all timory left me was a memory

You swivel your chair around to meet his gaze, and his hands settle on the armrests, leaning low towards you. His nose would brush yours, if you'd just inch a little closer. He'd like you to. You're very pretty. Stars pale in comparison.

"You never want me to work," you tease and smile so sweet, his heart aches.

"Not true," he replies. "I just want you to take care of yourself."

You hum, and his chest feels a welling of light. Gone is the stress of research and timelines and the Hail Mary. All he can see is you, smiling at him, and he can't resist giving a chaste kiss to delicate skin of your under eye.

"Hi," he whispers.

"Hi, Ry."

"You look really nice today," he tells. "Every day, really."

Your lips twitch and petal with bashfulness, he tilts his head. In full honesty, you're glowing, and he's amazed by it. So smart and all sorts of perfect, he can't believe he gets to be the one bothering you like this, while you're trying to get important things done.

"Oh." You swallow. "Thank you."

"Will you please come get lunch with me?" he asks.

He watches as you think. There may as well be big hearts in his eyes.

"...Can we go to that new place that just opened?"

"Yeah, baby, wherever you want." He nods feverishly. "C'mere."

He pulls you up and away, weaving through research stations and busy astronomers with a warm hand on the small of your back, and decides to keep you for himself the rest of the day.

Robby shut the door softly not wanting to wake you. The cat you moved into his house meowed softly, weaving through his feet. Growing up, Robby hadn’t been allowed a pet and they had always seemed like slightly too much work to ever get one in adulthood. But you had come with a cat. She was surprisingly long with the softest fur Robby had ever felt. Her calico pattern was smoky and made her very effective at blending in under the bed.

She was named Myrlie after a key Civil Rights leader, Myrlie Evers-Williams. You had named all your pets after prominent women in history.

Robby had met you when you hosted the local high school’s career day. You’d reached out to hospitals in the area and Robby, along with Santos and Whitaker, had been volun-told to attend. He shamelessly flirted with the history and government teacher, assuming he’d never see you again.

Except the school liked him so much—for some godforsaken reason—that they asked him to train teachers in first aid. It was bleak, depressing, and triggering as hell. But he and Jack showed up and did it. You were stone faced the whole time, impeccably good at picking up on the life saving skills they were giving.

When Jack started to show how to pack an open wound, you slipped out of the room so quietly, Robby was pretty certainly only he and Jack noticed. With a subtle nod from Jack he had gone after you and found you dry heaving over a trash can in the hallway.

“Not as fun to flirt with now, huh?” You asked.

You slid down the wall and curled your legs up against yourself.

“I could still make an effort,” he said, easing down next to you. At least it made you laugh. “Are you okay?”

“I cannot imagine you want my tragic backstory,” you laughed a little tearfully.

“I’ll share mine if you share yours,” he offered. “I’ll even go first.”

You were quiet for a few seconds and he wondered if you were going to say no. He hadn’t told many people about Pittfest, he’d barely told his current (and longest lasting) therapist.

“Yeah, alright then,” you replied, wiping at your eyes.

“I was working during the Pittfest shooting,” Robby said. He felt the familiar crushing wave of emotion well up in his throat.

“Christ,” you said, leaning your head back against the wall.

“And for three hours body after body came through my ER. For a minute, it felt like COVID all over again. The worst part was that my stepson was at Pittfest and he comes in covered in blood—not his own, but his girlfriend’s. And—“ Robby clears his voice to avoid it cracking. “And I don’t save her.”

“Fuck,” you said.

“Fuck,” he echoed.

“I grew up in Appalachia, grew up around guns, I can shoot them and know how to handle myself around them. My first year I was a nervous wreck and I was in a rich little suburban district just on the edge of a rural county,” you said. “And some little dick head thought it would be funny to bring his daddy’s gun to school and scare his friends. Naturally he chose my classroom to do it in. He accidentally shot his best friend.”

“I’m so sorry,” Robby said.

“I managed to get the gun away from him and make it safe, but then I had no idea what to do with a kid bleeding out in front of me. They do not teach you that in a masters degree,” you continued. “I just saw that kid in front of me and heard his best friend sobbing. And I had to leave.”

“You don’t need to justify it,” Robby told you. “This was our last thing we were covering anyways.”

“I appreciate you taking the time to check on me. I was about to leg it to my classroom and maybe hyperventilate there,” you said sardonically.

“You teach history and government, right?”

“I do, good memory, Dr. Robinavitch,” you said bumping your shoulder against his. “Want to see my classroom?”

“Is that a euphemism?”

“Nope. My classroom is just a couple hallways away,” you laughed. Your eyes were still a little bloodshot and puffy, but you no longer held the countenance of someone who had been crying.

“Lead the way, then.”

It had started with a classroom tour, then drinks, then dinner, then two months, then six months, then a year. There was a brief freak out at a year that you calmly pointed out was his brain looking for problems and not an actual problem. And then when Robby was confident that he didn’t want to cut and run, he asked you to move in with him.

He had been surprised at your reluctance at first. But you didn’t want to become his homemaker just because you were a “just” a teacher and he was a big important doctor. It took nearly a month and the reminder he employed a cleaner—one he did not plan on firing—for Robby to finally convince you.

His only stipulation was the cat was not allowed in the closet because he didn’t want to risk cat dander on his scrubs—which you were more than happy to accommodate.

After shift though, your cat would shit next to the bench where the two of you stored your shoes and wait until Robby had unlaced his shoes, taken off his backpack and shrugged off his scrub top before she would give him a single warning ‘mrrp!’ and launch herself into his arms.

She had been doing this long before you both moved in together but now it was a regular event after he returned home from a shift. But she seemed to only do it when he came back from the hospital. With Myrlie in his arms he would scratch under her chin, rub her cheeks and then bury his face in the soft fur of her side.

You claimed Myrlie was not an emotional support animal—“she loves to bite my ankles too much”—but on night like this, where Robby ended up home far later than usual, weary and weather worn, she always let him soak in her comfort.

Robby wasn’t sure how long he stood in the entry way with his face buried in his girlfriend’s cat, but eventually even Myrlie got tired and began to wiggle. Reluctantly, Robby let her go.

It was a little past eleven. Even though he had left the hospital doors a bit after nine a handful of the Pitt staff went to the park to decompress. It was an apartment fire tonight. One that claimed the lives of more children than he wanted to count. Unfortunately, it was his job to count.

How had Monty done this job for so long?

You were normally asleep by this time of night, even on a Friday. When he eased open the bedroom door he found you sitting in bed by the lamplight, your own glasses on reading through essays. There was a forgotten mug on your side table and the bed was littered with high school papers.

“Hey,” you said without looking up. “Go shower and I’ll have the bed cleared off when you’re done.”

Robby couldn’t make words happen so he just hummed in what he hoped was an affirmative tone. He stepped through to the en suite. Despite the fact you didnt want to become his live in assistant and maid—neither of which he wanted either—you still were thoughtful in ways that took his breath away.

You had already put a towel in the towel warmer for him, laid out a change of clothes, and put some kind of aromatherapy bullshit in th shower. You didn’t believe in the healing power of smells and Robby certainly didn’t but he appreciated the thought. Your caring burgeoned him though the shower.

He tried to do the same for you during hard stretches. The emotional whiplash of being a teacher: watching students succeed and blossom only to be verbally abused the next day left you raw often. Every passive aggressive parent email or bleak understanding of readings scores pulled at you. On your bad days, Robby would cook you dinner, sit you down in front of him on the couch and knead the stress away in your shoulders. He learned that a scalp massage was the fastest way to ease your overactive system. So the evening would always end with you in his lap, slowly rubbing away any negative energy until your slow breathing was the only thing he could hear.

Tonight though, even with the strong shower smelling salts, he could still remember—almost taste—the burnt flesh and soot clinging to his nose. He remembered when you got a sinus infection a few months ago and you bought one of those neti-pots. After he turned off the water and toweled off with the pre-heated towel, he dug through the cabinet until he found it.

He pulled on the pajama pants you laid out for him but forwent the shirt until he finished rinsing out his nose. It was weird and uncomfortable and Robby was certain he didn’t do it right. But placebo or not, he felt better afterwards. When he finally came out of the bathroom you were stacking the essays on your dressers.

“Hey babe,” you said turning to look at him. “Oh no, you’re not okay.”

There was something about that statement that took Robby so off-guard. So many people ask him if he’s okay. So many people need him to be okay. But you didn’t. Your cat didn’t. Not just that, but you hadn’t need him to say anything. You knew immediately there was nothing good going on in his head.

All of it culminated into a sob that wretched itself out of Robby’s body without his permission. His eyes blurred and burned as tears welled up. The tightness in his chest constricted and constricted until another inhuman sound came from him.

He felt you rush up to him and instead of pulling him into a hug like he expected, you pulled him onto the bed. His mind and body were so disconnected he wasn’t sure how he ended up curled around you sobbing in your lap. All he knew is that your nails were softly raking through his hair and down his scalp.

Each heave of his body had you pulling him in closer.

“I have you,” he heard you say at one point. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And for some reason that made his body react worse. It felt like as soon as he felt he had control over his emotions, you would caress him and they would release like a tidal wave again.

“Sorry, I’m so sorry,” he said.

“Don’t apologize. Don’t ever apologize for this, Michael,” you said firmly. “Cry as much as you want and let me hold you.”

And that’s what happened. He remained tucked against your body held behind your arms and against your chest. At some point he sunk down into your lap and you continued to run your fingers through his hair and rub his back until eventually the full body sobs ceased and only the tears remained.

But even those dried either out of exhaustion or dehydration, Robby really wasn’t sure at this point.

“I’m sorry,” he croaked, trying to sit up.

“Don’t apologize for something you haven’t done wrong,” you said sharply. He had a sudden vision of why you were such an effective teacher.

“It was a lot.”

“When was the last time you were able to let go like that?” You asked. You were still running your fingers through his hair and he could help but lean into the touch.

“I don’t know,” Robby replied.

“Have you ever let go like that?”

“Not with another person,” he said quietly.

“I think you’re not touched enough,” you said.

“What?”

“I think we should cuddle more because the moment I held you your body went haywire.”

“I don’t think my body cares,” Robby said gruffly.

“Bullshit.”

Robby didn’t said anything. You sighed and leaned down to kiss his temple.

“Do you feel better at least?”

Did he feel better? Did embarrassing himself by crying in the lap of his girlfriend ease some long standing wound…unfortunately the answer was yes.

“Yeah, a bit.”

“Well that’s something. I want you to know that I want you to come to me if you need this. It makes me happy to do things like this for you,” you told him softly.

Robby couldn’t figure out what emotion he was feeling in his throat and chest so he said, “Will you hold me and tell me about your day. I really don’t want to think about mine anymore tonight.”

“Sure, I’m going to get you some water and snack before we get settled, okay?”

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. You kissed him softly and Robby felt it from his lips to the tips of his toes.

When you returned, you made him chug the water before you let him crawl between your legs laying face down on your chest and stomach, arms wrapped around you. Suspecting he needed pressure and contact, you wrapped your arms and legs around him along with the duvet.

“So we’re talking about the Gilded Age, right? And one of the big conversations is who is an American—who gets the right to be called an American. It’s really timely with modern politics and it was so great to watch them connect dots. So naturally I ask them who they think Americans are and this is my first period class,” you begin.

“Is this one AP?” Robby asked, semi-muffled by your shirt.

“No, these are my normies. Don’t tell anyone, but I like them a little more. And when I ask this I’m always a little afraid I’m going to have to deal with an ‘ism’ or and ‘obia’. Instead, Carlton, that little fucker who used ChatGPT on his essay—“

“Is he the kid who used “acquiesced” but didn’t know what it meant?” Robby asked?

“Yes! Unfortunately he’s also very funny, so it’s hard to hate him. Anyways he…”

Robby let your story wash over him, relaxing his nervous system one anecdote at a time. Your body heat warmed him to his very core and he wondered if this is how safe everyone feels with their partner. He found himself laughing with you and holding you just as tightly as you were holding him.

It was like being laid bare before you and yet you choosing him over and over anyways. You had seen him have a full breakdown—something he had always promised himself he would never allow himself to do and instead of running for the hills you held him tighter, you made him drink water, you continued to tell him about your day.

“I think you’re right,” Robby said eventually.

“I normally am, but about what, this time?”

“I think this is good for my body and nervous system,” he mumbled. You snorted and kissed the top of his head.

“I love you, you dumb motherfucker.”

“Love you, too.”

“You made it.” Trinity beamed, grabbing your wrist and dragging you the rest of the way to the table. “Everyone, this is my friend I was telling you about that’s going to revolutionize research methodologies or something equally brilliant. I can’t follow what she’s talking about most of the time.”

Four pairs of eyes turned to you and you felt the familiar panic in your gut. The moment when they were assessing you, the subtle shift in expression when people took in your size. You learned early on to head it off at the pass.

“Don’t listen to her,” you said and shrugged out of your jacket. “I spend my days shushing people and threatening the undergrads with the stapler when they misshelve their books.”

A ripple of laughter broke the ice, just as you’d intended. Trinity rolled her eyes but grinned.

“Let me introduce everyone,” she said, pointing around the table. “Yolanda Garcia, surgical resident.” The woman nodded in greeting and you understood why Trin had a crush on her.

“You know Dennis already.” Whitaker raised his beer in greeting. You’d been surprised when Trinity asked him to move in with her but you liked him well enough.

“That’s Robby,” she continued, gesturing to a tall man with a salt-and-pepper beard gathering his jacket. “Day shift attending abandoning us for his bed while the rest of us drink away our trauma.”

“Some of us have to work tomorrow,” Robby countered. He smiled at you. “It’s nice to meet you, Trinity thinks very highly of you.”

Your cheeks heated. You found it hard to believe she talked to anyone about you. You’ve never really understood why she stayed your friend but you were thankful to have her nonetheless.

Robby gestured to the man beside him. “This is Jack Abbot, night shift attending who somehow has the night off but was about to leave anyway because he hates fun.”

The man in question had clearly been on his way out with Robby but paused, his eyes meeting yours with unexpected intensity. He wore cargo pants and a simple t-shirt that seemed to somehow enhance his good looks.

“I don’t hate fun,” Abbot said, voice lower than you’d expected. “I just have a different definition of it than Robby does.”

“Drinking alone in the dark doesn’t count,” Robby ribbed.

“Says you.” He said his goodbyes to Robby then retook his seat rather than leaving.

When Dennis asked you about your graduate work, you deflected knowing he was only including you in the conversation to be polite. He always got a glazed look in his eyes when you started talking about your thesis project.

When Garcia asked a specific question about your research, you found yourself answering genuinely. “I’m developing a research database that cross references categories and obscure references. It’s dependent on information culled from the sources themselves rather than relying on AI which is notorious for making errors in medical research in particular.”

Jack settled back into his seat, his eyes fixed on you with an interest that seemed more than polite. You’d seen that look before. It was the one people get when they’re waiting for you to finish so they can speak. You braced yourself for the interruption.

“How does that work exactly, because more and more hospitals are depending on AI programs to give them information without ever looking at the data themselves?” he asked, leaning forward slightly.

The question surprised you as it seemed he was actually interested in what you had to say. You launched into the explanation, surprised to find yourself speaking without your usual self-deprecating statements. The conversation flowed with ease as you described your research methodology in detail. Jack asked questions that cut to the heart of the technical challenges you’d been wrestling with, offering perspectives from the clinical side that Trinity wasn’t experienced enough to think of.

Trinity and Dennis were discussing a case study while Garcia’s thumbs flew over her keyboard as she occasionally chipped her two cents into their conversation. Jack had shifted to face you more directly.

You suddenly realized just how long you’d been talking. He’d probably been silently begging you to shut up. “Sorry. I tend to get carried away with the library science stuff. Not exactly typical bar conversation.”

A small smile curled his lips. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t typically have bar conversations. But I’d like to hear more about your project.”

For once, you found yourself without a ready joke to deflect the attention. Instead, you took a sip of your drink and continued, aware of the unusual feeling of being genuinely seen rather than merely tolerated.

Jack watched as Trinity nudged your shoulder and gestured toward the bar. You rolled your eyes. “Duty calls,” you told him with a half-smile and got up to follow your friend.

Jack’s gaze followed you as you wove through the crowd, your shoulders tensing as you went. He noted how you tried to make yourself smaller, angling sideways between people instead of asking them to move. Anything to not be a bother. He could read it all over you. And he had trouble understanding it.

You had captured his attention from the moment Santos dragged you to the table. He had been intending to leave when Robby did but then he’d seen you. He typically avoided these outings, attending only when Robby badgered him long enough. Yet tonight, he’d stayed without prompting solely because of you. You weren’t dressed up, just wearing jeans and a floral top but he’d been instantly drawn in. And then you’d started talking and he was blown away. You were brilliant and he knew you didn’t see it.

“Another round?” Dennis asked.

“I’m good,” Jack answered, eyes never leaving you as you and Santos slid between a couple of groups at the bar.

The bartender acknowledged your friend immediately but you stayed a step behind her, scanning the bottles on the wall as you decided what you wanted. Jack took a sip of his beer, attention sharpening when two men approached Trinity. They both wore jeans with button-downs, sleeves rolled to the elbows. The taller one clapped her on the shoulder.

Jack was too far away to hear most of what was said, only catching the occasional word. Santos motioned to you and the men’s eyes flicked to you and back to her so quickly Jack might have missed it if he hadn’t been watching so closely. He didn’t miss how they positioned their bodies to include Trinity while leaving you on the periphery either.

Even from across the room, Jack could see the change in your posture. Your shoulders hunched, your smile grew brittle and your eyes darted around looking for a way out. You said something he couldn’t hear and Trinity’s friends laughed. Not with you. At you.

The taller one leaned over, saying something to you that made Trinity’s smile falter. Your face maintained its pleasant expression but Jack noticed the tightness around your eyes and the tremor in your hand as you reached for the bottle of beer the bartender slid across the counter.

 Jack stood, stepping closer so he could hear what was being said and intervene if needed. He didn’t want to embarrass you and surely Santos would have your back. The second man gestured in your direction. “You’re brave, risking that denim holding all that.”

Santos laughed. Not fully but not stopping it either. She looked uncomfortable but said nothing when the taller one continued. “The fat funny friends are the best. They’re always so grateful for the attention.”

Jack was moving forward before he could think better of it. You were already backing away making your excuses. The forced brightness in your tone made his jaw clenched. You turned quickly, head down and collided directly with his chest. Your beer splashed out of the bottle and across his chest.

“Oh my god,” you stammered. “I am so sorry. I didn’t see…I wasn’t looking.”

You sat your bottle on the nearest table and grabbed a napkin dabbing at the stain. Your hand trembled against his chest and Jack felt something twist inside of him. Not annoyance but a sharp jolt of anger at the men who had reduced the confident, passionate person from earlier into this flustered state.

“It’s just a shirt,” he said quietly, trying to catch your gaze but you refused to look up.

“I’m really sorry.” You voice was thick with humiliation. “I’ll pay for the cleaning or a new one or—”

“Hey,” he cut you off but you were already backing away, still not meeting his eyes.

“I need to go.”

Before he could respond, you pushed past him, threading through the crowd with determined speed. Jack watched the door shut behind you before turning his attention to Santos. The men had already wandered off and as much as he’d like to give them a piece of his mind the worst offender here was her in his opinion.

He stepped into her space. “You let them talk to her like that?”

Her eyes widened slightly before she shrugged. “They were just joking around. It wasn’t serious.”

“Wasn’t serious,” he repeated, voice dropping lower. Santos had worked with him enough she should sense the danger in that tone.

“Look it’s just how they are. They don’t mean anything by it.” She darted a glance in their direction.

“And that makes it okay? To humiliate someone? To make jokes about her weight?” Jack leaned closer. “To imply she should be grateful for their attention?”

Trinity flinched. “I didn’t say any of that.”

“But you laughed. You stood there and let it happen.” He shook his head. “She’s supposed to be your friend.”

Her shoulders sagged as she glanced toward the door where you disappeared. “I didn’t think…it’s always been easier to just go along with it. To be one of them instead of…” She gestured vaguely toward the door.

“Instead of a target.”

She nodded. “I’ve known them since undergrad. They can make my life hell if they want to.”

“So you let them make her life hell instead.”

Santos had no answer for that.

“You’re better than this, Santos. Or at least, you should be.” He stepped back. “Did she drive?”

She shook her head. “No, we were going to walk to her place after. It’s not far.”

“Which way?” he asked.

Her brow furrowed. “What?”

“Which way would she go, Santos?”

“Oh.” She gestured and rattled off the address.

He nodded and turned to go after you, hoping you hadn’t gotten far. He didn’t like the thought of you walking home humiliated and upset. He noticed your jacket still on the back of your chair and snagged it on his way by.

The night air was a shock after the stuffy heat of the bar. His eyes scanned the street spotting you sitting on a bench in the small park across from the bar. You sat hunched forward, arms wrapped around yourself staring at the ground.

Jack crossed the street, approaching slowly to keep from startling you. Your head lifted at the sound of footsteps. You wiped the lingering moisture from your cheeks and gave him a smile that didn’t reach your eyes.

“If you’ve come about the drycleaning bill, you’ll have to take a number. Student loans take most of my salary.”

Jack sat beside you on the bench, leaving some space to make sure you weren’t uncomfortable with his presence. He handed you the jacket. “Actually, I came to bring you this and to see if you were okay.”

You glanced at him with narrowed eyes. “I don’t need your pity or whatever this is.”

“It’s not pity.” His voice was firm, unyielding. “I genuinely enjoyed our conversation earlier. You’re interesting.”

You studied him for a long moment. “Why?”

He frowned in confusion. “Why what?”

“Why would you think anything about me was interesting?” The question was direct, stripped of your usual protective humor. “I know what I look like. I know what people think when they see me. I’m the comic relief, not the one people actually want to talk to.”

The honesty caught Jack off guard, feeling like a trust he hadn’t earned yet. “Then those people are idiots. You are the most interesting person I’ve met in a long time. Intelligence matters to me. Passion matters. When you talked about your research, I could see your mind working, connecting ideas in ways I could never think of. That’s rare. And valuable.”

You looked away, staring at your hands. “Most people don’t see that part.”

“Yeah, well as I already said people are idiots.” The corner of his mouth kicked up in a smile. “I spend twelve hours a day patching up the results of human stupidity. I’ve learned to recognize the exceptions when I meet them.”

A flicker of a smile crossed your face.

“I’d like to hear more about your research or anything else you’d like to talk about.”

The invitation hung in the air between you. You turned to look at him directly, searching his face for any sign of insincerity or mockery. Finding none, you made a decision. “Night shift, huh?”

“Yep.”

You stood and slipped into your jacket. “Always been a bit of a night owl myself. There’s an all-night diner not too far from here. I’ll buy you breakfast to make up for the shirt.”

It wasn't like you to be late, so you forced your legs to move faster even as sharp pain flashed through your hip and thigh. Of all days for this to happen, it had to be today—your first shift back after a week and a half of medical leave. And now you were walking into the emergency department nearly an hour late.

Of course, on the very day you were finally coming back to work, you'd been hit by a car.

It hadn't been a major accident, and it hadn't even been the driver's fault… but the impact had still been hard enough to hurt, and most likely bruise.

You'd already been running late, so you'd rushed across the street without noticing the light turned green. One second you were hurrying toward the crosswalk, the next a car had slammed into you or rather, you had slammed into it. The vehicle hadn't been going very fast, but it had hit you hard enough to knock you onto the pavement.

Your elbow had taken the fall on the concrete while your hip had taken all the car's force straight into it. On the floor, you felt the little pebbles breaking your skin while you could already imagine the giant bruise on your hip.

A crowd had gathered almost instantly, trying to assess your injuries as if you weren't a nurse yourself. Some people had even suggested calling an ambulance—which you fiercely refused, insisting you were fine and explaining you worked at a hospital anyway.

It had taken several minutes of convincing—and you showing off your nurse badge from PTMC—before the crowd and the driver finally let you leave, especially since the poor man looked terrified you were about to sue him. You'd reassured him repeatedly that you wouldn't, because the accident had absolutely been your fault and you definitely didn't have the money to pursue anything of this sort.

Still fifteen minutes away from the hospital, you'd texted Dana to let her know you were running late but were still coming in. Since being late was completely unlike you, you already had five missed calls from different staff members by the time you arrived, so you asked Dana to warn them you were coming as well. She only replied with a simply "Okay".

The moment you stepped inside, you headed straight for the staff room as quickly as you could. You shoved your dinner into the fridge, peeled off your jacket, tossing it onto the coat rack before a sharp sting shot through your elbow—the opposite side from where your hip ached.

Looking down, you realized the skin was scraped raw and streaked with drying blood.

"Argh, I don't have time for this," you muttered with a sigh, heading for the sink.

You rinsed the scrape under cold water, biting back a groan as the sting intensified, then dried it carefully with a paper towel. It had already stopped bleeding—it was only a minor wound—but it still looked rough.

Shaking your head, you grabbed the white long-sleeved shirt you always kept in your bag. As quickly as possible, and without flashing any of your coworkers, you pulled it on beneath your scrubs to cover it—hoping hard it wouldn't taint the shirt.

Finally satisfied that your injuries were hidden well enough, you left the room and headed straight for the nurses' station.

"I'm so sorry," you said as you approached Dana, who looked up at you over the rim of her glasses.

As gentle as ever, she pulled you into a quick hug and assured you it was fine—that these things happened to everyone. Even so, you could see the exhaustion on her face. It must have been a rough day shift, which usually meant an even rougher night ahead. You silently prayed for a quiet evening.

"I'll come in early next shift if you're working," you promised as she gathered her things after explaining what had happened today.

"You don't have to, sweetie. Just make sure you're alright," Dana replied with a soft smile before heading out for the night.

"Better yet, come in at seven-thirty tomorrow morning, okay? So I don't feel so bad," you teased, giving her your best puppy eyes.

"Don't threaten me with a good time, kid," she joked, shaking her head with a laugh.

After she left, you immediately went to Shen and asked how the beginning of the night had been. He assured you everything was running smoothly while sipping his usual coffee. His nonchalance used to annoy the hell out of you, but over time you'd gotten used to it. It was oddly soothing to have someone this chill and relax while everything around here always turned into chaos.

You also knew Jack was working tonight, and you were doing your absolute best to avoid him.

First, because you knew he'd immediately notice something was wrong with you as he noticed everything. And second, more importantly, because of the very last text he'd sent you.

Good girl.

Two fucking words that had haunted you for the past week and a half.

Sometimes you'd be grocery shopping or curled up on the couch reading, and suddenly your mind would drift back to that text. Instantly, warmth would spread through your entire body going straight between your legs.

It was absolutely ridiculous how two simple words could affect you so much, but you couldn't deny the reaction they triggered.

Your cheeks would burn so hot it almost felt suffocating and you'd suddenly have the overwhelming urge to slip your fingers beneath your panties.

Which was exactly why avoiding Jack Abbott seemed like the smartest possible decision.

Four days ago, when you'd returned to have your stitches removed, you'd specifically chosen to show up during the day shift, when you knew he wasn't scheduled. You knew how unpredictable he could be—showing up on his days off and lingering around the hospital for hours wasn't unusual for him—but arriving at one in the afternoon had felt like a safe bet that he'd hopefully be in bed... or just far from the hospital.

And thankfully, you had been right.

Getting the stitches removed had been quick, and you'd been more than happy to chat with Samira while she worked. You'd insisted a student nurse could handle it, but she'd waved the idea off, claiming she needed the break. Naturally, you'd indulged her.

Now, walking through the department with an iPad in hand, checking that every patient was where they should be, receiving the right treatment, eating properly, and generally comfortable, you found your thoughts drifting back to Jack once again.

The number of time you had imagined his deep voice saying those two words were shameful, but you couldn't help it. If anything it had been the bastard's fault and he should be the one feeling guilty. If guilt was even what you were feeling.

Shaking your head, you forced yourself to refocus. At home, obsessing over him was one thing—you weren't responsible for an entire staff and people's lives there. But this was work. Here, you needed to stay professional.

Hearing your name, you turned toward the sound and met Mateo's eyes. You gave him a small nod, waiting for him to speak.

"North 12 is getting discharged, and South 3 is still waiting on results, but upstairs isn't answering," Mateo explained as he pulled off his gloves and tossed them into a nearby trash can.

"Okay, I'll call when I get the time," you replied, already discharging North 12 on your iPad.

Still sensing Mateo lingering beside you, you looked up with a raised eyebrow. "Anything else?"

"Huh…" he started, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Abbott's looking for you."

"Tell him I'm busy," you answered as casually as possible before turning back to your screen.

The second Mateo was out of sight, you bit down hard on your lip, trying to control the immediate reaction that shot through your body at the mention of the older man. You usually weren't like this. But Jack was just… something else.

Maybe it was the way he carried himself so effortlessly, never ashamed of his actions, never trying to hide his interest in you. He was confident about it—openly so—and somehow that only made him more dangerous.

God, that old man was infuriating.

After finishing your rounds, you were almost surprised by how calm the night still was despite the packed waiting room and ED. Returning to your desk, you sat down to update the department board—which beds were free, who was waiting on scans, who was ready for transfer, and who still needed treatment.

"Vivi," you called as she passed by.

She immediately stopped and turned toward you.

"North 7 needs blood test."

"On it," she replied with a bright smile before hurrying off.

Watching her leave, you shook your head fondly. You really did have an incredible team of nurses. Then you sensed someone approaching.

Looking up, you saw Abbott making his way toward your desk, hands clasped behind his back in that rigid military posture of his.

You were absolutely not prepared to talk to him, especially not in the middle of the ER but there was no escaping now. Short of divine intervention, you were trapped.

And somehow, you got exactly that.

Behind you, the red emergency phone rang loudly enough to cut through the chaos of the department. Abbott glanced toward the phone with a raised eyebrow while you immediately rolled your chair back and stood.

"PTMC Emergency, charge nurse," you answered, deliberately looking anywhere except at Jack, who remained standing directly in front of your desk.

As the paramedic spoke, your brain instantly started reorganizing the ER—eyes running everywhere in the room except on Abbot. "We'll be ready."

The second you hung up, you turned back, relieved to see Abbott had been joined by Ellis.

"Bar fight incoming," you summarized quickly, already moving toward the trauma bays. "One guy has part of a beer bottle lodged in his skull, and the other's unconscious with an open radius fracture."

Leaving the doctors behind, you pushed open the door to Trauma 1 and found Shen and Toomarian working on a patient who, thankfully, didn't seem critical.

"We need the room in two minutes," you said.

Your nurses immediately nodded.

"Alright, boss," Shen replied before looking back at his patient. "Let's go on a little trip!"

You rolled your eyes at his complete lack of seriousness while walking back toward the desk, only to hear an enthusiastic "Weeee!" behind you as Shen rolled the patient out of the room.

Taking the phone out of your breast pocket, you quickly composed the neuro number before putting the phone to your ears.

"Dr. Walsh," a voice answered on the other end of the phone a moment later.

"Was supposed to call neuro," you replied, confused as to why she had picked up instead.

"They're tied up. What have you got?" Emery asked immediately, skipping all pleasantries.

"Open head trauma with the bottle still embedded, and another patient with a open fracture," you explained while leaning over your desk and rearranging beds on the board.

"That sucks," the surgeon replied dryly, pulling a quiet laugh from you. "I'll come down in a few and page ortho on the way. Neuro's gonna be difficult tonight, but I'll see what I can do."

"You're the best," you mumbled, eyes fixed on your screen—and meaning every word.

Emery Walsh was one of the reason you missed being a surgery nurse sometimes. People found her dry and hard, but working with her, you'd learnt that she was a really good person.

"Yeah, I know. See you soon." Then the line went dead.

The phone stayed wedged between your shoulder and ear while you typed, barely noticing it anymore. Around you, the department shifted into controlled chaos as trauma rooms were cleaned, supplies restocked, and doctors prepared for the incoming patients.

Bar fights were common enough. The outcomes, however, were never predictable.

Slowly, you felt the phone slipping from your shoulder—until it disappeared completely. It didn't crash onto the desk or floor. Instead, someone gently placed it beside your keyboard.

You looked up and found Abbott standing there, right by your side, watching you with a slight smile and his head tilted faintly to the side. His eyes were soft but teasing staying on, what you were certain, were wide doe eyes.

"Walsh is coming down," you explained immediately quickly getting back on your feet while sticking strictly to work-related conversation. "Hopefully with ortho. Neuro's unavailable right now."

"We'll make it work," he said softly, voice deep and grounding.

That voice. The exact same calm, low tone your brain had replayed for a week and a half alongside those two words.

Good girl.

It was genuinely becoming a problem.

You nodded quickly and started to turn away so you could brief a few nurses, but Jack stopped you again.

"How's the hand?" he asked, genuine concern in his voice.

Wanting to get through the conversation as quickly as possible, you answered immediately. "Never better."

"You did come, right?" he pressed, his eyes dropping toward your hand.

Ever since that text, your mind had been completely corrupted.

Even though his gaze was clearly fixed on your hand resting near your hip, your stupid brain instantly interpreted it differently… going to a very different place than you fucking hand. That absolutely did not help your obsession with that man.

"What?" you blurted out, louder than necessary.

"You didn't remove the stitches yourself, did you?" he clarified, clearly confused by your reaction.

"Oh." Your eyes widened as realization hit you. "No, no. Samira did it."

Frowning slightly, Jack looked at you with a strange twist to his smile, something dangerously close to a smirk. "Samira? From day shift?"

"Yeah, well…" You shrugged awkwardly. "I was off for more than a week. It's crazy how quickly your body adjusts back to a normal schedule."

The joke came out clumsier than intended.

You glanced at his eyes, immediately looked away, then stupidly looked back again before darting your gaze elsewhere for a third time, your anxiety practically written across your face.

"Right," Jack replied slowly, amusement clear in his expression.

"Okay," you sighed with an overly tight smile before quickly turning around and walking away.

Why did you have to be this awkward? Of course he hadn't been making some crude comment in the middle of a shift with half the ER around. Jack was bold, sure, but not that bold.

Your brain seriously needed to calm the hell down before you lost your mind completely.

Unfortunately, too distracted to pay attention to where you were going, you walked straight into Walsh as she strolled into the department.

"Wow," she blurted, eyes widening in surprise. "You good?"

"Huh? Yeah. Just getting ready for the traumas!" you called over your shoulder, not slowing down for even a second.

Forcing yourself back into work mode, you started assigning nurses to incoming cases and gathering supplies that were missing from the trauma rooms. By the time you finished restocking everything, the EMTs were already wheeling the patients in through the ambulance bay.

"Trauma 1 and 2 are clear and ready!" you shouted as the teams split apart and rushed into their assigned rooms.

Finally getting a brief moment to breathe, you called about the lab results Mateo had mentioned earlier, only to discover they'd somehow been lost in the system and were now being resent. Seconds later, the files appeared on your iPad.

Perfect timing, too, since Dr. Porat, R2 of the night shift, wasn't tied up with the trauma teams. After forwarding her the results, the front desk called your extension.

"Charge nurse speaking," you answered while scrolling through charts waiting to be reviewed.

"Jim Burlt's family is here," Chantana said softly over the line.

"Who?" you asked automatically, not recognizing the name.

"The truck driver who got electrocuted. He passed earlier, during day shift, I think." Her voice lowered so the family wouldn't overhear.

"Fuck," you whispered, letting your head fall back for a second. "Okay. I'm coming."

It wasn't that you didn't want to handle it—you just had no idea where the man's body had been taken. Dana hadn't mentioned it during handoff, and since you'd missed rounds, you were completely behind.

Pulling up his chart in the system, all you found were three cold words:

Dead on arrival.

With no better option, you headed into Trauma 1, since it sounded like the quieter room of the two. The moment you pushed open the door, Abbott looked up at you immediately—as though he'd sensed your presence before even seeing you.

"Know a Jim Burlt?" you asked, unable to stop yourself from instinctively checking the patient's vitals first. Stable.

"Yeah. Robby's patient," Jack replied, eyes already shifting back toward the trauma bed.

Patient. The word twisted uncomfortably in your chest. The man had arrived dead. There had been nothing anyone could do besides call the time.

"His family's here. Do you know where he is?"

"Morgue," Jack answered, finally looking back at you with sympathetic eyes. "And it's not a pretty sight. Especially for the family."

"Fucking perfect," you muttered under your breath before turning to leave.

As you headed toward the waiting area, a warm hand settled gently on your shoulder, stopping you mid-step.

You turned around to find Jack standing close behind you.

He'd already stripped off the bloody gown, gloves, and protective glasses from the trauma room. Without all the gear, he looked unfairly good—calm, composed, and for once actually rested.

"I'll do it," he said quietly, nodding toward the waiting room.

"It's okay. I can handle it. You clearly have your hands full." You assured him, painfully aware of the warmth spreading through your neck where his hand still rested close by on your shoulder.

"Robby already explained the case, and they don't need me in there anymore," he replied lightly, the corners of his mouth lifting.

Even though you'd initially thought Jack was highly professional and not nearly this bold, he quickly proved you wrong as he stepped closer, leaning toward you. His lips hovered far too close to your ear—close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath against your neck—when he finally spoke. "But this place will fall apart without you."

"Huh…" was the only sound your brain managed to produce.

When he finally stepped back, there was a teasing smirk tugging at his lips before he simply walked away, leaving you stranded in the middle of the hallway like your system had completely rebooted.

Your eyes struggled to focus on anything.

His words. His voice. That stupid charisma. It all tangled together until your thoughts turned into static.

The loud laughter of a drunk patient somewhere down the hall finally snapped you back to reality. Within seconds, you were moving again, heading toward your desk while taking a deep shaky breath.

It was genuinely unfair how easily he could throw you completely off balance while you seemingly had nowhere near the same effect on him.

Fucking diabolical.

Hours later, after working nonstop without a break, you finally stole a few precious minutes for yourself in the stairwell. It was quieter than the break room and safer than the ambulance bay. Here, nobody bothered you.

You still kept your phone nearby in your chest pocket, and never disappeared for longer than ten minutes, but at least you could drink your coffee in peace. You'd warn the attending and your nurses before just disappearing.

Only three hours remained in your shift now. Close enough to the end that you could finally see it.

Eyes closed, head resting against the stair railing, you sipped your coffee slowly while focusing on your breathing exercises—your usual way of bleeding off the stress that came with the job.

The hospital staff were used to finding you here during night shifts, so when the stairwell door creaked open and footsteps started approaching, you barely reacted at all.

"Abbott's looking for you." Walsh's voice shattered the brief moment of peace you'd managed to find in the stairwell.

"When is he not?" you sighed, taking another sip of coffee.

You only opened your eyes when you heard Emery groan dramatically as she dropped down beside you on the steps. She looked exhausted—but then again, who in this hospital didn't? Even so, there was still something sharp and alert behind her tired eyes.

"I'd kill for a cigarette," she muttered, rubbing both hands down her face.

"Stay strong," you laughed softly. "If you relapse, you'll drag me down with you."

It wasn't entirely true, but you still remembered the nights you'd both decided to quit smoking together. Back then, she'd sneak out through the ER ambulance bay and wait for you outside. For five peaceful minutes, the two of you would talk about life, relationships—anything except the chaos happening inside.

"Oh, fuck no," she smirked, side eyeing you. "I do not need cowboy doctor on my ass."

You turned toward her immediately. "What the hell does that mean?"

"Play innocent all you want," she dismissed while standing up, brushing the non existing dust of her pants. "And please don't call me for the rest of the night."

"Not my decision," you called after her as she disappeared up the stairs.

Laughing quietly to yourself, you finally pushed yourself to your feet and stretched your stiff limbs.

Huge mistake.

Pain exploded from your hip all the way down to your knee while your elbow throbbed sharply in protest. You should've expected this. Since the second you'd been hit by that car, you hadn't stopped moving long enough for your body to fully register the damage.

Now, after ten minutes of sitting still, it absolutely had.

Walking back to the ER without limping turned out to be significantly harder than expected, but somehow you managed it. You smiled tightly at nurses, greeted techs, gave instructions to interns, the usual—all while pretending nothing hurt.

By the time you reached the sink to wash your coffee mug, you were quietly breathing through the pain. At this point, the shift simply couldn't end fast enough.

All you wanted was for Dana to arrive on time—which she always did, though you had told her she could come in late… You were fucked.

"Why are you limping?" The deep voice behind you made you flinch so hard you nearly dropped the mug.

"Jesus Christ," you let out, your heart racing.

Turning around, you found yourself face-to-face with Jack Abbott, standing there with his hands clasped behind his back like always.

"I'm not limping," you dismissed immediately. "Maybe you need glasses, old man."

Not wanting to deal with his scrutinising stare, you turned back toward the sink and focused intensely on cleaning the mug.

"So that's definitely not blood on your elbow," Jack replied dryly, his tone carrying that specific kind of sarcasm that really meant don't bullshit me.

Twisting your arm enough to see your elbow, your stomach dropped. A smear of blood stained the sleeve of your white shirt. You must've bumped it against a wall without noticing. And of course you'd chosen the one white shirt you owned.

"Fuck," you muttered under your breath, too quietly for him to hear. Then louder: "Old stain. Hard to get out, you know how it is."

With your back still turned to him, you prayed he'd just accept the lie and leave.

But miracles clearly had limits, and you'd apparently already used yours for the night. No one interrupted. No emergencies pulled him away. So he stayed.

He didn't move closer, but you heard the irritated click of his tongue behind you.

You deliberately took far longer than necessary washing the mug, dreading the moment you'd have to turn around and face him properly. The last thing you wanted was for anyone to find out you'd been hit by a fucking car.

That would mean another medical leave. And beyond the fact that you absolutely couldn't afford more time off, you genuinely didn't want it.

"So we're lying now?" Jack asked as you finally turned toward him.

There was something unreadable in his voice, not exactly anger, not exactly amusement either. His arms were crossed over his chest now, head tilted slightly as though challenging you. Instinctively, you mirrored him, crossing your own arms while raising an eyebrow in return.

You were not about to snitch on yourself. And judging by his expression, he clearly wasn't planning on dropping it.

"I guess it's your problem if you don't believe me," you replied with a smile so forced it practically hurt.

Before Jack could answer, Sophie stepped into the room—only to freeze immediately under the weight of both your stares. Her eyes widened slightly with concern.

"I'm just getting water," she explained cautiously, like she'd accidentally interrupted something terrible.

"Of course," you replied instantly, your tone softening. "Take ten if you need."

Then you looked back at Jack. The smile you gave him this time was entirely different—tight, restrained, and far less friendly—before brushing past him and leaving the room.

As you walked away, you heard Jack reassuring Sophie that she'd done nothing wrong and that she should take whatever break she needed.

The rest of the shift passed surprisingly smoothly, even if the pain stubbornly refused to fade. It was honestly impressive how well you managed to hide it from everyone.

Everyone except Jack.

He never brought it up again, but for the remainder of the night, you could feel his eyes on you every single time you winced—even slightly. Every time your limp slipped through before you could correct it, you caught him watching with furrowed brows.

Now, finally sitting down near the end of shift, you chatted quietly with Robby while the rest of the night crew signed off one by one.

The only person still missing was Dana. Because you had stupidly told her to come in late.

At least you'd warned Robby ahead of time so he wouldn't panic about being left without a charge nurse. You kept working through the final charts and updates, determined not to leave Dana with a disaster just because you were exhausted and hurting.

You'd pushed through for hours already. There was no point falling apart now when the end was finally in sight.

The moment you saw Dana walking through the ER doors, relief washed over you so strongly you almost sighed out loud.

The older woman chewed lazily on her gum, glasses already perched low on her nose while her stethoscope hung around her neck. Even the way she walked radiated competence. The second she reached you, you wrapped your arms around her and let out a tired groan into her shoulder.

For the next ten minutes, the two of you made rounds together while you updated her on the night—who'd been admitted, who'd gone upstairs, who'd died, which beds were opening up. The usual end-of-shift rundown.

Once you finished, she gently nudged you toward the corner where you'd dumped your belongings hours ago.

"Off you go, kid," she said simply before turning back toward the department.

And honestly? Sleep had never sounded so good.

Even if getting home meant enduring a painful fifteen minute walk, you figured you could survive it. You'd spent the entire night running around nonstop—what was another few minutes on your feet?

As you headed toward the exit, already dreading having to come back later that night, you pulled out your phone to check your texts and emails.

A sharp whistle suddenly pulled your attention away from the screen. Confused, you looked up. Standing in the ambulance bay—like he'd apparently been waiting there for a while—was Jack Abbott.

Which made absolutely no sense.

He'd left on time for once, along with most of the night staff, so why the hell was he still here? Even stranger, his car was parked right beside the ambulance entrance—something nobody was allowed to do, not even for five minutes.

"Forget something?" you asked innocently, nodding toward the illegally parked car.

"You," he answered immediately.

You scoffed automatically, but the sound died quickly when you realized he wasn't joking.

"What?" you deadpanned when he made no move to smile.

"I'm taking you home," he said calmly. "And you're going to tell me what happened to you."

It wasn't phrased like a question. Not quite an order either, but there was absolutely no room for argument.

"Jack—" you started, fully prepared to fight him on it anyway.

"Nope. In the car."

Then he casually walked around and opened the passenger side door for you.

When you still didn't move, he simply tilted his head slightly, eyes never leaving yours. There really was no escaping this. With a deep sigh, you shook your head and walked toward the open door.

The second you sat down, Jack gave a satisfied little nod, like he was pleased you'd listened, before closing the door for you.

A minute later, after he climbed into the driver's seat, you noticed your address already programmed into his GPS.

"How did you…" You trailed off, pointing weakly at the screen.

"From the Uber last time," he replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Right…" you murmured, smiling despite yourself.

Being trapped in such a small space with him felt oddly intimate. The car smelt like him, a smell that was oddly comforting, messing with you. And unfortunately, your exhausted brain didn't help much more, immediately fixated on his hands resting on the gear shift as he put the car into drive.

You were far too tired to stop yourself from staring for a second longer than necessary. Then a thought suddenly crossed your mind.

"Can you even drive with your leg?" you asked as the car rolled forward. "Well, I mean, obviously you can…"

That made him laugh, a real laugh. Warm and genuine enough that you immediately turned your head toward him. And honestly, if you could've seen yourself right then, you were pretty sure you would've looked completely smitten.

"Was that rude?" you asked, giggling softly when you noticed how bright his smile had become.

"Not coming from you," Jack replied gently, sending you another small smile before looking back at the road.

That alone was enough to make you grin like a teenager.

Your cheeks and neck warmed instantly, heart beating embarrassingly faster just from the softness in his voice.

Resting your elbow against the door, you propped your head against your hand and stared out the window while gently rubbing your forehead. Your elbow protested immediately, but at this point everything hurt anyway.

Your hip had been throbbing for hours, a migraine lingered behind your eyes, and all you wanted in the world was a shower and your bed.

"God, I'm so tired," you whispered, knowing perfectly well he'd hear you.

"Want to tell me what happened now?" Jack asked, still using that same quiet voice.

Rolling your eyes toward the window, you let out a long breath.

Of course he wasn't going to let it go, you should've expected this. Honestly, it had been predictable from the moment he'd noticed you limping. Still, you'd hoped exhaustion might make him back off for once.

"Seriously?" you groaned, finally turning your head toward him with narrowed eyes.

"Surprise," he shot back with a smirk, knowing deep well none of you were actually.

Closing your eyes briefly, you felt exhaustion and pain mixing together until lying almost felt too difficult to bother with anymore. And really… what was the point?

He wasn't going to stop asking.

Turning back toward the window, you watched the sunrise spill soft orange light across the quiet city streets.

"Got hit by a car," you said suddenly.

Silence filled the car immediately afterwards, which definitely wasn't a good sign. But it was peaceful while it lasted.

"Come again?" Jack asked slowly, sounding like he genuinely thought he'd misheard you.

"I got hit by a car crossing the street. My fault entirely," you clarified casually, like it wasn't a huge deal. Because honestly? It wasn't.

You were alive. Nothing was broken. Nothing life-threatening had happened.

At worst, you'd end up with an ugly bruise on your hip, a scraped elbow, and aches for a few days—it could've been so much worse.

"I landed on my elbow, which explains the blood," you continued before he could interrupt. "And my hip took most of the impact, which is why I'm limping." You shrugged weakly. "I'm alive and mostly intact, Jack. Nothing to worry about."

"You should've said something," he growled, shaking his head.

"So you could've sent me home?" you shot back immediately. "I handled the shift just fine."

"You handled it," he agreed tightly, nodding while his jaw was tightly set. "But now you're limping, and I'm willing to bet your hip's killing you."

He sent you a dark look before focusing back on the road. Before you could argue further, the car pulled up in front of your building.

You weren't about to pretend you weren't grateful not to walk the rest of the way home. Turning toward him, you opened your mouth to thank him and wish him goodnight, ready to forget it all about the previous conversation.

Only to frown when his car door slammed shut. Seconds later, he was already on your side of the car, opening your door for you.

"You don't have to—" you started while pulling your seatbelt off.

"Don't," Jack warned simply as he leaned inside to grab your bags.

It was ridiculously sweet. And it also made you feel slightly guilty because you knew his own leg had to be hurting after such a long shift too, but he didn't show even a hint of discomfort.

He just straightened back up with your bags in one hand while holding the car door open with the other, waiting patiently for you to get out.

Getting out, you knew there was no point arguing with Jack, so you simply started walking toward the building's main door. Turning back toward him, you walked straight over and reached into your bag without even asking for it back, you already knew he wouldn't give it to you.

Once your keys were in hand, you unlocked the door and headed straight for the elevator. When Jack stepped into the small space beside you, you realised he was actually walking you all the way to your front door.

It felt strange being trapped in such a narrow space with him, but he seemed completely determined to make sure you got safely inside your flat, as if something terrible might happen between his car and your front door. You supposed you never really knew, but it still felt highly unlikely.

The ride up to your floor was quiet and slightly awkward, despite how quick it was.

Standing in front of your door, you unlocked it and suddenly felt far too awkward to simply say goodbye there. So you stepped inside, leaving the door open behind you as a silent invitation.

"Want some water?" you asked, breaking the silence as you made your way toward the kitchen. "You can leave that by the door," you added, pointing to the bags still hanging from his hands.

"I'll take some water, yeah. Thanks," he replied softly.

When you returned to the living room with two glasses of water, Jack was standing in the middle of the room, relaxed as though he belonged there. He was looking around at every little detail—every book, every picture, every vinyl record—studying it all with quiet attention.

Watching him in your space made the butterflies in your stomach go wild. Your mind instantly started imagining him there all the time, as if his belongings naturally belonged beside yours, some jazz vinyl mixed in with your indie pop collection, his medical books stacked beside your fantasy novels. It would fit so perfectly.

Shaking the thought away and forcing a soft smile, you stepped closer and handed him his glass.

"Thanks," he murmured, his gaze drifting slowly from your head to your toes without the slightest hint of shame.

The two of you remained standing in the middle of the living room, slowly sipping your drinks. Locked in each other's eyes, the tension quickly became unbearable, yet neither of you looked away. Jack held your gaze openly, his expression soft and calm. Gone was the tired, sarcastic man you usually worked with. This version of him felt entirely different, but oddly comforting.

After a few seconds, he stepped closer—with a slight limp of his own—and set his glass down on the nearby table. Gently, he took your own empty glass and placed it beside his.

"I know the best treatment for your hip," Jack said, his voice low and deep. His eyes gleamed with something you couldn't quite name.

"Yeah?" you asked, your voice embarrassingly shaky. Ridiculous, you were a grown woman.

"Relaxation," he whispered, lust filling his eyes. That had been what you couldn't name before.

As soon as the word left his mouth, his hands rose to your cheeks—warm, soft, safe—before he leaned in. His lips hovered just above yours, not quite kissing you, but making no effort to hide how badly he wanted to.

The second you felt his warmth so close, your eyes fluttered shut in anticipation and, without even realising it, you rose slightly onto your tiptoes to meet him halfway. A few long seconds passed before you finally felt Jack's lips against yours.

They were soft and unhurried, as though he was trying to ease you into it while slowly pulling himself closer. His warmth completely surrounded you now, his chest pressed lightly against yours. You weren't even sure when he'd moved that close, only that it felt incredibly good.

He was everything you had imagined—steady, solid, grounding—while your own hands shook where they rested against his chest. His hands had slipped from your cheeks to your hips as carefully as possible, mindful not to hurt you while gently tugging you closer.

"Let's go sit down, yeah?" He murmured against your lips.

You hadn't even realised you'd started shaking. Your legs felt weak, your thoughts racing so fast you could barely keep up with them. No one had ever made you feel like this before—not once in your life had someone unsettled you so completely.

"Mmh," you hummed against his lips before leaning up to kiss him again.

Both of you laughed softly into the kiss as Jack began stepping backward. When the backs of his knees bumped against the couch, he paused for a second before sitting down. You moved to sit beside him, but his hand stopped you.

Spreading his legs slightly, he guided you to stand between them instead. His face hovered near your stomach, immediately making you self-conscious. But the moment his lips pressed soft kisses there through your shirt, the butterflies in your stomach only grew wilder. Your breathing turned uneven as you stared down at him.

His eyes lifted to yours while his lips continued trailing slow kisses over your stomach.

"Can I?" he asked quietly, his voice rough with restrained need.

It was unfamiliar—feeling this wanted by someone who wasn't rushing straight toward sex. There was something comforting about the patience in him, about the way he seemed to want more than just your body. His fingers rested lightly against the hem of your shirt, playing absently with it, waiting for permission.

When you nodded—a little too quickly, you'd admit—mischief flickered in Jack's eyes as he raised a single brow in silent warning. The effortless dominance he carried so naturally made your head spin.

"Yes," you managed to say, breathless, earning another quick kiss in return.

Agonisingly slowly, Jack pushed your shirt upward, his lips following the rising fabric. Once it was high enough, you tugged it off yourself, suddenly standing half-naked in front of the man you'd been hopelessly crushing on for months.

You still hadn't dared look directly at him, but the second you heard him click his tongue in disapproval, your stomach dropped. Had he imagined your body differently? Was he disgusted by what he saw? Was the soft weight on your body suddenly repulsive once shown without clothes?

"No fucking wonder you're limping," he muttered, sounding almost irritated.

Looking down quickly, you were met with a patch of darkened skin peeking out from beneath your pants. The bruising already looked terrible, staining your skin in a way that made it obvious to anyone that it hurt like hell.

"Oh," you breathed out shakily, finally releasing the breath you'd been holding.

He wasn't disgusted by you at all, he'd simply slipped into doctor mode. You weren't even sure he'd realised it, but one of his thumbs was slowly caressing the bruise while his eyes remained fixed on yours.

"Did you at least get their name?" he sighed, shaking his head.

"It wasn't his fault," you explained quietly.

"He should still pay for the medical treatment. You were a pedestrian, it was his fault anyway," Jack continued scolding gently, resting his chin against your soft stomach while keeping his eyes on you.

Scoffing, you shook your head. "What medical treatment?"

"Still," the older man muttered stubbornly before glancing back down at the bruise.

As carefully as he could, he tugged your pants down a little farther, revealing more of the dark purple mark. It wasn't pretty, but at least it was only a bruise and not a broken hip. That would've been a nightmare.

"Does it hurt?" His voice softened again, slipping back into the soothing tone he always seemed to use around you.

"Not right now," you whispered, far too distracted by the feeling of his lips brushing against your skin again.

He kissed around the bruise as though he could somehow heal it with tenderness alone. Every soft press of his mouth made your heart skip wildly in your chest—a feeling that was becoming dangerously familiar whenever he was near. At first, it had annoyed you but now, standing half-undressed in your living room, it felt exhilarating.

He chuckled softly at your answer before pressing another kiss to your skin.

Then, before doing anything else, he leaned back against the couch. His warmth barely left your body, yet you missed it instantly. Once he'd settled farther away, his hands moved to the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head in one smooth motion.

The sight nearly stole your breath.

This man—older than you by more than a decade—had a better body than most men your own age you'd ever been with. His chest was broad and toned, scattered with freckles that made you ache to trace every single one with your fingertips. His stomach was firm too, though softened slightly by a thin layer of fat that somehow only made him more attractive, more real. It made you want to bite into it.

And his arms, God. They'd already been distracting enough at work, but seeing them like this, bathed in the warm sunlight filtering through your curtains, was almost unfair.

"Wanna sit down now?" he teased, his thumb still stroking over your hip. "Because this must be killing you."

Nodding, you finally dragged your gaze away from his chest and smiled sheepishly when you met his eyes. You felt no embarrassment about being caught staring, and judging by the smugness on his face, he was thoroughly enjoying the attention. Then again, he had no shame either—his own eyes had drifted toward your breasts more than once already.

"How about we take these off first?" he murmured teasingly, lightly snapping the waistband of your pants against your good hip.

"Sure," you replied, feeling strangely at ease around him now. "Just warning you… I'm not wearing my best underwear today."

"Oh no," Jack said dramatically, shaking his head in fake disappointment.

His hands betrayed him completely, though, as he carefully slid your pants down your legs, making sure not to brush too hard against the bruising. Once they passed your thighs, the fabric dropped to the floor on its own.

Leaning back against the couch, Jack rested his hands low on your hips while he looked at you with quiet hunger. His gaze wandered slowly over every inch of you, from your face down to your knees, taking everything in with patient, gentle attention.

And weirdly—for probably the first time in your life—you didn't really feel self-conscious. You'd made peace with your body years ago, but old insecurities from your teens and early twenties still lingered in quiet corners of your mind.

Yet there was no judgment in his eyes. No disgust. His gaze moved over your stretch marks, your soft stomach, your love handles, the natural curve of your breasts, and the faint hair peeking out around your panties without hesitation or discomfort.

If anything, he looked captivated.

Smiling softly, he leaned forward to press another kiss against your stomach before settling back comfortably against the couch again. Once he was fully relaxed, he patted his thighs lightly, eyes never leaving you.

You hesitated awkwardly, standing there half-naked in the middle of your living room. Even if he clearly liked your body, a small part of you still worried you might be too heavy for him. Buying yourself time, you bent down to pull your socks off.

"Come on," he coaxed with an amused smirk. "You're not gonna break me."

Your eyes widened in surprise. You hadn't realised your thoughts were that obvious—you'd always been good at hiding your insecurities and fears. Perhaps, it had been that your partner didn't really pay attention.

"You think too loudly, sweetheart," Jack said, his teasing smile softening. "And you're way too pretty to waste time worrying about stupid things."

As if to reassure you even more, he patted his thighs again before his hands slid back to your hips, guiding you closer inch by inch.

His gentleness and words made you smile despite yourself, your eyes dropping shyly toward the floor. Once you reached the couch, you slowly lowered yourself into his lap, your legs settling on either side of his hips. He was so broad that the stretch tugged slightly at your sore hip, painful but strangely pleasant too.

Your hands rested uncertainly on his shoulders, still hesitant to put your full weight on him even though your hip was throbbing. Jack solved the issue himself by gripping your waist and pulling you down firmly onto him.

The second your full weight settled in his lap, a sound escaped him—a rough mixture between a groan and a moan that instantly sent heat rushing through your body. As a reflex, your thighs pressed together, or tried to. Instead, the movement rocked you lightly against him, your body brushing over the hardening shape still trapped beneath his cargo pants.

The reaction it pulled from both of you was immediate—a long shared breath, shaky and warm.

The moment your eyes met, laughter burst out of you unexpectedly. Jack laughed too, leaning forward to kiss your forehead. Meanwhile, his hands slid slowly up your back. Without thinking, you melted into him, your arms slipping around his neck automatically.

The hug felt dangerously close to home.

He was so warm, so solid, comforting in a way you couldn't even explain. Like curling beneath a blanket on the coldest winter night. Safe. Easy. Real.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, your thoughts betrayed you again, instantly imagining what it would feel like to fall asleep wrapped in this warmth every night. To wake up curled into his burly arms, head lying on his chest.

"You're so warm," you whispered against his neck before pressing a soft kiss there.

Jack laughed quietly under his breath and pulled you even closer in response. He kissed the top of your head again, slow and absentminded, the kind of affectionate gesture that felt almost painfully domestic.

The hug, the forehead kisses, the quiet closeness—it made your heart race uncontrollably. And with your ear pressed against his chest, you could hear his heartbeat thudding faster than normal too.

His hands slid from your back to settle on your ass. They didn't grope or squeeze greedily, they simply rested there, warm and steady. Grounding. And at the same time, impossible to ignore when his now hard cock was pressed right between your thighs.

Lifting your head from his neck, you kissed him again. This time the kisses turned deeper, messier, more desperate. Teeth brushed lips, tongues tangled slowly and warmth spread through your entire body until you felt dizzy with it.

When it became too much, you instinctively rolled your hips, searching for friction.

And friction was exactly what you found.

His dick, hard beneath the fabric of his pants and your panties, rubbed perfectly against your clothed clit. It had been so long since you'd felt someone against you like this that greed started creeping in before you could stop it.

Pressing your hips down harder against his, satisfaction bloomed in your chest when a rough groan escaped him. His hands remained on your ass now, kneading softly while guiding your movements, encouraging every slow grind against him.

The feeling of skin, heat and pressure was intoxicating. Too much and somehow not enough at the same time. The rough fabric of his pants against the backs of your thighs suddenly became unbearable though, you needed it gone.

Without really thinking, your hands slid from his shoulders down toward his waistband. Rising just enough, you started tugging at them.

Rising slightly, the loss of friction made you whine immediately, even though it had been your own doing. But before you could get very far, Jack's hands gently stopped yours.

You froze at once. Your fingers hovered shakily above the waistband of his pants, your stomach dropping.

"I'm sorry," you whispered quickly against his lips. "Sorry."

Your pulse thundered painfully now, not from desire but embarrassment. Maybe you'd pushed too far. Maybe kissing had been fine, touching had been fine, but this—

"Shhh." His voice was soft and immediate, reassuring. "Relax, sweetheart. You didn't do anything wrong."

But you still couldn't look at him. Your gaze darted everywhere except his face until one of his hands gently cupped your jaw, carefully guiding you back toward him. His eyes looked exactly the same as before: warm, patient, hungry in the gentlest way imaginable. No discomfort. No anger.

"You know about my leg, right?" Jack asked quietly. After a hesitant nod from you, he nodded too. "But you've never seen it," he continued softly. "I just don't want you to be surprised, okay?"

For a second, you simply stared at him. Then laughter burst out of you unexpectedly. Real laughter, the kind that shook your entire body.

Was he seriously worried you'd be disgusted by his prosthetic? By an amputated limb?

Jack leaned back slightly against the couch cushions, head tilted while he watched you laugh yourself to tears. A small smile tugged at his lips, like he understood you'd needed the release after panicking.

Once your laughter finally settled, tears prickling lightly at the corners of your eyes, you looked back at him. Relaxed against your couch, shirtless and warm in the dim morning light, he looked strangely comfortable there.

"You know I'm a nurse, right?" you asked in disbelief.

He answered with one slow, firm nod. Eyes blinking softly in a cat like way.

But then doubt crept in anyway, irrational and sharp. It made no sense for him to think you'd care about his injury, which meant maybe he was only saying it because he wanted to stop. And if he wanted to stop, that was okay—but the thought that he might be searching for an excuse instead of simply telling you hurt more than it should have.

Wrapping your arms around yourself, you shifted back slightly until you were sitting more on his thighs than directly against his crotch. His thumb still stroked gently along your jaw while he studied your expression carefully.

"We can stop if you want," you said softly, though the voice barely sounded like yours. "We don't have to…"

The words trailed off awkwardly. Your toes curled restlessly against his skin while you fought the urge to fidget with your fingers.

"What if I don't want to stop?" His voice dropped lower again.

You stayed quiet, only staring at him while he searched your face.

"Do you want to stop?" Jack asked.

His gaze pinned you in place, making it impossible to look away this time.

Blinking quickly, you shook your head. "No."

"Then come back here," he murmured, teasing warmth returning to his tone so suddenly it sent heat rushing between your legs again. His tone wasn't commanding, but it had that natural dominance that didn't really let you do anything but what he said.

At some point his hands had slipped back onto your ass, stroking lightly until you shifted closer once more, settling back properly against his lap. Relief flooded through you when you felt him still hard beneath you, still wanting you just as much as before.

A soft moan escaped you as you rolled against him again.

"Good girl," Jack said deeply, voice raw.

The words hit you like a lightning strike.

Your entire body reacted instantly—thighs tightening around him, your breath catching embarrassingly hard while a pathetic little moan slipped free before you could stop it. Mortified, you buried your face against his shoulder while instinctively rocking your hips again.

"Didn't you want this problem solved?" Jack teased lightly.

Between your legs, you felt his hands playing with the waistband of his cargo pants. Deliberately, the back of his hand brushed against your clothed clit, adding just enough pressure to make you whine again.

A soft laugh rumbled through his chest beneath you.

Then your next roll of your hips dragged another rough groan out of him, lower this time, almost strangled. The sound sent a thrill straight through you.

"Who's laughing now?" you asked breathlessly, unable to stop yourself from grinning.

The light smack he gave your ass was the only answer you got before his palm rubbed soothingly over the spot afterwards.

A moment later, he tapped lightly against your thigh in silent request. When you lifted yourself just enough, Jack awkwardly tugged his pants off the rest of the way beneath you.

While he worked them free, you occupied yourself by kissing along his neck and shoulder slowly, patiently. You didn't want him to feel rushed or self-conscious. Nothing about this had felt hurried from the start, and you weren't about to change that now.

Once the discarded pants landed somewhere across the living room, his hands guided you back down onto him carefully so you wouldn't strain your sore muscles for too long. Your hip was definitely starting to ache again.

Settling comfortably against him once more, you kissed him deeply while your hips resumed a slower, steadier rhythm.

The soft fabric of his boxers felt infinitely better against you than the roughness of his cargo had. Even more intoxicating was the warmth of his bare skin against the backs of your thighs.

Combined with his wandering hands and his mouth against yours, it all became overwhelming in the best possible way. You weren't inexperienced, but somehow this felt entirely new—raw and exciting enough to make you feel like you were discovering sex for the first time all over again.

Between your legs, heat and dampness had already soaked through your panties, probably staining his boxers too. Normally that thought would've embarrassed you. Right now, though, you barely cared.

Maybe Jack sensed it too, because his hand suddenly slipped between your bodies, easing beneath the cotton of your underwear.

His fingers moved slowly through the soft hair there without hesitation, without comment, simply exploring you gently. The lack of judgment alone made something in your chest loosen. No criticism, no awkward remarks.

For several long seconds he only teased you lightly, fingers wandering until a shaky moan of his name finally escaped your lips.

You felt his smirk against your mouth immediately afterwards.

Then his fingers slid lower.

The second they found your clit, your entire body jolted. You'd been half convinced he'd drag it out and tease you endlessly, but instead he touched you with immediate purpose—slow, tight circles that stole the breath straight from your lungs.

Your kisses quickly fell apart after that, little gasps and broken sounds replacing them as you struggled to focus on anything except the feeling of his fingers working between your thighs.

Soon enough, the kisses became one-sided in the best way possible. Jack simply nipped and licked lazily at your lips, a smug smile tugging at his mouth while you struggled to breathe through the pleasure rolling through you.

From watching him at work, you'd hoped his hands would be skilled—steady, strong, careful. You'd been completely right.

A man his age, as experienced as you'd imagined him to be, clearly knew exactly what he was doing. He didn't fumble around searching for your clit or rush too quickly to the point of slight pain. Everything he did felt deliberate and perfectly paced, like he already knew your body despite never touching you before.

It was insane how naturally you fit together.

Sure, you'd known each other for over a year. You'd flirted shamelessly for most of it. But you never could've imagined actually being with him would feel this good. This easy. Like two puzzle pieces assembling.

"Feels really good," you breathed out between shaky moans against his lips.

"Yeah?" he teased softly before kissing you again.

"Mhm." You nodded rapidly, biting your lip as another wave of pleasure rolled through you.

"Good." That simple word, paired with the soft kiss he pressed to your forehead afterwards, made warmth spread through your chest just as much as between your thighs.

His fingers never left your clit, never broke their steady rhythm. Eventually it became impossible to focus on anything except feeling, Jack didn't seem to mind in the slightest. He wasn't asking for anything back from you, wasn't trying to make you perform for him.

Instead, his mouth wandered lower.

You couldn't exactly blame him when you'd been arching into him shamelessly, practically pressing your chest into his face every time pleasure jolted through you. Gently, his lips moved across the swell of your breasts while his teeth tugged teasingly at the fabric of your bra, letting it snap softly back against your skin.

He did it again. And again.

Finally, blinking through the haze, you looked down at him.

His eyes were darker than you'd ever seen them before—heavy with hunger. You'd seen him irritated, exhausted, sarcastic, even angry at work. But this version of him? This was entirely new.

And it was all because of you.

"Wanna take this off for me?" Jack asked, his voice calm and grounding despite the way his fingers kept working between your legs. "How does that sound?"

"Good," you moaned immediately when his touch pressed a little harder against your clit.

With trembling hands, you unclasped your bra and let it slide off. Cool air brushed over your bare skin instantly, your nipples already hard from both the temperature and the overwhelming pleasure building inside you.

The second your chest was fully exposed, Jack let out a slow breath.

"You're absolutely breathtaking," he murmured.

And then he kissed you there.

You barely even processed the compliment because the moment his mouth closed around one nipple, your thoughts scattered completely. His free hand cupped your other breast, rough thumb stroking over the sensitive peak without mercy before rolling it between it and his index finger.

It was too much. Completely overwhelming.

His mouth, his hands, his fingers between your legs—it felt like he was everywhere all at once. Yet the idea of him stopping felt unbearable too. Something tight and hot was building low in your stomach now, pressure winding tighter and tighter with every movement of his hand.

"Jack—" You moaned loudly.

The warning barely left your mouth before his teeth grazed your nipple a little harder. At the same time, his fingers sped up slightly against your clit.

That was all it took.

Pleasure crashed through you so suddenly your back arched hard against him, thighs clamping around his while your nails dug helplessly into his shoulders. The sounds leaving your throat were embarrassingly broken—high, shaky whines mixed with uneven breaths as you struggled to recover from how hard the orgasm hit you.

Recovering only became more difficult when Jack spoke again.

"Good girl," he murmured against the skin above your pounding heartbeat. "You just needed to relax."

The bastard absolutely knew what he was doing.

Especially when he could clearly feel the way your pussy clenched again at his praise while his fingers still rested between your thighs. Dropping your forehead against his shoulder, you let out a breathless laugh before lightly biting at his skin.

"You fucker."

Chuckling softly, Jack slowly slipped his fingers back out from your underwear before settling both hands comfortably on your ass again, as though they naturally belonged there. His other hand drifted soothingly along your back while he rested his head lightly against yours.

"Don't be mean now, sweetheart," he teased before giving your ass a playful slap. "You know you love it."

You opened your mouth to deny it automatically, purely out of spite, but his lips brushed against your ear before you could get the words out.

"I can still feel you clenching to it," he whispered, voice so low it sent a full-body shiver through you. As if your body wanted to prove him right, you felt your pussy involuntary clench afterwards.

"Just like that," he praised softly, along with a little laugh.

Groaning, you bit his shoulder again while trying desperately to steady your breathing.

For several quiet minutes, neither of you moved much. You simply stayed tangled together on the couch, half-dressed and warm, breathing each other in. It was soothing enough to make you sleepy.

And maybe that should've scared you—the intimacy of it, the domestic softness settling so naturally between you—but it didn't. If anything, it made you want to stay there longer.

Jack seemed perfectly content to follow your lead. Even with that effortless dominance wrapped around everything he did, he never pushed or demanded. He simply let you decide where things went next.

Still, despite the warmth and comfort, you wanted more.

Which meant eventually you had to get up.

Carefully pushing yourself to your feet, your shaky legs protested immediately as you stretched your arms over your head. Once again, you found yourself standing between his spread thighs while his gaze wandered openly over your nearly naked body.

Jack let out a low whistle of appreciation that made you roll your eyes instantly.

"Shut up," you muttered, fighting back a smile as you turned toward your bedroom. "I'll be right back."

When you returned a minute later, your heart skipped unexpectedly at the sight waiting for you.

He was still exactly where you'd left him, relaxed against the couch cushions with his legs spread comfortably. Like he belonged there, the thought crossed your mind again.

And he didn't seem remotely uncomfortable about his prosthetic being visible now that his pants were gone. The human body really was incredible in the way it adapted.

As you approached, Jack said nothing at first. He simply patted his thigh again in invitation.

Smiling softly, you settled back into his lap without hesitation this time, all your earlier self-consciousness gone. Once comfortably seated, you held up what you'd brought back with you.

A condom.

His smile widened immediately, surprise and clear approval flashing across his face.

"You're not tired?" he asked quietly.

You doubted he even noticed how instinctively his hands had already settled back onto your hips the second you sat down. It seemed neither of you could stop touching the other for very long.

"I have trouble sleeping," you teased lightly, tilting your head. "What about you, old man? Getting tired already?"

Clicking his tongue, Jack tried and failed to hide his grin. Accepting the challenge, he took the condom from your hand before pulling you firmly back against the hard length between his thighs.

"You'll get tired before I do," he warned, voice low against your lips.

And the way he kissed you afterwards made it sound dangerously close to a promise.

It was a rushed kiss, overflowing with longing and want. His tongue slipped immediately into your mouth, tangling with yours while your teeth brushed together clumsily in your desperation. His hands kept pulling you closer and closer until there was no space left between you at all.

Chest to chest, you could feel everything—his heartbeat hammering beneath your palms, the rise and fall of his breathing, the twitch of dick between your thighs whenever you rolled your hips.

It only took seconds before the grinding started again, though "dry" hardly fit anymore. Not when both of you were already flushed and overheated from everything that had happened. Anf from how soaked you felt between your legs.

One of Jack's hands tapped lightly against your ass before slipping lower, tugging your panties down as far as he could manage.

"Okay, okay," you mumbled between kisses, with a breathless laugh as you lifted yourself enough to help.

You hurriedly kicked the fabric off while Jack tugged his own underwear down as well. The second you noticed how neatly trimmed he was, self-consciousness crept back in unexpectedly.

"You don't… uh…" Your eyes dropped nervously between your legs. "You don't mind, right?"

Jack looked almost offended by the question.

"What do you take me for?" he asked seriously, immediately shutting the doubt down before it could grow. "Come here, sweetheart. Stop being silly."

The warmth in his voice made you smile despite yourself.

Settling back over him, you hovered there for a moment with your hands braced against his shoulders while he rolled the condom on carefully. You couldn't stop staring at his hands, at the way his fingers moved along himself with practiced ease. Anticipation curled low in your stomach instantly.

He wasn't the biggest man you'd ever been with, but somehow you already knew he'd fit you perfectly. No painful stretching. No discomfort. Just right.

"Ready?" he teased, stroking himself once more while his eyes gleamed mischievously up at you.

Nodding quickly, you shifted closer with a shaky breath. Your heart was pounding so hard it almost felt ridiculous. You couldn't remember the last time sleeping with someone had made you nervous like this.

Then again, you'd also never spent months hopelessly crushing on someone before finally ending up in their lap.

Slowly, you lowered yourself onto him.

The first stretch pulled a soft gasp from both of you. Just like you'd expected, he fit perfectly, full enough to make you shiver, but immediately comfortable—warm and right. Jack's fingers tightened instinctively against your hips, hard enough to make a small sound of pain slip from your mouth before he immediately let go.

"Fuck, sorry, sweetheart," he breathed, his hands dropping quickly to his own thighs.

"It's okay," you reassured him softly.

Missing his touch almost instantly, you grabbed his wrists and guided his hands upward onto your chest instead. Somewhere safer. Somewhere he wouldn't be afraid to hold you tightly.

On instinct, his palms squeezed gently while his thumbs brushed over your nipples, drawing another shaky breath from you.

Once fully seated in his lap, neither of you moved right away. You simply sat there breathing together, staring at each other as the reality of the moment settled over both of you.

Then, almost at the same time, you both laughed quietly. The nervous tension melted immediately after that, and something about knowing he was just as affected as you were made your chest ache warmly.

Unable to resist, you leaned down to kiss him again.

The kiss deepened quickly, soft turning hungry within seconds, and your hips began moving instinctively against his. At first you only rocked slowly, getting used to the feeling of him inside you.

But soon you pushed yourself up carefully on your knees, lowering yourself back down in a slow rhythm. Every movement dragged him along your walls in a way that made little moans spill helplessly from your mouth into his.

Jack wasn't much quieter.

Soft groans vibrated against your lips while his grip flexed against your body, and every now and then he hit a spot inside you that made your thighs tighten around him uncontrollably.

Still, after a few minutes, exhaustion was already catching up to you. Between your long shift, your bruised hip, and the emotional rollercoaster of the night, your body was starting to give out.

You tried to hide it by kissing him deeper, slowing your movements into lazy rolls of your hips instead of proper thrusts. But of course Jack noticed immediately.

"I told you you'd get tired first," he teased softly against your mouth.

Before you could protest, his hands slowed your hips until you were sitting still against him again. When you tried moving once more, his grip tightened gently around your waist, holding you in place.

"Jack," you whined quietly, attempting to squirm free.

"Tsk." He clicked his tongue before deliberately shifting his hips upward just enough to make you gasp. "You're exhausted and your hip hurts," he scolded calmly. "We're not pushing it."

With a defeated sigh, you finally stopped fighting him.

Searching his expression nervously, you expected to find disappointment somewhere in his face. Frustration maybe. Annoyance. Instead, all you found was softness, warmth and concern. Desire still lingering there too, but patient now instead of consuming.

The sudden tenderness made your eyes sting unexpectedly.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, looking away before he could see you tearing up.

"You don't have to be." Immediately, he pulled you gently against his chest again. "You didn't do anything wrong, sweetheart."

The second he wrapped his arms around you, your body seemed to finally give up entirely. Tension melted straight out of your muscles as though all you'd needed was his warmth to feel safe enough to let go.

One of his hands rubbed soothingly up and down your back while the other reached for the blanket tossed over the couch earlier, draping it carefully around your shoulders.

Only then did you realise you'd been trembling for the past minute.

Shock, stress, adrenaline—your body had probably been running on fumes since the accident earlier that night. Then there'd been Jack coming to your apartment, all the emotional chaos of finally crossing this line with him… It had been a lot.

"We can keep going," you whispered weakly against his skin anyway.

You felt him shake his head against your hair. "Nope."

The simple firmness in his voice somehow made you relax even more. Your eyes still sting with unshed tears, but you were finally getting your breathing back to normal. A minute later, your stomach growled loudly enough to break the silence entirely, both of you burst into laughter instantly.

"I feel sore everywhere," you complained dramatically as you finally pushed yourself upright a little.

The mood had shifted already, softer now, calmer—but you still didn't want him to leave. Some irrational part of you worried that if he walked out this morning, this whole thing would disappear with him.

"Go take a shower," Jack said gently, kissing the top of your head. "I'll make us something to eat."

"You're staying?" The question came out far more vulnerable than you intended.

Jack scoffed softly, his eyes immediately locking onto yours. His hands settled back onto your ass automatically.

"You think that little of me?" he asked quietly. There was a smile on his lips, but this time it looked faintly hurt around the edges. "I care about you for a hell of a lot more than sex, okay?"

His thumbs stroked lightly against your skin.

"If you want me gone, I'll get dressed right now," he continued gently. "But I don't think that's what you want."

It took your brain a few seconds to fully process the sincerity in his voice.

"I want you to stay," you admitted softly, suddenly embarrassed you'd doubted him at all.

Jack answered by kissing you again. Not hungry this time. Not desperate. Just soft and reassuring enough to quiet every lingering fear in your chest.

"Go take your shower then," he murmured against your lips.

Once you were finally standing again, wrapped in the blanket and still trembling slightly, you watched Jack sit forward, elbows resting on his knees.

"Do you need help?" you asked meekly, nodding subtly toward the space between his legs.

Laughing softly, he leaned closer until his forehead rested against your stomach. The edge of the blanket brushed against his skin while your fingers slipped gently into his hair. The gesture soothed both of you instantly. Soft. Familiar already.

"No, I'm fine," he replied before pressing a quick kiss to your stomach and nudging you toward the bathroom.

You disappeared down the hallway with one last glance back at him.

Once alone in the bathroom, waiting for the water to warm, you finally looked properly at the bruise blooming across your hip. It looked awful—dark spreading across your skin in uneven patches. Even brushing against it hurt. Walking had become nearly impossible without limping, and you already knew the next few days were going to suck.

After a quick shower, you returned to the living room wearing soft pyjama shorts and an oversized shirt. Your body felt heavy and relaxed now, though your hip still throbbed painfully.

The second you stepped into the kitchen, you stopped.

Jack stood by the stove, shirtless, cooking scrambled eggs like he belonged there.

You hadn't been prepared for the sheer domesticity of it. Somehow, seeing him casually cooking in your kitchen felt more intimate than everything that had happened on the couch. The fact that he was doing it shirtless only made it worse.

Now that you were dressed again and no longer overwhelmed by desire, it felt easier to slip back into yourself. Easier to joke. To breathe.

"I'm pretty sure cooking without a shirt isn't medically recommended, Doctor," you teased, leaning against the doorway.

"Don't worry," he replied without missing a beat, glancing back at you briefly before returning to the pan. "I've got the best nurse around to take care of me."

Then he winked.

You rolled your eyes instantly, fighting a smile while he turned the stove off. Dinner—breakfast or whatever this meal counted as, was ready.

As you reached into the cabinet for plates, a huge yawn escaped you. It was ridiculous how completely your body had relaxed after an orgasm, a hot shower and finally letting yourself feel safe. Earlier, you hadn't lied when you said you had a hard time falling asleep, but now it felt like you might pass out standing up.

The meal itself passed in easy conversation.

You talked about work, books stacked around your flat, music from your vinyl collection. Jack teased your taste in indie pop while pretending not to know half the artists already. The eggs were ridiculously good too, which annoyed you a little.

Once you'd finished eating, he immediately forced you back onto your seat while he cleaned up. You'd protested, arguing that if he cooked then you should do the dishes, but he'd refused the second he noticed your limp worsening.

So instead you sat there with your cheek resting against your hand, watching his broad back move beneath the warm sunlight while he washed dishes at your sink.

It was such an ordinary sight. And somehow that made it unforgettable.

"You know," you started quietly, eyes still fixed on him, "I have one of those plastic stools if you want to shower."

"Yeah?" You could hear the smile in his voice immediately.

Relieved he hadn't taken offence, you nodded awkwardly. You knew he wasn't secretive about his disability, but you still didn't want to accidentally say the wrong thing.

"It's not exactly a disability shower thing, but…" you trailed off carefully.

"I'd like that," he replied easily, turning toward you. "A stool's fine. Don't worry."

Once he reached you, he leaned down and tilted your chin upward gently. A small kiss brushed your lips. Then another. Finally, one soft kiss landed on the tip of your nose.

"You're waiting in bed, though," he murmured with a wink. "Doctor's orders."

After showing him where the stool was, locking the front door, and turning off the apartment lights, you finally made your way toward your bedroom.

The room glowed softly from the bedside lamp while the sound of running water drifted from the en-suite bathroom. You'd left him a towel and a spare toothbrush without even thinking about it. Neither of you had outright said he'd stay the night, it had simply happened naturally, like an unspoken agreement.

At some point, exhaustion dragged you under.

The sound of the bathroom door opening startled you awake. Disoriented, you blinked sleepily toward the doorway where Jack stood, shirtless and damp-haired beneath the soft light.

"Sorry," he whispered immediately.

"It's okay," you mumbled, pushing yourself up slightly. "Didn't mean to fall asleep."

Jack smiled softly before walking toward the bed. The limp in his step was more noticeable now, and guilt twisted in your chest immediately. You suddenly hated how little your apartment offered to make things easier for him.

"Are you okay?" you asked quietly, glancing toward the prosthetic.

"Been worse," he replied with a faint smirk before his expression softened. "It won't make you uncomfortable if I take it off?"

The vulnerability in his eyes startled you more than the question itself. You'd never seen Jack uncertain before. At work he was always composed, teasing, confident.

"Of course not," you answered immediately, giving him the gentlest smile you could manage.

Nodding once, he carefully removed the prosthetic and placed it beside the bed. You watched him massage along the scar absentmindedly for a moment before he finally slid beneath the blankets and leaned back against the headboard.

"I left the stool in the shower," he said after a beat, voice quieter than usual. "Hope that's okay."

"It's fine," you replied softly, reaching over to take his hand. "You can actually lie down, you know."

Laughing under his breath, he finally stretched out beside you. Slowly but visibly, his entire body relaxed more and more the longer he settled into the mattress.

"This bed is terrible," he announced after a few moments of silence.

Scoffing dramatically, you smacked his chest lightly. "Do you know how expensive mattresses are?"

Pulling his hand from yours, he wrapped his arm around your back and tugged you closer until your head rested against his chest.

"You'll come to mine next time," he murmured sleepily, eyes already half-closed.

"Next time?" you teased, tilting your head to look up at him.

Like this, relaxed and exhausted, he somehow looked younger. Softer. His freckles stood out beautifully across his face in the low light.

"Oh, definitely," Jack replied, a lazy smirk tugging at his mouth. "A bruise like that takes weeks to heal. Lots of relaxation."

"Oh, sure," you laughed, shaking your head. "The bruise. Right."

Still smiling, you leaned over to switch off the lamp before settling back against his chest. His breathing rocked you gently while your fingers traced lazy patterns up and down his stomach. Trying to comfort him the same way he'd comforted you all evening. And somehow, wrapped up in the warmth of the biggest crush you'd ever had, you fell asleep faster than you had in years.

All because of one stupid, unexpected accident. Honestly, you couldn't bring yourself to complain about it.

©fromsil.

No new messages. You swallowed hard and rubbed your thumb absently over the edge of the appointment card in your hand before letting your head fall back against the wall behind you. It was ridiculous, honestly, how nervous you were for what was supposed to be a routine checkup. Early pregnancy. Six weeks. Maybe seven depending on which calculation they used. You had barely even let yourself say the word pregnant out loud yet because it still felt unreal every time you thought about it.

Pregnant.

And somehow even more impossible than that thought was the idea of telling Robby. You could already picture the exact expression he would make too. First confusion because you tended to deliver emotional information like a trauma alert announcement, blunt and fast and usually at terrible times. Then the widening of his eyes. Then that small inhale he did when he was overwhelmed emotionally but trying not to show it. You had caught yourself imagining it more than once over the last week and every single time your chest tightened painfully afterward because you genuinely did not know what either of you would do with this information. You and Robby had never talked seriously about children. Not because you were against it. Life had simply happened too fast around you both. Long shifts. Emotional exhaustion. Trauma after trauma after trauma at the hospital. Somewhere in the middle of all of it, the two of you had fallen in love quietly and deeply without really stopping to examine what came next.

And then three positive pregnancy tests had changed the air in your apartment entirely. Not bad. Just different.

He did not know yet. That part sat heavily in your chest now as you stared down at your hands. You had wanted this appointment first. Confirmation. Certainty. Something tangible before you handed both of your lives a conversation neither of you could take back afterward.

“Y/N?”

You looked up quickly at the nurse standing in the doorway and managed a small smile before standing. “Yeah.”

She smiled gently. “Come on back for me.”

The exam room was cold enough that goosebumps rose along your arms beneath your sweater. You climbed onto the paper-covered table after the nurse took your vitals and answered the usual questions automatically, barely hearing yourself speak. Last menstrual cycle. Symptoms. Medications. Any bleeding?

“No,” you answered softly.

The nurse nodded while typing something into the chart. “Doctor should be in shortly.”

Then you were alone. Again. You exhaled slowly and looked toward the ultrasound monitor sitting dark beside the bed. Your stomach flipped nervously.

This was supposed to be the exciting part, wasn’t it? The first heartbeat. The first image. Something blurry and tiny and miraculous. You found yourself smiling faintly despite your nerves as your hand drifted unconsciously toward your abdomen. You had not even begun showing yet. There was nothing physically different about you except exhaustion and sore breasts and the strange emotional sensitivity that had nearly made you cry in the grocery store because someone dropped a carton of eggs.

God. Robby would absolutely make fun of you for that story. The thought hurt unexpectedly.

Before you could sit with it too long, the doctor entered with an easy smile and a tablet tucked against her chest. “Good morning.”

“Morning.”

“How are we feeling?”

“Nervous,” you admitted honestly.

She laughed softly. “That’s pretty normal.”

You nodded, trying to return the smile. The beginning of the appointment passed in a blur of routine conversation you barely absorbed. Then came the ultrasound. The dimming of lights. The cold gel against your skin. The monitor flickering awake beside you. You turned your head immediately toward the screen.

Waiting.

The technician’s face remained professional and calm as she moved the wand slowly, eyes narrowing slightly in concentration. Silence stretched. A little too long. Your heartbeat began to climb.

You knew medicine. You worked emergency medicine. You knew what subtle changes in expression meant. You knew when silence shifted from normal concentration into something else entirely.

The technician adjusted again. Then again.

You swallowed hard. “Is everything okay?”

She hesitated just enough to make your stomach drop.

“I’m just going to get the doctor to come take a look too, okay?”

Every ounce of warmth drained from your body instantly. The room suddenly felt freezing. You stared at the ceiling after she stepped out because you could not bear to look at the monitor anymore. Your pulse thundered painfully in your ears while your mind tried desperately to rationalize what was happening. Maybe dates were wrong. Maybe too early. Maybe equipment issues. Maybe…

The doctor returned quickly, expression softer now. Gentler. And that terrified you more than anything. She took over the ultrasound quietly while explaining what she was doing in careful, measured tones that only made the dread build heavier and heavier inside your chest. Then finally she stopped moving. The silence afterward felt enormous.

“I’m so sorry,” she said quietly.

You blinked once. Then again.

“What?”

The word barely came out. The doctor’s voice remained calm and compassionate in the way physicians learn after years of delivering impossible things to people.

“Based on the measurements, it looks like the pregnancy stopped progressing around six weeks. I’m not finding cardiac activity.”

You stared at her blankly. The words registered individually.

Pregnancy. Stopped. No cardiac activity. But together they refused to make sense.

“No,” you whispered immediately, shaking your head. “No, I—I haven’t had bleeding or anything. I still feel pregnant.”

“I know,” she said gently. “That can happen sometimes. Your hormone levels may not have dropped yet.”

You looked toward the monitor desperately like maybe if you stared hard enough you would suddenly understand what you were seeing. But the screen meant nothing to you now. Just gray shadows and blurred shapes and emptiness where something was supposed to be. Your chest tightened painfully.

“No,” you repeated again, weaker this time.

The doctor handed you tissues at some point and you realized distantly that tears were sliding soundlessly down your face. You had not even felt yourself start crying.

“I’m so sorry,” she said again.

And somehow that was the moment it became real. Not the ultrasound. Not the silence. Not the medical terminology. The apology.

Because apologies meant something had already happened. Something irreversible. Something no one could fix. A broken sound escaped your throat before you could stop it and suddenly you were crying hard enough your shoulders shook. One hand came up instinctively over your mouth as if you could physically contain the grief trying to tear through you. The doctor kept speaking softly about options moving forward. About waiting naturally versus medical management. About how common miscarriage was. About how this was not your fault. You heard almost none of it. Because all you could think about was the fact that two weeks ago you had stood in your bathroom staring at those pink lines with trembling hands and terrified excitement blooming in your chest.

And now there was nothing. Nothing. You sat in your car nearly forty minutes afterward without turning the engine on. Rain had started at some point, droplets streaking slowly across the windshield beneath the gray Pittsburgh sky while traffic moved around you in blurred shapes. Your purse sat abandoned in the passenger seat beside the folder of discharge paperwork you could not bring yourself to open.

You felt hollow. Not dramatic. Not hysterical. Just hollow in a way that frightened you. Your fingers tightened around your phone as tears slid silently down your face again.

Robby’s contact sat open on the screen. You could call him. You should call him. But the second you imagined hearing his voice, imagined saying the words out loud, your throat closed completely. So instead you locked your phone again and leaned your head back against the seat.

Outside, the world kept moving. People crossed streets with coffee cups in their hands. Ambulances screamed faintly somewhere in the distance. A bus hissed to a stop at the corner. Somewhere inside the city, the emergency department was still running exactly the same way it always did. And inside your body, quietly and invisibly, something had ended.

******

The emergency department was already chaos by the time you walked through the ambulance bay doors the next morning, which under any other circumstance might have been a blessing. Chaos meant distraction. Chaos meant movement. Chaos meant there was rarely enough time to think about yourself for more than a few fractured seconds at a time.

Today, though, it just felt cruel. Monitors beeped relentlessly somewhere down the hall while an overhead page called for respiratory therapy to trauma three. Nurses moved quickly between rooms carrying medications and blankets and clipboards. A child cried somewhere near triage. Someone laughed at the nurses’ station over a joke you couldn’t quite hear.

Normal.

Everything felt painfully, offensively normal. You swallowed against the ache building in your throat and adjusted the strap of your bag higher onto your shoulder before forcing your feet to keep moving. You had barely slept. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw that dim ultrasound room again. The frozen image on the monitor. The doctor’s expression. The words no cardiac activity echoing over and over inside your skull until you thought you might lose your mind from hearing them.

Your body still felt wrong too. Heavy. Tender. Like it had not yet gotten the message that things had changed. You hated that most of all.

“Hey.”

You startled slightly at the sound of Dana’s voice and looked up to find her standing at the desk holding two coffees and looking at you with mild concern already forming in her expression.

“You look terrible,” she informed you bluntly before handing one over. “Which honestly is saying something in this place.”

Under normal circumstances you would have laughed. Maybe insulted her back. Maybe rolled your eyes and stolen her better coffee order while she complained about it.

Instead you just took the cup carefully. “Thanks.”

Her eyebrows pulled together almost immediately.

“You okay?”

The question hit hard enough that your stomach twisted.

You looked down at the coffee lid quickly so you would not have to meet her eyes. “Yeah. Just didn’t sleep much.”

Dana stared at you another second too long before nodding slowly. “Alright. Well, if you pass out during shift, try to do it somewhere less annoying than the trauma bay because I’m not filling out that paperwork again.”

A weak breath of laughter escaped you before you could stop it and Dana’s expression softened slightly in relief like she had managed to pull you back toward yourself for half a second.

“Thanks,” you murmured again.

“Mmhm.”

She disappeared toward a patient room while you stood frozen at the desk for a moment longer gripping the coffee cup tightly between both hands. The heat seeped into your cold fingers but did nothing for the numbness settled deeper inside your chest. You could do this. One shift. Just survive one shift.

Then you could go home and fall apart properly. The problem, unfortunately, was Robby. You saw him before he saw you.

He was standing near the board with Collins and McKay discussing bed placement, one hand braced against his hip while the other rubbed tiredly over his jaw. He looked exhausted already despite the shift barely starting, dark circles faint beneath his eyes and reading glasses shoved absently into the collar of his Henley.

God. Your chest constricted painfully. Because all at once you remembered standing in your bathroom three nights ago with trembling hands pressed over your mouth after the third positive test while imagining his face when you told him.

You had imagined fear. Shock. Maybe even panic. But underneath all of it, you had imagined joy too. Quiet joy. The kind Robby tried so hard not to show too openly because life had taught him over and over that loving something deeply usually meant eventually losing it. And now you had lost it before he ever even knew it existed.

Your eyes burned instantly. Before you could look away, Robby glanced up. The second his gaze landed on you, something in his face shifted immediately. Concern. Not dramatic. Not obvious to anyone else probably. But you knew him too well not to see it.

He excused himself from the conversation without hesitation and started toward you. You had exactly three seconds to get yourself together.

“Hey,” he said softly once he reached you, eyes scanning your face carefully. “You alright?”

No. Not even remotely.

Instead you forced your mouth into something resembling a smile. “Yeah.”

His expression did not change.

“You sure?”

You nodded too quickly. “Just tired.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re pale.”

“Well thank god someone finally noticed my suffering,” you muttered automatically.

Normally that kind of sarcasm would have earned at least the beginning of a grin from him. Today it didn’t.

He stepped closer instead, voice lowering. “What’s wrong?”

The concern in his voice nearly destroyed you on the spot. You looked away immediately because if you met his eyes right now you were going to start crying in the middle of the emergency department and you genuinely did not think you would survive that humiliation on top of everything else.

“Nothing,” you said quietly. “I’m fine, Robby.”

There was a pause. Then another. You could physically feel him studying you.

Finally he spoke carefully. “You don’t look fine.”

Your throat tightened hard enough to hurt.

Say it. Tell him. You should tell him now. But the words lodged somewhere behind your ribs and refused to move. Because how were you supposed to say something like that here? Between ambulance calls and trauma alerts and fluorescent lighting? How were you supposed to watch his face break open while everyone around you kept charting and joking and asking for discharge papers?

You could not do it. Not here. Not like this.

“I just need coffee and a quieter shift than yesterday,” you managed weakly.

That earned the smallest exhale through his nose. Not amusement exactly. More resignation.

“A quieter shift?” he repeated. “In this department?”

“Let me dream.”

His gaze stayed fixed on you another long moment before he finally nodded slowly, though concern still sat heavily in his expression.

“Alright,” he said softly. “But if something’s wrong—”

“I know.”

The interruption came too fast. Too sharp. You saw him notice that too. Your stomach dropped immediately.

Robby’s voice gentled further. “Hey.”

You shook your head quickly and forced yourself to look back up at him. “Seriously. I’m okay.”

It was a terrible lie. And judging by the look in his eyes, he knew it. But before he could push further, a nurse called his name from down the hall and the moment shattered.

Robby glanced toward the sound before looking back at you reluctantly. “We’ll talk later.”

Panic flared instantly in your chest. Because later meant eventually telling him. Later meant making it real. You nodded anyway. Then watched him disappear toward trauma two while your vision blurred again.

The shift became a blur after that. Patients came and went in fractured pieces you barely retained afterward. A chest pain workup. A teenager with a broken wrist. An elderly man in respiratory distress. Your body moved automatically through all of it, years of emergency medicine muscle memory carrying you where your mind could not.

But grief sat underneath everything. Heavy. Relentless. A constant ache pressing against the inside of your ribs. It hit at random moments too. A pregnant woman rubbing her stomach in triage. An infant crying in room nine. A father carrying a sleepy toddler against his shoulder while whispering soothing nonsense into her hair.

Every single thing felt unbearable. At one point you locked yourself in the staff bathroom for nearly five full minutes because you thought you might genuinely throw up from the force of holding yourself together. You gripped the sink tightly and stared at your reflection. You looked awful. Eyes swollen. Skin pale. Exhaustion etched into every inch of your face. And beneath all of it was something worse.

Emptiness.

Your hand drifted unconsciously toward your abdomen again before you caught yourself and jerked it away like the touch burned. A broken sound escaped your throat. You slapped a hand over your mouth immediately. Not here.

God, not here. There was a knock at the door a second later.

“You alive in there?” Langdon called.

You closed your eyes hard. “Yep.”

“Gross. Alright then.”

Normally his sarcasm would have irritated you enough to pull you back into yourself slightly. Today it just made your chest ache harder because the entire world was still spinning normally while yours had tilted violently off its axis overnight.

You splashed cold water on your face before finally leaving the bathroom. By hour ten of the shift, exhaustion had settled so deeply into your bones you thought you might collapse from it. Robby kept watching you. That was the worst part. Every time you looked up, his eyes seemed to already be on you. Quietly tracking. Quietly worried. He brought you food at one point you barely touched. Handed you water twice because apparently dehydration was now part of his concern list. Asked if you wanted him to finish your charts after noticing you staring blankly at the same screen for nearly two minutes.

And every small act of care carved the grief deeper. Because he did not know. He did not know he had lost something too. Near the end of shift, you were restocking supplies in one of the trauma rooms when he appeared silently in the doorway.

“You’re shaking.”

You looked down. Your hands were trembling slightly. Damn it.

“I’m tired,” you said again.

Robby leaned against the doorframe, exhaustion visible in every line of his body now too, but his eyes stayed locked on you. “You’ve said that twelve times today.”

“You counting?”

“Yes.”

Your chest tightened painfully.

He stepped into the room slowly then, lowering his voice. “Talk to me.”

The gentleness nearly broke you.

You looked away quickly and focused on shoving gauze into a drawer with far more force than necessary. “Not here.”

Silence.

Then quieter, “Okay.”

You swallowed hard. The fact that he accepted that so easily somehow hurt worse. A few seconds passed before he spoke again.

“Come home with me after shift.”

Your hands froze completely. Home. The word wrapped around your already splintering composure like pressure against a bruise. You nodded once because speaking suddenly felt impossible. Robby studied you another long moment before stepping forward just enough to touch your wrist lightly. The contact nearly shattered the fragile control you had left.

His thumb brushed once against your pulse. “Whatever this is,” he said softly, “you don’t have to carry it by yourself.”

Your eyes burned instantly. Because the horrible thing was that you already had been. All day. Entirely alone.

******

The apartment was quiet when you and Robby finally walked through the door sometime after midnight, the kind of heavy silence that only existed after an exhausting shift when both of you were too drained to immediately fill the air with conversation. Usually there would have been something easy between you by now. A complaint about a patient. Dana’s latest threat against hospital administration. Langdon being insufferable. One of you stealing the other’s hoodie while pretending not to. Something normal. Something familiar.

Tonight there was nothing. Robby locked the door behind you while you slipped your shoes off slowly near the entryway, movements mechanical and detached like your body was running on pure instinct now rather than conscious thought. Every muscle ached. Your head pounded. The grief you had spent twelve straight hours holding back inside the emergency department felt swollen and unstable now, pressing so hard against your chest you genuinely thought it might split you open.

“You want tea?” Robby asked quietly from behind you.

You stared at the floor for a second too long before answering. “Sure.”

His voice remained careful. Gentle. “Okay.”

You heard him move toward the kitchen while you stood frozen by the couch, your bag still hanging from your shoulder because some part of you could not seem to figure out how to move forward from this moment. Because once you told him, everything would become real in a way it still somehow wasn’t yet.

And maybe that was awful. Maybe it was selfish. But there was still a tiny irrational part of your brain desperately clinging to the idea that if you did not say it out loud, then maybe it had not fully happened.

The sound of the kettle filling with water echoed softly through the apartment. Robby moved around the kitchen quietly, exhaustion visible even in the heaviness of his footsteps. You watched him distantly for a moment as he loosened his Henley collar with one hand and rubbed the back of his neck with the other.

God, you loved him. That thought hit so hard it nearly took the breath from your lungs. Because suddenly all you could think about was how badly you had wanted to tell him. Not like this. Never like this. You had imagined so many versions of that conversation over the last week. Maybe handing him the positive test while he made coffee. Maybe blurting it out halfway through dinner because you were terrible at keeping emotional secrets. Maybe crying from nerves while he stared at you in complete shock before pulling you into his arms.

You had imagined his face softening eventually. You had imagined him smiling. The grief hit viciously and without warning. You turned away sharply before he could see it crest over your face.

“You’re scaring me.”

The quiet honesty in his voice made your throat close instantly. You squeezed your eyes shut.

Robby stepped closer slowly. “Talk to me.”

Still you could not look at him. Your hands had started shaking again.

“Hey,” he said softer now, close enough that you could feel his warmth at your back. “Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out.”

The kindness in that sentence nearly destroyed you. Because he still thought this was fixable. Your mouth opened once. Closed again.

Then finally, with your voice already cracking apart, you whispered, “I was pregnant.”

Silence. Complete. Absolute.

You could physically feel the entire room stop breathing. Behind you, Robby did not move at all. For one suspended second neither did you.

Then very quietly, almost disbelieving, he said, “What?”

Tears burned instantly down your face.

You wrapped your arms tightly around yourself because suddenly you were freezing. “I found out last week.”

You finally forced yourself to turn around. The expression on his face almost broke you completely. Shock first. Pure shock. Not because he was angry. Not because he was upset. Simply because the information itself had slammed into him hard enough to visibly stagger him emotionally.

“You…were pregnant,” he repeated faintly.

You nodded once, already crying harder now. “I was going to tell you after the appointment yesterday.”

His eyes searched your face desperately then, pieces beginning to fall together behind them. The exhaustion. The distance. The trembling hands. The hollow look in your eyes all shift long. And then he understood the rest.

You watched it happen in real time. The moment realization entered his face. His entire body went still.

“Oh,” he breathed.

The sound that left you afterward was awful. Raw and broken and entirely beyond your control. Robby crossed the room immediately.

His hands found your arms first, careful and steady despite the devastation rapidly overtaking his own expression. “Hey. Hey.”

“I lost it,” you choked out. “There wasn’t a heartbeat and they—they said it stopped progressing and I—”

Your voice collapsed entirely. Robby pulled you against him hard enough that you nearly lost your balance, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other wrapped tightly around your shaking body. You buried your face against his chest instantly because you could not survive looking at him right now. You could not survive seeing grief on his face too.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he whispered hoarsely.

That did it. You broke completely. The sob that tore out of you felt violent enough to hurt physically. Your hands twisted desperately in the back of his shirt while your body shook hard against him, months and years of emergency room composure absolutely useless against this kind of pain.

“I’m sorry,” you cried into his chest. “I’m so sorry.”

Robby’s arms tightened immediately. “No. No, don’t do that.”

“I should’ve told you sooner—”

“No.”

“But you didn’t even know and now it’s just gone and I—”

“This is not your fault.”

The firmness in his voice cracked slightly at the edges anyway. You pulled back just enough to look at him then and immediately wished you had not because his eyes were already glassy with tears he clearly had not even realized were there yet. That wrecked you in an entirely different way. Because suddenly this grief was no longer isolated inside your own body. Now it existed between both of you.

Robby swallowed hard and looked down briefly like he was trying to steady himself before looking back at you. “How far along?”

“Six weeks. Maybe seven.”

He nodded once mechanically. You watched the doctor part of his brain trying automatically to engage despite the emotional devastation underneath it. Calculating timelines. Statistics. Medical understanding. You recognized the expression because you wore it too whenever things became unbearable.

“You went alone?” he asked quietly.

You nodded.

Pain flashed visibly across his face. “Jesus Christ.”

“I didn’t know how to tell you yet.”

His jaw tightened hard. “You shouldn’t have had to do that by yourself.”

Fresh tears spilled instantly down your cheeks. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

Robby closed his eyes briefly then pressed his forehead against yours. You felt the uneven exhale leave him before he spoke again, voice rougher now. “I’m sorry.”

The apology shattered something inside you.

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“Yes I do.”

“For what?”

His eyes opened slowly. “Because you sat in that appointment alone. Because you came to work today carrying this by yourself while I kept asking if you were tired like an idiot. Because I should’ve known something was wrong.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“I should’ve.”

The anguish in his voice stunned you silent for a second. Robby rarely let himself unravel emotionally in front of people. Even with you. Especially with you sometimes. Years in emergency medicine had taught him how to compartmentalize pain until it became almost instinctive.

But not now. Now you could see the grief hitting him in waves he was no longer managing fast enough to hide. His hand moved unconsciously against your back like he needed the physical reassurance that you were still standing there.

“I didn’t even know,” he whispered.

That sentence hurt more than almost anything else. Because neither had you really. Not fully. Not until it was gone.

Your face crumpled again. “I didn’t think I’d care this much.”

Robby’s expression broke entirely at that.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

“I mean we weren’t trying and it was complicated and terrifying and I kept freaking out about what we’d even do and then suddenly yesterday when she said there wasn’t a heartbeat I just—” Your voice cracked violently. “I wanted it.”

The confession echoed painfully through the apartment. Robby’s eyes closed briefly like the words physically hurt him. When he looked back at you again, tears had finally escaped fully down his face too. And somehow seeing that destroyed you all over again.

“You wanted it?” he asked softly.

You nodded through tears. “I think maybe I already loved it.”

Robby inhaled sharply. Then suddenly he was crying too. Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just quietly and honestly in a way that felt almost more devastating to witness. Tears sliding down his exhausted face while he held you against him like letting go might break both of you apart completely.

“I think I did too,” he admitted finally.

You made a broken sound against his shoulder and clung to him harder. For a long time neither of you spoke after that. You just stood there in the middle of his apartment holding each other while grief moved through the room in heavy, uneven waves. Eventually Robby guided you both slowly to the couch, never really letting go of you even once. You curled instinctively against his side while he pulled a blanket over both of you with shaky hands.

The tea sat abandoned in the kitchen. Neither of you cared anymore.

“I keep thinking maybe they were wrong,” you whispered after a while, voice hoarse from crying. “I know they aren’t. I know medically they aren’t. But my brain keeps doing it anyway.”

Robby nodded immediately. “That’s normal.”

“I still feel pregnant.”

His face tightened painfully.

“They said that can happen for a little while.”

You laughed once then, but it came out warped and miserable. “My body didn’t even realize it ended.”

Robby’s eyes filled again immediately.

“Hey,” he whispered, pulling you closer against him. “Hey, don’t.”

“But it’s true.”

“I know.”

The honesty of that answer hurt and comforted at the same time.

Your fingers curled tightly in the fabric of his shirt. “I hate this.”

“I know.”

“I hate that the world just kept going today.”

His hand rubbed slowly up and down your back. “I know.”

“I hate that I had to hear babies crying all shift.”

At that, something inside Robby visibly cracked. His eyes shut hard and you realized suddenly he had probably been noticing every pediatric patient too. Every infant. Every family. Every reminder.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered immediately.

His eyes opened again, devastated but steady on you. “You have absolutely nothing to apologize for.”

You started crying again anyway. Eventually exhaustion overtook grief enough that your bodies simply gave out beneath it. Sometime near three in the morning, Robby helped you slowly to bed. Neither of you changed clothes. Neither of you brushed your teeth. You simply collapsed together beneath the blankets emotionally gutted and physically drained beyond words.

The room stayed dark and quiet except for uneven breathing and occasional muffled tears. Robby lay facing you, one hand resting gently against your waist beneath the blankets like he needed contact to sleep tonight. You stared at him through the darkness for a long time. His eyes looked impossibly tired. Older somehow. You realized suddenly he was staring back at you the same way.

“I’m scared,” you admitted quietly.

“Of what?”

“That this is going to stay with me forever.”

Robby’s expression softened painfully. Then he reached up and brushed damp hair away from your face with trembling fingers.

“It probably will,” he said honestly. “But that doesn’t mean it’ll always hurt like this.”

Your throat tightened again.

“You really think that?”

“I have to.”

The quiet devastation in that sentence settled deep inside your chest. You moved closer without thinking until your forehead rested against his. Robby closed his eyes immediately. And there in the darkness, holding each other in the aftermath of something neither of you had expected to lose, you finally allowed yourselves to grieve together instead of alone.

******

You woke slowly to the sound of rain against the windows. For a few fragile seconds, your mind existed in that strange half-state between sleeping and consciousness where nothing hurt yet. You were warm beneath heavy blankets. Your face was pressed into a familiar pillow that smelled faintly like detergent and Robby’s cologne. Somewhere deeper in the apartment, something ceramic clinked softly against a counter.

Then memory returned all at once. The appointment. The ultrasound. Robby crying. The unbearable emptiness sitting low and aching inside your body. Your chest tightened so fast it physically hurt.

You curled instinctively inward beneath the blankets and squeezed your eyes shut against the fresh wave of grief climbing into your throat. The exhaustion from crying so hard the night before still clung heavily to every inch of you. Your eyes burned. Your head ached. Even your ribs felt sore from the force of sobbing for hours. And underneath all of it sat that terrible hollow feeling again. The knowledge that yesterday morning there had still been a future your brain had quietly started constructing without permission.

Now there wasn’t. A tear slipped silently into the pillow beneath your cheek. Then another. God, you were tired. Not physically. Existentially.

The kind of exhaustion that settled into the center of a person after grief rearranged something fundamental inside them. You heard soft footsteps approach the bedroom before the door opened carefully. Robby stepped inside carrying two mugs in his hands, movements quieter than usual like he was afraid sudden noise might shatter you completely. He had changed into gray sweatpants and an old Pitt sweatshirt sometime during the night, though his hair remained sleep-mussed and slightly damp near the temples from a shower. He looked exhausted too. Not just tired from work or lack of sleep. Emotionally hollowed out in a way you had only seen a handful of times before. The second his eyes found you awake in bed, his expression softened immediately.

“Hey,” he said gently.

That one word nearly made you start crying again. You pushed yourself slowly upright against the headboard while Robby crossed the room carefully and handed one of the mugs over. Steam curled softly from the top.

“Tea,” he murmured. “Chamomile.”

Your fingers wrapped around the warm ceramic automatically. “Thanks.”

Robby climbed into bed beside you after setting his own mug down on the nightstand, settling against the headboard close enough that his shoulder brushed yours beneath the blankets.

For a few quiet minutes neither of you spoke. Rain tapped steadily against the windows. The tea warmed your cold hands. Beside you, Robby stared down into his own untouched mug with an exhaustion in his eyes that made your chest ache all over again.

“You didn’t sleep,” you said softly.

A humorless breath escaped him. “Neither did you.”

Fair.

You looked down at the tea in your hands. “I kept waking up and forgetting for like half a second.”

Robby’s jaw tightened immediately.

“Then it came back,” you whispered.

He closed his eyes briefly before nodding once. “Yeah.”

Silence settled again after that, though it felt different than the silence from the night before. Less explosive. Still painful, but softer somehow. Like two people sitting carefully inside the wreckage together rather than actively drowning in it. Your fingers tightened slightly around the mug.

“I feel stupid.”

Robby looked over instantly. “Why?”

“Because it was early.” Your throat tightened hard. “Because people have miscarriages all the time and technically we barely even had time to process it before it was over and I just…” Your voice cracked. “I don’t know why this hurts so much.”

The look Robby gave you then was so immediate and firm it made tears sting your eyes again.

“Do not do that to yourself.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You stared down at your tea instead because suddenly crying again felt inevitable.

Robby shifted closer beside you, his voice low and steady. “You lost something. There’s no timeline requirement for grief. There’s no rule saying you only get to hurt if it happened after a certain number of weeks or if you’d already picked out names or bought a crib.”

Fresh tears slipped down your face quietly.

“You were pregnant,” he continued softly. “You started imagining things. Maybe not intentionally. Maybe not even fully consciously. But you did.”

Your breathing hitched. Because he was right. God, he was right. You had imagined things. Tiny impossible things you never even admitted to yourself out loud.

What if it had his eyes? Would he freak out during labor like an overprotective disaster despite being an emergency physician? Would your kid inherit his sarcasm? Would he eventually teach them how to ride a bike while muttering exhausted complaints the entire time? The future had slipped silently into your mind before you even realized it was happening. And now it was gone. Your face crumpled instantly. Robby set his tea aside without hesitation and pulled you into him the second the first sob escaped your throat.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

You buried your face against his chest while his arms wrapped tightly around you beneath the blankets, one hand smoothing slowly through your hair as your body shook hard against him again.

“I’m sorry,” you cried.

His grip tightened immediately. “No.”

“I can’t stop crying.”

“You do not have to stop crying.”

“But I’m exhausting.”

At that, Robby leaned back enough to look at you properly, one hand still cupping the side of your face.

“Listen to me very carefully,” he said softly but firmly. “You are allowed to fall apart over this.”

Tears streamed harder down your cheeks.

“You don’t have to make this easier for anybody else. Not for me. Not for work. Not for the world. You do not have to minimize it because other people have survived it too.”

Your mouth trembled violently.

“I just keep thinking my body failed.”

The words came out broken and ashamed and clearly cost you something to admit. Robby’s expression shattered instantly.

He pulled you even closer. “Absolutely not.”

“But it did.”

“No.” His voice cracked harshly this time. “No, it didn’t.”

You cried harder against him.

Robby swallowed visibly before speaking again, forehead pressing gently against your hair. “Sometimes horrible things happen medically that nobody can stop. That’s the truth. But your body did not betray you.”

“It doesn’t feel like that.”

“I know.”

The honesty hurt. Because he understood exactly how impossible this felt. You stayed curled against him for a long time afterward while rain continued tapping softly outside the apartment windows. Robby never once told you to calm down. Never tried to force perspective onto the grief. He simply held you through it patiently, one hand moving in slow circles against your back while your breathing gradually steadied again. Eventually you pulled back enough to wipe exhaustedly at your face.

“You’re sad too.”

The observation came quietly. Robby looked at you for a moment before answering.

“Yeah,” he admitted.

The raw honesty in that single word nearly made you cry all over again.

He leaned back against the headboard with visible exhaustion before dragging a hand down over his face.

“I know it was early. I know logically we hadn’t even figured out what this meant yet.” His voice roughened slightly. “But sometime between you saying you were pregnant and you saying you lost it…” He swallowed hard. “I think I became somebody’s father for a minute.”

Your breath caught painfully. Robby looked away briefly toward the rain-covered windows, emotion moving visibly through his face now without him trying to hide it.

“And now I’m not.”

The quiet devastation in that sentence split something open inside you. You moved immediately, climbing halfway into his lap just to wrap your arms tightly around him again. Robby held you hard against his chest. Neither of you spoke for a while after that. You simply sat tangled together beneath the blankets while grief moved through both of you in quieter waves now. Not gone. Not healed. Just acknowledged. Eventually your breathing steadied enough that exhaustion began overtaking emotion again.

Robby brushed his fingers lightly beneath your swollen eyes. “You eaten anything?”

You made a face immediately.

“That’s a no.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Still gotta eat.”

You sighed weakly. “You sound like me.”

“Terrifying realization for both of us.”

A tiny laugh escaped you unexpectedly. Robby looked visibly relieved hearing it. Not happy exactly. Just relieved to hear something other than crying finally come out of you.

“There she is,” he murmured softly.

Your throat tightened all over again. God. You loved him so much it hurt.

“I didn’t tell anybody at work,” you whispered after a while.

Robby nodded slowly. “You don’t have to unless you want to.”

“I don’t think I can survive Dana looking at me sadly right now.”

A faint breath of amusement left him. “Fair.”

You traced absent patterns against the fabric of his sweatshirt. “What if people ask why I’m upset?”

“Then we tell them to mind their business.”

“You say that to literally everyone already.”

“Exactly. I’m prepared.”

That earned another tiny broken laugh from you and this time Robby smiled faintly too, though grief still lingered heavily behind it. The room grew quiet again afterward. Comfortably quiet this time.

Eventually you whispered, “Do you think we would’ve been good at it?”

Robby looked down at you immediately.

“At what?”

“Being parents.”

Something painfully tender moved across his face.

Then very softly, he said, “Yeah. I do.”

Your eyes filled again immediately. Robby kissed your forehead before you could start crying anew, lingering there for a second longer than usual.

“We would’ve figured it out,” he murmured against your skin.

"Hello, I'm Dr. Santos. I heard you took a fall," said the doctor as she stepped into the cubicle, parting the curtain gently. She was alone, which surprised you—this was a teaching hospital, and doctors were rarely alone for long.

You knew you weren’t a major case, but you’d still hoped someone else might come along. Someone more familiar.

Dr. Santos was pleasant enough. She checked your vitals, your reflexes, and ran through the usual assessments. When everything came back normal, she explained that she was waiting on your lab results before deciding whether you could go home or if more tests were needed. She offered a gentle smile before slipping back through the curtain.

You sighed heavily. You knew exactly what was wrong : a mountain of deficiencies, severe sleep deprivation, and the fact that you hadn’t eaten all day—maybe not even the day before. You had told all that to the paramedics but they had refused to let you go.

“Um, sorry,” Dr. Santos said, pausing before she left completely. She turned back with a curious look. At this look, you raised an eyebrow. “I couldn’t help but notice your name, Miss Abbot. Are you related to Dr. Abbot? Are you his daughter?”

You rolled your eyes. You couldn’t really blame her, she must have been new. You hadn’t seen her before. Still, it felt a little unprofessional, though you decided not to comment.

“I’m his ex-wife. Don’t call me Abbot,” you replied—a bit too sharply, but you couldn’t help it. The day had already been bad enough.

“Oh, okay,” she murmured, she’d made things awkward.

“Listen,” you called after her before she was out of earshot. “It’s nothing personal, but is Michael , uh, Dr. Robby, on shift?”

When she nodded quickly, you let out a relieved sigh. “Could you call him here for me? Or Dana?”

“Sure, of course,” she said softly, and disappeared through the curtain once more.

Further down the hall, Dr. Santos reached the nurses’ station, scanning the area for Dana or Robby. Finding neither, she winced, replaying the conversation in her head. She hadn’t worked with Dr. Abbot for long, and yes, she’d noticed the ring—but the woman she’d just seen seemed far too young to have been married to a man his age.

Checking your file again, she saw you were into your early thirties and cringed even harder. The information had been right there. She’d just missed the perfect chance to keep her mouth shut. In her defence, she thought you were not even over 30 yet.

“You need something?” Perlah asked from behind the counter, sitting next to Princess. Both nurses watched as Santos visibly spiralled into an internal breakdown.

Glancing around, Santos switched to Tagalog so the others wouldn’t understand.

“I fucked up,” she muttered. “I called Abbot’s wife his daughter.” She looked genuinely pained just admitting it out loud.

When Princess said your name as a question, she frowned in worry. Santos nodded miserably.

Princess immediately stood up, scanning the room. “She’s here?”

Santos handed over your chart, and the nurses quickly looked through it. Nothing unusual—just another fainting spell. You’d been having them for years, never really taking care of yourself, even though your husband was a doctor.

Still speaking in Tagalog, Perlah smirked. “You didn’t actually call her Abbot, did you?”

“She asked if she was his daughter, you didn't hear?” Princess said, laughing loudly at Santos’s despair.

“What’s going on?” a man’s voice said from behind Santos.

“Dr. Robby!” she exclaimed, jumping at the sudden sound. Quickly, she snatched the tablet out of the nurse’s hands. “I—uh, I have a patient who asked for you by name. Could you take a look at her?”

Frowning, Robby pulled his glasses from the pocket of his scrubs and gently took the tablet from his student’s grasp. Normally, he didn’t do favours—he didn’t examine patients just because they remembered him or he had been recommended. But when his eyes landed on the name at the top of the file, followed by a last name he knew all too well, his frown deepened.

It eased slightly when he saw the reason for your visit, the usual mess.

“Thank you, Santos. I’ll handle this one,” he said quietly, turning and heading toward your cubicle : South 12.

One second, you were walking down the street, rushing to catch the last bus of the night. It was late, and your shift at the restaurant had just ended. You were cold, exhausted, and craving the comfort of your own bed on that bitter winter night.

But God had other plans.

The next thing you registered was the ground beneath you—cold, hard—and a man’s voice cutting through the fog in your head. A bright light flickered across your eyes, then vanished, then returned again.

“Ma’am, can you hear me?” the man asked from above you.

Your head was resting on something that wasn’t soft but wasn’t uncomfortable either. The right side of your skull throbbed—a deep, rhythmic pain, as if your heartbeat had migrated behind your eye. Your vision was blurred, the world hazy and spinning. You could feel nausea rising like a wave.

“Can you hear me?” he repeated, more urgently this time.

All you managed was a faint hum. Speaking felt dangerous—like opening your mouth might unleash the sickness clawing at your throat.

“I’m Doctor Jack Abbot,” he said, his voice calm but alert. “Can you tell me your name?”

You whispered it, barely audible, before gagging again. “Gonna throw up,” you croaked—and then you did.

The doctor reacted instantly, rolling you onto your side and supporting your shoulders so you wouldn’t choke. The vomit splattered across his shoes and one strap of his backpack—the same one he’d been using as a makeshift pillow for your head.

When you finally looked up at him, your vision cleared just enough to see the mess, and tears of embarrassment burned your eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered between shallow, trembling breaths. You felt faint, hollow, desperate to just close your eyes and let it all fade.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” he said softly, his tone steady and kind. “I’ve seen worse, I promise.”

He sat you up gently, guiding you upright so you wouldn’t accidentally rest your hand in your own vomit. Squatting in front of you, he pressed two fingers against your wrist—index and middle—checking your pulse, frowning a little.

He was handsome, in a quiet, rugged sort of way—older than you by at least a decade, if not a bit more. There was something about him that spoke of experience, of someone who had taken a beating from life and somehow come out the other side still standing. Though he couldn’t have been much over thirty-five, streaks of grey threaded through his hair that was still mostly brown, and faint crow’s feet deepened at the corners of his eyes. Freckles dusted his skin, and a light stubble shadowed his jaw.

“You hit your head pretty hard when you fell, ma'am,” he said gently, releasing your wrist and setting it softly on your thigh. “With the nausea, you’ll need a CT scan and some blood work, just to make sure we understand what’s going on.”

And just like that, he pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over the green dial button.

You stopped him before he could press it. You didn’t need a doctor—you’d seen plenty already. You already knew why this was happening.

“It’s anemia,” you whispered, voice thin and shaky. “And a fucking bunch of other deficiencies. Don’t need the ER.”

You pushed yourself up, first to your knees, then to your feet—unsteady, swaying like a newborn deer. The world tilted for a moment, and before you could fall, Jack was there, silent and steady, his hands firm on your shoulders to keep you upright.

He had risen with you without a sound, as if he’d been expecting it.

“Anemia or not, you still hit your head hard enough to cause blurry vision, disorientation and nausea,” he said flatly, not giving you room to argue. “You could have a concussion and if that’s left untreated, it can do some real damage.”

You sighed, watching as he pulled a random towel from his bag to wipe off his shoe and the strap of his backpack. The gesture made you cringe with guilt. Anyone else on this street would’ve taken advantage of you fainting—grabbed your bag, your wallet, maybe even your phone—but he hadn’t.

He didn’t know you. He could’ve just checked that you were breathing and left you there. But you guessed that kind of indifference went against whatever oath he’d taken when he became a doctor. It felt strange, almost disarming, to have this random—and admittedly very handsome—man caring about your health.

Most doctors you’d seen barely looked at you, dismissing your symptoms with a wave and a just eat more iron. They weren’t great, but they were the only ones you could afford.

Now he was picking up his phone again, thumb hovering over the dreaded green button, and panic clawed at your throat.

“I can’t afford the hospital,” you blurted, wincing at how pathetic you sounded. “It’ll ruin me.”

But really, what did he expect? You were a twenty-year-old almost-dropout, working late shifts at a crappy restaurant just to keep a roof over your head. Shitty clothes, shitty apartment, shitty food habits, shittier family—the whole package. You couldn’t just walk into the ER and walk out with a $10,000 debt. Your credit score could barely handle a phone plan.

He hesitated, thumb still suspended above the screen.

Exhaustion was washing over you now—heavy, sinking. You’d already fainted once, and all you wanted was your bed. Just to lie down for a few hours and forget the world existed until you'd have to go to school tomorrow.

No, fuck that. You weren’t going to class tomorrow either. Skipping another lecture meant inching closer to losing your scholarship, but right now, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

He sighed and locked his phone, slipping it back into his pocket. His eyes stayed on you, watchful, conflicted. You could practically see the battle playing out behind them. The doctor in him wanted to act, no matter what you’d just said.

“No, fuck!” you blurted suddenly, your gaze snapping away from him.

Your stomach dropped as you watched, helpless, the last bus of the night drove past the two of you.

Tears stung your eyes, your throat tightening with frustration. This was your fault. You shouldn’t have stayed, shouldn’t have wasted time arguing with him. The moment you’d opened your eyes, you should’ve just run—disoriented or not—straight to that damn bus stop.

Missing that bus meant a forty–minute walk back to your flat. After the day you’d just had, you weren’t even sure you could manage that. In defeat, you opened the Uber app on your phone. A twelve–minute drive for twenty bucks—fucking expensive.

“I’ll drive you home,” the doctor said, grabbing his bag by the handle, not the strap. “If you don’t want to go to the ER, at least let me drive you home.”

And you did.

Even though every rational part of your brain screamed it was a terrible idea—dangerous, even—despair had a way of dulling your instincts. You let him. You let him drive you home. You let him give you his number in case you developed symptoms overnight. You let him hand you a small bottle of pills from his bag.

You let him take care of you.

Now, you were sitting in the passenger seat of his car, fidgeting with the pill bottle while he listed off all the possible concussion symptoms and there were a lot, and you listen carefully. When he finally finished, you glanced up at him, exhaustion heavy in your voice.

“Where’s your practice?” you asked, still studying the label on the bottle. You were trying to decide if you’d just stumbled into finding a decent doctor—or if he was one of those who worked on the fancy side of town, near the hospital.

He scoffed softly, a faint smirk curving his lips. “Don’t have one, sweetheart.”

What?

Your head snapped toward him so fast it almost gave you whiplash. Panic shot through your chest, your heart skipping a few beats. He wasn’t a doctor? He’d said he was a doctor. You looked down at the pills again—there was no way you were taking anything from that bottle. You’d throw them out the second you got inside.

Before you could come up with a polite excuse to thank him and bolt, you heard him laugh quietly from behind the wheel.

“I’m a medic,” he said, glancing at you with that same infuriating smirk. “In the army.”

As if to reassure you further, he reached into the back seat, rummaged for a moment, then dropped a military ID into your lap. There it was. Jack Abbot, his photo a few years younger but still undeniably him. All his information was printed neatly on the plastic card.

Oh. Yeah. He really was twelve years older than you.

Weirdly, that realization made you squeeze your thighs together just a little. Unconsciously.

At the top of the card, his rank was listed—or rather, it wasn’t. Just five bold, capital letters : MEDIC.

“Oh,” you breathed out, relieved. He could’ve mentioned that earlier, would’ve saved you the brief heart attack.

That realization hit you like a delayed punch : you’d just gotten into a stranger’s car and given him your real address. He didn’t seem like the type to show up unannounced, but still—he was a man, a soldier, the kind that get protected by the system. The thought sent a small shiver down your spine.

“Go home and sleep, kid,” he said when you stayed quiet. “And call me if anything feels off. I’m in town for another month before I’m off again.”

You nodded meekly, gathering your bag and placing his ID carefully on the dash. Looking back at him, you managed a small smile — a quiet thank you — before reaching for the door handle.

Before you could step out, a warm, steady hand closed gently around your wrist.

“I mean it,” he said, voice lower now, the tone leaving no room for doubt. “Anything. It’s already killing me to let you go without a CT scan, so… don’t die on me, okay?”

“Promise,” you said softly, meaning it. For once, you were genuinely grateful—grateful he hadn’t forced you into a hospital, and even more grateful that, just for a moment, someone had treated you like you mattered.

That night, you went to sleep convinced you’d never see him again—just another fleeting moment with a stranger who’d been kind. You didn’t know you’d end up calling him the very next day, after an hour spent throwing up.

You didn’t know that call would be the start of a thirteen–year relationship.

The curtain was yanked open, startling you as you sat on the bed, half-distracted by a game on your phone. Waiting,for what, exactly? You weren’t even sure anymore.

“Not gonna lie and say it’s a pleasure to see you,” Robby said as he stepped inside, giving you a quick once-over, his eyes scanning for any symptoms Dr. Santos might have missed. When he found none, his expression softened. He stepped closer and pulled you into a brief hug. “Never under these circumstances, but… it’s still good to see you.”

You sighed into his shoulder and hugged him back, just as quickly. It really was nice to see a familiar face.

“I told them to take me to West Penn,” you started, naming the other town hospital, “but the paramedics refused. Said it was your zone.”

The look he gave you was pure disbelief—unimpressed, knowing you were full of it.

“Okay,” you admitted with a small eye-roll. “I told them not to take me to a hospital, and after they said no, I asked for West Penn. I was married to a doctor for twelve years, Mike. I know what’s wrong with me.”

He didn’t look convinced, not that you expected him to. Doctors never liked that line. Neither did nurses.

“Clearly not, if you ended up here,” he said, sliding his glasses onto the bridge of his nose before glancing at your chart on the tablet. He sighed, no lab results yet. It was a busy day.

“How long has it been since you last passed out?” he asked, turning away to grab the blood pressure monitor.

“I don’t know… over a year, I think.” His back was still to you when you hesitated, debating whether to add the next part. “I didn’t eat today. That’s why I fainted,” you mumbled, already regretting it the second the words left your mouth.

Robby’s reaction was instant. He froze mid-step, then spun around to face you, eyes wide and a deep frown creasing between his brows.

“I felt under the weather this morning,” you rushed to explain, your tone softer—not because he was angry, but because you could feel the worry radiating off him. “It’s nothing like before, Mike. I promise.”

He sighed, whatever was running through his head, he kept it to himself. Silently, he wrapped the cuff around your arm and took your blood pressure. His brow furrowed when the numbers flashed slightly above average, though that could’ve meant anything—stress, exhaustion, or the sheer weariness written all over your face.

Someone called his name from outside, and he sighed again. Standing up, he reached out and placed a gentle hand on your head, a quiet, instinctive gesture of comfort. Almost paternal.

“Still waiting on your labs, but I’ll be back, okay?” he said, setting the monitor back in its place. “Try to rest a bit. I’ll have someone bring you food.”

You nodded, leaning back on the gurney. “Think you can find a blanket?” you asked with a small smirk, knowing full well he would.

He smiled at the question, rolling his eyes as he headed out, leaving you behind.

You closed your eyes, letting out a slow breath. It was comforting, being surrounded by people you knew—friends, even—but the comfort only went so far. What you really wanted was to be home.

Your gaze flicked to the clock on the wall. Two hours until 7 p.m. already. Anxiety curled tight in your stomach. You didn’t want to still be in this hospital when that hour came.

He was leaving in a few days. He’d told you the last time you saw him—casual, like it was nothing, though you’d felt something inside you tighten at the words. It had been a few weeks since you had passed out on the street.

It wasn’t as if you were sick all the time. You didn’t have a list of chronic conditions, just the quiet fallout of years spent ignoring your own needs—prescriptions left to expire, symptoms brushed off, fatigue you called normal. He’d seen through all of it in minutes, like reading a language only he could understand.

Every time you found yourself at the Military Hospital—where you had no real right to be—he was there. You weren’t military, but that was where he worked when he wasn’t deployed.

He’d lied once, called you family just to get you through the doors. The nurses had known, of course. They always did. Their glances lingered longer than necessary, curious but silent. No one ever said a word.

Each time you left, he handed you a prescription : vitamins, supplements, the bare minimum to keep you standing—and repeated the same thing, soft but firm: “Take care of yourself, kid.”

You never did. Not because you wanted an excuse to see him again—though sometimes that was part of it—but because life was too heavy, too fast. Eating properly, sleeping eight hours, keeping yourself whole… it all felt impossible.

And maybe, deep down, you knew he’d show up when things got bad enough.

Now, you were back in the hospital waiting room, the faint antiseptic smell clinging to your clothes. You’d texted him about the rash spreading across your skin, the burning, the itching that wouldn’t stop and some stomach pains, and he’d told you to meet him here.

You’d arrived before he did. The minutes dragged. You stared at the door every time it opened, pretending you weren’t waiting for him—even though you were.

When he stepped through the sliding doors, you sat up immediately. His eyes found you right away, a soft smile tugging at his lips. He didn’t come over—just gave a small tilt of his head before heading toward the office area, knowing you’d follow.

Inside, once the door closed behind you, he pulled on a pair of gloves and glanced over. His gaze lingered on your neck, where dozens of tiny red spots bloomed across your skin like a rash of needles.

“Take your clothes off please,” he said gently, already turning to the computer to pull up your chart.

You froze. You’d known it was coming, but the words still hit hard. You hated showing your body, hated the idea of anyone seeing it—even yourself most of the times. Two men had, in your entire life, and only once each. You tried to reason with yourself : he’s a doctor, he’s seen everything.

But the thought didn’t help. Your mind whispered that yours would be the worst one yet.

Still, your body moved on autopilot. You peeled off your leggings and sweater, left in a T-shirt and your underwear. That should be enough, you told yourself. Without realizing it, your arms wrapped tight around your middle, shoulders drawn in, stomach pulled flat.

When Jack turned back, his brow furrowed—first at the clothes you still wore, then at how small you were making yourself. He didn’t say anything. He just approached, the sound of the gloves faint as he flexed his fingers.

“Lie down,” he said quietly, nodding toward the exam bed. His voice was softer now, almost careful—like he was reminding you he wouldn't hurt you. He watched as you lay back on the exam bed, your hands still locked protectively over your stomach.

His gaze moved slowly, tracing the faint white spots scattered across your legs and arms. As gently as he could, he reached for your wrists, guiding your hands down to rest at your sides. At his touch, your eyes fluttered shut, and you took a long, shaky breath.

Then his hands moved to your abdomen, lifting your shirt just enough to press along your stomach and lower. His touch was steady, clinical, careful not to linger more than needed. When he was sure nothing hurt, he lifted the stethoscope to your chest, first listening to your heart, then your lungs. Everything sounded normal.

“You can get dressed,” he said softly, stepping back.

You sat up, your movements small and quiet, pulling your clothes back on. From his chair behind the desk, Jack’s eyes flicked toward you once more—catching the single tear that slipped down your cheek before you wiped it away. He didn’t comment, but he noticed everything. Years in the field had taught him that silence often hid pain deeper than any wound.

But you weren’t a soldier. You were just a young woman who looked exhausted and scared and so, so fragile—and something about that broke his heart a little.

“It’s nothing serious,” he said finally, eyes fixed on the computer screen so he wouldn’t make you more uncomfortable. “Looks like an allergic reaction. Probably to the supplements. Have you been eating?”

Your gaze shifted toward him as you tied your shoes. He still didn’t look up, his fingers moving across the keyboard—and that’s exactly when your stomach growled, loud and unapologetic in the quiet room. It wasn’t like you hadn’t been eating on purpose—but finals had been yesterday and today, stacked between two double shifts at the restaurant. By the time you got home, you’d been more exhausted than hungry.

This morning had been no different. You’d studied for hours before heading to campus, then straight to work. The only reason you were even here now was because your boss had taken one look at you and sent you home.

“Didn’t have time today,” you mumbled, not sure why it sounded like an apology.

At your words, Dr. Abbot frowned and glanced down at his watch. It was late, meaning you hadn’t eaten in at least twelve hours. You didn’t like that look on his face, the one that said he was quietly putting pieces together. The longer he stayed silent, the deeper your guilt dug in. You started biting the inside of your cheek, wishing he’d just say something instead of thinking.

“You’re off to work after?” he asked finally, eyes flicking between your face and the computer screen. His tone was neutral—like it was part of the exam—so you answered without question.

“No. They sent me home for the night,” you said with a weak laugh. “Thought I had chickenpox.”

He hummed softly, writing something on his tablet before looking back at you. This time, his gaze was steady, deliberate—a kind of quiet resolve behind it.

“Alright,” he said, standing as he stripped off his gloves and shut down the computer. “Here’s what we’re going to do.” You blinked, thrown off by the sudden shift in tone. “We’re going to pick up your prescriptions at the pharmacy—they’ll be under my name, so you won’t have to pay for them.”

You frowned immediately. That couldn’t be legal. But before you could even form the words, he kept going.

“Then,” he continued, slinging his bag over his shoulder, “we’re going to a little diner a few blocks from here. My treat.”

Your heart dropped straight to your stomach. He wanted to take you out to eat.

It was the first time a man had ever really asked you out—or maybe you’d just been too tangled in your own insecurities to notice when someone had tried before. But this felt different. Jack wasn’t giving you time to overthink it, he was leading, steady and certain, and all you had to do was follow.

Maybe you were just reading it wrong. Maybe it wasn’t kindness or interest, maybe it was pity. It had to be pity.

Jack had always had a big heart, and he’d proved it time and time again—treating you, checking in, never asking for a cent. This was probably just another act of compassion from a man who couldn’t help but take care of people who needed it.

“I—I, hum…” You tried to find your words, to come up with a reasonable excuse—any reason why you shouldn’t go, why this wasn’t a good idea.

But before you could say anything, he was already at the door, his bag slung over one shoulder. He looked back at you with that same calm smile, one corner of his mouth lifting as he tilted his head toward the hallway.

“Right. Perfect. Let’s go,” he said simply.

And somehow, you did—ending up with a paper bag full of new supplements in your purse and a seat on the cushioned side of a booth in a small diner. Jack sat across from you in the chair, one arm resting casually on the table.

Your eyes kept flicking between the menu, the man in front of you, and the plates of food passing by, steaming, heavy, full of things you’d never let yourself eat. But it was all so tempting. You wished your brain wasn't working the way it did.

Everything looked so rich, so caloric. That was why you hated eating out—especially with someone like Jack. Someone calm, handsome, and kind. You didn’t want him to think you ate too much. You didn’t want him to see you that way, greedy, weak, unable to control yourself.

You scanned the menu frantically, chasing numbers more than ingredients, until you found the lowest-calorie option: a simple Caesar salad. You didn’t even like it, but that didn’t matter. It was safe. It was cheap.

Not that Jack cared about price—he’d told you the moment you sat down to order whatever you wanted. “Doesn’t matter what it costs,” he’d said, smiling in that calm, unshakable way of his.

But it mattered to you. Everything always did.

He’d already done too much for you—the prescriptions, the appointments, the concern. You weren’t about to let him pay for an expensive meal on top of it. Even if the smell of the mac and cheese made your stomach twist with hunger every time a plate passed your table.

The waitress had mentioned it was their special, the house favourite. "Best one in the whole area," she had explained with a big smile. And it smelled incredible.

But your doubts were louder than your hunger. They always were. So while you stared at the menu, trying to look decisive, your thoughts tangled into shame and calculations — all while missing the way Jack’s eyes quietly followed you.

He noticed everything.

The way you bit your lip, lost in thought. The way your gaze lingered on every plate of mac and cheese that went by, the longing there, and the guilt that chased it.

So when the waitress came back, notepad ready, and asked if you’d decided, you opened your mouth to order.

“A Caesar—” “We’ll have two mac and cheeses, please.”

Jack’s voice cut through yours—calm, confident, louder, impossible to argue with. He handed both menus back to the waitress before you could react, a polite smile still on his lips.

“Excellent choice!” she said brightly, jotting it down before walking away.

You just stared at him, wide-eyed, too stunned to speak.

Across the table, Jack only smiled—those gentle eyes framed by faint crow’s feet, the kind that came from his older years. His gaze held yours, steady and unreadable, like he was daring you to argue.

“They said it’s the best around,” he said at last, the corners of his mouth curving into a soft smirk. “Might as well find out for ourselves, right?”

As the night went on, the conversation stayed a little awkward.

Jack talked about his work, asked about college, and you answered—but your words were always short, cautious, like you were afraid of saying the wrong thing. The more he talked, the more you realized how different the two of you were.

He spoke about his patients with a quiet kind of passion, about the army, about the places he’d seen and the people he’d helped. You found yourself fascinated by his calmness, by the certainty in his voice—but the feeling came with a weight in your chest.

Because while he spoke like a man who had built a life, you were still just trying to get through yours.

It had been years since you’d left home, and you still didn’t have things figured out. You were balancing classes and shifts, held together by caffeine and sheer panic. Your head was filled with doubts, worries and family issues. You were a mess. You weren’t living—not really. You were surviving.

And Jack? He was educated. Grounded. Kind. His life seemed steady, built on purpose and compassion—everything yours wasn’t.

Still, he never made you feel small. Never talked down to you, never made you feel like a child—apart from the small "kid" he sometimes called you. He listened when you spoke, asked questions, even smiled at the little things you said as if they mattered. As if he cared.

That night, he made sure you finished your plate, ordered dessert, and even watched as you took your supplements. He acted like someone who cared, really cared and it was messing with your head.

For the first time in your life, a man wasn’t asking for something from you. He was just making sure you were fed, comfortable, warm. He joked with you, dropped small compliments between sips of his coffee, and listened when you spoke.

It shouldn’t have felt as good as it did.

As the night went on, you could feel your body reacting to the attention—the way his eyes lingered when you spoke, the weight of his voice when he said your name. You pressed your thighs together beneath the table, trying to quiet the restless hum in your chest. It was too much.

So when you finally stepped outside and the cold night air hit your face, you breathed out a shaky kind of relief.

Of course, he drove you home. The ride was quiet, the low hum of a song filling the silence while Jack talked—gently but firmly—about what you needed to do when he was away. Take your supplements. Eat properly. Sleep.

When he parked in front of your building, he turned off the engine and looked at you. The car went still, the music fading into the background.

“You have to promise me, sweetheart,” he said softly, his gaze steady and warm.

You looked down at your hands in your lap, suddenly feeling small. It wasn’t scolding, not really—but he didn’t trust you to take care of yourself, and you couldn’t blame him. You’d proven him right before.

Still, something inside you wanted to change that. Wanted to make him proud. Wanted to hear him say you’d done well. The thought settled somewhere deep in you, stubborn and growing stronger every time you saw him.

You nodded, your voice barely above a whisper. “I promise.”

When you opened the door two months later and saw Jack standing there, a sharp gasp escaped your lips.

His hair was shorter now more neat and strict—missing the soft curls you’d grown used to running your fingers through in your imagination. He’d filled out a little too, the new muscle was subtle, but you noticed.

His smile was gentle but tired, the kind that hinted at long nights and too many miles. His eyes, though as warm and steady as you remembered them—found yours as if no time had passed at all.

You didn’t know what took over you. Maybe it was the way he was looking at you, or the simple fact that he was here, barely back and already standing at your door. Maybe it was the months of silence pressing against your chest. The months of imagining what could be if you had a bit more confidence, if you were more.

Before you could think, you closed the space between you and kissed him.

For a second, he froze, surprise flickering across his features. Then his arms wrapped around your waist, firm and certain, pulling you closer until your body moulded to his. His low hum vibrated between you—deep and satisfied—when he felt the soft weight of your stomach against him.

You’d listened to him. You’d eaten.

He could see it right away, the colour back in your cheeks, the light in your eyes no longer dimmed by exhaustion. You looked alive, and that alone eased something tight in his chest.

When you kissed him, he didn’t hesitate for long. In a heartbeat, he took the lead, his hands finding your hips as he guided you gently inside. The door swung shut behind him with a quiet thud, sealing the two of you off from the world.

His palms lingered at your waist, warm and steady, thumbs tracing the soft curve of your skin as though memorizing it. He could fell fat on the bone, more than when he had left. A small, satisfied smile ghosted over his lips against yours.

“You listened, didn’t you, sweetheart?” he murmured when he finally pulled back, his breath still brushing your mouth. You hummed, nodding faintly. That earned you a wider smile—one that reached his tired eyes. “Good girl.”

With those words, a small—and, if you were honest, pathetic—whine slipped from your throat. No one had ever praised you for something so small. No one had ever praised you at all. Growing up, that kind of affirmation had been foreign to you, and now here he was, saying it so easily it made your head spin.

Your legs brushed the edge of your bed. It wasn’t hard to reach—your bedroom was also your living room, and your kitchen. The second the back of your knees hit the mattress, you sank down, your lips breaking away from his as you caught your breath.

Jack’s pupils were blown, his gaze locked on you with a kind of focus that made your chest tighten. You watched as he dropped his bag to the floor, toeing off his shoes and shrugging out of his coat, letting both fall in a careless heap. When the cold air of your apartment met his bare forearms, goosebumps rose instantly along his skin. It was still winter, and the chill in the room didn’t go unnoticed.

His eyes moved back to you, trailing over your worn-in comfort clothes—thick socks, matching sweats, and an long-sleeved T-shirt peeking out beneath the sweatshirt. The blanket and two comforters thrown over your bed told him everything he needed to know about the cold.

"You don’t turn the heater on?" he asked carefully, peeking around as if trying to find one.

"Doesn’t work," you mumbled. But even if it did, it was too expensive to run. The windows—even tightly shut—let so much wind through that it would only be a waste of energy and money.

He scoffed not mocking you, but angry at the building. This wasn’t a normal temperature, and with how many deficiencies you had, the cold wouldn’t help. It would be easy for you to catch something with your immune system running lower than average.

You could see the doctor in him getting angry for reasons you didn’t quite understand. When he finally shook his head, his eyes softened again, filling with something warm—desire, maybe. Kneeling before you, he made your breath catch in your throat. This was starting to feel too real.

Kissing had felt nice—safe, even—especially because you were still fully dressed. So when his hand reached your sock-clad feet, nerves fluttered in your chest. His hands moved slowly upward, gliding over your legs but staying on top of your clothes. His eyes never left you, watching, analysing every breath you took, every flicker of anxiety that made your gaze dart away.

"Gonna let me take care of you?" he cooed, his calloused fingers rubbing slow, comforting circles into your calves. "You earned it, being so good for me," he murmured, his hands travelling up to your thighs, kneading the soft skin like a cat making biscuits.

Hesitation crossed your mind. It was that never-dying thought you’d carried for years : he’s going to think you’re disgusting.

That little voice had always been there the one that made you so inexperienced, that kept you away from men who showed interest. Every time, you convinced yourself it was a joke, a bet, maybe even a challenge they’d set for themselves.

"Sweetheart?" Jack’s voice pulled you out of your thoughts, his fingers now resting on your hips. They’d stopped moving when you didn’t respond. His eyes were still soft, but there was a flicker of doubt in them—you could see it. "You can say no."

And somehow, those words reassured you. It was strange being given a choice, not that your other partners hadn’t—but they hadn’t been so concerned with you. You wanted him to continue, but expressing it was harder than you thought.

"Yes," you said, your big eyes locked on his, filled with an innocence he couldn’t miss.

"Yes, what?" he asked softly, an eyebrow rising as he tried to suppress the smirk threatening to appear. He knew exactly what you meant, but he needed you to say it clearly.

Looking away from his probing gaze, your fingers fumbled nervously while your teeth bit your lips. It was hard to voice what you wanted—especially with a gorgeous man looking at you the way Jack did, as if you were his entire world. Confusing, since you’d only known each other for a couple of months.

"Yes, I—huh, I want…" you stumbled over your words, more nervous than you had ever been. "I want you to do it," you finally whispered, barely audible. Even in your head, it was still hard to ask him to take care of you.

But Jack didn’t tease. He didn’t mock. He only smiled and nodded, letting his fingers drift upward until they rested on your cheeks, gently tilting your face so your eyes met his. Pushing on his feet, he pulled you into a gentle kiss, so soft it almost made you tear up.

"Take your sweatshirt off, sweetheart," he murmured against your lips. It wasn’t a question, nor an order but something in his tone made you do it.

Once it was done, he asked you to lie back on your pillows. And you did. You didn’t know why it was so easy with Jack. You still hated the way your stomach pressed against your shirt, the way your hips filled your sweatpants completely, and how your thighs rubbing together had worn out the fabric a bit.

Yet, you didn’t feel the need to hide. Not right now. Not with Jack.

Crawling onto the bed next to you, Jack’s fingers lingered at the rim of your sweatpants, his eyes asking questions without words. Without giving yourself time to hesitate, you nodded quickly. If you thought about it too much, that little voice in your head would return. Closing your eyes, you didn’t want to see his landing on your body.

When the cold wind of the room brushed your bare legs, you tried to calm your beating heart with a shaky breath but it didn’t really work.

"So beautiful," he whispered against your skin. Jack didn’t push you to open your eyes or to speak—he wanted you to do it your way. Still, his lips traced gentle kisses across your bare stomach as he nudged your shirt slightly upward. They moved from hip to hip, leaving soft kisses and tiny nips.

"You hide all that from me, sweetheart? Didn’t want me to go crazy too soon?" he teased lightly. You could hear the smirk in his voice. You desperately wanted to see it, but you couldn’t open your eyes—not yet.

A shaky, breathy laugh left your lips as you peeked a little at the scene. The sight only made you whine, and you felt your panties dampen slightly. His lips were still pressing against your stomach and hips, sometimes brushing close to your mound—but his eyes, his eyes, were locked on your face. He watched like a hawk, memorizing you and your small expressions.

When your eyes met, his lips didn’t stop—no, they got braver. This time, they moved closer and closer to between your legs, wetting the cotton of your panties. A dreadful feeling made your eyes widen.

You felt his lips press against your pubes. It was so sudden, being here with him like this, that you hadn’t had time to take care of yourself down there—or anywhere, for that matter. In seconds, you noticed how prickly your legs felt with hair, the way his lips pressed against the untrimmed pubes, and how itchy your armpits had become.

"I haven’t—huh, I…" you stammered, hands shooting to his head, trying to push him away. In response, he let you move his head away from your body, though his hands remained firmly on your hips.

"What, sweetheart? You haven’t had someone between your legs?" he asked, genuine concern and care in his voice. It wasn’t judgment, nor misplaced curiosity—it was true interest in your pleasure.

That realization hit you: this was another thing you had to tell him. No one had been between your legs—not with their head, not with fingers. "No, I mean… yeah, that too, but…" you mumbled, trying to catch your breath. "I didn’t shave."

"Okay," he said immediately. His eyes were calculating, boring into yours as he tried to understand what you meant. "Does it bother you?" he asked, frowning slightly, searching for an answer.

In his head, he didn’t understand why you would let that stop him. He had felt the hair beneath his lips—it didn’t bother him at all.

"Shouldn’t it bother you?" you asked, confused.

That made his eyebrow rise so high it almost made him look mad. Although he wasn’t, you could see in his eyes—there wasn’t a trace of anger. "Why would I be bothered, kid?" he asked, wanting to hear your thoughts on the matter.

Frowning in confusion, you looked away from his eyes, your gaze locking on the ceiling. Your fingers were still threaded through his hair, and you noticed just then how soft it felt. "I don’t know… just a common thing," you murmured.

No sooner had the words left your lips than his face was right above yours. "Guess that makes me uncommon then, ‘cause I really don’t care. Now… does it bother you to the point you want me to stop, sweetheart?"

Seeing only truth and genuine care in his eyes, you shook your head no, letting him know you wanted him to keep going. With a happy smirk, he kissed your nose before disappearing back between your legs.

He didn’t wait this time, sliding your panties off and leaving you bare from the waist down. Your eyes stayed locked on the ceiling, open this time but not ready to look down. You felt movement on the mattress and imagined he had settled in comfortably. For what? You didn’t know.

He pressed his body between your legs, opening them little by little until your thighs rested on either side of his head—the warm weight of his shoulders grounding you. One of his arms cradled your thighs, while his hand rested lightly on your mound, playing softly with your pubes without a care in the world.

"Nobody ever took good care of this pretty pussy then?" he asked, not waiting for an answer. He knew he was pushing with his words, but it was his way of helping you relax. "A shame," he added, planting a small kiss on your clit that made your hips jump. "She’s too pretty to be ignored, sweetheart."

His words were crude, filthy, but you’d be lying if they didn’t warm your entire body. If they didn’t send chills down your spine at the sound of his low, commanding voice. No one had ever taken their time with you like this, and combined with his gentle praises, it was getting to you—way faster than you had anticipated.

Casually, he rested his head on your thigh as he worked his fingers gently. They started like ghosts, barely lingering over your clit and pussy lips. It wasn’t teasing—it was getting you used to the feeling. His eyes shifted from his fingers to your face as you closed your eyes again. He watched as your chest rose quickly with the shallow breaths you were trying to control.

A small laugh escaped his lips at the sight; you were so exquisite, and you had no idea. It was hard to suppress the urge to ravish you but he wouldn’t do that. That would scare you off, and he definitely wanted you to stay.

Barely turning his face toward your inner thigh, he left a soft kiss there before settling into his work. His fingers now traced controlled circles on your clit, while the thumb of his other hand exposed the little bean of your hood. He chuckled softly—this felt almost clinical. It wasn’t, but he had to teach you how to feel, and he would.

It didn’t matter how long it took. It would take as long as you body needed, he wasn't in any hurry.

You were trying to control your breathing, especially as his fingers moved so heavenly against your clit. It was a completely new sensation, something you had never felt before. The two times you’d had sex, it hadn’t felt like this at all. He wasn’t rushing—his fingers took their time. Small circles rubbed your clit, then wandered lower to your wetness, only to return again to your clit.

It was fascinating how wet you were. Even when you had tried on your own, it had never been like this. This man and his words were doing unfamiliar, impossible things to you.

His lips returned to your clit in soft, fleeting pecks that still made your hips lift off the mattress. The feeling was strange—almost overwhelming—and you weren’t sure if you liked it. The voice in your head tried to whisper doubts, but the moment his tongue flicked gently against your clit, that voice vanished, leaving only pleasure in its wake.

He kept at it, patient and attentive, while your eyes stayed shut tight. His tongue grew bolder with every gasp and whine that escaped your lips—small kitten licks turned into slow, deliberate strokes, and sometimes he even sucked gently on the sensitive little bud. Each time he did, your thighs instinctively tightened around his head. He didn’t seem to mind, though you tried to hold yourself back.

“Don’t,” he murmured between breaths, his voice rough but calm. “Don’t try to control it. Just let yourself feel, yeah? You’re not hurting me.”

As his lips left you for only a moment, his tongue was replaced by his fingers, skilled, sure, and patient. Then he combined them. His fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles over your clit while his lips wandered—kissing your mound, your lower lips, your inner thighs. He was everywhere at once, and it felt delirious.

After a few minutes of this careful buildup, you finally opened your eyes. At first, you kept them on the ceiling, afraid to look down. Your breathing quickened as your thoughts started to spiral but when you did lower your gaze, the sight stole every bit of air from your lungs.

He was looking right at you. His head rested against your thigh, eyes locked on yours, steady, unhurried, full of patience. He looked like he could stay there forever.

“Ever had something inside, baby?” he asked softly, voice low and coaxing, careful not to startle you.

Still keeping eye contact, you nodded your head. Normally, a question like that from a man like him would have made you shrink with discomfort—but with Jack, it felt different. His tone was so gentle, so matter-of-fact, it didn’t awaken the voice in your head. It didn’t make you question yourself. It didn’t bring the anxiety back.

In answer, he gave you a soft smile and a raised eyebrow—then pressed another kiss to your thigh, right before laying a deeper one on your clit, replacing the fingers that now drifted toward your soaked opening.

When his middle finger slipped inside you, a long breath escaped your lips. It wasn’t entirely comfortable, but it didn’t hurt either. At first, it felt no different from when you’d tried it yourself : numb and strange. But then he moved—slowly, steadily—in and out, while his lips stayed on your clit.

Maybe it was the double stimulation, or maybe it was just the way he knew how to move his finger, but something started to change. A deep, unfamiliar tension began to coil low in your belly, pulling your muscles tight and making you want to squeeze your thighs together to chase that feeling, to make it stronger.

A few minutes later—though it could’ve been hours for all you knew—Jack added a second finger. Your eyes flew open, meeting his immediately. The sight of him, focused so intently on you, almost undid you completely. It was too much—his gaze, his touch, the way pleasure kept blooming faster than you could catch it.

It was ridiculous, almost shameful, how little it took. Just a few minutes of his fingers thrusting in and out, curling inside to find that small, special spot in you before pulling back and doing it all over again. His lips closed around your clit in soft suctions, alternating with gentle licks and whispered sweet nothings.

It was all dizzying, and before you knew it, the tight coil that had been growing in your lower belly since he started snapped. Your back arched off the bed as your hands landed on his head, your fingers tangling in his short hair. Instinctively, your thighs tried to clamp down around him, but the hand that wasn’t busy held them apart, letting him savour the fruits of his effort even more.

Had you opened your eyes, you would have seen him, dreadful in a way, caught between your legs, watching and admiring the way your body reacted to him. But you were lost in your own little world of pleasure, something you had never experienced before. It was surreal. You had never believed your friends when they talked about sex—the few times you had tried it yourself had always felt dull.

“Fucking perfect,” you heard him murmur as you came back to yourself, your back landing on the mattress and your legs going lax over his shoulders.

You felt his fingers slip out softly, just as he pressed one last kiss to your clit. Looking down at the same time, you saw him put his fingers in his own mouth, eyes locked on you again. Heat rose to your cheeks and neck, and your hands flew up to hide your face reflexively. Everything he did was just so hot, it was almost overwhelming.

“Felt good, right, sweetheart?” his voice cooed in your ear as he crawled over your body, pressing kisses to the hands still covering your face.

Even with the dread creeping in, you felt the need to answer. So you simply nodded—fast and firm—wanting him to know it had felt good. More than good, in fact. He let out a soft laugh before pressing two more kisses to your hands. “Good. That’s what I wanted to hear.”

And then he was gone. Completely gone from the bed.

His disappearance made your hands drop from your face as a shiver of shame ran through you. You had given yourself so easily—and he was already going? Maybe this was just how it worked. Maybe he only wanted to release some tension before leaving. Sitting up on your elbow, you scanned the room, expecting to see him putting on his shoes—but he wasn’t going anywhere.

Jack was approaching the bed again, a towel in hand. His own hands were slightly damp, probably from washing. He smiled at you, a cocky smirk tugging at his lips, as he knelt beside you. Without a word, still holding your gaze, he pressed the warm towel gently between your legs, making your hips jerk instinctively.

“Shhh, I know, I know,” he cooed, his other hand brushing your hair off your forehead. His touch—so careful, so attentive—almost made you want to cry. But you didn’t. Instead, you took a deep, shaky breath and let yourself fall back onto the mattress.

With still-gentle hands, he helped you pull your panties back on while coaxing you into bed. It was still early—not even midnight—but you obeyed anyway. With wide, doe eyes, you watched him slip back into the bathroom, only to pause in front of the bed for a few seconds.

“You don’t want to…?” The words caught in your throat, but you knew he would understand the meaning behind them.

With a careful smile, he shook his head. “That’d be a bit too much for you, wouldn’t it?”

You returned a tight smile, grateful he wouldn’t push you into anything. You would have said yes, ready to please him just as he had pleased you, even though you had been overwhelmed by just his fingers. So, with sad eyes, you watched him as you lay in bed, growing sleepier with each passing minute.

But he didn’t leave. He simply took off his pants and socks, then slid in beside you, pulling the blankets over both of you. It was still cold in your flat, and the warmth of him next to you made you exhale a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding—relieved. Relieved that maybe he liked you as much as you liked him, at least enough to stay the night.

Curling around him, you pressed your face to his chest, inhaling his scent in a deep, calming breath. He felt so comfortable, so familiar—it made no sense. But in that moment, you told yourself you never wanted him out of your life.

If only you had known how many sleepless, tear-filled nights that thought would one day bring.

Almost all of the day-shift students were gathered around the nurses’ desks, whispering questions and theories about you to Princess, in hope she answered their questions.

“She looks so young… didn’t take Abbot to have a younger wife!” Santos said, surrounded by Whitaker, Javani, and Princess. Santos had been the only one of them to actually see you—even if Princess had known you from your years married to Abbot, she hadn't seen you today.

“Like, young young?” Whitaker asked, confused and a little taken aback.

Princess just rolled her eyes, laughing softly. She had always loved gossip, and your ending up in the ER was creating the juiciest stories.

“She’s legal, Huckleberry,” Santos shook his head at his own dumb question. “She’s 33, but I’m telling you, she looks way younger.”

At that moment, McKay chose to join the conversation, clearly enjoying the gossip too. “They’ve been married 12 years,” she informed the group, leaning on the high desk her eyes still on her patient chart on the iPad.

The three students immediately turned toward her. Javani’s eyes were so wide it looked like they might pop out of her head.

“She married at 21?” Victoria asked, trying to wrap her head around how someone only a year older than her could marry a man 12 years her senior.

“Hum hum,” McKay confirmed, laughing at their faces. Meeting Princess’s eyes, they both continued chuckling.

“A year into dating,” Princess added, her eyes still on the patient chart she was filling out.

“Okay, now you’re fucking with us,” Santos replied, rolling his eyes and getting ready to leave the group behind. But McKay wasn’t finished.

“She has a lot of chronic deficiencies and other small things that kept coming up,” McKay began, locking her tablet and glancing back at the students. “They got married so she could have his army insurance and all the other benefits while he was away. It was before his… hum… accident.”

Both Whitaker and Javani were about to ask more questions, while Santos remained deep in thought. The way McKay and Princess had briefly talked about your marriage had made it seem sweet, if a little rushed. How could it go from that to you almost snapping at her for calling you Mrs. Abbot?

“Don’t you all have things to do instead of spreading things you shouldn’t?” Dana’s voice cut through the small group, scattering around the ER at his voice, in search of something to occupy themselves.

Her sharp eyes landed on Princess, still at her desk charting, a smug smile tugging at her lips. The smile only widened when she met Dana’s gaze, shaking her head with a small laugh.

“You know better, Princess,” Dana said, but the lingering chuckle in her tone made it clear that Princess wasn’t in any real trouble.

“It’s not like it’s ever not the main topic for a few days whenever she visits,” Princess shrugged as she stood, checking on a patient. “Gossip runs fast, it’s not my fault.”

Dana was left alone at the main desk, laughing softly at what her nurse had said. It was true—whenever you visited your ex-husband, everyone gossiped about it for days. How young you looked, how beautiful you were, how the hell Abbot had managed to land someone like you.

Dana liked you, a lot. She had always thought you were a good thing for Jack, with your sweet, confident nature. From what you had told her, you hadn’t always been this way. Abbot had taught you how to be yourself, how to carry yourself with confidence. Years with him had shaped you into the person you were now, and you always spoke of Jack with love and adoration.

And then, one day, Jack had arrived with your ring around his neck.

Dana hadn’t had time to see you today. Robby had said you were sleeping and had asked for food to be delivered. Dana had overseen the delivery, but she had been so swamped with work she hadn’t even had a chance to check in. Locking her tablet, she finally glanced at your chart.

The lab results were back. Her eyes scanned the page until they froze on one line.

“Fuck.” Her voice was sharp as her eyes darted around frantically for Robby.

They landed on the time: 6:37 p.m. Jack would be here soon, and he always looked at the patient list first, sorting alphabetically. Your name would be at the top. Everything was about to be a complete mess.

Her eyes finally found Robby as he walked toward the desk, talking with Mel. Dana felt a flutter of nervousness as he approached, even though she knew she shouldn’t—this was her job.

“Robby,” she called, gaining his attention. When he saw the serious look in her eyes, the soft smile he’d been carrying vanished. He frowned, leaving Mel behind with a gentle pat on her shoulder.

He nodded toward her, silently prompting her to continue.

“These are Abbot’s lab results,” Dana said, her voice tight.

Robby took the iPad from her hands and perched his glasses on the bridge of his nose. Dana’s gaze stayed fixed on his face, waiting for him to reach the line that had made her curse under her breath. Her foot tapped anxiously against the floor.

“Fuck,” Robby muttered. “You went to see her?” he asked, taking off his glasses and slipping them into his pocket.

“This just arrived,” she explained, shaking her head.

The doctor took a deep breath, rubbing his eyes with his fingers. At that moment, he wished he had called Jack the minute you had stumbled into his ER, but that would have angered you enough to refuse tests and treatment. So he hadn’t. And now, he certainly regretted it.

“I’ll tell her,” Dana said, watching Robby’s expression fall.

“No, I’ll do it. It’s not your job,” Robby said softly. He wasn’t undermining her, he just needed to take responsibility.

“Tell me how it goes,” Dana said before heading back to chart for the waiting patients. She was also behind on her nurses rotations so she needed to do so much before she could say hello to you.

Before the nurse was out of earshot, Robby muttered under his breath, “The only fucking day he had to get here on time.” That made Dana giggle, as Abbott usually arrived at 6 p.m. sharp. Maybe the divorce was finally making him realize there was a life outside the hospital.

Robby let out a heavy sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. This was not news he wanted to deliver—it wasn’t even his place—but today, he was your doctor. The name on the top of your chart.

The curtain opening startled you out of your half-conscious state, your heart racing at the sudden fright. You sat up quickly, looking around the room, disoriented, until your heart settled at the sight of Robby entering, an apologetic smile on his face. You knew the ER didn’t move slowly—doctors rarely had time to be quiet.

“So… your labs are back,” Robby said, glancing down at the tablet in his hand as he perched on the stool beside your bed.

“What’s my sentence, Mike? Iron?” you joked, already guessing the most likely culprit.

It was always iron. Ever since you and Jack had separated, you hadn’t kept up with your yearly iron supplements. You had blamed work and moving, but the truth was you didn’t want to see another doctor. Robby had been your doctor for the past thirteen years; it felt too strange to go elsewhere.

“Well… yes,” Robby replied with a small smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. Your teasing smile faded instantly. “But that’s not all,” he added, letting out a heavy sigh.

“Oh God,” you whispered, eyes widening in fear. Michael looked utterly devastated, and your mind immediately jumped to the worst possible conclusion. “Is it… cancer?”

Robby’s eyes went wide as he looked up at you, noticing the small tears gathering in your eyes. Of course, why did he have to be so mysterious?

“No, no, no, it’s good news,” he started, rolling the stool closer and taking your hands in his. “Or… a bad one, depending on how you take it. But it’s not life-threatening.”

“What?” you whispered, frowning deeply at his confusing explanation.

“Oh God,” Robby breathed, shaking his head as he stared at his feet. He had done this for years, telling parents their child had died, handling far worse situations. Yet here he was, confusing

He just wanted to go home.

“You’re… pregnant,” he finally said, looking up into your eyes.

“Fuck,” you whispered, eyes going wide.

Hot water ran down your tired body, soothing tense muscles and washing away the fatigue of a long day at work. It was all worth it, tonight, your husband finally had a night off.

You had debated going out but had settled on a cosy, warm dinner and a quiet night in with Jack. It didn’t matter what you did, all that mattered was being with him—just the two of you.

It had been nearly two months since he’d truly had a whole evening off. You understood how important his work was, especially after his accident, but you always thought you mattered too. He had never given you reason to doubt it—not in the thirteen years you’d been together—but lately, small doubts had started creeping in.

Looking down at your left hand, your fingers brushed over your wedding ring. Simple, with a small diamond on top, it wasn’t much—but you cherished it. Deeply. Inside, it was engraved with the date you married, twelve years ago.

Turning off the water, you quickly dried yourself and slipped into comfortable, silky pyjamas. The soft fabric clung to your skin, making your nipples peak and giving you a thrill as you caught your reflection in the mirror. The clothes hugged your hips and thighs just a little too tightly, but it didn’t matter. You loved your body now—it had taken years of learning how—but there was no longer any shame in it. Probably slightly less than Jack loved it.

Smiling at the thought of his hands on you, you stepped out of the bathroom, greeted by the delicious aroma of the meal he had prepared. Jack was such a good cook—a fact that had surprised you at first. How could a manly, military man love to cook and be so damn good at it? Nothing about him was fair.

You went down the stairs, smiling, ready to call his name—then froze. Your smile dropped faster than you could speak as your eyes landed on him in the entryway. Your husband. In scrubs. Putting on his shoes.

“Sweetheart,” he said with a sigh as your eyes met his.

“You’re fucking kidding me?” you exclaimed, your voice louder than you intended.

You couldn’t believe it. He had promised. He had said nothing would make him leave tonight, but apparently, that had been a lie. Tears gathered in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. This was all the confirmation you needed : his work was, without a doubt, more important than you.

“There’s been a bus accident,” Jack tried to explain, taking a careful step closer. “Walsh called, they’re getting overwhelmed.”

His hand rose to catch yours, but you slapped it away—hard. The sound echoed in the quiet room, and he looked up at you, frowning. Neither of you were violent. When you fought, it had always been with conversation, listening to each other, trying to understand, not shouting or slapping away comfort.

But Jack could tell this was going to be different.

“Of course, yeah,” you spat, your voice sharp with mockery. “And that night you had the helicopter accident, all alone, with no back up showing up? What did you do? You did it all alone because that’s what you’re fucking trained to do. Why do they always need you?”

You knew it was unfair. He had sworn an oath to protect and heal—but your anger didn’t care. You pressed on. “And where are they when you need them? It’s like you’re their god and they can’t function without you. But what about me, Jack?”

Your words were harsh, cutting deep, and you could see the effect on him. His eyes darkened, sorrowful with every syllable you spoke.

“It’s like I don’t matter to you anymore,” you whispered, pushing past him toward the kitchen.

The sight made tears spring to your eyes again. He had set the table beautifully, lit candles, and a fresh bouquet of flowers sat in a vase nearby. The meal was simmering on the stove—you turned it off immediately.

You weren’t hungry anymore. You certainly didn’t want to eat something so perfect alone. This wasn’t how the night was supposed to go. Once again, his work had ruined it all. You could hear him following you, so you kept talking.

“All I asked for was one night, one single night of peace and quiet with my husband,” you continued, carefully putting the pot into a Tupperware, planning to store it in the fridge once it cooled. You could feel Jack’s eyes on your movements, probably ready to tell you to eat—but it was better if he didn’t say anything.

“Baby,” he tried again, keeping his distance this time. “That’s not fair.”

“You’re right, it’s not fair,” you shot back, heat rising from the anger and rage blooming inside you. “It’s not fair that I’m married to your work against my will. It’s not fair that they always get to take you away from me. You have a fucking life outside that goddamn hospital, Jack. It’s time you start remembering it.”

Turning toward him, you couldn’t keep your eyes on him for more than a few seconds. The guilt and pain in his expression were too familiar. They were always there, every time he left you alone after promising he wouldn’t.

That was when your elderly cat—Pope—chose to let out a loud, demanding meow from in front of his bowl. The same cat Jack had adopted for you right after your wedding, so you wouldn’t feel lonely while he was deployed. His deployment hadn’t lasted long—he’d lost his foot barely a year in—but the cat had still helped, especially now that Jack worked nights.

He looked rough these days, his fur a little thin and his movements slow, but he was still the healthiest cat you’d ever known. His perpetually grumpy face made him look like a cranky old man—which, in many ways, he was. Especially when his dinner was late.

Right now, he didn’t care about the fight. He just wanted to be fed.

Sighing, you opened the cupboard and pulled out a can of wet food. It wasn’t supposed to be his wet food day, but you didn’t care. You wanted him happy—so you’d have someone soft and warm to cuddle when Jack left.

“It’s really not like that, sweetheart. You are important to me, but this is special,” Jack tried again, his voice calm, almost pleading. He watched you as you bent down to pet the old cat, your fingers gentle in his fur while he ate greedily.

“It’s always special,” you scoffed, straightening up to look at him. “Always something you can’t say no to. Can’t they call Mike?” The question came out desperate, like maybe, just maybe, this time there’d be another option.

“He already did the day shift, baby,” Jack sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, as if that somehow justified everything.

You let out a short, humourless laugh. “Oh, right, because Robby’s never done a double shift before.” You shook your head, heat rising in your chest. No, there’s something else. Something he never told you, but one of the new nurses did, a long time ago.

His brows furrowed, but you didn’t let him speak.

“Or is it because you told them to?” you pressed, voice rising. “Because you made sure they’d call you if they needed backup? Because you wanted to be the one they relied on?”

Jack’s mouth opened slightly, his voice catching. “How—”

“Does it really matter?” you cut him off, stepping closer, your finger pressing against his chest—not hard, but enough to make him look down at you. “Maybe what matters, Jack, is that you’re always so willing to leave this house. To leave me behind.”

He was about to answer you when his phone rang again. He didn’t want to pick it up—not now, not when you were standing there, spilling every fear and insecurity that had been quietly eating at your marriage. But the name Walsh flashing across the screen was a cruel reminder of why you were fighting in the first place.

“We’ll talk about it when I come back, sweetheart,” he said at last, exhaling the words like they hurt. He wasn’t even angry—just tired. So damn tired. And guilt was eating him alive.

He turned toward the front door. You didn’t try to stop him, and he didn’t look back until he heard you mumble something, your voice so low it almost blended into the sound of the cat licking his bowl.

“I might not be here when you come back.”

He froze for a moment. He didn’t know if you meant for him to hear it—but he did. And it broke something deep in his chest. When he finally opened the door, he turned halfway back, his voice soft but clear.

“I love you.” And then he left.

The rest of the night was spent debating your life and your marriage. You sat on the couch with only one dim lamp lit, the room bathed in soft amber light. Pope was curled in your lap, his old bones rising and falling with every sleepy breath. He would let out a grumpy meow whenever you stopped petting him, a gentle reminder that he still ran this house.

Your mind kept drifting back through the years with Jack. From the first time you met on that lonely street, to your rushed wedding, born out of love, and maybe a little fear for your health. To the day he lost his foot, when everything you thought you knew about life shifted. You had stayed. You had cared for him, endured his anger and frustration, helped him heal.

And after the storm, you had peace. Real happiness. You moved to Pittsburgh for him when he got the offer at the hospital, and you’d fallen in love with the city. You left your broken family behind, found work you actually liked, made new friends. Jack did too. For a while, it was perfect.

It only began to unravel when he started the night shift.

At first, it was supposed to bring you closer : he’d work while you slept, and you’d share the daylight together. He was used to running on almost no sleep. But little by little, the calls came more often. The just one more hour turned into entire mornings, and then whole weekends. He was one of the best, they said. The hospital couldn’t function without him.

You hadn’t realized you were crying until a tear hit the back of your hand. You wiped it away quickly. You’d cried too many nights over a man who wouldn’t change, no matter how much you begged him to remember the life waiting for him at home.

And then there had been that one of too many lonely afternoon, when you’d finally called an attorney. The divorce papers were still tucked neatly in the drawer Jack never opened.

It had broken your heart to ask for them, but you’d told yourself it was necessary. You still had most of your life ahead of you and it hurt to think of spending it with someone who didn’t have time to live it with you.

You still loved him. You would always love him. But maybe, you thought, as Pope purred softly against your legs, maybe it was time to love him from afar.

Before you could turn this moment into another sobbing mess, you made yourself get up and go to bed. A cold bed. An empty bed. Still, that felt better than making any rash decisions at almost midnight.

You told yourself he’d probably be home soon—that maybe, if it was just a quick in-and-out at the ER, you could talk things through once you’d both calmed down. But of course, the clock hit midnight, and then one, and he still hadn’t come home.

You must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next thing you knew, the bed dipped behind you. Pope’s small weight had disappeared, he must’ve gone to greet Jack when he came in. You sighed softly and shut your eyes again, too tired to start anything. You weren’t angry anymore—just sad, heavy, and numb.

Jack’s body slid in behind yours, warm and familiar. His arm snaked around your waist, pulling you gently back against him. You felt the brush of his lips against your shoulder, then the nape of your neck, and finally near your ear.

“You know you’re important to me,” he murmured, voice rough with exhaustion. “I love you.”

It was the same thing he’d said hours ago, right before walking out the door. But this time, it came out softer, quieter, real.

You never doubted his love. You never had. What you doubted was whether this marriage meant the same thing to him as it did to you. Maybe you just saw it differently—had different definitions of what it meant to show up. You had barely talked about that before getting married, and for a long time, it hadn’t mattered. Somehow, it had always worked.

Until it didn’t.

"I know it's hard for you, but—" he was cut short when you turned around and kissed him. Hard.

In that moment, you didn’t want him to talk. You didn’t want to hear his voice — the same voice that spun promises he’d barely keep until the next call from Walsh, or Robby, or Dana. Whoever it was, he’d always answer. And he’d always leave you behind.

"Baby," he murmured, trying to push you off gently, clearly wanting to talk.

"Please don’t make me talk right now," you said, your breath trembling, warning him that tears weren’t far. "I don’t wanna talk. I wanna feel."

You wanted to feel his love, his body—him. Nothing else. No explanations. No excuses. No promises. Just the two of you, the way it was supposed to be tonight.

He didn’t say anything. Just sighed softly before kissing you again. His hands slid into your hair, pulling you closer as his tongue met yours. It had been so long since you’d felt him this close. His work was unpredictable—most nights you were already asleep when he got home, or getting ready to leave for work.

You pushed him onto his back, straddling his hips. In a rush, you tore off his shirt, then yours. You didn’t want delicacy, didn’t need tenderness—only his warmth, his touch, his presence.

Pulling away for just a moment, you slipped off your pants and panties, then pushed his sweatpants down his thighs.

"Sweetheart," he tried to soothe you, to slow your movements, but you couldn’t hear him. What your mind translated instead was that your husband didn’t want you.

"You don’t want me?" you asked, your voice trembling as tears welled in your eyes. Was that why he kept staying late at the hospital?

"Of course I do," he said softly. He took your hand and guided it gently to where he was already hard against his stomach. "I just don’t want you to do something you don’t want to."

You were on your knees, naked in front of him, desperate to undress him completely—and somehow, Jack thought you were forcing yourself.

"I want you," you said, stopping yourself before the rest could slip out.

One last time.

I want you one last time.

But you didn’t say it. Instead, you aligned yourself with him, letting him stay on his back. Even in your sadness and anger, you knew how much a full day and night on his feet strained his leg and back—you didn’t want to make it worse.

When you sank down onto him fully, a heavy whine escaped your throat. It felt good, achingly so, yet so foreign. It had been so long since you’d touched each other that you hadn’t realized how much you’d missed it.

You felt his hands grip your hips in a tight squeeze, as if he were trying to ground both of you in the moment. When your hips began to move—slow, gentle thrusts at first—his grip only tightened. You let out a soft moan at the thought that he might leave bruises behind. Like he used to.

Used to.

That was what this moment felt like, what you used to be. A couple in love, tangled up in each other every chance you got. You clung to that thought, moving your hips faster, rising a little higher each time. His breathing grew heavier, matching yours, and when you placed a hand on his chest, you felt how hard his heart was pounding.

Behind your closed eyelids, all you could see was his younger, happier face, the one from your wedding night. You’d ended up in the same position back then too, only that night you’d been full of joy instead of ache. Your mind replayed flashes of laughter, of dancing, of promises whispered under the soft lights—each memory making the ache of longing grow sharper.

When you opened your eyes, hoping to pull yourself back into the present, you almost wished you hadn’t. Jack was watching you, the same way he always did. That look in his eyes hadn’t changed since your very first night together. He looked at you like you hung the moon. Like you were his everything.

He looked at you that way, but he still didn't stayed. The thought cracked something open, and tears finally spilled over your lashes. You moved harder, faster, chasing something—release, escape, anything that might quiet your thoughts.

"I love you," Jack gasped between moans, his eyes still locked on yours.

At those words, a sob tore from your chest. But your body didn’t stop. Through the blur of tears, you kept moving, grinding down for more friction. His body met yours perfectly—every thrust hitting deep, every movement both too much and not enough.

Desperate to feel more, to lose yourself in him completely, you grabbed his hands, pressing one against your breast, guiding the other between your thighs until his fingers brushed your clit.

He got the message, and his fingers began to move in rhythm. His eyes never left your face—not even when you threw your head back with a sharp moan as he found the right pace against you. Your hips grew erratic, chasing release, and he could see the tears slipping down your cheeks, catching the soft light of the moon.

He didn’t say anything. There would be time for words tomorrow.

And just like that, after a few more tear-filled thrusts, you came—moments before he did. It wasn’t the kind of release that left you breathless and laughing. It was small, quiet, full of hurt and longing and love and sorrow. When your mind whispered again that this was the last time, you collapsed onto his chest, sobbing.

The tears didn’t stop for a long while. Not when Jack pulled out, not when he gently cleaned you up, murmuring soft words to soothe you. Not when he drew you close and wrapped his arms around you in bed. They only stopped when sleep finally took you—worn out from the day, from the ache, from everything.

Jack lay awake for hours afterwards, holding you against him. His chest was still damp from your tears, and he knew this time was different. He had messed up, and no apology could fix it easily. As he finally drifted to sleep, anxiety settled deep in his stomach, heavy with the thought of the conversation waiting for both of you tomorrow.

Except the talk never came.

When Jack woke up, he was alone in bed. He glanced at the clock and sighed—he had overslept, and you were already gone. On the coffee machine was a small post-it, your handwriting scrawled across it.

I’ll be back late. See you tomorrow.

No heart. No I love you. Just facts. He sighed again, understanding that maybe you needed space. He wouldn’t push you—he never had, and he wasn’t about to start now.

But maybe he should have.

Because when he returned the next morning, after his night shift, he was met with a cold, silent house. Something felt off immediately. Most of Pope’s things were gone—his toys, his two bowls. Your favourite coats were no longer hanging from the rack. He called your name, and the only response was silence.

As he passed the kitchen doorway, his heart sank.

On the table lay two things.

Divorce papers. And your ring.

As Jack passed through the ER doors, he felt a strange weight in the air. A lot of eyes seemed to settle on him. True, he was a bit early—by ten minutes—but that wasn’t unusual. Well maybe it was since he usually got here earlier than that. He glanced down at his pants, checked that his leg was properly covered. It was. So why the hell were people staring?

Looking around, he searched for Robby, hoping for a quick rundown of how the day had been, who the important patients were, what he needed to know. No sign of him. Dana? Same result.

Making his way to the nurse’s office, he swiped his card— ready to scan the patient list, bypassing the reasons for everyone’s visits just to gauge how his night would go. He offered gentle hellos and smiles to a few colleagues, returning their greetings.

Then his heart dropped.

The first name on the patient list: ABBOT.

You were here. In the ER. And no one had called him. The divorce wasn’t even finalized—he hadn’t signed the papers yet. He knew that wasn’t the point, delaying it didn’t matter. But why hadn’t anyone called him? He couldn’t make sense of it. Had you asked them not to call or did the nurses chose not to on their own?

Without a second thought, he ignored everything else. He focused only on the details in your chart. Passed out in the street. Brought in by paramedics. South 12.

On the other side of the ER, you were trying to process what Robby had just told you. Pregnant. Of course. The only time you had missed your pills, thinking it didn’t matter since you weren’t having sex anyway… and of course, you had. And now this.

The timing couldn’t have been worse. Even more so considering that a couple of years ago, you had tried—and it had never worked. You’d done all the tests, everything had come back perfect. No fertility issues. Jack had just shrugged it off, saying it simply wasn’t the right time yet. So you’d gone back on the pills, your periods too painful to stop.

But then you had forgotten a few doses and now, here was the result.

Tears had gathered in your eyes when Mike had told you. You clenched his hands tightly, smiling through the joy and frowning through the panic. What were you going to do?

"You know we tried for months," you said, laughing softly. You barely registered your own emotions — not the tears, not the laughter. "It never took. We tried everything. And now… now it chooses this time." Your voice dropped to a whisper as one hand left his, resting over your stomach.

"It’s going to be okay," he said, forcing a tight smile. From what you’d told him, he assumed the baby was Jack’s, which meant you might still have a few weeks to decide what you wanted to do. "We can do an ultrasound first, just to know—"

His words were cut short as the curtain was pulled back harshly. Robby leapt up reflexively, scanning for any threat to the patient, but there was none.

Jack.

It was the first time you’d seen him since that night—since you’d left your house. He looked the same, though a bit more tired, more worn out. This was the moment you had dreaded : the night shift, face-to-face with him.

"Oh," Robby said softly, stepping in for a gentle hug. He was glad to see Abbot—it meant he could finally leave—but also relieved that this wasn’t his case to handle anymore. Robby cared about you like a sister, but this was something only Jack should hear.

He left the room quietly, closing the curtain behind him, offering a soft smile and mouthing, You got this.

Once he was gone, heavy silence settled between you. You didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know if you even wanted to talk about it yet. He had your chart open on the iPad in his hands, surely having already reviewed the results. He knew.

"Are you okay?" was the first thing he said.

You only nodded as you watched him sit on the same stool Robby had just vacated. The air felt heavy and tense. How had things come to this? You had once been so in love. Your eyes flicked down to your hand resting on your stomach.

"Is it mine?" he asked quietly, not looking at you.

A strangled gasp escaped you, and small tears slipped from your eyes. You brushed them away harshly, rubbing your cheeks and turning your face to the wall. You couldn’t believe he had even asked.

"Who else do you think it could be?" you spat, your voice sharp, still facing away.

He didn’t answer, but you could feel the weight of his gaze on you. You knew it was only a legitimate question—you had left him without explanation. He had no way of knowing whether you had moved on in the two months apart. Still, it stung.

"Did Robby do the ultrasound?" he asked gently this time.

Shaking your head, you looked back at him. His eyes met yours—the same way they always had, like you hung the moon. Just like the last time he had looked at you, it made your chest ache.

"I’ll be right back," he said, standing.

Ten minutes later, here you were. You were still lying on the bed, he sat onto the same stool beside you. Both of you stared at the ultrasound machine as Jack searched the screen, finally letting out a shaky breath and tilting it toward you.

"Here they are," he said, a small smile tugging at his lips, pointing at a tiny, clear dot on the screen. "Still so small," he murmured, taking measurements, while you stared at your baby—or more accurately, what would become your baby.

You had created this together. It was bad timing, yes, but it was also a blessing. You had always wanted to be a mother—mostly because your own had been so shitty, leaving you with so much love to give. With Jack, it had been easy to daydream about a family. And now, it was real.

"By the size of our little bean, it’s eight weeks," he said, looking at you gently.

Our little bean. The words made your heart ache.

"Told you," you tried to joke, your voice weak, laughter mingling with tears. Right now, you had nothing left to fight. With another heavy breath, you asked the question that had been burning inside you. "What now?"

"We do whatever you want," Jack answered without hesitation.

You let out a small, relieved sigh. You noticed he was still wearing his wedding ring and the new chain around his neck. You’d bet your entire bank account that your ring was nestled there. And he still hadn’t signed the papers.

He was still attached—to your marriage, to the love you shared, to you. And you were still attached to him, but you couldn’t endure the pain of him being gone most of the time, especially now that you were pregnant.

"I want to do this," you whispered, your voice breaking. "I want to do this with you, but I can’t… if you don’t change."

This time, the tears ran freely down your cheeks. If he wasn’t willing to change, this would be the hardest decision of your life. You knew he would be a good father, and you could do joint custody, but you didn’t want him here just to be absent.

He was either committed—or you were gone.

"I’ll ask for the day shift," he said without a second thought, his eyes fixed on the tears sliding down your face. His own eyes were wet now, a few tears escaping. "I’ll do it. They won’t refuse, not with your pregnancy. I’ll be there."

He took your hands in his, holding them tight, his gaze locked on yours. You could feel his sincerity, his understanding, his willingness to change — to be present, to truly be there for you.

"You’re everything to me," he whispered, tears finally falling freely. "I can’t keep going if you’re not by my side."

When you didn’t say anything, he misinterpreted the silence, gently pulling his hand from yours. He leaned back slightly, eyes returning to the ultrasound screen.

"Can we redo it from the start?" you asked after a few seconds, your eyes full of hope and love.

He didn’t answer at first. Instead, he cupped your cheeks in both hands and kissed you. It was a kiss full of apology, sorrow, guilt… but also overflowing with love. You kissed him back with equal enthusiasm, pouring into him all the feelings you hadn’t been able to express over the past two months.

It went on for a few minutes. There was so much to catch up on, yet it felt right—still him, still your home.

When your lips finally parted, leaving you both breathless, you shared a gentle smile. He pecked your lips once more before turning back to the screen and clicking the print button, producing the first-ever picture of your baby.

As you watched the photo emerge, you silently hoped he truly meant it this time. You were willing to try again—one last time—because you loved him. This was his final chance, and somehow, deep down, you believed he wouldn’t mess it up.

Hands resting on your stomach, you leaned back on the bed, looking at him with hopeful eyes. Everything was going to be okay, you told yourself—and your baby.

"How’s Pope doing?" Jack asked, breaking the silence. You laughed, the sound light and genuine.

Yeah. Everything was going to be more than okay.

©fromsil.

All through dinner, he had been dismissing your job as a charge nurse. Like so many others before him, he thought you were too young and making it up just to impress him—his exact words. You truly didn't know why you didn't leave after he had said that.

He did believe you were a nurse, sure, just too young for the responsibilities you were talking about. At thirty three, who was running an entire service? He has asked with disdain and mockery.

Truth be told, you were used to that kind of judgment. When you had been transferred to the emergency department, the nurses had given you sideways looks before they saw what you were capable of. Lena had trained you, explained how things worked, and made sure you understood exactly what you were getting yourself into. It had been a hell of a ride this past year, but you'd say you were doing well and so did your nurses and the doctors.

It was a hard, demanding, and stressful job, yet one you were thriving in.

Gulping down the last of the wine in your glass, you zoned out, no longer really registering what Jordan was even saying. He talked about his job endlessly, unbothered by whether you were listening at all. You took comfort in the fact that you had finished your dessert and were simply waiting for him to finish his.

The moment you'd get home, you'd call your best friend and tell her you never wanted to be set up with anyone ever again. You already knew what she would say: that you needed to get over the massive crush you had on your sort of boss.

The night shift attending. Doctor Jack Abbot.

In your defence, he had been the one to start the flirting. And he had gone in hard. He had been all over your work during your training, and on your first night as charge nurse, he hadn't restrained himself on the praising.

Usually, you weren't the type to be thrown off by a man's words, but Jack was different. It was hard to explain what had shifted between the two of you, since you had known him from your very first day at the hospital—back when you were a surgery nurse. He would occasionally come up to the floor to check on a few patients, always warm and polite, a refreshing change compared to some of the surgeons.

When a charge nurse position opened up in the ER, you had applied and after a few interviews, you had gotten it. The step up was more than welcome, even if the role was more draining.

Once you had finally found your footing, built trust with your nurses, the doctors, the interns, and the students—you had felt confident enough to flirt back.

And from that point, there had been no coming back. He was older, but you didn't care. What were eleven years, really, at your age? Nothing drastic, nothing that would stop either of you anyways.

Also, you couldn't help but think he looked far better now than when he was younger. You had once seen a photo from when he was first hired, and while he had been genuinely cute back then, the silver in his hair and the quiet confidence and dominance that came with age had made him something else entirely.

It had started with small compliments, scattered here and there. How good your new hair colour looked. How fresh your makeup was. How well you worked. How the place wouldn't survive without you. All of them unapologetic, said loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. You were no different. Every haircut earned a comment from you. You would bring him food when you could tell the night was going to be a long one. You praised what a good doctor he was, just as he praised what a good nurse you were.

It was a little much and at first the rest of the crew had felt awkward around it—as though they were always walking in on something. Eventually they learned to move around the charged atmosphere you two put out and stopped hesitating to interrupt when needed.

After a year on the night shift, neither of you had ever acted on any of it, both seeming to feel that doing so might ruin what you had. As if it was something sacred. That hadn't stopped you from developing serious feelings for the man, and you were almost certain they were returned.

But for one reason, you were afraid. You had noticed that Jack had stopped wearing his wedding ring somewhere between your promotion and now, and that had unsettled you deeply. You didn't want to replace her—his late wife—you couldn't even if it was your greatest wish. It wasn't, you had too much respect for the deceased woman, it wasn't even a thought that had crossed your mind. However, you were terrified that was exactly what he was looking for in you.

It would be impossible to fill her shoes—to fill the hole she had left behind in Jack's heart. Even with all the love you could possibly have for him in a near future, you would never be her. And that was a terrifying thought: maybe he was simply looking for a replacement. Someone to fill the hole. A hole no one would ever be fit to fill.

That had been why you had accepted this awful date.

After splitting the bill, at his demand, you were now out on the street ready to part ways. He had driven you both here, but honestly, you couldn't stand the thought of spending another minute with this man. It wasn't that late and you lived close enough, you could and would walk.

As you pushed through the restaurant door, you felt a quiet frustration settled—you had wasted a perfectly good dress on someone who hadn't even bothered to notice it. It clung to your curves beautifully, with a low neckline that deserved at least a glance at your breasts. It hugged your stomach too, but you had never made any effort to hide the fact that you were on the curvier side, and you weren't about to start now.

After exchanging a few polite words, both of you promising to text—either of you knowing full well the both of you were lying—you set off toward your place, mildly annoyed that he hadn't even offered to drive you home. What a complete waste of an evening off.

Not three seconds later, you heard a loud crash behind you, unmistakably the sound of a car accident. You turned to find your date on the ground several feet from a stopped car, a large shard of windshield glass lodged in his shoulder.

"Oh, fuck," you breathed, and then you were running.

He was conscious, sitting up on his own, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Once you were satisfied he was alert, you rushed to the car. The driver was conscious too, yelling about how Jordan had come out of nowhere, his hands shoving uselessly at a jammed seatbelt.

People nearby had already called 911. All there was left to do was wait. As a nurse, walking away felt almost criminal, so you stayed. While bystanders gathered around the driver and worked to get him out of the car, you went back to Jordan.

You crouched in front of him, and for just a moment your eyes left his—long enough for something warm and wet to splash across you, followed by a sharp groan.

"I don't think I was supposed to do that," Jordan said, the glass shard now in his hand a look of shock splattered across his face.

Blood had poured from the wound straight into your cleavage before slowing to a trickle running down his chest. You pressed both hands hard against the wound without hesitation.

"No, you weren't." You kept your voice flat, falling on your knees on the concrete scratching them. He was about to pass out—you could see it in the way he was staring at the glass in his hand. "Can someone get me a towel? Anything?" you called out to the crowd.

The response was immediate, as his eyes rolled to the back of his head. Seconds later you were pressing down on the wound with a clean towel while Jordan lay unconscious on the ground. It wasn't blood loss that had taken him under the wound was small, even if it had bled dramatically after he took of the piece of glass. It was the sight of his own blood.

You exhaled slowly and looked up just as ambulance lights swept down the street.

The paramedics assessed Jordan, applied pressure to the wound, and were now loading him into the ambulance. You stood there weighing whether to follow. You recognised the crew, and given where the restaurant was, you already knew they were heading to PTMC.

You looked down at your hands, still trying to decide and that was when you noticed it. Something was wrong. At some point between the accident and now, you had sliced your palm open. It wasn't serious, nothing you couldn't handle yourself, but your hands were covered in blood.

Blood that wasn't yours. Blood that could be infected.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," you muttered, then raised your voice to flag down the paramedics before they pulled away.

Walking into the ER was one of the most humiliating experiences of your life. Rationally, it wasn't that bad, you were staff, you walked in here almost everyday. But you were also covered in someone else's blood, and those two facts did not sit well with each other.

Your date had been taken straight through when they arrived, while you had deliberately hung back for a few minutes. It had seemed like the considerate thing to do at the time.

It was, after reflexion, possibly the worst decision you had made all evening. Because rather than looking like someone who had helped an injured man, you looked like a woman who had been assaulted.

The first person to spot you was Shen, who had been laughing with Ellis at the nurses' station. His laugh cut off the instant his eyes landed on you, replaced by a sharp intake of breath. Within seconds he was crossing the floor toward you at speed, already calling out for a wheelchair.

"No, no, I'm okay," you tried explaining as the entire ER seemed to converge on you at once. "It's not my blood, I'm fine."

But it was too late. You were gently lowered into a wheelchair while Lena rushed you into a free room, and everything you said was brushed aside—they had likely decided you were in shock and weren't taking any chances.

Lena was already calling for Abbot while hands came at you from every direction. Someone was listening to your heart and lungs, someone else was pressing along your ribs asking if it hurt here or there, nurses were checking your vitals from both sides.

It was the arrival of Abbot that finally pushed you over the edge. He came through the door looking as though someone had told him you were dead. The room felt like it was closing in: the nurses crowding around you, Lena directing everyone with sharp precision, all those hands on your body. It was too much.

You stood up quickly and backed yourself toward the far wall, away from all of it. You'd give them that much, you must have looked unhinged in that moment with palms raised in front of you like a barrier, your breathing starting to climb.

"Enough," you said, chest heaving. "I'm not hurt. This isn't my blood. I was with the man from the car accident who just came in, Jordan."

Every doctor and nurse in the room looked to the charge nurse on duty. Lena gave a short nod, confirming that a Jordan had indeed just been brought in.

"The idiot pulled a piece of glass out of his own shoulder and the blood went everywhere, all over me." You kept going, your breathing steadying now that nobody was staring at you like you were about to collapse. "I would have gone straight home if it weren't for the fact that I cut my hand and his blood is all over the wound." You looked around the room. "I just need a blood test."

That was when your eyes found Abbot's. He hadn't said a word yet—still standing at the entrance, arms folded across his chest. He looked almost composed, except for his eyes, which were moving over you carefully, methodically, searching for anything anyone might have missed.

"Okay, everyone back to work," he said at last, apparently satisfied you weren't in need of urgent care. When no one moved, you rolled your eyes before his voice boomed again. "Come on, Nightcrawlers. You're needed elsewhere."

That did it. The room cleared, leaving only you, Abbot, and Lena. Almost at the same time, as though they had rehearsed it, both of them tilted their heads toward the bed.

You let out a small laugh and shook your head, but you moved toward it all the same. Once you were sitting, Lena slipped the pulse oximeter back onto your finger and studied your face with quiet intensity.

"I'll be right back for the blood test," she said, her voice soft in a way that told you she was still being careful with you.

Technically, blood tests weren't part of a charge nurse's duties, but you weren't going to say a word. If she wanted to do it herself, you would let her.

It must have been genuinely frightening, seeing a colleague walk through those doors covered in blood. It was only now beginning to register that you could have gone home first to cleaned up and change before coming in.

"Well, that was something," you said lightly, glancing over at Jack, who still hadn't moved from the doorway.

The look on his face told you he did not find the situation even remotely amusing. His expression was hard enough that you felt your gaze drop, your fingers starting to fidget in your lap, until a sharp bolt of pain shot through your hand and up to your elbow.

Abbot was in front of you within seconds. He reached for your hand, then caught himself—almost as if he had reached out for your on instinct— and turned to pull a pair of gloves from the dispenser on the wall before taking your hand carefully in both of his and lowering himself onto the rolling stool.

"This is pretty deep," he said, eyes on the wound.

"No, it isn't," you scoffed.

You were a nurse. You knew how to assess an injury, and this was a cut you could have handled at home with what you had in your bathroom cabinet.

You laid back against the bed as he glanced up at you with that look again, and made yourself comfortable while Abbot reached for the saline. He opened his mouth, something sarcastic clearly on its way, but Lena reappeared in the doorway before he got the chance.

It took only a few minutes for Lena to run through her checks and let you know they had drawn blood from Jordan as well and were still waiting on his results. You gave her a thumb up and thanked her warmly while Jack continued rinsing your hand with saline.

He swivelled on his stool and rolled toward the supply drawers. "Have a look for yourself, genius. Not deep, my ass."

You pushed yourself up slightly and looked down at your now clean palm and, well, fuck. It was deeper than you had thought. Considerably so. How had you even managed that? You had felt the concrete scrape your knees, but how had you not noticed your entire palm getting sliced open?

"Shit," you said, and let your head fall back against the bed. "I need stitches."

"Yep," was all he offered in return.

What was supposed to be a quick stop at the ER had turned into you becoming a patient. You were on the other side of things entirely but apparently you were getting the full VIP treatment, because Abbot had already turned back around with a suture kit in hand.

"You can call one of the nurses. I know you have more important things to do," you said, watching him lay everything out.

Without even looking up at you, still focused on getting everything the way it was supposed to, Abbot shocked his head.

"Nuh uh," he let out, followed by an almost whispered, "I can take care of you."

The words, the cadence, the casual dominance, the way his voice dropped lower than usual—it sent a shiver straight down your spine and ran straight between your legs. It took everything you had not to press your thighs together.

You knew he would notice, as Jack noticed everything.

You opened your mouth to argue. His eyes met yours with a look that left not room for complains. That happened so often with Jack, the way he could hold a room without even trying. That effortless, unassuming authority he carried without ever seeming to reach for it.

"Shen has the floor covered," he said simply, leaving no room for further debate.

Once he had numbed your hand, he got to work. The silence that followed was uncomfortable in a way that surprised you, the two of you weren't used to quiet moment. There was always something easy and warm between you, something a little flirty and a little playful. The absence of it was starting to press on you.

"That's one pretty dress," Jack said, breaking it, almost as though he had sensed the shift.

"It's completely ruined," you said, glancing down at the dried blood stiffening the fabric. "And it didn't even get me a single compliment all night." The words were out before you had quite decided to say them.

"Really?" It wasn't quite a question, you could hear it in his tone while his eyes stayed on his sutures.

"Really," you confirmed, thinking back to the vaguely disgusted look Jordan had given it. "He split the bill too." You kept going, unable to stop yourself now that you had started. "And didn't offer to drive me home."

That made him look up.

"He let you walk home alone at night?" he asked, making sure he had understood correctly.

"Well, I would have said no anyways, I really didn't want to spend another minute with him… but the fact that he didn't even offer. That's a red flag if I've ever seen one." You laughed, and then the laugh faded the moment you caught his expression.

His jaw was set, his eyes hard and anger lingering behind them. Not at you but at the man who had let a woman walk home alone in the dark. You could practically watch the what-ifs moving behind his eyes.

"Karma got him in the end, though. I mean, he got hit by a car," you tried joking, reaching for even just a small twist of his lips.

The joke didn't land. He went back to suturing in silence, brow furrowed in concentration. Then, a few minutes later, without looking up.

"For what it's worth, you make the dress even prettier." His voice was barely above a whisper.

You laughed awkwardly, the way you always did when you didn't know how to receive a compliment, especially one about your body. "Well, enjoy it while you can. It's going straight in the bin when I get home."

"A shame," Jack said simply, and you knew he meant it.

You could feel the warmth spreading up your neck and into your cheeks, and you couldn't quite make yourself look away from him.

The ease of it, the way he could flirt so quietly and so naturally while stitching your hand, as if the two things required the same level of calm made him more attractive than you knew what to do with. You had a feeling this was a point of no return.

The thought dissolved when Lena reappeared in the doorway, a wide smile already on her face and a sheets of papers in her hand. You knew she had pulled a few strings to get the results flagged as a priority, and you were grateful for it—you needed the peace of mind.

"He's clean," she said, her smile widening. "You'll still need a round of antibiotics, but there's nothing to worry about."

You closed your eyes and exhaled slowly. It would have been a devastating thing, picking up an infection from a man you hadn't even wanted to have dinner with. When you opened your eyes, Jack was already gesturing for Lena to bring the results over. You watched some of the tension leave his face as he read through them.

Did he realise how expressive he was? At least with you.

"Thank you, Lena," you said warmly as she gave you a quiet wink and slipped back out of the room.

Soon enough, the sutures were done. Strangely, despite being someone who lived nocturnally even on your days off—deliberately, so as not to lose your rhythm—you were starting to feel the pull of exhaustion.

When Jack rolled away to dispose of everything, you wiggled your fingers experimentally, trying to gauge how much anaesthesia was left. Sensation was slowly creeping back, and the absence of feeling in your palm was really weird in that particular way that made you want to keep testing it.

"Stop that," Jack said, his back still to you, before turning around with bandages, antiseptic, and compresses.

"I can't feel anything," you said, not entirely sure whether he was telling you off to protect his work or protect your hand.

"I don't care. Don't ruin my good work." He looked at you as he said it, a faint edge of amusement in his expression.

"Oh, right, of course. My sincerest apologies, Doctor Abbot." You rolled your eyes and dropped your good forearm over your face.

All you wanted now was to go home and sleep. With an injury like this—even though you would have argued you were perfectly capable of working—you already knew Abbot would sign you off for at least a week, or until the stitches came out. There was no getting around it.

Once the bandage was secured, you moved to sit up, and a warm, heavy hand pressed gently but firmly on your shoulder and guided you back down. You frowned and tried again. The hand pressed once more.

"Don't move," Abbot said, clicking his tongue, his expression leaving no room for negotiation.

He shifted down the side of the bed and lifted the hem of your dress slightly without saying a word before reaching for the antiseptic. Of course, he had noticed your had scratched your knees. Abbot noticed everything.

"You don't have to do that," you said, keeping your voice gentle.

It was something you could easily take care of at home. You didn't need to take up any more of his time, knowing how wild the night shift could get. When you made another attempt to sit up, the same hand came to rest on your knee unhurried, measured and still so freaking warm. His eyes found yours, one eyebrow raised in a question that needed no words.

You tilted your head and felt a flicker of genuine irritation. "I'm a nurse. I can manage a few scraped knees myself."

He said nothing at first. He simply reached for a sealed compress and tore it open then paused, and looked up at you with a slow, knowing smirk. He knew exactly what he was doing. You hated wasting supplies and he was well aware of it.

"Oops," he said simply, and picked up the antiseptic.

It took everything you had not to say something about how annoying he was. You swallowed it and let him work in silence, watching. His movements were gentle and precise, carefully cleaning a wound that could have been sorted out under a shower at home.

His fingers were light against your skin, one hand cradling your knee while the other pressed the compress softly against the bruising. It was such an unexpectedly tender thing that it was making you feel warm and strange and a little undone. The way he was hunched over you, his posture terrible, as though his back wasn't going to punish him for it the moment he stood up straight.

"Your back, Abbot," you said, in a tone that came out far more like a scolding wife than you had intended.

The only answer you got was a knowing smirk as he moved on to the second knee. His fingers were warm, and you noticed—not for the first time, honestly—that they were the right size. Not large exactly, just... proportioned perfectly. It was a strange thing to be fixated on, but you had been quietly obsessed with his hands for months, and feeling them on your skin for the first time was doing something to your brain. Rewiring it, almost.

"All done," he said, pulling you back. "You can get up, now."

Feeling inexplicably guilty, as though you had been caught thinking something you shouldn't, you sat up too fast and felt the blood rush immediately. You lost your balance and missed the edge of the bed on your way down but Jack's military reflexes were faster. Both hands closed around your forearms and set you upright before you had any real chance of hitting the floor.

"Easy, tiger," he said, still watching your face with eyes that were a touch more worried than the joke suggested.

You laughed it off and stood again, slower this time, giving him a thumb up before grabbing your bag from the bed and following Abbot toward the nurses' station. After reassuring your colleagues that you were absolutely fine, despite knowing you looked anything but, you turned to Lena.

"What are the chances Abbot doesn't put me on medical leave?" you asked, watching him chart you from across the room. It wasn't a complicated entry given the nature of the injury, but it also meant he was prescribing medication, and very likely signing the paperwork you were dreading.

"Absolutely none," Lena replied without looking up from her own screen.

"I could work," you started, but the look Lena levelled at you over her monitor stopped the sentence dead. "How will you manage?" you asked instead, guilt settling in your chest.

"Don't worry about me," the older woman said, her smile warm enough to be annoying about it. She stood and pulled you into a hug. "I know you have a habit of worrying about the elderly," she murmured, "but I'm not quite there yet."

"Lena," you gasped, pulling back with mock horror.

You glanced around quickly to check whether anyone had caught that. Satisfied that the rest of the night shift seemed to be occupied occupied, you shook your head slowly. Ready to scold her, you were stopped by a masculine presence.

"Here." Jack's voice cut through as he appeared beside you, pressing a folded set of papers into your good hand.

"You know, I could—" you started, glancing down at the medical leave form.

"No." He cut you off immediately, steering you toward the ambulance bay with one hand settled at the small of your back.

He didn't even give you time to properly say goodbye to Lena. You threw her an apologetic look over your shoulder. Her smile only widened and she was soon joined by Shen and Mateo, wearing the exact same knowing smirk.

Jack's hand sat across the small of your back as though it had always belonged there—and again, it was just so warm. He wasn't pushing, exactly. It was more like being gently herded, a steady and certain pressure guiding you precisely where he had decided you were going: home.

Once outside, you drew breath to say goodnight and finally make your escape taking a small stop away from him. Looking at Jack, you were met with something unfamiliar. It was rare for this man to check on his phone and yet here he was.

His phone was in his hand—the hand with no wedding ring anymore—he appeared to be thinking. He frowned faintly, then looked up at you, his expression easing just slightly.

"What's your address again? I looked it up in your chart but I forgot," he said, almost to himself, his thumb already moving across the screen.

You caught a glimpse of the Uber app open in front of him. Widening your eyes, you shook your head, this wasn't happening.

"No. Nope. Absolutely not." You shook your head. "Goodnight, Abbot."

You should have known better. Of course Jack Abbot wasn't going to stand there and watch you walk away at nearly midnight. For what felt like the tenth time that night, he reached for you. His fingers wrapped around your wrist—not tight, always gentle, always warm—holding you back. He had been deliberate about it too, catching your uninjured arm.

"If you think," he began, his eyes steady on yours, "that I'm going to do what that terrible date of yours did and let you walk home alone, think again. You're either getting in that Uber or you're sitting here until my shift ends."

In his eyes, you could see it was pointless to argue. You clicked your tongue, closed your eyes, and let out a long breath. When you opened them, you gave a single nod, eyebrows raised.

"Put that I'm paying in cash," you said. Not a request.

He didn't even glance up. He simply scoffed, as though you had said something mildly entertaining.

"I'm not joking," you replied, a little sharper than you had intended but the exhaustion was beginning to win.

"She's three minutes away, out front," Jack said, unbothered, already looking back at his phone. "Text me when you're home. Come back in a week for the stitches."

And then he was gone, back through the doors without a goodbye, without giving you a chance to get another word in.

You stood there for a moment, weighing your options. With him inside and unable to see you, you could absolutely just walk home and let him deal with a one-star rating from you skipping the ride home. Your ego was genuinely putting up a fight.

But something about the way he had looked at you before disappearing inside made it difficult to do anything other than what he had asked. Almost as if he had anticipated the internal debate, your phone buzzed: a screenshot from Jack, the car model and licence plate from the Uber app.

Less than fifteen minutes later, you were home. When you had tried to pay the driver, the woman smiled and told you it had already been taken care of through the app. You exhaled slowly, thanked her, and got out of the car. At least she was honest enough.

Right after locking your front door behind you, you went straight to the bathroom, desperate to get out of the bloody dress you've been in for hours now. It was almost starting to itch from how uncomfortable you felt in it. Before stepping into the shower, you fired off two quick texts to Jack.

how much do i owe you fucker? im home btw

It was late, you were tired, and you were annoyed with him, the insult had slipped out on its own. Besides, technically you were equals hierarchically speaking. He simply had an extra qualification to his name. And you knew he wasn't the sort of person to get offended over such a trivial thing—even more when he had been the one pushing your patience.

You took your time in the shower, washing slowly and thoroughly. You had already washed your hair before the date, but it felt necessary to do it again—like washing the entire evening off. You were careful around the stitched hand, working methodically around it.

Hair dried, skincare done, body moisturised, new bandage on—you were finally ready for bed. It was half past one in the morning, and if there was one good thing about the medical leave, it was that you could sleep in without feeling any sort of guilt.

You didn't check your phone. You simply plugged it in on the nightstand, turned off the light, and settled into bed. Despite everything, despite the irritation still slithering quietly under the surface, all your mind kept returning to as your eyes closed was the feeling of his hands on you.

How warm they were. How careful. How certain. How capable.

You were seconds from sleep when your phone buzzed. Once. Short and deliberate. You reached for it blindly, hand patting across the nightstand until your fingers closed around it. You tilted the screen toward you. Two words.

Two words that sent warmth pooling straight to places it had no business going at one-thirty in the morning.

Good girl.

©fromsil.

you know for a fact that if you let him fuck you it will turn into a whole thing, michael robinavitch has never taken ‘just two minutes’ to do anything, not when it comes to you.

you sigh and roll your eyes behind your closed lids, robby’s hands paw at your ass cheeks, spreading them with light force, his long fingers slipping between and grazing your folds.

“two minutes? you promise?” you ask, exasperation clear in your tone.

“two minutes”

“fine, mouth only though, okay?”

he’s already getting up onto his knees, shuffling towards the top of the bed and situating himself close to your head, his cock already in his hands, pre already leaking from his flushed tip “yes, thankyouthankyouthankyou”

he brushes his tip against your lips, smearing pre all over them waiting for you to open up for him.

you part your lips, laying your tongue out flat, your eyes still closed in an attempt to not lose your sleepiness as he pushes himself into your waiting mouth, he groans as the first few inches slip in, your mouth’s so wet and warm for him.

one of his hands slides across your face, coming round to grip the back of your head, grabbing a fistful of your hair, not to be forceful, just to be able to move you in the way that he needs.

he thrusts his hips slowly, his cock sliding against your tongue and he lets his head fall back, closing his eyes as he gently fucks into your mouth, feels so good that he might actually really only need two minutes for once.

his other hand slides down your neck to your chest, rolling a hardened nipple between his fingers as he grabs and paws at one of your breasts.

all the while he continues his soft pace, his tip bulges against your cheek as you stick out your tongue, licking the underside of his shaft, bobbing your head only slightly just to meet his gentle thrusts.

you slide one hand up his thigh, digging your nails in slightly, softly scratching his plush skin as you go to cup his balls, rolling them softly in your hand, massaging them only just enough for him to feel it.

“fuck, feels s’good, so fucking hot” robby groans through his gritted teeth, his jaw tight from pleasure, and you hate to admit it but it feels good for you too, warmth blooms low in your tummy and subconsciously you cup your pussy with your free hand, palming yourself to relieve some pressure.

robby notices and a smirk flickers across his face, he slides his hand down from your breast down your stomach, gently pawing at your soft skin on his way down, his hand meets yours between your legs and he nudges yours out of the way.

“here, let me take care of that for you, sweetheart” he coos, replacing your hand with his as his fingers glide between your soaked folds, rubbing half circles over your clit with the heel of his hand as the tips of his fingers tease your aching hole.

you let out a soft moan around his cock, the vibration rolls through his length, his hips stutter into your face, his tip hits the back of your throat for a second and you gag around him, your eyes opening from the sudden intrusion.

“shit- sorry, didn’t mean to” robby laughs, his voice gravelly from arousal, you roll your eyes before closing them again, they roll back into your head from the pleasure coming from his hands between your legs.

robby continues to fuck your face at a languid pace, his fingers working your cunt match his rhythm and soon enough you’re rolling your hips against his hand, tight warmth coiling in your stomach as you feel your orgasm approach.

robby’s just as close and his pace quickens, the soft hair that lines his stomach tickles your nose as he pushes in further, you open up your throat for him the best you can, saliva drips out of your open mouth, staining your pillow beneath your head.

and it’s not long before your orgasm creeps up on you, taking over your body, hot waves crashing over your skin, stars blooming behind your closed eyes, you moan and whine around him, doing your best to keep your mouth open for him.

and that’s all it takes for robby to follow your lead, his hand that was on your pussy flies up to your head, gripping the other side of your face as he fucks hard into your mouth, losing control of his slow rhythm as his own orgasm takes over him.

hot, thick ropes of cum fill your mouth, you try your best to tighten your lips around him, not wanting to have to change your pillowcase but it’s so much that some leaks out around him anyway, escaping from the corners of your lips as you try to swallow what you can.

the soft curve of robby’s tummy heaves against your face as he recovers, riding out the aftershocks of his high his gentle pace returns, smaller spurts of cum leak from his tip onto your tongue.

“fuck” he breathes, his voice hoarse, his head lulls forwards, his eyes screwed shut tight as you swirl your tongue around him, cleaning him up.

“thank you, baby” he lets out an exhausted chuckle as he leans down to kiss your temple, you release his softening cock from your mouth with a wet pop, sitting up you reach for the glass of water on your nightstand, gulping it down to wash the salty taste of his release from your mouth.

robby grabs your pillow and gets up off the bed, shuffling to the closet in the dark to grab you a fresh pillowcase, throwing the stained one in the washing basket before shuffling back to bed and placing the fresh one beneath your waiting head.

he climbs back into bed, pulling you close to his chest, his large hands splayed out on your back, rubbing gentle circles that have your eyes drifting closed.

“told you i only needed two minutes” he laughs quietly, kissing your forehead as you swat his thigh with a roll of your closed eyes.

it doesn’t take you long to fall back to sleep, wrapped up in his arms, exactly where you’re supposed to be

that p!link is SO robby coded oh my god, will be adding that to my collection 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

hope u enjoyed this!! <333

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[Picks up immediately after last chapter ended…]

You weren’t in subspace, but you were floaty and relaxed when Robby gingerly pulled out of you. With careful fingers and soft touches, he began to unravel the rope from your body. It was not until the last strands had fallen away did you realize how much they had kept your mind silent.

The slow act of untying you was just as relaxing as him tying you in the first place. It was the fastest you’d ever felt comfortable in front of someone new. Obviously, this was not due exclusively to him tying you up with blood red, soft rope, but it was not, not that.

When you were free, he inspected your skin, making sure there weren’t any contusions or wounds he had to deal with. He hadn’t hit you that hard, but a good dominant always checks. All the while, telling you what a phenomenal job you had done.

“Do you want to shower or cuddle?” Robby asked.

“Shower,” you said.

He showed you to his en suite and you tried not to stop and stare.

“Holy shit this is a nice bathroom,” you told him. He laughed and turned on the rainfall shower head.

The shower was just as tender and soft spoken as the come down. You’d tied your hair up and away from the water. In response, Robby peppered soft kisses along your shoulders.

“You were so good for me,” he murmured. “How do you feel?”

“Relaxed. I feel like I could take on anything now,” you chuckled.

You had rinsed all the sticky fluid off your body, but Robby had wrapped his arms around your middle, plastering himself to your back. With your fingertips dancing patterns along his forearm, you said,

“How do you feel?”

“Good, great even.”

“I think you did a really wonderful job. You read me really well,” you told him.

His body didn’t react but his voice sounded…perkier when he replied, “Yeah?”

“Your check ins were well timed and your rope work was so good. I haven’t really been tied up like that before and I really enjoyed it. How long did it take you to learn?”

“A couple of years, it was sporadic. I feel like it connects me better with my sub,” he mumbled against your ear.

You’d noticed that Robby liked talking softly right against your ear. Each puff of air sent tingles down your spine.

“Your skills are impressive,” you said. “Can I ask a weird question?”

“Of course,” he said.

“I’m just realizing that I was blindfolded that whole time and never saw your dick. May I?”

Robby paused, frozen against your back. Then he started giggling. Muffling his laughter against your shoulder he nodded.

“Yeah, sure,” he chuckled. “I’m not hard or anything, but you’re always welcome to look.”

You spun around, looking up at him.

“So I could text you for a dirty picture?” You asked cheekily.

“You could ask,” he replied smirking.

He blushed as your eyes raked over his naked form. It’s only fair since he spent the last, nearly three hours, tying you up and staring your naked body. It was hard to keep control of himself—you were gorgeous. Even more so wrapped up like a present in his rope.

“Hot,” you decided.

“What?”

“You’re hot, which I already knew obviously, but it’s nice to confirm.”

“You’re odd,” he laughed.

“Thank you.”

You leaned up and kissed him. He felt any lingering trepidation leak out of him. He spent the rest of shower enjoying your gentle touch. Once you both stepped out and dried off, you allowed Robby to rub your slightly marred skin with a healing balm. And then you slid on your comfy clothes and he pulled you into bed with him.

There was pre-prepped water and snacks that you both enjoyed as you continued the after care.

“You’re very complimentary of me,” Robby said.

“Dom’s need aftercare too,” you said.

“Oh,” he said.

“Oh,” you repeated.

“How did you get into this?” He found himself asking. It was something you hadn’t previously discussed and he didn’t like how your observant eyes studied him.

“I was dating this absolute loser after college. We were both baby engineers and somehow he heard about this sex club. It was back in Philly. I didn’t really want to go watch people having sex but I didn’t want him to break up with me so I went.”

“Sounds like a catch,” Robby replied. You laughed.

“So I went in a simple black mini dress that he asked me to wear—I cringe thinking about that now, but thankfully it was nothing compared to some of the other outfits. He realized it wasn’t just thoughtlessly beating up women for sexual pleasure and bailed, but god I was intrigued,” you continued.

“Please tell me you broke up with him,” Robby said.

“Shut up and let me tell my story,” you grumbled. Robby grinned down at you as he tucked you closer to his body. You really did enjoy cuddling as aftercare. “Anyways, this older woman—well to me back then—came up to me and she was gorgeous. She had on this leather mini dress and was covered in tattoos. She was in her late fifties and to this day one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever seen.”

“Cougar.”

You rolled your eyes.

“She asked if I was with anyone. I told her I wasn’t anymore—”

“Thank god.”

“—and she asked me questions. Gauged where I was and if I knew whether I wanted to sub or dom, or both. I had no idea, and she asked if I wanted to join her for the night. Her husband was with her, he was locked in a cock cage wearing nothing but a harness. The rest of the night she had be subbing for her and domming her husband. I realized pretty quickly I had no interest in domming.”

“Damn, did you see her again?”

“For the next three years I was their sub. They both dommed me and taught me about healthy BDSM. Safe, sane and consensual. It was a really formative relationship for me. They liked having a pretty young thing to show the ropes and I liked the attention.”

“Do you still talk to them?”

“I do, they’re not active anymore, but they were mentors for me in the BDSM space and in life. They showed me how to invest my money, how to build equity, all this adult shit I had no idea how to do. And they trained me to give a fantastic blowjob.”

Robby couldn’t help the laugh at your last statement. “Have you always been in a dynamic?”

“No, you’re only my fourth—I tend to keep them for a long time. Tammy and Bill were my first, then Oliver, and the last guy was Peter. I’ve had one offs with other people here and there but nothing worth mentioning. How did you fall into it?”

“I did my residency in New Orleans. I got absolutely wasted one night after a terrible shift and drunkenly wandered into a BDSM club. I watched for months before I had the courage to talk to anyone. But I discovered that even a terrible shift was forgettable when I had someone at my feet—metaphorically.”

“Could be literally, if you want,” you replied. He heard the smile in your voice.

“We’ll see. I didn’t do long term subs until my marriage ended. My ex-wife was fine with a one time thing here and there, but didn’t like the idea of something…for lack of a better word exclusive. She never really got it, which is fine. She was a fantastic partner, so it was something I was more than happy to compromise on. While we were together I probably only did five or six scenes over ten years.”

“I think it is hard for people not in the life to fathom how this isn’t romantic, or doesn’t have to be. But I can see the intimacy being threatening.”

“I think that’s it. She was never interested in the more extreme versions of my proclivities but she did like being tied up, so it’s not like we weren’t compatible.”

You snorted.

“After we divorced I dove head first back in. The club had changed but not so much I couldn’t find my way around. I’ve had two subs since, both men. I hadn’t realized until after our marriage I wasn’t as straight as I thought.”

“And now here we are.”

“Here we are.”

“Still want to keep going?”

“Desperately.”

-- -- --

It was easy to slip into a regular dynamic with Robby. You both met up a few times a month depending on stress, work, and desire. He was attentive, inquisitive and clear with his language. You liked him a lot. Sometimes he would text you after a rough shift and if you were available you’d come over and he would turn you into a wobbly pile of limbs on his bed (or couch, or floor). One time you asked about it—what his bad days looked like—and he got a far away look that troubled you.

You didn’t ask again.

There were pieces of evidence floating around that Robby was depressed; it wasn’t hard once you started to notice. Even in your shallow yet intimate relationship, it was hard to for him to fully hide the impact his job had on his psyche. He rarely talked about his personal life (not that you did either, but you hinted at having one).

The light conversation you both had during aftercare had much more to do with whatever stupid television show you were watching or the new vinyl Robby found over the weekend. Neither of you spoke about work or personal details. It hadn’t been explicitly outlined in your contract but it felt unassailable.

A few months in, after a particularly brutal spanking session, aftercare looked like laying on Robby’s couch on your stomach in a big tshirt while he rubbed a soothing balm on your ass and thighs. Your body was draped over his lap and the circular motion of his hands felt relaxing and calming.

“You could have been a masseuse,” you hummed, a little sleepy.

“Maybe a better career choice,” he laughed.

The TV was on, showing some sitcom neither of you were watching, but the background noise was welcomed. You had known that Robby was having a rough week by the way he held his body. Now, sitting on the couch, he seemed to relax. Most meet ups, you didn’t broach the topic of your jobs, an unspoken agreement. But you found yourself wanting to make him laugh. You wanted to make him smile. You cared about this strange, slightly broken man.

“We hired a new admin assistant for my team a couple weeks ago,” you said without looking back at Robby.

His strong fingers eased over your sore, bruised skin.

“Oh?”

“She’s an idiot,” you sighed. Robby choked on a laugh.

“That’s mean,” he said.

“Robby, babe, she asked me what timezone we’re in.”

“Are your clients in a different timezone?”

“Our clients are down the street,” you replied.

Robby chuckled. “And so you needed to come to me to forget about how incompetent she is?”

“More like how incompetent everyone I work with is,” you grumbled. “I visited the solar farm we’re working on and the welding on some of the steel supports were abysmal. I had half a mind to re-do them myself.”

“You can weld?”

“I can do a lot of things. I don’t do much hands on work anymore, but I still fabricate shit as a hobby. You know, in between getting tied up in your bedroom and cumming so hard I almost pass out.”

“You really made me panic,” he grumbled. You had gone a little non-responsive after your third orgasm of the day.

“Sorry, I’m good. I promise. You were so good to me,” you told him gently. “But yes, I build things.”

“What was the last thing you built?”

“A bookcase for my nephew,” you said. “I want to get into metal work again, but I don’t have a project idea.”

“Have you built anything for your kink stuff?” He asked. There was a tone you couldn’t exactly put your finger on but it was slightly more than intrigued.

“Actually, I haven’t. Did you have something in mind?”

“I think I do actually. But I need to think about it more before I pitch it,” he told you.

“Well, let me know,” you said.

“Do you want ice for you ass?”

“Actually, that would be amazing, yes please.”

And so he went to get ice.

The rest of the afternoon was spent relaxing (either on your stomach or side) on the couch with Robby watching through Parks and Rec. Though this relationship was going on four months, you still knew very little about Robby and vice versa. In your other dynamics you had becomes friends, or friendly, with the person (or persons) who had you in their bed.

You could list the substantive things you knew about Robby on one hand: (1) he was an emergency medicine doctor, which you knew because you’d seen his name tag; (2) he used to live in New Orleans at some point; (3) he liked sitcoms; (4) he lived in Squirrell Hill.

There were other things you knew about him, like his clear communication about sex and his proclivity for tying you to the ceiling. You suspected based on a preponderance of evidence that he was a commitment-phobe, likely burned out, and not someone you would willingly attach yourself to long term.

He might be a good scene partner, but you doubted he could handle a conversation about emotions. Though, you couldn’t blame him—or anyone else in his position—you doubted you’d have the emotional energy to be a present and useful partner in his shoes.

So Robby had all the hallmarks of a good dom, but almost none of a good partner. It made it easy to not fall in love with him.

-- -- --

Robby for his part, thought he had hit the jackpot. You were just as busy as he was, though far less passively suicidal. Every once in awhile you had the wherewithal for a spontaneous meet up, but most of the time your meetings were scheduled and planned. For a few hours Robby would dole out creative and pleasurable tourtuew and then the pair of you would spend another couple hours cuddling, eating and watching stupid TV together.

Occasionally you would share stories about your job as an environmental development engineer. He liked hearing about your job. It was simple and if something went wrong, it was rare that a client or coworker died. You mainly designed and improved on solar panels and solar technology.

He found himself envious of the love for your job, though he kept that to himself. He wondered what it was like to not chain himself to his career as the thing keeping him alive but also killing him. When he was with you, time dilated. It neither passed nor paused. For the time that you inhabited his house it was just the two of you.

His world narrowed down to you. To your reactions. To your limits. To pleasing you. To challenging and taunting you until you were putty beneath his hands. It was like meditation and he yearned for nothing more than to focus solely on you. The scenes you both shared were becoming the single thing he looked forward to every few weeks.

The urge to no longer exist was still pulling at his gut. The quiet hope that maybe one day he wouldn’t wake up in morning still gnawed at him. But like with his other dynamics, there was a responsibility to you now. It wasn’t keeping him alive, per se. (No more than his residents or Jack or Dana). It was one thing that he just didn’t want to deal with the consequences of ending and/or dying.

He was too tired to kill himself, frankly.

Every couple of weeks there were a few hours in which he didn’t feel tired. He didn’t feel the drag of the death he had witnessed and caused. Logically, he knew it was the endorphins and hormones overpowering whatever the fuck was wrong with him, but understanding it didn’t negate its effects.

And sure, Caleb or his fourth (fifth?) therapist might have something to say regarding the desperate need for control, but they weren’t here.

You were here, though. And every time you were here, the world seemed just a little less heavy.

-- -- --

Robby had sent you a terrible stick drawing of a metal contraption simply asking if you thought you could make it. It was a bench, basically. He had added strange lines to suggest what might have been a torso support of some kind, but definitely a metal neck collar. The idea was attractive—most likely would be easy-ish to fabricate. You had the welding materials in your garage. All you really needed was the metal and proportions.

Despite the high degree of intelligence that being a doctor required, Robby’s drawing wasn’t exactly helpful when designing measurements and plans. When you were (lightly) complaining about it, you watched his eyes light up in the way they did when he was planning to put you through something devious.

It’s how you ended up on Robby’s—very nice and sturdy (maybe you should ask him where he got it) coffee table. According to him, the height of the table combined with your proportions were perfect for him to fuck your pussy or mouth. You directed each each measurement. Telling Robby how to get measurements for the fabrications of a sex bench shouldn’t have been as enticing as it was.

You were naked, of course, wearing Robby’s favorite chest harness tie as a adornment on you. He loved the contrast of the red rope against your skin. Oftentimes, you felt his fingers trailing over the rope work and your hypersensitive skin. The moment he began to wrap the soft rope around you, it was like a switch flipped. No longer were you the competent and forthright woman you’d molded yourself to be.

No, you were a simple toy. Meant to be used and enjoyed however Robby saw fit. However your Sir, saw fit.

“What’s next?” He asked gently trailing his fingers over your bare form displayed upon the coffee table.

You weren’t allowed to move. Only Robby had the tape measure and a pen. More than once you felt the pen write something on your body and you were desperate to know what it was. When you asked what they said, Robby replied:

“I didn’t know my toy could read.”

The humiliation and objectification coursed through you and you felt the arousal dripping down your thighs. Fuck he was good at this, that bastard.

“Please measure from the floor to the hollow of my neck, sir. This is the last one,” you said shakily.

“Shame,” he hummed.

The feeling of Robby bringing the tape measure to your neck shouldn’t have been making you tremble, but it felt so…removed from real life. It felt like he was measuring his toy, and in a way, he was.

“Do you have any more requests sir?” You asked.

“Can I watch?” He asked.

“What?”

You were confused. He was already watching you.

“When you make the bench. Can I watch?”

“Sir, it won’t be…sexy,” you settled with saying.

To your shock, Robby gripped your hair and pulled your head back so you were looking at him. The shaking in your muscles intensified purely from his fiery glare alone. This was one of your favorite parts of scenes. Each action Robby took made your body tremble. The adrenaline coursing through you made everything that much more intense. You were certain he could dissolve you into a quivering ball at his feet if he glared at you long enough.

“It sounds like my toy is trying to dictate how I should play with her, is that what’s happening right now?”

“No sir!” You said panicking. “I just want sir to know that because of the safety gear, there’s not much to look at.”

“How embarrassing for you,” he cooed. “To think I only care about watching your naked body. I think you earned a punishment.”

“Yes sir,” you said. You didn’t haven’t time to think about the meaning of his words fully.

“I’m going to paddle you, using the wooden one with the holes,” he said. Shit, that one hurt so much more than the solid wood paddle. Fucking physics. “And after each hit you’re going to say something positive about yourself until I’m content.”

“Sir,” you tried to protest.

“Don’t talk back again,” he hissed, getting in your face. “For that, I think you’ll wear the nipple clamps. Tell me toy, should you wear weights on your nipples?”

Nipple clamps were not your favorite toy. There was a very fine line between fun and tremendously painful and distracting. You had no idea which Robby wanted. And yet, the idea of the swinging pendulum of weight pulling at your sensitive tits made the already painful spanking sound unforgettable.

“Sir should play with his toy however he wants,” you replied.

“Good girl,” he said softly. His large, warm hand cupped your cheek and you leaned into his touch. “I knew you were able to learn.”

The narrow line Robby walked between degrading and praising you gave you whiplash. It pushed and pulled against your ribs, throwing you off kilter and yet desperate for more. Each condescending remark made you more desperate to please him. Each praise motivated you and kept you warm, until the next mistake, that is.

“Thank you, sir,” you managed.

“Remember, safe word whenever you need,” he told you seriously.

“I will,” you replied back, just as serious. And you would. Robby couldn’t fulfill his portion of the arrangement without total trust that you would tell him when you couldn’t take any more.

“I think you’ve been good enough to wear the weights only some of the time,” he said. “Should you start or end with them?”

You opened your mouth to reply, but he cut you off and said,

“You’re right. You should end with them.”

That bastard. That was so much worse and he knew it.

“Whatever will make sir happy,” you said trying to keep the frustration and anxiety out of your voice.

“You’re so beautiful when you take my pain,” he whispered. He walked out of the room to grab whatever else he needed before you could respond.

You were not attached the coffee table in anyway, and prior to putting you on your hands and knees, Robby had laid down a thick non slip pad that felt like a yoga mat of some kind. While you were not comfortable, you were certainly not in pain. But you knew he hadn’t given you permission to move so you did not.

When Robby returned, you expected him to blindfold you. Instead he made you watch in trepidation as he attached the clover clamps to your nipples. Each closure around your sensitive skin made you gasp. The ghost of the fan above you was already making the metal sway. You could feel the pain began to build—each heartbeat felt in your tits and pussy. Exactly what Robby wanted.

“Remember, one positive thing about yourself.”

You half expected Robby to warm up, but the first hit crashed against your skin without any modicum of hesitancy or easement into the punishment. It was still a heavy wooden paddle, so it thudded against your ass but the holes drilled into the torture device meant there was less air pressure to cushion the impact.

“Shit! Fuck!” You exclaimed as the hit propelled you forward.

The swinging of the unweighted chain pinched at your already sore nipples and you winced. Christ, this was brutal. And yet, you wanted another hit. You yearned for Robby to see how hard you worked for him. For him to reward you with the same fervor with which he punished.

“Color?” He asked.

“Green,” you said, swallowing. Your heaving chest was not helping the pull of the chain on your nipples.

“One positive thing,” he prompted.

“I’m smart,” you managed.

Robby was standing behind you while you faced towards the large windows in his living room. Your play sessions often started mid morning and ended mid-evening. It meant that the bright sun was shining through his windows that overlooked the busy street he lived on. You knew that no one could see into the window, yet the privacy film that blocked you from view allowed your nearly unobstructed view of passersby.

Robby must have caught your gaze and he leaned down next your ear before quietly saying,

“What do you think they would do if they saw you? If they saw how debauched my toy was after a little pain. Would they judge you for how you’re absolutely dripping right now?” He taunted.

As if to prove his point, he forcefully shoved two fingers inside you. You swayed with the intrusion, fluttering around the contact—desperate for him to finger you, to do anything that might alleviate the need battering against your sensitive walls. Languidly, he pumped his fingers inside you, before yanking them out. You whined at the emptiness that followed.

“Suck,” he commanded. Like a good toy, you opened your mouth automatically without even seeing him approach or kneel in front of you.

You already felt floaty and hazy. Most of the time you didn’t want to end up in subspace, you hadn’t been playing long enough with Robby yet for your body and mind to feel fully comfortable in letting go. But sucking your arousal off his index and middle finger, staring glassily into his ravenous gaze, the tenuous grip you had on your mind began to slip.

“Are fading, toy?” Robby asked. Later you would recognize a hint concern in his voice.

“Yes sir, I’m green,” you said. “Please keep going.”

Robby studied you for a minute longer before gently kissing your lips. A soft tug on the chain between your tits reminded you of the aching throb that was your constant companion.

“Such a good slut,” he murmured.

There was a high pitch whine that you belated realized came from you.

“Does my toy like being a slut for me?” Robby asked, sounding surprised.

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re doing so well for me,” he continued. “You exist to be used my me today.”

You shivered as his words soaked in through your ears and under your skin. You did belong to him. You did want to please him. You yearned for the pain of the paddle, to feel him touch you again.

“We haven’t talked enough about the degradation, but if my toy wants to be a good slut for me next time, I think we can manage that,” he nearly whispered rubbing his hand against your already warming and sore ass. “Ready for your next one?”

“Yes si—oh fuck!” You exclaimed as the paddle connected with your upper thighs this time.

The pain was intense and tears began to prick at your eyes.

“I am a good friend,” you sniffled.

“Of course you are,” Robby said soothing the sting of the paddle. “My toy is such a good person.”

The pressure around your eyes began to build.

Each hit bled together until it felt like the skin on your ass and thighs were raw. You were actively crying now. For scenes you always wore water soluble mascara because you knew how much Robby loved seeing tear streaks down your face.

“Oh my little toy,” cooed Robby. “You look so pretty crying for me.”

“Thank you, sir,” you sniffled. The floaty feeling had receded some with the intense pain, but at his words you could feel it ebbing closer to the forefront.

“I think you’ve been such a good girl, that we can be done with the paddle.”

“Thank you, sir. You’re so good to your toy,” you whispered hoarsely.

“I’m still adding the weights though,” he added as an after thought.

Before you could process the words, he hooked two small dense metal balls to the end of each clamp. You groaned and let your head drop.

“Haven’t I been good to you, today?” Robby asked.

“Yes sir,” you said, voice trembling.

“How about you put your mouth to good use and duck my dick?” Robby asked at the same time as he flicked the weights on your nipples.

Fresh tears rolled down your face as you nearly shrieked at the sensation.

“Yellow,” you gasped, desperately trying to catch your breath. “I can’t do the clamps.”

“Okay,” Robby said, quickly kneeling before you. “Do you want to end the scene?”

“No, I just need them off,” you gasped.

Gently, Robby unhooked each weight setting them aside. Then he gently unclamped each metal contraption allowing a rush of blood to return eliciting a sharp and keening sound from your throat.

“There you go,” Robby comforted. “Take a few deep breaths for me.”

You did, mimic his intential inhales and exhales.

“Still good?”

“Yes sir.”

“Proud of you for using your safe word,” he replied. His accompanying kiss eased the remaining tension in your back as he stood. “Color?”

“Green,” you acknowledged. “Can your toy suck your dick, sir? You’ve been so good to her.”

“How polite,” Robby said, shucking off his shirt. Once his pants were unbuttoned, and boxers pulled down, you didn’t wait for permission.

You’d likely be punished for later, but the only thought that didn’t float away as soon as it appeared was the desire to swallow Robby down and make him feel as good as you felt. If his punched out groan had anything to say about it, you were successful.

You didn’t often compare dicks—everyone you had played with knew exactly how to use whatever size and girth they were endowed with. Robby was no exception. No matter what position he fucked you in or how long he had played with you before, he always managed to make each thrust feel like magic.

It was skillful the ways in which he managed to flex his hips to hit every spot that made stars dance behind your eyelids.

When he ducked your mouth…that was when you felt how he took up your mouth, making your jaw ache as you worked to stay open wide enough. The warm and salty feeling of his dick always managed to quiet the cacophony in your brain replacing it with the simple urge to be good for him.

Today was no different. The moment you hollowed out your cheeks to suck on his cock, you forgot about the pain radiating from your nipples and ass. Swirling your tongue around his head, you preened at the way he grunted and twitched under your ministrations.

Then, he pressed deeper. The best way to make you cry was for Robby to gag you on his dick. Not only was it the best way, it was Robby’s favorite way. He loved watched you drool and cry with his dick shoved into your throat.

“Swallow,” he commanded. You did your best, but felt a fresh wave of tears rolling down your face as saliva escaped and trailed down your face. “Look at my messy toy. So good. Made for me. Your throat has me like a vice. Fuck!”

Despite the lack of air, despite the tribulations you’d gone through over the past few hours, you loved hearing him slowly lose his composure because of you. He was the dominant. He controlled you in these moments, but he was just as affected by the way you submitted to him.

“Just for me,” he mumbled, almost to himself. “My toy. I own you.”

You doubled down on rolling your tongue on the underside of his cock, trying to focus on the sensitive underside of his head while swallowing him further down your throat.

“You’re so desperate for me. I’ll bet your soaked,” he continued. “My perfect little toy, getting so turned out by the sheer act of me using her. Do you like being used as my toy?”

You tried to nod, but his cock was spearing you so effectively, you could barely do more than accept his thrusts.

“You’d let me do anything to you,” he added. It was one of your favorite things he said. The idea that he would use and use and use you until you were nothing more than a set of holes for him to play with and put away when done.

“You’d let me hold you while I came down your throat,” he grunted.

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

All that existed was Robby using you. All that existed was your body for him.

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

You were made to make him feel good. You were made to be fucked by him.

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

You could feel the strain on your body, shaking as each brutish thrust sent shockwaves through your bones. Each ruthless press of his dick against your throat elicited a new wave of wetness pouring down your thighs.

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

There was hardly a you anymore. Just the singular goal to make sure Robby felt good. To be a good toy for him.

In. Out. In. Out…

Grabbing the back of your head, Robby held you flush against his pelvis while he shot load after load of his cum down your throat. Most of which you couldn’t swallow so it poured out of your mouth making a disgusting mess that Robby seemed to thrive on.

“What a dirty slut,” he grunted finally pulling out of your mouth.

You coughed and blinked away watery tears before realizing he wasn’t in front of you anymore. It was like you had developed a sixth sense for him and felt him circle you, a predator stalking his prey.

“How about a change of position?” Asked Robby.

“Yes sir,” you replied, sore throat and hoarse after his delicious abuse.

He helped you off the table and into a standing position. Your limbs were still shaking, either from the long time in one position or the intensity by which Robby manhandled you. He sat on the couch and pulled you into his lap, your back to his chest. With strong hands, he pulled your legs to either side of his, so he held you wide open.

The only thing that your fuzzy brain could focus on was how his skin felt against yours. His warmth seeped into your bones and you felt yourself droop against him.

A sharp slap to your still sore nipple made you gasp and arch away from him.

“You’re not done yet, toy,” Robby said. “You know how I love to make you cum after denying you for so long.”

Despite his words, his hands ran up the curves of your body until he began roughly kneading your tits making you wince and wiggle in his embrace. Soft wince and groans were the soundtrack to his actions. He whispered debauched things as he continued to knead and pull at your tits.

“Such a pretty display.”

“You love being my toy, don’t you?”

“You’re such a mess.”

“Think about all those people outside. What would they think if they saw my slutty little toy?”

“Do you want to cum?” He asked.

You could respond. All you could do was lay victim to his actions. Each sensation echoed through your arms, legs, throat.

“Is my little toy blissed out?” He crooned. “I think she deserves to feel good. Hook your legs around mine.”

Without telling your body to move, you hooked your ankles around his calves. Then, to your surprise, he pushed you face first into the floor so your were face down, ass up, legs trapped so you couldn’t move, giving him a clear view of your cunt.

“If you move cum without permission, I’ll make you regret it,” he snapped savagely.

“Yes sir,” you said muffled by the carpet. Your arms didn’t seem to be working.

Robby began to run a single finger up and down your soaking folds. There was hardly any friction as you were soaked.

“So wet,” Robby said, sounding almost awed. Without warning he plunged two fingers into you.

You were cocooned in an overwhelming feeling of rightness. This is what you were made for. To be a toy. To be wet and ready.

Two fingers turned into three and turned into four. You felt so full. Full of Robby. Full of purpose.

When the vibrator touched your clit, you spasmed violently, held only in place by gravity and Robby’s leg lock.

“There she is. There’s my responsive toy.”

Each thrust from his fingers catapulted you closer to the edge. You tried to say something. To warn Robby. To beg to cum. But as soon as you had the thought…

Overwhelming bliss.

You heard a distant shriek and your hips bucked against Robby as you came. His fingers never stopped and neither did the vibrator. Sharp white motes of pleasure arced through your body. You could tell you were shaking in Robby’s grasp but nothing was solid enough for you to hold on to.

It was like you were watching yourself from outside you body. Everything surely took place in your mind’s eye, but you could have felt the voracious look on Robby’s face as he made you tremble for him.

Once you had sagged, still face first on the ground while Robby was four fingers deep in your cunt, he pulled the vibrator away and each of your locked muscles relaxed.

“Fucking beautiful,” he said. “Let’s get you up.”

One moment you were on the ground, the next you were curled in Robby’s lap as he stroked your back soothingly. Time had truly ceased to exist. You still shivered against him, your body desperately trying to reach some kind of equilibrium after the intensity. Robby was murmuring praise and encouragement in your ear while you began to get control back of your body.

When you finally shifted on your own, Robby said,

“Thank god, I thought I broke you.”

“Not broken,” you managed. Your throat was still sore and you still were having a hard time concocting fully sentences. Instead of trying, you nuzzled against Robby’s neck enjoying the sensation of his beard against your skin.

There was a brief jostle and then you felt a blanket draped over you both. He held you tightly as your body calmed down. When the shaking finally stopped you were boneless, exhausted and ready to take a nap.

“How are you feeling?” Robby asked.

“Exhausted,” you whined. “That was crazy.”

“Bad crazy?”

“Absolutely not. I just don’t have words right now.”

“Let’s get cleaned up and some food in you and then see how you feel.”

Robby helped you stand and you both walked to his bathroom. You had to lean against the wall while Robby rinsed you off and gently cleaned you with a rag and body wash. Slowly, you managed to continue rinsing off your minimal make up and then burrowed yourself back into Robby's grasp.

“Sorry, feeling needy,” you mumbled against his skin.

“Don’t apologize,” he replied just as soft.

Time again, didn’t feel solid enough for you to perceived but at some point, Robby pulled your spaced out body from under the water and dried you off with a fluffy towel. While you were standing, he rubbed the spanking salve over your ass and thighs, soothing the ache you barely felt.

Then, tucked into him on the couch he said: “I’m going to order the pizza. Sleep. I’ll wake you up when food gets here.”

“You’re so good to me,” is what you tried to say, but only managed:

“You’re so good…”

You had already fallen asleep and couldn’t see Robby’s full body blush and near panic stricken face at your words.

It wasn’t that you had said the words or he had interpreted them to mean something they did not. No, Robby just couldn’t fathom anyone stringing those words together in reference to him. You didn’t know anything about his life and yet he felt his inadequacies oozing from every pore in his body. If he were a better man, he wouldn’t tarnish anyone like this.

You were curled into his side, eyes shut and completely vulnerable. For some reason, you trusted him with such intimacies. He knew that he was responsible. He was not taking risks with your safety. With you, he was at peace for some of the only moments of his week.

He physically shook his head, rubbing the still damp hair at the back of his head. He promised you food, and he knew he couldn’t fuck that up. (Probably.)

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Dana snorts and nods her head, sinking back in her chair. “Yeah, you can say that again. God, men these days, it’s fucking awful.”

You set your phone down and let out a long, weary sigh. “Be glad you snagged your man when you did. Dating is hell, now. It doesn’t even matter what age they are, younger, older, they’re all just a bunch of jerks looking for a quickie.” 

Dana’s eyes widen minutely, shaking her head and you frown, shrugging cluelessly. 

“I’m sorry,” your entire body freezes as Robby places his tablet down beside your elbow. “Why aren’t you checking on your patients?” You glance over, a tentative smile on your face, and relax when you see he’s just messing with you. He crosses his arms and raises his brows, waiting for a half-decent excuse. 

You must’ve caught him on a good day. He usually gives you hell for lingering around the nurse’s station for too long. “Um,” you scratch the back of your neck, sheepish. “I was just showing Dana something,” you mutter. 

“Oh, yeah? And does this have anything to do with your job, doctor?”

You purse your lips, eyes falling to the desk as you mumble, “No, it does not.”

Dana snorts, eyes darting between you both as she waves Robby off. “Give her a break, she’s going through a rough patch right now.” His eyes snap to yours, face immediately set with concern. “Show him,” she tells you. 

“Kill me,” you mutter to yourself, already picking up your phone and scrolling through your texts. Robby’s head tilts, growing interested as he peers over your shoulder. “Alright, I told this guy I moved. I wasn’t even asking for help or anything. This is what he sends me.”

stby hu 2moro

Robby’s eyes narrow before he motions for you to hand him your phone. Passing it off, you can’t help but snicker at how he has to put on his glasses to read it. “Is this,” he shakes his head, completely baffled. “Is this code? What the hell am I supposed to be reading?”

You glance over at Dana and shrug. “Come on, I’ve got to have taught you something by now.”

She rolls her eyes but plays along, tapping her chin as she “decodes.” “I think, sucks to be you, hook up tomorrow.”

You clap and she dips her head in a little bow. “So proud,” you roll your eyes. “He wasn’t even asking, either. Just straight up telling me.”

Robby lowers his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose with a long sigh. You struggle holding back your laugh at the way his eyes clench shut in utter disappointment for the men of today. “Tell me you’re not seeing him anymore.”

“Of course not,” you snip, taking your phone back. “I do have standards.” He raises his brows, clearly not believing you, and you slap his arm. “Come on, it was just a normal bait and switch. I was trying to trick him into thinking we’re hooking up so I could get him over to my place and he could put my new furniture together.”

You look over to Dana, “I usually have a much more successful track record.”

She shakes her head, a proud smile on her face. “That’s my girl.” She high-fives you and you can hear Robby’s patience snap. 

“Damn movers lost my toolbox, anyway, so it wasn’t even worth it.” You shake your head and let out a string of curses under your breath. “It was a nice one, too.”

“Okay!” Robby claps his hands together and you shrink back. “As informative as this was, you have rounds to make.” He picks up your tablet and drops it in your hands, ushering you away. 

You sigh, lingering for a second longer. “I’ll show you what he looks like later,” you promise Dana. 

She chuckles and shakes her head, “You better.” They both tilt their heads, watching as you head into room three to check on the little girl there. “Poor thing,” she tuts. “She’s had no luck.”

Robby scratches his jaw, eyes glazing over as he pretends to look at a patient’s chart. “So, how long has she been going out?” His attempt at casualness is laughable, but Dana feels merciful enough not to go too hard on him. 

“A few months,” she informs him, grin widening into something wicked.

Robby clears his throat, pointedly not meeting her eye. It doesn’t matter; she sees straight through him. “Oh, really?” He hums, narrowing his gaze at the board above her, ignoring that knowing look on her face. 

“Don’t tell me,” Dana drawls, sounding like she’s having far too much fun. “You’ve got a crush on her? God, you doctors, you’re all just so,” her face scrunches and she shakes her head, “messy.”

Robby scoffs, eyes cutting quickly to hers. “Says the nurse.”

“Hey,” Princess’s head snaps up from her computer and she shoots him a warning glare. 

Robby holds his hands up, taking a few steps back from the station. “You are proving my point by eavesdropping, though.” Princess scoffs and mutters something in Tagalog. He has a feeling he should be offended. 

“Just so you know,” Dana leans in, lowering her voice. “Texting with basic grammar is about her only standard right now.”

Robby rolls his eyes, pretending to dismiss her even if a stubborn part of his brain catalogues the information. “I do not have a crush. Besides, I prefer to call.”

Dana tosses her hands up with a grin. “Even better, lover boy.”

“Don’t start that,” Robby warns, pushing away from the desk. Still, he finds her words needling their way under his skin, always in the back of his mind. Right up until the end of the shift. 

He catches sight of you as you pause by one of the benches in the park. You're biting your nail, frowning down at your phone. He can hardly imagine what sort of horrific attacks on grammar you’re getting now. 

“Hey,” he calls, jogging up to you. 

Your shoulders jump, eyes widening ever so slightly as he catches you off guard. “Oh,” the bright smile you give him nearly makes him forget what he wanted to say to you. “Hey, Robby. What’s up?”

You tuck your phone back in your pocket, directing your full attention to him. He knows it’s not a competition, but he’s positive you just blew off one of those ridiculous boys for him. Their loss. 

“You said the movers lost your tools, right?” The little groan you let out has him grinning at you, crossing his arms as you nod your head. 

“Yeah, I was always told tools are the last thing you pack when you move. I just didn't think that meant the movers wouldn’t grab them at all.” You toss your hands up and shrug. “What’re you gonna do, I guess.”

“Well, I was thinking I could help you out.”

Your brows turn in and you tilt your head curiously. “Like, lend me some?”

Robby chuckles and shakes his head. “I’m offering to build your furniture, actually.”

You freeze, smile falling slightly as you stare at him. He’s worried that he might have overstepped here. Dana had made it seem like you might appreciate the offer, but he might have just convinced you to switch to night shift instead. 

“Are you serious?” He nods, hands flexing at his sides as he waits for you to call him a creep. Instead, you’re reaching out, taking his hand in yours and squeezing. Robby clears his throat, caught off guard by the sudden touch. It’s more than he’s used to from you; both of you are good at keeping it professional in the Pitt. He hasn’t really had the chance to be around you outside of it. 

“Yeah,” he clears his throat, fighting the urge to tangle his fingers with yours. “I thought you might want the help.”

The smile that you give him makes his chest tighten. “Thank you so much!” His eyes widen as you push up and throw your arms around him. It takes some effort not to go stiff and back off. Instead, he places one hand on your back, patting you because he doesn’t know what the appropriate response is right now. 

When you pull back, it’s just enough to meet his eyes, not fully drawing away. He doesn’t know how to take that as anything other than a good sign. Testing the waters, he lets his hand slip down to your waist and your smile only widens. 

Well, good to know he hasn’t lost his touch. 

“I thought my day off was going to be spent arguing with vague Swedish instructions.” 

He chuckles and shakes his head. “I’ll take care of it for you.” 

You swallow roughly, slipping away from him completely. “Oh, well,” you straighten out his jacket, doing your best not to meet his eyes. “Thank you.” Your voice is a pitch higher and he can’t help but smirk at how flustered you seem. 

Sure, it’s been a while since he’s tried this, dating, social interaction, whatever you want to call it. But it hasn’t been so long that he’s forgotten a woman’s tells. Your lashes are fluttering slightly and he’d felt your rapid heartbeat when you’d hugged him. As much as he’s been unsure about the reciprocity of it all, he feels like he’s got a pretty solid answer now. 

However, despite the pride that comes with having you react like this, it also saddens him. All it means is that the guys you’ve been going out with have been so horrible that just having someone offer to take care of you gets you flustered. Robby surveys you like he would a patient for a moment; you seem to have a chronic case of low standards and bad luck that he’d like to fix. 

Neither of you’d gotten a chance to line up your schedules that night. And he would have asked you this morning about your next day off, but he doesn’t like the idea of mixing this new, personal dynamic with work. He would prefer both of you to be entirely focused on the patients rather than anything else. 

However, when he tries to catch you after the shift, he can’t seem to find you anywhere. He knows you haven’t left, security confirms that and it’s not like he can just go barging into the ladies' room to check for you there. So he heads up to Dana, figuring if anyone would know, it’s her.

“Hey,” he catches her as she’s packing up her bag. She lifts her head with an easy grin, pushing her glasses to her hair. “Have you seen her?”

Dana says your name, but there’s no teasing lilt or sharp smile. “Yeah,” she clicks her tongue and Robby finds himself growing slightly worried. She never misses an opportunity to give him hell about you. “She went up to the roof a few minutes ago.”

“The roof?” His brows turn in as she nods. “Alright, thanks,” he pushes away from the desk and heads toward the stairs. The path has become far too familiar to him during his time at the Pitt. But he’s never once gone up and found anyone but Jack waiting for him. 

Yet, there you are, sitting in front of the railings with your legs crossed as you look down at the city. His stomach plummets at how close you are to the edge, but he knows better than to shout your name and spook you. Instead, he makes sure you can hear the sound of his feet thudding against the ground as he approaches. 

Your head lifts and you peer over your shoulder. You offer him a weak smile, lifting your hand in greeting. “Hey, Robby.”

Worry only grows at the watery sound of your voice and the tears lining your already red eyes. He ducks under the railing, lowering himself to take the spot beside you. 

“So…” He tilts his head, surveying you, trying to make sure there’s nothing physically wrong before he gets to the mental check-in. “Do you come up here a lot? Or is it just when you want to give me a heart attack?”

That gets a laugh out of you. Which would make him feel better if your throat didn’t sound so clogged. “When I got transferred to night shift for a bit, Jack took me up here one night. It had just been this day from hell of back-to-back losses and bereaved screaming at me for not doing my job.” You shake your head and rub roughly at your cheeks. “He told me it’s how he likes to decompress. I only ever come up on the really bad days.”

Robby frowns, watching you with concern as your head drops between your shoulders. He’d been around you all day; he’d not once seen that professional mask of yours slip. Everybody got a polite smile or a quick conversation with you. It’s worrying how good you are at masking that he couldn’t even pick up on anything. 

He also feels like shit for not being perceptive enough to realize one of his residents needed help. “What happened?” He asks, mind already scrambling to go through each of your patients from rotation today. 

You suck in a deep breath, going quiet while you try and get yourself back under control. By the time you’ve found the energy to respond, he’s already figured it out. “A little girl came in last week with pneumonia. But her parents didn’t give her the antibiotics because they believe in that new age bullshit that pencilin is the devil. It was easy,” you snap, shaking your head as your jaw clenches. 

“Such a simple treatment. Today, she was brought in on an ambulance, septic. I had to get Kiara involved. The parents were putting her life in danger. I know I did what I was supposed to, but I still feel awful. They’re being separated from her because of me.”

“Hey,” Robby places his hand on your shoulder, smiling softly when you lean into him. “That happened because of them. This isn’t on you. You did what was best for the welfare of your patient. That’s what you’re trained to do.”

Your stare is distant, eyes glassy as you look out at the city. Robby lets out a sigh and moves closer to you. He tilts his head, catching your gaze. “I’m proud of you.”

Your eyes widen minutely and then a choked noise is bubbling up from your throat. Your head immediately drops, palms pressing against your eyes. “Whoa,” he peels your hands from your face. Something inside of him hurts at the tears running down your cheeks. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you shake your head, tilting your face away from him as you sniffle. “It’s nothing. I just- I haven’t heard that in a while.” You let out a weak laugh and Robby smiles, taking your hand in his. “I think I needed to.”

“Anytime, sweetheart,” he promises. And he means it. He’d rather you come to him than up here. “Now, what do you say we go ahead and get away from the ledge?” He stands, holding his hand out to you. 

You slap your palm into his and let out a little laugh. “Deal.” He helps you through the rails, finally relaxing now that you’re not so close to the edge. Before he can say anything else, offer you anything else, you’re throwing your arms around him. 

It’s not like the other night, when you were thanking him for a favor. Your arms slide under his jacket, body sinking completely into his as you let out a shuddering breath. There’s this little piece of him that crumples at the sight of you so defeated. 

He shouldn’t put his residents on a pedestal. But you’ve always been so good at not mixing your personal drama with your work. You’re always smiling, maintaining a professional front and still being kind to those around you. He forgets, sometimes, that you can break just like the rest of them. 

His arms wrap around you, letting you squeeze for a moment longer before he pulls back. It’s better not to risk being caught by anyone in the hospital; neither of you would hear the end of it. 

“Thank you,” you whisper again, sucking in a sharp breath as you pat your cheeks dry. 

Robby winces at the harsh way you scrub your face. He brushes your hands away and swipes the rest of the tears away, smiling softly at you. “Anytime.” This time, the smile you give him is strong, no longer fraying at the edges. 

His hand hovers over your lower back as you both head back downstairs. It’s only once you reach the doors that you bother with a professional amount of space. Robby watches as you wave goodnight to Dana, offering Jack a small smile as he walks in. 

Jack nods back, eyes drifting from you to Robby. His gaze narrows as he shoots Robby a knowing smile. “Up on the roof?”

“Not a word,” Robby warns, grabbing his backpack from the nurse’s station. Jack holds his hands up, but that does nothing to hide the teasing glint in his eye. 

Robby had only been to your other apartment a handful of times. Each of them was an invite to dinner with others from work, or a simple get-together. A lot of the time, he’d ignored your invitations, considering it unprofessional to cross that line with you. 

And today, he finds himself being a complete hypocrite as he knocks on your door. There’s not going to be anyone else in there to act as a buffer between you, now. It’s just going to be you and him. While he should keep this friendly and maintain a healthy work-life balance, he already knows he won’t. 

While he waits for you to answer, he finds himself looking up and down your apartment hallway. It seems like a nice enough place. The neighborhood is certainly safer than your last one. The few times he’d visited, he’d always left worried about you. So did some of the others. Dana had even bought you mace to take with you on the walk home. As soon as you decide to throw a housewarming party, he’s sure she’ll be happy with the improvements. 

Something pungent drifts from under your door. Robby steps back with a frown, nose wrinkling as the smell of smoke begins to permeate through the wood. He knocks again, calling your name as worry starts to fester. 

The door’s thrown open and he jerks back. You stand in front of him, holding a tray with a blackened hunk inside. “God,” you cough, waving an oven mitt in front of your face and he can hear the fire alarm going off inside. 

“Oh,” your eyes widen as you finally spot him. “Robby, hi. I just have to toss this down the chute, give me a second.” You rush past him and Robby is astonished as he watches you throw the burned heap, dish and all, down your apartment’s garbage chute. He grimaces as the fire alarm continues to blare, stepping inside and grabbing a towel to waft the smoke away. 

By the time you get back inside, he’s got it off, and the majority of the smoke from your oven is dispersed. He grins as you close the door. “What was that?”

“That,” you chuckle and shake your head with an embarrassed smile. “That was supposed to be lunch. I was trying to do something nice since you’re helping me out. Instead, I almost burnt the building down.”

Robby rubs the back of his neck as you move to stand in front of him, suddenly unsure of what to do with himself. This is your space, your home. You’re no longer on the neutral grounds of the pitt where he knows exactly what he is to you. You offer him a soft smile that has his chest tightening uncomfortably. 

He clears his throat, picking his toolbox up from where he’d dropped it by the door. He finally gets a look at your living room and lets out a low whistle. “Haven’t had time to get settled?” He asks, surveying the piles of boxes shoved against the walls. 

You let out a weary sigh and shake your head. “When I first moved here, I hadn’t landed a job at the Pitt yet. I forgot how much of a pain it is to unpack when you’re working full-time at an ED.” 

Robby spots the piles of wood and metal poles that he assumes is your new, unassembled furniture. “You know,” he grins, “you could always go into dermatology. I hear they have better hours.”

Your eyes narrow as you let out an astonished scoff. “Screw you,” you laugh, waving him off. 

Robby lets out a laugh that quickly turns into a low groan as he lowers himself onto your floor. His knees ache already and he’s barely sat down. 

Your head perks at the sound, offering him a look that he hopes isn’t pity for his aching bones. “I could always help you. It’s not like you’re just some guy I’m trying to pull a fast one on, anyway.” 

“I appreciate it, but I’ve got it handled, sweetheart.”

Robby’s head whips around to you at the strangled noise you make. His brows turn in as you make a point of not meeting his eye. You clear your throat and finally look at him with widened eyes. “Right, well, I’m just going to,” you gesture vaguely toward your boxes and make quick work of putting your back to him. 

His eyes narrow but he decides to spare you the embarrassment of pointing out that you truly do have low standards if him “handling it” gets you flustered. 

A little over an hour later, the takeout you’d ordered is delivered. An attempt at making up for your failed experiment with cooking something that wasn’t a frozen meal. He’s managed to get your shelves built, placing them on either side of your TV as you directed. 

You plate the food and he lets out another weary groan as he lifts himself onto the couch. He knows that you needed the help, but his back is starting to hate him for offering up manual labor on a day off. 

Then, you’re walking toward him with a plate of food and a wide grin and he decides he can ignore the aching a little while longer. “You are an efficient man, Robanivitch,” you compliment, beaming at your new bookshelves. 

He lets out a slightly pained chuckle and takes the food from you. “I try to be.”

You hum, settling down beside him. He takes a bite, trying not to fidget under your gaze. “Thanks for doing this.” You’ve already thanked him enough. He doesn’t think it’s such a big deal. Even if he didn’t enjoy your company more than a friend should, this is just what people do for the ones they care about. 

He shakes his head as he meets your eyes. “You know I don’t mind,” he chides. 

“I know,” you pick at your food but seem more interested in talking than eating. “It’s just been kind of lonely here. I used to know all my old neighbors and these ones…” You let out a low whistle and Robby huffs out a laugh. “They’re very keen on privacy and I really haven’t had anyone to talk to. So, I appreciate this, the company.”

Robby frowns, setting down his fork and reaching over to lay his hand over yours. You startle slightly at the contact before sending him a soft smile. “You know if you ever need to talk to someone, I’m always here.”

You let out a little laugh that has his heart racing. Biting your lip, you tilt your head, “Careful, Robanivitch, I might take you up on that.”

He forces himself to look away, rubbing the back of his neck as you take too much joy in finally being the one to fluster him. “I’m counting on it, sweetheart.” 

By the end of the night, you’ve gotten the majority of your boxes unpacked, and Robby’s put together all your new furniture. You stand before your new bookshelves, shaking your head with an astonished smile. 

He’s done more for you in one night than any of the bozo’s you’ve gone out with in the past few months. He put together Ikea furniture for you and you didn’t even have to bribe him with sex. 

Robby comes to stand beside you, arms crossed with his sleeves rolled up. You admire the veins on his hands and the empty left ring finger. You’re going to propose to him, right here, right now. How the hell can you just let a man like him get away?

You can’t. 

He checks the time on his watch and lets out a hefty sigh. “Damn, it’s later than I thought.”

You peer at your oven’s clock and grimace. “Sorry, Robby, I didn’t mean to keep you so long.”

He reaches over, his hand warm as he pats your shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, I wanted to help you.” His touch lingers long after he’s let go and you swallow down every devious thought you’ve had about this man for the past four hours. 

He begins to collect his belongings and you glance around your apartment, struggling to see if there’s something you might be able to come up with to keep him longer. But, as much as you’ve been desperate for company, you know he’s been tired lately. Work seems to be weighing on him more and more every day. So, you abandon your selfish desires and smile as you offer to walk him out. 

“I really am happy you came tonight,” you tell him as you head down the stairs. 

Robby glances over at you with that soft look in his eyes, the one he reserves for the rarest moments. “If you need any more help, just call me.”

You purse your lips, debating whether or not you’re feeling bold tonight. Fuck it, you think. “I’m not happy because you helped me out, though I do appreciate that. I like being around you, Robby.”

His eyes widen minutely as you reach your apartment’s lobby. His lips part and you prepare yourself for either the best news or the most humiliating rejection of your life. But his eyes are darting toward the door before he can finish his thought. 

You see a pregnant woman struggling to get the door open as her toddler wails inside his stroller. You’re about to help, but Robby’s already moving. He opens the door for her, smiling as she thanks him. He even lifts the front of the stroller when it gets stuck on the small door ledge. 

You swallow thickly, watching this gallant display with an absolutely depraved throbbing in your core. Okay, you know that something is wrong with you. You’ve been aware of that for a long time. But, God, there’s something wrong with the men you’ve met if seeing Robby hold open a door is enough to get you going. 

Despite it being the bare minimum, that doesn’t change the fact that to most guys these days, they think it’s simp behavior. 

As you walk up to him, you find yourself once again thinking about how you can’t let a man like him go. You always tell Dana how lucky she was to snatch up her husband before this era of dating began. This is your Dana moment: make a move, or let him forever be the one that got away. 

“What were we talking about-”

You cut him off, grabbing the collar of his jacket and dragging him into a kiss. If you’ve misread all of this, you’ll be waking up to a long email from HR tomorrow. But, as good a man Robby is, no one willingly volunteers themself for Ikea duty unless they’re looking for a girlfriend. 

He lets out a surprised noise that would make you laugh in any other context. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and he trips slightly as he backs into the wall. Just as you’re beginning to regret this, he’s cupping the back of your head and turning you around, pushing you up against the wall. 

Your lips part with a shocked moan at the impact. His hands drift down your body until he’s squeezing your hips and pulling you into him. You’re panting slightly as you finally pull back. He’s staring down at you like he can’t believe what he’s just done. 

Smiling, you run your hands through his hair, internally screaming at the way he leans so eagerly into your touch. “You know, I don’t think I gave you a full tour of the apartment.”

His brows turn in and you let out a small laugh. “I didn’t show you my bedroom. I just got this new mattress that needs to be broken in. Think you can help?” You sound like one of those guys who tosses cheesy pick-up lines at you at bars. 

But Robby doesn’t point that out; he just squeezes your hips before backing up. You bite your lip, waiting for him to give you an answer. Instead, he nods you toward the elevator. 

Grinning, you lace your fingers with his and drag him onto it. You’ve got to get him behind closed doors before you get charged with public indecency.

The second the doors slide shut, his hands are all over you. You can’t help but gasp at how eager he seems to be. His thigh slots between yours as you lean your weight on the elevator wall, praying there isn’t a camera inside. 

“This isn’t payback for building your furniture, right?” He asks, slightly breathless as the stubble on his jaw scratches against your cheeks in the best possible way.

“No, but it definitely helped.”

There’s a look in his eyes as he pulls back. It’s not just lust or want; this is something deeper, a yearning that calls out to your own heart. “You’re incorrigible," he chides. 

You offer him a smug smile and shrug. “Just for you, Robanivitch.”

He doesn’t offer anything else, probably hoping to cut off your pickup lines. Instead, his hand cups the back of your neck as he tugs you into another kiss, neither of you aware as the elevator dings and the doors slide open. 

You really can’t help that showing a little respect for women gets points in your book. You’ve had your eye on Robby since you started at the Pitt, anyway. And now, as you pull him back into your apartment, you’re going to give him a little house tour.

Starting with your bedroom. 

𝘛𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴

𝘚𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳                  ♥︎

⇄              ◁◁  I I  ▷▷          ↻

⁰² ⁰⁸ ━━━━━━━━━●━ ⁰⁰ ²⁵

💿 A little respect for women can get you very, very far 💿

end. — I do not own the characters or the show The Pitt, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2026. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.