fics i read

He’s already there when you arrive, hands in his jacket pockets, and the second he sees you his whole face does something helpless and unguarded that he clearly doesn’t mean to let you see.

“Hey.” His voice comes out rougher than usual.

“Hey yourself.” You look up at the marquee.

FOOL’S RUSH IN — ONE NIGHT ONLY.

“Okay. Late 90’s rom-com. Bold choice, Abbot.”

“You know it?”

“I know of it. I was, what, one when it came out.” You watch his jaw tighten, anxious. “Relax. I’m messing with you.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You’ve checked your watch 4 times since I walked up.”

“That’s a medical habit. Occupational hazard.” But he’s fighting a smile, and he holds the door for you, and inside the theater is nearly empty… a scattering of other people, mismatched velvet seats, the kind of hush that only exists in old buildings that have outlived their purpose and don’t care. Inside it smells like butter, candy, and old dusty carpet with something underneath that might just be decades of other people’s first dates.

You end up in the back row because Jack Abbot, apparently, is a back-row person, and you don’t dislike that about him. Or anything whatsoever.

“So why this one,” you ask, once you’re settled, his arm already finding its way along the back of your seat like he can’t help it. “Out of every movie in the world.”

He’s quiet for a second. Current trailers are still running, throwing blue light across his face.

“My sister loved it. When I was in my residency, when I never had time for anything, she’d make me watch it whenever I came home. Said I needed at least one thing in my life that wasn’t a medical journal or a chart.” He shrugs. “Haven’t watched it in years but I saw it announced on my way to work and thought maybe—” He stops.

“Thought maybe what?”

“Nothing. It’s stupid.”

“Jack.”

“I thought maybe I could watch again with another person I care about.” He says it fast, like ripping off a bandage, eyes on the screen instead of you. “That’s it. That’s the whole reason.”

You don’t say anything right away, because your chest has gone soft and full in a way you’re not used to, and you’re worried if you open your mouth it’ll come out as something bigger than you’re ready for. So instead you reach over and lace your fingers through his on the armrest, and you feel him exhale.

“I like it already,” you tell him. “And it hasn’t even begun.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The movie is exactly as ridiculous and charming as you’d expect. Las Vegas neon and impulsive marriage and two people who have no business being together making it work anyway.

The plot feels extremely relatable.

Almost at the end you find yourself humming along under your breath to It’s Now Or Never by Elvis Presley.

“You know this song?”

“Of course,” you whisper. “I have an unreasonable amount of music knowledge from decades I wasn’t alive for. It’s a whole thing.”

He shakes his head, staring at you like you’ve short-circuited something within him. “That’s my exact music taste. That’s disturbing.”

“Weird disturbing, or regular disturbing?”

“Don’t,” he says, but he’s grinning now, wide and unguarded, the kind of grin that makes the almost 20 years between you feel less like a gap and more like a coincidence of timing. “You’re supposed to be nice to me. I’m nervous.”

“You said you weren’t nervous.”

“I lied. Occupational hazard of that too, apparently.”

You laugh, and somebody in the row ahead shushes you both, and you spend the rest of the movie with your head on his shoulder and his thumb tracing slow, absent circles against your hand, and it is, without question, the best old romcom you’ve ever seen.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The credits roll. The lights come up slowly, like they’re giving everyone a second to remember where they are.

Neither of you moves. A couple minutes pass and then he turns to look at you.

“That line,” Jack says, staring straight ahead at the blank screen like it’s easier than looking at you. “Near the end. Where he tells her he loves her so much it hurts and he realizes he doesn’t want the version of his life where he doesn’t take the chance on her—”

“I remember.” You do… it had landed somewhere under your ribs a few minutes ago and hadn’t left.

“I know it’s too soon but I’ve been thinking about that line for three weeks.” He finally turns to look at you, and for once there’s nothing careful in his expression, none of the hallway-glance restraint, just him. “I don’t want to live the version where I don’t ask. So. I’m asking. Be my girlfriend, sweetheart.”

It’s not smooth. It’s not the speech he probably practiced in his head on the drive over. It’s better than that, because you can tell it’s real and the same man who checked his watch four times and texted you three panicked messages about a movie theater, laid bare in the worst lighting a single-screen cinema in the middle of Pittsburgh has to offer.

“Yeah,” you say, and your voice comes out steadier than you feel, which feels like its own small miracle. “Of course. Yes.”

He kisses you like he’s been waiting ages to do it properly, and somewhere behind you the ancient sound system is still playing the last few bars of the classical rendition of an old song neither of you can name.

And you think, for the first time, that you’d sit through every movie in the world if it meant more nights exactly like this one because you love him too. So much it hurts.

—

“We’re going to take a sample of your blood!” 

Jacks voice raises deeper and louder so the old lady can hear. She smiles and nods. 

“Oh! Yes. Feel free. Might take a little while though, I’m a hard one to stick.” 

Jack shakes his head in that effortless kinda way and rolls a chair closer, hand between his legs as he sits down. Mindful of his prosthetic. 

“Not with me ma’am. I’ll make sure to find the best vain and get it first try.” 

She laughs all surprised like and looks up to you. You know the feeling. Getting flustered under abbots compliments. 

“Missing a syringe, there should be one in that cupboard can you grab it for me?” 

Jack gestures to a cupboard and you nod, probably not looking nearly as flawless as him while looking for supplies. 

But Jack begs to differ. Really he didn’t mean to do a double take on your ass. But it’s just there when you bend over and venerable. Plump and memories of gripping at it floods his mind. 

Just as he was turning to look away, he caught something— a flash of hot pink when your shirt drew up while bending over. 

A fucking thong. 

Thin strings on either sides of your hips and Jack can imagine the fabric wedged between those perfectly rounded cheeks— what were you thinking wearing that into work?

When you stand Jack mourns the loss of the spectacular view. Grabbing the syringe you offer with less than steady hands. 

“Are you trying to kill me?” 

Your brows furrow, he’s whispering now and looking intently into your eyes. Lust blown and surprised. 

“Excuse me?” 

“Because hot pink thongs are what you wear when you’re trying to kill a guy.” 

You gawk. “Jack.” 

The patient is right in-front of you, eyes darting between the pair. 

“I mean— you were practically asking for me to pull at them, I could have given you a wedg—“ 

“It is laundry day. I had nothing else.” Your face starts to feel like it’s heating with embarrassment. Hissing through your teeth like a viper. 

“Mmm… very likely. How come I’ve never seen this pair before?” 

And before you could snap back something about him being a very presumptuous asshole your patient speaks. 

“Huh? What are you saying to the poor lass getting her all flustered!? I can’t hear anything!” 

Jack lets out a little breathy laugh. Shaking his head and finally getting the syringe ready. 

“Ohhh don’t worry about her, she’s in good hands.”

Hands that want to sneak down the front of your pants apparently. 

What is jack abbots problem and why do you like it?

Today was Jack’s birthday. You’d been up half the night preparing. You wanted to make everything perfect so you could celebrate your man in the most fitting way possible when he got home from his long shift. He deserved it. He deserved a day that was all about him, where you got to dote on him and spoil him and remind him how much you loved him.

Jack didn’t like big celebrations – which meant no surprise parties or decking the house in decorations. He did his utmost not to make his colleagues aware of the date of his birth (claiming he had a reputation for being a ‘man of mystery’ to uphold), lest they bring in a shit store-bought cake and subject him to chirpy well wishes all night (god help anyone who dared to sing at him). No, a slow, quiet day at home involving his favourite movie, a cold beer and a well-cooked steak was all he needed to consider a birthday a success. So that’s what you were going to give him. With a few… added extras. Free of charge.

He’d been so good to you lately. He was the only reason you’d kept your head above water for the last few months of grad school; a life raft when you thought you might drown in the pressure. He’d made you dinners and packed you leftovers, run hot baths and played with your hair while you trauma-dumped about your papers and exams. He’d tucked you up in bed with a kiss every night and didn’t hold it against you that you hadn’t had sex for weeks now because there was barely any time and you were always exhausted - even on days when you’d promised but fallen asleep before he could so much as think about getting his dick wet. But you were out of the deep end now. School was done, and you had some time off before you started your new job. Time that would be Jack’s and only Jack’s.

His gifts were wrapped and sitting atop the kitchen counter: the next book in the series he was reading, a sleek monogrammed leather case for his ‘readers’, a new good-quality chef’s apron and a trio of handcrafted kitchen knives from the swanky homeware store in town. Plus, the refrigerator was stocked with everything he’d need to make his favourite meal, steak with garlic butter sauce, green salad and homemade fries.

Which, on the face of it, didn’t sound much like a gift at all. Surely Jack shouldn’t need to cook his own dinner on his birthday? But Jack enjoyed cooking. It served as a way for him to decompress after a long shift, due to the time and patience it took to make every element just right. You would be his sous chef. His glamorous assistant.

Besides, you were more of a baker, and you were hiding away a batch of homemade cupcakes just as you heard Jack’s key turn in the lock.

“Tell me I’m not dreaming,” he sighed, stepping into the kitchen and inhaling deeply. “Tell me I can smell something delicious and I’m not just delirious after 12 hours of crawling the night.”

You slung your arms around Jack’s neck, and his hands immediately found purchase on your waist. Home.

“You're not dreaming, baby. I've been baking. Heard it was somebody's birthday today.”

“Hmm. Must be a lucky bastard if he gets to come home to the smell of freshly baked cake and the pretty sight of you in this sexy number,” he murmured, toying with the apron ribbon tied behind your back and grabbing a good amount of your ass he did so.

You smiled and reeled him in for a slow, time-stopping kiss. His mouth moved against yours with firm sureness, tried and true.

“Happy birthday, baby,” you whispered against his lips. “Do you want to know what I've got planned to celebrate?”

“Sure do.”

You couldn't resist another peck of his lips.

“Alright. First, you're going to have a nice hot shower - and make sure you use the fancy soaps we got from the spa that time, OK? I don't know why you insist on rationing them, but today is a special occasion.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Second,” you held your hand up, counting fingers, “you're going to open your presents and marvel at what an excellent gift-giver I am.”

Jack chuckled. You could feel the warm mirth rumbling through him, from his chest to yours.

“Third, you're going to rustle us up a delicious steak dinner/breakfast.”

He raised an eyebrow in amusement. “Is that so?”

“It is.”

“And what are you going to be doing whilst I’m slaving over a hot stove?”

“I will be delighting you with my sparkling wit and dazzling personality.”

Jack laughed and gave your ass another squeeze. “Sounds fair.”

“Fourth, you're going to eat as many of my signature lemon and poppy seed cupcakes as you damn well please.”

Jack moaned with bliss, tipping his head back and closing his eyes as if he could conjure up the taste of them already.

“Did you make them with the lemon curd?” he asked eagerly.

You scoffed. “Of course I did. It's your favourite. I topped them all with cream cheese frosting too, plus a little extra special something.”

Jack captured your lips again, his kiss seasoned with awe, happiness and gratitude.

“How did I get so lucky?”

Your cheeks warmed. You were never quite sure how to react when Jack put his adoration of you on display so openly.

You decided the easiest thing to do was to carry on with your list. “I’ve got a feeling you’ll like the fifth part best,” you said, trailing your hands from his neck to his shoulders, then flat-palmed to his chest. “We’ve both got the next day and night off, which means we can spend hours and hours in bed together. Sleeping…not sleeping…”

Jack hummed knowingly, his imagination filling in the rest as your words trailed off. “You're making me want to skip right to number 5,” he said playfully, waggling his gorgeous grey-tufted eyebrows.

You gasped with mock surprise. “No way, mister.”

You slipped out of his grasp and wiggled away before he could use his sexy silver fox wiles to seduce you into thinking otherwise. Jack needed to rest first, to leave the night behind, to shower, cook, eat and be merry. Then, over the course of the next couple of hours, you were going to seduce him. You’d keep the heat low and slow, so the air sizzled between you. Then, you were going to lay him down in bed, pepper his entire body with kisses, maybe even massage his leg for a while, and let him marinate in the feeling of being wanted, cherished and cared for before you let him sink into the molten heat of you…

“Minx,” Jack bit back playfully.

“I try. Now go shower; I'm hungry.”

Jack accepted your command with a smirk and strode towards the bathroom, but not before whipping off his shirt and using it to punctuate his exit with a cheeky whip of your ass as he passed by.

-

Anyone would have thought it was your birthday, the way the morning panned out. You got to sit back and sip wine while Jack took command of the kitchen, looking every inch the hot chef of your dreams (wearing a fresh white T, grey sweatpants and his new ochre canvas apron).

He was very impressed with his new set of knives and picked out the perfect one to chop the potatoes and salad with. His glasses sat safely in his new case, and he’d even held the new book up to his nose, inhaling the scent of the fresh yet unturned pages.

“You know me too well,” he’d said softly, by way of a thank you.

In addition to your front row seat to your boyfriend's culinary prowess, you were privileged enough to be his kitchen hand, fetching and delivering when required. It saved him from having to roll back and forth too much. Jack often preferred his wheelchair to his crutches after a long shift, and though he could manoeuvre around his adapted kitchen (with its lowered countertops) with relative ease, he appreciated help when he was tired. And you loved feeling like the two of you were a team.

Plus, you’d negotiated that Jack would give you a kiss for every item you retrieved.

“Butter and garlic as requested, chef,” you reported, giving him a sloppy salute.

Jack repaid you with one peck to your cheek and another to your lips.

“There are three cloves of garlic there, Jack. You owe me two more kisses.”

He obliged.

“I'm looking forward to handing you the salt and pepper. I wonder if I'll get a kiss for every granule and peppercorn.”

Jack snorted. “You’ll have to count them first.”

You shimmied back to your seat, swaying to the music you’d put on low in the background to accompany the sounds of Jack at work. The playlist you'd lovingly called ‘Oldies for Jack.’

He’d baulked when he first saw the title. “These songs from the early 90s,” he reasoned, scrolling through your choices, “you can hardly call them oldies.”

“Sure I can.” You read out some of the song titles and years of release. “These songs are older than me. I wasn't even a twinkle in my father’s eye when most of these hit the charts.”

“And don’t I know it.”

-

While you ate, the two of you settled into easy, casual conversation. Food had always been one of the greatest connectors for you both. It was how you met, after all.

You'd been in your first year of grad school. You’d worked for a few years after leaving college, but hit a wall with your professional development, so you returned to studying. Baking had always been a hobby of yours, so you started selling your wares at a local market to make some extra cash. And along came Jack. Once he’d had a taste of your baking, he couldn't come back for more fast enough. A few weeks later, once he’d had a taste of you, well, it was the same story.

“Are you ready for dessert?”

“Sure am.”

“Close your eyes then.”

Jack furrowed his brow. “I thought you made the lemon and poppyseed cupcakes with lemon curd and cream cheese frosting?”

You could have sworn you saw his lip quiver like a child's, as if the world might collapse if these cupcakes turned out to be a figment of his imagination.

“I did…”

“Then I know what those look like, sweetie.”

“Hmm. But I also said there was a little something extra special,” you reminded him. “So, close your eyes.”

Jack obeyed. You fetched your sweet culinary creations - already arranged on a fancy plate but covered with a cake tent. You gently placed the plate on the table and removed the cover, then adjusted a couple of the cakes so Jack got the perfect view.

“Tada!”

His eyes blinked open, and he gorged on the delicious sight before him: 12 perfectly baked yellow sponges, fluffy and flecked with black poppy seeds, made plump from oozing lemon curd. Each was crowned with a perfectly piped swirl of white frosting and finished with a curl of candied lemon rind, a sprinkle of lemon zest and the ‘something extra special’: miniature photos of Jack printed on edible sugar paper.

“I'm calling them my ‘Lemon Snack-a-Jacks” you said proudly.

Jack laughed, the sound rosy and full.

“I love them.” He leaned closer, examining the little pictures. They’d all been taken by you during your relationship, and each one sparked warm nostalgic chatter about the memories they contained.

Throughout the course of reminiscing, you ended up on Jack’s lap, gently scratching at his neck while his hand rubbed comfortingly at your thigh.

“Which one is your favourite?” you asked.

Jack picked up the cupcake with a picture of him in a smart dark suit. He was in the process of putting on a tie, getting ready for Whittaker's wedding.

“This one.”

“You look so handsome,” you cooed, caressing the greying stubble on his cheek. “And happy.”

“Happy because of who I was looking at when the picture was taken.”

Your cheeks warmed. He'd been looking at you. And he was looking at you the same way now. The soft adoration in his gaze almost made you cry. But you cleared your throat and selected a cupcake of your own.

“This is my favourite.”

It was a photo of Jack shirtless. You’d taken it unawares whilst he was dressing for work one evening, early on in your courtship. He looked a little bemused, as if he couldn't quite understand why you'd want a photo of him at that precise moment, not realising that you wanted a photo of him in every moment, so, long into the future, you could always look back at the man who had made you so gloriously, incandescently happy.

“It’s my favourite because you’ve got your tits out and they're your best quality,” you teased.

Jack gave your hip a firm squeeze of warning.

You nodded at the cupcake in Jack’s hand. “Go on, baby,” you urged. “Taste it. I know you're dying to.”

“Don’t need to tell me twice.”

You both took bites at the same time.

“Fuck me, that’s so good,” Jack moaned. Your chest swelled with pride. Everyone always says food is the way to a man’s heart, but knowing that your food was the way to your man’s heart was the most gratifying feeling on earth.

Jack reached out to swipe a smear of crumb-covered icing from the corner of your mouth and couldn't resist cupping your jaw and drawing you in for a kiss. He hummed with satisfaction, like you were another delicious morsel of lemony cupcake goodness.

It only took him two more bites to finish his cupcake. The first few times you’d baked for him, Jack did his best to savour things, out of respect for the effort he knew you’d undertaken, but your lemon and poppyseed cupcakes were just too good. They were a revelation, he’d said. He apologised for wolfing his first one down so fast, but there was no way you’d accept his apology. You were flattered. You loved that he loved your food. “I baked them for you, Jack. You can have as many as you want.” Now, he knew that you’d always let him have another one, and another one, until he was satisfied.

You finished your cupcake too but saved the miniature photo for last. You caught Jack’s eye, then stuck out your tongue, placing the tiny topless image of him to it, letting him interpret the gesture however he pleased. Much to your delight, his response was to wrap a hand around your jaw and flatten his tongue against yours, dissolving the sugar paper; then he sucked your tongue into his mouth and turned the occasion into a deep, dizzying, drawn-out kiss.

Despite your original intentions for the morning, lowering the current temperature never crossed your mind.

Soon, one of Jack’s hands found its way into your shorts and under your panties. A whimper passed your lips as his fingers slipped amongst your silken folds.

“Jack,” you whined. “You're spoiling my plans. I was supposed to be seducing you.”

“You are seducing me, sweetheart. You seduce me every moment of every fuckin’ day.” His voice had grown deeper, gravellier, like it always did in these kinds of moments between you. He shifted his hips. “Can you feel that? Can you feel how seduced I am right now?”

You could. You could feel the solid length of his thick cock under you, demanding and urgent, just like Jack could be sometimes.

He was kissing you again, infusing your mind with thoughts of nothing but him. You melted into his touch, and your cunt pulsed needily around the fingers he pushed into you, but he pumped them only a few torturous times before pulling away and gathering the slick wetness that oozed from your core.

“Fuck, sweetheart. All of this, just for me?”

All you could do was nod dumbly as he brought his glistening fingers to his mouth and smeared your desire all over his lips. He slipped his fingers into his mouth, using the last drops to coat his tongue.

“You wanna taste?”

His voice was rough, his breath heavy, and his eyes were dark, burnt from desire.

Your whole body quivered with longing. “God, yes.”

His lips sealed over yours. The flavours of lemon and lust exploded on your tongue and burst like fireworks behind your eyes. This time, Jack kissed you slow. You were something to be savoured.

“You’re the real snack here, sweetheart,” Jack whispered against your lips. “Juicer than a steak and sweeter than all the cupcakes in the world. Can't wait to dine on you for the rest of my life.”

------

You were at the gurney in an instance, Robby joining the herd in the pushing of the bed. It took you less than a second to see through the bag in the neck and the blood and the uniform to recognise the one on the gurney. “Hiro? What happened?”

“Warehouse robbery gone wrong,” said Jack with almost absent of mind. He said the words and promptly seemed to realise who he was talking to and looked up- at you- again. “You're working today?”

“Oh no, I just hang around in hopes of seeing you in unfiorm.”

Next to you, Robby chuckled and beyond Jack you gave quick greeting to your laughing buddies, clad in SWAT uniform.

You were what could be called, a floater.

By all educational means you were a doctor and a damn good one too. You had every certificate you needed and all the flying colours you could get. You just didn't have a permanent job. You were a sub. You worked mainly at PTMC and on the field but had been known to go to the dark side, a.k.a, Presby.

“Okay, on my count,” you begin. “One, two, three-”

You helped lift him over to the bed.

“Did you intubate him?” you asked,

“Yeah, under active fire,” said Jack.

You looked at Jack. Sweat on his forehead, flecks of grey hair sticking to him and the shirt under his army vest hung lose. He was dishevelled in away romance characters presented on books covers. To lure you in. “You were shot?”

“Shot at.”

“You need to be looked at?”

“No. I'm fine.” His lips were pursed, focus on Hiro.

“Did you see the chords when you intubated?” asked Robby, floating around the two of you as Jack refused to leave Hiro's side and you stayed by Abbot. He'd seen it a dozen times before. A disaster where there was one, there was the other.

There was the occasions he'd hand over to Jack, go home, sleep and come back to find Jack had called in you. You who was always ready to go at the first buzz of your pager. Wherever it was, whatever you had to do. And Robby would look through the patients that night, check the board and understand they hadn't really needed your help all that much.

Jack had.

Now, Robby saw the way you looked at Jack and had seen the gap that existed between the two of you.

“Yeah, I did but it was hard to miss when I cleared them.”

Jack reached and you watched as he stretched, wincing at the pull in his shoulder.

“You should get that looked at,” you told him.

“I'm fine.”

“No, you're not.”

There was a small roll of the eyes as Jack's gaze rose to meet yours through his goggles. There was almost a tiny hint of a smirk- your favourite kind but it disappeared as soon as it appeared.

“Yeah, c'mon Abbot!” said Charlie, calling from the back of his room where he stood with Diaz, two of the SWAT officers you were most frequent with. “Let doc work you up.”

You chuckled low to yourself, trying to catch Jack's eyes to share the joke but he looked away, his jaw clenching.

So, he wasn't in the joking mood.

“Alright, fellas, out!” leaving the wounded's side you ushered them out in spite of their protests and their giddy, hopeful optimism that Officer Hiro would pull through. “We'll let you know any changes, out!”

You pulled on a gown and cleared a way over.

“Demanding,” said Robby.

“You should hear me in the bedroom,” you teased with a wink.

Over on the other side you caught a small click from Jack's tongue. A disapproval voiced loud enough for others to hear.

You grasped the ultrasound wand from the nurse, circling it around the wound at Hiro's neck while Jack pulled away the gauze he'd packed, carefully minding you. “Good lung sliding, no pneumo-”

The last gauze peeled away in a bloody mess and a rope of blood shot out directly at you for vengeance.

“Geez- woah!”

“Pumper!” you announced, clamping your hand over the wound.

The streak of red cut through the skin on your neck, your gown and the doctors coat you liked to wear just like they did in tv shows. You had a draw full of them at home for instances like that.

“Hey, hey,” Jack was at your side quick as you loomed over the body. “Move back, get yourself cleaned up.”

“I can handle a little blood, Abbot.”

“I know that but-”

“- this is a transected trachea now-”

There was little else time to worry about blood on your gown and coat when the intubation was pulled out, the hole in his throat open.

There was a lot people said about you, with words and looks alike but none of which passed you or bothered you. You knew some thought you abrash and loud, you were, you knew it true. On the field the teams you worked with always thought you as one of them, 'one of the guys' but damn it- you were a good doctor.

You ordered everything correctly, you took them and worked them without so much as a blink and Robby stood behind you approving of everything you did.

It was one of the reasons he always called you in.

“Well done, good breaths sounds, stats are up: in the nineties,” approved Robby.

Jack hummed, pulling off his gloves as you all backed away. “Not bad.”

Your carried your smirk with you and over to him. “Is that the great Jack Abbot stamp of approval?”

“You know I think you're good at you're job,” he said, plainly.

You did know that. You knew that Jack admired your skills. He was one of the only ones who'd seen your skills on the field when sometimes all you had left in your kit was the dregs from other procedures or in the hospital when everything was pristine. He'd worked closest to you, probably out of everyone in either one of your jobs.

But there was always something about Jack that kept him far away. He was always a man that was so calm, which in the the face of conflict wasn't a bad call. Yet, it was the quiet moments in between- the way his footfall would slow to match yours, or the glances he'd steal at you half way across the ward, or the extra snacks he'd pack that had you searching rooms for him, checking shifts to see if you'd be around him.

Then when you were, Jack pursed his lips, clenched his jaw, acted like he wanted to be anywhere else sometimes than at your side.

He was a complicated man. Annoyingly that's what added to your attraction- and everyone knew it.

Once the two of you told Officer Charlie and Diaz that Hiro was stable enough to be taken to surgery you followed after Jack.

“You sure you don't want me to look at that shoulder for you?”

“Hmm? Oh, no, it's fine,” he excused.

“Don't want the paperwork?”

“Something like that,” said Jack, still shifting around in pain as he tried to roll his shoulder out.

“Okay, okay, but get it looked at!” you called off, ready to shed your coat or at least try and rub off some of Hiro's blood.

There was a mutter from Jack before he went another way.

You looked back to him once, watching as he walked off with a small limp that probably wasn't detectable to anyone that didn't analyse him like you did. It was a brutal sort of thing, SWAT, and with Abbot's sleep schedule you knew it was only worse. Eight- maybe ten hour shifts for so little sleep to get thrown back into the fire- literally. You wondered how he did it.

And, why.

Jack flexed out his shoulder at the press of the q-tip to his back.

He meant it, the wound really wasn't that bad. It had grazed through his clothes and vest but still hit just enough to leave an angry welt and bruising. He was content to hide away and sort it himself if it weren't for the fact he couldn't reach.

Then Samira Mohan walked by and offered her help. He was already tired, annoyed that those punks had thought it a good idea to rob a warehouse in the middle of the day, already worried about Hiro and his recovery. Then- there was you, with your snarky comments while saving his life, not batting a lash at the blood that got splattered on you in the mean time and still having time to flirt with Robby.

And prancing around in this scrub pants that were surely just a bit too tight.

Jack was wound up, which was why he admitted surrender and allowed Mohan to clean out his wound.

“Why do you do this?” she'd asked.

Jack had folded his arms over his chest, suddenly very aware he was shirtless in front of her. “My therapist says I need a hobby. I suck at golf.”

She hummed. “Funny.”

“Thank you.”

He made conversation to be polite, asking about the fellowships he knew others were already applying for. Crus had been telling him about them and he knew Mohan was searching to.

They were chatting was all when Robby walked by, looking in to check.

He frowned when he saw Mohan and Abbot, pausing in his fly by with a hand in the door way.

Jack watched as Robby looked around again at the ward, undoubtedly searching for you.

“We're almost finished up here,” said Mohan.

Robby held up his hands. “I didn't say anything,” he said, leaning in the doorway. He passed Jack a nod. “You good?”

“Getting there, thanks to Doctor Mohan's capable hands.” Jack kept his eyes averted from Robby as if he'd done something wrong. He hadn't. He'd told you the wound didn't need looking at because he was going to handle it.

Robby looked at him the sort of way he looked at patients when he knew they were lying about their scale of pain. “Can you give us a second?”

Just as Jack was about to push himself up Samira moved behind him.

“Er, yeah, sure. No problem,” she said, pulling off her gloves and listing off post-care instructions from instinct. “Keep it clean and the dressing fresh.”

“Can do, Doctor Mohan. Thank you.”

Robby stepped out of the way for Mohan before walking in, staring at Jack with his hands in his pockets.

Jack found his shirt discarded on the floor and pulled it over him. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Clearly,” said Jack.

“Are you avoiding her, now?”

Jack didn't need to ask who he was talking about and Robby didn't need to specify. “Course not.”

“Did she do something?”

“No.”

“So what was all that? Back in trauma?” asked Robby. His eyes were beady, waiting to pick up on any shift in Jack or anything that might betray him. But Robby wore his heart on his sleeve. He might think he doesn't or thinks he's good at hiding such emotions away but Jack and everyone else sees them anyhow.

Jack had his heart buried deep down. “I dunno, man,” he huffed, ignoring the burning sensation as he pulled his shirt back over him. “Maybe I just didn't feel like joking around when my buddy was bleeding out on the table.”

Robby shook his head, eyes creasing. “People bleed out all the time.”

Jacks lips pursed as he worked on tucking his shirt back into his pants. Anything to keep him occupied and averted from Robby’s knowing gaze.

“I haven’t seen you this worked up since you first met her,” he teased.

“Now I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Abbot grumbled.

Robby chuckled low in his throat, leaning back on the wall comfortable like he was watching his favourite show. “When two consenting adults like each other very much-”

“I don’t,” said Jack, abrupt. “I don’t… like her.”

“Jack, c’mon-”

Jack turned to Robby. He considered his confusion. Sure, you were a great doctor and even better on the field. Something about the chaos seemed to focus you, bringing out your best self. You were funny, even at the worse times.

“She’s not it for me,” he said, trying to mean those words.

Your smile first thing in the morning didn’t warm him. The fact you knew his coffee order after only two days of working together didn’t make him feel special. You were incredibly intelligent. Beautiful.

Jack twisted and turned around his wedding band.

Robby watched, heaving a sigh. “Brother…”

Jack couldn’t keep you in his heart when his dead wife still held a place there. It wasn’t fair to you.

“She’s not it, Robby.”

“And why not?” He asked, pushing and prodding against his bag of lies like he knew he was carrying it.

“She’s different- we’re two different. You know with my- with my wife we worked. She wasn’t a doctor, she didn’t throw her life away on field missions. She wasn’t… she wasn’t ruthless, she was soft. Perfect for me.”

He pressed down against the metal band branding him.

“You’re not gonna give yourself a chance to be happy because she’s not like your wife?” Asked Robby.

Jack glanced back at him. “I know what works for me. I can’t be with someone as loud or… bash. She’s-she’s brutal, you know.”

Robby nodded but there was a furrow between his brows. “We all have our own ways of dealing with things.”

“Her way is drinking every weekend, out with the guys, there’s no healthy habits there,” argued Jack. Why he was arguing about you with Robby he didn’t know. Why he was defending himself with words that fell like led on his tongue he had no idea.

“Okay,” said Robby in a way that marked defeat.

But Jack didn’t believe what he was saying. He heard himself and frowned. “And I don’t even think she’s a person who could settle down. Hmm, I mean look at her job? She’s constantly in between them.”

“She’s a sub, that’s what she does-”

“- scared of commitment,” corrected Jack.

Robby scoffed out a laugh of disbelief. “Okay, you’re in a mood or something.” He pushed himself from the wall.

“No, I’m not,” he argued a little too quick and a little too harsh to be okay with what he was saying. “She’s a good person she’s just not my person. You know she-she doesn’t even like flowers, who doesn’t like flowers?”

“She’s more than a good person, Jack,” said Robby with an air of defeat about him. With one last look back to Jack he left, closing the door gently behind him.

In the seconds the door was open Jack sort a peek out. You were at the nurses desk, leaning over a tablet, the blue glow illuminating you. There was a troubled look to your face, scrunching your brows and marring your usual unflappable gaze. Jack almost wanted to see the chart himself and ask what was bothering you, but he knew you never told him, only ever let it be yourself that saw your problems.

Another thing he couldn’t stand. You’d never ask for help.

Even if, Jack couldn’t admit it out loud, he’d help without an invitation too.

You suppose you shouldn’t have been surprised, yet doctors ran on hope. Without hope trauma rooms became morgues and body’s became empty vessels. You’d built hope into your system, kept somewhere between your heart and stomach.

That’s why you felt it plummet.

She’s not it for me.

There was no intention to listen in on a conversation that clearly you weren’t supposed to know about. You'd just been passing by when you heard your name from Jacks mouth. That was enough to stop you in place. If your feet weren't frozen you would have moved, made yourself busy or call up to surgery to check on Hiro.

But as Jack went on your heart plummeted.

She's brutal.

It wasn't until you heard Robby defend you that you moved away, hiding with your back to the exam room and hunching over a tablet that held no chart.

You'd always assumed Jack was just harder to crack then some of the other SWAT guys. You could read most of them within days, know their moods from a glance. You'd never been able to read Jack and maybe it was because he didn't want to be known by you.

You thought seeing Hiro with a hole in his neck would be the worst thing of the day but you caught your reflection in the black screen of the tablet and resented the way things blurred around you.

She's not it for me.

“Hey-” Robby was behind you and you tucked your head into your chest. His hand squeezed your shoulder. “Central twelve when you have a chance.”

“You got it, boss.” Luckily your voice remained steady despite the waver in your throat.

Robby gave a nod and left you to it.

Had Jack had hatred for you since you knew him and just never said a word? Did you do something for him to harbour these feelings?

Besides from not being his wife.

The door closed again and on instinct you looked over your shoulder, catching Jack adjusting his belt. He looked up and found your gaze, offering you a pulled smile.

It was like every other smile he'd ever given you.

You'd been so blind with affection to not see it. What a fool.

You couldn't even pull your lips back up, you just walked away.

Weeks went by in flashes of sleepless nights and lonely days.

The sick and injured didn't wait for you to get over yourself, instead they helped.

You offered yourself like a lamb to the slaughter in Presby and even Westbridge. You pulled doubles, catching small naps in any empty exam room or on-call room you could find. You started to learn staff names when you'd never cared before.

A group of nurses at Westbridge even invited you out for drinks.

“Drinking every weekend, out with the guys, there's no healthy habits there” you remembered Jack's voice and declined their invitation.

When SWAT called you had an excuse. A plumber was coming around... you were re-modelling; suddenly your apartment was going through half a dozen makeovers and all your childhood friends were visiting.

“You know you're not a very good liar,” Diaz had said when he called you for a drink and you declined. That day you were taking your mom's dog to the vet (your mom was a cat person and in another state)

Your apartment became a cave and you became a shell of yourself, un-ironically listening to the high school musical soundtrack and crying.

And still you couldn't find it in yourself to be angry at Jack. Of course he wouldn't want you- he had a wife. And a memory of that wife to keep him walm. What could he do with you? If you weren't his type, you weren't his type. If it was just that maybe you could have moved on.

But he didn't like you as a person and that stung more.

You didn't know how long it had been since you were last at PTMC, only long enough that you started to scramble corridors in your mind and forget what some of the nurses sounded like.

“We have a mass casualty event,” said Robby on the phone one Sunday morning. His voice sounded different, but you supposed time played tricks on your memory. “School bus incident. You in?”

You were in pyjamas at home, some crappy tv on low. “I'll have to check, Presby might need me.”

Robby scoffed down the line. “Have they called yet?”

“Well, no-”

“Then get your ass over here.”

“Robby-”

“Please, please get your ass over here,” he said down the line, sighing heavily. “I.... I could really use another set of hands.”

Robby didn't say please. Ever. So how could you say no.

Within the hour you were dressed an,d thrown into the anarchy.

You got through the ambulance doors, was thrown a gown and got to work. You didn't even see Robby to let him know you were there, you just found Langdon and worked beside him.

“I need some help over here!” yelled out a paramedic.

At once you and Langdon were at her side, pushing along the gurney.

“Kid, fracted tib-fib, pupils mid range and sluggish- couldn't get a line we had to intubate.”

“Dana what's open?” called out Langdon.

“Room in trauma one!”

Mass casualty meant trauma rooms doubled up, pushed up against either wall. Mass casualty meant extra hands called in- like you. Still, when you pushed through the door and found Jack's eyes look up you spared half a second in apprehension.

“You're here,” was all he said.

You didn't know what to say. There was some snarky comment on the tip of your tongue as you settled the boy in the corner but you remembered you weren't supposed to be that person.

Jack didn't like that person.

“Yeah, in the flesh,” replied Frank instead.

“Chest trauma on the right!” you assessed. “We need an X-ray in here.”

“X-ray's backed up,” Jack called from where he hovered over another patient.

“Then get me an ultrasound!” you called out. “Push five migs of epi down the tube and hang a unit of O-neg on the rapid infuser.”

“BP'S eighty over fifty, pulse is at one-twelve!” called out Princess.

You felt someone bump in your shoulder and knew by inhale it was Jack. He was close at your side, pulling off and on another pair of gloves.

“What have you got?” he asked.

It wasn't instinct to move away from him. It was practised control that had you swapping sides with Frank, practically pushing him into Jack.

“Chest trauma to the right, he's tacky,” he explained quickly.

You pulled out your stethoscope, listening closely. “His breathing's stridor, I need a thoracotomy tray!”

“A thoracotomy?” asked Jack, voice oddly quiet in the trauma as if it was whispered just next to you. “You sure you can handle that?”

“I'm a good doctor, if I'm nothing else,” you bit out, swinging your stethoscope back around your neck. You weren't going to allow yourself to fall back into old habits, of questioning what Jack didn't like so much about you. You focused on the un-conscious boy under the mercy of your hands. You ordered the right tools, made the cut neat and precise, pushing more pain relief.

“Any tamponade?” asked Jack.

You checked the boys blood pressure. “No, pericardium's dry.”

“Okay, start an-”

“- start an internal massage-”

You and Jack said at the same time.

Frank seemed stuck in headlights before he reached through the incision in the boys chest and slowly started to work the heart.

“Pulse?”

“Barely.”

Jack frowned, looking over at your work. “Cross clamp the aorta, and push another mig of antropine.”

“I need suction!”

“Got anything for surgery?” asked a new voice, Doctor Walsh checking between the patients in the room.

“Oh no, we've brought the OR down to us,” said Jack.

Doctor Walsh rounded, catching the suction and the message of the heart. “Are you doing a thoracotomy right now?”

“Don't look at me,” said Jack, surrendering.

Before anyone could argue with you, question your capability you snapped out. “I know what I'm doing!”

Jack was silent, Frank smirked and Walsh rose a brow.

“Clamped,” said Princess.

“Someone push in another of antropine and get another unit of blood in,” you ordered.

There was a sudden buzzing as all eyes averted to the monitor.

“He's going into V-fib!”

You wiped your bloody and gloved hands down your gown. “Okay, I need internal panels!”

They were handed to you and Jack rushed to your side.

“You want me to-” he started but you already had the panels in hand and were ordering their charge.

“Charge to thirty! Clear!”

Like you were cupping the heart with your own hands you nudged the panels on either side and shocked. There were little miracles sometimes in the ED and with a bus full of school children you needed miracles.

“There! He's stable!” said Princess.

“We've got a girl coming in, needs stabalising and an ortho consult!” said Lena, throwing the door open. It seemed everyone had been called in.

“I'll take this guy, don't want you getting all the credit,” smirked Walsh as she and the team wheeled out the boy. She looked back at you, almost waiting for you to say more- some funny joke or flirtatious tease.

You only waved past her to get the young girl into the room.

Everyone in the room looked at you as you honed in on the next casualty, ignoring the pang in your heart at Jack's gaze.

When the girl for ortho came in you could only work on stabilising her before Park the Shark descended and took her up, assuring the bag was on ice. He gave you a less ten friendly look. Seemingly Jack wasn't the only one who couldn't stand you.

The hours ticked by in bodies of different kids, in shades of blood and traumas. By the time you got outside for some fresh air it was night and one lonely ambulance sat with you.

You were catching your breath when you heard the doors slide open and shut again. You imagined it was someone else wanting some peace and air, or a paramedic heading back out on the road.

“You were impressive in there,” said Jack, coming to stand next to you. There was a large enough gap that another body could have fit there.

“Thank you.”

He gave one short nod. “Robby call you in?”

“Yeah.”

“Same here,” he said, not that you'd asked. “You know, Hiro's doing well.”

You paled in the night. Lost in your own self-loathing you hadn't even asked about Hiro, or gone to see him. You'd heard he was okay when he dropped a message from the ICU but that was as far as it got. “Oh yeah, I know, I heard.”

“What, from the guys?”

You nodded, lips pursing as you crossed your arms over your chest in the light chill.

“You know they told me you haven't been around much,” said Abbot. “I've noticed it too. We all went to Larry's the other night, your invitation get lost?”

Was it a test? Was it a joke to him?

“No, I just didn't want to drink. Trying to cut down, it's not so healthy,” you said, kicking one foot in front of the other.

“One or two's not bad,” he said. “Couple of us are gonna grab a beer once this is all over. You joining us? Usual spot.”

She's brutal, you know.

You looked to him first. He was already looking at you, eyes creased like he was trying to see through you. It was real and earnest and making his words from weeks ago hurt even more.

“No thanks, Jack.” You almost reached to his shoulder but thought better of it.

Heading back in seemed the safer option.

Jack turned when you did. “Noody's seen you for weeks-”

“- I've been busy-”

“- except those nurses in Presby, they see you all the time apparently-”

“- they've been busy, they've called me in-”

“- I called you three times last week, you didn't answer-”

“- I didn't think you'd want me.” It was about the only honest thing you'd said in weeks. Your trainers squeaked on the ground just before the hospital, the automatic doors ready to welcome you back.

Jack was at your side, close enough you could see the lines of confusion in his face. “Why would you think that?”

You tried to think of a quick excuse but every word died prematurely in your throat. You chocked on them.

“Hey-hey-” Jacks hand fell to your back, soothing it in calming rubs.

You allowed yourself to bask in one circular motion of his hand and your back before you stepped away, backing up from the doors that slid shut again on instant.

“What’s going on?” Asked Jack, following in your steps.

“Nothing, nothing.”

Jack made a disgruntled noise. “C’mon, talk to me.”

He let you think about what to say, stewing in silence where your mind became alive with everything he’d said, with every terrible thing you’d already thought about yourself. You imagined every time you’d cracked a joke that was maybe too perverse. You tried to picture Jacks face but came out blank. Was it loathing? Contempt?

Your voice betrayed you with a shake as you spoke again. “I do like flowers.”

“Huh?”

You wiped at your eyes and turned to him. “I like flowers,” you said, stronger. “Nobody’s ever brought me flowers but I- I like them.”

For anyone else it would’ve took time to click. They’d have stood there, looking at you like you’d gone mad, spewing out words that out of context meant nothing.

But Jack was not just any other clueless guy. He was the guy who always packed left overs and left them in the fridge, he always cooked enough to make sure he’d have left overs. He was the sort that always checked in on pedes patients and made sure they had enough colourful bandages for them.

Jack knew what you were saying immediately. His jaw tensed. “I- I shouldn't have said that.”

“You said a lot of things,” you said, holding yourself tighter. “Sounded like you meant them.”

He gulped. “I didn't mean-”

“-what, for me to hear it?”

“No, I didn't mean for what I said to come out as- as bad,” he said.

“Well it didn't come out as shining praise either.” You turned from him, looking out to the building and lights. Somewhere n the distance a siren wailed.

“Robby- Robby was saying things, teasing, I just waned to shut him up.”

You chuckled with loathing. “No you didn't. It's okay, Jack, you don't have to like me, I just wish you didn't make it seem like you did.”

“Hey!” he said, coming to stand in front of you. He was without a scrub top and his t-shirt clad to his biceps, his muscles flexing as his jaw worked. “I do like you.”

You rolled your eyes. “No you don't.”

“I do-I do-” Jack grabbed the top of your arms, stopping you from walking away. His grip was tight, not enough to bruise but enough to beg you not to leave. “I do like you.”

“It doesn't matter.”

“It does, it does.” Jack crouched enough in his knees to get a look at your face that you kept trying to turn away from him.

“You know the worst thing is? It's that I know,” you uttered, voice quiet. You didn't trust yourself to shout- even if you really wanted to- in fear your voice cracked, humiliatingly.

Jack's eyes softened, his thumb drawing up and down in comfort. “Know what?”

“I know that I can be a lot. I go out with the guys, I drink, I make jokes when things get bad because what else am I supposed to do? Cry? Let the grief of the job swallow me up?”

“No. No, of course not,” he said, lips pulled down.

You hated that you still wanted to make him smile. “I could keep a job if I wanted to but I like meeting the people-”

“- I know, I know you do-”

“- and now I'm here defending myself to a guy who probably doesn't even want to hear it!” Trying to turn in Jack's hold was feeble, his grip was strong and he moved with you.

“You don't have to defend yourself, you have nothing to defend!”

“You know what the worst part is?”

Jack shook his head, waiting.

“It's the guy you liked and admired the most seeing everything you hate about yourself and hating you for it too.”

Jack flinched as of you'd slapped him. The chill in the air grew colder around you and all the light from the dim glow of the lamps shrunk away, leaving you and Jack in a self-made darkness. You felt his grip weaken and savoured the feel of him a moment longer.

It was only when you couldn't stomach it anymore that you retreated back into work.

Jack had fucked up.

There was no easy way of putting it. There was no clinical way of looking at it, no diagnosis to give other than he had fucked up.

He'd never heard himself speak and hated the sound of his own voice. Never caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror with tired eyes and a pale expression and loath to see the sight. When he looked at himself, all he saw was your own face heart-broken. When he heard himself talking he remembered everything he'd said.

He could have blamed it on the pain in his shoulder, the worry over Hiro, the lack of sleep he'd been struggling with for days but he had a therapist for all that. You didn't deserve that burden.

He was un-focused the following week in work. Patient satisfaction was at an all time low with him. He'd opened up to his SWAT buddies over a self-pitying pint and had been shunned.

“What's your problem?” Charlie had said, two beers deep and a haze over his eyes. “She's a fucking saint. She'd lay down her life for any one of us- what the fuck man?”

“She won't return my calls,” Jack told them. “Can you just... just call her?”

They'd refused, with good reason.

He'd tried texting his apology. He'd tried calling you in but he found from a contact at Westbridge you'd been covering nights while their attending was on holiday.

It was a brash decision to call in to PTMC and tell them he'd be late, he was running an errand. Nobody questioned him.

Westbridge was darker than the hospital he was used t, built up on top of each other but they were no less busy than himself. Patients were lined up in corridors and there was hardly a seat left in chairs when he walked through.

“Can I help you?” asked the nurse at reception, eyeing Jack and the bouquet of flowers he held.

He said he was looking for you.

“She's in a trauma right now, can I take a message?”

“Can you tell her Ja-Jack's here.” For a moment he debated lying, saying it was Robby wanting to see you, or maybe you didn't want to see Robby either. Deceit wasn't going to be his friend.

Jack waited and tried not to look around, tried not to let himself get caught in the heavy bustle of another hospital as he waited for you. He ignored the coughing from the waiting room that definitely sounded like it would require a chest CT.

There was a crash of doors and he caught sight of you rushing out, protective goggles over your eyes and bloodied gown clad to you.

“Jack, what is it? Are you okay?” your eyes were frantic, searching him.

Ah. Of course you'd think something had happened. When you hear someone's in the hospital it's very rarely to just say hi. “I realise I should've specified,” said Jack, rubbing the back of his knuckle against his brow. “I just- I wanted to see you. And give you these.”

Sensing this was a conversation she definitely wanted to be around for yet probably wouldn't be allowed to, the nurse at reception left the two of you to it and Jack sat the flowers down on the counter in-between you.

You eyed the shades of red roses, of yellow tulips, the violet of the iris and the pink of the peony.

“I didn't know what you liked so, I kind of got one of everything,” he said, sighing to himself. He should have got two of every flower the florist had on hand. “I didn't get Lilies, the lady at the shop said it's a show of death and sunflowers aren't in season, apparently.”

“They're very nice, thank you,” you said.

“They come with an I'm sorry:” said Jack. “I'm sorry.”

You wet your lips and pursed them, nodding slowly. “Okay.”

Jack looked down to his boots. “It's not, I know it's not, nothing I said is okay and I didn't mean it.”

You didn't say anything at that, only taking in a quivering breath.

He ignored the irritation in his prosthetic as he crouched to catch your gaze. Jack wasn't used to having to search for your gaze, usually he always found it already on him. He only realised how much he valued finding you in the middle of the storm when you wouldn't look at him.

“I didn't mean it,” he enunciated every word, begging you to hear them.

Your gaze studied around Westbridge, hoping for a distraction.

“I messed up, it's on me. It's not you.”

“The classic it's not you, it's me?” you dismissed.

Jack winced. It was cliché, damn him. “Yeah, I guess so.”

He watched as your fingers brushed over a flower petal, picking it off like plucking a string on a guitar. He felt his heart pound in his chest.

“Can I get back to work now?” you asked, gently.

What was he thinking? Turning up to where you were tying to do some good. Where you were doing good- it was what you did. Did he expect the flowers to fix everything? No. Only he could. But he'd grovel, he'd beg, he'd crawl after you for the rest of his miserable life and do it all while building you a rose garden.

He'd do all of that for one minute of your eyes on his.

“Just promise you'll come back. To the Pitt. Whole place is going to crap without you.” He tried to joke but it was a pathetic thing.

“Okay. Yeah.” Your shoulders lifted in in-difference.

“And don't ignore the guys. They're going out for drinks tomorrow night. I won't be there. They all pretty much think I'm a dick anyway.”

There was a glimpse of a smile.

Jack played on. “I'm a total, total dick, a jerk!”

An elderly lady being escorted by with a nurse and an IV trailing her paused and glanced his way.

“Sorry,” he uttered.

You hid your chuckled behind your mouth but he caught a second of it.

It was enough for now.

Your name was called down the corridor.

“He's in V-tach!” a nurse announced before disappearing again.

“Go,” said Jack, taking himself out of the equation. “Just, please. Don't be a stranger.”

Jack wasn't lying when he said the place was going to crap without you. How they managed on shifts without your charm to work fretting family and friends down, or your terrible singing in between exams he didn't know.

Walking through the ambulance doors for his shift there was already paramedics pushing an empty and slightly blood stained gurney back into their rig. There was a crowd of elderly patients in beds and gowns left at the side and phones were ringing, drilling into his eardrums.

“Where the hell is she?” barked Robby, spotting Jack and no you.

Jack dumped his bag at the counter. “What happened here?”

“Nursing home caught fire, now where is she? We're swamped her, I thought you were going to get her and bring her back?”

Jack grumbled, frowning at the counter. “She's busy at West.”

“West? God-” Robby groaned, looking around the place and cursing. “Listen, I don't care what you have to do to make it up to her, buy her a florist, give her a ring, get down on your knees, I don't fucking care- I need her here.”

“You think I don't?” Jack snapped.

Robby eyed him, hand clenched on the counter. “Tell her the truth-”

“-Robby-”

“-no, you tell her you didn't mean a damn thing you said. That you were scared loving someone that isn't your wife.”

Glass. Jack was made of glass. If Robby could see through him so clearly why couldn't you? Why couldn't you see the truth? That Jack liked you, liked you more than he'd liked anyone. That loving you meant leaving the life he lived with his wife behind, yet carrying a part of her with him always. He didn't want to do that to you. He didn't want to make you live with a ghost or carry his grief. There were days where it was too hard for him to handle.

Robby sighed. “You think she'd want you to be happy?”

A muscle in Jack's neck tensed as he went to nod but was held back by himself.

“Talk to her,” said Robby clamping him on the shoulder quickly before disappearing.

Hiding away wasn't going to solve anything. That's what Robby said to you in a desperate plea to get you back to helping him out with shifts.

Truth was you weren't hiding away... as much.

Drinks with the guys had been hours of them telling you Jack was wrong, after Jack had exposed himself to them, laying the situation on the table. As promised, he wasn't there but every conversation revolved around him so much so it felt like he was at your side. You defended Jack when they argued against him. You told them you knew you were loud at times, maybe you shouldn't joke around as much as you did.

They'd laughed, thinking it was a joke itself.

They told you not to change.

It was hard not to. Every time you heard yourself get loud or get a look from people at the other table your instinct was to shrink. When Diaz tripped on the curb out the bar you laughed instead of helping him and was left with your own guilt when you got home.

Un-learning habits was hard. Learning to live with them was harder.

You started with baby steps. A day shift here, a day shift there, by hand-offs you were always gone. Yet, in the staff lounge there sat a fresh bouquet of flowers every morning. As soon as they started to wilt another fresh bunch was placed over night.

Nothing was said. Nothing ever had to be.

“Shen's out, food poisoning,” said Robby over the phone another day. “You know I wouldn't ask if there was no otherway.”

Which was how you ended up working a night shift. The first in months.

Jack's eyes lit up as you walked in, it was impossible not to notice. The only eyes to rival his sparkle was Lena's when she saw you.

It was the sort of night that held your attention. That roped you in and demanded you listened. Not overly busy but not quiet enough to cause you and Jack to be held captive in the same room. Only seconds passed in hallways when he looked like he was going to say something before being called away, taunt in the neck and gripping his stethoscope for the life of him.

“Am I going to need surgery?” asked the young boy in five who you were examining. A nasty accident in his dad's garage ended up with a laceration to the foot.

“Not surgery but a couple stitches to bring the skin back together, and you're gonna have to stay off your feet for a while,” you said.

The boys eyes grew wide in joy. “So, no school?”

You chuckled as his mom pinched his shoulder playfully. “Well, I can't be the deciding factor on that, I'm afraid.”

You put in the orders for stitches.

“Is it gonna hurt?” asked the boy, shrinking back in his bed.

“We're gonna numb you up so you don't feel anything,” you assured. “Tell you what, I have a secret stash of candy that I only share with my favourite patients, how's that sound, you want something?”

The boy tried not to be too eager in his nodding but it took less than two second for him to grin.

You didn't expect anyone in the lounge when you went in search for candy usually lying around.

Jack was hunched over the table, pulling out the dying flowers and arranging fresh ones. He stopped when you walked in, the door closing gently behind you. “Hi.”

“Hey.”

“I was just... maintenance,” he mumbled.

You nodded along, a thick awkwardness engulfing the two of you. “Maintenance... yeah... sure...”

You moved around him, keeping a good distance around the space of him like he was a poisonous snake. The cabinet was high up, the tin an old sewing one where you hid your most precious protein bars and sugar packed candy.

“Here, I can-”

His body was sturdy against the back of you as he reached up for the tin. Few select people were allowed to know about its contents and Jack was on of the first ones you trusted. He raised his arm and you watched the freckles along his arm move and ripple. Upon inhale you took a deep breath of lingering cologne, mixed with the hearty sterile hand wash of the ED.

Jack's own head tilted down and your heard him inhale, deeply.

The tin fell into your hand.

Jack stared down. “Oh- er, there.”

“Thanks.”

It was about all the conversation you got with Jack your shift was over. The morning was just breaking through the clouds at six, bringing with it a down pour. You'd already punched out, handed off your patients to McKay and was left standing under the small awning of the ambulance bay, trying to out wait the rain.

It took ten minutes for Jack to follow you out.

“You heading out?” he asked, hands shoved in his pockets.

“Yeah. I'm just waiting for my uber.”

Jack frowned. “What happened to your car?”

“It's in the garage.”

“Well... I can give you a lift,” he suggested.

The rain hammered down harder above you, steady streams falling from the awning to at your feet. As discreet as possible you checked the location on you uber. Just around the corner. In the rain it had taken longer.

“No, it's okay, you don't have to.”

“I'd like to,” said Jack, stepping closer. “I'd like a chance to talk to you. To tell you everything that I meant by my words.”

You'd almost hoped you could carry on as you were: extremely avoidant.

“You don't have to, Jack.”

“I do- I do!” he insisted, hands out in front of him as if desperate to grasp you. He held himself back. “Please let me.”

Stomaching more of his words, whether it be excuses as to what he meant to say or just doubling down and insisting what he said was true. You didn't think you were strong enough for either.

Your phone buzzed in hand as a slick back black car pulled up, window rolling down and calling your name.

“No, wait-wait!” said Jack, holding a hand up to you with all the authority of an attending still on duty.

“Jack, what are you-” You were struck in place, watching him lean through the window, rain dampening his shirt as he un-folded a few bills and handed them to the driver.

“We don't need you know, sorry man,” Jack mumbled.

Your jaw hung open as you stepped out into the rain, bottom of your scrub pants dampening at once. “What?”

The driver tutted. “I still want me five star review!” He drove off quickly, splashing the two of you as he went.

“Oh- serious?” Jack gritted. “Now I wish I hadn't given him such a tip.”

The puddles of rain were seeping into your trainers as you walked off, out of the way of ambulances and cars, pulling your jacket tighter around you.

“Wait! Wait!” Jack called after you, boots slapping in the water. He all but jumped in front of you, stumbling lightly at the shift in his bad leg. “Wait.”

“I don't know what else you want to say to me, Jack?”

“Nothing I say can excuse what I said-”

“-so why try?”

“Because it's killing me being like this!” he snapped. The rain was pouring down, falling down his cheeks and nose. “It's killing me to look for your smile and not see it. It's killing me to hear a joke and you not laugh. Everything I said, it-it re-plays in my head and I'm sorry.”

“I know you are, Jack, I just need time!”

“I'll give you time,” he said. “I'll give you anything you need. But just let me say one thing. You owe me nothing, I'm begging you.”

To prove a point Jack crouched, starting to get down on his knees, hands already clenched together. To spare you the embarrassment and him the ache in his leg you tugged him back up.

He stared at you, breathless. He was as drenched as you, the both of your scrubs stuck to you.

“I haven't loved anyone since my wife,” said Jack. “I haven't tried, I didn't want to try. I was... not happy, but content to just carry on with her here-” he curled a fist at his chest. “And then you... and I couldn't not feel anything for you. I tried- I really tried.”

“Okay. You tried. I get it,” you mumbled.

“But I started to love you and I hated myself for it. It felt like I was betraying her by wanting someone else. By wanting you. And I did- I do want you. Every terrible joke you made, Jesus, I couldn't laugh in front of patients and their families. When you go out drinking with us and the guys in our team and you sing karaoke badly-”

“Excuse me?”

Jack winced. “I mean great, great karaoke.”

You chuckled.

“I can't take back the fact you're different from my wife, you are, but I don't think that's a bad thing- it's not. Because I still love you. I love that you're loud, I love that you draw attention to yourself as soon as you walk into a room, my attention is always on you anyway,” he smiled, sadly. It was the kind of smile a lover would give as they watched the love of their life leave them. “I shouldn't have made my grief your problem. I shouldn't have hated myself for feeling love again and I shouldn't have tried to convince myself hating you. I mean, that was just- just impossible.”

You looked down to your trainers, seeing the darkening colour where the water soaked in. “I've loved you for so long now, Jack.”

He waited, catching his breath, for more.

You looked up at him. “I'm sorry. About your wife. I can't imagine how hard it is for you. But I don't want to fall in love with a man who constantly advertises me next to his wife.”

Jack nodded, looking down.

The rain was probably helpful, hiding any tears you'd give away.

“I love you, separate to how I love my wife. And I loved her, I did. But I don't want to spend the rest of my life dead inside. Be on my death bed when I'm eighty looking back at all the times I should've kissed you.”

His words pulled at your heart, your feelings that you'd been burying deep inside clashing together inside of you.

“By the time you're eighty, I'll be like, in my sixties?” you said.

“Yeah, something like that.”

“And looking to settle down.”

Jack laughed, and you laughed and for a second that was almost enough. The rain had made the grey in his hair darker, almost making him look younger. “I'm not saying I won't fuck up, I probably will, I have a therapist for a reason.”

“Therapy is good,” you said.

Jack's eyes were lighting up slowly with every teasing comment you made. Something akin to hope flickered between the two of you. “But I will never draw comparison to you and my wife. I'll never make you feel like second choice. I'll never dump my grief onto you. If you just give me one chance, just one chance at making this right.”

As sorry's went... as love confessions went.

“I'm scared what it means to love you, Jack,” you said, slowly, feeling the words around your mouth.

“I know, I know,” Jack reached over, clumsily brushing back your damp hair from your cheeks. In spite of the rain, his skin was still soft and hot on you. “I am too.”

You searched his eyes before whispering. “Can I kiss you?”

He smirked a little. “No.”

Your heart dropped.

Jack's hands tilted your head back before you could tuck yourself away. “Can I kiss you?”

His lips were slick and wet from rain but no less sort after from you. He didn't push or prod for more, he just laid his lips against yours with enough pressure for you to know he was there. For you to always remember he was there.

You could have stayed like that for hours, practically standing on each others toes as your own hands came up to clutch his biceps, fingertips digging into his freckles.

You pulled away only when you needed to catch your breath.

Jack's lips chased yours, body tumbling into you slightly as his eyes took seconds to open like coming out from a dream.

You ran your hands up his shoulders. “I love you.”

He closed his eyes and soaked in the words.

“Will you let me?” you asked.

“Always,” he promised.

He knew you were seeing someone, of course he knew. As much as he didn’t seem like it he’d been watching you closer than he let on. But what Jack didn’t expect was to see you walking in the ER tonight, smiling and glowing with a fucking rock decorating your left ring finger.

Of course you’re always stunningly beautiful but tonight you just have a different type of glow to you. He thinks it may be the God he stopped talking to a while ago mocking him for leaving you. You’re prancing around ER, smiling and laughing with your patients sweetly and most importantly, avoiding him. Every time he walks to the nurses desk when you’re thanking them for helping out, you shoot them a smile and turn on your heel.

He doesn’t blame you, he never has. He knows he fucked up last year through your tears and his raised voice. You weren’t together officially and it was a stupid argument over when things were going to move forward, you’d felt like with being a fourth year resident, and in a almost seventh month long situationship with your superior that you’re life was on standstill.

Maybe that’s why you’d been so accepting of your proposal that happened in just ten months of dating, maybe you’d felt like you’re life was finally catching up to you from the past months it’s been still. But you knew seeing Jack tonight would’ve been hard, you knew it because when your now fiancée got down on one knee, a picture of Jack flashed in your eyes. You'd shook it out with closed eyes and a nod of your head, extending your hand down to him.

Jacks standing at the nurses counter, leaning on his elbows as his gaze is locked on you across the room, talking to a patient with a soft rubbing hand on her back, ring catching the light, making Jack clench his jaw when Robby approaches him. He leans next to him, following his gaze straight over to you before Robbys ducking his head and sighing, looking back to Jack. "Listen man-" he starts, putting a hand on Jacks back but as soon as its there its gone, Jacks shrugging him off and walking into a trauma room.

It's been a pretty slow shift, well, considering what's normal anyways. You actually get a chance to slip into the break room and grab a granola bar to eat. Sitting in the chair you sigh and lean back, letting your eyes rest for just a second before you hear the door click open, along with your eyes. You're met with the sight of a deer in headlights Jack frozen in the door, you can feel your breath catch in your throat.

"Sorry I wasn't aware you were in here.." he nods awkwardly, moving to leave. "No-" you speak up, "I mean, it's fine, come in" you nod softly, unwrapping the granola bar and taking a bite, eyes trained on your fingers that work it. He's nodding slowly and almost cautiously walking in, heading to the coffee machine with a clearing of his throat. With his back to you, you finally have the chance to take him in. He's in his usual black scrubs, hair curled and a little damp, probably from the shower he took before work.

When he moves to sit down across from you at the round table you can smell his familiar cologne, making your eyes flutter shut as you take a bite. He sighs a little as he sits, looking over to you. Your eyes finally meet across the table as you swallow. It's silent for a minute before you see his eyes flicker down to your hand and you subconsciously pull it back to your lap, under the table. "So...proposal huh?" he asks, nervous eyes meeting yours. You nod quickly, smiling politely "Yeah, yeah he um- asked me yesterday actually." you say fidgeting with the ring on your finger that rests in your lap.

Jack nods, pushing his tongue to the inside of his cheek before taking a gulp of his coffee and raising an eyebrow. You cock your head a little at it "What was that?" you speak, examining his face. "Hm?" he says through his cup before setting it down. "You did a look." you cross your arms softly. "I didn't do a look." he shakes his head, eyebrows furrowing. "Jack," the name sounds foreign coming from your mouth in so long and it makes his tense up. "you did a look." you swallow. He sighs and shifts in his seat. "I just..think it was a little quick, that's all" he shrugs looking at you.

Your face scrunches up, a rough scoff coming from your mouth. "You don't know anything about us." you say starting to stand up and Jack sighs, "Okay, okay I'm sorry, listen I'm sorry-" he raises his hands in mock surrender as you turn to him, leaning down to eye level with a sitting him. "Do not talk to me about how to pace my relationship, you've done that enough in the past." you say before turning and storming out of the break room. Jack can smell your shampoo and perfume in the air as you turn and storm off. He lets himself close his eyes and inhale through his nose deeply as the door shuts, leaving him alone in the room.

His gaze falls across the table to your half eaten granola bar and before he knows it his hand snakes across and grabs it, his thumb running where your lips just were before he bites into it. He finishes the bar before tossing it in the trash and leaving the break room. The shift drags on, the sun eventually rising outside the hospital as he trails to the desk to finish his charting and clock out. You're behind him in the chair doing the same when Santos approaches you, "Wifey" she sings teasingly as she leans on the counter looking at you. You chuckle and roll your eyes, typing quickly. Jacks ears perk up, but his body stays facing forward, not typing.

"Let me see that thing again," Santos demands, reaching over to gently grab your left hand. You let her, a small, polite smile playing on your lips, but your ears stay open and you swear you can almost hear Jacks breath hitch. She whistles as she stares at it, chuckling to herself and shaking her head. "Well, if things go south" she drops your hand "you know I'm always devoted to you" she dramatically grabs at her heart and blows you a kiss, making you giggle softly and wave her off.

Finishing your charting you log out, stand and walk to your locker. While you’re gathering your things you feel him behind you. You know it’s him, he’s always had a way of announcing his presence without words. You hear him inhale deeply from behind you. If you were to turn around right now you’d see him with his eyes closed, inhaling the scent of you completely. When you do finally close your locker and turn he’s backed up, sorry eyes staring at you.

“I’m sorry. I was out of place earlier-“ he starts but you hold your hand up, cutting him off. “We don’t have to do this, Jack.” You say, shaking your head and closing your eyes momentarily. “We’re adults, I can be civil with you in my place of work but I don’t have to speak to you after.” You look up at him, eyes meeting his. He stops talking, his mouth shutting and a sad expression falling over his face. Clearing his throat he shakes his head. “Yeah, of course.” He nods firmly before he’s gone, walking away.

The next couple weeks aren’t anything special, a couple lingering glances here and there from both of you but no non patient related conversations.

But this night, this one specific shift nearly did in your entire medical career. It really didn’t start as anything more than a rash on the kid. You’d taken the case nearing the end of your shift, just thinking it’d be an easy one to end the night. Maybe you’d just have to prescribe a cream and some anti inflammatory meds and send her on her way. You sit in her room, tonight was one of those rare ones where all your other patients had gotten discharged and she was all you had left. You talked about everything, her school, your wedding, the newly warm spring weather.

Things went south quickly. You had stepped out for a moment to tell Ellis about her for handoff when suddenly everyone was rushing to her room. Through the sounds of beeping monitors and clinking metal medical tools you couldn’t hear yourself think. Your body moved on instinct, instantly starting compressions while everyone rushed around you, doing everything they can. Between then and now, everyone had taken a step back and were giving you pitiful looks as sweat beads rolled down your face, body moving as you continued your compressions.

You feel a gentle, weary hand on your waist pulling you back into them, your ears are ringing and you can’t hear anything but the flatline of the monitor and Robby mumbling the time of death. You’re frozen in place, mouth open and eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“I was just, ta-I was just talking to her?” You whisper into the silence, not at anyone but yourself, and maybe God. You feel yourself being pulled away but your eyes stay glued confusedly on the girl. When you’re finally pulled out of the room the bright lights and sounds hit you at once. You look down to the heavy hand that’s still wrapped around your waist and thumbing it softly. You recognize it immediately but don’t have any fight in you to pry it off.

You let Jack lead you to your locker, He punches in your code and you make a mental note to get it changed since he still remembers it. He gathers your things as you stand behind him in shock and confusion. Throwing your backpack over his shoulders he takes your hand lightly and leads you to the parking garage. When you notice you’re outside, that fresh morning spring air hitting your face you freeze. The action makes your hand slip out of Jacks, he turns instantly at the loss of you, eyes falling all over your face.

Your eyes are straight ahead and empty. “I, I should’ve caught it.” You whisper. The only sounds that can be heard is the soft sirens of the city, the wind in the trees, and your whisper. “It was simple, it’s a simple routine check. A full body exams for new patients.” Your eyes are still forward, not looking at anything in particular. You talk like you’re confused at yourself. Jack steps closer to you, making your eyes finally snap up to meet his. When they do you can’t hold back anymore. You feel yourself break. Hot tears spilling from your eyes, a sob escaping your lips as you step forward, wrapping your arms around his neck, burying your face in his neck and sobbing.

Jack stills for a minute, hands hovering over your back, not sure of what exactly to do before falling over it softly. Rubbing up and down he cups the back of your head, shushing you gently. His own eyes flickering shut for a second. He knows it’s selfish to let himself miss how you use to feel in his arms right now, especially given the circumstances. But he closes his eyes and feels the warmth of your body against his and feels one of his own warm tears fall down his cheek.

You pull back once you’ve come too. Wiping your face with shaky hands and shaking your head. “I’m sorry” you whisper, swallowing thickly. Jack shakes his head, ducking it to follow your gaze. He lifts his hand to brush some hair out of your face gently.

“Don’t apologize,” Jack said, his voice dropping into a rough, quiet register you hadn’t heard from him in over a year. His hand hovered by your face for a second longer, his thumb brushing a final stray tear from your cheekbone before he slowly let it drop. You stepped back, your sneakers scraping against the concrete as you deliberately put distance between you. Jack’s eyes followed the movement. His jaw clenched, a small muscle pulsing in his cheek as he forced his gaze up, looking past you at the city skyline rather than look at the ring. He shifted your backpack on his shoulder, his knuckles turning white around the strap.

“You couldn’t have caught it,” he said, his voice soft, gentle, almost like talking to a scared cat. "whatever the medical examiner finds, it wasn’t a failure of a routine exam. You did everything right. It just moved faster than anyone could've kept up with.” You shook your head, a hollow, breathless laugh escaping your lips. “I was talking to her about her middle school graduation, Jack. She was laughing. Ten minutes later, I'm cracking her ribs. Don't tell me I did everything right.” you start, voice angry and unsteady.

“Hey.” Jack stepped right back into your space, ignoring the distance you’d just tried to create. He didn't touch you, but he was close enough that you could smell the sharp, familiar scent of his cologne cutting through the sterile hospital air. “Look at me.” Slowly, you raised your eyes. “It hurts because you’re a good doctor,” he whispered, his eyes searching yours with a softness. “Don’t let a freak anomaly make you doubt that. You’re the smartest resident this department has. And I’m not just saying that to make you feel better.”

The weight of his validation threatened to break you all over again. You swallowed the lump in your throat, shaking your head weakly as you reached out to take your backpack from his shoulder. Your fingers brushed against his collarbone as you grabbed the strap. “Thank you,” you breathed, pulling the bag over your shoulder, suddenly desperate to break the gravitational pull he still had over you. “For pulling me out of there. For...this.” you sigh softly, feeling that deep exhaustion that creeps in and settles deep in your bones.

Jack cleared his throat, shoving his hands deep into his black scrub pockets as he took a step back, finally giving you room to breathe. “Yeah. Of course. Go home. Get out of these scrubs.” He paused, his tongue pushing against the inside of his cheek in that frustrating, familiar habit before he added, “Let... let him take care of you today. Don't carry it by yourself.” The mention of your fiancé, even without using his name, hung like lead in the air. You look down instantly and bite your bottom lip, trying not to cry again in front of him. He sighed defeatedly, eyes dropping to his shoes.

You gave a tight, mute nod, turning around and walking toward your car. As you unlocked the door and climbed inside, you looked in the rearview mirror. Jack was still standing under the flickering garage light, hands in his pockets, watching your car back out of the space. He didn't move an inch until you cleared the exit ramp. When you finally unlocked your apartment door, the quiet space felt like a completely different universe. Your fiancé was still asleep, the soft, rhythmic sound of his breathing drifting from the bedroom.

You dropped your bag by the door, completely drained, and sat on the edge of the living room couch. You stared down at the ring on your finger. It was beautiful. It was a promise of a stable, happy future with a man who loved you. But as you leaned your head back against the cushions and closed your heavy eyes, the image that flashed behind your eyelids wasn't the man in the next room. It was Jack, standing in the parking garage, his eyes filled with a desperate, crushing regret that had come exactly one year too late.

A couple days later, sometime around seven you find Jack on the rooftop, looking out at the city. This time, it had been him who'd had a shift from hell. You'd gotten word of what happened to one of his regular patients and knew where to find him, nodding and heading for the staircase. Now, you were standing at the doorway, his back to you about twenty feet away. He knew you were there, because Jack has a weird way of always knowing when your near.

"I was scared." he speaks gently, not turning his head to look at you, eyes trained on the skyline. You tilt your head in confusion, wind blowing softly in your hair. "I was scared because, you're young. You deserve someone who can give you a lifetime together, someone with no baggage." You start towards him, whispering his name. When you come side by side to him he finally turns to you. Eyes and nose red as he takes you in. "But with Cole, tonight-" he sighs, rubbing his temples roughly and looking back out to the city.

“He told me about his wife.” He said plainly. “Told me how she was married before him. They were best friends since childhood.” He bite his lip to hold back tears. “And when she got here, and he was in the viewing room..” he looks over, meeting your concerned eyes. “You wanna know what she said?, ‘we wasted so much time’” he swallows thickly. “And then she let me wheel him out.” He shakes his head, dropping it to his hands.

“Jack-“ you whisper, he cuts you off. “I thought of us.” He says sternly. “I thought about if something happens to me, I wouldn’t be able to call you, to call you my wife, and tell my doctor about how much I love you.” Your breath catches in your throat, eyes starting to sting. “Don’t waste our time.” He whispers.

“Don’t marry him.”

Your breathing stops, a tear slips from your eye as you shake your head. “You can’t ask me that” you whisper, voice breaking. He nods, taking a step towards you. “I know” his voice breaks now too. “But I can beg you, and I can show you how much I love you.” He shakes his head, “and I can pray to a god I don’t believe in for you.” He whispers.

You swallow thickly, pushing your tongue into your cheek to try to stop the tears. “I’m sorry about Cole.” You whisper back, the sound of soft sirens filling the area. “But I have to go.” You shake your head, Jack try’s to reach for your hand, whimpering your name gently but you’re halfway across the roof already.

You know you were both off for the next three days so when you’re fiancée tells you he has a family emergency and has to fly into New York tonight and will be there for the next week you nod softly, kissing him goodbye and shutting the door with a click the silence settles heavy. Alone with your thoughts for two days doesn’t seem like a lot, but with your situation, it was practically two years time for you.

The first day you spent alone you cleaned. You cleaned every fucking inch of your shared apartment in order to keep your mind busy, then you showered and slept. The second day was harder. All your thoughts were Jack. You felt like your head was splitting as you thought of his words. As you thought about Cole and his wife. About how he was there for you when you lost that girl, and your fiancé just frowned and cuddled against you.

By nine you couldn’t take it anymore. Before you can think about what you’re doing you’re grabbing your keys and rushing to your car. The route is familiar, something you could drive with your eyes closed by the amount of times you had in the past. You’re running up the stairs, down the apartment hall and finally pounding on the door.

When Jack answers he’s met by the sight of you, out of breath, hair wind blown, chest heaving and you shaking your head. “I’m here.” You breathe out with a shrug. “I’m here Jack.” Your eyes brim with tears.

On the other side, Jack looks confused, rightfully so. He’s taking you in fully, looking at your body that was obviously rushed out of the house. He’s whispering your name, but is quickly cut off and stumbling back by the feeling of your lips smashing against his. Your hands are cradling his face as you feel him closely desperately.

He’s sighing into it, kissing you back just as desperately. His hands fly to your waist, cradling it softly and he holds you. “I love you” you whisper into his mouth making him groan softly into yours and smile. He’s pulling back first and you’re chasing his lips but he’s holding his hands out, stopping you. “Where, why? Where is he?” He’s whispering, both of you panting and catching your breath. “New York” you whisper back, pushing your lips into his again. He’s pushing you off again. “Why are you here?” You pull back confused. “I don’t want to waste time.” You whisper.

Jack swears he can feel his heart stop right there in his chest. “I’m not marrying him.” You say sternly. Shaking your head and looking at him. Jacks eyes flicker down to the ring on your finger and you’re instantly moving to pull it off, letting it drop on his floor somewhere. His eyes move to yours again and he lunges for you. He’s lifting you up by the back of your thighs, your legs are wrapping around his waist as he kisses you deeply.

The impact of your weight against him sends the apartment door swinging shut, clicking locked behind you as Jack carries you blindly down the short hallway. He doesn’t take his lips off yours for a single second, his mouth moving over yours with a starved desperation that tells you everything about the year he spent empty handed.

Your back hits the wall of his bedroom with a blunt, solid thud, but the impact is cushioned by his hands instantly sliding up from your thighs to cradle the back of your head. He’s pressing into you, chest to chest, his breath hot and ragged against your skin as he shifts his kisses from your mouth down to the sensitive line of your jaw, then lower, burying his face into the crook of your neck. You let out a breathless, broken gasp, your fingers tangling tightly into his damp, curled hair, pulling him closer until there is absolutely no space left between you.

"Tell me this is real," Jack groans against your skin, his voice deep and completely wrecked. His hands move down to your waist, his thumbs digging into your hips through your shirt, gripping you so tightly it's almost bruising. "Tell me I'm not dreaming this. Please." "It's real," you whisper, your voice shaking as you press your forehead against his. You look down at him, your hands framing his face, feeling the familiar prickle of his jaw and the heat radiating from his skin. "I’m here, Jack. I'm not going anywhere, I promise."

He lets out a long, shuddering exhale that trembles against your lips before he hooks his arms under your knees again, tossing you gently onto the mattress. The bed is exactly how you remembered it the same charcoal sheets, the same faint, comforting scent of his laundry detergent mixed with that sharp cologne that had haunted your drive over. Before you can even settle into the pillows, Jack is over you, his knees framing your hips, his eyes dark and wide as he looks down at you.

For a second, he just stares. His gaze traces the pink on your cheeks, the frantic pulse beating against your throat, and the bare, empty space on your left ring finger. A muscle in his jaw twitches, a sudden wave of possessiveness washing over his features. "You're mine," he roughly whispers, "You're always going to be mine." "I am," you breathe, reaching up to tug at the hem of his t-shirt.

He sheds his clothes with a frantic, clumsy urgency that is so unlike the cool, collected Dr. Abbot you see in the trauma bays. When he slides back down against you, skin to skin, the sheer warmth of him makes your eyes flutter shut. Every touch feels magnified, every press of his fingers against your bare skin a slow rewriting of the past twelve months. He moves over you with an agonizing slowness now, as if he's trying to memorize the texture of your skin all over again, making up for every day he had to watch you from across the nurses station.

He starts to kiss down your body but you whine in objection, pulling his face back up to yours, "Please, just need my Jackie, please" you whimper. When he finally pushes into you, it’s a deep, breathless fullness that makes you arch your back, a soft sob escaping your lips straight into his mouth. Jack catches the sound, drinking it in, his movements steady and heavy, driving you both into a rhythm. His eyes stay locked on yours the entire time.

You can hear the sound of his skin slapping with yours as he pumps into you. He's groaning into your neck as your gummy walls spasm around his cock. He feels you clench around him after a while and nods, "Yeah? Gonna come for me?" you're nodding while he whispers repeatedly how much he loves you, clenching and coming around him. Jack collapses down into your neck, his chest heaving, his heart hammering violently against your ribs as he holds you so tightly you can barely breathe.

The room gradually cools, the silence of the night settling back over the apartment. Jack shifts, rolling onto his side but keeping you securely anchored against his chest, one heavy leg draped over yours. His hand rests flat against your stomach, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles into your skin.

You lie there in the dark, staring up at the shadows on the ceiling, the adrenaline finally beginning to drain from your system. The crushing weight of exhaustion from the last few days settles deep into your bones, but for the first time in a year, your chest doesn't feel tight.

Jack shifts beside you, lifting himself up on one elbow to look down at your face. He reaches out, his fingers gently pushing a few stray, damp strands of hair away from your forehead. His eyes are incredibly soft, the fierce desperation from earlier replaced by a quiet, protective stillness. "You're exhausted," he murmurs, his rough voice vibrating in the quiet room. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your temple, his hand moving up to cup your jaw. "Sleep. I've got you."

His hand rests on the back of your neck, a steadying weight. “Mornin’, birthday girl.”

The raspy, whispered words bring the previous night — until then a giant, devious question mark — back in screaming color, the reason for your current miserableness explained by glasses poured for you and cups refilled without your asking and shots pressed into your hands re-registers itself in your memory bank suddenly.

“Ugh,” is your only answer, still face down in Jack’s torso.

A laugh rumbles through it, which you should find upsetting given your current aversion to sound and movement and everything else, but combined with the hand stroking the back of your head, warmth blooms in your own chest.

“I knew the ibuprofen I shoved down your throat last night would be useless.”

You finally dare to crack an eye open, tilting your head up just enough to see his face, before you have to shut it again. “Y’what?”

“Almost had to hold your mouth closed. Like when we sedate Jasper,” he says, still speaking softly.

“Mm,” you say, feeling the aforementioned pitbull mix groan from the foot of the bed as he readjusts, evidently just as exhausted from the night before as you are currently.

Jack’s thumb strokes your cheek and you open your eyes again, both of them this time.

You’re rewarded for your bravery by his ruffled hair, the smudges of your rougey-pink lipstick on his jaw and down his neck and the lines under his eyes, which are devastatingly, achingly soft.

“Happy birthday, baby,” he murmurs, and you hide a smile and a pair of warm cheeks in your hand as the arm that had been clutching at his waist folds itself under your head, your body turning over into him slightly.

“Thank you,” you say.

Jack’s eyes flicker down your visage slowly, and you can’t imagine the absolute mess you must look right now, but you’d never be able to tell that from the honey in his eyes and the fond, upward curve of his lips as he gazes upon you.

He shakes his head, lifting it off his pillow, eyes flicking to your lips. “C’mere.”

“Mm,” you sigh as your lips meet his, and you’re suddenly cognizant of a blurry scene in his en-suite bathroom last night after everyone had gone, parked on the counter as Jack put your pre-pasted toothbrush in your mouth for you before reaching around to unzip your top, guiding the fabric down your arms gently and then popping the button on your jeans.

You remember looking at him, attempting to convey suggestion in your eyes, but he’d only smiled with his own tooth brush in his mouth and shook his head, squeezing a promise of “tomorrow” into your waist, then left and reemerged with a matching pajama set that he’d patiently helped you into after you’d rinsed your mouth with water, his hand holding your hair back as you spit into the sink.

Tomorrow was now, though, and Jack’s tongue slowly drags along yours in a way that makes your thighs press together before you’re pulling away, pecking his lips once, twice, before settling back down.

“I love you.”

“I love you,” he answers, hand brushing your hair back. “You had fun last night?”

You smile, thinking back to how utterly content you’d felt in the passenger seat of Jack’s truck, pleasantly tipsy off of an expensive bottle of champagne and an extra dirty martini during dinner at your favorite restaurant.

It was the perfect ending to a perfectly perfect birthday eve, your first with Jack at your side. He didn’t let the shift he’d been stuck with on your actual birthday stop him from showering you with flowers and gifts and affection the day before.

He’d even made you wait to blow out the candle in the scoop of ice cream you’d shared as dessert at the restaurant as he hastily tried to open the camera on his phone, meeting your eye over the lens as the flash went off, skin crinkling at the corners.

You had made him show you the photo, and you’d never seen yourself look so lovesick.

Except for, you’re sure, the plethora of photos that were no doubt coming in text messages from the invited guests of your surprise birthday party.

Not a jumpy knee, shaky hand or awkwardly rushed timeline to give him away, Jack had kept up the rouse of a quiet end to the night at his place with a nice bottle of wine he’d been saving for it, his hand a steady weight at the small of your back as he reached around you to unlock his front door, promptly nudging you in before him as you prepared yourself to greet Jasper at his door.

But instead you found Jack’s home positively teeming with your best friends, siblings, coworkers, Jack’s coworkers, your college friends who lived over an hour away, neighbors — anyone and everyone in your life that you loved.

And the top of that list stood behind you with a toothy grin practically splitting his face in two when you turned back to him, ready to catch you when you threw yourself into his arms, cheers and camera flashes suddenly in the background of your mind, Jasper jumping on the back of your legs.

“You did this for me?” you’d asked, your voice shaking, already feeling tears clog your throat and push at your waterline.

“I’d do anything for you,” he’d whispered in your ear, before placing a kiss on your cheek. “Now go say ‘hi’ to everyone before you cry. I’m gonna make you a drink. Any requests?”

You’d shaken your head, pulling away from him, in awe of this wonderful man in your life as you blink back those shocked tears, this man who’d appeared one day at your brother’s bedside and in your life in black scrubs, introducing himself as Dr. Abbot, and had never left since.

You’d given him a kiss so tender you almost felt vulnerable doing it with an audience before sending him on his way with a shake of your head in answer to his question. “You know what I like.”

He’d watched for a few moments as your brother and sister folded you into a group hug before he disappeared into the kitchen, accepting pats to the back from everyone he passed by.

“Best birthday ever,” you tell him now. “I still can’t believe you did all of that.”

“Your sister helped. A lot,” he emphasizes. “And so did Robby. Santos told me he and Dana ran setup like triage yesterday.”

You can’t help but giggle into his chest, even if your head pounds as you do so. You groan, shutting your eyes again.

“God, your coworkers almost killed me. I can’t believe they have to work today,” you say, a vivid memory of Trinity, Parker, Crus and John conspiring over a punch bowl — that had definitely been a key contribution to your demise — appearing in your currently scattered brain.

“Record number of callouts is my guess,” he says, eyes dancing when you can open yours again. “And what about yours, huh? I haven’t done a Jell-O shot since college.”

You groan again, and Jack laughs, kissing your forehead. “M’sorry, baby. Too soon.”

Your own coworkers, pausing from their steady routine of passing you cups and screaming at you to do a speech, had at one point pulled you aside under the string lights in the backyard to repeat the same story you’d heard over and over that night.

Group chats set up six weeks ago, swearings to secrecy, a collaborative playlist, every last person assigned a task and given a blank check to complete it.

Your sister and your best friend and even Jack’s best friend emphasizing to you that pulling this off was all he could talk about.

Robby’d given you a bear hug before telling you he hadn’t seen Jack this worked up over something in a long, long time, pouring directly into your empty cup of champagne something dark and bitter, toasting to you both.

Your boyfriend’s praises sung to you over and over and being preached to the choir, because it was all you could do to not rudely leave the conversation, kick everyone out and push Jack back onto his couch to show him how thankful you really were every time you’d lock eyes across his kitchen or his backyard.

You’d just settled for mouthed “I love you”s and subtle, disbelieving shakes of your head, which he’d return with a winks and sheepish shrugs, the sentiment echoed.

“I love you,” you say again, out loud now, as close to him as you can possibly be, in the way you’d wanted to be all night.

You’d done a poor job resisting him, finding his lap anytime he took a seat anywhere, until you were inevitably summoned for photos or more drinks or departing guests. He’d just tap your thigh, ordering you to go because he’d be here and ready to receive your affections long, long after your last guest left.

You worry you’ve worn the phrase out, wondering when it will start to get old.

“I love you,” Jack says, reminding you it hasn’t gotten old. You don’t think it ever will.

Your heart happy, your head in shambles, and your stomach suddenly glaringly empty, you sigh, thinking about the treacherous drive to the bagel shop you’ll ask Jack to take you to once you can stand, the thought of being left alone in his bed too much to bear in your current state and your only mission for your actual birthday being to get your favorite bagels.

“No one’s ever done anything like that for me before,” you admit, laying your head back on his chest, your eyes fluttering shut. Jack traces the shell of your ear slowly, carefully, almost willing you back to sleep before he speaks.

“You deserve it. You deserve everything,” he says. “And I’m gonna give it to you for as long as you’ll tolerate me.”

Ever willingly parting with Jack a scenario so preposterous that you almost laugh again, but you settle for a kiss to his sternum, pressing your forehead into his neck like his body heat might help speed up your recovery.

“Please tell me we just get to rot today,” you say.

“For a little,” he laughs. “After breakfast and coffee, I was thinking we could walk Jasp to the store. I’ve gotta pick up some groceries, but then I’m gonna cook you dinner and actually open that bottle of wine if you can handle it.”

“What’re you gonna make?” you ask.

“For breakfast? Breakfast just got dropped off at the door,” he says.

“What?”

“Bagels and coffee,” he says, checking his smart watch. “Or did you mean dinner? Then your favorite, obviously.”

Your eyes are open now, and Jack can see the way they widen when he suddenly moves out from under you, suddenly caging you in with his arms, his body nudging your legs apart to make room for his frame.

“And then, if you can handle it,” he says, just a breath above your lips. “There are a few promises I intend to make good on.”

You let out a susprised moan when he presses his hips into your own, just a firm, steadying presence sending a thrill down your spine all the same, promises for what’s to come later whispered into your ear, then pressed down the column of your throat, one of his hands reaching down to stroke at your hip, alternating between slipping beneath your waist band and nudging up under your shirt.

“S’that sound good to you, baby?” he asks into your neck.

All you can do is shake your head, his face gripped between your palms, your stare locked to his in confusion once he pulls off of you, his lips shiny.

“How did I even find you?”

Jack shakes his head, too, leaning back down, a trio of pecks on your lips before he rolls off, Jasper’s head picking up in interest as his owner sits up on the side of the bed.

Jack’s quiet as he works his prosthetic on, turning back to find you dazed, in awe, and in so much love you feel like you could choke on it, his reply simple.

He’d taken you against the window the first time.

“You afraid of heights?” he’d asked, and the question moved through you like warm liquid rather than reached you. You’d shaken your head, or tried to. “No,” he’d murmured, your jaw in his hands. “Didn’t think so.” 

He’d taken his prosthetic off after, wryly claiming that the position felt good but the leg disagreed. That had somehow lead to another round, slower the second time with him on his back and you set over him.

A part of you wondered often the sort of impression you’d given Jack, what he’d seen, exactly, that made him sure he could have you like this and keep it weightless. Whatever it was, it had to have been right to some degree because you’d spent more nights in his penthouse than your own apartment for the past six months without ever calling it anymore than what it was. 

He was a better lay than you’d ever had. He was probably the best option around to get steam off while you worked your way through residency. It helped that he was your attending and you shared the same strange hours. 

You kept the books carefully and columns balanced. Sex, sleep, the occasional terrible four a.m. meal that didn’t count because eating was maintenance, not intimacy. You never stayed for coffee — you took it to go — and you didn’t learn his middle name on purpose. You’d never seen the inside of his closet. You left before you could risk having to go to work together. A woman in trouble would linger, and you did not linger. Therefore.

But the stupid books had started running a quiet deficit you hadn’t accounted for. You knew exactly how he took his coffee. The toothbrush in the second drawer that you reached for now without looking, muscle memory in a place you’d sworn was temporary. 

And even though you could admit that Jack knew his way around you and never made you ask twice for anything in that bed, that wasn’t the line item that worried you. Bodies learned bodies. It was that you’d stopped taking your coffee to go some mornings without ever noticing the change; you’d sit at his counter with a mug that was somehow yours now, and drank it there while he read something on his phone and never told you to leave. You’d started to become a woman that lingered, and even worse, one who liked to do so.

And that had to stop, because Jack had told you point-blank what this was on the first night while you were still putting on your shirt with his mouth print blooming under the fabric.

This doesn’t have to be a thing. I’m not looking to make it one. Is that alright?

He’d said the words while putting on his briefs, and you’d agreed too fast, because at that time, it had cost you nothing. You’d wanted a body and a break, and he was offering both. He’d been more honest than any man you’d let touch you. He’d told you the terms up front and never moved them.

So, you simply had to put yourself out of the arrangement.

Jack found you by your car in the parking garage. He’d put on his coat a heavy thing that should’ve swallowed him but instead he was able to fill out almost perfectly.

“Jack,” you said, trying to find an even voice as he closed the distance between you. Before he could even ask, you forced out, “I’m not going home with you.”

His brows furrowed and he looked confused. For good reason, you supposed. Friday mornings had become sort of a usual for you, the easiest compensation in your life for missing Friday nights. 

“You good?” He stepped close and tipped his head, and you watched him give you a complete once-over, eyes dropping to your hands and the set of your shoulders like you were a patient. “You looked a little out of it today. Come — I’ll make you soup.” 

You pinched your eyes shut at his words. “What’s that even supposed to mean — I was fine.” 

“Don’t take it personal,” he said. “Come on, soup.”

“Seriously, I was fine.” You were almost offended now, which was clearly his intent, the bastard. “I’ve been awake for nineteen hours, I’m not sick —” You caught yourself getting pulled into it, defending your honor, exactly the kind of dumb circular thing you’d let him rope you into a hundred times because arguing with Jack was sometimes fun. You shut it down. “I’m not going home with you,” you said again, this time with a sharper edge. 

He pursed his lips and crossed his arms over his chest, giving you another once-over as he recaliberated the situation in real time. “Did I upset you?” 

“No, it’s not a fight,” you said fast. You dragged a hand down your face. “I’m not mad at you, Jack. I’m done with this. The whole — all of it.”

He tipped his chin down when you gestured vaguely with your finger between the two of you, at the whole abstract nature of you. Then, he said, “You’re calling it?”

“Yeah, very much,” you said, voice dropping a register as you leaned against the driver’s side door of your car. Then, when you saw how his brows furrowed and how he looked just slightly caught off-guard, you added, dumbly, “Sorry. I guess.” 

He held your eyes a long beat, something working in his mouth, and then closed the last of the distance between you. His hand came up to your jaw, and you felt your face turn to liquid as you involuntarily leaned into it; his thumb dragged slow along your cheekbone and his gaze followed it, and you stood pinned to your own cold car door and let him, because telling him to stop would mean pretending you didn’t want it, and you’d never once been able to sell that lie for either of you. 

“You mean it?” he asked, voice rough, and his forehead dropped to yours. When you nodded, he mimicked your movement. “Alright. Then let’s at least end it properly.” 

When you showed no urgency to decline, his mouth found yours before you could decide whether you trusted yourself enough to end it properly. One of his hands stayed at your jaw while the other one fitted you back against the cold of the car. He smiled against your mouth, and you used your palm to push him by the chest.

He went back, just slightly, dropping his head to your forehead again. “I’m guessing that’s a yes?”

“One time,” you said quietly, almost in a whisper. “And then I mean it. It won’t change anything.”

“I believe you,” he said. “Last time, then. Make it count.”

Jack was making it obscenely difficult for you to make it count. The rhythm you’d settled into with him at around month two — the one where the two of you skipped the drink and went straight into his bed — had disappeared tonight. He just really needed a drink tonight, and then another, and then he really didn’t want to shut his mouth. 

He poured the second one without offering you a top-up and stood at the window instead of coming to you, two fingers of amber catching the lamplight. You watched him and watched him, answering his questions until the two of you finally ended up in the bedroom. 

He’d opened his mouth to argue something and you got his belt open instead slowly, and whatever he’d been about to say faded elsewhere. The city sat out past the glass, unblinking, that audience he never drew the blinds against. His hand found your hair, resting with his thumb at your ear, almost gentle and completely fucking distracting. 

“Slow,” he murmured when you took him into your mouth, and the word came out scraped down to nothing. His head went back against the headboard. “Fuck.”

You went the opposite of slow; you knew that taking your time with it, acknowledging the last time of it all, would crack something open in your chest you couldn’t afford to have open. You did everything you knew undid him — six months of evidence, a body of proof — fast and certain, and the breath punched out of him and his fingers curled into your hair and the smug, talkative version of him went quiet for about four seconds. 

“You — huh — last time. Really?” he managed to say, fingers tightening against your scalp, the blunt fingernails scraping against the skin. You slid your tongue down his length, and he let out a short groan, letting out a wrecked, “Good girl.” His hips lifted a fraction before he caught them, forcing himself still under your hands. “Good — yeah.” 

You’d have smiled if your mouth wasn’t otherwise occupied, so you settled on humming around him. You let yourself think you’d won the quiet, and then his thumb moved against your temple slowly, and he ruined it.

“You really mean it?” he asked quietly, words aimed somewhere at the ceiling. “You’re done?”

You ignored him and kept your rhythm. It wasn’t a question you were going to dignify with him in your mouth and your resolve already pooled somewhere on his bedroom floor. 

His hands flexed in your hair at the silence, then tugged, a frustrated little pull that went straight down your spine and that he absolutely felt you react to, because his thumb pressed flat behind your ear like he was talking to your pulse there.

“Don’t go quiet on me,” he said, rasp going uneven, breath catching somewhere between the words, his whole stomach drawn tight. You watched the muscle there jump when you took him deeper as his jaw worked. “You hear me. I know you — shit.”

You’d found the underside with the flat of your tongue you slowly dragged, and the sentence collapsed. His head dropped back and your eyes caught the tendon at his throat standing out. One of his heels dug into the mattress and you felt the tremor run up his thigh under your palm. 

You’d have been lying if you said this wouldn’t be missed. Not the talking, but this, the privilege of watching Jack Abbot lose a fight with his own body, a man who controlled every room he stood in coming apart by degrees because of what you were doing. You pressed your thumb into the crease of his hip and felt him shudder. You took him to the back of your throat and swallowed and he said your name that came out of his mouth breaking. 

“You’re really gonna — ” He inhaled sharply, hand fisting tighter on your head. “ — gonna do this and walk, you’re — ”

You pulled off of him with a slow, wet, and deeply unflattering sound and sat back on your heels and looked up at him, lips swollen, thoroughly out of patience, your hand still working him just enough that his hips chased it. His eyes were closed, and he let out a large exhale.

“Are you kidding me?” 

He cracked an eye open, then shifted his head to the side against the pillow. “What?” he muttered.

“Why won’t you shut up?” You squeezed deliberately and his jaw clenched against the noise that almost got out of him. “You’re acting like a child.” 

“Acting like a child,” he huffed, head tipping back. “I’m pretty aged out of the tantrum bracket.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” You dragged your thumb up the length of him slowly. “You’ve been throwing one since we got off.”

His hand left your hair and closed around your wrist instead — the one still working him — stilling it, and then he was pulling with his unarguable strength, drawing you up over him until you had to crawl up his body or be dragged. 

You ended up straddling his waist. He stayed flat on his back beneath you, one arm folding behind his head while the other spread warm and heavy over your thigh, and he looked up at you with his chest still heaving and the gray stark at his temples. 

“Better,” he muttered. “Neck was startin’ to go, watching you be stubborn down there.” The hand on your thigh slid up slowly, settling at your hip, thumb working a lazy circle into the bone. He tilted his chin up slightly. “What’s this really about?”

You went still because you had too much of an answer, and it was the sort of one that you didn’t believe could survive being said out loud over a man who’d made it clear exactly what this was on day one. 

“You know,” you said.

“Maybe. But humor me.” His eyes stayed on your face, looking patient as ever, as the circle of his thumb continued moving. “Thought we had something nice going and now — ” He tilted his head slightly against the pillow. “So, what’s going on up in that pretty little head of yours?”

“I want more than this,” you said plainly. “That’s what’s in my head. I want the whole thing — the relationship and dates and stuff. I think I’ve got enough time to — get into that.”

“Yeah?” he said, voice coming out in a breath His thumb stilled on your hip. He looked up at you and his other hand came up and pushed a piece of your hair back off your cheek. 

You had to press your lips together, because you obviously weren’t expecting him to offer, and yet you’d been holding your breath anyway. 

“Yeah,” you said. “I do.”

His hand stayed on your cheek a moment longer, the pad of his thumb resting just under your eye. Then his hand dropped back to your hip where it was safe.

“You should,” he said after a moment, swallowing. “Get into that. You’ve got the time.”

“That’s it?”

“What do you want me to say?” His hands flexed at your hip, his hips still beneath yours and the want still humming under all of it. “Not gonna talk you out of one thing you actually deserve. Even I’m not that selfish.” His brows furrowed, like he’d just processed his own words. “Most days.”

His hand left your hip and found your waist, and then he was turning you, guiding you off of him onto the side on the mattress beside him, leaving the two of you laying facing each other in the gold dark. His thigh slid between yours. 

This close, you could see everything you usually didn't get to study: the silver threaded through the stubble at his jaw, the small white seam of an old scar through one eyebrow, the way the lines around his eyes weren't from laughing. He had one arm folded under his head and the other draped heavy over your hip, fingers spread at the small of your back, and he just looked at you, the want and the conversation both still hanging in the air between you, neither resolved.

“S’it somebody at work?” he asked. “Has to be. You don’t have time yet to meet anyone who isn’t.” 

You shook your head slightly against the pillow, and your brows furrowed together at the idea. “No — no one. I haven’t met anyone yet.” 

He huffed. His eyes dropped from yours to somewhere near your collarbone, then came back up. 

He turned his face toward the pillow for a second, as if to hide his face from you, then met your eyes again. “You’d rather have no one than me, huh?” 

“Wow,” you breathed out in almost a gasp. You pulled back an inch against the pillow to look at him properly. “Now that’s mean, Jack. I can find someone, you know.” 

“Yeah?” His brow lifted, scar catching the light. “Course you can.” His hand slid off your hip and down, palming the back of your thigh, drawing your knee up over his. “Always hear someone in the hospital talking about you.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“M’not.” He hitched your leg higher, fitting himself into the space it opened, and you felt the blunt heat of him press where you were already aching for it, rubbing slowly against your folds. “I mean it. It’s about time you got out from this old man.” 

“Don’t call yourself that.”

He dragged the length of him through you again, catching you over and over where you wanted him and not giving it. “It’s what I am. Fifty, boring life, no good to you past this.” His mouth ghosted the corner of yours, breath warm and uneven. “You should be out with someone who can give you the whole thing. I’ve already done my time.”

You could do it again, you wanted to say. You could be the whole thing. But the words sat behind your teeth, because you already knew what he’d say and do if you’d said them, and you couldn’t take hearing it kindly. Especially not with him notched against you like this when it was supposed to be the last time.

You let your hand find his jaw instead, the rough of the stubble, the silver, and you watched his eyes flicker at the touch, at how your lips moved from one side to the other as you tried to keep the words down. It seemed like he’d understood whatever you didn’t say.

“Yeah, baby,” he muttered and pressed his thumb to the back of your thigh, eyes fluttering shut at the touch of you. “I know.” 

He pushed in then, slow, all the way, mid-breath like it was just the next thing between you. The shudder rolled clean through him as he sank into you, his exhale breaking ragged against your mouth. Your spine arched off the mattress. His arm hooked under the small of your back and dragged you flush, no space left, no air, the two of you pressed chest to chest in the gold hush.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth, holding there, buried to the hilt and not moving as he felt you clench around him. “Spoiling me rotten and then telling me you’re leaving.”

“Shut up now — ”

He drew back slow and sank back in deep, and the sound you made came out somewhere against his shoulder. Each roll of his hips pressed you up the sheets. “Get me used to this and then — what? Go hand it to someone who hasn’t earned it.” He laughed brokenly against your throat. “Selfish girl.” 

You got a fistful of his hair and pulled, hard enough that his breath stuttered. “Go find — someone else yourself,” you said through your teeth, because opening your mouth seemed like something embarrassing would follow. “You’re not lacking options — ”

“But I like having my cake,” he breathed, and there was almost a laugh under it. “Eating it, too.”

“Gross,” you mumbled against him.

One month was meant to be enough time. Lying awake the first week, you’d assumed it’d take thirty days to unlearn a person. It had worked on the obvious things. You’d stopped reaching for your phone at the end-of-shift and stopped seeking him out by the lockers. You’d slept in your own bed and not found it lacking, mostly. But nobody warned you that being in a car for four hours would call it all into question. 

One month of calling him Dr. Abbot across the bay, crisp and so weightless, handing him a chart without your fingers brushing his. You’d gotten good at it. Then Robby floated the conference. Some emergency medicine thing four hours upstate;  a block of credits, a hotel with a conference rate, a chance to put PowerPoint slides between yourself and the actual work for two days. Dana volunteered the department van before anyone could think of a reason not to, already half out of her scrubs spiritually, determined to get a few days of being a person instead of a charge nurse.

Like these things usually did, the seating assembled itself, which was to say it was assembled badly. Robby drove while Dana drove shotgun. Trinity somehow won the entire back row. And the middle row was you, Dennis, and Jack. 

You in the middle, because the universe worked in fucked-up ways. In this case, the universe was named Dana.

“You’ll fit,” Dana had said, and pressed a duffel of granola bars into your arms like a consolation prize, steering you into the gap between the two men before you could mount a defense. 

You fit pressed thigh-to-thigh with Jack Abbot for four hours up interstate, his arm slung along the seatback behind you because there was genuinely nowhere else for a man his size’s arms to put it, the heat of him bleeding through your sleeve like a low fever. You knew that arm. You knew the weight of it, the places where his hand fell when it wasn’t thinking about where it fell. It was a quarter-inch from touching you, which was worse than actually touching you, and you suspected he knew that, too. 

The van pulled out of the lot at five in the morning. Dennis had his headphones in before the drive even started. Up front, Dana was already arguing with Robby about the music. Trinity was sprawled in the whole back row to herself, scrolling on her phone. 

Thirty minutes into the drive, Jack broke the seal. 

“Excited?” he asked, eyes still out the window, profile flat and bored as anything. His voice was pitched low enough that it lived in the space between his mouth and your ear and nowhere else. 

You kept your head tipped back against the seat. “More excited about sleeping in a comfortable bed than the conference.”

His brows narrowed as he turned to look at you. “Some Marriot-adjacent mattress? You’re aiming low.”

“It’s horizontal and not on-call. I’m easy to please.”

“Since when?” he drawled, bone-dry, eyes going back to the window. But his thigh had pressed a degree closer against yours, a shift you couldn’t call a thing without admitting you were keeping track. Up-front, Dana won whatever argument she’d been having and something with a heavy bassline filled the van. Jack let the noise ring and leaned half-an-inch closer that nobody would ever catch. “You used to say my sheets were scratchy.”

“For a man with that penthouse, they were scratchy — ”

“Finally,” he breathed out, satisfied, like he’d been fishing for exactly that and reeled it in. Something in his face eased and you hated, a little, how much you wanted to have done that. “I almost forgot you’d been in it.” 

God. You hadn’t forgotten anything. That was the whole problem. You knew the place, the cold floor on the way to the bathroom, the exact freckles on his chest up close. You knew he wore a ring you had never once asked about and he’d never once explained, and that you’d both kept your eyes politely off the subject the way you keep your eyes off a wound that wasn’t yours to dress. You knew all of it, and all you could do was keep promising yourself it didn’t count anymore. 

“Can we stop at the next exit?” Trinity said from the back. “I need coffee and the bathroom. In that order.”

Dana hummed. “There’s a Sheetz coming up in ten. That good?” She looked through the map on her phone. “Everybody go when we stop. We’re not pulling off twice.”

“Works for me,” Robby said. 

Dennis plugged out one of his earphones and glanced over everyone in the car. “We’re stopping?” 

“Yup,” Dana confirmed. “Bathroom, snacks, ten minutes, back in the van. Whitaker, you want anything, you decide now.” 

Dennis considered, then put his earphone back on, apparently deciding the whole thing was beneath the commitment. 

Jack leaned in from beside you, barely. “Single stall in the back of those places, you know?” he said, voice low, barely audible over the music. “There’s a lock on the door and everything.” 

You kept your eyes on the windshield in front of you. “Weird thing to know off the top of your head.”

His thigh pressed warm against yours through the curve of an off-ramp that didn’t strictly require it. “How much would it take?” His eyes flickered back out to the window, even as his shoulder now pressed up against yours. “You and me in there. Ten minutes. Name a number.”

“Can’t be bought.” You forced your eyes to the windshield. “Sorry. Not for sale.”

“No?” His voice dipped, amused. “Everybody’s got a price.”

“Not me.” You turned your head and found him already closer than he’d been a second ago. “You really think you could afford me?”

“Could take a run at it.”

“Wouldn’t get far.”

“Fifty,” he said, and you could see the slight grin crawling onto his lips. 

You let out a short laugh, then immediately pressed your mouth over your lips before it became any louder. “I don’t get out of bed for fifty dollars, Abbot, let alone on my knees.”

“Oof.” He winced, mock-wounded, dragging a hand over his chest. “Expensive date.” 

“It’s never a date with you.”

He bit his lip at that, eyes raking over you, the grin caught behind his teeth. “Right. Hundred, then.” 

“I’m gonna report you to HR. You’re my attending.” 

“Good luck with filling out the history we have for that.”

You turned to look at him, and let your mouth curl. “You really think I’m the sort of girl to do it in a gas station bathroom?”

You watched the grin go still on his face, watched his eyes drop to your mouth and drag back up, the warmth in them tipping into something darker. “Would you?” 

You scoffed, shaking your head. “In your dreams, Jack.”

“Frequently,” he said, not missing a second. “Vividly, too.” 

You leaned in enough to feel his breath catch. “Keep dreaming, then. It’s all you’re getting.” 

You sat back before he could answer, fingers playing with the seatbelt, sweet as anything.

“Christ.” He dragged a hand down over his jaw, his head tipping back against the seat and looked at you sideways through the gray morning light, and the bit fell off his face. “Missed you.”

Before you could even process the words with his attention on you, because he was who he was, his jaw worked once and looked back out the window, ending it himself before you could, handing the silence back to you to do with it what you pleased. 

Your chest squeezed just slightly at that, and you had to be the one to force yourself to look away, catching sight of Dennis’s head bumping against the window as he soundly slept, oblivious, lucky. 

At some point past the gas station you lost the fight with your own exhaustion. Nineteen hours of being awake before the drive, and the van was warm, and the bassline had mellowed into something Dana hummed underneath her breath, and the road had gone smooth — almost hypnotic — interstates often did when they’d gone out of the clutches of the city. You’d meant to stay awake. You’d made the small private rule about it, too; you went under anyway, somewhere between a stretch of dead farmland and the next, your head listing by degrees toward the warm solid thing on your left because your body, again, moving without giving a single shit about how you felt. 

When you surfaced, it happened slowly. The light had changed; it was full morning now, white and flat through the windshield. Your cheek was pressed against something that rose and fell in a long, even rhythm, and your brain took its time arriving to the fact of it. You’d fallen asleep on Jack's chest. One month clean and your face was tucked into the seam of his jacket like it had never stopped being there. 

You weren’t proud of how you didn’t want to move just yet, so you didn’t move. 

You could feel his breathing under your cheek, slow enough that he might have been asleep, too. There was a smell to him you’d made yourself forget and were now remembering, completely against your will. It was nothing fancy, just clean cotton and something warm. The Gatorade bottle you’d been clutching was in the cupholder against your knee now, and you had no memory putting it there. Which meant there was a slight chance Jack had worked it out of your sleeping hand at some point so it wouldn’t tip into your lap, and set it down. 

You cracked one eye to assess the damage to your dignity. Dennis had leaned in the same stretch of road, toward you, hood up and mouth open, gone to the world. And somewhere in all that, Jack’s arm, the long span of it along the seatback, had come down around you with his hand had ended up resting flat on the top of Dennis’s skull, holding it off your shoulder, fingers spread over the kid’s hair like a melon he was deciding whether to buy. 

You’d furrowed your brows at the arrangement, reeling, when the camera shutter went off. 

Jack came awake all at once. He always did; he was never groggy, never had a transition. It was like there was an off and on button to him, as though his nervous system had been trained somewhere that didn’t allow the luxury of waking up slowly. He clocked it in a half second: the phone, you against his chest, the unexplained weight under his own palm. He followed his arm down to where his hand was cradling a sleeping resident’s head and his face crumpled slightly. 

He smacked it off, open-palmed, off the top of Dennis’s skull. 

“Ow.” Dennis jolted awake, flailing upright, a crease pressed into his cheek from your sleeve. “What — Dr. Abbot — what —”

“Wrong shoulder, kid,” Jack said.

“I wasn’t —” Dennis took in the angle for himself and recoiled. “Sorry. God. Sorry.” 

You’d started to sit up to peel yourself off Jack’s chest and salvage some dignity to sit back into the cold neutral air of your own seat where you belonged. His palm came up to your forehead and pushed you back down against him.

“Not you,” he said. His hand stayed flat on your forehead. “You’re fine where you are.” 

You reached up and pulled his hand off your forehead, sitting up out of the warmth of him. 

“C’mon,” he said quietly, under the music, softer than a command.

You paused with your hand still around his wrist and turned to look at him full-on. He was already looking at you, none of the previous needling present in his face.

You shook your head once, a small gesture. You didn’t trust the words to come out the way they needed to, so you let your face carry it instead.

He held your eyes a second, then his jaw shifted slightly and the corner of his mouth went to a worn-down half of a smile. He gave you the smallest nod. His eyes fell shut and he tipped his head back with a small shake of his head as he eased his wrist out of your hand. 

You put your hands in your lap where they couldn’t get you in trouble, and stared out at the flat white morning coming up over the interstate, and made sure to not look at him again.

The conference threw a networking event the first evening, which meant a low-lit ball room, a cash bar charging eleven dollars for wine that came from a box, and a couple hundred physicians standing around in lanyards pretending they’d be here without the boxed wine. 

You’d lost the group almost immediately. Dana was drawn to a cluster of people she knew in a previous life; Robby to someone he’d done a residency with; Dennis to the food; Trinity to one of her college buddies. It left you working the edge of the room with a plastic cup of wine, doing a slow orbit as you read badges, when a man peeled off a nearby conversation and aimed at you.

He was older. Closer to Jack’s range, give or take. He had silver coming in at the temples and an unbothered ease that made you wonder if he’d ever had it hard. His badge put him outside Columbus. He had a good face and seemed aware of it without leaning on it, and no wear that graced his features; a man who slept fine, you assumed, and didn’t own a single thing he refused to speak about. 

“Pace yourself with that,” he said, tipping his own glass in the direction of yours. “It comes up to you pretty quickly.” 

“Bit late for that,” you said, lifting the cup up an inch. “This is already number three.”

“Then I’m too late to save you and might as well make it worse,” he said, offering a hand. “Mark. Philly. I run the shop out there.” 

You introduced yourself. He had a good handshake, dry and brief, none of the holding-on the men sometimes did at these things. 

He tipped his head to look at your badge. “Pittsburgh Trauma. You like it?”

“Most days.”

He shrugged. “Anybody who says every day is lying or hasn’t been doing it long enough.” He took a sip and let his eyes come back to your face. “Let me guess. Senior resident. Somebody made you come.” 

You were going to say something back—you had something, you’d half-built it—and then there was a hand at the small of your back. You knew the weight of it, the breadth, where the fingers fell. It settled low against your spine and stayed, warm through the dress. 

“Mark,” Jack said from beside you. He had a club soda in his free hand and an easy nothing on his face. “Jack Abbot. Pittsburgh.” 

“Jack.” Mark did a quick thing, the hand, the half-step Jack had folded into the space between you without seeming to take it, the way you hadn't stepped out from under his palm. Something recalibrated behind his face, pleasant and unhurried. He stuck the hand out anyway. “I think I’ve read you —” He referenced one of Jack’s studies you knew all too well, something he’d handed over to you once in his bed like it was a bedtime story.

“That’s me.” Jack took the handshake. His thumb moved once at your spine, where the angle hid it from the third person entirely. “Philly? You inherit the department or build it?”

“Little bit of both. Mostly inherited the problems,” he said lightly. “You enjoying the conference?” 

“It’s a conference,” Jack said, lifting his glass half-an-inch. Then, his head tilted in your direction. “You know this one’s my best trauma resident? I’d put her on anything. Watched her run a procedure last month half the seniors I came up with couldn’t have called that fast.” 

“That so?” Mark looked at you again, interest sharpened. “He doesn’t seem the type to hand those out.”

“He’s nice to everyone.” 

“She’s underselling it.” Jack’s hand spread a degree wider at your back, the heel of his palm settling into the dip of your spine, fingers easy along your hip. “You’ll be reading her name in a couple years and remembering you met her here, of all places.”

It got the laugh Jack wanted it to. Mark took a sip, easy, regrouping, and you watched him do the math the way smooth men do—fast, behind a pleasant face—and land on a play.

“Well.” He tilted the glass toward Jack. “I won’t monopolize you. I’m sure you’ve got the room to work — everybody wants a minute at these things.”

The thumb that had been moving at your back stilled, and Jack’s features crossed into something amused as he narrowed his brows at the man. 

“S’alright,” he said pleasantly. “Got everyone I need right here.” 

Mark recaliberated again, watching him take Jack’s measure one more time; the hand, the half-inch of space that hardly qualified as space. You watched him arrive to the easy conclusion that whatever was happening here had been decided before he ever walked over.

“Fair enough,” he said, setting his empty cup down at the nearest high-top. “Pleasure. Good luck with the residency.” He nodded at you, then to Jack. “Abbot.” And then he was gone, folding back into the room, off to find the next conversation that wasn’t already spoken for.

Jack’s hand was still on your back, and you stepped out from under it. You turned to face him, and felt the thing that had been climbing in you all night finally find a target.

“Why would you do that?” you asked, shaking your head and pressing your lips shut to keep yourself from saying anything more. 

“Do what?” he said mildly, the glass loose in his hand. 

“Don’t.” You kept your face arranged for the room, tamping down your voice so it wouldn’t carry over to strangers. “You know what you did. You’re not stupid.”

“I said you were good at your job.” He had the gall to look reasonable. “Becuase you are.”

“That’s not what it was and you know it — thank you.” Your jaw tightened. “You don’t get to walk over and put your hand on me when I’m talking to another man and act like — ” Your fingers moved between the two of you, a small and sharp movement. “ — like you’ve got any claim. We agreed to this a month ago.”

Jack’s lips pressed in a thin line at the words, and his eyes raked over your face. “He’d have you in his bed by ten,” he said, calmer now. “Guys like that — it’s their whole game at places like this. One night, gone by checkout. You didn’t lose anything worth keeping.” 

Your brows furrowed at that, and you felt something go hot in your neck. “Yeah?” you asked, voice going quieter. “Isn’t that what you were?” 

He looked away for a second, one hand coming up to rub over the bottom half of his face. “If you can’t tell the difference between me and a guy like that,” he said evenly, and there was something genuinely stung underneath as his eyes met yours, “then I really don’t know what to tell you.” 

“Maybe there isn’t one.”

His face twisted at that, and he let out a disbelieved laugh. “That’s how you think of me?”

“That’s not — ” You stopped, because his face had knocked something loose in you and you had no idea what you thought anymore. “That’s not what I said.” 

“It sounded a hell of a lot like it.” He shook his head. “Six months and you’re putting me next to a guy you met ten minutes ago. Alright.” 

“Jack — ”

“You wanted it, too. Okay?” When you let out a small ‘what?’ he continued, “You heard me. You’re acting like you just went along with it, and you never once asked for more either.” His voice had dropped low, and he’d walked closer to you before you even realized. “You never once asked for more until the night you walked. So don’t put it all on me.” 

“I asked,” you said, voice cracking just slightly, and you looked around the room to see if anyone was close to you. “You were the one who told me to go find someone else. You said you’re no good past what we were doing.” 

“I said it because it’s true,” he said quickly, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m not the guy you build the rest of your life around. I tried to do the decent thing.”

“Then stand on that,” you said. “You don’t get to tell me to find someone and stop it the second anyone shows up. Pick one. You don’t get to keep me in your life like this forever because you can’t stand to either let me in or go.” 

“I’m trying to do right by you,” he said roughly.

You pressed two fingers above your eyelid, shaking your head. “Why are you doing this?” You shoulders came up to your ears. “I don’t — it was never going to be us, Jack. You said so yourself. I don’t get why — I need to move on.” 

He closed his eyes at that for a moment. “I know you do,” he said quietly, the fight gone all out of him. His eyes flickered down to his hand for a second, then made a loose fist out of them. “I — can we go somewhere else?” He leaned in slightly, body stiffening up. Reading the hesitation on your face, he said, “Please.” 

You’d watched him avoid the word in a dozen rooms, so you nodded slowly and forced yourself to not look too hard at why. You couldn’t, because if you stopped to let yourself consider it, it’d make your body hurt even more, and you’d still do it. 

The stairwell was the only door on the floor that wasn’t a room or a lobby. It was fire-exit cold, raw concrete, a fluorescent light overhead. The reception came up through the floor as bass and nothing else, the words gone out of it. The door sucked shut behind you both and took the noise with it. You both walked four floors up, apparently neither of you being ready to do anything about it. And then there was simply the buzz of the bad light and Jack, six months and one month and four floors and a whole conference away from you, standing with his back to the cinderblock and his hands jammed in his pockets.

You crossed your arms and your eyes involuntarily flickered up to the ceiling because you weren’t sure you could talk. But when he let the silence drag on, too, you said, “Jack — ”

“Did you want it to be me?” he said immediately, like your voice had spurred him into action. 

“What?”

“The whole thing you said you want. Dates, the rest of it.” His body was stiff against the wall. “Was that — did you ever imagine me, or just, someone else. Someone who would.” 

You took in a shaky breath. “You.” It came out more plainly than you’d expected, like your body had been ready to be rid of it, to place it somewhere in the open. “I left because I wanted more — with you, and you made it pretty clear I could never have that.”

His hands jammed in his pockets. The light buzzed overhead, that sick fluorescent flutter, and somewhere four floors down the reception kept going, two hundred people who'd never know this was happening over their heads.

“I don’t think I can give you that,” he said.

“Okay.” You forced yourself to nod, and your eyes went hot. “Thanks for telling me that, then.”

He raised a palm just enough that it caught in your eyesight. “I didn’t — didn’t say I never wanted to. Don’t think that.” He tilted his neck up to meet your eyes properly. “Wanting you that way wasn’t hard. I’ve been doing that against my own advice the entire time.”

He'd come off the wall a step without seeming to know he'd done it, and his face had lost the arrangement it usually wore, the bored set of it, and underneath was something you'd caught glimpses of and never the whole of. His eyes shifted to the wall, the stenciled number, anywhere but you.

“I did years of this already. And it ended about as badly as it could end.” He laughed wryly, no humor in it. “I stopped letting myself want things — I thought it’s a lot easier to get through a night if there’s nothing you’d be hurt to lose.” His muscles tensed on his face, the lines deepening as he pinched his eyes shut and shook his head. “Feels like I’m losing you, and it hurts like hell.” He looked up at the ceiling. “I don’t know when it happened. It wasn’t meant to.”

You pressed a finger against the underside of your eye then, determined to catch anything that could possibly leak out. 

“But you don’t know if you can do it,” you said, words coming out shakily. 

He tugged his bottom lip between his teeth and shook his head slowly. “No,” he said honestly, and it was worse than any lie he could’ve told. “I don’t know.”

You nodded again, because there was nothing else for you to do. 

“But — but, I don’t wanna lose what I’ve got with you,” he admitted, voice dropping into something shameful. “I know that the nights you’re not on are longer. And if I can’t have you, I want you to know you do that for me. It started being pretty serious a long time ago — for me, too.” 

The light fluttered overhead and you let the finger drop from under your eye, gave up on holding it, let whatever wanted to come just come. Somehow, they were words you’d always wanted to hear and yet they arrived wrong, off-rhythm. You’d kept careful track of everything he wouldn’t give you, a whole running tally of it, and he'd just gone and paid the entire balance in one breath in the worst-lit room, and the awful part — the part that made your blood run even hotter — was that it counted. It counted, anyway. 

“So what do we do with that?” you said. “I don’t — I don’t know where that leaves us.”

He was quiet for a moment. You watched him sit in the question instead of dodging it, which was new, which was maybe the most he’d ever given you in one night.

“I’d want to try,” he said finally, words careful, like he was setting something down that might break. “Not the old way. I mean the other thing. What you wanted.” He let out a breath. “If you still want it. I wasn’t very great the first time, and I’m out of practice, too.” 

You wiped your cheek, and winced as you felt your hand scrub at your skin a little too roughly. “You were okay with it a month ago — ”

“It hurt,” he said immediately. “It hurt, you walking out. I didn’t have anything better than to let you, but don’t — don’t think it didn’t.” 

He moved when you didn’t respond, stepping closer than the conversation needed. His hands came up and settled at your arms, just below the shoulders, loose, holding you in place or holding himself there, you couldn't tell which, maybe both.

“Let me try,” he said roughly. His thumbs moved once against your arms. “I want to learn this with you.”

You looked up at him. He held it — your eyes, the closeness, all of it — instead of glancing off the way he had all night. You realized distantly that this was a sort of contract you’d be signing, and he was laying out the option for you to not do so. 

“You can’t disappear on me,” you said instead of considering the second option, “when it gets hard. I don’t ever want to feel like I made up something I didn’t.”

He nodded stiffly. “If I do, you can drag me back out.”

His forehead came down, to the top of your head, his chin resting in your hair, his arms folding the rest of the way around you like he'd finally run out of reasons not to. You felt him breathe out, the whole tense length of him going down an inch against you.

“Just let me try,” he said again, into your hair, voice a whisper. “Please. I’m asking. I don’t do that a lot.”

tags — @emmdreams @shoulderpress

When Andrew Cody first asked you on a date, you had been hesitant to accept.  Because, well, he was a Cody. And everyone who lived in Oceanside knew what that meant. Blood money, guns, and danger. Pope especially was known as a loose cannon. But you had ultimately accepted, and the small smile that graced his face was enough to tell you that maybe you could take a chance on him. So you did. He picked you up at your apartment, hands nervously wringing together and eyes wide and unsure, helping you into his truck and looking at you with disbelief, like he wasn’t actually sure you were real. It was the same look that he donned when you eloped a few years later, looking at you with adoration from the other end of the small altar (it was really a pop-up table in the middle of a park, but it served its purpose). 

And, truly, you couldn’t believe he was real either. Andrew was such a provider. You knew what he did for work, and you had your objections at first, but after you got married, he scaled back. He only did jobs that he wanted to do, planned by his brothers, and never involving his mother. You didn’t see them much, only occasionally when Deran and Craig decided to come visit. Smurf decided to cut her losses after Andrew had made a stand against her, very clearly choosing you and your new life together over whatever nightmare of manipulation she curated. You were so proud of Andrew for taking control of his life. He had bought a property in the country after learning you were pregnant, citing the need for your kid to be able to explore nature and run as much as they wanted. He was such a good father, staying home while you worked your job, and providing for his family in every way imaginable. Groceries? Covered. Bad day at work? Bath and herbal tea ready. Gas? Your car was always full. Hell, your son, even though he was only a year old, was already on the waitlist for the most prestigious pre-school in the area. Over the years, Andrew had built a life for himself outside of simply being his family’s attack dog. He hadn’t softened, per se, but he allowed himself to relax. At least a little.

You looked out the window of your kitchen with fondness. Andrew was sitting on a blanket in your yard, holding your son in his lap and bouncing him absent-mindedly. A bird flew past and he leaned down to his eye level, pointing it out. Your son giggled and your smile widened further, if that was even possible. You grabbed the soda you had come in for and quickly walked back outside. It was nearing the end of summer, and while the sun still warmed your skin, you could feel the chill of the approaching night starting to nip at your neck. You pulled your sweater tighter around your torso as you handed Andrew the can and settled down next to him. 

“Thanks,” he popped open the tab and took a sip before setting it down carefully in the grass. The blanket faced the mountains and you watched as the sun painted them a warm golden-pink color. You rested your head on Andrew’s shoulder and sighed. “Rough day?” He hummed, leaning his head against yours. Your son crawled out of Andrew’s lap and picked fist-fulls of grass from the lawn. You both watched him with soft smiles. 

“Yea,” you confirmed “That one client is being really difficult. And of course, because I’m in a senior position, I have to figure out a way to make him accept the offer.” Andrew’s fingers intertwined with yours and brought your knuckles to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your hand. 

“He’s an asshole.”

“Andrew.” You gestured to your son, who was trying to grab a stick off the ground. Andrew huffed with amusement.

“He doesn’t understand what I’m saying.”

“I don’t want his first word to be a swear.” You murmured and your husband pressed a kiss to your temple. 

“M’sorry, you’re right.” A pause and a smirk. “It’s gonna be ‘dada’.” You rolled your eyes. You had had this conversation multiple times.

“You wish,” You scoffed “He’s mama’s boy, aren’t you?” Your son turned to look at you with a giggle and crawled into your lap. You wrapped him in your arms and pressed a kiss to his forehead. He was only a year old, but he already looked so much like Andrew. His hair was auburn and starting to curl against his neck. You were hesitant to take him for his first haircut, it was growing out so beautifully. Freckles spattered across his nose and his big, brown eyes looked up at you with the same expression as his father: like you had hung the moon and stars in the sky. 

“I thought I was your boy,” Andrew pouted, nuzzling into your cheek. You turned and bumped your nose against your husband’s.

“You are,” You confirmed softly. “Always.”

═ ═ ═ ╰☆╮ ═ ═ ═

The past year had been rough. After returning to work after maternity leave, you were plunged into new projects. You had thought your coworkers were being polite when they said they couldn’t function without you, but apparently they had been telling the truth. Somehow, in the span of twelve short weeks, your company had managed to piss off the owner of the biggest account. And when you came back, your boss had come in and practically begged on her hands and knees for you to help reign him back in. It was all you could think about for the past seven months. He was unmoving, stubborn, ‘old-school’. Most of your waking hours were spent concocting ways to perform damage control. Including the time in your bedroom, when you were supposed to be blissed-out at the hands of your husband. 

Andrew had been between your thighs for forty-three minutes. You had checked the clock on your nightstand. Forty-three minutes of your husband’s tongue pistoning in and out of your core, swiping along your folds and suckling on your clit, rutting himself against the mattress to provide relief to his strained erection. Usually, you would have been gone by now. Multiple times. And yet, not a lick of an orgasm curled in your abdomen. It didn’t feel bad, but the stimulation wasn’t catching and your arousal simmered instead of its usual burning intensity. You were too in your head, thinking about deadlines and marketing strategies and your son’s doctor’s appointment next week. Life weighed heavy on your mind and left no room for pleasure. You had told Andrew after twenty minutes that it probably wasn’t going to happen, but he had insisted that he knew you could do it. You appreciated his dedication. In all the years you had been together, he never allowed himself to cum unless you had first. But you could tell he was getting tired. He paused every so often to stretch his jaw, using his fingers to stimulate you instead. And his cock looked painfully hard, stretching the fabric of his boxers so much that you could see the veins. He wouldn’t give up without a fight and, honestly, you just wanted him to cum so you could cuddle up next to him and get some sleep. It was already past eleven. So, you did the only thing that made sense at the moment. You decided to fake an orgasm. Not for the first time in your life, but definitely the first time with Andrew. After a particularly harsh suck to your clit, your hand tangled in his hair. You pressed your thighs a bit tighter around his face. Andrew’s eyes flicked open to look up at you, excitement and accomplishment flashing in the hazel circles. He had finally been able to get you to climb up the peak. He knew you could do it. He focused, swirling his tongue in the same way that had ignited you, keeping eye contact. You knew you wouldn’t be able to fake it if he was looking at you like that so you turned your head to the side and screwed your eyes shut. And, to his credit, it felt wonderful. Just not enough to actually banish the stress from your mind. 

“Fuck, Andrew,” You gasped, bucking up into his face like you normally did. “I’m gonna…” You weren’t. But you clenched your thighs tight and forced your lower body to convulse, clenching your walls around his fingers and letting out a shaky breath and a small moan. Andrew let out a whine as you rode his mouth, hips sputtering against the mattress as he came in his boxers. You watched the wet patch grow and it shot a bit more arousal down your spine. It wasn’t a total loss. You forced yourself to breathe heavily and wiped your forehead with a palm. Andrew pulled back from you hesitantly. You met his gaze and found a subtle confusion crinkling his brow. He licked his lips and clenched his jaw, like he was trying to figure something out. You thought you gave a good performance. His lips parted like he was going to ask something, but you pulled him into a kiss before he had the chance to. You kissed him with as much passion as you could muster, but it only made his brows furrow deeper. Okay, maybe you weren’t usually that greedy immediately after a mind-shattering orgasm, but you felt a little guilty about the ordeal and wanted to show him some appreciation. Andrew pulled away after a while and muttered something about getting cleaned up. He disappeared into the bathroom with his pajama pants. You saw him staring into the mirror for a few moments, blinking hard and clenching and unclenching his fists. His lips twitched with silent words. You called out to him softly, which broke his trance. He gave you a small smile and closed the door. You heard the shower turn on. You thought you’d gotten away with it. But you truly underestimated how obsessed with you your husband was, enough to have memorized and catalogued every single noise you made when you squirmed beneath him. Those moans weren’t real, and Andrew knew it.

═ ═ ═ ╰☆╮ ═ ═ ═

Andrew sat on a bench in front of the seal habitat. The stroller rested beside him, cover pulled over as his son dozed through the afternoon. Andrew took him to the local aquarium every Thursday. He had a season pass. It was their bonding time out of the house. Andrew was always surprised by the amount of noise your son could sleep through, but he still chose the quietest spot he could find to make sure Little Man actually got his naps in. That spot was beneath an overhang overlooking the harbor seal pool. Andrew watched the sausage-shaped mammals glide back and forth through the water. He liked them. You sometimes joined them on their aquarium adventures and you always said the seals reminded you of Andrew. Apparently they had the same ‘big, wet eyes,’ whatever that meant. He was glad that it was nap time, because he had a lot to think about. He leaned forward on his knees and pressed his thumb into his palm, rubbing in little circles, as he let his eyes glaze over. 

It had been three days since The Incident, but it was still all he could think about. Those manufactured moans. The spasms you pretended were an orgasm, but your walls didn’t flutter around his fingers like they usually did. He was hurt, actually, that you thought he hadn’t noticed. How could he not notice the difference when the feeling of you coming undone around him was his favorite sensation in the world? When he had made it his life’s mission to melt you with his tongue? His wife faked an orgasm. For him. You had told him gently that you weren’t feeling it, but he had been so confident in his abilities that he promised you. And he had failed. The thought made his stomach tumble and he pressed his lips together because he genuinely thought he was going to be sick. What was worse- he actually came. He experienced release and you didn’t. His selfish act made his skin crawl. He should’ve just held back, gone to bed with you after you told him it wasn’t going to happen. But no. His stupid ego got in the way. An ego that was, apparently, unfounded.

It didn’t make sense to him. You had never faked an orgasm before. He knew that was a fact. So what was different? Andrew ran over the events of the past months in his mind. The only big change was that you had started the new account project. He knew you were stressed, he had tried his very best to help you unwind. You were staying later, getting called in on weekends. And to be fair, you never seemed thrilled to take time out of your domestic bliss with Andrew and your son. But recently, there had been a slight shift. When your phone rang, you didn’t grumble as much. You actually looked excited to go into work. You had mentioned that you got a new team member who was really helping you with ideas. Some guy from Harvard business. He began to connect the dots. Andrew’s stomach sank and the color drained from his face. Had you found someone else? Was Mr. Harvard the reason you were a touch happier in the mornings and worked longer days? Because you were about to see him at work and spend time with him? Did you…love him? Andrew’s hand began to hurt with the force he pressed his thumb into his palm. He always knew this day would happen eventually. That you would realize you could do so much better than some broken man whose resume was written in blood. Andrew had allowed himself to think that, maybe, after your son was born, that meant he was yours forever. That you actually wanted him around. Sure, you said it all the time, but he thought you had meant it. How could he be so stupid? The beratements spilled from his mind, echoing the words of Smurf and everyone else who had mocked him throughout his life. 

The only saving grace from his spiraling thoughts was a small babbling sound from the stroller. Andrew’s eyes snapped to it. Your son had woken up. Andrew took a deep breath and pressed his eyes together, willing away any remnants of his mental drowning. He put on a smile as he pulled back the cover. He was met with the groggy, chubby face of the best thing that ever happened to him. Second best, actually, behind you. 

“Hey there, little man.” He whispered, picking him up from the stroller and placing his feet on his thighs. The baby grinned widely and Andrew’s heart clenched. He had your smile. The way his cheeks pulled up and his eyes crinkled slightly at the edges was the same expression you bore when Andrew did something unintentionally hilarious. You used to wear it all the time, but he realized at that moment it had been a few weeks since he got a smile that wasn’t exhausted. Andrew swallowed and pulled his son tight against his chest, like if he let go the universe would take him away, too. After a few moments, the baby started to fuss. It was time to go. Andrew packed up the stroller and wheeled it out of the aquarium. After your son was all secured in his car seat, Andrew got into the car and sat there for a moment. He looked out at the parking lot and saw two ducks walking together. He began to cry. 

═ ═ ═ ╰☆╮ ═ ═ ═

You hummed as you worked around the kitchen. The heavenly aroma of apple cobbler filled the air. It was your first night off in a while, and you were enjoying the rare family dinner time. Jeremy, the new hire to your team, was an excellent problem solver and exactly what the project needed. He brought a fresh perspective and the client actually listened to him, which was a nice change of pace from his usual outbursts. You had thrown yourself into your work to get all the loose ends tied up as quickly as possible. You were excited to have this additional project off your plate so you could spend more time at home with Andrew and your son.

Andrew had been tense for the past few days. Deran had called him, proposing a job. Something simple, just stealing a few cars from a dealership. And yet Andrew emanated stress like he was about to rob a Las Vegas casino. He never got you too involved with the plans, for your own safety, but something about this job seemed different. Andrew seemed different. He had approached you as he usually did, in the bathroom before bed, him scrubbing his face and you brushing your teeth. He had told you that Deran called him. That’s all he said- all he needed to. And the next morning, when he said he was going “shopping” (his term for conducting surveillance) you had responded as you normally did, leaning in to kiss him and telling him to be safe. But he shifted from you, your lips only catching his cheek. Odd, no doubt, but to be fair the baby monitor had squeaked to life at the same moment and Andrew had hurried to check on your son. You brushed it off as an awkward exchange and nothing more. But…what if it was something more? Planning a job was stressful, and Andrew enjoyed taking out his stress on you. Or, more specifically, he enjoyed getting out his pent-up energy by bending you over the counter and pounding into you while he stuck his tongue in your mouth. And he had pent-up energy. He carried it in his shoulders- a small hunch that told you he was overthinking details and running through possibilities in his mind. But the second part never came, even though you were extremely ready for it. In fact, you hadn’t had sex in weeks. The only action you’d gotten was when you had to fake that orgasm. And it annoyed you. The strings of sexual frustration were beginning to pull tight. You felt it in your stomach, the deep need to be close to your husband. You were tired of waiting. So, you decided to bake something. Andrew loved to see you in your domesticity, cooking for him, folding laundry, bouncing your son on your hip. It did something to him, reminded him that he could be normal. Beneath your clothes, you wore a black lacey bra and panty set. The set that Andrew had bought you for your anniversary. One of his favorites. 

Andrew sat at the table, wiping the spaghetti sauce from your son’s chubby cheeks. You scooped a portion of cobbler into a bowl and placed a spoon in it. You walked around the counter, making a point of swaying your hips. Andrew noticed. You set the bowl down in front of him and placed a hand on his shoulder, allowing it to slightly dip onto his chest. You pressed a kiss to his cheek. You could feel the increased warmth of his skin on your lips. 

“Enjoy,” You hummed, nuzzling your cheek against his. “I’m going to put him to bed.” You lowered your voice. “I’ll be waiting for you.” A little heavy handed, sure, but you were tired of waiting for him to make the first move. It wasn’t long before you were laying on your bed, only in the lingerie piece, awaiting Andrew. When he walked in and saw you, his breath hitched slightly. He paused in the doorway, blinking hard and swallowing. His hand fiddled with the seam of his pant leg. Your head rested in your hand, allowing your breasts to spill out of your bra and your spine to curve in a way that showed off your ass. Andrew took a deep breath and held it, walking to the side of the bed and crawling beneath the covers. You watched his eyes slowly drag down your form, gaze lingering on the swell of your chest and the curve of your hips. He tentatively reached out to your face, fingers brushing the skin of your jaw. You closed the distance, capturing his lips in a deep kiss. Andrew let out a little moan, gripping your jaw and pressing his face into yours. Excitement bloomed in your chest. Finally. Your hand snaked around his neck, burying your fingers in his hair and scratching lightly against his scalp. Andrew’s hand drifted from your jaw down to your neck to your collarbone. Your heart fluttered against your sternum. His fingers were so close to brushing your nipple, to giving you any form of pleasurable stimulus. 

Andrew pulled back abruptly, like he had just remembered something. His eyes flickered between yours, searching. He didn’t find his answer, only confusion, and his gaze hardened. He retracted his hand and pulled the covers over his bottom half, covering his erection. 

“The cobbler was good,” he said, voice raspy but quiet. “I’ve…got an early day tomorrow.” He nodded, like he was convincing himself, and turned over and flicked the light off. The rejection punctured your chest cavity. Your legs went numb and embarrassment climbed up your spine and settled in your throat. Oh. Okay. You mumbled out a ‘goodnight,’ but you weren’t sure that Andrew even heard you. You pressed your face into the pillow and stared into the dark room. Fuck. Something was wrong.

═ ═ ═ ╰☆╮ ═ ═ ═

The door clicked open. It was the night of the car job, and you had been sitting on the couch, slipping in and out of sleep while you waited for Andrew to come home. You always did, just in case. In your mind, the day you went to bed and assumed he would come home safely would be the day that the unthinkable happened. You would gladly endure a bit of tiredness the next morning if it meant being able to fall asleep next to your (still alive) husband. The sound of the door immediately roused you from your dozing. You were on your feet the moment Andrew stepped through the door. He was wearing all black and a backwards baseball hat. The sight almost made you giggle. You crossed the room and wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him into a hug. 

“Hey,” was all he said, arms loosely draping over your lower back. Annoyed at his lack of enthusiasm, you pressed your body further into his. 

“How did it go?” You murmured into his ear, pulling back and giving him a kiss on the forehead. Andrew shrugged. Your brow furrowed. He didn’t like to discuss the gory details, but you usually got more than that. He waited until you released him to slip past you and down the hallway. You followed him to the bathroom, not unlike a lost puppy. He looked at his hands under the light. His knuckles were bruised and there were small cuts on the back of his hands. “What happened?” 

“Had to break a window,” He murmured in that monotone voice that you could never decipher. Andrew struggled to bend one of his fingers to grab the gauze from the medicine cabinet above the sink.

“Here,” You offered, reaching out for his hand. But he pulled it away from you. Okay. That was it. You set your jaw and crossed your arms over your chest. “What is wrong with you?” You bit out “You’ve been acting weird for the past, like, month and I’m getting tired of it.” 

“That’s just my personality,” He huffed humorlessly. You met his gaze in the mirror. He wasn’t just looking at you, he was staring at you. Really, truly trying to bore into your mind and get a glance at your thoughts. There was a slight darkness to his gaze, so unlike the way he always looked at you, that it made tears prick at your eyes. 

“I mean it,” your voice wavered slightly. “We haven’t…I feel so far away from you Andrew. Please, talk to me. D-Did I do something wrong? Is it something physical? Do you not…think I’m, like…pretty? Anymore? Or is it something I said?” Andrew sighed and pressed his eyes together, his hands gripping the side of the sink and lowering his head between his shoulders. You gave him a few moments, but he didn’t say anything. “Please,” you begged softly, “Please talk to me.”

“What’s his name?” His voice is so soft, like if he said it any louder he would shatter. 

“Who’s name?” 

“The man you’re leaving me for.” Andrew’s gaze lifted again and you saw the pain in his eyes. Raw and unfiltered. He braced for your response. You just blinked at him. “You found someone else, right? Someone…better? That’s why…” He swallowed, muscle under his eye twitching, looking down at his feet. His voice cracked when he spoke. “That’s why you faked it last time? Because I’m not as good as he is?” Your jaw dropped and your eyes widened. 

“Wh-What?” You were truly dumbfounded. Never in your life would you have thought Andrew would be able to tell, let alone come to that conclusion. “No,” You reached out for him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Thankfully, he allowed you. You curled your other hand around his arm. “Andrew, I would never, ever do that to you. I love you so much. I’ll only ever love you.” You assured him, eyes wide and pleading. “And the faking it? It…it was a one-time thing.” You let out a small chuckle. “Honestly, I’m impressed you could tell. I was just so stressed and you were trying so hard. I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

“So you’re not leaving me?” Andrew’s eyes lightened a bit, but his mouth was still pressed together, as if he was debating whether or not to believe you.

“Never.” You confirmed, nuzzling your face against his shoulder and pressing a kiss against his shirt. “You’re stuck with me. Until death do us part. And even then, I’m going to haunt you.” You waved your ring finger at the mirror, your wedding ring catching the light. A faint smile twitched at Andrew’s lips. He turned and pulled you into a hug, pressing his lips to the crown of your head. 

“I’m sorry I’ve been acting odd. I was just worried, I guess. I just…I still can’t believe that you chose me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’ll never have to find out.” You pressed a kiss to his lips. You had meant for it to be gentle, reassuring, but Andrew immediately deepened it, running his tongue along your bottom lip. His hands drifted down to your hips and tugged you closer to him, pressing his thigh between your legs. The kiss got sloppy fast and when Andrew pulled back, his lips were puffy and red. His eyes held a glint of amusement and the simmering arousal you had missed so deeply.

“I’m a little hurt, you know,” He muttered, running a thumb over your cheek “That you think that’d work on me. When I know what makes you tick.” You were about to protest that your performance wasn’t that bad, but you were quickly silenced by the feeling of him dragging you against his thigh, the ridge of his hard cock rubbing sweetly against your fast-dampening folds.

Suddenly, you were on the bed, fully naked, with Andrew kissing down your navel. Your skin was on fire, and you squirmed beneath him. You could feel every pulse of your heart throughout your body, but it culminated between your thighs. It was a hammering need and you kept murmuring ‘please’s while Andrew took his sweet time getting down to his prize. When you felt his mouth on yours, a firework of pleasure fizzled in your abdomen. His tongue was warm and wet and prodded at your opening. His nose bumped at your clit and his hands pulled you further against him. Your eyes fluttered open to the sight of him between your thighs, pupils blown, hair slightly sweaty, and bloody knuckles gripping onto the soft flesh of your thighs like if he let go you’d disappear. You moaned, high pitched and needy, at the scene. God he was so fucking hot. And he was all yours. Andrew lapped at your cunt like a man starved, and he was. Usually he liked to taste you every night, and the weeks-long drought had driven him to the edge of madness. A fact that made itself known in the way that he devoured you. Andrew’s lips suckled on your clit as he pushed his two middle fingers inside you to the knuckle. You gasped when you felt the cool metal of his wedding band slip between your walls. He curled his digits into you, immediately finding the spot that made your toes curl and your back arch into the bed. Andrew was relentless, lapping at your pussy and stroking your walls vigorously. It wasn’t long before you felt the tingling tightness of your orgasm building. It started with a catch deep in your core and built from there, spreading until it shook your legs and consumed your brain. Your eyes pressed together and your mouth fell open. It hit you hard. Your legs shot closed around Andrew’s face, practically drowning him in your cunt as you rode his face for every ounce of pleasure you could get from it. A moan tore from your throat as you hurtled over the edge, walls clamping on his fingers and breath coming out in short pants. Andrew rode it out, hips involuntarily humping against the mattress in time with the way you bucked against his face. When you came back down to earth, your vision was a little blurry and your legs were shaking. Quite possibly the most intense orgasm of your life. Andrew pulled away from you and you looked down at him, breathing still uneven. He sucked on his fingers and shook his head.

“Can’t believe you thought I couldn’t tell the difference,” He growled, crawling over you and pressing his lips against yours. The kiss was sloppy and consuming, the mixture of your saliva and juices running down both yours and Andrew’s chins. He slipped his arm behind your back and rolled you over on top of him. You pressed yourself up and planted your palms on his chest. When you sunk down on his cock, Andrew watched you take every inch. He rested his head against the pillows only when he had bottomed out. You gave an experimental roll of your hips and Andrew caught his bottom lip between his teeth. He watched, unblinking, as you found your rhythm. He looked up at you with wide eyes, gaze moving from your face to the way your breasts bounced as you rode him. You loved when he looked at you like that. Not appraising, but adoring. So caught up in the impossibility that you were actually allowing him to help you feel good. One of his hands settled loosely on your abdomen, fingers brushing the outside of your hip while his thumb stroked your clit. It was more to keep you steady than actually helping you glide along his length. His other thumb went to your mouth, pressing against your lips. You opened readily and sucked around his finger. He used the newly-wettened pad of his thumb to rub circles around your nipple. You gasped and dug your nails into his chest.

“Yea, you like that?” He breathed, pinching the hardened bud between his fingers. You moaned and nodded, picking up your pace. You slammed yourself down on his cock, letting out little gasps every time the head brushed against your cervix. Andrew just laid there in awe, rubbing against you and helping you build to your next orgasm. “Please cum for me,” He whined “Need to feel it. M’so close. Use me. Use me to get yourself off. That’s it.”

“Fuck, Andrew,” You praised, voice shaky. The edges of your brain were starting to blur again, but you wanted to make sure he heard your words. “Feels s’good. You take such good care of me.” Andrew bit down harder on his lip and began rutting up into you frantically. “I love you so much.”

“Cum with me,” he pleaded. And you did. Your body went limp as another orgasm crashed through you. Your pussy spasmed around his cock and you squeezed your walls around him, milking him for everything he had. Andrew spilled inside you only moments later, face twisted up with ecstasy and small gasps puffing from his lips. You collapsed onto him, nuzzling your face into his neck. Andrew’s arms were around you instantly, pulling you impossibly close into his chest. You felt so full of him. His cum dribbled out of you and cooled on your thighs while the pressure of his hug soothed you. Your hearts beat rapidly against each other and you laid together until they both returned to their normal rhythms. Andrew pressed kisses to your forehead and petted your head. “I love you so much,” He whispered. You smiled against his chest and he felt it. “I mean it. You’re my everything. All I want to do is to take care of you. Always. If you’re not feeling it one night, just tell me. I don’t want you to think you have to perform for me. Okay?” You nodded. “Promise me.” You lifted your head and kissed him slowly, fingers finding the hair at the base of his neck.

You make a show of dropping your purse on the kitchen counter, making your way to the fridge to pull out a bottle of water instead. Phoebe still doesn’t move, not even an inch. It’s from across the lounge that Jack has to stifle a laugh by pursing his lips, angling his head so he’s not staring at the back of Phoebe’s outfit. 

He doesn’t interfere, finds it quite amusing to watch the way Phoebe stubbornly tries to take control of your parenting. It’s like she’s waiting you out, like she knows it’s a matter of time before you cave and just let her go out in what she’s chosen. 

In any other instance, maybe you would. Pick your battles and all that. But not when it's roasting hot outside and she won’t be able to breathe. Phoebe isn’t the only stubborn one in this apartment. She got it from someone, and that someone is you. 

Jack watches in amusement as you sit at the kitchen island and take a sip from your water bottle, the silence so loud he’s worried that if he even breathes out a laugh, this frustration and stubbornness on both of your sides will then be directed at him. 

But five minutes pass. Then ten. And neither you nor Phoebe have moved. 

“Jack, if you’d like to go and get ice cream without us, go ahead.” You speak in a feigned, professional tone. The sound of it quirks Jack’s brow, but it still doesn’t make Phoebe move.

He cranes a neck to look around her, to meet your gaze. You nod your head to Phoebe, eyes wide and brows raised, a silent command for him to try instead. It causes a ruckus of movement in his stomach at the suggestion, at the approval from you to do so. 

But Jack doesn’t exactly have a whole lot of experience with disciplining stubborn kids, so he swallows thickly when he approaches the table to stand in front of Pheebs instead of behind her. 

“Diva,” he regards her softly, though there's a kink in his tone that she’s never heard from him before. One that holds something like authority.

Her head twitches, but ultimately, she ignores him like she’s ignored you. 

With a sigh, Jack leans down with his legs spread, his eyes level with hers, palms resting on his lower thighs. “Spider-Girl…”

Phoebe, the little shit, turns her head to look at him fully at that. Jack can just about make out the blinking of her eyes beneath the mesh mask as she shifts in her Spider-Man costume. 

“I know you wanna save the city, kid. But, it's too hot today for you to wear this outside.” 

You watch the interaction with squinted eyes and a racing heart. Jack is soft when he speaks with her, gentle yet firm enough that she knows not to argue with him the way she will with you. 

“Peter Parker doesn’t wear his Spidey stuff every day and he still manages to save people without it, right?” 

Her head dips until her chin is pressed to her chest. “I guess so.” Her words are muffled through the fabric of the mask. 

Jack hums, like he understands her upset and inner turmoil. “So, why don’t we change into something else? Maybe a pretty dress like Mommy? Or some shorts like me? Plus, you don’t wanna spill ice cream down your Spidey outfit.” 

It’s with a heavy sigh that Phoebe pinches the mask at the top of her head and pulls it off. Her cheeks are flushed red, hair an unruly mess despite you fixing it just an hour ago. Jack grins at her, stands back at his full height and tenderly smoothes down her wanton strands like he’s slicking them. 

You watch the exchange, heart lodged in your throat at how easy it is between them—how natural he is with her, how quickly they understand each other. Phoebe jumps down from the coffee table and trudges back into her bedroom to change and you watch Jack watch her go. 

Quietly, you stand and approach him and Jack meets your gaze with hesitancy. 

“Was that okay?” He asks lowly. 

Your bottom lip is sucked into your mouth as you nod your head, wrapping your arms around his broad waist when you reach him. “Uhuh,” you hum, pressing your lips to his slowly. 

Jack kisses you gently, slowly, lets his tongue swipe against yours only once before he pulls away with a crooked grin. 

“Yeah?” His tone is suggestive, amused, and you both love and hate how easily he can read you. 

That he knows you liked watching him step just slightly into the threshold of parenthood, that it rattled you a little to watch him be so respectful and kind but authoritative at the same time. That you liked how natural it was for him, how easily Phoebe listened. 

You roll your eyes at him but the act is nothing but fond and affectionate. 

You’ve felt much braver, secure, since your talk at the beginning of the week. Since Jack told you he was happy that Phoebe had been calling him your boyfriend. Since you became his girlfriend.

He’s been touchier since. Given, you’ve only been able to see him yesterday and now, but there’s a noticeable change between you both; in your actions and in the air. The hesitancy when reaching for one another is gone, no more reservations or timid uncertainty. 

And you love it. 

You love even more when Phoebe runs down the hall in a summer dress and twirls around, when Jack offers her a dramatic applause and then bows at the waist like a Jester would to his Queen. 

“You are an absolute fashionista, Pheebs.” He compliments, your daughter's grin stretching wider across her face. 

The sight of her unbridled joy does something sinister to Jack’s chest. He knows the sensation of self-sabbotage far too well, knows he’s beginning to get stuck in his head with guilt and shame for playing happy families.

He feels a sense of betrayal to his wife. Even though he knows she would want him to move on and find happiness again, even though he visited her just yesterday morning after shift and sat with her for hours. 

Talking, reminiscing, apologizing for beginning to fall for someone who wasn’t her. Explaining that he isn’t sorry for meeting someone new, he isn’t sorry for how deeply he feels for both you and Phoebe, but that he’s wholly and irrevocably distraught because he knows he’s truly moving forward from her. 

He sat and cried when he admitted to her gravestone that he no longer wears his ring on his finger, but that he keeps it on a chain close to his heart instead. And when a gentle breeze caressed his face right after, he let himself believe that Mary was there with him; soothing him, silently accepting his words and praising him for finding happiness. 

Despite how much lighter he’s been feeling today… there’s still that stab of guilt that lodges in his throat. Only briefly, not long enough for you to notice a change, but it’s there. Jack knows it’s there. 

He blinks it back when you smother suncream across every inch of Phoebe’s exposed skin, cracks a smile when she grimaces and whines when you smear it across her entire face and accidentally forces her to taste some of it. 

And when you’re out on the streets, with Pheebs walking between you; a hand in yours and a hand in Jack’s, he feels that gentle breeze caressing his face again. Tender and warm, most likely just the sun, but his shoulders ease at the feeling of it. 

At the thought of Mary supporting him. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

After ice cream and a quick trip to the park, you all make your way back to the apartment —Phoebe on Jack’s back and you following close behind, sneakily snapping photos of them together. 

It’s sly when Jack winks at you when you’re in the elevator and Pheebs is too busy blowing kisses to herself in the mirror that encases the back wall. You stifle a laugh at the sight, stepping into Jack’s side and he instinctively wraps an arm around your shoulder to keep you close. 

“Hey, Diva?” Jack calls her softly. 

She perks up at the name, turns to him with raised brows and an expectant expression. Jack rolls his lips between his teeth in amusement before speaking. “You wanna meet someone?” 

You frown to yourself as you look at him, unsure who he’s referring to and why he wouldn’t run something like this by you first. But he squeezes your shoulder in a silent form of reassurance as the doors open on your floor. 

“Are they nice?” She questions with a frown and Jack barks out a laugh.

Instead of turning left to your apartment, Jack turns you both right with Phoebe skipping ahead, like she already knows 

“Yeah, she’s friendly.”

You blink as a smile curls its way into the corners of your mouth, piecing together just who exactly Jack is talking about. Phoebe stops outside Jack’s door, the fact that she’s remembered which one is his after only stopping by once to drop off cakes is a little insane. 

Jack opens the door slowly and Pheebs wanders inside like she owns the place. Jack ushers you in after her with a palm ghosting your lower back and you take in the difference of his apartment compared to yours. 

You’ve not been inside properly before—most dates start with him coming over if Phoebe is in bed or him picking you up and dropping you back after. 

Jack’s place is a mirror layout to yours with a small entrance hall that breaks directly into the lounge and open kitchen space. But unlike your mismatched fabrics and colors, Jack’s is much more cohesive in an organised way. 

Rustic dark wood coffee table and matching TV console, twin brown leather couches and black lamps in the corners of the room. A solid, dark oak bookcase and leather arm chair in the place where you cram a small dining table. 

His refrigerator isn’t littered with magnets like yours, but it does have a few that pin up several of Phoebe’s drawings that she’s made over the past few months. It’s a bit overwhelming to be in his home, with Phoebe. To be fully surrounded by his scent. 

It’s a reminder of the very different lives you live. Jack has no mess, everything has a place. There are no buckets of toys tucked away, no wanton blocks of Lego stuffed beneath the couch. Perhaps it's cruel to think, but his apartment does not feel like a home. 

You wonder briefly if he feels the same way. If that’s why he’s never really brought you into his space before.

“You have a kitty!” Phoebe’s shrill excitement breaks you from your spiralling thoughts and you’re quick to shush and scold her.

“Baby, inside voices. You don’t want to scare Sally.” 

“Sally!?” She coos, dropping on her knees and slowly crawling toward the fat cat that stares at the new guests. 

Jack watches in amusement, wraps his arms around you from behind and nuzzles his chin into the crook of your neck. You melt into him, arms wrapping around his as you watch Phoebe introduce herself to Sally and giggle uncontrollably when she nuzzles into the kids' touch. 

“We should’ve done this sooner. They’re little besties.” You giggle.

Jack hums, lets himself bask in the feel of you in his arms—uses it to reassure himself that this is okay. To have you and Phoebe in his space, to share what little he has considering you’ve shared so much already. 

It doesn’t matter that you’ve only been here for a few minutes. The apartment already feels less quiet as Phoebe’s infectious laughter worms its way into the crevices of every room.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Jack can’t take his eyes off you. 

And not like in the way he’s used to struggling, where every five minutes he has to look at you and just admire for a moment. No. Right now, he physically cannot take his eyes off you as you saunter down the hall from your bedroom and toward where he lounges on the couch.

Chocolate brown midi dress with a subtle draping through the waist, sheer dark brown tights that disappear into a pair of simple heels. You’ve painted your face in a way he’s only ever known you to; subtle enough for it to not be dramatic, yet precise enough to see the effort. 

There’s a familiar heat that’s curling in his lower tummy; a tightness that’s beginning to strangle and suffocate his muscles. Your delicate heels click elegantly across your hardwood floors, arms bent as you reach up to slip an earring in. 

Your eyes are focussed on your feet as you move, brows pinched just slightly in concentration as you attempt to clip the jewellery in place. 

Jack leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs and he takes your moment of distraction to drink you in greedily

Jesus fucking Christ.

“You look incredible.”

Your eyes snap up to his at the sound of Jack’s raw voice. You don’t miss the hunger in his tone, the darkness that pools in his eyes. He’d let himself in five minutes ago like you’d told him to, had gotten himself comfortable on your couch while he waited.

And he looked nothing short of delicious. A simple white button up shirt beneath a black blazer, his thighs almost bursting at the seams in his tailored trousers. It’s a conscious effort not to bite down on your freshly glossed lip. 

The compliment sends a jolt of excitement through you. 

Clearly the two fancy dates he’s taken you on isn’t enough for him to get used to you being dressed up this way. You think it’s fair, though. You haven’t got used to him dressing like this either. 

“And you look delicious.” You drawl playfully, but it’s flirtatious enough for him to know that you mean it. 

He grins, crookedly, and rises from the couch to move closer to you. His eyes hover over your waist before replacing the tender gaze with a delicate touch. Your heels keep you face to face, your hands reaching to rest on his shoulders.

“Do we have to go to this?” You pout at him; the sight causes his grin to grow in adoration and he squeezes your hips reassuringly. 

“It’s for the best. It’s for Pheebs, not us or them.” He offers in a gentle tone, pulling you closer until your chest presses against his and your breath catches in your throat. 

It’s not lost on either of you the path tonight will likely take. How the double date will no doubt end with you at his place or him at yours. That it will end in an intimacy you’re yet to explore with one another. 

And despite the underlying assumption of it, there’s no pressure of expectation. Neither of you feel like it’s owed to each other because it’s been three months of nothing but kissing and dry humping. But tonight—perhaps it’s something in the air, or the fact that this double date makes things even more real between you—it feels like the right time. 

You’re fretting on the walk down to Jack’s car, picking at your freshly polished nails as he pulls out of his allocated parking spot and follows the route to Preston’s. 

You feel sick with nerves and annoyance. Angry at the fact that this is happening under Tom’s terms, anxious at the things he may try to say; Jack’s opinions on you that he might try to change. But more than that, there’s something fierce that’s bubbling beneath your skin. 

Hot, fiery, protective. After the years of being in a relationship with Tom and now trying to co-parent (if it can even be considered that, given how little he shows up for Phoebe), you’ve grown more than accustomed to his spiteful tongue and manipulative tendencies. 

You’re not prepared for Jack to be subjected to it—to bear witness to his passive cruelty. 

And Jack, being ever observant, takes note of your unusual quietness, your fidgety demeanor. It makes his heart sink, has him assuming the worst that this double date has sobered your rose-tinted view of him and the relationship. That you’re making a grave mistake with him. 

Still, he reaches a hand across the console to intertwine his fingers with yours, breaking your anxious habit. 

“Talk to me.” 

You chew on the inside of your cheek, gripping Jack’s hand much harder than you ever have before. But the feel of his skin on yours brings at least a little bit of comfort. He’d be disgusted to know you’re considering that Tom will have any sway on Jack’s view of you. 

You loose a breath, let your head roll back against the headrest, turning slightly to admire the side of his face as he keeps his focus on the road again. You let your fingers on your spare hand trace patterns across his knuckles.

“Just anxious. I don’t like being around him. I don’t like knowing you’re going to be around him.” You explain quietly, allowing your eyes to flutter closed as you take a moment to try to compose your breathing.

You feel Jack squeeze your hand tenderly. “Honey, however tonight plays out…it won’t change a thing between us. His behavior is not going to change how I feel about you.” 

You nod at his words, forcing yourself to sit up straighter and heave a heavy breath again. 

“I know. I just—he can be an ass. And he’s self-absorbed, and he… he twists things so well…”

“Baby,” Jack cuts you off with a soft chuckle, chucks an admiring gaze at you before looking back at the road ahead. “From what little you’ve told me about him, he seems like some douchey finance bro that probably thinks he’s too big for this world because he had one successful trade in Crypto. Someone like that is not going to scare me away.”

A laugh tumbles from you before you can even stop it. “Douchy finance bro? I haven’t even told you what he does for work.” 

Jack shrugs, a smirk pulling on his lips. “Don’t care what he does for work. Just the vibe I get.”

It’s enough to quell that crippling anxiety, enough to force it to pry its claws out of your skin. You release another breath, let your gaze fall to the window as the streets blur into soft strokes of color as you pass. 

“Have I told you yet that you look beautiful?” His voice causes heat to curl up your neck and all you can do is laugh breathlessly.

“Yes.” You turn to look at him but his eyes are back on the road again.

Jack nods. “Good. Because you do. Ridiculously so.”

Your lips curl to hide your bashful grin, but Jack can feel your skin warming, thinks he can actually hear your heartrate picking up in the silence of the car. 

But the moment Jack pulls up, your momentary relaxation is short-lived. You’re gnawing on your glossy bottom lip, effectively smearing it away as you look at the passenger window and directly at the entrance of Preston’s.

“What do you say about a quick tequila shot when we get in there?”

Your eyes close as you huff out a laugh, actually quite thankful for how easy he is to calm you down. And you’re also not at all opposed to a bit of hard liquor to take the edge off. 

You turn to him with a nervous smile, still worrying your bottom lip and Jack reaches a hand to caress your jaw, to pull your lip from between your teeth. 

“If it gets too much, or you just want to leave, say Poughkeepsie.”

You raise a brow at him in a mixture of confusion and amusement. 

“Poughkeepsie?” You deadpan. “As in a safe word?”

Jack pulls a face of consideration. “Maybe more of a distress signal.”

That gets a real laugh out of you—one that’s unrestrained and entirely unapologetic. Jack thinks it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard, thinks you look nothing short of angelic when your nose crinkles and your shoulders shake. 

You don’t tell him that you don’t need a distress signal. That you have absolutely zero problem with telling Tom exactly what you think of him and leaving without looking back. But the light that shines in Jack’s eyes when you laugh at his suggestion, when you lean in to kiss him with everything that you feel for him, you can’t bring yourself to tell him so. 

“Okay,” you agree with a giggle against his lips. “Poughkeepsie, it is.” 

He kisses you again, but it’s all teeth; both of you grinning too wide to really press your lips in the ways you want to.

Jack doesn’t let you open your door yourself. He rounds the car to open it for you, to press a hand on your lower back as he guides you into Preston’s. 

You hate that Tom suggested the double date to be here. It’s one of your favorite restaurants and bars in the city. Classy enough to require an effort, common enough for there not to be a three month wait list for a table. 

It’s very moody, the interior. Industrial loft style with expensive furniture and dim, golden lighting. Nothing harsh, nothing performative. It’s a place to eat and drink and enjoy yourself and your company. It’s just a shame your company tonight is about as interesting as a spam email. 

True to his word about some liquid courage, Jack keeps his hand on your lower back as you move past the hostess stand and straight for the bar. But it’s only three steps in that you clock a familiar face amongst the tables and stop dead in your tracks with a huff.

“So much for that tequila shot.” You mutter and Jack frowns slightly, trying to follow your line of sight. 

He sees it then. Them. A brunet and a blonde sat at a table, eyes sharp and looking between you and Jack. It takes him a moment to register that this brown-haired pretty boy is Tom. That the doe-eyed blonde sitting beside him is Kirsty. 

He feels your spine stiffen beneath his touch and he snakes his arms around your waist, to keep you close, to keep you grounded. 

You sigh, swallowing. “Alright, let’s get this over with.”

Your nerves are rolling off you violently, despite Jack’s comforting touch. He can feel how tense you are, like you’re already in fight or flight by just seeing Phoebe’s dad. It makes Jack’s skin crawl, makes him angry and frustrated and helpless.

It’s only now, that Jack is moving closer to the table and getting a clearer look at your ex, that Jack realizes just how much Phoebe looks like you. Your hair, your eyes, your smile. Diva holds little to no physical resemblance to Tom, and it makes a sick part of Jack happy. 

You stop at the table as Tom watches with the eyes of a shark. He doesn’t move, not even when Kirsty stands with a nervous smile and soothes out the non-existent creases in her dress. 

You glance at her, force your features to soften, to appear friendly. Jack doesn’t exactly offer the same courtesy. He stays neutral. No smile, no frown. 

“Hi, I’m Kirsty. It’s so nice to meet you!” 

Her voice is soft, kind, gentle. It makes you pause, a little stunned. She’s beautiful. Glass-like skin with a slim and slender build. She extends a hand across the table to you and you don’t have enough animosity to reject it. 

As quickly as you shake her hand, she offers it to Jack. “And you must be Jack! Nice to meet you.” 

Unfortunately, Jack does crack a soft smile at that. Does let his hand shake hers politely. You were both expecting Kirsty to be a complete and utter bitch. And yet… she’s kind, soft, just as nervous as you are. 

The little bubble of mutual caution is popped, though, when you look down at Tom who remains in his seat. Expressionless, yet relaxed. Lounging back in his chair with an arm thrown over the back of Kirsty’s empty one. 

“Tom.” You greet him bluntly.

“Y/N.” He returns it, just as dry.

He stares at you, though. Something like disbelief and disgust battling for first place in his expression. You don’t need to ask to know why. 

Because while you’re not sure what exactly Phoebe has told him about Jack, you know for a fact she hadn’t mentioned his age. If Tom’s shock is anything to go by. 

Jack watches Tom as Tom watches you. It sets his blood on fire in something both protective and disgusted. And when Tom’s eyes leave you to look at him with someone less than pleased in his expression, it takes every ounce of Jack’s patience to not hurl you over his shoulder and walk out the door. 

“Tom Scavo.” His voice drips off his tongue like silk when he introduces himself to Jack. 

It’s a voice that feigns confidence and security. It’s hard not to laugh in his face at how unironically wrong it is. 

“Jack Abbot.” He replies, and his voice is much deeper, raw and husky and something that promises comfort and stability. 

Not that it matters, Jack isn’t about to get into a pissing contest with your ex—with Phoebe’s dad—who holds all the arrogance and entitlement in the world on his face. 

You’re staring down at the table, trying to regulate yourself and not spiral on how fucking awkward and uncomfortable this entire situation is. Kirsty isn’t faring much better, but she’s not as good at hiding it. Wide eyes flickering between Jack and Tom like ones about to shoot and the other is about to pounce. 

It’s Jack who moves first, unwinding his arm around your waist to pull your chair out for you, sitting close beside you and resting a heavy palm on your upper thigh beneath the table. 

You could really do with that tequila shot right about now. 

Jack can sense as much when you subtly turn to side-eye one another; one of his brows slightly raised in amusement while your lips struggle not to curl in response. 

The private glance helps, though. Reminds you that you’re not in this alone. And you know that despite how shitty this evening might grow, one look at him and you can find the light in the darkness. 

You’re saved by the waiter, who introduces himself as Martin. He takes note of Tom’s red wine and Kirsty’s fruity cocktail and asks what he can get for you and Jack. 

“I’ll have a white wine spritzer, please.” 

“Make that two. Thank you.” Jack smiles briefly at Martin as he saunters away toward the bar. 

Jack doubling your order has you looking at him, amused. “What about the car?” It’s a quiet tease, one only meant for his ears. 

He grins down at you, fights back the urge to kiss your full lips. Because Jack only plans on having one glass of wine, and he knows you know he’s not a lightweight to get even tipsy off one drink. 

“Well, I was only intending to have one, but if you’re planning on taking advantage of me later, we can come back for the car tomorrow.”

It’s entirely instinctive when your hand comes up to swat his chest at the playful but suggestive remark. It’s also entirely involuntary when your cheeks burn and flush with heat at the thought. 

You have to hide your face behind the menu for a moment, feigning consideration of your meal. The act causes you to miss the disgusted glare Tom throws at you and the soft longing in Kirsty’s eyes as she watches yours and Jack’s private exchange. 

“Jack, I hear you’re a doctor?” Kirsty asks softly, and a pang of guilt sears through you at the fact that she is the one to have to try and make conversation. 

Jack nods, keeps his tone and expression polite and kind toward her. “Yeah, I’m an attending physician over at PTMC.” 

Her eyes dazzle slightly in wonder as you lower the menu to force yourself to engage in the conversation. She’s about to open her mouth to say something else when Tom beats her to it. 

“That’s a senior position, I’m assuming.”

You narrow your eyes at his smug tone but keep your mouth closed when Jack offers a reassuring squeeze to your thigh. 

“What about you, Y/N?” Kirsty asks the question so quickly it’s like she can sense the route Tom is trying to go down and she’s desperate for that not to happen. 

Your stomach curls in bitterness toward yourself, for thinking so negative of her before even meeting her. 

“Oh, I work in pub—“

“She’s an aspiring author.” Tom cuts you off with a dig and a really fucking low blow. 

Because he’s always known you’ve kept your job under wraps. That you use a pseudonym for a reason, because you don’t want to be known publicly. 

Martin arrives and places two chilled glasses of white wine before you and Jack, about to ask if you’re ready to order food before sensing the tension off the table and thinking better of it, walking away. 

Jack reels back slightly. 

“You’re an author?” Kirsty asks with wide eyed excitement. 

“Aspiring.” Tom mutters under his breath but it’s loud enough for the table to hear—clear enough for Jack’s jaw to twitch. 

You blubber for a moment, torn between glaring at Tom and smiling kindly at his girlfriend that he is undeserving of. 

“Uh, yeah— I go under a pseudonym, though. I don't really like the idea of my name being out there like that.” You laugh, nervous and completely out of your element. 

Jack knows that’s not the only reason. That your primary concern has and always will be Phoebe, and the asshole kids as she grows up. That you don’t want to subject her teenage years to bullying because her mom writes erotic romances. 

He looks at Tom, keeps his expression friendly when he corrects him. “A New York Times Bestseller says a lot more than aspiring, don’t you think?” 

You dip your head to hide the flush on your cheeks and the curve of your mouth at Jack’s boyish defence of you. You already knew tonight would be a struggle of both of your patience, but you should’ve known that Jack will defend you. 

Even if he has to do it passive aggressively. 

He refuses to sit back and allow anybody to disrespect you. 

“Wow, that’s incredible.” Kirsty gushes, beaming wide and you meet her gaze with something guilty. 

You can’t help but wonder how the fuck she’s ended up with someone as awful as Tom. He hasn’t got much else but his face going for him. You know the sex is boring and his personality is drier than a desert. 

“What about you?” You ask Kirsty. 

Her smile shifts into a look of shy apprehension and she tucks locks of blonde hair behind a pierced ear. “Oh, I’m twenty, so I’m still in college. Lots of time to figure it out, though, right?” She laughs nervously. 

You blink at the information, feel Jack still slightly beside you. Christ. Kirsty looks young but…twenty? Tom’s freshly thirty-three.

“Yeah, loads of time!”

A smile forces its way on your lips as you drag your gaze to briefly meet Tom’s. But he’s already looking at you with barely contained disdain. Like he’s daring you to say something when your age gap with Jack is three years bigger than theirs. 

Both you and Jack reach for your drinks at the same time, suffocating your unfair judgement with wine. But is it entirely unfair when you’re a fully grown woman and Kirsty is barely legal?

“And obviously, you already know Tom works in Crypto exchange.” 

Jack chokes on his wine with a fit of splitting coughs when the words fall from Kirsty’s mouth. He places his glass down a bit too unceremoniously, dabbing his mouth and chin with a napkin as he struggles to breath through the coughing. 

“Sorry,” he apologizes and it takes everything in you to hold back your laughter. 

Jack reaches for his water instead to try and soothe the burn the alcohol has left in his throat. His hand remains in your thigh throughout the exchange and squeezes with a playful warning. 

Maybe you should’ve warned him in the car that his perception of Tom was a little too accurate. Even down to his job. 

But every movement the two of you make is observed and noted by Tom. He doesn’t say anything at first about it, remains polite when Martin returns to take your food order, to refill your drinks. 

It’s mostly Jack and Kirsty keeping the conversation afloat throughout dinner, weaving around Tom’s animosity. 

In all honesty, you’ve enjoyed sitting on the sidelines and watching. Maybe it’s the wine that’s relaxed you, or maybe it’s the fact that Jack goes out of his way to politely disagree with everything that Tom says. 

“Crypto is the way for the future of money.” 

“Nah, can’t go wrong with cash.”

“Don’t you think cash is a little outdated? Old fashioned?”

“I think it’s good to be prepared for an emergency.”

“Cash is pointless. A bit like romance novels.”

“You’re not a romantic, Tom?”

“I just think they’re unrealistic. All a bit of make believe, really.”

“Ah, I have to argue otherwise. Maybe I can lend you my copy of Y/N’s book. You might learn a thing or two.”

“Oh, I would actually love that, if the offer extends to me?” Kirsty asks around a mouthful of food, palm covering her lips as she speaks—like she’s too excited by the idea to wait to finish her food. 

You laugh under your breath and find yourself nodding, completely unaffected by Tom’s attempt at belittling you and your career. It’s a bit hard for him to hit how he wants when the other two people at the table disagree with him. 

“Sure. Just—beware, they're a bit…spicy.” 

Her eyes light up at the warning as she swallows her food, lowering her hand to offer a conspiratorial smile. 

“I say the spicier the better.” 

Tom grimaces at the interaction, something that sends a jolt of smugness through Jack. Good. Let him fester in his girlfriend praising you, in her clear excitement toward your career that Tom does everything he can to belittle. 

Let that jealousy explode in his eyes at the thought of you and Jack together like that. He doesn’t plan on correcting him that nothing has happened yet. 

“Where’s Phoebe tonight?” Kirsty asks as she takes a sip of her third cocktail. 

“She’s with my parents for the night. Her favorite kind of sleepover.” 

She beams at that. “She’s such a great kid. I don’t think she likes me very much, though. I didn’t mean to upset her last weekend…I only asked if she wanted to listen to music and make some breakfast together.” Kirsty admits sheepishly, upset evident in her tone. 

Your heart cracks at that. Because Kirsty was only being kind and friendly to Phoebe. Offering to do something that you and Pheebs do every Sunday. And Phoebe… had she thought that her dads new girlfriend was trying to replace you? 

Jack seems to come to the same conclusion, you can practically smell the pity rolling off him. 

You chew on the inside of your cheek. “No, it’s okay. You don’t need to apologize for anything. It takes her time to open up to people sometimes.” You offer. 

“She seemed to take to Jack pretty quickly.” Tom comments in a bitter tone and you hate the way that Kirsty seems to shrink into herself at that. 

The same way that you used to. 

“There were no labels or expectations when she met Jack.” You’re quick to defend, the hand in your lap reaching beneath that table to rest on Jack’s thigh. 

You don’t tell him that the first time Phoebe met Jack was accidental, that it was also your first time meeting him, too. You don’t have to explain yourself. You refuse to. 

“He’s all she seems to talk about. Jack’s a doctor. Jack’s fun. Jack makes Mommy laugh. Jack’s a silver fox.” Tom continues and you still at that, eyes hardening as Tom glares at you, his anger and disbelief leaking out of his pores. 

“Really? That’s the type of shit you’re saying in front of our daughter?” His tone takes a spiteful turn. One that, despite your years apart, you still feel the hairs on the back of your neck standing up at. 

Jack’s struggling to keep his cool, to not step in. Because he can handle Tom’s futile attempts of making Jack insecure, of focusing on his age and comments that come with it. But Jack cannot handle the blatant disrespect and nasty tone Tom’s directing at you. 

“No. She overheard me on the phone.” You explain through gritted teeth.

Tom cocks a brow. “And that makes it better? She’s fucking four and you’re teaching her this shit?” 

You frown. He’s good at this, manipulating things into something that they’re not. Like you’re going out of your way to educate your child on something inappropriate. 

“I’m not teaching her that, Tom. She overheard a conversation.” You’re speaking through gritted teeth, your anger beginning to boil over. 

He scoffs, opening his mouth to say something else but you stand abruptly before he can. “I’m going to the restroom.”

Something aches in you when Kirsty stands, too, offering an apologetic smile. “I’ll come, too many cocktails.” She tries to diffuse your well-placed anger with a light joke but she knows it’s not really any use. 

You turn to look at Jack, swallowing down the lump in your throat when you notice the conflict of anger and devastation in his eyes. You bend at the waist to press a kiss to his cheek, a silent apology of leaving him alone with Tom, before you and Kirsty make for the ladies room. 

Jack doesn’t watch you go, but Tom does. Metaphorical daggers stabbing into your back with every step and Jack’s knee begins to bounce beneath the table. 

“You talk to her like that in front of Phoebe?” Jack asks, his mouth set in a firm line of barely restrained anger. 

“Let’s get one thing clear. I’m Phoebe’s dad. Not you.” Tom’s tone isn’t angry or rash. But it is accusing. 

Yes, maybe he has the right to make such a statement. Yes, he may be Phoebe’s father but he does not exactly qualify for the title of Dad. 

In another circumstance, maybe Jack would find the statement amusing. But not in this one. In this one, it makes Jack angry. All Tom is doing is portraying his bitterness of you finding someone else as a proud father setting boundaries. 

It’s anything but. 

A dry, humorless chuckle escapes Jack.

“Oh, I understand perfectly that I have no right or opinion when it comes to Phoebe. But as for her mother, I have every right to tell you to watch your fucking mouth when you’re speaking with her.”

The sheer venom in his words sets Tom slightly on edge. Because Jack’s threat lingers in his calm demeanor. His relaxed position in his seat, his warm and raw tone that turns grave at the end of his sentence. 

The soft clicking of your heels on the marble floor drifts closer until your presence is warm against the back of Jack’s chair. You sense the tension immediately, the hard set in Tom’s jaw as he stares at Jack. 

“What did we miss?” You ask carefully, dragging your eyes to assess Jack for any hint of emotion. 

He cranes his neck to look up at you. “Nothing, baby. Was just telling Tom about my trip to Poughkeepsie last year.”

You stare down at him, heart thumping at the ridiculous distress signal Jack came up with in the car. In all honesty, you assumed he was only teasing when he suggested it, or that if it needed to be used, it would be by you. 

But he sits there, looking up at you with a smile that does not reach his darkening eyes and you realize that he’s serious. He’s ready to leave before he does something to make matters so much fucking worse.

His hand reaches for yours that rests on the back of his chair, a touch so tender and reassuring. Because he doesn’t want you to worry, doesn’t want you to think that this abysmal night changes anything between you. 

You’re both too caught up in one another to notice the yearning look that Kirsty watches with. The realization that occurs to her when she sees what love and care and adoration is supposed to look like. 

You turn to her with an apologetic smile, not deigning to give Tom a glance. “We’re gonna head out. Pheebs is back early tomorrow.”

She nods, eyes crinkling when she moves across the table to wrap you in a friendly embrace. And you let her, allow yourself to relax against her because Kirsty is nothing but good. Her reassurance and apology on Tom’s behavior in the bathroom was unnecessary but appreciated all the same. 

It’s not her fault he’s a fucking cunt. 

“It was so lovely to meet you.” You both offer the sentiment at the same time, a laugh tumbling right after and she pulls away to respectfully shake Jack’s hand when he stands. 

Much like when you arrived, Tom remains seated. He doesn’t even feign niceties of a goodbye and instead relaxes into his seat with the smugness of a Persian Prince. 

Like he’s won this round. 

And Jack, ever the gentleman and bigger person, extends a hand across the table to Tom. 

Tom regards it as a test, of sorts. One that he surveys with scrutiny, like he’s just been dealt the losing hand. Whether he accepts or not, Jack wins. 

Only it’s not offered as a test. It’s out of Jack’s respect for you and his love for Phoebe that he puts his anger and hatred aside to offer his hand. It shouldn’t come as a surprise to you when Tom ultimately focuses his attention on his empty plate instead. 

But there’s that sinking feeling of anger and upset when he does. 

When he leaves your Jack standing with his hand still extended.

It’s not a bruise to Jack’s pride or ego, though. He has to hide his amusement at Tom’s childishness and retrieves his hand to dig into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. He pulls out his wallet, plucks a hundred and a fifty and sets the bills softly onto the table. 

“That should cover ours and a tip.”

Tom doesn’t look up, just burns holes into the cash he’s left when Jack turns to you and helps ease your purse over your shoulder. You offer a tight-lipped smile to Kirsty as you curl your palm around Jack’s elbow before you’re both weaving through tables for the exit. 

The moment the cool evening air hits you and your feet meet the sidewalk, neither of you stop. Jack unlocks the car with the press of a button on his keys, and opens and closes your door for you. You’re still holding your breath when Jack gets in the drivers side, still trying to process the night you’ve just had. 

He doesn’t start the engine straight away, just stairs ahead at the people that pass, the cars that drift. It’s eating at him, what he’s done. How he lost his cool just enough for him to have cross words with Tom. If he had it his way, Jack would’ve done a lot more than a verbal scolding. But the guilt of that alone is eating at him. 

“I threatened Tom.” He finds himself blurting quietly. 

Your head whirls around to look at him, eyes wide and heart stammering at the weight of what he’s just said. Of what he’s done. 

“You did what!?”

“Not—not physically, not properly. I—” He’s stammering, anxious that he’s overstepped and despite his reasoning for it, he knows it’s not good enough. 

Your eyes somehow grow wider at his attempted retraction. “You either threatened Phoebe’s dad or you didn’t. Which one is it, Jack?”

He turns to you with a frown, with agony in his eyes. “I didn’t threaten Phoebe’s dad. I threatened your ex.” He’s trying to paint it clearer for you, to understand the difference between the figures. 

And you do. Your shock and frustration shifts, your lips part and your eyes begin to hood. Because you’re picking up what he’s putting down; reading between the lines that Jack had clearly had enough of Tom’s belittling. 

“I spoke to him as a man who will not tolerate anybody disrespecting his girlfriend. Correct me if I’m wrong, but do I not have every right to do that? As your partner?” 

You blink at him, brows softly pinching together as your shoulders drop and you realize exactly where he’s coming from. That he bit his tongue when it came to all the times Tom has and continues to let Phoebe down. Because it’s not his place. Because in the face of Phoebe’s father, he has no right. 

Your eyes close as you release a heavy sigh and you find yourself nodding softly. “Yeah, baby. You do. Of course, you do.”

He watches you carefully when you open your eyes and lean your head against the headrest, when you turn just slightly to look at him with exhaustion and apprehension. 

“I won’t apologize for it.” He tells you, bluntly. 

You huff a laugh through your nose at that, reach a hand lazily across the console to intertwine your fingers. “I’m not asking you to.”

Jack squeezes your hand with a nod, brings your knuckles to his lips where he kisses them tenderly. 

“He’s a fucking asshole.” Jack says, his eyes locked on yours like he can’t quite understand what you ever saw in him. Like he’s distraught that that piece of shit is Phoebe’s father. 

“Yeah,” you sigh. “Kirsty seems nice, though.” 

“Mmh,” Jack hums. “Poor girl.”

You don’t say anything, just watch him for a moment. Trying to let your body relax now that you’re out of Tom’s presence. Trying to read Jack’s emotions that he struggles to keep off his face. 

He only did have one glass of wine, so you know whatever is running through his head is completely valid and justified. 

“Thank you, for coming and sitting through that. And I’m sorry that you had to.” You say softly, untangling your fingers to caress his stubbled jaw. 

Jack leans into the touch, lets his hand wrap around your wrist to keep you there. Christ, he’s so fucking handsome. 

“Honey, you don’t need to thank me. And you have absolutely nothing to apologize for. It’s not your fault Tom’s an asshole and has the personality of a piece of drywall.”

A giggle tumbles out of you and you stroke your thumb across the soft skin of his cheekbone. 

He intertwines your fingers again as he begins to drive back to the apartment complex. The radio plays in the background and he listens to the sound of your voice as you single along softly. 

He finds peace in it, in the rolling of your tongue as the lyrics almost sigh out of you. Focusing on that helps to take his mind off his simmering anger. The frustration and hatred that’s still brewing toward Tom. 

He doesn’t mention how devastating it was to watch you curl into yourself in Tom’s presence. How infuriating and disgusting it was to hear the way he speaks to you, how uncaringly he belittles you. 

Instead, Jack drives silently, singing along every now and then with you to take his mind off it. To calm himself down and remind himself that that treatment will remain in the past. That you will never, ever experience a lover like that again so long as he is by your side. 

He opens the car door for you, closes it. Intertwines your fingers again as you walk into the complex together. You catch sight of a few of your neighbors. Deborah from downstairs who grins to herself at the sight of you both, Chirpy from apartment twelve that gives you both a less than pleased look, while the newly wed Mr and Mr Hammond wiggle their brows at you as you join them in the elevator. 

The ride to yours and Jack’s floor is silent but not uncomfortable. You let the pair of husbands leave first, both of you left lingering in the hall as the elevator goes back down empty. 

Jack turns left toward your apartment when you stop walking and squeeze his hand. He turns to you with a furrow. 

“Can we go back to yours tonight instead?” 

He blinks, then softens. This afternoon was the first time you really came into his space, any other time he’s always come to you. 

“Yeah, baby. Let’s go.” His heart swells when you both begin to walk to his front door, when he opens it and you immediately crouch down to pet a waiting Sally. 

She purrs beneath your touch as you scratch behind her ears, laughing when you stand to take off your heels and she nuzzles at your ankles. 

Jack shuts the door with a quiet click, keeps his own shoes on and tosses his keys in the bowl at the small entrance table. You place your bag beside the bowl, pad through the apartment to follow him into the kitchen and make yourself comfortable on one of the stools. 

There’s a stiffness in Jack’s posture. It’s evident he’s never really had a woman in his space like this since his wife. It makes you wonder if you’ve pushed too hard. That maybe you should’ve just agreed to go back to yours instead. 

But the gentle clinking of a wine glass being set atop marble before you catches your attention. Jack takes a heavy gulp of his own before shrugging off his jacket and throwing it over a stool. 

He rests a palm on either side of the island, leaning his weight into it and the motion is far more sinful than he intends for it to be. 

You’re left with nothing to do but reach for your wine and guzzle down half of it. Jack cocks a brow in amusement, in silent question and you place it back with a laugh. 

“We are never doing that again.” 

He grins. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

He moves swiftly, despite the slight ache in his leg from being on it all day. You turn in the stool to face him as he cups your cheeks in his palms and leans down to press his lips against yours. 

You both sigh into the kiss, tasting each other and hints of elderflower. He pulls away to rest his forehead against yours, heaving in a breath. 

“Do you have any idea how gorgeous you looked tonight? How hard it was to not kiss you the entire time?” 

You beam at him, eyes fluttering closed and relief is finally beginning to settle within you. The date already forgotten about, Tom’s spiteful words and childish behavior shoved to the very back of your mind. 

You lean closer to kiss him again. It’s needy and hungry and sensual, and Jack returns it with even more vigor. 

“Jack,” you whimper against his mouth, hands reaching for his chest, fingers fumbling with the small buttons on his shirt. 

He makes a sound from the back of his throat, lets his hands wander from your face and down your neck, reaching to the back of your dress as his fingers trace the zipper down your spine. 

You pop a button and then another. Grow frustrated with how long it takes and sneak your hands beneath the fabric to feel his warm, hard chest. 

Jack whimpers at the sensation, pinches at the zip and slowly tugs it down the track. 

“Jack,” you breathe again, fingers curling until your nails scratch gently at the skin of his chest. “Jack, take me to bed.” 

You don’t know what comes over him, what you’ve said or done that makes him snake his arms around your waist and lift you. Your legs wrap around his hips, your fingers tangle into his hair and he does not break the kiss as he somehow manages to carry you from the kitchen, down the hall, and into the dim lighting of his bedroom. 

You’re offered no time to look as Jack gently eases you back on your feet, returning his attention to the zipper at your back. He tugs it all the way down when his lips begin to travel from your mouth to your neck; licking and nipping hungrily. 

Your head rolls back as he pulls the shoulders of your outfit down your arms, as the dress pools at your ankles and leaves you in nothing but a bra, panties, and brown tights. 

He pulls away to look at you with blown eyes and swollen lips. He drinks you in like a man starved, hands covering over your hips like he doesn’t know if he wants to touch you there or somewhere else. 

Your skin burns under his attentive gaze, arousal almost gushing between your thighs. Your heart stammers sporadically as your hands find their way back to the buttons of his shirt again, desperately fumbling to pop them open. 

“Look at you.” Jack’s voice is wrecked; the words are so broken it makes you pause. “You’re so fucking beautiful, baby.” 

Your lungs are on fire, can’t quite seem to catch a deep enough breath at how he’s looking at you. It makes you frustrated and you find yourself gripping either side of his partly open shirt and ripping it open. 

Buttons pop and clatter on hard wood in every direction. Freckled skin meets your line of vision; his torso toned and hard and hot beneath your touch. And when you peek up at Jack, he’s already smirking down at you. 

“Sorry,” you laugh breathlessly. 

He says nothing as he tugs the sleeves down his arms, throws the fabric haphazardly across the room. Jack catches your lips in a kiss again, tongues swirling in something erotic and entirely uncoordinated. 

“Lay down on the bed for me, Angel.” He commands softly against your mouth. 

The new pet name has your head spinning. You don’t argue, far too excited to even consider not giving him everything he wants from you. 

You keep your eyes on him when you move backward until the foot of the bed hits the backs of your knees. You sit down, shuffling backward until your head is resting on his pillows and you’re enveloped in the comforting scent of him. 

Jack moves slowly, admiring the sight of you sprawled out on his bed. His chest heaves with every breath and your eyes track his hands when they reach for the belt wrapped around his waist. 

An involuntary whine slips past you as he unbuckles it. “Take your tights off, baby.”

There’s something so incredibly sexy at how naturally he’s taken control. At how earnestly he speaks to you, at how devotedly he stares down at you. 

You move quickly, hooking your fingers in the thin waistband of your sheer tights and tugging them off as gracefully as you can. You’re left almost bare. In just a little black thong and a matching balcony bra. 

Jack swallows at the sight of you and abandons his belt, wrapping his hands around your ankles and gently tugging you down the bed until your ass is flush with the edge. 

“Now, spread your legs.” 

He eases himself to his knees as smoothly as he can at the same time as you parting your thighs. His hands soothe up the soft skin of your calves, tracing the flesh of your inner thighs. 

You prop yourself up on your elbows to watch him with hooded eyes. And Jack thinks he’s about to pass out. 

There’s a prominent wet patch on the dark fabric of your panties, goosebumps pebbling on your skin as he hooks fingers into the underwear and slowly eases them down your legs. 

When he throws them to the ground and you drop your legs open again, Jack groans. 

He’s seen you before. But this is different. This time you’re willing and excited and desperate. This time you’re in his fucking bed, not behind a hospital curtain. 

And above all, this time, Jack allows himself to really look. To admire you. To touch. 

You moan when he parts your lips with his index and middle finger, when you feel the warmth of his breath ghost over your clit. 

“Prettiest fucking cunt.” He praises roughly, salivates when he watches how you pulse because of it. 

“You’re soaked, baby.” 

His lips tease with open-mouthed kisses across your inner thighs, causing them to quake. His stubble grazes deliciously against the tender skin, but it only fuels the fire. 

You whine again, hips bucking toward his face. Desperate for something, anything. 

Jack relents, eager to taste you. His cock is throbbing against the confinements of his pants and boxers, eager to be buried to the hilt. 

His thumb swipes at the wetness at your puckering entrance, all the way up to your clit. He keeps it there for a moment when you gasp, rubs lazy circles around the little nub until you’re whimpering and begging for more. 

He’s a generous man. Not one to deny a woman of anything. Especially not you. 

It’s without another thought that Jack moves closer to swipe his tongue in the same way he did with his thumb. Laps at your cunt, eyes rolling back at the taste of you and all restraint is lost. 

His hands grip at your waist to keep you still, gripping with enough force to mark but not to bruise. Your back arches at the feel of his mouth on you—skilled and messy, worshiping every inch. 

“Jack, oh, fuck!” 

His guttural moan sends vibrations through your nerves as he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks. His tongue flicks against it at the same time, burying his face between your thighs. 

His short stubble scratches deliciously at your sensitive skin, a welcome burn grazing at your entrance and inner thighs. It only makes you needier. 

He’s completely drunk on you. So much so that he doesn’t even notice the ache forming below his knee, the discomfort that’s usually enough to cripple him. 

Your back drops onto the bed, head digging into the sheets as your hands fly to his hair, gripping and pulling until your nails are scratching at his scalp. 

He pulls off to heave a breath, to release one hip and circle your entrance with a finger. 

“You taste so fucking good.” He slowly pushes between your walls, curling against the tightness. 

A sharp cry sounds from the back of your throat when he returns his mouth to its rightful place, when he curls his finger faster and rubs the flat of his tongue against your clit when he sucks between his lips. 

The thickness of his fingers is unfamiliar but most welcomed. And the praise of how you taste goes straight to your head. 

Has your toes curling and eyes rolling. That familiar burn at the bottom of your spine creeps up on you like a freight train. You have no time to warn Jack when you clamp down on his finger, when you shudder and spasm beneath his hold. 

You have no time to warn him because the breath is stolen from your lungs and you’re gushing as release paralyzes you. 

And Jack…he drinks you like a starving man. Abandons your clit and removes his finger to lap at your pulsing hole; swirling his tongue and slurping like he can’t fucking get enough. 

You’re struggling to catch your breath when he’s struggling to stand again, your vision is nothing but a kaleidoscope gaze. All you can think is to scold yourself for waiting as long as you fucking have for that to happen. 

And when you blink through the distortion, you catch your orgasm coating Jack’s chin and mouth. The sexiness of it is short lived when you realize how his mouth is slightly curved into a grimace and he’s favoring his weight on his good leg. 

But he tries to soldier through it. To drop his trousers to his ankles, to hook his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. 

It’s more effort than you care to admit to sit up. Your body spent but still aching for more. You rest your palms on the outsides of his muscular thighs, let your nose brush against his navel, pressing open mouthed kisses to the burning skin. 

“Take it off.” Your words are drunken and muffled but Jack hears them. Understands them. 

“I’m fine.” His voice is raw when he speaks, dripping with lust so much it almost masks his discomfort. 

“You’re not. Take it off, baby. I don’t care.” You insist, still peppering hot kisses across his waist, dragging your tongue across the path. 

Jack sighs shakily, relenting. And when he bends down with one hand on the bed and the other reaching to unclasp his prosthetic, you crawl backward on the bed until your head is resting on his pillows again. 

You spread your legs for him, let your hand snake down between your thighs to touch yourself while you wait. You’re dripping onto his sheets, unapologetic and when Jack looks up with his prosthetic off, he whimpers at that sight. 

“Jesus Christ, baby.” He’s almost drooling at the sight, still using one hand to balance and the other hooks into the waistband of his boxers and tugs them down. 

Your eyes bulge. He’s fucking big. Long and fat and veiny. Slapping against his navel when it’s free, red and neglected. You feel your chest tighten, feel yourself drip between your thighs. 

“Holy shit.” You pant. 

He crawls into the bed and between your thighs with a bashful smirk; his cheeks dusted pink and eyes twinkling with something like excitement and nerves. 

It’s then that he really notices the small scar just above your pubic bone. The evidence of the life you carried and birthed. It only intensifies his feelings toward how. Reminds him of how much you trust him. 

You swallow, unable to take your eyes off his cock. But you’re not dumb on it yet, still able to consider him in these final few moments. 

“Do you want me to—“

“No. Fuck no.” He knows what you’re going to say before you say it. Does he want you to do the work, does he want to lie down so it’s easier on his leg. 

The answer is a resounding not a fucking chance in hell. 

“Baby, I am more than happy for you to ride me whenever you want. But not—fuck—not tonight.” He’s panting out his words, like he’s already on the verge of release and he’s not even inside you yet. 

His hands block you in on either side of your head, thighs slotting between yours and when he lowers his hips, his cock brushes against your soaked folds. 

There’s a sobering moment that hits him the second he feels you. He doesn’t have any condoms and he doesn’t quite know how to broach the subject of asking if you do without breaking the moment. 

But it’s like you read his mind, or maybe you can just read the hesitancy on his face. “It’s okay. I’m clean. I haven’t—I haven’t been with anyone in a while.”

Jack looses a breath at your admittance. Lets his head drop so his forehead rests against yours. Your words send a strike to his cock, the reminder of your IUD, the thought of feeling you bare. “Me too.” 

You swallow, breaths mingling and your hand leaves your pussy to wrap around his cock, pumping slowly and Jack shudders. 

“So, we take it slow. No expectations, right?” 

Jack practically melts at your tone and your words, at how easy everything is with you. How right it all feels. 

“Yeah, baby. No expectations.” 

You nod again, as much as you can, and guide the tip of his swollen cock to your fluttering entrance. A shudder runs through you both, anticipation crawling at your spines. 

Jack’s hips move slowly, easing into you in a way that makes you relax enough to take him. Inch by inch, whimper by whimper, until his hips are flush against yours and you’re both panting. 

“Give me— fuck, give me a second. Jesus fucking Christ—baby, you’re…you’re so fucking tight.”

“Big,” you gasp through a heavy breath, nails scratching down the wide expanse of Jack’s muscled back. You can’t form a coherent word, far too overwhelmed. 

“I know.” He coos, holding his weight above you on one hand by your head when the other reaches between your chests to slowly fold your bra down, exposing your breasts. 

The whimper that slips out of him is almost enough to make you cum. Your supple breasts spill out, nipples perk and he flicks a thumb over one, pinches gently when you whine for more. 

“You’re doing so well for me, baby. So good.” 

You mewl at the praise again, something you’ve never once experienced in bed. But now that you have, you know you could never go without it again. 

Jack moves his hips gingerly, pulling out a few inches before slowly sheathing himself back in. You’re far too tight around him to remain composed; cunt soaked and sucking him in like it’s where he belongs. 

“Keep going, feels so good. So big.” You whine. 

“Yeah?” Jack asks breathlessly, rolling his hips with a tedious rhythm, like he’s experimenting what works best for you. 

You’re too caught up in the pressure and stretch of him to realize just how much strength it takes for him to hold his weight on one hand, fuck you like he loves you, and pinch your nipples like you’re nothing but his good girl. 

All with one leg. All with barely contained restraint. 

Your hips begin to roll against his, bucking up to meet his thrusts and he gets the hint that you need more. 

But you’re tight, pulsing, sucking him deeper with every thrust. Until you’re both panting and Jack’s bed is creaking. Until moans are slipping from your lips instead of breaths. Until Jack’s whimpering and moaning and whining into the crook of your neck. 

He abandons his assault on your nipple, rises to his hands at either side of your head to watch your face, to flicker his gaze between your thighs to watch you stretch around his thick girth. 

His cock is slick with your arousal, a creamy ring of white at the base of him. 

“Fuck, baby.” His voice is slightly higher pitched now. Whining in a way that has you bucking up against his in urgency. 

That burning returns in the base of your spine, tingles zapping up and down your navel as your orgasms balloons. 

“Jack! Oh fuck, baby—I’m…I’m gonna cum… oh fuck…”

“Yeah? You gonna come on my cock? Come on, baby. Let me feel you.”

It doesn’t crash into you this time, doesn’t sneak up on you and paralyze you like the last one. No, this time it sets your body alight; bursts from you from within. 

You shudder and spasm, sob and moan and whine and claw at Jack’s back. He feels you tighten impossibly, feels your cunt attempt to gush around him. 

It drags his own release from him, and he hates how quickly and harshly he pulls out of you so he doesn’t spill inside. His cock drops heavily on your cunt, ribbons of creamy release spurting across your lower stomach as you shudder through the remnants of your orgasm. 

Despite how fucked out you are, you still hear the whimper of a moan that falls from Jack’s, the praise that follows when he cums across your abdomen. 

You’re struggling to catch your breath, blinking away the white spots that mask your vision. But you feel the bed dip as Jack collapses beside you on his back, the heavy rise and fall of his chest as he pants breathlessly. 

You turn your head to him in a lazy motion, an arm thrown over his eyes while the other reaches out for his hand to hold your thigh. His cock lays heavy on his leg; still glistening in your excitement and still incredibly big as he softens. 

“Remind me again why we waited so long to do that.” You laugh through a heavy breath, and it makes Jack chuckle heartily. 

With as much energy as you can muster, you try to sit up to clean yourself but Jack moves faster. Grips your thigh harder and turns to you beneath the arm over his eyes. 

“Don’t you dare move.” His voice is gravelly, slightly broken. “I’ll clean you up, just give me a second.”

But you don’t listen. Jack watches with disdain as you sit up and round the bed, disappearing into the bathroom just beside his bedroom door. 

It’s pure inadequacy that he feels. Like he’s unable to do something as simple as clean you up and take care of you after sex. A bare minimum act that you don’t let him complete. 

He spirals in the two short minutes you’re gone, and when you come back clean and naked with a wash cloth in your hands, it only intensifies the feeling tenfold. 

“I could’ve done that, sweetheart.” He tells you when you had him the cloth and sit on your heels on the bed beside him. 

“I know.” 

You don’t elaborate on the fact that he’s always taking care of you. Coming over to fix the sink or the dryer, helping you build a new bookcase or unclogging the toilet after Phoebe stuffed a whole roll of toilet paper down it. 

You don’t want to make a thing out of it. 

“Do you have a t-shirt I can borrow?” You ask instead. 

Jack blinks when he takes the wash cloth from you, pointing silently to the second drawer of the dresser in the corner of the room. 

You make quick work on shaky legs of standing and pinching a gray t-shirt from the draw. It swallows you whole, the hem reaching just below your ass and the arms almost reaching your elbows. 

Jack’s chest seizes when you turn to him, an uncontrollable wave of adoration and slight possessiveness strokes through him. The latter is something he’s not exactly proud of. 

But you’re in his apartment, in his room, wearing his shirt, blissed out from his cock…

It takes him a moment or two to regulate his emotions. The internal battle of pinning you beneath him again to coax another orgasm out of your body and just coddling you close to his chest all night. 

So he’s a little thrown off when you remain standing at the foot of the bed and ask, “Where do you keep your lotion?” 

“My lotion?” He blinks. 

“For your leg.” 

His eyes betray him as they flicker toward the bathroom and you’re sauntering off before he can even stop you. 

When you return with the bottle in hand and sit on your heels again beside him on the bed, he doesn’t stop you when you squeeze a dollop into your palms. Doesn’t comment when you warm it between your hands before gently massaging it across his tender skin. 

He watches, reverently. In complete adoration and disbelief that you could ever be real. That this isn’t a figment of his imagination. 

But it is real. 

And when you curl up into his side beneath the covers like you’ve only ever belonged there, in this moment, Jack finds himself battling with three words that threaten to spill from his lips. 

Too caught up in the moment and intensity of the night as you and Jack drift off to sleep, both of you miss the fact that neither of you are wearing your rings around your neck. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

SERIES MASTERLIST — NEXT PART

Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!

OKAY IM SORRY THIS WAS SO LONG BUT I DID WARN YOU IN THE LAST CHAPTER!! lots to unpack in this one; tom's behavior, kirsty being a poor little sweetheart, jack being hot as fuck and of course, the smut!!!! from here on out, things take a big change and there is lots to happen and get through, so chapters will likely be this length or longer!

Thank you very much for reading! Feedback really means a lot so I would love to hear your thoughts and ideas for where you think this will go!! Reblogs helps to boost stuff for more people to reach so if you enjoyed it please consider reblogging!!

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Sitting at the dining room table with pancakes, eggs, and bacon piled on your plates for a 4pm breakfast, both of you still cozy in your pajamas, you’re starting to think it might have all been in your head. 

Your husband of 4 fucking years had no idea that you’d been scheming all this time, trying to surprise him.

Tickets to the AC/DC reunion tour 2 years ago? Nope, he’d seen the confirmation email pop up on your phone, not that you’d known that at the time, when you’d let him borrow it to call his own (he tended to lose his pretty often). He’d then casually remarked a few days later he couldn’t wait to go, leaving you sputtering over a chart, wondering how in the world he knew as he walked away.

Then there’d been the bronco. The old, broken down, sage green bronco, parked a few streets over that he kept casting longing glances at, followed by ‘what I wouldn’t give to fix that up.’

 Jack had never been one to splurge on himself, but you had been itching to find him a hobby that didn’t include being shot at, so you’d bought it, hurrying home to make sure there was space to park it in the driveway. The former owner would be dropping it off in an hour. 

But then, 30 minutes later, Jack walked through the door, dropping a kiss to your cheek, thanking you for the car. You’d wanted to scream. 

What you didn’t know was that Jack had finally given in, dropping by the neighbor’s to see how much he wanted for it, only to find out his darling wife had already gotten it for him.

But the absolute worst, by far, had been right before your wedding. Jack was sweet and rather sentimental, preferring memories and photos to material objects. So, you’d decided to start a scrap book. It was a little girly, and you’d worried he wouldn’t love it as much as you did, but you still went ahead with it. You’d filled it with all the pictures the two of you had taken over the first 3 years of your relationship, with the last decorated page dedicated to your engagement party. The book was barely a quarter full and you’d practiced a sappy speech in the mirror about filling the rest of the pages over the rest of your lives.

And everything had gone according to plan. You worked on it in secret for weeks, and as far as you knew, he was none the wiser. 

But then, as the two of you sat in bed the night before your wedding, just before you were going to show him the damn book, Jack had simply looked up from whatever western novel he was reading and very nonchalantly asked if you were ever going to let him see your scrapbook. When asked how he knew about that, he simply shrugged and said, “I pay attention.”

You still gave your sappy speech, watched his eyes shine with unshed tears, and let him lay you down and fuck you one last time as your fiance.

And as you laid out these examples, explaining the steps you’d gone to to keep the secrets, Jack simply sat there, slowly chewing his bacon while his eyes screamed ‘this woman needs help.’

“-but I finally did it,” you were smug, alternating between cutting your pancakes into smaller bits and gesturing wildly with your cutlery. “I finally managed to actually surprise you!”

Your eyes strayed to the box, still open on the table, your IUD shining in the late afternoon sunlight. You’d done it. He had been totally, 100% caught off guard. It was straight out of left field, he’d never seen it coming.

“I was suspicious.”

That was all he said, eyes still focused on you, lips quirking up as he took a bite of his eggs.  

All you could do was sit in wide eyed silence for a moment.

“Bullshit you knew,” you were starting to spiral, wondering where you’d slipped up. Maybe someone had snitched? But no, only Joan knew about your plan and she’d never have given you up.

The bastard shrugged. “You said you were cramping-”

“That is a totally reasonable comment from a woman in her 30s with a uterus.”

“Yeah,” he laughed under his breath, pointing at you with a strip of bacon. “But you brought up your IUD. You should have just said your stomach hurt, ‘cause then I asked Robby if you were doing ok.”

You hadn’t even told Robby about your plan and he still fucked it up.

You groaned, head dropping into your hands.

“And he said you disappeared for an hour to get a ‘pap smear’,” the grin on his face as he made the air quotes had you wanting to throttle him. “So I asked Tina from Obstetrics if you were ok. She said she had no idea. Apparently, you spent an hour in an exam room with Joan.”

“You called my fucking gynecologist to confirm my alibi?”

“I didn’t know it was an alibi,” Jack’s shoulders were shaking with the laughter he was holding in. It was starting to become infectious. You couldn’t stop the smile slowly creeping onto your face, despite the niggling irritation. “At the time, I was just checking on my wife, being the wonderful husband that I am. So imagine my surprise when there is not a single record of your little visit anywhere.”

“Oh, so you got Tina to break HIPAA for you?”

“Sweetheart,” his eyes rolled ever so slightly. “I am your emergency contact, your boss, your husband, and the only person you put down on your HIPAA release form.”

“Robby’s actually my boss,” was your only counterpoint, and even as you grumbled it out, you knew it was weak.

“Yeah, when he’s not having a nervous breakdown,” Jack snorted, picking up his coffee to take a sip. 

“But that doesn’t mean you knew,” you redirected. Robby’s mental state was the absolute last thing you wanted to discuss during your 4 day long  husband’s birthday/attempted conception weekend.

“Mmm no, I never said I knew,” Jack leaned back, legs spread and posture relaxed as he looked across the table at you.

“Ok, fine you didn’t explicitly say you knew what I was planning. You just heavily implied you did.”

“I did not imply anything. I said I knew you spent an hour alone in an exam room with your best friend who is a gynecologist and that you were keeping something from me,” his eyes darted down to the box, tracing over its contents. “I had some suspicions, some good, some bad, but I didn’t know. Not then.”

“What do you mean ‘not then’?” You sat up straighter in your chair. The oversized, decades old West Point t-shirt that had once been his slipped off your shoulder. You tugged it back into place, choosing to ignore how his eyes immediately snapped to the tiny bit of skin that had been exposed in favor of your interrogation.

Jack shrugged, his eyes avoiding yours. “I didn’t know then.”

Your brow furrowed into a glare. You very rarely had any success trying to intimidate your husband, but now it seemed like he was trying to hide something.

“Jack Abbot tell me what you knew and when you knew it. Now.”

He let out a breath, shaking his head as he grabbed his coffee mug again. You watched him drain the rest of the lukewarm liquid, eyes tracing the movement of his throat as he swallowed. He set the mug down gently, eyeing you like you might start swinging the butter knife still in your hand.

“Alright,” his arms folded over his chest, those obnoxious biceps of his straining against the plain black t-shirt he wore. “I knew you had some sort of-” He paused for a moment, clearly trying to choose his words carefully. “Gynecological… something going on.”

You snorted, shaking your head and gesturing for him to go on.

“I knew you were planning something last night because you insisted on making dinner, and we usually go out for birthdays.”

“Ok, but that’s not-” He leveled you with the look that made residents want to wet themselves in fear. After years of living with him, though, all it made you do was sigh in resignation and sit back in your seat, allowing him to continue.

“And then you wouldn’t let me touch you,” you had to agree, that was a little suspicious. The two of you weren’t exactly known for being able to keep your hands off each other for very long. “So I knew something was up.”

“I never would have guessed you were going to quite literally give me your IUD,” once again, his eyes found the box. “You got me there, but I figured whatever you were planning probably had something to do with that.”

“So I did surprise you,” you were immensely satisfied with yourself. After all these years. After all these attempts, both big and small, you'd finally succeeded with probably the biggest surprise.

“You surprised me, yes,” Jack’s smile was twisting into something wicked. “I definitely was not expecting you to hand me your contraception and beg me to knock you.”

Your cheeks flushed at the reminder of exactly how last night had gone. “I did not beg.”

“Oh you most certainly did,” his forearms rested on the table, body shifting forward as he pinned you beneath his hungry gaze. “It was only a matter of time. I’ve known you wanted a kid for a while. You haven’t been exactly subtle, sweetheart.”

“I haven't been subtle?” Your eyes were wide as you looked at him in disbelief. “You haven’t been subtle, Jack.”

“Yes I have,” he was frowning now, that smug smirk melting off his face. “I kept that shit to myself.”

“Ok, yes, you didn’t say anything, but you didn’t have to,” you placed the cutlery down on your forgotten plate, too engrossed in arguing to focus on your pancakes. “It was painfully obvious!”

He was shaking his head, mouth opening to counter, but you pressed on.

“You were practically salivating when we babysat my nephew! You literally have to be dragged away every time we get a peds case at work and you damn near get hearts in your eyes whenever I hold a baby,” there was no way he could deny any of this, and the look on his face was telling you he knew it, too. “When I told you my IUD was starting to act up, you were practically begging me with your eyes to get rid of it!”

“Begging you,” he was shaking his head. “With my eyes?”

“Yes, with your eyes.”

“Ok and what about you?” He was going on the offensive now, gaze sharpening.

“What about me?” You were leaning forward now, too. The both of you face to face across the table, meals completely forgotten.

“What about that one time we had the 6 month old with pertussis and the antivaxxer mom?” 

You vividly remembered that incident from about a year ago. You’d went off on the mom, yelling about how, if this beautiful child was yours, you’d have never put her in danger over something so selfish. Jack had to drag you away, locking you in the on-call room to cool down while Ellis talked the mom down from leaving AMA. 

You’d avoided any more punishment than a stern talking to from Gloria, but you’d been taken off the little girl’s care team. It had been an embarrassing outburst, but you didn’t regret it. Maybe you hadn’t gone about it in the right way, but everything you’d said had been correct and you still stood by that. Hopefully, your very loud attempt at shaming the woman had done the trick.

“I just wanted what was best for my patient,” you looked away. That wasn’t the sole reason for the incident, and you both knew it. The way your voice had broken as you’d yelled, ‘if she was mine’ was telling. And so were the tears in your eyes that night as you’d cried to Jack about the poor little girl, sobbing about how you could never put your own child in danger like that.

“Yeah, ok,” Jack didn’t push anymore, but his smirk was back, albeit softer at the edges. “And what about that time you got down on your knees for me in the on-call room after we had that kid with the broken leg?”

 That you did not have a good excuse for. In your defense, your birth control just meant you couldn’t get pregnant. It did not stop you from ovulating, or suffering through the related side effects, including the irresistible urge to climb your husband like a tree any time he did something remotely attractive.

And in this case, you were in the middle of that particular part of your cycle. Watching him put the cast on the 8 year old girl who’d fallen off her bike hadn’t been what got you going. No, instead, it was the way he talked to her, calming her down and getting her to chatter about her favorite things. He gave her his undivided attention, wholeheartedly and enthusiastically talking about ponies and unicorns and fairies.

All of that had your mind drifting, imagine that it was your little girl he was talking to. In your mind, you were home, watching your husband talking to a little girl with your eyes and his (formerly) ginger curls.

Imagining him, just how incredible of a father he would be, had that fire that had been simmering just beneath your skin all day exploding into an inferno. So, the first chance the two of you had, you’d yanked him away, pulling him into a private room and dropping to your knees.

“Yeah, I remember that,” your blush was back, gaze dropping to the plate still sitting in front of you.

“Do you remember what you said before you sucked the soul out of my body, 15 feet away from our coworkers?”

Your whole body was on fire, embarrassment and desire warring just beneath the surface. Maybe you could tempt him back into your bedroom, distracting him from whatever this conversation and degraded into.

“C’mon, baby,” there it was, that insufferable, cocky tone of voice that told you Jack knew exactly how you were feeling. You refused to look up. “Tell me. What did you say to me right before you begged me to cum down your throat?”

“I said-”

“Look at me.”

You swallowed hard, peaking up through the curtain of your hair to face your husband. He was relaxed, sitting back in his seat, legs spread wide beneath the table. He was smirking, looking every bit the flirtatious bastard you knew him to be.

But his eyes were dark and hungry, chest rising and falling suspiciously faster than simply sitting down to eat breakfast warranted.

“I said,” your eyes were locked on his, entranced by the way his pupils slowly expanded. “‘You’re so good with kids.’”

“What else did you say?” He cocked his head slightly.

“‘It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.’”

His smile grew even more salacious. “That’s how I knew you wanted me to knock you up.”

You shifted in your seat, your sleep shorts feeling much too damp for comfort. Jack knew, his eyes tracking the movement hungrily.

You stood, stepping away from the table and starting down the hallway towards your bedroom as you called over your shoulder, “Yeah, well, you haven’t gotten me pregnant yet.”

Jack was hot on your heels in an instant.

The next 7 months of your life were spent in a seemingly never ending cycle of frustration, pleasure, irritation, and competition.

You hadn’t gotten pregnant after Jack’s birthday weekend which, while expected, had still been a little disappointing. The two of you were doctors, you knew that your body needed time to reset after removing your contraception. 

For 7 months, you’d taken a test every Monday morning when the two of you arrived home, and every Monday morning that test was negative.

Jack, once again living up to his title as World’s Best Husband, gave you the control. When you’d broken down 4 months in without any sign of a baby any time soon, he’d held you close and told you he’d do whatever you wanted. He said it was your choice, if you wanted to go through testing, to give IVF a try, if you wanted to stop trying for a while.

You’d said no to all of them, apologizing for the tears. So many other couples tried for so much longer. It had only been 4 months. It was too early for the interventions or to give up. You were being dramatic.

“We’re not other couples,” Jack had said. “Don’t compare our journey with this to theirs. It’s not one size fits all, and there’s no time limit on this.”

He’d calmed you down and you’d resolved to not let it get to you. You’d agreed to stop taking a test once a week, too. You had time. If things were still stagnant around the 9 month mark, the two of you would do fertility testing and then, if necessary, try IVF. You’d agreed to stop taking a test once a week, too.

Jack had agreed, kissing your head and telling you that now that you had a gameplan, things would go smoothly. He also reminded you just how enjoyable the trying process could be, even if you hadn’t gotten the results you wanted yet.

During the time since his birthday, you’d been busy with more than just work and baby making. You’d made it your mission to try and surprise him again. He’d caught on quickly, and the two of you had entered a little war of sorts. 

There’d been no official rules of engagement established, no conversation about exactly what was going on, but there seemed to be a mutual agreement on what did and didn’t count. The diet coke you were craving that appeared on your station was too small and didn’t count. Neither did the sandwich you’d made in secret before work and left on the break room table with his name on it.

But the new set of woodworking tools you’d left on his workbench in the garage did. Except, he’d shown you the screenshot of the order confirmation email he’d taken days before when you’d gloated that he hadn’t expected that. 

“Shouldn’t have left your email logged in on my laptop, sweetheart.”

The dress you’d been eying last week when the two of you went out definitely counted, given the price tag in the hundreds. You were happy when it appeared in your closet, and even happier when you got to tell him you’d known since he’d bought it 3 days ago.

“Not really a surprise when you buy it from a boutique my friend owns, handsome.”

And so, here you were, 3 months post break down, 7 months post birthday, plotting the biggest surprise of them all.

You hadn’t taken a pregnancy test since, hoping that by ignoring it, you could subconsciously encourage it to happen. Maybe if you stopped putting the pressure of weekly tests on yourself, it’d be a little easier.

And by god, you were a genius.

You’d waited until you were at work, not trusting yourself to keep the fact that you’d taken a test a secret if you had to sit through your ride to work with Jack. No matter the result, you knew he’d be able to tell. And you had a pretty good feeling about this, given the fact that your period was just under 6 weeks late

But Jack still tracked your cycle. When your period hadn’t come, not long after you’d cried in his arms, you decided not to say anything. You felt a little shitty when you had to fake a period, but you had seen how the constant negatives were weighing on him. You wanted to be absolutely sure when you told him. And you’d truly planned to tell him earlier.

And then time had gotten away from you. And your desire to win whatever competition you had with him was too strong to ignore.

So, when you finally found a free minute, you retrieved the small plastic package from your locker, tucking it into your scrub pocket with a lie about it being that time of the month on the tip of your tongue. But no one stopped you or even batted an eye as you scurried from the lockers to the private restroom.

You did your business as fast as humanly possible, praying you’d be able to have the 5 minutes you needed for it to process before the usual ED chaos pulled you back in.

The two pink lines on the test were so dark they were almost black. You could barely contain yourself, fighting to keep the happy tears at bay as you pocketed the evidence.

When you slipped out of the restroom, you made a beeline for Lena.

“Hey, what’s open?”

She looked up at the board. “Uhh, South 7 should be empty by now.”

“Great,” the smile on your face was much too wide for 2am, even among your nocturnal coworkers. “Meet me there in 5 with a phlebotomy kit.”

Before Lena could ask questions, you were off. You’d been gone for a bit, so you needed to pop your head in on your patients before you could disappear again. 

As you made your rounds, quickly checking in on your (thankfully) light caseload, you could see Jack on the other end of the ED. He was surrounded by residents and med students, all of them listening intently. You couldn’t hear exactly what he was saying over the ever present din of beeping and coughing, but it seemed to be some kind of lesson instead of idle chitchat. Robby had been getting on him lately about actually teaching the students at the teaching hospital. 

You wanted to stop and stare, but you had an urgent appointment to attend to.

Lena was already in South 7 when you ducked in, shutting the door and sliding the curtain closed behind you.

“I thought you were putting a patient in here,” Lena’s arms were crossed. She looked thoroughly unimpressed.

“I am,” you stripped off your jacket, hiking up your long sleeved undershirt as you moved around her to take a seat on the edge of the bed. “Me.”

“You?”

“Yes, me,” she was still standing there, staring as you got yourself situated. “I need my blood drawn.”

“Oooookay,” slowly, she started setting up. “And why exactly is that?”

Your smile was still much too wide, perhaps a little manic. “I’m pregnant.”

Lena’s irritation morphed to shock and joy. Her smile matched yours as she picked up the pace, rapidly moving through the motions. 

“Am I correct in assuming we’re keeping this from Dr. Dad?” 

You laughed, nodding as the happy tears you’d held back in the bathroom started to make themselves known. Lena attached the tourniquet, quickly and masterfully finding a vein and beginning the draw. “I want to be absolutely sure before I tell him.”

“You don’t have to lie to me, sweetie,” she detached the vial, scribbling ‘Jane Doe’ along with the date and time on it. “I know this is about the surprises.”

So maybe the rest of the department had started to catch onto the war waging between you and Jack. In your defense, when you decided to vent to Ellis about your latest surprise attempts, how were you supposed to know she would immediately tell Shen, who would then tell everyone who’d give him the time of day?

“Ok yes, fine,” you pressed the bit of cotton she handed you onto the lightly bleeded puncture. “Maybe that’s a very small part of it.”

“Uh-huh,” Lena didn’t believe you, but that wasn’t important. “I’ll let you know when the results come back. I’ll even fast track it since I’m feeling generous.”

“Love you!” You called as she left the room.

Despite the rush, the results still didn’t come back until almost 5 am. Very positive. You were pregnant, about 9 weeks along.

But you were torn. How exactly were you going to tell Jack?

The longer you knew, the more likely he was to find out, either from you slipping up or from one of his many sources, and you couldn’t have that. You needed to do this fast. There was no time to plan out some grand reveal, so you settled on something simple.

After handoff, you pulled him away from the mingling shifts.

“Hey, before we go, can you come look at something with me?”

“Yeah,” Jack looked a little confused, but he followed you. “What’s up?”

“I just want you to take a look at these labs I got for a patient real quick,” you led him back into South 7, the room still open. Quickly, you flicked through tabs on your ipad to your results. “Here.”

Jack looked even more confused as his eyes tracked over the tablet. “Elevated hCG, probably 9-10 weeks.”

You didn’t say anything, keeping your face painfully neutral as you waited, even though you were practically vibrating on the inside. He was smart, you were sure you wouldn’t have to spell it out for him. Any second now he’d realize.

He looked between you and the tablet for a moment, before his lips parted in an ‘O.’

“I see,” you really didn’t think he did, given the lack of emotional response. “Have you told her yet?”

“I think she knows, Jack.”

“Ok…” He still looked perplexed, glancing around the empty room. “Then where is your patient?” 

“Jack…” you buried your face in your hands. This was not how you pictured this going.

“What am I missing, sweetheart?” He set the tablet down, closing the distance between you. “Pregnant patient, 9-10 weeks along, probably t-”

“They're my labs, Jack,” you dropped your hands, looking up to watch as his face froze. Tears started welling in your eyes. “I’m pregnant and I’m trying to surprise you.”

He stayed frozen for a moment, eyes scanning your face, before he was dragging you into a bone crushing hug. His hand slid into your hair as your arms wrapped around his waist and your face was buried in his shoulder.

“Holy fuck, baby.” 

Your laugh was wet. It didn’t go exactly how you imagined, but Jack’s shaky exhales told you he was just as affected as you.

“I can’t believe it,” his face was buried in your hair.

“We’re having a baby,” you couldn’t stop your voice from breaking, emotion too thick to keep it together. “We’re gonna have a kid.”

“Sweetheart, a ba-” Jack pulled back, something you didn’t catch washing over his face. His hands cupped your cheeks as he looked down at you. “Lie down.”

“What? Why?” You were confused about why he was so rudely interrupting your moment.

“I wanna see them.”

You don’t spend almost a decade with Jack Abbot without being able to tell when he’s up to something, and you can clearly tell he’s thinking something he’s not saying out loud. But both of you are emotional, evident by the shimmering of his eyes, so maybe he just really wanted to see the new life you were carrying.

“Ok,” you moved back, settling on your back on the gurney. As you pulled up your top, untying and lowering your pants ever so slightly, Jack pulled a stool and the ultrasound over. He waited until you were comfortable before he squirted a generous helping of the gel over your lower stomach.

“I know you looked at your results,” both of your eyes were glued to the screen as he used the wand to spread the gel around, moving too quickly for you to see anything yet. “But I don’t think you really looked.”

Your attention shifted, focusing on him. “Jack, what-”

“There,” he pointed at the screen.

You looked back, freezing for a moment as you took in the sight before you. 

There, blatantly displayed on the screen was a small shape that could only be described as a white bean, surrounded by black space. You could see what looked like tiny little limbs, branching out from the bean, alongside a clearly defined head.

Being a doctor had prepared you for this sight. You had seen many ultrasounds during your years through school and residency and now your tenure as an attending. You’d even seen this exact situation before, many times, in fact. But seeing it in your own womb was wiping every coherent thought from your mind.

Beside the first bean, tucked in its own protective black space, was a second bean.

“Surprsie, baby,” Jack’s smile was smug, but his eyes were still wet.

“What- how did you-” Your words failed, mind scrambling as you tried to process the reality of your situation.

“Your hCG was too high,” Jack pressed the capture button, moving the wand around to get multiple angles. “Before I realised you were showing me your labs, I thought you were trying to tell me your patient was having twins.”

Reluctantly, he removed the wand, wiping down your stomach as you blinked at him. Jack guided you to sit up, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. You felt like you were in shock, the whole world moving around you in slow motion as your mind struggled to process everything that had happened in the last few hours.

And then Jack popped the bubble, snapping you out of the fog that had come over your brain. 

“So, I guess I won your little surprise competition.”

“You absolutely did not,” you slapped weakly at his chest as he stepped between your spread legs to place his palm over your stomach.

“No?” The corners of his mouth were twitching up. “What’s more surprising than being pregnant? Being pregnant with twins.”

“I grew them,” your hand covered his, lacing your fingers together.

“Yeah, you did,” he pulled you closer to the edge of the bed. His hips were perfectly placed to brush your core over the slight bulge hidden by his scrubs. It wasn’t fully hard yet, but you could feel the heat of it leaking through the thin material keeping you apart. 

“So I won,” your breathing picked up as he gently ground against you.

“I’m pretty sure I’m the winner here,” his hand not on your stomach tangled in your hair, tilting your face up until your noses brushed. “I fucked you so good, I put two in there.”

“That’s the real surprise here,” Jack’s grip on your hair tightened causing a gasp to slip from your lips

“You saying I don’t usually fuck you good enough?” 

His voice was low and dangerous, almost a growl. His hips pushed forwards, pressing his length against the seat of your pants.

“Woah!”

The two of you jerked apart when the curtain rings and a shout shattered the tense atmosphere. Robby was standing there, half turned away with a hand over his eyes.

“Not in my hospital, please!”

“Robby, I-” You struggled to come up with a good excuse. Jack didn’t share your concern.

“Cockblock.”

You slapped his arm. Thankfully, he had muttered it under his breath and Robby had either not heard him or had chosen not to comment.

“I know you two live in a very nice house,” Robby peaked through his fingers, deeming it safe to remove his hands now that the two of you were a few feet apart. “Please, keep your marital activities there.”

“We were kind of having a moment, here,” Jack was turned away from him, likely hiding his rapidly shrinking hardon. While he was looking away, he printed the photos from the ultrasound machine.

“Have your moment at home, ok?”

“Sorry, Robby,” you stood, trying to fight the blush tinting your cheeks.

“At least your wife has a sense of decorum.”

“Truly my better half,” Jack laid a kiss on your temple after he collected the pictures, turning his attention solely to you. He handed you four strips of photos. “Here, I made one for you, one for me, one for the fridge, and one for the book.”

“Thank you, Jack,” you pulled him down into a kiss that was work safe, the barest brush of yours against his.

“Holy shit,” both of you remembered Robby was in the room when he noticed the photos. “Is that-”

“Yes,” Jack’s hand on your back pushed you forward, moving you around Robby. “Now, excuse us. I’m going to go have a few moments with my wife.”

“Jack!”

“Jesus Christ. Too much information, brother."

The car ride home had been silent. Jack was staring at the road, jaw tense and knuckles white, all while you couldn’t look away from the strip of photos in your hands. You’d probably committed all the details to memory by now, but your eyes were glued to the glossy black and white images.

You were mesmerized, transfixed. All you could do was look at your two little beans.

Aside from the lack of a period, you hadn’t had any of the stereotypical first trimester symptoms. It felt unreal, like there was some sort of disconnect. Logically, you knew that those two beans from the pictures were inside you, growing and developing. But physically, you didn’t feel it. There was no bump yet, no morning sickness, nothing visible or tangible besides these photos in your hands to mark you as pregnant.

So you clung to them, never once looking up at your surroundings until Jack was opening the passenger side door, helping you down and out of the cab of his truck.

“I’m really pregnant.”

You were the first to break the silence that had settled over the both of you.

“Yes, sweetheart,” Jack set both of your bags down on the kitchen counter while you stood, eyes flicking between the photos and him. “You really are.”

“We’re fucking having fucking twins.”

“You’ve got to work on that potty mouth before they get here,” he walked towards you, his hands settling on your hips as his chest pressed to your back. His chin hooked over your shoulder as he looked down to gaze at the print outs once again.

“Jack,” your hands fell to your sides as you spun in his grip. “What the fuck are we going to do with twins? I was already nervous about having one kid at a time, but 2? How the hell are we-”

“Hey,” calloused hands found your cheeks, stopping your panicking and squishing your lips shut. “I’ll tell you how we’re gonna do this.”

He was walking you backwards, into the hallway and across the threshold of your bedroom. 

“We’re gonna take it day by day. We’re gonna listen to our guts, follow our instincts,” he guided you to sit on the end of the bed before he was kneeling between your legs. Those big hands of his reached up, peeling your scrub top and undershirt over your head. “We’ll take some time off work, probably 6 months once they’re here, and then we can go part time.”

“But what about money-”

“You know as well as I do that we do not need to worry about money,” his fingers deftly unhooked your bra, sliding it from your shoulders. Those same fingers found the drawstring of your pants, undoing it and slipping them down along with your underwear. You lifted your hips to help him. “Between what we’ve saved so far and my pension and disability, we don’t ever have to go back if we don’t want to, sweetheart.”

“I’m not ready to quit yet,” your fingers ran through his hair as he spread your legs a little wider. Soft kisses were pressed to the skin of your inner thighs. 

“Then you won’t. Like I said, day by day,” he pulled you closer to the edge of the bed. “Now, can I eat you out or do you want to keep talking about our finances?”

“Eat me out, please Jack.”

You hadn’t noticed the growing heat between your legs, too focused on your nerves and anxiety. But when his tongue swept through your folds, a jolt of fire shot up your spine, quickly drawing your attention solely to your husband and his mouth.

“Fuck,” his arms wrapped around your thighs, yanking you even closer to him. You fell flat against the mattress. “You taste even better than usual, baby.”

Jack ate you out like a man starved. He was everywhere, dipping his tongue inside your entrance, closing his lips around your clit, his teeth dragging over your outer folds. There was little finesse. He knew the exact right buttons to push to get you right over the finish line. He’d timed it once or twice. The record was 5 minutes and 37 seconds.

But at this moment, it wasn’t about getting you there. He was savoring you, exploring every nook and cranny he could in a desperate attempt to get even more of the sweetness between your thighs on his tongue.

“Gonna have to keep you pregnant 24/7 if you taste this good when you’ve got my kids in there,” one of his hands came up to spread over your abdomen, right above your navel. He pressed down at the same time he slid two of his fingers inside of you, all the way down to the knuckle.

Your back arched, a pathetic whine of his name leaking into the air. 

“Don’t cry, sweetheart,” Jack’s voice was low and rough, the vibrations traveling through your body as he refused to lift his head. “I’ll give you what you need.”

The shift from him simply exploring and savoring your taste to a concentrated effort to make you cum is jarring. One moment he was languidly licking over you with the flat of his tongue and the next his lips were sealed over your clit, sucking while his fingers curled upwards to slide back and forwards against your g-spot.

“Jack! Fuck!” 

He didn’t respond, his focus solely on giving you the most pleasure he could, as fast as he could.

It was intense. Like he had poured gasoline onto the heat growing between your legs, turning that fuzzy, warm flame into an inferno. His movements threatened to drag you over into oblivion much faster than you had anticipated.

“Oh fuck, Jack,” your voice was high pitched and breathy while your body writhed, just barely held in place by his hand still flat over your stomach. “Fuck, I’m close!”

And then, right as you were about to tumble over the edge, he stopped. Jack pulled back, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

“What the fuck?” You were panting, trying to school your desperate and flushed features into a glare.

“Oh I’m sorry,” Jack looked dangerous in the low light of the bedroom. He stood, towering over your almost limp body, the limited light seeping in from the blackout curtains and shining from the dim lamp on the bedside table outlined the sharp edges of him. His jaw dusted with slight silver stubble, the muscles in his chest and arms that tensed and shifted as he crawled over you.

His hand tapped at the outside of your thigh, urging you silently to scoot up until your head lay among the pillows and his body and settled between your legs. You realized he was still fully clothed while you lay beneath him, completely naked.

 “That was looking suspiciously like I was making you feel good.”

Your head dropped back with a groan. “You’re still on that? It was a dumb comment. You know you make me feel better than anyone I’ve ever been with, Jack.”

“I certainly know that,” his fingers spread wide over your breast, squeezing the flesh before shifting and rolling your nipple between two rough fingertips. You let out a high pitched sigh as your back arched, practically presenting your breasts to him. “I just think you might need a reminder.”

“Then take off your clothes and remind me,” your hands tangled in his curls, dragging his face to yours. When your lips met, it was desperate, both of you falling into a fast and needy rhythm. His tongue darted out, tangling with yours while his hands continued to squeeze at and caress your breasts. You could feel the hard length of him grinding against your inner thigh.

And then Jack was pulling back, pushing up to rest on his knees between your spread thighs. You couldn’t help but admire him as he stripped his shirt off, eyes glued to the freckles dusting his shoulders and pecs.

“Enjoying the view?” He cocked one eyebrow at you, throwing the shirt off the edge of the bed as he unfastened his watch. 

“Oh I most definitely am,” something fluttered in your stomach as he leant over you, reaching to place the watch on the nightstand. You knew he was doing it on purpose, but you couldn’t find it in you to complain as you watched his muscles stretch and flex.

“Mmm, me too.”

Jack settled back on his knees, those big hands sliding over your thighs. He looked ravenous, his eyes tracing over every inch of your bare skin, especially lingering on your chest as it rose and fell in time with your heavy breathing.

“I think you should sit on my face.”

Your breath hitched, core clenching at his words. As tempting as it was, you were aching for him. You needed to feel him deep inside of you.

“I think you should fuck me,” you countered. It was playing dirty, but you couldn’t help yourself as you stretched your arms above your head, arching your back and hooking your legs around his hips. “C’mon Jackie.”

As he dropped down over you, one of his hands caught your still outstretched wrists, pinning them to the blankets. With the other hand he dug his fingers into your hair, not pulling, just holding tight to the strands.

“I want,” his lips kissed the corner of your mouth before he was moving down to mouth at where your carotid hammered away. “You to sit on my face. Think of it as my reward for winning the surprise-off.”

“You didn’t win-” your protest ended in a bitten off moan when his hips ground against yours, your clit pressing right against his head through the thin fabric he still wore.

“Yes I did.”

Your world blurred and tilted as Jack flipped the two of you. He landed on his back, leaving you scrambling to catch your balance as he pulled you up his chest. His hands were insistent from where they held your ass, yanking you up and over his face before you could stop him.

And then he was pulling you down. The hands on your ass encouraged you to rock and grind against him while his tongue plunged inside of you.

You cried out his name, hands shooting out to grab the headboard as the heat from before returned full force. Jack didn’t let up, using every dirty little trick he’d learned over the years to get you close. He didn’t delay or try to keep you on edge, his sole focus was on making you cum.

His tongue shifted and he tilted your hips, drawing circles around the bud with his tongue while his fingers slipped back inside you.

“Holy shit!” You were rocking against him, panting with the force of the orgasm rising deep in your pelvis. “Fuck, please. Just like that!”

He groaned into you, and that pushed you over the edge.

Your legs shook and your head dropped back. You didn’t try to hide the moans and whimpers you released as you pulsed around his fingers. The sensation washed over you, sending sparks flashing behind your closed eyelids while you rode it out.

When he finally let you go, it was a miracle you didn’t kick him in the face. You collapsed into the sheets beside him, panting and twitching with aftershocks.

“Does that qualify as ‘good enough?’”

“Fuck you, Abbot.”

Your eyes were still closed but you heard him getting up. There was the rustling of his pants, followed by the telltale snapping of the fastenings on his leg. You listened to his sigh and the thunk as it was leant against the nightstand.

And then he was sliding over you again and your eyes opened.

He was smiling down at you, eyes full of so much love it floored you. To see his devotion to you sparkling in his blown pupils in the comfort of the home you shared was overwhelming.

“I love you,” your fingers carded through his messy curls before your palm settled over his cheekbone.

“I love you, too.”

He kissed you then, slowly and softly, simply letting the two of you get lost in it. As you did, your legs came up to wrap around him and his forearms settled on either side of your head.

It was only when the bare length of him was brushing through your folds that you broke the kiss.

“Wait,” your breathing was labored. “Flip me over.”

“No, I want to see you,” Jack was trying to pull you back into a kiss as his length continued to rut against you, but you dodged it.

“And I want to get fucked laying on my stomach before your kids make it so I can’t.”

He laughed, shaking his head as he sat back up again to give you room to twist around. When you got comfortable he grabbed a pillow.

“Up,” his hand pulled at your hip and you lifted, giving him room to slide the pillow underneath, just enough to prop you up slightly. Your hands folded underneath your chin, waiting for him to get himself situated.

“Your ass looks fucking incredible like this.” Jack straddled your thighs, pinning them together. His hands came up to grab and squeeze at your ass, pulling the cheeks apart to glide his length in between.

The first press of him against your dripping entrance had you biting your lip. He always felt so big in this position, like he was actually rearranging your guts when he bottomed out.

“Ah fuck,” he sounded breathless when he pushed the head in. “You’re so fucking tight, sweetheart.”

“Jack please,” you tried to push back against him but his hand landed on your upper back, keeping you pinned.

“Gotta give me a minute,” he was breathing hard, biting back a groan when you squeezed around him. “Gonna cum too fast if you do that.”

You gave him a minute. Well, you tried to. You just needed him, desperately.

“Jack Abbot if you don’t fuck me, I swear to god I’ll-”

“You’ll what?” He was finally - finally - sliding the rest of the way inside, pushing until his hips met your ass. “You’ll find someone else to fuck you? You won’t let me touch you for a week?”

You were too distracted by the full length of him sliding home to answer. Your hips were grinding back, as much as you could while he still held you still. The shifting movement had your clit grinding against the pillow as well.

“C’mon, don’t make empty threats.” Jack’s body lowered over yours. His chest pressed into your back, pinning you even more firmly into the mattress and stopping your movements. “Tell me what you’ll do if I don’t fuck you how you need.”

“I-” 

You were interrupted by his first thrust, a deep grinding motion that had his tip pressing against that space just below your cervix. One of his hands was slipping between you and the pillow, palming your mound. His fingers parted around where his length was beginning to slide in and out, never pulling more than halfway out before thrusting back in.

“F-fuck…”

“S’that what you needed, babygirl?”

He pulled back slightly until the pads of his fingers were brushing against your clit, rolling and stroking over the bud with every shift of his cock deep inside you.

“Yes, Jack, yes!”

Jack buried as deep into you as he could with every thrust. Your mind was going fuzzy with pleasure. Fully surrounded by him like you were, it was impossible to focus on anything except how he made you feel. His chest was pressed against your back, his forehead pressed against your shoulder, and his free arm was curled over your other shoulder, holding your breast.

“Shit, please tell me you’re close, baby,” his fingers sped up against your clit and his hips were losing their rhythm.

“Yeah, Jack, please!”

All you could do from where he held you was grind back and forth, alternating between chasing the pleasure from his hand and his cock. Both sensations were yanking you closer to your orgasm. You could feel it welling in your bones and pooling in your stomach.

“Fuck I want you to cum with me,” Jack was grunting as humped into you. “Please sweetheart. Wanna feel you.”

Who were you to deny your husband what he wanted?

The noise Jack made when your walls started to squeeze and pulse around him was obscene. It was long and drawn out, rough around the edges and broken as he thrust in and stayed. You could feel his length twitching, the wet hot heat of him unloading deep inside you.

All the while, your own hips were twitching and jerking, pinned in place by his body as your eyes rolled back. The orgasm ran you over, leaving you gasping and whimpering into the sheets as you fought to catch your breath. It felt electric, zapping up and down your spine in increasingly weaker pulses until you collapsed into the bed.

“Jesus,” Jack pushed himself off you, pulling out slowly. Both of you winced at the separation. 

You let yourself lay there, blissed out and half aware as Jack moved about around you. His crutches squeaked against the floor as he went into the bathroom, but he was back before you knew it with a wet wash cloth. His movements were gentle as he cleaned between your legs.

“That’s good enough. C’mere,” you pushed his hand away, scooting back to make room for him underneath the covers.

“Alright,” he chuckled. There was a rather gross sounding wet splat, presumably the wash cloth landing on the tile of the bathroom floor and then Jack was pulling your back against his chest, spooning you.

You made a mental note to pick that up tomorrow.

He'd watched you do it for the better part of a year now. Suture a kid's eyebrow while the mother sobbed in the doorway. Call a time of death in a voice that didn't waver once. Walk out of a trauma — that would've put most second-years on the floor — like it didn't do anything of significance to you.

He'd told Robby once, that one's gonna outlast all of us. Robby had just hummed, like he already knew. Like everybody already knew except maybe you.

He didn't know what to do with that. With you. Two decades of learning exactly how much a person could survive before they gave, and you'd never given. Not once, not in any way he'd been close enough to catch — and he had been close. 

Closer than he'd let himself admit, most nights. The sound you made when you were concentrating, he could pick it out with his eyes closed, how you could never stay down, even if anyone else in your position would've quit.

None of that should've mattered to a man who'd buried more people than he'd saved and still wore another woman's ring, solely because taking it off felt like one more door he didn't get to walk through.

Turning it without meaning to, he was thinking about the ring then, sitting three stools down from you at the bar nobody bothered to name, the place where everyone went to confirm they'd survived another shift.

It had been ugly that night. You'd handled it like you always did. Sunshine, somebody on the floor had called you once, not unkindly, and it had stuck.

You are sunshine. 

And Jack knew he wasn't someone who got to keep something like that for himself.

"Another round?" Mateo was flagging down the bartender down without waiting for an answer.

Jack shook his head before anyone could pour him one. "I'm good." One beer in, he had no plans to go further. Somebody at this table had to drive, and it was not going to be Mateo.

You said something about him always being good, warm enough that it caught somewhere he'd rather it didn't.

He looked at you a beat too long before he could stop himself. "Most days." The truest thing he'd said all night. 

Jack willed himself to look away, back toward whatever Ellis was saying about the new schedule, looking at you any longer was him being the opposite of good.

So many months spent looking sideways, stopping before the thought went anywhere it shouldn't. Whether that counted as discipline or cowardice, he hadn't decided.

Sixteen hours on feet would do that to anyone, let alone him, so Jack stretched his bad leg out under the table. 

Nobody here treated it like news anymore. You'd asked him about it once, early on. Lost it overseas, he'd told you.

You hadn't pushed. He was grateful for that. Most people pushed, prodded him with questions, or completely ignored it. 

You, once again, had fallen in the middle, his desired side. 

The jukebox was playing a song old enough that he could sing along if he wanted to embarrass himself in front of the entire bar, which he didn't.

Javadi was muttering under her breath and you laughed at it, and Jack watched. 

He'd noticed he liked watching you laugh more than was probably healthy for a man his age with his own collection of scars. But noticing it and doing anything about it were two very different problems, and he'd spent a year successfully keeping them that way.

He was still congratulating himself on that, more or less, when you said his name, followed by your slurry question, "Y'know what's stupid?" 

Jack already knew this wasn't going anywhere good. You only led with y'know what's stupid when you were three drinks past the point where you usually stopped yourself.

"Don't know." He leaned back against the bar, arms crossed, tried to look casual and probably failed. "You're gonna tell me though."

"Don't be smart with me right now. I'm fragile." You weren't fragile. In the period of watching you and knowing you, he'd never once gotten the sense that the word applied to you. But you'd moved closer, not bothering to keep your voice down.

"Oh, here we go," Santos muttered into her glass.

"What's stupid," you went on, leaning forward like the table had gotten further away in the last ten seconds, "is loving somebody who is never, ever gonna let himself be loved back. That's a stupid way to spend a Friday. A stupid way to spend a year, a whole life, actually, if we're being honest."

"Who?" Whitaker leaned in like this was the best thing to happen to him all week. "You gotta say who, you can't just throw a thing like that into a bar and walk away from it—"

Jack thought you didn't need any persuasion or encouragement to blurt out whatever was on your mind.

"You know who," you said, still not looking away from Jack.

He felt that burrow under his ribs and live there. Only thing he knew how to do and he did that, try to joke his way out before it turned into something heavier. "Let's take a break, shall we?"

"No, I wanna say." The no and say came out long and drawn, each syllable stretched with stubborn insistence.

"Say it, then." Whittaker's voice once again spurred you on.

You said the older man's name like it had been sitting behind your teeth longer than just tonight, no laugh in it to hide behind this time. Jack felt the table go quiet, listening even with their eyes pointed somewhere else.

"It's you," you whispered, then laughed, a sound so beautiful, Jack wanted to keep hearing it. "It's so obviously you I don't know why I bothered being subtle about it. Everybody already knows. Mateo has watched me watch you for — for — I dunno how long —"

From the far end of the booth came Mateo's voice. "No, I haven't."

"You're not subtle, Mateo."

"I —"

"It's okay." Your concentration came back to Jack, like the rest of the table had stopped existing, which — fair, he'd been doing the same thing since you opened your mouth. "It's been you for embarrassingly long. Professionally embarrassing. I should lose my license over how long it's been."

That earned a few laughs around the table and Jack wanted to pull you in, shield you from the attention you'd suddenly become the center of.

But he couldn't. 

The honest answer — the one that would never see daylight, if he had any say in it — was that he understood. More than he should've.

Long back, he'd started noticing what door you came through at the start of each shift. Your coffee. How you only remembered to eat if someone put food in your eyeline. None of that was the kind of attention an attending was supposed to pay a resident. 

That also extended to you'd been watching him, mostly when you'd thought he wasn't looking. So he knew. 

All that watching and he'd never once let himself do anything with it except stand in the same room and be relieved you weren't paying attention. 

He should've laughed it off clean. That was the move, the one he'd used on a hundred things he didn't want to look at directly for longer than a second. What came out instead was softer and more revealing. "Let's get some water into you."

"Don't wan' water. Want an answer." You sighed and plopped your head on the table, not caring about what had been on it before. Sober you would chastise this version. 

Crescents dug into his palm with the effort of not reaching to you. "You're gonna want the water in about twenty minutes. Trust me on this one."

"Is this happening?" Whitaker didn't bother lowering his voice, even though the question was only meant for Santos. "Are we just gonna sit here and watch this happen?"

"We are absolutely sitting here watching this happen," Santos deadpanned.

"I'm bein' serious, Jack." Your voice came as a whine.

"Yeah," he said. "That's what worries me." He was careful to keep it low, not let it carry. 

"I am serious. I'm the most serious person in this entire building, ask literally anyone —" The apparently serious effect you were going for was lost with the way you hiccupped at the middle of your sentence.

"Not wrong about that part," Whitaker offered, unhelpfully.

"Thank you, Huckleberry." 

Whittaker sighed, probably wishing he hadn't chimed in. 

"C'mon." Jack stood. The room tipped half a degree, byproduct of one beer and sixteen hours upright. His weight settled wrong into the leg for a second before it found the floor right, a half-beat nobody at this table had ever clocked because he'd gotten good at not letting them. "I'm taking you home."

"You're not listenin' to me." Your arms flailed before slotting themselves on his biceps for support.

"Listening fine. Up you get."

Robby caught his eye over the top of your head while Jack hauled you up by the elbow, the two of you doing the slow shuffle toward the door that he was not, under any circumstances, going to call a stagger out loud.

Unconscious weight trusting the near solid thing, your body went slump against his. He kept a hand at your back. Told himself it was practical. Perks of telling himself the same thing for God knows how long, he wasn't going to stop now.

Robby's lips played a smirk, the one he used to get back in residency whenever Jack tried to pretend a bad shift hadn't gotten to him. Said he saw exactly what this was and was choosing, out of something resembling mercy, not to say it yet.

"Don't," Jack said anyway, covering his bases.

"Didn't say a thing."

You didn't mean it. He held onto that the whole walk to the car, the whole drive, your head against the window and your eyes closing somewhere around the second red light.

You'd had — what, four? Five? Jack had counted without meaning to. The number added upto something you'd be embarrassed the next day. 

He got you up the stairs to your apartment with an arm under yours, and you went easy, pliant. The drinks had stripped you off any careful consideration you'd worn like a badge, now going loose, like you trusted him with holding you up. 

He got you water. He got you to the couch, because you point-blank refused the bed, something about if I lie down the room's gonna dance, Jackie, and Jack didn't ask. Couch should be fine. But he knew he'd never recover from the Jackie. 

"Jackie."

Of course. 

"Yeah."

"I meant it." Your eyes were already closing again. "Jus' so you know. For later. I meant it."

"Go to sleep."

"'M not gonna remember saying that."

"Probably not."

"'Kay," you mumbled, which undercut the whole I meant it pretty thoroughly.

Jack pulled a blanket up over you and told himself that settled it. He stood there longer than he needed to and just looked at you. 

He'd watched enough of you being one with the couch, only this was not the break room, and there weren't a myriad of factors fighting for his attention. 

But, not like this. 

He'd never quite let himself look at you when you were awake, openly, without the practiced distance he'd built between watching something and wanting it.

Whatever you wore through every shift had gone quiet. What was left was just you.

You were drunk. You didn't mean it.

That and how you said his name replayed in his head the whole drive home. He'd always been Dr. Abbot to you, and there was no recovering from either Jack or Jackie, especially the latter. Even drunk, your voice didn't waver, like you'd practiced it somewhere private long before that night gave you the nerve. He decided, somewhere around his third red light, that it didn't matter how you said it.

People said things drunk they wouldn't survive saying sober, and the kindest thing he could do, maybe the only thing he was actually allowed to do, was leave it exactly where it fell. At a bar. Five drinks in. Gone by morning.

It wasn't gone by morning.

He had a whole speech, something that would let the two of you step around this without either one having to look at it head-on. He never got the chance to use it though. 

You found him first, outside trauma two. Eyebrows drawn together, a small pout playing at your lips, a look he hadn't seen on you, having watched this place fail to touch you for months. 

Seemed like you'd already decided how to take whatever he was going to say. 

"Hey." You not so much looked at him as over him. "So — I wanted to say sorry. About last night. I had a lot to drink and I shouldn't have put you on the spot like that, in front of everybody."

He wanted to tell you not to apologise, that you didn't put him on the spot at all, only yourself, and he would do anything to make you forget it, his one good deed. 

"It's fine," he said, already half-turned back toward the chart in his hand. "Don't worry about it."

The absolute silence from you made him look back up. There was a small tilt to your mouth, like the start of a frown that got called off halfway through. "Oh," you said. "Okay."

"Hey —" He didn't love the sound that came out of you on those two words — worse than anger, a gentle resignation — opened his mouth to walk it back, except you got there first.

"Why didn't you take it seriously?"

"What?"

"Last night. You just… nothing — told me to drink water. Why didn't you take it seriously?"

"Because you'd had a lot to drink," he said like it was obvious. To him it had been, even if his subconscious would never agree with that. "You didn't mean it."

"No — no, that's — " You were shaking your head like you were trying to get the right words to fall into the right order. "I did mean it. Fuck it—" he'd never once heard you curse. "I'll say it now, even if saying it in daylight — I mean, it's nighttime, but — sober. Sober's the word I'm looking for. It's just me. Standing here. Telling you that I —"

"Trauma two minutes out," Lena called from the desk. "GSW, unresponsive."

"Bed three." Shen moved past the two of you like neither of you were rooted to the ground like statues. "Let's go, people."

Jack's hand found your shoulder without his permission, gone almost as soon as it landed, and then he was moving too, falling into step beside Shen like the last ten seconds hadn't just happened at all.

He was good at not thinking about things when there was something else that needed doing, probably his most transferable skill if anyone ever asked.

The case took eleven minutes to crash and another forty to claw back. His hands knew what to do faster than his head did, which was usually the only thing keeping him upright through one of these.

Until minute thirty, he didn't think about the hallway again, when he looked up across the bed for a clamp and caught you on the other side of it. Gloved hands steady. Voice steady, calling out vitals.

He'd watched you call a death and then go check on the family with nothing on you but patience. In all these months, the job had never once gotten anywhere near your eyes. Now it had.

And he knew exactly whose fault it was, looking at you over a man's open chest, and the knowing sat in him like something swallowed wrong, heavy and a little sick, the rest of the case.

With the adrenaline gone, and nothing left to cower behind, Jack followed you to the ambulance bay. 

"Hey."

Rushing a silence never made it shorter in his experience, and you needed a beat more than he did. He gave it to you.

"Hey." You didn't look at him.

"You good?"

"I don't know, Jack. Am I supposed to be good?" Now you looked at him, and it wasn't soft anymore. He hadn't expected the fire even though he probably should've. "You're the one who decided what I'm allowed to feel about any of this."

"That's not what I was trying to do."

"That's exactly what you did. You stood there and told me you didn't think much of it. Like I was a chart you forgot to sign."

"I didn't mean it like that."

"Then how'd you mean it?"

Practised, rehearsed speech was sitting somewhere behind his tongue, not one word of it came to his aid, happy with watching him scramble.

A gurney rattled somewhere behind him, two sets of footsteps moving fast toward bay four, somebody calling out a name he didn't catch. He registered none of it. 

The whole building could've gone up and he wouldn't have noticed, not with you looking at him like that, waiting on something he should've had ready an hour ago. A day ago. A year, probably, if he was being honest.

He thought about lying. Old habit, reaching for the smooth thing instead of the true one. But you'd see it. You always saw it, that was half the problem with you — you'd gotten too good at reading him for him to get away with the easy version anymore.

"I was scared." Jack hated how it sounded coming out of him, unfinished. 

He almost wished you would say something. Silence from you was worse than any yelling, than the fire from a second ago. At least the fire told him where he stood.

"I — I was trying to make it easy for you." He heard himself say it and knew, even as the words came out, that they weren't going to do what he wanted them to do. "So you didn't have to carry it."

"I don't want easy!" Your voice cranked at the end of it, loud enough that a passing tech glanced over before deciding very quickly to keep walking. "When have I ever once asked you for easy?"

"I don't know, maybe never, maybe that's the problem—"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You don't ask for anything." He hadn't meant to get into this here, hadn't meant to get into it at all, but it was coming out now whether he wanted it to or not. Two decades of watching people swallow things finally finding somewhere to go. "You take whatever the night throws at you and you swallow it and you smile and you call it fine. I figured you'd do the same with this."

Out loud, it sounded exactly as cowardly as it was.

"This isn't a trauma, Jack. You don't get to triage me."

"I know that."

"Do you? Because it really doesn't feel like you do."

"I know it, alright?" His voice was louder than he'd meant it to be, and he caught himself, brought it back down. You, of all people, didn't deserve to be the one who got it loud. "I've known since the second you said my name at that bar, and I — I told you it was fine. Because—"

"Because what?"

The easy thing resurfaced, sat right there in his mouth, but he looked at your face and it went nowhere. Again.

He thought of the ring. How he'd been using it, as an argument with himself. It stopped holding a long time ago. "Because if I told you the truth, I didn't know what I was gonna do with it."

"So you lied to me instead?" A sniffle worked up to your words, he hated it more than he'd hated most things this job had shown him. "That's worse, Jack. That's so much worse than just saying nothing."

"I know." Jack sighed. 

"Then why'd you do it?"

He'd had this conversation in his head half a dozen times. In his version he'd been more articulate, and you'd let him get through a full sentence. But you were looking at him like you actually wanted the answer and weren't going to let him get away without giving it.

"Because I look at you and I see somebody who's never once let this place touch you," he said. "Not all the way down — and I keep thinking, if I let myself want that, I'm gonna end up being the thing that finally does."

You went quiet, thrown enough that for a second you forgot to be angry at him. "What?"

He'd turned it over in his head so many times it had worn smooth, but that wasn't the same as saying it. Saying it made it actual. Made it a thing that existed outside of him, in the cold, between the two of you.

"I'm sorry."

"You think you'd ruin me." Softest person in this building and the most stubborn, and those weren't contradictions, you weren't going to let him off the hook.

The cold was getting into him through his scrubs and he didn't care. Some part of him thought he deserved to stand out here and freeze a little, penance for a thing he hadn't even committed yet, just the threat of it. 

He'd buried a marriage he didn't talk about, and somewhere along the way he'd decided that meant he didn't get a second one, didn't get to want it, like the universe only handed a man one shot at being soft with somebody and his had already come and gone.

"I think I've ruined plenty already." He'd thought he'd made peace with it a long time ago but he apparently hadn't. "I'm not in a hurry to find out if you're next on that list."

"That's not fair. You don't get to decide that for me either."

"Probably not."

"So stop deciding it!"

"I'm —"

"Don't say you're trying. You're not. You're standing there doing the exact same thing you did last night, you're just using better words this time."

"What do you want from me?"

"I want you to stop being so sure you already know how this ends before it's even started!" You tried to swallow a sob back down and failed. "I'm so tired of being the strong one. I don't — I don't want to be the strong one with you too."

It was awful watching you cry. He'd sat with families through the worst things this city could do to them and he knew that language — knew where to put his hands, what to say and how to be useful inside someone else's worst moment.

His own fault, and none of that applied here. The only useful thing would start with him closing the distance.

"Sweetheart." It came out before he'd decided to say anything at all. "Hey — c'mere."

Jack pulled you in before you could argue your way out of it, one arm coming around you, your face landing against his chest like it had been aiming for that exact spot the whole time.

Imagining this had been forbidden too him, he'd been disciplined about keeping the things he wasn't allowed to want in a place he didn't go.

But, the warmth of your body was real, and you fit against him perfectly. Absurd, if he had to think about it then, absurd that he'd wasted time. A very long time to have waited for something that felt this right.

His hand found the back of your head without him telling it to. He felt you shake once, just once, like your body was testing whether it was allowed.

Tighter, then. Just enough.

"Why won't you just let this be easy?" Your words were muffled, wrecked, into the fabric of his scrubs.

The same question he'd been asking himself, end of bad shifts, in the car, in all the hours he'd spent deciding not to do exactly this. He didn't have a good answer.

"Because nothing about me is easy." He said it into your hair. "You're—" He found a different way to say it, ended up going for the most obvious one. "You're sunshine. You don't even know you're doing it half the time. And I'm not that. I've got two decades of stuff in me that doesn't burn off, it just sits there. I didn't think it was fair to put that next to you."

"That's not your call to make."

"I'm not good for you."

"I don't care."

"You —"

"Stop." It was so much like you to cut him off.

He let out a breath that had been sitting in his chest since the bar the night before. "Okay."

Frozen in place, frozen in hug, the two of you stood there, morning sun peeking out from the clouds. He didn't let go. You didn't ask him to. 

There were things he should probably say, about the leg he didn't talk about, about the wife he talked about even less, about everything he'd carried out of those years that he still hadn't found a place to put down. 

But that felt like a conversation for some dawn that wasn't now.

"You really think I'm sunshine?" you asked eventually, voice still thick, pressed into him like you weren't ready to test your own legs yet.

It was the kind of question asked when you already believed something but needed someone else holding it with you. He'd heard it before, in harder rooms, from people with far less reason for it.

He hadn't expected it from you. You were the one who made every room feel like things were going to be alright. He hadn't known, until then, that you needed someone to do that back.

"You're everything."

The first issue was more about self-preservation, as opposed to a genuine fear the revelation that you had almost been a fully-qualified doctor would become the latest tidbit to tantalise The Pitt. People knowing you had trained to be a doctor wasn’t the problem, it was the inevitable question that followed - why didn’t you finish? That part of you wasn’t something you were prepared to make public domain. Fortunately, Dr. Abbot was not exactly the type to be trading in others secrets. This was a man so shut off, it was hard to decipher whether he was pleased he saved a life at times. But that didn’t mean the question didn’t linger on his own lips. Ever since, you would catch his eyes boring into you, like something to be solved; as if you were just another patient and that knocked you sick. 

The second issue was about your own mortification after you were privy to what lay beneath Dr. Abbot’s dark scrubs and tight t-shirts. You wanted to scrub the image of his bare toned body from memory as it continued to haunt you. Tattooed to the insides of your eyelids, even when you scrunched them shut in attempts to compose yourself and relieve the intrusive visions anytime you crossed paths with him since. The repertoire of shared smirks and sarcasms the pair of you had built after a rocky introduction, was now out the window. How could you act normal after your skin had learnt what the previously forbidden parts of his, felt to the touch? 

To not expose yourself, ever since the incident you’d maintained short pleasantries and minimal conversation with Dr. Abbot. Pushing yourself away for the sake of your own dignity. Could he see you ogling him? Had he noticed your fingers lingering too long? All of it was too mortifying. The lump that rose in your throat when he now offered you a good morning. The dryness in your mouth when he asked a simple question. The way your body froze when your bodies reunited in touch just from him brushing by or tapping for your attention. But most of all, by avoiding him, you wouldn’t have to watch his sharp eyes focus on you, trying to unravel the mysteries that surrounded you and the questions you had opened yourself up to. 

Paranoia resonated that maybe the whole Pitt could sense your internal crises around Dr. Abbot. Could decipher your gaze as that of a nervous crush-stricken school girl. Or worse, already all knew about the incident. Robby had caught you both compromised in your hideaway of the abandoned wing, and he often couldn’t keep his trap shut. You’d caught him too many times with Santos in the middle of what felt like a father-daughter gossip session. Your brain’s natural reaction had been to propel yourself away from your new-found friends at The Pitt. Never sticking around too long, retreating to your office or the Family Room under the guise of casework and confidentiality. 

All of those consequences because you played the hero, since you’d barked at poor Mohan like she’d overstepped onto your property. Because you wanted to get closer to what stood behind her, yearned to cave into desires you weren’t ready to address. But most of all, because mind, body and soul ached to care for Jack Abbot. 

It felt like finally you could catch a break when Dana had told you about her fifty-something birthday party. A chance to relax around your friends again, away from The Pitt and likely, away from Abbot. Dana quickly became your closest confidante in the ED after guiding you through your first day. Both of you recognising a kindred spirit in each other. Both women with a tough exterior and past, who feel things so deeply inside it aches. She’d been privy to your first explosive interaction to Abbot and had watched quietly at the sidelines to see what would happen next. The sparks from yours and the attending’s first meeting had caught her off guard. Dana felt they might just ignite something - not that she had shared that inkling with either of you. 

It took you only a couple of hours after your heroics with Abbot before you confessed to Dana about it. Ever since, she had watched you transform from your ballsy self into Bambi in his presence; wide eyes, hesitant movements and skittish reactions. Every interaction left her with a self-righteous smirk as she watched you scramble away from Abbot. Leaving her old friend silently brooding as he desperately tried unravel the mystery that was you. 

It felt freeing to be spending your time away from The Pitt and concentrating on anything not work related. In an attempt to not sit in your apartment ruminating until the party, you’d begged Dana to let you help set up. The party was being held at a sports bar her husband owned with her brothers. The only girl in a family of three brothers, it made sense why Dana was not to be messed with.  

Your arrival couldn’t be heard over the rabble of thick Pittsburgh accents fighting to be the loudest. Dana had taken you sternly by the shoulders when you’d insisted on helping her set up and attempted to warn you, ‘As kind as that offer is, honey. It’s one you’ll regret. My people, they’re loud, they don’t behave and they will try and set you up with someone’s son.’ 

The only person who notices your arrival is a little girl with the same perfect blonde locks as Dana. 

‘Matching,’ she points between you, then twirls. She’s right, both your dresses are the same shade of summery blue. 

‘Yours has more sparkles though, I love it,’ you grin. 

‘Thank you!’ But she continues to look at you expectantly, ‘now you spin!’ 

It’s only as you are mid-twirl, does an adult actually notice your arrival. 

‘Charlotte, leave the lady alone!’ A man built like a linebacker approaches you, his daunting figure clearly nothing to the little girl who rolls her eyes dramatically. 

‘Sorry, Miss. We’re closed for a private party tonight- ‘  

‘Knew you’d still come early!’ A tipsy Dana hollers louder than necessary. It’s enough for the mob to finally turn and notice your arrival. Dana parades you round introducing you to her burly brothers, beautiful daughters and adorable nieces. The crowd cheering your name like you’d been a family friend since forever.

It’s when you’re attempting to arrange towers of party food with Dana, you dare to ask the question. 

‘So which of The Pitt’s finest are coming tonight?’ You attempt to ask innocently. The scoff that comes out of Dana, indicates you failed miserably. 

‘Just the usual motley crew,’ she grins wickedly, knowing that wasn’t a satisfactory answer. 

‘Robby and the day shift gang?’ Futilely praying Dana will take pity and answer without you ever having to say the words. 

Dana is no fool, she shrugs ‘and then some.’

You consider crushing the profiterole you’re failing to balance, with your first. 

‘Oh my god,’ you groan, ‘you’re sick, you’re a nurse, you’re supposed to be caring and take pity!’

‘It’s my birthday,’ she grins, ‘I’m very old, kid. Gotta be clear when you ask me stuff!’

‘Fine,’ you grumble, ‘is a certain night shift attending going to be here?’ 

You get a shrug, a petulant shrug from a woman with a grin that reaches ear to ear.

‘Abbot!!’ His name bursts out of your mouth, ‘is Abbot coming tonight?’ 

‘A girl can only hope,’ a Dana duplicate adds wistfully, appearing beside you both suddenly and swiping the profiterole you’d only just managed to balance. 

‘Rachel!’ Dana scolds.

‘Who are we talking about?’ Another dupe materialises now, another witness to your mortification.

‘Jack Abbot,’ Rachel murmurs over a mouthful of cream. 

‘Hot,’ her sister nods in fervent approval. For your introduction to Dana’s twins, you hoped to present yourself as something other than a walking beetroot. Maybe as the successful and sometimes witty woman you liked to think you are - rather than some stuttering girl who can’t admit her crush. 

‘Melissa! Rachel!’ Dana points her finger in the way you’ve seen her do to misbehaving patients so many times. ‘That man is nearly as old as your father. Have some shame!’

The girls shrug in unison. 

‘It doesn’t stop Leonardo DiCaprio,’ Melissa challenges, ‘so why should it stop me.’ 

At this point Dana’s palms are pressing against her temples. 

‘Right! You’re both banned from interacting with any men over the age of 25 tonight unless you’re related to them!’ 

Before any protests can be formed, Dana is shooing her daughters away and ordering them to be helpful. But the conversation has you doing more mental mathematics than you anticipated when getting ready earlier. 

If Dana’s daughters are still in college but in their early twenties and if Jack isn’t fifty yet, then that would make him how much older than —

‘I don’t know if Jack’s coming,’ Dana cuts off your calculations ‘you can breathe now, sweetie.’ 

‘Oh brilliant, so he’s Schrödinger’s RSVP then?’ 

Dana snorts, ‘look, Abbot ticks the maybe box in life, none of us know what he does except turn up to work or get shot at for fun.’

‘I need a drink,’ you resign. 

Dana claps your shoulder, ‘that’s the spirit! Loosen those inhibitions in case he comes!’

‘I’m not-‘ you protest, ‘ - he’s not going to come!’

‘But you want him to,’ Dana taunts gleefully as she drags you to the bar.  

Jack Abbot does come. 

By the time he arrives, the party is well in motion, he can tell solely by the way Robby is swaying to Duran Duran whilst using Lena for stability. The bar is decorated within an inch of its life, far from the cool sports bar it typically is. The televisions all diverted from their regular ESPN scheduling to slideshows of Dana that everyone had submitted photographs to. He’s certain the state of Pennsylvania’s helium supplies have been plundered for tonight; floating stars, hearts and a D A N A twist and twirl under the AC with more stability than several of his colleagues here. Jack’s mouth twists into a smirk as he catches a giant 5 followed by ? bobbing under the lights of the make shift dance floor. He’s not sure anyone other than himself, Robby, her mother and husband know how old Dana really is. 

In the centre of the dance floor, amongst the rabble, there you are. Slightly bent at the knees to level yourself with the little girl whose hands swing with yours. The pair of you bopping around to the music, carefree in pretty party dresses. As if you’ve always belonged right in this moment. It’s the most carefree and unprofessional Jack has ever seen you, the tense shoulders and jaw reserved for him over the last few weeks, melted away as you giggle with the little girl and spin her round. He almost feels depraved for observing the scene before him, knowing this isn’t a version of you meant for his eyes. 

Is this the you that the other staff know so well? The you that Ellis claims necks tequila shots like juice before destroying old men at pool? The you that drove Santos and Whitaker round the city on your day off to pick up free furniture? The you that poses playfully in photo booths with mystery men? The you that made such an impression on his colleagues, it’s resulted in a relationship where you are can dote on Dana’s nieces?

‘Are you joining us or going to stand in the doorway like a creeper all night?’

Dana’s hand lands gently on Abbot’s arm, breaking his trance.

‘I guess I can participate for the birthday girl,’ he huffs, pulling his friend in to kiss her cheek.

But she notices how that infamous Dr. Abbot stare returns, and follows its path to where you still twirl on the dance floor, now with another niece bouncing on your hip and streamers decorating you both like scarves.

‘Those kids have been all over her for hours now,’ Dana smiles, ‘she hasn’t come up for air once, think they might be having a better time than anyone else.’

Jack doesn’t even realise himself the small smile that cracks across his face, but Dana does.

‘How long you guys been here?’

It’s a miracle you aren’t keeling over with nausea, the way you spin around with the girls, the skirt of your dress flaring out and exposing more of your skin.

’We came to set up this afternoon, her included. She’s basically been entertaining them ever since. Bless her.’

Dana wonders if her friend is even aware of the fondness that graces his often-stern face as he takes you in.

’She’d have been killer in peds, don’t you think?’

That turns his head, squinting at Dana, trying to extract the potential underlying meaning of her words. He agrees, absolutely, you would’ve made a wonderful pediatric doctor. Since you started, it’s hard to ignore the way children gravitate towards you, as if there’s a sparkle surrounding you that only youthful eyes get to see. 

‘I know, Jack.’ 

He really doesn’t want to blow your spot up, it would feel like a betrayal.

‘You know what, exactly?’ he presses, stern gaze replacing the fondness from before.

‘The thing that out of everyone here, only you also know,’ Dana’s eyes soften, ‘heard she did a real good job patching your dumbass up.’

‘Ah,’ Jack hums, ‘you really know.’

Dana nods and his face falls back into a studious look reserved just for you ever since that day. Its intensity sears into your skin from across the room, a sensation now a calling card to announce Dr. Abbot is in your vicinity. It prickles across your bare shoulders and before you can confirm what you already know, a tiny voice chirps into your ear.

’An old man is looking at you. He’s with Auntie Dana.’

It’s hard to subdue your laughter, ‘he’s not that old!’

‘He is! Like Grandpa!’

You know for a fact that Dana’s father is well into his eighties and that sends you into a full fit of giggles. Maddie who remains bouncing on your hip mirrors your giggles, not fully getting what’s funny, but relishing in being the cause of it. It’s all the girlish laughter that gives you the confidence to turn around and match Abbot’s gaze. No different to being surrounded by your girls in the club gives you nerve to shoot your shot on the dance-floor. Except your girls in this case are both under five and you absolutely, definitely, are not shooting your shot with the trauma-riddled, well-respected, older doctor you work with. But none the less, you raise your hand and wiggle your fingers at him, Maddie and her sister mirroring you too. 

For a moment, after several weeks of near radio silence, Jack wonders if you could possibly be waving at him? Maybe Dana? Or someone else? Despite the fact you’re staring right back at him, eyes twinkling, exposed shoulders shaking with laughter. Awkwardly, Jack raises his hand as if it’s his first time ever doing so. 

‘See, that’s nice!’ Dana adds, ‘and you thought it would be awkward!’

Jack’s head snaps round, ‘I never said it would be awkward.’

‘And neither did I!’ she grins.

‘Yes, you - did she say it would be awkward?’ Jack presses now, mind rattling about all the possible things you and Dana could’ve discussed about him.

‘Christ, Abbot. Check your ego man, we don’t sit clucking about you all day.’

He sighs deeply and attempts to get back to their previous discussion, 

‘She never told me the reason why she qu-‘

Before Jack can even finish the question he’s been dying to ask for the last several minutes, Robby pounces.

‘Brother!’ he cheers, one beer too many already. Jack is never going to get anywhere with his investigating now. 

‘I told them you wouldn’t miss Dana’s birthday,’ Robby beams, pressing a beer into Jack’s hand, ‘said she’s the only one of us you tolerate.’

Dana slaps a hand to each of her dear friends’ cheeks, ‘and it’s a title I hold so dearly! Yet, I implore you go and actually socialise with your fellow doctors.’

With that, Robby is herding Jack towards the booth most of the The Pitt staff congregate around. Santos is the first to clock the addition to their group.

‘Holy shit,’ she exclaims, ‘they let peepaw out past curfew!’

All the younger staff members gawp at Jack as if he’s a tequila-induced apparition. He takes it as his queue to start drinking the beer Robby passed off to him. 

‘I’ve never pictured him out of scrubs or camo…’ Victoria blurts out, originally intending to just murmur the comment to Whitaker. Her hands immediately slap over her mouth. Whitaker and Samira suddenly find something more interesting to look at on the table. Santos and Princess are beaming ear to ear.

‘Oh really, Javadi? Prefer a man in uniform then?’ Santos asks with glee. 

Shen decides to save the girl from further mortification, ‘nah, Abbot scrubs up well! Not as well as you though.’ Jack turns to see who Shen has dialed up the charm for and finds you now stood behind him and joining the group. 

’Thank you, John, it’s my first Pitt group-outing, had to make an effort!’ and with that, you take the hand Shen originally offers to help you on the step up to the booth and instead do a spin in your pretty dress to his cheers. When the fuck did Shen get so smooth, Jack wonders to himself. He’s one of Jack’s favourite colleagues, but right now, he doesn’t know why he’s filled with the urge to punch him.

‘It paid off,’ Whitaker admits aloud before immediately wishing the ground would swallow him whole, and regretting the shots him and Javadi did that’s clearly resulted in verbal diarrhea. Jack mentally adds Whitaker to the list of people to punch as he white knuckles the beer bottle in his hand. He hopes taking a long swig will stop anyone from noticing the wicked scowl he knows has taken over his face.

‘This is turning out to be the best night of my life,’ Santos declares, ‘we should all absolutely drink more.’

Robby cheers to that and hurries along with Santos and Princess to the bar to make more poor choices. 

He notices your gentle touch to his arm before your words. ‘Hi, Dr. Abbot,’ you say quietly, just for yours and Jack’s ears. It’s the closest you’ve been to each other since the SWAT saga and he reckons it’s the fourth time in history you’ve ever touched him. But he’s not quite sure why his brain has decided to track that…

‘Hi stranger,’ barely above a whisper, ‘and just Jack.’

‘Hi Jack,’ you correct yourself now, ‘sorry, still not used to saying your first name.’

‘Maybe it’s time we work on that.’

The two of you just look at each other for a moment in comfortable silence.

‘I’m sorry I haven’t been -‘ you start but Abbot cuts you off.

‘They’re right by the way.’ You cock your head to the side at the vague statement.

‘Shen and Whittaker,’ he breathes, ‘you look lovely.’

‘Lovely?’ you repeat, a smile beginning to break. Jack wonders if he’s caught the verbal diarrhea without even touching the tequila. Before he can let his mind begin to worry he’s said something that’ll push you back into keeping a three-metre distance from him, you smirk.

‘I don’t know, I think you can do better than that… Charlotte said I looked like a mermaid and Maddie said a princess.’ You gesture towards the dance floor where you’d been with Dana’s nieces. 

Whether he’s willing to admit it or not, Jack is delighted that you’re bantering with him for the first time in weeks. Maybe he didn’t totally fuck up this friendship he thought you were building. 

‘Oh really? I suppose I need to step up my game then,’ he muses coyly. It thrills you seeing Jack adopt his signature pose when he’s misbehaving; hands clasped behind his back and smirk undeniable. It’s the pose you’ve grown used to seeing teasing residents and charming nurses, it’s one you would deny makes you blush when it’s used on you.

‘I suppose you could start by getting me a drink,’ you shrug innocently.

‘I think you’re right,’ Jack agrees, rocking on his feet a few times. Playing over in his head whether this is a good idea, whether this is just you two getting back on track or something more loaded. Instead, he blows caution to the wind and lets his hand fit into the small of your back, guiding you towards the bar. 

You touched him when dressing his wound, but, he realises now as his palms feel the soft fabric of your dress, he’s never really touched you. The heat of your skin radiates through and he can’t help but notice if he’d just placed it two inches higher, his hand would know the feel of your skin under his. 

When you reach the bar, the bartender beelines for you, as if Jack is a phantom. But your eyes stick to him and he can’t quite decipher the look in them. 

‘Ladies first,’ he offers, knowing damn well the bartender isn’t listening to him anyway. 

The bartender looks hopeful anticipating your answer, like a soppy golden retriever. 

‘Please could we get,’ your emphasis on the we, isn’t lost on Jack or the now disappointed bartender, ‘a vodka cranberry and…’ 

It takes Jack a moment to notice you’re waiting for his order due it his fixation on how his hand hasn’t left your back and you’ve made no attempts to stray from it.

‘Double whiskey on the rocks,’ he huffs, realising he has to move his hand to get his wallet. The order has you sniggering and Jack quirks his brow as he finishes tapping his card.

‘What’s so funny, missus?’

‘It’s just… a very classic manly order and it’s not helping with perceptions of you…’

Jack stills, a little nervous by the turn this has taken. Have people talked about him to you? Have you been asking questions about him? The shadowy parts of his mind start to cloud over the evening he had just started enjoying.

‘Well, I knew you had arrived because,’ you bite your lip to stifle your laughter, ‘Dana’s niece informed me an old man was staring at me.’

‘Wow,’ he scoffs but at least your answer causes the clouds to start retreating.

‘Hey, I corrected her and said you weren’t that old,’ you protest.

‘Not that old, good lord,’ Jack’s false outrage has your giggles returning, ‘you really know how to make a man feel good.’

‘And I definitely didn’t agree when she said you were like her Grandpa!’

He clutches his chest in offence but on the face is one of the biggest smiles you’ve ever seen grace Abbot’s face.

‘Killing me here, sweetheart.’

And god, does that new nickname only encourage your teasing further because the chance to see if you could get a wider smile from Jack is too tempting. 

‘But if it helps,’ you start to whisper, getting on the toes of your heels to move closer to his ear, ‘Dana’s daughters think you’re a fox.’

The breath that puffs past his ear is sweet and fruity from the sip you just took; it’s not dissimilar from the perfume radiating from the curve of your neck that’s inches from his face now you’ve tip toed to him. 

‘Well… that’s mortifying,’ a snort cracks from him and both of you immediately wish he hadn’t as it has you reeling back to take in the noise that just left him.

‘I can’t believe Dr. Abbot just snorted,’ you guffaw.

‘And I can’t believe I’m getting called a fox by the little girl whose nose I once removed a marble from.’ 

You go back to sip from your drink, your face flushed from all the laughter. Jack mirrors the movement, nursing his whiskey. Maybe it’s the liquid courage going straight to your bloodstream that has you saying the next sentence. 

‘Every woman loves a silver fox,’ you shrug before your lips return to the straw. Jack feels the wind knocked out of him, not just by the comment, but how your eyes look up at him, big and sparkling, like he’s something worth admiring.

‘Less of the silver, please,’ he chuckles, attempting to play it cool.

‘You’re right,’ you hum and he notices your free hand hesitate before reaching out. It lands by his temple. Nails gently gliding through his hair, behind his ear and pulling straight a curl at the nape of his neck.

‘There’s still some red in here,’ you say so softly he almost misses it.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Hold. 

Jack isn’t sure the last time someone touched him so intimately yet not sexually, and that thought makes the clouds in his head rumble again. Because why does he keep finding you trying to breach the walls? 

‘You think so?’ he mouths and you nod in response, hand no longer touching his hair but remaining in his orbit. For a second, his think you’ll let it land on his cheek. Then the thunder claps from those pesky clouds.

‘We should get back to everyone,’ he announces, returning to the Dr. Abbot you’re used to in the workplace. He refuses to acknowledge the sting in his gut when he sees your hand flinch and your face drop at the change of tone. Wordlessly, you follow him back to the gang and internally berate yourself for constantly getting into these compromising positions with the man.

For the last couple of hours, you have been attempting to drink away the twisting sensation in your gut caused by Jack practically dragging you back to the group. You overstepped, you know it. The fun the two of you were having drifted into flirting in a way it never has before, too overt, too much. Jack did the right thing, you suppose, shut it down before you got carried away, remembered to establish boundaries between colleagues. But that didn’t mean it hadn’t left your cheeks stinging with mortification. So, you’d huddled away with Santos and Parker, their laughter louder than the voice inside your head. A tray of tequila shots had been demolished and every-time that lime wedge was braced between your lips, you felt Jack’s burning stare return. Was he judging you? Thinking you’d already drank too much? Bracing himself for more boundary crossing the more alcohol you drank? 

Maddie was right, he is an old Grandpa, you huff in indignation as you look at yourself in the bathroom mirror. Carefully with a wet paper towel, you try to get rid of the remnants of the salted rim of your shot glass before you’re able to reapply your lipgloss. The lipgloss that you left a perfect pucker mark of on the cheeks of a giddy Santos and blushing Whitaker, after relishing in your victory in the darts-drinking-game hybrid invented by Dana’s youngest brother. 

Even the losing teams involving Dana’s burly brothers couldn’t help but cheer for the winning underdogs. But you knew you’d chosen your team wisely with Santos’ terrifying competitive streak and Whitaker’s hand-eye coordination. At one point in your celebrations, you’d felt the ground move from under you as one brother hoisted you up to march you around and span you, as you dissolved into fits of laughter. Now that had resulted in Abbot glowering at you with such a ferocity it felt like you’d go up in flames. You weren’t sure if it was a sign of him being a sore loser or him thinking you were just overstepping with everyone.

It was that moment you decided to retreat to the bathrooms to compose yourself. You hadn’t felt like you were embarrassing yourself or overstepping, it was just so nice to finally have fun and be yourself with people. It made your soul feel warm to be embraced by this big family of Dana’s and of The Pitt, after so long alone. 

A sharp alarm interrupts your bathroom mirror musings. Your eyes shoot around the room to see where it could possibly be coming from but a frustrated voice quickly indicates its source.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’ comes from a cubicle you hadn’t noticed was occupied. The voice familiar.

‘Cassie, is that you?’ your hand nudges the door, ‘can I come in?’

The door tugs back and reveals McKay sat down with the source of the sound apparent.

‘Ah,’ you marvel.

Loud and angry, the monitor sirens from the ankle she has exposed and propped up on the toilet roll holder. McKay flusters as she inspects what could possibly be wrong.

‘I’m not out of area,’ she insists, ‘if I was they would’ve called by now! And I’ve never seen it flash that light before?’

You shuffle forward to inspect.

‘It’s a battery fault! It’s okay, you’ve not done anything wrong!’

McKay looks baffled but before the array of questions you anticipate can start, you cut her off.

‘Do you have a spare one?’

‘Yeah, in the car’ she murmurs ‘but-‘

‘Give me your keys!’ you’re poised, ready to test out how well you can run in these heels. McKay shuffles in her bag then tosses you the jumble of keys that definitely were decorated by her son, as you catch them by the Spiderman plush that dangles from them.

‘Be right back, don’t panic!’ you shout back, already halfway out the bathroom doors. With your heard turned back towards the cubicle you leave behind, you don’t notice the group you’re running straight into.

‘Woah,’ Dana laughs as she stabilises you, ‘what you running from, kid?’

She stands with Robby who looks bemused and Jack, who looks confused until he notices the keys you clutch.

‘You’re going?’ Abbot almost croaks, the first word’s he’s said to you since it was just the two of you at the bar. But that can wait, you’re a woman on a mission.

‘Dana, perfect! Do you guys have a toolbox somewhere?’

‘Yeah I think -‘

‘Perfect’ you rush, ready to run to the carpark, ‘McKay’s monitor is faulty, need to fix it! Be right back!’ All three are perplexed but you’re outside before they can muster any follow up questions. 

Robby is waiting by the door once you retrieve the spare battery from Cassie’s glove box. He’s clearly enjoying the excitement and has a grin as he takes you by the elbow and starts guiding you. ‘They found a toolbox and they’re in the back office!’

When you both arrive into the office, there’s a small congregation waiting expectantly. Dana, her husband, Jack, Parker and Cassie, who is now looking quite pale. 

‘Did you find it?’ Cassie pleads. You present it to all like a grand prize and not just a boring battery pack. Robby nudges a seat forward for you, as you claw open the packaging.

‘So,’ Parker interrupts, ‘I found what I think will be the right screwdriver for the screws on the monitor.’

‘See, I knew I could count on the butch in the room with the tools,’ Dana snorts as Parker looks a genuine sense of pride, passing over the screwdriver. Gesturing for McKay to put her ankle on it, you pat your legs but there’s a green tinge to her complexion.

‘Fuck, they’ll think I’ve tampered with it though,’ she frets, ‘maybe I should just go straight down to the office?’

You shake your head at her worries, ‘it’s okay, I’m allowed! Social workers are authorised to adjust ankle monitors. If you call them tonight and let them know, give them my number and I can explain.’

The relief that washes over Cassie is clear, you reach further down her leg and give her knee a reassuring squeeze. 

‘I promise, Cass. You don’t need to worry about this one.’

She nods and you get to work unscrewing the piece that holds the faulty battery in place. It’s an easy fix and it’s when you place the new battery in, that Robby interrupts the methodical silence.

‘Well if no one else is going to ask…’ he gestures to the room, ‘how in the hell did you know what to do?’

Heat rises in your cheeks as you keep your eyes fixated on where your hands keep working, you know every eye in the room is on you.

‘Fuck, ok,’ you sigh, ‘my last job was at Allenwood.’

Just as you expected, the room goes silent at the revelation until a ‘Holy shit,’ leaves Dana’s husband’s mouth.

‘Isn’t that a prison?’ Robbie gesticulates, shocked.

‘It’s not just a prison, it’s fucking maximum security,’ Abbot’s voice is gruff and unexpected. It has your head snapping up. He stands further away in the corner of the room, biceps bulging as his fists clasp behind his back. Only for a second do you catch his eye before he withdraws his gaze. The way his face has settled makes him appear furious and it stings - just like the earlier embarrassment. Is he judging you? Is he mad you never mentioned it? The reaction doesn’t make sense.

‘See,’ Parker smirks, ‘badass! Just like I told y’all.’

It has Dana, Cassie and Robby in stitches but Jack continues to brood in the corner of the room. 

‘No wonder you destroyed the guys at darts,’ Dana’s husband laughs, ‘you’re not one to mess with, huh?’

It makes you laugh and you’re just relieved this is everyone’s response rather than the barrage of questions you feared. Why would you want to do a job like that? Do you like a bad boy then? What’s the scariest thing you saw? Who was the most violent inmate? They were all questions you’d been hounded with before but you shouldn’t have ever expected them from the people that have started to feel like family.

‘Nope!’ you flash a smile as you screw in the final part. From the corner of your eye you see movement from Jack, before hearing the door swing open and slam shut. 

‘Done,’ you hum to McKay, but you’re looking at the concern on Dana’s face as remains angled towards the door Jack just exited. She catches you noticing and rearranges her face into a soft smile.

‘We should probably do the cake after all that excitement,’ she suggests, getting ready to rally you all back out to the bar.

When a small frosting covered hand tugs yours, you’re grateful for the distraction. After the news of your heroics makes rounds at the party, you get cornered by Dana’s big brother at the dessert table, playing matchmaker. Desperately trying to set you up with his son who’s around your age, after an abysmal array of ex-girlfriends. The latest one, a real trust-fund girl, was not popular with the Evans family after a comment about the area they live in. So, he was attempting to persuade you to take his number, desperate for him to get a woman who was independent.

‘And you fit in so well with the family,’ he was pleading, when Maddie had insisted you dance with her again and who were you to refuse such a cutie?

‘I think another member of your family has first dibs on me,’ you chuckled with him as she marched you back to the dance floor.

‘Just how much cake did you have?’ you question as you inspect the tiny sticky hands you hold. The fact Maddie has to think about it indicates that it was too much.

‘Is it so much that you’ll puke on me if we spin?’ you tease. Her nose scrunches up and a gap tooth smile is revealed when she emits an ‘Eww!’

‘I won’t puke,’ she pinky promises with you, ‘I only have the icing! Yummiest part.’

‘I agree,’ as you lift your arm to assist her in a twirl. That’s how it goes, back and forth for several songs, you twirling Maddie, then her sister Charlotte who joins, around and around. All three of you squealing in agreement about liking Sabrina Carpenter more than the old people music they play. 

However, it all goes south and so do you, literally, when the girls insist on trying to twirl you around instead. It’s easier said than done, as you crouch in your heels to allow their arms to reach above you. Despite your efforts to remain stable, your ass meets the floor. The girls’ worried looks quickly fade once you start laughing. You know for a fact your ass won’t be the only one on the floor tonight based on the way Robby can barely walk in a straight line and Mel’s plait was long gone. The laughter is interrupted when a pair of definitely not kids’ shoes approach your little trio. A strong hand hovers before your face, a hand you wish you didn’t recognise immediately by the defined veins and splattering of freckles.

‘I promise I won’t tell anyone you hit the floor,’ Jack smirks.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Abbot. This was part of my signature dance move.’

‘Oh, I’m sure,’ he stifles a laugh and wiggles the fingers that still reach out to you, insisting you take his hand. Perhaps foolishly, you do. With ease, he hurls you up, free hand immediately catching your waist to keep you steady. Maddie and Charlotte look between each other as you now stand, in the man’s embrace. 

‘Have you finished dancing?’ The question surprises you, as does how his hands remain on you despite you being right-side up now. 

‘You’ll have to ask them,’ you gesture your head towards the girls and it makes Jack smile. The furrowed brow you’d seen in the office, now feels lightyears away.

Stiffly, Jack lowers himself onto their level. His voice is gentle in a manner you’ve never heard before. You’ve never seen him around child patients before, you wonder if this is how he is with all kids? If so, he’s unexpectedly natural in a way that has butterflies fluttering in your belly.

‘Would it be okay with you ladies if I joined?’

Maddie squints between him and you, suspicious.

‘That’s the old man who was looking at you,’ she whispers loudly, without finesse. It has you smacking your hand to your mouth, that she would repeat it to his face, but Jack just laughs.

‘That’s me,’ he looks up at you now, ‘I promise I know her and your Auntie Dana though.’

Charlotte and Maddie consult each other in glances alone before Jack adds to his pitch.

‘And I promise I can spin you better than her.’

The betrayal has you gasping as the girls nod fervently at his offer and Charlotte offers a hand for him to take. ‘That was a dirty move, Abbot,’ you shake in disbelief as the girls arrange you into a circle of four once the next song starts. Maddie places your hand into Jack’s before taking your free one herself. He holds it firmly.

‘I had resort to extreme measures, sweetheart,’ he shrugs as he swings his and Charlotte’s hands, ‘didn’t think I would have any chance catching a dance with you otherwise.’

Quickly, you look to the girls to make sure they’re enjoying themselves, desperate to hide the burning blush on the apples of your cheeks.

True to his word, Jack spins the girls effortlessly. Far better than your overhead twirls or the ones you did when Maddie had bounced on your hip. He’s hoisting them into the air by their armpits and spinning them like they’re flying. The girls are practically delirious with giggles and you’re not far off. Jack is certain he’ll be hitting the painkillers when he gets home but it’s worth it seeing the look on your face. Pure joy, you look so free here on the dance-floor, disco lights shimmering the fabric of your dress and in your eyes. 

‘Do you want to be twirled without risk of injury this time?’ It takes you a moment to realise the offer is being extended to yourself, but his hand is reaching for yours. It’s confusing, seeing him repeatedly reach out to you now after brushing you off earlier when you got too close. But you can’t refuse, not when the girls cheer you on so excitedly. 

Once again, Jack Abbot takes your hand but holds it now like it’s something precious, your fingers folded into his, as if he might kiss your hand. Instead he raises your conjoined hands and begins to turn you round as some Billy Idol song starts. The other hand touching your hip briefly, as if to help you lift off into the spin. The ball of your foot pivots effortlessly on the floor with Jack’s strong arm guiding your movement. The room blurs to sweeps of lights, occasionally a rogue piece of your hair that flares free but the one thing you track effortlessly is the tight smile that stays permanently stuck on you. You feel light, effortless, like the ballerina in a music-box. Jack Abbot makes you spin, not just literally and it’s hard to ignore that anymore.

When it comes to an end, you finish face to face with Jack, both with the same dazed smile.

‘Thank you,’ you muster, ‘…for not letting me fall.’

He nods, ‘my pleasure.’

You go to look back, only to see your group of four has dispersed and it’s just you and Jack left. ‘Looks like we got ditched,’ he muses.

‘We probably cramped their style. Oh well, thank you again…’ you drift off, assuming your dance party has drawn to a close. 

‘You don’t want to dance with just me?’ Not for the first time tonight, Jack asks you something that has your head spinning.

‘No - yes - of course,’ you feel tongue tied.

‘I didn’t come over just to entertain the kids, as cute as they are.’

Your lips part in an O but no sound leaves. On cue, the playlist takes a turn towards something more dulcet. No longer anything you can harmlessly bop to with a safe distance between you. As the crooning begins, you find your hands wrapping around the back of Jack’s neck and his at your waist. Slowly, you sway in unison. It’s not lost on you that those swaying around you are in couples. Dana is held by her husband. Robbie has swept Lena off her feet, although neither are graceful. A blushing Santos is dancing with Parker which has you and Jack looking at each other with a raised eyebrow and sniggering. It’s all so sweet, so calm, so alien to the man who could barely look at you earlier.

‘Were you mad before,’ you brave asking, ‘at me?’ Faces inches from the other, you see those autumnal eyes blink.

‘No. I’m sorry,’ Jack sighs.

‘In the office, you looked furious…’

His eyes close for a moment, contemplating, the lines around his eyes disappear as he does. It allows you to freely take in the marks of a life lived, that span across his face; every crease, every freckle. 

‘I didn’t like the thought of you there. Working in a place like that. The types of men that were around you… s’not right.’ 

Just as he had in the office, Jack looks genuinely pained by the topic.

‘I learnt a lot, about people, about life. A lot of the guys there came from situations you couldn’t imagine and they just want help.’

Jack lets your words sit with him. It all makes sense, you were going to be a doctor, now you’re a social worker. You’re good, he can’t avoid that, you’re so good and open, willing to help anyone. It unsettles him so much, the gnawing thought that you’re just here now to help him too, to fix another broken person.

‘D’you reckon everyone can be helped?’ Jack attempts to mask the unsteadiness he feels in this own voice.

‘If they want to be,’ you tone is so achingly sincere, ‘even in a place like Allenwood, I never thought anyone was beyond it.’ There’s never a follow up to your response, you just swear you feel Jack hold you a little tighter.

You’re not sure how long you and Jack dance together, songs all seemed to merge into each other. Neither of you particularly say much else, occasionally sharing a smirk at the chaos of the party that continues around you both. Eventually you’re interrupted and torn apart as everyone descends onto the dance floor for the final anthems. You get spun round until you’re dizzy by Parker to ‘Young Hearts Run Free’. Clutching your belly with laughter as you crawl around dramatically with Santos and McKay to ‘Gimme A Man After Midnight.’ At one point you’re even swept off your feet and dipped by Robby to ‘Uptown Girl.’ That garners a tight-lipped look from Jack. The night draws to a close as Dana is paraded around and carried out the door by her husband as ‘Dancing Queen’ blares at levels you’re certain will garner noise complaints. 

It’s whilst you’re huddled outside with the stragglers, debating Uber shares that Jack appears at your side again.

‘Get in with me,’ Jack instructs you, rather than asks.

‘She’s coming with me, Javadi and Whitaker,’ Santos protests, alcohol making her typical tone sharper than ever. But an attitude has never faltered Jack Abbot.

‘That makes no sense. She lives closer to me and I have a car a minute away,’ he responds in a tone that somehow shuts down further debate.

‘Suits me,’ you shrug and attempt to kiss the scowl off Santos’ face before embracing the others and wishing them all goodbye and good luck with the inevitable hangovers. 

‘You’ve drank way more than me!’ Javadi pouts back.

‘But I don’t have work tomorrow!’ You shamelessly gloat as you scamper towards where Jack stands holding the door open to your ride. You murmur a ‘thank you’ to him, as you duck into the waiting car. Once inside, you’re almost certain this is the nicest Uber you’ve ever been in. It can’t possibly be a standard one, does Jack Abbot splash out on the luxury rides, you wonder.

As you’re confirming your address with the driver, a groan emits, as Jack seats himself inside the car. He stretches back in the seat, shirt lifting with the movement, revealing the peak of forbidden flesh near his abdomen. A sliver of the skin you’d so desperately pretended not to remember. If the driver catches you ogling, he’s kind enough not to indicate so. Once Jack settles and buckles in, you watch him methodically rub down the leg you noticed was stiffer earlier.

‘Did I wear you out with the dancing?’ you tease.

He chuckles, shaking his head, ‘not possible.’

The both of you share a smile, before you remember to ask what you’d meant to moments before.

‘Do I?’ 

‘Do you, what?’ he looks quizzically.

‘Live close to you?’

‘Oh,’ Jack almost looks embarrassed, which is a first, ‘yes, I believe so. I’ve been caught behind your car a couple of time when we’ve finished shifts at the same time. We take the same journey, you just seem to turn off earlier than me.’

‘Oh my god,’ you gasp and panic falls across Jack’s face. Until a wicked grin falls on yours. ‘Dr. Abbot, you’ve been tailing me!’

‘I can neither confirm or deny, sweetheart.’ You swat at him, his face too devastatingly cheeky for a man of his age. Then you see the cogs turn in his mind.

‘Sorry… that was presumptuous, you might just be visiting someone.’

The seriousness in his tone and the drop in his face has you cocking your head.

‘Like who?’

Jack shrugs, ‘One of your many suitors.’

‘My suitors?’ it has you doubled over, cackling in the most unladylike manner to his bemusement. ‘What suitors?’ you wheeze.

He rolls his eyes as if you’re being absurd. ‘Sweet, tonight alone I’ve seen your presence cause Shen to fawn, Whitaker to become more beetroot than man, a bartender to look like he might spit in my drink and Dana’s brother offer his son’s hand in marriage.’

‘You’re too smooth, Jack Abbot,’ you whisper, blush thankfully undetecable in the dark.

‘I know,’ he smirks, ‘but I mean it.’

The air you both share in the back seats is thick, too intimate for two colleagues that seem to be in a constant state of push and pull. Even in the dim light granted by the street lights that flicker by, you can see how Jack’s eyes shine in your direction. Every shade of the autumn leaves, trapped in the irises of one man. 

‘Madam, we have arrived,’ the driver announces, but his voice barely makes a dent in the atmosphere that bubbles in the back of his car.

‘Thank you for the ride, Jack,’ you’re not sure if your words are even audible. 

‘Always,’ he replies just as softly. You gather your bag over your shoulder and click open the door. As you push yourself to get up, the hand that remains on the leather of the seat is grabbed. When you look round, Jack is clutching it, his mouth ajar as if there’s words readying to jump off his tongue, if only he would let them. 

‘Text me when you get inside,’ he sighs. 

You swing your legs out the car and stand, turning back to where he remains in the car, leaning in order to still clutch your hand. His thumb runs back and forth over your knuckles.

‘Pinky promise,’ you coo, enjoying the way he clings on longer than necessary, far too much.

And it’s as you stand on the street, do the lights behind you now cast a glow that illuminates the back seat you wanted so much to crawl back into. They light up Jack’s unreadable gaze and reflect off something you’ve never noticed before; the wedding band that is nestled on his ring finger. 

Finally, you drop his hand without warning.

‘Goodnight, Dr. Abbot.’

And you let the door slam closed.

... i am so sorry but i did promise slow burn </3

Author’s Note: Hello everyone! This is my first-ever fic for The Pitt, though I’m definitely a veteran writer. This fic isn’t what I normally write and is very angsty, but there will still be smut... eventually. After like 15k words... I hope some of you can find some comfort in this and know that whatever struggles you may face, you aren’t alone. Your life will get better.

At night, Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center revealed itself. The night shift sharpened edges and changed rhythms. Silences thickened; fluorescent lights erased all softness. Corridors stretched; urgency sliced through stillness. Machines hummed—a measured, steady symphony. You moved with purpose, made for both chaos and calm.

Warnings: major depressive disorder, suicidal ideations, and suicide attempt. If you or someone else you know is experiencing suicidal ideations or has a plan, please talk to a trusted safe person or contact 988 Lifeline. You are not alone. You are loved. Please, stay another day.

They called you Nurse Sunshine, an upgrade from Shen’s first mocking name, which implied you shot rainbows and glitter from a southern orifice. It wasn’t your fault caffeine fueled the night shifts. The thrill of seeing a parent’s relief after helping their child was more intoxicating than any drug.

You were the steady force in The Pitt’s storm during late nights and early mornings, just as you’d been the peacemaker at home growing up. Instinct drove you to bring calm to chaos, even as your pulse thundered. Comfort became second nature.

You never fought the nickname, especially when the handsome, competent, old enough-to-be-your-dad attending said it. The moniker stuck—sweet but occasionally stinging. At first, you wore it like a badge, basking in smiles and gratitude. But over time, lightness faded; what felt fresh grew heavy, obligation replacing happiness until the emptiness made you unsettled.

For a time, your energy outpaced exhaustion and doubt. Times were good.

During your first few months, Dr. Jack Abbot noticed you for your positive efficiency. Not just your lack of spectacles attracted his attention. You greeted coworkers as if you’d known them for years and brought extra coffee and energy drinks on shift. Your high fives and ‘good jobs’ were constant, your aura contagious. When he saw you in action, he knew the night shift would never be the same.

At first, Jack told himself it was simply relief. Relief that someone new on nights possessed the ability to soften the sharp edges of the emergency department without compromising competence. He had worked alongside enough eager nurses to know the difference between performative optimism and genuine steadiness. Yours was the latter. You were not careless with your kindness. You wielded it deliberately, instinctively, like another piece of medical equipment strapped to your body.

He noticed it most during the difficult hours—between three and five in the morning—when exhaustion hollowed everyone out, and tempers became fragile. Somehow, you remained warm without becoming naive. You laughed with housekeeping as you helped strip a bed. You remembered the names of anxious family members in hallways. You praised uneasy interns with enough sincerity that their tight shoulders visibly loosened. It unsettled him how naturally you breathed life back into rooms he had learned to survive by emotionally distancing himself from.

And God, he tried not to look at you too long.

Jack was not a foolish man. He understood attraction well enough to recognize its early symptoms. His unconscious search for your voice over the steady monitors. He felt subtle disappointment when your assignment kept you across the department most of the night. His body seemed to ease whenever you entered during a difficult case. He knew what it was. That was precisely the problem.

For a while, guilt settled beneath his ribs like a chronic, quiet ache. Some nights, he would catch himself smiling at something you said. Grief and guilt would arrive immediately—sharp enough to make him feel disloyal and dirty. His wife had once occupied every corner of his life. Loving her had not been temporary or fragile. That love was rooted so deeply that, even now, years later, traces of her still existed in his smallest habits: the coffee he drank was too black, half-read books by the couch, the absent reach for the passenger seat before remembering no one was there.

He believed surviving loss meant sealing the door. But over time, Jack faced the truth in therapy, sleepless days, and quiet drives home: loving his wife and wanting you weren’t mutually exclusive. Grief was not devotion’s final form. His heart didn’t stop belonging to the dead simply because it responded to the living again. Recognizing this frightened him; new fear mixed with emerging hope.

You were younger, luminous in ways he no longer felt. Hope lived on your face, not hidden behind sarcasm and fatigue. Sometimes, he watched you glide through the chaos, smiling, and wondered if proximity to him would ultimately dim that spark. He knew what years in emergency medicine could scrawl across a soul. He bore all the proof: permanent fatigue set in his face, the stiffness of his prosthetic after long shifts, the protective distance he once mistook for resilience.

Despite every reason to stay distant, he came closer anyway. Not because you were young or beautiful—though you were. It was your ability to stay soft, not naive; to comfort a patient and command the trauma room, never losing yourself in either. Each moment broke his defenses, reminding him compassion didn’t have to sacrifice survival. Jack forgot that once; feeling it, he awoke to a longing he hadn’t expected.

Sometimes, after especially brutal nights, he would catch you sitting at the nurses’ station: tired eyes, messy hair, still offering someone the last energy drink from your bag with an exhausted little grin. In those moments, the pull toward you stopped feeling reckless. Instead, it started feeling inevitable.

The trauma bay pulsed with electric energy—a place where life and death danced in an eternal struggle. One moment, fragile stillness hovered; rhythmic beeping of monitors pierced the space, a quiet heartbeat. Then, in an instant, calm was shattered. Chaos erupted as bodies rushed in, desperate for help. Each night hummed with tension so thick it felt as if the very walls held their breath, anticipating the next wave of emergencies. Doors swung wide, unleashing torrents of urgency. Instincts kicked in before your mind caught up. Into the fray, you plunged.

“Twenty-eight-year-old male, GSW to the abdomen, hypotensive en route,” the EMT rattled, locking the stretcher into place. Blood-soaked gauze at his hip, silent proof of what the monitors would soon confirm. You moved before the briefing ended: scrub, glove, assess, your gaze cutting.

“Pressure’s eighty systolic,” you announced, your voice splitting cleanly through the noise without rising above it. “We’re losing him.”

Dr. Abbot stepped in alongside the new intern, Toomarian. Jack’s presence was immediate and grounding, his focus narrowing with a kind of gentle intensity that seemed to steady the room itself.

“Large bore access,” he ordered, though you were already there, threading the IV with fluid efficiency, your hands unwavering despite the urgency pressing in around you.

“Second line in. Blood’s coming,” you said, not glancing up as you anchored the catheter, your hands precise and assured. You caught his glance for a heartbeat—a silent affirmation needing no words.

“Let’s not wait,” he said with a tilt of his head, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Start O-negative.”

Mateo sprinted over, dark curls bouncing, arms loaded with two bags of blood. You’d already directed him, one step ahead of Abbot’s order.

“Hanging O-neg,” you returned, glancing up just long enough for your eyes to meet. There was something there, brief, fleeting, but unmistakable. A spark of recognition. A shared understanding that existed just beneath the surface of the work. You pushed it aside before anyone noticed, hopefully.

Mateo puffed, shaking his head as he set the telemetry leads. “You two know the rest of us exist, right?”

“Barely,” Olive muttered, though there was a shade of amusement beneath her breath as she handed you a pressure bag.

Dr. Abbot didn’t show any visible reaction, but you noticed a slight shift at the corner of his stubbled mouth. His lips pressed together a bit tighter, suggesting the beginnings of a smile that the tense atmosphere wouldn’t allow to surface.

“Let’s focus,” he said, though his tone was softer than usual, lacking its typical bravado.

“Focused,” you replied lightly, a sing-song lilt to your voice, your hands already moving to assist as he assessed the wound. “Just keeping you on track, doctor.”

“Is that what you call it?” he murmured, looking down at you from his lashes, just quiet enough that it belonged only to you.

Your heart stumbled at the sound of his voice, smooth and deep, still tinged with mint from his discarded gum. Warmth flared in your stomach, tightening your insides, but you stamped it out. You reminded yourself: whatever Jack Abbot awakened in you would never see the light of day, nor would it ever be returned. He was a colleague, shaped by years you could only guess at and stories you had yet to hear. There was simply no space for a novice nurse who stared at him as if he arranged the stars.

The patient stabilized, barely enough to be sent upstairs after a maddening wait that the admin would never pay to fix. The ED exhaled, tension loosening its grip as the night went on. Even after a save, the nearness of loss lingered. You peeled off bloodied gloves, flexing your fingers as adrenaline faded and emptiness rushed in. You banished the unwelcome feelings. That was not who you were allowed to be.

Dr. Abbot remained in the trauma room a moment longer, his gaze lingering on the space where the patient had been, pristine white sheets now wrinkled and stained with crimson. His shoulders tensed, a stiffness in his posture that you recognized as something deeper than the case. You noticed a slight shift in his weight onto his good leg and the tightening of his jaw, the quiet signals he rarely let others see.

You stepped closer, your voice softer now. “You called that early,” you said, nodding toward the area where the bleeding had been worst. “It could’ve gone south quickly.”

He glanced at you, the tension in his expression easing just slightly. “You had the blood ready before I finished the thought.”

You shrugged lightly, a playful glimmer in your eyes as you fought to contain the smile that threatened to break free from his flattering words. “I’ve learned to anticipate your worst-case scenarios.”

“That so?” There was a quiet note of something in his voice, something almost curious, almost amused. “And what does that say about me?”

You pretended to contemplate a moment, pulling at the ends of your stethoscope. “That you’re predictable,” you said, the hint of a smile tugging at your lips. Without thinking any better of it, you added, “in the best way.”

He let out a soft, bemused chuckle, the sound escaping from his lips like a gentle breeze, while a wry smile curled at the corners of his mouth. “I’m not sure how I feel about that.”

“Relieved, hopefully,” you replied, your voice slightly trembling as you turned away to gather supplies. The lingering excitement of being so close to Dr. Abbot made your heart race. You busied yourself with the equipment, trying to focus on the task at hand. “After all, it’s what keeps your patients alive,” you added, feeling a mix of anxiety and admiration.

There was a pause, brief but noticeable, before he spoke again. You dared not look at his face for fear he might see just how deeply you admired him. “It’s not just me.”

You avoided his gaze, yet the weight of his words lingered between you. You could feel his eyes on you, the warmth of his half-lidded stare igniting a flush in your cheeks that spread like wildfire.

“I know,” you admitted quietly, trying to conceal a smile. You hoped it didn’t reveal how his compliment left you feeling both vulnerable and thrilled beneath your professional composure.

On a night when everything seemed to be unraveling, a middle-aged woman staggered through the doors, gasping for breath. Her face was a mask of desperation as her oxygen levels plunged, even in the midst of high-flow support. Each inhale was a painful battle, her body visibly trembling with the effort. Breathing, a simple act often taken for granted, had become an insurmountable challenge, a heavy weight she struggled to bear.

The woman came apart at the threshold, as though the night itself had pressed its weight against her ribs and found them wanting. Each breath she drew in was shallow and fractured, a stuttering rhythm that faltered beneath the monitors’ scream. The high-flow oxygen hissed uselessly at her face, an artificial wind that could not fill the hollow her lungs had become. Her skin bore that unmistakable gray, too pale to be called alive, too flushed to be mistaken for calm, and the tremor in her hands spoke of a body already beginning to surrender.

You were moving before the room had fully understood the gravity of it, your steps quick but measured, the practiced cadence of someone who had long since learned how to carry urgency without letting it spill. Then her hand caught you.

It was not strong, not truly, but there was intention in it, fingers curling with a desperate insistence that rooted you in place. For a fraction of a second, instinct clawed up your spine, a memory of flinching away from hands that grabbed too tightly, too unpredictably. But this was different. You felt it in the tremble of her grip, in the fragile way her thumb pressed against your pulse as though she could borrow it, steady herself against it.

Her eyes found yours, wide and glass-bright, and something in your chest gave way. You covered her hand with your own, your touch deliberate, grounding. Your thumb traced the sharp ridge of her knuckles, slow and certain, an anchor in a body that was slipping loose from itself.

“I’ve got you,” you murmured, low enough that it belonged only to her, though you did not know if she could hear you through the roar of her failing breaths.

“BiPAP’s not cutting it,” Toomarian announced, already shifting settings, her voice clipped with the kind of focus that bordered on urgency.

You didn’t glance at the monitor. It wasn’t necessary. The sounds told you everything you needed to know. You could hear the subtle shift in the rhythm, each breath becoming a drawn-out struggle. Inhales elongated, as if the air was a burden, while each exhale seemed to release so much more than just breath.

Dr. Abbot stepped in beside you, and the atmosphere changed. It was subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone who didn’t know him, but you had begun to recognize it, the way his presence narrowed a room, how chaos seemed to bend around him rather than through him. His gaze swept over the patient once, precise and calculating, and then settled into something sharper, something edged with decision.

“She’s tiring out,” he said, his voice even, though there was no mistaking the weight beneath it. “We’re going to have to intubate.”

You were already moving. The woman’s hand slipped from yours, not because she let go, but because you had to. It lingered at your wrist for a moment longer, fingertips brushing your skin like a question you couldn’t answer, before gravity claimed it. You forced yourself not to look back. 

Your hands were steady as you gathered the intubation equipment, each motion clean, efficient, almost instinctive. You had run this sequence a thousand times, but tonight it felt sharper, more immediate, as if you were not just anticipating the steps, but anticipating Jack Abbot.

“Tube’s ready,” you called, holding it up just long enough for confirmation before placing it within reach. “One milligram of ketamine being drawn.”

You felt his gaze before you saw it. It landed on you not as a distraction, but as a pause, brief, deliberate, as though he were recalibrating something he hadn’t realized was off.

“You always this prepared?” he asked, the question quieter than it should have been, edged with something that didn’t belong in the middle of a crashing airway.

You met his eyes only for a second, just long enough for the corner of your mouth to lift. “You know me, Dr. Abbot.”

A subtle energy pulsed between you, something that neither of you dared to acknowledge, yet neither could fully dismiss or overlook.

Mateo exhaled sharply from the other side of the bed, a grin showing his white teeth. “This is getting ridiculous.”

You disregarded his teasing comment, focusing on drawing up the dangerous paralytic. “One milligram of roc drawn.”

“Jealous?” Olive shot back at Mateo, her hands never faltering as she monitored the patient’s vitals.

Abbot didn’t respond. Not to them. His attention had returned to the patient, but you could feel it still, threaded between you, an awareness that hadn’t been there before, or perhaps had been and was only now refusing to stay buried.

“Let’s go,” he ordered with the flick of his head. You stepped into place beside him as if you had always been meant to stand there.

There was no need for instruction. You adjusted the patient’s head before he reached for it, your fingers guiding the angle of the jaw with quiet precision. The laryngoscope was in his hand the moment he needed it, the light catching just right as he moved. You tracked the motion of his shoulders, the shift of his weight, reading him the way you read a patient, anticipating, adapting, responding before the need could become a demand.

For a moment, the world narrowed to the space between your hands.

“Cords?” he murmured, head turning to face you.

“Visualized,” you confirmed softly, focusing briefly on the screen before aligning the tube for him.

Your fingers brushed his as you passed it, brief, fleeting, but enough to register, enough to linger. Neither of you reacted, but something in the rhythm changed. The tube slid into place with a smooth certainty, the kind that came from experience rather than luck. The monitor shifted, numbers climbing back from the edge, and the room exhaled in a way no one would acknowledge out loud.

“Good airway,” you complimented Dr. Abbot, almost absently, your focus still fixed on the patient as the immediate danger receded.

There was a beat of silence, and you feared for a moment you might have overstepped, might have ruined whatever playful banter was happening between the two of you.

“I’ll take the compliment.” His voice was softer now, threaded with fatigue and something dangerously close to amusement. When you glanced at him, there was a faint smile at the corner of his mouth, subtle but real.

You allowed yourself the smallest huff of breath, something that might have been a laugh if it had been given more space as your face became hot. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late,” Mateo muttered with a grin.

Abbot ignored him again. His gaze lingered on you for half a second longer than it should have, something unspoken settling there—recognition, perhaps. Or curiosity. Or something far more complicated. Then he turned back to the patient, and the moment dissolved into the steady rhythm of a stabilized airway.

During one shift, as the night finally paused for breath, you found Dr. Abbot at the nurses’ station, leaning into the counter’s edge. Up close, fatigue struck him harder—shadows under his eyes, stiffness in his stance, tiredness that ran deeper than a single shift. Concern tugged at you, sharp and sudden.

You had noticed the prosthetic early on, of course. It was impossible not to. But it was not something he acknowledged openly, not something he allowed to define him in the hospital. He moved with quiet determination that left little room for question, his gait stable despite the slight imbalance. Somehow, that only made it harder to ignore. There was something achingly human about the way he carried pain without asking anyone else to shoulder it for him.

And maybe that was the problem.

You had spent weeks trying to convince yourself that whatever existed between you was harmless. Admiration. Respect. A harmless little crush on an older attending who looked at you like he actually saw you instead of merely another body moving through the department. But every shift seemed to chip away at that explanation until it no longer held together.

Because admiration did not explain why your pulse stumbled every time his voice dropped low beside your ear during a trauma. It did not explain why you found yourself searching for him the second you walked onto the floor, subconsciously calmer once you spotted his broad frame moving through the chaos. It certainly did not explain why, seeing him exhausted like this, something protective, painfully, bloomed in your chest.

“You’re favoring it tonight,” you commented softly, nodding toward his leg.

His gaze flew to you, surprise showing for a second, eyebrows lifting before his face returned to neutral. “Long shift,” he said, a flatness to his tone that wasn’t quite dismissive, but edged with fatigue.

You knew immediately he was deflecting. Not because he was cold, but because he was practiced at it. Jack Abbot wore composure like armor, carefully layered over old grief and wounds. Most people accepted the surface he gave them and moved on. You couldn’t seem to.

“You’ve had longer,” you replied gently, looking over his sculpted body, his black scrub top clinging to muscle softened only slightly by exhaustion. Heat curled low in your stomach, then guilt followed immediately. God, pull yourself together. He’s your attending.

But then he looked at you with those tired light brown eyes, and the rest of the world became dangerously easy to forget.

“Can I get you something?”

He studied you for a moment, as though weighing what to say. “Weather’s changing,” he confessed finally. “It acts up.”

The honesty in it caught you off guard. Small as it was, it still felt strangely intimate, like being handed something fragile. Your chest tightened unexpectedly. You wondered, not for the first time, how much pain he carried silently before anyone noticed. How often he stood in trauma bays while his leg ached beneath him and still somehow managed to steady everyone else first.

You nodded, accepting the explanation without pressing further. “You should sit,” you offered. “At least for a minute.”

He exhaled softly, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes as he raised an eyebrow. “Is that an order?”

The corner of your mouth lifted before you could stop it. God, there it was again. That warmth he pulled out of you so effortlessly. “Recommendation,” you corrected, though your tone carried a quiet firmness. “From your nurse.”

That earned you a small, brief but genuine smile.

And there it was. That stupid, dangerous little feeling again.

It hit you every single time he smiled at you like that—small and real, like something reserved only for rare moments. It made your stomach tighten in a way that felt embarrassingly juvenile, considering the blood and chaos surrounding you nightly. You had seen this man crack ribs during CPR, calmly intubate coding patients, walk grieving families through impossible conversations, and somehow, your undoing was a barely-there smile at the nurses’ station. Pathetic.

“I’ll consider it.”

You tilted your head slightly to the side, your brow furrowing as you narrowed your eyes. “You always say that,” you remarked, a hint of amusement tinged with exasperation in your voice.

“And you always push anyway,” he quipped back, crow’s feet showing with his smirk.

Your heartbeat betrayed you instantly.

It was the crow’s feet that got you sometimes. The visible proof of age between you should have made this easier and reminded you why this was complicated, inappropriate, and unrealistic. Instead, it only made him feel more devastatingly real. Not polished or untouchable. Just a man who had lived through enough to carry grief in the lines of his face and kindness in the softness that remained afterward.

“Someone has to,” you replied, your gaze firm as you mirrored his posture, leaning over the desk.

You became acutely aware of how close he was. The clean scent of soap beneath antiseptic, the deep rasp in his voice. The way his attention settled completely onto you whenever you spoke, as though the rest of the emergency department dimmed around the edges. Most people looked at you while simultaneously thinking about ten other things, but Jack Abbot listened with his whole body.

There was a pause, the kind that lingered merely long enough to feel intentional, before he spoke again. “You make it difficult not to listen.”

The words landed somewhere deep enough to hurt. Your breath caught faintly, warmth blooming beneath your skin so quickly it almost embarrassed you. For one dangerous second, your mind betrayed you entirely. You wondered what it would feel like if he said things like that outside the hospital. If those words were softer, closer. The thought hit you with startling force, and worse still, the unrealistic part of you thought he wanted that too.

The words lingered in the air between you, heavy and unvoiced, their meaning weaving an unbreakable bond. In that fleeting moment, the chaos of The Pitt faded into oblivion, leaving just you and the intimacy of a rare shared silence.

Mateo cleared his throat loudly from across the station. “I swear, if either of you actually says what you’re thinking, I’m clocking out early.”

Olive laughed under her breath as she typed away on the keyboard in front of her. “You’d never survive the suspense.”

You shook your head, turning away to hide the warmth creeping into your expression. Still, your composure felt fragile now, stretched thin beneath the weight of everything you refused to say aloud because the terrifying part was not that you desired him. It was that somewhere along the way, without meaning to, you had started caring about him too. Deeply enough that his exhaustion bothered you, enough that you noticed every slight limp and every too-long shift, and enough that seeing him smile felt less like victory and more like relief. And that was infinitely more dangerous.

You felt his gaze linger just a moment longer before he looked away. Neither of you said anything. You didn’t need to, but the tension remained, woven into every shared glance, every near-simultaneous movement, every quiet moment between cases where words felt unnecessary. And in the space between life and loss, between certainty and doubt, it grew, unspoken, undeniable, and impossible to ignore.

You concentrated on spiking a fluid bag as Dr. Abbott entered your patient’s room. He glanced from the monitor to them, assessing the post-treatments, the outcomes. You noticed him shift his position, absently lifting the line.

“Fluids are ready,” you nodded efficiently. “Waiting on your orders.”

A brief pause, a recalibration, followed. He looked at you, attentive. “Consider it done,” he said, certain.

You did, and you resumed. He saw you in fragments, always ahead, existing between anticipation and action. Mistakes were avoided before orders. Labs appeared before requests, meds prepped before thought. Your awareness matched his, something learned by instinct.

“You’re reading my mind,” he confessed with a certain little tone to his voice that only he could do, eyes on the chart.

You smiled easily, trying not to preen. “Just trying to stay ahead.” The words were practiced. You recognized your role in his eyes. Just a nurse, a coworker, not a partner, nothing more.

His lingering attention drew your gaze. You wouldn’t have admitted watching him, but his competence earned respect, and his steady clarity anchored you. He assessed, decided, acted, never rushed, never faltered. Even when results slipped, his steadiness grounded you, making chaos navigable. You attuned to his cadence, sensing shifts in posture and expression.

The Night Crawlers, as Abbot called the third shift, were all crowded around the nurses’ station, each one of you trying to make an excuse not to chart. Olive’s laughter pierced the heaviness of the hour on a slow night at a joke you told. Lena looked up from her iPad to the board, a smirk on her face, as Mateo tapped his pen, feigning boredom, a grin tugging at his lips.

“You’re too cheerful for this hour,” Dr. Abbot remarked as he walked up, eyeing you with mild suspicion, but there was a grin.

“Someone has to be,” you replied, reflexive and warm. They relied on your steadiness. It was easier to meet expectations than question them. Giving was easier than considering the cost.

The change came quietly, eroding your energy. You blamed fatigue. You skipped coffee runs and conversation, choosing solitude. You still smiled, reassured, and performed with precision, but the effort deepened, adding quiet layers behind each interaction. Even simple expressions now require intention.

Dr. Abbot was the first to notice the subtle shift in your demeanor, long before anyone else caught on. It wasn’t as if you were visibly injured. Nothing was broken or bruised, but a certain spark seemed to have faded from your spirit. Your assessments remained as incisive and sharp as ever, yet your once vibrant energy dwindled, leaving you feeling quieter, almost mechanical in your movements.

One particular night, under the harsh glow of the examination room lights, while taking vitals on a sedated patient, he leaned slightly closer, concern etching deeper lines on his face. “You okay?” he asked, his voice hushed, as though he feared the truth of your struggle.

You averted your gaze, a lie forming on your lips as you nodded in response. “Just tired.”

He lingered for a moment, studying the shadows under your eyes and the tension in your shoulders, his expression a mix of worry and understanding. The weight of his unspoken question hung heavy in the air between you, a silent acknowledgment of the distance that had grown between who you were and who you had become.

You told yourself it would pass, just fatigue from too many hours and little rest. Still, with each shift, the symptoms of burnout crept in. A growing sense of detachment, an emotional numbness that dulled both satisfaction and loss. This wasn’t simply tiredness, but a slow, heavy exhaustion, the kind that comes with compassion fatigue, a depletion from giving too much for too long. The work did not lessen, nor did the growing distance inside you. It was not sadness, but a quieter absence dulling everything.

You stood at the sink after a case, watching water run over your hands, seeing your reflection without recognition. There was distance, observing, not inhabiting, as if you were a spectator to your own life.

The shift that broke you had no clear cause. It was another night, another patient, another precise routine. You did everything right, but it was not enough. You stood at the bedside as the room emptied, silence pressing in. Something gave way, not suddenly, but with the finality of a long-strained limit. The thought settled easily.

What is the point?

By shift’s end, you moved through final tasks by habit, not intention. The report was professional and error-free, with no sidetracking about your plans after your shift or for your upcoming days off, like you usually did. You didn’t take the time to stay behind or engage in conversation, ignoring the confused expressions on Olive’s, Lena’s, and Mateo’s faces. You clocked out and left, your path feeling inevitable.

This choice wasn’t something spur of the moment. You had given it plenty of time and thought alone in your apartment, feeling nothing but the weight of emptiness cementing your limbs to the couch. 

You would do it on a rainy day so the blood would wash away more easily, and wear dark clothes so no one could see the stains. You would be high enough up that the death would be instantaneous. You didn’t want to add to the already insane workload your coworkers were dealing with.

The stairwell echoed with each step, producing a hollow and distant sound. Your body felt disconnected, moving without conscious direction, while your thoughts hung in stillness. The rooftop door opened easily, offering no resistance. Outside, the air was sharp, cutting through the hospital’s sterile atmosphere. The sun was just beginning to rise between the overcast, the smog of Pittsburgh creating a beautiful cascade of orange and pink. Below, the city lay stretched out, caught between night and day, its lights flickering. You approached the edge, your mind calm and free of panic or fear.

You searched for hesitation or doubt, but only exhaustion settled deeper. Not sleep’s tiredness, but something final. You thought of the constant need to give, to hold, to endure, the expectation to remain Sunshine. For a moment, you wished you could ask for help or name what you needed, but the words would not come. You knew of the resources to reach out to, but burnout was heavy among all of you, and you didn’t want help. You didn’t want to keep dealing with the pain and struggle with the slim possibility of finally being okay. It was too much. You were done working, done giving it your all.

The next thought was simple and logical.

They will manage without you.

Your hands gripped the metal railing separating you from the edge as you ducked under. The distance below did not intimidate you. More than anything, the absence of fear or resistance unsettled you, a quiet acceptance of something that should feel impossible.

“Enjoying the view?”

A voice broke the stillness, controlled and precise. You turned slowly, effortful. Dr. Abbot stood near, breath steady as if he were used to situations like these, eyes fixed on you. His expression remained focused without panic, the same steadiness you admired.

“Dana said you clocked out,” he began, his voice softer now, but no less certain. “You always say goodbye.”

You didn’t know how to respond. Guilt crept up your spine at the notion of hurting Dr. Abbot’s feelings. You hadn’t expected someone to be here as your fingers twitched reflexively.

“Sorry.” It was the only thing you could think to say as silence stretched. “You should head home. I don’t want to keep you here. It’s been a long night.”

Jack Abbot was quiet for a moment, no longer looking at you but at the sun rising before him on the city skyline.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he stated more than asked as you turned to see what he was focused on. You didn’t have the nerve to respond. “I come up here sometimes, almost every shift, actually,” he confessed.

You felt your heart skip a beat, taking just a small step forward to look down at the streets before you. Cars drove past one another, sporadic honking breaking through the intensity of the moment.

“I’m not surprised,” you felt yourself say. You weren’t sure why you decided to continue the conversation. Perhaps because you didn’t expect anyone else to come up here, let alone engage in casual small talk, that you felt obligated to continue. “You served in the army, lost your leg, and your wife is dead. I’m surprised you haven’t jumped yet.”

Jack was thankful that your back was to him as his face broke free of the clinical mask he wore. He had never heard you speak so bluntly, so negatively. You were Nurse Sunshine. You had glitter and rainbows shooting out of your ass everywhere you went, as Shen so eloquently put it. He felt his heart race.

“You’re right. I haven’t,” he conceded, taking noiseless steps towards you. “Do you want to know why?”

You scoffed, turning around as tears stung your eyes. You wanted to stop them, to shove them back into the glands they came from. “If you’re going to make some big speech about how you got help and have reasons to live, I don’t want to hear it. I’m tired.”

Jack chuckled, still reeling inside at how candid you were being. He knew you were struggling. He had seen the signs, the smiles that didn’t fully reach your eyes, arriving at work only minutes before your shift instead of the thirty minutes early you normally did. You weren’t necessarily rude to your coworkers and Jack; if anything, you were the average person asking how their weekend was, but you also didn’t engage in deep conversations like you normally would.

“Always knowing what’s on my mind,” Abbot muttered to himself, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

You attempted to hide how your teary eyes instinctively followed his movements, tracing the veins that traveled down to his strong, freckled hands. These thoughts were pointless. Jack Abbot was your senior, a man who had already lived his life and carried burdens that no one should have to, and you… You were just some pathetic nurse who couldn’t handle the pressure when life got tough. He would never care about you.

Silence followed. Distant city sounds filled the space between breaths before you spoke. “I’m sorry you have to see me like this.”

The words hung between you, fragile in the open air, carried only slightly by the early morning wind. You expected him to deflect, to return to that clinical distance he wore so well, but he didn’t. Abbot stepped closer instead, slowly and deliberately, the way he approached a crashing patient, with no sudden movements, no urgency that might fracture what little balance you had left.

“I’m not,” he said simply with a tilt of his head, the sunrise catching on his freckled skin.

It caught you off guard. Your brows knitted faintly, confusion threading through the exhaustion. “You should be,” you murmured. “This isn’t exactly… a good look. I’m fucking pathetic. Can’t handle fucking anything.” You profusely wiped at your tears.

Jack’s gaze didn’t waver, lashes batting against his cheeks as he looked down at you. “No,” he repeated, quieter this time, like a conclusion he’d already reached long before stepping onto the roof. “It’s honest. Not many people will speak so openly about how they’re feeling.”

You scoffed, the irony of the sentence not lost on you, but still that word pressed into something raw inside your chest. Honest. As if this… this unraveling, this hollowed-out version of you, was more real than the girl who laughed too brightly at the nurses’ station, who anticipated orders before they were spoken, who filled every silence so no one would notice the emptiness behind it.

You looked away first.

“I don’t want help,” you spat, the words steadier now, practiced. “It’s not that I don’t know how to get it. I do. Therapy, meds, time off–whatever.” You shrugged weakly, the motion almost careless. “I just… don’t want to go through it. The whole process. Fighting to feel okay again just to end up right back here.” Your fingers tightened on the cold metal railing as you turned, and a fresh wave of tears rose. “It’s exhausting.”

Jack was quiet, but not distant. You could feel his presence behind you, solid, grounded, like he had no intention of leaving, no matter how long it took.

“That’s fair,” he said after a moment.

You blinked, surprised again. “What?”

“It’s exhausting,” he echoed, as if it were a clinical fact. “The process. The effort. The trial and error with meds.” A small breath left him, almost inaudible. He knew it all too well. “You’re not wrong.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to see him from the corner of your eye. He wasn’t trying to argue with you or dismantle your logic piece by piece as you expected. He was… meeting you in it, and somehow, that made it harder to hold onto.

“So what,” you muttered, quieter now. “You’re just going to agree with me? There’s plenty of sidewalk down there.”

“No.” His voice shifted then, not sharper, but firmer, like a line being drawn with quiet certainty. “I’m going to ask you to stay anyway.”

You felt your breath catch in your throat.

“Just another day,” he added, almost casually, though there was nothing casual about the weight behind it. “You don’t have to fix anything or decide anything long-term.” He tilted his head slightly, watching you as he did with patients when he was gauging whether they’d stabilize. “Just stay one more day. See how it goes.”

The simplicity of it made your chest ache.

“One day isn’t going to change anything,” you argued, but the resistance lacked its earlier bite. Jack was wearing you down.

“Maybe not,” he agreed easily with a half shrug. “But it’s not about changing everything. It’s about not ending it today.”

Your throat tightened. You hated how reasonable that sounded, how manageable it was. Your mind was so consumed with thoughts of the future, of what agony and death the next shift would force you to endure, that you stopped thinking reasonably.

You stared out over the city again, the sunrise now fully cresting the horizon, spilling gold across glass and steel. One more day. It sounded so small. So insignificant, and yet, your shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of you in slow increments.

“You make it sound easy.” Your voice was thick as you tried to swallow your emotions.

“It’s not,” he said. “It’s just smaller. You just need to get through today.”

Silence settled again, but it felt different now, less suffocating, more… suspended. Death was final, an ending you could never rewrite. It was still what you wanted, but you were so tired— tired of fighting, tired of standing at the brink of falling and deciding to give up instead.

You let out a shaky breath. “Okay,” you conceded, the word barely above a whisper. “One day.”

Jack hesitated for a moment, his body still but his presence palpable. He didn’t rush towards you or invade your space, but you could sense a shift in his demeanor—a hint of relief that he managed to keep under wraps. It was as if the air between you had lightened slightly, making the tension palpable yet strangely inviting.

“That’s enough,” he said with a subdued grin.

“What happens after today?” you asked almost involuntarily. You couldn’t just live in the moment; that wasn’t how your brain had been trained to function after countless shifts at PTMC.

“We’ll figure it out,” he replied without hesitation. No overthinking as he flashed you a lopsided grin that made your heart flip. “You don’t have to carry the whole timeline right now, sunshibe.”

You huffed softly, something that almost resembled a humorless laugh, as your heart leaped into your throat, and you swallowed it back down. “Easier said than done. You always talk to your coworkers like that?”

“Only when it works.”

That pulled a faint, fleeting ghost of a smile from you, gone as quickly as it came.

Another pause stretched, and then he shifted again, this time more deliberately, as you ducked under the railing. “You shouldn’t go back to your apartment alone.”

Your brows furrowed, a knot forming in your stomach. “I’ll be fine. I promise. I can take care of myself.” You just wanted to be alone right now.

“I know you have the ability,” he said, his brow furrowed in thought. “But that’s not what I’m worried about.”

You turned fully this time, crossing your arms instinctively like a barrier. You sure as hell weren’t going to stay here in one of the on-call rooms. “What are you suggesting?”

“Come stay with me,” he offered, as if it were the most straightforward solution in the world.

The answer was immediate, with profuse head shaking. “Absolutely not,” you refused firmly. “I’m not, Jack, I’m not putting that on you. I’m not your responsibility.”

A glimmer sparked in his eyes at that moment, not the quick flashes of irritation or frustration that often danced there when trying to placate a noncompliant patient, but a deeper, more profound light, calm and resolute.

“You’re not a burden,” he argued, his brows furrowed as he mirrored your crossed arms.

“I didn’t say that.” You shook your head, wiping your wet eyes with the heels of your hands.

“You suggested it,” he shot back, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he shifted his weight onto his uninjured leg, a gleam of defiance in his eyes.

You opened your mouth to argue, but no words came out because you had already implied that. Dr. Jack Abbot was anything but an idiot. In fact, it was one of the countless reasons heat rushed to your cheeks whenever he was near.

He took a tentative step forward, drawing near enough for you to notice the subtle weariness that had become a permanent fixture on his face. It was a weariness that ran deeper than skin, etched into the very lines of his features. The same exhaustion that settled like heavy fog in your bones.

“I’ve handled worse than you needing a place to stay for a night,” he argued quietly. “Trust me.”

“That’s not the point,” you argued with a roll of your eyes, smoothing the stray strands of hair that came out from your updo.

“Then what is?” Jack argued with the raise of his light brows as he took more steps towards you, seeming almost to size you up.

You hesitated, your defenses faltering under the weight of his steady persistence. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to take care of me.”

A beat passed.

“I don’t,” he admitted softly, tilting his head toward you and raising his eyebrows. His forehead crinkled the way it always did when he was trying to convey the seriousness of a patient’s outcome. “I want to.”

Your breath hitched in your throat. In his voice lingered a moment of raw honesty—an unguarded vulnerability that sent a flutter through your chest, igniting a feeling that had nothing to do with fatigue.

“Jack…” you started, but the words felt thin, tears pricking your bloodshot eyes once more.

He held your gaze, steady as ever, but there was warmth there that you hadn’t seen before, unmistakable beneath the control. “Stay,” he said again, quieter this time as he reached out and placed his calloused palm on your arm. “Let me make sure you’re okay. Just for tonight.”

You studied his face, searching for any hint of hesitation, uncertainty, or even the faintest glimmer of obligation or pity. To your surprise, you found none. The revelation sent your heart racing. Jack Abbot genuinely cared for you, more deeply than the usual bond shared between a doctor and his favorite nurse.

“I don’t want to complicate things,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. Your eyes remained fixated on the scuff marks adorning your leather sneakers, tracing the faded lines and scratches that had gathered after countless shifts and mandatory overtime.

A faint exhale left him, almost amused. “Sweetheart,” he said, tender, unintentional, as the word had slipped past whatever restraint he usually held. Your eyes snapped up. “Things have been complicated for a while now.”

The endearment washed over you like a gentle tide, its soothing warmth surprising in a moment that felt so heavy with tension. It wrapped around your heart, igniting a tender flicker. Your resistance wavered, cracking just enough.

“Just another day,” you agreed finally, voice quiet, uncertain as his arm wrapped around your torso.

Jack nodded once, like that was all he’d needed. “Just another day.”

And for the first time since stepping onto the rooftop, the edge no longer felt like the only direction forward. At least for now, the only thing you thought about was Jack Abbot’s strong arm wrapped around your waist, the faint smell of expensive cologne warming your stomach as you leaned your head on his shoulder, descending the stairs into The Pitt.

The drive to Jack’s townhouse passed in relative silence, though it never felt uncomfortable. Pittsburgh blurred past the passenger window in streaks of amber streetlights and rain-dark pavement, the city quieter now in the fragile hours before the morning fully settled into day. You rested your head against the cool glass, exhaustion pressing heavily behind your eyes, but your awareness of him never fully faded.

One hand remained steady on the steering wheel while the other rested near the console, close enough that your fingers brushed once when the car turned sharply. Neither of you acknowledged it. Still, the accidental touch lingered beneath your skin, like heat, long after.

You tried not to think too hard about the fact that you were going home with Jack Abbot. Not the hospital. Not some sterile on-call room with fluorescent lighting and scratchy blankets. His home. Somewhere private. It should have terrified you more than it did.

Instead, you found yourself staring at the quiet lines of his profile illuminated by passing headlights, noticing the exhaustion softening his features now that he no longer had to wear the rigid composure demanded by The Pitt. His jaw carried faint stubble. His freckles stood out more in the dim lighting. One hand flexed occasionally against the steering wheel, veins shifting beneath scarred skin, and your stomach twisted painfully with affection.

By the time he pulled into the narrow driveway of a brick townhouse tucked into one of Pittsburgh’s quieter neighborhoods, the sky had begun shifting pale blue behind the clouds. You blinked slowly, taking in the home before you.

It was beautiful in a way that immediately felt like him. Not extravagant. Not cold or overly modern, unlike many wealthy physicians’ homes. Warm brick softened by ivy climbing one side of the exterior. A small fenced yard sat beside the townhouse, impossibly charming despite its modest size, with string lights hanging along the back patio and flower beds just beginning to bloom from the rain. There was even a small wooden bench beneath the kitchen window, worn slightly with use.

Your brows lifted faintly despite your exhaustion.

“Jack,” you murmured as you stepped out of the car, looking around in disbelief. “You have a yard.”

A quiet huff of amusement left him as he came around the vehicle. “That sounds accusatory.”

“In Pittsburgh?” you countered, staring at the narrow strip of green like it was some luxury estate. “Do you know how expensive this probably looks to someone renting a shoebox apartment?”

That earned you a real laugh. Low and tired, but genuine. God, you loved the sound of it more than you should have.

“It’s not that impressive,” he shrugged.

“You own outdoor furniture,” you deadpanned, pointing weakly toward the small patio table near the back fence. “That’s commitment.”

The corner of his mouth lifted as he unlocked the front door. “Careful, Sunshine. You sound charmed.” He couldn’t put into words how relieved he was to have a peek at your personality again.

Your heart stumbled hard enough to make you grateful he wasn’t looking directly at you because he was right.

The inside of the townhouse only made it worse. Warm lighting illuminated dark hardwood floors and soft off-white walls. Bookshelves lined one side of the living room, crowded with worn novels, medical journals, and framed photographs you tried not to stare at too long. A deep charcoal couch sat beneath a knitted throw blanket, the kind clearly chosen for comfort rather than aesthetics. The kitchen beyond it looked lived-in without being messy, with neatly arranged mugs hanging beneath cabinets and an expensive coffee machine occupying the counter.

It smelled faintly like cedarwood and coffee. Like him. Your chest tightened unexpectedly.

There was something deeply intimate about seeing where Jack existed outside the hospital. The Pitt had always made him seem untouchable somehow, as if he belonged solely to trauma bays, harsh fluorescent lighting, and impossible decisions. But here… here he was simply a man. One who read books, watered plants, and apparently owned throw pillows.

The realization made your feelings for him deepen in a way that felt almost unfair.

“You can sit down, sweetheart,” Jack said gently, setting his keys onto the kitchen counter. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

The endearment hit you just as hard the first time. You lowered yourself carefully onto the couch, suddenly aware of how badly your body hurt now that adrenaline had worn off. Exhaustion dragged through every muscle. Your limbs felt heavy, your thoughts sluggish and distant. Strangely, you didn’t even feel cold anymore despite still wearing hospital scrubs dampened faintly by the morning chill. You were simply too tired to shiver.

Jack noticed immediately. His expression softened almost imperceptibly as he crouched slightly in front of you. “Hey.” His voice dropped lower, gentler. “Stay with me for a second.”

You blinked slowly toward him. “Mhm?”

“You’re exhausted.”

“No kidding,” you yawned, opening your mouth.

One side of his mouth twitched faintly. “I’m going to grab you something comfortable to sleep in, alright?”

You wanted to protest. Tell him he’d already done enough. But the words felt too heavy to force out, so you only nodded weakly instead. When he returned a few minutes later, he held a folded T-shirt and a pair of soft black sweatpants against his chest. You stared at them longer than necessary, irrationally affected by the idea of wearing his clothes.

“They’ll be too big,” he warned quietly.

Your throat tightened. “That’s okay.”

His fingers brushed yours as he handed them over, and the contact alone nearly unraveled you. God. This was unbearable.

You disappeared into the bathroom to change, gripping the edge of the sink for a long moment once the door shut behind you. His shirt hung off your frame, obscenely large, soft from years of washing, carrying the faint scent of cedar, laundry detergent, and something distinctly him beneath it all.

You looked exhausted, hollow-eyed, and emotionally wrecked. Yet somehow Jack Abbot still looked at you like you were something worth caring for. The thought nearly brought tears back again.

When you emerged, Jack had changed too, trading his scrubs for a gray long-sleeve shirt and loose sleep pants that sat low on his hips. Your pulse immediately betrayed you.

Absolutely not. Your exhausted brain was not surviving this.

“I’ll take the couch,” he said immediately, gesturing toward it before you could fully process the sight of him leaning casually against the kitchen counter, looking unfairly attractive in his own home. “You take the bed.”

You frowned instantly. “No. You’re not sleeping on your couch in your own house after everything you’ve already done for me.”

“It’s a very comfortable couch,” he halfheartedly argued, a grin pulling his lips.

“I don’t care.”

A tired sort of amusement crossed his face. “Sunshine…”

“No, absolutely not,” you argued, folding your arms tighter beneath the sleeves, swallowing your hands. “You’re already letting me stay here, and you dealt with me on the brink of suicide. I’m not stealing your bed, too.”

His eyes flicked briefly over your face, softer now. “You’re not stealing anything.”

Heat bloomed painfully in your chest. Still, neither of you backed down. The argument carried on longer than it should have, exhaustion making both of you stubborn in oddly domestic ways until eventually Jack dragged a tired hand over his face with a quiet laugh.

“You realize neither of us is going to win this, right?”

You narrowed your eyes faintly. “I could absolutely win this.”

“That confidence is concerning, considering you almost walked off a roof an hour ago.”

You stared at him. He stared back. And then, horrifyingly, you laughed. A real one. Breathless and startled and exhausted all at once. Jack’s expression softened immediately at the sound, something warm flickering visibly across his face.

Eventually, the compromise became obvious. You would share the bed. Entirely platonic. Probably.

Your heartbeat had already started racing before you even followed him upstairs. Jack moved more slowly now without the prosthetic fully supporting him, though pride clearly made him try to hide it. The bedroom itself mirrored the rest of the townhouse, with warm lighting, dark-wood dressers and nightstands, soft gray bedding slightly rumpled from previous nights, and books stacked carelessly on the nightstand beside reading glasses and a half-finished novel. Your chest tightened at the intimacy of it all.

Jack sat carefully on the edge of the bed, fingers moving toward the prosthetic straps before hesitating briefly. For the first time since knowing him, uncertainty crossed his features. Small and fleeting as you kneeled beside him.

“You don’t have to,” he protested weakly, though there wasn’t much conviction in his voice.

“I know,” you interrupted softly, stepping closer. “Can I help?”

His eyes lifted toward yours slowly as the silence stretched long enough to feel fragile before he finally nodded once. Your hands trembled slightly as you knelt in front of him. Not from fear. From the unbearable awareness of him. The warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips. The trust required for this moment.

You moved carefully, listening as he quietly explained each strap and clasp. Your fingers brushed scarred skin occasionally, and every single time, his breathing shifted almost imperceptibly. Not discomfort, but something else, something heavier.

The intimacy of it nearly overwhelmed you. This wasn’t polished, Dr. Abbot from the trauma bay. This was Jack. Tired and vulnerable, and allowing you close enough to see the parts of himself he normally kept guarded.

When the prosthetic finally came free, you looked up instinctively only to find him already watching you. The air shifted. His gaze lingered on your face with enough intensity to make your pulse throb painfully beneath your skin. You became hyperaware of your position between his knees, his large hands resting beside you on the mattress, the soft fabric of his shirt stretched across broad shoulders as his chest rose slowly beneath it. Your mouth suddenly felt dry.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. The words shouldn’t have sounded intimate. They did anyway.

You swallowed hard, standing a little too quickly afterward as though distance might help regulate your heartbeat. It didn’t. Nothing did. Not when he looked at you like that. Not when you climbed into bed beside him moments later, separated by only a few inches and entirely too much tension.

The room fell quiet except as you stared stubbornly toward the ceiling, acutely aware of every inch of space between your bodies. Your heart would not calm down. If anything, lying beside him only made it worse. The mattress dipped faintly beneath his weight. His heat surrounded you. Every small movement was registered instantly in your nervous system like a live wire.

The silence should have eventually soothed you. Instead, it sharpened every small thing. The rain whispered against the window in uneven patterns, soft and steady, collecting in the gutters outside before spilling in faint trickles somewhere beyond the glass. The room smelled like clean sheets and Jack, a warmth so unmistakably his that it seemed to settle into your lungs every time you breathed in. Beside you, he lay still on his back, one arm resting across his abdomen, his breathing slow in the careful way of someone trying not to disturb a frightened animal.

You hated that you were the frightened thing.

For a while, you only stared at the ceiling and tried to convince yourself that your heart was not still trying to climb out of your ribs. It was unbearable at first, lying so close to Jack Abbot with nothing but darkness and a mattress between you. Every shift of his body sent awareness skittering beneath your skin. Every brush of the blanket against your leg had made you wonder whether it was him.

Eventually, exhaustion did what reason could not. Your pulse began to settle. The frantic edge of your thoughts dulled. Your body, spent from terror and tears and too many hours spent pretending to be fine, sank deeper into the mattress until your limbs felt boneless beneath his borrowed clothes. Jack’s presence, instead of setting you alight, became something steadier—a quiet anchor in the dark.

He was still there. He did not leave when you’d been difficult or withdrawn when you’d been broken. He brought you into his home, gave you his clothes, offered you his bed, trusted you with one of the most vulnerable parts of himself, and then lay beside you without asking for anything in return.

That thought should have comforted you, and for a moment, it did, but as always, the sadness found its way back in. It was slow at first, slipping through the small cracks exhaustion left open—a hollow pressure behind your breastbone and a heaviness behind your eyes. The familiar, terrible ache of your mind turning inward and finding only dark corners. You closed your eyes and inhaled a deep breath as if that might stop it, but the darkness behind your lids only made everything worse.

Another day. That was what you promised him.

You had stood there with Jack’s steady hands and quiet voice and eyes looking at you like your life mattered, and you had promised him you would try. You had meant it when you said it. You had truly meant it. In that moment, with him there between you and the edge, the promise had felt possible. Maybe not easy or believable, but possible.

Now, in the aftermath, it felt like a lie. The future stretched out in your mind like a hallway with no lights. One day became two. Two became a week. A month. A year. More shifts. More loss. More mornings where your body kept moving even after your spirit had gone silent. More days of waking up and realizing, with a quiet devastation that made you sick, that you were still yourself.

You tried to imagine taking it one day at a time, but you could barely survive this hour. A tear slid hot and silent from the corner of your eye into your hairline. You held your breath, horrified by it, as if even crying was too much. Then another followed and another. Your throat tightened until swallowing hurt, and you turned your face slightly away from the sleeping form beside you, pressing your lips together to trap the sound before it could escape. You did not want Jack to hear or to know that the promise was already cracking in your hands.

The mattress shifted, and his voice came low through the dark. “Sunshine.”

The endearment broke something in you as you squeezed your eyes shut harder, but the tears kept slipping free, silent and relentless. How could Jack still call you that when all you felt was this ever-encompassing darkness inside? You felt him turn toward you, careful at first, giving you the chance to pretend if that was what you needed. When you did not answer, and your breath hitched despite your best effort to keep it buried, he moved closer.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice rumbling in your ear. “Come here.”

You shook your head once, small and miserable, pursing your lips. “I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t ask for an apology,” he teased quietly as his arm slid around you with a gentleness that made the ache inside your chest turn unbearable.

He gathered you against him slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. You didn’t. You couldn’t. The moment your face pressed against the warmth of his chest, your restraint shattered.

The first sob escaped you brokenly, muffled into the cool cotton of his shirt. Your fingers curled helplessly against him as if you could keep yourself from falling apart by holding on tightly enough. Jack’s hand came to the back of your head, broad palm cradling you there while the other arm secured around your waist.

He did not hush you or say it was okay. He only held you like he decided, with the full weight of his stubborn heart, that you were not going to come apart alone.

“I can’t,” you choked, the words tearing out of you before you could stop them. “Jack, I can’t do this.”

His hand moved slowly through your hair. “You don’t have to do all of it right now.”

“I don’t want to do this anymore.” Your voice cracked around the confession. “I know I promised you I’d try, and I wanted to mean it. I did mean it, but I don’t know how to keep it. I don’t know how to wake up tomorrow and do this again.”

Jack’s breathing changed beneath your cheek, but his voice stayed steady. “Then we figure it out.”

“You make it sound so simple.” You shook your head at the notion.

“It’s not simple.” His fingers paused at the nape of your neck, warm and grounding. “It’s just smaller than forever.”

A fresh wave of tears overtook you. You pressed closer to him, ashamed of how badly you needed the contact, ashamed of how desperately your body responded to comfort after being starved of it for so long.

“I feel awful,” you whispered. “You shouldn’t have to do this. You shouldn’t have to take care of me. I don’t deserve this.”

His arm tightened around you. “Don’t do that.” You pulled back just enough to look at him, your vision blurred. “Don’t talk about yourself like you’re some burden I got stuck carrying.” His voice was tender, but something firm lived beneath it. “I brought you here because I wanted to. I’m holding you because I want to. None of this is something you tricked me into.”

Your mouth trembled. “But why?”

The question came out so small that it embarrassed you. You wished you could swallow it back down, wished you could be anyone else. Someone easier. Someone who could lie beside Jack Abbot in his bed and not drown in grief while he tried to keep her breathing.

His eyes moved over your face in the dark, searching you with an intensity that made your chest ache. “Because it’s you,” he said.

The words stole what little breath you had left. Something that sounded so simple yet meant everything to you.

You stared at him, tears clinging to your lashes, your cheek still damp against his shirt. “Jack…”

He answered nothing, but his face changed. The guardedness was still there, because of course it was. Jack did not know how to be anything but careful with the parts of himself that mattered. Yet beneath it, something opened, something tender and terrifying.

You laughed once, but it broke halfway through, turning into another sob with the shake of your head. “That’s the problem.”

His brows drew together. “What is?”

“You.” The confession trembled out of you before fear could stop it. “You’re the problem.”

Jack froze as his thoughts began to race. Maybe he had misread the situation? The soft glances that lingered just a moment longer than necessary, the warm smiles that seemed meant solely for him—was it possible that they were mere fabrications of his imagination, conjured up by his own hopeful heart? Each memory flashed vividly in his mind, but now they felt tainted by doubt.

You closed your eyes, unable to look at him while saying it. You suppose that if you were most likely going to die tomorrow, there would be no consequences in saying it. “I’ve had feelings for you for a while. Longer than I should have, and I hated myself for it because you were grieving and private and such a competent guy, and I’m just…” Your voice fractured. “I’m just me.”

His thumb brushed along your cheek, catching a tear before it reached your jaw. “Just you?”

You shook your head, ashamed. “I’m not good enough for something like this. For you. For love. I’m barely holding myself together, and I don’t want to drag you into that. I don’t want you to wake up one day and realize I’m so fucking messed up.”

Jack gazed at you for a long moment, his expression so grave and wounded that your stomach twisted. He moved closer, his hand cradling your face with a tenderness that made your breath catch.

“Listen to me,” he said softly. “You are not too much, and we’re both messed up. Anyone who does what we do is to some degree.”

You wanted to believe him. You wanted it so badly it hurt. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he argued, brows shooting to his hairline.

There was a quiet stubbornness in his voice now, the same obstinacy you saw in trauma bays when everyone else was falling apart. “I know what it looks like when pain convinces someone they’re only a problem. I know what it sounds like when someone talks like they’ve already decided the world would be easier without them.” His throat moved as he swallowed. “And I know that voice lies.”

Your tears slowed, not because the pain left, but because his words reached some bruised and hidden place inside you. Jack’s thumb moves along your warm cheek again.

“You are worthy of love,” he declared, each word careful, deliberate. “You are worthy of care. You are worthy of staying alive long enough to find out what your life can look like when this sadness isn’t the only thing you can see.”

Your face crumpled, and he pulled you back against him before you could hide. This time, you went willingly, sobbing into him while his hand pressed between your shoulder blades and his mouth brushed against your hair. The gesture was so gentle, so achingly human, that it made you cry harder.

“I’m so scared,” you admit, feeling an almost childish feeling of embarrassment.

“I know,” he coos into your crown, like a parent to their sniveling kid.

“I don’t want to be like this.” Your voice sounded so thick and pathetic that you didn’t recognize it.

He placed another kiss on your head. “I know.”

“I don’t know if I want to fix it. I don’t want to live,” you sobbed. The truth was fully out now, the words you danced around pried free from your soul once and for all.

Jack’s voice dropped lower, pulling you a fraction closer. “We don’t fix it tonight. Tonight, you relax,” he murmured. “Tonight, you stay in this bed, and tomorrow, we’ll call someone. We make a plan. We don’t pretend this didn’t happen, and we don’t leave you alone with it.”

Your fingers tightened in his shirt. There was no more fight left within you. “We?”

Jack’s silence lasted only a second, but it was heavy with things unsaid as he answered. “Yes. We.” His tone was as if this were the most obvious part of this whole ordeal.

Something inside you loosened. Like one locked door inside your chest opened just enough to let air through. You lifted your head slowly. Jack’s face was a lot closer than you expected. The darkness softened him at the edges, but you could still see the lines of exhaustion around his eyes, his forehead, the faint scar near his temple that you hadn’t noticed before, the careful restraint in his mouth as he looked down at you. He looked like a man holding himself back by honor alone, and your breath caught.

“You mean it?” you whispered, trying to hide the minuscule amount of hope in your voice.

His gaze flicked briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes. “Which part?”

“That you feel the same.” You felt like a schoolgirl waiting for the answer back from your crush with a note that read, ‘Do you like me? Check yes or no.’

Jack’s jaw tightened faintly. He looked away for half a second, as if the truth required courage despite the raw essence of everything that transpired. When he looked back, there was no distance left in him.

“Yes,” he finally said. “I mean it.”

The room seemed to go quiet around the world. Even the rain that had begun to pour felt farther away.

You stared at him, barely breathing. “How…” you swallowed the lump in your throat. “How long?”

The corner of his mouth lifted, but it was sadder at himself than to you. “Long enough that I should’ve been smarter about it.”

A weak, tearful laugh escaped you as your fingers tentatively traced along his grey stubble. “That sounds like you.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, a crooked smile gracing his features. “Unfortunately.”

The fragile humor faded almost as quickly as it came. In its place was something warmer, more dangerous, threaded with the intimacy of exposure and the ache of everything you both confessed. Jack’s hand remained on your face, your fingers now resting at the bottom of his throat. Neither of you moved away.

You could feel his heartbeat beneath your palm, steady and alive. Your eyes dropped to his mouth before you could stop yourself. Jack noticed. Of course, he noticed.

His thumb stilled against your cheek. “Sunshine…”

The warning in his voice was gentle, but strained, his use of the nickname creating a warmth between your thighs.

You swallowed. “I know.”

“We don’t have to–”

You answered him before he could finish. “I know.” The subject of the question was noiseless, yet you both knew what it was.

“You’ve had a hell of a night,” he argued halfheartedly.

“I know,” you whispered again, and your voice trembled with something that was not only sadness now. “I want to kiss you.”

Jack’s eyes closed briefly, like the words had hurt him in the sweetest possible way.

When he opened them again, his gaze was darker, tender, fixed entirely on you. “Only if you’re sure.” You nodded once, butterflies in your stomach. “I need to hear you say it.”

Your breath shook, toes curling with anticipation. “I’m sure.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. Jack leaned in slowly, giving you the chance to change your mind with every inch he closed, and when you didn’t, his lips brushed against yours so lightly that it almost didn’t feel like a kiss at all. It was a delicate gesture offered carefully between two people who understood all too well how easily tenderness could be lost.

Your eyes closed as you slid your hand from his shirt to the side of his neck. Jack exhaled against your mouth, as if restraint became painful. His fingers slipped into your hair, cradling the back of your head as he kissed you again—this time deeper, still careful but no longer distant. Heat spread through you gradually. 

It startled you, how your body could still want something that didn’t stop your pulse, how sadness and desire could exist in the same exhausted chest. How Jack’s mouth against yours made the world narrow down until there was no hospital, no roof, no endless hallway of tomorrow. There was only the warmth of him, the rasp of his breath, the solid weight of his arm around your waist as he drew you closer.

You made a small sound into the kiss, and Jack went still for half a heartbeat. He kissed you like he was starving. Like every restrained glance in a trauma bay, every almost-touch, every unfinished sentence had gathered beneath his skin and finally found somewhere to go. His mouth moved over yours with a heat that made your thoughts scatter, his other hand sliding from your hair to your back, pressing you against him until there was no space left between you.

Your fingers tangled in the curly salt and pepper hair at the nape of his neck. His skin was warm beneath your touch, his pulse strong under your fingertips as you hooked your leg over his strong waist. His mouth left yours to trail along your jaw as your breath broke unevenly, your head tipping back without conscious thought.

“Jack,” you mewled.

The sound of his name seemed to undo him. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his breathing rough, his forehead nearly touching yours. His eyes searched your face again, not as a doctor or trying to assess damage, but as a man terrified of wanting too much from someone he already cared about beyond reason.

“You tell me to stop,” he said, voice low and unsteady, “and I stop.”

Your chest rose sharply beneath his borrowed shirt, nipples poking through with each inhale and exhale. You looked at him, at this man who saw you at your lowest and still held you like you were perfect. Like you were not ruined or a burden.

Your hand slid along the stubble of his jaw. “I don’t want you to stop.”

Jack’s eyes darkened. The next kiss was no longer tentative. It was heat and breath and trembling hands, Jack rolling carefully, drawing you with him until the blankets tangled around your legs and his palm found your skin beneath the oversized fabric of his shirt. His touch was firm but reverent, grounding and hungry all at once. Every place his fingers settled seemed to leave warmth behind.

You kissed him back with everything you were too afraid to say. All the longing, the grief, the desperate, aching need to feel wanted in a body you had spent so long treating like a nuisance. Jack responded as he understood. Like he wanted every broken piece you were trying to hide.

His mouth found yours again and again, each kiss deeper than the last, each breath between them more ragged. Your hand moved over his shoulder, feeling the strength there, the tension he held as if still fighting the urge to slow down, to be careful, to make sure you had every chance to pull away, but you did not. You moved closer.

A low sound left him, rough and helpless, and it sent warmth rushing through you so intensely that you forgot how to breathe for a second. His hand tightened at your plush waist as you slid yours to the hollow of his throat. The world outside narrowed to rain against glass, tangled sheets, and the taste of him on your tongue.

For the first time since 7:00 pm yesterday, the darkness didn’t feel like it was swallowing you. It felt like it was holding you both as Jack broke the kiss when breathing became impossible. His forehead rested against yours, his chest rising hard.

“You’re still here,” he whispered, voice hoarse.

Your eyes burned again, but this time the tears did not fall from hopelessness.

You nodded, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “I’m still here.”

Something almost like relief moved across his face as he kissed you again, slower this time but no less consuming, and you let yourself sink into him, into the warmth, into the fragile promise of one more hour, one more breath, one more reason to stay.

He moved to softly kiss your neck again, as if learning every part of you by heart. His lips paused on areas that caused your breath to hitch, his teeth brushing against your skin to create a sharp feeling before his tongue came to soothe. The difference in sensations made you moan against him, a sound that seemed to emerge directly from your core.

Without hesitation, your hands reached for the hem of his shirt, the borrowed shirt, as you pulled it over your head. You could hear Jack’s breath catch at the sight of you partly undressed, your breasts brushing against the fabric of his chest with every inhale.

Jack murmured something softly under his breath that you didn’t quite catch as he leaned in. His mouth explored with a patience that felt almost teasing as he began to kiss and suckle gently at your nipple, circling his tongue in slow, intentional patterns that made your back arch. You tilted your head, releasing a soft swear at the ceiling as his fingers moved, confident, practiced, untying the strings of your borrowed sweatpants. His hand slipped inside the waistband, warm and possessive, enough to make your breath stutter and your thoughts scatter completely.

Jack groaned, low and wrecked, forehead dropping briefly to your shoulder. “Jesus, sweetheart,” he murmured breathlessly. “I’ve barely touched you, and you’re already wet.”

His lips find yours once more immediately, muffling any noises you might have made. You respond to his kiss with sincere intensity, eager and impatient as your fingers clutched at his shoulders. He tugged at your sweatpants with deliberate intention, pulling them down your legs until they’re off and carelessly tossed near the edge of the bed.

Jack flashed a slight smile, a look on his face that screamed he was fully aware of his intentions and had no plans to stop. There’s a moment of silence that forces you to feel the intensity of his gaze, slow and admiring, creating a flutter in your stomach.

Lifting his hand, Jack briefly pressed two fingers inside his mouth to wet them before tracing them along your puffy folds. The sensation was light, teasing, and when one finger slipped inside without warning, your lungs stuttered. His other arm came down easily, pinning you in place with gentle authority. The contrast between restraint and maddeningly slow attention made your head spin.

Another finger joined the first, and any remaining pretense of coherent thought disappeared. Jack didn’t rush; his thumb moving in slow, lazy circles against your clit, unhurried, almost absentminded. Whatever fragile grasp you had on yourself finally snapped, a small, embarrassingly needy sound spilling out of you before you could stop it.

“There she is. My sunshine,” Jack crooned, voice warm and approving. “I knew you’d be like this.”

You attempted to reply, but it emerged as a whimper, a breathless sound lacking any identifiable form.

He chuckled softly, continuing his unhurried movements, thumb still moving over your clit with featherlight pressure, like he has all the time in the world. Your mind went completely blank, reduced to static and sensation—no thoughts of that perpetual sadness and hopelessness that loomed within the back of your head. Your head tilted back as another small, helpless sound escaped you. Jack leaned down, close enough that his breath ghosted over your thighs, and suddenly his tongue drags languidly along your folds, unhurried. He knows exactly what it’s going to do to you.

“Oh, fuck,” you blurted, sharp and unfiltered, the words tearing out of you before you could stop it.

Your back arched on instinct, every nerve ending lighting up at once. Jack chuckled, low and pleased, as if this were exactly the reaction he wanted. Repeating the action, but this time at a slower pace, his tongue glides over your entrance with exasperating patience before momentarily dipping inside. It’s neither hurried nor forceful, but rather, teasing in the most maddeningly delightful manner. He employs long, leisurely strokes, over and over again, followed by delicate, precise flicks right over your sensitive spot that leave you gasping for breath.

You couldn’t hold back, soft whimpers escaping your mouth. Your hands grasp at the sheets, at him, anywhere you can find something to ground yourself as the feeling escalates quicker than your mind can manage.

You squirmed underneath him, your hips rising and falling as if your body is attempting to convey what you cannot with words. His hands grasped your hips tightly, anchoring you as if he were both limiting and motivating you simultaneously.

He moved closer once more, desire clear, as his warm lips kissed and sucked at your clit with an intensity that made your vision fade. Every time his tongue traces over you, slowly and intentionally as you unravel, your back lifts involuntarily off the bed as if you’re pursuing the feeling.

A soft whine escaped you, voice thin and wrecked. “It feels so good.”

Jack laughed softly, a low, pleased sound that vibrated straight through you. “Yeah?” Your breath stuttered. “Taking it so well,” he continued, clearly enjoying how every word landed. “Just taking it so sweetly for me.”

The compliments struck deeper than expected. Your spine instinctively arched once more, and the sound that escapes you this time is muffled and fractured, hardly resembling coherent speech. Jack maintains his pace. Nothing shifts, there’s no sudden intensity, no sharp spike, just the same consistent, relentless focus, as if he understands precisely how your body will respond next and is willing to wait as long as it takes for it.

Your orgasm finally crashed over you, surrounding you in waves, a noise escaping you before you have a chance to hold it in as your entire body tenses. Your legs constrict and instinctively tighten as you squirm beneath him, every muscle straining as if trying to fold in on itself.

Your thoughts scattered entirely, diminished to mere sensation and the intense, overwhelming awareness of how good this feels. Your body kept moving even after your mind had surrendered. Your hips rose against Jack’s face, your back bent, hands grasping at the sheets as the final waves of ecstasy wash over you. You find yourself murmuring now, softly and nonsensically, offering praise, swearing, and repeating his name as if it’s the only word you can recall.

As it diminishes, breathless and boneless, you blink up at the ceiling, dazed, still catching your breath when you sense that he’s watching you. You were still trying to steady your breathing, your chest moving up and down irregularly, as Jack moved nearer and enveloped you in his embrace. It was tender and cautious, as though he suddenly realized just how unsteady you remain.

“Hey,” he soothed, voice low near your ear. “Easy, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

You allowed yourself to lean into him, resting your head on his shoulder, your cheek against his hot skin. One of his hands glided gently up and down your back in calming motions, the other holding you tightly, as if he wanted to make sure you didn’t slip away into that darkness once more.

“You did so well,” he complimented quietly with a kiss. “You always do such a good job for me.”

Your mind felt heavy and pleasantly hazy as you attempted to put together a reply, only making a half-hearted effort before completely surrendering. You gently hummed, more like a purr than anything understandable, and instinctively drew closer to Jack. You were still quivering slightly when your fingers began to move on their own, idly tracing patterns along his firm arm. 

The atmosphere in the room had grown gentler, your focus limited to the calm cadence of his breath and the comforting embrace of his arms. The tremors from before finally subside, leaving you feeling at ease, weighted down, and satisfied in a manner that feels slightly questionable. You made a slight movement to settle in more comfortably, and he responded without hesitation, drawing you in even tighter.

You kissed him again, slow this time, exploratory, and you were suddenly, acutely aware of the taste of yourself lingering there. The realization should make you embarrassed. It should send you retreating beneath the blanket, hiding your flushed face in the pillow, pretending you have not just been reduced to a trembling, breathless cadaver in his arms. Instead, the awareness only makes your cheeks warm as you exhale shakily against his mouth, too spent to do anything except let the kiss soften into something lazy and lingering.

Jack didn’t pursue it any further. That, somehow, undoes you almost as much as everything before it.

He only held you. One hand remained spread along your back, steady and warm, while the other rested near your waist beneath the tangled edge of the blanket. His thumb moved in slow, unconscious strokes, as if he had no idea he was doing it, as if comforting you had already become instinct. His breathing is still uneven, but controlled, his restraint threaded through every careful touch.

You pulled back just enough to look at him. In the dim light, he appeared wrecked in a quieter way than you felt. His hair was mussed from your fingers, his mouth softened, his face open with an expression you had never seen on him at the hospital. There, Jack is all command and composure, sharp edges and clinical focus. Here, in his bed with the rain still whispering against the window, he looks almost disarmed.

Not weak, just unguarded. The sight made something tender ache beneath your ribs. Your fingers drifted along his forearm again, slow and uncertain, as if you were still relearning that touch can be gentle. 

“You’re shaking less,” he commented.

You blinked, the corner of your mouth lifting faintly despite the heaviness still caught somewhere inside you. “That’s your medical opinion?”

His eyes warmed. “Professional assessment.”

“You’re off duty,” you quipped, though the tiredness in your voice had no bite.

“Never stopped me before.”

A quiet laugh slips out of you, barely more than breath, but Jack’s expression changes at the sound. It softens. Like, even that small proof of life matters to him. He had spent the entire night collecting evidence that you are still here and intends to keep every piece of it.

The laughter fades, leaving a more fragile silence in its wake. Your gaze dropped to his chest, unable to hold the intensity of his eyes for long. You trace the seam of his shirt with one fingertip, then the line of his collarbone where the fabric had shifted slightly. The urge rises before you can think better of it, born partly from affection, partly from guilt, partly from the need to give something back after he has spent the whole night giving you so much.

You swallow, voice still hoarse. “Jack?”

“Mm?” He seemed so content, his freckled face relaxed in a way you had never seen before.

“I can…” You hesitate, cheeks heating immediately. “I can make you feel good, too. If you want…”

His hand stills against your back. For a second, the room feels too quiet. You wonder if you have said the wrong thing, if you have broken the tenderness by making it transactional, by letting your old people-pleaser instincts twist affection into a debt. You start to pull away just slightly, embarrassment tightening through your chest. Jack catches the movement. Not forcefully, as his arm simply firms around you, keeping you close with a gentleness that feels like an answer.

“No,” he answered quietly.

Your face burned, bottom lip tucking in between your teeth in anxiety. “I didn’t mean–”

“I know what you meant.” His voice remains low, even, almost unbearably kind. “And no.”

You lift your eyes to his, an open expression on your face. “Because you don’t want me to?”

Something flickers in his light brown eyes, dark and fond and strained enough to make your pulse stumble again.

“That’s not the reason,” he answered with the slight shake of his head.

Despite yourself, heat rushes through you. “Then why?”

Jack exhaled slowly, his gaze moving over your face as though choosing his words carefully. His thumb resumed its soft motion at your waist.

“Because you don’t owe me anything,” he stated. “Not for tonight. Not for bringing you here. Not for holding you. Not for anything.”

The words settle heavily within you. You instinctively turn your gaze, but Jack’s hand rises, gently caressing your cheek with a tenderness that feels almost surreal. 

“I mean it,” he mumbled. “I’m not keeping score.”

Your throat tightened. Of course, that was what you had been doing mentally even now. Measuring what he had given and what you could offer in return. Trying to balance the scales before he realized you were too much trouble, too much sadness, too much need.

Jack could see your internal struggle before you could hide it as his mouth softened. “Sweetheart.”

The word broke through your defenses with embarrassing ease. “I just…” Your voice thins. “You’ve done so much for me tonight.”

“Because I wanted to,” he answered instantly.

“But–”

“No.” There was no sharpness in it as he cut you off, only quiet certainty. “No buts.” You stare at him, breathing shallowly as Jack shifts closer until his forehead nearly touches yours. “Don’t you worry about me, sweetheart. I’m exactly where I want to be.” 

The simplicity of it makes your eyes sting, but the little smirk crinkling at the corner of his eyes suggests something else that makes your skin heat up once more.

“You don’t have to make me feel better,” you reason, unable to keep his suggestive expression for long.

“I’m not. I’m telling you the truth.” His gaze held yours, steady and tired and honest.

For a moment, you cannot speak. The sadness was still there. You could feel it waiting in the background, heavy and patient. It didn’t vanish because Jack kissed you or disappeared because his arms are around you or because your body, for a few brief minutes, remembered pleasure instead of pain. You knew better than to mistake comfort for a cure. But something had changed.

The future still felt enormous. Tomorrow still frightened you. The thought of waking up and continuing to exist still carried a weight you didn’t know how to lift, but Jack’s hand pressed against your back, his heart beating steadily beneath your palm. His breath touched your face in the dark, and for the first time all night, the next hour felt survivable. Maybe that was all you could manage. Maybe that was enough for now.

You nod faintly, though you were not sure what you were agreeing to. Jack seemed to understand anyway. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, slow and lingering, then to the bridge of your nose, then finally to your mouth. This kiss was different from the others. Softer and sleepier. A noiseless sealing of the fragile thing between you.

When he pulled back, you tucked yourself closer against him. He adjusted immediately, helping you settle with a carefulness that made your chest ache. Jack drew the comforter over both of you, the sheet cool at first before the warmth of your bodies began to seep into it. Your head found the space beneath his chin, your cheek resting against his chest. One of your legs tangled lightly with his beneath the covers, and for a second, you worried about making him uncomfortable. Jack only draws you nearer.

“You okay?” he asked lowly, his voice vibrating in your ear.

The answer was complicated. No, not entirely, not even close. But you were warm, held. You were not alone on the roof with the cold air biting at your skin and the city yawning beneath you. You are in Jack’s bed, wearing his clothes, wrapped in his arms, while rain taps softly against the glass. So you gave him the truest answer you could.

“Right now?” you whispered as you closed your eyes. “Right now, I think I am.”

His breath leaves him in a quiet exhale, almost like a sigh of relief. He pressed his mouth to your hair and kept it there. “Good,” he hums. “Stay with me there.”

You want to tell him you’ll try. The words rise automatically, but you stop them before they can leave your mouth. You have made enough promises tonight that frighten you. Instead, you slipped your hand beneath his, threading your fingers together. Jack looked down at the gesture with a look that makes your stomach tingle as his digits closed around yours. That was promise enough.

The room grew quieter after that. The kind of silence that comes when the body finally realizes it is safe enough to surrender. Rain hushed the world as the house settled around you in small, wooden sighs. Somewhere downstairs, the refrigerator hums faintly—the sound of living.

Your breathing begins to match his without you meaning for it to. Slow in. Slow out. Again and again.

Jack’s thumb brushed once over your knuckles, then stilled. His body grew heavier beneath you, exhaustion finally dragging at him too. You listen to the rhythm of his heart, counting the beats until the numbers blur together and your thoughts begin to loosen. Before sleep takes you fully, you feel him shift just enough to tuck the blanket higher around your shoulder. Still taking care of you.

Your chest tightened, but not painfully this time. “Jack?” you mumbled, half-asleep already.

“Yeah?” he answered back, barely a breath in his lungs.

Your eyes remain closed. “Thank you.”

His arm tightens around you. For a moment, he said nothing. Then his voice came low in the dark, rough with exhaustion and something deeper than either of you is ready to name.

“You don’t have to thank me for loving you.”

Your breath caught faintly. Maybe he realized what he had said only after it’s out. Maybe he had known all along. Either way, he does not take it back. You were too tired to answer—too overwhelmed and afraid that if you tried, you would cry again. So you only press your face closer to his chest and hold his hand a little tighter.

Jack understood. He always seems to, even when you wish he didn’t.

His lips brushed your hair one final time. “Sleep, sweetheart.”

And somehow, impossibly, you do. Not because everything is fixed, not because the sadness has disappeared, but because Jack’s arms remain around you. Because his breathing stays steady beneath your ear. Because for one fragile night, in one warm room while the rain falls over Pittsburgh, you are not asked to survive forever. Only to sleep. Only to stay.

“Shit! Shit!”

You flapped your hand madly to rid it of the sting the pruning had shears caused. You paused to examine it; blood was blooming along a thin, short slash mark, but it wouldn’t need more than a bandaid. Still, you thought grumpily, just another way to make your arduous valentines-carnation journey more unpleasant. God, you hated the stupid holiday.

It was against your wishes that your school’s chapter of the AMWA decided on doing a flower gram for the annual fundraiser, but alas, you were outvoted. And, stuck with no other option than to do what you do, you embraced the campaign one hundred percent. You were never good at half-assing things.

You had your pride, but it also left you with the responsibility of gathering one thousand red carnations and organizing a campus-wide exchange, ensuring delivery of flowers to the intended recipients.

It had taken you longer than you expected to find a place to sell you that many flowers wholesale. Then, of course, once you got your hands on them, there were the flowers themselves. They were obviously cut rather roughly, made for the hands of experienced florists to turn them into beautiful bouquets, but that was a far cry from you. You were an overworked, overtired year two medical student, desperate for this to go well and somewhat in over your head.

So you found yourself, a week from the fourteenth, sitting on the floor of your apartment, surrounded with heaps of stems, working feverishly into the night in a hope that all would be trimmed and somewhat presentable to be delivered by the deadline. As the clock struck twelve, you became a little more rushed, and a little less careful, as evidenced by your bleeding hand.

Still swearing like a sailor, you carefully stepped out of your petal nest and creaked your way towards the bathroom, joints snapping along the way. Your roommate, Chelsea, was brushing her teeth at the sink with a ginormous volume propped up on the faucet in front of her. As you ruffled through the drawers, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You looked exhausted, if the bags under your eyes were anything to go by, and flyaways framed your droopy face in an odd crown. Chelsea didn’t look much better, a lawyer in training. You often lamented together about your inexplicable choice to put yourselves through more expensive and rigorous schooling.

“What’d you do?” asked Chelsea, muffled over the buzz of her toothbrush.

“Just a nick,” you said, finally locating and retrieving a box of Disney bandaids. “What the hell are you still doing up, Chels?”

Chelsea spit into the basin and turned on the tap, eyes not leaving the pages.

“I’m not up, I’m not up, I just wanted to finish this chapter,” she said. “What are you doing up? Can’t those fucking flowers wait another day? V-day isn’t until next Monday.”

“Yes, well, I have other commitments, believe it or not,” you said, slapping an iron man bandage on your finger.

“Actually, I don’t really,” said Chelsea, grabbing the floss. “You spent the whole weekend volunteering at a clinic, like a goddamn hero. And I know Jack asked you to come to his little friend’s housewarming party with him.”

You had been teased one too many times about Jack for your face to immediately heat like it used to, and you rolled your eyes.

“Not with him, just — you know, with him,” you said exasperatedly. “As a group thing.”

“You are so determined not to see that man’s crush on you,” said Chelsea. 

Tired of your friend’s repeated attempts to make you see something that you were sure wasn’t there, you regurgitated your own repeated defenses.

“If he liked me, he would have asked me out ages ago,” you said. “I mean I’ve known the guy since our year one cadaver lab.”

“Aw, he’s just shy,” said Chelsea sweetly. “Cut him some slack!”

You huffed slightly and stalked back to your post on the living room floor.

“Goodnight, meddler!”

“Goodnight sweetums.”

What bothered you most about Chelsea’s pestering was that she acted as though you wouldn’t take the chance if offered to you. Well, the idea scared you slightly. You had never had a real relationship, never even a true fling, only messy, intoxicated hookups in bars and trucks. You were far too busy with school and work to be fussed much about boys.

Jack, though, you had to admit, was special. He was just as steadfast as you, however less fiery. He got good grades, and worked hard to achieve them. You’d never known him to drink or smoke more than the occasional party, similar to yourself, and he was often joining you in your role of designated driver. He understood your overzealous nature, though he didn’t copy it, and he never once dampened your spark. On the contrary, he seemed to admire it.

And he was just oh so pretty. Dark auburn curls, and a crooked smile, and let’s face it, pecs for days. You’d never really gotten over the group beach day your friends forced you to attend over break; he had glistened in the sun like a statue carved by Michelangelo.

But with all of that, he still seemed unaware of his own beauty. He blushed and stuttered when people flirted with him. You knew it spread all the way down his pale, freckled chest because there were a few lifeguards who had taken a liking to him that same day.

You picked up your shears again and resumed your chopping with a little more force.

Silly though it seemed, sure though you were that Jack held nothing more than friendly intentions for you, you had thought through the scenario on several occasions. If he asked you out, would you say yes? Surely he could only prove to be a distraction? But it was Jack, so perhaps not… 

God, this was all Valentine’s Day’s fault. The stupid holiday had everyone feeling overly susceptible to harmful, heteronormative ideals blasting out at you from every advertisement, sign, decoration, and rom com displayed. You needed to ground yourself. The facts were that Jack was not going to ask you out, and you would never be tempted to say yes.

In the end, you only made it some halfway through your carnations before you were practically falling asleep right there on the rug, and you forced yourself to bed. After class the next morning, bright and early, you took up your station at the flower booth, placed in the very middle of the quad, with students rushing to and fro in a constant buzz.

You were bundled up against the wind, with two sweaters, a coat, a scarf, a wooly hat, and matching mittens that made it exceedingly difficult to set up your signs. They instructed the public that it was two dollars per carnation, five dollars if you wanted a fancy ribbon. Luckily, the ribbon responsibility fell to your co-organizer, Janice. One less thing to worry about, though you would have swapped her for the flowers any day.

“Need some help?” said a familiar voice.

You looked up, braced for the harsh wind, but found it blocked by Jack’s solid body. You couldn’t help but smile in return; his was warming you from the inside out.

“Thanks, Jack,” you sighed, sitting down at last while he fiddled with the plastic legs of your sign. “What are you doing out here?”

“Can’t I just want to visit you?” said Jack, and you told yourself the pink in his cheeks was from the cold.

“I guess,” you said, working hard to combat your widening smile.

“Can I sit?”

“Um, sure,” you said, waving a gloved hand. “Liz is never on time, anyways.”

He took the empty seat next to you, then shoved his red hands in his pockets. You allowed yourself exactly three seconds to admire his curls in the breeze, before you forced your head forward to face the front. 

“So how’s it going out here?” he asked.

“Oh, it’s great,” you drawled sarcastically. “Yeah, I really love freezing my ass off so that people can come up and ask me dumb questions and never buy a flower. Do they not see the signs?”

Jack chuckled.

“Well, you know, charity and all.”

You hummed noncommittally.

“I just love how everyone who voted for the stupid idea magically became swamped when it came to organizing the damn thing,” you grumbled. “I should have done that.”

“You couldn’t possibly have,” said Jack, matter of factly.

“Yeah, you’re right,” you sighed. “Jesus, sometimes it’s exhausting being the way I am.”

“You’re better for it,” said Jack, so genuinely you had to avert your eyes.

You were distracted momentarily when a group of giggling freshmen approached the table, and one in the middle sheepishly asked for a carnation. They twittered away excitedly, and you slumped back with your stiff legs crossed. You shook your head. Jack looked fondly after them.

“I feel like I know how that one will turn out,” you said glumly, scribbling on your clipboard.

“Oh, come on, don’t you remember what it was like to be out on your own for the first time?” said Jack. “The first crush, or girlfriend you’d had when you didn’t need to ask your parent’s permission to go out?”

Your lips turned slightly down.

“Not really,” you said honestly. “I’ve never had many crushes. And when I did, they were never all consuming like that, never strong enough to pull me away from a night of studying.”

You glanced Jack’s way and found that he was already watching you, though upon being caught, he turned quickly to a lone dead leaf on the ground, crushing it with his shoe.

“So… do you — what are your Valentine’s plans?”

You could practically hear Chelsea in your head, but you shook her off.

“Well, I’m going to wander around res all day, delivering love carnations from a wagon,” you said in a monotonous voice, “and then I’m probably gonna go to the library and study for Ratliff’s. Which reminds me, I need to book a study room. Though I hardly think they’ll be in high demand on Valentine’s Day.”

“Yeah, right,” said Jack, scratching his cheek. “No, yeah, I should probably do the same. Um… mind if I join you? Next week, I mean?”

You’re brow furrowed, and you stared at the side of Jack’s curly head.

“You want to study the names and properties of medications with me… in the library… on Valentine’s Day?”

The ear you could see was quickly reddening. He coughed.

“Uh, yeah. I mean, I feel like no one else’ll be around — all my friends have dates, at least.”

“You don’t have a date?” you asked, accidentally aloud, and it was your turn to avert your eyes.

“No,” he said hurriedly. “Not unless you count all the alone time I spend with the Principles of Pharmacology.”

You chuckled lightly, heart picking up a bit. Spending the most romantic day of the year, alone, in a secluded library with a gorgeous guy sounded almost too good to be true. A little dangerous, even. But, you firmly reminded yourself, he was right. No one else would be around anyways, and you could quiz each other. And when your friends woke up the next morning with hangovers, you’d be waking up with a productive night of studying under your belt.

“Okay,” you said, and he grinned at you. “Sounds fun. I can stop by the library later today.”

“That’s okay, I’ll do it!” said Jack happily. “I’m headed that way anyway.”

“Alright,” you said, heart fluttering madly. “Oh, here comes Liz.”

Your friend and peer, with a head of curls not dissimilar to Jack’s but in a shade of darkest brown, was dragging her feet in your direction. There was an iced coffee in her hand, and sleep in her eyes. Jack immediately jumped up from her folding chair, and all she could offer him with her mouth around the straw was a nod of thanks.

“Liz, what the hell are you wearing?” you said sharply.

“A hoodie,” she said.

You shook your head, then began removing your jacket.

“Here you go,” you said, shoving it into Liz’s hands without waiting for permission.

“Babe, I don’t want —”

“Just take it, you stubborn asshole,” you said, sure that she would be moaning about the cold in ten minutes time, and wishing to avoid that all together.

Sighing like you were doing her a great disservice, she set down her drink and shrugged the coat over her shoulders.

Before you could make another move, another jacket was now being shoved, this time to you. Jack was standing in the courtyard in nothing but a crew with your university’s logo on it, no gloves, no hat, no scarf. You blinked.

“That’s okay, Jack.”

“But you’ll be cold without a coat.”

“I’ve got two sweaters on, I’ll be fine.”

“Please just take it, I’ll be inside anyways —”

“Yeah, don’t be a stubborn asshole,” quipped Liz with a grin around her straw.

Sending her a glare, and Jack a shy smile, you pulled on his puffy coat. You were suddenly overwhelmed with the scent of him, and it was all you could do not to stick your nose into the collar and inhale deeply. Only when it was zipped all the way up did Jack look satisfied.

“Thank you,” you said in a small voice.

“No problem,” said Jack. He wasn’t shivering, but his cheeks were turning rather pink again. “Um, I’ll see you Thursday, for the patho study group?”

You nodded, and he smiled again, and disappeared into the crowd. You could feel Liz’s eyes on you, but were spared a confrontation by the approach of a student.

It was a pretty good day for the booth. You got to see Chelsea come to order some flowers for her girlfriend, Tara, then saw Tara later that day to do just the same for Chelsea. There were a couple guys you recognized and were sure they were only sending flowers to dates to increase their chances of sex. A young, and rather brazen girl, who boldly addressed a red carnation to a professor, which technically there was no rule against, though you made a mental note to ask your advisor about it later.

You left around two for a class, and when you got back, Liz was happily reporting the day’s haul as close to five hundred dollars raised. All in all, it wasn’t so bad. The booth did pretty well, and you actually got some studying done at the table.

As the week progressed, flower sales steadily grew and your locked tin box of money was filling up. It meant great things for the association, and helped you accept that maybe, despite the injuries to your fingers and lower back, the hours slaved over the flowers were worth it.

You also kept getting preoccupied by your not-date with Jack, which was drawing ever nearer. You didn’t dare breathe a word of it to any of your friends, especially your despicable roommate, who already had a thirty minute freakout when you walked through the door wearing his coat. You knew that if you confided in her, she’d go overboard and get in your head.

At the Thursday study group, the combination of handing back said coat to its original owner, plus his confirmation of the study room number for Monday, caused some more suspicious looks. Fortunately, Chelsea didn’t tend to run in the same circles, being of a different major, so you were subjected to her preaching.

On Monday, after class, you were needed back at the apartment to help her pick out the perfect Valentine’s outfit. Then the two of you parted ways on the street. Chelsea off to her date, and you off to the library.

You got to the room before Jack did. You compulsively checked the sign up sheet outside the door, but you weren’t surprised to see it, and the rest of the library, almost totally empty that night.

You set up your books, index cards, notebooks, and pencil case, while trying hard not to pick over your outfit. After hours of agonizing, far more agonizing than Chelsea had spared, you had rested on your regular jeans and a zip up hoodie. Cute, comfy, and most importantly, casual. Still, your mind was running over hundreds of scenarios in which Jack in some way, shape, or form, disapproved of this outfit. Ridiculous, you reminded yourself.

You tried to focus on pharm. Which main infections are treated by Penicillin G? You tapped your pencil against your notebook, thinking. Strep, definitely, and meningitis… but beyond that you were drawing a blank. You glanced out of the window, but you couldn’t see anyone else in the library.

Focus. Strep, meningitis, pneumonia, gonorrhea…

Maybe he changed his mind, and he found a date last minute. There might be a message waiting on your machine back at the apartment right that second.

You rested your forehead in your hand, hunching over your notes, trying not to glance at the door every five seconds. Strep, meningitis, pneumonia…

But you know what? Screw him if he was going to bail. Kinda shitty, not too crazy, though, for friends. Acquaintances, even. Maybe you were never really as close as you had thought, maybe you were reading into everything because of your stupid, school girl crush. No matter. Since he was just your friend-slash-acquaintance, it wasn’t that big of a blow. You weren’t about to miss out on your studying. It didn’t bother you…

Suddenly, the door burst open, and in came Jack. He was slightly winded, as though he had been running, the tips of his ears and nose pink with cold. He looked a little anxious, and he straightened up awkwardly, with one hand on the silver handle, and one bent behind his back.

“Sorry I’m late!” he panted. “I — I got… caught up…”

He trailed off, looking worried. You glanced at your watch: it was only two minutes past your agreed upon meeting time.

“You’re not late,” you dismissed, “I just get everywhere early.”

“I know! That’s why I wanted to — um, I just didn’t account for…”

He trailed off strangely again, and stepped into the room. He kept his back squarely to the wall, shuffling inside like a crab so as not to reveal to you whatever he was attempting to conceal. As you took him in, you realized he was dressed nicely, definitely nicer than you. He wore jeans, but not his usual, everyday jean with the holes and fading — these were dark wash, and they looked new. On his top he wore a button down, nothing too dressy, but certainly a step up from the usual college attire of t-shirts and hoodies.

This display made you confused; insecure though you now were that your fears of underdressing seemed to be true, you couldn’t help but enjoy his appearance. Most of the time you saw each other, it was under a haze of exhaustion and stress. This was new.

You fiddled with the sleeve of your sweatshirt, unsure whether or not to break the brief silence. Eventually, you decided you should.

“So — do you wanna sit? I can quiz you,” you said briskly, defaulting to your comfortable business tone. “I was just going over antibiotics, but I also wanted to review muscarinic agonists and antagonists.”

He didn’t budge. In fact, it appeared as though his body was tensing more every second. His face turned from pink to deep ruby red, spreading past his cheeks, down his neck, and you knew, despite not being able to see, down his chest. Just that thought had you heating up a bit too.

“Right,” he said. “Yes.”

Unable to handle the tension, you blurted out the first thing on your mind.

“Are you gonna show me what’s behind your back, or are you gonna stand like this all night?”

You hadn’t thought it possible, but his blush deepened even more, and you regretted the bluntness of your words. He visibly swallowed, staring at the floor like he would very much like to sink into it.

You looked away too, hoping perhaps to take some pressure off of him. Your eyes landed randomly on a bit of orange peel someone had left behind. You didn’t even have the time to be annoyed that someone had been sneaking snacks in the library, before there was a rustling and movement out of your peripherals.

Your eyes widened as you looked up and were faced with a large, truly gorgeous bouquet. It was clearly professionally done, beautifully spaced with mainly lilies and tulips, and spotted here and there with sage and little tiny daisies.

Unable to tear your eyes away from the bunch, you muttered, “is this for me?”

“Um, yeah,” he said nervously, letting you take the bouquet carefully, like he was desperate not to let any of his skin touch yours. “I — I wanted to get you carnations, but I couldn’t very well order them from you, that would kinda be counterproductive — besides, I know you don’t even like them —”

You finally broke away from the flowers to look into his cherry-red face.

“How do you know that?”

He blinked.

“You said so,” he said sheepishly.

“I did?” you said faintly, racking your brains.

A hand moved to the back of his neck, and he turned to face the ground so much so that all you could see was the top of his head and the tips of his maroon ears.

“At the start of the semester,” he said quietly, so quietly you had to strain your ears. “When the fundraiser was chosen.”

You remembered then, with his prompting. You had been sitting in the library, complaining loudly with Chelsea and some other friends.

“I mean, can we please be practical?” you had spat. “Flowers are messy, they wilt, they die, they’re expensive.”

“Use fake flowers,” supplied Chelsea.

“That would be disgusting,” you said. “I couldn’t possibly expect anyone to pay money for a plastic flower.”

“Okay, use real ones, then,” said Chelsea.

You groaned dramatically, attacking the calculator you were supposed to be using for dosage calculations.

“Why couldn’t we use, like, candy canes, or something? They do that in Mean Girls!”

“Because that was for Christmas, this is Valentine’s Day,” said your friend Bree. “There’s nothing lovey-dovey about candy canes.”

“I’d still rather get a candy cane then a fucking carnation,” you said. “That’s another thing stupid about this! Carnations! They’re such a boring flower. And red? I mean, be original.”

“People don’t want originality, they want classic romance,” said Sarah.

“I think lilies or tulips would be classic!” you argued. “Classic, familiar, but more elegant. I’m telling you, if everyone just did what I said, we’d have no problems left in the world.”

You were shocked that he recalled that. He had been there, but you didn’t think he’d been listening. He was buried in work, reading a textbook; you didn't know he’d even been aware of that conversation. But he had not only been listening, he’d carried the information, such inconsequential information, for almost a month.

You wanted to tell him how much you loved them, see that easy smile spread across his cheeks, but you seemed too shocked to find the words. You just stared between him and the bouquet, speechless, not that he was looking to notice. At your lack of response, he spoke again.

“I know it’s stupid,” he said. “I’m sorry, I mean, you don’t even have like a — like a vase, or anything, to put them in, and what are you gonna do, hold this massive bouquet when you’re trying to study? I probably should have just brought them to your apartment, huh? But then — I guess showing up on the doorstep with a bouquet is a little too forward — or old-fashioned — or maybe this whole idea was old-fashioned —”

You had seen him flustered on many occasions, where he’d blush, look away, and press on. This was different… you hardly recognized this stammering, jittery mess of nerves before you. It was honestly a good look on him.

“Jack,” you interrupted him, and he quieted at once. “I love the flowers.”

He let out a harrowed breath, looking at least somewhat relieved. His arm fell, though his hands met behind his back and you were pretty sure they were twisting with anxiety.

“Really? I tried to get anemones, I know you love the ones outside the gym, but they didn’t have any at the shop,” he breathed.

“Is that why you were late?” you asked. “You were getting me flowers?”

He nodded regretfully.

You raised your flowers to get a proper whiff of the dreamy aroma. Then, again, with apparent loss of your filter, “Why?”

He struggled for a second.

“I — I guess I —” he cleared his throat, shuffling his feet. “I didn’t want you to go without flowers on Valentine’s Day, just because you were the only one dedicated enough to run the booth.”

You smiled.

“That’s… very nice,” you said, taken aback. “But I feel like I should tell you, working a booth or not, I’ve never gotten Valentine’s flowers.”

“All the more reason,” he said.

You admired them for a few more minutes, while he admired you outside the scope of your vision, then you asked another question.

“What did you mean, ‘too forward’?”

“Huh?”

“Before, you said showing up on my doorstep would be ‘too forward’,” you explained. “Too forward for what?”

What little color he’d lost upon your assurance that you liked his gift came rushing back at that. You saw him glance at the window and then the door, as though hoping someone would come in and save him from your query. When no one did, he took a deep breath, as though steeling himself.

“I was thinking that maybe — if you had the time, of course, and if you had any interest whatsoever — maybe you might want to… go out? With me?”

Your heart, suspiciously tame up until that point, suddenly made itself known, galloping against your chest with a million times its usual power. You brought your bouquet up towards your face again, partially for the calming scent, partially to hide your face.

Jack Abbot was asking you out. Jack. Abbot. In front of you, hands tied, face red. Asking. You. Out. Chelsea’s voice was once again in your head, now screaming I TOLD YOU SO!

Just as Jack opened his mouth, perhaps to take it all back, you spoke.

“Okay, Jack.”

He took a step closer.

“Okay?”

“Okay, I’ll go out with you. I’d love to go out with you.”

You thought he might have melted right down to the floor, the way the tension left his bones. Finally, that favorite smile of yours spread across his glowing face. You matched it.

“I’d invite you over now,” you said, “but I promised Chelsea I’d be out of the apartment until at least eleven.”

“That’s okay,” he said cheerily. “We should really get some studying done, right?”

“Right,” you said giddily as he unpacked his bag, though you really didn’t want to release your lovely gift to hold a pencil.

As you were figuring out how to balance it in the crook of your nondominant arm, yet another thought struck you. If Chelsea was right… all those times, starting over a year ago, she nudged your shoulder, or sent you a look…

You glanced over at Jack as he pulled out the Principles of Pharmacology, and decided you wouldn’t prod him for a timeline. Because perhaps if you did, you’d have to admit that for as long as he’d been waiting to ask you out, you’d been waiting to say yes.

---

requests open!

A buzz of electricity shot through your spine at the deep, gravelly voice. You turned around on your heels, a sly grin adorning your face, cheeks bumped up to meet his almost smirk and beautiful hazel eyes.

Dr. Jack Abbot. Your grumpy, sassy, hot attending. Your personal mission.

"So you agree that I'm distracting?"

Javadi made a choked noise that sounded almost like chortle while covering her mouth.

He huffed at you, crossing his arms on his chest. You had to keep your eyes from drifting to the muscles on his big arms taut against his broad chest.

"Bribing my students with baked goods? That's distracting."

"You know, its crazy—all I keep hearing is that you find me a.k.a my cooking is distracting, doc."

"Yeah? Well that's medically compromising—you should get your ears checked."

You rolled your eyes, your grin unwavering by his dry quips. "Well, what's medically compromising is your appetite, Abbot. Say, when was the last time you tried any of my distracting goods?"

He raised his eyebrows, "Why? You want me distracted too, nurse?" His voice dropped a decibel, as if the whisper was a secret meant to only rile you up. Your cheeks immediately turned pink, dusting the tips of your ears as well.

Your grin faltered. His almost came into view.

"Very subtle—" Shen coughed up, very unsubtly as your intimate moment with the attending came crashing. Jack took a quick look at your face; pink cheeks and ears and the confidence of the sunshine he managed to falter. A prideful feeling almost bloomed in his chest—only he could affect you like this. Fluster you like this. A small smile was about to make to his face, but was he about to let you win?

"Okay, back to work everyone! Santos, you still have to finish those charts!"

He moved away from your space, the warmth lingering in your heart. But you saw it—he almost gave in.

"Well, sunshine—you almost made it. take the win, will ya?" Dana's voice rang out in the back. but you shook your head, your lower lip getting caught between your teeth, leaning back onto the counter, watching your grumpy attending order around. "Never giving up on this, Dana. Not until he actually smiles, or even laughs."

"God, when will you both stop?"

—

It all started during a particularly, mercifully uneventful night at the pitt.

You, including almost everyone at the pitt, had their eyes glued on the screen with dollars on stake. Will the stupid teenagers who stole their professor's car, with a brake fail, be caught by the unwitting police? Or will they crash? In who's vicinity? Presby or will they have to save lives in the pitt, yet again?

You had put 40$ on presby and he had snorted. "You're optimistic."

"You should try it sometimes—might just make your grumpy face prettier, old man."

Whittaker's eyes widened, Trinity side eyed Perlah and Princess who were looking like they just found gold, Jesse and Donnie stopped incessantly organising the crash cart in case the car did crash in the pitt's vicinity and Dana and Robby smirked at each other.

Amusement etched onto the attending's face and it was a thrill you never stopped chasing. "C'mon, even the grumpy dwarf in snow white smiled, doc—what's stopping you?"

He just shook his head at you, huffing at the comment and walked off. You watched him walk away with his back towards you and accepted the challenge. "One day or the other, I'm gonna make you smile, Abbot—maybe even laugh—you'll see!"

He raised his eyebrows at you and leaned back onto a wall with his arms crossed on his chest, making something thunder inside your body. "We'll see about that, nurse. But first, you might want to look at the screen."

The police had caught them.

—

After that day, you brought in your best food and your best lines. But somewhere along the way, it stopped being just about seeing him smile. I mean, obviously you wanted to see him smile, almost concerned it would make your heart stop, but Jack Abbot started to mean something more.

Seeing him everyday, looking into his soulful eyes, his stupid soft voice while talking to patients and the almost smile he gives you during your shenanigans bloomed a deep, warm, ridiculously fuzzy feeling which had set itself somewhere behind your sternum.

Even if it got a huff out of him, a scoff, a smirk that burned its way through the small space in between you both to between your legs or just raised eyebrows.

So, you never stopped flirting. Never stopped baking. Never stopped chasing his smile. It became your dream. Because you knew it would be breathtaking to see it, feel it and know that you were the cause of it.

So, you were here, with a hop in your step, making your way towards the man.

"And I thought these dull hospital lights could never make anyone look good, but here you are, proving me wrong, Mr. Grouch."

He didn't even look up from the chart he was assessing. "Don't you have patients to check up on?"

"Don't you have some smiling to do?"

He turned to look at you and the warm feeling started to spread through your body, unwarranted. He was about to quip back, his mouth opening slightly when—

"19 year old, GSW to the chest, head trauma, pulse is thready—"

Jack's shoulders and jaw set itself tight, as if bracing for whatever was about to come next. he kept the chart back with a thud, going around you, hand brushing on your lower back. "You're with me. Smiling later." He said, lowly, breath fanning your ear.

"Promise?" Your voice had gone heavy.

You gulped as you both walked towards the gurney, his hand still on your lower back, a small comfort before heading into the storm. He glanced back at you, before getting to the boy after you gave him a nod of readiness.

"Trauma 2 is open!" You heard princess yell.

You took a deep breath before going in, hoping this one will turn around. Everyone is here. Jack is here.

It was going to be okay.

—

Your hands trembled.

Your breath was stoic. It didn't dare to move the air between you or the resident still doing cpr.

Jack glanced at his watch. "Stop."

His voice had lost its sharpness but it still held authority. It honeyed through the trauma room, reaching you. But it didn't warm you up like it usually did. His concerned face was focused at the year 2 resident who was starting to hyperventilate. She still kept going.

He glanced at you. You understood what he needed. You moved forward, your body numb. "Sweetheart, you need to let go. Its okay, its going to be alright—"

"No!" She shrieked. You heard Jack calling her name. "He was younger than me—" She whispered.

Jack stepped forward and gripped her shoulders. "Its okay, doctor. Let go. Look at me—I need you to breathe."

Her hands went slack. The machine beeped mercilessly. "Time of death, 5.57 am."

You circled your arms around her as she fell, weeping into your chest.

"shh, I know. C'mon let's get you out." You whispered, your voice sweet as sugar, your soul numbing as the machine beeped.

Jack looked at you but you avoided his gaze. Your hands were trembling, your vision was blurring and your heart was trying to punch its way through your body. Your brain couldn't take it. But you still took care of the people around you. You squeezed donnie's hand on the way out because you knew his kid was also a teenager. You promised princess a treat because you knew she was not going to eat after this. You took care of the resident in your arms because you knew she wont be able to sleep after this.

His gaze burned on your back as it followed your figure through the overbearing walls of the pitt.

After, you got the resident settled, you were about go off to take a breather when Ellis called your name. "Hey! The kid in trauma 2, do you mind calling his parents and informing them?" Your heart ached and flashbacks of another trauma, another death, another set of parents losing their whole world burned in your mind. But you nodded.

"Hello? am I speaking to Mrs Shah?" You introduced yourself, "I'm speaking from Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center—"

Immediately the questions started, the panic, the desperation, the devastation. You sighed, your exhaustion and anguish slipping out. You tried to explain the urgency, that they needed to come immediately. Your hands shook as you hung up and closed your eyes.

You tried to busy yourself, checking up on other patients, but your mind still wandered away to the boy. The sorrow of another soul departing, another young life you couldn't save, another injustice was too heavy. The grief set in your bones.

It was a reminder of how this job got harder. These walls sometimes seemed too hollow, too empty, with the losses all of the doctors had faced. This department wrung people out with its cruelty. You were expected to move on with no time to process everything.

That's where Jack came.

Being with him, bantering, flirting, joking—it gave you joy—something that the E.D could never steal. He made working and just being there easier, as if the air got much more breathable around him. You were almost addicted to the giddiness you felt around him. his salt and pepper curls, his teasing voice with you, his dry sarcasm, the way his black tee stretched around the muscles on his back and biceps—

"Excuse me? We were called in urgently? We are looking for our son? Neil Shah?"

The grief crashed down on you. Your eyes turned glassy again and tried to look for any other nurse or even Jack so that you wouldn't be in this position. Not again. Not where you have to inform the parents that their beloved child has passed away. Not where you have to hear the wails of the mother and denial of the father.

You sighed in defeat and led them to an empty room. Slowly, you explained what had happened. How their son had passed away. "I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. and Mrs Shah. Truly."

They had started crying, asking you questions, Demanding answers to truths you didn't know. Until one question. "How did he get shot?"

"He—" Your voice broke, but that's when you felt a warm, steady hand on your shoulder. Your beacon of comfort. You immediately recognized it. "I'm Doctor Abbot—I performed the surgery on your son. Nurse, could you please assist Dr. Kwan with a consult in south eight?"

Your heart filled with gratitude. He gave you an out. And you took it. You nodded but not before mouthing a thank you to the man in front of you. He squeezed your shoulder before holding the door open for you and your heart squeezed. Why did he have to be so kind?

You took a quick glance towards him before getting out. You felt you could breathe.

That did not long last.

"Can you believe he did that? I mean, if I was in his place, I would never put my life on the line—for a girl i just met? That was so stupid—"

You took a sharp inhale and jerked your head to the voice. "How dare you? Just because you don't even have an ounce of the bravery, the courage and the empathy that he had, doesn't mean you get to call it stupid, you—"

Before you could go up to him and slap him, strong hands grabbed you, wrapping around your torso, with no harshness but just comfort coursing through.

"Ogilvie, if you don't have even 1% basic empathy or haven't heard the phrase 'dont talk ill of the dead' I suggest you drop out of medical school and go back to 3rd grade."

You shoulders visibly relax at the voice and at his fingers which softly caressed your chubby love handles—this man was not helping you keep cool. Heat travelled up your neck when you felt his chest rumble with some instructions he gave to the resident in front of him.

Jack called your name and his hands travelled to your shoulders. "Come on, let's go—"

"What? what about the consult—"

"That was a lie—"

"You dog—"

"Come on, you nuisance. Let's get you a breather."

—

"The roof?"

"You'll see."

The door busted open and strong gust of wind hit you in the face. And there it was.

You gasped and your hands went to Jack's forearm. "Oh my god."

"Oh my god."

"Come on, you wanna see the sunrise?"

"Well, at least ask me for a cup of coffee first, old man. You losing your touch already?" He gave you a deadpan look. "But of course, if you insist."

He took you to the railing. "I've heard you go even beyond the railing..."

Jack gave you a side eye. "Oh come on, you really believe anything really stays in the box at this hole?" He still did not entertain you. "Please, Jack?" You gazed up at him, with your best puppy eyes.

"Alright. But only this time."

He ducked and got across first, holding out his hand for you, fingers gently taking your palm and helping you cross the railing. "Thank you," You softly murmured, the touch growing the warmth in your chest. the sunrise had only taken its footing—the soft blue of the sky was slowly lighting up. "So," You took a deep breath, "why did you bring me to your sacred space?"

"Sacred space? Really?" Jack scoffed.

"Everybody knows its where you and Robby come to make heart eyes at each other—" He grunted and you let out a soft laugh. "Come on, tell me." You whined.

"I saw you." He spoke. "After–after you realized he was gone, after we declared the time of death. your hands were trembling," Your breath hitched. "Your breaths were small, your voice was—" You looked away. His gaze bore deep into your eyes, trying to probe out the vulnerability gently, and his voice was too tender, too warm, almost wrapping you up in their saccharine like blanket. "The point is, you still took care of everyone. Donnie, Princess, the resident—"

"Someone has to. I just choose to. Nobody forces me to, Jack." Your voice gets small.

"And when will you let yourself take care? When will you take a breath?" Your breath hitched. "You're the sunshine of the dark side, sweetheart. We don't want you fading out while you take care of others." He syruped.

You hoped it would stay dark so that he couldn't see the red on your cheeks, the heat crawling up your neck and how you couldn't trust your own voice anymore. But you braved on.

"um, I dont know if you know this, doc, but I shifted to nights for a reason other than one grumpy teddy bear," You let out a giggle when jack let out an annoyed huff, "there was a girl, 19, just like today's kid. She was abducted and tried escaping, but the abductor shot her. She was brought in, I was a part of the surgery and despite everything, despite Robby busting his ass—she–" Your voice broke and you gripped the railing. "She almost escaped it, but...her parents were angry more than heartbroken. Her mother threw things at the father, he yelled back and I tried to calm them down, but h-he pulled me in, threw me in the wall and said I was too incompetent, I couldn’t save his daughter's life."

You inhaled sharply. "He killed himself 2 months later."

"Look at me."

"Jack—"

He pleaded your name. "That was not your fault. It will never get easy, I know that...too well. But you learn to live around it, but I need you to understand that it was not your fault."

You nodded. "How do you live with it?"

"Before returning to Pittsburgh, before my...leg, in Afghanistan—we used to get this street food. It used to be sold at nights and we used to switch routes and trade fucking mattresses and anything just to have a chance to get it. Its called kolcha. It used to be heaven in the hell we were put in.

I used to see my brothers get blown up, losing their lives, civilians losing a sense of humanity after the way everyone treated them. But there are soft joys that help the grief. that helped me live. Stopped me from..." He trailed off, a pensive look forming on his face.

Your hand clasped around his on the railing. He gazed up at you, your eyes already on him, so honeyed, filled with care and admiration, with so much compassion, he didn't know what to do with it.

You both just gaped at each other. Your hearts filled to the brim. Getting lost in time.

Suddenly, a ray of sunlight reflected in Jack's hazel eyes and you broke your contact, a gasp forming on your lips as you tore your eyes away to marvel at the jawdropping sunrise.

The sun was officially peeking up. Its rays bounced off skyscrapers made of glass, lighting up the small alleys of the street. The orange and yellow shades painted the horizon and you almost died right there. "Its so beautiful..."

The sunlight was colouring your skin, your giddiness coming out with the sun.

"Will you take care of yourself, sunny?"

You let out a sweet giggle. "Sunny?"

"The sun clearly loves you." He murmured softly before tucking in a strand of hair fallen haphazardly on your eyes, blocking him from the view.

"Hmm, you're going soft on me, old man. Or are you just manipulating me so that I won't tell anyone that your grumpy attitude is a hoax and you're just a big ol' teddy bear?"

He snorted and let out a soft smile.

Your heart jumped.

"Oh my god!" you gasped and pointed. "Oh my god! You smiled!"

"Come on, sunny. Let's get you inside before you tragically die due to slipping while celebrating something that never happened—"

"Excuse me—" You scoffed but let him lead you onto the safer side of the railing, his hands on your shoulders, sliding down to your hands to steady you as you come over.

"Try convincing Robby that you did it—"

"Oh fuck off, you are just a big, fuzzy, loving teddy bear inside—"

His smile burned through you, in your heart.

And as you predicted, you could never forget it.

—

The next day, there was a new skip to your walk as you entered the pitt. You had spent your day trying to calm down your heart every time you reminisced what happened on the roof. Your skin would jump with goosebumps and your cheeks would immediately redden. So you distracted yourself in the best way.

You walked in with a box in your hand. The aroma of the newly tried recipe made everyone turn their heads. But this time you refrained from giving in to your beloved pittlings' puppy eyes.