This Is My Escape From Real Life

He had another day off lined up, but you wanted him sooner than that. The PTMC parking garage came to suffice after Jack worked too many hours—Robby just starting—and you woke up turned on, admitting in the backseat of his truck between kisses that you had a wet dream about him. You sent your husband on his merry way that morning with a thermos of coffee, gave it six minutes for good measure before showering, and drove out to the exact same location. 

“You know your husband just got to work?” Jack broke the kiss temporarily to ask. 

You didn’t want to talk about it, but it gave you a thrill to think about being caught. He dropped his head to press a hot kiss to your throat that made your toes curl in your shoes. For all his raggedness and hanging around the hospital for thirteen hours, he wasn’t as tired as you expected or planned. His hand crept up the inside of your thigh, bare except for your shorts and underwear to make do with the Summer heat. 

“M’sorry if I’m a little sluggish. Tired,” Jack’s words tickled your skin. 

“I want you to relax this time. Let me return the favor,” you pressed. 

A hand went into his hair to draw his attention upward. Jack was a giver, you knew that much about him. The problem was he would run himself into the ground if you let him. You licked your lips in anticipation knowing Jack would smell like every bit of a man on his feet all day, but you needed to feel something real when you were with one. 

“Baby, I haven’t showered—“

“Don’t care,” already sinking to your knees in the tight space. “I’ve been wanting to feel you all week. You’ll deny me that?” Your lashes fluttered up at him. 

Jack’s jaw shifted to the side before he shook his head knowing it was a lost cause. Those immaculately full lips were calling his name—had been for some time. He lifted his head to peer out of the tinted windows of his vehicle before nodding at you. Seeing his truck still in the parking lot wasn’t the odd part. He managed that by leaving his truck exactly where he first parked it last night and didn’t consider if or when it would be rocking. 

You undid the drawstrings on his scrubs, then a zipper, and Jack was lifting his hips against the ache of his prosthetic. When you asked if he wanted to take it off, he reassured you he would be okay. Better to wait until you were done and he could head home. 

For your consideration, he rewarded you by grabbing a hold of the base of his newly freed cock and smacked the tip against your waiting lips. Since the last time you slept together, you both swapped fantasy after fantasy with enough ideas to fuel the other. 

You sucked in a sharp breath, your hips swaying back greedily. Patience wasn’t your forte, but you had to be willing when the thick of night had long since passed. You reached a hand up to bully Jack’s hand away, but he quickly denied you. He tutted as a small smirk began to slowly rise on his face. 

“No hands,” Jack leaned forward. “Open your mouth.”

You obeyed. 

He spit. 

“Don’t swallow,” Jack demanded. He sat back and spread his legs as wide as they could. “Suck it. I know you’ll be so good for me.”

You held the spit out with an outstretched tongue, bracing your hands on the wide seats he was perched on. Jack held his dick steady for you as you let your combining saliva dribble onto his beaming head. Gutturally groaning, you looked up at him, and dropped your mouth around the waiting hardness in a pucker that made him moan.

It took some effort to stretch your jaw. Determination and an age old trick (holding your thumb) helped to take him down your throat. You hummed, moving your throat in a way that would leave Jack helpless. Throat fucking sans help was a bit more strenuous without him fucking up into you.

You shuddered at the breathy sounds leaving him above you, worse when Jack craned his head back, and the thick expanse of his throat opened. You wanted to leave a mark here and a scratch there though Jack was honest he didn’t have it in him to play coy about his sex life. 

“You’re gonna bruise your mouth and throat if you keep at it like this,” Jack grunted out. 

You pulled off with a wet squish, saliva following as your swollen lips were freed. You worked to catch your breath, catching Jack’s eye. He brushed his thumb over your bottom lip gingerly, then slid a hand behind your head. 

“Say what you said over text,” he grinned, his eyes darting back and forth between your eyes and lips. “Go on. Be a big girl and use your words.”

“I want your fat cock to fuck my throat,” you spoke shyly.

“It’s yours for the taking. Take breaks if you need ‘em,” Jack pushed at your head to bring you forward again.

“I won’t,” you responded bluntly.

It was true. You were resolute about getting Jack off; the same man who couldn’t bite back a single sound you orchestrated from his chest and belly. Your nose regularly brushed the bit of fine pubic hair there where he smelled most potent. You couldn’t take not touching yourself and started to guess why Jack didn’t want you to worry about stroking what he thought you couldn’t reach.

A cup of warm lemon tea with honey would be calling your name by the end of it.

Jack used the last of his strength he typically saved for driving back home to power through, raising his hips to do as you asked. He met you half way until you felt you didn’t need to move on your own. The sound was lewd if anyone had the ear to bother listening to Dr. Jack Abbot aggressively filling your throat with his dick after a long shift. 

“S’good—you want it, huh? You’re so perfect. I don’t know how he can’t see it,” Jack choked out. “Take it, baby. You’re gonna swallow my load. It’s coming—it’s—” Jack squeezed his eyes shut tight.

You couldn’t remember the last time you had gone down on Robby. It had to have been far less enthusiastic than this. You would have sucked Jack off every single day if he asked—for the time being, realistically. The hand on your head turned comforting, dropping to the back of your neck to rub pleasant circles as the fantasy slipped away.

You knew you wouldn’t be able to cum with your hand alone despite the progressing ache of wanting to be speared on Jack’s cock. Your head bobbed languidly as if the morning sun weren’t pouring in and you had nowhere else to be. He soon became too sensitive as you held his release in your mouth, sucking him dry as promised. He was grabbing your jaw to push you back, laughing breathlessly at your fervor. 

“Holy shit,” Jack smiled lazily, sleepy eyes returning.

Similar to the show you put on for how he spit into your mouth, you showed him his cum permeating on your tongue before swallowing. Even for his age, the eroticism of it all made him want to get hard again just to show you how appreciative he was. 

“Can I come over?” You hummed, waiting until he was pulling his underwear and pants back up to lie your head on his thigh.

“I think you’re trying to ask without asking,” he dropped a hand into your hair again, taking the hand you used to play with yourself. “I want to make you cum. You have to promise me a nap, at the very least, before we get goin’ again.” A coy tongue lapped at your fingers.

You were sure you were soaked through your shorts now, too.

“Hey, Abbot, you in there?” Came a voice that Jack stilled for. 

Then, you too.

Your husband’s untimely appearance made your heart race and you were sinking down slowly as if the seats could shroud you fully. The backseat windows were darker than in the front and the height of the truck gave some breadth, allowing room for excuses and quick thinking.

“Yeah, brother, just thought I would get in a nap. Didn’t want to be tired on the road home,” Jack excused and called out.

“Ah, alright. Left the thermos the wife gave me in the car. You have a good ‘night’,” Robby said.

What sounded like his footsteps getting further away made you both relax enough to look at each other with untrained and bewildered expressions. Coincidentally too close. You smiled as you sat up again and climbed into the seat next to Jack.

“Never thought I would be insisting on home visits instead of the hospital before,” Jack exhaled in a rush.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“Not having your husband catch you with my dick in your mouth? For starters,” Jack raised a brow.

“Oh, but you liked it just fine when it was in there.”

“I do… I really fucking do. What are you doing to me?” He sighed defeatedly. 

The ER wasn't a place you liked. Really, you didn't enjoy being at a hospital. Ironic, since your boyfriend is an ER doctor. There is nothing specific for you to dislike about the place, it's just a hospital, and no one really likes being there. But this time, you drove voluntarily to the place all because Jack forgot his lunchbox, and your concern about the rare times your boyfriend gets to eat at his job is more important than your dislike for the hospital.

You don't really know where to get in. You're not a patient, and you're afraid that the lady at the desk would not let you in, so even if you're a little embarrassed, you get in through the ambulance bay. Your plan is not to stay too long and to bother people as little as possible. It's a very busy place, and you don't want to get in anyone's way.

You stand near the place where a desk is (the nurse station), trying to find Jack through all the people moving from one side to another so quickly that you could get dizzy.

Someone taps your shoulder, making you turn around.

“Ma’am, is everything okay? You should go through the desk at the front door.”

She said calmly with tired eyes, but she still gave you a small smile. By Jack's description, you think it's Dr. Ellis.

You smile at her, letting out a relieved sigh.

“I’m not a patient, I'm fine,” you assure her. You lift the gray lunchbox in your hand, and by the expression she makes, you think she recognizes it. “I’m looking for my boyfriend, he's an attending here,” you explain to her.

“So you are the mysterious Lady Notes, huh?” she said, smiling widely, her eyes suddenly bright with interest.

Your cheeks burn because you never thought that Jack would show them the notes, or that they would see them.

“Guess I am,” you said, telling her your actual name, but something tells you that you're stuck with Lady Notes.

“I’m Dr. Parker Ellis,” she introduced herself by shaking your hand. “Follow me.”

You do. She guides you through the nurse station toward a nurse who looks like she is in charge, and by the look she gives you above her reading glasses and Jack's description, you think she's Lena. By her side, there is a tall man who looks completely relaxed and not even bothered by the rush of the ED.

“Look who finally visited us,” Parker said, too excited.

You stay a few steps behind, a little embarrassed by the attention the three of them give you, and again, they seem to recognize you the moment they see the gray lunchbox in your hands.

Lena gives you a full smile, looking really excited, while Shen just says:

“You are Mysterious Lady Notes?” he asked, taking a sip from his Dunkin' coffee, looking as surprised as he could.

Lena gave him a look that made him shrug.

“You are beautiful, hon,” she said, walking toward you. “I’m Lena, the charge nurse from the night shift.” She smiles at you, and you give her your best smile as you introduce yourself to her.

“I don't want to disturb you or anyone. Jack forgot his lunchbox, so I thought I'd stop by and give it to him,” you explain.

“You don't disturb anyone. We all have been waiting to meet the woman who has softened Abbott.”

And you can clearly see that because of how excited the three of them seem at your presence, and their reactions attract more people.

“I thought Jack was having hallucinations when he said he would take five minutes to eat the lunch his girlfriend made for him,” Shen told you from where he was standing a few steps back from Lena. He had been talking about something with Parker before. “I’m Dr. Shen.”

You tell your name again, giggling at his comment.

You told yourself it was going to be a quick visit: give Jack his lunchbox, a kiss, and then head back to your apartment to sleep. But twenty minutes later, you have said your name more times than in your entire life, introducing yourself to anyone who tells you, “You're the mysterious Lady Notes.” You get to know Nurse Mateo, Dr. Henderson, the student Nazly, Nurse Vivi, and you think that by that point, you have met everyone who works there.

“What is happening here?” a well-known voice cut through the crowd surrounding the nurse station.

Jack stood there waiting for an explanation when his eyes met yours, and realization quickly hit him.

“Okay, you guys, stop overwhelming my missus.” He walked toward you, placing himself by your side and resting one of his hands on your lower back as usual.

“I don't think you get to call her missus if you haven't married her yet,” Mateo said playfully, pointing to your bare ring finger.

Jack looks at the nurse, narrowing his eyes, and points at him.

“Careful, or you'll spend the rest of the night with the bad cases,” he warns while the rest of the people laugh.

“He’s right, Abbott. I have no idea how you haven't put a ring on that finger already,” Parker says, raising both eyebrows.

If your cheeks were warm before, now your face was burning hot. All the eyes were on the two of you, and everyone was supporting Ellis and Mateo's thoughts.

“Okay, okay, all of you, leave them alone. Go back to your jobs. There are sick people who need you all,” Lena commands with a tone of voice that actually scares you, and it is a warning for everyone because they all say goodbye to you and go back to work as soon as they can.

Jack guides you to an empty room. Your face is hot, but the wide smile is something nobody could get rid of no matter what they said.

“So I'm the mysterious Lady Notes,” you said, giggling.

He looks at you in that intense way that only he is able to do, that hazel gaze that makes your legs tremble like jelly and your heart race so hard that you can hear it in your ears.

He huffed, rolling his eyes at your words.

“They insisted on calling you that until they knew you,” he mumbled, trying to look irritated but failing because of the smile growing on his face.

His hands go instinctively to your waist, and your arms settle around his neck. There is not an inch separating the two of you. You brush your nose against his, which finally makes him give you that crooked smile you love so much.

Jack didn't wait. He kissed you, not caring that anyone could walk in and catch you.

“You forgot your lunchbox,” you said through the kiss.

He breaks the kiss but rests his forehead against yours.

“And you brought it to me instead of going to sleep when you have to work early,” he whispered in disbelief.

“Your shift is long. You need to eat, and I don't trust the vending machine,” you said as if it wasn't a point of comparison, and just imagining him eating something from the vending machine felt like a betrayal.

He shakes his head and lets out a little laugh.

“I love you.” He leaves a kiss on your temple and another on your cheek.

“I love you too,” you respond, leaving a short kiss on his lips.

You wanted to stay a little longer, but you saw that the ER was full and that you had already attracted too much attention and distracted several people. You didn't want to take up too much of the chief attending's time.

“I’ll see you in the morning.” You leave the lunchbox in his hands and another kiss on his lips. “Eat something,” you said, pointing at him with your index finger like a threat.

He just smiles at you.

“I will. See you in the morning.” He watches you disappear through the door.

He's quick to open the lunchbox, finding just what he wanted: a little Post-it note. It was white, and written on it was:

“Lovely grumpy doctor, if you ever forget your lunchbox again, you will be temporarily banned from these masterpieces that I put my heart into.

(I’m being very serious, please don't forget to eat like you forgot your lunchbox.)

Should I be worried about memory problems? They are very common at your age.

Your beautiful girlfriend ;)”

He lets out a laugh, shaking his head.

That one was going to his locker.

Jack keeps the Post-it in his scrub pocket after reading it a few more times before Parker finds him and tells him that they have an incoming trauma. She also tries to see what the note says, but he makes sure to hide it from her view.

It was just for him.

After the trauma and doing some rounds, he finally has time to sit and do some charts. But peace was something that never happened in the ER, and definitely after your visit, he would know no peace for a while.

“What?” he asked Lena, who was looking at him above her reading glasses.

She gives him a look that Jack completely ignores.

“What are you waiting for?” she said as if it were obvious. “She deserves that damn rock on her finger.” It was more of an order than a suggestion.

Jack goes back to his chart, but the last thing he was thinking about was the patient. He would be lying if he said he hadn't thought about it, but it had only been a year and a half since the two of you started officially dating. He didn't want to scare you. Even though you didn't seem bothered by the comments his co-workers made, maybe you thought they were just kidding and trying to bother him.

There was nothing that he would like more than to call you his wife, Mrs. Abbott, seeing you stop signing your notes with “girlfriend” and replacing it with “your wife,” the title you deserve because there was nothing in that life that would make Jack let you go.

You were stuck with him for the rest of your life. What better way than to make it official?

Since your visit to the ER, your discomfort with the hospital has faded, and you have visited more often, dropping Jack off and picking him up, always making a little entrance to say hello and gossip a little with Lena, Ellis, and Shen.

Now you make sure to pack Jack more food than before and tell him specifically which bowls are for each nightcrawler: the dark blue one for Mateo, the red one for Parker, the green one for Shen, and so on with the rest of the crew.

He complains, telling you that you are spoiling them. But deep inside, he loves how you worry about all of them, so he gives them all the bowls, threatening that if they don't return them empty at the end of their shift, they will be stuck at triage for an entire week.

But something that keeps staying on his mind, and that everyone keeps telling him, even Dana and Robby, is about the ring that is missing from your finger.

It doesn't sound like a rushed step if everyone keeps telling him that he's been taking a long time.

I imagine after some mind-splitting sex—the kind that has you bent over just about every surface of the apartment in some failed tour of the place, ending with you riding him on your bed while he buries his face between your tits, mumbling about how he likes the color you painted the walls—while you’re fucked out asleep, and after a careful cleaning and peppered kisses while he told you just how good of a girl you were for him, Jack doesn’t go snooping as much as he just takes in your place, a place that is filled to the brim with you in ways he’s never seen before.

He walks around like he’s in a museum, hands behind his back in a precautionary way so he doesn’t even have a chance of knocking something over, leaning forward to inspect framed pictures and little trinkets. And then he gets to your vanity and sees the shape it's in. Compared to all the big names and expensive products you constantly indulge in (thanks to him) and your insistence on staying trendy, your makeup and skincare are surprisingly well-used. A lot of it is old or running out, barely any setting powder left in the container, your foundation cap smudged with excess, your lipstick only usable cause of the brush you apply it with.

So there he is, taking pictures of all your skincare products to catalog and spritzing your perfumes to smell them out of pure curiosity and not because he may or may not get butterflies when you pass him by in the emergency room and that floral smell soothes over the antiseptic fog. Maybe he'd fumble a little while snooping around your jewelry box, thinking your delicate flower earrings are the cutest things ever (he'll ask you to wear them next shift and get all proud of himself when you get compliments on them cause yes, Jack Abbot does know how to dress his girl).

And maybe it becomes his new obsession—hobby—just a way to pass time when you don't share shifts and he’s left moping around without being able to call you. He’ll spend hours at the mall and every makeup store trying to find all the labels that match the pictures, stare at them for too long and decide they’re not good enough for you, then corner the poor workers to get their opinions on what the best of the best is. The man is dedicated, and as soon as the idea of taking care of you came to mind, he decided to go all in.

He’s the type to love watching you get ready for your shift, how meticulous your routine is, and how you always manage to finish with barely enough time to get to work without Dana rolling her eyes at you. He’s 100% the type to practically force you to put a face mask on him so he doesn’t feel left out, his hair pulled back with a pink headband—the look suits him surprisingly well—he’d even go as far as wrapping himself in a bathrobe to match you while watching Bridgerton and waiting for the mask to set. And of course he’s there, a hand braced on the back of the vanity chair you’re sitting at, listening as you tell him why you use these products and not the ones he researched and was recommended.

“It’s got nothing to do with how fancy the label is or what’s in it,” you have to explain to a painfully sorry-looking Jack, who’s trying very hard to understand why you’d prefer Bare Minerals (still pricy) over something like Chanel or Lancome (even more pricy), which he found in about 90% of the beauty magazines he now reads while waiting for his coffee in the evening.

He doesn’t get it—the whole loyalty to a brand or the search for what doesn’t make your skin absolutely throw a tantrum—but he doesn’t argue. And it's really sweet how he replaces your old and probably expired setting powder with a new one two days later. And then takes that generic lipstick you can't part from so he can get it shade-matched at Ulta.

Jack is incredibly good at the silent love game. Gift-giving fills him with too much satisfaction for it to be normal, while caring for others is basically the foundation of his being. And you… Well, who can say no to gifts from a devastatingly attractive older man who likes to spend shared days off fucking you on the kitchen counter, telling you to ignore the water bottle you spilled when you sprawled out for him so he could dig his tongue into your pussy like a starving, desperate animal? He has a way with that mouth of his to make you a babbling mess of accepting whatever he gives, even if it’s agreeing to dinner reservations or moving in with him…

He excused himself shortly after. You shrugged. Maybe the night shift was rough this go around?

Your mind was hazy from the comforting bottle - you didn't hear the strained groaning from your shared bathroom. Jack was fisting his cock under the warm shower, attempting to wash away his shameful lust at seeing you so innocently enjoying your drink. It was vulgar, unprompted - his reaction was entirely fetish and physical. His little girl, his younger lover... his.

Jack called your name out as he came, hard and fast to the thought of your little lips wrapped around something as innocent as that bottle. He would join you on the couch after his shower, spent and a tad guilty. You'd meet him halfway to the living room, helping him with his crutches and onto the cushions. You were always his good kiddo, weren't you?

------------

That brings us to where we are now. Jack could never live down the bottle incident - it'd been a lingering presence in his dreams, the occasional wet one he'd get when you weren't home. You're on the couch, splayed out in one of his old t-shirts. At the start of Jack's three days off, the two of you would have a movie night. Complete with snacks and wayyy too much junk food for the two of you, it was the perfect way to leave the stress of PTMC behind. It was your lover's turn to get the snacks, and he made a special trip to your local specialty market.

Your phone lit up - 1 new message from 'jackie-boo xoxo'

🐇🩺: I'm at your favorite place, Bun. The one with the copious amount of blind boxes and skincare, that's where you got your snacks last time, yeah?

🐇💓: yeah yeahhhh!!!! the one i went to w my girls

🐇💓: pleaaase pick up pocky and if they have that weird baby bottle yogurt drink !!! i went yesterday but they were out,, tf. oh oh! and they have those shrimp chips you like bb

Jack knew they were out - he'd been following you with your friends last night - but that wasn't important right now. He'd been right on time for them to get restocked.

He knew you well enough to grab three, juuust in case you got another craving. One for tonight, then two hidden behind the veggies in the fridge. You wouldn't peek back there, and Jack was too selfish to not be there when his daughter's lips were busy.

The drive home was fine - Jack was antsy about it all, damn you for making him feel like a scheming teenager again. If only you knew how much power you held over him, the well-respected attending, now putty in your delicate hands.

"Jackie!" You greeted him at the door, flinging yourself into his arms. You nuzzled onto his neck, inhaling his musk mixed with that woody cologne he'd spritz on.

Strong arms wrapped around your waist, holding you impossibly tight to his chest. It was domestic bliss to come home to you - and he'd have no obligations for the next three days, this was heaven.

You'd finally have him on the couch - you're sitting pretty in his shirt and lacy panties, and he's in a tank top and some old grey sweats.

"Gonna grab a beer, one sec - and you stay put." Jack gently commanded, he knew you would offer to get it for him. You never wanted to make your boyfriend exert himself when he didn't have to! You'd help him to his crutches or just do the damn thing for him, but he looked sure about it, so you let it slide.

"Mmkay, dad." You huff, looking up at him with those doe eyes he'd grown to love.

You were already halfway to littlespace just by cuddling with him? Good, makes the next part easier.

-----

Jack twisted the top off of his beer - you were still blissfully unaware, leaning into his side, just happy to exist with your daddy.

Your eyes were fluttering closed when the soft nipple of a baby bottle met your mouth. You don't flinch or object, you just part those innocent lips for your father and take what he's giving you. If you had half the mind left after slipping into your delicate littlespace, you'd hear the way Jack's breath hitched.

"Mmm!" Still half asleep and more than content, you hold the bottle and begin to suck. The lovely yogurt drink you were craving hit your tongue, the mango flavor sticking to the back of your throat.

Just as the last time you took one of these drinks, the bottom of the nipple was supported by your tongue as you sucked - god, something so innocent shouldn't feel so fucking dirty.

Daddy's little girl, his perfect lamb, his daughter. Jack couldn't fight the growing heat in his grey sweats. Should a father really be feeling so lustful for his...? "Daddy.." You absentmindedly mumble out between gentle sucks.

Oh, fuck morality. It's human nature to chase what feels good, right? So what's so wrong with this - Jack raised you, he's just reaping what he sowed.

Jack's palm finds his erection faster than it should have - he shoves the waistband of his sweats juuuust low enough to free his aching cock. His large hand wraps around the base, a firm squeeze as he realizes he's rock hard.

His erectile dysfunction? Good as gone. Who knew giving in to his lust towards his daughter - the one person he shouldn't have - would feel so fucking good? Jack bites his lip as he begins pumping his cock, his eyes never leaving you.

You're taking that bottle like the obedient baby you are, such a good girl.

It's taboo, gross, and perverted - it only drives the older man ever so closer to the edge. Fuck it, if he's giving in to sin - why not go the whole way? Ruin that innocent moment you're so lost in.

He stands up, you barely register the loss of his weight when -

"Dad..?" You crack an eye open, about to whine at the loss.

Jack is standing over you, pumping his cock riiiight at your face. You feel thick ropes of cum paint your cheeks before you register what the fuck was happening - what your father chose to inflict upon you.

He moans your name almost mockingly. Stupid little girl, how did you not know what was happening mere inches away from you? The man you trust the most, your father, was jerking off to the sight of you taking that bottle. God, if it wasn't the hottest thing you've experienced.

"Finish your bottle, baby." Jack spoke between labored breaths. "Don't wanna waste it."

He sat down beside you like nothing ever happened. You hum in response, continuing to take your bottle - now wearing your father's cum as some perverted testament to the love between you two.

-

You didn't have time to go home and change and get here in separate cars, not when there's been a massive pile up on the highway and everyone got called to work.

It was supposed to be yours and Jack's night off, you had a dinner reservation in the nicest restaurant in the city and it was so, so lovely.

That was until your phones started going off and you scrambled out of there in hurry and with groans. Don't get me wrong, you both love doing your job as doctors. But dates nights are sacred to you two since they don't happen as often as you would like.

"Yes! I fucking knew it." Santos says very loudly, already halfway through on the way for her winnings.

"Alright, alright, alright. The show is over, everybody get back to work." Finally, Dana yells loudly, making everyone avert their hungry gazes away from you.

"And you lovebirds, hurry up and get changed. ETA is 10 mins for the first patients."

You nod and hurry after Jack. It's not as easy to walk quickly in these high heels. Jack notices, of course he does, and waits up for you, hand extended your way.

You take it sheepishly and let him stabilise you so it's easier to walk. "You okay, angel? That was a lot, huh?"

"Yeah, but I'm okay. At least, now they know." You give him a little smile, squeezing his hand for the reassurance.

"Yes. At least, now I can kiss you whenever I want." He grins at you and you just look mortified. There's no way you'll survive heavy pda in front of your colleagues and you both know it.

"As long as it's moderate." You mumble out as you let Jack lead you towards the lockers.

"Don't worry, angel. I'll be on my best behaviour I promise." He seals that promise with a quick peck to your lips. But you are out of anyone's view so you relax into it. And you almost whine when he pulls away, almost. Gosh, you were so excited to have him all to yourself for the night.

"Okay, let's go, sweetheart. You heard Dana, no time to waste." He says when you try to steal another kiss from him.

"You kissed me first!" You laugh because he's clearly being ridiculous.

"I'd never." He fakes innocence, but the smirk on his face is far from that.

"Pff, we'll see where this gets you when we get home." You giggle but his eyes only darken.

"Doll, we both know I won't be the one begging then." He whispers the words into your ear and your stomach practically does somersaults at that.

"You're not playing fair." You pout at him as his hands help you unzip the dress.

"I'm only-" he stops in the middle of the sentences as you turn around and let the dress pool at your feet. The purple lingerie you have on clearly broke his brain. His eyes devour the sight in front of him.

You chuckle as you quickly change into your scrubs, and by the time Jack realises you are no longer half-naked, you are running away, leaving him there all stunned.

jack exited trauma three, peeling off bloody nitrile gloves with a sharp snap that echoed sharply in the corridor.

dr. parker ellis followed two steps behind him, talking too fast, her fingers flying across an ipad.

"the repeat lactate's worse, and radiology still hasn't called back about the abdominal ct—"

"then call them again." jack said, his tone carrying a tired but dryly amused smirk as he tossed his gloves into the biohazard bin.

"i did."

"well then call them louder."

ellis let out a theatrical puff of air, her own lips twitching slightly. "that's not a real medical instruction, abbot."

"it is if you say it with authority." jack smiled faintly, though it quickly faded as the sheer exhaustion of the night settled back in.

his scrub top stuck unpleasantly between his shoulder blades from sweat.

he hadn't eaten since six—unless stale graham crackers from the patient nutrition room counted as a food group—and his lower back ached with the deep, familiar throb that meant he had been standing too long again.

at the nurses' station, lena was arguing with mateo over which patient stole hospital socks from supply.

"they're hospital socks, mateo."

"it's the principle."

jack reached across the desk, snatching a chart from the top of the pile. "tell psych in room nine if he throws one more urinal at my staff, i'm going to be the one sedating him personally."

lena pointed a finger at him immediately. "see? that's leadership."

mateo sighed, tapping his stethoscope against his clipboard. "you people are why i've been considering blood pressure medication."

against jack's thigh, his phone vibrated.

he almost ignored it. on a thursday night, a vibration meant a page, a lab alert, or a consult.

but a specific, rhythmic pulse against his hip made him pause.

he pulled it out, glanced down at the screen, and saw your name.

everything inside him stilled.

the flatlining beep of a heart monitor down the hall and the squeak of sneakers on linoleum all of it compressed into static because you didn't call him during shifts anymore.

recently, it had been a carefully curated dance of text messages. you both kept it strictly to short, sterile logistics, mostly because of a strange new tension that had started bleeding into every single interaction.

neither of you wanted it there. you were fiercely determined to keep your boundaries razor-sharp.

jack felt the exact same way. he respected your life, and he had no intention of complicating things again.

which meant he was working twice as hard to lock his own thoughts down.

he pressed the phone to his ear, stepping away from the desk. "hey," he answered normally, his voice natural, but already laced with an undercurrent of sudden, sharp focus.

there was chaos bleeding through the receiver.

the distinct, terrifying sound of heavy footsteps on pavement and people talking over one another in a panic.

"jack—"

every nerve ending in his body snapped painfully awake. he straightened, his spine cracking, a motion so sudden and violent that lena's banter died instantly. she looked up, her eyes narrowing as she read the sudden rigor in his posture.

"what happened?" jack asked, his voice dropping an octave.

your breathing sounded wrong. you weren't crying and the thing is crying he could handle, crying was a release.

this was worse.

this was the ragged, suffocating sound of someone trying desperately not to break apart in public.

"chase, she—she had something with cashews, they think. she was at sarah's house and her mom used an epipen and they're taking her to—"

"here?" jack was already moving before you could finish your sentence. dr. ellis jumped back as jack blew past her like a freight train toward ems intake. "when did symptoms start?"

"i don't know maybe like eight minutes ago? they said she was having trouble breathing and—"

his stomach dropped, a cold, violent plunge into freefall. panic, sharp and suffocating, clawed at the back of his throat, but years of trauma medicine forced his voice to do the exact opposite.

he clamped down hard on his own terror, deliberately softening his tone into something  reassuring for you.

"hey," he murmured, his voice smoothing out, thick with a warmth he hadn't used in years. "hey, breathe. it's going to be okay. i promise you, she is going to be completely fine."

"i think so, but sarah's mom sounded panicked, jack, and i—"

"i know, i know," he interrupted gently, his heart hammering against his ribs as he kicked open the heavy double doors of the ambulance bay, stepping out into the thick, humid evening air.

"listen to me. the epi is most likely already working, and i am standing right out in the bay waiting for her. she's coming straight to me."

silence stretched over the line, save for the low hum of your car's air conditioning blasting on your end.

then your breathing caught, a hard, broken sound.

jack closed his eyes briefly, leaning his forehead against the brick wall of the bay, his own chest aching with a phantom tightness. "how far out are you?"

"thirty minutes. maybe forty five with all this stupid fucking traffic."

"okay. do me a favor and drive safely. take your time, don't speed."

"our daughter can't breathe and you're telling me not to speed?"

fear always made you sound angry first.

even now. even after everything that had torn you apart, he knew the cadence of your terror perfectly.

jack gripped the aluminum railing of the bay. "i just need you getting here in one piece," he said, his voice dropping into something quiet, incredibly tender, and devastatingly familiar.

"let me handle this part. i've got her, okay? i won't let anything happen to her. i promise."

a long pause. the anger drained out of you, leaving only a fragile, trembling "yeah."

he hung up just as the red and white lights of the ambulance flooded the bay, the tires screeching softly against the dry asphalt.

the back doors swung open before the vehicle had even fully stopped.

and suddenly, the rest of the world ceased to exist.

"sixteen-year-old female," the paramedic started breathlessly, guiding the stretcher down the ramp.

"known tree nut allergy, likely cashew exposure approximately twenty minutes ago at a friend's residence. one epi administered on scene by the friend's mother—"

jack's eyes flicked to the side as sarah's mother scrambled out of the back of the rig behind the stretcher.

she was shaking, and visibly sweating from the summer heat. "dr. abbot, i am so sorry, they were just watching a movie and i didn't realize the snack mix had—"

"you gave her the epi," jack cut her off, his voice firm but surprisingly gentle as he placed a brief hand on her shoulder.

"you did what you could" he reassured her.

he gestured toward the double doors, where mateo was already jogging out. "get her checked in at the desk, get her a cold water, and keep her updated."

"on it." mateo said, quickly guiding the distraught mother inside.

then jack looked down at the stretcher to his daughter.

she looked so small, curled slightly inward on the stretcher beneath the thin, scratchy ambulance blankets.

her face was blotchy with angry, blooming hives and her eyes behind her glasses were terrified. her breathing was shallow, a whistling sound catching in her throat.

something primitive and terrifying ripped straight through jack's chest, tearing away the doctor, the degrees, the decades of experience. for one half-second, he wasn't a doctor. he was just a father watching his baby girl struggle for air.

the cold, brutal machinery of his training slammed back into place, locking down the panic.

"hey, bug."

chase's head lolled toward him, her eyes tracking his face. "dad."

her voice sounded rough and sandpapered.

jack stepped alongside the moving stretcher, keeping pace as they wheeled her through the trauma intake doors. "can you take a deep breath for me, sweetheart?"

her chest hitched, her shoulders tensing as she winced.

his heart nearly stopped, but his hands remained perfectly steady. "okay. that's okay. you're doing so great."

dr. john shen appeared beside him instantly, already snapping on a pair of fresh gloves. "what've we got?"

"anaphylaxis. epi given about fifteen minutes ago. airway is tight but patent."

shen nodded once, sharply, and immediately began hooking chase up to the monitors. "hey, your dad is pretty important here as you know, which means we're going to take extra good care of you."

chase nodded weakly, her head heavy against the thin pillow.

mateo pushed into the room next, a syringe already primed. "steroids and benadryl are ready. going into the iv now."

everything moved with the fluid, practiced speed of controlled chaos. jack took a stethoscope from around his neck and listened to chase's lungs himself.

he trusted everyone in this room with his life but he physically could not stop his own hands from checking.

a faint wheeze but it was improving.

thank fuck.

"bp's pretty stable," shen announced, eyeing the monitor. "tachy at 132."

"expected post-epi," jack answered automatically, his voice a flat line of professional calm.

but his body language said otherwise.

only the people who had bled with him on the night shift for years would notice the telltale signs.

the white-knuckle grip he had on the stethoscope, the rigid tension locked across his broad shoulders, and the fact that he hadn't looked away from chase's face for more than three seconds.

shen noticed. he caught his eye briefly over chase's chart, giving him a microscopic nod. i've got it. go be her dad.

jack exhaled once through his nose, the air hot and shaky.

on the bed, chase shifted weakly against the pillow, the color slowly returning to her cheeks as the steroids kicked in. shen and mateo quietly slipped out of the room to grab a warm blanket and update the desk, leaving father and daughter alone for the first time.

"dad?"

he stepped closer instantly, taking her small, cold hand in both of his. "i'm right here, bug."

"is mom coming?" her raspy voice cracked, her fingers tightening around his with a sudden burst of anxiety.

"she's on her way," jack murmured, his tone incredibly soft as he used his free hand to carefully brush damp, dark curls back from her forehead. "she's driving through the city right now."

chase swallowed hard, her eyes pooling with sudden, glassy tears. "she's going to be so fucking mad at me. i didn't check the bowl, dad. i just took a handful. she always tells me to check."

he winced at her language but a breathless, choked laugh escaped his throat. it nearly destroyed him, the sheer vulnerability of her fear.

he forced his features into a warm, unshakable smile, leaning in a little closer to ground her.

"your mom is not going to be mad at you, sweetheart. she loves you more than life itself. she would never, ever think that, okay? you don't get to worry about anything except resting."

her mouth twitched into a faint, exhausted smile, the tension draining from her small frame. "okay. i'm sorry."

"nope. it's not your fault. it's never your fault."

mateo quietly stepped back into the room, adjusting a freshly warmed blanket higher over chase's shoulders and dimming the overhead trauma lights. the small, human kindness of the gesture hit jack unexpectedly hard.

because suddenly, the adrenaline began to clear, and the reality of the situation rushed in to fill the vacuum.

you weren't here yet.

which meant you were out there, somewhere in the dark, driving through the warm summer night, trapped between panic and catastrophe.

you were probably gripping the steering wheel until your fingers bled, blaming yourself for letting her go to a friend's house, trying not to cry so you wouldn't blur your vision on the highway.

the thought landed badly. heavy with the weight of old ghosts and broken promises.

jack crushed it immediately. not tonight.

still, a quiet, heavy realization settled deep beneath his ribs.

in the worst moment of your day, when the world was spinning out of control and your daughter couldn't breathe... the first person you called was him.

not just because he was a doctor. not entirely.

but because somewhere underneath all the wreckage between you, some stubborn, unbroken part of you still believed when things fall apart, jack would show up.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the doors of the er lobby hissed open, letting in a brief gust of the late sticky, muggy summer night air.

jack knew your stride before he even saw your face. through the low hum of the waiting room, it pulled his head up instantly.

the lobby around you was loud and suffocatingly crowded. a man three chairs down was groaning into a plastic basin and an overworked triage nurse was repeatedly shouting a patient's name.

people bumped shoulders, and muttered in the cramped space, but when your gaze locked onto jack's through the chaos, the rest of the room faded into a distant hum.

you looked entirely consumed by panic. you looked smaller than usual, your eyes wide and frantic as they swept the crowded room, looking for the only anchor that mattered.

the breath left your lungs in a visible shudder.

jack was across the floor before you could take another step, deftly navigating around a security guard and a family waiting near the vending machines.

he didn't think about the logistics, or the rules, or the boundary lines that had been carefully drawn over the last twenty-four months.

he just reached out, his hands catching your upper arms to steady you before your knees could give out right there in the middle of the crowded lobby.

at the sudden, heavy contact, a sharp tremor went through you.

instinctively, your body remembered the boundaries of your new life, and you involuntarily flinched, pulling back half an inch.

jack froze. his hands dropped instantly, his chest tightening with a familiar, dull ache. the rejection was silent, but it cut through the lingering adrenaline like ice.

an orderly pushed past them with a rattling linen cart, forcing jack to step a little closer to keep you from being bumped.

"sorry," he muttered quickly, his voice dropping into a rough, defensive register as he took a half-step back, shielding you from the passing foot traffic. "i didn't mean to—"

"no, it's okay," you interrupted breathlessly, shaking your head, your hands waving through the air between you as if you could physically push the awkwardness away. "it's fine. just... tell me. please."

a loud burst of static whined from the overhead pa system, followed by a monotone page for a doctor in triage, but you didn't even blink. you didn't have the emotional bandwidth to unpack the sudden, overwhelming intimacy of his touch right now.

that flinch was a symptom of a much larger complication—one you would have to dissect later, in the quiet of your own mind.

right now, your entire universe was narrowed down to one terrifying question.

"she's okay," he said immediately, his voice dropping into that low, authoritative frequency he kept specifically for you, easily cutting through the surrounding chatter of the waiting room.

it was the tone that meant the crisis was finally over. "she's okay. airway is clear. lungs are clear. she's resting.

you let out a broken, choked sound, your shoulders finally dropping from around your ears. a couple walking past glanced over at the sound, but you didn't care. "i thought—the nurse said she couldn't breathe, jack. i couldn't get the car to start, and the traffic on the bridge—"

"hey. have i ever lied to you?"

you swallowed hard, your eyes swimming with unshed tears as you searched his features. the familiarity of his face was almost painful.

technically, he had.

he had lied once, in a tailored suit, when he looked you in the eyes and swore before god and everyone they knew that he would love you until death did you part.

"no," you whispered despite yourself.

"she's fine. the epi worked, we hit her with steroids and benadryl, and she's already complaining about my bedside manner. you can go back right now."

a tear finally spilled over your lashes. jack's hand twitched, wanting to brush it away, but he kept his fingers firmly locked at his sides this time.

your eyes flicked past his shoulder toward the main entrance doors, and whatever fragile bubble you were in popped completely.

"is she alright?" daniel asked as he reached you, his hand immediately settling on the small of your back.

it was a protective, possessive gesture, and jack's tired eyes tracked it.

"she's stable," jack answered for you. "she's back in trauma 4. only one person can go back at a time while we finish the observation period, though."

daniel looked at you, his thumb rubbing small, comforting circles into your lower back. "go," he urged gently, raising his voice slightly over a sudden argument at the triage desk. "i'll wait out here and grab us some coffee. call me if you need me to come back."

you nodded weakly, offering daniel a small, grateful smile. "thank you."

jack turned, leading the way through the secure double doors, leaving the roaring chaos of the lobby behind for the slightly more clinical hum of the secure corridor.

he stopped outside the door to trauma 4, his hand on the stainless-steel handle. he turned back to look at you, his voice private again, shielded from the noise of the hallway where nurses were hurriedly moving between rooms.

"you did good. keeping your head on the drive. you did exactly what you were supposed to do."

you looked up at him, your fingers twisting together, the guilt that had been clawing at your throat finally spilling over.

"daniel wanted to drive," you admitted quietly, your voice cracking as you looked down at your boots. "but i couldn't... i knew if you told me she was going to be alright, i'd believe it. because jack... it's my fault. it's entirely my fault."

jack frowned, taking a half-step closer, his professional detachment slipping despite the staff bustling around them. "what are you talking about?"

"she's had this allergy her whole life, jack. sixteen years, and i have always stayed on top of it. i vet every single kitchen, i read every single label twice, i'm the one who handles the logistics," you whispered, your chest heaving as the tears finally came fast and hot.

you felt utterly distraught, stripped bare by the realization of how close you had come to losing her. "i let my guard down. i let her go over there without calling sarah's mom first to double-check. i got careless. if she had—if the epi hadn't worked, it would have been because i failed her."

"hey," jack said, his voice dropping into that fierce, unyielding gravity he used when he absolutely refused to let you sink. "she's still a child. she went to a friend's house and had a freak exposure. you have carried the weight of keeping her safe every single second of her life, and you have done a flawless job. this is not your fault. it is nobody's fault."

you swallowed down a sob, staring at his chest, desperately wanting to believe the absolute certainty in his voice.

the admission hung between you, heavy and deeply complicated.

it wasn't a betrayal of daniel—not explicitly—but it was an acknowledgment of a ghost that still lived between you.

the fact that in your darkest moment of self-blame, you needed his absolution.

before jack could let himself reach out again, he pushed the door open, stepping aside to let you pass.

chase was propped up on the pillows, the color finally returning to her cheeks, though she still looked exhausted.

the moment you saw her, you crossed the room in three strides, dropping into the bedside chair and wrapping your arms carefully around her shoulders. "oh, baby," you breathed, burying your face in her hair, the lingering terror making your touch slightly fierce.

"i'm okay, mom," chase mumbled, her voice still a little raspy, but her arms tightened around your waist. "dad saved me."

"the paramedics and sarah's mom saved you," jack corrected smoothly, stepping up to the opposite side of the bed.

but there was a softness in his eyes that usually took a three-day weekend to appear. he reached down, checking the line of her iv with practiced, gentle fingers.

for the next twenty minutes, the rhythm of the room shifted into something kind of complicated.

you could say it was the domestic muscle memory of a family that had been broken but never entirely destroyed.

"you look exhausted," jack murmured, his voice laced with a quiet, familiar fondness that made your throat ache with the weight of things left unsaid.

"look who's talking," you replied softly, a faint, genuine smile tugging at your lips. "when was the last time you drank water?"

"i had coffee at four."

"that doesn't count, jack."

"it technically has water in it."

it was an automatic exchange, spoken with the rhythm of a conversation you had had a thousand times before.

the first time, chase had been barely three years old, a heavy, warm weight balanced against your hip as you hurried down the hallway of your old house.

jack had been halfway out the door, already late for a shift, and you had been chasing him down with his silver water bottle in your free hand.

he had stopped, turning around with that tired, handsome smile that always softened just for you. “what would i do without you?” he had murmured, pressing a warm, lingering kiss to your lips before leaning down to press another against chase's forehead.

the memory snapped back to the present, leaving a cold, hollow ache in its wake.

the words had slipped out so naturally, driven entirely by pure, mindless habit, that a sudden, suffocating stillness fell over the small space the moment the sentence ended.

pulled under by a wave of sudden self-consciousness, you shifted your gaze down to the floor, intentionally creating distance.

jack cleared his throat, pulling his eyes away just as quickly, his fingers suddenly very busy adjusting the side rail of the bed.

the tension in the air was thick, heavy with the silent realization of how dangerous that familiarity still was.

from her spot against the pillows, chase watched the entire exchange, her glassy eyes darting back and forth between you.

she saw the way her dad's shoulders had finally unknotted the second you walked into the room.

she saw the specific, heavy way the two of you looked at each other—like you were the only two people in the entire hospital who spoke the same language.

daniel was nice, but daniel was a guest in your lives. daniel didn't look at you like you were the only thing that was keeping his lungs full of air.

not like this.

chase leaned her head back against the pillow tonight had been a complete, terrifying accident, and she would never actually put herself or her parents through that kind of horror on purpose.

but looking at you both now, the desperate, childish part of her couldn't help the thought from forming anyway.

if this is what it takes, she thought to herself, her chest aching with a weird mixture of physical exhaustion and sudden, fierce hope.

if it takes me almost dying to get them to actually look at each other again... i would eat a whole bowl of cashews tomorrow.

"what are you smirking at, bug?" jack asked, his voice breaking the silence as he caught the tiny twitch of her lips, his hand dropping away from the bed.

chase looked at her parents, who were now standing shoulder-to-shoulder by her bedside, your shadows overlapping on the floor in the dim light of the trauma room.

"nothing," chase said innocently, closing her eyes as a sleepy, knowing smile spread across her face.

“i’m just really glad the epi worked.”

୨୧ taglist: @popecodysgirl @longfulforlee @bornconfvsed @sunbonesss @olivia21blunt @velvetoctober @theory-saturn @mrsrobbyy @gigiwritess @pinkpantheressluver @yiiiikesmish @evysian @17th-sector @sea-eyed-dream @fortjackson @pxssygxblin @anyasthoughts @cyaziaa @nealla @eppytoken16 @itzpixiebabe @soapyspurnell @manly-man-whore @peachyfckingkeen @of-converse-books-and-chocolate @slut4jackabbottt @jaes-last-words @hzdhrtss @supernaturalsuperhero @suturettee @uncertainblissss @lillysbigwilly @hugospritzz @cheapvodkaangel

When you first get to the PTMC, Jack can’t decide what he thinks about you.

He vaguely remembers you— you’d done a rotation here, some time ago. One of the unfortunate ones who’d drawn the short stick and been stuck on the night shift. He has a hazy recollection of your face during an MVC, your jaw hard set and a permanent smile to your face. He vaguely remembers, at the time, the only thing he’d really though was:

Jesus, this kid needs to dial it back.

The sentiment, of course, remains the same when it’s handoff time, and Robby is telling him all about what an awful fucking day it’s been, and of course now he says “Oh, remember that med student you got stuck with awhile back? Smiley-face? You must’ve done something right, because she matched into the ED for her residency. She starts today.”

Not exactly the news an attending wants to hear right after the horror show the day has been so far. Especially when intern/baby resident in question is… charismatic.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Ellis says, her eyes trained on you as you soothe a crying teenager who just got wheeled in. “If you ask me, we could use someone who actually smiles. Bit too dark and dreary in here for my taste.”

“You like dark and dreary.”

She gives him an unimpressed raised eyebrow. “So? We can’t all be doing it. Like, we’ve got Shen, but his is more iced-coffee induced than actual smiling charm.”

“I can be charming when I want to be.”

“No, you can be flirty or suggestive. There’s a difference.”

Jack does not justify her response with one of his own, instead choosing to look down at his tablet and pretend to chart while he listens to how you’re interacting with the patient. The teenager seems to be calmed down, and the parents don't sound frantic or worried.

Maybe Ellis is right. Unfortunately, this tends to be the case fairly often.

He sighs and focuses on the chart he’s supposed to be doing and attempts to wipe his mind of bright smiles and glittering eyes.

—

The PTMC and Emergency Medicine in general was not, actually, your first choice. It wasn’t even your second, or your third.

First was surgical. Everybody wants to be surgical. You wanted surgical. It’s flashy, it pays well, and it’s cool as fuck. Plus, unlike some of your classmates, you actually have the stomach for it (one of the many things that eventually translated well to emergency medicine.)

Second was Ortho. Because bones are cool. Ortho surgeries are fun too, when they’re not arthroscopy after arthroscopy.

Third was any kind of unit like Burn or ICU. A high stress program that wouldn’t let you think, let you run on adrenaline all day.

But then you did your rotation in general surgery and absolutely fucking hated it.

Surgeons are assholes. Surgeons are uptight nerds who like to subject anyone they consider beneath them to cruel and unusual punishment.

Even in during the short duration of your rotation through surgery, it almost killed you. You could practically feel the light in your soul dimming at every pointed comment, every sharp correction, every barked insult and something or other cruel word.

And then there was the PTMC. The stupid ED that wasn’t supposed to fun, was supposed to be grueling and exhausting (especially since you’d gotten assigned to the night shift.) But instead of awful you got amazing, which sucked.

Seems counterintuitive, but it’s true.

You wanted to like surgery enough to power though. But not a single rotation after the ED even came close to measuring up. The speed, the action, the gore, and the kind but firm guiding direction from the attending’s and residents.

Matching into the PTMC was an event actually worth celebrating. As in, you decided to un-tense minutely and splurge on actual champagne that you drank in your apartment while dancing to your favorite music.

And now, you’re here. Determined to not fuck this up. To keep moving, keep going, and be a fucking excellent ED doctor.

Except your attending, Dr. Jack Abbot, one of the reasons you joined the ED in the first place, keeps giving you funny looks when he thinks you’re not looking.

You’re not sure if he’s aware that you know that he’s staring at you. You do have a wider than normal field of peripheral vision, so maybe he doesn’t know that you can still see him out of the corner of your eye?

Regardless of if he knows or not, it’s unnerving. Because he’s your boss. And you know he’s capable of being an incredible doctor and mentor, because you see it every single day.

Just not directed at you.

He’s not really mean, or standoffish, or anything like that, he’s just… not necessarily kind. Not in the way that you see him with the other residents on his service or even with you, during your rotation as a med student.

Hell, he’s nicer to Santos than he is to you.

“Did I like, say something to offend him and I don’t know?”

Trinity makes a face at you from over the edge of the monitor. “Isn’t that more my area of expertise?”

“No. You offend people on purpose.”

“True.”

You prop your head on your hands, resting your elbows on the counter above her. Your keycard, attached to your breast pocket via a red, heart-shaped badge reel is lovingly adorned with pink rhinestones and cute stickers. The pocket itself is filled with several glitter gel pens (and regular pens, just in case.)

“I just don’t get it. I’m nice, right?”

“Disturbingly so.”

“Exactly. The only thing I can think of is that I’ve messed up or something, but it’s Dr. Abbot. He’d tell me if I did. He doesn’t exactly hold back.”

“Do you really need me for this conversation?”

You level her with a look, but she just groans.

“Why do you even care? So what, one guy doesn’t like you, boohoo.”

“He’s not just some guy. He’s my attending. And you might’ve secured your spot here, but i’m all shiny and new. I can’t exactly earn people’s respect if our boss doesn’t like me.”

Trinity doesn’t immediately respond with a scathing remark, which usually means that you’ve made a valid point.

“Should I talk to him?”

She sighs. “I think you’re overreacting. You’ve only been here for like, two weeks? Three? He’ll probably calm down the more you work together.”

“Did he stare at you all weirdly when you first started?”

“Well, no, but that’s because I don’t suck at my job.”

Now it’s your turn to glare.

“Sorry. I guess you’re not completely hopeless.”

You roll your eyes. “Thanks, Trin.”

She scrunches her nose up at the nickname like you knew she would, because she hates it, which makes it one of the only weapons you have against her.

Trinity wasn’t as helpful as you’d hoped, and night shift means no Dana to ask for advice. There’s Dr. Ellis, but she’s pretty close to Dr. Abbot, which means there’s a high chance that whatever you ask her will make it back to him. You aren’t really close enough to Dr. Shen to ask him “Hey, how come Dr. Abbot stares at me when he thinks I’m not looking and isn’t as nice to me as he is to you guys?”

The question is stupid and kind of pathetic, so really, you shouldn’t be asking anybody, but you’ve always been crippled by an intense need to be well-liked. It feels like winning, and it feels good and safe. Safe is good. Safe is great.

Wanting the guy who's essentially your boss to like you is completely rational, right?

You just wish he’d tell you what you’re doing wrong, so you can fix it.

Also, it’s just driving you crazy.

Even if he just legitimately didn’t like you, and made that apparent, it’d be something. You could work with that. You could figure out what it was he didn't like via intense pattern recognitin and fix it. Problem solved!

But he isn't obvious about it. He behaves indifferent and detatched- like you could die tomorrow and he wouldn't care.

It’s the not knowing. If you could just ask him, if he could just give you an answer, then you’d know where you stood, and everything could be fine.

What changed? You want to beg, What happened after my med student rotation? Do you even remember that? What did I do? Where did I go wrong?

It eats away at you over the course of the week. It has been since you noticed, which was pretty much on day one. You don’t show this outwardly of course, because you’re pretty sure you can get through to him and level out the wrong-footedness you feel around him through stubborn determination. Surely, at some point your unwavering nature will win out and he’ll finally see there isn’t anything he needs to hate about you. This is an incredibly healthy mindset to move through life with.

The week closes with an MCI around 5pm, which is just everyone’s favorite thing in the world. The night shift gets called in, minus Trinity, who was already there working a double, and everyone sets in for the long haul. You do your best to focus on the patients and do not at all think about the ease and camaraderie between Mohan and Abbot, because that would be a very fucked up progression of priorities.

Eventually it’s all over— patients are stabilized, some aren’t. Overtime ends with phantom blood on your hands and being strong-armed into drinks in the park afterwards.

You feel awkward, because you don’t work with the day shift people that often, so you’re not really sure how best to be yourself and not come across as weird. Neither of your “safe” people (Trinity and Dennis) are present, so there’s no way in hell you’re going to be capable of relaxing.

You take the beer that’s tossed to you, even though you think beer is gross (why does it taste like that? Why do people enjoy it?) and sip on it excruciatingly slowly, trying to hide a grimace and occasionally chiming in with mentally rehearsed and carefully crafted jokes and comments.

It’s exhausting, and not at all how you wanted to spend your night after an MCI. In a dream world, you don’t have the social backbone of a wet paper bag, and you say no, and you go home to your house and shower, then watch one, maybe two episodes of a tv show, scroll through Pinterest, and then go the fuck to bed.

But for the low low price of much needed rest, you get to drink one of the most disgusting alcoholic beverages known to man and worry if everyone thinks you’re being weird! Yay!

Also. Side note. Minor comment. Little issue.

Jack Abbot is sitting next to you. Like, right next to you on the bench. Because he came late and it was the last spot open. So he’s just right there. Posture loose and open and not at all like he didn’t just help you try to save a girl your age who had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like two hours ago your elbows weren’t brushing, elbow deep in a man’s organs, saving his life.

Jack, unlike you, looks comfortable to be at the park with everyone. He doesn’t look like he’s analyzing conversation to determine the best thing to say next.

Jack isn’t looking at everyone. He’s not looking at anyone. He’s looking at you.

You turn, give him a little smile.

Again.

Maybe he doesn’t know you can still see him out of the corner of your eye. (No, he’s a vet, he’d definitely also have wide peripheral vision. But maybe he thinks that you don’t have it, because you’re not a vet.)

(You’re probably thinking too much about the peripheral vision.)

Jack doesn’t stop staring at you. Instead, he reaches over to where your barely-drunk beer is in your hands, and says:

“Here, give me that.”

And then he just. Takes your beer. Straight out of your hands.

Jesus fucking fuck he so hates you.

—

“He took your beer?”

“Yes,” You groan from the kitchen island in Trinity’s apartment, “He said ‘here, give me that’ and then just took it. He didn’t say anything else to me for the rest of the night.”

She lets out a low whistle. “Maybe he doesn’t like you. What could you have possibly done to make him not like you?”

“I don’t know!”

“Well, you better fix it. Having your attending hate your guts will like, majorly suck.”

“I don’t know how to fix it. That’s what i’m over here for. To brainstorm.”

“I thought you were here to steal the cookies Huckleberry made?”

Dennis peeks his head up from the couch. “Wait, what?”

You wave a hand. “Semantics. Focus.”

“Okay,” Trinity taps a pencil on a notepad, “Have you tried sleeping with him?”

“He’s like, probably over twenty years older than me.”

“So? I know your type.”

You roll your eyes. “As if he’d go after me, Trin. He doesn’t like me.”

“Hate sex is a thing.”

“Name one time hate sex solved the hate part.”

She purses her lips. “Touché. What about like, baking him shit, like Huckleberry does for—“

“Shut up Trinity!”

You both snicker.

“No dice,” You sigh, “I can’t bake for shit. Recipes never have enough context. They’re never specific enough.”

“Two tablespoons of sugar isn’t specific enough for you?”

“You’re not helping.”

Trinity holds up her hands in mock surrender. “To be fair, I never agreed to help. I just said we’d both be here if you wanted to come over.”

“I think you should just ask him.” Dennis pipes up.

He shuffles off the couch and slides into the second chair at the kitchen island adjacent to you. “Dr. Abbot is a straightforward guy. He appreciates honesty. Doesn’t beat around the bush. I can’t imagine him being truly upset that you tried to fix a problem.”

“I want to, but that’s like. Too straightforward. What if—“

“Oh my god,” Trinity moans, “Just ask him. Or fuck him. Do something so I don’t have to hear about it anymore.”

You frown, opening your mouth to object, then close it with a sigh.

She’s right.

You have to just move on. Either deal with it or deal with it by… not dealing with it. Talk to him or don’t.

Easier said than done.

—

It takes two more shifts of unrequited awkwardness for you to finally reach your limit. At a certain point, probably when you almost snapped at him for hovering (doing his job) while you were trying to intubate a patient, you realize that you cannot, actually, just get through to him via stubborn determination.

Damn.

So when you have a second, you corner him in one of the quieter hallways. The conversation has the potential to be horrifically embarrassing and mortifying, so it’s best if there’s no audience.

“Do you have a minute, Dr. Abbot?”

He glances down at his watch, then crosses his arms and leans against the opposite wall.

He doesn’t talk (unnerving, annoying) and his sharp, ever analyzing gaze makes your skin prickle as you cross your hands behind your back and mirror his position, leaning against the wall.

He’s so irritating. He won’t even give you a fucking inch. There’s nothing to go on.

“Did I do something wrong?”

For the first time since you became a resident in the ED, he makes an expression: surprise.

“Why do you think you did something wrong?”

“Because you won’t fucking talk to me!” You hiss, absolutely fed up with Dr. Jack Abbot, “Half the time you only look at me when you think I won’t notice. You don’t talk to me unless it’s required for teaching, and even then, it’s short and stilted. I’ve seen how you interact with literally every other person who works here. I know you can be nice. You’re just not nice to me, and I’d like to know why.”

You pause. “And you took my beer!”

There’s a moment of silence, and then there’s a breathy, almost wheezing sound that takes you a minute to place.

He’s laughing.

Jack fucking Abbot starts laughing.

You honest to God want to kill him.

“Sorry,” He says, eyes sparkling with mirth and shoulders loose, “I can see how all of that can be taken negatively—“

“How else was I supposed to take that.”

Jack levels you with a look, and you shut your mouth. “But it was not my intention.”

He just stops speaking there, like that’s a perfectly adequate explanation and not at all vague and almost more disconcerting.

“So…,” You drawl, “What was your intention?”

Something interesting, a little more heated than just analytical sparks in his gaze, and he tilts his head, eyes flicking up and down your body.

Under the silence and scrutiny, you resist the urge to squirm in place, hands squeezing themselves in an effort to subdue the itch.

“You hate confrontation.”

Your chest feels like a cinder block just slammed onto it. “What?”

“You,” He levels a finger at your chest, “Hate confrontation. You hate it so much that you lie about yourself to people instead of saying things they might not like.”

You laugh nervously, voice high and reedy. “A lot of people do that. I don’t think that’s a crime.”

“It’s not. But it doesn’t exactly make me want to trust you with my residents. With my team.”

“You’re worried I’ll what? Get somebody in trouble? Do something shitty?”

“I’m worried that something is going to happen to you, and you won’t tell anyone about it.”

The hallway grows silent. In this distance there’s beeping, someone shouting orders, a child crying. But not in the five feet of space you, Jack, and the conversion currently occupies.

“Why do all of this?” You gesture vaguely to the space between you two, unwilling to be more specific. He does not deserve the itemized list you assembled in your head.

“I wanted to see if you’d confront me about it or not. Confirm my suspicions.”

“That’s—“ You wrinkle your nose, “Actually kind of shitty of you.”

Jack just hums.

“So what now? Did I prove myself to you?” Your tone is mocking.

He scoffs, “God, you really hate confrontation, don’t you?”

Your skin prickles again. “No.”

“Lying again.”

“Shut up.”

He knows how uncomfortable he’s making you. He’s doing it on purpose. And right then and there, you decide you don’t care what Jack Abbot thinks, because if Jack Abbot is going to be a self-assured asshole, Jack Abbot can go fuck himself.

Your pager going off saves you from verbalizing any of this, and with one last glare, you’re gone.

—

If Jack was an obnoxious lurker before, it doesn’t hold a damn candle to how he behaves now.

He’s just. Everywhere. Around every corner. Driving you crazy.

When you bring this up to Trinity, she looks at you like you’ve finally lost it.

Which. Okay. You probably have. But that’s beside the point! The point is…

…The point is that Jack Abbot is getting on your last nerve and you really don’t have any to spare. Life has been stomping all over the other ones, so the singular nerve Jack is stabbing with his annoying pointed looks and almost lingering touches and stupid little questions (“Hey, that was a rough one, are you alright?”) is just worn out. It doesn’t have anything left to give. You don’t have anything left to give.

But, like you were brought up to do, you keep right on giving. And working. And smiling.

Because it goes a little something like this: There’s no one to pick you up if you fall. You pick yourself up when you fall, and you’ve gotten pretty fucking good at it. All of your friends (read: Trinity and Dennis and maybe Mel) are doctors, which means you all have shitty work/life balance and no one would even be available if you called and said “Hey, every morning I lie awake and stare at the ceiling and convince myself to get up while listening to Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley, after which I will inevitably cry on the bus to work. Would you mind helping me with my laundry?”

Okay. Well. Trinity would probably show up if you asked because once she decides that you’re her friend she’s really intense about it (she’s a bit like a Doberman or some other dog like that, not that you would ever tell her) and Dennis probably would too, but only because he never says no when someone asks for help so it kind of just feels like you’re taking advantage of him. Mel is far too busy juggling being an ED doctor and caring for Becca for you to even think about asking her without feeling intense, soul crushing guilt.

So yeah. You don’t really have a best friend, unless one would count the singular romance book you’ve read so much the spine is completely fucked and the pages are yellow from years of travel and rereading. Counting any book as a best friend is probably very pathetic. But hey, don’t fix what isn’t broken.

So you have a system and a method and crying before and after work every single day is totally, completely normal, healthy, and sustainable. Probably even more so in the medical field, and especially since you’re a PGY1. Interns gotta suffer and all that jazz.

Jack Abbot does not need to make the suffering worse by existing near you constantly. Things are really honestly bad enough.

“Hey,” Trinity grabs your arm as you’re going by during a mellow shift, grip not tight enough to hurt but enough to be a bit past uncomfortable, especially for a girl not used to physical contact, “You good?”

‘No,’ You want to shout, collapsing on the floor in a heap of bones and tears, ‘I haven’t done laundry in so long that I’ve started wearing my cleanest dirty socks instead of washing more. I don’t have the energy to spend my days off doing anything productive, but every time I sleep instead of doing chores the anxiety eats me alive. I can’t sleep at night because the guilt makes me so nervous sometimes I throw up. Sometimes I don’t wash myself in the shower and I just stand in the water until it gets cold. Every day I wake up with the same headache, and then I take medicine for it, but by the time it’s gone I’m going to bed and then I wake up with it all over again. I think my liver is shot from over-the-counter medication usage. Everything hurts. I’m so tired.’

Trinity needs you to be okay. Trinity is too busy and under too much stress to worry about you. She needs you to be okay. Everyone needs you be okay.

“Mhm!” You nod, lips spread wide, “Pretty good day actually, all things considered.”

It’s not a total lie. The headache relief you’ve been taking religiously is kicking in faster than it usually does today.

Trinity scans your face, looking for signs of a lie, and she must find something (not shocking, it’s very hard to pretend that everything isn’t awful when Everything Is Really Awful) because her grip tightens minutely and she does that pursed lip thing she does when she’s worried and about to express it through anger or bitchiness.

“Don’t fuck with me. I don’t want to find out you’re like, doing drugs or something stupid like that. If you’re having a hard time—“

“Trin,” You interrupt, skin prickling uncomfortably as she implies that you’re not capable of handling things on your own, “If I need help, I know I can ask for it. And look,”

You tap your unbroken collection of glitter gel pens still intact in the front pocket of your scrubs. “It’s gotta be a good day. I still got my glitter.”

She wrinkles her nose, but drops your arm. “I don’t even know why you keep those. You can’t use them on like, anything. It’s against hospital policy.”

You shrug. “Glitter is a great motivator and mood elevator. Plus, kids love ‘em.”

You manage to feign something important coming up and duck out of the conversation and then, when the coast is clear, dart into one of the lesser used bathrooms and tuck yourself in the darkest stall.

Even in a hospital, toilet seats are disgusting, but you can’t quite summon any actual disgust as you plop down on the white porcelain, only lightly cracked, and cradle your exhausted head in your hands.

You have to keep going. There is no alternative. There is no other option.

Your chest feels tight and loose at the same time, and your skin feels clammy and wrong. Everything feels wrong. The lights are too bright and the material of your scrubs is scratchy and awful, and the longer you sit in the stall the more you want to throw up.

Someone knocks on the door before you get the chance to move down to your knees and start worshipping the porcelain altar. Assuming it to be Mel, who sometimes has a habit of showing up at the wrong time, you open the stall door to reveal none other than Jack Fucking Abbot.

You stare at him blankly for a few beats, too bewildered to feel sick. “You’re not allowed to be in here.”

“In the men’s bathroom?”

“This isn’t the men’s bathroom.”

“The sign on the door would say otherwise.”

Embarrassment brings the nausea back tenfold. You hold the stall door in a white knuckle grip to keep yourself upright and from hurling onto your boss.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I swear I didn’t do this on purpose—“

Jack raises an eyebrow, his hands folded behind his back. Military man, right.

“Clearly.”

You stumble forward. “I need to go—“

“Woah, down girl. I didn’t knock because I cared which toilet you use. You work here. Use whatever toilet you want. Preferably not the one in the attending’s lounge.”

“There’s an attending’s lounge?”

“No.” He grins, a devilish upturn to just the corner of his lips.

“Oh,” You pause, then catch up to the rest of what he said, “Then why’d you knock?”

“Cause it kind of sounded like you were dying in there, and I’d rather if you didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“The paperwork, for one. Two, Santos would probably shank me.”

“Ah.”

“Also,” He shrugs, “I’d miss you.”

You scoff. “No you wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

“You don’t like me. You don’t even trust me.”

Jack gets this pinched look on his face; his lips pull down, his brows furrow and he narrows his eyes, just a bit.

He opens his mouth to respond when the door bangs open.

Jack doesn’t even look up before he’s barking:

“Find another bathroom.”

“But I have to—“

“Find another bathroom or I’ll cut your dick off.”

The guy grumbles away, but Jack never takes his eyes off you. It’s unnerving— to be the sole focus of his attention.

You’re the first to break the now tense silence of the bathroom.

“That seemed a bit extreme.”

“I’m not a man who does things by halves.”

“No,” You sigh, “I suppose you’re not.”

Jack cocks his head to side, almost predatory. More methodical than anything. He looks at you— really looks at you. Shamelessly drags his eyes up your body, likely cataloguing every mystery bruise, frown line, eye bag, freckle, and all the million lines of exhaustion that seem etched on your very being, right down through the bones and marrow.

He sighs, crossing his arms before leaning back on the opposite wall of the bathroom.

“What am I going to do with you?”

His words instantly have you on edge, bristling at all the unsaid things behind his tone.

“I’m not something to be dealt with. I’m a person, not some fucking—“

“You’re like a stray cat,” He interrupts, “Always hissing. Do I need to win you over with treats? Should I start bringing canned tuna?”

“You’re an asshole.”

“And you’re drowning.”

Just like that, all the humor gets sucked from the room, replaced with the cold, sharp grip of reality. Suddenly exhausted by the weight of it all, you drop back down onto the toilet seat.

Jack gives you a few moments to respond, get angry, or defend yourself, but you don’t. He’s too good at reading you, it seems. What is there to say?

When you don’t speak, he does.

“Did you think no one would notice?”

“No one has.”

“Am I no one?”

You lean back, closing your eyes and awkwardly resting the back of your head against the wall and the back of the toilet.

“You’re nosy.”

If this were any other moment, any other scenario with any other person, you would never ever act so contrary. But you’re tired and Jack seems to bring out the worst in you.

He makes an amused huffing noise. “You’re good at what you do, I’ll give you that.”

“What, exactly, am I doing?”

“Pretending.”

You scoff. “Fuck off.”

“Come on, sweetheart. How much longer are you going to do this to yourself?”

You lift your head off the back of the toilet. “You act like I’m killing myself:”

“You are,” His inclined his head, “Just really slowly.”

You scrub a hand down your face.

“Look. I understand why you think you have to care, but you don’t. I’m just going through a rough patch. I’ll get through them like I always do. I’m not gonna crash and burn or endanger myself or do whatever it is you’re worried I’m going to do, okay? So you can leave me alone. I’m fine.”

Jack doesn’t get to respond, because the second the words are out of your mouth the nausea that’s been churning in your stomach since you made it to the bathroom rises all at once, and you barely have time to slide off the toilet and turn before you’re throwing up hard enough to almost choke.

The worst part is that you forgot to eat lunch so your stomach is woefully, painfully empty. You’re throwing up nothing but bile, throat burning and tears streaming down your face.

“Alright, come on,” A warm hand rubs soothing circles on your back, and if you weren’t busy hurling your guts out, you’d marvel at the feeling and juxtaposition between the Jack you know, who’s all cold indifference, and the Jack currently holding your hair out of your face while you vomit.

“Let it out,” He soothes, hand still rubbing, “Don’t fight it. It’ll be over soon.”

“I hate throwing up.” You choke, coughing and gasping.

“No one does. But you’ll feel better when it’s over.”

Over feels like it’s never going to come. But eventually your stomach stops clenching, you manage to stop heaving, and you’re slumped over the toilet, sucking down gulps of air, sweat beading on your forehead and the back of your neck.

“This,” You mumble in between gasps, “Means nothing.”

You can’t see Jack’s expression, but his response is so quiet you almost miss it.

“Okay.”

You can’t see his face, but you know this isn’t over.

—

Jack sends you home once you’re capable of standing on your own two feet without shaking like a newborn fawn.

(“You can’t send me home.”

“Yes I can. You’re not allowed to come back to work after throwing up in the bathroom.”

“We both know I’m not the only person to do it.”

“Yeah, but I haven’t caught the other people in the wrong bathroom and held their hair back while they vomited.”

“…”

“You only have two hours left anyway. Go home.”)

The problem lies in the fact that the buses aren’t running yet, which means that you can’t, actually, get home. Your house is an hour away on foot. An hour you’d normally be capable of walking, but your phone is almost dead, you’re exhausted, and you still feel a little weak because of the vomiting.

So after retrieving your things from your locker, you find yourself sitting on the little bench outside the PTMC, waiting for the minutes to tick by. If you didn’t bring at least one book with you everywhere you go in case of emergencies (like this one) you probably would have just walked into oncoming traffic.

It’s cold out and your jacket is cheap so you have to burrow into it, hood up to retain any semblance of warmth. It would be almost cozy —huddled in your jacket, watching the city go by, tucked into your favorite romance book— if the shift hadn’t gone the way it had and if a grueling bus ride and half mile walk didn’t await you once the buses finally start running. Waiting for you beyond that is just chores and an empty apartment.

Your fingers tighten on the edges of your book.

“Why the fuck are you still here?”

You jolt in place, cracking your neck over to the side and blinking blearily.

Jack. Again.

He makes an expectant face at you as if to say ‘Well?’ when you don’t answer immediately.

Your eyes dart back and forth nervously, even though you know you haven’t done anything wrong. “The buses aren’t running yet. It’s an hour walk to my house.”

Jack scrubs a hand down his face and curses under his breath.

“How long until your bus gets here?”

You check your phone. Shit. Only four percent left.

“And hour and a half. Maybe a little longer if it’s running behind more than usual.”

He seems put out by your answer, as if the bus’s heavily fluctuating schedule is of personal consequence and offense to him.

“Um,” You start, both uncomfortable at having been caught reading a romance book in public and at the general air of frustration Jack seems to be venting at the moment, “I’m fine. I have my book. I don’t mind waiting.”

Jack just sighs.

“Do you really think I’m just going to leave you out here, in the cold, after you threw up in the bathroom, to wait for the bus, for nearly two more hours?”

You wince. “Well, it doesn’t sound great when you put it like that.”

He works his jaw. “Have you eaten?”

“No…?”

He shakes his head.

“Come on. You’re coming with me.”

—

“I have to admit, this isn’t where I thought we were going.

Thirty minutes later finds you seated on the cracked vinyl seat of a booth in a cheap diner, staring at a menu and rationalizing spending your last $15 on what will probably be mediocre pancakes.

Jack is seated across from you, already two mugs of coffee —black, but oddly enough, decaf— and not even bothering to pretend to look at his menu. He either comes here often or doesn’t care to act like he isn’t staring at you.

Probably both.

“Where did you think we were going?”

Steam curls out of your own untouched mug of coffee —ordered for you by Jack, also unfortunately decaf— and you debate just getting up and running out of here.

Too bad you’re too exhausted to run anywhere. Jack’s probably banking on that.

“I don’t know,” You shrug, setting the menu down, “Maybe to Gloria’s office to write me up or something.”

“What would I even be writing you up for?”

“Disobeying direction? I’m sure you could come up with something.”

The waitress chooses that moment to appear, notepad in hand. “Are we ready to order?”

Jack rattles off his order, and then two sets of eyes turn to you expectantly. Before you can order the single fruit bowl you were planning on getting (the cheapest thing on the menu) Jack pipes up:

“Order whatever you actually want. Not whatever you think is cheapest or easiest.”

The waitress, a middle aged woman who has probably seen much worse than whatever the two of you have going on, just chuckles lightly under her breath.

You hesitantly list the item you’d been eyeing and thank the waitress.

It isn’t until after the menus have been taken and Jack’s coffee re-upped for the third time that you manage to courage to speak.

“You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean,” your fingers curl on the edge of the table, desperate for something to hold onto, “I can’t— It’ll be awhile until I can pay you back. I barely made rent this month.”

“Do you think I would take you to breakfast and then make you pay?”

“Yes…?”

“You’re not touching the bill, kid. I’m a gentleman.”

“Oh,” You didn’t really see that coming, “Okay.”

Jack gets a funny expression on his face, then resumes his drinking coffee and glancing out the window routine.

“So,” You say after a beat, “Was there something you wanted to talk about…?”

The silence just feels so awkward. It’s killing you.

He raises a brow. “Do you want to talk?”

“I’m asking you.”

“And I’m asking you what you want to do. What do you usually do when you come out to eat?”

“I don’t? Eating out is expensive, so. But when I do it’s usually by myself, so I end up just reading.”

Jack gestures to your bag beside you. “Don’t let me stop you.”

“What?”

“Read your book.”

“But that’s— isn’t that boring for you?”

He sets his mug down. “I didn’t bring you here because I wanted something from you. I brought you here because you had a shitty day and it seemed like you could use some cheering up. If reading makes you feel better, then do it.”

You have to look out the window to avoid his gaze. You don’t understand how your perfectly crafted facade just crumbles into fucking dust around him. How he manages to see right through you at every turn, how he manages to uncover every lie and every half truth.

“How did you even know I like diner food?”

“Because I pay attention to you.”

You finally look back over at him, arms folded across your chest; not really defensively, more like you’re trying to hold your entire body together by sheer force of will.

Jack’s lips twitch. Not really a smile, but almost. “You bring it up every time Santos wants to get food after a shift. She always says no, because she hates it, but it never stops you from suggesting it.”

It’s just one detail. One tiny, inconsequential detail that he’s apparently memorized and held onto because to him, it’s important. For some impossible to understand reason, he seems to care.

"Also," He shrugs, "I'd miss you."

You scoff. "No you wouldn't."

"I would."

“Do you hate me?”

Jack looks back at you, seemingly startled by the abrupt question.

“No.”

You take a deep, shuddering breath.

“Okay.”

—

“You did what?”

You wince from your spot lying face-down on Trinity’s couch.

“Not so loud, Trin. I have a headache.”

She ignores you, seated on the floor almost directly in front of you. “So you’ve gone from hating each other to going on a date?”

“It wasn’t a date,” You groan, “We spent almost the entire time in silence. I read my book and he stared out the window and did… whatever it is men like him do when they stare out the window.”

“Brooding,” Trinity says, “He paid. That means it’s a date.”

“No it doesn’t!”

It doesn't. It totally doesn't. Just because Jack said he doesn't hate you doesn't mean he likes you either. There are a lot of emotions in between hate and love. Like toleration, for example. Mild amusement. Exasperation. An appropriate amount of annoyance.

Trinity pokes you on the back of your head, having none of it.

"He likes you. Why else would he willingly hang out with one of us after work?"

"He goes out for drinks in the park sometimes." You mumble.

"Yeah, after an MCI."

What Trinity doesn't know is the events leading up to breakfast at the diner, because that would involve telling her about the whole throwing up from anxiety in the men's bathroom directly after a mini-panic attack because she confronted you about your unhealthy lifestyle (which all just sounds a lot worse than it is), so there isn't really a way to give her the kind of context necessary to get her off your back and dissuade her from her (insanely insane) belief that Jack likes you. Romantically.

"Trust me Trin, he was just being nice. Nothing romantic about it."

It was kind of romantic. Just eating surprisingly good food in the company of someone you don't need to pretend around, enjoying being in the company of another human being without worry or expectation.

Not that she needs to know that.

"Jack doesn't do nice. Have you seen him? What happened to the hating?"

You shrug. "You'll just have to ask him, because I don't know."

You do know. He told you. Explained it.

It doesn't make sense.

Trinity throws her hands in the air dramatically.

"Whatever. You two are impossible."

She finally withdraws, leaving you to wallow in your headache-induced misery by yourself on her couch.

Your phone vibrates on the floor next to you, and you groan, rolling further over to hide yourself in the crack of the couch, shunning the light like the reclusive vampire you are.

Your phone vibrates again.

“Dennis,” your voice is muffled by the couch cushion so it ends up sounding more like ‘denim’, “Can you please see who’s texting me and tell them to fuck off?”

Dennis, who was eating cereal at the tiny table near the kitchen when you first showed up fifteen minutes ago and has pointedly stayed silent throughout the entire exchange between you and Trinity, finally speaks.

“Your phone is two inches away from your hand.”

“I have a headache I don’t wanna look at the screen.”

You feel rather than actually see him roll his eyes, but then there’s the clink of a spoon against a bowl and the faint sound of socked —you’ve genuinely never seen him ever be barefoot under any circumstances, no matter what, he’s always wearing socks— feet as they make their way over to your temporary pit (couch) of despair.

There’s a quiet rustle as he picks up your phone off the floor.

“Oh.”

You whine, dramatic and upset. “What?”

“Um,” He grabs your shoulder, slowly rolling you over and away from the back of the couch, “It’s Jack?”

“What!?” You screech.

You throw yourself up, wincing as you immediately regret it when the pain in your head doubles, take a steadying breath to ignore it, and then grab the phone from Dennis’s outstretched hand.

You turn on the phone and— yep. Sure enough. A text from Jack, complete with the stupid picture of a dinosaur you made his profile picture. Because he’s old.

(It was funnier at the time.)

Somewhere behind you there’s a crash, and then the thump thump thump that can only mean a person running towards you at dangerous speeds for sock covered feet on cheap linoleum.

“Incoming,” Dennis mutters.

“Did I just hear that right?” Trinity gasps, nearly giving herself blunt force trauma via the back of the couch, “Did Jack just text you?”

“I don’t know!” You cry.

“How do you not know! Your phone is right in your fucking hands!”

“I’m tired! Stop yelling at me!”

“Guys!” Dennis shouts, holding up his hands, “I refuse to spend my day off listening to you two argue over the validity of romance with our attending. Give me the phone.”

He snatches the phone without waiting for a response, quickly typing in your password (if there was ever a moment you regret telling him in case of emergency…) and opening the text.

He makes an incredulous face at the phone before saying:

“He asked what you’re doing today.”

Trinity claps once. “Fucking called it!”

“Trinity!” Dennis snaps, before sighing and tapping at your keyboard, “I’m telling him that you have a headache and you’re at our place and to please not text again—“

“No!” You squeal, launching yourself off the couch, arms outstretched, but your legs tangle over each other and you fall and slam, gloriously and beautifully, face first into the coffee table.

“Oo!” Trinity winces, covering her mouth.

“Oh my god!” Dennis balks, “Are you okay?”

“Just give me the fucking phone.”

Peeling your face off, you grab the phone, squinting at the screen and ignoring the black spots in the corner of your vision.

hi, you type, I’m at Trinity and Dennis’s. Did you need something?

You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it.

“We,” You haul yourself to your feet and stagger over to the kitchen table, “Will never speak of this.”

“I definitely am. When I’m the maid of honor at your guys wedding, I’m gonna give a speech and be all ‘you guys, she gave herself a concussion the first time he texted—‘“

“There will be no wedding!”

“That’s just what you think.”

Your phone vibrates again, signaling a response.

Just wondering how you were doing. Surprised to hear you’re not holed up in your apartment reading something.

Ah, sexy old men and their correct grammar and punctuation when texting. Shouldn’t be endearing.

“What’s he saying?”

“Go away!”

You tap out a quick response.

Not today unfortunately lol I have a headache so no reading for me

Isn’t this the sixth day in a row you’ve had a headache? Should I give neuro a call?

You stomach flips.

nooo I’m fine i get them all the time

That’s not exactly reassuring.

I went to the doctor for them awhile ago apparently they’re normal

Who?

if I tell you, are you going to call him and make him send over my chart?

Yes.

Your heart is starting to pound a fluttering beat in your chest, and you hunch over your phone.

then i’m not telling you. it’s fine, really

they usually go away when i take over the counter stuff

So your plan is just to destroy your liver?

pretty much

We need to work on your planning skills.

we?

I’m not doing all the work.

Now stop looking at your phone. Drink some Gatorade and take a nap.

this is a resident apartment there’s no gatorade here just redbulls

Have either of them buy you one. I’ll pay whichever one it is later. Go to sleep. You need it.

You turn off your phone, shuffling back over to the couch and flopping down onto it.

“I’m taking a nap. Jack wants one of you to go buy me a Gatorade. He said he’d pay you back later.”

“He said what?”

—

You end up sleeping the entire day away, which should have screwed up your sleep schedule, but thankfully you live in a state of perpetual exhaustion and are fully capable of falling asleep anytime, anywhere, no matter how much you last sleep. It’s a gift.

Shockingly, the shift you work the next day is actually much easier to survive and your smiles aren’t nearly as forced. Go figure. Who knew that getting an appropriate amount of sleep would be so helpful?

“Somebody’s in a better mood today.” Jack mutters as you sidle up next to him under the board.

“I’m pretty sure I slept for like, fourteen straight hours. Thanks for the Gatorade, by the way. I woke up around hour three, chugged it, and then went back to sleep. No headache when I woke up!”

“Wonderful,” He drawls, “It’s almost like taking care of yourself is actually beneficial.”

“I take care of myself plenty.”

He casts you a sidelong glance, expression pinched.

“When was the last time you drank water without being prompted?”

“That’s different.”

“Okay,” He dips his head, “When was the last time you ever felt truly relaxed?”

You give him a beaming smile, so wide it hurts. “We’re not going to talk about this right now!”

“You started this conversation. I’m trying to do my job.”

You snort. “You’re waiting to see if someone else is going to take the sunburn guy.”

“Are you accusing an attending of cherry picking?”

“Of course not. Just observing, sir.”

Jack’s turned to look at you now, head tilted up, hands folded behind his back.

When you say sir, his eyes flick down to your lips, and then his jaw tightens.

The air suddenly becomes charged, the space between you two filled with something too electric to be air.

It smells like aftershave, hospital antiseptic, wanting, and something that’s distinctly masculine.

You look away first, swallowing hard past the sudden dryness of your mouth.

“You know,” You say, crossing your arms and looking up at the board, “Trinity thinks you like me. Romantically.”

“Mm.”

“I told her that was dumb,” You babble, “Obviously it’s not true, but. She won’t let it go, so if she says something, just ignore her. Or not. Whatever you want.”

“Why wouldn’t it be true?”

You whip your head around so fast you’re pretty sure something cracks. “What?”

“I mean,” Jack’s voice is gruff as he shrugs once, “Is that really so unrealistic?”

“Of course it is,” You sputter, “You don’t like me.”

“I’ve actually never said that. That was a conclusion you came to on your own. I distinctly recall telling you that I don’t hate you.”

“Just because you don’t hate me doesn’t mean that you like me, let alone— like that.”

Jack tilts his head, almost predatory, and all that sharp tension rushes straight back in.

“Like what?”

Something hot and dangerous is starting to unfurl in your chest, untethering from where it was previously lodged deep behind your ribs, out of sight, out of feeling.

“Code Blue en route, ETA two minutes.”

Jack jerks his head in the direction of the ambulance bay. “You gonna go get that?”

“Uh,” You’re pretty sure you’re stroking out, having a seizure, or something, because the only thing you’re capable of comprehending is the fact that Jack just not-so-subtly implied to actually liking you. Romantically.

“Get going then.”

You scurry away, hot all over and absolutely done with emotions in their entirety.

—

The rest of the week is hell on Earth. Perks of being in your twenties.

Things could be worse though!

Kind of.

It’s just that it’s been several days since Jack basically confirmed Trinity’s suspicions on romance and you can’t stop thinking about it. Obsessively.

It’s bad.

Bad enough that when Mel asked if there was any way you could cover her shift, you said yes.

“Okay,” Dennis stage-whispers as you’re downing your third coffee of the day, miserably charting at the nurses station, “I feel the need to ask how bad things can possibly be if you’re covering a day shift.”

“Mel asked.”

Dennis blinks incredulously. “You love Mel, but not enough to work a day shift voluntarily.”

“What exactly are you asking me here?”

“Did you and Jack hit a rough patch or something?”

“Keep your voice down!” You hiss, ducking your head as if you can hide from Princess and Perlah, “And for your information, no. We didn’t. I just wanted to do something nice for Mel.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t need you to believe me.”

Day-shift crawls on in a whirlwind of chaos and a level of dumb-fuckery that can only be achieved from the hours of 8 a.m to 8 p.m. As usual, the place is understaffed, overcrowded, and filled with a lingering sense of impending doom.

By the time night-shift starts filtering in, you’re ready to completely give up and start a new life a sheep rancher in New Zealand. It’s always been the plan if being a doctor didn’t work out.

Jack finds you in the locker room once the handoff is over, sitting on the little bench in the same position Dennis found you in earlier. Face in your hands, heels in your eyes, methodically counting breaths and wondering if that fluttering feeling in your chest is from caffeine consumption or sleep deprivation.

It’s fine. Your fine. Everything is fine.

“You don’t look too good.”

“I’m—“

“Don’t say you’re fine.”

“But I am,” You grit, “I just need a minute.”

“Okay.”

There’s the distinct sound of Jack’s slightly uneven footsteps, and then there’s a warm weight pressed against your side.

You take another shuddering breath that feels less like breathing and more like placing a single brick in a wobbly foundation.

“Shouldn’t you be out on the floor?”

“I don’t work tonight.”

You raise your head just enough to look at him. “You don’t? I thought I saw you on the schedule. Why are you here if you don’t work?”

Now that you’re looking at him and not starburst patterns on the back of your eyelids, you can see that he’s wearing casual clothes, not scrubs, and he doesn’t have his usual army-issue backpack with him.

“I got Shen to cover me. I came here for you.”

Your next breath in almost gets stuck in your chest, air struggling to move past that alive and wriggling thing that keeps moving every time Jack is around.

“What’d you do that for?”

The barest hints of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Dennis called me. He said you’d need picking up after your shift.”

Shame, guilt, and embarrassment flood your veins, turning your blood into sickly-sweet poison that makes your stomach roll and twist.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I have no idea why he did that. You really didn’t have to drive all the way over here, I swear I didn’t tell him to call you or something like that—“

“I know you didn’t,” Jack soothes, voice a rumbly, smooth timber that washes over your permanently-frazzled nerves like a balm, “Which is why I came.”

“I don’t understand.”

Jack stands, pulling your bag and change of clothes out of your locker.

“I’m going to ask you a question, and I need you to be honest with me, so you don’t have to answer it again. Can you do that for me?”

You nod once.

“Words.”

“Uh— yeah. Yes.”

“Good.”

Thank god the locker room is empty— everyone’s either on the floor or already left for their homes.

He closes your locker down, shoulders your bag, and hands you your clothes.

“Is it easier for you to accept help when you don’t have to ask and don’t get the chance to say no?”

It sounds so pathetic, hearing it laid out like that. The ugly guts of you; cut open, laid bare, and marked for research. Exhibit A, the inside of the girl no one ever needed to worry about.

You don’t want to agree. You want to laugh it off, maybe run away from it. Sit up straight, wipe your face, take the bag from Jack and explain that this is all a big misunderstanding and you’re perfectly fine and he can stop worrying about you now.

“Yes.”

Jack doesn’t verbally acknowledge your response besides a single dip of his head, like he knows that if he does anything more it’ll turn your response into a confession and that’s just too vulnerable for the hospital locker room.

“I’ll drive you home.”

“I don’t mean to be this way, you know.”

The passenger seat of Jack’s car isn’t somewhere you’d ever imagined yourself being. Not even late at night or on the bus when you’re pretending to be someone else who’s better at chasing what they want.

“It stopped being intentional a long time ago,” your hands are fisted into the material of your sweatpants, nails digging into the fabric, “It was just the natural progression of things. I like being liked.”

What you don’t say, what becomes an unspoken truth that lingers in the air despite not being verbalized, is the survival aspect of it. Why and how a person fuses this kind of thing to their personality; to their life. The circumstances that makes the natural progression of things end it being better for everyone if you just don’t have needs.

“I know.”

“I know you know, I just… needed to tell you. Myself.”

It’s odd seeing Jack illuminated by streetlights instead of fluorescent overheads. It’s odd being able to watch his hand flex on the steering wheel, watching his forearm tense as he shifts gears in his old stick-shift.

“You like being told what to do.”

Your face heats, but you’re determined not to lose face now. Especially after managing to survive being emotionally flayed open, willingly, by him.

“It feels safe. If I know what yo— someone wants, then I can’t mess it up, and I can relax.”

You can practically see the gears turning in Jack’s mind.

“Makes sense.”

The rest of the drive is quiet, the silence only filled by the sounds of Pittsburgh around you and the gentle crackle of something from the radio turned down too low to hear.

And for the first time in longer than you can remember, you begin feeling something that approaches calm.

Jack doesn’t have any expectations. There isn’t any one particular way he wants you to act or expects you to behave like. There’s nothing he wants you to do.

So you do what you want to do.

You relax.

—

In the weeks following Jack driving you home, there is a quantifiable shift in behavior between the two of you.

He starts pulling back.

It strikes you as odd first, and your natural inclination is to pull back too— to guard the soft, vulnerable bits you’ve showed him in case he throws them back at you.

But then you realize what he’s doing.

Instead of telling you how to proceed on a case when you come to him for advice, he asks you questions and steers you to the answer. He holds back when he’s evaluating a case with you, patiently following your lead and only interjecting when necessary.

He’s making space for you try new things and learn without fear of rejection. Building your confidence bit by bit.

It feels more intimate than sex.

After much deliberation, screaming into your pillow, and Reddit forum searching for HR violations, you decide to get him a card. Because he’s actually been really kind and helpful and he makes you feel like you can actually survive residency.

“What’s this?”

“A thank you card.”

You’re staring at your shoes, eyes flicking up and down between Jack’s face and the floor.

“What for?”

“It says it in the card.”

You scurry away, attaching yourself to the closest patient to avoid seeing Jack’s face when he does finally open it.

But when you look back, he’s just staring at it, a small smile on his face.

—

It’s the card that does him in.

Jack hasn’t made his feelings for you a secret, despite your unwillingness to see him as anything other than standoffish in the beginning.

He came on too strong at first— that was his fault. He didn’t yet understand how imbedded your need ran and how long it’d been since anyone bothered to look deeper.

He’d hoped, at least, that you were letting Whitaker and Santos help, and though you let them closer than most, it was clear you still seemed intent on holding up yourself and everyone around you on your own.

But it wasn’t just that. It was the way you oozed kindness— like it was a byproduct of your existence. He watched you get so wrapped up in being the perfect resident, perfect friend, perfect person, that no one ever stopped to let you know how good you were just by being.

He hadn’t planned on developing feelings or anything of the sort. At first, you’d just been one of his residents. Smart and capable but lacking confidence in yourself to fully commit. Then there was that MCI, and drinks in the park afterwards where he’d painfully watched you sip a beer you clearly hated, and everything just clicked right into place.

He never intends to flirt with you. It just happens. He can’t help himself. He’s a weak fucking man when it comes to you.

And then you bring him a card. A fucking card. To thank him for doing his job as an attending, a job he should’ve been doing better from the start. It has an illustration of bananas on it and says “Thanks a bunch!”.

He knows he’s completely gone, then. He was capable of being in denial before, could delude himself into thinking that what he felt was casual, but the sight of you before him, hands nervously wringing, your glitter gel pens sparkling as they caught the light was just the final nail in the coffin.

He allows himself a modicum of flirting on a day to day basis, mostly because if he couldn’t tease that real smile out of you at least once per day, he’d lose his mind.

Sometimes he takes you back to the diner, especially on longer days where none of your smiles reach your eyes and you start obsessively uncapping and capping your gel pens.

Even though you think it “looks dumb” you’ve also taken to sitting shoulder to shoulder with him in the booth, and he pretends he can’t see you sneaking fries off his plate because he knows how much effort it takes you to ask him if you can sit with him instead of on the opposite side.

Then he starts driving you home during a string of bad weather after you start sneezing from walking in the rain everyday, but even after the storm passes and the weather clears up he still finds you at the lockers, every day, car keys in hand. No matter how many times he does it, you always look so happily surprised that he’s still offering.

As if he’s not wrapped around your finger.

One day, after things have been mellow for awhile, Whitaker calls him and says that neither he nor Trinity have seen you in three days and you called out of work.

So naturally, as a calm and collected man, he showed up to your house.

You’d answered the door after the third time he knocked (which was great, because he was gearing up to force the door open) and you just looked miserable. Your hair was a mess, you head blanket wrinkles imprinted onto your face, and your eyes were puffy.

“Jack?” You’d mumbled, squinting your eyes against the not very bright light in the hallway, “Why are you at my apartment?”

“No one’s heard from you in three days.”

You wince. “I swear I meant to text Trinity. I just have a bad headache.”

His fingers twitch towards a penlight he doesn’t have. “How bad?”

“I don’t know. Like a seven on the pain scale?”

“Jesus— I’m coming in.”

“Nooo,” You cry, but shuffle back from the door and put up very little fight as he ushers you to the couch.

Your apartment is….. exactly as messy as he’d imagined a resident who lives alone would be. For someone who doesn’t drink enough water, there are an incredible amount of beverage bottles and cans littered about.

“Do you have headache relief?”

You gesture to the kitchen. “Cabinet furthest to the left.”

While rifling through your very disorganized medicine cabinet, he spies an orange prescription bottle with your name on it, dated for the previous year.

“Why do you have a prescription for a high level antihistamine?”

“Stop snooping. It’s for my migraines.”

“You’ve had a prescription this entire time and you’ve been taking all that over the counter shit?”

“Stop being mad,” You mumble into the couch cushion, “My migraine meds put me to sleep, so I can’t take them when I’m working. Plus I don’t have any refills left so I save them for when it’s really bad.”

“You called out of work and haven’t left your apartment in three days and you don’t consider this bad?”

“Could be worse. Could be throwing up.”

He sighs. Sets the bottle on the counter, breathes in once, then lets it out slowly. Imagines all the ways he could murder whoever made you think suffering alone for three days is preferable to asking for help.

“I’m going to help you back to bed,” He starts, voice low as he rounds the couch, “And then you’re going to drink some electrolytes, have a snack, and take your meds. Okay?”

The migraine has clearly taken it out of you, because you put up zero fight as he manhandles you to your feet and helps you drag yourself back to your bed.

“M’ sorry my apartment is a mess. I was supposed to clean it.”

“I’m not judging, sweetheart,” He says, tucking the blankets up around you, lips twitching as you make grabby hands for a giant triceratops plushie that looks to be the size of your upper body. “I’m gonna make you a snack, so try to stay awake until I come back. Can you do that?”

“Mhm. I’ll try.”

“Good girl.”

He manages to find a cucumber in your fridge, cuts it into slices and then adds a few pieces of lunch meat for protein. Last but not least, he snags a bottle of blue Gatorade from your pantry.

(He only knows they were there because he bought them for you a few weeks ago.)

He doesn’t make you sit up to eat, but instead scoots you a little ways away from the edge of your bed so there’s space for the plate.

You slowly nibble your way through, taking little sips of Gatorade when he nudges the bottle into your hands.

You finish the cucumbers, eat most of the lunch meat, and drink half the Gatorade before burrowing back into the blankets and declaring yourself done.

“Can I have my sleep mask please? I think it’s on the floor under my nightstand?”

“Of course you can.”

After your face mask is on and the curtains closed, he gives you the correct dose of your meds and gently shuts the door to your bedroom.

He fires off a quick text to Whitaker (he doesn’t have Santos’s number) that says you’re fine, stuck in bed with a migraine, and that he’s handling it.

And then he gets to work.

Two hours later your apartment is clean, your laundry is started, and Jack’s relaxing on your couch, aimlessly watching the news.

He hears the door creak open but knows you hate feeling on the spot, so he keeps his gaze trained on the tv even as he hears the sound of you shuffling over to the couch.

And then you pause.

“Jack.”

“Yes?”

“Did you clean my apartment?”

He finally looks over to you, and when his gaze reaches your face his stomach drops.

You’re crying.

He hauls himself off the couch (he’s thankful that he put his leg back on a few minutes prior) and stops in front of you, arms twitching at his sides with the need to fix, help, to stop whatever it is that’s making you cry.

“What’s wrong? Did I overstep?”

“No,” You warble, voice wet, “I just haven’t had the time or energy to clean in here for so long, and it’s been stressing me out so bad I avoid staying here during my off days. It’s just really, really nice of you.”

You look at him, eyebrows pinched and eyes wide with worry, “I— I’m not sure how to repay you for all of this. I know you said going to the diner was fine, but this is— a lot.”

“Sweetheart,” He starts, bracing one hand on the side of your face, thumb deftly sweeping across your cheek and wiping away the quickly drying tears, “I’m not doing any of this because I expect you to repay me. I’m doing it because I care about you and I want to see you happy.”

You sniff hard. “This is a lot of work, though.”

“I like doing it. I like taking care of you.”

Another sniff. “It doesn’t seem very fun.”

“I told you. You’re like a cat. Had to coax you over and now look at you,” he thumb rubs circles over your cheekbone, “Practically purring.”

You wrinkle your nose. “I don’t know if I like this metaphor.”

“Get used to it.”

You sigh, dramatic and long.

“I suppose I’ll allow it.”

“Oh, you’ll allow it, huh.”

You fold your hands behind your back, rocking back and forth on your heels. “Yes. I’ll allow it.”

“Well, aren’t I lucky.”

Later, when you’re lying on the couch, two movies into what Jack thinks is an unofficial early 2000s rom-com marathon (your favorite genre) you turn to look up at him from your spot tucked into his side.

“This is romantic, right?”

He presses a lazy kiss to your forehead, because he knows how much you like physical affirmations as well as verbal ones.

“Yes.”

“You’re serious about this?”

“You need confirmation?”

“I’d rather have it in writing, but this will do for now.”

He huffs a breathy laugh, tucks you closer to his chest.

“I’ll put it in writing for you later.”

You hum, pleased, and snuggle back into him, letting out a content sigh.