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Pedro Pascal Characters x reader
My Fireflies
Francisco "Catfish" Morales x fem!reader
word count: 974
warnings: fluff
Bucky Barnes x reader
To live
Bucky Barnes x fem!reader
word count: 3.9k
warnings: nightmare, cussing, nudity (not much)
Dusk till Dawn
Bucky Barnes x fem!reader
word count: 1.0k
warnings: death, apocalypse au, needles, fluff, angst
Dabi x fem!Reader
Another Love
Dabi x fem!reader
word count: 1.2k
warnings: death, abuse, lots of angst, some fluff, slowburn in the beginning, spoilers, Dabi’s pov is italicized
Moodboards
A/N: I make mood boards in my spare time. I have a masterlist for them specifically. I will link the list below for everyone to view it.
List link
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pairing: dr. jack abbot x younger resident!reader
summary: You’re used to handling things alone, even if handling them means skipping meals, ignoring problems, and laughing before anyone can see where it stings. Then Jack Abbot starts noticing too much. He pays attention in that quiet, maddening way of his, all dry comments and practical solutions, until calling him your sugar daddy stops feeling like a joke and starts feeling like the only safe label for something you’re too terrified to name.
Because the problem with Jack Abbot isn’t that he wants to take care of you. It’s that you want to let him.
wc: 12.9k
a/n: and here it is, the accidental sugar daddy abbot fic i started over a month ago!! was initially toying with the idea to turn this into a multi-chaptered story but eventually settled on a one-shot instead because i have way too many ongoing fics i need to finish at some point lmao. i really wanted to take the sugar daddy trope and make it feel more grounded and in-character for jack, less flashy billionaire fantasy, more quiet practical care that gets way too intimate before either of you knows what to do with it. not beta read.
warnings: age gap, workplace power imbalance, attending/resident turned sd/sb dynamic, class/money insecurity, possessive/soft dom!jack, semi-public sex, piv, car sex, unprotected sex, creampie, dirty talk, praise kink, mild degradation, biting/marking, daddy kink adjacent, public humiliation, no use of y/n
MASTERLIST
By the third time your card declined in front of Jack Abbot, you were ready to walk into traffic and let Pittsburgh finish what your bank account started.
Not dramatically. Not even with much feeling.
Just a clean, practical exit from the kind of humiliation that made your skin feel too tight over your bones.
The cafeteria at PTMC was too bright for this hour, all hard fluorescent light and polished floors and the faint, permanent smell of fryer oil losing a war against antiseptic. Behind you, the emergency department pulsed on with its usual awful rhythm—monitors chiming, stretchers squealing past, somebody coughing low and ragged, the sound dragging itself through the corridor, Dana Evans barking for someone to move their ass before she moved it for them. It was a living thing down here. Hungry. Overlit. Never satisfied.
You had a wrapped turkey sandwich in one hand, a bruised banana in the other, and that particular, skin-tight shame of being broke in public.
The cashier, who looked as tired as everyone else in the building, tried not to make a face at the register.
“Sometimes it’s the chip,” she said.
“It’s not the chip,” you said, because apparently your mouth had decided the truth was less embarrassing than optimism.
You could feel the line behind you growing restless. A respiratory therapist with a Diet Coke. A med student in wrinkled scrubs whispering urgently into their phone. Dr. Whitaker, gentle-eyed and awkward, staring at the ceiling like he was trying to give you privacy by force of will. Somewhere near the coffee station, Santos was talking too loudly about a procedure she “absolutely could’ve done faster if anyone had let her finish,” and Dr. Mohan was answering in that careful, measured way that made even a correction sound like she’d considered the whole person first.
You shifted the sandwich lower against your palm.
“It’s fine,” you said, already turning. “I don’t need it.”
A hand reached past your shoulder and tapped a card against the reader.
The machine beeped.
Approved.
You froze.
Jack Abbot stood close enough behind you that you caught the familiar edge of him before you looked up—the clean, medicinal bite of hospital soap, the stale warmth of coffee, the faintest trace of sweat under scrubs after too many hours on his feet. He didn’t look at you right away. He watched the cashier print the receipt with the same expression he wore when waiting for labs, jaw set, eyes tired, patience worn thin but not gone.
“Bag?” the cashier asked.
“No,” Jack said.
You stood there with the sandwich in one hand and the banana in the other, suddenly too aware of the bruised peel, the cold give of the sandwich through the cloudy plastic, the line behind you, and Jack Abbot’s shoulder beside yours.
You stared at him. “Seriously?”
He finally looked at you.
Jack Abbot always looked like he’d been awake since the Clinton administration. It should’ve made him less attractive. It didn't. The exhaustion sat under his eyes and in the lines bracketing his mouth, but there was something about him that made tired look like discipline instead of defeat. His hair was a little mussed, his scrubs were creased at the hips, and his stance had that slight adjustment you’d learned to notice after months of seeing him around PTMC—the subtle distribution of weight that came with his prosthetic leg and the old damage he carried without announcing it.
“What?” he said.
You lowered your voice. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
“That’s my lunch.”
“Looked like it.”
“You paid for it.”
“Sharp today.”
You huffed, heat crawling up your neck. “Jack.”
That got you the smallest change in his face. Not a smile. He didn’t hand those out recklessly. More like one corner of his mouth remembered humor existed and gave a half-hearted twitch before giving up.
“Eat the sandwich,” he said.
“I was going to.”
“No, you were going to put it back and pretend you weren’t hungry.”
You opened your mouth.
Jack’s eyebrows lifted.
You closed it again.
Behind him, Whitaker looked down at his shoes like they might offer instructions, visibly desperate not to be part of this. Santos, unfortunately, had no such instinct.
“Damn,” she said, appearing at Jack’s shoulder with a coffee she had definitely not paid for recently enough to still be that hot. “Abbot’s buying lunch now? Is this a resident perk, or do I need to almost faint near the muffins?”
Mohan didn’t look up from stirring sugar into her tea. “You would never almost faint quietly enough to qualify.”
“I don’t faint,” Santos said.
“You got lightheaded during central line training.”
“That was low blood sugar and a hostile learning environment.” Santos pointed two fingers toward Jack. “But I’m serious. I want in on the cafeteria patron program.”
Jack looked at her.
Santos looked back.
The silence lasted exactly long enough for her confidence to thin at the edges.
“Or not,” she said, taking a sip of coffee. “Noted. Very selective program.”
Dana passed behind the group with a stack of charts under one arm and a look sharp enough to split sutures. “If any of you are done loitering in my cafeteria like it’s a damn wine bar, I’ve got three beds backing up, a grown adult arguing with registration, a kid melting down in triage, and a Lego stuck in one of their ear canals.”
Whitaker blinked. “Who? Adult guy or kid guy?”
Dana didn’t slow down. “That’s the part that’s gonna disappoint you.”
Santos grinned. Mohan gave a small, resigned sigh. Jack, without looking away from you, said, “Eat.”
Your face was still hot.
The sandwich felt heavier now that it had been purchased by him. Not because it was expensive. It was hospital cafeteria turkey on wheat, overpriced and bland, the cloudy plastic crinkling under your fingers every time your grip tightened. But Jack had noticed. That was the part you didn’t know how to hold. He’d seen the little calculation you’d tried to hide, the quiet defeat of deciding hunger could wait until later, and he’d stepped in with no fanfare. No pity. No soft voice.
Just a card tapped against a reader and a dry order to eat.
“I can pay you back,” you said.
Jack’s eyes dipped briefly to the sandwich and then back to your face.
“Don’t.”
“I don’t like owing people.”
“You don’t owe me.”
“That’s not how money works.”
“It is when I decide I don’t care.”
You gave a small, disbelieving laugh. “That’s very generous of you, Dr. Abbot.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
You should’ve let it go.
You really should’ve.
But the humiliation had already burned off into something else, something warmer and more dangerous, because Jack was standing there with his tired eyes and that blunt, immovable steadiness, and you had never been good at leaving tension alone when you could poke it until it bit.
“Careful,” you said, tucking the sandwich against your chest. “People are gonna think you’re my sugar daddy.”
Whitaker made a strangled sound and turned toward the condiments with the strained focus of a man suddenly invested in ketchup packets, while Santos choked on her coffee hard enough that Mohan closed her eyes like she was choosing patience on purpose. Jack only stared at you, and for one awful second, you thought you’d gone too far.
Then Jack took the receipt from the cashier, crumpled it in one hand, and said, flat as a dead monitor, “People think a lot of stupid shit.”
He walked away before you could answer.
You watched him disappear through the cafeteria doors and into the arterial chaos of the ER, shoulders squared, limp controlled, already swallowed by the work waiting for him.
Santos leaned closer, grin wide enough to be medically concerning.
“Oh, that was not nothing.”
“It was lunch,” you said.
Mohan looked at you over the rim of her cup, thoughtful in a way that made you feel unfortunately examined. “He noticed before anyone else did.”
You pressed the cold sandwich wrapper against your burning face.
Dana shouted from somewhere down the hall, “Santos, if you’re socializing instead of working, I’m assigning you Lego ear.”
Santos snapped upright. “I’m not socializing.”
“Good,” Dana called. “Then you can do it faster.”
You stood there with Jack’s lunch in your hands and tried very hard not to smile.
It would’ve been easier if that had been the end of it.
But Jack Abbot, you learned, was not a man who did anything halfway once he decided it made sense.
He didn’t become flashy. He didn’t start acting like some rich asshole in a bad romance novel, throwing cash around and waiting to be thanked for it. That would’ve been easier to resist, probably. Less intimate, anyway. You could’ve rolled your eyes at that. You could’ve made fun of him. You could’ve called it ridiculous and kept your pride intact.
Jack was worse.
Jack was practical.
He bought your coffee the next morning because, as he put it, “I was already standing there.” He brought you half a container of pasta from the staff fridge because “Robby ordered too much and nobody here understands portions.” He left a protein bar beside your laptop during a night when the waiting room looked like every bad decision in Pittsburgh had agreed to arrive at once. He noticed when your left shoe started peeling at the sole and said nothing, which somehow made you more self-conscious than if he’d pointed at it.
Robby noticed before you did.
Or maybe Robby noticed everything and simply chose when to weaponize it.
It was just after noon on a bad shift, the kind where every hallway seemed to have sprouted a stretcher and every call light sounded like one more thing nobody had enough hands to answer. You were near the nurses’ station, trying to make sense of a scheduling conflict that had three departments blaming each other in increasingly creative language, when Robby came up beside you with a tablet in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.
His hair was doing that thing where it looked like he’d run both hands through it enough times to qualify as a cry for help.
“Is Abbot feeding you?” he asked.
You nearly dropped your pen. “What?”
Robby glanced toward trauma two, where Jack was leaning over a chart with Dr. McKay, both of them listening while Javadi spoke quickly and carefully, too eager to be casual. Jack’s attention was fixed, but his expression had that faintly skeptical set that made med students stand up straighter by instinct.
“Food,” Robby said. “Coffee. Whatever else he’s pretending is a coincidence.”
“He bought me lunch once.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And coffee.”
“Sure.”
“And maybe pasta.”
Robby’s eyebrows rose.
You narrowed your eyes. “Do you have a point?”
“Not one worth putting in writing.” He took a sip of coffee, then winced like it tasted exactly as bad as he expected and somehow worse. “Just be careful.”
That killed the humor faster than you wanted it to.
Your eyes shifted back toward Jack before you could stop them.
Robby caught it. Of course he caught it. He was annoying that way, all ragged compassion and clinical perception, the kind of man who could call out a hemorrhage, a lie, and a panic attack in the same breath.
“He’s a good guy,” Robby said, quieter.
“I know.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s uncomplicated.”
You swallowed. “I know that too.”
Robby’s face softened by a fraction. It made him look older, which was unfair, because he already looked like the hospital had been chewing on him for years and kept forgetting to swallow.
“Okay,” he said. Then, because sincerity seemed to physically pain him if left unbalanced, he added, “Also, if this turns into some HR nightmare, I’m denying I noticed.”
“There’s nothing to notice.”
“Great. Love that. Very convincing.”
You looked back down at your schedule so he wouldn’t see your face.
Across the department, Jack glanced up.
For a second, through the moving bodies and swinging privacy curtains and fluorescent glare, his eyes found yours.
He didn’t smile.
He just looked.
That was becoming the problem.
Jack didn’t flirt the way other men flirted. He didn’t crowd you with charm or drown you in compliments or make a show of wanting to be watched. He looked at you like noticing was a form of pressure. Like every detail went somewhere and stayed there. The coffee order. The bad shoe. The way you tucked your hands into your sleeves when you were cold. The way your voice got flatter when you were trying not to admit something hurt.
You wished he’d be less good at it.
You wished you liked it less.
The car thing happened on a Thursday.
You were leaving PTMC after a shift that had somehow lasted ten hours despite only being scheduled for eight, which felt like a violation of both labor law and physics. Your head ached from fluorescent lights. Your feet throbbed. The parking garage smelled like wet concrete, exhaust, and old rain, with the city beyond it slick and dark under a spring storm that had rolled in hard after sunset.
Your car made the noise again when you turned the key.
Not the cute noise. Not the “haha, she’s old but reliable” noise.
The expensive one.
A grinding, metallic cough dragged itself out from under the hood, followed by a rattle that sounded like several important pieces had started a fight and nobody was winning.
You shut the engine off immediately.
“Please,” you whispered, resting your forehead against the steering wheel. “Not tonight.”
The car answered by doing absolutely nothing, which was at least better than exploding.
You tried again.
The sound came back worse.
A knock hit your window.
You screamed.
Jack stood outside in the harsh garage lighting, rain clinging to his shoulders, one hand braced on the roof of your car. He looked unimpressed by your survival instincts.
You rolled the window down halfway. “Jesus Christ.”
“No,” he said. “Just me.”
“Do you always lurk in parking garages?”
“Only when cars sound like they’re about to die.”
“It’s fine.”
Jack looked at the hood. Then at you.
“That’s not a fine sound.”
“It does that sometimes.”
“It shouldn’t do that ever.”
You tightened your grip on the steering wheel. “I’m taking it in next week.”
“You’re not driving it until then.”
A laugh slipped out of you, brittle and defensive. “Okay, Dad.”
His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes sharpened.
Your stomach dipped.
Not fear. Not exactly.
Something else.
Jack leaned slightly closer to the open window. “Pop the hood.”
“I don’t need you to—”
“Pop the hood.”
There was a particular tone he used in the ER when people were bleeding, lying, or being stupid about symptoms that could kill them. Apparently, your car had been triaged into that category.
You popped the hood.
The storm pushed rain sideways into the garage, misting the concrete in silver sheets beyond the open level. Jack moved around to the front of your car and lifted the hood, shoulders hunching slightly as he looked inside. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, just dark scrubs under a gray zip-up that had seen better decades, sleeves pushed to his forearms. The overhead light caught the tendons in his hands, the salt at his temples, the hard concentration in his face.
It was obscene, honestly, watching a man become attractive over engine trouble.
He checked something, frowned, checked something else, then lowered the hood with more control than the situation deserved.
“Do not drive this,” he said.
You were already shaking your head. “I have to get home.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No, Jack.”
He stared at you over the hood. “You got a better plan?”
You did not.
You had forty-three dollars in your checking account, a rent payment looming like an execution date, and a car making noises you couldn’t afford to identify. But admitting that felt worse than standing barefoot on broken glass.
“I can call someone,” you said.
“Who?”
The question was simple. Too simple.
That was the problem with Jack. He had no patience for the decorative lies people used to get through conversations. He stripped things down until you either told the truth or stood there bleeding around it.
You looked away first.
Rain ticked against the garage opening. Somewhere below, an ambulance siren rose and fell, dopplering into the wet city.
Jack’s voice dropped. “Get your bag.”
“I don’t want to be a problem.”
“You’re not.”
“I don’t want you fixing everything.”
“I’m not fixing everything.” He came around to your side of the car, opened the door, and stood back enough to give you room. “I’m stopping you from driving a death trap.”
You didn’t move.
Jack exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh.
“You can be mad in my car,” he said. “It has heat.”
That was how he won.
Not with softness. Not with a speech.
Heat.
You grabbed your bag and got out.
Jack’s car was clean in the way a person’s car got when they didn’t spend enough time in it to make a mess. There was an old coffee cup in the holder, a folded jacket in the back, a snow scraper on the floor, and a faint smell of leather, rain, and whatever soap he used that always made you think of hospital sinks and his hands.
He turned the heat on without asking. Then, after a second, he aimed one of the vents toward you.
You noticed.
You hated that you noticed.
Neither of you said anything as he pulled out of the garage. The rain blurred the windshield, smearing Pittsburgh into traffic lights and dark brick, ambulance bays and slick streets, the city looking bruised and alive under the storm. Jack drove with one hand low on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift, fingers flexing once when his leg seemed to bother him.
“You okay?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
His eyes stayed on the road. “Yeah.”
“Your leg?”
“I said yeah.”
“Right. Sorry.”
His jaw worked.
Then, quieter, “Long day.”
That was as much as he usually gave. A door opened an inch, then locked again.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
The wipers dragged water from the glass in steady, tired arcs.
At a red light, Jack said, “Where do you take the car?”
You laughed weakly. “To a mechanic who knows me by name and already looks tired when I walk in.”
“I’ll call someone.”
“No.”
“You don’t know who yet.”
“I know it’s going to involve you paying for something.”
The light turned green.
Jack drove.
You looked at him, incredulous. “You’re not even denying it.”
“Seemed like a waste of both our time.”
“Jack.”
“I know a guy.”
“Of course you know a guy.”
“I’m old.”
“You’re not that old.”
That got you a glance. Brief, sharp, almost amused.
“No?”
“No,” you said, and then because you had apparently decided self-preservation was for other people, you added, “Just old enough to have a guy.”
The corner of his mouth moved.
You felt victorious and doomed at the same time.
“I can handle it,” you said, softer. “The car. I’ll figure it out.”
“I know you can.”
“Then why are you doing this?”
Jack was quiet long enough that you thought he might not answer.
Then he said, “Because figuring it out shouldn’t mean hoping your brakes make it another week.”
Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
You looked out the window so he wouldn’t see it.
The thing about being broke—really, really, broke—wasn’t just the lack of money. It was the math. The constant, grinding math of survival. A sandwich became a calculation. A repair became a catastrophe. A strange noise under the hood became a negotiation with God or luck or whatever indifferent force kept old cars alive for one more day. You got used to making everything stretch until stretching felt like living, and then someone like Jack came along and called it unsafe in that blunt, infuriating voice, and suddenly the whole thing looked different.
Not brave.
Not independent.
Just exhausting.
He pulled up outside your building and put the car in park. Rain ran down the windshield in crooked streams.
You didn’t reach for the door handle.
“Thank you,” you said.
Jack nodded once.
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“I’ll pay you back if your guy does anything.”
“No.”
You shut your eyes. “Please don’t make me fight you in your car. I’m tired.”
“I noticed.”
“Stop noticing.”
“No.”
Your eyes opened.
Jack was looking at you now, body angled slightly in the driver’s seat, face cut by passing headlights and dashboard glow. Up close, in the dim, the lines around his eyes looked deeper. So did the restraint. He wore it like part of the uniform, like scrubs and a stethoscope and whatever pain he kept filed away under function.
Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. “Why?”
He didn’t pretend not to understand.
“I don’t know,” he said.
It was the first answer he’d given you that didn’t sound like a diagnosis.
That made it worse.
You tried to smile, tried to make the air lighter before it crushed you. “This is getting very sugar daddy of you.”
The joke landed differently in the dark.
You felt it. So did he.
Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth for half a second. Maybe less. Long enough for your pulse to trip, not long enough to accuse him of anything. Either way, when he looked back up, his face had gone still in a way that made the warm air from the vents feel suddenly too hot.
“You should go inside,” he said.
You nodded.
Neither of you moved.
Then his phone buzzed in the cup holder, snapping the moment clean down the middle. Jack glanced at the screen, saw Robby’s name, and declined the call before typing something one-handed with the resignation of a man who knew better than to leave him unanswered too long.
You opened the door before you could do something stupid, like ask him to come upstairs.
“Night, Jack.”
His hand tightened once around the phone.
“Lock your door.”
You smiled despite yourself. “Yes, Doctor.”
His eyes lifted.
There it was again, that almost-smile. Faint. Dangerous.
“Don’t start,” he said.
You got out before your face could betray you.
The car repair cost eight hundred and sixty dollars.
Jack didn't tell you this.
The mechanic did, because you called behind Jack’s back after getting one text that said, Car’s handled. Pick it up Friday.
Handled.
Like it was a chart. Like it was a consult. Like it was one of the million things at PTMC that needed to be assessed, fixed, signed off, and moved along.
You stood in a supply hallway with your phone pressed to your ear, your grip tightening around the case while the mechanic cheerfully explained that Dr. Abbot had already squared it away.
Squared it away.
You were going to kill him.
Unfortunately, when you found him, he was in the middle of resetting a dislocated shoulder with Robby at the bedside and King handing over medication with careful, focused precision. There was a teenage patient crying, his mother pacing, Dana telling everyone who wasn’t useful to back up, and Jack looking exactly like a man who could not be murdered until after he finished being competent.
You had to wait.
That made you angrier.
By the time he stepped out, stripping off gloves and tossing them into the trash, you had worked yourself into something sharp enough to throw.
“Eight hundred and sixty dollars?” you said.
Jack stopped.
Robby, behind him, stopped too.
Dana looked up from the desk.
Santos, who had the survival instincts of someone convinced she could talk her way out of anything, immediately leaned over the counter.
Jack’s eyes flicked over your face. “Not here.”
“Oh, no, definitely here.”
Robby pressed his lips together and took one very deliberate step backward.
“Coward,” Dana muttered.
“Experienced,” Robby corrected.
Jack lowered his voice. “You called the mechanic.”
“You paid the mechanic.”
“Yeah.”
“Eight hundred and sixty dollars, Jack.”
“Would’ve been more if you kept driving it.”
You stared at him. “That is not the point.”
“That is exactly the point.”
“I told you I didn’t want you fixing everything.”
“And I told you I wasn’t letting you drive a death trap.”
“You don’t get to decide that for me.”
For the first time, something like frustration cracked through his calm.
“No,” he said. “I don’t get to decide everything for you. But I do get to decide what I do with my money.”
Dana made a low sound. “Jesus.”
Santos whispered, “This is better than whatever I was supposed to be doing.”
Mohan, passing with a chart, said, “You're supposed to be working.”
You barely heard them.
Your whole focus had narrowed to Jack’s face, the stubborn set of his mouth, the tension in his shoulders. He looked tired. He always looked tired. But underneath it was something else now, something protective enough to be annoying and personal enough to hurt.
“I can’t pay that back right now,” you said.
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“It makes it done.”
You laughed once, without humor. “You’re impossible.”
“Usually.”
“You can’t just—” You stopped, aware suddenly of how many people were pretending not to listen. Your voice dropped. “You can’t just keep doing this.”
Jack’s gaze held yours.
“Doing what?”
The question should’ve been innocent, but it wasn’t. Not after the lunches, the coffee, the rides, the mechanic, or the way Jack looked at you like you were a problem he wanted to solve with his bare hands. You stepped closer before you thought better of it.
“You know what,” you said.
For a second, the department moved around you, loud and bright and indifferent, but you and Jack were still.
Then Dana slapped a chart down on the counter hard enough to startle everyone within ten feet.
“Okay,” she said. “As much as I’d love to watch whatever this is turn into a workplace training module, Abbot, bed nine needs you. You—” She pointed at you. “Take a breath before you rupture something expensive.”
Jack’s mouth tightened, but he listened.
Of course he listened to Dana. Everyone did, eventually.
He stepped past you, close enough that his sleeve brushed your arm.
“Friday,” he said under his breath.
You turned your head. “What?”
“Pick up your car Friday.”
Then he was gone.
Santos waited exactly three seconds.
“So,” she said, bright-eyed. “How does one apply for the Abbot scholarship fund?”
Dana pointed at her without looking. “Bedpan in curtain three.”
Santos deflated. “Damn it.”
You hated how badly you wanted to laugh.
By Friday, when you picked up your car, there was a new pair of black nonslip clogs sitting in the passenger seat.
Not fancy. Not wrapped. Just sensible, comfortable work shoes in your size, made for twelve-hour shifts and the brutal, steady wear of the ER. A sticky note was pressed to the box in Jack’s blunt handwriting.
Your old ones were unsafe.
That was it. No apology, no explanation. Just another problem he’d noticed and solved before you could decide whether to be grateful or furious.
You sat in the driver’s seat for a long time, staring at the note, then laughed until your eyes burned.
The fundraiser was Robby’s fault.
At least, that was what you told yourself, because blaming Robby was easier than admitting you had agreed to attend a hospital donor event while quietly hoping Jack would look at you in something other than scrubs.
PTMC held one every year, apparently. A grim little ritual where administrators, donors, board members, and exhausted medical staff gathered in a hotel ballroom to pretend the emergency department wasn’t being kept alive by overworked staff, aging equipment, and the quiet fact that everyone had learned to make do with less. There would be speeches. There would be bad chicken. There would be wealthy people using phrases like “frontline heroes” while nurses calculated how many working monitors the cost of the floral arrangements could’ve bought.
You hadn’t planned to go.
Then Gloria Underwood’s office had needed extra administrative support for check-in, and Robby had said, “It’s easy money. Wear something nice. Try not to let the donors explain healthcare to you.”
You’d said yes before checking your closet.
That was how you ended up in your apartment three nights before the event, sitting on the floor in a towel, surrounded by every dress you owned and the creeping realization that none of them worked. Too casual. Too tight in the wrong way. Too old. Too funeral. Too “college career fair,” stiff in all the wrong places and not nice enough to pass under ballroom lighting. One had a broken zipper. One still had a stain from a margarita incident you refused to revisit.
Your phone buzzed.
Jack:
Car still running?
You stared at the message, then at the graveyard of dresses around you.
You:
yes, dad
Jack:
Don’t.
You smiled despite yourself.
You:
thank you, by the way
for the shoes too
even though you’re insane
Jack:
You going tomorrow?
You stared at the message for a second too long, then looked down at the heap of rejected clothes around your legs.
You:
maybe
Jack:
That means yes.
You should’ve stopped there.
Instead, with the fatal confidence of a woman sitting half-naked on her bedroom floor and losing an argument with formalwear, you typed:
You:
it means maybe now i just need a dress that doesn’t make me look like i wandered into the fundraiser by accident
The reply took longer than usual.
Jack:
Show me.
You stared at the message, suddenly aware of every inch of bare skin the pile of rejected clothes wasn’t covering.
You:
the dress?
Jack:
What else would I mean?
Your face went hot.
You:
don’t ask me that when i’m half naked on my bedroom floor
The typing bubble appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Jack:
You have tomorrow off?
You stared.
Then stared harder.
You:
why
Jack:
Answer the question.
There were several smart things you could’ve said.
You said none of them.
You:
yes
Jack:
I’ll pick you up at 10.
Your stomach flipped.
You:
jack
Jack:
10:30 if you’re going to argue.
You:
you don’t even know what i was going to say
Jack:
I’m learning patterns.
You pressed your phone facedown against your thigh and sat there half-dressed and mortified, thighs pressed together, waiting for your body to stop reacting like he’d put his hands on you.
The next morning, Jack arrived at 10:28.
Of course he did.
He drove you to a small boutique outside downtown, the kind of place you would’ve walked past without entering because the window displays didn’t include prices, which meant the prices were rude. Jack parked, got out, and came around to your side before you had fully finished spiraling.
“I don’t like this,” you said as he opened the door.
“You haven’t gone in yet.”
“That’s why I still have hope.”
He gave you a look.
You stepped out, hugging your coat tighter around yourself. “Jack, I’m serious. I’m not letting you buy me some expensive dress.”
“Okay.”
You blinked. “Okay?”
“Yeah.”
“That was too easy.”
“You said some expensive dress.” He closed the car door. “Find a cheap one.”
You stared at him.
He headed for the shop.
“That is not a loophole,” you called after him.
“It’s exactly a loophole.”
Inside, the boutique was too quiet, too soft, too expensive in ways it didn’t need to announce. Pale wood floors, warm lighting, racks arranged with almost insulting confidence, the dresses hanging with more breathing room than your apartment closet could spare. The air smelled faintly of steamed fabric and perfume, and the woman behind the counter looked up with the calm precision of someone trained to know who was buying before anyone spoke.
You hated that. You hated more that Jack didn’t seem to notice.
Or he did notice and simply didn’t care.
He told her what you needed in a few clipped sentences: hospital fundraiser, semi-formal, comfortable enough to work check-in, not black unless you wanted black, shoes optional because you had shoes. He didn't mention size like a man trying to guess or gesture vaguely at your body like an idiot. He looked at you when that part came up and let you answer for yourself.
That tiny bit of respect did something inconvenient to your chest.
The saleswoman brought options.
You rejected the first three.
Jack rejected the fourth before you could come out of the dressing room.
“No,” he said through the door.
You looked at yourself in the mirror, startled. “You haven’t even seen it.”
“I saw the sleeve.”
“You can diagnose a bad dress by sleeve?”
“I’ve diagnosed worse with less.”
You pulled the curtain back just enough to glare at him.
Jack sat in a low chair outside the dressing rooms, one ankle braced carefully, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. He looked absurd there, too solid and worn-in for the soft gold mirrors and velvet hangers, like someone had dropped a combat medic into a room built for silk and champagne.
His eyes flicked to the sliver of dress visible through the curtain.
“No,” he repeated.
The saleswoman, traitor that she was, nodded. “He’s right.”
You shut the curtain. “I hate both of you.”
The fifth dress was the problem.
You knew it before you opened the curtain.
The fabric skimmed instead of clung, soft where it needed to be, structured where it counted. It made you look like you’d meant to be invited. Like you hadn’t spent the week calculating grocery money in your head and pretending exhaustion didn’t count if you kept moving. The neckline was tasteful, but not innocent. The color warmed your skin without washing you out. You turned once in the mirror and felt something low in your stomach shift.
Confidence, maybe.
Or danger.
“Let me see,” Jack said from outside.
“You’re bossy.”
“Yes.”
“You admit that way too easily.”
“I’m old.”
You smiled, then caught your own face in the mirror and watched the smile fade.
This was a bad idea. Not the dress—the dress was perfect.
That was the bad idea.
You opened the curtain, and Jack looked up.
For a moment, he said nothing.
The shop noise seemed to thin around you—the music, the soft movement of hangers, the saleswoman tactfully vanishing somewhere behind a rack. Jack’s gaze moved over you once, controlled enough to be deniable and slow enough to ruin you anyway. He didn’t leer. He didn’t smirk. He just looked, jaw set, eyes catching for half a second too long at your waist, your hips, the neckline of the dress, like the only thing keeping his hands to himself was the fact that you were standing under boutique lights instead of somewhere with a locked door.
His jaw shifted.
Your fingers tightened around the curtain.
“Well?” you asked, because silence was going to kill you.
Jack leaned back slightly, but it didn’t make him look relaxed. It made him look like restraint had become physical.
“No,” he said.
Your face fell before you could stop it.
Then he added, lower, “That’s the problem.”
The words landed low enough to make your stomach tighten. You looked down at yourself, then back at him. “Too much?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
His eyes returned to your face like it cost him effort.
“It fits.”
It was such a stupid answer. Controlled, careful, almost useless—and somehow hotter than a compliment, because you could hear everything he wasn’t saying in the rough edge of his voice.
You stepped fully out, smoothing your palms down the front of the dress because you needed something to do.
“It’s probably expensive.”
“Probably.”
“Jack.”
“You like it?”
“That’s not the point.”
“It’s my point.”
You exhaled, trying to laugh, but it came out thin. “You can’t keep buying me things.”
He stood. Not quickly, not dramatically. Just unfolded himself from the chair and came closer, stopping at a respectful distance that still felt indecent because his eyes hadn’t left the dress, or you inside it.
“I can do what I want.”
“You sound like a nightmare.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
You glanced toward the mirror, unable to hold his eyes. In the reflection, he stood behind you, hands at his sides, older and tired and steady, and you looked like something neither of you could keep pretending was professional.
The thought went through you too sharply.
You swallowed. “People are going to think I’m exactly what I joked about.”
Jack’s reflection didn’t move. “What’s that?”
You met his eyes in the mirror. “Your sugar baby.”
There. Said out loud in the warm boutique light, with the dress between you as evidence.
Jack’s gaze held yours. Then he stepped closer, just enough that his voice didn’t have to carry. “That what you want this to be?”
Your mouth went dry. The smart answer was no. The honest answer was more complicated, and the answer your body wanted to give had no business being spoken in public before noon.
So you made it worse on purpose.
“I don’t know,” you said, tilting your head. “Depends on the benefits package.”
Jack looked at you for a long second. Then the almost-smile appeared, brief and devastating.
“Change,” he said. “Before I regret asking.”
You spent the rest of the day pretending your hands weren’t shaking.
Saturday night came wrapped in rain and reflected light.
The hotel ballroom looked too clean, too bright, and too expensive for a fundraiser built around people who spent most days trying to keep the whole place upright. White tablecloths. Gold fixtures. Centerpieces too tall for conversation. A stage at the far end with the PTMC logo projected behind the podium, clean and official and nothing like the controlled disaster of the emergency department. Nurses and doctors looked strangely exposed out of scrubs, like actors at the wrong rehearsal. Dana wore navy and carried herself with the same brisk authority she had at the nurses’ station, like the ballroom was just another crowded hallway she intended to get under control. Robby had put on a suit, but he wore it with visible reluctance, one hand already tugging at his tie before the first speech had started.
Dr. McKay arrived with her hair pinned back, already checking her phone for updates about her son. King stood beside her, fidgeting lightly with her bracelet while listening to Whitaker ramble about how strange it was to see everyone with “normal arms,” which he then tried to explain and somehow made worse. Javadi looked polished and nervous, her mother somewhere in the room like a pressure system. Mohan was composed, elegant, and already listening to the opening remarks with the patient focus of someone rationing her tolerance carefully.
Santos wore a sharp dress and confidence like body armor.
“Okay,” she said when she saw you. “I’m going to say something, and I need you not to make it weird.”
“That’s never a good opener.”
“You look hot.”
“Santos.”
“What? I said don’t make it weird.”
Mohan, passing behind her, said, “You made it weird by announcing you weren’t going to.”
Santos ignored her. “Abbot seen you yet?”
You busied yourself with the check-in list. “Why?”
“Because I’m invested.”
“You need a hobby.”
“I have one. It’s being right.”
You were saved from answering by Dana appearing at your side with two badges and a look that missed nothing.
“You doing okay?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
Dana’s eyes swept over your face, then the room, then the entrance where Jack had not yet appeared. “Uh-huh.”
“You too?”
“Me too what?”
“Nothing.”
Dana handed you the badges. “Honey, I’ve worked ER longer than some of these donors have been pretending to care about ER. I know when there’s a thing.”
“There’s not a thing.”
“Then stop looking at the door like you’re planning an escape route.”
You opened your mouth, found nothing useful, and looked back down at the check-in list.
Dana smirked and walked away.
Jack arrived ten minutes late in a dark suit, and something behind your ribs fluttered hard enough that you had to look away.
It wasn’t fancy. That was the worst part. No special tailoring, no flashy tie, no clean magazine version of him. Just a dark suit on a man who looked like he’d rather be elbows-deep in a trauma bay than standing under chandelier light, his hair slightly unruly, his face tired, his posture adjusted in that familiar way. The jacket sat broad across his shoulders. The shirt opened at the collar because of course he looked better slightly undone. There was a roughness to him the room couldn’t soften, something lived-in and disciplined and worn close to the bone.
Robby said something to him at the entrance.
Jack answered without smiling.
Then his eyes found you.
Everything else blurred.
Not fully. You were still aware of the check-in table under your hands, the murmur of donors, Santos whispering “oh my god” somewhere behind you with absolutely no attempt to hide it. But Jack looked at you in that dress, and the rest of the room slipped out of reach for one dangerous second.
He walked over slowly.
“Hi,” you said, which was embarrassing because you knew more words than that.
Jack’s gaze moved over your face first, then the dress, then back up slowly enough that your skin warmed beneath the fabric he’d bought.
“Hi.”
You tried for a smile. “You clean up okay.”
“I was going to say that.”
“You can still say it.”
“No.”
“Too generous?”
“Too easy.”
His eyes dipped again, just once, and something in your stomach tightened before he seemed to remember the room around you. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
You stared. “What is that?”
“Receipt.”
“For the dress?”
“For the car.”
Your stomach dropped. “Jack.”
“Relax.” He slid it across the check-in table with two fingers. “It says paid. That’s all.”
You looked down.
Paid.
Your throat tightened.
“You said you didn’t like owing people,” he said.
“I still owe you.”
“No.” His voice stayed quiet, but something in it made the word feel less like comfort and more like a line drawn in permanent ink. “You don’t.”
You looked up at him, and for a second the ballroom felt too bright, too crowded, too public for the thing trying to break open in your chest.
Before you could answer, Robby appeared beside Jack with the timing of a man either doing you a favor or robbing you of a bad decision.
“Abbot,” he said, “Underwood wants us near the front for the photo.”
Jack’s voice came out clipped. “No.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said. She used the phrase ‘visible leadership.’”
“That makes it worse.”
“I agree.”
Robby looked at you then, eyes flicking once between your dress and Jack’s face. His mouth twitched.
“You look nice,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Abbot looks like he’s about to be taken out behind the building and shot, but that’s formal for him.”
Jack gave him a look.
Robby clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Come on, visible leadership.”
Jack didn’t move immediately.
His hand came to rest at the edge of the check-in table, close enough to yours that your fingers could’ve brushed if you shifted an inch.
“Don’t disappear,” he said.
Your pulse kicked.
“I’m working.”
“After.”
Then Robby dragged him away with a level of cheer that was clearly retaliatory.
You watched Jack go and tried to remember how to do your job.
For a while, the event was exactly as awful as promised.
Speeches about resilience. Applause that sounded expensive. Donors talking about “the Pitt” like it was a concept instead of a place where every decision had a body attached to it. Gloria Underwood spoke with smooth authority while Robby stared at the middle distance like a man practicing astral projection. Langdon appeared late and left early, moving through the edge of the room with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Collins was mentioned by someone near the bar, her name landing with that particular hospital weight of people who had been part of the machinery and then weren’t there in the same way anymore.
You checked people in. You directed donors toward their tables. You smiled until your cheeks ached.
And Jack kept finding you.
Not obviously. Not enough for anyone to call it hovering. But he passed behind your chair and set a glass of water near your hand. He appeared during a lull with a plate from the buffet because “you weren’t going to get one.” He stood beside you while an orthopedic surgeon whose name you immediately forgot talked at you for seven minutes about golf, his presence quiet and solid and just intimidating enough to make the man eventually wander away.
At one point, you leaned toward him and murmured, “This is very attentive of you.”
He didn’t look down. “You looked like you were going to stab him with a pen.”
“I was.”
“Bad idea.”
“Because violence is wrong?”
“Because you’d still have to finish check-in.”
You laughed into your glass.
Jack looked at you then, and the humor in his face faded into something warmer before he caught it.
You saw him catch it.
That was the dangerous part.
Near the end of dinner, a donor with silver hair and a smile like a polished blade cornered Jack near the bar. You recognized him vaguely from the check-in list, one of those names with a foundation attached, the kind of man who spoke slowly because he expected people to wait for the privilege of his point. His wife stood beside him in pearls, looking around the ballroom with faint disappointment.
You were close enough to hear because you’d gone to retrieve extra place cards from the side table.
“Dr. Abbot,” the man said, clapping Jack on the shoulder like they were old friends and not strangers separated by several tax brackets and a moral canyon. “Hell of a turnout. You ER people clean up better than expected.”
Jack’s smile was minimal and false. “We try.”
The man’s eyes shifted to you.
You felt it like cold water.
“Well,” he said. “Some of you more than others.”
Jack’s face changed by degrees. Anyone else might’ve missed it. You didn’t.
“This is—” Jack began.
The man cut in with a laugh. “No, no, let me guess. You’re the resident I’ve been hearing about.”
His wife made a soft sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite disapproval.
Your fingers tightened around the place cards.
Jack went still.
The man looked pleased with himself, encouraged by his own cruelty. “Abbot and one of his young residents,” he said, eyes moving over you slow enough to make the dress feel suddenly too visible. “People do talk.”
Jack’s voice came out clipped. “Don’t.”
“Relax, Jack. I’m joking.” He lifted his glass slightly, like that made it harmless. “I just didn’t think you were going to start making public appearances with your little girlfriend now.”
The words entered you cleanly: little girlfriend. Not girlfriend—that would’ve been embarrassing enough. Little, like you were an accessory, a midlife crisis in a nice dress, something young and decorative Jack had brought out because he could. Something people could reduce in one glance and one ugly little adjective.
Heat rushed to your face so fast it felt like pain, and still you smiled automatically, hating yourself for it.
“It’s not—” you started, because apparently your first instinct was to make yourself smaller for the comfort of a man who had just insulted you.
Jack’s voice cut through yours. “Don’t call her that.”
The donor blinked. So did you. The room didn’t stop, not exactly—the music kept playing, silverware still clinked, someone laughed too loudly near the stage—but the air around the four of you tightened.
The donor’s smile twitched. “Easy, Doctor. No harm meant.”
“I’m not interested in what you meant.”
Jack didn’t raise his voice or step forward. He simply stood there in his dark suit, tired eyes gone cold, body held in a kind of controlled restraint that made the donor’s hand fall from his shoulder.
“If you’ve got something to say about me,” Jack continued, “say it to me. Leave her out of it.”
The wife looked away first. The donor’s face colored.
“No offense intended.”
Jack’s gaze didn’t move. “You don’t get to decide that.”
Your breath caught.
People were starting to notice. Not enough to make a scene, not enough for anyone to step in, but enough that the space around you felt suddenly brighter. Dana had turned slightly from the bar, her attention fixed and assessing. Robby watched from near the stage, glass lowered now. Even Santos had gone still, the eager curiosity wiped off her face by the look on yours.
You couldn’t stand any of it. Not the attention. Not the humiliation. Not the awful, sharp thrill of Jack defending you like he had any right to. Like he wanted the right.
You set the place cards down.
“I need some air,” you said.
Jack’s head turned toward you immediately. “Wait.”
But you were already moving.
You slipped out of the ballroom and into the corridor, then through a side door onto a covered terrace overlooking the wet street below. The rain had softened to a mist, silvering the railings and turning the city lights hazy. Cold air hit your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms where the dress left them bare.
You gripped the railing and forced one breath in, then out. In, then out. In. Out. It didn’t help. The door opened behind you, because of course it did.
You laughed under your breath because the tears were already gathering hot behind your eyes, making the terrace lights blur at the edges, and you refused to let them fall here—not in the dress Jack bought, not with your hands locked around rain-cold steel, not because some rich asshole had found the ugliest name for what you were already afraid this looked like.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” you said.
Jack let the door close behind him. “Done what?”
You turned on him. “Made it worse.”
“They made it worse.”
“Now everyone thinks I’m exactly what he said.”
His face changed at that, anger tightening somewhere beneath the surface, but not at you. Never quite at you.
“They don’t know what you are.”
Your chest pulled tight.
“And what am I?”
The question came out too vulnerable to take back.
Jack didn’t answer right away.
Mist clung to his suit jacket, darkening the shoulders. Behind him, warm light spilled through the glass door, all gold and soft edges, turning the ballroom into something distant and unreal. Out here, the air smelled like rain on stone, cold metal, wet city streets below. Everything was sharper than it had been inside. The railing under your hands. The damp hem of your dress against your legs. The silence between his breath and yours.
He looked so out of place and exactly right, a man built for crisis standing in the aftermath of one he couldn’t stitch closed.
You hated that you wanted him to say it.
You hated more that he looked like he wanted to.
Instead, he said, “Not that.”
A hard little laugh left you before you could stop it. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the one I’ve got.”
“Great.”
Jack came closer, stopping beside you but not touching. The restraint was worse than touch. You could feel him there anyway, the heat of his body cutting through the cold night, the careful space he left like distance could still save either of you.
You stared out at the rain-blurred city. Headlights smeared over the street below. Somewhere, a siren rose and faded, thin and familiar enough to make your stomach twist.
“You bought the dress,” you said.
“Yes.”
“You fixed my car.”
“Yes.”
“You buy my food. You show up. You pay for things before I can even figure out how to say no.”
Something moved in his jaw, but he didn’t interrupt.
“What do you think people are going to call that?”
“I don’t give a shit what people call it.”
“I do.”
“Then tell me what you call it.”
The words took the air out of the terrace.
You looked at him.
Jack’s eyes held yours, tired and dark and unflinching. He wasn’t letting you hide in the joke this time. He wasn’t letting himself hide either. That was the terrifying part. The thing between you had been allowed to live as banter because neither of you had forced it to stand under direct light.
Sugar daddy. Old man. Doctor. Daddy.
All those little names you used to turn intimacy into comedy before it could ask something of you.
Now Jack was standing there asking.
Tell me what you call it.
Your mouth felt dry.
“I call it confusing,” you said.
His expression shifted.
You kept going because stopping felt worse. “I call it you being too good at noticing things I wish you wouldn’t. I call it you making it really fucking hard to feel normal around you. I call it embarrassing when someone says the quiet part out loud and I realize I don’t even know how to defend myself because I don’t know what we’re doing.”
Jack’s hands were still at his sides, but nothing about him looked relaxed.
You swallowed. “And I call it unfair that you get to act like this is all practical when you look at me like that.”
His voice dropped. “Like what?”
You shook your head. “Don’t.”
“Like what?”
“Like you already know what I look like under the dress.”
The words left you too soft, too honest, and Jack inhaled slowly. Neither of you moved while rain whispered beyond the overhang and the ballroom noise pressed faintly through the door, muffled and useless, like it belonged to a different night.
Then he said, rougher than before, “I don’t.”
The words went through you slowly, leaving heat in places they had no right to reach.
His eyes lowered, not all the way down your body this time. Just to your mouth.
“But I’ve thought about it.”
The terrace went silent.
Or maybe your body stopped receiving sound from anything that wasn’t him.
You stared at him, suddenly aware of everything at once: the dress clinging where the mist had touched it, the cold air slipping beneath the hem, the damp railing at your back, the small, charged space between your body and his. Jack hadn’t touched you, but the way he looked at you made it feel like he’d already imagined where his hands would go first. The want in his face wasn’t polished or easy. It looked dragged out of him, unwilling and hungry, like every careful thing in him had finally started losing.
“Jack,” you whispered.
“I know.”
“You don’t know what I was going to say.”
“Yes, I do.”
You stepped closer, just enough to watch his control take the hit.
“What was I going to say?”
His eyes lifted.
“That we shouldn’t.”
The truth of it sat there between you, almost laughable.
You shouldn’t. He shouldn’t. The age gap was there, humming under the surface. The hospital. The money. The care. The fact that everyone seemed to have noticed before either of you had admitted it out loud. The fact that Jack carried enough damage to make most people step carefully, and you were standing there in a dress he bought, wanting him to ruin every careful thing about you.
“You’re right,” you said.
Jack nodded once, like the verdict had been delivered.
Then you added, “That's what I was going to say.”
His eyes sharpened.
You took one more step.
“But it’s not what I want.”
For the first time all night, Jack looked shaken.
Not much. He’d never give that much away in public. But you saw it in the slight part of his mouth, the break in his breathing, the flicker of something raw beneath the restraint.
“Say that again,” he said.
The words nearly undid you.
You lifted your chin because if you were going to tell the truth, you were going to do it with your head held high.
“I don’t want you to stop.”
Jack looked at you for one long, unbearable second, then lifted his hand slowly enough to give you every chance to step back.
You didn’t.
His knuckles brushed your jaw first, careful in a way that made your whole body ache. Not rough. Not yet. Worse than rough, maybe, because he was still holding himself back and you could feel the effort in every inch he didn’t take.
“You’re not my little girlfriend,” he said.
Your chest tightened. “No?”
“No.” His thumb shifted under your chin, tipping your face up by degrees, not forcing you, just making it impossible to look anywhere else. “You’re not little. You’re not a joke. And you’re sure as hell not something I’m ashamed of wanting.”
The words sank through you, hot and low, settling in every place he still hadn’t touched. Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth and stayed there long enough to make the choice for both of you.
Then he kissed you.
It wasn’t frantic at first.
That would’ve been easier.
It was deliberate, a firm press of his mouth to yours, steady and devastating, like he had finally decided to stop lying but still hadn’t given himself permission to forget where you were. His hand held your jaw; the other stayed at his side, fingers curled tight like touching you anywhere else might finish what the kiss had started.
You made a small sound against his mouth.
That was what broke it.
Jack stepped into you, guiding you back until the rail met your spine, and the kiss turned filthy in one sharp, breath-stealing shift. His mouth opened wider, tongue pushing past your lips to lick deep and slow against yours, wet enough to make your knees weaken, sure enough to make heat pool low in your gut. His breath came rough through his nose, his hand sliding from your jaw to the side of your neck, thumb tucked beneath your chin like he wanted to feel the exact second you stopped fighting him and melted under his palm.
You grabbed his jacket.
He made a low sound, almost a warning.
You pulled him closer anyway.
The rail pressed against your back. Damp air cooled your bare arms. Inside, beyond the glass, the fundraiser glowed on with its speeches and donors and useless flowers, but out here Jack’s body cut off the light, his mouth hot and sure, his hand at your neck keeping you exactly where he wanted you.
When he dragged himself back, he didn’t go far.
His forehead hovered near yours. His breathing was harsher now. So was yours.
“This is a bad idea,” he said.
You laughed, breathless enough that it came out softer than you meant. “You kissed me.”
“I know.”
“So your professional opinion is hypocritical.”
His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed dark, fixed on yours with a heat that made it impossible not to remember his tongue in your mouth. He looked like he was still tasting you, like he was one wrong word away from dragging you back against the railing and making a mess of that pretty, expensive dress.
“You keep talking,” he said, voice low enough to feel like it belonged between your legs instead of in the open air, “and I’m going to forget we’re still at a hospital fundraiser.”
Liquid heat shot through you, sharp and shameless. You curled your fingers higher into his lapels. “Is that supposed to scare me?”
“It should.”
“It doesn’t.”
Jack searched your face for one last sign that you wanted him to be better than this.
You didn’t.
His thumb dragged once along the side of your neck, slow enough to make your thighs press together under the dress, then he stepped back and opened the door.
“Come on.”
“Where?”
His eyes held yours.
“My car.”
The walk through the ballroom should’ve been humiliating. Maybe it was. You couldn’t tell. Jack stayed close without touching you, which somehow looked worse after what had just happened, like distance had become another form of confession. Your mouth still felt swollen from his, your skin too awake beneath the dress, your whole body lit with the kind of want that made every normal step feel rehearsed.
Robby saw you first, because of course he did. His eyes moved from Jack’s face to yours, then back again, and he lifted his glass slightly—not smiling, just acknowledging the inevitable.
Dana caught your eye from near the bar with one eyebrow raised. Santos looked ready to say something disastrous until Mohan turned her gently but firmly toward the dessert table. McKay glanced over, clocked enough to know better, and immediately pulled Whitaker into a conversation he looked relieved to have guidance for. Javadi watched for half a second too long, then looked away like she’d remembered curiosity had consequences.
Jack ignored all of them.
You loved and hated him for it.
The elevator ride down was worse.
Mirrored walls. Soft music. Your reflection beside his. His shoulder inches from yours. The phantom feel of his hand still on your neck. Neither of you speaking because speech had become a loaded weapon and you were both already wounded.
In the parking garage, the air smelled like rain and concrete again.
Jack unlocked the car.
You stopped by the passenger door, suddenly aware of the line you were crossing. Not the moral one. That had been smudged for weeks. This was more physical. More real. A door. A backseat. His face in the dim garage light, turned toward you with all that want and all that control and all the consequences waiting behind both.
He saw the hesitation immediately.
Of course he did.
“You can change your mind,” he said.
The words loosened something in you.
Not because you wanted to.
Because he meant it.
You stepped closer. “I’m not changing my mind.”
Jack’s eyes searched yours.
“Tell me if I do something you don’t want.”
“I will.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
He nodded once.
Then you said, quieter, “Do you?”
His face shifted.
“Do I what?”
“Know what I want.”
The garage seemed to hold its breath.
Jack opened the back door.
“Get in,” he said.
Not loud. Not cruel.
Just low enough to go through you like a match.
You got in.
The door shut behind you, and for one suspended second you were alone in the dark leather backseat with your heartbeat, the rain ticking somewhere beyond the garage, and the reflection of Jack moving around the car in the tinted window.
Then the opposite door opened.
He slid in beside you, too big for the space, too warm, too close. The dome light cut over his face for a second before it faded, leaving him in shadow and stray fluorescent spill. His knee brushed yours. His hand came up, not touching yet, braced against the seat near your hip.
“You still think this is about money?” he asked.
Your breath caught.
You shook your head.
“Words.”
“No.”
“No, what?”
“No, I don’t think it’s about money.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth.
“What’s it about?”
You could’ve said care.
You could’ve said want.
You could’ve said every soft, terrifying thing his hands had been saying for weeks with coffee cups and repair bills and the new shoes you wore until they stopped hurting.
Instead, because you were trembling and stubborn and still you, you whispered, “Your sugar daddy complex.”
Jack’s eyes flashed.
Then he kissed you hard enough to knock your head back against the seat and it was nothing like the terrace—careful and slow and weighted with confession. This was hungry. His teeth caught your bottom lip, tugged, and the sound you made was swallowed by his mouth as his tongue slid against yours, wet and deep and tasting like the whiskey he'd barely touched all night. His other hand found your waist, gripping the silk of the dress, bunching it, pulling you across the seat until your hip hit his and you gasped into his mouth.
"Jack—"
"Don't talk." His lips dragged to your jaw, your throat, the spot behind your ear that made you arch. "Just—let me —"
His hand slid up your thigh, pushing the dress higher, and the leather was cool against the backs of your legs but his palm was hot, rough, callused from years of work and combat and things he never talked about. You spread for him without thinking. He made a sound against your neck—approval, hunger, relief—and his fingers pressed higher, found the wet heat through your underwear, and stopped.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You're already—"
You bit his earlobe. "Your mouth on the terrace did that."
He laughed—a low, broken thing—and his fingers hooked the edge of your panties, dragged them down your thighs. You lifted your hips to help, and he dropped them somewhere on the floor mat, already forgotten, already gone. His hand came back wet.
"Look at me."
You did. His eyes were dark, half-lidded, his breathing ragged. The garage light caught the silver in his beard, the flush rising up his neck, the way his thumb was already circling your clit like he'd done it a thousand times before. He hadn't. But he knew exactly what he was doing.
“I tried to be careful with you,” he said, voice rough, his fingers sliding through your slick folds, gathering, teasing, “I tried so fucking hard. Then I walked in and saw you at that table in the dress I bought you, and I knew I was done.”
Your breath hitched as his middle finger pressed inside you, just the tip, just enough to make your hips buck.
"—and you knew, didn't you?" He pushed deeper, slow, watching your face. "Knew what it was doing to me."
You couldn't answer. His finger was inside you, thick and deliberate, curling, finding the spot that made your vision blur. Then a second finger joined it, stretching, and you heard yourself whimper—high and desperate and not caring who heard.
"That's it," he murmured. "Let me hear you."
He worked you open like he had all night, like the parking garage was empty, like the world had shrunk to the space between his fingers and your cunt. His thumb pressed your clit in slow circles while his fingers pumped—not hard, not fast, just deep and aching, stretching you until you were dripping down his hand, until your nails dug into his shoulder through his jacket.
"Jack—I need—"
"I know what you need."
He pulled his fingers out slowly, deliberately, and you watched him bring them to his mouth. Watched his tongue slide across his knuckles, tasting you, his eyes never leaving yours. The sight of it—this tired, controlled man in his undone suit, licking your wetness off his fingers like it was the best thing he'd tasted all night—made your hole clench around nothing.
"Get on top of me."
It wasn't a question. He was already reaching for his belt, the buckle rasping open, the sound sharp and final in the close air of the car. You climbed over him, the dress bunching around your waist, your knees finding the leather on either side of his hips. His cock was hard beneath his briefs, straining against the fabric, and you reached down and wrapped your hand around it.
He hissed through his teeth. "Fuck —"
He was thick. Hot. The head slick with something that might have been precum, might have been your imagination, but when you stroked him once, slow, his hips bucked into your palm.
"If you keep doing that," he said, his voice strained, "this is going to be very embarrassing for me."
You laughed—breathless, wild—and leaned down to kiss him. "Then stop me."
He didn't.
His hand found your hip, guided you forward, and the head of his cock nudged against your entrance. Wet. Ready. The two of you hovered there, breathing each other's air, and his forehead pressed against yours.
"Tell me you want this."
"I want this." Your voice was barely a whisper. "I want you. Please, Jack—"
He pushed inside you.
The stretch was a shock—full and deep and so much more than his fingers had promised. You gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders, your head falling back as he filled you inch by inch, until you were seated in his lap, his hips flush against yours, his cock buried to the hilt inside your tight, wet heat.
"Fuck," he breathed. "Fuck, you feel—"
He couldn't finish. His hands found your hips, held you there, and for a moment neither of you moved. Just the feeling of him inside you, the throb of his pulse through his cock, the way your body adjusted, accepted, wanted.
Then you moved.
Slow at first—a roll of your hips that made his eyes roll back, a tilt of your pelvis that drove him deeper. His grip tightened on your waist, guiding, and you found the rhythm together: him thrusting up as you sank down, the slap of skin loud in the enclosed space, the wet sound of your bodies meeting.
"Look at you," he said, his voice rough, his eyes fixed on where you were joined. "Taking all of me. Fucking yourself on my cock in a parking garage."
You moaned, riding him harder, the dress bunched around your waist, the silk skin-warm and bunched up. His thumb found your clit again, pressing, circling, and the pleasure coiled tight in your belly, hot and sharp and building.
"The dress," you gasped. "You bought me this dress—"
"I bought it so I could take it off you." He tugged at the strap with his teeth, the fabric slipping down your shoulder, exposing your breast to the dim light. His mouth was on it instantly—hot, wet, his tongue circling your nipple before he sucked, hard, and you cried out, your rhythm faltering.
"Say it again." His mouth against your skin. "Say sugar daddy again and see what happens."
You laughed, breathless, your hips grinding against him. "Sugar daddy."
He bit your shoulder—not hard, but enough to make you gasp—and then his hand was in your hair, pulling your head back, forcing you to meet his eyes.
"Then take what I give you." His voice was low and rough and it made your pussy squeeze around him. "Take this cock like you've been wanting to since I fixed your goddamn car."
You did. You rode him harder, faster, the leather squeaking beneath your knees, the car rocking with the motion, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. His hand stayed in your hair, his other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, and he thrust up into you with a rhythm that was pure instinct—hungry, claiming, the restraint he'd held for weeks finally snapping.
"That's it," he growled. "That's my girl. Taking what she needs."
"Jack—I'm close—"
"I know. I can feel you. You're squeezing me so fucking tight—"
His thumb pressed harder on your clit, circling faster, and the orgasm hit you like a wave—sudden and overwhelming, your vision white, your back arching as your cunt clamped down on his cock, pulsing, milking, the pleasure so sharp it was almost pain. You heard yourself cry out—his name, a curse, something that might have been a sob—and he kept thrusting through it, drawing it out, letting you ride him through the aftershocks.
"Fuck—" His voice broke. "I'm going to—"
"Inside me." You grabbed his face, forced him to look at you. "I want it. Please."
He came with a groan that was almost a prayer, his hips driving up one last time, his hand gripping your hip so hard it would leave marks. You felt it—hot and thick, pumping into you, filling you, his cock twitching with each pulse, his breath ragged against your lips. The sensation pushed you into a second, smaller climax, your body clenching around him, drawing out every drop.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. His forehead rested against yours. His breathing was harsh, uneven, mingling with yours in the close air. The car smelled like sex and sweat and the faint, stubborn trace of hospital soap beneath his cologne, and your thighs were slick and trembling, and his cock was still half-hard inside you, and it was the most real you'd felt all night.
Then he laughed.
A low, disbelieving sound, his shoulders shaking against yours. You started laughing too, breathless and giddy, and you kissed him—messy, open-mouthed, tasting salt and spit and the whiskey he'd barely touched.
"Well," he said, pulling back just enough to look at you. "That was—"
"Stupid," you supplied.
"Reckless."
"A really bad idea."
His hand came up to cup your face again, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. "Worth it."
You kissed him again, slower this time, and you felt him smile against your mouth. When you pulled back, you were still straddling him, his cock still softening inside you, and the reality of it settled into your bones like warmth.
"We should probably—" you started.
"Yeah." He didn't move. "In a minute."
His hand found yours on his chest, lacing your fingers together, and the garage light caught the gray in his hair and the tired lines around his eyes and the way he was looking at you like you were the first real thing he'd seen in years.
"I'm not going to pretend this was casual," he said.
"Good," you said. "Because it wasn't."
He helped you clean up with the wet wipes he found in the glove compartment—absurd, practical, so perfectly him—and then he helped you rearrange the dress, his hands careful now, almost reverent, smoothing the silk over your hips like he was putting something precious back together. The fabric was wrinkled now, carrying the memory of his hands, and when you looked at yourself in the window reflection, you saw the flush on your chest, the bite mark on your shoulder, the way your hair had come loose from the careful updo.
You looked like someone who had been thoroughly, completely, indisputably wanted.
He watched you adjust the strap, his eyes following the small, careful movement like it mattered. You sat half-turned against him in the backseat, put back together enough to face the world again, though both of you knew exactly what had happened here. Jack’s hand rested at the back of your neck, thumb moving slowly against your skin, and in the dim garage light he looked less like the man everyone trusted in a crisis and more like someone who’d finally let himself want something he couldn’t triage.
“What?” you asked.
He shook his head.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Look like you’re about to disappear into your own head.”
That almost-smile moved over his mouth, faint and tired. “You diagnosing me now?”
“I learned from a very bossy doctor.”
“He sounds unbearable.”
“He is.”
The quiet settled, full of everything waiting outside the car: the fundraiser, the rumor, the receipt, the repaired car, the shoes, the dress, every careful thing Jack had done before either of you had dared to call it care. You looked down. “I don’t know how to let someone take care of me without feeling like a burden.”
Jack didn’t answer quickly. That made it worse. Better. Finally, he said, “Needing help isn’t the same thing as being helpless.”
Your throat tightened. You hated him a little for knowing exactly where to put the words. You loved him a little for it too.
“Jack,” you said softly.
He waited.
You smiled, small and shaky. “Do I get an allowance now?”
For half a second, he stared at you. Then his eyes closed, and the laugh that left him was quiet, rough, almost unwilling. It felt like winning something no one else got to see. When he opened his eyes, they were warm.
“You get breakfast.”
“That’s it?”
“And your car.”
“Already got that.”
“And the shoes.”
“Also already got those.”
“And whatever else you need,” he said, thumb brushing once at your neck, “if you stop acting like needing it makes you less.”
Your smile faded into something softer. “That sounds an awful lot like a boyfriend.”
Jack looked at you for a long moment, tired and undone and still there. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m working up to that.”
The fundraiser was still waiting upstairs, all polished glassware and polite cruelty, the kind of room where people could turn want into rumor before the night was over. You would have to go back to PTMC after this. You would pass Jack in hallways. You would hear his voice over trauma bays, see his name on charts, feel the weight of every title that should have made this impossible.
But in the backseat, with his thumb moving slowly against your skin, Jack wasn’t looking at you like a mistake, or a risk, or something he’d have to explain away in daylight.
He was looking at you like something worth keeping.
And for what it was worth, you finally believed you were.
summary: once dating life is off the table, you still desperately want a child with someone. you decide to turn to your friend for help.
content: friends to lovers, probably medical inaccuracies, pet names, fluff, praise, comfort, no use of y/n, night shift and a little of day shift
word count: 5k
author’s note: just got out of a relationship with a very insecure/emotionally unstable man so i’m posting this draft as a come back post! i know it’s shitty, don’t hate me!!
offer
“and why not you?” you proposed to jack, making him almost spill his beer out of his mouth.
“me?” he repeated to make sure he didn’t hallucinate what he just heard.
you were looking through profiles of sperm donors the hospital gave you, so you invited your friend to help you choose the father of your future child. it felt like it was too important to do it alone.
“i really thought i’d be okay with a stranger, but i can’t do it. what if he’s a horrible person and gives the genes to my kid?”
he chuckled at the crazy scenario before thinking about what you just said. “i’m not sure that i’m up for it, honestly.”
“okay, but can you think about it? we get along really well, and you’d have some sort of legacy.”
“i’ll think about it, but if we do that, i have a condition.”
you furrowed your brows, intrigued to learn what it was.
“i want to be a dad, not a sperm bank.”
“so we would coparent?”
“yes, we could share custody,” he suggested, being a little too obvious about the fact that he’d like it.
you paused for a moment before continuing. “i have an oil change to do on my car monday. you’ll give me a ride to work, and we’ll talk about it.”
he nodded in agreement to your plan. he’d think about if he really wanted a child with someone who wasn’t his deceased wife, and you’d think about if you wanted to coparent.
──୨୧──
jack and you met when you transferred to ptmc after moving to pittsburgh. it was closer to your family, and you needed their support after a long relationship that disgusted you from the dating life forever.
there was a spot for a nighttime attending in pediatrics that waited for you. you felt honored to be chosen, and you took your job very seriously.
one night, you got called to the emergency department. you hated going there in person. it was lacking the colors of your floor, and it looked way too crowded.
however, you had to put your feelings aside and focus on the child who needed urgent help. he thankfully got stabilized after intense minutes of work on him.
you were always feeling down when you had to perform those big surgeries on tiny humans who didn’t ask for any of that. it was probably noticeable because dr abbot came your way to praise your skills. he was wondering who you were.
“are you new?”
“yes, i just moved back here after a long time away. everything changed so much.”
“i know some nice bars if you need a friend to visit the new spots with,” he proposed with a smile. one of his fingers had a wedding band that encouraged you to believe he didn’t mean more than what he said.
“i’d love that,” you accepted, returning the grin he gave you.
since then, jack and you have become good friends. you invited him over when you had a bad shift, and he did the same.
──୨୧──
it was 6 p.m., and instead of finishing your day of work like most people, you were just starting it.
you received a text from your friend, informing you that he’ll arrive soon. you decided to go breath the air of spring and come outside directly. you needed to find a way to distract yourself and calm your stress. you haven't really talked to him since this last conversation about having his kids.
he parked his car in front of you, and you got in. instead of an awkward moment, he directly started talking like he had rehearsed this moment.
“i thought about it a lot, and i want you to carry our child. i always wanted to have kids, and my life feels pretty empty right now; i could use the space with a little one. if you’re still up for it, of course.”
“yes, i looked into it. we would need a lawyer and a lot of conversations about how we organize our coparenting, but i could work. you’re a great friend, and you’d make an even better father.”
“you’ll be a good mother too. i’ll talk to the hospital’s attorney to get a recommendation for a good lawyer.”
“okay, we’ll have to put in the contract that i want the nursery at my place during the first months.”
“your place is it,” he happily agreed.
reveal
you really wanted it to work on the first try, especially knowing that jack insisted on paying for the whole thing.
you tracked your menstrual cycle very closely and got inseminated with his sperm. he was there for every single appointment with professionals. no matter how tired he was, he’d come to support you.
you officially finished the whole process, and you had to take a test. you went to jack’s place to do it after work.
“okay, it says i need to wait two minutes before looking at it,” you said, reading the instructions to make sure you weren’t missing any step.
“so we wait.”
“i’m really scared it won’t work,” you admitted to him in a small voice.
“worst case scenario, we just do it another time. don’t sweat about it. everything will be okay.”
you flinched when the alarm on your phone announced the end of the wait. you turned the test to reveal two lines.
jack immediately hugged you tightly.
you cried tears of joy. you weren’t in a relationship, but you felt like you were supported enough to go through it all.
first trimester
jack didn’t tell anyone about your plan. the only person who knew was robby. he found the plan admirable. maybe that he would’ve loved to have children in another life.
your breast were so sore all the time that you had a hard time wearing a bra. that’s when dana became the second person in the emergency department to know.
“first trimester?” she asked while looking at the paperwork she needed to complete.
“how did you know?”
“enlarged breasts and practically no bump. i had the same with my first, but the second gave me a bump as soon as i got pregnant," she began, remembering the cherished moment. “who’s the lucky guy?”
“it’s jack. we did this thing called iui. we want to coparent together.”
she looked quite surprised at the news but quickly transformed her open mouth into a grin. “well, i’m glad if it works out!”
“what do you mean by that?”
“pregnancy is a long and intimate process. i’m just saying that feelings could get tangled in there.”
“they won't; dating is out of the window for both of us. i’m not putting myself through that ever again.”
“do what your heart feels like, sweetheart,” she smiled, quietly returning to her paperwork.
you nodded and tried to find jack. he called you to know if you could take someone in pediatrics, but something came up, and he hung up before having the chance to present the case.
he was always coming with you to the doctor appointments you planned every week and checked on you over texts once in a while. other than that, he let you space. it’s not like you were dating or anything.
“hey, you came down? i could’ve called you back.”
“well, you weren’t, so i came,” you dryly replied. “sorry, i’ve been told i’m on edge.”
“it’s common; don’t worry about it,” he immediately reassured before logging on to a computer.
it was a 9-year-old girl, with severe asthma exacerbation. they gave her oxygen, albuterol, and prednisone to stabilize her enough, but she’d need to stay in peds one to three days for monitoring, treatments, and iv meds.
while you read, a nurse opened a tupperware with her lunch, and you got nauseous with the strong smell.
“yeah, we’ll take her,” you mumbled while urgently going to the nearest bathroom.
second trimester
the second trimester came with some perks. you could finally discover the gender of the baby, and your nausea stopped.
every single ultrasound was filled with excitement at the possibility of knowing if it was a girl or a boy.
“i hope it’ll show for this one. some can tell at 18 weeks, and i’m at 20. it’s not fair!” you complained while you rested a hand on your bump that started showing.
“the baby wasn’t positioned well,” he reminded you with one arm on the steering wheel as he drove to the hospital.
the ob-gyn greeted you with a smile. you were a little nervous, so jack couldn’t stop touching you. he had his hands on your nearest shoulder while you lay on the chair with your shirt up. they went to your forearm and your hands too when the doctor took a little too much time talking about how normal it is to not know the gender yet.
“today is the day!” the ob-gyn announced with a smile on her face.
jack looked at the screen with furrowed brows. your face lit up when you saw it. “it’s a girl!” you exclaimed with joy.
he hugged you tightly while peppering kisses on the top of your head.
“we’re having a girl,” he whispered to you with the biggest grin he could physically make.
you left the department together and went to the peds to see your coworkers and friends to tell them the good news. the father of your baby girl stayed behind with a smile plastered on his face. for the biggest flirt of the hospital, jack wasn’t looking at your coworkers much. he mostly looked at you while the girls of your department jumped in excitement.
“oh my god, she will be so cute!” one said while two others were touching your belly.
“i know!” you responded and reached out for jack’s hand to get him closer. “i’m really hungry, so we will go, but thank you for being here.”
they all agreed to let you go and you went to the pitt in the elevator.
“i need a cheeseburger,” you thought out loud with a hand rubbing your belly.
“i’ll get it for you. do you want to go to a restaurant?”
“yes, but i want to go see dana and robby first.”
“don’t overwork yourself, mama. do you feel like seeing them?”
“yes, i want to. we’re having a little girl!”
as the doors of the elevator opened, you both noticed that the er was almost empty.
“what happened?” you asked in surprise at the rare sight.
“i have no idea; it’s either a good or a bad sign.”
dana saw the two of you and yelled at robby to come. the two men dapped up while the nurse leaned on the wall.
“so… do you have good news?”
“we’re having a baby girl!” you happily cheered.
“that’s amazing!” robby said before looking at his friend, who only had you and the baby in his vision.
jack concluded the conversation quickly to get you the cheeseburger you were craving.
he stopped at a fast food place you liked, and you let out a yawn. “can you go in the drive-through? i’m tired.”
“no problemo!” he answered like it was the last of his worries.
he ordered what you wanted and parked in the parking lot for the two of you to eat comfortably.
“so, how is the second trimester treating you?” he wondered after swallowing a bite of burger.
“i’m living my best life. the bump is cute, i don’t get nauseous anymore, and i get horny all of the time.”
he froze at the last part but gathered himself in no time. “well, it’s a common symptom…”
“makes you understand why it’s a thing you do as a couple. i literally cried myself to sleep last night because of how lonely i felt.”
“you feel lonely?”
“yeah, my feelings are all over the place. that’s an annoying part.”
“they’re heightened, not different,” he said before taking fries from his meal. “call me if you need someone. i’m always there, you know?”
third trimester
the final weeks before giving birth were the worst. you were feeling enormous, you were exhausted all the time, and everything was hurting.
jack tried to be more present by texting more, but he was afraid of being overbearing. he never imagined having his first child with someone he wasn’t dating. there was no textbook on how to behave with a friend who was also carrying the daughter he had dearly wanted.
from time to time, he’d come to your place after a shift to help you out with anything you needed.
tonight, he could feel you weren’t feeling well at the hospital, so he invited himself to your place by pretending that he had more decorations to do in the nursery.
you accepted, too exhausted to refuse free labor from him. you could take a nice shower while he prepares a good meal like he usually does.
you got out of the steamy bathroom in your pastel pajama set to eat, but jack’s gaze lowered on your breast. you immediately knew what it meant, and you whined.
“i’ll get you another shirt.”
he headed off right away while you whined. he continued talking from your bedroom as he looked through your drawer to find something new for you. “the hot shower might have stimulated the fluid to leak. is there blood?” he asked with a new pajama shirt in hand.
you stretched out your top’s collar to check the milk leaking out. “nothing bloody, doctor,” you announced before taking the shirt he held. “you know you’ll have to bring some clothes over so you can stay with me when she’s a newborn.”
he nodded, and you simply turned around to change. it’s been a long day; he probably saw many naked women in his life, and you were very close to crashing out over all the discomfort your body was experiencing. once you were completely topless, you felt his gaze piercing through you. even if you focused on the task at hand, it made you feel good in a way to be looked at like this when you felt like a whale.
you looked behind to confirm what you thought. his eyes were on your back.
“why are you staring?” you asked with your new pajama shirt on.
“i can’t look at the woman carrying my baby? harsh, mama,” he teased while fidgeting with his ring.
“you weren’t looking; you were staring. it’s different.”
“you have a nice back,” he finally admitted before placing his hands behind him and straightening his back slightly.
you probably shouldn’t have noticed that, but you saw him assume the same position he just made when he was ordering risky procedures in the er. it was a pose that gave him a certain confidence, maybe.
“shut up, i feel like i’m a whale,” you corrected, showing your swollen hands.
“you’re not; you're beautiful, okay?”
you paused at the compliment. it was known that jack was a flirt. you should’ve joked it off with a quick remark, but you were too stunned to think of one. that’s when you realized that you didn’t need one. he wasn’t trying to make you laugh or even flirt. he just told you because he felt like it.
“can you stay the night?” you blurted out like a teenage girl with a crush.
he answered in a heartbeat. “yes, of course.”
you nodded and went into the kitchen to wash the dishes. whatever could help you escape this awful tension building between the two of you was worth it. however, he placed himself beside you with a towel to help you dry.
you gave him a wet glass, and your fingers almost touched. it’s not like you never touched him; you always did. this time just felt different. maybe it had been different for a while, actually, but you truly felt it at this instant.
his touch got you distracted, or perhaps he was the one who was because a plate fell and broke on the floor as you gave it to him.
he didn’t flinch, too used to the constant, sudden movements and noises of the emergency department. he was calm and unfazed.
“we’re down to three plates,” he stated with a small smirk before picking you up like you weighed nothing and dropping you outside of the kitchen. “i’ll pick it up- fuck, are you okay?”
you suddenly started to cry like a baby. he was so perfect and fatherly. it was so dumb to sob over that when so many women had to deal with the opposite.
you mumbled something he couldn’t really understand, so he just hugged you and rocked you gently to calm you down. “okay, shhh… take deep breaths for me.”
you did so, and he accompanied you by breathing slowly. after the third time, the only traces of your outburst were the tears on your cheeks and your clogged nose.
“i’m too emotional,” you joked off, wiping your tears with your hands at the same time.
“be kind to yourself. you’re going through so much. do you know how tough you are? you’re growing a human inside of you,” he noticed you looking down while he praised you, so it fueled him to continue. “you’re doing all of this alone, and i’m pretending to be useful by doing stupid chores and attending appointments. you’re the real superwoman here. i’m so proud of everything you’re doing.”
“don’t make me cry more!”
he chuckled and kissed your forehead. you leaned into his touch with your heavy eyelids closing for a moment too long.
it was no surprise that you went to bed while he cleaned up. he usually slept on the couch when he was at your house, but tonight he wanted to be with you.
he knocked on your door, unsure if you were sleeping. after all, insomnia was a common symptom during pregnancy.
“come in,” you mumbled with your eyes wide open in the dark.
“hey… i just wanted to know if you were fine. how’s your sleep?”
“bad. i can’t sleep at all.”
“do you know santos in the ed? she forced me to listen to sleepmaxxing content when she learned i was a swat physician in my free time.”
“she’s on the night shift?”
he shook his head. “no, you probably haven’t worked with her, but the point is that i know some tricks to make you fall asleep.”
he put on some white noise on your phone, closed the blackout curtains to let no light in, and adjusted the thermostat to a colder setting.
“is there something about not being alone in bed in sleepmaxxing?”
“could be; i didn’t watch all of the videos she sent,” he replied while approaching your bed. “would you like it if i joined?”
“yes.”
he sat on the edge of the bed to remove his prosthetic before getting in and enveloping you in his arms.
you whined and mumbled something about him needing to be closer to you.
“don’t know if you noticed, but there's a baby between us.”
you rolled your eyes, which made him smile, and turned around so he could be closer to your whole backside in a spooning position.
he couldn’t notice the blush rising on your face, and you couldn’t notice his.
labor
you insisted on continuing to work through your third trimester. you felt useless at home anyway.
you got called in the emergency department again. once you came in, jack rushed to you.
“why are you here?” he asked, positioning himself in front of you to block your way.
“i got called in.”
“i called your department, not you. it’s too dangerous for you to come down here when we’re too busy.”
“don’t tell me what to do!”
“i will because one of my nurses got physically assaulted ttoday, and i’m not letting that happen again. especially not to you.”
“i’m already here; can you just give me the case?” you sighed with a hand rubbing your belly.
“it’s john’s case. he’s in trauma 2.”
you walked there, but you felt followed, so you turned around. “jack, i’m a big girl.”
“john probably needs my help; i should assist.”
you walked in and smiled at the other attending. “hi, mama,” shen greeted you when he saw you. “…and dada… you guys joined us when we stabilized him!”
“great, i’ll have to walk the stairs again. call me when he can be admitted in peds.”
jack took your shoulders from behind you to keep you in place. “take the elevator,” he ordered, leaving no room for discussion.
shen put his hands up. “okay! i’m going to leave the couple’s fight.”
“we’re not a couple!” you both yelled at him, projecting your anger onto the poor guy.
some nurses looked in your direction, but you ignored them.
“we’re like siblings,” you corrected, which earned you a disappointed look from jack.
what was he disappointed about?
john looked at your belly before raising his eyes back at you. “totally not incestuous. maybe consider some other labels,” he recommended before heading out of the room.
“oh, we didn’t do it-” you tried to say before he could leave butt got cut off by some contractions.
the two attendings locked eyes with each other as they noticed it.
“fuck, are you in labor?” jack asked while touching your belly.
“no, it’s braxton-hicks contractions. i had that for my whole third trimester.”
“really sounds like something you should’ve told me.”
“oh, did you want to know in detail my constipation issues too, while we’re at it?” you asked in a passive-aggressive tone before that john gave you an office chair for you to sit on.
“yeah, i could’ve helped, actually,” he replied, a little on edge at the attitude you’ve been giving him for days since you shared a bed.
“ok, well, it’s done now. i need to go pee.”
you made your way between the two men and went to the bathroom.
as you sat on the toilet, you had another light contraction before feeling liquid leak out of you.
it wasn’t the moment. you weren’t ready. it was too early for that. you wiped and washed your hands before going to see jack.
he was still in trauma 2, but the patient who was stabilized some minutes ago had doctors all around him.
“what’s happening?” you asked as you walked in.
“8-year-old male, bike vs car, was stable, now hypotensive, tachycardic, worsening abdominal distention, dropping gcs. we started fluids, and blood is coming,” shen explained to you quickly. “he’s in decompensated shock. keep transfusing and call the or. he’ll be clear to go.”
jack looked at nazely, who nodded and called the other department.
you weren’t focused at all because another contraction just hit you. you sat down on the chair john previously gave you. nobody cared; they were all up on the little boy.
“how much is in?” shen asked a nurse.
“first unit just started.”
“good, activate massive transfusion. get plasma and platelets ready,” you ordered, breathing slowly to avoid looking too pained.
no one looked back, way too concentrated on the patient. you looked at the clock on the wall to calculate your contractions. they were becoming way too close, but it wasn’t the moment at all.
lena opened the glass door and announced that the or was open. at this brief loss of focus, jack’s eyes drifted to you.
“fuck…”
john’s eyes widened at the sight. he quickly assigned an intern to stay with the kid upstairs before going in your direction.
“my water broke in the bathroom. my contractions are less than four minutes apart,” you blurted out, stressing the two men even more.
your contraction ended for a small moment, giving you enough attention span to listen to what jack had to say.
“okay, we need to deliver the baby now," dr abbot announced while shen came back with a wheelchair.
“i can’t have the baby now. it’s too early,” you complained as jack pushed your wheelchair to a room.
“active labor, where is she going, lena?” shen yelled to the charge nurse.
“north 5, i’m calling the ob.”
you lay in the bed, and nurses and doctors filled the room while john took charge. “emergency delivery. get me a delivery kit, a warm blanket, and someone to call for neonatal support.”
a nurse quickly undressed you and checked your vagina’s opening. “she’s crowning.”
john gently pushed jack to go to your side and support you. “okay, mama, i’ll deliver your baby.”
“no, not you,” you cried out, too exhausted to care about his feelings. “i want a woman doctor.”
“ellis, you’re up. i’ll be supervising.”
“jack, i need you,” you whined, taking his hand and holding it hard, earning a small groan from him even if he didn’t want to complain.
“okay, mama, the head is showing. when you feel a contraction, you push,” parker instructed, placing your legs in a better position.
john took a look. “control the head and check for cord.”
when you felt the contraction, you gently pushed to avoid any tears from your vagina.
“okay, don’t push too much,” jack cooed, keeping a hand on the top of your hair.
“i know, fucking dumbass!” you screamed while the whole team tried to keep a straight face at their boss getting harshly humbled.
“head’s out, no cord. we’re pushing on to the next contraction.”
you were sobbing between the contractions. “i didn’t want it to happen like that!”
“i know, but you’re doing great,” jack reassured, standing close.
“you’re so useless! you’re just standing there!”
“you’re right…”
“fuck you, i hate you!” you screamed out when another contraction came in.
“and i love you. can you push for me?”
“no, you can’t say that now. you can’t!”
“i’m here for you; squeeze my hand as hard as you can and give me another push.”
you pushed once more, and the baby came out. they dried her and did a quick check. jack gently removed your bra and lifted your shirt for them to place the baby on your skin. nurses covered her in blankets as she started sucking for milk.
“time of birth is 6:12 a.m.," shen stated after looking at his watch.
“you did amazing; i’m so proud of you,” jack whispered while smiling.
postpartum
abbot had never cared for you as much as in this stage. he insisted that you stay in bed while he did all the annoying things you didn’t want to do.
“jack, i can go,” you mumbled when the baby started to cry in the middle of the night.
“i got it; just continue sleeping,” he reassured from the hallway.
you felt so bad. he was sleeping on the couch, changing diapers, and barely getting any sleep.
“okay, but come here after.”
he accepted, and once he was in the nursery, he almost immediately stopped the noises the newborn made. you worked with kids all the time, yet you couldn’t make your own child stop crying like he could.
it sometimes made you jealous to see how quickly he could calm her, as if you knew her less than he did.
jack stopped at the door of your bedroom. he didn’t want to intrude on your space, especially when your relationship was so unclear.
“do you mind sleeping with me? i feel bad that you sleep on the couch.”
“your couch is fine. don’t worry about me; i’m a grown-up. how are you feeling, mama?”
“if i wasn’t feeling well, i would’ve told you before. please, take care of yourself instead and sleep in a proper bed.”
he offered you a lazy and tired smile before sitting on the edge of the bed. he removed his prosthetic and lay down so you could cover him with your warm blanket.
“you should probably use crutches during the night. you’d avoid putting on and removing your fake leg.”
“nah, i’m a new dad, not a grandpa,” he joked, letting go a small chuckle from you.
he turned to you, and that’s when you saw the full exhaustion on him. “sleep tight, okay?”
“yeah, you too…”
──୨୧──
the early morning was visible through the window when you opened your eyes. the baby was crying again. you tried to get up, but you felt two large arms around you. he was spooning you in a tight embrace, as if he were scared to let you go.
“jack…” you muttered to wake him as gently as possible.
“go back to sleep. i want to stay with you,” he whispered with his eyes still closed.
“the baby’s crying…”
“she always is… give it five minutes. i want to sleep more with you,” he admitted, wrapping his arms tighter around your chest.
if you weren’t fully awake before, you were now.
“jack what did you say?” you asked, already getting tired of the sounds your baby makes and sitting up on the bed.
he finally opened his eyelids and rubbed them in a fast motion to talk to you in a decided tone.
“go feed her, but i don’t want us to sleep in this bed as exhausted parents anymore.”
“what?” you asked with your mouth open in shock.
you mentally slapped yourself. did he have to spell it out for you to understand? he couldn’t be more straightforward, yet you had no idea how to answer or even take that.
“i want to go on a date with you or anything that will make us more than friends in your eyes. i know you don’t want it, but just give me a chance. i want to give it a try.”
his eyes were begging you to accept. he really wanted you to agree to this. anything you’d want to take from him to finally upgrade the friend status he’s been stuck with for years. it was all he ever desired before, but now he wanted something more.
he needed his daughter to believe in soulmates and in love. he wanted her to smile when she saw both of her parents at her recitals or be embarrassed when they kissed too long.
you must’ve thought the same because you nodded. “okay, let’s give it a shot… let’s go on a date.”
SUMMARY → Jack Abbot just wants one more second with the wife that widowed him.
TAGS/WARNINGS → [this is the first x reader fic I have written in almost two years, so neutrality of the reader may be slightly inconsistent, apologies in advance] marriage, ANGST HEAVY, soft smut, hurt and comfort, worry, slow reader death, chronic illness, cancer, medical inaccuracies, appointments, jack abbot is disabled, widow!jack abbot, again apologies if any tags were missed I will update where necessary
AO3 LINK
Due to Tumblr block text restrictions, this fanfic is currently only available on AO3. Apologies in advance. I have a beta reader volunteering to try and cut down the block paragraphs to go under the limit (which is 1000), but I am currently 1.7k over the limit. It is open to guest readers without an account on AO3, so no sign up required.
SUMMARY: A trip to the ED, a retirement meal, and a phone call with Robby. One leaves you up close and personal with your neighbor, one has Phoebe spilling secrets like it's an Olympic sport, and another has Jack realizing he's got a fucking crush on the single mom in apartment seventeen.
WARNINGS: medical inaccuracies (IUD removal and replacement), a very awkward encounter, Phoebe being a blabber mouth, some very inappropriate and unprofessional thoughts, small amount of alcohol consumption, everyone thirsting over Jack, talks of Robby and his sabbatical (aka his mental health crisis), swearing and flirting!!!!
A/N: I had the best time writing this chapter!! It is another long one but I promise every word and encounter is necessary. First person to spot the hidden reference wins a big old smooth from me <3 Also, next chapter is Phoebe's birthday party so be prepared for a whole lot of chaotic toddlers and a bunch of moms thirsting over Jack.
PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader
WORD COUNT: 7.1k
PREV. PART — SERIES MASTERLIST
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
You’ve been trying to ignore the pain for the last two hours.
Bubble baths, heat packs, even yoga as a last-ditch effort to try to relieve the intense ache and stabbing in your lower abdomen. But the pain has grown exponentially, almost crippling you into a fetal position in the middle of your bed.
In hindsight, you know you should’ve taken yourself to the ER hours ago, had them check you over to make sure it’s nothing serious. But you assumed it was just a heavy period making its appearance for the first time in three years. Now, you have a sneaky suspicion that your IUD has either shifted or embedded itself into your uterine walls.
Not ideal. A bit scary, to be quite frank.
And of course, it’s something that has to happen on one of the only real nights you get off to yourself. Not a night where you expect a call or text because Phoebe wants to come home. A night where, if anything, Phoebe has most likely begged your mom to just move in with her.
You have to laugh at the thought, but the movement and contractions of your stomach only heightens the pain. You’ve bled through two pads and pairs of pyjamas, soiled your sheets well enough that you’ve had to throw them out.
Perhaps it’s dramatic to call an ambulance to get you to the ER, but you’re unsure you’ll be able to stomach getting up, let alone driving yourself the short ten minute trek to PTMC. You consider leaving it, just ride it out for as long as you can. But the thought of Phoebe coming home tomorrow afternoon to a crippled and possibly bleeding out mother…
A pathetic groan follows your movements as you force yourself to sit up on the bed, allow yourself a moment for composure and a silent prayer to the Universe to just make it stop.
Much like all other times, the Universe doesn’t listen. And the moment you stand, you’re met with that horrifying sensation of blood pooling between your legs and soaking into three pads you’ve stacked in your underwear.
What should take you fifteen minutes to get ready and arrive at PTMC actually ends up taking you almost an hour. The only reprieve you are offered is a slightly quiet waiting room. Twenty to thirty people at most occupy the chairs, all too exhausted or pain-ridden to offer up much conversation between each other.
You don’t look much better than them. Pyjamas, messy hair, face bare of anything other than a grimace. Every step toward the check-in desk takes you back to when you first had Phoebe. When, for two weeks, you could only just shuffle your feet across the floor to get around after the emergency surgery.
You’re clutching your abdomen when you finally reach the desk. An older woman sits on the opposite side of the protective screen, dark hair pulled back into a bun, kind eyes that assess you and a soft voice that asks for your name and what’s brought you in.
“I think my IUD has moved or embedded.” You manage to get out through gritted teeth, hunching slightly over the tall ledge as you take in her name badge.
Lupe’s head tilts sympathetically to the side. “Can you describe your symptoms and pain for me? When did it start?”
“Uh, about four hours ago. Very heavy bleeding, the pain is both an ache and a stabbing sensation. Feels kind of like someone’s got a chainsaw on my uterus.” You try to laugh through the pain, but when your stomach tenses you’re met with a blinding sensation of agony that you struggle to blink away.
Lupe types on the keyboard of her computer, side-glancing you as if checking you’re not about to pass out and smack your head on the ledge or marble floor. “Any nausea or dizziness, hon?”
You nod, swallowing on a dry throat. “I think that’s only due to the pain, though.”
Lupe finishes typing before the printer beside her begins to rumble and she’s slipping you a write-up through the small gap beneath the safety screen. “There’s free sanitary products in the restroom. Take a seat, hon. Someone should be with you shortly.”
You offer a weak smile in thanks and she returns one with understanding.
It’s painful to sit but even more so to stand. After ten minutes, you’re slouching in the most uncomfortable chair you’ve ever had the displeasure of using. Another ten minutes and you’re shuffling to the public restroom before you can leak through yet another article of clothing.
It’s only twenty minutes later, when you’re trying to remember labor breathing techniques that the door opens and a gentle voice is calling your name. It takes you a moment to reach her but she waits patiently, an understanding look on her face through pursed lips.
She introduces herself as Dr. McKay as she slowly guides you to a curtained off section in triage. It’s not until she’s helping you onto the bed with steady hands that you take notice of two other doctors standing behind her.
Dr. McKay follows your line of sight. “We’re typically a teaching hospital, if you’re okay with two of our students observing tonight?”
You wave her off. “I’m a mom, I lost my dignity a while ago. The more the merrier.” You manage to joke but when a laugh slips from your lips, your face scrunches in pain and your body curls involuntarily.
Dr. McKay grins through a sympathetic look, sitting at the stool to the side of you. “Trust me, I know all about that,” she reassures, turning back to the students at the foot of the bed.
“This is Kwon and Ogilvie. They’re in their third and fourth year as med students and getting a little taste of the night shift. We’ve read through your patient intake report, but do you mind explaining again what’s going on? You think your IUD has moved or embedded?”
You nod on a sigh. “Yeah, the pain and bleeding started around four hours ago. I’ve leaked through pads and clothes maybe three times since it started.”
McKay hums, snapping on a pair of gloves and lifting your pyjama shirt to expose your abdomen. “Copper or hormonal IUD?”
“Hormonal. I only got it about three and a half years ago. A few months after I had my daughter.”
She hums. “Any dizziness or nausea?”
Your head bobs, a wince slipping from you when she pushes slightly lower on your mid-section. “A little dizziness, a lot of nausea. I think it’s just because of the pain, though.”
Kwon moves to your side, as she slips her hands into a pair of blue gloves and reaches for the thermometer. It beeps, flashes green. “Temp is steady at 98.96.”
McKay moves back, discards her gloves into the trash and slides back over to you. “Are pain and bleeding usual for you?”
You shake your head before she can finish her question. “No, my cramps and monthly periods stopped a month after I got it inserted.”
She nods, a distant look growing in her eyes for barely a moment. “Alright, we’ll do a pelvic exam to check if we can identify the device to rule out any embedding. If it has shifted, we’ll get you ready for an ultrasound to find out what’s going on before attempting removal.”
You nod with a wince when Dr. McKay stands, reaching over for a robe that she hands to you with a sympathetic smile. “We’ll step out for a moment while you change and get comfortable and then we’ll be back shortly.”
You hear her speak with the students as they pull the curtain closed behind them, questioning something about initial assessments but you zone out when the pain begins to grow. It’s five minutes later when you're situated in a gown on the bed when the three of them return.
“Our student doctor Kwon is going to conduct your pelvic if you’re okay with that?”
You hum at McKay’s words, not really caring who is going to be all up in your vaginal canal so long as the issue is resolved. You weren’t lying when you said your dignity left when you fell pregnant almost five years ago.
Joy Kwon doesn't offer any pleasantries as she slides her hands into a pair of gloves and positions herself on the stool between your legs at the foot of the bed.
Ogilvie stands behind her, looking anywhere but at your parting thighs. You move silently, without guidance. Knees up, dropping them to your sides, heels together. McKay grins at the sight when you fist your hands and shove them beneath your back, in line with your coccyx.
You catch her amused look and offer an exhausted grin in return. “I know my way around these exams.”
Kwon cocks a brow as you meet her gaze again, a flicker of amusement washing across her eyes. It’s fleeting, but you catch it nonetheless. She reaches for the speculum, applying the translucent lubricant to the equipment.
Your eyes are closed, an overwhelming wave of pain washing over and you crippling any sense of peace you had begun to find. It’s so intense that you miss the voices from outside the curtain, only just catching McKay informing you that an attending is going to observe Kwon’s exam.
“Yeah, no worries. Let’s call it a party.” The words are rushed on a pained laugh from your lips before McKay is slipping outside before returning with another.
When your eyes flicker open and a shaky exhale leaves your lungs, the air gets suddenly stuck in your throat at the sight before you.
“This is Dr. Abbot.”
Jack stares at you with wide eyes and raised brows, his gaze involuntarily trailing down to your parted knees before snapping his eyes to the wall on the other side of the room. Your cheeks feel hot, your heart is thumping against your ribs and you feel like you can’t fucking breathe.
There is no fucking way this is happening right now. Jack is barely able to meet your gaze again as he tries his hardest to offer the most professional nod and tight-lipped smile you’ve ever seen.
“Fancy seeing you here, neighbor.” You can’t help it. The words fall from your lips before you can think twice, the tension in the room that the others are only now privy of is too much to remain silent under.
McKay’s eyes dart from you to Jack, lashes hitting her brows in shock. “Neighbor?”
Jack clears his throat, scratching at the nape of his neck in a nervous tick you’ve never seen before. He blinks at you, lips parting and closing again. You never imagined him to be anything other than confident and composed.
Bored with the conversation, Kwon moves closer and lines the speculum with your entrance, a hiss falling from your lips at the cool contact of the lubricant.
“Take a deep breath, you’ll feel some pressure.” She advises, a bit dully. Like she’d rather be anywhere but here. You feel the fucking same.
Ogilvie frowns at the speculum, eyes darting from the tool to between your legs. Like he’s assessing the physics of the exam. “Is that going to fit?”
“I can get Shen, instead.” Jack offers abruptly, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. Perhaps he’s trying to find a way out for himself, maybe he’s the one that’s uncomfortable with the situation he’s accidentally walked into. But the thought of yet another doctor staring between your legs is the last thing you want right now. Your eyes squeeze shut in pure mortification.
Your hot, widowed neighbor has just seen you in the most unappealing way you could ever imagine.
“Nope. Four doctors getting an eyeful is enough. I don’t need a fifth.” You keep your eyes closed, unable to bear the thought of meeting Jack’s gaze right now and a wince passes through your teeth when Kwon slowly pushes the instrument into your vaginal canal.
You blink up at the ceiling through quick breaths, discomfort turning into pain as you struggle to stretch around it. Kwon peeks up between your parted knees, noting the discomfort in your expression, can feel the resistance of the instrument and casts a quick glance to McKay.
“Did you have a vaginal birth?” she asks you softly.
You laugh through gritted teeth. “Emergency caesarean, baby.”
Kwon sighs, slowly retracting the speculum and placing it back on the tray. You don’t need to look at it to know it’s covered in blood. “I thought it felt a bit tight.” She comments.
Your eyes bulge open at that with another mortified laugh. But when your gaze snags on the tool she originally tried to use, you blink rapidly. It’s bigger than anything you’ve ever had inside of you before. Including any and all speculums you’ve had the displeasure of being examined with. “You thought that was going to fit!?”
“I didn’t think it would. I’m happy to try instead with a Pederson.” Ogilvie offers with a wide smile and you’re far too quick to shake your head for someone who was, at the beginning, happy for students to observe and conduct the exam.
“No! That’s okay, Dr. McKay—”
“Dr. McKay, there’s a phone call for you. An officer from the PPD.”
“Are you fucking kidding me!?” She doesn’t excuse herself. Just tears off her gloves and stomps through the curtain. Leaving you with two student doctors and Jack fucking Abbot.
Wearily, your gaze meets his again; your cheeks aflame and a stillness in his shoulders that makes you slightly more uncomfortable than the idea of Ogilvie spreading you open. Ultimately, you know Jack is your best option out of the three.
More experience, kind and compassionate. Familiar, but maybe that’s not a pro in this situation. No. Definitely not a pro to have your fucking neighbor inspect your cervix. Yet you don’t look away from him. You don’t mean for your gaze to be pleading, don’t mean to ask the silent question that you do but Jack hears it anyway, answers it with a subtle dip of his head and he’s slipping into a pair of blue gloves and clearing his throat before taking Kwon’s position.
“Asking the patient what birth they had should always be asked before conducting a pelvic exam.” Jack notes, eyes flickering to Kwon in a brief moment of silent scolding before he reaches for the other, much thinner probe.
You don’t miss the way Kwon shoots a glare at Ogilvie with slightly threatening eyes. He has the right to look sheepish and a little scared before slowly stepping on foot closer to the foot of the bed.
“That would be my fault, Dr. Abbot,” he admits nervously. “She said she was a mom, so I assumed the birth was vaginal and the largest speculum would be most appropriate.”
You don’t mean to scoff when you laugh, but you do. Partly in offence for all women across the fucking world that this guy assumes all moms to have loose vaginas. The other part because if he had been watching Dr. McKay when she was checking your abdomen, he would’ve seen the small but visible scar just above your pubic bone.
Jack blinks as he unwraps the sterile tool and smears a small amount of lubricant over it. “In that case, I highly recommend you brush up on your knowledge of a woman’s anatomy.”
Ogilvie takes the hint. He tears off his gloves and slips past the curtain to do exactly what Jack has said. A wave of guilt begins to ride over you but it’s also quite quickly replaced with a bigger wave of relief.
Kwon turns to you with a thin grin, like she’s pleased with his lack of presence. “Sorry about him. I don’t think he’s seen a vagina since he came out of one.”
You almost choke on your laugh at that, wincing quickly after as your body locks up with another crippling cramp of pain. Jack’s gaze flicks up to your face, assessing the furrow in your brow, the flush to your clammy skin.
“You doing okay, neighbor?” His voice lacks its usual flirty tone; gravelly now and laced with a thickness he can’t quite shift. But you can hear the lightness he tries to offer, the reassurance he doesn't speak that this is okay and you are okay and you don’t need to be embarrassed that he’s seeing you like this.
“Oh, just peachy.” You snip back through gritted teeth, fisting the thin cotton sheets beneath you.
Jack blinks his way to go between your thighs, jaw clenched and having to remind himself to separate any personal sensations right now from his professional responsibility. It’s one thing to think about you being laid in the position, but it’s a completely other thing to have you like it for an entirely different reason.
Jack tries to block out the actual sight of you. Because in truth, there isn’t anything erotic about this, not even in the slightest. You’re in pain and bloody and hurting, and you’re trusting him to fix the issue. He feels sick with himself for how much he’s internally struggling at the situation.
“I’ve done this plenty of times, promise you’re in good hands.” He clears his throat, lines the speculum with the entrance of your vaginal canal and very slowly eases it between your walls.
There’s no pain this time, only a slight hint of discomfort but that’s mostly at the cold gel. You can’t help the cock of your brow at Jack’s words. “You examine a lot of your neighbor’s cervixes?”
He laughs at that, breathily enough that you can feel it ghost the side of your thigh. You swallow, blink up at the ceiling. His laughter helps ease this fucking awkwardness and embarrassment of having to dig around in his neighbors vagina. Doesn’t do enough to stop it from haunting you moving forward.
“No, you would be my first.” Jack promises, and you’re foolish enough to let yourself believe that comment has a double meaning to it.
“I’m honored.” You mutter it sarcastically and brave the thought of looking down to the foot of the bed.
You’re met with the sight of Jack peering between your legs, eyes slightly squinted as he works. Kwon looks just as invested as Jack does, handing him another tool when he silently opens his palm toward her.
“You said you bled through clothes and menstrual pads?” Kwon asks.
You nod, trying to remember not to tense or hold your breath. “Yeah, why? I’m not haemorrhaging or something am I?”
“No.” Jack assures you with a firm tone, catching the lick of anxiety growing in your voice. He doesn’t move his head but his eyes flick up to meet yours and your entire stomach turns molten at the sight.
You can’t look away and despite your best efforts, you do find yourself holding your breath.
“You’re not haemorrhaging and it’s definitely not embedded, which is good. Looks like it’s just shifted slightly which has caused the pain and the bleeding. Did it start tonight?”
You nod, watching Jack slip into a fresh pair of gloves and reach across the room for a small machine. “Well, I’ve felt a little uncomfortable for a couple days. Just light cramps that I usually get when I should be due on my cycle. But the bleeding and pain started tonight, yeah.”
Jack nods as he approaches your side, a look of reassurance on his face as he turns on the ultrasound screen and reaches for the gel. Kwon moves silently, offering you a large sheet and gesturing to cover your lower part and pull up the hem of the hospital robe to reveal your abdomen.
“I’m just gonna check everything is okay internally and then Kwon should be able to do a quick removal and replacement.”
You nod, loosing a breath as you try to relax yourself as Jack presses the transducer to your lower abdomen. He moves it slowly, tenderly with his touch; not using too much pressure or pushing on your bladder like the midwives did when you were pregnant.
He keeps his eyes on the screen and you realize you definitely have a thing for doctors. Or more specifically, this doctor.
“You bring Pheebs with you?” He asks softly, offering a brief glance to your face before returning his attention to the screen again.
“No, she’s having a sleepover with my parents tonight.” You say softly and you don’t miss the fond grin that spreads across his lips. It warms your heart so much that you can’t help but subtly mirror it.
“How’s her tummy now?”
A laugh bubbles up your throat. The irony of him being the one to check you over when only a week ago he was checking your daughter. “Yeah, good. Back to shitting like a pro again.”
Jack huffs in laughter, taking one more moment to assess the ultrasound before removing the probe from your skin and cleaning it off.
“Your uterine walls are thicker than usual. They're shedding, which is why you're bleeding the way you are. Totally normal. Other than that, ultrasound is clear,” he concludes with a smile that you can finally meet.
That awkwardness and tension has finally begun to ease and disappear. Right now, you’re not neighbors. He is your doctor and you are his patient.
“So, everything looks okay?” You ask. Jack nods, eyes on you again with that intensity you’ve started to grow used to.
“Yeah, you look perfect.” It’s slightly raspy when he speaks, both the tone and his words causing a flush to burn across your entire body.
It feels like air has trapped itself in your lungs and Jack’s shoulders stiffen as if he’s just realized the words he’s used and the tone he’s spoken them in.
From the foot of your bed, Kwon’s slightly uncomfortable eyes flicker between you and Jack, blinking as if that’ll clear the air as to what the fuck she’s witnessing right now. Before she can open her mouth with a remark, before Jack can splutter an apology or a distraction, the curtain moves and McKay is slipping back into the area.
Jack steps away from the bed, lips pursed into a firm line and he’s tugging off the gloves and moving toward the curtain. “She’s all cleared for removal and replacement.” He tells McKay, voice slightly strained.
You can’t help the amusement that starts to curl within your lower belly, a grin stretching across your face and Jack meets your gaze, mirroring it a bit bashfully before slipping past the curtain. Leaving you with your legs spread, heart thumping, and delusional thoughts in your mind that he found this procedure just as eye-opening as you did.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
It’s late Sunday morning by the time Jack’s done with his shift, exhausted and almost limping with how sore his leg is. He stayed late. Again. And his knee is protesting at the idea of potentially having to do it once more on his next shift.
It’s been a slight struggle now that Robby is on sabbatical. Jack’s left with the responsibility of staying later or starting earlier to aid Al-Hashimi with the influx of patience as the weather has gotten hotter. The sun comes out and people grow stupid. And Jack has to work through the pain of his prosthetic growing sweaty and unstable.
On top of that, he’s been riddled with something he can only compare to high-school level anxiety. Every time he’s walked through the main doors of the apartment complex for the past week, Jack’s been fucking nervous. Anxious that he may stumble into an awkward encounter with you after performing your pelvic exam.
It’s stupid, he knows. You’re both adults and Jack’s a professional, for fuck’s sake. He offered to get you another attending, and you declined. You had smiled—grinned—at him when he left you in McKay’s capable hands. And yet he had not heard from you since.
No text, no collisions in the hall. Not that you owe him anything, he knows that. And it’s not even like you texted religiously before your night in the Pitt. But Jack can feel something strained between you. Perhaps you’re embarrassed by the situation. That your neighbor had pried you open to check for an embedded IUD. Or maybe he had made you uncomfortable with that stupid fucking slip he made when he said you looked perfect.
What the fuck is wrong with him?
Jack takes the elevator to the third floor, his leg far too achy to brave the stairs after being on his feet for the past nineteen hours. When he makes it inside his apartment, he’s not sure what’s worse. The deafening loneliness or Robby’s contact popping up as an incoming call on his phone.
He answers before he even closes his apartment door.
“You’re alive, then.”
Robby scoffs a breathy laugh down the line at the greeting, something Jack can’t help but smirk at. He makes his way straight to the couch and falls into it, tucking the phone between his shoulder and ear while he works to remove his prosthetic.
“Yeah, well… who would’ve thought nature could be so refreshing.”
Jack hums, half listening with a grunt until he slips the metal from his knee and exhales a breath of relief. “You doin’ okay, though? Haven’t heard from you for two weeks.”
“What? Miss me already?” Robby snides.
It pulls at the corners of Jack’s mouth in the form of a gentle smile. This is good. He’s cracking jokes, his voice doesn’t sound strangled and pained. He sounds better than he did when he left two weeks ago, but Jack is not a fool. He’s all too familiar with what Robby is experiencing, he’s danced toward the line one too many times himself.
“What are you even doing with yourself out there?” Jack says instead.
He can almost hear Robby shrugging through the line. He’s quiet for a few moments, likely contemplating, deciding how much or how little he wants to share. “How’s the hospital?”
Jack scoffs, shakes his head and leans back into the couch, allowing his eyes to close for a moment. “Work is not your concern until you’re back from sabbatical. Not a day sooner.”
Robby grows quiet again and they stay like that for a little while. No words spoken, just breaths shared down the line; both basking in the quiet comfortability of one another. Calming, familiar. Like moments shared on the roof after a particularly long shift.
“Spoke to McKay yesterday.” It’s Robby that breaks that silence. “Said you performed a pelvic exam on your neighbor.”
Jack can hear his smirk, the teasing churn in his voice. He takes a deep breath and then a laugh is spluttering from his chest; exasperated and exhausted.
“Brother, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.” Jack admits roughly.
Robby doesn’t push, gives him a chance to add more if he wants to. He doesn’t. So Robby approaches carefully.
“You like her?”
The question makes Jack pulse skip. “Barely know her.”
“Not what I asked.”
Jack hesitates. It’s a lie, really. He does know you. Perhaps not in the most stereotypical way, but he does. He knows your love lost, your hatred for the way your ex treats your daughter, how your mind works when you create the excellence that you do.
Deeper than that, he knows your heart beats solely for your daughter. He knows Phoebe. Her chaos and easy charm, knows how you’ve bled your personality into her unintentionally.
Jack swallows. Robby waits.
“I don’t know what it is. There’s just—there’s something there. Something about her…”
“It’s not just her, though, Jack. She has a daughter. Package deal. Big deal.”
Jack hums, an involuntary smile curling on the corners of his lips. “She’s the coolest kid I’ve ever met, man. She makes her mom sing her AC/DC as a lullaby.”
Had they been on the roof, Jack would see the softness that smoothes the worry on Robby’s face. He’d see the quiet understanding in his eyes as he listens to every word, as he understands why there’s a certain dullness in Jack’s voice. A reservation.
Robby takes a heavy breath. “You don’t have to feel guilty about that, Jack.”
It makes Jack wince. Because he does feel guilty. Whenever his mind wanders to the thought of you, he’s crushed with an immense wave of guilt. Like he’s betraying his wife, like he’s losing sight of her in the fogginess of his memory.
Maybe that’s what scares him so much. He’s been with people since. One night stand, casual flings to keep the loneliness and demons of the night away. Physically invested and emotionally detached. It’s different this time. With you. Because there’s no physicality there, just this undeniable pull he feels whenever he looks at you, thinks of you.
It’s deeper than a surface level attraction. It fucking terrfies him because he hardly knows you. Not truly, not in the ways he wants to.
“You’re allowed to find happiness somewhere else. With someone else.”
The phone slips to rest on Jack's shoulder as his gaze falls down to the hands resting in his lap, the silver band that still wraps around his ring finger.
Time doesn’t heal all wounds. Time just lets you grow around them.
Jack changes the subject fairly quickly. They spend the next ten minutes talking about nothing much before Jack forces Robby to promise he won’t leave it two weeks to reach out again. He showers, changes, takes some time to tend to the ache in his knee before brewing a coffee and making some eggs and taking them out to the balcony.
He hears it the second the door opens.
Music. Singing. Laughter. Loud and carefree and happy.
It pulls a smile to his face immediately as he sits at the table and watches across the gap between your balconies. Jack sips on his coffee, admires the sound he’s blessed enough to hear, the fleeting catches he gets of you and Phoebe running around or dancing on the kitchen island.
The sun is warm on his skin, the breeze soothing the ache of his tight skin where a limb once was and he feels himself slowly beginning to relax.
“Morning neighbor!”
His eyes peek open, a palm out above his eyes to cover the blinding sun. Jack blinks and you’re there. Standing on your balcony, one hand on the railing and the other is waving above your head. Calling out to him, like that night last week didn’t happen.
So you’re not embarrassed and he hasn’t made you uncomfortable. He can’t see you properly, too far a distance but he can make out the wide grin you offer.
Jack throws a hand up to reciprocate your wave and you jab a thumb over your shoulder. “What do you think!?” You call back, and it takes Jack a moment to realize you’re asking about the music.
His hand drops from the air and moves to cup the side of his mouth. “I love The Smiths!” He calls back.
You lean closer, he’s sure he can see your brows pinching as you call out to him again. “What!?”
Jack huffs a laugh, leaning forward in his seat and sitting up straighter. He cups both hands around his mouth now and bellows across the space. “I said I love The Smiths!”
He watches you throw your head back in laughter and suddenly wishes Robby never called. Because then he wouldn’t be so aware of the feeling in his chest whenever he looks at you. He wouldn’t have had to acknowledge and verbalize the turmoil that’s been brewing in his head from the moment he first laid eyes on you and Phoebe.
You don’t say anything else. He watches you retreat back inside and you don’t come back out. The balcony door is closed sometime ten minutes later. And within thirty minutes, the music stops completely and Jack’s left in that horrible, aching silence again.
After his eggs and coffee, he too is returning inside, leaving the dishes in the sink. He only allows himself a quick shower when the coffee begins to perk him up and decides it’s probably best to run some errands and grab some groceries before he inevitably crashes and sleeps for the rest of the day.
He dresses in a black t-shirt and a pair of beige chino shorts. It’s not something he’ll ever really admit outloud, but Jack hates the summer. He hasn’t always, but in more recent years, especially since losing his leg, he does. There’s a choice he has to make every time the heat begins to pick up in Pittsburg.
Wear trousers and ignore the sweat and swelling on the tight skin of his knee, or wear shorts and ignore the lingering stares of the general public. He should be used to it by now, it’s been well over a fucking decade since he lost his leg. But in recent years, without his wife’s reassurance that they’re curious glances and not judgmental stares, Jack can’t seem to decipher a difference between the two anymore.
Still, he knows he has to take care of himself. And with the ache still settling deep in his bones from his earlier shift, he’s aware that shorts are his best bet. It’s just after he clips his prosthetic back on again that there’s an uncoordinated knocking at the door.
The short relief of letting his leg breath allows Jack to move a bit more fluidly now, limp barely noticeable as he makes his way to the front door and slowly eases it open. He’s not offered much of a chance to check who his visitors are before a small body is barrelling into limbs.
Jack only just manages to catch himself by gripping a hand on the doorframe as he blinks down at a small head of curls of a three-year-old who is blinking in wonder at his prosthetic. He faintly hears your voice, soft but firm and scolding Phoebe for barrelling into him.
The child beams up at him, excitement laced in her chubby features as she points to his leg. “I like your leg.”
It makes Jack blink, pulls him back to the present where a throb begins to form around his knee and he grins at her, reaching down to readjust the prosthetic that the kid has somehow almost displaced.
He misses the way your brows raise as you look at him. You’d never realized he had a prosthetic and you can't help the way your head tilts at the sight of his arms straining when he readjusts the straps.
“SWAT?” you ask, voice thick as his veins pop and muscles flex beneath freckled skin.
Jack huffs out a laugh, pretends he can’t hear his heart in his ears and the fact that you’ve seen his fucking leg and you’re not being awkward about it. “Military.”
Phoebe watches him intently as surprise flickers across your face. “Well, aren’t you full of surprises, Dr. Abbot. Thank you for your service.”
He rises to his full height at the flirty tone of your voice, letting his eyes rove over your body from the painted toes to the hair on your head. A beautiful sage green summer dress kisses your skin. Cinched at your waist, short but puffy sleeves, a neckline that teases the swell of your breasts and the hem stops just mid-calf.
Jack swallows, admires your face. Hair pinned back in a flaw clip, messy and yet presentable. Your lashes look fuller and darker, a brightness to your face with makeup that doesn’t hide but accentuates your natural features. It momentarily knocks him breathless.
He’s never seen you like this before.
“I could say the same about you.” Jack’s voice is low and raspy when he speaks. It prickles your skin in buzzes of excitement, spreads a warmth beneath the flesh that charges your blood.
Of course, Jack notices. The way your lashes flutter, how your lips part. How, despite the warmth, goosebumps prickle your skin. A smirk kicks at the corner of his mouth and he looks away, back down to Phoebe.
She wears something similar, a blue summer dress that stops below the knee. Her hair is twirled up into a bun, little white sandals on her feet. It’s the most presentable he’s ever seen the kid look. And from the way she pulls at the dress and rolls her shoulders, he can tell immediately that it was a fight getting her to wear it.
The fondness in that crevice of his heart aches at the thought.
“Where are you two off to, in your pretty dresses?” He directs the question at Phoebe, who offers a twirl despite her hatred for the clothing.
“Grandma is dying.” She chirps.
Jack’s brows shoot to his hairline at the same time as you whipping your head down to your daughter. “What? No. Grandma is retiring, baby. We’re going for brunch with her company.” You correct her quickly, blinking profusely and both you and Jack are confused as to how she got those two words, of all things, mixed up.
You clear your throat, taking a step closer to the threshold that Phoebe has occupied. Jack notices the movement from his peripheral and sets his burning gaze on you again. You smile at him, a bit sheepishly and push your arms out to offer him the tray of cupcakes he had missed.
They’re decorated with multiple colors of messy frosting, some smothered in sprinkles and others decorated with some diced fruit. Jack blinks at you.
“We made cupcakes for Phoebe’s birthday tomorrow, and we made you some as a thank you. You know, for helping her tummy and then… well—mine.” You finish on a nervous laugh, one that Jack reciprocates.
But he takes the dish from your open palms, a revert thank you falling from his tongue and he lets his finger tips brush against yours as he does. So this was a peace offering of sorts, a way to clear the air. He offers a glance to Phoebe. “It’s your birthday?”
Phoebe nods. “In the morning, and I’m having a birthday party at my house, Jack! Will you come?”
His eyes widen slightly at the request, casting a quick glance to you. You shrug a shoulder, pursing your lips to hide a smile and when he looks back down at Phoebe, she’s got her palms together in a prayer-like position with far too convincing pleading eyes.
Jack breathes through his nose, smiles fondly at the young girl. “Absolutely, I wouldn’t want to spend my day off doing anything else.” he promises.
You smile at the sight, at how Phoebe brushes a sprinkle off Jack’s prosthetic that fell from the tray. He watches her just as intently, but when she returns her attention to the chipped polish on her nails, it’s like he loosens a breath.
“Everyone’s coming by at like 5 ish. But come whenever.”
Jack nods, allows his gaze to drift over you again. “You both look beautiful.”
There’s a reverence in his tone, like it’s a physical need that you believe him when he says it. All you can do is smile; soft and shy. You reach for Phoebe, tell her to say goodbye and slowly guide her away from Jack’s door and down the hall.
Of course, he watches you both go. Phoebe’s hand in yours, your slow steps and her quick skips. He’s about to go back inside when Phoebe halts abruptly, tears her hand from yours and turns to race back to Jack, giggling his name like she needs to tell him something exciting.
She stops by his feet again, he watches as you wait for her with a sigh at the other end of the hall.
“Jack! I told Mommy I want to be a doctor when I grow up, just like you!”
He blinks down at her, feels his throat constrict as she admits something that causes so much turmoil within him. “Yeah?” he rasps, clears his throat and bends slightly at the waist. “I think you’ll make a fantastic doctor, Pheebs.”
Her toothy smile is wide and excitable, it’s almost impossible for Jack not to mirror it.
“Before, I wanted to be a pop star so I could marry Harry Styles. But now, I wanna be a doctor.” She states it so matter-of-factly, like she’s discussing something as simple as the weather.
It makes Jack chuckle. “You don’t wanna marry Harry Styles anymore?”
Phoebe shrugs, makes a small noise of contemplation. “Mommy said she’d fight me for him!” She giggles.
Jack cocks a brow, dares a glance down the hall to you where you’re texting someone on your phone as you wait. “Oh, so Mommy wants to marry Harry too?”
Phoebe steps closer, looks a bit conspiratorial as she whispers her next words. “She said Harry will be a silver fox when I’m old enough to marry him… What is a silver fox?”
He blinks at that, unsure as to how they’ve crept into this territory and why the kid even knows the saying of a silver fox. He blubbers momentarily. “Um… it’s someone who’s old but….pretty.”
Phoebe grins, chin tucked to her chest with wide eyes and raised brows. The conspiratorial look has morphed into something far too mischievous for Jack’s liking. This kid is going to be so much fucking trouble when she’s older.
“Mommy said you’re a silver fox.” There’s a slyness to her tone, like she knows what she’s doing. That she absolutely should not be repeating whatever it is she’s heard you say.
Little shit.
Jack stills, lips parted into a soft O shape and he blinks at Phoebe. An amused huff of hair slips past his lips “Oh, I don't think Mommy meant for me to know that.”
“Why not? She told my Aunt Bella so. It's a compromise.”
Jack’s brow raises again, though this time in amusement. “You mean complement?”
Phoebe nods at that, moving even closer now. She reaches on her tip toes and cups her small hands around Jack’s ear. “My mommy is a silver fox.”
He laughs harder at that, pulls away to get a look at her face and he shakes his head, rubs at his eye. “Your mommy isn’t old, kid.”
“But she is pretty.” It’s a statement, not a question. And she looks about ready to fight if Jack even dares to argue otherwise.
Not that he would. He couldn’t ever. He lets his eyes drift across the hall again, finding you standing in the same place. Jack feels his heart rate pick up, feels his skin grow warm and a rush of pure adoration and fondness overwhelms him.
“Yeah, Diva. Your mommy is very pretty.”
It makes him realize something very, very sobering.
Jack’s got a fucking crush on you.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
SERIES MASTERLIST — NEXT PART
Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!
Ahhh okay, the flirting is beginning, Robby is trying to knock a lil bit of sense into him and Pheebs is just well... she's doing her thing LMAO. This is where things start to get super juicy and I promise you the next chapter will have lots and lots more of flirty playfulness. I would love to know your thoughts so far!! <3
Thank you very much for reading! Feedback really means a lot so I would love to hear your thoughts and ideas for where you think this will go!! Reblogs helps to boost stuff for more people to reach so if you enjoyed it please consider reblogging!!
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summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, angst, 18+ smut, fluff
word count: 7.6k
a/n: thank you for waiting so patiently!! i hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome! big kisses to everyone who has sent in ideas already<33
i'm not keeping a tag list for this series!
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
The Pitt | Masterlist
Main | Masterlist
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The drive from Pittsburgh to Cleveland takes just over two hours. Two hours trapped in a car with Jack in awkward silence. The radio had murmured softly in the background, but the tension between you was almost palpable, thick enough to cut.
Neither of you talked. Neither of you hummed along when a good song came on. You both just stayed silent—your body angled toward the passenger window, where you were still able to catch glimpses of Jack's fingers tightening periodically around the steering wheel.
The only words he managed to squeeze out during the entire ride were when you bent back to grab your bag from the backseat.
"Don't."
You'd frozen mid-motion.
"Sit up straight—you're gonna hurt yourself." His eyes had flickered to yours in the rearview mirror briefly, and you'd been so flustered that you hadn't even argued that your ribs barely hurt anymore. And when he'd stopped at the next red light and reached back for it himself, you'd only muttered a soft "thanks".
That marked the extent of your exchanges—practical concerns that felt so distant they barely registered.
But you're fine now—mostly. Enough to have moved back to your own room after Robby dropped this on you. Enough that you’ve decided it’s time to set Jack free. After this conference wraps up, you plan to present him with the divorce papers sitting neatly on your desk, just waiting for his signature.
One pen stroke and then he'd be free. Free to stop pretending. Free from this cage you've trapped him in.
The parking lot is already bustling with people when you pull in. Jack is out of the car before you can get your seatbelt off, popping open the trunk and grabbing both of your bags with ease.
"I can carry—" you start to say.
"I've got it," he cuts in, already walking toward the entrance.
You press your lips together, then follow him.
The conference is held at a hotel, the kind with huge glass doors, marble floors and chandeliers swinging above. Just another reminder of how the administration pours money into superficial perks rather than addressing the hospitals' actual needs.
Jack jerks his head toward a cosy seating area near the entrance, where plush couches surround coffee tables stacked with books. "Sit."
You don’t get the chance to protest or even offer to take the bags before he strides off to reception, both bags shifted comfortably into one hand. You can’t help but admire the flex of his forearm before shaking yourself back to reality.
With a quiet sigh, you sink into one of the cushions. You'd expected this weekend to hurt, but seeing just how annoyed he is that he has to be here with you hurts worse than you thought. Flicking through one of the coffee table books, you try to distract yourself while Olivia’s words echo in your mind: You’re reading this all wrong. I promise, just tell him how you feel.
Promises feel meaningless when faced with cold, hard facts.
"Let's go." Jack stops in front of you, watchful as you rise. You try to hide the slight wince when you do, but judging by the way his brows furrow, he notices. His hand reaches out, but he draws it back immediately.
He trails behind you to the elevators, and you step in with a few other people. He pushes the button for your floor, and then the silence continues. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch sight of his tensed shoulders and the rigidity in his jaw.
It's the longest elevator ride of your life.
Jack sets off the second the doors open, leading you to a door where he swipes the key card hard. He steps inside, placing it in the power slot and the light flickers on.
You linger hesitantly by the door, confused as to why he hasn’t handed you your bag or the key card. "Is this mine or yours?" you ask.
Jack sighs, his back turned to you. "It's...ours."
"Oh." You're glad he isn't looking at you, or he would have seen your face fall. Yet another way you've made this weekend hell for him.
Robby had said to just show up to the reception and tell them your names—that the hospital had taken care of it—but something must have gone wrong. You know better than anyone how their systems can't be trusted.
Jack exhales sharply, dropping your bags onto the desk before turning to face you. "We're still married in the system, so they must've auto-booked us together," he explains, his voice tight.
"Oh." That’s all you manage to say again as you step fully into the room, closing the door behind you and taking in the surroundings: a desk, a closet, a bathroom, and a single bed. Great.
"I tried changing it," he says quickly, "but they're fully booked."
You nod, trying not to show him just how much that hurts to hear. Of course, he tried to change it. Of course, he doesn’t want to share a room with you.
Two more days and he's free.
Your gaze drifts helplessly back to the bed.
"I can sleep on the floor," he offers, clearing his throat.
"What?"
He shrugs stiffly.
"You don’t have to sleep on the floor." You frown. Were another few nights really that horrible that he'd prefer sleeping there? You bite your lip, stepping into the bathroom pretending to inspect it, but mostly to not see his face as you say, "It's fine. What's two more nights?"
Jack's silent for a moment, and you almost don't hear his "okay" over the sound of your heart cracking.
The first day at the conference passes by faster than Jack expects. A good thing, even if it does feel slightly bittersweet. Time alone with you is all he's wanted for months, but now that he has it, he doesn't know what to do with it.
Not when you've made it clear this past week that you want nothing to do with him. You've moved back to your own bed, and the hospital had forced you right back into sharing again—just like it had forced you into this whole thing in the first place.
Jack knows the end is near, and he's trying to give you space. But he can't help being pulled in by you—watching as you listen carefully to demonstrations, his hands hovering near you to keep the crowd from jostling your ribs.
Normally, he’s not a fan of this part of the conferences: the chaos, the noise, the sales reps tripping over each other to pitch their latest gadgets.
Today, he leans into it. He lets himself get trapped in twenty-minute demonstrations he doesn't care about. He asks unnecessary questions, picks up brochures he knows he won’t read, and lingers at displays his hospital would never consider—anything to keep his mind occupied and avoid fixating on you. Your sweet perfume still wraps around him, your accidental brushes against him still make his skin flush, and his heart still races whenever you glance his way.
And despite this distance between you, you're still looking out for him. You still notice how he subtly shifts to put more weight on his good leg, and even when he'd told you he was fine, intending to soldier on, it had only taken a stern glare from you for him to relent.
The foolish part of his heart can't help but hope that it means something more—that the way you look at him means more than it probably does. He's probably just seeing the reflection of his own hurt in your eyes because he knows you've been searching for a way out—bringing up getting a divorce, looking at apartments and distancing yourself again.
The way you'd reacted when he told you that you had to share a bed again only solidified it. So, even if it's the last thing he wants to do, he does his best to keep his distance like you want him to.
By dinner, though, the distance is harder to maintain when walking into the stupid hotel restaurant feels dangerously close to a date. The lighting is low and warm, reflections dancing off polished glasses as the waiter leads you to a four-person table.
He's trying not to stare at you or the lipstick you'd put on before leaving, but he's failing. His gaze keeps drifting to the soft curve of your cupid's bow and the way you nibble on your lower lip. When he forces himself to look away, it's only to trace the marks you left on your glass.
You both attempt awkward small talk about the conference, which feels like the safest topic, and his heart lifts a little when you laugh at his reminder of the sales rep who actually fell over in his eagerness to speak with you.
You twirl the stem of your glass, and he traces condensation around the rim of his glass when silence falls over the table again. Now and then, your eyes meet before darting away again.
It hurts that this is what it's come to. Jack still remembers the first time you went to dinner, back when this whole thing had just begun, and how gorgeous you had looked that night. The way you had smiled when he'd brought your flowers, how you had teased him all night—how much fun the two of you had had.
This couldn't be farther from that.
Just as he’s about to say something—anything—to reach out to you again, a shadow falls over the table.
"Excuse me, sir? Ma’am?" The waiter stands there looking at you both apologetically. "I'm sorry to ask, but would you mind sharing your table? We're fully booked, and I was told you know each other—"
Jack is prepared to say no, doesn't want people he supposedly knows to witness this, or to ruin his attempt at salvaging it, but before he can speak, a bright and jarring voice cuts in.
"Jack!"
His stomach drops as he recognises the voice, and he has to stop himself from grimacing. "Dr. Warren," he responds with a forced smile.
"Oh, Jack won’t mind," she chimes in cheerfully to the waiter before he can protest. Then her tone turns sugary sweet as she looks at him again. "Right?"
She's set him up perfectly, making it impossible to refuse her without causing a scene. He glances over at you, noticing how you're staring down at your plate, and with a resigned shake of his head, he replies, "Of course not."
Warren breezes past the waiter and pulls out the chair next to Jack. "Sit down, Turner."
Jack hadn’t even noticed the man until now. He’s tall with dark hair, young, and looking vaguely uncomfortable as he flashes Jack an apologetic smile before taking a seat next to you.
"Sorry to intrude on your dinner. I'm Jeremy," Turner says. Jack watches as you look up to greet him and sees both of your faces shift from confusion to recognition. "Wait—"
"Jeremy?"
"Is that you, Sleepy?" His face breaks into a stupid grin. Jack hates him instantly—mostly for the nickname but also for the way he manages to make you smile.
"Oh my god, don't call me that!" you groan, covering your face briefly.
Warren leans back into her chair, watching the exchange with curious eyes. Meanwhile, Jack feels a wave of nausea wash over him.
Turner leans in, bumping his shoulder against yours, and Jack has to grip his glass tighter to prevent himself from commenting on it. Why is he sitting that close? Why are you letting him?
"Wow, you look exactly the same! How long has it been—five, six years?"
"Something like that," you nod, then huff softly. "But I think my eye bags have definitely worsened since then."
"Ah," Turner chuckles. "Still living up to your nickname then, I see."
You glare at him, and he only smiles wider. And Jack—
He wants this man dead. Not literally—or well, not mostly. But when was the last time you'd laughed like that with him? When was the last time you looked at him like that? He'd thought Warren was going to be the worst part of this dinner, but Turner is quickly taking first place.
"So, how have you been—" Warren starts, turning her body toward Jack, attempting to start a conversation between just the two of them.
But Jack doesn't care. He cuts her off, "You two know each other?" He tries to sound casual as he looks at you, but he can feel his jaw tense up.
Warren frowns as Jack speaks over her, but all he sees is Turner, glowing at you.
"Yeah, we met in med school."
"Oh, how fun!" Warren chimes in. She turns to Jack again. "Jeremy just started at Presby—he's our newest attending."
Jack still isn't looking at her, only seeing the way you smile warmly at Turner as you congratulate him.
"Did you manage to keep that attending offer at PTMC?" Warren asks you with a pointed smile, and Jack notices your brow furrow slightly before you answer.
"I did."
"She's doing amazing," Jack offers, finally looking at Warren. "Still the best-performing doctor we have."
"Oh wow!" Turner says, and Jack can see you flush, tucking a hair behind your ear.
You deftly steer the conversation into general hospital topics, easily falling back into a rhythm with Turner. You share stories from med school and let inside jokes slip, leaving Jack to simmer quietly.
And while that's going on, Warren keeps shifting her chair closer to him. Her knee brushes against his, her hands keep squeezing his arm as she tries to sequester him into a separate conversation. He's pushed his chair as far away as he can to try and avoid her touch.
"I never thought I'd see you at one of these things again," she says lightly, taking a bite of her salad.
"No," he replies, taking a sip of his wine.
Warren's silent for a second, watching him. She's definitely clocked the weirdness between you. "You're more than welcome to come to Presby anytime you want," she says, then adds, "I’d love to show you around." The implication is clear as daylight, and Jack is stunned by her audacity.
Even if she feels the weirdness, the fact that she feels it appropriate to come onto him in front of you—his wife—is astonishing. He notices your shoulders tense slightly, but he convinces himself he’s imagining it because you’re still laughing with Turner.
"Oh, I've already been there."
Warren just shrugs, spearing another piece of salad with her fork, smiling at him with a knowing look. "Things might have changed."
Evidently satisfied with that, she turns to Turner and you. "So, how close were you two back in med school?"
Jack stills, his attention honing in on you and the way your eyes widen slightly.
"Uh—"
"We dated," Turner says.
Jack's vision blurs and the noise of the restaurant dulls as blood rushes in his ears.
"Briefly," you add immediately, glancing over at Jack before dropping your gaze again. "For like two weeks."
"Still broke my heart," Turner says dramatically.
You roll your eyes. "You dated Tiffany literally less than a week after."
Turner shrugs with a grin, and Jack can't decide which is worse—knowing he once dated you, that he didn’t value you enough to keep you, or that he so easily replaced you.
You laugh, and it doesn't look like you care that much about it, but Jack can't help the ugly feeling that curls in his stomach.
"You still out there breaking hearts?" Turner asks.
"She's my wife." Jack doesn't hesitate, wanting to lay his claim even if he doesn't have the right to.
Turner's expression shifts to one of surprise, followed by a wide smile. "Oh wow. Congrats!"
He sounds genuine, which somehow only makes Jack hate him even more.
"You must be real special if Sleepy decided to settle down."
You offer a tight smile, taking a long sip of your drink as Jack follows suit. Unable to stop himself, he asks, "So, what's up with the nickname?"
Turner bursts into laughter, while you groan and point a finger at him, "Don't."
"She fell asleep in a lecture once," he says, clearly enjoying the moment.
Warren laughs loudly and mutters with a smile, "That's not very professional."
Your expression tightens, but Turner either didn't hear or just chose to ignore it, as he continues, "Our professor actually stopped class to call her out."
"I was exhausted," you defend yourself.
"You also used to fall asleep during study sessions."
"It's not my fault that you guys insisted on studying until like three in the morning," you retort.
"Good thing that's over then," Jack comments.
You look over at him, surprised. "...Yeah," you say softly.
For the first time all night, it feels like it's just the two of you again.
Until Warren smiles cloyingly at you. "A good doctor never stops studying."
"Of course," you smile, letting your gaze drop down to your plate again.
Later, after awkward goodbyes and forced smiles, you and Jack retreat back to your hotel room. There's a sharp bitterness settling in your mouth, your stomach churning after having to watch Warren flirt—blatantly, in your eyes—with Jack, and him not doing anything about it.
He could at least have some decency to wait until you're not there. You're not even going to comment on her and how disrespectful she was. All you can focus on is the anger that simmers under your skin as you brush your teeth. The rush of frustration drowns out everything else as you wash your face, your breath uneven as you change into your pyjamas.
The only thing that had gotten you through that dinner was seeing Jeremy again—he'd been the perfect distraction, keeping your attention on him with tales from med school. But you'd still noticed how Warren kept touching Jack and how pointed her comments were when she did speak to you.
When you step out of the bathroom again, after taking a few deep breaths, you find Jack sitting on the edge of the bed in sweats and a t-shirt, glasses low on his nose as he scrolls through his phone.
You look away before it can stir something in your chest. "I'm done," you tell him as you slip under the covers, turning your back on him.
By the time he comes back, you've dimmed the lights except for the lamp on his side. You listen as he removes his prosthetic, the soft sound of cream squishing as he gently massages his leg. Part of you wants to help him, but you hesitate, unsure if he would welcome it.
You stay still as he slides under the covers and turns off the lamp. You wonder what he's thinking of—if he's relieved the first day is over or if he wishes he were here with Lily instead.
A minute passes, then another, only the sounds of your breathing filling the room. Out in the hallway, you can hear muted footsteps, quiet laughter and then—
A loud sound tears through the wall. A moan, to be more specific. Long, dramatic and almost definitely fake.
Your eyes widen as another sound permeates the wall, somehow even louder the second time. It continues in a flurry of noises.
"Oh my god," you whisper.
Jack lets out a short laugh through his nose. A smile tugs at your lips at that sound. You haven't heard him laugh in forever when it was just the two of you. Without thinking, you ask, "Do you think he knows?"
Another moan echoes, and Jack snorts. "No."
You laugh quietly into your pillow. "Poor man."
Jack huffs another soft laugh. "Poor woman, more like."
You glance at him, turning around without really meaning to. "What?"
He shifts, too, his body turning toward you. "If she feels the need to fake it like that," he nods toward the wall, "then she clearly hasn't been with men who know how to make a woman feel good."
"Oh, and you do?" Your voice is light, teasing him like these past weeks haven't happened. You freeze the second you register it.
Jack stills next to you.
Heat floods your face immediately. "Oh my god, forget I said that." You turn around quickly, pulling the blanket up to your chin as if it can cool the flush that's travelling upwards. It sounded like you were challenging him, like you were asking him to—
You squeeze your eyes shut.
The mattress shifts slightly behind you as Jack exhales softly. "You know," he says after a moment, "I'd like to think I'd figure it out."
"You do not have to answer that," you squeak. "I shouldn't have—I'm sorry."
He chuckles quietly, and after a moment of silence, he replies, "Goodnight, Trouble."
He doesn't like you crossed a line or like you've annoyed him—he sounds...gentle. You pretend not to notice the way he puts pressure on your nickname.
"...Goodnight, Jack."
Nothing from the second day really sticks in your memory. You sit through lectures, take notes, nod at the appropriate moments, but your brain keeps snagging on the same thing—over and over again.
How you woke up wrapped in Jack's arms. How warm he was, the weight of his arms, the steady rise and fall of his breathing against your neck, and—
God.
The feel of his cock against your ass. How, when you'd shifted, still half asleep, it had twitched against you.
You'd tried to ignore it all day. It wasn't on purpose—just biology—but your mind keeps trying to spin it. The cold shower you took was not enough to keep the flush away throughout the day.
Jack's acting like it didn't happen. Like he hadn't nearly jumped off the bed when he woke up and noticed it. That still hurts to think about.
The warm feeling immediately turns sour when you remember that—a feeling that only worsens when Warren and Jeremy run into you after the celebratory dinner is over and the room has been turned into a dance floor.
Warren barely even acknowledges you as she sidles up to Jack. You hate how she speaks to him, hate how you can't help noticing how she stands close to him, how she laughs when he jokes, how she keeps touching him.
Jack doesn't seem to mind, and it makes you wonder briefly if you've been wrong about Lily—that it wasn't necessarily her, it was just anyone but you.
Jeremy tries to keep a conversation going with you, but even he sees it. His eyes keep glancing from the way you glare down at your champagne flute to the way Warren is laughing. He places a gentle hand on your shoulder, offering a sympathetic smile that asks if you're okay. You nod your head and force a smile back. You don’t need him to intervene; if Jack wanted to, he would.
He doesn't.
A sudden squeal from the microphone interrupts the chatter. "If there are any couples here tonight—or anyone hoping to be in one—head to the dance floor!"
Laughter ripples through the room as soft music begins playing.
You press your lips together, staring down at your drink. You plan to stay where you are.
"Wanna go—" Warren begins, and your chest aches. You can't stay here if he dances with her.
But Jack stays still, too, only to then reach his outstretched hand into your field of vision. "May I?"
You look up at him, surprised, but then realise it's just for show. Married couples dance. He can't exactly go off with Warren when there are people here whom you know. One last time pretending can't hurt, so you place your hand in his.
He leads you out onto the crowded dance floor and places a hand at your waist. The two of you step awkwardly, but somewhere between the music and the closeness, it stops. Your body remembers the shape of him, the rhythm, the ease of existing near him.
Your arms wrap around his neck, and the two of you sway gently. For the first time during this trip, you actually look at him. The lighting catches the green flecks in his eyes, his gaze locked on yours.
Your mouth goes dry, and you nervously bite your lip, almost willing to swear that his gaze drops down to it. Heat rushes up your neck.
You lean in closer, and he mirrors your movement.
"Can I—" he begins, and for a foolish second, you think he might kiss you. Then the room erupts into loud claps as the song ends, and your eyes snap open. You take a quick step back.
"I—I'll be right back," you stammer.
Jack frowns. "You okay?"
"Yeah," you nod quickly. "Just need to...pee!" You rush off before he can say anything else.
The bathroom is too bright and too quiet, though you're thankful no one is here to watch your spiral. You grip the sink tightly, exhaling harshly.
You need to get your shit together. Remember that this doesn't mean anything. It's a performance—he doesn't want you. No matter how much you can't help but keep hoping, even after the hallway, that he does.
You stay in there longer than you should. Splash water on your wrists, fix your lipstick, and try not to feel like you're sixteen years old again—stupid and foolish when it comes to love.
When you finally head back, you're not sure what you expected, but it wasn't seeing Jack and Warren laughing together. Her hand on his bicep, her head tilted backwards. You watch as she leans in, whispering something to him before heading over to the bar.
The hurt turns into anger as humiliation washes over you. He really doesn't care about your reputation or the fact that you'll forever be known for him straying.
You stride over to him.
"There you are—" he begins with a relieved smile.
You don't let him finish, leaning in to murmur to him. "I'm gonna go."
Jack blinks at you. "Why? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," you huff, but he seems unconvinced, searching your face for answers.
He sets his glass down. "Okay, let's go."
Your brows knit together. "No, you stay." Your gaze shifts to Warren. "It looks like you're doing just fine without me anyway."
"What—"
You step back, sending him a forced smile that hurts. "Have fun." You begin to turn around, but then remember— "Oh, just text me if you need the room."
Before he can ask anything else, before you can embarrass yourself further and before he can notice the angry tears glistening in your eyes, you turn and walk away.
Jack stands frozen for several seconds after you leave, staring at the spot you just occupied, trying—yet failing—to wrap his head around what just happened. He’d been trying to shake off Warren ever since you went to the bathroom, and just when she finally decided to head to the bar, you appeared with that piercing glare.
It looks like you're doing fine without me anyway.
Your words replay in his head.
Text me if you need the room.
Said as if you expected him not to come back, or like you expected him to—
His stomach sinks. He pushes through the crowd, ignoring Warren’s calls, impatiently tapping his fingers against his arms as he waits for the elevator. When it finally reaches your floor, he rushes out, swiping his key card haphazardly.
As the door swings open, he immediately sees you pacing, making sharp turns from the bed to the desk and back again. Your heels are thrown off to the side carelessly.
He closes the door behind him softly. "What's going on?"
You stop at the desk, your back turned to him, and he notices your shoulders rising and falling with quick breaths. "Nothing. You can go back," you dismiss him with a wave of your hand. There's an anger in your tone he’s never heard before.
"Go back?" He doesn't understand why you think he would—you're clearly upset.
"To Warren. Or whoever."
"Why on earth would I do that?"
You huff a laugh, bitter and low. "Don't play dumb."
Jack takes a cautious step closer. "Tell me what's going on."
"I told you. Nothing."
"Well, it's clearly not nothing," he says, frustration creeping into his voice. He doesn't understand why you won't look at him or why you're pushing him away like this—like you can't stand him.
"Jack—" you sigh, glancing back for barely a second. It's enough for him to spot the frustration carved deep in your features.
"Sweetheart," he says softly. You remain silent, but he feels like he’s making progress. "Why did you say that? About the room?"
Whatever hope he had quickly dissipates as you rip your earrings out and fling them onto the desk. "You know."
"No," he says. "I really don't."
You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh, turning to face him, your eyes blazing with fury. "Oh, please." You cross your arms defiantly. "She was all over you. And you just let her."
Jack doesn't pretend not to know who you're talking about. It's clear that it's Warren. He wants to make it clear that he has no interest in her, but in his surprise, all he can manage to say is, "She knows we're married."
You scoff, rolling your eyes. "Well...you're not. Not really. Not in the way that matters." Taking a step closer, you add, "And she clearly doesn’t care anyway, but if it matters to you, you can just tell her we’re in an open relationship."
Jack stares at you. "Is that what you want?"
Your expression twists instantly. "What?"
"Is that what you want?" he repeats, slower, taking a step forward, too.
Your laugh this time sounds bitter. "Who cares what I want? If you want this, go for it," you say, gesturing vaguely toward the hallway. "Seriously. Have fun. I’ll leave."
Jack watches as you begin messily shoving things into your bag. Why is it that you keep saying things like this when you know what he feels for you? Are you just looking for a fight so you can leave?
Jack tightens his jaw. "And where exactly are you staying?"
You shrug.
"At Jeremy's?" he says, mocking the way you said it all evening. Soft and sweet and nauseating.
"Maybe...yeah," you snap, glaring at him. "He wouldn't flirt in front of the person he’s supposed to be married to."
Jack shakes his head in frustration. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? Why did you keep saying that?"
You throw a shirt down and spin toward him. "Because it's true and you know it." You step closer, and he mirrors your movement. "Just stop pretending."
You’re close enough now for him to see your hands shaking with anger.
"I know you regret this," you say, voice cracking as it rises in volume. "And it’s okay."
"What?"
"The least you can do," you continue, "is be honest about it."
"I don’t—" His pulse races, the blood rushing in his ears as he tries to catch up.
"Come on," you scoff. "You don’t have to pretend anymore."
"Pretend what?" He steps closer.
"That you didn't hate every second of this. That saying yes to me wasn’t the biggest mistake of your life."
"What are you talking about?"
"That you regret getting stuck in this marriage!"
"That's not true!"
You close your eyes briefly, looking utterly worn out. "Can we not do this? Please?"
There’s barely any space between you now. He can feel your uneven breaths, just as clearly as he can see them.
"I've got a viewing in a few days. If it looks good, then I'll be out of your hair soon." The words pummel into him, stealing his breath.
You continue like you haven't just broken his heart, "We can sign the divorce papers when we get back. It's been long enough now."
The pieces of his heart shatter into even finer shards. "What?"
You avoid his gaze. "You can finally be with the person you actually want to be with."
His brows pinch together. "Who?"
"Lily."
Jack stares at you, confused. "...Lily?"
You huff, anger bubbling back up. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Don't pretend you don’t know."
"I genuinely don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!"
"I've seen the way you talk about her," you tell him. "The way your face changes."
His brain feels like it’s malfunctioning. "You think I’m in love with Lily?"
"You seriously expect me to believe otherwise?"
"Yes, because that's insane."
"I’m not blind, Jack!" you snap, your voice cracking. "I love you, and you don't love me, and that's fine."
"You—" His voice comes out rough. "What?"
Your eyes widen, and you quickly look away. "...Let's just stop."
Jack's hand shoots out, grabbing hold of your wrist before you can turn away. "No." The word comes out fast. "That's not what I want."
His mind is spinning. You love him.
"Well, we can't always get what we want," you say quietly, sounding incredibly sad. You try to tug your wrist free, but he keeps his grip firm.
"Trouble—" Jack begins, running a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. "You love me?" he asks quietly.
You love him.
"Jack," you interject.
He takes a step closer. "I don't understand why you’re still pulling away. Not when you know—“
"That’s exactly why!" you cut him off.
His laugh comes out strained. "Is it that horrible to be with me? To let me love you?"
You stare at him with wide eyes, but then you shake your head. "You don't love me."
"What?" he asks. But you knew? Didn't you?
"No, you’re upset," you say quickly. "Or you feel guilty, or—or you're trying to fix this because I said something embarrassing."
"You think this is pity? After everything?"
"I think you're a good person," you say quietly. "And I think you're trying not to hurt me."
"No."
"Jack—"
"You really think I'd do that?" he asks quietly.
You hesitate.
His laugh comes out sharp. He turns away for a moment, pressing both hands against his mouth, as if trying to hold it together. Because somehow this feels more devastating than everything else: worse than thinking you didn’t want him, worse than the apartment viewings, worse than the divorce papers.
You think he pitied you. That every moment between you had been an obligation.
"You think I stayed because I felt bad for you?" he asks.
"I...yeah," you murmur, and the words nearly take him out at the knees.
"Sweetheart," he says softly, and there’s something wrecked in the word now. "I don’t know how I fucked this up so badly."
"You think I wanted out?" he asks. "All this time?" He shakes his head hard before you can answer. "I have spent months trying not to love you."
Your breath hitches in your throat.
"I tried," he admits helplessly. "I tried so hard. And I failed."
Doubt still flickers across your face.
"Sweetheart. Please. I don't know how else to tell you."
You look down. "I just don't want you to say something you'll regret tomorrow."
"Regret?" he repeats quietly. That damn word haunts him.
You shrug helplessly, eyes glassy. "When this all settles," you say softly, "I don't want you to wake up and feel trapped again."
"Oh sweetheart," he murmurs, "I have done a lot of stupid shit that I regret, but loving you has never been one of them."
You still look doubtful.
Jack feels something hot and frantic curl in his chest. He doesn't know what to say to make you believe him, so he does the next best thing. He closes the gap between you, his hand cradling your jaw as he tilts your head back and kisses you. It isn't a soft or careful kiss like he'd imagined you'd share after he'd told you that—no, this is angry, frustration bleeding into every part of it.
You shove weakly at his chest, and he's ready to step back, but then your fingers close into a fist, tugging at his shirt and pulling him closer.
His lips press against yours again, devouring you as he crowds you into the desk. He loses himself in the feeling, barely noticing how he's lifted you onto the desk, how your legs have parted around him or how he's grinding into you.
All he can focus on is the way you breathe his name softly, the sweet sounds you make as he trails kisses down your neck, and how your fingers claw at his hair, his shoulders, his arms, urging him to come closer.
You love him.
It's an euphoric feeling—he almost feels like he's floating outside his body. The thought keeps hitting him over and over again, dizzying and intoxicating.
Jack pulls back to look you in the eye. "I love you." His thumb brushes your jaw gently and across your kiss-swollen lips. You kiss it softly, leaning your face into his touch.
"Do you understand? Not Lily. Not anyone else." He searches your eyes, desperate for you to grasp the depth of his feelings. You’re the only one who’s ever mattered. "I love you."
Your eyes start glistening again, but you nod. Relief fills his chest. "I thought you didn't—" Before he can say anything to reassure you again, you move forward, capturing his lips in another heated kiss. The force of it nearly tilts him backwards, and the way you giggle against his lips sends his heart fluttering.
Your legs pull him closer, and he finally notices how your dress has bunched up around your waist. He curses at the sight of your underwear, the sweet little bow that starkly contradicts the naughty way you're moving against him and the wetness that's slowly soaking his slacks.
"Fuck me," he groans, his fingers gripping onto your waist, helping you move. He's never been this hard before. He moves slowly, trailing his fingers down to your thighs, watching you carefully.
His chest rumbles lowly when he finally feels just how wet you are. He can't count on one—or even two—hands how much he's thought about doing this and reality is so much better.
"You really love me?" he asks quietly, still not quite able to believe it.
"Yeah," you whisper. "I always have."
He leans his forehead against yours, pieces of his heart mending with each kiss. He pushes the fabric aside, brushes his fingers softly through your wetness, circling your clit and listening as you moan sweetly for him. He swears he could cum from just this.
You're so soft. So sweet. So tight around his fingers. "You're gorgeous," he breathes, and he feels you squeeze around him. He catches on to that quickly, leaning in close so he can whisper to you. "You're doing so well, sweetheart. You're so wet. So perfect." He pulls his fingers in and out, relishing in the sounds he manages to pull from both your cunt and your mouth.
"Ja-ack," you gasp, and he can tell you're close.
"Be a good girl and cum for me," he says, pressing his other hand against your clit. The combined stimulation and his words push you over the edge, your legs shaking against him, your nails pressing hard into his arms. He doesn't mind, welcoming it and staying close until you begin pulling back.
He's never seen anyone as stunning as you. He watches as the glazed look in your eyes slowly subsides, and you come back to earth.
He still can't believe this is real. His thumb brushes softly against your jaw. "Hi, sweetheart."
"Hi," you murmur, a shy smile on your face. "That was—that was incredible."
It's like you know he'll tease you because you pull his face close, kissing him again. He could do this all the time. He hopes you'll let him.
He's so caught up in your kisses and making you feel good that he's forgotten about himself. It's only when your hands travel down his chest to his slacks and begin to palm him that he remembers.
You grin into the kiss at the groans he makes.
"Stop teasing," he begs, but doesn't move to change anything. He stands still as you find the zipper and begin pulling his slacks and boxer briefs down. He lets you take the lead, won't force you to do anything you don't want to—even if he's aching to feel your heat around him.
You pull him out, and then you stare down at his cock with a wide-eyed look. He can't help but tease you. "Don't tell me you've never seen one of these before?"
"Ha," you huff, slapping his chest. "It's just...big."
"You flatter me," he says, pride rushing through him. He's about to make another silly comment, but it evaporates the second you twist your hand.
"Fuck," he gasps when you pull him close, letting the head swipe through your wetness.
"I don't—" It takes all his strength to think clearly. "I don't have a condom."
"It's okay." You continue grinding against him.
"You sure?"
"Yes," you confirm, looking him deeply in the eye. Then you position him against your entrance and pull at his hips. He pushes forward slowly. Fuck. You're so tight. So warm.
He watches you carefully, ready to stop at the slightest hint of discomfort.
"Move, Jack," you beg him once the full length of him is inside. "Please."
Who is he to deny you? His hips snap forward, setting a steady pace. "I won't last long," he warns you.
You kiss him again, pulling him closer. Your gasps and moans are more than enough to send him over the edge, but he gathers all the strength he has. He reaches a hand down and finds your clit and waits until your eyes begin to glaze over and your legs shake again.
Only then does he let go of all restraint. His hips snap into you in a furious pace before he pulls away with a loud groan, spilling onto your cunt. He watches it drip down your thighs, his chest rising unevenly as he comes down from his high.
"That was—" he breathes out, locking eyes with you again. You nod, equally speechless. The two of you share a moment of silence before Jack springs into action, grabbing a towel to wipe you down.
He sends you away to pee and slips out of his clothes, leaving only his underwear on. His prosthetic lands next to the bed as he crawls under the covers, a wave of nervousness washing over him.
What if you regretted it? What if you didn't feel like that anyway?
You emerge from the bathroom, barely meeting his gaze, and Jack's stomach drops at the sight. His t-shirt from yesterday hangs on the chair, and he watches breathlessly as you put it on along with a fresh pair of panties. Then you settle in beside him, leaning into the crook of his neck with a smile, and he finally feels himself relax.
You don't regret it.
"I'm sorry," he says softly after a moment of breathing in your calming scent.
"For what?"
"For not telling you sooner." He exhales, tracing gentle patterns on your skin with his fingers. "I thought you knew. I thought you were pulling away because of that."
You pause to process his words, your head shaking firmly. "I'm sorry, too. I should've asked you instead of just assuming." You take his hand, intertwining your fingers. "I overheard you saying you regretted this, and that sent me spiralling. It didn't help that I thought you loved Lily."
Jack frowns. "When did I say that?"
"In the hallway. With Robby..."
He thinks back and realises, "Oh, sweetheart. That's not what I meant—I said I regretted it because I fell in love with you during it, and I couldn't stop it from happening despite knowing you didn't want me like that."
"I do—"
"I know," he interrupts gently. "I know that now." He squeezes your fingers and leans down to plant a soft kiss on your head. "And just to be clear—if you need to hear it again—I don’t love Lily. I love you."
He can feel the smile spreading across your face. "I love you, too."
He's grateful you're not looking at him because he must look silly grinning this widely. You press a kiss to his neck and then sigh contentedly.
"Guess I should've trusted Olivia," you murmur after a moment.
He chuckles, making a mental note to send her a thank-you gift for having his back without him knowing. "Robby, too."
You groan. "They're gonna be insufferable once they find out they were right."
Jack hums, his fingers dancing along your back. "We don't have to tell them right away."
"No?" You lean back slightly to look at him.
"We can keep this between us for a little bit, don't you think?" he says, his gaze dropping down your lips.
"Yeah," you breathe, your eyes darkening as your fingers gently tug at the hair at the nape of his neck to bring him close. Jack kisses you again. And again. And again.
He isn't sure how long he kisses you for, not that it really matters. All he knows is that it won't ever get better than this. He finally has his girl.
a/n: aaahhhh!! they finally confessed!!! it's been a long (and painful) journey but we're finally here <33333
Summary: After a pediatric patient panics during an IV start, you end up in the ED with a dislocated shoulder, a lot of pain meds, and absolutely no filter. The day shift learns three things very quickly: Jack Abbot is your husband, you picked that one, and apparently, his forearms are medically relevant.
Warnings: established relationship, married Jack and reader, injury, shoulder dislocation, medical procedure/reduction, pain medication/loopy reader, swearing, suggestive humor, sexual jokes, Jack being hot as a clinical intervention, Robby being Robby, fluff, crack treated seriously, hospital setting, peds nurse reader, very unserious wedding lore
Author’s Note: This is very much the sister fic in spirit to Where Is My Husband? Same deeply married chaos, same loopy wife energy, same Jack Abbot being forced to endure public affection against his will. Except this time, Robby discovers that “sexy doctor husband” is not just a title — it is, unfortunately for Jack, a clinically useful intervention. This one is ridiculous, soft, unhinged, and honestly exactly the kind of nonsense I love putting these two through. Jack is trying so hard to be a serious, worried husband; Robby is having the best shift of his life; Dana is quietly enabling chaos under the guise of professionalism; and Reader is simply telling the truth. Loudly. On medication.
You’re welcome.
Xoxo, Del
The first rule of pediatrics was that fear moved faster than pain. You had learned that early.
Pain made kids cry. Fear made them bolt.
Eli Mereiter had been trying very hard not to do either for almost twenty minutes.
He sat in the center of the peds exam bed with his knees tucked under the thin blanket, his left wrist cradled against his chest, his cheeks blotchy from the effort of pretending he was fine. His mother stood near the head of the bed, one hand on his shoulder and the other twisting the strap of her purse so tightly her knuckles had gone white.
“You’re doing great,” you told him.
Eli looked at the IV tray and swallowed. “No, I’m not.”
You crouched beside the bed so you were closer to eye level.
“You are. Great doesn’t mean you aren’t scared. It means you’re still here with me even though you are.”
His eyes flicked to yours.
The honesty helped. It usually did. Kids could smell a lie faster than adults could dress one up.
“It’s gonna hurt,” he said.
You nodded.
“It’s going to pinch. I won’t call it nothing.” You rested one hand on the mattress, close but not touching him without warning. “But it’ll be fast, and you don’t have to watch.”
His mouth trembled once before he pressed it flat. “I don’t want it.”
“I know.” You gave him a serious nod. “That’s fair. We can hate it together.”
Eli looked at you like that was suspicious. “You hate it?”
“I hate it when kids have to do scary things,” you said. “But I like when they get through them and realize they were braver than they thought.”
His mom made a quiet sound behind him.
You glanced up at her and gave a small, reassuring smile before looking back at Eli.
“How about this,” you said. “You pick where you look. Mom’s face, the ceiling tile that kind of looks like a potato, or me.”
Eli’s brows pinched together. “The ceiling tile doesn’t look like a potato.”
You looked up. “It absolutely does.”
He glanced up despite himself. For one second, his attention shifted. Not enough to make him calm, but enough to give him somewhere else to put the fear.
“That one?” he asked.
You nodded. “Very potato.” His mom gave a wet little laugh.
The nurse beside you finished prepping the IV with practiced quiet. You saw Eli clock the movement anyway. His eyes cut to the tourniquet. Then the alcohol wipe. Then the catheter.
His breathing changed. You leaned in slightly. “Eli. Look at me.” His gaze snapped back to yours.
You kept your voice low and even. “Can you breathe in with me?”
He tried. His breath caught halfway.
“That’s okay,” you said. “Again. Smaller this time.”
The nurse reached for his arm. Eli saw the flash of the needle. Fear got there first.
“No,” he said.
His mother tightened her hand on his shoulder. “Eli—”
“No!” He jerked backward, fast and hard, trying to get away from the tray, from the nurse, from the whole room.
“Hey, hey.” You moved with him. “You’re okay.”
But he was already twisting. His sneaker slid against the paper sheet. His hip caught the edge of the mattress. The bed rail was down on your side because you had been sitting there with him, and his small body tipped toward the open space between the bed and the floor.
You moved before thought could catch up.
Your hand caught the back of his gown. Your other arm shot across his chest, bracing him before he could fall.
For half a second, you had him. Then his weight hit your shoulder wrong. Something shifted. Not cracked. Not snapped.
Slipped.
White-hot pain tore through your shoulder and down your arm so violently that the room went gray at the edges. You made a sound you did not recognize.
Someone grabbed Eli from the other side.
“I’ve got him,” the other nurse said. “I’ve got him.”
Good, you thought. That was good.
You went down hard on one knee, your right arm hanging wrong, breath gone from your chest.
Eli was crying now. Not the scared kind. The guilty kind.
“I hurt her,” he sobbed.
You tried to lift your head. Bad idea. Pain slammed up the side of your neck and behind your teeth.
“No,” you forced out. Your voice sounded thin. Far away. “No, honey. You didn’t.”
A hand touched your back. “Don’t move,” someone said.
You tried to breathe through your nose. “Is he okay?”
“He’s okay,” she repeated, firmer this time. “We have him.”
Eli’s mother had him against her now, both arms wrapped around his shaking body. His face was turned toward you, wet and horrified.
You managed to focus on him. “Eli.”
His crying hitched. “I didn’t mean to.”
“I know.” You swallowed down nausea. “I know you didn’t. You got scared. That’s different.”
His face crumpled harder. You looked at his mom. “Tell him I’m not mad.”
“We will,” she said quickly.
You closed your eyes for half a second. “Please tell him.”
“We will,” the nurse said beside you. “But right now, we need to get you downstairs.”
You opened your eyes. “No, he needs—”
“He has his mom,” she said gently. “And he has Megan. We’ve got him.”
You wanted to argue. Your shoulder pulsed once, deep and sickening, and the rest of the sentence disappeared. Someone called down to the ED before they moved you. You heard pieces of it through the pain and the blood rushing in your ears.
“Staff injury coming down from peds.”
“Likely right shoulder dislocation.”
“Caught a pediatric patient who panicked during IV prep.”
“Vitals stable.”
“Severe pain.”
Nobody said your name. Or maybe they did, and it got swallowed somewhere between the exam room and the elevator. Either way, by the time they got you into a wheelchair, your scrubs were damp at the collar, your vision kept narrowing at the corners, and your arm had become a separate, terrible country you refused to look at.
You hated being the patient.
You hated it so much you almost missed the part where you were terrified. Almost.
The elevator ride downstairs felt both too fast and too slow. Someone kept telling you to breathe. Someone else kept asking your pain number. You gave a number that was probably too low because saying the real one made it feel more real.
The ED doors opened.
The familiar noise hit first. Monitors. Shoes. Voices. The distant roll of a cart.
Robby was already at the mouth of a bay when they wheeled you in, tablet in hand, chief-of-the-ER face on. Dana stood beside him with gloves already pulled on, calm and unsmiling in the way that meant she had already cleared the room in her head. Santos hovered just behind her like she could smell a procedure from three bays away. Princess was at the computer, and Javadi stood near the supply cart, trying very hard to look like someone who was not internally rehearsing every step of a shoulder reduction.
“Peds called down,” Robby said. “Likely right shoulder disloca—”
Then he saw your face. The chief of the ER expression dropped clean off.
For one second, he was not chief of anything. He was just your friend. “What the fuck, dude?”
You tried to glare at him. “Great bedside manner.”
Robby was already moving. He came to your side, one hand bracing the wheelchair arm, his eyes sweeping over your face.
“Look at me,” he said. “You with me?”
You blinked at him through the pain. “No, Robby, I thought I’d dissociate recreationally.”
His jaw tightened. “Answer me like less of a pain in my ass.”
You sighed. “I’m with you.”
“Good.” He glanced at the peds nurse behind your chair. “They called down a peds nurse. They did not say it was you.”
“Would that have changed your medical plan?” you asked.
“No.” His eyes flicked to your shoulder, and the doctor came back into him all at once. “It would have given me thirty more seconds to emotionally prepare for both my friend being injured and Jack killing me.”
“Jack is not going to kill you,” you replied.
Dana made a quiet sound. Robby pointed at her without looking. “Do not contribute.”
Dana lifted both gloved hands. “I said nothing.”
“You thought loudly.”
Santos leaned slightly to see your arm better. “Is it anterior?”
You swallowed through the pain. “Is Eli okay?”
Robby’s attention snapped back to you. Then he looked to the peds nurse. “Eli is the kid?”
The peds nurse nodded quickly. “Eight-year-old. Wrist injury. He’s okay. Megan stayed with him and his mom.”
Your eyes closed. “Did someone tell him I’m not mad?”
Robby went still for half a beat. His expression changed again. Softer this time. Worried in a way he could not hide behind sarcasm fast enough.
“Yeah,” he said. “They told him.”
“He won’t believe them,” you murmured.
Robby looked at you. “He might.”
“He’s eight.” Your voice thinned around the pain. “Eight-year-olds think everything is their fault.”
Robby looked at you for one second too long. Then he nodded once, like he was putting that away for later. “Okay,” he said. “We’re going to get you on the bed. Slow. Dana, support the arm. Javadi, do not look terrified.”
Javadi straightened. “I’m not terrified.” Robby looked at her.
You hated the careful hands and the count of three and the way pain still broke through your teeth when they moved you.
You hated that Robby’s face stayed calm. That meant it looked bad.
Once you were on the bed, Dana slid a pillow under your arm with the clean precision of a woman who did not waste motion. Princess clipped a monitor to your finger. Javadi asked about allergies, her voice only a little too bright. Santos hovered at the foot of the bed, watching your shoulder with open interest until Dana glanced at her.
Santos lifted her hands. “I’m not touching anything.”
“Correct,” Dana said.
Robby looked up from your shoulder. “Pain number.” You hesitated.
He gave you a look. “Do not make me ask like I don’t know you.” You told the truth.
Robby’s mouth tightened. “Thank you for not lying to me twice.”
“I lied once,” you admitted.
Robby shook his head. “You lied badly once.” Your breathing hitched. “Did someone tell Eli?”
The peds nurse, still lingering near the curtain, nodded. “Megan did. His mom did too.”
“But did he believe them?” you pushed.
Robby braced one hand lightly on the bed rail. “Do not try to sit up.”
You looked at him. “I wasn’t.”
“You thought about it,” Robby replied.
Your eyes narrowed. “You can’t prove that.”
“I’m chief of emergency medicine,” he said. “I can prove anything if I chart creatively.”
A laugh tried to escape you. It did not make it past the pain. Robby saw that too. His voice shifted.
“IV, x-ray, then pain meds before we reduce it,” he said. “Let’s get films and make sure we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”
“Love being discussed like a broken chair,” you muttered.
Robby leaned over you, penlight in hand. “I have never met a chair this mouthy.”
Princess found a vein in your good arm. You looked away while she taped the line down. That felt ridiculous, considering you had started hundreds of IVs yourself, but today your body had decided to be dramatic, and you were not giving it more material.
Robby watched your face. “You okay?”
“No,” you answered honestly.
Robby almost smiled. “Good answer.”
Princess glanced up from your IV. “Do you want us to call someone?”
“Yes,” you said immediately.
Robby’s eyes narrowed like he already knew where this was going.
Princess kept her hands near the computer. “Who should we call?”
“Jack Abbot.”
The room did not stop. Not yet. Princess typed, then paused.
Her eyes moved from the screen to you. “Dr. Abbot?”
You breathed through your teeth. “Yes.”
The room went a little too quiet. You opened one eye. “What?”
Santos looked from you to Robby. “Night-shift Abbot?”
“How many Jack Abbots do you know?” you asked.
Javadi made the mistake of whispering, “Dr. Abbot is her emergency contact?”
“He’s my husband,” you said, like that explained the entire universe.
It did, actually. Just not to the room. Santos stared.
Javadi looked like someone had changed the laws of physics in front of her.
Princess’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. Dana, somehow, did not move at all.
Then her eyes narrowed. “The sandwich.” You closed your eyes. “Dana.”
Santos looked at her. “What sandwich?”
Dana didn’t look away from the monitor. “Shift change. Three weeks ago. Abbot was coming off nights. She was passing the desk with a stack of peds charts.”
Princess leaned around Javadi. “I remember that.”
“He had half a sandwich in his hand,” Dana said. “Tore the crust off without breaking conversation, held it up, and she took it on the way by.”
You breathed carefully through your teeth. “I was hungry.”
“You said thanks,” Dana added.
Santos blinked. “That’s it?” Dana finally looked up.
“That’s the point.” A beat passed.
Then Princess pointed toward you. “Wait. The parking lot.”
You opened one eye. “Please don’t.”
“I saw you two by the employee parking last month,” Princess said. “He switched sides with you near the cars.”
Javadi blinked. “Switched sides?” Princess looked at her like this was obvious. “The sidewalk rule.”
Javadi’s brows pulled together. “The what?”
“When the guy walks closer to the street,” Princess said. “Protective thing. Old-school. Very romantic if he’s hot.”
Santos made a face. “That sounds fake.”
Dana adjusted the pulse ox cord. “It’s not fake.”
Princess pointed at Dana. “Thank you.”
You stared at the ceiling. “Can we not analyze my husband’s walking patterns while my shoulder is in another fucking zip code?”
“And he had your bag,” Princess added.
“It was heavy,” you said.
She looked at you. “It had little strawberries on it.”
Robby’s mouth twitched. “Jack carried a strawberry bag?”
You gave him the best glare you could manage while lying flat with your arm attempting secession. “You are supposed to be my doctor.”
Santos’s face changed. “Oh, my god. The fire alarm drill.”
“No,” you said.
“You had his jacket,” she said.
“It was cold.”
“No.” Santos pointed, too delighted to stop herself. “He put it around your shoulders before you asked.”
Dana’s gaze sharpened with recognition.
Santos nodded hard. “And took your clipboard so you could get your arms through the sleeves.”
Princess looked at Robby. “You knew?”
Robby held up one hand. “I was at the wedding.”
The room shifted again. Javadi whispered, “There was a wedding?”
You stared at the ceiling. “I’m starting to think day shift needs hobbies.”
Robby looked at you, and this time his humor was gentle around the edges. “You married a night-shift attending and then wandered around this hospital accepting crustless sandwich halves like that was normal.”
“It is normal,” you replied.
“For married people,” Dana said.
Santos looked personally offended. “I am usually very good at noticing things.”
You swallowed through another pulse of pain. “Sorry my marriage was inconvenient for your brand.”
Robby pointed at you. “Pain has not made her less mean. Excellent prognostic sign.”
Princess was still looking at you like she had discovered treasure. “So Dr. Abbot is your husband.”
“Yes.”
“And he brings you coffee,” Princess added.
You inhaled. “Yes.”
“And the sandwich,” she continued.
“Yes.”
Princess’s eyebrows rose. “And the parking lot.” You closed your eyes. “I would like drugs now.”
Robby’s smile faded enough for his concern to show again. “Soon,” he said. “We’re moving.”
Then he held out his hand toward Princess. “I’ll call him.”
You looked at him. “You don’t have to.”
“I do, actually,” Robby replied.
“Why?”
Robby’s face softened around the edges, just enough that your chest hurt for reasons that had nothing to do with your shoulder.
“Because he’s going to be worried,” he said. “And if a stranger calls him, he’s going to scare somebody.”
You sighed. “Jack doesn’t scare people.”
“No,” Robby said. “But when he’s worried about you, he gets very concise.”
Dana hummed. “That’s true.”
You closed your eyes. “Tell him not to speed.”
Robby shook his head. “I’m not promising that.”
“Robby,” you said, trying to sound reasonable.
He sighed. “I’ll suggest moderation.”
Robby stepped a few feet away from the bed and tapped Jack’s contact. You watched him through the pain, sweat cooling at the back of your neck. He pointed at you without lowering the phone. “Try not to dislocate anything else while I’m gone.” The call rang once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth ring, Jack answered.
His voice came rough with sleep and irritation. “What, Robby?”
Robby glanced back at you. You were pale on the bed, jaw tight, your good hand fisted in the sheet while Dana adjusted the monitor.
“Your wife is in the ED,” Robby said. “She’s fine. I’ve got her.”
The line went silent. Then Jack’s voice came back low and awake. “What happened?”
“Right shoulder dislocation,” Robby said. “Peds incident. She caught a kid before he fell and took the force the wrong way. She’s conscious, stable, and pissed off, which I’m taking as a good sign.”
Another pause. Jack breathed out once, sharply. “Of course she caught the kid.”
“Yeah,” Robby said, softer. “That was my reaction too.”
You lifted your head an inch off the pillow. “Tell him not to speed.”
Robby looked over his shoulder. You stared back, sweaty and serious.
“She says not to speed.”
Jack was already moving. Robby could hear it through the phone: sheets, a drawer, something hitting the floor. “Tell her I’m coming.”
“Jack,” Robby said carefully.
“I heard her,” Jack said sharply.
Robby nodded once. “Good.”
“Thanks, brother. I’m on my way,” Jack replied.
Robby’s mouth softened. “Yeah,” he said.
He ended the call and came back to the side of the bed. “He’s coming.”
You let your head fall back against the pillow. “Good.” The word came out smaller than you meant it to. Robby heard that too. For a second, he was quiet.
Then he nodded to Princess. “Now give her the good stuff before she remembers she’s trying to be reasonable.”
Princess pushed medication into your IV. Warmth moved up your arm a few seconds later, strange and soft. The pain did not vanish, but the edges of the room began to loosen. The lights blurred a little. The monitor beep sounded farther away.
You blinked. “Wow.”
Santos leaned closer. “How’s that?”
You turned your head toward her slowly. “You have two faces.”
Robby’s mouth twitched. “Better?”
You inhaled. “I can still feel my skeleton making bad choices.”
“So, somewhat.” Robby grinned.
You looked toward the curtain. “Did someone tell Eli I’m not mad?”
Robby exhaled. “Yes.”
“I’m not mad,” you repeated.
“I know.”
You blinked hard. “No, but he needs to know.”
“He knows,” Robby replied gently.
You frowned. “You’re just saying that.”
“I am saying many things,” Robby said. “This one happens to be true.”
You tried to sit up. Every person in the room reacted.
Dana touched your good shoulder. “Nope. Stay back.”
“I should tell him,” you told her.
“You should keep your shoulder still,” Robby said.
You frowned at him. “You’re being bossy.” Robby shrugged. “It’s on the mug.”
“Jack has a mug that says World’s Sexiest Doctor,” you replied without thinking. The pain meds were softening things too much now. Words had started wandering into places you had not invited them.
Robby slowly turned his head. “I’m sorry. He has a what?”
You winced. “It was a joke. I got it for him when we were dating.”
Princess looked delighted. “And he kept it?”
You breathed through another pulse of pain. “He drinks out of it every morning.”
Santos stared. “Abbot drinks coffee out of a World’s Sexiest Doctor mug?”
Dana, dry as dust, added, “That explains more than I wanted it to.”
Robby pressed his fingers to his mouth like he was trying to hold in actual joy.
You glared at him. “You’re supposed to be my doctor.”
“I am,” Robby said. “And this is healing me.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. The ED lights drifted above you. Your body felt heavy against the bed, but your mind kept circling the same places. Eli crying. Your shoulder slipping. Jack coming. You blinked slowly. “Did someone tell Eli?”
Dana adjusted the blanket around your legs. “Yes.”
“Did someone tell Jack?” you asked.
Robby’s mouth twitched. “Yes.” You nodded, satisfied for exactly one second.
Then you frowned. “Which one is coming to see me?”
Robby stared at you. “What?”
“Eli or Jack?” you asked.
Princess turned toward the computer with suspicious speed. Santos looked openly delighted. Robby’s expression brightened with pure, terrible affection.
“Oh,” he said softly. “This is going to be a great drug for you.”
You frowned. “Don’t be weird.”
Robby patted the bed rail. “Try not to say anything incriminating before your husband gets here.”
Your eyes closed, but you could still hear the smile in his voice. “Jack already knows everything.”
Robby made a thoughtful sound. “Sure,” he said. “Let’s test that.”
Robby stayed beside the bed after Princess pushed the medication. One hand rested on the rail. His eyes moved from your face to the monitor, then to your shoulder, then back to your face again. He was not joking as much now.
You hated that. “Stop looking worried,” you said.
His mouth twitched, but it did not quite become a smile. “Stop giving me reasons.”
You blinked at him, the lights blurring softly around the edges. “Rude.”
“Consistent,” Robby said.
Dana adjusted the blanket over your legs, brisk yet careful. “That’s one word for it.”
The medication had made the room strange. Softer, but not kinder. The monitors sounded farther away, and the overhead lights had started to bloom at the edges. Your shoulder still hurts. Not as sharply as before, maybe, but it was there under everything, pulsing and wrong. You tried to shift away from it. Your body disagreed. “Bad,” you muttered.
Robby leaned in a fraction. “Pain?”
You shook your head. “Existence.”
He nodded once. “Fair.”
Dana checked the line of your IV, then glanced at him.
Robby’s eyes returned to yours, and something in his face softened. “Hey,” he said. “World’s Sexiest Doctor.”
You frowned. “What?”
“The mug,” Robby said, voice lighter on purpose. “You said he drinks out of it every morning.”
Your face softened before you could stop it. “He does.” Princess turned from the computer with immediate interest. Santos, who had been pretending not to hover near the foot of the bed, stopped pretending. Dana’s expression did not change, but her eyes flicked toward you.
Robby leaned one forearm against the rail. “Still can’t believe he committed to the bit.”
“It’s not a bit,” you said.
Robby’s eyebrows lifted. “No?”
You looked at him like he was missing the obvious. “It’s true.”
Santos’s mouth curved. Dana looked down at the monitor. Princess pressed her lips together like she was holding something very large behind her teeth. You blinked at the ceiling, dreamy and annoyed all at once. “He is the sexiest doctor.”
Robby drew back like you had slapped him. “Rude.”
You turned your head toward him slowly. “You’re right.”
His expression softened. “Thank you.”
“Ellis is pretty hot, too,” you murmured happily.
Robby froze. Princess made a sound and turned sharply toward the computer. Santos whispered, “Wow.”
Dana closed her eyes. Robby stared at you. “That was not the correction I was requesting.”
You considered him through the pleasant fog around your thoughts. “You have nice hair.”
Robby’s hand went to his chest. “That was devastatingly lukewarm.”
“It is nice.”
“Nice hair,” he repeated, wounded. “That’s what I get after years of friendship.”
“You’re my friend,” you said.
His expression shifted. For one second, the joke left his face. “I know.”
You watched him through the blur. “You’re a good doctor.”
Robby’s hand tightened slightly on the rail. “You’re on excellent medication.”
“I mean it.”
“I know,” he said, quieter.
Dana looked away first. Santos suddenly found the supply tray very interesting. Robby cleared his throat and straightened. “Okay,” he said, his voice returning to a steady tone. “Let’s get ready.”
The words landed wrong. Your smile faded. The room shifted back into medicine too quickly. Gloves. Positioning. Dana adjusting the bed. Santos watching Robby’s hands intently. Javadi standing too still by the supplies, trying to look prepared. Your stomach dropped through the medication. “Wait.” Robby looked back at you. “Yeah?”
Your good hand tightened in the sheet. “You’re doing it now?” His expression softened. “Soon.”
“No.”
Dana’s hand settled lightly near your good shoulder. Not holding you down. Just there.
Robby stepped closer. “I know.”
“No, Robby.” Your voice stayed even, but barely. “I don’t want to do it.”
Robby did not flinch. “I know you don’t.”
“I mean it.”
“I know you mean it.”
You swallowed hard, throat suddenly tight. “I don’t want it to hurt.”
Robby’s face changed again, not much, just enough to show you he hated this part too. “I’m going to be as gentle as I can.”
You frowned. “That’s what people say before they do stuff that sucks.” Santos muttered, “Accurate.”
Dana looked at her. Santos lifted both hands. “I’m validating.”
Robby ignored her and kept his eyes on you. “It is going to suck,” he said. “But the longer it stays out, the worse it’s going to feel. I want to get it back where it belongs.”
Your breathing went shallow. The medication had made everything loose except the fear. That stayed sharp. Clear. Mean. You looked toward the hallway. “Fine.” Robby waited. You glared at him, sweaty and medicated and angry enough to hide behind it. “I’ll do it if Jack is my doctor.”
The room paused. Dana looked at Robby. Princess looked at the hallway. Javadi looked like she had just realized this was not covered in any textbook.
Robby let out a slow breath. “Yeah,” he said carefully. “That’s not how this works.”
You frowned at him. “He’s a doctor.”
“He is.” Dana’s voice stayed calm beside you. “He’s also your husband.”
You looked at her like she had helped your case. “Exactly.” Robby’s mouth twitched despite himself.
Before he could answer, Jack’s voice cut through the department. “Where is she?”
Your head turned. Completely. All the thoughts in your brain scattered like startled birds. Jack was halfway down the hall, moving fast and trying not to look like he was moving fast, a hoodie under his unzipped jacket. His hair was sleep-rough on one side. His jaw was tight, his eyes already searching, already locked on the room. The second he saw you, his pace changed.
Your good hand lifted off the sheet. “That one.”
Robby followed your gaze. For the first time since the reduction tray came out, true humor broke through his worry. “Oh,” he said softly. “Okay.”
Jack stepped into the bay. You pointed at him, certain now. “I want that one.”
Jack froze for half a second. His eyes moved over you. Face. IV. Monitor. Shoulder. Robby. Dana. Back to your face.
Then he was at your side. “Baby.”
The word hit the room like a dropped instrument. Santos stared very hard at the floor. Princess pressed her lips together. Javadi’s eyes went wide, then wider, like she was watching hospital folklore become sentient.
You smiled up at him. “Hi.”
Jack took your good hand, his palm warm and familiar around yours. “Hi.”
His thumb moved once over your knuckles. You exhaled. You felt it happen before you could stop it. Your shoulders did not relax, not really, but your breathing changed. Your grip loosened from the sheet. The sharp edge of panic moved back by an inch.
Robby saw it. His eyes flicked to the monitor, then to Jack’s hand. “Interesting.”
Jack did not look away from you. “Don’t.”
“I’m observing.”
“You observe too loudly.”
Robby’s mouth curved. “I am her physician.”
Jack’s jaw tightened. “You are enjoying being her physician too much.”
“I was worried,” Robby said.
The joke thinned for a second. Jack looked up. Robby held his gaze. “Still am.”
Jack’s face shifted.
You squeezed his hand. “Don’t do serious faces.”
Jack looked back down at you. His thumb moved again. “Sorry.”
You studied him, hazy and affectionate. “You came.”
“Of course I came.”
You turned your head toward Dana, solemn and proud. “I picked that one.”
Dana’s mouth twitched. “So I’m hearing.”
Jack closed his eyes. “What did you give her?”
“Pain control,” Robby said. “Not enough to explain all of this.”
You tugged lightly on Jack’s hand. “He’s being rude.”
Jack looked at Robby. “Stop being rude.”
Robby pointed at him. “You weren’t even here.”
“I believe my wife.”
Princess turned toward the computer again, but not fast enough to hide her smile.
Santos murmured, “That was hot.”
Dana said, “Santos.”
“What? It was,” Santos replied with a shrug.
Jack ignored all of them and leaned closer to you. “How bad?”
“Bad.”
His face softened. “Yeah?”
You nodded, then regretted it. “Don’t let me do head stuff.”
“I won’t,” Jack promised.
You frowned. “Having a head is bad.”
“I’ll make a note,” Jack said with a soft smile.
Robby stepped closer to your injured side. “Okay,” he said. “We’re going to try Cunningham.”
“No.” Your response was immediate.
Jack’s hand tightened around yours. Robby did not react like the word surprised him. “I know.”
“No, I don’t want Cunningham. It sounds smug,” you told him.
Robby’s brow raised. “It’s a reduction technique, not a man at a country club.”
You frowned at him. “Still smug.”
Jack’s thumb brushed your knuckles. “Look at me.”
You turned your eyes back to him. “No.”
Jack’s eyes softened. “You’re already doing it.”
You glared. “That’s annoying.”
His mouth almost smiled. “I know.”
Robby looked between you and Jack. Then his eyes moved to the monitor again. A thought entered his face.
Jack saw it immediately. “No.”
Robby blinked. “I didn’t say anything.”
Dana adjusted the bed so you were sitting up more, angled slightly back against the raised mattress. The movement sent a pain-sparking sensation down your arm. “Fuck.” Your eyes squeezed shut. “Fuck, this is worse than my fucking IUD insertion.”
The room went silent. Jack’s thumb stilled against your hand. “Okay,” he said carefully.
You opened your eyes and glared at the ceiling. “I thought I knew pain. I was wrong.”
Dana’s mouth twitched near the monitor. Princess turned very deliberately toward the computer.
Jack leaned closer. “Baby.”
“No.” You turned your glare on him. “This is your fault.”
His brows pulled together. “My fault?”
“Yes.”
Jack blinked once. “How is this my fault?”
“Because,” you said, furious and medicated, “if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t know this was worse.”
Robby looked up. Jack did not move.
“I was doing fine,” you continued. “I was in my celibate phase. I was at peace.”
Jack’s face changed by exactly one dangerous millimeter. “You were not at peace.”
“I was close.” Your eyes narrowed. “Then you came along with your stupid handsome face and your stupid arms, and then I got the stupid IUD, and I thought that was pain. But no.”
Robby nodded slowly. “That is a clinically fascinating chain of blame.”
Jack did not look away from you. “So your shoulder hurts because I’m handsome.”
Dana did not look away from the monitor. “Do not repeat Mrs. Abbot.” Your face softened immediately.
Jack noticed. His eyes dropped back to yours, something warm cutting through the mortification. “What?”
You blinked up at him, drug-soft and suddenly pleased. “She called me Mrs. Abbot.”
Jack’s thumb moved once over your hand. “Yeah, baby.”
A small smile pulled at your mouth. “That’s me.”
Robby looked from you to Dana. Dana adjusted the pulse ox cord with perfect neutrality. “What?”
“You’re enjoying this,” Robby said.
“I am maintaining room discipline.”
“You called her Mrs. Abbot.”
Dana’s mouth barely moved. “That is her name.” Your smile widened.
Jack looked at Dana, then back at you, and his face softened despite himself. Dana glanced at the monitor. “See? Therapeutic.” Robby’s eyes dropped to Jack’s sleeve.
Jack saw it happen. “No.”
Robby smiled. “I didn’t say anything.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “You looked at my sleeve.”
“Clinically,” Robby replied.
Jack shook his head. “Absolutely not.”
You blinked up at Jack, still angry, still hazy, still betrayed by the entire medical system. “He does have nice forearms.”
Jack stared at the ceiling. Robby nodded toward Jack’s arm. “Roll up your sleeve.”
Jack looked at him. “Excuse me?”
“She’s tensing.”
Jack gave Robby a look. “You want me to roll up my sleeves.”
“I want patient compliance,” Robby corrected.
Jack looked at Dana. Dana glanced at the monitor, then at you. “It would probably help.”
Jack’s face went flat. “Not you too.”
Dana shrugged. “I’m practical.”
Robby looked delighted. “See? Medicine.”
Jack exhaled through his nose, then dragged one sleeve of his hoodie up his forearm. Your eyes followed the movement immediately. You hated yourself a little. Not enough to look away. His forearm flexed as he pushed the fabric past his elbow, tendons shifting under skin, the veins at his wrist standing out when his fingers curled once around the bed rail. Your mouth went soft.
Robby pointed at you. “There.”
Jack’s eyes cut to him. “Do not point at my wife while she’s objectifying me.”
“I am pointing at a response to treatment,” Robby replied with glee.
You looked at Jack’s arm. “Treatment is good.”
Princess made a strangled sound. Javadi stared straight ahead like a resident determined to survive rounds with her soul intact.
Jack leaned closer to you. “You are making this very difficult.”
You blinked. “Me?”
“You.” His thumb brushed your cheek. “Very stubborn. Very pretty. Extremely bad at being a patient.”
The giggle came before you could stop it. Soft. Helpless. Embarrassing. Jack’s eyes warmed. Robby looked like he had just discovered a new antibiotic. “Oh, that’s excellent.”
Jack did not look away from you. “Ignore him.”
“You think I’m pretty,” you said.
“I married you,” Jack replied.
“That’s not an answer.”
His mouth curved. “Yes, baby. I think you’re pretty.”
You melted. Completely. It was humiliating. It was also his fault. Robby adjusted your injured arm, careful and slow, guiding your hand toward his shoulder. The position made pain spark hot and immediate. “No.” You tried to pull back. “No, fuck this.”
Jack’s face sharpened. Robby’s tone stayed calm. “I need thirty seconds.”
“I don’t want thirty seconds,” you said, frowning.
Robby’s expression softened, “I know.”
“No, I want that one to do it,” you said, looking from Robby to Jack.
Jack leaned closer. “You have that one.”
“I want that one to doctor me.” Your lower lip jutted out.
Robby, far too cheerful, said, “We’ve covered the conflict of interest.”
You frowned at him. “Sexy doctor husband.”
Jack looked at Robby. “Fix her shoulder.”
Robby looked at Jack’s hoodie. Jack saw it. His whole body went still. “No.”
Robby lifted both hands. “I didn’t say anything.” Jack stared at him.
Robby smiled. “She responded well to forearm.”
“Forearm is not a drug,” Jack shot back.
Robby shrugged. “It is today.”
Jack dragged a hand down his face. “Fuck me.”
You, who had been blinking hazily at the ceiling, turned your head with alarming speed. “Yes.”
The room stopped. Completely. Jack’s hand froze halfway down his face. “No.”
You frowned, offended. “Rude.”
Princess turned toward the computer with the focus of a woman fighting for her life. Santos stared at the floor, shoulders shaking.
Dana checked the monitor. “Heart rate response noted.”
Jack looked at her. “Dana.”
She did not look up. “I report data.”
Robby pressed his lips together. “For the record, that was the fastest she’s oriented to verbal stimulus since the medication.”
You reached weakly for Jack’s hand. “Sexy doctor husband.”
Jack looked down at you. Your eyes were glassy from medication and pain, your good hand tight around his, your face still trying so hard to stay mad because scared was too vulnerable, and both of you knew it. His irritation lost some of its shape. “Fine,” he muttered. Robby brightened. Jack glared at him. “Don’t look so happy.”
“I’m a scientist observing results,” Robby replied, delighted.
Jack stood beside the bed and reached back, fingers catching the sweatshirt at the back of his neck. Your eyes locked onto the movement. He pulled it over his head in one smooth drag, the hem catching for half a second on the white T-shirt underneath. The shirt stretched across his chest and shoulders when he lifted his arms. His biceps shifted under the fabric. His forearms flexed as he dragged the sweatshirt free.
The room went very quiet. You stared. Completely gone. Jack paused with the sweatshirt in one hand. Just for a second. Long enough to let you look. His mouth tilted, barely. “Better?”
You nodded slowly. “Wow.”
Robby made a sound that might have been spiritual.
Jack dropped back into the chair beside you and took your hand again. “Eyes on me.”
You obeyed immediately. “Sexy doctor husband.”
Jack closed his eyes. “Good Lord.”
Robby looked at the monitor, then at Jack. “That was outstanding.”
Robby grinned. “You removed clothing, and her heart rate stabilized.”
“That is not what happened,” Jack replied with a sigh.
Dana glanced at the monitor. “It sort of is.” J
ack looked betrayed. “Dana.”
She shrugged. “I report data.”
Robby gestured toward you, far too pleased with the entire clinical situation. “Magic Mike: ED Edition.”
Jack’s head snapped up. “No.”
Robby’s grin spread slowly. “I don’t know, brother. You danced at your wedding. Pretty risky, if memory serves.”
Jack’s stare went flat. “Robby.”
“There was a certain Eminem song involved,” Robby continued.
Your head turned on the pillow. “Shake That.”
Jack closed his eyes. “Do not help him.”
Robby pointed at you, delighted. “That’s the one.”
Dana looked up from the monitor. “You danced to ‘Shake That’ at your wedding?”
“No,” Jack said immediately.
You turned toward him with surprising speed. “Jack.”
His eyes opened. “Baby.”
Your brow furrowed, “Don’t you dare deny that.”
Princess pressed both lips together and turned toward the computer as if it had suddenly become fascinating. Santos stared between you and Jack, openly thrilled. You lifted your good hand as much as the IV allowed and pointed at him. “That moment changed my brain chemistry.”
Jack looked toward the ceiling. “Good Lord.”
Robby nodded solemnly. “For the record, I was there. It changed several people’s brain chemistry.”
Jack’s head turned slowly. “You cried during the father-daughter dance.”
“You and your wife offended decent people everywhere with that dance,” Robby said.
You nodded, glassy-eyed and completely unashamed. “Yep. My grandma left.”
Jack looked down at you, horror flickering across his face. “Your grandmother left?”
You blinked up at him. “You didn’t know that?”
“No,” Jack said. “I did not know that.”
“She came back for cake,” you added.
Jack looked at you. “That does not make it better.”
Robby’s grin widened. “I’m just saying. It was a lot of wedding.”
Jack’s eyes cut to him. “You ended that night with half your shirt unbuttoned because a bridesmaid took your tie off with her teeth.”
Santos’s head snapped up. “With her teeth?”
Dana did not look away from the monitor. “Do not repeat wedding lore.”
Princess turned from the computer, delighted. “Did he go home with her?”
Robby pointed sharply at your shoulder. “We have a patient.”
Jack’s mouth curved, barely. “He did.”
Robby stared at him. “Betrayal.”
Jack shrugged. “You started this.”
“I started a medical discussion,” Robby defended.
Jack narrowed his eyes. “You called me Magic Mike.”
Robby frowned. “In a medical context.”
You looked between them, soft and dreamy now, the medication turning the memory warm around the edges. “It was perfect.”
Jack’s expression shifted. “Our wedding?”
You nodded. “You danced. I danced. Robby got slutty.”
Robby pointed at you. “For the record, ‘Robby got slutty’ is not medically relevant.”
Your eyes drifted back to Jack. You studied him for one long, medicated second. “You got slutty.”
Jack’s brows lifted. “I did not.”
You gave him a look. “Tell that to your hips.” You kept looking at Jack, still dreamy and deeply serious. “And hands.”
Jack closed his eyes again.
Santos made a tiny sound. “He got slutty.”
Dana did not look away from the monitor. “Do not repeat Mrs. Abbot.”
Your face softened immediately. Jack noticed. Of course, he noticed. His thumb moved once over your hand. “She called me Mrs. Abbot.”
“I heard,” Jack said, quieter now.
A small smile pulled at your mouth. “That’s me.” Jack’s expression softened before he could stop it.
Robby looked from you to Dana. “You’re enjoying this.”
Dana adjusted the pulse ox cord with perfect neutrality. “I am maintaining room discipline.”
Jack looked at you slowly. He looked down at you, and something in his expression changed. Not embarrassed now. Worse. Amused. “You know, baby,” he said, voice low, “I didn’t hear you complaining that night.”
Your mouth parted. For one blessed second, the medication actually managed to quiet you.
Robby looked delighted. “Oh, that worked.”
Jack did not look away from you. “Don’t.”
You blinked up at Jack, soft and glassy-eyed and deeply sincere. “I was thoroughly enjoying it.”
Dana closed her eyes. Princess turned fully toward the computer.
Robby pressed a hand to his chest. “That is a lot of marriage for a workplace.”
Jack’s jaw flexed, but his thumb moved over your hand again. “Trouble.”
You smiled faintly. “You started it.”
Robby pointed at Jack. “She’s right.”
Jack looked at him. “You started it.” Robby nodded. “Also true. Still worth it.”
Dana adjusted the bed, then looked at both of them. “Shoulder now. Wedding crimes later.”
You frowned. “They’re not crimes if everyone had fun.”
“Your grandmother left,” Jack said.
“She came back for cake.”
Robby nodded. “Strong recovery.”
Jack looked at him. “You are done.”
Robby smiled. “Brother, I have barely begun.”
Dana’s voice cut through, calm and final. “Robby.”
Robby lifted both hands. “Shoulder now.”
Jack leaned closer to you, resigned and soft all at once. “Eyes on me, trouble.”
You looked at his white T-shirt, then his face. “I am looking,” you said. “That’s the problem.”
For half a second, he looked like he might say something that would make the entire situation worse.
Robby must have seen it coming, because he clapped once, sharp and quiet. “Okay,” he said. “Shoulder.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “You heard the man.”
You frowned at him. “I don’t like the man.”
Robby adjusted his gloves at your injured side. “The man is hurt by that.”
Dana moved closer to the bed, one hand resting near your good shoulder. “Mrs. Abbot,” she said, calm and even. “We’re going to sit you up a little more.”
Your face softened immediately. Jack saw it again. His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “You like that.”
You blinked at him. “Like what?”
His voice went quieter. “Mrs. Abbot.”
A small, helpless smile pulled at your mouth. “That’s me.”
Jack’s expression changed. Not enough for anyone else to call him out on it, maybe, but enough for you to feel warmer than the medication could explain. “Yeah, baby,” he said. “That’s you.”
Robby looked at Dana. Dana kept her face neutral. “Therapeutic,” she said.
Jack did not look away from you. “Do not note that.”
Robby shrugged. “I have a whole mental chart now.”
“Delete it,” Jack shot back.
Robby grinned. “HIPAA doesn’t apply to my thoughts.”
Dana raised the bed before Jack could answer. The motion sent your shoulder into a hot, mean pulse. Your good hand tightened around Jack’s. “Nope.”
Jack stepped in closer immediately. “I’ve got you.”
“Nope,” you said again, sharper this time. “I changed my mind.”
Robby’s voice stayed steady from your side. “You can hate it.”
“I do hate it. I hate the concept. I hate whoever invented Cunningham,” you groaned.
Robby nodded once. “Probably fair.” You went on, “I hate that his name is Cunningham.”
“It is a useful medical procedure,” Robby replied.
You turned your glare on him. “Don’t defend Cunningham to me right now.”
Jack leaned into your line of sight. “Look at me.”
You looked at him. Mostly because he was very close. Also, because the T-shirt was still doing hateful things across his chest. Jack’s eyes narrowed faintly, like he knew exactly where your attention had gone.
“My face,” he said.
You sighed. “Your face is also a problem.”
Robby glanced at the monitor. “Problem appears effective.” Jack turned his head a fraction. “Robby.”
“Data,” Dana said.
Jack gave her a betrayed look. Dana’s brows lifted. “I report it.”
Robby slid your injured hand carefully toward his shoulder. The second your arm shifted, pain sparked bright and fast down your side.
“Fuck.” Your eyes squeezed shut. “No, no, no, fuck that.”
Jack’s free hand came to your cheek. Warm palm. Steady fingers. No pressure, just contact. “Hey.”
You shook your head. “No, Jack, I really don’t—”
“I know.”
Robby paused, his hands still supporting your arm.
Jack’s thumb moved once beneath your cheekbone. “I know, sweetheart.”
You opened your eyes. His face was right there. Close enough to blur at the edges. Worried in that contained way that made your chest hurt. Soft in the places no one else knew to look.
“I don’t want it to hurt,” you whispered.
Jack’s expression gentled. “I know.” Your throat tightened. “I’m being so stupid.”
“No,” he said immediately.
Robby’s voice came from your side, quieter now. “You’re not.”
Dana’s hand stayed light near your shoulder. “You are allowed to be in pain, Mrs. Abbot.”
Your mouth trembled. That was rude of her, honestly. Using the name like that.
Jack watched your face, and something in him settled. “Be mad,” he said softly. “Swear at Robby. Insult Cunningham.”
Robby lifted one hand. “I would like to opt out of one third of that.”
Jack ignored him. “But keep looking at me.” You swallowed. “You’re bossy.”
“I know.” Jack smiled softly.
You narrowed your eyes. “You like being bossy.” His mouth curved, barely. “With you?”
Your eyes widened a little. Jack’s thumb moved along your cheek. “Yeah.”
The room went dangerously still. Robby’s face brightened. “Oh, that was good.”
Jack’s eyes cut toward him. “Do not grade me.”
“I’m not grading. I’m appreciating the technique.”
Dana looked at the monitor. “Heart rate improved.” Jack exhaled through his nose. “Good Lord.”
You stared at him, caught between pain and medication and the unfair fact of him. “Sexy doctor husband.”
His jaw flexed. “Apparently.” Robby moved your elbow another careful inch. You tensed immediately.
Jack’s hand slid from your cheek to the back of your head, fingers threading gently into your hair. “Eyes on me.”
You tried. You really did. Your gaze dropped to his mouth first.
Jack noticed. His mouth twitched. “My eyes, trouble.”
“I’m trying,” you groaned.
He smirked. “You’re doing terrible.” You made a small, offended sound.
Jack’s thumb stroked lightly at the base of your skull. “But you’re very pretty while you do it.”
A giggle escaped you before you could stop it. It came out wet, shaky, and ridiculous.
Robby froze. Dana glanced at the monitor. Princess made a tiny sound near the computer.
Santos looked like she might need to sit down. Jack’s eyes softened. “There she is.”
You frowned at him. “You’re flirting medically again.”
“I am not,” Jack replied.
Robby adjusted his grip on your elbow. “You are.”
Jack kept his face angled toward you. “No one asked you.”
“I did,” you said.
Jack looked back at you. “You did not.”
“I spiritually asked,” you said with a sigh.
Robby pointed at you. “She gets me.”
Jack’s hand tightened carefully at the back of your head. “That is what worries me.”
The laugh that tried to leave you broke into a gasp when Robby began working at the muscles around your shoulder.
Pain rose again, deep and threatening. “No,” you said, voice thin now.
Jack’s teasing vanished. Just gone. His face steadied. “Breathe with me.”
“I don’t want to breathe.”
He raised a brow. “Do it anyway.” You frowned. “That’s mean.”
“I know,” Jack agreed.
“Fuck, Jack.”
His eyes held yours. “I’ve got you.”
Robby’s voice came low and focused. “Good. Just like that. Try not to fight me.”
You turned your eyes toward him in outrage. “Try not to fight you?”
Jack’s hand at the back of your head guided you back. “Me.”
You sucked in a breath. “Robby is saying stupid things.”
“I know.” Jack nodded.
“I can hear you,” Robby said.
Jack’s thumb swept once under your eye. “Ignore him.”
“He’s touching my shoulder,” you said, miserable.
Jack tilted his head closer to you. “Because he’s fixing it.”
“I don’t like him,” you said with a frown.
Jack smiled softly at you. “You love him.”
“Not right now,” you said, brows furrowed.
Robby nodded without looking up. “Temporary friendship suspension. Accepted.”
Dana looked at you. “Hold still, Mrs. Abbot.”
The name hit exactly where it had before. Your breathing hitched, but this time it hitched softer.
Jack saw it. Robby saw it. Dana absolutely saw it. Robby looked at Dana. “You’re good.”
Dana didn’t look away from the monitor. “I know.” Jack leaned closer. “You’re doing good.”
You stared at him. “I am?”
“Yeah,” he replied.
Your eyes burned. “I’m making this difficult.” Jack nodded once. “You’re scared.”
“I’m swearing,” you continued.
He shrugged a shoulder. “I’ve heard worse.”
“I told everyone about our wedding crimes.” Your lower lip wobbled.
His mouth moved like he was fighting a smile. “That one we’ll discuss later.”
“You got slutty.”
Jack closed his eyes. “Not now.” Robby’s shoulders shook once.
Jack’s eyes opened. “Do not laugh during my wife’s reduction.”
Robby’s expression snapped back into focus. “Guilty.”
Pain flared again, sharper this time, and your whole body tried to pull away.
Jack’s hand held steady at the back of your head. Not forcing you. Keeping you with him. “Look at me.”
You blinked away tears. “I am.”
“No.” His voice dropped. “Really look.”
You did.
His eyes were dark and close and worried. His thumb moved against your cheek, slow and sure.
“There you go,” he murmured. “Stay right there.”
Your breath shook. “This fucking sucks.”
“I know,” Jack murmured.
You went on. “Cunningham is a bad man.”
“Probably.” Jack nodded with a soft smile.
Robby glanced up. “Cunningham did not personally do this to you.”
You glared at him through tears. “He knows what he did.” Robby nodded. “I’ll allow it.”
Jack’s mouth brushed the edge of a smile.
You caught it. Even through pain. Even through fear. Even through the medication making the room swim around the edges. “You’re laughing.”
“I’m not,” Jack replied.
You glared at him. “You are.”
“Only because you’re mean on drugs,” he said, smiling softly at you.
You inhaled sharply. “I’m allowed to be mean right now.”
“Yeah,” Jack said, impossibly soft. “You are.”
Robby’s hands shifted. The pressure changed. Your body knew before your brain did.
You went rigid. “No.” Jack’s face sharpened. “Baby.”
“No, no, no, I don’t want—” You shook your head despite the pain.
His hand cupped your face more firmly. “Look at me.” Your eyes found his. “I am looking.”
“Good,” Jack said, his voice low and steady.
Your eyes burned as you stared up at him. “Jack.”
His hand stayed firm at the back of your head, fingers threaded carefully into your hair. “I’ve got you.”
You swallowed hard, trying not to pull away from Robby’s hands. “I hate this.”
“I know.” Jack’s thumb moved along your cheek.
Your breath hitched, half pain and half panic. “I hate your stupid face for helping.”
His mouth curved just enough to ruin you. “Use it.”
“What?”
“My stupid face.” His thumb brushed beneath your eye. “Look at it instead of your shoulder.”
You stared at him. “I hate that that works.”
“I know,” Jack murmured.
You glared at him. “Your face is medically annoying.” Robby murmured, “Groundbreaking terminology.”
Jack did not look away from you. “Not now.”
Robby’s hands shifted again. You felt the pressure build. Slow, careful, awful.
Jack saw you brace. Of course he did. His voice dropped. “Be good for me.”
Your face went soft immediately. “Oh, that’s unfair.”
Jack’s thumb brushed beneath your eye. “I know.”
“You’re cheating.” You tried to glare at him, but the medication and his hand in your hair made it a weak attempt.
His mouth curved, barely there and deeply unrepentant. “I know.”
Robby, without missing a beat, said, “Cheating is medically allowed right now.”
Jack’s jaw flexed. “Do it now.”
For one suspended second, there was only Jack’s face, his hand in your hair, his thumb on your cheek, and Robby’s steady pressure on your arm.
Then the joint shifted. Not violently. Not with a dramatic crack.
Just a deep, sickening slide, followed by sudden release. You gasped.
The wrongness vanished all at once. Your whole body folded toward Jack on a broken little sob.
He caught you carefully, one hand still cradling your head, the other braced at your good shoulder. “I’ve got you,” he said immediately. “I’ve got you.”
Robby exhaled. “Shoulder’s back.”
You breathed hard against Jack’s white T-shirt, your face pressed into the warmth of his chest, tears leaking more from relief than pain now. “Holy shit.”
Jack’s mouth brushed your hair before he seemed to remember there were witnesses. “Yeah.”
“That was awful,” you breathed, tears falling.
Jack kissed your head. “I know.” You turned your face enough to look up at him. “You were helpful.”
His expression softened. “Yeah?”
You nodded, still floating, still furious, still very much on drugs. “Sexy doctor husband.”
Robby pulled off his gloves with great satisfaction. “For the record, Cunningham with targeted husband exposure: wildly effective.”
Jack did not look away from you. “Document that and die.”
Robby smiled. “Brother, this is medicine now.”
You blinked up at Jack, wet-eyed and dazed. “I picked that one.”
The room went quiet around the softness in your voice. Jack’s thumb moved once along your cheek. “Yeah,” he said. “You did.”
You stared at him for another long, drug-soft second. “I picked good.”
His face changed. Not a lot. Enough. “Yeah, baby,” he said quietly. “You did.”
Robby pressed a hand to his chest. “I need everyone to know I am handling this with incredible maturity.”
Dana looked at him. “You are not.”
“No,” Robby agreed. “But I almost did.”
Jack’s hand stayed against the side of your face for another second before he seemed to remember the rest of the room existed.
“Post-reduction films?” he asked, glancing toward Robby.
Robby pulled his gloves off and dropped them into the trash. “Already ordered.” Jack nodded once.
Robby gave him a look as he stepped back to your injured side. “Neurovascular was intact before. Checking again now.”
“I know you are,” Jack said.
Robby lifted his brows. “Do you?” Jack’s mouth flattened. “I’m standing right here.”
“Great,” Robby said. “Then stand there husbandly and let me be her doctor.”
You turned your head slowly against Jack’s palm. “You’re both doctors.”
Robby leaned closer, careful as he checked your hand. “Only one of us is currently allowed to practice medicine on you.”
You looked at Jack. “I vote that one.” Jack closed his eyes. “Baby.”
Robby did not look up from your fingers. “Your vote has been received and rejected by the ethics committee.”
You frowned at him. “I don’t like the ethics committee.”
“The ethics committee is me,” Robby said.
You blinked at him. “That tracks.”
Santos made a tiny sound near the foot of the bed. Dana glanced at her. Santos pressed her lips together and looked at the floor.
Robby touched your fingers gently. “Can you wiggle these for me?” You wiggled them.
Robby nodded. “Good. Any numbness or tingling?”
You stared at him, still dazed. “Just in my dignity.”
“That is not innervated by the axillary nerve,” Robby said.
You blinked. “Show-off.”
Jack’s thumb moved over your cheek again. The motion was small. Your body noticed anyway.
Robby saw that too, because of course he did, but for once he did not comment.
Dana adjusted the sling on the tray beside the bed. “We’ll get her immobilized once Robby’s done checking you,” she said. Jack’s attention shifted to the sling. His jaw tightened by a fraction.
You saw it even through the medication. “You’re doing the face.”
Jack looked back down at you. “What face?”
“The face,” you said.
Robby glanced over. “Oh, I know the face.” Jack did not look at him. “No one asked you.”
Robby’s voice stayed light, but not careless. “It’s the face he makes when he wishes he could make it easier for you.”
Jack went quiet. So did you. Your fingers tightened around his. “You did,” you said.
Jack looked down at you. “What?” Your smile was small and drug-soft. “You made it easier.”
His thumb moved once over your hand. “Yeah?”
You nodded, eyes glassy and sincere. “Yeah. Because you’re hot. And a doctor. And smart. And sexy. And my husband. And I love you.”
The room went very still. Jack’s face softened all at once.
Then you added, very seriously, “And you’re hot.”
Robby’s mouth opened. Dana looked at the monitor like it had become essential to her survival.
Jack brushed his thumb over your knuckles. “Is that all?”
You blinked up at him, exhausted and earnest. “No.” His mouth curved. “No?”
You shook your head once, barely. “But I’m tired and drugged.”
Jack’s expression warmed into something painfully fond. “Okay, baby.”
Robby pressed a hand to his chest. You swallowed, the edges of the room still warm and watery.
“And Eli?”
Robby’s expression gentled before the joke could get there.
“Megan called down while we were getting the films ordered. He’s okay.”
You stared at him. “She told him?”
“She told him,” Robby said. “His mom told him. He knows you’re not mad.”
You blinked hard. Jack’s hand tightened around yours.
Robby leaned a hip lightly against the counter, his voice quieter now. “He drew you a picture.”
Your throat closed. “He did?”
“Apparently it’s you with a cape,” Robby said.
Princess smiled from the computer. “And a very large arm.”
You made a sound that tried to be a laugh and almost became something else. “Is it anatomically correct?”
Robby looked at Princess. Princess shook her head. “Not even close.” You closed your eyes. “Good.”
Jack brushed his thumb over your knuckles.
Your eyes burned again, but softer this time. “He doesn’t think I’m mad?”
Robby shook his head. “He thinks you’re a superhero.”
You went very still. Jack felt your hand tighten around his. Then your face crumpled. “Oh, no.”
Jack leaned in immediately. “Baby?” Your eyes filled too fast for you to stop them. “I’m leaking.”
Jack’s expression softened all at once. “You’re crying.”
“I know.” Your mouth trembled. “I don’t want to.”
“That’s okay,” he murmured.
You shook your head. “It’s embarrassing.”
“No, it isn’t,” Jack replied, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.
You sniffled. “It is in front of the day shift.”
Robby’s face softened from the counter. “Day shift can handle feelings.”
Santos looked suspiciously focused on the floor. Princess turned toward the computer, blinking too much.
Dana adjusted the sling on the tray without looking up. “Mrs. Abbot,” she said evenly, “day shift has seen worse.”
Your smile wobbled through the tears. “She called me Mrs. Abbot.”
Jack’s thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching a tear before it reached your cheek. “Yeah, baby.”
You looked up at him, wet-eyed and overwhelmed. “He thinks I’m a superhero.”
Jack’s face changed. Not a lot. Enough to make you cry harder. “He’s right.”
Your chin trembled. “Jack.”
“He is,” Jack said, voice low. “You protected him.”
A tear slipped hot down your cheek. “I scared him.”
“You helped him.”
The words landed so gently that they hurt. You made a broken little sound and tried to wipe your face with your good hand, but Jack caught your fingers before you could tug at the IV.
“I’ve got it.” He brushed another tear away with his thumb.
You sniffed. “I’m leaking a lot.”
His mouth softened. “I know.”
You exhaled. “I hate this drug.”
“No, you don’t.” He smiled gently.
You thought about it, tears still sliding down your cheeks. “I kind of love this drug.”
Robby nodded from the counter. “There she is.”
Jack did not look away from you. “Let her leak.”
Dana smiled gently. “Mrs. Abbot,” she said, crisp and even, “I’m going to help support your arm while we get this situated.”
Your eyes opened the rest of the way. A smile pulled at your mouth immediately, even through the tears.
Jack looked down at you. “There it is.” You blinked at him. “What?”
He brushed one knuckle lightly along your jaw. “That smile.”
You looked toward Dana, pleased and hazy. “She called me Mrs. Abbot again.”
Dana did not look up from the sling. “That is your name.”
Robby pointed at her. “You’re doing it on purpose.” Dana kept her hands steady. “I am doing my job.”
“You are weaponizing legal marriage,” Robby said.
Dana fitted the strap carefully behind your neck. “I am supporting patient cooperation.”
You sighed happily. “It is working.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Clearly.”
Dana adjusted the sling around your injured arm. “This may pull a little.” Your smile vanished.
Jack saw it instantly. “Hey.”
“Nope,” you said.
His hand found your good one again. “Look at me.”
You frowned. “I already did that.”
“Do it again.”
You looked at him.
His eyes stayed steady on yours while Dana adjusted the last strap. There was a brief tug, a hot little spark of discomfort, and then your arm was held against you, supported and still.
You exhaled shakily. Jack’s thumb brushed once over your hand. “There you go.”
You swallowed. “I swore a lot.”
Jack’s mouth softened. “You were allowed.”
You leaned and whispered poorly. “In front of Dana.”
Dana stepped back from the sling. “I’ve heard worse, Mrs. Abbot.” Your smile came back immediately.
Jack glanced at Dana. “Therapeutic.”
Dana picked up the chart. “Accurate.”
Robby checked the sling with a quick glance, then nodded to Dana. “Looks good.”
Dana stepped back. “It’ll do until ortho tells her the same thing in a more expensive voice.”
Princess laughed under her breath. Santos rocked back on her heels.
“So she’s going home?” Santos asked.
Jack looked at Robby before Robby could answer, the same question reflected in his eyes
Robby lifted his brows. “You asking as her husband or as the night attending who has forgotten he is not on shift?”
Jack stared at him. “Husband.”
Robby smiled. “Good choice.”
Jack’s jaw flexed. “Robby.”
“We’ll watch her a bit after the follow-up films, make sure pain is controlled, then yes,” Robby said. “Home. Ice. Sling. Ortho follow-up. No lifting. No heroic catching of children for a while.”
You frowned at him. “That feels targeted.”
“It is,” Robby confirmed.
Your frown deepened. “Eli was falling.”
“And you caught him,” Robby said. “And now your shoulder is in a sling.”
You looked away. Jack’s voice softened. “You did good.”
You looked back up at him. “I broke myself.”
Jack shook his head. “You protected him.”
You pressed your lips together. “That sounds like something you say when I broke myself.”
Jack held your gaze. “It can be both.”
You considered him through the medication. “You’re very pretty when you’re reasonable.”
Robby made a wounded sound. “Not this again.”
Jack did not look away from you. “Thank you.”
Your smile went soft. “Sexy doctor husband.”
Jack lowered his head for half a second like he was gathering strength.
Dana picked up the chart. “Do not repeat Mrs. Abbot.”
Santos closed her mouth so fast her teeth clicked.
Princess turned toward the computer, shoulders shaking. Robby looked between Dana and the monitor.
“Therapeutic and preventative.”
Dana’s eyes flicked to him. “Exactly.”
Jack gave her a long look. “I don’t know whether to thank you or be concerned.”
“Both is usually safest,” Dana said.
A little while later, after the films confirmed what Robby already knew, after Princess brought discharge paperwork, after Santos was banished from asking any more questions about the wedding, the room finally thinned out.
Dana left with one last check of your sling and one more calm, devastating, “Take it easy, Mrs. Abbot.”
You smiled so hard your eyes closed.
Jack watched Dana go, then looked down at you. “She did that on purpose.”
You leaned into the pillow. “She likes me.”
“She likes making me suffer,” Jack said.
You nodded solemnly. “People contain multitudes.” Jack huffed a quiet laugh.
Robby came back with the discharge papers and a pen. “Okay,” he said. “Because apparently I am the only person in this room still committed to medicine.”
Jack was sitting beside your bed now, his sweatshirt back on but unzipped, one hand wrapped around yours. “You loved every second of this.”
Robby held up the paperwork. “I loved several medically relevant seconds of this.”
“You called me Magic Mike,” Jack said.
Robby nodded. “In a medically relevant context.”
“You threatened to chart targeted husband exposure,” Jack added.
“I still might,” Robby said.
Jack stared at him. Robby smiled. “I won’t.”
“You better not,” Jack warned.
“I’ll save it for the group chat,” Robby said with a shrug.
Jack’s expression went blank. “There is no group chat.”
Robby looked at you. “He thinks there’s no group chat.”
You turned to Jack, horrified. “You think there’s no group chat?”
Jack looked between you and Robby. “I hate this family.”
Your smile went dreamy. “You said family.”
Robby’s expression softened before he covered it with a cough.
Jack looked down at your joined hands. “I did.”
The air warmed around that. For one second, nobody ruined it.
Then Robby clicked the pen. “Anyway,” he said. “Sling stays on. Ice twenty minutes at a time. Pain meds as prescribed, not as creatively interpreted by the patient. Ortho follow-up within the week. No work until cleared.”
You opened your eyes. “No work?” Jack’s hand tightened.
Robby looked at you. “No work.”
“But peds is short,” you replied.
“Peds will survive,” Robby said.
You frowned. “You don’t know that.”
Robby leaned closer, his sarcasm gone soft around the edges. “I know you cannot care for children with a freshly reduced shoulder.”
You looked at Jack for backup. Jack shook his head. “No.”
“You didn’t even let me ask,” you said, brows furrowed.
Jack just gave you a look. “I know where you were going.”
“You always know where I’m going,” you sighed.
Jack shrugged. “Usually because it’s somewhere you shouldn’t.” Robby nodded. “Marriage.”
You sighed again and let your head fall back against the pillow. “This is oppressive.”
“This is discharge planning,” Robby said.
“Oppressive discharge planning,” you mumbled.
Jack stood slowly, keeping hold of your hand. You looked up at him. “We’re leaving?”
He nodded. “Soon.”
“Are you taking me home?” you asked, hopefully.
His expression softened. “Yeah, baby.”
Your whole face relaxed. “Good. I want that one.”
Robby pressed the paperwork to his chest. “She’s still doing it.”
Jack took the papers from him. “She’s on medication.”
He folded the paperwork and tucked it into his jacket pocket.
Robby watched him for a moment, the humor easing out of his face. “You good to get her home?”
Jack looked at you. You were blinking slowly, exhausted now, the adrenaline finally draining out of your body.
His voice gentled. “Yeah.”
Robby nodded. “Call me if anything changes.”
Jack met his eyes. “I will.”
The two men looked at each other for half a second longer than the words required.
You noticed even through the fog. “You two are having feelings.”
Robby looked down at you. “We are absolutely not.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “No feelings.”
“Lies,” you murmured.
Robby pointed at you. “Pain meds have made her too powerful.”
Jack helped you sit up carefully. The room tilted as soon as you moved. You made a small sound and grabbed for him with your good hand.
He was already there. One arm came around your waist, careful not to jostle the sling, his body solid beside yours. “I’ve got you.”
You leaned into him. “I know.”
That seemed to hit him somewhere. His hand spread warm at your side. Robby stepped closer, but Jack had you steady.
“Slow,” Jack said.
“I am slow,” you grumbled.
The room tilted. You caught Jack’s shirt with your good hand, and his arm came around your waist before you could wobble any farther.
His mouth twitched. “That’s why I said go slow.”
You rolled your eyes. “Smartass.”
Robby nodded from beside the bed. “Fair assessment.” Jack shot him a look.
“Supportive environment,” Robby said.
Jack eased you carefully off the bed. Your knees felt uncertain, and the room stayed too bright, but his arm held you steady.
Dana reappeared at the curtain like she had sensed movement. “You good?”
Jack nodded. “I’ve got her.”
Dana looked at you. “Mrs. Abbot?”
Your smile came back, sleepy and immediate.
“I’m good.”
Dana’s mouth barely moved. “Clearly.”
Robby narrowed his eyes at her. “You did it again.”
Dana checked the hallway. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You absolutely do.”
Jack adjusted his hold at your waist. “Can we leave before anyone learns anything else about my wedding?”
Princess, still at the computer, lifted one finger. “I have follow-up questions.”
“No,” Jack said.
Santos leaned against the counter. “I have several.”
Jack shook his head. “Absolutely not.”
Robby grinned. “I have photos.”
Jack went still. You gasped softly. “You have photos?”
Robby’s grin widened. “And videos.”
Jack pointed at him. “Delete them.”
“Never,” Robby responded immediately.
“You have videos of the dance?” you asked, unable to contain your excitement.
Robby gave you a look. “You think I would witness neurological history and not document it?”
Your eyes went glassy again. “Can you send them to me?”
Jack looked down at you. “Baby.”
“What? I was there. I should have them,” you defended yourself.
Robby tapped his phone. “Already sent.”
Jack closed his eyes. “Good Lord.”
Your phone buzzed somewhere in the plastic belongings bag.
You looked up at Jack, delighted. “Brain chemistry.”
Dana held up one hand before Santos could speak. “Do not repeat Mrs. Abbot.”
Santos sighed. “I didn’t even say it.”
Dana looked at her. “You thought loudly.”
Jack shook his head and started guiding you toward the hallway. “We’re going home.”
You leaned into him, warm and sore and still floating enough that the ED lights looked like stars smeared across glass. “Home with you?”
Jack glanced down. His face softened. “Yeah.”
You smiled. “I picked good.”
This time, there were no monitors beeping too loud, no hands at your shoulder, no room full of witnesses waiting for the next outrageous thing you might say.
Just Jack’s hand at your waist, his body steady beside yours, his voice low near your ear.
Context - 18+ MNDI! Imagining things, dirty thoughts, patient trauma, crushing hard, thoughts of touching, mention of drugs.
Pairing- labtech!reader x Jack Abbot
Summary- the night goes on until there’s a trauma in ER and you have to take blood down to the ER and he looks at you.
A/n I know this one kind of has a lot of technical terms and such, if you have any questions don’t be afraid to ask! ☺️
The night wore on agonizingly slow as you finished up the Qc (quality control). So you decided to go into your office to do some unfortunately boring paperwork. Going through charts reviewing the QC to make sure that everything was in the ranges (which was one of your best qualities).
You stood up from your desk needing to stretch a little bit so you took the order sheet and headed to the walk in fridge. You went through all the reagents for the tests making sure you were up to par or even slightly above. Checking what you needed to order more or less of. It was a tedious task but it needed to be done. And it usually fell on you because nights were slower. Boy could you do with something exciting right now. You went back into your office opening up the search engine and placing the order for the tests. You leaned back in your chair looking up at the ceiling.
You let out a deep breath and there it was. Your needy cunt pulsing. Your thoughts went back to the way Dr. Abbot licked his lips. Imagining how his thick tongue would feel against yours. And then of course kissing down over your breasts kneading them softly, nipping at them sucking them, lapping them until your nipples are hard peaks. Until he’s satisfied. Kissing further and further until he’s nipping at the sensitive flesh of your inner thighs his stubble scratching slightly moving inward more until he’s so close you can feel his breath on your aroused clit and already dripping cunt from barely anything. “So needy” you imagine him saying his voice smooth as velvet but you can feel it vibrating through your needy cunt making your drip. Thinking about digging your heel into his shoulder trying to edge him closer. But of course this man is built like a tank and doesn’t budge.
A knock on your door pulls you from your thoughts “fuck..” you can’t seem to even day dream about the man properly… you look in the blacked out screen of your computer noticing how flushed your face it you’ll make up some excuse about it.
“Yes?” You stand opening your door and it’s one of the baby lab techs (newly hired).
“Umm.. there’s an emergency down in the ER and they are needing more blood how..” she tries to get out but you’re already moving brain already switching to work mode.
“ER can get how ever many Packed red blood cells they need but they need to be following our protocol. As per the united blood association..” you point to a board in blood bank. “We need to start thawing plasma as well. And get the platelets ready.” You don on your lab coat, gloves, and eye protection. “Just pull the segments from the tubing which are the little bits of the packed RBC’s for later testing— pull two segments and label them with the barcode pull two barcodes one for the trauma sheet and one for our records.” You move around with smooth swiftness of course you do you’ve done this about 100 times. Especially here in Pittsburgh. There were tat least three traumas a night. If it’s not a drive by or stabbing it’s a bar fight gone wrong.
You call down to the ER and one of the nurses picks up “hi this is Y/N from the lab the trauma there is it a male or female?” You ask in a calm voice. And the nurse replies with a female. “How old?” You ask “26” you nod giving her a quick thanks and then hang up. “Okay so this is very important to remember we use Oneg blood for any female that is premenopausal or still having intact sexual organs because there is an antibody called Kell and this antibody if introduced into her system while she is in child bearing ages can cause serious birth defects. So…” you walk over to the fridge pulling out a drawer with dark red blood in bags “we want to make sure to give Kell negative units. All of these on this shelf have already been tested” you point at the label “and show they are Anti-K -which is an alternative name for it -negative.”
You start pulling four units out and you put on a temp sticker “if they don’t use it and bring it back we have to have the temperature sticker on it and if it’s not cold enough we can’t use it once they are out of temp and have to dispose them. And an uncrossmatched sticker obviously because we don’t have blood to cross match to make sure it’s okay. But you know Oneg is the universal donor” you give her a quick smile showing her how to pack it into the cooler grabbing paperwork for the trauma and have her follow you. “When they use all their units down there then we have to start bringing our own down to them so we can start calling for more to come.”
You both walk down the hall and to the elevator and head up to the ER. It’s chaos as per usual. You head to one of the trauma room s seeing Abbot and he spots you giving you a quick nod. You try to stuff the thoughts from earlier down this is a trauma not some time to be horny. You step inside the door.
“I have four more units and then we have plasma being thawed right now. What can I do?” You ask him as he’s intubating the patient. He doesn’t speak for a moment until the end tidal is green he uses the back of his hand to scratch his greying curls. “We received the tubes for the patient just a bit ago so they should be on the analyzers right now for getting her type and checking for any unknown antibodies.” Which if there are that can complicate things. Which could mean she has either had previous transfusions and had a reaction - a whole other level- or she is Rh negative and having a baby - Rh negative moms get rhogam to prevent maternal antibodies from crossing over into the fetus and thinking the fetus is a foreign thing that it needs to attack both possibilities are not easy but the ladder is easier to deal with and easy to navigate.
Jack shakes his head “no I think we are okay for the moment things seem to be stabilizing right now. But you never know how things can go at the drop of a hat.” He looks at you and then the baby tech standing slightly behind you.
“He won’t bite” you tease the baby tech but secretly? You’re wishing he did. That he would claim you and mark you. That may sound a bit werewolf-esk but the thought of him marking and claiming you? Sent another greedy pulse to your cunt.
“Unless you get a couple drinks in him” he retorted raising his eyebrows once at you either a smirk on his lips. Your eyes flick down to his lips. The baby tech lets out a small laugh at his joke. He raises an eyebrow. But shakes it off. He looks back at the patient, one of the nurses Matteo is stabilizing something that is protruding from the patients arms.
Your phone buzzes it’s a text from one of the other tech “plasma and platelets ready.” You look back up at Jack “the plasma and platelets are ready we’ll be right back” you say in a calm voice to Jack he nods watching you and the other tech walk away.
Sometimes he thinks to himself what those pretty lips would feel like around his hard cock you looking up at him through those fake lashes. He did think you looked hot with them he could tell that you needed a fill soon though. One of the clerks Garcia pointed them out to him that she knew the girl that you went to get your lashes filled from. He loved the look of them how they made it look like you wore make up without actually wearing any. They made the color of your eyes pop even more. Don’t get him wrong he would still find you attractive even if you didn’t wear the lashes but something about them just made you feel more confident in yourself and he liked seeing that confidence in you. There were times where he wanted to show up to that damn salon on his days off saying that he was your boyfriend or something like that and wanted to pay for the lashes but he figured that was maybe a little to forward so instead paying for them directly he would casually buy gift cards for the salon and hand them to the lab director (who was on days) saying that one of the nurses on nights bought them but couldn’t use them and that the nurses knew you went there or some other bullshit hr would come up with sometimes he would just slide an envelope under your office door with your name printed on the front no clue as to who’s handwriting it was he always had someone else write your name so the handwriting was different every time. He never wanted a thank you or anything like that. He knew you liked them and wanted you to keep getting them especially if you were that confident with them. Kinda made his dick hard.
You went upstairs grabbing the freshly thawed plasma and platelets bringing them back to the ER but, you told the tech to stay so she could finish out her duties and start working on processing the patients lab work and getting her type going and running an antibody screen to make sure she was okay for getting those units. You packed the plasma and platelets in a small cooler it was bright red that had PTMC LABORATORY plastered all over it with the biohazard symbols as well. You made it back to the ER trauma bay that Jack was in you just stared for a moment as they were getting ready to pull the object from the patients arm. You stepped inside the door. Jack looked up for half a second and then back down. As they slowly pulled the object out of her arm.
The tourniquet is tight around her bicep so the bleeding is very minimal as they locate and ligate any veins or arteries that were bleeding. “Well looks good let get this bad boy sutured up.” Jack says when they release the tourniquet and nothing else is bleeding.
Your phone buzzes and you pull it out looking at the results from the toxicology screen and the. Look up at Jack “tox screen positive for meth and amphetamines…” you scroll further down “holy sh—“ you zoom in handing the cooler to his nurse “her liver enzymes are critically high…” you look wt the patient putting on gloves pulling the patients shirt up slightly seeing bruising all over and then you open her eyelids softly seeing the jaundice -yellowing of the eyes. And then look at Jack. “She’s in liver failure…”
Jack looks back at the patient noticing the bruising and the yellowing of her eyes and then you show him the lab results. That clearly show liver failure. “And you don’t think you’re one of the most important person here..” he nudges you.
You roll your eyes but you feel a blush creeping up your neck at the nudge. “Nope still you.”
thank you for enjoying a little bit more of this story! And having a small Jack POV 🤪
Summary: it’s been a week since the surgery, and Jack can finally come home. (This is about, 2 weeks after the amputation)
(Potential) Warnings: literally the tiniest bit of fluff lol, angst, talk of depression, PTSD, phantom pain, non-sexual intimacy, a little allusion to sex/masturbating but nothing explicit, mention of antidepressants, very brief mention of vomit, Jack is in a wheelchair for the first few weeks after the amputation, this is a long fic but i think i like how they’re long for the series i guess,
I struggled to finish this one only because i didn’t want to make it drag on or anything but i feel like this stage for Jack would feel like never ending existing and that he couldn’t do anything but sit there, as well as reader, so that’s how i tried to make it feel.
In all fairness, he couldn’t get around any other way, but the problem was that he wasn’t going anywhere. He just migrated between the kitchen and the living room.
The mattress was now located in the centre of the living room at night - because you couldn’t get Jack upstairs to your bedroom until the stairlift was installed. He also declared that you weren’t sleeping on the floor with him, and has exiled you to sleep in your shared room upstairs. And because you didn’t want to upset him, you abide.
Of course, he much prefers sleeping next to you, but he already has a shit time sleeping, he doesn’t need to do the same to you. Even worse after the ‘Incident’. He couldn’t sleep without the nightmares, his brain reliving the moment. He woke up every night with a cold sheen of sweat over him, hairs stood on end, all of his senses in overload. Some nights he just didn’t sleep, and he didn’t talk all day.
It was all as sad as it seemed.
He’d been sat in that wheelchair for 3 days, just watching shit on tv, his face completely blank.
It was midday, a beautiful day, that is; the sun was shining, a fresh green on the grass in the garden, and despite the crisp January air, the sun was warm and inviting. But Jack was already in a pissy mood, so that meant the whole day would be pissy.
That morning, you went downstairs and were met with Jack sat in the wheelchair, in the downstairs bathroom, in his boxers, struggling to reach to turn the shower on.
Using your initiative, you walk around him and turn the shower on. “Do you need help?”
“I’m fine.” Jack replied, though it was more like a grunt. He knew it was still early, that you’d have to help him shower, you’d have to help him into the fucking shower chair, you’d have to help him wash and lean on you. Physically, and emotionally.
You stayed quiet and exited to grab a pair of crutches as he struggled to take his boxers off — but he did it. He let you help him into the shower chair, not without a grimace. “Water okay?” “Fine.” He had clipped, avoiding your gaze and shutting the glass shower door.
You hung around, passing him his body and hair wash. “You don’t have to stay, I can wash myself.” Jack called out from the shower, frustration evident in his tone.
“..I know,” He hadn’t shouted at you, thankfully, but somehow it was worse. It was more painful because he couldn’t stand you being there with him, having to assist him with something as simple as showering and washing himself, he felt like he’d lost all of his progress, all of his masculinity, all of his charisma and energy. He was drained, and was draining the life out of you, too. What was the point if he couldn’t keep you happy?
Jack only glanced at you when you entered the living room, collecting mugs and glasses to wash up, along with the plates from lunch. “You got any ideas for dinner?”
He shook his head, eyes still dead on the tv screen.
“Lasagna? Seafood mix? Buffalo wings?” You list, mostly all of his favourites. He just shrugged. “..Any inspiration at all? You’re eating it too.”
“I don’t care,” He retorted, a bit frustrated.
“Do you wanna come to the shop with me? The fridge looking a bit empty anyway.”
“No.”
Was there any point in talking to him at all?
“Okay, then, i’m gonna go book us first class flights to Australia.” Jack turned back to you with a confused expression. “Just seeing if you’re listening.” You returned with a painted-on smile.
While he stayed silent and turned back to ‘watch’ tv, there was a slight tilt to the corner of his lips. Very close to a smile.
Physio seemed to be the only thing Jack was optimistic about, even if he was sore and got more pity out of you than usual. He put his all in, sometimes doing too much. He just wanted to walk again. He wanted to be ‘normal’ again. He just didn’t want you to see him as he saw himself; a fumbling cripple who needs help to go to the bathroom, who needs to learn how to walk again like he was 2 years old. Much to Jack’s embarrassment — the only person who seemed embarrassed out of me and his physiotherapist, Rick — the days of you being absent for his physio or making you wait in a separate room were over. Why couldn’t you watch your husband getting stronger? Because he found it embarrassing? You’ve seen him sleep in a pile of his own vomit absolutely bladdered, the aftermath of half a bottle of whiskey and 7 beers, you couldn’t understand how he thought this was more embarrassing.
Jack was struggling slightly with a few sit ups: something he was definitely overdoing by the look on Rick’s face. Before the incident, Jack used to be able to fall on the floor into a push up, he could carry you effortlessly and swing you around like a ragdoll, now he couldn’t even do a fucking sit up. It was obviously bothering him.
“That’s good, the balancing is paying off,” Rick encouraged, grabbing Jack’s water bottle and trying to tell him to stop. Only after 5 more, he did. “You been doing the prone lying at home?”
Jack nodded, taking a gulp of water and glancing over at you, feeling a churning guilt in his chest because he was irritated by you just sat on the sidelines all perfect with that caring look on your face. He shook his head briefly, huffing. “Hip abduction as well,”
He saw you nod in the corner of his eyes, clasping your hands together in habit, like when you’re about to awkwardly butt in. “I have a yoga mat at home, so he uses that..”
Rick nodded, “That’s helpful. Yoga can help as well, stretch out the muscles and all, but I wouldn’t overdo anything at this stage,”
“Well, there’s no other way to get better,” Jack commented quietly, hand briefly scratching at his stump.
“Yeah, but, you can’t expect to get better quicker if you’re hurting yourself in the process by overdoing it,” You replied simply, earning another flare of irritation in Jacks chest. “And what would you know?”
You stilled and fell silent, staring back at him with that hurt expression. Biting your lip and getting smaller in the chair. Fuck, you idiot. Why snap at her, it’s not her fault you stepped on a fucking bomb.
“..I’m just gonna go to the toilet,” You muttered politely, exiting the rehabilitation gym. Jack watched you leave, exhaling deeply and scratching at his sweaty forehead.
“I know it’s not my place to say, Jack, but she is trying to help. I’ve dealt with nastier vets, and some of them just lose themselves after they’re hurt, or paralysed, or amputated.” Rick started off, hands on his hips. “Some of them guys have no one, some of them tear their relationships and families apart because they’re angry.”
“So what are you tryna say?” Jack exhaled, “That I can’t be pissed off?”
“Yeah, cause I can guess why you’re angry. Because she has two working legs and she has no idea how it feels? You can’t be pissed off with her because of that, she’s giving her all to caring for you.”
“I shouldn’t need my wife to take care of me! It should be the other fucking way around, i’m not some fucking 2 year old learning to walk, I feel- I feel so fucking—” Jack cleared his throat, feeling tears burning behind his eyes. Fucking useless, why are you crying? Talk about emasculating yourself. “..I’m fucking useless and I can’t walk. Every second of every day is fucking humiliating, how am I meant to live my life like this? I’m making my wife miserable, and I bet kids are out of the fucking question.”
Rick gave him a moment, waiting to see if he would rant more or if he’d finished. Jack took a breath.
“It’s not the end of your life. I’ve seen men with no legs go on to have a happy family. I’ll tell you now, because you already know, these next few months will feel long as hell, it’ll drag on until you get a prosthetic fitted, until you can walk independently, but you can’t let it take over your life. How can you expect to get to the other side if you don’t want to wait to get there?” Rick sighed softly. “Tell you what, you try not to overdo it this week, i’ll have some early walking aids ready for next weeks sessions, the wound seems to be healing really well.”
“Early walking aids?” Jack perked up.
“Basically a temporary inflatable device, Pneumatic Post-Amputation Mobility aid, or a PPAM, between parallel bars to help you practice standing and early weight-bearing. You should be good with it, your upper body strength is brilliant,” Rick elaborated, nodding.
Jack nodded, wiping at his wet eyes roughly and sitting up straighter, “Thank you. So much, that’s- I can’t even begin to—”
“It’s good. S’my job, ain’t it?” Rick returned with a soft smile.
Jack knew he did overdo it a bit at physio, because now he was tired and hurting.
He was sat on the sofa this time, finally out of the chair. The tv was off, and he seemed to be in his own little world. Which worried you a bit. “Jackie?” You called from the doorway, tone all soft and careful.
Stepping closer, and blocking the view of the window. “Jack.”
He blinked, looking up at you. “Are you okay?”
He nodded, humming and clearing his throat.
“Dinners ready.”
“..Okay.”
He sat there for a few minutes, waiting for his dinner. He called your name. And again, and again. Soon enough, he got himself into the chair and rolled into the kitchen. He saw you stood by the back door. “Where’s dinner?”
“Out here.” Jack stared at you like you had just slapped him. “We’re eating in the garden.”
He sighed, rubbing his face. “Angel, I’d really rather not.”
“Why? It’s warm, the sun’s out-”
“The step.” He cut in quickly, pointing to the glass door, and the step out to the back garden. Then he saw you holding out his crutches.
“I know you just had physio—”
“Yeah, and i’m fuckin’ hurting, angel.”
“—but, this is good for you. You can’t keep sitting in front of the tv all day, your eyes will go square. And I wanna eat out here with my husband.” You continued, pleading. “Or i’ll get a ramp, we have loads of shitty pieces of wood in the shed.” Jack let out another huff, staring back at his wife.
…He got outside in the end, sitting beside you on the outdoor chairs, shoving a few fries into his mouth.
“You’re in a better mood than this morning.” You started, a bit hesitant for his reaction.
“..Physio was good.” He shrugged simply, scratching his chin, the scruffy coarse dark hairs lining his lower face beginning to irritate him.
“You did really good.” You agreed softly. “I got some ice cream as well. They were on sale,”
Jack just hummed.
“You don’t want any? It’s chocolate fudge brownie. Super sweet and sickly,” You continue, trying to lighten his mood.
“Maybe,” He squints from the golden hour sun, looking over the green of the garden, the shrubs and flowers. His hand twitches at his thigh, feeling the same electric shock going down from his knee, the maddening itch like his foot was still there.
You look over your water, seeing the grimace on his face. “You okay?”
“Mhm.”
Jack avoided looking in your direction, your gaze. He didn’t want to admit it hurt, what was the point? No pain killers could help, he was just fucking crazy. His brain makes him believe his leg is still there when it’s not. It’s never gonna be how it used to, he’s not gonna walk the same, everyone will know he’s a fucking cripple even when he has his prosthetic. It’s fucking cruel.
He only looked down when he felt a warmth on his forearm, spotting your hand sat there. Thumb gently stroking along his skin, but you weren’t looking at him with pity. You just looked content — as content as you could be in this situation — just holding the company of your husband.
You couldn’t sleep. Maybe you had a coffee a little too late in the afternoon, or you were watching the tv too late, maybe your head was hurting from the little cry you had before getting into bed, or maybe it was because you were alone in your bed that Jack usually slept in. It had been hard.
Sometimes you think maybe it would help. You would get some release other than crying and screaming into your pillow, but you couldn’t ask Jack. You couldn’t expect him to want to even think about sex with what he’s going through. And you can’t help the guilt that eats you up inside out when you grab a toy from the bedside table, because you just end up thinking about Jack, how much pain he’s in, how it would hurt his feelings more to know you’d been getting yourself off because he can’t do it right now. It’s just a cycle: you cry, you want release, you want your husband, you feel guilty, you cry.
You decided to go downstairs. You told yourself it was just to get some nice cold water, but you really just wanted to see Jack. To see if he was sleeping.
Halfway down the stairs, you heard shuffling and quiet grunts, then a brief shout. When you got to the living room doorway, you saw him sat up on the mattress, rocking slightly and dripping with sweat.
He’d had nightmares before the Incident; he was a soldier as well as an army medic, he’d seen the most violent and gruesome things, he’d had to heal and hurt people just to protect his men, his unit. It wouldn’t stop now, if anything, Jack’s nightmares would just get worse. You knew the best way to deal with it.
You turned the hallway light on, seeing his head whip around and finally exhale when he saw your familiar outline in the doorway. He almost let out a whimper.
You stepped forward, sitting on the mattress opposite him. “Hey Jackie..”
He didn’t reply, just held his head in his hand, wiping off the sweat onto his pyjama shorts. “You’re okay, you’re at home, lovely..” He exhaled deeply when he felt your hands on his arms, his eyes squeezed shut tightly and forcing in deep breaths. “You’re safe, Jack.”
You crept closer, slowly wrapping your arms around him so he had every chance to pull away. On the contrary, he melted into you, resting his head on your shoulder and pulling you into his lap, fixing his arms around your middle so tight you almost lost your breath. He needed to feel grounded, to feel you. You slipped one of your hands into his hair, gently scratching his scalp and playing with his hair as the other stroked up and down the expanse of his back. Anything to calm or distract him, really.
He held you like that for what felt like ages. He used to hug you a lot. He would pull you in for a cuddle anytime you were on the sofa, in bed, anywhere. Now, after losing his foot, it was sporadic. He didn’t want to feel, and he was sick of feeling depressed and futile, Jack didn’t want to put this all on you since you already had to deal with having a disabled and useless husband, but the only thing that really helped was being wrapped around you.
He felt you shuffling, and pulled back slightly. Fuck, he’s messed it up, you’re pulling away—
You gently hold his shoulders and climb over him, settling yourself beside him on the mattress, still holding onto his arms. “Come on,”
“..You’re sleepin’ down ‘ere?” He uttered, his breath stuttering, seeing the tears he was holding back.
“Mhm. I can’t sleep up there,” You whisper, stroking up and down his arms and urging him to lie back down. “..Can’t sleep without you.”
He exhaled, lying back with you and feeling the weight of your arm around him.
You stay cuddled together under the duvet, where for a moment, everything was quiet and the minutes felt like hours. Jack was very much convinced it was because you were with him. Sure, he was still embarrassed of his leg and worried that his life would never be the same again, but right now it didn’t matter. He could be the richest man in the world with 100% of himself or completely paralysed, he’d still be happy because he had you. God, why was he such a dick to you?
“I’m sorry for being so horrible to you.” Jack croaked out quietly, he knew that if he tried to whisper nothing would come out. “..I do…love you. I just— I can’t think of anything else—”
If your heart wasn’t bleeding before..
“Oh, Jackie,” He covered his face with his hand, pinching his eyes shut and holding down sobs. “I know you love me, I know,” You reassure, almost cooing at him, and gently taking his wrists to pull his hands away. “Come on, look at me, baby..”
He opened his eyes, teary and red. He just looked so exhausted. Lord knows the anti-depressants have barely made it into his system, they weren’t doing anything right now. “..I’m so fuckin’ tired of this,” He managed, huffing out a breath and taking in a sudden, shaky breath. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
That same feeling thudded in your chest. The same outrageous, impending doom and despair shot straight to your heart, because your husband just said he doesn’t want to live anymore. He’s said it multiple times. He didn’t want to be in this world with you. Something he promised he’d do until death do us part.
You swallowed back a hurt sob, stroking his cheek with a gentle knuckles. “It’ll pass, baby…You’re gonna get better, gonna feel better.” Jack shook his head, staring up at you as he continued to cry. “Just cry, okay? I’m here…I love you, and i’m not going anywhere. Okay? I’m staying here with you.”
He calms after a few moments, his face stuffed in your neck and feeling the weight of your head on his, your hands stroking his back as if he was made of glass.
He was never one to be taken care of, but it was nice sometimes.
Two weeks had passed, Jack and yourself were in the same position, though instead of moonlight peeking through the curtains, it was the morning sun. Birdsong overlapping on repeat, interrupted by the slam of the mail flap on the front door. Jack groaned in annoyance, barely opening his eyes and pulling you closer in the bed. He sighed into your hair. His wife, his home. It was just a little thing that woke them both up at 7AM, too early to process anything.
However, just as you were finishing breakfast later that morning, you grabbed the mail and handed Jack a letter from the hospital as you went though the other bits.
Dear Mr Jack Abbot..yaddayadda…an appointment scheduled on the 16th February at 10:00AM with your doctor and a prosthetist to measure and cast his leg for a temporary interim prosthetic.
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Summary: it’s been a week since the surgery, and Jack can finally come home. (This is about, 2 weeks after the amputation)
(Potential) Warnings: literally the tiniest bit of fluff lol, angst, talk of depression, PTSD, phantom pain, non-sexual intimacy, a little allusion to sex/masturbating but nothing explicit, mention of antidepressants, very brief mention of vomit, Jack is in a wheelchair for the first few weeks after the amputation, this is a long fic but i think i like how they’re long for the series i guess,
I struggled to finish this one only because i didn’t want to make it drag on or anything but i feel like this stage for Jack would feel like never ending existing and that he couldn’t do anything but sit there, as well as reader, so that’s how i tried to make it feel.
In all fairness, he couldn’t get around any other way, but the problem was that he wasn’t going anywhere. He just migrated between the kitchen and the living room.
The mattress was now located in the centre of the living room at night - because you couldn’t get Jack upstairs to your bedroom until the stairlift was installed. He also declared that you weren’t sleeping on the floor with him, and has exiled you to sleep in your shared room upstairs. And because you didn’t want to upset him, you abide.
Of course, he much prefers sleeping next to you, but he already has a shit time sleeping, he doesn’t need to do the same to you. Even worse after the ‘Incident’. He couldn’t sleep without the nightmares, his brain reliving the moment. He woke up every night with a cold sheen of sweat over him, hairs stood on end, all of his senses in overload. Some nights he just didn’t sleep, and he didn’t talk all day.
It was all as sad as it seemed.
He’d been sat in that wheelchair for 3 days, just watching shit on tv, his face completely blank.
It was midday, a beautiful day, that is; the sun was shining, a fresh green on the grass in the garden, and despite the crisp January air, the sun was warm and inviting. But Jack was already in a pissy mood, so that meant the whole day would be pissy.
That morning, you went downstairs and were met with Jack sat in the wheelchair, in the downstairs bathroom, in his boxers, struggling to reach to turn the shower on.
Using your initiative, you walk around him and turn the shower on. “Do you need help?”
“I’m fine.” Jack replied, though it was more like a grunt. He knew it was still early, that you’d have to help him shower, you’d have to help him into the fucking shower chair, you’d have to help him wash and lean on you. Physically, and emotionally.
You stayed quiet and exited to grab a pair of crutches as he struggled to take his boxers off — but he did it. He let you help him into the shower chair, not without a grimace. “Water okay?” “Fine.” He had clipped, avoiding your gaze and shutting the glass shower door.
You hung around, passing him his body and hair wash. “You don’t have to stay, I can wash myself.” Jack called out from the shower, frustration evident in his tone.
“..I know,” He hadn’t shouted at you, thankfully, but somehow it was worse. It was more painful because he couldn’t stand you being there with him, having to assist him with something as simple as showering and washing himself, he felt like he’d lost all of his progress, all of his masculinity, all of his charisma and energy. He was drained, and was draining the life out of you, too. What was the point if he couldn’t keep you happy?
Jack only glanced at you when you entered the living room, collecting mugs and glasses to wash up, along with the plates from lunch. “You got any ideas for dinner?”
He shook his head, eyes still dead on the tv screen.
“Lasagna? Seafood mix? Buffalo wings?” You list, mostly all of his favourites. He just shrugged. “..Any inspiration at all? You’re eating it too.”
“I don’t care,” He retorted, a bit frustrated.
“Do you wanna come to the shop with me? The fridge looking a bit empty anyway.”
“No.”
Was there any point in talking to him at all?
“Okay, then, i’m gonna go book us first class flights to Australia.” Jack turned back to you with a confused expression. “Just seeing if you’re listening.” You returned with a painted-on smile.
While he stayed silent and turned back to ‘watch’ tv, there was a slight tilt to the corner of his lips. Very close to a smile.
Physio seemed to be the only thing Jack was optimistic about, even if he was sore and got more pity out of you than usual. He put his all in, sometimes doing too much. He just wanted to walk again. He wanted to be ‘normal’ again. He just didn’t want you to see him as he saw himself; a fumbling cripple who needs help to go to the bathroom, who needs to learn how to walk again like he was 2 years old. Much to Jack’s embarrassment — the only person who seemed embarrassed out of me and his physiotherapist, Rick — the days of you being absent for his physio or making you wait in a separate room were over. Why couldn’t you watch your husband getting stronger? Because he found it embarrassing? You’ve seen him sleep in a pile of his own vomit absolutely bladdered, the aftermath of half a bottle of whiskey and 7 beers, you couldn’t understand how he thought this was more embarrassing.
Jack was struggling slightly with a few sit ups: something he was definitely overdoing by the look on Rick’s face. Before the incident, Jack used to be able to fall on the floor into a push up, he could carry you effortlessly and swing you around like a ragdoll, now he couldn’t even do a fucking sit up. It was obviously bothering him.
“That’s good, the balancing is paying off,” Rick encouraged, grabbing Jack’s water bottle and trying to tell him to stop. Only after 5 more, he did. “You been doing the prone lying at home?”
Jack nodded, taking a gulp of water and glancing over at you, feeling a churning guilt in his chest because he was irritated by you just sat on the sidelines all perfect with that caring look on your face. He shook his head briefly, huffing. “Hip abduction as well,”
He saw you nod in the corner of his eyes, clasping your hands together in habit, like when you’re about to awkwardly butt in. “I have a yoga mat at home, so he uses that..”
Rick nodded, “That’s helpful. Yoga can help as well, stretch out the muscles and all, but I wouldn’t overdo anything at this stage,”
“Well, there’s no other way to get better,” Jack commented quietly, hand briefly scratching at his stump.
“Yeah, but, you can’t expect to get better quicker if you’re hurting yourself in the process by overdoing it,” You replied simply, earning another flare of irritation in Jacks chest. “And what would you know?”
You stilled and fell silent, staring back at him with that hurt expression. Biting your lip and getting smaller in the chair. Fuck, you idiot. Why snap at her, it’s not her fault you stepped on a fucking bomb.
“..I’m just gonna go to the toilet,” You muttered politely, exiting the rehabilitation gym. Jack watched you leave, exhaling deeply and scratching at his sweaty forehead.
“I know it’s not my place to say, Jack, but she is trying to help. I’ve dealt with nastier vets, and some of them just lose themselves after they’re hurt, or paralysed, or amputated.” Rick started off, hands on his hips. “Some of them guys have no one, some of them tear their relationships and families apart because they’re angry.”
“So what are you tryna say?” Jack exhaled, “That I can’t be pissed off?”
“Yeah, cause I can guess why you’re angry. Because she has two working legs and she has no idea how it feels? You can’t be pissed off with her because of that, she’s giving her all to caring for you.”
“I shouldn’t need my wife to take care of me! It should be the other fucking way around, i’m not some fucking 2 year old learning to walk, I feel- I feel so fucking—” Jack cleared his throat, feeling tears burning behind his eyes. Fucking useless, why are you crying? Talk about emasculating yourself. “..I’m fucking useless and I can’t walk. Every second of every day is fucking humiliating, how am I meant to live my life like this? I’m making my wife miserable, and I bet kids are out of the fucking question.”
Rick gave him a moment, waiting to see if he would rant more or if he’d finished. Jack took a breath.
“It’s not the end of your life. I’ve seen men with no legs go on to have a happy family. I’ll tell you now, because you already know, these next few months will feel long as hell, it’ll drag on until you get a prosthetic fitted, until you can walk independently, but you can’t let it take over your life. How can you expect to get to the other side if you don’t want to wait to get there?” Rick sighed softly. “Tell you what, you try not to overdo it this week, i’ll have some early walking aids ready for next weeks sessions, the wound seems to be healing really well.”
“Early walking aids?” Jack perked up.
“Basically a temporary inflatable device, Pneumatic Post-Amputation Mobility aid, or a PPAM, between parallel bars to help you practice standing and early weight-bearing. You should be good with it, your upper body strength is brilliant,” Rick elaborated, nodding.
Jack nodded, wiping at his wet eyes roughly and sitting up straighter, “Thank you. So much, that’s- I can’t even begin to—”
“It’s good. S’my job, ain’t it?” Rick returned with a soft smile.
Jack knew he did overdo it a bit at physio, because now he was tired and hurting.
He was sat on the sofa this time, finally out of the chair. The tv was off, and he seemed to be in his own little world. Which worried you a bit. “Jackie?” You called from the doorway, tone all soft and careful.
Stepping closer, and blocking the view of the window. “Jack.”
He blinked, looking up at you. “Are you okay?”
He nodded, humming and clearing his throat.
“Dinners ready.”
“..Okay.”
He sat there for a few minutes, waiting for his dinner. He called your name. And again, and again. Soon enough, he got himself into the chair and rolled into the kitchen. He saw you stood by the back door. “Where’s dinner?”
“Out here.” Jack stared at you like you had just slapped him. “We’re eating in the garden.”
He sighed, rubbing his face. “Angel, I’d really rather not.”
“Why? It’s warm, the sun’s out-”
“The step.” He cut in quickly, pointing to the glass door, and the step out to the back garden. Then he saw you holding out his crutches.
“I know you just had physio—”
“Yeah, and i’m fuckin’ hurting, angel.”
“—but, this is good for you. You can’t keep sitting in front of the tv all day, your eyes will go square. And I wanna eat out here with my husband.” You continued, pleading. “Or i’ll get a ramp, we have loads of shitty pieces of wood in the shed.” Jack let out another huff, staring back at his wife.
…He got outside in the end, sitting beside you on the outdoor chairs, shoving a few fries into his mouth.
“You’re in a better mood than this morning.” You started, a bit hesitant for his reaction.
“..Physio was good.” He shrugged simply, scratching his chin, the scruffy coarse dark hairs lining his lower face beginning to irritate him.
“You did really good.” You agreed softly. “I got some ice cream as well. They were on sale,”
Jack just hummed.
“You don’t want any? It’s chocolate fudge brownie. Super sweet and sickly,” You continue, trying to lighten his mood.
“Maybe,” He squints from the golden hour sun, looking over the green of the garden, the shrubs and flowers. His hand twitches at his thigh, feeling the same electric shock going down from his knee, the maddening itch like his foot was still there.
You look over your water, seeing the grimace on his face. “You okay?”
“Mhm.”
Jack avoided looking in your direction, your gaze. He didn’t want to admit it hurt, what was the point? No pain killers could help, he was just fucking crazy. His brain makes him believe his leg is still there when it’s not. It’s never gonna be how it used to, he’s not gonna walk the same, everyone will know he’s a fucking cripple even when he has his prosthetic. It’s fucking cruel.
He only looked down when he felt a warmth on his forearm, spotting your hand sat there. Thumb gently stroking along his skin, but you weren’t looking at him with pity. You just looked content — as content as you could be in this situation — just holding the company of your husband.
You couldn’t sleep. Maybe you had a coffee a little too late in the afternoon, or you were watching the tv too late, maybe your head was hurting from the little cry you had before getting into bed, or maybe it was because you were alone in your bed that Jack usually slept in. It had been hard.
Sometimes you think maybe it would help. You would get some release other than crying and screaming into your pillow, but you couldn’t ask Jack. You couldn’t expect him to want to even think about sex with what he’s going through. And you can’t help the guilt that eats you up inside out when you grab a toy from the bedside table, because you just end up thinking about Jack, how much pain he’s in, how it would hurt his feelings more to know you’d been getting yourself off because he can’t do it right now. It’s just a cycle: you cry, you want release, you want your husband, you feel guilty, you cry.
You decided to go downstairs. You told yourself it was just to get some nice cold water, but you really just wanted to see Jack. To see if he was sleeping.
Halfway down the stairs, you heard shuffling and quiet grunts, then a brief shout. When you got to the living room doorway, you saw him sat up on the mattress, rocking slightly and dripping with sweat.
He’d had nightmares before the Incident; he was a soldier as well as an army medic, he’d seen the most violent and gruesome things, he’d had to heal and hurt people just to protect his men, his unit. It wouldn’t stop now, if anything, Jack’s nightmares would just get worse. You knew the best way to deal with it.
You turned the hallway light on, seeing his head whip around and finally exhale when he saw your familiar outline in the doorway. He almost let out a whimper.
You stepped forward, sitting on the mattress opposite him. “Hey Jackie..”
He didn’t reply, just held his head in his hand, wiping off the sweat onto his pyjama shorts. “You’re okay, you’re at home, lovely..” He exhaled deeply when he felt your hands on his arms, his eyes squeezed shut tightly and forcing in deep breaths. “You’re safe, Jack.”
You crept closer, slowly wrapping your arms around him so he had every chance to pull away. On the contrary, he melted into you, resting his head on your shoulder and pulling you into his lap, fixing his arms around your middle so tight you almost lost your breath. He needed to feel grounded, to feel you. You slipped one of your hands into his hair, gently scratching his scalp and playing with his hair as the other stroked up and down the expanse of his back. Anything to calm or distract him, really.
He held you like that for what felt like ages. He used to hug you a lot. He would pull you in for a cuddle anytime you were on the sofa, in bed, anywhere. Now, after losing his foot, it was sporadic. He didn’t want to feel, and he was sick of feeling depressed and futile, Jack didn’t want to put this all on you since you already had to deal with having a disabled and useless husband, but the only thing that really helped was being wrapped around you.
He felt you shuffling, and pulled back slightly. Fuck, he’s messed it up, you’re pulling away—
You gently hold his shoulders and climb over him, settling yourself beside him on the mattress, still holding onto his arms. “Come on,”
“..You’re sleepin’ down ‘ere?” He uttered, his breath stuttering, seeing the tears he was holding back.
“Mhm. I can’t sleep up there,” You whisper, stroking up and down his arms and urging him to lie back down. “..Can’t sleep without you.”
He exhaled, lying back with you and feeling the weight of your arm around him.
You stay cuddled together under the duvet, where for a moment, everything was quiet and the minutes felt like hours. Jack was very much convinced it was because you were with him. Sure, he was still embarrassed of his leg and worried that his life would never be the same again, but right now it didn’t matter. He could be the richest man in the world with 100% of himself or completely paralysed, he’d still be happy because he had you. God, why was he such a dick to you?
“I’m sorry for being so horrible to you.” Jack croaked out quietly, he knew that if he tried to whisper nothing would come out. “..I do…love you. I just— I can’t think of anything else—”
If your heart wasn’t bleeding before..
“Oh, Jackie,” He covered his face with his hand, pinching his eyes shut and holding down sobs. “I know you love me, I know,” You reassure, almost cooing at him, and gently taking his wrists to pull his hands away. “Come on, look at me, baby..”
He opened his eyes, teary and red. He just looked so exhausted. Lord knows the anti-depressants have barely made it into his system, they weren’t doing anything right now. “..I’m so fuckin’ tired of this,” He managed, huffing out a breath and taking in a sudden, shaky breath. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
That same feeling thudded in your chest. The same outrageous, impending doom and despair shot straight to your heart, because your husband just said he doesn’t want to live anymore. He’s said it multiple times. He didn’t want to be in this world with you. Something he promised he’d do until death do us part.
You swallowed back a hurt sob, stroking his cheek with a gentle knuckles. “It’ll pass, baby…You’re gonna get better, gonna feel better.” Jack shook his head, staring up at you as he continued to cry. “Just cry, okay? I’m here…I love you, and i’m not going anywhere. Okay? I’m staying here with you.”
He calms after a few moments, his face stuffed in your neck and feeling the weight of your head on his, your hands stroking his back as if he was made of glass.
He was never one to be taken care of, but it was nice sometimes.
Two weeks had passed, Jack and yourself were in the same position, though instead of moonlight peeking through the curtains, it was the morning sun. Birdsong overlapping on repeat, interrupted by the slam of the mail flap on the front door. Jack groaned in annoyance, barely opening his eyes and pulling you closer in the bed. He sighed into your hair. His wife, his home. It was just a little thing that woke them both up at 7AM, too early to process anything.
However, just as you were finishing breakfast later that morning, you grabbed the mail and handed Jack a letter from the hospital as you went though the other bits.
Dear Mr Jack Abbot..yaddayadda…an appointment scheduled on the 16th February at 10:00AM with your doctor and a prosthetist to measure and cast his leg for a temporary interim prosthetic.
Robby’s sister Reader who is the total opposite of him and has gone into the arts. Robby’s college aged sister who went through a rebellious phase and Robby is relieved she’s finally got her head on straight and is taking her education seriously even if she’s going into something like the arts and not something a little more sensible. Robby’s sister who has tattoos and piercings and makes her brother cringe despite her snarking about his tattoos and his motorcycle
Robby’s sister who has sworn off the bad boys she usually dates much to her brother’s relief.
Robby who is in medical school and innocently brings his buddy Jack Abbot to Reader and Robby’s apartment for dinner.
Robby who is so relieved his sister is being so responsible and not dating losers not realizing Abbot and his sister have taken a liking to each other
Abbot who knows Robby will kill him for fooling around with Reader but he can’t stop. He hasn’t felt this good in a while and she doesn’t mind his former army status or his prosthetic that he’s still getting accustomed to.
Abbot who sneaks around with his best friends sister knowing it’s a bad idea but Reader tells him her life has been filled with worst ideas.
Robby who doesn’t know his sister is fucking Abbot and isn’t just letting him tutor her in biology.
Robby who has no clue and would kill Abbot if he even suspected.
summary: There is no such thing in the world that would cool down Lyonel's spirit, but when intercession is needed and his lady wife has to put up a good word for him – well, then even the Laughing Storm can sense the seriousness. Who would have guessed that the spooked deer he married would turn not only into his true friend but also the closest advisor?
Name the riches – Lyonel Baratheon x wife!reader
summary: Lyonel plays a game of provocation to stir some audacity in his newlywed wife, but she is quick to catch up after realizing the position she holds. Lord Baratheon’s assurances that he is not a jealous man turn out to be dramatically untrue.
Mark of the Stags – Lyonel Baratheon x wife!reader
summary: Lady Baratheon wakes up next to her husband after a long, frantic night. The only unusual thing is the ache on her skin that happens not to be a bruise, neither Lyonel's worshiping touch. The marks on their bodies don’t seem to worry the Lord very much, though. He is, in fact, quite thrilled.
Faint memory, promising pathways – Lyonel Baratheon x wife!reader
summary: Lord Baratheon is too occupied with the presence of his darling wife to follow his companions. He claims to remember the way… Well, nature isn't so bad, after all, then why not spend the whole day away from the castle?
Harlots’ rank [request] – Lyonel Baratheon x wife!reader
summary: Lord Baratheon has to face a fact hard to swallow – that his darling wife thinks of him as a disloyal dog...
Lady of Heartache [request] – Lyonel Baratheon x wife!reader
summary: The only people afraid of Lord Baratheon were men, but how could you know that? You heard warnings about him and the duties of a wife too often to not let them get to you.
The Backbone and Gravity [request] – Lyonel Baratheon x wife!reader
summary: Some proud stormlanders could argue that impassive and deliberate were not words to describe a storm. They existed to be rapid and to destroy, did they not? Lord Baratheon, though, knows that the loudest, most ruthless thunder comes only with his wife’s merciless stare..
The Stranger’s heiress [request] – Lyonel Baratheon x deity!reader
summary: During his travel to seal a new partnership, Lord Baratheon is met with a strange messenger sent to House Horpe. The veil and cowl fail to hide the lady’s true identity, and soon enough, Lyonel finds himself mesmerized by what others see as fearsome and cursed. Customs happen to mean very little for him, though, when there is a divine woman to save.
Fair Trading [request] – Lyonel Baratheon x Dornish!reader
summary: The fierceness of a storm and dornish habits don’t seem to match each other very well, but perhaps Lyonel Baratheon is not that much of a true abrupt stormlander. Or maybe it’s just that you, a princess of Dorne, can find it in your heart to accept such a stormlander as your man.
Blood makes noise [request] – Lyonel Baratheon x Bracken!reader
summary: Lyonel always said it is all about honor, protecting the good name of his house and kins. If he was truly honest, though – well, he would have to say he walked this earth for fun and the thrill of some risk. Oh, and impressing his lady wife all over again!
Knight's mercy [request] – Lyonel Baratheon x witch!reader
summary: Everyone would benefit from Lyonel keeping his new friendships to himself, but there was also no one who could stop him. Now after the worst experience of his life, ser Duncan has to bear the intrusive presence of Lord Baratheon and the – so called – witch, that he somehow convinced to stick around…
Culprits [request] – Lyonel Baratheon x witch!reader
summary: Just like any other dark time the plague brings the need to search for culprits. It also seems that the Baratheons’ subjects forgot what a true fury of their lord is.
Harbingers of sorrow – Baelor Targaryen x wife!reader
summary: Terrifying visions that surround your husband with blood and pain keep appearing in your sleep, and despite his assurance, you decide to ask for advice that turns out to be meaningless.
[Part 2 – Blood’s Devotion]
[Part 3 – Brother's Love] i'm struggling here okay
Doubt your man – Maekar Targaryen x wife!reader
summary: If he only could, Maekar would gladly sit by his wife’s side through her whole sickness. When he finally manages to run from his duties and rush to her, he has to throw a certain man outside the chamber and care for the woman himself. Just like he prefers it.
Mourning Feast – Maekar Targaryen x fem!reader
My Moon, My Man – Daeron Targaryen x wife!reader
summary: Maekar Targaryen’s bride seems to be the most tragic lady in The Seven Kingdoms. Not only is she to be wed to a man of grim and sharp reputation, but also her father gets slaughtered on her wedding day.
Hidden Presence – Maekar Targaryen x servant!reader [soon]
summary: An imperfect bride for a flawsome man – it was not a tragic match by any means, but the heavy shroud of expectations made affection morph into doubt. It felt like a choke, the duty imposed by House Rosby, tightening on the necks of Daeron and his wife.
Dim Refuge – Daeron Targaryen x wife!reader
summary: Life as Prince Daeron’s wife sometimes made you feel like the sky would fall on your head while you and your husband were just a pair of lambs sent to slaughter...
Lamblike – Daeron Targaryen x commoner!reader
Summary: The dragon was about to lose a tooth or two, and you weren’t having it…
Game of Thrones
True Knight – Davos Seaworth x fem! Estermont reader
Complete [wc: 10k+]
Summary: Lady Estermont, there was something truly strange about her. Whenever she appeared, the weird feeling came too. In the silence and ever-humming sound of the sea, in shadows, like something watched. Watched and waited. It was not an eerie presence, just something deeply buried that screamed to be unleashed again.
chapter one
chapter two
chapter three
chapter four
chapter five
ao3 link
Resident Evil
Anemone – Leon S. Kennedy x fem!reader [southern gothic au]
summary: The idea of being married to Leon is… suitable and appropriate. He’s an older, strange cop whose presence gives some people the creeps, but apparently he is just an individual. All you seek is an opportunity for a better life… even if it might mean shattering his peace. But he shouldn’t worry, should he? You’re a good woman, after all, and the arrangement is only proper.
I still dream of violence – older!Leon S. Kennedy x fem!reader
[part 2] Angry at the waiting game
summary: When a young married couple disappears, who could be better at investigating the case than a pair of special agents used to working together and known for their high efficiency? Well, probably nobody, but someone clearly ignored the fact that one of them should retire a long time ago, and they are both too good at their job to rot in rural America. Not to forget the questionable nature of their professional relationship and mutual tension.
My Pretty Woman In a Ball Gown – Leon Kennedy x co-worker!reader [soon]
summary: Leon was not a man who asked for commitment – he simply gave it. And before a stressful gala, he is, oh, so committed to you…
old man leon x girlfirend!reader
Nothing in the world belongs to me – Leon Kennedy x neighbour!reader
summary: Affection and attachment. Strange things that Leon saw as great values, yet ones he couldn’t afford because of his job. He didn’t know if it was a sense of responsibility or fear of disappointment that made him so reluctant… Well, good thing that the famous ‘cat distribution system’ doesn’t care. Nor his luck for incredibly charming neighbours.
Miss– Mrs. Kennedy? Well, your wife… – Leon Kennedy x DSO agent!reader
Summary: You were pretty sure you preferred being strangled to death on a mission over having a phone call with a stranger… Embarrassing as it felt. Luckily, your closest co-worker is there to save you.
Forever's Gonna Start Tonight – rookie!Leon Kennedy x fem!reader
summary: Leon takes care of you after a graduation ball at the police academy – just like he always does. Or perhaps this time it’s you caring for him?
The Pitt
Short thoughts about:
Brendon Park & ortho music drama
John Shen enjoying his wife's sleep routine
Fics:
Bad Visions – Jesse Van Horn x fem!reader
summary: An outburst from a patient in pain makes you rather indisposed for the rest of the day, but luckily you're not left alone. Jesse is easily known as one of the most reliable people in the ER – of course he will help his favorite coworker with making it to the end of the shift!
part two
I want it with you – FWB!Jack Abbot x fem!reader
summary: Jack Abbot is far from being badly self-conscious. Still, he’s plagued by obstinate thoughts and questions that he believed he could get rid of – all caused by the woman that he was supposed to be seeing only for one thing.
Direct Fire – Jack Abbot x SWAT!reader
summary: It is hard to consider saving somebody’s life a failure. You get gravely judged for making a mistake, though, and getting hurt in the process. Your squad mates look at you like it was nothing but a show-off. Luckily, there’s also Doctor Abbot who not only understands you to the bone, but also uses the occasion to do what he wanted for a while.
Sprezzatura – knight!Jack Abbot x princess!reader
summary: A single tear that stained the Princess’s cheek saved Jack’s life and made him bid his existence to the task of protecting her. As a Captain of the guard he finds new reasons for his devotion. They come with temptations, though, and ones Abbot can barely resist. And the Princess – she mastered the skill of effortless grace to mask the tension between her and her loyal guard. Unfortunately, an inconvenient betrothal was arranged by her father…
Sacred bloody route – Rust Cohle x fem!reader [wc: 30k+]
summary: Rust was a heavy smoker since his late teenage years, and he picked up his liking for Camel Blues from the first woman he ever cared about. He knew she was the one part of his ‘programming’ that he would not be able to deny himself: memory of the feeling, longing for the grim days when a shred of light made it worth living. Lust can morph into love. Love – into resentment, but care… Care will remain the same.
chapters:
I. The once forgotten route, now used by many
II. Don't you love her madly? Crash!Rust Cohle x fem!reader
III. Seven horses seem to be on the mark young!Rust Cohle x fem!reader
IV. A lonely song of a deep blue dream young!Rust Cohle x fem!reader
V. Don’t you love her as she’s walking out the door? young!Rust Cohle x fem!reader
VI. All your love is gone 1995!Rust Cohle x fem!reader
VII. Void. 2012!Rust Cohle x reader
ao3 link
Call of Duty
Form and Void – ex!John Price x wife!reader x Simon Riley
summary: In all the years of your relationship with Price, you would never guess he’ll be the crazy type of ex. Prying, never losing hope, annoying one – yes, but tormenting you and bothering your kids every second he could? It made all three of you anxious, worried about your every step. For years, you had a perfect marriage, and in one second, it turned into hell. The only good thing is that you have someone to call when your ex outdoes himself by causing a scene at your work, throwing punches, and scaring innocent people. It might be tense between you and Simon afterwards, but what choice do you have?
Hunting hound – huntsman!Johnny MacTavish x fem!reader
summary: Johnny didn’t mind when you looked at him the way you would at a stray dog. He was a hunting hound, after all, and he would cherish you as his master. You weren’t his to protect and worship, though.
Red dead redemption
Cold dark earth (I'll crawl home to her) – Arthur Morgan x fem!reader
summary: For years, Arthur knew no remorse. At nights he slept peacefully as long as he could feel his woman close. None of them ever begged for another chance – he couldn't imagine an angelic person like his wife would have to ask for salvation. And him? He didn’t want anything else. Yet the ransome came in the small fragile flesh. A pale body, that with its trembling shook your whole world. Arthur wasn't punished for his sins with the boy's presence, no – it was much worse. It was his son, his frail son, and his weak body, who had to bear whips aimed at his father.
Devil's resting place – Arthur Morgan x vampire!reader
summary: The fragile sepulchral finding except her charm happens to hold an unknown, eerie strength. What can be sensed by women and children remains invisible to Arthur… or perhaps it is his wish to not see what he truly lusts after?
Fellow conman? – Hosea Matthews x actress!reader
summary: Saint Denis' theatre, a house of art and majesty, gets burned down in a terrible accident, but you have a friend who will help you out. He's afraid of how you will handle the company of ruthless outlaws, but it happens that actors and criminals are much alike. Or perhaps you simply consider it a similar job? The presence of a fellow conman certainly helps you adjust, and during a robbery where the two of you play main roles, he realizes there's something more to his admiration than woman's grace and solidarity of profession.
1914 Jack Marston x wife!reader
Cyberpunk 2077
Runaway champ – Viktor Vektor x fem!V
summary: A grand champion has been craved with Viktor's help, and then a father is involved. The thing about fathers… well, they tend to turn into phantoms, hunting memories of their children, slowly creeping into their minds, taking control, and pushing them towards danger. V used to come to Viktor for everything: arguments, breakups, loss… Now she disappeared. He never really stopped looking until he was held at gunpoint and blessed with an indirect message from her to leave her alone. So he did, but still hoped. That's until 5 years later she is shoved on his doorstep by Jackie and Misty, tired, bloody and in great trouble.
ao3 link
Far Cry 5
The savior angel – Joseph Seed x fem!reader
Summary: You couldn't refuse to take care of this man. You wanted to, you really did, but it would be a sin dirtying you for the rest of your life. You wanted him gone and out of your life, but it was your job to help. Your call. Maybe you would feel more compassion if he weren’t your father. Your work lies long forgotten, while he, in his new health, seeks the doing of the Lord. Then Joseph Seed appears to praise your effort and direct his people towards the light. Towards the side where he is the shine.
ao3 link
Uncharted
Victor Sullivan x reader
Samuel Drake x reader
Kingdom Come Deliverance
Rattle [request] – Henry of Skalitz x bandit!reader
summary: Henry doesn’t try to cross shady people’s paths on purpose – well, usually. Unfortunately, he has the questionable luck of stumbling over a certain outlaw and recognizes that they aren’t much of a danger due to their condition. He’s a good christian, though, so why not offer a helping hand even to those who steal from your pocket?
summary: A single tear that stained the Princess’s cheek saved Jack’s life and made him bid his existence to the task of protecting her. As a captain of the guard, he finds new reasons for his devotion. They come with temptations, though, and ones Abbot can barely resist. And the Princess – she mastered the skill of effortless grace to mask the tension between her and her loyal guard. Unfortunately, an inconvenient betrothal was arranged by her father…
tags: +18, SMUT, NSFW, knight!jack abbot, medieval/fantasy au, princess!reader, princess x knight, royalty and kingdom stuff, unspecified age gap, blood and violence, mentions of poverty, war, inspired by ASOIAF, angst, fluff, sex, piv, oral (f!), fingering, implied sex, semi-public sex, making out, forbidden love, protectiveness, secret relationship, sneaking out, swordfighting, child abuse, plot, sub!jack abbot, he’s down bad, kinda obsessed but professional (or so he wishes), English is not my first language.
word count: +6.6k
a/n: smut chapter 🫣 it's usually a big challenge for me but I had so much fun over this one
The whispers of betrothal were present in the castle for a long time. The princess was of age, after all, and the kingdom couldn’t just turn away a chance for building a powerful allegiance. Advisors and wise men argued which nearby country would be the best friend in those difficult times.
The king avoided openly approaching the matter, and you silently thought that it’s because he considered you unsuitable to marry. You would actually agree with him, if it would grant you freedom forever – sadly you knew that was impossible. He probably just wanted to make sure you would represent your country with grace…
Jack wasn’t stupid either. He knew that it would come sooner or later. He knew that before he fell for you, and before he took the risk of acting upon his desires. Or perhaps that was a true show of foolishness? That he knew and still allowed himself to offer you more of his heart than he should.
“Captain.” He was greeted by his men who stood guard in the main hall.
He was called by the King for something the man named “a friendly seeking advice” and Jack perfectly guessed the subject of it. Your father indeed wished to find you a husband. Abbot considered it an ironic cruelty of fate that he wanted to know his opinion in all of this. Of all people Jack should be the last one to ask.
Still, he wanted to do his duty and offer his king the best wisdom he could manage.
He could, after all, repay him for the honour of being the first person to know such a thing. It was unofficial, quiet. Even the Queen didn’t know yet, and it looked like the ruler was unsure too. Jack’s word was about to either convince him or make him more resentful. But Jack would never use his voice for his own personal advantages.
He stood there, waiting for the King to meet him and escort him to the ruler’s office.
Jack kept his men from the guard in check with a heavy arm. He was never cruel or overly rude, but he never backed away from teaching someone a lesson. They could be awful men, after all – some of them had a criminal background, killers, thieves, and if it would be up to Abbot he would get rid of half of them. Sad thing, the majority of good warriors died in the recent wars – the royal family was now at the mercy of those whose loyalty could be bought with gold. Unlike Jack.
They needed people like him to stand guard over the rest. He was there to kill any risk of rebellion before it could even start.
The soldiers sometimes joked about Abbot’s age, saying he was too old to see or hear things, but it was mostly sillying around. They all knew that the Captain saw and heard everything. With that being mentioned – the two guards he kept under his watchful eye right now, were rather brave and bold men.
“Think his daughter will rule when he's gone?” The younger one muttered to his partner, clearly bored by his task. Jack recognized him, and had quite high expectations of.
The influence of the older one couldn’t cause anything good though. Jack used all punishments available on him already, and he still didn’t abandon the disgusting nature of an outlaw.
He scoffed now, leaning closer to his young buddy. “What? A woman?” He mocked.
The boy was visibly taken aback, not knowing what to say in front of a man he wanted to impress. Abbot understood the youngsters’ want to fit in, even if it was usually confusing. He allowed the conversation to move on, and pretended he didn’t care about such foolish mistakes like skipping the king’s title. He did it himself sometimes…
“I mean… there are no boys.”
“Doesn't matter. The king will buy peace by marrying her off,” the other guard explained, like the ruling the kingdom was in his own very hands.
“Surely, but will the husband be in charge then?”
“Aye, like always. That's what kings with no sons do. Trade their daughters’ cunts for new successors.”
Now, that’s what Captain Abbot didn’t like. He made that mistake quite a few times – he tried to be understanding and allowed some things, and before he noticed it was too late to stop it. He wouldn’t have his man speaking about royals like that when he heard.
His sudden movement made the two guards straighten their backs and fix their stands on the post. He stood right in front of the bold one, staring in his eyes.
“Speak one more word,” he said quietly – his calm voice causing more dread than the worst scream, “I dare you.”
“I didn’t mean–”
“I don’t care what you meant.”
There was silence. Competitive, like the guard thought about actually stepping up.
“It won’t happen again, Captain,” he said eventually, and Jack knew how much of a lie it was.
But what was he supposed to do? Hang him and chase others who spoke ill of their rulers? Then he would have no men left.
The meeting with the King didn’t offer him much of a chance to calm down. Even the monarch noticed his sharp expression.
“What is it, Captain?” He asked, standing near a window with his back slouched in a way only a man with too many responsibilities would. A man who prepared a death sentence on his only child.
Not literally, of course, but both him and Jack knew that marriage would kill most of the good traits in you. The stubbornness, the interest and hunger for life… They were mature men, but they both had this sort of gentleness that allowed them to notice little things in women they cared for. Something not many were blessed with, it seemed…
They both grieved the fate that they prepared for you, without admitting it to the other.
“I know that this isn’t ideal,” the King said, much less sure than he wanted to be.
“It, in fact, isn’t,” Jack agreed with his jaw almost hurting from how tense it was.
“It’s the right thing to do.”
The right thing to do, Abbot repeated in his mind. For who?
He didn’t see it fit for the country – inviting a stranger ruler to occupy the throne just because he married the previous king’s child. Even if it was suitable, he wouldn’t be able to think of it much. All because it was you. It was aimed to hurt you.
Sometimes he questioned the reason behind all of this – his life, service, the loyalty he clung to so desperately – and every single time he failed to find another reason but you. He was a good advisor, yes, but he didn’t do it out of love for the kingdom, certainly not the king. He befriended him, earned what he had, but it was never selfless. He did it to live, to move on and find a place for himself. And there was no other place that he wanted to see himself in than by your side.
Later that day when he accompanied you during your duties he was quiet. Trouble was clear on his face – he didn’t even think about hiding it. He didn’t even notice when he started feeling so comfortable around you that he stopped pretending. It wasn’t his goal to worry you; he was just too consumed by his own feeling of… Of what? Loathing, pain, fury, all combined and resulting in him feeling dizzy and nauseous.
“Why are you so cross today, Cap?” It was a nice question, genuine, but he paid it little mind.
He grumbled something incoherent, too focused on his own anger. He felt even worse after thinking you were oblivious to what was about to come. You didn’t ask again, thinking he didn’t wish to share. Well, his loss if he didn’t want to speak to you, right? Jack had his moments of muteness and you learned to accept that…
He didn’t even notice your lingering eyes and spark in them. You were up to something not good, and he failed to see it.
For the first time since his life took a sharp turn he felt the overwhelming need to get drunk. It felt pathetic, like a memory of the past that he was ashamed of.
It was like a step back no respectable man would ever do, let alone a captain of the guard and the person responsible for the Princess’s safety. Yet, the thought that you were comfortably resting in your bedroom and the memory of a goodnight kiss you gave him, made him able to relax a bit.
Not as much as he would like, anyway… He was stuck in a bubble of intoxication, but he was still tense and angry. Even though he has reached his peak of keeping his own bad blood in check and learned to be a calm man, it would only take one small word to provoke him. To make him snap and let go of the reigns he kept so tightly.
And he was given much more than just a word. He was forced – no, he forced himself to listen to his men again. To hear them ramble, laugh and snarl their obscenities.
“I want to pay,” he muttered louder than the two previous times because the ignorance from the innkeeper angered him.
“I told you before, Captain,” the man repeated with a small smile, looking at the scooped over posture of the guard. “It's on the house for you, sir.”
Jack stopped and looked at him to try to sense some mockery, but he didn't. He was rather drunk already, but he nodded slowly and left the place.
He shouldn't care, but he did, and he didn't want people to see him get pissed just like that. The march to another pub – one much less civil – was equally humiliating nonetheless. A working girl with terribly thin clothes brushed behind his back before he could even enter properly. He waved at someone to get him some ale, but after a while of waiting he realized he must have been missed by the waitress.
And listening to all of that without something to drown his growing fury in was difficult. Jack must have been the most unlucky man in the city that night. Especially considering how merry the others around were.
Not only he had to listen to obscenities, but soon enough they turned to the subject he was the most thin-skinned about – you.
“If she's up for sale for strange foreigners,” rasped one of the men while wobbly raising to his feet, “then I might try my luck too, aye?”
He was answered by a roar of drunken laughter. Folks slammed their cups and goblets on the tables and scalded. Jack could no longer say if they were furious, happy or simply… vigorous.
He clenched his jaw and stared at his tightly gripped fist, before getting up himself. He was getting tired of controlling his own anger. Once you learn the ways of a warrior and see violence as a solution, it will remain by your side forever, no matter how hard you try to change it. At least that’s what he felt when his head buzzed.
“Never had my cock sucked by a royal bitch,” the man continued, not seeing who was coming his way, “yet.”
“The gods always offer new possibilities!" Someone offered in an overly happy voice.
Jack had no time to look around. In a few long steps he was by the guard’s side and yanked him down to the floor by his shirt. His back hit the ground and even Jack’s head spined from the force he used on him.
The crowd answered with an outraged hum. Abbot heard a characteristic clung of blades behind his back. He was mad as a dog and drunk, but he wasn’t stupid. The man on the floor still stared at him with fear – meaning he could still back out from it without broken ribs and lost teeth…
But was Jack a quitter? Would he shut up, just because he was outnumbered?
He could at least try to be civil about it… Try.
“What the fuck, ooh–” the man yelped when Jack tugged him to stand up and then pushed him away.
With a finger aimed straight at the guard, Jack shook his head and found his tongue and steady voice.
“Have you forgotten about your knighthood?” He dared darkly, but it did nothing to scare the opponent who quickly forgot about his worry. Jack now wished that he had crushed his throat in one swift punch.
“I guess there’s no knighthood in me anymore,” he answered with a shaky bow. The people calmed down, went back to their previous places and some of them laughed again. Yet, Jack could see the spark in the man’s eye. It wasn’t the end. “I’m full of ale, lust… and need for bloodshed, if you offer, cap.”
He wasn’t a particular fan of bloodshed, but teaching a bastard a lesson or two sounded rather appealing.
Captain Abbot wasn’t about to allow such a twat to surprise him. He made a sudden step and fed him with a hit that made the guard’s teeth clatter. They both staggered, and the man let out an angry whine. Jack dodged the doubles with ease, mostly focusing on the reaction of the crowd. Luckily, they formed a circle and started screaming in support of both sides.
Surprisingly, it turned out that Abbot also had his supporters.
The innkeeper, though, didn't appreciate any of this mess. He had hired his own guards exactly for situations like this. Two muscular men dragged Jack and the other drunk far away from each other. Jack didn’t fight the grip, seeing how the other one was smashed into a wall after the guard had to struggle with him.
“Fucking idiots.” Jack heard over his head and looked up. “Captain… That you?” He asked in surprise and Jack suddenly regretted shattering his reputation like that just because of one night.
He took a sharp breath and looked down again. “No,” he muttered in annoyance, which made the guard chuckle.
“Whatever ya say sir, just–” he stopped in his words as if he was to regret them.
“What? Spit it out.”
“You’re not the first outsider here tonight.”
Abbot wanted to ask what the hell did he mean, but the man was back at the door, handling some other drunk people again.
He didn’t have the time to fall back to sit at a nearby bench and rest, because he spotted your familiar figure in the crowd. Or so he thought – perhaps it was his sick imagination going truly mad. Well, hopefully.
But the longer he stared, the more sure he was. He moved quickly, seeing how you struggle to break through the bunch of stubborn people who blocked your way. He barely even noticed that he held his breath till he managed to catch your small hand in his, over a shoulder of some bloke.
You looked up with worry in your eyes, which disappeared when you recognized him.
It was like the feeling of hope when he came back from war. He remembered it well; the castle slowly showing itself over the lightly pink evening sky, appearing like a grand sign, a place that his life was about to be bid to. There was almost no memory of the cities and armies bathed in blood when he could see something so beautiful.
“What are you doing here?” He demanded after helping you out and pulling you closer to his side.
That was the last thing he managed to mutter before his hands started shaking again. You stared at him without a word, and he was breathless again. He took in the sight of you; at first protecting, making sure you were unharmed and safe. Then he slowly dragged his eyes over your clothes, the dark cloak that poorly hid the cleavage of your dress under it, your sweaty skin that spared in the dim light of the candles, just like your eyes did. You were tipsy too, which you only proved by holding yourself up on his arm for a while, before catching your balance again. Jack fought to not move his hand and brush the unruly hair out of your face, some of them stuck even to your lips that were red either from the nerves or the booze.
“You shouldn’t be here…” he stated under his breath when you offered no explanation, and he now felt like it was his grand fault. He should have noticed that you were up to something bad today…
Still, he felt the overwhelming need to get away from you now, just for a moment. To steady his breath, force his mind to sober up and act like the mature man of serious position that he was.
You sensed it, and despite not feeling bad for whatever you did, you now embraced the look of someone guilty. All it took for you to obey a silent order was Jack showing you a corner nearby. You moved carefully, staying there in the shadow and waiting for him to come back.
And Jack… Gods, what an idiot he was. He approached the bar and picked up ale for the two of you, like it wasn’t the stupidest thing to do. But he needed it, and possibly so did you. You didn’t question when his back hit the wall next to you, and he offered you the drink.
He watched you carefully, took in your annoyance, the shoulders slightly bent forward, like you wanted to seem smaller in this hellhole, yet you kept staring up at him.
“Good thing I found you here,” you said quietly, sounding like it was partially a lie. Something forced… Jack wondered if it was only his remaining honor or did you truly wish to avoid him?
“Is it?” He questioned skeptically.
You nodded. “It still seems that my evening was better than yours,” you rated.
His face was bruised, but it wasn’t enough to cause Abbot much pain. Nonetheless, he turned his head slowly when he noticed your stare, like a hunting animal that would never betray its next step.
But it was your turn to surprise him. You moved closer, abandoning your cup on a nearby table, and slowly, deliberately tangled your hand into his, holding it like you wanted to keep him close.
“This is dangerous,” he said surely, but quiet enough to make the displeasure of it clear.
You didn’t know what part he meant, and it really didn’t matter. Was what you were doing now dangerous? What were you doing to him? Or simply the fact of you spending a night in a place like this…
“I don't mind as long as you're here with me,” you answered and got on your toes to look him in the face. He avoided your gaze but eventually was forced to meet it. “Nothing can hurt me then.”
But he didn’t worry about your safety. He very well knew that he would rather die over and over again than let anything happen to you. It was dangerous to your good name, your reputation. And hell, yes, it was dangerous to him too.
His hand that you kept in your grip like it was the dearest thing to you, stayed still. Almost like he was afraid to move at all. Yet, his eyes, once they agreed to get lost in yours, sought and followed you like a hungry dog follows its master.
“Touch me like it doesn't matter, Captain Abbot.”
His breath stopped. But you looked at him nicely, with kindness that begged for attention. You weren’t urging him to do things he would regret, were you?
“Dance with me?” You asked.
“Not here.”
Well, it wasn’t a ‘no’, was it? It made you smile. Yet, he made no movement to do what you wished for.
“It's alright to feel alive a little, Captain. You’re not a marble sculpture that has to avoid anything that’s human…”
It was too much for him to take. He picked up the hand that you cradled his skin with and raised it, not exactly all the way to his lips, but you could feel his warm breath. “Don't tempt me.”
It was more pleading than warning. Oh, you were dreaming about tempting him a bit more.
“Won’t you do what I command?” You risked.
“Is that a command? That I dance with you?”
You shrugged.
“I’d prefer it if it weren’t,” you admitted honestly and Jack could barely restrain his smile. “Don’t you want to make me happy?”
Of course, he did. He was living to keep his lady happy and safe.
“I’m not making an even bigger fool out of myself here,” he argued, but already looked around for a clear way to the door.
“Then let’s leave,” you agreed.
He walked behind you, making sure no one dared to step too close like the loyal protector that he was. Gods, he was always a good soldier, but he failed to notice the exact moment when he turned into an obedient man. Perhaps it was always in his blood, and maybe it was only for you to see and experience.
When you left the inn, you suddenly stopped in one of the narrow, dark streets, letting Jack’s chest hit your back. He didn’t move away, and you used it to turn around and throw your arms around his neck. He hesitantly placed his hands on your waist and kept them still, almost politely. Almost, if you didn’t feel how tense he was to not move too much or too fast. Still, he was almost pressing your body to hiss.
“You want to dance with me here?” He asked jokingly when you rocked to the sides.
“Why not?”
He scoffed and laughed grimly. Still, he never backed away, didn’t shake off your touch and was holding onto your body like it was the only thing grounding him now.
You allowed your fingers to travel, slowly making your way to the collar to his shirt that you played with for a while. Then you opened a few buttons like it was the easiest task ever. He leaned in, and your foreheads almost touched.
“Y/n…”
You dragged your palm over the skin on his chest and a hum broke out of his throat. A sound of pleasure that he prayed sounded like annoyance.
It didn’t, unlike his voice. “I’m twice your size. Get your hands off me.”
Now it was a warning. A warning full of lies and forced decency.
“Do you really wish for me to do that?”
He wasn’t strong enough to resist it. A weak fool – but he didn’t regret it now, nor would he ever.
The only answer he was capable of was placing a hand over the back of your head to shield it, and force you to walk back, led by his strength. Your body hit a nearby wall and Jack attacked your lips with his. The calloused skin that protected you from the harsh bricks softly played with your locks, with his other hand wrapped around your waist. He was practically pushing you into the wall while pulling your middle to him.
“Oh, I see,” you teased in a whisper when he pulled away, just for a second.
He groaned heavily, not being able to focus on sucking on your neck for too long, like your lips called for him.
“Shut up, please.”
He couldn’t stand the mockery about how unworthy he was – how unsure and pathetic in his feelings while you deserved sureness and adoration – but he yearned to hear you. Your breath quickened when you felt the hardness in his breeches and he forced a moan out of you with how his tongue played with yours.
He threw his head back when your touch traveled over his chest again. You used your hands to tug on his hair and pull him back to you. It caught him by surprise when you bit his lip while pushing in. A sweet sound, something like a chuckle and a moan at the same time, made you smile into the kiss and caress his skin with more urgency.
“Jack–”
His both hands moved to cup your face, and he looked down at you with such seriousness that it made you feel warm in your abdomen.
“Do you really want that, love?” He asked softly. It was the most charming to you, how needy yet selfless and caring he could be. “It's reckless,” he noticed, like it was something that could make you reconsider.
“It is,” you agreed, not stopping to caress his lower lip with your finger.
“Princess,” he said more firmly, as if to make you focus. “At least think about it. Consider… I—We don’t have to rush. Not with anything.”
“Jack.”
“Please–”
“There’s nothing that you could say that would make me change my mind. Do you understand me, Jack?”
He breathed heavily, cuddling you head to his chest. “My darling,” you could hear him whisper almost right to your ear.
What you loved most about Captain Jack Abbot was how sure and confident he was in his duties, all of that without making his presence a burden. He never made rooms seem smaller when he entered. He fitted the space and rarely took too much to intimidate someone. He didn’t have to. His careful strength was silent, but never mute.
That’s how he led you through the streets and halls in the castle. He held your hand and kept brushing his thumb over your skin. A repeating glare was thrown your way like he wanted to make sure you were still with him. Yet, he never hesitated. He really didn’t need any light to navigate through the corridors.
He opened the door to your chambers in front of you and let you inside, while staying out guard for a moment. He looked around before closing the door, and you threw the heavy cloak off of your shoulders in the meantime.
“What did you think when you first saw me tonight?” You asked before Jack could make his way to you.
He stopped a few steps away and crossed his arms on his chest. You could finally have a good look at him. At his tired but handsome face that showed the whole bother of the day, marked with a stubble. His grayish hair was disheveled – your work – and he didn’t care about rebuttoning his shirt. You could tug at the laces and have it off his back in one swift pull—
“That it's another one of your foolish choices and putting yourself in avoidable danger,” he answered. “That you should have stayed–”
“No.” You cluck your tongue and couldn’t fail to notice that he blushed when you did. “That's not what crossed your mind at first.”
“I–”
His ears turned red, and his hands hung lowly by his side, like he didn’t know what to do with himself.
“What happened, Captain?” You chirped, trying to maintain his stare and slowly loosening the material of your own gown. “You are always so blunt and honest…”
But you were wrong. If he was honest and blunt before, you wouldn’t be so sure of yourself. You would know the parts of Jack that not even he often acknowledged. You wouldn’t have to assure him that he was worthy, would have to ask him to touch you and ask if you could touch him back, because he would make it very clear. He would take every chance, hell, he would create chances. Gladly he would spend hours picking hay out of your hair after he was done with fulfilling your shared desires, and brushing your clothes from dust and dirt.
If he was bold the nature of your relationship would never stay a secret. He would probably try and fail miserably. The servants, governesses, stableboys… They would all be forced to hear how Captain Abbot, your sworn protector, was taking his task of keeping you content very seriously.
And now you wanted to hear it out loud. You wanted him to admit the things that he told himself were untrue. How was he supposed to resist when you looked at him like that?
“What I thought first was how badly I wanted you there and then,” he said out of breath, taking a brave step closer to you. “I wouldn’t mind the bastards noticing…”
“That would teach them a lesson, yes?” You offered, and his eyebrows moved up at your boldness. “That I’m yours, and they can only dream–”
“Yes,” he almost groaned. “Yes, but fuck—It's not about them. It's about you...”
You hummed while taking off your earring and turning to place them on a vanity table. “What about me, Jack?”
He stared at your half exposed back. You didn’t even hear him getting closer, only felt him cling to you from behind.
“The things you do to me,” he muttered, not even thinking about letting you go when you moved your head back and rested it over his shoulder. “Can I–”
“Show me, Jack.”
His nose and mouth brushed over the sensitive skin on your neck, making you sigh and lean into him more. Slowly he palmed one of your breasts through the thin material, until you helped him out and loosen the gown even more. Jack didn’t approve of the help, he wanted to do it all himself. He wanted to take care of you so badly…
His other hand freed your hair from all the pins that held them up, then brushed the locks to the side. With access to your neck he placed numerous kisses over your skin, sucking it. His palms worked over your chest, back and forth under the satin undergown.
The friction was heavenly, but what truly made you feel dizzy and weak in your legs were the sounds Jack was making. He held onto you like a starved man. Despite his carefulness he breathed heavily, and hissed when you faltered back into him, after a shiver made you lose control over your body for a moment.
You felt hot, overdressed, and all you could think about was making Jack move his fingers from your breasts to where you needed him most. You felt an ache between your legs when Jack took advantage of how you stumbled. He held you closer, and you could feel his hardness pressing against the small of your back. The heat from his body was enough to make you fall for him once more, deeper each time, but then he slowly dragged your clothes down. You could feel his hot, unrushed gaze over every inch of your skin and the way he moaned at the sight… It made you lose your mind.
“You’re the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”
“Have you seen many women like that, soldier?”
Was it sick that it made him twitch when you spoke to him like that? Like you wanted to remind him of his place?
“Well, I meant… the most beautiful, clothed and unclothed,” he muttered against the skin of your cheek.
“You didn’t–” Your breath hitched when his warm, big hand reached your lower stomach and stopped there to palm your flesh. “You didn’t answer my question,” you noticed.
You would swear that he used the fact you couldn’t see him and grinned like a mad man. “No, and I won’t,” he said honestly.
You could almost accuse him of being mean… When you opened your mouth to ask why, he used the moment to press his fingers to your core, making your words turn into a whine. His other hand moved back to your face, brushing over your cheek and the corner of your lips.
“It would be a shame to speak about other women when I have a goddess in front of me,” he said softly. “And a goddess I get to touch and worship… I only have a mind for one, you know.”
That's good, you wanted to say and praise him, but he made you unable to find your voice for a good moment. While pleasuring you with a skill you could never even imagine, he rocked forward, clearly unable to hold back. You could feel every inch of him over your ass.
“Sorry—I’m sorry,” he hissed immediately, his voice somehow more hoarse than a minute ago.
It made your thighs clench, and he wanted to help you relax again, but you didn’t give him time.
“Do it again, Jack,” you called, and in the first second he thought he heard wrong.
“I…”
“Please, do it again.” You hunched to the front with his strength holding you up and your hands rested on the vanity table.
You arched your back into him, and he was able to push in closer, leaving no space between your bodies. “Princess… Oh, what a sweet thing you are.”
You wanted to correct him, tell him to call you by your name – actually, to feel free to scream said name right into your ear – and abandon the guilt that he still had in his voice, even if he pretended to be sure of himself. Unfortunately, he curled and moved his fingers inside you just the way you needed, making you unable to even put a coherent sentence together in your head.
He kept moving behind your back, never pulling away for too long, and all the sensation made you tremble. He could see you getting closer, and it almost made him weak. He pulled you fully to his chest as you came, saving you from falling forward.
He slowly pulled his hand away, but then he moved back, dragging you with him. He sat on your bed, placing you on his lap but quickly moving so you were sat in between his legs. Without a care that you were still overwhelmed and blood buzzed in your head, his hand moved back to your throbbing core.
You whimpered and fell back, resting over his chest when he brushed your hair out of your sweaty face.
“It doesn’t have to change anything, does it? You, fuck.” Abbot’s state wasn’t much better. The way you moved against him made him crazy. “You won’t be sick of me now, right?”
“Jack… Oh my—oh…”
He ignored that you were practically spasming from his touch, making him speak with growing difficulty when your bottom rubbed over his crotch.
“Because all I fear is that you will come to regret it and think of me with disgust. As someone who made you choose wrong.”
He couldn’t think about the fact that he was rambling, and that it was probably the worst moment to do that, but he somehow felt lighter after speaking up.
The words must have broken your heart, but he didn’t realize that either. He almost choked from worry when he felt your tight grip on his hand, making him still inside of you and pull away. The idea of doing something wrong and hurting you scared him so badly… He knew you were much more inexperienced, and he feared he wouldn’t be good enough to care for you properly. “I’m sorry–”
But you stilled him to gather your mind and look him in the eyes over your shoulder.
“Jack, I could never think of you with disgust. And this… I’m absolutely sure of the choice I made.”
“Yes?”
“Gods, yes, Jack,” you almost laughed, your breathing turning ragged. “I want you so much. I need you… Can I?”
“Please,” he answered breathlessly at once and moved to make it easier for you to turn around in his arms, pressing your bare chest to his. “I need you too.”
He took off his shirt and threw it to the side when you were untying his breeches. His hand hoovered over yours when you pulled them down to his lower thigh, but he restrained from stopping you with his touch. He didn’t have to – you didn’t move them further when you noticed his uneasiness. You knew it was his leg that he worried about, but instead of forcing him to trust you, you used the moment to kiss the distress out of his face.
His stubble rubbed over your soft skin, and now you could feel it fully without the cold outside making you a bit numb.
He laid down against the pillows on your bed, giving you full access to keep kissing him. Your hands adorned his muscular body with nails prints that were quickly smothered with the soft brushes of your fingers.
Jack wrapped his arm around your back to keep you closed and moved, now towering over you and covering your body with his. “Is that alright?”
“More than alright,” you said and pulled him closer to kiss him again. You didn’t want to part from him ever again…
Small sounds of desperation slipped out of both of your mouths when he finally pushed in. The blend of Jack’s name, your title and half-moans made you even more aroused if it was possible. Your sight darkened when he hit just the right spot, and he had to stay still to let you catch your breath.
To make your pain that quickly turned into full pleasure more bearable, he sucked and kissed your neck again. You began noticing that he was rather fond of your skin there… You couldn’t complain about the feeling of warmth and wetness from his mouth.
Jack couldn’t stop his hips from rocking, and you hid your face in his neck, making him pull away from your collar bone. When his thrusts grew shallow, he reached down to press with one of his fingers.
“You—I have to see you,” he pleaded desperately, trying to caress your face with his hand, while holding himself up enough to not crush you under his body. “Please… Please look at me.”
He regretted it quickly. He could barely catch his breath when you pulled back from hiding in his chest and moved your big teary eyes up to him.
“I can't—Gods…”
You held onto his shoulders when you both came, your groans and heated whispers mixing into one sound of pleasure.
During the night he’s got you under him, laying at the foot of your bed, then again next to the window, your legs wrapped around his hips when the sky slowly changes from black to shy blue. Words slip easily out of his mouth from now on, moans and cries even easier, and he could forget about everything outside this chamber.
He could die a happy man now, truly, and what made him want you even more was that you looked pleased too. Not just with desire and lust, feeding his ego that he did his job better than well. It was some deeply rooted content, something that gave him hope he stripped himself from for a long time.
The leather bracelet that he wore for a long time, the gift from you, was now attached to a piece of lace that was torn from your sleep gown – a piece that made him fall crazy for you. He hid and protected it from the gaze of anyone at court. Whenever he thought about the fact that the white cotton that touched his skin once laid on yours, he was feeling warmth scatter over his body. Once or twice his trousers grew uncomfortably tight in a situation that he shouldn’t be so distracted in, but he couldn’t even feel bad about it.
Such vulgar display of an affair… He knew he would probably get whipped if someone saw it, but he noticed your hungry gaze whenever you spotted him wearing it with such hidden pride.
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Summary: You book a boudoir shoot for yourself. Not for Jack. Not because you need him to think you’re beautiful. Not because you need proof that he wants you. For you. Jack is thrilled because you’re excited, but he tries very hard to be cool about it. He is supportive. Respectful. Only mildly concerned that you are trying to kill him. But when the photos come back, and he sees you the way you finally let yourself be seen, Jack has a very hard time keeping his reaction contained. Especially when he gets to the photo of you in white sheets, wearing his dog tags, looking up at the camera like you finally believed what he has been trying to tell you for years.
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, established marriage, boudoir photography, body confidence themes, sexual themes, Jack being deeply attracted to his wife, dog tags used in an intimate/emotional way, emotional vulnerability, body image feelings, reader feeling nervous but empowered, Jack being supportive/soft/obsessed, swearing, lots of married intimacy.
Author's Note: This one is really special to me. I wanted this fic to be sexy, obviously, because hello. Jack Abbot, seeing his wife’s boudoir photos? We were never going to survive that politely. But more than that, I wanted this to mean something. This was inspired by my own boudoir experience. I was nervous going into it, and my photographer was absolutely incredible. She hyped me up, made me feel safe, talked about how empowering the experience could be, and helped me see myself in a way I honestly don’t think I had before. It wasn’t just about taking sexy photos. It was about feeling confident, beautiful, powerful, and present in my own body. That is what I wanted you to feel when you read this. The shoot is for her. Jack loves the photos, yes. He is attracted to her, yes. He loses his mind a little, obviously. But what matters most is that she did something brave for herself. She let herself be seen. And when Jack looks at the photos, he does not just see her body. He sees the light on her skin, the look in her eyes, the little smiles he knows because he loves her. He sees her seeing herself.
This is a sister fic in spirit to Source Material — sexy, funny, emotional, and very married.
Xoxo, Del
MDNI 18+
Jack knew the look on your face. Not the exact cause of it yet, but the category.
You were trying to be casual.
Which meant, immediately, that nothing about this was casual.
You were standing in the kitchen with your hip against the counter, both hands wrapped around a mug of tea you had not taken a single sip from. The dishwasher hummed quietly behind you. Rain tapped against the window above the sink, soft and steady, turning the glass dark. Jack had changed out of his work clothes twenty minutes ago, but he was in a black T-shirt with his sweatpants loose at his hips, and his hair damp from the shower.
He was rinsing his coffee mug when you cleared your throat. Not dramatically. Not even loudly. But enough.
Jack looked over his shoulder. You smiled at him. Too quickly.
His eyes narrowed.
“What?” you asked.
Jack turned off the faucet. “Nothing.”
“You’re looking at me.” You said.
Jack gave you a pointed look, “I do that.”
“Not like that.” You replied, waving your hand vaguely toward him.
He set the mug in the drying rack and turned to face you, leaning back against the sink with his arms folded loosely over his chest. “Like what?”
You took a sip of tea to avoid answering. It was too hot. You regretted it immediately.
Jack’s mouth curved. “Smooth,” he said.
You lowered the mug. “I’m fine.”
“I didn’t ask.” He replied.
You narrowed your eyes, “You were about to.”
“I was observing.” Jack shrugged.
“That’s worse.”
His smile widened by a fraction. “Usually.”
You looked down into your tea, watching steam curl up between your hands. The words were right there. Not bad words. Not scary words, exactly. Just words that felt bigger than you had expected now that Jack was standing in front of you with his attention on you, steady and warm and impossible to hide from.
You had been excited all day. Nervous too. But excited.
You had opened the photographer’s booking confirmation three times just to look at it. You had reread the prep email twice. You had imagined the studio, the outfits, the soft light, the camera, the strange and terrifying possibility of seeing yourself in a way you had never quite managed before.
And then Jack had come home, kissed your temple, complained about someone mislabeling leftovers in the break room, and suddenly the thing you had been excited about felt fragile in your chest.
Like saying it out loud might change it.
Jack’s expression softened. “There it is,” he said.
Your eyes lifted. “There what is?”
“The thing you’re trying to decide whether to tell me.”
Your fingers tightened around the mug. “I’m not doing that.”
“Okay,” Jack said simply.
Your eyebrows shoot up. “You believe me?”
“No.”
You huffed a laugh despite yourself.
Jack pushed away from the sink and crossed to the island, stopping on the opposite side so he was near you but not crowding you. He knew how to do that. Give space without feeling far away. It was deeply inconvenient.
“I booked something today,” you said.
Jack’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Something.”
You nodded. “Mm-hmm.”
“That was an extremely suspicious something,” Jack said evenly.
You frown, “It’s not suspicious.”
“No?” he quirks a brow.
“No.” You looked back into your tea. “It’s not a big deal.”
Jack was quiet for half a second. Then he said, very gently, “Baby.”
You closed your eyes. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Jack replied.
You sighed, “You said baby like that.”
“Like what?” He asked.
“Like you know me.” You grumbled, deeply inconvenienced.
His mouth twitched. “Terrible habit.”
You opened your eyes and found him watching you with that expression you hated and loved in equal measure. Amused. Patient. Seeing too much.
“You only say it’s not a big deal when it is, in fact, a big deal,” he said.
Your reply comes quickly, “It’s not.”
“Okay.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Letting me lie to you politely.” You point an accusatory finger at him.
Jack nodded once. “I’m a generous husband.”
“You’re an annoying husband.” You corrected.
“Also true.”
Your laugh came easier that time. Some of the tightness in your chest loosened with it.
Jack noticed. He leaned his forearms on the island, gaze still on your face. “You want to tell me?”
You stared at your mug for one more second. Then you took a breath. “I booked a boudoir shoot.”
Jack went still. Not upset. Not confused. Just still. Like his brain had received the words and needed one additional second to decide what kind of husband he needed to be first.
Then he nodded once. “Okay.”
You blinked. “Okay?”
His eyes stayed on yours. “Okay.”
You throw your hands up, “That’s all I get?”
His mouth twitched, but he held it back. “For now.”
“For now?”
He nodded, “I’m controlling my reaction until I know why you booked it.”
Your chest did something strange. Softened and tightened at the same time. “You’re controlling your reaction.”
He nodded again, “Trying to.”
“How’s that going?” You ask, unable to stop your smile.
“Poorly.”
A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it.
Jack’s mouth curved, pleased he had gotten you there.
“I am enthusiastically supportive,” he said. “I’m just trying to be cool about it.”
Your eyes narrowed at him, “You’re being weirdly calm.”
“I’m aware.” He replied.
You looked him up and down. “You look like you’re doing math.”
“I am.”
You lifted an eyebrow. “What kind of math?”
“The kind where I calculate how excited I’m allowed to be before you tell me whether this is exciting or terrifying.”
That did something to you. Something small and soft and stupidly emotional. Because that was Jack. Not uninterested. Not dismissive. Not making it about himself. Waiting to know what you needed him to be.
You looked down and ran your thumb along the handle of your mug. “Both, maybe.”
Jack’s expression gentled. “Yeah?”
“I’ve thought about it for a while.” You say your voice quieter.
He nodded once. “Okay.”
You inhaled a breath, “I’ve followed this photographer for months. She does these really beautiful shoots, and she talks a lot about body confidence and feeling safe and taking up space in your own body.” You exhaled, a little shaky. “All the comments are always women saying they were nervous and then they left feeling powerful, and I just…”
Jack did not interrupt. You glanced up at him. He was listening the way he always did when he knew something mattered. Completely.
“I wanted to do something for myself,” you said.
There. That was the part.
Jack’s face changed. The humor did not disappear exactly. It gentled.
“For yourself,” he said.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
He stayed quiet, giving you room.
“It’s not because I need you to think I’m sexy,” you said.
His eyebrows lifted slightly, but he still did not interrupt.
You continued, “I mean, obviously, I like that you do.”
His mouth curved.
“But that’s not why I booked it.”
Jack pushed away from the island and came around to your side, stopping in front of you close enough that you could feel the warmth of him. Not so close that you felt trapped.
“Good,” he said.
You looked up. “Good?”
“Yeah.” His voice softened. “That’s better.”
Your throat tightened. “Better?”
He nodded once. “If you want to do something that makes you feel confident in your own body, I love that.”
The words were simple. That was why they hit.
You looked down quickly.
Jack’s fingers brushed the side of your mug, not taking it from you, just touching where your hands were wrapped around the ceramic.
“Are you excited?” he asked.
You nodded. “Nervous.”
“That wasn’t the question,” Jack said gently.
Your mouth twitched. He waited. You let yourself breathe.
“Yeah,” you said. “I’m excited.”
Jack’s smile appeared slowly. Not restrained this time. Real. “Then I’m excited.”
Your chest warmed. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His eyes moved over your face, careful but warmer now. “Very.”
“There it is,” you said.
Jack huffed a quiet laugh and glanced away for half a second, like he was trying to keep the rest of himself in check. Then he looked back at you.
“Now that I know we’re excited,” he said, “I do have one question.”
You lifted an eyebrow. “One?”
“For now,” Jack replied.
You waved your hand towards him, “Okay. Shoot.”
His expression went very serious. “Are you trying to kill me?”
The laugh burst out of you, immediate and relieved.
Jack pointed at you. “No, I’m serious. I need to know if this is premeditated.”
“It’s not for you.” You said, smiling.
“I understand that.” His eyes stayed warm on yours. “That does not answer the murder question.”
You laughed again, softer this time.
Jack leaned one hip against the counter beside you, trying and failing to look casual.
“I am thrilled for you,” he said. “And also personally concerned for my long-term survival.”
You rolled your eyes, “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m a man with eyes.” Jack corrected.
You smiled. “There he is.”
“I held out as long as I could,” Jack said, raising his hands innocently.
You shook your head, still smiling into your tea. The nerves had not disappeared entirely. But they had changed shape. They were not sharp anymore. They were warm. Manageable.
Almost giddy.
Jack watched your smile like he had been waiting for it.
“When is it?” he asked.
“Two weeks.” You answered.
His eyebrows lifted. “Soon.”
“Yeah.” You said with a nod.
Jack looked at you, “You picked outfits?”
“Some.”
Jack’s gaze sharpened with interest before he visibly forced his face back into something neutral.
You pointed at him. “I saw that.”
“I didn’t say anything.” He defended.
You glared. “You thought something.”
“I think many things,” Jack said, aiming for innocence and failing miserably.
“About the outfits.” You prompted.
Jack looked at you for a beat. Then he nodded once. “Yes.”
You laughed.
His smile flickered, but he kept his voice careful. “Do you want help?”
“With outfits?”
“Or not help,” he said quickly. “I can also be far away from the outfits. In another room. Possibly another state.”
You smiled. “I might want help packing.”
Jack’s eyes warmed. “Okay.”
“But you don’t get to choose everything.” You added.
“Everything,” he repeated.
You nodded firmly. “You heard me.”
His mouth curved. “That implies I get to choose something.”
“You may have opinions.” You replied.
Jack grinned. “I have several.”
“Shocking.” You said sarcastically.
He leaned closer, just enough that his voice lowered. “I’ll keep most of them to myself.”
“Most?” You asked, brows raised.
Jack shrugged, “I’m still me.”
Your pulse jumped. Jack saw it. His expression softened with something quietly pleased before he eased back again, careful not to push. That was the thing about him. The reason you had wanted to tell him, even when it made you nervous. Jack could tease you until you laughed, then pull back the second the room needed tenderness. He could want you without making you feel like his wanting was a demand. He could look at you like that and still leave you room to choose.
You set your mug down on the counter.
“There’s one thing I was thinking about bringing,” you said.
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. “Okay.”
You continued, “It’s yours.”
His expression shifted. Curious now. “Mine?”
“Maybe.”
“Should I be worried?” he asked.
You shook your head, “No.”
“That was too quick.”
You smiled, but your fingers curled against the counter.
Jack noticed the nerves come back before you said another word.
His voice gentled. “What is it?”
You looked up at him. “Your dog tags.”
Jack went still. This time was different. Not funny. Not controlled. Just still.
His eyes searched your face. “My dog tags?”
You nodded softly, “Only if that’s okay.”
He did not answer immediately.
You rushed on before the quiet could grow too big.
“I know they mean something. I don’t want to just use them as a prop or anything. I just thought…” You looked down, embarrassed in a new way now. “I don’t know. They make me feel brave.”
Jack’s face changed. Small. Devastating.
You felt it before he even moved.
He reached for your hand, carefully uncurling your fingers from the edge of the counter. His thumb swept once over your knuckles.
“They make you feel brave?” he asked.
You nodded.
His eyes stayed on yours. “Then take them.”
Your throat tightened. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” The word was immediate. Certain.
Jack glanced toward the stairs, where your bedroom was. You knew the tags were kept in the small wooden tray on his dresser. He looked back at you. “Do you want them now?”
You blinked. “Now?”
His mouth curved faintly. “So you don’t spend the next two weeks wondering if I meant it.”
Your eyes burned a little. “That’s annoying.”
“What is?” He asked.
“You knowing me.”
He smiled. “Terrible habit.”
Then he kissed your forehead and left the kitchen. You stood there alone for a moment, listening to the quiet sounds of him moving up the stairs and through the bedroom. The faint shift of something being picked up. The soft fall of his footsteps returning. When Jack came back, the dog tags were in his hand. The chain pooled in his palm, silver catching the kitchen light.
He stopped in front of you. For a second, neither of you spoke.
Then he lifted the chain slightly. “Turn around.”
Your breath caught. “Jack.”
“Only if you want.” He added gently.
You did.
So you turned.
Jack stepped close behind you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him at your back. He slipped the chain carefully over your head, his fingers brushing your neck as he settled it against your skin.
The tags landed at the center of your chest, cool and solid through the thin fabric of your shirt.
You touched them with two fingers.
Jack’s hands rested lightly on your shoulders. Not holding you there. Just there.
“You okay?” he asked.
You nodded, throat tight. “Yeah.”
His mouth brushed the side of your head. “There,” he said softly.
You turned back around, the tags shifting against your chest. Jack looked at them. Then at your face. His expression was quiet now. Not teasing.
Not even thrilled, though you knew he was.
Something softer than that.
You touched the tags again. “How do I look?”
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. For a second, he seemed to consider the question more seriously than you had meant it. Then his thumb brushed the chain where it rested against your shirt.
“Like yourself,” he said.
Your chest pulled tight. “That’s vague.”
“No.” His voice stayed low. “It’s not.”
The kitchen went quiet around you. Rain at the window. Dishwasher humming. Jack standing close enough that you could feel his breath when he exhaled.
You looked down at the tags, then back up at him. “I’m really doing this.”
His mouth curved, small and proud.
“Yeah,” he said. “You are.”
You smiled. Nervous still. Excited still. But braver now, with the weight of his dog tags warm against your chest and his hand curled carefully around yours.
Jack squeezed your fingers once. “For you,” he said.
You swallowed. “It is for me.”
“I know.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “That’s why I want you to have them.”
The night before the shoot, you packed your bag three times.
Not because you had forgotten anything.
Because packing involved your hands.
The first time, you had laid everything out on the bed in neat little sections: black lace, soft robe, bodysuit, a pair of heels you had bought with more confidence than you currently possessed, one of Jack’s white button-downs folded carefully beside the pile, and the small velvet pouch where his dog tags rested.
The second time, you had decided the robe should be folded differently.
The third time, you had taken everything out and started again because the zipper on the bag had caught on the lace, and apparentl,y that meant the entire system was compromised.
Jack stood in the bedroom doorway for the first five minutes and said nothing.
Which was how you knew he had noticed everything.
You picked up the black robe again and smoothed it over your lap.
Jack’s voice came from the doorway. “Is the robe improving?”
You looked up. “What?”
He nodded toward your hands. “Every time you fold it, you look disappointed in its performance.”
You glanced down at the robe in your hands.
It looked the same as it had the first two times.
You folded it anyway. “I’m fine.”
Jack leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. “That sentence is becoming one of your least convincing.”
You gestured vaguely with the robe. “Like you think I’m spiraling.”
Jack’s eyes moved over the bed, the open bag, the outfits, and the robe currently being folded with surgical intensity.
Then he looked back at you. “I think you’re refining.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That was patronizing.”
His expression stayed mild. “It was supportive.”
You pointed the robe at him. “It was both.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Marriage is about multitasking.”
Despite yourself, you laughed.
Jack’s expression softened in that quiet, pleased way he got when he managed to pull you out of your head.
Then he pushed away from the doorway and came farther into the room.
He had changed into sweatpants and a faded PTMC T-shirt, his hair still a little damp from the shower. His prosthetic made its familiar, quiet sound against the floor as he crossed toward the bed, and the ordinary comfort of it settled something low in your chest.
He stopped at the foot of the bed, hands loose at his sides.
Not reaching. Not touching the outfits. Not inserting himself into the process.
Just there.
Jack asked, “Do you want reassurance, distraction, or practical help?”
You blinked. “Those are my options?”
He nodded. “For now.”
You looked at the half-packed bag. “What if I want all three?”
Jack’s face stayed serious. “Then I’ll multitask.”
Your throat tightened for absolutely no reason. Or maybe for every reason. You looked down at the robe again, your fingers worrying the edge of the fabric.
You said, “I still want to do it.”
Jack’s expression softened. “I know.”
You swallowed. “I’m just nervous.”
Jack kept his voice gentle. “I know that too.”
You let out a breath that almost became a laugh. “Are you always this annoying?”
He nodded. “Consistently.”
You set the robe into the bag, then immediately took it back out.
Jack watched it happen. His eyebrows lifted.
You pointed at him. “Don’t.”
Jack held up one hand. “I didn’t.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You were going to.”
He dropped his hand. “I was thinking.”
You folded the robe again. “Loudly.”
His mouth twitched.
You looked back down at the bed. The outfits had looked exciting when you put them together. Pretty. Bold. Maybe even a little powerful. Now, under the warm bedroom light, with tomorrow sitting closer than it had all week, they looked like evidence of nerve you were not fully convinced you had.
You asked, “What if I look awkward?”
Jack did not answer too quickly. That made you look up. He sat carefully on the edge of the bed, leaving the pile of clothing between you like neutral territory.
Jack said, “You might.”
Your mouth fell open. “Jack.”
He looked at you steadily. “What?”
You stared at him. “That’s your pep talk?”
Jack leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs. “It’s an honest one.”
You dropped the robe onto the bed. “It’s a terrible one.”
He shook his head. “No.”
You waited.
Jack’s voice softened. “You might feel awkward for the first few minutes. It’s new. New things feel awkward.”
You looked down at the black lace set on the bed. “That is not as comforting as you think it is.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on your face. “Awkward doesn’t mean wrong.”
Your fingers stilled.
He added, “It just means new.”
The room got quiet for a second. Rain tapped lightly against the bedroom window, soft and steady. The lamp on your nightstand threw a warm pool of light across the comforter, catching on the chain of his dog tags where the velvet pouch had fallen open.
You looked at them instead of him. “She said that, actually,” you said.
Jack followed your gaze to the pouch. “The photographer?”
You nodded. “In one of her prep emails.”
Jack’s attention returned to you. “Smart woman.”
You touched the edge of the pouch. “She said most people feel awkward for the first few minutes, and that’s normal.”
He nodded. “Good.”
You let out a small laugh. “She said she walks everyone through posing and facial expressions and what to do with their hands.”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “Also good.”
You looked at him. “Because apparently no one knows what to do with their hands.”
Jack tilted his head. “That tracks.”
You laughed softly. Then your eyes dropped back to the outfits.
You said, “She also said the point isn’t to look like someone else.”
Jack’s face changed slightly.
You looked back at him. “It’s to see yourself differently.”
His voice went quiet. “That sounds like exactly the right person.”
You swallowed. “Yeah?”
Jack nodded. “Yeah.”
You looked back at the bed. “I hope so.”
Jack’s hand moved over the comforter, stopping near yours but not touching. “Do you want practical help now?”
You glanced at the pile. “Maybe.”
He sat up a little straighter. “Okay. What are we deciding?”
You picked up the black lace set.
Jack’s gaze flicked to it. Then away. Too fast.
You smiled for the first time in several minutes. “Interesting.”
Jack looked back at you with an admirably blank expression. “What?”
You lifted the lace slightly. “Your face just did something.”
He shook his head. “My face is innocent.”
You smiled wider. “Your face is a liar.”
Jack’s eyes dropped to the lace again. “My face is enthusiastically supportive.”
You held up the set. “So this one?”
Jack’s jaw shifted once. “Do you feel good in it?”
The question took you by surprise. Not because it was complicated. Because it was the right question.
You looked down at the lace in your hand. “I think so.”
Jack’s answer came easily. “Then yes.”
You smiled, a little helplessly. “That’s all?”
His gaze lifted to yours. “That’s all that matters.”
You looked at him for one beat too long. Then you folded the set carefully and put it in the bag. Jack watched you pick up the bodysuit next, something soft and dark and more structured. You held it against yourself, suddenly unsure.
You asked, “This one?”
Jack’s eyes moved over it, then up to your face. “Same question.”
You sighed. “You’re not going to give me shallow husband opinions?”
His mouth curved. “Oh, I have them.”
You laughed. “Do you?”
Jack nodded. “Many.”
You waited. “And?”
His smile warmed. “I’m choosing growth.”
You repeated, “Growth.”
Jack sat back. “I’m capable of it.”
You gave him a skeptical look.
He nodded toward the bodysuit. “Do you feel good in it?”
You looked at the fabric, thinking about the first time you tried it on. How you had stood in the bathroom and turned slightly toward the mirror. How you had not hated the way it fit. How you had maybe, for half a second, liked the shape of yourself in it.
You said, “Yeah. I do.”
Jack’s voice stayed steady. “Then bring it.”
You folded it and set it beside the lace. Then you picked up Jack’s white button-down. The room changed. Not drastically. But enough.
Jack stilled. His eyes dropped to the shirt. Then to you.
“That’s mine,” he said.
You looked down at it. “I know.”
Jack’s voice lowered slightly. “For the shoot?”
You hugged the button-down lightly to your chest. “Maybe.”
His jaw shifted.
You smiled slowly. “You’re being cool about that?”
Jack answered immediately. “No.”
You laughed. “No?”
He looked at the shirt again. “I considered lying.”
You waited.
Jack looked back at you. “Decided against it.”
You rubbed your thumb over the cuff. “I thought it might be nice.”
His gaze moved from the shirt to your face. Jack said, “It will be.”
Your stomach flipped. He seemed to realize how his voice sounded, because he cleared his throat and looked down at the open bag.
Jack added, “Very supportive.”
You smiled. “Very controlled.”
He nodded gravely. “Heroic, honestly.”
You folded the shirt and placed it on top of the pile. Then your hand drifted to the velvet pouch. You had not meant to touch it. Your fingers found the chain anyway.
Jack noticed. His expression softened at the edges.
He asked, “Still taking them?”
You drew the dog tags out of the pouch and let the chain pool in your palm. Silver caught in the lamplight.
You said, “Yeah.”
Jack’s voice was quieter. “Good.”
You looked down at them. “I know the shoot is for me.”
He answered gently. “I know.”
You ran your thumb over the stamped metal. “And I don’t want it to feel like I’m making it about you.”
Jack’s response came immediately. “You’re not.”
The answer loosened your chest.
You let the tags slide against your palm. “They make me feel like I’m not going in alone.”
Jack went very still.
You glanced up quickly. “Not because I need you there. Just because…”
He waited.
You looked back at the tags. “They remind me of who I am when I’m with you.”
Jack’s voice softened. “And who is that?”
Your throat tightened. You said, “Braver.”
For a second, he did not move. Then he stood. You looked up as he came around the bed toward you.
Jack held out his hand. “Can I?”
You knew what he meant without him saying it. You nodded. Jack took the dog tags from your palm with careful fingers and stepped behind you. The bed dipped slightly as he settled close enough to reach around you. His hands came over your shoulders, warm and steady, and then the chain slipped over your head. The tags landed against your chest, cool through the thin fabric of your sleep shirt.
You touched them with two fingers. Jack’s hands settled lightly at your upper arms. Not holding. Just there. He looked at you in the mirror across from the bed. You looked at yourself, too. Not styled. Not posed. Not in lace or soft light or anything close to tomorrow. Just you, sitting on the edge of your bed in pajama shorts and an old T-shirt, hair a little messy, face bare, dog tags resting against your chest.
Your stomach fluttered.
Jack’s eyes met yours in the mirror. “There she is,” he said.
Your throat pulled tight. “Who?”
Jack’s thumbs moved once against your arms. “The woman going tomorrow.”
Your mouth trembled before it turned into a smile.
Jack’s voice stayed steady. “She looks nervous.”
You looked at him through the mirror. “She does.”
“She can be nervous,” Jack said.
You swallowed. “She can?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
His gaze held yours in the reflection.
Jack said, “You don’t have to walk in there already believing all of it.”
Something in your chest ached. You asked, quieter than you meant to, “I don’t?”
Jack shook his head. “No.”
His hands stayed warm on your arms. “You just have to go,” he said.
Your breath caught.
Jack’s voice softened. “Let her help you see it.”
The room went quiet. You looked back at your own reflection. At the dog tags. The bag half-packed on the bed. At the lingerie, robe, and button-down, waiting beside you.
You were nervous. Still. Maybe more now that it was almost real. But you were also excited. And beneath both things was something new.
Something steadier.
Jack leaned down and kissed the side of your head.
He asked, “Do you want them in the bag or on you?”
You touched the tags. “Bag.”
Jack nodded. “Okay.”
He lifted the chain over your head with the same care he had used to put it on. Then he knelt beside the bed and tucked the tags back into the velvet pouch. You watched him place the pouch into the side pocket of your bag. Not thrown in. Not casual. Careful. Like it mattered because you had said it did.
Jack zipped the pocket closed. “There.”
You smiled. “Your tactical support?”
He stood. “Very official.”
You nodded. “Extremely.”
Jack looked down at the bag. Then at you.
“You’re really doing this,” he said.
Your chest warmed. “I’m really doing this.”
His mouth curved, small and proud. “Good.”
You picked up the robe again. Then you stopped when Jack gave you a look.
You asked, “What?”
Jack’s eyes dropped to the robe. “You’re folding it again.”
You looked at the fabric. “It looked wrong.”
“It’s a robe.”
You lifted your chin. “It can still look wrong.”
Jack crossed his arms. “Do you want a distraction now?”
You laughed. “From the robe?”
He nodded. “From the robe.”
You looked at the bag. “Maybe.”
Jack nodded toward it. “Zip it.”
You looked back at him. “Excuse me?”
His expression stayed calm. “Zip the bag.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That feels aggressive.”
Jack said, “It’s doctor’s orders.”
You pointed at him. “You’re not my doctor.”
He looked around the room. “I’m the only doctor in this bedroom.”
You stared at him. Jack stared back, calm and impossible. Then you zipped the bag. The sound felt weirdly final. Your nerves kicked once, sharp and bright.
Jack noticed immediately. He sat beside you again, close enough that your knees touched.
“Hey,” he said.
You looked at him. His hand found your waist, warm and grounding.
Jack said, “Proud of you.”
You let out a shaky laugh. “I haven’t done it yet.”
His thumb moved once over your waist. “You booked it. You packed the bag. You’re doing it scared.”
Your eyes burned.
Jack held your gaze. “That counts.”
You looked down quickly. His hand stayed where it was. Steady. Patient. You leaned sideways until your shoulder rested against his. Jack kissed the top of your head.
For a while, you sat there like that, staring at the packed bag at the foot of the bed.
Then you asked, “Are you going to be normal tomorrow?”
Jack considered that. “Define normal.”
You lifted your head. “Jack.”
His mouth curved. “I will be supportive from an appropriate distance.”
You narrowed your eyes. “And?”
Jack looked toward the bag. “And possibly pace.”
You blinked. “You’re going to pace?”
He answered calmly. “Privately.”
You stared at him. “That is not private if I know about it.”
Jack nodded once. “Then forget I said it.”
You laughed, and Jack’s mouth curved against your hair. The bag sat zipped at the end of the bed. The dog tags waited inside. Tomorrow still felt big. But beside you, Jack’s hand warm at your waist, it no longer felt impossible.
You said softly, “Thank you.”
Jack’s thumb moved once. “For what?”
You looked at the bag. Then at him. “For being excited with me.”
His face softened. Jack said, “I am.”
You smiled. “And for trying to be cool about it.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “I’m doing terribly.”
You nodded. “You are.”
His eyes warmed. “But you’re doing very well,” he said.
Your throat tightened. Jack leaned down and kissed you once, soft and certain. Then he glanced toward the zipped bag. His mouth curved.
“For the record,” he said.
You narrowed your eyes. “What?”
Jack’s expression turned solemn. “I’m still personally concerned for my survival.”
You laughed and shoved his shoulder. Jack caught your hand before you could pull it back, kissed your knuckles, and held on.
The studio smelled like coffee, linen spray, and something faintly floral. You were grateful for the coffee. It gave you something normal to focus on while your heart tried to climb out of your chest. The building itself was tucked into the second floor of a renovated brick storefront, the kind with creaky stairs and tall windows and old wood floors that had probably seen a hundred different lives before this one. Soft music played from somewhere near the back of the room. The afternoon light came in through sheer curtains, warm and pale, falling across a white bed, a velvet chair, and a small couch draped with a cream throw blanket.
It was beautiful.
That somehow made it worse.
Your bag felt heavier on your shoulder than it had when you left the house. Inside were the outfits you had packed and repacked, the robe Jack had finally made you stop folding, and the velvet pouch tucked safely into the side pocket. Jack’s dog tags. Your tactical support. You smiled faintly at the thought, then immediately inhaled like breathing was a task you had forgotten to practice.
A woman with warm eyes and a messy bun came around the corner holding two iced coffees.
Her smile widened when she saw you. “You made it.”
You let out a nervous laugh. “Barely.”
She handed you one of the coffees. “That counts.”
Your fingers curled around the cup. “Does it?”
“Absolutely.” She nodded toward the studio. “Getting through the door is usually the hardest part.”
You looked around at the bed, the mirror, the clothing rack, the camera resting on a stool near the window. Your stomach flipped. The photographer saw it. She set her coffee on a small table and turned back to you, calm and easy. “First rule.”
You looked at her. “There are rules?”
“One rule,” she said, holding up a finger. “You do not have to know what to do.”
You laughed because the relief was immediate and humiliating. “Great, because I absolutely do not.”
“That’s my job.” She gestured toward the changing area behind a screen. “Your job is to breathe and tell me if something feels weird.”
You nodded. “I can probably do that.”
“Probably is enough to start with.”
Your laugh came easier that time.
She smiled like she had been expecting it. “You’re going to feel awkward for the first five minutes.”
You tightened your hand around the coffee. “Excellent.”
“Everyone does,” she said. “And then your nervous system realizes nothing bad is happening.”
You looked at the bed again. “That would be nice.”
“It usually helps when people realize this isn’t about pretending to be someone else.” The photographer’s voice softened without becoming too serious. “We’re not here to fix you. We’re not here to make you smaller or different or unrecognizable.”
Something in your chest loosened.
She nodded toward the camera. “We’re here to let you see what’s already there.”
Jack’s voice came back to you so clearly it almost felt like he was in the room.
Let her help you see it.
You swallowed.
The photographer tilted her head. “You okay?”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
Her mouth curved. “Nervous?”
“Very.”
“Good.” She picked up the garment bag from your shoulder and hung it on the rack. “Means you’re doing something brave.”
That made you laugh softly. “My husband said something like that.”
“He sounds smart.”
“He is.” You looked down at your coffee. “Annoyingly.”
The photographer grinned. “The worst kind.”
You relaxed by a fraction. Enough to follow her toward the changing screen. Enough to unzip the bag. Enough to start.
The first outfit was the bodysuit. It felt safe enough. Structured enough. Like an opening argument you could maybe survive. You changed behind the screen, tying the robe around yourself afterward and staring at your own bare feet against the rug for a second longer than necessary.
Then you stepped out.
The photographer looked up from adjusting the camera.
Her face lit. “Oh, yes.”
You froze. “Yes?”
She pointed gently toward the mirror. “Yes. That’s beautiful on you.”
You looked down at yourself. “I feel like I forgot how to stand.”
“That’s normal.”
“Great.”
She laughed and crossed to the window, adjusting the curtain so the light softened. “Come here. We’ll start easy.”
You obeyed, mostly because she sounded like a person who knew exactly what to do with nervous women in pretty lingerie.
The first pose felt awkward. Your shoulder was too high. Your hand felt strange against your thigh. Your face kept trying to do something and then forgetting what it was.
The photographer lowered her camera. “Drop your shoulders.”
You exhaled and tried.
She smiled behind the lens. “Good. Now breathe through your mouth a little.”
You did.
“Perfect,” she said. “Chin down just a tiny bit. Eyes past me, not at me.”
You shifted your gaze.
“There,” she said immediately. “Hold that.”
The shutter clicked. Once. Twice. Again.
You tried not to think too hard about it. Your fingers curled against your thigh.
The photographer noticed. “Shake out your hands.”
You laughed, embarrassed, and did it.
She pointed gently toward you. “See? That laugh. That was real.”
You looked at her. “The laugh?”
“The laugh.” She lifted the camera again. “Do that again.”
“I can’t just recreate a laugh on command.”
“You don’t have to.” Her grin turned mischievous. “You just have to stop apologizing with your shoulders.”
You blinked. Then laughed for real. The camera clicked again.
The photographer lowered it just enough to smile at you. “That one.”
Your stomach flipped. “That one?”
She turned the camera so you could see the small screen.
You braced yourself.
You did.
You prepared for the familiar list.
Your arm looked weird. Your stomach. Your face. Your angle. Your skin. Your everything.
But then you saw the photo.
And for almost three full seconds, you forgot to critique yourself.
You were sitting near the window, shoulders relaxed, head turned slightly, your mouth open around a laugh you had not meant to give the camera. The light curved over your cheek and collarbone. Your body looked soft and real and somehow stronger than you remembered it feeling. Your breath caught.
The photographer watched your face. “That’s you.”
You looked closer. “That’s me?”
“That is absolutely you.”
Your throat tightened.
The photographer’s voice gentled. “We’ll take a lot more, and you may like some better than others. That’s normal. But I want you to remember that one.”
You looked at her. “Why?”
“Because you didn’t have to become anything else for it.”
The words sat in your chest. Warm. A little frightening.
You nodded, not fully trusting your voice.
The next outfit was Jack’s shirt. You changed behind the screen and left the top few buttons undone because the photographer suggested it, then one more because you decided you wanted to.
That felt like a victory. Small. But yours.
When you stepped out, the photographer smiled before she even lifted the camera.
“That one means something.”
Your fingers brushed the cuff. “My husband’s.”
Her expression softened. “That explains the face.”
You looked up. “What face?”
“The one where you forgot to be nervous for a second.”
You felt heat move up your neck.
The photographer pointed to the bed. “Sit there. One knee up. Let the shirt fall off one shoulder if it wants to.”
You sat, trying not to overthink every inch of yourself.
She adjusted your sleeve gently, then stepped back. “Good. Look toward the window.”
You did. The camera clicked.
“Now back at me.”
You turned.
“Perfect,” she said. “That little smile. Keep it.”
Your mouth twitched. “I don’t know what smile I’m doing.”
“I do.” She took another shot. “And your husband probably does too.”
You laughed.
The shutter clicked. You were starting to understand what she meant. Not fully. But enough. The shoot did not become easy exactly. It became possible.
The black lace was harder. You stood behind the changing screen longer than you needed to after you put it on, looking at yourself in the small mirror propped against the wall.
It was not that you disliked it.
That was the problem.
You liked it.
You liked the shape of yourself in it. The dark lace against your skin. The way it made you feel a little braver than you had been ten minutes ago. The way you could imagine Jack’s face if he saw it and the way that thought did not make you want to hide.
It made you smile.
The photographer’s voice came from the other side of the screen. “You doing okay?”
You looked at your reflection one more time. “Yeah.”
“You sure?”
You touched the edge of the lace. “I think so.”
“That sounds promising.”
You stepped out.
The photographer went still for half a second.
Then she pointed at you, eyes bright. “That.”
You froze. “What?”
“That look.” She lifted the camera fast. “Don’t move.”
Your laugh caught halfway in your throat as the shutter clicked.
The photographer grinned behind the camera. “Yes. That is the one.”
“What did I do?” You asked.
“You looked at me like you knew.”
Your pulse jumped. “Knew what?”
“That you looked good.”
You laughed, but your cheeks warmed.
She lowered the camera slightly. “Don’t laugh it away.”
You stopped. Not fully. But enough.
She came closer, voice gentler now. “That’s the whole thing, right? Letting yourself know without immediately apologizing for it.”
The room went quiet around you.
You swallowed. “Yeah.”
She nodded. “Then let’s take the picture before your brain talks you out of it.”
That made you laugh again. But this time, you did not shrink from it. You let her pose you near the velvet chair, then on the edge of the bed, then against the white sheets with the window light touching your skin. She told you where to put your hands, when to lift your chin, when to soften your mouth, when to look straight at her.
And slowly, impossibly, it started to feel less like pretending.
More like allowing.
There was one photo where she had you turn slightly away and look back over your shoulder.
You felt ridiculous for half a second.
Then she said, “Oh, that is unfair.”
You laughed. “Unfair?”
“Absolutely.” She checked the camera screen and shook her head. “Your husband is going to need a minute.”
The laugh that left you was startled and delighted.
Not because the shoot was for Jack.
It wasn’t.
But because you could picture him.
Trying to be respectful. Failing by inches.
You tucked that thought somewhere private and let it make you bolder.
Between outfits, the photographer handed you water and let you sit on the couch for a minute.
You pulled the robe around yourself, warm and a little breathless.
She sat on the edge of the velvet chair, camera resting in her lap. “How are we feeling?”
You considered lying. Then you smiled. “Better.”
Her face lit. “Good.”
You sighed, “I thought I’d feel silly the whole time.”
“Most women do.”
You looked at her. “Really?”
“Oh, absolutely.” She leaned back in the chair. “We’re taught to apologize for wanting to be seen, then we’re surprised when being seen feels vulnerable.”
Your fingers tightened around the water bottle.
She smiled softly. “But this isn’t about asking anyone for permission to be beautiful.”
The words landed somewhere deep.
She tapped the camera lightly. “It’s about giving yourself proof.”
You looked toward the bed. The white sheets. The soft light. The bag waiting near the changing screen. Your heart kicked.
“I brought something else,” you said.
The photographer’s expression warmed. “Yeah?”
You stood and crossed to the bag. Your fingers found the side pocket, then the velvet pouch inside it. When you returned, you held the pouch in both hands. The photographer did not rush you. You opened it carefully and let the dog tags slide into your palm. Silver against skin.
Cool and familiar.
The photographer’s face softened immediately. “Those are special.”
You nodded. “My husband’s.”
She looked from the tags to your face. “Do you want to wear them?”
“Yeah.” You ran your thumb over the stamped metal. “They make me feel brave.”
The photographer smiled. Not teasing. Not too sentimental. Just understanding.
“Then we’ll make sure the photo feels like that.”
Your throat tightened. “Okay.”
She led you to the bed.
The room felt quieter now.
Not heavy.
Focused.
She draped a white sheet over you carefully once you were lying down. The fabric was cool against your skin, light enough to feel delicate, substantial enough that you did not feel exposed in a way you had not chosen.
The dog tags rested against your chest. Your fingers curled around them automatically.
The photographer adjusted the edge of the sheet near your shoulder. “Good. Let your shoulders sink into the bed.”
You tried.
She smiled. “A little more. You’re safe.”
The words loosened something in you. Your body softened into the mattress.
“There,” she said. “Hold the tags for a second.”
You did. The chain slid over your fingers.
“Now let them fall.”
You opened your hand. The tags settled against your skin. Your breath caught.
The photographer’s voice stayed soft. “Look up at me.”
You looked toward the camera.
“Think of something that makes you feel safe,” she said.
You thought of Jack. Not his reaction. Not whether he would like the photos. Not even the look on his face when he saw the dog tags, though the thought brushed through you warm and quick. You thought of him kneeling beside your bag, tucking the velvet pouch into the side pocket like it mattered because you had said it did.
You thought of his thumb at your waist.
His voice in the bedroom.
You booked it. You packed the bag. You’re doing it scared.
That counts.
Your breath left you slowly. You looked up.
The photographer went quiet. The camera clicked once. Then again. Then several more times, but the silence between them felt different now. Soft. Reverent.
Finally, the photographer lowered the camera. “Oh,” she said.
Your heart kicked. “What?”
Her smile was quiet. “That’s the one.”
You swallowed. “Can I see?”
She came around the bed and tilted the camera screen toward you. You pushed yourself up on one elbow, careful to keep the sheet over you, and looked.
There you were.
Lying beneath white sheets, hair spread against the pillow, Jack’s dog tags resting against your skin.
Your eyes were bright.
That was the first thing you noticed.
Not your body.
Not the sheet.
Not the parts of yourself you had expected to inspect and measure and critique.
Your eyes.
They were bright in a way you did not remember making them.
Your mouth was softened around the smallest smile.
You looked happy.
You looked like you belonged to yourself.
For a second, you could not speak.
The photographer stood beside the bed and let you have the moment.
Then she said, very gently, “That’s you.”
Your throat tightened.
You nodded, but your eyes stayed on the screen. “Yeah,” you whispered.
And for the first time that morning, you believed her.
By the time the shoot ended, your body felt tired in strange places. Your cheeks hurt from smiling. Your nerves had not disappeared entirely, but they had become something else. Energy. Pride. A little disbelief. You changed back into your clothes behind the screen, fingers moving more slowly now. Before you tucked the dog tags back into the velvet pouch, you held them in your palm for a moment and smiled down at them.
Then you slipped the chain over your head instead. Just for the drive home. Just because you wanted the weight of them with you a little longer.
When you stepped out from behind the screen, the photographer noticed immediately.
Her mouth curved. “Keeping them on?”
You touched the tags beneath your shirt. “For a little while.”
“Good.”
You picked up your bag and looked around the studio one more time. The bed. The chair. The tall windows. The place where you had walked in nervous and awkward and sure you would not know what to do with your hands.
You looked back at the photographer. “Thank you.”
Her face softened. “How do you feel?”
You considered lying. You considered saying good, or fine, or better.
Then you thought of the photo. Your eyes. The tags. The white sheet.
The version of you who looked like she belonged to herself.
You smiled. “Proud,” you said.
The photographer’s smile widened. “Good,” she said. “That’s the point.”
Outside, the air felt cool against your face. You sat in your car for a full minute before starting it. Your bag rested on the passenger seat. The dog tags were warm beneath your shirt. Your hands were still shaking a little when you picked up your phone.
You opened Jack’s message thread. For a second, you just looked at his name.
Then you typed:
You:
I did it.
His reply came less than a minute later.
Jack:
Proud of you.
You smiled so hard your cheeks hurt again. Then another message appeared.
Jack:
Also practicing heroic restraint and asking zero inappropriate follow-up questions.
You laughed alone in the car, the sound filling the small space and breaking the last sharp edge of nerves in your chest.
You typed back:
You:
Very mature of you.
Jack replied:
Jack:
Historic.
You were still smiling when another message came through.
Jack:
You okay?
Your thumb hovered over the screen. You looked down at yourself. At the shirt hiding the dog tags. At the bag on the passenger seat. At the version of you still bright behind your eyes.
Then you typed:
You:
Yeah. I feel good.
Jack’s answer came back almost immediately.
Jack:
Good.
Simple. Steady. Jack.
You set the phone down and started the car. As you backed out of the parking space, the photographer’s words stayed with you.
That’s you. For the first time in a long time, you thought maybe it was.