꒰ঌ call me but love ໒꒱

Jack Abbot has the nicest lips you’ve ever kissed. 

And yes, maybe that would sound more profound if you had a wider frame of reference.

What you do have to compare him to amounts to a few teenage makeouts under splintered bleachers, some smattering of questionable judgment calls at frat parties, and then essentially nothing once medical school dragged your life into an alley and shot it dead.

Still. Even a limited sample can yield a clear, uncontestable result, and the result is Jack. 

Jack, whose kisses arrive so confidently, like he has never once doubted where his mouth belongs, golden and fizzing, like champagne left to bloom in the heat of summer while your whole body hitches in open-mouthed amazement just to feel it.

Even now, even when the cool air whispers in through the balcony door and skims over your legs beneath tangled sheets, raising goosebumps in delicate lines along your thighs. 

Jack notices instantly, the faintest smile warning against your lips as he shifts closer, chasing off the chill and dimming everything else until he is all you know.

When he kisses you again, it’s slower, lush and lazy, every nerve in you waking and stretching toward him, and when he pulls back, it’s only far enough that his lips barely graze the corner of your mouth.

Waiting, poised, always right there if you need more.

And you always seem to need more.

“C’mon,” he urges, his voice raspy from sleep, infused with a smugness you’d like to resent — because he knows he’s won this round. “Tell me again how much better I am than everyone else.”

You laugh before he can kiss it back out of you, a warm burst of affection filling in the little space between you.

“Such an ego trip,” you mutter softly. “But, unfortunately for literally every other man on earth, you are kind of ruining the curve here, Dr. Abbot.” 

“That’s what I thought.” 

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling anyway. “See, that confidence really shouldn’t be as attractive as it is —especially since you spent all last night watching Victoria and Samira scout alternatives for me.”

His fingers tense slightly against your waist, pulling you that much closer as his brows lift with genuine offense. “Should I have been worried?”

“Maybe a little,” you tease, unable to help yourself. “They were getting ambitious by the end there.”

He exhales, voice husky and low. “Let them get ambitious. They’ll just have to get used to being disappointed.”

You cant your head to the side and let your lips skim the sharp, firm line of his jaw, feeling the small catch in his breath as it happens.

That tiny lovely moment that reminds you all that swagger is something wonderfully human, something you can touch and affect and undo a little.

“They just don’t know the position’s already been monopolized.” 

“And it’s a position I’m extremely attached to, baby.” His lips twitch as his thumb keeps tracing small circles into your skin. “Although,” he murmurs, “there are a few other positions I’m equally invested in exploring with you.”

“Cheeky.”

The accusation loses most of its force when you can feel the tips of your ears burning.

You don’t wait for him to answer. That would only give him room to keep going, and he is very good at that, good at pressing exactly where you are weakest until you dissolve on contact. 

So you put a hand to him instead and guide him back, trading positions until his shoulders are against the mattress and he is looking up from the pillows.

He lets you do it without a fight (the only way you could manage it), only smiling as he runs his hands along your naked sides in long idle strokes until his palms settle against the valet of your chest.

After that you have to look away. Or rather, down. It’s easier to fold yourself against him than to hold his gaze when it gets like that, open and intent and almost too knowing.

Better to focus on the terrain of him. The freckles and beauty marks and scattered dark points across his skin that your fingers can follow and reorder into something legible. A constellation, naturally. Andromeda before they put her back up in the night sky where everyone could stare and nobody could touch. 

A sudden knock at the door jolts both of you apart, but you barely make it half an inch away from Jack before the door swings open anyway, accompanied by a voice you would recognize in any state of consciousness. 

“Babe, please tell me you’re awake, because we’ve all been dying to hear if you liked that guy from last night. Also, we found his Instagram and —” Victoria’s voice dies on the spot.

You make a tiny, strangled sound of pure horror.

Thankfully, Jack reacts for you, rolling you back into the mattress and yanking the sheet up over your head like that is somehow going to undo the last ten seconds instead of simply turning you into a very obvious person-shaped lump.

Which also doesn’t solve the larger issue, namely that there is a very naked senior attending what is meant to be your bed, in your room.

So much for plausible deniability.

“Oh,” Victoria says. Then, apparently finding that insufficiently expansive: “oh my god.” Beneath the sheet your face goes so hot it feels chemical. “Wow. This is —” She breaks off. You can practically hear the competing impulses at work: decorum on one side, unrestrained glee on the other. “I mean, congratulations, but also wow.”

Jack does not even have the decency to sound flustered. “Thanks.”

You sigh. At this point you’re not sure there’s really anything left to do but surrender gracefully to the smoking ruin of your secret. 

“Would you believe he’s just here for a really, really thorough rounds update?” you ask, peeking out from the sheets with what you feel is a very convincing amount of innocence. 

“On vacation?” she asks flatly. “Wow. Healthcare workers are getting more and more dedicated.”

Jack settles further back against the pillows. “Patient care never stops.”

Victoria presses her lips together tightly. It’s obvious she is fighting for her life not to laugh, and maybe not even fighting that hard.

“Right. Message received. I’m gonna give you two your privacy. Samira owes me forty bucks, so I need to go collect on that anyway.”

She slams the door shut behind her. 

You drop the sheet at last and look up at the ceiling, momentarily unable to imagine a more useful direction in which to direct your face.

“So,” you say, sitting up and giving Jack what you mean to be a stern glare, “I think the secret aspect of this relationship may be over.” 

He glances at you. “Did we even have a secret, really?”

“Maybe for like, a week.”

He kisses you again. The thesis remains intact. Jack Abbot has the nicest lips you’ve ever kissed, and now, apparently, that is no longer private research.

this fic was part of my 2 year celebration: maria's summer in santorini 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ to learn more, click here!

Now you sit cross-legged on the bed with one of Bobby’s shirts hanging from your frame, sweating in the summer heat. The fan in the corner rattles noisily, doing little to combat the warmth, and the heat of your annoyance at a camcorder being shoved in your face isn’t exactly helping.

You roll your eyes at him, unimpressed. “The camera isn’t a person. I'm not introducing myself.”

“Well—“ He kisses his teeth, ready to argue his case.

“If you’re just using this as an excuse to roleplay, I want no part of it,” you interject, arms folding stubbornly over your chest.

Bobby zooms the camera in on your deadpan face. “Subject displays signs of hostility—“

“Turn that thing off.”

The warning in your voice only seems to amuse him. The viewfinder hides his expression, but you imagine him grinning, which only exasperates you further.

“Hostility increases—“

“Bobby.”

“Fine. Fine,” he relents—not by turning the camera off, obviously, because that would have required him to possess even a shred of self-restraint, and he’s thoroughly enjoying pestering you right now. Instead, he zooms back out and lowers the camera enough for you to see his face. “This image quality is insane.”

Despite yourself, you feel a little endeared by his enthusiasm. “Well, it better be. That thing is worth, like, a month’s rent.”

The number still makes you feel vaguely ill. The conversation where you’d discovered exactly how much his new equipment cost had almost given you a heart attack. Bobby, however, appears completely unbothered. In fact, judging by the distant look in his eyes, he probably hasn’t heard a single word you’ve just said.

He’s more focused on staring at the tiny flip-out screen again, adjusting the focus ring, watching you reluctantly unfold your arms again.

“Though to be fair,” he says, “you make it easy.”

Your frown deepens. “That’s a terrible line.”

“Line?” He replies absently.

“That.” You gesture vaguely towards him. “Whatever that was. You make it easy.”

A smile curls at the corner of his mouth. “It wasn’t a line.”

“It absolutely was.”

“It wasn’t.”

“You called me pretty.”

“I did not,” he denies.

You sit upright. “So now we’re lying?”

Bobby laughs. “I said the image quality was good.”

“Because of me. Therefore you implied I was pretty.”

“I did no such thing.”

“Liar!”

The grin spreading across his face makes your stomach flip unhelpfully. You considered yourself immune to his charms by now, but his boyish grin and the way he’s admiring you through his camcorder makes you want to swoon. Which is exactly why you immediately scowl at him.

“Stop looking so pleased with yourself.”

“I can’t help it,” Bobby says.

You huff an amused breath despite yourself. The sound seems to encourage him, and he adjusts something on the side of the camcorder and squints through the viewfinder.

“Hmm,” he hums thoughtfully to himself.

Naturally, such a sound is immediately enough to warrant suspicion. “What?”

“I need the subject to move around. Test how it picks up motion.”

“So now I’m just ‘the subject?’” You raise a challenging brow at him, and he immediately backtracks.

“I need my hot supermodel girlfriend to move around,” he corrects.

You roll your eyes, but it does make something stir in your chest despite its sheer ridiculousness. Bobby lowers the camera again and you catch the mischievous look on his face.

“Maybe you should model.”

“No,” you deny instantly.

“You’re not even going to think about it?” He says, a whine catching in his voice.

“I don’t need to. I don’t want a video of me stripping, or whatever the hell you want, sitting around our apartment. I babysit my niece here twice a week.”

“Okay, and? It’s not like she knows how to work one of these. She barely knows how to brush her own teeth.”

“It’s— it’s the principle,” you insist, cheeks burning. You wouldn’t consider yourself a shy woman, far from it, but the idea of there being a physical record of you attempting to seduce your boyfriend is offputting. “I’m not a slut.”

He groans and throws his head back. “No, you’re not,” he agrees as patiently as he can. He’s using the same voice he uses to console your aforementioned niece, which isn’t exactly helping his case. “You’re very loyal, in fact. Dedicated, too. It’d be really nice if you could show me that dedication—“

“Gross.” You stick your tongue out. “Don’t make it weirder than it has to be.”

“Fine. Fine.” He raises his free hand in surrender. “I’m not making it weird.”

A silence falls over the both of you, and you worry at your bottom lip in consideration. It just goes to show how much you adore him, because you should be sticking with your gut answer and telling him to fuck off. Alas…

“You promise you won’t show anyone?”

Bobby perks up instantly. “Promise. Scout’s honour.” The boyish salute that follows makes your shoulders ease up a little, and you briefly question why you’d even consider stripping for such a childish individual.

“Fine. But just a little. To… test your motion, or whatever.”

“What?” He blinks stupidly, before realising that’s the excuse he’d used just a moment ago. A sheepish grin tugs at his mouth. “Oh, right. Exactly. Just a little is fine.”

You swallow, shifting slightly on the bed. The frame creaks, and you can’t help but think the moment feels incredibly unsexy. You’re sweating in the sweltering heat, and it’s probably picking up the whirring sound of the fan, and—

Now you’re just psyching yourself out. It’s fine. It’s just Bobby.

“Okay, so… what do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know. Didn’t think I’d get this far.”

“Bobby.”

“Just do what feels right.” He waves a vague hand. “Take your shirt off, or something.”

Such a request should make you sputter with indignance, but it’s no surprise coming from the man who seemingly spent upwards of eight hundred dollars on a camcorder just to record his girlfriend in their shitty apartment. You force some more confidence into your posture, shoulders squaring as you look down at your shirt. Slowly, your fingers drift down to the hem, curling around it.

You glance up at him for reassurance, met with an eager nod. Stifling a sigh, you drag it up slowly, revealing inch by inch of warm skin. “Like this?”

“Just like that,” Bobby breathes, voice lower now.

Encouraged by that, you pull it up further, dragging it up past your bra. Bobby wets his lips at the sight—your breasts spilling over the cups, soft and enticing. Up up up it goes until you’re pulling it over your head, letting it fall to the floor in front of you.

You want to shift uncomfortably, clamp your thighs together, cover yourself with your arms. It’s not like he’s never seen it before. It’s just unnerving with the camcorder directed at you. But you force yourself to stare directly at it, spreading your thighs slightly to give him a proper view of your panties.

“Fuck, yeah,” he murmurs. “Touch yourself.”

“What?” You say, alarmed.

“Not—“ He laughs a little, shaking his head. “Not there. Sorry. Just… your tits, or something.”

Your shoulders sag with relief. That’s a little too much for now, but you’re content enough to give him at least some form of show. Your fingers skate back up your stomach, goosebumps prickling beneath them. Then you cup your breasts over your bra, watching his reaction through half-lidded eyes.

“You’re so pretty, babe,” he says, and the approval goes straight between your legs. “Doing so well.”

You reward him by hooking your fingers under one of your bra straps, inching it down. His breath catches audibly—selfishly, you hope the camera caught that reaction—and he shifts a little on his feet. The thought of him getting visibly aroused by your display emboldens you further.

The other strap follows, and you palm at yourself over the cups a little more. “I would have worn a better set if I knew we were doing this.”

“I like this bra,” he says, only half hearing you, zeroed in on the sight of you squeezing at yourself.

You release them and he almost groans in disappointment. Before the sound can escape, you reach behind you, unclasping the bra and letting it fall away. His eyes widen cartoonishly, and you bite your lip to mask a smile, trying to remain as sultry as possible.

“Shit, can I touch you?” Bobby takes a step forward. Your eyes flick down to his jeans. They’re tight, but you think you can make out the forming bulge beneath the denim.

“Can’t touch ‘the subject,’” you quip.

Hands skim along your chest again, and he seems enraptured as you grope yourself. You’re surprised he hasn’t caved already, but his restraint is admirable as he nods sagely in agreement. Still, you hear him groan under his breath when you focus on a nipple. It stiffens under the touch, already sensitive enough to make you bite the inside of your cheek.

“Is this enough movement?” You ask, rolling your nipple between your fingers while your other hand palms at the flesh of your other breast. You’re hardly moving, so the answer is definitely no, but he indulges you with another one of those enthusiastic nods. You're certain you could sit entirely still with your bra off and he'd tell you it was enough for his little 'motion test.'

“Yeah. Looks, um—“ His gaze moves to the viewfinder, which he realises he hasn’t actually looked through since you took your shirt off. He can only hope the camera was pointed at you properly. “Looks great.”

“The movement, or me?”

“The movement,” he says, laughing at the indignance that crosses your face. “You look more than great. You look perfect.” Heat crawls up your cheeks, but he’s not done. “Which is exactly why I really can’t keep my hands to myself right now, and I don’t think you should waste your day off sitting in bed alone when we could be having sex.”

You bark out a laugh as he switches it off, setting it on the dresser and advancing towards you. “Well, that’s an improvement from your last line.”

He stands between your parted legs, ducking his head to give you a quick kiss. “For the record, it wasn’t a line,” he insists as you reach for his belt.

“Liar,” you mutter against his mouth.

The smile he gives you when he pulls back is so hopelessly smitten that your own laughter softens with something warmer. He ruins it by breaking the silence with: