From the possible "Best Friend" series. Two best friends share a coffee and a cigarette one Sunday morning when you come across an interesting cosmopolitan article.
✨Blooper Reel, Baby✨- Joseph Quinn 🧸
From the possible "Best Friend" series. When a lone camera catches the shenanigans of two best friends on set.
✨Ikea Furniture✨- Joseph Quinn ‼️
From the "Booty Call Joe" series that will possibly happen. You show up for some rough and tumble.
✨Emergency Contact✨Joseph Quinn ‼️
From the "Booty Call Joe" series. Joe picks you up in a sports car and tells you something you never expected to hear.
✨Quietly Yours✨ Joseph Quinn ‼️🩸
You take your period and you can't quite get a handle on it. Joe tries to help the only way he know's how.
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summary: Cook wasn’t invited, doesn’t know the birthday boy, and has no intention of behaving. Unfortunately, your suppressants are failing, his jealousy is showing, and neither of you is interested in making a sensible decision.
wc: 6.2k
a/n: wanted to do something special for jack’s 36th trip around the sun, so naturally i’m celebrating by writing some of his most beloved characters. bless his parents for creating the perfect man and giving me this much material to work with. happy birthday, jack 🥳not beta read.
warnings: a/b/o, alpha x omega, pre-heat, rough sex, piv, unprotected sex, knotting, breeding kink, accidental pregnancy risk, oral (f!receiving), multiple orgasms, hair pulling, biting and bruising, manhandling, degradation, praise kink, possessive/jealous behavior, scenting, crude sexual language, alcohol use
36 CANDLES / MAIN MASTERLIST
Cook hadn’t been invited to the party, which had never stopped him from becoming the loudest person at one before.
You noticed him twenty minutes after he arrived, although judging by the half-empty bottle swinging from his fist and the crowd already gathered around him in the kitchen, he’d made himself comfortable long before that. He stood beneath a drooping banner that read HAPPY BIRTHDAY!, one corner peeling loose from the wall behind his head, dressed in a black polo stretched across his shoulders and dark trackies that had no business looking as good on him as they did. His hair had grown shaggy, his bangs heavy and uneven across his forehead, his chain flashing every time he threw his head back to laugh, and there was a fresh scrape across one knuckle that no one seemed interested in asking about.
Cook looked older than the last time you’d seen him, but not any wiser.
That would’ve been asking too much.
There was more weight through his shoulders now, a roughness around his mouth that hadn’t been there when you first knew him, but everything else remained maddeningly familiar. He still occupied space as if he’d won it in a fight. Still had that restless, combustible energy beneath his skin, the kind that made every other alpha in the room unconsciously square himself up when Cook walked past.
His scent reached you before he did.
Cigarette smoke, sweat, something warm and sharp beneath the cologne he’d applied too heavily. Alpha. Cook. Familiar enough that your body recognized him before you’d consciously decided how you felt about seeing him again.
The suppressant patch beneath your dress suddenly seemed much too thin.
A blonde omega in a silver top had her hand curled around his forearm.
Cook wasn’t looking at her.
He was looking at you.
He caught you staring from across the kitchen and grinned around the neck of the bottle.
There it was.
That same filthy, triumphant smile that made it seem as though he’d just caught you doing something far more incriminating than looking at him.
“Fuck me,” he announced, loud enough to turn several heads. “Look who’s finally decided to make this party worth coming to.”
The omega beside him followed his stare and dropped her hand. You almost felt sorry for her until she rolled her eyes, muttered something beneath her breath and walked away with enough dignity to make it clear she’d had practice abandoning alphas exactly like him.
“You weren’t invited,” you said when he came close enough to hear you over the music.
“Neither was half this lot.”
“They know the birthday boy.”
Cook glanced around as if only just remembering there was supposed to be one. “Which one’s he?”
You pointed toward the living room, where Liam was wearing a glittery cardboard crown and trying to arrange a group photograph while three people behind him made obscene gestures over his shoulders.
Cook squinted at him.
“Never seen him in my life.”
“I know.”
“Still let me in, though.”
“You probably lied.”
“I’m charming.”
“You probably threatened someone.”
“Also charming.”
“How did you even hear about this?”
Cook lowered the bottle, considering whether the truth would make him sound better or worse. “Saw a bloke carrying eight bags of ice into the house.”
“You followed a stranger carrying ice?”
“Followed the promise of a good time. Very different.”
“That might be the saddest thing you’ve ever said.”
“Not even top ten.”
His gaze moved over you with no attempt at subtlety, lingering where the dress fit closest before dragging back to your face. His nostrils flared almost imperceptibly. You saw the exact moment he caught your scent beneath the chemical flatness of the suppressants.
Cook’s grin changed.
It didn’t disappear, but it grew slower, hungrier.
“Nice dress.”
“You’re looking at my chest.”
“Dress covers your chest, don’t it?”
“Barely, apparently.”
“Yeah.” His eyes dipped again. “Been meaning to thank whoever designed it.”
You put a hand against his shoulder when he leaned in, partly to stop him and partly because touching him still produced the same immediate, unwelcome awareness it always had. He was compact and solid beneath the polo, warm from the crush of bodies and whatever trouble he’d already found before arriving.
Cook lowered his face toward your neck.
“Behave.”
He stopped before touching you, but barely. “What for?”
“Because this isn’t your party.”
“Exactly. No responsibility.”
“You’ve never taken responsibility at your own parties either.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Those were mine. Had to set an example.”
“You set someone’s garden shed on fire.”
“Accident.”
“You poured lighter fluid through the letterbox.”
“Miscommunication.”
“With the shed?”
“With gravity.”
You stared at him.
Cook took a drink, eyes sparkling above the bottle. “Missed these little chats.”
“I didn’t.”
“Did.”
“Didn’t.”
He leaned closer, dropping his voice. “Did.”
The low note in it rolled over your skin. Not a command, not quite, but close enough that your omega instincts stirred beneath the suppressants.
You hated that he noticed.
His gaze sharpened. “Patch giving up on you?”
“It’s fine.”
“Didn’t say it wasn’t.”
“You were thinking it loudly.”
“Can smell you from the kitchen.”
“Then stand farther away.”
“Nah.”
The kitchen lights dimmed with the rest of the house before you could answer. Someone carried the cake through the doorway, thirty cheap candles throwing trembling light across the faces packed into the living room.
Cook glanced over your shoulder. “How old’s Liam?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Bit tragic, innit?”
“You’re standing in his kitchen drinking his alcohol.”
“Doing him a favor. Makes the place look popular.”
The candles threw gold along the edge of Cook’s face, catching in his blue eyes and softening the scrape across his knuckle. For half a second, with the party singing around him and the light moving over his features, he looked almost sentimental.
Then he stole a cigarette from behind someone’s ear.
Liam finally managed to extinguish the candles to a roar of drunken applause. The lights came back on, music resumed at twice the previous volume, and the crowd surged toward the cake with the sudden aggression of people who’d been drinking on empty stomachs.
Cook reached it first.
Of course he did.
By the time you fought your way into the living room, he’d already stolen a thick corner piece and was eating it with his fingers beside the bookcase. Blue icing covered the pad of his thumb and streaked the side of his index finger. He licked it away slowly while watching you approach.
“Gross.”
“Tastes all right.”
“That wasn’t about the cake.”
“No?” He glanced at the frosting on his fingers, then back to you. “Could’ve fooled me, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“You used to like it.”
“I used to tolerate it.”
“Same thing.”
“It really isn’t.”
Cook took another bite, getting icing on his mouth this time. A bright blue smear clung to the corner of his lower lip, absurd against the rough stubble shadowing his jaw.
You hated how immediately you noticed.
He noticed you noticing.
Cook tilted his head. “Something on my face?”
“You know there is.”
“Get it, then.”
“Use your sleeve.”
“Got a perfectly good tongue available.”
“That’s your solution to most things.”
“Never had complaints.”
“Because you don’t listen when people complain.”
“That’s why I’m so confident.”
You should’ve walked away. Every conversation with Cook eventually became a game he refused to lose, usually because he changed the rules halfway through and acted offended when anyone called him out on it. Instead, you reached up and wiped the icing away with your thumb.
Cook went still beneath your hand for only a second before his lips closed around it. Heat and wet pressure wrapped around your thumb as his tongue dragged across your skin, his stare never leaving yours. It wasn’t subtle, and it wasn’t playful enough to dismiss as a joke. He sucked away the last trace of frosting and released you with a soft, obscene pop, leaving your stomach tight and your scent noticeably sweeter. Cook drew in a slow breath through his nose, looking far too pleased with himself.
“Tastes better off you.”
“You’re such a fucking pig.”
“Yeah, but you missed me.”
“I really didn’t.”
“Liar.”
He stepped closer, forcing you back until your hip bumped the edge of the bookcase. The party moved around you in blurred fragments, bodies dancing in the hall, someone shrieking with laughter in the kitchen, Liam attempting to rescue what remained of his cake from a man using a serving knife like a shovel.
Cook filled the space in front of you, his knee settling between yours as though he’d been standing there all evening.
“You haven’t stopped looking at me since I came in,” he said.
“I was wondering who let the neighborhood disease through the door.”
“Still looking.”
“You’re hard to ignore.”
“That’s better.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
“Sounded like one.”
A beta you vaguely recognized from Liam’s work approached with two plastic cups, offering one to you while giving Cook a wary glance. His name might’ve been Ben or Dan, something harmless and forgettable, and he’d spent part of the evening trying to make conversation whenever you crossed paths near the drinks table.
“Got you another,” he said. “You still want to dance?”
Cook’s knee pressed more firmly between yours.
“I was just about to,” you began.
“She’s busy,” Cook said.
The beta looked at him. “Didn’t ask you.”
Cook smiled, but it wasn’t the same grin he’d been giving you. This one contained teeth.
“No, mate. Don’t suppose you did.”
You caught Cook by the front of his polo before he could straighten away from the bookcase. “I’ll find you later,” you told the beta.
He glanced from your fist in Cook’s shirt to Cook’s hand hovering near your hip and appeared to understand more than you’d intended to reveal.
“Yeah. All right.”
Cook watched him retreat through the crowd.
“Ben?” he asked.
“I think so.”
“You don’t even know his name.”
“He’s nice.”
“Serial killer’s probably nice before he gets you in the van.”
“You followed bags of ice into a stranger’s house.”
“Exactly. I know dangerous behavior when I see it.”
“You’re jealous.”
Cook looked genuinely offended. “Of Ben?”
“Or Dan.”
“That’s worse.”
He took the cup from your hand, sniffed it, then drank half of it in one go.
“Cook.”
“Could’ve been drugged.”
“You’re such a gentleman.”
“Protecting you, aren’t I?”
“You just wanted my drink.”
“That too.”
He finished it and tossed the crushed cup toward a wastebasket. It bounced off the wall and landed on the floor.
Cook looked at it. “Nearly.”
His hand settled beside your waist against the shelf, caging you in without quite touching. Cook had always understood the usefulness of almost. The almost-touch, almost-kiss, almost-confession muttered when he’d had enough to drink that he could deny remembering it the next morning.
Tonight, there was something sharper beneath the teasing.
His scent was stronger this close, the alpha note pushing through the smoke and cologne. You could feel your body reacting in small, humiliating increments, skin growing warmer, pulse jumping beneath your jaw.
Cook’s gaze dropped to your throat.
“You here with someone?” he asked.
“No.”
“Good.”
“That wouldn’t be your problem.”
“Would once I made it mine.”
“I’m not yours.”
“Never said you were.”
The answer came easily, but his fingers flexed against the shelf.
“You were thinking it,” you said.
“Thinking loads of things.”
“You usually say all of them.”
“Reckon Liam’d throw us out if I did.”
“You don’t own every room you walk into.”
“Nah.” His gaze dropped to your mouth. “Just know what I want in ’em.”
The music switched to something bass-heavy enough to rattle the glasses in the cabinet. Someone slammed into Cook’s shoulder while stumbling past, spilling beer down the back of his polo. He twisted around with a snarl ready, his scent spiking hot and aggressive, but you caught his chin and turned his face back toward yours before he could start swinging.
“Not tonight.”
Cook stared at you.
The alpha edge remained in his expression, but he let you hold him there.
“You telling me what to do now?”
“I’m stopping you from getting thrown out.”
“Thought you wanted me gone.”
“I don’t want you bleeding on my shoes.”
He smiled slowly. “Knew you cared.”
“I care about the shoes.”
“Can buy you new ones.”
“With what money?”
“Could nick you some.”
“Romantic.”
“I’ve got range.”
His eyes moved over your face, his grin fading into something quieter without becoming any less indecent. Cook’s hand finally touched you, spreading over your hip with the confidence of someone testing whether an old permission still held. His thumb pressed into the fabric and drew you closer until the front of your body met his.
You didn’t move away, which was enough for him to continue but not enough for him to assume. He stopped beside your ear.
“Can I smell you?”
The question was so direct that it caught you off guard.
“You already have.”
“Properly.”
The party moved around you, loud enough that no one would hear the change in your breathing.
You nodded.
“Use your words, omega.”
His tone was filthy, but the waiting beneath it was real.
“Yes.”
Cook’s hand tightened against your hip as he pressed his nose to the gland beneath your ear and inhaled slowly, taking in the scent your failing suppressants could no longer hide. The contact felt far too intimate for a crowded room, his lips warm and just shy of your skin as a rough sound caught low in his throat.
“Fuck.”
“You asked.”
“Didn’t say I was ready.”
“For what?”
“You.”
He dragged his nose once along your neck before pulling back, pupils wider than before.
“You’re close,” he said.
“To what?”
“Heat.”
You glanced toward the room around you. “Keep your voice down.”
“No one’s listening.”
“Every alpha in here will be if you announce it.”
Cook’s gaze flicked over the party. The lightness disappeared from his expression for a moment.
“When’d you change the patch?”
“This afternoon.”
“Shit brand.”
“It’s never failed before.”
“Never been around me before.”
“Your ego’s unbelievable.”
“Your scent says I’m right.”
“My scent doesn’t speak.”
“Bloody screams.”
You should’ve been embarrassed. Instead, the blunt hunger in his face sent another wave of warmth through you.
Cook noticed that too.
“Been thinking about you,” he said.
“That sounds painful.”
“Been fucking inconvenient.”
His breath was hot against your skin. You felt his smile when your fingers tightened in the material at his shoulder.
“How often?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
“All the bloody time.”
There was no hesitation in it, no attempt to make the admission sound prettier than it was. Cook’s honesty had always arrived in the crudest possible packaging, wrapped in profanity and delivered with a grin so no one could tell how much of it mattered.
“Every time I catch an omega wearing something that tight,” he murmured, “I think, nah. Not got your mouth.”
“That’s almost sweet.”
“Wasn’t finished. Not got your tits either.”
“There he is.”
“Thought you’d lost me?”
“Briefly.”
His hand slid around to the small of your back, pressing you firmly against him. Any doubt about what he wanted disappeared with the hard line of his erection against your stomach. Cook didn’t bother pretending not to notice.
“There,” he said. “Now we’re both thinking about it.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“You say that every time.”
“Because every time I see you, you somehow get worse.”
“And you somehow get fitter. Life’s cruel like that.”
He kissed you before you could answer.
Cook had never kissed like he believed he might be interrupted. He kissed as though interruption was something happening to other people, somewhere far away, while his mouth opened over yours and his hand dragged you against him. He tasted like beer and cheap blue frosting, tongue pushing between your lips with a wet, shameless hunger that drew a startled sound from your throat.
He swallowed it greedily.
Your fingers caught in the short hair at the back of his head, and Cook made a rough noise into your mouth, hips pressing forward once in blunt retaliation. The shelf dug into your spine. The room was too warm and too loud, packed with people who could turn their heads at any moment, but Cook kissed harder when you tried to pull back for air, chasing your mouth until you shoved a palm against his chest.
He gave you an inch.
Your combined scents hung thickly between you now, his growing rougher while yours turned warmer and sweeter beneath the weakening suppressant.
Cook’s nose brushed yours. “Still hate me?”
“Deeply.”
“Good.”
He kissed you again, slower for all of three seconds before impatience won. His fingers slid up your back, bunching the fabric as he held you close, and when you bit his lower lip he laughed against your mouth like you’d given him exactly what he wanted.
Someone near the sofa cheered.
You broke away and saw two strangers watching you with their drinks raised.
Cook looked over his shoulder. “Show’s over.”
“Boo!” one shouted.
“Fuck off,” he replied cheerfully, then turned back to you. “Upstairs?”
“You’re impossible.”
“Not a no.”
“This isn’t your house.”
“Not hearing a no.”
“You don’t know which room is Liam’s.”
“Don’t care.”
“Cook.”
His expression sobered. He kept one hand on your waist but stopped pulling you closer.
“Say no, and I back off. Simple as that.”
The heat in his voice didn’t erase the seriousness beneath it. His alpha scent made your instincts ache, but he waited while you took in the hunger he wasn’t bothering to hide.
“I’m not in heat,” you said.
“Know that.”
“It’s close, but I can still decide what I want.”
Cook’s eyes held yours. “Know that too.”
“You won’t bite my gland.”
His jaw tightened.
“No claiming bites,” you continued. “No knotting unless I ask for it. You don’t get to decide anything because you can smell me.”
“Wouldn’t.”
“You’re Cook.”
“Yeah.” He touched his forehead briefly to yours. “I’m still not that sort of cunt.”
The answer loosened something inside you.
“Upstairs,” you breathed.
His smile came back instantly.
“Knew you’d bought me something.”
“This isn’t for you.”
“Course it is. I’m the birthday boy now.”
“It isn’t your birthday.”
Cook caught your hand and pulled you away from the bookcase. “Don’t ruin this for me.”
He led you through the hall, shoving past guests and opening doors without knocking until someone inside the bathroom screamed at him. Cook slammed it shut again, laughing as he hauled you farther up the stairs.
“Try the doors like a normal person,” you hissed.
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“You’re going to walk in on someone.”
“Give ’em pointers.”
“You’re revolting.”
“And you’re holding my hand.”
You looked down and found he was right: your fingers were threaded through his, his grip tight and warm as he dragged you toward the upper landing, where the music became muffled into a heavy pulse through the floorboards, Cook trying the first door. Locked.
He knocked twice. “Room service.”
“Fuck off,” a woman called from inside.
“See?” Cook said. “Occupied.”
“That isn’t how knocking works.”
“Worked, didn’t it?”
The next door opened onto a child’s bedroom decorated with football posters and glow-in-the-dark stars.
Cook peered inside. “Bit weird.”
“It’s probably Liam’s nephew’s.”
“Yeah. Obviously.”
“You were considering it.”
“Was not.”
“You looked at the bed.”
“Checking for structural integrity.”
“It has dinosaurs on it.”
“Strong animals.”
You dragged him away before he could say anything worse. Cook laughed behind you, then caught your waist and swung you around so quickly your back met the wall beside the final door. His face dipped toward your neck again but stopped short of the gland, respecting the boundary even while his breath heated the sensitive skin around it.
“Getting impatient?” he asked.
“You’re the one trying to fuck me in a child’s bedroom.”
“Didn’t touch you in there.”
“Because I stopped you.”
“Love it when you get bossy.”
His mouth found the safer stretch of skin beneath your jaw. The contact sent a sharp shiver through you, and Cook immediately pressed closer, pleased by the reaction.
“There,” he whispered. “Do that again.”
“Do what?”
“That little fucking shake.”
“I didn’t.”
“Did.”
His teeth grazed your skin, well away from your scent gland, and your fingers tightened around the back of his neck.
Cook grinned against you.
“See?”
“Find a room.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He tested the final handle, found it unlocked and opened it onto a cramped spare bedroom filled with laundry baskets, cardboard boxes and an ironing board folded against the wall. A narrow bed stood beneath the window, half-covered by coats someone had dumped there at the start of the party.
Cook surveyed it with approval.
“Luxury.”
“You really know how to treat an omega.”
“Got four walls and a lock. What more d’you need?”
“Clean sheets?”
“Fussy.”
“You weren’t planning on using the bed anyway.”
Cook’s eyebrows lifted. “Now who’s filthy?”
The moment the door closed, he backed you against it, the lock clicking beneath his hand. Without the crowd around him and the music loud enough to fill every pause, the voracity in his expression looked almost startlingly naked. His scent thickened in the enclosed room, alpha heat wrapping around the sugary warmth escaping through your failing patch. Cook lifted his hand and traced his knuckles lightly down the side of your neck.
“You sure?” he asked.
The question came without the grin. It was one of the few things he never turned into a joke. You curled your hand around his chain and drew him close enough that your mouths nearly touched.
“Shut up, Cook.”
His smile broke against your lips.
“Best present I’ve had all year.”
His free hand knotted in your hair, yanking your head back against the cracked plywood, and the growl that rumbled out of his chest vibrated straight through your sternum.
"My party favor," he said, low and filthy, lips dragging along your jaw. "All night I been watchin' you and you knew exactly what you were doin'."
Your dress was a rumpled mess around your hips, his polo half-untucked where your fingers had grabbed fistfuls of it, and you bit his lower lip hard enough to taste copper. He groaned—a rough, broken sound—and his hips ground into yours, his hard, aching cock pressing against your thigh through his jeans, searching for relief.
"You gonna be a brat about it?" His thumb brushed over your scent gland, featherlight, and your knees buckled. "Or you gonna let me take what I want?"
Your pre-heat sensitivity was already making everything too much—the scrape of his stubble, the weight of his hand, the way his alpha scent wrapped around you like a wet blanket of smoke and spice. You held his gaze, defiant, and said, "Depends on how good you ask."
Something dark flickered in his eyes. "I don't ask, omega."
He dropped to his knees, and the sound your dress made as he shoved it higher was obscene. His teeth caught the waistband of your underwear, dragging them down your thighs, and the way he looked up at you—all blown pupils, stubbled jaw, and naked want—made your cunt clench around nothing.
"Smell you from across the room," he muttered against your inner thigh, breath hot and damp. "This sweet little cunt, drippin' for me all night. You think anybody else noticed?"
You didn't care who noticed. You cared about the way his tongue dragged through your slick folds like he was starving, the flat of it pressing firm against your clit before he sealed his mouth over you and sucked. Your fingers buried in his dark hair, holding on, and he groaned against you like it was the best thing he'd tasted all night.
"Fuck," you gasped, hips grinding against his face. "That's it—right there—"
He pulled back just enough to growl, "Say please."
"Please," you said, and meant it. "Please, Cook, I need—"
He gave it to you. Two calloused fingers pushed into you, crooked just right, while his mouth worked your clit in tight circles, and your head knocked against the door as you came undone on his hand. He drank every drop of it, fingers working you through it until you were shaking, and then he stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking at you like he wanted to devour you whole.
"Get my cock out," he said. "Now."
Your hands were clumsy with want, fumbling with his belt, his button, the zipper—and then he was free, thick and flushed and leaking, and you wrapped your fingers around him with a sound that was almost a whimper. He throbbed against your palm, and the muscles in his jaw wound tight.
"You gonna be good for me?" he asked, voice rough. "Or do I gotta make you?"
"I'm always good," you said, stroking him slow. "You just never know how to ask."
He laughed—a short, surprised sound—and then he had you spun around, palms flat against the door, his cock dragging through your slick folds from behind. The position was filthy, your dress bunched around your waist, his teeth sinking into the curve of your shoulder—not your scent gland, never there—and he pushed in with one brutal, perfect stroke.
"Oh, fuck—" you gasped, walls clenching around him, and he groaned, low and wrecked, forehead dropping to the back of your neck.
"Knew it," he ground out, hips pulling back and driving in again, the wet squelch growing obscene in the spare bedroom the meaner his hips got, his balls slapping against your ass, "knew this tight, greedy little cunt would squeeze me like she don't wanna let go. You gonna cum on my cock now, omega? Gonna soak me, just like you did all over my face like a dirty little bitch?"
You were already close, pre-heat making every nerve sing, and the way he was fucking you—hard and deep and exactly where you needed it—had you gasping on every stroke, had you questioning why you waited so long to fuck him. "Don't—ahhh, don't stop," you begged, all needy and high-pitched,"Please, Cook, don't you dare fucking stop—"
His hand fisted in your hair again, yanking your head back, and he bit down on your shoulder, hard enough to bruise this time. "Say my name when you cum," he growled. "Want everybody downstairs to hear exactly who's makin' you scream bloody murder."
You came with his name on your lips, broken and loud, and then you felt it: the thick swell at the base of his cock, hot and urgent where it pressed against your used folds.
"Shit." He let go of your hair to tilt your jaw back instead and you immediately saw the flicker of something almost vulnerable under the gruff. "I'm close," he said, voice gravelly. "And I'm—swelling."
You felt it again, the way he throbbed against you, thicker than before. Pre-heat made everything sharper, hotter, and your cunt clenched around nothing at the thought of it—of him, knotting, locked inside you.
"Then put it in," you said.
His eyes went wide. "You don't—"
"I want it." You held his gaze, voice steady even as your heart hammered. "I want you to knot me, Cook. I want to feel it."
He stared at you for a long, loaded second, and then something in him broke open. His mouth crushed against yours, rough and desperate, and he was lifting you, turning you around so you faced him.
"You sure?" he growled, forehead against yours. "Once I'm in, I ain't pullin' out."
"I'm sure."
He drove in, and it was different this time—slower, deeper, the stretch of him almost too much. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders, and he groaned, low and wrecked, sinking in until he was seated to the hilt.
"Fuck," he breathed. "So tight. So fuckin' perfect."
He moved, and every stroke dragged that thick ridge against your walls, building pressure low in your belly until you were arching off the door, begging wordlessly for more. His knot caught on your rim with every thrust, and the sensation was maddening—too much and not enough, stretching you, filling you.
"Gonna cum," he gritted out, hips stuttering. "Gonna knot you, omega, gonna fill you up so full you're pregnant with my spend—"
"Do it," you gasped. "Do it, alpha, I want it, I want you to—"
He drove in one final time, and his knot swelled past your rim, locking you together with a thick, pulsing pop. You came again with a broken cry, walls clenching around him, and he followed with a guttural groan, hot and deep, pumping into you until you felt it dripping out around the seal of his knot.
He collapsed against you, breathing hard, and the weight of him was grounding, perfect. His hand found yours, fingers lacing together against the cheap plywood. Then he laughed—a short, breathless puff of air. "Shit. We forgot a condom."
"I'll get plan b," you said, already thinking ahead. "Tomorrow. It's fine."
He was quiet for a long moment, and then his hand found your jaw, guiding your chin so you had to look at him. "You sure?"
"I'm sure." You held his gaze. "But next time, you're buying the condoms."
His mouth twitched. "Next time?"
You smiled, slow and wicked, and pulled him back down to meet you. "You heard me."
By the time Cook’s knot finally eased enough for you to separate and pull your clothes back into place, someone was hammering against the bedroom door hard enough to shake it in the frame.
“Oi!” Cook shouted, voice wrecked and utterly unapologetic. “Occupied!”
“This is my room!” Liam yelled from the other side.
You buried your face against Cook’s shoulder, laughter catching in your chest while he stared at the door as though Liam had made a deeply unreasonable request.
Cook looked at you, hair disordered and polo collar dragged crooked. His pupils were still wide, his alpha scent heavy with satisfaction, while the sharp edge of your pre-heat had dulled for the moment.
His grin was pure trouble. “Window?”
“We’re on the second floor.”
“Could make it.”
“You first.”
“Thought you liked me.”
“I tolerate you.”
“Same thing.”
His next kiss was slower, still dirty and unmistakably Cook but without the frantic edge from before. His thumb brushed over the unmarked skin beside your scent gland as though checking that he’d kept his word, only for Liam to hit the door again. Cook sighed and began fixing his clothes with absolutely no urgency. “Could stay. See if he gives up.”
“He won’t.”
“Could tell him we’re doing something important.”
“He knows what we’re doing.”
“Then he knows it’s important.”
You checked the suppressant patch beneath your dress and found one corner peeled away, making it useless. Cook watched you remove it.
“Need another?”
“I’ve got some at home.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“You don’t even know where I live now.”
“Never bothered me before.”
You straightened his collar before you could think better of it. Cook watched your hands, quieter now as the noise of the party swelled and receded beyond the locked door.
“You disappearing again?” you asked.
“Dunno.”
It was an honest answer, which made it worse. You started to let go of his shirt, but Cook caught your wrist and rubbed his thumb once over your pulse.
“Could come with you,” he said. “Stay till your heat’s over.”
“You offering to help?”
“Offering to make myself useful.”
“That would be a first.”
“Can be very useful.”
“You’re still not claiming me.”
“Christ, you’ve mentioned it.”
“Because you’re possessive.”
“Only when people touch my things.”
“I’m not your thing.”
Cook’s mouth tipped into a grin. “Not yet.”
You gave him a warning look.
“Joke,” he said. “Mostly.”
Outside, Liam threatened to find a screwdriver.
“Bring us a drink while you’re at it!” Cook called.
“I’m going to kill you!”
“He’s having a lovely birthday.”
You kissed Cook before he could make another joke, brief and soft enough to surprise him. When you pulled away, he looked almost dazed before recovering.
“Do that again.”
“No.”
“Mean.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Keep trying.”
Cook finally opened the lock, stepped into the hallway and clapped Liam warmly on the shoulder. “Brilliant party, mate.”
Liam looked past him at you, his nose wrinkling as the thick mixture of alpha and omega scent escaped from the bedroom. “You absolute fucking bastard.”
“Birthday drink?”
“You drank all my vodka.”
“Then you’ve had enough.”
Liam lunged, and Cook caught your hand, dragging you down the hallway while laughing. Guests turned to watch the commotion, some cheering when he vaulted over the last three steps and nearly took out a table covered in empty bottles.
He recovered without spilling the drink he’d snatched from someone on the way past.
“Still got it,” he announced.
“You nearly broke your neck.”
“Nearly doesn’t count.”
Liam appeared at the top of the stairs. “Give me my crown back!”
Cook touched the glittering cardboard crown he’d apparently stolen somewhere along the way. “Won it fair and square.”
“You stole it!”
“Semantics.”
He pulled you through the kitchen and toward the back door before Liam could reach the bottom of the stairs. The cold night air hit your overheated skin with immediate relief, carrying the smell of damp pavement, cigarettes and fried food from farther along the street.
You stopped at the garden gate. “My coat’s inside.”
Cook looked back at the house, where Liam had just appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Buy you another.”
“With what money?”
“Could nick you one.”
“You already used that line.”
“Still romantic.”
“Cook.”
He sighed with tremendous suffering, removed his polo and handed it to you.
Cook stood in the middle of the garden wearing nothing above the waist but his chain and the glittering cardboard crown, apparently unbothered by the cold or the attention of every smoker nearby.
“That isn’t a coat.”
“Got sleeves.”
“It’s a polo.”
“Put it on.”
“You’ll freeze.”
“Alpha.”
“That doesn’t make you immune to weather.”
“Makes me hard.”
“More like hard-headed.”
“Exactly.”
You gave in and pulled the polo over you when goosebumps broke out across your arms from both the chill and the knowledge he bit your bare shoulder twice, the shirt still warm from his body and saturated with his scent. The alpha smell settled around you immediately, strong enough to mask the sweetness beginning to rise from your skin.
Cook looked you over and gave a low, approving whistle. “Fucking hell.”
“What?”
“My scent all over you.”
“It’s a shirt.”
“Looks better on you.”
Liam shoved through the back door, and Cook grabbed your hand. “Run.”
You made it through the gate just before Liam reached you, Cook laughing so hard he stumbled into the neighboring house’s brick wall. You dragged him onward, both of you half-running down the pavement while Liam shouted threats from behind the fence. By the time you reached the end of the street, you were breathless. Cook leaned against a lamppost, bare chest rising and falling, the cardboard crown still somehow balanced on his head.
“That,” he said, “was a fucking brilliant party.”
“You were there for less than two hours.”
“Quality, not quantity.”
“You stole alcohol, cake and a crown.”
“And an omega.”
“You didn’t steal me.”
“Came away smelling like me, didn’t you?”
You folded your arms, making his polo pull tight across your chest. Cook’s gaze dropped immediately.
“You’re doing that on purpose.”
“I’m standing.”
“Filthily.”
“You really can make anything sound obscene.”
“Gift.”
He pushed away from the lamppost, his expression turning more serious as he caught another change in your scent. “How long till the heat hits properly?”
“Tomorrow, probably.”
“Right.”
“You don’t have to stay.”
“Didn’t ask if I had to.”
Cook threaded his fingers through yours as naturally as if the last several months hadn’t happened. The takeaway at the corner was still open, its fluorescent sign buzzing over the pavement.
“Come home with me,” you said.
His eyebrows rose.
“You need clothes, and I need food, another suppressant and Plan B before I decide whether I want company for the rest of my heat.”
Cook’s grin spread slowly across his face. “Already decided.”
“Keep talking and I’ll leave you outside.”
“Wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
He pulled open the takeaway door and gestured you through with an exaggerated bow, cardboard crown glittering beneath the fluorescent lights.
“My omega wants chips.”
“I’m not your omega.”
“Not with that attitude.”
“You’re paying.”
Cook searched his pockets and produced a lighter, three loose cigarettes and one crumpled note.
“Got enough for chips.”
“You said you could buy me shoes.”
“Priorities changed.”
“Because you have five pounds?”
“Because you’ve invited me home while smelling like that.”
The bored employee behind the counter looked up. You closed your eyes as Cook grinned and slung an arm around your shoulders, pulling you farther beneath the shelter of his scent.
pairing: sir jimmy crystal x captive!fem reader
summary: The Jimmies decide Sir Lord Jimmy deserves a birthday present, and the captive they’ve wrapped in ribbon is forced to prove she came willingly before he’ll accept her.
wc: 6.3k
a/n: the second fic in my little jack birthday celebration (it’s still his birthday here) and obviously i had to take the idea of giving sir lord jimmy a present in the most fucked-up direction possible. as always, mind the warnings. happy birthday again to the man who somehow makes purple velour look this good. not beta read. so, any mistakes are between me and old nick.
warnings: dead dove: do not eat, rape/noncon, kidnapping and captivity, cult abuse, ritualized sexual violence, forced verbal consent, coercion, restrained/bound reader, public sexual assault, voyeurism, forced oral (m!receiving), rough oral, deepthroating, gagging, hair pulling, forced piv, unprotected sex, internal ejaculation/creampie, pregnancy risk, forced orgasm, manhandling, possessive behavior, humiliation, knife use, forehead scarification, blood, leash play/neck restraint, bad hygiene and rotting teeth, no aftercare
36 CANDLES / MAIN MASTERLIST
The Jimmies had found a box for you, though it was much too small to hide inside and much too pretty to be mistaken for a coffin.
Once, it had held a washing machine. Jimmima had wrapped the cardboard in faded Christmas paper scavenged from an abandoned shop, overlapping strips covered in silver stars and smiling snowmen until only the bottom remained bare. Jimmy Jones contributed a purple satin ribbon that still carried the stink of damp and moss, while Jimmy Fox perforated one side with the tip of his hunting knife.
They argued over whether the holes spoiled the surprise.
“They’ll stop her from suffocating,” Jimmy Ink reasoned.
“Could always give him something else if she does,” Jimmima replied.
You’d been hiding when the Fingers found you, aware enough to understand that their laughter never meant anything was safe. They’d dragged you from an abandoned service station three weeks earlier, killing the two people travelling with you before deciding your face was too pretty to waste. Since then, you’d slept behind a locked door in what had once been the leisure centre’s changing room, your ankle chained to a rusted bench and your meals delivered according to whichever Jimmy remembered you existed.
Cruelty was entertainment to them, something invented to fill the empty hours between raids and Sir Lord Jimmy’s sermons. Each atrocity earned points according to how loudly he laughed when they described it afterward. Even their kindness carried an edge. Jimmy Ink had smuggled you extra water during your first night, then warned you not to thank her where the others could hear.
Gratitude suggested preference. Preference became weakness, and weakness became entertainment.
Now Ink crouched beside the box, checking the knot around your wrists for the third time. The rope was snug rather than painful, more decorative than practical, because your ankles were tied beneath the pale dress and seven armed disciples waited outside. Beyond the cardboard, trainers squeaked against the tiles, followed by muffled bickering and furniture being dragged into place.
Someone had found a battery-powered keyboard. The same six notes repeated until Jimmy Snake cursed and threatened to break every finger responsible.
“Don’t fight today,” Ink called through the opening. “It’s meant to be special.”
“It is special,” Jimmima answered. “Means the Lord might let us watch.”
Ink’s hands paused at your wrists.
You couldn’t see her face through the narrow gap, only matted synthetic yellow hair and the sleeve of her turquoise tracksuit. “Don’t listen to her.”
The absurdity nearly made you laugh. Everyone listened to Jimmima because refusing made her interested, but everyone listened to Sir Lord Jimmy because there was no longer a self left among them capable of imagining disobedience.
You’d watched him reduce armed survivors to trembling silence with a smile and a nonsensical story about Old Nick whispering inside his skull. You’d seen the Fingers compete for his approval, desperate to prove themselves loyal enough, vicious enough, useful enough to remain attached to the invisible hand holding up his crown. He ruled them with affection distributed as sparingly as clean water, and they thanked him for every drop.
The frightening part was how quickly you’d begun watching for it too.
“You said this was my idea,” you whispered.
Ink glanced toward the sounds outside. “It was.”
“I said he’d been staring at me.”
“You said you wanted him in a better mood.”
“Because he broke Jimmy Fox’s nose when he wasn’t.”
Ink’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Jimmima thought of the box.”
That explained the ribbon around your throat.
It was loose enough that you could breathe, the bow placed at the front as though you were a parcel waiting to be torn open. Beneath it, they’d dressed you in something soft and pale scavenged from a sealed wardrobe, cleaner than anything you’d worn since being captured. Jimmima had washed your skin herself with cold water, humming while she worked and explaining that Sir Lord Jimmy had refined tastes.
You hadn’t asked how she knew.
“You can tell him you don’t want it,” Ink murmured.
“Would he listen?”
Her silence answered for her.
“And what happens to you if I embarrass him?”
Ink looked down at the ropes.
There was the real choice. You could refuse and discover what Sir Lord Jimmy did when rejected before his congregation, or you could say whatever kept his smile in place and hope submission bought you another morning.
The cardboard shifted as Ink stood. A moment later, the top folded shut and darkness swallowed you, close and stale, carrying the smell of dust, ribbon and your own fear. Hands lifted the box from beneath. Your shoulder struck one side as the Jimmies carried you forward, their movements poorly coordinated because no one trusted anyone else enough to call the pace.
The keyboard stopped.
Silence spread through the building with startling speed.
Then a familiar Scottish voice drifted over the cardboard.
“What’s all this, then?”
Sir Lord Jimmy sounded delighted already.
Jimmima launched into a speech she’d clearly rehearsed, welcoming the favourite son of Old Nick to a celebration honouring the day he’d been placed upon the earth. Jimmy Jones interrupted to point out that nobody knew whether it was actually his birthday. Fox called her a faithless cow, which started another argument until a sharp clap cracked through the room.
“Peeps,” Jimmy said. “You’re spoiling it.”
The box descended onto something hard. Pool tiles, judging by the hollow echo beneath you.
The leisure centre’s main pool had been drained long before the Jimmies claimed it. They used the deep end for initiations, executions and games that moved between the two so casually it was difficult to tell which one had been intended. Sir Lord Jimmy liked to sit above it in the lifeguard’s chair, dressed in purple velour and gold, watching violence unfold below as though the cracked plastic seat were a throne.
A few uneven notes sounded on the keyboard.
The Jimmies began singing.
It was recognisable as “Happy Birthday” only because the melody had survived longer than most of the people who once knew it. Half the Fingers replaced Jimmy’s name with his full title, creating a jumble of syllables that tripped over the music. Jimmima sang louder whenever anyone overtook her, while Jimmy Snake abandoned the tune entirely and shouted praise to Old Nick over the final line.
Jimmy applauded when they finished.
“Fucking knockout. Howzat?”
The Fingers cheered, parroting back, "HOWZAT!"
You heard him descend the metal steps, each footfall ringing through the empty pool as he approached. He took his time, circling the box before tapping the side with his knuckles.
“Cake?”
“No,” Jimmima said.
“Bomb?”
Jimmy Fox laughed too hard. No one joined him.
Sir Lord Jimmy tapped again, closer to your head. “Tellytummy?”
“It’s better than that,” Jimmima promised. “We found you a present.”
“We already had her,” Ink said.
Silence returned.
Even inside the box, you felt the atmosphere change.
“Did we?” Jimmy asked pleasantly.
Ink didn’t answer.
The paper ripped above you. Light flooded through the opening as Jimmy tore back the cardboard flaps and peered inside, his face framed by damaged silver stars. His bleached hair had been combed back from his forehead, although one strand had already fallen loose. Gold chains lay against the zipped collar of his purple tracksuit, one bearing the inverted cross that knocked lightly against the cardboard when he leaned closer.
His gaze travelled over the bow at your throat, the ropes around your wrists and the clean dress selected for his approval.
The amusement in his face sharpened.
“Hello, you.”
“Sir Lord Jimmy.”
“Very nice.” His fingers hooked beneath the ribbon, testing its tension without pulling. “Very fucking festive.”
Behind him, the Fingers shifted eagerly.
Jimmima stepped closer. “Do you like her?”
Jimmy’s attention remained on you. “Ask me after I’ve opened her.”
Laughter burst around the pool.
He held out his hand.
Getting out required accepting it, which was probably the point. You placed your fingers in his, and Jimmy’s smile warmed as though you’d proven something important. He helped you stand, supporting you when the ropes around your ankles made you stumble, then turned you slowly before the others while the satin bow trailed against your chest.
“Look at that,” he said. “My peeps do have initiative.”
Praise transformed them. Shoulders straightened and faces brightened beneath grimy yellow wigs. Even Ink lowered her head, concealing whatever guilt remained behind an expression of dutiful satisfaction.
Jimmy inspected the knot around your wrists. “Who tied this?”
“I did,” Ink admitted.
“Bit gentle.”
“She knows what happens if she runs.”
Jimmy looked at you. “Does she?”
You stared back, conscious of Fox’s blade, Jimmima’s expectant smile and the drained pool rising around you like a tiled grave.
“Yes.”
Jimmy laughed, loud and abrupt enough to make Fox flinch. “Clever little thing.”
He kept hold of your wrists as he paced along the line of his disciples. Their bright tracksuits created crude splashes of colour against the mold-stained tiles, like a children’s television program left playing after the world ended.
“What makes a gift?” Jimmy asked.
No one answered immediately, and his expression cooled.
Jimmy Jones tried first. “Something offered to the Lord.”
“Could be.”
“Something you want,” Fox added.
“Usually helps.”
Jimmima smiled. “Something that belongs to you once it’s given.”
Jimmy pointed at her with obvious approval. “There she is. Our scholar.”
He returned to you, keeping the rope looped around one hand. “But there’s a little problem, isn’t there?”
You said nothing.
“Nobody’s asked whether you’re giving anything.” His head tilted as he studied you. “They’ve wrapped you up, stuck a pretty bow on you and dropped you at my feet. Lovely effort. Ten out of ten for presentation. But Old Nick doesn’t care for stolen tribute.”
You almost believed he was offering you a way out.
That was one of Jimmy’s talents. He could make an unlocked door look real while positioning seven people with knives on the other side. Even now, your ankles remained bound and the rope around your wrists was wound through his fist.
Jimmima’s smile had vanished. Ink watched you with quiet dread. The others waited with the stillness of believers anticipating either a miracle or an execution, both outcomes capable of validating their faith.
Jimmy untied the ribbon at your throat. The satin slid free and pooled in his palm.
“Tell me plain,” he said. “Did you come to me?”
Your gaze dropped to the rope joining you.
His fingers tightened.
“Eyes up.”
You obeyed.
“Did you come to me?” he repeated.
There was only one answer that didn’t end with someone bleeding.
“Yes.”
His smile returned.
“Did you come because they frightened you?”
Jimmima stared at you from behind him.
“No.”
“Because they locked you downstairs?”
“No.”
“Because Jimmy Fox said he’d cut your pretty face if you made trouble?”
Fox looked suddenly nervous.
You swallowed. “No.”
Jimmy’s thumb stroked the ribbon as though rewarding each lie. “Because you’re hungry?”
“No.”
“Because you think I’ll keep the demons from ripping your belly open?”
The infected still shrieked beyond the building after dark. Some nights, the sound travelled through the walls until nobody slept.
“That’s part of it.”
Jimmy’s eyes flashed with amusement. “Honest too. Getting better by the second.”
He wrapped the ribbon once around his fist, adding it to the rope, and drew you closer. It didn’t choke you now, but the gesture reminded you how easily it could have.
“And the other part?”
You’d rehearsed something reverent inside the box, yet the words deserted you beneath the attention of the Fingers. Jimmy waited, the pleasant expression on his face growing thinner with every second.
“Because I wanted you to see me,” you said.
Something changed behind his eyes.
It wasn’t softness. Jimmy had carved that out of himself long ago and replaced it with spectacle, scripture and an audience that never dared look away. What remained was recognition, intense and possessive, the satisfaction of discovering a need he could use.
“Oh, I see you.”
He touched your cheek with the backs of his fingers. The gesture was almost tender, which made the watching cult worse.
“I saw you the first night,” he continued. “All filthy and shaking, trying not to look scared while my Fingers dragged you in. You looked at me like you already knew who mattered.”
You remembered looking at him because he was the only person not carrying his knife openly.
“You’ve been waiting for me to notice properly, haven’t you?”
It wasn’t a question. The rope between you made that clear.
Jimmy’s fingers closed around your jaw. “Say it.”
“Yes, Sir Lord Jimmy.”
“On your knees.”
You lowered yourself onto the cold tiles, awkward with your ankles still tied. The Fingers exhaled together.
Jimmy stood over you in purple velour, gold glinting at his throat, while his disciples formed a bright semicircle behind him. From the floor, the empty pool looked deeper than it had from above. Its walls rose on either side, impossible to climb quickly, and the old waterline stained into the tiles resembled a dark ring left by something drowned there.
Jimmy placed two fingers beneath your chin.
“Who released the demons?”
“Old Nick.”
“And who speaks for him?”
“You do.”
“Who are my Fingers?”
“The faithful.”
His thumb pressed against your lower lip. “And what do the Fingers hold?”
“Your crown.”
The disciples answered with you this time, voices overlapping until the words filled the pool.
Jimmy beamed at them, then returned his attention to you. “Hear that? Family.”
Family had once meant people who protected you without first demanding that you bleed for the privilege. The Jimmies had replaced it with matching names, matching clothes and matching scars cut upside down into their skin.
Jimmima approached carrying a narrow knife and a metal cup.
Jimmy took the blade.
“You aren’t one of us yet,” he said. “Can’t give me a present with one foot still outside the door."
The flat edge touched the center of your forehead, cold enough to make you flinch. He traced the bare skin where the others bore Old Nick’s inverted cross.
Ink turned her face away.
“You want to be attached to the hand?” Jimmy asked.
The blade remained poised against your skin. Your wrists were bound, your ankles tied and every exit from the pool guarded. Still, he waited as though this were a sacred choice freely placed before you.
You hesitated too long.
His smile vanished.
“Maybe she doesn’t,” Fox said.
Jimmy glanced over his shoulder, and Fox recoiled immediately.
“Did I ask you?”
“No, Sir Lord Jimmy.”
“You think she doesn’t understand?”
“No.”
“You think she needs convincing?”
Fox’s face drained of colour. “No.”
Jimmy looked back at you. His smile returned as easily as a light switching on.
“See what you’ve done?” he asked. “Got my Fingers doubting you already.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not me you’ve embarrassed.”
You looked toward Fox. “I’m sorry.”
Jimmy laughed softly. “There. Manners.”
The knife pressed closer, opening a bright point of pain beneath the serrated teeth.
“You want to be attached to the hand?” he asked again.
“Yes, Sir Lord Jimmy.”
“Good."
The cut came quickly. Pain burned beneath your skin as he drew one short line, then another, blood welling along the inverted mark before a warm bead slipped down the slope of your nose. You held still because every Finger was watching and because Jimmy’s approval had become more necessary than relief.
When he finished, he caught some of the blood in the metal cup, dipped his thumb into it and painted a streak down the centre of your lower lip.
The Jimmies applauded.
Jimmy examined his work, satisfaction settling over his features. “Now that is a gift."
He crouched in front of you, gripping your jaw with a hand that smelled of copper and stale sweat, turning your face toward the watching eyes. His thumb pressed beneath your cheekbone while the other fingers bracketed your chin, forcing your head up despite the ache burning through the fresh mark on your forehead. Around the drained pool, the Fingers leaned closer, their bright tracksuits and synthetic yellow hair crowding the edges of your vision as they waited for their lord to make a spectacle of his newest gift.
“Say it again, love.” Jimmy’s voice carried easily through the hollow leisure centre, playful enough to disguise the threat beneath it. “Tell them why they brought you here.”
Your tongue felt thick in your dry mouth. “To be your gift.”
His smile sharpened, but his grip didn’t loosen. “That’s what they decided. I asked what you decided.”
The Fingers watched in expectant silence. Somewhere behind him, rubber squeaked against the empty tiles as one of them shifted closer, eager for the answer Jimmy had already chosen for you.
“To be accepted by Sir Lord Jimmy,” you managed.
“Better.” His thumb pressed harder into your cheek, tilting your face toward the congregation. “But they can’t hear you at the back.”
His fingers dug in until your lips parted around the pressure.
“I came here to be accepted by Sir Lord Jimmy.”
Approval moved through the pool in murmurs and breathless laughter. Someone repeated the words as though they were part of a prayer, and the others quickly joined in, your frightened declaration passing from mouth to mouth until it no longer sounded like anything you had said.
Jimmy’s smile widened as though he had coaxed the confession from you freely. He stroked his thumb once across your cheek before releasing your jaw, leaving your face turned toward the congregation for another long, humiliating moment.
The Fingers murmured, a low, hungry sound that bounced off the chipped tile walls. The drip from the deep end kept its steady rhythm, like a pulse counting down.
Jimmy grinned, and you saw the rot in his teeth up close, the yellowed gaps, the inflamed tissue of his gums. "Good girl." He leaned in, his breath hot against your ear, and you caught the sour tang of it. "Now we consummate the ceremony."
He stood, and there was a theatrical slowness to the way he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his track pants, pushing them down to his knees. His cock sprang free, half-hard, pink and veined, and the others shifted closer, a collective intake of breath.
"Suck it," he said, not a request. He fisted a hand in your hair and pulled your face toward him.
Your mouth opened because it must. The taste of him was salt and skin, pre-cum slicking your lips as he pushed past them. He wasn't gentle, thrusting shallow at first, then deeper, his hips finding a rhythm that was clumsy but eager. One hand stayed tangled in your hair, the other gripping the back of your skull, guiding you down until your nose brushed the coarse hair at his base.
"That's it," he groaned, his voice pitching up. "That's it, love."
You gagged, your throat convulsing around him, and he moaned, a broken sound that almost seemed surprised. He pulled out just enough for you to breathe, spit stringing from your lips to his cock, and then he thrust back in, deeper this time, his hips stuttering with inexperience.
His thumb found the ribbon around your throat, tugging at it, and you felt the knot loosen, the silk sliding away. He wrapped the ribbon around his fist, using it as a leash, pulling you harder onto him, and you heard yourself make a sound that was half whimper, half desperate swallow.
"Fuck," he exhaled, and it was almost reverent. "Fuck, that's good."
He pulled out entirely, his cock slick with your spit, and pushed you over onto your side with a hand on your shoulder. The tile scraped your hip, your bound wrists grinding against the concrete as he positioned himself behind you, his hands gripping your thighs, spreading them.
"Been waiting for this," he muttered, and you feel the blunt press of him at your entrance, wet and insistent. "Twenty-eight years since the world ended. Twenty-eight years of nothing. And then you."
He pushed in, and it was a stretch, a burn, your body resisting before it yielded, the slick of your arousal making way. He was inside you, fully, his hips flush against your ass, and he stilles for a moment, breathing hard, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.
"Oh," he said, small and stunned, and then he started to move.
His thrusts were uneven, frantic, learning the rhythm as he went. He fucked you with a desperate enthusiasm, his cock sliding in and out of you with a wet sound that echoed in the empty pool, the Fingers watching in silence, their eyes hungry. He leaned over you, his chest against your back, his mouth finding yours, and you tasted the rot of his teeth, the sour heat of his breath, his tongue pushing into your mouth as he kept driving his hips in an out, in and out.
"Mine," he gasped against your lips. "Mine now."
His hand found the front of you, fingers pressing, searching, and you gasped into his mouth as he found the right spot, rubbing in clumsy circles. He was close, you couls feel it in the way his rhythm broke, the way his breath came in short, sharp pants.
"Come with me," he ordered, his voice cracking. "Come on my cock, love."
And your body obeyed because it must, because his fingers were relentless and his cock was buried deep, and the orgasm ripped through you, your cunt clenching around him. He followed a second later, with a broken moan, his hips slamming into you as he spilled inside, hot and thick, filling you.
He stayed there, breathing hard, his weight pressing you into the tile. When he finally withdrew, his cum leaked from you, a slow, warm trickle down your thigh. He rolled you onto your back, his eyes scanning your face, his thumb tracing the raw cross on your forehead.
"You'll wear that forever," he murmured, and it sounded like a promise and a threat. He stood once again, pulling his track pants up, and the others began to stir, their murmurs rising.
You lied on the cold tile, the ribbon still coiled in his fist, your wrists still bound, the mark on your forehead throbbing with every beat of your heart. Somewhere above, the drip from the deep end keeps counting, and you know this was only the beginning.
Afterward, Jimmy retied the purple ribbon around your throat.
The bow was crooked now, the satin crushed and damp from the fist he’d kept wrapped around it, but he fussed over the loops with surprising concentration, tugging one side and then the other until they sat to his satisfaction. It was an absurdly delicate gesture after everything he’d done, his brow drawn tight as though he were arranging flowers rather than restoring the decoration on a parcel he’d already torn apart.
“There,” he murmured, admiring his work. “Lovely.”
Around you, the Fingers remained in the semicircle where he’d ordered them, too disciplined to move without permission and too exhilarated to hide their staring. Their bright tracksuits crowded the edge of the drained pool, synthetic yellow hair glowing beneath the salvaged fairy lights. Some examined the fresh mark on your forehead with open fascination. Most watched Jimmy, waiting for him to show them whether they ought to laugh, applaud or kneel.
“Up,” he said.
Your legs trembled when you tried to stand. The first attempt barely lifted you from the cold tile before your knees threatened to fold again, earning a few smothered snickers from the congregation. Jimmy silenced them with a glance, then caught you beneath the arm and hauled you upright with none of the care he’d shown the ribbon. The rope remained knotted around your wrists, its coarse fibres biting deeper when he raised your bound hands and presented you to the others.
You no longer resembled the clean parcel they’d prepared. The pale fabric clung where it had become damp, the bow hung unevenly at your throat and grime from the pool floor streaked your skin. Jimmima looked pleased with herself anyway, her smile swelling with the satisfaction of someone whose handiwork had survived its intended destruction.
Jimmy Ink looked ill.
She stood slightly apart from the others, shoulders drawn inward and gaze fixed upon a chipped tile near your feet. Whenever her eyes threatened to rise, they stopped somewhere below your face, as though refusing to look at you properly might absolve her of standing there.
“Peeps,” Jimmy announced, spreading one arm toward you, “our present needs a name.”
Suggestions came immediately, shouted over one another with the unruly enthusiasm of children naming a stray animal. Jimmy Fox offered something crude, apparently grateful to be included again. Jones proposed Jimmy Valentine because of the ribbon, gesturing toward the bow as though the connection required explanation. Snake shouted Jimmy Sacrifice, which earned him a disgusted glance from their Lord.
“Bit obvious,” Jimmy said. “No artistry.”
Snake’s grin vanished.
Jimmy circled you once, considering the matter with exaggerated seriousness. He tapped one finger against his lips, head tilting as he inspected the result of the ceremony from every angle. You forced yourself not to follow him with your eyes. The ribbon shifted whenever he passed behind you, its loose end trailing from his hand and brushing your shoulder, a quiet reminder that he hadn’t truly released it.
“Just Jimmy for tonight,” he decided at last. “We’ll find the rest once she’s earned it.”
The phrase settled heavily in your stomach.
You’d believed the ceremony was the earning. The box, the rehearsed answers, the blade and everything that followed should have purchased whatever thin protection came with being counted among them. Jimmy’s wording made it clear there would always be another threshold, another demonstration demanded before you could feel secure. Even a name could be promised, bestowed and taken away again according to his mood.
That was how he kept the Fingers loyal. Belonging was never granted permanently; it had to be purchased again each morning. Every scrap of approval became precious because he alone decided how long it remained valid, and every humiliation could be recast as another opportunity to prove their devotion.
Jimmy drew his knife once more. The scrape of metal made your muscles lock before you could stop them, but he only crouched and sliced through the rope around your ankles. The loosened coils fell away, leaving angry ridges circling your skin.
He left your wrists tied.
“Can’t have you tripping over yourself,” he said as he returned the knife to its place. “Makes the whole family look amateur.”
Fox laughed too loudly. Nobody joined him.
Jimmy straightened and turned you toward the congregation with a firm hand at your shoulder. “Thank your Fingers.”
You looked at the figures gathered around the drained pool, their tracksuits stained with mud and age, their faces open and expectant beneath synthetic yellow hair. They had carried you between them, debated the arrangement of your limbs and wrapped the box while you listened from inside. Now they waited for gratitude as though kidnapping you had been an act of hospitality.
Jimmima wore the smug expectation of someone waiting to be praised for selecting the perfect present. Jones glanced between you and Jimmy, eager but uncertain. Snake rocked on his heels. Fox had already puffed out his chest in anticipation.
Ink still wouldn’t meet your eyes.
“Thank you.”
The slight tightening at the corner of Jimmy’s mouth told you the answer wasn’t enough.
“Properly.”
Your throat hurt when you swallowed. You forced warmth into your voice, smoothing the words until fear could almost be mistaken for sincerity.
“Thank you for bringing me to Sir Lord Jimmy.”
Approval rippled through the Fingers. Jimmima gave an elaborate bow, one hand sweeping toward the floor, while Fox thumped a fist against his chest, apparently reassured that his earlier mistake had been forgotten. Jones clapped twice before realising no one else had and hastily lowered his hands.
Jimmy lifted your bound wrists and kissed your knuckles with courtly tenderness. He angled the gesture outward so every disciple could witness his acceptance and understand that your gratitude had pleased him.
“Welcome to the family. Howzat?”
The Jimmies repeated it, seven voices briefly becoming one.
The words struck the hollow walls and returned distorted, multiplied by the acoustics until it sounded as though the ruined leisure centre itself had welcomed you. Jimmy smiled at the echo. He seemed to feed upon their devotion more readily than anything scavenged from abandoned towns, standing a little taller whenever their voices aligned with his.
You understood then that the ceremony had never truly been about receiving you. You were a lesson dressed in pale fabric and damp ribbon, proof that anything dragged before him could eventually be taught to call itself willing. The Fingers weren’t merely spectators. They were the intended audience for the transformation, each of them reminded that resistance could be rewritten if Jimmy controlled the story long enough.
“Right,” he announced, loosening his grip on your hands without untying them. “Celebration’s not finished because the present’s been opened. Somebody find us a drink.”
The command shattered their reverent formation. Jones hurried toward the metal stairs while Snake and Fox began arguing over who had hidden the last bottle. Another Finger rushed to rescue the battered keyboard from the poolside, cradling it with greater care than anyone had shown you. Jimmima followed close beside Jimmy, fishing shamelessly for another compliment about the wrapping paper.
“Silver stars were my idea,” she reminded him. “Thought they looked proper royal.”
Jimmy ignored her in favour of winding the purple ribbon around his fist.
The other end remained tied at your throat.
“Come along, then.”
He guided you toward the shallow end, the satin tightening whenever your pace fell behind his. Your legs were still unreliable, each step sending a dull tremor through muscles struggling to hold you upright, but Jimmy never slowed enough to accommodate you. When you stumbled, he gave the ribbon an impatient tug rather than offering his arm.
The discarded box sat beneath the salvaged fairy lights, torn open and listing to one side. Silver stars split where Jimmy’s hands had ripped through the paper, exposing the washing-machine logo beneath. Loose strands of tape hung from the collapsed flaps, catching the coloured bulbs whenever they moved in the draught.
From a distance, it no longer resembled a gift box at all.
It looked like the remains of something that had hatched.
You slowed near it. The impulse was irrational but immediate, your body remembering the cramped shelter before your mind could recall the panic of being sealed inside. The cardboard had pressed against your shoulders and trapped every breath, but there had been a finality to the darkness. Nobody had been looking at you. Jimmy hadn’t yet touched you or decided what your fear meant.
He noticed your hesitation immediately. “Something back there you want?”
For one desperate second, you imagined climbing inside again and folding the cardboard over your head, returning to the last place where Jimmy hadn’t yet seen you. The darkness had been close and airless, but at least it had belonged entirely to you. You could almost feel the walls closing around your knees, hiding your expression and swallowing every word before he could demand it.
The ribbon tightened.
“No, Sir Lord Jimmy.”
“That’s right.”
His satisfaction was quiet but unmistakable. He drew you onward while the Fingers gathered behind him carrying bottles, the keyboard and the remains of whatever food had been saved for the occasion. A dented tin rolled across the tiles before Fox chased it down with a curse. Someone began playing those same six notes again, hesitant at first, then louder when Jimmy failed to object.
This time, nobody threatened to break her fingers.
The procession assembled without being ordered. They fell into place behind their lord, voices rising around half-finished jokes and arguments as though the spectacle in the deep end had already become another piece of the evening’s entertainment. Jimmima launched into a detailed account of how difficult you had been to wrap. Fox interrupted to insist the holes in the box had been his contribution. Jones claimed he had stopped the entire thing collapsing, which prompted Snake to call him a liar.
Their version of the night was taking shape before you had even left the pool.
Soon, you knew, the box would become grander in the telling. The ribbon would have been silk instead of damp satin, the paper finer, your arrival greeted by music rather than quarrelling and six uncertain notes. They would forget the fear in your voice and remember only the answers Jimmy had demanded. Perhaps Jimmima would insist you’d smiled when the cardboard opened. Perhaps Fox would swear you’d thanked him before anyone told you to.
At the metal steps, Jimmy paused and looked back at the congregation. The Fingers quieted in stages, one by one noticing that he expected their attention.
“What do we do with gifts, peeps?”
“Treasure them,” Ink answered quietly.
His voice nearly disappeared beneath the hum of the fairy lights, but Jimmy heard him. For the first time since the ceremony ended, Ink looked directly at you. Something tightened across his face before shame dragged his gaze away again.
“Show them off,” Jimmima said.
Fox grinned. “Don’t let anybody nick ’em.”
“Keep them clean,” Jones offered, earning doubtful looks from the others.
Jimmy’s laughter rang against the empty tiles. “There we are. Learning something, aren’t we?”
His hand settled at the back of your neck, directly above the bow, and he guided you onto the first step. The metal was cold beneath your bare foot. Your balance faltered as you climbed with your wrists still bound, but his grip held you upright, not from kindness but because allowing you to fall would spoil the presentation.
The Jimmies followed in a bright, unruly procession. Their voices crowded the leisure centre, already reshaping what had happened below into a story they would repeat until coercion became devotion and fear became gratitude. By morning, they would remember you thanking them. By the end of the week, they might genuinely believe you had arrived by choice.
At the top of the steps, Jimmy drew you against his side and surveyed the ruin as though it were a palace awaiting its queen. The old reception desk had been turned into a makeshift banquet table, covered with mismatched bottles, scavenged sweets and tins pried open with knives. A plastic birthday banner sagged between two dead vending machines, several letters missing so that the message no longer made sense. Someone had pushed a candle into the centre of a stale sponge cake, though the wick had burned down to a blackened nub long before your arrival.
A plastic crown sat beside the keyboard, its metallic points bent and stained. When Jimmima reached for it, Jimmy slapped her hand away and placed it upon his own head.
“Birthday boy first,” he said.
The Fingers cheered.
He basked in the noise, arms spread and chin raised, while the cheap crown slipped sideways across his hair. Jimmima adjusted it for him, laughing too loudly when he called her useful. Fox began banging the flat of his palm against the reception desk in lieu of a drumbeat, and Snake joined in until the abandoned foyer filled with a clumsy rhythm.
Jimmy pulled you into the centre of them by the ribbon and raised one of the bottles. A little liquid remained at the bottom, cloudy and amber beneath the fluorescent lights. He drank, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then pressed the rim to your lips.
“To family,” he said.
You drank because the alternative had already been demonstrated below. The alcohol was warm and bitter, carrying the taste of rust from the bottle’s mouth. Jimmy watched your throat move, smiling as though the swallow completed some final private ritual.
“To family,” you repeated.
The Fingers answered in chorus.
Someone shoved the stale cake toward Jimmy. He tore away a piece with his fingers, chewed once and grimaced before dropping the rest back onto the desk. Fox laughed until Jimmy looked at him, then abruptly pretended to cough. Jimmima demanded a song, and the keyboard started again, its thin electronic notes swallowed by the cavernous building.
Jimmy tucked you beneath his arm while the others passed bottles from hand to hand. He kept the ribbon looped around his fist throughout it all, even when he laughed, even when Fox attempted to dance and collided with a stack of plastic chairs. Every movement of your body travelled along the satin to him. Every attempt to create an inch of distance was corrected before it could become visible.
When someone asked whether the new Jimmy would be allowed to sleep near their Lord, he answered without looking at you.
“Course she will. Can’t leave presents lying about, can we?”
The Fingers laughed.
His arm tightened around your shoulders, drawing you nearer until the plastic crown brushed your temple. To anyone watching, the pose might have resembled affection: Jimmy presiding over his birthday feast with his newest disciple held proudly against his side. The ribbon concealed between your bodies told the truth.
You finally understood why Jimmy had made you speak your willingness aloud.
A captive could struggle, escape or be rescued. A captive might still remember that she had belonged somewhere else before the Fingers found her. A captive remained evidence of a crime, a living contradiction to every tender word Jimmy used to describe what he had done.
pairing: remmick x mortal lover!fem reader
summary: A handmade harvest knot, an old courtship custom, and one invitation too many turn a summer festival with Remmick into a promise you never meant to make.
wc: 6.4k
a/n: and here it is, the final fic in my mini event!! it’s technically 1 a.m in mountain time, but it just hit midnight on the west coast so i’m counting it🤪i also recently learned that lúnasa is a traditional gaelic harvest festival held on august 1st, which made remmick the obvious choice for a sweet courtship custom turned ritualistic monsterfucking, corrupted consent, and forced immortality. happy 36th birthday to jack, and thank you for giving us a vampire this pretty. not beta read.
warnings: dead dove: do not eat, dubcon, corrupted consent, consensual sex under false pretenses, coercion and manipulation, betrayal by a trusted partner, forced turning, forced immortality, non-consensual feeding, death and rebirth, loss of autonomy, hive mind/collective assimilation, loss of mental privacy, ritualistic sex, monsterfucking, predator/prey play, fear play, consensual bondage (mild), bloodplay, biting, strength kink, possessive behavior, praise kink, piv, fingering, creampie, unprotected sex
36 CANDLES / MAIN MASTERLIST
Remmick had been alive long enough to watch sacred things become entertainment.
Lúnasa had once meant smoke caught in wool, grain split beneath calloused hands and prayers murmured by people who understood how little stood between a full winter store and starvation. Now it meant food trucks, plastic cups of cider and a laminated sign beside the bonfire reminding guests not to climb the decorative hay bales.
He regarded the sign with open contempt.
“You’re not supposed to climb them,” you said.
“I can read.”
“You’ve been staring at it like you’re planning something.”
Remmick glanced toward the pyramid of straw stacked beyond the ropes, then back at you. Firelight warmed one side of his face, turning the blue of his eyes almost silver while the other remained shadowed beneath tousled dark hair. He’d ignored every suggestion that he dress less conspicuously, arriving in a light blue button-down shirt with the collar loosened, black trousers and suspenders, his thin gold chain catching whenever he moved. Among the festival’s linen dresses, knitted shawls and carefully distressed boots, he almost blended in.
Almost.
Then someone passed too close and instinctively veered away, unsettled by something they couldn’t name.
“I’m considering whether the organisers understand the difference between a harvest celebration and a petting zoo,” he said.
“You’ve complained about the music, the cider and the historical demonstration.”
“The man with the scythe nearly removed his own foot.”
“It would’ve made the demonstration memorable.”
Remmick’s mouth curved. “There’s my sweet girl.”
You rolled your eyes, but the smile escaped anyway.
The festival sprawled across the grounds of a converted estate, all strings of amber bulbs, market stalls and bonfires glowing against the darkening fields. Somewhere beyond the vendors, fiddles and drums battled with a speaker playing modern folk music. Smoke drifted through the August air, carrying roasted apples, trampled grass and the metallic promise of rain.
Remmick had been amused when you first suggested coming. By sunset, amusement had given way to something quieter. He watched dancers circle the fire with a stillness that didn’t suit him, one thumb rubbing slowly over the ring on his smallest finger. Every so often, his mouth moved around the shape of a lyric nobody else seemed to know. The modern arrangement bore only the faintest resemblance to what he remembered, but the bones remained buried beneath it.
You slipped your hand into his, and his fingers closed immediately, cool and strong.
“You miss it,” you said.
“Which part?”
“The old way.”
Remmick looked across the field. “People always imagine the past as simpler because they didn’t have to survive it.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
“No.” His thumb moved across your knuckles. “It wasn’t.”
You knew better than to push when his voice took on that distant quality. Remmick told stories readily when they served him, but the ones that mattered usually had to be coaxed from between long silences. Thirteen centuries had left him with an endless supply of anecdotes and remarkably little willingness to discuss what any of them had cost.
The dancers broke apart before joining hands again in a wider circle. Remmick followed the change with unsettling precision, his attention shifting toward every step before it occurred.
“You know this one,” you said.
“I knew something that wore the same bones.”
“Did you dance it?”
“Once or twice.”
The modest answer made you laugh. Remmick could turn his own execution into an amusing story told over drinks, but mention dancing and suddenly he discovered restraint.
“With who?”
His gaze remained on the fire. “People whose names aren’t spoken anymore.”
The answer quieted you. For a moment, the electric lights seemed to recede, and you imagined another field beneath the same moon, the soil unpaved and the darkness absolute beyond the reach of torches. Remmick without his gold chain or carefully rolled sleeves. Remmick warm, perhaps, with a pulse beating beneath skin that sunlight hadn’t yet learned to punish.
“Did you love any of them?” you asked.
His eyes shifted to you. “I was young.”
“That must’ve been terrible.”
A low laugh left him. “Cruel woman.”
“You adore me.”
“I do.”
He said it casually, but his fingers tightened around yours.
A woman at the next stall called you over before the silence could deepen. Bundles of dried wheat, rushes and coloured thread covered her table, with samples hanging from the canvas roof in braided circles, crosses and small, intricate knots tied with narrow loops. A handwritten card described them as traditional harvest tokens once exchanged during courtship.
You picked up one of the unfinished knots.
Remmick’s attention shifted.
The woman began explaining how to weave the strands, guiding your fingers through a simple pattern while Remmick stood beside you. He didn’t correct her technique, though you could feel the effort it required. His silence became almost theatrical.
“Don’t,” you warned.
“I’ve said nothing.”
“You’re thinking very loudly.”
“Perhaps I’m admiring your craftsmanship.”
“It looks like a dead spider.”
The woman laughed politely.
Remmick didn’t.
By the time you finished, the knot sat unevenly in your palm, one side tighter than the other and a loose strand poking from the centre. You held it up for inspection.
“Beautiful,” he said.
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’ve had considerable practice.”
The vendor offered you a small brass pin, mentioning again that the knots were often given as signs of affection. You turned toward Remmick and positioned it against the strap of his suspenders, just above his heart.
“There,” you said. “Apparently, I’ve proposed.”
He caught your wrist before you could withdraw.
The playful answer you expected never came. His gaze moved from your face to the little knot pinned against his chest, and although the festival continued around you in fragments of noise and flame, Remmick had gone utterly still.
“You know what you’re giving me?” he asked.
“A badly woven piece of straw.”
“That all?”
His thumb rested over your pulse. The woman behind the stall had suddenly found something very important to arrange beneath the table.
You studied Remmick’s face. “A courtship token.”
“And you want me to keep it?”
The question carried more weight than the moment should’ve allowed. You could’ve teased him, but something in his expression stopped you. Beneath the familiar charm sat an older hunger, not the sharp appetite you recognised before feeding, but something patient and ceremonial.
“Yes,” you said. “Keep it.”
His eyes held yours for another long second before he smiled, warm enough to make you question why you’d felt uneasy at all. Remmick lifted your hand and pressed his mouth to your knuckles.
“Gladly.”
The vendor avoided looking at either of you while accepting payment. As you walked away, Remmick glanced back at the tokens hanging beneath the canvas.
“She left out part of the custom,” he said.
“Of course she did.”
“Tradition becomes easier to sell once you remove everything unpleasant.”
“What was the unpleasant part?”
“The giver couldn’t always ask for it back.”
You stopped beside a stall selling honey cakes. “That sounds less like courtship and more like theft.”
“Courtship has always had an alarming amount in common with conquest.”
“And here I thought romance was dead.”
“It frequently is.”
He leaned close, his breath cooling the shell of your ear.
“Still beautiful, though.”
Before you could ask whether he meant the custom or the dead thing, Remmick straightened and purchased one of the cakes. He broke off a piece and held it to your mouth, watching you take it from his fingers with an intensity that made the perfectly innocent act feel indecent.
“You’re being strange,” you said around the sweetness.
“I’m enjoying my proposal.”
“I didn’t actually propose.”
His gaze lowered to the knot. “Didn’t you?”
You shoved the rest of the cake against his chest, but he caught it before it smeared the striped fabric, laughing as you walked ahead.
He didn’t remove the knot for the rest of the evening. You caught him touching it twice, once while watching the dancers and again when the bonfire collapsed inward with a fountain of sparks. The second time, his fingers lingered over the braided straw as though confirming it remained there.
By then, the cider had softened the edges of the night. You leaned into his side while musicians played beneath the lights, his arm settled around your waist and his mouth occasionally brushing your temple. Remmick had fed from you before leaving home, just enough to take the strain from his features without leaving you weak, and you could feel the quiet pulse of contentment beneath his skin.
Feeding had rules.
Your relationship with Remmick had several.
He could drink from you when you offered. He could use his strength during sex, provided he never made you feel trapped without warning. He could frighten you when you asked, chase you when you wanted and leave marks anywhere that clothing could hide.
He could not turn you.
That rule had existed from the beginning. Remmick called mortality a prison with unusual conviction for someone who’d spent centuries breaking into other people’s homes, while you called vampirism a collective nightmare dressed up as fellowship. The first time you refused his offer, he laughed and kissed your forehead, treating your answer as something time would correct for him. Months later, you woke from a fever to find him sitting beside your bed with two fingers around your wrist, listening to your weakened pulse with an expression that made you feel as though death had already entered the room. He asked what you expected him to do when your body eventually failed in some ordinary, preventable way.
You told him to grieve.
The water glass shattered in his hand.
Afterward, Remmick cleaned the floor, replaced the glass and promised not to raise the question again unless you did first. He kept that promise, technically, though sometimes you caught his hand spread across your chest while you slept, counting the beats he had no intention of losing.
The festival began thinning near midnight. Families left first, then older couples and tourists who’d underestimated the cold sweeping across the fields. Rain hung in the air without falling, and the remaining crowd gathered closer to the fire, drunk enough that nobody noticed Remmick guiding you away from the lights.
“Where are we going?” you asked.
He nodded toward the darkness beyond the farthest hedgerow. “Walk with me.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It’s a field, love.”
“You once described a mass grave as an interesting patch of earth.”
“It was historically significant.”
His hand rested at the small of your back as you crossed the damp grass. Music followed in a muffled rhythm, weakening with every step until the night belonged to insects, distant laughter and the soft brush of grain against your legs.
Beyond the hedgerow stood an abandoned farmhouse. Its roof sagged slightly over a dark porch, windows reflecting nothing but the distant glow of the festival. Brambles smothered the stone wall, and a narrow barn leaned beside it as though exhausted by the effort of remaining upright.
You stopped at the broken gate. “You knew this was here.”
“I know many things.”
“You planned this.”
Remmick turned to face you, the harvest knot pale against his suspenders. “You told me you wanted to play.”
A week earlier, half asleep beside him, you’d admitted that you sometimes wondered what it would feel like if he stopped pretending the chase challenged him. Remmick had kissed the gland beneath your jaw and asked how much fear you could bear from someone you trusted.
You hadn’t expected him to remember.
That was stupid. Remmick remembered everything.
“You chose tonight?” you asked.
“You gave me something worth celebrating.”
The farmhouse stood behind him, hollow and waiting. Excitement moved low in your stomach, sharpened by the awareness that Remmick could hear every change in your heartbeat.
“What are the rules?”
His smile widened. “You run. I follow.”
“How much of a head start?”
“Enough to make you hopeful.”
“And when you catch me?”
Remmick stepped closer, his voice lowering. “I remind you what hunts in the dark.”
The red hadn’t entered his eyes yet, but you could already imagine it.
“No turning,” you said.
His expression barely changed. “No turning.”
“Say you understand.”
“I understand.”
The answer came smoothly, but you caught his chin between your fingers and held him there.
“Remmick.”
His eyes softened with practiced patience. “I won’t turn you tonight.”
The addition bothered you. He kissed your palm before you could press him on it.
“Go.”
You remained where you were, and Remmick’s mouth twitched.
“Your time’s already started.”
That sent you running.
The first stretch of field was nearly flat, silvered by moonlight and broken only by waist-high grass. You lifted your skirt and sprinted toward the farmhouse, breath tearing quickly from your lungs while Remmick remained behind.
He didn’t follow at first.
You could feel the distance between you, the unnatural absence of footfalls where there should’ve been pursuit. When you risked a glance over your shoulder, he stood beside the gate with his hands folded behind his back.
Watching.
Then the clouds covered the moon. Darkness swallowed the field for no more than a second, and when the light returned, the gate was empty.
Your pulse kicked.
You changed direction, cutting toward the barn instead of the house. Wet grain caught against your legs, slowing you, and the ground dipped unexpectedly beneath one foot. You stumbled but kept moving, listening for anything beyond your own breath.
Nothing.
That was worse.
“Remmick?”
His laughter came from somewhere to your left. You spun toward it and found only grass bending in the wind.
“You’re supposed to chase me,” you called.
“I am.”
His voice sounded close enough to touch, then impossibly distant on the final word.
You ran harder.
A neglected orchard stretched between the field and the barn, the trees planted in rows that had long since lost their discipline. Branches bowed beneath small apples while fallen fruit softened beneath your shoes. You slipped between the trunks, hoping the deeper shadows might hide you despite knowing Remmick didn’t need light to see.
A twig snapped behind you.
You ducked beneath a branch and turned sharply, but nobody followed. Another sound came from ahead, and Remmick was suddenly leaning against the next tree with his arms folded, the striped shirt bright between strips of shadow.
You stopped so abruptly your shoe crushed an apple beneath its heel.
“You said you’d follow.”
“I did.”
“You’re in front of me.”
“I’m very quick.”
His eyes remained blue, which somehow made his sudden appearance worse. He looked perfectly composed, without even the suggestion of exertion, while your breath came hard enough to hurt.
“You’re meant to give me a chance.”
“I gave you several.”
Remmick pushed away from the trunk.
You fled before he completed the first step.
His laughter followed you through the orchard. Damp leaves brushed your face, branches dragged lightly across your sleeves, and every few seconds you heard him somewhere different: a boot striking earth behind you, his breath beside your ear, the faint hum of the festival melody drifting between the trees. Once, cold fingers grazed the back of your neck before disappearing so quickly you almost convinced yourself it had been rain.
He was letting you run, not because he needed to tire you, but because he enjoyed the moment when your body began understanding what your mind already knew.
There was nowhere he couldn’t reach you.
By the time you reached the barn, your lungs burned. The doors stood partly open, leaving a narrow slice of black between them. You squeezed through and pressed your back against the timber, trying to silence your breathing.
Inside, moonlight leaked through holes in the roof. Old machinery crouched beneath canvas sheets, their shapes too suggestive of waiting bodies, while dried straw covered the floor and released a sweet, dusty smell beneath your shoes.
You listened.
A step sounded outside, followed by another, slow and unhurried. Remmick’s fingers curled around the edge of the door.
You bolted deeper into the barn as he entered, his pale shirt bright in the darkness. His eyes had turned red. His smile exposed a crowded row of short, sharpened fangs, his forked tongue flicking briefly over their points as something subtly inhuman sharpened every angle of his face.
“There you are.”
You darted around a support post.
He let you.
Remmick could’ve crossed the space before you took two steps, but he followed at walking pace, boots grinding straw into the dirt. His restraint felt more predatory than speed. He wanted you conscious of every second he chose not to catch you.
“Still hopeful?” he asked.
“Fuck you.”
“Eventually.”
You reached the rear door and shoved against it.
Locked.
Remmick stopped behind you, not touching yet. Your breath fogged the wood while his presence settled across your back, cold enough to raise gooseflesh despite the warmth beneath your skin.
“Caught,” he murmured.
You turned. The red in his eyes burned brighter at the scent of fear and arousal mingling between you, and his forked tongue flickered briefly across one fang before disappearing, an uncontrolled glimpse of what his careful human shape concealed.
“You cheated.”
“I waited.”
“You knew the door was locked.”
“I’ve been here before.”
Remmick reached for your wrist but paused before making contact. “Still playing?”
The question steadied you.
“Yes.”
His hand closed around you. The world shifted in a blur, your back striking the post without pain because Remmick absorbed the force with one arm while his other hand caught both your wrists above your head. Straw dust trembled through the moonlight as his mouth hovered beside your throat.
“You ran beautifully.”
“You barely chased me.”
“I was savouring it.”
He inhaled along the line of your neck, fangs grazing without breaking skin. A shiver moved through you, and his hold tightened in response.
“Did you know,” he asked, “that knots were sometimes carried until the courtship was answered?”
“I answered.”
“You did.”
His free hand moved to the token pinned over his heart. The little braid looked almost ridiculous against him now, crooked and homemade, but Remmick touched it with reverence.
“You asked me to keep it.”
“I did.”
“And invited me to hunt you.”
“Yes.”
“And when we reach the house?”
You looked past him toward the farmhouse. “You’ll need another invitation.”
Satisfaction flickered across his face. “Exactly.”
He released you, and the sudden freedom was almost disorienting. Remmick opened the barn door and gestured toward the house with courtly politeness, as though he hadn’t just held you helpless against a beam.
“After you.”
The farmhouse smelled of wet stone and old wood. You stepped onto the porch first, Remmick following until the threshold stopped him. He could cross oceans, break bone with one hand and enter another vampire’s thoughts across miles, yet an invisible line held him outside a ruined house whose owner had likely been dead for decades.
He stood beneath the sagging roof, red eyes returned to blue, one hand resting against the doorframe.
“Invite me in.”
The words raised another pulse of unease.
“You brought me here because you can’t enter.”
“I brought you because I wanted to hear you say it.”
Rain finally began, tapping softly against the porch and darkening his shirt at the shoulders. The festival lights glowed faintly beyond the field, too distant now to offer any real connection to the world you’d left.
Remmick extended his hand. “You know what I am.”
“Yes.”
“You know what an invitation means.”
“I know what it lets you do.”
His smile was gentle. “Then there’s no deception between us.”
That wasn’t entirely true, though you couldn’t yet say why. You placed your hand in his.
“Come inside, Remmick.”
The threshold released him. He entered with a small exhale, almost pleasure, and closed the door behind him. The bolt slid into place with a heavy scrape.
Candles waited throughout the front room.
Dozens of them.
Some stood in chipped saucers along the mantel, others clustered on the floor around a narrow table draped in linen. Dried grain hung from the rafters in carefully tied bundles, while braided straw cords lay coiled beside a silver bowl, their patterns far more intricate than the uneven knot pinned to his chest. A ring of grain surrounded the table, and several candles had been placed inside hollowed turnips whose crude faces grimaced from the corners.
You stared at the preparations, then back at him. “You couldn’t have come inside to do all this.”
“I didn’t.” Remmick’s smile barely shifted. “I arranged for a mortal pair of hands to prepare the room.”
“Who?”
“No one you need concern yourself with. The invitation was always meant to come from you.”
A colder understanding settled beneath your ribs. Someone had carried out every instruction, left the farmhouse and denied him entry, preserving this final part of the ritual for you alone.
“This wasn’t spontaneous.”
“No.”
“How long have you been planning it?”
Remmick pulled his wet cuffs from beneath his suspenders and rolled them with deliberate care. “Long enough.”
“You didn’t know I’d give you the knot.”
“I hoped you would.”
“And if I hadn’t?”
“Another night.”
The answer was too calm. You turned toward the locked door, not intending to leave so much as needing to see it. The rain-streaked window returned your own reflection and the candlelit room behind you, but there was no sign of Remmick in the glass.
“What exactly do you think I gave you?”
“A promise.”
“It was a courtship token.”
“Yes.”
“Not ownership.”
“Those distinctions are newer than either of us.”
“I’m considerably newer than both.”
His expression softened, almost indulgent. “You offered me a harvest bond over the heart, asked that I keep it, ran when I pursued you and invited me in.”
“Because we were playing.”
“Play has always been rehearsal for something true.”
The charm hadn’t left his face, but it had become a surface stretched over certainty.
“We agreed no turning,” you said.
“We did.”
“And this doesn’t change that.”
Remmick approached slowly. “You’re frightened.”
“I’m paying attention.”
“Good.”
He lifted one of the braided cords from the table and ran it through his fingers. “Then listen carefully. I won’t do anything here that you haven’t asked me to do before. You wanted the chase, the restraints and the chance to know what it felt like when I stopped pretending to be weaker than I am.”
“That isn’t what I’m asking.”
“No.” His gaze remained on yours. “It isn’t.”
“Tell me this ends when I say it ends.”
The silence lasted one second too long. Beneath the rain, you thought you heard the faintest thread of humming, a melody without any clear direction that seemed to emerge from the walls and Remmick’s closed mouth at once.
He offered you the cord.
“You may leave now.”
His body didn’t block the door, and the bolt was within your reach. He’d given you a genuine opening, or one convincing enough that your body couldn’t identify the difference.
Outside waited the wet field, the distant festival and hundreds of people who would never believe what he was. Inside waited the monster you loved, surrounded by evidence that he’d been preparing this long before you placed straw over his heart. You knew leaving wouldn’t destroy the ritual. He would simply wait until another night, because time had always favoured him.
You should’ve left.
Instead, you took the cord.
Remmick smiled with such quiet satisfaction that regret moved through you immediately. He raised your hand and kissed your fingertips.
“Sweet girl.”
Remmick took the cord from your hand and guided you through the ring of scattered grain toward the narrow table, his touch gentle enough to make the unease beneath your ribs feel unreasonable. Rain had gathered strength since you crossed the porch, drumming against the warped windowpanes and slipping through cracks in the farmhouse roof, while the air grew thick with the smell of old wood, damp grain and burning tallow. The silver bowl still waited on the linen beside a cluster of candles, its polished surface reflecting the flames as he helped you lie back, the rough fabric catching against your bare calves.
Remmick moved through the shadows with the quiet assurance of something that had already decided how the night would end. He lifted the tightly braided cord, uneven beneath his fingers and still smelling faintly of harvest dust, then looked down at you.
“Arms up, a stóirín.”
His voice was soft, almost gentle, the Irish lilt curling around the words like smoke. You obeyed, raising your wrists above your head, and he bound them together with the straw, pulling the knot snug enough to hold without letting the fibres bite too deeply. After checking the give with two fingers between the cord and your skin, he pressed a kiss to the inside of your palm.
“Tell me who you are tonight.”
“I’m yours tonight.”
The words came easily because they contained their own ending. Tonight. Nothing beyond the rain, the candles and the game you’d agreed to play.
Something flickered in his red eyes when you said it, a hunger that had nothing to do with blood. His smile exposed the short, sharpened points of his teeth as his forked tongue briefly swept across his lower lip.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Say it again.”
“I’m yours tonight.”
He hummed low in his chest, his cold fingers tracing down your arm and leaving gooseflesh in their wake. The gold chain at his open collar caught the candlelight when he leaned over you, drawing your attention to the uneven harvest knot pinned above his heart, still pale and freshly woven from where you’d tied it only hours ago. He treated the crooked little thing like a relic. Like a vow.
“You’ve no idea what that does to me, mo chroí, hearing you say it.” His hand followed the line of your side over the thin white shift before settling across your hip. “But you’ll learn.”
He eased the shift upward in one slow pull, the fabric whispering over your skin as the cold air found the warmth beneath it. A rough sound caught in his throat while his gaze travelled over you with the focus of someone committing each familiar detail to memory again.
“Sweet girl,” he said, his touch turning reverent. “You’ve been so good for me. You deserve a reward.”
His mouth found your throat first, cold lips pressing against the pulse that fluttered there, and you felt the faint scrape of his fangs. Not breaking skin. Just promising. His forked tongue traced the line of your jugular, the split tip flickering against your skin, and you shivered, your hips tilting up without permission. He noticed. Of course he noticed. He always noticed. "Eager, are we?" His hand slid down your belly, fingers dipping between your thighs, and he found you already slick. "Oh, a stóirín. Look at you. Soaked for me."
He didn't rush. He never rushed. His fingers parted you slowly, spreading your wetness, and the sound of it filled the quiet room—slick and obscene. He pressed one finger inside you, just one, and the stretch of it made you gasp. "That's it. Take it. Take me." He worked it deeper, curling against that spot he knew so well, and you felt your thighs begin to tremble. "So tight. You always feel like this for me, don't you?"
"Yes." The word came out breathless, broken. He added a second finger, and you cried out, your bound wrists straining against the straw. He shushed you, soft and soothing, even as he fucked you with his fingers, slow and deliberate. "Shh, shh. I've got you. You're doing so well." His thumb found your clit, pressing in tight circles, and your back arched off the linen. "That's my girl. Let me feel you."
His mouth never left your throat, his fangs grazing your skin as he worked you toward the edge. You could feel the heat building, coiling low in your belly, and you knew he could feel it too—your pulse hammering against his lips, the way your cunt clenched around his fingers. "Please," you gasped, not even sure what you were asking for. "Remmick, please—"
"Please what, mo chroí?" His fingers curled inside you, pressing hard against that spot, and your vision went white at the edges. "Tell me what you need."
"You. I need you. Inside me."
He pulled his fingers out slowly, deliberately, and brought them to his mouth. His forked tongue lapped at them, his red eyes never leaving yours, and the sight of it made your cunt clench around nothing. "Ask me nicely."
"Please." Your voice cracked. "Please, Remmick. I want you inside me. I want to feel you."
He smiled, and it was a predator's smile, all teeth and patience. "There's my good girl."
He unbuckled his pants and slipped his suspenders off his shoulder to let his trousers fall and free his cock, and you'd seen it before, but it still made your breath catch—thick and hard, the head flushed dark, already leaking. He positioned himself between your thighs, the blunt head pressing against your entrance, and he held there. Waiting. "Look at me." You did. His red eyes burned in the candlelight. "I'm yours tonight." He repeated your words back to you, and the weight of them made your skin prickle. "Remember that."
He pushed inside you in one slow, relentless thrust, and you felt every inch of him stretch you open. The sound he made—low and guttural, almost pained—sent a shudder through your whole body. "Fuck," he breathed, the word rough and foreign in his courtly mouth. "You feel like heaven, a stóirín. Like you were made for me."
He fucked you slow at first, deep, grinding against your clit with every thrust, and the pleasure built like a tide. The straw cord bit into your wrists as you tugged against it, not to escape—never to escape—but to anchor yourself. He noticed, and his hand came up to grip your bound wrists, pinning them above your head with an ease that made your stomach flip. He wasn't even trying. He was holding you down with one hand, and you couldn't move an inch. "Feel that?" His voice was low, almost amused. "Feel how easily I could keep you here? How easily I could take whatever I wanted?"
You nodded, breathless, and he rewarded you with a harder thrust, the slap of skin echoing off the damp walls. "That's right. But you don't need to worry about that, do you? You trust me." It wasn't a question. "Say it."
"I trust you."
"Again." He picked up the pace, fucking you harder, the table creaking beneath you.
"I trust you."
His fangs grazed your throat again, and you felt the faint sting—just a scratch, a barely-there break in the skin. He moaned at the taste, his hips stuttering, and his forked tongue lapped at the tiny wound. "So sweet," he murmured against your skin. "I could drink from you forever."
You were close. So close. The pleasure was winding tight, ready to snap, and he knew it. He slowed, just enough to make you whimper, and his hand slid down to where your bodies joined. His thumb found your clit, pressing hard, and he leaned in close, his voice a whisper against your ear. "Come for me, mo chroí. Let me feel you."
You shattered. Your cunt clenched around him, your whole body arching off the table, and he groaned, fucking you through it, chasing his own release. He came with a low, shuddering growl, his hips pressed deep, and you felt him spill inside you, hot and thick. He stayed there for a moment, breathing hard, his forehead pressed to yours, and then he pulled out slowly, the loss making you whimper.
He looked down at you—spent, trembling, the straw cords still loose around your wrists—and something in his expression shifted. Softened. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your lips, gentle and reverent.
“You did so well, a stóirín. So good for me.”
His thumb traced the small wound on your throat, and warm dizziness spread through you, your limbs growing heavier beneath his touch.
“Rest now,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”
Afterward, the candles had burned lower. Rain whispered against the windows while you lay wrapped in linen on the narrow table, wrists still loosely circled by the braided cords. Remmick stood beside you fully dressed again, save for the open collar of his shirt, cleaning blood from his fingers with a cloth.
Your blood.
The room felt distant around the edges. Feeding always left a pleasant heaviness behind, but this was deeper, almost narcotic. Every heartbeat arrived slowly, each one followed by a widening silence. The silver bowl sat beneath the table now, a dark smear marking its rim, though you couldn’t remember him placing it there.
“Too much,” you murmured.
Remmick looked down, his eyes red again.
“No,” he said. “Just enough.”
Fear cleared some of the haze. You tried to sit, but his hand settled against your sternum and returned you gently to the linen.
“What did you do?”
“What you asked.”
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“You asked me to keep what you gave.”
“The knot.”
“The promise.”
Your pulse stumbled beneath his palm.
“Remmick, stop.”
His expression softened with unbearable tenderness. “It’s already done, love.”
Cold spread through you that had nothing to do with his skin. You pulled against the cords, but they tightened at once, straw biting into your wrists as Remmick’s hand moved from your chest to your cheek.
“No turning,” you said, the words coming weakly. “You promised.”
“I promised I wouldn’t turn you tonight.”
“It’s still tonight.”
“Not for much longer.”
Understanding arrived with the faint paling of the window.
Dawn approached behind the storm clouds.
Remmick had measured every word.
“You knew.”
“I knew you were afraid.”
“I said no.”
“You said many things while death still had its hand around your throat.”
His thumb stroked the corner of your mouth. Somewhere beneath his voice, another tone moved, followed by another: a woman humming, a man laughing softly, dozens of breaths layered together until the room seemed full of invisible witnesses.
The hivemind.
You’d felt traces of it while he fed before, distant impressions leaking through his control, but never this close. Foreign memories pressed against the edges of your mind: hands on piano keys, bare feet on red earth, sunlight remembered with aching clarity, Remmick dancing beneath a moon that belonged to another century.
“No,” you whispered.
“We were lonely once too,” the voices said through him.
His mouth moved, but the words belonged to many.
“You told me it would still be me.”
“It will.”
“With all of you inside my head.”
“With all of us beside you.”
You tried to turn away. Remmick caught your face gently between both hands and leaned close, the bloodstained harvest knot still pinned over his heart.
“I have watched every person I loved become dust,” he said, his own voice briefly separate from the others. “I won’t watch it happen again because you mistake an ending for freedom.”
“That was my choice.”
“Mortality makes cowards of us. It teaches you to defend the blade because you were born with it already at your throat.”
The red in his eyes blurred as tears filled yours.
“You’re betraying me.”
Pain flickered across his face, real enough to make everything worse.
“No,” Remmick said. “I’m keeping you.”
His fangs entered your throat before the sun rose.
There was pain, then cold, then the strange sensation of falling inward rather than down. The farmhouse dissolved around you. Your final heartbeat thundered through the collective, heard and felt by every mind attached to his, a private death made communal before it had even finished.
Remmick held you through all of it. He murmured in Irish first, words too old and soft for you to understand, then shifted into promises you did.
No more fear.
No more endings.
No more waking to an empty place beside you.
The hivemind crowded closer as your heartbeat weakened, offering glimpses of fields buried beneath snow, cities rising where forests had once stood and faces loved across generations until their names blurred together. Their welcome pressed against you from every direction, warm and ravenous, trying to persuade you that surrender was the same thing as being held.
The last thing you felt as yourself was his thumb brushing the blood from your cheek.
When you opened your eyes again, dawn pressed silver against the curtained windows. You heard the rain, the mice moving beneath the floorboards, birds sheltering beneath the roof and the weakened pulse of a fox crossing the field outside. Far beyond the hedgerow, workers were dismantling the festival, canvas snapping in the wind while someone complained about the weather.
Beneath all of it came the hivemind: thoughts and songs, memories and appetites, strangers greeting you with a joy so intimate it felt obscene.
Your body no longer breathed.
Remmick sat beside the table, watching. His eyes were blue again, and the harvest knot remained pinned neatly to his suspenders, its uneven strands darkened with your blood.
Rage arrived before hunger.
You lunged at him.
Remmick caught you easily, gathering you against his chest while you clawed at his shirt and screamed every vicious thing you could find. The collective shuddered with your anger. Some recoiled, others welcomed it, and Remmick absorbed every blow without loosening his hold.
“There she is,” he murmured.
“I hate you.”
“I know.”
“You lied to me.”
“I know.”
“I’ll kill you.”
His mouth pressed to your temple. “You may try for as long as you like.”
You went still.
The terrible truth opened inside you: there would be time. Years, centuries, whole civilisations turning to dust while his mind remained woven through yours, impossible to escape without tearing yourself apart with him.
Remmick drew back enough to see your face. His expression held no triumph, only devotion stripped of every human restraint that might’ve made it merciful.
“You asked me to keep it, love.”
His fingers touched the bloodstained knot.
Beyond the curtains, the first light reached the farmhouse walls, trapping you inside with him until nightfall.
summary: after years of convincing yourself you've forgotten how to feel, one unexpected patient forces everything you've buried to the surface. at least jack abbot is there to weather the storm with you ⋆˚✿˖°
pairing: fem!resident reader x jack abbot
warnings: angst/comfort, idiots in love, discussions of burnout and apathy, emotionally distant reader, uses of pet names (sweetheart, baby, etc), daddy issues, medical inaccuracies, panic attacks, smut, MDNI 18+, happy ending ofc :)
word count: 5.8k
a/n: heyy this is my first fic ever yay!! please be kind and also give me feedback for future works! this is slightly based on the episode robby yells at samira for having a panic attack bc it would have been fantastic if jack showed up after. anyways, hope you all enjoy ♡
When you walked into the ER that morning for your shift, you didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.
The days were very much the same; traumas blending together and seeing death almost everyday for years has numbed you to the bone.
At some point, you stopped feeling any emotion at all. Even your happiest memories came and went quickly, like you dreamt of the feeling instead of actually experiencing it.
You can’t remember a time you felt anything, blaming only the Pitt for your desensitization would be half of the story. In truth, working at PTMC felt like the only thing keeping you going, while simultaneously holding you down. The cure and the disease, if you will.
Outside of the Pitt, you didn’t have much waiting for you besides sleep.
Robby was a tough boss, but he understood your drive to succeed. He pushed you harder than the other residents, but you wanted to be pushed. His comments should make you feel worthless, and stupid, but it’s nothing compared to what you’ve said to yourself after long shifts, so you never batted an eye.
The few times you hopped on the night shift for a double were the only times you let yourself breathe. Jack Abbot was a refreshing presence, even though his teaching methods got on your nerves a little bit. He was strange, but you didn’t mind it.
There was one night when you two had lost a patient in a particularly brutal way, a child drowning in the pool trying to rescue their barbie, and he started to finally put the pieces together. Your broken pieces.
“Hey, you okay?” He asked softly, putting his hand on the small of your back as you exited the family room.
You frowned
“Fine, why?”
You walked over to the board, looking for a new patient, and Jack followed closely behind you. He studied your expression, tilting his head in curiosity.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” You scoffed.
“Like what?”
He held his hands behind his back, and looked down at you.
“Like that!”
He smirked, like he often did when he messed with you, but something lingered in his eyes.
You couldn’t tell what, but it freaked you out that someone could look at you like that.
Look through you like that.
“I’m not doing anything sweetheart, just making sure you’re okay. That was a pretty brutal case—“
“Okay, let me stop you there.”
You sigh like it hurts to keep explaining your thoughts, which you often did to Jack.
He pried more than he should. More than an attending should care about a resident.
“I’m fine, Jack, really. The ED never rests, so neither should I, got it?”
You gesture to the board in front of you.
“As someone who has a pretty unhealthy way of handling my demons, I can officially say that your way is definitely worse.”
“Bye Dr. Abbot, I’ve got patients to see.”
You grumble as you turn away, not noticing the way Jack eyes your figure as you walk towards the waiting room.
‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹────────‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹
You shake off the sudden memory. Time to focus back on work.
But today was different.
As you made your way to the nurses station to greet Dana, she eyed you warily instead of the light smile she usually gave you.
“Hi Dana…everything okay?”
You tried to sound concerned, but it came out in the same monotonous voice you’ve always had.
“Fine hon.” She bit her cheek, preventing her from saying anymore.
It confused you, but you didn’t have the energy to psychoanalyze her behavior, so you simply nod and walk towards your locker.
On your way, you saw Robby through the window of trauma bay 2.
Sweat beads dripped down his forehead as the interns crowded around him shouting directions you can’t make out.
Santos spotted you watching. She looked down at the table, at the person they’re operating on, and looked back at you. Clearly distressed.
She nudged Dr. Robby, who shrugged her off initially. All the while you slowly moved towards the door, burdened by your curiosity.
Robby finally snapped his head up, making direct eye contact with you, and his eyes go wide. Like dana’s did just a moment ago.
You squinted your eyes through the window before anyone could block your view.
Your bag fell to the ground as you realized who is on the table.
It’s your dad.
Whom you haven’t seen in years, who you didn’t even know was here in Pittsburgh. Who you left behind and never spoke to again.
You rushed to open the door but Ahmad grabs you from behind, dragging you away as you yell.
Are you yelling? Is that your voice? You can’t tell, your ears are ringing too loudly and your heart is beating too quickly.
You struggle against his grip on your waist as he pulls you to Dana.
Was he just standing there waiting for you to show up? Did everyone know but you?
“Hey, hey hon it’s okay, it’s okay calm down.”
Her gentle voice only agitates you more.
“Why did no one tell me?” you whisper as your body slumps in defeat.
Ahmad lets you go, and Dana guides you to the break room to avoid the watching eyes of the ED.
As you sit down, Dana explains,
“He came in as a John Doe. We had no idea he was your father until he asked one of the interns about you. Robby made us promise not to say anything until he was stable. Didn’t want it to affect your work.”
You slowly look up at Dana, and she lowered her head. She clearly feels bad, but it didn’t matter.
Your indifferent expression locked back into place, like it never left.
“I understand. I was just surprised, that’s all. But yeah, it’s fine Dana.”
You look around the quiet break room.
At the same blue walls you’ve seen everyday since you started.
At the coffee machine which has gotten you through the worst shifts of your life.
The fridge where you gave your only yogurt cup to Myrna and you went 30 hours without any food.
That was you. The meticulous doctor who gives no fucks.
You’re not the type to panic over a deadbeat dad. You hope not, at least.
It was just you and him for a long time, back when you didn’t act like a sociopath, when you were a kid. You had a relatively happy childhood with him. You used to dance and make jokes, a lot. He even let you play make believe doctor, with him as your patient. You two were as thick as thieves.
Best friends.
Then you turned 15. You started talking back, feeling worthless, and hated yourself along with the world around you. He didn’t understand what happened. How his precious little girl changed seemingly overnight to a brooding asshole.
Screaming matches became a daily occurrence, and you slowly started to forget the way he used to be. The way you used to be.
Between the silent treatments, and the way he turned from Jekyll to Hyde in five seconds, you only felt one thing.
Resentment.
By 18, you shut yourself out completely. You hid yourself in your books and school work, waiting for the day you could disappear and never see him again. Your relationship was strained beyond repair, and you both forgot every happy memory you once shared.
You saved up money for medical school, and disappeared the day of your high school graduation. leaving him with nothing but a note saying,
Don’t look for me, don’t think about me, don’t feel bad for me.
Be happy you no longer have the burden of seeing me all the time.
- your daughter
Sure, it was dramatic, but it was the last time you felt the need to express anything other than your usual state of apathy.
But now, as you sit here, you actually try to cry. You try to feel something. Something you’ve buried long ago.
Fear. Sadness. Anger.
Anything.
But nothing comes.
Dana’s eyes search your face carefully, worry gluing her lips shut in a tight line.
None of the other doctors at PTMC paid much attention to you, they saw your calculated answers and quick response times, but not you.
Dana was always worried about you, even talking to Robby about your unfeeling gazes and cold responses.
You overheard one of their many conversations about you one day, but as usual, it didn’t faze you in the slightest.
“I’m worried about her Robby. It’s not normal and I-I’m afraid that—“
“Afraid that what? That she’s gonna kill herself or something?”
A beat passed.
You can only hear the sound of your heartbeat as you listen from behind the door to the locker room.
You knew it was wrong to eavesdrop but they were talking about you! What were you supposed to do, not listen?
“Well, yeah Robby! Is that what you want to hear? She sees all of this death, every single day, and she never cries. Never says anything. Never takes a minute to process. Don’t you think that’s a problem?”
“No actually, I don’t think it’s a problem. She’s dealing with it her own way, like the rest of us deal with this job. It takes a toll, sure, and if she wants to deal with it by herself then that’s her issue.”
Dana shakes her head, fingers pressed tight against her temples.
“You don’t care about her…you just care that she’s a good doctor. That she performs well. That girl is screaming for help on the inside, and you won’t even bat an eye.”
“Fuck…you really think that little of me, that I wouldn’t care if my resident was struggling. She has had plenty of opportunities to talk to a therapist on call, and it’s her job to seek help if she has a problem but again, I don’t think she does.
“She’s a great doctor… but her personal life is none of our business unless she wants to tell us herself.”
“Okay Robby. If that’s what you really think.”
She turns to walk out of the locker room and you shimmy your way back to the chaos of the ED, but not before hearing Dana whisper to robby.
“One day, It’ll be too late for her, and I want you to remember this conversation when it is.”
‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹────────‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹
Now, seeing Dana’s face, and her lingering hand on your arm, your heart tightens.
You never understood what Dana was talking about that day, but now you see it.
The way you talk like nothing matters.
The permanent frozen look on your face when another patient dies, and everyone is struggling to go back to work while you move onto the next patient like it’s a game.
How many years of your life have you been this dead?
For the first time, you see what others have seen and ignored. and it scares you.
Fear.
You welcome it into your system like an old friend.
You smiled slightly, but it felt foreign.
You clasp your hands in your lap and look straight at dana.
“I’m fine Dana, really. I just need a minute to myself…but can you—“
You struggle to get it out, not even sure if this is what you actually want, or what you should want.
“Can you let me know what happened to him? Please.” you whisper softly, every muscle in your body feeling tense, with a nasty feeling pooling in your stomach.
“Sure baby…he came in with a ruptured appendix. sepsis had already set in days ago, it’s…well, it’s a miracle he survived this long. he should have been dead a week ago, but the infection created an abscess, which blocked any sepsis shock that might have happened from spreading further. He’s getting it drained with Robby now.”
You let out a shaky breath, shocked at the layers of desensitization being peeled away the longer Dana looks at you with nothing but concern.
“Okay…okay.” You stand up and walk out, despite hearing dana mumble something behind you. You can’t make it out, the ringing in your ears is back.
You feel so weak, not even knowing how your unsteady legs are carrying you towards Robby at the other end of the ED.
You were used to feeling sunken in from not eating for hours on end, but this felt different. This exhaustion felt heavier.
Robby had his hands on either side of his stethoscope, zoning out, as you made your way to him.
He refocused when he saw you, like he was jolted out of a train of thought.
“Why aren’t you in triage? I asked Javadi to give you the rundown, where is she…”
“Where’s my dad, Robby?”
He eyed you cautiously, watching your expression for any sign of distress, but finding none. All of your fear was tucked away inside, where it was eating you alive.
A feeling you somehow reveled in and hated at the same time.
He rubbed his jaw and squinted down at you, not knowing how to proceed. Are you the physician? Or are you the family? Should he treat you like a victim or like a doctor. Judging by your face, he goes with the latter.
“Did Dana catch you up to speed”
“Yes, of course.”
“Did she tell you how severe his condition was?”
was…was?
“Yes.”
“Then that’s it. I’m the attending on the case, and those are the facts you need to know. Head over to triage, now please.”
He looks across the hall, hoping to have an unbothered run to the bathroom. You look up at him, your face twisting and morphing.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean” It leaves your lips before you could even process it.
He looks back at you, completely bewildered. He has never seen you angry, let alone cuss anyone out. And to your attending no less? Fuck that.
“What was that?”
“You heard me. That’s my father who is in critical condition. You don’t think I know what sepsis does inside someone for that long? He could die today, and you know it, so excuse me for wanting more information. I’m a fucking doctor, Robby, tell me what is happening upstairs.”
You heard gasps across the room, but you didn’t take your eyes off Robby, who was now fuming at this sudden flip in your emotions. It shocked you too, but you weren’t thinking clearly.
You may have disliked your dad enough to avoid him for years, but he was still your dad, and you didn’t appreciate Robby treating you like a goddamn robot. But I am a robot, aren’t I? You push the thought back into your brain.
As your mind catches up to your mouth, your heart starts racing, your palms sweaty and shaking at your sides. Your breathing starts getting heavier, like someone knocked all the oxygen out of your lungs. Am I dying?
“Wait a minute, is this a panic attack because of your daddy issues?”
“What, no?”
“Jesus, do you need to go home? You should go home?”
You stand there in complete shock, heart still pounding. His voice is laced with a condescending tone, one you were used to, but this time it stabs you through the heart and lodges deep in your soul.
“N-no I’m fine—“
“I dont need the fucking liability — go home.”
He turns to the crowd gathered in the ED, watching you get publicly humiliated by your attending.
“And the rest of you, the last time I checked, the ED is a shit show! So lets all get back to work, huh?”
You lift your hand to your cheek, lathering the wetness on the pads of your fingers. Were you crying? The first time since…you can’t remember when.
He walks away, like he didn’t just destroy your entire world.
He was your attending, your mentor. he wrote the recommendation letter that landed you a neuroscience fellowship. He taught you everything that made you such a great doctor. And now here he was, and here you are.
Standing in the middle of the ER like an idiot.
Your throat began to close up from sobs you were choking down, unbeknownst to yourself. You don’t even recognize the sound, so you didn’t know if it was coming from you. But it was.
And everyone was still staring at you now.
You rush to the elevator and slam on the button. You slump down at the elevator doors close, you wanted to be anywhere but home.
If you were alone at home, all the emotions you’ve been hiding for years would spill out all at once, and you didn’t know if you were ready for that.
The doors opened on the roof. A place jack showed you on your first week after a long shift. God, if he could see you right now…he wouldn’t even recognize you.
You ran out, clasping the railing as you struggled to breathe. You didn’t know why robby’s words affected you like this, they never did before, so why now?
You shrink down to the cool concrete and place your head in your hands. squeezing your eyes shut as if that would magically hide the horrors escaping from your mind.
It wasn’t just the way Robby spoke to you, it was also your dad. It was stupid, you two haven’t seen each other in so long, you thought that maybe any love for him dissolved with the rest of your heart.
But the way you’re heaving, and your lips and eyes are twitching uncontrollably from the shock suggest otherwise.
You didn’t know that those feelings don’t just leave, they hide until your ready to face them. You never stopped loving your dad, you just refused to believe that the feeling still existed after everything.
The way Robby spoke about him, like he was already gone despite being in surgery. And that he didn’t even have the decency to tell you about his condition. Like you weren’t worth it. It made you snap. You knew likelihood of survival was immensely low, but you didn’t feel the reality of it until Robby said that.
All it took was one word.
Was.
And you just…broke.
‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹────────‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹
You don’t know how long you sit there, rocking back and forth against the flimsy railing in a meager attempt to soothe your racing mind.
You stopped crying eventually, but your legs felt tingly, and your face was still puffy.
You liked feeling in control, and the sensation of your lips pulling inwards, and your eyelids twitching uncontrollably made you feel worse than you’ve ever felt.
You look up into the sky. The sun was setting already, that’s how long you’ve been up here. Drifting in and out of consciousness, a lingering effect of the multiple panic attacks you were sure you suffered today.
No one came up to check on you. Not even dana. She probably thought you went home. Or maybe Robby told them not to check on you, or more likely, you didn’t have anyone that cared enough to see if you were still here.
That thought sent you plummeting even further.
It wasn’t until you heard a click, and the sound of the door closing behind you, that you lifted your head up and tried your best to look unfazed.
That is, until you saw Jack Abbot walk towards you. He eyed you with a worried look on his face, probably seeing how close you were to the railing, and the way your shaking legs dangled off the side.
You wouldn’t actually kill yourself, but how the hell was he supposed to know? It’s not like you ever told anyone anything about yourself. You could jump off right now, and you were pretty sure there were a handful of people downstairs who would have shrugged it off.
He walked towards you slowly, like you were a skittish deer.
You bit your lip, and turned back around, facing the street below.
“Hey.” He said softly as he knelt down to sit next to you. he groaned slightly from the pressure on his prosthetic.
“Hi.” You bit back your tongue, knowing if you spoke more, you would break down in front of him. You weren’t quite ready to humiliate yourself in front of two attendings today.
“Dana told me what happened. Are you okay?”
“I’m okay for now, I think. It was worse earlier.” You shocked yourself with your honesty.
He shook his head, and ran a hand through his grey curls.
“He shouldn’t have said that to you. Treated you like that, ‘specially in front of everyone.”
“Who, Robby?”
He nodded, looking right at you with that gaze that warms your whole body in an instant. You missed it, missed him, shockingly.
“It’s not his fault. I cussed him out first. And…it’s not like I shouldn’t have expected it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you know me. I’m a robot. I see people die everyday, and—and I don’t feel anything. I just go back to work like nothing. So, Robby was just saying what everyone was thinking.”
“Bullshit. You’re not a robot.”
Your eyebrows furrowed together, with a small pout forming, and he smiled slightly at the expression.
“See. You have feelings. Emotions. You just don’t let everyone see them.”
“Just because you annoy the crap out of me doesn’t mean I feel things.” And despite yourself, you do smile a bit.
He nudges your shoulder and smirks, looking up at the stars that are now appearing.
You look over at him, really look, and you wonder how he stayed this positive after all these years. You may have bottled up your emotions long before working in this field, but being here sure didn’t help. it actually made it worse, you think.
“Jack…”
He looks back at you, still smiling.
“Yeah?”
“How…” you clear your throat, “You told me once that you have an unhealthy way of dealing with all of this. how do you…you know…deal?” You expectantly watch him. Opening up to someone for the first time in a long time is scary, you think.
He reached an arm over your shoulders and rubbed his hand along your arm. up and down. it sent shivers up your spine, but the sudden touch comforts you more than anything.
He takes a second to think,
“i’ve thought about ending it so many times up here.” he pauses to see your face, you simply look down at your hands, waiting for him to continue.
“No one is born mentally ready to handle the things we see everyday. This job…it wears you down. Everyone has their own way of coping with it. I became a field medic with the SWAT team; the more people you save, the more you remember why you do what you do, thats how you cope.”
You look back at him, and he’s smiling, like he always does. Even though he’s talking about how he wanted to kill himself, and how he still might want to considering he gets shot at for fun, he’s still smiling.
You reach your cold fingers up to his face, and run them along his jaw. his breath hitched, but you didn’t notice.
All you notice is the way the moonlight hits his grey stubble, and the freckles on his arms peaking through his scrubs, and even the way his other hand rubs against his prosthetic trying to soothe the ache.
“Why are you always so nice to me?” you whisper, your face leaning closer as you drop your hand back to your lap, too exhausted to keep it on his cheek no matter how much you want to.
He watches you closely, thinking of what to say, before he sighs and continues.
“Because I was you, and I wish someone would’ve helped me back then.” and because I like you, he wanted to say, but used all his restraint to swallow it back down.
“You’re a good doctor, you just need to realize you’re more than that. You’re also a good person.”
You shake your head. “I’m not a good person.” You say, barely above a whisper.
He moves his arm to your lower back, and begins running his fingers up and down your spine.
“Why? Why would you ever think that?” He whispers, it makes your face heat up.
“I haven’t spoken to my dad in years. I abandoned him because we both said stupid things, and I was a teenager. Even now as an adult, I still don’t have the courage to face him.”
“Look, I may not understand everything that happened between you two, but I do know you. And you aren’t bad, you’re just human.”
“Why are you so determined to see the good in me? I’m not…I feel so numb inside Jack, so empty.” Your head dips, but he catches your chin with his other hand, forcing you to look at him with watery eyes.
He wipes a lone tear that falls down your cheek, and you whimper at the touch.
“Hey, look at me baby.”
You do, seeing his hazel eyes clearly as they scan over your face.
“You aren’t empty. I can’t count the number of times i’ve seen you comfort little kids in triage, laughing with them, helping them. Or when you think no one is looking, you high five yourself after a successful procedure. Even the day you got that fellowship, you smiled so brightly, so excited to tell me about it. You are so bright. How could you ever think you’re nothing, when I see you so clearly. You’re beautiful.”
He leans in close, so close you can smell his cologne mixed with antiseptic. Your eyes flutter shut in response, and he gently presses his lips to yours.
Fuck it, he wants you so bad, it hurts to hear the way you talk about yourself. Like you need fixing. You were the one who fixed him.
It was just a small peck, but it unlocked something within you. More tears silently fell under your closed eyes, and you felt Jack kiss them away. You felt him press small kisses on your cheeks, while his hand cradled your cheek.
You leaned into the feeling, relishing in the warmth blooming all over your body.
But then he stopped. He pulled away from your face, waiting for you to say something, but you can’t. You both stare at each other in silence, breathing heavy. His hand still resting on your cheek, and your eyes darkened.
“There she is.” He mumbled.
“Who?”
“The strongest doctor I've ever met.”
You laugh softly. It was the smallest laugh, but it completely lit up your face. Jack runs a finger over a tiny dimple in your cheek, smiling to himself for letting it out of hiding.
You feel almost embarrassed that he sees you so clearly. You’re suddenly very aware of how red and puffy your eyes still are, and how your scrubs are covered in dry tears.
Jack doesn’t notice though, his eyes still staring at that beautiful smile you unburied just for him.
You bury your face in his shoulder, and Jack hugs you tight.
You’re so close, you can hear his heartbeat racing. He’s just as nervous as you are.
“Jesus Jack, don’t have a heart attack.” You smiled at the flushed look on his face.
“Didn’t say I was good at this.” Now you both laugh.
You start tracing the freckles on his arm absentmindedly, not even realizing how your touch makes Jack freeze under you.
You notice the way he’s now watching you touch him, and you pull away quickly,
“Sorry—“
Jack grabs your hand gently, keeping your hand on his arm.
“No, it’s fine.”
You paused, before grabbing his face with both hands, and gently pulling him down to your lips again.
The kiss deepened, with small whimpers leaving your mouth as he slipped his tongue in. he let out a groan as you tugged on his curls softly.
His hands roamed your body, pulling your legs into his lap. you wrapped your arms around his neck as you now straddled him, careful not to put too much pressure on his prosthetic.
His hands lifted your scrubs up slightly, gripping your hips. you whined at his callous hands moving your hips slowly back and forth.
He groaned into your mouth as you started rubbing on his hardening cock, his hands now lingering on the waistband of your scrubs as you grind back and forth on him.
“Baby wait,” he released your lips with a pop, and you whimpered at the loss of his warmth.
“We don’t have to. You’ve had a tough day—“ you cut him off with another steaming kiss.
You’ve had enough of pushing your emotions aside, you wanted to feel. More specifically, you wanted to feel Jack’s pulsing cock inside of you, but you weren’t that bold yet.
You pull back to whisper in his ear, “I need you jack, please don’t stop.” he groaned in response, hips moving up to grind against your core.
His hand slipped into your pants, rubbing your clit through the cloth of your panties. you gasped, head dizzying from the lack of oxygen you were getting with how suffocating each kiss was, and from how you were grinding into his hand.
“Fuck baby, you’re so wet.”
He thrust his hips up again, and you moaned into his mouth, grateful for the sound of the cars below drowning out your filthy noises.
“Want you inside me Jack, please,” you begged as he kept teasing your clit with small swipes of his hand.
“Be patient sweetheart, let me make you feel good” he began sucking and nipping at your neck, and you tipped your head back.
“You’re so beautiful, I’ve got you sweetheart.”
Pleasure slowly built up in your core, and you were sloppily grinding into Jack’s hand. You ran your hand down his chest until it hit the waistband of his scrubs, and he let out a grunt as you tugged on the strings.
“Please, please, please” you whined.
Jack grabbed your hand and pulled it away from his throbbing erection. It hurt him not to fuck you right here on this rooftop, but he knew you were in a vulnerable state, and you needed better for your first time together.
He wanted to make you feel good, he can wait to sink into you when he takes you to his place afterwards. He shivered at the thought of your tight pussy, of your mouth around his dick.
“Jesus, I told you to wait baby.” he stilled his fingers and you whimpered.
“Jack…” you breathlessly whispered.
“I’m not fucking you up here. You deserve better than a hospital rooftop, okay?” He brushed a hair out of your face as your glazed over eyes fluttered.
“Hmm.”
“That’s my girl, do you want me to touch you baby?”
“Yes, please Jack, touch me.”
He reached back into your dripping panties and pulled them to the side. He stuck one finger into your entrance while his thumb rubbed your clit, eliciting a series of moans from your mouth, which he silenced with a deep kiss.
As he slipped a second finger in, stretching you beyond belief, you were back to grinding on his fingers, gripping his shoulders with your nails, and moaning softly into his ear as he sucked on your neck.
“Fuck, you’re so tight, grinding all over my cock. Feels so good huh?”
“Yes, yes.”
His other hand roamed from your hip under your scrub top to your breast, kneading it and pinching your sensitive nipple with his fingers. You whined and bucked against his hand even harder.
“That’s it baby, come all over my fingers for me.”
The feeling was becoming too much, pleasure flooding your senses everywhere like electricity.
He pumped his finger in and out, with slick noises filling the air around you.
“Jack…I’m so close, god—“
He grunted into your mouth, pulling you in for another kiss, his tongue flicking past your lips, leaving you breathless.
“Yeah baby, it’s okay I’ve got you.”
With that, your body shakes, The feeling builds and builds until it finally explodes. You whimper loudly in his ear, his cock twitching in response.
He continues finger fucking you until your clit is a throbbing mess and your pantries are completely soaked. You have to beg him to stop rubbing your oversensitive clit as your thighs clench around his hand. You tremble in his arms as he pulls his hand out and caresses you through your high, with a hand on your hip to steady you and the other rubbing circles on your cheek and neck.
Your eyes open slightly as you sigh, you lazily smile as contentment fills you.
He chuckles and pulls you into a hug, your arms wrap around his neck and he runs his arm up and down your back.
You whisper, “You make me feel so happy Jack…so much that it hurts.”
“Feelings are a heavy burden, baby.”
‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹────────‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹
You two stay there a while, you laying back on his chest looking up at the stars as he hugs you from behind. Until his pager beeps. He reaches down to check, an annoyed look gracing his face, “looks like your father’s out of surgery. He’s in ICU. He’s in a lot of pain, but he’s stable.”
You look at him with wide eyes, and he grabs your hand gently, rubbing circles into the back of it with his calloused fingers.
“You don’t have to see him baby, we can just go back to my place.”
You smiled lightly, more emotions you’ve ever felt filling you up and sending shockwaves through you.
“Aren’t you supposed to be working? You can’t just abandon your nightcrawlers, Doctor Abbot.” He smiles and presses his head against your shoulder in defeat.
You caress his curls and kiss the top of his head. “I’ll make you a deal, you stay until the end of your shift, and I’ll wait here for you to finish.” His head lifts, intrigued by your proposition.
You continue in a smaller voice, “And I’ll let you do whatever you want to me when we get home, Dr. Abbot…” he kisses you passionately and you giggle, both of you smiling into it, and your teeth grazing each other as you sloppily kiss.
“And what will you do while I’m off saving lives, sweetheart?”
You smile, and for the first time in a while, you let yourself feel…everything.
“I think it’s time I paid my dad a visit, don’t you think?”
♡ reblogs are always appreciated and thank you all so much for reading! ♡
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jack abbot x reader | one-shot | writing masterlist | also on AO3
summary: Jack Abbot should be asleep after a long night shift. Instead, he’s alone in bed, missing you, scrolling through the photos you’ve sent him and waiting for you to finally come home.
notes: My first Jack Abbot fic!! I really just wanted to write about Jack Abbot being horny, tbh. Took a small break from writing about Pope Cody to give y’all this one-shot. Enjoy!! 🫶
warnings: 18+, MDNI, explicit masturbation smut, sexting and fantasy smut told from Jack’s POV, established relationship, age gap, attending/resident relationship, sexting, intimate photos, male masturbation, dirty talk, oral sex fantasies, vaginal sex fantasies, orgasm, creampie fantasy, pet names (sweetheart and baby), jack being very down bad for you, horny!Jack Abbot, porn with plot
word count: 2.5k
divider by: @/cursed-carmine
Please do not translate, repost, redistribute, or adapt this story on any platform without my explicit permission. Reblogs are welcome and encouraged!
almost home
Jack should’ve been asleep.
He’d left PTMC nearly an hour ago after Robby took over the trauma they’d worked through shift change. You’d stayed behind to finish the note, update the family and wait on a consultant who’d stopped answering at the exact point everyone needed him.
Twenty minutes, you’d told Jack.
He checked the time again.
Fifty-one had passed.
Jack lay against the pillows shirtless, wearing loose pyjama pants, his prosthetic resting beside the bed. He’d showered, set his alarm and done everything he usually did after nights. His body was tired enough for sleep. His head wasn’t interested.
Your side of the bed was empty.
It wasn’t really yours. This was still his apartment, though you stayed often enough for the distinction to matter less than it used to. A few of your things had found places there, and Jack liked having them around. Waking with your knee across his thigh and your hand tucked under his shirt had become familiar. So had your weight beside him after work, warm enough for his body to settle.
He reached across the mattress and rested his palm where your waist usually ended up. The sheets were cool. “Come home, baby,” he muttered.
His phone was charging on the nightstand. Jack unplugged it and opened your messages.
Your last text sat at the bottom of the thread.
you: twenty minutes. swear. 🙏
He’d reacted with a thumbs-down.
You hadn’t answered since.
jack: Still there?
The message delivered without a reply.
Jack leaned back and scrolled upward instead. Most of the thread was ordinary. Groceries. Shift changes. A photo of a takeout menu with three items circled and pick one before I lose the will to live written beneath it.
Farther back was a picture of you asleep on his couch in his black sweater. He’d taken it after trying twice to wake you for bed. Your cheek was pressed into the cushion, one sleeve pulled over your hand and your legs tucked under you.
You’d accused him the next morning of keeping evidence. He’d told you it was insurance.
The next photo was from dinner a few weeks ago. You sat across from him with your chin resting in your palm, looking over the rim of your wineglass. He remembered your foot pressed against his beneath the table and the way you’d caught him staring.
“What do you want?” you’d asked.
“Nothing.”
You hadn’t believed him.
He hadn’t been lying. He already had you. Your things mixed with his. Your voice in his apartment after years of coming home to silence and pretending he preferred it. Sometimes Jack still looked at you and couldn’t quite believe how easily you’d become part of his life.
Then came the photos meant only for him.
The first showed the hem of your dress lifted over your thighs. The next was taken in his shower, one hand covering your breast while water ran down your stomach. Another showed your thighs spread across his sheets with your underwear pulled aside.
Jack shifted against the pillows.
His cock had started thickening beneath his pants, though the wanting had begun before that. It had been there when he reached across the bed and found cold sheets. There when he saw the photo of you asleep in his sweater and remembered carrying you from the couch because you’d refused to wake properly.
He opened another photo.
You were kneeling between his thighs, looking up at him with your lips swollen and wet. Jack had taken the photo himself, one hand tangled in your hair while his thumb rested along your jaw. The lower half of his cock was visible beside your cheek.
He remembered the heat of your mouth. The slow drag of your tongue beneath him and the way your fingers tightened around the base of his cock when he pushed deeper. You’d watched his face while you took him, pleased whenever his control slipped enough for you to hear it.
His cock pressed harder against the fabric.
“Jesus, sweetheart.”
Jack lowered his phone and rubbed his palm over himself through his pants. The pressure helped for two slow strokes before it made the ache sharper.
His phone buzzed against his stomach.
you: still here 😭
Another message followed.
you: finishing my last note
jack: You said twenty minutes.
you: i was young and optimistic
jack: Come home.
The typing bubble appeared, disappeared and returned.
you: miss me? 😉
Jack looked at the photo still open on his screen.
jack: You know I do.
He sent the photo back to you.
Jack could picture you at the workstation with your phone held low beneath the desk, smiling down at his answer while pretending to finish your note.
The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.
you: dr. abbot…
jack: Still works.
Jack slipped his hand beneath his waistband. His fingers closed around his cock, fully hard now and already damp at the tip.
He stroked himself slowly, thumb spreading the moisture over the head before drawing down again. His eyes stayed on the photo. Your mouth near his cock. Your face turned up towards him. The trust in the way you knelt between his legs and let him hold your hair.
Your next message arrived with a picture.
Jack opened it.
You were in an empty call room, scrub top lifted enough to show your stomach and the lower edge of your bra. Your scrub pants were loosened, your hand visibly inside your underwear.
His grip tightened.
“Fuck.”
jack: Take another one.
you: greedy 😈
jack: Show me.
The next photo showed more. Your fingers disappeared beneath your underwear, wrist angled between your thighs. He could see the pressure of your hand against yourself beneath the fabric.
Jack pushed his pants lower over his hips. His cock rested thick against his stomach, flushed darker towards the head. He wrapped his hand around himself again and stroked slowly enough to feel each drag of his palm.
you: what are you doing?
Jack glanced down at his fist.
jack: Thinking about you.
you: what about me?
His hand moved from base to tip, firmer now. He could’ve given you something brief and made you wait until you came home. He was tired, hard and alone in a bed where he’d grown used to having you within reach.
He wanted you to know.
jack: Your legs around me.
He sent another before you replied.
jack: How you taste after I’ve already made you come.
His grip tightened at the head of his cock.
jack: How tight your pussy gets when I’m all the way inside you.
The typing bubble disappeared.
Jack closed his eyes and pictured you underneath him with your thighs spread around his hips, hands gripping his shoulders while he pushed inside you. He knew the first tight hold of your body around him and how you softened once he kissed you and gave you time to take him.
He knew how his cock looked inside you.
He’d watched himself draw back, wet from you, before pushing deep again until his hips pressed against yours. He’d held your thighs open and watched your pussy stretch around him. He knew the tight clench he felt whenever his thumb found your clit and how much stronger it became once you got close.
His phone buzzed.
you: I want you inside me when I get home
Jack read it twice.
His hips lifted into his hand.
jack: Yeah?
you: want you to fuck me until I’m screaming your name
jack: You will be.
Jack liked you loud.
He could hear it too easily. Your voice filling the bedroom while he fucked you harder, one hand braced beside your head and the other gripping your thigh. You’d beg him not to stop once he had you close. Your nails would drag over his back while your pussy squeezed his cock, trying to hold every inch.
you: promise? 😏
Jack slowed his hand. The thought of you reading his answer with your fingers still between your thighs made his cock pulse against his palm.
jack: Come home and find out, sweetheart.
you: tell me what you’d do
Jack let his head rest against the pillow. His control had already started to go. He could feel it in the uneven pull of his hand and the tension building low in his stomach.
The thought of getting his mouth on you made his cock throb in his fist.
Jack loved opening you with his thumbs and seeing how wet you’d already become for him. He’d drag his tongue slowly through your pussy first, tasting you before his lips closed around your clit.
“Fuck, baby…”
His hand tightened as he pictured sucking you gently, then harder when your hips started moving beneath him. You never stayed still for long. Your fingers would slide into his hair and your body would chase each pull of his mouth, hips lifting as he kept your clit between his lips.
He liked how quickly you stopped trying to control it. The small movements becoming needier, your pussy pressing against his mouth while he held your thighs open and took everything you gave him.
Jack would push his tongue inside you and feel your body tighten around it. You’d roll your hips against his face, chasing the pressure while your hand pulled at his hair.
He’d go back to your clit before you could say anything, sucking until your thighs trembled against his shoulders. Hearing you come for him made him harder, but tasting it got to him just as badly. The first rush against his tongue. Your hips pushing into his mouth. Your voice breaking around his name.
He’d keep licking you through it, slower once you became sensitive, until you tried to pull away.
Jack wanted inside you. He wanted the stretch of your pussy around his cock and the way you clenched when he fucked you deep.
He wanted his mouth on you just as badly. Your body open beneath him. Your hips moving against his tongue. Your taste still on his lips when he climbed over you.
He typed with his free hand.
jack: I’d put my mouth on you until you came.
you: jack…
jack: Then I’d make you come again on my cock.
Your reply came quickly.
you: i need you so bad
His mouth pulled faintly at one corner.
jack: Go finish your note.
you: you started this 😒
jack: And I’ll finish it when you get here.
He opened your photo again, his eyes returning to your hand inside your underwear. You were still at work, touching yourself because he’d asked what you were doing and refused to let the conversation stay innocent.
He imagined you walking into the bedroom already wet from everything he’d said, impatient and flushed from the drive. He’d get you onto your back before you finished telling him how badly you needed him.
His hand moved faster, the muscles in his stomach tightening as his hips began meeting his fist. He pictured your taste still on his tongue when he climbed over you and pushed inside.
His strokes grew rougher. He saw your face beneath him, lips parted while his cock filled you. He’d watch himself disappear into your pussy, then draw back slowly enough for both of you to feel it before driving deep again.
Your legs would be tight around his waist while he fucked you harder, your voice breaking every time he pushed deep. He imagined his thumb on your clit and the first hard clench of your pussy around him when you came, your body pulling him deeper while he kept moving through it.
Jack’s rhythm broke. “Fuck…”
He thought about coming inside you.
The first thick pulse filling you while he held himself deep. Another following as your pussy tightened around his cock. He’d stay buried inside you through the last of it, forehead pressed against yours while your hands held onto his shoulders.
Then he’d move again.
Slow, shallow thrusts while his come gathered around his cock. He’d watch it slip out whenever he pulled back, then push into you again while more ran down between your thighs.
His fist tightened as he imagined his cock coated in you and his come, disappearing inside you again while your thighs stayed open for him.
“Gonna fill you,” Jack muttered. His voice broke around the next curse. “Fuck… sweetheart.”
His hips drove into his fist as he came, the first streak spilling hot over his hand and stomach. Jack kept stroking himself through it, jaw tight while your name left him in a rough, low sound. Another pulse followed, then another, his cock twitching in his palm as his pace finally slowed.
He stayed against the pillows with his eyes closed, chest rising hard.
His phone buzzed near his hip.
you: leaving now 🥳
Jack looked down at the mess across his stomach and reached for the tissues on the nightstand. He cleaned himself, pulled his pants back over his hips and plugged his phone into the charger.
jack: Drive safe, baby.
You sent a heart.
He stared at it with his thumb hovering over the screen.
jack: Come straight to the bedroom when you get here.
you: thought you were going to sleep
jack: Changed my mind.
Your drive took twenty-three minutes when traffic was light.
Jack knew because he checked the time twice, then gave up pretending he wasn’t waiting. His body felt heavy from the shift, but every time he pictured you coming through the door in the same scrubs from the photo, his cock stirred again.
The front door opened, followed by your footsteps through the apartment. You appeared in the bedroom doorway with your bag over one shoulder, hair still pulled back from work. You looked exhausted until you found him awake against the pillows.
Your eyes moved over the messy sheets. “Thought you took care of yourself.”
Jack pulled the blankets back. “Come here.”
You dropped your bag near the door and climbed onto the mattress. He caught your waist before you could settle beside him and pulled you across his lap, kissing you hard enough to make you brace a hand against his chest.
You smiled against his mouth when you felt him hardening beneath you. “Already?”
His hand slipped beneath your top and closed around your breast through your bra. Your hips shifted over him, and Jack’s jaw tightened. “You touched yourself before you left,” he said.
“So did you.”
“Wasn’t the same.”
“No?”
Jack brought your mouth back to his, tongue pushing between your lips while he held you at the hip. When he broke the kiss, he kept you close enough for your mouth to brush his when you spoke.
“Spent half the wait thinking about my mouth on you,” he said.
“And the other half?”
“Fucking you.”
Your hand moved down and pressed over his cock through his pants. Jack groaned under his breath. Your fingers caught the hem of your top, but Jack stopped you and took hold of it himself. “Let me.”
He pulled it over your head, dropped it beside the bed and brought your mouth back to his. You smiled and kissed the corner of his mouth. “You really missed me.”
Jack ran his hand slowly over your side, palm settling at your waist where it belonged. “Sweetheart, you have no fucking idea.”
His eyes lowered to your pants as his fingers slipped beneath the waistband.
Robby has never been a fan of birthdays. This year, loneliness drives him to download Tinder on an impulse, only to come across the last person he expected to find there: his favorite resident.
warning/tags: minors DNI, p0rn with little plot, masturbating, sexting, pet names (sweetheart and good girl) robby loves talking you through it, unprotected piv, pussy eating, multiple orgasms, body hair, fingering, creampie, handjob, kinda softdom!robby, age gap (I imagined reader being in her 20s or 30s but could be in her 40s too, tried to keep it broad)
For those of you who read it the first or second time I uploaded it: during the days the fic was down, I expanded some scenes, added a bit more dialogue, and made it a little kinkier along the way. You might want to read it again for some extra content
He knew this was stupid, plainly a terrible idea. On any other day, the thought wouldn’t have even crossed his mind, but today wasn’t any ordinary day. Today was his birthday. Fifty-five years old, and he had never felt more lost in his own life. Nothing had turned out the way he’d once imagined it would. If someone had told him, back when he was a resident, that he would still be coming home to an empty apartment at this age, no wife curled up on the couch waiting for him with a tired but loving smile, no chorus of small feet thundering toward the door, shoving drawings into his hands and saying “Look what I made for you today, daddy!” he would have laughed in their face and called it a cruel joke.
Yet here he was. No relationship had ever survived the weight of the hours and the way his mind stayed trapped in the ED long after he left it. He couldn’t be present anymore, not the way a partner deserved. The job had hollowed him out in ways he hadn’t noticed until it was too late.
It had been almost a year since he ended things with Noelle, not long after he returned from his sabbatical. He’d told himself it was the right thing to do. Maybe it really was better this way. At this point in his life, trying again felt pointless, almost selfish. He was saving whatever good women were still out there from the inevitable complications of loving Michael Robinavitch.
But today the emptiness hit differently. The apartment felt quieter than usual, and his thoughts were louder, circling like a vulture. He knew it was the birthday doing this to him. Birthdays had a way of dragging the sorrows out into the light, every missed milestone, every abandoned version of the life he thought he’d have. Jack had tried to pull him out of it, offering a beer after shift, but Robby had politely declined. He wasn’t in the mood for forced cheer, for anyone raising a glass to another year of the same.
He’d made it clear to the whole department that he didn’t want any birthday cake, no cards, no presents, nothing. Still, the well-meaning murmurs had followed him all day: “Happy birthday, Dr. Robby,” each one met with a progressively wearier smile until the words blurred together. By the end of the shift, he was only managing quiet nods of acknowledgment, the kind that said thank you and please stop at the same time.
So here he was, in an apartment that was too big for himself, lying on a couch that felt even bigger, downloading Tinder on his phone. He rubbed a hand over his face, he’d tried Tinder once, maybe two years ago. Downloaded it, swiped for a week, then deleted it when the superficial nonsense started bothering him too much.
He started with the basics. Photos. Robby opened his gallery and scrolled slowly through the meager collection. Most of the images were work-related, grainy screenshots of charts, or blurry shots of trees and roads he’d taken during his bike rides. After a long hesitation, he picked a silly selfie he’d sent Jack a few weeks earlier. He was holding up the book the two of them had been texting about, half-smiling at the camera like he felt ridiculous even taking it. It wasn’t terrible, he supposed. He looked… friendly. Approachable, maybe.
Next, he chose one from the department barbecue he’d actually forced himself to attend last summer. He was wearing the sleeves rolled up on a button-down shirt, and holding a beer in his hand. He didn’t hate it, it showed a version of himself that still showed up for people, even when he didn’t feel like it. The last one was from the hospital fundraiser gala two years ago. He looked elegant in that photo in a black suit, but he had to crop Jack out of the frame, his face was still half-visible over his shoulder. Three photos, not exactly a compelling portfolio, but they were honest, he wasn’t pretending to be anyone other than himself.
He moved on to preferences. Gender: Women. Age range… His thumb froze. At first, he set it to 50–60. Women at the same stage he was, maybe divorced, maybe widowed, or just tired of feeling alone. But then something flickered in his chest, part curiosity and part desperation, and before he could talk himself out of it, he dragged the lower end down. Twenty to sixty. The wider net felt reckless, almost embarrassing. But what if the love of his life existed somewhere in that range? What if he missed her by something as stupid as a single year on a slider?
As if the love of your life was sitting on Tinder on a Sunday night, he thought. Don’t be fucking stupid, Robby.
He stared at the screen for a long moment, and with a quiet sigh that sounded too much like surrender, he tapped confirm. Now it was time for the bio. Robby stared at the blank field for a long minute. What the hell was he supposed to say? He wasn’t looking for anything specific. Company? Distraction? Someone who wouldn’t mind a man who came home at crazy hours, sometimes covered in blood and whocarried more baggage than he could carry?
He typed slowly what felt the most honest: “ER doctor in Pittsburgh. Love long bike rides to clear my head and 70s rock. Not entirely sure what I’m looking for here, but if you can handle sarcasm and odd hours, we might get along.”
He read it back. It sounded stiff, after all, he wasn’t used to this. But it was him, and so he hit save before he could overthink it more. The app prompted him to start swiping. Robby leaned back against the couch as the profiles began loading, smiling faces, pictures of holiday destinations, and bios full of lists of requirements. He swiped left on most without much thought.
Left. Left. Left. Some of the women seemed nice, but nothing pulled him in. He kept going until the endless scroll of faces started blurring together. No one stuck, just the same hollow feeling that had driven him to download the damn thing in the first place.
But then your profile appeared. Robby’s entire body froze. The photo loaded first: you, one of his own residents. You were standing in scrubs outside the Pitt with the same smirk you got after a particularly chaotic shift. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered as the heat crawled up his neck. Awkward didn’t even begin to cover what he was feeling right now.
At work you were talented and dedicated, but still green enough that he rode you hard during shifts. And here you were on Tinder, of all places. The thought that you, or anyone else from the department, might stumble across his profile made his stomach twist with embarrassment. He could already imagine the gossip: Dr. Robby on Tinder. How pathetic.
He should swipe left immediately, delete his profile, and pretend this never happened. Instead, curiosity won. Robby tapped on your profile, telling himself it was just… professional concern. Making sure you weren’t doing anything stupid. He cared about his residents. Yeah, that was it.
Your bio loaded beneath the main photo: “If you like girls who will force you to watch her Letterboxd top four and then talk your ear off for hours about the hidden meaning behind her favorite songs, then I’m your girl. Emergency med resident with zero free time. Not looking for anything serious, just fun, meeting people, seeing where it goes.”
Robby let out a chuckle despite himself, the sound was unexpected in the quiet of the moment. He had only ever seen you in the chaos of the ED, running on adrenaline and too little sleep. But this version of you felt… different. He found himself thinking about how little he actually knew you. How little he’d allowed himself to know.
He didn’t know where you were from, or what your family was like, whether you had siblings who called too often or parents you tried to make proud. He didn’t know what you did outside of the hospital besides the occasional beer in the park, or what made you laugh until your sides hurt. All those small and ordinary pieces of a life that existed outside the emergency department.
It felt strangely intimate, seeing you like this. Like stumbling across a part of you he wasn’t supposed to have access to. A version of you that wasn’t filtered through the hierarchy of resident and attending. Up until now, you had been “his resident”, contained within the professional boundaries he’d carefully maintained.
He started swiping through your photos. The second picture was you laughing in what looked like a group hike, with your hair windblown and your eyes bright. You looked undeniably pretty. Objectively, he’d always known you were attractive. The kind of natural attractiveness that turned heads in the hospital corridors even when you were exhausted and covered in sweat. But once again, he’d never thought about it. You were a resident, he’d gone down that path before, and it’d ended badly. That made you off-limits, end of story.
The third photo was of you in a cozy sweater, curled up with a book and a mug of coffee. It was cute, almost sweet. The kind of image that made the loneliness in his chest ache. He kept swiping until the last photo hit him like a defibrillator. You were on a beach somewhere sunny and sandy, wearing a bikini. Your skin was glowing under the sun, and you were smiling at the camera in a confident pose, the kind of effortless beauty that could stop any man cold. Holy fuck, your body barely contained by the fabric of the bikini, the photo capturing the gentle swell and the way the light played across your body.
Robby’s mouth went dry, the heat flooded his face and then lower down his body. He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t let himself imagine you like this, outside the hospital, undeniably a woman and not just one of his residents. His pulse kicked up, the nervousness made his hands shake and his grip slippery. He fumbled the phone, trying to swipe left fast. Swipe left, damn it, he thought.
But he accidentally jerked his thumb the wrong way, to the right, and the screen lit up with that unmistakable animation.
It’s a Match!
On the other side of Pittsburgh, you had been lying in bed, still trying to unwind after another brutal twelve-hour shift. Sleep felt miles away, so you’d given in to the guilty habit of late-night Tinder scrolling. Sure, swiping at 1 a.m. probably looked desperate to anyone else, but who cared? It wasn’t like you had much of a life outside the hospital anyway.
You swiped left with efficiency. Guy whose entire bio was just a link to his podcast. Left. Gym mirror selfies and nothing else. Left. Self-proclaimed “entrepreneur in the crypto market” with a Lamborghini in the background that probably wasn’t even his. Left.
How was it this difficult to find someone even remotely decent? You weren’t expecting to meet the love of your life in this digital dumpster, but was it really too much to ask for a man with basic social skills and a profile that didn’t scream immediate red flags? Someone whose opening line wasn’t just “u dtf?”
Guy who still clearly lived with his mom. Another left. “No feminists” in the bio, followed by a rant about “high value woman.” Left.
Then your thumb froze mid-swipe. Michael Robinavitch. Your heart slammed against your ribs. There he was, Dr. Robby, looking straight into the camera in one of the photos, that familiar half-smile you’d seen a thousand times in the ED, only now it was on a dating app.
You sat up straighter in bed, suddenly wide awake. What the hell was Dr. Robby doing on Tinder? You’d scrolled through this app for weeks and never seen him before. He must have created the profile recently. The man you’d been quietly (and not-so-quietly) thirsting over since your very first day of residency was right here. One match away.
How could you not like Robby? He was everything you’d ever wanted in a man, strong, steady, impossibly smart, and so damn capable it made your legs weak every single time he gave you a calm and yet authoritative instruction in the middle of a trauma.
You’d lost count of how many times he’d gently reprimanded you for being distracted while charting. He always assumed you were just tired from the long hours. He had no idea that you kept getting lost in vivid daydreams about him: running your fingers through the silver-flecked hair and that coarse, greyish beard, feeling those big hands wrap around your waist, pulling you close.
You loved the way his eyes crinkled warmly behind his glasses when he smiled, the way his voice dropped into that gravelly register when he needed to command attention in the ED… it did things to you. Dangerous, addictive things. Sometimes getting in trouble with him felt more exciting than it had any right to.
His Tinder bio was unexpectedly adorable. He looked a little lost, like he wasn’t entirely sure he belonged on the app but was willing to put himself out there anyway. That bike is not the only thing I’d like to ride, you thought, as a little smile tugged at your lips.
His pictures made you melt and sigh at the same time. That warm, contagious smil, the glasses that struck the perfect balance between hot and endearingly sweet. The silver threading through his beard that made you press your thighs together at the mere thought of feeling it against your skin, between your legs, specifically.
You swiped slowly through the rest of his photos. Those wide shoulders, that tall and solid frame, that soft belly under the button-down shirt… you wanted him in a way you had never wanted anyone before.
It was almost pathetic the way your heart did a little skip every time he complimented your work on a tough case. The way your thighs squeezed together almost involuntarily whenever he stepped in close during a complicated procedure, guiding you step by step, his voice low and patient near your ear. “Yeah, grab the blade like that… make a two-inch incision, softly, very gently.” “Hold the tube with your left hand, tight, don’t move it.”
It made your mind wander to dangerous places. Was he like that in bed too? The kind of man who talked you through it, calm and devastatingly attentive? In your fantasies, he absolutely was. Late at night, alone in this very bed with nothing but your hand and your imagination, you could almost hear his voice murmuring against your skin: “Keep your legs open for me, nice and wide… just like that.” “Look at you… already making such a mess. I’m gonna start with one finger, okay? Think you can be good and take it for me?”
Should you swipe right? It felt like the only logical choice. If he swiped left, which seemed like the most likely outcome, he would never even know you’d swiped on him. But if he did swipe right… then maybe, just maybe, you could end up in Robby’s bed.
Your hopes stayed low. Never in a million years did you actually expect Robby to be attracted to you the way you were to him. You would’ve noticed something by now, maybe in lingering stares, subtle flirting, or any shift in the way he treated you. But he didn’t. He treated you exactly like the rest of the residents: a young doctor he needed to teach, who could sometimes be frustratingly distracted.
Still, you couldn’t contain the tiny, thrilled scream that escaped your lips when the screen lit up:
It’s a Match!
Robby had matched with you. He wanted you too.
“Shit!” Robby dropped the phone onto the couch like it had burned him. It bounced once and landed face-up, the match confirmation still glowing on the screen. He and you had just matched on Tinder. All thanks to that goddamn bikini photo and his clumsy, nervous fingers.
He stared at it, feeling his heart hammering harder than it had during the worst trauma cases. This was mortifying. You’d seen his profile, you’d swiped right, and now you were going to see that he’d swiped right as well. Part of him, the tired and lonely part that had downloaded the app and widened the age range, wondered what you’d think.
A dozen what-ifs tumbled through his mind. What if you saw his profile and laughed? That disbelieving laugh when something genuinely surprised you. What if you messaged him first? Maybe it had been a mistake on your end too. Maybe your phone had slipped, or you’d been swiping too fast after a long shift, half-asleep and a little buzzed. Or maybe… maybe you’d swiped right on purpose, just to tease him. He could already picture the text popping up on his phone: “Oh my god, Dr. Robby. What are you doing on Tinder? lol.”
Robby ran both hands through his hair, exhaling sharply. He picked the phone back up, looking straight at the Send message button. He shouldn’t. The responsible thing would be to delete the app, pretend this night never happened, and go back to being your attending, not your Tinder match.
Instead, he opened your profile again. Robby tried to move past it, he really did, but his eyes lingered on that last photo far longer than they should have. You in a bikini, your skin glowing under warm sunlight. He couldn’t believe that was what you looked like underneath the baggy scrubs you wore every day in the ED.
It felt wrong. Like he wasn’t allowed to see you like this, like he was intruding on something deeply private, crossing a line that should never even be approached between an attending and his resident. Guilt twisted in his stomach, but it wasn’t enough to make him look away.
His body reacted anyway, a sudden heat stirring unwanted, a throb of arousal he hadn’t felt this sharply in longer than he cared to admit. He shifted uncomfortably on the couch, hating himself for it even as the reaction deepened. What the hell is wrong with you, Robby? he told himself, but the self-reproach did nothing to dull the pull. What could he do? You were a woman. A beautiful one, and for the first time, he was seeing you not just as his resident, but as someone undeniably, breathtakingly desirable.
Before he could delete his account and go to bed as he should, your message popped up.
You: hii :)
Robby’s breath hitched in his throat. For a split second, he swore his heart actually stopped. Then it slammed back into rhythm, pounding so hard he could feel it in his ears, in his temples, in the tightness of his chest. The little smiley face stared back at him from the screen, innocent and cheerful, as if it hadn’t just flipped his entire night upside down.
You had matched with him. At eleven at night. On his lonely fucking birthday. What the hell was he supposed to say to you at 11 pm. after accidentally matching with her on Tinder? “Hey, funny seeing you” here felt pathetic. “This is wildly inappropriate” felt like a lie because the rush of heat still lingering in his veins said otherwise.
He set the phone down on the coffee table for a moment, dragging a hand over his face for the millionth time. Part of him wanted to delete the match immediately, pretend it never happened, and go to bed like the responsible, professional attending he was supposed to be. But another part, the part that had been sitting alone on his fifty-fifth birthday, couldn’t bring itself to swipe left on this one unexpected connection. So he picked the phone back up and stared at the blinking cursor in the message box.
Another message came through a minute later.
You: robby? it’s me from work... guess you saw my profile too haha
Robby let out a long breath, he couldn’t avoid it now that you’d initiated a conversation with him. It was better to be direct, explain the mistake to you, and shut this down before it got any more awkward.
Robby: hey
yeah, I saw it
listen, this is embarrassing as hell, i was messing around with the app, dropped my phone and it must have swiped right by accident
sorry about that, didn’t mean to make things weird
He hit send and immediately regretted how cold it sounded, but it was the truth. The phone stayed quiet for a moment that stretched too long. He had his eyes fixed on the screen, waiting for your reply so he could shut down this awkward conversation and delete this stupid app before he accidentally matched with anyone else from work.
You: oh. so it was a mistake? damn, i thought you had swiped right on purpose. bummer.
Robby’s eyes widened. You were being direct, not beating around the bush or deflecting by saying it had been a mistake on your end as well. He could practically hear your voice saying it with a teasing edge.
Robby: Sorry about the confusion
i know it might be awkward finding me on here. probably the last person you expected, i don’t usually do this.
You: honestly it was surprising. didn’t peg you as the tinder type at all.
but hey, we all have our moments i guess
Robby: i’m not the type
this is my second time ever downloading it and i already regret it, should probably delete the whole thing before i make an even bigger fool of myself.
You: yeah i get it. i thought the match was mutual so i figured i’d say hi. sorry for texting if it was just an accident. didn’t mean to make it weirder
Robby read your message twice. Thought the match was mutual. The words echoed in his brain. You had swiped right on purpose, not as a joke, not out of morbid curiosity about your boss’s sad dating life. You had chosen him willingly. The realization of what that meant sent a confusing rush through him. You liked him, that had to be it. The thought of you… having a crush on him made a warm feeling run through his body, one he immediately tried to shove down.
Robby: What do you mean you thought it was mutual?
You: idk... i saw the notification and figured you wanted to match with me since it happened. that’s why i said hi right away. didn’t want to leave it hanging if we were both curious
He stared at the screen, his heart beating a little harder. You were so honest and blunt about your feelings, he found himself almost intimidated by it. Some rational part of his brain was trying to tell him this had to be a big joke, there was no way in hell you could like him. You were… you. What would you see in a man like him?
Robby: you wanted us to match? seriously?
You: lol yeah i did swipe right, didn’t i? your profile was actually really nice. the book pic is cute and the 70s rock mention made me smile. plus... i don’t know, you’re interesting. figured why not. no pressure though
Robby: i thought maybe you did it out of curiosity
or just to see if I’d swiped on you didn’t expect you to actually want that
You: well i did. but if it was an accident on your end then no big deal. we can pretend this never happened and go back to normal tomorrow. i won’t mention it at work or anything. promise
Robby let his head fall back against the couch, closing his eyes for a long moment as he exhaled heavily. He knew exactly what the responsible Chief of Emergency Medicine should do right now: unmatch immediately, delete his profile, and pretend the entire night had been nothing more than a lonely fever dream.
But tonight… tonight he didn’t want to be responsible. He didn’t want to be Dr. Robinavitch, the attending who had sacrificed nearly every personal connection, every version of a fuller life, on the altar of the ED. For once, he wanted to be Michael. Just Michael. The man who had matched with you on Tinder. The man who was currently staring at his phone with his heart hammering like he was twenty years younger.
Before he could piece together a polite but firm way to end the conversation and retreat back into the safety of professional distance, another message appeared.
You: i think your profile’s part of the reason i swiped right. the book pic’s really nice
He smiled faintly at that, a rare genuine twitch at the corner of his mouth. Robby leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees.
Robby: your profile’s pretty good too, better than most of the ones i’ve seen tonight
You: aww thanks. your’s so much better than the usual bullshit on here which is not that hard to be
but still finding you here is a nice change :)
Robby: you on this app a lot? seems like you’ve got the profile down
You: not really. i’ve been on a couple dates from here but it’s honestly exhausting. hard to find someone decent in this city. most guys are either looking for hookups with zero conversation or they’re boring as hell. you know how it is
Robby: fair enough.
your age range must be set pretty high if it pulled me up
fifty five isn’t exactly the usual crowd for you or is it?
You: haha yeah well
i like older men
Those four stupid words hit him square in the chest like a defibrillator. “I like older men.” Robby reread them slowly, feeling a dangerous warmth bloom low in his belly and spread outward through his chest. He was an older man, and apparently, that fit exactly into your preferences. Was that flirtation? Were you subtly implying that he was the kind of older man you liked? Or was it just a casual, throwaway comment, something you’d say to any guy on the app who happened to have a few gray hairs?
No. He was spiraling too deep, overthinking it the way he always did. Your words didn’t carry some hidden, special meaning meant just for him. They couldn’t. And yet… No matter how hard he tried to talk himself down, he couldn’t ignore the flicker of validation that lit up inside him. He felt desired, really desired. Not just by anyone, but by you: someone younger, and so strikingly pretty it almost hurt to look at your photos for too long. Someone who, in his mind, was clearly way out of his league.
Robby: It’s okay to have preferences
everyone does.
You: yeah exactly. i just find older guys more attractive than the ones my age. they’re usually more mature, know what they want, have actual life experience. it’s... hotter, i guess. plus the conversations are better
He swallowed hard, feeling his throat suddenly dry. He could practically see your face as you typed those words, maybe biting your lower lip in that teasing way you sometimes did right after nailing a difficult procedure.
Then the bikini photo from earlier flashed unbidden through his mind, and the heat in his body flared hotter. He pictured you exactly as you’d looked in that shot: sun-warmed skin, curves barely contained by the fabric. The thoughts he had no right to entertain came rushing in anyway, pulling him deeper. Thoughts of having you all to himself, of finally being able to run his hands slowly over every inch of that bare skin, tracing the line of your waist, sliding up your ribs, cupping the soft weight of your breasts. Of putting his mouth on you and every sensitive spot until you were trembling beneath him.
Robby: makes sense
i usually go for women closer to my stage of life
we have more in common that way
You: do age gaps bother you?
Robby: in what way?
You: like as a concept. are they a problem for you?
Robby: i’m okay with consenting adults doing what they want
as long as everyone’s on the same page it’s not my business.
You: have you ever been in an age gap relationship or anything like that?
Robby: i once dated a woman a bit younger than me
but usually around my age
He paused before sending the next part, he shouldn’t keep engaging in this deeply unprofessional conversation, but curiosity was getting the better of him. And you were simply so easy to talk to that he couldn’t stop himself from letting his walls down a little.
He typed before he could second-guess himself.
Robby: how much older are we talking anyway?
the men you usually like i mean.
Your reply came fast, like you’d been waiting with the phone in hand.
You: usually over fifty up until their sixties or so. around that range. but it’s just a preference, nothing crazy. i feel like older men usually treat you better. they’re more gentlemanly, know how to actually listen, and they tend to understand what a woman wants... in every way, if you know what i mean ;)
Robby read the message twice. Three times. Four. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Fuck me. You weren’t just being polite or making casual conversation. That winky face, the implication hanging there about “every way”. You were deliberately flirting with him, there was no other way to see it. He shifted on the couch, suddenly very aware of his own body and the fact that it had been a long damn time since anyone had spoken to him like that.
He took a slow breath and replied, trying to keep some semblance of control.
Robby: do you date men closer to your own age too?
or is it mostly the older crowd?
You: i have tried guys closer to my age. some of them are sweet but a lot are still figuring their shit out. you should try dating a woman younger than you sometime though. maybe it’s exactly what you need.
Robby didn’t know what to say. The words hung there, full of possibilities around them. He was still wrestling with a response when another message from you popped up.
You: anyway sorry again for the confusion earlier. i’ll leave you alone so you can keep scrolling through profiles. i’ll go back to robbing the graves haha (joke, get it? because i like older guys... sorry that was sooo bad)
Robby chuckled despite the whirlwind in his head. The joke was cheesy, so perfectly you that it cut through some of the tension. But it also gave him an out, you were offering to back off and let this weird moment fade into nothing before tomorrow’s shift made everything awkward as hell. Part of him wanted to take the exit ramp, wish you a good night, unmatch, delete the app, and pretend none of this happened. But another part, the one that had been sitting alone on his birthday didn’t want the conversation to end.
He tapped over to your photos again, almost against his will. There it was the last one. You on the beach in that bikini, with the perfect swell of your tits catching the sunlight. Holy fuck. He wanted you, the realization hit him all of a sudden, making him switch back to the chat and move his thumbs almost on autopilot.
Robby: Nothing to apologize for
honestly you’ve kept me better company tonight than I expected
You: see? younger women can be good company too :) you shouldn’t close the door so fast. you could meet someone nice if you give it a chance
Robby: you shouldn’t close the door on guys your own age either
there are decent ones out there, you’ll find someone who can keep up with you
You: out of all the guys i’ve matched with here... you’re easily the best one. no contest
Robby: Really? that can’t be right
you’re selling yourself short.
You: no i mean it. you’re exactly the kind of man i’d usually go for. tall, older, smart... and hot
The word hot hit him harder than it had any right to. His face flushed deeper, his clothes felt constricting, his pants uncomfortably tight. Robby’s cock was already half-hard, thickening and pulsing insistently against the zipper of his jeans with every new message.
All because you’d called him hot. Just a little cheeky, playful comment, and it was enough to unravel him. The touch starvation wasn’t helping. It had been so damn long since anyone had looked at him with real interest, longer still since he’d felt this fluttering feeling low in his stomach. This rush of ego, this sharp need to be close to someone, to be wanted, to touch and be touched.
Robby: thanks i guess
you’ll meet someone worth your time, you’re a good girl
The message was sent before he could fully reconsider the wording. The second it went through, Robby winced. It sounded weirdly sexually charged, maybe it was because he was feeling sexually charged, painfully so. A Freudian slip at its finest.
You: good girl? 😏
Robby: shit i didn’t mean it to sound weird
just a figure of speech i suppose.
You: should i call you daddy then? ;)
Robby nearly dropped the phone again. The winky face, the bold suggestion, the way it played so perfectly into the tension that had been building sent a bolt of pure want through him. He could imagine your voice saying it, teasingly so, with that mischievous glint in your eyes. His mind supplied far too many vivid images: you in nothing but your skin looking up at him, you saying it in person with a flirty smile. He was fully hard. Actually hard, just from a fucking text conversation.
The professional alarm bells were clanging loudly in the back of his head. This was his resident, the age gap, the power dynamic, the fact that you’d have to face each other at the Pitt in a few short hours... it was all wrong. But god, it felt good. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel quite so alone.
He glanced down at the obvious bulge in his sweatpants, his cock straining against the fabric like a flagpole. He couldn’t believe it. One flirty text from his resident and he was rock hard. Don’t get hard for your fucking resident, he thought. She’s one of your own. Off-limits. This is insane. He adjusted himself uncomfortably, trying to will it down through stubbornness, but the ache only sharpened.
You: too much? sorry i was just messing around lol
Robby exhaled and typed back, trying to sound more composed than he felt.
Robby: Don’t worry about it
i know it was a joke, no harm done
You: it was... unless you don’t want it to be a joke
He let out a surprised laugh, his cock twitched again at the follow-up, you were relentless, and something told him you were noewhere near done.
Robby: you’re funny, i’ll give you that.
You: that’s what i’ve been told. glad you’re having fun with me tonight
Robby: Well, I guess I should let you get some sleep
early shift tomorrow and all
You: i don’t mind staying up. i swiped right on you, remember? yk for a minute i really thought you were gonna flirt with me or maybe even ask me to come over to your place or something
The words hung there. You had been excited, you had hoped he would flirt. The image flashed through his mind, you showing up at his door in the middle of the night, stepping inside and… He shifted again, pressing his hand down against his insistent erection through his sweatpants, trying to get some relief even as guilt gnawed at him. This was crossing so many lines he’d promised himself he wouldn’t cross after Heather. But the loneliness that had driven him to download the app in the first place was quieter now, replaced by an electric tension.
Robby: that would be very inappropriate
i’m your boss and there are lines we can’t cross
You: but you’re not dr. robby my attending in here. you’re michael robinavitch, 55, the guy who loves 70s rock and long bike rides. and i’m not your resident in this chat. i’m just a girl who likes movies and older men... and who is really, really into you right now
You were separating the roles so cleanly, drawing a line between the hospital and this private space. It was tempting, dangerously tempting.
Robby: you know it doesn’t work like that
we can’t just turn it off when the shift starts tomorrow
You: nah i’m pretty sure i can
Robby: No.
You: If we really can’t meet then we can do it over text, you know.
He stared at the screen trying to guess if you really meant what you were saying.
Robby: what do you mean?
You: sexting, duh
He let out a short breath, Jesus fuck you were actually gonna kill him tonight.
Robby: that’s basically the same thing.
You: no it’s not. technically we’re not doing anything if it’s just messages. no one has to know.
Robby rubbed a hand over his jaw, his mind was screaming at him to shut this down, but his fingers were already moving. He couldn’t believe he was actually considering to do this.
This was a terrible idea. What difference did it really make whether it was real sex, his hands on you, feeling your heat around him, or just describing it in detail over text messages? A line was still a line. One he had promised himself he wouldn’t cross again. He didn’t want this to end with you giving up your residency, transferring to another hospital, another city, once things inevitably fell apart.
But fuck, his cock was achingly hard, straining against the front of his pants like a caged animal that desperately needed to be freed. The thought of you right now, maybe lying in your bed in, pressing your thighs together, that sweet slick already soaking through your panties because of him… it made it impossible to think straight. He couldn’t leave you like that, so wet, so needy, aching for him.
Robby: what do you want me to say?
You: i don’t know… just say something hot. you’re goot at being hot
He hesitated, he wasn’t sure of what to say. He was scared of seeming naive and old school to you, but he wasn’t used to this whole… sexting thing. The most spicy exchange over texts had been insinuating pictures before asking someone to come over. Okay think Robby, if you can save someone’s life under extreme preassure then you can sext with a woman, just say something typical, he thought
Robby: who’s been a naughty girl?
The second he hit send he regretted it. He winced, already typing another message to backtrack when your reply came through.
You: lmao that was the best you’ve got?
Robby groaned out loud, dropping his head back against the couch.
Robby: forget it. i’m going to bed
You: nooo wait. let’s try again :(
He should’ve put the phone down. He really should’ve. Instead he waited to see if you had anything else to say.
You: you’re so good at giving orders and guiding me at work. maybe you could do that now too? tell me what to do
You were right, in theory. He was good at instructing, guiding, teaching. It came naturally to him to step into that mentoring role, he had always been the one others looked to for direction.
Robby: i feel stupid doing this.
You: pleeeease. i’ve always thought you were the kind of guy who talks people through it in bed. it’s the same here, just write it instead of saying it. tell me how you want me to touch myself
Your words hit him hard. He reread the message twice. He had never consciously thought about it before, but yes… that did sound exactly like him. Fragments of memory surfaced unbidden: the commanding tone he’d used with past partners, the way he’d instructed them. “Open your legs for me.” “Turn around.” “Look at me.” He remembered the way their breathing would change, the way they’d tremble under the weight of his voice and his hands.
Robby: you really want me to talk you through it, sweetheart?
You: yessss that was so much better. keep going
If anyone had asked you how it happened, you honestly wouldn’t have been able to explain it. You weren’t even sure yourself. One moment you were typing a slightly embarrassed apology to Robby for matching with him and the next, the conversation had taken a turn and you were the one demanding he sext you so you could get off. It was bold, stupidly reckless, and yet it felt inevitable.
Robby: good girl that’s exactly what I wanted to hear, i want you to get those pretty legs spread nice and wide for me, can you do that?
You whimpered softly and obeyed him instantly, letting your knees fall farther apart on the mattress. The cool air hit your exposed pussy making you shiver.
You: yes. they’re open
Robby: Perfect
i’d be on my knees between them right now if I could
run your fingers up the inside of your thighs for me slowly, feel how soft they are
As you trailed your free hand up one thigh, you imagined his callused palms and the scratch of his greying beard following the same path.
You: doing it… feels so good thinking about your hands instead.
Robby: that’s my girl
now slide two fingers through your pussy and ell me how wet you are for me
You did exactly as he says, gasping as two fingers glided easily through your slick heat. You were soaked, embarrassingly so, the wet sounds filling the quiet bedroom as you stroked yourself.
You: So wet… i’m dripping. all because of you.
Robby: fuck i knew you would be
i want you to circle your clit for me now
Do it slowly and imagine it’s my tongue instead, licking you just the way you need
i’d take my time, taste every inch of you
Your mons got louder, tipping your head back against the pillows as your fingers obeyed, traxing circles around your clit that sent sparks up your spine. In your mind, it was Robby’s mouth devouring you while his strong hands pinned your thighs down.
Robby: how does that feel, sweetheart? tell me
You: so good, i’m so sensitive. keep talking please
Robby: Good
now slide one finger inside that tight pussy, nice and deep
curl it up just like I would, searching for that spot that makes your legs shake
i’d be watching your face the whole time, telling you how beautiful you look spread open for me, how good you are for listening
When you pushed a finger inside yourself, you curled it upward as instructed to hit that sensitive spot while your other hand kept working your clit in circles.
Robby: add another finger and stretch yourself open
i’d be so much thicker than your fingers, but we’ll start like this
imagine me pumping them in and out while i rub your clit
Adding a second finger, you continued fucking yourself to the rhythm of his words on the screen. It was not enough, it was nowhere near enough to calm the hunger and desperation that was threatening to consume your whole being. You knew nothing would be enough, only feeling him inside of you.
You: wish it was you inside me. can’t get off like this. i need you robby please
Robby: you were the one who told me to do this
You: i know i did. but it’s not enough
send me your address
He was tempted, so tempted that for one second his fingers almost started typing on an impulse. But the reality crashed back in immediately. The risks, the morning after, the way he’d have to look at you during rounds, knowing what you’d done. He was rock hard and aching for you, but the responsible part of him still refused to crumble completely.
Robby: what for?
you’re not seriously thinking about coming over right now, are you?
You: robby i’m literally only like 2 miles away from you. are you dtf? not as dr. robinavitch and his resident, but as two adults who casually matched on tinder tonight. there’s no title or hospital here. it’s just us.
Two miles. You were so close. He stared at your message, feeling his heart slamming against his ribs. His cock gave another insistent throb, the head already leaking a little against his underwear. The thought of you actually coming over, right now, in the middle of the night, made his mouth go dry.
Robby: Send me your address and I’ll order you a ride.
You sent your address a moment later. It really was only two miles away. He confirmed the ride, watching the estimated arrival time tick down. Fifteen minutes… only fifteen minutes until you’d be at his door.
You: this is exactly what i meant earlier about older guys. so much more gentlemanly. taking care of the details instead of just telling me to get there
You had no time to get ready, and honestly, you didn’t care. Makeup? Hair? None of that mattered when you were this desperate, this aching for him. You climbed out of bed still wearing the thin tank top and soft sleep shorts you’d worn to bed, and threw an oversized jacket over everything, one that swallowed most of your body and made you look far more put-together than you actually felt.
Your hands were shaking as you grabbed your keys and phone. The rideshare arrived sooner than you expected. The drive across the city felt both endless and far too short, but eventually the car pulled up outside his building.
You stood on the sidewalk for a second, staring up at the apartment complex, suddenly hit with the full weight of what you were doing, showing up at your attending’s door in the middle of the night, soaked and trembling with need, because a stupid Tinder match had spiraled completely out of control.
But you didn’t hesitate for long, you took a deep breath, pulled the jacket tighter around yourself, walked toward his door and knocked on it.
Robby opened it right away. He didn’t say a word, the second you were in reach, you had one of his strong hands cupping the back of your neck as he pulled you into a kiss. It was electric to say the least. His mouth claimed yours with a hunger that stole your breath. His beard was scraping deliciously against your skin as he moved his lips with experienced urgency. You melt into it instantly, fisting your hands in his shirt, tasting the pure, overwhelming taste of him. Finally. Here he was, kissing you like he’d been starving for it just as much as you had.
He kicked the door shut behind him without breaking the kiss, wrapping his other arm around your waist and pulling you flush against his taller frame. You felt the warmth of his hands roaming everywhere, gripping your hips, sliding up your sides, squeezing the curve of your ass through the fabric of your shorts. In your mouth, he groaned, making a vibrating sound that went through you as he explored every inch he could reach, like he was memorizing the feel of you.
Your breasts were the next to get his attention, he was cupping them with his big hands through your tank top, brushing his thumb over your already hard nipple, while he tangles his other hand in your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss.
You pulled back just enough to gasp against his lips, “It took you long enough.”
Robby chuckled, the sound coming out breathless. “Took you long enough. You have any idea what it’s like waiting twenty minutes for you with a hard-on?” He pressed you closer, letting you feel the thick and insistent bulge against your stomach.
As if they had a mind of their own, his hands couldn’t stop moving, squeezing, caressing, claiming, running down your back, over your thighs, everywhere he’d fantasized about touching. Before you could respond, he bent slightly and lifted you effortlessly. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively.
The strength in his arms, the way his broad chest felt against you, sent a fresh rush of heat between your legs. He carried you through the house with purposeful strides. The door to your room swung open and he layed you gently on the bed, climbing on top of you immediately until his full weight pressing you deliciously into the mattress.
The kissing resumed instantly, slower now but no less intense. Robby’s mouth was moving from your lips to your neck, sucking lightly and scratching you with his beard in the most perfect way. Now his hands got bolder, continuing their exploration but this time sliding under your tank top, pressing his palms against your bare skin. He lifted the fabric higher, exposing your breasts to the cool air of the room.
“Fuck,” Robby groaned, and maybe it was your mind playing tricks on you, but you could see his soft brown eyes turning darker as he stared down at you. “Look at you. These tits… so perfect. So fucking pretty.” His voice was rough with want, the same commanding tone. He cupped them reverently, as if they were something precious, circling your nipples until they pebbled tighter under his touch. “They’re made for my hands. For my mouth.”
He leaned down and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking it gently at first, then harder, swirling his tongue around the sensitive peak. The wet touch of his tongue made you arch into him with a moan, threading your fingers through his hair as he kept lavishing attention on your breasts.
From one side to the other, Robby switched sides, licking and sucking the other while his hand massaged the first, rolling the nipple between his fingers. The dual sensation, the tingly heat of his mouth and the firm squeeze of his callused hand, had you writhing beneath him, making you so wet you were soaking through your shorts.
The humming of his mouth against your skin sends sparks straight to your core. “So responsive,” he murmured, switching back to the first breast and sucking it harder than before. “These tits are going to ruin me. I could spend hours right here.” Sliding his free hand down your side, Robby gripped your hip possessively, continuing with the worshipping of your chest, licking broad stripes, sucking marks into the soft flesh, massaging and kneading until he had you panting and grinding up against the hard line of his cock through his pants.
The age difference between you only heightened everything, his experience was showing in every skilled touch, in every perfect flick of his tongue. He was being patient but hungry, like he’d been holding back for far too long. You could feel how hard he was, he was making you feel it, pressing insistently against your thigh. The knowledge that you did this to him made you even wetter.
Robby lifts his head briefly to lock his eyes on yours. His lips were swollen and his beard slightly damp with his saliva. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he said, but his hands never stopped, squeezing and caressing, teasing your sensitive nipples with his thumbs as he waited for your answer.
You shook your head, pulling him back down. You’d rather die than stop right now. “Don’t stop. Please.”
His mouth trailed a hot path down your sternum, over your stomach, scraping you teasinglywith his beard against your skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. His hands followed strong, sliding down your sides and gripping your hips as he settled between your spread thighs. The weight of him, the sheer size and presence of this man, made your core clench with anticipation.
“These shorts have been teasing me since you walked in,” he murmured with the same steady tone he used in the pitt, but now turned intimate and commanding. Robby hooked his fingers into the waistband and slowly peeled them down your legs, taking his time as he revealed more of you. “Lift your hips for me, sweetheart. Good girl.”
You obeyed instantly, lifting your hips so he could slide the fabric off completely, leaving you in just your thin panties and the tank top. Robby smoothed his hands up your thighs, spreading them wider with gentle but firm pressure. “Keep your legs open like that,” he instructed you. “Nice and wide for me. Don’t close them unless I tell you to.”
You were already moaning softly, and he wasn’t even touching your core yet. Robby dropped his eyes to the damp spot on your panties, making the fabric cling to your pussy lips, and he let out a groan of desire and hunger. He cupped you over the fabric with one hand, pressing his palm firmly against your heated pussy while his thumb found your clit through the material and began rubbing slow circles.
“Oh god,” you moaned, twitching up your hips into his touch, seeking more of the contact. The friction was simply perfect, it was teasing, and it kept building higher and higher. Robby’s callused thumb was applying just the right pressure on your swollen nub.
He watched your face intently through his hooded and lustful eyes as he worked you higher. “Feel good?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady even as his own breathing grew heavier. “You’re so wet already. Soaking through these panties for me. That’s it… rock against my hand, sweetheart. Show me how much you need this.”
Your moans only grew louder and more unrestrained, as he kept rubbing your clit with precision. The fabric added a delicious layer of friction, and every circle sent sparks shooting up your body. He got you gripping the sheets, your thighs already trembling as you fought the urge to close them around his hand.
Robby leaned down to kiss the inside of one thigh, scratching your skin deliciously. “You want my mouth? Want me to taste this pretty pussy? You gonna wrap these gorgeous legs around my neck while I do it?”
“Yes,” you gasped, nodding frantically. “Please, Robby. I need it.”
He hooked his fingers into your panties and tugged them down slowly, revealing your glistening, bare pussy to his hungry gaze. “Fuck… look at you. So wet and perfect.” He kissed along your inner thighs, taking his time, brushing his lips and beard against the sensitive skin as he worked his way closer. “Wrap them around me, sweetheart. Lock your ankles behind my head if you need to. I want to feel you holding me right where I belong.”
You did exactly as he said, wrapping your legs around his broad shoulders and pressing your heels into his upper back. The position left you completely open to him, vulnerable and exposed. Robby groaned, the sound vibrating against your core as he finally leaned in.
The first lick of his tongue was broad and slow, dragging from your entrance up to your puffy clit. The sensation was overwhelming, and it made you cry out loudly, threading your fingers into his greying hair as he began to devour you with the same intensity he brought to every procedure at work. He licked and sucked with precision, alternating between long and flat strokes to tight and quick circles around your clit.
His beard was scratching your inner thighs and outer lips in the most delicious way, adding a kind of texture that made your toes curl. “Robby… Oh fuck, that feels so good,” you moaned, rolling your hips against his mouth.
He hummed in response, pulling back with his lips glistening with your arousal just so he could speak to you. “Tell me how it feels, sweetheart. I want to hear it.”
“So good… your tongue—oh god, your mouth, Robby. It’s driving me crazy. Don’t stop, please.”
“You’re being so good for me,” he praised, diving back in to suck your clit into his mouth, flicking it rapidly while applying suction with his lips.
Before you could register it, he teased your entrance with two thick fingers, slowly sliding them inside you, letting your own greedy hole swallow them. Once he curled them upward to find that perfect spot, the sensation had you moaning loudly and arching off the bed.
Robby pumped his fingers steadily, matching the rhythm of his tongue with his digits. A few moments later, he stopped again briefly, looking up at you with lust-filled eyes and shiny lips. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this. Spread open for me, taking my fingers so well. This pussy is perfect, made for me. Keep moaning for me. Let me hear how much you love my mouth on you.”
You obeyed, your moans spilling freely as he returned to his task with renewed hunger. The pleasure built fast and faster, making your thighs tremble around his head and your feet dig into his back as you held him exactly where you needed him. Robby gripped your hip with his free hand, holding you steadily while he worked you closer and closer to the edge with expert skill. Every command, every praise, every flick of his tongue pushed you higher.
Robby didn’t relent, he kept his mouth latched onto your clit, sucking with rhythmic pressure, devouring you like a man starved. “Robby—oh fuck, yes!” The pleasure was overwhelming, every single nerve ending in your body was alight as he worked you higher.
“Keep those legs open for me, sweetheart,” he growled against your clit. “Don’t you dare close them. I want to feel you squeezing around my fingers while I eat this pretty pussy.” He added a third finger slowly, stretching you wider, the burn blending perfectly with the pleasure. “That’s it… take three for me. Feel how full you are? You’re doing so well. Such a good girl taking everything I give you.”
The wet sounds of his fingers plunging into your dripping pussy and his mouth sucking hungrily on your clit filled the air. You were soaking his beard, his chin, his wrist, but he didn’t care. Robby slid a hand under you, grabbing a firm handful of your ass and lifting your hips slightly off the bed. The new angle let him bury his face even deeper, working your clit with more precision while he fingerfucked you harder. “Just like that,” he praised you between licks. “Grind on my tongue, baby. Use my mouth. Show me how bad you need to come.”
You obeyed helplessly once again, rolling your hips and bucking them against him as the coil in your belly tightened unbearably. The pleasure built in powerful waves until your thighs started to shake violently around his head. Robby kept talking you through it, pushing you closer to the edge.
“You’re getting so close, aren’t you? I can feel this tight pussy clenching around my fingers. Come on, let go. Cum all over my tongue. I want to taste it. I want to feel you fall apart for me.”
The orgasm crashed over you with blinding intensity, making your back bow off the bed, a loud and broken cry tearing from your throat as your pussy spasmed hard around his digits. Your thighs were squeezing his head tightly, your heels digging into his back as wave after wave of pleasure ripped through you. Robby didn’t stop though, he kept sucking your clit through the peak, curling and thrusting his fingers to draw out every last shudder.
You came harder than you ever had. So hard that your vision went white for a moment as the pleasure bordered on overwhelming. Your moans turned into whimpers as the orgasm slowly ebbed, leaving you limp and gasping on the bed.
Robby finally eased back, gently lowering your hips and kissing softly along your inner thighs. He looked up at you with dark and satisfied eyes. “That’s my girl,” he murmured. “So beautiful when you cum for me.”
You lay there panting, your thighs were still twitching, completely wrecked and already aching for more of him. Robby climbed back up your body, kissing you deeply so you could taste yourself on his tongue. He was so close that his hard cock was pressing insistently against your thigh through his pants.
“That was… amazing,” you whisper with your voice hoarse from moaning. “So much better than I ever imagined.”
Robby chuckled softly, the sound warm and genuine against your neck as he pressed a kiss there. “Yeah? Better than your hand?” His eyes were sparkling with lust.
You laughed breathlessly, nodding. “So much better. Your mouth… God, Robby. I’ve never felt anything like that.”
He hummed in satisfaction, grinding his still-clothed erection slowly against your bare, sensitive pussy. The thick ridge of his cock was being pressed perfectly against your clit, giving him some much needed relief while teasing you both. “I loved doing that for you,” he murmured. “You were so good for me, sweetheart. So responsive, so wet. The way you moaned my name and squeezed my head with those pretty thighs… fuck, you have no idea what you do to me.”
Robby rolled his hips deliberately, the friction making you whimper and arch up into him. You could feel how achingly hard he was and how much he’d been holding back. You slid up your hands down his chest, feeling the soft flesh beneath his shirt.
“I want you,” you breathed, looking up at him with need. “Please, Robby.”
He stilled for a moment, as if to pulling himself together. “Tell me what you want. Be specific.”
You bit your lip, feeling the warmth invade your cheeks. “Your cock. I want you to fuck me. I need you inside me.”
Robby let out a groan, sitting back on his knees between your spread thighs. He reached for the waistband of his sweatpants, drawing out the anticipation. You sit up slightly, eager to help, moving your fingers to tug his pants down along with his underwear.
“I’ve been dying to see you,” you confessed as you pulled his pants down his hips. He caught your wrists before you could push his boxers down.
Robby looked almost nervous, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Wait… I, uh—” He cleared his throat, flicking his eyes away for a second. “I haven’t trimmed down there in a while. This whole night was… unexpected. I would’ve cleaned up if I’d known we were gonna end up here.”
He said it like it was something to be embarrassed about. Like it might actually make you want him less. It made you soft, you cupped his jaw, turning his face back to yours.
“Robby. Do you honestly think I give a damn about that? It’s just hair.”
He let out a self-conscious breath, still looking a little defensive. “I know. I know it’s just hair. It’s just… it’s probably a fucking jungle down there right now. You don’t have to— I mean, you don’t have to do anything if it’s too much.”
The way he was trying to give you an out was almost painfully endearing. You shook your head. “Just let me see you,” you whispered.
You slid his boxers down his thighs and freed his cock, it sprang out, thick and hard, the head flushed in a dark red with arousal. It was beautiful, so long, girthy, with a slight upward curve, prominent veins running along the shaft. Exactly like he’d warned, there was a thick, dark mat of coarse hair at the base, dense and untrimmed. He looked completely natural, it was so him, deeply masculine and unpolished.
A fresh rush of wetness slipped down your inner thighs. Your fingers twitched with the need to touch him there.
You looked up at him through your lashes “I love it,” you slowly carded your fingers through the thick hair at the base of his member. “You look so fucking hot like this. I like every single inch of you.”
Robby’s whole body shivered under your touch. “God…” he rasped as he stared down at you. “You’re gonna kill me tonight.”
Almost with instinct, you wrapped your hand around it, stroking the shaft slowly from base to tip, feeling the heat and weight of his member.
Robby hissed in pleasure, twitching his hips forward into your grip as he watched your hand move up and down his cock. “Fuck, your hand feels good,” he groaned, letting you stroke him for a while, savoring the sight of your smaller hand working his thick length, making a bead of precum leak from the tip.
After a few moments, he gently stopped you, wrapping his fingers around your wrist. “Lay back down for me, sweetheart. Keep those legs open nice and wide. Just like before.”
You obeyed, lying back against the pillows and spreading your thighs for him. Robby reached over toward the nightstand, stretching one arm past you as he pulled open the top drawer. He rummaged through it for a few seconds, before his hand closed around what he was looking for.
A moment later he sat back, a condom held between his fingers. He held it up, searching for your eyes with his. “I’ve got this if you want me to wear it.”
You shook your head, reaching up to touch his arm. “No. I want you bare. I’m on the pill.”
You both knew it might not have been the smartest option, doing it raw, with nothing between you. But there was a deep, unspoken trust between the two of you, forged through long shifts, that made you feel safe. And in that moment, that trust felt solid enough to lean on.
The hunger that had taken over both of you made anything else almost unbearable. The need to feel each other completely bare, skin on skin, heat on heat, with nothing separating you, was overwhelming.
“Fuck, you’re gonna kill me.” He tossed the condom aside, leaning down to kiss you deeply again. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” you whispered against his lips. “I want to feel all of you.”
He groaned, positioning himself between your legs and nudging the thick head of his cock against your slick entrance. The anticipation felt electric, this was the culmination of over a year of longing, of hours of texts, and now all that was left was this desperate connection. Robby gripped your thighs, spreading you wider as he looked down at you with hunger.
The night is only beginning, and the way he’s looking at you promises he’s going to take his time ruining you in the best possible way.
As his cockhead was being rubbed up and down your folds, teasing your clit with every pass, coating itself with your juices, the sensation felt maddening, promising everything you’d fantasized about for so long. You whimpered, twitching your hips up instinctively to chase more contact.
“Eyes on me, sweetheart,” Robby commanded you softly, the same authoritative tone that had guided you through countless procedures was now guiding you through this. He cupped your chin gently, tilting your face so your gazes locked. “Keep looking at me the whole time. I want to see you while I fuck you.”
You nodded shakily, unable to look away even if you wanted to. Robby continued rubbing the head of his cock against your entrance, coating himself in your wetness, drawing out the anticipation until you were squirming beneath him.
“That’s it,” he whispered against your mouth. “So wet for me already. This pussy is going to take me so well. Breathe for me, relax and let me in.” He pressed forward slowly, breaching your entrance with only the tip. The stretch was immediate and intense, opening you up inch by inch as he sank deeper. Your mouth fell open in a silent moan, but you forced your eyes open, locking them on his as he watched every flicker of pleasure cross your face.
“Easy, baby,” he cooed, stroking your thigh soothingly while the other braced beside your head. “You’re doing so good. Feel how you’re stretching around me? So tight and warm… fuck, you feel incredible.”
You moaned loudly as he continued sliding in, the deliberate thrust filling you completely until he was buried to the hilt, until his hips were flushed against yours. The fullness was overwhelming, his thick cock stretching your walls like nobody had stretched you before, pressing against every sensitive spot inside you.
Robby stayed still for a moment buried deep, resting his forehead against yours as he looked straight into your eyes. “There you go. All the way in. You took every inch.” He started to thrust with deep rolls of his hips that drag his cock along your walls with exquisite friction. “Wrap your legs around me. Hold me close while I fuck you.”
You did as he said, locking your legs around his waist and digging your heels into his lower back. The new angle let him sink even deeper, and you cried out in pleasure, digging your nails into his shoulders. Robby kept talking you through it, just like he knew you liked.
“That’s my girl. Feel that? I’m hitting that spot inside you, huh?” He angled his hips slightly, grinding deep on every stroke. Robby slid one hand up to cup and squeeze your breast, rolling your nipple as he thrusted harder.
Robby moved his hand from your breast to cup your chin. His grip was gentle enough not to hurt, yet firm enough that you felt every one of his fingers pressing against the bones of your jaw. “Look at me. Don’t look away. I want to see how good my cock feels inside this tight pussy.” He tilted your face up and held it there, leaving you no choice but to meet his eyes.
And God… what a glorious sight he was. This handsome man, with his face flushed, his brow glistening with sweat, devouring you with his gaze as he kept driving his cock into you.
His face was only inches from yours, and he kept fucking you in long strokes while he held your chin like that, as if he were starving for every single expression that crossed your face. He loved watching the way pleasure wrecked you. The way your lips parted around helpless moans, the way you bit down on your lower lip only for it to slip free again with a broken sound. The way your eyes went glassy and pleading, silently begging him for more even as your body trembled around his cock. He drank it all in like a man who had been thirsty for years.
With his free hand, he gripped your waist, holding you in place so he could drive into you with more power. Every slide of his cock stretched you perfectly, dragging the fat tip along your g-spot like that was what it was made for.
“Robby—oh god, yes!” You moaned loudly, raising your hips to meet his thrust and tightening your legs around him. Your tits were bouncing with every powerful stroke, and he leaned down to suck one nipple into his mouth again, flicking his tongue as he continued fucking you.
“You feel so good,” he groaned against your skin, switching to the other breast. “So tight and wet around me. This pussy was made for my cock, wasn’t it? Taking me so deep.” His hand on your waist slid down to grip your ass, lifting your hips slightly to change the angle as he thrusted harder. “Lift your legs higher for me, sweetheart,” he said against your neck,kissing and nipping the sensitive skin there. Ronny held the back of your thigh, helping guide your leg up. “That’s it… over my shoulder. Let me get deeper.”
You whimpered as he assisted you, hooking your leg over his shoulder. He did the same with the other, folding you nearly in half beneath him. The new angle allowed him to sink impossibly deeper, until he was pressing the head firmly against that perfect spot inside you with every thrust, grinding against your g-spot relentlessly.
“Fuck—Robby, it’s so deep like this,” you moaned, fluttering your eyes shut for just a moment as the intense sensation washed over you.
“Ah-ah-ah,” he chided gently but firmly, cupping your jaw with his hand to tilt your face back to his. “Eyes on me, sweetheart. Keep them open. I want to watch you while I fuck you like this. Don’t look away.”
You forced your eyes open, locking onto his hungry gaze as he continued hammering into you. The eye contact made everything more intimate and overwhelming. The feeling of his hand leavinf your jaw and sliding down between your bodies made you shiver. Robby found your swollen clit and began rubbing tight circles in time with his thrusts.
The combined stimulation was devastating. The pleasure was burning higher in your core, so close to finally exploding. Your body was arching and squirming beneath his frame as you scratched down his back and trembled over his shoulders. Every thrust, every rub of his fingers on your clit, every moan and grunt that escaped his mouth pushed you closer to the edge.
“That’s it,” Robby groaned, never removing his sight from yours. “Look at you taking my cock so deep. You’re getting close again, aren’t you? I can feel it. Cum for me, baby. Let me feel you cum all over my cock. Keep your eyes on me when you do.”
You bowed your back off the bed as your climax took over your body. A loud cry tore from your throat as your pussy clenched rhythmically around his length. Your thighs shook violently over his shoulders and you dug your nails harder into his back when the waves of pleasure crashed through you. Robby sekpt thrusting through it, drawing out your orgasm with deep strokes and continued pressure on your clit.
“You look so beautiful when you cum for me… that’s it, sweetheart. Give it all to me. You’re being so good.”
By the time he finally slowed and gently pulled out of you, you were still trembling and gasping. Robby layed back on the bed beside you, with his cock hard and glistening with your release. “Come here, baby,” he said. “Get on top. I want to watch you ride me.”
He helped you shift positions, gripping your hips firmly to guide you as you straddled him. “Easy, sweetheart. Take your time… that’s it. Feel me right there? Let me watch you take every inch.”
You positioned the head at your slick entrance and began to sink down, inch by inch. The stretch was intense all over again, his girth opening you up as you lowered yourself onto him. Robby kept his hands still on your hips to steady you, stroking your skin soothingly while watching every expression on your face.
“Fuck, look at that,” he groaned. “You’re doing so well. Keep going… take a little more. Feel how full you are?”
Louder moans left your mouth as you sank lower, the fullness was overwhelming in the best way. Bracing your hands on his broad chest for balance, you finally took him to the hilt, resting your ass against his thighs. Robby squeezed your hips encouragingly. “Ride me. Roll your hips like that… yes, just like that.”
Whn you started moving, rolling, and grinding your hips in a steady rhythm, the pleasure built quickly. His cock was dragging along your walls as you found a rhythm that made your tits bounce and your clit grind against his pelvis.
Robby kept moving his eyes are everywhere, watching where your pussy stretched around his shaft, sliding up to your bouncing breasts, then locking onto your face. He reaches up with both hands, cupping your tits and rolling your nipples as you ride him.
“You’re so fucking beautiful. You’re doing so well, sweetheart. Keep going… faster if you want. Take what you need from me.”
Without a word, you grabbed the hem of his shirt and tugged it upward. He sat up just enough to help you pull it off, and the second the fabric cleared his head, your hands were on him.
God, you loved his body. Your moved your palm slowly over his chest, feeling the coarse hair and the thud of his heart beneath your fingertips. You dragged your hands lower, mapping the soft, rounded curve of his belly with desire. It turned you on more than any gym-honed torso ever could. As you pressed your palms into the softness, your fingers dag in gently. Then you smoothed your hands over it again and again, savoring the way it yielded under your touch.
You were mumbling praises and moans between gasps, completely lost in the sensation. “Robby… you feel so good… so deep… fuck, I love your cock inside me…”
At one point, Robby planted his feet firmly on the bed, bent his knees, and started thrusting up to meet you. The change felt devastating, he was now fucking you from below with powerful strokes that made you cry out loudly as he droveinto you.
The slap of skin on skin grew louder when the slamming into you intensified. “Fuck—Robby!” you moaned, letting your head fall back as the pleasure overwhelmed you.
“Eyes on me if you can, sweetheart,” he growled, moving his fingers down to rub your clit again. “I’m getting close. You feel too good. You’re gonna make me cum.”
You were a moaning and squirming mess on top of him, riding and grinding as he thrusted up harder. His fingers on your clit and his cock hitting deep pushed you toward another peak, but it was his impending orgasm that had you focused on him.
“I’m gonna cum,” he groaned, snapping his hips up faster. “Fuck—can I cum inside you? Please, I want to fill you up.”
“Yes,” you gasped, riding him desperately. “Cum inside me, Robby. I want it. Fill me up. Please—”
With a deep groan, Robby thrusted up hard one last time and came, pulsing nside you, flooding your pussy with thick and warm ropes of cum. He held you down on him, gripping your hips tightly as he emptied himself completely. The feeling of him cumming inside you, fully claiming you, triggered your own smaller orgasm, making your walls clench rhythmically around his pulsing cock.
You both stayed locked together, panting. Robby stroked your back and thighs as you came down from the high befor pulling you down against his chest, kissing your forehead, keeping his cock still buried deep inside you as his release slowly leaked out around him, so much that you could feel the hot nd sticky evidence of his climax.
There were no more walls, just the two of you, finally giving in to everything you’ve both wanted and repressed for so long. You stayed draped on top of Robby for a long stretch of time, both of you catching your breath as the intensity slowly ebbed. Eventually, you lifted your head and looked at him. “That was… amazing. I wouldn’t even have dreamed that it’d be that good.”
He hummed in agreement, continuing his soothing path along your back. “It was. Better than I let myself imagine. You felt perfect.”
The praise made a warm feeling bloom in your chest. After a few more quiet moments, Robby gently helped you sit up, easing you off his cock with a shared sigh. You both winced slightly at the loss of connection and the feeling of emptiness, but he pulled you down beside him on the bed, wrapping his arms around you again as you cuddled into his side.
“So… you don’t regret it, do you?”
He met your eyes as a small smile began tugging at his lips beneath the beard. “Right now? I can’t regret having amazing sex with you. My mind is still somewhere up in the clouds.” He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “I don’t know what will happen tomorrow when reality hits, but tonight… no regrets.”
You nestled closer, throwing one leg over his. The cuddling felt easy, natural, like you’d been doing this for years. For tonight, the outside world, the hospital, the guilt, the what ifs didn’t exist. There was only the two of you, and Robby might be right about reality hitting tomorrow, but right now, in the darkness of his room, everything felt right.
A/N: Two attempts at posting this fic, and two times Tumblr’s stupid AI mistakenly flagged it😭 I’ve spent days trying to figure out what was causing the problem and doing everything I could to finally get this fic posted for all of you. So if you’re reading this, it means it worked. Hopefully.
If you end up enjoying the fic, I’d really appreciate it if you could help me share it with a reblog (only if you enjoyed the fic) cause I’ve put a lot of work on it
Well, I hope you enjoyed this little something I worked on when inspiration finally struck me. I don’t know if I read it somewhere or if we all collectively decided it, but Robby absolutely feels like the type of guy who talks you through it. You’re telling me the man who spends all day teaching med students and residents how to do procedures wouldn’t also be guiding his girl in bed? It’s literally in his nature!!! This TikTok also got me inspired because, yes, he absolutely looks at you through it too.
I also think Robby’s canon texting style is weirdly inconsistent. In that scene in season one where he’s texting Jake, sometimes he starts messages with capital letters and sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he ends sentences with a period, sometimes he doesn’t. In my head, he has perfect grammar but deliberately tries to sound Gen Z and chill when he’s texting someone younger than him lol. Anyway, I tried to replicate that here too.
Thank you all so much for your patience. I really appreciate it, and I hope I can stick around for good this time🩷
Summary: You asked Jack Abbot for honesty. That may have been ambitious. After the pathology score reveal, the bet, and one very dangerous cliffhanger, you pick up exactly where you left off: on the couch, with too much pride, too much tension, and absolutely no intention of behaving normally about any of it. Someone won. Someone lost. And neither of you is getting out of this with your self-control intact.
Warnings: 18+ only, minors dni, explicit sexual content, oral sex, mutual oral sex, fingering, praise, teasing, power play, winner/loser dynamic, consensual control, established boundaries, check-ins, “do what the winner says” language, soft dom Jack undertones, Reader being a menace, Jack losing his composure, his old shirt, lacy underwear, couch activities, post-sex aftercare, takeout, romcom snuggling, feelings, emotional vulnerability, established relationship, no penetrative sex in this chapter.
Author's Note: Lovelies. Welcome back to the couch. Part one ended with the reader asking for honest Jack, which was bold of her considering Honest Jack Abbot is somehow even more dangerous than Controlled Jack Abbot. This bonus has the payoff of the bet, reader continuing to be a menace in his old battalion medic shirt, Jack being careful and absolutely not fine, a lot of couch-related consequences, and the softest little takeout/romcom aftermath because these two deserve to be stupidly happy for a minute.
You had won the exam score by one point. You had gotten Jack Abbot onto the couch. You had made him put his hands where you told him to put them. You had come out wearing his faded navy T-shirt with the cracked lettering from his old battalion medic course and watched him lose several layers of composure without technically moving from his seat.
You had stretched out beside him.
You had teased him.
You had made him admit it.
Then he had looked at you and asked if you wanted controlled or honest.
You had said honest.
Now you had to survive it.
Jack stayed where he was, hands still braced against the couch cushions, eyes locked on yours. He had not moved closer. He had not touched you. He had not broken the rule.
Somehow, that made it worse.
You were kneeling beside him on the couch, one hand still resting against his chest, his shirt loose on your body, the hem high enough now that you knew he could see the lace underneath if he let himself look.
He did not.
Not yet.
His eyes stayed on your face.
Patient. Careful. Honest.
Terrible.
You swallowed. “How much?”
Jack’s jaw shifted. “How much what?”
You leaned closer, because you were brave and victorious and apparently determined to make both of those things everyone’s problem. “How much is it working?”
His hands flexed once against the cushions.
There.
Your pulse jumped.
Jack’s voice stayed low. “You sure you want me to answer that?”
You smiled, even though your stomach had started doing something deeply unhelpful. “I won.”
His eyes moved over your face. “You keep saying that.”
You smiled wickedly. “Because it keeps being true.”
Jack’s mouth barely curved. “It does.”
You touched his jaw, thumb brushing the place where his control always seemed to gather first. “Answer me.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth.
Then back to your eyes.
“It’s working enough that I’m sitting here with my hands on the couch because you told me not to touch you,” Jack said. “And all I can think about is how badly I want to.”
Oh.
Your breath caught.
Jack heard it.
His mouth curved faintly, but there was strain at the edge of it now.
Not smug. Affected. Honest.
Your chest went tight.
Jack’s eyes flicked to your mouth.
You forced yourself to smile. “Careful, Abbot.”
His brows lifted slightly. “Careful?”
“You’re supposed to be losing,” you said.
Jack’s gaze stayed steady on yours. “I am.”
Your pulse jumped.
“You asked,” he said.
“I did,” you said, less steadily than you wanted.
His voice dropped. “You wanted honest.”
You swallowed. “I didn’t say I was prepared for it.”
His eyes softened for half a second. “Still okay?”
Your heart tripped.
Still asking. Still careful. Even like this.
You nodded. “I’m okay.”
Jack’s hands stayed where they were. “Yeah?”
You looked down at them, spread open against the couch cushions, obedient because you had asked him to be.
Your stomach flipped.
Then you looked back at him.
“Yeah,” you said. “But you’re not allowed to be sweet yet.”
His mouth twitched. “Yet.”
You shifted closer. “I’m busy.”
Jack watched you. “Doing what?”
You moved closer until your knee pressed against his thigh. “Winning.”
Jack’s eyes darkened. “Thought you already did that.”
“I’m thorough,” you said.
His breath changed when you climbed into his lap.
Barely.
But you felt it.
You felt it in the way his body went still beneath yours, in the way his hands stayed locked to the couch even though every line of him looked like restraint. You settled over his thighs slowly, one knee on either side of him, the hem of his shirt riding higher as you moved.
Jack looked at you.
Then lower.
Only for a second.
This time, he let himself.
His jaw shifted.
Your pulse went bright and sharp.
“There,” you whispered.
His eyes lifted back to yours. “You like that.”
You smiled. “I like a lot of things right now.”
“I noticed,” Jack murmured.
You settled more fully against him, and Jack’s fingers curled into the couch cushions.
You saw it.
Your smile widened.
“Still not touching?” you asked.
Jack’s voice came rougher. “You said not yet.”
The fact that he remembered your exact words did something awful to you.
Wonderful.
Awful.
You leaned in and kissed him.
Slowly at first.
Just enough pressure to make him respond. Just enough to feel the shape of his mouth soften under yours. His hands stayed down, but everything else about him shifted toward you.
His breath. His chest. The faint lift of his chin when you pulled back too soon.
You smiled against his mouth. “You’re very good at following directions.”
His head tipped back a fraction, giving you room when your mouth moved along his jaw, then lower, to the spot beneath his ear that had made him go still before.
You kissed him there.
Then again.
Slower.
Jack’s fingers tightened against the couch.
“Still working?” you asked against his skin.
His breath left him through his nose. “Yes.”
You smiled. “Good.”
Jack’s voice dropped. “Careful with that.”
You lifted your head. “With what?”
His eyes opened, dark and steady on yours. “Using my words against me.”
Your stomach flipped.
You rocked against him once, just enough to make his control pull tight beneath you.
Jack’s jaw clenched.
You saw it.
You felt it.
Every careful inch of it.
“Oh,” you said softly.
His gaze sharpened. “What?”
You touched his jaw again. “You really are trying.”
Jack looked at you for one long second.
Then he said, “Yes.”
No joke. No deflection. Just yes.
Your teasing faltered.
Only for a second.
But Jack caught it.
His expression softened, and that was dangerous too, maybe more dangerous than the heat.
You put a finger against his mouth before he could ask.
“No,” you said.
His eyes stayed on yours.
“You’re not allowed to check on me again yet,” you said.
His mouth moved against your finger. “Yet?”
“Yes,” you said. “I’ll tell you when.”
His hand twitched against the couch.
You felt the movement beneath you.
Then you lowered your hand from his mouth to the collar of his shirt.
The one he was wearing.
Not the one on you.
The one still separating you from more of him.
You tugged once.
“Off,” you said.
Jack’s brow lifted. “That an order?”
You smiled. “That is the whole point of the bet.”
His mouth curved, but his hands stayed on the couch. “You told me not to touch.”
You paused.
Then glared, because he was right and that was deeply inconvenient.
Jack’s smile got worse.
“You are enjoying a loophole,” you said.
“I’m following directions,” he said.
You narrowed your eyes. “Smug.”
“Controlled,” Jack said.
You leaned closer, your mouth hovering over his. “Not for long.”
His breath caught.
There.
You smiled.
Then you sat back just enough to look down at him, still straddling his lap, still wearing his shirt, still holding every bit of power he had willingly handed you.
“You can touch me now,” you said.
Jack did not move right away.
Your pulse jumped.
His eyes searched yours. “You sure?”
Your chest tightened.
“Yes,” you said. “I’m sure.”
His hands left the couch immediately.
Not rough. Not frantic. But immediate.
Like he had been waiting on a held breath and had finally been allowed to exhale.
One hand settled at your waist beneath the faded hem of his shirt. The other found the outside of your thigh, warm and firm, fingers spreading over bare skin.
Your breath caught.
Jack noticed.
His thumb moved once at your waist. “Still okay?”
You looked at him.
His control had not vanished.
That was the thing.
It had changed.
He was touching you now, but he was still watching. Still careful. Still Jack.
And somehow that made the wanting worse.
You nodded. “Still okay.”
His hand tightened once on your thigh.
“Good,” Jack said.
Your stomach dropped.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
You kissed him before he could look too pleased about it.
Jack responded immediately, his mouth opening under yours, his hand tightening once at your waist. Not taking over. Not yet. But present now, warm and firm beneath the hem of the faded navy shirt.
You shifted closer in his lap.
His breath caught.
Good.
You kissed him harder.
Jack’s hand slid up your side beneath the shirt, palm dragging slowly over your ribs, careful enough to make you ache and steady enough to remind you that he was still letting you lead.
You pulled back just enough to breathe. “You’re still behaving.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on your mouth. “Barely.”
The honesty went straight through you.
You tried to smile. “Good.”
Jack’s thumb brushed higher along your side.
Your breath hitched.
His gaze lifted to yours immediately. “Still okay?”
You nodded, your fingers tightening in his hair. “Still okay.”
His thumb moved again, slow and deliberate. “Good.”
You hated how much that worked on you.
You hated it enough that you rocked against him again, just to watch his jaw tighten.
Jack’s fingers flexed against your side. “You’re enjoying yourself.”
You kissed the corner of his mouth. “I won.”
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. “You keep saying that.”
You smiled against his jaw. “You keep reacting to it.”
His breath left him in a quiet, controlled exhale when your mouth moved down his neck.
There.
You kissed the spot again.
Jack’s head tipped back against the couch.
His hand tightened on your thigh, not pulling, not pushing, just holding on.
You smiled against his skin. “There?”
Jack’s voice came rough. “Yes.”
Oh, you liked that.
You liked it too much.
You dragged your mouth back up to his ear. “I like when you answer me.”
Jack’s hand slid higher on your thigh. “I noticed.”
You pulled back and looked at him.
His eyes were dark.
Not composed now.
Not fully.
His control was still there, but it had gone thin enough that you could see the want through it. In his hands. His breathing. The rigid line of his shoulders. The way he kept looking at you like he was waiting for permission and fighting himself for patience.
You touched his jaw. “You’re very pretty like this.”
Jack blinked.
Then his eyes narrowed slightly. “Pretty?”
You nodded solemnly. “Devastatingly.”
Jack’s jaw shifted. “That’s not usually what people call me.”
You smiled. “Then people lack imagination.”
Jack’s hand pressed once into your thigh. “You’re dangerous when you win.”
You leaned in until your mouth hovered over his. “You should let me win more often.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “I’ll take that under advisement.”
You kissed him again before he could say anything else too reasonable.
This time, when his hand moved up your back, you let him. When his fingers found the hem of the shirt, you felt him hesitate.
Jack paused.
Your pulse jumped.
His eyes lifted to yours. “Can I?”
Your throat tightened.
The shirt suddenly felt heavier than it had a second ago.
Not because you wanted it off.
Because it was his. Because he knew that too.
You swallowed. “Not yet.”
Jack’s hands stopped immediately. No hesitation.
“Okay,” he said.
The word was soft. Simple. Devastating.
You looked down at him, your hands still caught lightly in his hair, your knees bracketing his thighs, his shirt loose around you.
“You’re making it really hard to seduce you dramatically when you keep being decent,” you said.
Jack’s mouth curved, small and warm. “Sorry.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re not.”
Jack’s smile deepened. “No. I’m not.”
You laughed once, breathless, and kissed him again.
The kiss softened for half a second.
That was dangerous.
Soft was always dangerous with him.
So you fixed it.
You slid backward off his lap and down between his knees.
Jack went still.
Completely.
His hand caught gently at your wrist before you could go any farther. “You don’t have to.”
You looked up at him from between his knees. “I know.”
His throat moved.
You turned your wrist in his hold until your fingers linked briefly with his.
“I want to,” you said.
Jack’s grip loosened, but he did not let go right away.
His eyes searched your face. “You’re sure?”
You squeezed his hand. “I’m sure.”
Jack exhaled slowly.
Then he let you go.
The trust in it hit you harder than you expected.
You had wanted to make him lose control.
Instead, he kept handing it to you.
Carefully. Willingly. Like it mattered that you were the one holding it.
Your chest tightened.
You leaned forward and kissed the inside of his wrist.
Jack’s breath changed.
You looked up at him. “Hands on the couch again.”
His jaw shifted.
Then he obeyed.
Both hands flat against the cushions.
Open.
Visible.
Yours to ruin.
You smiled.
“There,” you said.
Jack’s voice was rough. “You like giving orders.”
You reached for the button of his jeans. “I like when you listen.”
His hands flexed once against the couch.
“I’m listening,” Jack said.
Oh.
That was going to kill you.
You smiled up at him. “Good.”
Jack’s hands stayed flat against the couch cushions.
Open. Visible. Obedient.
You liked that more than you were prepared to admit.
You liked the way his shoulders had gone rigid. The way his jaw kept working like he was trying to keep every reaction behind his teeth. The way his eyes stayed on you, dark and intent, like looking away was no longer an option.
You touched the button of his jeans.
Jack’s breath caught. Not much, but enough.
You looked up at him. “Still okay?”
His mouth curved faintly, but the strain at the edge of it gave him away. “Now you’re asking?”
You tilted your head. “I’m allowed.”
Jack’s eyes softened for half a second. “I’m okay.”
You liked that too.
You liked making him say it.
You liked making Jack Abbot, who always watched, always measured, always decided what the room needed before the room knew itself, sit there with his hands on the couch and answer you because you asked.
You undid the button slowly.
Jack’s fingers flexed against the cushions.
You smiled. “You’re doing very well.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Don’t patronize me.”
You dragged the zipper down. “I’m praising you.”
“That was not praise,” Jack said.
You looked up at him through your lashes. “You want praise?”
Jack went still.
Oh. Interesting. Very interesting.
You paused with your fingers hooked lightly at his waistband.
His eyes stayed on yours.
You smiled slowly. “Abbot.”
Jack’s jaw tightened. “Don’t.”
You widened your eyes. “I didn’t say anything.”
His voice dropped. “You thought it.”
You laughed softly and leaned forward, pressing a kiss just above the open waistband of his jeans.
Jack inhaled sharply.
There.
You kissed him there again.
Slower.
Then you glanced up. “You’re very pretty when you’re trying to behave.”
Jack closed his eyes for half a second. “You are never going to let that go.”
“No,” you said. “Probably not.”
His eyes opened again when your fingers slid beneath the edge of his waistband.
You moved carefully. Slowly. Not because you were unsure.
Because you wanted to watch him survive it.
His hands stayed on the couch.
His breathing did not.
You noticed.
You leaned in and pressed your mouth to the inside of his thigh through the fabric.
Jack’s fingers curled hard into the cushion.
You smiled against him. “Still behaving?”
His voice came rough. “Barely.”
Your pulse jumped.
You liked honest Jack. You liked him too much.
You worked his jeans lower, just enough, and Jack lifted his hips because you guided him to.
Not taking over. Not rushing. Just helping because you asked. You eased the denim down over his hips, then paused when your fingers found the waistband of his underwear.
Jack’s hands stayed on the couch.
You looked up at him. “Still okay?”
Jack’s jaw shifted. “Yes.”
You held his gaze. “Still want this?”
His eyes stayed locked on yours. “Yes.”
Your fingers curled lightly into the waistband. “Then lift for me.”
Jack exhaled once. Then he did.
You drew the fabric down slowly, watching his control pull tight with every inch.
That was somehow worse. The trust of it. The ease.
The fact that he was letting you have this, letting you decide the pace, letting you turn his patience into something thin and strained and beautiful.
You swallowed.
Jack saw it.
His voice softened immediately. “Hey.”
You looked up at him.
His hands stayed exactly where you had put them, even though his eyes had gone careful.
“Still with me?” Jack asked.
You nodded. “I’m with you.”
His gaze moved over your face. “Yeah?”
“Yes,” you said. “I just—”
You stopped.
Jack waited.
You looked down, then back up at him, suddenly aware of the faded navy shirt loose on your body, the cracked lettering from his old battalion medic course stretched over your chest, the couch beneath your knees, the laundry basket abandoned beside you.
The day. The score. The words.
I love you.
Your voice came quieter. “I like this.”
Jack’s expression changed. Softened. Opened.
“You do?” he asked.
You nodded, your fingers resting at his hip. “I like that you let me.”
His throat moved.
For a second, neither of you said anything.
Then Jack’s voice came low and steady. “I trust you.”
Oh.
That went through you harder than anything else had.
Your fingers tightened slightly against him.
Jack noticed.
“You okay?” he asked.
You swallowed and nodded. “Yes.”
His eyes stayed on yours. “Tell me what you need.”
You smiled faintly. “You to stop being sweet before I lose my dramatic momentum.”
Jack’s mouth curved. There he was.
“There it is,” he said.
You leaned forward. “What?”
His eyes darkened again. “You.”
That almost ruined you.
So you kissed him before it could.
You kissed his hip. His stomach. The edge of his waistband.
You took your time because you could, because he let you, because the bet had become something warmer and sharper than a game. His breath changed with every kiss. His fingers stayed locked against the couch. His restraint was everywhere now, in every still line of him.
And you wanted to reward it.
You wanted to ruin it.
Both.
You looked up at him. “Hands stay there.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth. Then back to your eyes.
“Yes,” he said.
You smiled. “Good.”
His jaw shifted at the word.
You saw it.
Then you lowered your mouth to him.
Jack’s reaction was immediate.
His head tipped back against the couch, and the sound he made was low, rough, dragged out of him before he could swallow it.
Your stomach flipped.
Oh.
You wanted to hear that again.
You moved slowly at first, learning what made his breath catch, what made his hands flex, what made his composure fracture by tiny, satisfying degrees. Jack stayed exactly where you had put him, but his whole body gave him away.
The tight line of his throat. The tension in his shoulders. The way his hips wanted to move and did not.
You pulled back just enough to breathe and looked up at him.
Jack was already looking down at you. His eyes were wrecked. Still careful. Still there. But wrecked.
You smiled. “You’re quiet.”
Jack’s laugh came out rough and disbelieving. “Am I?”
You ran your hand along his thigh. “Too quiet.”
His fingers curled harder into the couch. “I’m trying not to rush you.”
Your chest tightened.
God. Him. Always him.
You kissed the inside of his thigh again, softer this time.
“I know,” you said.
Jack’s gaze stayed on yours.
You leaned closer. “You can make noise.”
His breath caught.
You smiled. “That’s also an order.”
Jack’s mouth parted.
For a second, he looked like he wanted to argue.
Then you took him into your mouth again, and whatever he had been about to say disappeared into a broken sound that made heat curl low in your stomach.
There. Better. Much better.
You settled into the rhythm slowly, your hands braced against his thighs, the hem of his shirt brushing your skin every time you moved. Jack’s breathing grew rougher. Less even. Less controlled.
Every time he made a sound, your confidence came back stronger.
Every time his hands twitched and stayed put, you felt it like a victory.
Not the exam. Not the point.
This.
This impossible, careful man coming apart because you asked him to.
Jack said your name. Roughly. Almost a warning.
You pulled back enough to look at him. “What?”
His chest rose and fell beneath his T-shirt. His hands were still on the couch. Barely.
“You’re good at this,” Jack said.
The words landed hot and low.
Your mouth curved. “At this?”
Before he could answer, you lowered your mouth again, just enough to make his fingers dig hard into the cushion.
Jack’s head tipped back. His breath left him rough and broken.
You pulled back, pleased. “That?”
His eyes opened, dark and wrecked.
“At making me lose my fucking mind,” Jack said.
Oh.
Your fingers tightened on his thigh.
Jack noticed.
His mouth curved faintly despite everything. “You like that.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Do not sound smug while I’m winning.”
His breath left him in something close to a laugh. “Sorry.”
“You’re not,” you said.
“No,” Jack admitted. “I’m not.”
You smiled.
Then you leaned back in, because you wanted him too affected to be smug. You wanted the rough sound that left him when your mouth closed over him again. You wanted the way his head tipped back, the way one of his hands lifted half an inch from the cushion before he forced it back down.
You saw that. You stopped.
Jack went still. His eyes opened.
You looked pointedly at his hand. “Abbot.”
His hand settled flat again. Immediately.
Jack swallowed. “Sorry.”
Your heart flipped.
You sat back on your heels and looked up at him.
His apology was not playful. Not performative. He meant it.
You softened despite yourself.
“You can ask,” you said.
His throat moved.
You held his gaze. “You can ask to touch me.”
Jack looked at you for one long second.
Then his voice came low. “Can I touch you?”
Your pulse jumped.
You tried to keep your smile slow. Victorious.
It almost worked.
“Where?” you asked.
His eyes darkened.
Your breath caught before he even answered.
Jack’s voice was rough. “Your face.”
That was not what you expected. For some reason, it hit harder.
You nodded. “Yes.”
Jack’s hand left the couch slowly, like he was giving you time to change your mind.
Then his fingers touched your cheek. Gentle. Almost reverent. His thumb moved once near the corner of your mouth.
Your chest tightened so fast it almost hurt.
“You’re killing me,” Jack said. Quietly. Honestly.
Your eyes lifted to his.
The room went soft around the edges for half a second. Then you turned your head and kissed his palm. Jack’s breath caught.
“You’re very dramatic,” you said.
His mouth curved faintly. “Learned from the best.”
You smiled against his hand. “Good answer.”
Then you guided his hand back to the couch.
His eyes stayed on yours.
You leaned forward again.
This time, when you took him into your mouth, his voice broke on your name.
Not loud. Not polished. Just honest.
Exactly what you had asked for.
And you decided, with all the grace and dignity of someone who had won by one point and then abused the privilege immediately, that you loved the sound of Jack Abbot losing control.
You loved it when his breathing changed.
You loved it when his fingers dug into the couch.
You loved it when he said your name like he was asking, warning, and surrendering all at once.
You loved it when he finally said, rough and low, “Wait.”
You pulled back immediately.
Jack’s eyes were closed, his chest rising hard.
You sat back. “Too much?”
His eyes opened at once. “No.”
You watched him carefully. “No?”
Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth, then returned to your face. “I’m close.”
Your stomach flipped.
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
Jack saw it.
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Do not look that pleased with yourself.”
You lifted your chin. “I’m extremely pleased with myself.”
“I noticed,” Jack said.
You moved closer again. “Do you want me to stop?”
Jack went still. His throat moved. Then he looked at you. Really looked.
“No,” he said.
Your pulse jumped.
His voice roughened. “But only if you want to keep going.”
You smiled softly. Still careful. Still Jack. Still yours.
“I do,” you said.
Jack’s hand flexed against the couch again, but he kept it there. “Then yes.”
You leaned in and kissed his thigh. “Yes what?”
His jaw tightened. You waited. Jack’s eyes stayed on yours.
“Yes,” he said, voice low and wrecked. “I want you to keep going.”
There. You smiled.
“Good,” you said.
And then you did.
You kept going.
Slow at first, because you liked making him wait. Because you liked the way his body seemed to forget what control was supposed to look like one piece at a time. His breathing broke first, roughening with every careful movement of your mouth, every pass of your tongue, every press of your hands against his thighs.
Jack’s hands stayed on the couch.
Barely.
His fingers dug hard into the cushions, the tendons in his forearms standing out beneath his skin. His head tipped back once, then lifted again, because apparently even now, even like this, he could not stop watching you.
That did something to you.
Something warm and powerful and dangerous.
You looked up at him.
Jack’s eyes were already on yours. Wrecked. Focused. Trying.
You pulled back just enough to breathe. “Still okay?”
Jack’s laugh came out rough and almost helpless. “Yes.”
Good.
You liked that. You liked him answering you. You liked him obeying. You liked that this man, this careful, controlled, impossible man, was sitting there with his hands exactly where you had told him to keep them while you took him apart.
So you leaned in again.
Jack’s breath caught hard.
There. You wanted that sound again.
You worked him slowly, then deeper, then slower again when his hips went tense beneath your hands. He did not move into you. He did not rush you. He only made a low sound in his throat and pressed his hands harder into the couch like the cushions were the only thing keeping him still.
Jack’s voice was strained. “I’m close.”
Your pulse jumped.
You pulled back with a soft breath.
You looked up at him.
His chest rose and fell hard beneath his T-shirt, his mouth parted, his eyes locked on yours with a kind of focus that made the whole room feel smaller.
“I’m close,” Jack said again, rougher this time.
You nodded once, your hand still moving slowly over him.
Jack’s jaw tightened.
Then his eyes sharpened, careful even through the wreckage.
“Where do you want me?” Jack asked.
The question hit low in your stomach.
Not because he asked it crudely.
Because he asked it like it mattered. Like even now, even this close, even when he looked like restraint had become a physical effort, he was still giving you the choice.
Your mouth went dry.
Jack watched your face. “Tell me.”
Your fingers tightened against his thigh.
You swallowed.
Then you leaned closer, your voice softer than you meant it to be.
“In my mouth,” you said.
Jack went still. Completely.
For one second, he looked like the words had knocked the last of the air out of him.
His hands flexed against the couch. His eyes dropped to your mouth. Then back to your face.
“Jesus,” Jack said, voice wrecked.
Your stomach flipped.
You smiled, because you could not help it. “You asked.”
Jack’s jaw shifted hard.
“I did,” he said.
You held his gaze. “And that’s what I want.”
Something in him snapped.
Not his care.
But the last thin thread of composure he had been using to pretend he was fine.
Jack’s head tipped back against the couch, his breath leaving him in a broken exhale as you lowered your mouth to him again.
This time, you did not tease him with almost.
You gave him exactly what he had asked for.
Exactly what you had said you wanted.
Jack said your name. Rough. Low.
Gone.
His hands stayed on the couch, but his whole body gave him away. His thighs tensed under your palms. His breathing turned uneven. His voice broke again, quieter this time, your name pulled out of him like he could not keep it back.
You stayed with him.
And when he came apart, it was because you had asked for it.
Because he had asked where. Because you had answered. Because wanting him like that had been enough to ruin whatever control he had left.
For a few seconds after, neither of you moved.
Jack’s head stayed tipped back against the couch, his chest rising hard beneath his T-shirt. One hand was still curled into the cushion like he had forgotten how to let go.
You sat back slowly, your own breathing uneven now.
The room felt warm.
Quiet.
Completely changed.
Jack opened his eyes.
They found yours immediately.
Still wrecked. Still careful. Still Jack.
“Come here,” Jack said.
You lifted your brows, trying very hard to look smug and not affected. “Bossy for someone who lost.”
Jack’s hand left the couch at last, reaching for you slowly enough that you could refuse if you wanted to.
“I know,” he said, voice rough. “Come here anyway.”
You went.
Of course you went.
Jack caught you the second you climbed back onto the couch, one hand finding your waist, the other sliding along your thigh as you settled beside him. His mouth found yours before you could say anything clever.
The kiss was different now.
Deeper. Hungrier. Less controlled in places, like he had been patient for so long that being allowed to touch you had become its own kind of relief.
You smiled against his mouth.
Jack felt it. His hand tightened at your waist. “What?”
You pulled back just enough to look at him. “My turn.”
Jack went still. Only for half a second.
Then his eyes darkened in a way that made your pulse jump.
“Finally,” Jack said.
Your breath caught.
That was all the warning you got.
Jack moved.
One second you were beside him, smug and pleased and trying to look like you had not been completely wrecked by the sound of his voice. The next, he had guided you beneath him against the couch cushions, one hand braced beside your head, the other at your hip.
Not rough. Not careless. But immediate. Hungry.
Like he had been waiting for permission and permission had finally become a starting gun.
Your back hit the couch, and Jack kissed you hard.
Your fingers flew into his hair.
He made a low sound against your mouth when you pulled, and that sound alone almost made you forget you were supposed to be the winner.
Almost.
Jack’s hand slid beneath the faded navy shirt, palm warm against your side.
You gasped into his mouth.
He pulled back at once, eyes searching yours. “Okay?”
You nodded quickly.
Jack’s gaze stayed locked on yours. “Words.”
Your chest rose hard beneath his shirt. “Yes. I’m okay.”
Something in his expression steadied.
Then his mouth was on yours again. Hard. Deep.
Thorough enough that your thoughts scattered, one by one, until there was nothing left but his weight over you, his hand under your shirt, his mouth moving like he had every intention of making sure winning felt exactly like this.
You arched beneath him.
Jack’s hand tightened at your waist.
“There,” he murmured against your mouth.
You swallowed a sound. “Don’t sound so pleased with yourself.”
Jack kissed the corner of your mouth. “I’m not.”
“You are,” you said, breathless.
His mouth moved to your jaw. “Maybe a little.”
You tried to glare at him.
It did not work, because his lips found the spot beneath your ear, and your eyes closed before you could stop them.
Jack noticed. His mouth curved against your skin.
You felt it.
“You are not allowed to be smug,” you said.
Jack kissed your neck. “I lost.”
“Yes,” you said, your fingers tightening in his hair. “Exactly.”
His hand moved slowly over your ribs beneath the shirt. “Then I’m doing what I was told.”
Your stomach flipped.
Oh. That. That was a problem.
Jack’s mouth traveled lower, over your throat, then to the stretched collar of the faded navy T-shirt. He paused there, breath warm against the cracked lettering from his old battalion medic course.
For one second, the heat shifted.
Softened.
His fingers touched the worn cotton like he was remembering the morning he had given it to you.
Your breath caught for a different reason.
Then he kissed the shirt.
Right over the faded, cracked letters.
Your chest tightened so fast it almost hurt.
“Jack,” you whispered.
His eyes lifted to yours.
He stayed there, mouth against the shirt, one hand at your waist, his body warm over yours.
“What?” he asked.
You swallowed.
You did not have an answer.
Not one that would not expose too much.
Jack waited anyway.
You touched his hair. “Nothing.”
His expression softened. “That wasn’t nothing.”
You managed a faint smile. “I’m still seducing you dramatically.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “From underneath me?”
You narrowed your eyes. “Do not critique my process.”
His smile deepened. Then he kissed lower.
Over the shirt. Down your sternum. Past your ribs.
Slow enough to make you squirm, deliberate enough to make you understand exactly what he was doing. He did not take the shirt off. He worked around it. With it. His hands slid beneath the hem, pushing it up only as far as you let him, his mouth following the path of exposed skin inch by inch.
Your breathing changed.
Jack felt it beneath his hands.
His eyes flicked up to yours. “Still okay?”
You nodded. “Yes.”
His fingers stilled at your waist.
You swallowed hard. “Yes, Jack. I’m okay.”
His thumb moved once against your skin. “Good.”
The word hit low.
You hated him for it. You loved him for it. You still had not recovered from that, either.
Jack kissed your stomach.
Your fingers tightened in his hair.
He did it again, lower this time, his mouth warm against the sensitive skin beneath your navel. The hem of his shirt bunched beneath his hand, the faded navy cotton soft against your ribs.
You looked down at him.
Big mistake.
Jack was looking up at you from between your thighs, his mouth against your stomach, his eyes dark and focused and so intent that your breath caught in your throat.
His hand slid to your hip.
The lace of your underwear shifted beneath his fingers.
You went still.
Jack noticed immediately. He stopped.
His eyes stayed on yours. “Can I?”
Your pulse jumped. You nodded, then remembered who you were dealing with.
“Yes,” you said. “You can.”
Jack’s hand moved again. Slowly. His fingers traced the edge of the lace at your hip, not taking, not rushing, just touching like he had all the time in the world and every intention of using it against you.
Your head tipped back against the couch.
Jack’s mouth brushed your lower stomach. “You’re quiet.”
You let out a breath that barely qualified as a laugh. “I am trying to maintain authority.”
His mouth curved against your skin. “How’s that going?”
You looked down at him. “Do not get cocky.”
Jack’s fingers hooked lightly at the lace. He did not pull. Not yet.
His eyes stayed on yours. “Tell me what you want.”
Your stomach flipped. There it was again. That steady, devastating patience.
Like he could be hungry and still careful. Like he could want you and still make room for you to choose.
You swallowed. “I want your mouth.”
Jack’s expression changed. Barely. But you saw it.
His eyes darkened. “Yeah?”
Your fingers tightened in his hair. “And your fingers.”
Jack’s thumb pressed once at your hip. Then he nodded.
“Okay,” he said.
Simple. Steady. Absolutely devastating.
He pressed one more kiss to your stomach. Then another, lower.
Your breath caught.
Jack looked up at you. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”
You nodded quickly. “I will.”
His gaze held yours. “Promise.”
The word landed softly. Serious. Very Jack.
Your chest tightened.
“I promise,” you said.
Jack’s expression steadied.
Jack’s mouth lowered again, and whatever remained of your victory speech disappeared completely.
At first, he kissed you through the lace.
Slow. Careful. Mean, actually.
Because he had asked what you wanted, and you had told him, and now he was taking his time like he had misunderstood the entire point of the request.
Your fingers tightened in his hair. “Jack.”
His eyes lifted to yours. “What?”
You swallowed hard. “That is not your mouth.”
His mouth curved against the lace. Oh, he was absolutely smug now.
“You sure?” Jack asked.
You glared down at him. “Do not make me regret letting you touch me.”
His hand pressed once at your hip, warm and steady. “Not the goal.”
“Then prove it,” you said.
Jack’s eyes darkened.
For one second, he only looked at you. Then he hooked his fingers into the lace at your hips and paused.
“Still okay?” Jack asked.
Your breath caught.
“Yes,” you said. “Still okay.”
His gaze held yours. “Tell me if that changes.”
“I will,” you said.
Jack nodded once.
Then he drew the lace down your thighs. Slowly. So slowly you almost hated him.
You lifted your hips to help, and his hand slid beneath you, supporting you with irritating competence while he eased the fabric lower. He did not rush. He did not fumble. He was careful with you in a way that made the heat worse, because you could feel the wanting under it.
You could see it in his face when he settled back between your thighs.
Jack Abbot, who had just come apart under your mouth, who had looked wrecked enough to make you feel powerful for the rest of your life, was staring at you now like he had not even started.
Your stomach flipped.
“That is a look,” you said.
Jack’s hand moved slowly along the outside of your thigh. “Yeah?”
You nodded, trying for steady and landing somewhere else entirely. “A concerning one.”
His mouth brushed the inside of your knee. “You asked for my mouth.”
Your breath caught when he kissed higher.
“I did,” you said.
Jack kissed higher again. “And my fingers.”
Your thighs shifted around him before you could stop them.
His eyes flicked up.
You lifted your chin, even from your deeply compromised position. “Are you reciting the terms?”
His mouth curved against your skin. “Making sure I understand the assignment.”
You stared at him. “You are such a medical student.”
Jack kissed the inside of your thigh. “You love me.”
Your heart tripped.
The words were too new. Too warm. Too devastating for him to just put them there while his mouth was moving up your thigh.
You looked down at him. “You are not allowed to use that against me.”
His expression softened, but his eyes stayed dark. “Wasn’t using it.”
“No?” you asked.
Jack shook his head once. “Just liked saying it.”
Your breath left you.
That was unfair. Completely unfair.
You covered your face with one hand. “You are ruining my authority.”
Jack’s mouth pressed to the inside of your thigh, close enough now that your whole body went still. “I can stop.”
Your hand dropped immediately. “Don’t you dare.”
His mouth curved. You saw it.
“You’re enjoying this,” you said.
Jack’s hand tightened once at your hip. “I am.”
The honesty did something to you.
Something sharp and helpless.
Then his mouth finally moved where you wanted him, and the thought disappeared.
Completely.
Your head tipped back against the couch.
“Oh,” you breathed.
Jack’s arm slid under your thigh, anchoring you gently, keeping you open for him without forcing you there. His other hand stayed at your hip, thumb moving once like he was reminding you he was there.
As if you could forget.
His mouth was warm and deliberate and devastatingly patient. Not rushed. Not proving a point.
Learning you.
Again.
Your fingers found his hair, sliding into the soft strands at the back of his head. You did not pull at first. You just held on.
Jack made a low sound against you.
Your hips shifted.
His arm tightened slightly around your thigh.
“There?” he asked, voice rough against your skin.
You nodded quickly. “There.”
His mouth returned immediately.
Your fingers tightened in his hair this time.
Jack noticed.
He did it again, the same way, and your knees drew in around his shoulders before you could stop them. He did not seem to mind. If anything, his hand slid from your hip to your stomach, pressing you gently back into the couch when your body tried to follow him.
You let out a broken breath. “Jack.”
His fingers spread against your stomach beneath the faded navy shirt. “I’ve got you.”
That should not have made it worse. It did. Of course it did.
You tried to stay quiet.
Mostly because you were still pretending to have some control over the situation.
Jack clearly took that personally. His mouth slowed.
Your eyes opened immediately.
You looked down at him. “Why did you stop?”
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “You got quiet.”
You stared at him. Then you realized.
“Oh, you are unbelievable,” you said.
His brow lifted slightly. “Am I?”
“You are withholding because I’m not making enough noise?”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “I’m checking.”
“You are negotiating,” you said.
His hand moved once over your stomach, slow and steady. “Tell me what you want.”
You swallowed.
He was impossible. Terrible.
Perfect.
“I want you to keep going,” you said.
Jack’s gaze stayed locked on yours. “Then don’t hide from me.”
Your pulse jumped.
The words landed with heat and weight and that old, impossible thing between you.
No hiding. Not anymore. Not with his hand on your stomach and his mouth between your thighs and his shirt bunched beneath your ribs.
You nodded. “Okay.”
His expression softened for half a second. “Okay?”
Your fingers tightened in his hair. “Okay, Jack. Please.”
That did it.
His eyes darkened.
Then his mouth was on you again, and this time, you did not try to be quiet.
You could not.
Jack made sure of that.
He learned every reaction like it was something he intended to remember. The angle that made your breath break. The pressure that made your hips lift. The rhythm that made your fingers twist in his hair and your knees pull tighter around him.
Then his hand moved lower.
You felt him pause before he touched you. Even now. Especially now.
“Can I?” Jack asked.
You nodded, breathless. “Yes.”
His fingers slid through you slowly. Your whole body went tight.
Jack watched your face. “Still okay?”
“Yes,” you said quickly. “God, yes.”
His mouth curved against your thigh. “Good.”
You barely had time to hate him for it before his fingers moved again.
Your back arched off the couch.
Jack’s arm held you steady.
His mouth returned to you as his fingers worked in slow, careful strokes, and that was when your control finally gave up entirely. It did not break dramatically. It just left. Quietly. Rudely. Without consulting you.
You said his name. Once. Then again.
Jack answered with his mouth, with his hand, with the steady pressure of his palm against your stomach when you started to squirm.
You tugged at his hair. “Don’t stop.”
His fingers curled. Your breath caught hard.
“That wasn’t a request,” you managed.
Jack’s mouth moved against your thigh. You felt him smile.
“I know,” he said.
Then he did not stop.
He kept you there, pinned by nothing but his mouth and fingers and the unbearable steadiness of his attention. He did not rush you toward it. He did not drag it out to be cruel. He just listened to your body with the same focus he brought to everything else, and somehow that was what undid you.
The couch disappeared. The laundry. The scores. The stupid one point.
All of it narrowed down to Jack between your thighs, his hand beneath his own shirt on your stomach, his mouth giving you exactly what you had asked for.
You came with his name in your mouth and your fingers locked in his hair.
Jack stayed with you through it.
Steady. Careful. Unfairly good.
He softened the pressure slowly, easing you down instead of letting you drop. His hand moved over your stomach, then your side, then your hip, grounding you while your breathing tried to remember how to work.
For a few seconds, you could not move.
You stared at the ceiling.
The room was quiet except for your uneven breaths and the faint sound of traffic outside.
Then Jack pressed one last kiss to the inside of your thigh.
Your eyes closed.
“Too much?” he asked.
You let out a breathless laugh. “I think you know it wasn’t.”
His mouth curved against your skin.
You turned your head and looked down at him.
He was still between your thighs, hair mussed from your hands, mouth soft, eyes dark and careful and pleased in a way that should have been illegal.
You swallowed.
“No,” you said. “Not too much.”
Jack’s thumb moved once against your hip. “Good.”
You pointed weakly at him. “You have got to stop saying it like that.”
His brow lifted. “Like what?”
“Like you know it ruins me,” you said.
Jack’s smile came slow. Warm. Private. Devastating.
“I do know,” he said.
You groaned and covered your face with one hand. “I regret winning.”
Jack kissed your hip. “No, you don’t.”
“No,” you said from behind your hand. “I don’t.”
The takeout containers were open on the coffee table.
The laundry was still unfolded.
The movie was already halfway over, which was fine, because Jack had missed the entire setup and still somehow had questions about the plot.
You were tucked into his side on the couch, warm and loose and thoroughly pleased with yourself. Your underwear was back on, though Jack’s faded navy battalion medic shirt still hung loose over your body, the cracked lettering soft against your chest.
Jack’s arm rested around your waist.
His hand moved absently over your hip beneath the hem.
Not trying to start anything.
Just touching.
Like he could.
Like he was allowed.
Like he liked remembering that.
On the screen, the heroine stormed out of a restaurant after overhearing half of a conversation and apparently deciding that was enough information to ruin her life.
You pointed your fork at the television. “See, this is why communication matters.”
Jack looked at the screen. “That is what you’re taking from this?”
You glanced up at him. “Do you disagree?”
His mouth barely moved. “I think if they communicated, the movie would be twenty minutes long.”
You nodded once. “Efficient.”
“Boring,” Jack said.
You stared at him. “Are you admitting you’re emotionally invested?”
Jack looked down at his noodles. “No.”
“You asked if the sister knew he was lying,” you said.
Jack’s jaw shifted. “Plot clarification.”
You gasped softly. “Oh my God.”
His eyes flicked to yours. “What?”
“You care,” you said.
Jack set his container on the coffee table. “I care about narrative consistency.”
You pointed your fork at him. “That is worse.”
His mouth curved despite himself.
You laughed and curled closer into his side, your legs folding beneath you. Jack’s hand settled more securely at your waist, thumb moving once beneath the shirt.
The room felt soft now.
Quieter than it had earlier.
The kind of quiet that came after too much laughter, too much heat, too much feeling. The score slips were still on the table, partly hidden under a napkin and a carton of noodles. Proof of the one perfect point that had started all of this.
You looked at them.
Then at the laundry basket.
Then at Jack.
His hair was still a mess from your hands. His mouth was soft. He looked tired and warm and almost too pleased with himself for someone who had technically lost.
Your chest went tight in the sweetest way.
Jack noticed you looking at him.
His chin tipped down toward you. “What?”
You shook your head. “Nothing.”
His eyes stayed on yours. “That wasn’t nothing.”
You let out a slow breath and rested your head against his shoulder.
For once, you did not dodge.
You were too tired.
Too happy.
Too in love with him to make it a fight.
“This is probably the best day ever,” you said quietly.
Jack went still beside you.
Just enough that you felt him hear it.
Then his arm tightened around you. “Yeah?”
You nodded against his shoulder. “Yeah.”
His hand moved slowly over your side. “Because you won?”
You smiled. “Partly.”
“By one point,” Jack said.
“The one point,” you corrected.
His chest moved under your cheek with a quiet laugh.
The movie kept playing.
The takeout went lukewarm.
The laundry remained deeply, impressively unfolded.
Jack’s mouth pressed softly to the top of your head.
“And the rest?” he asked.
Your fingers curled lightly in his shirt.
You thought about the bulletin board.
The walk home.
The couch.
The way he had looked at you when you were celebrating.
The way he had said it.
Like your happiness had made him careless.
Like he had no interest in taking it back.
You tipped your face up to look at him.
Jack was already looking down at you.
Your throat tightened, but this time, you let it.
“The rest is you,” you said.
Jack’s expression softened.
You swallowed and held his gaze. “Because you told me you love me.”
For a second, he just looked at you.
Warm. Private. A little stunned, still, like hearing you say it back to him in pieces was something he had not figured out how to survive.
Then his thumb brushed once over your waist.
“I did,” Jack said.
Your chest warmed.
You smiled faintly. “I love you.”
Jack went still.
Only for a second.
Only long enough for the words to land again.
Then his arm tightened around you, pulling you closer into his side.
“I love you too,” he said.
You settled against him, overwhelmed and warm and still somehow victorious.
His mouth pressed to your forehead.
The movie kept playing.
The takeout went lukewarm.
The laundry remained deeply, impressively unfolded.
You had beaten Jack Abbot by one point.
Somehow, he still looked like the one who had won.
Summary: After breaking your heart, Jack Abbot is now trying to win you back, but he'll find that it's a little bit harder than just pretty words and longing glances. (6.3k)
Pairing: Jack Abbot x ex!reader
TW: 18+ MDNI, NSFW. Sex scene (usage of handcuffs [on Jack], p-in-v, masturbation, oral [m receiving], usage of good girl, sweet girl, pretty girl, teasing, kind of brat taming); Reader makes Jack work for it; mentions of almost dating Park; jealous Jack; insecurities still from the Reader (can't fix everything right away); I've exaggerated the cold of a Pittsburgh winter because where I live winter is COLD like COLD so it's all I know (my winter's are like 45 below in Celsius so like -49 in F)
Credit: GIF by @bluetimeombre; Requested as continuation to my story Never Enough. Hope it's enough grovelling everyone! I read your comments (and loved all of them, don't worry. Y'all made me laugh). And @charming2777 I agree with you about "Cigarette Smoke"
“Always for you,” he whispers, “because you are ever enough, more than enough, perfectly enough and better than enough. Now, can we try again?”
“Yeah,” you whisper, looking into those eyes that you love, eyes that look at you like they see you. “I think so.”
A part of you is already hurting knowing that when you step out of your vehicle, you will see Jack after so long without him, after so long cursing him and what he did and how he forgot you. How he never saw you at all.
But another part wants to try again, wants to see those eyes that look like sunlight slipping through autumn bare branches looking at you. Looking at you as if they see you. As if he sees you. You want that comfort that you found in his arms, you want to know that the four years of your life that you gave him weren’t for nothing.
You want to know that the life you gave him is still there. That the years you gave him weren’t a waste. That you’re not mistaking a mistake trying again.
You draw in a deep breath, your hands tight, clenching the faux-leather of your steering wheel so hard that a stiffness has invaded the joints, knuckles pulled so tight against your skin that you think they might just split it, skin tearing and fraying and your cartilage shining through, glimmering with your blood.
“You got this,” you whisper to yourself, reaching over and pressing the ignition button of your car, the vehicle shutting off, shutting down, engine cutting out and silence setting in, but a silence still so loud that it feels like white noise, like ringing in your ear. It takes a bit for you to get ready, both of your hands removed from the steering wheel, fingers curling and uncurling, over and over to try and get blood pumping again, get everything moving, feeling before you reach over, sliding your fingers against the smooth metal of the doorhandle, pulling it to you and pushing it open.
It’s cold, that’s the first thing you notice, the coolness of the air, the way it’s crisp, wrapping around your skin, slipping against you like ice cold fingers against bare, fevered skin. Winter is setting in, hence the boots on your feet and the coat on your upper body, legs just slightly exposed by the skirt you wear, the one with the slit up the thigh.
You place one boot covered foot down on the wet pavement, the one glimmering in the light of the city lamps, bright and white and unrelenting in their brightness. You step out fully, slamming your door behind you, pressing the lock on your keys before slipping them into the purse on your shoulder, the one you shift, thumb hooking underneath the strap, the rest of your hand resting on top of it, light, nails just pressing against the soft skin of your palms.
This is neighbourhood you don’t frequent, one known for the fancy places, like Michelin star restaurants—like the one you see Jack standing in front of, looking smart in a new, navy suit.
“What is this?” you call out to him, walking from your car up onto the sidewalk, towards him, irritation and rage simmering in your stomach, rising and burning in a way that is suspiciously like bile. “Why are we here?”
“This…is the date,” he says, his tone arrogant in the way men have when they think something should be obvious even though the only thing obvious about it is the way it shows they’ve never listened.
“You really don’t know me at all, do you?” you ask him, the sting of tears behind your eyes telling you that that part of you was right, that Parker was right: this was a mistake. Giving the man who has never seen you another chance is wrong.
“But…but it’s a nice restaurant, it’s fancy. Regina loved it,” he says and right there is the problem. The way her name and her preferences slip out automatically as if he’s geared to think that everything is just like her and that you can’t be your own person is the problem.
Because it shows he’s never listened to anything you said.
Because it shows that those four years were wasted on someone who didn’t deserve your time.
“Fuck off, Jack,” you say, spinning on your heel, feeling the grind of the kitten heel against the gritty, breaking concrete, the sound of wetness and dryness together as you turn from him, from the man who you keep giving the power to break your heart.
“Wait!” he calls out and you hear his footsteps behind you, heavy-footed and sure in only the way that a mancould. “What about our date?”
“It’s off, Jack!” you call out, glancing back at him. “It was a mistake to give you another chance. I was wrong. We can’t…” you pause, swallowing hard, not slowing down, not stopping because you know if you stop, you’ll convince yourself that being invisible is okay when it’s not. “We can’t work.”
“One more chance!” he yells out, his voice still hushed as if he’s embarrassed about making a scene, as if he doesn’t want to. “Please! One more chance!”
“Do better, Jack!” you reply, pausing for a moment. “Do better for someone else.” You begin walking away again, hands drifting to your ears to block out the sound of his voice because his voice has the kind of magic that makes you want to give in even when you really don’t.
You unlock your car with fumbling hands, the keys seeming to slip and slide against your damp palms, pulling open the door and slipping inside quickly, as quick as you can, pulling it closed with so much force that the car shakes around you, the locks clicking as you start it, buckling up as the engine rumbles to life, purring all around you, the radio blaring to life, a fitting song echoing over your speakers.
One you’ve listened to a fair bit in this year without him.
One it seems still fits you because you just can’t let go even when you should.
You drive away, refrains of pain reverberating through the cab, your cries sounding, tears burning tracks into your skin. You just can’t seem to let him go.
I regret you/And how long I stayed/I resent you/For not being brave, oh.
“Ellis!” Jack calls out, waving them over towards the stairwell, his back holding the heavy metal door open as he waits, a pit in his gut, the kind that comes with losing someone. Losing you. It’s a pit he knows well, one he felt that morning he woke up alone, your scent pressed into the folds of his sheets, but your body absent. Gone.
Like a memory in fabric.
“What is it?” they ask, arms crossed as they step past him into the stairwell, biceps flexing and eyes narrowed in a glare. They’ve been civil in the year without you, in the year of you healing and him breaking, but civility is not warmth, it is not agreeableness. It is simply working. It is listening and following what must be followed, no more, no less.
“Why did she leave the date?” he asks, the words not so much words, but one long unintelligible rush of exhalations and vague pronouncements. But Ellis understands. He knows by the way their nostrils flare, body tightens and leans forwards, threat hanging in those dark eyes.
“Why the hell would I ever help the man who broke my best friend’s heart?” they whisper, their tone steady and even, the scariest thing of all. Ellis is never calm like this, rather dry and sardonic and always moving. Never still or calm or steady or even. Never like this. No, this is the look of a predator and for once in his life, Jack Abbot feels like the prey.
“I took her to that Michelin star restaurant and she walked away, telling me I didn’t know her! What did I do wrong?!” He may feel like the prey, but he needs answers. He needs to understand. He needs to know.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” Ellis says, their tone dry, eyes rolling as they lean back, a long suffering sigh slipping from between their lips. “She hates those restaurants. She’s gone on long rants about them. And you apparently forgot or…what I favour and will tell her about…never listened at all. She thinks their portions are too tiny and promoting those plates as high end leads to complexes surrounding food. She also likes to eat. She’s a diner kind of girl, a diner with pie. Dessert for dinner. Fuck, man,” they grit their teeth, jaw hardened, set and a muscle ticking, “you should know this. Four years. Fuck.”
They push past him, slipping back into the ED, to Shen, something passed between the two of them, iPad in their hand, trauma room slipped into, their dry voice saying something to a patient.
Jack stands there, the doorhandle digging into the small of his back, metal cold, leaching through his scrubs, sending shivers down his spine as he stands there, unmoving, the absolutely devastated look on your face coming into view, swimming before him, a phantom of his continued fuck-ups.
He wonders if he’ll ever stop fucking up. Or if he’ll destroy you forever.
It’s a diner.
That’s the address he gave you, one sweet and homey, an awning covering the slightly smudged windows, so homey looking from the outside that you know the second you step inside it will smell like butter and sugar and frying foods. You know that the booths will be made of cracking vinyl, the kind that sticks to skin, to clothes, the kind that squeaks when you move on it. You know that the menus will have that plastic covering, the faux-leather binding, the plastic smudged and greasy against your fingers from years of people, of children.
It’s exactly the kind of place you love.
It’s exactly the kind of place that Parker told Jack about. You run your tongue along your teeth as you reach for the handle of the diner, pulling it open and stepping inside, the smell of butter and sugar and caramelized fruit hitting you like a wall as you hit your boots together, the small layer of snow that’s gathered on the sidewalks, knocked off onto the cheap rubber mat.
“Hi,” you hear Jack say and you glance up, taking in the sight of him rising, his grey curls shimmering in the low light of the diner and you press your lips together, nodding once and stepping forwards, coat still tight around you.
“I’m not staying,” you tell him when you reach him, left foot the centre of your weight, your right thrown forwards.
“Why not? You’re a diner kind of girl,” he says. “We could order pie for dinner. I hear the pie here is really good.” You can’t believe this fucker. You can’t believe that he really thought your best friend wouldn’t talk to you, tell you. Complain.
“You do realize that trying again means that you try again, right?” you whisper, your tone a hiss and voice cracking, tears stinging your eyes again.
“I did,” he says and he actually looks surprised. He looks surprised that you’re angry, that you’re telling him that he tried when he didn’t fucking try.
“Did you really think that Parker didn’t tell me you talked to them? They’re my best friend and you did exactlywhat they said. That’s not you trying, Jack. That’s called plagiarism and I don’t go out with plagiarizers. Sorry, not sorry,” you tell him, turning and walking away, walking tall and strong and proud, capable until you’re back out on the sidewalk.
It’s then, when you’re far enough from the lights and the windows of the diner that you let it out, that you let the tears fall, the liquid freezing on your face in the biting cold of the Pittsburgh winter.
Your coat is zipped up and you pull the hood of the puffer jacket up, blocking out the world. You don’t care if it’s not safe to do so.
You just need to hide your tears from prying eyes.
And you need to close the door on the man who makes you feel this way.
“I need the file on Geoff Fletcher,” you say, leaning onto the nurse’s station, the counter digging into the skin of your forearms. Gia looks up at you, eyebrows knitting together, her attention captured by something over your shoulder.
“Today, after our shifts,” you hear Jack say and you glance over your shoulder, your throat tightening, choking you for a moment, a thickness that is not quite tears, not quite not rising in you as your veins seem to simmer. “I’m taking you out.”
“You had your chances, Jack,” you say, turning back to Gia, lifting your eyebrows and she nods, pushing up from her chair to reach for the file folders to the side.
“I don’t think my chances were very fair,” he says and you spin around, your stethoscope following the movement, the bell slamming into your chest in a way that makes you cough, one you try to cover up as a scoff.
“I should just listen to Parker,” you tell him, leaning your back against the station, the digging in of the metal counter into your lower back reminding you of here and now, keeping you grounded because this is your floor and he and his hazel eyes like sun dappled branches have no place here.
She has no place here. The ghost of his wife, the woman you can never be, never see, has no place on the floor where you have built yourself. Where you have created a life.
“Listened to what?” he says and you can hear a thickness in his throat too. Because if you know Jack Abbot, and you do, those four years having given you a knowledge of him that is nearly comprehensive, you know that the one thing he hates the most is losing.
“That I should just go out with Brendon Park,” you say and his face changes, eyes shadowing, jaw hardening, set in a way that you can see, a shadow cast across his neck, his shadow on the carpeted floor rigid, unmoving. Unyielding.
“One more chance, sweet girl,” he whispers, eyes locked on you, tracking the path of your neck when you swallow, hard, your mouth growing dry, eyes looking anywhere but him. You can feel his irritation, his jealousy in the air and you wish it was for you and not just the fact, the idea that he could lose.
“Don’t fuck it up, Jack,” you tell him, lips pressing thin and he steps closer, his hand coming to rest on your cheek, calloused thumb against your cheekbone.
“I won’t fuck this one up,” he whispers, “but I will fuck up. It’s inevitable when you’re learning someone again. When you let yourself forget them.” He leans down, pressing his forehead to you and if you were stronger, you would pull away, would wrench away and slam your office door closed—or attempt to, since the doors on this floor don’t slam, but still.
“I don’t have the patience to watch you fuck up anymore, Jack,” you whisper, pulling away from like you should have before. “You should already know this shit. Brendon doesn’t even know me and he knows me better than you and you had four years. What were you doing? Who were seeing when you looked at me because it sure as hell wasn’t me.”
You walk away, walk into your office, pushing the door closed, the closing mechanism clicking and you flick the lock into place, locking him out of the office, of your life.
One last chance. No more, no less.
Thin ice.
“How did you know?” you ask, stepping out of your car, cowboy boot sinking into the snow-covered gravel, your hands in leather gloves. Jack stands just a few yards from the best taco truck in Pittsburgh, the one you frequent as often as you can, often with Ellis. Buying the tacos that are as big as your head, a beer often too.
“Because of this!” Jack calls out, holding up a thin piece of paper in his hands. You walk to him, careful of where you step on the icing over ground, slipping when you near him, his arms catching you, steadying you.
“What is it?” you ask, your tone light in only the way that tacos and the outdoors can make you. And only together do they work.
“The receipt from our first date,” he says, pressing it into your gloved hands. You lift it, pinching it between both hands, reading the fading printed letters, the inscriptions of the tacos and the drinks ordered, the date right. “You had insisted on planning the date, remember?” he continues. “I asked you out, five years ago now, and you said only if you got to pick the place…and this was it.”
You look past him, out at the expanse of frosted, snow-covered grass, the sun setting, turning the sky pink and purple and blue, your favourite time of day, street lamps coming on, casting soft ambient glows onto the street, pockets of bright light accompanied by shadow.
You can feel something inside of you shifting and switching, something returned and yet taken. You feel seen, but you can’t trust that feeling. You can’t…you can’t trust Jack.
But maybe…it wouldn’t hurt for one night.
“Where you’d find the receipt?” you ask him, pressing it back into his hand and stepping past him, boots crunching against the frozen grass, the pebbles.
“In a box,” he says and you pause, closing your eyes for a moment, remembering packing your things up into boxes when you moved in with him, remembering how fast you condensed your life down to four suitcases, things left behind that you never went back for. “One I kept with things over the years of us. It was in there.”
“And you remembered one date,” you say, looking back at him over your shoulder, eyes narrowed and nostrils flaring, eyelids feeling frozen in the cool winter air. “Do you expect a medal for that?”
“Just a chance,” he says and you roll your eyes and turn back to the truck.
“You’re paying,” you tell him and you hear him snort, feel his hand ghost along the small of your back, touch light, barely there, but present too.
“I expect nothing less, sweet girl,” he says, his breath coasting over the shell of your ear, goosebumps springing up along your arms even within your coat, the rub of the heightened skin against the plasticky material of your jacket strange and disjointed. A feeling in echo.
A feeling in echo because you feel seen and that takes centre-fold. Because…you may act caustic, but him remembering that date…it’s something.
And something is better than the nothing of before.
“Knock-knock,” Jack calls out, his knuckles rapping against the solid pressed wood door to your office. It’s slightly ajar, enough that he can hear the faint opening notes of music, songs that you like, lyrics that he’s cataloguing away because you were right on the redone first date—he didn’t deserve anything for remembering something he never should have forgotten.
How many times did the two of you go to diners and food trucks? Bakery trips in the early mornings feeling drunk on sex and hungry? How many times did he hear you rant and yet it never stuck until you were gone.
He had hoped that his speech and the gesture of the necklace, the fact that he was waiting, would have been enough to have you back in his life, completely, but it’s not. He’s realising now that he does not deserve easy. If he is to have you back completely, he has to prove that he’s worthy.
Hence, the bouquet of flowers in his hands, red roses and baby’s breath, the florist having explained that it was most romantic one on offer.
“Come in,” he hears you call out and he pushes the door open, stepping in and closing it softly behind him, gentle to a fault, not wanting to disturb you with a closure.
“Hey,” he says, stepping deeper into the room, one he’s never actually been in before and it takes him aback for a moment, the way it smells like sugar, vanilla, faint citrus notes in the air. It smells like you and it has your certificates and degrees on the wall, your combined MD/Ph. D and publications. The pictures on the shelf behind you of you and Ellis doing various things from teenhood to adulthood.
“Oh, hey, Jack,” you say, looking up from your computer where you’ve been typing fast, frantic really. You stand now, pulling your lab coat from your chair. “I can’t stay; I have to check on a patient.”
“Before you go,” he blurts out, removing the bouquet from behind his back and holding it out to you, “I brought you this.” He watches as your lip curls and he knows he messed up, he just doesn’t know how.
“You think flowers make up for what you did?” you ask, your hand pushing his back, the flowers pressing against his chest, petals crumpling against his scrubs.
“No! It’s just—well…the florist said—” he tries, but his words aren’t really flowing and he’s taken aback, but it doesn’t matter because you’re slipping your lab coat on and rolling your eyes.
“All that time dedicating yourself to saving lives, yet you bring me corpses. So romantic,” you remark, lips pursing as you walk away, pulling the door closed behind you, leaving him standing there holding the far too expensive bouquet crushed against his chest, realizing that you were right.
He never knew you at all.
But he wants nothing more than to know you. All of you.
You feel the smile growing on your face as you step into your office, a small pink pot sitting on it, dead-centre, holding a barrel cactus.
Not a corpse this time, sweet girl—Jack
“Clever, Abbot,” you whisper, pulling the sticky note off the pot, tucking it into your date planner, fingertips ghosting over the spines, the prick of the needles telling you it’s real.
He’s learning.
“I got you a gift,” Jack whispers, grabbing your wrist and pulling you through the ED into the open on-call room.
“Jack!” you hiss, pulling your arm from his grip as he closes the door, a box held in the hand which does so. “I have patients and a consult. What. Do you. Want?”
“Happy birthday,” he says, turning to you, his lips tugging up in that light-hearted, crooked grin he has that looks innocent even though it’s anything but. He holds the box out to you and you accept it, the box small and decorative, blue covered with golden swirls. You pull the lid off the box, feeling that tension that comes from removing an object from another when designed to fit together, air slowing down the motion.
Inside lies a key ring, one with a single brass key resting on it, the chain pink with gold lettering, spelling out my house is on pretty girl avenue.
“Jack,” you whisper, hooking your finger into the brass ring and pulling it forth, the offering dangling off the pad of your index finger. “What is this?” You already know, you don’t even need him to say it. You know it’s a key to his house and you know he’s going to ask you to move in and is this what this is? That he just can’t stand living alone?
That he needs you to be some warm body beside him? Is that what you are? His space heater?
“Move in with me,” he says, just like you knew he would. “Come home, sweet girl.”
“No, Jack,” you say, dropping the key unceremoniously into the box, shoving it at him, shaking your head as your chest constricts. “Why would I give you a gift on my birthday? You broke my fucking heart over four years! I’m not just…moving in with you again and pretending that didn’t fucking happen!”
“But—”
“—No, Jack! You still don’t see me and I’m done playing pretend!” You move to push past him, but he catches your wrist, his fingers hot on your skin. “Let go of me!”
“Come over tonight,” he whispers, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Please.”
“Fine,” you whisper, cursing yourself for being weak for this man, for the way he touches you like you’re something precious. “One last chance, Jack.”
You like this sight, Jack Abbot completely at your mercy, handcuffed to his bedframe and completely naked, looking at you like you are both his reckoning and his saviour. You remember how you came over and he started like he always does, calling you good girl and pretty girl and his and when you opened his bedside drawer for a condom, you found the handcuffs.
You said you wanted to use them and he asked how you wanted to be handcuffed and you told him that no, you wanted him handcuffed. And he obliged.
“God—” he cries now as you pull your shirt off, now completely naked yourself, climbing onto the bed, your lips curving in a way that promises mischief. You can see a bead of precum on the tip of his cock and you know he wants you, know he wants to touch you from the way his wrists jerk at their confines.
“You okay, Jackie?” you ask, your tone playful, too playful in a way as you sit back on your heels on the bed, your pussy exposed to him for a moment and you want to laugh at the way he licks his lips, irises almost entirely swallowed by his pupils. “Is this what you want?” you ask, your own hand slipping between your legs, slipping between your folds, stroking over them and circling your own clit.
He bucks his hips, his wrists, the skin of them chaffing against the metal of the cuffs, the key resting on the nightstand.
“Jackie!” you moan, your thumb pressing on your clit as you sink your own finger inside of you, feeling yourself, knowing exactly which areas of yourself to stimulate, dragging your knuckle down your walls.
“Pretty girl,” he groans, swallowing hard, his voice a rasp, voice no doubt dry, but you don’t change what you’re doing, simply shifting, your own fingers pumping in and out of yourself, thumb pressing on your clit as you bring yourself to the brink of an orgasm, one hand finding your breasts, tweaking your own nipple in the way he loves to do it. “Jesus!” he whispers as you cry out, your walls clenching around your fingers, fluttering slowly and then stopping, your orgasm over.
You shift, reaching your hand out to his lips, the fingers that were inside of you, slipping into his mouth. He sucks them clean, moaning as he does so, your heart rate picking up as he flicks his tongue against the pads of your fingers.
“What do you want now, Jack?” you ask, pulling your fingers from his mouth, him releasing them with a pop. “Do you want to be inside me?” You can see him gritting his teeth, hating this loss of control, hating this loss of dominance.
“Dealer’s choice, sweet girl,” he says and you’re going to make sure he regrets that as you slide back down the bed until your mouth hovers just inches above his dick. You watch as he swallows hard, his gaze locked on you, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Sweet girl?” he calls out and you smile at him, a kind of wicked smile before licking the drop of precum from the tip of his dick, his body jerking at the touch.
He tastes sour, salty, good in a way that you’d forgotten about. You swirl your tongue around the tip before placing your mouth on it, hollowing out your cheeks before flattening your tongue, drawing it from base to tip, once, twice, thrice, making sure to swirl it around the tip each time.
“Sweet girl!” he calls out as you place your mouth around his dick again, looking at him with wide doe eyes, eyes wide in a faux-innocence act. “I don’t want to cum in your mouth.”
“Oh?” you ask, pulling off his dick with a pop. “Then where do you want to cum?” He bites his lip, looking at you with a look that would promise trouble before, but not right now. Not when he’s handcuffed.
“You know where,” he says and you smile at him, sitting up, your hand coming to rest on his stomach, tracing down his happy trail, the muscles jerking beneath your fingers.
“You have to use your words, Jackie,” you tell him and he growls, actually growls at you, the sound making you want to giggle, except that it’s turning you, the slickness between your thighs growing.
“Inside. You,” he grits out and you rise, shifting to hover over his dick, swivelling your hips once before you sink down on him.
“All you had to do was ask,” you whisper and then you begin to ride him, your breasts bouncing with every up, down, swivel repeat. You can see in his eyes that he wants to touch you, wants to be in control with every jerk of his hips up, but he can’t do anything about it.
Rather you are in control, your hands resting on his chest, nails digging into his skin, leaving half-moon crescents as the coil in your stomach grows tighter and tighter and tighter every time you sink down on his cock, letting it drag against your walls as you rise up again.
“Jack!” you cry out as you fall forwards just slightly, your pussy clenching around him, your orgasm brought forth, but his not.
“Uncuff me, sweet girl,” he whispers, voice hoarse and you obey, rising off of him and shifting over, stepping off the bed, legs shaky as you do so, grabbing the key and unlocking them, pulling them off and setting them back on the night stand as he shakes out his wrists and looks at you with lifted brows. “Get on the bed, sweet girl,” he says, tone low, threatening in all the best ways.
You listen, climbing onto the other side and he shifts, his arms on either side of you, holding him up, his knee on the whole leg supporting his lower half for the most part and you don’t get to say anything before he’s back inside you, thrusting in completely, all of him inside of you on one thrust.
You can feel him inside of you, can feel him as he pulls out, no fanfare as he thrusts back in, the rhythm brutal and fast and unforgiving. But he makes up for it with his kisses, open-mouthed, tongues tangling and his mouth leaving hot trails up your neck.
“Are you,” he grunts, slamming up and into you, your breath leaving you in a cry, “going to be good?” he finishes his question as he pulls out, waiting, tip of his cock resting against your entrance.
“Yes,” you whisper and then he’s slamming back up and into you, over and over and over in that same brutal rhythm.
“Good,” he whispers, “because only good girls get to come.” It’s only a few more thrusts before you’re coming around him and he’s coming with you, inside of you, thick hot ropes that seem to fill you up (the condom having been forgotten when you found the cuffs).
He rolls over, shifting, pulling you against him, his chest heaving, glistening with a sheen of sweat, your body no doubt the same.
“Am I forgiven?” he asks and you tilt your head to look at him.
“For your birthday gift, yes. For the four years…no chance in hell.”
“Hey, pretty girl,” Jack says as the elevator opens, a cardboard drink container in his hand, holding two iced coffees, the Dunkin logo staring at you on the sweating plastic cups. “You got a sec?”
“No, Jack,” you tell him, shaking your head, lips pursing. “And I don’t drink coffee in the afternoons. You should know that.”
You didn’t like flowers, but you liked the cactus. You didn’t want to move in with him again, but you appreciated when he left you a drawer in his dresser. You didn’t like fancy restaurants, but you did like food trucks and diners. You weren’t a fan of wine, but you didn’t mind a beer once in a while.
You didn’t like old movies for the most part, but you loved them if they had Audrey Hepburn. You liked rock music, but not country. You didn’t like war movies, but you said that Saving Private Ryan was a classic that could not be missed.
You preferred horror movies, but also loved rom-coms, your favourite being The Princess Bride and When You Were Sleeping.
Jack Abbot had spent a year relearning you, all the quirks he’d missed, he’d kept trying even when you told him that he should probably stop because he’d never get it.
And you know why? Because you are his favourite puzzle and no one has ever made him feel like this, alive and challenged and so completely happy.
Learning you has been the greatest, most frustrating year of his life and he’d never change it for anything.
And he thinks, looking at the box in his hands, that he’s finally found the perfect gift for you.
“Hey,” Jack says, stepping into your office and you look up, taking note of the box in his hands, the fancy box wrapped with a giant purple ribbon. You glance back at your computer screen, looking at the date, at the fact that it’s just a random Tuesday afternoon.
“What’s with the gift?” you ask. “What did you do wrong?” He sets it down on your desk, movements gentle and confident at the same time.
“Nothing,” he says, sitting down in the chair in front of your desk, adjusting his prosthetic as you pull the box towards you, lifting the lid and peering in. Inside, on a bed of tissue paper, rests a leather book bound with leather string. You lift it out, flipping it open to see Jack’s chicken scratch writing spelling out My life’s greatest achievement has been learning you, sweet girl.
“Jack?” you whisper, flipping past the first page to see…a scrapbook. Receipts and pictures from a polaroid, the one you remember him always bringing with him, little quotes underneath each picture, telling you what he learned each time, the little things he’d picked up on. The things he’d never forget.
“Do you like it?” he asks and he sounds hesitant and you don’t know why he would because here before you is proof that he sees you. That he has spent a year doing nothing but seeing you.
“Jack,” you whisper, tears in your eyes, your sinuses, your throat thick as you look up, vision just the tiniest bit blurry from the tears lining your eyes. “It’s perfect. You…” you pause, swallowing hard around the growing lump in your throat, setting the book down and placing both hands on the cover as if it’s the most precious thing in the world. Because it is. “You see me.”
“You’re impossible to miss, pretty girl,” he whispers, reaching out and taking one of your hands in both of his, pressing a kiss against it. “I don’t know how I did for so long, but I never will again.”
“Feels right,” Jack says as he collapses the last of the boxes, your clothes and belongings once again back in his house. Your house now too.
“What? Me living here?” you ask.
“No,” he says, reaching for your hand and pulling you against him, “you being in my life.”
“Yes. Yes, Jack, I will marry you,” you whisper as he slips the ring back on your finger, another year of him learning, of his life rearranging, his left finger bare for the first year, waiting for the ring to you.
“Thank god, pretty girl,” he whispers, two tears slipping down his cheeks as he cups your face, pulling you to him, pressing a soft and yet heated kiss to your lips. “Because I want nothing more than to be your husband.”
“I vow to always keep trying. To never stop trying. I vow,” he says, “to always remind you that you are everenough, more than enough, perfectly enough and better than enough every day. I vow to never make you feel unseen. I vow to listen when you speak because you’re everything. Because you understand me. I vow to you the rest of my life.” You can’t fight the tears that slip down your cheeks as you smile, laughing just slightly, a watery laugh that makes him smile at you, tear tracks on his own face from when he watched you walk down the aisle in your dress.
“Then,” Robby says, his voice thick and happy, “if there are no objections, I now pronounce you woman and husband.” You can’t help but laugh at Robby’s word choice, stolen from Enola Holmes 3, the movie you made him and Jack watch when it came out. “You may now kiss the husband.”
And you do, stepping forwards and placing your hands on his stubble covered cheeks, drawing him down into a kiss.
And this kiss doesn’t taste like fire or ash or burning. It tastes like love and light and second chances. The kind that works.
“God, I love you, sweet girl,” he whispers when you pull back and you smile at him, a happy one.
“Ditto, Jack.” And in this moment, with the way he’s looking at you, you know that he’s been speaking true.
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summary: working at the hospital morgue didn't exactly endear you to the emergency room staff, especially when you're always cracking jokes. you think Jack might be warming up to you, but are quickly proven wrong when he berates you in front of the department after an ill-timed joke.
tags/warnings: sfw just a steamy kiss, big time angst, morgue technician!reader, socially awkward reader, discussions of death and grief (seriously, a lot of talk about death and grieving), mean Jack :(, age gap (not specified, but i wrote her as being between 28-30), mean girl nurses, medical inaccuracies probably
wc: 8.9k
a/n: baby's first request!!! feeling very nervy about this one as its my first time writing angst so please be kind <3 it turned into much more of a meditation on death than i expected but i hope you enjoy the jack angst!! also please go read @nightpitt's take on this request!!! it was incredible <3 (and in the future please don't send me requests that you've sent to multiple other authors, it makes me uncomfy)
credits: gif credits to @vanillarot <3
Majorie Deacons, 83. Survived by her husband, Harold, of 62 years, her three children–Mary, Thomas, and Steven–and 10 grandchildren. Worked as a paralegal for 48 years before retiring to the Poconos with Harold. Moved back to Pittsburgh when she got sick. Died from sepsis as a result of her cancer-weakened immune system.
That was all you knew of the woman laying in front of you, her skin pale and body unnaturally still. You thought about her life as you removed her engagement and wedding ring, the crucifix pendant around her neck, the diamond bracelet around her frail wrist–all logged securely for the family to pick up at their convenience.
You thought about her life, about the 83 years she spent on this earth. Where did she grow up? Was Harold her high-school sweetheart, or did they meet in college, or a bar? Did they travel? What sights did they see, how many sunsets did they share? Did she remember exactly where she was when Kennedy was assassinated, like most older folks did? Did she like red lipstick or pink? When did her hair turn white–did she hate it or did she embrace it?
Did she feel welcomed by death, or did she fight it kicking and screaming?
83 years, such a long life and yet still not long enough for the people who loved her.
You spent a lot of time grieving people you’d never met before as a morgue technician. It was a tough job–one spent with people on the worst days of their lives. Sure, you weren’t the one responsible for saving lives–didn’t have a relationship with the patient while they were living–but sometimes you thought maybe it was worse in a way. You learned about these people from their families, from the people so deeply grieving their loved one that often all you felt was gut-wrenching sadness for the hole that now lived in these people’s hearts. You didn’t get the benefit of seeing them interact with their loved ones, didn’t get to know their personality or see their quirks. All you experienced was the grief their loss wrought, not the joy their life had created.
You liked being there for people, though. Death is not something Americans are accustomed to talking about openly, the aftermath of losing a loved one often impersonal and shrouded in mystery. Especially at the hospital, it often felt more clinical than anything else, with procedure and policy often taking center stage over the deceased.
You liked bringing a sense of humanity to the process; liked to have the families reminisce about their loved ones, liked getting to know them through the people who cherished them the most despite the deep ache it sometimes left in your chest.
You learned about Marjorie upstairs, from the family as you collected the body, and you’re looking forward to learning more about her when the family comes to collect her effects. You found that getting people to talk about the person they lost made it easier to discuss funeral and transport arrangements. You didn’t want them to feel like they were just another box to check off your to-do list.
A knock on the door pulled you from your thoughts.
“Hey, we got another one upstairs. Transport’s been taking forever tonight,” Elise, your boss, said, rolling her eyes. “They have one job: get the body from point A to point B. What gives?”
You shrugged, sighing as you finished cataloging all of Marjorie's effects. “I’ll be back soon,” you said, squeezing her hand gently before making your way to the elevators, up to the emergency department.
Transport was supposed to, well, transport the body. But they were often backed up for one reason or another, and delays in moving the body meant a valuable room remained occupied when it could otherwise be used for another patient. So, more often than not, Elise sent you up to grab the body and bring it back down for processing. It was faster that way, and often gave the family some peace knowing that their loved one wasn’t just sitting in the emergency room.
You didn’t mind, exactly. As much as you enjoyed the quiet and solitude of the mortuary, you liked peaking your head up in the ED and seeing the hustle and bustle there, the way it teemed with life as well as death, even at night.
And it didn’t hurt that the senior night shift attending was perhaps the most handsome man you’d ever laid eyes on. You’d had a crush on him since you met him, your introduction being maybe one of the most embarrassing moments of your life.
It was your first time up in the emergency department, the incessant beeping and constant chatter a stark difference to the quiet morgue–if people were talking down there, something was seriously wrong.
You’d been taken on a brief tour by the charge nurse, Lena, who gave you a rundown of the transport procedure. You met a few of the residents, Dr. Ellis and Dr. Crus, and a handful of nurses, all of whom seemed nice enough.
But you almost stopped dead in your tracks when you met the kind hazel eyes of the graying, curly-haired man standing at the nurses station.
“And this is Dr. Abbot, senior night shift attending. You’ll need his or Dr. Shen’s signature whenever you transport a body,” Lena introduced you, “Dr. Abbot, this is the new morgue technician. She graciously offered to help with transport.”
You held your hand out, brain nearly turning to mush when he shook it. His palm was rough, calloused from many years of working with his hands, and unbelievably warm. His hand also dwarfed yours, which sent a tingle down your spine.
“New morgue technician?” he asked, “Well, no offense, but I hope we don’t see you too much around here,” he joked with an easy smile on his face.
“I guess that remains to be seen,” you said, and followed it up with a ‘ba dum tss’ sound effect and finger guns. Yes, you really did that.
The joke didn’t land; they never did. Jack cocked his head to the side, an almost-smile gracing his lips, and shot you an inquisitive look, like he was trying to figure you out.
His intense stare made your cheeks heat and your tummy swirl. You weren’t sure if you were aroused or uncomfortable, or some combination of both.
You couldn’t get out of there sooner.
It felt like you could never get your foot out of your mouth when Jack Abbot was around. And so the cycle began: get called up to retrieve a body, make an ill-timed joke, embarrass the hell out of yourself, and return back to the safety of the morgue as quickly as possible.
You never made jokes in front of patients or families; you knew that it was something strictly reserved for your peers, people you thought understood the challenges you all face in healthcare–and deathcare.
You weren’t sure why it seemed physically impossible for you not to use humor as a defense mechanism. Part of it was the nature of your job–gallows humor was a coping mechanism you latched onto and couldn’t seem to shake off. It was the same way some people laughed when they were nervous or panicked–a reaction to pent up emotions and stress that manifested as humor instead of as tears.
But you’d also always been like this, trying to diffuse uncomfortable situations with humor instead of meeting them head on, or making a joke at your own expense before someone else could. It hurt less that way, if you could subvert something painful into something lighthearted.
You’d always been admonished for it, by your parents, friends, partners. Had been told that it was inappropriate and that you were too crass, too loud, too much. Which was probably true. It confused you, though, how some people did bond over humor, in the occasional callousness of it, when you were criticized for it. That was something you’d never been able to work out, how it was always wrong when you did it; why you’d never been able to bond with people the same way others did. Well, there was a reason you worked the night shift at a morgue, after all.
You pushed those thoughts away and instead tried to talk yourself up as you stood in the elevator, willing yourself not to be weird.
“Hey, Lena, heard you got another customer for me?” you grinned at her, leaning against the nurses station.
“Sure do, sweets. Her name is Cary West,” she replied with a soft smile. Lena, at least, seemed to like you. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.
She pointed you to the correct room, where Mateo was cleaning up the body. You stood silently as he finished, taking a moment to honor the person they were and the people they’re leaving behind. These moments always felt weird–liminal, in a way. No longer a patient, but not yet ready for the funeral home–they were entrusted in your care in the meantime.
There was no family in the room, which wasn’t abnormal for night shift. Folks had gone home, to sleep or cry or do whatever else one does to process the grief. You always hope you’ll meet the family of the deceased, but you’re not holding on hope on this one. It was 4am, the family would likely be back during the day to take care of funeral arrangements and Ms. West would be long gone by then. Still, though, you thought about her life, her wants, her dreams–tried to insert some humanity where it had been lost.
“Sorry you had to come back up so soon, I know you just got down there with Ms. Deacons,” Mateo said quietly, pulling the sheet over her head.
“Oh no worries, I don’t mind. It's not like she’s gonna talk my ear off.”
He just shook his head at your joke, unimpressed and unamused.
“Looks like Dr. Abbot is at the nurses station. C’mon, and we’ll get the transfer paperwork signed,” he said, holding the door open for you to push the gurney through.
Dr. Abbot looked worn out. His eyes were tired, and the kind smile he usually sported was replaced by a slight frown and a furrow between his brows. His shoulders were drawn up tight, the tension built up there almost looking painful. It must have been a rough night.
You greeted him with a soft smile, and handed over the clipboard for his signature, which he promptly filled out.
He handed you the clipboard before turning his attention back to the gurney. His jaw was clenched tight, a pained look on his face as he squeezed Ms. West’s hand peeking out from the blanket.
“Treat her well for us, please,” he said, voice hoarse.
“Always do, I wouldn’t want to know what the reaper-cussions would be if I didn’t,” you joked before you could think better of it, cringing internally at your lack of tact.
There was a split second of silence, the tension simmering hotly before fully boiling over.
“Jesus fucking christ, can you be serious for one fucking second? This is a hospital, not a fucking comedy club. There are people grieving here. You need to learn to be an adult and keep your fucknig mouth shut,” he boomed, his face red and chest heaving.
He was looming over you now as he spit out, “get the fuck out of my ED.”
Your ears were ringing. You weren’t sure if the department had actually fallen silent or if you’d just temporarily lost the ability to hear.
You couldn’t breathe, oxygen not flowing properly into your lungs. It felt like you’d been punched in the gut, all the air sucked out and replaced with lead.
“S-sorry,” you stuttered out, cheeks burning and throat closing in on itself. Tears were building up quickly in your eyes, but you weren’t going to cry in front of these people; you weren’t going to give them the satisfaction.
You gripped the edge of the gurney and pushed ahead, desperate to get out of there as fast as humanly possible. No one stopped you, no one offered any apologies or sympathies, just watched your humiliated form disappear into the elevator.
The minute the elevator doors closed the tears fell, the hot trails burning your face as you tried to conceal your sobs.
“I’m s-sorry, Ms. West, I shouldn’t be crying like this. I don’t really have much to be upset about in comparison,” you apologized to the corpse, feeling guilty for being so upset when you were literally transporting a dead woman.
You managed to calm yourself down before you reached the morgue. You didn’t want to explain what happened to Elise, didn’t want to recount every embarrassing detail that was already replaying in your head.
You soothed yourself with routine, with the repetitive motions of logging personal effects, filling out reports, and contacting the funeral home to make arrangements.
By the time 7AM rolled around, you were more than ready to get the hell out of there.
The sun is blinding against your puffy eyes. The past two days were a blur, mostly spent crying and replaying the incident over and over. You called out of work, citing a stomach bug. Which wasn’t all that untrue–the thought of encountering anyone in the hospital did make you feel violently ill.
You had already put in for a transfer to day shift, feigning some excuse about your school schedule changing. You couldn’t wait to finish your studies and officially become a mortician. You’d leave the hospital and start your own business, helping people through the grieving and burial process in your own way.
And maybe you’d never have to see Jack Abbot ever again. The thought was as relieving as it was devastating, because you liked him. And you were starting to think maybe he liked you too–at least as a friend or acquaintance.
It was a slow night, which you were thankful for. It meant there weren’t any bodies in the morgue–that there weren’t any deaths so far tonight. So you weren’t too bent out of shape when you got shipped up to the ED to collect a body.
You found Dr. Abbot quickly, signed the necessary paperwork, and wheeled the body out to central.
“Thanks for picking up, I don’t know what the hell’s going on with transpo tonight,” he said.
“Don’t worry about it, we’re actually empty right now. There’s no body there,” you said, a cheeky grin crossing your lips.
And Jack laughed. A full-on, deep-throated laugh. It was one of the most beautiful sounds you’d ever heard. Your chest swelled with pride, and all you could think about was making him do it again.
He shook his head at you, smile still lingering on his face, “what makes a girl like you want to work night shift at the morgue?”
“Girl like me?” you asked coyly, raising your eyebrow at him.
He assessed you, eyes flitting over your face, “yeah, young, smart… pretty.”
You flushed at that, your body getting all warm and tingly, “well, I’m not a mourning person, for one,” you joked, earning another laugh from Jack.
“I, uh, I’m in school for mortuary science,” you continued, giving him a real answer, “I want to be a mortician when I’m done.”
“That’s… admirable,” he said, “you don’t get the glory of saving lives but you do get all the dirty work. Good for you.”
Jack’s attention made you feel like you were on fire–like a white hot ball of flame that would spread given the littlest bit of ammunition. His stare was brazen, unapologetic–you couldn’t look away if you tried.
You cleared your throat, breaking some of the tension, “I guess I should probably get him downstairs,” you said, gesturing to the gurney in front of you.
“I’ll walk you to the elevator,” Jack said, moving to stand by your side. He rested his hand on the small of your back as he guided you to the elevators. The touch was electrifying–you could feel the warmth radiating from him through the layers of scrubs. He was close enough now that you could smell the warm amber of his cologne mixed with his own musky scent. You felt dizzy, and all you wanted to do was press yourself against him, to nestle yourself in the crook of his neck and inhale.
He pressed the button for the elevator when you arrived and helped you wheel the gurney in.
“It was good seein’ you, pretty girl,” he said, and just as the elevator doors were closing, he winked at you.
You were surprised you didn’t turn into a puddle right then and there.
Your chest twisted at the memory. Maybe that’s why his words hurt so much–why they’d sunk into the marrow of your bones, confirming that he thought as lowly of you as you already thought of yourself. He’d given you hope, shown you kindness where no one else in the ED had.
It was stupid, anyway. Thinking that a man like Jack Abbot could feel anything other than disdain for someone like you. Of course the hot, older, accomplished attending wouldn’t want anything to do with the awkward morgue technician.
Every time you thought about it, your heart ached, a dull pang ringing through your chest and reverberating through your body. Tears pooled in your eyes at the mere thought of the incident. It felt like you were back in high school, asking Alex Williams to the school dance just to have him laugh in your face and say he wasn’t going to go with a freak.
You couldn’t dwell on it, though. You had a job to do, bills to pay. You could only hope that day shift was better, or that you could whip yourself into shape and keep your comments to yourself.
“Jesus, why is the body in north 2 still there?” Jack asked, eyes trained on the board ahead of him. Wait times were astronomical and chairs was full to the brim–the sooner they moved the deceased out, the sooner they could move a new patient in.
“Not sure, I called transpo an hour ago, but you know how concerned they are with being timely,” Lena responded.
“What about the morgue? Why haven’t they sent anyone to collect the body?”
Lena looked at him over the top of her glasses, an unimpressed look on her face.
“Oh, you mean that sweet girl who helps us out by transporting bodies when transpo is dicking around? The one you screamed at in front of the entire department? Gosh, I can’t think of a reason she’s not chomping at the bit to come up here,” she deadpanned, fixing Jack with a glare. “Last I heard she switched to day shift. Said she had some personal schedule conflicts, but I think we both know that’s not true.”
Jack winced, guilt coursing through him. He hadn’t meant to make such a scene, to be so cruel. It had just been such a monumentally horrible day, his chest wound so tight and hackles raised that your little joke set him off. It was stupid, too, because Jack had easily made far worse jokes at far more inappropriate times.
It could have easily been anyone else that he snapped at, would have been, if you weren’t there. But you were, and so you bore the brunt of his wrath.
He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been replaying the look on your face, the way it crumpled and tears welled up in your pretty eyes. He remembered how your breath hitched, how you shrunk in on yourself and ran away as fast as you could.
It made his chest ache to think about. He wanted to find you, to apologize, but he thought he might just make it worse. And selfishly, he wasn’t sure he was ready for the conversation that would ensue. He assumed he’d see you up here at some point, where he could take you aside and beg for forgiveness–he didn’t think you’d rearrange your entire work schedule just to avoid seeing him.
He wasn’t sure why he acted so indifferently toward you. Or rather, he did–he just didn’t want to acknowledge the way you made him feel. You made him feel giddy–made his face warm and his heart race, like a teenage boy flirting with a pretty girl for the first time. He briefly tried flirting with you, but he was pretty sure you were oblivious to it–either that or you didn’t feel the same. He was hoping for the former.
He hadn’t felt this way about someone since he started dating his wife. Frankly, it made him uncomfortable to think about, made him feel like he was betraying her in some way. He knew that wasn’t true, knew that his wife would want him to be happy, but he just couldn’t shake the feeling.
He’d been talking about it with his therapist, trying to cope with these feelings–trying to get up the courage to ask you out.
And the kicker was he was going to, he was getting bolder, complimenting you and finding any excuse to, respectfully, put his hands on you. And now he’s fucked it all up.
“Shit,” he muttered, scrubbing his hands down his face.
“Yeah, shit. I suggest you take your ass down there and apologize. Properly.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll handle it,” he said absent-mindedly, already wracking his brain for the right words to say to you.
The change to day shift was brutal. Your body wasn’t used to waking up when you were supposed to be going to bed, and vice versa. You were also working less hours to accommodate your school schedule, which was the reason you were on night shift to begin with. But you took it in stride the best you could. Lemonade out of lemons, and all that.
You’d been up to the ED a couple times since the incident, feeling as awkward as ever even though most of them weren’t on shift when Dr. Abbot berated you. You covered day shift a few times, so you weren’t completely unfamiliar with the staff. Dr. Robby seemed nice enough, though you never stuck around long enough to build rapport. It was in and out from now on, speaking as little as you could before you retreated back to the morgue.
You wished you could flat out refuse to go up there, but you didn’t want to punish innocent people just waiting for a bed. The sooner you got the bodies to the morgue, the sooner someone else could be seen by a doctor.
Right now, though, you were sat at your desk, filling out log reports and finishing up paperwork before you inevitably got another body. It was monotonous work, yes, but calming in a way. The mindless action gave your brain a break between decedents–gave you a chance to mourn the person and compartmentalize it away before it ate away at you.
You faintly heard the door at the end of the hall open and close, and assumed Elise was taking her lunch break.
That is, until you heard a painfully familiar voice call out, “Hello? Anybody in here?”
Oh no, why is he here? Attendings rarely visited the morgue–usually only if there was a particularly complex cause of death that they wanted to further examine. But there were no such cases right now, the only bodies currently in custody being a run of the mill STEMI and a GSW to the head–both pretty self-explanatory.
And the night shift hadn’t started yet, the clock reading 5:34pm. There’s no plausible reason for Jack Abbot to be down here right now.
His steps were getting louder–he was almost at your office now.
You panicked. That is the only explanation you have for scrambling up from your desk and darting into the small storage closet to your left. You pressed yourself against the wall to the side, out of view of the frosted glass window. Was this the mature course of action? Absolutely not. But you weren’t sure you could handle seeing him right now. You hadn’t seen him since the incident, had done everything in your power to avoid any and all interactions.
He called out again, and you could see his silhouette standing in the doorway of your office.
Eyes closed, you took deep breaths to try and calm your rapidly beating heart. Hopefully he’d see the empty room and take his leave quickly.
It was quiet, and for a moment you thought he’d left until–knock knock.
“I could be crazy, but I’m pretty sure I heard someone stumble into this closet and slam the door shut,” he said, a hint of amusement in his tone.
You didn’t answer, hoping maybe you could convince him he was crazy.
The doorknob rattled, and you instinctively grabbed it, pulling it with all the force you could muster to keep it closed. You weren’t sure why–surely he was much stronger than you and could rip the door open if he really wanted to. And god, why was thinking about how strong he was making you flustered?
It’s not that you were scared of him, you were just… woefully unprepared for this conversation. Despite ruminating over the incident itself, you hadn’t actually pictured a scenario where you’d ever speak to him again. Hadn’t had time to go over it a million times in your head, coming up with the best comeback and constructing the perfect barb to lodge in his soft underbelly, the way he’d done to you.
He sighed, resting his forehead against the glass. “Look, I just wanted to apologize for the other day, if you’ll give me the chance.”
You chewed on the inside of your cheek, considering. You’re not sure that an apology will do much for you, not sure that it’ll quell the pit in your stomach that’s opened and doesn’t show any sign of closing.
You nodded to yourself anyway, letting out a quiet, “go ahead.”
He chucked lightly, “face-to-face, if you don’t mind.”
Damn him, you groaned internally. Taking a deep breath, you slowly opened the door. Jack stood opposite you, hands tucked into the pockets of his scrubs. You crossed your arms and fixed your gaze on your scuffed up shoes, the thought of looking him in the eye daunting and exciting at the same time.
He let out a deep breath, “I’m really sorry for how I acted the other night. It was an exceptionally shitty night, and it wasn’t your fault but I took it out on you when I shouldn’t have.”
You nodded, appreciated the effort it took to come down here and apologize. It did little to soothe your bruised heart, though. There was still a painful twinge in your chest, his words having already wormed their way into your brain and confirmed every worst thought you had about yourself.
“Thank you, Dr. Abbot, apology accepted,” you said curtly, moving past him to get back to your desk.
He stopped you, his hand resting on the bare skin just above your elbow. Goosebumps prickled against your skin from the roughness of his palm. You hated how your body craved more, how you wanted him to slide his hand up to your neck, tilt your head back and kiss you. Traitor.
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw, “that woman that night, the one you picked up, she died of ovarian cancer,” he said. He looked conflicted, eyes flinty and mouth twisted to the side like he was warring with himself as he bit out the next words, “that’s how–my wife–she died of ovarian cancer.”
Oh. You didn’t know that, didn’t even know he had a wife. Your eyes drifted to his left hand and saw the slightly lighter patch of skin there. Your heart ached and your defenses softened just a tad at the revelation. You could only imagine what it would feel like to lose a patient in the same manner you lost the person closest to you, could imagine the ugly emotions it would pull out of you. It didn’t make what he said okay, but you understood the circumstances that led him to say it.
“And before that we had a kid who died from drowning, and a couple close calls, and a bunch of Dr. Google bullshit. And your joke was just… the straw that broke the camel’s back. But I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, not like that and not in front of everybody. That wasn’t fair to you, and I’m truly sorry,” he said, and you could feel the sincerity dripping from his words. His eyes were soft and pleading as he looked at you, and once again you found yourself unable to look away.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know that–about your wife,” you said softly, not wanting to make it any more painful than it already was, “and I’m sorry about the joke. I know it’s not appropriate, and I’ve been trying to stop, but you know how hard it is to quit unhealthy coping mechanisms,” a small smile lifting the corner of your lips.
He shook his head, “please don’t, you have nothing to apologize for. Gallows humor is how we all get by; I can’t tell you how many off-color jokes I’ve told in my day. It was really the pot calling the kettle black, if I'm being honest,” he said, “If it wasn’t you who set me off, it would’ve been Ellis or Shen, or some other unsuspecting person. I promise you it had so much more to do with me than it did with you.”
You nodded, accepting his explanation. You felt a little lighter, a little less burdened by his words.
“I’d like to make it up to you, if you’ll let me,” he said, “maybe coffee or dinner, if you’re up for it?”
You shook your head, “That’s really not necessary, Dr. Abbot. I meant it, I accept your apology, you don’t have to do anything else.”
He nodded at that, looking a little deflated but otherwise satisfied that you’d accepted his apology.
Jack felt the need to make it up to you anyway.
It started with coffee after his shift ended. The first time, he brought you the most insane coffee order you’d ever seen–a mocha cappuccino with 5 extra shots of espresso, pistachio syrup, vanilla cold foam, caramel AND white mocha drizzle, and salted caramel topping–a monstrosity borne from a recommendation from the woman ahead of him in line. You’re not sure how you didn’t immediately get cavities in all of your teeth.
You couldn’t lie, though, the fact that he made the effort to go out and get coffee after his 12 hour shift was endearing, and once you gave him your coffee order, he got it right each and every time.
It became routine over the next month for Jack to bring you coffee, and even though you didn’t have much time to talk in the morning, you began looking forward to the 10-15 minutes of conversation you shared with him each morning. You never discussed what this was, if it meant anything or if it was just a kind gesture between friends. You certainly hoped it meant something, but you weren’t going to get your hopes up.
You were catching up on paperwork when his text came through.
Jack: Can’t make it for coffee this morning, sweetheart, how about I bring you lunch later?
Your cheeks heated at the pet name. He hadn’t called you that before, and you hoped you weren’t reading into it.
You: sounds great, see you later :)
You spend the morning counting down the minutes until Jack showed up. It only slightly hindered your progress on your paperwork, your mind only occasionally wandering off to think about his pretty pink lips.
It’s noon before you know it, and someone’s rapping their knuckles on the door frame to your office.
“Knock, knock,” Jack said, shooting you a smile as he walked over to your desk. He set down a truly alarming amount of food. You laughed as he took out container after container, the sack resembling a clown car more than a fast food bag.
“I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I got a variety,” he said, a little bashfully, “you can take home whatever’s left for dinner or lunch tomorrow.”
You selected what you wanted from the smorgasbord he presented you with, and settled into the chair next to him.
It was a little awkward at first. Most of the conversations you’d had with him up to this point were pretty surface level. Even your coffee chats were light-hearted affairs that didn’t really go deeper than what you did over the weekend.
But Jack didn’t let it stay awkward for long, as if he knew that once you started talking, he’d be hard-pressed to get you to stop.
“So, I realized that despite our coffee talks, I don’t really know that much about you. How long have you been a mortuary tech?”
“About a year and a half. I got the job after I started school for mortuary science. Before that I taught for a little bit, but I didn’t really like it and I don’t think I was much good at it. I was a bartender for a long time too.”
“So what made you make the jump to mortuary school?”
“I studied anthropology in college and death culture always really fascinated me, especially the way different cultures deal with grief and the burial process. America is so sanitized, so averse to looking at death straight on. We think death needs to be palatable, that the deceased need to look exactly as they did in life to avoid accepting the fact that our bodies are fundamentally different after death–that they are on their way to being absorbed back into the earth.
“I think the way we treat people in death is just as important as how we treat them in life. To some people, that person on the table is just an assemblage of bones and flesh, but to others that was a friend, a mother or daughter, father or son. And I figured as a mortician, I’d be in a position to offer families the kind of support that helps them work through their grief, not just hide it behind pretty floral arrangements.”
You felt a little shy at the rapt expression on Jack’s face. He was giving you his undivided attention, listening intently to every word that came out of your mouth. You’re not sure any man has ever listened to you as attentively as he was now. Yes, the bar was in hell, but it didn’t make it any less hot.
“Sorry, that was a lot, I didn’t mean to info dump on you,” you said sheepishly.
He shook his head, “Please info dump, I could listen to you talk all day,” he said honestly, “do you want to continue working at the hospital when you’re done or do you want to start your own practice?”
“I don’t think I’ll stay here. I mean, I like helping people through the immediate grief, but I think I just want to help grieving families lay their loved ones to rest in a way that honors the life they lived. I don’t care about selling fancy caskets or high-dollar cemetery plots, I just want to narrow it down to what really matters to preserving and celebrating the individual that was lost.”
Jack nodded, “I don’t remember a lot about planning my wife’s funeral–Robby helped a lot with that–but I do remember it being really… almost commercial, in a way? Like, ‘do you want cedar or oak for the coffin? Do you want the casket lined in silk or velvet?’” he said, laughing bitterly, “like it was a fashion show or something, not the vessel my wife was going to be buried in. I couldn’t give less of a fuck what the damn thing was lined in.”
You laid your hand on top of his, giving it a comforting squeeze as he continued. It made your heart swell that he felt comfortable enough to talk about his wife with you.
“I mean, they were very compassionate, but it always felt like a business–which I get, we’re a capitalist society, but that’s not exactly what you want to feel when you’re burying someone,”
You nodded, “that’s probably the thing that bothers me the most about this industry. Sometimes it seems like profit is the priority, and the real, hurting people come second.”
Jack just looked at you with soft eyes, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling as he smiled at you. He turned your hand over in his, tracing the lines of your palm with his thumb.
“I think you’re going to be an amazing mortician,” he said, without an ounce of amusement or teasing, just pure honesty. “I think you’re exactly the kind of person that people want around them when they're going through the worst days of their lives.”
You couldn’t help the tears that pricked at the corners of your eyes. It was the kindest thing someone had said to you about your career path, except maybe Elise. And it was nice to shed happy tears over something Jack Abbot said instead of embarrassed ones.
You talked long after your lunch break was over, but Elise was out and you didn’t have any pressing work to get to at the moment, so you figured there was no harm, no foul.
But eventually he had to leave to get ready for his shift, and you did have work to do, though you’d gladly forsake it for a few more minutes with him.
You got up to dispose of your trash and walked him to the door.
“Lunch was really nice,” he murmured, resting his hand on your arm, right above your elbow.
Your breath hitched at the contact and goosebumps prickled up and down your arms. You gaze was locked on his, unable to look away, “yeah, I really enjoyed it,” you said breathily, your heart already racing.
He moved closer, settling his hands on your waist, and backed you up slowly until the back of your knees hit your desk.
You leaned back against your desk, widening your stance to allow Jack to step between your legs. His body was warm against you, his hands running up and down your sides soothingly.
“Is this okay, sweetheart?” he asked, his hand coming up to cradle your jaw. You could feel his breath against your lips, so close but still so far away.
You nodded, a pathetic mewl leaving your lips without permission. It was embarrassing how badly you wanted to kiss this man.
He pressed closer, his lips just barely grazing yours, his nose slightly bumping your cheek. You wrapped your arms loosely around his neck, eyes fluttering shut as you moved to close the miniscule distance between your lips–
CLANG!
The door down the hall slammed shut, and hurried footsteps approached your office.
You nearly jumped out of your skin and stumbled back onto the desk, out of Jack’s grasp. He seemed just as shocked, his hand clutching his chest in surprise.
A second later Elise came rushing into the room, saying something about a mass casualty event and how you needed to make as much room down here as you could to prepare for the inevitable. You nodded, turning to Jack to apologize, but he beat you to it.
“Shit, I gotta go, sweetheart, they’re probably gonna call all-hands-on-deck,” he said, a genuinely mournful look on his face.
“Yeah, of course. I hope it’s not too bad,” you said, equally as disappointed, but understanding. Duty calls.
He wrapped you up in a tight hug, your cheek resting against his firm chest. You closed your eyes and allowed yourself to savor his embrace for a moment before he had to go.
“We’ll finish this later, yeah?” he asked against your hair, his hand rubbing circles on your back.
You smiled against his chest and nodded, “yes, please.”
He pulled away and planted a chaste kiss to your cheek before heading out.
“What was that all about?” Elise questioned, raising her eyebrows at you.
You didn’t say anything–your hot cheeks and dopey grin were worth a thousand words.
You were called up to the ED several times, each time worse than the last by the looks of the staff. It still felt a little awkward being in the emergency department. Even though most of the people here weren’t on shift when Jack yelled at you, it still felt like the department went still when you walked in, people stopping and staring like you were some sideshow circus freak.
You were back up here collecting yet another soul, waiting for someone to sign off on the transfer. It seemed like things had calmed down, the worst of it over now. You were lost in thought at the nurses station, picking at the skin around your nails anxiously.
You hoped Jack would be the one to come over and sign the paperwork–hoped you’d catch another glimpse of him before your shift was over. All you could think about all day was that almost-kiss you shared with him. You couldn’t help the smile that made its way onto your face every time you thought about it, which meant you basically had a permanent grin affixed to your face.
You’re only pulled out of your thoughts by the sound of hushed voices to your left. You glanced over and saw two nurses you didn’t recognize taking a break and engaging in some friendly workplace gossip. Or so you thought.
“–so happy about?” a nurse whispered incredulously.
“Probably daydreaming about Dr. Abbot,” another said, her tone most likely accompanied by an eye roll.
“God, when is she going to get a grip? Her fawning over him is not cute.”
“Yeah, I think he just doesn’t know how to let her down… I mean when he yelled at her she changed her whole schedule, he probably feels guilty.”
“True. Maybe she’ll realize how embarrassing it is to be so down bad for a man she has no chance with.”
You stopped listening after that, crestfallen and heartbroken all over again. The illusion of the past month shattered and the feelings from before came roaring back full force.
Your chest twisted painfully–like someone had grabbed ahold of your heart and squeezed, the squishy flesh bulging between their fingers. Your throat ached, tears surely not far behind.
You knew you shouldn’t put too much stock in what these two random nurses were saying. You knew that they likely had no idea what they were talking about, that they were just mean girls blowing off steam and you seemed to be the target of it–like always.
But there was the little gremlin in the back of your brain, the one that told you everything they said was true. That Jack just felt guilty, that he was making himself feel better for the way he treated you. Insecurity wrapped itself around you like a vise, squeezing around you like a boa constrictor, until it was the only thing you could feel.
And that almost-kiss? Well, he was a man, after all. Maybe he was just overcome with the physical urge to kiss you, get in your pants if he could. But he wasn’t that kind of man, was he? You didn’t want to think so, but all rational thought was obscured by the hurt blooming in your chest that you couldn’t be sure.
You startled at the hand on your shoulder. You looked up to see Dr. Robby standing there, brows furrowed in concern. Squeaking out an apology, you handed him the transfer paperwork.
“I called your name three times, you okay?” he asked, flipping through the pages and signing where appropriate.
“Fine,” you smiled, not trusting your voice not to break.
He looked skeptical, but didn’t push.
“Alright, all done. Hopefully that’ll be it, at least from the mass cas,” he said, handing back the paperwork. “We have a trauma counsellor available if you need to talk to someone,” he said before backing away to move onto the next patient.
You chuckled at that. Of course he thought you were troubled by the amount of death that occurred today. But no, here you were, post mass casualty, and you were more concerned about a man than you were about the people that had died tonight. How fucked up were you?
Jack showed up with coffee the next morning like usual, setting the paper cup down on your desk, “here you go, sweetheart.”
“Thank you,” you said without looking up from your paperwork. You tasted acid in your throat, the words from the nurses station echoing in your head in an ugly cacophony. You’d memorized them by heart over the past 12 hours, twisting and turning in bed as they invaded your mind against your will.
He just doesn’t know how to let her down.
He probably feels guilty.
Her fawning over him is not cute.
You cleared your throat, “you really don’t have to do this anymore, you know,” you said nonchalantly, like it wasn’t tearing your heart out to say.
He was quiet for a moment. “I know… I do it because I want to, because I like spending time with you,” he said, head cocked and brow furrowed.
“Sure,” you muttered under your breath.
“What was that?”
You sighed and set your pen down, shifting your full attention to him, “I’m just saying you don’t have to prostrate yourself in front of me because you feel guilty, Jack. You’ve done your penance, if that’s all this is. You’re forgiven, no hard feelings.”
Your throat was tight, but your voice didn’t waver. You blinked back tears furiously as he stared at you, mouth agape. He looked a little more disheveled than usual, his eyes tired and the lines on his face a little more pronounced, like he’d been frowning all night. Obviously, he worked like 16 hours last night. You felt another wave of guilt rush over you–he was wasting his much needed rest time to come placate you.
He crossed his arms, shaking his head in confusion, “What the hell are you talking about? Where is this coming from?”
You stood up and started behind your desk, feeling restless and hurt and foolish.
“You just–you don’t have to hang around me because you feel bad or something,” you said, “you’ve more than apologized. I just wish you didn’t make me feel like–like…” you trailed off, ragged breaths tearing through your chest. It was getting harder to force the words out, tears falling down your cheeks in earnest now.
“Like what?”
“Like this means something!” you choked out. God, you felt so silly. Aw, is someone upset that their crush doesn’t like them back?
He looked at you in disbelief, “It does mean something,” he said, rounding your desk and stopping in front of you–effectively ceasing your pacing.
“Please don’t lie to me,” you hiccuped, your bottom lip trembling violently, “I know I’m too much, I know no one at the Pitt likes me–you don’t have to pretend you do.” You fixed your gaze to the floor–you didn’t think you could handle the pitying look that was undoubtedly in his eyes.
“Hey, hey, look at me,” he said, cupping your face between his large hands. You tried to wiggle away, but his grip was unwavering–he wasn’t going to let you look away from him. He brushed away your tears, “I don’t know what ideas you’ve gotten into that pretty little head of yours, but if you think I’m anything but smitten with you, you’re dead wrong.”
You laughed weakly, “who’s making bad jokes now?”
He didn’t take the bait, didn’t let you deflect from the topic at hand. He pinned you with his eyes, his gaze steady as he delivered his next words.
“I’m serious. I need you to know that I’m being honest with you when I say this: I’ve been scared for a long time to make a move on you, and I’m not letting anything–not even you–get in the way now, okay?
“I’ve liked you for a while now, pretty girl. You’re the best part of my day, the only thing keepin’ me going some days. I love your smile, your laugh, the way your face lights up when you talk about something you’re passionate about. I love the way you care about people, alive and dead, and I love your jokes, even if they can be a little off color.
“And I can’t tell you how much I regret how I treated you. The only silver lining is that it kicked my ass into gear, made me realize I’ve been an idiot for waiting so long to make you mine. You’re not too much, and even if you were, I’d want more–I want everything you’re willing to give me.”
You almost couldn’t comprehend the words coming out of his mouth, but he was nothing but sincere. His eyes pleaded with you to believe him, to give him a chance–and you desperately wanted to.
“You mean that?” you asked, gnawing at your lip anxiously. You didn’t want to get your hopes up just to have them crushed again.
“With all my heart,” he said, grabbing your hand and placing it over his heart. It was racing just as fast as yours was. “This is how I feel every time I see you, sweetheart. Feel like I should be hooked up to a monitor sometimes,” he joked.
“I…I like you too. I have since the day I met you. But I’m scared,” you swallowed thickly, voice small as you finished, “I don’t want to get hurt.”
“I know, sweetheart, I am too. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this–haven’t since my wife–and I don’t want to fuck it up. We’re in this together, as long as you’ll have me,”
“I want you,” you whispered, placing your hand on the side of his neck tentatively.
He grabbed your waist and backed you up against your desk, replicating your previous position from yesterday.
“Can I kiss you now, sweetheart? Haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since we were interrupted,” he asked, thumb stroking your cheek.
You nodded, “me either,” you said, heart pounding as he leaned in.
His lips were soft when they met yours. It was tentative–just a slow, gentle press of his lips against yours, like he was trying to maintain some level of decorum.
He started to pull back, and you whined at the loss of contact. You fisted your hands in his scrub top and pulled him back in, your mouths meeting in an uncoordinated mash of teeth. He chuckled against you, “greedy girl,” he murmured, steadying your head in his hands and deepening the kiss.
He tamped down your eagerness but didn’t erase any of the heat building between you–just kept you right where he wanted you. His tongue swiped across your bottom lip and you readily opened your mouth for him, desperate to taste him. He licked into your mouth, tongue hot as it tangled with yours. You were greedy, sucking and lapping and nipping at his tongue and lips, getting messy with it and thoroughly forgetting where you were and how inappropriate a setting this was.
You were like horny teenagers, hands grabbing at whatever bits of flesh they could reach, tangling in each other’s hair, and moaning louder than was appropriate.
When you finally pulled back, you were both gasping for air, chests heaving against each other. Jack rested his forehead against yours as he caught his breath. You didn’t want to waste another moment not kissing him, though, so you began peppering his face with kisses–to his nose, cheeks, chin, wherever you could reach.
He laughed at the onslaught, craning his head to the side to give you access to his neck, which you happily latched onto, “you’re insatiable, aren’t you?”
“I guess you’ll have to find out,” you replied as you pulled away, biting your lip and batting your eyelashes at him.
He shook his head fondly at you, “Now, as much as I’d like to do very, very inappropriate things to you right now, I came here this morning planning to ask you out to dinner. Would you allow me to ask you out properly now, sweetheart? Let me be a gentleman?” he asked, thumbs stroking your jaw.
You nodded, still dizzy from his kiss–still reeling from the fact that Jack actually liked you.
“Would you please make me the happiest man in the world, and accompany me to dinner at Altius tomorrow night at 7?”
“I’d love to,” you grinned, pulling him in for another kiss.
“And after, we'll see just how insatiable you are.”
A/N: shoutout to my fellow anthropology majors lol glad that my degree is coming in handy for something cause its certainly not a job
Summary: The storm has started to move on. The power is back. The pathology exam is still in three days. And behind Jack Abbot’s bedroom door, every rule left between you finally breaks.
Warnings: 18+ only, explicit sexual content, academic rivals, forced proximity, roommates crossing lines, storm setting, intense sexual tension, oral sex, protected sex, praise, light dominance, Jack being careful and devastatingly competent, “good” as a weapon, emotional intimacy after sex, brief prosthetic mention/removal in an intimate routine context, no one knows how to act normal afterward, feelings neither of them is prepared to name
Author's Note: Lovelies. We have reached the bedroom. Chapter nine is exactly what happens when two academic rivals spend eight chapters pretending observation is not intimacy, knowing each other too well is not dangerous, and a shared apartment is a perfectly reasonable place to keep making eye contact. Unfortunately for them, the storm had other plans. The power may be back on, but their common sense absolutely is not. This chapter is explicit, emotional, and deeply unserious about the idea that either of them can come back from this normal. Jack Abbot remains competent in the most personally devastating way possible.
For one second, the click of it sounded louder than the storm.
Then Jack was on you again.
No space.
No hesitation.
His mouth found yours in the dark, hard and hungry, and your back met the door with his hand already behind your shoulder, taking the impact before you could feel it. Your hands went to his chest, then his shoulders, then the back of his neck, pulling him closer like there was any closer left to take.
There wasn’t.
He gave it to you anyway.
Jack crowded you against the door, bare skin hot beneath your palms, his body solid and immediate in a way that made your head spin. The room was dark except for the dull wash of stormlight at the window and the thin line of brightness beneath the door, but you did not need to see him.
You could feel him.
His breath against your mouth.
His hand at your waist.
The hard line of his body pressed into yours.
The carefulness was still there, buried under heat, showing up in the way his palm stayed between your spine and the wood, in the way he shifted before his weight pinned you too heavily, in the way his fingers flexed at your side like he was trying not to take too much too fast.
You wanted too much.
You wanted too fast.
Your fingers dragged down his chest, over warm skin and muscle, and Jack’s mouth broke from yours with a rough breath that never became a word. You chased him anyway, kissing the corner of his mouth, his jaw, the side of his throat, and his hand tightened so hard at your waist that your whole body went molten beneath it.
Jack turned his head and caught your mouth again.
The kiss was messy now.
Not pretty.
Not practiced.
Nothing like the controlled version of Jack Abbot you knew how to argue with across a lecture hall or a kitchen table.
This Jack kissed like restraint had been a mistake he was done making.
His hands found the hem of your sweatshirt, and this time, he did not stop at your ribs. He dragged the fabric up your body, slow only because the cotton caught at your elbows, because you would not let go of him long enough to make it easy, because every time his mouth left yours you made a helpless sound that brought him right back.
The sweatshirt hit the floor somewhere near his desk.
Then his hands were on you.
Skin to skin.
Warm palms.
Rough breath.
A low sound in his throat when your back arched into the touch.
You felt it everywhere.
There were no more questions.
Not really.
Not the kind either of you needed to say out loud.
Jack knew when you wanted him closer because your hands dragged over his back and held there. You knew when he wanted you still because his fingers closed around your wrist and guided it above your head against the door.
Not hard.
Not even close.
Just certain.
Your breath caught, and his mouth stilled against yours for one fraction of a second.
Checking.
Always checking.
You answered by lifting into him.
Jack’s hand tightened at your waist.
Then he kissed you harder.
That was the language now.
His hand at your hip.
Your nails against his back.
His mouth at your throat.
Your body arching beneath his.
The sharp breath he pulled in when you said his name.
“Jack,” you breathed against his mouth.
It barely counted as a word.
More like a break in the air.
A slip.
A confession your body made before your pride could stop it.
But it did something to him.
You felt it everywhere.
In the way his fingers flexed against your skin.
In the way his breath caught at your neck.
In the way his body pressed yours deeper against the door, controlled and hot and careful only where careful mattered.
“Fuck,” Jack breathed.
Then his mouth was on yours again, and you stopped trying to think.
That was the first thing to go.
Thought.
Then dignity.
Then the last pathetic remains of the part of you that cared about the exam.
Jack’s hand slid from your waist to your hip, then lower, catching beneath your thigh and lifting with a confidence that stole the air from your lungs. Your body followed before your mind could object, your leg hooking around him, your fingers digging into his shoulders as the angle changed and every place he touched you became unbearable.
This was not the lecture hall.
This was not Singh’s exam.
This was not a half-point lead and a correction scribbled in the margin.
This was his room.
His door.
His hands deciding the pace.
And God help you, you let him.
Jack moved you away from the door, guiding more than walking, kissing you through every step until the backs of his legs hit the bed.
He sat first.
Not because he was stopping.
Because Jack Abbot did not stumble if he could help it.
Because even ruined, even shirtless and breathing hard with your hands all over him, some part of him still knew his body, the room, the distance, the bed behind him.
Then he pulled you with him.
You landed across his lap with a gasp swallowed by his mouth, your knees bracketing his hips, your hands catching his shoulders. The position should have made you pause.
It didn’t.
It made everything worse.
Better.
Both.
Jack’s hands slid up your back, spreading wide, holding you against him while your mouth opened under his. His skin was hot beneath you. His chest moved hard against yours. Every place your body touched his became louder than the storm.
You rocked against him without meaning to.
Jack’s head tipped back, his breath leaving him in a broken, soundless curse.
The sight of it nearly undid you.
His throat exposed.
His jaw tight.
His hands flexing against your back like he was trying to remember every rule and losing them one by one.
You kissed the column of his throat.
His whole body went tight beneath yours.
“Fuck,” Jack said, low and rough.
You felt it more than heard it.
So you stayed there.
Just there.
Your mouth against the side of his neck.
Your hands on his shoulders.
Your body pressed to his while his grip tightened at your waist.
He did not tell you to stop.
He did not pull you away.
His head tipped back another fraction, giving you more room, and the silent permission of it went straight through you.
Your mouth moved over his skin again.
Slower this time.
Less accident.
Jack’s fingers dug into your waist.
The sound he made was almost nothing.
A breath.
A fracture.
A warning neither of you listened to.
You stayed there too long.
Not long enough.
Then Jack’s hand slid to the back of your neck, and your world narrowed to the heat of his palm and the rough drag of his breath.
Your mouth moved higher, over his jaw, the corner of his mouth, anywhere you could reach. His hands tightened at your waist, stopping you from moving again, holding you exactly where he wanted you.
Still.
Pinned in place by nothing but his grip and the weight of his attention.
Your breath caught.
Jack felt it.
Of course he did.
His eyes opened, dark and focused, and for once, there was no argument ready on your tongue. No correction. No challenge. No clever answer sharp enough to put distance between you.
You were usually so good at having the answer.
Here, Jack did.
His hand slid up your spine to the back of your neck, and he pulled you down to him with devastating control.
Not rough.
Not gentle either.
Just sure.
Your mouth met his again.
Your hands tried to move.
Jack caught one of them and lowered it to the mattress beside his thigh.
You went still.
His thumb moved once over your wrist.
Then his mouth softened against yours for half a second.
“Good,” Jack said against your mouth.
The word went through you like heat.
You had heard him say it over pathology notes.
Over correct answers.
Over half-won arguments.
Never like this.
Never with his hand around your wrist and his mouth against yours and your body held exactly where he wanted it.
The sound that left you was not dignified.
Jack’s hand tightened around your wrist.
You said his name again before you could stop yourself.
“Jack.”
His eyes closed.
For half a second, that was the only sign that he heard you.
Then his control slipped.
You felt it in the way he dragged you closer, in the way his mouth opened over yours, in the way his hand left your wrist only to grip your thigh and pull you harder against him. Your fingers flew back to his shoulders, and this time he let you touch him.
Let you hold on.
Let you feel the damage your voice had done.
His name in your mouth was not fair.
You knew that now.
You wanted to use it anyway.
“Jack,” you whispered again.
His hand closed around your thigh.
There.
A warning.
A plea.
A fracture.
Then he turned you beneath him.
Fast.
Controlled.
Devastating.
Your back met the mattress, and Jack followed you down, one knee settling between yours, one hand braced beside your head, his mouth already finding yours again before the room could steady around you.
The bed smelled like him.
Laundry detergent.
Rain.
Old coffee.
Warm cotton.
The kind of ordinary intimacy that should have scared you more than his mouth on your neck.
It didn’t.
You pulled him closer.
Jack’s hand moved over your side, your waist, your hip, learning you through touch because words had finally become useless. His mouth followed, leaving heat in every place it found. Your hands could not decide where to stay. His shoulders. His back. His hair. The tense line of his arm beside your head.
Everywhere.
You wanted him everywhere.
Jack lifted his head.
Stormlight moved across his face.
His eyes moved over you, and whatever he saw there pulled the last clean breath from his chest.
“God,” Jack said, voice low and rough.
Your fingers twisted in his sheets.
His jaw shifted.
“You’re perfect,” Jack said.
The words left him like he had tried to stop them and failed.
Your throat tightened around his name.
“Jack,” you breathed.
His eyes closed again.
Like it hurt.
Like he loved it.
Then he kissed you before either of you could say anything else.
Words had become dangerous.
Words gave you time to think.
Jack did not give you time.
His mouth moved over yours, deep and consuming, while his hand slid down your side with the same devastating certainty he brought to everything else. Your body followed him before your mind caught up, arching when his palm found your hip, shifting when his knee pressed between yours, opening when his hand guided your thigh higher around him.
No question.
No answer.
Not one spoken out loud.
He knew.
That was the worst part.
The hottest part.
He knew when your fingers twisted in his sheets because you wanted more. He knew when your breath caught because something was too much. He knew when your body went still beneath his because still did not mean stop.
It meant wait.
It meant there.
It meant again.
Jack read you like he had been studying for this longer than either of you had admitted.
And here, on his bed, in his room, with the storm moving over Pittsburgh and your pathology notes abandoned on the living room floor, he was done pretending he did not know the material.
His mouth left yours and dragged down your neck.
Your head tipped back.
He followed the movement immediately, one hand sliding beneath your shoulder, his mouth finding the place that made your fingers tighten in his hair.
You felt him react.
A rough breath.
A flex of his hand.
A pause that was not hesitation, exactly.
More like control catching on a sharp edge.
Then his mouth moved lower.
Your body stopped being useful.
Your thoughts stopped being yours.
Everything narrowed to his hands, his mouth, the weight of him above you, the impossible heat of his skin against yours. Jack’s fingers found the waistband of your shorts and stopped there for one breath.
Barely a breath.
Still enough for you to know.
You lifted your hips.
Jack’s jaw tightened.
Then the shorts were gone.
His hand moved over your thigh, firm and slow, not because he was hesitant, but because he had decided on the pace and your body had apparently agreed to betray you completely. Your fingers dragged over his shoulders, urging him back up, but Jack did not come where you tried to pull him.
Of course he didn’t.
He kissed your stomach instead.
Your breath caught hard.
His hand spread over your hip, holding you still.
That was new.
That was the part that made your pulse scatter.
Not Jack touching you.
Jack deciding.
You had spent months trying to beat him.
Correct him.
Outwork him.
Make him look at you across lecture halls and admit you were the one he had to catch.
But here, he did not chase.
Here, he took his time.
Here, his hands held you exactly where he wanted you, and for once in your life, you let yourself be led.
His mouth moved lower.
Your hand flew to his hair.
Jack’s arm tightened across your hips before you could move away from the first unbearable touch of his mouth.
Not trapping.
Not forcing.
Holding.
Like he already knew you would try to survive this by moving, and he had decided you did not have to.
A sound broke out of you.
Too loud.
Too honest.
Jack’s fingers flexed against your thigh.
“Yes,” Jack said, low against your skin.
The word barely sounded like praise.
Barely sounded like permission.
It sounded like something he had been trying not to say for weeks.
Your fingers tightened in his hair.
His breath caught.
“Fuck,” Jack breathed.
Then he went back to you.
Less patient than before.
The storm hit the window, rain lashing hard against the glass, but even that seemed far away now. Smaller than his breath against your skin. Smaller than the heat building low in your body. Smaller than the terrible, humiliating knowledge that Jack Abbot was good at this.
Of course he was.
Of course.
You hated him.
You absolutely did not.
Your hand twisted in the sheets.
His mouth moved again, and your whole body arched.
Your hips tried to move away.
Jack’s hand pressed them back down.
Firm.
Certain.
Your breath broke.
You stayed where he put you.
“Good,” Jack said.
Your eyes closed.
God.
That was worse.
That was so much worse.
His hand pressed at your hip, keeping you there, keeping you open to him, and when another broken sound slipped out of you, Jack made one of his own.
Rough.
Low.
Wrecked.
“Beautiful,” Jack said.
It was not sweet.
Not gentle.
Not in the way you would have expected that word to sound.
It was dragged out of him.
Almost angry.
Like the fact of you beneath him had offended his self-control.
Your breath broke again.
His fingers tightened.
“Fuck,” Jack said, rougher this time. “You’re beautiful.”
His name slipped out of you before you could stop it.
“Jack.”
His mouth stilled.
Only for a second.
Long enough for you to feel what it did to him.
Then his grip tightened on your thigh.
His breath dragged rough against your skin.
“Again,” Jack said.
The word barely sounded like a command.
Barely sounded like anything.
Still, your whole body reacted to it.
Your eyes closed.
“Jack,” you breathed.
His control slipped.
You felt it in the way his hand tightened, in the way his mouth came back to you with less patience, in the way he held you exactly where he wanted you and gave you nowhere to go except through it.
Your back arched.
Your fingers tightened.
The sound that left you was broken and helpless and too loud for the small, storm-dark room.
“Jack.”
His name tore out of you as you came.
Jack groaned against you.
The sound was rough.
Wrecked.
Like your pleasure had done something to him he had no interest in surviving.
His arm stayed locked across your hips while you shook beneath him, his hand spread wide over your thigh, holding you there through every wave of it. He did not let you move away. He did not let you hide from it. He kept you exactly where he wanted you until your body softened beneath his hands and your fingers loosened in his hair.
Only then did he lift his head.
Slowly.
His mouth found your hip.
Your stomach.
Your ribs.
Your throat.
By the time he came back to your mouth, you were trembling.
Jack kissed you like he knew it.
Like he had caused it.
Like hearing his name like that had ruined whatever was left of his restraint.
You could taste yourself on his mouth, and the intimacy of that should have embarrassed you.
It didn’t.
It made your hands shake when you reached for him.
His body settled over yours, heavier now, closer, his skin damp with heat and storm air. Your thighs shifted around his hips, and Jack’s breath broke against your mouth when you pulled him down.
There.
Hard against you.
Wanting you.
Not theoretical.
Not almost.
Real.
Your hands moved to his waistband.
Jack went still for one breath.
Not stopping.
Not pulling away.
Just feeling it.
Your fingers slipped beneath the edge of his sweats, and his breath dragged rough against your mouth.
He helped you this time.
No pause.
No joke.
No room left for either.
Jack pushed himself up just enough to get them down, his mouth finding yours again before the fabric was even fully gone. You felt the brief shift of his weight, the controlled movement of his body, the way he managed even this like he knew exactly where every part of himself belonged.
Then he was back over you.
Closer.
Hotter.
Nothing left between you but thin fabric and the last useless inch of restraint.
Your nails dragged down his back.
His hips pressed into yours once, rough and restrained, and the sound that left both of you was nearly the same.
His forehead dropped against yours.
For one second, neither of you moved.
Then Jack reached toward the nightstand.
The drawer opened with a sharp, clumsy scrape that should have broken the moment.
It didn’t.
Nothing could have.
His mouth stayed on yours as his hand searched blindly. Something knocked against the wood. A book shifted. The drawer hit the frame.
Jack cursed under his breath.
You laughed once, barely more than an exhale.
His mouth curved against yours.
Then foil crinkled in his hand, and the laugh died in your throat.
Jack lifted his head.
Stormlight cut across his face again.
His eyes found yours, dark and focused and undone in a way that made your chest ache.
No words.
He had already asked.
You had already answered.
Still, there it was.
The pause.
The check.
The space he left for you because he would always leave it, even when he was shaking with the effort not to move.
You lifted your hand to his face.
Your thumb brushed over his cheek.
Then you pulled him down and kissed him.
Jack’s breath left him all at once.
The packet tore open between you.
His hand moved.
Your breath caught.
His forehead touched yours for half a second, his eyes closed, his jaw tight like the last inch of restraint had teeth in him.
Then he settled between your thighs.
Slow.
Controlled.
Not because he did not want.
Because he wanted too much.
Because this was his room.
His bed.
His hands.
His pace.
Because if he was going to cross every line left between you, he was going to make sure you felt every second of it.
Your fingers dug into his shoulders.
Jack’s eyes opened.
You looked at him.
Not Abbot.
Not your rival.
Not the man you had spent months trying to beat.
Jack.
His mouth brushed yours.
Barely.
Then he pushed into you slowly.
Your whole body went still beneath him.
The breath left your lungs.
Jack stopped completely.
His hand found your hip, steady and warm, and his eyes searched yours in the dark.
You answered by pulling him closer.
His control broke on a rough exhale.
Then there was no more room between you.
No air.
No argument.
No version of your life where this had not happened.
Jack moved like he knew exactly what he was doing.
Because he did.
Slow at first, almost cruelly controlled, his mouth near yours, his breath dragging rough against your lips every time your body tightened around him. Your hands slipped over his back, over the damp heat of his skin, trying to pull him closer, faster, anything.
Jack caught one of your wrists and pinned it beside your head.
Not hard.
Not punishing.
Just enough to make you still.
Your eyes flew open.
His were already on you.
Dark.
Focused.
Certain.
Your breath caught.
You stayed exactly where he put you.
Jack’s thumb moved once over your wrist.
“Good,” Jack said, low and rough.
The word went through you like heat.
His hips moved again.
Your head tipped back against the pillow.
A sound left you, soft and helpless, and Jack’s mouth found your throat as if he had been waiting for it.
“Yes,” Jack said against your skin.
Your body tightened around him.
His rhythm faltered.
Barely.
“Fuck,” Jack breathed.
Your fingers curled against the sheets.
He moved again, deeper this time, and whatever sound left you after that was worse.
Better.
Both.
He did not say anything.
He did not need to.
He slowed when your nails dug into his back.
Pressed deeper when your leg tightened around his hip.
Shifted when your breath broke.
Found the rhythm your body asked for before you knew how to ask.
That was the language now.
The storm.
The bed.
His hand at your wrist.
Your mouth at his shoulder.
The hitch in his breath when you said his name against his skin.
“Jack.”
His rhythm faltered.
One sharp, broken second.
Then his hand tightened around yours, fingers threading through your own and pressing your joined hands into the mattress.
His mouth brushed your ear.
“Again,” Jack said.
The word was barely there.
Barely a command.
Still, your whole body reacted to it.
“Jack,” you whispered.
His jaw tightened.
Then he kissed you hard, and the pace changed.
Not gone.
But rougher.
Hotter.
Less patient.
Your body met his with a desperation that felt almost angry, like you were furious at him for making you want this, furious at yourself for wanting it this much, furious at the months you had wasted pretending half-point victories were enough when this had been waiting underneath every argument.
Jack felt that too.
You knew he did because his mouth left yours, and his face pressed briefly into the side of your neck, exactly where your pulse was racing.
His breath came harsh against your skin.
His hips drove yours deeper into the mattress.
Your free hand found his back.
Then his hair.
Then his shoulder again because you needed somewhere to hold on and there was too much of him, too close, too real, too good.
“Fuck,” you breathed.
Jack’s mouth moved against your neck.
Not a smile.
Almost.
You felt it anyway.
Your eyes opened just enough to glare at nothing.
He lifted his head.
His eyes met yours in the dark.
There he was.
Barely.
The smallest ghost of him beneath the heat.
Your rival.
Your roommate.
The man who was absolutely going to be impossible about this if either of you survived it.
Then he moved again, and your glare dissolved into something you would deny later with your whole chest.
Jack saw that too.
Of course he did.
His mouth came down over yours before you could make a sound of protest, and the kiss was deep enough to turn protest into something else completely.
He let go of your wrist only to slide his hand beneath your thigh, lifting, changing the angle, taking the last bit of air you had left.
Your body followed the pressure of his hand without thinking, opening for him exactly the way he wanted.
Jack’s breath caught.
“Good,” he said.
Your eyes closed.
God.
That was worse.
Everything tightened.
Everything narrowed.
Jack’s name broke out of you again.
This time, he did not falter.
This time, he groaned.
Low.
Rough.
Lost.
His forehead dropped to yours, and his control finally slipped past the point where he could fully catch it.
Still careful.
Still him.
But no longer slow.
No longer patient.
Your bodies found each other in the dark with a kind of brutal, wordless understanding that made something in your chest ache beneath all the heat. He knew when you were close because your breath changed. You knew he knew because his hand tightened on your thigh, because his mouth found yours, because his pace turned devastatingly precise.
Your back arched.
Jack’s name tore out of you.
He kissed it from your mouth.
The second wave hit harder than the first.
Your body went tight beneath his, shaking around him, every thought breaking apart under the weight of him, the heat of him, the fact of him. Jack held you through it, his mouth at your jaw, his hand locked with yours, his breath rough and uneven against your skin.
Then he followed.
Not quietly.
Not completely controlled.
A harsh breath.
A broken sound.
His body going tense above yours, his face buried against your neck as he lost the last clean edge of himself there.
For a moment, there was only the storm.
Rain against the glass.
Thunder moving away over the city.
Jack’s weight above you, carefully held even now.
Your hand in his.
His breath at your throat.
Neither of you spoke.
Neither of you moved.
Because the second either of you did, there would be a room around you again.
A bed.
A door.
An exam in three days.
A roommate agreement lying dead somewhere in the living room.
And neither of you was ready for that yet.
For a while, neither of you moved.
The storm filled the room around you, softer now, farther away. Rain tapped against the glass instead of throwing itself there. Thunder rolled somewhere beyond the city, low and tired, like even the sky had exhausted itself.
Jack’s weight was still above you.
Not fully.
Never fully.
Even now, wrecked and breathing hard against your neck, one forearm braced beside your head kept enough of him off you that you knew he was thinking about it.
Of course he was.
Of course Jack Abbot was still careful after that.
Your hand was in his hair.
Your other was pressed against his back.
You did not remember putting either there.
You did not move them.
His breath dragged over your skin, rough and uneven. His face stayed tucked against the side of your throat, and for one suspended second, the whole world was that. His body over yours. His heart still racing. Your own pulse trying to find its way back to something survivable.
Then Jack lifted his head.
Barely.
His eyes found yours in the dark.
He looked stunned.
That was the only word for it.
Stunned and flushed and completely stripped of every sharp edge he usually wore like armor. His mouth was parted. His hair was ruined. The hand beside your head flexed once against the sheets, like he had forgotten where he was and remembered all at once.
His voice came low. “Okay?”
Your throat was dry.
Your body was still humming.
Your brain had not returned to you in any meaningful capacity.
You nodded once. “Yes.”
Jack’s eyes searched yours.
You swallowed, then gave him the word because you knew he needed it. “Yes.”
His forehead dropped to yours for half a second.
Not relief exactly.
Something close.
Something quieter.
Then he shifted, careful as he pulled back, careful as he separated from you, careful as the air moved into the space his body had filled.
The loss of him was immediate.
Offensive.
Impossible.
Jack pressed one last kiss to your shoulder, so quick you almost could have imagined it.
Then he pushed himself up.
His voice was still rough. “I’m going to clean up.”
You blinked at him.
He paused at the edge of the bed, looking back at you through the dark.
Then he added, lower, “I’ll be right back.”
You nodded because words seemed ambitious.
Jack disappeared into the bathroom.
The door did not close all the way.
You heard water run.
You stayed where he left you, naked beneath his sheet, staring up at the ceiling of Jack Abbot’s bedroom like it had personally witnessed your downfall.
Which, to be fair, it had.
Your breathing was still uneven.
Your skin still felt too warm.
Your thighs trembled when you shifted, and the memory of his hands came back so sharply that your eyes closed before you could stop them.
That had happened.
That had actually happened.
Jack Abbot had kissed you against his bedroom door.
Jack Abbot had taken you apart in his bed.
Jack Abbot had said your name like it had hurt him.
No.
Worse.
You had said his.
Again and again, because he had asked for it, because he had liked it, because the sound of it had done something to him you were not sure you would ever recover from.
Your hands covered your face.
Oh, God.
You should have been panicking.
You were, maybe.
Somewhere beneath the shock and the warmth and the ridiculous, bone-deep satisfaction still moving through you in aftershocks, there was probably panic waiting with a clipboard and a list of consequences.
Roommate.
Rival.
Exam in three days.
A roommate agreement currently decomposing in the living room.
All of that should have mattered more.
It did not.
Not yet.
Because the worst part, the absolute worst part, was that you already knew you would do it again.
If he came back to that bed and touched you like that again, you would let him.
If he said your name in that voice again, you would forget every reasonable argument available to you.
If he looked at you the way he had looked at you before he said you were perfect, you would be gone.
Again.
And again.
And again.
The bathroom water shut off.
Your hands fell slowly from your face.
A moment later, Jack came back into the room.
He was naked, his hair still a disaster from your hands, a glass of water in one hand and a mark beginning to darken along the side of his neck, just beneath his jaw.
You saw it.
Your stomach dropped.
Then flipped.
Then did something even less dignified.
Jack did not seem to know it was there.
Wonderful.
That was going to be a problem for future you.
Future you could suffer.
Present you was busy watching him cross the room with a glass of water in his hand.
Of course he had gotten water.
Of course.
Jack sat on the edge of the bed beside you, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. He did not crowd you. Not yet. He only looked down at you, eyes moving over your face in the dark like he was checking for something he still did not trust himself to ask.
You looked back at him.
Neither of you said anything.
The silence should have been awkward.
It was not.
It was too full for that.
Jack lifted his hand.
Slowly.
Giving you every chance to turn away.
You did not.
His fingers brushed your cheek, careful and warm, his thumb moving once near the corner of your mouth. The touch was so gentle after everything else that your chest tightened around it.
His expression shifted.
Barely.
Like he felt that too.
Then he held out the glass. “Drink.”
Your eyebrows lifted faintly.
There he was.
You took the glass because arguing would have required more strength than you currently possessed. The first sip made you realize how dry your throat was. The second made you realize Jack was watching you drink like it mattered.
You lowered the glass. “Bossy.”
His mouth almost curved.
Almost.
“Thirsty,” Jack said.
You stared at him for half a second.
Then, despite everything, despite being naked and storm-shaken and sitting in his bed after making several catastrophic choices with him, a laugh slipped out of you.
Small.
Breathless.
Unsteady.
Jack’s eyes warmed.
There.
That was worse than the sex, maybe.
Not better.
Not even close.
But worse in a different direction.
You took another sip.
Jack accepted the glass when you handed it back, setting it on the nightstand beside the scattered condom wrapper and the drawer he had never fully closed.
Your eyes flicked there.
His did too.
Both of you froze.
Then you looked away first.
Coward.
Jack’s mouth twitched.
You hated him.
You really, really did not.
Your breathing hitched a little when you shifted against the pillow, your body still too sensitive, too aware of the sheets, the room, the shape of him sitting beside you.
Jack noticed immediately.
His hand came to your hip through the sheet.
Steady.
Grounding.
You started to push yourself up, not even sure where you thought you were going. Your room. The bathroom. The living room. A new identity in another state.
Jack’s hand tightened once.
Not holding you down.
Just stopping the motion.
His voice came quiet. “Catch your breath for a minute.”
You looked at him.
His eyes held yours.
No smirk.
No challenge.
No lecture.
Just Jack, sitting at the edge of his bed with rainlight moving over his shoulders, telling you to stay still because he knew you were about to bolt before you knew it yourself.
Your throat tightened.
For once, you listened.
You settled back against the pillow.
Jack’s thumb moved once over your hip.
“Good,” he said softly.
The word hit differently now.
Still low.
Still rough.
But not heated this time.
Not praise in the same dangerous way.
Something steadier.
Something that made you want to close your eyes.
So you did.
The mattress shifted as Jack stood.
Your eyes opened again before you meant them to.
He noticed that too.
Of course he did.
His gaze met yours, and for one second, you both understood the stupid, fragile thing your body had done.
He was not leaving.
You knew that.
You knew that.
Still, your chest had tightened when he moved.
Jack’s expression softened by a fraction.
Then he crossed to the chair near the dresser.
No explanation.
No apology.
Just routine.
He sat, bent slightly, and took off his prosthetic with the same quiet competence he brought to everything else. Practical. Familiar. Unselfconscious in a way that made the room feel even more intimate than it already had.
You looked away.
Not because you thought you should not see.
Because seeing felt like being trusted with something.
Because you did not know what to do with how much that mattered.
The small sounds of it filled the room beneath the rain. A shift of fabric. A controlled breath. The soft placement beside the chair.
Then Jack shifted back to the bed.
Slower this time.
More tired.
More real.
He lifted the edge of the sheet and settled beside you, not touching at first. He lay on his back for one breath, staring up into the dark the same way you had, his shoulder warm near yours but not pressed against it.
The space between you was small.
Still, it was a question.
You answered before fear could turn it into one.
You shifted closer.
Jack’s hand found you immediately.
Your forehead brushed his shoulder, and something in him seemed to give. His arm came around you, firm and quiet, drawing you against his chest.
You went.
Of course you went.
Your cheek settled against him, your hand resting carefully over his ribs. His skin was warm beneath your palm. His heart had slowed, but not all the way. Not yet.
Neither had yours.
For a while, you both lay there listening to the rain.
No one said roommate.
No one said exam.
No one said mistake.
Jack’s hand moved over your back.
Slow.
Soothing.
Absent at first, like he did not know he was doing it.
Then more deliberate when your breathing hitched again.
Down your spine.
Up between your shoulder blades.
Back down.
Again.
Again.
Your body softened against him one inch at a time.
You hated how easy it was.
You loved it so much you could not look at it directly.
Jack’s chin brushed the top of your head.
His hand kept moving.
The storm moved farther away.
Your breathing found his in the dark.
Not on purpose.
Not because you meant to.
It just happened.
Like too many things had happened tonight.
Like the two of you had been moving toward this long before the power went out, long before the couch, long before his bedroom door closed behind you.
Your eyes grew heavy.
The last thing you felt before sleep took you was Jack’s hand spread warm between your shoulder blades.
summary : The night shift at the Pitt teaches you two things very quickly: how to keep people alive, and how to survive the ones you can’t.
You are a newly assigned intern doctor who is brilliant, stubborn, and entirely incapable of backing down — which becomes a serious problem when your supervising attending, Jack Abbot, seems to make a sport out of challenging you at every possible opportunity. Between impossible trauma cases, sleepless nights, and arguments sharp enough to cut through the entire ER, the rivalry between them slowly turns into something far more dangerous.
contain : enemies to lovers, rivals, slow burn, sarcasm, mentions of medical trauma, injuries, trauma, hurt/comfort, nightmares trauma.
a/n : heyyy its been a while so sorry 😖 there’s so many changes in my new life now, I need to get everything clear and get back to write more haha anyway hope you like this chapter, its way less heavier than the previous one I promise 🤞🏻
archiveofourown link Spotify playlist link
Chapter 18 : Not Alone Anymore
After that night, Jack didn’t leave. He didn’t try to continue the conversation or find the right words to answer everything you had confessed. He knew there weren’t any. Instead, he simply stayed.
While you eventually drifted into an exhausted sleep, Jack stayed awake a little longer, quietly cleaning up before finally stretching out on the couch. Sleep came lightly. Every now and then, he’d wake up, glance toward you to make sure you were still asleep, then close his eyes again.
By the time morning arrived, nothing had really changed. Your fears were still there, your scar was still healing, your thoughts were still loud. But for the first time in a long while…you hadn’t gone through the night completely alone.
You woke before the sun had fully risen. For a few moments, you stayed where you were, still wrapped in the warmth of your blanket, letting your eyes adjust to the pale morning light filtering through the apartment. It was quiet, the kind of quiet that only existed before the city truly came alive.
Your gaze drifted toward the couch, Jack was still asleep.One arm hung lazily over the edge, the blanket half-slipped onto the floor sometime during the night. He looked surprisingly peaceful, completely unaware that you were awake. A small smile tugged at the corner of your lips before disappearing almost as quickly as it had come.
Careful not to wake him, you slipped out of bed, your movements still slow enough to protect your healing side. You quietly unlocked the balcony door and stepped outside, the cool morning air brushing gently against your skin. You lowered yourself onto the ground, drawing your knees against your chest and wrapping your arms around them.
From up here, the city looked different. The streets slowly filled with people hurrying toward work, buses began appearing one after another, cafés opened their doors, and somewhere below, the familiar rhythm of another ordinary day quietly unfolded.
You watched it all in silence. But your mind wasn’t really there. It was still on the living room floor, still replaying every word you had spoken the night before. Every confession. Every tear. Every silence. The more you thought about it, the more your mind did what it always did, it dissected everything.
Did you say too much?
Did you make him uncomfortable?
Did he only stay because he felt obligated?
Would he see you differently now?
Would he regret knowing all those parts of you?
The questions came one after another, never giving you enough time to answer the previous one before another appeared, each one louder than the last, until they drowned out the sounds of the waking city below.
You hated that your mind worked this way, you hated how quickly it could turn a moment of comfort into a hundred different reasons to worry. Your thoughts spiraled so deeply that you didn’t even hear him wake up.
The sudden sound of the sliding glass door moving along its track startled you back to reality. You turned your head instinctively, as Jack stepped out onto the balcony, one hand still resting on the door handle. His hair was slightly tousled from sleep, his T-shirt wrinkled, and he looked like someone who had only just opened his eyes a few minutes earlier. The golden light of the early morning caught his face as the sun rose higher over the buildings, softening every feature.
When he noticed you looking at him, a warm smile spread naturally across his face.
“Morning.” His voice was still rough with sleep, simple, ordinary. As though nothing had changed. As though last night’s conversation hadn’t scared him away. As though seeing you first thing in the morning was the most natural thing in the world. For a brief moment, all the questions inside your head fell silent. Just long enough for you to smile back.
“Morning,” you answered quietly. Your voice was still soft from sleep.
Jack walked over without saying anything else and lowered himself beside you, his shoulder almost brushing yours as he settled against the balcony wall. For a while, neither of you spoke. The city below slowly stretched itself awake, traffic becoming heavier by the minute, pedestrians weaving between one another with coffees in hand, cyclists rushing toward work before the morning truly began.
You both simply watched. It was a comfortable silence. The kind that no longer needed to be filled. From the corner of your eye, you found yourself looking at him. Not obviously, but just enough to study him without him noticing. Or so you thought.
The morning light revealed details you had somehow never paid attention to before. The faint lines at the corners of his eyes, deeper after sleeping on your couch. The light freckles scattered across his face all the way to his neck. The stubble that had begun growing overnight. The tiredness still lingering beneath his eyes after another night that hadn’t really been restful.
You wondered, briefly, how many nights like that he’d had throughout his career. How many times he’d slept in a hospital chair, or not slept at all. As if sensing your gaze, Jack turned his head. Your eyes met instantly. You looked away first. A small smile appeared on his face, though he chose not to mention it. Instead, he looked back toward the street below.
“I think…” he said thoughtfully, “…we should probably go grocery shopping.”
You blinked. “What?”
He nodded seriously. “I had a look in your fridge yesterday.”
You immediately frowned.
“I was looking for something to drink.” He shrugged innocently. “And unless you’ve recently decided that mustard and half a lemon count as a balanced diet…”
You couldn’t help smiling.
“…there’s absolutely nothing in there.”
You laughed quietly, shaking your head.
“I have food.”
Jack slowly turned to look at you. “No.”
“I do.”
“You really don’t.”
“There are…things.”
“There are condiments.”
You rolled your eyes. “They’re edible.”
“They’re ingredients for a cry for help.” That earned him a genuine laugh.
He pointed toward the apartment behind you. “You told me you already had everything you needed.” A dramatic pause. “You lied to me.”
You let out another laugh, covering your face for a second. “I may have…slightly exaggerated.”
“You absolutely did.” He nodded once.
The laughter between you slowly faded, leaving only the distant sounds of the city waking beneath your balcony. For a few moments, neither of you moved. You stayed sitting on the floor, your knees still drawn against your chest, watching people disappear into cafés, buses pulling away from their stops, another ordinary morning beginning without either of you saying a word.
Your gaze drifted toward Jack again. He was still looking out over the rooftops, a faint smile lingering on his face from the joke about your empty fridge. You hesitated, then quietly, you spoke.
“You don’t have to do all of this for me.”
His smile disappeared, replaced by something softer. He turned completely toward you, giving you his full attention. “I know.”
His voice was calm. “I’m not forcing myself.”
You searched his face, trying to find the obligation behind his words. The guilt, the pity, anything. But there was nothing. He simply looked back at you.
“I’m not here because I feel like I have to. I’m not checking on you because I think it’s my responsibility.” A small smile returned to his face. “I’m here because I want to be.”
The words settled somewhere deep inside you. You lowered your eyes instinctively. Jack let the silence sit between you before speaking again.
“You really need to start believing that people can choose to spend time with you…” His smile widened just enough to soften the sentence. “…without expecting something in return.”
You didn’t answer, not because you didn’t want to but because you didn’t know how. After a few seconds, Jack pushed himself to his feet, brushing the dust from the back of his jeans.
Then he looked down at you. “Come on.”
He held out his hand. You looked at it then back at him. You hesitated only for a few seconds. But he noticed. Still, he didn’t say anything, and simply left his hand there, waiting. Giving you all the time you needed. Slowly, you reached out and placed your hand in his. His fingers wrapped gently around yours, warm and reassuring, as he helped you back onto your feet, careful not to pull too hard and make your side hurt.
Once you were standing, neither of you moved, your hand was still resting in his. For a brief moment, you simply looked at one another, and neither of you seemed in any hurry to let go.
**********
The rest of the day unfolded far more simply than you could have imagined. You left the apartment together a little while later, taking your time down the stairs, Jack slowing his pace without making it obvious whenever your side started reminding you that you were still healing.
The grocery store wasn’t far. For the first time in weeks, you found yourself walking through the aisles with no real purpose other than deciding what sounded good.
Jack insisted your basket looked “depressing” after watching you reach for instant noodles and a frozen meal.
“You need actual food.”
“I am buying actual food.”
He raised an eyebrow. “That isn’t food.”
“It has calories.”
“It also has enough preservatives to survive another apocalypse.”
You laughed, nudging him lightly with your shoulder.
“You’re dramatic.”
“I’m a doctor.”
“Exactly.”
The conversation drifted from one ridiculous topic to another as you wandered through the store. You debated over pasta shapes as if they were life-changing decisions. Argued over whether pineapple belonged on pizza. Stopped in front of the bakery simply because the smell was impossible to ignore. At one point, the two of you stood in the vegetable aisle trying to remember a recipe Dana had once brought in for a potluck, neither of you managing to remember more than half of the ingredients.
“We’ll improvise,” Jack declared confidently.
“That’s how kitchen fires start.”
“It’ll be educational.”
“For the firefighters, maybe.”
The laughter came easier than it had in a long time. Natural and unforced. And by the time you reached the checkout, the cart was far fuller than either of you had planned. Fresh vegetables, fruit, pasta, rice, chicken, yogurts, bread. Far more than your nearly empty cupboards had held that morning.
The day slipped by almost without either of you noticing. One conversation naturally led to another. You laughed over stories that weren’t even that funny, argued over insignificant things as though they were matters of life and death, and occasionally fell into comfortable silences that no longer felt awkward. It was… easy. A word you hadn’t associated with yourself in a long time.
The hours slipped away without either of you trying to make them special. After putting the groceries away, you ended up watching a movie neither of you was really paying attention to, spending more time commenting on the plot than actually following it. Halfway through, Jack confidently guessed the ending. He was completely wrong. You laughed so hard that your side started hurting, forcing you to press a hand against your bandage while he apologized through his own laughter.
Later, the two of you wandered onto the balcony with mugs of coffee, watching people pass below and inventing ridiculous backstories for strangers walking down the street. An elderly man carrying three baguettes somehow became an international spy, and a woman hurrying toward the bus stop was apparently on her way to secretly rob a bank.
It was stupid, completely pointless. And yet, you couldn’t remember the last time you’d laughed that much over absolutely nothing. The conversations never stayed on one subject for very long. They drifted naturally from old residency stories to favorite childhood movies, from terrible cafeteria food to the most embarrassing mistakes either of you had ever made at work. Every now and then, silence settled between you, but it never felt uncomfortable. It simply became another part of the afternoon, as easy and familiar as the soft music playing in the background.
There was no pressure to fill every quiet moment, no need to pretend. No expectation that either of you had to be anything other than yourselves. For the first time in weeks, you weren’t counting the hours. You weren’t waiting for the day to end. You were simply… living it. And somehow, that ordinary, uneventful day became one of the lightest you had experienced in a very long time.
By the time the evening settled outside your windows, the apartment had taken on that familiar golden glow of sunset giving way to the first lights of the city.
Jack had somehow ended up in your tiny kitchen again. Neither of you had really decided it, it had simply happened. Jack took over chopping vegetables, insisting you were still under strict orders not to overdo it.
“Sit.”
“Jack—”
“Doctor’s orders.”
You had rolled your eyes dramatically. “I hate when doctors say that.”
“I know.”
So you gave up arguing, for once. You settled onto the couch only a few feet away, close enough to keep talking while he moved around the kitchen, occasionally opening cupboards that he somehow already seemed to know better than you did.
The apartment slowly filled with the smell of garlic, onions, and something simmering gently on the stove. You found yourself laughing again when he almost dropped a wooden spoon after insisting he “absolutely knew what he was doing.”
You were talking, as he was telling you a story about his residency. “…and I swear,” he said while stirring something in the pan, “I spent twenty minutes looking for my attending because I thought I’d lost a patient’s chart.”
You smiled. “What happened?”
He laughed to himself. “I was holding it.”
You burst into laughter. “No.”
“Right here.”
He tapped the side of his head. “I’d tucked it under my arm while talking to someone.”
“You must’ve looked incredibly competent.”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“The future of emergency medicine.”
“The pride of the residency program.”
You laughed again, shaking your head. “You’ve become slightly less embarrassing with age.”
“Slightly?”
“Very slightly.”
He placed a hand dramatically over his chest. “That was unnecessarily cruel.”
The apartment filled once more with quiet laughter. You leaned back against the couch, smiling to yourself as you listened to him continue another story.
Then, without really thinking about it, your eyes drifted toward your phone lying on the coffee table. The screen lit up as you picked it up. 8:13 p.m.
Your smile slowly faded, as you looked toward Jack confused. “…Jack?”
“Hm?”
He didn’t turn around immediately, still focused on whatever he was cooking.
You frowned. “What time does your shift start tonight?”
He paused, only for a second. Then he looked over his shoulder at you.
You glanced back down at your phone before meeting his eyes again. “It’s already eight-thirteen.” Your brows pulled together. “Shouldn’t you… be at the hospital?”
The question lingered in the air for a moment. Jack looked down at the pan in front of him, absentmindedly stirring whatever was simmering inside before lowering the heat.
He let out a quiet breath through his nose. “I’m not working tonight.”
You frowned. “No?”
He shook his head. “I took a few days off.”
The words were simple enough, but they immediately caught your attention. You straightened a little on the couch.
“You… took time off?”
“Yeah.”
There was a brief silence. Then another thought crossed your mind and your expression softened. “…For me?”
Jack scratched the back of his neck almost awkwardly, a rare hint of embarrassment creeping across his face. “…Partly.”
He gave a small, almost sheepish smile. “I’d been thinking about taking a few days off for a while.” He shrugged, as though that somehow made the confession less significant.
“I just…” His eyes drifted toward the kitchen counter before returning to you. “…figured now wasn’t the worst time.”
You didn’t say anything. So he kept talking, filling the silence before you had the chance to.
“Dana agreed…so did Robby. They’ve been telling me to slow down for months anyway.” He laughed quietly, though it sounded more nervous than amused.
“So… I finally listened.” Another pause. “And…” He rubbed the back of his neck again. “…I thought it might be nice to make sure you weren’t spending every day alone.”
The last sentence came out much quieter, lmost mumbled. As if he wasn’t entirely sure how you’d react. He looked anywhere but directly at you, suddenly finding the saucepan remarkably interesting.
“I know you probably don’t like people changing their plans because of you.”
A faint smile tugged awkwardly at the corner of his mouth. “And before you tell me I shouldn’t have…” He finally looked back at you. “…it wasn’t a sacrifice.”
His expression softened. “It was a choice.”
He shrugged once more, almost trying to dismiss the whole thing. “I wanted a few days off, and…I wanted to spend some of them with you. As simple as that.”
There was a slight flush across his cheeks now, subtle enough that most people would have missed it. “You don’t have to feel guilty about it…I promise.”
You didn’t answer him, not right away. Instead, you simply looked at him from the couch, your expression unreadable. The smile that had been there only a few moments ago had completely disappeared, leaving your face unusually serious.
Jack noticed immediately. His own smile slowly faded as uncertainty crept into his features. For the first time since he’d admitted taking those days off, he seemed genuinely unsure of himself.
Had he crossed a line? Was this exactly what you had been afraid of?
He searched your face, trying to read you the same way he usually could, but this time you gave him nothing.
“…What?” he asked carefully.
You held his gaze for another second before speaking. “I think you’re right.” Your voice was calm, too calm. “You know I don’t like people changing their lives because of me.”
Jack instinctively straightened, already preparing to explain himself again. “I wasn’t—”
“I know.” You cut him off before he could finish.
His brows pulled together. For a brief moment, neither of you spoke. Then your eyes drifted toward the saucepan simmering quietly on the stove.
“So…” You tilted your head ever so slightly. “…I really hope you’re a good cook.”
Jack frowned. “What?”
You looked back at him with the exact same seriousness.
“Because if you took several days off…” You glanced deliberately at the food he was making. “…and this ends up tasting terrible…” A tiny shrug lifted one of your shoulders. “…then I’m afraid you’ve wasted your vacation.”
Silence. Jack simply stared at you. His brain took a second to catch up. Then, all at once, understanding washed over his face. A relieved laugh escaped him as he dropped his head with a shake of disbelief, one hand coming up to rub across his forehead.
“Oh my God…” He looked back at you, still laughing. “You scared me.”
His shoulders relaxed visibly now that he realized you were teasing him. “I genuinely thought you were about to tell me to leave.”
That was enough to break your composure. A smile spread across your face, followed by a quiet laugh. “I considered it.”
He pointed the wooden spoon in your direction, looking thoroughly offended.
“You’re evil.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“No,” he said, chuckling as he turned back toward the stove. “That wasn’t funny.”
“It absolutely was.”
“It was psychological warfare.”
“It was deserved.”
He laughed again, shaking his head while stirring the pan. “You know…” He looked back over his shoulder, a grin still lingering on his face. “…for someone who claims she isn’t very funny…” He narrowed his eyes playfully. “…you’ve got a surprisingly cruel sense of humor.”
You leaned back comfortably against the couch.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It wasn’t.”
“It definitely was.”
Jack sighed with exaggerated resignation before returning his attention to dinner.
“You’ve become very confident for someone who’s about to eat food cooked by the person she just mocked.”
You smiled to yourself.
“I have faith.”
“In me?”
“No.” You waited just long enough. “In the emergency department.”
He blinked. “…What?”
“If dinner goes terribly wrong…”
You folded your arms with mock confidence.
“…I know exactly where you’ll take me.”
Jack couldn’t help laughing again. “You are unbelievable.”
“But you’re still cooking.”
“I am.”
“And you’re still eating it.”
You smiled. “I guess we’ll find out whether those days off were worth it.”
By the time dinner was finally ready, the apartment had filled with a warmth that had nothing to do with the summer evening outside.
The rich smell of garlic and herbs lingered in the air, mixing with the sweetness of slowly cooked onions and the comforting aroma of tomatoes that had been simmering long enough to lose their sharpness. Fresh basil rested on top, adding a bright splash of green against the deep red sauce, while ribbons of parmesan slowly melted over the steaming pasta beneath. It wasn’t anything extravagant. Just a simple homemade pasta. But it looked like something that had been cooked with care rather than thrown together out of necessity.
Jack carried the two plates over to the small table tucked against the wall before disappearing back into the kitchen to grab forks and two glasses of water.
“There,” he said, setting everything down. “Dinner is served.”
You smiled as you sit on the ground in front of the coffee table. “I have to admit…” You looked down at your plate. “It already looks better than anything I’ve made in the last month.”
“I’m choosing to take that as a compliment.”
“You should.”
The two of you settled across from one another. For a moment, neither of you touched your food. Jack rested his forearms lightly against the table, watching you with far more attention than he probably realized.
You noticed. “You know,” you said, raising an eyebrow, “you’re making this very stressful.”
“I’m just waiting.”
“For?”
“Your professional opinion.”
“My professional opinion?”
“As the patient.”
You laughed quietly. “So that’s why you became a doctor.”
“Exactly.” He gestured toward your plate. “Go ahead.”
You twirled a small forkful of pasta, bringing it cautiously to your mouth while Jack continued watching you with an expression that was somewhere between confidence and genuine curiosity. You chewed slowly, thoughtfully without saying a word.
Jack’s confidence began to crack. “…Should I already start looking for my car keys?”
You kept chewing.
“I mean,” he continued, trying not to smile, “if we’re heading back to the ER tonight, I’d rather leave before traffic.”
Still nothing. He sighed dramatically. “I knew I should’ve ordered takeout.”
You swallowed, deliberately taking another small bite before answering. “Hm.”
Jack blinked. “‘Hm’?”
You looked down at the plate again as if you were carefully analyzing every ingredient. “I see.”
He leaned back. “Well. I’ve had a good career. It was nice knowing everyone.”
You couldn’t hold it any longer. A smile spread across your face. “It’s really good.”
Jack immediately pointed at you. “‘Really good?’”
You nodded. “It is.”
He folded his arms with mock indignation. “Not delicious?”
You tilted your head, pretending to think about it. “I don’t know…It might be…” Another pause. “…edible.”
Jack let out the most offended laugh. “Edible? I survived.”
You laugh at his reaction.
“I’ve dedicated over an hour of my life to this meal.”
“And I appreciate your effort.”
“My effort?”
He shook his head dramatically. “I was expecting tears.”
“You got compliments.”
“I wanted admiration.”
You smiled before taking another bite. “Don’t get greedy.”
Jack sighed theatrically before finally beginning his own dinner. “I should’ve let you eat the instant noodles.”
You laughed, the sound filling the apartment once again.
“No.” You looked back up at him with a smile that reached your eyes. “I’m actually glad you didn’t.”
For just a second, Jack forgot to answer. He simply smiled back. Then, quietly, almost to himself, he picked up his fork again. “Yeah…So am I.”
For a while, the conversation naturally drifted away from the food. You both ate quietly, occasionally interrupting the silence with another small joke or a comment about something completely unrelated. The kind of conversation that didn’t require effort. It was simple and normal. Something you hadn’t realized you had missed so much.
Jack was halfway through his plate when he looked up at you. “So…”
You glanced at him. “So?”
“When are you going back?”
You knew immediately what he meant. The ER. Your expression softened slightly as you looked down at your plate. “Actually… soon.”
His eyebrows lifted a little. “How soon?”
“Five days.”
The answer made him pause. “Five days?”
You nodded. “They cleared me for shorter shifts first. Nothing too intense, no long hours, and I’m not supposed to push myself.” A small smile appeared on your face. “But yeah.”
You looked around your apartment briefly, then back at him. “I can finally go back.”
There was something in your voice that made him smile. Not because you were excited about work but because he could hear how much you meant it. “I miss it,” you admitted quietly.
“The ER?”
You nodded. “The noise. The people. The chaos.” You laughed softly. “Which sounds insane when I say it out loud.”
“It does.”
You looked at him, offended. “Hey.”
He smiled. “But I understand.”
You continued eating for a moment before adding, “I think I need it.”
Jack’s expression changed slightly. Not worried, just attentive. “What do you mean?”
You shrugged. “I need to get my brain working again.”
You tapped lightly against your temple. “Being home sounded nice at first. Resting, recovering, having time.” You looked around the small apartment. “But after a while…” You sighed. “It felt like my thoughts were getting louder.”
Jack stayed silent, listening.
“And at work, I don’t have time to overthink everything.” A small smile tugged at your lips. “There’s always something happening. Someone who needs help. Something to solve.”
He understood that, maybe more than anyone. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from asking. “Are you sure you’re ready?”
You looked back at him. The question wasn’t about your physical condition, you knew that. He was asking if you were ready to walk back into the place where everything had changed.
“You don’t have to rush.” His voice stayed gentle. “If you want to wait a little longer, nobody would blame you.”
You shook your head almost immediately. “No.” The answer came faster than you expected. “I don’t want to wait.”
Jack watched you carefully.
“I mean it.” You placed your fork down for a moment. “I know what happened.” Your fingers brushed absentmindedly against the edge of the table. “I know it’s probably normal to be scared. And maybe part of me is.”
You looked at him honestly. “But staying away longer isn’t going to make it disappear.” A quiet silence settled between you. “I need to go back.” Your voice was softer now. “I need to remember that the hospital is still the place where I saved people…Not just the place where I almost died.”
Jack didn’t answer immediately, he simply looked at you, taking in your words. Then he nodded slowly. “Okay.”
A small smile appeared. “But you promise me something?”
You raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“You listen to your body.”
You sighed. “Jack—”
“No.” He pointed his fork lightly at you. “I’m serious.”
You tried not to smile. “You sound like Dana.”
“Good.”
You laughed quietly. “That’s terrifying.”
“It means she’s right.”
You shook your head, but the smile stayed. And Jack noticed. Because for once… You weren’t arguing because you wanted to push him away. You were arguing because you were comfortable enough for him to stay.
The rest of the evening passed just as quietly. There was no big conversation after that, no heavy emotions to unpack, no difficult subjects waiting around the corner. You simply finished dinner together, leaving the empty plates on the small kitchen counter before returning to the couch. It felt strangely ordinary, and maybe that was what made it feel so special.
Jack picked up the remote and looked at you. “Your choice.”
You immediately raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
He nodded. “Really.”
You studied him for a second. “You know I’m going to choose something terrible just to annoy you.”
“I know.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“I’m prepared.”
You smiled slightly before shaking your head. “No. You choose.”
He looked almost surprised. “You trust me with a movie?”
“Don’t make it dramatic.”
“Too late.” He scrolled through the options for a moment, completely ignoring your comments about his questionable taste. Then he stopped. You glanced at the screen.
“The Notebook.”
You looked at him. “Seriously?”
“What?”
“That’s your choice?”
He shrugged. “It’s a good movie.”
You narrowed your eyes playfully. “I didn’t know you were that kind of person.”
“What kind?”
“The romantic movie kind.”
“I contain multitudes.”
You laughed quietly. The apartment slowly became darker as the movie played, only the soft light from the television moving across the room. Jack didn’t talk much either. He simply sat beside you close. Not intentionally, not in a way that demanded attention, just naturally.
Your shoulders brushed occasionally whenever one of you shifted. Your knees touched, resting against each other without either of you moving away. And somehow, neither of you acknowledged it, there was no awkwardness. No sudden realization, just comfort.
Halfway through the movie, you found yourself watching less for the story and more for the peacefulness of the moment itself.
The quiet sound of Jack breathing beside you. The warmth of another person sitting close. The simple fact that when you looked to your side… Someone was there.
You had spent so long convincing yourself that you preferred being alone. That you didn’t need anyone. That depending on people only gave them the opportunity to hurt you. But sitting there, sharing a movie on an ordinary evening, you realized something that was both comforting and terrifying. Maybe you didn’t hate needing people. Maybe you were just afraid of what happened when you needed them too much.
The movie carried on quietly, filling the apartment with soft piano music and whispered conversations from the television. Neither of you had spoken in a while. You were both too caught up in the story, or at least, that’s what you thought.
Then, during one particularly emotional scene, you heard it. A tiny sniff. So quiet you almost wondered if you’d imagined it. Your eyes slowly left the television as you turned your head toward Jack. At first, nothing seemed unusual. He was still watching the screen, completely focused, his arms folded comfortably across his chest.
Then the light from the television shifted across his face. You caught the unmistakable shine in his eyes. You blinked. No…You looked again. His eyes were definitely watering. For a second, you genuinely wondered if there was something in the apartment making his eyes sting. Then another discreet sniff reached your ears.
You stared at him. “…Jack?”
“Hm?”
He didn’t even look away from the movie. You turned your body toward him a little more.
“…Are you…”
A smile slowly spread across your face.
“…are you crying?”
His head finally turned. “What?”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I’m really not.”
As if to prove himself right, he casually lifted a hand to rub beneath one eye. Unfortunately for him, it only confirmed your suspicion. He wiped away an unmistakable tear.
Your mouth fell open. “No way.”
“It was dust.”
You laughed. “Dust?”
“There was…” He glanced vaguely toward the ceiling. “…something.”
“In your eye?”
“Exactly.”
You couldn’t stop smiling. “Jack Abbot…” You shook your head in complete disbelief. “…you’re crying over The Notebook.”
“I’m not crying.”
“You’re literally wiping away tears.”
“I have allergies.”
“Oh c’mon.” You burst into laughter.
Before he had the chance to invent another excuse, you shifted closer across the couch. You reached for his forearm, laughing as he instinctively tried to hide part of his face behind his hand.
“I’m fine.”
“Jack.”
“I’m watching the movie.”
“You are crying.”
“I am absolutely not.”
Still laughing, you caught his wrist and gently pulled his hand away from his face despite his half-hearted resistance.
“There.”
You leaned in dramatically, pretending to inspect him with the seriousness of a doctor examining a patient. The moment you finally got a proper look at him, your teasing faltered.
His eyes really were glassy. Not dramatically, not enough for tears to be streaming down his face but just enough that the corners of his eyes shimmered in the light of the television, betraying him completely.
For a split second, your heart melted. The sight was so unexpected, so completely at odds with the man who spent every day barking orders in Trauma, that you couldn’t help yourself.
The grin on your face softened into something almost affectionate. You let go of his wrist only to immediately wrap both of your arms around him instead.
“Aww…”
You rested your chin lightly against his shoulder, hugging him with exaggerated sympathy.
“…poor baby.”
Jack let out a laugh so sudden it caught both of you off guard. “Oh, shut up.”
His voice was muffled by his own laughter.
“I’m serious.”
“No, you’re making fun of me.”
“I would never.”
He huffed. “You absolutely would.”
You only hugged him a little tighter, smiling into the fabric of his T-shirt.
“It’s okay.”
Another laugh escaped him as he finish to wipe again his tears.
“You don’t have to hide your feelings.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I definitely dislike you a little right now.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him, still smiling. “I think it’s cute.”
Jack immediately groaned. “Don’t say that.”
“It is.”
“It absolutely is not.”
“I’ve never seen the terrifying Dr. Abbot lose a fight against a Nicholas Sparks movie.”
“I wasn’t losing.”
“You were.”
“I was emotionally… appreciating the cinematography.”
You burst out laughing. “The cinematography?”
“Exactly.”
“That’s the excuse we’re going with?”
“It looked very… emotional.”
You shook your head, unable to stop smiling. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone worse at lying.”
Jack sighed dramatically, though the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed him once again. “…Can we never mention this again?”
You smiled sweetly. “No.”
Your arms were still loosely wrapped around his shoulders. At some point, the movie had become nothing more than distant background noise, its dialogue blending into the quiet hum of the apartment. Neither of you was really watching anymore.
Jack hadn’t moved away from the hug. His arm still rested on his lap, the laughter gradually faded until only silence remained between you. It wasn’t uncomfortable. Just… still.
You slowly lifted your head from his shoulder. He was already looking at you and for a long moment, neither of you said a word. The room seemed strangely smaller all of a sudden, the only light coming from the television as shifting blue and amber reflections passed over his face as you found yourself studying him without meaning to.
The softness that had replaced his usual guarded expression, the tired lines beneath his eyes, the faint smile that hadn’t quite disappeared after laughing together. His gaze never left yours, but your heartbeat quickened.
Almost involuntarily, your eyes drifted downward. Just for a fraction of a second to his lips. The movement was so brief you almost convinced yourself it hadn’t happened at all. But when your eyes lifted again, you caught the slightest flicker in his expression.
His own gaze had dropped, too, only for an instant. Only long enough to make you wonder if you’d imagined it. The realization hit you almost immediately. Heat rose to your cheeks as you blinked, suddenly aware of how close the two of you actually were. Without saying anything, you gently loosened your arms from around his shoulders and leaned back, quietly returning to your place on the couch. The cushion dipped beneath your weight as a small distance settled between you once again.
Neither of you acknowledged it. Jack cleared his throat almost imperceptibly before turning his attention back to the television. You did the same. The movie continued playing. But neither of you could have said what happened in the next scene.
The rest of the movie played on. At least, it played on the television. Your mind had wandered somewhere else entirely. You stared at the screen without really seeing it, the scenes changing one after another while your thoughts quietly drifted back to a conversation you had tried not to revisit.
Dana. You could still picture the hospital room as clearly as if you were sitting there again. She had been holding your hands between hers, looking at you with that gentle patience that somehow always made it impossible to lie.
“Do you love him?”
The question echoed through your mind once more. Back then, you hadn’t answered because you hadn’t known. Or maybe because you hadn’t wanted to know. Now…
Your eyes shifted, almost unconsciously, toward Jack. He was still watching the movie, completely unaware of the storm slowly building inside your head. Your gaze lingered only for a moment before returning to the screen.
Do I?
The thought frightened you more than it should have. Not because of the answer but because of what it would mean if the answer was yes. Your chest tightened. Almost instinctively, you pushed the thought away.
The movie reached its final scene without you realizing it. The credits began rolling across the screen as soft music filled the apartment. Jack stretched slightly, letting out the quiet sigh of someone who had been sitting in the same position for too long before reaching for the remote. The television clicked off, the room immediately fell into darkness, illuminated only by the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the balcony window.
For a few seconds, neither of you moved. The silence felt different now, gentler and sleepier.
You glanced at the clock. “…It’s late.”
Jack looked over.
You offered him a small smile. “I think…”
You stood up carefully, still mindful of your side. “…we should probably get some sleep.”
He nodded almost immediately. “Probably.”
Neither of you mentioned the quiet moment that had happened earlier. Neither of you mentioned the way your thoughts had been elsewhere for the last half hour. Instead, the evening simply came to a natural end.
The apartment gradually settled into silence. The familiar little routines of the evening unfolded without either of you needing to discuss them.
You disappeared into the bathroom long enough to brush your teeth and change into an oversized T-shirt before climbing carefully beneath the covers, mindful of your healing side. Across the room, Jack quietly folded the blanket he’d been using the previous night, shaking it out before spreading it neatly over the couch.
The apartment gradually fell quiet. Jack settled onto the couch, pulling the blanket over himself with a quiet sigh as he adjusted the cushion beneath his head. Across the room, you shifted carefully beneath your own blankets, turning onto your right side before quickly deciding against it as the healing wound protested. With a small grimace, you rolled back onto your back instead, staring up at the ceiling.
The room was almost completely dark. Only the faint amber glow of the streetlights outside slipped through the curtains, casting long shadows across the walls and painting soft outlines of the furniture.
For a while, you could hear Jack moving every so often on the couch, the rustle of fabric, the quiet creak of the cushions beneath his weight. Then…nothing. Only the steady rhythm of two people breathing in the same room. Slowly, your own breathing matched the silence around you, your eyelids grew heavier.
The thoughts that had been circling your mind all evening became quieter, their edges blurring together until they no longer made sense.
And eventually… sleep found you.
**********
At first, the dream felt ordinary. You were walking. Crowds moved around you beneath strings of colorful festival lights, music drifting lazily through the warm evening air. Children laughed somewhere nearby. Someone bumped your shoulder before disappearing into the sea of people.
Everything felt… normal, safe.
Then— A sharp crack split the air.
Someone screamed. Another shot. The music stopped.
The lights blurred into streaks of color as people began running in every direction. Your heartbeat lurched violently.
No. Not again.
You tried to move. Your legs refused.
Another deafening gunshot echoed somewhere behind you. Then another. Then another. The crowd swallowed you whole.
Faces flashed past too quickly to recognize. Someone slammed into you. You stumbled. Fell.
Your hands hit the ground. Warm. Wet. You looked down. Blood. Your hands were covered in it. Too much. It dripped between your fingers, staining your sleeves, your clothes, your skin. You tried to wipe it away. It only spread farther.
Your breathing became uneven. Someone was shouting your name. Far away. Or maybe right beside you. You couldn’t tell anymore.
Then…pain. A violent, burning pain exploded through your side.
The force stole the air from your lungs. You collapsed onto the pavement, your vision trembling as the sky above you disappeared behind terrified strangers running past.
Everything became louder. The gunfire. The screams. The sirens. You couldn’t breathe. You pressed your hand against your side. More blood. So much blood. Your fingers slipped.
Someone reached you. Strong hands. Voices. “Stay with me.” You knew that voice. Jack. You forced your eyes upward. His face hovered above you.
Rain. Blood. Panic.
You had never seen him look like that. His hands were pressing desperately against your wound. His mouth was moving. He was saying something. You couldn’t hear him.
Everything sounded distant. Like you were underwater. Your vision darkened.
“O negative!”
“We’re losing her!”
The monitor began screaming. Its frantic beeping filled every corner of your mind. Faster. Faster. Faster.
You tried to speak. Your lips barely moved. “I’m… sorry…”
Jack’s face crumpled. “No.” His voice was clear now. “No, no, stay with me.”
You wanted to. God, you wanted to. But your body no longer listened. The beeping slowed. One beat. Another. Longer. Longer. Then— A single, endless tone. The sound swallowed everything. Jack’s hands were still on you. Still trying. Still refusing to stop. And then…Darkness.
You woke up violently. Not slowly or gently. One second you were trapped in the dream, drowning in the noise, the blood, the panic— and the next, you were sitting upright in bed, your entire body jolting awake as if someone had pulled you out of the nightmare by force.
A sharp breath tore from your lungs as you couldn’t breathe properly. Your chest rose and fell too quickly, every inhale feeling too small, too shallow. Your hands immediately gripped the blanket beneath you, fingers trembling as your eyes desperately searched the darkness around you.
For a few seconds you didn’t know where you were. The room felt unfamiliar, the shadows on the walls looked wrong. Your brain was still somewhere else, still at the festival, still on the ground, still bleeding.
Your heart hammered painfully against your ribs as you looked around, trying to convince yourself that you were no longer there. No flashing lights, no screaming, no gunshots, no blood. Just your apartment, your bed and the quiet hum of the city outside. But your body didn’t understand that yet.
Tears started falling before you even realized you were crying, silent at first then heavier. Your breathing became uneven as you brought a shaking hand toward your face, trying to wipe them away, almost frustrated by the fact that they wouldn’t stop.
You hated this, you hated feeling out of control. You hated that your own mind could drag you back there whenever it wanted.
Across the room, Jack woke up. At first, it was the sound that pulled him out of sleep. Your breathing too fast, too panicked. Not the quiet breathing of someone having a bad dream, but the kind that immediately made every instinct in him wake up.
His eyes opened in the darkness. For a second, he was disoriented himself, still caught between sleep and reality. Then he heard it again. A small, broken sound, a quiet sob.
He sat up immediately. “Y/N?” His voice was low, careful.
You froze as hearing his voice made reality start coming back piece by piece. Your eyes moved toward the couch, toward him.
Jack was already getting up, his blanket falling, his expression filled with concern. He rush toward you, but didn’t touch you. He just looked at you, making sure you knew where you were.
“Hey…” His voice softened. “It’s me.”
Your lips parted, but nothing came out. You wanted to say you were fine. The automatic response was already there.
I’m okay.
It’s nothing.
Go back to sleep.
But the words wouldn’t form. Because for once…you weren’t okay and Jack could see it. You were still looking at him, but Jack could see it in your eyes, you weren’t really seeing him, not yet. Part of you was still trapped somewhere between the nightmare and reality, tears falling on your cheeks, your breathing too fast, your shoulders trembling with every uneven inhale.
The mattress dipped slightly as he sat carefully on the edge, making sure to leave enough space between the two of you. He didn’t reach for you, didn’t take your hand, didn’t pull you into a hug, not yet. He knew better than to touch someone who hadn’t fully come back. Instead, he kept his voice low and steady, the same reassuring tone he used with terrified patients in the trauma bay.
“Hey…” He waited until your eyes found his again. “Look at me.”
Your gaze flickered toward him. Still unfocused and frightened.
“That’s it.” He nodded gently. “You’re doing okay.”
Another shaky breath escaped your lips. “No…” You barely managed to whisper it. “It was…” Your voice cracked before the sentence could finish.
Jack slowly shook his head. “I know.” His tone remained calm, almost impossibly calm. “But you’re here.” He glanced around the apartment for just a second before looking back at you. “You’re home.”
His eyes never left yours. “You’re in your apartment. You are safe, breath slow.”
Another breath still too quick come out. Jack stayed exactly where he was. Close enough that you knew he was there. “You don’t have to be afraid right now.” His words were quiet, barely louder than a whisper. “It was a nightmare.” He held your gaze. “It’s over…you survived.”
Another tear rolled down your cheek.
“You’re here with me.” A small pause. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
For the first time since waking up, your shoulders loosened ever so slightly, only a little. But enough for Jack to see that you were finally beginning to find your way back to the room. Back to him, back to the present.
Little by little, your breathing steadied. The tears didn’t stop immediately, but they no longer came with the same desperate panic that had wrenched you awake. The nightmare was fading, its sharp edges softening as the familiar outlines of your apartment slowly replaced the images your mind had trapped you in only minutes before.
Neither of you spoke for a while. Jack simply stayed where he was, sitting on the edge of the bed, giving you the silence you seemed to need. When he was finally certain you were fully present again, he let out a quiet breath of his own.
“There you are,” he murmured, a small smile touching the corner of his lips. His hand lifted slowly, giving you every opportunity to move away if you wanted to, but you didn’t. With the gentlest touch, he brushed a loose strand of hair away from your damp face, tucking it carefully behind your ear before letting his hand fall again. His thumb lingered for the briefest second against your temple.
“You should try to get some sleep.” His voice remained soft, almost soothing. “It was just a nightmare.” He held your gaze for another moment. “You’re safe, the doors are locked, I’m here, and everything’s okay.”
You nodded faintly, not because you completely believed it but because you wanted to. Slowly, you eased yourself back against the pillow, pulling the blanket up around you as your body finally began to feel heavy again.
Jack waited until you were settled before pushing himself to his feet. “Try to rest,” he whispered. “I’ll be right over—”
A gentle pressure around his forearm stopped him before he could finish. He looked down, your fingers were wrapped lightly around his sleeve.
Your eyes immediately dropped to the blanket, a faint flush warming your cheeks. “…Wait.”
The word came out barely above a whisper. You hesitated, and for a second, it looked as though you were going to let go and pretend you hadn’t said anything.
Instead, you gathered what little courage you had left. “…Can you…” You swallowed. “…can you sleep here?”
Your voice was almost embarrassingly quiet now. “With me…” You finally looked back up at him. Your fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around his sleeve before loosening again. “I don’t think I can fall asleep alone tonight.”
The admission hung quietly between you. You weren’t asking because you were frightened of the dark. You were asking because you were frightened of closing your eyes. And for the first time since Jack had known you… you had trusted someone enough to say it out loud.
Jack didn’t answer. He didn’t ask whether you were sure. He simply looked at you for a long second before giving the smallest nod. Without another word, he walked around to the other side of the bed and carefully slipped beneath the covers, making sure to leave enough space between the two of you. He settled onto his back, one arm resting across his stomach, the room falling silent once again.
Outside, the city had long since gone to sleep. Inside, only your uneven breathing disturbed the stillness. You stared at the ceiling, willing your heartbeat to slow, but every deep breath seemed to catch halfway before leaving your lungs in another shaky exhale. The nightmare still lingered somewhere beneath your skin, refusing to loosen its grip completely.
Jack listened quietly beside you. He didn’t need to look to know you were still fighting it. After another long breath that sounded more like a suppressed sob than an exhale, he turned his head slightly toward you.
“Hey…” His voice was barely louder than the darkness surrounding you. “You’re okay…”
The words were so gentle, so…certain… That something inside you finally gave way. Your eyes squeezed shut as fresh tears escaped before you could stop them.
Without thinking, almost instinctively, you turned toward him, closing the small distance between your bodies until your forehead rested against his chest. You hid your face in the soft fabric of his T-shirt, ashamed of the tears that refused to stop.
Jack didn’t hesitate this time. One arm slowly came around your shoulders, the other around your back, holding you carefully, mindful of your healing wound. His embrace wasn’t tight enough to trap you, only firm enough to let you feel that he was there.
That you weren’t facing the night alone. He rested his chin lightly against the top of your head, his hand moving in slow, reassuring circles between your shoulder blades.
“You’re okay…” he whispered again. His voice vibrated softly beneath your cheek. “You’re safe…” Another gentle squeeze. “I’m here…”
You felt your fingers curl weakly into his shirt as another quiet sob escaped you. He held you a little closer. “You’re okay…”
He repeated the words with the same patient calm, over and over, never rushing you, never asking you to stop crying. “You made it…”
A kiss of silence settled over the room between each reassurance. “You’re home…” His hand continued its slow rhythm across your back.
Summary You join PTMC as their slightly uptight, sharp hospital lawyer and catch the attention of night shift attending, Jack Abbot.
STRAWBERRY | JACK ABBOT 5.6K WORDS
Summary You find yourself drawn to the ER doctor as a legal case finds you working together.
Note: part two to linger, can be read as a standalone. I think. Hopefully.
OPTICS | JACK ABBOT 5.1K WORDS
Summary The ER might be catching onto the fact that their resident lawyer and night shift attending might be each other's favourites.
Note: part three to linger & strawberry, can be read as a standalone. I think. Hopefully. Again..
LUCK | JACK ABBOT 9.1K WORDS
Summary You can't help it as you get closer with the night shift attending. And after a day in court, you welcome the chance for a night out with drinks and darts with the team of doctors.
Note: part four to linger & strawberry & optics, can be read as a standalone. I think. Hopefully. Once more!
ORBIT | JACK ABBOT 5.7K WORDS
Summary After a sweet kiss, Jack Abbot works up the courage to ask out his favourite hospital lawyer, who finds herself needing aid.
Note: Part five! I need a name for this series!
MY (WO)MAN ON WILLPOWER | JACK ABBOT 16.5K WORDS
Summary You and Jack have always been a hands-on, can’t-keep-your-hands-off-each-other kind of couple—until you decide to commit to a month-long “detox.” No sex, no touching, no shortcuts. Jack feels like the least sought after man in the land. (inspired by sabrina carpenter’s my man on willpower (2025)!)
HOW I'D LOVE TO GO PARIS AGAIN (AND AGAIN) | JACK ABBOT AND MICHAEL ROBINAVITCH 18.3K WORDS
Summary After Jack casually floats the idea of adding a third, you don’t let it stay theoretical for long—what starts as curiosity turns into something a lot more real when Robby gets pulled into the space you and Jack have built together.
Note: spin off of my (wo)man on willpower, but can be read as a standalone!
blurbs
robby/abbot competition w/ you - spinoff blurb of how i'd love to go to paris again (and again) - can be read solo
abbot spoiling you - spinoff blurb of lawyerfem!reader series
you witness the nightcrawler chant lol. - spinoff blurb of lawyerfem!reader series
he handles you when youre in a shit mood - spinoff blurb of lawyerfem!reader series
...is that a new perfume? - spinoff blurb of lawyerfem!reader series
SUCCESS: THIS AUTHOR LOVES REPRESSED OLD MEN AND LOVES PRETTY LADIES.
pairing: titus danforth x estate medic!reader
summary: The Danforth estate was built to swallow screams, and tonight you’re the one cleaning up what the hunt leaves behind. When Titus Danforth arrives bleeding, furious, and far too aware of your hands on him, the private medical room becomes its own kind of trap.
wc: 8.5k
a/n: i don’t support the danforth family’s business practices but i do support titus danforth turning first aid into foreplay. not beta read.
warnings: canon-typical violence, blood, injury/wound care, stitches, medical setting, fear kink, power imbalance, class dynamics, coercive/dubcon vibes but ultimately consensual, rough sex, choking/breath play, hair pulling, manhandling, piv, creampie, daddy kink, dd/lg undertones, fingering, spanking, dirty talk, praise kink, degradation, possessive behavior, slight pain kink, no real aftercare
MASTERLIST
The Danforths didn’t hide their violence. They insulated it.
The first thing the Danforth complex taught you when you took the job was that rich people didn’t silence screams—they designed rooms that swallowed them.
Sound died strangely here. It vanished into velvet walls and carved wood, into the thick old carpets imported from countries the Danforths pretended to respect and exploited anyway. It sank into the marble. It slipped behind portraits of dead men with powdered faces and mean eyes. The estate was too large, too polished, too aware of itself, all black iron gates and manicured gardens and endless service corridors designed so the wealthy never had to see the people who cleaned up after them.
Tonight, the house was eating noise whole.
Somewhere beyond the west wing, a gunshot cracked through the grounds.
Then another.
Then silence.
You sat in the private medical room with your hands folded in your lap, staring at the brass clock over the cabinet because it gave you something to do besides think. The room smelled of antiseptic, old leather, and the faint coppery ghost of blood that never really left, no matter how much bleach the staff used. The surgical tray had already been laid out. Sutures. Gauze. Hemostats. Sterile gloves. Local anesthetic. Silver scissors. Everything arranged with the quiet, awful precision the Danforths expected from their staff.
You weren’t a doctor. Not officially.
Officially, you were a private household medical attendant.
Unofficially, you were the person they called when someone important got hurt doing something no one could report.
Most estates had gardeners. Drivers. Housekeepers.
The Danforths had crisis staff.
Another sound came through the walls: a low mechanical groan, followed by the distant blare of an alarm that stopped almost as soon as it began. Someone on security must’ve killed it. The house settled again, vast and watchful.
You told yourself not to count the minutes.
Counting made it worse.
The intercom on the wall clicked alive.
Static hissed.
Then his voice poured through, low and amused and ragged around the edges.
“Grace, darling, you’re making this tedious.”
You went still.
Titus Danforth sounded different over the intercom. Larger somehow. More theatrical. Like the whole estate had been built not for parties or power or ritual, but for the particular pleasure of carrying his voice into every room.
“You can keep running,” he continued, breath faintly uneven beneath the taunt, “but there’s only so much house.”
The intercom clicked off.
A second later, a crash rang out somewhere in the corridor beyond the medical room.
Not the distant violence of the hunt.
Close.
You stood before you could think better of it.
There were voices outside. Two of them. One sharp and female, cold enough to cut through the old oak door.
“You look embarrassing.”
Ursula Danforth.
Your stomach tightened.
Then Titus, closer, rougher, amused through his pain.
“And you look disappointed I’m still walking.”
The door swung open hard enough to hit the stopper.
Titus Danforth appeared in the doorway, and the room seemed to brace for him before you did.
He was bleeding.
Not dying, your training decided for you.
Unfortunately.
He’d been hurt badly enough to look furious about it. His dark grey T-shirt was torn open at the side, the cotton stuck to him where blood had soaked through and turned the fabric almost black. The collar sat crooked at his throat, one shoulder pulled out of shape, his hair mussed like he’d dragged a hand through it too many times. Blood marked his neck. His fingers. The hard line of one cheekbone. It should’ve made him look shaken. Instead, it made him look like someone else had made the mistake of touching him and hadn’t survived the lesson.
He looked less injured than interrupted.
And he looked deeply insulted that anyone had noticed.
Ursula stood just behind him, immaculate in a way that made his damage seem even more obscene. Not untouched exactly—there was a streak of dirt along the hem of her skirt, a tiny red bead near her wrist—but composed. Always composed. She looked him over with flat disgust, as though he’d tracked mud into the foyer instead of blood into the medical wing.
“You’re bleeding on Father’s floor,” she said.
Titus gave the marble a brief, contemptuous glance. “He’s hardly in a position to complain.”
“Don’t be vulgar.”
“Don’t be sentimental.”
Her gaze flicked to you. “Patch him up.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Titus’s eyes moved to you for the first time.
That was always how it felt with him. Not attention. Appraisal. The kind rich men gave paintings, horses, weapons, and people they didn’t consider people for long.
You lowered your gaze on instinct, then hated yourself for doing it.
His mouth curved.
“Oh,” he said softly. “This one’s nervous.”
Ursula didn’t turn. “Everyone’s nervous around you. Don’t mistake that for charisma.”
“I don’t have to.” Titus’s eyes stayed on you. “Not when they’re this pretty about it.”
Your face went warm.
You reached for the gloves because they gave your hands something to do besides betray you.
Ursula’s mouth tightened. “Sit down, Titus.”
He smiled at her. “Ask sweetly.”
“You’re bleeding through your shirt.”
“And still standing.”
“Barely.”
“You wound me.”
“Someone already did.”
His smile sharpened.
“Careful, Urs. That almost sounded like love.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said. “Love would imply I’d miss you.”
For the first time, his smile thinned.
“I’d prefer you alive until you’re useful,” she added.
Titus laughed once, sharp and humorless. It almost passed for contempt. Then his breath caught, and the lie came apart—pain, badly hidden, worse than he wanted anyone in the room to know.
Ursula noticed too.
Of course she did.
Her eyes narrowed with something that might’ve passed for concern in another bloodline. In theirs, it looked more like calculation.
“You’re compromised,” she said.
“I’m inconvenienced.”
“You’re reckless.”
“I’m effective.”
“You lost the girl.”
That landed.
Not visibly, not to anyone who didn’t know how to watch monsters pretend not to bruise. But Titus’s face changed by a degree. His smile stayed. His eyes went colder.
“The night isn’t over.”
“No,” Ursula said. “Which is why I need you stitched and back on your feet before you become more liability than asset.”
He stepped farther into the room, the torn edge of his jacket dragging wetly against the cut at his side. For one brief second, his jaw clenched.
Then the smile returned, polished over the pain like a fresh coat of varnish.
“Always so managerial.”
“Always so disappointing.”
He brushed past her and dropped into the chair beside the examination table instead of getting onto it, spreading his knees and leaning back like this was a club lounge and not a room designed to quietly remove bullets from billionaires.
Ursula looked at you again.
Not unkindly.
Worse. Practically.
“If he bites, hit him with the tray.”
Titus grinned. “Don’t flirt on my behalf.”
Ursula ignored him. “He needs to be mobile. Fast.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She started to leave, then paused at the door.
“Titus.”
He didn’t look at her. “Ursula.”
“Try not to bleed out in front of the staff. It lowers morale.”
His smile thinned.
The door shut behind her.
Silence settled.
Not real silence. The house still breathed around you. Somewhere in the vents, air shifted. Somewhere distant, the game continued. But in the medical room, it was just you and Titus and the blood steadily darkening his shirt.
He watched you snap on your gloves.
“You always this quiet?”
You moved to the tray. “When I’m working.”
“How professional.”
“You’re going to need to take off the jacket.”
“Bossy.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“I noticed.”
“You’ll bleed more if the fabric pulls when I clean it.”
He studied you for a second too long, then reached up with his uninjured hand and shrugged out of the jacket. Or tried to. The movement tugged at the wound and his breath caught through his teeth.
You stepped forward automatically. “Stop.”
His eyes snapped to yours.
It was a mistake, meeting them.
Titus Danforth had the kind of stare that made your mouth correct itself before your pride could object.
“I mean,” you said carefully, “let me help.”
His mouth twitched. “Better.”
You ignored that.
You came around behind him and eased the jacket down his shoulders, trying not to notice the heat coming off him. He was tense under your hands. Not fragile. Never fragile. More like a coiled thing that’d been forced to sit still against its nature.
The jacket fell into your grip, heavy and expensive and ruined.
You set it aside.
His shirt was next.
Of course it was.
You reached for the hem of his T-shirt, then stopped. “Can you—”
“No.”
You looked at him.
He smiled. “I’m wounded.”
“You just took off your jacket.”
“And suffered terribly.”
You stared at him for half a second.
He stared back, delighted.
You picked up the scissors instead.
“Shame,” he said as you began cutting the shirt open from the tear at his side. “This was Italian.”
“I’m sure you can afford another.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What’s the point?”
“That I liked this one.”
The scissors slid through blood-wet fabric with a soft, awful sound. The ruined shirt parted beneath your hands, revealing skin smeared red over lean muscle, the wound at his ribs ugly but clean-edged. A slash, not a bullet. Deep enough to need stitches. Not deep enough to kill him unless he kept pretending consequences were for other people.
You reached for gauze.
“Knife?” you asked.
“Something like that.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“Neither was she.”
Your hands paused.
Titus noticed.
He always noticed.
“Oh, don’t look so intrigued,” he said. “It wasn’t Grace. If she’d gotten this close, one of us would be dead.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I appreciate competence.”
“You appreciate winning.”
His smile sharpened slowly, like he enjoyed the accusation more than he should’ve.
“There’s a difference?”
You pressed gauze against the wound.
His body jerked once, not enough for anyone else to call it flinching. His hand shot out and clamped around your wrist. Hard. Not crushing. Not yet. Just enough to stop you. Just enough to remind you he could.
Your pulse kicked.
Titus looked down at your caged wrist, then up at your face.
“There it is,” he murmured.
You swallowed. “You’re bleeding too much for games.”
“Everything’s a game tonight.”
“Not this.”
“Especially this.”
You held his gaze because looking away felt worse. “Let go.”
His thumb found your pulse with insulting ease, pressed once, and lingered just long enough to make sure you knew he’d felt it jump.
You hated the tiny shock of absence it left behind.
You pressed the gauze down again, gentler this time, though you weren’t sure why you bothered. Titus felt the difference anyway. His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping once beneath the skin, his throat working around whatever sound he refused to give you.
“You should let me numb it,” you said.
“No.”
“It’ll hurt.”
“I didn’t ask you to make it pleasant.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
You looked at the wound, then at him. “You don’t have to make everything a point of pride.”
His eyes lifted to yours, bright with pain and amusement.
“Careful,” he said. “That almost sounded like pity.”
“It was medical advice.”
“How disappointing.”
You cleaned the wound in silence after that, or tried to.
Titus didn’t make silence easy.
He watched your face while you worked. Not your hands. Your face. Like the wound bored him but your reactions might entertain him if he waited long enough.
The antiseptic made his breath go sharp again.
You pretended not to hear.
“Do they train you for this?” he asked.
“For wounds?”
“For not asking questions.”
“Yes.”
“And what’d they tell you?”
“That curiosity’s dangerous.”
His smile widened. “Sensible.”
“And expensive.”
That surprised a laugh out of him.
Real, maybe. Brief.
It turned into a wince before he could hide it.
You took advantage of the distraction to inspect the wound more closely. “It missed anything vital.”
“Lucky me.”
“You’ll need stitches.”
“Lucky you.”
You threaded the needle.
Titus tilted his head back against the chair, eyes still on you from beneath lowered lashes. There was blood drying along the side of his throat. A line of it had run beneath his collarbone before the shirt came open. He should’ve looked diminished.
He didn’t.
He looked like violence that had briefly put on human skin and found it irritating.
“Does Ursula always speak to you like that?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
His eyes sharpened.
Too late, you realized your mistake.
Curiosity was dangerous.
The corner of his mouth lifted, pleased in a way that made you regret the question before he answered. “You’ve been listening.”
“I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No. But you did.”
You tied off the first stitch in your mind before beginning. “Forget I said anything.”
“I don’t forget what interests me.”
You pushed the needle through his skin.
This time he didn’t move.
Not even when the thread pulled tight.
A faint sheen of sweat had gathered at his temple, but his voice stayed lazy.
“Ursula speaks to everyone like that.”
“She doesn’t speak to everyone the same way she speaks to you.”
“Because everyone else is less fun to disappoint.”
His gaze drifted over your face like he was looking for the next thing you’d give away.
“Go on, then. What else have you noticed?"
ou pulled the second stitch through and kept your eyes on the wound. “You enjoy making people uncomfortable.”
“That’s not an observation,” Titus said. “That’s gossip.”
You should’ve stopped there. The sensible part of you knew it, the trained part of you knew it, but Ursula’s voice was still in the room, cold and cutting, and Titus was watching you like he already knew you’d give him one more thing to use.
“And Ursula doesn’t sound like she’s worried you’ll lose. She sounds like she’s worried you’ll win.”
His smile stayed exactly where it was, which somehow made it worse. If it had vanished, if he’d snapped, if he’d given you anything loud enough to brace against, you might’ve known what to do with it. Instead, the expression remained polished in place while the room seemed to lose several degrees around him.
Your hand paused against his side.
Titus went still beneath your touch, not with restraint, but with the terrible patience of something deciding whether to strike
“Is that so?”
You kept your attention on the wound. “I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I overstepped.”
“You did.”
“I won’t again.”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether I liked it.”
Your hand hesitated.
His gaze dropped.
Not to the wound.
To your mouth.
Heat crawled up your throat, humiliating and impossible to hide. Titus saw that too. Of course he did. The faintest satisfaction touched his face.
“You’re very bad at pretending,” he said.
“I’m stitching your ribs.”
“And yet.”
You tied off another stitch. “Hold still.”
“Yes, nurse.”
“I’m not a nurse.”
“No?”
“No.”
“What are you, then?”
You looked up despite yourself.
Wrong move.
Titus’s face was close enough now that you could see the tiny flecks of blood on his lower lashes, the bruising starting to shadow one cheekbone, the vicious brightness in his eyes. He was hurt. Angry. Alive in a way that felt almost indecent.
“I’m staff,” you said.
His expression shifted.
Not softened.
Possessive, maybe. Amused by the answer. Offended by it too, somehow.
“Staff,” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“What a small word.”
“It’s an accurate one.”
“For them, perhaps.”
You didn’t ask who them meant.
The Danforths. The Council. The portraits on the walls. Every old family in the complex hunting two women through a ritualized slaughter and calling it tradition.
Titus leaned forward slightly.
The movement pulled at the fresh stitches and made blood bead bright against his skin.
You pressed a hand to his shoulder without thinking. “Stop moving.”
His eyes dropped to where your hand rested against him, and the silence that followed made the touch feel suddenly louder than it had any right to be. You pulled away too quickly. Titus caught you before you got far, his fingers closing around yours this time instead of your wrist, the grip lower, warmer, almost polite if you ignored the flaking blood on his skin and the way he held you like politeness was just another kind of trap.
It should’ve felt less threatening.
It didn’t.
“You give orders very easily when you’re scared,” he said.
“I’m not scared.”
“No?”
“No.”
His thumb brushed over the back of your glove, slow and deliberate.
“You know,” he said, “lying to me is much worse than being afraid of me.”
“I’m not lying.”
He leaned closer.
You could smell blood and expensive cologne and smoke, like he’d been running through fire in a tailored suit.
“Your pulse disagrees.”
“You’re hurt,” you said. “And you’re bored.”
“Partly.”
“You want a reaction.”
“I want many things.”
“Titus.”
His name came out too quiet.
His eyes flashed.
For one reckless second, you understood something about him that you wished you didn’t. He liked obedience, yes. Expected it. He’d been raised on it. But there was something in him that liked resistance more. Not defiance from equals. Not Ursula’s cutting superiority or Grace’s survival-spit fury.
Something smaller.
A line drawn by someone who knew they could be punished for it and drew it anyway.
He smiled like he’d heard the thought.
The door opened.
You pulled your hand free so fast the stool behind you scraped the floor.
Ursula stood in the doorway.
She took in the scene in one glance: your flushed face, Titus leaning too close, the unfinished stitches, the blood on the tray, the ruined shirt open around him.
Her expression didn’t change.
That was worse.
“Really, Titus?” she said. “Bleeding all over Father’s chair and harassing the help? Must every injury become a performance?”
Titus leaned back, all lazy cruelty again. “Don’t be jealous because they’re better with their hands than you are with a knife.”
Ursula’s eyes moved from the stitches to you with the quiet precision of someone taking inventory, and you lowered your gaze before she could find anything else to count.
“Leave them alone,” she said.
Titus gave a soft laugh. “That sounded protective.”
“It was practical. We’re short on competent staff.”
“How maternal.”
“How pathetic.”
His smile went thin.
For one moment, they looked so alike it was disturbing. Not in face, exactly, but in construction. Two blades from the same set. One kept polished. One still wet.
Ursula stepped farther into the room.
“You’re wasting time.”
“I’m being repaired.”
“You’re playing with your food.”
Your stomach dipped.
Titus’s gaze didn’t leave Ursula.
“Careful,” he said softly.
“No.” Ursula’s voice lowered too. “You be careful. This isn’t one of your tantrums. This is the High Seat.”
“I’m aware.”
“Are you? Because you’re limping back here after losing Faith, Grace is still alive, and the other families are moving while you flirt with the only person in this wing capable of keeping you upright.”
His jaw tightened, and there it was again—the names cutting through the room like a match struck too close to gas. Faith. Grace. The hunt. The game. All the violence waiting outside the door, patient and hungry, bigger than the little medical room pretending it could keep any of you safe. Titus stood suddenly, too suddenly, and the half-set stitches pulled open before you could stop him. Blood welled bright against the dark grey cotton.
You moved without thinking. “Sit down.”
He ignored you, eyes fixed on Ursula.
“You don’t speak to me like I’m one of your little committees.”
“I speak to you like someone who knows exactly what you are.”
“And what’s that?”
Ursula stared at him, her composure holding so perfectly that you almost missed what moved beneath it: not fear for herself, but fear of him.
“A mistake with a crown in his sights.”
The silence afterward was absolute.
Then amusement cut across his face, cold enough to make the room feel smaller.
It was beautiful in the way a knife was beautiful.
Ursula saw it and didn’t look away. That was the terrible thing about her: fear lived in her, but it didn’t rule her. She was afraid of him, yes, but not enough to retreat. Not enough to bend. She’d killed their father beside him and still looked at Titus like he was the greater danger.
Maybe he was.
“You should go,” he said.
Ursula’s eyes narrowed.
“Should I?”
“Yes.” He sat back down slowly, gaze never leaving hers. “Before you say something honest.”
Her mouth twisted.
Then she looked at you.
“Finish the stitches. Don’t let him leave until the bleeding stops.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
At the door, she paused again.
“Titus.”
He smiled. “Ursula.”
“You are not invincible.”
“No,” he said. “Just inevitable.”
She left, and the door shut behind her, leaving the room colder than it had been before she entered. For a while, neither of you moved. Then Titus glanced down at the torn stitch and sighed like his own blood had become tedious.
You grabbed fresh gauze with more force than necessary. “You ripped it.”
“So fix it.”
“You need to sit still.”
“I was provoked.”
“You’re always provoked.”
His eyebrows lifted just enough to make you freeze. You realized too late how revealing that had sounded, but instead of anger, Titus only looked pleased, as if you’d finally handed him something worth keeping.
“There,” he said softly. “That was almost a personality.”
You pressed gauze to the wound. Harder than before.
He hissed through his teeth, and you regretted it immediately—until he laughed, low and rough, too close to a groan to feel like amusement.
“You’re getting brave.”
“I’m getting annoyed.”
“That’s better.”
“You could bleed internally.”
“I’m touched.”
“You could die.”
“Everyone dies.”
“Not everyone treats it like an inconvenience.”
“Not everyone’s important.”
You looked at him then.
Really looked.
The blood. The arrogance. The expensive ruin of him. The way he sat in pain and still made it feel like the room belonged to his body first and the furniture second.
“You actually believe that,” you said.
His eyes sharpened with delight. “You don’t?”
“I think important people bleed the same as everyone else.”
“Dangerous opinion in this house.”
“It’s not an opinion. It’s anatomy.”
“And here I thought you weren’t a nurse.”
You cut the ruined stitch free.
He watched you work.
This time, when you pushed the needle through, he let out a slow breath and said nothing.
The silence was worse now. Charged. Full of Ursula’s warning and Titus’s smile and the distant knowledge that somewhere else in the estate, women were fighting to survive men like him.
You should’ve hated him cleanly.
That would’ve been simpler.
Instead, you were too aware of the heat of his skin under your gloved fingers. The flex of his stomach when the needle pulled. The way his throat moved when he swallowed pain. The obscene intimacy of repairing a man who’d go right back into the dark once you were done.
“You’re thinking loudly again,” he said.
You tied the next stitch. “I’m concentrating.”
“On my wound?”
“Yes.”
“Liar.”
Your breath caught, and Titus leaned forward with the slow certainty of someone who’d found a line and wanted to watch you notice him crossing it.
“Tell me,” he said, “do they warn you about me?”
You should’ve said no. You should’ve said nothing at all, should’ve swallowed the answer the way this house swallowed every scream that echoed through it. But the night had been blood under your fingernails, alarms cut short, doors locking from the outside, and rich people turning murder into ceremony. Some tired, reckless part of you had finally had enough of pretending silence wasn’t just another kind of fear.
“They don’t have to.”
The expression didn’t fall away. That would’ve been too easy. It emptied instead, mockery draining out until all that remained was attention sharp enough to feel like pressure against your throat.
“And why’s that?”
You cut the thread, the snip of metal sounding obscenely loud in the medical room.
“Because you warn people yourself.”
Titus stared at you for one long second, and the worst part was that he didn’t look angry. Anger would’ve given you something simple to brace against. Instead, he looked interested, as if you’d just opened a door in yourself and he’d decided he liked what he could see through it.
Then he laughed, quiet and real enough to be worse than any threat.
The intercom clicked on.
Both of you looked toward it.
Static.
Then the Lawyer’s voice, smooth and empty.
“All active families are reminded that the game remains in play until dawn. Any unsanctioned interference with the rules will result in immediate disqualification.”
The intercom clicked off, and Titus went still in a way that made the room feel secondary to whatever waited beyond it. The taunting ease left his face, and what remained wasn’t duty or loyalty, but hunger dressed up as purpose.
He looked toward the door like he could see through the walls to the game beyond them. Grace. Faith. Ursula. The High Seat. The ring. The altar waiting underground.
You taped gauze over the stitches.
“You’re done,” you said.
“Am I?”
“Medically.”
His gaze returned to you, and the room seemed to shrink around the attention of it. You reached for a clean bandage roll, more to give your hands something safe to do than because you needed it, but Titus caught your wrist before you could turn away. Again. This time, you didn’t tell him to let go, and the silence that followed made the choice feel louder than it should’ve. Maybe that was your mistake. Maybe it was his. His thumb found your pulse with infuriating accuracy, pressing where your body had no choice but to answer.
“You’re shaking,” he said.
“So are you.”
His eyes flashed.
Pain. Anger. Interest.
“You’re very bold for someone disposable.”
You swallowed.
Then said, “You’re very arrogant for someone who’s only upright because I let him be.”
His grip tightened around your wrist, not enough to hurt, but enough to empty your lungs before you could pretend it hadn’t. Enough to remind you that you were still seated while he wasn’t, still caught while he rose over you with all that ugly, effortless Danforth ownership.
Titus stood slowly this time, each inch deliberate, dragging your attention up with him whether you wanted to give it or not. The movement brought your face level with the blood-streaked bandage at his side first, then the hard, exposed plane of his stomach where the cut-open grey T-shirt hung apart around him. He was close. Too close. Close enough for the heat of his skin to reach your face, close enough to see the shallow pull of muscle under blood and sweat, close enough that your gaze dropped, traitorous, to the low line of his waistband before you caught yourself. It wasn’t professional. It wasn’t careful. It was blunt and physical and humiliatingly obvious, and Titus noticed the exact second your breathing changed.
It was obscene, somehow, being that near for a reason you could still call medical.
Then your gaze lifted, and you found him already watching you.
The room went small around the look on his face.
Not warmth. Not kindness. Not even simple attraction. Something sharper than that, something satisfied and possessive, as if he’d caught the exact moment your professionalism failed and intended to keep it.
“You have no idea,” he said softly, “what kind of night this is.”
“I have some idea.”
“No.” His voice dropped. “You have keyholes. Corridors. Little pieces. You hear screams and think you know the shape of the thing making them.”
“I know enough.”
“You know nothing.”
“Then why are you still here?”
That did it.
His gaze dropped to your mouth again, slower this time, and he didn’t bother pretending it was accidental. There was nothing accidental left in the room. Not the way he stood over you. Not the way your wrist stayed caught in his hand. Not the heat still rising off his bare skin beneath the cut-open grey t-shirt.
Outside, another shot cracked through the estate, distant enough to feel unreal.
Neither of you moved.
Titus lifted your hand slowly, still trapped in his, and turned it just enough to study the blood smeared across your glove. His blood. Your careful work. The proof that you’d had your hands on him because you had to, and kept them there a little longer because you wanted to.
His thumb dragged over the stained latex, pressing your fingers open one by one like he was inspecting the damage and enjoying the evidence.
Then his mouth curved.
Not kindly. Never kindly. There was nothing soft in it, nothing safe, nothing that pretended this was anything but ugly want finally given shape. Just intent, hot and unmistakable, sharpened by pain and blood and the unbearable fact that you were still close enough to touch him again.
“You should be very careful,” he said.
“Of you?”
“Of what you start with me.”
“I didn’t start anything.”
“No,” he said. “You just touched it.”
The space between you disappeared.
Not gently. Not sweetly. Not like a confession or a promise or anything clean enough to belong outside the walls of this house.
It was heat and blood and bad judgment.
His hand came up to the back of your neck, firm enough to stop you from retreating but not enough to force you forward. He waited. That was the worst part. The tiny pause. The chance to step back. The proof that whatever monster he was, he wanted your choice because winning it pleased him more.
You should’ve moved away.
Instead, you grabbed the torn edge of his shirt and pulled him down.
Titus made a sound against your mouth that was half laugh, half pain, and all satisfaction.
The kiss was ugly-fast, exactly like him. No softness at first. No patience. Just his mouth on yours, hot and demanding, his hand locked at the back of your neck while your spine hit the cabinet hard enough to rattle the glass bottles inside it. His tongue pushed into your mouth with the same entitled certainty he brought into every room, and the filthy little sound it pulled from you made him press in closer, pleased and punishing. You tasted blood where his lip had split, sharp and metallic, but he didn’t slow down. If anything, he kissed you harder for noticing, teeth catching your lower lip, tongue dragging against yours until the whole room seemed to narrow to his mouth, his heat, his body crowding yours against the cabinet. He tasted like violence interrupted, like the hunt had followed him inside and found a new way to use its teeth.
When your hands hit his ribs, the latex of your gloves dragging over the edge of the fresh bandage, Titus hissed against your mouth and bit back something ugly enough to sound like a curse before it ever became one.
You pulled away just enough to breathe. “Your stitches—”
“Fuck the stitches.”
“You’ll tear them.”
“Then you’ll fix them again.”
He kissed you before you could answer, like he’d decided your concern was just another form of touching him. His mouth came back harder, tongue sliding against yours with a filthy kind of insistence, his body crowding you into the cabinet until there was nowhere left for your professionalism to hide. The glass rattled behind your shoulders. The tray sat beside you with bloody gauze curled like evidence. Your gloves were still stained with him, and Titus seemed to know it, seemed to like it, his hand catching one of yours and dragging it back to his side as if daring you to remember why you’d touched him in the first place.
For a few dangerous minutes, the game outside the door became distant. Not gone. Never gone. It pulsed under everything: the intercom, the gunfire, the old house with its rotten heart, Ursula’s warning, Grace running somewhere through the dark. But the medical room narrowed to heat and breath and the wet, obscene slide of his mouth on yours, to the hard line of his body pressing too close, to the way he kissed like a man trying to prove he could still take something from the night.
And you let him.
That was the part you’d have to live with later.
His mouth moved to your jaw, your throat, not tender but precise, learning how your breath changed and punishing you for every reaction by chasing another. His teeth grazed skin, not quite biting, not quite merciful, and the sound you made against your own better judgment pulled a low laugh out of him.
“Listen to you,” he murmured against your pulse. “So careful with your hands a minute ago.”
Your fingers curled into the cut-open grey fabric hanging loose around his shoulders, then slipped beneath it to the hot skin at his waist, low enough to make the touch feel less medical than damning. For one breath, all you felt was him. Then the room came back: the blood, the locked door, the hunt still tearing through the estate beyond it.
Titus felt the hesitation and smiled into your throat like he’d been waiting for it.
“Don’t go shy on me now.”
His mouth left yours only to drag along your jaw, your throat, the sensitive place beneath your ear, not tender but exacting, like he was taking notes on every reaction and planning to use them against you later. Your hands slid up before you could stop them, fingers catching in his hair, and Titus made a low sound against your skin when you pulled just hard enough to make him feel it.
For one stupid, breathless second, you forgot who he was. What he was. What the house was doing beyond the locked door.
He didn’t.
He laughed against your throat, soft and wicked, his mouth still close enough that you felt the shape of it more than heard it. “Better.”
“Titus—”
“Say it like you mean it.”
“I don’t know what I mean.”
“Yes, you do.” His hand tightened at the back of your neck, not cruel, not gentle, something worse because it understood both. “You’re just deciding whether you hate yourself for it yet.”
You shoved at his chest, careful of the bandage and furious that you were careful. “You’re bleeding.”
“And you’re stalling.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I’ve been called worse by better people.”
“You mean richer people.”
That made his mouth curve against your throat, the near-smile pressed directly into your skin. “Careful,” he said. “I’m starting to enjoy you.”
“You enjoy everyone you can scare.”
“No.” His mouth moved lower, slow enough to feel intentional, his breath dragging over your pulse before his lips followed. “I enjoy when someone’s smart enough to be afraid and stupid enough to stay.”
Your breath broke before you could hide it.
His grip went still, and the whole room seemed to pause with him. It wasn’t softness that came over him. Titus didn’t soften. The change was worse than that: a sharpening, a focus so complete it made the air feel touched. Every cruel, restless, wounded part of him narrowed down to the sound you’d failed to swallow.
He’d found it.
Not the wound. Not the weak place in the stitches. You.
A terrible kind of satisfaction moved through his face, and your stomach dipped before the rest of you knew why. Not surprise. Not tenderness. Recognition. Like he’d found the seam in you and already knew how easily it would split. For the first time all night, you understood that being hunted didn’t always require running. Sometimes it was standing there with his mouth at your throat, his hand at your neck, and realizing your body wanted him closer in every filthy way your mouth was still too proud to say.
You’d seen him bored. You’d seen him cruel. You’d seen him wounded and furious and arrogant enough to treat blood loss like something happening to lesser men.
This was worse.
This was Titus no longer wondering what you wanted from him, only how badly he could make you admit it.
“Still worrying,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp you felt through his chest where he had you pinned. “The stitches. The hunt. Whether anyone’s going to walk through that door and see exactly how badly you want this.” His thumb pressed into the nape of your neck, dragging once over the first vertebrae in your spine, while his other hand tightened on your hip hard enough to promise bruises. “You should be worrying about what I’m going to do to you before they interrupt.”
“Maybe I’m not worried at all.” The words came out steadier than you felt, your chin lifting as you met his gaze. His eyes narrowed, the lazy cruelty in them gathering into something darker, hungrier, and far too pleased. “Maybe I’m wondering how long it takes before you bleed through those stitches and pass out on top of me.”
A low laugh rumbled from his chest, rough and mean. "That's cute." He shifted, his thigh sliding between yours, the pressure of it against the heat gathering between your legs making your stomach clench. "You're trying real hard to pretend you don't want this. Don't want me." His hand slid from your hip to your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your uniform top, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. "But I felt your hands shaking when you were stitching me up. Felt your breath go shallow when I pulled you in here." His head dipped, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear. "You had every chance to run."
"Maybe I like watching you bleed."
His teeth grazed your earlobe, a sharp nip that sent a jolt through your whole body. "Liar." His hand came up, fingers wrapping around your throat, not squeezing—just holding, a warning and a promise in the press of his palm against your pulse. "I can feel your heart racing. Smell how wet you are." He inhaled slow, deliberate, his eyes dropping half-lidded. "You've been thinking about this since I walked into your little room. Since I made you look at me."
Your breath stuttered, and he felt it, his thumb pressing against the hollow of your throat. "Maybe I have," you said, the admission scraping out of you. "What are you going to do about it?"
His grin was sharp and wolfish. "There she is." He pushed you back, your spine hitting the medical cabinet hard enough to rattle the instruments inside, the cold metal biting through your shirt. His body followed, pinning you there, the heat of him seeping through your clothes. "I'm going to fuck you so hard you forget your own name." His free hand dropped to the button of your pants, working it open with rough, impatient fingers. "And then I'm going back out there, and you're going to stay right here, feeling me drip out of you, knowing I'll be back."
He yanked your pants down, the denim catching on your hips before he shoved it past your thighs, leaving you exposed to the cold air and his burning gaze. His hand slid between your legs, two fingers pressing through the slick fabric of your underwear, and he let out a low groan. "Fuck. You're soaked." He pushed the cotton aside, his fingers sliding through your wetness, circling your clit with a pressure that made your hips buck. "Look at that. Soaking wet for a man who's bleeding through his stitches." He pushed one finger inside you, then a second, the stretch making you gasp, your hands flying up to grip his shoulders. "And you still want to talk shit."
"Daddy." The word came out breathy, almost a whimper, and his eyes went dark, his fingers curling inside you, finding that spot that made your vision blur. "Please."
"Please what?" He pumped his fingers faster, the wet sound filling the small room, his thumb circling your clit in rough, sloppy strokes. "Use your words, baby. Tell Daddy what you need."
"You." Your voice cracked. "I need you inside me. Fuck me, please, I need—"
He pulled his fingers out with a lewd pop, slick and glistening, and brought them to his mouth, sucking them clean while holding your gaze. Then his hands were on your hips, spinning you around, bending you over the edge of the steel table. The leather restraints pressed against your stomach, cold and unyielding, as his body crowded behind you.
You heard the quiet rustle of his belt unbuckling, the mechanical whisper of his fly unzipping next, all loud in an otherwise silent room. Then you felt his cock press against your soaked cunt, the head of it sliding through your slickness, teasing your entrance. "You're going to take every inch," he said, his voice low and rough, his hand fisting in your hair, pulling your head back. "And you're going to be quiet about it. Can you do that for me, baby?"
You nodded, a broken sound escaping your throat as he pushed inside, the stretch of him filling you, thick and hot and deep. He didn't stop until his hips were flush against your ass, his breath ragged against your ear. "Fuck," he groaned, his hand tightening in your hair. "Tight little cunt. Been thinking about this since I saw you."
He pulled out slow, dragging against your walls, then slammed back in, the force of it driving you forward against the table. His hand came down on your ass, a sharp crack that echoed off the walls, and you cried out, the sound swallowed by his palm clamping over your mouth. "Shh," he breathed, his hips setting a brutal rhythm, each thrust punching the air from your lungs. "You're doing so good. Taking Daddy's cock so well."
His hand slid from your mouth to your throat, pressing down, cutting off your air just enough to make the edges of your vision go fuzzy. His other hand gripped your hip, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks, as he fucked into you with a frantic, desperate rhythm. The obscenely wet squelch of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mixing with his grunts and your muffled moans. "That's it," he growled, his pace quickening, his breath hot against your neck. "Squeezing me so tight. Gonna make me come."
Your body was trembling, the coil in your belly winding tighter with every thrust, your cunt clenching around him. "Daddy, please," you gasped, the words barely audible. "Please let me—"
"Not yet." His hand tightened on your throat, his thrusts growing sloppy, desperate. "I'm not done with you. I'm going to fill this pussy up, make sure you feel me for days." He drove into you one last time, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he came, hot and thick, pumping into you in deep, shuddering pulses. The feeling of it, of him spilling inside you, pushed you over the edge, your orgasm ripping through you, your body convulsing around his cock as he kept thrusting, riding it out.
He stayed there for a moment after, still pressed against you, his forehead resting against the back of your neck, his breath ragged and hot against your skin.
For the first time since he’d entered the room, Titus Danforth was quiet.
Not softened. Not gentle. Not safe.
Just quiet.
His hand flexed once at your hip, fingers digging in as if some part of him still hadn’t decided whether to let go. Behind you, his chest rose and fell too hard, the cut-open remains of his grey shirt hanging ruined around him, his bandage pulled crooked beneath it. You could feel the heat of him everywhere. The sweat. The blood. The blunt, obscene evidence of what you’d just let him do while the house tore itself apart around you.
Then he pulled out slowly, a wet sound that made you shiver, and you felt his cum leaking down your thigh, the absence of him making you go weak at the knees.
You braced one hand against the steel table, breathing hard, your uniform twisted, your skin damp, your body still carrying him in ways you couldn’t fix with soap or silence. The medical room hummed around you: fluorescent light, rattled glass, bloody gauze on the tray, the torn scraps of his shirt on the floor like evidence neither of you had bothered to hide.
Titus turned you around with a hand beneath your chin, his touch not rough enough to excuse your reaction and not gentle enough to trust.
He made you look at him, his thumb resting beneath your jaw, his eyes still dark with hunger and something more dangerous than satisfaction. His mouth was bruised. There was blood at the corner of it, maybe his, maybe from where he’d kissed you too hard. The bandage at his side had started to bloom red again, staining through white gauze in a slow, ugly spread.
“You’re bleeding,” you said.
His mouth curved. “You keep saying that.”
“Because you keep doing it.”
A low laugh moved through him, rough with leftover heat, but it caught at the end. Pain still had its hooks in him, no matter how badly he pretended otherwise.
The intercom shrieked alive, a burst of feedback splitting the room so violently that you both jerked still.
Then Grace’s voice came through, breathless and furious, somewhere between panic and threat.
“You want me? Come get me, you rich fucks.”
The intercom cut out, and the silence it left behind felt louder than the static.
Titus went very still.
The man in front of you disappeared by degrees. Not physically. He was still close enough to touch, still breathing hard, still standing between your open legs with his hand beneath your chin and blood seeping through the bandage you’d taped to his side. But his eyes had gone elsewhere, pulled back to the hunt, back to the throne, back to the thing he wanted more than warmth, more than blood, more than whatever impulse had bent you over a steel table in a private medical room while the estate screamed around you.
His face changed with the silence that followed, hunger rearranging itself into purpose.
“Oh, Grace,” he said, almost fondly. “There you are.”
The cold of it sobered you instantly.
You let go of him, and he noticed. Of course he noticed. His gaze flicked back to you, darker now, reassembled into Titus Danforth, son of Chester, twin of Ursula, would-be High Seat of the Council, with fresh stitches under his ribs, blood on his mouth, and the hunt calling him home.
He stepped back, and the absence of him felt like air returning after suffocation.
You reached for the cabinet because your hands needed something to do besides shake. Halfway there, you remembered the gloves still clinging to your skin, stained with him, tacky at the fingertips. You stripped them off and dropped them into the bin, one after the other, the snap of latex sounding too loud in the room.
“You need a clean shirt,” you said.
He looked down at the ruined grey one hanging open around him, as if only just remembering it. “Do I?”
“Yes.”
“How domestic.”
“You’ll bleed through that.”
“I’ll survive.”
“That wasn’t my concern.”
His mouth curved again, faint and knowing. “Liar.”
You opened the supply cabinet and pulled out a folded black shirt kept there for exactly this kind of emergency. The Danforths had supplies for everything: blood loss, bullet wounds, ritual contamination, wardrobe replacement. The house had been built to make violence convenient.
You handed it to him without stepping too close.
He took it, and for a second, his fingers brushed yours. No glove this time. Skin to skin, brief enough to pretend it didn’t matter and warm enough to make pretending impossible.
It shouldn’t have felt like a decision.
Titus pulled the shirt over his head carefully, only wincing once as the fabric settled over the bandage. The black hid the blood better. Of course it did. Everything in this house had been designed to hide blood better.
The intercom crackled again, this time from somewhere farther down the hall, Ursula’s voice slicing through the static.
“Titus. East wing. Now.”
His eyes stayed on you for one more beat.
The corner of his mouth lifted. “She does hate being ignored.”
“She’ll notice.”
“Ursula notices everything.”
“That wasn’t reassuring.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
He moved toward the door, then stopped with his hand on the handle. For a moment, you thought he might say something cruel, or clever, or nothing at all. Instead, he looked back at you with that same terrible, entertained focus.
“Lock this door.”
You blinked. “What?”
“When I leave.”
“Why?”
His expression shifted, faint and wicked, the closest thing to tenderness he probably knew how to ruin.
“Because Ursula was right about one thing.”
Your mouth went dry. “What’s that?”
His fingers tightened around the handle.
“I bite.”
Then, after a beat, softer and worse, “Stay.”
It shouldn’t have sounded like an order and a promise at the same time.
But it did.
Then he was gone.
The corridor swallowed him almost immediately, the sound of his footsteps fading into the old house, toward Grace, toward Ursula, toward the gunfire starting up again somewhere beyond the walls, toward whatever hell waited underneath the estate with its altar and its ring and its pit full of offerings.
You stood alone in the medical room with the lock still waiting and your skin still refusing to feel like yours. Behind you, the steel table remembered everything: leather restraints shoved crooked, blood smeared across the edge in the shape of your gloved fingers, red handprints dragged over cold metal from where you’d held on while Titus fucked every careful rule this house had beaten into you straight out of your head. The trail continued across the cabinet, the drawer handle, the spot where your palm had landed when he’d crowded you back against it. Not just his blood anymore. Your fingerprints in it.
For a moment, you didn’t move.
The fluorescent light buzzed overhead. The steel table gleamed cold behind you. Your uniform was still twisted, your skin still marked by his hands, your thighs still sticky with his cum. His scent clung to you—blood, smoke, sweat, expensive cologne, something violent and warm that had no business feeling familiar.
Then the intercom clicked on again, static breathing through the speaker like the house had leaned in to hear what he’d left behind.
For a moment, you stayed exactly where he’d left you, every nerve still listening for him.
Stay.
The word didn’t echo. It settled.
That was worse.
You crossed to the door and turned the lock, not because he’d told you to.
Because some ruined, honest part of you wanted him to come back and realize he hadn’t needed the lock at all.
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Summary: Your daughter fakes a stomachache to surprise her parents at work on Take Your Kid to Work Day, never realizing the panic it would cause.
Word count: 4.2k+
Warnings: fluff, tiny angst
A/N:
this was co-written with my friend Nora! We actually wrote some other stuff together too, but this is the first fic where she wrote the most of it. She also wants to write fanfics but is a little hesitant. Can’t wait for you to open your own blog and share your talent with tumblr Nora, this one’s you!!!💓
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
When your daughter Lucy heard about Take Your Kid to Work Day, she came home convinced it was going to be the greatest day of her entire six-year-old life.
Her class had spent nearly a week talking about it. Every morning another child had a new story, another exciting detail to add. Emma was going to help frost cupcakes at her mother's bakery. Noah couldn't stop talking about riding in his dad's garbage truck, proudly announcing to anyone who would listen that he was going to press the "real buttons." Olivia was getting a behind-the-scenes tour of the aquarium where her mom worked. Even little Ben, whose father worked at a bank, marched around the classroom with a paper tie taped around his neck, declaring he would be "approving loans all day." By Thursday afternoon Lucy had listened to enough stories that she'd begun planning her own. She was absolutely certain she would wear one of those little white doctor coats she'd seen in toy stores. She'd carry a clipboard. Maybe even a stethoscope. Everyone would finally get to see how cool her parents' jobs were.
So when you and Jack walked through the front door that evening after a twelve-hour shift, you barely had time to take your shoes off before Lucy came barreling across the living room like an excited puppy.
"Mama!"
She wrapped herself around your legs so tightly you had to catch yourself against the wall to stay upright.
"Daddy!"
Jack wasn't spared either. She launched herself at him next, nearly knocking the backpack from his shoulder.
"Whoa, easy, bug," he laughed, catching her under the arms before she could accidentally headbutt him. "Someone's excited. Where's your grandma?"
"In the kitchen. I have something important to say."
You and Jack exchanged an amused look over the top of her head. Important announcements from Lucy ranged anywhere from losing a tooth to discovering worms in the garden.
"Oh?" Jack asked, setting his bag down.
Lucy nodded so enthusiastically that her ponytail bounced. "It's Take Your Kid to Work Day next Friday."
Her grin stretched so wide it nearly split her face.
"And I get to come with you."
The silence that followed was tiny.
Barely a second.
But it was enough.
Jack's smile faltered first. You watched it happen almost imperceptibly, the corners of his mouth relaxing as his eyes drifted toward yours. The excitement on Lucy's face hadn't dimmed yet. She was already imagining hallways and stethoscopes and showing all her friends pictures afterward.
You felt your heart sink before either of you had even opened your mouths.
Lucy noticed immediately.
Her smile wavered.
"...What's wrong?"
You crouched until you were eye level with her, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear while you searched desperately for words that wouldn't break her heart.
"Oh, sweetheart..."
Jack carefully lowered himself beside you, adjusting his balance before slipping an arm around Lucy's shoulders.
"Our jobs are a little different from everyone else's."
She frowned in confusion.
"But I can still come, right?"
Jack let out the smallest sigh.
"The emergency department isn't really a place for kids."
Her forehead wrinkled.
"Why?"
You looked at Jack for half a second before answering.
"Because the people who come to see us aren't coming for fun." You spoke gently, carefully choosing every word. "They're usually having one of the worst days of their lives. They're very, very sick..."
"Or hurt," Jack added quietly.
"They can look scary sometimes," you continued. "There can be blood. People cry. Sometimes they're frightened, sometimes they're angry, and sometimes they need every doctor and nurse in the room paying attention to them."
Jack nodded. "Our job is making sure they get help as quickly as possible. We can't always stop to explain what's happening, and there are things no six-year-old should have to see."
Lucy listened with surprising seriousness, though it was obvious she still didn't understand.
"But..." she said softly, "I'll be quiet."
Your chest tightened.
"I know you would."
"I could sit in the corner and color."
Jack smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"You probably could."
"I wouldn't touch anything."
"We know, sweetheart."
"I wouldn't even talk."
Jack smiled sadly. "You'd probably be the quietest kid in the whole hospital."
For the briefest moment, hope flickered across Lucy's face before reality settled back in. She looked between the two of you, swallowing hard.
"So..." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "...I can't?"
The words were so small they made your chest ache. You reached for her little hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.
"No, sweetie. I'm sorry."
Her eyes filled almost instantly.
"But everyone else gets to go to their parents' work."
Jack closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. Every parent hated hearing those words because sometimes there simply wasn't a fair answer. He rubbed his thumb absentmindedly over the back of her tiny hand.
"I know."
"I wanna see where you guys work."
"I know."
"I wanna wear one of those little doctor coats."
Despite the ache in your chest, a smile tugged at your lips. "You would look absolutely adorable."
"I could help."
Jack let out a quiet snort, his expression turning dramatically serious.
"Oh, that's exactly the part I'm worried about."
Lucy blinked. "...Really?"
"Oh, absolutely," he said with a solemn nod. "I think you'd spend the whole day walking around the department telling everyone what to do."
"I would not."
"You absolutely would."
She crossed her arms.
"No."
"No?"
She puffed out her chest, planting both hands on her hips as she deepened her voice into what she apparently believed sounded very authoritative.
"'Okay everybody, one at a time! No pushing! You have to wait your turn!'"
Jack laughed so suddenly and genuinely that it echoed through the house.
"There it is."
You couldn't help laughing too.
"Our little charge nurse."
Lucy dissolved into giggles, pleased she'd made both of you laugh.
The moment was warm.
Light.
Comfortable.
Until it wasn't.
Her smile slowly faded as she remembered why she'd started the conversation in the first place.
"...But I still don't get to come."
Jack's laughter disappeared just as quickly. He opened his arms without saying a word, and Lucy climbed into his lap as naturally as breathing. She tucked her face into the crook of his neck, wrapping her little arms around him with a sigh that sounded much older than six years old.
"No," he admitted quietly, kissing the top of her head. "Not to work."
The room fell silent.
You watched Jack gently rub circles over Lucy's back while she sat curled against him, neither of them speaking. The disappointment in the room was almost tangible. You knew Jack was feeling it just as sharply as you were. Both of you spent your careers taking care of other people's children, yet this was one of those moments where your own daughter simply had to accept that your jobs came with doors she couldn't walk through.
Finally, you leaned over and kissed the top of her head.
"How about this?"
She peeked up hopefully.
"When we're both off next weekend, we'll take you to the hospital."
Jack immediately caught on.
"We'll show you the cafeteria."
"My locker."
"The ambulance bay."
"If there aren't any helicopters flying, maybe we can see the helipad from outside."
"The empty waiting room."
"My office."
Lucy sniffled, considering the offer with all the seriousness of someone negotiating an international treaty.
"...Can I push a wheelchair?"
Jack looked over at you.
You shrugged.
"If nobody's using it, sure."
She thought for another long moment before giving a tiny nod.
"...Okay."
It wasn't the answer she'd wanted.
It wasn't even close.
But she accepted it with the quiet resilience children somehow managed to find after their hearts had been disappointed. Before long she was asking what was for dinner and whether Grandma was still making pancakes the next morning, and by bedtime she seemed perfectly content again.
You smiled to yourself as you tucked her in that night, smoothing the blankets over her little shoulders.
Children had an incredible ability to move on.
Or so you thought.
Lucy had absolutely no intention of moving on.
She smiled when you tucked her into bed that night. She happily ate pancakes with Grandma the next morning. She colored pictures at the kitchen table, watched cartoons, and talked excitedly about the hospital tour you had promised for the following weekend. If anyone had asked, she seemed to have accepted your answer completely.
She hadn't.
To a six-year-old, "next weekend" felt impossibly far away. Everyone else would get to visit their parents' jobs on Friday. Everyone else would come back to school Monday with stories to tell. Emma would talk about frosting cupcakes. Noah would probably tell everyone he got to honk the garbage truck horn. Olivia would have pictures of fish. And Lucy... Lucy would have to say she stayed home because her mommy and daddy worked somewhere she wasn't allowed to go.
That simply didn't seem fair.
By Wednesday she had the beginning of a plan.
By Thursday she had improved it.
By Friday morning, she was convinced it was foolproof.
Your mother had barely finished pouring herself a cup of coffee when she heard small footsteps padding down the hallway. Lucy appeared in the kitchen doorway still wearing her pajamas, her favorite stuffed rabbit dangling from one hand while the other pressed dramatically against her stomach.
"Grandma..."
Your mother looked up immediately.
"Morning, sweetheart."
Lucy took two slow steps into the kitchen, making sure not to walk too quickly. Sick people probably didn't move very fast.
"I don't feel good."
The smile disappeared from your mother's face at once.
"Oh, sweetheart."
She set her mug down without taking a sip and crouched in front of her granddaughter, brushing a hand over Lucy's messy bed hair.
"What's wrong?"
"My tummy hurts."
"Oh no."
Lucy gave a pitiful little nod.
"It hurts a lot."
Your mother frowned with concern.
"Can you show me where?"
Lucy froze.
That...
She hadn't prepared for.
She looked down at herself, suddenly realizing stomachs had different parts. She'd heard you and Jack ask patients that question before. Daddy always wanted to know exactly where it hurt.
Panic fluttered in her chest for half a second.
"...Everywhere."
Your mother's eyebrows lifted ever so slightly.
"Everywhere?"
Another solemn nod.
"Mhm."
She gently rested both hands on Lucy's shoulders.
"Did you throw up?"
"No."
"Do you feel like you have to?"
Lucy pretended to think about it before giving a hesitant little shrug.
"...Maybe."
"Do you have a fever?"
"I don't know."
"Hmm..."
Your mother pressed the back of her hand against Lucy's forehead before checking again with her palm, the way mothers and grandmothers always seemed to do. Her skin felt perfectly cool.
No fever.
That was reassuring. Still, children didn't always spike a temperature right away. Maybe she'd eaten something that hadn't agreed with her. Maybe a little stomach bug was just beginning.
Lucy watched every expression that crossed her grandmother's face. She could tell she wasn't entirely convinced.
She needed to make it more believable.
So she let out the tiniest little whimper she could manage. Not loud enough to sound dramatic, just enough to make it seem like the pain had returned.
Your mother's face softened immediately.
"Oh, you poor thing."
Lucy leaned instinctively into the comforting touch, a small stab of guilt twisting in her chest before she quickly pushed it aside. She wasn't trying to be naughty. She just wanted to see Mama and Daddy at work like everyone else got to.
After a long pause, she lowered her voice to an almost frightened whisper.
"I think..." She looked up through her lashes with the biggest, saddest eyes she could manage. "...I need the hospital."
Your mother smiled gently as she tucked a strand of hair behind Lucy's ear.
"Oh, honey. I don't think we're there just yet."
Lucy's heart sank.
"...But my tummy really, really hurts."
"I know it does."
"We should go."
Your mother hesitated. Normally she would've waited an hour or two, called you first, given Lucy some water, and seen whether she felt any better after breakfast before rushing to the emergency department.
But abdominal pain in children was one of those things she'd learned never to dismiss completely after watching both you and Jack work in emergency medicine for years. You had both told stories about children who seemed perfectly fine until they suddenly weren't. Appendicitis. Intussusception. Things she'd never heard of before you became a doctor and Jack became a nurse.
She didn't want to overreact.
She also didn't want to ignore something important.
Her eyes lingered on Lucy's face. The little girl looked uncomfortable enough to be believable, even if she wasn't crying. Some children tolerated pain differently.
Your mother sighed softly as she stood.
"Alright."
Lucy's eyes widened before she could stop herself.
Really?
It worked?
Excitement rushed through her so suddenly she almost smiled.
Almost.
She bit the inside of her cheek just in time, quickly lowering her head and pressing a hand dramatically back against her stomach.
"I'll get dressed," your mother said. "Then we'll have one of Mommy's friends take a quick look at you, okay?"
Lucy nodded with all the seriousness she could muster.
"...Okay."
As your mother disappeared upstairs to change, Lucy remained standing in the middle of the kitchen, hugging her stuffed rabbit tightly against her chest.
Her plan had worked.
In just a little while, she'd finally get to see where her mom and dad spent all day.
She had no idea that before the morning was over, two people who had faced mass casualty incidents, violent trauma, and countless life-or-death emergencies would see her name on the emergency department tracking board and experience a kind of fear neither of them had ever learned to prepare for.
The emergency department had been in controlled chaos since seven that morning.
Every room was occupied. Hallway beds had filled before breakfast. Monitors chimed from every direction, phones rang almost constantly, stretchers rolled past one another with practiced precision, and conversations overlapped until they became little more than background noise. Jack had barely stopped moving since clocking in. He had just finished helping stabilize an elderly patient in respiratory distress and was updating the tracking board when a new name appeared among the incoming pediatric triage patients.
His own last name.
At first his brain didn't process it.
He frowned automatically, assuming it was another family with the same surname. It wasn't uncommon.
Then his eyes shifted to the details beneath it.
Accompanied by: Lucy.
The world seemed to narrow into a single point.
His stomach dropped so violently it almost hurt.
No.
No, no, no.
His mind filled the blanks long before reason had a chance to intervene.
Car accident on the way to school.
She'd fallen from the playground.
An allergic reaction.
A seizure.
Appendicitis.
A ruptured appendix.
Internal bleeding.
She'd stopped breathing.
His chest tightened so sharply that, for one terrifying second, it felt impossible to draw in air.
He was already moving before he'd consciously made the decision.
"Jack?"
Dana looked up from her workstation as he hurried past.
"You okay?"
He didn't answer.
Couldn't.
His prosthetic clicked faster against the floor as he rounded the nurses' station, weaving through stretchers and staff with an urgency that made several people instinctively step aside. Every extra second felt unbearable. His heartbeat pounded so loudly in his ears that he barely registered the voices around him.
Across the department, you were finishing charting after discharging a patient when your own eyes drifted toward the tracking board.
Your last name.
Pediatric triage.
Lucy.
Everything inside you went cold.
"No..."
The word escaped before you realized you'd spoken aloud.
Your pen slipped from your fingers onto the counter.
You didn't bother picking it up.
Someone behind you asked a question you never heard. You abandoned your chart mid-sentence and hurried out of the trauma bay, every rational thought dissolving beneath one singular, suffocating fear.
Not my baby.
Please not my baby.
You'd both spent years watching parents run into emergency departments wearing that exact expression.
The look that silently begged someone to tell them their child was okay.
Now you understood it from the inside.
Jack reached pediatric triage first.
He rounded the corner so quickly he nearly lost his footing, instinctively compensating before his prosthetic could catch awkwardly beneath him.
Then he stopped.
Lucy sat on one of the triage beds beside your mother, happily swinging her legs back and forth as she hugged her stuffed rabbit. She looked perfectly content, completely fascinated by everything happening around her.
The moment she saw him, her entire face lit up.
"Hi, Daddy!"
Jack didn't answer immediately.
He couldn't.
His breathing still hadn't caught up with him. His pulse hammered painfully against his ribs as his eyes swept over her with clinical precision born from years in emergency medicine.
Skin color okay.
Breathing normal.
Alert.
Talking.
No blood.
No bruising.
No obvious deformities.
No signs of respiratory distress.
No altered mental status.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Relief crashed into him so suddenly his knees threatened to buckle.
He had to grip the back of a nearby chair to steady himself.
"Jack?"
Your mother stood immediately, guilt already written across her face.
"I am so, so sorry. I should’ve called."
You arrived only seconds later, breathing almost as hard as Jack.
"Lucy!"
Your daughter beamed.
"Hi, Mama!"
You dropped to your knees in front of her without hesitation, your hands automatically moving through the familiar sequence every parent in emergency medicine knew by instinct. Forehead. Neck. Arms. Wrists. Face.
"What happened?"
Your mother looked apologetic.
"She was perfectly fine this morning. She'd been playing, and then all of a sudden she started holding her stomach and said she was in terrible pain. I didn't know if I should wait or..."
"You absolutely did the right thing," you assured her automatically, even as your attention remained fixed entirely on Lucy.
"Honey?"
Lucy nodded solemnly.
"It hurt."
"Where does it hurt, bug?" Jack asked.
She pointed vaguely toward the center of her stomach.
"...Here."
"How bad?"
She held up eight fingers.
"On a scale of ten..."
"...Eight."
"When did it start?"
"This morning."
"Did you throw up?"
"No."
"Feel sick?"
She hesitated.
"...Maybe."
Jack exchanged the briefest glance with you.
Neither of you relaxed.
Because children lied about vegetables.
They didn't usually lie about pain.
And even when they weren't lying, they were notoriously bad at describing it. Jack had treated smiling children with ruptured appendixes, kids who laughed while walking on fractured ankles, toddlers quietly coloring despite severe dehydration. Looking well meant almost nothing in pediatrics.
You rested a reassuring hand against Lucy's abdomen.
"I'm just going to press a little, okay?"
She nodded.
You gently palpated one quadrant.
"Does this hurt?"
"No."
You moved to another.
"How about here?"
"No."
Lower right.
"No."
Lower left.
"No."
Jack watched every tiny flicker of her expression. Or rather, the complete lack of one. She wasn't tensing beneath your touch. She wasn't guarding her stomach or curling inward instinctively. If anything, she seemed far more interested in everything happening around her than in the examination itself.
Her eyes wandered constantly around the department, following nurses rushing past, patients being wheeled down the hallway, monitors chiming, stretchers rolling by, the ambulance doors sliding open every few minutes. She wasn't frightened by any of it. She looked fascinated.
You noticed it too.
Before either of you could ask another question, Lucy turned back toward Jack, wearing the brightest smile she'd had all morning.
"So..." She tilted her head innocently. "...Can I see where Daddy works now?"
Silence settled over the four of you.
Jack closed his eyes.
Very.
Very slowly.
Your mother frowned, looking between the three of you.
"...Lucy?"
Your daughter's grin only widened.
"It worked."
Jack opened one eye.
"...What worked?"
"My tummy."
Neither you nor Jack said a word.
"It wasn't really hurting." She paused, as though she'd only just realized you weren't reacting the way she'd expected. "I just wanted to come."
For several long seconds, nobody moved.
Jack slowly lowered himself onto the chair beside her, more because his legs suddenly felt weak than because he'd intended to sit.
Because his prosthetic leg suddenly felt unsteady beneath him.
He rubbed both hands over his face, forcing out a long, shaky breath before looking back at his daughter.
"You..." His voice was rougher than he intended. "...You faked it?"
Lucy nodded proudly, completely oblivious to the emotional hurricane she'd just unleashed.
"That was the only way Grandma would bring me."
Your mother's mouth fell open.
"Oh my goodness..."
Lucy looked between the two of you with complete sincerity.
"I wanted to see where you work."
Jack let out another slow breath that sounded dangerously close to becoming a laugh. Not because anything about this was funny, but because relief had nowhere else to go.
"You scared ten years off my life."
Her smile faltered.
"...I did?"
Jack swallowed, the image of her name on the tracking board still burned into his mind.
"When I saw your name pop up..." His voice caught unexpectedly, forcing him to pause. He looked away for a moment before gathering himself enough to continue. "I thought something terrible had happened."
You nodded quietly beside him.
"I thought my little girl was hurt."
Lucy's face crumpled almost instantly. The excitement disappeared, replaced by confusion and guilt.
"I..." Her shoulders curled inward. "...I didn't know."
Of course she hadn't.
She was six years old. In her mind, she'd come up with the smartest plan imaginable. Pretend to have a stomachache. Go to the hospital. Surprise Mommy and Daddy. She'd never stopped to think about what it would feel like for two emergency clinicians to suddenly see their own child's name appear on the tracking board.
She looked down at her sneakers, twisting one toe against the floor.
"I'm sorry."
Jack watched her quietly for a long moment. Every ounce of frustration he'd felt dissolved beneath the sight of her trying so hard not to cry. Without another word, he opened his arms.
Lucy climbed into them immediately.
He wrapped her tightly against his chest, closing his eyes as he rested his cheek against her hair.
"I'm not mad."
She looked up uncertainly.
"...You're not?"
He shook his head.
"I'm relieved."
His voice was barely above a whisper.
"So unbelievably relieved."
He held her for another moment before leaning back just enough to meet her eyes.
"But you cannot ever pretend to be sick like this again."
She nodded immediately.
"Okay."
"I need a real promise."
"I promise."
You moved closer until your shoulder rested against Jack's, wrapping an arm around both of them. Almost instinctively, Lucy reached for your hand with her free one.
"I'm sorry, Mama."
You squeezed her little fingers.
"I know."
"I just wanted everyone at school to know my mommy and daddy have cool jobs."
Your heart ached.
"We know, sweetheart."
"They all got to go."
You met Jack's eyes for a brief second. Sometimes the hardest part of parenting wasn't saying no. It was understanding exactly why your child wanted something so badly and still knowing the answer couldn't change.
Jack kissed the top of Lucy's head.
Jack was quiet for a moment before a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"You know what?"
"What?"
"Since you're already here..." He glanced at you, silently asking the question before either of you spoke.
You smiled back.
"I think our patient has been thoroughly examined."
Jack nodded solemnly.
"I agree."
He looked back at Lucy.
"So I'm officially discharging you."
Her eyes widened.
"You are?"
"Mhm." He reached over and gently tapped the tip of her nose. "No tummy ache. Cleared to go home with Grandma."
She giggled.
"But..." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Before you go home, I think we can spare five minutes."
Lucy's mouth fell open.
"Really?"
"We can show you the nurses' station." He pointed toward the center of the department. "My locker. Maybe the ambulance bay if there isn't anything coming in."
"And the cafeteria," you added with a smile.
Jack nodded.
"But that's it."
"No treatment rooms."
"No sick patients," you said gently.
"And you stay with one of us the entire time."
Lucy threw her arms around his neck so quickly he almost laughed.
"I promise!"
"I know you do." He hugged her back before pulling away just enough to look at her seriously. "But that doesn't change one thing."
"What?"
"If you ever feel left out again, you tell Mommy or me."
She nodded.
"You don't have to scare us to spend time with us."
The smile slipped from her face.
"...Okay."
"I mean it, bug."
"I know."
She leaned forward to hug him again, then reached for you too, nearly pulling the three of you together on the waiting room chair.
Jack caught your eye over the top of Lucy's head.
"I think she inherited our problem-solving skills."
You laughed.
"No."
"Our stubbornness."
Lucy looked up immediately.
"I heard that."
"Oh, we know," Jack said with a grin. "Trust me, we know exactly who you got it from."
"I did not fake being stubborn."
"You absolutely did."
That earned another burst of laughter, loud enough that even your mother laughed through the tears she'd been quietly wiping away.
As Lucy happily slid off Jack's lap, already asking a hundred questions about ambulances and whether nurses really kept candy in the break room, the knot in his chest finally began to loosen. The fear hadn't disappeared entirely. He wasn't sure it ever would. Seeing her name on that tracking board had unlocked a terror he hoped never to feel again.
But as he watched her bounce happily between you, clutching one of your hands and one of his as though the last twenty minutes had never happened, he found himself smiling despite everything.
He would take fake stomachaches, dramatic plans, and six-year-old schemes over seeing his daughter in one of those treatment rooms for real every single day.
summary — the worst-cared-for girl in the county keeps washing up in jack’s er, and he can’t help but start paying attention.
warnings — 19.2k. large age gap (jack’s fifty/reader’s in twenties), doctor/patient dynamic initially, power imbalance (attending/nursing student, age, life experience), yearning!jack, protective!jack, jealous!jack, and literally every single word in the book, mutual pining, slow burn, he falls first, hurt/comfort, reader shows signs of adhd but it isn’t explicit, alcohol use (recurrent drunkenness, mention of alcohol poisoning, ER, and repeated intoxication played somewhat lightly), loneliness/self isolation, low self-worth, it’s very difficult for her to accept care, lack of family support/implied estrangement, financial stress and overworking, she’s also spending an unrealistic amt of time hanging out in the ed but it’s fanfic so it’s ok, jokes about financial stress, injuries (sprains, split lip, bruising, gravel burns), medical setting, blood, referenced patient death (patient dies, off-page, Jack grieves), making out/heavy kissing, suggestiveeee content (thumb-in-mouth beat, grinding) but nothing explicit.
notes — oops sorry this fic is so so self-indulgent 🫶 i literally loved writing them tho i was thinking about them for days on end. tried to take a swing at this based on this idea i had + thank you @ker0senebunny for inspriring the shoe scene!!!! inspired by this post + my er visits where i was literally the worst patient ever
Friday and Saturday after midnight, the board filled up with the same predictable words; alcohol poisonings, bar-fight lacerations, the kids who’d taken things they couldn’t name and showed up convinced they were dying when they were mostly just twenty and having a large thought. Jack triaged it on autopilot, and he’d stopped finding any of it interesting somewhere around year seven.
Sure, sometimes there were some cases that got a mild laugh out of him or turned his head. There was a kid who’d superglued his halloween mask on his own face for a dare. The guy who’d lost a bet and swallowed something he wouldn’t name in front of his mother, who was present and furious. The occasional genuinely strange thing the human body did that still, after all these years, made Jack think huh, that’s interesting, the small grim curiosity that was about the only part of the job the years hadn’t fully sanded down. He kept those and told them to new nurses over shitty coffee at four a.m. because he supposed that was a better story than what he could say about the Middle East.
The first time you came in, he’d handed you over to Shen. You were a sprained wrist and a BAC that explained the wrist, sixteen other things were louder, and Shen was free then.
He’d clocked you for half a second on his way to a GI bleed in bay nine: girl on the gurney, one heel too high on, and one somewhere in the greater metropolitan area, some little pink lace-trimmed thing sliding off one shoulder, telling Shen with enormous seriousness that she was so sorry, she didn’t usually do this, she’d had a singular margarita. Only.
Singular. He’d categorized it under the thousand other single margaritas he’d sworn to in this department and forgotten you before he’d reached the bleed.
The second time, he didn’t take you either, but he noticed the wrist.
Same wrist. Different night — a Saturday, three weeks in, the sort of shift where the waiting room sounded like a kennel — and he caught it sideways while he reviewed another chart. It was the same left wrist, taped this time, the nails on that one hand done in some soft pinky color gone chipped at the tips as though the week itself outlasted the manicure, somebody walking you through the discharge paperwork you clearly were ignoring. Something thought for him instead of him thinking much for it, some pattern-recognition thing buried under twenty-some years of reading bodies fast, the same instinct that made him glance twice at something almost normal. A wrist that kept coming back, he supposed. A thread snagging on a nail, there and gone.
The third time, it was Shen, breezing past the station with his Dunkin, saying over his shoulder, “Frequent flyer’s back.”
He shrugged, not yet placing that you were the frequent flyer, and went to bed four.
And that — somewhere between the third time and a number he stopped keeping an honest count of — was where it stopped being a chart and became some sort of thing. A bit, he’d say. The nights the bars let out and the board lit up, he’d find himself reading the incoming names a half-second longer than triage required, and feeling something wrong in his chest when yours wasn’t in them.
Pittsburgh was notoriously interesting, Jack learned through you, in that it apparently contained an infinite supply of ways a girl could get herself in trouble. He was convinced he could’ve drawn a map of the city by your injuries. There was the ankle, of course, a recurring grievance, always the shoes, never your fault. There was one time you’d burned your hand on a curling iron getting ready tipsy and come in more upset about the makeup you’d had to redo (because of crying it off) than the blister. The night you’d gone over in a parking lot because you refused to look at the ground while walking — looking at the ground, while drunk, you informed him, was how you trip — and the time you sliced your finger open trying to shotgun a White Claw with a key because someone had bet you couldn’t. You were really proud of the last one, you’d won the bet.
You were never the same disaster twice, he had to give you that. A little too keen on busting yourself up here and there, sure, but at least it was the wrist once, then a knee that met a curb, then a memorable evening involving a fence you’d been certain you could clear. You came in apologizing — always apologizing, to him, to the nurses, once, memorably, to the wall — and you came in sweet, which was the part that got under him, because drunk people in this ER were a lot of things and sweet was rarely one of them.
“Mmm,” you hummed the fourth or fifth time, the second your eyes found him through the gap in the curtain, going boneless with relief like Jack was the cavalry and not the man who was meant to flash light into your eyes for thirty seconds. “The pretty one.”
Jack let out a huff. “Thanks, doll.”
“Doll,” you repeated, the word going gummy in your mouth. “He calls me doll.”
“Eyes open. Follow the light.”
“You call everyone that, Dr. Abbot?” you said, his name coming out in a cluster like you were losing thread of it, the Abbot dissolving into something closer to a hum.
“Sure do,” he lied. “Track the light.”
You looked at his mouth, then his hands, then back up, a slow uncoordinated sweep because your eyes had stopped reporting to anything in particular, much less what they had to. Pupils blown wide and lazy. He thumbed your eyelid up a fraction to get the light where he needed it; your lashes were clumped and starry with whatever mascara had survived the night.
He held the penlight steady and waited you out. He had nowhere to be. That was the thing about the dead hours after bars closed; the bleed had been signed up to the floor, the chest pain turned out to be a panic attack and a large energy drink, and there was just you, and the saline ticking into your arm one slow drop at a time.
“What’d you get up to tonight?” he murmured, thumb finding the pulse at your wrist, counting without meaning to.
“S’fast ‘cause you’re here,” you said, sounding very pleased with yourself.
“Sure it is. Where’d you hurt yourself tonight?”
“... stairs,” you said after a moment, like your brain had to run a few laps to get to the word.
“Oh, yeah?” He hummed. You lifted your free hand a little off the mattress, lost track of it, and dropped it back down. “How many?”
“Mm. Four?” You squinted at the ceiling. “Maybe three. I dunno. Not the Great Wall or somethin’. Promise.”
“I believe you.” He nodded, then turned your forearm to the light, finding the scrape you’d come in with. It was gravel-burn, raw, the heel of your hand and a stripe up your wrist. Nothing that needed more than cleaning. You watched him do it with your head tipped against the pillow, gone quiet so the talking had run out for a second, which never lasted.
“Should I get a better first aid kit?” you asked, then clenched your jaw for a second like you felt something was wrong with it. “S’I don’t have to bother you all the time?”
“Might be a good idea to invest,” he said. He pulled the swab through the gravel-burn slowly, and you hissed and tried to pull back the hand on reflex. “Easy.” He kept it, his grip light yet unmoving around your fingers. “Almost done. Don’t fight me.”
You hummed, like you wanted a different answer.
Jack wet his lips, shaking his head slightly. He worked the grit out of the scrape, a fleck of it catching raw skin, and he tilted your arm to the light, getting it on the second pass, and wiped it on the gauze. Your hands twitched in his, and he pressed your fingers flat to the mattress with his thumb, and they stayed.
“You’d have to do it yourself, though,” he said. “Bathroom sink at three in the morning with one hand.” He reached for fresh gauze. “You’d make a mess of it.”
You frowned at the ceiling, nodding. “Sounds a little bad.”
“It’s a lot bad.” He laid the gauze over the scrape, thumbed the tape down at the edge of your wrist slowly, smoothing it flat where it wanted to lift. His knuckle dragged once over the thin skin there, and he felt your pulse jump under it. “You’d scar, probably.” His thumb passed the chipped polish, the chunky gold ring you’d kept on, even for this. “You’ve got nice hands. Shame to wreck ‘em over the sink.”
It took you a second. “You think so?”
“Don’t wreck ‘em.”
“You like when I come in,” you said, delighted.
“What I’d like,” he said, flat, lifting his eyes to yours, “is you off the stairs and down to the one drink.” His thumb settled over the back of your hand again. “But if you’re set on flinging yourself down, then you come here. Deal?”
Your fingers had curled around two of his somewhere in there loosely, without you noticing. He felt them settle, and he held very still so as to not spook you. He chose to not acknowledge it or look at it.
“Deal,” you mumbled, somewhere far off, probably forgetting the front half of the terms.
He let it go at that, taping down the last edge and turning over your wrist once more to be sure of it. Then he set your hand back on the mattress, yours still loosely hooked through his, going nowhere.
“Anyone out there to get you home?” he asked.
“Dunno.” Your nose scrunched. “Was gonna Uber.”
He sighed through his nose. “Where’s that girl — the one you came in with last time? Why don’t you call her?”
“That’s annoying, Dr. Abbot,” you said, almost in a whine.
“Yeah?” He kept looking at the wall behind you. “What’s annoying about a ride home?”
“Calling people. Making it a thing.” Your free hand flopped vaguely. “Then they gotta come get you, and they’re all — have to be nice about it, but you can tell.” Your nose scrunched. “It’s a whole production.”
He pressed his thumb flat back over your hand where your fingers were still caught in his.
“Oh? Nothing annoying about it, sweetheart. You call, she comes. Simple as that.” He turned to face you. “But if you insist on it, I’m not signing you off until you’re good enough to go home alone. So you call your girl, or you sit right here and keep my department company till you’ve cleared enough that I’ll sign off on it.”
Your eyes narrowed as you looked at him as though he’d spoken a different language. “Second one?”
“Obviously you pick that one,” he said.
He pulled the stool over and sat. For a few minutes, he had nowhere to be, and now, apparently, neither did you.
It wasn’t that you simply didn’t let people help you, either. Jack had never seen anyone so committed to being simply fine. Jack had met the stoic kind before; construction guys who walked in with rebar through a forearm acting like it was a small inconvenience; old ladies who’d been having a heart attack since last Tuesday and didn’t want to be a bother. But Jack had always believed those people to be suppressing, and you were just convinced, somewhere down in the foundation, that needing anything was an imposition.
That was also why the shoes confused him so much.
“This is the same damn ankle,” Jack said, turning your foot in his hands, watching the swelling outside of it.
“You don’t have to remind me. Most men buy me a drink before they get this familiar with my ankles,” you said, then groaned as you looked at his eyes going over the swelling.
“No drink.” He pressed along the bone. “Not my fault you keep handing your ankle to me.”
You tipped your head back against the pillow, groaning again. “Dr. Abbot, they look so bad. I feel like I’m pregnant.”
“I can do a quick blood draw and we can rule it out.” His palm flattened on the mattress beside your feet, leaning over to meet your eyes again. “But I think it’s those heels of yours, doll.”
Your eyes snapped to him. “Don’t be a dick, Dr. Abbot.”
He tilted his head, then pointed at the laminated paper stuck to the wall. “Aggressive behavior of any kind toward healthcare workers is a felony.”
“Then arrest me, doctor. I’ll die on this hill — and they’re not heels.” Your lips pursed, and the corner of your mouth kicked up. “Cuffs may be a little forward for a date, but I won’t stop you.”
“Aren’t you just so sweet,” he muttered. “What are they, then?”
“Bottega Lido Mules.”
The words meant absolutely nothing to him — could’ve been a pasta dish, a town in Italy, a wine — but they clearly did to you, so he remembered them.
“That’s nice, doll. They’ll be the reason I see you again.”
“Maybe, ‘cause I’ll never stop wearing them.”
You said the words your whole face, hands coming off the mattress to make the point with a drunk theatrical conviction as you argued something that genuinely mattered to you. Jack thought, not for the first time since he’d met you, that you’d have been magnetic stone-sober at a dinner party, the kind of girl that made a table lean in. It was just that he only ever got the 3am version.
At least you had a hill you’d die on and didn’t apologize for, Jack supposed.
“You married, Doctor?” you asked as he started icing your ankle.
“No,” he said, holding your eyes for a second. “Why — you got a boyfriend I should know about, then?”
He almost wished you did have one. He wished that there were somebody whose name you’d have said just now who’d be in the waiting room with his jaw tight because you’d gone and hurt yourself again. Somebody who’d take care of the ankle when you walked out of here in crutches, who took the keys when you had too many. He wished there was a person in the world whose job you were.
And you weren’t his first patient who he’d understood to not have someone taking care of them. He knew that if he carried them all, he’d drown inside a month if he tried to be the person nobody else had been. He’d never once had it turn into a wish, standing here with an ice pack in his hand going slack in his hand because he was too busy resenting someone who didn’t exist for not being in the waiting room.
He wondered when down the line you’d stopped letting the people in your life around you be the ones you could call, became a girl who said sorry for bleeding and had nobody, nobody, and looked at him like he was the warmest place she’d been in all week.
You laughed. “If I had a boyfriend, would I be laying it on so thick?”
He let out a breath through his nose, despite himself. “Stop wearing the heels, doll. Not nice to not have a foot.”
The next time you came in, it was a Thursday. With some pileup of bad luck, you came in somewhere past one with a split lip and a story about a dance floor he only half got the shape of. Jack hadn’t even been assigned to you yet, he’d just seen your name on the board, and reassigned himself quietly enough that dared anyone on shift to comment. Nobody did.
“Lip’s not bad,” he said, tilting your chin up under the light, thumb at your jaw. The split was already going fat and shining at the center of your lower lip, and he found his eyes stayed on your mouth a second past the part that was his job, on the soft unhurt swell of it under the hurt. He moved his thumb. “Doesn’t need anything. You bit it when you fell down. That’s all.”
“S’throbbing, Doctor,” you mumbled, the word coming around muffled around the split.
“It’ll throb. You’ve got a swollen lip.” He let go of your jaw and reached for the penlight. “Eyes on me.”
“I was so cute before this,” you said through a groan.
The huff that came out of him was almost a laugh, dragged out against his own will, and he shared a fleeting look with Bennet — a fairly new nurse — who had tilted his head briefly and was too afraid to meet your eyes.
“Alright. Still the prettiest girl I’ve treated tonight,” Jack said when your brows had furrowed together.
“You treat other girls?”
“It’s a hospital,” he said. “Few hundred a week.”
Your face looked wounded. “Few hundred.”
He leaned in slightly, faking a whisper. “You’re my top three.”
You were further gone than usual tonight. He’d noticed it the second he came around the curtain, the way your head was having a hard time holding itself up, the loose unmoored swim of your eyes that took longer than it should to find his finger. A piece of hair had come loose and stuck to the gloss at the corner of your mouth and you hadn’t the coordination to deal with it, and he had the unprofessional impulse to, and didn’t.
Bennet kept working the blood pressure cuff up your arm, half an eye on you, half on his own work.
“Track the light,” Jack murmured. “Slowly.”
“Too bright.”
“Tough.” The corner of his mouth moved up slightly. “You can bat your lashes at me when we’re done. Right now, I need ‘em open.”
You batted them anyway, slowly and theatrically, just to be a problem about it. They were long, and the theater of it was so ridiculous, and Jack had to bite down the inside of his cheek to keep his face flat to wait you out, until you gave up and tracked the finger. Your pupils were reactive, equal, and lagging half-a-beat behind. He clicked the light off.
“Too bright,” you said again.
“It’s off,” he drawled, chuckling.
Bennett thread a line into the back of your free hand, and you watched him sink it with a drowsy focus.
“Why’s it go in the back of the hand?” you mumbled. “More nerves there. Hurts more. Why not the — inside. By the elbow.” You tilted your head slightly to let your eyes wander to the crook of your arm. “Bigger vein. The antec—antecubital,” you said carefully, sounding out each syllable, afraid of messing it up. You wet your lips and turned to face him, then Bennet. “Why’s nobody use the good one?”
Jack pursed his lips and looked at you for a moment.
“Saves the good one,” he said, catching up, eyes going back to your chart. “AC vein blows easily when somebody’s moving around, and you —” He tipped his head at you, raising a brow, the squirming drunk of you. “ — Are gonna move around. Back of the hand’ll hold. I’d rather you be sore than re-stuck twice ‘cause you couldn’t sit pretty for thirty seconds.” He paused as he saw your eyes glaze over. He sighed. “Ask me how I know that about you.”
You’d gone busy, lips moving slightly like you were repeating it back to yourself so it’d stick, and Jack felt something in his chest shift a degree as he watched you do it.
He sighed, dragging a palm over the lower half of his face. “Where’d you learn that, then?”
“School,” you said to the ceiling, a small hint of pride taking over your voice. “M’gonna become a nurse. Gonna be good at it.”
Bennet snorted, finishing the tape. “Gonna be patching up drunk girls just like you then, huh,” he said. “Full circle.”
Jack watched the pride go out of your face slowly, like a house losing its power. Your chin dropped and your eyes slid from Bennet to the curtain as your hand fisted in your lap.
“Yeah,” you said, almost curiously. “Guess so.”
Jack’s jaw clenched involuntarily. It wasn’t the guy’s fault, not really. It was a nothing joke, the sort the whole department tossed off a hundred times a shift, the gallows shorthand that kept you sane at two in the morning. Jack had made worse about patients who’d never know, about drunks who wouldn’t remember, about exactly this, exactly girls like you. He’d just never had one of them go quiet before, watched the bright thing fold itself up and get tucked away.
“Bennet, you done?”
“Yeah, line’s good — ”
“Then go take vitals on six. I’ve got her.”
Bennet went, and it was just the two of you again.
Jack pulled the stool over with his foot and sat — lower than he had to, level with you, taking himself out of the column of people standing over you tonight and telling you what you were — and waited until your eyes came up off the curtain and found him.
“There she is,” he said when your eyes found him. He turned your taped hand over under the light like there was still something to do with it. There wasn’t, he just wanted his hands on something of yours while he undid what the room had done. “Look at me. Nothing good on the curtain.”
“How’s school treating you then, doll?” he asked, aiming for offhand and not steering you off whatever Bennet had knocked loose.
“Hard,” you said, but a small smile had crawled up your lips. “But I like it.” Your shoulders came up loosely.
“Yeah?” He kept his thumb moving over the back of your hand slowly, like he could press the bright thing back up to the surface where it belonged. “I think you’ll be good at it.”
It was such a strange feeling, Jack distantly noticed, to feel this utter conviction. He was rarely sure of anything good anymore. Sure of plenty else; sure within ten seconds of a bad rhythm which way the night was going to break, sure of which of the kids wheeled in at 2 am he’d see again and which he wouldn’t, a grim accumulated certainty that had nothing in it he’d ever wanted to be right about.
The job had made him an expert on the downslope of things. He could read the exact moment a body wanted to quit better than he could read most of what people said to his face. And here you were, and he was so sure of the other direction, and he felt the same weight of it behind his sternum, except it had swung and pointed at something good for once. You were going to be excellent at this.
It bothered him a little, how much he wanted to be there to see it, whoever you were going to be once you stopped washing up on his floor on the worst nights of your week. He’d known you, what, a handful of shifts as a frequent flyer, a bit, a name his eyes unconsciously caught on. He had no business feeling certain of anything about you, and he was, and he’d let himself feel it.
Your eyes found him properly again. “Liar.”
He huffed out a short laugh. “Tell you what. You finish that program, you get through all that mess where they try to drown you.” His thumb smoothed over the tape. “Then you come find me here and we’ll see if we can get you here with me on nights. Clearly you’re at your finest then.”
It was maybe something silly to say, and Gloria may have his head for it. He had no actual standing to say anything like it, even though you’d never remember it. He knew better; hope was a controlled substance in his field and he was stingy with it on purpose, because he’d seen the withdrawal.
But God, he’d love to see the part of you he could only catch glimpses of through the wreck like a light under the door. He’d love to be the one who taught you which arrogance to keep and which to let the job take away. He’d love, plainly and without anywhere to put it, to watch you become who you’d just told him you were going to be.
It was a lot of loving for a girl who’d been in his department and wouldn’t recall his face or a word of this by tomorrow morning. He was getting sentimental, or old, or both; the years stacked up behind his eyes until he started mistaking everything for a second chance at something.
Your lips moved. “So I can patch girls up like myself?”
“Nah.” He kept looking at your hand. “You can patch up old bastards like me, too.” Then, he pointed his index finger of his free hand at you, mock-stern. “Gotta make sure you’re not at point three BAC, though. Will have to do that work to get you working with me.”
“Mm.” Your eyes flickered up to the ceiling, weighing it with the enormous gravity of the very drunk as though he’d posed a very real proposition to you. “Okay. For you, I’d stop.”
“For me?” he repeated, mostly to buy himself a second.
“Mm-hm.” You turned your face to him and said it with such ease, no glance away to leave yourself an exit. “You’re worth not drinkin’ over.”
Your words went in clean, the way the best and worst things do, under the ribs where he kept nothing armored because nobody ever aimed there. Jack felt the back of his neck go warm and was abruptly, intensely grateful for the light that wouldn’t display it.
Jack huffed, having to look away at the floor then. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all year, and you’re not gonna remember it. Hell of a thing.”
When he made himself look back up, you’d tipped your face into the pillow, watching him from the side with your eyes gone soft and heavy, the smile arriving unguarded across your mouth. The split tugged one corner of it, that small wince folded right into the sweetness, and you seemed to not feel it.
He had the sudden, idiotic wish to have met you on a night you’d remember. To have perhaps caught you when you fell at the bar, to have been the stranger whose arm happened to be there, not the doctor it eventually routed you to. Perhaps he could’ve been a man in your night instead of a stop in it.
He shook his head. “You’re trouble, you know that, right? Saying all these nice things. What’s a man supposed to do with that?”
He’d have liked to have been remembered, was the bottom of it. By you specifically. He’d spent decades being the man people were grateful to and glad to forget.
“What’s your name, Doctor Abbot?” you asked, drowsy.
He looked down at his badge, then back up at you. “Take a wild guess?” Then, he added, “You never looked at my badge?”
“Sorry. Didn’t read.”
“Don’t apologize to me. It’s Jack.”
Jack was doing his usual rounds this Friday, on a rush from a chest pain in two that turned out to be a panic attack and a kid in five who’d put a kitchen knife through the meat of his own palm trying to halve a frozen bagel when Ellis caught him by the elbow at the board.
“Heads up, Abbot,” she said, grinning. She nodded toward triage, toward the doors. “Bed three. Your, uh—” The grin tipped over, delighted with itself. “Girlfriend’s got a boyfriend.”
It was a running thing now. Somewhere around the fourth or fifth time you’d washed up on his shift the staff had started on it — your frequent flyer, your stray, your girl’s back — and Jack had stopped bothering to deny it because that’d only feed it, and he’d learned not denying it had a way of starving the joke faster.
He looked, and was immediately able to notice what you weren’t doing more than what you were; you weren’t grinning at the ceiling, weren’t doing that boneless sweet-relief thing. You were sitting up too straight on the bed, hands folded in your lap, and there was a guy fitted to the chair beside you with one arm slung along the back of yours and a hand resting on your knee like he’d put it there to mark the spot. He was saying something low to the side of your face, and you were nodding at it, and not looking at anybody.
Jack felt a muscle tick in his jaw, immediately not feeling anything nice about the situation. “I got it — you mind taking six for me? I’ll come in a couple minutes.”
By the time he’d made it to you, he’d settled his face into something unbothered. You could read it, he’d realized at some point during your frequent visits, and that only meant he had to be on his better behavior around you.
“Evening.” He pulled the curtain half-round behind him, glanced at the chart clipped to the foot of the bed, then at you. “What’d we do tonight?”
“She caught an elbow,” the guy answered. “Some asshole on the dance floor. It’s nothing — she’s fine. She’s just a lightweight, aren’t you — ” A little squeeze on your knee. “ — didn’t even really need to come in, but y’know. Better safe.”
You weren’t a lightweight, he immediately wanted to correct. He’d seen you put away enough over the months to know your tolerance better than this guy apparently did; he knew the difference between the nights you were genuinely wrecked and the nights you came in clearer than you let on, and looking at you, tonight, you weren’t anywhere near the state implied.
“You,” he said, tipping his chin in your direction. “Not him. Where’d it get you?”
You lifted your hand up from your lap and touched your cheekbone, movement slow, and Jack stepped in and tipped your head up toward the light with two fingers under your chin, thumb resting just shy of the scrape. The skin had gone dark along the bone, tender, an elbow’s worth of it. Nothing that needed more than an ice and a night, but you were still holding still under his hand and not meeting his eyes, and that he didn’t like at all.
“It’s okay,” you said. “Really. S’not even — ”
“Let me be the judge of that, sweetheart. Gettin’ paid for this.” His eyes flicked down to yours and caught, holding it there a second with a small question in the rise of a brow, before he went back to the bone, thumb tracing the edge of the bruise so light you barely felt it. A small frown pulled at the corners of his mouth at the sight. “Follow my finger. Eyes only.”
You followed, pupils fine and equal. No concussion in it.
“She’s fine, I told you,” the guy said from the chair, a little laugh under it like he was inviting Jack in on something. “Hardly. She bounces back.”
Jack clicked the penlight off and turned to the side. “Gonna need the room.”
“I’ll stay.” The hand went back to your knee. “I’m all good here.”
“Can’t clear a head strike with people in the room. You get it.” Jack tilted his head to the side, raising a shoulder. “Liability. Coffee machine’s down the hall. Give me two minutes with my patient.”
The easy smile on the guy’s lips went thin around the edges, looking for a thing to push against and not finding it. He stood up slow, making a show of it, squeezing your knee and letting you know he’ll be back in a minute, babe, a hand trailing your shoulder on the way past, all of it aimed less at you and more at Jack holding the curtain. Jack pressed his lips in a thin line as he met the guy’s eyes.
The second the curtain closed behind him, a breath left you, tiny and involuntary, and your shoulders came down in the empty room.
“Sorry, Dr. Abbot,” you murmured. “I keep being a mess at this place.” You took in a short, almost shaky breath. “Sorry.”
“None of that,” he almost grumbled, penning your chart. “Your folks down here, sweetheart?”
“No,” you said to your lap, picking the edge of the blanket. “Back home. A few states over.” You let out a laugh. “Just me out here. S’nice.”
Jack forced a small smile, having to look at the ceiling while you looked down at your lap, shaking his head, more of an action for himself than for you. He pulled the stool over with his foot and sat, getting level with you.
“What’s goin’ on with you, huh?” he asked quietly, making sure there was nothing sharp in his tone at all. “Honest. I like seeing you but not like this bruised up with a guy who talks for you.” His thumb found your wrist. “So talk to me. What’s going on?”
“He’s fine,” you said. “Just likes being around.”
Jack tilted his head, dipping his head to meet your eyes that were still facing down. “Not the important part of the question, and you know it.”
You sighed. “Sorry, Jack.”
“Quit it. The only thing I want from you tonight is some honesty, alright?”
A corner of your lip kicked up, even though the dimness in your eyes held. “Your eyes look really pretty tonight.”
“Heard that one before,” he drawled. “Had ‘em fifty years. Try a new one.”
“Your neck’s going red,” you mumbled, fingers reaching up to press flat to the warm of his skin, right there below the jaw, like you just had to feel whether it was true.
Jack stilled. Your fingers were cold on his neck. He distantly registered his pulse was probably going under your fingertips, and you’d feel it if you held there a second longer. And then you caught yourself, hand snapping back to the blanket.
“Sorry. Sorry — I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have done that — ” you said, the words coming out in a taut string.
“Easy,” he said, voice coming out rough. He swallowed. “Got me all flustered and now you’re gettin’ all shy?”
You huffed a small laugh, your hand still fisted in the blanket where you’d snatched it back. “I’m not allowed to do that. I don’t think.”
“Had no idea you knew how to behave,” he leaned a little back from the stool, crossing his arms. “Should I be worried about that guy out there?”
“Jealous, Doctor?”
He rolled his eyes slightly, not responding.
You sighed when you realized he wasn’t taking the bait. “He’s fine. He just likes being around.”
He stood off the stool and reached for the discharge clipboard at the foot of the bed.
“Whatcha doing there?”
“My job.” He clicked the pen. “Clearing you. You’ve got no concussion. You’re not dying tonight.” He scrawled on the paper. “And I’m writing you a script for the bruise and a code for an Uber — ”
“No, no,” you said immediately. “Please don’t do that.”
He raised his hand with the pen, palm open. “You never let me Uber you back when you’re alone. At least have this.” Your face scrunched up, and he could practically feel the guilt building in you. “Don’t need to use it now. Or ever. You can keep it for whenever.” He set the slip on your lap before you could push it back at him, the matter completely closed on his end. “Goes in your phone case. You can forget it exists until you need it.”
“You can’t keep handing me stuff — ”
“Department’s got a whole stack. You’re not special.” He capped the pen, though the corner of his mouth made it slightly visible that his words were false. “Don’t flatter yourself, doll.”
You looked down at the slip, your thumb worrying the edges of it. “I don’t like taking things.”
“I noticed. A few hundred times now.” He tucked the pen back in his scrub pocket, and his voice came down a notch. “If it really makes you feel so bad, though, then maybe we can start taking care of ourselves so you don’t have to keep ending up here?”
Jack was in the middle of hand-off, Robby doing his thing before Robby left and did whatever the hell he did. They were at the board, Robby running down the floor. It was six-fifteen in the ugly hour, the in-between where the day shift was dragging itself toward the door and the night hadn’t started biting yet, the light through the ambulance doors gone gold and slanted and almost decent for once.
And then the doors slid, and you came through them. Jack’s attention peeled to you the second your shape entered the room, except this was wrong, he distantly registered. It was daylight and six in the evening and you were on your own two feet, upright and, assumedly, sober and walking in through the front like a person as opposed to a patient. You were wearing a jacket that swallowed you, and he assumed underneath it was shorts of some sort. He could see a stripe of navy cotton peeking from under the collar of your jacket as you adjusted a tote bag on your shoulder.
You looked, frankly, like a completely different species from the one he scraped off bed four on weekends. The jacket was too big — his first thought was that it was a man’s, and his second thought, which he didn’t care for, was about whose — sleeves shoved up to your forearms, a stripe of soft navy cotton on the collar, and below it bare legs and shorts and sneakers that had likely never seen the inside of a club. Your hair was up and a little damp at the temple and your face was scrubbed clean.
You looked like somebody’s whole good day, he thought. You looked around around the waiting room with slightly widened eyes, a lost expression coating your features like you’d built up a lot of nerve to walk in here and had no idea what to do with it.
“ — and the tox screen is still pending, so don’t let them,” Robby was saying.
“Mhm,” Jack said, attention already halved.
And Bennet, breezing past the triage desk with cheerful obliviousness, caught your figure and said, out loud, “Don’t tell me you’ve started day drinking. It’s barely past six, you gotta pace yourself — ” He let out a small laugh at his own joke, and kept walking, and didn’t see the way it landed.
Your body stiffened, and you looked like a deer in headlights. Your mouth opened, some sort of flustered apology forming, he was sure.
Jack let out a short groan, shaking his head. He set the tablet on the counter, already moving to cross the floor toward you. “Finish the hand-off with Shen. I gotta go deal with something.”
Robby said something at his back — deal with what? — but Jack was already gone, crossing the floor slowly but somehow still eating the distance fast, and he watched you spot him coming and watched the relief crash over your face. Except you were sober now, in the daylight, and your whole face was going soft and grateful and just slightly wrecked at the sight of him.
He stopped a couple feet short of you, closer than a doctor, further than he stood to you at night. He wasn’t sure what to do with his hands — there was no chart to hold (he should’ve brought the tablet) or wrist to take or a penlight to shine — so he clasped them behind his back, and tilted his head to get a better look at you.
“Hi,” you breathed.
“Hey,” he said, eyes doing a quick once-over to make sure you really didn’t have any new injuries.
You shifted the tote under his gaze and clutched whatever was in the bag a little tighter.
“Jack —” you started, stopped, like the name had come out wrong. “ — Dr. Abbot.” You winced, pinching your eyes shut for a second. “Jack?” you tried to say again, smaller, your eyes flicking up to check his face to check if you’d overstepped. “Sorry, I don’t know which — ”
“Jack’s great.” His mouth tugged up, despite himself. “You’ve called me a lot worse. Jack’s a step-up.”
You let out a startled little laugh, your mouth coming over your mouth like you could catch it, as your body eased a degree.
“I’m sorry — I don’t — God, this is so embarrassing. I’m sorry.”
“You know how many times you’ve apologized to me? Quit it.” He rubbed a finger over his lips. “What’s got you here today, then?”
“Um, I came to see you.” He raised a brow, and you let out a short breath, then continued, “I might not remember a lot of it, but I remember you took really good care of me. And my friends who came in with me sometimes said you took really good care of me.” The words came out softer now, flowing, more earnest. “Even though I was a mess. Especially when. So I just wanted to —” You shrugged, smiling slightly. “ — come say thanks.”
Jack felt the complete warmth of you land somewhere he kept no armor. “It’s the job,” he said quickly, before he could stop himself. “You didn’t have to come down here for that. That’s — it’s what we do. Anybody on shift would’ve done the same.”
Your expression faltered for a moment, and your eyes dropped to the tote at your side as your shoulders came in. You shook your head, a small motion, then smiled again.
“Right. No — yeah, of course.” You chuckled. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make it a — I know it’s your job.” You shifted the bag, then shifted your weight from one foot to another. “Still, though. You did, so I wanted to.”
Jack already wanted to take his words back, but he couldn’t, so he just shook his head. “Hey, you’re my problem, though. So thank you. For the thanks. We’re even.”
Your shoulders eased and you nodded. “Well, I also have something for you.” You hauled a container out of your tote and held it out to him with both hands before you could chicken out. “It definitely doesn’t make up for all of the times you helped me.” You looked down at the container. “And I don’t know if you’re lactose intolerant, or have a peanut allergy or anything. I’m sorry if you do — I can — ”
“I’ve got a cast-iron everything. The cookies won’t kill me.” When you pushed the container further to him, he took it off your hands, eyes quickly scanning the round chocolate chip cookies, forcing a smile down. He swallowed whatever had lodged in his throat.
“These are homemade?” He weighed the container in both hands, absurdly. You nodded. He swallowed whatever on earth had lodged in his throat at that.“Didn’t have to do all that for me.”
“I wanted to,” you said quickly. “I wasn’t sure how the food here is, so thought it might be a nice change.”
“Worse than you’re imagining,” he said, then tipped his head to the side as the memory crawled into his brain, uncalled for. “You’ve actually thrown a sandwich across the room.”
Your palm came up to your mouth, and you let out a muffled, “I’m so sorry.”
Jack snorted, shaking his head. Then, after a moment, he cleared his throat before it could get away from him. He looked back toward the board, then at you, knowing time was slipping and he’d have to go back to work and you’d have to go somewhere else, most likely.
“You got finals or anything coming up soon?” he asked.
Your lips curved down, and you nodded. “Yeah, in a couple weeks.”
“Am I gonna be seeing you getting wheeled in wasted?”
“I want to say no,” you said, smiling a little crooked. “I’m working on it. But I’ve said that before and ended up here. So.” You shrugged, lips jutting out like you were also unimpressed with yourself. “Ask me again in a couple weeks, I guess. I’d like it if you didn’t, though.”
“Then quit doing the hard nights alone,” he said, leaning in just slightly. “You keep yourself off the stairs, and you can come bother us instead here with a textbook.” He raised a brow as he held your eyes. “We’ve got a family room that’s almost always empty at night.”
“I couldn’t — ”
“Won’t be a bother. Trust me. You’d be silly not to use people’s help when they’ve clawed through the same exams to get the badge. You get stuck, somebody’ll know it cold.” He shrugged. “Half of ‘em are bored out of their minds some nights. You’d be doing us a favor.”
You let out a breath, brows pinching together. “That’s — yeah.” You let out a short laugh, looking away for a second. “I’d like that. A lot. Thank you, really. As long as you don’t mind.”
“This is a teaching hospital, doll. I don’t mind, so long as you don’t mind the company. Might be nice for me, too.”
You smiled and for a moment, neither of you moved to end it. Then you shifted the tote back up your shoulder, and Jack felt the pull to keep you here one more second before he could stop himself.
“Go home,” he said gruffly. “And I’ll be looking for you. So actually turn up, don’t make me look for nothing.”
The whole sun of you came up at that, stunned, like you hadn’t expected to be looked for by anyone. Jack felt the ground go quietly out from under him, the vertigo of having reached for a person’s happiness on purpose and connected, of being, for once, the cause of a face doing that. He’d gotten so used to delivering news that took the light out that he’d forgotten it ran the other way, too.
“I’ll turn up. I promise.”
He nodded, clearing his throat and turning for the board, bidding you a throaty goodbye.
“She’s the girl that everyone on night talks about?” Robby asked immediately, falling into step beside him.
Jack looked at him sideways, shaking his head. “You got something to say, too?”
“No,” Robby said, rubbing his palm at his chin like he was holding something in. “You like her or something?”
Jack halted for a second, pointing his index at Robby as he lowered his chin. “You shut up. She’s gonna be a nurse.”
“Oh, yeah,” Robby laughed. “Looks like she’s gonna be your nurse, old man. You’ll need it soon enough.”
Thank god you did turn up. Jack had the sense that maybe he’d scared you off altogether by his offer, and the line he’d toed had two very alternate spectrums: you’d find a new hospital altogether to go to in the metropolitan area after your falls or poisonings, or you’d be here a lot more often, which he still wasn’t sure would’ve been often enough.
The first time you came in, it was well past midnight and Jack had unfortunately not been able to catch you off the bat because he was in an emergency surgery. He’d walked out of it with his blood-stained surgical gown still on to be met with the sight of you by the nurse’s station, writing something down on the back of a discharge form for Lena, with another Tupperware laying on the table. He made the guess that you’d brought the whole floor something and were three minutes from having Lena eating out of your hand.
You’d found a corner of his department and made yourself a small soft home in it inside of ten minutes, and you were leaning in, and Jack stood there for a moment with the bad night still ringing in his ears and felt something unclench in his chest by a fraction.
“ — no, but you gotta,” you were saying to Lena in earnest as Jack approached closer. “If you put the brown sugar in while the butter’s still hot, it’s just — it’s a different cookie.”
“You taking the recipe, Lena?” Jack asked then, fully submerging into the knot you’d made with his charge nurse.
You turned to face him, a smile forming on your lips almost immediately, and then your eyes dropped over him, to the gown, the rust-brown stain dried dark across the front of it, the set of his shoulders.
“I am,” Lena replied. “Gonna make these for the kids.” She punctuated her sentence by holding up one of the cookies.
“Gonna make some for us, too, then?” Jack asked, raising a brow, and settled his elbows over the table. He turned his neck to face you properly, putting on his best smile.
Lena laughed shortly. “I don’t like you enough.” She pushed off the counter with some forms in hand. “Her, maybe. You can have whatever she leaves behind.” She shot you a look that was almost warm before she went and disappeared down the hall.
“Could be you someday,” Jack said, tilting his head in the direction of Lena’s chair.
You shook your head, then pushed the container in his hands. “I’ve got to graduate first. And pass pharm, which is currently — ” You patted your tote bag, textbooks heavy. “ — trying to kill me.”
Jack nodded toward the family room, placing the container on the table for a second beside him. “C’mon, then, doll. Let’s see what the pharm’s doing to you.”
“You don’t have to — ” Your eyes flicked down the gown again. “You just came out of surgery. You don’t have to help me study.”
“Actin’ like I’m the one who got the surgery,” Jack muttered, chuckling slightly. He was already peeling off the gown one-handed, balling it up to toss. He started walking, and you followed behind him. “C’mon. It’s pretty empty right now.”
It’d been pleasant that night and the few after to have five to ten minute increments of sitting with you helping you study in between doing his actual job. He’d duck in between things — a lull after discharge, the dread stretch while he waited for a CT scan, the ten minutes a trauma took to roll in once the call came — and you’d be there in the family room with your stack of cards on the couch. He’d drop on the chair across you or the couch beside you and pick up wherever you’d left off like he hadn’t left at all. Then his pager would buzz and he’d be gone, and you’d still be there an hour later when he came back, and he’d sit back down, and both of you’d pretend this was a completely normal way to study.
It’d annoyed him the first night how badly the flashcards were failing you; he’d seen you stare at the words and your eyes would glaze and slide right off it like they were greased. You’d memorized or retained nothing. And then he’d said, half to himself, a story for the why to click, and he’d watched it lock in you.
So he’d stopped quizzing you primarily off the cards and started telling you stories instead and you’d talk it back to him, reasoning out loud, getting there in the saying of it the way you never got there on the page.
The nights stacked up. The first week, you’d sat at a table across from him. By the second, you’d migrated to the chair beside him. Your coffee, the one by the far end of the table, was right by his elbow. Lena started leaving a second cup at the station when she saw you come in, his and yours, and never commented.
You’d stopped apologizing for taking up his time somewhere in there. He noticed when you’d started saving him the worst looking cookie on purpose because he’d once told you he liked the ugly ones. He’d noticed when you learned the rhythm of his pages; you’d go quiet and just hand him the next card when his eyes drifted to the board through the window of the door, would have it ready when he came back, like you’d kept his place for him while he was off keeping someone alive.
He noticed that he more than looked forward to it. Somewhere in the dead middle of a bad shift, his feet would take him toward the family room before his brain could catch up on the why of it all. An empty table on a night you didn’t come in sat wrong with him, a tiny disappointment he didn’t have anything in him to figure out why.
Sometimes, like now, you’d get distracted. Jack had learned. He’d walked into the family room to see you and Ellis folded into opposite ends of the couch, the flashcards abandoned in a fanned mess on the cushion between you, both of you mid-argument and enjoying yourselves too much.
“Poaching my study hall, Ellis?” he said, finally moving in.
Ellis pointed one stern finger in your direction as she pulled herself off the couch. “Do the crossword, not the sudoku.”
“She’s gonna make you a worse student,” Jack said to Ellis’s back.
“She’s making me a worse doctor,” Ellis said cheerfully, already at the door. “I’ve been here twenty minutes. I have patients.” She turned to you one final time. “Crossword. You’ll thank me later.”
She gave Jack a knowing look on her way out, one he didn’t want to read too much into, and she was gone, the door swinging shut behind her in one slow plunge.
You watched the door settle, and the entire wattage of your attention turned to him. He hadn’t gotten used to that, and he didn’t think he ever would. “Looks like I’ll never be a nurse.”
“Don’t say things like that.” He came around and lowered himself onto the couch beside you. “What’re you stuck on? Hit me.”
Your palm met his upper arm, a small smack.
He narrowed his eyes at you. “Hit me all you want. You’re not getting out of this.”
“But Jaaaack,” you drawled, tipping your head back on the couch. “Not here to study today.”
His eyes flickered over to your form briefly as he gathered the cards and squared them. “Oh, no? What’re you here for then?”
“Dunno.” You pulled your knees up to the couch. “Didn’t wanna be at mine. And work was a lot and boring.” You turned to face him then, a small smile growing on your lips. “Thought I’d bother yours instead.”
He set the squared deck on his knee. “Lucky me.”
He’d caught it, though, how you’d folded the sad thing in the middle of the sentence where it’d draw the least attention and moved on before it could sit. He let it move on, but he kept it. The image of you on a Tuesday, work behind you, and the choice you’d made was to drive to a hospital rather than go home to your own quiet. He was getting a picture of what that quiet looked like and learned that he didn’t like it very much.
“Work was boring, huh,” he said, though he couldn’t imagine what a fun day looked like as a waitress. “You working more?”
“Mm. Saturday girl quit, so now I’m on Saturdays, too.” You picked at your sock. “S’okay. Tips are good. I learned that old guys tip better when you call them ‘sir.’”
He huffed. “Do they?”
“Huge. It’s a cheat code.” You tilted your head at him, smiling shyly. “You’d tip well, I think. You’d overcompensate.”
“I’m not gonna sit here and get profiled by you in the only few minutes where I can catch my breath.” He held the card up, front to himself. “And I tip twenty-five percent like every functioning adult, thank you.”
You groaned. “Where can I get tipped more than that?”
“You don’t want me to answer that.”
“I do. I do. I’m a broke student. Point me to the money — where should I apply?” You shifted on the couch, fully facing him now, the cards apparently abandoned for the moment. “C’mon. You’ve lived a hundred years. You’ve gotta know where I can make some quick cash.”
“You’re sweet to me, doll,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. He set the cards down and looked at you, genuinely considering it now. He tried to ignore the fact that you likely had money troubles and tried to think about how he could actually help. “Define quick.”
“Like — by next Thursday.”
“Legally?”
“No.”
“Legally, you can sell plasma. Twice a week, they pay you, you sit there with a juice box.”
Your nose scrunched. “I don’t love needles in me sober.”
“You’re gonna be a nurse.”
“In other people. That’s totally different.” You waved it off. “Next. What else?”
“Sleep studies pay you to sleep. Egg donation pays a whole lot but it’s a whole process, not a Thursday deal.” He was ticking them off on his fingers, now fully committed. “Medical research’ll pay you to test things. Phase-one trials. You take an experimental drug and they watch you for side effects.”
“That’s the one.” You sat up. “How much?”
“No,” he said immediately, shaking his head. “Absolutely not. I bring you in here to keep you from blacking out. I’m not gonna have you volunteering to get poisoned for a quick four hundred bucks.” He pointed at you. “Maybe start laying on the ‘sir’ a little too thick from now on.”
“Sir.” You tested on him directly, dropping your voice, leaning in an inch, lashes going slow. “Could you help me out, sir? Tips have been so slow, sir.”
He turned his face away from you, now making himself look out the window. “I’m not entertaining this.”
“Oh, but sir.” You’d fully abandoned the cards now, scooting closer, a hand under your chin, the picture of innocence. “I’m just a girl. A poor, hardworking girl trying to be a nurse. Don’t you want to help me out, sir?”
“I am trying.” He pulled up the flashcards. “If it’ll help, I’ll bring my SWAT buddies into your place and they can run up a tab.” He waved a card in front of your face, trying to get your attention back to it. “You do this, I’ll have eight cops eating mozzarella sticks in your section by Friday, overtipping ‘cause I saved their lives. Won’t even have to call ‘em sir.”
“Right. No, that’s — ” You let out a little laugh too quickly, eyes widening at his words, and you took the card out of his hand mostly to have something to do with yours. “You don’t have to do that. Obviously. I was kidding — ” You batted the whole thing away with a shake of your head. “God. No. I’m okay, I promise. I was kidding.”
“I’m half-kidding,” he said, raising a brow. “I do know those guys. It’s no skin off me. But it’s okay.”
He let the offer sit like that, and he saw you pinch your eyes shut. He watched the whole thing happen on your face, the small involuntary recoil you always had when anyone offered you real kindness. You were bad at it. For a girl who lied so charmingly about how much she drank and how her night went, you had absolutely no poker face for being cared about. You had not the first idea how to hide it.
He found it unbearably endearing.
You opened your eyes and looked a little caught, a little sheepish as your thumb worried the corner of the card.
“You’re a strange girl,” he mumbled, fond, before he could stop it. “You know that?”
“Shit — Jack,” you said through a small laugh, shaking your head. “I don’t — I’m — ” You pressed your lips together and your shoulders came up almost to your ears in a stiff shrug. “Is there anything I can do for you? I can’t just accept — all your help.”
He snorted. “What help? I give you a study room and review flash cards.”
“Let me do something. I’m a good cleaner — ”
His head went back slightly, shaking his head. “You’re really not.”
“Okay,” you continued, rallying. “A dog? Guys like you always have dogs they don’t walk ‘cause of their hours. I can walk dogs.”
“No dog.” He raised his hand when he saw your mouth move again, stopping you. “You pay me back by passing your boards. You can pay me back plenty if you end up working here, doing good at the job.”
You went quiet for a second. “That’s just me doing my own thing. That’s not real.”
“That’s real to me.” He shrugged, like he hadn’t just made your whole future the price of his kindness. “I get a good nurse out of it someday.” He pulled himself off the couch. “And now I gotta go. Floor’s not gonna run itself.”
“Boo,” you said, pulling the entire deck on your lap now. “You’re the worst study partner. You leave constantly.”
Tonight, Jack had come into the family room after leaving you for a longer stretch of time than usual — a multi-vehicle situation that had eaten two hours and most of his patience — and found the studying had long since lost.
You’d migrated to the couch at some point. The textbook was open face-down on the cushion beside you like a small tented roof, your flashcards fanned across the middle seat, and you were folded in the corner with your knees pulled up and cheek mashed into the worn armrest, fighting your eyes and losing completely. You’d dimmed the overhead lights, lighting the lamp in the corner, the one nobody used, throwing everything low and gold.
He paused in the doorway. “You awake?”
“Mhm. Need a cat nap, though,” you murmured.
Jack snorted, shutting the door behind him as he walked closer to you. “How far’d you get?”
“Far enough.” Then, you added, “Cat nap.”
“Sayin’ it like I’m gonna not let you have one.”
Your eye cracked open a sliver, tracked him, then fell shut again. “Feel like you’re gonna make me do more cards.”
He toed the leg of the coffee table aside, reached down, and started clearing your mess off the cushions. He lifted the textbook and shut it around the receipt you’d jammed as a bookmark; gathered the flashcards and squared them in his palm; capped the highlighter and pocketed it. You watched the cleanup through one half-open eye, not lifting a single finger, your cheek staying flat to the armrest.
“There. No more cards. You’re done for tonight, doll.”
“Hooray,” you mumbled.
He nudged your socked foot where it had crept up across the cushion. “C’mon. Budge up a second. Don’t want you wrecking your neck sleeping like that.”
You made a small sound of protest but you went, peeling your cheek off the armrest with reluctance. There was a crease pressed into your skin where the fabric seam had been and your hair was flat on one side and mushed on the other. You blinked up at him, swaying where you sat, eyes glassy and unfocused in the gold lamplight.
He sank into the space he’d cleared, the cushion dipping, tipping the two of you a fraction into each other. That was all the invitation your body apparently needed, because you folded into him without a beat of thought — too tired to second-guess it, he supposed — your temple finding the warm of his shoulder, your whole side melting against his. You drew your knees up and tucked them against his thigh. Your hand came to rest on his chest, palm flat, fingers spreading once before they went still. You exhaled after a moment, long and slowly, and burrowed your nose into his neck.
Jack stilled.
“Ten minutes,” you murmured, the words barely coming out as words.
He took his arm off the back of the couch and settled it around your back, broad hand spanning between your shoulder blades and drawing you that last fraction deeper into him. You went boneless with it, a small contended hum slipping out of you.
Because he couldn’t help himself, he tipped his head down a fraction to say into your hair, “Been doin’ really well, y’know that, sweetheart?”
You hummed, the sound of it vibrating against his throat, your fingers curling the faintest bit in his scrubs. “Thanks, Jack.”
“Gonna be a good nurse,” he murmured, thumb moving once along your shoulder.
“Gonna work with you,” you mumbled, three-quarters gone. “You said.”
“Mhm.”
“Holdin’ you to it.”
“Yeah, I know you are.” The corner of his mouth flicked up where you couldn’t see it. “Go to sleep. You can hold me to it in ten minutes.”
When you didn’t answer for a second, Jack realized you were already gone. You were warm and trusting at his side, your hand slack over his heart, your breath sinking deep and even into his neck.
Jack let his head tip back against the couch, pinching his eyes shut at the feeling of you, at the feeling you caused. His hand spread slowly across your back, feeling the breath go through you — the proof of you — and he let his thumb find the curve of your shoulder and rest there, keeping his eyes shut. He sat with the enormous fact of you, the girl he’d not seen anyone circle back for, gone soft and so pliant in his arms like she’d always belonged there, and he stopped pretending he wasn’t already lost.
The ten minutes came and went. He let them. He’d have given you the whole night, the whole shift, the whole of whatever this was turning into. There wasn’t one place on the earth worth standing up for, and he’d known it for weeks, and only now, with your breath slow against his throat, did he let himself sit all the way inside of the knowing.
Jack came out of the OR and signed — albeit distantly, mind running a meter a minute about nothing good — what needed signing and said the things he was meant to, feeling the familiar piece of his own damn soul rotting away in the place those things went to rot. He knew the spot by now. It’d been decades of depositing them into the same place, and the place didn’t fill, exactly, but it never emptied, either. It just sat there, getting heavier, like things usually do when you keep adding to it and never take anything out.
This one would sit a while. Jack had started to sense it around the first year in this job; the ones that stayed had a weight, and you knew on the table whether you were getting one of those or whether it’d wash off by morning. This one wouldn’t.
He stripped his gloves, and somebody said something he answered without hearing, and then his feet simply walked past the board, carrying him down the hall toward the one door on the whole floor that wouldn’t have somebody else’s catastrophe behind it.
His hand was flat on the door. He was still wearing the gown, and he looked down and registered it too late. He should’ve changed it, left the thing in the dirty bin with the rest of what the shift had taken, the way he always did before he came to you, kept the two halves of the floor separate on purpose.
He opened the door. You were on the couch, one leg tucked under you and the other foot on the floor and a half-empty cup of coffee on the table going cold. You’d been doing something on your phone, or nothing, when the door opened, and you looked up with the easy expectant expression on your face you always had before it dropped. He watched it melt.
“Hey,” you said, making your voice soft.
“Hey.” His voice came out rough, and he almost winced as he heard it himself.
You set your phone face-down on the cushion and unfolded yourself from the couch and stood, crossing the room to close the gap between you. You stopped in front of him and looked up, your brow doing a small worried thing, and he let himself be looked at.
“Sit down,” you said. “You look like you’re gonna fall through the floor.”
He distantly registered you walking him to the chair — your hand finding his forearm, a light touch — and he let you. He folded into the chair like the strings of his own body had been cut, his elbows finding his knees and head dropping.
He heard you move, small domestic sounds of you filling a cup, the tap somewhere down the hall turning on then shutting off. Then your socks were back in his eyeline, toes pointed to him.
“Here.” You crouched, came into his lowered field of vision, and pressed a cup into his hands — water, cold — and folded his fingers around it when they were slow to close. “Drink it all.”
He drank because that was the path of least resistance. The water caught something he hadn’t registered was bone-dry. You took the empty cup out of his hands when he was done, setting it on the table behind you, and then he felt your hands find his shoulders.
He flinched just slightly, the smallest involuntary thing, for nobody touched him like that. Nobody put their hands on him that weren’t shaking one of his or needing something from him. You settled your thumbs into the iron base of his neck and pressed slowly, working the knots the night, the days, the weeks, and probably the year had wound there.
Your thumbs were unsure of themselves — you weren’t good at it, you weren’t trying to be, you were simply trying — and that was somehow worse because it got further to him than skill would have; there was the unpracticed earnestness to it, like you’d simply decided his shoulders had been holding too much and you wanted to put your hands there to take some of it down.
He felt his head drop lower, coming forward on its own, the tension bleeding out of his neck by degrees under your hands. Your thumbs found a place at the top of his spine that had been clenched so long that it had stopped registering as pain, and you pressed there, and a fraction let go. He felt his shoulders drop the inch they’d been holding up all night, and an uneven breath went out of him.
You kept your hands moving, your thumbs working the meat of his shoulders through the cotton, occasionally finding a knot and leaning your weight into it until it gave.
His head tipped a little forward after a stretch of time — chasing, or simply falling — and it found the soft of your stomach. His forehead rested against the front of you, where you stood close in the gap between his knees. He hadn’t intended for it, or maybe he had, somewhere under where the intention happened, his body had chosen to stop holding its own weight and give it to the nearest thing that felt like it’d take it. His eyes were already shut, and he stayed there, hands coming up on their own to rest at the sides of your waist. His fingers anchored into the fabric of your shirt.
“Shitty job sometimes,” he mumbled after a moment.
“Yeah,” you said softly above him. “I bet it is.”
Your fingers had found his hair, threading through the curls. Then, you added quietly, “But you’re really good at it.”
His fingers tightened a fraction at the fabric on your waist as he let out a short huff.
“Didn’t help him,” he said finally, the words coming out muffled behind his own mouth. “Whatever I’m good at didn’t help him.”
“Maybe not.” Your fingers scraped carefully at his scalp. “I think you were the best shot he had.”
He breathed you in, choosing to let the words rest in his skull for a while instead of fighting them.
“I’m — ” He heard you take in a breath and felt it go through your whole body. “I’m really grateful I met you, Jack.”
For some reason, he waited for you to take it back. There was a primally fast thing in him that told him that you’d take the words back, and he’d have understood.
“You don’t have to say anything,” you added. “I just wanted you to know. While you’re here being all — ” Your thumb moved at the back of his neck, tender and so gentle. “ — Figured it was a decent time to tell you I’m glad you exist.”
He took in a shaky breath against you, fingers tightening again.
“Thank you, sweet girl,” he said, and it sounded like it’d been punched out of him. “Likewise. More than you know,” he finished, his arms wrapping around the rest of your waist now, pulling you in like he could just fold himself smaller if he held hard enough.
Your fingers kept moving slowly in his hair, your other hand coming around the back of his head to hold him there. He couldn’t think of the last time he’d let anybody do this; as far as he could remember, he’d decided in some wordless permanent way that he’d carry his own weight from then on, that it was cheaper, that needing somebody was a bill that came due eventually and he’d rather not run the tab.
“You should sit,” he said after god knows how long without letting go. “Selfish, keepin’ you standing here.”
“It’s okay.”
He hummed, thumb moving once at your waist. “Two more minutes then.”
“Whatever you need, Jack,” you said, voice quiet. “I’m not going.”
Jack’s phone lit up on the arm of the couch at 10:52, face-down, buzzing itself a quarter-inch off the leather before he caught it.
He’d been working his way, with grim completionist patience, through an iceberg video you’d sent him three days ago with the message ‘THIS rabbit hole i need you to fall down.’ You’d followed it up by telling him, ‘do Not skip tiers!!’ He hadn’t skipped tiers. He was, in fact, ninety minutes deep and only about two-thirds down the pyramid, somewhere in the tier where a young man with a serious voice was explaining internet folklore he couldn’t believe was real.
He was fairly sure it’d been invented by some teenager, but Jack only shrugged, distantly wondering why on earth anyone would spend the labor — the diagrams, alone — hoaxing a thing this elaborate for an audience of complete strangers. He also wondered why on earth you were so interested in this. As quickly as the thought arrived, he realized that he was working down the iceberg himself.
Working down a thing you’d handed him felt adjacent to sitting next to you, and his apartment had become the sort of quiet that made adjacent worth ninety minutes of contemporary folklore. He’d sooner have chewed glass than admitted it out loud.
It was a good apartment and an unwitnessed one. He’d realized somewhere in the past year it was untouched by any hand but his. Every object was exactly where he’d last set it down, for there was no second person to nudge the remote three inches or leave a hair tie on the counter or ask why there was a mug in the sink and no bowl. His leg was off for the night, propped against the arm of the couch, the whole standing weight from his night shift to SWAT calls finally set down somewhere it was allowed to stay.
So, the phone going off, went off loud in the silence that had become almost-permanent. Your name lit across the screen, and the picture with it (one you’d set yourself, commandeering his phone to do it). It was already strange that it was a call. You never called; you texted in floods, six messages deep before he’d gotten to the first, but the ringing meant the thing had gotten past the point where typing it out would hold.
He looked at your laughing face buzzing on his phone for a second too long, the cold little instinct, and thumbed it green.
“Hey,” he said. “You know it’s almost eleven on my night-off. This better be good.”
You stayed silent for a second, and he could hear your breath and the hollow of a call connected in a car, the cooling engine’s tick and automotive acoustics.
“Hey,” you said finally, and Jack felt it wrongly. The back half of the word had gone soft and unsteady at the end.
Jack was already sitting up. “Hey, yourself,” he said. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” He heard you swallow quickly. “Sorry. God, this is so dumb. You — were you asleep?”
“I was almost through with your iceberg, if you want the truth.”
You made a sound that tried to be a laugh but didn’t clear the runway, breaking apart halfway. “You watched it?”
“Almost.” His fingers were drumming against his prosthetic leaning by the couch now. “Are you out?”
“I’m —” You paused, then hummed like you were debating. “I’m kind of near your place, actually?” Your voice rose toward the end, like you were embarrassed or questioning it all yourself. “I know. It’s creepy. But I think I need to — talk to you.”
“Yeah?” He tried to keep his voice light, though he could already feel something in his body start racing, panicking. “You break something?”
“No. No. Promise. It’s nothing like that.”
For some reason, that put a deeper hook in him. If it wasn’t a wrist, an ankle, or your body doing something it shouldn’t, then it was the other kind, and he had no idea how to hold something like that. He wasn’t sure what he could do with a sprain he couldn’t ice.
“Okay — ”
“Wait,” you interrupted, voice pitching higher, and he could see you were psyching yourself out. “I could just say it now, honestly. It’d probably be easier over the phone.”
Jack’s eyes widened a fraction at that. His stomach suddenly felt cold.
“No,” he said, voice rougher than he’d intended. “I won’t make it hard. Whatever you want to say, I promise. Just — not like this, okay? Come here.”
He listened to you breathe as you weighed it and knew, with bone-deep certainty, that he wouldn’t like what you were going to say. “Okay,” you breathed. “I’ll be there in fifteen.”
Jack opened the door after the first knock, unembarrassed of waiting. You’d come as you were, a coat thrown open over sleep clothes, good wool hanging loose over a thin cami with lace at the collar and soft shorts and bare legs down to the sneakers you hadn’t laced properly. The second fact that registered to Jack was that you’d been crying; there was a soft ruin around your eyes, the mascara long gone, wiped with a sleeve somewhere back in the evening. Your hair was up and losing, a claw clip hanging looser than he believed it was meant to.
“Hi,” you said, eyes raising to meet his. “Thanks for letting me come by.”
Jack felt his shoulders rise to his ears just slightly at the formality. He felt like a bucket of ice had been dropped upon him because somewhere in the past few weeks, you’d stopped apologizing to him as much, which had felt like a small victory he never told you he was counting. And here it was again, your stiff little courtesy, the door swung back shut on a thing that had been open. Jack didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all.
“You don’t thank me for coming by,” he said gruffly, opening the door wider.
You came in, but only just. Before he could steer you to the warmth of his apartment, you were already reaching into the bag on your shoulder — hands shaking, he realized, with a fine tremor — and pulling out a folded piece of paper, creased hard down the middle and then again like you’d tried to bundle it up into a fist.
He unfolded it and smoothed out the edges, eyes looking for yours briefly, but you’d already looked away. Your bottom lip was between your teeth and you were looking at the ground. He forced himself to look down.
It was your pharmacology exam. Your cramped looping handwriting scattered the margins, a star drawn to one question because you starred everything. There was red pen all down the side and a number circled on the top. The number, Jack saw immediately, was not catastrophic, not a failure even. It was a low pass, the sort of grade that would’ve stung for Jack in his school days and evaporated by the next exam. He’d expected worse from the way you’d been shaking holding it.
He looked back at you, confused more than anything. “Congratulations, you passed.”
Your jaw tightened, and he could see your eyes go bright and wounded. “It’s a seventy-one.”
“That’s a pass.”
“Barely. Barely.” You took the paper out of his hands, folding it away like you couldn’t stand looking at it anymore. “And you helped me with this so much and I still couldn’t. I’m so tired of — ” You stopped, looking up at the ceiling as you pressed your lips flat. “It’s not about the test.”
“Okay.” He leaned back against the counter, giving you the whole floor of the room. “Talk, then.”
You looked at him, and he watched you gather it all up, deciding, as it settled into your face, your mouth, whatever you’d come here to say.
“I don’t wanna waste your time anymore,” you said, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth as your eyes landed on the wall behind him. “I can’t — it’s not fair.”
Jack felt the whole floor shift under him and felt his brows go up an inch as he tried to keep his face seem collected.
“You’re you,” you continued. “You’ve got a whole life, a hard one, and I’ve been just — dumping mine on you. Making you sit there and hold my hand through studying and I’m — ” You shook your head, face going grim as you said the words. “It’s not fair to you. You’ve been carrying me for so long, and it’s not fair. None of this is yours to carry. I’m not yours to carry.”
His nose scrunched just slightly, something like burning blooming at the center of his face. Something in his chest had cracked along the seam he had no idea was there, because he’d never had to look at it once straight on. It was easy to carry your own weight when there was no one asking to take some. It was easy to call solitude a principle when nobody had ever made the alternative real. And you had. You’d made it real for months, and here you were proposing — no, telling — to take it back, to hand him his loneliness again because of some measurement of fairness.
The horror of how much Jack didn’t want it — how badly, how completely he didn’t want to go back to how it was before you — was the first honest look he’d taken at himself in longer than he could stand to count.
“That so?” was all he could say, voice roughening as his brows narrowed at you.
“Yes.” You mistook the roughness for agreement, or maybe you just needed to do so, because you kept going. “You don’t have to help me. The only thing I can think is you’re — you are a good person and I was there. And you help people, it’s what you do.” Your hand waved in the general direction of him as your voice cracked. “So help someone who’d actually make it worth it. Who won’t barely pass and keep getting too drunk and — ” You laughed slightly, and it was all wet and terrible, the sound. “I’m a bad use of you. You’re this — you are so much, Jack, and I’m a bad place to put it. So put it somewhere better.”
Jack had to force a swallow when you ended your words with a sharp intake of breath, the pool behind your eyes slipping free slowly down your cheeks. You’d run out of anything that’d make you wipe it away now, and that undid him worse than the crying itself, that you were standing there and letting it fall, done hiding, wrung all the way out.
“I’m sorry — ” he started.
“It’s okay,” you said immediately, shaking your head.
“For making you think that’s what it was,” he said, lowering his voice. “That’s on me, that you talked yourself into thinking this has been some sort of charity.” He cocked his head to the side then, wishing you’d look up at him. “But you’re gonna quit shaking your head for one minute, and hear the rest, ‘cause you got it wrong. All of it, backwards and upside down.”
He came off the counter and closed the space himself, until you had to lift your chin to keep his eyes.
“I’m not a man who spends his nights on a stray out of the goodness of his heart. Ask anyone I work with what I’m like. I don’t have that lying around spare.” His jaw tightened. “So take the halo off. That’s not what this was.”
“Then why — ”
“You,” he said plainly, for he learned it cost him nothing to do so, and a lot if he didn’t. “I wouldn’t do this for just anyone. There’s nowhere else I want to put it.”
He watched everything in your face tighten at his words, the disbelief and reflex to argue all curdling underneath.
“If you don’t want this.” Me. Me, he wanted to say. “Say it. I’ll leave you alone. You don’t owe me anything.”
“That’s not — ”
“But don’t act like it’s some favor for me.” He was closer now than he’d been. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving for my sake. That’s a lie.”
“It’s not — ”
“It’s a lie,” he said, voice going flat and so final, as he slowly nodded his head. He looked at you a second, lips coming between his teeth, then looked away as he felt something physical seize over his entire body.
Jack himself had to process the words as he said them, because he was only just realizing how much truth they held.
“You make it good.”
He forced himself to look back at you, and you had tilted your head now to look up at him, caught and still as stone, the arguing gone completely off your face now and replaced with something more frightened.
“Don’t — ” One of Jack’s shoulders came up in a half-hearted shrug. “You’re the one part of my day that doesn’t take anything out of me. Just — get that straight, sweetheart.”
You were just looking up at him with your whole face undone, the tears gone still on it, as though his words had knocked your own clean out of you.
“I don’t know what to do with that,” you said quietly. “People don’t — that’s not a thing that happens to me, Jack. Being — ” Your sentence broke apart and your hand had come up and fisted loosely in front of his shirt without either of you deciding it should, holding on, holding him there. “I don’t know what to do with it.”
“Nothing.” His hand came up slowly and covered yours where it fisted in his shirt, holding it flat there against his chest. “It’s just true.”
You made a small, pained sound and dropped your forehead against his sternum, right where his hand held yours, and he felt the whole strung-tight weight of you gave at once and settled into him. He felt you breathe against his shirt at the same time he felt his own pulse going too fast on your knuckles; he wasn’t bothered enough to try and slow it, because there was no point now. You’d already found out.
“Very grateful for you,” he murmured, his other hand pulled up to rest over the back of your skull. “Told you so earlier. Meant it more than you let yourself hear.”
You huffed against his shirt — half a sob, half a laugh, maybe the ruined cousin of both — and he felt it go through the cotton and land warm against his skin, felt your fingers uncurl a fraction from the fist they’d made then re-fist, like even now some part of you was checking he was still there to hold onto.
Jack held still for it, same as you had in the family room for him. He was good at holding still, it was half the job, but this was a different kind — he supposed — where there was a plain animal willingness to be a wall for as long as you needed one and not move a muscle that might spook you out of it.
He rested his chin at the top of your head, murmuring, “I don’t have to tutor you anymore, if that’ll help.” He swallowed, closing his eyes as he breathed in your faint perfume. “We can scrap the whole thing, if that’s what’s making you feel so bad.”
You stilled for a second, then made a small sound against him.
Despite himself, despite it all, he let out a short chuckle. “S’okay. I’m the reason you got a seventy-one. You’re allowed to switch.”
“You’re the reason it’s a seventy-one and not a thirty,” you said, and it came out muffled and immediate. You almost sounded cross, like you didn’t want the slander against him to stand even now.
After a moment against him, you added, “I don’t want to be just someone you help, I think. I don’t want to be somebody — I guess — that you’re just good to.”
When Jack hummed, you continued, “I don’t know what I wanna be instead. Just — a friend — or, I don’t know. Something that goes both ways.”
Jack’s chest swelled at the words. He felt that he’d have been anything you asked of him, simply because it had just become how it was. It was almost outrageous how, if you’d asked, he’d have handed it over, the whole rest of it, whatever you wanted the name to be, whatever box you needed him in.
A man his age was supposed to be past this. He was supposed to have calcified somewhere in the second decade of the job into something that didn’t reorganize himself around what someone he’d known properly only for the better part of the year had asked him.
“Consider it done,” he murmured, letting the word settle. Friend.
You breathed against him, and Jack felt himself want to remain exactly here and knew that he shouldn’t. He knew that the kind thing now was to give you somewhere to put your face that wasn’t his chest, some ordinary ground for you to set your feet back down on.
“C’mon.” He got a hand on your shoulder and eased you off him gently, a slow, slow reclaiming of the eight inches of air between your body and his. He dipped his head to catch your eyes, which were pink-rimmed and swollen and doing their utter best to avoid his now that the worst was out of you. “Do you want me to order food?”
Your neck rolled back slightly as you met his eyes, caught slightly off-guard at the shift of tone. You blinked. “That was a lot, and now you’re asking about food?”
“It was a lot,” he agreed. He reached up and thumbed a smudge of leftover mascara from under your eye briskly, and you let him. “And now it’s done. So, food, and we can watch the stupid video you sent me before you head home.”
It had been six days since you showed up at his apartment, and Jack had embarrassingly counted every single one of them. You’d left his apartment somewhere past two with your eyes finally dry and a paper bag of his leftover Thai you’d protested and taken anyway, and he’d walked you down to your car and stood in the lot like some idiot in a movie until your taillights turned off his street, and then he’d gone back up to a quiet that felt, for the first time in years, like something had been in it.
Since then it had gone like it always had and nothing like it; you still turned up with flashcards and left a graveyard of half-drunk coffees on every surface. But he’d noticed how you started letting him sit closer now, let a compliment land without flinching off, and once, mid-story, had reached over and fixed his scrub top where it had folded under, casual as breathing.
Friend was the word you’d settled on. Jack was thinking about that when Shen dropped into step beside Jack with a cup of fresh Dunkin sweating in his hand.
“You know it’s not standard to let your girlfriend occupy the family room for three hours of your shift, right?”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” Jack immediately clarified. It seemed more important to do now than it was earlier, when people only knew you when you came in as an emergency. Still, it felt wrong, like a key going in the wrong hole. “And you got a problem with it?”
Shen lifted the coffee in surrender, unbothered. “You know we’ve grown to her. She and I do the Wordle every midnight.” Then, he spread one hand. “Administratively, she’s not staff. She’s not a patient. She’s not family of a patient. Which leaves the category I’d have to call —” He tilted his head, faux thoughtfulness. “ — Abbot’s girlfriend, and I don’t think that’s in the handbook.”
“Try again,” Jack drawled, thumbing a form he wasn’t reading that didn’t need to be read. “She’s a nursing student getting hours of free tutoring off a board-certified attending. Put that in the handbook. Teaching hospital. I’m teaching.”
Shen shook his head, letting out a small laugh. “Alright. Alright. She’s not your girlfriend. Mind if I ask her out, then?”
Jack snorted. “If you could only be so lucky.”
“Clearly she has a type for attendings,” he pressed, grinning. “Or is it just the ones with gray hair?”
Jack looked at him sideways. “This is getting a bit weird, even for you.”
“I’m happy for you, man. Even if you’re gonna make us all watch you not do anything about it for the next six months.”
“Mind your own damn business.”
“Sure,” he turned, lifting a hand over his shoulder as he went. “Close the blinds anyway. There’s a window on that door. Everyone can see her making you dumb.”
Jack looked down the hall and set the form down before going there to close the blinds — telling himself it was for the window, for Shen’s real talk — and knowing, somewhere under that, that he was really just going to you.
He could see you through the window in the door before he reached it, which was, he supposed, exactly Shen’s point. You had a textbook open in your lap and you were chewing the end of your highlighter, brow pulled in, mouthing something to yourself, working a card over your head. You’d pulled the sleeves of one of his old sweatshirts down to your hands, the one you’d swiped from his locker two weeks ago and never given back and that he’d never once asked for, because he’d found he didn’t want it back, found he liked seeing it swallow you.
You gave him a smile when he walked in. He reached up and tipped the blinds shut on the window with two fingers, the floor outside tipping away.
“Why’d you close them?” you asked, slightly bored.
“Apparently the whole department’s been getting a show.”
You furrowed your brows then. “A show of what? Me failing?”
“Somethin’ like that.” He let it go at that, coming around and lowering himself onto the couch beside you, the cushion dipping and tipping you toward him a degree, what it always did that neither of you ever corrected. “How’s it going? Honest.”
“Honestly?” You blew out a breath, closing the highlighter. “I’d kill for a drink.”
“Oh?” Jack settled back against the couch, his arm coming up along the top of it behind you. “Telling that to the one man who’s seen what you look like at the bottom of the bottle.”
“Jaaaack,” you said, almost in a whine. “Let’s go to a bar.”
He snorted, dragging a hand down his face. “Now I’m wondering what’s pushing you toward the edge.”
He picked the flashcard you had set on the textbook, the one you’d been studying. He read the front of it without much intention — your handwriting was cramped and looping, a star drawn next to it — and turned over and checked the back. He did the same thing he always did, the story, the image; he’d done it a hundred times by now. He could do it half-asleep, and most nights he half was.
You thought about it for a second, your bottom lip tugged between your teeth, then walked yourself to the answer.
“Mhm. See. Good,” he murmured. He flipped the card to the back to check you, and you’d had it. Of course you’d had it, you’d had more of this than you ever gave yourself credit for. “Tell you what. Get the next three right, and I’ll get us a drink once your exams are done.”
Your brows narrowed. “Bribe?”
“It’s an incentive.” He held up the next card, eyes on you. “Don’t think. Just answer me.”
You did. One, then the next, then the one after. You were quicker now that there was something on the end of it, your lip caught between your teeth as you walked yourself there each time. He noticed you worked when there was something to earn. After all three, he hummed. “See. Good girl, there you go.”
He felt you go still beside him, and his eyes flickered up to you to see your eyes dropping to your textbook. He stayed silent a second, eyes raking over you, your thumb running the worn edge of a card back and forth.
Jack knew better than to point out how you being flustered was almost silly when he’d said the same words many times while taping you up or shining a penlight in your eyes. He let his arm stay where it was along the couch, hand not quite touching your shoulder, and watched the side of your face.
“You wanna do some more?” he said finally, voice coming out rougher. “Or are we done for the night?”
You held up a finger, as if telling him to wait.
“Okay, then,” he mumbled, leaning back further against the couch. “Take your time.”
After a second, he turned to say something dry to break the silence. You’d turned your head, too, and were closer than he initially realized, your eyes coming up off the card and finding his, near enough that whatever he had bubbling in his throat died there immediately.
Jack hummed involuntarily. You closed the sound by pressing your mouth to his, the feeling of the plushness so very featherlight, there and barely there, the softest press.
He went still as stone, every system in him locking at once. His hand was still along the back of the couch and his mouth hadn’t answered yours, not because he didn’t want to — God, he did — but because the entirety of him had gone still with the disbelief of it, with the you, here, choosing this — him — and the half-second of nothing stretched into a second, too damn long.
He’d seized on you, the fact you’d nearly walked, had stood in his kitchen finding the kindest way to disappear, and here you were, closing the last of the distance yourself.
You pulled back like you’d touched a stove, a gasp leaving your mouth, replacing where his own had been.
“Oh god.” Your hand flew up to your mouth, your eyes going wide before pinching shut completely. “I’m sorry — I’m so sorry, Jack. I read that so, so wrong. You’ve been so nice and I — fuck, I’m sorry.”
Jack made a pained sound that was lost somewhere in your ramble, at the sight of you snatching it back. Nothing had gone wrong. Jack knew you’d read nothing wrong, and that the only thing that had happened was that he’d been too slow, too stunned, too thirty-years-rusty to catch what had been handed to him in good reflex.
His hand came off the back of the couch and he caught your jaw, thumb on your chin as he pushed slightly against your skin. He was distantly aware that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so afraid about leaning in to kiss a woman, and went in to try and give you back the second he lost, mouth finding yours the exact way every bone in his body knew he should’ve the first time.
You made a startled sound against him before the entirety of you melted. His mouth worked against yours, thoroughly, making sure not to fumble it twice. His thumb stayed on your chin, tilting your face the half-degree he wanted it, and when your lips parted on half a breath, his entire upper body leaned in to follow it, deepening it.
It was you who moved first. Of course, it was you, always you. You followed it, the kiss pulling you up and forward, your knee coming over his thigh, and then you were settling over him. Jack let out the throatiest of a chuckle, still intent on keeping your mouth, as your hands slid from the front of his scrubs to his jaw.
Jack’s hands caught yours on instinct — one at your waist, one at your hip — steadying you down to him, your hips still slightly in the air like you weren’t sure you could close the last of the distance, your weight held in the suspended air in the ache of almost, thighs braced on either side of his.
Jack pulled back just enough to look at you, letting his head fall back against the back of the couch, dragging his eyes up the length of you poised over him. He blew out a short breath, the corners of his lips kicking up as his palm glided up and down on the side of your waist, catching onto your tank top on accident to show a sliver of skin at your lip — warm, soft, the band of your shorts sitting low — and he watched his own hand do it before he dragged his eyes back to your face.
“Nothing halfway with you, huh?” he said, the words practically coming out from his chest. His thumb rested against that bared sliver of you. “Climbing me at my work.”
You lowered your head, and your nose grazed against his. “You started it.”
“I did?”
“You closed the blinds.”
He let out a surprised laugh. “I can promise you I didn’t expect this when I did that.”
Your lips ghosted over his for a second, and his chest swelled at the sight of you trying to tamp down the sweetest smile. “Problem?”
“No.” The words came out immediately, because apparently somewhere in him, there was still something insatiable and teenage that had lurched up at the sight of you. “No. No problem.”
His hand spread flat and warm against the small of your back, fingers slipping under the hem of the top to your warm skin there, and he drew you down, finally, that last suspended inch collapsing as he settled your weight flush over him.
He had to pinch his eyes shut a second, then open them again to take in the whole sight of you. His hand came up to your jaw. The light caught the loose hair at your temple, the bare line of your shoulder where the strap had slipped. Your mouth was full and flushed from his, parted slightly, your breath coming. The skin under his hand at your back was hot to the touch, and he spread his fingers wider against it just to feel more of it.
You were trying not to smile. Your lip caught between your teeth, the corners pulling anyway.
His finger perched against your jaw moved to your lips, dragging slowly across the lower one, parting it under the pad of his thumb. He watched it give, your breath warm against his skin.
Your eyes flicked up to his as your lip closed around the first knuckle, your tongue hesitantly pressing flat against the pad, the wet heat of it catching him so completely off guard that the air went out of him in a rough exhale. His other hand fisted at the small of your back, turning over to gather the hem of your tank in his grip.
“Oh.” His eyes had dropped to your mouth and fixed there, his jaw slack as his head cocked to the side. “Pretty.”
His gaze was locked on the sight of his thumb disappearing past your lips, no hesitation in it, that same no-halfway boldness turned filthy and sweet all at once. The tired man in him went down all at once.
His thumb dragged free, catching on your bottom lip and tugging it down before it slipped loose. His chest heaved harder now under the warm weight of you.
“Where’d that come from?” he muttered gruffly, almost to himself, thumb pressing the slick of your own lip back against you. His palm moved to cradle your face, tapping your cheek softly once. “Can’t be doing things like that here, doll. I’m on call.”
“Then don’t make it so easy.” Your lips brushed his thumb, then you moved down to press your mouth to the line of his jaw, the stubble catching your lips, then lower to the warm of his throat.
“You callin’ me easy?” he said through a chuckle, letting his head tip back. You scraped your teeth over the cord of his neck and felt the whole of him go tight underneath you, his fingers flexing hard into the bare skin of your back.
“Alright.” His voice had dropped to stone. “You’ve had your fun.. No more of that,” he said, though made no move to stop you.
You peppered a line of pecks down his throat down to where his collar had started, your lips dragging over the jut of his collarbone through the thin cotton. He swallowed. One of your hands slid up to the back of your neck, fingers pushing into the soft gray at his nape, scratching light, and the other flattened over his chest, over the steady-then-not rhythm, fisting slow in the fabric just to feel him breathe wrong because of you.
You sat back an inch to look at him. His head was still tipped back against the couch, his throat bared where you’d left it momentarily pink and glossy, his eyes half-lidded. His hands had gone heavy and possessive at your hips, giving up pretending he wanted them anywhere else, you anywhere else.
You dragged your thumb over his bottom lip, watched it give, the same way he did to you.
“Can I ask you something?” you asked, quietly, your hips settling more firmly into his lap.
“Mm.” His hands spread wide, settling you down harder against him. “My social security number is — ”
You laughed.
“Two-two-six — ”
“Jack — ” You swatted at his chest, the seriousness dissolving into something giddier. “I’m being serious. Stop.”
“Okay, okay.” The corners of his mouth lifted up, and his hands squeezed slightly at your hips. He pulled his head up off the couch to meet your eyes properly. “Shoot. Doubt I could stop you.”
“Are you seeing anyone?”
He let the question sit, humming. His thumbs moved idly at your hips, head tilting against the couch like the question required any real thought. “There’s a few women,” he said, lowering his voice as he looked at you, like he was letting you in on a secret. “There’s a nice lady who brings me fruit baskets.”
Your hand, on the flat of his chest, slid up slow to his throat and he kept talking like he didn’t notice.
“ — there’s this nurse on days who keeps leaving me her number at the station — ”
You leaned in and closed your teeth slightly on his earlobe. He let out a short laugh, one that was dragged out of him, his head tipped to give more of it to you without permission.
“Alright. Okay,” he said as your nose dragged the line of his jaw. “Stop doin’ that. I don’t wanna explain teeth marks to the whole floor.”
Your hips set firmer into his lap. “Jack,” you warned. “I can’t do this if you’re seeing fifty other women.”
He sobered a degree, his thumb going still at your waist, his eyes coming up to actually hold yours. The joke drained out of his face as he realised the edge of seriousness you tried to tamp down, and he momentarily short-circuited at how it was even possible for you to wonder.
“Hey.” His hand came up off your hip, pushed the hair back from your face and stayed there, cradling. “Until five minutes ago, there were zero women. Forget fifty.”
Your only response to that was a smile and your cheek leaning further against his palm. He let his thumb move once across his cheekbone, watching the way your cheek turned into his hand. Your eyes drifted half-shut. There was a speck of dried highlighter ink on the side of your finger where it curled against his throat. The strap of your top had slid off your shoulder again; he looked at all of you and stopped bothering to pretend, even to himself, that he was looking at anything other than the only thing in the room he wanted.
“What about you? You seein’ anyone?” His thumb stayed where it was, but his voice had gone quieter. “‘Cause I’ve seen people bring you in. And I never liked one of ‘em.”
You huffed a small laugh, your nose grazing his. “Jealous, Doctor?”
“Yeah.” He watched the laugh stall on your face at how easy he gave it up. “If there is, he should be worried. I’d like to take you on a nice date to change that.”
“Ohhhh,” you drawled through a laugh. “There’s no one, but I won’t say no to the date.”
“Then you’ve got yourself one, doll.” He kissed you on it — short, sure, his hand still cradling your face — sealing the thing as the corner of his mouth caught yours before he pulled back. He let his forehead rest against yours for a second and breathed you in.
Then, with a short groan, he tipped his head back off of yours.
“I gotta get back out there.” His thumb was still moving at your jaw, clearly working against the very thing he was saying. “My work ethic’s going wrong and my residents might actually report me.”
Then, his hands found your waist and he lifted you off, setting you off his lap and onto the cushion beside him where the entire thing had started. You landed with a small affronted sound, your hand fisting in his collar a beat longer before he had to let it go.
You flopped back into the cushion where he’d deposited you, one hand pressed flat to your chest, the picture of wounded. “I guess it’s true what they say about old men. They use you. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am.”
He stood up and scrubbed his palm down his face like he could wipe the last ten minutes off it before he had to walk out and be a doctor again. He could still feel the heat sitting at the back of his neck and even though he’d tried to scrub your gloss off, he was sure there was a remnant somewhere the worst possible person would notice.
“Yup, got exactly what I wanted. Thank you, ma’am.” His hand came down to rest at the top of your head and gave it a slow, condescending pat, ruffling the wreck of your hair worse than it already was. “I’m a terrible man. You’re welcome to stay here while I go be one somewhere else.”
He made himself step back and snagged his pen off the table, the badge, the small armor of the job clipping back into place piece-by-piece. The whole time his eyes kept catching on you, sprawled and rumpled where he’d set you down, looking up at him like the night had gone exactly where it was supposed to. He’d seen this room a thousand nights. He’d never once not wanted to leave it.
“Mm. Gotta go home. S’almost three,” you mumbled. “And you get off at seven.”
“I do.”
“So.” You pushed yourself off the cushion, slow, gathering your hair back off your face and pushing up your strap, putting yourself back together piece by piece the same way he was, the night closing in on both ends. “I’ll go and let you be a doctor. You’ve been very neglectful.”
“Don’t I know it,” he muttered. He watched you reach for your textbook, your highlighter, the flashcards, and sweep it all back into your bag, feeling the small stupid pull of not wanting the room to empty out.
He stepped in before you finished, catching your jaw, tilting your face up to kiss you once more. You went still under it, the bag forgotten halfway zipped, your hand coming up to rest light on his chest. He pulled back an inch to look at you.
“Text me when you get home,” he said, thumb dragging along your jaw.
You chuckled, brows pulling in. “It’s a ten minute drive.”
“Text me. Humor an old man, since I’m so terrible to you already.”
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