She/her. Real life mortician. Avid shipper of a whole fleet of ships. Fanfic writer. Lover of fluff and broken things. Open to prompts and requests. @Nevermore_red on AO3
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
and tell all the stars above (this is dedicated to the one i love)
Mohabbot Monday (antipodean edition) - written entirely in the notes app on my phone:
Samira Mohan writes a dedication on the front of her completed research project. It's only three lines long. Three lines that will never actually make it to print (or at least not into the physical copy of the AJEM she's mailed when, two rounds of revisions later, her paper is finally published).
The first belongs to her father. Who called her âbugâ and took her to school every morning even though he had, more often than not, just finished up a nightshift. Who is the reason she became a doctor and the reason she will never give up. Who held her hand and let her whisper her secrets. Who kissed skinned knees better and taught her how to be brave.
The second is addressed to the motley crew of supervisors and attendings who've given her their their time, their input and their opinions, over the years since she graduated medical school.
She doesn't reference Robby by name in this, her private dedication. Her feelings about him will always be conflicted. He is a challenge, sometimes a massive asshole, sometimes, irritating and unerringly, he is right. He deserves her thanks for some of it, her disdain for others. She settles for the middle ground: silence, if not quite indifference.
The third is for Jack Abbot. The only person whose email address she puts in the cc box. The only person she knows will read the fine print. The only person alive today, she knows will want to.
'Thank you,â she writes, addressing him directly, 'to Jack, for his support. For journal club and the flowers and for teaching me that there's more than one way to save a life. In case you didn't know,' she adds, typing quickly and feeling braver than she's ever been in her life, 'I'm in love with you.'
-
Jack doesn't believe what he's reading at first. Had groped blindly for his phone in the dark after waking from a part-remembered nightmare and opened the attachment, still half asleep, breathing unevenly.
Scans the first page, fumbles with his phone and promptly drops it down the gap between the side table and his bed; swears colourfully to himself and scrambles for it. Not quite willing to believe the information his brain has processed, even as he pinches himself and squints into the darkness to read it again.
Her words are still there. Something a lot like hope blooms into his intercostal spaces. Extends outwards, warmth spreading across his ribcage.
Samira Mohan is in love with him.
(In case he didn't know.)
He didn't. Heâd hoped, maybe. Has been fighting against his own heart for almost as long as he'd known her. Has almost successfully convinced himself that he's no good for her; that she deserves better or younger or less damaged. That she could never look at him and see something worth loving.
Except there it is - in twelve point Times New Roman (a font that he disagrees with in principle, but would happily ink across his skin if it meant he got to see those words again. Got to see them every day. Got to see her every day.)
-
He's at her door in fifteen minutes flat, has her underwear round her ankles in twenty. Reads the rest of her article on Samira's sofa; on her laptop, hours later, his arms curled around her.
"What do you reckon?" She asks him eventually, chewing on her lip as she looks up at him through her lashes.
He smiles, balancing her MacBook against his knee so he can reach round to tuck her hair behind her ear. She deserves honesty, so he will give it to her "Samira," he says, savoring the way her name tastes on his tongue, "it's the best thing I ever read."
This is a delicate situation they have found themselves in. Thatâs fine, really. Samira deals with delicate situations all the time. For twelve hours a day, nearly every day, Samira deals with delicate situations. The human body can withstand nearly anything. The human body can be destroyed by nearly anything. There is a balanceâa delicate balanceâthat must be maintained.Â
And Samira maintains it.Â
This is a fragile situation. One wrong move, and the entire house of cards crumbles. Samira does well with fragile things. With delicate things. With precarious things. So she keeps still.Â
She keeps her head on Jackâs chest, noticing the rise and fall of his breath. The now familiar beat of his heart. Samira memorizes the way light filters in through the window, peeking in through haphazardly drawn curtains. Jack has his hand pressed against her spine, his thumb resting against her T3.Â
They havenât crossed any lines yet, not technically. They havenât crossed any of the lines that they themselves drew, at the very least. Theyâve never had sex. Havenât even kissed, if you donât count New Yearâs Eve. Samira wouldnât expect anyone to count a drunken kiss with their best friend as a real kiss, so she doesnât. Jack doesnât either.Â
His shirt is soft against her cheek, softened from half a million washes and a decade of wear. Thereâs a hole along the collar. Itâs small, barely noticeable. Samira notices. His duvet is pulled up high, nearly reaching Samiraâs shoulder blades. It almost feels safer this way. A shield of downfeathers covering the two of them.Â
Samira has slept at Jackâs house plenty of times. So many times sheâs literally lost track. She always sleeps in the guest room. The queen bed is tucked against the far wall. Thereâs a nightstand, nice sheets, a big plush rug, and a row of bookshelves Samira has perused and stolen from time and again. She stays over when sheâs too exhausted to drive all the way home after a shift. Or when she and Jack are working on their research. Or when the silence is too loud in her apartment.Â
Or when Jack asks if she wants to. Sheâll always come over when Jack asks.Â
Itâs a platonic booty call. Jack offers her take-out, a shower with incredible water pressure, and familiar company. Samira obliges. She keeps an overnight bag packed. Itâs just the basics: a pair of scrubs, a set of pajamas, a sweatshirt sheâs been meaning to give back to him for months now. Itâs all above board. Itâs all friendly. It is all strictly on the correct side of the line.Â
But now, Samira is in Jackâs bed with Jackâs broad chest under her. Now, Jackâs palm grazes her bare skin, her t-shirt having hiked up her back sometime in their sleep. Her curls are in his face, and his breath is warm against her skin. His heart rate is elevated, beating far too fast for having just woken up. Samiraâs sure hers is too.Â
âSamira,â his voice is gravely, deeper than usual. Still filled with the dreamy uncertainty of recent sleep. Samira. That is the first word he has said this morning. Her name.
She hums in acknowledgment, but doesnât actually say anything.Â
There is no follow-up, though she half-expects him to tell her to kindly get out of his bed and then out of his house. She knows he would never say that. Not her Jack. And that is how she thinks of him, as her Jack.Â
Despite the comforter, her legs are covered in goosebumps. The tip of her nose is cold.Â
She was just checking in on him last night. Samira knows about his nightmares. He told her once that theyâve become more of an inconvenience than anything. His meds help blot out the worst of it. Most of the time, Jack knows itâs a nightmare even as heâs having it. The panic is purely physical. Still, when she heard him talking to himself, heard him calling her name again and again, she slipped out of the guest room and walked the nine steps to his door. Samira was doing what any friend would do when she nudged him awake as gently as possible.Â
His nightmare had something to do with her. She doesnât want to be the reason for his panic, even in his nightmares. Even when it isnât actually her. Samira was going to slink back to the guest room, but then Jack lifted up the corner of his bedding in some sleepy offering mumbling something along the lines of, âSo I know youâre okay.â
This is a delicate situation, so Samira is especially cautious as she turns her face into his shoulder. For warmth, she tells herself. An entirely justifiable excuse. January in Pittsburgh is miserable and dreary, but Jack runs hot. His hand sits heavier on her back, a conscious, purposeful presence. She can feel the whorls of his fingertips and lines of his palm.Â
There are five minutes, then ten, of silence. Just the sound of breath and shifting bedding. Two thudding hearts.
Jack is brave. Sheâs always admired that about him. He breaks the silence first. âI didnât mean to wake you up last night.â
Samira has to move to respond unless she wants to mumble directly into his acromion process. She tilts her head to the side. âItâs okay.âÂ
âAnd Iâm sorry that I made youââÂ
âYou didnât make me do anything.â Itâs funny to think of Jack ever making her do anything she didn't want to.Â
âYouâre in my bed.â Samira can tell he has chosen his words carefully.Â
This is a delicate situation. âI am.âÂ
She actually doesnât know who moves first, which is almost embarrassing because Samira goes out of her way to know as much as she can. She plucks knowledge out of case studies, commits statistics to memory. She learns and absorbs and memorizes, but she truly could not pinpoint who moves first. If itâs Samira or Jack who props up on an elbow. If Samira cards her hand through his sleep-tangled curls before or after Jack wraps his arm around her waist. If she kisses Jack or if she is kissed by him.Â
There is a line drawn somewhere. She canât find it right now.
When all is said and done. When the dust settles and the smoke clears. When Samira finally comes to her senses, everything becomes overwhelmingly and exceptionally obvious.Â
Dr. Abbot was flirting with her. Openly. Unabashedly. Worse, he was flirting with her in front of Robby and the SWAT team and Princess. Promising her peeks inside his go bagâwhatever that means. He stared her dead in the eye with that little smile he has sometimes and said, just above a whisper, âTake the win, Dr. Mohan.âÂ
He let her pull air from a heart with a French 5 pigtail catheter. Samira wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. Just a little bit. She doesnât actually want to hurt him, but she kind of wants to kill him, if that makes sense. Abbot bodyblocked Emery Walsh because he believed Samira was capable enough of pulling off a hare-brained procedure, and then he looked at her like she had hung the fucking moon, and she hadnât even noticed. So she kind of wants to kill him.Â
Dr. Abbot was flirting with her. Has been flirting with her for god knows how long. Not even nine hours ago, Cassie was telling Samira that she needed a life outside of work. Not even nine hours ago, Samira was disputing that fact, high off a cocktail of shock, adrenaline, and pride that sheâs never felt before and isnât sure if she wants to feel again. Not even nine hours ago, Dr. Abbot was offering Samira a ride back to her apartment. Not even nine hours ago, Samira was refusing that offer.Â
Now, in the stark and cold early morning light, Samira is back, trudging past the metal detectors, tapping in through the staff entrance, her eyes narrowed in search of him.Â
She knows that Abbot is here. She knows that he is always here, haunting the halls of PTMC, because this is the only place where he feels like he makes sense. Samira knows this because she feels it too. She is a person, yes, but more importantly, she is a doctor. She is a person, yes, but more importantly, she is a person who can help other people here, within these walls. Samira helped a lot of people last night. She is a person who helps people and she isnât very sure of her personhood otherwise.
Heâs easy to spot. Samira would be able to pick his silhouette out of a hundred other silhouettes. She would know him anywhere, anytime, in any life. Maybe that is why sheâs so pissed, because she knows Jack Abbot. He seems to sense her presence. Abbot turns on his heels immediately, eyes catching on hers, and Samira feels something crack open in her chest. An acceptance, an understanding, a new flavor of anger. Â
âDr. Mohan,â theyâve always been Abbot and Mohan. âYouâre here early.âÂ
âCan we have a word?â Samira asks. Her voice is oddly hoarse. âPrivately.âÂ
He takes stock of her, assessing her for injury and impalement before he nods, arms crossed over his chest like a security blanket. âOf course.âÂ
The air in the locker room is stale. The overhead lighting is just a touch too yellow. Abbot follows her anyway, wordless and looming and nervous. He looks so tired. Samira can feel the exhaustion that thrums through him, weaving itself between marrow and bone. There is an instinct within her, a desire, that tells her to grab him and smooth her thumbs over the high points of his face. His stubble is well past a five oâclock shadow now. Samira wouldnât be surprised if he had simply turned around and got back to work after she turned down his ride home.Â
âIs everything alright?âÂ
She almost laughs. âHow long have you been flirting with me?âÂ
âMohan,âÂ
âI donât think we need to do the Mohan thing right now. How long?â Samira asks.
A flush creeps along the tips of his ears. âYears.âÂ
âEveryone has been letting me bumble around cluelessly for years?â Letting her yearn. Letting her imagine and then feel an all consuming guilt for the crime of daring to think something up in her own head.
âYou have every right to be mad at me. Iâm your attending, and I know this puts you in aââÂ
Samira presses against her eyes until she sees stars. She does laugh now, sharp and hot. She feels her teeth catch on her bottom lip. âYou wear your wedding ring,â is all she can manage to say. âI didnât thinkâyou still wear your wedding ring, so I thought I wasââ Evil. Cruel. Entirely off base. âYou are soâŚâ Her hands ball into fists, flex, and then relax repeatedly until she has no choice but to take the kinetic energy building within herself and propel herself forward with it.
She misjudges the room between them and almost bites him. Maybe sheâs hungover from the adrenaline and the beer in the park and the half bottle of wine she drank sitting down in the shower last night. Maybe sheâs just a little bit nervous. Jackâs lips fall into place soon enough. His hands fly up by his sides before settling along her waist. Heâs warm, and worse, he feels right. Samira exhales against him, fingers twisting in the fabric of his scrub top.Â
Someone, and she doesnât even know who, wolf whistles at them from around the corner.Â
"For the record, I'm really mad at you right now," Samira says against his mouth. He could have told her. He could have told her. He could have told her.
The corners of his lips curl up in something like a grin before he regains his composure. âUnderstood.âÂ
âIâm really,â She presses her lips against his again. Desperate, hurried. âIâm really fucking mad at you.â
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
samira ends up at jack's place because it's antartic temperatures and her heater's broken. there's a text that goes out to all the interns and residents about it - the senior leadership (robby, ellis, jack, and a few others) offering up their places in case people need a warm place to stay during the great blizzard of 2025.
she's surprised to find she's the only one at jack's place. dennis and santos pick robby's pad because it's quote "dope as hell" and they too live in a building made from cardboard and a prayer.
but it's just her at jack's place. a nice condo three blocks from the hospital with roof access.
samira offers to make him breakfast and he gives her a look - like - you shitting me? but she does it. pancakes and maple syrup. he's got the good kind. the imported kind in a glass bottle.
samira doesn't think anything of it as she licks it from her fingers.
"pity this is the first time you've stayed over" he says to her and wraps his arms around her.
they've been off/on for months at the hospital in abandoned rooms. come to think of it, samira realizes, jack probably organized the whole text chain himself just to get her over to his place.
he grabs her fingers. sticks them in his mouth and sucks the syrup off them.
she swallows. her whole chest beats with dreams of him. this being permanent. this being real to him.
Additional Tags: everything shower, Established Relationship, Fluff, Jack Abbot is Down Bad (The Pitt), Male Supplication, This is Jack being positively smitten while Samira just exists and does her thing, Cotton Candy Fluff
Summary: Samira loves Jack's shower. Jack loves watching her in it.
A massive thank you to @pittofdespair for the encouragement and the read-through 𼰠Posting this for the masterlist here, sorry to anyone who saw it already!
âIâm taking an Everything Shower,â she announced like a code, dropping her bag beside the bed. âI am a biohazard.â
âNoted,â Jack replied with a nod. âDo I need a containment suit?â
âNo PPE needed. Youâre on observation and supply duty. Bench is for the supervising physician.â
âFinally,â he deadpanned. âThe respect I deserve.â
Jack had learned the fine art of not getting in Samiraâs way when she was on a mission. Working together in trauma rooms had trained them both to move around each other without losing speed or purpose. At home, that skill translated into a choreographed, quiet efficiency that made sharing small spaces feel like a relief rather than a hindrance.Â
It was for that reason he was quite fond of her weekend aligning with his so she could spend the days off at his place. It happened less frequently than either of them liked, but it was the reward at the end of this particular long week.Â
Samira packed a bag that she left in her backseat and then followed Jack home after a shift that included a bus accident and an outbreak of norovirus.Â
An exchange of tight, tired smiles was their only communication as he unlocked his door.Â
Jack made his way to the bedroom, clicking the prosthetic foot free of his shoe with his toe and then sitting on the bench at the foot of the bed to do the rest. It was an efficient dance; he learned to make a ritual out of maintenance when his body gained additional components.
Samira didnât look away while he peeled off the sleeve and checked the limb, not gawking and not pretending she wasnât seeing what she was seeing. He had loved her for that before he had words for it.
âIâm taking an Everything Shower,â she announced like a code, dropping her bag beside the bed. âI am a biohazard.â
âNoted,â Jack replied with a nod. âDo I need a containment suit?â
âNo PPE needed. Youâre on observation and supply duty. Bench is for the supervising physician.â
âFinally,â he deadpanned. âThe respect I deserve.â
Jack leaned in the doorway with his crutches to watch her stage the operation. It never stopped impressing him, the way she could extract order from chaos with nothing but a list in her head. There was something surgical about the way she approached small domestic tasks without turning them into theater. She set out an array with clinical precision and took two folded bath sheets from the linen shelf.Â
He couldnât help himself. âAre we running a code in there?âÂ
âThis is a comprehensive protocol. A Level I Everything Shower. The whole catastrophe,â Samira said seriously.Â
âThe whole catastrophe,â he repeated, smiling and shaking his head. âDo I⌠scrub in, or are you in a closed room?â
âYou may observe from just outside the sterile field.â Samira gestured to the shower bench.Â
The bathroom was one of his small apologies to himself. The renovation was the result of years of therapy homework learning to be more considerate of his own needs. Wider doorway, seamless threshold, grab bars that didnât look like grab bars, heated tile with enough tooth that you didnât feel like Bambi, and a built-in bench the length of one wall. The massive shower head hung above like a benevolent god and a handheld wand sat in a cradle that pivoted like it was trying to show off.
Jack stripped off his clothes and used the bars to navigate to the bench. He propped his residual limb up and rested, the heat of the tile seeping into the scar tissue and settling the restless itch. Phantom pain came and went with no respect for his schedule. It had made him mean in the years where he had less to lose, and it had made him gentle since. He had built the shower with this bench because he wanted one place where his body was easy to live in.
Jack sat contentedly and watched as she worked a cream product of some kind into her hair. She caught his gaze in the mirror as she twisted the strands up into a clip. âTeam, please confirm the patient and procedure.âÂ
âPatient: Dr. Samira Mohan,â he intoned, trying very hard not to grin. âProcedure: Everything Shower.â
Samira laughed and then fixed him with a faux serious look. âStop staring.âÂ
She didnât wait for him to look away before undressing and tossing her scrubs in the correct hamper. He wasnât going to look away anyway.Â
âNever,â he said, perfectly honest. âIâm here for learning purposes. Continuing medical education. One point five credits.â
âYou can help or you can mock,â she said, stepping past him into the shower and turning on the left valve with a practiced hand, adjusting the temperature with the right, standing just out of the line of fire until the water went from cold to steam. âYou cannot do both.âÂ
When it seemed hot enough he worried she would scald, Samira stepped into the water.
He could write a journal article about that moment, the hinge of her jaw relaxing, the way her sternum lifted as she let her lungs actually fill. Instead, he picked up the little silicone scalp scrubber sheâd taught him to like and left it on his knee like an offering.
âOkay,â she said a minute later, unclipping her hair. He traded her the clip for the tool without having to be asked, a small economy of anticipation between them.
It was ridiculous how much he liked this. Not the water or the steam or the view, though he loved that too, but the choreography. He loved the way she made a plan and then pretended she hadnât; the way she triaged herself with the same ease she did a trauma.
As she slid the tool over her scalp, Samira made a content noise so small it felt private and he filed it away like he did everything he wanted to keep forever. She stepped back and let the first wave of product rinse from her hair.Â
Jack had always loved the way she moved, direct and economical. He handed over shampoo as ordered, then took it back when she tilted her chin and turned to face away from him, the small request a trust that made something in him ache.
âYouâre looking at me with your soft eyes,â she said, eyes closed to keep suds out.
âUh-huh,â he agreed, because she was luminous, and it made him a little lightheaded.Â
âTilt,â he said, and she did, so he could work the lather into her scalp the way heâd work a knot out of his own calf after a long run ten lives ago. Samira made a noise she would deny later.
âDonât get used to this,â she teased, but there was barely a breath between her teeth and his name.
Jack didnât answer because he was busy re-memorizing the map of where she liked pressure and where she liked it to be nothing but his fingertips and nails. He plucked the wand from the wall and used it to carefully rinse the suds from her hair, letting the strands gather like silk in his fingers.
He had wanted to be useful his entire life, and now he got to hand this woman a conditioner bottle before she had to open her eyes and look for it.Â
If you had asked him the day they met what luck was, he would have used larger words and narrower definitions. Right now, luck was this - his stupid fancy shower, her mouth tipped down like she was trying not to smile even as her dimples appeared, the slow human domesticity of it all after a day of putting people back together while the world took them apart.
âTimer,â Samira said, and he picked his phone up from the counter and thumbed in three minutes. He wasnât sure when his vocabulary for love had become a list of small, stupid acts like starting a timer on his phone while he watched the woman he loved rub something that smelled like coconut and mint into her hair, but there it was - a language he understood fluently.
With her curls conditioner sodden, she gave him that sheepish little grin he only got in moments like this - a concession that being admired didnât feel terrifying if it was him doing the admiring.
âBody wash next,â she said, âwith the mitt, then shave. Weâre doing the full debridement for your nice sheets.â
He held up the mitt like a trophy. âThis looks like a felony.â
âItâs the only thing that stands between me and becoming a crusty raisin,â she said evenly. âWater engages; friction debrides.â
âSpoken like a woman who charted twelve wound checks today,â he said, and she snorted.
The mitt went on, and he didnât intrude. He took the handheld and let it hover where she directed. He could see her turn off the part of her brain that had been listening to monitors for twelve hours and on the part that knew where her own edges were as she felt all her muscles one at a time.
âNext,â she said, and he reached for the razor. She could have done it herself; she often did. Instead, she handed him her shin with a doctorâs lack of preciousness and a loverâs trust. She lifted one foot and braced it on the bench near his thigh and he slid his hand under her knee.
He drew the razor in sure strokes, so careful it made him a little dizzy. He rinsed it in the stream and worked his way carefully around her leg. Jack had learned to save moments and let them tether him. This one went in his pocket with a weight he could feel.
âOther side,â she said, sounding breathless. Her cheeks were flushed when he looked up at her with that intense stare that made her knees weak.Â
Jack took her other shin just as gently and did it all over again. Samira put one hand on his shoulder. His brain catalogued the fact that her fingers were cold at the tips, that they warmed quickly. The razor slid and he watched the clean path in its wake like he had performed a trick.
He finished rinsing her leg and looked up at her again with the satisfied look of a puppy who had retrieved the paper.Â
âOkay,â Samira said, sounding determined to keep her wits about her in spite of the heat settling. She shot him a warning look that he answered with his hands up. He could do a thousand things. He could do restraint.
He watched her scrub the bottoms of her feet with a brush that looked like a tiny torture device, and he leaned forward without thinking to hold her steady by the ankle. She relaxed into his hand like he was part of the bench.
âYouâre being very helpful,â she informed him, which was her version of a medal ceremony.
âI am deeply useful,â he said, eyes meeting hers.
âI know,â she said, and the words landed somewhere between a vow and a joke and rattled around in his ribs.
âFace next,â she said, and he knew the sequence by now. The first cleanser melted the day off; the second one actually cleaned. He handed them in turn and watched her shove her face into the stream with a determination that would have made him laugh if the tenderness in his throat didnât make noise feel impossible.
The timer chimed. She moved fully under the spray to rinse everything off, and Jack couldn't help but reach out, his hand catching her hip to steady her when she wobbled slightly.
"I'm good," she said automatically.
"I know. I just wanted to touch you.â The smirk was back.Â
"Come here," Jack said softly, and she went, letting him pull her down onto his lap. The position was awkward, water hitting them at an angle, but neither of them cared. Samira curled into him, her chin finding the crown of his head.
"Long day," she mumbled into his damp curls.
"The longest."
His hands moved over her back, not seeking anything beyond contact. Samira let out a long breath.
She pulled back to look at him, water droplets clinging to her eyelashes. "You need to wash your hair."
"Are you offering?"
"I'm saying you smell like The Pitt."
"Romantic."
Samira was already reaching for her shampoo again. He could suffer spending a couple days smelling like her. Her fingers worked through his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp in a way that made him groan.
"Feel good?"
"Everything you do feels good."
Samira let the words and the moment settle between them for a second before turning the wand to spray him once in the face with the smallest smirk. âFocus up, soldier. The procedure is almost done.âÂ
He blinked up at her as she rinsed him off, an impossibly mushy look on his face.
When she stepped out of the shower, she kissed the top of his head on the way by, a soft, absentminded thing that hit him harder than expected.
Jack watched her do the whole post-op ordeal - serum, moisturizer, the body oil she told him made her smell like a fancy bakery, curl cream - like he was observing a master class in triage.
She caught him looking in the mirror and raised an eyebrow. âShut up.â
âI didnât say anything,â he protested, and she narrowed her eyes at him as she tucked the ends of the towel into themselves at her chest.
âYouâre being impossible.â
âIâm literally just sitting here,â he argued, the corners of his mouth tipping into a smirk that betrayed him.
Jack got up, grunting at his joints, and toweled off lazily before moving carefully into the bedroom again. He completed the mundanity of residual limb maintenance. He took his time because it mattered, every day, the same way flossing mattered and he pretended not to watch her watch him.Â
Samira leaned against the doorframe and dried her hair with the towel in the way a cat will sometimes forget youâre there and show you its belly. He loved that he could look and she could be looked at and neither of them would jump out of their skin.
âGood?â she asked, and he nodded.
âBetter now,â he said before his better judgement could tell him to be cooler about it. Her dimples appeared even as her eyebrows narrowed, the way she did when she wasnât expecting him to go earnest on her.
âStop,â she muttered, smiling into the towel.
âNever,â he said again, because if you found your way to simple words, you should say them.
They drifted to the living room, Jack heading for the kitchen on his crutches while Samira emerged from the bedroom in one of his henleys, her legs bare and her damp curls plopped on her head in another of his ancient t-shirts. She looked smug and freshly laundered and like an absolute menace.
âAre those both mine?â he asked needlessly.
âItâs called post-op dressing,â she said, tugging at the hem. âCotton-rich. Smells like you. Clinically indicated.â
âIn that case,â he said, âIâll alert Materials Management weâre low on Jack.â
The refrigerator offered up a variety of tragic leftovers.
âNo,â Samira said immediately, looking over his shoulder. âAbsolutely not. None of those are edible.â
âAgreed,â he said, making a sheepish face. âWe pivot to Plan B: omelets with reckless quantities of cheese.â
She perched on one of the barstools, legs folded, chin propped in her hand, watching him like a favorite show. âReckless is a choice I accept when it comes to cheese.â
Butter hit the hot pan with a hiss. He whisked eggs, scattered scallions and added a blizzard of sharp cheddar that would make a cardiologist sigh.
âJack,â she said, trying to sound stern and failing. âThatâs a structural hazard.â
âI do reinforced construction,â he replied, nudging the edges with a spatula. âLoad-bearing dairy.â
âJust call it a frittata and stop fighting gravity.â
He flipped it anyway and she clapped, a delighted sound that made him grin.Â
They ate on the couch, plates warm on their knees, the good blanket dragged over both of them. On TV, a couple debated the moral necessity of shiplap.
âWhy is everything greige?â she asked, poking another bite with her fork. âDid color offend them personally?â
Jack snickered and pointed out a particularly heinous wallpaper on the opposite side of the room.Â
They critiqued strangersâ bad choices, and let the drone of the narrator do the rest of the work. An easy quiet they had earned.
âThose pendant lights look like urine specimens,â she mumbled.
âNow I canât unsee it,â he groaned. âWho puts the stove that far from the sink? Thatâs a twelve-step walk for a pot of boiling water.â
âUnsafe. Iâm writing them up,â she murmured, already settling heavier against him, eyes half-closed. âNow youâre going to let me sleep for a hundred years.â
âTwelve tops,â he bargained. âWe have plans.â
âWe have no plans,â she reminded him.
âWe have plans to have no plans,â he corrected, and she hummed a note he could feel resonate in his bones.
Jack had stitched enough bodies with love in them to know you donât ignore the fact you have the chance to touch one while theyâre warm and breathing and lying on your couch. He reached over, and she laced their fingers without looking.
The feeling that threaded through his sternum thinking about the fifteen minute shower where the world did not ask anything from them was unexpected. It was quiet and bright. He respected the moment like it was a patientâs last good vein. He didnât try to label it out loud with a word heavier than the night could hold. He let it be what it was and sat with it. He could call it love later when his mouth wasnât so dry. He could tell her when it was daylight and their bodies werenât so rung out.Â
Or he could put it in his pocket with all the other weighty, perfect things and let it ground him.Â
âQuit narrating,â she murmured without opening her eyes.
âIâm not saying anything,â he defended himself.
âYouâre so loud in here.â She tapped her temple with their joined hands and then pulled his knuckles to her mouth.
He exhaled a laugh and kissed her hairline.
âChecklist,â she said, eyes still closed. âEverything Shower - complete. Post-op - complete. Post-op dinner - complete. Patient - stable.â
âFollow-up in forty-eight hours,â he said.
âFollow-up in twelve,â she countered. âI will need breakfast.â
âBreakfast we can do.â He was thinking of the place on Liberty with the sticky tables and the cook who never stopped moving.
He turned his head to watch her and she opened one eye, catlike, and then shut it again, satisfied she had him where she wanted him. He did not move. He had nowhere better to be.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
We know that our beautiful Princess Samira Mohan is a workaholic and has zero social life. Bc of that and because she has valued her work and her education for so long, has not dated or even thought about dating in such a long time that my girl has ZERO game and in turn cannot pick up on when someone is flirting with her. Itâs very endearing imo (Iâm also just as in love with her as Jack Abbot)
Jack Abbot also has ZERO game. That old man is head over heads for one Samira Mohan and sheâs got no fucking clue. So here he is, awkward, also no social skills but at the other end of the spectrum ya know what I mean, but still trying. When he flirts with her, itâs weird bc theyâre freak4freak and whenever she fires this wit back at him sheâs not doing it on purpose but my man Jack eats that shit up and it makes him flustered like a middle schooler.
So essentially, I think that the flirting with Mohabbot is one sided but only bc Samira has no fucking idea itâs even happening and Jack is just terrible at it (however it would work on me but what can I say Iâm also a freak whoâs got daddy issues and will also eat up a silver fox)
So, once Samira is aware of Jack and the fact that heâs been flirting literally forever, her feelings are gonna hit her like a tsunami. Like âoh, this other doctor I work with and find fascinating is also super fucking hot when did that happenâ
And once those two weirdos actually get together itâs going to be so fucking hot I cannot wait.
Summary: Samira knew sneaking around with Jack would be risky. She didnât know it would mean trying not to scream while heâs got her spread out on Robbyâs bathroom counter.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
NevermoreRed @nevermorered - Tumblr Blog | Tumlook