꧁ঔৣ☬𝓜𝓲𝓷𝓽𝔂☬ঔৣ꧂

It was the only time you had to get to the bank that morning and there was a line nearly out the door, like everyone got the same dumbfuck idea as you.

You knew your bank had laid off a bunch of people lately and were closing branches, making wait times all the worse, but you actually couldn’t do this online. An elderly patient had written a check and you said you’d cash it for them, they were a semi-regular fixture at the Pitt, unfortunately.

You and your big mouth trying to make peoples’ lives easier. You kept your arms folded as the line moved maybe an inch, and you zoned out, thinking of your shift tonight. You still needed to get home and pack everything, get yourself ready. 

As your mind drifted, the line moved again, and you shuffled forward with a short sigh.

What came next wasn’t the grumble of the man behind you, but a yell that cut through the overlapping murmurs and taps of computer keys.

“EVERYBODY GET ON THE FUCKING GROUND!”

You spun around and saw several men in dark clothes, wearing ski masks, armed with duffel bags at their sides.

The adrenaline spike was a familiar one to you; you drew in a breath, scanning the crowd. Some people shrieked, but everyone ducked to the ground, you included.

You put your hands behind your head as instructed. The man kept yelling over the sudden silence of the bank, brushing past you:

“This, ladies and gentlemen, can go one of two ways. You do as you’re told or you die.”

People were already crying, but you tried to think. Were there any children there? You didn’t recall any in front of you in the queue. You dared a glance behind you.

“Don’t move,” came a voice, with a boot on your shoulder pressing you back down. 

You went still, obeying. 

The ringleader kept talking. 

“No doubt the police have been called already. But I want phones now. Right fucking now!” 

You took out your phone from your jacket pocket, putting it beside you. Men came by with their bags, snatching phones. 

All those photos on there you didn’t have copies of… you tried not to think about that. 

“How long would it take cops to get here?” someone whispered close by, and you heard murmured back:

“Three minutes maybe?”

“I want the manager out here,” yelled the ringleader, throwing his rifle over his shoulder. 

This would all be over soon. You just needed to stay calm, make sure no-one did anything stupid. 

Like the manager, who decided it was a great idea to come out with his own weapon, making you and many others gasp at the sight of his pistol.

“Very brave, very stupid,” the ringleader said. 

All his men were trained on the manager. The manager whose face was dripping with sweat, wet patches on his blazer and shirt, shook as he moved forward with his gun still raised.

“I am tired of people like you,” he said, and you closed your eyes. “You want nothing but destruction. You’re entitled to whatever you want. You’re filth-”

A gunshot rang out and someone screamed. You saw the manager clutch at his chest and topple over, losing his weapon.

You had never seen someone shot before. You only ever saw the after effects, at the hospital…

It all happened so fast. The men seemed unbothered by the violence, the ringleader turning to the crowd.

“Anyone else feeling brave today?” 

“Please let us go!” wailed someone.

“We’ll let you go once a line of communication is established with authorities, of course,” the ringleader said, shrugging. “Would any other staff like to be an acting manager?”

The silence that followed was the deafening kind that left your ears ringing. It took a minute before someone came forward, a younger woman whose face was streaked with tears. 

“I can do it,” she breathed. 

From your space on the ground, you could see the branch had been barricaded, the men stationed at each exit, each door that left the main floor. You scanned their faces, none of them familiar to you. 

You looked back at the manager on the ground, at the blood spreading across his chest. He was still breathing. You needed to find a way to get to him, to help him. You only had minutes, give or take. Time worked differently now, both simultaneously dragging and speeding up. Each movement was sickening.

“Up,” someone said, and you shot up from the floor, hands up.

You backed away, rounded up to sit on the floor with your back to one another. The circle consisted of around forty people, not including the staff they had lined up against a wall.

“Is he alive?” you asked, loud enough for one of the masked men to hear you.

“Shut her up,” the ringleader snapped, before you could be answered by his associate nearest to you. “Or I will.”

“I’m a nurse!” you added hastily.

A phone began to ring and their leader was momentarily distracted, rounding on the acting manager. She scrambled for the phone, placing it to her ear.

“H-hello?” 

Everyone waited. The woman carefully took the receiver away and looked at the ringleader. 

“It’s for you.”

He took it and pushed her away, the woman stumbling backwards. You hated him more than ever for being so rough with someone half his size. You looked over at the bleeding man on the floor, watching his chest rise and fall. 

You tuned out the demands you heard made from this end of the phone call. It felt like these men had seen one too many heist movies. 

You knew it was only a matter of time before the SWAT team arrived, and then there’d be bullets flying every which way. 

The bleeding man was wheezing. 

He was dying.

The sound finally filled your ears once more. Someone was crying softly close to you, and you drew in a breath. 

“He needs medical assistance now,” you said, a little louder than before. 

The ringleader spun around, eyes wide with outrage. 

“Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“You’re on the phone to the police, right? They’d have med guys on their team. Get me someone to save him, or you’re being tried for murder on top of everything else.”

Though his mask obscured his face, you could see he understood the gravity of the situation, as if his own adrenaline had begun to wear off.

“Okay.”

You got up, stalking towards the phone. You were on borrowed time, everyone there was. You weren’t dying before trying to help, though. You would not go gentle into that good night.

“Hello?” you said, phone to your ear. “Someone’s been shot, I need help.”

“Is anyone else firing right now? What’s your name?” 

You said your last name reflexively, feeling eyes on you. 

“No, we’re… kind of just waiting right now.”

“One moment.”

You couldn’t make out what was being said, like someone had muffled the phone. You swallowed, looking at the rifle that the ringleader leaned on. He’d tracked mud everywhere, you noted.

“This is Dr. Abbot. What’s the situation?”

“Abbot?” You repeated, and for a second you floated. “Jack?”

He said your name, and you sucked in a breath. 

“It’s me.”

“What the fuck are you doing there, sweetheart?” 

You couldn’t decipher what he was feeling by his tone, but it was all bad. You trembled as you glanced over at the bleeding man. 

“I’ve got a gunshot wound, mid-forties… gunshot wound to upper chest.”

You took the phone with you, ignoring everyone else. Jack managed to do that to you. Once you reached the bleeding man, you settled next to him, hands checking.

“Pale, tachycardic. His… trachea is shifting.” 

Jack’s tone changed to focused, sharp.

“Listen carefully. He’s developing a tension pneumothorax.”

Your stomach dropped. You knew what that meant. The air was trapped in the chest cavity, the pressure building. Lung collapsing, the heart compressing. 

“Jack…”

“You need to decompress the chest.”

You’d never done that procedure before. Not on a person, not outside of a simulation. You weren’t a doctor, either, but refrained from reminding him.

“I…”

“Stay with me,” he said. 

“I don’t have a kit,” you retorted. “I…”

You looked around at the desks, the people staring at you from the circle on the floor. You wondered who else was listening in on this conversation. 

“What do you have?”

“Maybe… a first aid box? Tape?” 

“That’ll work,” he said, which was just like him. “Get a catheter from a kit. They’d have one.”

You looked at the acting manager, clicking your fingers.

“Hey! First aid.”

She raced off. It seemed the men could no longer control her in this situation. She raced over to you, wide-eyed and panting when she reached your side. 

All the while, Jack remained steady in your ear.

“You need to find the second intercostal space.”

“The-”

“Top of the ribs,” he said calmly. “Count down from the collarbone.” 

You pressed shaking fingers against the man’s chest.

“One… two…”

The injured man wheezed painfully.

“You’re okay,” you whispered automatically, though you weren’t sure who you were talking to anymore.

“Midclavicular line,” Jack continued. “Just above the rib. Not below. You go below, you hit vessels.”

Your breathing turned shallow.

“I found it.”

“Good girl,” he said instantly, instinctively.

The words hit like a spark straight through your chest.

Then professional again:

“Needle perpendicular to the chest. Firm push.”

Your hand shook violently.

“I can’t-”

“Yes, you can.”

The sharpness in his voice startled you still.

“You hesitate now, he dies.”

Everything narrowed. The blood.

The hostage gasping beneath your hands.

Jack breathing quietly through the radio.

You steadied yourself and positioned the catheter.

You pushed.

There was resistance. Then -

POP.

A violent hiss of escaping air burst from the needle. The hostage jerked beneath your hands.

“Oh, my God…”

“There you go,” Jack said immediately, relief bleeding into his voice for the first time. “There you go. Advance the catheter.”

Your hands obeyed automatically now.

The man’s breathing eased. Still ragged, but better.

Color slowly returned to his face.

The room around you seemed to exhale collectively.

You realized your entire body was shaking.

“Jack…”

“You did it.”

The praise in his voice nearly undid you.

Then his tone shifted again to cold, alert. 

“They're going in.” 

You glanced up, your eyes meeting the ringleader. 

What came next was a cacophony of voices, first from the phone and then beyond the bank foyer. 

Whatever plan there was in place for a rescue, it felt to you like all that was pushed aside. The masked men also left behind whatever restraint they had. Everyone panicked. 

You didn't know how, but you promised you wouldn't let your patient die there. Once the ringleader heard the SWAT team advance, he barked orders to his men, to hold their own. 

He glanced your way, bolting. You automatically dropped, laying on top of your patient, wet heat of his blood pressing against you. 

You may have screamed. The overlapping gunfire and yelling drowned it all out anyway. The ringleader fell to the ground. The lights went out. 

“Please, God-” 

Who was that? You flinched when a hand found yours in the dark. 

“Jack?”

The bank once again flooded with fluorescent light, harsh and unforgiving. 

Jack Abbot shoved his night vision goggles off, eyes wild as he scanned you. His gloved hands pulled you up. He cupped your face. 

“I'm okay,” you whispered. “Hey, I'm-I'm okay…” 

Your ears were ringing but the gunshots had stopped. Jack kept staring at you. 

“Stop it, I'm fine. It's not my blood.” 

He gave your face one last brush with his thumb and then let go, glancing down at your patient. He set to work, admiring your job. 

“What bank has a catheter in their first aid kit?” your murmured, and he smirked. 

“Most metropolitan banks have these kinds of situations.” 

You sat beside him, glancing about. Men were on the ground. The SWAT guys were fastening zip-ties. You were suddenly exhausted, scrubbing your face. 

Paramedics came in. The bank manager was taken away. You fell into a silence only ever broken if you were spoken to. 

“You'll get a medal for this,” Jack said.

You were outside, media having arrived. Someone was bound to see you on TV. 

“Not why I did it,” you muttered, eyeing a camera aimed at the building behind you. 

“I know,” he murmured. “I'm just forewarning you. You might actually have to take a compliment one of these days.” 

You chose not to roll your eyes. He'd gone softer, quieter as if to mirror you. 

“Will you go with them?” you asked, meaning the patients sent to the hospital.

“Nah, I'll stay with you,” he said. “Where'd you park?”

You watched him as he looked around, and you remembered. Driving there that morning - mere hours ago - felt like days. You sighed.

“If you got a ticket, they'd understand...” 

His eyes swung back over to yours, assessing. 

“Are you okay?”

“Not really,” you admitted in a rush. 

Your chest hurt. He only nodded, and you nodded back. 

You had to wait a little longer, until you were cleared to leave. Jack remained beside you the entire time, hands behind his back. 

There'd be no shift tonight. Advised you were in no fit state to work, you wanted to argue. Helping other people would keep the morning's incident off your mind. 

“C'mon,” Jack said, soft and patient. “I'll walk you back to your car.” 

You fell into step, silently weaving through people milling around. People openly stared at you - you hadn't changed out of your bloodied clothes yet. You avoided their gawking, bumping into Jack by accident. 

His hand was on your lower back, guiding you. The steady assurance warmed you when you were otherwise numb. 

When you finally reached your car, taking out your keys took longer. You sighed. 

“Lemme drive.” 

This was the most time he'd spent with you alone, you realized. It didn't feel out of place. That alone made you hyper aware of his proximity to you. 

You climbed in beside him, pulling your seatbelt on.

“Don't touch the radio,” you warned, and he smirked. 

It dawned on you that he remembered the street you lived on. You must have mentioned your apartment block enough during work. He didn't need directions, knowing the streets like the back of his hand. 

He drove in silence, as if understanding that you needed this relative peace. 

“Thanks,” you said, as he pulled up on the curb. “For… this. For everything.” 

“You gonna be okay?” he asked, as the car idled. 

You looked down the street, at the life unreached by the morning's shock and horror. Everything was coming back to you again. You'd woken up in such an ordinary way only hours ago.

“Can you stay?” you asked. “I know you're busy-”

“It's a good excuse,” he interjected. He wasn't letting you apologize for asking for help, thank fuck. 

Again - more surprises. He knew you too well, and you hadn't known that yourself. 

“Okay.” 

He followed you up, and you fumbled the keys, dropping them. He scooped them up, helping you once again. 

“I'm hopeless,” you said, unable to stop yourself. 

“You're exhausted,” he retorted, letting you in. 

It felt too right, your chest tightening. You ducked under his arm. 

“I meant before,” you amended. “I couldn't have saved him without you.” 

“It's what we do,” he said, shrugging.

We. 

You nodded. You gestured to the hallway to your bedroom. 

“I need to lie down. You don't have to stay long… I have coffee pods-” 

“It's fine,” he said. “I might… snoop and stuff.” 

You smirked, nodding.

“Go,” he added for good measure. 

You left him in the living room, trudging back to bed. It took barely a minute after you flopped down on your bed for you to fall asleep. 

-

You startled awake, a figure in the doorway. You fought your way back to full consciousness, feeling a tension, a neediness between your legs. 

It was as if thoughts of Jack summoned him to your room. He looked sheepish. 

“I was just checking on you. It's been… an hour and a bit.” 

You blinked, sitting up. Your shoes were still on. You scrubbed your face. 

“I…” 

You looked at him, his sentence falling away. He started again. 

“I think I should go.” 

He didn't look like he wanted to. He leaned against the doorframe, watching you take in your surroundings. A ghost of a smile formed. 

“I… don't know what to do now,” you admitted. Your routine was off. 

“Go back to sleep.” 

“Don't want to,” you retorted. At least you didn't want to cry or scream.

You were pretty sure you had a sex dream about Jack. You pressed your thighs together. 

“I don't want to leave you here,” he admitted. 

“I'm okay,” you said automatically. You weren't exactly lying. “I'll be okay.” 

“I know you will,” he said. 

It wasn't an argument. He folded his arms. 

“Tell me what to do,” you said. Your eyes were trained on his skin, then slid up to his warm gaze. “Like before.” 

He only stared at you for a minute, and you thought maybe you crossed a line. He drove you home and he'd come to your apartment, but that was a favor. This was something more. 

He drew in a deep breath, then said on exhale: 

“Let me into your bed.” 

You shuffled onto your knees, and he moved to meet you, hands taking hold of your face when you reached the end of your bed. 

He leaned down and kissed you and you gasped at the promise in his touch, how easily you melted underneath him. 

His tongue was in your mouth, tangling with yours and you both moaned, your hands deep in his greying curls. 

“Jack-” 

He kissed your cheek, your throat. He pulled you up into his arms and held you tightly. 

He'd been scared. You kissed his cheek, rubbed his back. You wanted to dote on him, too. It was in your nature. He made it easier than most. 

“Wanna take these clothes off you,” he mumbled. “Wash away the blood…”

He kissed you again. You yanked off your sweater. 

“I liked that one,” you lamented.

“Shower?” he said, and you shook your head. 

“After,” you said. “I need you…”

Moments later, bare to one another, you threw your leg over him and settled in his lap. 

His cock teased you, leaking at the tip as he stared up at you.

“I'm okay,” you whispered. “I'm still here.” 

You let out a little cry when he pushed inside. He was so deep, thick enough to make you shiver, the stretch perfect. 

Your cunt fluttered around him, greedy. 

“Oh, God,” you gasped, as you shifted, testing the waters. 

Your noses brushed, tongues teasing as you didn't quite close your mouths. You gasped again, when he pushed up, fucking you back. 

You'd learn how to do this every way you possibly could, you vowed. Have him bend you over, throw you around. You'd crawl to him if he asked you to. 

The last thought must have slipped out of your mouth, his grip tightening on your hips. 

“Yeah?” he panted. He lifted you up, slamming you down on him. “You’d do that for me?” 

He worked you up and down. You revelled at his strength, as he never slowed, watching as you climbed higher and higher. 

His thumb pressed against your clit and you lost all control of your voice, whimpering as you clamped down on him, vision darkening at the edges. 

You came with a hoarse cry by his ear, feeling a warm trickle down your thigh. He'd made you come so hard, you slurred, when you managed to come back down to Earth. 

He kissed your face again and again, nearing his own end. You watched, a little delirious, as his eyes went to your face, then your bare chest, then down to where your bodies met. 

“Shit, sweetheart,” he hissed, and his eyes slammed shut, his forehead pressing to yours. 

It was a sweaty, beautiful mess. He twitched as he came inside you, long pulses that felt right. 

Safe and warm.

Neither of you moved for a long time, his hand trailing down your bare back, settling on the top of your ass. 

“You're okay,” he whispered, either to himself or both of you. 

He didn't leave your apartment for a long, long time after that. 

Of course, that typically just means a long, afternoon nap, but that’s beside the point. 

You should be reveling in the start of what is meant to be a serene Saturday, but there’s something holding you back.

It’s a buzzy, humming feeling in your chest. Not quite anxiety, not quite excitement, but it's been there all morning. As you set up the canopy and the folding table, stacked your peaches and tomatoes so the ripest end up on top, and even as you tied the crocheted bandana around your two braids — a necessary accessory to keep flyaway from escaping in the early morning breeze.

Anticipation. And as you swipe your hands over the apron looped around your waist, you glance down the aisle of booths, and spot the very person you’re anticipating. 

He strides toward you with purpose, ignoring the surrounding booths.

A black scrub top and mocha brown cargo pants, accompanied by work boots that have seen better days. He looks worn down, like he always does when you see him first thing every Saturday morning. But the lines on his face crinkle when he spots you, recognition lighting the smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“Good morning, buttercup,” he says when he sidles up, eyeing the pints of strawberries. It's a simple booth: just a folding table filled to the brim with pints of berries, peaches, tomatoes, and a few jars of honey from a local beekeeper. “And how are you today?” 

Buttercup. You glance down at the fruit-centric logo on your apron — Buttercup Farms, a locally owned small batch produce farm, owned and operated by your friend just ten miles past city limits. A nickname born out of weeks of shy, sideways glances and small talk, exchanged both ways until it became too late to ask for your name. 

But you know his— well, his last name, at least. Spotted it on his hospital badge the fifth consecutive Saturday he came to see you.

DOCTOR, it said, in bolded white letters on a green background. Then, just barely readable from where his shirt covered it, a surname that you know but you’ve never been brave enough to test on your lips. Abbot. 

You've found your thoughts drifting on more than one occasion, daring yourself to say his name aloud. Wondering how he might react if you said it to him. Wondering how it might taste on your tongue. Dr. Abbot.

“Good morning!” You chirp, taking your post at the end of the table. There’s some familiarity here — you, standing in the same place each week, and him, making a show of selecting the best produce while making conversation. 

You tried to convince yourself he was just being polite, taking pity on the market girl running a booth all by herself every Saturday morning. But after two months of recalled details, week after week, you can’t help but think maybe he might like talking to you just as much as you like talking to him. 

“I’m good today,” you pause, daring yourself to insert a cheeky Dr. Abbot into the conversation, but instead suffer an awkwardly elongated silence. You clear your throat. “How are you?” 

"Oh, you know. Same shit, different day,” he raises his eyes from the strawberries to shoot you a winsome wink. “No blackberries today?” 

You glance at the folding table with a start. Oh, no, no no. He's right. There are no blackberries. 

“Shit!” You exclaim, hand flying to your forehead in a resounding smack. “Shit, shit, shit.” 

“Woah,” Abbot chortles, extending his hand, but not quite touching you. As if he’s not sure if he’s allowed. “What’s the matter, buttercup?” 

“I left the blackberries in the truck,” you drag both hands over your face. “I left the blackberries in the truck!” 

“It’s okay,” his voice comes out firm and assured, as though he’s already hatching a plan. “Where’s the truck?” 

“It’s—“ your hand flies in the general direction of the parking lot, all the way across the park. It’s probably half a mile, if you had to guess, it doesn't matter. You’re not allowed to drive in the grass. "Oh, my god."

Panic sets in as you rattle off context to the poor man trapped in a predicament he has nothing to do with. “One of the volunteers helps me unload the canopy and the table and all the produce each week, a-and it usually takes two trips, and I must have forgotten the blackberries!" Your voice comes out a puppy whine, reduced to uselessness when you're otherwise perfectly capable of handling things on your own. "Shit, and they’re so ripe, too.” 

But it’s the fact that this isn’t your business that will suffer because you forgot the blackberries that sends you down a spiral. It’s your friend’s. Her profits for the week won’t be nearly as high as expected, all because of your thoughtlessness.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you curse so much before,” Abbot attempts a joke, to which you crumple even more. An exasperated whine is your only response.

“Hey,” his voice evens out again, and before you can register what’s happening, his beefy, calloused hand cups your bare shoulder. You glance up, meeting eyes the color of a carnival kaleidoscope. You can't decide what the dominating shade is: blue or green or gold. “It’s okay. Will you take a deep breath with me?” 

With his free hand, he mimes a long breath in, then a sustained, steadying breath out. You follow his lead.

“There you go,” he murmurs, the rumble of his voice shooting electric shocks up and down your veins. “That’s a good girl.” 

Your jaw goes slack. It takes everything in you not to shudder.

“How many pints of blackberries are in the truck, angel?” He asks, providing a quick rub to your shoulder before reverting back to his own space. Your skin feels especially cold now that his hand is gone.

“Twenty,” you gulp, guilt clouding over any lust for the older man before you. 

Abbot reaches into his back pocket, tugging out a weathered, camo print wallet. “And how much are they going for this week?” 

“Five dollars.” 

He flips open the wallet, then tugs out two crisp fifties, and a twenty. He extends his hand to you, the bills poised between two fingers.  

“What are you doing?” Your brow furrows, eyes dipping to the money, then back to him. The sun peeks out from the bottom of the canopy, striking him over the bridge of his nose. He's all polka dotted with freckles.

“I’m buying your blackberries,” Abbot husks. You swear the sentence sounds a million times more provocative than it should. Your knees give a little wobble. “You can give ‘em to a food bank or something.” 

“What?” You blink. 

“My arm’s gettin' tired,” he shakes the money at you, though not impatiently. “Take it, buttercup. Please.” 

“What’s the extra twenty for?” You swallow, plucking the cash from him. You move with reluctance, your bones heavy with guilt.

“Whatever a pint of these strawberries is worth, and the rest you can use for a coffee or something,” he shrugs. 

“That’s fifteen extra dollars,” you mutter, dumbfounded.

“Aren't you smart? Even when you’re stunned,” he smirks. It takes you longer than you’d care to admit to realize that he’s teasing. “Coffee and a pastry then. On me, okay?” 

You nod, then shove the cash into the pocket of your apron. On him.

God, your thoughts are veering to a place that would rip the family friendly status away from this farmer's market.

Abbot lifts a pint of strawberries without looking at them, then cradles it close to his chest. “I’ll see you next week, alright, angel?” 

A hum vibrates through you. “Okay…” you pause, nibbling your bottom lip. The breeze picks up, ruffling his delicious, greying curls. “Thank you, Dr. Abbot.” 

The look of bewilderment on his face is enough to make you wish you forgot the blackberries every week. 

He throws his head back in a sharp, heart-shattering laugh. He says goodbye a second time, then stalks off, only stopping to throw you one last grin over his shoulder.

The sun is hot, beating down on Jack's scalp, even through his golf cap. Sweat brews underneath, tickling his curls in a way that tells him he's going to have a rough day.

Dread bubbles in his stomach as he reluctantly shuts the door to his truck, taking in the greens before him. They're large, many acres over a large country club, one he's unsure he could pronounce the name of, let alone fit in at.

He spots the pro shop, so large and intimidating he feels like a cartoon character, cowering under an evil giant. An evil giant in white linens and golf gloves.

So to speak, this is not his crowd. All the same, he grabs his golf clubs, and begins his journey into this hellacious day.

As he approaches, he spots the reason he's here— some hospital higher up he's been sent to impress in order to garner some more PTO for his staff.

They're lucky he loves them.

"Dr. Abbot!" The big-wig croons, a plain man aptly named Dr. Alex Smith. Jack's face stretches in a tight smile as he extends his hand for a shake. "How are you? So happy you could join us."

"I'm alright," he replies, a nonchalant air in his tone. "It's a gorgeous day."

He's not typically one for niceties and small talk, but today? It's a bit of a different story.

As Dana so lovingly puts it, he's shit at hiding his feelings, and he needs to fix his fuckin' face. He's going to need all the luck he can get.

"Absolutely beautiful!" He booms, clapping him on the back.

The man's hand is large and aggressive, and Jack assumes the two adjectives will describe today quite well.

Soon, a golf cart rolls down the gravel. a blessing that spares him from more small talk. His relief is momentary, though, because what he sees behind the wheel nearly gives him a heart attack.

You're sitting there, the prettiest thing he's seen in years. Pink manicured nails perch atop the black leather as you slow down, shifting the gear.

His eyes drift from your sweet face, down to the white tennis dress clinging to your curves. It's enough to make him dizzy, and he wills himself to look at something, anything else.

He regrets this, because of course he does, as he takes in the rest of your cart. It's bigger than your average golf cart, and, in his defense, what you've done with it makes it seem a lot bigger.

Jack takes it in, a bright pink explosion assaulting his vision. A pink disco ball swings from the rearview mirror, reflecting off your pretty face in shiny glass shards.

A baby pink tarp protects you from the sun, and the protective urge in him yearns to put a cap on your head. He's seen enough scalp damage in the ED to last him a lifetime.

Jutting out of the side is a little cabinet, filled to the brim with snacks. The counter below has little handles on the side, and he can only imagine the different types of alcohol in there.

In the haze of you, he thinks he hears a low whistle coming from his left, coincidentally where Dr. Smith posts up beside him. Anger burns through him, and he extends his neck, twisting his head from side to side, desperate to shake it off.

You pop up, breaking his bubble with a sweet, 'hi!', and a wiggle of your fingers. Your manicure flashes in the sun at your greeting, and he wills himself to think of dead puppies, his grandma, anything to rid his brain of your beauty.

Smith is first to approach, holding out a hand for you to shake. Ever so polite, you accept, greeting each member of their group with the same level of enthusiasm.

"Last, but not least!" You chirp, holding your hand out to Jack.

He freezes, forgetting he's actually there, and not an invisible passerby. Eyes darting to your hand, it feels robotic, the way he extends his own, letting you lead the shake.

God, what kind of man is he?

Looking past you, Smith has already planted himself in the front seat of the cart, and nothing about that sits right with Jack. The rest of the group is relegated to another, normal golf cart, trailing behind yours to the first hole.

His eyes can't help but burn into the back of you, keeping an eye on Smith, as well. Jack doesn't know much, but he knows damn well that if he touched you, he'd simply see red.

This passion, this fire, scares him. He just learned your name all of five minutes ago, didn't even know you existed when he opened his eyes this morning.

Yet, you've captivated him. Your kind smile, your bubbly personality, it's enough to make a man go weak in the knees.

Though, he supposes that's why you were hired. He can't be the only man who's felt this way in your presence, in fact, he's probably far from it.

The thought makes his stomach twist, and he pushes it down as the cart comes to a stop. He averts his gaze as you swing out of your own vehicle, though you make it difficult, you're so pretty.

With a snap of your sweet fingers, you gather the attention of the men in record time. It's impressive, the way the group flocks to you, and Jack's no exception.

Guilt roils through him as you meet his gaze, a smile spreading your lips in a way that makes his heart pound. You deserve better than his leering, though the way your eyes linger for a moment gives him a sliver of hope.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he snaps his head away from you. Your voice floods his ears, soft enough to lull him to sleep if he really tried hard enough.

"Okay," you start, clapping your hands together. "So, here is how my cart works- any time you're hungry, or thirsty, let me know, and I'll get you taken care of."

I'll get you taken care of. Fuck, Jack, you pervert.

"All of your orders will be put on the tab of an…" rummaging for a small receipt tucked in one of the cabinets. "Alex Smith?"

Jack's heart lurches, stomach turning at his name.

"Doctor, sweetheart," he clarifies, and Jack can't help his eye roll. "Dr. Alex Smith."

Fix your fuckin' face, Abbot, Dana's voice plays in his head.

He sees you tense at the nickname, and his fingers clench in a fist. Desperate to ease your discomfort, he butts in.

"Thank you," he huffs, and your gaze snaps to his. "For- y'know-" he clears his throat, regretting opening his mouth. "Being there for us today."

His breath hitches at the eye contact, the first time he's been brave enough to give your face a proper look. You're so stunning, his heart hurts. You give him a small smile, and somehow his chest puffs on its own.

"Of course! Are you a doctor too?" Your smile widens with your question, and Jack nearly trips just standing there.

"Uh-yeah, yeah, I am," he coughs into a closed fist, holding out his free one for you to shake. "Dr. Abbot."

The regret is instant, once your hand touches his. It's electric, sending shockwaves through his veins. Smooth fingers wrapping around his calloused ones, your firm shake a pleasant surprise.

He can feel his hand clamming up, a small voice in the back of his head chanting, wrong, wrong, this is wrong. Clearing his throat, he brings his hand back like he's been shocked. In a way, he has.

Your smile falters, and he's unsure if he's seeing properly as you return your attention back to the rest of the group.

"Our drink options range from water, to soda, to some beers and hard seltzers. We don't sell hard liquor, just to be clear," you hold up a stern finger, a coy smile on your pretty face.

Your instructions were met with nods and grumbles of approval, and Jack is entranced by how easily you've captivated this group of grown men.

"Okay!" You chirp, clapping your hands together. "Let me know if you guys need anything, have so much fun!"

His heart patters at your squeal, and he tampers it down as best he can. He'll never see you again after today, and it has to stay that way.

The doctors within his group saddle up to the first hole, Jack hanging towards the back. Jack has golfed before, but it's definitely not his preferred activity, especially after losing his leg.

Peeking out of his peripheral, you make it all the more enticing, much to his everlasting dismay. Perched on the bench of your cart, you give a peppy clap, maybe a 'woo-hoo!', if they swing really well.

It makes Jack's stomach hurt, knowing he won't get that from you. Walking up to the hole, his first hit is instantly out of bounds.

"Woah! Bad morning, Abbot?" Smith asks, dripping with condescension.

His heart rate spikes, flitting his gaze over to the man, but he's not looking at him. He's got a thumb pointed toward Jack, wagging it as if to say, 'get a load of this guy.'

This would irritate Jack on any normal day, but with Smith's gaze on you, the way it lingers, like it's a joke he's not in on, it's enough to make him disintegrate.

The rest of the morning, his swing is just as terrible. Silly distractions flit through his mind, the wind rustling through your skirt, the tap of your pretty nails on the beer bottles you keep popping for Smith.

Smith. Jack has half a mind to report him to the board after today. The way he leers at you, flirts with you the drunker he gets, it's enough to make him vomit all over the pristine greens.

You take it all with a smile, friendly enough to keep him at bay, but not too overindulgent, as if to suggest reciprocated interest. The amount of times you've probably had to deal with this is something Jack would rather not think about.

"Woah! You see that, pretty girl?" Smith croons, pointing toward the birdie he just hit. "Not the only stroke I'm good at."

Jack's head snaps up, white hot rage simmering deep in his belly. His mouth moves before his brain can catch up.

"I'm sorry, what did you just say to her?" He asks, and the entire group snaps their heads in is direction.

His ears turn pink, but he refuses to back down.

Smith rears his head back, as if he's never been called out for his predatory behavior. He probably hasn't.

"Uhm-" he chuckles, scrambling for words. "Why do you care so much, Abbot? You wanna find out?"

Jack rolls his eyes, teeing up to his own ball.

"Just want to make sure you're keepin' it professional, Smith," he says, hitting the ball without making eye contact. "This is a work function, you know."

"Yeah, well if you care that much about being a professional, maybe you'd swing better," he condescends, clapping a hand on Jack's shoulder.

He flinches at the contact, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Boys, boys!" Your sweet voice flutters. "Please keep it kosher, or I'm going to have to end our game early."

You approach Jack as you speak, and his heart thumps louder in his chest.

"Thank you, Dr. Abbot," you coo, and his cheeks burn. "But I can take care of myself, I'm a big girl."

He rolls his eyes, desperate to tamper down his desire at the name you've bestowed upon yourself.

"Sorry, 'f course you are," he shakes his head, looking down. "'s just not right. He shouldn't speak to you that way."

Then, you do the unexpected. A delicate hand perches on his forearm, forcing his gaze back to you.

"You're sweet," you whisper, so quiet he can barely even hear it. "I'm okay, promise," you squeeze his muscle, and he expects you to walk away, for that to be the end of it.

But you don't. You stay, saddling up next to him to watch the rest of the group take their turn. The lingering smell of your sweet perfume fills his nose, and he nearly passes out.

He nods, not really wanting to believe you. The instinct to protect you looms large over his head, a solar eclipse of possession that threatens to choke him.

He shifts on his leg, a dull ache starting to settle in where the bone meets prosthetic. He leans on his golf club like it's a cane— the juxtaposition of you next to him, hands on your hips, left one jutting out, clutches his heart.

He's desperate to be as subtle as possible, not wanting to put any more attention on himself, but you notice. Of course you do, your pretty head flitting towards his stance.

"Oh! Do you need to sit? I'm so sorry, where are my manners!" You chastise, and he attempts a self-deprecating wave.

"No, no, gosh, I'm okay, you've been perfectly pleasant," he replies, training his eyes on the ground beneath him.

"Well, let me continue to do so and offer you a seat," you hold an arm out, and he accepts, grateful through the fog of his embarrassment.

Escorting him to your cart, he takes a seat, a long groan escaping his lips at the relief. Maneuvering his bad knee, his pant leg rides up, exposing the carbon fiber of his prosthetic.

A small gasp escapes your lips at the sight, and his heart sinks. The last thing he needed was your pity.

"I'm fine, please, don't," he waves a hand around, avoiding eye contact as embarrassment creeps up his spine.

"Oh! I'm sorry, I wasn't-" you shake your head, and he instantly feels guilty for opening his mouth in the first place. "I just= I should've mentioned this at first, but we have chairs for accessibility! Here-"

He watches as you reach towards the top of the cart, a pull out drawer nestled above the snack cabinet. Your waist stretches as you reach, and he nearly has to palm himself to keep his cool. In it, you reach and pull out a folding lawn chair, wiggling it in the air in offering.

He can't help but smile, despite the guilt relentless in his veins. He nods, the apples of his cheeks pink and pert.

"This will be much more comfortable, Dr. Abbot," you coo, placing your hands on his shoulders as he settles in.

A long sigh leaves him as he sits, his breath hitching at the contact. He's near a blissful state, the bubble of your attention closing in around him.

That is, until, he remembers who he's with.

"Hey!" Smith yells from across the greens. "If I knew losing my leg would get me special treatment, I would've gone with ya to Afghanistan, buddy!"

He cackles, high fiving the men surrounding him. Jack's stomach burns with shame, embarrassment, rage.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Smith," you call, and his heart stops. "That's incredibly inappropriate. It's not special treatment, I'm just making sure he's as comfortable as you guys are, please refrain from making comments like that again."

His heart sings, a symphony conducted by your sweet words. He looks down, tears pricking the back of his eyes. He can't remember the last time someone spoke up for him like that, and God, did he ache.

"Ohhh, c'mon, baby," Smith croons, his unsteady gait bringing him closer to you. "I'm just bein' funny. What? You don't like funny guys?"

Your face pinches as he comes closer, standing proud and strong nonetheless. God, he admires you so much.

"I like it when guys make jokes that don't poke fun at someone's trauma," the pep in your voice is gone, and a chill runs down Jack's spine.

"Pssh, please," Smith rolls his eyes, saddling up beside you. "You can't pretend you haven't been giving me eyes all morning."

Jack watches the scene unfold, tensing up as he wraps his arm around your waist.

"Smith-" Jack warns, but it's too late.

His hand goes lower, until it's reached your backside, a pinch followed by a swat. You jump, your hands instinctively reaching back to protect you. Jack sees red.

He's up, the ache in his leg now next to nothing, nothing compared to the rage he feels on your behalf. Rearing his fist back, he socks Smith in the face before he can think otherwise.

"Oh my God!" You squeal, and he darts his gaze over to you.

Your eyes are wide, scared and glossy. His heart hurts.

"What the fuck Abbot!" Smith seethes, gritting through his teeth and writhing on the ground.

"Smith I-" Jack starts, but he bites his apology back. He's not fucking sorry, so why should he try to save face now?

"You can kiss your position fucking goodbye," he spits up at him

"Uhm- I have to=let me call my manager," you croak, shaky fingers fumbling for your cell phone.

You lift the device to your ear as you run behind the cart. Jack's heart clutches, he swears he can see you wipe away a tear before you fully disappeared.

Jack's heart pounds in his chest the longer he can't see you, adrenaline pumping through his veins as his hands start to shake.

He itches to chase you, to follow you and wipe your tears and ask if you're okay. His heart drops, though, knowing that it's not possible, that he's absolutely fucked it.

You're soon replaced by a man, approaching the group with his own golf cart. You don't take off until he's there, but when you do, you nearly kick up dust with your speed.

Guilt is acid in his stomach, bubbling and popping like witch's stew. His adrenaline is relentless, moving his feet for him as he runs to the spare golf cart.

He thanks whatever powers that be that the keys rest in the ignition. Wasting no time, he turns it, moving the gear into drive and pressing his foot on the pedal.

He finds you in the main hall, nursing a fruity drink at the bar. His heart sinks looking at you, slumped over, head down, quiet shakes rocking your shoulders.

It's only now that the adrenaline eventually subsides, deep breaths heaving his chest. Regret swoops over him, that live long guilt he's wrestled with all day rearing its ugly head.

He doesn't back down, though. He's just slower, wiping his sweaty palms on his pants as he nears your bar stool.

"Hey," he says.

It's slow, careful. His heart hurts when you look up, your glossy eyes meeting his. He watches you snap back into your professionalism, wiping your tears and offering him a watery smile.

"Hi, Dr. Abbot," you croak. "I'm so sorry I took off on you guys, I just- that's never happened to me before."

"No," he waves a gentle hand. "No apologies, if anything, it's me who should be apologizing. I feel like I made it worse. You told me you could handle yourself, and I should have listened."

He hovers by the neighboring stool, not wanting to push your boundaries unless offered.

"No, no, it's okay," you say, sitting up a bit straighter. "You can sit, I won't break."

Your smile lights him up from the inside out, and he slides onto the brown leather. His heart picks up in speed as he settles into the new proximity, his thigh brushing against yours.

"Hey! Josh!" You call to the bartender, a young man who immediately responds. "Can I get a…" you trail off, eyeing Jack up and down before deciding, "a jack and coke. Thanks!"

"My name's actually Jack. How'd you know?" He asks, and your mouth drops in sweet surprise.

"What! No way!" You swat his bicep, and the brief contact gives him enough energy to run to the moon. "Dr. Jack Abbot. I like it!"

He flushes a deep red, one that spreads from his cheeks all the way down his neck. Bringing a hand to his nape, he scruffs once, twice, three times to quell his rapid heart rate.

It's then that Josh brings his drink, and he gratefully accepts. Taking a big swig, he feels your eyes burning into him.

"Hey, Jack?" You ask, your voice tender and sweet. "Wanna go for a drive?"

Your question intrigues him, and he winds up in your passenger's seat, down the back roads of a country club you intimately know.

"This is where my dad would take me when I was little," you tell him, pulling into a cove of willow trees along the path.

"Yeah? You've been coming here for a while?" He asks as you park, the wind rustling the beautiful view in front of you two.

"My dad is now president of the board," you admit with an eye roll. "This job was just to keep me out of his hair."

"Wow," he blinks. "So that's why you didn't care about running off in the middle of your group?"

It's a risky tease, he knows that, but it's so worth it when he sees you smile. He flushes, can't help himself when he says,

"You're so pretty."

Your breath hitches at the compliment, and he'd regret it if your eyes hadn't sparkled. It's so easy for him to get lost in your eyes, to almost forget how you got to this point, but then he does, and his face falls.

"Listen, I'm sorry, I don't want to put myself on you, especially if you don't want it. Not after today," he shakes his head, eyes trained in his lap. "But I think you're incredibly beautiful, and way out of my league. I'm thankful you even looked at me today, let alone-"

He's cut off by your lips on his, a gentle, soft hand scraping his cheek. It pushes a light 'oomph!' from his lips, though he doesn't hesitate to kiss you back.

There's a string of spit connecting you when you pull away, and Jack breathes out a long, heavy sigh.

"I actually couldn't stop looking at you, Jack," you confess, and his heart swells. "Even when you missed every single hole."

He throws his head back in a sweet laugh, grasping your arm as you lean into your own giggles.

"I only missed because I couldn't stop thinking about the prettiest girl in the world only feet away," he confesses, rubbing the fabric of your dress between his fingertips.

"You're too nice to me," you mutter, resting your hands on his shoulders. "I want you, Jack. Is that okay?"

He shoots his gaze up, his mouth slightly parted.

"You do?" He asks, not quite believing his own ears.

His belly burns as you nod your head, leaning your face closer to his.

"And I don't want this to be just sex, how do you feel about that?" You whisper, your lips against his, taunting him.

He nods, his hand finding your waist.

"Yeah, I feel good about that," he chokes out, a Cheshire smile spreading your lips.

"Good," you quip, swinging your legs over his hips. "But we're gonna start with sex. That okay?"

He nods, eager like a school boy, but he doesn't have time to be embarrassed when your mouth meets his.

It's intense this time, deep and passionate, your tongue running over his bottom lip. His hands settle on your waist, a light squeeze encouraging you to put your full weight on him.

It's electrifying, the way you connect. your weight coating him with desire. He feels himself twitch in his pants, a muffled groan escaping him as you roll your hips.

"Feel good, Doctor?" You ask, eliciting a gasp from the deepest parts of his chest.

"So good, you're a dream," he mumbles, grazing his nose against yours.

You kiss him again, rolling your tongue over his at your newfound access. Rolling your hips once more, he plants his feet on the ground, thrusting up into your clothed center.

"Ah!" You whine, throwing your head back. He peppers kisses along your neck, surprised when you press down on his hips with yours, wiggling a little. "You're not doing any of the work, handsome," a coy smile spreads your lips. "Let me, your poor leg's been through enough."

He swears he could cum right then and there. Fully hard now, you continue your motions, now slipping your arms through your sleeves.

The top of your dress falls, exposing your pretty tits to the late afternoon sun. His head darts around, looking for any stragglers. There's no one, and a wave of relief floods through him.

"You're sweet," you coo, fingertips returning his gaze to you. "But nobody comes back here, trust me."

"Oh, so you take all your golf guys here, huh?" He asks. It's playful, but the possibility of your answer makes him seethe.

"Only the important ones, the ones I really need," you mutter, nipping his lobe before sitting up on your knees.

You wiggle the rest of your dress off, sliding it down your knees and flinging it off your ankles. His eyes widen as you mount him again, now in nothing but your panties.

His finger traces the waistband, and your breath hitches in his ear.

"You're so fucking beautiful, Jesus Christ," he whispers, smashing his lips against yours once more.

You fiddle with his belt buckle, moving to his zipper, pulling him out with an eagerness that strokes his ego. He's heavy, his cock flopping against his polo shirt.

Your eyes go wide, and his heart pounds against his ribcage. He can't believe you, sweet, beautiful, stunning you, is interested in him. He feels like a million bucks.

"God, how's this gonna fit in me, Jackie?" You ask, giving him a few strokes.

A shiver unzips his spine, and he throws his head back against the seat. Chest heaving, his stomach burns with desire for you. The curve of your waist under his fingers, the delicate touch on his cock, it's enough to make him insane. You make him insane.

Swinging your legs off of him, you kneel along the bench, ass up in the air. He pouts at the loss of your warmth, and you smile. You pinch his cheek, placing a chaste kiss there after.

"You're cute," you dote, and he blushes. "I'm gonna put your cock in my mouth now, 'kay?"

He nods, still in disbelief this is even happening. Your lips wrap around him, and his vision goes white. Jaw going slack, he lets a strangled groan pass through him.

"Wow, wow, oh God, sweetheart, that's so good," he whispers, hand in your hair as you take more and more of him. "Holy shit."

You wiggle your ass at the compliment, hollowing your cheeks as you reach his base. Your nose tickles the curls that pepper his skin, and he has to hold himself back from bucking up into you.

"Fuck!" He shouts, squeezing his eyes shut as he free hand finds your ass.

It slips into your panties, palming your bare ass in his big hand. You shake into him again, and he nearly blows his load then.

He feels the front of your panties move, then, and he looks to find your hand slipping in them.

"Ah, ah!" He swats your hand away, taking over. "Let me, gorgeous."

Your folds are so slick, his stomach burns. They're silky, smooth with your desire, and if all he does for the rest of his life is make you cum. he'd be happy with that.

He finds your clit, reveling in your little jump, little squeal around his dick. The vibrations rattle through him, and his stomach burns with hot desire.

Pulling off of him with a gasp, you rest your head on his thigh, stroking his cock as he continues to touch you.

"I'm gonna cum, Jackie, feels too good," you squeeze your eyes shut, pressing a sweet kiss to the thick skin.

"Yeah, go ahead, baby, that's such a good idea, hm?" He asks, picking up his pace a little. "Gonna get you nice and relaxed so you can take this cock, 'kay sweetie?"

You nod, squeezing your eyes shut, a few loose moans escaping your lips. It's like a dream, the pleasure etching itself across your face. Fire blooms in his veins, his desire for you almost palpable.

"Oh, Jackie!" You squeal, body tensing as you soak his fingers.

"Thaaat's it," he coos, rubbing you through your release. "That's my girl, good job, good job."

You gasp, clinging to his forearm as you come down.

"Oh my gosh, that was incredible, thank you Jackie," you smile up at him, slowly sitting up.

His hands stabilize you, settling your shaking body back over his. Your tits dangle in his face, and he can't help but pepper kisses along the plush skin.

"You ready, angel?" He looks up at you, and your eager nod is his final cue before he pushes your hips down.

You swallow his tip, your walls tight and slick, his eyes rolling back into his head. It's dizzying, how tight you are around him.

"Oh! Jackie it's already so big, how am I gonna take all of you?" You ask, and his heart pounds.

"God, you can't say that to me, gonna blow my load before you can even do that," he breathes out a laugh, finding your eyes.

Your eyes glaze over as you sink further down onto him, his stomach burning. He grips your hips, pushing you further down onto him.

Once you're seated, he nearly blacks out. He gives you a swift slap to your ass, encouraging you to find your rhythm.

You listen, the good girl you are, bouncing up and down, up and down. It's slow at first, intoxicating and tantalizing as you drag his length through your walls.

"Fuck," he breaths, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Good?" You ask, lips pressed to his temple.

The warm air of your words absorb in his skin, if he could eat them, he would.

"So good, fuckin' perfect," he whispers, hands gripping your ass as you speed up.

Blood roars in his ears, his eyes blazing as they follow your breasts, bouncing with each thrust.

It's overwhelming, almost, the jiggle of your plush skin against his.

"Oh Jackie, 'm gonna cum again," you whimper, planting your hands on his shoulders and speeding up.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he breathes. "Me too, gonna cum. Cum with me?"

You nod, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips. Embarrassingly enough, this is what does it for him. The intimacy pushes him over the edge, fire pooling low in his abdomen with his release.

He dissolves into the pleasure, helping you rock against him. Your sweet cries echo through the empty space, mixing with his grunts and groans.

"Jackie, fuck, that's so good, fuck, fuck," you whine, and he presses a quick slap to your ass as he twitches, coming down from his high.

You settle on him with a shiver, relaxing into his chest and wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

Breathing together, he rubs his hand up and down your back, adding a light scratch and invoking goosebumps.

You press kisses all along his shoulder, on each freckle, his tummy burning with something sweeter, brighter than before.

"Hey," you whisper, biting the shell of his ear. "I know this is totally backwards, but hear me out."

Before you get any further, he lifts up your head, boring his eyes into yours.

"What, sweet girl?" He asks, pressing a quick kiss to your smile.

"I say," you start, "we get cleaned up, and you come join me in the Great Hall for dinner. I memorized Smith's tab, we can put it on there," you finish with a wink.

He throws his head back with a laugh, bringing you in for another kiss.

"That sounds amazing," he coos, cradling the nape of your neck in his hand.

"And theennnn," you drawl, slipping off him and reaching for your dress. "We can go back to mine, and I can show you something that no other customer has seen," you wiggle your eyebrows, and his heart skips.

Majorie Deacons, 83. Survived by her husband, Harold, of 62 years, her three children–Mary, Thomas, and Steven–and 10 grandchildren. Worked as a paralegal for 48 years before retiring to the Poconos with Harold. Moved back to Pittsburgh when she got sick. Died from sepsis as a result of her cancer-weakened immune system.  

That was all you knew of the woman laying in front of you, her skin pale and body unnaturally still. You thought about her life as you removed her engagement and wedding ring, the crucifix pendant around her neck, the diamond bracelet around her frail wrist–all logged securely for the family to pick up at their convenience. 

You thought about her life, about the 83 years she spent on this earth. Where did she grow up? Was Harold her high-school sweetheart, or did they meet in college, or a bar? Did they travel? What sights did they see, how many sunsets did they share? Did she remember exactly where she was when Kennedy was assassinated, like most older folks did? Did she like red lipstick or pink? When did her hair turn white–did she hate it or did she embrace it? 

Did she feel welcomed by death, or did she fight it kicking and screaming? 

83 years, such a long life and yet still not long enough for the people who loved her. 

You spent a lot of time grieving people you’d never met before as a morgue technician. It was a tough job–one spent with people on the worst days of their lives. Sure, you weren’t the one responsible for saving lives–didn’t have a relationship with the patient while they were living–but sometimes you thought maybe it was worse in a way. You learned about these people from their families, from the people so deeply grieving their loved one that often all you felt was gut-wrenching sadness for the hole that now lived in these people’s hearts. You didn’t get the benefit of seeing them interact with their loved ones, didn’t get to know their personality or see their quirks. All you experienced was the grief their loss wrought, not the joy their life had created. 

You liked being there for people, though. Death is not something Americans are accustomed to talking about openly, the aftermath of losing a loved one often impersonal and shrouded in mystery. Especially at the hospital, it often felt more clinical than anything else, with procedure and policy often taking center stage over the deceased.  

You liked bringing a sense of humanity to the process; liked to have the families reminisce about their loved ones, liked getting to know them through the people who cherished them the most despite the deep ache it sometimes left in your chest. 

You learned about Marjorie upstairs, from the family as you collected the body, and you’re looking forward to learning more about her when the family comes to collect her effects. You found that getting people to talk about the person they lost made it easier to discuss funeral and transport arrangements. You didn’t want them to feel like they were just another box to check off your to-do list. 

A knock on the door pulled you from your thoughts. 

“Hey, we got another one upstairs. Transport’s been taking forever tonight,” Elise, your boss, said, rolling her eyes. “They have one job: get the body from point A to point B. What gives?” 

You shrugged, sighing as you finished cataloging all of Marjorie's effects. “I’ll be back soon,” you said, squeezing her hand gently before making your way to the elevators, up to the emergency department. 

Transport was supposed to, well, transport the body. But they were often backed up for one reason or another, and delays in moving the body meant a valuable room remained occupied when it could otherwise be used for another patient. So, more often than not, Elise sent you up to grab the body and bring it back down for processing. It was faster that way, and often gave the family some peace knowing that their loved one wasn’t just sitting in the emergency room. 

You didn’t mind, exactly. As much as you enjoyed the quiet and solitude of the mortuary, you liked peaking your head up in the ED and seeing the hustle and bustle there, the way it teemed with life as well as death, even at night.  

And it didn’t hurt that the senior night shift attending was perhaps the most handsome man you’d ever laid eyes on. You’d had a crush on him since you met him, your introduction being maybe one of the most embarrassing moments of your life. 

It was your first time up in the emergency department, the incessant beeping and constant chatter a stark difference to the quiet morgue–if people were talking down there, something was seriously wrong. 

You’d been taken on a brief tour by the charge nurse, Lena, who gave you a rundown of the transport procedure. You met a few of the residents, Dr. Ellis and Dr. Crus, and a handful of nurses, all of whom seemed nice enough.  

But you almost stopped dead in your tracks when you met the kind hazel eyes of the graying, curly-haired man standing at the nurses station. 

“And this is Dr. Abbot, senior night shift attending. You’ll need his or Dr. Shen’s signature whenever you transport a body,” Lena introduced you, “Dr. Abbot, this is the new morgue technician. She graciously offered to help with transport.” 

You held your hand out, brain nearly turning to mush when he shook it. His palm was rough, calloused from many years of working with his hands, and unbelievably warm. His hand also dwarfed yours, which sent a tingle down your spine. 

“New morgue technician?” he asked, “Well, no offense, but I hope we don’t see you too much around here,” he joked with an easy smile on his face.  

“I guess that remains to be seen,” you said, and followed it up with a ‘ba dum tss’ sound effect and finger guns. Yes, you really did that. 

The joke didn’t land; they never did. Jack cocked his head to the side, an almost-smile gracing his lips, and shot you an inquisitive look, like he was trying to figure you out. 

His intense stare made your cheeks heat and your tummy swirl. You weren’t sure if you were aroused or uncomfortable, or some combination of both.  

You couldn’t get out of there sooner. 

It felt like you could never get your foot out of your mouth when Jack Abbot was around. And so the cycle began: get called up to retrieve a body, make an ill-timed joke, embarrass the hell out of yourself, and return back to the safety of the morgue as quickly as possible. 

You never made jokes in front of patients or families; you knew that it was something strictly reserved for your peers, people you thought understood the challenges you all face in healthcare–and deathcare. 

You weren’t sure why it seemed physically impossible for you not to use humor as a defense mechanism. Part of it was the nature of your job–gallows humor was a coping mechanism you latched onto and couldn’t seem to shake off. It was the same way some people laughed when they were nervous or panicked–a reaction to pent up emotions and stress that manifested as humor instead of as tears. 

But you’d also always been like this, trying to diffuse uncomfortable situations with humor instead of meeting them head on, or making a joke at your own expense before someone else could. It hurt less that way, if you could subvert something painful into something lighthearted.

You’d always been admonished for it, by your parents, friends, partners. Had been told that it was inappropriate and that you were too crass, too loud, too much. Which was probably true. It confused you, though, how some people did bond over humor, in the occasional callousness of it, when you were criticized for it. That was something you’d never been able to work out, how it was always wrong when you did it; why you’d never been able to bond with people the same way others did. Well, there was a reason you worked the night shift at a morgue, after all. 

You pushed those thoughts away and instead tried to talk yourself up as you stood in the elevator, willing yourself not to be weird. 

“Hey, Lena, heard you got another customer for me?” you grinned at her, leaning against the nurses station. 

“Sure do, sweets. Her name is Cary West,” she replied with a soft smile. Lena, at least, seemed to like you. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. 

She pointed you to the correct room, where Mateo was cleaning up the body. You stood silently as he finished, taking a moment to honor the person they were and the people they’re leaving behind. These moments always felt weird–liminal, in a way. No longer a patient, but not yet ready for the funeral home–they were entrusted in your care in the meantime. 

There was no family in the room, which wasn’t abnormal for night shift. Folks had gone home, to sleep or cry or do whatever else one does to process the grief. You always hope you’ll meet the family of the deceased, but you’re not holding on hope on this one. It was 4am, the family would likely be back during the day to take care of funeral arrangements and Ms. West would be long gone by then. Still, though, you thought about her life, her wants, her dreams–tried to insert some humanity where it had been lost.  

“Sorry you had to come back up so soon, I know you just got down there with Ms. Deacons,” Mateo said quietly, pulling the sheet over her head. 

“Oh no worries, I don’t mind. It's not like she’s gonna talk my ear off.” 

He just shook his head at your joke, unimpressed and unamused. 

“Looks like Dr. Abbot is at the nurses station. C’mon, and we’ll get the transfer paperwork signed,” he said, holding the door open for you to push the gurney through. 

Dr. Abbot looked worn out. His eyes were tired, and the kind smile he usually sported was replaced by a slight frown and a furrow between his brows. His shoulders were drawn up tight, the tension built up there almost looking painful. It must have been a rough night. 

You greeted him with a soft smile, and handed over the clipboard for his signature, which he promptly filled out. 

He handed you the clipboard before turning his attention back to the gurney. His jaw was clenched tight, a pained look on his face as he squeezed Ms. West’s hand peeking out from the blanket. 

“Treat her well for us, please,” he said, voice hoarse. 

“Always do, I wouldn’t want to know what the reaper-cussions would be if I didn’t,” you joked before you could think better of it, cringing internally at your lack of tact. 

There was a split second of silence, the tension simmering hotly before fully boiling over. 

“Jesus fucking christ, can you be serious for one fucking second? This is a hospital, not a fucking comedy club. There are people grieving here. You need to learn to be an adult and keep your fucknig mouth shut,” he boomed, his face red and chest heaving. 

He was looming over you now as he spit out, “get the fuck out of my ED.” 

Your ears were ringing. You weren’t sure if the department had actually fallen silent or if you’d just temporarily lost the ability to hear.

You couldn’t breathe, oxygen not flowing properly into your lungs. It felt like you’d been punched in the gut, all the air sucked out and replaced with lead.  

“S-sorry,” you stuttered out, cheeks burning and throat closing in on itself. Tears were building up quickly in your eyes, but you weren’t going to cry in front of these people; you weren’t going to give them the satisfaction. 

You gripped the edge of the gurney and pushed ahead, desperate to get out of there as fast as humanly possible. No one stopped you, no one offered any apologies or sympathies, just watched your humiliated form disappear into the elevator. 

The minute the elevator doors closed the tears fell, the hot trails burning your face as you tried to conceal your sobs. 

“I’m s-sorry, Ms. West, I shouldn’t be crying like this. I don’t really have much to be upset about in comparison,” you apologized to the corpse, feeling guilty for being so upset when you were literally transporting a dead woman. 

You managed to calm yourself down before you reached the morgue. You didn’t want to explain what happened to Elise, didn’t want to recount every embarrassing detail that was already replaying in your head. 

You soothed yourself with routine, with the repetitive motions of logging personal effects, filling out reports, and contacting the funeral home to make arrangements. 

By the time 7AM rolled around, you were more than ready to get the hell out of there.

The sun is blinding against your puffy eyes. The past two days were a blur, mostly spent crying and replaying the incident over and over. You called out of work, citing a stomach bug. Which wasn’t all that untrue–the thought of encountering anyone in the hospital did make you feel violently ill. 

You had already put in for a transfer to day shift, feigning some excuse about your school schedule changing. You couldn’t wait to finish your studies and officially become a mortician. You’d leave the hospital and start your own business, helping people through the grieving and burial process in your own way. 

And maybe you’d never have to see Jack Abbot ever again. The thought was as relieving as it was devastating, because you liked him. And you were starting to think maybe he liked you too–at least as a friend or acquaintance. 

It was a slow night, which you were thankful for. It meant there weren’t any bodies in the morgue–that there weren’t any deaths so far tonight. So you weren’t too bent out of shape when you got shipped up to the ED to collect a body. 

You found Dr. Abbot quickly, signed the necessary paperwork, and wheeled the body out to central. 

“Thanks for picking up, I don’t know what the hell’s going on with transpo tonight,” he said.

“Don’t worry about it, we’re actually empty right now. There’s no body there,” you said, a cheeky grin crossing your lips. 

And Jack laughed. A full-on, deep-throated laugh. It was one of the most beautiful sounds you’d ever heard. Your chest swelled with pride, and all you could think about was making him do it again. 

He shook his head at you, smile still lingering on his face, “what makes a girl like you want to work night shift at the morgue?”  

“Girl like me?” you asked coyly, raising your eyebrow at him. 

He assessed you, eyes flitting over your face, “yeah, young, smart… pretty.”

You flushed at that, your body getting all warm and tingly, “well, I’m not a mourning person, for one,” you joked, earning another laugh from Jack. 

“I, uh, I’m in school for mortuary science,” you continued, giving him a real answer, “I want to be a mortician when I’m done.” 

“That’s… admirable,” he said, “you don’t get the glory of saving lives but you do get all the dirty work. Good for you.” 

Jack’s attention made you feel like you were on fire–like a white hot ball of flame that would spread given the littlest bit of ammunition. His stare was brazen, unapologetic–you couldn’t look away if you tried. 

You cleared your throat, breaking some of the tension, “I guess I should probably get him downstairs,” you said, gesturing to the gurney in front of you. 

“I’ll walk you to the elevator,” Jack said, moving to stand by your side. He rested his hand on the small of your back as he guided you to the elevators. The touch was electrifying–you could feel the warmth radiating from him through the layers of scrubs. He was close enough now that you could smell the warm amber of his cologne mixed with his own musky scent. You felt dizzy, and all you wanted to do was press yourself against him, to nestle yourself in the crook of his neck and inhale. 

He pressed the button for the elevator when you arrived and helped you wheel the gurney in. 

“It was good seein’ you, pretty girl,” he said, and just as the elevator doors were closing, he winked at you. 

You were surprised you didn’t turn into a puddle right then and there. 

Your chest twisted at the memory. Maybe that’s why his words hurt so much–why they’d sunk into the marrow of your bones, confirming that he thought as lowly of you as you already thought of yourself. He’d given you hope, shown you kindness where no one else in the ED had. 

It was stupid, anyway. Thinking that a man like Jack Abbot could feel anything other than disdain for someone like you. Of course the hot, older, accomplished attending wouldn’t want anything to do with the awkward morgue technician. 

Every time you thought about it, your heart ached, a dull pang ringing through your chest and reverberating through your body. Tears pooled in your eyes at the mere thought of the incident. It felt like you were back in high school, asking Alex Williams to the school dance just to have him laugh in your face and say he wasn’t going to go with a freak. 

You couldn’t dwell on it, though. You had a job to do, bills to pay. You could only hope that day shift was better, or that you could whip yourself into shape and keep your comments to yourself.

“Jesus, why is the body in north 2 still there?” Jack asked, eyes trained on the board ahead of him. Wait times were astronomical and chairs was full to the brim–the sooner they moved the deceased out, the sooner they could move a new patient in. 

“Not sure, I called transpo an hour ago, but you know how concerned they are with being timely,” Lena responded. 

“What about the morgue? Why haven’t they sent anyone to collect the body?” 

Lena looked at him over the top of her glasses, an unimpressed look on her face. 

“Oh, you mean that sweet girl who helps us out by transporting bodies when transpo is dicking around? The one you screamed at in front of the entire department? Gosh, I can’t think of a reason she’s not chomping at the bit to come up here,” she deadpanned, fixing Jack with a glare. “Last I heard she switched to day shift. Said she had some personal schedule conflicts, but I think we both know that’s not true.”   

Jack winced, guilt coursing through him. He hadn’t meant to make such a scene, to be so cruel. It had just been such a monumentally horrible day, his chest wound so tight and hackles raised that your little joke set him off. It was stupid, too, because Jack had easily made far worse jokes at far more inappropriate times. 

It could have easily been anyone else that he snapped at, would have been, if you weren’t there. But you were, and so you bore the brunt of his wrath. 

He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been replaying the look on your face, the way it crumpled and tears welled up in your pretty eyes. He remembered how your breath hitched, how you shrunk in on yourself and ran away as fast as you could. 

It made his chest ache to think about. He wanted to find you, to apologize, but he thought he might just make it worse. And selfishly, he wasn’t sure he was ready for the conversation that would ensue. He assumed he’d see you up here at some point, where he could take you aside and beg for forgiveness–he didn’t think you’d rearrange your entire work schedule just to avoid seeing him. 

He wasn’t sure why he acted so indifferently toward you. Or rather, he did–he just didn’t want to acknowledge the way you made him feel. You made him feel giddy–made his face warm and his heart race, like a teenage boy flirting with a pretty girl for the first time. He briefly tried flirting with you, but he was pretty sure you were oblivious to it–either that or you didn’t feel the same. He was hoping for the former.  

He hadn’t felt this way about someone since he started dating his wife. Frankly, it made him uncomfortable to think about, made him feel like he was betraying her in some way. He knew that wasn’t true, knew that his wife would want him to be happy, but he just couldn’t shake the feeling. 

He’d been talking about it with his therapist, trying to cope with these feelings–trying to get up the courage to ask you out.

And the kicker was he was going to, he was getting bolder, complimenting you and finding any excuse to, respectfully, put his hands on you. And now he’s fucked it all up. 

“Shit,” he muttered, scrubbing his hands down his face.  

“Yeah, shit. I suggest you take your ass down there and apologize. Properly.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll handle it,” he said absent-mindedly, already wracking his brain for the right words to say to you.

The change to day shift was brutal. Your body wasn’t used to waking up when you were supposed to be going to bed, and vice versa. You were also working less hours to accommodate your school schedule, which was the reason you were on night shift to begin with. But you took it in stride the best you could. Lemonade out of lemons, and all that. 

You’d been up to the ED a couple times since the incident, feeling as awkward as ever even though most of them weren’t on shift when Dr. Abbot berated you. You covered day shift a few times, so you weren’t completely unfamiliar with the staff. Dr. Robby seemed nice enough, though you never stuck around long enough to build rapport. It was in and out from now on, speaking as little as you could before you retreated back to the morgue. 

You wished you could flat out refuse to go up there, but you didn’t want to punish innocent people just waiting for a bed. The sooner you got the bodies to the morgue, the sooner someone else could be seen by a doctor. 

Right now, though, you were sat at your desk, filling out log reports and finishing up paperwork before you inevitably got another body. It was monotonous work, yes, but calming in a way. The mindless action gave your brain a break between decedents–gave you a chance to mourn the person and compartmentalize it away before it ate away at you. 

You faintly heard the door at the end of the hall open and close, and assumed Elise was taking her lunch break. 

That is, until you heard a painfully familiar voice call out, “Hello? Anybody in here?” 

Oh no, why is he here? Attendings rarely visited the morgue–usually only if there was a particularly complex cause of death that they wanted to further examine. But there were no such cases right now, the only bodies currently in custody being a run of the mill STEMI and a GSW to the head–both pretty self-explanatory. 

And the night shift hadn’t started yet, the clock reading 5:34pm. There’s no plausible reason for Jack Abbot to be down here right now. 

His steps were getting louder–he was almost at your office now. 

You panicked. That is the only explanation you have for scrambling up from your desk and darting into the small storage closet to your left. You pressed yourself against the wall to the side, out of view of the frosted glass window. Was this the mature course of action? Absolutely not. But you weren’t sure you could handle seeing him right now. You hadn’t seen him since the incident, had done everything in your power to avoid any and all interactions. 

He called out again, and you could see his silhouette standing in the doorway of your office. 

Eyes closed, you took deep breaths to try and calm your rapidly beating heart. Hopefully he’d see the empty room and take his leave quickly.  

It was quiet, and for a moment you thought he’d left until–knock knock. 

“I could be crazy, but I’m pretty sure I heard someone stumble into this closet and slam the door shut,” he said, a hint of amusement in his tone. 

You didn’t answer, hoping maybe you could convince him he was crazy. 

The doorknob rattled, and you instinctively grabbed it, pulling it with all the force you could muster to keep it closed. You weren’t sure why–surely he was much stronger than you and could rip the door open if he really wanted to. And god, why was thinking about how strong he was making you flustered?  

It’s not that you were scared of him, you were just… woefully unprepared for this conversation. Despite ruminating over the incident itself, you hadn’t actually pictured a scenario where you’d ever speak to him again. Hadn’t had time to go over it a million times in your head, coming up with the best comeback and constructing the perfect barb to lodge in his soft underbelly, the way he’d done to you. 

He sighed, resting his forehead against the glass. “Look, I just wanted to apologize for the other day, if you’ll give me the chance.” 

You chewed on the inside of your cheek, considering. You’re not sure that an apology will do much for you, not sure that it’ll quell the pit in your stomach that’s opened and doesn’t show any sign of closing. 

You nodded to yourself anyway, letting out a quiet, “go ahead.” 

He chucked lightly, “face-to-face, if you don’t mind.” 

Damn him, you groaned internally. Taking a deep breath, you slowly opened the door. Jack stood opposite you, hands tucked into the pockets of his scrubs. You crossed your arms and fixed your gaze on your scuffed up shoes, the thought of looking him in the eye daunting and exciting at the same time.  

He let out a deep breath, “I’m really sorry for how I acted the other night. It was an exceptionally shitty night, and it wasn’t your fault but I took it out on you when I shouldn’t have.” 

You nodded, appreciated the effort it took to come down here and apologize. It did little to soothe your bruised heart, though. There was still a painful twinge in your chest, his words having already wormed their way into your brain and confirmed every worst thought you had about yourself. 

“Thank you, Dr. Abbot, apology accepted,” you said curtly, moving past him to get back to your desk. 

He stopped you, his hand resting on the bare skin just above your elbow. Goosebumps prickled against your skin from the roughness of his palm. You hated how your body craved more, how you wanted him to slide his hand up to your neck, tilt your head back and kiss you. Traitor. 

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw, “that woman that night, the one you picked up, she died of ovarian cancer,” he said. He looked conflicted, eyes flinty and mouth twisted to the side like he was warring with himself as he bit out the next words, “that’s how–my wife–she died of ovarian cancer.” 

Oh. You didn’t know that, didn’t even know he had a wife. Your eyes drifted to his left hand and saw the slightly lighter patch of skin there. Your heart ached and your defenses softened just a tad at the revelation. You could only imagine what it would feel like to lose a patient in the same manner you lost the person closest to you, could imagine the ugly emotions it would pull out of you. It didn’t make what he said okay, but you understood the circumstances that led him to say it. 

“And before that we had a kid who died from drowning, and a couple close calls, and a bunch of Dr. Google bullshit. And your joke was just… the straw that broke the camel’s back. But I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, not like that and not in front of everybody. That wasn’t fair to you, and I’m truly sorry,” he said, and you could feel the sincerity dripping from his words. His eyes were soft and pleading as he looked at you, and once again you found yourself unable to look away. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know that–about your wife,” you said softly, not wanting to make it any more painful than it already was, “and I’m sorry about the joke. I know it’s not appropriate, and I’ve been trying to stop, but you know how hard it is to quit unhealthy coping mechanisms,” a small smile lifting the corner of your lips. 

He shook his head, “please don’t, you have nothing to apologize for. Gallows humor is how we all get by; I can’t tell you how many off-color jokes I’ve told in my day. It was really the pot calling the kettle black, if I'm being honest,” he said, “If it wasn’t you who set me off, it would’ve been Ellis or Shen, or some other unsuspecting person. I promise you it had so much more to do with me than it did with you.” 

You nodded, accepting his explanation. You felt a little lighter, a little less burdened by his words.    

“I’d like to make it up to you, if you’ll let me,” he said, “maybe coffee or dinner, if you’re up for it?” 

You shook your head, “That’s really not necessary, Dr. Abbot. I meant it, I accept your apology, you don’t have to do anything else.” 

He nodded at that, looking a little deflated but otherwise satisfied that you’d accepted his apology. 

Jack felt the need to make it up to you anyway. 

It started with coffee after his shift ended. The first time, he brought you the most insane coffee order you’d ever seen–a mocha cappuccino with 5 extra shots of espresso, pistachio syrup, vanilla cold foam,  caramel AND white mocha drizzle, and salted caramel topping–a monstrosity borne from a recommendation from the woman ahead of him in line. You’re not sure how you didn’t immediately get cavities in all of your teeth. 

You couldn’t lie, though, the fact that he made the effort to go out and get coffee after his 12 hour shift was endearing, and once you gave him your coffee order, he got it right each and every time. 

It became routine over the next month for Jack to bring you coffee, and even though you didn’t have much time to talk in the morning, you began looking forward to the 10-15 minutes of conversation you shared with him each morning. You never discussed what this was, if it meant anything or if it was just a kind gesture between friends. You certainly hoped it meant something, but you weren’t going to get your hopes up. 

You were catching up on paperwork when his text came through. 

Jack: Can’t make it for coffee this morning, sweetheart, how about I bring you lunch later? 

Your cheeks heated at the pet name. He hadn’t called you that before, and you hoped you weren’t reading into it. 

You: sounds great, see you later :) 

You spend the morning counting down the minutes until Jack showed up. It only slightly hindered your progress on your paperwork, your mind only occasionally wandering off to think about his pretty pink lips.

It’s noon before you know it, and someone’s rapping their knuckles on the door frame to your office. 

“Knock, knock,” Jack said, shooting you a smile as he walked over to your desk. He set down a truly alarming amount of food. You laughed as he took out container after container, the sack resembling a clown car more than a fast food bag. 

“I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I got a variety,” he said, a little bashfully, “you can take home whatever’s left for dinner or lunch tomorrow.” 

You selected what you wanted from the smorgasbord he presented you with, and settled into the chair next to him. 

It was a little awkward at first. Most of the conversations you’d had with him up to this point were pretty surface level. Even your coffee chats were light-hearted affairs that didn’t really go deeper than what you did over the weekend. 

But Jack didn’t let it stay awkward for long, as if he knew that once you started talking, he’d be hard-pressed to get you to stop. 

“So, I realized that despite our coffee talks, I don’t really know that much about you. How long have you been a mortuary tech?” 

“About a year and a half. I got the job after I started school for mortuary science. Before that I taught for a little bit, but I didn’t really like it and I don’t think I was much good at it. I was a bartender for a long time too.” 

“So what made you make the jump to mortuary school?”

“I studied anthropology in college and death culture always really fascinated me, especially the way different cultures deal with grief and the burial process. America is so sanitized, so averse to looking at death straight on. We think death needs to be palatable, that the deceased need to look exactly as they did in life to avoid accepting the fact that our bodies are fundamentally different after death–that they are on their way to being absorbed back into the earth.

“I think the way we treat people in death is just as important as how we treat them in life. To some people, that person on the table is just an assemblage of bones and flesh, but to others that was a friend, a mother or daughter, father or son. And I figured as a mortician, I’d be in a position to offer families the kind of support that helps them work through their grief, not just hide it behind pretty floral arrangements.” 

You felt a little shy at the rapt expression on Jack’s face. He was giving you his undivided attention, listening intently to every word that came out of your mouth. You’re not sure any man has ever listened to you as attentively as he was now. Yes, the bar was in hell, but it didn’t make it any less hot.  

“Sorry, that was a lot, I didn’t mean to info dump on you,” you said sheepishly. 

He shook his head, “Please info dump, I could listen to you talk all day,” he said honestly, “do you want to continue working at the hospital when you’re done or do you want to start your own practice?” 

“I don’t think I’ll stay here. I mean, I like helping people through the immediate grief, but I think I just want to help grieving families lay their loved ones to rest in a way that honors the life they lived. I don’t care about selling fancy caskets or high-dollar cemetery plots, I just want to narrow it down to what really matters to preserving and celebrating the individual that was lost.”   

Jack nodded, “I don’t remember a lot about planning my wife’s funeral–Robby helped a lot with that–but I do remember it being really… almost commercial, in a way? Like, ‘do you want cedar or oak for the coffin? Do you want the casket lined in silk or velvet?’” he said, laughing bitterly, “like it was a fashion show or something, not the vessel my wife was going to be buried in. I couldn’t give less of a fuck what the damn thing was lined in.” 

You laid your hand on top of his, giving it a comforting squeeze as he continued. It made your heart swell that he felt comfortable enough to talk about his wife with you. 

“I mean, they were very compassionate, but it always felt like a business–which I get, we’re a capitalist society, but that’s not exactly what you want to feel when you’re burying someone,”  

You nodded, “that’s probably the thing that bothers me the most about this industry. Sometimes it seems like profit is the priority, and the real, hurting people come second.” 

Jack just looked at you with soft eyes, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling as he smiled at you. He turned your hand over in his, tracing the lines of your palm with his thumb.

“I think you’re going to be an amazing mortician,” he said, without an ounce of amusement or teasing, just pure honesty. “I think you’re exactly the kind of person that people want around them when they're going through the worst days of their lives.”  

You couldn’t help the tears that pricked at the corners of your eyes. It was the kindest thing someone had said to you about your career path, except maybe Elise. And it was nice to shed happy tears over something Jack Abbot said instead of embarrassed ones. 

You talked long after your lunch break was over, but Elise was out and you didn’t have any pressing work to get to at the moment, so you figured there was no harm, no foul. 

But eventually he had to leave to get ready for his shift, and you did have work to do, though you’d gladly forsake it for a few more minutes with him. 

You got up to dispose of your trash and walked him to the door. 

“Lunch was really nice,” he murmured, resting his hand on your arm, right above your elbow. 

Your breath hitched at the contact and goosebumps prickled up and down your arms. You gaze was locked on his, unable to look away, “yeah, I really enjoyed it,” you said breathily, your heart already racing. 

He moved closer, settling his hands on your waist, and backed you up slowly until the back of your knees hit your desk. 

You leaned back against your desk, widening your stance to allow Jack to step between your legs. His body was warm against you, his hands running up and down your sides soothingly. 

“Is this okay, sweetheart?” he asked, his hand coming up to cradle your jaw. You could feel his breath against your lips, so close but still so far away. 

You nodded, a pathetic mewl leaving your lips without permission. It was embarrassing how badly you wanted to kiss this man.  

He pressed closer, his lips just barely grazing yours, his nose slightly bumping your cheek. You wrapped your arms loosely around his neck, eyes fluttering shut as you moved to close the miniscule distance between your lips–

CLANG! 

The door down the hall slammed shut, and hurried footsteps approached your office.  

You nearly jumped out of your skin and stumbled back onto the desk, out of Jack’s grasp. He seemed just as shocked, his hand clutching his chest in surprise. 

A second later Elise came rushing into the room, saying something about a mass casualty event and how you needed to make as much room down here as you could to prepare for the inevitable. You nodded, turning to Jack to apologize, but he beat you to it. 

“Shit, I gotta go, sweetheart, they’re probably gonna call all-hands-on-deck,” he said, a genuinely mournful look on his face. 

“Yeah, of course. I hope it’s not too bad,” you said, equally as disappointed, but understanding. Duty calls.  

He wrapped you up in a tight hug, your cheek resting against his firm chest. You closed your eyes and allowed yourself to savor his embrace for a moment before he had to go.

“We’ll finish this later, yeah?” he asked against your hair, his hand rubbing circles on your back. 

You smiled against his chest and nodded, “yes, please.” 

He pulled away and planted a chaste kiss to your cheek before heading out. 

“What was that all about?” Elise questioned, raising her eyebrows at you.  

You didn’t say anything–your hot cheeks and dopey grin were worth a thousand words.

You were called up to the ED several times, each time worse than the last by the looks of the staff. It still felt a little awkward being in the emergency department. Even though most of the people here weren’t on shift when Jack yelled at you, it still felt like the department went still when you walked in, people stopping and staring like you were some sideshow circus freak. 

You were back up here collecting yet another soul, waiting for someone to sign off on the transfer. It seemed like things had calmed down, the worst of it over now. You were lost in thought at the nurses station, picking at the skin around your nails anxiously. 

You hoped Jack would be the one to come over and sign the paperwork–hoped you’d catch another glimpse of him before your shift was over. All you could think about all day was that almost-kiss you shared with him. You couldn’t help the smile that made its way onto your face every time you thought about it, which meant you basically had a permanent grin affixed to your face. 

You’re only pulled out of your thoughts by the sound of hushed voices to your left. You glanced over and saw two nurses you didn’t recognize taking a break and engaging in some friendly workplace gossip. Or so you thought. 

“–so happy about?” a nurse whispered incredulously. 

“Probably daydreaming about Dr. Abbot,” another said, her tone most likely accompanied by an eye roll.  

“God, when is she going to get a grip? Her fawning over him is not cute.” 

“Yeah, I think he just doesn’t know how to let her down… I mean when he yelled at her she changed her whole schedule, he probably feels guilty.” 

“True. Maybe she’ll realize how embarrassing it is to be so down bad for a man she has no chance with.” 

You stopped listening after that, crestfallen and heartbroken all over again. The illusion of the past month shattered and the feelings from before came roaring back full force. 

Your chest twisted painfully–like someone had grabbed ahold of your heart and squeezed, the squishy flesh bulging between their fingers. Your throat ached, tears surely not far behind. 

You knew you shouldn’t put too much stock in what these two random nurses were saying. You knew that they likely had no idea what they were talking about, that they were just mean girls blowing off steam and you seemed to be the target of it–like always. 

But there was the little gremlin in the back of your brain, the one that told you everything they said was true. That Jack just felt guilty, that he was making himself feel better for the way he treated you. Insecurity wrapped itself around you like a vise, squeezing around you like a boa constrictor, until it was the only thing you could feel. 

And that almost-kiss? Well, he was a man, after all. Maybe he was just overcome with the physical urge to kiss you, get in your pants if he could. But he wasn’t that kind of man, was he? You didn’t want to think so, but all rational thought was obscured by the hurt blooming in your chest that you couldn’t be sure. 

You startled at the hand on your shoulder. You looked up to see Dr. Robby standing there, brows furrowed in concern. Squeaking out an apology, you handed him the transfer paperwork. 

“I called your name three times, you okay?” he asked, flipping through the pages and signing where appropriate. 

“Fine,” you smiled, not trusting your voice not to break. 

He looked skeptical, but didn’t push. 

“Alright, all done. Hopefully that’ll be it, at least from the mass cas,” he said, handing back the paperwork. “We have a trauma counsellor available if you need to talk to someone,” he said before backing away to move onto the next patient. 

You chuckled at that. Of course he thought you were troubled by the amount of death that occurred today. But no, here you were, post mass casualty, and you were more concerned about a man than you were about the people that had died tonight. How fucked up were you? 

Jack showed up with coffee the next morning like usual, setting the paper cup down on your desk, “here you go, sweetheart.” 

“Thank you,” you said without looking up from your paperwork. You tasted acid in your throat, the words from the nurses station echoing in your head in an ugly cacophony. You’d memorized them by heart over the past 12 hours, twisting and turning in bed as they invaded your mind against your will. 

He just doesn’t know how to let her down.

He probably feels guilty.

Her fawning over him is not cute.

You cleared your throat, “you really don’t have to do this anymore, you know,” you said nonchalantly, like it wasn’t tearing your heart out to say. 

He was quiet for a moment. “I know… I do it because I want to, because I like spending time with you,” he said, head cocked and brow furrowed.  

“Sure,” you muttered under your breath. 

“What was that?” 

You sighed and set your pen down, shifting your full attention to him, “I’m just saying you don’t have to prostrate yourself in front of me because you feel guilty, Jack. You’ve done your penance, if that’s all this is. You’re forgiven, no hard feelings.” 

Your throat was tight, but your voice didn’t waver. You blinked back tears furiously as he stared at you, mouth agape. He looked a little more disheveled than usual, his eyes tired and the lines on his face a little more pronounced, like he’d been frowning all night. Obviously, he worked like 16 hours last night. You felt another wave of guilt rush over you–he was wasting his much needed rest time to come placate you. 

He crossed his arms, shaking his head in confusion, “What the hell are you talking about? Where is this coming from?” 

You stood up and started behind your desk, feeling restless and hurt and foolish. 

“You just–you don’t have to hang around me because you feel bad or something,” you said, “you’ve more than apologized. I just wish you didn’t make me feel like–like…” you trailed off, ragged breaths tearing through your chest. It was getting harder to force the words out, tears falling down your cheeks in earnest now. 

“Like what?” 

“Like this means something!” you choked out. God, you felt so silly. Aw, is someone upset that their crush doesn’t like them back? 

He looked at you in disbelief, “It does mean something,” he said, rounding your desk and stopping in front of you–effectively ceasing your pacing. 

“Please don’t lie to me,” you hiccuped, your bottom lip trembling violently, “I know I’m too much, I know no one at the Pitt likes me–you don’t have to pretend you do.” You fixed your gaze to the floor–you didn’t think you could handle the pitying look that was undoubtedly in his eyes. 

“Hey, hey, look at me,” he said, cupping your face between his large hands. You tried to wiggle away, but his grip was unwavering–he wasn’t going to let you look away from him. He brushed away your tears, “I don’t know what ideas you’ve gotten into that pretty little head of yours, but if you think I’m anything but smitten with you, you’re dead wrong.” 

You laughed weakly, “who’s making bad jokes now?” 

He didn’t take the bait, didn’t let you deflect from the topic at hand. He pinned you with his eyes, his gaze steady as he delivered his next words. 

“I’m serious. I need you to know that I’m being honest with you when I say this: I’ve been scared for a long time to make a move on you, and I’m not letting anything–not even you–get in the way now, okay?

“I’ve liked you for a while now, pretty girl. You’re the best part of my day, the only thing keepin’ me going some days. I love your smile, your laugh, the way your face lights up when you talk about something you’re passionate about. I love the way you care about people, alive and dead, and I love your jokes, even if they can be a little off color. 

“And I can’t tell you how much I regret how I treated you. The only silver lining is that it kicked my ass into gear, made me realize I’ve been an idiot for waiting so long to make you mine. You’re not too much, and even if you were, I’d want more–I want everything you’re willing to give me.” 

You almost couldn’t comprehend the words coming out of his mouth, but he was nothing but sincere. His eyes pleaded with you to believe him, to give him a chance–and you desperately wanted to. 

“You mean that?” you asked, gnawing at your lip anxiously. You didn’t want to get your hopes up just to have them crushed again. 

“With all my heart,” he said, grabbing your hand and placing it over his heart. It was racing just as fast as yours was. “This is how I feel every time I see you, sweetheart. Feel like I should be hooked up to a monitor sometimes,” he joked. 

“I…I like you too. I have since the day I met you. But I’m scared,” you swallowed thickly, voice small as you finished, “I don’t want to get hurt.” 

“I know, sweetheart, I am too. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this–haven’t since my wife–and I don’t want to fuck it up. We’re in this together, as long as you’ll have me,” 

“I want you,” you whispered, placing your hand on the side of his neck tentatively. 

He grabbed your waist and backed you up against your desk, replicating your previous position from yesterday. 

“Can I kiss you now, sweetheart? Haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since we were interrupted,” he asked, thumb stroking your cheek. 

You nodded, “me either,” you said, heart pounding as he leaned in. 

His lips were soft when they met yours. It was tentative–just a slow, gentle press of his lips against yours, like he was trying to maintain some level of decorum.

He started to pull back, and you whined at the loss of contact. You fisted your hands in his scrub top and pulled him back in, your mouths meeting in an uncoordinated mash of teeth. He chuckled against you, “greedy girl,” he murmured, steadying your head in his hands and deepening the kiss. 

He tamped down your eagerness but didn’t erase any of the heat building between you–just kept you right where he wanted you. His tongue swiped across your bottom lip and you readily opened your mouth for him, desperate to taste him. He licked into your mouth, tongue hot as it tangled with yours. You were greedy, sucking and lapping and nipping at his tongue and lips, getting messy with it and thoroughly forgetting where you were and how inappropriate a setting this was. 

You were like horny teenagers, hands grabbing at whatever bits of flesh they could reach, tangling in each other’s hair, and moaning louder than was appropriate. 

When you finally pulled back, you were both gasping for air, chests heaving against each other. Jack rested his forehead against yours as he caught his breath. You didn’t want to waste another moment not kissing him, though, so you began peppering his face with kisses–to his nose, cheeks, chin, wherever you could reach. 

He laughed at the onslaught, craning his head to the side to give you access to his neck, which you happily latched onto, “you’re insatiable, aren’t you?” 

“I guess you’ll have to find out,” you replied as you pulled away, biting your lip and batting your eyelashes at him. 

He shook his head fondly at you, “Now, as much as I’d like to do very, very inappropriate things to you right now, I came here this morning planning to ask you out to dinner. Would you allow me to ask you out properly now, sweetheart? Let me be a gentleman?” he asked, thumbs stroking your jaw. 

You nodded, still dizzy from his kiss–still reeling from the fact that Jack actually liked you. 

“Would you please make me the happiest man in the world, and accompany me to dinner at Altius tomorrow night at 7?” 

“I’d love to,” you grinned, pulling him in for another kiss. 

“And after, we'll see just how insatiable you are.” 

A/N: shoutout to my fellow anthropology majors lol glad that my degree is coming in handy for something cause its certainly not a job