monae💗

They were security measures, really they were. He'd had a break in a few years back when he had a serious lack of things to steal. Since then he'd collected a few things that he wanted to keep a hold of so he installed some security cameras and had it linked to his phone.

Robby wasn't one for strangers in the house, or co-workers or anything of the sort so he'd almost forgotten they were there.

Until of course he asked you to house sit and suddenly he was painfully aware of every corner he'd installed them in.

It was Trinity Santos's fault, really.

As all things typically were.

Or maybe it was Robby's for taking an interest. He'd asked her about her home stuff, noticing some things he wanted to iron out before he went away for three months.

“Whitakers kind of weird, but you know, she helps iron it out,” said Santos, gesturing behind Robby.

You stood with Mohan, laughing at something she said, neck tilting back, cheeks red. That sort of laugh. Even by noise and without looking, Robby would have known it was you.

He'd memorised the way a room shifted when you entered it, or the soft patter of your steps, the gentle feel of your presence at his side. He hadn't even tried not to. You'd come in, straight out of medical school and Robby was hooked like a fish.

But you were younger than him, ambitious, hopeful in making a change in the world.

Robby kept it professional.

Most of the time.

“That's when she's home, anyway.”

Robby looked back to her. “What's that?”

“Oh she's been seeing this guy for a few months or something,” said Santos off-handily. “He was the brother of a patient that came in with Sepsis, had to lose a portion of his leg. The guy really liked her.”

“The patient?”

“No the patient's brother. She's been seeing him, but...” she trailed off with a sigh, fingers going down harder on the keys of the computer.

Robby edged closer. “But?”

Was something wrong? He had no idea you were seeing someone which made all his advances you hadn't bat away scandalous.

Santos glanced at you. “I dunno, he's a bit older than us and just seems... controlling I guess?”

His jaw ticked. “Controlling?”

“Maybe it's just me, I'm seeing things that aren't there,” she said, dismissing it. But Santos was a keen doctor, or would be. She looked too close and sadly usually got the nail on first go. If she thought something was going on with you then there was something.

“I'll have a word,” said Robby, straightening up and drumming his knuckles on the counter.

“Hey, your call.”

He turned, leaning his back on the counter and stared at you, rather openly.

Dana had moved to your side, ipad at the hip where it usually was glued. She was directing you to a patient and, as usual, you took it with a smile and darted off.

He watched the way you walked, eyes following you and trying to find a tell in the way you moved if there was someone. Did you walk with a limp from how good this guy friend of yours fucked you? Were you trying to hide any part of you?

After the patient Robby found you. He couldn't make himself productive if he tried, not with the nagging feeling that he had to talk to you eating at his vocal chords.

You were in the lounge, stirring away at the coffee you'd just poured. “Hey,” you greeted as the door closed behind him.

It was just you and him. And a dummy to practise CPR on.

He jerked his head up in response as he let the door close behind him.

“Want some coffee?” you offered as he slid into a seat at the table.

“Always.”

You poured him a cup, black, as you knew he liked and slid it over to him.

“Hey, sit down a minute,” said Robby, stretching himself out, legs wide, resting back. Giving to all the world a sense of at ease he did not feel.

Though hesitant, you did. “Okay.”

“You're an empathetic soul,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“I'm not finished.”

“Oh.”

“You're a good doctor,” he continued. “You want to be there for your patients?”

“Don't you.”

“Shhh.”

You blushed. “Sorry.”

Robby didn't mind. A secret part of him loved ordered you around, different than he did the others. He didn't bark orders so much, but told you what to do. He got a kick seeing you carry out those orders so well and got a belt in the stomach when you rewarded him with a smile and thanks.

“So this relationship that you're having with this guy,” he said, looking to you. He realised he hadn't even got the name from Trinity.

You took your turn to speak but you lowered your head down. “Shawn?”

“Yeah, Shawn.”

“Santos talk to you?”

He shrugged. “Well she's worried, I'm worried.”

You sipped your coffee. “There's nothing to worry about. We've just been a couple of dates, you know. His brothers really struggling to come to terms with his new life after losing his leg and he takes it out on Shawn sometimes, and...”

“Does he take it out on you?” asked Robby.

“No, no!” you said at once. “It's nothing like that. He just... I dunno, I'm not that interested anymore but it's like kicking a puppy when he's down, you know.”

“So he's not telling you what to do?” he judged.

You looked up at him, an amused smirk to your lips. “There's only one who can tell me what to do and that's you, boss.”

The words shouldn't have effected him as much as they did. Heat crept into his body, invading his senses. He glanced down and pulled at his scrub pants just to make sure the rush of want that coursed through him didn't manifest in his cock.

Robby didn't know what he was thinking, asking you to house sit. It was going to go to Abbott originally, then he thought Langdon if it weren't for all the shit going on there. Maybe even Whitaker but he was sat in front of you and the words were out before he realised.

“Hey, you want to house sit for me while I'm gone?” he asked.

You straightened up. “What?”

“You'd be doing me a favour. Nobody else is up for it-” lies, he hadn't even asked anyone else. “- save you a bit on rent. Have a place to yourself for a change.”

“Really?”

“No smoking, no parties, no babies, no pets, no boyfriends.”

“I don't- I don't have a boyfriend.”

Good, he thought. “Then the place is yours.... or I can ask around.”

“I'd- yeah- that'd be great,” you said with a smile. “As long as you're sure? I mean I don't smoke and I don't really have time to just have friends around.”

“Santos can come visit if she likes,” suggested Robby. He liked you but he wasn't trying to isolate you. “So long as she doesn't bring Garcia.”

“Deal,” you said.

“Great,” he said.

The two of you sat in the quiet of the lounge a moment longer, the outside world waiting.

Robby pushed himself up, brushing your hand on the table as he did. “I'll find you before you I go, give you the keys and security code.”

“Thanks. Great.”

When he left he realised he'd be travelling for three months, leaving you in an apartment that was him. It was his dream and hell all in one.

The thought of you in Robby's apartment had him contemplating cancelling his trip all together, but that would give you no reason to stay and he did really need a break. Not even seeing you everyday could dampen what the Pitt did to you after a time.

He found you at the end of the day at the lockers, already supporting his bag over his shoulder.

“You ready?” he asked. He could almost imagine this was his life. The two of you working around each other, stealing glances with promises of what time alone would hold. Coming to fetch you at the end of the day, rubbing his hands at the tired spots on your shoulders and coaxing you into his arms.

“Yeah.”

Robby was stealing time, stealing distractions from everything. “I'll give you a ride down.”

“Are you sure?” you asked, fetching your bag from the locker. “Don't you want to get on the road?”

“The road will still be there, besides it's not far, I just wanna show you,” he said, taking your bag from your hand with an almost unconscious mind as he led the way out.

When you were both down the ambulance bay, standing in front of his bike he got busy securing your bags to the back of it.

“Oh,” you uttered.

“What's up?”

“I've never ridden on one before.”

Robby hid himself in his bike a moment longer, banishing the dirty thoughts. He was past a fifty year old man, he didn't need to be hanging on every one of your dirty words like he was sixteen discovering sex for the first time. “I'll do all the work. You just have to sit there and hold on tight.”

“But you only have one helmet?”

“You wear it.”

You frowned. “But isn't that kind of un-safe?”

Yes, it was. But Robby wasn't trying to get himself killed like everyone thought. He just wanted a break. He wanted you in his apartment, knowing you respected him enough to not break the rules and bring a boyfriend you did or didn't have.

“I'm about to be wearing a helmet for thirty six hours. C'mere.” Robby took his helmet and gently propped it on your head. He tightened the straps under your chin and gently brushed back any hair that was peaking out.

You watched him but Robby was concentrating on where his hands your chin.

It was still a little big on you and still had his heart soaring.

“There we go, hop on.”

Robby had a motorbike because it was a hobby. He knew what others thought about middle aged men and motorbikes. He'd never done it to impress before... until now.

He revved the bike at the chances he got and relished in the feel of your arms around his waist. When he took corners or passed by a car your arms squeezed and it went straight down to the place it shouldn't.

At stop signs or lights he checked in with you, getting a glimpse of your wide grin when he did.

By the time he'd pulled up in front of his apartment building, your body was practically buzzing against his and you stood up on shaky legs.

“How does it feel to have your motorcycle virginity taken?” he asked, helping you up and your helmet off.

You shook out your hair, laughing. “I feel like a changed woman.”

Robby chuckled.

He gave you the security code at the door and led you to his place. The building, practically full of old people (he told you as much) was practically dead when he got home from work, only the faint buzzing of TV's through doors could be heard.

He told you there's a good thai place on the corner, some take out menus he had. He told you he didn't have much food in as he was going away so he'd been chucking it out.

When he opened the door to his place he tried picturing it through your eyes. Was it too sparse? Were the walls to plain? Was it clear a sad, old man lived here?

But you didn't say anything other than 'nice place.'

He showed you the kitchen, the living room, all neat and tidy and empty when he looked at it again. He gave you codes that you'd need, a spare set of keys on the table. He showed you the wi-fi.

“This is the spare room,” he said, nudging open a door. “Bathrooms down the hall. It's not so nice in here, I don't have many people around. Usually just Abbott but he doesn't sleep.”

It was al grey walls, heck the bed wasn't even made up. Just sheets piled up, all greys and whites and probably scratchy because he only cared enough to get the cheapest set.

“My room's down here,” he said, leading you down the hall. His room was lived in. Green sheets rumpled and his jacket hanging of the chair at his desk with books and some old framed pictures of his grandparents. “There's an ensuite but the choice is yours.”

He wasn't gonna force you into sleeping in his bedroom. But he was going to hope you did.

“Thanks, Robby, I promise the place will still be standing by the time you get back,” you said, now walking him out his place like you lived there.

“I'll hold you to that.”

Robby fished out his wallet and left some cash on the table. He'd taken some out to help him on his travels but he couldn't leave you with no food.

“Oh, Robby, you don't have to-”

“I am,” he said. “Get some food in, order some take out, I don't want a dollar left on my counter by the time I get back.”

You were resigned to argue but you always did what Robby said. “You got it, boss.”

The first time Robby checked the camera's was when he remembered he had them. And it wasn't his fault.

If anything it was yours.

He'd already made his home at his first stop, trying his best to think good things and not text Dana to see how it was all going. He was pushing himself to find the beauty of the mountains and the lakes.

That was when his phone alerted him. An odd notification he didn't have the words for.

He checked in while on a walk and was met by the sight of his apartment.

Fuck, the cameras!

He really had forgotten all about them.

Through the cameras he saw the kitchen and you frantically waving a tea towel up high at the smoke alarm.

At first Robby was worried but then the alarm stopped and he focused enough to see you. It had only been a week and he hadn't gone a day without thinking of you but this was different.

This was you, in his kitchen, wearing only a baggy shirt and panties.

Any other time the shirt would have been too long to see anything but you were jumping around, waving away the smoke and even through the camera Robby could see the panties.

His body went rigid.

He turned channel on the camera. It was wrong to watch but so far... he hadn't, right? He hadn't watched. He'd seen you in a 'delicate' state and switched.

The living room was pretty much the same. An extra med text book on the side and his blanket scrunched up.

Then, just to check, he went into the other room. The spare room. The same as he left it with the bedding piled up.

So that meant.

“Jesus,” he mumbled to himself, feeling the tightness of his pants as they pulled over his crotch.

Your overnight bad and suitcase was in his room, pressed up against the wall. His green sheets were a mess and there was a pile of discarded scrubs on the floor.

You were sleeping in his bed.

Robby didn't mean to- really, his finger slipped- but he checked in on the kitchen again. You were back to bustling around, taking whatever you'd burnt out the oven and moving around quickly, trying to salvage what you could of your food.

You bent over to the oven and though the island blocked most of it he got a grainy and all too far away shot of your backside.

He turned his phone off and hid his face in his hands.

He wished he could say that was the only time.

It wasn't.

At first he told himself it was just to check in. Knowing when your shift ended he'd log into his phone, checking the app connected to his cameras and making sure you got in safe. Of course there was never an issue. Sometimes you were home later, so exhausted you fell asleep on the sofa.

It was like falling asleep on call to someone, except, he fell asleep with the sight of you sleeping soundly. It calmed him, in a way. He told himself it was nice to see his place so looked after, lived in. He didn't question if that was the real reason why.

Robby was almost tempted to text at times, asking if you were sleeping well, asking if the place hadn't burnt down, or when he saw you do something he just wanted you to know he was there.

But wouldn't it be creepy?

You'd shared texts, sent him pictures of envelopes that you deemed looked important. Sometimes he text random things like 'sometimes the wi-fi plays up, let me know if it does,' or 'hope the neighbours aren't being too loud' (which was stupid considering half of them were deaf)

You were so polite and quick in your responses.

Robby never knew how to keep the conversation flowing. Not over text. Not when all he wanted to say was how pretty you looked in the mornings, rolling out of his bed and stretching like you'd had the best sleep.

Somewhere in his head he knew it wasn't right but maybe he'd been so de-censored to everything that nothing felt like crossing the line.

There weren't camera's in the bathroom, obviously but it didn't matter.

You changed in his room.

When Robby could spot you were about to change he forced the phone down. He didn't log out the app but he at least stepped away to give you some privacy. Privacy you didn't know he was invading.

This was wrong, so wrong.

Only once he caught a glimpse or your skin and curves of your body. Your back was to the camera but he saw the towel drop, saw the flex of your body as you pulled on scrubs for the day.

Robby had dragged his hand down his face and ignored the desperate ache in his cock. The want had made its home in his pants and hardly ever left him.

He remembered Jack telling him to call if it ever got dark but this, Robby was sure, wasn't the sort of darkness he was talking about.

In two weeks on his trip Robby had spent more time watching you then anything else.

It was a random Tuesday when he got another notification- having turned them on for any goings on alerted in his apartment.

He was out in a diner he found on the side of the road, dragging himself out of the hut and his up building un-healthy habits. His phone buzzed next to him and he logged into the cameras as if logging into emails.

You and Santos were in his place. You held open the door for her, leading here in. “Home sweet home.”

Robby tried to imagine it again, if that really was your home. If he was.

Coming home together at the end of the day, Robby could use you for all his pleasures and frustrations. He could have you on his island counter, on his sofa, on the rug, in his room and the spare room. He could spread you out and love you right, have you wake up sleepy in the mornings. He could turn up to work late with you on his arm and everyone would share a sly smirk, knowing just why they were late.

He watched, and imagined while he was thousands of miles away.

Robby watched as you showed Trinity around, marvelling as you laid out his apartment and everything you knew.

“He left me some cash if you want to order a pizza,” you said.

“God, he's so whipped,” Santos chuckled.

“Stop it.”

He figured what 'whipped' meant and you were trying to defend him when there was really no point. He was whipped. He was wrapped around your finger and you didn't even know.

“Is this his room?”

Robby didn't know if he liked Santos in his room but he liked that you showed it to her, liked that you moved around it like you'd always slept there.

“The spare room is colder and his room has the ensuite.”

Santos sat on the edge of his bed. “I can't believe you're sleeping in our bosses bed.”

You groaned, falling next to her. “Don't, I feel so bad. I'll get the sheets washed and everything before he's back.”

No. He didn't want the sheets washed. He wanted to be able to smell you on him when he returned, sleeping in your ghost.

You guys chatted some more and Robby finished his dinner, ordering himself a scotch as he kept his phone low, hoping it looked like he was just checking in on some reality show to anyone that looked hard enough.

“You know, bedside draws can tell a lot about a person,” he heard Santos say.

When he checked back on his phone you were scrabbling on the bed after her as Santos opened the top draw of his bedside table.

Robby wasn't ashamed. Sure, maybe he was angry that Santos thought she had the right to look through his things but then you were at her side, not encouraging the behaviour but not slamming them shut either.

Had you not snooped before? If he was in your shoes it would be the first thing he did. You were so good, so polite.

He didn't want you to be.

There was a couple medical articles he knew shoved in there, the sort he always said he'd get around to and never did. There was an old pack of contact lenses he never used and a broken pair of glasses too.

“Someone's been getting lu-cky,” said Santos in a teasing voice as she pulled out a scatter of lose condoms.

“Trin, c'mon, this is private.”

Santos gasped as she looked at them. “Large, large, large, extra large.”

You finally chuckled and Robby peered closer. There was a faint dusting of pink at your cheeks.

Robby was big, as a young man he liked to brag but as he got older he didn't feel there was that much to brag about. Did you like to think of him big? Did you like the idea that he was large?

Fuck the very idea of you rolling a condom onto him had his abused cock aching again under the table of the grotty diner.

He imagined you sliding the condom on before looming over him, holding him steady as you teased your entrance that would be so wet for him. Your hand would wrap around the base, maybe teasing his balls as you slowly sank down-

He downed the last of his scotch, readying himself to make a quick escape to his cabin.

Robby knew this was wrong to watch but so far he hadn't touched himself to the sights of you, he thought that was something he had to give himself credit for because he was so, so, so desperate.

And he was being so good not touching himself to the thought of you.

“Robby is freak-y,” said Santos, next finding his lube and the little pills he kept when he needed a hand.

“How the hell are you going to look him in the eyes after this?” you asked Santos.

“How are you? You're the one who's been sleeping next to this.”

Robby placed a couple bills on the table bidding night to those working before slipping through the door.

It was then that you started to strip out your scrubs in his room with Trinity still rummaging through his stuff. Clearly you had no problem with changing in front of her, you were housemates after all.

It was at that moment, just as he watched you pull your top off that his phone decided to die.

He pressed down on the black screen of his phone furiously. “Fuck.”

By the time Robby got back to his place and got his phone on charge Trinity had left you alone in his place and all the lights were off in his house.

You were readying yourself for bed.

As if this was a shared routine Robby did the same. He left his phone charging as he changed out of his clothes, leaving himself in his boxers. He ran cold water down his face, let the droplets roll down his neck and chest to cool the heat that lived in him.

By the time he got back to bed, leaving the curtains open for the sun to wake him early, you were in bed too.

Robby tried to read, really he did. He'd brought a book with him that had been sitting on his shelf abandoned for months. He'd managed a total fifty pages before he looked back at you.

You slept in the over sized night shirt, flicking through your phone.

Robby wasn't sure when it started but at some point your knees pulled up, taking his covers with you and your hand disappeared under his covers.

He sat up, alert.

This was where lines were drawn. Where he went from curious to damned old man.

But he was damned a long time ago.

You watched your phone closely, your hand undoubtably moving under his covers between your thighs.

“Oh,” Robby muttered to himself.

You, in his sheets, getting yourself off.

He could just about hear the pornographic moans coming from your phone when he turned the volume up. His sheets twisted and moved as you enjoyed yourself, slowly.

“Oh my god.” His hand crept his his boxers.

He just needed a small release. Just a squeeze, just a little bit of relief.

If you were doing so in his bed surely he was allowed to in return.

His cock answered his squeeze, swelling in his hand.

Robby imagined himself there, sitting on the edge of your bed and asking you to 'show me how you like it.' Your fingers would work inside of yourself, slow. You'd drag out your wetness to your bundle of nerves.

Were you relishing it in his sheets? Did they smell of him and was that helping you?

Robby had no choice- really no choice- as he freed himself from his boxers. He was leaking profusely. Wrapping his fingers around himself, he watched your next move.

You moaned through the camera. It came out crackled.

Robby's eyes were glued onto you.

Your eyes were fluttering shut, bottom lip tucked between your teeth as your back arched, body moving in waves as you tried to focus on your phone.

What porn were you watching? Was it hard? Was it soft? Was it an older man? Did you want a younger?

Were you dreaming of that fucking Shawn?

You kicked the sheets back and Robby could see where your fingers disappeared in your panties.

Robby licked his lips and spat into the palm of his hand. There was no denying it, he was hard watching you get off, in his bed, in his room. He worked his palm up and down slowly, wanting to last as long as you did.

“Moan,” he uttered to himself. “Moan baby.”

If he were there he'd push you into his sheets, make you turn your head and smell him there. You wouldn't have to work for anything. He'd have his fingers filling you up, have you wither on his tongue before he even thought about his cock.

Would he come back with his sheets smelling of you?

God, he hoped so. He hoped you never washed the sheets.

A noise slipped from you and Robby stilled, squeezing his cock again.

He sunk into the sofa. “Again.”

You ditched your phone at the side of you, some porn video playing as your other hand wound under you shirt.

You quickly discarded in and Robby got a eyeful of your chest.

“Oh my god,” Robby worked himself up and down.

He'd imagined your body before but never like this, laid out for him.

What he would do to smother himself in your breasts.

“So beautiful,” he said, sweeping his thumb over the head of himself. “Fuck.” He worked himself faster as you pushed yourself into your own hand.

“Please,” he heard you utter.

“Yeah, baby, yeah.”

Your mouth was agape in silent moans.

Robby wondered if anyone let you moan allowed, if living with Santos and Whitaker you had to be quiet.

You were alone, he wanted to tell you. He wanted you to be as loud as possible.

“C'mon... c'mon...” he mumbled working himself harder.

You gasped, legs moving around under his sheets and twisting them up. You were trembling, making a mess of the place he slept with no shame. The hand that wasn't working yourself into pleasure grasped in his sheets.

“Robby...”

He stilled, his hand flying away from his cock and eyes widening.

Did the camera work both ways? Could you hear him? Did you know he was there?

A thousand panic thoughts ran through his mind before he realised none of that was right.

You were just moaning out his name while touching yourself.

“Robby,” you gasped, body withering. “Fuck, Robby.”

He smirked to himself. “Oh, baby girl, moaning for me.”

You moaned, head thrown back onto his cushion.

“Say it again,” he begged, pumping himself as fast as he saw the imprint of your own hand move. “Say it.”

You kicked off the sheets as your legs moved, unable to stay still in fits of pleasure. “Oh my god.”

“Yeah, yeah you like that.” He didn't know what you liked but he'd try and give you anything.

“Miss you Robby, miss you so much.”

Robby groaned low he might've growled. What a fool he was for waiting so long, for running away. He'd left you in such a state. “Jesus, baby, this is torture.”

He stroked himself hard, squeezing till his tip was read and leaking over his hand.

“Robby please.” He watched one of your hands come up and wrap around your neck.

Robby smirked. “Dirty girl.”

Your legs began to shake and you couldn't even gasp out his name.

“Robby... Robby... please.”

He groaned and moaned with you, turning up the volume blindly as he heard your high pitched moan

He didn't know which one of you finished first. He burst all over his hand, his release spilling over in white ropes over his hand. He groaned out your name, jerking himself till he got every last drop and couldn't move his hand anymore.

When he looked back at the camera you were still,, only the rise and fall of your chest letting him into your climax. You turned off your phone, lying there.

With the hand that had your fingers inside you he watched as you ran your hands over his sheets, as if you wanted to mark your spot in his bed.

“Yeah, it's all yours baby girl.”

You could feel your face setting on fire as you desperately tried to think of what to do.

Robby’s eyes weren’t on you anymore as he got rid of his jacket and boots… this would be the perfect time to get up and scurry away towards the bedroom… Robby’s bedroom— Shit.

Your hands went to cover your bare tits as you tried to come up with something else.

“Decided to cut my sabbatical short,” Robby was explaining, “You all were right- as it turns out, I can’t go more than a month without the ED.”

You heard and felt Jack’s snicker, his fingers absentmindedly drawing circles where he still held your waist.

His hard cock was still deep inside you, and as much as you hated having to depart from it, you really needed to get off and try to at least regain some decency.

Which is what you tried to do. You began rising from Jack’s lap, but in an instant, his eyes were on you, his brows furrowed.

“Where you going, sweetheart?”

He can’t be serious right now.

You glanced pointedly at Robby behind him, your voice barely a whisper as you murmured his name.

“It’s alright, honey, Robby doesn’t mind,” he spoke softly, his hands caressing you softly. “Do you, Robby?”

Robby’s soft chuckle came from somewhere closer than where he’d previously been.

“I sure don’t,” He was smirking once you slowly raised your gaze.

He’d walked to the edge of the couch, right behind Jack.

You felt your face burn with embarrassment- and yet your pussy clenched harder around Abbot as you caught Michael’s eyes drink you in.

“We were having such a good time,” Jack murmured, his mouth on your collarbones as he pecked your skin, “Would be a shame to stop now.”

Oh God, he was being serious.

“Jack- I-”

Were you dreaming? Was this one of the sick fantasies that materialized in your mind whenever Robby and Abbot were both on shift, and you had to squeeze your tights together at how incredibly hot of a pair they made?

Everything seemed to point in that direction, except for the fact that the feel of Jack’s fingers removing your hands from your naked chest was very much real- the same went for Robby’s voice.

“You know, sweetheart... we had a talk about you before I went away.”

You were bare again now, and Jack was making use of the space, filling it with delicious, taunting kisses as Michael spoke.

“Decided none of us were gonna try anything... didn’t wanna take advantage of you or anything….” His voice was rough and soft all at once as his hand went to cradle your cheek, “and now look at that.”

Heat bloomed low in your belly and on your cheeks as you heard yourself whimper.

What he was saying was… unbelievable. They liked you- both of them. Just as you liked them.

This was really happening- Dr. Robinavitch was watching you as you sat on Dr. Abbot’s cock. And they both looked incredibly casual, as if this were a daily occurrence.

“Since when has this been going on?”

When you didn’t answer, Jack stopped his ministrations on your neck to speak, “Just two weeks, man.”

“Is he lying to me?” Robby asked you, his head tilted in doubt.

“N-no,” You murmured as you cowered under his stare.

To that, he smirked, shaking his head as he muttered, “A week- that’s how long you lasted.”

“C’mon, man- you knew it was bound to happen.” Jack groaned, looking at you with a smirk as his mouth ghosted yours, “You’re too pretty not to do something about it.”

You felt your heart skip, and your hips involuntarily grind against Jack’s lap- causing you to whimper pathetically.

“Oh sweetheart…” Abbot cooed, his hands going back to rest on your hips, “Go on, take what you need.”

There was nothing you wanted to do more. As unusual as this situation was, you were so turned on that you feared you’d start dripping on the couch any second now.

Yet you watched the two men uncertainly, biting your lip as you went against your instinct to use Jack’s manhood to feel good.

“Go on, baby,” Robby encouraged you once your eyes settled on him, “Do as he said.”

His palm was still on your cheek, his thumb pulling on your lower lip to free it from your teeth’s grip… and you had no choice but to obey.

You started slow, shily grinding onto him, feeling Jack’s dick graze and reach all those sweet spots inside of you as your clit rubbed against his base.

Your mouth hung open as soft whines filtered through your throat. Robby’s hands held your face so you could only look at him- and the look in his eyes… the darkness in his iris and the locking of his jaw gave you all the more incentive to go faster.

You began raising yourself on Jack’s dick just to slide back down again until you found the delicious pace from before your interruption.

Your moans weren’t so quiet anymore as you struggled to keep your eyes open and gripped Jack’s shoulders for dear life, your nails probably leaving crescent moons on his skin.

“So good for me, baby,” Jack murmured against your neck, resuming his kisses on your salty skin as he thoroughly enjoyed the show. “Such a good girl.”

You cried like a desperate little thing at that, his dick hitting that spongy spot inside of you that had you feeling on cloud nine.

“Jack feels good, baby?” Robby’s voice felt muffled, as if the pleasure was acting as a sound shield.

“Y-yes,” You whined, your voice breathless, your movements more and more desperate, “B-big,” you cried brokenly.

You felt Abbot’s growl vibrate against your chest at that, and seconds later, you felt his mouth against your ear as he whispered loud enough for Robby to hear, “You’ve seen nothing yet.”

You didn’t have the brain capacity to understand what he meant by that, or to analyze the grin that spread Michael’s lips at those words, because all you could focus on was the growing sensation that sparked in your belly.

“Oh my god,” You whined, your thighs burning with the effort as the sound of your skin slapping with Jack’s echoed against the walls.

“It’s ok, baby,” Robby murmured, watching closely as your eyes almost closed and your brows furrowed in bliss, “You’re doing so good.”

You didn’t even realize you were doing it, but as Robby guided his thumb into your mouth, instinctually, your lips closed around it, sucking him in further.

“That’s it, baby,” he nodded, the weight of his finger on your tongue making you wish it was replaced by his cock. And that image… that image made your orgasm approach even faster.

Your moans were silenced by Robby’s thumb, but Jack could feel your walls gripping him like a vice.

“Let go, sweetheart,” he commanded, kissing the spot right beneath your ear. “Be a good girl and show Robby how pretty you look when you come.”

That was it.

You didn’t even have time to mentally prepare yourself that a bright white flash of pure ecstasy overtook your soul.

You came like the world would end tomorrow, your pussy spasming around Jack as he couldn’t help but follow suit.

Somewhere in the frenzy, you could hear Abbot’s groans while Robby murmured what appeared to be soft words to you, his hand never leaving your face.

The pounding of your heart thumped in your ears as you tried to calm your breathing.

Your eyes fluttered open to both the men looking at you, Jack’s eyes soft with gratification and adoration, while Robby’s irises swirled with lust and just plain need.

“You wanna switch?”

Jack’s words didn’t even make sense to you. You were still lost in the haze of what had just happened.

“Not on the couch, man.” Robby shook his head, his lips pulling into a small smile as he watched you. “Let’s get on the bed, baby.”

__ __  __

Your legs felt like jelly as Robby towered over you.

You knew what was happening, and yet your brain was still buffering.

His lips were so close to yours… just a few inches and you’d be kissing him.

But that’s not what he had in mind.

“Lay down for me, baby.”

You blinked, needing a second to understand his command and do as told.

The mattress was soft, the comfy duvet wrinkling underneath you as you laid back, your wide eyes watching him.

With a quick move, he removed his shirt, throwing it behind him… in the direction of Abbot.

Your breath hitched at the sight of him leaning against the wall, his eyes dark as he watched the scene unfold.

By the time you looked back, Robby was naked- and your lungs took another toll.

You were propped on your elbows, shamelessly eying all of him. His broad chest, the dark hair on his pecs, on his belly, until your gaze lowered just enough to catch his cock-

You were pretty sure you’d stopped breathing completely.

That’s what they’d been talking about.

You really had seen nothing yet.

You swallowed dryly as his big hand wrapped around his dick, giving it two slow strokes that had him seemingly grow even more.

Your eyes were wide as he stalked closer to you, his smirk everlasting.

“R-Robby,” you stuttered, clearly intimidated.

“’S alright, baby. I’ll go real slow.”

“I-I- How…”

“Don’t worry about it,” he shook his head, “spread your legs for me, baby.”

And even if your heart was going crazy and your brain was telling you that was an impossible fit, you did as told.

“Wider.”

You slid your feet further across the bed, opening yourself up to him completely, eliciting a delighted groan.

“Pretty,” he murmured, his palm going to your mound and his thumb moving to your folds, exploring slowly.

Jack’s come was still leaking out of you, creating a sultry mixture with your own juices.

Your cheeks heated at his unabashed gaze, but then his other hand grabbed the base of his manhood, his tip suddenly parting your folds, and all thoughts left your head.

You were whimpering already, still sensitive from your previous orgasm, and Michael would have done anything to record those sweet sounds and listen to them on repeat all day long.

“It’s ok, baby, relax for me.” That’s all he murmured, as he started guiding his impossibly thick tip inside of you.

“Oh!” You gasped, your eyes wide open as you watched him thrust into you.

He was looking at where your bodies melted into one another, watching your greedy pussy swallow him in.

The stretch burned at first- he had the biggest cock you’d ever seen after all- counting porn- but his soft growls and groans were making you all the more pliant.

His thumb started circling your clit to help you out as broken cries fled your throat.

He was retracting his hips just to thrust softly into you, over and over again, filling you up inch by never-ending inch.

“O-Oh my god,” You were crying, your hands fisting the sheets as he kept going.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he reassured you, his free hand tight on our waist. “Stretching so good for me- such a good girl.”

Your walls tightened around him at that, causing him to hiss.

“Let me in- just like that… good girl”

You knew the moment he was in to the hilt, because you could barely breathe at the feeling of how unbelievably full you felt.

Breathy gasps spilled from your lips as your gazes met.

“Told you you could do it,” he smirked, before he started to move.

The moan you let out at the first full, deep thrust was more of a scream.

“Robby!” you gasped, your fingers gripping his forearm as he started building his pace.

His back hurt like a motherfucker from all those hours on his bike, but he’ll be damned if he denied himself this sight.

“He always makes you do all the work?”

How his voice was still so even when you could barely breathe, let alone think, was a mystery.

You want to tell him the truth, that no, Jack was usually very much adamant in his need to take care of you, to pin you beneath him and fuck you thoroughly well into the day… but all you could manage was a whine.

You watched his lips pull into a grin at the state he’d rendered you in.

“Oh, c’mon, brother, I’ve just come back from a twelve-hour shift,” Jack defended himself from his spot against the wall as your eyes found him.

You could see from the bed, even with his boxers back on, that he was hard again.

God, this was all so hot.

The way both their eyes were only focused on you as Robby’s thrusts had you bouncing up on the bed, your tits moving in tandem with his harsh movements…

“And she hasn’t?” Robby raised his brows, shooting Jack a quick, disappointed look, before coming back to you.

“You don’t have to worry about it now, baby,” he spoke softly, the thumb he still had on your bundle of nerves resuming its torturous movements. “I’ll take care of you like you deserve from now on.”

You felt butterflies in your stomach at those words.

Your hips were chasing his movements, forcing the loud smacking of his skin hitting your core over and over again to get even louder.

You could feel every inch of his dick inside you, every vein and ridge slide against your velvety walls as his tip speared you and reached parts of you no one ever could find but him.

And with a feeling like that… it was inevitable for tears to gather in your eyes, your vision blurring as a knot of pleasure tightened inside you.

“Oh baby, I know it’s a lot.” his voice was calming, soothing your overexited system.

It was a lot. He was a whole damn lot.

“Just take it,” he cooed, “Don’t think about it, sugar, just be good for me and Jack, yeah?”

You slowly nodded, tears rolling down your temples and onto the sheets as the air filled with your moans.

“That’s it, pretty girl— that’s it.”

And suddenly, it was all too much.

“I-I- Oh my-”

He groaned at how tight you got. His chest inflating with the effort not to come on the spot.

“Let go, baby,” he instructed. “Be a good girl and come for me.”

The last thing you saw was his smile; everything after that was sort of a blur.

A tidal wave of pleasure washed over your body; you were pretty sure you were moaning his name like a prayer as you experienced a mind-blowing orgasm.

Your eyes and ears started functioning again as Robby’s thrusts got sloppier, more erratic.

He grinned as you whimpered at the overstimulation, his groans getting louder as he got closer, until he spilled inside you with a feral roar.

“Jesus Christ,” he hissed after several moments, slowly pulling out of you.

Jack had gotten beside him somewhere in the meantime, and both men’s eyes fell to the release spilling out of your spent core.

“C’mere,” you whined, breaking them out of their amazed trance.

They both smiled, and it was Jack who joined you on the bed first, moving you so your head could rest on the pillow as he spooned you, wrapping his arms around you.

“You did real good, sweetheart,” he murmured to your ear, his stubble grazing your skin as your eyes fluttered shut.

You were exhausted.

You didn’t even hear Robby lying down next to you until he placed your head to rest on his chest.

“So… am I gonna have to sanitize every surface of the house?”

A soft laugh fled your throat as Jack grinned amusedly.

“The kitchen should be saf—” The look you sent Jack had him suddenly remember all the alternative meals he’d consumed on the kitchen counter. “No, yeah… the whole apartment.”

Your body was sprawled across the bench seat of Jack’s vintage truck. Your legs were draped across his lap, his nails dragging along your skin. You leaned your head back against the window, feeling the coolness of the glass across your temple.

You both were headed out west, the sight of the mountains kissed the edge of the horizon. Jack had fallen in love with Colorado when he went on his honeymoon with his late wife. They hiked among the cliffs and peaks, Jack realized he could never get enough of this. He decided to purchase a beautiful cabin in the middle of Colorado countryside.

When his wife passed, Robby convinced Jack to take sabbatical after he found him on the roof.

“Why are you here, man?” Robby asked, his hand carding and tugging at his scalp.

“Because you need me here,” Jack responded coldly.

“You need to grieve, your wife just fucking died,” Robby placed his hand on Jack’s shoulder, grasping it tightly, pulling Jack back into reality. “Get out of here.”

He immediately booked a flight to the only place he knew could bring him peace. The minute he landed, he met up with a man who was selling his late father’s ‘65 Chevy truck. Jack inspected the vehicle closely.

“Needs a lot of work,” the man informed Jack. “Gonna cost you a pretty penny.”

“I can handle it,” he muttered.

He needed something to do, something where he could lose himself in. He needed to stray away from his thoughts, the grief that was constantly tormenting him. He handed the man a wad of cash, and drove the truck back to his cabin, his thoughts being drowned out by the rumbling of the engine.

Now he was driving the same vehicle, with you sitting by his side.

He recalled the memory of you both meeting, he was at the grocery store, picking up a pack of beer and a bouquet of flowers to lay at his wife’s gravesite.

You waited in line behind him, your gaze falling on the strong muscles of his back straining against his shirt. He turned to place the beer and flowers on the counter. You noticed the wedding ring wrapped around his finger.

“She’ll love them,” you piped up, his head turning towards you. He stood there silently, completely entranced by you. “Your wife,” you continued, feeling heat creep into your cheeks.

“Yeah,” he sighed. “She would’ve.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” you glanced down at your feet, feeling completely guilty that you probably ruined his day.

“S’okay,” he whispered. “It’s been a while.”

You both sat in silence in the checkout lane, him mindlessly swiping his card and taking his receipt. He took out a pen from the pocket of his scrubs, he scribbled something across the receipt. He offered the slip of paper to you.

“Call me sometime,” his mouth turned into a slight smile. “I could take you out, I need to get out of the house anyways.”

That encounter was months ago, he took you out that next Saturday. He treated you to the best steakhouse in the city, only to take you to his apartment and share cheap beers. That night he fucked you into the cushion cushions for hours.

You turned your head to admire him. His frame was sturdy and strong as he gripped the leather steering wheel. The sun casted a halo on his features, showcasing his curls and the rough lines that kissed his face.

He was adorned in an olive green t-shirt, part of his old uniform from the military. It complimented his warm freckled skin perfectly.

He slid his hands down your thighs, sliding his fingers under your frayed denim shorts. He squeezed and kneaded your flesh. You felt your abdomen start to tighten as your slick started to pool in your folds. You pressed your heels into his member in response, the action releasing a growl from his throat.

“Don’t be a tease, bunny,” he muttered, not taking his eyes off the road.

You huffed as he dismissed your advances. You loved to tease him. How you’d press your ass into his crotch when he’d hug you from behind after a long shift, how you’d be sitting in his lap and grind your hips into him, how you’d wake him up by grazing your teeth across the pulse point of his neck.

This would usually result in Jack shoving you off of him, making sure you didn’t lay a finger on him unless it was under his control. If he could run a tight ship at the ED, then a brat would be no challenge.

Sometimes it would get intense. After a day of consistent teasing, he would finger you with his large hand grasping and squeezing at your throat. The lack of air draws all of your attention onto the need of him combing your insides. Your legs would convulse and shake, you being on the brink of your orgasm. He’d pull his fingers out of you and would slap your swollen clit.

“You don’t cum till daddy tells you to,” Jack would huff out. “Fuckin’ needy brat.”

You’d hate it when it would drag on for days. Jack would purposely ignore you and your advances. You would be splayed open for him, wanting any part of him to touch you. He’d roll his eyes and walk away all while you touched yourself, hoping it would draw him in.

This isn’t to say he couldn’t be sweet in bed too. There were times where he’d crawl up next to your half asleep frame, peppering kisses to your back and the nape of your neck. You’d wake up to him being half hard inside of you, pumping sleepily into you. “S’beautiful, baby,” Jack would coo. “Needed you so bad today, missed you.”

Jack continued to drive as you returned to your book. The cracked window drawing in the warm summer breeze into the gap, twirling the strands of your hair. He physically relaxed knowing he’d be returning to the one place that steadied his racing mind, and the other plus was that you would be there. He pulled up to the cabin and shut off the truck, the purring engine growing quiet.

The house was huge, but still had this cosy warm feel to it. The wood complimented its rocky accents, the large windows giving you the perfect view of the mountains and rolling hills. Jack tossed you the key while he unpacked your heavy bags. Jesus, what the hell did you pack? A shit ton of lingerie he hoped.

The locks to the door clicked, giving you access through the threshold. You noticed the sparkling large countertops, how the ceilings rested highly above you, how the rafters offered strong support to the heavy wood that kissed the ceiling. 

This place was massive. You pictured Jack and his late wife here. How they imagined having their little ones, running through the cabin, how their laughter and footsteps would comb down the hall. How they’d probably have huge barbecues and stellar bonfires with family and friends. It made you sad in a way for your poor Jackie.

However, what you didn’t know is that Jack was planning on fucking you on every surface till his release was pumping out of you and kissing your womb. He wanted to start his family tonight.

Jack returned to the house with your bags in tow, the gentle wheels sliding across the floor.

“This place is gorgeous, Jackie,” you said as your eyes continued to take in every detail.

“Just like my bunny,” he said as he wrapped his arm around your waist. He pulled you into his side and pecked your hair.

He carried the suitcases to the master bedroom as you padded behind him. You were met with a california king sized mattress, you ran and jumped on the fresh sheets.

“Jackie! This bed is massive,” you exclaimed.

“What?” he chuckled. “Afraid you’re gonna lose me tonight?”

He started laying out your clothing across the bed, refolding some of the garments neatly. You reached up and pulled him by the collar of his shirt, pressing hot kisses to his lips. Jack decided he would give you a taste, swiping his tongue into your mouth. You both continued like that for a while, your breaths commingling as moans escaped your throat. He placed his hands on your wrists, grasping and squeezing.

“Bunny,” he rasped. “No.”

He pulled away from you then, his eyes darkening. He wasn’t going to give you what you wanted, he was going to make you beg for it.

You pouted with your arms crossed over your chest. Jack placed the clothing in the chest of drawers, once he was done he returned to you. He grasped your jaw, your head leaning into his touch. He pressed his thumb into your pouty mouth, you sucked lightly, swirling your tongue across his calloused fingertip.

“You’re gonna be good for daddy tonight, yeah?” you nodded in response. “Now, daddy has to do some work tonight. I have to chop some firewood, don’t need my bunny freezing tonight, understand?”

You nodded once again. He pulled his thumb from your hot mouth.

“Words, bunny.”

“Yes, sir,” you whimpered out.

“Good,” he patted your cheeks. “Please make yourself at home.”

He stepped outside into the warm mountain air, he was shirtless wearing his camo military pants. He is always most comfortable working in them. He swung the axe countless times, splitting log after log. He could feel your eyes staring at him from the window that gave you a beautiful view out to the balcony and lake that ran along the expanse of the green hills. 

You searched the cabinet for some liquid courage, knowing he was going to be ramming into your insides soon. You needed to relax, rest up for the constant pounding he was about to give you. You poured yourself a glass of wine, then moved to your bedroom to change into the skimpiest bikini you owned.

You changed into the garment and slipped your feet into your sandals, grabbing a towel from the bathroom as you went. You grasped your glass and made your way outside.

You met Jack covered in sweat, as his arms constricted as he swung the axe again and again. He noticed you then, his hand removing his ear bud. His gaze swept along your nearly naked frame, how your tits were spilling from the cups of your bikini top, how your pussy was barely covered by the fabric.

Your glass kissed your lips, swallowing the sweet liquid, feeling yourself physically relax as the alcohol burned through you. 

“Where are you going?” Jack questioned.

You pointed to the lake, his gaze following your finger.

“To swim,” you smiled.

Fucking tease. Now he was going to be forced to watch you practically naked, good thing you guys were in the middle of nowhere. He knew you were trying to torment him, his cock started to harden under him, his chest heaving and his muscles burning from chopping wood.

“Have fun,” he turned away from you, practically ignoring you. No kiss to your temple, no smack to your ass as you walked away. You were in for it. 

You made your way to the dock, sitting at the edge and draping your legs into the cool water. You continued to sip from your glass as you watched the sunset fall onto the snow caps of the mountain. Despite this growing hunger and need that Jack wasn’t feeding into, you were still grateful that he welcomed you to his paradise.

You slipped into the water, ducking your head underneath the surface. Your mind recalling these last few wonderful months with your boyfriend. Feeling your body relax and the stress ebb away from you. 

You poked your head out of the water, turning back to Jack. You watched as his strong arms swung above him and slammed into the logs, how his back would contract as he’d pick up another piece. Repeating the motion over and over. His skin practically sparkled as his perspiration released from his pores.

You swam in slow strokes, feeling the water coarse around your limbs. The cool water kissed away the heat that has been burning in you all day. Sometimes you’d take breaks, hugging the dock and continuing to nurse your glass. The wind would blow, the air starting to cool with nighttime approaching, it sent a shiver down your spine. Once your skin grew icy, you pulled your body out of the water.

Jack had been watching your every move, how your body glided through the water. The length of your legs pumping behind you, how the water would make your hair glisten from the sunset. He could feel his length rub against the fabric of his pants.

You padded quietly by him, the towel draped across your shoulders and your empty glass in tow. You shedded your body out of your soggy swimsuit, turning on the knob of the shower. You stepped in, slowly feeling the heat come back to your skin.

Once you were done, you shuffled to your bedroom. Plucking your white lace panties adorned with a little pink bow Jack’s favorite, and one of his t-shirts that your body would swim in. It was all intentional, wanting to look your best for him.

You made your way to the kitchen, flicking on the stove. While you waited for it to heat up, you opened the front door, pulling the groceries you had ordered into the cabin. You sliced your vegetables and simmered the meat in the pan. You felt heat spread across your cheeks. The house still hadn’t fully cooled down yet due the house being inhabited for months.

You continued to stir at the sauteed veggies. You took out two clean plates, scooping the meal onto them. Jack crossed into the entrance of the house, hot and panting, sweat dribbling down his v-line. He was met with his t-shirt pooled around your hips, showcasing your laced covered ass.

“Hey, baby,” you greeted. You lifted your shirt, mopping at the sweat across your brow. It gave him a peak at your belly that he was going to pump full later.

You placed the dishes onto the table, pouring Jack an ice cold glass of water. The minute you placed it down, he took it. The cold liquid making his throat bob as he swallowed, you watched as a drop of sweat claw its way down his neck. You gulped at the sight, all of the sudden feeling overheated. Push him harder, you thought. Push him to where he can’t take it anymore.

“Fuck, it’s so hot in here,” you muttered. As Jack chewed the first few bites, not paying any attention to you, you tugged his shirt over your head. Your exposed breasts and torso being basked under the dining room light. He was forced to look at you then as you sat at the opposite side of the table.

You smiled as you sat with your legs crossed, knowing you had him exactly where you wanted him. He stared at you as he chewed, you pulled consistent sips from your now filled wine glass. You both sat like that for a while, the only noise in the cabin being the cold air pumping from the vents above.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing, bunny?” he huffed. His stare not tearing away from you as he sat back, crossing his muscular arms across his strong chest. 

“Having dinner with my boyfriend,” you cocked your head. “Pretty romantic, right?” you continued to tease.

“Bedroom, now,” he demanded.

“But, Jackie,” you pouted. “I’m so hungry, all that swimming made me–”

He stood up suddenly, marching to you. He clapped his hand into your hair, tugging tightly, pain coursing your scalp. He practically dragged you to the bedroom, your hands pawing at his wrists, fighting back.

He shoved you onto the bed. You heaved as you looked up at him. He gripped your jaw harshly, pushing his calloused fingertips into your cheeks.

“You’re gonna fucking open that mouth and take me into you until your gagging around my cock, begging me to stop, you got that, brat?”

You nodded. He squeezed tighter, your teeth digging into your cheeks.

“How many fuckin’ times do I have to tell you,” he leaned down to meet your eyes. “Use your words, bunny.”

“Yes, daddy.”

“Good,” he pulled your jaw to where his mouth was agape, swirling his salvia and spitting it into your mouth. “Lay on your back for me.”

You turned over to where your breath blew across his clothed crotch. His leg was fucking killing him, but fucking into your mouth could make the pain worth it. He slapped your cheek, earning your jaws to open. He unbuckled his belt, undoing the zipper, freeing his hard cock. He pushed his length into you, growling at how your wet cheeks coated him, knowing the mixture of saliva was wrapping around him. He pumped his inches into you, watching as your throat expanded as he pushed further into you.

He thrusted into your hot mouth for a beat, then placed his hand on your neck, feeling how his head would poke at the hollow of your collar. His other hand grasped your bouncing breast, twisting and pinching at your nipple. The motion earned a moan from you, vibrating around his hard member. He continued to pulse and pump into you until his release was leaking from your lips. He pulled away from you suddenly, pressing a harsh slap across your cheek.

“You’re gonna swallow every piece of me, got it?”

You nodded, he thrusted back into you then, drilling his hips into your mouth. Your nose filled with the salty scent of his sweat. You gagged and gargled around him, his hot release coating your throat and sitting heavy inside your stomach as you swallowed. 

You coughed as he released his length from you. His muscular chest heaved. He carded his fingers through his salt and pepper curls, the sweat gliding across his fingertips. He sat down and started pulling his sore leg out of his prosthetic. You mindlessly pulled yourself from the mattress and grabbed his crutches that were resting against the wall next to your suitcases. Surely he couldn’t be tuckered out already, right?

When you placed them by his bedside, he grasped the hem of your panties, pulling him down to where you straddled him. Pressing a passionate kiss to your lips, his tongue dragging into your mouth, tasting his release.

“Such a good bunny,” he moaned as he peppered kisses to the expanse of your flesh across your neck. “You punish me constantly, yet take such good care of me. Well, I’m gonna take real good care of you.”

He rested against the pillows, hugging his backside, and pulled your hips on top of him. 

“You’re gonna ride me like a good girl, yeah?” he groaned, his breath kissing your lips. “Yeah…you sure are, such a good bunny.”

He tugged your hips down onto him, digging his nails into your flesh. He bounced you up and down, his inches pumping into you. You felt his length comb into you, digging your spongy walls. Your tits bounced and rubbed against his chest, feeling your hard nipples drag across his freckled skin. He continued to heave as he sucked and nibbled at the top of your breasts.

He slapped your ass hard, earning a whimper from you, which he swallowed with another hot kiss.

He never dreamed of fucking another woman in this place, his happy place. Never someone this young, this innocent, this new. Your brattiness and attitude drew out his younger side, and he could never get enough.

He groaned as he watched your brows press together, feeling your walls squelch and clench around him. He took his fingers and circled your clit. Sure, he was dominant, but he wanted you to feel good too.

“C’mon, bunny,” he rasped. “I want you to take me in, I wanna put a baby in you.”

You moaned at his words, feeling your walls welcome in the head of his cock, it poked your cervix oh so nicely.

His cock pulsed and twitched inside of you, feeling his own release building, his abs tightening and holding his release until he could meet yours. He felt the head of his cock rub into your womb, he growled as he pumped his hot release into you. You felt how it coated your insides, feeling the mixture of your fluids leak out of you, pouring onto his crotch. 

He groaned as he pulsed into you, his forehead meeting yours as drained into you. He sat inside of you, feeling how your walls would occasionally tighten around him.

He pulled you off of him, you knew the routine. Because of his amputation, you were always the one to clean up the mess. You mopped at your hole and swiped the hand towel across his shaft. Once you handed him his boxers and slipped them on, along with your panties, he took his crutches and followed you to the dining room table.

“The food is cold,” you mentioned.

“Takeout?” he asked.

“Yes, please!”

want to read another?

YOUR POV

By the time Daniel and Erin left the department, the ER had shifted into that strange post-trauma aftermath. Not calm. Never calm. But loosened. The immediate danger had passed, leaving behind wrappers, half-finished notes, cold coffee, and everyone pretending their bodies were not suddenly aware of how tired they were.  You gathered the unused blankets from Erin’s chair because they were there. Because they needed to go back. Because returning hospital linens to the warmer was a completely normal, responsible task and not, in any way, an excuse to put distance between yourself and Jack Abbot before your body did something catastrophically honest. Across the station, Jack stood with one hand braced on the counter. Trauma gown gone. Scrub top rumpled near the collar. Hair roughened like he had dragged his hand through it one too many times. He looked up the second you moved. Of course he did.

His eyes found yours across the department.

Not neutral.

Not even close.

Your body remembered the trauma bay.

‘Before I say too much.’

You looked away first. Then you tucked the blankets tighter against your chest and headed for the supply room. Returning them. That was all. Just returning the blankets. A normal thing. A helpful thing. A thing that definitely had nothing to do with the fact that Jack’s mouth had become a problem, you could feel in your knees.

You walked toward the back supply room with the focused determination of a woman who absolutely knew where she was going and was not fleeing a man with a rough voice and dangerous hands.

Not fleeing.

Redirecting.

Professionally.

The supply room door swung open with a soft pneumatic sigh. You stepped inside, let it close behind you, and leaned your forehead briefly against the nearest metal shelf. Cool. Blessedly cool. You inhaled. The room smelled like cardboard, antiseptic, plastic packaging, and the rubbery scent of gloves. Shelves rose around you, stacked with gauze, saline flushes, socks, blankets, tape, basins, mesh underwear, and emesis bags. Everything organized. Labeled. Contained.

Unlike you.

You set the blankets down on a cart and pressed your palms flat against the shelf. You had been fine. That was the worst part. You had been fine for months. You had noticed Jack, obviously, because you had eyes and blood circulation. You had enjoyed the banter. You had occasionally gone home after a shift and thought about the way he said your name, or not your name, or “Social Work” like it amused him to put a little heat under the words.

But tonight had changed the weather.

Tonight, you knew.

You knew his eyes went to your mouth.

You knew he noticed your breathing.

You knew the thing between you was not something you had invented out of exhaustion and poor romantic judgment.

Jack Abbot wanted you.

And you wanted him so badly your entire body felt like it had been rewritten around the fact.

You closed your eyes.

Immediately, your mind supplied him at the trauma bay door.

‘You should go.’

‘Before I say too much.’

You had almost wanted to tell him, “Then say it.”

Instead, you had carried blankets down the hall like a responsible employee.

A saint, probably. A martyr to workplace boundaries.

The door opened behind you.

You turned.

Jack stepped inside.

For one second, neither of you moved.

He held a roll of Coban wrap in one hand, which was almost funny.

Almost.

His gaze moved over you, quick and sharp, and something in his face changed when he realized you were alone. Not softened. Focused. Like every interruption, every almost, every careful step back had led both of you here, and neither of you was going to be able to pretend otherwise for much longer. He glanced at the door. Then back at you. “I can leave,” he said.

The offer was immediate. Rough. Real.

Your pulse tripped.

He had not closed the door all the way. It rested mostly shut behind him, not latched, a sliver of fluorescent hall light cutting across the floor. He stood near it, one hand still on the roll of Coban wrap, body angled so you could walk past him if you wanted to.

You should have wanted to.

That would have been sensible.

Instead, you looked at his mouth.

Jack saw.

His hand tightened around the medical wrap. “Don’t do that,” he said.

Your breath caught. “Do what?”

His eyes lifted to yours. “Look at me like you want me to stay after I gave you a way out.”

Oh…

Oh.

The room seemed to shrink. You could hear your own pulse. You could hear the dull hum of the ventilation. Somewhere outside, someone laughed at the nurses’ station, ordinary and distant and impossible. You swallowed. “Do you want to leave?”

Jack’s jaw shifted. “No.”

The answer was so immediate it burned.

Your hands curled against the shelf. “Then don’t.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose. A man fighting to remain composed. A man losing. “Social Work.”

There it was.

Your armor and your undoing.

The professional mask. The almost-joke. The thing he had used all night to stand close without saying what he meant. It did not feel like a joke now. It felt like the last warning before something broke.

“You said we were going to have a conversation,” you said.

Jack’s mouth moved slightly. Not a smile. Not quite. “That what you want?”

“A conversation?” You ask in a whisper.

His eyes dropped to your mouth.

Your body answered before you could. Warmth unfurled low in your stomach, immediate and humiliating.

His gaze came back to yours. “No,” he said quietly.

The air left your lungs.

The door clicked shut behind him. Jack set the Coban wrap down on the nearest cart. Very deliberately. Like if he moved too fast, he would make the decision before he had asked for permission to have it.

He took one step toward you.

Then stopped.

Still too far away.

Close enough to ruin you.

“Tell me to stop,” he said.

Your fingers tightened on the shelf. “I don’t want you to stop.”

His eyes darkened.

That was the only warning.

Jack crossed the space between you in two controlled strides and stopped close enough that the heat of him reached you before his hands did.

He did not touch you.

Not yet.

Somehow, that was worse.

His body filled the room. Not because he was trying to intimidate you. Because he was Jack, broad and solid and steady and suddenly not pretending the distance between you was safe.

You tipped your head back to look at him.

His gaze moved over your face like he was memorizing what happened to you when he got close.

“Tell me no,” he said.

Your voice came out thin. “No.”

Jack went still.

Your heart stuttered. Then you realized what you had done. “No, I mean—” You reached for him without thinking, fingers catching in the front of his scrub top. “No, don’t stop.”

His control cracked.

You saw it happen.

One second, Jack was standing there, jaw tight, eyes locked on yours, giving you every possible chance to end this.

Next, his hand was at your waist, and his mouth was on yours.

Not gentle.

Not sweet.

Not polite.

Jack kissed you like restraint had been a language he had finally decided to stop speaking.

The first press of his mouth stole every coherent thought you had left. Heat flashed through you so fast your knees went unreliable, and his hand tightened at your waist, steadying you, pulling you in, holding you like he had been thinking about that exact place all night.

Maybe longer.

You made a sound against his mouth.

Small.

Embarrassing.

Completely involuntary.

Jack inhaled like it had hit him in the chest.

Then he kissed you harder.

Your back met the shelf behind you with a soft rattle of packaged gauze. Not slammed. Not careless. He followed you there with one hand braced beside your shoulder, the other at your waist, his body close enough that you could feel the heat of him through both layers of your clothes. Every fantasy you had been trying to survive all night suddenly had weight. His mouth at the corner of yours. His hand at your waist. His chest against your hands.

His voice, wrecked and low, when he broke away just enough to breathe. “Jesus.”

You dragged in air.

It did not help.

Your hands had found his shoulders at some point. Broad. Solid. Real beneath your palms. One slid up to the back of his neck, fingers brushing the short hair there, and Jack made a rough sound that went straight through you.

You wanted to hear it again.

You wanted to hear everything.

You kissed him back before he could decide to be responsible. His mouth opened under yours, and the whole room tilted. Jack’s hand flexed at your waist. Careful. Still careful. Even like this.

Especially like this.

He held you like he wanted to feel every inch of you and still remembered you were a person he had to ask for. That thought nearly undid you. Your fingers tightened in his scrub top. He groaned softly against your mouth. The sound was low and broken and nothing like the controlled voice he used in trauma rooms.

You pulled back just enough to breathe. “Jack.”

His eyes snapped open.

Oh.

That did something to him.

You saw it. Felt it. The way his whole body tightened at his name in your mouth.

He stared at you like he had been hit. Then his hand slid from your waist to your jaw, thumb brushing along the edge of your cheek with a restraint that looked painful. “Say that again,” he said, voice rough, “and I’m going to have a problem, pretty girl.”

Your entire body went liquid. There it was. Not ‘Social Work’. Not the professional mask. Not the nickname he could say across a crowded nurses’ station and deny later if anyone asked.

Pretty girl.

Low.

Private.

Devastating.

You forgot how to breathe.

Jack’s thumb stilled against your cheek. “Too much?”

The question landed through the heat.

Gentle. Checking.

You shook your head quickly.

His eyes searched yours. “Use words.”

Of course. Of course, he would make you say it.

Your fingers tightened at the back of his neck. “No,” you said. “Not too much.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth again. “Good.”

Then he kissed you like the words had given him permission. This time, you were ready for the heat. You were not ready for the way he made it worse by slowing down. By taking your mouth like he had nowhere else to be, no trauma bay outside, no coworkers with eyes, no entire hospital pressing around the edges of this tiny room. Like he had been imagining exactly this and wanted to prove, thoroughly, that he had a better imagination than you did.

Your hand slipped into his hair.

He made that sound again.

You smiled against his mouth because you could not help it.

Jack pulled back just enough to look at you. “What?”

You were breathing too hard to be dignified. “Nothing.”

“Liar.” He murmured against your lips.

The callback hit both of you at once.

You laughed. Soft. Breathless.

Jack’s expression changed. Not cooler. Worse. Warmer. Hungrier. Like the sound had gone somewhere inside him and made itself at home.

Then his mouth was on yours again.

Your laugh disappeared into him.

The shelf rattled softly when his forearm braced beside your head. His body crowded yours, controlled strength and heat and the faint scent of coffee, soap, and him. You could feel every place he was careful not to press too hard, every place he gave you room to move away. You did not move away. You pulled him closer. His breath left him sharply.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

The word barely made it past his mouth.

You felt it anyway.

A voice passed outside the door. “Where’s Abbot?”

Both of you froze. Not pulled apart. Not yet. Jack’s mouth was still close enough to yours that his breath touched your lips. His hand was still at your waist. Your fingers were still curled in the front of his scrub top like you had forgotten how to let go.

Which, to be fair, you had.

Another voice answered from farther down the hall. “Trauma two, maybe?”

“He’s not there.”

Jack closed his eyes. You felt his hand flex once at your waist before he made himself release you. Not quickly.

That was worse.

He let go like it cost him something.

Your back stayed against the shelf. Packaged gauze pressed between your shoulder blades. Your mouth felt swollen. Your whole body felt like it had been opened and left humming.

Outside, Ellis’s voice cut closer. “Abbot?”

Jack dropped his forehead lightly against yours. One second. Just one. “Of course,” he murmured.

You almost laughed, but it came out closer to a shaky breath. His eyes opened. They were dark. Wrecked. Still fixed on your mouth like leaving it was an actual physical hardship. “We’re not doing this here,” he said.

Your pulse tripped. “You started it.”

“I know.” No denial. No joke. Just a rough, honest admission that made the room feel smaller.

Then Ellis called again, sharper this time. “Abbot.”

Jack stepped back. The loss of him was immediate and unfair. He dragged one hand over his mouth, then stopped like that had only made it worse. His hair was mussed from your fingers. His scrub top was twisted where you had grabbed it.

You stared at him.

He stared back.

Then, because apparently he still had some mercy left, he reached up and gently straightened the edge of your badge. His knuckles brushed your chest through your top. Barely. After everything else, it should not have mattered. It did.

Your breath caught.

Jack’s eyes lifted. “See?” he said softly. “Problem.”

Outside the door, footsteps approached.

Jack looked toward the hall, then back at you. “I’m going out first.”

You nodded, because words felt impossible.

His hand settled briefly against the door handle. Then he paused. “Social Work.”

Your pulse kicked. “Yeah?”

His gaze moved over your face once, lingering at your mouth. The professional mask was back in the nickname, but barely. It sat crooked now. Ruined by his mouth. Ruined by your hands in his hair. Ruined by the way he had called you pretty girl and made every thought in your head go quiet except yes. His voice dropped. “We’re not done.”

Then he opened the door and stepped into the hall.

Shen’s voice came immediately. “There you are.”

Jack sounded calm. Too calm. “Problem?”

“CT wants you,” Shen answered.

Jack nodded, “On my way.”

A pause.

Then Shen asked, “Why is your hair like that?”

Silence.

Your hand flew to your mouth.

Jack said, “Long night.”

“Mm-hmm.” Shen hummed.

Jack gave him a look. “Shen.”

“What?” He asks innocently.

“Don’t,” Jack said.

You stayed in the supply room, one hand pressed to your mouth, the other still gripping the shelf behind you. You tried to breathe. Your lips still felt  him. Your waist still remembers his hand. Your body still had the shape of him written against it in heat. You straightened your cardigan. Fixed your badge, which he had already fixed, because apparently you needed to touch the place his hand had just been.

You grabbed two random packs of gauze from the shelf so you could pretend you had entered the supply room for a reason that had anything to do with patient care. Then you stepped back into the ER with your mouth swollen, your pulse wrecked, and the horrible realization that Jack Abbot had been right.

You were not done.

Not even close.

You made it five full seconds. That deserved recognition, honestly. A plaque. A certificate. A hospital-wide email about your commitment to professional conduct in the face of extreme personal adversity. You stepped out of the supply room with two packs of gauze in your hand and the firm belief that if you moved normally enough, no one would know Jack Abbot had just kissed you against a shelf full of wound care supplies. The ER did not pause. Monitors chimed. A nurse laughed at something near the med room. The printer screamed itself awake. Somewhere behind curtain four, a patient asked for ice chips in a tone that suggested ice chips were a constitutional right. Normal. Everything was normal.

Except your mouth still felt like his.

Except your waist still remembered the shape of his hand.

Except the words ‘pretty girl’ had settled somewhere low in your body and decided to live there permanently. You walked back to central station with the gauze. Very casually. Possibly too casually.

Crus looked up from a chart and blinked at the packs in your hand. “Did we need those?”

You looked down. Gauze. Right. “Yes.”

Ellis, without lifting her eyes from the board, said, “Let her have the gauze.”

You set the gauze beside your laptop as if it were the most important thing you had done all night. Then you sat. Carefully. Because apparently sitting was complicated now. Your body had become a crime scene. You clicked into your notes and stared at the screen. The cursor blinked.

Your brain supplied Jack’s mouth.

Not helpful.

You typed half a sentence.

Your brain supplied his hand at your waist, firm and hot through your scrubs, holding you like he had been thinking about that exact place all night.

You deleted the sentence.

The cursor blinked again.

Your brain supplied his voice.

‘Say that again, and I’m going to have a problem, pretty girl.’

Your fingers stilled on the keyboard.

God.

You had thought kissing Jack Abbot would answer something. That was almost funny now. It had not answered anything. It had made everything worse. Before, wanting him had been theoretical in the way dangerous things were theoretical when they stayed across counters and inside fantasies. His hands. His voice. His shoulders under black scrubs. The way he stood too close and looked at you like he knew exactly where your mind had gone. Before, you could pretend your body was exaggerating.

Now you knew.

You knew what his mouth felt like when he stopped being careful. Knew the weight of his hand at your waist. Knew the heat of him pressed close enough to make the whole world narrow down to his breath and your back against a supply shelf. Knew the sound he made when your fingers got into his hair.

You knew what it did to him when you said his name.

Jack.

Not Abbot.

Not Dr. Abbot.

Jack.

The knowledge sat low in your body, hot and impossible to ignore.

You wanted him.

God, you wanted him.

You wanted him so badly it made normal tasks feel obscene. Charting. Walking. Holding gauze. Answering Crus’s question about whether you needed gauze. All of it felt ridiculous when your mouth still felt swollen from Jack’s and your waist still remembered the shape of his hand.

And it was not just because he was beautiful.

Though he was. You could not find a better word to describe him.

Infuriatingly, unfairly beautiful in a way that did not look polished or easy. Beautiful like rough hands and tired eyes and gray in his scruff. Beautiful like a man who had seen too much and still knew how to stand between someone scared and the worst thing in the room. It was not just his body, though your brain had certainly built a detailed and deeply inappropriate file on that subject. His shoulders. His chest. His forearms when he snapped on gloves. His hands when they braced near yours, when they steadied patients, when they held your waist like he had been imagining that exact place all night. It was not just his voice, though that voice had become a private disaster. Low in the trauma bay. Dry at the nurses’ station. Rough in the supply room when he called you ‘pretty girl’ and made every thought in your head go white.

It was him.

That was the problem.

It was the way he waited for permission, even when he wanted something. The way he made rooms safer without needing anyone to thank him for it. The way he read fear like a vital sign. The way he could be blunt and careful at the same time. The way he looked at you when you were doing your job, like he saw the work beneath the warmth and wanted that too.

You wanted him outside the hospital.

The realization hit so hard you nearly stopped breathing.

You wanted to see him somewhere without fluorescent lights. Somewhere without call bells and trauma gowns and the constant threat of someone needing either of you before you could finish a sentence. You wanted him across a table. Wanted to know if he took his coffee black everywhere, or if that was only an ER survival mechanism. Wanted to know what he would order if you dragged him to a coffee shop after shift, both of you exhausted and useless in the morning sun, sitting too close at a small table with your knees brushing beneath it. You wanted to see what he looked like, tired and happy. Not calm because he had to be. Not controlled because people were watching. Just tired. Warm. Yours for an hour. Your throat tightened. You wanted to know what he would look like in your apartment. Too broad for your little kitchen. Out of place beside your couch. One hip leaned against your counter while you made coffee, hair still damp from a shower, scruff rougher than it had been when he left the hospital. You wanted to know if he would take up space carefully there, too, or if some part of him would finally stop bracing for impact. You wanted to make him stop bracing.

That thought changed the shape of the fantasy.

It was not only his hands on you.

It was yours on him.

You wanted to undo him.

Wanted to put your hands on his chest and feel all that restraint under your palms. Wanted to trace the hard lines of him slowly enough that his breath changed. Wanted to drag your nails down his chest and watch the calm leave his face inch by inch. Wanted to follow the path your hands made with your mouth, your teeth, your tongue, until Jack Abbot — steady, controlled, impossible Jack Abbot — forgot how to be anything but a man under your hands.

You wanted to know what he sounded like when he was not giving orders.

When he was not saying ‘breathe with me’ to a patient or ‘Social Work’ across a crowded station.

When he was saying your name, because you had taken him apart carefully enough to make him lose the rest of his vocabulary.

You wanted him on your couch.

Wanted to push him back and climb into his lap just to see if he would let you. Wanted to feel his hands grip your hips, to watch his jaw go tight, to find out whether he would still try to hold on to control when you were above him, moving against him, giving him every chance to break.

Would he let you have that?

Would he let you be the one who ruined him first?

Or would his restraint snap?

Would he stand, turn you around, bend you over the kitchen table with that rough sound in his throat and his hands finally as hungry as his mouth? Would he take you to bed like a man who had spent the entire night practicing restraint and was done pretending it had made him noble?

The thought nearly took your knees out from under you.

Slow.

Hard.

Gentle.

Desperate.

You wanted all of it.

You wanted to find every version of him and make him stop hiding behind the controlled one. You wanted his patience. You wanted his loss of patience. You wanted his mouth at your throat, his body over yours, his voice in your ear, his hands giving you exactly what he had been denying both of you all night.

And, God help you, you wanted to be the reason he stopped denying himself.

“Social Work.”

Your fingers hit the wrong keys.

Again.

Because apparently this was your life now.

You looked up.

Jack had returned to central station.

Of course, he had.

He stood across from you with one hand on the counter and a chart in the other, looking almost normal. Almost. His hair was fixed. Mostly. His scrub top was smoothed down. Mostly.

His mouth—

Nope.

You could not look at his mouth. You looked directly into his eyes instead, which was somehow worse. His gaze held yours for half a second. Long enough for your entire body to remember the supply room. Long enough for his eyes to drop, barely, to the gauze beside your laptop. One corner of his mouth moved. Not a smile. A crime. “You find what you needed?”

Your face went hot. Behind him, Crus coughed into his coffee.

You folded your hands over the keyboard. “Yes.”

Jack’s gaze stayed steady. “Good.” That word. That voice.

You were going to need legal representation.

Shen walked past with a chart and did not slow down. “Both of you are very bad at being subtle.”

You closed your eyes.

Jack did not even blink. “John.”

“What?” Shen called over his shoulder. “That was me being helpful.”

Crus looked up. “Helpful about what?”

“No,” Ellis said.

Crus frowned. “I’m beginning to feel excluded.”

“You are being protected,” Ellis said.

You opened your eyes.

Jack was still looking at you.

The ER continued around you, but the space between you had its own weather now. Different pressure. Less oxygen. You tried to reach for sarcasm. It slipped. “You okay, Dr. Abbot?”

His eyes darkened.

Oh.

Wrong question.

Or the right question.

You were no longer sure there was a difference.

Jack leaned forward slightly, not enough to cause a scene, just enough that his voice could drop under the noise. “Do not ask me that right now.”

Your stomach tightened. You looked down at your laptop because eye contact suddenly felt legally dangerous.

His hand shifted on the counter. You saw it in your peripheral vision. The same hand that had been on your waist less than ten minutes ago. The same fingers that had fixed your badge after he kissed you. The same knuckles that had brushed your scrub top so lightly, your breath had caught anyway. You wanted those hands back on you. You wanted yours on him. The want rose so sharply you had to press your knee against the underside of the desk.

Jack saw the movement. Of course he did. His jaw tightened.

For one second, the attending-neutral mask slipped. Not much. Enough.

Then a nurse called his name from room six. “Abbot?”

He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, he looked at you one more time. “We’re working,” he said.

You nodded. Yes. Working. A helpful reminder.

A terrible one.

“Right,” you said. “Working.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then away. He left before either of you made it worse. You watched him go.

No, you did not.

You looked at your computer screen.

Which reflected him faintly as he walked away.

So, technically, you watched him go.

You forced yourself back into the chart. Patient discharged with safety plan and resources.

Your mouth still felt like Jack's.

Follow-up provided.

Your waist still remembered his grip.

No further social work services are needed at this time.

You saved the note. Then the charge phone rang. Crus picked it up, listened for three seconds, and looked at you. “Room eight’s daughter is asking for social work.”

You inhaled slowly. “Okay.”

Work. Work was good. Work was stable. Work did not involve imagining Jack Abbot in your apartment with his hands braced on either side of your kitchen table.

You stood.

Across the department, Jack stepped out of room six. You both moved at the same time. Toward opposite ends of the hall. The corridor narrowed near the medication room, forcing you to pass each other with only inches to spare. Before the supply room, that would have been the problem. The risk of accidental contact. The brush of his sleeve. The heat of his body. Now, Jack deliberately gave you space. He turned his shoulder slightly, making room for you to pass. He did not touch your waist. Did not brush your hand. Did not let his fingers find the small of your back. Somehow, after the supply room, the restraint felt louder than contact. You slowed for half a second. So did he. Neither of you stopped. As you passed, his voice reached you, barely more than breath. “Later.”

One word. A promise. A warning. A problem.

You kept walking because room eight needed you, and because if you turned around, you were not completely sure you could keep walking away. Your skin felt lit everywhere he had not touched you. Which seemed unfair. Deeply unfair. You entered room eight with a calm face, a soft voice, and absolutely no idea how you were supposed to make it to the end of the shift alive.

JACK POV

Jack had thought kissing you might take the edge off.

That was almost comical now.

 It had not taken anything off.

 It had put detail into every thought he had been trying to keep vague. Now he knew the sound you made when his mouth found yours. Knew the way your fingers tightened in his scrub top like you were trying to keep yourself upright. Knew the heat of your waist under his hand, the softness of you through fabric, the way your whole body seemed to answer before your mouth could decide whether it was allowed.

He knew what his name sounded like in your mouth.

Jack.

Christ.

He had been called Abbot for so long in these halls that his first name almost felt like something he kept somewhere else. Something private. Something that belonged off shift, off duty, outside fluorescent lights and trauma rooms and the endless machinery of other people’s emergencies. Then you had said it once, breathless in a supply room, and his body had reacted like you had put your hand around his throat.

Jack signed an order.

Fucking hell.

He forced his attention back to room six. Work. He was working. He had told you that because one of you needed to say it out loud, and because if he did not keep reminding himself, he was going to walk back across central station, put his hand at your waist, and finish what he had started beside the gauze.

He wanted to take you to dinner.

The thought hit him hard enough to make his jaw tighten.

He wanted to see you outside the hospital first. Outside of the fluorescent lights, trauma bays and central station counters. He wanted to know what you looked like when no one was asking you to be calm. Wanted to sit across from you somewhere dim and warm and watch you choose what to eat. Wanted to hear your laugh when you did not have to swallow it down because a patient was sleeping behind a curtain, or Shen was ten feet away, asking why everyone was acting weird.

He wanted to know you there.

And then—

Christ.

Then he wanted to fuck you.

Not in theory. Not in some half-controlled, easily dismissed way.

He wanted you in his bed. Against his wall. Under his hands with nothing between you but breath and want and every filthy thought the two of you had been pretending not to have all night.

He wanted to take you slowly first.

Wanted to learn you by inches. Kiss by kiss. Touch by touch. Wanted to drag his mouth over every place that made you shiver and find out what made that careful voice finally break. Wanted to coax the small sounds out of you until they were no longer small. Until you stopped trying to be quiet. Until your hands were in his hair and your body was arching into his and his name was the only thing you remembered how to say.

He wanted to take you apart with patience.

And then he wanted to lose that patience.

Wanted to fuck you hard enough that all the restraint he had practiced for weeks finally became useless. Wanted your mouth open beneath his, your legs around him, your breath coming fast and broken while he gave you everything you asked for. Rough if you wanted rough. Slow if you wanted slow. Anything. All of it. No denying you. No denying himself. No stopping just because wanting you had become inconvenient.

He wanted to hear you gasp.

Wanted to hear you moan.

Wanted to find every edge you had and bring you right up to it until you were shaking under his touch, until you were panting and desperate and looking at him like he was the only thing keeping you from coming apart completely.

And then he wanted to take you over.

Again.

And again.

Until neither of you had anything left to pretend.

Jack closed his eyes for half a second. A terrible idea. Because closing his eyes only put you there more clearly. Your back against the shelf. Your hands in his hair. Your mouth swollen.

Your eyes wide when he called you pretty girl.

He opened his eyes.

The patient in room six stared at him from the bed. “You good, Doc?”

Jack looked down at the chart. Then back to the patient. “Long night.”

The patient nodded solemnly. “Same.”

Fair enough.

Jack finished the reassessment, stepped out of room six, and nearly collided with you in the hall. He stopped short. So did you. The corridor narrowed between the medication room and the supply carts. There was enough space for two people to pass if both of them behaved like adults. He was trying.

God, he was trying.

You looked up at him. Your eyes were calm. Your mouth was not. Your mouth looked like he had kissed it, and some primitive, unreasonable part of him wanted to turn you around and make it worse.

Instead, Jack moved his shoulder back. Made room. Did not touch you. That was the most restraint he had shown all night, and it nearly killed him. You passed close enough that he caught your scent. Hospital soap. Something faintly sweet.

You.

His hand flexed at his side. He did not let it move. Your gaze dropped to the movement, then back to his face. You knew. Of course, you knew.

Jack leaned just enough that his voice would reach you and no one else. “Later.”

Your breath caught.

Small.

Perfect.

Then you kept walking.

Good.

Good.

If you had stopped, he would have stopped too. If you had turned back, he would have forgotten the rest of the goddamn hospital. He watched you go anyway because, apparently he had learned nothing. You entered room eight. The door swung partly closed behind you. Jack stood in the hall for one second too long.  You were not a stolen minute. Not a hallway look. Not a mouth he could keep thinking about while pretending all he had done was finally give in to something physical.

You were not just a heated moment in a supply closet.

You were the woman who made scared patients breathe.

The woman who gave people choices when the night had already taken too many.

The woman who had kissed him back like she was just as tired of pretending as he was, then walked back into the ER and kept doing her job with a mouth he could still taste and gauze in her hand like a shield. Jack looked toward room eight. Then down at the chart in his hand. Jack turned back to the board. There were orders to sign. Patients to disposition. A department to keep moving until the gray light of morning crept around the hospital windows and the day shift arrived smelling like sleep and optimism.

Fine.

He could do that.

He could finish the shift.

He could keep his hands to himself.

He could be steady for another hour. Maybe two.

Because he knew exactly what he was going to do when the night finally let go of both of you.

He was going to ask you to dinner.

Not because he had cooled down.

Not because the kiss had been a mistake.

Because it had not been a mistake.

Because if he put his hands on you again, he wanted it to be after you had chosen him somewhere outside this place. Somewhere warm. Somewhere without call lights and security phones and coworkers close enough to hear the way your breath changed.

He wanted your yes over dinner.

He wanted your laugh across a table.

He wanted to walk you to your car.

The pause.

The choice.

Then, and only then, he wanted the rest.

Jack picked up his pen and signed the next order.

His hand was steady.

Barely.

He was going to finish the shift.

And then he was going to ask you to dinner before he put his hands on you again.

YOUR POV

By 6:58, the ER had become the morning’s problem. Day shift arrived in layers of clean hair, full coffee cups, and the offensive brightness of people who had slept in beds rather than in chairs, cars, or spiritually questionable break rooms. Night shift handed over the department the way people handed over live wires. Carefully. With warnings. Room six needed repeat labs. Room eight’s daughter had finally agreed to go home and sleep for two hours before coming back. The toe was discharged, despite Shen’s continued belief that it had “narrative weight.” Crus had found his missing tape roll on his own sleeve. Ellis looked ready to fight the sun.

And Jack Abbot had not touched you again.

Not once.

Not at the central station. Not in the hallway. Not when you passed each other outside room eight, and your shoulder came within an inch of his chest. Not when he leaned over the board to sign out to the day shift, and you stood close enough to see the pen mark still smudged near his thumb.

The restraint was worse now.

Before the supply room, the distance had been deniable.

After, it felt deliberate.

It felt like Jack holding a match between his teeth and refusing to strike it.

You had survived the last hour on professionalism, spite, and the phrase ‘we’re not done’ repeating in your head every time you tried to form a normal thought. You signed your last note. Saved it. Close your laptop. Then stared at the blank screen for half a second, catching your reflection in the dark glass. Your mouth looked normal. Probably. Your badge was straight because he had fixed it in the supply room with hands that had no business being gentle after kissing you like that. Your cardigan was back on both shoulders. Your hair was still coming loose around your face, but that could be blamed on the shift. Most things could be blamed on the shift. Not this.

Crus passed behind you with his bag slung over one shoulder. “You heading out?”

“Yeah.”

His eyes moved over your face once. Not teasing. Softer than that. “Drive safe.”

The kindness of it nearly undid you. You nodded. “You too.”

Shen appeared beside him, still wearing the expression of a man haunted by a missing phone charger . “If anyone sees my charger—”

“Shen,” Ellis called from the board, “go home.”

He sighed. “Hostile workplace.”

Crus steered him toward the exit. Ellis stopped beside your chair. For one terrifying second, you thought she was going to say something about Jack. About the supply room. About the fact that the entire night shift had eyes and apparently no survival instinct.

Instead, she looked down at your closed laptop. “Your notes done?”

You blinked. “Yeah.”

“Good.” She paused. “Go home before someone needs you again.”

Your throat tightened. “Good advice.”

 “I give it constantly. No one listens.”

Then she walked away.

You stood slowly, slinging your bag over your shoulder, and made yourself not look for Jack. You made it four steps. Then five. Then you looked. Of course you did. He was at the far end of central station, speaking to Robby. Scrub top rumpled. Hair mostly fixed. One hand on the counter, posture loose in that deceptive way that meant he was exhausted and still tracking everything in the room.

His gaze lifted before you could look away. Found you. Stayed. The department moved around him. Nurses, residents, techs, daylight. All of it passing between you like the world still had the audacity to exist.

Jack’s face did not change.

But his eyes did.

Dark. Steady. Certain.

Your pulse kicked hard.

Then he looked back at Robby and said something you could not hear.

The dismissal should have helped. It did not. Because you knew now what it meant when Jack looked away. You knew what it cost him. You walked toward the staff exit before you could do something humiliating like stand there and wait to be wanted in public. The back hallway was quieter. Not quiet, exactly. Hospitals were never quiet. But softer. Less immediate. The linoleum dulled the sound of your shoes. The windows near the stairwell held pale morning light, gray-blue and thin, the kind that made everything look slightly unreal.

You pushed through the staff door into the small alcove by the ambulance bay. Cool air slipped under your cardigan. You inhaled. Once. Twice. You had made it. You had survived the shift. You had survived Maya and Daniel and Erin and room eight and Shen’s toe and Ellis’s terrifying observational skills and the supply room shelf still holding the exact shape of your back somewhere in its institutional memory.

You had survived Jack Abbot’s mouth.

Mostly.

You took one step toward the outer door.

“Social Work.”

You stopped. Your hand was still on the strap of your bag. For a second, you closed your eyes.

Because of course. Because the night was not done with you. Because he had told you he wasn’t.

You turned.

Jack stood at the end of the hall. No chart now. No coffee. No stethoscope.

Just him.

Tired. Rumpled. Guard down enough that your breath caught before he even came closer. He looked different away from the central station. Still Jack. Still broad and steady and built out of restraint. But without the counter between you, without the board behind him, without someone calling his name every ten seconds, he seemed less like the attending and more like the man who had kissed you in a supply room and then walked back into the ER like he was holding himself together by hand.

Your body remembered instantly. His hand at your waist. His mouth opening over yours.

‘Pretty girl.’

You swallowed. “Dr. Abbot.”

His mouth barely moved. “Really?”

You knew exactly what he meant. The title. The shield. The last stupid little wall.

You lifted your chin anyway. “We’re at work.”

“Barely.” He replied.

“That still counts.”

“It does.” He came closer. Slowly. Not crowding. Not this time. He stopped a few feet away, leaving space between you like he had decided to prove he could. Like the space itself was an apology and a promise and a restraint all at once.

Your fingers tightened on your bag strap. “Are you okay?” you asked.

Jack’s eyes darkened.

You regretted it immediately. Not because it was wrong. Because it had become something else now.

He looked at you for a long second. “No,” he said.

Your pulse tripped.

The corner of his mouth lifted, but it did not soften the answer.

“No?” You asked.

“No.”

The hallway seemed to narrow.

Jack glanced toward the door behind you, then back at your face. “I want to take you to dinner.”

You stared at him. Of all the things your brain had prepared for, somehow that had not been one of them. Not after the supply room. Not after his mouth. Not after ‘we’re not done’ had been living under your skin for the last hour.

“Dinner,” you repeated.

“Yes.”

Your laugh came out small and disbelieving. “That’s where you’re starting?”

Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth. Briefly. Enough. “No,” he said. “That’s where I’m choosing to start.”

Oh.

The words landed harder than any flirtation had.

You went still.

Jack saw it. Of course, he saw it. He always did. He stepped closer by one pace. Still leaving room. Still not touching you. “I want you,” he said.

The hallway vanished.

There was nothing but his voice. Low. Rough. Honest. “I think you know that by now.”

Your mouth went dry. You nodded once. Barely.

Jack’s jaw flexed. “But I don’t want this to be something that only happens because we’re exhausted and half out of our minds in a supply room.”

Your chest tightened.

He took another careful breath. “I want to see you outside this place. Without the badge. Without the call lights. Without someone needing either of us before we finish a sentence.” His eyes held yours. “I want to sit across from you somewhere that doesn’t smell like antiseptic and bad coffee and find out what you order when you’re not pretending vending machine crackers count as dinner.”

A helpless smile touched your mouth.

Jack’s eyes followed it like it hurt him. “I want that first,” he said.

Your voice came out softer than you intended. “And then?”

His gaze lifted to yours. The air changed. Heat flashed through the space between you, immediate and familiar now. No longer imaginary. No longer deniable.

Jack’s voice dropped. “Then, if you still look at me like that, pretty girl, I’m going to spend a long time proving I meant it when I said we weren’t done.”

Your whole body went hot.

The words were not explicit.

They did not need to be.

Your brain supplied his hands, his mouth, your apartment, your couch, his body under yours, his control gone because you had taken it apart piece by piece. It supplied all of it in one bright, reckless rush until your knees felt unreliable and the door behind you seemed like the only thing keeping you upright.

Jack watched your face. The heat in his eyes shifted, not cooling, but anchoring.

“Dinner,” he said again. “Not instead of anything else.”

Your breath caught.

“Before,” Jack murmured.

That word nearly ruined you.

Before.

Not no. Not never. Before. You looked down for half a second, because looking at him was suddenly too much. The floor was safer. Ugly hospital tile. Scuffed from years of night shifts and bad news and people leaving differently than they came in. Then you looked back up.

Jack had not moved. Still giving you space. Still waiting. Still him.

You thought about him at the central station, leaning over your laptop with that awful, almost-smile. Thought about him in room twelve, asking Maya’s permission before touching her bruised wrist. Thought about him in trauma two, calm as stone, making a terrible thing survivable. Thought about him in the supply room, losing his control and still checking yours.

You wanted the filthy parts.

God, you wanted them.

You wanted his hands and his mouth and the rough sound he made when your fingers got in his hair. You wanted to undo him. Wanted to learn what happened when Jack Abbot did not have to be steady for anyone. Wanted to see him in your apartment, too broad for your kitchen, coffee in his hand, restraint finally useless because you had chosen him there too.

But you also wanted dinner. You wanted him across a table. You wanted his laugh in daylight. You wanted the hour where no one needed either of you to be brave.

So you nodded. “Yes.”

Jack’s expression changed. Just slightly. But you saw it. Relief first. Then heat. Then something more dangerous, because it looked almost tender. “Yeah?”

You smiled, small and shaky. “Yeah.”

His hand lifted. Stopped. Your eyes dropped to it. He noticed. Of course.

“Can I?” he asked.

Your throat tightened. After everything, that question still got you. Maybe because of everything. You nodded.

Jack stepped closer and took your hand. Not your waist. Not your jaw. Your hand. Warm, careful, solid around yours. Somehow, after the supply room, that felt more intimate than being kissed against a shelf. His thumb brushed once over your knuckles.

Your breath caught.

His mouth curved. “There it is,” he murmured.

You narrowed your eyes, though your pulse had absolutely betrayed you. “Don’t be smug.”

“I’m not,” Jack replied.

You raise a brow, “You are.”

“I’m relieved.”

That stopped you.

Jack’s thumb stilled. The honesty sat between you, quieter than the heat but no less dangerous.

You squeezed his hand once before you could overthink it. “When?” you asked.

His eyes stayed on your face. “Tonight.”

You blinked. “Tonight?”

“After we sleep,” Jack replied. 

You exhale, “Bold assumption.”

“That we’ll sleep?” He asked. 

“That either of us will be functional in twelve hours.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “I didn’t ask for functional.”

“No?”

“No.” His eyes dropped to your mouth again, and your entire body remembered his. “I asked for dinner.”

You swallowed. “Seven?”

He nodded, “Seven.”

Then reality, cruel and practical, cut through the heat for half a second. “Don’t you work tonight?” You asked. 

“No.”

You paused.

Jack’s mouth barely moved, but something almost amused shifted in his eyes.

“Neither do you,” he said.

Your eyebrows lifted. “You know my schedule?”

“I work nights in an ER,” he said. “Knowing who I’m stuck with is survival.”

“That is a very romantic way to say you checked.” You grin. 

“I noticed.” He corrected. 

That was worse.

Of course, it was worse.

The heat of the hallway, the memory of his mouth, the way he had said ‘pretty girl’ like he had ruined both of you on purpose — all of it shifted around that one word.

Noticed.

Jack noticed everything. Your hands on a keyboard. Your breathing when he stood too close. Your voice with patients. Your name on the board. Your night off.

Your chest tightened. “So we’re both off,” you said.

“We’re both off,” he answered.

You raise a brow, “Suspicious.”

“Deeply.” He agreed. 

“And you’re using this scheduling miracle to ask me to dinner?” You ask. 

“I’m using it to take you to dinner.”

Your mouth curved before you could stop it. “Confident.”

“No,” Jack said, quieter now. “Hopeful.”

That softened something dangerous in you.

The filthy parts were still there. God, they were there. His hands, his mouth, your apartment, the imagined weight of him against you when neither of you had to stop because someone called his name from the hallway.

But this was there too.

Dinner.

A real one.

A night off.

A choice made outside the ER.

“Where?” you asked.

“I’ll pick you up.” He replied. 

You furrow your brows, “You don’t know where I live.”

“I was planning to ask.” He said. 

You smile, “Very responsible of you.”

“I’m trying something new.” 

A laugh escaped you.

Soft.

Tired.

Real.

Jack looked at you like he had wanted that sound all night and was furious it had taken this long to get it.

Then his hand tightened slightly around yours.

Not pulling.

Just holding.

“You can still say no,” he said.

You stepped closer.

Only one step.

Enough that the warmth of him reached you again.

Enough that his eyes sharpened.

“I know.”

His gaze moved over your face. “And?”

You tilted your head. “I’m saying yes.”

Jack inhaled slowly.

The controlled kind.

The kind that meant he wanted to do something else with his mouth and was choosing not to.

For now.

You liked that you knew that.

You liked it too much.

His thumb brushed your knuckles again.

“Good.”

That word again.

Your stomach flipped.

“You know,” you said, “dinner is not usually this dramatic.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “With you, I’m starting to think everything is.”

“You started this.” You counter. 

“I did.”

The lack of denial warmed you in places you were trying very hard not to think about in a hospital hallway.

A door opened somewhere behind him.

Voices approached.

Day shift. Nurses. The world.

Jack let go of your hand before anyone rounded the corner.

You missed the contact immediately.

His eyes told you he knew that too.

“Go home,” he said.

“Bossy.” You replied. 

“Yes.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Go sleep, Dr. Abbot.”

His gaze sharpened at the title.

Not correcting you this time.

Just filing it away.

“Careful,” he said.

Your smile faded into heat

The word came back with every version of the night attached. The counter. The pen. The trauma bay. The supply room. His mouth. Your hands. ‘We’re not done.’

You stepped backward toward the exit.

“Maybe you should stop saying that if you don’t want me to test it.”

Jack’s expression went still.

The same way it had in the trauma bay.

The same way it had before he kissed you.

For one wild second, you thought he might close the distance again anyway.

He did not.

He stayed exactly where he was.

A man practicing restraint badly, but on purpose.

His voice was rough when he answered. “Seven.”

You nodded. “Seven.”

Then you pushed open the staff door and stepped into the morning. The air was cool. Gray light spread across the parking lot. The world outside the hospital looked too ordinary for what had just happened inside it. Cars with dew on their windshields. A delivery truck is idling near the side entrance. Birds making noise in the weak early sun like they had no respect for night shift or the fact that your entire life had just changed beside an ambulance bay door. You walked toward your car on unsteady legs.

Halfway there, you looked back.

Jack stood inside the glass, one hand braced against the doorframe, watching you go.

He did not wave.

Neither did you.

You only smiled.

Small.

Private.

His head dipped once.

A promise.

Your phone buzzed before you reached your car.

Unknown number. Then the text appeared.

Seven. Send me your address when you get home.

A second text followed before you could answer.

And sleep.

You stared at the screen.

Then smiled so hard your cheeks hurt.

You typed back with shaking fingers.

Yes, Doctor.

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

Then:

Careful, pretty girl.

Your breath left you in a laugh that sounded nothing like the controlled voice you used in the ER. You got into your car. Locked the door. Press your forehead to the steering wheel for one second. Then two. Then you looked at the phone again. Seven. Dinner first.

Then whatever came after.

Whatever you both chose when no one was bleeding, no one was calling his name, and there was no supply room door for the rest of the world to knock on. Your lips still felt like him. Your hand still remembered his.

And for the first time all night, you let yourself stop pretending that was a problem.

It was not a problem.

It was a promise.

after you debrief him on a change in the patient's condition, one that he agrees warrants sending them up to the icu, you just have to ask. "um, dr abbot? did i do something to upset you?"

his brows knit together. "no, not at all. why?"

"you've just... been staring at me..." you reply, your voice unsure.

he exhales, his words coming through gritted teeth. "listen, i think you should just go to the lost and found, and grab a t-shirt." you look shocked, so he clarifies: "it's nothing personal. you just... you're... there are a lot of creeps running around here at night, okay? drunk assholes who get handsy when they've got a young woman that looks the way you do takin' care of em. you should cover up."

you straighten up at that. "my tits?" you reply, tone unusually sharp. "you want me to cover up my tits in case a perv comes in? cause i think it's a little late for that."

he can't even argue, really. he is a perv. he'd spent hours fisting his cock looking at those pictures of you, his younger colleague. his muscles tense up as remembers the way his hips had jerked into his hand just that morning, how he'd spilled cum onto his ipad's screen. "i- i- uh..."

"dr abbot, you're so hard right now, your dick could probably break glass," you deadpan. and you're right. jack looks down, and for the first time in his life curses the fact that his cock is so big, because there's no hiding it.

and because you're a kind, sweet girl, you take pity on jack and jerk him off in the abandoned wing. he's so exhausted that he can't even carry out any of those fantasies he'd had of pinning you down and fucking you until you begged him to stop. his only solace is that you've finally taken off that stupid scrub top.

all he can do is whimper into the curve of your breast, squeezing your tits as you work him over good, while he admits that he'd found your old modelling pictures. "y'looked so good, baby, i— fuck, just like that, yeah— i couldn't help it, made my cock so hard..." your hand is so much softer than his, he thinks. then he starts imagining what your pussy would feel like...

his tip leaks into your fist as his lips drag lower so he can mouth and suck at your nipples. "god, you're beautiful, wanna spoil you... yeah, faster— jesus, these fuckin' tits, baby..." he nuzzles his nose into the soft valley between your breasts, inhaling the soft scent of your perfume as his hands squish the flesh against his stubbly cheeks.

"could fuckin' fall asleep on these things, so soft... even prettier than they look in those pictures, n your skin... tastes even sweeter than i— oh, i'm gonna cum, gonna cum, baby, please don't stop strokin' me..."

he releases into your palm with a choked groan, his whole body shaking with the intensity of his orgasm. "fuck... thank you... thank you, sweetheart, i'm sorry," he pants, rubbing at his eyes.

"i jus… i jus' don't get it, man… whoever the hell has doc walkin' around with god damn stars for eyes s'in fer a ruuude awakening. if they only knew the pile 'a hot shit they're gonna wake up to very, very soon."

jack hums at the slurred words of robby. the guy called him five times before you grunted for him to 'just answer it.' what you didn't expect jack to do is answer it while still buried balls deep inside you. somehow able to keep his huffs quiet as he absentmindedly listens to robby drunk ramble about his ex.

ah, robby's ex.

'doc' to most.

'baby' to jack.

aka you, whose ass he's can't stop staring down at because the sight is something spiritual. better than the best dreams. jiggling with happy ripples at each pop of himself against you, cock splitting you open with creaming strokes.

a 'hot mess'… sure, rob. you're–

actually, you know what? robby's right. you're hot as hell, and quite the mess. got his cock all covered in the prettiest slick he's has the pleasure of laying eyes on, and you're… yep, you're drooling onto your hand, but he doesn't mind. if anything, jack wants it covered in spit by the time he's done with you. your hand drenched and your hole stuffed full, both of which he will be licking clean.

"got no idea what they're-hic-in for," robby continues on the back end of another swallow of whatever drink he's drowning himself in. "w-why're y' breathin' like that, man? you okay? y'good?"

jack doesn't stop, breathing a rough exhale through his nose at your desperate, magnificent, needy ass tipping back to meet his thrusts.

ohhh, you're gonna–

"yeah, 'm good. great. you know i like to jog when i can't sleep." jack reminder shakes a bit because you're squeezing something stupid around him. god, who the hell told you ya could look like this? up on his bed, shaking his mattress, groaning his name so loud that robby might hear.

crack! a smack lands right against your ass. left cheek.

"fuck was'at?"

"nothin'," jack shakes his head at robby's question, pausing for a moment to watch you squirm and resume on your own. his lips part to breathe out hot air, eyes stuck once again on your swiveling behind. "just stepped on a branch. uh. if it makes you feel any better, it's probably not serious. y-you been split for, what, a handful 'a months? that's not enough time to get into anything that really means something. s'probably serious."

jack hears robby sigh. then he hears you choke out a long whine. huh. he'll take the later one hundred times over.

"i… i-i dunno, brother. i might be wasted, but i remember. no matter how in-god damn-sane doc makes me, there's somethin' special there. especially in the beginning. makes you feel like you're fucking magic, man. walkin' on pure air"

one corner of jack's mouth lifts. his hand plants on your whining hips that are plunging him inside you. taking the thick of him like a champ. getting closer and closer to getting flattened into the mattress and your insides painted with the seed he's been saving for only you since you sent that picture earlier.

ha. you two should send robby a picture. there is a sixty-four percent chance that that would lead to the end of the world. you'd be pretty worth it, though. worth the whole world times ten, and see? just look at what happens when you let something like that–someone like you–get away.

Jack liked getting in to work early. It gave him time to settle into the rhythm of the place before it fully woke up—or, more accurately, before it tipped into the strange, electric chaos that came with nights at the Pitt. He thrived on that rhythm, even if it was unpredictable by nature. There was still a pattern to it, something he could anticipate, something he could brace himself for.

Routine mattered. It was one of the few things that kept everything else from slipping too far out of his grasp.

His therapist had called it grounding. Jack just knew it worked.

So he walked in like he always did—backpack slung over one shoulder, coffee half-finished, running on too little sleep but already feeling that familiar, steady rise of adrenaline. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead. The air smelled like antiseptic and something faintly metallic. Normal. Expected.

Until it wasn’t.

Jack slowed as he approached the nurses’ station, something in the atmosphere just…off enough to snag his attention. Shen, Crus, and Ellis were clustered together—but so were a handful of day shifters. Santos. Whitaker. Perlah. Princess. Even Dana.

That alone was unusual.

What made him stop entirely, though, was you.

You stood at the center of it all like you belonged there—like you’d always been there. Simple outfit, nothing flashy, but it suited you in a way that made it hard to look anywhere else. You were smiling, laughing at something Santos had said, the sound easy and unguarded, like you weren’t trying to impress anyone.

Jack frowned, just slightly.

You weren’t staff. He would’ve known.

And yet—everyone else clearly did.

His steps slowed without him meaning them to, his usual beeline to the back room faltering as his attention snagged, held. He watched the way your expression shifted when Whitaker spoke, attentive and warm, like you were genuinely listening. The way you nodded when Shen jumped in, a soft laugh following like it had been pulled from you without effort. The way your features gentled at something Dana added, something quieter, more grounded.

Comfortable.

Familiar.

You fit.

That was what threw him.

Jack’s grip tightened slightly on the strap of his backpack. This—this wasn’t part of the routine. This wasn’t something he could immediately categorize or file away or prepare for. You were a variable, dropped right into the middle of a system he relied on staying at least somewhat predictable.

And still—

You were pretty.

The thought came uninvited, blunt and immediate, and Jack exhaled quietly through his nose like he could dismiss it just as easily.

He couldn’t.

He took another step forward, slower this time, his attention still fixed in a way that felt…inconvenient. Unnecessary. He didn’t do this—didn’t linger, didn’t get caught up watching strangers like he had nothing better to do.

But then he caught it.

Something soft threaded through the sharp, sterile scent of the hospital—warm, faintly sweet. Subtle enough that he might’ve missed it if he hadn’t already been paying too much attention.

It lingered in the air around the nurses’ station.

Around you.

Jack paused again, just for a second, his brow furrowing as something in his chest shifted—not dramatic, not overwhelming, just enough to register. Enough to feel like something had…clicked slightly out of place.

Or maybe into place.

He wasn’t sure which bothered him more.

His jaw set as he finally stepped closer, pulling himself back into motion, back into something resembling normal.

Still, his gaze flicked back to you—brief, measured, like he could get one last look without it meaning anything.

It didn’t work.

Because now you weren’t just a disruption.

You were a question.

And Jack had never been very good at leaving those alone.

Shen noticed him first.

“Hey—there he is,” he called, lifting his ever-present Dunkin’ cup in greeting, a grin already forming as he waved Jack over. There was something almost knowing in it, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

Jack resisted the urge to hesitate.

He stepped forward anyway, adjusting the strap of his backpack, posture instinctively straightening as he slipped into something more professional, more contained. Whatever this was—whoever you were—he could handle a simple introduction.

He always could.

“Jack,” Shen said easily, gesturing between the two of you. “This is—”

But Jack barely registered the rest of it.

Because you turned.

And for a second—just a second—everything in him hit a quiet, abrupt pause.

Up close, it was worse.

Or better.

He couldn’t decide.

Pretty had been an understatement. An oversimplification. Something convenient he’d told himself so he could move on. But there was nothing convenient about this—the way your expression softened as your eyes met his, the faint trace of exhaustion beneath it that didn’t dull anything, only made it more real. More human.

More—

Jack swallowed, grounding himself before his thoughts could drift any further off course.

“Nice to meet you,” you said, your voice gentle, a little worn around the edges but still warm. The kind of voice that didn’t demand attention, but held it anyway.

Your smile followed—small, almost tentative, but genuine.

It did something to him. Something subtle and immediate, like a shift in pressure he couldn’t quite adjust to.

Jack nodded once, a little sharper than he intended. “Jack Abbot.”

It came out steady. Good. Normal.

You didn’t seem put off by the brevity.

“I hope you don’t mind,” you continued, your tone softening just slightly, like you were easing into something you’d said before, “but I brought some goodies for everyone.”

Jack blinked, the words taking a second longer than they should to settle.

“Goodies?” he echoed, faintly, like he needed to hear it again to place it properly.

You nodded, and there it was again—that easy, unforced warmth. “I run a bakery not far from here. Whatever we don’t sell for the day, I bring here for the night shift.”

For a moment, Jack just…looked at you.

A bakery.

Of course you did.

It made an odd kind of sense—the softness he’d already associated with you, the faint sweetness in the air he hadn’t imagined, the way everyone here seemed just a little more at ease around you. Like your presence smoothed something over without trying.

God.

You were nice, too.

The realization landed heavier than it should have, settling somewhere just behind his ribs in a way that felt inconveniently permanent. Pretty was one thing. Pretty was easy to dismiss, to file away as a passing observation.

This wasn’t.

This had weight to it.

Jack shifted slightly, his grip tightening again on his backpack strap before he forced himself to let go, flexing his fingers like he could shake off the feeling.

“You do this often?” he asked, his voice quieter now, more measured—not out of disinterest, but the opposite. Like he was being careful with something he didn’t fully understand yet.

Didn’t want to mishandle.

His gaze flicked over your face again, quick but deliberate, like he was trying to memorize something without being obvious about it.

It didn’t work.

Because even as he stood there, trying to keep everything in its proper place—routine, distance, control—he could already feel it shifting.

Just slightly.

Just enough to notice.

And enough to know that whatever this was—

It wasn’t going to stay simple.

Your smile widened—just a fraction, but enough that he noticed.

“You guys are my best customers.”

“She’s a godsend, Abbott,” Ellis chimed in, already halfway through a muffin, crumbs catching at the corner of her mouth.

“I can’t get through my shift without her,” Santos added, nodding with exaggerated seriousness. “Truly.”

Jack barely acknowledged them.

His attention had already drifted—first to the boxes scattered across the station, then to the contents inside. Muffins, cupcakes, croissants, all in varying states of being picked over, like the staff had descended on them the second they’d appeared.

They did look good.

Better than good.

His gaze shifted back to you, almost automatically—and found you already looking at him.

That same soft expression. That same quiet, knowing smile, like you were waiting to see what he’d say.

Or maybe just…waiting.

Jack held your gaze a second too long.

Long enough for his eyes to dip—brief, involuntary—to your lips.

And then he caught himself.

His jaw tightened slightly as he looked away, clearing his throat under the guise of casual thought.

“You could just save them to sell tomorrow,” he said, his tone measured, bordering on practical. Safe.

You shrugged, easy, unbothered. “I could,” you agreed, tilting your head just slightly. “Except I know how you doctors and nurses are.”

That pulled his attention back.

Jack arched a brow, something faintly skeptical threading through his expression. “Do you?”

There was a challenge in it. Mild. Curious.

You didn’t miss it.

“My mom was one,” you said, and just like that, something in your tone softened—not heavier, not sad, just…grounded. Real. “A doctor. Emergency department. I grew up seeing how exhausted her shifts made her. I grew up knowing she barely ate anything, if anything at all.”

The answer settled over him, quieting that instinct to question—at least a little.

Still.

“So you opened a bakery?” Jack asked, his voice lower now, more intent. Like he was trying to trace the line between then and now, find the logic in it.

Find you in it.

You met his gaze without hesitation.

“I like feeding people.”

Simple. Direct. No performance, no over-explanation.

And then, just slightly, your smile returned—warmer this time, edged with something that felt almost playful.

“Especially my favorite hospital.”

Jack huffed a quiet breath through his nose, something close to amusement flickering across his face before he could stop it.

“Your favorite, huh?” he echoed, tilting his head just a fraction. “That sounds like bias.”

“Maybe,” you said easily. “Or maybe you just make it easy.”

There it was again—that subtle shift. Not overt. Not enough for anyone else to call it out.

But enough.

Jack’s gaze lingered on you, sharper now, more assessing—not in a clinical way, but something quieter. More personal. Like he was trying to figure out if you meant it, or if this was just part of your charm, something you offered to everyone who walked through these doors.

“Do you say that to all your customers?” he asked.

It could’ve come off dismissive.

It didn’t.

Not with the way he was looking at you.

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead, you held his gaze, that same soft expression settling in again—but this time, there was something more deliberate beneath it. Something that made the moment stretch just a beat longer than necessary.

“Only the ones I like,” you said finally.

Jack stilled.

Just slightly.

Something in his chest shifted again—that same subtle, inconvenient pull from before, only stronger now. Harder to ignore.

Around you, the station carried on—Ellis talking, Santos laughing, someone opening another box—but it all blurred at the edges, dulled by the quiet focus settling between the two of you.

Jack exhaled slowly, like he was steadying himself against something he hadn’t planned for.

“Dangerous business model,” he muttered, though there was no real bite to it.

If anything, it sounded…almost like a warning.

Whether it was for you—or for himself…even he wasn’t entirely sure.

You laughed softly—and it did something to him.

It was subtle, but immediate. His eyes fluttered once, his shoulders tightening just slightly as something prickled along his skin, like his body had reacted before his mind could catch up. It was ridiculous. Over nothing. Over a sound.

And yet—

“Good night, Doctor Abbot,” you said, your voice gentler now, like you were easing him out of the moment rather than ending it. “I hope you have a good shift.”

Jack nodded, slower this time. “Yeah. You too.”

It didn’t make sense. You weren’t even staying. You weren’t even a doctor.

But the words came out anyway.

He watched you leave.

Didn’t mean to—but he did. His gaze followed the line of your movement, the easy way you slipped out of the controlled chaos of the station like you’d never disrupted it at all. Like you hadn’t just…shifted something.

His throat felt oddly tight as he swallowed, forcing himself to look away, to move, to do something normal—like putting his bag away, like starting his shift.

Like you hadn’t lingered.

“She’s cute,” Shen said, entirely too pleased with himself, taking a long sip of his coffee as he shot Jack a look.

Jack didn’t respond.

Didn’t need to.

“I wonder if she’s single,” Ellis added with a cackle.

That earned them both a look—flat, unimpressed, just shy of a warning.

“Don’t you guys have work to do?”

They laughed it off, of course.

But Jack was already gone—mentally, at least—dragging himself back into the structure of the night.

* * *

The shift unfolded the way they always did.

A steady rotation of the expected and the completely unexplainable. Minor injuries patched up and sent out. Major ones that demanded everything he had. And then the strange ones—the ones that made you pause, made you wonder what kind of night had led someone here in the first place.

Night crawlers, he called them.

You had to be a little strange yourself to thrive in it. Or at least comfortable with it.

Jack had learned to be.

Still, somewhere between cases, between the noise and the movement and the constant pull of responsibility, his mind wandered—briefly, inconveniently.

A flash of a smile.

A voice, soft but steady.

I like feeding people.

He pushed it aside every time.

It didn’t stick.

* * *

By the time day shift started filtering in, Jack felt it.

The exhaustion. The dull, persistent ache in his leg, in his shoulders, in places he didn’t have the energy to name. He’d made it through on caffeine, a granola bar, and one short breath of fresh air that hadn’t been nearly enough.

Routine kicked in again.

Handovers. Notes. Mentally mapping out the next few hours—food, shower, maybe yoga if he could convince his body to cooperate. Check the police monitor. Sleep, if it came.

“Anyone want to do a Sugar run?” Shen called out, already halfway to grabbing his things.

Jack shot him a dry look. “You guys cleared out all those boxes and you’re going back for more?”

“This is for day shift,” Shen said easily. “Sug’s opening around this time.”

“We’re not total monsters, Abbot,” Ellis added, giving him a look of mock offense.

Jack’s nose crinkled slightly. “‘Sug’?”

“We call her Sugar,” Robby said, leaning casually against the nurses’ station. “I think Santos or Whitaker came up with it. Maybe Javadi—I don’t remember.”

“She’s sweet and brings us sweets,” Crus added, like that explained everything.

Jack huffed quietly. “That’s…”

“Corny? Yeah,” Robby cut in with a grin. “We know. She hasn’t told us to stop.”

Sugar.

Jack glanced down at the edge of the station where a few crumbs still lingered, remnants of what you’d brought. His thumb brushed absently against the surface, like he was checking for something that wasn’t there anymore.

“She’s not even on shift,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

“She doesn’t need to be,” Shen said, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Her place is, like, ten minutes out. You could walk it if you really wanted to.”

Jack didn’t look at him.

Didn’t take the bait.

But something in his expression shifted—just slightly, just enough to give him away if anyone had been paying close attention.

Ten minutes.

Close.

Convenient.

Too convenient.

He exhaled slowly, straightening, already turning back toward the work he still needed to finish.

“Yeah,” he said, flat, dismissive. “I’m good.”

Shen hummed like he didn’t believe him for a second.

Jack ignored it.

But later—when the station quieted, when his hands finally stilled, when the weight of the night settled into something heavier and harder to shake—

His thoughts drifted again.

Uninvited.

A bakery not far from here.

Warm. Sweet. Familiar in a way the hospital never was.

Jack’s jaw tightened faintly as he grabbed his things, pushing the thought down as he headed out.

He had a routine.

And he wasn’t about to start changing it now.

Even if, for the first time in a while…

…he was actually considering it.

* * *

After handovers, Jack should’ve gone home.

That had been the plan—always the plan. Food. Shower. Maybe yoga if his leg cooperated. Sleep, if his mind allowed it.

Instead, he found himself walking in the opposite direction.

Shen had given him the name. Directions, too—casual, offhand, like it meant nothing. Like Jack wouldn’t actually use them.

And yet.

By the time Jack fully registered what he was doing, he was already halfway there, moving on instinct more than intention. Like something in him had already decided, and the rest of him was just catching up.

It was…irritating.

That lack of control.

Or maybe just unfamiliar.

When he finally found the place, he slowed to a stop just outside.

The bakery was simple, but thoughtfully put together—clean lines, warm light spilling through the windows, a display case near the front already half-filled with pastries. Not overly polished. Not trying too hard.

It felt…real.

Lived-in.

Like you.

Jack exhaled quietly, running a hand briefly over the back of his neck before stepping inside.

The soft chime of a bell rang overhead.

“Good morning,” you called, your voice carrying easily through the space as you finished packaging something for an older woman at the register. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

Jack nodded, even though you weren’t looking at him, and moved toward the display case.

Up close, it was worse.

The smell hit him first—warm, sweet, layered. Sugar, butter, fresh bread, something faintly citrus underneath it all. It settled around him, softer than the sterile sharpness of the hospital, and for a moment, he just…stood there.

Taking it in.

Letting it settle.

He scanned the pastries, more out of obligation than anything else, his attention already drifting.

Because he could feel it.

That awareness again.

And sure enough—when he glanced up—

Your eyes met his.

Recognition sparked instantly.

“Jack Abbot,” you said, your smile coming easy, like it had been waiting for him.

Something in his chest tightened—subtle, but definite.

“Yeah.” He nodded once, shifting his weight slightly.

“I’m surprised to see you here.”

There was no accusation in it. Just curiosity. Maybe a hint of something else.

Jack held your gaze a second longer than necessary before answering.

“You were highly recommended.”

Your laugh was soft, familiar already in a way that didn’t make sense.

“That’s very nice,” you said, brushing your hands lightly together. “But I should be thanking you guys. I’ve no doubt I’d be out of business if it wasn’t for your hospital.”

“I doubt it,” Jack replied, quieter now.

There was a certainty in it that made your smile shift—just slightly, just enough to show you noticed.

“You seem pretty sure,” you said. “Did you try any of the goodies I left last night?”

Jack hesitated.

Not visibly—not enough for most people to catch—but you were watching him, and that made it harder to hide.

A faint warmth crept up the back of his neck.

“I—” He cleared his throat. “Didn’t get the chance.”

Not entirely a lie.

You didn’t call him on it.

Instead, your expression softened again, like you understood more than he’d said.

That did something to him.

More than it should have.

Because it wasn’t just that you remembered him. It wasn’t just the way you were looking at him, like he was worth remembering.

It was the way it felt.

Easy.

Too easy.

Like something in him had been…quiet for a long time, and you’d somehow found it without trying.

Jack shifted, grounding himself before his thoughts could spiral into something he wasn’t ready to examine.

“What can I get for you today?” you asked.

He let out a slow breath, forcing his focus back to something tangible.

“What do you recommend?”

You hummed, brows knitting slightly as you considered, your attention fully on him in a way that felt…deliberate.

“I just made some almond-paste croissants and chocolate chip muffins,” you began. “But if you’re not looking for anything sweet, I’ve got regular croissants, lemon poppyseed muffins, bagels if you want something practical—”

“Practical?” Jack echoed, one brow lifting.

You looked at him then—really looked at him.

Not quick. Not surface-level.

Assessing.

“You seem like the practical kind,” you said softly.

It wasn’t judgmental.

If anything, it sounded…thoughtful.

Jack tilted his head slightly, something almost curious flickering in his expression. “Is that bad?”

Your lips curved faintly. “No. Not necessarily. Practical can be good.”

A beat.

“It can be comfortable.”

Jack’s gaze sharpened just slightly. “What’s wrong with comfort?”

“Nothing,” you said easily. “But sometimes it’s good to mix things up. Spice of life and all that.”

For a moment, he just looked at you.

There was something in the way you said it—not pushy, not trying to convince him. Just…offering the idea. Letting it exist between you.

Like you were testing the edges of him.

Jack felt it again—that quiet pull, stronger now. Not overwhelming, not reckless. Just…persistent. Curious.

Inconveniently compelling.

The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile but close.

“You pick,” he said, his voice lower now, roughened slightly by exhaustion—and something else.

Something warmer.

Your eyes flickered, catching the shift.

A soft laugh slipped out of you, quieter this time.

“Risky choice, Doctor,” you murmured.

Jack didn’t look away.

“Yeah,” he said, just as quietly. “I’m starting to get that.”

He didn’t sound like he minded.

* * *

It became a routine.

Not all at once—nothing with Jack ever did—but gradually, in the way habits formed when you stopped questioning them.

You showed up at the Pitt like clockwork, boxes in hand, a familiar warmth threading through the sterile air as you made your rounds. You never stayed too long—just enough to greet everyone, to exchange a few words, to catch Jack’s eye across the station.

Just enough to find him.

And he always noticed.

Even on the busiest nights, even when he was elbow-deep in something complicated, there’d be a moment—a flicker of awareness, like something settling into place—right before he’d look up and see you there.

Like he’d been expecting it.

Like he’d been waiting.

“Morning, Abbot,” you’d say sometimes, soft and easy, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Morning,” he’d return, just as steady—but there was something different in it now. Less clipped. Less distant.

Your name came easier to him, too.

He used it.

Often.

More than he needed to.

And then there were the mornings.

Jack told himself that part was about convenience.

Your bakery was on the way. The food was good. Better than good. It made sense to stop in after a long shift, to grab something warm before heading home.

It made sense.

What didn’t make sense was how long he stayed.

At first, it had been quick—an order, a nod, a quiet thank you before he left.

Then it turned into a few extra minutes. A question about what was fresh. A comment about something he’d tried the day before.

Now? Now he lingered.

Leaning against the counter, coffee in hand, watching you move through the space with practiced ease. Taking orders, remembering names, slipping into conversations like you belonged to all of them and none of them at the same time.

And still—

You always came back to him.

“What’s good today?” he asked one morning, voice rough from a long shift, though there was something lighter underneath it now.

You glanced at him over your shoulder, already smiling. “Depends. Are you feeling practical, or are you finally ready to take my advice?”

Jack huffed softly, shaking his head as he stepped closer to the counter. “You’re not letting that go, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

There was something in your tone—playful, but pointed. Like you meant more than just pastries.

Jack’s gaze lingered on you a second longer than it should have.

“You always this persistent?” he asked.

“Only when I think I’m right,” you shot back, setting something down in front of him. A cupcake. “Try this.”

He glanced down. Not what he usually ordered.

“Thought I didn’t get a say,” he muttered.

“You said ‘you pick,’” you reminded him lightly. “I’m just honoring your wishes.”

Jack almost smiled.

Almost.

“Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “Starting to think that was a mistake.”

Your eyes met his then—steady, searching, like you were trying to read something beneath the surface.

“Is it?” you asked.

It should’ve been an easy answer.

It wasn’t.

Because somewhere between the routine, the conversations, the way you looked at him like you saw more than just what was in front of you—

It didn’t feel like one.

And that was the problem.

* * *

Jack noticed things.

He couldn’t help it.

The way your smile shifted when he walked in—just slightly, but different than it was with anyone else. The way you remembered his order before he said it, but still asked sometimes, like you were giving him an excuse to stay longer.

The way you stood a little closer than necessary when you handed him his coffee.

Small things.

Easy to dismiss.

Except they kept happening.

And Jack—

Jack didn’t trust easy.

Didn’t trust things that felt good without a clear reason.

Because he knew better.

Knew what it meant to get used to something—to someone—and then lose it.

Knew what it meant to carry things that didn’t just…go away.

He was older than you. That much was obvious. Worn in ways that didn’t show at first glance but settled in if you looked long enough. A widower. A veteran. A man who woke up some nights with his heart racing and no clear reason why.

A man who had learned how to function around the absence of a limb like it was just another part of his routine.

You—

You were light. Not naive, not untouched by life—but lighter. Softer around the edges in a way he hadn’t been in a long time.

You had options.

You had time.

You had no reason to look at him the way you did.

And yet—

“You’re staring again.”

Jack blinked, pulled from his thoughts as your voice cut through them, gentle but amused.

“I’m not,” he replied automatically.

You hummed, unconvinced, leaning your elbows lightly against the counter. “You do that, you know. Get this look on your face like you’re trying to solve a problem that doesn’t exist.”

His jaw tightened faintly. “Habit.”

“Dangerous one.”

Jack exhaled through his nose, studying you now instead of pretending he wasn’t. “You always this observant?”

“Only when I care enough to be.”

There it was again.

That subtle shift.

Not a confession. Not anything he could call out.

But enough.

Jack’s grip tightened slightly around his coffee cup.

“You don’t know me well enough for that,” he said, quieter now—not harsh, but firm. Grounding. Drawing a line before something crossed it.

You didn’t pull back.

Didn’t get offended.

If anything, your expression softened.

“I know enough,” you said.

Simple.

Certain.

And somehow, that unsettled him more than anything else.

Because a part of him—one he didn’t like acknowledging—wanted to believe you.

Wanted to lean into it. Into you.

Into something that felt…dangerously close to hope.

Jack looked away first, shaking his head faintly like he could clear the thought.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “That makes one of us.”

But when he reached for the bag you’d packed for him, his fingers brushed yours—

And neither of you pulled away right away.

Just a second too long.

Just enough to feel it.

That quiet, steady tension that had been building for weeks now—

No longer easy to ignore.

And definitely not as one-sided as Jack kept trying to convince himself it was.

* * *

Jack avoided you.

Not by accident. Not because he was too busy or too tired or because something had come up.

It was deliberate.

Two weeks of adjusting his route home so he didn’t pass your bakery. Two weeks of ignoring the instinct to turn down that street anyway. Two weeks of telling himself it didn’t matter—that you didn’t matter, not like that.

It was easier this way.

Cleaner.

Familiar.

Because this—whatever this had been becoming—wasn’t.

Jack flirted. That was nothing new. It was easy, automatic. A deflection more than anything else, something to keep things light, to keep people at a distance while making it seem like he wasn’t.

No one expected anything from it.

No one looked too closely.

Except you did.

That was the problem.

With you, it hadn’t felt like deflection. It hadn’t felt like a game he could step out of whenever he wanted. You met him there. Pushed back. Paid attention in a way that made it harder to keep things surface-level.

You saw him.

And Jack didn’t know what to do with that.

So he did what he always did when something edged too close to something real. Something familiar.

He pulled away.

* * *

“You’re being weird.”

Jack didn’t look up from the chart in his hands. “I’m always weird.”

“Not like this,” Shen shot back easily, leaning against the counter. “This is…broody weird. It’s different.”

Ellis snorted from beside him. “He’s been like this all week. It’s depressing.”

“I’m right here,” Jack muttered.

“Yeah, and you’re killing the vibe,” Ellis replied without missing a beat.

Jack flipped a page a little harder than necessary. “Don’t you two have patients?”

“Don’t deflect,” Shen said, pointing his coffee at him like an accusation. “You haven’t done a Sugar run in, what, two weeks?”

Jack stilled—just for a second.

Barely noticeable.

Ellis caught it immediately. “Oh, it’s about her.”

“It’s not about her.”

“Mm,” Shen hummed, unconvinced. “So you just…what? Forgot where the bakery is?”

Jack exhaled sharply through his nose. “I’ve been busy.”

“You’re always busy,” Ellis said. “You still went before.”

“That was different.”

“How?” Shen pressed.

Jack finally looked up, his expression flat, edged with something that made it clear the conversation was over.

“Drop it.”

There was a beat.

Ellis and Shen exchanged a look.

“Okay,” Ellis said slowly, hands lifting in mock surrender. “But for the record? You’re being a downer.”

“Truly tragic,” Shen added. “We miss the version of you that brought back pastries.”

Jack didn’t respond.

Didn’t need to.

Because they weren’t entirely wrong.

* * *

The shift dragged.

Not because it was particularly bad—but because everything felt…off. Like he was moving through it a step behind where he should be.

Distracted.

Which wasn’t like him.

Jack prided himself on control. On focus.

On not letting things bleed into places they didn’t belong.

But his mind kept circling back anyway.

A voice. A smile.

The way you’d said, I know enough.

He hadn’t gone back.

And you hadn’t come in.

That shouldn’t have bothered him.

It did.

* * *

It was late—technically early morning—when he stepped outside for air.

The cool hit his skin, grounding, familiar. He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders, trying to shake the restless energy sitting under his skin.

“You’re avoiding me.”

Jack froze.

Your voice.

He knew it instantly.

He turned, slower this time—and there you were, standing a few feet away, arms crossed lightly, not angry but not exactly casual either.

You looked…tired.

Not in the same way he did. Not physical.

Something quieter.

Jack’s jaw tightened faintly. “I’ve been working.”

You raised a brow. “So have I.”

A beat.

“You stopped coming by.”

There was no accusation in it. Just fact.

Which somehow made it worse.

Jack looked away briefly, dragging a hand down the back of his neck. “Been busy.”

You didn’t let it go.

“Jack.”

Just his name.

Soft.

But firm enough that it pulled his attention back to you.

“You don’t seem like the type to just disappear on people,” you said. “Not without a reason.”

Something in his chest tightened.

“That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?”

He didn’t answer.

Couldn’t—not without saying something he wasn’t sure he was ready to put into words.

You stepped a little closer—not crowding him, just enough to close the distance.

“If I said something,” you continued, quieter now, “or did something that made you uncomfortable, you can just tell me.”

That stopped him.

Because that wasn’t it.

Not even close.

Jack let out a low breath, something heavier sitting behind it as he finally met your gaze again.

“You didn’t,” he said.

“Then why—”

“Because you’re—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening as he looked away again, frustrated now. With himself more than anything.

You waited.

Didn’t push.

Just…stayed.

That made it harder.

Jack exhaled sharply, like he was forcing the words out before he could stop himself.

“Because you’re young,” he said finally. “And you’re…you.”

That didn’t explain anything.

He knew it.

Your brows knit slightly. “Okay…”

“And I’m not,” he added, quieter now.

There it was.

The edge of it.

Jack let out a humorless huff, shaking his head. “I’m not what you think I am.”

You didn’t respond right away.

Which, somehow, gave him just enough space to keep going.

“I’m older,” he continued, voice rougher now. “I’ve got…baggage. More than you probably realize.” A pause. “More than you should have to deal with.”

His gaze dropped briefly—toward his leg, then away again like it was nothing. Like it was everything.

“I’m not—” He stopped, jaw tightening. “I’m not the kind of guy you build something easy with.”

The words sat heavy between you.

Honest.

Uncomfortable.

Real.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then—

“You think I’m looking for easy?”

Your voice was softer now, but steadier than he expected.

Jack looked up.

Really looked at you.

There was no hesitation in your expression. No awkwardness. No polite backing off.

Just…you.

“I think,” he said slowly, “you could have it.”

“And you think that means I should want it?”

That caught him off guard.

Just enough.

You stepped closer again—not enough to overwhelm, just enough that he couldn’t pretend there was distance anymore.

“I noticed you pulling away,” you said. “I noticed you thinking too hard every time I said something even a little personal.” A faint, almost teasing edge slipped in. “You’re not as subtle as you think you are.”

Jack huffed quietly despite himself.

Then you softened again.

“But I also noticed you kept coming back,” you added. “Until you didn’t.”

A beat.

“I didn’t imagine that, right?”

Jack’s throat felt tight again.

“No,” he admitted.

You held his gaze.

“Then don’t decide for me what I can or can’t handle,” you said gently.

It wasn’t a challenge.

It wasn’t pressure.

Just…truth.

And somehow, that made it harder to argue with.

Jack exhaled slowly, something in his shoulders easing—not completely, not even close—but enough to feel it.

“You don’t make this easy,” he muttered.

A small smile touched your lips. “I thought you didn’t want easy.”

Jack almost smiled back.

Almost.

This time, he didn’t look away.

“I wanted to see everyone first,” you said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Let them know I didn’t forget them.”

Jack watched you for a moment, something cautious settling back into his expression—familiar, instinctive. “Then what?” he asked, quieter now.

There was a part of him that already knew he wasn’t going to like the answer.

Your smile shifted—just slightly, just enough to give you away.

“Then you’re coming with me to the bakery.”

Jack’s brows furrowed immediately. “I don’t think—”

You lifted a hand.

It wasn’t forceful. Not sharp. Just…certain.

And somehow, that was enough.

His mouth closed, the rest of his protest catching in his throat before it could fully form. His jaw tightened faintly, more out of habit than resistance.

“I’m not asking,” you said, softer than your words implied. “I need some outside perspective.”

Jack exhaled slowly through his nose, studying you.

You looked…hopeful.

Not pushy. Not expecting him to give in.

Just waiting.

There was a flicker of something in your eyes—something that edged close to uncertainty, like this mattered more than you were letting on. And paired with that quiet excitement underneath it, it did something dangerous to his resolve.

Because Jack was good at saying no.

He just wasn’t good at saying no to you.

Not when you looked at him like that.

Not when it felt like he’d already taken enough steps back.

His shoulders dropped slightly, the tension easing out of them in a way that felt almost involuntary.

He gave a small, wordless nod.

Your smile softened immediately—warmer now, relieved in a way that settled somewhere low in his chest.

“Thank you,” you said, and before he could think too hard about it, your hand came to rest on his forearm.

It was brief.

Light.

But it lingered just long enough to register.

Warm.

Intentional.

Jack stilled, his breath catching just slightly before he forced it back into something steady.

Then you were gone again—slipping back inside, drawn immediately into the orbit of the station.

And just like that, the space you’d occupied felt…different.

Quieter.

Jack stayed where he was, leaning back against the wall, his gaze following you despite himself.

He watched the way you moved through the nurses’ station, like you belonged there—like you always had. The easy familiarity, the way people lit up when they saw you. The quick hugs, the laughter, the effortless way you folded yourself into their conversations without ever taking too much space.

You fit.

Not just in the hospital—but in his world.

That realization settled in deeper than he expected.

Because it wasn’t just that you were welcome there.

It was that he liked that you were.

Liked the way you softened the edges of a place that rarely allowed for it. Liked the way people relaxed around you. Liked the way you’d somehow carved out a space that was entirely yours—without forcing it.

And…he liked the way you looked at him.

Even if it still unsettled him.

Even if part of him kept waiting for the moment it would change.

Jack dragged a hand over his jaw, exhaling slowly as he tried to shake the thought.

Didn’t work.

Because when you turned back toward him, smiling like you knew he’d still be there—

He felt it again.

That pull.

Stronger now. Harder to ignore.

You stepped back outside, the door swinging shut behind you with a soft chime, and for a second, you just looked at him.

And Jack smiled back.

Not guarded.

Not forced.

Just…real.

Small, but there.

Like something in him had finally stopped fighting it.

The walk to the bakery was quiet.

Not awkward—never that—but easy. The kind of silence that didn’t need to be filled, that settled naturally between steps and breaths. Jack stayed half a pace beside you, aware of you in that quiet, steady way he hadn’t quite learned how to ignore.

When you reached the door, you unlocked it and pushed it open, stepping aside slightly.

Jack gestured for you to go in first.

You did—of course you did—but not without that small, knowing smile, like you’d clocked the instinct behind it.

He followed, slower, taking in the space again as the door shut softly behind him.

“So why do you need my perspective?” Jack asked, his voice low in the quiet.

“I came up with some new recipes,” you said, moving to flip on the lights. Warmth filled the space almost immediately, chasing away the dim early-morning gray. “Sundays I start later than usual. I just wanted someone’s opinion…”

“And you asked me.”

It wasn’t disbelief.

Just…something close to it.

You turned to him then, meeting his gaze without hesitation. “I trust you.”

The words landed heavier than they should have.

Jack nodded, but something in his chest tightened—just slightly, just enough to notice. Trust wasn’t something he handled lightly. Not from anyone.

Especially not from you.

He followed when you motioned him back, setting his bag down where you suggested, his movements more deliberate now—aware of himself, of the space, of you.

“You got anywhere I can sit?” he asked.

You paused, like the thought hadn’t fully clicked until that moment. “Here—” You disappeared briefly, returning with a chair from the small office off to the side. “You’ve been on your feet all night,” you murmured, almost to yourself. “Didn’t think about that…”

Jack watched you for a second before sitting, careful as he extended his leg. The familiar ache pulsed up from the prosthetic, dull but insistent. Taking the pressure off eased it almost immediately, and he exhaled quietly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.

A few minutes later, you came back with plates.

More than a few.

Jack blinked at the spread, a quiet huff leaving him as he leaned back slightly. “Sweetheart, I don’t think I can taste all of this.”

The word slipped out easily.

Too easily.

And the reaction it pulled from you—immediate, visible—didn’t go unnoticed.

Your cheeks warmed, your gaze dipping as you shifted your weight. “I know, I just…” You exhaled, a little self-conscious now. “I got this urge to bake last night. I usually bake when I’ve got a lot on my mind, and I got carried away.”

Jack studied you for a moment.

There was something there—something you weren’t saying—but he didn’t push.

Instead, his attention dropped to the desserts, then back to you.

“You pick,” he said softly.

Your lips curved faintly, like you’d expected that answer.

You handed him a plate and a fork, fingers brushing briefly against his again. This time, neither of you commented on it.

“It’s caramel apple cake,” you said, leaning back against the counter, watching him.

Jack took a bite.

And for a second—just a second—everything else dropped away.

A low sound slipped out of him before he could stop it, something instinctive, unfiltered. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, eyes closing briefly as the flavor settled.

It was—

“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath.

“You like it?” you asked, quieter now.

He opened his eyes, looking at you like the answer should’ve been obvious.

“It’s delicious, sweetheart.”

There it was again.

And this time, you reacted even more.

A subtle shift. A breath you didn’t quite hide. Your gaze dipping for half a second before returning to him.

Jack noticed.

Of course he did.

He took another bite, slower this time, more deliberate—and didn’t miss the way you watched him.

Not just casually.

Intently.

Like his reaction mattered.

“I’ve—uh, got some more if you’d like to…” you offered, your voice just slightly uneven now.

“I’d love to.”

The next plate was a blueberry cream cheese cinnamon roll.

Messier.

Softer.

Jack barely got through the first few bites before you tilted your head slightly, eyes narrowing just a fraction.

“You’ve got—” You gestured vaguely toward your own mouth. “Right there.”

Jack paused, glancing at you. “Where?”

“Corner,” you said, stepping just a little closer. “Here—”

You didn’t touch him.

But you got close enough that he could feel it.

Your presence. Your warmth.

Jack held your gaze for a second longer than necessary—then, slowly, deliberately, he lifted his thumb to the corner of his mouth.

Wiped.

Not rushed. Not careless.

Measured.

His tongue flicked out briefly, catching the smear of frosting from his thumb, and he didn’t look away from you when he did it.

The shift in the air was immediate.

Subtle.

But unmistakable.

Your breath caught—just slightly—and your gaze dropped, then lifted again, something different in it now. Something heavier.

Jack’s chest tightened.

Not with hesitation.

With awareness.

Of you.

Of how close you were.

Of the way the moment had shifted into something neither of you had named—but both of you felt.

He set the fork down slowly, his hand lingering near yours on the counter.

“You gonna tell me how it is,” he murmured, voice lower now, roughened by something that had nothing to do with exhaustion, “or just watch me eat it?”

A small, breathy laugh escaped you, but it didn’t break the tension.

“It's good,” you said. “Really good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Neither of you moved.

Not away.

If anything, closer.

Just slightly.

Jack’s gaze dropped—briefly, unmistakably—to your lips.

Then back up.

A question.

A warning.

Or maybe both.

Your fingers shifted against the counter, just brushing his.

That was all it took.

Jack leaned in—slow, careful, giving you time to stop him.

Plenty of time.

He didn’t rush it.

Didn’t assume.

But he didn’t pull back, either.

Not until the space between you narrowed to almost nothing—your breath mingling, your presence overwhelming in the quiet of the bakery.

And there—

Right there—

He paused.

Held.

Like he was giving you the choice.

Even if every part of him already knew—

He didn’t want to stop.

You were the one who closed the distance.

It wasn’t rushed—wasn’t reckless. Just a quiet decision, made in the space he’d left open for you. Your lips brushed his, soft, testing, like you were asking a question without words.

For a split second, Jack didn’t move.

Then you pulled back—barely an inch—and that was all it took.

His hand came up instinctively, steady and sure as it found your jaw, and he pulled you back in.

The kiss wasn’t careful anymore.

It was still controlled—because Jack was always controlled—but there was something underneath it now. Something that had been building for weeks, pushing against restraint. His lips moved against yours with a quiet kind of hunger, tempered by hesitation, like he was still trying to be sure this was real.

You could taste the sweetness of the frosting, the lingering blueberry on his lips, but it was the way he kissed you that made your chest tighten—grounded, present, like he was anchoring himself in the moment.

When you tilted your head, deepening it just slightly, the sound that left him was low—rough, pulled from somewhere deeper than he meant to let you hear.

It sent a shiver down your spine.

His grip tightened—just a fraction—before easing again, like he was catching himself even as he leaned into you.

Weeks of tension folded into it. The teasing, the distance, the way he’d pulled away just when things had started to feel too close—all of it surfaced in the way he held you now.

Like he didn’t quite know what to do with it—

Except this.

When you finally pulled back, it wasn’t far.

Your foreheads rested together, your breaths uneven, mingling in the quiet space of the bakery.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

Jack nodded, but it wasn’t immediate. Like he had to come back to himself first.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice low, a little rougher than before.

You hesitated, searching his face.

“Why did you think I wouldn’t want you?”

The question settled between you, heavier than anything that had come before it.

You pulled back just enough to really look at him—to catch the shift in his expression, the flicker of something guarded slipping back into place.

“I don’t care that you’re older,” you added, your voice quieter now, but steady. “I don’t care if it isn’t easy. I just…want to know why.”

Jack swallowed.

His hand came up again, slower this time, more deliberate as it cupped your face. His thumb brushed along your cheek, rough against soft, grounding himself in the contact.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything.

Then—

“I was married.”

The words were simple.

But they carried weight.

You felt it immediately, your throat tightening as his gaze dropped briefly—not away from you, but inward, like he was seeing something else entirely.

“For a while,” he continued, quieter now. “She died…not that long ago. A few years.”

A pause.

“I didn’t handle it well.”

There was no self-pity in it. Just fact.

Honest. Unvarnished.

Your chest ached.

“You built a life with someone,” you said softly.

Jack nodded once.

“Yeah.”

Another pause.

His thumb kept moving, absent, like it was the only thing keeping him steady.

“I was in the military before all this,” he added after a moment, like it was part of the same story—because to him, it was. “That’s where I lost it.”

His gaze flicked down, briefly, to his leg before returning to you.

“Not exactly a clean exit.”

There was a faint edge of dry humor there—but it didn’t hide anything.

“After that…it’s not just physical,” he went on, voice lower now. “Some things stick. You learn how to function around them, but they don’t just go away.”

You didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t try to soften it.

You just listened.

Jack exhaled slowly, his hand still warm against your face, though his grip had loosened slightly—like he wasn’t sure how much of himself to hold there anymore.

“So yeah,” he said finally. “Older. Widower. Missing a leg. Doesn’t always sleep through the night.” A faint, humorless huff. “Not exactly a great pitch.”

Your brows pulled together, something almost pained crossing your expression.

“That’s what you think this is?” you asked quietly.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

It was all there.

In the way he looked at you—steady, but guarded. Like he was bracing for the moment you’d see it the way he did.

Like something that came with too much weight.

Too much history.

Too much to ask.

Still. His hand hadn’t left your face.

And he hadn’t stepped away.

Jack leaned in again.

This time there was no hesitation.

The kiss deepened immediately—messier, fuller, everything that had been held back finally slipping loose. It wasn’t just want anymore; it was relief, tension unraveling, something like acceptance woven through it. His hand tightened at your jaw, anchoring you there as your lips moved against his with growing urgency.

When your tongue brushed along his bottom lip, Jack exhaled sharply—something low and rough escaping him before he could stop it. His mouth opened, and the kiss shifted again, slower in some moments, then suddenly hungry the next, like neither of you quite knew how to pace it.

At some point, the distance between you disappeared entirely.

You were in his lap—he didn’t even register when it happened—just the sudden awareness of your weight, your warmth, the way you fit against him like you’d been there all along.

Jack’s hands found your hips instinctively, gripping, grounding himself as your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging just enough to make his breath hitch. The sensation sent a sharp line of heat down his spine, something electric sparking under his skin.

He felt it everywhere.

Too much and not enough all at once.

Your body pressed to his, warm through layers of clothing, but it still wasn’t close enough. Not for what was building, not for the way his pulse had started to pound, not for the way every nerve in him seemed to light up at once.

Jack broke the kiss just long enough to catch his breath—only to trail lower, his mouth brushing along your jaw, slower now but no less intense. His grip shifted, one hand steady at your side as the other pressed more firmly at your hip, keeping you right where he wanted you.

A soft sound slipped from you—barely there, but it hit him like a spark.

Jack stilled for half a second.

Then he leaned in again, his lips finding your neck, slower, more deliberate this time. Not rushed—focused. Like he was learning you through touch alone.

“Jack—” you breathed, his name soft, unsteady.

That did something to him.

Something dangerous.

His jaw tightened faintly as he exhaled against your skin, his forehead briefly pressing to your shoulder like he needed a second to steady himself.

Because this—

This was exactly what he’d been trying to avoid.

Not just the attraction. Not just the pull.

But how fast it escalated. How easily it got under his skin. How quickly it stopped feeling casual and started feeling like something he couldn’t just step away from.

His hands flexed at your hips, grounding, but not pulling you closer—not yet.

Like he was holding himself right at the edge.

“You’re not making this easy,” he muttered, voice low, rougher now.

But he didn’t move you away.

Didn’t let go.

If anything, his grip lingered—firm, certain—like he was still deciding how far he was willing to fall into this.

And not entirely convinced he hadn’t already started.

Jack’s mind started to slip the longer he held onto you.

The more he kissed you, the more he let himself feel it—the warmth of your body, the way you responded to him so easily—it became harder to keep things contained. His hands moved almost without permission, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, fingertips brushing against bare skin.

Soft.

Warm.

Real.

His breath hitched quietly at the contact, like even that was enough to undo him.

You arched into him instinctively, and Jack’s hands spread along your sides, palms firm now, grounding himself in the feel of you. Like if he focused on that—on something tangible—he wouldn’t drift too far into everything else pressing at the edges of his mind.

“Jack—” you breathed, your voice unsteady, pulling his name from him in a way that went straight to his core.

It wasn’t just the sound.

It was the need in it.

The trust.

The way you said his name like you wanted him there.

Jack exhaled shakily, his forehead pressing briefly against your shoulder, his lips dragging along the curve of your neck again—slower now, but no less intense. His nose brushed your skin, his breath warm, uneven.

This was dangerous.

Not just because of how badly he wanted you—

But because of how fast it was becoming more than that.

His grip tightened slightly at your sides when you shifted against him, your body pressing closer, seeking friction, seeking him. A low sound rumbled up from his chest before he could stop it, his control slipping another inch.

He wasn’t used to this.

To wanting something this quickly. This strongly.

To not being able to shut it off.

Jack dragged in a breath, trying to steady himself, but it did nothing. If anything, it made him more aware—of the heat between you, of the way your bodies fit together, of how easy it would be to keep going.

Too easy.

His eyes squeezed shut for a second, his jaw tightening as his hands flexed against your skin.

He could feel the edge of it—the point where this stopped being something he could pull back from cleanly.

And the worst part?

He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

Jack pulled back just enough to look at you, his breathing uneven, his gaze darker now—heavy with everything he wasn’t saying.

“Hey,” he murmured, quieter than before, but no less intense. “Look at me.”

His thumb brushed lightly along your side, grounding, steadying—more for himself than for you.

Because this—

This wasn’t just heat.

It wasn’t just want.

It was something deeper. Something that had been building since the moment he first saw you at the nurses’ station, smiling like you belonged in a place that rarely allowed for softness.

And now you were here.

In his arms.

Looking at him like you chose to be.

Jack let out a slow breath, something shifting in his expression—less frantic, but no less intense. If anything, more certain.

More dangerous.

“Yeah,” he muttered, almost to himself.

Then, quieter—

“Yeah…I’m in trouble.”

And for the first time in a long time—

It takes a moment for the ripples to reach the entire Pitt.

Robby comes in like he always does: too fast on the motorcycle, no helmet, hair messy from his hands running through it. He's explosive in the way a grenade is when the pin is pulled, just before the release. Between Langdon's return (he still won't speak to you for turning him in), the new attending taking over for him, losing Louie, and the chaos of the holiday, you're barely keeping it together. It doesn't help that Robby's being so flippant about if he comes back, if he'll be careful. The words start to bleed, from casual, blink-and-you'll-miss-it, to downright scary.

You snap in the ambulance bay, after the ambulance clips his bike, and he finally loses it. After he all but screamed at Dana, moving her to tears. After an endless shift in the technical dark ages, barely hanging on to your sanity.

The conversation isn't calm, not after the worst words leave your lips. He gets defensive, like a dog backed into the corner. He's a dirty bomb, throwing shrapnel, sharp edges ready to cut. You're just caught in the crossfire.

Better you than Samira, than Santos. You can take a hit. You're tough.

But you're losing him, and it terrifies you. Discretion has been the bedrock of this little tryst of yours, except now it's all coming to a head. You're raising your voice, and you don't care. "What am I supposed to do, Michael? Sit around like a war widow collecting postcards? Hoping you might come back?"

"War widow? That's fucking dramatic—"

"You keep talking like you're going to kill yourself—"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm scared for you, Robby." Your voice is thin, reedy almost, like it's about to break open. "Please just—"

"What do you want from me?" He grunts out your name like an accusation, without any warmth or affection. It's the first time you've ever heard it sound like that off his lips. "Huh? What do you want? Because you're acting like a clingy little girl."

You flinch. "Little girl, huh? And yet you slept with me anyway."

He barks out a mirthless laugh. "Little Miss Perfect. Doctorpedia, the genius. You think just because you're smart, you know everything? Just because I fucked you, I owe you something?"

Your lip trembles. You bite down hard enough to draw blood. "I... Just thought..."

"Well, you thought wrong, because the last time I checked, I didn't make you any promises," he spits. "This conversation is over. I am your boss, and you're out of line, and those charts need scanning."

He might as well have punched you in the gut. A tear slides down your cheek, but you don't break. You clench your jaw defiantly and salute him with a middle finger. "Yes, boss."

You crash back into the ER, collapsing in a chair with a stack of pages in front of you, the screen where you've been dictating now blurry from unshed tears. You blink, swiping the tears away with your sleeve when another escapes.

"You good?" Santos asks, nudging you with her foot.

You nod. "I'm perfect."

"I need an extra set of hands in here!" Dr. Abbot's voice reverberates through the ER as an alarm beside a patient in Trauma One starts to scream. You make a break for it, eager to distract yourself with work.

And you run the procedure flawlessly. Your execution, your pace, your technique. You narrate what you're doing before Abbot can ask, and by the end of it, your hands are shaking. But it's not from adrenaline, it's from the grief and love festering inside you, about to split you open. You live a life guided by rules and missed the biggest one of all: don't fall in love with your boss.

Too bad you did just that.

"Maybe you should scrub into the OR," Robby suggests, his voice cold. It's an indirect order to get out of his sight, out of his ER. You have a background in surgery. Trauma surgery, pediatric specialty. He doesn't want you in an OR for your skills, though. He wants to remind you he's in charge, and the final nail in the coffin of your relationship has been hammered in.

"No, we need her down here," says Abbot.

Robby scoffs. "Whatever, man."

He gets called away by Dr. Al-Hashimi, and you breathe a sigh of relief. The breath comes out shaky, almost broken.

"You did good, kid." Abbot clasps your shoulder, meeting your eyes. "You okay?"

"Long day," you reply. You give him a watery smile.

He sighs. "He doesn't mean it."

"He does, though," you say.

You wonder if he knows about you, how close you and Robby actually are. Jack is Robby's best friend, his emergency contact. He's also smart enough to see when something is going on, and you and Robby, however subtle you try to be, don't slip past him unnoticed.

"Hey," Jack murmurs, a little softer. "I'll talk to him, okay?"

You shrug. "It's okay."

"It's not," he says. "But he'll come around, okay?"

"I'm sorry for bringing my personal crap into work, Dr. Abbot." Your voice trembles with shame. "It won't happen again."

"Call me Jack," he tells you, so gentle it aches.

"Jack," you try again.

"Atta girl."

As much as Robby would like to pretend the boundaries of the arrangement have always been clear, it was him who broke the rules first.

The first time, it's an emotional disaster. All blurred lines, jagged edges that don't quite fit. You're doctors who don't know how to be clean. All you know is the chaos, the mess that drives you.

It's right after PittFest. You found him curled up in pedes, reciting a prayer to an unhearing god, tears in his eyes, breath shuddering like a broken door rattling on fragile hinges. You knelt down, finished the prayer for him, took his hand, helped him up, and never said a word about it.

Two days later, two shifts later, he catches you outside in the ambulance bay, smoking a cigarette.

He narrows his eyes at your smoke. "Those'll kill you."

"Dana gave it to me," you reply, like that justifies it. "I came in at three because they needed help. Pedes traumas. Three kids."

It's now almost ten o'clock at night. This fact doesn't escape his notice.

"The cigarette is waking me up enough to drive home," you add.

He shakes his head, snatching it out of your hand. Without preamble, he drops it to the ground and stamps it out.

"Hey!"

"What kind of doctor would I be if I let you drive home like this?" he asks. "No way in hell. Give me your keys."

"No!" you exclaim.

"I'll drive you home. Uber back. Give me your keys," he says again, more firmly. "You're not safe behind the wheel after nineteen fuckin' hours. I mean, Jesus, do you even sleep?"

"Occasionally," you answer briskly.

"Keys." He adds your name, a little softer. "Please."

You reluctantly hand them over, and he walks you to the passenger side of your own damn car, helping you into it with a hand between your shoulder blades. You want to snap at him, tell him he's being ridiculous, but the words catch in your throat. All your life, you've been caring for everyone else. Now, suddenly, you're at a loss. The compassion you never afford yourself is coming from your attending. Your rock-solid attending, who's too old for you to crush on, and yet you want him anyway.

Music plays softly as he drives you home, following your directions. The only time you speak is to tell him to turn. When he pulls into the parking garage under your apartment complex, you're almost sad he'll have to go.

"Want to wait for your Uber upstairs?" you ask, trying to prolong the night. To avoid the goodbye a second or two longer.

He pauses, and your face pinches scarlet with embarrassment. What were you thinking? What are you doing?

"Sure," he says, nodding. "I can do that."

He follows you to the third floor, where your tiny unit sits. Your hands shake when you unlock the door: a catastrophic mix of low blood sugar, exhaustion, and nerves. You haven't had a man in your apartment before, not since you moved to Pittsburgh when your last relationship crashed and burned back in Seattle.

Your tiny one-bedroom is full of books, and your cat, Emily Brontë, or EB for short, rules over the domain. You've always loved Wuthering Heights. When you're not reading medical journals or studying surgical techniques, you read classics for fun. You double-majored in undergrad, pre-med and comparative literature, which is why you named EB after a writer.

EB approaches Robby instantly, rubbing along his shins. He scratches her behind the ears, and she poises her paws on his knee, all but climbing his leg. He takes the cue to pick her up, holding her against his chest and petting her with a chuckle. "And who is this pretty girl?"

"EB," you answer.

"EB? As in Phoebe?" he asks, drawing out the sounds with obvious confusion.

"As in Emily Brontë."

"Most people name their cats Mittens or something."

"Does she look like a Mittens?" As if on cue, she narrows her eyes before hopping down and skittering away. "She doesn't normally like strangers."

"I'm honored, then." He glances around.

"Sorry about the mess," you say quickly. "You want coffee or something? I have leftover pizza."

He shrugs. "I'm not really all that hungry."

"Hasn't hit you yet. I doubt you've taken a break all day."

"Pot-kettle," he retorts.

"I'll eat if you do," you offer.

Robby's laugh lines crinkle when he smiles a little deeper. "How could I say no to that?"

So, that's how you wind up watching Jeopardy! on the couch, folded next to him munching on cold pizza. You answer nearly all of the questions quietly, and he raises an eyebrow.

"I should take you out for some bar trivia. You'd win the pot," Robby says casually. His arm is stretched across the back of the loveseat, fingers brushing the curve of your shoulder when you lean back.

Take you out whirls around in your head, tilting until it doesn't seem like English anymore. "I'd like that," you say, a bit shy.

He leans in a little, his touch ghosting across your cheek. "I..."

You kiss him.

He's surprised for a moment, but before you can pull away and apologize, embarrassed, certain you read the moment wrong, he grabs your chin and whispers, "Where are you going, honey?" against your mouth. When he kisses you again, it's hard, certain. Consuming.

He hauls you onto his lap, knocking your glasses off your face. His tongue is in your mouth, and the space between your bodies is almost non-existent. You can feel his cock beneath his scrubs, hardening slowly, and grind your hips against him, seeking relief.

He groans, and you whimper as his deft fingers reach under your scrub top and unhook your bra with one hand. Your brain shuts down, then reboots, and his beard scratches against your neck as he sucks a little mark into your collarbone.

He unties your pants, lifting you just enough to fit his hand down the front of them, and when he finds your cotton panties sticky with need, he groans. "That all for me?" he asks. "Fuck, sweetheart."

He rubs your sensitive nub gently with his thumb, teasing you over the fabric, and you whimper, chasing his touch. When you think you're about to go insane, he pulls the fabric to the side and curls two fingers inside your aching hole. You try to say his name, but all that comes out is a desperate, needy sound as he pumps his thick digits in and out of your cunt, hitting every delicate, perfect spot to undo you. You're tightening around him, a fluttery, floaty feeling pulling you out of your skin, and then you come, hard.

Robby coaches you through it. "That's it. That's my girl."

He teases your clit a few seconds longer before he pulls his fingers out of you, now slick with your release. Even though you're sensitive and working through the aftershocks, you want more. You want him.

He lifts his fingers to his mouth, and you watch him suck the taste of you like it's sweet nectar.

Yeah, you need him inside of you. Now.

If you can take it. Because the hard length of him pressing into your thigh is daunting. Long and thick. He twitches as you slide your hands under his shirt, skimming the soft skin of his tummy.

"My bedroom is down the hall," you say.

"Yes, ma'am," he replies. He scoops you up, like you weigh nothing at all, and he carries you into your bedroom before dropping you on the bed. EB, annoyed at you for waking her, trots out of the room, and Robby kicks the door shut before he's on you again.

You rip off your shirt, letting your unclasped bra hit the carpet. He pulls his over his head, the golden Star of David on the chain resting against his broad chest. He works off his pants, then yours. And then he whistles at the sight of your tits before taking one of your nipples between his teeth and tugging just so. He spreads your knees as he worships your breasts, and you palm him over his boxers, whining sweet nothings and pleas for more.

"I don't have—"

"I'm clean. IUD. Robby, please—"

He groans. "Are you sure?"

You yank his boxers down as his answer. He hisses out a breath, rubbing his shaft through the slick folds of your pussy. When the thick head of him catches on your clit, you whine. You feel better than you ever have in your life. It's never been like this, so perfect. He knows exactly how to touch you, with all the confidence of a man who's been having sex since before you were born. It should be daunting, but it isn't.

Finally, he slides the first inch in. Just the thick tip to start, just enough to start spreading you. It's not enough, the delicious pressure of him, so you hook your heels around his hips and pull him in. He slips all the way inside of you in one thrust, like his self-control has fallen out the window. As he crashes into you, buried all the way to your cervix, balls slapping against your ass with each thrust, you kiss him sloppily, desperately.

He lasts a long time, too. Enough time to make you come two more times with his cock, and when he finally paints your plush walls white with ropes of his cum, you're too blissed out and fucked stupid to realize the gravity of what you've done.

You left Seattle, running from an ill-fated relationship with another surgeon, and now, your fresh start is ruined by the same mistake. Worse, even, given his position as the head of the department.

The problem is, you can't be bothered to care.

He cleans you up and then holds you until you fall asleep. But the rules of the game are set when your eyes open, only to find EB in your bed and cold sheets where he used to lie.

At first, it's easy. Infrequent sexual encounters where neither of you talks about what it means. You keep it casual, simple. Scratching an itch. It starts to bleed into work when it happens once in the on-call room, another time in your backseat in the parking lot. Then, it becomes sleepovers, shower sex, and morning orgasms when he eats his breakfast between your thighs.

He takes you to the biker bar for trivia, and doesn't correct Duke when he refers to you as Robby's girl. Like you belong to him permanently, and aren't just a borrowed thing. You don't realize you're falling in love with him because it's something that just happens so easily, so gradually, it's practically a law of physics, like gravity.

You know the score. At least, you should. That doesn't stop you from loving him, from smiling at your phone when he texts, or when he calls at night because he can't sleep.

Then, slowly, he starts to pull away. Until he's not even with you during sex, not mentally, and then the phone calls stop, the shifts become rigid, uncertain dances, and he stops looking at you from across the room.

You find out Robby's going away on a sabbatical for three months from Dr. Abbot, when he announces it to the night shift one evening you're working late, after Ellis asks you to cover for her. You call, and he doesn't answer. Your texts are left on read.

Just when you're all but begging him to talk to you, he starts lashing out, and then all you do on shift is argue. It's unprofessional, it's messy. It's heart break in slow motion. An unavoidable collision.

You're not surprised when the final fight plays out the way it does. You just wish the fact that you saw it coming made it any easier to stomach. And somehow, after he shatters your soul, you catch sight of him swaddling baby Jane Doe, holding her so tenderly it makes you wonder how he lost that gentleness for you.

You cry the whole way home.

You switch to nights to accommodate the schedule changes. Shen moves to days, and slowly, the ED finds its rhythm again. You live off the crumbs of information Jack gives Dana during hand-offs, pretending not to be eavesdropping.

You shouldn't care where Robby is, or what he's doing. But you do.

Meanwhile, you end up thriving on the night shift. Something about the other doctors and nurses makes you feel appreciated, like a working cog in a machine. Patient satisfaction and morale are up, and Gloria is floating the idea of tenure to you when you return to day shift. Turns out, you're a great mentor, and Jack is there, telling you how well you're doing, how much the team values you.

He doesn't make a move until your last night shift, when everyone throws you a little party with donuts and your favorite coffee. You pretend to be annoyed, acting like it's not a big deal, just a shift change, not death, but you accept all the hugs they give you.

Jack's lasts the longest of all.

And after, when the shift is over, he glances at you across the ambulance bay and says, "You wanna get breakfast?"

"Oh, I wasn't planning on going anywhere. I mean, I'm a mess."

"You're beautiful," he tells you. "So breakfast? It's a low stakes date."

"You're asking me out?"

He leans over into the rose bush, plucking one stem, careful around the thorns. Then he passes it to you, like an offering. "Romantic enough for you, yet?"

You nod, your face lighting up like the golden hour sun. He grins, kisses the top of your head, and the two of you walk to the diner together, hand in hand.

Unsurprisingly, Jack Abbot is a gentleman. One date becomes two, becomes three, and it never goes past kissing. He doesn't push for more or ask, and if you're honest with yourself, you want more. Want him.

His resolve finally breaks when date number four rolls around. He cooks for you, and you wind up making out in the kitchen, wine glasses forgotten. Your legs are wrapped around his waist, ass pressing against the cold countertop. His hand is in your hair, his cock straining against his jeans as you grind against him.

"Jack," you plead. "Jack, please."

"Are you sure?" he asks.

You nod.

He carries you to his bedroom, but you can see the way his bad leg is dragging. Long hours on the prosthetic are hard on him, and even when he's taking it easy at home, he pushes too hard. You guide him down to the bed, peeling away his jeans. His cock is tenting the fabric of his boxer briefs, and you're nervous. He's girthy, thicker all the way around than anyone else you've been with. Where Robby's long, Jack is beefy. You try not to compare them as you mouth the tip of his length, then slowly, take off his prosthetic.

You gently massage the stump, and he yanks you up to kiss him. His hands yank your t-shirt over your head, and when he catches sight of your thin, lacy bralette, he lets out an unbridled moan. "Fuck, baby. Look at you."

You blush. He slides the strap of your bra down, the cup pooling around your ribs. His mouth closes around your nipple, and you whimper, grinding against the hard ridge of his cock. Your panties are soaked, and your leggings, however thin, are still too much fabric between you. You moan his name, a breathy gasp, and he pulls you down hard over his thigh.

"Show me how bad you want it," he orders. "Use me."

And oh, do you. You grind against him, trembling as you drag your clit across his hardness. The pressure from the ridges of his cock are just enough to make your head spin. Your wetness, sticky and coating your lacy panties, grows with each thrust of your hips to meet his. You come undone with his name in your mouth, and when you finally can't take anymore, he flips you over, puts you on your back, and tugs your panties and leggings off in one move. He makes short work of your bra too, sucking your nipples into hard, wet peaks.

Then, without preamble, he kneels. He hauls you forward, wrapping your thighs around his head, and then his mouth is on your clit before you can process the fact you're naked in front of Jack Abbot, and he's looking at you like you're the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

When your eyes flutter shut, he pinches your nipple, raising his brows. Whatever he says as he laps at your folds is muffled, but it almost sounds like eyes on me. You whimper, but obey him, digging your hands in his salt and pepper curls for leverage. You're grinding against his stubbled chin, his lips applying the perfect pressure to your sensitive bundle of nerves. Then, just when you're almost there, he pushes a finger inside you and curls it just so.

This time, you come with a rush of liquid too. Under any other circumstances, you'd be embarrassed, since squirting rarely happens for you, but Jack laps it all up greedily.

"Gonna make you do that again," he decides, and when he kisses you, you taste it on his tongue.

"I need to ride you," you tell him.

He nods. "Fuck, baby, I wouldn't have you any other way."

He reaches into the nightstand for a condom, opening it with his teeth. You help him roll it down on his cock, feeling your hands around him properly. His size is daunting, but you need him too badly to slow down now.

Jack sits propped against his headboard, pupils blown, hazel eyes wild with want. He nibbles your bottom lip, dragging it between his teeth as he devours you with his tongue. Hands on your hips, he holds you over him, sliding his cock through your slick folds.

You lower yourself down slowly, one inch at a time. When he's fully seated inside you, he's deep enough to kiss your cervix, and your belly is bulging with each movement as he slides home. You drop up and down on his cock, slowly at first, and then harder. Your tits bounce as you ride him, and your mind is blank, wiped clean. All you can think about is Jack, about how this feels, and then you can't think of anything at all.

When you come again, he follows behind you, cursing under his breath as he spills hot ropes of his seed into the condom. You're overwhelmed with sensations, but above all else, you feel loved.

And you feel it for him too.

Which terrifies you.

Because you love Robby, too.

After, Jack just holds you. Arms wrapped around you, his shirt on your body, borrowed boxers on your hips.

You wait until his breaths even out to let yourself cry silently into the pillow. Happy tears, sad ones, everything all at once.

When you wake up the next morning, he's still there. He even makes you breakfast and coffee the way you like it.

After that, you're officially Jack's.

It's a rainy October day, just around the corner from Halloween, when Robby comes back to PTMC.

You and Jack are coming off the night shift, one fraught with stomach pumps and drunk drivers. Halloweekend came early, and the Pitt never rests. He comes through the door without ceremony, his bag slung over his shoulder, badge pinned to his scrubs.

"Robby!" Dana says, beaming. "As I live and breathe."

Robby hugs her first, and then Jack. Immediately, Santos and Whittaker offer him handshakes, and even Dr. Al-Hashimi seems pleased to see him. You idle by the nurse's station, unsure of what to do.

You left things on a bad note. More than a bad note. After the fight, the sex, the history, you know there's a fifty-fifty shot this blows up in your face. And yet, naive hope keeps you hesitant. You don't run, rocking forward on your heels and bracing yourself for impending disaster.

Jack slides a hand around your waist, hand falling against your hip as his lips press into your hair. The claim, staked.

Robby's eyes shift between you, hurt flickering in them.

"You're here," you whisper.

He nods. "And you're..."

"Lot's changed since you left, brother," Jack cuts in. "Good to have you back."

The understanding hits Robby, tearing his heart—and yours—into pieces. For reasons you don't quite understand, it's hit you like a freight train. A sucker punch to the guts.

When you and Jack finally leave the ER, it takes everything in you not to look back.

But just because you don't look doesn't mean it's over.

the man is explicitly jealous of your nonexistent refractory period, but it doesn't make his life a lot easier. especially because he loves being between your legs.

“fu- no, not really.”

it’s hard to hold back the gasp when robby repositions his hand over your pelvis, a preventive measure to stop your squirming. the additional pressure immediately has you clenching around the two fingers inside you.

“then stop moving,” robby slurs just before he wraps his lips around your sensitive clit.

the action makes your thighs quiver around robby's head. your thighs muffle your cries of his name and you're forced to thread your fingers through his hair, and tug harshly until he pulls away with a wet pop.

“w-what?”

“i - needa break,” you whine, wiggling your hips the best you can in his tight grasp.

“why?”

breathless you let out another whine when his nose brushes against your clit, again your walls clench and you're hyperaware of his thick fingers splitting you open.

fuck do you always get this wet?

"what's wrong?"

releasing his hair, you reach for his hand and grip his wrist - not pushing his hand away, but holding him still.

"just get me a second."

robby waits by pressing soft kisses on the flesh of your thighs, and threatens to curl his fingers, but he's immediately rewarded with panicked noise and your walls hugging him.

"sweeth-"

"i have to pee," you confess with your eyes are slammed shut, blocking out all the light and any view of robby possibly laughing at you.

instead of laughter, your ears are met with a loud familiar groan. a groan that immediately has you attempting to close your legs and relieve the heat in your tummy.

"then pee," robby almost begs.

"w-what?"

your teary eyes look down at robby's pleading ones.

"just let go, please."

before you can even think about it or make a run for it, robby's mouth is back on you. he flattens his tongue over your clit and slurps, like he's inviting you to relieve yourself into his mouth.

he can't help but smirk at the way your body desperately tries to hold it in.

as if something clicks in robby's brain, the hand over your bladder presses even harder. the pressure immediately has you cursing his name and pleading for a break, but he shows no mercy.

he licks just below your clit, teasing at your hole and curls his fingers inside you, trying to find a way that will break the seal.

finally, he can see your losing battle.

"im gonna-"

"that's it, let go," robby encourages, pumping his fingers in and out.

your loud whine serves as robby's signal to dive further between your legs.

you hear the strong stream of piss. you hear the way it splashes against robby's awaiting tongue, you feel the way he slurps and groans against you.

part of you wants to be embarrassed, but robby's enthusiasm speaks for itself. he wanted this, he wanted this for a long time.

the relief is immediate and has you sinking into the soft mattress. your nose scrunches in discomfort when your ass is met with wet blankets, but robby doesn't seem to mind it one bit as he licks you clean.

your hips twitch from oversensitivity and your whole body tenses when robby's tongue dips a bit too low.

"robby!"

caught red handed he looks up at your with a glistening mouth, "just cleaning up the mess."

At work, everyone is asking Robby about his trip to Hawaii. Your lip quirks up in a snarl as you hear everyone express their excitement. You walk through the corridor and stop in front of your father's picture. Your last tether to him. After this trip, it will be the last thing in Pittsburgh that you'll have of him. The last thing in all of Pittsburgh is in a hospital where he died and where you both worked. Is this all that's keeping you here? A stupid picture in your workplace. You look back down towards central to see Robby and the residents. You bite back tears and take a deep breath. You return to your patients.

One of your patients, was an older gentlemen mentioning severe chest pain. When he spoke, he reminded you of your father. "Such a bright young woman, being a doctor and all. Your husband must be proud of you." You giggle and shake your head, "No husband."

"Then your father?" He smiles.

You smile back, "I like to think so. He had his own special way of telling me." You purse your lips and continue to work through his medical history. You schedule a chest x-ray and CT scan for him and go to check on one of your other patients from the status board.

"Just a week left." Robby stands next to you. "You ready?"

"As ready as I'll ever be." You sigh. "Everyone's mourning you like your not coming back."

He lets out a dry laugh, "That's not true. Everyone is just jealous that we are going."

"That you're going. They're not worried about me." You sigh, "I have to go check on my other patients." You walk away to attend to another patient.

He sighs as he watches you go. He's always doing that. When you're not looking, he's watching you. He sees you when you stare at the picture in the hall. When you disassociate at the computer and when you go outside for a breather after a trauma. He would hate to admit that he still cared about you, genuinely. Even after you pushed everyone away and crawled into your shell. He watched over you. It's like second nature now that he's being doing it for so long. An old habit he can't seem to shake.

He remembers when it all changed for the two of you. The day your relationship changed forever. The day he actually raised his voice at you.

It was fall in the midst of flu season. He was well into his first year as an attending and you were a senior resident. Patients were piling up with flu like symptoms and the wait times were getting longer. He was frustrated with the day and took it out on you. It was a young girl coming in with her babysitter. She wasn't feeling good the past few days and now was refusing foods and liquids. You do everything right; at least for the moment. You start an I.V. and call for an x-ray.

You refer to Robby for his opinion. You believe it to be a simple case of RSV and there was no mention of asthma in the medical history so nothing else major. Although, it was the babysitter that was there instead of the parents telling you this. Robby asks are there signs of bronchiolitis instead; the symptoms were similar after all. You purse your lips, "She's on I.V. for dehydration for now and I am still waiting on the x-ray. So we won't know until then." You say.

"X-ray is backed up so it might take awhile. Expedite the blood work for results." He commands before walking away. You don't see the need to do the extra effort, the signs show a simple RSV common in children her age. Bronchiolitus was seen more in infants and your patient was over the age of 2. You hold off on the blood test and go work on other patients while you wait for the x-ray. You thought about what your dad would do. X-ray still wouldn't take that long. Robby just wants to go the extra mile because he can, now that he's an attending physician. You scoff to yourself.

While you work on other patients, you hear the babysitter shout for help. "She's not breathing!" You run over with Robby following in pursuit. The little girl's lips had turned blue. She was struggling as she slept. "Apneic episode. She's struggling to breath." Robby says as he listens to her lungs with his stethoscope. You blink in shock as the nurses rush in lowering the bed.

"Heart rate is dropping." A nurse states. "Sats are lowered to 70"

"Adamson! we need to intubate her now!" Robby shouts.

You feel his glare as you realize your negligence caused this. Had you done the blood test, this would have been caught sooner and it would have been simple treatment. Now this child had a tube in her throat to help her breath. She stabilizes and PICU is called for her to recover. The x-ray comes in soon after and you see the images confirming it was bronchiolitis. You lower your head in shame. The nurses take over until PICU can escort them.

You leave the room and Robby pulls you behind a room curtain. "What the hell was that?! I told you to expedite a blood test. How did that happen if you did what I told you to do?"

"Because I didn't" You whisper. You clasp your hands in front of you and lace your fingers together. You avoid Robby's intense gaze.

"Why the… fuck not?!" He starts at a shout then whispers still seething, "I didn't say it for my fucking health or to make you suffer. I did it in case some shit like this happened. Now look what happened."

You nod, "I'm sorry."

"I'm not the one you should be apologizing to. Just be glad we caught it when we did. Get your head out of your ass. The world doesn't revolve around you." He opens the curtain to see someone standing there.

Dr. Adamson, you're father, is in front of the curtain. He looks between you and Robby. "Sir, it's handled." Robby says.

"Like hell. What were you thinking letting a mistake like this go unnoticed." Your father enters the room. You take a deep breath, "You are a senior resident acting like a fucking child. Have you no decorum. I expect better, a lot better. "

"Yes sir."

"Do you want this?" He asks. You finally look up and into his eyes, you blink a tear. "Do you really want to work here and be here?"

"I do. I do." You stutter, "I earned this."

"I don't know if you have. Your quarrel with Robby has got to stop from this point on, you understand me. I've never been so humiliated by your behavior. You put that young patient in direct harm by not listening. Do you understand that?"

"Yes sir. I'm sorry." You're choking now. The walls are closing in. Robby notices your hands are behind your back. You must have moved them when Adamson came in. He sees deep half moon indents in your palms. "I won't let it happen again."

"Good. You've got a lot riding on this." He says, "Don't ruin this for yourself."

You nods, "Yes sir."

He throws open the curtain and walks back to the central hub. Robby stays for a moment but bites his tongue. He turns on his heels and follows after Adamson. Your face was etched into his mind. Your streaming tears but no sob. You, somehow, had complete control of your facial expression the entire time you were berated. He didn't know if that was a strength or something worse.

After that day, you changed. You were quiet. You obeyed his demands with no fuss and stayed silent. It was like a part of you had died. No more banter and no more snide remarks. No more teasing him about his hair. Or his choice to wear a tie when he felt like it. You kept conversations brief and distant. You never stayed around your father longer than you needed. Or Robby for that matter. When shift ends he sees you slip out through the ambulance bay. He follows after you, "Hey, wait up."

"What is it Dr. Robby?" You ask with concern like a robotic input, "Is there something wrong with a patient?"

"No, I just wanted to walk with you."

"Oh, um, that's okay. I can walk to my car just fine on my own. You don't have to do that anymore. I'll see you tomorrow." You pick up your pace; as does he.

"Look, I know the bronchiolitis case was tough. I was mad but I shouldn't have taken it out on you."

"But you were right. My feelings were getting in the way of my work. My only dream has been to make my dad proud as I worked here and I let my jealousy get in the way." You laugh a little and stop walking, "He looks at you with a look I've never seen before. He's so proud of the doctor you've become. How much you've grown. When he looks at me, all I see is disdain. Like I was wrong for picking emergency medicine."

"That's not true—"

"Come on. You see it too. You always have. You thought it was game. Here, he would give you all the attention but at home he would probably do the same for me, right? That's what you thought; because he was my dad he would be attentive by default. Not my dad, he's always going on about you. At home he loves to fawn over you. How well you did with certain cases. He actually cried tears of joy writing your letter of recommendation to PTMC" You take a breath as tears prick your cheeks, "He threatened my letter that day. He hung it over my head because of a mistake. It took me months of convincing him to even consider writing me a letter. I'm not like you, but god I wish I was. So maybe my dad could look at me the way he looks at you." You wipe your face, "Have a good night, Dr. Robby." You turn and continue your walk to your car alone. Dr. Robby watches your fleeting silhouette round the corner. He wishes he could have grabbed you and shaken you. Convinced you that you were wrong.

Robby stands in front of the room where your older gentlemen patient was. You had returned to his bedside to prescribe him blood thinners for the clot in his chest; the cause of the pain. The man is telling you a story making you smile and laugh. Robby missed seeing you like that in the ED.

Even though the goal of the trip was to spread Adamson's ashes. He also wanted to make sure you were truly okay. That you were happy and were going to make it through this. He was watching you waste away in the ED. He could feel it. You were pulling away more and more. Less time with the residents and the students. Spending more time in triage. You were busying yourself for some reason. A distraction from the despair, he guesses. He hopes with this trip, you'll be happier. And maybe let him walk you to your car once more.

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