all timory left me was a memory

The rubber tips were spotless and they still had the plastic films wrapped around the length. He reached out, running his thumb over the plastic.

"What?"

A mumble floated out of the bathroom, and he followed the sound. The bathroom door stood open with you, kneeling on an old towel spread across the tiles, drill clutched in one hand as you tightened the final screw into a stainless-steel grab bar mounted beside the shower. The room looked like a renovation site. Your toolbox laid open on the floor, surrounded by scattered screws, instruction booklets, a tape measure, and a level. Fine white dust coated the towel beneath your knees, and another streak dusted the front of your jean shorts where you'd wiped your hands without thinking. You leaned back, squinting at the grab bar before holding the level against it.

"Hey." His voice was careful, the ER calm he uses when he doesn't want to spook someone.

You jumped, looking over your shoulder. "Jesus Jack!" The drill nearly slipped out of your grip and you pressed a hand to your chest. "You scared me."

"I wanted to surprise you." He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing loosely, eyes tracking over the rails, the seat, even a small rubber mat waiting to be unrolled, then back to you.

"What is all this?"

Your smile became suddenly unsure and you didn’t know what to say.

"There are crutches on your couch." He said, pointing to the living room.

You glanced past him.

"I was wondering where I left them." You joked, and he crossed the small bathroom in two steps, crouched down next to you, and wrapped a hand around the rail, testing the give. Solid. Level. Anchored properly.

"I watched a lot of YouTube videos." You told him and he laughed, but it caught halfway and when he looked at you his eyes were too bright for it to just be amusement. 

He didn’t say anything else for a moment. Just stayed crouched there next to the rail, one hand still resting on it, like he needed the solid weight of it under his palm to believe it's real.

"Jack?"

"Yeah. Sorry. I'm," he shook his head, huffed a breath out through his nose, and when he looked up at you his eyes were shining in a way that caught you off guard. "Can I sit down a second?"

"Of course."

He didn’t go far, just sank down right there on the closed toilet lid, elbows braced on his knees, hands loosely clasped between them like he was trying to hold onto something. 

“You never stay here, you always find an excuse why we should go back to yours instead, and I realised that you’re not comfortable here.” You gestured to your handy work, “but I want you to feel comfortable. I want you to be able to come back here, and not think.”

He lifted his head looking at you through his lashes. 

“I know your apartment is easier, but I want it to be easy here too. So after work, if you come here you’ll have crutches and you won’t have to put your leg back on in the night to pee, and I don’t know.” Your voice trailed off, going quiet. You and Jack had only been dating a month or so, and you weren’t sure if you had overstepped. 

"I've spent years figuring out how to walk into a room and just read it," he said, eyes drifting back to his hands. “You get good at doing the math so fast nobody even notices you're doing it." He laughed, but it didn't have much air behind it. "I'm good at doing the math." He looked up at you, and there was nothing guarded in his face then, none of the easy charm he wore at work. Just him. "Nobody's ever done the math for me. Everybody loves me, everybody's kind, but it's always me figuring out how to fit into their space. Their apartment. Their life." His jaw worked for a second. 

Your throat went tight, and you tried to hold back tears. "It's just grab rails."

"It's not." He reached over and took your hand, turning it over like he was checking it for damage, thumb tracing over your knuckles. "It's you looking at your apartment and thinking about my body instead of just my company." His voice cracked slightly on the last word and he pressed his lips together, blinking hard.

"Hey." You slide onto your knees in front of him, hands coming up to his face. "Hey, look at me."

He did, his eyes were wet now, unashamed of it in a way that undid you a little. He let out a shaky breath and pulled you into him, forehead dropping to your shoulder, one hand fisted gently in the back of your shirt like he was anchoring himself the same way he anchored his hand to that rail a minute ago. You felt his body shake.

"I didn't know," he whispered, "how badly I wanted somewhere I didn't have to think."

You rubbed slow circles across his back. He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes red and cheeks damp.

“You’ve given me the first place, other than my own apartment,” his smile trembled, “that feels like home.”

Your eyes filled immediately, you cupped his face, kissing him gently, tasting salt and coffee and relief.

By the time you had both wiped your faces and laughed a little at yourselves for crying over grab rails, you migrated to the kitchen. The food was lukewarm but neither of you cared. 

"So," he said, popping the lid off a container of noodles, "tell me about this YouTube deep-dive.”

"Oh, it was extensive." You hopped up onto the counter, swinging your legs. "I watched probably twelve different videos on stud finders alone. Did you know there's beef in the accessibility-installation community about magnetic versus electronic stud finders?"

He laughed real and warm, the heaviness from a few minutes ago starting to ease off his shoulders. "Is that right?"

"I’m serious. I have opinions now. Strong ones. And I measured everything,” you held up two fingers, very serious. "Twice. How far out from the wall it needed to sit so it'd actually hold weight and not just look nice. I did not want to be the reason you ended up back in the ER. Can you imagine? Patient's girlfriend attempted home renovation, patient acquired new injury via poorly anchored bar.'" You shook your head. "We would never live it down. Absolutely not happening on my watch."

He grinned around a mouthful of noodles, and for a second he just looked at you like he's still catching up to the fact that you exist and did all this, sitting on your counter joking about stud finders.

"There's more, actually," you added, a little more casual than you felt. "I'm not done. I still need to put up shelving in the shower, lower down, where you can actually reach it without stretching weird. So the shampoo and everything's just right there. I don’t want you having to reach up and over the seat for stuff."

He went quiet again, fork slowing.

"You've really thought about all of this."

"I mean, what's the point of half doing it?" You shrugged, picking at the edge of your own container. "If your shampoo's up on some shelf that's designed for someone who's just standing there, that defeats the whole purpose, right? Might as well not bother."

He sets his fork down, reaches over, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb lingering against your cheek.

“It gave me an excuse to buy a drill. And as it turns out, I'm very handy. It's one of my best qualities."

"It's up there," he agreed, voice softer now. "Right up there."

He leaned in and kissed you softly. The kiss lingers a little longer this time, his hand sliding up into your hair, and when you finally pull back you're both a little breathless.

"I'm covered in drywall dust," you murmur against his mouth. "Very unsexy. There's dust in places dust should not be."

"I hadn't noticed." He definitely noticed. His thumb brushed a smudge of it off your cheekbone anyway, gently.

"I should probably shower.” You raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. "You know. Since I have a brand new, very sturdy, very Jack-approved shower seat just sitting there. Unused. It seems kind of a waste."

He huffed a laugh, forehead dropping to rest against yours. "You're serious."

"Gotta test the workmanship somehow. Quality control."

He pulled back just enough to look at you properly, really look, the way he did when he was deciding whether to let himself want something. Whatever he found in your face settled it. He took you by the hips, helping you off the counter.

"Lead the way," he said. "But if that rail so much as wiggles, I'm writing you up."

"Duly noted."

The bathroom air felt cool against your skin as Jack's fingers worked the buttons of your shirt, sliding the fabric off your shoulders while your hands tugged his shirt up and over his head. His pants followed, then yours, until both of you stood bare. He pulled you close for a slow kiss, his hands tracing over every inch of your body. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he mumbled into your neck as he planted kisses before biting at your ear and sucking the pain away quickly. His hands left you, and your body felt heavy without him there to hold you up anymore. He slipped into the shower quickly, lowering himself onto the new seat. He settled back, looking up at you with a small smile. "Take it off for me," he said, nodding toward his prosthetic. You joined him, halting for a moment before dropping to your knees. 

“Are you sure?” You asked, your hands reaching out for him. He ran a hand through your hair, nodding with a content smile on his lips. You slowly eased his leg free and set it aside outside the shower, leaning against the glass door. Jack watched you carefully. You stood and reached for the shower handle, turning the water on, letting the hot spray burst from the showerhead, falling over both of you as steam began to fill the space. His hands found your hips as you stepped closer. "Come here," he murmured. You straddled his lap, Water streamed down your back while his hands stayed at your waist for a moment, steadying you. He reached past you to the ledge, fingers trying to close around the bottle of soap. 

"Pass me that," he said, voice low over the rush of water. You gripped onto his shoulder, reaching up and handed it over without hesitation. Jack worked the soap between his palms until thick lather coated them. He started at your collarbones, sliding his soapy hands outward across your shoulders, then down your arms in long, firm strokes. The suds left a slick trail as he moved inward again, palms gliding over your chest. His thumbs dragged slow circles around your nipples, pressing just enough to make them tighten under his touch. He kept going, washing lower, hands smoothing over your ribs and stomach before returning upward to cup your breasts fully. Suds slid between his fingers as he squeezed and rubbed, making sure every inch was covered. You shifted on his lap and he continued, soaping down your sides and along the curve of your waist. His hands dipped lower still, gliding over your hips and the tops of your thighs where they rested against him. The soap rinsed away gradually under the spray, leaving your skin warm and clean. Jack leaned in and kissed you again, slow and deep, his freshly washed hands sliding up your back to pull you closer against his chest. Beneath you, his cock began to swell and harden against your folds. You felt the firm length press upward, growing thicker with each passing second as his hands continued their slow path over your skin. The sensation sent a rush of heat through you, and you felt yourself growing slick between your legs, your pussy starting to coat his shaft with your own wetness. Jack's breathing deepened against your neck as he noticed the shift, his soapy palms still moving over your hips while his cock throbbed harder beneath you. His mouth found yours quickly, lips parting as his tongue slid against yours in a deep, hurried kiss. You kissed him back, hands sliding up his chest while his fingers traced along your spine. You reached beneath you guiding his hard cock to your entrance before sinking down onto him. The thick stretch pulled a moan from your throat. Jack groaned, fingers digging into your ass as you started to ride him, the wet slap of skin on skin mixing with the sound of running water.

"Fuck, that's it," he breathed. "Just like that. God, you feel so good."

You moved faster, bouncing on his cock while his hips thrust up to meet you, the seat creaking under the force. His thumb found your clit, rubbing circles as pleasure built between you. "Come on, baby," he urged. "Let me feel that pussy squeeze me.”

Your pace quickened, water cascading over your breasts as you bounced on.

“Jack,” you mumbled, unable to form a thought with the feeling of his inside you.

"That's my girl," he panted. "Fuck yourself on me. I want to feel you come."

You leaned forward, hands on his shoulders as you ground down, circling your hips. Your orgasm hit hard, your walls clenching around his cock as you cried out. Jack held you through it, thrusting up into your spasming cunt until he followed you over the edge, groaning your name as he pumped you full.

“So beautiful,” he pushed your wet hair from your face, still buried deep, his forehead pressing to yours while the shower washed away the evidence of your release. His breathing slowed against your neck, one arm still braced to keep you both steady under the spray.

A week later, and your apartment already looks a little different. A pair of Jacks sneakers by the door, kicked off next to yours instead of carried home in a bag. The shower seat always has a permanent film of steam-fog on it most mornings now, evidence it's actually being used instead of just admired. It was Sunday when he brought it up over coffee, casual, like it's not a big deal even though you both know it kind of was.

"Think we would go to the hardware store today, get something for the rugs, keep the edges down. The runner nearly got me on the way in.” He nudges your foot under the table. You look up from your mug, trying not to make too much of it and failing a little anyway. He says it so easily now, nearly got me,  like it's just a fact of the apartment, like he's allowed to notice the hazards out loud instead of quietly working around them and never mentioning it at all. A few months ago he wouldn't have said anything. He'd have just filed it away, adjusted his own path through the room, and let you go on not knowing. Now he's just telling you. Asking, even. Like this is his space to have opinions about. It makes something in your chest go soft and warm, watching him take up room here, literally, happily, without apologizing for it.

"Yeah?" you say. "You want to go to the hardware store with me?"

"I want the rug fixed before it takes me out." He shrugs, easy, but there's the faintest smile tugging at his mouth like he knows exactly what he's doing. "And yeah. I like going places with you. Even the hardware store."

"Even the hardware store," you repeat, standing to rinse your mug, hiding your own smile in the process.

"Especially the hardware store." He catches your hand as you pass him, tugging you back down for a quick kiss. "Turns out I've got a lot of opinions about flooring safety. Didn't know that about myself till recently."

You're still smiling about it twenty minutes later, shoes on, his keys jingling in his hand as he locks up behind you both, and the two of you head out into the Sunday morning together, in no rush at all.

The hardware store is nearly empty and Jack's pushing the cart, his arms braced on the handle while you trail behind with your phone out, scrolling through reviews.

"Ok, this one." You hold up a package of thin white mesh squares. "These had good reviews."

"Those'll work for the bedroom rug, maybe." He takes the package, turns it over, unconvinced. "But that runner in your living room's the real problem. Honestly? I think that one just needs to go. Or get rolled up and put somewhere that isn't the main walking path."

You cross your arms, mock-offended. “I’d like to remind you of how expensive that was.”

"So's an ER copay." He grins softly, but doesn't back down. "I'm not saying throw it out. Put it under the coffee table where it's decorative and I don't have to cross it to get to the kitchen."

"Ok, that's reasonable. What about the bedroom?"

"That one's flatter, no curling, so grippers under it should be fine." He hands you the mesh pack back. "Get the thicker gel ones though, not this mesh stuff. Mesh flattens out in like a month and stops doing anything."

"How do you know that?"

"Same way I know everything about flooring hazards. Bitter, extensive personal research." He says it easily, grabbing you and turning you around with a kiss to your cheek. "We need the gel ones. Aisle's back that way." You backtrack with him, falling into step, cart wheel squeaking. He tosses the gel grippers in the cart, then pauses, glancing sideways at you. He laces his fingers through yours as you head toward the checkout, cart rattling along behind you.

"Wait." You tug his hand, slowing him down before you reach the registers. "Can we go look at lamps before we leave? I've been meaning to get something for the corner by the bookshelf."

He raises an eyebrow, amused. "Is this the part where we spend an hour with you trying to decide which lamp to buy?"

“I just want to look."

"Uh-huh." But he's smiling as he lets himself be pulled along, cart trailing behind.

"Five minutes. I'm timing you."

You don't make it out in five minutes. You end up standing in front of a whole wall of lamps, tilting your head at a warm brass one with a linen shade, while Jack leans against the cart and watches you more than the lamps themselves.

"That one," he says finally, nodding at the brass one. "Goes with the wood on your bookshelf."

"You have opinions about lamps too now?"

"Turns out I have opinions about a lot of things when they're in your apartment." He says it easy, like he's only half joking.

Back at your apartment, grocery bags of grippers are dumped on the counter, you both stand in the living room surveying the runner like it's a crime scene.

"Okay," you say, hands on your hips. "Operation Relocate the Rug." You give the rug a final roll and lug it toward the coffee table, a little breathless. Jack shifts the table out of the way for you to place the rug down.

"There," you say, straightening up, hands on your lower back. "Out of the walking path. Vintage rug preserved. Nobody faceplants."

"Big day for rug fanatics.”

"Huge." You flop down onto the couch next to him, surveying the newly rearranged room, the coffee table pulled a few inches to the left now, more room between it and the armchair, a clear path from the front door to the kitchen without a single obstacle in sight.

Jack's looking at it too, quiet, one hand coming to rest on your knee.

"It's a good room," he says finally. You lean your head on his shoulder, and for a minute you both just sit there in the rearranged quiet, grocery bags still waiting on the counter, the whole apartment slowly turning into something built for both of you.

“Hey,” he said, sliding up next to you.

You didn’t bat a lash. “Hey yourself.”

“I need your opinion.”

You were still distracted on your charting, even as you said: “Yes, Robby, green does bring out your eyes.”

“What? No,” he said with a frown. He caged your body in, leaning is arm over you at the counter. “You're young.”

“That's why you like me, right?”

Robby hummed. He looked over you, making a mental list of all the reasons he loved you. “Yeah, sure, one of the reasons, so what do you think this means?”

He handed his phone over to you and finally you looked away from the charting to consider it. He watched as you read the text and saw the grainy pictures, one of him and another of Abbott, screenshots of them in backgrounds.. You didn't have to slide on any glasses or pull the phone away from you to see clearly.

Slowly, a grin broke out.

“Oh,” you chuckled.

Robby wasn't laughing and when you looked at him you realised that.

“It's nothing, it's just some meme,” you said, handing him back the phone.

Javadi had been gaining more attraction with her TikTok. She gave health advice with the background of the Pitt as her scene. It wasn't her fault- not really- if followers caught wind of the drama, friendships and hot men that worked there.

Her loyal followers had already deemed Santos as 'a hard exterior but caring soul', Whitaker with a 'heart of gold', and you 'the eldest daughter type.'

And they labelled attendings Robby and Abbott as DILFS.

Apparently they'd already explored how the two doctors would be in the bedroom.

“Okay,” he said, slowly sinking down to his knees in front of you as you swivelled your stool to face him. “But what does it mean?”

There was something hesitant in your gaze. The amused purse of your lips as you tried to stop a laugh and the light in your eyes. If you found it funny at his expense- which he had a feeling you were- he at least wanted to know what it meant.

You clearly thought he was joking. “You want to know what it means?”

He nodded.

“I can tell you at home?”

Robby let the words sink in, the fact you were undoubtedly referring to his place as home. But he didn't want to go home with you and this terrible feeling that everyone was laughing at him for reasons he didn't know why.

“Okay,” you said, holding his hands as if you were delivering bad news. “It means- and it's just Javadi's followers that think this and have clearly made this- that they think Jack is .... a more attentive lover.”

You chose your words carefully.

“ 'Eat it for dinner',” you continued. “Is a reference to how guys-”

Instead of saying anything you gave him a look and he gave you one back.

You sighed. “They think Jack eats pussy better than you.”

Robby didn't know what he was thinking but he wasn't sure it was ... that.

“I have a patient that's diaphoretic so I should probably-”

With little else to say you left your boyfriend kneeling, patting him on the shoulder as you went.

You could practically feel Robby distracted all day.

Every time you passed by the nurses area to go from one patient to another, he was there. Either sitting at the counter, head in hand and mindlessly looking through the computer or he was standing and listening to anything the one next to him was saying but you had a feeling he wasn't so much paying attention.

“Is Doctor Robby, okay?” asked Javadi. She was presenting a case to you, typically she went to you or McKay. You were sure she only went to you now as Cassy had the day off.

“Oh yeah, he's fine,” you said. It was no secret to anyone that you and Robby were dating, though you kept it professional around the ED. “Just TikTok, you know.”

Javadi smirked. “TikTok?”

“Yeah, yours.”

The smirk dampened and her eyes widened in the sort of frightened puppy way. She started stuttering over her words.

“Relax, he's not angry. At least not at you just what people are saying,” you said.

“What-what people are saying?” asked Javadi. “But everyone thinks he's hot. Really! They-they love Abbott and Robby. Seriously, people even ship them. Not that they don't like you and Robby, no they're obsessed.”

For a second you were intrigued.

In a way, maybe that should have have made you jealous or annoyed that everyone was finding him to be handsome and wanting a piece of him but if anything it made you proud. It made you want to hang off his arm.

“Some people are saying some things, nothing harmful.”

And also certainly none of their business how he ate you out at nights.

“Oh my god, I can totally tell them to stop, I can take the videos down, and I'll-I'll stop filming in here-” she stammered out.

“It's okay, don't worry,” you assured with a smile. “Get a CT and run blood toxics and come find me with the results.”

You found Robby exactly where you expected to find him, staring at the patient board without reading.

You didn’t even have time to greet him before he was speaking.

He jerked his head. “Come see a patient with me.”

So Robby led you off to exam room three, where an empty bed was made and no monitors were on. Even the lights were dimmed down low.

Robby pulled the curtains over and closed the door.

“Is the patient invisible?” You turned to Robby but hardly had time to see him before he was on you. His hands were on your hips, keeping you into him and his head ducked as he kissed you. He groaned into it, the forceful nature of his kiss having you stumbling back.

You couldn't help but kiss him back. When he started, there was no stopping. Even if you were in the hospital and desperate to keep it professional.

You shook your head, his lips moving with the movement. “Nu-uh.”

“What?” his hands came up to cup your cheeks, voice muffled with his not letting go of you.

“You're not kissing me cause people think Jack gives better head,” you said against his lips.

There was a noise of protest in Robby's throat.

“Cruel woman.”

Your hands slid up to his chest. “Wait- Michael.”

He brushed back. “What?”

“We are not getting it on here just because of some meme.”

You knew it to be the reason why almost at once. Robby was the one who had set certain boundaries in the work place. Like no making out. Yet he was the one huffing in frustration and surrendering, holding up his hands where you could see them.

“It's just some things people are saying on the internet.”

“I just don't get why,” he said, honestly. His head was tucked into his chest as he shrugged.

You were almost convinced he was upset. “I dunno. You're stern, sometimes, here,” you explained. “Maybe people saw that in the back of Javadi's TikToks and thought you had.... a hard exterior.”

“They think I'm un-caring?” he asked

“I didn't say that.”

“And Abbott?”

Quickly, you realised it was more than just feeling bummed about people thinking he gave bad head.

You smirked. “Jealousy looks good on you, Robinavitch.”

Slowly Robby sank down on the edge of the bed, sighing heavily as if this situation was weighing heavy on him.

You followed suit, sitting on the stool and wheeling close to him, treating him like he really was the patient. You knew how Robby got in his own head more times then was good for him. He didn't worry what people thought of him ever, but this was different.

“ What else is it?” you asked, softly, voice dropped low.

“Have I ever,” he began, shoulders high in tension and head low. His hands were braced on his knees. “Have I ever left you... un-satisfied?”

You wanted to laugh.

Robby and un-satisfied didn't belong together.

The nature of your jobs meant the two of you were exhausted more times than you were energised but that never stopped the two of you. If you were wanting you weren't left wanting, in fact, you'd be left thoroughly satisfied.

“Never,” you said.

He peeked at you with a little smirk.

“Those people don't know you, Robby,” you carried on, fingers circling his wrists and slowly holding him there. “They don't know what you do to me.”

Seconds ago you were berating him for kissing you in an exam room. But you leant into him and kissed his lips slowly.

“What I do, huh?” he mumbled against your lips.

“Uh-huh, things that Abbott could never.”

Just at the name of his friend had Robby grabbing you and all but pulling you over him. He leant back on the bed and slot you between his legs as he kissed you, hard. His hands couldn't find purchase as they sort every part of you, pulling our your scrub top and finding the skin there, running the back of his knuckles over.

Your hands wound in his hair, pulling until his mouth was opening up for you.

There came a sharp knock at the door before it opened. The curtains weren't pulled back but Dana's voice called out.

“Break it up in there! We need the room!”

Robby groaned, head throwing back on the cushion before you climbed off him. He didn't move even as you did.

“Aren't you coming?”

“Just... just give me a minute,” he said.

You chuckled to yourself, letting your eyes linger over all of him and left him there with the curtain drawn.

Dana was at the door, shaking her head with a chuckle.

You feigned innocence as best you could, working quick to tuck your scrub top back in and brush back your hair. “What?”

“The two of you, at it like rabbits.”

“We were not.”

“Not what I saw.”

“You didn't see anything.”

“Okay, not what I heard,” she said, lips smacking from the nicotine gum you slid onto her desk every morning.

“He was upset.”

“About that TikTok stuff?”

You looked to her. The last thing Robby needed was thinking everyone had seen the meme, that people thought he wasn't a good enough lover or whatever else he thought it meant.

“Is it bad?”

Dana shrugged. “It means nothing to me but you know guys, hurts their ego that kind of stuff.”

You nodded. You would say something in Robby was hurt. Whether it was that people thought he was a tough guy to work with or something about him that provoked the idea of selfishness.

But then they seemed to deem Abbott a capable lover, something you couldn't count on due to the fact you'd never gotten the chance to know.

Not that you wanted to.

(Except that one time in a dream before you were dating Robby)

Victoria rushed up to you and Dana excused herself. “I've just seen the post, Santos showed me,” she rushed out her words, panic evident. “Does he hate me? Oh my god, he hates me. My attending hates me.”

“He doesn't-”

“I mean it's so inappropriate, like, he saves lives you know maybe he just wants a meal cooked sometimes, not saying like- no- not that he'd ever get mad at you- or anyone for...”

You let Javadi trail off.

She blushed. “I should walk away shouldn't I?”

“Probably for the best.”

As soon as Jack walked in an hour before his shift was supposed to start, Robby stood, ready to leave.

It was rare he ever got out on time, let alone early but he hadn't been doing much work anyway, only thinking and being stuck in his own head. And sometimes with how much he thought about you: Yours.

“Thank you, brother, thank you,” he said.

Jack's gaze levelled on him. “Is everything okay?”

No, not at all. People on the internet speculated he was an asshole who'd get angry if you didn't have dinner on the table. As if he wouldn't live between your thighs if given the choice.

Robby bit his tongue and nodded.

“Hey Jack,” you greeted, coming by.

Robby's eyes followed you at once. He thought of all the plans he had in his head.

“You're here early,” you noted.

“I asked him to come by, listen, I got some errands to run. You think you're okay coming home by yourself tonight?” he asked.

There was a hint of confusion in your gaze but you didn't prod. You never did push him, always letting him come to you when he was ready. He'd never been so thankful for it.

“Er yeah, sure.”

Robby kissed you quick and hard, his hand cupping your backside and squeezing before he left you.

He only caught a glimpse of Jack digging into his phone to show you something funny. He dread to think what it was.

The last hour of work without Robby felt like a whole other twelve. Every patient answered questions too slow and chairs piled up with more minor problems. It felt like everything irritated you. Which it had.

By the time you were getting home, climbing up the stairs because of cause the elevator was broke you almost forgot all about the meme that had Robby so worried earlier.

That was until you pushed open the door.

You expected the tv on low, the lights on, maybe the sound of the shower.

You were greeted instead by a dull orange glow from the dozen or so candles lit around the living space. There was a fresh bouquet of flowers on the table and a sleek box tied off with a ribbon.

Hands landed on your hips and the soft belly of your boyfriends pressed against you.

“Robby,” you grinned, raising a hand to fall on the back of his head and stroke his hair there.

The stretch gave him perfect opportunity to pepper kisses over your neck. His other arm circled your waist, pulling you into him.

“What is all this?” you asked, eyes closing in the bliss of feeling him everywhere.

He hummed into your neck. “I just don't think you know how much I love you.”

You bit down on your lip as his hot tongue swirled over your pulse. “Oh, I think I know.”

His nose brushed over your jaw as he guided you forward, his toes clipping your heels as he didn't let you go or turn you around. He dragged you to where the present sat on the table, below the roses. His hands were large as they palmed and moved around your stomach. He breathed against your ear, your body waking in shivers as he uttered against you. “Open it.”

It was tough to do so- even to bend down and grab it- as Robby was adamant in letting you go. Eventually you got a hold of the ribbon and pulled.

He let you go enough for you to pull out the garment inside. Or the lack of garment.

It was a small set of lingerie, red and black- his favourite colours on you. The colours of seduction. There were ribbons and straps that upon just looking at you weren't sure how they were to go.

“I want you to put it on,” said Robby, head resting on your shoulder and looking. “And then I'm going to make you come on my tongue until you're begging me to stop.”

Your knees weakened but Robby still held you.

“You think you can do that?” he asked.

You nodded and gasped, smashing your lips into his. You turned in his arms, tongue's battling and arms circling him. You pressed your body into his, practically throwing yourself onto him.

The attentive lover he was he allowed it for a moment before he pulled away.

“Put it on.”

In the bedroom you stripped and with the help of the mirror figured out where everything was supposed to go. The panties did little to hide your ass but clad away your pussy, straps at your tights and bows there. The bra pushed your chest up, lace dancing over your chest.

It was sexy and sensual, knowing Robby had brought it for you and demanded you wear it. All the same, you couldn't wait for him to tear it off you.

Stepping back into the candle lit room Robby was already shirtless, sitting on the sofa with his legs wide and cock hardening.

When you stepped out, he smirked, arms stretching along the back of the sofa.

“I think I like when you have something to prove,” you said, slowly walking over, letting every step linger and make him wait for it.

Or drawing out whatever he had planned.

“I have something to prove?” he asked.

You dropped to your knees in front of him, between his legs as Robby's eyes trailed to watch you. “Don't you?” You were desperate to touch him, knowing he didn't have that planned but needing him anyhow. Your hands had only smoothed up his thighs before he grabbed your wrists.

Robby stood and pulled you up with him.

Without words he sat you down the sofa, stretching you out while he sank to his knees.

“Nu-uh,” he tutted, fingers wrapping around your legs and prying them apart, slowly. Your panties slipped and your pussy was slowly displaying itself. “You know what I want.”

“Michael-”

“What do you want?” he asked, but tonight was more about him than you. If it was about him proving something, you'd be his practise. If he was an artist you were going to be his canvas.

Your mouth just opened to speak when his thumb pressed down onto your panties. He rubs, slowly, pressing down harder till you grew wetter. Till he could feel it through the material.

His beard scratched at your thighs in the way that made you wither as he kissed at your thighs. His fingers pushed into your skin, kneading the plump of it.

“Have I ever told you, I love the way you smell.”

You gasped as he slid his thumb up and down, circling it slowly over your clothed clit.

“Have I?” he asked again, craving an answer.

“No.”

Robby was watching the space between your legs as he put his head there and inhaled.

Your back arched as his nose pressed into you, smelling and inhaling and groaning out when he was done. His fingers were pressing hard enough into your thighs to bruise. You wanted it to.

You watched as Robby darted out his tongue and ran it up and down you panties. He got a taste of you through the panties he brought.

Robby started off slow but he could never go slow. It was the way he did procedures, marking off everything first then moving around the room in seconds. It was the way he kissed, getting the same taste of your lips before sliding in his tongue and getting a taste of your spit. It was the way he fucked, slowly moving into you till your walls pulsed around his cock then he was moving like an animal.

They were small presses of his tongue then he was making out with your pussy through the cloth. He drooled against you, moaning and prodding his thumb, pressing in and out.

“God, I wanna get you naked,” he said against your core.

You didn't know if he wanted you stripped or just your core.

You chuckled breathless. “Then why dress me up?”

Robby pulled away to look at you. His thumbs hooked into your panties. “I like to un-wrap you.”

He dragged your panties down slow, grasping your legs and helping you out of them all the while keeping you limp on the sofa for him.

You expected Robby to ditch them, throw them aside but instead he shoved them in his face and inhaled again. “Oh my god,” you groaned, head landing back on the sofa.

“You're so wet and I haven't even touched you,” he said.

Finally he ditched the panties and faced your pussy.

His gaze flickered up to you and you felt exposed. A sudden need to hide came over you but Robby shook his head like he knew. Keeping your gaze he darted out his tongue and flicked it against your clit, circling your bundle of nerves.

At the devout attention your eyes fluttered shut in pleassure.

Robby sucked your clit in his mouth and pulled back with a pop. “Look at me, look at me.”

You looked at him.

His eyes were dark and wicked with want. He licked his lips and kept your gaze as he went in. He forced your legs up and apart, bending you as he shoved himself into you. He was there quick and heavy, licking and kissing till his slurping was heard around the apartment.

“Robby!”

He chuckled into you, sending vibrations up through you.

“I need your fingers inside of me, please.”

He hummed and shook his head, still occupied with dragging his tongue over you. “Not my fingers people criticise.”

You groaned.

Robby sucked some more, swallowing up your want, driving parts of your soul away while he was at it. “Spread yourself open, baby- just like that- there we go-” he guided your hands to your own core and helped you hold open the lips of you.

Then he went in with new reverence. The tip of his tongue ran miles and as you were left gasping for him, making a mess he cleaned it up from your hole to your clit and ran circles around it.

“Oh shit, Michael.”

“Feels good?”

“Yes!”

“Am I gonna make you come?” he asked, dropping his spit against you and working it in. When your fingers slipped he took over, holding you open.

Your hands went to his hair, stroking it back.

You knew your hands in his hair, or fingers threading through, drove him insane.

“Yes!”

He shoved his face in again, like a man addicted.

Sweat was starting to from along your body and the hand that wasn't in his hair groped at your own breast until you were humping up your hips to his-

“Get up,” said Robby suddenly.

He stood, his cock stretched against his pants. Robby brushed the back of his knuckles against the hard line of himself and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Up.”

On shaky legs you did so, feeling the want but the coil of release slowly eased.

Robby bent you over and continued cleaning up your mess.

It was a new angle, the sort he'd never tried and as you felt his tongue in places you'd never felt you wonder how long he'd been thinking of this. How long had he wanted you bent over, ass up in his face.

With your back up to him he easily un-hooked your bras and threw it aside.

“You think Abbott could eat you up like this?” he asked, voice only above a growl. “Huh?”

“No,” you gasped, slowly turning to jelly.

The new position didn't last long as Robby stood tall again, pressing the hardness of his cock against the curve of your ass.

You arched yourself back into him. “Please, please, please.”

“I know baby, I know,” he cooed in something that could have been sympathy in a mocking tone. “God, you feel what you do to me? Like I feel what I do to you.”

Robby turned you around and kissed you, the trace of your essence on his tongue and shared between the two of you. He let his tongue dance over yours like he wanted to share it, a hand creeping to the back of your neck and keeping you in.

You were so wanting, so needy for any part of him.

“I'm gonna lie back now,” he said against your lips. “And you're gonna sit on my face.”

You pulled back, wondering if you'd heard that right.

Robby nodded slowly, not even trying to hide as he watched your lips. His thumb came back down to your clit, circling enough to keep you like putty in the palm of his hands.

“Michael-”

He was already pulling away, popping the buttons of his trousers and making himself comfortable on the sofa.

You were standing, hesitant. “I can't sit on your face.”

He smirked and patted his stomach. “Yes you can, c'mon.”

“I'm serious.”

Robby smirked, nudging you up. “So am I.”

He was looking at you with such wide eyes, though dark. The same way he looked at you when you got something right in work. When you pleased him, when he was so proud of you.

This was for him, you told yourself as you climbed over him, allowing time to run your hands up and down the hairs of his round belly.

You watched his gaze follow yours as you trailed up and up his face, over his beard until all you saw was his eyes.

Lingering on your knees you tested how low you could get.

The tip of Robby's tongue found your centre and slowly worked you open again.

His hands wrap around your thighs and he yanks you down till you're sitting on his face with a heavenly groan.

There was no time for protests as he got to work, his tongue burying inside of you. He was so close he could hardly move, only keep himself there and suck and slurp. At every tiny move his nose brushed into your folds, nudging your clit and dragging out the need.

“Ohhh fuckkk,” you whined.

Robby groaned into you as he tried to speak, something like 'beautiful' caught between your pussy. His hands were messaging your ass and grinding you into him.

“S'too much, oh my god.”

He shook his head, wetting your core with his saliva and your need mixed.

“Robby, I can't-”

“Yes you can,” he spoke finally, pulling away enough that you could hear his voice.

Your lips pursed together as you shook your head. The coil of tightness in you grew hotter, burner brighter. It felt like your first time with him over and over again. The way his body bounced off of yours with every thrust, the moans he couldn't help let out into your neck, marking himself there for weeks.

“Please come,” he said against you now. “I need you to come on my face, baby, please.”

Perhaps the world would have liked to know there was only one thing in this word that could get Robby begging. Your pussy.

“There, huh? You like it just there?” you could hardly make out his words, like he was speaking into your very being.

Your hand fell back into his hair and you leant back, riding his face with a new passion and fever. He moved his head along with your movements and it became a frenzy of passion and need and want, the both of you moaning and uttering any words of encourganemt.

“Yeah baby, there you go- there you go-”

“Robby! Robby! Shit!”

“All over me, c'mon, c'mon.”

You still couldn't believe it, your want all over his beard, smearing down his neck and chest.

“Only making you come, making my girl come, that's right.”

In seconds you had grasped his hair, shoving him in as you let go into his mouth. He strained his neck up and kept himself open on you as he inhaled and exhaled in groans and grunts.

“Oh yes, please... yes- fuck baby,” Robby whined, spreading your cheeks to get every drop licked up. You'd think it was his own release washing over him with the noises he made and sucked out of you.

By the time you'd both calmed down and he'd caught his breath and tapped your thigh you fell lower down onto his stomach.

His breath smelt of love and sex as you lingered over him, letting Robby brush back stray parts of your hair. “Satisfied?”

“Very.” You might have seemed drunk with the way he had you coming but you didn't care. “One of the best orgasms of my life.”

He smirked at you incredulously. “Change it to best of the night. We haven't even begun.”

The meme btw ^

Sighing, you crumpled the bright green plastic up before binning it on your way to the sink, making an effort to not stare at him or his beautiful, Seiko-watched hand, wrapped around a mug and dwarfing it. “Don’t think I follow.”

He set the ceramic down, turning to look at you with his hip against the counter, toned arms folded. “I know your shift yesterday was rough. Find it admirable you're doing so great today.”

Your eyebrows rose, tone deadpan, “The Michael Robinavitch expressing empathy? I must be dreaming.”

“Ah, well.. it's the eighth wonder of the world. Next best thing after the Pyramids, for sure.”

You smiled softly, shaking your head and placing a hand on his bicep. Jeez, it was solid. “Flattery and a raise is the way to a woman's heart. Not just flattery.”

“Yeah?” he scoffed, cocking his head. “Do you want me knowing the way to your heart?”

You pushed on his arm before brushing past to hide your unbidden fluster. “You’re fucking lame.”

He shrugged. “Worth a try.”

It was unfairly attractive, the manner he held himself. As such were any of his mannerisms. His condescending nature sometimes rubbed med students and interns the wrong way, but once they'd warmed up to him a little, it was undeniably alluring.

Or maybe it was just you. 

You joined the PTMC’s ED as an R3 about a year ago after a couple years up in Portland, and somehow immediately captured the attention of your attending. He always called on you for traumas, letting you take control with a smidge of criticism here and there. 

Which should've been a good thing. But with how goddamn hot he was, it wasn't very easy to be on your best behaviour when he was so constantly around; during your laps, when you were striking up some conversation with a patient..

As you left the break room more than a little flushed, Perlah and Princess both cast knowing glances your way before murmuring something in Tagalog they knew you could hear but barely decipher.

“Sa tingin mo nagawa na nila ito?”

“Not yet,” you replied dryly, grabbing an iPad from the dock. 

—

Yet another long shift; one that consisted of a record high of 4 STEMIs. Which wasn't a good thing.. obviously. But all of them were currently stable. Being an ED doctor was exhausting, and that was a colossal understatement. 

On your days off, all you could bring yourself to do was drink a few shots of espresso and curl up with some Kristin Hannah, as pretentious as that sounded. Maybe cry a little. Either that, or you ended up doomscrolling with the book in your lap.

Part of night shift rolled in just as you were making your way to your locker after finally wrapping up your charting for the day, and you keenly observed Shen’s Dunkin coffee. Definitely miles better than whatever sludge they had in the break room.

A finger poked the side of your stomach, eliciting a humiliatingly high-pitched yelp.

Dr. Abbot.

You slung your bag over one shoulder, elbowing him as he rounded on you. 

SWAT uniform.

“Still don't know why I never hear you coming.”

He stared at your exasperation for a beat, a light smile gracing his handsome features. “Same reason I'm wearing this.”

“On that note,” you said, vaguely gesturing at him. “What's with the get-up?” 

You didn't catch the way his brows furrowed when you swiped at your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose. He leant against the lockers and scrutinised your face like he was telepathic. “Drug raid. But no one got hurt.”

“Ah. Fent or cocaine?”

“Fent,” he declared, a little absentminded as he observed the pained wince as you shifted on your feet. “How’s my favourite day shifter doing?”

You let out an amused huff. “Fuck. Don't let Robby hear that. He's already on my ass for calling him lame.”

“When is he not?” 

He pursed his lips at your tired nod. “Penny for your thoughts?”

You moved to tilt your head back against the metal with a hollow thud, eyes fluttering shut. Yesterday was finally catching up to you, and today had not made it any easier. “They'll cost a whole lot more than that.”

“I'm willing to pay.” He took your forearm and squeezed it. The contact only made your eyes flick back open. “You alright?”

“Long day. Past two days, actually,” you sighed and straightened, grimacing again. “Ankle is killing me too.”

“Sit.” He guided you to the bench adjacent to the lockers; looked down at the tops of your shoes, concealed by the hem of your scrubs. “Which one?”

You never should've told him. “Abbot, I'm fine, really—”

He placed himself next to you. “Put your leg up here,” he insisted, no room for argument as he patted his lap.

You looked incredulously at the side of his face before reluctantly hauling your leg up, sucking in a sharp breath between your teeth when your heel scarcely grazed his prosthetic. 

“Shit. Sorry. You okay?”

He finally glanced at you, concern etched into his features despite the smirk that pulled his lips as he started folding your pant leg up. “Not like I can feel it.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Only you'd be able to say that.”

“Comes with being a veteran.” His attention diverted back to your leg, hand coming down closer to your—now you noticed—swollen, reddened ankle. “Tell me when it hurts.”

He began gently prodding at the tender area—from the bottom of your shin—with his index and middle, until he reached the top of your ankle; you cursed under your breath. Again. 

“Not your ACL,” he muttered, hand hovering. 

“This is humiliating. And I would know if it was.”

“Rule out the worst first, doctor,” his fingers wrapped around it, no pressure. “You’re one of our best, you don't know this?”

“Oh, shut your fucking mouth.”

“That's no way to talk to your attending,” he looked up at you. “I'm gonna squeeze it a little in three, two..”

“It is if he's being a—agh.. dick. Robby's really rubbed off on you.”

His eyes widened a fraction, a frown overtaking his amusement. “How much have you been running around this place?”

You shrugged. “Little more than usual.”

“Tib fib hairline,” he craned his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of someone. “Hey! Anyone, wheelchair over here please!”

“Abbot—” your mouth opened and closed, willing yourself to form something cohesive, the noise of a nurse rushing drowned out by your thoughts. “I— fracture?”

Princess came jogging with a wheelchair rolling in front of her, gaze falling on you. “Hey, what happened?”

“I’m fine! Abbot's full of sh—”

“Thanks. Tib fib stress fracture. Ice, elevate, and set her up in Central 13. I'll be there soon.”

Before you could protest, he was whispering ‘around my neck,’ and shifting you into the chair. The push across Central was like going batshit crazy in the middle of a pin-drop silent public library.

Princess leaned down, “Has that always been an option? Do I leave too early to know about this?”

You cast her a sidelong glance. “I could so hit you right now. Why’re you still here, anyway?”

“Oh,” she prompted, pushing the door open. “I finished Love Island last night and don't know what else to do with my life.”

—

It was a fracture. You really didn't want it to be, but the thin, nearly undistinguishable crack near the edge of both bones was definitely there. And that begged the question; did Abbot have X-ray vision?

Frankly, you felt guilty for taking up a bed during night shift of all times. Sure, it was nowhere near the time where things got really crazy, but you still could've gone home with a wrapped ankle and something for the pain to clear the bed up.

Abbot was at your bedside—now in a black shirt and his army pants—taking a history that was more a verbal interrogation than anything.

That was when you saw Robby jogging across the ER from Trauma 1.

“Shitshitshit,” you inched up the bed from what exactly, you didn't know, before Abbot held you down with a hand on your knee. 

He shouldered into the room, and you could see the vaguely irritated quality of his expression. “Brother,” he said, looking over the two of you. 

Actually, why was Abbot here? 

“Why didn't you come get me?” He placed a heavy hand on the other attending’s shoulder, now focusing on you and the injury propped up on a stack of pillows.

Your brows gathered as you stared at Robby disbelievingly. What was wrong with these people? “Robby—ow—you had a trauma.”

He moved to the foot of the bed, observing your white-clad ankle. “Shen and Ellis were in there. I'm not supposed to be here anyway,” he glanced up. “Neither are you.”

You groaned; slumped backwards and stared at the ceiling. “I was leaving!”

The two men exchanged a look you didn't see. 

“Can I fill out my own chart?” 

You could feel the disagreement start to bloom in the antiseptic air, and you were about one question away from launching a pair of medical scissors at them. “There are two attendings in a senior resident’s room for a stress fracture! Are you guys hearing how fucking ridiculous that is?”

Abbot got up steadily, a sly smile gracing his face as he traded another glance with Robby. They started backing out, not breaking your gaze.

“Whatever you say, boss.”

—

A week and a half of home rest was not your forte. It was a bit much, really. Yes, hairline fractures healed fully in six to eight weeks, but you were sure you could’ve started walking just fine in a week. On crutches.

You were grateful for the break, though. It was nice getting away from the countless calamities of the ED.

What wasn't, was the ED coming to you.

Following your usual day-off routine, you were laid out on the couch of your apartment with your leg elevated on a bunch of pillows and an ice pack strapped to it—actually—reading an old paperback when there were two quick raps on the door.

It’d been about 5 days so you’d had visitors before this; Trin and Whitaker, Samira, Cassie, Dana, and a few others who'd sent ‘get-well-soon’ packages, but those were after their shifts. It was two in the afternoon.

Placing your book page-down on the coffee table, you braced yourself and got up, hopping toward your crutches before heading for the door.

You'd barely opened it to Abbot and Robby before you slammed it back in their faces. Of all people to make an appearance, you expected less of them and more of Javadi or even Donnie.

You tugged the door back open cautiously as if willing them to be a hallucination, but nope, they were still there and as tangible as the ice pack around your ankle.

Jack wore that same black T-shirt he wore underneath his SWAT uniform and a pair of dark jeans; Robby in a grey hoodie and dark cargos, glasses hooked into his neckline.

Robby seemed like he was suppressing a laugh. Had he caught you ogling him? 

“Rude. Can we come in?”

Stepping aside best you could, you reluctantly showed them in. “You’re lucky I wasn't butt-ass naked.”

“You make a habit out of that?” Abbot gave you a once-over before heading to the kitchen.

Only then did you realise the fragrance of fresh bread and the big plastic bag labelled, ‘Primanti Bros’ in his hand, and a large iced Americano in Robby’s.

“Woah,” you mused, awestruck. “Thank you. You're not the first to bring me Primanti’s, though.”

“Oh, I know.” Robby strode over to you, hand hovering above the small of your back as he handed you your coffee and guided you back down onto the couch, taking your crutches. “We figured mostly everyone came after shift, so you'd have a shit ton of sandwiches and no space to stuff them after ten at night.”

You snorted, watching as he sunk into the creaky couch. “Eleven, actually. You'd be surprised. Barely have any leftovers.”

Abbot returned from the kitchen and placed himself on your other side, and there was suddenly a very real, very present sense of wrongness in what flashed across your mind.

You sipped cold bitterness to try dissipate the heat crawling up your neck. “Are you guys allowed to do this?”

“Why wouldn't we be?” Robby grunted as he tugged the coffee table closer for Abbot, who placed a pillow for your leg. 

“I mean.. you’re my superiors,” you muttered, reaching across Abbot for the TV remote.

He leaned back to make space for you, smiling as he watched your face. “So? You're our resident.”

Our resident. 

That didn't help your state at all.

You clicked the TV on, staring at the Property Brothers on mute. It felt like you'd turn to stone if you dared look at either of the two attendings next to you in the eye. This time you went around Robby to place your coffee on the end table.

A few dreamily uncomfortable beats of silence, before something struck you. 

“Robby, did you.. take a day off?”

“Don't let it go to your head,” he huffed lightheartedly, hesitantly gesturing to Abbot. “Once in a blue moon, I take a day or two to spend with him. Just so happened it was today.”

Your brows drew up, the new info giving you the courage to look at Robby. “What?”

He playfully leaned closer, holding your gaze. “Tell anyone, I'll put you in triage the moment you come back.”

“It’s adorable, really,” you teased.

You were immensely aware of the proximity of his face and yours; Abbot shifting behind you; the faint ache already ebbing between your legs. You caught yourself and flinched the slightest bit back, eyes involuntarily flicking down to his lips. 

“Also, you wouldn't do that,” you murmured, suddenly breathless. “You need me.”

His jaw flexed, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed thickly and withdrew. He was unabashed in how he blatantly eyed your mouth. “Yeah? Why is that?”

You chewed on your lip, heat pooling low in your abdomen. Your mind had gone blank, any witty retort washed out by sheer need.

Need that was resolved when Robby's hand came up to the back of your head, yanking you forward and molding his lips to yours, groaning into your mouth at the way your touch seemed magnetised to the bulge in his cargos.

He coaxed your mouth open, and something in his restraint seemed to fissure; an arm snaked around your waist, the kiss turning all teeth and tongues lashing at the other, noses nudging as you moaned softly. He nipped at the plushness that was your bottom lip before soothing it over with a swipe of his tongue.

“Fuck,” he grunted, catching your lip between his teeth again before pulling away, panting. A flimsy string of saliva connected them, and he wasted no time in feeding it back to you with his thumb. 

“Haven't done that in a while.”

Your heated gaze landed on Abbot, who you did not notice had gotten up and was rounding on the both of you. His eyes lingered on yours; the creak of the couch as you stopped yourself from grinding down into it, before redirecting to Robby.

He'd begun kissing your neck, beard scratchy on your skin when he lightly sucked at your fluttering carotid pulse. “Want something?”

Abbot was devastatingly calm in the midst of the belligerent push-and-pull between you and Robby, moving forward and threading tender fingers into your hair. “Plan on sharing, brother?”

“Not exactly.”

But before you knew it, Abbot had taken the other man's place, the salt of Robby's finger altering the taste of him. It was a stark contrast, the manner in which he approached. He was tentative, almost reverent, apparent in his hands; pushing your hair back, cupping both sides of your neck.

Your fingers carded through his silver curls, one hand caressing his clothed stomach as you whimpered into his mouth and moved closer, “Abbot..”

He drew back, breathing hard and smiling when you seemed to chase after him. “Uh-uh,” his middle and index pressed into your lip, faintly pulling it down. His voice was hoarse and even sexier than usual. “Jack, sweetheart. Don't use my last name. Too professional.”

A knee knocking yours open distracted you from your lazy, affectionate make-out session with Jack. Robby loomed over you, lust—raw; in its absolute simplest form—engraved into the lines of his face.

“Oh, no,” he said in that all-too-familiar, patronising tone. “Keep going.”

Next thing you knew, he was knelt down in front of you, big, calloused hands rasping against your skin. He made some adjustments, discarding the ice pack and making sure your injured leg stayed static and comfortable on the coffee table, before urging your ass down and normal leg open, folding it over Jack's thigh.

It was an insane position, but you were somehow in no pain whatsoever. 

Your touch found the top of Robby's head, and you mussed up what you could of his hair. “Careful. Don't want you throwing your back out.”

He didn't even meet your eyes as he hummed a simple, “Won’t. But you can choose who blows yours out later.”

Slack-jawed and disbelieving, you decided to just.. not even try answering.

“Tell us if your ankle hurts,” Robby casually continued, glancing up at Jack; observing while abstractedly stroking your calf. Robby then placed a relatively chaste kiss on the inside of your knee, but it was Jack who asked, “You take your pain meds?”

You had to clear your throat pretty hard to get something to come out. “Yeah. After lunch. Doesn't hurt much.”

“Good girl,” Robby mumbled, lips trailing up your inner thigh. The mix of his beard and hot puffs of breath made you squirm; struggle to suppress a whine. 

Meanwhile, Jack’s fingers found either side of your jaw, turning you to face him. “Eyes on me, baby.”

Only then did it click. They were doctors. They knew every little thing about the biology of a human body just as well as you did; if not more. And they had decades of experience.

Shit.

Your mouth was occupied with messy kisses while Robby worked the same on his way up your thighs, mouthing and lapping at the saltiness. Jack kept a hand on your face and one trailing beneath your old T-shirt before flipping it up.

“You sensitive up here, baby?” he questioned, fingers brushing between the valley of your breasts to slip under your neckline and skim your jugular.

“Som—mmh..” your response dissolved into a moan as Robby cupped your clothed pussy, grounding the heel of his palm into your clit. 

He chuckled darkly. “She definitely is down here.”

A futile attempt at glaring down had Jack's grip tightening on your face, tongue clicking softly. “No. Answer me.”

Robby's finger hooked into the waistband of your shorts and you instinctively lifted your hips when he tugged. “S-sometimes.”

Jack began massaging your breast, bending to take it into his mouth while Robby yanked the garment down, draping the wounded leg over a broad shoulder. “Alright?”

You purred in preoccupied agreement, face buried in the side of Jack's head as he suckled on your taut nipple. “Mhm.. keep going,” you murmured to no one in particular.

“Cute panties,” Robby stated dryly, letting the lacy trim lightly snap against your skin. They were one of your most comfortable; dark red cotton with white lace. “I like the colour.”

You got to glare at him at last. Kicking him in the back with the heel of your good leg, you elicited a surprised laugh. “Fuck off.”

Jack abandoned your nipples in favour of kissing up your sternum and stripping your shirt fully off. “Sweetheart,” he uttered between the plethora of hickeys he was marring into your neck and collarbones. “Can I try something? Think you'd like it.”

Robby still hadn't gotten to where you wanted—his thumbs were merely kneading at the sides, barely even grazing your most sensitive. Yet, you were fairly sure you'd soaked through your underwear.

Jack straightened and tapped your cheek twice, harder than you expected from him. The silent command had you snapping out of your daze without a second thought.

His jaw tensed. “You listening? Stop getting distracted.”

You were perfectly capable of intubating someone while on the go, but how were you supposed to do that?

Robby finally dragged his thumb down your clothed slit, but it felt wrong to so blatantly whimper while staring into Jack's whirled, aggravated pupils. You opted for nodding frantically, grabbing his face and pressing an apologetic kiss to his lips. “Yes—yes. Whatever you want.”

He hummed into your mouth and licked into it, taking his time to make sure you felt how good he was with his tongue before withdrawing. His arm unfolded before you, the crook of his elbow settling directly under your chin.

You had to keep yourself from grinning. “Someone's been online.”

How many times had you caught yourself staring at those powerful, sun-freckled arms of his during an incision?

His other hand ran down your thigh, helping Robby in pushing your panties down. “I try.”

The giggle that tumbled out when he curled it was inevitable, squishing your face between his forearm and bicep—to which you clung and moaned into as Robby circled the pad of his thumb against your clit.  

“So fucking wet,” he groaned, wasting no time in leaning forward to flatten his tongue up your pussy, stopping to suckle on your puffy clit, gently swirling around the already throbbing nub. 

You whined, hands flying down to Robby's scalp, Jack's arm uncurling as your thighs tightened around his head. “Robby..”

“You like that?” he murmured condescendingly, not pulling back. His beard only added to the sensation of him eating you out; progressively insatiable; a thick finger easing inside of you, followed by another when you sucked him in with scarce friction. 

Jack traded an almost imperceptible glance with him, and you somehow caught it.

“It feels like—mmh—fuuuckk..” Robby started crooking and uncrooking his fingers, the callouses stimulating your G-spot in a way yours never could. Your hips bucked against his face, walls clamping down as he licked in expansive circles, letting his mouth envelop you. 

“Feels like what, sweetheart?” Jack cooed, lips brushing tantalisingly across your face, breath warm. You almost felt bad for him and the lack of stimulation he was receiving.

But it wasn't like you could do anything in this state.

“Like—oh.. you're plotting something. Wh-when you do that.”

Robby's fingers pumped faster, more precisely, adding a third with little resistance and burying his face further into you while shaking his head, tongue moving with single-minded focus. You cried out, grip falling to the back of his head.

“Shiiitt.. g-gonna come. Fuck—!”

The slurping between your legs reached its climax just as you did, white-hot stars bursting into fragments beneath your eyelids as your back bowed from the couch, feeling as Robby's beard rubbed your inner thighs to redness; as Jack placed a steadying palm on your stomach.

You didn't know how you came down or when it even happened. All you knew was that you suddenly weren't floating anymore, Robby's fingers had finally pulled out, and now he was staring straight at you with them dripping right in front of your face, elbows propped on your upper thighs. His beard was glistening.

Actually, both of them were staring at you.

Flames stoked up your neck. The neurotransmitters in your brain were fried and unable to give you a proper response, so all that came out was a meek, “..What?”

“What toys do you use?” Jack asked hoarsely, glancing at the mess you made.

“Uhm.. I don't.” Your face got hotter. “Never found the need for them.”

He exchanged another look with Robby. Something smugger. “Right. Okay.”

Robby moved your legs off his shoulders and got to his feet, placing his clean hand on the couch to stabilise himself. “Ankle okay?”

You nodded, regaining some sense of self and smirking up at him roguishly. “How're your knees?”

He reached out to run a thumb down your lip, coaxing your mouth open and dragging his wet fingers across your tongue. “Don't get smart with me.”

You moaned and took his fingers deeper, sucking them clean. He seemed entranced, watching the string of saliva dissolve when he pulled away. 

Jack stood abruptly; scooped you up with ease and kissed you again—rougher, deep groans into your mouth—tasting what the other attending had so much of. Your arms automatically encircled his neck. 

“Fuck,” he muttered between hungry pecks, making his way to your bedroom with Robby trailing behind him. “Greedy guy, keeping you all to himself.”

“Heard that,” came a gravelly voice. 

“You were meant to,” Jack retorted over his shoulder, toeing the door open.

He laid you out on your back parallel to the headboard, head almost dangling off the edge. Hands—palming at your breasts, tweaking your nipples—slowly made their way up, taking yours with him to place on his belt.

His tone was husky and cracked, almost desperate. “Can I fuck your throat, baby? Please?” 

You were already getting to work, letting the clink of his belt; the quiet mechanical rasp of his fly sliding down serve as an answer. How many times had you imagined tasting Jack Abbot?

You eagerly tugged at his pants, mouth already watering as you pressed your fingers to the imprint of his cock, squeezing in a way that had him gripping your wrist, but not to stop you. Your hands then trekked up, above the tantalising trail of grey leading downwards, under his shirt to scrape at his waist and along the ridges of his stomach.

“Take your shirt off.”

He huffed out his nose, reaching to yank the shirt off his back. “Yes, ma’am.”

You laughed lightly, humming a flat, “You should call me that at work,” before moving the waistband of his boxers down just enough to free his cock from its confines. 

All you could say was.. you hadn't expected any less from a man like him.

He was painfully hard and leaking, tip flushed a light red with a vein tracing up his shaft. A hand cupped the back of your head and pulled you nearer, the head of his cock brushing against your lips. 

“Smack me if you need a break, alright?”

You nodded absentmindedly, eyes landing on his leg. You sat up on your elbows and sheepishly turned to look up at him.

“Wait,” you paused, brows furrowed as you gestured at the prosthetic. “Do—do you need to, uh.. take it off?”

He pushed you back down with a hand on your chest. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. Haven't been wearing it long. And I do not—” he supported your head again as he sunk into your mouth, a little deeper than before. “Want to miss this,” he grunted.

Your grip came up to his hips, eyes flickering shut at the heady—pun intended—and silken taste of him. You heard a strained “fuuckk..” from above you, feeling his length gradually sink deeper until the halfway point. By then, you knew it'd be a concerted effort to take him fully while.. well, upside down, but you'd be damned if you said you didn't want to.

The mattress dipped where your legs were; a big hand tracked up your bare thigh; coarse hair scratched up your torso and up your chest, leaving wet kisses along your stomach before liquid warmth closed around your nipple.

You whined, thighs pressing together underneath him, pushing your ass down into the bed in search of friction as Jack began thrusting into your mouth. 

You could feel Robby's eyes burning holes into the line of your throat, the way it contracted when you gagged and swallowed.

“Taking it like a fucking champ, huh?”

You could've come—untouched—right there. 

How were you ever gonna survive hearing that at work from now on?

His hand skated up your skin to just hold your neck, feeling Jack's cock slide in and out. “Ever gonna let me do this?”

Jack adjusted your head, scarcely picking up the pace, his tone low and strained, “You had your fun, brother. Don't get jealous now." His thumb joined Robby's hold on your throat, grazing the top of where your trachea was tangible.

“Just saying,” Robby muttered, retracting his touch in favour of kneading your breasts. He seemed to like off-putting what you really wanted, considering you could feel his knee between yours, just out of reach. 

“I feel like I deserve something in return for giving you the best head of your life.”

You moaned at the statement just as Jack tensed and pulled out, orgasm approaching faster than he liked. “Shit, baby,” he panted, squeezing his base to stave it off as he dragged his tip across your tongue, over your swollen lips. “Too fuckin’ good.”

A giggle tumbled out of you. “Is that a bad thing?”

His hold on your nape relented. “Anything but.” He mirrored your laugh at the pout you gave him when he urged you back up into a sitting position.

Robby's fingers immediately closed around your face, digging into your cheeks. His pupils were blown out and borderline scary, but so carnal, so hungry, you couldn't find yourself feeling anything but even more aroused. His nostrils flared, heavy breaths puffing out in quick bursts. 

You knew he wanted an answer.

And you were emboldened by the prospect of getting your brains fucked out.

“You won't get anything with that ego of yours, Robinavitch.”

His eyebrow quirked in challenge, heat licking up your spine at the danger in his gaze, the steadiness of his voice. 

“You think my ego is big?”

A smirk tugged on your mouth, revelling at how you could feel the sore muscles moving beneath his grip. “D’you plan on proving to me it's not the only thing that is?”

“Oh-ho,” he got out through gritted teeth, irritation apparent.

One moment you were in his iron grasp, the other you'd been manhandled and jostled; flipped onto your stomach and dragged to the opposite edge of the bed. He made sure your injured foot didn't hit the floor like the other, instead shoving it up, bent towards your chest to keep it from dangling.

As an added benefit, the position had your dripping pussy on full display for him.

A hand came down onto your ass with a resounding thwack. You yelped, jolted forward, fingers grappling at the sheets. 

“Do I?” He let it sting for longer than you would've liked, before massaging it to soothe the blooming heat.

The frantic clink of a belt, the shuffle of fabric being pushed down. He leant over you, forearms against the bed, chest hair peppering deliciously against your back.

Smack. Harder.

“Can you feel it, baby?” The tent in his boxers just barely ground into your pussy, making you whimper and clench around nothing. 

Smack.

“Do I still need to prove it?”

Smack—before the hand travelled up and into your hair, tangling in the locks to carelessly tug your head up.

Jack Abbot sat in your beige Ikea desk chair, a fist wrapped around his thick cock, languidly moving it up and down with a blissful yet smug expression on his face.

Robby bent lower, voice gravelly in your ear, “All for you, champ.”

One of your hands clutched at his bicep, trying to reach further down for the waistband of his boxers. His grip stopped yours, pinning both your wrists above your head.

“I was under the impression you didn't want me to fuck you?”

Your fight was definitely wavering, but not yet. Even if it did cost you more torture. “What makes you think I want you to?” you spat back.

The fingers in your hair moved to close around your throat, putting just enough pressure for you to choke back a gasp, eyes fluttering shut.

“You may be one of my brightest at work,” his grasp eased and withdrew, letting your head fall down into the mattress. “But rhetorics won't be of any use here, baby.”

He was pressed right up against your back, so you could feel when he pushed his boxers down, freeing his cock from its confines. 

His free hand appeared in front of your face again.

“Spit.”

You lifted your head from the sheets, catching a glimpse of Jack with his neck craned back, squeezing the base of his cock. You wanted to retort, but any more of this and you'd actually end up coming without any stimulation.

Reluctantly, you relaxed your jaw, letting saliva pool into your mouth, before opening it to let your spit drip onto his palm.

“Good girl,” he cooed, retracting his hand. You heard the telltale groan he let out as he spread it all over his cock; the wetness of him stroking himself. He let go of your wrists, reassuringly squeezing them briefly before pulling away.

His voice was more chaste. “Condoms?”

Fuck. 

You were too deep in your lust-filled haze to even think about not doing it.. raw. And you still were, because you barely registered how irrational it sounded when you stated—

“I-I have an implant.”

Silence. From the other side of the room too.

“I know, baby.” He cleared his throat, voice now strained. “You of all people should know why I'm asking.”

You whined, burying your face in the sheets as you pushed your ass back, grinding into his thickness. “Please, Robby.”

He let out a throaty groan, hand heavily landing somewhere beside you to stabilise himself. “Are you sure, sweetheart?”

He guided the head of his cock to gather your wetness and rub it into your throbbing clit. “Haa.. fuck—yes, please, Robby.” 

He groaned, tapping his cock against your pussy. “She's leaking, baby.”

You swore you felt the beginnings of an orgasm wash over you the moment he began inching into you, hands pressed into your waist, pushing you into the bed. 

“Look at me,” a further voice uttered.

Your head lifted again, bleary-eyed as you looked over at Jack. If you'd been enduring torture, what was he going through?

He really did have the willpower of a veteran.

Even with how soaked you were, you still felt the deliciously immense pressure of Robby's cock bullying its way past your walls. His hands skated down your back to knead your ass, spreading you apart.

“So fucking—” he buried himself to the hilt with a final drive in. “Tight.”

You cried out, tears seeping from the corners of your eyes as you pressed them shut. It didn't hurt, no, it was just.. a little uncomfortable. How could it not be when he was so deep you could almost feel it in your guts?

Two clicks of a tongue and you were looking back up at Jack with glassy eyes.

If you thought he enjoyed seeing you slowly losing your mind getting speared on the other attending’s cock, you could've only imagined what was added when he saw the shininess of your gaze.

Robby was panting, not moving, letting you acclimate to his size. The look on Jack's face couldn't have gotten any smugger. “Enjoying yourself?”

Robby slowly dragged himself out, leaving only the tip in before slamming into you with one stroke, forcing a whimper from your throat and a grunt from his. 

Your chin dug into the mattress as you tried to keep your eyes open and on Jack. He was glad you got the gist. “How—mmh.. are you—” you swallowed as Robby bracketed your torso with his forearms again. “Just.. watching?”

Robby's fingers wound across your jaw to pull you up, turning you so he could kiss you soft and sweet as he started to set a brutally slow pace that surged you forward with every thrust; that had him feeling every inch of you wrapped around him so warmly. 

“Safe word?” he mumbled against your lips, so close your breaths mingled. 

You were so deep in your sexual relief you once again forgot the small probability of this going south. 

“Uhm..” you spared a glance at Jack; patiently waiting for you to put your focus back on him. “Is it weird if I say hula hoop?”

He huffed incredulously, watching your dilated pupils like he would with a penlight. “Unless you want me thinking about this when our staff gets assaulted, then no.”

“You still will.” You whined, sensing his shift in speed. “But—fuck—uh.. watermelon?”

You took his smirk as acknowledgement. He placed a lingering kiss to your mouth before turning you to face Jack again, not letting go of your jaw. 

“I like to,” Jack continued, seemingly unfazed. Something flashed behind his eyes when Robby gave a particularly hard thrust, setting a more consistent, rough pace that had you moaning obscenely every jolt.

“And it helps me gauge what you like so I can fuck you better.”

You couldn't seem to process what he was saying anymore. 

Not with how your brain was short-circuiting, sparking like metal against metal at the knot latching into place in your stomach, at the sexiness of Jack's voice dirty-talking you. Robby let go of your jaw, and you buried your face into the sheets, suppressing your noises alongside every creak the mattress emitted.

He heaved against your back, grunting in time with each smack his pelvis gave to your ass. 

You couldn't help but imagine what Jack would do to you if Robby was already fucking you this good.

Lips trailed along the shell of your ear just as a strong arm wrapped around the circumference of your neck, putting you in a headlock and pulling you upright. The new angle had the head of his cock ramming into your G-spot with every pass. 

Sirens went off in your head when you felt something different but not unpleasurable, and you were just about to ask him to stop when—

“Have you squirted before?”

Oh.

“H-Huh?” you tried choking out; it merely ended up sounding like a moan you would hear in some low-budget porn. “No—Robby..”

His free hand trailed down your front, pressing his palm into your lower stomach. “Do you want to?”

He took your lack of a real answer as a yes. Four of his fingers tracked down, giving your clit a couple of hard pats that had you yelping before quickly starting to swipe them side-to-side, the lewd sounds of your arousal now echoing throughout the small room.

Was Jack still only watching?

Your own hands grappled at the arm around your neck, nails marring deep crescents where short red trails then followed. 

It was such an odd feeling, you instinctively tried to squirm away, thighs trembling when he went shallower, slamming directly into your G-spot. “Fuck, Robby.. wait, wait—”

He shook his head, beard scratching your shoulder as his teeth grazed over the clammy skin, all focus oriented on making you come like you literally never had before. His movements on your clit slowed into soft circles, but his hips were still relentless.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he murmured condescendingly, putting pressure on your stomach with the heel of his hand. “Let go. Come for us.”

Us.

That was what had you soaking the sheets and his cock; liquid gushing from between your legs and running down your thighs as you tensed in his hold, stuffing your face in the crook of his elbow while he fucked you through it.

“Ffuuck, baby—” You could feel the smile against your skin. “Attagirl. Keep going—shiit..”

He gave you two deep, harsh thrusts that'd given you a glimpse of overstimulation before pulling out and fucking into his fist, teeth leaving marks in the meat of your shoulder as he groaned hoarsely, leaving stripes of white across your back.

His arm uncurled, lowering you until you collapsed onto the bed. You hauled your normal leg up to fold under the injured one—which you were surprised to find was not asleep—thoroughly spent but thoroughly satiated.

The abused mattress dipped on the opposite side, and you found yourself being guided by a panting and slightly sweaty Jack Abbot up to the head of the bed.

Your eyelids were heavy despite the scorching sun outside as you laid your cheek upon his rising and falling chest, relishing the difference in scent.

He stroked and gently untangled your knotted hair; massaged your scalp; brushed his lips over your perspirated forehead. “You did so good for us, sweetheart.”

You huffed softly, squinting up at him. “You should join sometime.”

“Oh, I will.”

“Did you even—”

Your eyes then deviated to the small pile of tissues on your nightstand. And also the prosthetic propped up against it.

“Oh. Nevermind.” 

You scooched up, nuzzling your face into his neck before Robby appeared out of nowhere, springs creaking in protest as he knelt beside you with a dampened towel. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your cheek before sitting back to clean you up. 

He tossed the towel to the side, finally settling down on your other side; his front against your back, his palm running over the curve of your waist. 

“Do you own a caution wet floor sign by any chance?”

You elbowed him in the ribs as hard as you could.

“I’m never having sex with you ever again.”

Jack's shoulders shook beneath your chin as he laughed, and his arm moved from where it was in your hair.

What the fuck?

You lifted your head and looked between the two of them. “Did you guys just fucking fist bump?”

Jack smiled into your hair, briefly wrapping you up in his arms as consolation. “Are we not allowed to?”

You hit him too. In the solid wall of his chest. “I don't think it really comes with the customs of a threesome.”

“Sorry, boss.” Robby muttered flatly, pecking along the backs of your shoulders, thumbing the bite mark he left. 

He turned you over by the waist. He probably had enough of the back of you, and Jack was probably glad he finally got to feel your ass against him. “Are you okay? Did I go too hard?”

Your eyes softened as you reached out to feel his beard beneath your hands. “I'm okay. Are you?”

He nodded, leaning into your touch and looking at you with such affection it almost made you melt. “Ankle?”

“Kinda hurts. I have a spare ice pack in the freezer.” 

You glanced at Jack, suppressing a laugh.

“Not it,” you both said in unison.

Robby was already sitting up. “No shit, Sherlock.”

Your eyes lit up. “I was reading one of those, actually. Could you get that too?”

He stopped at the door with his back against it. The sight of him in only black boxers—silhouetted so largely against the white—almost made you want to pounce on him again. 

“I'll get you a glass of water and your coffee and take you to pee after too. Sound good, champ?”

You sidled back up into Jack, trying to stop yourself from grinning. “Thanks, chief.”

—

You woke up alone; groggy and disoriented and sore. You couldn't tell if the sun was rising or setting, if what happened was some really vivid, painkiller-induced wet dream.

The sun filtering through the blinds bathed your lower body in misshapen gold stripes, one of them falling precisely along your wounded ankle, illuminating the gel ice pack strapped to it and the pile of pillows underneath it.

So it wasn't a dream. And it wasn't morning.

All at once, it came rushing back to you as you sat up on your elbows. Your beige desk chair had been tucked back in, your hair towel draped along the back, a grey hoodie and a black T-shirt folded and stacked neatly upon the seat.

At your nightstand, Jack's prosthetic and pile of tissues were gone—replaced by your crutches and now watery Americano—but only now did you notice the tan-strapped Seiko wristwatch next to your lamp.

The painkillers had worn off, and the sharp pain was sorely apparent when you dragged yourself out of bed to hobble toward the door with the crutches carelessly tucked under your armpits.

As you softly pushed the door shut behind you, the familiar aroma of fresh bread wafted through the air, as if you lived in an obscure cottage in Montana and not in an overpriced apartment in downtown Pittsburgh.

You hopped to the kitchen. 

You were greeted by the sight of the PTMC’S day and night shift attendings; both shirtless and both now staring at you, sitting at your island.

You halted in your tracks, dumbstruck.

What the fuck?

There was no doubt in how comical your expression probably was when you spotted the pasta on the plates in front of them, the steaming pan with one more portion in it.

“Good evening,” Jack said breezily.

You shook your head and seriously considered going back to bed when you heard the old Bruce Springsteen song playing faintly from his phone.

“I didn't know Magic Mike did at-home performances.” 

You started toward them again, making your way to the oven. Robby stopped you and stood, taking your crutches and helping you sit instead. 

“It's more like Make-A-Wish. Since you're injured."

You watched as he bent to take your Primanti's out the oven and almost moaned when Jack began kneading your shoulders.

“That's weird. I just feel like I'm in a porn magazine.” Robby set the box in front of you, moving his plate out the way. You opened it and immediately dug in, groaning as the flavours hit your tongue.

“Please put your tits away,” you said, swallowing and pointedly glancing back at Jack. “Especially you. I'm very distracted.”

Robby blew smoke from the red-sauced pasta twirled around his fork before holding it in front of you. “Eat this first.”

You opened your mouth, letting him feed it to you and wipe some tomato off the corner of your lip. You cocked an eyebrow, chewing slowly. “Fuck, that's good. Who made this?”

A kiss was pressed into your hair as Jack got up and headed for the bedroom. “I did.”

“I might have to blow you,” you replied, voice raised so he could hear you from the room.

He chuckled as he pulled his shirt on, tossing Robby his hoodie. “I'm definitely not opposed.”

You smiled lightly, trailing him as he took his place behind you again, melting into him when he resumed massaging you. Robby leaned in to kiss you tenderly, pushing hair from your face.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Like I need my meds,” you muttered, getting one last peck in before he pulled away. “Did you guys not sleep?”

Robby diverted his attention back to the food. “I did on the couch, for a bit.”

You frowned a little, unbidden disappointment twinging your throat, whether from the fact he slept separately, or the fact you passed out for so long. 

“And you woke up before me?”

He smirked. “Seems so.”

You briefly scrunched your nose. “That's embarrassing.”

Jack reached across the island for your painkillers, pushing you his half-full glass of water. “Eat.”

You eyed the rows of small, round pills. Both their eyes were on you too. You'd come full circle; both of them were in your space, expressing concern over the pain you were in.

The other pills in the foil rattled as you popped two out, casting a sidelong glance at Jack.

“Yes, chef.”

Jack Abbot was normal. He was fine. He was definitely not seething watching you dance with friends. The problem with dating the hottest woman in existence was that he couldn’t exclusively monopolize your time. He barely knew anyone at this wedding, it was your friend’s wedding.

She had too many sisters to have you as a bridesmaid and in the comfort and secrecy of your bedroom you had whispered to him that you just didn’t have it in you to be in so many weddings—most of your twenties had been spent traveling around the country to be in friends’ weddings.

Now, he was watching you in a gorgeous plum dress dancing around barefoot with girls you’ve known for over a decade. Some of their husbands were tolerable. Your best friend and her husband were here. Most of the time Ted was fine. Drunk Ted cared a lot about golf and Jack, drunk or sober, couldn’t give a shit.

When P!nk’s “So What” ended you meandered back over to Jack and to his surprise (and delight), collapsed in his lap.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled. “I’m a little tipsy.”

“So I see,” he replied, lightly pushing your hair back away from your face. Your nice hairdo had long since come unraveled and kept falling in your face.

“I like you so much,” you said leaning into him.

“You don’t love me?” He asked with a smile on his face. You snorted.

“Of course I love you. But I also like you.”

“Thanks?”

“I don’t think all my friends like their husbands,” you whispered a little too wet in his ear. He had to resist the urge to push you away to wipe it off.

“What makes you say that?”

“Take me back to the hotel and I’ll tell you,” you said laying your head on his shoulder. It definitely didn’t look comfortable, largely speaking to your exhaustion. You had been dancing and jumping with your friends for multiple hours.

“C’mon, babe,” he said shifting your legs off his lap.

“Ugh,” you groaned standing again. “I need to tell Claire goodnight.”

“I’ll get our stuff,” he said.

The send off had been a few hours ago, before the elderly relatives had left. Now, it was just a fun party with friends. He loved watching you light up and enjoy being around your people. He loved his people, but they were far more subdued than yours.

Across the dance floor you approached your friend who threw her arms around you with heartfelt but drunken balance and coordination. It made his heart swell, watching how happy you were. Fuck, he loved making you happy. All he wanted in life was to make each day just a little easier; he wanted to do his best to make you happy.

By the time you’d extricated yourself from your friend’s embrace and made your way back to him, Jack had a hold of your purse and coat. He also had already dug your ugly Birkenstocks out of your purse so you didn’t have to put your heels back on.

“Fuck you’re so good to me,” you said, holding onto him while you slipped the shoes on.

“Well if that’s all it takes,” he replied, helping you into your coat.

He kept a hold of your bag when walking out to the parking lot. Just like his mother taught him, he held the door open on the rental car and shut it gently behind you. When he got into the drivers seat, you had dug your water bottle out of your purse.

“Ugh, I’m already sobering up,” you complained.

“So you don’t want drunk fast food?”

You gasped dramatically. “Do you kiss your mother with that dirty mouth?”

Jack laughed and grabbed your hand as he turned out of the parking lot heading back to the hotel.

“What did you mean earlier about your girlfriends not liking their husbands?” He asked pulling into a greasy fast food joint. It rarely mattered which one as the point was disgusting food.

Once the French fries and chicken and burgers had been acquired, Jack pulled into a parking spot towards the back of the lot. One of the first things you both discovered you’d had in common was growing up in small towns. It meant that you both had fond memories of idling car conversations and the occasional makeout. Even now, a long away from your teen years, you both adored your post party ritual.

“So,” you began, curling your legs up. “Abigail, not technically my friend, but she’s a good time. Was talking to me about how glad she was that her husband couldn’t come and that was fucking bonkers to me. Why would you marry someone you don’t like?”

“You would be sad if I couldn’t come?”

“Sure, I like spending time with you. It’s not like it would ruin it for me, I basically barely hung out with you tonight, but it’s fun coming back and kissing you before dancing to Pitbull songs with everyone.”

“I think that’s a compliment,” he laughed.

“But seriously!” You said nudging him. “I like being around you. It’s fun. You’re just as fun as my friends.”

“Even though I can’t dance with the energy of a drunk college girl?”

“Even then,” you laughed. “Hear anything good with the spouses?”

“Ted likes golf,” Jack sighed.

“God he’s so boring,” you laughed. “But she needs boring after the shit head she used to be married to.”

“Do your friends think I’m boring?”

You scoffed. “No, they think you’re a crazy adrenaline junky, not boring. Did you notice the groom’s sister had a fucking weird speech?”

For the next hour you both sat in the car, eating food that would clog your arteries and gossiping about the wedding. It was life giving and comforting in ways you never wanted to lose. You’d had this with friends but Jack was the first man you’d ever dated who wanted to do stupid shit with you. He wanted to go to weddings of people he didn’t know. He wanted to sit in a slightly too heated car talking shit about speeches. He wanted to do nothing and everything with you.

“What’s that look?” Jack asked.

“I dunno,” you sighed. “I just really fucking like you.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I really fucking like you, too,” he said. “Even if you dance like a baby giraffe.”

“Fuck off!”

When you both got back to the hotel, Jack helped you search for the various pins hidden somewhere in your hair.

“You’re so pretty,” he said mouth at your bare shoulder.

“Are you trying to get in my pants, Dr. Abbot?”

“You’re not wearing pants,” he said, bracketing your body against the counter of the bathroom. “You are, however, wearing a gorgeous dress I’ve wanted to peel off with my teeth all night.”

“Your teeth, huh?” You asked making eye contact with him in the mirror.

“God I’ve wanted to touch you so bad all night,” he whispered in your ear, pressing a soft kiss right near your hairline.

“You look so good in that suit,” you grumbled, pushing your ass back against his groin. “Kept coming back to kiss you so everyone knew you were mine.”

Jack’s eyes fluttered closed as he buried his face in your neck. Being wanted by you was intoxicating. Knowing that you coveted him as much as he coveted you was more than enough to turn him on. He could feel the ghost of your cunt clenching around him. It had been two weeks since he last fucked you. Both of your jobs had been hectic.

But now, in the privacy of the too expensive hotel room, he had you at his mercy.

“Look at me baby,” he said softly against your ear, relishing in how you shivered against him. “All mine, right?”

“Only yours,” you breathed. “I’ve missed your hands.”

He ran his hands from your thighs up your dress to cup your tits. The strapless dress was held up by tape and some intricate ties in the back. He pulled the tape off your chest gently and then yanked the fabric down under your tits, bra and all. You looked so good. In the dim light of the bathroom, he drank in your heedy gaze.

“Beautiful,” he said attacking your neck again.

Having you in his bed for so long, meant Jack knew just how to kiss you and play with your chest to make you soaked. It’s like he had a cheat code to turning you on. It helped that most of the night had been subtle foreplay between you both. During dinner his hand was definitely too high on your thigh but he couldn’t bear to move it.

“Fuck, baby, take me to bed. It’s cold as shit in here,” you groaned.

“Anything for you,” he said. “How hard do you want tonight?”

“Rough,” you replied.

He wove his fingers through your hair, close to the roots and pulled. He drug you back into the main room and tossed you on the bed face first. Holding you down with one hand on your upper back, he slowly pulled the zipper of your dress down.

“Look at this sexy body,” he said. “All for me.”

You wiggled a little as he unhooked the strapless bra with one hand. It had taken him nearly a year to master, but it was one of his most used bedroom skills. Letting you go, he pulled off the dress harshly, taking your underwear with it. Then you were face down on the bed, naked and already dripping for him.

You had arched your back, preening under his gaze. With a sharp smack to the meaty part of your glute, he watched you jump and settle back into your skin. A few more spanks and he quickly shoved his fingers inside you making you gasp.

He loved all the noises and movements you made during sex. For the duration of your relationship, he had been making a running catalog of how to get you to do a sound or movement. While he harshly fingered you, enjoying the way you squirmed under him, he began unbuckling his belt and pants.

“Feel good, baby?”

“Fuck me, please,” you panted against the comforter.

Shoving his pants down just low enough let out his dick, he pulled his fingers out of you and rubbed your wetness along his cock. Just the smell of you was sending him over the edge. He made sure to clamp down on your hips tightly, hoping to leave a bruise for you to enjoy, before careening his hips into yours aggressively.

There was a grunt as the air was knocked out of you. For a moment he paused, enjoying how you felt. Your cunt always felt so fucking good against his dick. You were so warm and wet and you clenched so beautifully when he spanked you. As much as he loved to be the one furiously fucking you, he also loved having you in charge.

He always enjoyed feeling your nails rake down his back. He was desperate to feel you closer against his skin, so while he had your hips pinned to the bed, he quickly ripped off his button up and undershirt so he could wrap his arm around your neck and pull you up against his body.

Once he felt you against his chest, he began to thrust ferociously against your cunt. He loved how it fluttered and the grunts and groans you released as he harshly pounded into you.

“Fuck, baby,” Jack growled harshly. “You feel so good. Made for me. Carved for my fucking dick, isn’t that right?”

“Just for you,” you said breathlessly.

You were clutching onto the bicep his had wrapped around your neck (more so your chest than neck, but it had the same effect). He felt you meeting his thrusts sending shockwaves through both of you.

“I love it when you’re rough with me,” you heaved against his assault. “Harder, please.”

Your tone was always so breathy and almost whiny when you got worked up like this.

“Anything for my naughty girl. Do you like this dick pounding into you. Does it feel good to have someone treat you so meanly?”

“Fuuuck,” you groaned arching against his grasp more. “You feel so good inside of me.”

“You make me so fucking crazy, pretty girl,” he hissed against your ear. “Watching you tonight was like my own personal dream. The prettiest girl in the world dancing and jumping but always coming back to me. Can’t be without me can you?”

“No, I can’t,” you whined as one of Jack’s hands roughly kneaded your tits. “Your hands are so good.”

“Rub your clit for me, baby. I want to feel you cum on my dick. I’m going to fuck you so hard you can’t walk tomorrow.”

“Yes please,” you mumbled. He felt one of your hands leave its iron grasp on his arm. “You fill me up so good.”

Jack felt himself getting close so he pulled out and finished taking off his pants. Getting his prosthetic off quickly was a hard fought for skill, but he managed to push you flat on the bed covering your body with his own before slipping back inside of your warmth.

He wrapped his arm around your throat again and grinned at how you moaned wantonly.

“So pretty when you’re being used by me.”

“Please,” you managed.

“Prop your hips up, baby,” he said getting on his knees to allow you room.

The harsh sounds of him slamming into you filled the room while he kept whispering debauched things in your ear:

“You’re made for me and only me.”

“Using you feels so sweet.”

“Are you going to cum on my dick?”

“I’m so fucking deep, baby.”

“I’m going to make you cum so hard.”

He was so focused on making sure you came, he didn’t noticed how you turned your face.

“Please, daddy, harder,” you moaned.

His hips stuttered and to control himself, he bit into the muscle of your shoulder. He almost felt guilty for how hot he found your cry of pain to be.

“Rub your clit and say it again,” he mumbled against your skin.

Your hand snaked underneath your body, and gasping under his assault you said,

“Harder, daddy. I want to feel you cum inside me.”

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned.

He was so close when he felt the tell tale flutters of your cunt against him. He nearly wept with relief you finally were close enough for him to say,

“Cum on my dick, pretty girl. Show me how good I make you feel. Milk me. Milk daddy.”

You cried out as you tensed and gasped underneath him. He made sure to keep moving as you clenched against him until your shaking thighs collapsed. He continued his furious pace until he felt himself orgasm. It felt like he came forever. When he finally collapsed and rolled over next to you, he chest was heaving.

“Daddy, huh?” He asked.

“I don’t know where it came from,” you laughed. “But you clearly liked it.”

“Surprise for me, too,” he huffed. He pulled you against him, reveling in how your naked skin felt against his.

“You’re sweaty and hot,” you grumbled, nuzzling your face against his chest. It was said like a complaint but you weren’t moving away.

“So are you,” he laughed. You tweaked his nipple.

“I’m fresh as a daisy.”

He laughed and kissed the top of your head. “Want to shower first?”

“Yes please,” you said. “Will you keep me company?”

He snorted and nodded.

The accessible bathroom had a removable shower chair that he used while he waited for you. Unlike the shower at home, it wasn’t big enough for Jack, his shower chair, and you. So he watched as you tied your hair up and quickly rinsed off. He noticed your wince when you gently cleaned your vagina.

“Do you want me to check it?” He asked a little concerned.

“Nah, just sensitive. You did a good job.”

“Wow, did I get an A-plus in sex?”

“Fuck off,” you laughed.

While Jack showered, you began working through your nighttime routine. You took off whatever make up hadn’t been sweated off during the wedding or the following sex and washed your face. By the time Jack got out, you were brushing your teeth.

Before leaving the bathroom you kissed him and said, “I love you.”

“Wuv yew,” he said with his toothbrush in his mouth.

Using his crutches, he made his way back to the bed, pulling on a pair of clean boxers before sliding into bed with you. Like you always did, you slept on the side farthest from the door. It was one of the many things that lingered from the war. Jack wanted to be between you and anything unexpected.

He pulled you against him, in the dark, enjoying how warm and soft you were.

“A good night,” he mumbled.

“And good sex,” you said.

He laughed and closed his eyes, feeling so much love and affection for you leaking out of his chest.

“Hey,” you said after a while. “You awake?”

“Hmm?” Jack asked sleepy.

“I just really like you.”

Jack laughed softly. “I really like you, too.”

You ran your fingers through his hair, already disheveled from him raking his fingers though it all day. 

“How was work?” You asked him, as he leaned in planting a kiss to your cheek, making his way down to your neck. He let out a huff, his hand snaking behind your back and pulling you in closer. 

“Rough.” 

Your hands trailed up his chest, reaching for his jaw, bringing his lips to yours.

It wasn’t unusual for Robby to come back to yours after work, or for you to go to his. That was the arrangement you had. When you had time, you gave it to each other. But there were rules, and limits. 

Keep it casual.

That had been both of your priorities since the beginning. You were both too busy for dating, so you found something in each other that worked in both your favours. He would come to you, or you would go to him. And it worked, almost too well. Nothing ever got messy, no wires ever got crossed. You had agreed that although you weren’t exactly exclusive, you weren’t seeing or sleeping with other people. You both agreed on that as well. As casual as the whole situation was, it was yours, together. Just the two of you. At the start, you had both decided that staying the night made more sense. You work together, and time in between shifts was so limited that you both understood the importance of sleep where you can, when you can.

But, there came a point when you knew that it wasn’t just sex anymore. Robby knew that too. But you were both, for the time being, happy to keep pretending that it was as casual as it had been at the beginning. Eventually, somewhere along the way, he would come over and you would have dinner before falling asleep talking about your day. Mornings became just as familiar. The two of you would drift around the kitchen making coffee and eating breakfast, bickering over who got the bathroom first. You would perch on the counter brushing your teeth while Robby washed his face beside you. He always remembered your scarf as you rushed out the door, and you always remembered to close his windows so his apartment wasn't freezing when he got home.

He would find you at work, pull you into an empty supply cupboard and steal a kiss before returning to work like nothing happened. There was never much time in the chaos of the ED, but he still somehow always found thirty seconds for you. Sometimes it was nothing more than a brush of his fingers against yours as you passed each other in the corridor, hidden from everyone else's attention. Sometimes it was a folded note tucked into your scrub pocket, his messy handwriting scrawled across the paper. It wasn't dating. At least, that's what the two of you kept telling yourselves. If anyone noticed the way his eyes found yours in a room full of people, or how instinctively you reached for him after particularly difficult cases, nobody ever said anything. You certainly didn't. Neither did he. Because saying it out loud would mean admitting that the lines had blurred. 

Because casual relationships weren't supposed to look like that.

“You’re thinking too loudly,” he mumbled against your skin, as he kissed a trail down your neck to your chest and eventually down to your stomach. His hands ghosted over your hips, hooking onto the fabric and slipping it down slowly over your legs. His hands grazed back into your thighs, pushing them apart gently and your hips bucked, desperate for the attention he was purposefully withholding.

“Robby,” you almost whispered, your breath hitching in your chest. Your hands reached for him, trying to guide him down as you shifted underneath him.

“You’re needy when you’re tired.” He laughed, kissing down your thighs, settling in between your legs and gripping you tightly, pulling you towards him. 

“And you’re a tease.” Your hands found his head, scratching through his hair.

He huffed a laugh, his breath fanning over you, making you squirm. He knew what he was doing, he always did. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he moaned into you, your hips twitching as the vibrations of his voice rolled through you. His fingers teased at your center, slipping in softly and slowly. 

Another cry of his name was the only thing you could seem to muster as you threw your head back into the pillow.

After you were showered and dressed, Robby still hadn’t moved from the bed. He lay on his back, one arm behind his head as he watched you search the room for the rest of your things. 

“My badge,” you muttered, checking the bedside table before Robby pointed you to the dresser by the door, his eyes never leaving you.

"What?" you asked, catching him staring.

"Nothing."

"You've been looking at me for the last five minutes."

"I know."

You laughed, shaking your head.

“That’s a dangerous look when I’m already running late, Robinavitch.”

His smile was tired, the kind that barely lifted the corners of his mouth after twelve hours on his feet.

"You don't have to go."

You looked over your shoulder. "Pretty sure they'll notice if I don't turn up."

"They'll survive."

"The emergency department?" You raised an eyebrow. "Unlikely."

He let out a quiet chuckle before sighing, dragging a hand over his face.

"When does this stupid night rotation end?"

You slipped your watch onto your wrist.

"Next week."

"So after next week," he looked at you hopefully. "you're back on days?"

You nodded.

"Finally."

You smiled as you stepped closer to the bed, smoothing a hand through his messy hair.

"You'll survive."

"I don't want to."

"Oh?"

"I hate not seeing you."

The words slipped out so naturally that neither of you acknowledged them. Instead, he reached for your hand, his thumb absentmindedly brushing over your knuckles.

"Our schedules are ridiculous."

"They always are."

"They're worse when you're on nights."

"It’s only one more week."

"A long week."

You leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to his forehead.

"Get some sleep."

You started towards the bedroom door before his voice stopped you.

"Hey."

You turned back.

"Be careful tonight."

You smiled softly and he watched you until you disappeared into the hallway, only letting himself close his eyes after he heard the front door click shut.

You stood outside in the ambulance bay, nursing what little you had left of your energy drink. That’s when you heard it, Robby’s motorcycle. You hated that thing, with a passion. Working in the ED there were certain things you were sworn off for life, motorcycles sat firmly at the top of the list. You just wished that Robby felt the same way. You watched as he rounded the corner, and you felt your heart drop into your stomach. He wasn’t wearing a helmet. Even from where you stood, you saw the way his shoulders tensed when he spotted you. He pulled to a stop, killed the engine and slipped off his sunglasses, guilt written all over his face.

“You’re joking.” You walked over to him, tossing your can into the nearby bin.

“Please tell me you’re joking because there is no way you just rode all the way here without wearing a helmet.” 

He swung his leg over his bike, grabbing his bag and inching slowly towards you like a child in trouble. You spoke before he had the chance to try and defend himself with whatever excuse he would muster up, you were too tired and too upset to hear it. 

“I can’t believe you. How could you be so reckless? You’re the attending of this ED,” you waved your hand behind you to the entrance, “every single day we treat people whose lives change in an instant because they make stupid decisions like this! For fuck sake Robby, what the hell are you thinking?”

He huffed a sigh, only making you angrier than you thought possible. He held his hand up in defence, like he was trying to calm you down, but it was having the opposite effect. 

“You don’t get to sigh at me.”

“It was only a ten minute ride, it’s not a big deal.”

Furious didn’t seem to touch the sides of what you were feeling. 

“Not a big deal.” You nodded your head. “Sure, so I’ll start driving my car without wearing my seat belt, not a big deal. It’s not like we treat people every day, with injuries that could have easily been avoided by wearing a seat belt. But screw it, hey? Because it’s not a big deal.”

You placed your hands on your hips, shaking your head, trying to look anywhere but at Robby, it was taking everything you had not to run over to him and physically shake some sense into him. 

His voice wasn't raised, but there was frustration creeping in now.

"I'm standing here, aren't I? Nothing happened."

You stared at him in disbelief.

"That's your defence?" The words echoed louder than you had intended.

A couple of paramedics glanced over before deciding they suddenly had somewhere else to be.

Robby lowered his voice.

"Please. I don't want to do this out here."

“Oh you don’t want to fight?” You laughed bitterly. 

He stepped closer.

"I'm sorry."

"You should be."

His jaw clenched.

"I made one stupid decision."

"Exactly."

"And I'm apologising."

"Because you got caught."

"No." He shook his head. "Because I upset you."

“You don’t like seeing me upset? Imagine how upset I’ll be when you’re brought in here, after crashing that death machine while not wearing a helmet. Imagine how heartbroken I’ll be if something terrible happened to you Robby!” You fought hard to keep the tears at bay, not wanting to cry in front of him. His expression softened immediately.

“Hey, I’m fine. Nothing happened, and nothing is going to happen.”

You laughed. It was all you could do. Never in your life did you think you’d have to worry about something as insane as this. 

“You know what Robby, it’s your life. If you’re happy playing chance with it, then go ahead. But I am done, leave me out of it.” 

You turned around despite hearing him call after you. You hurried to the bathroom, desperate for a moment of quiet and private place to cry. The tears came before you even reached the sink. You splashed cold water over your face, willing the sting behind your eyes to disappear. Your shift was over. All you had to do was grab your things and go home. But it still took another five minutes before you trusted yourself enough to leave. You kept your head down, hoping if you walked quickly enough you'd make it to the staff room unnoticed. You'd almost made it.

"Hey."

You closed your eyes.

"Please don't."

Robby was already beside you.

"I'm sorry."

"I don't want to do this."

"I know."

His voice was quiet now, stripped of the frustration from outside.

"Just talk to me for a minute."

Before you could object, he gently rested a hand against the small of your back, guiding you towards the nearest empty supply cupboard. The door clicked shut behind you. The shelves around you were crammed with boxes of gloves, IV tubing and gauze, leaving barely enough room for the two of you to stand. Robby rubbed the back of his neck.

"I shouldn't have ridden without it."

"No."

"I wasn't thinking."

"No."

"I'm sorry."

You nodded once. He took half a step closer.

"It won't happen again."

You looked away from him, your eyes drifting around the tiny room. You shook your head, wiping angrily at your cheeks.

"You don't get it. You came into my life," you laughed once, humourlessly. "You came into my life and you made yourself matter to me."

Robby's brow furrowed.

"You did that." You poked his chest once. Your eyes drifted around the tiny cupboard.

"You kissed me in here. We eat lunch together in the break room. We work side by side in trauma. You built the bookshelf in my apartment." Your voice cracked. "You're everywhere."

He didn't interrupt.

"If something happened to you," you swallowed hard. "I'd have to leave. I'd have to get another job because every corner of this hospital would remind me of you. I'd have to move because I'd walk past that bookshelf every day and think about you." You let out a shaky breath.

"You made yourself part of my life." The words came before you could stop them.

"I love you, Robby, but that's so selfish."

His face fell.

"What?"

"It's selfish." Your voice was barely above a whisper now. "You made yourself matter to me, and now you're acting like it doesn't matter if you throw your life away."

The words hung between you, and suddenly your stomach dropped when you realized what you had said. You stared at him for a heartbeat, horror settling across your features as the weight of your own words hit you. Without another word, you pushed past him, yanked the cupboard door open and disappeared into the corridor.

"Wait!"

You didn't, because you couldn’t. You felt the panic settle in your chest. You hadn't meant to say it. Not like that. Not at all.

You told yourself he'd come over after his shift. He always did. But you woke up alone, and that was confirmation enough of you. Whatever was going on between you and Robby was over. 

Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the look on Robby's face when they left your mouth. Shock, or anger? Confusion? Something you hadn't stayed long enough to figure out. 

You spent the whole of your next shift replaying the argument over and over again. Not the shouting or the tears. Just three words.

I love you.

It was all you could think of, all day. Between that and the endless flow of patients, by the time the day staff started arriving, you were exhausted. You escaped to the break room with a lukewarm coffee and every intention of sitting down for five minutes before dragging yourself home. The chair felt softer than you remembered. You rested your forehead against your folded arms. Just five minutes, that was all. You didn't even realise you'd fallen asleep until you felt something warm brush gently across your back, slowly dragging you from your sleep. Your brow furrowed as you blinked awake, lifting your head just enough to look over your shoulder.

Robby. His hand fell away the moment he realised you were awake.

"Sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't mean to startle you."

You rubbed at your eyes, still half asleep.

"What time is it?"

"About seven."

You sat up with a groan.

"I was supposed to go home."

"I know."

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The awkwardness settled between you almost immediately. You weren't sure whether to apologise or leave. Before you could decide, Robby pulled out the chair opposite yours and sat down. His hands disappeared into the pockets of his jacket.

"I wanted to show you something."

He placed a set of keys on the table between you. Car keys. They sat in front of you, a small black fob attached to a dealership key tag. You frowned.

"What?"

Your eyes lifted to Robby.

"So," he rubbed the back of his neck. "I sold it."

You looked from the keys, to him and then back again.

"You sold your motorcycle?"

He nodded. You couldn't quite find the words.

"You didn't have to do that."

"I know."

"So why did you?"

He let out a quiet breath.

"I kept thinking about what you said."

You immediately looked away.

"Robby."

"No." His voice was gentle, his tired smile returning. "Not the part you're embarrassed about."

Heat crept into your cheeks.

"The rest of it."

Silence settled between you.

"You were right."

You looked back at him.

"I was acting like nothing could happen to me."

His fingers tapped absently against the table.

"And if it did,” he shook his head. "I never thought about what it'd do to you."

Your throat tightened.

"You don't have to give up something you love because of me."

His small smile grew across his face.

"I was thinking about that too. And you've made it pretty clear over the last few months that you were never getting on the back of that thing."

Despite yourself, you laughed quietly.

"Not a chance."

"I figured."

He nudged the keys a little closer to you.

"So I bought a car. A very sensible sedan. Because I like the idea of being able to drive my girlfriend home.”

Your breath caught.

"Your girlfriend?"

The words hung between you. For the first time since you'd known him, Robby looked almost nervous. His hand rubbed absentmindedly at the back of his neck before he let out a quiet laugh.

"Well," he shrugged, his smile small and almost sheepish. "That's what I'm hoping."

The lump in your throat became impossible to swallow. The tears came before you could stop them.

"Oh, don't," Robby sighed, already pushing back his chair.

"I'm not trying to."

"I know."

He was beside you in two strides. You laughed through your tears as he cupped your face, brushing away the ones that had escaped with the pads of his thumbs. Your forehead rested against his. He looked at you for a long moment.

"I love you." He said finally.

The words were quiet, but certain, and they knocked the air out of your lungs. You reached up, grabbing his hand that cradled your cheek.

“Good.” You laughed softly, tears still clinging to your lashes.

"You're supposed to say it back." His smile widened.

"I already did." 

Robby smiled, the tired lines around his eyes softening as he leaned in. He didn’t rush. He kissed you gently, the same way he always had. He kissed you like a million more kisses were already promised. When you pulled back, Robby murmured, "So, does this mean we’re not keeping it casual anymore?”

A quiet laugh fluttered in your chest.

"I think we were pretty bad at that anyway." You smiled.

Prequel to:

Black Magic Woman - Tom is forced to confront a strange truth after Wyck reveals a town secret.

Blood, Sex, Magic (NSFW) - Tom’s determined to prove exactly who you belong to after Wyck’s revelation.

Before The Dawn (NSFW) - Tom wakes up in the very best way before his big day.

The Bay Bookshop has existed for centuries.

At least that’s what The Historical Society says.

And it’s also always been owned by women, a boon for the town that’s struggling to put themselves on the map. Being hailed as the first female owned bookshop in America, could bring in a certain type of tourist if they get you a little plaque and can convince the New York Times to do a feature on it.

“It’s really not a good idea Tom.” You say as you unpack a box of signed Steffanie Holmes novels for your pre-order packages. The townies go crazy for that cozy crime, reverse harem motif. To be honest you don’t blame them, there isn’t much else to do on this island other than read ‘why choose’ romances featuring three of literature’s greatest villains, it’s why you do so much business.

“Oh, come on, it’s a great idea, imagine how much the shop will thrive.” Tom says helping you to unpack the next box of books. He picks up one, reading the back, his eyebrows rising. “Is this…”

“That may be a little too much for your delicate sensibilities.” You reach out to snatch it out of his hand, but he backs away before you can grab it, colliding with the counter.

The two of you have become friends ever since he started stopping by three years ago. Evan had started becoming more independent, and Tom was looking for something to occupy the long, lonely stretches of time he now had to endure inside the house. He’d come for the books, stayed for the company, and the blueberry lavender cake you usually saved for him at the end of a long trying day. In return he helped you restock the shelves, and reorganise the window display, playing into his secret fantasy of being New England bookshop owner.

“You think I have delicate sensibilities?” He remarks, holding the book just out of reach as you clamber for it by placing your foot on the lower shelf where you keep the spare gift cards and pushing yourself up those extra couple of inches so you can grasp at his outstretched arm.

“I think you have a reputation for being a good boy.” Your entire body presses up against his as you grope for the book, the heel of your ankle boot slipping causing you to teeter backwards.

“What’s wrong with that?” He loops his arm around your waist, crushing you against him in order to steady you.

Your soft curves drive against his hard edges. Heat courses through his body through his body, an invigorating sizzle underneath this skin. Your mouth is tantalisingly close, so close that he’s distracted momentarily and you’re able to reclaim the book from his fingers.

“Nothing, in the right circumstances.” You say tilting your head to meet his gaze as you set the book down on the counter behind him.

Your eyes remind him of the ocean, a beautiful wild tempest he wants to hurl himself into. He can’t deny his attraction to you, it’s been simmering away under the surface since last Christmas when you kissed him underneath the mistletoe. It was nothing more than a brief touch of the lips, but it had set his entire body ablaze for the first time in over a decade.

“And the right circumstances would be?” His gaze is back on your lips. He remembers how soft they were against his mouth, how the scent of pine and mint had clung to your skin. He’d wanted to kiss you back under that mistletoe but then Dale had interrupted, desperate for the new C.S Poe book and you’d been stolen away from him.

He’s thought about it often since, on the evenings the two of you were alone ‘merchandising’ but he’s never had the courage to make the move, because he’d never been able to gauge whether the kiss was a thing between friends or a show of romantic interest.

“Tom.” His grasp on your waist tightens as your fingertips ghost along the five o’clock shadow that lines his jaw, tilting his chin up so your lips are almost brushing over his. “We’ve been playing this game for a while now, and I need to know if you have feelings like mine or if I’m just…”

He kisses you then, and it’s never been so sweet, so perfect, so gloriously torrid. Fifteen years’ worth of passion breaks free and suddenly he’s lifting you onto the counter, your woollen dress riding up as he deposits you on.

You kiss him with the ferocity of storm, the force of it pounding through his veins as his weekend t-shirt is pulled up over his head and tossed somewhere amongst the pre-order merchandise. Your fingertips trail over his skin, through the dark curls on his chest as his tongue dips into your mouth, eager, exploring. His hips slot between your thighs, nestling perfectly against your core, cock hard as a rock as you grind against him.

It’s good, so fucking good that he can feel the ecstasy surging up underneath the denim. He pulls away, his thumb chasing over your flushed cheek as he admires those kiss swollen lips.

“Let me show you how much of a good boy I can be.” He sinks to his knees, guiding your legs over his bare shoulders as he kisses the inside of your knee. The heel of your ankle boot digs into his back, a sensual blossom of pain that intermingles with the pleasure as he plots his course all the way up your inner thigh, tracing pathways with his deviant tongue to your core.

“Oh.” You whisper, your breath punching from your chest as he drives his face between your legs and inhales you. “Oh Tom.”

Its’s been a long time since he’s pleasured a woman, and this is the part he missed the most, the scent of her arousal, the taste of her on his tongue.

He kisses you through your underwear, butterfly kisses that flutter over your core, sending sparks through your body as his knuckles tease along your entrance. His tongue presses against your clit, soaking the fabric as he traces his name over that needy little bud.

You lean back against your palms, hips arching against his mouth, demanding more and he smiles sinfully against your cunt as he draws your underwear down your thighs, leaving it in the pile with his shirt.

His mouth returns to you, hot, wet and desperate to explore the ebbs of your pleasure. Your taste explodes on his tongue and he moans into your pussy at the sweetness, his fingertips skirting along over the shape of your entrance, parting you around them.

Your head tips back, hair spilling over your shoulders as his middle finger slips inside. You’re tight, so tight that he knows there hasn’t been anyone in your life for a while. Your hand threads through his dark curls, gripping them as he starts to fuck you, his tongue teasing circles over your clit.

A magnificent pleasure starts to build, it vibrates through your nerve endings like a call to the wild, matching the drum beat in your soul. He inserts another finger, crooking them, hitting that sweet spot. Your breath catches as he strums the notes, playing them all the way to the crescendo, until you’re coming all over his tongue and he’s licking up every single drop like its nectar from the Gods.

He withdraws his fingers, his lower half of his face still glossy as he places them in his mouth and sucks your taste from them in that deliciously wicked way of his.

“I think we’d better head upstairs.” He tips his head towards the steamed-up display window, towards the curtain you’ve forgotten to pull across it. “We wouldn’t want the whole town to see what this good boy does next.”

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"please—"

it wasn't the first time you'd begged. you'd begged for many, many things in this same position, truth be told. robby behind you, jack below. both of their cocks splitting you open. jack was thick, just like the rest of him—thick fingered, thick bodied, thick cock throbbing and twitching where it stuffed your pussy. robby, on the other hand—long and curved up to the right—enjoyed fucking you in your tight puckered muscle, making you whine and squirm beneath him.

robby laid down over you, crushing you further into jack's chest, who moaned with you at the change in angle. robby’s breath was hot against your ear, his lips pressed into the shell.

"please what, baby? hmmmm?" he groaned, his voice hoarse and cracked, his chest wiry with hair against your slick back.

you brought your hand up to fist in his hair, holding on tight as he pulled his length from you almost to the very tip before thrusting slowly back in.

"oh my god," you heard jack curse, his hands tightening at your hips, his mouth opening in a gasp.

both of them were to the right of you—your face laid down on jack's collarbone, robby's chin hooked over your right shoulder. they were so close. breathing one another's air, enough that you could feel jack’s breath leave him and robby’s cheek shift against the side of your head when he opened his mouth to kiss the crest of your shoulder.

you tightened your grip in the latter's hair.

"wanna see you kisssss—"

jack let out a breathless little laugh, robby chuckling into your shoulder.

"baby, we talked about this—" jack said, his voice hardly more than breath, his chest heaving under yours.

"—but it would be so hottttt," you whined.

robby ignored you. "how's she feel, brother?"

jack's head tipped back into the pillow beneath him, and you watched the rough scruff of his unshaved neck shift as his adam's apple glided up and down, swallowing around the broken gasp he pulled in.

"so god damn good—go a little harder, she squeezes me so fucking tight when you really give it to her, mike."

you barely had time to register the gleam in robby's eyes before he was swinging his hips back again, this time thrusting hard against you, his skin slapping hard, balls clapping right above where jack's cock was buried deep inside.

you squealed and jack groaned loudly. your hand hung on tighter to robby's hair, your other hand digging into jack's shoulder beside your head.

"ohhhh fuck—" you mewled. "so—so deep, robby, oh god—"

"she sounds so pretty when she makes those little noises," jack strained to say, turning to kiss you on the nose. "huh, honey? robby's dick feel good like that? yeah? gimme a kiss."

you tilted your chin, pushing into his lips lazily, your tongue reaching out to lick at his, wet muscles sliding together. when you began to drool out the side of your lips, you brought robby's head down closer, resting your cheek back to jack's chest.

"your turn—" you murmured sleepily, your brain fucked out of any logic.

nothing passed through you but the ecstasy of having these two men and being sandwiched between them and their weight pressing in around you. jack began jerking his hips up into you, making you hiccup and whine, his thrusts getting erratic, his breath heavier.

robby's cock pushed deeper into you too, the pressure of both of them at the same time making you feel so content, so full, so cock drunk.

"please, please," you chanted. "wanna see you kiss so badly—"

"she really does beg so cute, doesn't she?" robby murmured, kissing your shoulder.

"yeah—" the other breathed, a light groan strangling the word as both of them slid in and out of you in tandem—full of jack's cock, then robby's, empty. then again, both of them filing you at the same time. the rhythm made your jaw go slack, your thoughts thinning. it felt so right, with jack below you, robby behind you, both of them too big, too hot, too much. still, you wanted more. wanted this so badly the need burned behind your eyes.

"like this—" you said, ignoring their cooing, and you craned your neck, pressing a chaste kiss to robby's lips.

it was hardly a second, your brain too foggy to make it anything more.

"that's it, huh? that's what you want, honey?" robby murmured, voice even hoarser with mirth as he smiled at you.

"yesss!" you whined, kicking your feet into the bed beneath.

"not good enough to have both of us, huh?" he teased. "such a needy little girl."

"be nice, mike—" jack moaned. "she's a good girl."

his praise always effected you—making you flutter around him, and you knew he could feel it, even with the increased fulless from robby deep inside you with him. he cracked a little knowing smile between moans.

"oh, i know she's a good girl, brother," robby said, and his mouth dragged over the back of your shoulder. "no doubt about it. but we've spoiled her. she thinks she can have whatever she wants."

you pouted, the prick of tears in your eyes not from him denying you, but from the utter fullness of their cocks punching in and out of you. from the easy back and forth of them—robby pretending there wasn’t a soft spot in him you could reach with the simplest look. and jack caught it every time and teased him for it.

"enough talking—" jack cursed. "fuck, fuck, she's tightening up on me— think she's gonna come, mike, oh god—"

"please—" you moaned louder, thrashing a little bit out of frustration.

"fuck it—" robby growled.

he leaned down and placed a kiss on the corner of jack's mouth.

they didn't stop entirely when robby pulled his lips away from jack's. their thrusts only softened into shallow rocks, jack's hands tightening on your skin, both his and robby's throbbing lengths still pressed deep enough inside you that every quiet breath made you feel the stretch of both of them. you held yours without meaning to—waiting, feeling both of them still around you.

robby's chest pressed heavier against your back as he breathed through his nose. you felt jack's beneath you, his ribs expanding, pressing against your breasts.

"yes," you whispered, though not wanting to rush them. your mouth brushed jack's skin when you said it, soft against the damp hollow below his collarbone. "more."

"you're right—" jack huffed a little laugh that shook his chest on the way out. "she really is needy."

robby smiled, as if grateful for the lightness, "told y—"

but he couldn't say anything else, because jack's lips were suddenly on his.

a deep, harmonized groan passed between the two of them, and it did something terrible to you. your stomach dropped, your hips jerked. even a little lick of jealousy flamed in you, warming your skin, but they looked good together. so good. exactly as you pictured it. it made you moan and writhe to see their mouths slot against one another, lips parting, tongues sliding, jack's stubbled jaw working under the rough scrape of robby's beard.

"oh my god," you whispered.

when they paused their kissing, a string of spit connected them, shiny and wet.

"d'you feel that?" robby whispered.

"yeah," jack answered, his one hand squeezing your hip while the other came up to robby's hair along with yours. "her pussy is gripping me like a vice—"

"yeah, she really tightened up—fuck, c'mere."

robby's hand went up to jack's hair too, fisting in the messy graying curls. jack's mouth fell open in a guttural groan, and robby's other hand came to the nape of your neck in answer. he pulled you into himself harshly, his tongue sliding against yours as your mouths met.

it was slick and wet and lewd, and just when you began to moan in earnest, their thrusts picked up again. harder now, less patient. jack fucking up into you from beneath, robby driving into you from behind, the bed frame knocking against the wall harshly again and again.

then you felt a second tongue at the corner of your mouth.

you pulled back only enough to welcome it—jack's tongue sliding against yours, robby's flicking against the two of you together.

the room filled with louder moans and the thick slap of skin, the wet drag of mouths, jack's rough little curses disappearing against your lips. robby's hand stayed tight at the back of your neck, holding you there for it, making you take the kiss you had begged for. you gushed around them, pussy fluttering and convulsing in pleasure.

"come for us, baby," robby whispered between kisses. "come for jackie. he wants you to come all over his big cock."

jack groaned under you, his hips jerking up harder, his member punching even deeper.

"I wanna feel it too," robby said. "c'mon now, gave you what you wanted. now I get to feel this perfect little ass take my come."

"just wanted your boyfriends to kiss, huh, baby?" jack cooed, his hand moving up to grip your face, forefinger and thumb squeezing your cheeks. his thumb hooked into the tender hinge of your lips, sliding along your molars to pry your mouth open wider for the two of them.

you cried out around his salty skin, and he pouted in mock pity as he looked at you.

"come on my cock, baby," jack moaned, leaning in to keep licking and nipping at your lips. "know you wanna, come on my cock now—gonna fill you up so good, mmmm—"

"i'm—i'm—i'm coming—oh, god, oh god—"

"yeah, that's it, that's it—oh fuckkk—" robby groaned, his thrusts slamming harder, turning erratic before he froze up, jaw unhinging, breathing hotly against wanton mouth.

jack's opened too, in shock, in awe, and when you looked at him you saw his eyes go wide before they rolled back behind his eyelids.

your orgasm ripped through you, a heady pressure down your spine and tightening your hips, making your legs lock up before it crested you like an ocean wave swelling and crashing. your hand clenched in robby's hair as your mouth fell open around jack's thumb. both of them groaned in tandem, trapping you between them, both buried deep while your body squeezed down, making jack curse and robby bare his teeth.

as the euphoria eased and your body went loose with the oxytocin flooding your blood, the three of you kept kissing—gentle little nips, soft flicks of tongue, spit sliding and glistening at the corners of your mouths, collecting where lips met and parted. jack retreated his thumb from your mouth to gently pet at your cheek, and they let you have as much as you wanted, just like always. spoiled thing, they'd tell you again afterwards, while they washed your hair in the bath and cleaned you up.

but for now, you kissed them as your eyes grew heavier and heavier, your breathing deepening against jack's chest. robby's weight behind you felt heavy and comforting, tucked between two men, utterly spent and completely content.

You laughed softly. 

“You invited me over.”

“I did.” 

“And now you’re complaining.”

“I’m just making an observation.” He grinned, pulling your hair to expose the skin on your neck peppering kisses until he reached your jaw. His hands found your waist, steading you as you shifted closer. His lips found yours again. You both smiled into it every now and then when your noses bumped. It was comfortable. His fingers brushed absentminded circles against your side, and you could feel the moment change. Not because either of you suddenly rushed forward, but because neither of you pulled away. The room grew quieter around you, and you rested your forehead against his for a moment to catch your breath. 

“You ok?” you whispered, fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck. He nodded once. 

“Yeah.” 

He didn’t sound convinced. You leaned back just enough to look at him. 

“What’s wrong?”

For a long moment, he said nothing. His eyes drifted from yours, his smile fading into something uncertain. You gripped his hand in your, sitting them in between you both.

“I haven’t,” he rubbed the back of his neck with an embarrassed little laugh. “It’s been a while.”

You waited. 

“Ok.” You assured him, your thumb rubbing his knuckles in a steady motion. He looked at you now, searching for any sign of discomfort or unease. He found none. 

“And,” another quiet laugh, more self conscious this time. “I’m not twenty five anymore.”

You frowned 

“Robby,”

He looked almost annoyed at himself for saying it out loud. 

“I know it sounds ridiculous.” 

“It doesn’t.” You told him. 

He sighed and looked away again. 

“I’ve changed.” 

Your brow furrowed. 

“We all do.” 

“You know what I mean.” 

His hand drifted unconsciously to his stomach before he caught himself, his fingers curling awkwardly against the hem of his t-shirt. 

“I used to,” he gave a quiet self deprecating laugh. “I don’t know. Be in better shape.”

You glanced down, noticing the gesture more than the words. Without thinking, you reached for his hand. Instead of pulling it away, you guided it gently aside. Then, you rested your own palm where his had been. His breath caught in his chest. 

“Robby.”

“I know it’s stupid.”

“It’s not, not at all.” 

He looked at you uncertainly, still unsure. 

“I have spent enough time in hospital mirrors to know I’m not exactly,” he searched for the right word before giving up another embarrassed smile. 

“I’m not as young as I used to be. I've let myself go a little. Time’s got away from me.”

You kept your hand where it was, your thumb brushing lightly against the fabric of his shirt. 

“I like this.” 

His eyebrows drew together, looking down at his stomach and then back up at you.

“This?” 

You nodded, smiling.

“I don’t think anyone has ever said that before.” 

“Well I am saying it, and I mean it.” You searched his eyes, hoping that he would believe you. He opened his mouth to speak, you feared he would try to argue. You interrupted him before he could. 

“I like that you’re real.” Your hand gave him a gentle squeeze. “I like every part of you.” 

His eyes stayed fixed on yours, as if trying to decide whether to believe you or not. You shifted closer, smiling. 

“And for the record, I’ve only ever known you like this.” 

He blinked. 

“I didn’t know the younger version of you,” you offered a tiny shrug, “I don’t miss him.” 

That earned the smallest, surprised laugh. 

“I never met him.” 

You reached up, brushing your fingers through the hair at his temple. 

“But, the man I know is kind.” 

You kissed his cheek. 

“He laughs with his whole face.” 

Another kiss. 

“He never walks past someone who needs help.

His smile widened as you cupped his face gently.

“He makes me feel safe. And every single one of those things belongs to this Robby.” 

You looked at him for a long moment. 

“So why would I wish for someone else?”

His eyes glistened, just slightly. He laughed softly, the sound almost disbelieving and shook his head. 

“You make it sound so simple.” 

“It is, to me.” 

You reached up, smoothing your thumb over the little line between his eyebrows. 

“You don’t have to earn love, Robby.”

He closed his eyes for a second beneath your touch. He gripped your thighs, squeezing as if to ground himself. When he opened his eyes, he looked at you as though he was seeing you for the first time all over again. A smile tugged at his mouth. His hand lifted to your face, cradling your jaw with such care you felt your heart ache. His thumb swept across your cheekbone before he kissed you. Impossibly slow until the kiss deepened as though neither of you could bring yourselves to pull away. Every time one of you moved back for a breath, the other closed the distance again without thinking. Your fingers drifted into his hair, combing slowly through the soft strands at the back of his head. He exhaled quietly against your lips, one hand sliding a little higher along your back.

“It’s hard to concentrate when you kiss me like that.” You told him, he leaned in brushing one feather light kiss against your neck.

“Yeah?”

All you could do was hum in acknowledgement. 

“Come here.” 

You laughed. 

“I literally couldn’t be any closer.”

“I disagree.” 

Before you could speak, one arm slipped behind your back while the other hooked beneath your knees. 

“Robby!” 

The surprised squeal that escaped you dissolved into laughter as he stood. 

“You know,” you teased, looping your arm around his neck, “for someone who spent the last ten minutes telling me he is getting old…”

“I never said I couldn’t still show off.” 

“Oh, so this is you showing off?” 

“A little.”

You grinned 

“I like this Robby.”

“The one who carries you to bed?”

“Mhm.”

The bedroom was dim, lit only by the amber glow spilling in from the hallway. He lowered you onto the mattress with the same care he’d use if carrying something precious. His hand found yours on the duvet, lacing your fingers together. 

“I’ve wanted to do that all evening.”

“Hold my hand?” You asked with a laugh. He nodded with a smile. 

“You’ve held my hand before.”

“I know,’ he looked down at your intertwined fingers. “It feels different now.” Your chest tightened. 

“So does everything.” 

He nodded, leaning down to kiss you again, slowly. Each kiss seemed to ask permission for the next. His hand never left yours. When he finally drew back, his forehead rested against yours. 

“I need to ask you something.” 

You nodded, “Ok.”

His eyes stayed on yours. 

“Are you sure about this?”

There was no pressure in the question, only care. Only the quiet acknowledgement that if there was even the slightest hesitation, he would stop. You lifted your free hand, letting your fingers settle against the stubble on his jaw.

“I’m sure.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning into your palm. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this sure.”

His eyes opened. 

“You don’t have to say that because,” 

“I know.”

You smiled softly. 

“I am saying it because it's true. I am sure.”

“Yeah?” He asked, his nose gently brushing yours. You nodded, unashamed of how eager you may have seemed. He smiled down at you as you dragged him in for another kiss, the room and everything beyond it disappearing around you. 

“Hi.” 

You blinked. Robby. Again. Just your luck. 

“Hi.”

Things were no longer awkward at work, at least by his standards, you were sure. But you were still trying your best to avoid him, although you’d deny it if asked. You were waiting for the awkwardness to disappear, hoping it would if you just ignored it for long enough. But now, you had no choice other than to face it head on. 

For one awful second your eyes drifted behind him. But he was alone. For now. Relief settled in your chest before you had the chance to stop it. You hated yourself for it. He was allowed to go on dates. You'd spent the last few days reminding yourself of that. So why did finding him alone feel like winning something you hadn't even realised you were competing for? You wondered if perhaps the wrong order and cold coffee would be enough to put him off coming back, a third time. It was low, but you were more than willing if it meant not having to endure this all over again. But for the time being, you bit the inside of your cheek, hard enough to draw blood, and smiled pleasantly. Robby strode over to you, pointing down to the stool at the counter.

“Is this ok?” He asked, already taking a seat. 

“Yeah, of course.”

You poured him a cup of coffee before he even asked, and you both spoke easily, as you always had done. And for little moments in between you would forget why he was really here. You spoke about a patient you’d both seen that morning. You told him how you’d slipped on a stray glove while leaving the trauma room and he laughed harder than the story deserved. For a few moments, it almost felt normal. Then the bell above the door would chime, and your eyes would lift automatically and you’d be brought back down to earth. Every time.

“Are you waiting for someone?”

You looked back at him. 

“I'm keeping an eye out, for you actually.”

His eyebrow lifted curiously. 

“I really hate to say it,” a teasing smile tugged at your mouth, “but I think you might have been stood up.”

He laughed, shaking his head. 

“I’m not here on a date.” You looked at him now, closer than before. He wasn't wearing scrubs anymore. Instead, he'd changed into dark jeans and a navy jumper, the sleeves pushed casually to his forearms. Robby never changed at work. He threw on a coat and went home. That’s exactly what he did today when you watched him leave. Except, after getting home he didn’t shower and go to bed. He showered, got ready and came here. Not for a date. Just to sit at the counter and drink mediocre coffee. Voluntarily.

“You know,” you said thoughtfully, “the food really isn’t that good for you to come here willingly a second time.”

His smile grew. 

"I know.” He sipped his coffee before continuing. 

“But I know the waitress.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. 

“Oh, do you?”

“I do.”

You rolled your eyes, topping up his coffee before pulling your order pad from your apron pocket. 

“So, are you actually going to order something or are you just here for the coffee?” 

Robby turned the menu over as though the answer might be printed on the back. He pulled his glasses from his pocket and began browsing.

"Hmm." 

You folded your arms and leaned across the counter.

"You're actually reading it?"

"I like to make an informed decision."

"You've been here before."

"I know."

"And the menu hasn't changed."

"Hasn't it?"

"No."

He nodded, making no attempt to hide his grin. 

"Interesting."

You couldn't help smiling.

He tapped a finger against the menu.

"Question."

"Go on."

"The grilled cheese?"

You stared at him. He stared back with a perfectly straight face.

"Robby."

"What?"

"It's grilled."

"Right."

Another pause.

"And the pie?"

You narrowed your eyes.

"What about it?"

"Any good?"

You snorted.

"Yes Robby, it’s great. So a grilled cheese and a slice of pie?" You scribbled his order down.

“Oh, not so fast.”

You looked up, his menu closed and arms folded on the counter. 

“What?”

"I seem to remember someone bringing homemade cookies into work for the charity bake sale. And they were," he pretended to search for the right word.

"Memorable."

"They were fine." You defended, knowing it was a lie. He rubbed his jaw theatrically.

"I'm fairly certain I chipped a molar."

You pointed your pen at him. 

“I’ll remind you that I sold every last one of those cookies.”

Robby laughed, dipping his head. 

“Yeah, because I felt so bad for you that I bought them all.” 

“A sale is a sale.” He laughed properly then, the sound warm enough to make a couple of nearby customers glance over.

"Yeah," he admitted. "A sale is a sale."

“Anyway, I’m the waitress here, not the chef.”

“True, but it’s not worth the risk.”

You laughed, shaking your head and crossing out half his order. 

"So that's a no to the pie?"

"Definitely a no to the pie."

You turned towards the kitchen, still smiling and once you reached the pass you realised that for the last ten minutes, you hadn’t looked at the door once.

The diner had begun to fill by the time you set Robby’s order down in front of him.

"I'll leave you to it." 

"You mean you're abandoning me?"

"You'll survive."

You smiled to yourself as you disappeared to another table. The evening settled into its usual rhythm after that. Orders came in, coffee pots emptied almost as quickly as you refilled them, and every now and then you'd glance towards the counter to find Robby quietly reading something on his phone between bites of food. It was nice. Comfortable, just knowing he was there. When you finally made your way back over, his plate was empty, the coffee mug drained for what had to be the third time.

"Anything else?"

He looked up, rubbing absentmindedly at one eye before a yawn escaped him. Not one of those polite little yawns people tried to hide. A proper one.

"Tired?"

He waved you off, which along with the bags under his eyes was an obvious tell that he had passed the point of being tired. He was exhausted. You knew the feeling. You reached for the bill tucked beneath your apron.

"I think that's your cue."

"My cue?"

"To go home."

He looked at you innocently.

"Are you kicking me out?"

"I'm encouraging you to get some sleep."

"I wasn't aware the diner had a bedtime."

"It does now."

He laughed quietly.

"You've been yawning for the last five minutes."

"I yawned once."

"Twice."

He considered arguing. Then thought better of it.

"Fine."

You placed the bill on the counter.

"Go home, Robby."

"And who's going to tell you to go home?"

A smile tugged at your lips.

"I've only got a few hours left."

His expression softened for just a moment.

"Don't work too hard."

"I'll try."

He stood, pulling on his jacket before reaching for his wallet.

"I'll see you tomorrow."

"You will."

He smiled, that same easy, familiar smile that somehow made the fluorescent lights seem a little less harsh.

"Night."

"Night, Robby."

You collected the bill a few minutes later, already reaching to separate the receipt from the cash. Then you stopped. Your brow furrowed. The tip was almost the price of the meal. Your stomach sank. You looked through the window just in time to see him climbing into his truck. Without thinking, you grabbed the receipt and hurried after him.

"Robby!"

Your voice carried across the nearly empty parking lot. His truck had just begun to roll backwards before the brake lights flared red. A second later, the driver's window hummed quietly as it slid down. He leaned an arm against the window frame, looking at you with mild curiosity.

"Everything alright?"

You reached the truck slightly out of breath, one hand resting against the edge of the open window as you held the receipt out with the other.

"You've made a mistake."

He glanced at the receipt, then back at you.

"I don't think I have."

"Robby," you sighed, trying not to smile. "The tip."

"What about it?"

"It's huge. You can't leave that much."

He shrugged easily, like it was simple. You let out an exasperated laugh.

"I can't take this."

"Why not? You were an excellent waitress."

"I poured you coffee three times."

“And you didn’t spill a drop” He teased, but his voice was quieter, gentle. For a moment neither of you spoke. The evening air had turned cool, carrying the faint hum of traffic from somewhere beyond the parking lot. Your hands rested against the open window as you looked at him, still holding the receipt between your fingers. Slowly, almost absent-mindedly, he reached out. His hand settled lightly over yours where it rested on the door. It wasn't enough to stop you pulling away if you wanted to. His thumb brushed once across the back of your hand.

"Take it," he said softly.

You looked down at where your hands met before lifting your eyes back to his. Another small smile.

"Humour me."

You let out a quiet sigh, already knowing you weren't going to win.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

He gave your hand the gentlest squeeze before letting it go.

"Now," he said, settling back into his seat, "go back inside."

You raised an eyebrow.

“You’re not my boss here Robinavitch,” you said backing up, making your way back inside. 

He smiled, beeping his horn twice as his truck left the lot.

The next morning at work, things felt normal again. At least, that's what the two of you pretended. You settled back into the familiar rhythm you'd spent the last year building. Long shifts blurred together beneath fluorescent lights and the constant chorus of monitors. Somewhere between trauma calls, coffee runs and stolen conversations at the nurses' station, the awkwardness quietly dissolved. You still caught him looking at you sometimes. You were fairly certain he caught you too. 

You’d leave work, saying your goodbyes like you both were pretending you weren’t going to see eachother at the diner in an hour or so. He came every night that week, and by the seventh evening, seeing him sitting at the counter with a mug of coffee waiting for his food had begun to feel strangely normal. He never stayed long, just long enough for a burger, a coffee and whatever conversation the two of you could steal between customers. He claimed cooking for himself after work was too much effort, and insisted that the diner had the best food in town. You knew he was lying. 

On the eighth night, you hadn’t seen Robby sitting at the counter, and even worse, you hadn’t seen him at the hospital. He had a very rare day off and you tried to ignore how much you had missed him. By the time you untied your apron, your body felt as though it had been stitched together with fraying thread. The diner had been relentless. A football match had finished nearby, flooding the restaurant with hungry customers who somehow all wanted extra ketchup, fresh coffee and separate bills. Your feet had stopped hurting hours ago. Now they were simply numb. You rubbed your eyes as you pushed through the staff entrance, the cool night air brushing against your flushed skin. Midnight. The streets were quieter now, illuminated by rows of amber streetlights stretching into the distance.

You adjusted your bag higher onto your shoulder and started towards the bus stop.

“You done?”

You froze. Turning slowly, you found Robby leaning against the bonnet of his truck parked beneath one of the streetlights, hands tucked into the pockets of a grey hoodie. Hair messier than usual. A takeaway coffee balanced on the roof beside him. You blinked.

“What?”

He pushed himself upright.

“Hey.”

“What are you doing here?”

He looked almost confused by the question.

“Picking you up.”

Your brain stalled. You stared at him.

“It’s your day off and you’ve spent it sitting in a parking lot”

He smiled with a shrug.

“I only got here about twenty minutes ago.”

“Twenty?” Your eyes widened, “You’ve been waiting?”

“I didn’t know exactly when you’d finish.”

“You could’ve texted.”

“If I had texted you to ask, you would have told me not to come. And that wasn’t happening. I wanted to make sure you got home ok.”

The sincerity in his voice knocked the breath from your lungs. 

“You’ve got enough on your plate without worrying about me.”

“I’m worrying anyway.” He seemed almost surprised he’d said it out loud.

“Robby.” You laughed in disbelief.

“Come on.” He jingled his car keys, and picked up the coffee from the roof of his car and held it out.

“I figured you’d want this.” He handed you the cup and guided you towards the passenger side doors, opening it up for you to sit inside. 

“You make it very difficult to say no.”

A tiny laugh escaped him as he closed the door with a quiet smile before walking around to the driver’s side. 

It started slowly, just like that. Him picking you up after your shift, or dropping you off every now and then, but slowly it felt more like routine. It became a regular thing. Every morning, before your shift at the hospital, his truck would pull up outside your apartment. You’d climb in and you’d spend the drive talking about anything except work.

Then, after twelve exhausting hours in the emergency department, he’d drive you to the diner.

“You don’t have to.” You told him for the first few days, to which he replied each time with a shrug of the shoulders and an easy, “I know.”

Sometimes he’d come in, order something and disappear for a few hours, then come back to pick you up close to midnight. Sometimes you’d catch him reading in the truck. Sometimes sleeping. Once he’d admitted he’d finished half the paperwork he’d been putting off. You didn’t understand it. No one had ever done things just, because. People always wanted something. Your parents had taught you that. Every relationship you’d ever had had taught you that. Kindness always came with strings, so you just kept waiting to find them. But with Robby, they never came. He never acted like you owed him anything. He never made a comment about gas money. He would never complain when you fell asleep in the passenger seat. He did it because he wanted to, because he cared. And that made your chest ache in a way you weren’t sure how to deal with. 

Robby never asked for anything in return. Never. And as much as he insisted that you helping him pick out paint colours for his office at home on your day off was an equal trade off, you knew it wasn’t. You’d gone with him on your break to buy a new pair of glasses, because he said he trusted your opinion better than the person working on commission. You’d walk around the park with him before work, letting him rant about the stress of work and life. But it didn’t feel like enough. Because it wasn’t, in your eyes. 

He'd bring you lunch because you'd forgotten to eat. He left groceries outside your apartment one weekend after you'd joked about living off cereal. He'd arrive each morning to take you to work with him, with a coffee already waiting in the cupholder, handing it over like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. For him, it seemed effortless. For you, it was impossible to ignore. At first, you'd thanked him every single time. Then, slowly, the words began to lose their meaning. Thank you didn't feel nearly enough for someone who was quietly making your life easier in a hundred different ways. The guilt settled heavily in your chest. Not because you didn't appreciate everything he was doing. You did. More than he could possibly know. That was exactly the problem. Every coffee, every lift home, every sandwich he quietly placed beside you between patients felt like another debt added to a list you knew you'd never be able to repay.

You found yourself dreading the warmth of his smile some mornings because you already knew there'd be another thoughtful gesture waiting for you. You'd smile, thank him, and accept it anyway, all while something uncomfortable twisted in your chest. It wasn't Robby. It never had been. It was the quiet voice you'd carried with you for years, whispering the same question every time someone showed you kindness. What are they going to want in return?

You tried not to let it get to you, but pushing it down and ignoring it only worked for so long.

“You’re exhausted Robby.” You told him, as you collected your things from your locker. 

“I’m fine.” He lied, as he leaned against the wall. You could see it in his eyes. The shift had been a rough one, and he had taken the brunt of it. 

“I’m getting the bus to work. Go home. Get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow?” You had already begun to walk away, and he rushed to catch up with you. 

“It’s a short drive, it won’t take me long.”

You stopped dead in your tracks and spun around to face him. 

“No Robby, because you’ll fall asleep in your car and wait for me for hours and you need to go home and get a proper night's sleep.” You knew the shift had been hard on him, but it had been hard on you too, and you were dreading the night ahead. You were losing your patience, even if you knew it was misdirected. 

“I told you I am fine.” He defended, and it was your last straw. 

“I can get myself to work, I’m a big girl.”

“I know you can, but I want to drive you.”

“Jesus Robby, I managed just fine before. Just go home!” You said in a tone just slightly too loud. His brow lifted slightly, his mouth opened just a fraction. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” You said in a huff, and hurried out of the hospital. 

It only built over the next few weeks.

The breaking point came on a rainy Thursday. You had walked outside after a particularly difficult shift to find Robby leaning against his truck with an umbrella waiting for you. 

“You ready?” He called above the drum of the rain around you. 

Something in you finally snapped, seeing him there in the cold, waiting for you when he should have been at home.

“No.”

He frowned.

“Did you forget something?”

“I don’t need you waiting around for me like this all the time!”

“I don’t mind.”

“Well, I do.”

His eyebrows pulled together. You could hear yourself getting louder but couldn’t stop.

“I don’t need someone checking if I’ve eaten. I don’t need someone buying me groceries and coffee and I don’t need someone taking care of me!”

“I just wanted to help.” 

“I didn’t ask you to.”

The only sound around you was the rain hitting the pavement. His face changed. Not angry, just hurt. A quiet kind of hurt.

“I didn’t realize it was bothering you.”

You instantly wanted to take it back.

But pride was a terrible thing.

“Well it is.”

He looked at the ground for a moment before nodding once.

“I’m sorry.”

You felt awful, you knew he was helping. He was being kind, because that’s who he is. He can’t see someone struggling and just stand by and watch. But that’s the whole point. He was seeing you struggle and you hated it. 

“I don’t want you to be sorry.” You meant it, this wasn’t his fault, it wasn’t his issue. It was yours. 

“I know.”

Again you let your anger boil, because maybe he wanted to understand. You believed that he truly did. But he didn’t get it, because you’d never explained it to him. And as good as Robby was, he wasn’t a mind reader.

“No, Robby you don’t. You don’t know you don’t understand any of this!” The words looked like they had hit Robby, hard. You hated that. You hated yourself even more. 

He stepped closer to you now, trying to shield you with the umbrella but you were already soaked through.

“Then help me understand.”

You let out a breath that shook.

“I work two jobs. Not because it’s fun but because I don’t have a choice. And every time you do something for me, like waiting out here for me,” you looked away.

“You make me feel like I’m failing.”

His face fell. 

“What?”

“I barely sleep, I have no time to eat, I can’t afford a car so I’m stuck taking the bus. And every time you quietly fix one of those things,” your voice cracked, “it feels like I'm failing and you’re noticing.”

His mouth opened, but you shook her head. He spoke anyway.

“I don’t think that.”

“But I do.”

You wrapped your arms tightly around yourself.

“And I hate it.”

“I thought I was making things easier.”

“You were,” You laughed bitterly, “which makes it worse.”

For a long moment he simply looked at you. Then finally, he spoke.

“I’m sorry.” 

“Please stop being sorry.” You were crying, the humiliation of the situation catching up to you. And what was worse, is that you knew Robby didn’t judge you. Not one bit, it was you judging yourself. He turned towards the truck, and you watched him go. Good. That’s exactly what you wanted, so why did it feel like someone had punched a hole straight through your chest? Without looking back, he said quietly,

“Get in.”

You frowned.

“No.”

“You can be angry with me,” he turned to face you, “you can yell at me the whole drive. But it’s midnight, it’s pouring down. And I am not leaving you standing here in the dark just because you’re mad at me. So get in.” His jaw tightened just enough for you to notice. You stared at him, frozen with indecision.

“You can hate me for it tomorrow.”

A tiny pause.

“But tonight, you’re getting in the truck.”

You wanted to argue. You wanted to prove you could do it all yourself. But more than any of that, you want to get into Robby’s truck and take back everything you had said. Exhausted in every way, you climbed into the passenger seat. He closed your door, walked around to his side, and started the engine. The windshield wipers swept back and forth, filling the silence. The drive was painfully quiet. No teasing. No stories from the department. Just rain against the windshield. Twice you caught him glancing over, as if checking you were alright. Twice he looked away before you could say anything.

When you reached your apartment building, he shifted into park but didn’t reach for the door locks. Like he was just taking one final moment of being with you. Finally after a long silence, he unlocked the doors. You hurried out with a quick thank you. By the time you reached your apartment, you looked back through the window and his truck was still there.

The next day felt wrong. No coffee. No teasing. No ride. At work Robby was perfectly professional. Too professional. He spoke to everyone. Asked you only what was medically necessary. He didn’t linger. Didn’t smile. Didn’t walk with you after shift. You had gotten exactly what you’d asked for, and you hated every minute of it. You were in an awful mood all day, and it stayed that way until you got home. You were on the sofa, too tired to move when you heard the knock at your door. This late at night, it was never a good sign. You checked through your peep hole to see a tired and sad Robby waiting outside. You opened the door slowly, almost like you weren’t sure he was really there. It was conceivable with how tired you were that you were imagining things. His face softened when he looked at you, and you wondered if he had missed you today the way you missed him. You stepped aside to let him in. 

“I know what you told me.” He said after you had closed the door and turned around. His voice was calm.

“But hear me out.

You stayed quiet and he took a breath. 

“I spent all day wondering if I’d crossed a line. And maybe I did, maybe I should have asked instead of assuming. So I am sorry for that.” 

Another pause. 

“But,” 

There it was. 

“But?”

He stepped closer.

“But I care about you, and I’m not going to stop. You don’t get to decide that for me.”

Your heart skipped. You opened your mouth, and nothing came out.

“I’ll back off if you tell me you genuinely don’t want me in your life. But if the only reason you’re pushing me away is because you’re scared to let someone care about you,” his voice softened, “then no.”

You stared at him, a smile tugging at your mouth.

“No?”

“No.”

He came even closer now.

“I like you.”

Simple and honest. No games.

“I like picking you up. I like knowing you got home safe. I like bringing you coffee because it makes you smile before you remember you’re trying not to. I like driving you to that diner because after twelve hours spent saving lives in the ED, the last thing you should be worrying about is another commute.”

Your eyes burned.

“And I like taking care of you.”

His voice was impossibly gentle.

“I know you’re waiting for a catch, but there isn’t one. 

He reached out slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. When you didn’t, he grabbed your wrist lightly and pulled you in closer. His thumb rubbed against your wrist and you hoped that he couldn’t feel your racing pulse, but you know from the smile on his face that he could. 

“Do you remember that night I came into the diner?” He asked you. 

“You were on a date.” You told him as if you didn’t remember it far more clearly than you’d ever admit. He laughed softly rubbing at the back of his neck suddenly looking nervous. 

“She was nice, she was smart and easy to talk to. And on paper, it should have been a good date.”

“But?”

“But every time you walked past with a pot of coffee, I’d catch myself staring at you. I’d be halfway through a conversation and you’d call an order to the kitchen, or laugh at something a customer had said.” He smiled thinking of the memory. 

“And I would completely lose my train of thought.” His smile almost looked embarrassed. But yours was anything but. 

“I realised that night that I didn’t want to have dinner with anyone who wasn’t you.”

His hand reached for your cheek, tipping your head and looking into your eyes deeply. 

“I want to pick you up from work, I want to drive you home. I want to bring you lunch. I don’t think you’re failing. And I know, this is complicated for you. But it isn’t for me. I want to be the person who takes care of you.”

You wanted to say something, anything, but the words were lost in your throat. All you could do was grab his neck, pulling him down to you. You kissed him taking you both by surprise. It was soft, and hesitant and for a second he completely froze. Like he was still trying to catch up with what was happening. Then his hand found your waist, pulling you closer. 

When you both pulled away, a smile of disbelief spread across his face. 

“I didn’t expect that.” He laughed and you smiled. You looked down at your hands that had found each others. 

“Today, I got myself to work, and I was on time. I ate lunch, and I even took my break. I went to the diner, and made it through two shifts. And I kept waiting to feel relieved, but I wasn’t.” 

A tear slid down your cheek, and Robby swiped it away with his thumb, keeping his hand lingering on your cheek. 

“I missed you,” you let out a watery laugh. 

“And it wasn’t because I needed you for all those things, because I can do it all by myself, but I don’t want to.” His entire face softened.

“I want you to pick me up sometimes, and bring me lunch.”

Robby just looked at you for a minute, taking you all in. 

“I can do that.” He said leaning down, planting a kiss on your forehead. 

It's been a long time since anyone's called him anything but Six, and a small part of him wishes that you could. But his birth name, or even the shorter version of it that he used to prefer, is too unusual. 

And as much as you say you won't tell a soul - and as much as he believes you - it would be too easy for someone to make you talk. All it takes is a singular slip of the tongue, and then you'd be at risk of torture, capture, being held hostage to lure him out. 

And as much as he thinks he doesn't care enough for that to work, he knows different. 

Because he doesn't get nearly anything remotely resembling peace in his life, but the closest to it is the few hours he spends with you. 

There's no pattern to when he might show up. No forewarning. He does that on purpose. Watches your place to make sure it's safe, for both of you. 

You open your door to see him standing there, dressed in an unassuming pair of black jeans, an acid washed grey tee, sleeves long enough to hide the scarring that trails along his left shoulder, down his bicep. 

There's a healing bruise on his cheek, fresh scars on his knuckles, but he seems relatively unhurt. You've seen him in worse states, far worse. Had nights where you think maybe he's come to you because he doesn't think he'll ever see you again. 

His dirty blond hair is disheveled, as usual, but he looks... Okay. Tired, but no visible injuries. 

You may not know much about him - anything, really, beyond a rough estimate on his age - but you're not an idiot. Whatever he's into, you know that it's something dangerous. 

Black Ops. Paramilitary, maybe. Something that's not on the record, and would make him a lot of enemies. 

He steps inside, closes the door and triple checks the locks behind him before he's turning to you, barely gets a chance to look you up and down once before you're reaching for him. 

"Are you hurt?" You ask, fully prepared for him to make some stupid joke about his ego, like he had that one time he'd shown up with a dislocated shoulder. 

You keep a first aid kit that wouldn't be out of place in a small medical clinic under your bed for a reason now. A six feet tall, broad wall of muscle reason. 

"Not this time." His voice is a little hoarse, like he hasn't spoken for a while, but aside from that, you take him at his word. It's not unusual for him not to speak much; he told you once that he sometimes goes days without needing to speak to anyone else. 

"Okay. Okay, good," you say, trying to sound casual and failing. You've not quite gotten the art of acting as though you don't worry about him perfected. 

Six knows you worry about him; can see it in your expression before you try to mask it. He's trained to read body language far more subtle than yours. 

Hopefully one day, you won't have to worry about him anymore. Maybe if he puts enough bad guys into the ground, they'll let him disappear into civilian life. It's probably wishful thinking, but it's something to hold onto. 

Fortunately, he can think of about a dozen ways to stop either of you from thinking about anything too depressing or upsetting right now. 

Starting with leaning down and stealing a kiss. It's not really stolen if it's willingly given, considering the moment his mouth touches yours, you're leaning up, practically melting into him. 

"I missed you," the words fall from his lips between kisses that become increasingly needy; Six might be tall and broad and dangerous, but he's also exceptionally touch starved. 

Feeling is a liability, and he knows that, but he can't help it. Lifting you effortlessly into his arms, you barely get out an ‘I missed you, too’, before he's kissing you again. 

Your apartment is small, thankfully, so it's not far from the hallway to the bedroom. He carries you the entire way, sets you down and only pulls away from you so he can remove a handgun from somewhere on his person. 

He's careful about it, slides the ammo clip out and sets them down on the nightstand an inch or so apart before you're pulling him in closer, tugging at his shirt. 

His gaze sweeps the room, taking stock of the entry and exit; your window is locked, the new lock he'd put on it for you last time still in place. 

Then you're pulling his shirt up, and he helps you tug it off, toss it aside. It sure doesn't escape his notice, the way you look him up and down, your eyes traveling slowly over the plains of muscle that make up his chest and arms. 

Six still sometimes expects you to flinch away when you see the scars that litter his body, particularly the worst of them across his left shoulder and down his bicep. 

You never have, and you don't start now. Instead, your fingers are careful as you touch him, trace around the old scarring. 

Thankfully, the new additions to his scars and bruises seem relatively minimal this time, not that you're really able to tell. 

"Gonna just keep staring?" He asks, while his big, scarred hands find your waist, gently pull you in closer so he can kiss you again. 

You think he's trying to distract you, trying to ease up some of your concern for him. You don't know half of it. 

Six knows that this line of work will kill him eventually; he's not expecting some cushy retirement. Guys like him don't get that sort of thing. Sooner or later, there'll be a bad guy he can't kill first, and he'll end up in the ground. 

He hadn't intended to keep coming back to you, but your apartment has become an unintended safehouse. One of many, but the only one that's occupied. 

It's unfair to you, and he knows it; one day, he'll die, and you won't even know who to mourn. He knows it would be easier if neither of you got attached, but he's not stupid enough to think that's still an option. 

That doesn't mean he wants to watch you be afraid for him in real time, because seeing that just makes it harder and harder for him to leave you behind. 

Sooner or later, something's going to give, and he isn't sure he can feasibly say he wouldn't choose you if that happened. 

Especially when your soft, warm hands are running all over him, your touch so gentle as he tugs your jeans down, caresses your ass and makes you laugh softly. 

Between greedy kisses that border on desperate, the pair of you get the rest of your respective clothes off. He likes the way you touch the tattoos inked into his skin, the way you look at him like maybe he's worth saving. 

From the way he's built and his general demeanor, it wouldn't be a stretch to assume that Six is strictly dominant. 

The assumption would be only half true; he can be a little dominant, when he wants to be, but barely. He's actually quite gentle with you, particularly when he lifts you up and lays you down in the middle of the bed, hovers over you, caging you in between his arms. 

You slide your hands up his chest again, link them at the nape of his neck as you wrap one leg around his waist, encouraging him closer. 

Six can feel the heat radiating from your core, groans softly when you kiss his neck gently, trail wet, open mouthed kisses along his jawline. 

"I missed you so much..." You breathe as he nuzzles into your neck, inhaling the faint scent of your perfume and soap. 

You know that you say it a lot, probably more often than needed, but you can’t help it. There’s a small part of you that hopes that if you say it often enough, he might realise how much you genuinely care about him. That you might give him a reason to stay.  

He knows that you mean it, too, beyond something purely physical. That you missed him, his presence, his voice. 

That, too, is part of why he keeps coming back. Because he misses those things about you just as much. Misses the warmth of your body against his, the softness in your voice when you whisper his call sign. 

His call sign. 

God, you deserve so much more than just that. 

The thought strikes him mid kiss, makes him freeze for just a fraction of a second before he forces the idea out of his head. Thinking too much about that will only make him sad, which is the last thing he wants right now. 

So, instead, he focuses on your hands, warm and soft as you run them up his biceps, across his shoulders, as if you’re trying to commit the feeling of him to memory. For all he knows, you might be. 

Six doesn’t know how long he has with you this time; he probably needs to leave before the sun rises, you know the drill by now. Sometimes, when he thinks he has longer, he takes his time with you. 

It helps him decompress, in a way, to shut his brain off and focus entirely on you. To kiss you all over until you’re sobbing and begging. If he wasn’t still running on adrenaline, hadn’t been away from you for so long, he might have done the same tonight. 

“Can I make you feel good?” you ask softly, your hand ghosting across his chest, down between you. 

You’ve missed this; missed him, the scent of his cologne, the faint lingering smell of gunpowder and sweat and something that’s entirely him. You can’t place that last one. 

There’s no telling how long it’ll be before you see him again - if you see him again - so you want to make this last. As much as you tell yourself that it means nothing, that he’s just a good lay who uses your place as a safehouse… you can’t lie to yourself.

The truth is, you barely know anything about him, and yet you want to. You want him. Feel things that make no sense to feel for an almost-stranger. 

So, you lose yourself in the fantasy, in the daydream of knowing him better. 

At least when he’s in your bed, you can pretend, just for a little while, that he’s yours. 

So, you run your fingertips along his hipbone, unperturbed by the scars that you can feel beneath your touch. You continue the little touches, further inwards, wrap your warm hand gently around his cock. 

He’s achingly hard, groans softly when you slowly stroke him. It’s not like he’s incapable of getting himself off, and he does, but it’s always so different to when you’re touching him. The feeling of your soft, warm hand wrapped around the thick length of his shaft, your eyes hazy with lust as you look up at him. 

Six isn’t a stranger to people looking at him like that; he knows he’s handsome, knows that he keeps his body in peak physical condition. But there’s a difference between strangers eye fucking him and the way you look at him. 

You kiss his throat, just above his pulse point, where you know he’s sensitive. Sure enough, he makes a little purring noise in response, rolls his hips gently into your hand. There’s a little jolt of satisfaction that runs through you at this, at the feeling of inspiring such a reaction in him. 

So maybe you don’t know exactly what he does, but you know for sure he’s dangerous. Strong. And yet he practically melts into your touch like he’s starved for it. That isn’t exactly far from the truth. 

“You gonna let me suck your cock?” you ask, kiss down his throat, along his collarbone, nip at his skin before working your way back. You want to. Badly. It’s one of your favorite things to do when you’re together, when he lets you. 

But sometimes, like tonight, he doesn’t want to draw it out. Needs to be and feel connected with you in every way possible. So while he would very much like to feel your soft lips wrapped around his cock, look down and see that pretty sight, he’d rather be inside you.

“Not tonight,” he answers, gently removes your hand from his cock, brings it up to rest on his chest again. “Need you.” 

You’re used to short sentences from him, soft words and silence, actions over words, so it doesn’t surprise you this time, either. Thankfully, you’re just as needy, too, have been aching and wet since he caged you in beneath him. 

“Need you, too,” you whisper back, use the hand resting at the nape of his neck to gently tug him down into another kiss. 

This one's deeper, more passionate; you pour all of your inexplicable feelings into it as he adjusts his body between your thighs. 

Keeping himself braced on one hand, he reaches between you, wraps his hand around his cock and strokes it slowly once or twice. 

It doesn't feel as good as when you did it. He drags the thick, velvet-soft tip through your soaked folds, nudges against your clit. You make a little whimpering sound into the kiss when he does, which sends another jolt of need through him, has his cock throbbing in his hand. 

Still, he's so, so careful as he lets his tip catch at your entrance. No matter how pent up he is, how badly you need one another, he never just pushes inside you in one go. 

Slowly, inch by inch, he presses deeper inside, nuzzles into the side of your neck and inhales the scent of your perfume. 

The warm, wet feeling of your cunt around him is addictive, has his head spinning just a little. He's one of the most dangerous men in the world, and yet you make him forget it. Perhaps that's another reason he comes back. 

As if it's not you. You, you, you. Everything about you. Six wants to love you in the daylight, he realises. Be with you. Explore what you could be together, if he wasn't who he is. 

His hips meet yours, the full length of him buried inside you. You slip your hands under his arms, rest them on his back. It feels intimate, like you're holding him, and he loves it, gently rolls his hips and makes you whimper. 

You're so responsive to him; he loves that about you. Loves the way you cling to him as he slowly starts to move. 

The urge to pound you into the bed is there; it's not like he hasn't before, after all. But the desire to take his time wins out, so instead he gives you slow, deep thrusts that have your nails digging little crescent shapes into his back. 

“Yeah? That feel good?” 

In spite of himself, Six has to ask. Half because he wants to hear you say it, half because he knows that you love when he talks you through it. 

You adjust your legs around his waist, cling to him with your soft hands as he builds up a steady pace, spurred on by the pretty sounds you make for him. 

“Ohh, god-” you gasp as he grinds against you, his cock so deep inside that his tip kisses your cervix. “Oh my god-” 

He responds with a soft, filthy groan, feeling the way your cunt constricts around him with sheer desire and arousal. 

“Nnhh; oh, you like that, don't you? Yeah? I can feel how much you love it, sweetheart-” 

He can't get enough of your hands all over him, your breathy moans and the way your back arches up, pressing your pretty tits against his chest. 

You're both so close to one another, you leaning to chase his mouth, kissing every inch of him you can reach. 

“Mmhmm, right there; please, Six-” you beg him, using his call sign, the only name he's ever given you.

Once again it strikes him, the deep buried desire to have this every night. To sleep beside you, take care of you. To wake you in the morning with his face between your thighs, making out with your sweet pussy until the sheets are soaked. 

He'll never be allowed out of his contract, not that he can ever foresee, anyway. 

Life in service to the CIA, or life in prison. He can't see a way where he could ever give you the life you deserve. 

A ring on your finger. Children, if you wanted them. A pipe dream, something that'll always be out of his reach. 

What, then, is left for him to give you, beyond physical intimacy? 

“Court,” he whispers finally, slowing again to that sensual pace, gives you the only other piece of himself that he can. 

Your eyes widen as you look up at him. 

“W-what?” You can barely register what he's just told you, having long since accepted that you would likely just be calling him Six for the rest of time. 

“My name,” his lips brush your ear, press a little kiss just below, “I want to hear you say it.” 

“Court.” You breathe his name softly, like it's something precious and fragile, as though even saying it too loud could shatter the moment. 

It's not the name you expected, but then, you aren't sure what you thought it might be. 

Immediately though, you think it suits him. The transition from him being Six to Court in your internal dialogue is seamless, instant. 

Especially when he starts to move again, deep, heavy thrusts full of an unspoken longing. 

You moan so beautifully for him. Pretty sounds as he holds you close, still managing to hit all those perfect spots inside you.

Court usually tries to keep a certain degree of separation between himself and his lovers, but he’s always struggled to do that with you. Even when he’s had you on all fours, he’s had his chest pressed against your back, one arm wrapped around you to keep you close.

This is different though, almost an embrace as he steadily builds up a slightly rougher, faster pace. 

You wrap your arms around his neck, chase his mouth for kiss after kiss, pleased when he lets you. He’s always sweet to you, but something’s different this time. Of course it is, otherwise he would never have finally given you his name. 

Something is building between you, has been for months, feels right out of your reach at almost all times. Even as distracted as you are, you understand that a line has been crossed, one you can’t come back from. That him giving you his name, even what you suspect is a shortened version, is something momentous. 

Your lips part in a breathy moan as he buries his face in your shoulder, letting you hear every soft grunt and groan that escapes him each time his hips make impact against yours. 

He’s so big, getting deep inside you with each steady thrust, stretching you open deliciously; all you can do is cling to him, rake your nails gently across his broad shoulders and mewl as he somehow manages to massage your g-spot on every thrust.  

“Yeah? Right there? That where you need me?” His already soft voice is a silky purr into your ear, every second word punctuated by little grunts that have you tightening around him. 

“Mmhmm-” you whimper, wrap your legs around his waist, your feet resting neatly at the small of his back. 

Court makes a soft little tsk sound, plants an open mouthed kiss on your throat. 

“Use your words, sweetheart.” 

The soft chastising, the kisses he leaves all over your body, the feeling of him inside you, it’s too much. The orgasm that’s been building steadily inside you for a while now ripples through your body like a tidal wave. 

“Oh my fucking god, Court-” you moan as he keeps fucking you through it, erratic snaps of his hips as your cunt flutters around him, your entire body trembling in his arms. 

He doesn’t expect hearing his name in your voice, moaned so sweetly at the height of the pleasure he’s giving you, to have such an effect on him. 

Court has remarkable self control; had it literally beaten into him during his training. But he doesn't remember the last time anyone used his name, let alone said it with such desire and affection. 

It gets to him, gets under his skin, reminds him that he's more than just a killer in plain sight. Reminds him that there's still, at least, one person in the world who cares about him. 

Another filthy groan rumbles in his chest as your still fluttering walls massage his cock, threaten to send him over the edge with you. 

You're through the peak now, look up at him with wide, pleading eyes, your lips parted in a soft pout as he keeps steadily fucking into you, knows that he can drag a second orgasm out of you in quick succession. 

“Oh fuck, nnhh, please, cum for me, please, Court, cum with me…” 

Your impassioned plea rushes straight to his cock, though your back arching up and your walls tightening almost painfully around him as you reach that second peak certainly helps. 

His pace falters, becomes more erratic as he gets right to the edge, fucks you through your release, waits until that very last moment before he pulls out of you, wraps his hand around his cock and strokes the heavy shaft. 

With an obscene groan, he spills his load onto the softness of your stomach, hot, thick ropes of his spend painting your skin. 

Breathless, you look up at him, commit the sight of his face when he cums to memory; he looks gorgeous in the soft glow of the lamp on your nightstand. 

Court catches his breath; his recovery time is still impeccable. Leaning over you as you unfold your legs from around his waist, he brushes a soft kiss across your forehead. 

You stretch your legs out with a little hum, sigh contentedly; you're just considering getting up to find a washcloth to clean yourself up with, when Court’s already on his feet. 

“Let me.” 

Shamelessly, your gaze tracks his naked form as he heads into your small en suite bathroom, returns with a warm washcloth and gently cleans you up. 

Court is fully aware of the irony of this; his hands have more blood on them than he can count, but he's so careful with you, likes the way your gaze softens with affection as he does. 

Tossing the washcloth into the laundry hamper on his way, Court gets back into bed with you, letting you pull the blankets up around you both and curl into his side, rest your head on his chest. 

Your fingers trace little patterns into his chest, featherlight touches across the tattoos inked into his skin. 

“Will you stay the night?” You ask, voice quiet; it feels like asking too much from him, when he's already crossed one major line. 

Court doesn't take it as such. It's nice to feel wanted, cared for.

“Yeah. That’d be nice.” 

 The few times he's stayed the night, you've woken early before he leaves, made sure he eats. 

It's a somewhat domestic routine, but there's always been that degree of separation, where you were you, but he was just Six. 

But now… now you know his preferred name. Now he knows what said name sounds like in your voice, whispered and moaned in the height of pleasure. 

It’s far more intimacy than he should be involved in. Puts you at risk. And yet. 

Court is quite possibly the most dangerous man in the world. Quite certainly the world’s deadliest covert operator. 

He isn’t arrogant enough to believe that nobody would try to harm you, given the chance. But he wants to believe that he’s good enough at what he does to keep you safe. He has to believe that, because the alternative is to panic, or worse, keep you at arm’s length. 

Those are his options. Trust his own abilities, do his best to keep you safe in spite of the risk… or break your heart, and arguably, his own. Court doesn’t care much for his own emotions, knows how to shut himself off when he needs to. 

But you… Court isn’t willing to gamble with hurting your feelings. Of course, he’d rather not gamble with your life, either, but, well. He’s killed more scumbags than he can count, and that was just a job. Anyone who came after you? That would be personal, and Court can think of a dozen ways he’d make them pay for it. 

He’s pulled out of his ruminating by you pressing a little kiss to his jaw. 

“Hey,” you whisper, “you okay?” 

Instinctively, he knows you aren’t prying for details about his state prior to arriving here. You know better than that. He supposes he’s probably been too quiet for too long, making you worry, even though you’re used to his silences.

But then again, you’ve never been silent together after he's given you his name before. 

“Yeah, sweetheart, I'm okay.” 

Court isn't lying. As far as mood goes, and physical health, he's fine. Better than fine. But he sounds tired, exhausted even, and you can hear it in his voice. 

He doesn't want you worrying about him anymore than he knows you do already. 

You might not be trained the way he is, but you're not an idiot. Court thinks he's difficult to read, but you're observant. Spend more time with him than pretty much anyone else that isn't Fitz. 

So, he isn't surprised when you make a little humming sound, like you know he's omitting things. 

But you don't seem upset. Instead, you plant more kisses all over him; chest, neck, face, finally his mouth. 

Court finds your touch comforting, he realises. That's part of why he keeps coming back to you. 

It's not just about having somewhere safe to crash, or about getting laid. It's about the fact that for a few short hours, he can feel like an ordinary man. 

Turning his head slightly, he returns your kiss, wraps his arms around you so you can nestle yourself against his chest. 

There's no rush to the kiss, and it's not the heated sort that leads to sex, either. Instead, these kisses are slow, languid. Kisses for the sake of kissing. 

That's new, too, but neither of you mention that fact when you break apart, one hand resting on his cheek, your thumb brushing back and forth. 

One of his tattooed hands covers yours for just a moment, before his crystal blue eyes meet your gaze. 

You can see the fatigue wearing on him, flip your palm so you can gently squeeze his hand. 

“Get some sleep. I'll watch over you.” 

That brings a smile to Court's face; the idea of you, so fragile in comparison, watching over him while he sleeps. 

“Just an hour. Then you wake me.” 

You're so pleased that he agrees to sleep that you nod, even though you'd rather he gets a full night's rest. 

“An hour.” You agree, extracting yourself from his arms so he can get comfortable. You end up trading places, Court resting his head on your shoulder. 

“‘night, sweetheart.” 

You press a kiss to the top of his head, and it's the last thing he's aware of before sleep takes over. 

Court wakes slowly; you must have fallen asleep at some point, too, but he can feel you breathing, so he's not too concerned. 

His mind and body still feel a little foggy, which makes him think he slept for longer than an hour. 

He can also hear the sounds of light traffic, which makes him think dawn is close. That isn't enough to make him move, though. Court doesn't remember the last time he was so comfortable. 

You have one arm wrapped loosely around him, your free hand gently carding through his hair. The touch is intimate, loving. 

It makes him wonder about the expression on your face right now. What he might see if he opens his eyes. 

So he does, slowly, crystal blue still a little hazy with sleep. It catches you off guard, so he's privy to the unmasked affection in your eyes before you startle. 

“That was longer than an hour,” he murmurs, blinking sleep away as you give him an apologetic look. 

“I'm sorry. You needed the rest…” 

He knows you're right, of course. He also knows he can't protect you twenty four seven. Besides which, he really does feel better. 

“I did.” He agrees, sitting up so he can pull you into his arms. Immediately, you curl into him. 

Of course, you don't know what - or who - he is, but you clearly feel safe with him. Court doesn't know whether he's earned that privilege, but he swears he'll never give you reason not to. 

“Court?”

Hearing his name still startles him; he needs to get used to it after so long, but he likes the way it sounds in your voice. The way you say it so softly, your affection for him clear in your voice. 

“Yeah?” 

“Can you stay a little longer? I know you’ve probably stayed too long as it is, but…” 

But you’ll miss him terribly when he’s gone, not knowing when you’ll see him again - if you’ll see him again. It makes you feel selfish, makes you want to be greedy and take as much of his time as he allows. 

Luckily, he feels the same. He hasn’t been briefed on a new target yet, so it’s best for him to go to ground anyway. 

Besides which, he likes the idea of spending time with you. Playing house for a bit, if you’ll let him. It’s more than he ever expected, even if it’s temporary. But he’s got a moral code, isn’t a bad person. 

So he feels it necessary to warn you. 

“I’ll break your heart one day, I need you to understand that, then decide whether you still want me to stay.” 

Even as he says it, one hand gently stroking your cheek, it hurts him; he doesn’t want to walk away from you, but he needs to give you that choice. One last chance to back away, because people like him don’t get peace. That was the deal he made. 

He wouldn’t blame you if you changed your mind. 

Thinking that, it surprises him when you gently cup his face in your much smaller hands, brush your thumbs across his cheeks, nuzzle your nose against his before you press a gentle kiss to his mouth.

“Stay with me,” you breathe, pulling back only so you can meet his gaze, so he can see for himself the certainty, the affection, burning in your eyes. 

Slowly, he nods. Court doesn’t know how long he has - before he’s called out again, before he dies, but what he does know, is that he wants to spend whatever peaceful time he gets here, with you.

“Okay,” he says softly, immediately knows it was the right decision when your eyes light up. 

He makes a soft little oof sound as you slide into his lap, straddling him, planting kisses all over his face. 

Court doesn’t know how much time he has with you, but as he wraps his arms around you, returns your kisses, he knows one thing for certain: it won’t ever be enough time. 

“sooo, tonight’s date. well, i met him at whole foods. we were on the produce aisle and he approached me to ask which herb i think goes better with fish: cilantro or parsley – obviously, cilantro. anyways, we talked a lot and he was super funny and charming and he asked me out! the only thing is that he’s younger than me for like, a few years. make it like fifteen.” you huffed. “yeah, he’s twenty five. the youngest up until now is this whole… thing we are doing. but he seems nice, so here’s to hoping it goes well!” you downed (without wincing) a shot of tequila for some liquid courage and wrapped the video. “i’ll be back soon with all the after date deets. bye!”

once you turned off the camera, you quickly edited the video and posted it. you grabbed your keys and left, but not after checking yourself out in the mirror one last time. 

if you had told twenty year old you that her forty year old self would be divorced and recording dating content for an app called tiktok, she would have laughed in your face and asked “what the fuck is that?”

it still seems absurd to you now, six months after everything had started, but somehow, you feel more alive than you have felt in years. 

paul, your ex husband, and you met when you were twenty, started dating when you were twenty one and married a couple of weeks before you turned twenty four. the two of you met during college, while you were an undergraduate in molecular biophysics and biochemistry and he was getting his masters in chemical engineering. against all odds, your relationship was perfect for most of the eighteen years it lasted. paul was funny and attentive, did everything he could to give you the best, always pampering you and praising you for your hard work. but things started to go south somewhere around two years ago. all of a sudden, paul started to get distant, arriving late from work and snapping at you for nothing and apologising profusely when he realised what he had done, showering you in gifts as if they would fix things and make anything better, and soon, a vicious cycle was created. 

the end came on a warm summer evening and you remember it perfectly. the day was spent basking in the sun by the pool’s edge, occasionally dipping inside the warm water. paul and you had invited some friends over for a barbecue and that day had actually gone alright. he was the sweetest he had been to you in a while, almost a mirror image of that guy that you had fallen in love with eighteen years before. paul was fun again, had the time of his life grilling and talking everyone’s ears off, you even had made his favourite desert, apricot cheesecake, and made sure the guests’ cups were always full.

to the outsider, you were the picture perfect couple. 

but later that evening, after things calmed down and everyone had left, shit hit the fan.

with a silk robe still draped around your body, fresh out of the shower and with the steam of your en-suite bathroom sneaking into your bedroom, you moisturised your legs with your favourite body oil when paul said “you know, i was reading about polyamory and i think we should open our relationship.” 

“excuse me?” you twisted the lid back on and turned to him. 

“yeah, babe. we open the relationship and i get to go out and meet other women. it would be good for us.”

you shook your head, blinked a couple of times and licked your lips trying to make sense of what he was saying and to not strangle him – he is definitely not worth going to jail. “you want to meet other women…” you spoke and nodded slowly, your head bobbing almost owlish. “and what about me?”

he shrugged. “it’s not like you’re going to find other men to date you.”

you stared at him. 

this had been the first time paul commented negatively about your appearance after all those years together. in fact, paul had always said that what attracted you to him was how you were not the typical stick thin girl he was used to see around the campus; your curves filled out your clothes well, you had softness around your stomach, thick thighs, a pair of breasts to die for and an ass that made heads turn wherever you walked by. 

you had stopped listening to paul after that, only realising he was still speaking when the snort you let out interrupted him. you dropped the leg you had propped on your bed and aggressively gathered your pillows and blanket and started to make your way to the guest room. paul tried to stop you, saying a “baby, i didn’t–“ that you abruptly interrupted again as you yanked your hand back and told him to quit it.

that night, you didn’t cry yourself to sleep. 

no matter how strong the pain on your chest was, how you felt like you were a couple steps away from dying of heartbreak, and how betrayed you felt, you refused to cry over a man. 

you called in sick at work the next morning, texted your best friend grace as soon as paul left for his office, asking her to come help you pack your stuff because you were leaving him, and explained everything to her while you packed your belongings in cardboard boxes and black trash bags. 

it felt surreal, eighteen years of a life built together thrown away because he wasn’t man enough to be honest about his feelings and of how little he thought of you. with your keys left on the kitchen counter, together with a note that said that your lawyers would be contacting his to sort out the divorce papers, you said goodbye to your past life and never looked back.

surprisingly, paul was very cooperative. signed the divorced papers the moment they were served to him, never questioning one period nor a comma on the document. he was the one to initiate the formalities of the pre-nup, selling and sharing everything you acquired together after all those years as a couple – just like the agreement mandated – without budging. as much as you were thankful for him to be acting without a big fuss, the way he gave up so easily on your shared life left you with a sour taste in your mouth. 

what did end up proving to be difficult was navigating life as a newly divorced thirty nine year old. 

it is not like you were one of those women that completely isolated themselves after marriage. truth is that you had a very active life besides the one you shared with paul. you had a prolific career as a professor in the biology course at carnegie mellon university, one you shared your attention with the role of food engineer in a bustling local brewery owned by one of your best friends from college, you went to the gym and did pilates regularly, had your hobbies and went out with friends at least twice a month. but whether you liked it or not, almost twenty years beside someone isn’t something you easily forget over night.

you missed having someone to come back to at the end of the day, missed having someone to share the good and the bad days, missed hearing the shower running from the other room while you read in bed, missed the woody smell his cologne would leave in the sheets and missed the feeling of a warm body by your side when you went to sleep. 

the first two months were rough. you cried whenever you were alone – which, thankfully, wasn’t that many hours of your day and sleep came hard to you at night. some days you felt like a zombie, doing chores on auto pilot because they were already ingrained in your brain.

until one day, where you felt tired of feeling pity for yourself and probably too horny for your vibrator’s sake, a video of a girl in her twenties showed up on your for you page. she was getting ready for a date with a girl she met rock climbing and you gave her page a look, only to find similar videos of her getting ready and others talking about how the dates went. you got so immersed by her content that you scrolled so far back the you found the first video she posted, where she talked about starting an experiment to force herself to put herself out there. after years of bullying and awful experiences in high school that still haunted her in college, she decided she had had enough and wanted to live life like she deserved it.  

her comments were filled with girls around the same age as her, congratulating her and thanking her for normalising the situation and inspiring them to do the same, even some older women saying they wished they had had her strength when they were her age. 

you were never one for social media. yeah, you had some of them, all profiles privated, following and being followed by your close friends and family only, enough to just keep up with their lives. but the idea lingered in your head for days. what if you did the same as an older woman who hasn’t been out there in a while and just left a long term relationship? you figured that there would be other women going through the same and that it would probably be a good bonding experience. so you called grace, your best friend, the same one who helped you get your shit together and leave paul, who also had divorced a few years back, and told her about your plan. she loved the idea, and was the one to download all known dating apps to your phone and set your profile that night over drinks and laughter. 

four months later, you had been to several dates and counting. 

of course, you had your rules too. they were simple: no picking you up, you would meet them where you had agreed on. one date per guy only, maybe a second one if he really did it for you (none did until now). no bringing men back to your place – if sex was on the table, either go back to his or a hotel. and, most importantly, no strings attached. 

thankfully, everything had been working perfectly. 

your date was already at the table when you arrived at the factory. he was a gentleman, got up to greet you and pulled your seat and even ordered for you. but it didn’t take long for things to go south. he was the “me” type. talked about himself all of the time, going on and on about how he made his first million at twenty two with some internet scam that he promised was most definitely legal. when he actually asked about you, he interrupted you every ten seconds to say something about him that, in his mind, related to what you were sharing. 

shit really hit the fan the moment the waiter set you plates on the table. 

“you know, i’ve never gone out with one of you before.” he said mid chew. another ick to the ever growing list of icks you were ticking on your head. 

you stopped cutting your steak and squinted your eyes. “one of me?”

“yeah, fat girls.”

the air left your lungs like a punch. “oh.”

“mhm.” he hummed and barely swallowed before continuing his tirade. “my friends kept telling me how well you guys fuck, especially older ones like you.”

you let out the ugliest indignant laugh of your life, grabbed your purse, fishing your wallet and a couple of hundred dollar bills from it, way more than enough to pay for your meal and his, and threw them on the table.

“okay, i really don’t need this right now. have a nice dinner!” you told him. 

“where are you–“

“don’t!” you interrupted the idiot as you made your way out. 

a surprisingly chilly-for-summer breeze hit your face and you finally let out the breath you didn’t know you were holding. 

“oh my god. what the actual fuck.” you muttered to yourself. you laughed, more out of shock and feeling indignant about what just happened than finding it funny, as you went to find your car in the parking lot.

the shaky breath you took helped realisation dawn on you the moment you sat behind the driver’s seat. you just had gone through one of the most fucked up encounters of your life.

yes, you were fully aware your body is one you seldom find in magazine covers and now, in the age of ozempic, it is being more and more demonised. but you were also aware of your beauty, of how it was your body that helped you fight your fights and love the ones you love. so you refused to be seen as an experiment, refused to be seen as a toy for a twenty something dweeb to try his fantasies on.  

this is not how you expected to end your night, and you really didn’t want to waste a good outfit by going home before you had planned. you stared at the people walking around the street, couples, groups of friends and families all making their way somewhere, searching for a fun friday evening. 

the door of the dingy dive bar across the street opened and a couple around your age, holding hands and smiling, walked out. the sound of bruce springsteen coming out of the jukebox followed them out and called you in. it seemed lively enough and exactly what you needed, so with a muttered “fuck it”, you jumped out of your car and made your way across the street.

some good, cheap booze, nice music and a chat with the bartender seemed like the perfect ending for a disastrous night. 

the atmosphere engulfed you the moment you stepped your foot inside the bar. low yellow lights, the smell of beer and laughter followed you as you made your way to the counter. sitting on the only available seat, between a girl talking excitedly to her friend and a lone older gentleman with more salt than pepper hair, you flagged the bartender. 

“what’s your poison, sweetheart?” the charming barkeeper asked. 

“a shot of tequila and some whiskey, please.” you smiled at him. “oh, neat!”

he looked at you surprised, but nodded and went to get your drinks anyway. 

“what is so bad that a pretty girl like you wants to black out on a nice friday evening?” the man that sat next to you asked. he had finally looked your way and the sight you were met with wasn’t one you were expecting; he was extremely handsome.

a few years older than you, thin lips that looked strangely soft, nice hazel eyes that stared at you almost uncomfortably. up close, you could see clearer that his hair was actually sugar and cinnamon, the specks of auburn in the sea of grey told you that he was a ginger at heart, and the same colours could be found on his few days old stubble. oh, and yeah, his arms filled out his black t-shirt a little too well for your liking. 

he seemed to have an attitude to him, just the right amount of cockiness to be hot and not annoying. you could definitely see yourself riding him at the end of the night if he was the one you had gone on a date with. 

before you could answer him, the bartender came back with your drinks, setting both in front of you with a wink. 

you saw your bar top neighbour frown but tried to not think any of it, choosing to down your shot of tequila and wash it with a sip of whiskey first. 

“overall or just tonight?” you turned to him. “by the way, i’m–“ you gave him your name. 

“jack.” he shook the hand you had extended to him. “overall. i’ve got time.”

“okay.” you nodded and, for some reason, you told him everything. from paul’s proposition, to the divorce being finalized a day before your birthday, about the dates (of course you didn’t tell him about the tiktoks or details like your rules), and about tonight.

he was actually interested in what you had to say, looked at you while you spoke, barely interrupted you, only to ask about something he didn’t fully understand and even threw a few mhms to tell you he was paying attention. 

“and that’s why i’m here now and not across the street on my date.” you finished your rant with a sigh. 

jack gave you a slow up down that made you shiver. “he wouldn’t know what to do with you.”

“and you would?” you countered, the whiskey making you feel even bolder than usual. 

jack’s answer came in the form of a huff and a smirk, silenced by the sip he took of his own glass of whiskey. 

you studied him for a bit, eyes lingering on his crows feet, trailing down his face, beautiful toned and freckled arm, abruptly stopping on the huge wedding band on his, rather thick, finger. you turned, looked away and drank some more of your whiskey to deflect. 

“the wife isn’t going to be mad you’re out late in a bar?” you tried to go on another route, pretend you just didn’t flirt with a married man. 

“we can pull out the ouija board and ask her, but i think she’d like to know i’m having fun with someone nice.” he said it so naturally one would think he just told you she was waiting for him at home. 

“oh god.” you frowned and jack had the gall to smirk at your expression. but you barely noticed it as something tightened in your chest with his confession. “how long, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“two years.”

you exhaled and squeezed his forearm (in solidarity, obviously) as you said “i’m sorry.”

“so, what’s the idiot’s name?” he asked, changing the subject like an expert. 

you shook your head and looked down at your lap as if you were trying to hide something. jack looked at you with amusement in his eyes when you murmured something he didn’t quite catch. 

“gotta speak louder, sweets, the music is loud and my hearing is not the best.”

“paul.” you winced. “his name is paul.”

jack started laughing, loud enough that other patrons turned to look at you two. you nudged his thigh and told him to stop. 

“he has your ex’s name?!”

“yeah, i know, ok? i really didn’t think this through, maybe it’s a sign of the universe or some entity telling me that pauls are the spawns of satan or something.”

jack snorted. “have you ever had any news of paul number one?”

“last thing i heard was that he had knocked up a random twenty two year old girl he was hooking up with.” you shrugged. 

“ooof. you have any children with him?”

“nope, we never wanted any. just a cat that kind of hates him to be honest.” you giggled. “she’s my baby.” jack smiled at you and you had to hold it together so you wouldn’t melt. “what about you? what brings you here today?”

“i’m doctor.”

“got it. tough shift?”

“make it tough twenty years.”

“wanna share?” you smiled at him and mimicked his words. “i’ve got time.”

surprisingly, jack told you everything. about going to afghanistan and losing his leg, about coming back to the states and becoming a doctor, about his wife falling ill and dying, about how some shifts are harder than the others, everything. 

“today… today was just tiring, you know? had to accompany the SWAT, got grazed by a–“ you didn’t mean to, really, but you have what people call an “expressive face with a life of its own” and without you even noticing, you scrunched your features at the mention of the police force. “what?” jack asked. 

“on top of all that, you’re a cop?”

he shook his head and drank some more of his whiskey before continuing. “not a cop, sweetheart. i’m a tactical medic that accompanies the SWAT team in case they need medical support in the field.”

you snorted into your cup of coke – you had changed drinks some time ago, together with the absurd portion of buffalo wings and french fries that jack insisted on ordering after being aware that you were downing straight whiskey on an empty stomach. also because you were a responsible woman and knew you had to sober up so you could drive back home – and took a large sip before saying “sounds like a cop to me.”

he leaned closer to you and whispered “what happened to ‘fuck the police’, huh?”

you laughed as he pulled back. “ACAB, baby. and is this you admitting you are a cop?”

he shook his head again, that playful smile still present on his face when he told you once again that he wasn’t a cop. “my therapist told me i needed a hobby.”

you gave him a wide-eyed, bewildered look. “cooking is a hobby, knitting is a hobby, skating is a fucking hobby, not doing the same thing you’ve been doing for most of your life, with the added bonus of guns firing for some adrenaline.” 

jack gave you an earnest smile. “is it bad that i’m happy your date failed?”

“no. i really liked meeting you too.”

“good.”

as if on cue, your phone’s screen lit up with a text from grace, asking if everything was ok and if you had already gotten home. it also made you notice that it was almost one thirty in the morning, meaning you had been talking to jack for almost five hours. 

“is everything ok?” he asked. 

“mhm. it’s just my friend checking in on me.” you flagged the bartender. “it’s kinda late, i should probably go home.”

“yeah,” he checked his watch. “you should. are you good to drive?”

you nodded. “could you close my tab, please?” you asked the bartender when he arrived.

jack stopped him, telling him to add your drinks to his tab. “i’m gonna take her to her car and come back.”

“no problem, abbot.” the bartender said, finger gun shooting him. 

jack draped his jacket over you the moment you set foot out of the door. the short walk to your car was made in silence, just appreciating the little time together you had left. 

“thank you. for walking me out and for saving my night.” you offered him a shy smile and gave him his jacket back. 

“thank you for letting me.” he offered back. opening the palm of his hand to you, he said “give me your phone.”

“why?” you asked, but gave him the device anyway. 

jack opened the phone app, created a new contact and added his number on it. “text me when you get home.”

“okay, i will.” he gave you the phone back and you saw that his contact name was “jack from the bar”. it made you snort. 

“good. and, if you are up to it, i’d love to take you out on a real date.”

“i’d love to.” you hopped on your car. “bye, jack.”

“bye, sweetheart.” he closed the door for you. “drive safe.”

the drive back home was fast. given that the city was found to be asleep for long when you finally left the bar, the drive that, on a normal pittsburgh traffic, would have lasted at least forty minutes, was done in ten.

marie, your fluffy, blue-green eyed cat greeted you at the door, loudly complaining about how you left her alone for some subpar man. she went back to the top of her cat tower when she got bored of your pets, which didn’t take long to, and you made your way to your kitchen to grab some water. 

as requested by jack, you shot him a quick “i’m home” text, to which you got a reply seconds later, one that said “sleep well, sweetheart.”

still buzzing with the night’s events, you propped your phone against your pastel blue smeg mixer and pressed record. 

“hey guys…” your voice was tired now, a big contrast from the chirpy one you had on the video you recorded and posted hours before. “ it’s almost two in the morning and the date was… something.” you stopped again, snorted and shook your head, and took another sip of water as if the liquid would make the story you were about to tell less worse. “i’m not going to beat it around the bush. it was awful.” you laughed.

“he was a gentleman until the moment i sat down at the table. greeted me, pulled the seat so i could sit down and even ordered for me. then he went on that well-known “me!” rant about how great he was and how he was a self-made millionaire at such a young age. then, the waiter set our plates down…” you took a deep breath and a mirthless laugh left your lips. “and he, for some reason, thought it would be nice to say that the had never been with a fat woman before, that his friends kept telling him, and i quote ‘they fuck well, especially older ones like you.’ i’ve never gotten up and left a date so fast in my life!”

“but you guys know i don’t like to waste a good outfit.” the easiest smile you had in your whole life came to your lips and the tone of your voice changed to something much sweeter, softer. “and i made my way to a dive bar across the street and ended up meeting someone there. he’s sitting there at the counter, drinking because he’s a doctor and had a shitty day too. he was actually the one to engage in conversation first, and i don’t even know what to tell you guys, but he is the best person i’ve met in a while. i actually spent like, five hours straight talking to him. we just sat there, he ordered this ridiculous amount of buffalo wings and fries because he knew i left the date from hell without dinner, and we just talked. talked and talked and talked about everything. he’s funny and charming and quick witted,” you stopped and let out a low whiny laugh and whispered the first few words like it was a secret.

“and he’s so hot. he’s so fucking hot it’s ridiculous. he’s not that tall, an alright height, grey hair, beautiful hazel eyes that felt like he was staring into my soul, thick arms and thick thighs that is making me lightheaded just thinking about them. anyways, he walked me into my car, gave me his phone number and actually told me to text him telling him when i got home and that he wants to go on a date with me if i’m in the mood.” you looked at the time again, it was ten past two in the morning and your feet were trying to kill you. “well, gotta to to sleep! bye!”

you stopped the recording and posted the video without even editing it, made your way to your bathroom for a much needed shower before falling asleep. 

40andthriving🩵| post date with the twenty something rambles. this is not edited and i’m so sorry about the length. will deal with it when i wake up (or not) imsotired | girl, what the fuck? ew. at least you got a hot doctor in the end. (PLEASE, tell me you are going on a date with him!!!) user802764277193701 | i’d have stabbed his hand before leaving           → 40andthriving🩵| i still have to feed marie, but sure… santos.trin | told you you should join us on the lesbian side, we’d treat you so much better. but i’m happy you found your silver fox doctor or whatever 🙄           → 40andthriving🩵| love you too, trinity. and who said i’ve never been with a woman?                     → santos.trin | are you fucking serious?                               → 40andthriving🩵| 🤫 sophiesoph | thank fuck everything worked out in the end!  theegraceadams | girl, you better call me when you wake up!!!

you woke up around ten that morning to your phone blowing up with texts and missed calls from grace. after hearing an earful from her and reassuring your friend that everything was ok, you agreed to go out for brunch to catch up. 

you were about to head to the shower when your phone pinged again. it made you sigh, thinking it was grace starting her rants once again, but the sight of a new contact name made you smile. 

jack from the bar: Good Morning. How are you feeling this morning? Any hangover? sent: morning, jack. i’m pretty good! surprisingly, no hangovers sent: you? jack from the bar: Better now. Just wanted to check in on you. Have a good weekend, sweetheart.  sent: you too, jack 😊

grace parked beside you the moment you hopped out of your car. as you expected, your “good morning” was barely out when she started questioning what happened the previous night. you told her to calm down and that you were only telling her what happened after you scored a table and ordered your usual. 

“girl, so what?!” grace said after you spilled the happenings of the five hour impromptu encounter you had, and finished the last of her third mimosa. “from what you’ve just told me, he’s hot enough to be on a calvin klein ad and he clearly cares about you. what guy would want to know if a woman he just met got home ok and texts her the next morning asking how she’s doing?” grace flagged the waiter and ordered her fourth mimosa. you made a mental note for it to be her last. “so what if he has a questionable hobby?”

you scrunched your nose at the thought. 

“babe, please! isn’t your rules ‘one date only’ and ‘no strings attached’? just go for it, have the time of your life and go for your next one. maybe you should go out with women too like that trinity girl that comments in all of your videos suggested.”

“yeah, you’re right.” you agreed, but a little voice that you were trying to ignore told you that it would be hard to follow the one date one/no strings attached rule with jack.

today’s shift was one for the books. all trinity wanted was for her to grab her stuff, dennis decide if he was going home with her or meet amy at the farm, order the greasiest take out she could think of and sleep. and not dream of yolanda, if possible. 

once again, yolanda and her had a fight over the status of their relationship, and, to make things better, yolanda flirted with the new ortho resident right in front of her. 

the night shift started to trickle in. ellis stopped by where trinity was charting to check out on her. five minutes later, came in shen with his watered down cup of dunkin’ and, not long after, abbot arrived.

there was something different about him. abbot looked… lighter? well rested? it would make sense knowing it was his day off yesterday, but everyone knows jack abbot doesn’t rest. trinity started at the night shift attending, noticed how his already playful demeanour seemed more light hearted, how easily he countered robby’s old man grunts with even stupider jokes, making the day shift attending sigh exasperatedly. 

an alert went off on trinity’s head, and the video she watched earlier that morning on her way to the PTMC popped in her head. 

“why are you staring at dr. abbot like that?” dennis asked. “oh my god, do you want to sleep with him to get back on garcia?”

“what the hell, fuckleberry? no!” trinity’s face was full of disgust. “it’s just–“

“what’s going on?” victoria questioned. 

“trinity fought with garcia again and now she’s eyeing dr. abbot. i think she wants him.” dennis answered before trinity could say anything. she slapped the back of his head. 

“abbot? ew! go for ellis.” victoria added. 

“i swear to fucking god, you two.” santos pinched the bridge of her nose and took a deep breath. she fished her phone in her scrub’s pocket and opened her favourite influencer’s tiktok’s profile, clicked on her latest video and turned the device to her friends. 

“oh, who is this? she’s hot.” vic asked as she paid attention to the video. 

“just it’s this influencer trinity has a crush on.” dennis earned himself another slap in the back of his head. 

“i don’t have a crush on her, i just think she’s cool. now watch the fucking video.”

the video ended and victoria gave her the phone back. “it fucking sucks what happened to her but i don’t get what this has to do with anything.”

trinity looked at her friends like they were missing the most obvious clue. and they were.

“the ‘hot doctor’” trinity added air quotes for effect, “she’s talking about is abbot.” 

dennis looked at her and sighed. “i think that’s a stretch, trin.”

“no, look at him!” trinity nodded in his direction. “he’s more abbot than usual. he even seems happy and well rested.”

it was victoria’s turn to contradict her. “i mean, how many silver fox doctors are there in pittsburgh? and maybe he finally had a good night of sleep.”

“oh my god, fine!”

as if on cue, abbot passed by them, flicking trinity’s ponytail as he said “time for rounds, kids.”

saturday turned into sunday, that turned into monday and monday turned into tuesday. 

wednesday arrived and grace’s words still echoed in your head like they did all weekend; she was right, you should ask jack out. it was just a date, a single one, and you weren’t going to see him again anyway. you already had been bending all of your personal-non-experiment rules with this very important social investigation, what is another one, right?

you promised yourself you would text him, you did, but you got so caught up with life that you simply didn’t have the time nor remembered to. johnny was releasing a new beer this week and you had been spending more time than usual at the brewery. a few setbacks happened along the way, but nothing you, the expert, couldn’t deal with. and, of course, you still had your job at carnegie and everything that came with being a member of the faculty. 

and that is why you spent a perfect wednesday evening in bed grading papers. 

the sound of your phone vibrating next to you was a welcome and much needed distraction after hours spent staring at your laptop’s screen. it was a few minutes past nine when your screen lit up telling you that “jack from the bar” was calling. just the sight of his name across the device was enough to have goosebumps erupt on your skin and have you question all of your rules. 

something flared up in your stomach. it wasn’t butterflies, no, but something more positive than that. to you, butterflies meant anxiety, and what you were feeling was something more akin to excitement and longing. the phone had to shrill a fourth time for you to wake up from your daydream and pick it up. 

“hey, jack from the bar! what do i owe you the pleasure?” you wanted to cringe with the obviously fake nonchalant tone that came out of your mouth. jack laughed on the other side of the phone and that made you feel a bit less self conscious. 

“are you ok? you sound a bit distant.”

you shook your head and brought the phone closer to you, laying it on your chest. “yeah, i’m on speaker. just  doing some late night work.”

“did i get you on a bad time? i can call you back tomorrow.” jack sounded concerned. 

“no! no. i’m grading some papers and if i read the word salmonella once again, i think i might self combust.”

jack laughed and it got a few chuckles out of you too. “that bad, huh?”

“more of a tough week, actually?”

jack groaned on the other side and the sounds of fabric rustling hit your ear, it sounded like he was sitting. “wanna talk about it?”

“oh, it’s just work stuff. friday is launch day at the brewery, so i’ve been working overtime there. had a batch go to waste on monday because of contamination – that, by the way, i have no idea how it happened and i have a feeling people are hiding the reason from me – but thank god it’s already solved. and, of course, the university and everything that comes with being a professor.”

“and salmonella has something to do with it? should i be worried?” he asked playfully. 

“no, no worrying. no salmonella involved. it wasn’t exactly something that could be harmful to humans, the bacteria basically just ate the yeast and killed it, so the beer was a mess and it came out all wrong. we had to clean out all of our tanks, the lab and all the tools we use and start over. that takes us at least a whole working day .”

“ooof, and what about carnegie?”

“oh, i’m teaching foodborne illnesses and how to prevent it. basically making your job a bit easier for you, you know?” you joked. 

“really?” he sounded gleeful and a smile spread across your face. “thank you for your service, professor.”

“no problem, jack from the bar.” you suppressed a yawn and asked him “what about you? slow night?”

“not exactly, but i just had a couple of minutes to spare and wanted to talk to you.”

“oh.” it left your lips before you could think about it. 

“yeah,” jack chuckled. “are you do–“ jack was cut off by a female voice shouting at him. the only words you could make out was “multiple MVC” and “three minutes”. jack asked her to bring him a gown and got back to you with a sigh. “fuck, i’m sorry. i have a golden weekend this week and wanted to know if you are free this saturday. i’d love to take you out for dinner. on a real, proper date.”

“yeah, yeah! i’d love to!”

“great, sweetheart. i’ll text you with the details. hope everything goes well with the beer and the papers. loved talking to you. bye!”

“thanks. bye, jack!”

you turned off the call and, for some reason, the chat gave you enough will power to finish grading the papers. 

jack and you kept in touch throughout thursday and friday. he was just as charming through text as he was that night at the bar. jack texted you good morning, asked what you were supposed to do that day and how it was going and effortlessly made jokes that made your co-workers side-eyed you when a easy laugh left your lips without a warning.

he also asked a lot of questions; jack was clearly making an effort in trying to get to know you and find things in common to plan the date. 

it was around ten in the morning of a very sunny saturday when he finally told you where you were going. jack greeted you like usual, asked how your morning was going and if you had slept well and told you about his shift and one of shen’s shenanigans. 

jack from the bar: The Carnegie is hosting the 59th International. I was thinking we could take a look and visit the Butterjoint for dinner and drinks. What do you think?  sent: perfect! i’m dying to visit the exhibit and butterjoint has the best old fashioned in pittsburgh  jack from the bar: An Old Fashioned drinker? You really are a woman after my heart, huh?

the flirting made you smile and your brain short circuit at the same time. as if he sensed your mild panic, or maybe he just needed to finish his train of thought, jack sent another text.

jack from the bar: Pick you up at six? sent: six is fine, but i’d rather meet you there jack from the bar: Of course, sweetheart. See you there! sent: see ya

“hey, guys!” you sat down by your vanity with a light robe around your body, your AC on and a cup of ice cold tea on your hand. marie jumped on your lap the moment you sat down and you didn’t dare to take her out of her spot. “as you can probably guess, i’ve got another date. and yes, it’s with the hot doctor from the bar.”

you grabbed your favourite concealer, dabbed some on the back of your hand, warmed it with a brush and started applying it on a few specific spots. “not explaining my base routine because it’s the same as usual, same products. we don’t do over consumption here. i’m going for concealer only on a few spots i want to cover because it’s so hot today and i can’t deal with a bunch of sticky stuff on my face.” you made an ugly face when you realised how that sounded.

“anyway! hot doctor– i’m gonna call him mcsteamy because he’s a hot silver fox and we need an alias for him. mcsteamy called me on wednesday – yes, he called me, and asked me on a date. we’ve been texting back and forth ever since, and guys… he’s sooo nice. just as fun as he was that day at the bar. he’s super attentive and actually took time to get to know me, which i know it’s the bare minimum, but after the last two dates i’ve had? that’s growth.” you set the blush brush down and started rummaging through your drawer for the shimmery eyeshadow that made your eyes pop. 

“so he planned a museum date and drinks after, and you guys know that those are my favourite. hold on, i’ll be back.” you stopped recording and went to get dressed. 

“alright, so dress is vintage bluemarine, i think? got it second hand in NYC,” you said, showing off the midi pink, flowery dress that contrasted beautifully with your skin. “green tabi flats because we are going to walk a lot and green purse to match, no brand, got it at the flea market in florence.”

you sat back down by your vanity, this time a bit closer to your phone. silenced engulfed you for a couple of seconds longer than needed as your feelings towards the date started to make sense. “i’m not nervous, which is a first in these four months. it… i don’t know, it feels right?” you shook your head. “i know how this sounds, there’s no expectations here and the rules still stand, obviously, but it feels like i won’t have any surprises, you know? maybe because we’ve already talked a lot last week at the bar. and i know that that doesn’t mean anything, but i don’t know, there’s something about mcdreamy that feels like i’m going to have a good time. as usual, i’ll be back in a few with the run down. bye!”

40andthriving🩵| pre date with the bar’s silver fox doc rambles. i have a feeling we won’t have a post date horror story this time. 🤞 santos.trin | you got your she/they shooters by your side!!!           → 40andthriving🩵| thank you!!!                     → user802764277193701 | yep, the knife is ready…                               → 40andthriving🩵| girl…  justmyluck91 | sending you good date vibes ✨✨✨ theegraceadams | love you, bestie! hope it goes amazing!!!           → 40andthriving🩵| love you 🩵🩵🩵

jack was already waiting for you by the carnegie’s entrance hall with both of your tickets in hand when you arrived. he was a vision, dark denim pants that hugged his thighs so well that you didn’t have to imagine what was underneath, and the black polo shirt that he insisted on leaving a couple of buttons undone also didn’t disappoint, you could clearly see the outline of his muscular chest and arms and a teasing bit of his chest hair.

the once-over jack gave you when you were finally by his side made goosebumps rise on your skin; the look he gave you made you feel like a prey who met her predator, it made you feel like you were about to be eaten alive in the most delicious way.

or like the hottest person in the building. 

“good to see you, sweetheart.” jack said as he hugged you tight, his left hand squeezed your waist when he kissed your cheek. 

“you too, jack. have you been waiting long?”

“no, but you’re worth any wait.” he said and winked at you, making you shake your head and playfully roll your eyes. 

he lifted the tickets and asked “shall we?”

you nodded yes and jack guided with his hand on the small of your back as you walked the halls of the carnegie museum of art. strangely – or maybe not, but you were unwilling to admit – it really felt right. jack asked how your day had gone, if everything went alright with the launch of the beer (it did). you had to cancel a couple of classes and stay at the brewery past midnight that last thursday, but everything was a success – jack even joked that he would take his friend robby there on a date. apparently, the man was a fan of your work. 

“hi!” you heard a sweet voice call from one of the workshop rooms. it was a young girl in her twenties, with big glasses adorning her face and big, curly hair that looked like a crown on top of her head. her smile was contagious. “i’m amara, one of the museum’s educators. we are hosting ‘imagining home together’, a creative workshop with the center for artistic activism. we still have two slots open, wouldn’t you guys like to join us?”

you looked at jack, searching his face for a sign if it was something he would like to do. 

sensing your unsureness, amara pressed. “it would be great bonding activity for such a lovely couple like you.”

“oh, we–“

“we would love to!” jack answered at the same time, squeezing your waist and smiling at you. 

amara beckoned you inside the room, pointing to an empty table on the far end of the room, telling you and jack to get comfortable. 

“alright, guys!” amara brought the attention of the chatty class back to her. “this is the fourth edition of ‘envisioning a just pittsburgh’ and this year’s theme is ‘home’. we want you to explore what home means to you, is it a place? a community? a language? what can we do to make pittsburgh a better place, for those who have been here from the beginning and for those arriving? we want you to explore it using whatever medium feels more comfortable to you, may it be with a painting or a drawing, poetry or music, we want to see the artistic side of you. you guys have forty five minutes to get your work done and the other forty five minutes will be reserved for the presentation!”

jack turned to you with a sly smile on his face. “this is going to be fun.” he sat down with a small wince, and you remembered his leg. 

“you good?”

“yeah.” he stretched his right leg and exhaled. “long shift last night, barely had time to rest.”

“you sure you want to do this? we can reschedule the date if you want.”

jack playfully kicked your shin, and pulled your chair closer to him in a swift move as he said “of course not. you backing down on me?”

“no!” you slapped his thigh and it felt as muscly as you imagined. “alright, mr. hotshot doctor what is it going to be? what’s your artistic vein? why do i feel like you were in a band in your teens?”

he laughed and confirmed your suspicions. “i was in one, had to leave it when i was deployed.”

“really?” you gave him a fake questioning look. “let me guess, singer?”

“nope, lead guitar. and composer.”

you sneaked a look at his hands and fought back a smile. jack noticed, obviously, but let you slide with just a smirk. 

“makes sense.”

“what about you?”

“oh, i’m more of a photography person. did occasionally write the angst poem as a teen.”

jack and you kept chatting, trying to decide on the theme. he told you about moving in from boston and adapting to the new city and you shared how you went through the same when you left your hometown for college in pittsburgh. it wasn’t an easy adaptation, but bit by bit, every person you met made you feel welcomed and loved. 

the forty five minutes flew by quickly with jack by your side. it was shocking how easy it was to talk to him, something about his tone of voice and how effortlessly flirty he was made you feel like you had known him for ages. 

amara’s voice called for attention again, signaling the time had run out. the first person to present was an old lady who appeared to be in her seventies, she had made a beautiful watercolour work representing the immigrants that helped build pittsburgh. after her, two twin brothers in their early teens, with the aid of their parents, presented a cute collage of what home was to them. their explanation brought tears to your eyes; to them, home was the corners of the city where their late grandma used to take them on the weekends. the park, the ice cream shop and the toy store. 

next, it was you and jack. 

“hi!” you greeted everyone and got a chorus of hi’s back. “jack and i are both outsiders who were welcomed by pittsburgh many, many years ago. so we wrote a little poem about it.” you pointed at the man by your side and said “he’s going to read it.”

“to the stories carried from distant shores, may pittsburgh open its doors. for every language, dream and name, for it deserves a place, deserves the same. to live, to hope and to safely start, to call this city a home with all our hearts. with space for hope in every room, let homes be safe, let futures brightly bloom. and may justice live in the streets, both old and new for pittsburgh is a home that belongs to those who grew here, and those arriving too.”

jack looked at you, easy smile adorning his handsome face while people clapped for your work. 

“ugh, i’m so torn between the pierogi with sausage and the lamb belly.” you told jack while you took a look at the menu for the hundredth time. 

the ten minute walk between the museum and the restaurant had been an educational one. jack told you he had parked between the two points of interest, across the street from the st. paul cathedral. he offered to call an uber, an offer that you countered with a “i’d love to walk, it’s such a beautiful evening.” to which jack quickly agreed to, and you backed down just as quickly when you remembered his leg. he shut you off with a scoff and gently pulling you by your hand down the museum’s stairwell.

jack abbot was a very opinionated man, you learned. and a funny one too. he had something to say about every piece of art you saw at the exhibit, commenting on everything, from the background of the artists to their choice of colour scheme. quickly, you noticed how easy it was to get a rise of him and would ask contradictory questions just to get jack to crack and go on a rant, which you found equal parts entertaining and sexy. it didn’t take long for jack to notice your dirty tactics, and he was quick to playfully – and softly – pinch the plush of your love handles, easing your jolt by kissing your temple and calling you trouble in the most sensuous, stern voice you have ever heard. it made you melt. 

the two of you kept talking after arriving at the butterjoint. between shared bites of the delicious chicken fried pickle that he told you you had to try, and the falafel you wanted to order too, jack told you his favourite work was the one by the peruvian duo, arturo kameya and claudia martínez garay, citing how their choice of colours rewired his brain. you mentioned taking a liking to the works of saloua raouda choucair, represented by a collection of jewellery made by the lebanese painter and sculptor. when asked why by jack, you told him you liked how she worked the metals and the crystals used, and how meticulously well she transferred her abstractionist vein throughout all of her artwork, no matter the medium used, paint, wood or silver. 

“i’ll drink to that.” jack raised his beer bottle and clicked it against your cream soda old fashioned, the same one you had mentioned a few days prior while texting him, the same one that jack insisted on ordering for you the moment you sat down at your table. 

remember your rules. one date. just one date, you had to remind yourself. 

“why don’t we order both and share?” jack countered. 

“you sure?”

“of course, sweetheart.” he said and flagged down the waiter, placing your orders. 

“now tell me, what made you choose the academic world?” jack turned to you the moment the waiter left and asked. 

you exhaled and pursed your lips. “honestly?” jack nodded and you shrugged. “it just happened.”

the frank and genuine tone of your answer made jack laugh. 

“i’m serious.” you playfulled slapped his hand and he caught yours in a barely there grip, and started playing with your fingers when you didn’t pull back. “for a long time i didn’t know what i wanted to do. i knew for sure that i didn’t want to follow my family’s business. for a while i even thought about studying history and maybe get a major in archeology or something like that, then one day, just before the college application period started, i remember watching this one documentary on national geographic about the sea and i thought ‘okay, i can see myself doing this’. and it was like it was set in stone. i got fixated on finding a school i could apply and study biology, then ship myself to california to get a masters in marine biology and go from there.”

“a mix up happened with my admission and i found myself as a molecular biophysics and biochemistry undergrad. i wanted to change it back to biology but they told me it would only be possible on my second semester. but i ended up loving it. i always had, like, really good grades, so around my fourth semester my coordinator asked if i wasn’t interested in tutoring and it was downhill from there. instead of getting a masters in marine biology, i went on to the engineering route, a lot of it influenced by my ex, i must admit. it escalated to a point where i got a PhD and started teaching at the same place i once was a student. it’s equally fun and frightening to see it become a full circle ride.”

jack looked at you with what you later identified as admiration, and of course his starstruck stare did not help with that feeling on the pit of your stomach, the same one you had been harbouring since he followed you to your car that first night. it also felt disconcerting and you tried to hide it with a smile. 

“what about the brewery?” he asked. 

your smile grew bigger when the memories of how the brewery came to be flourished in your head. “the brewery is johnny’s baby – he’s one of my best friends in the whole world. we went to college together. same undergrad, masters, everything. but he went to the corporate world, got a job at a big company, which he ended up hating pretty soon. but it paid him good money, so he kept doing it until he had enough cash to open his own business.”

“cut to 2019 and he invited me to work with him. a passion project that he had no idea if it would work or not, and it did! by some miracle we survived the pandemic and now we are preparing to start importing to a few countries.”

jack’s stare behind his beer intensified, and it made you focus your attention on the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed the golden liquid. you mimicked him, downed a couple fingers of your old-fashioned, knowing fully well your lips probably wouldn’t follow your brain if you tried to say something, not with the way he was looking at you. 

you couldn’t remember the last time someone had made you feel this important and wanted.

“what about you? what made you go from the army to medicine?”

jack took a look around the room, the smile he had on the whole time you were talking diminished a bit and you could see he was carefully choosing what to say. it made you wonder if it was a touchy subject. 

“my family never really had much money, so when highschool was over…” he raised his shoulders to his ears, tipping his head forward as he once again searched for words. he sighed and his shoulders got back to their normal position. “they sell you this world of wonders and promise you a lot, you know? and to a kid that didn’t have much growing up, that seemed heaven sent. i always wanted to be a doctor, so it seemed like a good opportunity. they promise to pay for your college, and you get a roof over your head and three meals a day. seemed like a win-win situation.”

you nodded, silently telling him you were listening. jack looked a bit conflicted and you wondered when was the last time he shared his story with someone, or if he ever talked about it at all. 

“i don’t agree with it, you know? i had a very certain, almost utopic plan in my head that i was going to follow; it was going to be in and out, get my education done and leave as soon as my time was over. but the war happened, my leg happened and that’s it. physical therapy,” he tapped his temple and widened his eyes, “therapy, learn to walk with the prosthesis, that took me almost eight months ‘til i was even able to do anything alone, and a little longer ‘til i could finish my residency.”

you let out a shuddering breath. “i’m so sorry, jack.”

“don’t be.” jack shook his head and squeezed the hand he was previously holding. “that’s life. yes, it was horrible, but maybe i had to go through it to be the jack i am today. if it hadn’t happened, i probably– most definitely wouldn't have left the army when i did, and wouldn’t have finished med school, wouldn’t have come to pittsburgh to do my residency. and probably wouldn’t be here having this date with you.” he finished the sentence with a sly tone of voice that had you grinning. 

“such a flirt, aren’t you?”

he winked at you. “i’ve been told once or twice.”

you shook your head, smiling. as you were about to flirt back, the waiter came back with your dishes.

“thank you!” you told the waiter with a polite smile as he left.

“this smells amazing.” jack said and both of you started eating. 

the rest of the night passed like a blur. jack and you shared your meals like promised, laughed at shared stories of weird night shift patients, even weirder students and an exploding beer tank or two. you also poked jack about the whole SWAT thing, to which he now agreed with you about how it sounded. it had taken him a spat with his best friend and an earful from his therapist for him to see how he was basically running away from one chaos to another. he still didn’t have an answer for what else he could do, but at least he had started to see how dangerous it was. 

somewhere between the last bite of your dinner and the first of your desert, you and jack changed tables, locating yourselves at a more secluded high-top, as per the request of your lovely waiter, chris – the restaurant got more and more crowded by the hour, and chris politely asked if you and jack minded changing seats. obviously, you didn’t. 

the change was very much welcomed as it got the two of you physically closer to each other. 

dessert finished with you and jack side by side. 

another cream soda old fashioned for you and jack’s hand found itself on your lower back. his thumb tracing lazy circles aimlessly, as he talked about the time robby and him got stranded on a road just outside of pittsburgh during a road trip. two hours and a shitty cellphone signal that suddenly decided to work later, his then resident, john appeared to pick them up in the middle of nowhere.

jack’s beer turned into a dr. pepper and the bar got even more crowded. the chorus of voices was so loud that it had you even closer to jack. with a hand on his shoulder and the touch of your breath against his neck, you whispered, almost secretively, the story of how you and grace almost got arrested for public disturbance after a night out with one too many drinks a few days after your divorce had finalised.  

a can of coke took your cocktail’s place, and jack grimaced when the pirates lost a run. his hand was still on your lower back, this time massaging the soft flesh that connected it to your waist and your own hand caressed his opposite shoulder. you stared at jack, counted the freckles that kissed his face very lightly, adored the way the crow’s feet adorned his green-hazel eyes and imagined how his stubble would feel between your legs. 

“what, sweetheart?” he looked back at you and asked softly. the low timbre of his voice hit you where you had just imagined how his beard would feel. the feeling was strong enough to have you press you legs together and enough to have jack notice it. a small smirk showed up on his lips and it made you bite your own. 

your answer to his question came in the form of a kiss. 

jack didn’t give you time to backtrack – not that you would, anyway – as he pulled your body flush to his. 

your hands went straight to where they had been itching to feel the whole night: his soft curls. you twirled it between your fingers and pulled at the hair on the nape of his neck the more he deepened the kiss. 

jack was devouring you. 

if his stare felt like you were being preyed on, his kiss felt like you had been caught at last. it wasn’t messy or frantic; it was somehow slow and intense, deep and tender. it made you feel revered. it was also nothing like you had experienced before in your entire life, not even with the person you had spent eighteen years of your existence with. 

god knows how long you spent kissing. air wasn’t a necessity anymore, the feel of jack’s chest against yours and his grip on your ass was everything you needed to survive. the rest of the world could perish, you couldn’t care less.

the trance you found yourselves in broke when the bar roared when the pirates’ scored a home run.

“we should go.” jack said after he pressed his forehead against yours. you barely had time to say “we should”, deciding on simply agreeing with a couple of nods and hums as jack kept pecking your lips.

“mine or yours?” he asked with his lips still touching yours. 

“yours.” you answered and kissed him one last time.

jack asked for the check and paid for it, looking at you like you had told him you were the one who killed the virgin mary when you suggested splitting the bill. 

halfway through your walk to jack’s car, when the silence had finally become comfortable again and not anxiety driven, and the buzzing on your skin didn’t feel like electric shock anymore, jack said “i’m really offended that you thought i’d let you pay for your dinner.”

you burst out laughing. 

“i’m serious!” you could hear the outrageousness in his voice, laced with a hint of barely contained laughter. 

“jack, it’s fine! you know people split the bill in dates all the time in this decade, right?” you tried to joke but it didn’t really land. 

he huffed by your side. “yeah, well, i don’t like it.”

jack felt the way you were staring at his profile and turned to you. “what do you want to know, sweetheart?”

as softly as you could, you asked “when was the last time you went on a date?”

a beat or two passed and silence grew for longer than necessary. you were by jack’s car when he finally answered “last one was a few years ago.”

if your memory doesn’t fail you, jack mentioned that day at the bar, very briefly, that it had been two years only of his wife’s passing. 

you nodded and squeezed the hand that held yours one last time, before he closed the door on the passenger’s side and jogged to his. 

the elevator ride from the garage floor to where jack’s apartment was located on the fifth, made you feel like a teenager. he pressed you against the elevator’s wall the moment it opened its door, pressing the button that sent the machine to his floor by muscle memory. 

the kiss was just like the one you shared back at the restaurant’s bar, with a touch more of desperation as an added bonus, shown by jack unconsciously frictioning his very blatant, very large erection against your belly, only getting worse as he trailed down from your lips to your neck. 

it felt all too consuming. 

jack’s presence could be felt not only where his body touched yours, but on your soul. the way he traced his lips down your collarbone to your décolletage set you ablaze. his grunts were exciting, the obvious desire made you feel like the most powerful woman in the world. jack kissed, bit, sucked and licked every part of you he had access to on the 3x4 metal box. 

you had no idea this was even possible, but you were pretty sure an orgasm was approaching and your cunt hadn’t even been touched yet.

you made a mental note of googling if that was actually a thing. 

jack’s right hand fingers tightened their grip on your hair as he left hand one trailed up your arm, stopping by your shoulder to slowly pull at the thick, ruffled strap of your dress. he nosed his way down, carving a trail of wet kisses on your chest. 

down, down, down.

air hitting newly exposed skin. 

the tip of his tongue licking your nip–

ding!

the elevator finally arrived at his floor. jack sighed and the puff of air that left his lips hit your wet, exposed nipple, making goosebumps blossom all over your body. 

“fuck…” he murmured as pulled the pink fabric back up, covering what he had exposed of your chest. 

when the doors opened, you looked up and noticed the very in your face, angled at the both of you security camera. shameful warmth took over when you thought of the doorman watching the show you and jack put on. 

“you always forego on bras on your dates?” jack asked as he unlocked his door. he had tried to go with a casual, relaxed tone, but you could feel the underlying hint of jealousy in his voice. 

you refused to entertain the giddy thought you just had, filed it for some other time or whatever. 

so you giggled and gave him a “only when the dress asks to.”

jack huffed and said “ladies first.” motioning with his head for you to get in. 

his apartment was big, exactly what you would expect of an emergency medicine senior attending. it was also meticulously neat, exactly what you would expect from an army brat, but somehow, it was also lived in.

a big screen sat on top of a beautiful, darkish wood TV unit. there was a very obvious comfortable looking reclining chair, one you could clearly imagine jack sitting down after a rough shift to relax, or with a couple of beers to watch a game on TV with friends. the couch was just as big and fluffy looking, cream with a couple of throw pillows and a terracotta throw blanket. he also had three very well taken care of plants. 

there were a few picture frames scattered around, of him with family and friends. two of them had jack looking very in love with a very gorgeous latina woman, whom you instantly assumed to be his late wife. there was one of him in black scrubs with an asian guy, a beautiful black woman with dreads and a red headed older lady in grey scrubs by his sides. they seemed to be at the emergency room and jack’s folded arms and too-stern-to-be-real face made you smile. that must be shen and ellis, you thought, remembering your conversations.

there were also a couple other ones with a guy closer to his age, taller and a bit fuller than him, with darker hair and a full beard that was starting to get some greys in it. they both wore scrubs in one of the pictures and jack was more relaxed in this one, both men apparently holding back laughter as a blonde woman, also in grey scrubs and around their age, gave up and rolled back in laughter. 

the other picture jack had with him had the other guy dressed in a leather jacket and black t-shirt, very similar to the polo jack had on. they were sitting down on a high top, with two beer flight paddles sitting in front of them.

“you want something to drink?” jack called from the kitchen. you were so entertained being nosy that you didn’t notice he had sat your purse on the entryway table and went to the kitchen to try and be a good host. 

a crass joke popped up in your head, but you shook it away and went for “no, i’m good!”

you turned back to the picture to analyse it further. the colourful wall on the background was awfully familiar, as were the glasses used on the flights and the logo adorning them. 

your brewery.

johnny’s brewery. 

robby.

somewhere in the back of your mind, a conversation you had with grace years and years ago popped back again. 

it was a chilly and lonely weekend, one in which the two of you were still married, but your husbands were away on a work trip. grace texted you a picture of a badly rolled joint, captioned with “read and puff???”

read and puff was a game the two of you created on your dorm sharing days, where you would smoke a joint and read poorly written books just for the sake of it. 

she arrived at yours not even twenty minutes later after you replied with a “YES!!!”

the shitty romance book you had chosen was forgotten a few pages in, after it served the purpose of making you laugh. out of nowhere, grace hit you with a “do you think you walk by your soulmate everyday without noticing it?”

“what?” you whispered, confused.

“think about it! everyday we go to coffee shops, malls, walk around the city and pass by hundreds of people that have the same, or similar, routine as us but we never notice them. then one day… you have a new co-worker, or a new pilates buddy, and you guys talk and find out you’ve been frequenting the same places but never really noticed each other there.”

you nodded, it made sense. “yeah, i think so. but we’ve already found ours, so who knows.”

“yeah…” grace murmured her answer. 

later that evening, after you sobered up, grace told you she and clayton – her then husband – were on a rough patch and she was thinking about getting a divorce. 

you shook away the memory of that read and puff night and repeated your rules like a mantra. 

one date. no strings attached.

one date. no strings attached.

one date. no strings attached.

“here.” jack extended hand pulled you out of you mini spiral and offered you a glass of chill water. you smiled at him. 

“thanks.” you pointed at the picture frame. “i’m guessing that’s robby.”

he nodded. “how did you know?”

“that’s the brewery. back at the bar that night, you mentioned he was, and i quote, a fan of my work. why didn’t you tell me you’ve been there before?”

“i was afraid of looking like a creep, like i had been stalking you.”

you snorted. “makes sense.”

jack took the almost empty glass from your hand, setting it on the coffee table before pulling you to him. “come here.”

unlike your previous kisses, this one was slower, but needier somehow. jack had a way of making you feel like pliable putty in his hand almost instantly. his tongue traced yours with casual dominance and his fingers knew exactly where to touch you without you having to tell.

your body reacted to his like magnets attracted themselves; opposite poles that when in touch with each other, couldn’t let go. 

jack guided you to his large sofa and laid you on it. the furniture was as comfortable as it looked. 

he let go of your lips just to attach his back again on that sweet spot of your neck, getting a whiny moan as a reward. 

“you have no idea how many times i thought about this.” he confessed. 

“yeah?”

“yeah. you walked in that bar and sat beside me, talked about that stupid fucker and laughed at my stupid jokes, and all i could think about how beautiful you were, how soft your skin would feel. how i wanted to have you under me, how you would sound and taste.”

“fuck.” his confession made you weak, and you silently thanked him for laying you down before doing it. 

“i know, honey.” jack cooed, rather cockily, as he pulled the straps of your dress down, freeing both of your breasts and popping a nipple between his lips. he teased you, alternated between licking and sucking and kneading your free tit. 

“sh–shit.” you moaned loudly after he lightly grazed his front teeth against your nipple and continued. “i touched myself to the thought of you that night.”

“yeah?” you felt his question against your chest more than actually heard it. jack lifted his head and ordered “tell me about it.” before diving back in, this time giving his attention to your other tit. 

“i was so wet when i got home. went for a shower and– fuck! oh god… my panties were drenched. i usually need a vibrator when i’m alone, but i was so worked up that i came so hard with my fingers.”

sometime during your own confessional rant, jack had bunched the fabric of the skirt of your dress and pooled it around your waist. “yeah? like this?”

he didn’t bother taking your panties off, just pulled it to the side and rubbed his thumb in lazy circles on your puffy clit. 

“yes, jack.” you moaned his name and he gifted you with his index and middle fingers. they filled you up deliciously. 

in true jack fashion, like he had done before as if he had been rewarded with a map of your body, he found your g-spot easily. 

jack massaged the swollen spot softly, studying your every breath, sigh and moan. he loved the way your body welcomed him as he moved his fingers in a come hither motion, got mesmerised by how your pussy got wetter, how your skin prickled and the way your thighs were starting to tremble. 

“jack, please.” you begged, for what you didn’t know, when he attached his lips around your clit. his tongue circled your nub, licking it with the flat muscle.  

jack timed his ministrations, synchronising the roll of this tongue with the pumping of his fingers. you ran your fingers through his curly hair, tightening them when he moaned and relaxed against you. 

“jack, i’m gonna–“ your orgasm washed over you before you could finish your warning. 

the man didn’t stop his attack on you after you came, making sure to extend your orgasm as much as he could as he helped you ride it out, until it became so unbearable that you clenched your thighs around his head and pushed him out with the palm of your hands. 

jack looked like a maniac. hair sticking out in all directions, his stubble wet with your juices, pupils blown out and chest so red one would think he had spent all day in the sun. 

“i think i went deaf on my right ear.” he said while trying to pop it with his finger. 

“sorry.” you said, laughing breathlessly. 

“ten out of ten, hope it happens again, or whatever the kids are saying nowadays.”

you shook your head and got up on wobbly knees to kiss him again. almost instantly, your hand dropped to jack’s painfully hard erection, only to have him stop you the moment you finally undid his fly and started to trace your nimble fingers inside his boxers. 

“not gonna last, baby. and i really want to fuck you right now.”

“and i really wanted to suck you.” you said, tone of voice the same of a spoiled brat. jack let out a shuddering breath and kissed your pouty lips. 

“let’s go to the bedroom, sweetheart.”

jack’s bedroom was as beautiful as the rest of his apartment.

a dark, greyish green accent wall that contrasted against the other three white ones. his king sized bed set there in the middle, just as soft looking as the rest of the furniture you have met so far. he had four big pillows on top of it, a habit he most definitely kept from his wife. 

everything was just as neat. he had art on his walls, another TV, this one smaller than the one in his living room, in the wall right across his bed. a pile of medical books on a night stand and a pile of vinyls on the other. 

“sorry about the mess.” he said when he noticed you were studying the contents beside his bed. 

“what mess? i was trying to figure out what you were listening to.”

“pearl jam, nirvana, rush, some radiohead, semisonic.”

“good taste.” you complimented him and got a smile back. 

“thank you.”

the wall to your left had an almost floor to ceiling window, lined by a doorless buffet cabinet that had more vinyls, books and other trinkets. beside it sat his crutches and a folded wheelchair. 

you were fumbling with the zipper on the side of your dress when jack sat down on his bed with a groan. he had already ditched his jeans and was roaming his hand around his leg and where his prosthesis attached to the limb. 

“you okay?” you asked him. 

jack nodded, said a “yeah” without looking at you. he seemed embarrassed, almost ashamed and you wondered if anyone besides his wife had been intimate with him since he lost part of his leg. 

“we don’t have to do this, jack. not if you are uncomfortable with me or anything.” you told him as you ran your fingers through his hair again, softer this time. he purred. 

“i want to. it’s just… you’re the first person since li–“ jack sighed. “no one besides liz has seen me like this.”

his words echoed in your head. liz. his late wife now had a name. no one had seen him like this besides her. jack hadn’t been intimate with anyone since her passing. 

you don’t give yourself time to think, knowing you would get in your head. so you just dropped to your knees in front of him and asked “alright, how do we take this off?”

jack’s smile grew bigger. “press here.” he said, guiding your hand to the base of the socket of his prosthetic leg. “and pull.”

jack turned to his night stand and pulled a packet of wet wipes, a balm and a single condom. the strap of your dress fell further down your arms, and a sudden wave of self consciousness hit you when you realised how crazy you probably looked, with your messy hair and tits out. you tried to ignore it when you saw jack looking at you with hungry eyes again. 

“i can take it from here, sweetheart.” he said when you tried to help him take the gel liner off his residual limb. 

you nodded, whispered an “okay” and got up to take off your dress while jack cleaned his limb. 

jack knelt on the mattress and rolled his condom on, and you mimicked his position to take him on another needy kiss. 

“is like this more comfortable for you?” you asked in a raspy voice. 

“yeah.”

his confirmation hit your ears and you dropped on all four in front of him, arching your back and wiggling your butt when you looked back at him. jack murmured something that sounded a lot like a “you’re gonna kill me” as he started to run his tip from his entrance to your clit, collecting the mix of your natural lubrication and your first orgasm. 

even after working you out, jack’s cock still felt a bit like a tight fit. it wasn’t one of those monster cocks people talk about in books, the ones you highly doubted ever existed, but he was clearly thicker than most men, and the thickest you had ever had. 

“shit.” both of you whispered when he finally hit your hilt. 

a giggle left your lips and soon turned into a moan when jack gave his hips an experimental thrust. he stopped, maybe getting used to you, maybe assessing how you felt. you truly couldn’t tell, brain fogged by your needy haze. 

it was jack’s turn to laugh when you pushed your ass back at him. “so needy, aren’t you, honey?” he mocked, but took pity on you and started moving his hips again. 

you knew jack was as desperate as you when he didn’t bother to start slow. the tip of his cock repeatedly hit that sweet spot inside of you, turning you into a whimpering mess in seconds. you were so out of it that you didn’t hear a word of what he was saying. 

jack slowed his thrusts and bent down on top of you, fast enough to grab both of your arms, folding them by your sides like handles for him to loop his own through it and bring you flush against his chest. 

once again you felt him everywhere. his thrusts were faster than it had been before, the tip of his cock hit your g-spot repeatedly and the warmth of his skin on your back was starting to make you dizzy. on top of that, jack was kneading the rolls of your stomach in a way you knew you were going to have hand prints all over the next morning. 

jack abbot had reduced you to a whimpering mess. 

you heard chuckling behind your ear and felt his lips press a kiss there. “yeah? it feels that good, baby?”

you nodded like your life depended on it. “so good, j–jack.”

the praise gave him more confidence and jack started pounding into you harder and brought his fingers to your clit. 

“holy fuck, jack. just like this. i’m gonna cum again.”

“cum for me, baby. i’m right behind you.”

you nodded and a few thrusts and a couple of moans later, you and jack came together. 

you fell onto his bed and rolled to your back and jack fell right beside you. the two of you basked in each other’s presence in silence, just listening to your erratic breathings and the feel of your skins. 

“shit.” you were almost dozing off when jack said it several minutes later, making you alert again. 

“what?”

“i gotta take care of this.” he said pointing to his, now limp, dick wrapped in the condom. 

“hold on.” 

you got up from his bed and made your way to his window, bringing his crutches back with you. jack thanked you and you made your way towards his en-suite bathroom. 

jack discarded the condom and cleaned himself while you peed, a scene way too domestic for a one night stand. 

you woke up to the distant sound of red hot chilli peppers playing and the smell of bacon. the bed felt good but strange under you, but soon the memories of the previous night hit you and a pleased smile graced your lips. 

sitting up, you noticed a black t-shirt waiting for you on the night stand. it fit you alright, a bit tight on your chest and did a poor job of covering most of your ass, so you pulled your underwear back on and made your way to find jack in the kitchen. 

“good morning.” you greeted him. 

jack smiled and greeted back, pulling you into a sweet kiss. he tapped on the granite counter and told you to hop on it. “i’m almost done.”

you did as he told and you engaged in an easy conversation about the music that was playing. 

seeing jack work around the kitchen was as arousing as he had been the night before. he moved around effortlessly and the evidences of what you did – the scratches on his back and the bites on his chest – were worn with pride. 

jack turned the cooktop off and set the last dish on the table before he turned back to you. 

“you look so good with my shirt on.” he told you, running his hands up and down your thighs, his thumb getting awfully close to your core every time. 

“yeah?” you whined and fell for his bait, bucking your hips when his right thumb got too close to your clit. 

“yeah, honey.”

jack grazed his thumb against your slit and you whined his name. 

“lay back, sweetheart.” you propped your elbows against the cool counter and did what he asked, but stayed in an angle that still let you see what he was doing. 

“she’s so pretty.” he said as he pulled your panties to the side again, and brought his face close to your pussy. “begging for me.” 

you were about to come up with a smart remark when jack licked a long strip up your cunt and took your clit to his mouth, making your hands go straight to his hair, pulling him closer. 

his tongue was soft against your clit and it made you feel like you were walking on clouds. you wished you could stay like this forever, with his face between your thighs, his tongue inside of your and with his hands roaming your body. 

unlike last night, your orgasm creeped out on you and hit you without a warning. you were still a trembling mess when jack emerged from what was quickly becoming his favourite place on earth. 

“alright, now we can eat!”

as expected, your phone had countless notifications from grace, from phone calls, to all caps texts and worried audio messages. you sent grace an audio message back as soon as you set foot inside jack’s elevator, reassuring her that everything was ok and that the date went incredibly well. as usual, you weren’t able to hold yourself and told her a short version of how the sex went, which earned you a very loud audio of her screaming “yes, bitch! ahahahaha.”

you felt sorry for your poor uber driver. 

you pet marie who, rightfully, was pissed off with your disappearance, and went straight to your bathroom. 

“hey, girlies.” you opened and closed your mouth a few times and brought your hands together in a low effort clap. “i’m alive and well… so well.” you giggled and pointed to your clothes. you caught a glimpse of yourself and part of you couldn’t believe you were recording a video like this; hair in a bun because it was so messy from jack pulling it, that you didn’t have the means to deal with it at his place, a couple of hickeys on your neck and chest and, even with the remnants of the previous night’s make up and two skipped skin care routines, you were glowing. 

“it’s two something in the afternoon and i just got home, as you can probably see. the date was incredible. mcdreamy was everything i was expecting and more, way more. i don’t know what to tell you guys except that i guess we will have a first on this channel.”

“mcdreamy will be the first date number two.” you turned the camera off and posted the tiktok. 

40andthriving🩵| yeah, i really don’t know what to tell you guys.  theegraceadams | bitch, you look fucked out. i love that for you santos.trin | oh my god??? user802764277193701 | can put away the knife ig justmyluck91 | girl, come back!!! tells us how the date went!!! imsotired | dude????? SECOND DATE ALERT! 🚨🚨🚨 sophiesoph | marry him

a/n ii – no, i don’t like grey’s anatomy, i just think eric dane was hot. RIP to the baddie.

next chapter |

They’d gotten together before they presented. Both late bloomers. Very late. Med school. Assumed to be betas because, well, they were twenty-one and that was more than a little late to be anything else. Robby, bitingly sarcastic, rakishly and boyishly handsome, too cocky for his own good as he flirted with anything with a pulse. Jack, a squirrely redhead fresh off a tour in Kuwait with darkness in his eyes and an amputation that needed six more weeks before he could be fitted for his prosthesis. An unlikely pair connected by one thing: Being not quite enough. Not quite at the top of their class. Not quite harsh enough to attract omegas or soft enough to attract alpha. Just enough for each other.

Morning workouts where Robby pretended he wanted to get fit as an excuse to come to Jack’s physical therapy sessions, encouraging him and watching him with barely controlled lust as he fought his way out of the wheelchair and onto his prosthetic, going from wobbly to sure over weeks and weeks of hard work. Midday lunches where they could complain about professors who lived behind the times and other students who just plain sucked. Study sessions where they savored shortbread cookies from the cafe attached to the library, those shared moments of late-night sweetness enough to fuel them through days of harsh salt and sour.

So they bonded – not in the traditional sense of the word with bites and pheromones, but something else. Something that went deep. Deep enough that when they were both hit by their first rut, they collided into each other full force. Lips that broke against teeth, sweat that mingled as they lost themselves, knots that rubbed against each other as they tangled up in Jack’s army-issue sheets. After that first rut together, they locked eyes – hazel and brown, a sunlit creek – and knew. It would be a hard road for them in a society where two alphas together was well outside the norm, but this was it. This was lust and love and laughter and light and everything all merged into one relationship.

They decided to figure it out together.

Wedding bands and attending positions and fifteen years of figuring it out later, there’s only one thing missing: A family of their own. Every alpha has that deep urge at the base of their gut to have pups – to breed, yes, but also to raise children, to grow with them, to be a parent. That was the one thing they couldn’t give each other. There are plenty of options these days for non-A/O couples, of course, but none of them felt like a fit for Jack and Robby.

They could only agree on one option: If the right omega came along, someone they could both spend their lives with, they’d have pups of their own. If it happened, it happened. They could be happy and fulfilled without it, but the option was open.

There’s been a handful of omegas over the years, but never anything serious. Friends they helped out during heats, brief flings, one boyfriend of a couple months. In the last five years, though, it’s just been the two of them. Nowadays, creeping into their forties together, they’re pretty damn sure that dream is no longer possible. Countless friends who understand them most have told them to wait, it’s fate, that biology wants alphas to find omegas. But, really, no matter how much they nod along or laugh it off, they’ve made peace with their simple life together, refusing to admit that there’s still a tiny spark at the backs of their minds every once in a while. That want. That ache.

Jack can smell you from the hub.

Through the clear semi-perforated patch over his nostrils that usually keeps omega pheromones off his mind.

His chin snaps up as you sit down at regular triage. As a nurse does your intake, you cradle a pup who can’t be more than two wailing in your arms. Your eyes are as red-rimmed as his, clearly affected deeply by him being so upset. You soothe the poor baby with gentle bouncing and intentionally flaring that scent of yours. Jack’s body moves before his brain catches up, taking long strides until he’s next to the nurse receptionist, hand on her shoulder, mouth already opening to say, “I’ll take them back and handle everything now. Thank you.”

It takes him by surprise as much as the nurse, who gives him a curious, amused sort of glance. Sure, theoretically, he’s more than welcome to take a patient back in whatever order he wants as an attending. But she can see right through any real reasoning. The stern and sarcastic Dr. Abbot fawning tenderly because of a crying pup and a sniffling omega? It’s…endearing, if strange.

After more than a decade in emergency medicine, he’s very rarely affected by the presence of omegas in distress. He even chuckles when his younger, less experienced coworkers trip over themselves to focus on anything when a sweet, soft thing like you needs immediate help. But now here he is, hand on your lower back as you introduce yourself and the toddler to him, taking sturdy steps across the ED like he’s trying to shield you from any other doctors who might poach your presence.

Guiding you into the closest open room equipped with pediatric supplies, Jack moves like he’s your marionette. As he gets the room and chart ready, his every motion is an unconscious response to you, his body instinctively trying to comfort and assure and take control the way an alpha should. It’s all instinct buried in medicine. While he tries to keep his head on straight, Jack sits on his stool opposite you and the toddler on the hospital bed and gently says, “Tell me all about what’s going on.”

You offer up a small smile and explain as you fuss over the toddler’s messy hair and tear-streaked cheeks and rumpled pajamas, “Benny’s felt yucky all day – really sleepy and fussy, not wanting to eat, running kinda warm – but we had it under control until a few hours ago. Sips of clear fluids, nice cooling bath, resting with some Bluey.” Your eyes go misty again as you look up from Ben and find Jack’s gaze resting tenderly on you. With your lower lip wobbling and your voice thick with tears, you tell him, “But then his fever just kept climbing up starting after dinner. I didn’t feel good about going to sleep not knowing if it would break or not, so we’ve been up for hours. Now he doesn’t want to drink anything and- and he’s never upset and clingy like this; he’s so curious and polite and-” You fall into tears again. “Sorry, I just- I just-”

Jack can’t stand seeing you upset. It hurts as much as any real heartbreak. And he’s never even met you before. He can’t help wondering what it would be like if he took the scent blocking patch off his nose and let himself inhale the fullness of you. Clearly your pheromones are strong enough to be a problem for him without even knowing that.

Swallowing hard, Jack scoots closer and takes your free hand in his. It’s not professional, but you don’t mind. You lean into the touch, clutching his hand close, taking his strength to be your own. Jack squeezes your hand and assures, “It’s alright; you did the right thing bringing him in. We’ll get this figured out in no time. Is it okay if I pick him up and do my exam now?”

With a reluctant nod, you help Jack move Ben onto the exam bed, where he looks so small and so hurt that your tears keep falling despite how often you wipe them away. Ben’s immediately reaching for you, trying to get to your side, and you look to Jack with the most innocent, pained eyes. He touches his stethoscope to Ben’s chest and tells you, “You can stay over here; don’t worry. Are you his mom?”

“Oh, no, not anyone’s mom,” you reply softly, always taken aback by the question no matter how many times it’s asked. Stroking Ben’s wispy hair like he’s your own, you go on, “I’m his nanny. Shoot, his au pair. His mom gets so mad when I forget to call myself that. Anyway, yeah, um, I just take care of him when they’re away, which is a lot of the time.”

He commits that to memory, hating himself for being relieved to know that you don’t already have a mate and pups of your own. It’s a strange swirling feeling in his stomach. Something similar to what he feels when he’s alone with Robby after a fresh batch of students has moved on – a yearning, quiet, needy thing. He swallows hard, swipes a forehead thermometer over Ben’s skin, and tuts, “103.8. That’s no good, little man.” Subtly dropping his hand, he pages for a nurse and tells you, “We’re going to go ahead and start IV fluids since he hasn’t been drinking enough and add some fever reducers to try to get his temperature down so he’s more comfortable. Once he settles some, he’s due for a whole bunch of fun tests. We’re gonna have to admit him tonight to make sure that fever breaks and he can sleep here under observation.”

Ben’s eyes slam up to yours, understanding as much as his tiny brain can as he latches onto ‘sleep here.’ Trying to snuggle closer to you while you fight to keep him on the exam bed, he wriggles and worries fearfully, “Nini stay?”

“He can’t say ‘nanny’ yet,” you tell Jack with the softest smile. You gently run your fingers through Ben’s hair, the gesture clearly to calm you both, and ask Jack, “That’s okay, right? If I stay in the room with him? His parents are in Europe until next week.”

Glancing at your chart to make sure all your paperwork is in order, he replies, “Of course. I’ll have them bring up a cot so you don’t have to deal with the loveseat. They’re awful.”

“That’s sweet; thank you. I know it’s not your job to deal with stuff like that.”

“Don’t worry about it.” As a resident pushes an IV and takes cultures, Ben finally starts to quiet and soften as the fluids hit his system, his sleepiness beginning to take over. Jack tells you sternly, his eyes paternal and warm, “I want you to be extra diligent about keeping yourself healthy the next couple days. Can’t have a lovely thing like you coming down with whatever the little guy has.” Your eyes widen in response to the way the compliment slips from his tongue so earnestly and simply. His face blanches and his neck goes blotchy. Quickly, he stammers out, “Oh, god. I’m so sorry; I have no idea why I just said that. I mean, you are lovely, of course, but-”

“It’s alright, Dr. Abbot,” you giggle, happy to smile for the first time since you’ve been at the hospital. You give Jack a playful nudge and add, “I don’t mind being called lovely by a silver fox such as yourself.”

As his cheeks tinge bright pink, Jack nods courteously, grateful that you’ve given him an out. “Thank you. That’s, ah, that’s very nice of you.”

You snicker and shake your head. “Please; I’m sure patients hit on you all the time.”

The junior doctor who’s tending to Ben snorts, “You have no idea.” Her mischievous eyes flick up to yours with a conspiratorial sort of energy. “Usually it doesn’t fluster him so much.”

Abbot releases a harsh breath and bites back, “Ellis, please.”

“I’m just saying,” she teases lightly, making big amused faces to amuse Ben while drawing his blood and praising him for being brave, “the big bad night shift attending doesn’t usually take care of sweet toddlers with fevers himself.”

Abbot hisses, “Parker.”

She just chuckles to herself and stands up with her collection of swabs and vials. Practically skipping past with amusement, she leans in close to him and teases, “We can smell it on you, gramps.”

You let out a squeak, something like a laugh, and avert your eyes. You hadn’t mentioned it because you’re unendingly polite and would rather die than embarrass a doctor, but, yes, Dr. Abbot is scenting all over you like a teenager with a crush, all raspberry and brunch. It’s not necessarily uncommon for an alpha to stink up a room when they’re with a particularly cute omega, but for an older professional it’s a bit juvenile, maybe. Like laughing a little too loud at every joke or staring at someone’s lips while they talk.

To Jack, though, the realization is like being shoved in the chest. As Dr. Ellis takes a reluctant-but-too-sleepy-to-protest Ben off for some imaging, Jack puts his hand over his face and groans, “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. For the compliment and then for this and- God. I haven’t- I’m not even- I’m sorry. That’s the point. Sincerely.”

After biting your lip so adorably it makes Jack’s stomach turn, you sheepishly admit, “It’s really alright, doctor. I’m probably a little too close to my heat to be running around in public; I’m sure it’s affecting you more than it normally would. Don’t worry about it.”

Jack’s brows furrow. You’re affecting him that strongly when he has his nostrils covered and he’s nowhere near being in rut? That’s ridiculous. He must be, like, sick, surely. Or you’re some super omega with magic seduction hormone powers.

Or, worse than it all, you’re something special.

His mind races a bit as he turns away from you, reaches up, and carefully peels off the scent-blocking patch over his nose.

And it’s you.

Shift change can’t come soon enough. Jack’s thrumming his fingers against countertops, clicking his pen enough to make Dana snatch it from his hand, and checking on you and Ben so often it could probably count as an addiction. He tries to be subtle about it but fails miserably, not even realizing how pathetic he’s being until Ellis makes fun of him for it – over and over, at that.

Finally, though, fucking finally, his husband slinks through the doors with his sunglasses on and his earbuds still blasting. He walked to work, which means he woke up early, couldn’t get back to sleep, and stayed antsy until he could justify leaving early. The moment he can smell Jack, his face softens, the morning’s anxiety easing because he knows Jack will have already done everything he can to set the day shift up for success.

This morning, though, Jack walks up to Robby with hurried, serious steps unlike the exhausted, unsteady ones he’s usually met with. He doesn’t skip tilting his chin up to meet Robby’s quick kiss – he never misses that – but he does drop his voice low right away to say, “You need to come with me.”

As he meets Jack’s eager pace, Robby hustles up, catches Jack by his lower back, and chuckles against his ear, “Shit, where’s the fire?”

But Jack doesn’t answer, too possessed with leading Robby up to the pediatric room where you and Ben are still both sleeping. The heavy blinds keep out the early morning light and Jack’s hand hesitates on the door handle. You look so peaceful with your lips gently parted, curled up, totally calm now that Ben’s fever’s come down and the antibiotics are working their magic. During morning rounds, he’s the first doctor to punch the lights on and wake a patient to keep the hospital going and free up beds.

But you?

He hates the idea of waking you.

With a shaky breath, Jack meets his own husband’s eyes, tells him all about last night, that moment really just a few hours ago now, and then says, “It’s time for his morning workup. You’ll understand if- I need you to- I don’t even know how to explain myself right now. Just come in here with me, okay? You’ll know. I’m sure you’ll know.”

Tentative, soft, he nods. “Alright, of course. No problem.” Early in a relationship, this kind of intense behavior would be met with suspicion, concern, confusion. But now, with more than a decade of expertise in the strange field of Jack Abbot, Robby knows better than to do anything but what he asks without question. He tucks one of Jack’s too-grown-in curls behind his ear and prods quietly, “Just give me a quick heads up on what I’m in on, though, would you? Because, from here, it looks like a pedes case getting ready for discharge.”

Jack cracks a stupid sort of smile. “I know I’m being nuts, alright? But just take a deep breath when we’re through the door, okay? Because I think she’s- I think she’s supposed to be ours, Michael. I’ve never felt anything like it – and I need you to feel it too.”

Robby tilts his head to the side, any thoughts rushed away. Ours. Conceptually, he knows what Jack means. They’ve discussed it before. But Jack’s never looked so goddamn serious about it. Like there’s not a single question in his mind. If you’re not theirs, then you must at least be his. That makes Robby’s heart rate spike a bit, but he decides not to entertain the thought. He decides, as he has ten thousand times, to trust Jack with the fragile stitched-up thing of his heart.

As Jack pushes open the door and carefully slides the dimmer lights on, you stir to consciousness and so does Ben. When you realize the two of you have actually managed to sleep soundly after such an awful evening, your scent flares happily.

Robby’s world shifts just like Jack’s had.

His breath catches in his throat when you smile at him.

Shortbread.

Butter and vanilla and sugar.

Flooding from your skin, so thick and delicious it makes their heads spin.

Jack and Robby’s scents have always fought one another. Robby – black coffee, no cream, roasted so dark it’s past bitter. Jack – raspberry, bright, effervescent, tongue-coating sour. They don’t make sense together. Every kiss a clash. But with your scent mingled in, something gentle that matches them each individually and meets in the middle, it all blends into something that clicks into place. It’s not just Robby’s rough winter night and Jack’s bright spring sunrise. It’s a summer evening that lingers on and on, warm, ripe, rich. Fireflies in cupped palms and laughter on whiskey tongues and homemade thumbprint cookies dipped in swirling hazelnut heat until they’re perfectly soft. A complicated mouthful finally balanced.

Immediately after they leave the treatment room, Robby drags Jack down a hall and corners him against a wall with a borderline heaving chest. Voice raspy and needy, he presses his forehead to his husband’s and checks, “You feel this- this crazy? Like nothing makes sense anymore?”

Jack swallows hard and tries to focus on the rough scent from Robby’s neck. Usually it calms him, but his head is still spinning from the way your presence mixed with theirs into something so much more simple and true. He reaches up and twines his fingers in the short hair at the back of Robby’s neck and replies slowly, “Yeah. Yeah, of course I do. Fuck. What are we supposed to do? Should we-”

“We shouldn’t,” Robby whispers. Harsh. Lying. “We really shouldn’t.”

“We shouldn’t,” Jack agrees as he nods like he means it. Sparing a glance over his shoulder, he sees you in the hall, away from Ben’s inquisitive eyes, questioning a nurse with serious concerned eyes. He melts all over again. Looking back at Robby, he sighs, accepting it, “But what if we did anyway?”

He’d taken you against the window the first time.

“You afraid of heights?” he’d asked, and the question moved through you like warm liquid rather than reached you. You’d shaken your head, or tried to. “No,” he’d murmured, your jaw in his hands. “Didn’t think so.” 

He’d taken his prosthetic off after, wryly claiming that the position felt good but the leg disagreed. That had somehow lead to another round, slower the second time with him on his back and you set over him.

A part of you wondered often the sort of impression you’d given Jack, what he’d seen, exactly, that made him sure he could have you like this and keep it weightless. Whatever it was, it had to have been right to some degree because you’d spent more nights in his penthouse than your own apartment for the past six months without ever calling it anymore than what it was. 

He was a better lay than you’d ever had. He was probably the best option around to get steam off while you worked your way through residency. It helped that he was your attending and you shared the same strange hours. 

You kept the books carefully and columns balanced. Sex, sleep, the occasional terrible four a.m. meal that didn’t count because eating was maintenance, not intimacy. You never stayed for coffee — you took it to go — and you didn’t learn his middle name on purpose. You’d never seen the inside of his closet. You left before you could risk having to go to work together. A woman in trouble would linger, and you did not linger. Therefore.

But the stupid books had started running a quiet deficit you hadn’t accounted for. You knew exactly how he took his coffee. The toothbrush in the second drawer that you reached for now without looking, muscle memory in a place you’d sworn was temporary. 

And even though you could admit that Jack knew his way around you and never made you ask twice for anything in that bed, that wasn’t the line item that worried you. Bodies learned bodies. It was that you’d stopped taking your coffee to go some mornings without ever noticing the change; you’d sit at his counter with a mug that was somehow yours now, and drank it there while he read something on his phone and never told you to leave. You’d started to become a woman that lingered, and even worse, one who liked to do so.

And that had to stop, because Jack had told you point-blank what this was on the first night while you were still putting on your shirt with his mouth print blooming under the fabric.

This doesn’t have to be a thing. I’m not looking to make it one. Is that alright?

He’d said the words while putting on his briefs, and you’d agreed too fast, because at that time, it had cost you nothing. You’d wanted a body and a break, and he was offering both. He’d been more honest than any man you’d let touch you. He’d told you the terms up front and never moved them.

So, you simply had to put yourself out of the arrangement.

Jack found you by your car in the parking garage. He’d put on his coat a heavy thing that should’ve swallowed him but instead he was able to fill out almost perfectly.

“Jack,” you said, trying to find an even voice as he closed the distance between you. Before he could even ask, you forced out, “I’m not going home with you.”

His brows furrowed and he looked confused. For good reason, you supposed. Friday mornings had become sort of a usual for you, the easiest compensation in your life for missing Friday nights. 

“You good?” He stepped close and tipped his head, and you watched him give you a complete once-over, eyes dropping to your hands and the set of your shoulders like you were a patient. “You looked a little out of it today. Come — I’ll make you soup.” 

You pinched your eyes shut at his words. “What’s that even supposed to mean — I was fine.” 

“Don’t take it personal,” he said. “Come on, soup.”

“Seriously, I was fine.” You were almost offended now, which was clearly his intent, the bastard. “I’ve been awake for nineteen hours, I’m not sick —” You caught yourself getting pulled into it, defending your honor, exactly the kind of dumb circular thing you’d let him rope you into a hundred times because arguing with Jack was sometimes fun. You shut it down. “I’m not going home with you,” you said again, this time with a sharper edge. 

He pursed his lips and crossed his arms over his chest, giving you another once-over as he recaliberated the situation in real time. “Did I upset you?” 

“No, it’s not a fight,” you said fast. You dragged a hand down your face. “I’m not mad at you, Jack. I’m done with this. The whole — all of it.”

He tipped his chin down when you gestured vaguely with your finger between the two of you, at the whole abstract nature of you. Then, he said, “You’re calling it?”

“Yeah, very much,” you said, voice dropping a register as you leaned against the driver’s side door of your car. Then, when you saw how his brows furrowed and how he looked just slightly caught off-guard, you added, dumbly, “Sorry. I guess.” 

He held your eyes a long beat, something working in his mouth, and then closed the last of the distance between you. His hand came up to your jaw, and you felt your face turn to liquid as you involuntarily leaned into it; his thumb dragged slow along your cheekbone and his gaze followed it, and you stood pinned to your own cold car door and let him, because telling him to stop would mean pretending you didn’t want it, and you’d never once been able to sell that lie for either of you. 

“You mean it?” he asked, voice rough, and his forehead dropped to yours. When you nodded, he mimicked your movement. “Alright. Then let’s at least end it properly.” 

When you showed no urgency to decline, his mouth found yours before you could decide whether you trusted yourself enough to end it properly. One of his hands stayed at your jaw while the other one fitted you back against the cold of the car. He smiled against your mouth, and you used your palm to push him by the chest.

He went back, just slightly, dropping his head to your forehead again. “I’m guessing that’s a yes?”

“One time,” you said quietly, almost in a whisper. “And then I mean it. It won’t change anything.”

“I believe you,” he said. “Last time, then. Make it count.”

Jack was making it obscenely difficult for you to make it count. The rhythm you’d settled into with him at around month two — the one where the two of you skipped the drink and went straight into his bed — had disappeared tonight. He just really needed a drink tonight, and then another, and then he really didn’t want to shut his mouth. 

He poured the second one without offering you a top-up and stood at the window instead of coming to you, two fingers of amber catching the lamplight. You watched him and watched him, answering his questions until the two of you finally ended up in the bedroom. 

He’d opened his mouth to argue something and you got his belt open instead slowly, and whatever he’d been about to say faded elsewhere. The city sat out past the glass, unblinking, that audience he never drew the blinds against. His hand found your hair, resting with his thumb at your ear, almost gentle and completely fucking distracting. 

“Slow,” he murmured when you took him into your mouth, and the word came out scraped down to nothing. His head went back against the headboard. “Fuck.”

You went the opposite of slow; you knew that taking your time with it, acknowledging the last time of it all, would crack something open in your chest you couldn’t afford to have open. You did everything you knew undid him — six months of evidence, a body of proof — fast and certain, and the breath punched out of him and his fingers curled into your hair and the smug, talkative version of him went quiet for about four seconds. 

“You — huh — last time. Really?” he managed to say, fingers tightening against your scalp, the blunt fingernails scraping against the skin. You slid your tongue down his length, and he let out a short groan, letting out a wrecked, “Good girl.” His hips lifted a fraction before he caught them, forcing himself still under your hands. “Good — yeah.” 

You’d have smiled if your mouth wasn’t otherwise occupied, so you settled on humming around him. You let yourself think you’d won the quiet, and then his thumb moved against your temple slowly, and he ruined it.

“You really mean it?” he asked quietly, words aimed somewhere at the ceiling. “You’re done?”

You ignored him and kept your rhythm. It wasn’t a question you were going to dignify with him in your mouth and your resolve already pooled somewhere on his bedroom floor. 

His hands flexed in your hair at the silence, then tugged, a frustrated little pull that went straight down your spine and that he absolutely felt you react to, because his thumb pressed flat behind your ear like he was talking to your pulse there.

“Don’t go quiet on me,” he said, rasp going uneven, breath catching somewhere between the words, his whole stomach drawn tight. You watched the muscle there jump when you took him deeper as his jaw worked. “You hear me. I know you — shit.”

You’d found the underside with the flat of your tongue you slowly dragged, and the sentence collapsed. His head dropped back and your eyes caught the tendon at his throat standing out. One of his heels dug into the mattress and you felt the tremor run up his thigh under your palm. 

You’d have been lying if you said this wouldn’t be missed. Not the talking, but this, the privilege of watching Jack Abbot lose a fight with his own body, a man who controlled every room he stood in coming apart by degrees because of what you were doing. You pressed your thumb into the crease of his hip and felt him shudder. You took him to the back of your throat and swallowed and he said your name that came out of his mouth breaking. 

“You’re really gonna — ” He inhaled sharply, hand fisting tighter on your head. “ — gonna do this and walk, you’re — ”

You pulled off of him with a slow, wet, and deeply unflattering sound and sat back on your heels and looked up at him, lips swollen, thoroughly out of patience, your hand still working him just enough that his hips chased it. His eyes were closed, and he let out a large exhale.

“Are you kidding me?” 

He cracked an eye open, then shifted his head to the side against the pillow. “What?” he muttered.

“Why won’t you shut up?” You squeezed deliberately and his jaw clenched against the noise that almost got out of him. “You’re acting like a child.” 

“Acting like a child,” he huffed, head tipping back. “I’m pretty aged out of the tantrum bracket.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” You dragged your thumb up the length of him slowly. “You’ve been throwing one since we got off.”

His hand left your hair and closed around your wrist instead — the one still working him — stilling it, and then he was pulling with his unarguable strength, drawing you up over him until you had to crawl up his body or be dragged. 

You ended up straddling his waist. He stayed flat on his back beneath you, one arm folding behind his head while the other spread warm and heavy over your thigh, and he looked up at you with his chest still heaving and the gray stark at his temples. 

“Better,” he muttered. “Neck was startin’ to go, watching you be stubborn down there.” The hand on your thigh slid up slowly, settling at your hip, thumb working a lazy circle into the bone. He tilted his chin up slightly. “What’s this really about?”

You went still because you had too much of an answer, and it was the sort of one that you didn’t believe could survive being said out loud over a man who’d made it clear exactly what this was on day one. 

“You know,” you said.

“Maybe. But humor me.” His eyes stayed on your face, looking patient as ever, as the circle of his thumb continued moving. “Thought we had something nice going and now — ” He tilted his head slightly against the pillow. “So, what’s going on up in that pretty little head of yours?”

“I want more than this,” you said plainly. “That’s what’s in my head. I want the whole thing — the relationship and dates and stuff. I think I’ve got enough time to — get into that.”

“Yeah?” he said, voice coming out in a breath His thumb stilled on your hip. He looked up at you and his other hand came up and pushed a piece of your hair back off your cheek. 

You had to press your lips together, because you obviously weren’t expecting him to offer, and yet you’d been holding your breath anyway. 

“Yeah,” you said. “I do.”

His hand stayed on your cheek a moment longer, the pad of his thumb resting just under your eye. Then his hand dropped back to your hip where it was safe.

“You should,” he said after a moment, swallowing. “Get into that. You’ve got the time.”

“That’s it?”

“What do you want me to say?” His hands flexed at your hip, his hips still beneath yours and the want still humming under all of it. “Not gonna talk you out of one thing you actually deserve. Even I’m not that selfish.” His brows furrowed, like he’d just processed his own words. “Most days.”

His hand left your hip and found your waist, and then he was turning you, guiding you off of him onto the side on the mattress beside him, leaving the two of you laying facing each other in the gold dark. His thigh slid between yours. 

This close, you could see everything you usually didn't get to study: the silver threaded through the stubble at his jaw, the small white seam of an old scar through one eyebrow, the way the lines around his eyes weren't from laughing. He had one arm folded under his head and the other draped heavy over your hip, fingers spread at the small of your back, and he just looked at you, the want and the conversation both still hanging in the air between you, neither resolved.

“S’it somebody at work?” he asked. “Has to be. You don’t have time yet to meet anyone who isn’t.” 

You shook your head slightly against the pillow, and your brows furrowed together at the idea. “No — no one. I haven’t met anyone yet.” 

He huffed. His eyes dropped from yours to somewhere near your collarbone, then came back up. 

He turned his face toward the pillow for a second, as if to hide his face from you, then met your eyes again. “You’d rather have no one than me, huh?” 

“Wow,” you breathed out in almost a gasp. You pulled back an inch against the pillow to look at him properly. “Now that’s mean, Jack. I can find someone, you know.” 

“Yeah?” His brow lifted, scar catching the light. “Course you can.” His hand slid off your hip and down, palming the back of your thigh, drawing your knee up over his. “Always hear someone in the hospital talking about you.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“M’not.” He hitched your leg higher, fitting himself into the space it opened, and you felt the blunt heat of him press where you were already aching for it, rubbing slowly against your folds. “I mean it. It’s about time you got out from this old man.” 

“Don’t call yourself that.”

He dragged the length of him through you again, catching you over and over where you wanted him and not giving it. “It’s what I am. Fifty, boring life, no good to you past this.” His mouth ghosted the corner of yours, breath warm and uneven. “You should be out with someone who can give you the whole thing. I’ve already done my time.”

You could do it again, you wanted to say. You could be the whole thing. But the words sat behind your teeth, because you already knew what he’d say and do if you’d said them, and you couldn’t take hearing it kindly. Especially not with him notched against you like this when it was supposed to be the last time.

You let your hand find his jaw instead, the rough of the stubble, the silver, and you watched his eyes flicker at the touch, at how your lips moved from one side to the other as you tried to keep the words down. It seemed like he’d understood whatever you didn’t say.

“Yeah, baby,” he muttered and pressed his thumb to the back of your thigh, eyes fluttering shut at the touch of you. “I know.” 

He pushed in then, slow, all the way, mid-breath like it was just the next thing between you. The shudder rolled clean through him as he sank into you, his exhale breaking ragged against your mouth. Your spine arched off the mattress. His arm hooked under the small of your back and dragged you flush, no space left, no air, the two of you pressed chest to chest in the gold hush.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth, holding there, buried to the hilt and not moving as he felt you clench around him. “Spoiling me rotten and then telling me you’re leaving.”

“Shut up now — ”

He drew back slow and sank back in deep, and the sound you made came out somewhere against his shoulder. Each roll of his hips pressed you up the sheets. “Get me used to this and then — what? Go hand it to someone who hasn’t earned it.” He laughed brokenly against your throat. “Selfish girl.” 

You got a fistful of his hair and pulled, hard enough that his breath stuttered. “Go find — someone else yourself,” you said through your teeth, because opening your mouth seemed like something embarrassing would follow. “You’re not lacking options — ”

“But I like having my cake,” he breathed, and there was almost a laugh under it. “Eating it, too.”

“Gross,” you mumbled against him.

One month was meant to be enough time. Lying awake the first week, you’d assumed it’d take thirty days to unlearn a person. It had worked on the obvious things. You’d stopped reaching for your phone at the end-of-shift and stopped seeking him out by the lockers. You’d slept in your own bed and not found it lacking, mostly. But nobody warned you that being in a car for four hours would call it all into question. 

One month of calling him Dr. Abbot across the bay, crisp and so weightless, handing him a chart without your fingers brushing his. You’d gotten good at it. Then Robby floated the conference. Some emergency medicine thing four hours upstate;  a block of credits, a hotel with a conference rate, a chance to put PowerPoint slides between yourself and the actual work for two days. Dana volunteered the department van before anyone could think of a reason not to, already half out of her scrubs spiritually, determined to get a few days of being a person instead of a charge nurse.

Like these things usually did, the seating assembled itself, which was to say it was assembled badly. Robby drove while Dana drove shotgun. Trinity somehow won the entire back row. And the middle row was you, Dennis, and Jack. 

You in the middle, because the universe worked in fucked-up ways. In this case, the universe was named Dana.

“You’ll fit,” Dana had said, and pressed a duffel of granola bars into your arms like a consolation prize, steering you into the gap between the two men before you could mount a defense. 

You fit pressed thigh-to-thigh with Jack Abbot for four hours up interstate, his arm slung along the seatback behind you because there was genuinely nowhere else for a man his size’s arms to put it, the heat of him bleeding through your sleeve like a low fever. You knew that arm. You knew the weight of it, the places where his hand fell when it wasn’t thinking about where it fell. It was a quarter-inch from touching you, which was worse than actually touching you, and you suspected he knew that, too. 

The van pulled out of the lot at five in the morning. Dennis had his headphones in before the drive even started. Up front, Dana was already arguing with Robby about the music. Trinity was sprawled in the whole back row to herself, scrolling on her phone. 

Thirty minutes into the drive, Jack broke the seal. 

“Excited?” he asked, eyes still out the window, profile flat and bored as anything. His voice was pitched low enough that it lived in the space between his mouth and your ear and nowhere else. 

You kept your head tipped back against the seat. “More excited about sleeping in a comfortable bed than the conference.”

His brows narrowed as he turned to look at you. “Some Marriot-adjacent mattress? You’re aiming low.”

“It’s horizontal and not on-call. I’m easy to please.”

“Since when?” he drawled, bone-dry, eyes going back to the window. But his thigh had pressed a degree closer against yours, a shift you couldn’t call a thing without admitting you were keeping track. Up-front, Dana won whatever argument she’d been having and something with a heavy bassline filled the van. Jack let the noise ring and leaned half-an-inch closer that nobody would ever catch. “You used to say my sheets were scratchy.”

“For a man with that penthouse, they were scratchy — ”

“Finally,” he breathed out, satisfied, like he’d been fishing for exactly that and reeled it in. Something in his face eased and you hated, a little, how much you wanted to have done that. “I almost forgot you’d been in it.” 

God. You hadn’t forgotten anything. That was the whole problem. You knew the place, the cold floor on the way to the bathroom, the exact freckles on his chest up close. You knew he wore a ring you had never once asked about and he’d never once explained, and that you’d both kept your eyes politely off the subject the way you keep your eyes off a wound that wasn’t yours to dress. You knew all of it, and all you could do was keep promising yourself it didn’t count anymore. 

“Can we stop at the next exit?” Trinity said from the back. “I need coffee and the bathroom. In that order.”

Dana hummed. “There’s a Sheetz coming up in ten. That good?” She looked through the map on her phone. “Everybody go when we stop. We’re not pulling off twice.”

“Works for me,” Robby said. 

Dennis plugged out one of his earphones and glanced over everyone in the car. “We’re stopping?” 

“Yup,” Dana confirmed. “Bathroom, snacks, ten minutes, back in the van. Whitaker, you want anything, you decide now.” 

Dennis considered, then put his earphone back on, apparently deciding the whole thing was beneath the commitment. 

Jack leaned in from beside you, barely. “Single stall in the back of those places, you know?” he said, voice low, barely audible over the music. “There’s a lock on the door and everything.” 

You kept your eyes on the windshield in front of you. “Weird thing to know off the top of your head.”

His thigh pressed warm against yours through the curve of an off-ramp that didn’t strictly require it. “How much would it take?” His eyes flickered back out to the window, even as his shoulder now pressed up against yours. “You and me in there. Ten minutes. Name a number.”

“Can’t be bought.” You forced your eyes to the windshield. “Sorry. Not for sale.”

“No?” His voice dipped, amused. “Everybody’s got a price.”

“Not me.” You turned your head and found him already closer than he’d been a second ago. “You really think you could afford me?”

“Could take a run at it.”

“Wouldn’t get far.”

“Fifty,” he said, and you could see the slight grin crawling onto his lips. 

You let out a short laugh, then immediately pressed your mouth over your lips before it became any louder. “I don’t get out of bed for fifty dollars, Abbot, let alone on my knees.”

“Oof.” He winced, mock-wounded, dragging a hand over his chest. “Expensive date.” 

“It’s never a date with you.”

He bit his lip at that, eyes raking over you, the grin caught behind his teeth. “Right. Hundred, then.” 

“I’m gonna report you to HR. You’re my attending.” 

“Good luck with filling out the history we have for that.”

You turned to look at him, and let your mouth curl. “You really think I’m the sort of girl to do it in a gas station bathroom?”

You watched the grin go still on his face, watched his eyes drop to your mouth and drag back up, the warmth in them tipping into something darker. “Would you?” 

You scoffed, shaking your head. “In your dreams, Jack.”

“Frequently,” he said, not missing a second. “Vividly, too.” 

You leaned in enough to feel his breath catch. “Keep dreaming, then. It’s all you’re getting.” 

You sat back before he could answer, fingers playing with the seatbelt, sweet as anything.

“Christ.” He dragged a hand down over his jaw, his head tipping back against the seat and looked at you sideways through the gray morning light, and the bit fell off his face. “Missed you.”

Before you could even process the words with his attention on you, because he was who he was, his jaw worked once and looked back out the window, ending it himself before you could, handing the silence back to you to do with it what you pleased. 

Your chest squeezed just slightly at that, and you had to be the one to force yourself to look away, catching sight of Dennis’s head bumping against the window as he soundly slept, oblivious, lucky. 

At some point past the gas station you lost the fight with your own exhaustion. Nineteen hours of being awake before the drive, and the van was warm, and the bassline had mellowed into something Dana hummed underneath her breath, and the road had gone smooth — almost hypnotic — interstates often did when they’d gone out of the clutches of the city. You’d meant to stay awake. You’d made the small private rule about it, too; you went under anyway, somewhere between a stretch of dead farmland and the next, your head listing by degrees toward the warm solid thing on your left because your body, again, moving without giving a single shit about how you felt. 

When you surfaced, it happened slowly. The light had changed; it was full morning now, white and flat through the windshield. Your cheek was pressed against something that rose and fell in a long, even rhythm, and your brain took its time arriving to the fact of it. You’d fallen asleep on Jack's chest. One month clean and your face was tucked into the seam of his jacket like it had never stopped being there. 

You weren’t proud of how you didn’t want to move just yet, so you didn’t move. 

You could feel his breathing under your cheek, slow enough that he might have been asleep, too. There was a smell to him you’d made yourself forget and were now remembering, completely against your will. It was nothing fancy, just clean cotton and something warm. The Gatorade bottle you’d been clutching was in the cupholder against your knee now, and you had no memory putting it there. Which meant there was a slight chance Jack had worked it out of your sleeping hand at some point so it wouldn’t tip into your lap, and set it down. 

You cracked one eye to assess the damage to your dignity. Dennis had leaned in the same stretch of road, toward you, hood up and mouth open, gone to the world. And somewhere in all that, Jack’s arm, the long span of it along the seatback, had come down around you with his hand had ended up resting flat on the top of Dennis’s skull, holding it off your shoulder, fingers spread over the kid’s hair like a melon he was deciding whether to buy. 

You’d furrowed your brows at the arrangement, reeling, when the camera shutter went off. 

Jack came awake all at once. He always did; he was never groggy, never had a transition. It was like there was an off and on button to him, as though his nervous system had been trained somewhere that didn’t allow the luxury of waking up slowly. He clocked it in a half second: the phone, you against his chest, the unexplained weight under his own palm. He followed his arm down to where his hand was cradling a sleeping resident’s head and his face crumpled slightly. 

He smacked it off, open-palmed, off the top of Dennis’s skull. 

“Ow.” Dennis jolted awake, flailing upright, a crease pressed into his cheek from your sleeve. “What — Dr. Abbot — what —”

“Wrong shoulder, kid,” Jack said.

“I wasn’t —” Dennis took in the angle for himself and recoiled. “Sorry. God. Sorry.” 

You’d started to sit up to peel yourself off Jack’s chest and salvage some dignity to sit back into the cold neutral air of your own seat where you belonged. His palm came up to your forehead and pushed you back down against him.

“Not you,” he said. His hand stayed flat on your forehead. “You’re fine where you are.” 

You reached up and pulled his hand off your forehead, sitting up out of the warmth of him. 

“C’mon,” he said quietly, under the music, softer than a command.

You paused with your hand still around his wrist and turned to look at him full-on. He was already looking at you, none of the previous needling present in his face.

You shook your head once, a small gesture. You didn’t trust the words to come out the way they needed to, so you let your face carry it instead.

He held your eyes a second, then his jaw shifted slightly and the corner of his mouth went to a worn-down half of a smile. He gave you the smallest nod. His eyes fell shut and he tipped his head back with a small shake of his head as he eased his wrist out of your hand. 

You put your hands in your lap where they couldn’t get you in trouble, and stared out at the flat white morning coming up over the interstate, and made sure to not look at him again.

The conference threw a networking event the first evening, which meant a low-lit ball room, a cash bar charging eleven dollars for wine that came from a box, and a couple hundred physicians standing around in lanyards pretending they’d be here without the boxed wine. 

You’d lost the group almost immediately. Dana was drawn to a cluster of people she knew in a previous life; Robby to someone he’d done a residency with; Dennis to the food; Trinity to one of her college buddies. It left you working the edge of the room with a plastic cup of wine, doing a slow orbit as you read badges, when a man peeled off a nearby conversation and aimed at you.

He was older. Closer to Jack’s range, give or take. He had silver coming in at the temples and an unbothered ease that made you wonder if he’d ever had it hard. His badge put him outside Columbus. He had a good face and seemed aware of it without leaning on it, and no wear that graced his features; a man who slept fine, you assumed, and didn’t own a single thing he refused to speak about. 

“Pace yourself with that,” he said, tipping his own glass in the direction of yours. “It comes up to you pretty quickly.” 

“Bit late for that,” you said, lifting the cup up an inch. “This is already number three.”

“Then I’m too late to save you and might as well make it worse,” he said, offering a hand. “Mark. Philly. I run the shop out there.” 

You introduced yourself. He had a good handshake, dry and brief, none of the holding-on the men sometimes did at these things. 

He tipped his head to look at your badge. “Pittsburgh Trauma. You like it?”

“Most days.”

He shrugged. “Anybody who says every day is lying or hasn’t been doing it long enough.” He took a sip and let his eyes come back to your face. “Let me guess. Senior resident. Somebody made you come.” 

You were going to say something back—you had something, you’d half-built it—and then there was a hand at the small of your back. You knew the weight of it, the breadth, where the fingers fell. It settled low against your spine and stayed, warm through the dress. 

“Mark,” Jack said from beside you. He had a club soda in his free hand and an easy nothing on his face. “Jack Abbot. Pittsburgh.” 

“Jack.” Mark did a quick thing, the hand, the half-step Jack had folded into the space between you without seeming to take it, the way you hadn't stepped out from under his palm. Something recalibrated behind his face, pleasant and unhurried. He stuck the hand out anyway. “I think I’ve read you —” He referenced one of Jack’s studies you knew all too well, something he’d handed over to you once in his bed like it was a bedtime story.

“That’s me.” Jack took the handshake. His thumb moved once at your spine, where the angle hid it from the third person entirely. “Philly? You inherit the department or build it?”

“Little bit of both. Mostly inherited the problems,” he said lightly. “You enjoying the conference?” 

“It’s a conference,” Jack said, lifting his glass half-an-inch. Then, his head tilted in your direction. “You know this one’s my best trauma resident? I’d put her on anything. Watched her run a procedure last month half the seniors I came up with couldn’t have called that fast.” 

“That so?” Mark looked at you again, interest sharpened. “He doesn’t seem the type to hand those out.”

“He’s nice to everyone.” 

“She’s underselling it.” Jack’s hand spread a degree wider at your back, the heel of his palm settling into the dip of your spine, fingers easy along your hip. “You’ll be reading her name in a couple years and remembering you met her here, of all places.”

It got the laugh Jack wanted it to. Mark took a sip, easy, regrouping, and you watched him do the math the way smooth men do—fast, behind a pleasant face—and land on a play.

“Well.” He tilted the glass toward Jack. “I won’t monopolize you. I’m sure you’ve got the room to work — everybody wants a minute at these things.”

The thumb that had been moving at your back stilled, and Jack’s features crossed into something amused as he narrowed his brows at the man. 

“S’alright,” he said pleasantly. “Got everyone I need right here.” 

Mark recaliberated again, watching him take Jack’s measure one more time; the hand, the half-inch of space that hardly qualified as space. You watched him arrive to the easy conclusion that whatever was happening here had been decided before he ever walked over.

“Fair enough,” he said, setting his empty cup down at the nearest high-top. “Pleasure. Good luck with the residency.” He nodded at you, then to Jack. “Abbot.” And then he was gone, folding back into the room, off to find the next conversation that wasn’t already spoken for.

Jack’s hand was still on your back, and you stepped out from under it. You turned to face him, and felt the thing that had been climbing in you all night finally find a target.

“Why would you do that?” you asked, shaking your head and pressing your lips shut to keep yourself from saying anything more. 

“Do what?” he said mildly, the glass loose in his hand. 

“Don’t.” You kept your face arranged for the room, tamping down your voice so it wouldn’t carry over to strangers. “You know what you did. You’re not stupid.”

“I said you were good at your job.” He had the gall to look reasonable. “Becuase you are.”

“That’s not what it was and you know it — thank you.” Your jaw tightened. “You don’t get to walk over and put your hand on me when I’m talking to another man and act like — ” Your fingers moved between the two of you, a small and sharp movement. “ — like you’ve got any claim. We agreed to this a month ago.”

Jack’s lips pressed in a thin line at the words, and his eyes raked over your face. “He’d have you in his bed by ten,” he said, calmer now. “Guys like that — it’s their whole game at places like this. One night, gone by checkout. You didn’t lose anything worth keeping.” 

Your brows furrowed at that, and you felt something go hot in your neck. “Yeah?” you asked, voice going quieter. “Isn’t that what you were?” 

He looked away for a second, one hand coming up to rub over the bottom half of his face. “If you can’t tell the difference between me and a guy like that,” he said evenly, and there was something genuinely stung underneath as his eyes met yours, “then I really don’t know what to tell you.” 

“Maybe there isn’t one.”

His face twisted at that, and he let out a disbelieved laugh. “That’s how you think of me?”

“That’s not — ” You stopped, because his face had knocked something loose in you and you had no idea what you thought anymore. “That’s not what I said.” 

“It sounded a hell of a lot like it.” He shook his head. “Six months and you’re putting me next to a guy you met ten minutes ago. Alright.” 

“Jack — ”

“You wanted it, too. Okay?” When you let out a small ‘what?’ he continued, “You heard me. You’re acting like you just went along with it, and you never once asked for more either.” His voice had dropped low, and he’d walked closer to you before you even realized. “You never once asked for more until the night you walked. So don’t put it all on me.” 

“I asked,” you said, voice cracking just slightly, and you looked around the room to see if anyone was close to you. “You were the one who told me to go find someone else. You said you’re no good past what we were doing.” 

“I said it because it’s true,” he said quickly, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m not the guy you build the rest of your life around. I tried to do the decent thing.”

“Then stand on that,” you said. “You don’t get to tell me to find someone and stop it the second anyone shows up. Pick one. You don’t get to keep me in your life like this forever because you can’t stand to either let me in or go.” 

“I’m trying to do right by you,” he said roughly.

You pressed two fingers above your eyelid, shaking your head. “Why are you doing this?” You shoulders came up to your ears. “I don’t — it was never going to be us, Jack. You said so yourself. I don’t get why — I need to move on.” 

He closed his eyes at that for a moment. “I know you do,” he said quietly, the fight gone all out of him. His eyes flickered down to his hand for a second, then made a loose fist out of them. “I — can we go somewhere else?” He leaned in slightly, body stiffening up. Reading the hesitation on your face, he said, “Please.” 

You’d watched him avoid the word in a dozen rooms, so you nodded slowly and forced yourself to not look too hard at why. You couldn’t, because if you stopped to let yourself consider it, it’d make your body hurt even more, and you’d still do it. 

The stairwell was the only door on the floor that wasn’t a room or a lobby. It was fire-exit cold, raw concrete, a fluorescent light overhead. The reception came up through the floor as bass and nothing else, the words gone out of it. The door sucked shut behind you both and took the noise with it. You both walked four floors up, apparently neither of you being ready to do anything about it. And then there was simply the buzz of the bad light and Jack, six months and one month and four floors and a whole conference away from you, standing with his back to the cinderblock and his hands jammed in his pockets.

You crossed your arms and your eyes involuntarily flickered up to the ceiling because you weren’t sure you could talk. But when he let the silence drag on, too, you said, “Jack — ”

“Did you want it to be me?” he said immediately, like your voice had spurred him into action. 

“What?”

“The whole thing you said you want. Dates, the rest of it.” His body was stiff against the wall. “Was that — did you ever imagine me, or just, someone else. Someone who would.” 

You took in a shaky breath. “You.” It came out more plainly than you’d expected, like your body had been ready to be rid of it, to place it somewhere in the open. “I left because I wanted more — with you, and you made it pretty clear I could never have that.”

His hands jammed in his pockets. The light buzzed overhead, that sick fluorescent flutter, and somewhere four floors down the reception kept going, two hundred people who'd never know this was happening over their heads.

“I don’t think I can give you that,” he said.

“Okay.” You forced yourself to nod, and your eyes went hot. “Thanks for telling me that, then.”

He raised a palm just enough that it caught in your eyesight. “I didn’t — didn’t say I never wanted to. Don’t think that.” He tilted his neck up to meet your eyes properly. “Wanting you that way wasn’t hard. I’ve been doing that against my own advice the entire time.”

He'd come off the wall a step without seeming to know he'd done it, and his face had lost the arrangement it usually wore, the bored set of it, and underneath was something you'd caught glimpses of and never the whole of. His eyes shifted to the wall, the stenciled number, anywhere but you.

“I did years of this already. And it ended about as badly as it could end.” He laughed wryly, no humor in it. “I stopped letting myself want things — I thought it’s a lot easier to get through a night if there’s nothing you’d be hurt to lose.” His muscles tensed on his face, the lines deepening as he pinched his eyes shut and shook his head. “Feels like I’m losing you, and it hurts like hell.” He looked up at the ceiling. “I don’t know when it happened. It wasn’t meant to.”

You pressed a finger against the underside of your eye then, determined to catch anything that could possibly leak out. 

“But you don’t know if you can do it,” you said, words coming out shakily. 

He tugged his bottom lip between his teeth and shook his head slowly. “No,” he said honestly, and it was worse than any lie he could’ve told. “I don’t know.”

You nodded again, because there was nothing else for you to do. 

“But — but, I don’t wanna lose what I’ve got with you,” he admitted, voice dropping into something shameful. “I know that the nights you’re not on are longer. And if I can’t have you, I want you to know you do that for me. It started being pretty serious a long time ago — for me, too.” 

The light fluttered overhead and you let the finger drop from under your eye, gave up on holding it, let whatever wanted to come just come. Somehow, they were words you’d always wanted to hear and yet they arrived wrong, off-rhythm. You’d kept careful track of everything he wouldn’t give you, a whole running tally of it, and he'd just gone and paid the entire balance in one breath in the worst-lit room, and the awful part — the part that made your blood run even hotter — was that it counted. It counted, anyway. 

“So what do we do with that?” you said. “I don’t — I don’t know where that leaves us.”

He was quiet for a moment. You watched him sit in the question instead of dodging it, which was new, which was maybe the most he’d ever given you in one night.

“I’d want to try,” he said finally, words careful, like he was setting something down that might break. “Not the old way. I mean the other thing. What you wanted.” He let out a breath. “If you still want it. I wasn’t very great the first time, and I’m out of practice, too.” 

You wiped your cheek, and winced as you felt your hand scrub at your skin a little too roughly. “You were okay with it a month ago — ”

“It hurt,” he said immediately. “It hurt, you walking out. I didn’t have anything better than to let you, but don’t — don’t think it didn’t.” 

He moved when you didn’t respond, stepping closer than the conversation needed. His hands came up and settled at your arms, just below the shoulders, loose, holding you in place or holding himself there, you couldn't tell which, maybe both.

“Let me try,” he said roughly. His thumbs moved once against your arms. “I want to learn this with you.”

You looked up at him. He held it — your eyes, the closeness, all of it — instead of glancing off the way he had all night. You realized distantly that this was a sort of contract you’d be signing, and he was laying out the option for you to not do so. 

“You can’t disappear on me,” you said instead of considering the second option, “when it gets hard. I don’t ever want to feel like I made up something I didn’t.”

He nodded stiffly. “If I do, you can drag me back out.”

His forehead came down, to the top of your head, his chin resting in your hair, his arms folding the rest of the way around you like he'd finally run out of reasons not to. You felt him breathe out, the whole tense length of him going down an inch against you.

“Just let me try,” he said again, into your hair, voice a whisper. “Please. I’m asking. I don’t do that a lot.”

tags — @emmdreams @shoulderpress

Your head falls back against the pillows, one hand buried in the sheets, the other clinging to his shoulder.

Regardless of your body shape, Robby's still taller and broader than you, his shoulders the perfect anchor, which you most certainly need.

It had taken a lot for you to cross that line with him; not because you hadn't wanted to, but because you'd been wary of potential consequences if anyone found out.

You were a grown adult, but there was the power imbalance. While you knew that Robby didn't care about such things, had ignored power imbalances before, you didn't have the luxury.

After all, he was chief attending, and you were just an intern. He would walk off any damage, maybe gain more of a reputation. But you? It would be worse for you.

It's still something you think about, but not as often. Being intimate with him tends to have that effect, shutting your brain off and making you incapable to think of anything remotely negative.

You're not an idiot; you've heard about the reputation he has. But there's still a small part of you that hopes that maybe you're different. That maybe, just maybe, he'll like you enough to keep you.

That thought process is tucked away in the back of your mind right now. It's difficult to really think of anything when he's mouthing at your pulse point, leaving a trail of warm, open mouthed kisses down your throat as he notches the fat head of his cock at your drooling entrance.

"Careful now, sweetheart, gonna be a biiiig stretch, but you can take me, can't you?"

He coos at you, grunting thickly when you moan as he pushes an inch or so inside.

Robby knows that he's a good lay; it's not just ego talking, either. He hears enough of the gossip, enough of the whispering passed between ex lovers and friends. He knows the female anatomy well enough to know what an orgasm looks and feels like, and none of his lovers have ever faked it.

He doesn't let that knowledge make him lazy or complacent though. No. He wants it to be good for you, each and every time. Wants you to want him, to keep coming back for more, because whilst he may have major commitment issues, he always has to be the one to end things.

There's something to be said about his simultaneous commitment and abandonment issues, but he's not exactly thinking about that right now, either.

One of the best things about this little arrangement: it provides a wonderful distraction, for both of you.

Hiking one leg up around his waist, you gasp softly as he shifts on one elbow, adjusts so he can get a little deeper inside you.

"That's it... Breathe for me, sweetheart, there you go..."

He's so sweet and encouraging when he feels like it; he can also be stern and degrading, too, but only if you ask for it. More often than not, he's like this, and it's no wonder that you – and everyone before you – come back to him.

You do exactly as he tells you, though. Deep breaths, blinking up at him as he sinks further into you. Exhaling shakily, your eyes drop closed for just a moment.

"Too much?" He asks, brushes the pad of one thumb over your bottom lip, prompting your eyes open again.

You shake your head no, but he just looks at you, doesn't move, and you realise that he expects a verbal answer. Just as he would if he were walking you through a procedure.

"N-no, not too much," you breathe, and he nods, pleased with your response, exhales a low groan before he starts to move again.

Slow, steady, building up to it. He knows he's too big to just start pounding into you, even if you want him to.

"Nnh, fuck-"

He doesn't shy away from cursing, frequently, but it always sounds and feels different in this context. The way he draws it out, not in frustration, but pleasure.

On hospital grounds you're perfectly professional. Never slip, never give anything away.

You're polite, polished, respectful. You use his full name, title and all, only calling him Robby when you need his attention stat.

That tends to slip away when you're in his bed; he's particularly good at turning you into a sobbing, begging mess, raking your nails up his back and clinging to his shoulders.

Like right now.

Reaching for him with your other hand, you wrap both your legs around his waist, trying to get him in deeper, wanting his hips flush against yours, regardless of whether or not it's too much.

"Nnhh, don't get too greedy on me now," he pants, "don't wanna hurt you-"

But he gives you what you want regardless, working up to deep, heavy thrusts that have you mewling, clawing at him, your cunt dripping slick and making it easier for him to get this deep.

"Oh my god," you whine, your hands sliding down his chest, looping under his arms so you can hold onto him, splay your palms across his back.

Your short nails dig little crescent shapes into his skin, but Robby doesn't mind the bite; he'll wear it like a badge of honour, proof that you were there, that he's making you feel this good.

Maybe at some point he'll unpack why exactly he likes having this sort of power over his lovers, over the thrill it sends through him whenever he's teaching or guiding you in the ED, knowing that he's intimately familiar with the way your tight cunt feels fluttering around him.

He tries his utmost best to be discreet, too. Doesn't want you to get the, frankly sexist, reputation as an intern who fucked her way to favouritism.

But god if he doesn't get achingly hard whenever he hears you sweetly say yes, Dr Robinavitch and thank you, Dr Robinavitch.

He thinks that his favourite might be in this setting, though, when he's stuffing you full of his cock, and your pretty moans fill his otherwise silent bedroom.

The obscene, wet sound of his cock driving into you harmonises with your moans, his low groans.

He glances down to where you're joined, watches the full, impressive length of his cock disappear inside you before he pulls back out again almost entirely, grunting in satisfaction at the sight of his thick shaft glistening with your slick.

Pressing back in, he picks up his pace as he feels how deep he's getting. Gently, he presses one hand to the soft curves of your belly; he loves that you're curvy, that you have a body type he can worship and hold onto, even if it means he can't physically see his cock bulging your abdomen, he can sure as hell feel it against his palm.

"Ohhh my god, Michael!"

You gasp as he hits somewhere deep, sending stars through your vision as you cling to him, drag your nails across his back, making him groan a filthy sound into your ear, fucking into you just that little bit harder.

He answers your moans with thick groans of pleasure; he's not used to hearing his given name very often, especially not from you.

It had taken him a moment to get used to, but he found that he liked it. Likes the way his name sounds when you moan it.

As you shift, try to move your legs up around his waist a bit higher, to give him a better angle, wishing you were flexible enough to just fold yourself in half for him, he slows just a little.

"Put your leg over my shoulder," he breathes, sits back on his heels for a moment to give you room to move.

You do just that, uncurl one leg from around his waist and lift it, with his help, onto his shoulder. Your other leg stays firmly wrapped around his hip, so it's not uncomfortable for you.

Satisfied, he leans back over you, braces himself on his hands, before he starts to move again. There's no slow buildup this time; he immediately pounds into you, heavy thrusts that echo in the bedroom each time his balls slap against your ass.

You're dripping slick by now, drooling all over his shaft and his balls, and you wouldn't be surprised if you don't make a mess of the sheets, too.

"Nngh, fuck, fuck, you feel so good-"

His voice comes out a little strained, a little rough, as he feels you starting to tighten around him as he works you closer to the edge.

"Such a good girl for me, god, mmmffff- should see yourself right now. Always so good for me-"

The words, in spite of being punctuated by soft grunts on each thrusts, come out in a rough, seductive purr.

"I can feel how close you are. God, she's desperate for it, huh?" Robby huffs, adjusts your leg on his shoulder so he can get as deep as possible inside you, groaning on each stroke.

"Fuck, sweetheart, she's choking me, nngh, such a tight, warm little pussy, go on, mmfff, go on and cum for me-"

He runs his mouth without shame, purring filth as he pounds into you.

All it takes is him telling you to cum, giving you permission, and you're obeying, tightening almost painfully around his cock, writhing beneath him as the throes of your orgasm hit.

Robby groans as he feels you dripping slick around his cock, a little trickle of your cum dripping down his shaft, over his balls, onto the sheets.

"H-holy fuck, that's hot." He groans out, fucking you steadily through it, letting your leg down so he can lean over you again.

You whimper, overstimulated and somehow still being hit with the aftershocks of such an intense orgasm, your leg shaky as you wrap it around his waist, pulling him in closer.

"Shh, shh, I know, sweetheart, I know, you're doing so good for me-" Robby's voice is low, ragged with pleasure as he chases his own release.

You can feel his cock throbbing inside you, your walls so tight around him that you can feel everything.

Truthfully, you have no idea how you're supposed to look him in the eye in the ED after this. It's not like you haven't been in his bed before, but the intensity to this particular time has you feeling a certain way.

"'s so much-" you whimper, "don't stop, please don't stop-"

Robby has no intention of doing so, fucking you like some sort of wild animal, holding onto the headboard to brace himself as his hips collide with yours.

The room echoes with the filthy, wet slap of his balls meeting your ass, his deep groans, your high pitched mewls.

He knows you can't get pregnant, which he fucking loves; he's always been the kind of man who likes to cum inside his lovers, has a possessive streak that manifests itself this way.

Although, there's also a tiny, arguably toxic part of him that likes the thought of actually getting you pregnant. You, his sweet, adoring intern, with your wide eyed gaze and parted lips as you look up at him.

It's not so much about actually wanting children as it is about the thought of breeding you, of fucking his spend so deep into you, over and over until it's dripping out of you.

The thought alone, combined with your pretty moans, the way you mewl his name, has his rhythm faltering, thrusts becoming more and more erratic.

"Fuck, fuck, I'm gonna cum, nnhh; you gonna give me one more, sweetheart? C’mon, baby, mmfff, soak my cock-”

To your surprise, and his utmost pleasure, you do, dragged over the edge once more as he relentlessly fucks into you, hard, deep thrusts, chasing his own release.

The moment he feels you come apart for him, he follows you over the edge, groaning obscenely into the soft skin of your shoulder as his cock throbs and twitches inside your orgasming cunt. Your release gushes this time, soaking his cock in your slick and cum as he fucks his own deeper inside you.

He fucks you both through it, eventually slowing to a lazy grind, the coarse hair at the base of his cock rubbing your sensitive clit, making you whimper until he stills completely.

“Damn,” he huffs, lifts his head up to look at you for a moment before he presses another open mouthed kiss to your throat.

“Mm,” you manage to get out, before you laugh, still a little breathless. “Wow.”

Robby joins you in laughing, pulls out of you with a low grunt and rolls to one side.

“We’re getting pretty good at this, huh?”

“We are,” you agree, because it’s true; you don’t remember any past lover who’s made you feel this good, this achingly exhausted afterwards.

After a few minutes of recovery time, you head into the bathroom to clean up; by the time you get back, he’s changed the ruined sheets, makes you drink almost a full bottle of Gatorade before you climb, naked, back into bed.

He wraps one thick arm around you, lets you curl into his side, rest your head on his warm chest, brush your fingers through his fuzzy, greying chest hair. Even the gold pendant he wears on a chain around his neck is warmed by his body heat.

Robby’s not much of a talker after, falls asleep pretty fast, too, but you don’t mind. He always holds you. Lets you fall asleep in his arms, which you value more than any pillow talk, any whispered words between the sheets that may or may not actually hold any meaning.

Tomorrow morning, you’ll go back to intern and chief attending, no hint of anything further between you, with no idea what your future – if any future – with him may look like.

But for now, you can at least pretend. Press a soft kiss to his chest before you whisper to him.

“Goodnight, Michael...”

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

Ellis makes a dramatic vomiting noise as you both head out the door, her keys jingling as she turns to lock it.

“I thought Deran was your usual Thursday morning appointment,” she says.

You shrug. “Scheduling conflict.”

She turns and starts down the hall, glancing at you from the corner of her eye. “You are the schedule.”

“I’m restructuring,” you say lightly, falling into step beside her. “Don’t think Deran’s making the cut.”

Ellis doesn’t say anything else. She just watches you for a second—eyes narrowing, brows drawing a little tighter—before shaking her head and turning toward the fire stairs door. You both make your way down to the parking garage in silence, crossing the dimly lit basement until you reach Ellis’ car.

The drive to the hospital isn’t long. Ellis fills most of it complaining about a patient she handed off to McKay this morning who insisted his diagnosis was wrong because he’d googled it—and she’s still muttering angrily by the time she pulls into the hospital parking lot.

“I swear,” she says, yanking the parking brake a little too hard, “if I hear the words ‘but I googled it’ even once tonight, I’m going to lose my mind.”

You snort softly as you climb out of the car, slinging your bag over your shoulder before shutting the door. You both head inside through the ambulance bay, keeping out of the way of an arriving trauma as the paramedics wheel the gurney through—something about chest pain, you overhear.

“Trauma one’s open,” Dana calls.

“Dr. Toomarian, with me.”

Your head snaps up at the sound of Jack’s voice, your gaze landing on him beside the gurney as he guides it through the trauma bay doors, that familiar mask of focus already in place.

Then he looks at you, something flickering across his face.

“Hey—don’t disappear. I need to talk to you after this.”

You lift your hand, pointing a finger at yourself. “Me?”

He nods once before turning into the trauma bay, the glass door swinging shut behind him.

“Ooh,” Ellis murmurs as you both turn down the back hall. “You’re in trouble.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, right.”

“Maybe he’s restructuring,” she adds, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Think you’ll make the cut?”

You shoot her a flat look. “Very funny.”

Ellis smirks as she opens her locker, shrugging her bag off her shoulder and shoving it inside. You do the same—moving on autopilot as you sling your stethoscope around your neck, clip your badge at your hip, and stuff your backpack in your locker before shutting the door.

You head back toward the hub side by side, both peering into the trauma bay as you pass. The patient is stable now, half-conscious on the bed while Jack gives orders and Jesse preps for transfer to a room for monitoring. Dr. Robby is in there too now, looking as tired as always with his arms folded and protective glasses pushed up on top of his head.

“Evening, ladies,” Lena says from behind the nurses’ desk. “Get a good sleep?”

“Always,” Ellis replies as she grabs a tablet from the rack.

“Good enough,” you mutter, tipping your head back to read the board.

“Mm.” Lena peers at you over the top of her glasses. “Well, maybe you should start prioritising sleep over extracurriculars.”

Ellis snorts beside you.

“Lena,” you gasp, voice thick with mock offence. “I don’t—”

You stop short as Jack steps up beside you, offering Lena a polite nod before looking back at you.

“You have my badge.”

You frown. “What?”

“My badge,” he says again, already reaching for the badge at your hip.

He unclips it from your scrub pants and holds it up, brows lifting just slightly.

“Attending physician, huh?”

You shrug. “Thought it was time I got a promotion.”

He huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head as he fastens the badge to his scrub top and fishes your badge from his back pocket. Then he steps in closer, his fingers grazing your hip as he tugs on the waistband of your pants and clips the badge where his had been.

“Try to keep track of it,” he mutters, already turning away.

You don’t respond. You just roll your eyes and turn back to the nurses’ station, where Lena is still watching you over the rim of her glasses, utterly unimpressed.

“You didn’t even notice?” Ellis asks.

You lift one shoulder. “I just grabbed it off the floor.”

“Okay,” Lena mutters, glancing back down at her chart. “I’m choosing not to know.”

Ellis shakes her head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know,” you say, tipping your head back again to read the board. “But you love me.”

She snorts, not even looking up from her tablet.

“Come on.” You bump your shoulder against hers. “Let’s go check out the elbow dislocation in One.”

“Fine,” she sighs, “but I’m not doing traction.”

You roll your eyes for what feels like the umpteenth time as you start moving, heading toward the North corridor with Ellis at your heel. When you pull back the curtain at North One, the man lying there is exactly what you expected—mid-twenties, gym shorts, red with embarrassment and trying not to wince even though the shape of his shoulder is very wrong.

“Alright, Mr. Donovan,” you say, pulling on a pair of gloves. “Let’s have a look at that shoulder.”

His eyes flick up to your face, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Are you a doctor?”

“Sure am,” you reply as you step closer to the bed. “And with me is Dr. Ellis. She’s going to help me get that bone back in place, but first you’re going to have to tell us how you did it.”

He grimaces as you gently prod his upper arm.

“Yeah—uh—I was just at the gym,” he starts, voice strained.

“Benching?” Ellis asks.

He nods. “Yeah.”

“Let me guess—personal best?”

He nods again. “Yeah. How did you—”

“Happens more often than you think,” you cut in, your fingers finding the pulse at his wrist. “Move your fingers.”

He wriggles them slowly.

“Any numbness?”

He shakes his head.

“I was just putting the bar back,” he says. “My arm twisted a bit and it just… popped.”

You glance over your shoulder at Ellis, and she nods.

“Okay, Mr. Donovan—”

“You can call me Chase,” he interrupts, the corner of his mouth lifting a little higher.

You nod once. “Alright, Chase. We’re going to give you something for the pain and a muscle relaxant so it’s easier to get it back into place. Then Dr. Ellis and I are going to do the reduction.”

“Will it hurt?”

“Not much,” Ellis replies. “Maybe a little discomfort, but it’ll be quick.”

“Okay,” he mutters, wincing again as he tries to shift in the bed.

You look at Ellis. “Fentanyl and midaz?”

She nods, already turning away to find a workstation.

“We’ll be back in about five minutes,” you tell Chase. “Just as soon as a nurse administers the medication and it has enough time to kick in.”

“Five minutes, huh? That’s just enough time for me to figure out how to ask for your number.”

You snort. “Let’s just get your shoulder back in first, then see how you feel.”

“Ouch,” he chuckles. “Is that your subtle way of saying you have a boyfriend?”

You hesitate, taking half a step back from the bed.

“Uh—no,” you mutter. “No boyfriend.”

He smirks. “So I have a shot?”

You shake your head as you turn away, a faint smile pulling at your lips. “Like I said—let’s see how you feel after I manhandle your humerus back into its socket.”

He doesn’t say anything else—just lets out a quiet breath of laughter as you turn and step out of the room.

Your gaze flicks up as you reach for the curtain, and only then do you notice Jack standing there—arms folded, shoulders set, his hazel eyes fixed on you like he’s waiting for something.

“Oh—hey,” you say. “Need me?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. Just doing the rounds. Want a hand with the reduction?”

“Nah, I’ve got Ellis,” you reply, starting back toward Central. “But you’re more than welcome to supervise.”

He scoffs, falling into step beside you. “You don’t need supervising.”

“I know.” You glance at him from the corner of your eye, a smirk tugging at your lips. “But I know how you like to watch.”

His mouth quirks, like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Careful,” he murmurs.

“Or what?” you tease, stopping just before the nurses’ station.

His eyes are a little darker now, the tops of his cheeks dusted pink.

“You don’t want to find out,” he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

Something twists low in your belly—and you get the sudden, distinct feeling that you do, in fact, want to find out.

“Abbot,” Lena calls before you can say anything else. “Trauma inbound—cyclist versus vehicle, ETA three minutes.”

Jack pauses for a half a second—then nods. “Alright, let’s prep Trauma Two.” He looks at you. “You in?”

You pull a face, all mock disappointment. “Oh, I wish I could, but I’ve got that reduction…”

He gives you a flat look, the corner of his mouth pulling just slightly. “Mm. Tragic.”

“Good luck, though,” you add, flashing him a grin.

You turn away before he does, moving around the hub to grab a tablet and find your next patient. It isn’t long before the paramedics come crashing through the ambulance bay doors with a groaning patient on the gurney—and you take that as your cue to get back to the shoulder dislocation.

“Alright, Chase,” you say, pulling back the curtain. “Let’s do this.”

He gives you a lopsided smile. “I was hoping I’d see you again.”

Ellis snorts. “Midaz is working.”

You laugh softly as you step up beside his affected arm, adjusting the bed slightly before pulling on a pair of gloves. Ellis does the same, moving into position on the other side and bracing one hand against his good shoulder.

You look at her. “Ready?”

She nods once.

“Okay, Chase,” you say, one hand wrapping gently around his wrist. “Stay loose for me.”

You place your other hand at his elbow and bring his arm out from his body, easing it into position.

“Hey—relax,” Ellis says. “Don’t fight it.”

He lets out a breath, the tension in his body easing.

“That’s it,” you murmur, starting to pull his arm outward.

You feel the resistance from the dislocation, holding his arm steady until—his shoulder drops.

Ellis nods. “Good. Now rotate.”

You carefully rotate his arm out, slow and controlled, until you feel a small shift—the soft clunk of the bone slipping back into place. Chase flinches, inhaling sharply, then—

“Oh—” He blinks. “Oh, that’s—that’s way better.”

You give him a small smile as you guide his arm back in, keeping it supported while Ellis grabs the sling.

“Move your fingers,” you tell him.

He does.

“Any numbness?”

He shakes his head.

“Good.”

You move aside as Ellis steps in with the sling, fastening it over his shoulder before adjusting the bed again.

“Comfortable?” she asks.

Chase nods slowly. “‘M tired.”

“Then have a nap.”

You peel your gloves off and drop them in the waste bin, squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm as you turn back toward Chase.

“We’re going to keep you here for a bit, okay? Just to monitor you and get an X-ray to make sure everything’s back in place.”

“You’re leaving me?” he mumbles, eyes half-lidded.

You shake your head, letting out a quiet laugh. “I’ll be back in a bit to see how you’re feeling, alright?”

He mutters something else as his eyes slip shut, but it’s too soft for you to hear.

Then, after a beat, Ellis looks at you. “Gonna give him your number?”

You roll your eyes. “Um, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm not—”

“Roster’s looking a little thin,” she says as she turns and steps out of the room.

You follow her, frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shrugs. “Not that I’m keeping track, but… by my count, you’re down to one.”

You let out a short, disbelieving scoff. “Okay—well, not that it’s any of your business, but Andrew moved to Canada, and Craig got back with his ex.”

She glances at you from the corner of her eye. “And you dropped Deran, so—”

“Like I said,” you cut in, lifting your chin just slightly. “I’m restructuring.”

“Restructuring,” she repeats mildly, “or retiring?”

Before the words have even landed, she’s gone—slipping into North Five with her tablet in hand and that stupid little smirk still curled at the corner of her mouth. You can faintly hear her greet the patient as the door eases shut, leaving you confused and alone in the middle of the North corridor.

Retiring?

You blink, your brows drawing tighter.

Retiring?

What the hell is that supposed to mean? Retiring from what?

From having fun? Having casual sex? Blowing off a little steam in the most enjoyable way you know how?

It’s not like you’re some irresponsible party animal—you barely go out, you only drink on occasion, and the hardest drug you’ve done since starting med school is ibuprofen. In fact, you’d argue that you’re the opposite of irresponsible. You take your casual sex roster very seriously. You don’t take risks, you make sure every single one of your partners has regular sexual-health check-ups, and you make sure to actually get to know them before you even sign them up.

Which is exactly why you’re not going around giving out your number to random patients.

You need to know someone before you start something casual. You need to know that they’re not going to ask for more, that they’re going to be mature and understand exactly where you both stand.

You need to know that you can trust them not to be irresponsible.

Because the last thing you need is some trigger-happy idiot who isn’t wearing a condom getting caught up in the moment and finishing inside you. Not that you ever go without a condom.

Except for...

Well—except for Jack.

But that’s different. He knows what he’s doing. You trust him—and you’re on birth control.

So it doesn’t really matter if, occasionally, he finishes—

“You good, or are you just going to keep staring into space?”

Your head snaps up, heat flooding your cheeks as you meet Henderson’s gaze.

“Uh—yeah, sorry, I was just—”

He chuckles. “No need to apologise—but if you’re bored, I could use an extra set of hands in Eight.”

You tilt your head. “Worth it?”

“Forearm lac. Exposed tendon.”

You nod. “I’m in.”

The next few hours blur together in a steady stream of night shift weirdness—a woman with a mystery rash whose story evolves from laundry detergent to poison ivy, someone who decided Gorilla Glue was a reasonable substitute for hair gel, a fish hook through a hand with the fish still attached, and a DIY dentistry job with half the tooth left and a lot of blood.

You barely catch a break until your patient in Central Twelve—when you and Ellis absolutely have to leave the room before you both burst out laughing at the mortified man who insists he slipped and fell on a Buzz Lightyear action figure. Because how else would it get stuck up there?

In your defence, you had managed to maintain some semblance of professionalism right up until Ellis muttered under her breath, “To infinity and beyond, I guess.”

That’s when you lost it—muttering the first excuse you could think of before slipping out the door and doubling over with laughter.

“Oh my God,” Ellis says, wiping the corner of her eye. “I love the night shift.”

You press a hand to your stomach, still aching from the laughter.

“Stop—” you gasp, shaking your head. “I can’t go back in there.”

“In where?” Shen asks, appearing in front of you.

You and Ellis both go still for a second, the laughter dying down as you exchange a look.

“Actually,” Ellis says, turning back to Shen with a smirk. “I think this case might be perfect for you, Dr. Shen.”

You nod. “Oh, absolutely. We could really use your expertise on this one.”

Shen frowns. “What’s the case?”

“It’s hard to explain,” Ellis says quickly. “You’re better off seeing it for yourself.”

Shen isn’t stupid, obviously, but he is incredibly curious—as most doctors are. So despite the fact that both you and Ellis are doing a terrible job of hiding your amusement, he takes the tablet from your outstretched hand and opens the door to Central Twelve.

Ellis’ eyes go wide, but before either of you can say anything else, someone calls your name across the department.

“Trauma One—get in here,” Jack says, waving a hand.

You let out a sigh, tipping your head back for a split second before jogging across Central to meet the paramedics.

“Twenty-four-year-old male—fell onto a plastic prop sword,” the first paramedic says, guiding the gurney into Trauma One. “Penetrating injury to the left thigh, object still in situ. Bleeding controlled, pulses intact, GCS fifteen. Fentanyl given en route, vitals stable.”

You almost snort when you realise the man is dressed in a pirate costume, his plastic cutlass wedged about four inches into his anterolateral thigh.

“Alright, we’ll take it from here,” Jack says. “Can you tell us your name, sir?”

“Josh,” the patient replies, his voice strained.

“Stabilise the leg,” you tell Mateo, moving into position opposite him. “On my count—one, two, three.”

You shift the patient from gurney to bed, and the paramedics clear out.

“Josh!”

A young woman rushes into the room, clearly from the same party—wearing what can only be described as a very short, very inaccurate interpretation of a nurse’s uniform.

“Oh my God. Is he bleeding out?”

Jack glances up, his lips twitching when he spots the woman. “I don’t remember approving that uniform.”

You shoot him a look. “Very funny, Dr. Abbot.”

His eyes linger on you for a beat too long.

“Not that I’d object,” he murmurs.

You arch a brow. “The nurses might.”

“I’m not a nurse,” the woman says, indignant. “I’m a sexy doctor.”

You look her up and down again, your gaze catching on the small, laminated name badge pinned to her chest with ‘Dr. Feelgood’ printed in bold pink letters.

You hum. “Right.”

“Still not the sexiest doctor in the room,” Jack mutters as he moves around the bed.

Your eyes flick up, meeting his for half a second, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly before you catch yourself and turn back to Josh.

“Have you had anything to drink tonight, Josh?” you ask.

Somewhere behind you, Dr. Feelgood starts to answer for him, but Bridget quickly steps in and guides her out of the trauma bay.

“I’ve got a dorsalis pedis pulse,” Jack notes.

Josh groans, mumbling something unintelligible under his breath.

“We’re going to get you something for the pain, alright?” you say, watching Olive insert the IV. “But first, I need to know what happened and how much you’ve had to drink.”

Mateo carefully cuts up the leg of Josh’s pants, fully exposing the entry site.

“I—ngh—I fell on it—” Josh manages. “It’s not even—not even real—fuck—”

Mateo turns away quickly, hiding his amusement.

“What about alcohol?” you ask again.

“Like—two beers,” he replies.

“Any drugs?”

“No—ah—no drugs.”

You nod. “Okay. Let’s give another twenty-five of fent.”

“Can we get surgery down here?” Jack asks as he steps back from the bed.

Mateo moves to grab the phone. “Calling now.”

Jack nods, folding his arms and lifting his head to look at you. “Alright. What’s next?”

“Repeat neurovascular exam, stabilise the object, don’t remove it, and get imaging before anyone touches it.”

He nods again. “Good.”

You try to ignore the way he’s watching you as you move to the foot of the bed, going through the motions of the neurovascular checks a little slower than he had just a minute ago.

“Pulses still intact. Cap refill under two. No numbness,” you report.

“Good,” he says again. “Keep checking. If that changes, we move faster.”

You nod once before turning back to Josh.

“Do you know when your last tetanus shot was, Josh?”

He shakes his head faintly. “No.”

“Okay, tetanus booster—” you glance up at Jack, “and antibiotics.”

“Which antibiotic?”

“Cefazolin?”

He watches you for a beat, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly—then he turns to Olive. “You heard the doctor. Get him some cefazolin.”

You drop your head, biting back a smile as you watch Mateo start to clean the entry site.

“Let’s flag contamination risk for surgery,” Jack says, pulling off his gloves. “And X-ray for—”

“Position and fragments,” you cut in, finishing for him. “And CTA left leg to clear the vessels before removal.”

He tosses his gloves in the bin and turns back toward you, brows raised.

“Alright,” he says, mildly amused. “I can see I’m no longer needed in here.”

You flash him a small, smug smile before turning back to the wound.

“Entry looks clean, bleeding’s controlled—let’s pack around it and get him to imaging.”

Mateo nods and moves to grab more gauze, helping you pack carefully around the plastic blade so it doesn’t shift during transport. Jack lingers just long enough to make sure you’ve got everything under control before he steps out of the room, slipping back into the quiet chaos of the night shift.

You and Mateo quickly finish stabilising the leg before the nurses prep him for imaging. They’re just about to wheel the bed out when Walsh arrives from the OR, fighting a smile when she sees the pirate impaled by his own sword. You give her a brief rundown as you pull your gloves off and squirt a pump of sanitiser into your hands. She nods along, asks a few questions, then mutters something about prepping an operating room while they wait for imaging.

When you finally step out of the trauma bay, you spot Jack standing with Lena at the nurses’ station. You don’t quite catch all of their conversation as you walk past to grab a tablet, but you do hear something about ETA three minutes and decide to make yourself scarce before you’re dragged into another trauma.

You scan the board briefly, pick your next patient, then head toward the South corridor, already pulling up the chart for South Twenty on your tablet. You’re halfway through the patient’s intake when—

You stop—then take two steps back, turning your head toward South Seventeen.

“Deran?”

The man in the bed glances up, blowing a lock of dark blond hair out of his eyes.

He smiles. “Hey, doc.”

“What’re you doing here?” you ask, despite the obvious.

He’s got his left hand cradled in his lap, wrapped loosely in an oil-stained rag that’s already soaked through in places, blood seeping into the fabric and drying in dark blotches. His knuckles underneath are split and swollen, his pinky finger sticking out at an odd angle, the rest of his hand already blown out around it.

“I was helping a friend with his truck,” he says, glancing back down at his mangled hand. “The prop rod slipped, and the hood came straight down.”

“Ouch,” you murmur, stepping forward.

He huffs out a short laugh. “Yeah. Ouch.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Go for it.”

You set your tablet at the foot of the bed and step up beside him, leaning in as you gently lift the rag to get a better look at what’s underneath. It’s not that deformed—just swollen, and his pinky finger is obviously broken, but otherwise it’s mostly just bruising and superficial cuts. At least he won’t need stitches—maybe some steri-strips and a splint—but you’re more concerned about the dirty rag he’s got wrapped around it.

“What d’you think?” he asks, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Am I going to make it?”

You tilt your head. “Maybe. If we act fast.”

He laughs softly, the sound ringing almost too familiar in your ears.

You straighten quickly, clearing your throat. “Do you—uh—have you seen a doctor yet?”

He shakes his head. “No. Just you.”

You nod once and pick up your tablet, flicking out of South Twenty’s chart.

“Cool. I’ll be your doctor—” You pause, glancing back at him. “Unless you think that’s a conflict of interest?”