Description: You’ve been secretly losing your mind over Dr. Abbot for months. One slip on ice later, and your giant crush on the night attending becomes everyone’s business thanks to a concussion and a mouth that won’t stop calling him gorgeous.
or, Cristina Yang slips and gets saved by Owen Hunt in uniform, but make it The Pitt ✨
Tags/Warnings: Nurse!reader, you're so down bad for him, descriptions of a concussion and a mild icicle injury to the stomach, suggestive comments, banter and flirty Abbot.
Note: Once again a Grey's anatomy inspired fic lol. I had a lot of fun writing this one, enjoy!
Masterlist
You are so gorgeous it makes me so mad,
You make me so happy, it turns back to sad
Jack Abbot is ruining your life, and he doesn’t even know.
He goes to work every day completely unaware that somewhere across the hospital, you, a licensed, very mature and very competent nurse, is being driven insane by the simple fact that he exists. And quite frankly, you hate him for that.
Because he’s kind and smart. Annoyingly smart. Calm in a crisis, quick on his feet, always three steps ahead, always knowing exactly what to do. Patients love him. Nurses love him. Residents love him. Dr. Robby loves him. You lo–no, no you don’t.
And to make matters worse, he just had to be gorgeous too.
That salt and pepper thing he has going on? Unfair. The way he shows up wearing those black shirts out of nowhere? Mega unfair. The way he holds eye contact while expecting you to focus on doing your job? Sick and twisted, actually. And don’t even get started on his hands. Or his voice. Or his bedside manner. Or his…everything.
It’s infuriating.
He’s the kind of gorgeous that has you staring at a particular spot on the floor for too long, in the loneliness of your apartment, when you remember the way he said ‘Good night, you did a good job today,’ during shift handover. Because the worst part, the absolute worst part, is that you barely get to see him. Your lives only overlap in scraps that mean nothing and everything to you.
You’re a day nurse, he’s a night attending. That’s your 13th reason.
No, actually, you know what it is? I know you do. We’re all thinking the same thing here.
That uniform.
That stupid, cursed, virtue ruining SWAT uniform that makes you forget you’re a professional. A professional who has, on more than one occasion, had to physically remove herself from the nurse station and hide by the stairwell to look at the lava lamp video Dr. King so kindly shared with you, because Dr. Jack Abbot walked in wearing camo, and the devil on your shoulder told you to jump him and bite those biceps.
So yes, without being dramatic or anything, he is ruining your life.
By being hot. By being kind. By being good at everything he does. By flashing you those little smiles when your shifts overlap, when he has no idea what they do to you…or maybe he does. Because he always requests your help when he comes in during the day, like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t send you straight into the land delusion for the rest of your shift.
You tell yourself it’s because you’re a good nurse, despite it all. Princess says it’s because he likes you.
But Princess is insane. Maybe as deluded as you are, to be honest.
And having a silly work crush was fun at first, but it’s not fun anymore when all you do is wait for those tiny moments. When 7 p.m. has become your favorite and least favorite time of day. When you catch yourself smoothing down your scrub top before shift change, just in case. When you know the sound of his voice from three trauma bays over. When you start wondering whether switching to nights only for him would be that crazy after all.
All while Jack remains oblivious to the fact that he is the reason you’re stepping outside the ambulance bay at 6:30pm on a freezing Friday evening, completely exhausted, yet still hopeful enough to be the first one he says hello to on your last break.
You sigh as you lean on the brick wall near the entrance, tucking your hands deeper into your jacket’s pockets looking at nothing in particular. The snow has been shoveled away from the ambulances path, but there’s still a few patches of ice glistening on the asphalt.
“There you are,” a voice behind you makes you startle. You turn around slightly, finding Princess walking to you with a knowing smile. “You’re gonna freeze yourself out here.”
“I’m just excited it’s Friday,” you say, but there’s no actual enthusiasm in your voice. “Can’t wait to get out of here.”
“Ohhh, you got big exciting plans for the weekend?” She wiggles her brows, nudging you with her elbow. “Someone to warm you up?” That makes you snort, shaking your head and nudging her back.
“I wish. It’s just me and my couch…and my dog.”
“Alone?”
“Alone.”
“That bad,” she teases, but you know there’s no malice in it. “Tragic,” she sighs, before perking up just as quickly. “Me however…”
“Oh the firefighter?” You chuckle, watching a stupid little grin spread over her face. “You’re seeing him tonight?”
“Third date,” she sing songs. “You know what that means.”
“Hmm. Bunch of cardio.”
“It keeps me healthy,” she shrugs, beaming. “If you don’t hear from me tomorrow, assume I died happy.”
You both start giggling, and you feel genuinely happy that at least your best friend is getting wrecked by a man in uniform. Not that you have imagined something like that. Actually, you’ve imagined a lot of things. Some more HR friendly than others. You let out a sigh without noticing, and Princess bumps your shoulder this time.
“See, that little pathetic sigh is why you need to do something about your little situation,” she starts.
“What little situation?” You don’t even turn to her, but you know she’s glaring at you. “What?” you say again.
“Oh I don’t know, maybe the one with the silver fox attending you’re into.”
“Princess!”
“What? Honey you’re already halfway through a shift switch petition.”
“So what? It has nothing to do with Dr. Abbot,” you snap, but realize your mistake as soon as the words leave your mouth.
“I never said Dr. Abbot,” she drawls.
You groan and look away as heat crawls up your face. At least it brings comfort against the unforgiving winter air.
“It’s not like that. I just think the change of pace could be interesting,” you excuse yourself, very poorly.
“Uh-huh. You just wanna stare at him more often,” she says, less teasing than you expected. “Have you ever thought he might like seeing you more often too?”
The sole idea of it makes you snort. “Yeah, sure.”
“I am serious, girl. I really think he likes you,” she reassures.
“No, he doesn’t,” you shake your head.
“He always asks for you.”
“Because I’m good at my job.”
“I’m good too, but he smiles at you differently.”
“Princess,” you warn, because living in delulu land has done nothing for you these past months. “Stop.”
“I’m just saying,” she shrugs with a little smile. “One day you’re gonna have to admit that man is ruining your life.”
Oh he is. And you know it very well.
“Yeah yeah, call it whatever you want. Now let’s go back inside before we freeze to death and Dana kills us for dying,” you chuckle despite yourself, making her laugh in agreement.
You turn toward the doors, a little disappointed to not have spotted the subject of your discussion yet, but you don’t have much time to mourn when your shoe skids on a thin layer of ice you didn't see, sending you flying back in a matter of seconds. Princess almost slipped too trying to catch you, but your head hit the pavement before she could.
For a second you only see the blurry lights of the ambulance bay, and a few glistening icicles lined above you. And because life loves you, when your vision manages to focus more, you catch the horrifying moment when one of the icicles breaks from the roof and falls straight into the side of your stomach. The impact makes you groan, Princess gasps and covers her mouth with both hands.
“Ouch…” you wince, trying to lift yourself up to see the damage but your head feels too heavy.
“Ohmygod, ohmygod,” she panics, kneeling next to you and slapping your hand away when you reach for it. “No, no. Don’t touch it! Hey–are you…are you okay?”
You barely lift your head, only to stare blankly at her, not exactly sure why you’re on the floor. She expects you to curse, cry or scream at her. Anything. But all you do is giggle in response, completely out of it. She looks like she has two faces, and stars around her.
Red flag.
“Alright, alright, don’t move Cristina Yang. I’m getting you help, just wait for me babe,” she says, already getting up and running inside.
“Nooo, don’t gooo,” you say softly, but it sounds more like you’re amused than an actual cry for help. “Help…” you whisper, chuckling at how funny you sound.
You lie there, on your back in the ambulance bay, wondering if this is what rock bottom looks like. Attacked by an icicle after daydreaming of the hospital’s McSteamy, like you’re part of some medical drama.
You giggle again.
Yup. That can't be good.
You hear loud footsteps approaching you, but they’re not coming from the direction Princess took. You yelp when a face hovers over you, upside down from your perspective, and that face is none other than the one you’ve had at least a thousand inappropriate fantasies about.
“Well, what do we have here?” He drawls, tilting his head when he sees the icicle and the little patch of blood around it staining your grey scrubs. The amusement goes away in an instant.
He drops to one knee beside you, lifting your head a little to check for any blood under, but your hair is only wet from the leftover snow on the asphalt, making him exhale in relief. His hands hover near the icicle without touching it. It’s only when he’s closer that you notice he’s not in scrubs, but in his god forsaken SWAT uniform, no vest.
You can’t really find yourself to complain in your hazed state.
“Oh no…” you gasp softly, in a failed attempt to hide your sudden giddiness. He already looks like he has little pink hearts floating around his head.
“Hey, hey it’s okay,” he coos, oblivious. “Can you tell me what your name is?”
“Of course I know my name, silly,” you snort, proudly reciting your full government name. He bites back a smile at the jab, nodding.
“That’s good. Do you know what day?”
“...Wednesday?” You narrow your eyes, he just shakes his head softly.
“Already went through that one this week. Come here.”
He slides one arm under your shoulders, the other carefully under your knees, making sure he doesn’t bend your abdomen too much as he hauls you up with a groan. Your brain blocks the pain and decides this is the funniest thing in the world, giggling into his long sleeve camo shirt as he stands. Once he’s got you in his arms, with his face close enough to hurt more than the piece of ice inside you, he grins at you.
“What about my name?” He asks playfully. You huff in offense.
“Oh Dr. Abbot. You’re a hard one to forget,” you sigh dreamily, drawing circles on his chest. “With that face…and those eyes…and that uniform clinging to that bod–“
“Okay, honey. That’s a concussion speaking for you,” he cuts you off with a chuckle, telling himself the blush on his cheeks is due to the cold. “I’m gonna get you inside, alright? We’re gonna keep your new friend exactly where it is until it's safe to take it out.”
If your head wasn’t in wonderland right now, you would’ve probably coded over the fact that he just called you honey.
“Mmm. Whatever you say, doc,” you hum, resting your head on his chest. He can’t fight the smile this time.
“You day shift girls really know how to make an exit…” He mumbles fondly with a shake of his head, making his way back inside. The glass doors slide open, and Princess nearly collides with him, her sneakers coming to a stop in front of him.
“Dr. Abbot! There you are,” she yelps. “We were just talking and she slipped, and then BAM, an icicle! So I went to get you, of course. Or any doctor–actually, no, preferably you. She definitely prefers you–”
“I got her, Princess,” Jack snickers without breaking stride, carrying you in his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You barely lift your head to grin at her, and manage to point at the man carrying you while mouthing an ‘oh my god’ to Princess. She nods just as giddy, turning away so Jack doesn’t see her expression.
The chilly air gets replaced by the warmth and noise of the ED, all heads turning in your direction when he strides in, suddenly turning into the most interesting thing happening on that floor. That’s on you for giving them the material anyways. Jack Abbot, in full camo, carrying a giggling, icicle stabbed day nurse? It’s free real estate!
“Oh shit, is that an icicle??” Dr. Santos calls from the charting station, propping herself up over the desk to get a better look. “Can I go in there, Dr. Abbot? Please tell me I can go in there.”
“You’re off the clock, Santos. Go home,” he says, ignoring the way she mutters something under her breath as she turns back to the computer. “Lena, what’s free?”
“Trauma two,” Lena replies, eyes widening when she sees the thing sticking out of your stomach. She stands up from her swivel chair to trail after you into the room. “What the hell happened?"
“Winter hates me…” you say with a little laugh, before falling back into Jack’s chest. “Or maybe it did me a favor…” you mutter under your breath, making Princess and Lena exchange a knowing look.
Jack sets you down so, so gently on the bed that you fight the urge to kick your feet at the contrast of his rough hands adjusting your body delicately. Princess is already hooking you up to monitors you can’t really manage to read right now.
“Winter assault indeed,” Jack chuckles, popping on a pair of gloves as he analyzes your injury from multiple angles. “Penetrating trauma, left lateral abdomen. Looks superficial, but I want imaging before I yank this thing. Can you page Dr. Shen for me? This has his name written all over it.”
“Are you sure you want Shen here?” Lena raises an eyebrow, cutting your scrubs open with some scissors, as Jack briefly checks your pupils with a penlight.
“Oh, he’ll be offended if I don’t call him for an icicle,” he says, pocketing the penlight. “Mild concussion, no need for a CT.”
“Alright,” Lena says, putting down the scissors and patting your leg in reassurance before she leaves. “How are you doing, kid?”
“Booored,” you sing, trying to lift your body up but your head swims and your abdomen screams in pain before you can. “Ow ow–”
“Hey, hey. Easy,” Jack says, pushing you gently back onto the bed. “Stay still for me, alright?”
“Just get it out already!”
Jack catches your wrist just before you can grab the icicle piercing your side. “Uh-uh, what did I say?” he scolds. “We’re not doing an extraction yet.”
You groan in frustration, unaware of the way Princess and Jack exchange looks.
“What do we have?” Dr. Shen asks from the entrance, iced coffee in one hand as he walks to his rightful place beside Abbot. He tilts his head at you and your stupid icicle, and whistles. “Wow. I don’t wanna see the other guy.”
“Don’t worry, John. Dr. Abbot saved me,” you huff out a weak laugh.
“Of course he did,” Shen glances between the two of you, amused. “Our noble SWAT doc.”
Jack keeps his gaze on you with that maddening smirk, only breaking eye contact when Princess lets him know the XR tech is there. People start moving around you, and by this point you start to feel everything catching up to you because things don’t seem so funny anymore. You feel so tired all you want is to go to sleep. You try to fight it by blinking at the ceiling, trying to count the lights but failing very quickly.
Jack is suddenly by your head, one hand braced on the bed near your shoulder, closely monitoring the process.
“Hold your breath,” he whispers, way too close to your ear. “Just for a few seconds. You’ve seen a hundred patients do this, right?”
“Have I?” You try to joke, but you sound more drowsy than amused to him.
That makes him frown and straighten up to check your pupils again. “Maybe you do need that CT...”
You squint at the intrusive light, trying to push his hand away but the tech mumbles not to move. “Stop with that–I’m okay, just let me take a nap here…” you say, already closing your eyes.
“No, no. Eyes open,” Jack orders, snapping his fingers in your face to keep you awake. “Stay with me, trouble.”
Your lashes feel heavy but you manage to drag your gaze up to his. It’s easier than trying to focus on anything else anyways. You feel the XR ray tech pulling away and leaving the room.
“You’re gonna be fine,” Jack tells you, so serious that you’d debate if he’d just picked you up from a dumb fall or if he'd saved you from a building engulfed in fire. “We’re gonna patch you up, and maybe get you a few days off. Milk this for all the sick time you can get. Okay?”
You nod, managing a small tired smile. He’s leaning over you now, allowing you to admire his face from up close. His beautiful hazel eyes, his jaw dusted with stubble, the salt in his hair shining under the harsh lights. You can even see the little lines at the corners of his eyes.
That’s when the single neuron left in your brain produces a thought. And you should definitely not say the thought.
You absolutely say the thought.
“Dr. Abbot, you’re so gorgeous,” you announce, loud and clear.
The entire room freezes. Jack feels heat go up to his cheeks. Shen’s eyebrows go up as he sips loudly from his straw, and Princess, who was in the corner pretending to look busy with the vitals machine, bites her lip to stifle a laugh.
“I–“ Jack starts, then stops. Why’s he getting so flustered? “Once again, concussion talking,” he clears his throat, looking around him.
“But I mean it,” you insist, fighting the urge to close your eyes out of pure spite. “Look at your face.”
Jack’s mouth twitches, trying very hard not to smile. Princess is just fighting the urge to pull her phone out and film the whole thing.
“And your stupid SWAT uniform,” you continue, groaning dramatically. “Out of all days you had to wear it today. Ugh. You’re so–you’re so gorgeous it makes me so mad.”
Jack decides this is the perfect moment to turn to the computer in the room, for “charting purposes” but completely forgets the part where he has to tap his ID on it and just stares at the hospital’s logo on the screen.
“Right back at you, sweetheart,” he mumbles under his breath.
Shen and Princess exchange the most dramatic side eye in the history of side eyes and then both simultaneously pretend they heard nothing.
“Abdomen films are back,” a nurse entering the room says, offering an iPad to Jack.
He takes the tablet, shoulders dropping as he scans the images. “Good news! Our icicle is more dramatic than dangerous. No organ involvement. Superficial muscle at most.”
“Boring,” Shen mumbles, chuckling when Princess glares at him.
“We’ll do it here,” Jack decides, handing the iPad back. “Local and a quick pull. Shen, wanna do the honors?”
“I’ll just watch,” Shen shrugs, placing his iced coffee on a table nearby in case he’s needed. “Wouldn't miss it for the world.”
“Okay, little pinch,” Princess warns you. You take a breath as the needle goes in, your hand flies up instinctively, but Jack catches it and redirects it to grip his forearm instead.
His muscles feel solid under your fingers, and this feels like information you should not have in this condition. You squeeze your eyes shut, because if he keeps looking at you like that–
“You’re doing great,” he reassures. His voice is so close, so warm and so low and SO UNFAIR.
You crack one eye open, and immediately regret it. It’s the light brown eyes with little green flecks for you.
“God, that hurts,” you whisper. Not a single sane thought behind your eyes anymore.
“The icicle?” he asks, ready to order more anesthesia.
“No,” you say, a little breathless. “Your face.”
Princess makes a weird strangled noise next to you. Jack actually laughs this time.
“That’s a new one,” Shen says.
“Alright,” Jack smiles at you. “Before you say anything else that’s gonna end up in the groupchat, let’s get this thing out.”
He positions himself above you, one hand pressing your hip to stabilize you, the other wrapping around the base of the icicle, careful not to push it in further.
“Deep breath in. I’m gonna count to three, okay?” he says. You do as you’re told, trying to avoid his gaze. “One–keep looking at me. Two–“
And then, still keeping that steady eye contact, he pulls. The icicle slides out in one slick motion, leaving behind a sharp sting that makes you squeak.
“You took my icicle out before three!” you gasp, scandalized. “That’s not nice!”
“We’ll get you another one next Christmas,” Jack chuckles, tossing the thing into a tray as Shen presses gauze firmly to your side.
“You did amazing,” Princess tells you earnestly, running her hand through your arm. “That was so cool. I mean–not cool that you got stabbed, cool that you–uh never mind. You’re very brave, babe.”
“Best story at the nurse’s station,” you smile at her, throwing up a peace sign.
“Easy there, Winter Soldier. Best story in the group chat, at best.” Shen says, managing a little snort from you.
“Oh the group chat will hear about this,” Princess adds.
Jack shakes his head, but there’s fondness in his features as he strips off his gloves. “Okay, here’s the plan. Observation overnight for the concussion, pain meds for the side, no lifting, no heavy shifts for a few days. And no more confessions, alright?” He smiles down at you, winking playfully. “You’re gonna be okay.”
You stare at him again, taking in his stupid perfect face, his stupid perfect hands, his stupid heroic camo long sleeve.
No, you’re so not going to be okay.
You open your eyes and immediately regret it. Your head pounds, there’s harsh white lights shining down on you, and the familiar ED noise coming from outside the room doesn’t help.
What on earth happened?
You try to push yourself up on your elbows, but the moment your head lifts from the pillow, your body says Not today.
“Shit,” you groan, dropping back down with a wince, squeezing your eyes shut.
“Easy there.”
That voice alone is enough to almost make you forget about the headache and the strange sting in your abdomen. You open your eyes and squint at the doorway, where none other than Dr.Jack Abbot is standing, wearing a black shirt and scrubs pants.
There he is. The bane of your existence and the object of all your desires.
He looks maddeningly calm for someone who exists just to personally ruin your peace. He pushes off the doorframe and walks in with a smug little grin. You stare at him, mind completely blank as he stops beside a little table and offers you a cup of water with a straw.
“Here. Small sips,” he says, gently helping you sit up. And when he uses that voice? All you can do is mindlessly do what he says.
“Thanks, Dr. Abbot,” you rasp, clearing your throat after drinking some water. “So…what happened?”
Jack stares at you for a moment, debating if there’s a chance you’re messing with him, but you seem genuinely confused. It’s normal after a hit like that, so he just huffs a little laugh and explains.
“You were outside the ambulance bay with Princess and slipped on ice. You hit your head, and then got stabbed in the side by an icicle.”
…???
“An…icicle?” You ask in complete disbelief, he nods amused. “Like in Grey’s??”
“Ehh–you’re gonna have to ask that to Princess,” he chuckles. “I wish I was joking, but there’s nothing to worry about, it was superficial. Imaging was normal, Princess numbed you up and I pulled it out. You’re a little bruised and concussed, but otherwise intact. Robby’s gonna have to give you a few days off, though.”
“Oh my God,” you sigh, leaning back into the pillow dragging your hands over your face. “Out of all the ways I could’ve gone down in hospital lore…”
“Tell me about it,” he mumbles, biting back a smile.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” he says, a little too quickly for your liking, then steps closer. “I just want to check you again before I let you keep hating yourself in peace.”
Before you can ask what that means, he moves to the side of the bed and leans over you, making your entire nervous system short circuit as he removes your hands from your face.
“Wow–” you breathe, shrinking back into the pillow on instinct. Being this close should be illegal for this man. “What are you doing, Dr. Abbot?”
“Shhh,” he mutters, “just checking on you. You hit your head pretty hard.”
His hand comes up, careful fingers tilting your chin slightly. His thumb brushes near your cheekbone as he angles your face toward the penlight and scans your pupils. Your heart starts beating in places it absolutely should not be beating.
Guess the butterflies are flying very low today.
He finishes the exam, but he doesn’t move back. Instead, he shifts just enough to brace one hand on the wall above your head, still leaning over you, caging you into the mattress in a way that feels anything but accidental. This is not helping your concussion, if anything, it’s making it substantially worse.
Your breath hitches, and because your mouth clearly exists to betray you in his presence, you blurt out, “God, that hurts.”
“What hurts?” He asks, tilting his head.
The words are right there. Your face. Your stupid gorgeous face.
“My head,” you say instead. Good girl…or not? Because something you can’t quite point out flashes in his eyes.
“Mmm, well, for what it’s worth…” he says–did his eyes just flicker to your lips??? “I think you’re gorgeous too.”
5@$%)#&
Everything inside you stops. Your face goes hot so fast it feels like your head is about to combust. For one unhinged second you wonder if you’ve blacked out again and this is some kind of fever dream created by your useless brain.
“Did…I said that out loud?” You ask weakly and cover your face again with your hands, creating a barrier between you and the predator above you.
“You really don’t remember, do you?”
“Oh no…” You whine. This is it, this is how you leave this earth.
“Oh no?” He laughs.
“Oh no,” you repeat miserably, peeking at him through your fingers. “What did I say, Dr. Abbot?”
“...Enough,” he says, maddeningly vague. He straightens at last, mercifully putting a little distance between you and your impending death by humiliation. “More than enough, actually.”
“Dr. Abbot,” you insist, more serious now. “What did I say?”
“Mmm, not a chance,” he crosses his arms over his chest. Okay now he's just being unfair.
“Please.”
“Uh-uh.”
“Jack.” That slips out before you can stop it.
His eyebrows rise in amusement, but he clears his throat before turning to check your chart on the computer, like the conversation that just derailed your life didn’t even happen.
“You slept almost through the whole night shift, it looks like you’ll be discharged in a few hours. All the scans were clean but you’ll need someone to stay with you today, though. Hospital policy after a concussion.”
You let out a sigh, looking at your hands over your lap. He turns back to you, a worried look on his face.
“What?”
“I uh–don’t have anyone to call,” you say, trying to sound casual and failing a little. “Princess is probably with the firefighter, so I guess it's just me and…my dog.”
He hums, tucking both hands into his pants pockets, and rocks back a little on his heels as if contemplating something.
“Good thing I’ll be out in a few hours too, then,” he says, casual, too casual.
“…What?” You let out a weak laugh.
“I’m taking you home,” he shrugs, like it’s not a big deal. “Pets are great emotionally, less useful for neuro observation, so I’m making sure you don’t pass out unsupervised.”
“Dr. Abbot–”
“Jack,” he corrects.
“Jack,” you try again, weaker now. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know…trust me, I want to.” He says it so…certain, with a softer voice that makes you melt onto the mattress. “Try to rest for a bit, drink your water and don’t try to escape. I’ll come get you when your paperwork’s done,” he points a finger at you, half turning to the door. “Just wait for me, gorgeous, okay?”
Jack waits for you to say something, but all you can do is nod slowly, because speech has abandoned you entirely. He gives you one more devastating smile, before stepping out, leaving you wishing you could turn over so you could scream into your pillow. You finally let out the breath you were holding, and very carefully reached for your phone on the little rolling table beside the bed.
There are at least a dozen messages from Princess with a few voice notes. You stare at the screen in horror, and from what you can briefly read without actually opening her chat, you really fucked up last night.
That explains the look on his face. That explains everything.
And still, *wiggles eyebrows*, he is taking you home. Apparently. So, because there is truly no helping you, you can’t help but smile.
Girl whatever.
If Jack Abbot wants to ruin your life, he can go right ahead.
Thank you so much for reading, feedback is always appreciated 🤍✨
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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 doctors.
tags/warnings age gap (mid 20s / mid 40s), workplace romance, slow burn, flirty/tension, hospital setting+legal stuff, bar night, darts + betting, drinking, r. smokes, nicknames, “pinkie pie”, girly/femme reader (skirts, heels, pink everything), dorky/amy santiago energy/she loves pens? u suck at darts sorry x i do too
wc 9.2k words (?? wtf?? it goes by quickly tho)
could read as stand alone, part one (linger) here, part two (strawberry) here, part three (optics) here, part five (orbit), part six (observations) here
“Hey, Pinkie Pie,” Santos says, like it’s your legal name. “Wanna get wasted?”
You blink at her. Once. “I—sorry?”
Behind you, your colleagues, Jane and Charles—composed, senior, deeply invested in whatever clause they were dissecting—look up in quiet, collective confusion. Lovely people. Truly. Also deeply, fundamentally not built for whatever this is.
And, unfortunately, you are, in fact, the Pinkie Pie in question.
You’d gotten to become friends with Trinity Santos in your time there. Turns out, her somewhat lacking bedside manners invited a good amount of legal threats.
“What do you mean you told a guy you’d put his IV up his ass if he asked for a lemonade again?!”
“You weren’t there.”
“He’s trying to sue for ten grand.”
“...I stand by it.”
Santos was a good amount different to you, a bit rougher around the edges, but well-meaning at her core. She’d thrown around many nicknames for you. That has unfortunately also spread around the ER now.
One time, Robby called you Princess Bubblegum. You didn’t know he even knew who that was.
Another time, Langdon threw around Kirby. That made Mel snicker every time.
McKay loved calling you Lotso when you weren’t in a great mood. “Get it? You’re pink, and soft, but you can also be scary. You’ve seen Toy Story 3, right? That’s Harrison’s favourite. I raised a kid with taste, honestly.” McKay explained once.
Jack was nice enough to hold back from nicknames like that. Well, you didn’t think he knew of them, and you were happy to keep it that way.
You stand from your desk, giving lovely Jane and Charles a polite nod as you quickly walk out into the hallway with Santos, gently closing the door behind you.
Santos gives you a look.
You’re dressed particularly formal today, black fitted dress with black tights, and minimal jewellery, your hair done well, black stilettos.
“What’s with you?” She wonders. “Hot date? Funeral?
“What? No,” You say like it’s ridiculous. “Court.”
“Ah, troublemaker.”
“I’m… I’m a lawyer, you know this.” You remind, confused.
“Yeah, I’m messing with you,” she rolls her eyes. “Though you are severely lacking in pink. This is weird. I don’t recognise you. You okay? Want me to book you for a neuro CT? Purely recreational. Discounted.”
You had also received a comment from, shockingly, Jane, in the morning before going into court. “I kind of miss the pink, but the black is a good choice. Makes you look more serious.” She’d said, casually.
You move on quickly. “What were you saying? Drinks?”
“Right.” Santos rolls her eyes like you’ve personally disappointed her. “Wasted. Bar. Drinks. People. You. There. Tonight.”
“Right. Yeah. That—sounds good.” A beat. “Who else is going?”
“Most of day and some night shift,” she shrugs. “You’ll know ’em. Nobody you haven’t worked with.” Then, with a look—“Pretty sure your boyfriend’ll be there.”
You press your tongue into your cheek, giving her a flat look.
“You know,” she goes on, enjoying herself now. “Old. Bit short. Not that charming, really.”
You don’t even dignify that with a proper response.
“Honestly,” she adds, “reminds me of my grandad.”
“Mm,” you hum. “Very funny. Time and place?”
“Tom’s. Down the road. Can’t miss it.” She jerks her chin. “Anytime after seven. Show up, don’t show up—I don’t care.” Then she nods past you, to your office. “What’s with the suits in there? They wanna join?”
“They have families to get back to,” you say, a little defensive despite yourself. “And normal sleep schedules.”
“Boring,” Santos grins. “...You alright? You seem wound up.”
“I’m fine. Long day.” You answer. “Court is a bitch.”
“That’s what I say about my ex-girlfriend, Courtney,” Santos agrees. “See you there, Kirby.” She shoves your shoulder lightly on the way out like that settles it.
You turn slightly, watching her go. “…That’s it?”
“Oh—and a pay rise!” she calls over her shoulder.
You sigh. “Not how it works—”
But she’s already gone.
You stand there for a second, caught between fluorescent quiet and whatever she just presented into your night.
You’ve been here a few months now—long enough that it’s stopped feeling like something to prove and started feeling like something you just do. The edges have worn down.
The language, the hospital, these staff, there’s a rhythm to it now. Contracts, consults, reviewing medical records, internal investigations, employment agreements, do it all over again. And you find as the sun goes down and your colleagues leave the office, it gets quieter, lonelier — it’s an inevitable drift for you to go to the ED.
You tell yourself it’s balanced, but with how you can’t help the preference you held for the night hours. You did try to rationalise it, but gave up after a while. You were well suited to the night shift curfew.
And no shit, it came down to the night shift attending.
You couldn’t really help it—liking him, enjoying him, letting yourself fall into the ease of it. Not when he was… like that.
The Winnipeg case, a five-point-seven million dollar suit against the ED, doesn’t blow up the way it threatens to.
For a while, it looks like it might—demand letter aggressive, numbers inflated enough to make everyone sit a little straighter in meetings. You’re pulled in early, mostly to observe at first, notebook open, listening as your seniors map out exposure and strategy.
It never makes it anywhere near court.
Negotiations take over. Back-and-forth. Offers shaved down, reframed, pushed again. You sit in on most of it, watch the way language shifts depending on who’s in the room.
It settles. Not five-point-seven million. Not even close. A quiet resolution. No admission of liability. Just enough money to make it disappear without anyone having to say they were wrong.
The kind of ending hospitals prefer.
You told Jack as soon as you could leave the meeting and settle down in the ED, like it’s nothing.
Set up at the nurses’ station like you belong there—files spread, laptop open. The ER moves around you in that constant, controlled chaos, but you’ve stopped noticing it as anything more than background, annotating a contract, pen’s ink running dry as you write and finish explaining it.
“They take your approach?” Jack had asked.
He’s leaned against the counter, forearms braced, looking down at you like you’re something he’s still working out. You wore a soft pink skirt that night—something that moves when you do, matches your nails, even your water bottle, the quiet consistency of you.
You nod, a little pleased despite yourself, turning your pen between your fingers. “More or less. I wanted a full dismissal, but…” you shrug, glancing up, “settlement’s better than nothing. No court, at least.”
Jack hums, but he’s not really listening to the words anymore. His eyes drift over you—brief, but not unintentional.
“You in court…” he starts, almost to himself. “God, don’t tell me you wear those shoes as well.”
Your mouth tips into a smile as you glance down at them, a relatively sane four inch wedge heel.
“Oh, I’ve worn worse,” you admit.
He huffs, sceptical. “You’re kidding.”
You shake your head, tapping your pen against the paper. “Eight inch corset heels once. They took me more seriously the taller I was, it was my first year out of law school. You know, I knew a girl who showed up in full on pleasers once.”
He frowns. “In what?”
You look up at him, deadpan. “Stripper heels.”
There’s a beat. Then—
“…Right,” he nods slowly, recalibrating.
You bite back a laugh, ducking your head slightly. “I don’t dress like this for court, though. Judges like presentation.”
“Well, judges like pretty girls,” he says.
It’s casual, and you still, smiling a bit. You tilt your head up at him, pen pausing mid-spin between your fingers. “Aw, you think I’m pretty?”
“Think you’re the prettiest damn thing in this ER,” He says, voice low.
You held his gaze for a second too long, something quieter threading through the space between you. Then you look down, like you’ve decided not to touch that.
Your pen taps back against the page. “Presentation is half the argument in court. That’s my theory, anyway.”
“Mm,” he hums, not disagreeing.
He pushes off the counter then, glancing up at the board. The moment shifts, but not completely—something of it lingers, low and steady.
“Alright,” he says. “I gotta make sure none of my residents are killing anyone.”
You nod, already back in your notes, but there’s a faint smile still there. “Have fun.”
He’s already halfway across the floor, but you catch the quiet chuckle he doesn’t bother hiding. And, annoyingly, you feel it linger longer than it should.
Every once and a while he throws a flirt like that out and you can’t tell if he’s just teasing you or being earnest. You think he just likes making you nervous, and it works.
It doesn’t help.
He leaves himself exits—always does—but he never seems in a rush to take them. And there’s something about the way he watches you after, like he’s waiting. Curious, maybe. Measuring.
He likes when you throw something back. Likes when you don’t and you flush under his gaze. A cadence builds out of it. Not in the obvious moments, but in the quieter ones.
The way your day keeps ending in his car, like it’s not even a decision anymore. Like of course he’d drive you home. Like of course you’d let him. You always do.
It gets easy enough that he starts asking questions like—
“You prefer mint or pine?”
You look up from the nurses’ station, watching him click through charts.
“…Pine,” you say. “Mint makes my nose itch. Why?”
“Got a…. This is gonna sound stupid now that I say it out loud — I got a new car scent, thingy,” he sighs. “And I couldn’t decide which one. Didn’t want you to… I don’t know, not like the smell of my car or something.”
“Your car smells fine.” You shrug, fixing your notes, pen ink dying slowly as you adjust. “Smells like a guy’s car.”
“...Right.” He murmurs, now uncaring for his charts. “In- Is that a good thing?”
You don’t answer, humming to yourself as you make the note look pretty.
He knew your coffee order without asking. Remembered it. Adjusted it when it got colder—less ice, a different milk, something warmer pressed into your hands before you even realised you wanted it.
You weren’t supposed to have favourites.
Not in your line of work. Not in his, either. You’re trained out of it—trained to flatten instinct into objectivity, to treat every person, every problem, with the same measured distance.
And you were good at that. You still are.
You got along with everyone—that was part of it. Being friendly with the physicians and staff to better represent them. And there were some of the obvious examples.
Santos with her relentless nicknames and worse bedside manner, who liked you in a way she’d never admit outright.
Parker, easy and sharp, sending you song recommendations mid-shift like it was as essential as charting.
Shen, who trusted you enough to accept whatever experimental caffeine disaster you handed him.
“...You got him a what?” Jack had said, staring at the drink like it might bite.
“It’s called a Dark Vader,” you’d said, completely serious. “Three shots of espresso, cola, condensed milk, whipped cream. Iced.”
Across the floor, Shen moved like a man possessed—fast, erratic, unstoppable.
“The guy’s basically taken twenty lines of coke.” Jack clearly held back a smile, entertained, and nodded. “This is gonna be fun.”
You’d watched Shen nearly clip a trolley at speed, wincing slightly.
Robby, dry and cutting and occasionally kinder than he let himself be.
Mel, still a little wary of you in that specific way people are when they’ve been burned by lawyers before.
Langdon, steady.
The nurses—Lena on nights, Dana on days, Princess and Perlah whispering in Tagalog over charts, Donnie trying to juggle competence with new fatherhood, Jesse, Emma—all of them.
You fit in.
More than that—you were trusted. They came to you before things escalated. You knew how they worked, how they thought, how to protect them without suffocating them in policy. You weren’t just the lawyer they called when something went wrong—you were already there.
That mattered. It meant you couldn’t afford favourites.
And you didn’t, really. You liked them all. In different ways. For different reasons, professional and personal. Lawyers had to keep their wits and stay objective.
But you let it slip here.
Not because of the flirting.
Not because of the rides home, or the coffees that appeared beside your things without announcement.
Not even because of the way he looked at you sometimes—like he was mid-calculation and didn’t like where it landed.
It was the pens.
“No fucking way—”
It bursts out of you before you can stop it, loud and bright and completely out of place at the nurses’ station. Heads turn. You clamp a hand over your mouth, eyes wide.
“Sorry—sorry,” you rush, already laughing under your breath as you look back down.
Because—Jesus.
“Jack,” you lower your voice, but not your awe, “Oh my god, I wanted these so bad.”
They sit in your hands like something ceremonial. Weighty. Intentional. A matched pair—Montegrappa and Visconti—lacquered in soft pinks and florals that catch the fluorescent light in quiet, expensive ways. Not loud, not tacky—delicate.
Accents that mirror the rings you wear, the little details you build yourself out of every morning. The kind of pens you don’t just use—you research and choose.
You turn one between your fingers, thumb brushing over the barrel, feeling the balance of it, the way it settles. You remember the video you watched—how smoothly it glided, how the nib flexed just slightly under pressure, how the ink laid down like silk.
“They’re—” you exhale, shaking your head a little. “The grip on these is insane, the 23k nib—Jack, these are—this is ridiculous.”
Across from you, he’s watching. Not the pens. You. There’s something quieter in his expression than usual—something almost careful, like he’s braced for you to laugh it off, to not get it. But you’re you. Of course you get it. His shoulders ease, just a fraction.
“Yeah,” he says, like it’s nothing. Like it wasn’t deliberate. “I know. You had that… wishlist thing open last week. On your iPad.” A small shrug. “And you talked about them the whole drive back.”
You blink up at him.
He shrugs. “You also said your current ones were running dry. Figured it was time. No problem.”
Time. Like this is practical. Necessary. Like he didn’t just buy you something you absolutely did not need but wanted in that specific way that feels almost worse.
You look back down at them, turning one in your hand again, slower now. The metal catches the light, soft and warm. You didn’t even know they made them in pink.
“I—these are…” you trail, then laugh a little, breathless. “God, I feel bad. I didn’t get you anything.”
That earns you a look. Not annoyed. Not exactly. Just firm. Maybe offended if you didn’t know he was also fond of you, and these pens were evidence of that.
“When have I ever asked for anything in return, sweetheart?”
It lands easy, like it always does. Casual. Practiced.
You swallow, nodding once, softer now. “Thank you. Really.”
Something shifts in his face at that. Small. Satisfied, maybe. Like that was the part he wanted. He nods it off, leaning back against the counter, slipping back into something looser.
“Well,” he adds, glancing at the pens in your hand, “you know, someone’s gotta make sure the hospital lawyer isn’t signing off on contracts with a dying Bic.”
You huff a quiet laugh. “God forbid. Liability nightmare.”
“Exactly.”
There’s a beat where neither of you move. You’re still holding them. He’s still looking at you.
Then—
“Trauma incoming!”
Everything snaps back into place. Noise, movement, urgency flooding in like it never left. Jack straightens instantly, already turning—then pauses mid-step, hand coming up to his chest.
You’re already reaching for it. His stethoscope sits abandoned beside your notebook, exactly where he left it. You pick it up, step forward, and hold it out.
He takes it from you—fingers brushing yours, brief and warm and grounding in a way that feels disproportionate to what it is.
“'m glad you like ‘em,” he says, already moving.
But he lingers just long enough to glance down—at the pens still in your hand, at the way you’re still half-smiling to yourself.
Something unreadable passes over his face. Gone just as quickly.
Then he’s turning, stepping into the chaos, voice shifting into something sharper, more commanding as he calls out orders.
And just like that, he’s back where he belongs.
You stand there a second longer, the noise rising around you, the weight of the pens still settling in your hands. Careful, you think, turning one once more between your fingers.
★★★
Half the ER is here—sprawled across mismatched tables shoved together like an afterthought, drinks sweating through thin napkins, voices stacking over each other until it’s just noise.
Someone’s already laughing too loud at something that wasn’t that funny to begin with. It’s messy, loud, alive in a way the hospital never quite lets itself be.
It’s your first time out with them like this, and they’re… exactly what you’d expect. Tight-knit, loud, a little unhinged. Easier, somehow, without the constant hum of consequence in the background.
You hold onto your messenger bag tight, nonetheless, hoping whatever leftover nerves and pent up frustration from your day in court has run its course.
Your feet ache, somewhat unusual considering how often you find yourself wearing heels, but a full day of court in stilettos has it pinching at your toes in a way that only court does to you. You ignore it. You need to just… relax. People. Drinks. Whatever Santos said.
You make your rounds—names you know, faces you’ve seen across desks and hallways, now loosened by alcohol and time off. It’s… nice. Strange, but nice.
“No pink?” McKay chuckles as she’s sipping a mocktail, Javadi awkwardly by her side with a sprite.
You sigh. God, does everybody just… notice that you like pink? “Nope.”
“You know, if you ever wanted to try medicine, peades has some cute pink scrubs,” McKay tells.
“Noted. How are you finding the updated contract?” You check. “Gloria was up my ass about it.”
“Fuck Gloria,” She scoffs. “Respectfully, of course. The contract's great. Finally get a few days to Harrison or…. Literally anything else. Considering a spa day.”
“It’s well deserved.” You shrug, fidgety. “I’ll send you a link to my favourite spa place in the city. I worked with the firm that represented them, they send me great discounts.”
McKay scoffs a laugh at that, blowing out air and nodding. “That would… be amazing, thanks. Get a drink, relax.”
You smile at her. You wander the bar.
You drift toward the bar, weaving past bodies and noise until it thins just enough to breathe. Mel’s there—perched neatly on a stool, posture a little too precise for a place like this, ginger ale in hand like it’s been deliberately chosen.
“Hi, Mel,” you say, sliding in beside her. “I really like your shirt.”
She glances down at it, like she has to confirm what she’s wearing. A faded Donnie Darko print, soft with age.
“Thank you, Counselor,” she says, a small nod. Then, after a beat—“You know, you’ve helped with my fear of lawyers.”
You blink, a little thrown. “Oh. That’s good. Your deposition didn’t exactly sell us well, I’m guessing.”
“Not at all,” Mel says, matter-of-fact. “You can be very cruel.”
A pause. She registers it, just a fraction late.
“Not you,” she adds, correcting cleanly. “Lawyers. Structurally.”
You huff a quiet laugh, leaning your elbow against the bar. “Yeah. No, that tracks. Sorry you had to deal with the worst version of it.”
She shrugs—acceptance, not dismissal. Then her eyes settle on you properly, scanning once, quick but thorough.
“…No pink?”
You click your tongue, getting a little irritated. Not at Mel, never at Mel, but god, you did wear other colours. Right? “Nope, no pink tonight.”
Mel nods, processing that like new information being filed. “You’re usually quite pink.”
“I am,” you admit. “This is… a deviation. I don’t just wear pink, by the way. I love… red.”
Another small nod. Filed away. “...That’s like… a variation of pink, but yes. Sure.”
The bartender’s a few seats down, mid-conversation with Santos—who’s leaning in, smiling in a way that makes the outcome obvious. You watch as a napkin gets turned, a pen appears.
Mel follows your line of sight, equally observant, if less invested.
“They’re flirting,” she says.
“Mm,” you hum. “She’s winning, too.”
The bartender laughs at something Santos says, already writing something down.
Mel takes a sip of her drink. “Efficient.”
You snort softly. “I’m gonna give it a minute before I try my luck for a drink. Feels like I’d be interrupting a… negotiation.”
Mel considers that. “Yes. That would be disruptive.”
You glance at her, amused. “You okay here?”
“Yes,” she says simply. Then, after a second—“I like observing.”
“That checks out,” you smile. “See you around.”
She nods once, already half-turned back to the room.
You leave her there, steady in the noise, as you slip back into it.
Jack’s at the dartboard when you find him—Robby beside him, both mid-game. He doesn’t notice you at first. Focused. Brows drawn, shoulders set, that same quiet precision he brings to everything.
The dart hits a good few inches off bullseye.
He exhales through his nose—low, annoyed.
Robby claps once. Smug. “Tragic.”
You slide in at the edge of the high-top, nudging aside a couple of their empty bottles with your wrist, settling there like you’ve always been part of it. Jack takes a sip of his beer, still studying the board like it personally offended him.
Then—without looking fully at you—
“Where’s your pink?” Jack says, like that’s the only detail that matters.
“I don’t exclusively wear pink,” you continue, a little more worked up than you meant to be. It’s been all day—comments in corridors, in court, even Charles of all people raising a brow like you’d shown up in costume. “I wear other colours. I have range. I wore yellow once. People loved it.”
“Yeah, but,” he shrugs, shooting you a knowing look, “you’re Pinkie Pie.”
You close your eyes. The nicknames have reached him. You want to dump ice over your head. “Not you too.”
There’s a flicker at the corner of his mouth—gone before it fully forms. He throws again.
Better. Much closer. Close enough that Robby lets out an annoyed huff and rolls his eyes like he’s been personally wronged by the improvement.
“You do wear a lot of pink,” Jack adds, almost as an afterthought, already reaching for another dart.
You open your eyes, fixing him with a look. “So do toddlers. Doesn’t make it a defining personality trait.”
“Hm.”
He adjusts his stance—subtle, practiced. Weight shifting cleanly, compensating without thinking. His right leg plants steady, the movement so natural it only really registers if you’re looking for it—balanced, controlled, deliberate.
He throws again.
Closer still. Not quite there.
Robby scoffs. “Getting warmer, grandpa.”
Jack ignores him completely. His gaze flicks to you instead, quick, assessing—like he’s recalibrating something that has nothing to do with darts.
“Funeral?” he asks, nodding at your outfit.
You glance down at the black. Smooth it once over your thigh. “Court.”
“I can feel the joy from here.”
You glance at him. “Have you ever argued in front of a judge who already hates you?”
He doesn’t even look up. “Every day, sweetheart. Different setting.”
You huff a laugh.
Robby steps up, takes his shot—misses by a fraction and swears under his breath. “I blame the beer.”
“Sure you do,” Jack mutters, already holding out a dart toward you without looking. “You wanna play?”
You take one look at the board, then back at him. “No. I have the coordination of a drunk deer.”
“I’d pay to see that.”
Robby snorts.
And Jack—finally—looks at you properly. Not just the outfit, not just the absence of pink. You. Tired edges, sharp mouth, still buzzing from a day that clearly didn’t go your way.
A minute later, Robby excuses himself—something about another round—leaving without making a thing of it. Like he’s done this before. Like he knows exactly when to disappear.
You and Jack don’t acknowledge it.
“You alright there?” he asks after a second. Quieter now.
You glance down at yourself, smoothing your dress. “Mhm. You?”
He looks at you properly then. Not the quick, clinical scan he gives everyone. Not distracted. This is slower. Intentional. It lingers. “I'm doing a lot better now,” he says.
Your brow lifts, curious. “That so?”
“Mm.”
“You wanna elaborate, or—”
There’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. He shrugs. “Haven’t had enough beers.”
“Right,” you hum.
You glance toward the bar—Robby taking his time, very deliberately not looking over, then immediately looking over when he thinks you won’t notice.
“He left,” you point out.
“He did,” Jack says, following your gaze, then back to you. “Very convenient timing.”
“You think he did that on purpose?”
“Definitely. Guy’s got a sixth sense for when to disappear.”
“Good for him.”
“Bad for me,” Jack mutters.
You catch it. “Oh?”
He takes a sip of his beer—finally—like he needs something to do with his hands. “Means I’m stuck making conversation.”
“You’re doing alright so far.”
“Yeah?” he glances at you. “Thought I was bombing.”
“Mm. Strong start. Called me a children’s cartoon character within thirty seconds.”
He nods. “Some would say Little Pony is a universal cartoon.”
“It’s My Little Pony,” you correct.
“Alright, no one’s taking it from you—”
“No, it’s— that’s the cartoon. It’s called My Little Pony. I watched it as a kid,” you insist, smiling despite yourself. “Generational difference. What’d you watch?”
“Other than the gold rush?” he shoots back. “Scooby Doo.”
You nod, amused. “Great show.”
He throws, stance even and steady.
Dead centre.
A sharp, satisfied clap—more to himself than anything—before he looks back at you.
“Nice hit,” you admit.
“First bullseye all night,” he says, then, like it’s an afterthought—“Why don’t you like court?”
You glance at him.
“Isn’t that kind of the cool part of being a lawyer,” he goes on, casual but not careless. “Chatting up a judge, all the stops.”
You glance at him, exhaling. “I don’t mind court,” you say, after a beat. “I just… don’t love what it means.”
He doesn’t look away from the board. “Go ahead.”
You fold your arms loosely. “It’s like—” you hesitate, searching, then find it in his language instead of yours. “You’ve been nursing a patient all night. Stabilising them. Watching vitals, adjusting, talking to them, keeping things from escalating. Maybe a few dips, but nothing you can’t manage.”
He stills, just slightly.
“You’re not trying to send them to surgery,” you continue. “You only do that if you absolutely have to. If everything else fails.”
A small nod from him. Go on.
“That’s law,” you say. “Or… good law. You negotiate, mediate, settle. You keep things controlled. Court is—” you huff a quiet breath, “—something’s already gone wrong. It’s last resort. It’s expensive and takes up peoples time.”
He considers that.
“Well,” he says, finally. “Fair enough.”
You glance at him. “Thank you.”
“But,” he adds, picking up another dart, “that doesn’t explain why you look like you want to set yourself on fire.”
You laugh under your breath, a little helpless. “Because—” you gesture vaguely at yourself—“the AC was broken. I wore stilettos like an idiot. I couldn’t even wear my favourite colour because I was trying to be taken seriously.”
He glances at your heels, then back up.
“And,” you add, more annoyed now that you’ve started, words picking up pace, “I broke one of the gorgeous pens you got me—like an idiot—I dropped it mid-submission, and it hit the edge of the lectern nib-first. Fully snapped it. Just—” you make a small, defeated gesture with your hand, “—gone. In front of everyone.”
You exhale, shaking your head. “So I had to use one of Jane’s shitty office pens that kept cutting out every three words, like it had a personal vendetta against me. I’m trying to make a coherent argument and it’s just—stop, start, stop—like I’m glitching in real time.”
A breath, then you push on, because now it’s all coming out.
“And the client wouldn’t shut up,” you add, incredulous. “Like she just kept going—interrupting, adding things, contradicting herself—just constant commentary. I swear, people talk so much when it is the worst possible time to talk.”
He throws.
Bullseye. Again.
You scoff, genuinely impressed now. “Okay—what the hell.”
He glances at you, a little smug. “Sweetheart, I think you’re my good luck charm.”
You shake your head, overwhelmed, tired. “I doubt that.”
Then he sets the dart down. Finishes his beer. Decides something, a glint of realisation and mischief. “You broke one of the pens?”
“It was an accident! Stop, I've had such a…” You begin.
Then he steps toward you, it’s close enough that it cuts through the noise in your head. You go quiet without meaning to. He doesn’t crowd you—just enough that you feel him there. Solid. Grounding. His brows raise up at you, a small smile twitching at the edge of his lips.
“Relax,” he says, softer. “Messing with you, kid.”
Your breath catches a little, the proximity doing something unhelpful to your pulse.
“Y’had a long day,” he adds, gentler now, brows lifting slightly as he looks down at you. “Get something to drink. Then I’ll teach you darts.”
There’s a beat where you just look at him. At the steadiness of him. The ease.
The way the day starts to loosen, just slightly.
You press your teeth briefly into your bottom lip, trying to collect yourself. “...Sounds good.”
“Doesn’t it?” he says, already stepping back, like he didn’t just shift the entire axis of your evening.
You exhale, finally.
You needed the night out more than you realised.
It settles into you slowly—the noise first, then the warmth, then the way your shoulders finally start to drop from somewhere near your ears. No one’s watching you the way they do in court. No one’s waiting for you to slip. Here, everything’s louder, messier, allowed to be.
You end up orbiting the dartboard with Jack and Robby, the two of them taking turns trying—badly—to teach you.
“Stop throwing it like that,” Robby tries. “You’re not lobbing a grenade.”
“I don’t know how to throw a grenade,” you shoot back.
“I can tell.”
Jack huffs something like a laugh beside you. “Ignore him.”
You throw. It barely makes it halfway.
There’s a pause.
“Jesus,” Jack mutters.
“I told you,” you say, turning to him with a helpless little lift of your hands. “Drunk deer.”
“I’ve seen better coordination from elderly, blind patients,” he says, already stepping in.
This time, he doesn’t talk you through it from a distance. He closes the space—one hand around your wrist, adjusting your grip, the other settling lightly at your elbow.
“Two fingers on the barrel. Not the tip—you’re choking it. Light grip.”
His hand closes around your fingers, adjusting them, precise. His other hand taps your elbow up slightly.
“Elbow stays up. You’re dropping it. And don’t throw—just extend. Straight line.”
It’s unfair, really—decades of muscle memory, steady hands from years in surgery and chaos. He makes it sound simple.
“Eyes on the triple twenty,” he adds. “Even if you don’t hit it.”
“I’m absolutely not hitting that.”
“Didn’t ask you to.”
His fingers linger a second longer than necessary before he lets go. “Try again.”
You do. It hits the board. Not well—but enough.
You grin. “Oh, I’m incredible.”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” Robby says. “That was luck.”
“Let her have it,” Jack says, already reaching for his own dart—but his eyes flick to you again, quick, assessing, like he’s clocking the way you’re smiling.
It doesn’t stay just the three of you for long.
The game grows.
People drift in. Someone suggests betting—because of course they do—and suddenly there’s a loose ring of doctors and nurses, drinks in hand, money out, rules half-agreed on and immediately ignored.
Parker takes over without asking.
“Alright—ten in,” she says, already collecting. “Closest to bullseye takes the pot. No crying, no technicalities.”
“You’re literally creating technicalities,” McKay mutters, fishing out a twenty.
“That sounds like a you problem.”
You end up on the edge of it, drink in hand, watching the chaos build—Whitaker overthinking every throw, Dana cheering like it’s a contact sport, Santos heckling from the sidelines.
Jack plays like he works — precise, confident and controlled. Robby tapped out when more money started to get involved. Langdon makes it decently far.
Parker? Unfairly good.
The final round tightens—Jack, Parker, Shen, who is visibly riding whatever unholy mix of caffeine and tequila he’s been subjected to.
There’s a loose semicircle now. People leaning in. Money already spent in their heads.
Shen steps up first, wobbling just slightly as he toes the line.
“Don’t rush it,” someone calls.
“Don’t listen to them,” someone else adds.
He throws.
It lands in the inner single—respectable, a few inches off the bull. The crowd gives him a half-cheer, half-pity clap.
Jack steps up next. The noise dips—not fully quiet, but it shifts. People expect something from him.
He plants his stance. One foot just behind the other, balanced. Rolls his shoulder once. Dart held clean between his fingers.
You watch his breathing even out. He squints slightly—
“Wait.”
Immediate groans. Booing.
“Come on, man—”
“Don’t be that guy—”
He ignores all of it, already turning his head, scanning until he finds you.
You’re half-hidden behind Santos, drink in hand, amused.
He points. Crooks his finger.
“You—c’mere. Need you here. C’mon.”
“Absolutely not,” Dana cuts in. “No coaching.”
“As if,” Jack mutters. Then, louder—“She’s my lucky charm. Get over here, Pinkie.”
There’s a ripple of chuckles as you step forward, shaking your head, slipping through the crowd.
“What am I doing?” you ask, stopping beside him.
He leans in just slightly—close enough that no one else catches it.
“You stand there,” he says, low, casual, “and you look pretty like you always do, think you can do that for me?”
You nod, because you don’t trust your voice for a second, a warmth in your chest that has nothing to do with the vodka. He chews slightly at his inner cheek, before clearing his throat. Maybe he doesn’t trust his voice either.
You take your place beside him.
You can feel the attention shift again, curious—not to the board, but to the two of you, the shape of it. He resets. Shoulders looser now. Grip easier.
Throws.
The dart lands just kissing the edge of the inner bull—half in, half out, riding the red wire. It's the best hit yet.
A sharp inhale from the crowd—then clapping, louder this time. A few impressed whistles.
“Fuck off,” someone mutters.
“Lucky,” Robby adds, but there’s a grin there.
Jack exhales through his nose, a flicker of irritation anyway—because it’s not clean. He glances at the board like it personally disappointed him.
Parker steps up last.
Jack’s hand finds your arm without thinking—light at first, then firmer as he shifts you both back, guiding you out of her line. It’s absent-minded, almost automatic, but he doesn’t drop it immediately.
You end up with your back near the edge of a booth, him just in front of you, close enough that you feel the heat of him through the space.
Neither of you comment on it.
Parker doesn’t take long.
No theatrics. No reset.
She barely lines it up—just a quick sight, a small adjustment of her stance—
Throws.
Bullseye.
Clean. Dead centre.
There’s a beat—like the room needs a second to register it—
Then chaos.
“Pay up, bitches!” she grins, already downing a shot as a chorus of groans follows.
McKay digs into her wallet like she’s being personally victimised. “This is financial abuse.”
“You agreed to the terms,” Parker shoots back.
“Under duress!”
Jack hands over a hundred like it offends him on principle.
“Extortion,” he mutters.
“Voluntary participation,” Parker corrects.
“Actually,” Donnie cuts in, pointing vaguely in your direction, “we have legal counsel present. Can she weigh in?”
There’s a shift—heads turning, attention snapping to you with sudden, collective interest.
You blink once. “Oh, no—don’t drag me into this.”
“Too late,” Santos calls. “Lotso, is this legal or not?”
You take a slow sip of your drink, considering them over the rim. “Okay, well, I mean— You’ve all entered into an informal wagering agreement with clear terms and voluntary participation—so yes, it’s enforceable in the sense that none of you can suddenly decide you don’t want to pay.”
A few groans.
“But,” you add, lifting a finger, “depending on jurisdiction, private betting like this could fall into a grey area if someone really wanted to push it. So maybe don’t document it and submit it to administration... Just to entertain the actual legality of it.”
“That feels targeted,” Parker says.
“You’re holding the cash,” you point out.
“Hypothetically,” Shen jumps in, still wired, “if I refuse to pay—”
“Then you’re an asshole,” you cut in lightly. “And also potentially in breach of a verbal contract.”
“Jesus,” McKay mutters. “Remind me to never bet against you.”
“Smart,” you nod.
They break apart into smaller clusters—arguments over scores, money changing hands, Parker being insufferable about it. The noise swells again, but it no longer feels like it’s pressing in on you.
You stay where you are.
Jack doesn’t move either.
You’re both half-leaning against the edge of the table, shoulders almost brushing, angled toward the room but not really part of it anymore. There’s a pocket of quiet between you that doesn’t belong to anyone else.
You feel his warmth before you properly look at him.
When you do, it’s quick—meant to be quick—but it lingers anyway.
White t-shirt, sleeves worn just enough to show where the sun’s caught him unevenly—faint tan line cutting across the top of his bicep. His arms are braced against the table behind him, weight settled back, forearms flexing slightly as his hands hook under the edge. There’s a network of veins there you hadn’t noticed before. Or maybe you had and just hadn’t let yourself look.
Freckles, too—scattered across his skin, inconsistent, easy to miss unless you’re close enough.
You are.
The bar lighting softens everything—warmer, less clinical than the hospital, less sharp. It makes him look… different. Not smaller, not softer, exactly—just more real. Less like someone constantly in motion, constantly needed.
Just a man, standing beside you, breathing easy for once.
“Good to know we’ve got legal oversight for our gambling ring,” he says quietly, not looking at you yet.
You drag your gaze back up, like you weren’t just cataloguing details you shouldn’t be noticing.
“Happy to provide my services,” you murmur, lifting your drink. “My rates are very reasonable.”
“Yeah?” He turns his head then, properly, eyes settling on you. There’s something slower in it now. Less distracted. “What do you charge?”
You tilt your head, considering. “Depends. What’re you offering?”
A flicker—quick, sharp.
He opens his mouth, then shuts it. You watch him hold back, the thoughts going through his mind, one by one before he settles. “How about anything you want?”
You click your tongue. You pretend to think, unable to hide the dumb smile that spreads across your cheeks. “I guess that’ll work.”
“Yeah? It’ll work? Tolerable offer?” He wonders, sarcastic and teasing as ever.
“Yeah, tolerable. We can work with that.” You nod.
A beat lingers there—long enough to feel it.
Then Parker shouts something about a rematch, the group pulling back into noise and movement again.
Jack doesn’t move away.
You don’t move away when your shoulder brushes his again. He doesn’t move when your knee knocks lightly into his as you shift your weight.
★★★
Over the next few hours, the bar stretches and softens around the edges—music louder, laughter easier, conversations blurring into one another. At some point, it gets too much in the way good things do. Too many bodies, too much heat, the kind of noise that sits behind your eyes.
You slip out the back without making a thing of it.
The alley is quieter. Cooler. The door thuds shut behind you, muffling everything into a distant, dull thrum. A single overhead light flickers, casting everything in that washed-out yellow that makes the world feel briefly paused.
You lean back against the brick, cigarette between your fingers, phone lighting your face as you scroll without really reading anything.
It’s quiet enough that you hear him before he speaks—footsteps, slower, heavier, familiar.
“You know, those are bad for you.”
You glance up.
Robby stands a few feet away, like he’s not entirely sure how he ended up out here either. There’s a faint crease between his brows, not judgment exactly—more curiosity, maybe a touch of something softer than he’d ever admit.
You smile, flicking your screen off, the glow disappearing. “They give you all doctors the same script, then?”
“Yeah,” he says, easy, stepping in to lean against the opposite wall. “We had a meeting about it.”
A beat settles. Easier than inside. Less performative.
He watches you for a second longer than necessary—not in the way Jack does, not sharp or searching. Robby’s gaze is rougher around the edges, like he’s piecing things together without fully committing to the picture.
“You having a good time?” he asks.
You nod, exhaling smoke slow into the cool air. “Yeah. I needed it after today.”
“Tough one?”
You huff a quiet laugh. “Client from hell. AC broken. Judge in a mood. I wore heels like an idiot. Pen broke. Whole thing felt like a setup.”
“Mm,” he grunts. “Sounds about right.”
You glance at him. “You?”
“Good,” he says, like it’s enough. Then, with a small, crooked smile—“Didn’t lose a hundred bucks to Parker, so that’s a win.”
You smile back, softer. “Who would you have betted on?”
He exhales through his nose, tipping his head back briefly against the brick. “Well. I wanna say Jack. Loyalty, solidarity, all that shit—”
“—Parker,” you both say at the same time.
A shared nod. Easy.
You tap ash to the ground, something quieter settling in.
He studies you again—more openly this time. Takes in the cigarette, the dress, the fact that you’re out here at all.
“You don’t strike me as a smoker,” he says.
“I’m not,” you admit. “Not really. Just… sometimes.”
“Bad days,” he guesses.
You glance at him, a little surprised. “That obvious?”
“Mm.” He shifts his weight, folding his arms.
You look away for a second, out toward the dim alley mouth. Silence again—but not awkward. Just… shared.
Then, after a beat—
"You're good for him, you know. Jack, I mean." Robby suddenly says, maybe surprising himself a bit as he scratches slightly at his beard.
Your fingers tighten slightly around the cigarette. “I don’t—”
“I’ve known him a long time,” Robby cuts in, not unkind. “Long enough to know when something shifts.”
You don’t answer straight away. There isn’t a clean answer to give.
He doesn’t push. Just lets it sit, watching you think.
“But you definitely are lucky to him,” he adds after a beat, lighter now, like he’s taking some of the weight back. “I think. Not that I put much stock in that stuff.”
You let out a small, disbelieving laugh. “You think so?”
“Mm.” He tilts his head. “You should’ve seen him before you walked up to that dartboard.”
You raise a brow. “What—missing?”
“Worse,” Robby says. “Overcorrecting. Thinking too much.” A beat. “Then you show up and suddenly he’s back to muscle memory.”
That earns a real laugh from you.
He smiles at that—brief, but genuine, remembers something.
“Guy’s got a tell,” Robby continues. He gestures vaguely, like he’s mapping it out in the air. “You’ll notice it now. His stance. When he’s tired or pushing too hard, he’ll compensate—puts more weight through the left side, shortens his step. Not dramatic. It's just… there. Years of it.”
You picture it before you realise you are—how Jack stands at the board, at the nurses’ station, in hallways. The subtle shift of weight. The way he settles.
“But when he’s… calmer,” Robby continues, “not in his own head so much—he evens out. Gait’s cleaner. Less guarding.” A small shrug. “Closer to neutral. Thinks he’s subtle.” A beat. “He’s not.”
You look down at your cigarette, then back up. “And you are?”
Robby huffs. “God, no.”
Another quiet stretch passes.
The door behind you opens—light spilling out for a second, laughter cutting through before it shuts again.
Robby pushes off the wall first, rolling his shoulders like he’s resetting himself.
“You coming back in?” he asks.
“In a minute,” you say.
He nods once, already moving toward the door. Then he’s gone—door swinging shut behind him, noise swallowing him back up.
You’re left in the quiet again, cigarette burning low between your fingers, his words settling somewhere you don’t quite want to look at too closely.
From inside, you can hear Jack’s laugh—low, familiar, cutting through the rest of it.
You don’t stub the cigarette out right away.
★★★
The night winds down in pieces.
People peel off in twos and threes—Dana half-carrying an overly enthusiastic intern, Parker victorious and loud, counting crumpled notes like she’s just robbed a bank, Shen still vibrating faintly from whatever chemical warfare he put in his system earlier.
There are hugs, sloppy goodbyes, promises to never drink again that nobody means. It softens, slowly, into something quieter. Smaller.
By the time you step out onto the street, the air feels cooler than it should.
Santos and Whitaker stumble out just behind you.
“Do not tell me you two are driving,” Santos says immediately, pointing between you and Jack like she’s personally offended by the concept.
“What?” Jack deadpans. “I see double. Means I can drive twice as good.”
You snort.
“Course not,” he adds, nodding toward you. “Gonna grab her a cab.”
“You could share with ours,” Whitaker offers, already swaying a little, like the suggestion might stabilise him. “Cheaper.”
Jack shakes his head, easy. “Don’t really have to worry about that.”
Whitaker nods like that tracks, like he’s suddenly remembering his own bank account.
“Whatever, we get it, moneybags,” Santos sighs, looping her arm through Whitaker’s. “Come on, Huckleberry. We’ll take one of the poor taxis.” She throws you a grin. “Night, Pinkie.”
They disappear down the street in a mess of laughter.
And then it’s just you and him.
The quiet lands differently now—no buffer of people, no noise to hide behind. Just the two of you under a streetlight that flickers every few seconds like it can’t quite decide if it wants to stay on.
Jack rolls his neck, working out the last of the tension, then glances down at you. “Uber should be here soon.”
You nod, slower this time, the alcohol softening the edges of everything. “Thank you.” A small pause. "'m sorry I wasn't so lucky for your gambling ring."
He shakes his head, quieter than you expect. No quip, no easy deflection. “You’re still lucky.”
You huff, looking down at the pavement, scuffing the toe of your heel against it. “I don’t feel that way. Not most of the time.” A beat. “Today really… set that in stone.”
He watches you for a second—properly this time, not the quick glances he usually allows himself. There’s something steadier in it, less amused, more… considering.
“Bad days don’t get to rewrite the whole thing,” he says.
You let out a small laugh. “That sounds like something you tell patients. Or your residents.”
“Yeah,” he shrugs. “Because it’s true.”
You glance up at him. “You believe that all the time?”
“No,” he says, easy. “But I say it anyway. Sometimes you catch up to it.”
It lands. You don’t brush it off. A car passes, headlights briefly washing over the two of you before the street settles back into that dim, flickering quiet.
You fold your arms loosely, tilting your head. “So what, I’m... I'm lucky because I exist? That’s your medical opinion?”
He huffs a quiet breath, something like a smile pulling at it. “No.” A beat, like he’s choosing the words instead of defaulting to something easy. “You’re lucky because you give a shit. And you’re… tough about it. You don’t fold—you adjust. Get smarter. Compromise.”
You blink at him, a little thrown. “I think that’s just stubbornness.”
“Same difference.”
“Not really.”
“Mm,” he hums, unconvinced. Then, softer—“You showed up tonight anyway.”
You shrug, but it doesn’t quite land casual. “I needed a drink.”
“Yeah,” he nods. “And you came to us.” A small pause. “To me, some might say.”
There’s something in the way he says it—dry, almost throwaway, but it sits heavier than that.
You glance at him, a crooked little smile pulling at your mouth. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“Too late,” he says, dry. “Already built a whole narrative.”
The quiet settles again, but it’s different now—closer. You can feel the heat of him beside you despite the cold, the way you’re both standing just a little inside each other’s space without acknowledging it.
He shifts, weight evening out, one hand dropping from his hip. His gaze drifts—slow, not subtle anymore. Your dress, your tights, the slight tear near your thigh, the way you keep tugging it down without realising.
“You might not... feel lucky,” he says, circling back, quieter. “But you are.”
You meet his eyes. “Because I’m your good luck charm?”
“Partly,” he admits. “Selfishly.”
You raise a brow. “Honest.”
“Sometimes.”
“Better.”
That small smile again—real this time, sitting easier on him.
A car turns the corner, headlights slower now—your Uber—but neither of you moves yet.
“You ever think,” you start, then hesitate, the alcohol making you just honest enough to say it anyway, “that maybe I just like being around you guys because it’s… easier?”
He watches you. Doesn’t interrupt.
“Like,” you go on, quieter, eyes dropping for a second, “at work it’s all liability and contracts and people who’ve been screwed over trying to screw the system back. Everyone’s defensive. Or waiting for you to mess up so they can use it.”
You glance back up at him.
“With you— with all of you,” you correct, but it lands a little pointed anyway, “it feels… normal. Human. No one’s talking down to me. No one’s waiting for me to trip.” A small breath. “You trust me. That’s—” you shrug, softer, “—rare.”
He takes that in properly. You can see it.
“So yeah,” you add, a faint smile returning, “that’s why I bother you all the time.”
“That’s a generous read,” he says.
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah,” he nods. “I do.”
A pause. The engine of the Uber idles somewhere behind you now, unnoticed.
“Goes both ways,” he adds.
You tilt your head. “What does that mean?”
He pauses—long enough that you think he might dodge it. You can see the instinct there, the easy out.
Then he exhales, like he’s too tired to be anything but honest.
“You’re easy to be around,” he says. It lands quieter, but heavier. “Things get lighter when you’re there.”
You don’t look away.
“Even when you’re not,” he adds, glancing off for a second like he’s already annoyed at himself for saying it. “People are… better. I’m better.”
You let out a small breath, almost a laugh. “That feels like a lot to pin on one person.”
“Yeah,” he nods. “It is.” A beat. “Doesn’t make it wrong.”
Your fingers tighten slightly around your messenger bag, something in your chest pulling in a way you don’t quite want to name.
“I think you’re romanticising me,” you say, softer now.
“Kid,” he huffs, a faint smile tugging at his mouth, “I’m old enough to know when something’s actually making my life easier.”
You glance up at him through your lashes. “How so?”
“Quieter in my head. Less… noise.” A small shrug. “Doesn’t happen much.”
That lands somewhere deeper than it should.
The Uber pulls up properly this time, engine idling.
He glances at it, then back at you. “That’s you. I’d come with, but I’m making sure Robby gets back safe. He’s somewhere across the park, last I checked.”
“Okay,” you say—but you don’t move.
You’re standing close enough now that it would be easy to close the gap. Easy to do something about the way he’s looking at you, the way your hand keeps brushing his arm when you shift.
Your lips press to his, warm, a little tentative at first. He stills—caught for half a beat—a hand pulling yours against him by his bicep, and he leans into it, answering you properly. It’s brief, but it’s not nothing. There’s weight in it. Recognition.
You pull back first—quicker than you meant to.
He almost follows. You feel it—the way he leans in a fraction before stopping himself, jaw tightening slightly like he’s reining it in.
“For luck,” you murmur, a little breathless despite yourself, your hand still resting on his forearm. “With Robby. He seems like a confused drunk.”
A corner of his mouth pulls, but his eyes stay on you—darker now, steadier.
“Mm,” he nods, voice rougher than before. His gaze drops briefly to where your fingers rest against his arm—nails brushing the cotton material of his t-shirt, dragging down over his skin. “Could’ve used that a couple hours ago against Parker. I'd be a hundred dollars richer.”
You snicker softly, the tension not quite breaking.
Neither of you moves.
Your hand slides down from his forearm slower this time, not quite ready to let go. You try to ignore how your heart might fall out of its chest, how he watches you with such intensity and curiosity.
“You’ll call me?” you ask, like it’s casual. Like it doesn’t matter.
“Yeah,” he says, immediate. Certain. “I will.”
You nod, like that’s enough. Like you believe him.
He steps forward first this time, opening the door for you, his hand settling at your back—warm, steady, guiding you in. It lingers a second longer than necessary, just enough to make your breath catch again before you sit.
“Get home safe,” he says.
“You too,” you murmur.
You look up at him once more before the door closes—him under the flickering streetlight, a little rumpled, a little tired, still watching you like he’s not quite done with this moment yet.
The door shuts.
And as the car pulls away, you catch him in the side mirror—still standing there, shoulders set, hand flexing once at his side before he drags it back through his silver curls, exhales, and finally turns toward the park.
part one | linger + part two | strawberry + part three | optics + part five | orbit + part six | observations
a/n: guys idk if this is that good im feeling iffy about it. but yk what we can always edit it, come back to it another time. just didnt wanna keep yall waiting any longer
guys! ive been so !!! agh. school. uni. work. life. whatnot. burns!! sorry for the time on this. actually im not, i kinda just wanna post when i wanna post, and im really trying to work on a few wips at once. but yeah anyway hopefully i can pump out another one of these in the next week or so, idk how many i'll do of these, its a cute fun little dynamic, but im rlly curious about you guys and ur thoughts on where it could go, if theres anything we could explore here
erm would i be a inappropriate to say that when jack was talking about how many times he made r cum that i thought this was gonna come up again in a competitive way and robby took that as a challenge… lock me away rn and throw away the key, mind palace here i come 🪽
"would it be inappropriate" and its what i should've done oh brother... well!!! :3
“what’d you say your score was again?” robby asks, his voice low and rough. you’re spread beneath him, legs hooked over his shoulders, and his fingers are buried deep inside you — two, then three, sliding in and out of your wet cunt with a slick, obscene sound. his thumb presses hard against your clit, circling slowly, and you’re already shaking, your third orgasm building fast.
jack brushes his teeth at the sink in your en suite, the door wide open. “what?” he calls out, spitting into the sink.
you moan, your hands clawing at robby’s chest, fingernails digging into his skin as his digits push deeper, curling, dragging against that spongy spot inside you. your hips buck, trying to fuck his hand, but he pins you down with his other palm flat on your belly.
“fuck, i’m gonna—” you cut yourself off with a high, desperate whine as he curls his fingers just right, the pads of his middle and ring fingers rubbing against your g-spot in tight, focused circles.
“there you go, there you go,” robby murmurs, watching your face twist — your mouth open, breath hitching, eyes fluttering. he looks over at jack. “i asked you what your record was. five?”
“for her?” jack hums as he steps out, just a towel on, hair still wet after his shower, watching you on the bed, naked and needy.
robby nods, looking to jack as if they’re just having a regular conversation, as if you’re not really there.
“six,” jack says. “in... fuck, honey, what was it?”
you can barely think straight, babbling incoherently as robby pushes you toward another peak. his digits pump in and out of your dripping cunt, driving you wild.
“he asked you something,” robby says sternly, tapping your cheek lightly. “speak. now.”
your brain is barely able to form words as you mutter, “three hours. it-it was three hours — fuck me, i’m gonna—”
“yeah? you’re gonna what?” robby wonders, helping you get to that high.
you hesitate with your answer, only focused on how he pushes you closer to the edge, until he raises his brows at you with a nod, tapping your chin.
“gonna-gonna cum. please. fuck—” you whine.
“you’re being a dick,” jack murmurs as he goes back into the bathroom, finishing brushing his teeth.
“she loves it,” robby sighs. “i think i can break that.”
“break what? my record?” jack scoffs from the bathroom.
“yeah. six in three? she’s about to do three in one. that’s another one per hour. i could bring it to two, make it eight. go ahead, honey. make it three for me,” robby hums, not looking away from you now as you come undone under his fingers, whining low and pitchy all at once as you scratch at robby’s chest, hair digging under your fingernails slightly as you peak. “good girl. good girl, yeah, feels nice, doesn’t it?” he hums as he watches you soak his fingers again.
jack spits into the sink again. “if you make it eight, then i have to make it ten. it’s an honour thing. my girlfriend — i have to hold the record.”
“if you make it ten, i have to make it twelve,” robby remarks as you pant beneath him, his fingers dragging out of you. a light slap over your folds makes you whine as you drag your hands over his cock. “less an honour thing, more pride.”
“are you seriously making this — what? some sort of competition?” jack scoffs as he walks out of the bathroom. he leans down toward you and kisses you sweetly. “hey, baby.”
you moan into his lips before jack moves away.
“me? competitive? not at all,” robby groans as your hands wrap around him. “fuckin’ — give me a second, will you? needy tonight,” robby murmurs, kissing at your tits sweetly as you slow your movement before pulling back and looking to jack, who’s headed to his dresser to get dressed. “but you? you love competition.”
“bullshit,” jack sighs as he drops his towel, pulling on his boxers before sitting down in an armchair.
“yeah? what was that situation last—” robby groans when your fingers find their way over his tip. “oh, sweetheart, fucking...” he hums, hanging his head into the crook of your neck.
jack watches with a hum as robby manhandles you beneath him, switching positions as robby sits at the head of the bed, moving your hips over his, lining his cock up with your core before guiding you down over him, feeling you ride him, fingers digging into his shoulders.
“what was that... situation you had with shen, then? last month? most patients in twenty minutes?” robby recalls, groaning as he watches you bottom out on him, pussy warm and tight around him.
“that’s different. we were helping people,” jack sighs.
“we’re helpin’ someone,” robby shrugs, a hand over the back of your head, gripping at your scalp. “isn’t that right, sweetheart? we’re helping you.”
you moan, clenching tighter around him. robby hums, groaning softly.
“think you’re just afraid i’m gonna win.”
jack scoffs, rolling his eyes as he moves to sit next to the two of you on the bed, beside robby, as if this is the most casual conversation they could possibly have while you ride him.
“oh, brother, you aren’t gonna win. i know her body. know what she responds to,” jack sighs as he watches you.
“think i do too.”
robby’s fingers work magic on your clit, rubbing gentle circles as he moves your hips to a new angle. your back arches, a low moan escaping your lips as the pleasure builds.
“goddamn it, right there, honey, right there,” robby groans, hitting his head against the headboard as he loses himself in your tight heat. his cock throbs inside you, coated in your slick arousal.
“fine, fine. we’re doing this,” jack sighs, leaning against the headboard as he watches you take robby’s cock. “what should we cap it off at? what are the rules?”
“i don’t know. fucking hell,” robby groans, fingers rubbing firm circles on your clit. your hips buck against his hand, desperate for more.
“now you’re pussy-drunk?” jack says with a smirk. “see what you did to the mean one now, baby? made him an idiot.”
robby slaps jack lightly on the chest, telling him to shut up. jack grabs his wrist and moves robby’s hand to his own cock, making him stroke him.
“you wanna talk rules?” robby scoffs as he moves his hand up and down jack’s shaft. jack inhales sharply at the contact, letting go of robby’s hand as he leans back, watching you intently.
“well, we aren’t animals... gotta make her feel good first and foremost,” jack says, eyes glued to your bouncing tits and pretty moans.
“she’ll be fine.” robby speeds up his hand over jack’s cock before giving up, too focused on you. jack sighs and takes over stroking himself, fisting his thick shaft as he watches you take robby’s cock like a pro.
robby’s hips thrust up into your wet heat, fucking you harder, deeper. his fingers rub firm circles on your clit, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.
“guess so. alright. you start tonight, i’ll start tomorrow. meet back here next week. whoever’s gotten the highest wins,” jack sighs.
Summary: After being released from jail, Pope finds himself wandering around town where he finds a new diner—unaware that you’re standing inside; about to change both of your lives.
Warnings: mentions of prison, explicit language, medical inaccuracies, mentions of alcohol, its animal kingdom iykyk, toxic family, mentions of emotional abuse, mentions of injuries, mentions of blood, slight angst, hurt/comfort, LOTS of fluff, & a happy ending.
Word Count: 8k+
Author’s Note: It’s finally here !! I’m so sorry it took so long to get out, but I wanted to make sure it came out good. I hope you all enjoy it !! <3
Oceanside California felt foreign to Pope Cody when he stepped out from behind the gated prison walls of Folsom. He hadn’t told anyone he was getting out; there was no one waiting for him as the gate doors closed behind him. No open arms for him to run into or noisy brothers clapping him on the back.
As much as a part of him missed the familiarity of his old room, he didn’t return home right away. He wanted some free time to himself before Smurf got her filthy hands on him again—before she tainted what little chance of starting over Pope clung on to. Before she made him into the dangerous guard dog she so carefully convinced him he was.
He found himself wandering the streets alone instead, shoulders and jaw stiff and tense; like any moment he’d wake up or a guard would appear and drag him back into the grey walls that haunted his nightmares when he was actually able to sleep.
Pope’s memory spun as he took in familiar buildings—places that had been there practically his entire life. The beach air still wafted through the breeze, still smelled the same. Still dusted his skin with the pricklings of ocean salt. If his hair hadn’t been shaved down in a shitty prison cut; his curls would’ve picked it up too. He longed to feel the salty breeze float through his hair again; lull him into a calmness.
His brow furrowed a little at all the new shops and businesses that had popped up since he’d been gone, ones that definitely weren’t there before he went in. Random places like mini grocery stores and self-employed insurance companies. A new book store that he pushed to the back of his mind to visit later.
That’s how he found you; at the new little diner on the corner with bright red letters on the sign. At first glance it looked like a cozy surfer hut or beach shop. Blue and white striped canopy over the door, stickers on the windows. A few tables outside with blue chairs on either side. A couple plants that caught the sun. He stood outside it longer than he probably should’ve, feet weighed down like cement. His fists opened and closed at his sides before he finally forced himself to go inside. The bell on the door rung above him, the smell of fried food wafted around him with the air conditioning. He welcomed the coolness with an exhale from his nose; much more comfortable than the scorching heat outside.
He didn’t realize that you had noticed him as soon as he walked in from your spot near the order window—passing a paper order back to one of the cooks. He was someone new that you hadn’t seen before. Handsome with his hazel-brown eyes and sharp features. His short buzzed hair making his ears stick out all cute. He looked a little awkward, scanning the entirety of the inside; from corner to corner in front of him. Immediately—you already wanted to know more about him; heartbeat picking up as you watched him take in his surroundings.
Pope’s eyes drifted around, clocking all the exits and the people around him. A few of the booths and tables were occupied—along with a couple of the stools at the counter. The inside wasn’t decorated in a decade specific theme like he expected it to be; like most of the diners he’d been to in his life. Rather it was more…homey. More bright and airy inside; pale yellow walls that looked almost white and light blue leather seats. A few framed music posters hanging from the walls, a surfboard or two on the other. Two big monstera plants on either side of the front door. It felt like walking into someone’s home with a mother cooking in the kitchen.
There were pies on plates under glass displays on the counter, a large white board with specials and prices on it. The floor was clean, making Pope’s shoulders relax a little. The patterned tile almost matched the leather seats. He wiped his feet on the mat by the door—jaw ticking as his mind reeled and took everything in. His hands clenched and unclenched again at his sides.
Finally, he chose the booth in the furthest corner; tucked away from the center of the room and all the buzzing of conversation. He clung to the quiet he’d almost definitely lose once he returned to Smurf’s.
The leather made a soft noise under him when he sat down, a menu was already lying on the table in front of him. Shakers filled with sugar, salt and pepper sat up against the window—ketchup and packets of coffee creamer tucked up next to them. Utensils sat neatly against the white table; wrapped up in napkins.
Pope found himself drumming his fingers lightly on the table before reaching carefully for the menu. It wasn’t sticky like some diners he’d been too; much more clean and carefully typed out and laminated to be easily read. Decorated with blue designs in the corners.
He scanned the menu, not really reading it or taking in anything it said; just breathing in the air around him and letting himself exist in a place that wasn’t controlled by guards or a boring grey. Someplace he didn’t have to worry about being tortured or made a spectacle at the entertainment of guards. Somewhere he could just sit and enjoy the quiet; where he could just for the first time in three years—be Andrew.
He didn’t notice you approach him at first, too caught up in his thoughts and pretending to read the menu to realize you were now standing next to his table. He hadn’t seen you when he walked in—just the older lady working behind the counter and a few bus boys cleaning tables.
He only looked up when you finally spoke.
“Hi!”, You said cheerfully, bright smile on your face.
Pope froze. Eyes drifting up to your face, shoulders a little guarded at being spoken to.
His demeanor softened when his eyes landed on you.
Soft lashes and cheeks, soft hair that was pulled back with a few strands framing your face. Bright eyes that pulled him in. He glances at your name-tag, eyes flicking back to your face and deciding that it suits you. He found himself appreciative that you had a real uniform; shorts and a tee shirt with the diner’s name on it rather than some skimpy skirt and hat the themed diners always made the waitresses wear. He found that in poor taste; companies forcing women to show off their bodies in hopes to make a bigger income.
Pope didn’t say anything at first, just watched you look down at him. Your smile didn’t waver as you shifted on your feet, pulling your notepad and pen up closer to your chest.
“Can I get you started with something?”, You asked.
Pope found himself at a loss for words, he hadn’t expected someone so…beautiful and lively to be standing next to him now. He still hadn’t read the menu, wasn’t that hungry. He shifted a little again on the seat, leather crinkling under him.
“What do you recommend?”, He finally asked.
Your eyes lit up at the question, making Pope’s heart hammer harder in his chest.
“Oh! Goodness…well it depends how hungry you are”, You start, a small laugh escaping your lips; “The breakfast platter is really good if you want breakfast! Club sandwiches if you’re in more of a lunch type of mood. The coffee here is really good! I always make it with cinnamon, makes it taste better.”
Pope finds himself scanning your face as you ramble—blood rushing through his veins in a way that makes his cheeks hot. He notices the way your nose scrunches when you smile, how expressive your face is. He wonders if you do that for everyone or just certain people.
He sets his menu down, fingers drumming again.
“Uh, the coffee”, He says; “Just the coffee…black.”
He watches you scribble it down on your little pad before pocketing it and offering him another bright smile.
“Great! I’ll have that right out for you.”
Your ponytail sways behind you as you walk away, sneakers squeaking lightly on the floor. Pope commits it all to memory, much like he does with most people he meets. But this felt different—you were being nice to him.
Pope finds himself gazing out the window next to him while he waits. A few people walk by walking their dogs, a few families. There’s a business owner across the street taking trash out to the dumpster. The parking lot across the street is mostly empty except for a few cars—people opting to walk or bike in the nice weather. His fingers twitch once in anticipation, a longing to get back to the beach tugging at him; back to the private spot he found years ago—away from tourists and practically empty of people.
He’s pulled out of his daydream by a mug sliding softly across the table in front of him. He looks up, finding you smiling down at him again.
“Here you go, one coffee”, You say.
Pope nods once in acknowledgment, wrapping his hands around the warm ceramic. The heat seeps into his hands immediately—just hot enough that it’s not quite burning. He expects you to leave, to walk away again and leave silence behind. But he soon realizes; you’re still looking at him.
He shifts a little in his seat, eyes flicking awkwardly around the room before they find your face again.
“Sorry”, You say with a breath; “I just…I’ve never seen you in here before. Are you new in town?”
Pope blinks; “Lived here my whole life. Just uh…been away for a while.”
You nod; “Just missed home enough to come back, huh?”
“Something like that”, Pope says, fingers flexing against warm ceramic.
If he’s being truly honest; he’s not really sure what really being home feels like.
Silence falls between you for a moment before you speak again; “I like it here too.”
Pope almost lets himself smile at that; lips twitching at the corner. But he holds himself back—still staying quiet.
You brush a stray hair out of your face, shifting on your feet as you pull out your notepad—another customer waving you down.
“Well, enjoy your coffee”, You say with another smile; “Let me know if you need anything!”
You turn on your heels at that, making your way to the customer in a booth towards the front of the diner. Pope watches you go, eyes flicking carefully over your frame.
With a sigh, he finally brings the mug to his lips and takes a sip.
The flavor washes over him immediately—still black coffee, but something warmer rests beneath it. Almost what he thinks Christmas smells like; all spice and comfort. A vision of his first few memories of the holiday washing over him—before things were complicated. He feels again like he’s sitting in a house with someone’s mother or grandmother in the kitchen. He decides right then and there; that he’ll never take his coffee any other way again.
Pope stays for a while, longer than he initially intended to. But something about you and the atmosphere around him pulls him in deep. Keeps him tethered to his spot in the booth. He drinks his coffee slowly, savoring the flavor. Each sip ignites something in his chest. He can see the horizon starting to turn pink outside, fewer people roaming the streets.
He doesn’t know what time it is, really he could look at the clock on the wall if it mattered that much; but for once he doesn’t seem to care. The diner around him lulls before it starts filling up with the dinner crowd. But Pope stays in his spot in the booth in the furthest corner. Orders another coffee when he finishes the first one.
He’s been there almost two hours when he finally decides to leave, placing a few more bills than necessary down on the table.
You’re rushing around in front of him, talking to a few customers as you move; not completely looking where you’re going. It doesn’t take long for you to come in contact with a chair that hadn’t been fully pushed in, a small sound leaving your lips as you stumble over the legs. The menus in your hands go flying; scattering across the floor with a small smack sound.
Pope’s feet move before he realizes they are, kneeling down next to you as he starts collecting the fallen menus. You’re quick to kneel down with him, but he beats you to most of them—leaving you with only two in your hands.
He hands them back to you softly without a word once he’s stood fully again, silently checking you over for any injuries; which he thankfully finds none.
“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry!”, You rush out; “God, I’m so clumsy.”
Pope doesn’t say anything, instead bending down to pick up your notepad that you’d somehow dropped in the process; holding it back out to you.
“Oh!”, You say; “Thank you…”
You trail off, only then realizing that you still don’t know his name.
“Andrew”, Pope says, hands clasped at his sides.
You offer another smile to him again; this one somehow warmer than all the others.
“See you around, Andrew”, You say.
Pope’s heart flutters at the sound of his name leaving your lips. He tries to push the heat taking over his face back down; but he knows he’s failing miserably. His breath quick and eyes a little wider than usual.
He watches you walk away, going to head to the front door himself when you pause and look back at him.
“Don’t be a stranger”, You say, face heating to match his own before you turn away again.
Pope freezes by the door—bell chiming above him again—finally letting a small smile take over his lips; you want him to come back.
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
It didn’t take long after Pope’s first visit for you to figure out who he was. People talk, the cook and other coworkers had told you that night during closing. About all the stories and rumors surrounding the Cody family. But you didn’t care, you liked Andrew. Were intrigued by him—you could make your own decisions about things; and he was one of them.
As the next few weeks went by, Pope found himself frequenting the diner more and more. Every other week, he’d step through the front door with the sound of the bell chiming above him. Wiping his feet on the mat below him, the same way he had the first time he walked in.
You greeted him with a smile every time.
Every other week became every week, then slowly turned into a few days a week—until he was sitting in his corner booth almost every day.
Sometimes he wouldn’t even come inside, he’d find himself sitting in his truck in the parking lot across the street; keeping an eye on things. He’d pretty much learned your schedule, which car was yours—always parked in the same spot unless you’d walked to work.
Pope didn’t like when you did that. He knew how people could be, had dealt with enough bad people in his life to know what could happen. But he didn’t go as far to do anything about it. He didn’t want to scare you away—even if he had become good at watching and following people discreetly over time.
He found himself automatically driving to the parking lot if he’d had a stressful day. If Smurf had been on him, or a rough job. Just to get a glimpse at you. He’d sit there, tucked away under the tree in the corner—shaded and out of view. He could see perfectly through the big windows of the diner, where you often stood behind the counter.
He’d watch you work, the smile on your face as you talked to customers sitting at the counter. The way you laughed. It settled something inside him. Something he didn’t know was still there.
You knew when it was him coming through the front door after only a few weeks; you no longer had to look up. His heavy footsteps and pause in the doorway gave him away. No matter how many times he’d been inside; he still scanned the place and checked all the exits.
No matter what you were doing, you’d stop and offer him a big soft smile and greet him; “Hey, Andrew.”
Pope loved the way his name sounded coming from you. Nobody ever called him Andrew unless he was in trouble or he was being threatened by his mother. But with you? He didn’t mind it.
A few months in, you’d find yourself standing next to him again as he sat in his booth—just like the first time he’d come in. Your break had started a few minutes before and something in you told you to go for it.
So you stood next to him, your own coffee in your hand and a plate of fries.
“Mind if I join you?”, You’d asked, catching Pope’s attention and pointing to the empty spot across from him.
Pope looked up at you, cheeks flushed red until the rosy hue reached his ears; “No. Go ahead.”
You slid in across from him, smile never wavering as you started in on your fries. Reaching for the ketchup as you looked him up and down; half-drank coffee sitting on the table in front of him.
“So Andrew”, You start, popping a fry into your mouth; “What do you like to do for fun?”
Pope froze, taken aback by your question. Nobody had ever cared enough about him to ask. He couldn’t really remember the last time he had real fun—if he wanted to do that he’d have to sneak away from his family to do it.
He liked to sneak away to small beaches only a few people knew about, where the waves were mostly non-existent and the water was always warm. To the small skate park that was largely unoccupied; especially in the middle of the night when he tended to frequent it. On the nights he couldn’t sleep no matter how hard he tried. When he couldn’t stand to sit in his new empty apartment a second longer.
Smurf had sold his place while he was locked up. Took it away from him like it wasn’t one of the places he was most comfortable. He was still trying to get used to where he was at now. Barely decorated with only a bed and a folding chair by the window.
“Skate”, Pope says, voice a little quiet; “Surf, too.”
Your eyes light up; “Surfing is cool! I’ve always wanted to try but…well as you’ve seen i’m a bit clumsy. I’d probably fall off the board and drown.”
Pope’s lips quirk at the corners.
“Bet you know some pretty good beach spots then, huh?”, You ask.
Pope shifts in his seat; “A few.”
“Maybe you could show me one sometime.”
The twitch of Pope’s lips turn into a real, small smile.
“I could do that, yeah”, He says.
As you start talking about something else, rambling on as you eat your fries—hands waving in the air—Pope barely hears a word you’re saying. His heart’s beating too fast in his ears. The idea of seeing you outside of the diner thrumming under his ribs.
It becomes almost normal after that. Pope coming in and sitting in his usual spot. You sliding in across from him on your breaks, rambling about something new each time. Your hands never stop waving in the air, you always bring food with you—offer him a bite. Sometimes you sneak a dessert or two. You learn he likes the cinnamon rolls and apple pie the best. Pope suddenly finds solace there; sitting across from you with warmth in his chest. He likes listening to you talk—commits things you tell him to memory.
Your favorite song and color, where you lived before moving to Oceanside. How you drench your fries in vinegar and ketchup. The way your nose scrunches when you get excited; the sparkle in your eyes when you talk about something you’re passionate about. He files everything he learns away safely.
Soon enough, going to the diner is the first thing on Pope’s mind every morning. He blows off going to Smurf’s house or a meeting about a job. He just nestles into his booth, a cup of coffee already on its way over the second you saw him walk in. He starts to feel like you know him, and that he knows you. Even if you really don’t.
Pope’s answers are always short, only a word or two or a grunt in response. He still doesn’t talk much. But you like that about him. How shy he is. His hair’s grown out over time; soft auburn curls swirling around his ears. You like him like this even more—he looks a little softer. Still stiff and awkward; still holding himself with tight shoulders and impossibly straight posture. But the sun hits him perfectly in his booth, turning the side of his face golden; bringing out every shade of red in his curls.
Still, you did learn a few things from what little bit you got out of him. He had two brothers, a niece who he often took care of. He’s the oldest, and likes to work on fixing things or build them. But for the most part—he was quiet.
He’d sit in the golden light and listen, hands grasped around the ceramic mug in front of him. Sometimes lying curled into loose fists on the table top. Twitching to reach out for you. To know how soft your hair is, feel your smaller hand in his. Would his heart beat faster? Would yours? Would you let him hold your hand?
Your laugh breaks him from his thoughts, eyes crinkled in a smile from whatever story you were telling him. His jaw ticks a little, not angry—just controlled. Forcing himself not to scare you away like he thinks he would. But you’d never be scared away, not by him.
He listens as you tell him about a few new menu items.
“Oh! We also have chocolate chip pancakes now, I finally got it on the menu”, You tell him.
“My niece likes them like that”, He says, tracing the outside of his coffee mug.
“What? You don’t like chocolate chips?”, You ask, brow quirked.
A soft sound that almost sounds like a laugh leaves his mouth. Eyes unblinking, lips twitching at the corners; “No I do.”
You laugh across from him, soft and filled with enjoyment at getting him to smile again.
“I’m just messing with you”, You say.
Pope’s small smile doesn’t waver across from you, fingers tapping against the table as you start listing other items that are new. He settles into himself again, too caught up in you to really hear what you’re saying.
Overtime, as Pope continued to frequent the diner—something shifted between you.
Andrew slowly became Andy.
The sound of the bell chiming above the door hits your ears the same time the sound of his heavy boots do. You smile to yourself before looking up. Your breath catches in your throat when you see him.
His hair is damp from a fresh shower, black jeans still tight over his thighs. A dark grey t-shirt clings to his wide frame in place of his usual button ups. He’s bigger than you thought. Sure, you always knew he was strong under those neat shirts—but seeing him in a t-shirt brings it out in a whole new way.
Your face softens at the sight of him, watching his eyes search the exits before they land on you. He walks up to the counter this time, hands hesitantly resting against the top of it—the metal edge cool against his skin.
“Hey, Andy”, You breathe.
He looks you up and down, fingers twitching the same time his lips do. Drawing towards one side of his face in the way that you love so much. His version of a small smile, you’ve learned.
“Want your usual?”, You ask him.
Underneath the small quirk of his lips; his eyes look a little nervous—hesitant maybe.
Still he nods slowly.
“Yeah”, He says softly, and then; “Can I get it to go today?”
You furrow your brow as you pivot from his usual ceramic mug to the paper to go cups. The idea of him not staying sitting heavy on your chest.
“‘Course”, You say, turning towards the coffee machine.
You watch him as he waits; eyes flicking around more than usual. Checking his watch and phone a few times. His fingers drumming quicker against the counter top. He’s anxious, you think—obviously in a hurry.
You pop the lid on top of his to-go cup, sliding it across the counter towards him.
“One coffee to go”, You smile.
He offers the same sideways quirk back, digging into his back pocket for his wallet.
“That’s ok”, You tell him; “It’s on me today.”
Pope freezes, eyes flicking over your face to check if you’re sure—like he’s waiting for you to change your mind.
“You sure?”, He asks.
“Yeah”, your bottom lip slides between your teeth; “All good.”
His shoulders relax a fraction as he reaches for the cup in front of him, his lips parting to say something—but the sound of his phone buzzing cuts him off.
You don’t miss the way his brow furrows as he checks the caller ID, tension setting heavy between them. He looks back up at you, phone still in hand as he turns to leave.
“Thanks”, He says, voice still soft; “For the coffee.”
You nod in acknowledgment, lip still between your teeth as you watch him head towards the door, hand already grasping around the metal bar to push it open.
“See you soon, Andy”, You say.
His lips quirk again, a soft nod coming in return as he pushes the door open fully. A bit of hesitance in his movements; like he doesn’t want to leave but knows he has to. Then he’s gone, stepping all the way out of the diner and onto the sidewalk in front of it. The Oceanside heat engulfing him, salty wind messing his curls around.
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
A week had gone by after that with no sign of him. No heavy boots against the welcome mat. No rustle of the leather seat in his corner booth. No sideways quirk of his lips. No sight of his auburn curls or warm cologne. No Andrew.
You didn’t realize how much you had looked forward to seeing him every day until he stopped coming. A hole had developed in your chest, aching to be filled by his presence. Your shifts seemed to drag on longer without him, you weren’t as cheerful—and others noticed.
A few of your regulars asked if you were ok, your boss pulled you aside to check in on you. Your coworkers asked about him. You reassured them you were fine, but inside you realized you weren’t being completely honest with yourself; you missed Andrew.
You didn’t know why this person who randomly showed up in your place of work one day meant so much to you. He was nice to you, kind with his soft hazel eyes that stared into your soul. The red curls on his head made your heart flutter—and when he smiled at you? It had you weak in the knees.
This soft spoken, shy and slightly awkward man had found himself a place in your heart in only a few months. Nestled somewhere close under your ribs. You wanted to take away whatever pain was hiding behind those tense shoulders—you wanted to be someone that would never hurt him; someone he could count on.
It hit you all at once. Never in a million years did you think you’d feel this way when you watched him walk through the front door all those months ago. You cared about Andrew, you wanted him around, felt lost when he wasn’t. The realization washed over you without warning—you had feelings for Andrew.
The sound of the bell above the door chiming pulled you out of your thoughts. The familiar sound of heavy steps filled your ears—but something about them was off. There were two other mismatched sets of heavy steps along with them. Two louder voices filled the room, both deep as they stepped further inside the door.
A man with short blonde hair caught your eye first; short beard and slightly furrowed brows as he gestured with his hands in his jacket pockets. The other man next to him had dark long hair pulled back into a bun, slightly longer facial hair that matched. They were both tall, definitely strong; but in a more lean way.
“Craig, it’s never gonna happen man. She wasn’t even looking at you”, The blonde man says.
“You don’t know that! I got Nicky—“, The other man—Craig—starts.
“You got lucky, man. She still left you for J.”
Craig rolls his eyes; “Shut up, Deran.”
Beside them, the heavy footsteps you knew all too well stepped fully inside. Your eyes flicked away from the other two men, heart hammering against your ribs as they finally landed on the one person you’d been looking for all week—Andrew.
There he was, shoulders a little tense as he stepped under the diner lighting. A new bronze tint to his skin—maybe he’d been able to frequent the beach more often lately—you hoped he had. A pair of dark wash jeans sat snug on his hips, his signature button up was back; nestled under a jacket similar to the blonde man—Deran’s. Andrew’s hair was somehow a little longer than the last time you’d seen him, tousled from the salty breeze with a few curls sticking out at his nape and around his ears.
You’d grabbed your notepad and pen before they fully even sat down. Andrew’s eyes landing on you as he did his routine of scanning all the exits; the serious look on his face softening when you lock eyes. The furrowed crease between his brows easing along with it.
He slid into the booth next to Craig; Deran sitting across from them. Not his usual booth in the corner, something tells you he wouldn’t share that with just anyone. He still sat impossibly straight, completely tuning out whatever the other two men were talking about; his eyes staying on you as you approached the table.
Relief washed over you the second you stood in front of him, a wide smile etching across your face that you wouldn’t care to try and suppress even if you could.
“Andy, hey”, You breathed, like you’d been holding your breath since the last time you’d said it.
Both men furrowed their brows.
“‘Andy?—‘”, Craig teased, tilting his head to look at Pope with a smirk on his lips.
He was cut off by Pope’s foot hitting his shin under the table; hard.
“OW!—“, He shot Pope a glare; “What the fuck man?”
“Craig”, Deran said; “Shut up.”
But you didn’t even register the interaction, you were completely entranced in Andrew.
“Hi”, Pope says, voice soft.
You swear he sounds just as relieved as you do.
Silence settles at the table, Pope’s eyes raking over you before settling on your face—you doing the same to him. The time he’d been away had settled heavy in his shoulders, dragging along with him as he worked through multiple jobs that he would’ve rather skipped out on. Being pulled back in by Smurf and the evil grip she grabbed at him with; using him for her dirty work.
But seeing you now, the weight on Pope’s shoulders released a bit. His back grew less tense, posture a little more natural than being rigidly and painfully straight. Still impossibly straight the way he always was—but not as forced.
Deran cleared his throat beside you.
“Uh…can we get some coffee?”, He asked.
You blinked a few times, realization washing over you as you jumped a little on your feet; turning more towards the blonde man.
“Oh! Yes of course! Sorry!”, You rushed out, holding your pad and pencil up in front of you; “What can I get you?”
As you scribbled down orders, you could feel Pope’s eyes still on you. Boring into the side of your head in a way that most people would find uncomfortable. But you weren’t most people to him. It made a heat climb up your neck, shifting on your feet to try and pay as much attention as you can to the orders being spoken to you. But all you can focus on is Andrew.
Andrew who hasn’t moved his eyes from you since the moment he walked through that door a few minutes ago. Andrew who hadn’t realized how important you were to him until he was forced to be away from you. Andrew who found himself entirely lovesick without truly knowing that’s what he was feeling deep in his chest—fluttering behind his ribcage. Andrew who’s cheeks were dusted with a heat similar to yours, the tips of his ears burning pink as he fought back a twitch of his lips.
“Alright! I’ll have that right out for you”, You chirp, turning towards Pope; “Andy, your usual?”
Pope froze. Stilled by your sudden direction at him, like he’d been caught staring. But truthfully—he didn’t really care.
He nodded back, a soft look on his face as you smiled at him—turning on your feet and walking back behind the front counter to put their order’s in. He ignored his brother’s gazes and the looks they were sending his way. The exchange of their eyes, the way their brows quirked with every mention of his name from your lips. All he could focus on was you.
Behind the counter, you passed back their order slip; finding your coworkers’ eyes on you.
“What?”, You asked, hands on your hips.
The older woman next to you shook her head knowingly; “You know what.”
You felt the heat on your face; “He’s just a friend.”
The woman gave you a look; “Could’ve fooled me.”
You bit your bottom lip, eyes flicking towards the table you’d just come from. Finding Pope’s eyes already on you.
Beside him, Craig pushed at his shoulder.
“Earth to Pope??”, Craig smirked, rather enjoying the glare he earned from his brother.
Pope grunted in annoyance, forcing himself to look away from you.
“Seriously Pope”, Deran tried, a little nicer than his brother’s approach; “What’s gotten into you, man?”
Pope’s jaw ticked, chin jutting out a little bit. Maybe he’d actually answer Deran truthfully—if they were alone. But not with Craig sitting next to him with the attitude of a teenage girl listening in for the good gossip.
“Nothin’”, Pope mutters, hoping it’ll get them to drop the topic.
Craig opens his mouth to say something, cut off by you approaching the table. You set the drinks down with ease, passing a few extra creamers out across the table before standing up straight again—notepad out in front of you.
“Can I get you guys something to eat?”, You ask, feeling Pope’s eyes on you.
“Yeah, can I get a cheeseburger with fries?”, Craig says, passing the menu back towards the end of the table.
You nod, writing down his order and turning towards Deran.
“Anything for you?”
Deran ponders for a moment, before passing his menu back as well; “I’ll have the same.”
He offers you a small smile as you put his menu under your arm—only turning back to Pope after a second.
“Anything for you, Andy?”, You ask, voice softer.
You watch him think it over, brows scrunched and lips slightly pursed before he finally speaks.
“Apple pie?”, He says softly, almost as if he’s asking if you still have it.
You nod, writing his order down; “‘Course, saved you the last slice.”
Taking Pope’s menu, you turn on your heels to put the orders back to the kitchen; before being called over by another customer.
Pope watches you talk to them, laughing and smiling like you’ve known them forever. A confident pep of excitement in your step. You were like that with all customers, always friendly, always talkative. But you never sat down with them—not like you did with him.
“Jesus Pope, you’re gonna burn a hole through her”, Craig scoffs, following his gaze.
Pope grunts something in response, not turning back to look at his brother; jaw ticking once.
“She seems nice”, Deran says, trying to ease the tension.
Pope’s eyes flick towards him, jaw relaxing just a bit; “She is.”
Deran drops the topic after that, sending a warning glare Craig’s way and discreetly filling them in about a possible job. Pope forces himself to listen, letting his eyes wander around the diner every so often. They always somehow end up landing back on you.
The older lady behind the counter brings their food out while you’re still bustling around to your other tables. Pope finds himself a little disappointed. The customers smiles around you never waver. Your laughter drifts to his ears every few minutes. He likes seeing you like that. Likes hearing it. Happy, content.
Deran and Craig talk next to him between bites of hamburger and mouthfuls of fries. Craig downs half his diet coke in one sip, a low rumbling burp leaving him that has Deran rolling his eyes.
Pope ignores it all, quietly eating his apple pie and pretending like he’s listening. The warm cinnamon of his coffee settling into his bones. His body sinks a little further into the cushions, and he finds himself thinking if he closes his eyes; maybe he could picture himself just sitting here with you. No noisy brothers, no other customers calling your name. Just the two of you.
Eventually you return with the bill, placing it gently on the end of the table.
Pope’s digging in his pocket before either of his brothers can move. Even if Deran really would be the only other one to offer to pay. Craig shifts beside him, sitting up straighter.
“So how do you know Pope?”, He asks.
Blunt. Straight to the point. Pope clenches his jaw next to him, freezing over his wallet as he looks up at you.
But you just smile, ignoring the nickname; eyes sparkling a little.
“Oh! He comes in a lot. Probably my best customer”, You chirp.
“Best customer, huh Popey?”, Craig rumbles, nudging his brother’s shoulder; “He didn’t tell us that.”
Pope stays quiet as he sets a fifty down on the table before shoving his wallet back into his pocket—taking the last swig of his coffee.
He blinks at Deran once—who seems to understand what he means without saying it—rising to his feet along with him.
“Keep the change…and thank you for the pie”, Pope says, gentle with a little bit of urgency in it.
You don’t falter as the two men follow behind him towards the door, expression the same as Pope pauses to look back at you.
He offers you that same crooked smile, weakening your knees as you wave at him; “See you soon, Andy.”
You watch as the door swings shut behind them, Craig smacking a large hand across Pope’s shoulders and shaking him a little. Deran standing as far away as he can without stepping off the sidewalk in case one of them decides to swing. Pope doesn’t look at either of them, watching his feet as he digs for his keys.
The excitement of seeing him doesn’t waver. You just hope this time soon means sooner than last time.
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
Later that night you find yourself standing alone in the empty diner, scrubbing at the counter. The last customers had long gone home, the cook and other waitresses had cleared out. All you had to do was finish cleaning and lock up.
The sound of the front door bell ringing echoes through the quiet space. Even though you swore you locked it.
“We’re closed”, You call, not looking over your shoulder.
“I know”, A familiar voice says back.
His footsteps hit you right after his words, making you turn abruptly on your feet. You freeze when you see him standing there, just inside the front door. Fists opening and closing at his sides, eyes still scanning all the exits.
“Andy”, You breathe; “W-What’re you doing here?”
“Needed to see you”, He says, voice low.
He takes a few steps forward; “I can go if you want me to—“
“No!”, You blurt; “It’s-it’s ok.”
The streetlight from outside casts through the windows, panning over his face. Only then do you realize he’s hurt.
A nasty gash along his cheekbone, bruising under his eye and along the opposite side of his jaw. He looks tired; exhausted. Barely standing on his feet.
“Andrew”, You breathe, breaths ragged as you step up in front of him.
Your hands hover over his arms, then his face, not wanting to hurt him further but afraid he’ll slip away; “You’re hurt.”
Pope adjusts his weight, feet shifting below him before he’s reaching out for a chair next to him to steady himself. Your hands jut out quickly, bracing on either side of him to keep him steady. He grunts once, gripping at his side—but he doesn’t push you away.
“Oh my god, Andy!”, The words leave your lips quickly; “Come on, let me help you.”
You guide him to the counter, forcing him to sit down on one of the stools before hurrying towards the back. He looks around the empty diner, peaceful and quiet. The smell of your perfume lingering around him. If he wasn’t hurt it would be exactly like the way he imagined it earlier.
You return a few moments later, opening a first-aid kit on the counter. Something sterile in your hands as they hover over the cut on his cheek.
“This might sting a bit”, You warn him.
He hisses a little when the cold alcohol touches him, eyes pinching shut for a moment.
“Hey, keep looking at me”, You tell him, trying to get him to focus on something else.
Pope doesn’t hesitate, hazel eyes opening and wandering over your face. Wide and slightly blown with adrenaline and something else you couldn’t quite place.
“There you go”, You say softly, dabbing the alcohol gently against his cheek.
You pull back, searching for a bandage in the kit.
“What happened?” You ask, rummaging around a little quicker than you’d like.
“Just work”, He mumbles, eyes not leaving you.
You don’t have to ask to know what that means. You just keep searching until you find a butterfly bandage, peeling it open and gently placing it over the wound; touch gentle against his skin.
“Your friends seem nice”, You offer, trying to start up a conversation to keep him distracted.
“My brothers”, Pope says; “They’re ok.”
You chuckle softly, eyes flicking over his face; “Ah, makes more sense…They seem to care about you.”
Pope doesn’t answer, shifting a little in his seat.
Grabbing a new cloth, you move to dabbing gently underneath his nose; cleaning the dried blood there. Pope doesn’t wince this time, just watches you.
“I don’t think it’s broken”, You say, putting the cloth down; “Probably gonna be sore for a while.”
“S’okay”, Pope mumbles.
You furrow your eyebrows, hand coming up to rest against his jaw, thumb hovering over the dark purple bruise forming there.
“Does it hurt?”, You ask softly.
Pope leans into your touch, eyes flicking over your face before they flutter shut. Lashes brushing gently against the top of his cheeks.
“…A little”, Pope breathes, eyes slowly opening again.
You frown, moving closer until your face is close to his.
“Can I?”, You whisper.
Pope’s breath catches in his throat, but still; he nods softly.
So you press a soft kiss to his jaw, careful not to put too much pressure on the bruise. When he doesn’t back away, you move to his cheek; pressing a soft kiss just below the bandage. You can hear him breathing now, watching intently as you move again; pressing another soft kiss to the bridge of his nose.
Pope sits straight, impossibly rigid with restraint. Forcing his hands to stay at his sides, to not reach out for your waist and pull you closer.
When you pull back, it’s only a few inches. Enough to look in his eyes. The sound of his rapid heartbeat fills your ears. Consistent and thrumming. Matching the way his chest rises and falls. Your breath fans across his face, intermingling with his own.
His eyes are fully blown now; almost no glimpse of the whiskey hue left. Clearly wanting the same thing you do. But he holds himself back. His lips part a little, a soft breath escaping him.
“Y-You don’t want this”, He says softly; “I’m not good for you…my family—me, I’ve done bad things.”
You cup both sides of his face, thumbs smoothing across the smile lines by his eyes. You don’t move away.
“You think I don’t know who you are?”, You ask, making him furrow his brows; “People talk in Oceanside. I was told about the Cody’s a long time ago.”
He frowns a little, trying to wrap his mind around it; “So this whole time you’ve?—“
“Been getting to know you?”, You stop him before he can spiral, stepping a fraction closer; “It doesn’t scare me. I care about you, Andy. Not your last name.”
Something flashes behind his eyes, making them go soft. Still dark and full of want, but something else lingers there with it.
He finally lets go of his restraint, reaching out to settle his hands on your hips; pulling you closer. His nose bumps yours, breath hot on your skin as he desperately searches your face for any sign he should stop. But all he finds is you mirroring him.
He leans in with an intense ferocity, encapsulating your lips with his; pressing every feeling that had been growing in his chest the past few months into it. You startle for a moment, letting your brain catch up before kissing back with the same intensity. Pushing yourself closer and closer to him like nothing would ever be enough.
He opens his knees, letting you slot in between them; caging you in with his thighs—hands traveling up towards your ribs. Your hands find home in his curls; finally feeling the softness of them under your touch. You tug gently on the curls at his nape; a soft sound leaving his throat. You open your lips, breathing it in and letting his tongue in to dance with yours.
It’s breathless, your lungs burn. But all you can feel are his hands and lips against your skin. Burning from anticipation in finally breaking through whatever invisible walls had been set between you. Never to be seen again.
When you finally pull back to catch your breath, you find him staring back at you. Eyelashes fluttering open; lips pink and swollen and kiss-bitten.
He looks beautiful. Perfect. Like Andrew.
Freckles illuminated by the remaining diner lights, shadow sculpting his features. He brushes his nose against yours again, resting your foreheads together as he catches his breath.
“Been wanting to do that”, He breathes; “For so long.”
You smile; “Yeah?”
He nods in return, letting a crooked upturn take over his lips.
“I’m glad you finally did”, You say, fingers flexing in the curls on the back of his head.
You bite your bottom lip, looking up at him with wide eyes matching his own—blown out and wandering.
“So how about you show me that beach spot now?”, You say, nuzzling against him.
Pope laughs softly, hands settling around your waist and against your back.
“I can do that”, He says quietly, tongue poking out to lick his lips once.
Then they’re on yours again soft and heated, something so uniquely him underneath it all. Tongue swiping against yours, pulling you into his lap; your hands careful of his injured side.
You’re not sure how much time passes, how long you stay there in Pope’s embrace. Lips against each other’s like you’ve done it forever.
Pope leans into it, finally relaxing completely and letting himself be completely free. Completely himself with you. In the low light of the empty diner, he finds himself content where he’s at. Feeling like home. No jobs, no Smurf, no noisy brothers. Just you and him, like he’d been longing for since day one.
summary: you take care of lena, clean up around the house, and always leave dinner for him when he gets home late. and among constant and never-ending change, you are andrew's northern star.
pairing: andrew cody x babysitter!reader
word count: 13.3k
warnings: read carefully! age-gap dynamics, reader is said to have recently graduated college, i basically ignore anything from the show that wouldn't make sense in my perfect little world. smut—arm humping, oral sex, penetration, the tiniest bit of breeding if you squint real hard.
author's note: and here she is. also known as shea wants to write about doing things to pope's arms.
you used to complain if someone called you their nanny. you’re just a babysitter. this would not—could not—be your full time job. it’s just so demanding. you love the kids you take care of but the idea of saying that you’re a nanny makes it a little more real. like you wouldn’t be able to get out of this, despite how hard you’re trying.
you just don’t want to be a babysitter forever.
but the first time mister cody introduces you as lena’s nanny, you don’t think you mind it all that much.
babysitters are temporary—girls in high school looking for money to pay for coffee and nail appointments, covering date-nights and overtime at the office.
nannies are permanent—it’s a career. you’re responsible for the kid pretty much twenty-four hours a day. kids with nannies are rich, mom and dad too busy at work to be at home. from the little you deduced, nannies buy groceries and make three meals. they go to doctor’s appointments and organize play-dates with other nannies.
you do some of those things for lena. her uncle tries to take her and pick her up from school when he can, and when he calls to tell you that he won’t be able to make it every now and then, he sounds so sorry about it, you don’t know what you can do to reassure him that it’s okay. lena’s young, she doesn’t care about stuff like that so deeply. and she likes you, which helps matters a lot.
you had finished the last few classes you needed to graduate a couple months ago. before that, you’d have to tell mister cody no, i’m sorry occasionally, something that you really didn’t like doing. he seemed like he had enough going on without the babysitter cancelling.
and besides, after you had told him that your classes were done, you were supposed to tell him that you would be looking for a real job, something with your degree, that he should start looking for a real nanny for lena. you were supposed to politely, yet firmly allude to how you’d been scrambling with classes, finishing assignments in the car in between picking up his niece and after she’d fallen asleep at night. how you missed an important lecture because the pediatrician’s office was running behind an hour and lena’s grandmother wasn’t available to take her.
instead, the second you had met his eyes (which were terribly green and incredibly sad), you had folded, and told him you’d be available whenever he needed. and you thought maybe that would garner you a smile—and you’d been wrong. he had looked your way for about five seconds, muttered thank you, and walked away.
and maybe if you could resist those terribly green and incredibly sad eyes, you wouldn’t have wound up as a full-time nanny. life could always be worse—that’s the motto you’ve grown up with. there are so many worse things in oceanside than spending every day in a pretty house by the beach and taking care of a quiet little girl.
if not anything else, you could start making payments on your student loans, if you wanted. mister cody paid you in cash, and he paid you way too much, probably his way of apologizing for how much you had stepped up in the last couple months. but again, you didn’t really mind anymore. maybe if it was another family, you would care more about finding a real job.
but you like lena. you like her uncle, too, you think, as much as you can like a man who is virtually silent and stares at you like he’s boring into your soul when you’re making dinner. you like him because he’s good with her, you can always tell he’s trying his absolute best, his hardest with her. (it doesn’t help that he’s cute—cute in the way that strays are, like you wish you could fix everything wrong with him and reassure him that he’s doing enough, and tell him to stop staring and just come tell you what he’s thinking instead.)
the first couple months were the hardest. lena wasn’t eating, wasn’t sleeping. she hated school, hated all the things she had still cared for when her dad was alive. you’d tried bribing her with trips to the beach, the playground, ice cream with extra fudge and sprinkles. all the things that kids liked. but she wasn’t just a normal kid—and it seemed that you and her uncle were the only ones who understood this.
you didn’t realize you had such a maternal instinct inside of you. maybe it’s because the other kids you’d babysat in your life had been brats, sticky handed toddlers going through the terrible twos and making your life hell while you were trying to pass your classes. lena is the opposite.
she’s the saddest child you’ve ever met, and you know nothing that you or her uncle do is going to fix it overnight.
but progress comes in stages. the first step had been getting her to want to eat again. you’d sat on the couch next to her, watching a nature documentary that her uncle had probably left playing on the tv.
(he is a whole other can of worms—he doesn’t sleep or eat that much either, and one time you had come in really early to get some work done before getting her to school. he’d been awake, watching something just like this, at five-thirty in the morning. and when you’d asked him when he’d gotten up, he had shrugged, and murmured something that sounded suspiciously close to i don’t sleep. that’s your next mission, because you can only focus on one at a time.)
“you hungry, sweetie?” you didn’t want to be pushy. she wouldn’t like that, would only retreat further into herself. you wanted her to come to you when she was ready to eat. lena shook her head and focused back on the television. “okay. well, if you get hungry later, i’ll eat with you.”
lena says okay in her quiet voice, holding onto a stuffed animal and staring ahead. you wait a couple of hours—there’s always something to do in the house. you clean up, wiping counters and sweeping while she stays on the couch. you check in every now and then to make sure she didn’t fall asleep.
and then, thirty minutes before her new bedtime, she comes and sits on the chair by the dining table while you’re wiping it down.
“can we get pizza?” she asks, and you nod right away.
“of course we can. what kind do you want?”
another thirty minutes later, the pizza’s there, and you’re both eating slices of pepperoni and spinach. you’ve formulated your plan for the rest of the night—her uncle’s still not home, which means you can crash on the couch or stay awake. you decide to stay awake, since there’s no follow up text from him. if he wasn’t going to come home tonight, you’d expect the standard, concise message; won’t be back tonight. is lena okay?
and you’re stupid, because you think it’s sweet that he always asks if she’s okay. like you wouldn’t call him the second something went wrong, like he doesn’t believe that you’d trust him with that information before anyone else. but there’s no texts tonight from the contact you’d saved as andrew cody (lena’s uncle).
lena’s finishing her last slice and you’re cleaning up when you hear it—the rumble of his truck pulling up to the house. then a minute later, footsteps and the front door opening.
“what’s all this?” he asks, and you have to remember to find the words.
you don’t know why that happens when he comes around—you’re usually great with dads. maybe it’s because he looks tired, more tired than usual, at least. his copper curls are messed up, like he’s been running a hand through his hair all night. lena’s uncle is always stiff, but it seems worse today, somehow.
(another thought seeps in, an uninvited guest in your mind, about how you’d really like to take care of him. he just needs some sleep, a little peace of mind. that’s it. you’re still trying to figure out the best way to give it to him.)
“we got pizza, uncle pope,” lena fills in, setting down the last piece of crust you knew she wouldn’t finish.
“there should be enough for you,” you add, smiling at him. he doesn’t smile back, but you’re used to that at this point. and you can tell what’s about to come. “lena, can you go brush your teeth and get your pajamas on for me?”
she nods and climbs off the chair, running into her room.
“it’s past her bedtime,” he starts, taking a few steps closer to you. “and pizza for dinner-”
you interrupt him, even though you probably shouldn’t. you close up the box, setting it on the island and you go back to wipe the table.
“she’s not eating, mister cody,” you put the paper towel down, getting your bearings in order to face him, make the dreaded, never-ending eye-contact. “when kids don’t eat you have to meet them halfway. i thought this was better than her going to bed without eating at all.”
he keeps looking at you. you think you should be a little nervous, but you don’t get like that anymore. flustered, sure, but not nervous—lena’s uncle is just kind of a starer, and you’ve gotten used to it by now.
“i’m sorry. i’ll run it by you next time, i promise. i just wanted her to eat something.” he’s silent for a while, like he’s processing what you said.
“yeah. okay. thanks.”
you smile again, a small one. the kitchen’s clean now, or at least as clean as you can get it. you’re sure that when you’re back in the morning, it’ll be spotless, which you can only assume is one of mister cody’s nocturnal activities. you have a routine before leaving—you say goodnight to lena, make sure you didn’t leave anything behind, and tell her uncle you’ll see him in the morning.
he doesn’t normally say anything back, maybe a grunt of acknowledgement. so you’re surprised tonight, when you grab your bag and your keys and hear—
“have a good night.”
“you too, mister cody.”
+
it took time, but you’ve gotten her schedule better. she eats dinner with you now, whatever semi-healthy thing you can think of with the stuff in the pantry and the groceries you picked up while she’s at school. her uncle leaves money for that sort of thing—an envelope filled with hundred dollar bills. it’s labeled lena’s babysitter in stiff, neat handwriting and he told you to use it for copays and ice-cream and anything else that lena needs. but it feels wrong to use his money when he already overpays you, so you just use your own.
you thought he might not have noticed that the envelope isn’t getting any thinner, until one morning when you arrive and see him counting the notes in it with his head down. now you’re the one staring—watching his arm flex and the muscles move as he flips through the bills. he wears the same kind of shirts every day, short sleeve button-ups, and every day, you are subject to watch his forearms while he does whatever he does. it’s a cruel and unusual punishment.
the worst had been when you needed a box down from the cabinet, the one with the muffin tins and cookie cutters. he had appeared behind you and taken it down for you in seconds, carrying it to the kitchen for you. you had been staring then too, uncomfortable and slack-jawed and wondering why his arms had your mouth dry. (you know the answer, it’s just better to live in denial, you think.)
“good morning, mister cody.” you set your bag down on the sofa, heading inside to get started on breakfast. you open the fridge, taking out a carton of eggs and orange juice and avoiding looking right at him. you don’t need to be flustered before seven-thirty am.
“you haven’t been using this money,” he states. you wish you could figure out what his tone means—there’s no inflections, no emotion simmering behind the words. it’s just cut and dry, stating a fact.
“well, i-” you turn back and look up from the stove and your words die on your tongue. he’s standing up, looking right at you, a fist full of cash like he’s going to make you use it one way or another. a single vein running through his arms tenses. your gaze flickers from it to his eyes quickly, looking at you like he wants you to start listening to him.
“i, um, i had enough.”
“you should use it.”
“but you already gave me a lot, so i-”
“i want you to use it.” the way he says it, it’s not a request.
“right. i-i will. is lena awake?”
“she’s getting ready.”
“great. thank you.” you turn back to the eggs with a flushed face. and even though you’re not facing him anymore, you can tell he’s still staring at you.
“i might not be back tonight.” you turn around and meet his eyes again. terribly green, incredibly sad. you’re too far now to see the brown, but you know it’s there. “i…i’ve got some work. it’ll be late, if i do.”
“thank you for the heads up. i, uh, i’ll crash on the couch then.” you think he might say something else, but you’re not sure. it’s silent for a moment, while you get the eggs onto a plate and hurry into the hallway to get lena.
she comes out first, carrying her backpack. you follow with her hairbrush for once she’s done eating, getting her already packed lunch out from the fridge to sort into her bag. there’s a whole routine that you had learned when you first started babysitting her, and now it’s just a way of life. filling up her water bottle, checking the calendar on the fridge to make sure there’s nothing you’re missing, pulling her jacket from the closet if it’s cold outside.
you get the bottle out, glancing back at her uncle. he’s leaning in while lena takes a bite of the eggs, probably telling her that he won’t be home, and to have a good day, and all the other things you’re sure he says to her. then they hug, and you feel like you’re intruding.
he picks up his keys, which rest in the small blue bowl by the door where yours sit too. and without thinking, you call out after him.
“have a good day at work.” he doesn’t say anything back, but he looks at you before he leaves. you don’t even know what he does for work.
“ready for school?” lena shakes her head no like always.
+
the days are long, but the weeks are short. you bring lena to school, but they have a half-day, so there’s no point in going home for the day if you need to be back in a couple of hours. so you head back to mister cody’s place, focusing your attention on cleaning the remnants from breakfast. you check the fridge, making note of how much fruit and milk you have left, scribbling onto a piece of paper for later. and for once, you listen to him, taking a single bill out of the envelope and putting it into your wallet. there’s other hundred dollar bills in there too, ones you need to deposit.
it hasn’t been making sense lately. a lot of nannies live with their families because it avoids the wastefulness of paying rent for an apartment you hardly ever visit. you pay internet and electric for a one-bedroom that’s empty the entire day. and now that you’re done with classes, you don’t even need to work on anything late at night or even at lena’s house. you carry around a book with you, and you think you’ve even left a couple on the coffee table, just for the future.
you don’t know why you still have your apartment. well, you know why—mister cody has never mentioned you moving in. and he probably never will, because he doesn’t want you to. but it just doesn’t make sense the more you think about it. you show up between six and seven and sometimes you don’t go home until ten. sometimes you don’t go home at all.
after making your list, you rack your head of things you can do to occupy lena’s time today. the library has a weekly reading, and there’ll be other kids there. you like to pick things so she can get some company from kids her age, so she’s not only stuck with you and her uncle all the time.
closer to when school gets out, you get in the car, bringing in your emergency bag with a change of clothes and your toothbrush since you’ll be staying the night. it’s not an entirely uncommon occurrence, which is why the bag, and a couple others like it, is always ready to go. you go to the bank first, depositing everything except the single hundred-dollar bill you took today. then you drive by the park, see if they’re having any of those pet-therapy sessions today. and then finally school to pick up lena.
the rest of the day goes how you planned. you forget how exhausting it is keeping a little kid entertained for hours on end, unsure of exactly what her uncle pope and his brothers do with her sometimes, when you struggle to fill up a couple of extra hours. the grocery store—where you splurge and buy ingredients to make stove-top smores because lena asks and you’ll take your wins where you can get them—then the library, where you take out a couple of books for lena to read at home and smile when she’s talking with some of the other girls there, then the playground for an hour, before home for dinner.
you make spaghetti while she finishes her homework, and review her homework while she changes into pajamas. and then it’s time for the routine she loves so much, just like her uncle, a nature documentary about penguins while you toast the marshmallows on a fork.
an hour later, lena’s asleep in bed, and you’re scrubbing hardened chocolate off the counter next to the stove. you don’t want more work for her uncle when he’s back, and you’ve learned lena’s a heavy sleeper, so you get to cleaning. it’s not like, as pathetic as the thought is, you have anything better to do.
and then about two hours after that, it’s eleven-thirty. it’s right around the latest that mister cody has ever come home, so you’re pretty sure he won’t be back tonight.
the only thing you have to look forward to in your apartment is the shower you take after a long day. you’ll have to make do with the shower inside the room where mister cody sleeps, since lena’s is close to her room and filled with products for an eight year old, and at the very least, you need adult shampoo and soap.
the room is bare—you would have guessed it’s a guest room if you didn’t know better. you’re not nosy, but you look around, trying to see if there’s anything there that makes the room her uncle’s. you know there’s still another bedroom, the one her parents used to share, since lena sometimes goes in there when she can’t sleep. so this was a guest room, and now it’s mister cody’s, and now you’re lurking in it.
besides for a closet full of clean-pressed button up shirts and organized shoes, you can’t discern anything that makes this room his. there’s not a single thing out of place, from the garden-variety decor that someone else had picked to the artwork to the sheets. the bathroom is more of the same, the entire place having that lemon-cleaner smell to it.
you turn the water on and strip, trying to avoid thinking about how you’ll be sleeping on the couch after this. and even inside the shower, you stare at the two-in-one shampoo bottle and the old spice body wash—old spice. who would have thought?—like you can’t believe what you’re looking at. you inhale the scent for longer than you need to. wrap yourself in a clean towel that doesn’t belong to you. brush your teeth with his spearmint toothpaste. and then you open your overnight bag, and find nothing but sundresses and bathing suits.
it’s past midnight, and you’ve grabbed the wrong bag. you need to get up in about six and a half hours to get lena ready for school, and you’re not positive you have the correct bag in the back of your car.
hesitantly, you open one of the dresser drawers. there’s black and white t-shirts folded precisely, tucked in evenly. one drawer up there’s folded socks and boxers.
you chew on your cheek. he did say that he won’t be home tonight. there’s no way he would know you took anything if you ran a load of laundry as soon as you woke up and folded it after morning drop-off. he might not even be home until the afternoon or evening, for all you know.
your tiredness makes the decision for you. the couch isn’t that comfortable, and you refuse to sleep in the shirt and jean skirt you spent all day in. you take a white shirt and black boxers, and then sneak back in for a pair of black socks because the living room is cold at night. and then you set your alarm, turn on another documentary—this one about hummingbirds, wrap yourself in the throw blanket on the couch, and close your eyes.
andrew comes home at quarter to three. it would have been a lot sooner—he doesn’t like leaving you alone here at night with lena if he can avoid it—but he doesn’t always have control over it. a bullet had grazed deran and he’d spent two hours cleaning up that mess, and then they had to organize their splits before leaving. he had to make sure to stay for that—he needs the cash to pay you, rent for baz’s place, money to put into lena’s savings account.
but he hates leaving you alone in the apartment with lena. not because he doesn’t trust you, but because he knows now it’s not safe, not without him there. he likes to get you home early but it’s rarely the case, and then he feels like he should pay you extra since he’s making you drive home alone in the dark.
telling you to stay is a better option. you can sleep in his room—it’s not like he’s going to sleep in there anyways. but he doesn’t say that, doesn’t need the nanny thinking there’s something wrong with him too. so he settles for telling you to stay the night, and letting you decide where you’ll sleep.
you always pick the couch. and sometimes, he’s not back early enough, sometimes you’re already up making breakfast or gone out for the day with lena by the time he’s back.
but tonight, you’re asleep on the couch. he sets down the bag with the cash on the couch, hovering over you. the television is still on, stuck on a are you still watching? screen, covering up a photo of some birds. a breath leaves him when he realizes you’re watching what he always watches. you’re knocked out—he can tell since the front door opening didn’t wake you like it sometimes does. you’ve kicked away the blanket you usually use, and he thinks for a second he should just cover you up and let you sleep.
but he doesn’t. he stands over you, staring at your sleeping form. he doesn’t like it—how pretty you are when you sleep. it’s a distraction that he can’t escape, knows that the next time he closes his eyes, he’ll think of you. that the next time he sits on this couch, he’ll be able to smell your skin. you snore softly, chest rising and falling evenly.
and then he notices it—the plain shirt, black socks with a familiar logo. are those his boxers? and now he definitely can’t look away. he puts the pieces together—your hair is wet, meaning you must have showered and then put on his clothes before coming back out here. if you were going to do all of that, why didn’t you just sleep in his room?
yes, pope decides, he needs you to sleep in his bed. he needs the couch anyways, since he won’t be sleeping, so he might as well bring you inside.
he lifts you carefully, not wanting to stir you accidentally. his shirt is a little big on you, hanging off your shoulder. you stay sound asleep the entire short walk to his bedroom, not stirring even when he sets you down. you must have been really tired, but that makes sense, given the fact that you’ve been out all day with lena.
he thought about sticking a tracker on your car, but the first time he was taking care of lena, after baz, you had shared your phone’s location with him so he could keep track. you had offered it, voluntarily, saying something about how that’s common with babysitters now, and that you never go anywhere without your phone so he won’t have to worry about you leaving it at home.
you thought reassuring him that he would always have lena’s location in his phone would make him feel better. and maybe it had, but he’d never mentioned it again after that day, never brought up if he actually checked it or not.
(it’s not like you would know if he was using it, it doesn’t work like that. deran had explained it to him.) he did check it, pretty frequently, actually. he checked it after you’d leave when he got home, after lena was asleep. he’d watch your little circle drive home and pull into the parking lot of your apartment complex. it wasn’t as bad of an area as it could be, but it wasn’t that safe either. he liked to check it every now and then too, middle of the night, saturday evenings when he was home with lena and you got to leave early or had the day off.
he assumed, somehow, that you’d be in bars or parties at your college, maybe. but when he looks at your location late at night, you’re always at home. he checks other times too—but he’s just trying to keep you safe. (that’s what he tells himself—that finding another babysitter than lena liked and that he trusted would be a hassle. he needs to keep you safe.)
but it doesn’t seem like you like any of that stuff. he’s never seen you drink the beer in the fridge, though you offer one to him every now and then. you’ve met smurf and deran and craig before, like when you’d go to drop off lena before one of your classes, back before you had finished school.
you were smart—he knew that much. that was the kind of good example he needed around lena, someone who had gone through school and finished. he didn’t know what your degree was in, but it must’ve been something smart, something important. you were always typing on your computer and reading books. whatever it is that you studied, he wants someone in lena’s life that can help her with that stuff, stuff he doesn’t know much about, when it’s time.
you were smart enough to turn down every joint or bump that craig offered. you never accepted a drink from smurf that didn’t come from a can that you opened yourself. and baz used to tell him that you were just a local college kid, that you didn’t have any family nearby or anyone to occupy your time, really.
it didn’t make sense—pretty girl like you. he would have thought you had a boyfriend, but if you do, you’ve never brought him around. and if he didn’t live with you or live at that coffee shop you liked that was down the street from your apartment, then he didn’t know if you even had one. maybe he shouldn’t spend any time thinking about your hypothetical boyfriend, but that’s just what comes up sometimes when he thinks about you for too long. like right now.
you look peaceful lying in his bed. your eyes flutter quickly like you’re having a dream, and he sits on the bed next to you, watching you sleep. your hair falls across your face, and his finger twitches. he almost moves his hand to brush the hair away, but he decides not to, settling for just watching you for another minute or two.
the bed creaks slightly when he gets up. no one uses it much, so it’s a little weary. he doesn’t think the noise is anything, but your eyes blink open. the door’s open, light from the living room illuminating a sliver of the space.
he thinks he should get out before you can ask any questions, but he doesn’t, hovering over the bed while you look around.
“andrew?” and god if it doesn’t sound different coming from your lips. you’re too tired to remember that you usually stick with mister cody, which is so formal it hurts. it sounds real, sincere, not filled with fear or anger or anything else. you haven’t even said anything and he thinks he’s losing his mind.
it’s just the way you say it. there’s no question attached, no demand, no sacrifice. just you, making sure it’s him.
“that couch is bad for your back,” he says.
he knows it is, the couple times he tried to lay down and stare at the ceiling. he’s always sore, muscles screaming and joints aching but he knows how to ignore it. he doesn’t think you should start feeling like that. feels angry at the very idea that you would be sore after spending a night on the couch, taking care of his niece, looking after baz’s house. doing all the things that he’s too busy to do.
you take care of things. you do a good job too—figuring out how to get lena to eat and sleep again. making sure her routine doesn’t go awry just because he’s gone on a job all day. you remember things that he doesn’t even know about—activities with kids after school and how the school has soccer practice starting soon. you think a couple steps ahead when it comes to lena, and sometimes, he doesn’t think you see it as a job.
like when you make enough breakfast for the three of you. leave dinner on a plate inside the microwave with a note on the counter. when you clean like it’s your house, make sure things stay in the place they’re supposed to, which is so much harder when there’s a kid around. he’s not stupid—it’s why he gives you so much money each week, shoves an envelope into your hand despite your protests. why the first thing he does after he gets his cut is make sure you get yours.
and as hard as the thought is to swallow, he doesn’t think he could do all of this without you.
“mmh-” you agree, making a soft noise. he wishes he could engrain it into his brain and replay it whenever he wants. “i thought you don’t sleep?” you ask, and he sees your lips turn up into a smile. he wishes the lights were on.
“i try,” he replies, realizing that he’s still hovering over you. he wonders why you weren’t scared the moment you woke up. “sometimes. i try.”
“do you wanna try now?” you ask, whispering. and he goes silent—because what is he supposed to say that?
you reach out in the dark for his hand, and he flinches, taking it back. but you don’t retreat, reaching out again until you’re grasping his fingers.
“try for a couple hours. i set an alarm,” you say, and the way you say it, it doesn’t sound like a bad idea. you have a way of convincing him, or maybe it’s just late and you’re tired, and your sleepy voice isn’t helping matters. nor does the fact that you don’t seem even remotely concerned that you’re inviting him to come sleep on the bed next to you.
you sit up a little, and he regrets even staying as long as he did. you need your sleep, unlike him. you’re still holding onto his hand, and your skin is warm on his. it couldn’t really be, but it feels like it’s burning his, where your palm rests against his, where your fingers twist with his.
“hey,” you start, slow and soft. “don’t think about it. just sleep for a little.”
“yeah,” he says. “okay. a little.”
you move over, and when he lays down—back straight against the mattress, staring up at the ceiling—it’s warm where your body was resting. you’re still holding onto his hand, not letting go. your grip is loose enough that he could free his hand easily, and even if it wasn’t, he could overpower you if he wanted.
but he doesn’t want to. and somewhere between your slow breaths and how you rub his knuckles, running your soft skin against dozens of old scars—because that’s his punching hand—andrew falls asleep.
you can hear it, his breaths getting steady, evening out. your hands stay together in the middle of the bed, between you, and you wonder for a split second how you’re going to deal with this in the morning, how you’ll make sense of this in daylight. the semblance of a professional relationship you had maintained this entire time might turn into dust in a couple hours. and then you breathe in andrew’s comforting scent, clean linen and saltwater, and fall back asleep.
the best thing about this house is the light and the waves. golden rays pour in through the half-way open blinds and you can hear the ocean crashing against the rocks in the distance. it’s the perfect way to wake up, even if it is six-thirty and your alarm is going off in the living room, where your phone must be.
you need to get up. you don’t want lena to wake up from the noise, even though you know she won’t—that girl can sleep through anything. it’s a problem for when she’s older, when she goes to college and there’s no one besides a roommate to make sure she doesn’t miss class. even half-asleep, you smile thinking about it.
and somehow, when you look on the other side of the bed, it hits you that it wasn’t a dream. andrew is asleep next to you, still in whatever clothes he was wearing throughout the day. a short sleeved button up and pants. you’re surprised that he didn’t fall asleep with his shoes on.
he looks very calm when he sleeps. the lines of tension on his forehead and around his eyes are soft when he’s like this, his hair a mess and cheek smushed against the pillow, against your hand.
he’s still holding your hand. it makes a certain kind of warmth rain all over you, flooding you from inside out. he’s on top of the covers and you’re under the throw blanket, and you don’t remember doing that, which means that he did.
an exhausted, half-asleep andrew cody covered you up before he fell asleep on top of the covers. he fell asleep holding your hand and your chest hurts because he won’t wake up holding it still, since you need to go turn that stupid alarm off.
he never sleeps, you know this. he’s never been asleep when you show up early, never heading to bed when you leave for the day. this bed is pretty much always made, sheets never rustled and not a pillow out of place because no one sleeps here. you hope you can start changing that.
you don’t want to pull your hand away from him. it’s so simple, so sweet that you can’t bring yourself to do it. that this whole time, andrew just needed someone to sleep beside him. you rest your head back on the pillow, continue staring, creepy as it is. you’ve never been able to study him like this before, have never been close enough.
the hand holding onto yours is softer than you’d imagined. the veins running through his forearm are thick and tense, even when he’s like this. you think it might be from how tightly he’s holding onto your hand, like even in his sleep he’s worried he might lose you somehow.
andrew cody has freckles—all across his arms and on his hands too. there’s a splatter of them across his nose and cheeks, places where he must have gotten burnt as a kid, maybe when he was lena’s age. the tips of his ears flush pink while he sleeps, and he snores. all things that make you smile, things that are so personal you feel your face getting warm, like you shouldn’t have access to that information.
you need to turn that god-damn alarm off, before it wakes him up. you think you’d rather die than disrupt the few hours of peaceful sleep he’s getting right now. so you wriggle your hand, trying to find the best way to get it out of his grip and make sure you don’t wake him in the process. nothing’s working, even in his sleep he’s thrice as strong as you. the generic alarm tone keeps going in the background.
you lean in, pressing a chaste kiss to andrew’s cheek, whispering that you promise to be right back. and for a split second he moves around, and you regain control of your tingling hand.
the bed creaks a little when you get up, but you do it slowly so it’s not too loud. walk to the couch as fast as your bare feet will take you, looking down and realizing you’re still in andrew’s socks.
(his shirt and boxers too, but you’re choosing to ignore that for now. if someone walked in through the front door in this moment, it would look like you and him were something other than a guardian and babysitter. you think you’d actually enjoy trying to see him explain to his brothers why you’re in his clothes head to toe. you might like this more than you think you did.)
you can hear the ocean again once the alarm is turned off. it’s a beautiful thing to wake up too, you think, pulling open the curtains and looking outside on the street. people are on runs, doing yoga on the beach, watching the sunrise with their dogs.
and inside, andrew cody is sound asleep.
the first part of your day is waking up lena. she grumbles and takes five, sometimes ten, minutes to get up after you go in there. in that time, you set out clothes for her and then head back to the kitchen. you have a habit of making sure her backpack has everything—the colorful pens she’s always telling you about and yesterday’s homework. if she forgot something at home, the school would call andrew, and then andrew would call you, and you hate adding more work to his life. so, you make sure it’s all there before she leaves.
then breakfast—eggs and toast if you’re running late, pancakes if you got there early. it’s seeming like a pancake sort of day.
you make the batter and then pull out the bag of chocolate chips and head back to lena’s room. you use the semi-sweet morsels as an incentive to get her up, which works like a charm. while she’s changing and brushing her teeth, you make three pancakes. two for lena, and the first one you peeled that’s never quite as good is for you.
lena comes to the table to eat her pancakes, and you tell her to stay just a little quieter than usual because her uncle pope is still sleeping.
“really?” she asks, and you feel something inside of you twist in discomfort. as if you had imagined before you met him, maybe he was sleeping, that maybe this was something recent. you smile at lena.
“yeah, sweetie, really.”
you bring lena to school, come back home, and check on andrew—who is still sleeping. you cover him up with the blanket you’d slept under and then make three more pancakes and some scrambled eggs. there’s no bacon in the house or you would have made that too.
you scribble it on the grocery list and then head back inside the bedroom, carefully perching yourself on the edge of the bed and maybe a little too comfortable, too quick, run your fingers through his messy hair. he sighs against the pillow and it makes you smile immediately. you keep going, fingers not stopping until you see his eyes fluttering open. you don’t want to make him uncomfortable, though you don’t want to stop either.
“i made breakfast,” you say quietly. andrew looks up at you, and then to your slept-in side of the bed. he moves, sitting up in the bed and you take back your hand tentatively. his hair is soft like you’d imagined.
he wipes his face with his hands, rubbing at his eyes. and when he looks at you, you feel any prudence that once was inside you melt away. well-rested, sleepy andrew cody, waking up in the bed you shared last night, while you tell him about the pancakes you made for him. you couldn’t have imagined this, for some reason, which makes it feel all the more real.
“what time is it?” he asks, in a gruff, sleepy voice.
“almost nine, i think.” he looks up at you quickly.
“lena?”
“i brought her to school already. you-you were sleeping. i didn’t want to wake you.”
“when did you get up?”
“six-thirty. my alarm. remember?” you do remember telling him about it before you fell asleep, one of the last things you had said in a conversation that feels like it was light-years ago.
“yeah.” you know better than to expect anything right now. he’s always been quiet, sentences curt and expressions relatively blank. you’ve had a few hours to simmer in it—think about what’ll happen tomorrow and next week and what it means to sleep in the bed next to the man whose niece you babysit. he just woke up a few minutes ago.
“well, there’s pancakes. and eggs. there’s no bacon but i’ll go get some later-”
“did you eat?” you catch his eye. perched on the bed next to him, you can see more than just green. brown too, around his pupils. not nearly as sad as they had seemed yesterday.
“yeah. i had one.”
“just one?” you don’t have an answer for that, but unusually confident, you stand up.
“i’ll have a bite of yours if you come eat with me.”
and though you couldn’t have imagined it last night, you end up leaning against the counter with andrew, splitting bites of chocolate-chip pancakes (yours drenched in syrup, his comparably dry as a bone), and luke-warm scrambled eggs.
he washes the dishes, and you put them away. it’s incredibly domestic.
“i’m sorry about your clothes,” you say, sliding a plate back into the cupboard. “um, i’ll wash everything today.” you had to bring it up at some point.
and then andrew turns to look at you. head to toe, he stares, gaze flicking up and down for what seems like eons. you don’t have a guess for why, maybe he’s trying to decide if he’ll accept your apology.
(he’s trying to memorize it, capture it like a picture in his brain, seal it up and hold onto it forever. how you look right now—his white shirt, with nothing underneath, which must be why he can see the outline of your breasts when you turn to put another dish away. his boxers, that you bunched up around your waist, his socks, one rolled up around your ankle and the other halfway up your calf. did you go to the school drop-off in his clothes, too?)
“and i can wash your jacket too, i’m sorry. it was kind of cold and i don’t know where my hoodie is. i-i’m sorry.”
he turns to look at you again. you seem worried, chewing on your cheek, waiting for his answer.
“don’t wash the jacket,” he says, and turns back to the sink. he doesn’t want it to stop smelling like you, but you don’t need to know that.
“yeah. sure. i won’t. sorry again, andrew.”
his heart thuds in this chest at the realization that you might never go back to calling him mister cody.
the two of you finish the dishes. he wipes up the counter while you put away lena’s things, and then he grabs his keys and puts on his shoes. you stand there watching, feeling awfully close to something like a wife watching her husband about to leave her for the day. and when you open your mouth, you can’t stop it from coming out.
“do you know when you’ll be back?”
“i’ll be here for dinner. can you pick up lena?” he doesn’t want to leave you, but there’s about ten texts and three missed calls on his phone that he needs to deal with. when he shrugs his jacket on, it does, in fact, smell like you. it might be enough to keep him calm the rest of the day.
“yeah, of course. well.. i’ll go start the laundry.” a vision of you peeling off your—his—clothes plagues his mind momentarily. “i’ll see you later?” you say, smiling hesitantly.
and without thinking too much about it, andrew comes up close to you, leans in a little awkwardly, and kisses your forehead.
“i’ll see you later.” he leaves you there in his shirt and socks, blinking stupidly at the door.
+
andrew does come back for dinner. you make an attempt at chicken parm at lena’s request, which really just turns out to be a sort of chicken parm-casserole situation, but lena likes it and the garlic bread tastes good, so you will call it a win for now.
while you’re simmering sauce and frying the cutlets, your mind flicks through everything you know about lena’s uncle. he’d never once been anything but nice to you—nice is one way to put it. polite is another. courteous, appropriate, reserved.
one night you had been waiting for him so you could leave, and he’d come home with lena’s other uncles. you had introduced yourself and smiled nicely, and when you left and gotten into your car, it hadn’t turned on. you remember debating if you should go back inside or just call triple a and wait, but somehow, andrew had known something was wrong. he had come out a few minutes later, told you that he would drive you home while his brother stayed at home and that he’d be back in a minute.
he’d dropped you off at home and told you he’d come get you in the morning. and you had slept anxiously that night, wondering what was wrong with your car and how much of a disturbance it would be to andrew to come get you.
but after the two of you had dropped lena off at school—again, disturbingly domestic—he brought you back to the house. and without any words at all, he worked on your car while you sat and watched. you held a flashlight when he needed it, and he said it shouldn’t happen again when he was done.
and you guess that’s the kind of man andrew cody is.
true to his word, andrew comes home in time to eat dinner with you and lena. after dinner, since it’s friday, you let her have a brownie and a half, the ones you’d made earlier that day. you have one too and you offer one to andrew, but he shakes his head, and you’re only mildly disappointed.
you haven’t been home, so you’re wearing one of the dresses from the wrong overnight bag you’d brought here. (your disappointment goes away when you notice that he hasn’t stopped staring at your exposed thighs since the minute he walked through the door.)
lena watches a cartoon before bed and you try to clean up the rest of the kitchen, but it’s hard, since andrew’s done most of the leg-work already. he tucks lena in and you gather your belongings—and true to your word, you did laundry and put his clothes back in the exact place you found them.
(you did steal another pair of socks, but you hardly think he minds now. he kissed you goodbye this morning like he was actually your husband, or something, and every minute you spend in this house washing dishes and scrubbing counters next to him is not helping. he stares at the straps of your dress like he could slip them off your shoulder with his mind, like it’s the only thing he’s thinking about. you don’t mind.)
“she’s out,” he says, coming back into the living room. you’re sitting on the couch, knees tucked to your chest while you change the channel to one of those documentaries you’ve been so fond of recently. you turn to smile at andrew and he comes and takes a seat next to you.
“that’s good. i can go soon.” but you make no effort to move, staring at the screen in front of you. this one is about sea-life, shades of blue flooding ahead of you both.
“you can stay,” andrew says, quiet like always. “if you want.” his voice is deep and gravelly, and the words he says scratch an itch somewhere deep inside of you, and the relief is visible on your body. you sink a little further into the sofa, knees falling next to andrew’s, thighs touching.
“if that’s okay with you.” you whisper it, as if saying it too loudly might make the entire idea crack open and fall apart.
you two stay like that for a while. you don’t know when, but andrew swings an arm around your shoulder, and you rest your head against his chest, collapsing into his comfortable grip. you can hear his heart beating, can feel every breath he takes. his hand brushes the top of your shoulder every time you breath, and his other hand is clasped with yours. you watch schools of fish and pods of dolphins, and you think that any other night, you could fall asleep like this.
“andrew?” you ask, still staring straight ahead. you brush your fingers over his knuckles like you had done last night, and you can feel his hand tense under your touch, until it finally relaxes. “do you want to go to bed?”
“yeah, kid,” he says. “let’s go to bed.”
and you’ll be damned if the domesticity doesn’t kick you in the stomach, sucker punch you in the chest and knock all the wind out of you. andrew turns the tv off, puts the remote back in the right place. and then he picks you up, and you make a quiet noise of surprise, underestimating him momentarily. you should know better.
one hand wraps around your legs and the other around your back, bridal-style (fitting, you think), and he sets you down on the creaky bed. you worry, how loud it’ll be and how you’ll have to be quiet but then andrew hovers over you, nothing but a tiny lamp brightening up the room, and you lose your train of thought.
“you sure you wanna do this?” he asks, that rough voice again. like you’ve thought about anything else for the last twenty-four hours. you nod quickly, bringing your hands to his chest, and then his arms, fingers tracing the sinewy veins and thrumming muscles up and down on both sides. his eyes shut while you do it, breaths getting heavy and deep. but you keep going—it’s only fair. you’ve only thought about it a million times.
“does that feel good?” you whisper, and he lets out a quiet, almost painful groan.
“y-yes,” and you smile, fingers moving on their own while you lean in for the kiss you’ve been waiting for.
andrew’s mouth is hot, and his kisses are like fire. as soon as your lips touch, he pins you all the way down, his body weight on top of yours. he kisses you the same way he had held your hand last night, the same way he held you on the couch, like you’ll slip away if he stops for even a second. your lips start to ache, but you moan quietly into his mouth, letting him swallow them while you still stroke his arms. one day, you’ll crawl into his lap and play with his hands until he’s sick of you, but today, you need to feel him.
you can’t do much from your position, but you can wrap your legs around his waist, one hand going towards his chest to pull at his shirt. he takes it off in one motion, yanking the fabric at the back until it comes off, messing up his hair while he pulls it. your free hand goes there, running through his hair again. you use it to steady yourself, gaining leverage while he keeps kissing you like there’s nothing else for him to do. like his life depends on it. he thinks it just might.
“an-andrew,” you get out in gasps, moving your mouth away for a second. “i need to breathe,” you pant, but he doesn’t stop, kisses your cheek and your jaw and buries his face in your neck. you feel the skin there between his lips, then his teeth, and you grip hard on his arm while he keeps going. you want him to keep going, you want to see the marks he leaves tomorrow and every other day. you want everyone to look at you and know that he’s the one who left them. and you think your wish is about to come true.
your fingers let go of his arms and he groans against your skin—there’s no words but you know he didn’t want you to stop. instead you guide them to both sides of his face, staring up at him and then bringing him back in for another kiss. you think you’d be perfectly content to do this forever, that you could spend hours, days, weeks in bed kissing andrew cody. that you’d be stupid to ever leave this bed, leave this house, when there’s a man here who kisses you like each touch of your lips is a prayer, like he’s here to worship.
he’s not hesitant anymore, not wondering if you’re going to pull away and walk out and ask to pretend this never happened. you keep your hands on his face, and then work down to his jaw and neck, clasping your arms around to keep him in place.
and his mind is empty. he thinks he should know what to do with you, with your labile body flush against his, all the things he’s been thinking about for the last months, if not at least what he was thinking since this morning. you’re still in your little dress, one of the thin straps fallen over your shoulder and dangling on the skin of your upper arm. he pulls away and you whine, another noise he wishes he could capture somehow. it’s a melody, one he wants to keep hearing.
you wish he hadn’t stopped the kiss, and you expect him to lean right back in after you both catch your breath, but he doesn’t. andrew’s hovering over you, eyes fixated on your shoulder, staring intently at the strap of your dress.
“andrew?” you whisper, the hand on his neck rubbing the tense skin there, wondering if you could get your kiss back. “is something wrong?”
his lovely eyes flicker up to you, staring while you swallow and wait patiently. maybe you’d been too eager, maybe he was having regrets—after all, you’re the nanny and he’s the dad and maybe you’d been too presumptuous in assuming that he wanted you as badly as you wanted him—
“no. nothing’s wrong.” you sigh a tiny breath of relief, it comes out before you even notice. but andrew is nothing if not perceptive, and he wraps his hand around your back and lays you back on his bed.
“why did you stop?” you question, flustered and embarrassed as the words come out, sounding like a spoiled child. but you suppose you had been spoiled these last few hours, getting everything you wanted—his hot touch, breathless kisses, the ability to finally see what the veins on his arms feel like under your palm.
he doesn’t answer your question, just flicks his eyes back to your shoulder. and then he leans in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the end of your collarbone, tracing more kisses down through the length of your shoulder, stopping when he reaches the skimpy cotton of your dress. you take deep breaths, watching it happen in front of you. he repeats the same with the other side, pulls the strap down like he’s unfolding a gift, kisses your skin like you’re his present. and you think you are.
there’s nothing between you two except your thin dress, and you pull on it eagerly, trying to get it off, when his hands come and stop on top of yours.
“you’ll rip it,” andrew says, fingers going towards the zipper in the back, undoing it slowly.
“i don’t care,” breathless, eager, unable to wait even another minute to get what you want. he pulls the zipper all the down, your dress falling off as your shrug out of it.
and you want another kiss, you want his touch, you want something, anything—but all you get is andrew staring at your naked body. and you think somehow this is worse than anything else, anticipation burning in your belly painfully. your thighs feel sticky and sore and your underwear is soaked through. and all he’s done is kiss you.
“you’re perfect,” he says quietly, and you feel your entire face burn hot. you don’t think you’ve ever felt like this before—and you know how andrew is. he doesn’t lie, he doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean.
you tilt your head up, pressing your lips to his for a moment, a soft kiss in contrast to the ones from earlier.
“so are you,” and you kiss him again, smiling against his mouth. he feels it, though he doesn’t smile back. and when he pulls away, he looks down at you, naked and willing in his bed, smiling up at him and telling him he’s perfect, when you don’t even know half the monster he is. “you are,” you repeat, watching andrew’s eyes as he thinks a million thoughts in his head, carries a million burdens on his shoulders. “even if you don’t believe me. i think you’re perfect.”
you feel cheesy saying it, though you know there isn’t another man in the world who needs to hear it more. you can hear him make a noise of protest, like he doesn’t think you mean it, and incredibly desperate for him to believe you, you sit up.
your hands go to sturdy shoulders while you try to get him to move, until he’s sitting back against the headboard and you can crawl onto his lap. he’s silent, watching you as you do it, exposed body flush against his skin, and yet, you don’t feel scared. you don’t feel embarrassed, or worried. you just want to make him feel good.
you start with a kiss to his jaw. andrew’s body tenses under yours, the slightest bit of contact making him groan and buck up, his hands tight on the soft skin of your waist to keep you both steady. you work your way down to his neck, pressing kisses everywhere in your path.
“do you want to know what i’ve thought about you?” you ask, though you don’t wait for an answer. you kiss down his chest, stopping at the strong muscles of his chest and the old bruises and scars that cover some of them. “i thought that you’re so good at taking care of your family.” you move down to his abs, more kisses, hearing more noises from andrew that you never would have thought he would make for you. he takes shuddering breaths, not replying to you but grunting from pleasure while you keep going. “i thought that you’re so good to me. that i don’t have to worry since i know i can always come to you.” you think of your car and the money he gives you and how you woke up in bed despite falling asleep on the couch.
finally you make your way to the waistband of his jeans, undoing the belt with surprisingly steady hands. he reaches down, his hands covering yours for a moment, but you stare up at him with your glassy eyes, not even pulling the entire belt off, just enough to get you what you need—what you want. and then you undo his zipper, tug down his boxers, and take his girthy length into your hand, stroking up and down while still staring up at him.
“can i take care of you, andrew?” and you don’t realize how it must sound to him, his head thudding back onto the pillow. you press a gentle kiss to his leaking tip, both hands wrapped around his dick and stroking while you wait for your answer.
“y-yes, yes-” and you don’t wait any longer, taking as much of andrew into your mouth as you can fit. you drive your mouth up and down, your hands twisting around the base, everything wet and warm and sticky from your spit. and you think you would do this forever, that you would do this everyday if you could hear the noises he makes and how his body takes the pleasure you give him. you gag around him, feeling his hand snake into your hair, pulling you off gently. you smile up at him, though you’re sure you look like a mess, hot tears running down your cheeks and lips shiny and wet.
but you don’t stop—licking up and down until you bring him back into your mouth. you can feel how embarrassingly wet you are right now, can feel yourself leaking onto your thighs and the sheets, wanting friction as badly as you wanted to make andrew feel good right now. and then you hear it—andrew’s moan, louder than any of the other noises and full and from the chest. he bucks up into your mouth and you take it, ready to hear what he sounds like when he finishes, when he pulls you off of him.
“andrew—” you whine, as though you were the one about to come. he pulls you up, naked bodies pushed against each other, and kisses you until you feel light-headed.
“not until you do,” he murmurs, and you feel dizzy all over again.
“but i’m not done,” still eager to kiss the rest of his body and tell him how good he is, until he starts to believe you. you wrangle out of his loose grip, knowing full well if he wanted to stop, he could have. he could pin you down and do whatever he wanted to you and you wouldn’t be able to fight him, a thought that makes you feel like you’re going to faint. but you resume quickly, starting at his shoulders—stopping to admire all the sunspots spattered there—and starting your journey again, working down his bicep and to his freckled forearm, the ones you stared at whenever the opportunity presented itself, the one you thought about all the time.
andrew doesn’t know about that, and you’re not sure you can bear to tell him. it feels too revealing, despite how you’re naked on top of him, your breasts pressed against him and wet pussy on top of his hard, leaking dick. but sure—that’s what you get nervous about.
you stop and trace all the veins with your fingers, feeling him pulse underneath you, repeating on both sides. he’s got his head tilted back, soft groans filling the empty space between you as you keep going. if they’re this sensitive for him, you can only imagine what it would feel like for you, especially the one leading down to the middle of his wrist—and then the words slip out before you can realize you had said them out loud.
your face goes hot again. he looks up at you a little confused, and you have to stop yourself from collapsing and burying your face into the pillow next to you.
“andrew?” you ask, shy and embarrassed and yet not stopping yourself at all.
“you… you like my arms?” he says, and you feel your face heat up.
but so many things have happened already that you couldn’t have even dreamt about twenty-four hours ago, so you think it’s worth a shot. (that’s a lie. you have dreamt about this, so many times that you’ve woken up in your bed covered in a cold sweat, that you’ve burned through a vibrator and ruined pillows imagining what it would be like to rub yourself against his veiny arms. you guess you’re about to find out).
your fingers trace the length of them again.
“i like everything about you,” you say quietly, understanding just how silly you sound. “but we don’t have to do anything.” you try to cover your tracts, worried you’ve just messed up the incredible time you’ve been having so far littering his body with kisses and feeling butterflies in your cunt from the fact that andrew will be inside of you soon.
“how would you-” andrew starts, and you watch him carefully as he gets out the next few words. “do it? how?” and it’s just cut and dry way he speaks, though it’s really going to your head (and other places) right now.
“well, i-”
“show me.” oh.
you feel yourself pulse and throb in response to his words. even below you, you can still feel how hard andrew is. you try to start positioning yourself, but you must be moving too slowly for him, and you feel his hand on your ass, grabbing you and pushing you up to his chest, face to face. he lays his arm next to you, watching your naked body as you try to balance yourself between it, his free arm on your hip, keeping you steady.
when you lower yourself, just an inch or two, just until you feel the ridge of his forearm and you can decide what to do after realizing that you are, in fact, doing this, andrew curses under his breath.
“fuck, you’re so wet.” he can feel it. feel you, on his arm, leaking, for him. you take a deep breath, pressing your hands against his chest to keep your balance, moving your hips up and down slowly. and your eyes flutter shut because fuck, if it isn’t better than every fantasy you’ve ever had.
you hadn’t known that your pathetic attempts to recreate this at home would have never lived up to the real thing, and now you realize you’ll never be able to go back to anything else but andrew, that no one else could make you feel this way. months of pent-up desire leave your body as you rock yourself against him, finally getting the stimulation you’ve been craving.
when you open your eyes, just for a second, you see andrew, his eyes glued to where your pussy meets his arm, his breaths heavy and deep, like he wouldn’t look away from the sight before him for anything.
and then you feel the veins rub against your clit, and your eyes roll back into your head. you keep going, trying to muffle your moans and sighs, but you can’t get the image out of your head—andrew staring at you, like he wanted this as much as you’ve wanted it, like he needs to see you cum like this. you start going faster, the friction and the slide from your juices making it easier and the veins rubbing at you just the right way—
he leans in, putting one of your peaked nipples into his mouth, flicking his tongue against it, before letting go and repeating the same with the other one. but it’s really when andrew starts talking that you’re pulled over the edge, his hand hot on your back.
“please,” he says, and you feel yourself falling into it, hanging onto every raspy word, so much better than you could have ever dreamed, “-i-i need you to cum for me. i need to feel you, i need to see it, please-”
and you do. you always listen to andrew, all the white-hot tension wound up in your belly releasing, flooding your entire body with the relief you’ve been wanting all night. your body tightens up, stopping, but he moves you with the huge hand on your hip, makes you rub on him all through it, pulling your body like you’re a toy for him.
your mind is empty while your toes curl and uncurl, thighs aching and sore in this position. andrew ushers you towards him, and you collapse on his chest, heaving and sweaty and tired—and the realization hits you that he hasn’t even been inside of you yet.
he kisses you while he has you trapped in his arms, your eyes shut as you breathe him in, moan into his mouth and let him swallow it.
“y-your arm,” you get out, realizing you’re not speaking in coherent sentences. “i’m sorry-”
“why?” he asks, and you shut up instantly. “didn’t know you liked them that much.”
he laughs quietly, a sound you have only heard a few times. you laugh against his chest for a moment, before pulling him in for another kiss. this time, it deepens, and he gets you on your back in front of him before he pulls away. you stare up at him, mind empty and chest heaving, seeing how his eyes stay on your tits, and you reach up, putting your hands on his chest while he hovers over you.
“it might hurt,” he says, and you feel your entire body tighten, your walls clench at his words. there’s nothing but truth behind his statement—it’s not meant to be arrogant or boastful, he’s warning you. it’s going to hurt, you know it is—you could barely fit half of him in your mouth and it took you both hands to be able to comfortably stroke him.
but the way he says it elicits a fire in you, and suddenly you need him now, no matter how much it hurts.
“i don’t care, andrew, please,” you beg, staring up at him. he still hovers, licking his lips and staring at your how tits bounce while you beg him to fuck you—a thought that he cannot process, even with you splayed out in front of him. he brings his arms out, fingers teasing your sensitive nipples until you’re covering your own mouth to avoid being too loud and you think you’re going to black out. (even in the dim light you can see the shine on his forearm from you, and the memory of it takes over your mind like a twister.)
“i have to stretch you out first.” the words possess your body like a demon. andrew takes your knees and spreads them apart, and no matter how hard you try to close them, you can’t compete against him. when he slides in one huge finger, your eyes roll back. he slips in so easily, the noise is obscene. the second finger goes in just as quickly, but there’s more resistance. two of his fingers are at least three of yours (if not more, you think, and then you want to faint again). the stretch is delicious, your pulsing walls realizing that this has been what you’ve been craving all along. that no toys or pillows or fingers of your own could ever compare.
when he slips a third finger in, he doesn’t change the pace. just keeps pushing them in and out of you like you’re a toy he’s testing the limits with, seeing how much you can take before you break. there’s no instructions for you besides to sit back and take it—and your toes curl and your head spins at how good he feels. the stretch hurts, but you want it so badly, you hear yourself crying out and saying incoherent things. you think you see andrew smile from where he is, watching your cunt suck his fingers in, his entire hand coated in your juices.
and when he hovers over you, bringing his tip to your entrance and prodding against you for a moment, you think you’re in heaven. he’s so flushed, tips of ears and his cheeks pink, sweat coating his body, just like yours. you can only imagine how hard he is, how you’ll get to feel how hard he is soon enough. his eyes stay at your pussy, pushing in, just barely, but you need more. you bring your hands to his arms, holding onto him while he slides in, and when you feel him push all the way in—so much bigger than you could have imagined, three of his fingers is nothing compared to this, nothing, nothing, nothing—he’s on top of you and kissing you.
whatever noises you make are tuned out—your ears are ringing and you can’t hear anything besides andrew’s grunts and moans as they come into your mouth. you keep kissing him, pulling on his lower lip and feeling his tongue on yours, but your entire body goes slack when he starts on a brutal pace, pulling all the way out and slamming into you. the bed is creaky, and the only noise besides it is the obscene one—the squelch of your soaking wet cunt taking andrew all the way, the repetitive slap of his skin meeting yours. you feel everything—the pressure of his hands while he holds you incredibly tightly, the fullness in your cunt that makes it feel like you can’t breathe.
and then andrew kisses your lips and makes a noise that makes you leak even more, and you know you’ll be just fine.
“i-i want-” he starts, and you feel him slow down the pace slightly.
“please, andrew,” you beg, and he resumes, fucking into you with an intensity that reminds you how badly he wants you, how long he’s wanted this. it reminds you of every time you caught him staring, every time you smiled at him wondering what he was thinking. and now you think you know—maybe he was thinking about something like this.
“i want another one,” he says into the skin of your neck, feeling him lick the sweat there and kiss the skin. “i want to feel it while i’m inside-” and god if you can’t comply. you want to do every single thing he tells you for the rest of your life, you don’t want to make another decision without andrew cody.
he changes the position, pulling out of you for a second and making you whine again. (spoiled, you think, he’s spoiled me for anyone else forever.) he holds both of your knees up and spreads them wide and wraps your arms around them, keeping them in place. and then he slides back inside of you in one swift movement, making your eyelids flutter shut. he doesn’t get right on top of you, leaving space between you that makes it impossible to lean in for a kiss, and you keep whining, impossibly and irrationally angry that you can’t kiss him, wondering why he wants you like this, when you feel his fingers circle your clit slowly—then quickly.
your head falls back onto the pillow. andrew can feel you pulsing around him, walls clenching every time he rubs your sensitive clit, and that’s what he wants, that’s what he needs, wants to feel you cum around his dick and squeeze him even tighter than you are right now. wants to see how you look completely fucked out, wants to see if you can give him a third. (he’ll get it, he decides, later. he’ll give you a chance to breathe, get you water after this. all the things he would do to take care of you, just like how you deserve, how a husband would take care of his wife.)
because at the end of the day, isn’t that what you two basically already are? you couldn’t be a girlfriend, because you have to get comfortable around a girlfriend.
no, he thinks, watching your fucked-out, flushed body take him like you were made for it. you already know him, know what he likes and doesn’t like, know how to make him feel good like you had been inside of his head already. you have been inside. you’re all he thinks about. that’s a wife, that is something that is forever, what the two of you have.
he doesn’t realize how hard he’s going, how fast, or how you’ve been squealing with your entire body tensing while he was stuck in his thoughts about you. this time when you finish, it explodes through you, the electric current staring from your core and spreading to every finger and toe. you jolt, legs shaking and head heavy, the after effect rolling through you while andrew keeps fucking you, keeps going even though he should probably stop. you’re incoherent, writhing and crying and feeling completely numb and like your entire body is burning all at once.
and when you blink open your watery eyes at andrew, smile sweetly and reach out for a kiss, one that he happily gives you, you say it quietly.
“i love you, andrew.” and you feel his thrusts stutter, his body weight almost collapsing on you. you feel andrew cum, feel it filling you up while you listen to his quiet moans and run your hands over his tense muscles, saying sweet things that he can barely understand in this state.
he rolls over minutes later, not pulling out until you were done kissing him. the room is filled with nothing but your heavy breaths. you need a shower, and you need to sleep.
you curl up on andrew’s chest like you had been on the couch what felt like a lifetime ago. you play with his fingers and he runs his other hand up and down the expanse of your arm. you can hear birds outside—and you know you need to get up soon, but you can’t find any words.
“you think that was enough?” andrew asks, and you look up at him with a confused expression. he looks at you with so much sincerity you feel like crying. your andrew.
“what do you mean?” you ask quietly, still not sure what he’s even talking about. your head is spinning and your eyes are tired—every part of you is tired.
“we can go again after you get some sleep. it might take more than once.”
“andrew?”
“you don’t have to worry about it. i’ll figure it out. i won’t stop until i put a baby in you.”
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was it ever fake? — jack abbot x fem!reader
You and Jack unexpectedly meet at a friend’s wedding weekend. Jack starts a game of pretend-relationship out of boredom. And that’s it…right?
warnings: fake dating trope, one bed trope, 18+ mdni, smut, mutual pining, masturbation (f), p in v sex, shower sex, unprotected, wrap it before ya tap it, not proofread at all, slight voyeurism, fingering, breeding kink if you squint, age gap implied-not specified, reader is a fellow, Jackson Avery cameo, purely self indulgent, fluff, just a feel good fic
a/n: I made a vacation fic for Robby and have been dying to make one for Jack, so this is it. And I wanted to make two parts, but I figured one very long one would be better soooo enjoy!
wc: 8.6k+ ok this one got away from me a bit
masterlist
moodboard from my side blog: hatoslay
Day one
A whole weekend to celebrate marriage. You smile to yourself when you see the wedding invitation, thick ivory paper, embossed with gold leaf and tied with satin ribbon, with your friend’s name and her soon-to-be husband; Amy and Harry. When Amy first mentioned she was inviting you to the wedding, you said yes without hesitation, you just didn’t expect it to be a weekend long wedding.
Your cab rounds a hill, revealing a secluded five-star resort hotel tucked between towering pines. The stone pathways are lit with fairy lights, and the air smells like lavender and fresh earth. Amy’s always wanted her wedding to have an enchanted forest theme, and it looks like she got it.
You step out of the cab and are immediately greeted by hotel staff.
“Welcome,” one of them says with a polite smile. “May I have your last name for check-in?”
You walk to the counter and give your name, soaking in the view of the forest from the grand lobby. That’s when you catch a glimpse of a familiar profile just a few feet away, checking in as well. His broad shoulders and back is unmistakable.
“Jack?”
The man turns. His brows lift when he sees you. “You’ve gotta be kidding.”
A smile pulls at your lips. “Nice to see you too.”
He laughs, slinging his weekend bag more comfortably over one shoulder. He’s wearing a simple, dark henley, jeans, and boots, and you curse yourself for how long you’re staring at his forearms. “What are you doing here?”
You gesture toward the resort. “I was invited. My friend Amy’s getting married. We’ve been close since high school. You?”
“I was Harry’s attending for a few years.” He says, “we go on morning runs together.”
You both stand there, processing. “Well,” you say, “small world.”
“You here alone?” he asks.
You nod. “Yeah. I figured a three-day wedding was too much for a plus-one.”
You actually don’t have anyone to ask.
“Yeah… same,” he says.
You adjust your jacket and glance up at him. “Well. Looks like we’re each other’s only familiar face this weekend.”
Jack glances at you sideways, a smile playing on his lips. “Could be worse.”
Just then, the check-in staff hands over your key cards, and you go your separate ways, promising to catch each other later at night.
The first night of the wedding weekend is a casual dinner, just something to help everyone unwind after the long drive. There’s no assigned seating, no pressure, just softly lit tables scattered across the area and the low hum of laughter and clinking glasses.
You scan the crowd and spot Jack near the open bar, standing with his hands in his pockets, waiting on a drink.
You smooth your dress—wait, why? Your brows furrow. It’s just Jack. You work with him every day. You’ve seen him elbow-deep in trauma, yelling over chest compressions, running on three hours of sleep.
But you’ve never seen him like this. Standing there, wearing a nicely fitted navy button-up, the sleeves casually rolled past his elbows, the fabric pulls across his chest when he crosses his arms, and a glimpse of veins and muscle you’re trying very hard not to stare at. The light hits his hair just right. He looks…too good. Your mouth suddenly feels dry.
You swallow and start walking before your thoughts get any more dangerous.
He looks over just as you approach. “You look great.” Jack compliments.
“First time seeing me not in scrubs, Jack?”
He smiles, glancing away for just a second, “No, but not like this. You look beautiful.”
You feel your cheeks flush. “Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself.”
You’re about to order yourself a drink when Jack’s already flagged the bartender down. “Margarita, extra salt?”
You try to hide your smile. “Yes, please.”
It was months ago, when Shen made attending and everyone’d gone out to celebrate. You didn’t plan on getting drunk, so you stood back with Jack. He noticed your empty hands, then made it a game: guess your favorite drink by your expression alone. You ended up sharing ten drinks between you, laughing harder with each one, until he got it right—margarita, extra salt. You’d both been drunk by the end, but you’d remembered the way his eyes crinkled when you called him a sore loser. You’d remembered that night more than you probably should have.
And he hasn’t forgotten.
“You still remember my drink.” You point out.
He smirks, “Hard to forget when it took me 10 guesses.”
“And one hell of a good time?” You offer.
“With you?” He chuckles. “Always.”
You and Jack spend dinner at a small table for two, the buzz of the crowd fading into background noise. It’s the first time you’ve really talked—not flirted, not exchanged sarcastic quips in between traumas, but talked. About life outside the hospital. Your childhood. Books he reads when he can’t sleep. The way you like your coffee. How you both hate the same podcasts. It's easy and warm, and a little addictive.
You’ve never seen this side of him before. It makes it harder not to like him more than you already do.
It shouldn’t feel like this—any of this. But it does. Like a date. Like a weekend away together for a couple in love. You catch it in the way his eyes keep drifting to your lips, the way he hovers protectively when guiding you through the crowd, the quiet smiles he gives you when no one else is looking.
Whatever this is, it’s not just you. It’s different for him, too.
You’re in the middle of a conversation about some travel mishap of his when you hear a familiar squeal.
“Oh my God, you made it!”
You stand to greet your friend—Amy, glowing with excitement, bouquet swapped for a champagne flute. “Congratulations,” you beam, hugging her tightly. “Amy, I’m so happy for you. And this wedding? It’s like a Pinterest board came to life.”
She laughs, squeezing you back. “I’m so glad you’re here. And I want to let you know, if I’d done bridesmaids, you’d have been first on the list.”
You smile, touched. Meanwhile, Harry’s pulling Jack into a bro-hug.
“Wait,” Amy blinks, looking between the two of you. “You know Jack?”
“He’s my attending at PTMC.”
“Small world.” Harry comments, and Amy squints, connecting the dots. She glances between you and Jack, then grins like she’s just solved a puzzle.
“Wait a minute—are you guys… together?”
“Oh n—”
“Looks we’ve been found out.” Jack cuts in smoothly, sending you a wink.
You give him a questioning look. This was never something you talked about or planned, so you think he’s trying to pull a prank on you, or… nothing. You have no idea what’s going on.
“OMG since when??” Amy gasps.
“Only been a few months. Nearing a year.” He says.
A year???
Amy bumps your shoulder, “And you didn’t tell me?? I could’ve put you guys in one of the bigger, nicer rooms!”
“I—I…” You stammer.
“I suggested not to tell anyone,” Jack saves you. He somehow sounds like he has this all planned out. “Didn’t want to risk her reputation, you know.”
Harry nods understandingly. “Right, especially with your exams coming up.”
You chuckle nervously, “Ah, yeah… still need to take the exams.”
“You’re gonna do great.” Amy clasps your hands, “You’re the smartest person I know, you’re gonna ace it.”
You smile, flustered but grateful. The conversation turns to easier things—honeymoons, the venue, the resort spa—and eventually Amy and Harry are off to greet the next table.
“What the hell?” As soon as they’re gone, you turn to Jack with a half-laugh, half-glare. “So we’re in a relationship now?”
He leans back in his chair, fighting a grin. “Figured it’d be a good way to make the weekend interesting.”
You blink at him. “You couldn’t have warned me?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” he says, taking a slow sip of his drink. “Besides… you didn’t say no.”
You want to argue—but you don’t. So you just try to hide a smile behind your margarita and look away.
The night winds down quietly. Amy’s sister plays a photo montage of Amy growing up, meeting Harry, and their early years together, while Harry steps up to thank everyone for coming. The staff announces tomorrow’s rundown: free time until 5PM, when the ceremony begins in the garden, and then gently ushers everyone to get some rest.
You and Jack are making your way back toward your rooms when Harry catches up to you, grinning.
“Hey,” he says, handing you a small card. “Quick thing.”
You blink, taking the card. Your brows immediately pull together.
“What’s this?”
“An upgrade,” Harry beams. “Amy and I moved you guys to one of the nicer suites. It’s bigger, better view. Our little gift.”
Your stomach dips. “Oh no, Harry—seriously, that’s really sweet but we can’t—”
“Come on,” he waves a hand. “Let me do this. For my wife’s best friend,” he says to you, then claps a hand on Jack’s shoulder, “—and for my greatest mentor. You’re both our dear friends.”
You glance at Jack, silently begging him to say something—to fix this—but he looks just as stunned.
“Harry—” Jack starts.
“Nope,” Harry cuts him off, walking backward with a grin. “Already moved your bags. Enjoy!”
He disappears before either of you can stop him.
You and Jack stand there for a moment, staring at the spot where Harry had just been.
You turn slowly. “We’re terrible people.”
Jack lifts a brow. “We? You didn’t exactly stop me back at dinner.”
You gape at him. “You said we were dating out of nowhere! What was I supposed to do?”
He smirks. “You could’ve denied it.”
“I was stunned! You lied so confidently I thought I had missed something.”
He chuckles and starts walking again. “Come on, let’s check out this palace we’ve been gifted.”
And you find out soon enough—he wasn’t exaggerating.
The suite is beautiful. Massive windows overlook the forest, soft yellow lighting glows from fixtures built from stone and wood. There’s a sunken living room with a couch, a cozy fireplace, a soaking tub the size of a car, and one king-sized bed with silk sheets and pillows you could drown in.
You both stop in the doorway, silently taking it in.
“Well,” Jack says after a beat, setting the key card on the entry table, “this got out of hand fast.”
“No kidding,” you mutter, though your disbelief is already turning into laughter. You sit on the edge of the bed like it might still vanish. “This your idea of a fun weekend?”
Jack undoes the first buttons of his shirt, shrugging. “Hey, I said interesting. Didn’t say how.”
You shoot him a look. “One bed.”
He nods. “I can take the couch if you want.”
You grab a pillow, chucking it at him. “You better not hog the blanket.”
You’re not scared of sharing a bed with Jack. He’s respectful, responsible—he’d never do anything to make you uncomfortable.
What you’re scared of is yourself.
Because you can’t deny the attraction. Not when he steps out of the bathroom in just a pair of low-hung sweatpants, his dog tags resting against his chest. His skin is still dewy from the shower, his hair slightly damp and curling at the ends. You try not to stare, but it's a losing battle.
And to make matters worse, you only packed the nice nightwear. Silky, a little sheer, a bit too short. You’d brought it thinking this weekend would be a quiet getaway. A solo indulgence. But clearly, plans have changed.
It’s awkwardly quiet.
“So…” You start.
“So.” He sits beside you. Still no shirt on. “I’m sorry I got us into this mess.”
You smile, sitting up a little. “A great view, a nice bathtub, and silk sheets? I wouldn’t call this a mess.”
Jack lets out a quiet chuckle.
You glance over at him, then down—he still has his prosthetic on. “You don’t take it off when you sleep?”
He hesitates. “…You don’t mind?”
“Of course not.” You furrow your brows. “I’ve seen you take off your leg multiple times at work.”
“I guess… but this is different.”
“How?”
“…I don’t know,” He pauses, “It just is.”
And you kind of know what he means, but you don’t address it. Jack makes sure you’re okay with it once again before leaning forward and taking his prosthetic off. He groans in pain, and so without thinking, you reach over to help.
Jack’s breath hitches when he notices you climbing over your side of the bed and is massaging his leg. And then he sees what you’re wearing. A satin, violet nightgown, with lace decorating the hem and bust area. Spaghetti straps hang delicately off your shoulders, the fabric brushing high along your thighs. His eyes linger, his mouth slightly parted.
You feel his eyes on you. It’s only then that you realize—oh. You’re practically on top of him in this thing.
“Don’t judge me.” You mumble, “I thought I’d have a room to myself.”
“’M not.” He grunts.
That’s when you notice his flushed face, his grip on the sheets, the way his eyes flicker down your body and then guiltily back up. Your heartbeat quickens—he likes it. Maybe even wants it. You.
You move back to your side, dragging the covers up to your chest, and Jack follows, shifting under the covers, trying to will away the heat still buzzing under his skin and in his pants.
“So,” you say, trying to focus on anything else, “we’re going to have to keep this up the whole weekend?”
Jack nods. “At least to the just-married couple.”
“We’re gonna have to get them a gift from us. This room must’ve been expensive.”
He chuckles. “You’re right about that.”
“Well, we’ll be stuck with each other the whole weekend anyway.” You say. “Shouldn’t be too difficult, right?”
Jack lets out a slow breath, trying to calm the way his pulse is racing. “We’ll manage.”
You pause. “We should probably, I don’t know… practice. So we don’t look awkward.”
He glances at you. “Practice?”
You raise an eyebrow, heat crawling up your neck. “You know. Just in case they’re watching. A kiss or two might sell it.”
Jack is awfully quiet.
“I—I mean, we— forget it.” You stammer, “I was just—”
He turns to you and leans in, eyes never leaving yours. And you’re surprised, but you don’t pull away. You close the space first, just enough to brush your lips against his, soft and uncertain.
His hand rises to your cheek, deepening the kiss. He tastes like mint and something warm, and your heart feels like it’s exploding. His thumb brushes your jaw, his mouth tilting against yours, and you barely suppress the small sound that rises in your throat.
You don’t know who breaks it first, but you part—just barely.
“…That was…” Jack starts, voice low.
You breathe out, “Convincing?”
He huffs a soft laugh. “Yeah. That’s one word for it.”
You both lay back down after that, still facing each other.
He brushes your hair behind your ear and whispers, “We should get some sleep.”
You blink, caught off guard. “Right. Yeah.”
You both shift under the covers. Careful not to touch, even though the warm feeling is still there in his skin. On your lips.
Jack stares at the ceiling, then turns to look at you, your back now facing him, your breathing shallow and uneven.
None of you can sleep, wondering how the hell you’re supposed to get through the rest of the weekend pretending as if any of this doesn’t mean something.
-----
Day two
Thankfully, Jack is not a blanket hogger.
But you are.
Sometime during the night, you must’ve robbed the covers like a seasoned thief. Because now, Jack is half-wrapped around you, as though he had to burrow under the blanket you hogged to survive the night. One leg hooked around yours. One arm draped across your ribcage, his hand resting just under your breast. The other curled under your neck like a makeshift pillow—how did that even get there?
His chest is warm and solid against your back. He’s still asleep, his breathing even, slow. His nose is near your temple, breath fanning lightly against your ear, and it takes every bit of willpower not to shift. Not to look.
Your heart, however, is pounding.
You need a cold shower. Immediately.
So you slip out of his grasp as quietly and quickly as you can, running to the shower. You immediately turn on the cold water setting, but it doesn’t help the itch between your thighs.
You try to force your mind away. Think of something else.
Work. Traumas. Codes. Blood. Bloodied gloves. Jack's hands in gloves—fuck.
You groan. Your hand wanders to where Jack’s was a few minutes ago. Just under your breast. If he had just gone up a bit… just slightly brushing your nipple, and squeezing, and pinching—you bite your lip and sigh.
Against your better judgment, two of your fingers lower to where you need it most, a small hiss escaping you as you relieve the tension. You touch yourself like you imagine he would. His rough, padded, calloused, experienced fingers toying with your clit. How he would absolutely tease and bring you over the edge just from them.
You sigh, rubbing your clit in figure eights, your other hand pinching and squeezing your breast. Your fingers move lower, quietly cursing to yourself as you feel how wet you are. It’s all for him and he’s not even here to see it. You insert one finger in, then two, and you wonder if two of Jack’s fingers would feel similar. You know it’s not the same. Your fingers curl to hit your spot, and your head hangs forward, thumb circling your clit to chase your release.
You come quickly. Easily. But it’s hollow. You’ve done this yourself so many times, and it’s just too easy for you to come. But it’s not what you want. It’s not what you need. A mere release from your fingers isn’t enough… but it’ll have to do. For now.
You finish showering and wrap yourself in one of the hotel’s bathrobes. You were in such a rush you forgot a change of clothes. When you step out of the bathroom, Jack’s already up—still shirtless, coffee in hand, standing near the window and looking out at the forest.
“Morning.” You offer.
He smiles, “Morning. You got up earlier than me.”
“That surprising?” You raise a brow.
“I’m usually an early bird.”
You towel your damp hair as you move to the vanity table. “Must’ve been really comfortable, then. Maybe the cuddling helped,” you say lightly—despite your own reaction to it—watching him in the mirror.
Jack chuckles. “I’m not the one who hogged the blanket.”
“And I guess I was just helping you sleep.” You smile, as he shakes his head. “So, what’s your plan for the day?”
“Breakfast,” he says easily. “Then maybe I’ll check out that heated pool. Care to join me?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Good.” He saunters over to you, surprising you with a lift of your chin, and pecks you lightly on your cheek. “For practice.”
And then Jack disappears into the bathroom, and you think you almost died. He’s playing with you. Teasing you. He probably knows what he does to you—and oh, Jack Abbot… two can play that game.
You rifle through your bag for something to wear. Your fingers hesitate on the safer choices… then drift toward something else.
It’s cheeky. Flirty.
But you wonder… how far can you push him before he finally cracks? Before he lets go of his self-control and gives you what you really want? So fine. You’ll wear something cute. Maybe just a little sexy. Just enough to stay innocent, but more than enough to keep you in his head all day.
A cute sundress. Spaghetti strapped, short, just enough cleavage and thigh, and most importantly, no bra. Why would you? You’re headed to the heated pool. You’ll be changing into your red bikini anyway. Your very red bikini.
You smirk to yourself.
You’re finished doing your hair just as Jack steps out wearing shorts, and a loose white linen shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, collar open enough to hint at his chest. The man knows he looks good.
“You can swim with your leg?”
“It’s waterproof.”
“Fancy.”
“Didn’t pay for it.” He chuckles. “Ready to go?”
“Mm-hm.” You hum, bending over in front of him to put on your shoes. You can hear him curse behind you. “Ready.”
You turn to face him, and bat your eyelashes innocently, “Something wrong?”
Jack’s jaw clenches and he reaches for the key card. “…Nothing. Let’s go?”
You’re still smirking as you walk out the door—Jack trailing a step behind, and probably hating how much he’s staring.
Breakfast isn’t crowded. It’s still early—most guests are probably sleeping in, nursing hangovers or enjoying the quiet. Which is why, as you sit across Jack at your table, you dare reach over for the jam—anyone behind him would be able to see that you’re not wearing a bra. And Jack—poor Jack—almost chokes on his orange juice.
“Christ.” He coughs, eyes wide, flicking from your chest to your face like he can’t quite believe what just happened. And then a twinkle of playfulness, like he’s saying: It’s on.
You pretend nothing happened, spreading jam all over your bread and taking a bite.
Jack watches you like a man possessed. Then he leans over the table. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth slowly.
“Missed a spot,” he murmurs.
And then he sucks his thumb clean.
Your jaw drops.
It seems like you’ve silently created a game of who will fold first. And you’re both damn competitive.
Jack clears his throat, changing the topic. “Can I ask you a serious question?”
You raise your brows. “Of course.”
He leans back slightly, watching you. Not with the usual flirt or challenge in his eyes.
“How are you still single?”
The question catches you off guard. You blink, caught somewhere between flattered and exposed. But you try to cover it. “Such a serious question.” You deadpan.
He doesn’t smile. “I mean it. You’re smart, funny, beautiful, and… I don’t know, you’ve got this… thing.”
“I’ve got a thing?”
He gives you a small smile. “Like you know exactly what you want. And it’s damn attractive.”
You pause, a piece of bread halfway to your mouth.
“Wow,” you say. “I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me over eggs and toast.”
Jack chuckles, but his eyes stay on yours. “Still waiting on the answer, though.”
You take your time answering. Spread a little more jam, chew thoughtfully, anything to delay the way your heart’s pounding in your chest.
You take a deep breath, letting yourself open up a little. “I guess…” you start slowly, setting your knife down. “Most guys say I’m too much. They like the flirting and everything, but when things actually become real… they kinda just want the flirty and sarcastic me.”
There’s a beat of silence between you. Jack’s still looking at you—he’s known to have a staring problem, and now you see why. You won’t lie, there’s a part of you that wonder if Jack would be one of those guys. If he just wanted the flirting, non-commital chase. Maybe he’d rather pretend none of this happened when you’re back in your regular, ER lives. The thought scares you a little more than you’d like to admit.
You add, a little lighter, “Besides, you think I’ve got guys lined up just because I can make a joke and wear a dress without a bra?”
Jack’s smirk returns, but his voice stays low. “No. I think guys like the idea of a challenge—and then punish you for having standards. I think you’ve been waiting for someone who actually sees you. Not just the version they want you to be.”
You pause. His words hit harder than you expect.
“Maybe.” You say. “It’s hard to find a man like that.”
“Not as hard as you think.” Jack simply says.
You sit with his words for a moment longer, chewing on your lip.
Then, maybe a little shyly, maybe to level the playing field, you ask, “Can I ask you something?”
Jack nods, already know what you’re going to ask.
“Why are you single?” you ask, tilting your head. “You’re handsome, funny, albeit a little annoying…” you add, smiling, “That should’ve landed you someone by now.”
It’s not a teasing question, not really. You already know about his past—about the wife he lost, even if you never asked for details. But you’ve always wondered. Jack could’ve had anyone. So why… no one?
Jack’s smile fades—not completely, but just enough for you to notice. His gaze drops to his coffee, thumb brushing over the rim of the mug. “I think I just stopped looking for a while.”
You nod, quietly.
“And when I did start again…” He trails off for a second, fingers tapping lightly against his mug. “No one really felt right. Not in the way that makes me want to stay. Or try.”
“And are you?” You regret the moment that left your mouth so quickly.
“Am I what?”
Too late to back out now. “Looking for someone.”
He holds your gaze a second too long. “Yeah.”
And suddenly, breakfast doesn’t feel so light anymore.
The pool is a little crowded, but it wasn’t bad. Some kids are in the pool playing, adults are on the other side just enjoying the warm water. Jack comes back from the bathroom already shirtless, ready to soak in.
“Try not to stare too much.” He whispers to you.
“You’re the one with a staring problem.” You bump his shoulder before going to change.
Jack watches you go, running a hand through his hair. His mind drifts—Are you? Looking for someone? Your question keeps looping in his head.
God, the number of times he’s almost asked you out is countless. He’s been drawn to you since Shen’s “congrats-you-made-attending” party, when you both downed ten drinks in the booth and you told him everything. You might not remember all of it, but he remembers every second. How you laughed without holding back. How you leaned on his shoulder like it meant something. How your eyes lit up when you talked about what you loved—he hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.
There’s a glow in you that he wants to protect. Feed. Watch grow brighter.
But he always holds himself back. Because he’s scared if you think he might be too old for you. Not anymore. This weekend sums it up. He’s going to ask you out by the end of the week. By tomorrow.
As he watches you walk back to him, his resolve almost breaks right there. Because now he’s seeing you, in a glaring red bikini, making your way to him and time seems to slow down, it’s like he’s watching Baywatch. He has to swallow the saliva pooling in his mouth.
“Try not to stare too much.” You tease him.
He groans audibly into you, his head resting on your shoulder. “You’re trying to kill me.”
“I would never.” You fake a gasp.
You go into the water first before Jack follows. You thought Jack would be a little uncomfortable, with everyone looking at him for a longer second, some even doing a double-take because of his leg, but he seems fine with it.
You, on the other hand, seem to be glaring at everyone who looks at him a certain way or whispers after.
“Don’t worry.” Jack chuckles, “I’m used to it.”
“Doesn’t make it right.” You mutter.
He smiles at that. The water’s not too deep, so you just stand on the side, watching kids splash water around each other, some are crying, and you glance at Jack.
“You ever want kids?”
Jack turns to you, the corners of his mouth twitching before he gives an honest answer. “Used to. Not anymore. Not really. You?”
You shrug. “I only want it if my partner really wants it. Our jobs don’t exactly make it easy to have family.”
He snorts. “Spot on.”
You lean back a little, water sloshing softly around you as a kid cannonballs nearby. Jack lifts an eyebrow at the splash, brushing droplets off his face.
“I honestly think I’d be a bad parent.” You admit. “I wouldn’t know what to do if my kid is misbehaving.”
He sucks in a breath, “Well, seeing how you are in the ER… I don’t think the kid would even think about misbehaving.”
“Hey!” You hit him lightly and Jack laughs.
“Kidding.” He smiles, “I think you’d be a great mom. You’re strict, but you care.”
You roll your eyes. “Sure. You flirt like this with all your co-workers?”
And so the game continues.
“Only the ones I like.” He smirks. “And what’s your excuse for this red, hot bikini?”
You raise a brow, trying not to show how fast your heart is beating. “This one? It’s just red. Nothing special. Why? You like it?”
Jack’s eyes flick down, then back up. “I think that bikini’s not helping me stay on my best behavior.”
And then he turns away like he didn’t just say the most distracting thing in the world, pushing off the wall and floating backward lazily.
You’re left with your mouth gaping again, and a scoff leaves your lips.
It’s still a tie.
It’s been a few hours and now you’re lounging by the pool bar, nursing a margarita, watching over the crowd and Jack, a good few feet away, reading his book. You’re practically ogling him, and you’re pretty sure he knows you’re looking, because he just flexes his arm and puts it behind his head—you scoff. The gall.
But you’re not the only to notice, so it seems. One woman, decides to sit next to him—in your supposed chair—and starts talking to him. You frown, but would also like to see how it’ll play out.
She says something to him and Jack only gives her a curt, polite smile. Never says anything more than 4 words. And you don’t know why, but you feel like saying “that’s my man” when he technically isn’t.
That’s until she laughs a little too hard at something he didn’t even say and lands her hand on his arm. A little too close to his chest. So, fine, you’ll have to teach her a lesson.
You make your way to Jack and that woman. He’s sitting upright now, clearly trying to get away from the conversation. You step out of the pool dripping wet and place your hand on Jack’s shoulder, bringing his attention to you.
You don’t give him time to react, you just kiss him. Deeply. And Jack gasps a little before returning the fervor. You finally pull away first.
“I’m gonna head up to shower.” You say loud enough for the woman to overhear, “You wanna join me, baby?”
Jack swallows thickly, not expecting that, but abruptly stands up and follows you out of the pool area. You can only hear that woman scoff and groan while you grin, walking away with Jack holding your hand.
The second the elevator doors close behind you, Jack exhales sharply. He turns to you, trapping you with his arms. “You really committed to the bit,” he mutters, a half-laugh escaping him.
You grin, still dripping a little, your towel thrown over one shoulder. “You looked like you needed saving.”
“She was two seconds away from asking if I wanted to do a tequila shot in the hot tub.”
“Would you have said yes?”
Jack’s gaze flicks to you. “Not when I have you walking toward me looking like that.”
You tilt your head, playful. “So you were watching me.”
He smirks. “You weren’t exactly subtle yourself.”
Jack leans in a little, wanting to taste more of your honey, but the elevator dings and the doors open, and he groans. Terrible timing.
Back in the room, you go straight to the shower, and Jack lets out a quiet disappointed sigh, knowing he’d missed his chance of kissing you again. But that’s until you clear your throat, catching his attention from the bathroom.
He turns his head, watches as you only poke your head out from one side of the door. You have a playful smile on your lips as you put your hand out, revealing your red bikini—off, and dropped on the ground. You’re stark naked behind that wall, and the door’s wide open.
Jack’s jaw drops.
“Offer still stands, Jack.” You wink at him, and Jack’s never ran so fast in his life.
The bathroom’s already fogging up from the steam by the time Jack steps in, the door clicking shut behind him. You’re already under the spray, water gliding over your skin like something out of his wildest dreams.
He swallows, hard.
You tilt your head toward him, your smile gentler now, more real. “You coming in, Doctor?”
Jack doesn’t answer. He just pulls down his shorts, wanting to join you fast, and when he finally steps in, he looks at you for a minute. Like he’s trying to remember every curve, every dip, every supple flesh—and his hands finally touch your waist.
The heat of the water is nothing compared to the heat in your chest when he touches you.
Jack mutters against your neck, kissing your skin like he’s starving. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
You hum, arms around his neck, pulling him impossibly close, bare chests touching. “Oh I think I do.”
His mouth crashes into yours, all tongue and teeth. His hands roam down your back, gripping your ass, pressing you against him—and there’s no pretending now. No flirting for show. Just the hunger of two people who’ve been dancing around this for far too long.
Your back hits the tiled wall, water raining down between heated kisses and wandering hands. You moan into his mouth, and he swallows it like a man who’s been dying of thirst.
You can feel his length standing proudly against your stomach and you moan.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he breathes, forehead pressed against yours. “You know that?”
You smile, breathless, and then a flashback of this morning plays in your mind. You bury your head in his neck, groaning.
“What?” He asks. “Something wrong?”
“No—nothing.” You say, still slightly avoiding his eyes.
Jack frowns, a little worried. “Sweetheart. Tell me.”
“It’s stupid, it’s just—” You sigh in defeat. “I… may have touched myself this morning thinking of you. Right here.”
Oh?
An amused smile quickly replaces Jack’s expression. A raised brow. And now a smirk. “Yeah?”
You nod shamelessly.
“Show me.”
“..Huh?”
“Show me how you touched yourself.”
You blink a few times. You’re trapped between Jack and the wall, with no escape.
“Go on.” He encourages and you close your eyes, biting your lip as you repeat what you did this morning.
One hand on your breast, the other on your clit. And you feel so shy now. Because he’s watching you, watching as you play with yourself, legs slightly apart to finger yourself, and because you know he wants you to beg.
The figure eights aren’t working for you. Your eyes search for his as your free hand grips his wrist.
“Jack, please, I—”
He hums, “What’s that, sweetheart?”
You let out a breath. “I… I can’t cum like this. I—I need you. Please, Jack—”
He smiles, kissing you once more before bringing his own hands to your core. It’s wet and sloppy, and he knows he’d have no trouble fucking you right now but he wants to take his time.
So he kisses your neck, toys with your breasts, pinches your nipples in better ways than you imagined as he basks in all your moans and whines.
He finally reaches where you want him most, and you jolt in surprise when you feel his fingers rubbing your clit. His calloused fingers are rougher than you expected, and you welcome it warmly.
He puts in one finger into your core and you gasp, maintaining eye contact as Jack watches you crumble before him. “You’re doing so good for me, princess.”
Fuck him and his pet names. You bite your lip. It makes you feel things.
He pumps his finger a few times before adding a second and you moan loudly, feeling the stretch that is oh so good. “This how you imagined me?” He asks.
You hum, nodding your head. “Yeah… Just like this—ah fuck, Jack…” You call out his name when he hits the right spot.
You moan as he pumps his fingers, thumb circling your clit with practiced, devastating skill. You’re barely holding yourself up, legs trembling, breaths choppy and uneven. He kisses you again, swallowing your cries as he fucks you with his fingers, relentless, until you’re falling apart in his arms.
You fall over the edge, body shaking, clutching him like you’ll drown without him. He holds you through it, fingers slowing until your legs can steady again.
“That’s a good girl…”
You think your lips must be bruised by now. Jack is looking at you like he’s trying to coax out another orgasm, but you shake your head.
“Want you… please.”
He groans, “You keep asking me so nicely like that, and how can I say no?”
And when he finally lifts your leg around his hip and you feel the hard length of him press against you, you realize just how big he is.
“Having second thoughts?” He asks.
“Fuck no.” You tell him. “You’re just… so big.”
Jack chuckles. “You’ll be able to take it. Won’t you?”
You whimper as he pushes his tip in.
“That’s it…” He coaxes, “My good girl.”
You pant when he finally bottoms out inside you. He’s practically splitting you open.
“Feel that, baby?” Jack says, his hand rubbing your lower belly. “I’m all the way in there.”
You never took Jack as a dirty talker, but you love it.
“So deep, Jack—” Your breath hitches when he finally moves his hips, snapping up sharply.
You kiss him desperately, biting his lower lip, your cries muffled into his mouth.
You grip his back, dragging your nails down as he thrusts into you again—and again—slow at first, then harder, deeper, as your bodies find the rhythm you’ve craved.
He fucks you with purpose, with heat, with every ounce of restraint he’s been clinging to. His hips snap against yours, your bodies slick and hot, your name falling from his lips like a broken record.
Your moans echo off the tile, drowned slightly by the water still rushing above you.
He slips out of you for a second, turning you around to press you up against the wall, before gripping your hips, slamming back inside you from a new angle, and you gasp, because he’s much deeper now, and you feel him more. Especially with his balls slapping against your clit with every single thrust.
“You feel so good,” he pants. “Squeezing me so tight—”
“Jack—oh my God—Jack—”
“That’s it,” he murmurs, his hand reaching for your shoulder, pulling you back. “Let go for me, baby.”
Your second orgasm comes hard, clenching around him with a sharp cry, body writhing in pleasure as your vision flashes white. Jack groans, burying his face into your neck as he follows, spilling deep inside you with a shudder and a hoarse growl of your name.
You moan, feeling him twitch inside you and filling you up. It’s warm, and you keep pushing back against him, wanting more of his cum.
“Fuck, you like that, don’t you?” He grins, one hand on your throat as you lean back onto him. You only bite your lip return.
Jack whispers a ‘Jesus’ and hugs your waist, pressing a kiss on your shoulder.
He pulls out of you and you whine from the loss, feeling him drip out of you and down to your thighs. Jack groans at the sight.
You both breathe, hearts hammering, water cooling.
Jack kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then your lips, slower this time.
By the time you’ve finished showering, it’s already 3:30PM. You only have about 30 minutes to get ready because Amy needs you to help her.
Jack helps you dry your hair while you do your makeup, casually brushing through the strands with a towel as if he’s done it a hundred times. It’s domestic. And if you didn’t already feel dizzy from what happened earlier, this would’ve done it.
You slip into your dress—a deep emerald green satin that hugs and flows in all the right places, held up by two delicate straps that run down your back. It’s timeless. Quietly stunning. And the moment Jack sees you in it, he lets out a quiet breath, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt like it’s the only way to stop his hands from reaching for you.
You catch his eyes in the mirror just before he steps up behind you, his hands finding your waist.
“Is everything you own made of silk?” He hums, lips brushing just below your ear.
“Satin,” You correct, “But no, just this and yesterday’s nightie.”
He groans softly into your neck, “Don’t remind me.”
You laugh. “I have to go earlier to help Amy. I’ll see you in the garden?”
Jack nods. “Want me to go with you?”
“It’s okay,” You assure him, “Probably some girl stuff.”
He hesitates, then nods again. You press a kiss to his cheek and start to walk away—but his fingers catch your wrist, stopping you mid-step.
“Wait,” Jack says. His voice is quieter this time, a little uncertain. “Can we talk? Tonight?”
You pause. You know exactly what he means. This isn’t pretend anymore—it hasn’t been for a while now. And even if there’s a chance he might tell you this was all a mistake… you don’t think that’s what he’s going to say.
You hold his gaze. “Yeah,” you say softly. “Of course we can talk.”
He exhales, relief flashing in his eyes, and lets your hand go. You walk to the door.
But before you can leave, he calls after you one last time.
“You look beautiful.”
You wink at him before closing the door.
Turns out Amy needs help getting dressed. Her stylist is busy retouching her makeup—because she bawled earlier—and now your mission is to use as many tide pens as it takes to erase the smudges she left on her dress.
“Oh my God,” Amy mutters, fanning her face with both hands. “I can’t believe I made a huge mess of myself.”
You chuckle, dabbing at the fabric. “It’s your wedding, girl. Tears are part of the dress code.”
“Don’t even say the W-word,” she hisses. “Talk about something else. Quick. Or the waterworks are coming again.”
“Uh—okay, what do you want me to talk about?” You panic, attacking another mascara stain.
“You and Jack.” She grabs your wrist. “Distract me with how you fell in love with him. Give me the juicy details.”
You blink.
Shit.
“Well… I…” You gulp. “I guess it started when I transferred. Like two years ago.”
It’s not a lie—you’ve had a crush on Jack practically since day one. The man’s competent, confident, funny as hell. Checks all the boxes. And when he calls you by your first name in that deep voice of his? Game over. “He made me feel like I had a high school crush again.”
“That’s it?” Amy stares at you flatly, “Give me more details! Where’s the tea??”
You groan, finally caving. “Okay, okay. I fainted once, and he caught me in his arms.”
Her jaw drops. “Like a princess?”
“Yeah, except covered in blood,” you laugh. “It was one of those marathon shifts. I’d just finished doing CPR on a guy, barely slept, barely ate—next thing I know, lights out. And Jack—he just broke my fall and carried me to the on-call room like it was nothing.”
A chorus of soft “awwws” breaks out in the room from Amy’s mom, cousin, and stylist.
You roll your eyes. “Relax. He probably did it out of duty. He’s my attending. Professional courtesy.”
Just then, you hear a loud voice from the hallway.
“Jack!” Harry calls from just outside the room. The door is slightly ajar.
Your entire body goes stiff. You whip your head to Amy, wide-eyed. “Do you think he heard all of that?”
Amy winces. “Would it make you feel better if I said no?”
Fuck. It’s not a huge deal, it’s just… a little silly. A little secret you hope Jack would never know because then he’d know you’ve had a thing for him for years now.
Amy finally walks down the aisle, her father giving her away. The garden is glowing—fairy lights strung between trees, blooms in every shade of pinks and whites, and soft mist curling along the grass like something out of a dream.
You’re standing next to Jack, having met him by the garden after helping Amy get ready. You’re not sure if he heard your whole fainting confession from outside her room, but if he did, he’s been polite enough not to bring it up.
Now, as the guests settle into their seats, watching Amy and Harry at the altar, Jack places a hand gently on your knee. You rest yours on top of his without thinking.
And when your best friend starts her vows—shaky but glowing with joy—you feel the tears build up. Jack silently hands you a folded handkerchief.
“God,” you whisper with a watery laugh, dabbing at your eyes. “You’re so old.”
“You like me old.” He whispers back.
The ceremony ends beautifully—vows exchanged, cheers rising, a kiss under the canopy of lights. Soon, everyone begins drifting toward the ballroom for food, drinks, and dancing.
You’re at the bar by yourself, sipping your second margarita, watching Amy spin around the dance floor in Harry’s arms. She looks completely happy. The kind of happy you hope stays forever.
“Amy’s best friend, right?” You hear someone beside you. “I’m Jackson. A friend of Harry’s.”
You squint for a moment before shaking his hand. “Avery?”
“Guilty.” He smiles. “How’d you know?”
“I’ve seen you on the news. And your mother. And grandfather.”
Jackson hums. “Figures.”
You nod. “How do you know Harry?”
“We went to the same med school.” He says and glances at your drink, “I take it you love margaritas?”
“Gee, what gave it away?”
He laughs, “Well you were drinking one earlier today too. By the pool.”
You narrow your eyes slightly. Is he flirting with you? “Oddly observant, aren’t you?”
“No,” He denies, “You just make quite the impression. Hard to miss.”
Okay he is flirting.
You raise a brow, amused, and you glance over your shoulder. Jack’s across the room, just finished talking to some people, and now he’s weaving through the crowd, eyes locked on you with a slightly furrowed brow.
“Boyfriend?” Jackson asks.
“Yep.” You say without hesitation.
“Darn.”
“You didn’t see how I was making out with him by the pool?”
Jackson smiles, shrugging. “My mind must’ve been elsewhere.”
“Well,” he says, already stepping back, “I should go before he decides to break my nose.”
You smirk. “Nice meeting you, Jackson.”
“You too.” He gives you a nod before disappearing into the crowd.
Just then, Jack reaches you, sliding a hand to your lower back like he’s staking a claim. You lean into him, pleased. And just a little smug.
“Hi,” He smiles.
“There you are.” You smile back.
He offers you his hand. “Dance with me.”
You blink, caught off guard. Jack Abbot dances? But you take his hand without question, letting him lead you to the floor just as a soft, slow cover of The Way You Look Tonight drifts through the speakers.
“Didn’t know you dance, Jack.”
Jack pulls you in gently, one hand resting on your bare lower back, the other folding around yours. Your free hand finds his shoulder. You breathe in the clean scent of him—his cologne and something you can only describe as him—and try not to melt into him entirely.
“Only with the right person,” he replies, voice quiet near your ear.
Your cheeks flush. You hope he doesn’t feel how fast your heart’s beating.
“So,” He starts casually, “Jackson Avery, huh?”
You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “Jealous?”
Jack shrugs, “A little.”
Your eyes flicker up to him, surprised. No man would ever admit that so easily—have themselves be vulnerable in front of a woman like that. It makes you feel warm inside, the thought that Jack can be protective of you because another man was flirting with you.
“I’d understand,” Jack says, a little dejected. “He’s a lot younger, more handsome, definitely rich—”
“—I shoo-ed him away.” You cut his sentence.
Jack raises a brow. “Why’s that?”
You mimic his shrug, trying not to smile too much. “I have a boyfriend.”
And he grins, a genuinely happy smile that makes your heart skip a beat.
You rest your head lightly against Jack’s shoulder, eyes fluttering closed for a moment as the music sways through you both.
“So should we rip off the band-aid now?” You daringly ask.
He chuckles under his breath, the vibration soft against your cheek. “If you want to.”
You pull back just slightly so you can see him.
He lifts his gaze to yours, steady and warm.
“This weekend,” you say, your voice quiet but clear, “it’s not just pretend. Right?”
“No,” he says simply. “I…I don’t know how to say this without sounding like a sap,” he admits. “But I want to be with you. In every sense of the word. I want to make you laugh, be there when you cry, I want… I want everything with you.”
Your heart trips over itself, but your smile is calm.
“Me too.” You don’t hesitate. “I want all of it with you, Jack.”
He exhales, like he’s finally letting go of something he’s been holding onto for a long time. Then he leans in and kisses you, soft and slow and full of promise. When he pulls back, your lips are still tingling, and you hum at the loss.
For a second, you both just look at each other, breath mingling.
“So…” Jack tilts his head with a teasing smile, “you’ve had a crush on me since you transferred?”
“Ugh,” You try to hide your face in his chest. “So you were eavesdropping??”
“By accident,” he says quickly, laughing. “I was just looking for you.”
You squint. “Missed me that much, huh?”
Jack leans in, brushing his nose against yours. “Don’t blame me. I can’t get enough of you.”
summary: when andrew opens the backseat of the car, you're looking up at him with wet eyes and tied hands, silent and compliant just like he knew you would be. and even though this definitely isn't one of his best ideas, staring down at you, he thinks it's definitely not his worst either.
word count: 19k
tags: kidnapping! probably out of character for pope but i tried. heavy stockholm syndrome, being eaten out in the forest after being chased through said forest. mentions of masturbation and pope watches (1) one time, cameras/monitoring without consent, daydreams of thigh riding because duh, mating press/breeding/creampie, things from the show that didn't make sense aren't included. yippee! :)
note: shea 'sweden' erwinsvow strikes again.
andrew thinks that their plan had been incredibly solid.
they were supposed to be in and out—deran in a nice suit, disguised as a potential parent looking for a good school for his kids. if anyone asked, he had two of them, four and six, and his partner was home with them since their youngest was sick right now, otherwise he would have brought the whole family.
he distracted the people outside with questions while andrew and the others were supposed to make quick work of the principal’s office. at first when the job was pitched, it sounded stupid. why would the principal of some fancy private school have money stored away in his office from their stupid fundraisers and open-house? but a little deep diving had revealed that the principal was skimming from the top, and the leftover money and anything else they could use as leverage against him was probably in that office somewhere. if there was a safe, they might take the whole thing with them.
and that led to another can of worms—how do they get out with the safe? getting in was the easy part. deran and baz and andrew dressed in nice clothes blending in, craig pretending to be a caterer with the event, j waiting in a construction truck down the road. but getting out, let alone with a safe, would be difficult. they had to look at blueprints, smuggled from the town hall through a contact they didn’t even want to use.
andrew didn’t know what to think of the whole thing. it felt like too much work for an undetermined reward, though the others didn’t seem to agree with him. they kept saying it would be worth it and outnumbered, feeling as though despite what he said they wouldn’t agree with him, he complied.
the blueprints revealed an out through an adjacent room—they didn’t know who was occupying until they went in to canvas after hours, pretending to check the smoke detectors. andrew stood in front of the closed door, staring at a cute, childish sign printed in loopy writing: school nurse.
but there was a window large enough for any safe they encountered and just a wall of plaster separating the two. they wouldn’t even need any heavy machinery to get through the walls and out the window to the car. the open house was scheduled for a saturday, meaning the school nurse, who ever it was, wouldn’t be there.
so all in all, a solid plan from what information they had gathered. saturday morning, andrew put on a long-sleeved button up shirt and an uncomfortable tie and walked into the school.
(playing pretend was more fun than he would like to admit. a stranger came up to him and asked him how old his daughters were and he actually laughed. “how do you know i have daughters?” he had asked, and the stranger had looked at him, laughing in reply. “you look the type,” and then andrew had to tear his mind away from the thought for the next hour, trying to forget the momentary joy the sentence had brought him. he looked the type. and then he said he had twin daughters, about to start first grade, and the lie felt sweet on his tongue.)
it’s always the jobs where everything’s going according to plan. those are the ones where something always ends up going wrong because it’s when you least expect it. that’s what had led to his arrest—and he was extra mindful now, trying in his head to think of all the ways this could go wrong.
they had made it inside the school. snuck into the nurse’s office—a cutely decorated place with lollipops and crackers in big jars and fun colors strewn throughout. the desk is against the wall they’re carving up and there’s cute decorations on it. a vase with fresh flowers. a mug with cartoon characters on it. there’s a huge poster in the shape of a tooth and then bright letters above it spelling out lost tooth club. there’s dozens of names written on and under the poster, a basket of toys and stickers.
baz is about to start swinging right in the middle of another bulletin board, prettily decorated with hours of work. the letters had been cut by hand, little paper flowers glued together individually. it said spread kindness, not germs in large yellow letters.
“d-don’t ruin the poster. go next to it.” he doesn’t know why he said it. they were already robbing a school, it’s not like the punishment would be worse because he left a poster untouched. but it felt wrong to demolish the nurse’s office and destroy her hard work.
they get a hole big enough in the wall, even find the safe and get it out into the nurse’s office to the open window. everything according to plan. everything going as best as it could.
and then the door swings open and you walk in.
you take two, maybe three steps before stopping in your tracks and staring at the scene in front of you with wide, unblinking eyes.
“oh. oh, i-” they’re not wearing ski masks this time, not worried about it since there wasn’t any cameras in the two offices. and now you’ve seen their faces.
“grab her, pope!” he hears from baz, and without thinking twice about it, he does. a huge hand goes over your mouth, silencing you, and the other around your two wrists. it’s easy to subdue you, and you thrash up against him but it’s over quickly.
andrew keeps them pinned down while baz runs over with rope for your hands and then he’s taking you outside through the window, to the truck, and despite how badly he feels about it, he holds you tight and tells you not to scream. while they load up the safe and hop into the truck he keeps his hand still tight across your mouth. your eyes are filled with fear, huge and watery and your body trembles like a shaking, frightened animal.
andrew leans in, unsure of why he’s even doing it, and whispers as quiet as he can without the others hearing you.
“i promise i won’t hurt you.”
a drive later, they pull up to the house, though they really should have taken you somewhere else. as carefully as they can without prying eyes from the neighbors, he carries you out and they put you in andrew’s bedroom, and then they lock the door from the outside.
+
you come to a little bit later, unsure of when you had passed out. the entire thing feels like a bad dream—a nightmare after watching one of your shows too late before bed, but when you blink open your eyes and stare around the room, you realize this not a nightmare.
this is so much worse.
your wrists are bound to the bedframe with thick rope, made of fibers that dig into your skin and leave it raw and scorched underneath. you stop fighting against it to preserve your strength and stare around the room.
plain painted walls and a navy blue comforter under your body. you’re in the room of one of these men who took you—you can tell that much, despite how barren the room is.
you’d think it was a guest room if you didn’t know any better. but there’s folded laundry at the foot of the bed and a half-open closet where you can see button up shirts hanging neatly. there’s nothing else to identify where you even are, though you’re sure it can’t be too far from the school.
you don’t know what to do now. for all your smarts and the crazy shows you love so much and using logic to help you through other situations, you have no idea what to do right now. there’s no way to escape the rope and no way to figure out where you are.
fuck. no one at school even knew you were there, or someone might have noticed you were missing. but it’s an open house for the next school year and the last day of classes was the previous week. you’re out for the summer, meaning no one there would notice your absence.
you didn’t know many of the teachers at the school. the secretaries you passed on the way to your little nurse’s office every day were polite, but not much more than that. the principal only ever came to speak to you if he needed to speak with the student you were with.
and your friends, well—
you don’t think many of them would notice if you went missing. fuck. you should have never cancelled plans so many times. you should have put in more effort to going to mixers and staying in touch when school ended and done all the things that normal people do because now—
you hear people talking from outside, sounding a little far away but still clear, like they’re raising their voices, and the ones inside your head die down immediately.
if you shut your eyes to try and pay attention to it, you can make sense of the conversation taking place, though your head is pounding and it’s hard to focus.
“she didn’t see anything,” you hear a man argue, and then he’s interrupted by second person.
“she saw our faces, man. that’s risking too much-”
“we need to take care of this,” a woman says, and then there’s a pause.
and outside, with his mind still on the promise he made you, andrew stares at smurf, as she finishes her sentence.
“you need to take care of this, andrew.”
it was a screwed up job to begin with. they should have never done it—no matter the fact that there’s almost twice what their jobs normally make sitting in the safe next to them right now. that money is about to become blood money. and as always, andrew has to do the dirty work.
“i didn’t even want to do this job. and you’re-you’re going to make me fix this-”
“andrew,” smurf says, and it feels final with the tone she uses. the tone of, of course you’re going to fix this. as if the burden doesn’t weigh on his shoulders with every step he takes. doesn’t plague his mind within every single thought. like these responsibilities that he has to handle and take care of aren’t the very reason he can’t sleep at night.
deran and craig looked checked out—staring at him like they don’t already know the answer. baz look at him expectantly and it’s so easy for him to do so. he gets to go home each night to a wife that loves him and a daughter that adores him and gets to put his head against his pillow and hold his wife with unmarred, clean hands because andrew will take care of it.
he looks up at smurf and he knows what will happen if he resists. if he says no to this, she might do something to you herself, and your blood will still he on his hands.
“okay." andrew says, and that’s that.
“alright. wait until it’s darker outside-”
“i know what to do.”
and inside the bedroom, dread creeps in slowly into your body until it consumes you entirely. you process the words—that andrew, whoever he is, whichever one he is, will take of it. take care of you.
you almost want to laugh with how incredibly unreal this is. getting kidnapped is the craziest thing that’s ever happened to you in your short life and now it’s going to be the reason that you die.
dead, just like that, over a robbery at a goddamn private school. dead, waiting for the executioner to come get you from his bedroom while they talk about your life over their table like it’s nothing but lunch-time conversation.
you thought adrenaline was supposed to make you near superhuman, make you do something, figure out how to get out of here and run for your life. nothing’s coming to mind just yet, though, as you stay frozen on the bed and wait to hear if the people who took you say anything else.
the door opens suddenly and you flinch—you hadn’t heard any footsteps and he caught you by surprise.
this must be andrew, which means he’s the same one who covered your mouth and took you to begin with. he opens the door and stares at you, keeping eye contact as he shuts the door behind him and comes in closer. you should stare back, try to convince him (and yourself) that you’re not afraid of him, but you’re not that girl.
you look away the second he takes a step closer to the bed. andrew doesn’t stop, coming in closer until he’s sitting at the edge. you scramble to sit up, bringing your knees in closer to your chest, trying to make yourself smaller and get away from him all at once. it’s a hot day and you’re in a thin dress that comes down to right above your knees—and the fabric slides up as you scramble.
you were supposed to go pack up whatever you needed from your office and then stop to get a coffee from your favorite shop near the school and read the book that’s currently sitting on your desk at work—if it was still there. you don’t know what they did to the room after andrew took you to the truck.
your day was supposed to be for you, for once. an iced drink and the romance-comedy you read in your free time between little kids who didn’t feel good and lunch at a local place to celebrate another school year coming to an end.
and now you’re about to walk to your death, refusing to make eye contact with the man who’s going to be killing you.
as morbid as the thought is, you wonder how he’ll do it. he said he wouldn’t hurt you but the decision sounded pretty final out there, at least it did to you. something painless, hopefully?
you’ve watched enough shows to know all the ways but your mind runs empty. you finally move your gaze back to andrew in the corner of the bed, sitting and staring at you. you can see his shoulders rise with every deep breath, can hear the sharp exhale from his nose after each one. you want to say something. you think you should plead for your life.
but the way andrew’s looking at you, you almost believe what he said to you in the truck. i promise i won’t hurt you.
how could he have promised you such a thing?
when he finally speaks up, it begins to make sense, you think. that, or you’re not nearly as smart as you thought you were.
“i have to take you away from here.”
“i-i heard you. outside. you promised-”
“i’m not going to hurt you. just-just, when i take you out there, pretend to be scared.”
“what?”
“p-pretend to be scared. hit me and-and fight. i’m gonna tape your mouth.”
“what? no-”
“just listen to me,” he says, and it comes out differently from the other words he’s said to you. it’s final and stern, and the way his hazel eyes stare into yours, you really believe him, as incredulous as the thought is. “i’ll get you out of here. just listen to me. i’m not killing you. i’m not killing anyone.”
his sentences sound as though he’s trying to convince himself, rather than you, and you have to physically shove the thought aside before you burst into tears from how scared you are. but andrew, for everything you can tell, is being honest with you.
you’re halfway decent, you’d like to think, at telling when people are lying. students come into your nurse’s office every single day trying to lie to you, trying to avoid a certain peer or a certain class or assignment, filling your ears with lies about aching stomachs and pounding heads.
you’ve got your own ways of telling truths from lies, and andrew, with his never-ending eye contact and firm words, is telling the truth.
at least you hope he is.
“o-okay. okay, i will.”
you do try your best to put on the show—pounding on andrew’s back, crying out against the duct tape he puts over your mouth—and have to remind yourself it’s not really a performance. you’re just as terrified as you were an hour ago but something inside you twists and turns at andrew’s sincere-sounding words. you don’t look at any of the others there, don’t try to meet their eyes because they might see that you’re not really as scared as you should be.
he puts you in the bed of the truck under a black cover, and you stare up at him with real fear. even if you weren’t claustrophobic, the enclosed area induced anxiety in you from the moment you figured out what he was doing. you think this might be it—your only chance to make a run for it, if you could wrangle out of andrew’s incredibly strong grip, if you could keep your balance with your tied ankles.
and then he looks down at you and shakes his head slightly, so slightly that the movement is almost undetectable. there’s eyes on him—of this you’re sure—and he still tries to remind you that he won’t hurt you when he feels your body tense up under his hands.
you kick your feet without much energy behind it and let andrew push you into the bed of the truck. he gets in and starts driving, and then a few minutes later, he pulls over.
you blink up at him stupidly when he helps you out, thinking that he’s letting you go just a few miles from his home. you try to speak but there’s still duct tape over your mouth. andrew gives you his hand to help you sit up and then opens the backseat door of his truck for you, helps you inside, and then keeps driving.
and against every greater instinct you have or have been taught, you sit in the back quietly and let him drive you wherever he’s taking you, stupidly assuming it’s to safety.
you hope he’s taking you to safety.
no, you think—still a little stupidly—you know he’s taking you to safety.
+
andrew drives you for what feels like forever. wherever he’s taken you, it’s far from the house you were at and far from the school, meaning it is also far from your tiny apartment. you watch the sunset from the back seat and wonder who, if anyone, would even notice you’re missing this early.
your rent and bills are on auto-pay. the sweet, older lady who lives alone next to you forgets her own name sometimes. and staring at the back of andrew’s head—dark brown curls that glow auburn when the golden sun hits them—you realize there’s really no way out of this.
through, it is.
it’s dark when the car finally slows down on an empty dirt road. you don’t recognize any of the scenery, but andrew drives through the terrain like he’s well acquainted with it, avoiding bumps and ditches easily. when he stops the car, you sit up a little straighter in the back.
you should be thankful he didn’t keep you in the bed of the truck the entire time, thankful that he let you realize you’re about two hours from home. thankful that he hasn’t hurt you yet, just like he had promised.
your wrists and ankles ache. every muscle in your body is screaming at you from the adrenaline rush that did absolutely nothing to help you get out of this situation. and though a smarter girl might try to knock andrew out and run through the woods until you found someone to help you, you’re beginning to realize you’re not nearly as smart as you think you are.
everything in you is telling you to trust him and listen to his instructions and make him keep his promise by not giving him any reasons to hurt you.
he turns the car off, takes a deep breath, and then opens his door to get out. then he opens your door and stares down at you.
this is just like a scene from one of your crime shows. you can’t believe that’s the thought in your head right now, but it’s the only thing coming to mind. the specifics of the show merge into all the others, but you remember something about making eye contact and trying to humanize yourself so the kidnapper remembers you’re a person and not just an object.
so you need to look into his eyes. and you think that’s easy enough, that you can do it and that he’ll realize how obscenely wrong this entire situation is and let you go home tonight.
you flick your eyes up to meet his. you knew he was already staring at you but it’s somehow so much worse than you could have imagined. he’s not just looking, his eyes are boring into your soul. he doesn’t look away or blink, just keeps his gaze focused while staying completely silent. you’ve never been good at eye contact or being particularly demanding or combative, but you think this is an emergency and surely, you can manage for now.
you last all of two seconds before looking away.
you focus on the ropes on your wrist and how irritated the skin underneath looks and you let andrew figure out whatever it is he needs to figure out in silence, save for your breaths.
“c’mon,” he says after some time. “inside. come on.”
he gives you his hands to help you up—you guess at the very least, at least he’s chivalrous—and then he holds you by the rope to guide you. he’s not even pulling very hard on it but the force is enough to make sure you don’t go running and screaming in the opposite direction.
you realize you should have tried to take in the exterior of the cabin as soon as you walk inside, something else that your shows should have taught you, but you’re too busy being pulled around by andrew like a ragdoll. he brings you inside and then flips light switches.
the place is, for a kidnapper’s secondary location, quite nice. it looks like it was decorated a few decades ago—entire place shrouded in gingham and floral prints with vintage looking light fixtures and bookshelves with dust bunnies. you can’t imagine he picked these things out himself, especially not when you remember how bare-bones his bedroom was.
this place is much nicer. homey and dusty and quiet, you conclude after looking around. andrew doesn’t tell you to sit so much as he puts you down in a love seat and leaves you there, tied and taped up, waiting for him to come back. he walks into another room, which you can only assume is the kitchen, and then comes back.
“oh. i-i’m sorry,” he says and your eyes shoot up to him, unsure of why he’s apologizing. he gets closer and lifts his hand and you flinch, before his fingers go to the duct tape covering your mouth. you wince while he pulls it off, slowly and then faster, like he’s trying to get it over with faster, and you can’t help the tears that well up and slip down while he does it. you thought in vain that it might feel like a bandaid. it didn’t.
andrew apologizes again and you try to tell him it’s fine, but it doesn’t come out. your mouth is dry and you realize you haven’t had any water since you got taken at the school, so it comes out in a choked fragment of a sentence.
you finally find the courage to look up at him with wet, blinking eyes.
“can i have water?” it comes out as a whisper, and andrew doesn’t say anything, just rushes back to the kitchen and comes back out with a half-filled glass. he almost hands it to you before realizing your hands are still tied and then he brings it to your mouth, tilting the glass so you can drink it. he doesn’t do it too quickly, making sure you don’t choke on it, but a droplet still runs down the side of your mouth. when he takes the cup away you stare up at him.
he almost lifts his hand to wipe away the water. his fingers twitch over the empty glass.
“how long do i have to stay here?”
andrew pauses like he’s thinking about the answer. the truth, of course, is that he doesn’t know how long you have to stay. the answer to your question is that you’ll stay as long as he wants.
“i don’t know. as long as it takes.”
“as long as what takes?”
“the bedroom is over here. come on.”
+
andrew, for all you have learned about him, remains very chivalrous. it’s been two days, and you keep track with a piece of scrap paper in the room he keeps you in. he brought you in here and kept you tied up while he made sure all the windows in the house couldn’t be opened anymore and did something to the door too, you’re sure, though you didn’t actually get to see it.
he probably didn’t have to go through all that trouble. you conclude after forty-eight hours that you have terrible survival skills and are closer to being a perfect victim, a thought that makes your stomach turn. but you are, really. you haven’t once tried to fight him, save for the time he told you to, and the thought of escaping is a miniscule idea buried in the very back of your head.
you eat what he makes—though you are getting very tired of dry sandwiches and sugary cereal—and drink the water he gives you.
you think he’s testing you. and you have never, ever been one to fail a test. you comply with his instructions even when it’s incredibly embarrassing, like when he asks you how he should respond when you get texts and calls to your cell-phone. with your face burning you tell him there’s probably not going to be any of those to worry about, and he stares at you while you evade his eye contact.
(if you had just looked, you would have recognized the way he’s staring at you. it’s different than the others. like he’s just unlocked a new piece of you with this information. it’s good that you didn’t, though. it makes him want to keep you all the more.)
andrew hasn’t been obvious enough with his absence that the others have noticed—yet. he needs to go back to oceanside and stay there, and this two hour drive he’s been doing for days isn’t exactly helping him. the first night he’d driven back at three in the morning, after you’d fallen asleep and he’d made sure everything was locked until he came back in the morning, and he’d had to deal with smurf, awake and waiting for him, waiting for the proof that he had taken care of it. taken care of you.
the day after, baz stops him when he’s on his way out, to come back to see you, to tell him about a new plan he had for a job.
he realizes that the closer they get to a new job, the less he’d be able to come to the cabin. it seems there’s only one obvious solution—letting you leave the bedroom you’ve been confined to when he’s not there with you. so far he’d let you into the living room while he’s there, and the two of you sit in silence. (that silence is better than any conversation he’s had with his family in the last month, but you don’t need to know that.)
and the only way to make sure you’re alright in the cabin when he’s not there is to physically watch you and be sure of it, which means the real solution to andrew’s problem is cameras.
he installs them while you’re asleep. it’s only been a few days and you don’t make much noise as it is but when he hears the soft snoring, he knows you’re out. one in the living room and another in the kitchen, and a final one outside the cabin. the man at the store had explained it had motion sensors and would alert his phone if animals or people were outside. at the time, it seemed like a perfectly good idea.
the man at the store had said something else too, something about how this is the best safety system and it’s what he uses at home to keep his family safe and he would recommend it for andrew’s wife and kids too. and maybe the assumption that he was doing all of this for your protection got to his head a little too quickly.
he’s been down that road before, but he still installs them all the same.
he lets you out of the room and tells you he’ll be back in a few days and that there’s food in the fridge and you can move around the house if you’d like. you look at him like you’re surprised, with less fear than he anticipated, and nod. and then you tell him quietly, so quiet he can barely hear it—thank you.
(you wait for a reaction, but you don’t get one. he takes another heavy breath and then leaves, closing the door behind him and then locking it how he always does, leaving you alone again. and somehow, it feels so much worse to be alone.)
andrew drives for a few minutes before he gives into the urge of checking the camera’s footage. he sees you padding carefully through the living room, stopping at the bookshelf and reading all the titles.
he checks it again throughout the day, even though he really shouldn’t. he runs the risk of someone seeing it over his shoulder and you have become something he really, really doesn’t want to share with his brothers.
he doesn’t know how to do this. it’s not like he’s ever kidnapped someone before. he didn’t have any time to think it through, to make a plan, to gather supplies. he’s here in oceanside—maybe he should stop by your apartment. he has your phone and your purse and that should be enough to determine your address, and he can figure out how to get inside. maybe he should bring you some of your belongings, so you don’t feel as…
andrew doesn’t know what word he can use there. he doesn’t know what you’re feeling. frightened, he supposes. maybe it won’t make you feel as frightened if you had some of your things with you. he could bring you puzzles and books and the types of things that girls need with them—little bottles of expensive products and sweet smelling perfumes and whatever else you’d like. if it would make you more comfortable, he’d bring it.
fuck. and clothes—he needs to bring you clothes. you’ve been wearing the same dress the entire time and he hasn’t brought you anything to change into. if he goes to your home, he can bring some of your clothes.
(every time he’s come to the cabin so far, every time he’s opened the door, he waits in the foyer. he hears your footsteps padding up to the bedroom door, sees your shadow underneath it, like you’re making sure you didn’t imagine the noise. and when he goes over and unlocks it, you’re waiting for him in your sundress on the bed and the thought makes him so distracted he has to pull himself away from it. he has to close the door shut in his mind because if he doesn’t, he’s going to get so hard he can’t think anymore. and suddenly his mind fills in the blanks and he decides if he goes to your closet, he’ll only bring you dresses back.)
when andrew checks the video feed again, he’s noticed that you showered. he can tell from your wet hair, and for the first time, you’re not in the dress you were wearing when he took you. you’re in a plain shirt, one that’s too big on you. cotton and black.
one of his shirts. it’s from the dresser in the bedroom, he knows, since it’s only a one-bedroom home. the room he’s been keeping you in was supposed to be his room, and the drawers are filled with the clothes he’d brought there.
you’re wearing his clothes. and suddenly the thought of going to your apartment goes to hell. he’ll keep you in his clothes for as long as he can, until you say something or ask for something. (he knows you won’t. he’s figuring he knows an awful lot about you in a handful of days. that can’t be a coincidence, can it?)
and then craig says something about how he’s never seen andrew on his phone this much and you got some porn on there or something? and he shoves the device into his pocket and tries to remove you from his thoughts.
tries and fails, that is.
andrew gets a stinging scrape on his upper arm trying to get out of the job. he wasn’t actively thinking about you but he knows somehow he was distracted because of you, because he couldn’t put you out of his mind for thirty seconds longer, wondering if you were still awake on the couch or back in the bedroom and if you’d eaten and if you were maybe, just maybe, waiting up for him.
he ignores the others telling him that he needs to get his arm fixed and he suffers through another hour at smurf’s, eating dessert that tastes like nothing, and then he gets in his truck and pulls out his phone.
and you’ve fallen asleep on the couch. he sighs, part relief mixed with something else. his arm seems to hurt less, he thinks. and then andrew drives two hours to go back home to you.
+
you wake up when the door opens. first your eyes flutter open, and then you turn your head to make sure it’s andrew—though the chance of it being someone else are nonexistent. then another thought, for a split second, racing through your body and mind like a strike of lightning.
you hope it’s never anyone but andrew opening that door.
you’re distracted from the thought when andrew groans, and you hear a pitter patter noise that sounds suspiciously like rain—but it’s not raining. when you lift yourself up in the dark, andrew’s leaning against the doorframe, raising his other hand to turn the switch on, and when the bulb flickers and light fills the cabin, you see it. blood, lots of it.
your instinct is to get on your feet right away, to usher andrew to the couch where you had fallen asleep and help him take his shirt off so you can see the wound clearly.
you don’t panic, something you’ve gotten good at in your field. panicking makes the little kids even more frightened, so you’ve mastered the art of staying calm while assessing the situation. quick movements—your feet bring you to the bathroom for clean towels and hot water like you’ve lived here forever.
you wash the wound carefully, pleased that it’s only skin-deep and that the bleeding should stop with some prolonged pressure. you sigh a breath of relief, holding the towel to his arm tightly, and then you realize you and andrew haven’t spoken a word this entire time.
you have to say something. you’re supposed to keep the patient distracted, get their mind off of their injury so they don’t subconsciously make it worse. you’ve always been good with your students, rambling about a new movie or what flavor lollipop they’ll pick on their way out and anything else that comes to mind.
but staring at andrew, realizing that you’ve forced yourself not to panic but feeling the dread still seep in, you realize you have nothing to say. you’re so thankful his wound isn’t too bad and logically, you compute, while his hazel eyes stare at you and you stare at his arm (a huge, thick bicep with veins that pulse under your touch), that it must be because if something happened to him, no one would ever find you.
that has to be it. there’s no other reason why you should feel like this—and you can’t even describe what this is, you just know that it’s there, a pale glowing ball of thank god he’s okay hovering in the pit of your stomach, making you almost nauseous with how relieved you are. no other reason.
you pull away the towel and the bleeding has stopped. you sigh again, reaching for another towel to wipe the wound clean and turning to meet andrew’s eyes, which are already on you, to ask him if he has a first aid kit. but he speaks first.
“thank you.” two words, said quietly, staring into the depths of your soul and not blinking once. you want to say something to make him smile but you don’t know how to do that. (yet.)
“of-of course. first aid kit? i need a bandage. to wrap your arm.”
“it’s under the sink. i can get it.”
“no, no,” you insist, letting go of andrew’s arm. your hand still feels warm where you were gripping him and his blood is all over your fingers. you dart off in the right direction and come back with the box, opening it up and seeing what you can use.
you wrap it around his arm carefully, apologizing when you press against him in a way that makes him wince.
“you should buy some more bandages like this. the waterproof kind. when you can. and i-i can change the dressing for you,” you ramble, unsure of how to make andrew feel better, if you can at all. he might be more upset that you’re still talking and not shutting up, and still—
he brings his other hand around and clasps it around your wrist. he’s holding on tightly but it doesn’t hurt. that’s not his intention right now. you looked into his eyes when you felt his touch but that was a mistake. blinking quickly, you try to move your gaze anywhere but the man in front of you.
“can you look at me?” you can’t help it, it’s like your body has this urge to just listen to him, to comply, to try and please him with your deference. as painful as it is, you stare into his hazel eyes for what seems like ages. they’re mostly green but the brown is so much more apparent from this close to him. the realization is so stunning you almost feel like you’ve been zapped with an electric current—andrew has beautiful eyes. “thank you.”
“oh. i-” you pause yourself before you say something that doesn’t make any sense. “of course. y-you saved my life. it’s the least i can do.”
and that realization is equally disorienting, like a bomb has been dropped between you two. he might have taken you and brought you here and kept you locked up but he did save you. from almost certain death.
andrew doesn’t say anything, even if he’s thinking something. he stares and when you try to look away again, he lets go of the hand on your wrist and brings it to the side of your face instead. he tilts your head towards him until you’ve locked eyes again.
you think your heart is going to fall out of your chest with how fast it’s beating.
“stop looking away.” his words come out quietly.
andrew is so close to you, that almost by nature of instinct, your eyes flutter shut. you don’t know what exactly you’re expecting, and something inside of your brain screams at you, reminding you how incredibly stupid you’re being.
but then andrew brings you closer to him with his hand warm on your cheek and your lips brush his for a second, maybe two, and they’re soft just like you imagined, and then—
you two jump apart as his phone goes off. you don’t know how far back you jerked, but andrew lets go of your face immediately. he stands up to answer it, reminds you to be quiet by putting a finger in front of his lips.
"what is it, baz?"
you tiptoe back to the room and close the door as quietly as you can. and then you bury your head into the pillow.
stupid. stupid. stupid. kissing—or almost kissing, or whatever the hell that was—your captor. you seriously cannot descend into a further level of stupidity. as if your life was some badly written mafia romance, the kind you should be overindulging in right now instead of being locked up in a cabin with a complete stranger and then trying to kiss said stranger.
(do not, you’re forced to remind yourself over and over again, do not think about his green eyes and his soft lips and the way he held your face tenderly. do not. do not.)
a little while later, you hear andrew’s voice quiet down and his footsteps come to your door. he stands outside and your heart picks up wondering if he’ll knock or come back in to finish what he started, but it settles into a dull thudding rhythm again once he walks away. then the unmistakable sound of the front door, his truck starting, and tires on the dirt road that leads to this place.
you don’t know why you let your expectations get carried away for a moment there. andrew’s not going to give you some grand, dramatic kiss or knock and give you a romantic speech from the other side of the door. that’s not him, you know that much at least. the crime television series are merging with the romantic books in your head and creating a perfect storm to cloud your senses.
maybe it’s a good thing. maybe it’s a coping mechanism, or something. you’ll figure it out in therapy if andrew ever lets you go.
you open the door and go back to where you were sleeping on the couch. it’s comfortable, and it’d be perfect to curl up and watch a movie in, if there was a television around. you miss your laptop and post-work routine a little bit more than you have the entire time so far.
you want to get back under the blanket but you still feel flushed from the kiss, if you could even call it that. the almost, maybe-it-happened kiss. you lay on top of the blanket and stare at the ceiling and feel your heartbeat in your ears.
fuck. you really shouldn’t. but resisting it—especially when your eyes shut and you recall how andrew’s skin felt against yours, how it felt to be so close to him that you could see all his freckles, how he looked at you and made you look at him—takes every ounce of strength in your body.
and you’re really, really not that strong.
you lift up the shirt you’ve been wearing today, the one that’s undoubtedly his from the familiar detergent and the size of it, and your fingers find their familiar pattern themselves.
you trace little circles on your clit and keep your eyes closed tightly, like opening it and seeing what the hell you’re doing might chase away the orgasm that’s getting closer and closer. instead there’s other images—andrew’s arm tensing under your touch. the veins that go all the way down to his forearm. other places he might have veins like that.
then it’s something else—the fact that he almost kissed you. what it could have led to, what it means for you. the fact that he wants you, that maybe he’s wanted you all along. that maybe that’s why he took you.
your orgasm hits you like a brick at that very thought. you ride yourself through it like you’ve always done, covering your mouth even though you don’t have neighbors here, sweaty and out of breath and satisfied but not entirely. like you know what it could have been like, that there’s someone who could have made it better in ways that you can’t even piece together right now.
you groan into the cushion, loudly, frustrated with yourself. it’s one thing to develop a lite version of stockholm syndrome but it’s another entirely to finish to the thought of the man. especially when you can’t remember the last time you had a feeling like this towards anyone.
it’s just so stupid. you can’t get over it. you’re so stupid. the feeling of clarity washes over you but you still don’t completely understand it. you don’t know what it is about him. maybe you just want to be wanted—that has to be it. how else can you justify what you just did to the thought of your kidnapper?
you lay back on the cushion and curl up under the blanket and with that thought haunting you, you fall asleep.
and half-way to oceanside, andrew watches the feed for the living room and clenches his fist around the steering wheel.
+
andrew comes back the next day, and you two don’t talk about anything, just like usual. you’re making yourself lunch when he opens the door and you look his way briefly, before heading back to make him a plate too. you try to justify it internally—he made you meals not so long ago. granted, you were tied up with rope at the time, but still, he could have let you starve and he didn’t.
it turns into a little habit. you’ve never particularly loved cooking but one of the dusty bookshelves in the house had a cookbook that you’ve been stealing recipes from. it’s just something to keep you a little busy and if you’re going to improve any of your skills, it might as well be this one.
it’ll still be useful to you when you leave. if you get to leave.
you’re not entirely sure but you think andrew likes having you there as a personal cook. he washes the dishes and cleans the kitchen without complaint, and he forces you out of there, not letting you help. it’s sweet, you think, watching him from the living room with whatever book you’re reading now.
there’s other things too—he’s brought you books. you’re not sure from where, but you read them all the same, laughing internally when you think about if it’d be impolite to ask him for a dvd player or something.
you change the dressing on his wound each day, and it’s healing well so far. it’s been maybe four or five days since he got hurt—since you almost, maybe kissed him and then definitely, certainly orgasmed on his couch—and you feel…confused, for lack of a better word.
you feel like you’re in a routine like how a couple who’s getting used to living with each other is—first tip toeing around, and then gaining comfort and ease, until finally, it feels normal.
this can’t be right—how routine it feels to make andrew lunch, even when you’re not sure if he’ll be back in time. to flip through a cookbook wondering what recipe he might like. to smile at him when he brings you another book since he somehow knows you’ve gone through most of the shelf already.
the days melt into each other—but you had expected that. you think asking andrew about an update in the whole letting you go free thing might upset him, and you still really, really want to avoid that.
so you remain confused and turbulent and fighting an internal dilemma between two sides of you. one that just wants to give in and stop thinking so hard about this and the other that thinks you should be scared for your life and stop pretending that this is anything besides what it really is—stockholm syndrome changing your brain chemistry and making you think that you’re going to be just fine.
while the two sides are duking it out, you and andrew continue the routine—or maybe it’s a charade, one side argues—like usual. you think it’s been two weeks of being cooped up in this house when he brings you a magazine.
“can you circle what you need?”
you look up at him. he’s sort of trained you into the eye contact thing, and though you can’t withstand much of his intense staring, you’ve gotten marginally better at it. (you’re sure he’ll like that, that it must please him that you don’t always look away. and then you remind yourself where you are and your head begins to hurt.)
“yes. sure. thank you,” you say, opening up the catalog. there’s a section for clothes and another for beauty and skincare, and as stupid as it is, you still circle some of the makeup you like. and some of the stuff that you always deemed too expensive to buy, because if andrew’s paying, you might as well get to try it out. you justify it all—doing such elaborate mental gymnastics that you think you’d medal gold at this point.
but that’s what you have to do, right? you ponder the thought as you hand andrew back the circled pages, with him telling you he’ll get the stuff as soon as he can. that new clothes and skincare might make you, at the very least, feel like a person. help you not lose all of your identity as you merge into this persona for andrew—personal chef and nurse and someone he almost, maybe kisses.
and there’s other things too. when you wake up, he’s always hovering somewhere near you, as though he’d been watching you sleep. you guess there’s nothing inherently wrong with that—it sort of makes butterflies flutter around your stomach, since the idea that he likes to pass time by looking at you is very overwhelming—but you keep reminding yourself to stay rational.
it’s hard to ground yourself but you need to keep it up—even though more often than not, thoughts of andrew, even when he’s not there with you, plague you, like you’re some teenager with a crush.
it’s because you know, know deep down in your bones that some part of andrew likes some part of you. that you do, indeed, have a soft spot for your kidnapper, built from making lunches and conversations without words. that you ignore your instincts so much you’re not sure you can even call it an instinct anymore, because your newfound impulses just want to do whatever you can to please andrew, even when he doesn’t express it through words, just through eye contacts and barely there touches.
the realization makes you want to throw up. there’s not enough justification in the world for this, it doesn’t matter if he said he wouldn’t hurt you or he makes sure you’re safe here.
it’s been more than two weeks now. he could have let you go. but then again, he could have done a lot of things.
you’re finishing making lunch when you notice it—that the door seems slightly ajar, like he’d forgotten one of the locks or something. maybe he had on the second trip out to get the groceries for you so you could start cooking. he used to make sure you were in the bedroom, locked inside, when he opened and closed the door. but he hadn’t done that in a few days.
because he trusted that you wouldn’t run.
if the door is open, you could try to get outside while andrew is washing the dishes and cleaning up after the two of you eat. but it’s probably not—he’s much more careful than that.
but still, sitting at the tiny round dining table across from him, you can barely eat a few bites, heart racing at the idea. it’s stupid—the idea of running away. where would you even go? you don’t know the terrain, don't know where you are. you don’t even wear shoes in the house, prancing around barefoot in one of the new dresses andrew brought for you like some sort of twisted housewife.
once it got dark, you’d be in real trouble, with whatever wildlife is out here and how far away the main road is, if there was even other cars on it to begin with. you can’t remember much from the drive over here and you curse to yourself.
“something wrong?” andrew asks, and you blink at him dumbly.
“no, nothing. i-i-” quick. think of something. before he gets worried. “i just didn’t like this recipe as much as i thought i would. not my best work.”
you try to laugh it off, even though your words sound stupid. andrew stares at you until your smiles melts away and you take a tiny bite.
“it tastes good to me,” he says, and you feel your heart fall. your idea seems further and further away.
like always, andrew takes the dishes to the kitchen and when you hear the sink turn on, you leave your spot on the table and go to the living room. but instead of taking a seat on the creaky couch and opening your book, you tiptoe to the door.
your heart is beating so fast you can hear it in your ears, trembling hand reaching for the doorknob.
and for the first time, it twists and gives way to the door opening.
you are stupid, you conclude, for thinking about running away from this, from him. but you can’t get over the circumstances that led you here—his crazy family, the fact that he was partaking in a robbery of your goddamn school, that he had no issues with taking you to begin with.
and despite the part of you that thinks you could really, really get used to this—or the harrowing reality of the fact that you already have—you step outside and start running.
but andrew has become somewhat of a bloodhound when it comes to you. he waits for the telltale signs that he always hears when he’s the kitchen—the groan of the sofa cushions as you sit down and get comfortable, the rustle of your book opening, the flap of the blanket as you spread it over your legs.
he knows because he’s always greeted with that same sight every time he comes out into the living room, one he’s become well acquainted with and has been the source of a rare piece of happiness for the last several days.
it takes him a few minutes to realize he didn’t hear it. another few to wonder if you went to the bedroom—but he didn’t hear any doors open or close. and it takes him about thirty seconds to realize his mistake with leaving the door unlocked because he was worried about the groceries in the back—specifically a pint of melted ice cream he brought here for you.
the dish clatters into the sink and he races out to the living room. andrew’s never been a religious man but he prays then, quietly to himself, just for a split second. hoping that you’re just curled up on the couch quietly, that when he turns the corner, you’ll still be there.
his heart skips a beat when he realizes that you’re not. then he walks through the open door with an understanding that he won’t stop running until he finds you.
+
hindsight really is twenty-twenty.
you ran for maybe ten or fifteen minutes before realizing that this was a huge mistake—one that you can’t just repair with an apology and a sincere smile. just a while ago this felt like your only chance to get freedom and get as much distance between you and the kidnapper you’re half in love with—another realization that strikes you like something akin to a knife in the stomach.
you keep running, bare feet getting achy already from the cold, hard dirt and rocks. you wonder if andrew’s noticed yet or if he’s still standing in the kitchen. he’s going to be so disappointed. and all this time, you’ve been trying so hard to avoid that very thing. all your effort was for nothing—it’s not like he’ll forgive you for this.
you’ve gotten so far that you don’t recognize anything, and with your muscles burning, you slow down. you can’t stop for long—you don’t know where the nearest road is, and it might be an hour of running before you get there.
you try to catch your breath and get back up to keep going, when a thought crosses your mind.
what are you really scared of? because it can’t be staying with andrew—he’s done nothing but take care of you. it can’t be that he’ll hurt you, because he’s already had the chance to do so a thousand times and he’s never once taken it.
if anything, he’s protecting you from the rest of his family. putting himself on the line by hiding you instead of just doing the easy thing and killing you, dumping your body somewhere where no one will ever find it and letting the school report you missing in three months when you don’t show up for the first day of class.
you think you know what you’re scared of right now—being stuck in these woods when it’s dark out, alone and trapped, with the possibility that if you run too far, andrew might not be able to find you.
if he even tried to find you. he might not care now that you broke his trust by running away. he might let you stay stuck out here until the forces of nature get to you, if you’ve gone too far.
you collapse down against a tree, that thought making your knees weak as you fully process it. and then you wait.
and a few minutes later, you hear the stomps—even they sound angry—getting closer and closer, and you look up to find andrew, like always, staring at you. he looks flushed and though his expression hardly ever changes around you, remaining consistently unphased, you can tell he’s upset with you.
you two have never needed many words to communicate.
“i’m sorry,” you say quietly, before he can say anything, if he even will.
you’re not sure it goes from here—you’d thought about the other side of your original plan, running to the nearest road and flagging someone down and whatever else you thought adrenaline would allow you to do. you think your subconscious was trying to protect you from thinking about andrew being angry at you and dragging you back to the cabin by your hair.
weakly, you think it’s what you deserve for running away in the first place.
and andrew wonders why you stopped running, his mind running in circles around the fact that you had your perfect chance to escape and you took it, and you still stopped. you don’t look too hurt—though there’s scratches on your bare feet and ankles from the branches and twigs. you hadn’t even thought to put your shoes on. that’s how badly you wanted to get away from him.
and can he really blame you? he couldn’t have expected you to willingly stay just because you’re gentle when you clean his wound and you two share meals like husband and wife. it’s a fantasy concocted from being in the cabin with you for too long—and he firmly reminds himself of that right now, staring down at you.
but the way you look at him, watery eyes and an expression like you don’t even understand your own actions, makes resisting the fantasy so hard. he thinks it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done.
he crouches down to be at eye-level with you, your back still perched against the trunk of the tree. you draw your knees in towards your chest and he watches as the fabric of your dress moves with the motion, revealing more bare skin to him.
“why-why’d you do that?”
“i’m sorry, andrew-”
“i haven’t hurt you. i kept my promise.”
“i know, i-i-”
“you’ve been good so far.”
“i’m sorry,” you say again, and with that one, fat tears drip down your cheeks. you are sorry—if only you had a way to convince him of it. or to go back in time and not do any of this, if only to save you both the pain of this conversation.
“why? i want an answer.” firm and final and said in a tone that you had never heard from andrew so far.
“i…i guess i needed to know if you’d come after me or not.” it comes out as a shuddery breath of words. it’s only partially the truth—but it’s the most you can confess to right now.
maybe some part of you knew it would happen like this. the truth is that you’re scared of how andrew might feel about you and you’re even more scared of what you feel towards him.
“of course i would,” he says and you shut your eyes, taking a shaky breath. you feel andrew’s hands on your knees, warm and tense and his grip tight like you might scamper off again. “i would-" he cuts himself off before he can finish the sentence. do anything for you. i would do anything for you.
“d-don’t say that-”
“why not?”
when you open your eyes, andrew’s already looking at you, with an intensity you’ve seen one other night—the time you helped him when he was hurt, the night of the kiss. you don’t have an answer for him.
“can i prove it to you?” andrew’s words make a shiver run through your body. you stare at him, finally not looking away for once, wondering how different things will be after this.
you think you’re fine with it. and then you feel andrew guiding you—instructing you to lay your body down flat in the grass. his hands are like ropes holding you in place, exactly as he wants you—and when he spreads your legs wide and lowers his head between your thighs, your own head hits the soil with a thud.
your eyes shut with anticipation, though andrew doesn’t move for what feels like ages. like he’s observing and taking it all in—which is somehow even more shameful. how wet you are from a few words and touches, how ready you are for him. but he’s going to show you and you think all you should do—all you can do, with how dizzy you feel from it—is lay back and take what he gives you.
his words run through your head like a loop—you’ve been good so far. and thinking about those words, when andrew presses the flat of his tongue against your leaking cunt, all the way up to your throbbing clit, you let out a moan closer to a scream, and you can, since no one can hear you for miles around.
he seems incredibly encouraged by that—speeding up his pace, lapping up everything you give him.
you don’t know when your fingers got wrapped up in andrew’s hair, but they do, and you pull hard when he slips one finger, then two inside of you. you feel it—the knot tensing in your stomach, feeling andrew’s thick fingers spread you open, feeling his tongue against your pussy and lavishing attention on your clit.
you can’t believe you thought your stupid fingers would compare to the real thing—you were wrong, again. nothing you could have thought of could compare to andrew’s hot mouth on you, his huge hand holding you down while the other thrusts fingers in and out of you.
and it’s this realization that tips you over the edge—that even when you tried to run away from this, you’re still back in andrew’s arms, like a star that can’t escape its orbit.
you finish in andrew’s tight grip, your entire body spasming and shaking as it courses through you—hot and wet and sending lava through your arteries and veins. andrew doesn’t stop until your body is limp and you have to try and push yourself away from him—using what little energy you have left in an unsuccessful attempt to do so.
and then he pulls the skirt of your dress down, picks you up in his arms, and carries you back to the cabin. you feel wetness—your wetness—on his fingers where he holds you and how warm his chest is against your cheek, and you fall asleep somewhere on the walk back.
when you wake up, you’re in the familiar bed, tucked under the covers. andrew is asleep next to you on top of the sheets.
+
two days later, andrew has to leave for a job. it almost hurts more now that you’ve gotten to experience a slightly different side of things. you think you’ve gotten used to waking up beside him and going to sleep next to him.
but on the other hand, him leaving does have its perks. he hasn’t touched you like that since you were in the woods with him, and as much as you love playing house with andrew, you’re so pent up that you think you could touch yourself all day and it still wouldn’t get rid of it. the burning, sticky ache inside you that wants andrew all the time—that wants him to pin you down and do whatever he’s been harboring thoughts about this whole time.
memories of his single hand being enough to hold down your entire thrashing body in the woods is enough to make all the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. so you make yourself cum until you can’t anymore (that’s your limit—you don’t think andrew would have a limit for you, though, and you’re sure you’ll find out soon enough) and carry on your little routine and wait for him to come back home to you.
it feels like a certain weight has been lifted from your shoulders, you think, with how easy everything feels now. like you don’t have to fight a battle in your head over every encounter, like you don’t have to justify every emotion. you’re here, and you have andrew, and you’re going to appreciate what you and him have because you know it’s something special.
maybe it’s a little delusional, too, but you’ve been here almost three weeks without seeing another person and you’ve been tepidly awaiting some sort of punishment for running away and it hasn’t come yet. every time you think you know what andrew is going to do, you find yourself completely mistaken.
andrew does come home—and times like this, you really wish you had some way to communicate with him. a satellite phone or a carrier pigeon or something to tell him you’ve gotten your period and there’s nothing in this house that you can substitute like you’ve done with all your other needs.
he has the usual groceries and a box of brownie mix for dessert because ice cream doesn’t last the drive back here. and then he hands you another bag that you accept with a quizzical look on your face, since normally you two put everything away together.
and inside is a box of pads and a box of tampons. you look straight up at him and blink.
“how did you know?”
“know what?”
“that i got my period. you weren’t even here-”
“it’ll be a month soon and you haven’t said anything yet. i just assumed.”
“you assumed?”
“i have a-i had a sister. i know things.”
“oh.” the realization that andrew is a complete stranger startles you for a moment, like it hasn’t in a while. you felt like you knew so much about him from your interactions that you forgot the two of you haven’t ever really talked about his life or your life or anything beyond the four walls of this cabin. “i’m sorry.”
and a little bit later, while you mix the brownie batter and add butter, not oil and milk, not water, you ask andrew questions about his sister and listen as he answers quietly. the way he looks at you after a certain question makes you think no one's ever taken the time to ask him these things before, and that makes your heart hurt in a way you can't really understand.
and then you sit beside him on the couch and read your book aloud while he listens, and you think maybe you don't need to understand everything.
+
andrew thinks you’re getting antsy when you have to be at the cabin alone without him. he wasn’t completely sure, but you’ve started asking when he’s leaving and when he’ll be back almost every time. he thinks maybe he’s just not to used to someone asking, or rather someone wanting him to stay, but now you do, and he doesn’t have a real answer for you.
that’s because the answer is dependent on his brothers and smurf and it changes daily based on if he can avoid their suspicion and the glances they exchange with each other when he says he’ll be busy again. and unsure of how much longer he can keep it up, worried that anything he does might reveal your existence to them, he needs to stay away from you for longer chunks of time, as hard as that thought is for him to swallow.
he doesn’t want to. maybe he never has, now that he has something to come home to, something waiting for him half-asleep on the couch and leaving plates of dinner in the oven and something that takes him by the hand and brings him to the bedroom to sleep next to each other.
the solution comes to him when lena is telling him about a girl at school who got a kitten for her birthday, and if he’d help her convince baz to let her get one too.
he doesn’t know how to explain that baz is never going to agree to that, when he goes to the shelter, he thinks that if he ever gets to introduce you to lena, she can play with the one he’s about to get you.
the worker at the shelter shows him the kittens, playful and hyperactive and running around in their pen. the woman there starts explaining what each of the little kittens are like, identifying them by their collars, but he doesn’t hear half of it.
there’s a little orange one that’s quiet, tucked away and not as energetic as the others. he thinks that’d be perfect for you—to have a calm kitten dozing off in your lap while you read or follow you around the kitchen. and when he picks it up, it barely takes up the size of his hand. yes, he thinks, this is exactly what you need.
the worker has him fill out papers and tells him the different things he needs to buy—though he knows some of it already—and asks him if the little kitten is for him.
“no. no she's for my girl-my girlfriend.” she harps on about how sweet that is and that he’s being a great boyfriend, and andrew swallows uncomfortably.
it didn’t feel like a lie.
when he comes home that day, he finds you, like always, waiting for him. he thinks stupidly that he should have gotten a basket or a ribbon or something, to make the kitten feel more like a gift for you, but it slipped his mind while he was trying to fight off intrusive thoughts about your reaction.
and it’s everything he thought it would be.
as soon as you hear the quiet mewing, you stand up, the blanket that always covers your legs falling to the ground.
you rush over to him, your body pressed close against him and fingers brushing as you pet the nape of the kitten’s neck.
“oh my god. oh my god-” he’s never heard you sound so excited—and your tone is nearly intoxicating for him. he wonders what else he can do to get you to stay this happy forever.
“she's for you.”
“oh my god. andrew. she's so cute. hi,” you coo at her in a voice that only gets more excited when he helps the kitten into your arms. and then you beam your bright smile up at andrew and he momentarily gets all the wind knocked from his lungs. “what should we name her?”
we. like this cat is both of yours—yours and his. it’s the things like that—the ways you subconsciously reveal that you think of him as yours, that everything you two is together. that this kitten is for the both of you. and andrew thinks if this is how you’d react to everything, there’s nothing he could ever deny you.
he watches you play with the kitten for a while before he has to leave—not entirely sure how to break it to you that he’ll be gone for longer than usual this time. maybe you’ll stay so occupied you won’t notice it. you use one of the toys he brought, a little rod with a toy fish on a string, and drag it across the floor while the kitten chases it. and then you accumulate enough cuteness aggression that you bring her in for a hug and laugh while she curls up against you.
(and andrew, who thinks he’s never had a thought like this before, wonders briefly what you’d look like with a baby in your arms.)
you’re sad when he says that he has to leave but at the very least, he knows you’ll be occupied. he thinks he did the right thing, and then he knows he did the right thing, when you scoop up the kitten and bring her to the door to say goodbye to andrew with you. then you turn your head to give andrew a kiss on his cheek and thank him again and he drives to oceanside wondering why he didn’t think of this sooner.
you wrangle the kitten for the better part of two days before andrew comes back.
he’d told you it would take longer but every passing minute that he’s not home with you or driving towards you makes him antsy. makes his skin hum and vibrate with anticipation of when he can leave. by now, the others must have noticed that something’s going on, though if they have, no one says anything. he doesn’t know if it’s from a lack of concern or out of fear for his answer, but either way, he’s glad they haven’t.
they don’t need to know about you. that’s why all of this has felt so perfect to andrew so far—because his family isn’t around to taint it and ruin it. to scare you off or hurt you and all the other things that would happen if they realized you were still alive.
and though you and him don’t talk about much, there’s an understanding between the two of you, one that’s only been strengthened since the day when you had run away and stopped so he could find you. that maybe, as twisted as all of this was, it was meant to happen. that you two were meant to find each other.
it’s a heavy thought for the drive back to the cabin. it weighs over him like a storm cloud—the battle of trying to recognize if he’d done the right thing by bringing you here or not. maybe he should have let you go the day after smurf and his brothers had stopped bringing you up, once they thought you were dealt with.
but when he opens the door to the cabin, you’re curled up with the cat, asleep on the couch just like he had envisioned. what’s more is the overwhelming notion of the fact that you had fallen asleep there waiting for him, like you always do.
you feel you’ve almost been trained to wake up to the sound of the door closing. when you open your eyes, still heavy with sleep, andrew’s perched on the couch next to you, petting the kitten lying to you.
“i didn’t mean to wake you up,” he says quietly. you sigh, a surprisingly sweet noise that comes to him like a melody.
“that’s okay,” you sit up, yawning and stretching. “i don’t want to sleep if you’re here.”
and he doesn’t know what to do when you say things like that—because really, what is he supposed to say? your words have an almost otherworldly effect on him when he processes what they mean.
that you want to wake up when he comes back home. that you don’t want to miss a moment of time with him. that you want him there with you.
the last one hits him the hardest.
andrew stares in silence while you stretch your arms and then bring the kitten back into your hands, cuddling against her and nuzzling your face against hers. the kitten had looked comically small in his palm but perfectly at home in yours.
“did you pick a name?”
“maybe. i wasn’t sure what you’d like,” you say, meeting his eyes for longer than you usually do—something you’ve been working on. the two of you stay like that for a while, glancing between yourselves and the kitten mewling and traipsing around the space between you and andrew.
“you should pick. she’s for you.” you smile at andrew when he says that, and for some reason, all of this just feels so much more domestic than it ever has before. his hand turns into a fist at his side because it is overwhelming—incredibly so. he wants to lay down next to you and watch you play with the kitten and tell him every thought in your head and fall asleep to the sound of you talking.
but he can’t do any of that, and he can’t tell you, either. so he attempts a small smile back at you and you tell him you think you like the name wren.
“it was in one of the books,” you say, though you’re lying through your teeth.
“wren?”
“what? what’s wrong with it?”
“n-nothing. i just thought… i don’t know. it’s not really a cat name, is it?”
“what? you want me to call her mrs. whiskers?”
he laughs when you say that, and so you laugh too. surprisingly calm, and the rest of the world forgotten for a few minutes. andrew doesn’t understand such a human name for the kitten, but it’s yours. he think he’d let you do whatever you want if you keep laughing and smiling with him.
you get up to make lunch, and andrew and wren both follow you into the kitchen, and the hours of the day pass by quickly when andrew’s there with you. since you learned about his sister, you like to ask him questions, and though he was hesitant at first—you’re not entirely sure why—he’s begun asking you questions too, about when you’d become a school nurse and if you liked it and the book you’re reading this week.
andrew avoids personal questions. the fear of reminding you of the life you left behind, or snapping you back to the reality of how you’re stuck here with him frightens him too much to ask. but you ask him questions—lots of them, all about his life and his family and how long they’ve been doing these jobs.
you get sad, he can tell since you’re bad at hiding your emotion and they paint over your face immediately, when he tells you about how long he’s been doing this. about stolen gas station wallets and the people smurf always had over and how every day was about him trying to protect his siblings.
you get sad even to the point of tears, something he can’t understand. you don’t know him enough to cry over him, do you? or is this just what you’re like—crying over your kidnapper’s childhood stories, curling up next to andrew on the couch with the kitten between you two, holding his hand and pleading with him to stay the night.
is this what you’re like? or is this what he’s made you into?
you fall asleep somewhere between the answer to another question you’ve asked him and the cat’s soft snores next to you. it’s easier once you’re asleep—to gaze over you and not have to hold back the smile that takes over him. you’re so trusting it almost frustrates him.
he picks you up gently, carrying you back to the bedroom. the cat wakes up from the movement and meows at him, but all she does is follow andrew as he carries you and jump onto the bed when he sets you down. while unfolding the blanket to cover you, a piece of paper falls out and lands on the ground near his feet.
you and wren are both sound asleep now. he should go back to the living room—sleep there or leave, but the idea of you waking up alone makes him feel miserable inside. or rather, another day of waking up without you.
he opens the paper—there’s names written in pen all over. at the top is andrew in your pretty handwriting, with different letters crossed out. and then underneath are all different names using the same couple of letters.
warden
wander
dawn with a maybe???
rand
red
then raw, crossed out several times and a big no written next to it. and then finally, wren, circled and with several exclamations following it.
oh. so that’s why you named the kitten wren. he stares at you asleep next to her, having brought an arm across her, even in your sleep, like you were trying to keep her close to you.
oh.
wren—using the letters of his name. emotions surge through andrew like they haven’t in a long time. the sad, pathetic yearning turning into something he doesn’t think he’s felt before—the urge to make you happy because you make him so happy, without even trying to.
and though he knows he should get in the car and drive back to oceanside before anyone can bother asking where he is, the urge to stay with you is stronger than the rational logic of leaving. so, he gets into bed next to you and wren.
andrew doesn’t sleep much, though it’s hard to fight sleep when he can hear your gentle breathing. and it’s really, really hard to fight sleep when your arm makes its way across his chest, the warmth burning through his shirt.
he does fall asleep—maybe the best he’s slept in years. and when he wakes up to the sunlight, you’re curled up against his side, the cat somewhere at your feet, holding onto him like you’re worried he’ll leave.
thoughts plague him about how you don’t even know if he’s really there, that sometimes he leaves when you’re asleep and you wake up alone more often than you wake up to him. you’ve been knocked out since last night, at least he thinks, because if you had gotten up he would have noticed.
but andrew watches you hold onto his arm, your face smushed against his chest as you take sleepy breaths and snore softly, legs tangled together, and he has to think it’s happening for a reason.
groggily, he wonders if you’ve been sent just to test his willpower. memories flood him quickly—when you had touched yourself after he kissed you, what he’d done to you out in the woods after he’d caught you (or rather, caught up to you—because you had stopped. you had waited for him.)
he thinks he just ignores his morning wood on most days but it’s especially hard when your soft skin is pressed against him and he can see miles of it exposed since you kicked away the covers. the little noises you make as you get comfortable and stay nestled against him don’t help either—and just when he questions what exactly you might be dreaming about, his phone goes off.
fuck. stupid fucking phone—he needs to make it not so loud or destroy the thing entirely. he reaches over to the night stand to grab it but the damage is already done, your eyes jump open from the terrible alarm and you take about half a second to realize how close you are to andrew. you meet his eyes and then he answers his phone and you unpeel yourself from his side, if a bit begrudgingly.
andrew stares at you while you stare at wren, hoping she stays quiet so the person on the other line can’t hear her. you take heavy breaths and andrew notices that you look flushed and warm, and you keep moving around, changing your position as if you can’t get comfortable. squirming, even.
which leads him back to his original question—what the hell were you dreaming about? he gets lost in the possible answers and makes baz repeat himself three times before he answers. in an attempt to get him to hang up, andrew agrees with whatever he says and you sit patiently, taking wren into your arms so she doesn’t make any noises for attention. she still mews quietly a few times and you pick her up, taking her into the living room as carefully as you can
“is that a cat? where are you?” baz asks on the other line and andrew hangs up without saying goodbye.
he walks into the living room and you stand up once you see him, leaving wren on the couch.
“i’m so sorry. i didn’t think she’d-”
“that’s okay. i-i have to go.”
you sigh and your shoulders drop, your hopeful expression changing into one of disappointment before his very eyes. maybe he’s never hated anything as much as how you’re looking at him right now.
“already?” the words make andrew’s knees feel weak.
“i don’t have a choice. i…” he trails off, wondering how to finish the sentence, how to articulate the thought.
how to sum up the fact that he would stay here, with you, all day if he could. that watching you cook and curl up in the sun and play with the kitten that you refer to as ours is enough to sustain him for the rest of his life. that whenever the day comes that you get to leave this place, he will never forget about you—not your sweet smile or your sincere expressions or how earnestly you look at him when you don’t want him to go.
but he doesn’t know how to tell you any of that.
“i’m sorry,” he finishes quietly. and like always, you smile at him.
“it’s okay. we’ll just miss you.” you turn to look at wren and then look back, and somehow, though you must think this every single time, andrew’s stare feels different than usual.
like there’s so much swimming around in his mind that he’s not telling you. he doesn’t say it back, that he’ll miss you both too. instead he walks up closer to you, and you hold in a breath, unsure of what’s coming, before he leans in and gives you a kiss on the forehead. you feel every muscle in your body relax when his lips press to your skin, eyes fluttering shut.
he murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like be good, and then you nod in response quickly.
and then he’s gone again.
you crawl back into bed, the motivation to make breakfast or do much of anything long gone.
not to mention that one of his stupid brothers—you know their names but you didn’t know which one had called, though it was probably baz since he always interrupted everything—had woken you up from the best dream you’d had since you’d been stuck here. your thighs feel sticky and your entire body squirms with the realization that if you had stayed dreaming any longer, you probably would have started rubbing yourself against andrew in your sleep.
and as embarrassing as that thought it is, it’s equally intoxicating to wonder what he would have done about it.
in the dream you had been riding his thigh—your own thighs splayed out wide against him, and in the dream andrew had been watching you, like he always does. except this time you know it was different, like you could see the lust behind the hazel, like he was using all of his self control to not do more.
would the real andrew do the same? after so many close calls and whatever the hell that was in the woods and the two of you being so close together in the same bed yet so incredibly far? you don’t know the answer, though you think you’re about ready to find out.
it’s not very fair—he kisses your head like he’s your husband or something, and then leaves you pent up and yearning for more like he’s nothing but your captor. he hasn’t even touched you in a way that could be deemed as inappropriate since the woods and you’re left to believe that maybe he just doesn’t want to cross that line.
you don’t know andrew’s rules when it comes to you, though it seems like he’ll break them if he’s pushed to it.
that’s what you’re thinking when you fold a pillow—the one andrew slept on—in half and mount it as if it could possibly compare to your dream and what andrew’s thigh or arm might feel like in reality. but you still try, lifting up your (his) shirt and letting your hips move against the cold pillow, grabbing your tits and teasing your nipples, wondering if this is what andrew would do. you think he would get sick of the teasing and finally bend you over, but then you think he wouldn’t do that until you’ve finished already. he’s too generous for that.
and though the thought of andrew and his generosity with you, in bed, one day, is enough to normally tip you over the edge, something inside of you just won’t let you finish. you hump the pillow for what seems like ages, but you don’t get any closer to finishing.
maybe it’s just because your body knows what it feels like when andrew’s the one making you cum, and it won’t settle for your pathetic excuse of an orgasm anymore.
so with burning, aching thighs and an entirely unsatisfied feeling in your chest, you collapse against the bed and sigh. when you look over on andrew’s side of the bed, you just get a sense of longing that fills your entire body.
wren cries out and you see her sitting in the doorway, eyes focused on you, her own way of asking for your attention.
“okay, okay, i’m coming,” you say, before getting up. you walk over and pick her up and she doesn’t stop staring or blink once. “just like your dad, huh?”
+
on the drive back to you on the following day, andrew thinks long and hard about what baz said to him.
it started as an innocent conversation—baz brought up the cat again, saying how lena’s been asking for one and he wants to make sure andrew’s not gonna surprise her with it. with a blank stare, andrew told him that he must be imagining things because he wasn’t near a cat.
then the conversation had shifted—about his absences and how he’s been gone all the time and no one’s seen him at smurf’s or his place or anywhere else.
baz’s words linger in his head on the drive. where’ve you been going, man? is this about that girl? we’re sorry you had to take care of it but we didn’t have any options, pope. is that what this is about?
it’s as if it’s impossible for them to understand that everything in his life is about you now—centered around you. he finally made a decision for himself, for once, not just blindly following along with whatever smurf wanted.
it’s so easy for the rest of them to think that whatever’s wrong with him is about you—when they don’t even know you. not like he does—not in the way that andrew’s gotten to know you over the last weeks.
your gentleness, even to your kidnapper. your sweet smiles that keep him going through each day. how memories of his hours with you stay in his head for long after he drives away from the cabin.
that for the time he stays there with you, there’s nothing wrong with him, there’s nothing to fix, nothing broken that you haven’t already seen. he’s just andrew to you—nothing more. you say his name without burdens or expectations. you want him to stay longer. you run away and then sit down and wait for him to find you. he gives you a cat as a goddamn distraction and you name the thing after him and dote on it.
but for everything you do for him, and the way you make him feel, he can’t keep you here. maybe he knew all along this was a temporary thing, that it was just to hide you away until his family well and truly believed that you were dealt with and taken care of. that you were never meant to stay with him, to be his. the idea now seems ridiculous—a sweet girl like you, so compliant even when he’s been holding you hostage.
but even you had to give into your instinct, the one that told you to flee when you saw the open door. how can he blame you? that should have been your natural reaction from the first hour you’ve been in the cabin.
briefly, he thinks he can’t blame you for any of it. the fault is all his—and he’ll start rectifying it now. if baz was wondering about his absences and if it has anything to do with you, then smurf must be too. before long, all of them would be. and then it wouldn’t take long to figure out he’s kept you hidden this whole time, and then they’ll really hurt you, and he can’t have that.
he pulls onto the dirt road that leads to the cabin and drives down it slowly, like he knows whatever you two had has to come to an end today.
andrew rests his head against the steering wheel, hand a little shaky.
it’s for you, he reminds himself. he can do it because it’s for you, for your safety, for your life. there’s no future for you cooped up here all alone while he abandons you every other day. just a deplorable fantasy from a man who has always been alone about to be alone again.
you’ll be happier once you’ve left this place—he’ll take you to your apartment and give you cash so you can leave and start over wherever you’d like. that’s the plan right now—get you home to get your belongings, and figure out what you’ll tell your job and how to get you as far away from oceanside as he can.
it means in a few hours, he’ll be telling you goodbye for the last time.
he opens the door, and like always, you’re waiting for him. wren follows you around as you make your way to the door to greet him, beaming up at him like you have been. you linger as though you want to do something else—maybe you want to kiss him, or pull him into a hug, but you don’t.
you stare up at him while he stares at you, until you finally speak up.
“well, i made lunch. let me go get it ready for you,” but when you turn, he grabs onto your arm. you spin back to face him again with a confused expression. “andrew?”
“i-i have to get you out of here.”
“andrew?” you question again, voice a little shaky. “what do you mean?”
“my family. they’re…noticing. i’m gone all the time and no one-no one’s reported you missing. i need to get you out of town. maybe another state.”
“andrew-”
“i’ll drive you back to your apartment. you-you can take whatever you need from there. and here too, uh, wren’s stuff,” he looks around, trying to see what else you had even brought here. and then he realizes it was never the things, it was you, that always made this place feel like home. your presence and the blanket that told him you were reading on the couch and the pulled curtains and the smell of something you baked in the air. “i can get you new papers, if you want. you can go wherever. i can figure out how to get you there, but-”
“you’re not coming with me, are you?” the way you say it, the expression on your face, it’s enough to make whatever resolve is still standing in him crumble.
“i can’t. it-it’s for your own safety. you have to get away from here. if i stay you’ll just get hurt-”
“that’s not true,” you plead, realizing sadly that this is the most you and andrew have spoken to each other about something that didn't start as a question. your conversations have never needed so many words. “you kept me safe all this time-”
“i can’t, anymore. if they find out that you’re here-”
“they won’t,” you say, getting closer and bringing your hands to his chest, pressing them flat against him like you have to remind yourself he’s still there. you keep looking at him, not breaking the eye contact like you always do, though it feels like andrew’s gaze is burning holes through you.
“they will. they always do. they’ll hurt you.”
“no, andrew, please-”
“we need to go. we have to get the things you need and leave-” andrew tries to move away from your grip, but you follow him, hands on his shoulders, standing in front of him again to block him from doing anything else. “i-i don’t understand. why? why don’t you want to leave? this isn’t a life. i-i’m keeping you from your life.”
“you’re not keeping me from anything. i-i like being here with you-”
“no, no, you don’t. that’s not right. i-i should have never brought you here.”
“you saved my life, andrew,” you say softly, blinking up at him with teary eyes. you hadn’t realized when you’d started crying.
“i’m gonna get you killed if i-”
without thinking anymore about it, realizing that andrew might very well be as serious as you’ve ever seen him, you lean in to bring your lips to his. you kiss andrew with all the emotions floating around your brain—hurt and fear and want and need all merging into one.
your arms wrap around his neck and you hold him in the kiss as best as you can, feeling his grip tighten around your waist as you two don’t let go of each other. andrew kisses you with a fury, like he’s just realizing what’s been waiting for him all this time.
your back ends up pushed against a wall gently—and even then, andrew keeps his hands on your waist and uses them as a barrier against the surface so you don’t get hurt.
with swollen, aching lips and weak knees and feeling his tongue prod into your mouth, you think you’d be stupid to ever walk away from this.
when you pull away to breathe, andrew’s mouth goes to your neck, littering kisses up the column until he gets to your jawline. you finish your sentence in a broken daze, the thought half forgotten already-
“you would never let me get hurt,” you whisper, taking his face into your hands and forcing the two of you to stare at each other. he takes it in—your wet eyelashes and puffy lips and how you look with desire spelled all across your face—because of him.
you lean in for another kiss, only pulling away to keep telling him everything he’s done for you. you feel it against your thigh—his hardness pressing into you, proof that he wants you, the proof you’ve been wanting all along.
(though, you think stupidly, dazed by andrew’s hot touch and how tightly he holds you, going against everything he’s been telling you since he came back home to you—a home that you are not, in any way, ready to give up or hand back without at least something of a fight—you can figure out how to convince him.)
and then andrew moans against your lips and you forget everything you’ve been thinking. you pull at his shirt, wanting it off, eager and with every limb shaking from anticipation. you’ve wanted this for so long you can’t even remember to remind yourself it’s andrew—the man who took you and brought you here, offering to set you free, and you’re trying to convince him not to, like a puppy who doesn’t want to go back to the shelter.
because isn’t that what all of this is, in the end? you can try to fight it as much as you want, but until you met andrew, until you became something that belonged to him, someone that he gets to come home to every day and someone that asks you questions and listens to the answers and does things for no other reason than he thought it would make you happy, what really were you?
you were alone, and you didn’t have anybody. and now you have andrew, and you think it’s worth fighting for.
you’d been joking to yourself about stockholm syndrome lite, but you’re pretty convinced you’ve got the deluxe version now. though when andrew picks you up, your legs wrapping around his automatically, feeling his hardness press against your wet, clothed cunt, it’s easy to forget about everything else.
andrew brings you into the bedroom and lays you down. you stare at him while you take heavy breaths and try to not pass out from sheer excitement that the thing you’ve been fantasizing about is finally happening. it seems silly, but you want to remember this forever. andrew pulls his shirt off, hovering over you, and you take a hand and press it against his bare skin, traveling up his chest and to his arms and then his forearms.
your fingertips dig in before running over the veins you’re seeing the full length of for the first time, and above you, andrew closes his eyes and shudders at your touch.
you bookmark it for later—that he enjoys the feeling of his veins being traced, and focus instead on andrew, meeting his eyes again.
he stares at you differently this time—hungry, like all the words you’ve been saying are enough to convince him, finally, that this is a good idea. that this is right.
you’re half a housewife already, anyways. this is the least you deserve, though you stay quiet, letting andrew decide what he wants to do to you.
he leans in for another kiss, sweet and gentle, and your body melts into the bed. his hands roam your body, sliding the fabric of your dress up until he can pull it off of you. you lift your arms and head so he can do it easily—not even remotely concerned that you’re naked in front of him now. your hands go to his belt, but he puts his own over yours, taking over. he undoes his belt and pulls it out of the loops, while you stare at him from your position, chewing on your lip and seeing how andrew’s eyes focus on your heaving chest.
and then, unsure if you have even a moment’s more of patience in you, you pull andrew into another kiss and wrap your arms around his neck and legs around his waist to keep him there.
“inside, please, andrew, inside,” you whine like a demanding, spoiled child, though you haven’t asked andrew for anything all this time. you think he just brings it out in you.
he murmurs something against your neck while he presses hot, open-mouthed kisses there, something like be patient.
when you feel his fingers brush over your bare, leaking cunt, your entire body tenses up before melting back into the bed. one rough finger rubs against your clit and you seize up, squealing because you haven’t felt his hands on you in what feels like forever. he continues the motion, rubbing circles while you feel yourself getting wetter and wetter, and then just when you’ve lost all sense of what words mean, he pushes a huge finger inside of you.
“andrew, yes, yes, yes,” you moan, realizing just like in the woods, that you don’t have to be quiet here. you cry out his name when he pushes another one in, plunging the pair in and out of you.
“have to get you ready,” he says, focused like he’s on a mission, not getting strayed by your incessant begging to just put it inside already. he scissors his fingers and keeps rubbing your clit with his thumb and it feels so good that you almost don’t want to give in—you want to stay like this forever, as long as he’ll let you.
that it feels so good, fulfilling every fantasy you’ve had about him—that he’s a giver and he’s generous and he wouldn’t dream about cumming until you have first. that’s just your andrew, you guess.
when he leans in close to your ear and whispers it to you—can you be good for me? can you cum for me?—that’s when your orgasm hits you without any control behind it. you couldn’t stop it even if you wanted—the white-hot feeling washing over you from head to toe, your cunt squeezing around his fingers. you’re so wet that you must have left a puddle on the sheets, entire body spasming and shaking until andrew slows down his motions.
he pulls out his fingers and your eyes flutter shut, entire body exhausted—and he hasn’t even fucked you yet. when you blink them open, feeling andrew’s weight on top of you, you catch the ending glimpses of it—him licking your juices from his fingers, enjoying it. like he’s missed the taste of you.
your eyes flutter shut again quickly.
you pant out words that don’t really make sense—just a request, in as few words as you can manage. inside. andrew. please.
and he’s nothing if not generous to you. he always listens. you hear andrew’s deep breaths as he positions himself on top of you, taking your legs onto his shoulder as if it’s nothing for him to fold you however he wants. the thought makes you more and more lightheaded.
you bring your hands to his arms to hold on, feeling them pulse under your touch. you think it’ll be impossible to keep you away from him, now that you’re getting a taste of everything you’ve been dreaming about. momentarily, as you feel andrew’s thick head line up with your wet entrance, you think that you’ll never let him leave you. that you don't want him to leave, ever. and if this is how you have to convince him to stay, you’ll do so happily.
and then andrew runs his tip over your cunt, bumping it against your clit and making your body spasm while he collects your wetness, and you forget what you were thinking again.
he’s so big—every part of him is big, so you should have seen it coming, but it still takes you by surprise. the sheer thickness prodding against your hole makes you dig your fingers into his arm, thinking later that you’ll have to apologize for the marks you’re leaving on him.
andrew uses one hand to guide himself inside, and leans in to kiss you while he does so. and when he pushes inside, sheathing himself fully, resting there while he lets you adjust, you cry out against his lips.
“i know. i know,” he breathes against your mouth, pulling out slightly and making you squeal again. “just relax. you’re-you’re taking it.”
you think it’s meant to reassure you, to remind you that you’re doing good, but it comes out in the form of a groan, like andrew’s realizing just how tight and pent up you really are. he tells you the words like there’s no choice in the matter—that you’re taking all of him whether you can handle it or not.
the thought is enough to make your head thud against the pillow and your eyes roll all the way back.
“please, andrew,” you whine, leaning in for another kiss. “please-”
not entirely sure what you’re begging for, he complies, like always. he pulls out slowly, and then slams back inside of you, almost as if he can’t control himself.
and really, he can’t. he’s cum to you so many times, spilled over his hand in the truck and in the shower, imagining this very moment. he’ll be surprised if he lasts any longer, the urge to fill you up getting stronger and stronger with each passing minute.
he keeps going—picking up a brutal pace that brings you further and further away from being level-headed with each thrust.
you blink open your wet eyes, unsure of when you’d closed them or when you’d started crying, staring at your ankles in the air before focusing on andrew. he’s always been handsome but seeing him like this—flushed and sweaty, curls damp against his forehead, his expression twisted up in pleasure—and the realization that for once, you’re making him feel good is almost enough to tip you over the edge.
you want to look into his eyes, almost laughing internally at how much you’ve changed from not even being able to hold eye contact for more than a few seconds to asking for it while you’re stuffed full of him, but he’s looking somewhere else.
his eyes are locked on your cunt—where the two of you meet and where you’re swallowing him inside like you were made for him.
maybe, andrew thinks in a lust-blown haze, maybe you were.
he keeps battering inside of you, hitting a spot somewhere deep inside that you’re not entirely sure had existed. the second orgasm washes over you and leaves you completely feeble—muscles screaming at you as the lightning courses through every nerve. your cunt squeezes and tightens around him, and he groans with pleasure, a noise you want to hold onto forever.
but andrew keeps you in place, even when your eyes shut again. maybe you had passed out, though the thought isn’t exactly surprising. when you open your eyes again, andrew is still going, each grunt getting louder and louder. your fluttering cunt pushes him closer to the edge, and you lock your legs around him.
when andrew looks at you, you meet his eyes.
“please, andrew, i want it inside,” you plead, and he knows he’s fucked—that he’s never been able to say no to you and he can’t start now.
inside, it is. the thoughts plague him as his hips stutter—that this could very well be the moment he’s getting you pregnant. the fact that you’re begging for it, and that there’s no knowing how long you’ve wanted this.have you imagined it too? wanting andrew so badly—wanting a family with him, a life with him? half a housewife, half a captive. you’re so much more now, though, something he can’t put words to.
his. all he needs to know is that you’re his.
“please,” you cry again, leaning up for a kiss. andrew presses his lips against yours while the pace slows down and his moans get louder. “keep me forever, andrew.”
it’s all he can take—burying his head into your neck while he groans against your skin, giving you every ounce he has. the warmth of his cum fills you up until you can feel it leaking onto the sheets, making a mess of your thighs when andrew finally pulls out.
he lays next to you, catching his breath and hoping you can catch yours too.
the reality of everything—his family back home and if they figure out that you’re still alive and what’ll happen if they find out he lied rushes through him, though he wishes he could fight it off to enjoy this for a moment longer.
you’re warm and flushed against him, bringing your head to his chest and leaning there. you two stay silent, though it’s not unusual.
outside of the doors of this cabin, the real world, with questions that he doesn’t have answers to, awaits. but inside is his own personal paradise, complete with you—fucked out and sleepy and with nothing to worry about if he can help it. you’ve been right all along—he’s kept you safe so far, and there’s nothing and no one that can stop him from taking care of you and protecting you. how a husband protects his wife, he thinks.
“andrew?” you ask quietly, throat sore and entire body exhausted. he looks at you, pressing another kiss to your forehead.
summary: on your very first day as an attending at the ptmc, you're forced to navigate the chaos of the night shift, a code silver, and the fact that jack abbot would (and did) take a bullet for you. (7k)
characters: jack abbot / fem!reader, samira mohan, john shen, crus henderson, princess de la cruz, michael robinavitch, jack's dead wife also gets a wee mention
contents: friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, heavily inspired by greys anatomy s6ep24, not proofread soz cw for so many medical inaccuracies (like so many), hostage situations, heavy mentions of blood and gore, mentions of trauma and grief
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
It was your first day as an attending, and almost your very last.
Other than your newfound position, there was little else different about this night compared to all the others. The late evening was filled with all the usual chaos that you’ve come to find a strange sort of refuge within. Your first patient of the day was a woman in a pretty sequined dress, who’d sustained a collapsed lung after screaming a little too hard to “Bohemian Rhapsody” during karaoke — something you’d only find while working the night shift.
“First needle aspiration as an attending…” Jack Abbot said with a nod of approval when the procedure was done. “How’s it feel?”
The simple question made you dizzy. It was as much of a reminder of your new ranking as the foil balloons in the break room, bobbing lazily against the ceiling tiles. Or the crooked banner strung above the coffee maker, reading CONGRATS in cheap gold letters. Or the plastic container of store-bought cupcakes someone definitely bought last-minute, with neon-colored frosting smeared slightly on the lid.
But what really sent you reeling, though, was the inadvertent acknowledgment of the simmering tension between you and Jack — which had always been there in some ways, but was much easier to ignore before now.
The constant will-they-won’t-they between you was buried under layers of hierarchy, rules, and morals — under the unsaid understanding that whatever this thing between you was could never be acted upon. Not while you were his resident, anyway.
The obvious power imbalance was a line Jack Abbot would not let himself cross, no matter how desperately he wanted to.
Only now, that wretched line isn’t there anymore. For the first time since he met you, you’re both on even ground. The world is your oyster, as it were; all the opportunities lie now at your feet. You need only to reach out and take it.
“First intubation as an attending,” Jack hums from the opposite side of the hospital bed, eyes glittering with amusement behind his safety glasses. “How’s it feel?”
You scoff a quiet laugh and shake your head. “That question got old about the fourth time you asked it, Dr. Abbot…” you deadpan, sewing the trachael to the unconscious patient’s neck.
Reggie Brice; thirty-two-year-old male; exhibiting crush injuries to the chest and pelvis from a gnarly car pile-up. Seven people, including this one, were rushed in requiring immediate assistance. The rest were brought in with sustained head injuries, concussions, or minor fractures that needed tending to. You know that there has been at least one confirmed death.
“Well, it’s a big deal,” the man scoffs. “Why do you think we all chipped in two dollars to decorate the break room? Those grocery store cupcakes actually mean something, you know?”
“Well, I am honored…” you sigh in a distracted monotone.
Jack squints. “Yeah, I can tell. You look downright emotional—”
You take a step back to assess, gaze flickering to the monitor at your side. You find the man’s blood pressure continuing to climb, which is less than ideal for the injuries he’s sporting now.
“Pressure’s too high. We gotta fix that, or he’s gonna crash,” Jack announces in a sharper tone, though it never quite loses its laid-back edge. He always works best under pressure, in truth. “We could always crack the chest, cross-clamp the aorta— buy him some time till we get him a room.”
“What about preperitoneal packing?” you suggest, gesturing over the patient’s lean stomach with gloved hands. “We do a simple midline incision below the umbilicus, pack like hell around the bladder, keep the bleeding in check until we get him upstairs.”
Jack’s silence is less than reassuring.
You peer at him behind the glasses sitting low on your nose, stumbling over yourself as you brace for an inevitable rejection. “I know it’s more of an OR procedure, and I’ve only done it once, but—”
“Hey…” Jack cuts in softly, brows raised to his hairline. “You’re the boss here, kid. Remember? We’ll do whatever you wanna do.”
Your eyes narrow, despite the funny feeling flaring in your chest. His voice, all deep and gravelly and gentle, has always had a way of piercing right through you.
“I’m not a kid anymore, Abbot,” you remind him.
So there’s nothing standing in your way anymore, old man, you’re really saying.
Jack grins wide, like he can hear it in your silence.
“Force of habit,” he shrugs. “Now, c’mon. Let’s do it your way, boss.”
You’re wrists-deep in the conscious man’s pelvis, packing the blood clot around his bladder while Jack holds the Deaver retractor in a steady head. You fall into a strange sort of rhythm together, the way you always do, moving with each other without ever having to speak. Though, for some reason, you can’t seem to stop your hands from shaking.
“This is good, right?” you murmur behind your mask, shoving more gauze beneath the man’s sliced skin.
“You’re doing great,” Jack praises muffedly, without missing a beat, though he flashes you a stern look behind his glasses a second later. “You’re an attending now— You know what you’re doing.”
You swallow hard with an unsure nod. “Right… Yeah…”
Jack smiles at your sheepishness — a stark contrast to how methodically your hands move — though the expression gets hidden behind his blue surgical mask. “Don’t worry. It’s always a little weird at first. You’ll settle in in no time.”
You scoff a harsh breath through your nose. “You’ve been uncharacteristically sweet to me today. You know that?”
“I’m always sweet,” Jack squints. “But I can always get meaner, if you want. You know, if my kindness isn’t impressing you.”
“Hm,” you shrug and swipe your gloved fingers under the fatty tissue of the fleshy linea alba. “Jury’s still out.”
“Well,” his brows bounce. “I guess I’m just gonna have to try a little harder, then, aren’t I?”
“What can I say? I have high standards, Dr. Abbot.”
Your concentrated gaze flickers from the incision to the man standing across from you. Something mischievous glimmers in your eyes, crinkling at the edges with a smile he can’t see behind your mask. The air between you charges in a flicker.
“You doin’ anything after this shift?” the man wonders suddenly, passing you another stack of gauze with his free hand. “You know, to celebrate?”
“I don’t know…” you sigh and turn away again. “I guess it depends.”
“On?”
“Whether someone can give me something better to do than collapsing face-first into my bed.”
“I think I could make a pretty strong case,” Jack quips.
“Ooh…” you hum. “Do tell.”
“Something involving food. Definitely,” he starts. “Maybe something a lot more filling than two-dollar vending machine snacks.”
“Very compelling start, Dr. Abbot…”
“And maybe— if you’re so inclined,” he croons drily. “Something where we don’t talk about work for an hour. At least.”
You flash him a deadpanned stare. “Well, now, that’s just way too far.”
“Hm. It was worth a shot,” he shrugs.
“I guess we’ll just have to see how the rest of your performance goes...”
His eyes widen in amusement at your sudden teasing, not nearly as shy as he’s grown accustomed to. “Oh, so I’m the one being evaluated now?”
“Yep,” you nod once, popping the p.
“And what happens if I pass?”
You meet his gaze once more, with something a little shier around the edges. “Then I’ll… let me take you somewhere for breakfast in the morning,” you shrug, trying to be casual, though your wavering voice gives you instantly away.
A smile curls slow at Jack’s mouth behind his surgical mask. You can see it squinting the very edges of his light eyes as he nods in response. “Looking forward to it—”
The glass door across the room swings open without warning.
Your heads whip simultaneously, half-expecting to find a grey-scrubbed nurse standing there, hopefully with some information about the state of the suddenly flooded OR. You find a strange man there instead — late fifties, bearded, tall but with a beer gut that hangs over the top of his baggy jeans. There’s dark blood on his t-shirt and the collar of his beige jacket, dripping from a cut on his temple.
His narrow face is strikingly hollow; his eyes are painfully empty. You figure he must be one of the victims from the pile-up. He wears the shock of it all over, no doubt.
“This is a sterile room, sir,” Jack tells him, authoritative but never unkind. “If you’re family, I’m gonna need you to wait outside. I’ll have a nurse give you the details— and maybe take a look at the cut of yours.”
“I’m not his family,” the man says in an even monotone, with a gritty drawl that insists he’s from somewhere further south. There is little inflection in his voice, the same way there is little emotion on his bearded face. He just lingers there in the doorway, frozen still in a way that feels almost uncanny.
Your wide eyes flit to Jack, glimmering with apprehension. Your stomach twists with it, too.
Jack’s firm gaze never wavers from the stranger across the room. “Either way, sir, you can’t be in here—”
The older man’s weathered right hand reaches slowly for the inside pocket of his jacket. Something silver glints beneath the bright white fluorescents overhead. It takes you a second too long to realize what it is — a gun.
The world narrows in an instant. The oxygen gets sucked out of the room all at once. Your chest hitches for a breath it cannot take.
You don’t realize until then that you’ve never seen a pistol this close before — or at all. Your brain detaches in an instant accordingly, protects you now by convincing you that this is no longer your reality. That you’re only dreaming. That everything around you is just a movie you’re watching from faraway.
“Hey, hey, hey…” Jack cautions on bated breath, bloodied hands raised in surrender.
His wide eyes dart between the man and the glass door, where the stranger is just out of view of the hallway. He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, as he takes slow steps towards the assailant.
“Let’s just— Let’s just take a breath here, alright, man?”
The monitor beside you begins to beep wildly when your hands freeze. Your body jerks when the sound fills the silent room.
Your gloved hands move on autopilot, adjusting the Deaver retractor in Jack’s absence and continuing to pack the bladder with the remaining gauze. The work is the only thing anchoring you now — the glaring acknowledgment that, if you don’t finish up here, the man in the bed will die before he makes it to the OR.
“That man there…” the stranger says in a distant voice, like he’s not all the way here either. “He was driving the car that hit my wife… Blew a red light… Came out of nowhere…”
Jack’s expression shifts. He reaches for his jaw with slow hands, plucking the surgical mask from his right ear, and letting the left side hang by his chin — allowing the man to see his face.
“I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”
“He killed her… On the scene…” the man continues, gravelly voice tighter now. “I was trying to scoop her brains back into her skull— Do you have any idea what the kinda shit does to a person?”
“That’s hard, man,” Jack nods sympathetically but stands his ground at the head of the hospital bed all the same, planting himself firmly between you and the stranger across the room. “I get it.”
“You don’t—” the man snaps, harsher now.
You flinch when his voice rings suddenly through the room, trying to pack the wound tight with half-numb fingers.
“You don’t just get to— to fix him like nothing happened. Like her life didn’t matter—”
“It does matter,” Jack assures with a rapid nod. “Your wife matters, I promise.”
“Then let me do something about it—”
Jack’s chest tightens when the man’s knuckles turn white around the gun. He holds it steady despite his troubled state, like he knows exactly what he’s doing with it. Jack understands, then, that if he lets that gun off, it’ll hit exactly whatever this man wants it to — wherever he wants it to.
“There are two other people in this room who had nothing to do with what happened to your wife, man,” Jack tells him. “And I know you don’t want anyone else to get hurt. I know that.”
“You’re right… I don’t want anyone else to get hurt…” the man nods, voice heavy and trembling. “So tell her to stop—”
The gun shifts over Jack’s shoulder, aiming right for your head.
A pained whimper sounds in the pit of your tightening throat. You can hardly see the incision below you as burning tears gather at your waterline. Your shaking fingers scramble for the sutures to stitch him back up again.
“Hey, hey, hey!” Jack blurts, stepping in front of the gun again without a second thought. He keeps his gloved hands raised, but his sympathetic stare turns stern in a flicker. “You’re talking to me right now, alright? So put the gun back on me— We’re gonna figure this out together.”
“I said— tell her— to stop!”
His thumb flicks the hammer of the gun with a daunting click.
“I know, kid…” he says without looking back at you, with a voice much more even compared to yours. “I know. Just keep going.”
“Stop!” the man bellows. “Or I swear to god, I’ll shoot you both in the goddamn head!”
Jack is not perturbed by his yelling. He wants him to yell, wants him to cause a scene so that someone’ll check in and call in a Code Silver. He just doesn’t want that gun to go off. So he keeps his voice calm as he counters gently, “And what happens next? If you kill us— If you kill him. What are you gonna do after?”
The man hesitates for a moment. His grip falters on the gun, as if he hadn’t considered the question until that very moment.
“I know you want your wife back… But this isn’t gonna make it any better.”
“Maybe not,” the man says. “But it’ll make it stop.”
He doesn’t elaborate on what ‘it’ exactly is, but Jack doesn’t need him to. He’s been where this man is standing — not physically, maybe, not with a gun in his hand; but in the deep, dark void reserved only for a special, gut-wrenching sort of grief.
“It won’t. Trust me,” Jack says with a shake of his silver head. “I lost my wife ten years ago. Not like you did, but it still hurt like hell, man, I can tell you that…”
The man softens slightly. It’s the first time since the crash that someone’s tried to level with him, that someone’s actually understood.
Jack takes a hesitant step forward when he catches the stranger’s resolve starting to slip.
“And I can tell you it doesn’t stay that way forever…” he continues. “Whatever you’re feeling right now, I know you think it’s never gonna stop. But it will. You just have to let it.”
Another step forward.
“You see the woman you’re pointing that gun at?” Jack wonders with raised brows, nodding his silver head in your direction. “I like her… I really like her. And I didn’t think I was capable of feeling anything again.”
Your chest aches at his words. Your glasses fog from the warm tears clinging to your bottom lashes. Your clammy hands fumble with the surgical needle.
The man’s finger loosens slightly on the trigger, and Jack takes another cautious stop.
“And this is really bad timing, man, ‘cause I was gonna take her out after this,” he confesses with a not-quite smile. “But for that to happen, I need us to walk out of here. All of us.”
The beat of silence thereafter feels borderline suffocating. It wraps its cold hands around your neck and strangles you.
Jack almost thinks he’s gotten through to the man. He can see the cracks starting to fissure throughout his hollow face; the flicker of hesitation, the realization of what he’s doing — where his dark mind has led him.
“So you’re saying…” the man trails off and swallows hard. His drawl is much too soft for the words that spill from his mouth a second later. “…If I shoot her, you’ll understand how I feel?”
Your blood runs ice cold in an instant.
Jack’s shoes squeak hard against the tile as he lunges for the man before you can blink. He pushes him into the wall with an aggressive thud and tries to shove his gun out of your direction. You bend over the bed on instinct, covering your patient without a second thought.
Two shots ring out.
You expect to feel both of them, or perhaps nothing at all, as your limp body hits the floor. You keep your eyes shut and your jaw clenched tight, bracing yourself for pain or certain death.
The harsh ringing in your ears is slow to fade. When your hearing finally returns to you, and your eyes peek slowly open, you find a sea of bodies crashing into the room like a tidal wave — and you, yourself, still standing.
Your head swivels on your shoulder, still half-hunched over your patient. Your gaze drags unwillingly past the blur of bodies and dark scrubs until it finds Jack, lying flat on the ground instead of you.
It takes your brain a long moment to make sense of it — the strangle ngle of his body, the stuttering of his chest, the tear in his shirt from the bullet, and the wet crimson darkening the tile beneath him. The sight doesn’t fit, doesn’t belong. Not to Jack, anyway; not to the man who’s far too steady, too solid, to ever look like this.
And the worst part of it all — the part that will follow you long after this moment ends — is that that bullet was meant for you, and that Jack didn’t even hesitate to take it instead.
The ED descends into a different sort of chaos than you’re used to. The PTMC fractures, splinters into something unrecognizable, as voices overlap and distort in your ears. “Gunshot wound— Attending down!” you hear someone shout, followed by a quieter, “Help me get him up,” and a harsher, “Someone get me a fucking line!”
None of it feels all the way real.
It’s like looking through the rest of the world through a fishbowl, where everything is blurred and warped and muffled. You can see armed guards detaining the crying gunman in the foreground of it all, along with Jack’s body being transferred to a stretcher, right before Samira ducks into your tunnel vision.
Her dark brown eyes are lined with exhaustion from her double shift as they dart attentively across your face — the first person to reach out for you in the midst of all the chaos.
“What do you need me to do?” is all she says.
Your voice comes out strangled. It sounds like it’s coming from somewhere else entirely as you choke through panted breaths, “F-Finish up his— his sutures, and… and get him to the OR... Walsh has a… has a room ready for him, I think—”
Your legs feel half-numb as you step back from the patient before you, left totally unaware of the chaos surrounding him. You stumble for the entrance, peeling off your stained gown and bloodied gloves as you go, and follow Jack’s body as they lead him out of the room.
You migrate to his side like it’s muscle memory to you, struggling to find your footing in the midst of the growing crowd as the doctors rush the gurney to the elevators. For every step you take, Shen and Crus seem to take three more. It makes it nearly impossible to keep up in your stupor.
You crane your head to catch a peek of the man from behind the towering bodies before you. “I-Is he okay?” you wonder breathlessly.
The gurney jerks too hard around the corner, scraping the side of the wall.
“Motherfucker!” Jack groans.
“Well, shit— He definitely sounds the same,” Parker quips from beside you.
“How are you feeling?” Crus calls from the man’s side. “Talk to me, Abbot— You’re still with us, right?”
“Not unless you two learn how to maneuver a goddamn gurney,” Jack jokes through gritted teeth.
“Page Walsh,” Shen tells Lena with a stern nod, pushing the button for the lift. “Make sure she’s got a room open.”
The doors part with a ding. They wheel the stretcher inside, and you make sure to squeeze in with them, elbowing past the attendings and nurses to get to Jack’s side.
He’s clammy and pale when he comes into view, writhing in place as he clutches at his ribs. His black scrubs are stained a darker color from the blood spilling from the wound, which turns the white towel pressed there a deeper shade of scarlet than you think you’ve ever seen.
Your trembling hand reaches for him on instinct. You press your palm over his bloodied knuckles — keeping some pressure there, reminding him that you’re still here.
“Jack?” you call to him in a voice taut, as your teary eyes dart wildly across his scruffy face. “Jack? A-Are you okay?”
He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. His head turns slowly, just enough to find you, and he blinks wildly to clear the blur in his vision. The corner of his mouth twitches in a faint hint of a smile when he spots you standing over him.
He clears his throat, but his words still come out a little gravelly as he arches an expectant brow and says, “Told ya…”
You shake your head, features screwing in confusion. “Told me what?”
“That I’d make a good case…”
Your chest flares. Something wells suddenly in your throat, though you can’t be sure if it’s a laugh or a sob. You just scold him instead. “It’s not funny, Jack—”
“Hey. You’re the one who said you had high standards, kid…” he rasps.
His eyes fall over your form, trying to assess you despite his dwindling vision. You watch his scruffy features twist with concern a second later. His chest stutters as he questions breathlessly, “Whoa— Is that… Is that my blood? Or yours?”
You tilt your chin to follow his gaze. Only then do you feel the warm blood trickling down to your elbow; only then do you feel the white-hot, searing pain of the bullet that had grazed your shoulder.
You feel very suddenly like the world is spinning around you.
The stares you get return, as everyone else seems to notice too, only adds to the dizziness.
“You’re bleeding,” Shen observes sharply. “Why didn’t you tell anyone you got hit?”
“I-I’m fine,” you insist despite the waver in your voice, shaking your head to fight the lightheadedness away. “I can’t— I can’t even feel it, okay? I swear.”
“Get someone to take a look at that when we get upstairs, alright?” Shen commands with a stern glare. “I mean it.”
Your wet eyes harden in an instant. “I’m not leaving—”
Jack’s hand, still weak on his side, twists over the damp towel to grab yours. His bloody fingers are cold and trembling as they struggle to find purchase on your smaller ones. You hold him with enough strength for the both of you.
“You got hurt ‘cause of me, kid. At least let someone—”
“Hey,” you snap, meaner than he’s ever seen you. “That was not your fault.”
“Let ‘em take a look at you, alright?”
You shake your stubborn head. “I need you to focus on yourself right now—”
“I am,” he insists. His gravelly voice never loses its humorous edge, and neither do his glassy eyes lose their tenderness as they flit back and forth between yours. “And I’m not gonna be okay if you aren’t, alright? So just… please.”
Your features crumple at the pleading look he gives you — with his eyes all squishy around the edges, and glazing over with unshed tears.
The elevator stills with a ding, shattering the tense moment. It jolts faintly, just enough to make your swimming stomach feel sicker. You catch yourself nodding despite your better judgment.
“Fine…” you tell him in a fragile voice.
Jack tries to smile but finds the strength to slowly leave him, a little like the blood trickling from his side.
“I’m in good hands,” he assures you, then turns to the attending on his left. “Right, Dr. Shen?”
The younger man’s brows lower. “Didn’t you just call me a motherfucker?” he quips.
Jack’s weathered face twists as he’s wheeled out of the elevator. “…Did I?”
Your hand slips from his as you watch him go. Something about it feels wrong, though you can’t exactly place why. You just know it feels like something ripping in two — like the torn skin of your bloody shoulder, times a thousand.
The room they put you in is achingly quiet; the kind of quiet that makes everything else seem ten times louder. The green-white fluorescent bulb clicks and buzzes mercilessly over your head, drilling straight into your skull. The AC hums gently alongside it in a mundane sort of symphony that matches the empty room you’re in — where only one hospital bed sits beside a shuttered window, in front of a porcelain sink and mirror.
Everything smells like stale air, sharp antiseptic, and metallic blood.
You stand before the cloudy mirror with your scrub sleeve pushed up your shoulder, kept awkwardly in place by your chin. You struggle to do your sutures with a hand that won’t stop trembling.
You don’t realize how ardently you’re still shaking until the needle slips across your skin — not enough to do any real damage, but enough to make you hiss through your teeth when it stings. You clench your jaw and pull the thread through, until the raging skin around the laceration pinches together again. Your features flicker as you try and fail to ignore the dull burn that spreads up and down your arm a second later.
The fiery sensation is the only thing keeping your mind distracted from all the rest of it — the way the gunshot made your ears ring; the way Jack’s body jerked before it hit the ground; the way the man called out for his wife when security pinned him to the floor.
You tug the sutures harder, relishing in the sting. You push the needle through once more, harder than necessary, and let it slip a little sloppier than you should — anything to take your mind off of it.
“Careful…” a voice cautions from the doorway.
Your head whips over your shoulder. You blink rapidly as your brain struggles to catch up — like you half-expect to find yourself back in that room; like you half-expect to find the man from before standing there.
You feel a little like the ground has been pulled from underneath you when you find Robby there instead, rubbing disinfectant between his calloused palms.
Someone downstairs must’ve called him about Jack, and about the Code Silver currently turning the PTMC to shambles. And, based on the surgical mask sticking out of his jacket pocket, you figure he must’ve just gotten back from checking in on him in the OR.
His dark eyes flit from your face, to your shoulder, and to the supplies scattered across the sink before you.
“They said you were supposed to be getting looked at,” he says. “Not playing DIY surgeon.”
You huff out a breath that would’ve passed for a laugh any other time.
“Everyone else is busy… At least I can make myself useful this way…”
You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. You can’t stand the way he’s looking at you now. His gaze is too sharp, too focused. It’s like he’s studying you, cataloging, assessing — the same way you do with your patients. The thought of being so helpless makes your stomach twist.
Robby doesn’t argue, but instead lets his eyes linger on the slight tremor in your hands. The leftover adrenaline is likely buzzing like electricity in your veins just now. You’re bound to crash at any second.
“I know you don’t want my help,” he starts slowly, sauntering further in with his arms crossed over his chest. “But at least lie and say I did your sutures— so Jack doesn’t try to kill me when he wakes up.”
“I think he’ll know you didn’t do ‘em when he sees how neat they are,” you joke drily.
“Rude…” Robby scoffs, sneakers scuffing as he plants himself at your side. You can see the leftover slumber in his swollen eyes more clearly now, as he ducks down to look at you. “Want me to get you something for the pain, at least?”
You shake your head instantly, not trusting your voice enough to speak without wavering.
“You sure?” he presses.
“I’m fine,” you snap. “I’m not the one in surgery.”
He is not dismayed by your anger. He knows it’s not meant for him.
“Well, Jack’s doing just fine. Walsh is finishing up with him now,” he tells you. “Honestly, I think the hardest part is gonna be keeping him off his feet for the next little while…. ‘Cause there’s about a hundred percent chance he’s gonna want to come back to work when he’s discharged.”
You exhale sharply through your nose in place of a laugh as you tie the sutures and cut the excess with a pair of small medical scissors.
You just barely catch sight of your delirious smile in the cloudy mirror before a chuckle sputters suddenly from your mouth. The sound of it fills the quiet room as you tumble into a fit of half-drunken giggles, bowing your head and propping your gloved hands on the porcelain sink.
Your shoulders shake as your laughter turns quickly into sobs.
Robby softens instantly. “Shit… I’m sorry…”
“I’m fine,” you blurt once more and shake your head. Your voice is strangled through the tears in your throat, but you dismiss him anyway. “I’m fine. I-I don’t even know why I’m crying, so..”
“You went through something traumatic tonight,” he coos. “Everything you’re feeling is completely normal.”
You shake your head again. “I should’ve gone with him— I should be helping in there—”
“You’d just be a liability,” Robby shrugs, a little blunt but not entirely unkind. “You’re still in shock. Your hands are still shaking— I wouldn’t let you anywhere near an OR like this… You’re better off here, and you know it.”
You turn your head to flash him a teary-eyed look. Your chin quivers as your taut voice trembles, “He asked… He asked me if I wanted to go out with him when we got off,” you confess in a strangled whisper.
Robby’s brows raise to his hairline. “Did he?”
You nod slowly. “And I was gonna say yes…”
“Good…” the older man nods, lip flickering into a smile beneath his beard. “About time…”
“So he can’t… He doesn’t get to…” You stumble over yourself to get the words out. “He doesn’t get to not come back after that.”
Robby’s sympathetic grin widens at the stern, wet-eyed glare you give him. He takes a slow step closer and splays a warm, comforting hand along your back.
“Jack Abbot is the most stubborn son of a bitch I’ve ever met,” he tells you. “If there’s even the slightest chance of him coming out of that OR just to take you out, then… He’s gonna take it. Trust me.”
“Yeah,” you quip drily. “He better…”
Jack wakes after surgery to a tingling ache in his side and a heart monitor beeping faintly overhead, pervading the strange silence surrounding him — a silence he doesn’t usually allow himself.
His eyes crack slowly open, dry and unfocused for several long moments. They dance across the ceiling tiles as he blinks the haze of sleep from his gaze. He struggles to recall how he got here — in this dim recovery room, which he had never seen as a patient until now. He remembers the stranger with the gun first, the warmth of the blood that came spilling from his side second, and the way you cried from him third.
Your name spills from his dry mouth like it’s the only word he remembers.
“Great. Now I owe Crus twenty dollars,” he hears a familiar voice joke from his side. Jack’s head swivels until he finds Princess standing there, checking the IV hanging by his bed. She smiles softly down at him and quips, “He said the first thing you’d do is ask for her. I thought for sure you’d want a beer.”
“Yeah…” Jack rasps, then clears the gravel from his throat. “I could go for that, too…”
“Want me to go grab her for you?”
He hesitates. “Is she… Is she okay?”
“She’s great. Last I heard, Robby was patching her up,” the woman grins. “And, for what it’s worth, she was asking about you, too…”
The anticipation of seeing you again was somehow worse than the pain, blooming something sharp in his abdomen, and only slightly ebbed by the morphine drip.
The minutes drag on. The heart monitor at his side counts the seconds instead of his pulse. His fists curl against the stiff hospital sheets when he remembers the sticky red blood that had dripped slowly down your arm — the way you so easily brushed it all off, the way you so desperately wanted to stay at his side.
The door creaks softly open.
Something tightens in his chest.
You linger in the doorway for several long moments, as if you aren’t allowed to come any closer just yet. You’re bathed in the shadow of the lamplit recovery room and backlit by the too-bright hallway outside. He can only vaguely see the outline of your features from here — weighed down with fear and exhaustion and relief.
The laceration on your arm has been cleaned and sewn. It’s still raging a little around the marred edges, but will heal into a thin scar in a few weeks’ time — a story you’ll tell for years to come.
Jack grunts as he struggles to sit further up on the raised bed, but hides it by clearing his throat. “You look good…” he observes in a rasp.
“Are you flirting with me, Dr. Abbot?” you joke with narrowed eyes.
“I am,” he quips back. “Thanks for finally noticing.”
You scoff a faint laugh and shut the door behind you with a quiet click. You can’t help but feel a little like the air has thinned as you walk further inside. You focus on your wringing hands the entire way to his bedside. You don’t have the strength to meet his unwavering stare, still puffy from a medically induced slumber, but never once straying from your face.
“You okay?” he wonders aloud, shattering the silence between you.
You huff a weak laugh. “I’m not the one who just came out of surgery, Jack…”
“Fair point…” he nods.
“But yes… I’m okay,” you add, if only to appease him. “What about you? How do you feel?”
Jack exhales a heavy breath, chest deflating behind his thin hospital gown. “…Like I got shot.”
That almost gets a real laugh out of you.
“Yeah. That— That makes sense…”
You flounder in place for a moment, before reaching for the chair by the curtained window and dragging it closer to his bed. Jack is able to eye you more clearly when you settle into the cushioned seat by his side. He can see the redness in your eyes, the tension in your jaw, the way your clammy hands hover like you’re not quite sure what to do with them.
Whatever closeness you had before those shots rang out is long gone now. You orbit around him like he’s a stranger to you, like you’re not quite sure what to do with him, like you’re too scared to get any closer.
He bows his head, made of mussed silver curls, in a feeble attempt to meet your stare. He silently begs you to look back at him, but you never do.
“I’m okay, you know?” he coos to you, equal parts because it’s true and because he knows you need to hear it from him.
“No, I know, I just—” You cut yourself off when your fragile voice finally breaks. You shake your head to yourself and swallow hard, picking at the skin of your thumb until it starts to bleed. The scratch there blurs as burning tears gather once more in your gaze. “I can’t stop thinking about it, you know? If you wouldn’t have— have gotten as hurt if… you know, if you weren’t standing in front of me like that—”
His chest twists at the thought of you blaming yourself for it. The burning sensation there hurts him far worse than the one at his side.
“You would’ve gotten it a lot worse if I hadn’t.”
Your eyes snap finally to meet his gaze, though your stare is much more hardened than he’d like.
“But what if something worse had happened to you? Huh? What if you died, Jack?” you scold in words that spill faster from your lips than you can stop them. “Were you even thinking about that?”
“No.”
His honesty stops you cold as much as his lack of hesitation.
“I guess I was just thinking about you…”
The room goes eerily quiet, saved only by the even beeping of the monitor at his side and the distant voices talking in the hall.
Jack holds your gaze even as it weakens around the edges, even as it glazes over with burning tears you can’t seem to keep away. A rogue droplet clumps your bottom lashes together when your eyes flick down to his abdomen, to the place beneath the blanket where you know the damage lies.
“You’re not supposed to do that to a person, you know?” you whimper. “It’s cruel.”
Jack’s brows furrow. “Do what?”
“Make someone like you, and then— And then get yourself shot,” you stammer, gesturing wildly with your anxious hands. “Make someone almost lose you before—”
Your breath hitches.
Jack leans further in. “Before what?” he presses gently.
“Before they’ve even gotten to have you…”
His lip flickers with a weak smile. “You do have me,” he assures. “You’ve had me way before I ever asked you out— You know that.”
“Yeah,” you scoff with a grin of your own, much sadder in comparison. “So much for that date, huh?”
Jack’s eyes narrow in a challenging stare. “And what makes you think it’s not happening?”
You blink owlishly back at him. “Do you want a list, or…?”
That earns a weak chuckle from him, until he winces at the ache it puts in his side a moment later. He cradles the bandaged wound with a grimace, and your chair scrapes the tile when you stand. “I’ll tell Princess you need more morphine,” he vaguely hears you say, though he reaches for your hand before you can stray too far.
You still in place. Your wide eyes fall to the fingers around your wrist, warm like a furnace, and calloused like softly textured velvet.
“I’m okay,” he tells you, then takes a wavering breath in before repeating more firmly. “I’m okay— And you’re not going anywhere— And I’m not missing our date for the world, alright?”
Your features screw, hardly convinced.
“We’ll order something here,” he shrugs. “Hell, we can eat the cafeteria food for all I care, just… Don’t leave. I mean, I kinda got shot, so…The least you could do is indulge me a little…”
You cave instantly under the weight of his light-eyed stare. Your chest hitches with a quiet laugh. “It’d be a pretty grim first date…” you quip.
“Yeah, well…” he trails off, smoothing his thumb over your knuckles. “I plan on having plenty more, less grim ones with you, so…”
Your eyes narrow in a cynical squint despite the smiling tugging at the edges of your mouth. “That’s very presumptuous of you, Dr. Abbot…”
“Well, you could always so no,” he croons drily.
“Not a chance,” you argue without pause, gripping his hand with great strength — an unsaid promise. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
“Getting rid of you?” Jack echoes with a scoff, wincing when it hurts him but smiling up at you anyway. “That was never a part of the plan, kid— I took a bullet trying to keep you, in case you forgot."
Summary: When Jack pushes himself too hard, you’re there for him to lean on. <3
Warnings: Mentions of blood, age-gap relationship, explicit language, medical inaccuracies.
Word Count: 4k+
Author’s Note: different universe than my ‘Night Shift Love’ series. Jack & reader are pre-relationship.
Jack Abbot was good at noticing things. Picking up things others—except maybe Robby—wouldn’t. His hazel eyes stared across the ED observing more often than not. He knew things that people probably wanted to keep a secret or to themselves, and he made sure they stayed that way unless it involved danger in any way.
He picked up when people were in an off mood that wasn’t their usual self, he’d always make his voice a little softer—a brief grounding touch on the shoulder—send them for a break if needed. He knew when the coffee machine needed cleaned or new beans just by the smell alone. Never mind the taste that was somehow worse than it usually tasted. He could sense when a trauma was incoming or a person was behind him he’d feel the air shift around him, or the hair on the back of his neck and arms standing up. He knew when it was going to rain, another thing he could smell. He noticed when people were struggling, had a rough shift or simply just needed a breather.
But above all; he noticed you.
From the day you first stepped into that noisy ER he was silently clocking you—watching like he did with all newbies—but something about you made his chest twist in a way he hadn’t felt in years.
He noticed when you got new scrubs in a different color, all the different ways you did your hair each day. He looked forward to seeing what it would be every shift. He noticed which water bottle was yours, how you liked your coffee. The way you bit your bottom lip and furrowed your brows when you were thinking really hard. How gentle and soothing you were with patients, always calm and thorough. He noticed the way you’d snort quietly if you laughed hard enough. The way you painted your nails or added a small pin or accessory to your scrubs for each holiday.
He noticed your hovering hand when you’d squeeze past him, the small rub to his arm as a wordless ‘thank you.’ When his own arm was barely an inch from yours as you both leaned against the counter of the hub, talking to Dana. He could feel the heat of your skin, and he wondered if you could feel his too. He noticed if you had a ride to and from work every shift, he’d pay for your Uber or offer to drive you home if you didn’t.
So what if he hovered a little longer than usual to make sure you got in your Uber safely? Or memorized the license plate, make of the car and what driver looked like, just in case? So what if he ordered takeout from your favorite diner during a long and tiring shift? He was just looking out for you, right? He wanted all his coworkers to be safe. He’d do those things for anyone, wouldn’t he? He told himself that even when Dana suddenly spawned next to him, smirk on her lips and that look in her eye.
“Her car’s been gone for five minutes, how long are you gonna stand there and stare at the parking lot?”
“What?”, Jack’s head swiveled around way too fast; “I wasn’t-“
Dana hums; “Sure.”
“I was just taking a minute, waiting for Robby”, He tried.
Dana only laughed; “Robby’s been waiting for you at the hub for ten minutes.”
Shit. Were his ears as pink as they felt?
“Uh-yeah, right. Ok. Be right there.”
Dana mumbled something along the lines of “Stupid men worse than a teenager…” as she disappeared from his side and out of sight.
Even though Jack noticed things about you, the one thing he didn’t notice was how much you had noticed him too.
It was pretty much the same things; his mood, his coffee preference, things like that. But you also noticed the way his jaw clenched and ticked when he didn’t like something, the way his shoulders tensed, and pulled closer in on him when he was stressed. The way he scratched his stubble in deep thought. How he always stood with his bow legs apart, or how his hair always looked tousled like he’d run his fingers through it a million times that day. The soft smile and huff of a laugh that only a few people—like Robby and Dana—could get out of him. But then you started to notice you could bring it out of him too.
Most of all, you noticed when something was off about him. When he was trying to cover something up or hide something from everyone around him; like he had to in order to keep going.
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
You first noticed how tired he looked when he walked in through the ED doors at the beginning of your shared shift. The way his eyes were slightly more sunken and heavy, his shoulders stiff and jaw tight. The way his feet seemed to drag below him. The way he looked like he hadn’t slept at all on his day off. His stubble was slightly thicker and darker, only adding to his disheveled appearance as he got closer to you.
“Geez Jack, you look like hell, brother”, Robby’s voice comes from behind you.
Jack pauses for a second, so quick you almost missed it, and then keeps moving towards the staff room. He doesn’t laugh, doesn’t smile, only a small flick of his eyes at Robby.
“Thanks man”, It comes out low and gruff, like it physically hurts to talk.
When he’s out of earshot you turn back towards Dana and Robby, preparing for handoffs.
“What’s going on with him?”, You ask, low enough for only them to hear, careful not to overstep.
Robby lets out a deep sigh, hands in his hoodie pockets as he shrugs his shoulders, raising his eyebrows to his hairline; “Don’t know. Not exactly the easiest person to get to open up.”
You hear Dana scoff next to you; “You’re one to talk.”
Robby shoots her a brief glare, and a “Thank you, Dana”, before sipping on the last of his—now probably cold—coffee. One of his hands claps your shoulder as he moves past, bending down close to your ear.
“I already talked to Lena but, keep an eye on him, ok? He seems to trust you, maybe you can get him to talk.”
You don’t have time to respond as Jack appears beside the hub again, rolling his neck like it’s stiff before turning to Robby to do handoffs. You feel Dana’s hand on your lower back before you see her, turning you gently to come with her until you’re both out of earshot. She knew about your crush on him, hell she encouraged it. Not that she didn’t take any opportunity she could to tease you about it. But this wasn’t one of those times; she was serious.
“I caught him asleep in an on call room during his last shift”, Her voice is low, brow pinched together.
You look over at Jack briefly, then back at Dana; “Really?”
She hums in response; “I’ve never seen him like this. Usually I have to force him to take a break.”
Jack was stubborn. Headstrong. Everyone knew that. He rarely ever let his guard down—and when he did—it wasn’t for just anyone. As you looked him over, you couldn’t help but think how tired he looked. Already more prominent than when he’d walked in a few minutes prior.
You huffed softly; “I’ll see what I can get out of him”, you pat Dana’s shoulder; “If not, you’re up mom.”
Dana laughed; “That’s right, and don’t you forget it either.”
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
The shift starts how it usually does, a quick influx of patients has you and everyone else working on autopilot, practically speed walking everywhere, Dana had previously threatened to poke anyone she saw running between the eyes. Robby and Dana had long gone home, leaving the night shift to take over.
You don’t see Jack other than in quick passing until almost two hours into the shift. He’s walking up beside you as you both head for the ambulance bay, shoulders almost brushing together.
“Hey, you ok today?”, You ask softly.
It takes him off guard, his head whipping around to look at you so fast you don’t know how it didn’t hurt.
“Peachy, why?”, His voice is still gruff, not mean, just short and blunt. Like he doesn’t want to put too much thought into a coherent sentence.
You shrug; “Just seem tired today, wanted to make sure you’re ok.”
He forces a smile at that, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“M’fine, sweetheart. Just take care of you.”
You open your mouth to argue, but the arrival of the ambulance in front of you makes your words die before they reach your lips. You can’t help your eyes watching him as you roll the gurney through the ED and into a trauma room; watching him work. How his hands are just a little unsteady, not quite shaking but just slightly unsure of themselves. Still he moves with precision, but anyone who looked at him close enough would be able to tell something was off.
When you help him pull off his gown, Ellis is pulling you away to another patient before you can speak to him. But not without you seeing the hesitance in his step, his gait slightly wobbly, like he has to think about it before taking a step.
The moment you step into another patient’s room the thought is at the back of your mind. You can’t help your thoughts wandering to him each free second you get. You had shot Dana a text not long ago, filling her in on whatever you’d picked up on. The conversation did little to calm the apprehension crawling through your bones.
Somewhere across the ED, Jack steps out of another trauma, forcing himself around the corner before leaning up against a wall, forehead pressed to the cool paint as he inhales deeply. A shaky breath leaves his nose when he squeezes his eyes shut. It’s only for a minute—not long enough for anyone to catch—before he’s on the move again, gritting his teeth as he goes.
Later, you find him at the hub as you stop to check in with Lena. Your eyes drop to his feet where he has one foot—the prosthetic one—completely lifted off the ground, balancing all his weight on his good leg. Your heart hammers in your chest. Oh. He’s hurt.
You want to speak up, but not here. Instead you settle yourself at a computer to work on charting when his voice rings out, calling your name. You meet his gaze just in time to catch the sandwich he’d thrown at you.
“Eat.” It’s all he says before going on his way, not even fully stopping to talk.
Your chest pinches, even in pain Jack was still looking out for you. That’s just who Jack was. Everyone else before himself, no matter how much he might need something. Sleep, food, a moment of quiet? Not until everyone else had it.
“Jesus he’s stubborn”, Lena muses from behind you.
“Yeah”, You say, not fully paying attention, looking at the sandwich in your hands; “That he is.”
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
Six hours into shift there’s a lull, you let yourself sit in the break room, refill your coffee, breathe for a moment. As soon as you look through the windows out into the hall that peace is shattered. Jack’s leaning against the furthest wall from you, back turned your direction, head down like he’s trying really hard to compose himself. You see his hesitation as he keeps one hand along the wall for balance as he goes to move, the furrow in his brow. You flick your eyes back down before he catches you looking.
A half an hour later, his prosthetic stutters beneath him, he grabs a nearby cart to steady himself; knuckles white as he grips it. All eyes turn to him, a quick “I’m fine”, tumbling from his lips before anyone can say anything.
It only gets worse from there. Walls and counters become his lifeline, hand pressed against the cool surfaces to keep himself upright with each step. He winces when he stands from the roller chairs in a patient’s room. A small sheen of sweat lingers above his brows. If his scrubs weren’t black it would probably be visible there too.
His jaw stays almost permanently clenched. Frustration settling inside him. Fake smiles with patients and other doctors. Quick two or three word answers, sometimes just a huff or a grumble in response. You find yourself steadying him with a hand hovering at his back during a few procedures; he thankfully wasn’t leading them. Ellis shoots you a look, you can only return one that says ‘I’m working on it.’
The idea of Jack making himself suffer didn’t sit right with you. Your eyes lingered on him longer, clocked him more quickly. Followed his movements or lack there of. How he favored one foot, how he winced each time his prosthetic touched the ground. You’d spent the last hour or so internally fighting yourself about confronting him. But the next time he rounds the corner cements your decision.
You stand without hesitation, moving quickly to be by his side, a hand reaching up to his shoulder.
“Dr Abbot-“
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“It’s just a long shift, I’m fi-“
“Jack”, You say sternly, and he finally looks at you; “Your leg. You’re bleeding.”
He follows your gaze to his foot where a small puddle of blood has dripped onto the floor. He looks back to see a trail of droplets from where he’d just come from. A deep sigh leaves his lips, a frown settling on his face as he shuts his eyes.
“Fucking shit.”
You don’t let him argue any further, grabbing his wrist and pulling him with you; “You need a bed. Now.”
You call it out to Lena before Jack can argue. You know he’s strong enough to get out of your grip if he really wanted to, but he doesn’t even try. Practically forcing him onto the exam bed after shutting the privacy curtain, you wheel yourself over to him on one of the chairs; slipping a pair of gloves on. A shaky hand hovers over his knee, your eyes meeting his to ask for permission.
“Can I?”, You ask softly.
He hesitates before nodding.
You carefully roll up his pantleg, removing his prosthetic and setting it next to the bed. You meet his eyes before you reach for the sleeve, gently tugging it down to reveal the slip that keeps it in place. A tear sits at the bottom of it, crimson seeping through. You remove it with gentle hands, setting it aside to clean up later. He winces slightly, hand inching closer to yours. You feel your breath catch in your throat when his skin is exposed.
His residual limb is bright red, angry, chaffed and swollen. An open sore or laceration at the bottom, no doubt the cause of his bleeding.
“Oh, Jack…”, Your voice comes out barely a whisper.
He doesn’t answer, only the sound of a breath leaving his nose hits your ears. The laceration on his leg a few inches long, but deep. Like it’s been slowly getting worse with each step he took.
“You’re gonna need a few stitches for this.”
He only shrugs, watching through tired eyes as you move around the room, getting everything for the sutures. He winces once when you numb him, either from the shot or the feeling of contact with his angry leg. You start the first suture in silence, psyching yourself up to speak.
“Dana said you fell asleep in an on call room last shift”, you say it as more of a statement than a question.
He shrugs; “Yeah, what about it?”
“Don’t you go home after shift?”
He’s silent for a moment, watching you work; and then:
“Been sleeping here between shifts. No point in going home if i’m just gonna come back in a few hours. Figured it would be easier, shower here too.”
You can feel your face drop.
“Jack, you need real rest.”
He doesn’t answer, just has that blank look on his face. You add the second suture before speaking again.
“When was the last time you took care of your leg?”
You watch him fold his arms, can see the hesitation before he speaks.
“Don’t know. A week? I take it off for the five minutes I get to shower.”
“A week? Jack that’s not-“
You stop yourself with a deep inhale; “…Have you been sleeping with it on?”
He nods; “Easier to get up if i’m needed. Faster.”
You clench your own jaw at that, heart aching as heavy silence filling the air as you put in the last suture before bandaging him up. As you wrap his leg you can feel his eyes on you, watching you work, maybe thinking something more.
“You don’t have to overwork yourself to the point of injury”, You finally say.
You know he won’t answer, but needs to hear it anyways. When you finish with his bandage you stand and remove your gloves.
“No prosthetic for a week, at least. I’ll talk to Robby about your shifts.”
“No, I’m fine really-“
“You’re not. You need rest to heal. You’re done for tonight too, I’ll take you home.”
He opens his mouth to argue, but stops when he sees the look on your face. Stern, not wavering, beyond serious.
“I’ll get my spare bag from the locker room and your crutches. Call Shen in. You’re going home.”
You disappear behind the curtain, sighing once to push back the tears that pricked your eyes. Disbelief and desperation to help him feel better ache in your chest. The realization of how much pain he was causing himself just to keep pushing through settles heavy over you. How someone so beautiful could reduce themselves to so little, to think they didn’t matter enough to take care of themselves. Lena clocks it immediately, pulling you in for a hug.
“Hey, what’s going on?”
You explain everything to her. She listens with an intensity only she and Dana posses. Her face stern. Nobody knew it was that bad. Then she calls Shen for you, fills Ellis in. Before you know it you’ve got your extra bag slung over your shoulder, and Jack’s crutches in hand.
When you pull back the curtain, Jack’s sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. You hand him his crutches, stepping to help him when he stops you.
“I got it, please, let me do this.”
You step back and follow him out of the room; “Come on, we’ll take the back exit.”
He leads you to his truck, stopping to fish in his pockets when your voice cuts through again.
“Give me your keys.”
“What?”, His asks, his eyebrows raised.
“You’re not driving. Give me your keys.”
The look of amusement he gives you doesn’t get him very far, and next thing you know he’s tossing you his keys with a huff, letting you hold his crutches as he pulls himself up into the truck.
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
You pull into his driveway, letting his truck run for a moment before you switch it off. Looking over, you see his body slumped, head against the window, eyes shut and soft breaths leaving his mouth. Safely asleep in the passenger seat. So you let him sleep, pulling out your phone to occupy yourself until he stirs.
“Shit”, He says, voice groggy; “M’sorry.”
You shake your head; “Don’t be. You needed it.”
He stares at you, his jaw working like he’s thinking. Whatever it is he’s thinking about, he lets it go.
“How long was I out?”
You shrug; “Forty minutes, maybe.”
He doesn’t answer, just shifts in his seat before pushing his door open, looking back at you as he uses his crutches to lower himself out of the truck. A small hint of a smile on the corners of his lips.
“Cmon, it’s warmer inside.”
Jack’s apartment—or rather condo—is nicer than yours. Of course it should be with his attending salary. The outside is nice, each unit looking fairly similar. Inside is just as you’d expect his place to be, furnished but too clean to be super lived in. Barely decorated other than a few pictures here and there, a key bowl by the door. A row of his shoes by the welcome mat.
You’re immediately struck by how much his place smells like him. Musky and warm. Something sweet lingering underneath. He drops his own bag down by the front door, making his way further into the living room.
“I’m gonna go shower”, He says, then stops, scratching the back of his head; “You’re welcome to use it after. Just uh—make yourself at home.”
You mumble a soft ‘thank you’ as he disappears down the hallway. You flop down on his couch, realizing it’s way comfier than yours. You order a pizza for the two of you, and by the time it arrives, Jack is reemerging from the hallway; hair still damp and fluffy.
You can’t help but think how domestic he looks like this. Pajama pants and a white t-shirt. His freckled arms and face more prominent. His face slightly more vibrant and awake, like the shower fixed everything for him.
“I ordered a pizza for us, I hope that’s ok”, You tell him.
He offers you a small smile as sits down on the other end of the couch, already reaching for a slice.
“That’s actually perfect, thank you.”
You eat in silence, the hum of his tv in the background. It’s not charged or awkward, but rather…comfortable in a way you’d only ever get with him. You clean up after, despite Jack insisting on helping, you force him to take it easy.
“I’m gonna take you up on that shower now, if that’s ok.”
He nods, telling you where everything is. That the handle to the hot water sometimes sticks so you have to wiggle it. But he lets you go, eyes lingering on where your frame previously stood for a beat too long.
His shower is warm, spacious, inviting. You let the hot water run over you, washing extra diligently to get rid of any remaining traces of the hospital. The butterflies in your stomach and chest flutter to life as it finally hits you where you are. Jack’s apartment. Alone. With Jack. The attending you’ve had a crush on since you started at PTMC all that time ago.
There’s a fresh fluffy towel waiting for you when you exit the shower, shaky hands wiping the condensation off the mirror. You look at yourself for a moment; tired, bags under your eyes. Normal after a long shift. But you can’t help but think of Jack, how tired he looked today, how much it still shows on his face. You decide tonight’s mission is about making him comfortable and well rested. Making sure he’s ok.
You move to get dressed, realizing with a defeated sigh that there’s only a pair of shorts left in your bag. The shirt being tossed in your hamper a few weeks prior after your scrubs got stained during your shift. You never put one back in to replace it.
Sighing, towel wrapped up around your torso you peek out through the bathroom door.
“Jack?”, You call.
There’s a grunt and the click of his crutches against the floor before he peers in the doorway.
“Is everything ok? What’s wrong?”, Always too quick to worry.
“I um—I only had extra shorts in my bag…”
A look of realization flashes across his face as he nods, moving to dig through one of his drawers.
“Oh, that’s ok. You can borrow one of mine”, He fishes out an old grey shirt, the words ‘ARMY’ written across the front.
You hesitate, but he shakes his hand once, offering the shirt again, a laugh leaving his lips; “Cmon, I won’t bite.”
You finally take the shirt from him, smiling sheepishly as you disappear back into the bathroom. You slip the shirt—that smells ridiculously like him—over your head, brushing out your damp hair before pulling it up. When you open the door, Jack’s in his bed, already under the covers with his tv on.
You don’t see how Jack stops breathing for a moment at the sight of you in his shirt, heart beating against his ribcage as he searches for words, anything at all to say.
You stuff your scrubs back into your back before tossing it to the floor, hovering next to the bed awkwardly before clearing your throat.
“Well, I guess I’ll let you sleep. I’ll be on the couch if you need me”, You go to leave the room when his hand on your wrist stops you.
“Wait”, He says, looking up at you with those puppy dog hazel eyes, “Stay.”
You open your mouth but no words come out, so you force them; “I don’t want to intrude.”
Jack chuckles; “Don’t be silly. It’s a queen bed, plenty of room…Cmon, please?”
You sigh; “Ok.”
His bed is comfier than yours, feeling your body sink down into the mattress as soon as your back hits it. Jack’s scent surrounding you as he gently pulls the covers up to your waist. You leave enough room for another person between the two of you, fiddling with your hands under the comforter as he watches tv.
It stays like that for a while, just comfortable silence and his presence next to you. An occasional soft laugh rumbling from his chest. As the sun starts to rise he clicks the tv off, wiggling around a little to get himself comfortable. Then he inches closer to you—his head finding its way to rest against your torso—arms around your waist.
Your breath hitches at the sudden contact, the feeling of his calloused hands against your skin burning like fire in the best possible way. You tense under him for just a second, before letting go of the breath you were holding.
“Is this—is this ok?”, His question comes softly, voice quiet as you feel him move, scruff scratching against your—well his—shirt.
“Yeah”, you say, cause damn he was warm. Inviting and safe.
You let your fingers find his salt and pepper curls, raking through them softly. You feel his lashes flutter shut, a deep sigh leaving his nose as his muscles relax. Just one soft touch, and the grumpy attending was relaxing into you.
“I’m sorry”, He finally says into the darkness; “About earlier.”
You force him to look at you, guiding him by his chin.
“I just want you to be safe, Jack”, You tell him, pushing a curl from his forehead; “You’re burning yourself out for everyone else. You need to take care of yourself too.”
He nods, another breath leaving through his nose.
“I hate the idea of you making yourself hurt just to meet expectations you think are there. I hate that you think so little of yourself that your own wellbeing doesn’t matter. I hate that I can’t fix it or-“
You don’t realize you’re crying until he brushes his thumbs across your cheeks, wiping the stray tears away.
“Shh, hey…”, His voice soothes you, a brief hesitation before he pressed his forehead to yours, just for a moment. Silence in the air except for your breaths intertwining, eyes closed before you look at him again.
“You matter so much. Let me take care of you”, Your voice hits his ears suddenly, making him freeze.
He looks up at you again, eyes wide and chest heaving with each breath.
“I mean it, Jack”, You add, “Been wanting to since day one.”
You feel his body move on the mattress, his body hovering next to you now. He reaches a hand up to cup the side of your face, calloused thumb rubbing against your soft skin again. You remind yourself to breathe as he gets closer, stopping just before your noses touch.
“Can I?”, He asks softly, eyes searching your face like you’ll disappear if he moves too fast.
“Please”, and the next thing you know his lips are on yours.
It’s soft, tentative, not rushed. Just two people finally connecting in a way their hearts knew they needed to long before their brains caught up. All the longing and glances across the ED, the coffees and sandwiches from the break room, the lingering touches, all lead to this.
You almost want to protest when he pulls away, but the way he looks into your eyes would have your knees buckling if you were standing.
“Ok”, He says softly, breath hitting your face as he answers your earlier question.
Then he’s lying down again, head against your stomach and freckled arms around your waist. Pulling you in closer than before. You let your fingers find his curls again, feeling another sigh against your shirt as he lifts it up just an inch or two—before pressing his lips softly to your skin, almost a ghosting—but still enough to send shivers down your spine. You listen to his breathing even out, fingers not leaving his hair until you’re sure he’s out. Every fiber of your being screaming how much you want to take care of him and keep him safe. You knew then you were absolutely fucked, and so did he.
With a soft brush of a finger against his temple you knew he was asleep, letting your hand settle softly against his skin. Then quietly, into the darkness of his room;
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☁️ okay but what about catching pope jerking off in your bed with a pair of your panties | thots ☁️
✶ pairing | andrew pope cody x f!reader
✶ word count | 2.1k
✶ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; dirty talk, getting caught, praise kink, panty kink, masturbation (m), boyfriend pope, voyeurism
masterlist | ao3 | inbox | requests, taglist, submissions: open
say you come home to your apartment after running some errands expecting to find him where you left him - only he doesn't come to greet you with an arm slung around your shoulder and a kiss dropped onto the side of your temple.
when you check, he's not in the living room, and you don't hear the god awful pipes clanking in the walls so he's not taking a shower. you try calling out but there's no response.
surely he wouldn't leave without telling you, right? besides, he doesn't have a job lined up any time soon. he told you he wanted to spend time with you so where the hell is he?
then what sounds like a faint curse comes from the depths of your apartment in the direction of your bedroom so you shrug and follow the noise only to freeze, brows nearly touching your hairline, gut clenching hotly at what you find.
a violent, visceral reaction that makes all moisture flee your mouth because there's no way he's... except then a grunt breaks the tense silence; a smothered, breathless little noise that echoes low and wounded into the hallway.
if you hadn't been standing right there, if you hadn't been looking for pope, the distant hum outside would've hidden the filthy wet sounds of his palm stripping his cock fast and hard.
warmth creeps up your neck, pools in your cheeks - leaves your skin altogether uncomfortable; itchy and tight like a nasty burn. every tentative step you take forward feels like walking on a tripwire, your heart tattooing a rhythm against your ribs as the slightest creak of the floorboards rings out, the pop of a gunshot.
it's a miracle you make it to your door, haphazardly cracked with slats of sunlight spilling across the floor. then he grunts again, his voice cracking and trailing off into a pained whine.
you can't help it - can't resist the urge to watch how pope pulls those kinds of sounds from the depths of his throat, to see what tempo he likes to stroke his cock to when he's alone.
with your heart lurching, and a mouth full of cotton, you peek around the doorjamb. nearly brain yourself on the floor when you lose your balance.
while it's difficult to get an unobstructed view of what his hand's doing between his thighs with how he's planted his feet on the mattress and bent his legs, what you can see...
well, fuck.
“…h-haaah…ss-shit, that’s…”
he's so fucking pretty like this; half-naked and wanton, needy and stretched out across the middle of your bed.
there's so much to catalogue, to track - the visual input overloading your brain. it's honestly a miracle you notice the scrap of fabric draped over his chest, your attention grabbed by it purely because of how bright and oddly familiar it is.
but you're too far way to truly identify it, and decide to refocus on more important things.
like how he looks like some wild, half tamed creature come to steal you away; the briar of his curls a dark halo on the pillows, short strands sticking to his damp forehead.
meanwhile his eyes are hooded and hazy, watching as the pink tip of his cock appears through the circle of his fingers with every upwards rut. mouth slack and rosy, tongue glimmering like a tempting prize when he wets his lips.
desire hooks behind your navel, an unscratchable itch that'll drive you crazy, sent reeling as a gush of slick squishes between your thighs the next time you squeeze them. he waits behind your eyelids with every blink, his cock thick and heavy, curved towards his belly and throbbing with each measured stroke.
his sturdy thighs tremble, his toes digging into the bed spread. "fuhhck, please - please, let me..."
it's impossible to look away, your teeth shredding the inside of your cheek as you chew on the gummy flesh. god you wish you were there, feeling him throb against your palm.
"gonna cum, oh god. yeah, just like that - hngg - s'good for me."
rough fingers tug at the hem of his plain black t-shirt, rucking the fabric up and out of the way. it bunches under his armpits and exposes the cut of his chest, the valleys of his muscled frame, the width of his heaving shoulders, muscles straining with his movements.
if you could you'd bite down, sink your nails into his pecs as you rode him hard and fast, his hands anchored on your hips to guide your movements.
"right there - o-oh - right there." his abs clench, hips kicking up. "just like that, come on."
you're nearly mad with desire, only stopping yourself from pouncing when he pauses what he's doing after a few more hurried strokes, the lines of frustration etched between his brows deepening. the hand on his cock slows, and he hooks a finger around the scrap of fabric resting on his chest.
he raises it up to dangle in front of his face - and shock lances through you, followed by ohmygod, are those...?
no wonder it looked familiar.
your pussy clenches, knees nearly buckling as all thought processes grind to a halt once you recognize your favorite pair of panties hanging off your boyfriend's finger.
anticipation swells hot and all-consuming behind your navel until you're shaking because fuck, you never thought seeing pope like this would affect you so much. never even imagined a scenario in which you would (god why didn't you?).
no way.
"mm, so pretty," he murmurs, voice whiskey rough and low. his fingers spread beneath the crotch to stretch out the fabric. "just for me."
all you can do is watch as he scrutinizes the whorls of delicate lace and sheer panels. he's not really going to... is he? (you hope he does).
please, please, please.
then he bites his lip, spares your panties another long look before working them down his body. his nipples stiffen when he trails it down the valley of his pecks, the drag of the lace tickling his skin. a breathy curse escapes him when they glide over the band of his hips, skin pebbled with goosebumps.
you choke on your own spit.
it's almost impossible to believe the andrew pope cody is about to jack off with a pair of your underwear - that you get to witness it for yourself - but then he's switching hands, and you see how pretty the fabric looks stretched over the girth of his cock.
the texture must feel amazing because pope full-body shudders, his eyes pinched shut and his brows furrowed like he's in pain when he lurches forward. he catches himself before folding in half, a shaky breath puffing past his lips.
fingers flexing, the fabric scrapes over his sensitive shaft and teases along his swollen balls. his hips rut up into the sensation, and he whines. "oh my fuh - that feels so good."
if only you know what he's imagining right now, what gets him so hard and leaking; tip flushed where it peeks out from the bright lace, pre-cum oozing down the throbbing shaft in thick, sticky rivulets.
every hitched whimper gets your ears ringing and your legs crossing, the drag of your shirt over your nipples uncomfortable with how hard they are. the slightest shift has your folds sticking together, a wet gush you'd love to soak his cock with.
you don’t even care that he’s getting a little too loud. so what if your crotchety ass neighbor files another complaint? the sight more than makes up for the headache of dealing with management.
though pope's more considerate because he stuffs the corner of his shirt into his mouth - his pretty, desperate noises locked behind the fabric of his makeshift muzzle. when the circle of his fingers meets the base, knuckles white as the crotch of your panties pulls taut over the flushed cockhead, his thighs tremble.
it's getting painful to watch and do nothing, to swallow the moan creeping up from the depths of your chest at imagining all the things he's gotten up to while you were gone as heat crackles down your spine.
it's a physical ache that shoots through you at not slipping inside to drape yourself over his chest, rock your hips down and slip him deep inside your tight little cunt. to feel the burning stretch as he fills you to the brim, the painful pinch of his tip kissing your cervix as you chase after your pleasure with his neck between your teeth.
or maybe you should let this play out? let him stain your panties with cum and then put them on, wear them around the apartment until he fucks you over the counter.
oh god.
your cunt flutters - desperate and empty - at the thought of feeling him on your skin, all slick, messy friction for hours. knowing how filthy he's made you.
right now, the slightest touch could make you cry, you’re so turned on. your clit aching for friction, swollen and raw, all while pope continues to drive himself pleasure drunk.
mind made up, you keep as quiet as possible and shift closer to hear the slick, sloppy sounds of him fucking into the grip of his fist, track the flex of his wrist and the apologetic glide of his palm as he staves off another orgasm. somehow, you clear the doorjamb, the handle itself a faint sensation at the back of your elbow.
you stop breathing, heartbeat thudding in your ears as blood rushes so fast you swear you might pass out. the air thickens with tension, the musk of fevered arousal heavy in your nose.
vibrating in place, the only thing that stops you from lunging across the room and attacking him like a wild animal is the sweetest moan you've ever heard breathing through his cotton gag. he must hear your stuttered inhale, the grit of your teeth because the world slows, then stills completely as he freezes.
muscles coil, his body a rigid line - ready for anything. then those pretty kerosene brown eyes pop open.
immediately seeking you out, pope swallows and unhinges his jaw. the makeshift bit slips free from his mouth, his shirt fluttering back down to his chest.
a patch of damp sticks to his skin.
“you're...” he says, his voice thick with pleasure - low and rough like smoky whiskey - while a flush blooms across his cheeks, “you’re home…”
without responding, you take a step into the room. the closer you get, the tenser pope becomes - his breath locking in his throat and his eyes falling shut.
at some point, his hand pulls away and tries to tuck your panties off to the side. it’s too bad you’ve been watching the whole time, otherwise he might’ve gotten away with it.
pope clears his throat and scratches at his jaw. “i was just - uh, y’know…”
he trails off, his hands fluttering around his hips. as if there’s a way to hide the excited twitch of his cock or the drool of pre-cum when you stop at the bedside.
with a faint smile and a raised brow, you ask, “having fun?”
“i - i’m so…” a muscle in his jaw jumps. “‘m sorry.”
he refuses to look at you.
and that just won’t do.
“shit!”
pope jolts, a drawn-out moan full of heat ripped out of his mouth when you press your hand over the heated skin of his throat.
all the air whooshes from your lungs and you watch your thumb trace over the swell of his adam’s apple, enchanted. his body strains up into your tender touch, every hard line demanding you finish what he started.
“need some help?” you ask, feeling him gulp against your palm. “sure looks like you do.”
it’s apparent he can barely think, gaze clouded over in a haze of desperation. your nails dig into his oversensitive skin to see him flinch, to watch as a shudder rolls down his spine at the delicate bite of pain.
his cock bobs against his belly.
“come on, baby. wouldn’t you like my hand or pussy better?”
“shit, i -” he groans, tossing a forearm over his eyes. “why are you like this? you’re gonna kill me one day.”
you chuckle, tracing the swell of his bottom lip, the bow of his top lip. “that still doesn’t answer my question.”
every pass of your hand works your fingers higher until the tips press in at the corners of his mouth. you repeat yourself, “do you need some help?”
at the taste of your skin, pope groans; a soft, deep-throated thing that injects heat into your veins. his tongue is soft against the pads of your fingers, wet and cradling.
a lone eye peeks up at you from behind his wrist, hooded and burning. “… please.”
would it be bad to piggyback off the idea of the jack abbot fic where no one knows about his wife, but kinda flip it a bit and make it seem that the new docs thought reader and robby were married (but their just besties), but it turns out, no its actually jack 👀
Loving your fanfics btw!!
ooooo good one!!!!
Wrong Husband
Summary: You’re used to the new interns making assumptions. You and Dr. Robby have always been close—best friends since residency, the kind of dynamic that makes people look twice. So when this new batch starts whispering about the “work-marriage” between the two of you, neither of you bother to correct it. Until Jack walks in.
“I’m just saying,” Santos muttered as you walked down the hall with Dr. Robby, “they have to be married.”
Javadi snorted. “Right? She calls him ‘grandpa’ when he’s grumpy and he lets her steal his fries during lunch. That’s, like, peak married behavior.”
They didn’t know you could hear them. And Robby definitely did.
He leaned down toward you as you reached the nurses’ station, voice low and dry. “You’re stealing my fries again?”
“Don’t worry,” you muttered, not missing a beat, “I’ll leave you two. Maybe you can finally propose to me after all these years.”
The interns turned white.
You both burst out laughing.
You weren’t married. Never had been. But you loved letting the new staff stew in their awkwardness for a while. It was practically a sport now.
“Wait, are you guys—?” Whitaker started.
You smirked. “Guess you’ll never know.”
A couple hours later, you were sitting at the nurses' station finishing a chart, Robby leaned next to you, sipping bad coffee, when the ER doors opened—and in walked Dr. Jack Abbott.
Buttoned-down. Sharp-jawed. Intimidating as hell.
He didn’t even look up at the crowd—just scanned the room until his eyes landed on you.
“Ready to go?” he asked.
You smiled instantly. Stood up, grabbing your coat. “Yep. Give me two seconds.”
Whitaker blinked. “Wait, you… know Dr. Abbott?”
Robby raised his coffee, still leaning casually. “She knows him alright.”
Jack walked over, slipped his hand around your waist like it was second nature—because it was.
The room went silent.
You looked up at him. “Long day?”
He pressed a kiss to your temple. “Better now.”
Javadai dropped her pen.
You turned back to the stunned interns with a sweet smile. “You three met Jack, right?”
They just stared.
“Jack,” you added helpfully, “my husband.”
Robby actually choked on his coffee.
“Have fun, kids,” he grinned. “Told you she wasn’t mine. I’m not nearly uptight enough.”
Jack looked him up and down. “You’re not anything enough.”
You tugged his hand gently. “Be nice. They thought I was married to Robby.”
Jack didn’t even blink. “I’ll try not to be insulted.”
As you walked out with Jack’s hand resting possessively on your lower back, the interns stood frozen in place, eyes wide, jaws open.
“…So that’s her husband?”
Robby chuckled behind them. “Yeah. You should see them when they’re arguing about takeout. It’s terrifying.”
"All because my head is full of poison
And my heart is full of doubt
I got toxins in my bloodstream
You tried so hard to suck out
—the cure, Olivia Rodrigo
summary: you’re the ray of sunshine and overly dependable smiling intern the night shift crew has been needing. But a certain attending begins noticing you might need more help than you let on.
wc: 11.7k (a short one sorry guys)
warnings: crippling perfectionism, high-key people pleasing, reader is bright and bubbly to compensate for how awful she feels day to day, one vomiting scene, service dom jack, santos is on nightshift bc i love her and i wanted her in this fic. trinity and dennis and reader r basically siblings, jack’s characterization in this is DEF andrew pope cody-esque panic attacks, mental health struggles, reader is an intern again but i swear it’s just cause i watch a lot of greys and interns r the only stage of medical career i know enough about to write semi-well T-T
acknowledgments: once again a round of applause for @wesandresons for the lovely gif, and @uzmacchiato and @cursed-carmine for the dividers!
a/n: i’m not rlly sure i like how this turned out but oh well @leeknowpegger i hope this keeps you company
masterlist
When you first get to the PTMC, Jack can’t decide what he thinks about you.
He vaguely remembers you— you’d done a rotation here, some time ago. One of the unfortunate ones who’d drawn the short stick and been stuck on the night shift. He has a hazy recollection of your face during an MVC, your jaw hard set and a permanent smile to your face. He vaguely remembers, at the time, the only thing he’d really though was:
Jesus, this kid needs to dial it back.
The sentiment, of course, remains the same when it’s handoff time, and Robby is telling him all about what an awful fucking day it’s been, and of course now he says “Oh, remember that med student you got stuck with awhile back? Smiley-face? You must’ve done something right, because she matched into the ED for her residency. She starts today.”
Not exactly the news an attending wants to hear right after the horror show the day has been so far. Especially when intern/baby resident in question is… charismatic.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Ellis says, her eyes trained on you as you soothe a crying teenager who just got wheeled in. “If you ask me, we could use someone who actually smiles. Bit too dark and dreary in here for my taste.”
“You like dark and dreary.”
She gives him an unimpressed raised eyebrow. “So? We can’t all be doing it. Like, we’ve got Shen, but his is more iced-coffee induced than actual smiling charm.”
“I can be charming when I want to be.”
“No, you can be flirty or suggestive. There’s a difference.”
Jack does not justify her response with one of his own, instead choosing to look down at his tablet and pretend to chart while he listens to how you’re interacting with the patient. The teenager seems to be calmed down, and the parents don't sound frantic or worried.
Maybe Ellis is right. Unfortunately, this tends to be the case fairly often.
He sighs and focuses on the chart he’s supposed to be doing and attempts to wipe his mind of bright smiles and glittering eyes.
—
The PTMC and Emergency Medicine in general was not, actually, your first choice. It wasn’t even your second, or your third.
First was surgical. Everybody wants to be surgical. You wanted surgical. It’s flashy, it pays well, and it’s cool as fuck. Plus, unlike some of your classmates, you actually have the stomach for it (one of the many things that eventually translated well to emergency medicine.)
Second was Ortho. Because bones are cool. Ortho surgeries are fun too, when they’re not arthroscopy after arthroscopy.
Third was any kind of unit like Burn or ICU. A high stress program that wouldn’t let you think, let you run on adrenaline all day.
But then you did your rotation in general surgery and absolutely fucking hated it.
Surgeons are assholes. Surgeons are uptight nerds who like to subject anyone they consider beneath them to cruel and unusual punishment.
Even in during the short duration of your rotation through surgery, it almost killed you. You could practically feel the light in your soul dimming at every pointed comment, every sharp correction, every barked insult and something or other cruel word.
And then there was the PTMC. The stupid ED that wasn’t supposed to fun, was supposed to be grueling and exhausting (especially since you’d gotten assigned to the night shift.) But instead of awful you got amazing, which sucked.
Seems counterintuitive, but it’s true.
You wanted to like surgery enough to power though. But not a single rotation after the ED even came close to measuring up. The speed, the action, the gore, and the kind but firm guiding direction from the attending’s and residents.
Matching into the PTMC was an event actually worth celebrating. As in, you decided to un-tense minutely and splurge on actual champagne that you drank in your apartment while dancing to your favorite music.
And now, you’re here. Determined to not fuck this up. To keep moving, keep going, and be a fucking excellent ED doctor.
Except your attending, Dr. Jack Abbot, one of the reasons you joined the ED in the first place, keeps giving you funny looks when he thinks you’re not looking.
You’re not sure if he’s aware that you know that he’s staring at you. You do have a wider than normal field of peripheral vision, so maybe he doesn’t know that you can still see him out of the corner of your eye?
Regardless of if he knows or not, it’s unnerving. Because he’s your boss. And you know he’s capable of being an incredible doctor and mentor, because you see it every single day.
Just not directed at you.
He’s not really mean, or standoffish, or anything like that, he’s just… not necessarily kind. Not in the way that you see him with the other residents on his service or even with you, during your rotation as a med student.
Hell, he’s nicer to Santos than he is to you.
“Did I like, say something to offend him and I don’t know?”
Trinity makes a face at you from over the edge of the monitor. “Isn’t that more my area of expertise?”
“No. You offend people on purpose.”
“True.”
You prop your head on your hands, resting your elbows on the counter above her. Your keycard, attached to your breast pocket via a red, heart-shaped badge reel is lovingly adorned with pink rhinestones and cute stickers. The pocket itself is filled with several glitter gel pens (and regular pens, just in case.)
“I just don’t get it. I’m nice, right?”
“Disturbingly so.”
“Exactly. The only thing I can think of is that I’ve messed up or something, but it’s Dr. Abbot. He’d tell me if I did. He doesn’t exactly hold back.”
“Do you really need me for this conversation?”
You level her with a look, but she just groans.
“Why do you even care? So what, one guy doesn’t like you, boohoo.”
“He’s not just some guy. He’s my attending. And you might’ve secured your spot here, but i’m all shiny and new. I can’t exactly earn people’s respect if our boss doesn’t like me.”
Trinity doesn’t immediately respond with a scathing remark, which usually means that you’ve made a valid point.
“Should I talk to him?”
She sighs. “I think you’re overreacting. You’ve only been here for like, two weeks? Three? He’ll probably calm down the more you work together.”
“Did he stare at you all weirdly when you first started?”
“Well, no, but that’s because I don’t suck at my job.”
Now it’s your turn to glare.
“Sorry. I guess you’re not completely hopeless.”
You roll your eyes. “Thanks, Trin.”
She scrunches her nose up at the nickname like you knew she would, because she hates it, which makes it one of the only weapons you have against her.
Trinity wasn’t as helpful as you’d hoped, and night shift means no Dana to ask for advice. There’s Dr. Ellis, but she’s pretty close to Dr. Abbot, which means there’s a high chance that whatever you ask her will make it back to him. You aren’t really close enough to Dr. Shen to ask him “Hey, how come Dr. Abbot stares at me when he thinks I’m not looking and isn’t as nice to me as he is to you guys?”
The question is stupid and kind of pathetic, so really, you shouldn’t be asking anybody, but you’ve always been crippled by an intense need to be well-liked. It feels like winning, and it feels good and safe. Safe is good. Safe is great.
Wanting the guy who's essentially your boss to like you is completely rational, right?
You just wish he’d tell you what you’re doing wrong, so you can fix it.
Also, it’s just driving you crazy.
Even if he just legitimately didn’t like you, and made that apparent, it’d be something. You could work with that. You could figure out what it was he didn't like via intense pattern recognitin and fix it. Problem solved!
But he isn't obvious about it. He behaves indifferent and detatched- like you could die tomorrow and he wouldn't care.
It’s the not knowing. If you could just ask him, if he could just give you an answer, then you’d know where you stood, and everything could be fine.
What changed? You want to beg, What happened after my med student rotation? Do you even remember that? What did I do? Where did I go wrong?
It eats away at you over the course of the week. It has been since you noticed, which was pretty much on day one. You don’t show this outwardly of course, because you’re pretty sure you can get through to him and level out the wrong-footedness you feel around him through stubborn determination. Surely, at some point your unwavering nature will win out and he’ll finally see there isn’t anything he needs to hate about you. This is an incredibly healthy mindset to move through life with.
The week closes with an MCI around 5pm, which is just everyone’s favorite thing in the world. The night shift gets called in, minus Trinity, who was already there working a double, and everyone sets in for the long haul. You do your best to focus on the patients and do not at all think about the ease and camaraderie between Mohan and Abbot, because that would be a very fucked up progression of priorities.
Eventually it’s all over— patients are stabilized, some aren’t. Overtime ends with phantom blood on your hands and being strong-armed into drinks in the park afterwards.
You feel awkward, because you don’t work with the day shift people that often, so you’re not really sure how best to be yourself and not come across as weird. Neither of your “safe” people (Trinity and Dennis) are present, so there’s no way in hell you’re going to be capable of relaxing.
You take the beer that’s tossed to you, even though you think beer is gross (why does it taste like that? Why do people enjoy it?) and sip on it excruciatingly slowly, trying to hide a grimace and occasionally chiming in with mentally rehearsed and carefully crafted jokes and comments.
It’s exhausting, and not at all how you wanted to spend your night after an MCI. In a dream world, you don’t have the social backbone of a wet paper bag, and you say no, and you go home to your house and shower, then watch one, maybe two episodes of a tv show, scroll through Pinterest, and then go the fuck to bed.
But for the low low price of much needed rest, you get to drink one of the most disgusting alcoholic beverages known to man and worry if everyone thinks you’re being weird! Yay!
Also. Side note. Minor comment. Little issue.
Jack Abbot is sitting next to you. Like, right next to you on the bench. Because he came late and it was the last spot open. So he’s just right there. Posture loose and open and not at all like he didn’t just help you try to save a girl your age who had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like two hours ago your elbows weren’t brushing, elbow deep in a man’s organs, saving his life.
Jack, unlike you, looks comfortable to be at the park with everyone. He doesn’t look like he’s analyzing conversation to determine the best thing to say next.
Jack isn’t looking at everyone. He’s not looking at anyone. He’s looking at you.
You turn, give him a little smile.
Again.
Maybe he doesn’t know you can still see him out of the corner of your eye. (No, he’s a vet, he’d definitely also have wide peripheral vision. But maybe he thinks that you don’t have it, because you’re not a vet.)
(You’re probably thinking too much about the peripheral vision.)
Jack doesn’t stop staring at you. Instead, he reaches over to where your barely-drunk beer is in your hands, and says:
“Here, give me that.”
And then he just. Takes your beer. Straight out of your hands.
Jesus fucking fuck he so hates you.
—
“He took your beer?”
“Yes,” You groan from the kitchen island in Trinity’s apartment, “He said ‘here, give me that’ and then just took it. He didn’t say anything else to me for the rest of the night.”
She lets out a low whistle. “Maybe he doesn’t like you. What could you have possibly done to make him not like you?”
“I don’t know!”
“Well, you better fix it. Having your attending hate your guts will like, majorly suck.”
“I don’t know how to fix it. That’s what i’m over here for. To brainstorm.”
“I thought you were here to steal the cookies Huckleberry made?”
Dennis peeks his head up from the couch. “Wait, what?”
You wave a hand. “Semantics. Focus.”
“Okay,” Trinity taps a pencil on a notepad, “Have you tried sleeping with him?”
“He’s like, probably over twenty years older than me.”
“So? I know your type.”
You roll your eyes. “As if he’d go after me, Trin. He doesn’t like me.”
“Hate sex is a thing.”
“Name one time hate sex solved the hate part.”
She purses her lips. “Touché. What about like, baking him shit, like Huckleberry does for—“
“Shut up Trinity!”
You both snicker.
“No dice,” You sigh, “I can’t bake for shit. Recipes never have enough context. They’re never specific enough.”
“Two tablespoons of sugar isn’t specific enough for you?”
“You’re not helping.”
Trinity holds up her hands in mock surrender. “To be fair, I never agreed to help. I just said we’d both be here if you wanted to come over.”
“I think you should just ask him.” Dennis pipes up.
He shuffles off the couch and slides into the second chair at the kitchen island adjacent to you. “Dr. Abbot is a straightforward guy. He appreciates honesty. Doesn’t beat around the bush. I can’t imagine him being truly upset that you tried to fix a problem.”
“I want to, but that’s like. Too straightforward. What if—“
“Oh my god,” Trinity moans, “Just ask him. Or fuck him. Do something so I don’t have to hear about it anymore.”
You frown, opening your mouth to object, then close it with a sigh.
She’s right.
You have to just move on. Either deal with it or deal with it by… not dealing with it. Talk to him or don’t.
Easier said than done.
—
It takes two more shifts of unrequited awkwardness for you to finally reach your limit. At a certain point, probably when you almost snapped at him for hovering (doing his job) while you were trying to intubate a patient, you realize that you cannot, actually, just get through to him via stubborn determination.
Damn.
So when you have a second, you corner him in one of the quieter hallways. The conversation has the potential to be horrifically embarrassing and mortifying, so it’s best if there’s no audience.
“Do you have a minute, Dr. Abbot?”
He glances down at his watch, then crosses his arms and leans against the opposite wall.
He doesn’t talk (unnerving, annoying) and his sharp, ever analyzing gaze makes your skin prickle as you cross your hands behind your back and mirror his position, leaning against the wall.
He’s so irritating. He won’t even give you a fucking inch. There’s nothing to go on.
“Did I do something wrong?”
For the first time since you became a resident in the ED, he makes an expression: surprise.
“Why do you think you did something wrong?”
“Because you won’t fucking talk to me!” You hiss, absolutely fed up with Dr. Jack Abbot, “Half the time you only look at me when you think I won’t notice. You don’t talk to me unless it’s required for teaching, and even then, it’s short and stilted. I’ve seen how you interact with literally every other person who works here. I know you can be nice. You’re just not nice to me, and I’d like to know why.”
You pause. “And you took my beer!”
There’s a moment of silence, and then there’s a breathy, almost wheezing sound that takes you a minute to place.
He’s laughing.
Jack fucking Abbot starts laughing.
You honest to God want to kill him.
“Sorry,” He says, eyes sparkling with mirth and shoulders loose, “I can see how all of that can be taken negatively—“
“How else was I supposed to take that.”
Jack levels you with a look, and you shut your mouth. “But it was not my intention.”
He just stops speaking there, like that’s a perfectly adequate explanation and not at all vague and almost more disconcerting.
“So…,” You drawl, “What was your intention?”
Something interesting, a little more heated than just analytical sparks in his gaze, and he tilts his head, eyes flicking up and down your body.
Under the silence and scrutiny, you resist the urge to squirm in place, hands squeezing themselves in an effort to subdue the itch.
“You hate confrontation.”
Your chest feels like a cinder block just slammed onto it. “What?”
“You,” He levels a finger at your chest, “Hate confrontation. You hate it so much that you lie about yourself to people instead of saying things they might not like.”
You laugh nervously, voice high and reedy. “A lot of people do that. I don’t think that’s a crime.”
“It’s not. But it doesn’t exactly make me want to trust you with my residents. With my team.”
“You’re worried I’ll what? Get somebody in trouble? Do something shitty?”
“I’m worried that something is going to happen to you, and you won’t tell anyone about it.”
The hallway grows silent. In this distance there’s beeping, someone shouting orders, a child crying. But not in the five feet of space you, Jack, and the conversion currently occupies.
“Why do all of this?” You gesture vaguely to the space between you two, unwilling to be more specific. He does not deserve the itemized list you assembled in your head.
“I wanted to see if you’d confront me about it or not. Confirm my suspicions.”
“That’s—“ You wrinkle your nose, “Actually kind of shitty of you.”
Jack just hums.
“So what now? Did I prove myself to you?” Your tone is mocking.
He scoffs, “God, you really hate confrontation, don’t you?”
Your skin prickles again. “No.”
“Lying again.”
“Shut up.”
He knows how uncomfortable he’s making you. He’s doing it on purpose. And right then and there, you decide you don’t care what Jack Abbot thinks, because if Jack Abbot is going to be a self-assured asshole, Jack Abbot can go fuck himself.
Your pager going off saves you from verbalizing any of this, and with one last glare, you’re gone.
—
If Jack was an obnoxious lurker before, it doesn’t hold a damn candle to how he behaves now.
He’s just. Everywhere. Around every corner. Driving you crazy.
When you bring this up to Trinity, she looks at you like you’ve finally lost it.
Which. Okay. You probably have. But that’s beside the point! The point is…
…The point is that Jack Abbot is getting on your last nerve and you really don’t have any to spare. Life has been stomping all over the other ones, so the singular nerve Jack is stabbing with his annoying pointed looks and almost lingering touches and stupid little questions (“Hey, that was a rough one, are you alright?”) is just worn out. It doesn’t have anything left to give. You don’t have anything left to give.
But, like you were brought up to do, you keep right on giving. And working. And smiling.
Because it goes a little something like this: There’s no one to pick you up if you fall. You pick yourself up when you fall, and you’ve gotten pretty fucking good at it. All of your friends (read: Trinity and Dennis and maybe Mel) are doctors, which means you all have shitty work/life balance and no one would even be available if you called and said “Hey, every morning I lie awake and stare at the ceiling and convince myself to get up while listening to Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley, after which I will inevitably cry on the bus to work. Would you mind helping me with my laundry?”
Okay. Well. Trinity would probably show up if you asked because once she decides that you’re her friend she’s really intense about it (she’s a bit like a Doberman or some other dog like that, not that you would ever tell her) and Dennis probably would too, but only because he never says no when someone asks for help so it kind of just feels like you’re taking advantage of him. Mel is far too busy juggling being an ED doctor and caring for Becca for you to even think about asking her without feeling intense, soul crushing guilt.
So yeah. You don’t really have a best friend, unless one would count the singular romance book you’ve read so much the spine is completely fucked and the pages are yellow from years of travel and rereading. Counting any book as a best friend is probably very pathetic. But hey, don’t fix what isn’t broken.
So you have a system and a method and crying before and after work every single day is totally, completely normal, healthy, and sustainable. Probably even more so in the medical field, and especially since you’re a PGY1. Interns gotta suffer and all that jazz.
Jack Abbot does not need to make the suffering worse by existing near you constantly. Things are really honestly bad enough.
“Hey,” Trinity grabs your arm as you’re going by during a mellow shift, grip not tight enough to hurt but enough to be a bit past uncomfortable, especially for a girl not used to physical contact, “You good?”
‘No,’ You want to shout, collapsing on the floor in a heap of bones and tears, ‘I haven’t done laundry in so long that I’ve started wearing my cleanest dirty socks instead of washing more. I don’t have the energy to spend my days off doing anything productive, but every time I sleep instead of doing chores the anxiety eats me alive. I can’t sleep at night because the guilt makes me so nervous sometimes I throw up. Sometimes I don’t wash myself in the shower and I just stand in the water until it gets cold. Every day I wake up with the same headache, and then I take medicine for it, but by the time it’s gone I’m going to bed and then I wake up with it all over again. I think my liver is shot from over-the-counter medication usage. Everything hurts. I’m so tired.’
Trinity needs you to be okay. Trinity is too busy and under too much stress to worry about you. She needs you to be okay. Everyone needs you be okay.
“Mhm!” You nod, lips spread wide, “Pretty good day actually, all things considered.”
It’s not a total lie. The headache relief you’ve been taking religiously is kicking in faster than it usually does today.
Trinity scans your face, looking for signs of a lie, and she must find something (not shocking, it’s very hard to pretend that everything isn’t awful when Everything Is Really Awful) because her grip tightens minutely and she does that pursed lip thing she does when she’s worried and about to express it through anger or bitchiness.
“Don’t fuck with me. I don’t want to find out you’re like, doing drugs or something stupid like that. If you’re having a hard time—“
“Trin,” You interrupt, skin prickling uncomfortably as she implies that you’re not capable of handling things on your own, “If I need help, I know I can ask for it. And look,”
You tap your unbroken collection of glitter gel pens still intact in the front pocket of your scrubs. “It’s gotta be a good day. I still got my glitter.”
She wrinkles her nose, but drops your arm. “I don’t even know why you keep those. You can’t use them on like, anything. It’s against hospital policy.”
You shrug. “Glitter is a great motivator and mood elevator. Plus, kids love ‘em.”
You manage to feign something important coming up and duck out of the conversation and then, when the coast is clear, dart into one of the lesser used bathrooms and tuck yourself in the darkest stall.
Even in a hospital, toilet seats are disgusting, but you can’t quite summon any actual disgust as you plop down on the white porcelain, only lightly cracked, and cradle your exhausted head in your hands.
You have to keep going. There is no alternative. There is no other option.
Your chest feels tight and loose at the same time, and your skin feels clammy and wrong. Everything feels wrong. The lights are too bright and the material of your scrubs is scratchy and awful, and the longer you sit in the stall the more you want to throw up.
Someone knocks on the door before you get the chance to move down to your knees and start worshipping the porcelain altar. Assuming it to be Mel, who sometimes has a habit of showing up at the wrong time, you open the stall door to reveal none other than Jack Fucking Abbot.
You stare at him blankly for a few beats, too bewildered to feel sick. “You’re not allowed to be in here.”
“In the men’s bathroom?”
“This isn’t the men’s bathroom.”
“The sign on the door would say otherwise.”
Embarrassment brings the nausea back tenfold. You hold the stall door in a white knuckle grip to keep yourself upright and from hurling onto your boss.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I swear I didn’t do this on purpose—“
Jack raises an eyebrow, his hands folded behind his back. Military man, right.
“Clearly.”
You stumble forward. “I need to go—“
“Woah, down girl. I didn’t knock because I cared which toilet you use. You work here. Use whatever toilet you want. Preferably not the one in the attending’s lounge.”
“There’s an attending’s lounge?”
“No.” He grins, a devilish upturn to just the corner of his lips.
“Oh,” You pause, then catch up to the rest of what he said, “Then why’d you knock?”
“Cause it kind of sounded like you were dying in there, and I’d rather if you didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“The paperwork, for one. Two, Santos would probably shank me.”
“Ah.”
“Also,” He shrugs, “I’d miss you.”
You scoff. “No you wouldn’t.”
“I would.”
“You don’t like me. You don’t even trust me.”
Jack gets this pinched look on his face; his lips pull down, his brows furrow and he narrows his eyes, just a bit.
He opens his mouth to respond when the door bangs open.
Jack doesn’t even look up before he’s barking:
“Find another bathroom.”
“But I have to—“
“Find another bathroom or I’ll cut your dick off.”
The guy grumbles away, but Jack never takes his eyes off you. It’s unnerving— to be the sole focus of his attention.
You’re the first to break the now tense silence of the bathroom.
“That seemed a bit extreme.”
“I’m not a man who does things by halves.”
“No,” You sigh, “I suppose you’re not.”
Jack cocks his head to side, almost predatory. More methodical than anything. He looks at you— really looks at you. Shamelessly drags his eyes up your body, likely cataloguing every mystery bruise, frown line, eye bag, freckle, and all the million lines of exhaustion that seem etched on your very being, right down through the bones and marrow.
He sighs, crossing his arms before leaning back on the opposite wall of the bathroom.
“What am I going to do with you?”
His words instantly have you on edge, bristling at all the unsaid things behind his tone.
“I’m not something to be dealt with. I’m a person, not some fucking—“
“You’re like a stray cat,” He interrupts, “Always hissing. Do I need to win you over with treats? Should I start bringing canned tuna?”
“You’re an asshole.”
“And you’re drowning.”
Just like that, all the humor gets sucked from the room, replaced with the cold, sharp grip of reality. Suddenly exhausted by the weight of it all, you drop back down onto the toilet seat.
Jack gives you a few moments to respond, get angry, or defend yourself, but you don’t. He’s too good at reading you, it seems. What is there to say?
When you don’t speak, he does.
“Did you think no one would notice?”
“No one has.”
“Am I no one?”
You lean back, closing your eyes and awkwardly resting the back of your head against the wall and the back of the toilet.
“You’re nosy.”
If this were any other moment, any other scenario with any other person, you would never ever act so contrary. But you’re tired and Jack seems to bring out the worst in you.
He makes an amused huffing noise. “You’re good at what you do, I’ll give you that.”
“What, exactly, am I doing?”
“Pretending.”
You scoff. “Fuck off.”
“Come on, sweetheart. How much longer are you going to do this to yourself?”
You lift your head off the back of the toilet. “You act like I’m killing myself:”
“You are,” His inclined his head, “Just really slowly.”
You scrub a hand down your face.
“Look. I understand why you think you have to care, but you don’t. I’m just going through a rough patch. I’ll get through them like I always do. I’m not gonna crash and burn or endanger myself or do whatever it is you’re worried I’m going to do, okay? So you can leave me alone. I’m fine.”
Jack doesn’t get to respond, because the second the words are out of your mouth the nausea that’s been churning in your stomach since you made it to the bathroom rises all at once, and you barely have time to slide off the toilet and turn before you’re throwing up hard enough to almost choke.
The worst part is that you forgot to eat lunch so your stomach is woefully, painfully empty. You’re throwing up nothing but bile, throat burning and tears streaming down your face.
“Alright, come on,” A warm hand rubs soothing circles on your back, and if you weren’t busy hurling your guts out, you’d marvel at the feeling and juxtaposition between the Jack you know, who’s all cold indifference, and the Jack currently holding your hair out of your face while you vomit.
“Let it out,” He soothes, hand still rubbing, “Don’t fight it. It’ll be over soon.”
“I hate throwing up.” You choke, coughing and gasping.
“No one does. But you’ll feel better when it’s over.”
Over feels like it’s never going to come. But eventually your stomach stops clenching, you manage to stop heaving, and you’re slumped over the toilet, sucking down gulps of air, sweat beading on your forehead and the back of your neck.
“This,” You mumble in between gasps, “Means nothing.”
You can’t see Jack’s expression, but his response is so quiet you almost miss it.
“Okay.”
You can’t see his face, but you know this isn’t over.
—
Jack sends you home once you’re capable of standing on your own two feet without shaking like a newborn fawn.
(“You can’t send me home.”
“Yes I can. You’re not allowed to come back to work after throwing up in the bathroom.”
“We both know I’m not the only person to do it.”
“Yeah, but I haven’t caught the other people in the wrong bathroom and held their hair back while they vomited.”
“…”
“You only have two hours left anyway. Go home.”)
The problem lies in the fact that the buses aren’t running yet, which means that you can’t, actually, get home. Your house is an hour away on foot. An hour you’d normally be capable of walking, but your phone is almost dead, you’re exhausted, and you still feel a little weak because of the vomiting.
So after retrieving your things from your locker, you find yourself sitting on the little bench outside the PTMC, waiting for the minutes to tick by. If you didn’t bring at least one book with you everywhere you go in case of emergencies (like this one) you probably would have just walked into oncoming traffic.
It’s cold out and your jacket is cheap so you have to burrow into it, hood up to retain any semblance of warmth. It would be almost cozy —huddled in your jacket, watching the city go by, tucked into your favorite romance book— if the shift hadn’t gone the way it had and if a grueling bus ride and half mile walk didn’t await you once the buses finally start running. Waiting for you beyond that is just chores and an empty apartment.
Your fingers tighten on the edges of your book.
“Why the fuck are you still here?”
You jolt in place, cracking your neck over to the side and blinking blearily.
Jack. Again.
He makes an expectant face at you as if to say ‘Well?’ when you don’t answer immediately.
Your eyes dart back and forth nervously, even though you know you haven’t done anything wrong. “The buses aren’t running yet. It’s an hour walk to my house.”
Jack scrubs a hand down his face and curses under his breath.
“How long until your bus gets here?”
You check your phone. Shit. Only four percent left.
“And hour and a half. Maybe a little longer if it’s running behind more than usual.”
He seems put out by your answer, as if the bus’s heavily fluctuating schedule is of personal consequence and offense to him.
“Um,” You start, both uncomfortable at having been caught reading a romance book in public and at the general air of frustration Jack seems to be venting at the moment, “I’m fine. I have my book. I don’t mind waiting.”
Jack just sighs.
“Do you really think I’m just going to leave you out here, in the cold, after you threw up in the bathroom, to wait for the bus, for nearly two more hours?”
You wince. “Well, it doesn’t sound great when you put it like that.”
He works his jaw. “Have you eaten?”
“No…?”
He shakes his head.
“Come on. You’re coming with me.”
—
“I have to admit, this isn’t where I thought we were going.
Thirty minutes later finds you seated on the cracked vinyl seat of a booth in a cheap diner, staring at a menu and rationalizing spending your last $15 on what will probably be mediocre pancakes.
Jack is seated across from you, already two mugs of coffee —black, but oddly enough, decaf— and not even bothering to pretend to look at his menu. He either comes here often or doesn’t care to act like he isn’t staring at you.
Probably both.
“Where did you think we were going?”
Steam curls out of your own untouched mug of coffee —ordered for you by Jack, also unfortunately decaf— and you debate just getting up and running out of here.
Too bad you’re too exhausted to run anywhere. Jack’s probably banking on that.
“I don’t know,” You shrug, setting the menu down, “Maybe to Gloria’s office to write me up or something.”
“What would I even be writing you up for?”
“Disobeying direction? I’m sure you could come up with something.”
The waitress chooses that moment to appear, notepad in hand. “Are we ready to order?”
Jack rattles off his order, and then two sets of eyes turn to you expectantly. Before you can order the single fruit bowl you were planning on getting (the cheapest thing on the menu) Jack pipes up:
“Order whatever you actually want. Not whatever you think is cheapest or easiest.”
The waitress, a middle aged woman who has probably seen much worse than whatever the two of you have going on, just chuckles lightly under her breath.
You hesitantly list the item you’d been eyeing and thank the waitress.
It isn’t until after the menus have been taken and Jack’s coffee re-upped for the third time that you manage to courage to speak.
“You didn’t have to do this, you know.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean,” your fingers curl on the edge of the table, desperate for something to hold onto, “I can’t— It’ll be awhile until I can pay you back. I barely made rent this month.”
“Do you think I would take you to breakfast and then make you pay?”
“Yes…?”
“You’re not touching the bill, kid. I’m a gentleman.”
“Oh,” You didn’t really see that coming, “Okay.”
Jack gets a funny expression on his face, then resumes his drinking coffee and glancing out the window routine.
“So,” You say after a beat, “Was there something you wanted to talk about…?”
The silence just feels so awkward. It’s killing you.
He raises a brow. “Do you want to talk?”
“I’m asking you.”
“And I’m asking you what you want to do. What do you usually do when you come out to eat?”
“I don’t? Eating out is expensive, so. But when I do it’s usually by myself, so I end up just reading.”
Jack gestures to your bag beside you. “Don’t let me stop you.”
“What?”
“Read your book.”
“But that’s— isn’t that boring for you?”
He sets his mug down. “I didn’t bring you here because I wanted something from you. I brought you here because you had a shitty day and it seemed like you could use some cheering up. If reading makes you feel better, then do it.”
You have to look out the window to avoid his gaze. You don’t understand how your perfectly crafted facade just crumbles into fucking dust around him. How he manages to see right through you at every turn, how he manages to uncover every lie and every half truth.
“How did you even know I like diner food?”
“Because I pay attention to you.”
You finally look back over at him, arms folded across your chest; not really defensively, more like you’re trying to hold your entire body together by sheer force of will.
Jack’s lips twitch. Not really a smile, but almost. “You bring it up every time Santos wants to get food after a shift. She always says no, because she hates it, but it never stops you from suggesting it.”
It’s just one detail. One tiny, inconsequential detail that he’s apparently memorized and held onto because to him, it’s important. For some impossible to understand reason, he seems to care.
"Also," He shrugs, "I'd miss you."
You scoff. "No you wouldn't."
"I would."
“Do you hate me?”
Jack looks back at you, seemingly startled by the abrupt question.
“No.”
You take a deep, shuddering breath.
“Okay.”
—
“You did what?”
You wince from your spot lying face-down on Trinity’s couch.
“Not so loud, Trin. I have a headache.”
She ignores you, seated on the floor almost directly in front of you. “So you’ve gone from hating each other to going on a date?”
“It wasn’t a date,” You groan, “We spent almost the entire time in silence. I read my book and he stared out the window and did… whatever it is men like him do when they stare out the window.”
“Brooding,” Trinity says, “He paid. That means it’s a date.”
“No it doesn’t!”
It doesn't. It totally doesn't. Just because Jack said he doesn't hate you doesn't mean he likes you either. There are a lot of emotions in between hate and love. Like toleration, for example. Mild amusement. Exasperation. An appropriate amount of annoyance.
Trinity pokes you on the back of your head, having none of it.
"He likes you. Why else would he willingly hang out with one of us after work?"
"He goes out for drinks in the park sometimes." You mumble.
"Yeah, after an MCI."
What Trinity doesn't know is the events leading up to breakfast at the diner, because that would involve telling her about the whole throwing up from anxiety in the men's bathroom directly after a mini-panic attack because she confronted you about your unhealthy lifestyle (which all just sounds a lot worse than it is), so there isn't really a way to give her the kind of context necessary to get her off your back and dissuade her from her (insanely insane) belief that Jack likes you. Romantically.
"Trust me Trin, he was just being nice. Nothing romantic about it."
It was kind of romantic. Just eating surprisingly good food in the company of someone you don't need to pretend around, enjoying being in the company of another human being without worry or expectation.
Not that she needs to know that.
"Jack doesn't do nice. Have you seen him? What happened to the hating?"
You shrug. "You'll just have to ask him, because I don't know."
You do know. He told you. Explained it.
It doesn't make sense.
Trinity throws her hands in the air dramatically.
"Whatever. You two are impossible."
She finally withdraws, leaving you to wallow in your headache-induced misery by yourself on her couch.
Your phone vibrates on the floor next to you, and you groan, rolling further over to hide yourself in the crack of the couch, shunning the light like the reclusive vampire you are.
Your phone vibrates again.
“Dennis,” your voice is muffled by the couch cushion so it ends up sounding more like ‘denim’, “Can you please see who’s texting me and tell them to fuck off?”
Dennis, who was eating cereal at the tiny table near the kitchen when you first showed up fifteen minutes ago and has pointedly stayed silent throughout the entire exchange between you and Trinity, finally speaks.
“Your phone is two inches away from your hand.”
“I have a headache I don’t wanna look at the screen.”
You feel rather than actually see him roll his eyes, but then there’s the clink of a spoon against a bowl and the faint sound of socked —you’ve genuinely never seen him ever be barefoot under any circumstances, no matter what, he’s always wearing socks— feet as they make their way over to your temporary pit (couch) of despair.
There’s a quiet rustle as he picks up your phone off the floor.
“Oh.”
You whine, dramatic and upset. “What?”
“Um,” He grabs your shoulder, slowly rolling you over and away from the back of the couch, “It’s Jack?”
“What!?” You screech.
You throw yourself up, wincing as you immediately regret it when the pain in your head doubles, take a steadying breath to ignore it, and then grab the phone from Dennis’s outstretched hand.
You turn on the phone and— yep. Sure enough. A text from Jack, complete with the stupid picture of a dinosaur you made his profile picture. Because he’s old.
(It was funnier at the time.)
Somewhere behind you there’s a crash, and then the thump thump thump that can only mean a person running towards you at dangerous speeds for sock covered feet on cheap linoleum.
“Incoming,” Dennis mutters.
“Did I just hear that right?” Trinity gasps, nearly giving herself blunt force trauma via the back of the couch, “Did Jack just text you?”
“I don’t know!” You cry.
“How do you not know! Your phone is right in your fucking hands!”
“I’m tired! Stop yelling at me!”
“Guys!” Dennis shouts, holding up his hands, “I refuse to spend my day off listening to you two argue over the validity of romance with our attending. Give me the phone.”
He snatches the phone without waiting for a response, quickly typing in your password (if there was ever a moment you regret telling him in case of emergency…) and opening the text.
He makes an incredulous face at the phone before saying:
“He asked what you’re doing today.”
Trinity claps once. “Fucking called it!”
“Trinity!” Dennis snaps, before sighing and tapping at your keyboard, “I’m telling him that you have a headache and you’re at our place and to please not text again—“
“No!” You squeal, launching yourself off the couch, arms outstretched, but your legs tangle over each other and you fall and slam, gloriously and beautifully, face first into the coffee table.
“Oo!” Trinity winces, covering her mouth.
“Oh my god!” Dennis balks, “Are you okay?”
“Just give me the fucking phone.”
Peeling your face off, you grab the phone, squinting at the screen and ignoring the black spots in the corner of your vision.
hi, you type, I’m at Trinity and Dennis’s. Did you need something?
You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it.
“We,” You haul yourself to your feet and stagger over to the kitchen table, “Will never speak of this.”
“I definitely am. When I’m the maid of honor at your guys wedding, I’m gonna give a speech and be all ‘you guys, she gave herself a concussion the first time he texted—‘“
“There will be no wedding!”
“That’s just what you think.”
Your phone vibrates again, signaling a response.
Just wondering how you were doing. Surprised to hear you’re not holed up in your apartment reading something.
Ah, sexy old men and their correct grammar and punctuation when texting. Shouldn’t be endearing.
“What’s he saying?”
“Go away!”
You tap out a quick response.
Not today unfortunately lol I have a headache so no reading for me
Isn’t this the sixth day in a row you’ve had a headache? Should I give neuro a call?
You stomach flips.
nooo I’m fine i get them all the time
That’s not exactly reassuring.
I went to the doctor for them awhile ago apparently they’re normal
Who?
if I tell you, are you going to call him and make him send over my chart?
Yes.
Your heart is starting to pound a fluttering beat in your chest, and you hunch over your phone.
then i’m not telling you. it’s fine, really
they usually go away when i take over the counter stuff
So your plan is just to destroy your liver?
pretty much
We need to work on your planning skills.
we?
I’m not doing all the work.
Now stop looking at your phone. Drink some Gatorade and take a nap.
this is a resident apartment there’s no gatorade here just redbulls
Have either of them buy you one. I’ll pay whichever one it is later. Go to sleep. You need it.
You turn off your phone, shuffling back over to the couch and flopping down onto it.
“I’m taking a nap. Jack wants one of you to go buy me a Gatorade. He said he’d pay you back later.”
“He said what?”
—
You end up sleeping the entire day away, which should have screwed up your sleep schedule, but thankfully you live in a state of perpetual exhaustion and are fully capable of falling asleep anytime, anywhere, no matter how much you last sleep. It’s a gift.
Shockingly, the shift you work the next day is actually much easier to survive and your smiles aren’t nearly as forced. Go figure. Who knew that getting an appropriate amount of sleep would be so helpful?
“Somebody’s in a better mood today.” Jack mutters as you sidle up next to him under the board.
“I’m pretty sure I slept for like, fourteen straight hours. Thanks for the Gatorade, by the way. I woke up around hour three, chugged it, and then went back to sleep. No headache when I woke up!”
“Wonderful,” He drawls, “It’s almost like taking care of yourself is actually beneficial.”
“I take care of myself plenty.”
He casts you a sidelong glance, expression pinched.
“When was the last time you drank water without being prompted?”
“That’s different.”
“Okay,” He dips his head, “When was the last time you ever felt truly relaxed?”
You give him a beaming smile, so wide it hurts. “We’re not going to talk about this right now!”
“You started this conversation. I’m trying to do my job.”
You snort. “You’re waiting to see if someone else is going to take the sunburn guy.”
“Are you accusing an attending of cherry picking?”
“Of course not. Just observing, sir.”
Jack’s turned to look at you now, head tilted up, hands folded behind his back.
When you say sir, his eyes flick down to your lips, and then his jaw tightens.
The air suddenly becomes charged, the space between you two filled with something too electric to be air.
It smells like aftershave, hospital antiseptic, wanting, and something that’s distinctly masculine.
You look away first, swallowing hard past the sudden dryness of your mouth.
“You know,” You say, crossing your arms and looking up at the board, “Trinity thinks you like me. Romantically.”
“Mm.”
“I told her that was dumb,” You babble, “Obviously it’s not true, but. She won’t let it go, so if she says something, just ignore her. Or not. Whatever you want.”
“Why wouldn’t it be true?”
You whip your head around so fast you’re pretty sure something cracks. “What?”
“I mean,” Jack’s voice is gruff as he shrugs once, “Is that really so unrealistic?”
“Of course it is,” You sputter, “You don’t like me.”
“I’ve actually never said that. That was a conclusion you came to on your own. I distinctly recall telling you that I don’t hate you.”
“Just because you don’t hate me doesn’t mean that you like me, let alone— like that.”
Jack tilts his head, almost predatory, and all that sharp tension rushes straight back in.
“Like what?”
Something hot and dangerous is starting to unfurl in your chest, untethering from where it was previously lodged deep behind your ribs, out of sight, out of feeling.
“Code Blue en route, ETA two minutes.”
Jack jerks his head in the direction of the ambulance bay. “You gonna go get that?”
“Uh,” You’re pretty sure you’re stroking out, having a seizure, or something, because the only thing you’re capable of comprehending is the fact that Jack just not-so-subtly implied to actually liking you. Romantically.
“Get going then.”
You scurry away, hot all over and absolutely done with emotions in their entirety.
—
The rest of the week is hell on Earth. Perks of being in your twenties.
Things could be worse though!
Kind of.
It’s just that it’s been several days since Jack basically confirmed Trinity’s suspicions on romance and you can’t stop thinking about it. Obsessively.
It’s bad.
Bad enough that when Mel asked if there was any way you could cover her shift, you said yes.
“Okay,” Dennis stage-whispers as you’re downing your third coffee of the day, miserably charting at the nurses station, “I feel the need to ask how bad things can possibly be if you’re covering a day shift.”
“Mel asked.”
Dennis blinks incredulously. “You love Mel, but not enough to work a day shift voluntarily.”
“What exactly are you asking me here?”
“Did you and Jack hit a rough patch or something?”
“Keep your voice down!” You hiss, ducking your head as if you can hide from Princess and Perlah, “And for your information, no. We didn’t. I just wanted to do something nice for Mel.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t need you to believe me.”
Day-shift crawls on in a whirlwind of chaos and a level of dumb-fuckery that can only be achieved from the hours of 8 a.m to 8 p.m. As usual, the place is understaffed, overcrowded, and filled with a lingering sense of impending doom.
By the time night-shift starts filtering in, you’re ready to completely give up and start a new life a sheep rancher in New Zealand. It’s always been the plan if being a doctor didn’t work out.
Jack finds you in the locker room once the handoff is over, sitting on the little bench in the same position Dennis found you in earlier. Face in your hands, heels in your eyes, methodically counting breaths and wondering if that fluttering feeling in your chest is from caffeine consumption or sleep deprivation.
It’s fine. Your fine. Everything is fine.
“You don’t look too good.”
“I’m—“
“Don’t say you’re fine.”
“But I am,” You grit, “I just need a minute.”
“Okay.”
There’s the distinct sound of Jack’s slightly uneven footsteps, and then there’s a warm weight pressed against your side.
You take another shuddering breath that feels less like breathing and more like placing a single brick in a wobbly foundation.
“Shouldn’t you be out on the floor?”
“I don’t work tonight.”
You raise your head just enough to look at him. “You don’t? I thought I saw you on the schedule. Why are you here if you don’t work?”
Now that you’re looking at him and not starburst patterns on the back of your eyelids, you can see that he’s wearing casual clothes, not scrubs, and he doesn’t have his usual army-issue backpack with him.
“I got Shen to cover me. I came here for you.”
Your next breath in almost gets stuck in your chest, air struggling to move past that alive and wriggling thing that keeps moving every time Jack is around.
“What’d you do that for?”
The barest hints of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Dennis called me. He said you’d need picking up after your shift.”
Shame, guilt, and embarrassment flood your veins, turning your blood into sickly-sweet poison that makes your stomach roll and twist.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I have no idea why he did that. You really didn’t have to drive all the way over here, I swear I didn’t tell him to call you or something like that—“
“I know you didn’t,” Jack soothes, voice a rumbly, smooth timber that washes over your permanently-frazzled nerves like a balm, “Which is why I came.”
“I don’t understand.”
Jack stands, pulling your bag and change of clothes out of your locker.
“I’m going to ask you a question, and I need you to be honest with me, so you don’t have to answer it again. Can you do that for me?”
You nod once.
“Words.”
“Uh— yeah. Yes.”
“Good.”
Thank god the locker room is empty— everyone’s either on the floor or already left for their homes.
He closes your locker down, shoulders your bag, and hands you your clothes.
“Is it easier for you to accept help when you don’t have to ask and don’t get the chance to say no?”
It sounds so pathetic, hearing it laid out like that. The ugly guts of you; cut open, laid bare, and marked for research. Exhibit A, the inside of the girl no one ever needed to worry about.
You don’t want to agree. You want to laugh it off, maybe run away from it. Sit up straight, wipe your face, take the bag from Jack and explain that this is all a big misunderstanding and you’re perfectly fine and he can stop worrying about you now.
“Yes.”
Jack doesn’t verbally acknowledge your response besides a single dip of his head, like he knows that if he does anything more it’ll turn your response into a confession and that’s just too vulnerable for the hospital locker room.
“I’ll drive you home.”
“I don’t mean to be this way, you know.”
The passenger seat of Jack’s car isn’t somewhere you’d ever imagined yourself being. Not even late at night or on the bus when you’re pretending to be someone else who’s better at chasing what they want.
“It stopped being intentional a long time ago,” your hands are fisted into the material of your sweatpants, nails digging into the fabric, “It was just the natural progression of things. I like being liked.”
What you don’t say, what becomes an unspoken truth that lingers in the air despite not being verbalized, is the survival aspect of it. Why and how a person fuses this kind of thing to their personality; to their life. The circumstances that makes the natural progression of things end it being better for everyone if you just don’t have needs.
“I know.”
“I know you know, I just… needed to tell you. Myself.”
It’s odd seeing Jack illuminated by streetlights instead of fluorescent overheads. It’s odd being able to watch his hand flex on the steering wheel, watching his forearm tense as he shifts gears in his old stick-shift.
“You like being told what to do.”
Your face heats, but you’re determined not to lose face now. Especially after managing to survive being emotionally flayed open, willingly, by him.
“It feels safe. If I know what yo— someone wants, then I can’t mess it up, and I can relax.”
You can practically see the gears turning in Jack’s mind.
“Makes sense.”
The rest of the drive is quiet, the silence only filled by the sounds of Pittsburgh around you and the gentle crackle of something from the radio turned down too low to hear.
And for the first time in longer than you can remember, you begin feeling something that approaches calm.
Jack doesn’t have any expectations. There isn’t any one particular way he wants you to act or expects you to behave like. There’s nothing he wants you to do.
So you do what you want to do.
You relax.
—
In the weeks following Jack driving you home, there is a quantifiable shift in behavior between the two of you.
He starts pulling back.
It strikes you as odd first, and your natural inclination is to pull back too— to guard the soft, vulnerable bits you’ve showed him in case he throws them back at you.
But then you realize what he’s doing.
Instead of telling you how to proceed on a case when you come to him for advice, he asks you questions and steers you to the answer. He holds back when he’s evaluating a case with you, patiently following your lead and only interjecting when necessary.
He’s making space for you try new things and learn without fear of rejection. Building your confidence bit by bit.
It feels more intimate than sex.
After much deliberation, screaming into your pillow, and Reddit forum searching for HR violations, you decide to get him a card. Because he’s actually been really kind and helpful and he makes you feel like you can actually survive residency.
“What’s this?”
“A thank you card.”
You’re staring at your shoes, eyes flicking up and down between Jack’s face and the floor.
“What for?”
“It says it in the card.”
You scurry away, attaching yourself to the closest patient to avoid seeing Jack’s face when he does finally open it.
But when you look back, he’s just staring at it, a small smile on his face.
—
It’s the card that does him in.
Jack hasn’t made his feelings for you a secret, despite your unwillingness to see him as anything other than standoffish in the beginning.
He came on too strong at first— that was his fault. He didn’t yet understand how imbedded your need ran and how long it’d been since anyone bothered to look deeper.
He’d hoped, at least, that you were letting Whitaker and Santos help, and though you let them closer than most, it was clear you still seemed intent on holding up yourself and everyone around you on your own.
But it wasn’t just that. It was the way you oozed kindness— like it was a byproduct of your existence. He watched you get so wrapped up in being the perfect resident, perfect friend, perfect person, that no one ever stopped to let you know how good you were just by being.
He hadn’t planned on developing feelings or anything of the sort. At first, you’d just been one of his residents. Smart and capable but lacking confidence in yourself to fully commit. Then there was that MCI, and drinks in the park afterwards where he’d painfully watched you sip a beer you clearly hated, and everything just clicked right into place.
He never intends to flirt with you. It just happens. He can’t help himself. He’s a weak fucking man when it comes to you.
And then you bring him a card. A fucking card. To thank him for doing his job as an attending, a job he should’ve been doing better from the start. It has an illustration of bananas on it and says “Thanks a bunch!”.
He knows he’s completely gone, then. He was capable of being in denial before, could delude himself into thinking that what he felt was casual, but the sight of you before him, hands nervously wringing, your glitter gel pens sparkling as they caught the light was just the final nail in the coffin.
He allows himself a modicum of flirting on a day to day basis, mostly because if he couldn’t tease that real smile out of you at least once per day, he’d lose his mind.
Sometimes he takes you back to the diner, especially on longer days where none of your smiles reach your eyes and you start obsessively uncapping and capping your gel pens.
Even though you think it “looks dumb” you’ve also taken to sitting shoulder to shoulder with him in the booth, and he pretends he can’t see you sneaking fries off his plate because he knows how much effort it takes you to ask him if you can sit with him instead of on the opposite side.
Then he starts driving you home during a string of bad weather after you start sneezing from walking in the rain everyday, but even after the storm passes and the weather clears up he still finds you at the lockers, every day, car keys in hand. No matter how many times he does it, you always look so happily surprised that he’s still offering.
As if he’s not wrapped around your finger.
One day, after things have been mellow for awhile, Whitaker calls him and says that neither he nor Trinity have seen you in three days and you called out of work.
So naturally, as a calm and collected man, he showed up to your house.
You’d answered the door after the third time he knocked (which was great, because he was gearing up to force the door open) and you just looked miserable. Your hair was a mess, you head blanket wrinkles imprinted onto your face, and your eyes were puffy.
“Jack?” You’d mumbled, squinting your eyes against the not very bright light in the hallway, “Why are you at my apartment?”
“No one’s heard from you in three days.”
You wince. “I swear I meant to text Trinity. I just have a bad headache.”
His fingers twitch towards a penlight he doesn’t have. “How bad?”
“I don’t know. Like a seven on the pain scale?”
“Jesus— I’m coming in.”
“Nooo,” You cry, but shuffle back from the door and put up very little fight as he ushers you to the couch.
Your apartment is….. exactly as messy as he’d imagined a resident who lives alone would be. For someone who doesn’t drink enough water, there are an incredible amount of beverage bottles and cans littered about.
“Do you have headache relief?”
You gesture to the kitchen. “Cabinet furthest to the left.”
While rifling through your very disorganized medicine cabinet, he spies an orange prescription bottle with your name on it, dated for the previous year.
“Why do you have a prescription for a high level antihistamine?”
“Stop snooping. It’s for my migraines.”
“You’ve had a prescription this entire time and you’ve been taking all that over the counter shit?”
“Stop being mad,” You mumble into the couch cushion, “My migraine meds put me to sleep, so I can’t take them when I’m working. Plus I don’t have any refills left so I save them for when it’s really bad.”
“You called out of work and haven’t left your apartment in three days and you don’t consider this bad?”
“Could be worse. Could be throwing up.”
He sighs. Sets the bottle on the counter, breathes in once, then lets it out slowly. Imagines all the ways he could murder whoever made you think suffering alone for three days is preferable to asking for help.
“I’m going to help you back to bed,” He starts, voice low as he rounds the couch, “And then you’re going to drink some electrolytes, have a snack, and take your meds. Okay?”
The migraine has clearly taken it out of you, because you put up zero fight as he manhandles you to your feet and helps you drag yourself back to your bed.
“M’ sorry my apartment is a mess. I was supposed to clean it.”
“I’m not judging, sweetheart,” He says, tucking the blankets up around you, lips twitching as you make grabby hands for a giant triceratops plushie that looks to be the size of your upper body. “I’m gonna make you a snack, so try to stay awake until I come back. Can you do that?”
“Mhm. I’ll try.”
“Good girl.”
He manages to find a cucumber in your fridge, cuts it into slices and then adds a few pieces of lunch meat for protein. Last but not least, he snags a bottle of blue Gatorade from your pantry.
(He only knows they were there because he bought them for you a few weeks ago.)
He doesn’t make you sit up to eat, but instead scoots you a little ways away from the edge of your bed so there’s space for the plate.
You slowly nibble your way through, taking little sips of Gatorade when he nudges the bottle into your hands.
You finish the cucumbers, eat most of the lunch meat, and drink half the Gatorade before burrowing back into the blankets and declaring yourself done.
“Can I have my sleep mask please? I think it’s on the floor under my nightstand?”
“Of course you can.”
After your face mask is on and the curtains closed, he gives you the correct dose of your meds and gently shuts the door to your bedroom.
He fires off a quick text to Whitaker (he doesn’t have Santos’s number) that says you’re fine, stuck in bed with a migraine, and that he’s handling it.
And then he gets to work.
Two hours later your apartment is clean, your laundry is started, and Jack’s relaxing on your couch, aimlessly watching the news.
He hears the door creak open but knows you hate feeling on the spot, so he keeps his gaze trained on the tv even as he hears the sound of you shuffling over to the couch.
And then you pause.
“Jack.”
“Yes?”
“Did you clean my apartment?”
He finally looks over to you, and when his gaze reaches your face his stomach drops.
You’re crying.
He hauls himself off the couch (he’s thankful that he put his leg back on a few minutes prior) and stops in front of you, arms twitching at his sides with the need to fix, help, to stop whatever it is that’s making you cry.
“What’s wrong? Did I overstep?”
“No,” You warble, voice wet, “I just haven’t had the time or energy to clean in here for so long, and it’s been stressing me out so bad I avoid staying here during my off days. It’s just really, really nice of you.”
You look at him, eyebrows pinched and eyes wide with worry, “I— I’m not sure how to repay you for all of this. I know you said going to the diner was fine, but this is— a lot.”
“Sweetheart,” He starts, bracing one hand on the side of your face, thumb deftly sweeping across your cheek and wiping away the quickly drying tears, “I’m not doing any of this because I expect you to repay me. I’m doing it because I care about you and I want to see you happy.”
You sniff hard. “This is a lot of work, though.”
“I like doing it. I like taking care of you.”
Another sniff. “It doesn’t seem very fun.”
“I told you. You’re like a cat. Had to coax you over and now look at you,” he thumb rubs circles over your cheekbone, “Practically purring.”
You wrinkle your nose. “I don’t know if I like this metaphor.”
“Get used to it.”
You sigh, dramatic and long.
“I suppose I’ll allow it.”
“Oh, you’ll allow it, huh.”
You fold your hands behind your back, rocking back and forth on your heels. “Yes. I’ll allow it.”
“Well, aren’t I lucky.”
Later, when you’re lying on the couch, two movies into what Jack thinks is an unofficial early 2000s rom-com marathon (your favorite genre) you turn to look up at him from your spot tucked into his side.
“This is romantic, right?”
He presses a lazy kiss to your forehead, because he knows how much you like physical affirmations as well as verbal ones.
“Yes.”
“You’re serious about this?”
“You need confirmation?”
“I’d rather have it in writing, but this will do for now.”
He huffs a breathy laugh, tucks you closer to his chest.
“I’ll put it in writing for you later.”
You hum, pleased, and snuggle back into him, letting out a content sigh.
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