it. Jack listens in that same focused way he always does, not interrupting, not filling the space unnecessarily, just there.
When he talks, you listen the same way. It feels balanced. It feels right.
Buddy stays exactly where he is the entire time, occasionally shifting just enough to nudge your hand if you stop moving for too long, like he’s reminding you of your role in all this.
You don’t mind. You don’t think you could stop if you tried.
You forget about time. That’s the problem.
You forget until your phone buzzes faintly from your bag, dragging you back into reality in a way that feels almost abrupt. You glance at it, then immediately regret it. You’ve stayed longer than you meant to. You always do that.
“I should go,” you say quietly, even though the words don’t feel right.
Buddy’s head lifts immediately. Jack’s gaze follows a second later.
“Yeah?”
You nod, though it’s slower this time, less certain.
“I’ve got things to do. Sleep, mostly.”
“You could do that here,” he says, almost absentmindedly.
The words land heavier than he probably intends. You feel it. So does he. There’s a brief pause where neither of you quite knows what to do with that.
“I should—” you start again, softer now, already shifting slightly like you’re preparing to stand.
That’s when Buddy reacts. At first, it’s just a low sound. Not quite a growl. Not quite a warning. Just enough to make you pause.
“Hey,” you murmur gently, hand still resting against him. “It’s alright.”
You try to shift again, slower this time, easing your leg out from under him. He doesn’t move. Instead, he presses more firmly into you, weight settling deliberately like he’s decided this is where he’s staying.
“Buddy,” Jack says, a little more firmly now. The dog ignores him completely.
You huff a quiet, surprised laugh. “I think he disagrees.”
“Buddy,” Jack repeats, sharper this time.
That gets his attention, but only briefly. His gaze flicks to Jack, then back to you, and this time when you try to stand properly, he reacts fully. The growl is clearer now. Low. Protective. Not at you. At the idea of you leaving.
You freeze, caught halfway between standing and sitting, heart doing something strange in your chest.
“Oh.”
Jack stares at him. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Buddy shifts quickly, rising with you, then stepping in front of you like he’s physically blocking your path. His body isn’t aggressive, not in the way it could be, but it’s firm. Intentional.
You don’t push it. You’ve worked with enough anxious children, and enough protective instincts, to know when to pause instead of forcing it.
“Hey,” you murmur softly, crouching slightly so you’re closer to his level. “I’m not going anywhere right this second, alright? Easy, sweet boy.”
His ears flick. The tension eases a fraction. You glance up at Jack, something uncertain creeping in now.
“Is this normal?”
“No,” he says immediately. “None of this is normal.”
You almost laugh, even with the strange knot forming in your chest. “He doesn’t want me to go.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
You try to shift again, slower, testing. Buddy’s reaction is immediate. A sharper growl this time, followed by him catching lightly at your sleeve, not biting, just holding, like he’s physically trying to keep you where you are.
Your breath catches.
“Okay,” you say softly, still calm, even though your pulse has picked up. “Alright, sweetheart, I hear you.”
Jack exhales, running a hand over his face like he’s trying to figure out how this is happening.
“He’s never—” he starts, then stops, clearly abandoning the thought.
You look between them, then back at Buddy, who is now very clearly attached to you in a way that’s not going to resolve quickly.
“I don’t think I’m leaving,” you say, half to yourself.
There’s a pause. Jack looks at you. Really looks this time.
“Good,” he says quietly. The word lands differently than you expect.
Buddy settles again once you stop trying to move away, though this time he stays closer, pressed more firmly against you, like he’s making sure you don’t disappear if he looks away for too long.
You sit back down slowly, letting out a small breath.
“Well,” you murmur, a little dazed. “This is insane.”
Jack huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You’ve broken him.”
“I don’t think I have,” you say softly, glancing down at Buddy, your hand moving instinctively back into his fur. “I think he’s just decided something.”
“What?”
You hesitate.
Then, quieter, “That I’m safe.”
There’s a silence that follows that, heavier than before. Not uncomfortable. Just full. Jack watches you for a long moment, something thoughtful settling into his expression.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “He has.”
Buddy nudges your hand again. Insistent. You smile faintly.
“Alright,” you whisper. “I’m here.”
The shift from you should probably go to you’re clearly not going anywhere happens quietly.
There’s no big conversation about it. No formal decision. Just the slow, undeniable reality of Buddy staying pressed against you like you’re something he’s claimed, and the way neither of you seems particularly willing to disrupt that.
You sit there for a while longer, fingers moving absently through his fur, letting your body come down properly for the first time since the shift ended. The adrenaline has finally worn off, leaving something softer in its place, tired, yes, but calm in a way that feels rare.
Safe. You don’t miss the way Jack watches you during that. Not constantly. Not in a way that feels heavy. Just enough.
“You’re exhausted,” he says eventually. It’s not a question.
You glance up at him, a small, tired smile pulling at your mouth. “So are you.”
“Yeah,” he admits.
There’s a pause, quieter now. Then, “Stay.”
The word lands softly, but there’s something underneath it that makes your chest tighten. You hesitate. Not because you don’t want to. Because you do.
“Are you sure?” you ask, voice a little gentler than before. “I don’t want to—”
“You’re not imposing,” he cuts in, not sharp, just certain. “You’re already here.”
You glance down at Buddy, who has not moved an inch from your side.
“That’s not exactly by choice.”
Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “Still counts.”
You exhale slowly, the last of your resistance softening. “Okay.”
The transition to evening feels seamless. Almost too easy.
Jack disappears briefly into the bedroom, returning with a shirt in his hands, one of his, clearly, larger and softer with wear. He holds it out to you without making a big thing of it.
“For you,” he says simply.
Your chest warms at that in a way you don’t quite know what to do with.
“Thank you.”
You take it, fingers brushing his briefly in the exchange, and something small and electric settles under your skin.
The bathroom light is softer than the rest of the flat, the quiet hum of it a stark contrast to the constant noise you’re used to. You take your time, washing your face, tying your hair back loosely, letting yourself come down fully from the day.
His shirt hangs loosely on you when you pull it on, the fabric soft and faintly carrying his scent, clean, something warmer underneath, something distinctly him.
It settles over you in a way that feels grounding.
You catch your reflection briefly. Pause. There’s something different about the way you look. Softer, maybe. Less guarded. You don’t linger on it.
When you step back out, the apartment is dimmer. Quieter.
Jack’s already settled on the bed, propped up slightly against the headboard, one arm resting loosely at his side. He looks up when you appear, gaze flicking over you in a way that makes your stomach flip again.
Not obvious. Not lingering. Just enough.
“That okay?” he asks, nodding slightly towards the shirt.
You nod. “Yeah. Thank you.”
There’s a brief pause, something unspoken hanging between you again, familiar now in a way that feels less intimidating than it did before.
Then Buddy appears. Of course he does.
He trots straight over like he knows exactly where you are, barely sparing Jack a glance before making a small, pleased noise and jumping up onto the bed with surprising ease.
You laugh softly, shifting slightly to make room.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
He presses into you immediately.
Jack watches, unimpressed.
“Unbelievable.”
You smile, hand already moving through Buddy’s fur again.
“I think he’s the sweetest.”
“Clearly.”
You hesitate for a second before climbing onto the bed properly, settling beside Jack with a little more space than you probably need, still aware of the newness of all this.
He doesn’t comment on it. Doesn’t close the distance. Just lets you choose it.
You notice that. You always notice that.
It makes something in your chest feel steadier.
Buddy, however, has no such reservations.
Within seconds, he’s wedged himself firmly between the two of you, body half-curled against your side, head pressing insistently under your hand until you start petting him again. You laugh quietly.
“I think he’s made his preference clear.”
Jack snorts. “Yeah. Not me.”
You glance at him, amused. “Don’t take it personally.”
“I absolutely am.”
You settle more comfortably after that, shifting slightly so you’re not perched quite so stiffly, your shoulder brushing lightly against Jack’s arm in the process.
He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t react outwardly at all. But you feel the shift. Subtle. Real.
Buddy sighs contentedly between you, like he’s successfully orchestrated exactly what he wanted.
Conversation comes softer now. Slower. Less about the day, more about nothing in particular, small things, half-thoughts, the kind of quiet talking that fills space without needing to prove anything.
At some point, your head tips slightly towards his shoulder without you fully realising. You catch yourself halfway through the movement. Pause. Then decide not to pull away.
He doesn’t comment. Just adjusts slightly, almost imperceptibly, making the position easier for you without making it a thing. Your chest tightens.
Buddy shifts. You think it’s just him getting comfortable again. It’s not.
There’s a low sound. Not loud. Not aggressive. Just pointed. You glance down. He’s looking at Jack.
Jack raises a brow. “Seriously?”
Buddy doesn’t break eye contact. The growl comes again. Slightly clearer this time.
You blink. “Is he—”
“Yeah,” Jack mutters. “He is.”
Buddy nudges at Jack’s arm with his nose. Once. Twice. Then lets out another low, insistent sound.
Jack stares at him. “You’re joking.”
Buddy nudges him again. Harder. You can’t help it, you laugh, soft and surprised, even as your hand stills slightly in his fur.
“I think he wants you to move.”
“I’m not moving,” Jack says flatly.
Buddy growls again. More insistent. Your shoulders shake with quiet laughter now.
“Oh my god.”
Jack exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “This is ridiculous.”
Buddy nudges him again. And again.
Until, “Fine,” Jack mutters, shifting slightly to the side. “Unbelievable.”
The second he moves, Buddy settles properly between you, pressing himself more firmly into your side while still maintaining a clear boundary between the two of you.
You laugh again, softer this time, your fingers slipping back into his fur.
“He’s very protective.”
“He’s very annoying.”
“You love him.”
Jack glances at you. “Yeah.”
The way he says it makes your chest tighten again.
The space between you shifts after that. Not dramatically. Just enough.
Your shoulder stays against his arm. Your head rests more fully now, the hesitation gone. His hand comes up at some point, not quite touching you at first, just hovering briefly before settling lightly at your side.
It’s tentative. Careful. You lean into it. That’s all it takes.
His hand settles properly after that, warm and steady against you, not pulling you closer but not letting you drift away either.
Your breath softens. So does his.
Buddy sighs again. Content.
Like everything is exactly where it should be.
You don’t remember falling asleep. Just the feeling of it, warm, quiet, safe in a way that feels almost unfamiliar. His arm around you. The steady rise and fall of his breathing.
Buddy wedged firmly between you, occasionally shifting just enough to make sure you’re still there.
The last thing you register before sleep fully takes you is Jack’s voice, quieter than you’ve ever heard it.
“Guess you’re staying.”
You smile faintly against his shoulder. “Looks like it.”
