DILFLOVER

He can almost time when you’re about to take a drink, too — the way your fingers fidget around the chilled aluminum, right before your tongue darts out to wet your mouth. You tip your head back with the can to take a quick sip, then lick your lips again when you bring the beer to your lap again.

It’s subtle and mostly unconscious, but Jack can’t help but notice all of it.

The same way he can’t help but notice how flustered you get when he asks, “Did you get that dress I bought you?” 

Your head snaps in his direction. Your eyes widen with a set of owlish blinks. The smile you had before softens slightly as your shoulders tuck in, going painfully shy in a flicker. 

It’s not so much the reminder that Jack scoured the internet for the butter-yellow dress Kate Hudson wore in How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days — after a passing comment you made about it during movie night some weeks back. It’s more so the reminder that you didn’t get it because you no longer had a real address to receive it at.

Because you’d rather die than tell him you’ve been sleeping in the PTMC for the past week.

“Uh… No. I-I don’t think so,” you stammer.

Jack’s brows lower. “Really? The e-mail said it was delivered yesterday.”

You glance away again — fingers fidgeting, tongue darting. “Maybe it went to the wrong place?” you shrug and bring the can up to your mouth again.

Jack notices how you shift awkwardly on the bench beside him; how you struggle suddenly to meet his gaze, and how you try and fail to tune back into Whitaker’s rambling. There’s something more going on inside your head, something more you’re not telling him, but he figures prying after a twelve-hour shift probably isn’t the best idea.

“Yeah…” he says slowly. “Maybe…”

There’s a long beat of silence between you thereafter, filled by members of the dayshift exchanging staggered goodbyes. Jack takes a quick sip of his beer. He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing, and turns to you with the sheen of alcohol coating his lips.

“I should probably start heading out to,” he clears his throat. “Want me to walk you home?”

You fake a shy smile, instead of telling him that you have no real home to go to.

“I’m a big girl, Abbot. I think I can get there on my own,” you lilt drily. Jack’s stare hardens into an unwavering deadpan; not mean, just firm. You cave with a roll of your eyes. “You go ahead. I’ll walk with Trinity and Whitaker— They live closer to me, anyway.”

Jack hesitates for a lingering beat. 

He wants to tell you that it makes him feel better when he walks with you, that sometimes he thinks he lives and breathes only to protect you, but he’s self-aware enough to know how insane that sounds. So he just nods with a slow exhale.

“Okay… Just— Call me when you get home?”

You give him a soft smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “Of course.”

Jack takes the long way out to give you enough time to pack up your things and head out in the opposite direction with Santos and Whitaker. 

He cuts around the block instead of heading straight out, positioning himself just far enough away from the entrance that he can still see it. When he turns the corner, he spots you brushing shoulders with Trinity and tipping your head back to laugh at something he can’t hear from here.

The sound of your giggling is carried on the summer’s evening breeze, along with your words as you veer suddenly towards the side of the hospital again. “Shit— I left my keys in my locker. You guys go ahead, I’ll catch up with you.”

You slip inside through the automatic doors.

Jack straightens his back and tightens his hold on the strap of the camo bag slung over his shoulder. He gets a strange feeling in his chest that he just can’t shake and decides to follow you back inside the PTMC. He figures it’s better to be safe than sorry — better to seem insane by following you like a creep instead of risking something bad happening to you, anyway.

He weaves through the noisy emergency department with strong shoulders and a sharp gaze. He checks for you in the locker room first, then the break room second, then doubles back for Shen at the workstation.

“Said she left something up in ortho,” the attending shrugs through a short sip of his iced coffee. Then he jokes,“What do you wanna bet she’s screwing around with Park the Shark?”

Jack's chest flares, but he tries not to let it faze him as he makes a beeline for the elevators. 

He knows you’re lying — you wouldn’t have said something different to Trinity otherwise — not unless you really were sneaking around with Dr. Park, that is. Jack has to shake the thought physically from his head, which Shen had unknowingly planted there, the entire ride up to the eighth floor.

No one goes up there anymore — no one other than you and Jack — and it’s the only other place he hasn’t yet looked to find you. The west wing of the upper floor has been nothing short of abandoned, and is eerily quiet compared to the E.D. below, save for the faint buzzing of fluorescent lights that are bound to die out any day now.

As he passes the old rooms, left clean and untouched, he hears a faint song playing from behind a shut door. One of those old 2000s pop songs you always play in the car when you’re together. He knocks first and, when he receives no answer, pushes it slowly open with a call of your name.

This room, unlike the others, is not abandoned. Not exactly. There are blankets folded neatly on the edge of the bed; a duffel bag tucked in the corner by the nightstand; and a pile of books stacked on the windowsill. A laptop sits open on the pillows, where music spills from its speakers.

“‘Cause every time we touch, I get this feeling; and every time we kiss, I swear I could fly—!”

It’s all so organized, so lived in. Jack feels his chest tighten accordingly. He wonders how long you’ve been staying here, how long you’ve been lying to him.

The drumming water faucet shuts off from behind the closed bathroom door. He hears your voice behind it, singing softly to the music, and freezes when the door clicks open a few moments later.

“Can’t you hear my heart beat so, I can’t let you go! Want you in my—” You cut yourself off with a scream when you find a figure standing in front of your bed. 

Your hand rises instinctively to your mouth to muffle the sound. Your chest deflates with a breath of relief when you realize it’s Jack, then tightens again when you realize that it’s Jack. 

“Fuck…” you huff. “You scared me…”

Your free hand readjusts the fluffy white towel wrapped around your body, still warm from the shower and glistening with droplets of water. As the steam rolls out from behind you, he gets a whiff of your sweet body wash — and, as you shift awkwardly on your feet, he notices that you’re wearing a fluffy pair of house slippers. All of which tells him you’ve been staying here for way, way longer than he initially thought.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Jack squints, a little harsher than he means to be.

“What are you doing here?” you retort. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“I was worried about you,” the man shoots back, firm hands propped on his hips as he sways slightly on his aching prosthetic. “And obviously for good reason— What is this? Are you living here?”

Your mouth opens to argue, but you hesitate with a wavering breath in. You adjust the towel on your naked form and fight back a shiver as the humming AC cools the water on your skin.

“I’m… I’m just… I’m in between places right now. That’s all.”

Jack lets a short, disbelieving chuckle. His stern stare never wavers as you duck past him for the desk across the room, where your pajamas sit on the back of the chair.

“In between places?” he echoes. “What does the even mean?”

You sigh, gaze averted, and try to get dressed without dropping your towel.

“You remember when I told you about my creepy landlord? You know, the one who won’t stop calling me?” you ramble, sliding on a pair of underwear before reaching for your sweatpants. “Well, I was going to move to a new place, and I had already started the process of moving out, but I didn’t get approved for the apartment I wanted—”

The canvas of your bare back is revealed to him when you throw the towel to the side and reach for the sweatshirt laid out before you. Your voice goes slightly muffled as you shove it over your head.

“—And I can’t go back to my old place, obviously, so I just… Moved in here. You know. For the time being.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jack presses. “I would’ve helped you.”

“I know,” you roll your eyes. “Because you’re always helping me. Because I can’t do anything for myself—”

“That’s not what I said—”

“You don’t have to say it,” you snap, flashing him a wide-eyed glare. “That’s just what it is. And I can’t keep going to you every single time I have a problem that needs fixing.”

Jack shrugs, oblivious. “Why not?”

Your face twists at his confusion. 

“Because I can’t just rely on you for the rest of my life, Jack! That’s not— sustainable,” you rant, gesturing wildly with your hands. “I mean, what if you get bored of me? What if this stops— being fun for you, and I become a burden? Then where does that leave me?”

The words hang in the quiet, still, sweet-smelling air between you for several long moments.

Jack’s stern expression melts into something softer as a white-hot feeling sears his chest from the inside out.

“You aren’t a burden to me, honey— You’ve never been a burden to me,” he tells you, closing the distance between you in a few short strides. 

You peek through your lashes to meet his gaze when he towers over you. The corner of his mouth flickers into a smile as he huffs a breathless laugh. 

“I mean, not to sound like a selfish asshole here, kid, but this is more for me than it is for you… I don’t buy you stuff just because you want me to; I do it because it makes me happy. I take care of you because it makes me feel good…” Jack trails off, going foreignly sheepish as he crosses his arms and bounces his shoulders in a lazy shrug. “Us being in love with each other is just a… super cool bonus.”

You blink up at him with wide, wet eyes. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “And you know what would make me feel really good?”

You hesitate for a moment, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “…What?”

“If you stopped squatting in an abandoned hospital room, and come stay with me at my place,” Jack says. “And if not with me, then at least in my guest room. That way, I know you’re sleeping in an actual bed. And have access to a real kitchen— What have you been eating, anyway?”

You cower under his squinted stare.

“I don’t know... Uber Eats on a good day. And whatever’s in the vending machine on a bad day…” you answer shyly. “And cafeteria food on a really bad day…”

Jack nods slowly, smacking his lips against his teeth.

“Yep,” he deadpans. “You’re coming home with me.”

Home, as it turns out, wasn’t so bad.

You had been to Jack’s place before, to be sure, but never with the intention of staying long term. It makes the place feel a bit foreign to you as you try to find your footing within it, when you arrive with nothing but a bathroom bag and your haphazardly-packed duffel, ‘cause Jack assured you he’d get all the rest of it for you later.

You leave your things in his guest room while he orders you something for dinner. You eat together in his living room, like usual, and wind up inevitably in his bedroom before the night is over. 

Casino plays on the television, bathing the dark room in its flickering neon glow. You lie on your stomach with your legs kicked up behind you, while Jack slouches against the headboard, legs spread to accommodate your body between them. He holds your right foot against his chest with a pair of wide hands, massaging the ache in the ball of it with his fingers.

“God, I would die for that coat…” he hears you mumble to yourself, as Robert De Niro slides the white fur over Sharon Stone’s shoulders. (He makes a mental note to find that one for you, too, and send an email to recover the dress from yesterday.)

“Isn’t this so much better than a hospital bed?” Jack wonders aloud.

You scoff a faint laugh, lifting your heavy head from your fist to flash him a deadpan look. “I think the floor would be better than that hospital bed.”

Jack chuckles quietly to himself before realizing, “…That’s why you’ve been complaining about your back so much, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know…” You turn away, suddenly shy. “I guess so…”

You feel him shift behind you, bed frame creaking under his weight. Your foot falls to the mattress as he sits between your legs, careful to keep the weight off his amputated limb as he kneels on the mattress. 

His warm, calloused hands smooth under the fabric of your sweatshirt. His thumbs dig into the unrelenting ache between your shoulder blades. You exhale a slow sigh and drop your head between your arms, melting under his touch.

You don’t realize he’s leaning over you until his lips brush your neck. You fight back a shiver when his silver scruff brushes the delicate skin.

“From now on…” Jack mumbles against you, low and quiet and just shy of menacing. “I want you to come to me the next time you need or want anything, alright? Anything.”

Your breath catches. Something warm pools in the pit of your stomach.

“Don’t keep it from me… Don’t brush me off…” Jack continues with a voice like honey as his hands press firmly against your back. “Come to me— directly. That’s my job now. Understand?”

You don’t trust your voice, so you just nod in response. Jack can feel it with his lips still pressed against your skin. You can feel his mouth curling into a smile as his hands smooth down the length of your spine, with a tenderness that sends chills pebbling across your skin in his wake. 

You forget how to breathe when his fingers curl in the hem of your sweatpants. 

“Who takes care of you, honey?” he murmurs lowly in your ear.

“You do…” you hear yourself say, half-muffled with your head still bowed.

Jack grins. He pulls your bottoms and your underwear down the curve of your ass in one fell swoop.

“Can’t hear you, baby,” he says in gritty monotone before sitting back on his haunches. 

You lift your heavy head, blinking away the haze of desire clouding your vision when you glance at the man behind you. You find him kneeling there, with a hand shoved down his pajama bottoms, massaging himself the rest of the way hard.

Jack smiles wider when he catches you staring. He feels his cock twitching in his fist at your heavy-eyed and wanting gaze.

“Who takes care of you?” he echoes, more firmly this time, but with a teasing squint in his light eyes.

The corner of your mouth lifts in a mischievous half-smile. “You do,” you repeat, more eager this time.

Jack nods once, almost approvingly so, and sighs as he squeezes hard at his stiffening cock. “Hell yeah, I do…” he murmurs to himself, proud.

Robby rushes in with Dr. Al-Hashimi just behind him a second later, shattering the playful tension between the two of you with a thousand different questions. You’re left as the only resident in a sea of attendings and nurses; Dr. Al passes you the reins accordingly. “This is a learning hospital, right? Time for you to learn how to be the boss, R4.”

“Hear that, Abbot?” you joke as the older man migrates inevitably to your side, smelling of blood and sweat and the cologne he always leaves on your pillow. “I’m the boss here.”

“Well, you could try to be a little more humble about it, sweetheart,” he squints and tugs on a disposable PPE gown, which Perlah helps him tie in the back. “Let’s do some skin hooks— 4 Shiley. Sound good?”

You hiss through your teeth and drag the clear blue sleeves of your own gown over your shoulders, while Robby stands behind you to knot the garment in place. “I don’t really like the curve of a Shiley… Especially not if we’re about to rush him up to the O.R.”

“I didn’t know you were so picky.”

“Well, you should know better than anyone, Dr. Abbot,” you grin. “Cut me an ET tube, will you? 6-0?”

“Yes, ma’am…” the older man nods and holds back his giddy grin until he turns away from you.

Robby grumbles a noise of disgust in the back of his throat in the meanwhile — quickly realizing that the two of you were much easier to stomach when you were working night shifts together, and he only had to see you for half an hour in passing, at most. 

“Jesus Christ— Get a room, you two.”

“Well, technically, this is a room,” Jack quips distantly as he returns to your side with the endotracheal tube in tow. You make room for him at the head of the gurney on instinct, and drape a thin blue cloth over the patient’s neck, centering the aperture over the gushing wound. 

Robby moves to the opposite side of the bed and pulls the haphazardly placed intubation bag from the man’s mouth with careful hands. “One without me in it, preferably,” he argues.

“Ooh…” you lilt. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, Dr. Robby.”

“Just focus,” he scolds in a gritty tone of voice.

“You need to find the second and third tracheal rings,” Dr. Al instructs, sliding between the crowd and motioning to his neck with her gloved pinky. “You’ll be able to feel them with your fingers— just make the incision through the cricoid cartilage and be careful to avoid hitting the vocal cords, yeah?”

She flashes you a dark, doe-eyed, and distantly unamused look, seemingly immune to the playful banter surrounding her. 

You nod once, scalpel in hand. “Yes, ma’am.”

You make the incision while Jack preps the tube. You work together with deft hands and a relative silence, aside from a few procedural directions. For the most part, the two of you communicate without words — you locate the man’s ruptured trachea in a sea of bright red blood while Jack slides the thin tubing to make an airway.

“I’m in,” he blurts after a few tense minutes. “Balloon up.”

The rapid beeping of his dropping SATs begins to even out almost instantly. 

“I’ll sew the tracheal to the skin,” you announce within a sigh of relief. “2-0 silk, please.”

Jack passes you the round of sutures with a proud nod and a quiet smile. “Not too shabby, Doc… We make a pretty good team.”

“Or maybe I’m just really good at telling you what to do, Abbot,” you quip.

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “That, too.”

Robby and Dr. Al take their leave when the chaos dissipates, and Garcia comes down from the O.R. for a consultation. They trade the crowded trauma room for an equally crowded emergency department — slowly filling to the brim, like a pot bound to boil over. But, even still, it’s not nearly as tense as whatever you and Abbot have going on.

“Are they always like that?” the woman wonders aloud, nodding her tied-back curls towards the room behind them.

“Yep…” Robby nods with a heavy sigh, rubbing hand sanitizer between his calloused palms. “But they’re not usually dayshift, so… My philosophy is— let the night crew deal with it.”

You and Jack decide to follow Robby’s advice and find a room of your own — on the half-abandoned wing of the eighth floor, where everything smells like dust and time gone by, and the dying overhead lights only work a quarter of the time. It’s a good enough place to be alone with him, though; it gives you ample time to patch up the wound on his shoulder, and saves Jack the trouble of getting caught with the injury and being forced to fill out a mountain of paperwork accordingly.

He sits on the edge of the hospital bed with his shirt off and his broad arms crossed over his chest. The tendons in his freckled back twitch despite himself when you smooth a fresh bandage over his freshly cleaned scrape.

“Does it feel okay?” you ask him.

“Yep…” he nods once, trying and failing to get a peek of the gauze from over his shoulder. “Fine.”

Your concern doesn’t waver. Your brows lower with it, in a palpable look of worry that etches across your face. “You’d tell me if you were, like, in pain, though, right?”

Jack ponders for a moment, lips jutting faintly. “No, probably not,” he answers, too blunt for his own good.

“Well. At least you’re honest…”

You sigh and turn on the heel of your sneaker to chuck the dirtied napkins and crumpled wrappers into the bin across the room. Jack watches you go with something mischievous glimmering in his gaze.

“But I am fine, though— If you’re really all that worried about me,” he assures you with a quiet smile. “I’m a little banged up, but… I’ll survive.”

“So I can still come over tonight?” you wonder, half-shy.

Jack nods slowly and tilts his scruffy chin to keep your gaze when you walk the short distance back over to him. “Yes, sweetheart— I still plan on buying you dinner tonight,” he answers in a dry, sarcastic lilt.

Because that’s usually how it goes nowadays. You keep him company for a night, and he gets you food, pays off your grocery bill, or covers your rent — and then you go to work the next day like none of it ever happened. 

It didn’t always used to be that way, though, this quid pro quo thing that the two of you had struck up over time. Jack bought things for you because he cared about you, because he didn’t want you to go hungry or homeless when he knew he had the money to help. It was all a part of his job, he figured, to help his residents out whenever he could. But, somewhere down the line, he became more than just your attending, and a whole lot less than your boyfriend. It was more like a secret, third thing that the two of you never bothered to put a label on.

You frown. “That’s not why I was asking, smartass.”

“Well, that’s the arrangement, though, right?”

“Calling it an arrangement makes it sound like I’m your— mail-order bride or something,” you scoff and cross your arms over his chest, following his form with a squinted gaze as he reaches for his discarded shirt. “You don’t have to make it sound so formal, Jack. I know this is fun for you, too.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t…” he quips with a faint wince as he slides the thin black t-shirt over his head, grimacing at the burn that blooms beneath the bandage as he does so.

“And no pressure or anything, obviously, but, uh…” You trail off and swallow hard, struggling to find the courage to continue as your eyes flit everywhere but at the man before you. “My student loans are about to hit for this month, and I—”

“I know,” Jack interjects with a polite nod. “I already took care of it.”

You lose your breath almost instantly, for a reason you can’t quite name.

“…Seriously?”

He scoffs like it’s obvious and rises from the bed, towering several inches over you. “Well, yeah. I told you, sweetheart— You don’t have to worry about that stuff anymore. As per the arrangement...” he croons lowly, with a playful half-smile, before bending softly at the waist to press a fleeting kiss to your lips.

You’re too busy trying to remember how to breathe to respond.

You struggle to finish the rest of your charting through the thoughts of Jack still plaguing your mind. You don’t think you’ve been so taken care of before; so seen, so held. You’re not entirely sure what to do with all of it now — these feelings that you’re harboring for your boss, of which you’re almost certain there is no room for in such an arrangement, as he so lovingly calls it. 

Because he doesn’t take care of you because he loves you. He takes care of you so you’ll come over at the end of every night, and remind him what it feels like to be a little less lonely. And even still, you run hopelessly to his side anyway — half-ashamed because you don’t even care that he’s using you; half-ashamed because you like it.

“Have you seen Dr. Abbot?” Samira wonders through panted breaths, disrupting your distracted train of thought. She enters your tunnel vision from the opposite side of the desk, and all of a sudden, you’re back in the E.R. The distant droning of constant noise fills your ears when you’re shoved back to reality again. “I’ve been trying to find him for, like, ten minutes at this point.”

“Uh… No— Not recently, no,” you stammer.

Her chest deflates with an exhaled breath. “Shit…”

Your eyes narrow as they scan over her form, frazzled and sweaty, with dark curls falling out of her claw clip to frame either side of her face. “You okay? What happened?”

She sighs and leans her elbows on the desk in front of her.

“Nothing, I just… I should’ve planned this better,” she murmurs, mostly to herself. She talks with her hands as she rambles, “My patient doesn’t have any insurance. And he’s already in a mountain of medical debt as it is, so I was gonna send him home with some supplies, right? But then I lost him, and I was gonna Uber the stuff to his house, but then Dr. Abbot said he’d pay for it, and… Now I can’t find either of them, so…”

She trails off with a deep huff.

You forget that it’s your turn to respond, too hung up on the fact that Jack had offered to help her pay. It shouldn’t bother you as much as it does, but it hits you like a punch to the stomach all the same. Because you weren’t special, Jack was just kind; and you’re only realizing now that this arrangement of yours was never exactly exclusive.

“Sorry,” Samira shakes her head. “I know I’m rambling. It’s just… been a long day.”

You blink rapidly, clearing the haze of hurt from your eyes. “No, I— I totally get it. You should check upstairs. He might be with Hiro in the O.R.”

“Thanks,” she says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, that disappears the second she heads back for the elevator across the room.

You return to your charting when she’s gone, but forget to do any of it. You lose yourself in the void of the stark white computer screen, instead, while your hurt and distant jealousy scratches at your chest from the inside out.

Robby watches from afar, giving you a few minutes alone, before dismissing himself from the interns and shattering your cynical stream of consciousness. “How’s the charting coming along?” he asks in lieu of a greeting as he walks to stand at your side.

“Great,” you deadpan, muffled into the hands holding up your heavy head.

He scoffs out a quiet laugh. “Not to say I told you so, but… I did kinda tell you so…”

You turn slowly, peeking at him with one glaring eye as he leans against the desk beside you with his arm crossed over his chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?” you question in a gritty monotone.

“I told you not to get involved with Abbot,” Robby shrugs. “Not until you were done with your residency— ‘cause you already repeated one year, and if you want that neuro fellowship, you can’t have Jack screwing with your head.”

“Oh, yeah?” you squint, feigning interest as you slouch back in your chair. “The same way you screwed with Heather’s? When you got her pregnant when she was your resident?”

You say it to hurt him, and you can tell that it does, though it doesn’t feel as rewarding as you thought it would.

“Yeah, actually…” Robby nods and scratches at the greying patch in his beard. There’s a hurt look swimming in his dark eyes that almost makes you cower when he peers down at you. “Look, kid. I don’t care what you and Abbot get up to in your free time. That’s not what this is. But I’ve known you since you were an MS3— and I know you’re gonna go off to do great things, because I’m the one that taught you, right?”

Your frown deepens.

He smiles wider. “I just don’t want some relationship getting in your head, that’s all.”

“Well, it’s not, so…” you trail off with a less than convincing waver in your voice. 

“Really?” he hums, eyes narrowing in a challenging squint. “Have you checked in with that fellowship you wanted?”

You smack your lips against your teeth. “Not yet…”

“And why’s that?”

“When did you become my mom, exactly, Dr. Robby?” you joke and spin in your chair to face him. “‘Cause it feels a little like you’re reprimanding me here—”

“I am reprimanding you,” he tells you, only partially joking, before turning at the distant call of his name. He stands to full height again and flashes you a playfully stern look as he walks away. “Take care of it, alright? Or else I’m grounding you.”

“For how long?” you call after him.

“However long it takes to get your head out of your ass—”

You’re left reeling for the rest of the day, trapped in a merciless cycle of want and unwavering doubt. 

Jack is not yet close enough, even when he’s all but smothering you in the center of his bed, pressing you into the mussed sheets below with his broad body propped on top of yours. He smells distinctly of sweat, stale cologne, and the steak dinner he took you to after your shift ended. 

You wrap your arms around his freckled shoulders in a feeble attempt to pull him impossibly closer, careful to avoid the bandage still stuck on his left shoulder blade. You bury your nose in his greying curls while he sprinkles warm, wet kisses along the tendons of your neck, relishing in the salty tang of sweat staining your skin.

But even as he slots himself between your spread thighs, even as he marks his territory in the lovebites he litters on your collarbone, you can’t shake the feeling that he’d rather be somewhere else — that there’s someone else he’s thinking of, someone else he’ll call after you’ve left for home, someone else he’ll take care of when you’re gone.

The train of thought leads you inevitably back to the root of your cynicism, which you struggle to shake out of your mind once the visual has entered it.

“Did you ever find Samira?” you hear yourself ask, shattering the honeyed quiet of his lamplit bedroom. 

Jack’s head is far too cloudy to hear you properly the first time. 

He pulls away from you with a quiet smack and sits back on his haunches. Your hands fall to your stomach, clad only in a thin white tank top, while his rest over your bare thighs, propped on either side of his waist. Your cotton panties are the only thing keeping you hidden from him now, and his form-fitting boxers cradle a hardening length that threatens to make your mouth water.

He wears a swirled look of confusion across his scruffy face, along with his spit on his swollen, kissbitten mouth, as he asks, “Did I ever find what?”

“Samira,” you echo, brows raised to your hairline. “She was looking for you a little bit before we left— Said she needed your help paying for something.”

“Oh. Yeah,” Jack hums, pale shoulders bouncing in a lazy shrug. “Her patient needed some supplies Ubered to his house, so… I took care of it. No big deal.”

He bends down to kiss you again, but freezes with his nose pressed against the bridge of yours when he feels you tense below him. His heavy sigh fans warm across your jaw before he sits back again, features screwed in a faint grimace.

“And I’m realizing now that that’s probably not the best phrase to use, but… I was just helping out a friend— a patient, actually,” he rambles. “That’s it.”

Your eyes narrow in a playful squint. 

“That’s it?” you echo.

“Trust me, sweetheart,” Jack scoffs and shifts between your thighs, lifting your hips with his wide hands cradling your ass and bending at the waist to press his mouth over the bow in the center of your underwear. “The only girl getting her student loans paid off by me, is you.”

He leaves another chaste kiss on the cotton of your panties, right over the place where you throb like a heartbeat for him. Your stomach blooms with warmth.

“Because I’m special or because you don’t have the money to afford anyone else?” you ask.

Jack squints, light eyes glimmering with mischief in the low light. “Because you’re special and because I don’t have the money to afford anyone else. How about that?”

You roll your eyes despite the soft smile hinting at the corners of your mouth. “Just get to work, Dr. Abbot,” you scold in a distant monotone.

“With pleasure,” he mumbles, right before sliding his fingers through the hem of your underwear, pulling them to the side, and kissing your glittering pussy the way he would your mouth.

The lamplit bedroom swells with panted breaths and the heavy scent of sex. 

Jack slouches against the headboard, heavy-eyed and wearing a mixture of your cum and spit down to his scruffy chin. His toned chest is coated in a thin layer of hair and glittering sweat. You watch a rogue bead trail down his sternum from where you’re perched on top of him — with the sheets bunched around your hips, and your thighs straddling his waist. Your pussy still clenches with the aftershocks of your orgasm while his spent cock softens slowly inside of you. 

His calloused hands trail slowly up and down the length of your torso — from your shoulder blades, down to your ribs, over the bend of your waist, and up again. His touch is softer than summer rain, warmer than the cum leaking slowly out of you now.

“Do you think you could write me a letter of recommendation?” you ask, tracing the freckles on his chest with your pointer finger. “You know, for the neuro fellowship we talked about?”

“Wow…” Jack croons drily, brows raised to his hairline. His words slur slightly together as he comes down from the remnants of his high. “No aftercare, huh? Not even a little pillow talk? Just… straight to the point?”

You flash him a playfully stern look from beneath your lashes, lips quirking in a shy smile. “‘M just asking a question…”

“Yeah, while I’m still inside you,” he scoffs a tired laugh. “You know you don’t have to sex with me to get what you want—”

You frown. “That’s not what I was—”

“—You can just ask.”

“I’m having sex with you because I like it, Jack,” you blurt, very foreignly stern with him, as your eyes harden in a glare. “And I’m asking you for a letter of rec because I respect your opinion—”

“And because you don’t trust Robby to give you a good one, I’m assuming?” he quips with an arched brow.

“Exactly,” you nod.

Jack laughs. You can feel it rumbling in his chest beneath your palms. “I’ll e-mail it to you later. How about that?”

“There’s no rush,” you assure him. “Seriously. I haven’t even applied for it yet—”

“Don’t worry about it. I already wrote it.”

He steals the breath from your lungs for the second, third, or hundredth time that day.

“You already wrote it?” you echo, brows furrowed. “When?”

“When you told me about it the first time,” he confesses, bouncing a bare shoulder in a lazy shrug. “I knew you’d need a letter of rec eventually, so... I wrote while I had some free time and just… waited for you to ask, I guess.”

Your face screws with skepticism. It burns somewhere in your chest, too. 

Even with him softening inside of you, leaking out of you, you can’t help but feel slightly suspicious of his sincerity. You still can’t quite believe that he cares about you this much.

“…Really?”

“Yeah,” he laughs and squeezes gently at your sides. “Why do you look so shocked? I do care about you outside of… all this. You know that, right?”

“I didn’t…” you confess, painfully shy, and lacking the courage to meet his gaze for several long moments. You focus instead on your hands, and the shapes you trace along his chest. “Not until now…”

“Well, what do I gotta do to prove it to you, huh?” Jack asks within a huff as he rises from his slouched position against the headboard. 

The mattress creaks softly as his weight shifts. His warm chest presses firmly to yours, smothering your breasts against his heartbeat, as he cradles you to his chest. His glittering eyes dart back and forth between the two of yours as he says, “I’ve already given you everything, sweetheart…”

“I don’t want everything,” you murmur with a shake of your head, unable to tear your gaze from his attentive one. “I just want you.” 

"You made it," Jack said at last, stepping aside to let you both in, his voice steady. He clapped your father on the shoulder in greeting, easy and practiced, before his eyes returned to you for just a moment longer than necessary. You couldn’t help but notice the way his gaze trailed your body, taking in every inch of you, lingering for just a second on your lips or your cleavage. Your skin felt hot under his scrutiny.

"Long drive?" He closed the door behind you, a hand carefully brushing your waist, guiding you further into the house. The warmth of the cabin closed around you, fire crackling somewhere deeper inside, and for a moment it felt exactly like it had in July, except now there was snow on the ground, Christmas lights in the windows, and the awkward presence of your dad.

He answered for you, laughed about christmas traffic as he kicked off his shoes and shrugged off his coat. Jack's eyes stayed glued to you. You were standing there, beautiful, with snow on your hair and a tired slouch in your posture, you looked slightly older, different in a way that felt sudden and unfair, like time had skipped ahead without asking him, like he should have been there to see it.

You were still the girl who used to trail behind him in the summer, barefoot on the dock, with wet hair and frayed shorts on, showing off your tan. You were still the girl who asked about his job, scrunched your nose at the gruesome details, laughter bubbling out of you at his jokes. Still the girl he'd kissed on a hot summer night when you'd both drank too much.

Jack had missed you, he had missed being able to press you against him, hold you down, hear you whimper his name like you had done in the past, sweet and breathless. He had missed the way your cunt felt around him, warm and tight. He had missed the way you looked at him through your lashes, the way you listened to him, did whatever he told you because he knew better, you had nothing to worry about. But unlike last summer, he hid it— the want, the need for you— not because he wanted to, but because he had to. Because you were standing next to your father. Because it was Christmas. Because the lights glowed in the windows, the fireplace crackled, and all he wanted to do was taste you, but he shouldn't.

"Let me show you to your rooms, that way you can get all set for dinner." He cleared his throat, a futile attempt to clear his mind. The image of you on your knees, mouth open and waiting so sweetly for him, hadn’t left his thoughts since you had last seen each other. It lingered in the back of his eyes when he tried to sleep, stuck in every corner of his brain at the hospital, followed him on dates, and even crept in when he spoke to your father. All he could think about was you.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───

The wind, cold and persistent, howled outside the guest bedroom window rattling the panes and making the room feel even smaller. You laid in bed, the unpacked bags scattered at your feet, mind spinning. You couldn’t stop thinking about him. About Jack. About the way his eyes had landed on you earlier, and then how quickly he’d looked away, too fast, like he was trying to erase the heat he’d clearly felt. Did he still want you, or had it all been a mistake? Was he disgusted with you for what happened during the summer, for the way you’d begged him, the way you’d given yourself over so willingly? Your stomach twisted just imagining it. What if all the sweet words he’d spared for you were only that, words, with no depth or meaning, just a beautiful trap for a dumb girl like you?

Under the dim lights of the bedroom, you thought back to every detail— the set of his jaw, the way he had clapped your father on the shoulder, the soft, almost imperceptible brush of his hand at your waist— trying to find its meaning. What if he hated you? What if he thought you were reckless, stupid, or worse—easy? Every memory of his hands on you, his voice, his touch, rose up in your mind.

You pressed your face into the pillow, willing the thoughts away, but it was no use. You could still feel the ghost of his hands sliding over your skin, still hear the rasp of his voice whispering sweet nothings in your ear.

A sudden knock at the door made you jump, heart hammering. "Dad?" you called, voice shaking slightly.

"Not exactly," came his low, familiar voice, measured but not casual. Your stomach flipped. "Look, kid… we can—we should talk later. But for now, just come downstairs. Dinner's ready."

"Okay," You sighed and got out of bed. Your limbs felt heavy from lack of sleep and an excess of worry, both caused by the man waiting on the other side of the door. When you opened it and your eyes met his, you could have sworn you were back in that one fateful weekend in July.

Jack stood in the hallway, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, shoulders slightly tense like he was bracing himself. The light from the stairwell caught the lines at the corners of his eyes, the familiar set of his jaw. For a moment, neither of you spoke. He looked at you the way he always had when he was trying not to give something away, gaze steady, mouth tight with restraint.

"Food’s getting cold," he said finally, voice low, careful. His eyes flicked past you into the room, then back again, lingering on your lips just a beat too long.

He stood to the side to let you pass, his arm quick and careful brushing against yours, guiding you towards the stairs. You followed him down, each step slow, aware of his presence just ahead of you, the broad line of his back, the way his shoulders stayed tense as if he were holding himself in place with sheer stubbornness.

Your father was already at the table when you came downstairs, a drink in his hand. Jack offered you a beer; you glanced at your father, and when he nodded in approval, you nodded too.

Jack crossed the room to hand it to you. His fingers brushed yours as you took the bottle, a spark of heat shooting up your arm at the brief, deliberate contact. Your eyes met for a second before he looked away. You were tired of playing cat and mouse, but you couldn't speak up yet.

Dinner settled into an easy rhythm. Your father talked the most, as he usually did, relaxed in a way you rarely saw him at home. He spoke about work, about long flights and unfamiliar cities, about the exhaustion that came with being a surgeon, about never staying in one place too long. He and Jack fell easily into old stories, med school memories traded back and forth with the comfort of men who had known each other for decades.

You wished you had known him when he was young and reckless, with crooked teeth and ginger curls and a temper just as sharp as it was now. You thought he had made mistakes and taken risks the way you could only imagine. And somewhere deep down, the thought made your pulse quicken, wondering which of that recklessness still lingered beneath the controlled, calm exterior you saw tonight.

You listened, picking at your food, learning things you already half-knew. How they’d met young, how they’d survived brutal training together, how Jack’s lake house had always been the place your father trusted when he couldn’t be around. That was why you’d stayed there last July, used to having the place mostly to yourself, that was why everything had started with you and Jack.

He didn’t say much about it. He let your father talk, nodding along, smiling at the right moments. But every so often, his attention drifted back to you. A glance held a second too long. A knee angled just slightly in your direction, nudging your thigh under the table. Small things, controlled things, that made it impossible to ignore his proximity.

The conversation meandered through work, travel, and trivial updates, but your father’s curiosity eventually took a sharper turn. "So… how did you two get along last summer?" he asked casually, lifting his glass.

You stilled for a second, "Fine, I guess. Jack wasn't home much." You offered a noncommittal answer, simple and concise. A brief smile in Jack's direction, polite, as if to prove a point, to prove that you didn't dislike him, but you hadn't gotten close.

His hand tightened just slightly on your thigh beneath the table, pressing firmly enough that your breath hitched. His eyebrow rose, asking without words, really? Just “fine”?

Your pulse jumped, heat pooling low. You could feel him watching you, could feel him notice every small movement, every flicker of expression. The casual chatter around the table seemed to fade, replaced by the sharp awareness of him sitting just inches away, his warm hand atop your thigh.

Jack leaned back slightly, still maintaining the mask of polite attention, but there was a subtle curve to his lips, a glint in his eyes, that told you he remembered everything, that you had been wrong earlier and he did not regret it, that maybe he was willing to do it again.

Your father continued talking, oblivious, about a case he had handled overseas, but you barely heard him. All you could register was Jack—the brush of his hand, the pressure of his knee, the quiet, deliberate way he made sure you knew he was still in control. He yawned mid-sentence, stretching his arms out lazily. “I think I’m going to call it a night,” he said, voice thick with exhaustion. “You two carry on—see you in the morning, sweetheart.” With that, he pushed back from the table and headed upstairs, leaving you and Jack alone in the dimly lit dining room.

You waited quietly until you heard the soft click of the bedroom door, the final sound of your father disappearing for the night. The room seemed to shrink around you, the low light from the fireplace casting long shadows over the table. Your heart pounded.

Jack leaned back on his chair again, a nervous tic. His knee nudged yours under the table again, deliberate and teasing, and your stomach twisted with the familiar ache you hadn’t dared to feel all week.

"So," you said, hesitant, "we… really need to talk."

He got up from the table, "If we're actually doing this, I need another drink."

Jack moved to the sideboard, grabbing two glasses and reaching for a whiskey bottle. The firelight flickered over his profile, catching the angles of his jaw, the faint lines around his eyes, the silver at his temples—everything you had loved last summer, everything that made your stomach twist just by looking at him.

Jack poured slowly, the liquid catching the light as it filled the glasses. He didn’t rush it. Everything about him felt deliberate now, like he was bracing himself for impact, like there was inevitable heartbreak looming over his shoulder. When he turned back toward you, he didn’t hand the glass right away. He stood there for a moment, studying your face, the way your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, the way your lips twitched up with the ghost of a smile when you locked eyes with him.

He sat back down beside you, close enough that your knees brushed. Then he passed you the glass. This time his fingers lingered just a fraction longer than necessary, thumb warm against your knuckles.

"Alright," he said quietly, eyes fixed on the fire rather than you. "Let’s talk."

What now? What were you supposed to tell him? That it had started out as just sex, as summer fun without consequences but you had yet to stop thinking about him? You swallowed, fingers tightening around the glass as if it could anchor you.

"I just...want it to be like the summer again." Your voice shook with nerves, and a sense of impending doom that you couldn't quite shake.

"It's not summer anymore." Jack spoke matter-of-factly, a smirk grazing his lips.

You looked up at him then. "I know," you said softly. "I can read a calendar."

He turned to you, smile fading, his expression turning into something calculated, lacking the warmth he had been showing you earlier. "You’re talking about it like it was a place. Like we can just step back into that same rhythm."

"Well, why can’t we?" you asked, too quickly. You didn’t look away. You refused to. "It worked. We worked."

His jaw tightened. "It worked because it wasn’t real life," He let out a slow breath, setting his glass down with care, like he didn’t trust his hands. "You were on break. You didn’t have responsibilities, expectations. You weren’t thinking past the end of the week."

You frowned. That was what you’d thought too, that it was just a fling with an older guy, something you’d tell your college friends about after the break, something they’d cheer at or gasp over, maybe worry about for a second before laughing it off. That would be it.

You hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t expected to still be thinking about the way his hands, warm and calloused, had roamed over your body, or how thirty minutes apart had felt unbearable. How you’d grown used to the steady heat of Jack beside you, or behind you, the quiet gravity of him pulling you back in, his mouth at your throat, lingering there like he had nowhere else to be.

"And you were?" you challenged.

"Yes. But I was aware it had to be over. Look, you're young, you're pretty, there's probably a line of capable young men waiting to take you out—"

"You say that like I’m supposed to want them."

He glared at you then, brief and sharp. "You should."

You should. The words landed heavier than you expected, they stayed with you, lodged somewhere behind your ribs where it hurt to breathe. He had been so careful, as if you were a child reaching for a hot stove, dangerous and out of reach.

You tried, briefly, to imagine them. Men your age, with sharp tongues only good for lying, with inexpert hands and vacant eyes. It was so hard to want them when you'd had Jack.

Jack, who asked about your feelings and your interests, who listened as you rambled about something he did not care about, and yes, sometimes he'd get distracted when your sweater slipped off your shoulder or when your tongue darted out to wet your lips, but he tried so hard to stay focused, you were just too beautiful for your own good.

And that was the cruelest part of it, how easily your mind catalogued the ways he had ruined you for anyone else. Not in some dramatic, tragic sense, but quietly, through accumulation. Through the way he paid attention. Through the way he made space. Through the way his hand had settled on your thigh earlier, heavy and familiar, like it belonged there. The way he still called you sweetheart, kid, the same soft names he’d used when the days had been long and sun-warmed and uncomplicated. The way his eyes softened when he forgot himself, when he thought you weren’t looking, when you laughed at something small and stupid and he reacted on instinct instead of principle.

It made your chest ache, your heart heavy.

──୨ৎ──୨ৎ──

You thought about that week in the summer, back when it had all started. The cabin smelled different then, of vanilla and sunscreen, of chlorine and lake water.

You remembered waking up before him, padding barefoot across the cool floorboards, the quiet domesticity of it all making your heart feel too big for your body. How you’d stood at the counter with a mug between your hands while he moved around behind you, unhurried, brushing past you just to do it, just to remind you he was there.

You remembered the taste of toasted bread, eaten standing up, shared unceremoniously. The sound of the screen door slamming as you ran down to the dock, the sun already hot on your shoulders. The way he’d watched you swim, not hungry, but caring, attentive. The hungry looks came later, when you climbed out of the water and all but ran towards him in your bikini, wet hair over your shoulder, laughter bubbling out of you easily. Nights spent tangled up on the couch followed, legs draped over his, the television murmuring in the background while his fingers traced patterns on your skin absentmindedly, grounding you. The same fingers that traced your entrance slowly, same fingers that curled up inside you and made your legs shake and your throat sore from screaming his name.

"You make this place feel different," he’d said back then, with your head laying on his chest, breathing soft.

That was what hurt the most. Not just that he was pulling away now, but that he was doing it while everything else stayed the same. His hands hadn’t forgotten you. His eyes hadn’t changed. His voice still softened when he said your name. And yet he spoke like the future was already decided, like you were a chapter he’d enjoyed but fully intended to close.

──୨ৎ──୨ৎ──

"Kid… you should. You really should. I’m not… I’m not the one you should be thinking about." Jack's words snapped you out of your daydream.

"And if I don’t want them?" you asked softly, tracing the rim of your glass with your finger, watching the amber liquid swirl and catch the glow of the fireplace.

Jack’s lips twitched into a half-smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "You don’t understand what you’re asking for," he said, his tone condescending, almost tender.

The fire crackled low, a steady rhythm against the quiet hum of the cabin. Its light threw long, wavering shadows across the wooden floor and the stone hearth, catching the amber of the whiskey in your glass.

"I do understand, Jack, I just don't care. I want to go back to the way things were because I miss it, I miss you."

Jack went very still. You didn't care, you missed him.

It was subtle, the kind of stillness you only noticed if you were looking for it. His shoulders stopped resisting. His jaw unclenched. Even the air between you seemed to pause, thick with unsaid things and firewood smoke.

He looked at you then, really looked. You. Curled beside him on the wooden chair, knees angled toward his, glass forgotten in your hand. The fire cast shadows across your face, gold and amber specks of light caught in your eyes. You looked so sure. Too sure. And God help him, he loved that about you.

"Christ," he murmured, rubbing a hand over his face. When he dropped it, his palm rested on top of your thigh. He was casual about it, as if he had placed it there out of sheer luck, as if his heart wasn't threatening to burst out of his chest, as if his cock wasn't waging (and currently losing) a war against the zipper of his jeans— all thanks to you.

"Jack, you’re not being fair." Your eyes stayed glued to his rough hand, kneading the flesh of your thigh. He was playing dangerous, touching you only to pull away again, pushing you back with gentle words and steady eye contact that made your chest ache.

"You sit there," he said, voice tight, "looking at me like that, talking about summer, about fairness like I owe you it, and I’m supposed to… what? Be reasonable?"

You tilted your head, just a fraction, the smallest smile pulling at your mouth. Yes. "I don't know. You’re the one touching me."

Jack had passed the point of reasoning ten minutes ago. Maybe longer. Maybe sometime last summer, when he’d realized the wanting hadn’t faded, only sharpened. Sitting beside you now, feeling the familiar weight of your leg under his hand, he understood the truth with a clarity that scared him. This wasn’t about temptation or nostalgia or bad judgment. It was about the way you saw him. The way you challenged him without fear. The way you filled the quiet spaces in his life without trying.

His chest tightened at the truth he refused to say aloud: he didn’t care about the age gap, or the rules, or the consequences. He wanted you. All of you. Every last piece of you. And he’d spent hours pretending otherwise, pretending that he could hold the line, keep you at arm’s length, act like a reasonable, responsible adult while his own body betrayed him at every turn. The way you looked at him, the tilt of your head, the bite of your lip, the little smirks you threw his way.

Something in his expression changed, his restraint slipped. Not entirely, just enough to lean in closer to you, so close his breath fanned your face. His hand slid an inch higher, then stopped, like he’d caught himself mid-step at the edge of a cliff.

"I’m still trying to convince myself this is a bad idea," he murmured, voice low, nearly strangled by restraint.

"And how’s that going?" Your voice was soft, teasing.

His eyes drifted down to your lips for a second. "Terribly," he laughed.

"I’ve been trying," he continued, voice low, steady, the kind of calm that came right before a decision, "to do the right thing. Give you space, forget about all this."

"Jack, I don't want space, in fact…I would like it very much if there was no space between us right now." You spoke quickly, let the words leave your mouth awkwardly and quickly in a burst of confidence that was now making you blush.

Jack laughed. "Your wish is my command," he spoke against your lips before leaning in and kissing you, soft and tentative at first.

It grew more intense as your fingers threaded through his silver curls, pulling him closer, your tongue pressing insistently against his lips. Jack parted his mouth, letting you deepen the kiss, and drew you onto his lap, his hands settling possessively on your ass. You moaned softly against him, a sound that made him pull back just slightly to look at you, eyes dark, hungry, and calculating.

Jack didn't rush you, his hands stayed put on your lower back and he let you explore, let your soft fingertips trace the veins in his arms, let them move under his shirt and up his chest until they rested on his pecs. That's when he broke the kiss, which you chased with a soft whine, before he spoke.

"Get up." His voice was rough, his breathing uneven, and he looked at you like it would pain him to look away.

You followed his instructions, you always did. Jack stood up too, quietly eyeing you for a minute before he nudged you towards the hallway with a smile.

"You know the way, come on." He murmured as you stepped onto the stairs.

Your stomach flipped, you giggled, like you had last summer.

He took the steps slowly, deliberately, one behind you, close enough that you could feel him, warm and grounding. When you reached his bedroom, he opened the door just wide enough for you to slip inside before closing it again with an almost exaggerated softness. The click of the latch sounded final, the tension thick and sweet like honey.

The room smelled like him. Clean, like lavender and something woody, musky and familiar. He didn’t touch you right away. Instead, he leaned back against the door, arms crossed, watching you roam around the room like a hunter watches his prey.

You turned around to face him, tilting your head to the side, beckoning him closer with your hands, reaching for him. Jack walked over to you a smile pulling at his lips again, reaching his eyes.

His hands sat at your waist. "You remember how thin these walls are, right?" he asked calmly, his lips grazing your jugular.

You hummed in agreement, the sound barely there.

Jack pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands still firm at your waist. "Use your words."

"Yes," you said, softer now.

"That’s better."

That was slightly better. But not yet what he wanted. Jack could already see where this would end, the way he always could. He knew how easily you folded when given structure, how naturally you softened under pressure. Last summer had taught him that. Taught him exactly how to guide you there, slow and patient, until resistance melted into something sweeter.

You’d get there again. He was sure of it.

"So, you've got to keep it down, 'kay, sweetheart?" He walked you towards the bed, sat you on his lap before his mouth latched onto your warm throat again. Jack's hands slipped under your sweater, tracing a path up your stomach, groping your tits until you moaned, breathy, in his ear.

He took your sweater off and threw it aside unceremoniously, right before pulling off his own sweater. He didn’t slow down after that. His hands slid to the hem of your shirt, lifting it up and over your head in one smooth motion. The fabric joined the rest on the floor.

You barely had time to react before he did the same with his, tugging it off and dropping it without looking, settling back against you again as if this was the only place he meant to be.

Jack pulled you closer against him, his grip iron-tight. You could feel the thick ridge of his cock straining against his jeans, twitching when it pressed into the heat of your clothed cunt. His hands slid up your back, fingers unhooking your bra with practiced ease. The fabric pooled at your elbows, and his mouth was on your tits before it even hit the floor—sucking, biting, proving to you how much he had missed you.

You shuddered, arching your back to rub against him. A whimper tore from your throat as you rolled your hips, grinding your soaked panties against the hard length of him. Jack groaned against your nipple, teeth scraping the peak before he sucked hard enough to make your knees buckle.

Jack unlatched himself from your chest, kissing and sucking his way up your neck. Your breath hitched when he tilted your head to meet his gaze. Jack had always liked holding eye contact, more so if it made you squirm and blush, if it made your heart beat that much faster.

"I missed you," he murmured, his breath hot against your lips. "I missed being able to touch you, to hold you."

"Missed you too..."

Jack's hands slid down your waist, gripping the hem of your skirt and bunching it up around your hips. The fabric of your tights stretched taut against his palms as he traced the curve of your thighs, his fingertips dipping beneath the waistband. "Always so pretty for me," he murmured, dragging his teeth over your collarbone.

You gasped as his fingers pressed harder, the thin material of your tights dampening where his touch teased your clothed cunt. He hummed approvingly, rolling his hips against yours—the friction of his jeans against the lace of your panties, the heat of him trapped beneath layers of fabric.

Jack made a soft, pitying noise as he hooked his thumbs into your tights, peeling them down with exaggerated care. "Oh, look at you," he murmured, fingers brushing your inner thighs as the fabric slipped past your knees and down your legs.

His hips rolled against yours again, the thick ridge of his cock grinding against your soaked panties in lazy, taunting circles. You arched against him with a whine, and he tsked, gripping your waist to still you. "You remember what I said about being quiet? Wouldn't want your dad to hear us, huh?"

"n-no, I mean, yes, I do. Uhm...sorry..."

Jack smirked, slow and deliberate, at the stutter in your voice. He liked that sound—your breath hitching, the way your lashes fluttered when he touched you just right. But he loved this even more—the way you squirmed under his control, the way you struggled to stay quiet when he tested you.

His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your hips, holding you still as he rolled his cock against you again, the rough fabric of his jeans dragging over the lace of your panties, still soaked from earlier.

"Good girl." He pressed his lips to the hollow of your throat, biting down lightly before soothing the spot with his tongue. "But we can do better than sorry, can’t we?"

You whimpered, arching into him instinctively—only for his grip to tighten, stopping you.

"Ah-ah." He tutted, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. His thumb brushed over your lower lip, pressing down slightly. "You know what I want to hear."

"Jack..." You whined, face flushed with embarrassment. You knew—of course you did. He’d teased it out of you before, in the dark of his bedroom last summer, when his hands were buried in your hair and his cock was buried deeper inside you. But now—with your father just down the hall—the word felt heavier, more dangerous.

Jack’s hand slid down, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties, teasing your slit. "C’mon, sweetheart," he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Just wanna hear you say it."

"'m sorry, daddy...didn't mean to be loud." You buried your face against his neck, breathing him in as you ground against him, the friction leaving his jeans slick with your arousal.

He groaned at the feeling, his head falling forward until his forehead was resting against your shoulder. "Just like that," his hand slid from your underwear up to your hair, fisting a handful of it and tugging, just enough to tip your head back so he could look at you—at your wide eyes, full lips, red cheeks.

For a heartbeat, he just watched: the way your pulse fluttered in your throat, how your chest rose with each ragged breath, how your hips kept rolling against him, desperate.

Your fingers bit into his biceps, using them as leverage as your movements grew frantic, that tight coil in your belly winding hotter, sharper.

His fingers dug deeper into your hips, dragging you harder against the rough denim of his jeans with each slow, filthy roll of his body. "Fuck—feel how wet you are?" His lips curled against your ear, breath ragged. "Soaking through your pretty little panties just from grinding on me like a desperate slut."

Jack had never spoken to you this way, it had never been so filthy, so mean yet sweet it was giving you whiplash, and getting you closer to the edge every second that went by.

His hand abruptly slipped between you, two fingers hooking under the soaked lace to press firmly against your clit—circling once, twice—before dipping lower to push inside without warning.

You arched against him with a choked gasp, nails biting into his arms as he worked you open with slow, punishing strokes. He picked up his pace and the moment your whimper hit his ears his free hand moved to cradled your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. "Shhh, pretty girl, I know…feels good, huh?"

His fingers curled just right inside you, wrenching a sob from your throat as your hips jerked. "That’s it, baby—let me feel you." He pressed his forehead to yours, breath fanning your face as his thumb circled your clit in tight strokes.

"Daddy— I’m so close…" You whined, breathy and soft.

His breath stuttered, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips. "I know, baby," he rasped. "I can feel it. Just let go for me."

When you came, your head slumped forward against his shoulder, vision blurring as pleasure crackled through you, electric and overwhelming. His hand slid up to cradle the back of your neck, keeping you close as he murmured against your hair: "Fuck, look at you. So fucking pretty when you come."

You were still trembling when he pulled his fingers free, pressing a kiss to your damp forehead before guiding your hips up just enough—his cock nudging against you, slick and impatient.

"C'mon, sweetheart," he murmured, thumb brushing your lower lip. His voice was rough when he praised you.

"You can take one more, for me. I need to feel you riding my cock just like this."

His cock slid into you with one smooth thrust, your body welcoming him effortlessly. The stretch burned just right, pulling a gasp from your lips as you braced your hands against his chest.

His fingers tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to make your breath hitch. The sharp pull sent a jolt down your spine, your hips rocking faster in response—like he’d flipped a switch inside you. You chased the friction, the heat, the way his cock filled you perfectly, over and over.

His grip tightened, guiding your pace as his other hand slid down your back, pressing you flush against him. Your lips crashed together, messy and desperate, tongues tangling between panting breaths. Every thrust drove the kiss deeper, your moans swallowed by his mouth.

"feel how deep I am inside you, baby?" Jack panted out, his palm pressed firm against your lower stomach, fingers digging in just enough to make you whimper—each thrust punctuated by the dull ache of his touch, reminding you exactly where he reached. Your hips stuttered, thighs shaking as the pressure built impossibly tighter, every nerve alight.

"Jack—" Your voice cracked, hands scrambling for purchase against his sweat-slicked skin.

"I know, sweetheart," he rasped, teeth grazing your earlobe. "Let go. Fuck, I wanna feel you come on my cock."

And you did—a broken cry tearing from your throat as you clenched around him, his groan ragged against your shoulder while he chased his own release, driving into you deep, deeper, until he stopped abruptly, pulling out of you with a groan.

"Get on your knees for me, baby." He muttered, thumb swiping over your spit-slick lips.

You didn’t hesitate, sinking to your knees as he leaned back against the headboard. His cock was hot against your tongue, already dripping with pre-cum—you swirled your tongue over the tip before taking him deep, one hand working his shaft in quick, tight strokes.

Jack cursed, hips jerking. "Fuck— Just like that...Good girl."

You felt him tense up suddenly, felt him twitch in your mouth when you moaned around it. Your lips stretched taut against him, nose pressed against his skin. His hips jerked, a ragged curse tearing from his throat as he came in your mouth—bitter and thick, but you swallowed greedily, fingers tightening on his thighs.

You looked up at him when you were done, glassy-eyed and grinning.

Jack’s thumb brushed your swollen lower lip, wiping away a stray drop before nudging it back into your mouth. "Christ," he muttered, his voice still wrecked. His other hand slid from your hair to cradle your jaw, calloused fingers tracing the hinge like he was committing it to memory.

You nuzzled into his palm, all lazy satisfaction, while his breathing slowly evened out.

"I should go to the guest bedroom," you said after a moment. "I need to sleep."

"Or," he replied quietly, "you could stay here."

"My dad—"

"Just stay," he cut in, softer now. "For a bit."

You hesitated, then nodded. "Fine."

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───

The next morning came slowly, filtered through frost-edged windows and thin curtains that glowed pale gold with early light. You woke up first, to the sound of birds chirping outside, and soft rain pattering against the window.

You were curled against Jack’s side, one leg draped over his thigh without remembering when it had happened, your cheek pressed to his bare chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear, warm and grounding. He was stretched out on his back, plaid pajama pants low on his hips, shirtless and snoring loudly, careless and relaxed in a way that made you want to be there forever. One arm was slung loosely around you, heavy and possessive even in sleep, his hand resting at the small of your back. You blinked, disoriented for a second, then it all came rushing back.

The way he'd kissed you like he meant it, fucked you right and asked you to stay in his room. Careful not to wake him, you shifted just enough to look at his face.

He looked different like this. Softer. The lines at the corners of his eyes relaxed, mouth slightly parted, lashes darker against his skin. You traced the shape of his jaw with your eyes, the faint stubble already growing back, the freckles you’d memorized last summer. This was the Jack you never got to see in daylight, the Jack you always missed.

You wondered, briefly, if this was what it would be like to wake up beside him every morning. If you’d get used to the weight of his arm, the quiet hum of his presence. If this feeling, warm and safe and terrifying, could last.

As if he sensed you staring, Jack stirred.

He inhaled slowly, his arm tightening just a little at your back, pulling you closer without waking fully. His chin dipped, brushing the top of your head. You froze, heart racing, then relaxed when he didn’t pull away.

"Mornin’, kid," he murmured, voice rough with sleep.

You smiled before you could stop yourself. "Morning, daddy."

His hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. Steady.

"You sleep okay?"

You nodded, "Better than I have in a while."

It was true, you hadn't slept like that in ages, with the comfortable warmth of another body, with a mouth against your collarbones and an arm around your waist. You hadn't been so spent, so tired that you felt weightless, in a long time. And you hadn't woken up beside Jack in months, not since you'd spent the summer there, when your dad was traveling— oh, shit, your dad.

“Jack,” you whispered.

He hummed in response, eyes half-closed, thumb still tracing your back. “Mm?”

“My dad,” you said softly. “He’s… literally next door. Do you think he heard?”

That got his attention.

“He didn’t hear,” Jack said quietly, certainty slipping into his voice like armor. “If he had, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, forehead dropping briefly against his chest. He smelled like soap and sleep and something unmistakably him. Familiar in a way that made your chest ache.

Jack tipped your chin up with two fingers, gentle but unmistakably directive. “Hey. Look at me.”

You tilted your face up to see him.

"Here's what we're going to do," he said quietly, slipping back into that calm, controlled tone you knew so well. “You’re gonna get dressed,” he continued, gentle but firm.

"I am dressed."

"Sweetheart the only thing you're wearing is my shirt, it's freezing out, too. I'll go downstairs with your father while you change."

You nodded, even though part of you hated the idea of putting distance back between you. “Okay.”

He leaned down then, pressing a quick, careful kiss to your forehead.

He pulled back just enough to look at you one more time, thumb still warm beneath your chin, eyes steady and serious like he was committing the moment to memory. The house was waking up around you, pipes humming, floorboards settling, reality knocking politely but insistently.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───

⏾ ⋆.˚ TRIGGER WARNINGS .ᐟ lowercase intended!!!! ◞ age gap relationship ( 20s and 40s ) ◞ dbf!jack ◞ toys ◞ emotional manipulation ◞ jack tries to act like he doesnt care and he is a little mean and implies that reader is a fling ( but only bc he scared of commitment ) ◞ mean!dom!jack ◞ brat!reader ◞ multiple orgasms ( like a lot ) ◞ overstimulation ◞ lil bit of oral ( fem!rec ) ◞ clit heavy stimulation

kinktober masterlist ─ ⏾ ✦ ♯ inbox

you’re sprawled across jack’s bed, naked and flushed and utterly wrecked. still catching your breath. your thighs are sticky with him. his cum is cooling on your skin, but you’re too boneless to care.

he’s sitting at the edge of the bed, tugging his prosthetic leg back on like it’s just another tuesday, towel draped over one shoulder, jaw clenched.

you’re watching him, dreamy and dazed. “you good?” he grumbles, without looking back. you hum a lazy mmhmm, shifting onto your side so your cheek squishes against the pillow.

you’re smiling. because why wouldn’t you be? you’re in his bed. you’re full of him. you’re glowing.

and then he says it. “just so we’re clear—there’s not gonna be any of this shit at the lake house this weekend.”

you blink. “what?”

he turns now and levels you with a look. something serious and stern.“i’m not fucking you this weekend.” you laugh—because what the fuck kind of joke is that?

“you’re not—jack, we just—what?”

“i said what i said.”

you sit up, blinking the haze from your eyes. “why the hell not?” he stands. starts wiping himself down like he’s trying to get your scent off of him.

“because it’s your father’s house. and he’s my best friend. and i’ve got enough sins on my conscience without fucking his daughter under his goddamn roof.”

you’re reeling, because how can he go from giving you one of the best orgasms of you life ( only second to the one he gave the day after you were stabbed.) “so being with me is a sin now? we’ve already done it, jack.”

“exactly, you think I’m proud of that?”

you scoff. “yes, actually.”

he tosses the towel onto the floor and stalks over to the dresser, yanking open a drawer like it’s offended him. “i’m not proud. i’m—trying. you get that? this is me trying not to fuck up your life more than i already have.

you tug the sheet up over your chest—not because you’re embarrassed, but because suddenly, you feel exposed in a whole different way.

“you’re not fucking up my life.”

he gives you a long look. one that lands like a hand around your throat. not cruel. just true. “give it time.”

you frown. “you don’t really believe that.”

he doesn’t answer. he just clenches his jaw. shuts the drawer. and you realize—he’s scared. not of your dad. not of being caught. he’s scared of you. scared of how much he wants you. scared of how much he’s already yours.

but he doesn't say another word before leaving the bedroom and stalking towards the bathroom.

the truck tires crunch against gravel, thick pine shadows dancing across the windshield as the late afternoon sun cuts down through the trees.

it’s peaceful out here. quiet. perfect for family time—and perfect for war.

you don’t speak much on the drive up. jack’s in the passenger seat. your father’s driving, tapping the steering wheel to some old country song, completely oblivious to the tension simmering beside him.

you, curled in the backseat with your earbuds in and your legs stretched out—bare thighs on display, foot propped on the cooler between the seats—pretend not to notice the way jack keeps adjusting himself.

the shorts are an inch shorter than they were last summer. the tank top? white and tight fitted. so thin that one breeze would reveal both your hard nipples.

because fuck him.

because when he looked you in the eye two nights ago—naked, sweaty, still shaking from coming on his tongue—and told you he wasn’t going to fuck you this weekend, you almost laughed in his face.

you’ve been livid ever since.

the lake house emerges at the edge of the treeline like some postcard from another life—wraparound porch, old cedar siding, little flag flapping on the dock.

your dad cuts the engine, claps jack on the shoulder.

“c’mon, we’ll unload the truck and get some beers goin’.”

you hop out last. purposefully. you stretch slow—arms overhead, tank pulling up to show your ribs, your stomach, the soft curve of underboob. it's risky as fuck but your father is already stepping into the house with a handful of groceries when you moan just a little as your spine cracks.

and jack—still bent into the truck bed—freezes. he straightens, then looks at you. his jaw clenches like it hurts. “careful,” he says low, voice all gravel. “that shirt’s thin as hell.”

you feign surprise. glance down like you hadn’t noticed the way your nipples harden under the cotton. tilt your head just enough to catch his eye. “then don’t fucking look at me.” you hear him gasp but you don't care.

then you walk away.

jack had already gone upstairs, his duffle slung over his shoulder. you didn’t have to guess where he was headed. you waited for the creak of floorboards, the squeak of hinges, the soft thud of his door shutting. then you picked the room next to his.

your voice echoed up the stairs as you climbed them slowly, fingers dragging along the railing with calculated nonchalance. “oh, just my luck,” you chirped. “looks like we share a bathroom, jackie.”

there was no lock on the bathroom door. you’d checked.

jack emerged from his room just in time to hear it. his jaw was set, lips thinned into something that almost resembled pain. you didn’t give him the satisfaction of eye contact—just breezed past him into the shared bathroom with your overnight bag in tow.

you unpacked in silence, humming a lazy tune under your breath, like you hadn’t already planned every piece of this before you even stepped out of his truck.

the first thing you laid out were your thongs. neatly folded. color coordinated. each one a weapon. the dark red lace pair—his favorite—was placed right at the center like a crown jewel. you didn’t even glance at the mirror, but you felt the weight of jack’s gaze as he passed behind you, pausing just long enough to punish himself.

next came the bra. black. sheer. a little bow in the center. the same one he once tugged between his teeth before you yanked him onto your bed. you didn’t hang it up like a normal person. you draped it over the towel rack—his towel rack. he’d have to move it if he wanted to shower.

the bikini came last. tiny black triangles with thread-thin strings that wouldn’t survive a strong breeze. you placed it just barely sticking out of your toiletries bag, the straps arranged carelessly as though you hadn't spent five full minutes getting them just right.

he’d recognize it instantly. because the last time you wore it, his hand had been between your thighs and the water jets had been loud enough to mask your moans.

but it was the final item that made it art.

you placed the vibrator—your vibrator, the one you hadn't touched in months, the one he'd silently replaced without asking—right on the bathroom counter beside the soap. pink. clean. innocent in appearance, but unmistakably yours. you didn’t say a word. just flicked it on for a single second to make sure it still worked—buzz—then turned it off and left it there.

you didn’t look at jack as you walked out of the bathroom. didn’t acknowledge his presence when you passed him in the hall. didn’t close your door when you disappeared into your bedroom.

you didn’t have to. you’d already won.

jack hadn’t meant to linger in the hallway. he’d just needed to wash his hands before supper. that was all. something innocent. quick.

he’d opened the bathroom door and stepped inside. and then he saw it.

at first, it was just your stuff. clothes, toiletries, that peach-scented lotion he knew too well. he could smell you in the steam of the shower that hadn’t even run yet. and that alone was enough to put a knot in his stomach.

but then his eyes dropped.

the thongs. not packed away. not folded into drawers like they should’ve been, but draped—on purpose—like little silk traps across the counter and towel rack. black lace. red satin. pale lilac he remembered pushing to the side with his thumb.

and the bra. jesus christ, the bra.

he was sweating. actually sweating. his jaw clenched so tight it made his head ache. and when his eyes finally landed on the tiny black bikini, that familiar tie-string little thing peeking out of your bag—that was when he realized you were trying to kill him.

you knew what that suit did to him. you knew what you were doing.

but the vibrator?

that was actually an act of war.

there it sat. barely concealed. almost proud in its little pink audacity. like a dare. like a slap in the face. like a reminder that if he wasn’t going to fuck you this weekend, you’d just do it yourself—in the shared bathroom you both had to use. right under his goddamn nose.

he should’ve walked away. should’ve shut the door and taken a cold shower and prayed for deliverance. but instead—he snatched it.

quick. quiet. tucked it into his hoodie pocket like contraband. he didn’t think about why. not yet. he just knew that you weren’t going to win. not that easily.

he stood there for a second longer, hand still curled around the warm shape of it in his pocket, head tipped back as he exhaled through his nose.

“fuck me,” he muttered under his breath.

he adjusted himself through his jeans—painfully—and tried to think about anything else. dead fish. car accidents. your father, who was literally downstairs and making dinner like jack hadn’t just had a full-blown crisis three feet away from his daughter’s panties.

it took every ounce of willpower he had to wipe the look off his face and head downstairs like he wasn’t hiding a sex toy in his hoodie pocket and a near-painful erection behind his fly.

but when he got to the bottom of the stairs, your father clapped a hand on his shoulder, and jack just about died on the spot.

“you alright, brother? look a little flushed.”

jack cleared his throat. “allergies.” your father raised a brow. jack added, “pollen’s a bitch.”

the smell of grilled steak didn’t help.

jack sat stiff as a board at the dinner table, one elbow braced on the arm of the chair, fork untouched, and eyes absolutely anywhere but on you.

because you—you, who had spent the better part of the afternoon parading around in those microscopic shorts, you who had bent over your chair to “plug in your phone” at the perfect angle, you who were now sitting across the table with no bra and that goddamn bikini strap peeking from beneath your neckline—were currently smiling politely while your father passed the potatoes.

“jack, you want some?” your dad asked, mid-scoop.

He blinked. “huh?”

you bit back a grin. your father handed over the bowl. “potatoes,” he said, chuckling. “you alright, brother? you’ve been out of it all day.”

“yeah.” jack cleared his throat. “just—long drive. that’s all.”

he didn’t even like potatoes. but he took a mound anyway.

you leaned over your plate, fork poised, lips parted in that faux-innocent way that made his jaw clench and his thigh twitch under the table.

“so, jack,” you asked sweetly. “did you end up unpacking after your nap?” his eyes lifted. met yours. you knew.

he knew you knew he hadn’t been napping. he’d spent an hour in his room trying not to explode in his jeans and trying even harder not to go back into that bathroom and bend you over the sink like he wanted to.

your father chuckled. “he naps now?”

“apparently,” you said. “Didn’t even hear me making a racket across the hallway.”

jack’s fork scraped his plate a little too hard.

your father didn’t notice.

but you did.

you were buttering a roll now. slow, deliberate. a little swirl of your wrist. a dab of jam. nothing overt. nothing actionable. just subtle enough to look innocent. just slow enough to feel pornographic.

jack bit the inside of his cheek and turned his eyes to the water pitcher.

you sat back in your chair with a soft little hum. crossed your legs under the table. and with the most casual of movements, you dragged your foot across the floor and up his calf.

he choked.

coughed into his fist. hard. tried to cover it with a sip of water. “you alright, man?” your father asked again. you smiled and blinked wide. “oh no, did you choke?”

jack grabbed the water glass again and nodded. “went down wrong.”

you pressed your bare foot higher—up his shin, under the tablecloth, brushing against his knee.

he stared you down like he might kill you. or fuck you. or both. then your father stood. “gotta go check the grill. be right back.” the door hadn’t even shut before jack’s voice dropped low. firm. rough with restraint.

“you’re outta your fuckin’ mind.”

you sipped your drink. “pardon?”

jack gritted his teeth. “keep it up and i swear—”

“what?” you leaned forward just an inch. just enough. “you’ll send me to bed without supper?”

his eye twitched.

you cocked your head, all butter-wouldn’t-melt. “or maybe you’ll finally give me something else to eat?”

jack’s fists clenched under the table.

you gave him one final, devastating smile—the smile, the one that haunted him—and popped a piece of cornbread into your mouth like you hadn’t just given him a boner in front of your actual father.

he was going to kill you.

or fuck you.

maybe both.

you were a saint at dinner.

well, mostly.

you smiled. chewed. didn’t say a word when jack’s fork nearly cracked his plate. you even made polite conversation while trailing your foot up his leg like it wasn’t the same leg that once pinned you to a hospital headboard in a locked on call room.

no funny business this weekend, my ass.

you ascended the stairs with the grace of a girl who absolutely wasn’t done playing this game. not even close. because you had one more move to make before bed. a little personal ritual.

your skincare routine. and then your orgasm.

because jack might be trying to do the right thing, but you? you were doing the right thing for yourself.

you padded into the shared bathroom between your rooms, humming under your breath. the light flicked on soft and gold. your bag was right where you left it—open on the counter, skincare laid out in order like sacred tools. you reached for your cleanser first.

then toner. serum. cream.

your eyes flicked casually to the side. the same spot you left it. but the spot was empty. you froze.

no fucking way.

you pushed aside your bra, the lace barely hiding the ache in your chest. then the hairbrush. then the lip balm. you bent slightly to look underneath the counter.

gone.

you stood up slowly, blinking at your reflection. your jaw tensed. a sudden heat bloomed behind your ribs.

he didn’t.

he didn’t.

he took it.

you stormed into your room, palms clammy with disbelief. you’d left it on purpose. out in the open. strategically placed. because if Jack wasn’t going to touch you this weekend, you at least wanted him to remember how you touched yourself.

but apparently that was too much for his moral code.

apparently withholding orgasms was part of his fucking friendship duties.

you collapsed onto the edge of your bed, vibrating with rage.

“oh, so he’s not fucking me, but i can’t fuck me either?” you whispered sharply to no one, glaring at the wall like it had betrayed you. you rubbed your face with both hands, but the fury didn’t leave. not even close.

in fact, it crystallized.

sharp and glittering and then you smiled because it dawned on you. fine. he wanted war? he just declared it. and boy, he had no idea what he was up against.

you are woman on a mission. you don’t knock. you slam the door open.

"where is it?"

jack doesn’t flinch. not even a little. just lifts his gaze slowly from the book in his lap—his stupid fucking book, glasses perched low on his nose like he’s actually reading and not sitting there with your orgasm in his sock drawer.

he blinks. mild. annoyingly mild.

“evenin’, sweetheart.”

oh hell no.

“don’t you ‘sweetheart’ me. where the fuck is it.”

jack closes the book carefully. precisely. like he’s got all the time in the goddamn world. his forearm flexes as he rests it on the arm of the chair. casual. relaxed. a little, if not a lot, smug.

you want to throttle him.

“i’m gonna need a little more context than that.”

you laugh. one of those high, breathless, hysterical laughs that makes men nervous. “three days, jack.”

he raises an eyebrow. “i haven’t come in three fucking days.”

that gets him. a twitch. barely there—but you know him too well. his jaw ticks. his nostrils flare. the corners of his mouth threaten a smirk. “i didn’t realize that was my problem.”

you lunge.

or at least you start to—until he lifts a single hand, palm up, as if you’re a wild animal he’s trying to settle.

“you’re not gonna find it,” he says calmly.

“so you did take it.”

he shrugs. “didn’t want your father stumbling on it.”

“could close the bathroom door! or put in my night bag that was on the counter?!”

another shrug. “couldn’t risk it.”

“you could’ve put it in my room—”

“could’ve.”

you are vibrating. full body. from your teeth to your thighs. “you are keeping me hostage in my own fucking clit cage,” you whisper furiously, “and for what? some noble cause?”

his eyes glint.

“i told you. no funny business this weekend.”

you stare at him. you want to cry. or scream. or throw something. or ride him until he begs.

instead, you march to the dresser and yank the top drawer open. “uh-uh.” he’s up in a flash, big hand closing over your wrist. “not so fast.”

“you’re out of your mind if you think i’m sleeping tonight without it.”

“you are.” the nerve. it sets you on fire.

you go still, eyes narrow. his voice drops an octave. “you think i don’t know what you’re doing? those little shorts. no bra. sashaying around like you’re trying to make me lose my fucking mind?”

your mouth opens. then shuts. then opens again. he leans in.

“i’m not touching you because i care about you,” he says, low and fierce. “not because i don’t want to. god knows i want to. but if i start again, i’m not stopping. and i’m not making you come on your little toy like some camp counselor with a curfew. you want to come? you wait until the fucking weekend is over.”

silence.

the room spins.

and then you—you, the girl who stormed in ready to commit a federal crime over a stolen vibrator—you whimper.

a pathetic, needy sound. betraying everything. because why was that so fucking frustrating and hot at the same time. and jack just smiles.

for a moment, you don’t blink.

you don’t move.

except your hand.

sliding down. casually and most certainly deliberately. right into your shorts.

jack stiffens. his eyes drop instinctively—then snap back up.

you cock your head, saccharine-sweet. “you really think i need the toy to get off?”

he doesn’t answer, doesn’t breathe. but the muscle in his jaw flexes. hard. you smile because for a moment you think your winning. because then you do it. right there. in front of him.

fingers dip past lace and slick warmth, your breath hitching just a little as you drag through wetness—your wetness—that he caused. all day. all night. every time he looked at you and didn’t touch.

you don’t break eye contact. not once. your voice drops to a whisper. “i’m so fucking wet, jack.” his throat bobs. his knuckles go white on the arm of the chair.

you drag your fingers over your clit once—twice—and gasp like it surprises you. it doesn’t. you knew you’d be close. you’ve been riding this edge for days.

and now he’s watching you do what he refused to. all because he’s noble. because he’s scared. because he thinks staying away is protecting you.

well fuck that.

“bet you wish you had the balls to do it yourself,” you murmur.

jack blinks, slow. then leans back in the chair. “go on, then,” he says. “finish.” it's not a command, its a dare.

your breath catches. “you sure?” you breathe. he nods once. “let’s see it.” you press harder. a endless cycle of circle, grind, moan.

eyes flutter, hips roll and he doesn’t move.

the room is thick with tension. your ragged breaths. the slick sound of your fingers. the sharp bite of your nails in your thigh to keep yourself grounded. balanced. present. because this isn’t just about getting off.

this is a show.

for him.

for the man who’s been edging you with his mouth and then telling you to be good. for the man who pretends he can’t touch you just because he’s scared of who might find out.

you're going to break him.

or you’re going to come trying. either way, you'll win.

you gasp again—high, sweet, strung-out. You’re right there.

you bite your lip, sway slightly as you bite your lip to stifle a whimper. you know you shouldn't. but you just can't help yourself as the coil winds tighter and tighter.

then your coming on your fingers.

right there. on your own fingers. in front of him. without his permission. without his help.

and jack abbott—your dad’s best friend, the man who swore he wouldn’t touch you this weekend, the man who spoiled you rotten with orgasms and praise and everything in between—is livid.

he doesn’t speak. doesn’t blink. doesn’t move. not until your breath finally steadies, your hand slipping slowly from your shorts, slick and trembling, like a ribbon of sin.

not until you smile at him—smug and breathless—and whisper, “see? guess i don’t need you after all."

you don't even know whats happened. that how fast everything changed. the fucking whiplash gets the better of you. because jack moves fast.

the chair screeches as it’s shoved back. the drawer to his nightstand is ripped open. and there it is. your vibrator. held tight in his fist like he’s wielding a goddamn weapon.

"you wanna come so bad?" his voice is low and guttural. he is absolutely wrecked as he grinds out, "fine."

your lips part.

"get. on. the bed."

you move like your body knows better than to disobey.

because something’s shifted. he’s not teasing anymore. not toying. not testing. he is punishing. the toy buzzes to life in his hand with a high, merciless hum.

you’re still in your little sleep shorts and ruined panties, thighs sticky and flushed from your solo stunt, heart pounding like you just summoned the devil.

and jack’s jaw is tight. his glasses still on. his shirt rolled to his elbows. a vein in his neck throbbing. “i told you i wasn’t gonna fuck you this weekend,” he says, tone flat. “didn’t say a damn thing about making you beg.”

you squirm.

he climbs onto the bed, knees caging your thighs, pressing the toy between your folds without preamble—still clothed, right on your clit that is still so fucking angry. "you're done being a little brat, y'hear?"

you cry out. loud. sharp. jack doesn't flinch. "your at one, already," he murmurs. "let’s see how many times it takes before you really learn who you belong to.”

he’s straddling your thighs—not between them, because he’s not giving you that satisfaction. he’s keeping his distance. a reminder that this is punishment.

you squirm under him, hips trying to chase the buzz of the toy as he presses it against your clothed pussy.

the lace barrier does nothing to dull the sensation. in fact, it might be worse. slickness makes the vibrations wet and messy, sends jolts right through your core.

“jack—” you breathe it like a prayer. he leans down, one hand gripping your jaw, the other still holding the toy. “no. you wanted to come so bad. you did. now you’ll come the when i say.”

the vibrator shifts just slightly, angled higher—right back on your clit. you jolt. “mmm—jack, please, i—”

he tsks. “you’re not even trying to be quiet, sweetheart.” your eyes widen. the bedroom walls feel thin. your father is just downstairs.

"guess i'll help," he mutters.

and then he rips your panties down—just enough to get what he needs—and shoves them in your mouth.

soft, damp, silken cotton—stuffed deep, curling over your tongue, your own taste flooding your mouth. “hold that there,” he growls. “you make a sound? i stop. got it?”

you nod, desperate and wrecked.

jack presses the toy back to your clit, this time direct and unfiltered, the hum angrier now. you arch. you whimper—muted by the soaked gag. "it's ok, baby, you can come." your hips buck wildly, legs twitching, thighs squeezing. but he pins you down—big hands braced on your waist—rock solid and relentless.

“that’s two,” he grunts as your climax hits like a freight train.

you scream into the gag, eyes wide and teary, thighs trembling beneath him.

and he doesn't even blink because he's not done. not even close.

you're wrecked. you should be satisfied. two orgasms in and you’re already trembling, thighs soaked and twitching beneath jack’s heavy weight.

but he hasn’t touched you with anything but the toy. not his fingers. not his cock. just that damn vibrator he yanked from your bag and now wields like punishment.

your ruined panties are still packed into your mouth, your own taste bleeding across your tongue.

“ready for number three,” he murmurs. his voice is so low it vibrates through the meat of your thigh where his palm rests.

you try to shake your head—please, it’s too much—but you don’t really mean it.

you’re soaked. you’re crying. and he hasn’t even started the third yet.

he sees your hesitation—your squirming—and it makes him smile. that cruel, smug little half-smirk that says: i knew you’d break first.

and then—he doesn’t give you time to prepare.

he drops the toy between your folds, direct to skin, dragging it slowly along your overstimulated clit for the umpteenth time. not hard. not fast. just enough to tease that raw bundle of nerves back to life.

you arch and shriek into the gag. your hips try to twist away and he grabs you by the waist—holds you down.

“uh-uh,” he growls. “you come on this again. you take it.” tears spill from the corners of your eyes. you’re nodding. you’re whimpering. you'll do anything he says at this point.

the buzz gets meaner. jack shifts it lower, dragging it down your slit, then up again, circling, never giving the same pressure twice.

your legs kick and yo pant. you fucking sob into the gag. and still he doesn’t stop. “you gonna cry about it?” he sneers, voice like sandpaper over honey. “you didn’t need the toy, huh? thought you were in control?”

the toy hits your clit again and stays. your back bows off the mattress. your muffled scream nearly shatters your throat.

“that’s three.”

your whole body shakes. you collapse into the mattress, arms useless, brain foggy, completely gone.

he pulls the toy away, finally a reprieve.

three orgasms in, your limbs like overcooked noodles, your pussy so puffy and swollen you can feel every pulse of blood in your clit.

your panties—still shoved in your mouth—are soaked with saliva and slick. and jack is rock-hard above you. still fully clothed. still not fucking you.

he watches you cry through the high. watches you shiver and gasp and twitch as the aftershocks settle deep in your bones. he lets you come down, just a little.

just enough. then, "one more," he says softly. not cruel this time. not mocking. just final. you blink up at him, dazed. you try to shake your head but you barely manage a whimper.

your eyes plead: no more, please, i can't—

he reaches for the toy again. but this time, he doesn’t go for your clit. your almost relieved but then he parts your thighs with his palm and presses the tip of the vibrator against your entrance. not buzzing. just resting.

your breath stutters in your throat. he meets your gaze.

"color?" you nod. once, then twice. a muffled green around the gag.

and that’s all he needs. he turns it on, just a low hum, and slowly—so slowly—he presses it inside.

the toy glides in smooth. You're so fucking wet that its so easy. so used to him.

but it’s not him.

it's not thick like his fingers.

not curved like his cock.

it’s plastic. cold, cruel, unfair. and you almost want to beg him to put you out of your misery and just fuck you already. it'd be a mercy. but when jack has got him mind set, there is no changing it so you let him have his fun.

your body doesn’t know the difference between him and the toy, at least not right now. you gasp around the panties as he slides it in—inch by inch—then pauses with just the head tucked inside.

his opposite thumb circles your clit and a cry tears from your throat.

then, deeper. he feeds it in until you're stretched wide, cunt throbbing around the firm little toy. "you want it, baby? huh?" he murmurs. “wanna come on this, too? wanna come stuffed full of plastic like some bratty little fuckdoll?”

you sob.

you nod.

you’re so close already.

he starts to fuck it in and out. shallow strokes. just enough to make you twitch.

he presses the toy against your front wall—just right. he knows the spot. your back arches off the bed.

you cry out—

it’s too much—

it’s not enough—

he presses harder. faster. and you scream into the gag as your fourth orgasm crashes through you—body convulsing around the toy inside you.

you come so hard you go numb. stars burst behind your eyes. your toes curl. your pussy spasms around the intruder, greedy and twitching, trying to milk it like it’s him.

jack yanks it out while you’re still shaking. he tosses it on the nightstand and reaches down—finally—pulling the gag from your mouth. you're gasping, sobbing, whimpering his name.

you don’t even notice him at first. you’re too far gone. “Just a taste, sweetheart…”

your body still convulses with aftershocks, little tremors rolling through your thighs. you're boneless. melted into the sheets. whimpering softly as your cunt pulses and flutters around nothing.

you think he’s done. you think he’s walking away.

but jack doesn’t leave. he shifts. you feel the mattress move. and then—a warm breath. between your legs.

your hips jerk.

you manage to lift your head just in time to see it—jack, now on his knees on the floor, the lamp behind him casting his silhouette against your trembling body. his shoulders broad. his hands—large, sure—parting your thighs.

his tongue licks up your slit in one slow, reverent stroke.

you scream—not in volume, but in shock.

“jack—” it’s more of a gasp. a prayer. a warning. a sob. but he doesn’t stop. his fingers dig into your hips to hold you down and he dives back in—tongue flattening, curling, tasting. he groans against you.

“fucking hell,” he rasps into your pussy, voice wrecked with hunger. “you taste so good, baby.” his mouth seals over your clit. you jerk—your legs kick—your body tries to escape the pleasure.

but he holds you there.

“you don’t need to come,” he growls, licking again. “just wanna taste.”

his tongue laps through your folds, over and over, wet and insistent.

and god— the pressure is building again. you didn’t think you had anything left. but with his mouth on you? you could die like this.

you sob into your hand, chest rising and falling, hips trying to roll— jack doesn’t let you.

he licks. he sucks. he groans. he tastes everything he gave you.

you cry his name. he looks up from between your legs—mouth slick with your come. his lips kiss your inner thigh like a benediction.

“m'sorry, needed a taste, baby,” he murmurs.

you're barely coherent.

sweaty, and spent and wrung out. your eyes are glassy. cheeks flushed. your panties are still shoved in your mouth, soaked from where he gagged you—

from where you whimpered and sobbed and came again and again and again.

he’s calm, steady. mean in the quietest ways.

his fingers reach for your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheek. "you're done for tonight."

you nod. and only then does he lean in—pressing a sweet, almost condescending kiss to your forehead as he slowly, slowly pulls the gag from your mouth.

your panties come away damp and sticky, a string of your spit still connecting the fabric to your lip. he watches it fall. watches you breathe.

and then—without a word—he unfolds the ruined lace. gently. like it’s precious.

his fingers find your ankles and he slides the panties back up—pulling them over your thighs, between your legs, covering the mess he made.

not to clean you. oh no. jack wants you marinating in it.

your come. his spit. the sticky vibrations of every orgasm you weren’t supposed to have. he tugs the fabric snug over your puffy cunt, lets it settle against you wet and clinging, then smooths his palm over it once in firm, lingering finality.

"perfect," he murmurs under his breath.

you blink—hazy, confused, boneless. but he’s already moving. you hear the rustle of fabric. a belt unbuckling. pants sliding off. you catch a flash of pale thighs and—

yeah.

he’s hard. so hard. his cock dark and aching and twitching just from watching you unravel.

but he doesn’t touch himself.

he doesn’t need to.

he climbs into bed behind you, pulling the covers up with mechanical precision. then, with all the audacity of a man who’s just ruined you with a toy and his tongue—he spoons you.

and you feel it. god, you feel it. his cock. hot and thick. pressed up against the swell of your ass.

he shifts his hips—subtle—rubs himself against you once. just once. enough to prove a point. enough to make you whimper again, overstimulated and needy.

then he exhales.

you feel his breath against the back of your neck.

“get some sleep, sweetheart, you did a lot tonight.” you jerk slightly in his arms. “but—jack—” his hand flattens over your stomach. he pulls you tighter. his mouth finds the curve of your shoulder, lips warm and infuriating.

“not fucking you this weekend,” he reminds you, gentle and smug. “told you that already.” and he settles. cocksure and satisfied.

meanwhile—you’re wet, shaking, and still clenching around nothing.

and jack sleeps with a boner against your ass and a smirk on his lips like he didn’t just edge and destroy you under your dad’s roof.

You weren’t exactly sure where the need for perfection even came from. It might have been something you were innately born with or maybe it was nurtured by the indifference on your parent’s faces whenever you came home with your report cards.

At first you had tried rebellion but that didn’t even get an eye blinked in your direction so you figured you had to switch it up, go as hard as you could for as long as you were able to handle and then maybe you’d be able to satisfy the itch to be something better than whatever you were.

Eventually the need to prove yourself to your parents went away but the lack of tolerance for mistakes didn’t, growing heavier and heavier until your back was aching over your desk and your migraines were almost constant from lack of sleep.

You made it through school with barely a single conversation held that was beyond surface level, your entire being obsessed with studying and what your talents could bring to the table even if nobody knew or cared enough about you to even be sitting at it.

Emergency medicine wasn’t your first choice, it was actually pretty close to the last but you realized quickly that a large amount of med students were just as anal as you about being perfect and your studying habits didn’t seem as outrageous when surrounded by your actual peers. There was no more casualness and the sudden feeling of genuine competition was almost beyond what you were able to push through.

It didn’t take long for your first round picks to be taken by somebody who worked harder, came from a better family, or just had more natural talent. And then your second and third were filled too and before you knew it you were three years deep into your time at the PTMC.

You didn’t dislike it and you figured the long grueling hours were just par for the course in this career, you even felt a sense of relief when you got home and felt the ache in your body and saw the bruises coloring your skin.

To you it felt like a small victory, visible proof that you had worked harder than anybody might have assumed you were capable of if they had bothered to assume anything about you at all.

You weren’t really sure why it hurt you so bad when you were suddenly moved to a different shift last week. You didn’t have any real friends in the department, not even somebody you’d feel comfortable enough to borrow a protein bar from but the routine was something you’d become used to and you’d just started to perfect your way around any avoidable social situations.

The scowl on your face must’ve been more prominent than you realized when you walked in on your first day on the night shift, hand curled tightly around the single backpack strap were wearing.

You saw all of the same faces you had seen each morning for the last three years but now they looked weathered and tired in the way they did when you typically bid them a quick goodnight nod. Finishing their shifts as you began yours, a new normal that didn’t seem to disturb the flow of things at all for anybody minus you.

Robby gave you a nearly sympathetic look when he passed by you in a hurry and you didn’t meet his gaze out of anger, not necessarily at him since you knew the lack of staffing for the night shift wasn’t his fault but you felt a weird sense of betrayal.

“He feels bad you know.” The low voice to your left would have made you jump if you weren’t so exhausted already, failing to properly flip your schedule in the two days you’d had to prepare for such a drastic change.

“Yeah I bet.” You replied back to Ellis, barely giving her a once over as she leaned on the desk next to where you were currently frozen in place.

Your voice was flat and laced with irritation that you almost felt bad about. You knew these people well enough, been through shift change talk throughs hundreds of times and even sat around for a few awkward drinks on the nights out you were forced to go to by the newer student doctors.

There was an uncomfortable feeling when her face fell and she sighed softly, hating the fact you were being so standoffish and ruining any chance of making a friend before you even really started. You tried to loosen your posture a little to look more approachable and even half planned to tell her you were just tired before she was walking off with a pitying smile pointed your way.

You groaned inaudibly as you kept walking and made your way to the locker room, instinctively trying your old one with your code before remembering halfway that they’d moved you. One of the night shift doctors already had yours and had you beat in seniority by nearly a decade.

The deep breath left you shakier than you intended and you rested your forehead against the cold metal for a few more, letting the grates press hard into your skin to try and wake yourself up.

“Heard coffee is effective.”

You knew who the low drawl belonged to without turning around so you didn’t bother, eyes opening and another louder sigh leaving you with intention.

“Really? You should patent that.” You only responded after a few seconds went by without the sound of departing footsteps, turning around at the end of your sentence to raise an eyebrow at the man who was standing leaned against the door with his arm crossed.

Jack Abbot was one of the only faces on the night shift that wasn’t a near stranger. He spent enough time picking up unnecessary hours and lingering around the desk long after his shift ended to talk to Robby so you’d had your fair share of encounters with the older man.

He gave you a barely noticeable smile at your quick comment back, his ankles crossing over each other as he relaxed in the doorway.

“You used to smile more when I first met you.” He said in return and you fully rolled your eyes at this, ignoring the lack of professionalism considering you knew he didn’t care for it much anyways.

You turned again to open your new locker, trying not to fumble with the code under his watchful eye from behind you. Abbot was a direct opposite of Robby who felt like such a natural leader in every decision he made down to the tone of his voice, that cadence that some people were just born with.

Abbot seemed like he was always trying to leave a room as unnoticed as possible and despite being charming and as personable as anyone working the graveyard shift could be, he was more prone to quick nods of approval and silent pats on the back when someone was in desperate need of encouragement.

Sarcastic quips replaced the inspirational speeches Robby would give after a hard day and you didn’t need to work a full shift with him to understand that his methods were something you’d clash with.

You were self admittedly very sensitive, slow to understand a joke especially when you were the butt of it and unable to hide the insecurity in your chest that seemed to be clawing its way out almost constantly.

“No I didn’t.” You replied back and you finished putting your things away, closing your locker softly and walking past him in the doorway.

There was no surprise when he followed behind you, both because he was your new first in charge and also because he was never really one to let a conversation end so briefly when you were in a sour mood.

“He really does feel like shit about this whole thing.” He continued on and you kept your gaze forward as you slid into one of the rolling chairs behind the main desk and scanned your badge. He leaned forward onto the counter in front of you, the hair on his arms just barely visible out of the top of your eyes as he folded them together. “Robby.”

“He doesn’t have to.” You said smoothly with a light shrug like it wasn’t something that had been keeping you up for the last two nights wondering what you had done wrong to get booted at the first chance.

“He said you’re his best.” Abbot continued on and now you finally stopped the fast paced typing you’d barely been paying any attention to, eyes flickering up to him as he watched you with a sense of knowing that made you feel nauseous suddenly.

“He also said not to listen to anything you said about him.” You said flatly once you finally had your light dinner back down your throat, looking at him beneath your lashes to catch his reaction and feeling a bit smug when he snorted a small laugh and nodded as he looked off towards the entrance.

“Fair.” He replied in a softer tone as he pushed himself up off the counter and took a few steps back, pointing in your direction until your eyes rolled again.

You figured you saw Abbot a few dozen times during your shift but it was such a blur of red and stark white that you barely registered him, your medical vocabulary rolling off in autopilot and your hands moving through procedures before your brain could catch up.

It wasn’t until the fourth hour in, nonstop damage control from the shift change off and post dinner rush in the waiting room leaving you feeling dizzy when you stood still, that you actually got a chance to focus on his presence again.

Robby had a sort of nervous energy to him that followed him around the room like a static, catching the attention of his staff and keeping you in your toes.

Abbot was nearly the polar opposite in this way too.

He felt like a solid force in your corner, there enough to remind you that you were supported but letting you do the leg work as much as possible. The night shift certainly had a different level of darkness and chaos to it but the staff themselves seemed to be operating in a way that left you a little awed.

They almost seemed to be finding downtime in the endless stream of injuries and traumas, including Abbot who was currently leaning back on the counter and fidgeting with the corner of a file cover.

You were a similar position as you were before when he was giving you a half assed attempt at helping you understand Robby, but now you were on the other side of the counter.

It had to have been the delirium that left you leaning on the space next to him, enough distance between you for two people to fit but still more comfortable than you probably would have been after a power nap. He sent you a glance from the side of his eye that made a sigh leave you.

“You know…” He started slowly and his voice graveled in a way that made the traitorous hair on your arms stand up. “It’s okay if you take a breath, nobody is going to sue you.”

“Don’t jinx it.” You say back and your gaze lands on him, staying there until he meets it and then looking away with the new feeling of his eyes on the side of your head.

“We are happy to have you here.” He adds suddenly and you feel your eyebrows furrow at the sincerity of it, feeling like it’s misplaced considering you hadn’t exactly been a delight the entire night. “Hey.”

It’s a call for attention and you give it to him, picking up your gaze to lock with his and trying not to sink into yourself at the intensity of it. He gives you a firm nod like you’d passed some invisible test you didn’t understand and yet you still feel a surge of pride blossoming deep in your chest.

“Really?” You had really meant to quip something smart back at him but instead you croaked out the single desperate word and clenched the counter in a tight fist.

“I mean it.” He says back and it’s nearly soft now, halfway to a whisper and your head starts to buzz beneath the sleep deprivation. He doesn’t even slightly shy away from the eye contact, not that you expected him to considering you had definitely noticed it was a habit of his. “Hope you stick around.”

He was gone before you could let out another breath and you let your head sink down against the chilled counter top, pressing your forehead down until it turned red and you felt a dull ache.

Then you were picking yourself up and getting back to work.

—

The first three weeks flew by and you felt yourself adjusting to the changed shift way faster than you had anticipated. You’d picked up one or two day shifts when needed and your rhythm there was now awkward, fumbling around more than you ever had and finding yourself longing for the nights instead.

You felt beyond relieved that your brain and body seemingly decided they were okay with your new assignment and it was a breeze to sleep through the daylight now.

You knew part of it was because the staff and their demeanor, another half dedicated to your own hard work and your determination to make the most out of it. But there was a large portion that was reserved for the man currently standing in front of the room and talking calmly.

Abbot was leaned back against the desk, somewhere he apparently frequented considering it always seemed to be where you found him. He was talking with his hands outstretched and his posture as straight and military as it had been since the day you met him, favoring the side without his prosthetic leg.

To his left was Robby, nodding along with a drained expression that made you think he was barely listening to the brief. You couldn’t necessarily judge him considering you were pretty sure you hadn’t heard a single word that was said in the last five minutes but you figured you could ask Ellis later since the two of you actually managed to become sort of friends after your interaction on your first day.

It wasn’t like you to get distracted so easily and you had spent the better part of the last few weeks beating yourself up over whatever the actual fuck was happening to you whenever your attending looked proudly in your direction.

You’d sought after Robby’s approval yes, beamed under his praise and blossomed when you felt like he was truly trusting you to save lives, but whatever it was that you felt deep in your chest when his other half merely gave you an approving nod was nearly dangerous for your career.

Crushes were not something you had any experience with considering how study focused you were your entire teenage years, you’d felt a flutter here and there but you had never let your eyes linger too long and it was almost criminal to have your thoughts entertained by any fairytale fantasies.

So the fact the entire staff was dispersing without your awareness, leaving you standing in place staring at Jack Abbot like a lovesick puppy, was a serious problem.

You shook your head to try and get yourself together, hurrying away to busy your hands and mind with low risk patient cases. You spent the first half of the night talking to sick old ladies and stitching up simple knife wounds that any student doctor could do with ease.

It was a little after midnight when you were stopped by a firm hand on your shoulder, freezing you in place with a sharp breath as you turned around to see Abbot looking down at you with furrowed eyebrows.

“Could’ve used you in trauma two.” He said lowly and you felt shame immediately rush over you like cold water. “Where were you hiding out at?”

“I…” You trailed off in an automatic lie that got caught in your throat, sighing and letting your shoulders deflate under his palm. He removed it but only to slide down your arm and briefly cup your elbow before letting it hang back at his side. “I’m sorry I wasn’t trying to hide. I just… needed to slow the pace down a little.”

“No you don’t.” He replied immediately and now it was your turn to furrow your brows as you watched him crossed his arms and adjust his posture. “You can handle it and I need you by my side when the hard cases come in because I know you can.”

You looked down at your feet as he half scolded and half praised you, not sure if you were touched by your own apparent importance or embarrassed that he had realized what you were trying to do so easily.

The embarrassment must’ve shown clearer on your face because his gaze softened and he exhaled, rubbing a palm over his stubble and looking towards the busy hub where some student doctors were currently fussing over the ever growing patient chart.

“Pass off your easy patients to the newbies.” He said and his voice dropped down into a whisper, leaning in just enough for your cheeks to momentarily inflate from the way you suddenly held your breath. “Let them learn something, you know plenty.”

“Isn’t this a teaching hospital?” You finally managed to get your voice back and you glanced upwards at him just in time to see the amusement pass over his face. “Technically I could always learn more.”

It was silent for a few seconds long enough for you to regret making a sarcastic joke when he was clearly trying to make you understand a legitimate point about your abilities. You almost started to apologize, already internally beating yourself up for thinking his usual dry humor was appropriate at any time when his low chuckle stopped you short.

“Yeah I guess you’re right.” He nodded slowly as he spoke, lips curling into a small smile and your eyes stayed locked on the movement. His gaze drifted back to you and you hoped the way your eyes widened was minuscule enough he wouldn’t notice. “But let me teach you. Deal?”

You didn’t even notice his hand had extended inbetween your bodies until the tips of his fingers lightly brushed your scrub top, head turning down to identify the feeling and laughing a little at the ridiculousness of it all.

Your hand wrapped around his much larger one, trying not to flush at the roughness of his palm against your soft skin. You squeezed around it and he returned the action before you shook them between you. Yours was retracted and stuffed into your pocket after barely three seconds of touching but it was enough for you to press your nails deep into your skin once it was out of sight.

“Deal.” You gave him a firm nod that you hoped looked more professional than that little moment felt.

The rest of the shift consisted of following behind Abbot from trauma to trauma and trying to act like his steady voice and calm demeanor wasn’t still somehow sending you into a state of nerves despite it having the completely opposite intentions.

—

You didn’t spend as much time in the ambulance bay as some of the others did on a hard night, from the nurses with smoking habits they couldn’t kick to the students who felt like they couldn’t breathe around their eight hour.

But now you were on your fifth minute of standing outside the automatic doors with tense shoulders nearly up to your ears, breathing in and out so audibly you would have felt self conscious if there was anybody else around.

It really wasn’t that grand of an offense considering your shift was ending in less than ten, the sun already peeking around the cement pillars and making your headache sting even sharper than you thought was possible. Plus it had actually been a relatively slow night when it came to the flow of foot traffic but that hadn’t made it any easier.

You’d lost somebody young before it had even hit midnight and the entire ER felt the typical shift that came along with something like that for the rest of your time there.

Then there’d been a drunk man getting rough on his way in that had sent you and two nurses flying against one of the environmental carts, insisting you were fine and rushing to glove up to attempt to assist him with the beer bottle currently sticking into his thigh.

You’d been stopped by a sharp glare from Abbot that you knew wasn’t necessarily directed towards you but it still made your throat tighten with the urge to cry.

He didn’t even need to say a word to dismiss you, head hanging low as you ripped off the glove you’d gotten on halfway and threw it roughly into the trash can on your way out.

After that you spent the next few hours taking patient after patient as the ache in your ribs built steadily. You hadn’t even noticed it at first in the chaos but a trip to the bathroom around five alerted you to the large bruise forming under your chest, wincing as you tugged your undershirt back down and splashed some water on your face.

So you didn’t feel too awful for standing outside and taking a nearly meditative amount of breaths while the shift change happened somewhere in the building behind you.

The doors sliding open didn’t alarm you nearly as much as the slow measured footsteps did, the slight drag of one of them making you stop your breathing entirely. You knew Abbot by his stride on a regular day and even more-so when he had been on his feet beyond comfortability and his leg started to bother him, the slight limp he adopted nearly unnoticeable if you weren’t paying as much attention as you always seemed to be.

Next was the smell of him as he stood shoulder to shoulder with you, the fabric of his shirt barely brushing your hoodie sleeve. He carried the same sterile scent you all did after a long night but there was the unmistakeable musk and light cologne hidden underneath it.

“You know what that was about right?” He said lowly and you pursed your lips at the sound of his voice, not realizing how close you’d been to crying until the silence was broken.

“You don’t need to explain to me.” You replied as smoothly as possible but your voice was tight and lacking any air.

“But I’m going to.” He shook his head and stepped forward so he could turn and be in front of you, giving you no choice but to stare at some part of him as he blocked the sun coming up behind his solid frame. “It wasn’t about your ability as a doctor but your safety as a member of my team.”

You didn’t want to talk because you knew you were tired enough to try and argue with him that you had been fine, that you didn’t need to be wordlessly booted out of the trauma room in front of half a dozen people like you were an intern. You almost wished he had yelled at you for a mistake rather than that disapproving look he gave you when he saw you gloving up.

Your silence must have bothered him into boldness because suddenly his hand was moving between you, sliding under the undone zipper track of your hoodie and pressing lightly around your rib cage. You immediately hissed in pain and shrunk away from his touch, nearly taking a full step backwards from the sensation.

“That’s what it was about. Do you understand that?” He asked quietly and you kept your mouth closed shut tightly as the scratchy sob like feeling continued to build. He pressed on the area a few more times in a wider range like he was trying to examine how far the bruise stretched out under your clothes.

You stayed quiet and let him do the same routine you’d done hundreds of times in your career, heart racing only a few inches above where his fingers were softly pressing.

“How bad was it?” He continued to whisper in that low tone as you avoided looking at him.

“It’s fine.” You said back because you knew the silence was pointless and you were partially paranoid he was concerned enough to look himself if you didn’t answer soon. “I looked at it a few hours ago and it wasn’t anything to worry about, just tender.”

“You of all people know how misleading a bruise can be.” He shook his head and you sighed again at the light show of disappointment even if it was as light hearted and casual as a comment could be from your boss. “I filed a report. For the two nurses too.”

Your back tightened up and you reached down to grab his wrist loosely, just enough to get him to stop touching you so you could focus on the conversation. His arm tensed and his gaze left your midsection to watch your expressions closely at the touch.

“You didn’t have to do that, he was drunk and probably confused. It wasn’t that big of a deal and I really would rather not deal with the paperwork.” You were nearly rambling but you couldn’t handle the thought of this becoming a larger issue than it already was.

You felt a sudden sense of humiliation despite the fact you hadn’t done anything wrong, it was almost a selfish feeling considering there had been other people affected to but you wanted the situation to be left behind with the rest of the shitty shift.

“Then I’ll handle the paperwork.” He said firmly and his voice took on that stern tone you hated so much. “Drunk or not, he hurt you.”

You knew his words and actions were coming from his place as a concerned boss, protecting you and the nurses as a mass collective being his only determination to carry out a consequence for what had happened, but you still felt almost touched by his want to handle this.

It was much easier to finish off the final few minutes of your shift after that conversation with the single delusional thought stuck in your head and the phantom feeling of his fingertips pressing against your clothing sending shivers down your spine.

—

You had the terrible habit of spending any day off you had in your bed scrolling on your phone until your eyes stung, possibly making up for the years in school you spent solely studying before you fell asleep.

It wasn’t something you had felt the need to break your first few years considering you thought friends were a distraction but you’d drastically changed your tune lately when it came to your social interactions. You felt nice when Ellis greeted you comfortably and a buzz of optimism when Shen remembered your coffee order three weeks in, the sudden desire to have friends hitting you.

So this time around, when you were invited to get drinks with some of the team, you actually accepted.

It had become a formality to just invite you regardless of the knowledge you’d decline so they all seemed thrown when you actually arrived.

The bar was smaller than it looked when you investigated it on google reviews before leaving and the music was a little too loud for it to be as casual as Ellis had suggested. She similarly had a day off and was sitting with a few of the day shift students you recognized more than the others.

Santos and Whitaker were in a quiet debate about something you couldn’t pick up, pushing a nearly full glass back and forth between each other like it was moderating their argument.

You’d expected to look at the other half of the circular booth seat to see Ellis by herself and ready to greet you but you froze halfway across the room when you saw who was currently occupying the spot.

Jack Abbot was not included in the list of names Ellis had casually said might be here tonight so you’d fully lowered your defenses that typically needed to be enabled to withstand being in a room with him.

You considered turning around and leaving before they spotted you, well aware that they wouldn’t be too shocked or disappointed to learn you weren’t coming. It was already too late considering Santos was glancing upwards and waving you over as soon as she saw you, mouth moving rapidly like she was trying to call you over.

You sucked in a breath, gathering as much air as you could manage to stuff into your lungs before heading over to them. Your greetings were stiff and awkward but they seemed to be buzzed enough to not notice, other than the older man who was watching you with a careful eye.

Abbot didn’t look much different outside of the hospital, black t-shirt pulled tightly around his biceps and the jeans worn out in a way you knew was from actual use and not design. You could see the shine of a belt buckle if you looked too hard under the table but you decided not to when you landed on his boots.

There was no where else to sit other than beside him but you perched nearly halfway off the booth seats to avoid touching him in any way.

“I never thought I’d see the day you actually spoke to us outside work hours.” Santos was quick to start her comments as soon as you settled down and got mildly comfortable. She was smiling as she spoke and you retuned it tensely even though it gave you a similar feeling to cruel comments you’d heard in high school.

“Don’t take it personally, I’m just boring.” You said back with a bashful laugh, glancing downwards as you picked at the loose wood under the tabletop.

Whitaker, who’d insisted you called him Dennis after you’d greeted him by his last name, was already shaking his head before you could finish your self deprecating statement.

“We think you’re cool.” He said simply and you gave him a disbelieving look. “Seriously, even Santos.”

You sent the same look her way and she shrugged her shoulders with a buzzed grin that made you laugh a little. You felt yourself growing comfortable with the small group which you were extremely thankful for, not sure you’d feel the same ease if anybody else had been there instead.

Although you hadn’t even begun addressing the quiet presence beside you, staying silent even when you all dove into conversation after conversation. You listened and added on occasionally, genuinely interested in their lives outside of work and fascinated by their dynamics, but he barely spoke a word at all.

You’d almost forgotten he was there by the time you slipped out of the booth to go to the bar and order a drink for yourself, barely sliding into the stool before his arm was in your line of vision.

He had it resting on the counter beside you, slightly caging you in unless you wanted to squeeze out the other direction past the large man who already was rocking drunkenly back and forth.

“I thought you worked tonight.” You said softly, feeling a wave of shyness you had never felt before in your entire career.

Being in the ER with Abbot came with clear guidelines on how to interact and a long list of boundaries that didn’t give you many opportunities to embarrass yourself. However, being in a dingy bar with him smelling too much like that rich cologne was a whole different playing field you had no idea how to navigate.

You figured talking first would soften the damage on whatever he was planning to say but you didn’t think it would matter anyways.

“Scheduling error.” He replied back simply, eyes on the side of your face as you desperately and silently willed the bartender to head in your direction so you could get back to the booth. “Disappointed?”

You sent him a confused glance, shifting on the circular seat. “No, of course not. Why would I be?”

“Not everyone wants to hang out with their boss.” He said and tilted his head down enough to try and catch your eye again.

You turned a little in your seat so you could actually give him a clear view of your face, enough so he could hopefully tell your next comment was meant to be a joke.

“Isn’t Robby technically my boss?” Your voice was mockingly curious and you felt a surge of pride when he laughed lowly. “No offense Dr. Abbot.”

His nose scrunched up at the sound of the title falling from your lips, something he’d asked you to avoid on your first day and you hadn’t missed the lack of it coming from the other residents.

“Jack works fine.” He said softly and his fingers tapped against the wood as the bartender passed.

You followed the movement as you listened to him order another drink, mumbling your own preferred one when he casually asked you what you wanted. You barely processed he had added your drink to his tab before it was placed in front of you.

You looked back at him to find him already watching you closely, hand curled around his glass but not taking a sip yet. You felt awkward drinking from yours under his gaze but you also craved the extroverted feeling alcohol gave you so you took a bigger sip than you probably should have, keeping eye contact as you slightly tipped your head back.

The glass touched the wood with a soft clink when you set it down and his hand move his own towards yours, lightly dragging it by the rim closer to him. It wasn’t out of your reach but enough so you’d have to lean your arm into his space to grab it.

You gave him a curious look but didn’t outwardly question it, like it made perfect sense to you that he would control where your drink was.

“You look different with your hair down.” He said suddenly and you watched his eyes track over your head and down past your shoulders.

It took you a second to respond and by the time you were starting to his hand was already lifted and softly touching the ends of your hair, not pulling or even really grasping but just letting it tickle his fingertips. You laughed at the way he stared, making his hand freeze in the air and his eyes go back up to you.

“How much have you had to drink?” You asked him with a smile you definitely had never showcased in the walls of the hospital before, a bit looser knowing he must be drunker than he seemed to be touching you so casually.

His hand on your ribs was a different story, the way it snuck under your hoodie may have felt historic but it was simply his doctor brain taking the lead in his decision making. Even the lingering hand shake had been sourced from a legitimate professional interaction, at worst just a bit too friendly.

This however, was completely unnecessary and out of character.

“I’ve been drinking since before you were born.” He rasped back and you felt a shiver run over your entire body, gaze narrowing a bit when his fingers started to move again just to twirl a strand of your hair. “I’m fine.”

The reminder of your age gap, not that you really needed one considering it was absolutely impossible to ignore, made you feel drunker than any amount of drinks could have even attempted.

You tensed up when the man next to you was attempting to get off of his stool, tipping sloppily in your direction and leaning against your side. You hissed in pain at the pressure and waved him off when he started to slur out an incoherent apology.

Jack went similarly rigid, standing to his full height from where he’d been leaning until the man stumbled away and then shrinking down a little to get a better look at you. Suddenly his hand was back on your ribs, large and encompassing almost the entire injured side of your midsection.

It felt different now than it had outside in the ambulance bay, the professional aura of the hospital surrounding you and layers of scrub and undershirt blocking out the warmth from his skin. Now you were in an intimately sized bar with a thin long sleeve pulled tight on your body, already feeling heated from the quick chug of your drink you’d done without the added effects of his touch.

“Still bothering you?” He said lowly and his eyes were locked on where he was touching, pressing lightly with his fingers tips and not backing off when you squirmed uncontrollably.

“It’s really not that bad it’s just sore when you touch it.” You breathed back, wincing again when he pressed down on the center of your large bruise. “That hurts you know.”

“Does it?” He hummed in response, his eyes meeting yours despite the fact his hand didn’t stop its light pulsing against your side.

You felt your throat tighten up and you knew you wouldn’t be able to speak even if you wanted to, not sure what words you could even say in this moment. This was clearly not appropriate for about a dozen reasons but the hidden school girl in you was ecstatic that a man like Jack Abbot was actually possibly flirting with you in a bar right now.

His fingers stopped pressing down on your bruise but he didn’t move his hand right away, letting the warmth of his palm cover your ribs until you squirmed on the stool.

“I’ve noticed something.” He hummed out and your eyebrows furrowed at him, gaze darting around to escape his intense staring.

“Yeah?” You hated that you sounded a little breathy and you halfway considered ripping his hand away from you just so you could focus for a second or two. “What’s your observation Dr. Abbot?”

His eyes darkened just enough to be noticeable and not for the first time, you wondered if you were making a mistake. You couldn’t tell enough to figure out if he had drank a lot before you came, his gaze seemed as steady as anyone’s could be but the way he shifted closer made you search for any sign of intoxication.

“You perform better when you’re told so.” He said it slowly like it was an indisputable fact and you watched him closely, trying to think of a way to deny what he was saying. “You like it.”

“Who doesn’t like it?” You whisper back, the only tone you could take without letting your shaky voice show.

“Everyone likes it but you need it.” He continued on easily and you inhaled sharply as his fingers started to lightly press on your bruise again. His lips curled up in a slight smile when your face contorted in a pained wince. “That okay sweetheart?”

You should have felt embarrassed for the near gasp that left you in response, head nodding rapidly the only translation to what the noise might have meant.

The pet name was spinning on a loop in your head and you were sure you looked completely ridiculous by now, seconds from falling off the stool if it meant being any closer to him. You could smell his cologne now under the faint scent of the whiskey he’d been sipping on since you got there and it was a nice change from the typical sterile smell you all carried at work.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea.” You found yourself whispering and you regretted it as soon as it left your lips and his hand was retracting back down to his side.

He cleared his throat, stood up straighter and you knew right away that you had messed it up.

Jack Abbot may be a flirt and he clearly had some sort of interest in you, you’d be stupid to try and deny that after how he was just looking at you a few second ago, but he was a good man above that all. You had signaled wanting to stop and he had done so right away without any hesitation.

He was a gentleman and that much was clear but more importantly, he was your boss.

You’d given him shit about it actually being Robby but you knew the specifics wouldn’t matter to HR and all they would see is the indisputable fact that he was your superior, both in rank and in age. You wanted to protest and take the words right back from where they sat awkwardly in the air but you didn’t know how to.

“You’re right.” He said gruffly and he didn’t look at all upset with you, just mildly disappointed and maybe even a little sheepish like he hadn’t realized just how far he’d taken it until you said something. “It’s not.”

—

The effects of that night out were carried with you to your next shift, sitting heavy in your chest and making it nearly impossible to get anything right.

Jack hadn’t said anything out of the ordinary to you but it was the absence of his usual banter and quick check ins that made your stomach turn. He wasn’t being cold, wasn’t even giving you any weird looks that would indicate he was ever in a bar with his hand on your ribs, but something was missing and you knew it was your own fault.

You were slow with your response time, fumbling around when you needed to quickly grab tools or make space for another set of hands in an operation. You were acting like a complete idiot and although you were still preforming above the average quality for any other doctor around, it was below your usual standards and obvious to anybody used to you and how you normally carried yourself.

At first you had been attempting to avoid Jack but you realized that was pointless considering he was removing himself from any room you were in anyways before you got the chance.

You knew him well enough to know he wasn’t upset with you but rather himself, he believed he had made you uncomfortable and you were the reason he thought that.

The trauma one room was heated with loud frustrated voices, overlapping commands and hypothesis about what could be wrong with the little boy currently seizing on the table below you. Your brain completely blanked out, something that almost never happened to you and you barely registered one of the nurses yelling for another attending to help.

You moved over on autopilot out of the way of whoever had arrived, lightly bumping into Shen on the other side and only coming back down to earth when you felt a hand brush against your back.

“C’mon kid.” The low rasp from next to you sent you spiraling right back down to reality and your head snapped up and over to lock eyes with Jack. He had worry all over his face from the way you’d seemingly gone absent for a few long seconds at a crucial moment. “You know what to do.”

It wasn’t a question but a solid and trusted statement.

You hesitated for a breath before nodding firmly at him and turning back to face the room, your brain finally catching up with your mouth as you easily spout out the steps to take to help the boy settle down enough to continue his care safely.

There isn’t another moment to breathe until he’s sent up to the ICU and you’re able to leave the room, barely able to get your gloves off before you’re slumping against one of the hallway walls.

You don’t need to open your tightly shut eyes to know who the approaching footsteps belong to, reluctantly opening them again to meet with Jacks concerned face. He looks hesitant to even be in a slightly private space with you, looking over his shoulder like he needs an exit plan.

“You did good.” He says it softly and your shoulders deflate a little in a large breath followed by a scoff.

“I could have killed him.” You say back in denial, voice painfully tight as you run a shaky hand over your messy hair to try and smooth the flyaways.

“You couldn’t have.” He denies as he takes a step closer and you want to correct him, to tell him all the ways it was possible and remind him of the times it had happened before regardless if it was directly your fault or not. Instead you just fall silent and give him a long pitiful look. “And I wouldn’t have let you. But you did good on your own, you pulled it together.”

Now it’s your turn to take a step closer even though you immediately miss the support of the wall against your back. He peers down at you and your chest tightens.

“I’m sorry.” You say it so softly it’s barely audible under the chaos of the night and the beeping of machines, his eyebrows furrowing just enough to be noticeable but the rest of his face impossible to read. “For the other night.”

“Don’t.” He says immediately once he understands what you’re referring to. “That was my fault. I should be the one apologizing for making you uncomfortable.”

You shake your head and somehow gather enough courage to let your hand raise and land on his bicep, squeezing softly to try and communicate with him through some sort of physical touch morse code. Thankfully he softens a little at the feeling and you can brave yourself through an actual audible sentence.

“I wasn’t uncomfortable Jack.” You reassure as sincerely as you can even though you see the contemplation passing over his features, like he’s not sure if you’re just trying to save face or if you actually mean it. “I was nervous. I just… I haven’t really done that.”

“Flirted with your boss in a shitty bar?” He rasps as he steps closer and you know he’s joking, especially considering the way his lips curl up in a soft smile, but you feel a little sick knowing you’ll have to explain yourself further.

“Jack.” You sigh out, eyes locked on his before glancing away nervously and squeezing his arm a few more times.

You’re not sure if it’s just something about you that leads him to understand what you mean, an inexperienced nature that you’re sure could be relatively obvious to anybody interested in you, or if he had just came to the conclusion on his own but his lips part in realization as he slowly nods.

Your face flushes and you drop your hand from his arm, not losing contact for long considering he’s immediately bringing his own much large palm back up to your ribs, his thumb rubbing back and forth right under where your bras underwire starts.

“That’s alright sweetheart.” He says in a soft whisper and you suddenly feel like you want to cry.

Both from the adrenaline of everything that’s happened in the last few hours, the way he avoided you throughout the day, and especially from how embarrassing it feels to get such an automatic relief just at the sound of the pet name coming from his mouth.

You hope you don’t look as visibly torn up as you feel but you’re sure he can see it on your face, his eyes softening even more if that was possible.

“Yeah?” You find yourself whispering back in desperate need for reassurance and he’s quick to give it, nodding his head and shifting close enough that your chest could brush if he moved his hand and leaned forward. “That doesn’t… freak you out?”

“Are you kidding me?” He laughs a little but it’s lacking any real humor, like he finds you genuinely ridiculous for ever thinking along those lines. “Nobody’s ever touched you right sweetheart?”

It takes a few seconds before you’re nodding your head and biting at your bottom lip from nerves, face undoubtedly bright red from the blunt way he put it.

“I promise that does the opposite of freak me out.” He rasped back and your eyes reluctantly met his again just to make sure he was being honest with you, finding whatever you were searching for in his gaze almost immediately.

His eyes are actually a little darker than you expected and you feel your cheeks flush immediately at the mere idea of him being the first one to touch you like that. Not some drunk hookup with a guy who can barely pay his taxes, not a stiff and awkward first time with a boy your age who isn’t focused on your pleasure at all.

Instead you finally let yourself imagine what it would be like with Jack.

Jack and his rough weathered hands and low rasp, his decades of experience that started before you were even a thought in your mother’s mind. His never ending attentiveness and easy dominance that he carried through the ED without ever needing to raise his voice or assert himself, the thought out and specific praise he gifted you whenever he could sense you needed it.

You knew the direction your mind had gone was probably written all over your face, his amusement leaving his own as soon as he registered what it was you were so quiet about.

“Sweetheart.” It was low, the lowest you’d heard from him and your slightly watery eyes immediately darted back up this face despite you not even realizing they’d been drifting down his broad chest. “You have a few more hours to go.”

He kissed his teeth like he was disapproving and you felt a little sick at how eager you were to fix that.

Who knew Jack Abbot could so easily slip into the role of a complete menace the second he realized you were interested in him that way?

You nodded your head and visibly gulped, straightening out your scrubs and doing your best to avoid contact with him in any way as you turned to leave the hallway.

—

There was almost a sense of fear as the end of your shift approached although you still had your doubts Jack would ever cross that professional line with you.

You knew he wanted to, he wasn’t being very subtle anymore with the very hungry gaze he kept fixated on you whenever you were in a room together for the rest of the night, but wanting and doing were two very different things.

A large part of you hoped you’d just be able to leave the hospital and head home to obsess over him in your own bed like any good doctor with a raging crush should do, stuff it down and keep living your life solely for the medicine and the job. You didn’t have time for this, you didn’t have the ability to make the time for it either.

But Jack Abbot was somebody who walked around like they had all the time in the world, shoulders relaxed after a brutal shift and humor dry and witty as ever behind you as he said goodbye to the day shift.

You’d expected him to walk past you, maybe give you a light parting statement possibly accompanied by another knowing half smile in your direction.

Instead you felt his warm hand on your lower back, wordlessly guiding you with him out the doors. You didn’t bother telling him that you hadn’t even grabbed your backpack yet, absolutely no protest coming from your lips as you walked with him.

You wondered what you might look like to any other staff members, maybe just like a mentor giving you a ride home and guiding your exhausted body to keep you upright. A caring boss who was providing comfort after a long night.

His truck was parked further back than necessary, high up on the parking ramp and in one of the corners you’d only use on a really full staff day. You didn’t have time to fixate on the minuscule details of what this meant about his character, willingly walking extra minutes uphill just to be parked in solitude on the highest point of the ramp.

You barely even had the time to gasp when he was turning you around, suddenly in front of you with his hand on your hip as he gently backed you up against the driver side door of his truck.

Your eyes must have been wide and unfocused because he made sure to take his time, gaze raking over you and your messy hair that he was brushing behind your ear. He let his calloused hand cup your cheek after the hair was tucked neatly and you instinctively leaned against it.

“You sure baby?” He asked softly, croaked out in a gentle way you didn’t even know his voice could produce.

You didn’t even really know what he was referring to but you could definitely make a few guess and after running through a handful, you realized there was very little you would deny Jack Abbot of.