you make me wanna make you fall in love

And because of that, Steve develops this insatiable hunger for intensity.

Sensation overwhelming enough to drown everything else out.

He wants the kind of sex that leaves him wrung out afterward. The kind where his body feels heavy and loose instead of wound painfully tight. The kind where he’s breathing so hard that his lungs ache and there are bruises scattered over both of you by the time it’s over.

Your nails scraping down his back, your teeth sinking into his shoulder, your hand gripping his throat, your palm against his cheek, your thighs locking around his waist while he fucks into you hard enough to knock broken sounds out of both of you.

He wants all of it.

Because for those brief, dizzying moments, he isn’t thinking about monsters or grief or all the people he couldn’t save.

He’s just feeling.

And at first, Steve channels all that energy through control.

He loves towering over you with that cocky fucking smirk while he pins your wrists above your head with one hand. Loves the way his shoulders completely box you into the mattress, the weight of your legs around his waist while his other hand drags slowly between your thighs, fingers coated in your slick, rubbing just enough to make you squirm without giving you what you actually want.

And that asshole knows exactly how intimidating he can look when he wants to be.

Knows what it does to you when he cages you in beneath him, staring down through mussed hair with that dark, heavy look in his eyes.

Knows his voice gets rougher when he’s turned on. Lower, meaner.

“C’mon,” he’d murmur against your mouth, thumb circling your clit lazily while your hips jerk beneath him. “Thought you wanted this. Where’d all that attitude go, hm?”

Steve loves teasing you almost as much as he loves fucking you.

Loves dragging things out until you’re glaring at him in frustration, denying you just enough to make you desperate.

Loves the power trip of making you squirm.

He’d drag his cock through your folds painfully slow, refusing to push in, watching your thighs shake around his hips while he smirks down at you.

“C’mon, baby. Use your words,” he’d tease softly when you try to chase the friction, whining under your breath. “You want this cock? Tell me.”

And something about your attitude goes straight to his head, hits his bloodstream like a fix.

When you finally get fed up enough to shove at his chest, glaring at him through your pretty lashes. “Steve, I swear to god—”

Only for him to catch your wrists immediately, smirking while he pins you harder into the mattress.

“What?” he’d taunt. “Swear to god what?”’

He can't get enough of it—being the one controlling all that tension, deciding exactly how much pleasure to give you and when.

But then you stop letting him dominate the moment so easily.

And holy fuck does that change everything for him.

The first time you wrap your hand around Steve’s throat, something in him permanently rewires.

He'd think it's a joke, initially.

Eyes dark and amused as he leans back against the couch cushions, hands settling confidently on your hips while you straddle him, taunting you with more bullshit when your hand closes around his throat.

“What, like that's supposed to scare me?”  

But then you flex your fingers, squeezing hard enough to actually cut off his circulation, and his expression goes slack.

Head tipping back, lashes fluttering, mouth falling open around a shaky inhale. The tendons in his throat flex visibly against your palm when he tries to swallow.

His cock would get embarrassingly hard for it. Flushed dusky pink from root to tip, pre-cum smearing across his stomach while his hips buck instinctively into the slow grind of your body against his.

And he can’t stop staring at you.

Can’t look away from the angry little crease between your brows, or the sweaty strands of baby hair stuck to your forehead, or the way you’re glaring at him like you wanna kill him—god, it drives him insane.

He’s so fucking obsessed with you it’s honestly starting to feel pathological.

It’s not normal, he’s sure of it.

But then again, his attraction to you stopped being normal a long fucking time ago.

And maybe the reason it affects him so intensely is because he’s so tired of carrying everything all the time.

He’s desperate to let someone else take over for once.

He spent years bracing for violence that came without warning, without mercy. So something about this—this consensual roughness with you—feels strangely therapeutic in a fucked-up way.

With you, he knows exactly where the line is.

Knows he’s safe.

For once, the violence is chosen, and he can finally stop fighting it.

And then there's the time you slap him across the face.

It happens purely on impulse, that first time.

Just another way to shut him up, because Steve runs his mouth like no one else during sex.

Especially once he realizes how easily his words get under your skin.

He gets cocky. Real mean about it.

Lounging back against the headboard in nothing but gray sweats shoved low on his hips, one arm hooked lazily behind his head while you kneel between his spread thighs.

Cock heavy and flushed in your hand, pre-cum wetting your palm while he watches you through half-lidded eyes with that infuriating smirk.

And he just keeps running that fucking mouth.

“Wow, you're really taking your time tonight,” he’d murmur while you kiss slowly up his thighs.

You’d glare at him and he’d only grin wider.

“What?” he’d tease, tapping the tip of his cock against your lips, smearing it with warm, salty pre. “Thought you were desperate for it earlier.”

When you finally take him into your mouth, he groans low in his chest, head tipping back for a moment before his gaze drops to you again.

Predatory satisfaction written all over his face, like you’ve just proved his point.

And you'd try ignoring him at first.

But Steve can tell when he’s getting under your skin, can see the flash of irritation in your brows, the way your jaw tightens around him.

So naturally, the asshole doubles down.

Thumb stroking across your cheek while he thrusts shallowly into your mouth.

“Fuck,” he’d rasp softly, tone as degrading as can be. “You look soo pretty like this, baby. So desperate to suck my cock, hm? Bet you’d let me use this mouth whenever I wa—”

And before you can think better of it, you reach up and slap him across the cheek.

The sound cuts straight through the room.

Wide, startled puppy eyes blink back at you, head turned slightly from the impact.

His cheek slowly pinkens beneath your palm, cock twitching hard in your hand, his lips parting around this stunned little breath because holy shit, nobody has ever done that to him in bed before.

He has to take a full ten seconds to recover, head falling back against the wall with a disbelieving breath while he rakes a hand over his face.

Then he looks back down at you, tongue dragging slowly across his lip:

“…oh, you are so fucking done.”

After that, it becomes a thing.

He starts provoking you on purpose, mouthing off during sex just to watch your expression sharpen, saying bratty, filthy shit just to see if you’ll do it again.

And what really messes with him is the emotional whiplash of it.

That bright, sharp, humiliating sting, followed immediately by your hand cradling his face.

Your thumb brushing over the pink warmth on his cheek while you force him to hold eye contact.

“Better?” you’d ask softly while he pants underneath you.

And Steve would just nod back, completely fucking ruined and completely in love.

Because again, it’s the intimacy of it.

The trust. The fact that you can be rough with him without there being any real cruelty underneath it.

The idea that someone can see this side of him—the messiest, neediest, most shameful and desperate parts—and still hold him gently afterward.

And oh boy, does he get desperate.

He loves when playful wrestling matches accidentally turn sexual. Loves when you pin him flat on the mattress, your knee wedged against his dick, hand curled around his throat until his voice catches completely. His hips buck off the mattress, the blood rushing to his cock so quickly it leaves him legitimately dizzy for a second.

He loves when you grip his jaw, spitting directly into his mouth to shut him up. Loves when you pin his wrists over his head after he spent the last twenty minutes doing the exact same thing to you.

He fucking loves it when you yank his hair while he’s eating you out, fist twisted tight in the roots so you can bury his nose deeper into your cunt. Groaning against your skin while his hands grip your thighs hard enough to leave fingerprints, because the sting in his scalp mixed with your taste mixed with the pressure around his skull makes him feel completely fucking insane.

But really the hottest part out of all of this is the softness in between.

Because Steve is soft at heart.

That never goes away.

Underneath all the roughness and filthy teasing, Steve is still Steve.

Still attentive and loving, still desperate to take care of you.

So the same man who was gripping your throat ten minutes ago is also the man pressing gentle kisses to your wrists afterward because he’s worried he held them too tightly.

The same man who was calling you his little slut while fucking you into the mattress is the one brushing sweaty hair back from your face:

“Is that okay?” “Too much?” “You wanna keep going?“ “You sure?”

Forehead pressed against yours, thumb rubbing softly over your cheek while you both catch your breath.

“Here, have some water, baby.”

And isn’t that the most devastating thing about your dear Steve?

That beneath all the bravado, he’s just a deeply loving man, desperate to pour every ounce of himself into someone who’ll love him back just as hard.

♡ · · · ♡ · · · ♡

In hindsight, the eggs should’ve been your first warning.

The hallway always smelled faintly of old paint, somebody’s takeout, and the industrial lemon cleaner the building manager used like he thought enough of it could pass for luxury.

It was quiet tonight. Quiet enough that the soft clink of your keys hitting the floor sounded louder than it should have.

“Shit,” you muttered to yourself, balancing a tote of groceries against your hip as you crouched awkwardly to scoop them up before the carton of eggs slid out after them. The paper bag cut into your palm. The handle of the other one was already giving up on life. You’d had a long day, your shoulder ached, and your front door suddenly seemed determined to humiliate you personally.

A shadow fell over the mess.

A hand—broad, veined, quick—snagged the egg carton before it hit the floor.

You looked up.

Jack Abbot stood there with that same expression he always seemed to wear in the building: tired enough to look carved down to the bone, not interested in talking, not interested in anything except getting inside his own apartment and shutting the world out. He had on navy scrubs beneath a dark jacket, the collar open at the throat, stethoscope looped carelessly from one pocket like he’d forgotten it was there. His hair looked like he’d run a hand through it a hundred times. There was color high in his cheeks from the cold outside, but it didn’t make him look younger. It just made him look worn in a different direction.

And there it was, visible even in the short distance between you: the hitch in his gait. Slight tonight, but there. More obvious the longer he stood still.

He held the eggs out to you.

“Thanks,” you said, straightening too fast and nearly dropping your keys again.

His mouth flattened into something that wasn’t quite a smile and wasn’t quite annoyance either. “You always this coordinated?”

You let out a breathy laugh before you could stop yourself. “Only when there’s an audience.”

“Lucky me.”

His voice was low and rough, like he hadn’t used it for anything but clipped instructions all day. He reached down, caught the second grocery bag by one torn handle, and passed it to you before it could split entirely.

You took it, fingers brushing his for half a second. His hand was warm. Yours, embarrassingly, was freezing.

“Thank you,” you said again, more steadily this time.

He gave one short nod, like the exchange had already lasted longer than he’d budgeted for, and pulled his own keys from his pocket. Apartment 4B. Yours was 4A. Across the hall. You’d known that since the first week you moved in, mostly because he came and went at impossible hours and because sometimes, when the building settled late at night, you could hear the low murmur of his television through the wall.

He opened his door, paused, and glanced over once more.

“You should use both hands with the eggs,” he said.

Then he disappeared inside and shut the door behind him.

You stood there in the hallway with the groceries digging into your fingers and a ridiculous, inconvenient awareness humming under your skin.

You’d seen him before, obviously. Everyone in the building had. The man who kept strange hours, limped a little after long shifts, and looked like he had no use for small talk or neighbors or anyone else’s bullshit. You knew he was a doctor—emergency medicine, if the stitched lettering on one of his jackets meant what you thought it did. You knew he was divorced because old Mrs. Larkin downstairs had mentioned it in the same tone she used for broken elevators and weather fronts. Such a shame, she’d said, as if she’d personally witnessed the end of his marriage from behind her curtains.

You knew he was handsome in the kind of severe, accidental way that made it worse. Not polished. Not charming. Just unfairly good-looking while looking like he’d slept four hours in the last three days.

And now, apparently, you also knew his hands were warm.

Which was annoying.

It was nearly a week before a dying smoke detector forced the issue.

The thing started chirping at eleven-fifteen on a Thursday night.

At first it was just one high, cruel little beep from the hallway outside your bathroom. Then silence. Then another beep forty seconds later, sharper somehow for giving you time to hope it had stopped. You stood under it in your socks, staring up at the plastic disc like glaring at it might shame it into shutting the hell up.

It did not.

You dragged a kitchen chair beneath it. The chair wobbled. You climbed up anyway, phone flashlight clenched between your teeth, and discovered two things in quick succession: the cover was stuck, and the previous tenant had apparently installed it with the spite of a man sealing a tomb.

“Great,” you whispered around the edge of your phone.

Another chirp split the air.

You flinched, lost your balance, caught yourself on the wall, and cursed.

A hard knock landed on your front door.

You froze.

Another chirp.

Another knock.

You climbed down, annoyed and embarrassed before you even opened the door.

Jack stood in the hall wearing a faded gray T-shirt and dark sweats, hair damp at the temples like he’d just showered. He looked tired in a deeper, meaner way than usual, like the fatigue had gone past worn and landed somewhere close to hostile.

“There a reason your apartment’s screaming?” he asked.

Mortification flashed hot through you. “Oh my God.”

“Mm.”

“I was literally just trying to fix it.”

“Sounded successful.”

“Wow. Helpful.”

Another chirp shrieked behind you.

Jack’s eyes lifted past your shoulder. His expression did not change, but something about the stillness of his face suggested the sound had personally offended him.

“Battery,” he said.

“I know it needs a battery.”

“You have one?”

You hesitated.

His mouth tightened. “Of course you don’t.”

“I might.”

“You don’t.”

“I love how much faith you have in me.”

“I’m learning.”

He turned, disappeared into his apartment, and came back ten seconds later with a nine-volt battery in one hand and a small screwdriver in the other. You stepped back automatically, and he moved past you with the kind of brisk certainty that suggested he’d already taken stock of the whole apartment in one sweep.

He glanced at the chair under the detector.

“You were standing on that?”

“Yes.”

“That chair’s a lawsuit.”

“It has sentimental value.”

“So does every bad decision before it breaks your neck.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself, and his mouth did twitch, brief and unwilling.

The smoke detector chirped again.

Jack looked up at it like it had one more chance to live.

“Hold the chair,” he said.

“I thought the chair was a lawsuit.”

“It is. Hold it anyway.”

He stepped onto it before you could object, one hand bracing lightly against the wall as he reached up. The movement was careful. Efficient. But careful.

You noticed the way his weight shifted. The set of his mouth. The slight stiffness in his right leg as he balanced.

He noticed you noticing.

“Eyes on the chair,” he said.

“My eyes are on the chair.”

“They’re not.”

“Are you always this bossy?”

“Yes.”

He got the cover loose with one sharp twist of the screwdriver. The old battery came free. The new one clicked into place. The next forty seconds passed without a chirp, and the quiet felt almost holy.

“There,” he said. “Temporary peace.”

“Temporary?”

“It’s a smoke detector. It’ll find another reason to ruin your life.”

He stepped down, and you saw the muscle in his jaw jump before his foot hit the floor. The wince barely registered and would’ve been easy to miss if you hadn’t already been looking at him too closely. He straightened fully a second later like nothing had happened.

“You okay?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

His eyes flicked to yours. Cool. Guarded.

“Fine.”

It was such a reflexive answer that you almost laughed. Instead you just nodded slowly. “Right.”

He handed you the dead battery like it was evidence.

“You own a screwdriver?” he asked.

“Probably?”

“Helpful.”

You folded your arms. “You know, you could just accept that I’m a disaster and move on.”

“I had,” he said. “Then your smoke detector started screaming across the hall.”

You laughed in spite of yourself, and this time he didn’t hide the faint curve at the corner of his mouth.

It changed his whole face. Not enough to soften it, exactly. Just enough to make him look less like a man bracing for impact and more like a man who remembered, very reluctantly, how to be human.

He stood there beneath the newly silent detector like he was debating whether you were capable of surviving the next hour unsupervised.

“I’ll buy replacement batteries,” you said.

“Do that.”

“Thank you.”

He shrugged one shoulder as if gratitude was an unnecessary use of breath, then limped—not badly, but unmistakably now that you knew to look for it—toward the front door.

At the door, he paused.

“Don’t climb on that chair again,” he said.

“Yes, doctor.”

He gave you a look over his shoulder. “Cute.”

Then he left.

The smoke detector stayed quiet.

Your problem, unfortunately, did not.

After that, you started noticing him everywhere.

Not because he was newly visible. Because now he seemed to catch your eye before anything else did.

The laundry room on Sunday morning, standing with one hand braced on the industrial washer while he waited for the machine to unlock, hospital ID clipped crookedly to his waistband.

The lobby on Monday night, expression flat with fatigue as he accepted a takeout bag from the delivery guy and checked the receipt without really seeing it.

The stairwell on Wednesday, stepping aside automatically to let you pass even though he clearly had the right of way.

The sidewalk out front, phone to his ear, saying, “Robby, if you’re calling to ask me to pick up another shift, the answer’s no,” in a tone so dry it bordered on impressive. He’d glanced up then, caught sight of you coming through the front doors, and ended the call with, “I gotta go.”

That one stuck with you for longer than it should have.

Robby existed, apparently. Robby got calls. Robby got more of Jack’s personality than the rest of the building did. There was something oddly comforting about that, about the fact that he wasn’t just a set of locked doors and dark windows across the hall. He had a friend. A life. Someone who knew him well enough to bother him on purpose.

The routine built in pieces after that.

A package left outside your apartment door one rainy afternoon, neatly tucked against the wall where it wouldn’t get wet. You opened your own door just as Jack was stepping back across the hall.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you called.

“It was in the way,” he said.

A lie, probably. But a useful one.

A Thursday evening when you came in carrying an overloaded canvas bag and he held the front door before you could hip-check it open. He didn’t say anything, just waited while you awkwardly made it through.

A Tuesday near midnight when he got off the elevator looking worse for wear and you, coming back from the corner store in slippers, held out the extra bottle of sports drink in your hand.

He looked at it. Then at you.

“You buying those for random neighbors now?”

“I bought two by accident.”

“Sure you did.”

But he took it.

The longer it went on, the more you could read him.

You could tell which shifts had been bad by the set of his shoulders. Which nights his leg was bothering him more by the precise, deliberate way he crossed the hall. Which moods meant he might answer with one word and which meant—rarely, but sometimes—you’d get a whole sentence.

You also learned that he noticed more than he let on.

“Your tire’s low,” he said one evening as you both reached the parking lot.

You looked at him blankly. “What?”

“Front right.”

You turned to stare at your car. Sure enough, it looked a little sagged at one corner.

“How did you even—”

He was already walking away. “You want air in it, or you wanna keep driving on a rim?”

Another time you came in rubbing absently at the back of one ankle, shoes pinching from a long day, and he glanced down once before saying, “Those are killing you.”

You blinked. “These are fine.”

“Mm.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you’re limping.”

“I am not.”

He raised an eyebrow, looked meaningfully at your feet, and kept going.

He was an asshole.

A helpful asshole.

A deeply, profoundly inconvenient asshole.

The first time you saw the damage up close, it was by accident.

Not because you knocked. Not because you meant to look. Just because the hallway was narrow, and Jack Abbot had left his door open while he carried pieces of his old life out to the trash.

You came home a little after ten with your keys already in your hand and stopped short at the sight of him half in, half out of 4B, a cardboard box balanced against one hip. He was in sweatpants and a dark long-sleeved shirt, reading glasses low on his nose, his hair mussed like he’d been running his hands through it for the last hour.

That image alone nearly wiped out your ability to form sentences.

“Sorry,” you said, because he was blocking just enough of the hall that slipping past him without speaking would’ve felt stranger. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

He looked up. For half a beat, his face stayed blank.

Then he shifted the box more securely against his side. “You’re not.”

The top flaps hadn’t been folded all the way down.

Inside was a picture frame, face-up.

You didn’t mean to stare. You only saw it for a second. Jack at least fifteen years younger, same mouth, same eyes, the hard lines of him not gone but unfinished. Beside him, a woman stood with her hand hooked at his elbow. Both of them dressed up, both smiling at something out of frame. Wedding clothes, maybe. Maybe not. It didn’t matter. The intimacy in the picture was plain enough.

Jack followed your line of sight.

The air changed.

He folded the flap closed with one economical motion.

“Sorry,” you said again, quieter this time.

He nodded once. “Don’t be.”

That was all. No explanation. No awkwardness offered up for you to smooth over. Just a wall, going back up in real time.

You wanted to say something kind. Something light. Something that acknowledged the sudden, unmistakable bruise in the room without pressing on it.

But he’d already started moving toward the stairwell, the box held tight against his ribs.

“Night,” he said.

“Night.”

He took the stairs instead of the elevator, slow and careful on the first step before forcing the rest into something steadier.

You stood outside your apartment for a while after that, thinking about the photograph you hadn’t meant to see. About the ring mark you’d noticed once when he reached for his keys and then pretended you hadn’t. About the quiet, sparse feel of his life through the wall. About the way pain could make people meaner at the edges without making them cruel.

The next time you saw him, neither of you mentioned it.

But something had shifted.

Not softness, exactly.

Just awareness.

It was a little after midnight when you knocked on his door for the second time.

This one felt more embarrassing.

You stood there with your hand wrapped in a dish towel and your dignity somewhere back in your kitchen, probably bleeding beside the cutting board. You’d sliced your thumb trying to open a stupid plastic clamshell of strawberries with a paring knife because apparently you were a woman incapable of learning from obvious danger.

It wasn’t deep. Probably. But it was bleeding more than you liked, and after twenty minutes of rinsing, pressing, and muttering at yourself in the mirror, you’d started to feel lightheaded from looking at it.

Which was how you ended up on Jack Abbot’s doormat, knocking with your good hand.

He opened the door wearing a black T-shirt and the same gray sweats as before, one hand still on the knob, the other holding a bourbon glass low against his thigh. He looked tired, but not hospital-tired. At-home tired. The softer kind. His glasses were on again.

His gaze dropped to the towel around your hand.

For once, he didn’t make a joke first.

“What happened?”

“I may have lost a fight with a strawberry container.”

He stared at you.

“It had really aggressive plastic.”

He stepped back immediately. “Come in.”

His apartment was warmer than yours. Dim. Quiet. A lamp on in the living room, television muted, coffee table stacked with two medical journals, a half-empty takeout container, and a folded newspaper. The place looked exactly like you’d imagined it would: orderly without being neat, practical without trying to be stylish. There was a cane leaning in the corner by the umbrella stand—not hidden, but not exactly displayed either. A pair of shoes lined up neatly by the wall. A kitchen that looked used, not decorative.

“Sit,” he said, already moving toward a drawer in the kitchen.

“I’m not dying.”

“Didn’t say you were.”

“It’s just a cut.”

“Then you’ll survive me looking at it.”

You sat at the kitchen island. He came back with a small first aid kit that looked far too complete to belong to a normal person, snapped it open, and held out his hand.

You placed yours in it.

His palm was warm. Steady.

He unwrapped the towel with a focus that made your throat go a little tight. His face settled into that ER-doctor calm you’d only seen in flashes before—assessing without panic, gentle without being soft about it.

“Not bad,” he said.

“See?”

“Still stupid.”

“I came here for medical care, not emotional violence.”

“That costs extra.”

You laughed, and his mouth twitched.

He cleaned the cut, ignoring your hiss when the antiseptic stung.

“Hold still.”

“I am.”

“You’re trying to climb out of your skin.”

“It burns.”

“It’s supposed to burn.”

“Awful bedside manner.”

“I’m off the clock.”

His thumb pressed lightly at the base of yours, keeping your hand open while he bandaged you with swift, practiced movements. The whole thing should have been clinical. It wasn’t. Not with your knee brushing the outside of his thigh. Not with him standing close enough that you could smell bourbon under the soap on his skin. Not with the careful way he avoided leaning too much weight on his bad leg even while pretending he wasn’t doing it.

A buzzing sound split the quiet.

Jack pulled his phone from his pocket, glanced at the screen, and rolled his eyes with practiced fondness.

“Robby?” you guessed.

His gaze lifted sharply.

You shrugged. “Lucky guess.”

He answered. “What.”

A beat of silence.

“No.”

Another beat.

“I’m not coming in tomorrow.”

He leaned back against the counter while Robby, whoever exactly Robby was beyond dry phone calls and night shifts, apparently kept talking. Jack scrubbed a hand over his mouth.

“No, I heard you. I’m still not doing it.”

Another pause, then, with a quick glance at you, “No, I’m busy.”

Your eyebrows shot up.

His eyes narrowed a fraction, but the corner of his mouth moved.

“Goodnight, Robby.”

He hung up before the response could come through and tossed the phone onto the counter.

“Busy?” you said.

He taped the bandage down with a final, neat press. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late.”

He made a low sound in his throat that might have been a laugh and might have been disbelief.

The quiet that followed was different from the others you’d had with him. Less brittle. Less likely to snap.

“You always work this much?” you asked.

“Pretty much.”

“That sounds miserable.”

“It is.”

“And yet you keep doing it.”

His shoulders shifted, not quite a shrug. “Somebody’s gotta.”

There was nothing self-important in the way he said it. No hero complex. Just fact.

You looked around the apartment again. “You like living here?”

He followed your glance, taking in his own place like he hadn’t really looked at it in a while.

“It’s quiet.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

His eyes came back to yours.

“No,” he said after a second. Honest as a cut. “Not particularly.”

The admission hung there between you, simple and heavier than it should have been.

You looked down at the clean bandage around your thumb. “Thanks.”

“Mm.”

You didn’t go right away. Neither did he ask you to.

For five soft, strange minutes, you sat in his kitchen talking about nothing much at all. The guy in 2C who played piano badly after midnight. The fact that the delivery place downstairs always forgot napkins. The weather getting cold enough to make the windows rattle.

It should have been ordinary.

Instead it felt like discovering a room behind a wall you’d only ever knocked on.

When you finally moved toward the door, he limped just slightly on the turn that took him to open it for you.

You hesitated.

His gaze flicked down to your face. “What.”

“You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t hurt, you know.”

Everything in him went still.

Then he opened the door and said, not unkindly, “Go throw the strawberries away before they finish the job.”

You left.

But you thought about the look on his face for the rest of the night.

The bad date happened on a Saturday.

It hadn’t been a terrible idea in theory. A drink with a guy from work. Casual. Low-stakes. An excuse to wear something better than your usual jeans and to pretend, for two hours, that you were not half in love with a grumpy emergency physician across the hall who barely smiled and definitely did not belong to you.

The problem wasn’t the date itself, not exactly.

The problem was the way he got weird at the end of it.

Pushy in that soft, smiling way some men managed. Like they thought they were owed a little more because the evening had gone fine and because you’d laughed at their stories and because it was late and because the hallway outside your apartment door was empty.

“Come on,” he said when you stepped back. “I’m not asking for a kidney.”

You kept your tone even. “I said goodnight.”

His hand landed lightly on your arm.

Every muscle in your body tensed.

“Hey,” he said, like you were overreacting already. “Don’t be like that.”

Something opened across the hall.

You hadn’t even noticed Jack coming home.

One second it was just you, your date, and the stale hallway air. The next, Jack was there in wrinkled hospital blues beneath a dark jacket, keys in hand, expression flat in a way that made your stomach drop and your pulse kick.

His gaze went first to the hand on your arm.

Then to your face.

Then back to the guy.

“Problem?” Jack asked.

It was one word. Calm. Quiet. No raised voice. No chest-thumping nonsense.

The guy straightened, trying to square himself without looking like he was doing it. “No problem.”

Jack didn’t move.

The limp was there, faint under the movement. So was the fatigue. Neither of them made him look smaller.

“Then take your hand off her,” he said.

The guy let go immediately.

A long second passed.

Your date—former date, obviously—gave a short, awkward laugh. “Didn’t realize there was a boyfriend.”

“There isn’t,” you said sharply.

Jack did not look at you.

“You didn’t need one to hear no,” he said to the man. “Leave without embarrassing yourself.”

That landed.

You saw it in the flush that climbed the guy’s neck, in the way he glanced between the two of you and decided, very reasonably, that nothing here was worth pushing further. He muttered something about misunderstanding and turned for the elevator.

The hallway went still.

Only then did Jack look at you properly.

“You okay?”

“Yes,” you said automatically.

His eyes narrowed. “Bullshit.”

The adrenaline hit all at once, ugly and shaky and embarrassing. Your fingers wouldn’t stop trembling, so you curled them into your palms.

“I’m fine,” you said again.

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m angry.”

“Yeah.” His voice was dry again, but there was something else under it now. Something tighter. “Come inside.”

You stared at him. “Jack—”

“Inside.”

It shouldn’t have worked. The tone. The quiet authority in it. The part of him that was clearly still halfway in doctor mode, assessing, deciding, moving.

But you were tired, and rattled, and your pulse still hadn’t come down. So when he unlocked his apartment and stepped back to let you through, you went.

His apartment felt smaller than before.

Not physically. Just because now the air in it was charged enough to take up space.

He locked the door behind you, set his keys in the bowl by the entry, and shrugged out of his jacket. Underneath, his hospital blues looked even more worn in the low light, sleeves shoved to his forearms, the collar sitting crooked at his throat. There was a faint antiseptic smell clinging to him, clean and sterile and exhausted all at once.

“Sit,” he said.

“I’m not hurt.”

“I didn’t ask that.”

You stared at him for a second, then sat at the edge of the couch because arguing suddenly felt like more effort than you had.

He went to the kitchen, came back with a glass of water, and held it out until you took it. His eyes skimmed your face, your hands, the line of your shoulders.

“Did he grab you anywhere else?”

The question was clinical in structure. The concern in it wasn’t.

“No.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

He nodded once, as if logging the answer somewhere internal, then lowered himself into the armchair opposite you. The movement was slower this time. More careful. He was hiding it less, or maybe you were just seeing it more clearly now.

“You should’ve said something sooner,” he said.

“To who?”

“To him. To me. Somebody.”

A sharp laugh escaped you. “Sorry I didn’t schedule my hallway ambush more responsibly.”

His mouth tightened. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

The edge left the room just enough for the silence after it to feel tired rather than dangerous.

He leaned back in the chair, one forearm braced over his stomach, fingers rubbing once at the line of his thigh like the ache there had finally started demanding attention.

You noticed. Of course you did.

He noticed you noticing.

“Don’t,” he said.

“Don’t what?”

“Look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m about to break.”

A dozen responses rose to your tongue. The only honest one was, I don’t.

So that was the one you said.

Something in his face shifted. Small. Real.

You drank some water because your hands still needed something to do. “I thought you hated me.”

His eyebrows lifted. “I risked my life on that rickety chair of yours.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s evidence.”

“Jack.”

His mouth twitched faintly, then settled again.

“No,” he said. “I don’t hate you.”

The apartment was so quiet you could hear the radiator tick.

“Could’ve fooled me,” you said.

His gaze held yours. “You talk too much.”

A laugh slipped out of you, startled and genuine. He looked at you for another beat longer than necessary, then reached for his own glass on the side table.

“You were on a date,” he said.

It wasn’t a question. It also didn’t sound casual.

“Supposedly.”

“How’d that go.”

You gave him a look. “You were there for the ending.”

“Not what I asked.”

You swallowed. “It was fine. Until it wasn’t.”

He stared into his drink for a second, jaw flexing. “Guys like that count on you not wanting to make a scene.”

The line came out clipped and bitter, like experience speaking through someone who had seen too much of the world at its ugliest.

“You see that a lot?” you asked quietly.

His eyes came back to you. Tired. Older suddenly.

“Enough.”

There was so much packed into that one word that you didn’t touch it again.

Instead you looked down at the glass in your hands. “Thank you.”

“Don’t.”

“For stepping in.”

His voice lowered. “I said don’t.”

“Why?”

Because if he shut this down now—if he turned this back into one of those careful, spare exchanges in the hallway—you thought it might actually hurt.

He exhaled through his nose. Looked away. Then back.

“Because,” he said, “you saying it like that makes it sound like I did you some huge favor.”

“You did.”

“No. I acted like a decent human being for thirty seconds.”

“You don’t have to downplay everything.”

“And you don’t have to make a whole thing out of it.”

“I’m not.”

“You are a little.”

You stared at him.

He stared back, stubborn as stone.

“You’re very dramatic for someone who lost a fight with a strawberry container.”

“I was wounded.”

His mouth twitched.

“You needed a band-aid.”

“A medically supervised band-aid.”

Then, without warning, you both laughed.

It broke something open.

Not in a dramatic way. In a tired, human way. The kind that lets the room breathe again after holding too much in its chest.

His gaze dropped to your hand where it tightened around the glass.

“You’re still shaking,” he said.

“I know.”

He leaned forward, setting his drink aside. “Come here.”

The words were quiet. Not soft exactly. But not something you could mistake for anything else.

You set your water down and stood. He stayed where he was until you were close enough, then reached up and took your wrist—not gently, not roughly, just firmly enough to steady. His thumb pressed once against the inside where your pulse was still too fast.

He was only checking. Just checking.

That’s what you told yourself.

But the room had narrowed to the feel of his hand on you and the warm concentration in his face. To the fact that he was looking at you the way he looked at things that mattered. To the fact that he wasn’t pretending anymore that he didn’t see everything.

Your breathing went shallow.

His eyes flicked up to yours.

There it was.

The line.

The one both of you had been circling for weeks.

You saw the moment he recognized it too. In the slight stillness that took over his mouth. In the way his thumb stopped moving against your wrist. In the split second where he could have let go and didn’t.

You whispered, “Jack.”

His jaw tightened.

“Don’t,” he said again.

This time it didn’t sound like a warning to you. It sounded like one to himself.

Your free hand came up before you thought better of it, brushing lightly against the angle of his wrist where it held yours.

His breath changed.

Not much. Just enough.

“I’m saying thank you,” you murmured.

“No, you’re not.”

The truth of it landed warm and dangerous between you.

He stood too fast for his leg to like it, and you saw the brief check in the movement, the flash of irritation across his face at his own body. Then he was right there, close enough that your breath touched his mouth.

“If you’re gonna do something,” he said, voice low and rough, “do it.”

You kissed him.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t tentative. It was mouth and heat and nerve, the kind of kiss built out of too much restraint, too much noticing, too many late-night hallway run-ins and clipped conversations and all the things he’d kept behind his teeth.

For half a second, Jack went still.

Then he made a sound against your mouth—low, rough, almost unwilling—and kissed you back like restraint had finally become more painful than giving in. One hand caught your jaw. The other found your waist, fingers pressing hard enough to make your breath snag. His mouth moved over yours with sudden, devastating precision, and all at once he was everywhere: the heat of his chest, the scrape of his jaw, the clean bite of hospital soap still clinging to his skin, the rigid tension in his body breaking into want.

The force of it walked you back a step.

Then another.

Until the backs of your knees hit the couch and he broke away just long enough to look at you like he was trying to decide whether this was a terrible idea or merely the worst one he’d had all year.

“Tell me to stop,” he said.

You stared at him.

He held your gaze. Waiting. Dead serious now.

You shook your head once.

Something in him gave.

He kissed you again, harder this time, one hand sliding behind your neck while the other dragged up your spine and settled between your shoulder blades, pinning you close without asking twice. His tongue pushed past your lips, hot and sure, and the sound it pulled from you seemed to hit him somewhere low. You clutched at his scrub top, felt the heat of him through worn cotton, the hard plane of his chest, the breadth of his shoulders, the strength he carried even tired, even hurting, even trying not to.

He kissed like he did everything else—focused, unsparing, completely there.

When he pulled back, both of you were breathing harder, a thin string of spit stretching between your mouths for one dizzy second before it snapped.

“This is a bad idea,” he said.

“Probably.”

His forehead tipped briefly to yours, a rough almost-laugh leaving him. “You’re not helping.”

“I don’t think you want help.”

“No,” he said, and there was nothing guarded in it at all. “I don’t.”

The next kiss was slower. Meaner. His tongue moved against yours, deep and deliberate, and when you tried to chase the pressure of his mouth, he caught your bottom lip between his teeth and pulled until your breath broke. His hand slid to the small of your back, broad and possessive without a word, holding you there like he’d finally stopped pretending he didn’t want to.

You tugged him closer. He let you.

The couch caught the back of his leg when he shifted, and he muttered a curse under his breath.

You pulled back just enough to look at him. “Your leg—”

“Still attached.”

“Jack.”

He looked at you, flushed and breathless and a little furious at the interruption. Beautiful in a way that made your chest ache.

“I’m fine,” he said.

The automatic answer almost made you smile.

You touched his face instead.

That stopped him.

Your palm against his cheek. Your thumb near the line of his mouth. Something quiet passed through his expression then—surprise, maybe. Or maybe just the shock of gentleness.

He turned his head and pressed one brief kiss to the inside of your wrist.

The gesture was so unexpectedly soft it nearly wrecked you.

Then he stepped back just enough to sit, pulling you carefully with him until you were half in his lap, half against the couch cushions. The movement was slower now, measured around the pull in his leg, but no less sure for it.

You kissed him again, and again, and the room seemed to blur at the edges around the two of you.

His fingers found the zipper at the back of your dress and dragged it down slowly, tooth by tooth, until the fabric loosened around you. Then his hand slipped inside, warm and broad, rubbing over the bare skin just beneath the band of your bra like he’d been thinking about touching you there for weeks.

The details after that came in fragments.

Your fingers in his hair.

The scratch of his jaw against your skin when his mouth found the side of your neck.

The low, involuntary sound that left you at the first pull of his hand at your waist.

The way he went still for half a second at hearing it, then cursed softly into your throat like restraint had become physically painful.

“Jack,” you breathed.

“Yeah.”

There was a question in the word. And an answer. And too much else besides.

You kissed him until the name lost shape between you.

At some point you were in his bedroom. You couldn’t have said exactly how. Only that he got there with you in the same deliberate way he did everything—without hurry, but without hesitation either. From the living room, he guided you down the short hall inside 4B, past the half-open bathroom door and into the room at the back of his apartment. Lamp light. Rumpled sheets. The plain dark blue comforter. A book facedown on the nightstand beside a half-empty glass of water, a blister pack of pain relievers, and a pair of reading glasses folded neatly on a small nightstand. Evidence of a real life, interrupted.

He stopped at the edge of the bed and looked at you.

Really looked.

Not rushed. Not hungry in the careless way men sometimes were. Just intent. Taking you in like he wanted to memorize what exactly had changed the night.

You reached for the straps of your dress where they’d slipped loose on your shoulders. He caught your hand.

“Let me,” he said.

The words sank straight through you.

So you did.

He undressed you with the same focus he brought to everything else, hands steady, eyes on yours often enough that it felt impossible to hide inside the moment. Every movement was attentive. Every pause meaningful. The room filled with heat and the soft sounds of breath and fabric and the unsteady beat of your pulse in your ears.

When you touched him in return, he exhaled sharply, forehead tipping forward for a second like he needed to gather himself.

You smiled, a little shaky. “You okay, doctor?”

His gaze lifted, dark and direct. “Not even close.”

His hands were still on your shoulders, thumbs tracing the curve of bone where the straps of your dress had been. The air in his bedroom was thick and warm, the fan blade spinning slow overhead, and you could smell him—sweat and coffee and something clean underneath, something that made you want to press your face against his chest and breathe.

"You're shaking," he said. Not a question.

"I'm not."

His thumb found your pulse. Held there. "Yeah, you are."

You wanted to say something clever, something that would break the tension, but your throat was tight and your skin was hot where his hands had been and the dim light caught the gray in his stubble and made him look tired in a way that made your chest ache. So instead you reached for him. Your fingers found the hem of his scrub top, bunched the fabric, pulled.

He let you. Watched you. Didn't help and didn't stop you.

You got it over his head. His arms came up slow, like he was giving you time to change your mind. Then he was bare-chested in front of you and you forgot how to breathe. He was broad, solid, a pale scar curving over his ribs, his skin warm and flushed. You wanted to put your mouth on every inch of him.

"Look at me," he said.

You did. His eyes were dark, unreadable, but his jaw was tight and his breathing had changed—shorter, shallower. He was affected. He was trying not to show it.

"If we do this," he said, slow and low, "I'm not gonna be gentle."

"I don't want gentle."

Something flickered in his eyes. Then his hand was in your hair, fisting the dark strands at the base of your skull, tipping your head back. His mouth found your throat—open-mouthed, wet, a scrape of stubble that made you gasp. His other hand slid down your spine, pressed you into him, and you felt how hard he was through his scrub pants. Felt the heat of him. The want.

"Bed," he muttered against your skin. "Now."

You moved backward until your knees hit the edge of the mattress. The sheets were rumpled, the pillow dented from where he'd slept last night. He followed you down, one hand braced beside your head, the other finding your hip.

"You on birth control?"

"Yes."

He nodded. A short, sharp motion. "Good. 'Cause I don't have condoms. Been a while."

You should have said something reassuring. Instead you reached between you, palmed him through his pants. He sucked in a breath through his teeth. His eyes closed for half a second, and in that half-second you saw the fight leave him. Saw him stop pretending.

"Fuck," he breathed. Then his mouth was on yours again, harder this time, his tongue sliding against yours, his hand finding your breast and squeezing, thumb dragging over your nipple until you arched into him.

He tugged your panties down your thighs. You lifted your hips to help him. Then his hand was between your legs, two fingers sliding through wet heat, and he made a sound low in his throat. "Jesus. You're soaked."

"Jack—"

"I know." He pushed a finger inside you. Then another. You gasped, your hands fisting in the sheets. He watched your face as he worked you open, slow and deliberate, his thumb pressing circles against your clit. "That's it. Take it."

You were trembling, your hips rocking against his hand, and he was still watching you like he was memorizing every sound you made. When he pulled his fingers out, you whimpered. He brought them to his mouth, licked them clean, and your cunt clenched at the sight of it.

He kicked off his pants, pulling the pant leg free from his prosthetic. His cock was hard, flushed, the head slick. He stroked himself once, twice, then he was pushing your thighs apart and positioning himself at your entrance. The head of him pressed against you, and you felt the ache of it, the promise.

He looked at you. His eyes were dark and his breathing was ragged and he looked like a man standing at the edge of something he wasn't sure he'd survive.

"Tell me," he said. "Tell me you want this."

"I want this. I want you. Please, Jack."

He pushed in. Slow. An inch. Then another. Your body stretched around him, taking him, and you heard yourself make a sound you didn't recognize. He was thick, and he was filling you, and when he was fully seated he stopped, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot on your lips.

"Fuck," he said, the word punched out of him. "You feel—" He couldn't finish. He pulled out and thrust back in, and the sound you made was raw and desperate.

He fucked you like a man who'd been holding back for months. Each thrust deep and deliberate, his hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, his mouth at your throat, your ear, muttering things you could barely hear—"that's it, take it, take all of it, you feel so fucking good."

You came with your legs wrapped around him, your nails raking his back, his name falling from your lips like a prayer. He followed a moment later, his hips stuttering, his groan low and broken as he spilled inside you. You felt it—hot and deep, filling you—and you clenched around him, riding it out together.

He stayed inside you for a long moment. His breathing was ragged against your neck. Then he pulled out, slow, and you felt the warmth of him leaking from you, trickling down your thigh.

He looked at it. Looked at you. His thumb found your chin, tilted your face up.

"You're staying," he said. Not a question.

You nodded, ending up sprawled against him beneath the covers, one of his arms heavy around your waist, the lamp still on. His chest rose and fell under your cheek. Your dress was somewhere on the floor.

For a long time neither of you said anything.

Then, against your hair, he murmured, “You okay?”

The question was so Jack it made your throat tighten.

You tilted your face up just enough to look at him. “Yeah.”

He studied you for a second, as if verifying it.

Then he nodded once. Satisfied.

You traced a fingertip lightly along the line of his collarbone. “You?”

He huffed a tired laugh. “Ask me in eight hours.”

You smiled into his chest.

The light stayed on a while longer. At some point he reached over, switched it off, and settled back with a quiet exhale that sounded more worn out than unhappy.

In the dark, with the city muffled beyond the windows and his warmth surrounding you, it felt dangerously easy to imagine this as something that had always been waiting for you just across the hall.

Morning came pale and cold through the curtains.

For one disorienting second, you forgot where you were.

Then the smell of coffee reached you, and everything came back in a rush.

You sat up in Jack’s bed, tangled in unfamiliar sheets, naked beneath the covers, the bedroom door standing open. Beyond it, soft cabinet sounds came from the kitchen.

Your dress was still a rumpled heap on the floor, half inside out and not worth wrestling with before coffee. One of Jack’s T-shirts had been tossed over the back of a chair instead, soft and worn and easier to reach, so you slipped it on and let it fall down to your legs.

You padded out carefully, one hand skimming the wall, following the short hall from his bedroom back toward the kitchen.

Jack was standing at the counter with his back half-turned to you, already dressed in a t-shirt and sweats, moving with that morning stiffness you were starting to understand. The coffee maker hissed behind him. His phone sat face-down near the sink, buzzing once, then falling silent.

He glanced over his shoulder.

Neither of you spoke for half a second.

Then he said, “Morning.”

The single word held no awkwardness. No retreat. Just the roughness of sleep and coffee not yet fully doing its job.

“Morning,” you echoed.

He nodded toward the mug already waiting on the counter. “That one’s yours.”

You walked over and wrapped both hands around it, grateful for the heat.

“You always do this?” you asked.

“Make coffee?”

“Pretend everything’s normal.”

He looked at you then, properly. The corners of his eyes lined with fatigue, mouth still a little swollen from kissing, expression unreadable for all of a second before it settled into something drier.

“This is normal,” he said. “It’s coffee.”

You laughed softly.

His phone buzzed again. He glanced at the screen and snorted.

“Robby?” you asked.

“Unfortunately.”

He let it ring out and reached for his own mug instead.

That little choice—small, casual, almost nothing—lodged somewhere deep in your chest.

The kitchen was quiet except for the hum of the fridge. Outside, someone in the hall dragged a trash bag toward the chute. Ordinary building noises. Ordinary morning light.

Your eyes dropped to the line of his stance. The careful distribution of weight. The slight pull when he turned.

He caught you looking.

“What.”

“You’re limping.”

“I always limp.”

“More.”

He took a sip of coffee, unbothered on purpose. “Occupational hazard.”

“You should take it easy today.”

His eyebrows went up. “Take it easy.”

“Yes.”

“After you brought chaos into my home?”

You smiled into your mug. “I brought questionable romantic choices and emotional growth.”

“That was not emotional growth.”

“No?”

“No.” He set his mug down. “That was you bringing home a man who thought ‘goodnight’ meant opening negotiations.”

You laughed hard enough that he finally smiled—really smiled this time, brief but visible and unfairly good on him.

The warmth of it stayed in the room after it faded.

You looked down at your coffee because suddenly the moment felt a little too real in the best and worst way.

When you looked back up, he was watching you.

Not guarded. Not open, exactly. Just present.

“There’s a spare key with the super,” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

“For your apartment.” He leaned one hip against the counter, face unreadable again in that deliberate way of his. “But if you keep locking yourself out, or your smoke detector starts screaming, or some idiot follows you home again—”

He stopped there, like the list had already said more than he’d intended.

Your pulse picked up.

“Then what?” you asked quietly.

His gaze held yours.

“Then knock on my door first.”

The words settled between you with more weight than any declaration could have.

Not dramatic. Not polished. Not easy.

Just true.

You swallowed. “Okay.”

He nodded once, as if an agreement had been reached. Then he picked up his mug again and took a sip, looking annoyingly composed for a man who had just changed the shape of your life in one sentence.

You stood there in his kitchen, in his shirt, holding your coffee while the light crept brighter across the floor.

Across the hall, your apartment waited with its new smoke detector battery, dangerous strawberries, and all the ordinary pieces of the life you’d had yesterday.

Here, in 4B, Jack Abbot leaned against his counter, tired and sharp-edged and impossible, looking at you like he’d finally stopped being decent about wanting you.

“Dr. Abbot,” Dana calls, peering over the top of her glasses. “You’re early.”

Beside her, you glance up from your tablet, meeting his eyes across the ER with that same soft smile.

“Dr. Abbot,” you say, like you can’t quite help yourself.

Jack squares his shoulders and starts toward the nurses’ station, determined not to let Dana and her all-knowing, all-seeing bullshit clock exactly why he’s at work almost two hours earlier than he needs to be.

“Yeah, I’ve got some stuff I didn’t get to wrap up this morning,” he lies.

Princess pops up from behind the desk. “I thought you said you stayed back this morning to make sure everything was sorted?”

Jack’s gaze cuts to her. “Yes. But I forgot something.”

Dana narrows her eyes. “Mhm. What’d you forget?”

“A few notes from the three a.m. GSW,” he replies quickly—too quickly.

It’s weak and he knows it, but there’s nothing else he could think of with Dana watching him like that and your warm, sleepy gaze still lingering from across the desk.

Dana nods slowly, adjusting the chart in her hands. “Right. Two hours early for a few notes.”

Jack just shrugs, avoiding her gaze as he walks past—and he doesn’t look back until he’s safely around the corner, standing in front of his locker. Only then does he risk a glance, just briefly over his shoulder, quick enough to catch a glimpse of you disappearing down the North hall.

God. It’s ridiculous, really. He’s a grown man.

More than that—he's an old man.

Yet here he is staying late at work and coming in early just to see more of you. Because ever since you swapped from nights to days, Jack doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Sure, he could barely concentrate when you were on shift together, but who knew not having you around would be even worse?

He spends the first half of his shift hating himself for being so hung up on someone so young and so impossibly out of reach—then spends the second half anxiously awaiting your arrival for the day shift.

And it’s only been two weeks.

But the absolute worst part?

He doesn’t even know why you swapped shifts. You never even spoke to him about it. You just told him at four a.m. two Saturdays ago that you were switching to day shift. No reason. No explanation. That was it.

At first he wondered if it was his fault—if maybe you’d simply decided you didn’t like working with him.

But you still greet him every morning and every evening with that same warm smile. You still look to him first whenever someone asks for an attending and he’s still around. You still text him whenever the ER cat shows up outside the ambulance bay—which apparently happens much more often during the day shift.

And Jack still buys a packet of freeze-dried liver treats every Sunday to keep in the cupboard above the break room fridge—because he knows how much you love feeding that cat.

“What’re you doing here?”

Jack’s head whips around at the sound of his friend’s voice.

“I—uh—came in early to fix up a few notes,” he says, turning back to shove his bag into his locker.

Robby’s brows lift. “Two hours for notes?”

Jack sighs, slinging his stethoscope around his neck and shutting his locker before turning to face his fellow attending. “Are you of all people really going to lecture me about not having a life outside of this ER?”

Robby chuckles quietly, lifting both hands out of his pockets in surrender. “I wasn’t judging.”

“Good,” Jack mutters, already starting back toward central. “Anything I need to know?”

Robby falls into step beside him. “North Three’s waiting on a CT for possible appendicitis. Kid in Five came in with chest pain but his labs look clean so far. Dana’s still fighting with bed control about moving the pneumonia admit upstairs.”

They both stop at the nurses’ station, glancing up at the board.

“Otherwise it’s been unusually calm,” Robby adds. “Which probably means you’re about to get slammed.”

Jack gives him a flat look. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.” Robby claps him on the shoulder. “Oh—and that R2 you gave me?”

“What about her?”

Robby shrugs. “She’s great.”

“I know,” Jack says, keeping his voice carefully even.

Robby studies him for a second, eyes narrowing just a fraction, the corner of his mouth threatening to lift. The man might be a disaster when it comes to his own feelings, but he has an uncanny talent for spotting everyone else’s.

“We’re alright out here if you want to catch up on your notes,” he says after a moment, already turning away. “Or go make the rounds. Get some very thorough handovers from the residents.”

Jack keeps his eyes fixed on the board. “I hate you.”

Robby huffs out a quiet laugh. “Then why are you here two hours early?”

Jack exhales sharply and steps forward, pulling one of the tablets from the rack.

“Notes,” he says, a little louder than necessary.

Robby just shakes his head, still smiling faintly as he disappears down the North corridor.

For a moment, Jack doesn’t move. He lingers at the nurses’ station, tablet in hand, pretending to analyse the board while ignoring the incredibly unsubtle looks from Perlah and Princess—both of them watching him with the kind of interest that usually means someone’s about to become the subject of a very entertaining conversation.

Then, with a polite nod to each of them, he clears his throat and steps away, turning toward the break room—trying very hard not to hope he runs into you on the way.

And trying not to be disappointed when he doesn’t.

The break room is empty when he steps inside, the noise of the ER dulling as the door falls shut behind him. He sets his tablet on the table—next to someone’s half-eaten lunch and a discarded Lean Cuisine container—and grabs a clean mug from the cupboard, pouring the last of the coffee pot into it.

Then he drops into the seat furthest from the door, his back to the bulletin board, and taps the tablet awake, pulling up the notes for the three a.m. GSW. The same notes he already finished in detail while staying back this morning—before Robby told him to get the hell out of his ER and get some sleep.

He barely makes it through two lines of the chart before the door swings open again.

“Shit, sorry,” you say quickly, stepping toward the table.

Jack’s pulse does the same stupid thing it always does whenever he sees you, making his chest feel hot and his head a little fuzzy.

“What are you sorry for?” he asks, as if it isn’t obvious.

You’ve already stacked the Lean Cuisine container on top of the half-eaten bowl of something grey and mushy-looking and are halfway to the sink with them.

“I only got, like, a five-minute break today and had to run out for a trauma, then completely forgot about my lunch,” you explain, cheeks flushed as you glance down at the bowl. “This is gross. I’m so sorry.”

Jack shifts in his chair. “I’ve seen worse in here, I promise.”

You glance over your shoulder as you turn on the tap, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “Really?”

He nods. “Really.”

He could almost swear your smile lifts a little higher before you turn back to the sink, scrubbing hurriedly at the bowl of slop that probably shouldn’t be going down the drain anyway.

Jack clears his throat. “But—uh—Lean Cuisine? Really?”

You look back at him again, brows drawn. “What’s wrong with Lean Cuisine?”

“Nothing,” he says lightly. “If you’re trying to survive a very stressful twelve-hour shift on only four hundred calories.”

You huff a quiet laugh, turning back to the sink. “I actually managed to eat lunch today. That’s already a win.”

“It’s mostly sodium and sadness,” he adds, almost absently. “Not much protein.”

You finally turn the tap off and spin around, leaning a hip against the counter. “Alright, Dr. Abbot. When I find the spare time to start meal prepping between my very stressful twelve-hour shifts, I’ll let you know.”

Jack opens his mouth—then closes it again. Because what he wants to say is ridiculous.

But it comes out anyway.

“…I cook.”

You blink.

“You cook?”

Jack clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his coffee mug.

“Yeah. Well.” He shrugs. “I’ve been told I’m reasonably good at it.”

You stare at him for a second, brows knitting slightly as you clearly try to figure out where the hell that came from.

“Well,” you say with a quick smile, “I guess your dinner guests are pretty lucky.”

Before he can respond, you grab the Lean Cuisine packet, toss it in the bin, and step toward the door.

“Sorry again for the mess.”

Then you’re gone—leaving Jack alone with his coffee, his notes, and the growing suspicion that there might actually be something seriously wrong with him.

-

“Is that Dr. Abbot in the break room?” Santos asks, falling into step beside you.

You keep your eyes fixed on your tablet.

“Yep.”

She leans closer, steering you out of the way of a gurney.

“But night shift doesn’t start for like two more hours.”

“I’m aware.”

“So, why is he here?”

You exhale sharply and finally look up from your tablet. “I don’t know, Trin. Maybe because the universe hates me.”

She snorts. “Or maybe because he likes you.”

You roll your eyes, turning toward the South corridor. “Please don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” she insists. “I seriously think that old man has a thing for you.”

“Don’t call him that,” you mutter.

“Okay, fine. I seriously think that hot, older man has a thing for you,” she says, stopping beside you at the South desks. “And we all know how you feel about him, so—”

“No,” you snap. “We don’t all know how I feel about Ja—Dr. Abbot.”

She presses her lips together to keep from laughing.

“Besides,” you go on, dropping into a chair. “I swapped to day shift so I could stop being distracted by my attending and actually focus on being a good doctor—so could you please stop distracting me?”

She leans a hip against the desk, completely ignoring you. “And don’t you think that’s a little strange? I mean, you swapped to day shift—what, two weeks ago?”

You glance at her from the corner of your eye. “And?”

“And,” she says dramatically, “for the past two weeks Dr. Abbot has been staying back every morning and coming in early every afternoon.”

Your gaze slides back to the computer. “So?”

She sighs, exasperated. “It’s not a coincidence.”

“Actually, I think it is,” you argue.

She stares at you for a second, eyes narrowing. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re annoying.”

She rolls her eyes and pushes off the desk. “Whatever. You’re still coming out tomorrow night, right?”

Your fingers hesitate over the keyboard. “Uh—I’m not sure yet.”

“Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift that’ll be there,” she says.

You let out a quiet sigh of defeat.

“Fine,” you mutter. “I’ll come.”

“Good.” She grins, already turning away. “Come to my place around six. We can get ready and pregame.”

“Why can’t I get ready at home?” you ask.

“Because,” she calls over her shoulder, “I get to pick what you wear.”

And before you can argue, she slips into a patient room, effectively ending the conversation.

“Great,” you mumble, turning back to the computer. “Can’t wait.”

It’s not like you’re not looking forward to finally joining in on a night out now that you’re no longer on the night shift.

You are. You’re just... nervous.

Nervous, perpetually stressed out, and still adjusting to life as a day-walker. And Santos knows that. She probably knows you better than anyone else at PTMC—even though you’ve spent the better part of ten months working opposite shifts.

Which is exactly why she’s pushing you to join this night out. Because she knows you need it. She knows you need to relax, forget about work, and do something other than obsess over the night shift attending who’s had you completely undone since the day you first met.

God.

Jack Abbot. The single most dangerous man in Pittsburgh.

Not only is he stupidly hot, but he’s also annoyingly competent, irritatingly attentive, and has the starring role in every single one of your most inappropriate fantasies.

He’s also the very reason you’re terrified of having to redo your second year of residency, because that man affects your focus so much you literally can’t function. Like three weeks ago, when you walked straight into the glass door of Trauma One because you were too busy watching him take his jacket off.

His damn jacket.

That was the moment you finally decided you needed to swap shifts—because Dr. Shen couldn’t look at you for the rest of the night without bursting into laughter.

Jack Abbot is a liability to your health and wellbeing—which means he is a liability to your career. And even though asking Dr. Robby to swap to day shift was one of the most ridiculously difficult things you’ve done since starting at PTMC, you stand by the fact that it was the right decision.

The smart decision. The professional decision. Even if… it might not be working yet.

Because now you can’t just glance across central anymore and see Jack leaning against the desk, talking through a case with Lena. You can’t have him step up beside you when you’re unsure about something and quietly walk you through it. He’s not the one across from you in the trauma bays. And there isn’t a coffee cup that magically appears in front of you during the three o’clock lull.

Now you just… think about him instead.

But it’s only temporary. You’re sure of it. You just need to get used to the day shift and figure out how to get Jack Abbot out of your head.

Which… you have a sneaking suspicion is what Santos plans on helping you with this weekend.

You’re pretty sure you overheard her the other day telling Whitaker that the only way to get over someone is by getting under someone else. And maybe that’s exactly what you need to do—get under someone else so you can stop thinking about the maddeningly hot man who’s nearly twice your age and most definitely does not have a thing for you. Regardless of what Santos seems to think.

You spend the rest of your shift catching up on charting and trying very hard not to think about Dr. Abbot.

When someone asks for an attending, you call Dr. Robby. When you hear his voice just around the corner, you change paths as quickly and inconspicuously as you can. And when your notes are up to date and night shift starts rolling in, you find Dr. Ellis and give her—and only her—the rundown on your patients.

By the time you shut your locker and sling your bag over your shoulder, the sky outside is dark and there are only a few day shifters left lingering around the nurses’ station.

“Did you drive today?” Whitaker asks, shutting his locker only a moment after you.

“Yeah,” you reply. “Need a ride?”

He nods sheepishly. “That’d be great. Santos left already, said I was taking too long.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, I bet it had nothing to do with whatever she and Garcia were whispering about in the stairwell.”

Whitaker winces. “I just hope they’re at Garcia’s tonight.”

You huff a small laugh and hitch your bag higher. “You ready?”

He nods.

You both turn and start back toward central—but just as you reach the nurses’ station, his steps slow.

“Do you need to…?”

He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

You frown. “Need to what?”

He hesitates. “Don’t you normally say goodbye to Dr. Abbot?”

Your eyes widen slowly. “Uh—no. Why would you say that?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought you two were close.”

“We’re not close,” you say, a little too quick.

“Sorry,” he mutters, raising both hands in surrender. “I just—I don’t know. I thought because you were his resident you two were… close.”

“I’m not his resident,” you snap. “I’m just… a resident. I don’t belong to him.”

“Okay,” he says slowly, brows drawing together. “I’m sorry, I just thought—”

“You thought wrong,” you mutter, glancing over your shoulder to make sure no one is listening.

Thankfully, the two nosiest nurses in the ER have already gone home for the day.

“Let’s just go.”

You grab his wrist and walk quickly toward the ambulance bay doors, giving Ellis and Shen a small nod as you pass—completely missing the middle-aged attending who just overheard most of your conversation.

The car ride to Santos and Whitaker’s isn’t long. Whitaker fills most of it anyway—rambling about the shift, about the kid in Five and whether night shift is going to get slammed, about how Dana looked like she was two seconds away from strangling bed control by the end of the day. And every few minutes he circles back around to apologising for making you drive him home.

You wave him off each time.

“It’s fine, Whitaker.”

“Seriously though,” he says as you pull up outside their building. “I really appreciate it.”

He slings his bag over his shoulder and climbs out of the car, pausing on the sidewalk to give you one last wave before heading toward the front door.

The moment the passenger door falls shut, the quiet settles in. You let out a long breath, tipping your head back against the headrest and letting your eyes fall shut for a moment. And immediately—inevitably—your brain drifts straight back to the same place it always does.

Jack Abbot. Of course.

You scrub a hand over your face before shifting the car back into gear and pulling away.

The rest of the night passes the way most nights do—with a quick shower, something vaguely edible scavenged from the fridge, and half-heartedly scrolling through your phone until exhaustion finally drags you to bed.

When your head finally hits the pillow, you tell yourself you’re too tired to think about him. It’s been a long day—long week—and all you need right now is sleep, not fantasies.

But that doesn’t stop your brain from doing it anyway. Because sometime in the early hours of the morning, Jack Abbot shows up in your dreams. Not in the ER. Not standing beside you at the nurses’ station or leaning over a chart.

He’s in a kitchen. Cooking.

Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, moving around the stove with the same quiet confidence he carries through the hospital—like he knows exactly what he’s doing and expects the rest of the world just to trust him.

And in the dream, you do.

You lean against the counter and watch him the way you sometimes watch him in the trauma bays, telling yourself you’re just observing. Just curious. Just learning.

He glances over his shoulder eventually, catching you staring—and says something you can’t quite hear over the soft clatter of the pan. But he’s smiling.

Then the dream shifts the way dreams tend to—logic slipping sideways until suddenly you’re standing much closer than you should be. Close enough to smell whatever he’s cooking. Close enough that when he turns toward you the space between you disappears entirely.

His hand settles at your waist like it belongs there.

Your back meets the edge of the counter.

And when his mouth brushes your neck—

You wake with a sharp inhale, staring up at the ceiling, heart racing.

“Fuck,” you mutter, dragging a hand over your face.

So much for getting him out of your head.

For a while, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, watching the first pale line of sunlight creep across until it touches the wall opposite your window.

At some point you realise you’re still replaying the dream in your head.

The kitchen. The way his hand had felt at your waist. The warmth of his mouth against your neck.

You groan quietly and drag the blanket over your face.

“Get a fucking grip.”

Then you throw the covers back and force yourself out of bed, heading straight into the kitchen in search of coffee.

Your small apartment is always quiet—but this morning it feels too quiet. Too still as you silently sip your coffee, one hip leaned against the kitchen counter. Which, unfortunately, leaves far too much room for your brain to wander right back to its favourite topic.

Jack Abbot.

After coffee, you take yourself for a long walk around the block, hoping the cool morning air might help clear the remnants of the dream from your head.

It doesn’t.

But by the time you make it back to your apartment, your legs feel loose and your mind feels a little quieter, and for the briefest moment you almost manage to convince yourself that you’re excited about tonight. That you’re going to be able to do what Santos is clearly angling for and go home with an attractive stranger so you can stop draining your vibrator battery with inappropriate thoughts of your attending.

The rest of the day drifts past in a slow blur of small, forgettable things. Laundry. Answering a couple of messages in the group chat. Half-heartedly reviewing a few notes from earlier in the week before deciding you absolutely refuse to think about work on your day off.

Eventually the afternoon light begins to soften and stretch across the floor, which means it’s probably time to start getting ready if you’re actually going to make it to Santos’ place before she decides you’re bailing and comes knocking to drag you there herself.

So you shower, change, pack a bag, and throw it over your shoulder on the way out the door—trying very hard not to feel disappointed that Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift who’s going to be at the bar tonight.

It really is for the best.

You, alcohol, and Jack Abbot in the same room is a terrible idea.

“Alright, I’m ready,” Santos announces, finally stepping out of the bathroom.

You, Javadi, and Whitaker—who have spent the last twenty minutes on the couch chatting and sipping beer—look up.

“Aw, I wish I could do winged eyeliner like that,” Javadi says. “It just doesn’t suit my eye shape.”

“Don’t look too close,” Santos mutters. “It’s super uneven, but I don’t have time. I still have to fix this one before we go.”

She tips her chin toward where you and Whitaker are sitting on the opposite end of the lounge.

Whitaker’s eyes go wide. “Me?”

Santos scoffs. “Not you, Huckleberry. God, I don’t have enough time in the world to fix whatever’s going on there.”

Whitaker frowns, glancing down at his navy-blue button-up shirt. “What’s wrong with this?”

“Everything,” Santos says, already turning away.

Whitaker lifts his head, glancing between you and Javadi. “Is it really that bad?”

Javadi leans forward, lowering her voice. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Whitaker. You look great.”

You pat his shoulder. “It’s fine, really. She’s just—”

The words die on your tongue as Santos reappears, holding what can only be described as a sparkly scrap of fabric on a hanger.

Javadi tilts her head. “What’s that?”

Santos grins. “A dress.”

Whitaker chokes on his beer. “That’s… not a dress. That’s a glittery napkin.”

“Oh my God.” Javadi snorts. “My mom would kill me just for buying that.”

“I didn’t buy it,” Santos says lightly. “A friend in college gave it to me, but it’s never fit quite right.”

She steps forward, extending the hanger toward you.

“But I know you’ll be able to pull it off,” she adds, her grin sharpening.

You stare at it—glinting in the low evening sun spilling through the windows.

“Santos… this is a work thing,” you mutter.

She rolls her eyes. “It’s not a work thing. It’s just an outing with people from work.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?” Whitaker asks.

Santos sighs. “No, it’s not. And are you forgetting our main objective?”

You blink at her.

“To get you laid.”

Javadi giggles nervously, trying to hide it behind a swig of beer.

“Come on,” Santos says. “Just put it on and if it doesn’t work, we try something else.”

You hesitate, staring at the glittery thing like it might catch fire at any moment. Which, given enough sunlight, it probably could.

“Fine,” you say at last, pushing off the couch. “I’ll try it on, but that does not mean I’m wearing it.”

Santos’ eyes sparkle with excitement. Or maybe it’s just the dress.

“That’s my girl.”

You take the hanger from her and trudge into her room, nudging the door shut behind you. It takes a minute for you to figure out how the glittery napkin is supposed to go on—but once you do, you shed your comfortable clothes and shimmy into the most sparkly piece of fabric you’ve ever worn.

And somehow, the shimmering scrap of nothing turns out to be an actual dress—short, sparkling, and just structured enough to stay where it’s supposed to while still feeling mildly illegal.

With a deep breath, you turn away from the mirror and open the door, stepping back out into the lounge room.

“So?”

For a moment, no one says anything.

Whitaker’s mouth falls open.

Javadi’s eyebrows lift. “Oh.”

Santos, meanwhile, tilts her head appreciatively, one hand on her hip, eyes gleaming as she looks you over from head to toe.

“I knew it,” she says smugly.

Whitaker blinks. “That is not a dress.”

Javadi elbows him. “Stop talking.”

You tug awkwardly at the hem—which doesn’t actually move much because there isn’t very much hem to tug.

“Santos,” you say carefully, “I’m not sure—”

“Relax,” she says. “You look incredible.”

She circles you slowly, like a stylist inspecting her work.

“And you’re definitely going to get laid.”

“I feel like I shouldn’t be here,” Whitaker mutters, his face bright red.

Santos rolls her eyes. “You’re only here because you live here, Huckleberry. Now go grab that bottle of tequila from on top of the fridge—we’re going to need some liquid courage before we head out.”

After two shots of tequila and Santos’ finishing touches to your makeup, you all head out the door. Whitaker calls an Uber, the four of you pile in, and you carefully keep Santos’ leather jacket wrapped around yourself for some semblance of modesty.

You don’t really plan on taking it off for the rest of the night—even if it isn’t that cold.

The ride to the bar isn’t nearly long enough. Javadi spends most of it excitedly talking about how she can finally go out drinking now that she’s twenty-one, which Santos encourages with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly intends to make the most of that milestone.

You mostly just stare out the window. Trying not to think about the dress you shouldn’t have agreed to wear and the night shift attending you definitely shouldn’t be missing right now. Because if someone asked you where you’d rather be tonight—the bar or the ER with Dr. Abbot—your honest answer would be incredibly depressing.

Who would rather be at work than out with their friends on a Saturday night?

“We’re here,” Santos announces, nudging your side a little too hard.

You all thank the driver before climbing out, gathering yourselves on the sidewalk in front of the familiar establishment Santos loves dragging everyone to.

“Relax,” she says, dropping a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t need this.”

She tugs at the leather jacket, pulling it off your shoulders until it’s bunched at your elbows.

“I feel naked,” you mutter. “Like this is some nightmare where I show up to work in my underwear.”

Whitaker snorts. “Not far from it.”

Santos rolls her eyes. “Well, you’re not at work. You’re at a bar. And this is supposed to be fun.”

Right. Fun.

That is the entire point of tonight. Go out. Have a drink. Meet someone who isn’t Jack Abbot. Ideally forget Jack Abbot exists for at least a few hours.

Completely achievable.

Right?

“Fine.”

You draw a deep breath and drop your arms, letting the jacket slide off completely. Santos grins as you sling it over one elbow, trying not to instinctively hold it in front of your body like armour.

“See?” she says. “Much better.”

“Let’s just go inside before I change my mind,” you mutter, already starting toward the door.

Javadi loops her arm through yours. “You look amazing. Seriously.”

You give her a small smile, trying not to feel quite so awkward as Santos leads the way toward the main entrance.

It’s just a bar. Just a normal Saturday night. You’ll be fine after a few more shots of liquid courage.

You glance through the front window as you approach—more out of habit than anything else, your eyes drifting lazily over the crowded room inside.

People. Low lights. Patrons lingering around the bar.

And—

Your brain stalls.

Because there’s a man leaning against the bar with one elbow braced on the countertop, his shoulders broad under a tight black shirt, head tipped slightly as he talks to someone beside him.

A familiar someone.

Dr. Ellis.

And the man—

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Your stomach plummets.

Jack fucking Abbot.

Your feet stop moving, your whole body suddenly forgetting how to function.

Your pulse kicks violently against the inside of your throat as a wave of heat rushes up the back of your neck, sudden and dizzying and sharp enough to make the edges of your vision blur for half a second.

Because he looks—

He looks so good.

Relaxed in a way you’ve never seen at work. One hand curled loosely around a glass as he frowns slightly at something Ellis is saying, that small crease between his brows you know far too well.

And suddenly you are extremely, violently aware that you are standing outside a bar wearing approximately three square inches of glitter.

“Hey,” Javadi says beside you. “What’s—”

“Santos.”

She doesn’t stop.

“Santos,” you say again, your voice almost breaking.

She glances over her shoulder. “Hm?”

“You knew.”

She stops, her hand hovering near the door.

Whitaker glances between the two of you. “What’s happening?”

“Technically,” Santos says slowly, “I didn’t know. I just... suspected.”

“You said Ellis was the only one from night shift who’d be here.”

She winces. “I did, but what I meant is… Ellis is the only one who actually told me she’d be here.”

You stare at her. “So you did know?”

“I knew it was his night off.”

“Santos, I—” You glance back at him through the bar window. “I can’t go in there like this.”

“Like what?” she asks. “Smoking hot?”

“Half naked.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, you can.”

“I will actually die.”

“No, you won’t,” she says firmly. “You’re an adult. You can wear whatever you want, talk to whoever you want, and just because your incredibly inconvenient attending crush happens to be inside does not suddenly revoke your civil liberties.”

She pulls the door open.

“Now stop panicking and get in the bar.”

-

“He swore the chest pain had nothing to do with the seven energy drinks he’d had that night,” Ellis says, still rambling about a patient who pissed her off two nights ago, “which was a bold position to take with a heart rate of one-forty.”

Jack snorts softly. “And did you believe him?”

Ellis’ eyes go wide, and she takes a long drink before continuing her rant about night shift patients and the strange confidence people have when explaining why their terrible decisions definitely have nothing to do with the symptoms they’re currently experiencing.

Jack nods along, offering the occasional comment or question where needed, meeting her gaze now and then—but mostly keeping his attention on the door. Waiting. Because he’s not stupid enough to ask anyone if you’re going to be here tonight, but he is naïve enough to hope you will be.

He wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight—his first night off in two weeks.

He was supposed to be at home, cooking something decent for dinner, enjoying the rare luxury of not wearing scrubs, and inevitably indulging in his favourite guilty pleasure—involving nothing but his hand and some very inappropriate thoughts of you.

But he’s not.

He’s here. In a crowded bar, sipping cheap scotch, listening to Ellis complain about the night shift patients and their weird confidence, just… waiting.

For you.

He’d wanted to ask you yesterday if you were coming to the bar tonight—before he agreed to join—but he’d barely seen you before the end of your shift. And you didn’t even say goodbye. Which isn’t unusual, given how chaotic the ER can be, but then he’d overheard your conversation with Whitaker—and something about it made his chest feel too tight.

It wasn’t anger. Not exactly. Not jealousy, either. It was just... wrong. Not because what you said was wrong, but because he hates that it was right. That you don’t belong to him. Even if Robby calls you ‘his R2’ and Whitaker thinks you’re close because you’re his resident—none of it changes the fact that he has no real claim over you.

Which is ridiculous. He knows it.

He shouldn’t feel territorial. He shouldn’t want this. Want you. And yet, his chest still feels too tight—a slow, hot coil of frustration and longing curling up into his throat, and he hates it. Hates hearing it out loud, hates how much it matters, hates that he can’t make it not matter.

“Oh.” Ellis glances over her shoulder. “Looks like Santos and the others are here.”

Jack’s gaze flicks back to the door.

He tries not to react, not to straighten, not to square his shoulders as if he’s bracing for something—but he can already feel his composure slipping.

Santos steps in first, her head turned slightly as she talks to Whitaker, who walks in behind her. Then it’s Javadi, an unusually wide smile on her face as she looks at—

You.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Jack stops breathing.

His chest burns. His stomach flips. His hand tightens dangerously around his scotch glass.

It’s you. Of course it’s you. You’re perfect.

But then—

That dress.

God.

That dress—short, sparkling, clinging just enough to make every nerve in his body snap awake. It shimmers under the low lights as you move, and he hates himself for noticing every subtle curve, every shift of fabric, as if time itself has slowed just to torture him.

It’s all too much.

He can feel his pulse in his throat, heat burning beneath his skin, blood rushing in the one direction it really, really shouldn’t be right now. In public. In front of his coworkers.

He blinks, finally tearing his gaze away from you.

And that’s when he notices the rest of the bar. All staring. All stunned.

He hates them all.

He hates that they can even look at you. Hates that the universe allows it. Hates that they might see even a fraction of what he sees—and feel a fraction of what he feels.

And he hates, more than anything right now, that you’re not his.

“Dr. Abbot,” Robby says, appearing beside him and slinging an arm across his shoulders. “What’s your poison tonight?”

Jack lifts his drink, knuckles still white around the glass. “Scotch.”

Robby claps his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “You might not want to have too many of those.”

Then he slips past both Jack and Ellis and raises a hand to flag down the bartender.

“Alright,” Ellis says, pushing off the bar. “I’m going to go grab a seat before the table gets too crowded.”

Jack nods, but he doesn’t follow. He stays beside the bar, rigid now, eyes fixed on the group of men at a high table just a few feet from the front door. They’re muttering to each other, leaning in, voices low—but nothing about it is subtle. Their gazes are glued to you as you weave through patrons and tables to greet the rest of the PTMC crew gathered in a booth near the back.

One of them—the dumbest looking one, Jack’s already decided—slowly slides off his stool, nodding along while his friends murmur their advice.

Jack glances back at you, now standing beside McKay, sliding your arms into the leather jacket you’d been carrying. Santos grabs your wrist, tilting her head toward the bar as she starts dragging you with her.

And, like a fourteen-year-old boy with a crush, Jack’s pulse starts racing.

“Dr. Abbot,” Santos says, grinning as you both approach the bar. “Fancy seeing you somewhere other than the ER on a Saturday night.”

“I do have a life outside of work, you know,” he says dryly, lifting his drink and looking anywhere but at you.

“Like playing bingo at the senior centre?” Santos asks, resting both forearms on the bar.

You step up on her other side, squinting at the shelves of liquor on the back wall like they’re the most interesting thing in the room.

“Bingo’s on Wednesdays,” he says mildly. “Try to keep up.”

Santos snorts, shaking her head as she reaches for the small leather-bound bar menu. But out of the corner of his eye, Jack sees your head dip—just slightly—and you try to hide a small laugh against your shoulder.

Jack feels it like a punch to the ribs.

Because you’re listening.

And apparently… you think he’s funny.

“Alright,” Santos says, lifting a hand. “I think we need some tequila over here.”

The bartender steps away from where he’d been serving farther down the bar, but his attention quickly drifts past Santos and lands on you. He leans in, resting one palm flat against the bar while he wipes down the counter with a rag that doesn’t really need wiping.

“So,” he says to you, not Santos. “What are you drinking tonight?”

Santos blinks.

“I just told you,” she says flatly. “Tequila.”

The bartender barely glances at her.

Jack’s jaw tightens.

You look briefly confused, glancing between Santos and the bartender.

“Uh—whatever she orders is fine.”

“Yeah. Tequila,” Santos repeats, slower this time.

The bartender laughs like she’s joking—and Jack sets his scotch down slowly. Carefully.

His eyes stay locked on the man now lining up four small glasses in front of you, still completely ignoring Santos. The way he’s watching you is too much. Too close. The faint curl at the corner of his mouth makes Jack want to punch the smirk right off his face.

And by the way you shift a little closer to Santos—pulling your jacket tighter around yourself—he knows you’re uncomfortable.

His hand clenches at his side.

Robby pauses as he walks past, a beer in each hand.

“Easy, tiger,” he mutters. “She can handle herself.”

“I know,” Jack says, voice low. “Doesn’t mean she has to.”

Robby gives him a look—a brief, knowing glance, somewhere between amusement and warning. “Careful.”

Jack doesn’t respond. He just turns back to you and Santos, watching as you each knock back two shots of tequila, your nose scrunching as the burn hits. And he can’t help the small twitch at the corner of his mouth, because the face you make as you set the second glass down is ridiculously cute for someone wearing a dress like that.

“Okay,” Santos says. “I need a vodka soda before I start making bad decisions.”

The bartender nods, already reaching for another glass—and before he can even ask if you’d like another drink, someone else steals your attention.

“Hey,” the guy says, stepping up beside you. “Can I get you another one?”

He leans in, just enough to be heard over the noise—but it’s still too close.

You shift slightly, angling toward him. “Oh. Uh—sure.”

Santos presses her lips together, clearly fighting a smile as she turns back to the bar, suddenly very invested in whatever the bartender is doing. The second he sets the vodka soda in front of her, she scoops it up and drops a few bills on the counter.

She lifts the drink to her lips as she turns away, pausing just long enough to glance at Jack over the rim of the glass.

Her brows lift. “You really gonna let that happen?”

Jack frowns. “What—”

But Santos is already gone, drink in hand, halfway back to the booth where everyone else is.

Where Jack should be headed too—because there’s no reason for him to stay here. No reason for him to linger, to hover, to make sure you’re okay, to stand there glaring at the guy buying you a drink like that’s going to change anything.

It’s not like he can blame him. If Jack thought he had a shot with you, he’d take it too. The difference is, Jack wouldn’t need the dress. Or the drinks. Or the crowd. He’d take that shot with you even when you’re tired and stressed out and covered in blood at the end of a bad shift in the ER. He’d take it any time. Any place.

But Jack doesn’t get that shot.

Because you’re young. You don’t have baggage. And you’re a resident—maybe not his resident, but still a resident.

It’s just too inappropriate.

Jack sets his glass back on the bar a little harder than necessary—and the bartender glances over, brows raised as if silently asking if he’d like another, but Jack just shakes his head.

His eyes flick back to you. To the way you’re smiling now—soft, not uneasy. To the way you seem to have forgotten about keeping your jacket closed, and now the idiot talking to you is looking anywhere but your face.

Then you laugh—light, easy—and something in Jack’s chest tightens again.

He looks away. He can’t keep standing here. He’s not going to stand here and watch you flirt with some idiot at the bar like he has any right to care.

With a deep breath, he forces himself to turn away and start walking back to the table.

Where he should have been five minutes ago. Where he plans on staying for the rest of the night.

Half an hour later, most of PTMC’s day shift staff are gathered in the booth, half still wearing their scrubs after coming straight from the hospital. The volume of conversation builds with the growing collection of empty glasses in the middle of the table, voices overlapping, getting louder with every round—but Jack doesn’t order another scotch. At some point, Ellis sets a beer in front of him, which he nurses until it’s too warm to enjoy.

Every now and then, he makes a point of nodding or laughing or glancing at someone across the table—pretending to follow the conversation, pretending he’s paying attention—when really, all he can focus on is you. You and your smile. And your laugh. And the way your hand settles lightly on a man’s bicep when he says something that makes you blush.

Not the same man as before, either. No—this one is new. This one swooped in when the first one excused himself to take a phone call, and now that one is back at the table with his friends, sulking.

Kind of how Jack is right now, sitting at the table with his friends. Sulking. Glaring. Plotting.

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s none of his business. But he can’t stop himself from trying to come up with an excuse to interrupt you. To get you away from those men and their lingering stares.

Not that he’s any better.

“Abbot.” Robby nudges his side. “Hungry?”

Jack blinks, finally dragging his gaze away from you to where Ellis is standing, looking expectant.

“Hm?”

“Are you hungry?” Ellis asks. “I’m going to order some wings.”

Jack frowns. “Uh—no. I’m good. Thanks.”

Ellis nods once and turns away, heading straight for the bar.

Robby huffs a quiet laugh beside him. “You might want to turn your hearing aids up, old man.”

Jack doesn’t even look at him. “Funny.”

“I’m serious,” Robby says mildly. “You’ve missed, what, three questions in the last five minutes?”

“I heard her,” Jack mutters. “I was just... thinking.”

Robby hums like he doesn’t believe that for a second.

Jack shifts, pushing his chair back as he sets his warm beer on the table. “I’m gonna hit the head.”

Robby’s brows lift, slow and knowing, his gaze flicking briefly toward the bar.

“Mm,” he says. “Sure you are.”

Jack does, in fact, turn toward the bathrooms first—mostly because he needs a second away from all the music and chatter to try and clear his head. To try and stop himself from doing what he really left the booth to do.

He locks himself in the accessible bathroom—not that he needs it, but it’s more private than the men’s—and stands in front of the vanity. He presses his palms into the porcelain sink, shifting his weight forward with a deep, steadying breath.

This is ridiculous, and he knows it.

He’s a grown man. He shouldn’t be acting like this.

This is trivial shit, for God’s sake. Jack is a vet. A seasoned ER doctor.

So why is a goddamn crush undoing him like this?

Why are you undoing him like this?

He lifts his head and stares at his reflection—jaw tight, shoulders rigid—trying to get a grip. Trying to remember that he is a grown ass man, not some idiot who can’t keep his shit together.

His gaze drifts across his face—the day-old stubble, peppered hair—then to the reflection of the bathroom behind him. The graffitied walls, covered in stickers and spray paint, a chaotic collection of late nights and inebriated thoughts. He wonders, briefly, how many people came in here intending to leave something behind.

Then he spots something scrawled in the corner of the mirror in thick black marker.

HESITATE AND SOMEONE ELSE WON’T.

Jack tilts his head.

That’s not exactly... subtle.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it?

He doesn’t hesitate.

Not in the trauma bay. Not out in the field. Not when it matters. Not when someone’s life is on the line and everyone else is waiting for someone to make the call.

So what the hell is this?

This… standing back. Watching. Letting it happen.

Like he doesn’t know what he wants. Like he hasn’t already made up his mind.

He drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head once—sharp, annoyed.

“Jesus Christ.”

It’s not caution. It’s avoidance.

With another deep breath, Jack reaches for the tap and braces his hands beneath the stream. He scrubs them together—quick and thorough—then turns off the water, grabs a paper towel, and dries his hands with more focus than necessary. He tosses the towel in the bin on his way out the door, his gaze sharpening as he scans the bar—finding you immediately.

You’re still standing where you were, maybe a few steps closer to the back of the room. There’s a new guy in front of you now, closing you in, crowding your space just enough to make Jack’s eyes narrow.

The man’s hand settles at your waist, a little lower than what could be considered innocent. And anyone else watching might think you’re okay with it—but Jack knows you. He sees the small flicker of discomfort that crosses your face, the subtle drop of your shoulder as you try to angle yourself away without seeming rude.

Good thing Jack doesn’t mind being rude.

He’s already moving before he’s fully decided to. Just a few long strides and he’s there—close enough to cut through the space between you and the guy without touching either of you, his presence alone enough to interrupt whatever the hell this is supposed to be.

He looks at you. Just you.

“Hey.”

Your head turns immediately—and the shift in your expression is instant. Relief.

“Oh—hey,” you say, a little breathless.

And then you step into him. Not too close. Not in a way that draws attention or suggests anything—but enough to make Jack’s pulse jump. Enough for him to feel your warmth and the way it settles under his skin.

“Hey, man,” the guy says, holding out a hand. “I’m Trent.”

Jack ignores him.

“You alright?” he asks you.

You nod slowly. “I am now.”

Your fingers curl into the back of his shirt, just for a second—like you didn’t even think about it. Like you just needed something solid to hold onto.

Jack goes still.

Trent clears his throat. “Sorry—uh—who are you?”

You glance at him with a tight smile. “This is my attending.”

Jack likes being called your attending.

Trent frowns. “What?”

“Remember how I said I was a doctor?”

Trent just stares at you.

“Well, Dr. Abbot is my attending,” you go on anyway. “He’s like my supervisor. I’m his resident.”

His resident.

“Right,” Trent mutters, eyeing Jack. “Cool. So—you’re a doctor?”

Jack doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay fixed on you.

“Are you hungry?” he asks. “Ellis is ordering wings—we can grab a menu.”

“Starving,” you reply, the corner of your mouth lifting slightly as you look up at him.

“Great.” His hand settles at your shoulder, firm but casual. “Let’s get back to the others.”

“Wait,” Trent says. “Are you—”

“It was nice meeting you,” you cut in, flashing him one last tight-lipped smile before Jack steers you away.

He keeps his arm around your shoulders until you’re halfway back to the booth of PTMC doctors and nurses. Only then does he pull back, clasping his hands behind his back like he needs the physical restraint.

“Thanks for that,” you murmur. “He just wouldn’t take a hint.”

Jack nods. “I noticed.”

He doesn’t look at you as he turns back toward the other end of the table, toward his seat beside Robby—because if he did, he might not be able to leave your side. From the corner of his eye, he sees Santos reach for you, already asking what happened as she pulls you into the seat between her and McKay.

And for twenty blissful minutes, Jack feels okay. The most okay he’s felt all night.

Because you’re here, at the table, talking to Santos and McKay—and not some idiot who thinks he deserves a chance with the prettiest girl in the room. In the world, according to Jack.

But only for twenty minutes—because once you finish your drink, Santos drags you back to the bar.

Another shot. Another drink. Another guy.

Jack shifts in his chair, trying to listen to whatever it is Ellis and Mateo are arguing about, but he can’t focus—not when your hand settles lightly on this new guy’s shoulder. And especially not when it slides down his bicep, flirty in a way that makes Jack want to get out of his chair.

He tells himself he’s not going to. That he shouldn’t.

But the second the lights dim and the music gets louder, he pushes out of his seat.

He finds you at the edge of the dancefloor, catching your wrist before you can disappear into the crowd.

“Hey,” he says, voice raised over the music.

Your head whips around, your brows lifting slightly in that soft, expectant way—like you’re waiting for him to say whatever it is that’s so important he had to stop you right here.

Jack clears his throat. “Have you been drinking water?”

You frown. “Um. Not really.”

“You should really drink some water,” he says, tipping his head toward the bar.

You hesitate, glancing back over your shoulder at the man waiting for you to follow him into the crowd.

Then you look back at Jack.

“Uh, yeah. Okay. Water.”

He knows he shouldn’t have done it. He knows it was stupid and petty and jealousy-driven—but he can’t help the flicker of satisfaction when you follow him to the end of the bar with the self-serve water tower.

The music is too loud for conversation—and even if it wasn’t, he’s not sure what he’d say. Not when you’re looking at him like this. A little drunk. A little curious. Your brows drawn, your skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, your lips wet from the water.

God. This has the be the finest form of torture.

Because here you are—so young and so sweet, so trusting in Jack that he’s just trying to look after you, when all he can think about is the fact that you’re not his. That they think you’re fair game. That every man in this room thinks he has a chance.

And the fact that he’s not going to let them anywhere near you.

-

The third time Jack Abbot appears at your side, he catches your elbow just as you’re about to step out the door with a man named Leo. Not to leave the bar—just for some air—but then Jack says something about Mateo buying a round of shots and guides you back inside.

You don’t mind. Not really. Especially not when a free drink is involved.

So you line up beside your coworkers and sink another shot of tequila with a grimace before Santos drags you back to the dancefloor.

The fourth time Jack Abbot intercepts you, you’re just about to start dancing with a handsome stranger Santos accidentally made you bump into—but before you can even take the man’s hand, Jack pulls you away, insisting you take a seat for a minute and drink more water.

Which, fine. Whatever.

But by the fifth interruption, you’re starting to notice a pattern.

And you’re getting a little annoyed.

“Oh my God,” Santos says, her eyes going wide as the opening notes to ABBA’s Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! start blaring through the speakers. “We have to dance. Come on!”

You barely have time to scoop your drink up off the bar before she’s dragging you onto the dancefloor—into the throng of warm bodies all moving to the beat beneath the single, sparkling disco ball.

The music pulses through the floor beneath your feet, the bass thrumming in your chest as Santos drags you deeper into the crowd. Somewhere between Mateo’s round of shots and your tenth song on the dancefloor, your jacket disappeared—and now your dress catches the light with every movement, glittering under the shifting colours as bodies press in from all sides.

The bar is still pretty full, even if the PTMC booth has already lost a few soldiers. There are still plenty of prospects—plenty of strangers who might offer to take you home and make you forget all about Jack Abbot. Which is still very much the plan.

If only the man himself would stop interrupting every interaction like he’s doing you a favour.

At some point during the second—or maybe third—chorus, Santos subtly steps away and a guy ends up in front of you. You’re not even entirely sure how. One second you’re dancing and screaming the lyrics, the next he’s there—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, his hands hovering like he’s trying to decide where to put them.

You let it happen. Because this is what you want, right?

This is the plan.

He leans in and says something you don’t quite catch over the music, but you laugh anyway—more out of obligation than anything else.

Then his attention shifts.

His eyes flick past you. And just like that—he falters.

It’s subtle, but you feel it. The hesitation. The way his body pulls back a fraction, like something just snapped him out of it.

“Uh—actually,” he mutters, already stepping away. “I—yeah. Sorry.”

Then he’s gone.

You blink, frowning slightly as you glance over your shoulder and—

Of course.

Jack Abbot, standing just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, drink in hand, eyes locked on you with a look that makes your stomach drop.

Not angry. Not exactly.

But intense. Sharp. Focused in a way that feels… deliberate.

You stare at him for a second—frustration flickering across your face—then turn back to Santos, who is still dancing with her vodka soda lifted in the air.

You lean in, raising your voice just enough to be heard over the music. “Your plan isn’t working!”

She turns to face you, frowning. “What do you mean it’s not working?”

You stare at her. “The plan to get me laid? It’s not working.”

“Why not?”

You huff out a laugh, incredulous.

“Because of him,” you say, nodding toward Jack. “Because I let him save me from one bad interaction and now he’s just—hovering. Interrupting. Scaring people off.”

Santos’ mouth twitches.

“I think he thinks he’s being helpful,” you add, shaking your head. “Like he’s doing me a favour or something, but—God, I’m never going to get a stranger to take me home with a hundred-and-ninety-pound war vet glaring over my shoulder every five minutes.”

Santos just looks at you for a second—then smiles. Slow. Knowing.

“And what part of my plan isn’t working?”

You frown. “Are you even listening to me?”

“I said I was going to get you laid,” she says, lifting her drink to her lips. “I never said anything about going home with a stranger.”

It doesn’t land straight away.

You blink at her, still frowning as you try to follow the logic—because that doesn’t make sense, that’s not the plan. If you’re not going home with a stranger, then who—

And then it clicks.

Your stomach drops.

“Wait—Santos,” you start, eyes widening. “You don’t mean—”

Santos just looks at you over the rim of her glass. Calm. Patient. Smiling faintly, like she’s been waiting for this exact moment all night.

You glance toward the side of the dancefloor again—to the man still focused on you in a way that feels far too intentional now. Arms folded, jaw set. He doesn’t even pretend to look away when you meet his stare.

“Actually,” Santos says, her hand closing around your wrist. “I think my plan is working perfectly. Now, come on—” she nods toward the booth where everyone else is, “let’s play a game.”

A game?

Before you can argue or even question it, Santos is dragging you off the dancefloor toward the booth at the back of the bar. The thrum of the music dulls the further you get from the crowd, and by the time you both slide into empty seats at the table, you no longer feel like you need to yell just to be heard.

The PTMC crew has thinned since you were last sitting here. Robby, Dana, and Donnie are gone, and McKay is holding her purse in her lap like she’d been trying to leave when Mateo cornered her with another rant about how no patient actually seems to understand the pain scale.

“Alright,” Santos announces, picking up someone’s abandoned drink and taking a sip like she owns it, “we’re playing a game.”

Whitaker leans forward. “A game?”

“Yes, Huckleberry. A game.” Santos glances around the table with a lazy half-smile. “It’s called Never Have I Ever.”

Mateo snorts. “That’s a middle school sleepover game.”

“Great,” Santos replies. “Then it should be easy for you.”

There’s a ripple of laughter around the table, but no one else seems to object.

“Can I start?” Mohan pipes up beside Santos. “I’ve got a good one.”

Santos nods. “Be my guest.”

You’re not entirely sure when Jack rejoined the table, since he’d been at the edge of the dancefloor just a few minutes ago, but now you’re suddenly very aware of his presence across from you. Like the few people that called it a night have unintentionally left a smaller, more intimate group behind—and now Jack Abbot is almost directly across from you while you play one of the most notorious, tension-raising middle school games of all time.

“Okay,” Mohan says, sitting up a little straighter. “Never have I ever… called in sick when I wasn’t actually sick.”

McKay laughs. Mateo groans. Almost everyone at the table lifts their drinks.

“Really?” Santos says. “That was your good one?”

Mohan shrugs. “I thought—”

“Never mind,” Santos cuts her off. “My turn.”

Her gaze moves slowly around the table before landing on you, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly.

“Never have I ever,” she starts slowly, “fantasised about someone else sitting at this table.”

Your pulse jumps.

McKay snorts.

Mateo leans forward. “Like, intentionally. Or…?”

Whitaker frowns. “You’ve accidentally fantasised about someone here?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes the wrong people pop up, you know?”

Santos rolls her eyes. “Oh my God. Whatever. Intentional or not.”

Mateo nods once and lifts his drink. Javadi sinks lower in her chair as she lifts hers—and you try not to look around at the rest of the table as you bring your own up to your lips.

Beside you, McKay drops her purse to the ground and straightens, clearly invested now.

“Alright, I’ve got one,” she says, grinning. “Never have I ever… faked it.”

Javadi chokes, Santos snorts, and across from you, Jack huffs out a quiet laugh.

“Never?” Ellis asks, eyes wide. “So you always—”

“Oh, God, no,” McKay laughs. “Definitely not. I just refuse to fake it.”

Laughter moves through the table again, a little louder this time, and everyone takes a second to decide whether or not to raise their drinks.

You lift yours slowly, looking anywhere but at Jack.

“Okay, my turn,” Ellis announces, shifting in her seat. “Never have I ever… hooked up with someone at work.”

The table reacts around you, a mix of laughter and quiet protest, but it all blurs at the edges when you finally glance up—because Jack is already looking at you.

Not surprised. Not amused.

Just… watching.

He doesn’t laugh or say anything. He just lifts his drink, slow and deliberate.

And something sharp twists in your chest.

“What’ve you got, Langdon?” McKay asks, nodding at him across the table.

Langdon strokes his chin thoughtfully for a moment—then sighs.

“Alright, I already know I’m going to get shit for this, but—” He clears his throat. “Never have I ever… had sex in public.”

McKay laughs, loudly, and lifts her drink to her lips without hesitation. Ellis and Santos drink too, while Mohan laughs into her hand and Javadi sinks even lower in her chair.

Across from you, Jack sips his drink again like it’s nothing.

And that sharp twist in your chest doesn’t ease.

Because of course he has. Of course there are other people. Other women.

And you—

You catch Santos’ gaze from the other end of the table—sharp, knowing, daring.

Your grip tightens slightly around your glass.

And before you can talk yourself out of it—

“Okay, my turn,” you say lightly, sitting up a little straighter.

Everyone turns to you, but you keep your eyes fixed on your glass.

“Never have I ever,” you say slowly, “…finished during sex.”

For a second—nothing.

Then the table erupts.

“What—no—” Mateo is already laughing, leaning forward like he thinks you’re joking. “You’re kidding.”

Javadi chokes on her drink, coughing as she turns toward you. “Wait, seriously?”

“Oh my God,” McKay says, half-laughing, half-staring at you like she’s trying to figure out if you’re lying.

Langdon huffs out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Well… that’s unfortunate.”

Whitaker just blinks at you, caught somewhere between surprised and confused, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that information.

Santos doesn’t say anything. She just leans back in her seat, watching you over the rim of her glass with a slow, satisfied smile.

And across from you—

Jack just goes still.

Completely still.

His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes does—sharp, dark, focused in a way that makes your stomach flip.

It takes you a minute to remember how to move. How to breathe. How to laugh and sip your drink and keep playing the game that doesn’t stop just because it feels like your heart did.

Eventually, everyone eases off the third-degree on your embarrassingly real confession, and Mateo pipes up next with something ridiculous that makes the table groan. Then Javadi comes out with something surprisingly rebellious—and blushes hard when Mateo flashes her a wink.

And so it goes on.

You know it does.

You can hear it—voices overlapping, laughter breaking out again, someone arguing over what counts, someone else swearing they’re being misrepresented—but it all feels… distant.

Like it’s happening a few steps away from you instead of right here at the table. Because now, all you can focus on is Jack. On the way he’s hardly moved. Hardly spoken. Hardly looked away from you.

At some point, he mutters his own confession with a small smirk and everyone laughs—but you don’t catch the words. You’re too aware of everything else to hear them. Too aware of your pulse pounding in your ears, the thrum of the music beneath your feet, the way Jack’s jaw ticks every time you glance back at him.

Another round starts. Then another.

Someone groans. Someone laughs too loud. Santos says something that earns a chorus of reactions—but it all slips past you, unimportant, forgettable.

Time stretches. Blurs.

Your drink empties, refills, empties again.

People shift in their seats. Someone stands. Someone leaves.

Then suddenly—

“You ready?”

You blink.

Santos is standing beside you, brows raised.

“Ready?” you echo.

She nods toward the door. “Time to go. Most of us have to work tomorrow.”

You glance around at the empty table. “Oh.”

Santos is already halfway to the door by the time you gather your things and catch up to her. You’re still pulling your jacket on as you step outside, bracing against the cool night air that nips at every inch of exposed skin—which, in this dress, is a lot of skin.

“The Uber’s just around the corner,” Whitaker says.

“Great,” Mohan mutters, hugging her jacket tighter. “I’m freezing.”

You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or just the heat lingering beneath your skin from the way Jack had been watching you earlier, but you’re not nearly as cold as you should be.

“You sure you don’t mind if I stay over tonight?” Javadi asks, glancing between Santos and Whitaker.

Santos shrugs. “As long as you don’t mind the couch—and Dr. Shamsi isn’t going to have us arrested for kidnapping.”

Javadi lets out an awkward laugh. “Uh—no. It’s totally fine. I told my dad.”

“Are you working tomorrow?” Whitaker asks.

Javadi shakes her head. “Day off. You?”

Whitaker sighs. “Yeah.”

“So am I,” Santos adds. “And if I don’t get at least five hours sleep, I cannot be responsible for other people’s lives.”

“That’s reassuring,” Jack mutters, almost startling you as he steps out of the bar.

He buries his hands in his pockets, hardly sparing you a glance as he steps closer to the group. There’s a faint hitch in his step—something you recognise from the waning hours of a night shift, when he’s been on his feet for too long and starts to favour one leg.

“This is us,” Whitaker announces, nodding toward the car pulling up at the curb.

Mohan hurries forward first, yanking the door open and climbing into the back seat—and Javadi is next, flashing you a smile before she ducks in beside her. You step forward—then hesitate. Whitaker is already holding the front passenger door open, and Santos is standing at the curb, about to join the others in the back.

“Wait.” Your pulse jumps. “There’s too many—”

“You’re with Dr. Abbot,” Santos says lightly, her mouth twitching like she’s trying not to smile.

Your stomach drops.

“I—I’m what?”

Santos shrugs. “Javadi’s staying over and Mohan’s place is on the way to ours. Just makes sense.”

Then she climbs into the car, shuts the door, and rolls the window down.

“See you tomorrow!”

There’s a chorus of goodbyes from the others before the car pulls away from the curb—and the cool, quiet night settles in too quickly. The only sound is the dull thrum of music from the bar, and the pounding of your pulse in your ears.

For a second, you don’t turn around. You can’t. Not now that you’re alone with him.

Then—

“I’m this way,” he says, voice low and rough and maddeningly hot.

You nod, but don’t dare look at him as you start following the line of parked cars up the street.

The night air feels sharper now, cooler the further you get from the bar—and it makes you pull into yourself, arms folded tightly while your jacket barely does anything to help.

Jack keeps an easy pace beside you, not crowding you, not touching you, but close enough that you’re aware of him anyway. Of the space he takes up at your side. Of the way he adjusts slightly so you’re walking on the inside of the path, further from the curb, without making a thing of it.

Neither of you says anything.

It’s not awkward. It’s just… quiet in a way that feels heavy, like the silence is holding onto everything that happened inside instead of letting it go.

Your heels click unevenly against the pavement, catching slightly every few steps, and you’re suddenly, painfully aware of everything—the way your dress shifts as you move, the cool air against your skin, the way your pulse hasn’t quite settled.

You feel too sober. Too aware.

When his car finally comes into view, he moves ahead of you just slightly—just enough to reach the passenger door first and hold it open.

God. He’s so annoyingly considerate.

You give him a small, tight smile before climbing into the passenger seat.

The car is still warm, still holding onto the heat from earlier in the day, and it smells like him in a way that’s subtle but unmistakable—clean, familiar, something faintly sharp beneath it that you can’t quite place but instantly recognise. The seat gives slightly beneath you, softer than you expect, and for a second you just sit there, hands hovering like you’re not entirely sure where to put them.

It’s his.

All of it.

The way everything is exactly where it should be, nothing out of place. The faint scuff on the console. A pair of sunglasses tucked neatly into the centre compartment. His backpack thrown into the back seat like he’d discarded it in a hurry and never thought about it again.

The sound of the driver’s side door opening almost startles you.

You drop your hands into your lap, shifting slightly and smoothing your dress down over your thighs like that might ground you somehow.

The car immediately feels smaller when Jack climbs in. More intimate. Closer in a way that’s almost stifling.

You keep your eyes fixed out the windshield.

Waiting.

For the engine to start. For the car to move.

But nothing happens.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, settling into every inch of the space between you.

And then—

“You can’t say shit like that around me.”

You blink, finally turning toward him—and regretting it immediately. He’s so irritatingly handsome, so annoyingly gorgeous in a way that makes you want to be stupid and reckless and climb across the console into his lap.

“Say what?” you ask, your voice embarrassingly thin.

He looks at you—not fully, just turning his head slightly.

“You know what,” he says, his voice low and rough with something that sounds a little too close to control slipping.

And you do.

You know exactly what he means.

But before you can say anything else, he turns the key and the engine rumbles to life. The radio crackles a little before some late-night news station fills the silence—and he doesn’t move to turn it off, doesn’t even turn it down. He just drives.

The radio reporter’s voice hums through the car like white noise, talking about something you’re not really listening to as you try to focus on keeping your breathing even.

You can still hear his voice.

You can’t say shit like that around me.

The way he said it. Low. Controlled. Like it cost him something to keep it that way.

Your fingers shift slightly in your lap, smoothing over the fabric of your dress again without thinking, and your mind starts turning his words over before you can stop it—pulling at them, testing them, trying to make them mean something that makes sense.

Because what does that even mean?

You glance at him, quick, like you might catch something you missed—but he’s focused on the road, jaw set, one hand loose on the wheel like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just change everything with eight little words.

You look away again.

No. He didn’t mean it like that.

He’s just—he’s your attending. He’s responsible. Of course he’d say something. Of course he’d—

Except he didn’t say it like that.

Your stomach tightens as your thoughts circle back, slower this time, more deliberate.

The way he kept pulling you away from people tonight. The way he’d been watching you. The way he didn’t laugh, didn’t joke, didn’t let it go.

The way he said it.

Around me.

Not here. Not in front of people.

Around me.

Your breath catches slightly, and you shift in your seat, suddenly very aware of the space between you—of how close he is, of how easy it would be to just turn your head, lean in and—

No.

No, that’s not—

You swallow, gaze fixed stubbornly ahead.

You’re just reading into it. You have to be.

Because the alternative—

Your pulse jumps.

God. The alternative is too much to even consider.

But the thought lingers anyway.

It settles in the back of your mind, quieter now, but heavier—pulling at everything he said, everything he did, everything you might have missed until now. The words circle back, sharper this time—until—

The car stops—and you blink.

For a moment, you don’t move. You can’t.

Then Jack clears his throat.

“Oh—uh—thanks,” you mutter, reaching for your seatbelt buckle.

He nods once. “Anytime.”

You push your door open before you can think too hard about it, stepping out into the cool night air that hits a little harder this time. Your heart is still beating in your throat, your pulse still too loud, your thoughts are still circling those eight words—eight little words that feel like they weigh far more than they should.

You hesitate—one hand on the door, the other gripping your keys in your jacket pocket.

God.

This is stupid.

This is reckless.

This is—

“Do you—” You clear your throat, the words catching slightly before you force them out. “Do you want to come up?”

He stares at you for a second, then lets out a short, disbelieving breath, like he’s not quite sure he heard you right.

“You can’t be serious.”

Heat rushes up your neck, quick and unwelcome, and for a second you just stand there, wishing you could take it back—rewind a few seconds and keep your mouth shut.

What the hell were you thinking?

“Yeah,” you say, a little too quickly. “No, that was—that was stupid.”

You turn away before he can say anything else, pushing the door shut harder than you mean to as you step back onto the sidewalk. You don’t look back. You refuse to. You just keep walking toward the lobby door, drawing your keys from your pocket and fumbling through them to find the right one.

It takes longer than it should, but eventually you find the lobby key and wriggle it into the lock.

This door has never been your friend. It’s old, a little rusted, and the lock has always been janky—but now your hands are shaking, and this stupid old door seems to think that’s funny, because it won’t budge.

You jiggle the key and try again, but nothing changes.

Then—

“Here.”

His voice is low. Close.

Your hand stills as he steps in behind you, not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back—the solid line of his chest just shy of pressing into you as he reaches past your shoulder.

His fingers brush yours as he takes the key—and the lock turns easily this time.

Of course it does. Traitorous fucking door.

His arm lingers there for a second longer than it needs to—then he pushes the door open.

You don’t even glance at him as you step inside, already turning back to grab your key before the door swings shut—but he’s still holding it, barely a step behind you.

He tilts his head slightly, nodding toward the lobby. “Go.”

It’s quiet. Controlled.

Not a suggestion.

Your breath catches, just for a second, and you hesitate—long enough to feel it, whatever this is, tightening between you—

Then you turn and keep walking.

And he follows.

He follows you across the lobby, up the fire stairs, down the corridor, all the way to your apartment door. He stands a little closer than necessary as you unlock it—almost like he doesn’t think you know how doors work now—but the key turns smoothly this time.

You push the door open and step inside.

The apartment is quiet, dim, and you shrug out of your jacket without thinking. You can feel him watching you as you drape it over the arm of the sofa, and it’s a little... thrilling. Dangerous. Because Jack Abbot is in your goddamn apartment right now, looking at you like he’s a man on the edge—

And you’re daring him to jump.

“Drink?” you offer, keeping your voice light—innocent.

He clears his throat. “Water, please.”

You can’t help the small smirk on your lips as you brush past him, a little closer than necessary.

“So polite,” you murmur.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t shift—but you can feel him there, tense just beneath the surface.

You open the fridge and bend over to grab a bottle of water, letting your dress ride up the backs of your thighs in a way that’s totally unnecessary. Jack clears his throat again, just a little too sharp, and when you glance back toward him, he’s turned away completely.

You press your lips together to keep from smiling too wide as you straighten again.

“Here,” you say, stepping toward him and holding the water out.

He turns hesitantly, taking it. “Thank you.”

Your eyes catch his, a slow smile tugging at your lips before you bite the corner gently, just enough for him to notice. He looks away quickly, jaw tightening as he focuses on uncapping the water bottle.

You brush past him again, still a little too close, and move toward the sofa, dropping onto it and leaning forward to take off your shoes.

Jack takes a long swig of water, then clears his throat for the third time.

“Are you working tomorrow?” he asks.

You glance up, still leaned forward, and it’s hard not to notice the way his eyes dip from your face.

“Isn’t that something you should already know?”

The corner of his mouth twitches, like he can’t quite help himself.

“You’re impossible. You know that?”

Heat rushes up your neck at the way he says it—short, sharp, loaded—and you bite back a grin, letting your eyes glint just a little as you straighten.

“Am I?” you murmur, tilting your head just slightly. “Only one way to find out.”

He freezes for a second, shoulders tight, hand curling slightly around the water bottle—and it crackles softly under his grip. His breath hitches, just barely.

“I should go,” he mutters, voice low and clipped.

He takes a step toward the door—and you shoot up from the sofa, heartbeat racing.

“Wait—uh—before you go,” you say, stepping toward him, “could you help me with something?”

He hesitates, turning slowly, as if every second in here is costing him something.

You move until you’re almost between him and the door, looking up at him through your lashes.

“Could you help me out of my dress?”

The second the words leave your lips, you forget how to breathe.

Jack’s jaw tightens, his shoulders coiling ever so slightly. His fingers twitch around the bottle, just a whisper of movement, as if holding himself together by force. His eyes catch yours, dark and sharp, taking in the faint scrunch between your brows, the small pout on your lips, the way you’re offering him something he never thought he’d be allowed to have.

He nods once—careful, controlled—but the tension radiating off him is almost unbearable.

Your stomach flips.

Without a word, you turn, sweeping your hair out of the way while your pulse hammers in your ears.

You feel him shift, his warmth, and the ghost of his touch at the nape of your neck. And that first, tiny contact sends a shock straight through you—hot, sharp, impossible to ignore.

He pauses, just a heartbeat, and you catch the tiniest hitch in his breath.

Then he moves again, slow, deliberate, dragging the zipper down almost painfully slow, his knuckles grazing your skin—warm, rough, controlled, just enough to make your heart pound in your throat.

“How do you do it?” you whisper, voice catching slightly. “How are you always so… unaffected by everything?”

“Unaffected?” he murmurs, almost tasting the word, as if testing it against himself.

His knuckles brush the small of your back, pausing where the zipper ends—but he doesn’t stop. His fingertips graze your skin, deliberate, teasing, tracing the line of your spine upward again, slow enough that it drags your breath with it, sharp enough that heat blooms through every nerve.

“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice low and rough, almost breaking, “how much you affect me.”

Your breath catches, sharp and sudden. Everything in your chest pulls tight, something hot and dizzying blooming low as his words sink in.

You turn before you can stop yourself—and he’s closer now. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the shift of his breath, the space between you narrowing into something fragile and dangerous.

For a second, neither of you move.

And then his hand finds your neck—

Not rough, not rushed—just firm enough to anchor you there, thumb pressing under your jaw like he needs to feel that this is real, that you’re real. His other hand tightens where it still holds the loosened fabric of your dress at your back, fingers curling into it like restraint is slipping through his grip.

He hesitates, just for a breath. Like he’s giving himself one last chance to walk away.

Then he kisses you.

It’s not tentative. There’s nothing careful about it. It lands like something he’s been holding back for too long, all that control finally snapping under the weight of you standing here, asking for him, looking at him like that.

His mouth is warm and certain against yours, a sharp inhale breaking through you as you lean into him without thinking, your hands finding him just as quickly—his stomach, his chest—anything to hold onto as the world tilts. He makes a low sound, barely there, but you feel it more than you hear it, the vibration settling deep in your chest as his grip tightens.

You melt before you can stop yourself.

Your head tilts back, giving him more, and he takes it immediately, deepening the kiss with that same quiet intensity that steals the breath right out of you. His thumb shifts along your jaw, not lingering, just enough to guide you where he wants you, and the control of it—God, the way he still tries to control it after everything, after all that restraint—makes something in your stomach flip hard.

His hand at your back slips under the loosened zipper, fingers pressing into your bare skin now, warm and steady, but there’s tension in it. You can feel it in the way his grip flexes, like he’s still trying—still—to hold the line even as he pulls you closer.

It doesn’t work.

Not when you press into him like this, not when your fingers curl tighter in his shirt, not when you kiss him back without hesitation, without thinking about consequences or lines or anything except how he feels against you.

He exhales against your mouth, sharp, like you’ve just undone him, and for a second the kiss falters—not because he’s pulling away, but because he’s trying to.

You feel it. The conflict. The split second where he almost stops.

Your hand slides up to his jaw, fingers catching there, holding him in place before he can even try.

“Don’t,” you whisper, barely pulling back, your lips brushing his as you speak.

And something in him gives.

You see it in the way his eyes darken, in the way his hand tightens at your back, pulling you flush against him this time, the last inch of space gone like it was never allowed to exist in the first place.

When he kisses you again, it’s deeper.

Less restrained.

Like he’s finally stopped pretending this isn’t exactly what he wants.

It’s different now—harder, hungrier, like something in him has shifted for good. His hand slides from your jaw to your waist, gripping tight as he steps into you, crowding you back without breaking the kiss, without giving you a second to think.

Your back meets the door with a soft thud.

He doesn’t stop.

If anything, it only makes him sharper, more certain, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of urgency that steals the air right out of your lungs. You barely get a breath before he takes it again, and you let him—God, you let him—tilting into him, giving him everything he reaches for.

His hand tightens at your waist, then slips lower, dragging you flush against him again, like he needs to feel exactly how close he can get before he loses control completely.

And you can feel it—how close he is.

It’s in the way his grip flexes, in the way his breath turns uneven against your mouth, in the way the kiss keeps deepening like he can’t quite stop himself from taking more.

Your fingers find his shirt again, pulling him closer, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to drag in a breath, his forehead almost brushing yours, like he’s trying—one last time—to get a handle on this.

He doesn’t.

His hands are on you again, immediate, sliding up your sides, pushing the straps of your dress from your shoulders in one smooth, decisive motion. The fabric gives easily, slipping under his hands like it was never meant to stay there in the first place—and it falls to the floor, pooling at your feet.

His breath catches, and his gaze drops—just for a second, but it’s enough.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice low, rough—nothing steady about it now.

You meet his eyes, chest rising and falling fast, heat still sparking under your skin.

“Bedroom,” you murmur.

For a second, he just looks at you.

Something in his expression shifts—tightens—like that word landed exactly where it shouldn’t. His gaze searches yours for a moment, checking for hesitation, for doubt.

But he doesn’t find any.

He nods once—and you turn, already moving toward the bedroom. You can feel him right behind you, close enough that his hand finds your waist again before you’ve even taken two steps, steady, grounding, like he’s not about to let you get too far ahead of him.

It’s barely a walk.

More like being guided—pulled—across the apartment toward your room, your pulse loud in your ears, every step charged with the knowledge of what you’ve just set in motion.

The door barely makes it closed before he’s on you again.

Not rushed—never rushed—but certain, like the decision has already been made and there’s no point pretending otherwise. His hands find you first, steady at your waist, turning you back toward him before you can take another step into the room.

Your breath catches as you look up at him. There’s something in his expression you’ve never seen before. It’s not soft, not gentle—just stripped of whatever distance he’d been holding onto all night.

Gone.

His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, and this time there’s nothing in the way of it—nothing to hide behind, nothing to buffer it—and the heat in it settles low in your stomach, heavy and immediate.

“Still want this?” he asks, voice rough, quieter now—but it lands heavier here.

You don’t answer. You just step into him.

And it’s all the permission he needs.

His hand tightens at your waist as he pulls you back into him, and the kiss this time is slower, deeper in a way that feels intentional—like he’s choosing it, not chasing it. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of controlled hunger, every shift measured, every breath deliberate, like he’s letting himself feel it fully instead of fighting it.

Your fingers curl into his shirt, and he exhales against your mouth, something unsteady finally breaking through.

His grip shifts—firmer now—guiding you back a step, then another, not hurried, not careless, but unrelenting all the same. You feel the edge of the bed behind your knees before you fully register moving at all, your focus too caught in the way he’s kissing you, the way his hand anchors you like he’s not about to let this get away from him.

His mouth breaks from yours just long enough to draw in a breath, his forehead pressing briefly to yours.

Not hesitation. Control.

Or what little he has left of it.

“Last chance,” he murmurs, quieter now.

You drop back onto the bed, gaze locked on his, breath still uneven.

“I’m not the one holding back.”

You barely have time to move up the mattress before he’s there, crowding over you, hands braced on either side as he follows you down. The mattress dips under his weight, the space between you gone in an instant—replaced by the solid heat of him, the firm press of his hips against yours.

His mouth finds yours again, hot and insistent, teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to pull a soft sound from you—but it’s different now. Slower. Not restrained, but deliberate. Curious, almost.

Like he’s learning you.

The way you react. The way you move under him. The way you give.

Your hands slide up his chest, fingertips digging in as heat coils low in your stomach—but they don’t stay there long. He shifts his weight slightly, steady, controlled, one hand lifting off the mattress to catch your wrist.

His fingers close around it—not tight, not forceful—just certain, guiding.

He lifts your hand above your head.

“Jack,” you whisper. “I—”

He shushes you.

“Let me do this, okay?” His voice is rough, thick with something unsteady beneath it—something that makes your stomach knot. “I’ve got you.”

And you believe him.

His hand slides down your body, slow and sure, brushing over your chest, your waist, the curve of your hip—each touch deliberate, like he’s taking his time even now, even like this. His fingers hook at the inside of your thigh, grip firm as he nudges your leg wider.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”

The words go straight through you.

You can already feel the damp heat between your legs, the slick fabric pressed close, but the way he says it—the way his voice drops—makes your hips shift up instinctively, chasing something you can’t quite reach.

Chasing him.

And he notices. Of course he does.

You only just catch the faint lift at the corner of his mouth before his lips are back on yours, swallowing the breath from you as your back arches, pressing yourself up into him without thinking. Your fingers curl into the sheets above your head, tension pulling tight through your body as everything narrows down to where he’s touching you—where he isn’t touching you.

His hand drags back up your thigh, slower this time. Intentional. And when his fingers finally press against you through the thin fabric, you gasp.

He takes the sound from you immediately, mouth moving against yours, deeper now, like he’s feeding off it, like every reaction just pushes him further. His fingers start to move—slow, circling, testing—while his mouth leaves yours to trail along your jaw, your cheek, the side of your neck.

With your mouth free, the sounds slip out before you can stop them.

Soft. Unsteady. Needy.

And he loves it.

You feel it in the way his breath shifts, in the way his grip tightens just slightly, in the way his hips rock—slow, controlled, a subtle pressure of denim that’s more suggestion than friction.

“Jack—” your voice catches, breaking on his name. “Please. I want—”

“Tell me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your shoulder, voice low and coaxing.

“More,” you manage, breath shaking. “Need more.”

He groans against your skin, the sound low and rough, his body settling heavier over yours like any space between you is something he can’t stand.

Then his hand shifts.

Your breath catches as his fingers slide beneath the damp fabric, dragging through your wet heat in one slow, deliberate stroke.

Your whole body jolts. “Fuck—Jack—”

The reaction pulls something from him—a sharp inhale against your neck, his mouth pressing there like he needs to ground himself for a second before he loses it completely.

You’ve never felt like this before. Never this hot, this open, this aware of every inch of your own body.

And you’ve never wanted anyone like this before.

“God,” he murmurs, voice thick, lips tracing back up your throat. “You’re so wet for me, sweetheart.”

All you can do is nod, whimpering softly, your hips lifting without permission, chasing him, asking for more without the words—and he gives it to you. Of course he does.

His finger slides inside you, slow at first, letting you feel it—the stretch, the heat—before he pushes deeper, and the sound that breaks from you is swallowed instantly as his mouth finds yours again, your back arching beneath him as he starts to move. Not fast. Never fast. He sets a rhythm instead, steady and controlled, curling his finger just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your hips move against him again.

And when you press into it, when your body starts to chase that feeling properly, he adds another finger, the stretch pulling a broken sound from your throat as your hands tighten in the sheets and your body rolls beneath him, helpless to it now, completely caught in the slow, deliberate way he works you open.

Every movement is intentional. Every curl hits deeper, sharper, building something tight and aching low in your stomach that makes your whole body tremble, your breath coming out in uneven gasps as you press into his hand, chasing, needing.

Then his thumb finds your clit, and the contact is immediate—devastating.

You cry out, sharp and breathless, your whole body tightening as he starts slow, deliberate circles that send heat spiralling through you, your hips lifting again, desperate now, unable to stay still under him.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice rough, barely steady. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

You can’t answer—not when his mouth is everywhere, your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he can’t decide where he wants you most before he finds your lips again, and this time the kiss is different again. Hungrier. Messier. His tongue presses into your mouth just as his fingers push deeper, his thumb working harder, more deliberate now, and the moan that tears from you is swallowed whole.

“Please,” you whimper against his mouth, breath breaking. “Please, I—need you.”

He lifts his head, dark eyes searching yours, brows pulling together just slightly.

“You sure?”

You stare at him, trying not to whimper as your whole body clenches around his stilled fingers, the sudden stillness almost worse than anything he was doing before.

“Never have I ever finished during sex, remember?” you manage, breathless but steady enough to land. “You gonna fix that, or what?”

Something feral flickers across his face.

And then it’s gone—replaced by something heavier. Something decided.

He kisses you again before you can catch your breath, all teeth and tongue, the restraint he’s been clinging to snapping clean in half as he groans into your mouth, the sound dragged straight from his chest. You feel the loss of his fingers immediately, your body protesting it, but it’s replaced just as quickly by the slow, deliberate roll of his hips, the friction of denim against your soaked panties making you gasp against him.

“Fuck,” he breathes, like he can’t quite believe it.

He pulls back just enough to shift, bracing himself on one arm while the other moves to his belt, not rushed but far from steady now. There’s a hitch in his breath, a tension in the way his fingers work at it, shoving his jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself, and your gaze drops before you can stop it.

He’s already hard—fully, heavily—flushed and slick at the tip, and the sight of it sends a sharp pulse of heat straight through you, your mouth going dry even as your body reacts in the complete opposite way.

“Fuck—” he chokes, the word breaking out of him. “I haven’t been this hard in—” His eyes flick back up to yours, dark and molten, and whatever he was going to say changes. “—ever.”

It hits you low and deep, twisting something tight in your stomach that makes your hips shift under him without thinking. You finally let go of the sheets, your hands finding him, sliding up to wrap around his neck as you pull him back down, needing him closer, needing him everywhere.

Your legs come up around his waist, drawing him in, urging him forward, and his breath stutters as he presses in, his swollen tip dragging against the damp fabric between you. The contact is just enough to make your head fall back, a broken sound slipping from your throat as he tries—tries—to hold himself up, one arm braced, the other moving between you.

You can feel the strain in him now, the way everything is slipping in real time, in the slight shake of his arm, in the uneven rhythm of his breathing as his hand hooks into the waistband of your panties.

“I’ll buy you new ones,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough, almost distracted, like the thought barely registers before it’s gone. “Promise.”

And then the fabric gives.

The sound of it tearing—sharp, sudden—goes straight through you, your breath catching hard as he pulls the fabric out of the way, the last barrier gone in an instant.

It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

But it is.

Jack Abbot—controlled, composed, always holding the line—losing it enough to rip your panties off you?

Fuck.

He sinks into you in one steady thrust, and both of you gasp at the stretch—the sudden, overwhelming closeness, the way want crashes hot and heavy between you. Your pulse hammers in your ears, that dizzy edge of fear and urgency tangling together until all you can think is him—here, now, inside you.

For a moment, you just breathe—pant, really—eyes squeezed shut, hands locked on his shoulders as your body clenches around him, like you’re trying to keep him right there, like you never want to let him go. He drops his head to your neck, breath hot against your damp skin, and you feel the way it shakes out of him.

“You—fuck—you’re so tight, sweetheart,” he pants, voice rough and muffled where his mouth presses into you. “I’m not gonna last—”

“Then don’t,” you murmur, your voice softer but no less certain. “Just fuck me. Please, Jack.”

A groan tears out of him, low and wrecked, and you feel it through his chest as he shifts above you, hips pulling back, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that makes your stomach coil tight, sparks chasing across your skin. You suck in a sharp breath, your grip tightening on him—and before you can brace, he drives forward again, deeper this time.

“Fuck—” you cry out, the sound breaking loose without warning. “Jack—”

He doesn’t stop. His hips roll back again, slower now, controlled in a way that almost makes it worse, his head lifting so he can look at you, really look at you, like he’s checking, like he needs to see it.

“You ready, sweetheart?” he asks, voice low, rough, barely holding together.

The anticipation coils tighter in your chest, sharp and electric, lighting up every nerve in your body until it almost hurts.

“Mhm,” you manage, breath unsteady, nodding as your arms wind tighter around his neck, pulling him closer, needing him closer, like it still isn’t enough.

For a second—just a second—you’re distracted by something stupid, the feel of his shirt between you, the barrier of it, the way you want it gone, want skin on skin, want to see him, feel him, all of him—

And then he thrusts forward again. Harder again. And the thought disappears completely.

Your body jolts beneath him, every movement knocking the breath from your lungs, and the sound that leaves you is loud—too loud—echoing back off the walls in a way that would make you self-conscious any other time.

But not now.

Right now, you don’t care who hears. Not when it feels like this.

His name spills from your lips in broken gasps, tangled with raw cries, and he answers with a rough sound against your shoulder, biting it back as his hips drive into you at a relentless pace. He’s barely holding himself up now, his weight pressing into you in a way that feels like too much and somehow still not enough, the strain in him obvious in every uneven breath, every sharp exhale against your skin.

His hand drags down your side, back to your thigh, fingers digging in as he pushes your leg wider, and the shift—small as it is—hits something deeper, sharper, your vision flashing white as your head tips back and the knot in your belly pulls tight. His grip slides to your hip, anchoring you there, holding you in place so every thrust lands exactly where it needs to, deep and unrelenting, the sound of it filling the room, wet and rhythmic and impossible to ignore beneath the broken sounds you’re both making.

And then his hand moves between you.

You feel it immediately—the change, the focus—as his fingers find your clit in the slick mess between your bodies, steady despite everything else, despite the way he’s losing himself in every way. Your back arches, breath catching sharp as his touch turns deliberate, circling, pressing, coaxing, sending jolts of sensation straight through you until it’s too much, not enough, everything all at once.

“Jack—” you whine, the sound falling apart as soon as it leaves you. “Fuck, I—”

“I know, sweetheart,” he mutters against your jaw, voice wrecked. “Come on my cock, yeah?”

Your hips lift to meet him without thinking, chasing the rhythm he’s set, chasing the pressure, the friction, the way he’s working you with a precision that feels almost cruel now. His hand doesn’t falter, his fingers moving with intent, building and building, every touch sending sharp bursts of pleasure up your spine as the tension in your stomach pulls tighter, tighter, until it feels like it might snap.

It’s never felt like this before. You’ve never felt like this before.

Your whole body tightens, back arching, legs trembling around him as your hips grind up against his, desperate, chasing something you can’t hold onto. He keeps hitting that same spot, again and again, relentless, his pace rougher now, less controlled, while his fingers stay locked on you, steady, practiced, pushing you right to the edge and holding you there.

You cry out, the sound raw, breaking from your chest as everything finally tips.

The release hits all at once—sharp, overwhelming, tearing through you in a rush that steals your breath and leaves nothing behind but heat and tension snapping loose. Your body locks up around him, tightening, pulsing, your hands gripping at him as your legs shake, your hips still moving against his like you can’t stop, like you don’t want to.

“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, his voice wrecked as he keeps moving inside you—slower now, but deeper, like he’s chasing every last pulse of you, like he doesn’t want to miss a second of it. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

His rhythm falters, hips stuttering, and then he loses it completely—a broken sound tearing from him as he drives into you one last time, deep and hard, spilling inside you as his whole body tenses, shuddering above yours.

You feel it—every part of it—the way he comes undone, the way he clings to you through it, like he needs something to hold onto just as much as you do. Your bodies keep moving together, slower now, instinctive, chasing the last fading edges of it as your breathing stays uneven, your chests rising and falling in sync, skin slick and overheated where you’re pressed together.

It takes a moment to come back down—a long one.

But eventually, the tension drains from him and he collapses almost fully above you, face buried into your shoulder, his weight heavy and grounding as he exhales, slow and spent. It makes it a little harder to breathe—but you don’t mind.

Not when you can feel his heartbeat against your chest, strong and real, still racing like yours.

-

For the first time in two weeks, Jack Abbot isn’t stupidly early for his shift. He couldn’t be, really. Because he’d woken up late this morning, limbs tangled with yours in warm sheets that smelled so much like you it made his head spin—and that had thrown off everything else he needed to get done today.

If it was up to him, he wouldn’t have left at all—but he had to. He had police paperwork to finish, a neighbour’s cat to feed, and sleep he should’ve caught up on before being back in charge of an entire emergency department for twelve hours. But on the bright side? He knows you have a swing shift today, which means he doesn’t need to be early to see you, because you’re going to be stuck at PTMC until at least ten p.m. tonight.

With him.

And he really shouldn’t be looking forward to that as much as he is.

“Afternoon, Dr. Abbot,” Dana says, glancing over the top of her glasses. “Wasn’t sure we’d see you today. Aren’t you usually here by now?”

“I’m on time,” Jack mutters. “I’m a busy man.”

Dana hums, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly as her eyes drop back down to the tablet in her hands.

Jack tries not to appear too conspicuous as he scans the department, glancing toward the trauma bays and South corridor as he passes the nurses’ station. He shouldn’t be this anxious to see you again—not in the apprehensive kind of way, but in the way that makes it feel like his lungs won’t quite fill until you’re near him again.

“She’s not here,” Dana says without looking up from her chart. “Wasn’t feeling well, so Ellis came in early.”

Jack spots Ellis across central, exiting one of the rooms with Santos at her side, and he opens his mouth to say something—defend himself, maybe, lie about what or who he was looking for—but he hesitates, unsure what he could say that wouldn’t incriminate him further.

So instead, he just drops his head and keeps walking, fumbling for his phone in his pocket.

He’d seen you this morning. Just this morning. You were sleepy, had a headache, so he got you water and Tylenol and kissed you before he left—but you hadn’t said anything about feeling so unwell you were going to call in sick.

Jack doesn’t stop until he reaches the lockers, then turns back to survey the ED one last time before leaning a shoulder against the wall and pulling up his text thread with you. He hadn’t texted you today because he knew he’d see you tonight and didn’t want to seem… overbearing. Even now, he’s not sure if he should—but he feels off in a way he hasn’t in years, like he’s waiting on something he can’t control and it’s making him feel sick.

What if last night hadn’t meant what he thought it did? What if you regretted it? What if it was just—

“Hey, kid,” Dana calls from the nurses’ station. “Big night?”

Jack’s head snaps up—and there you are.

The relief hits before he can stop it, sharp and instant, loosening something in his chest he hadn’t realised was wound so tight. He swallows it down just as quickly, his expression settling before anyone can clock it.

“You don’t know the half of it,” you mutter.

Dana huffs a short laugh. “I have a feeling I don’t want to know.”

Jack can’t help but watch as you cross the floor toward him, your backpack hanging from one shoulder while the other hand presses two fingers to your temple, like you could massage the headache away. There’s a smug little smile on your lips when you reach him, slowing your steps until you pause just beside him—not too close, but enough to make his breath catch.

You glance down at his phone, at the open message thread where his thumb is hovering, and your smirk curves a little higher.

“Miss me?”

Jack locks his phone and tucks it back into his pocket.

“Thought you were sick.”

You lift one shoulder. “A little hungover, so Ellis swapped with me.”

For a second, neither of you move. He just looks at you—and you look right back, like you both know exactly what’s changed, even if neither of you is about to say it out loud. Not here. Not now.

“And I missed the night shift attending,” you say finally.

Then—before he can respond, before he’s even fully processed what you said—you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek. Only brief. Barely anything.

But it feels like everything.

And just like that, Jack Abbot is done pretending he isn’t yours.

You find him on the bench —the bench, because this is the same one you've met at after every shift for the past month. He sits with his shoulders high and back, holding his phone almost a full foot from his face, jabbing at it with his index finger. Two white to-go cups reside on the wood beside him, his backpack and prosthetic propped up against the wrought-iron arms. 

When he sees you, his face lights up in a slow, warm, tired smile. 

"Hey, sunshine," Abbot shoves his phone into his pants pocket, hazel eyes trailing you as you sit down beside him.

Your joints pop as you lower yourself, an indicator of how achey and exhausted you are from the shift. "Hey," you murmur, bringing your legs up and crossing them in a butterfly shape on the creaky wood.

This is how it usually goes, these weirdly comforting rendezvous with Abbot. A companionable yet buzzy silence settles over the two of you, then Abbot passes you your tea.

"Earl grey with brown sugar," Abbot recites, as it's usually you supplying the drinks since he stays past shift change longer.

The cup is still warm, but not hot, just how you like it in the dewy heat of a summer morning. You take a long, settling sip.

"Derrick Walters, the cracked ribs?" He asks, referring to the last trauma you worked on together during the shift. Thirty-five-year-old veteran who fell asleep while driving.

"Admitted to ICU right before I left," your eyes scan over the trees and grass of the park. It's never terribly crowded this early in the morning, especially not on a weekday. There are a few ambitious, early-bird joggers, an elderly tai chi class in the open grass, a couple walking their dog.

There's something comforting, you think, about the world continuing to spin when you're on this bench. That by doing so, you aren't sacrificing anyone else that might need you. You can be a little selfish here, in this small wooded thicket, with a man who brings your heart both peace and tumult. 

"Good, good deal," Abbot's shoulders rise and fall in your peripheral. Anytime a vet comes in, you've noticed, Abbot naturally takes a special interest. Derrick Walters is no different. "His wife ever show up?"

"I actually don't know," you spare an apologetic glance. "I was so zoned in on my charting, the rest of the Pitt faded away around me. You know what I mean?"

Abbot huffs a laugh. "Not at all."

Makes sense that he wouldn't. As an attending, he's got his fingers in all the proverbial pots around the ED. Plus, as Jack Abbot, he can't see any sort of crisis unfold around him without leaping into action.

You still aren't sure how best to describe this newfound dynamic with your boss. It certainly doesn't cross any lines —not technically, anyway— but it definitely teeters on the edge. Just conversations. Ones you might not have the time for in the racing chaos of the emergency department. Ones you might never have unless you were alone like this, just the two of you, with the agreed prerequisite to lower your respective guardrails. 

You've been doing a good job at not hunting for any sort of label, though it sets off bottle rockets in your stomach not to have one. Colleagues? Sure. A mentor and his student? Definitely. Friends? 

Jury's still out. 

"Tell me something good," you square your shoulders, neck popping as you prompt the ritual you and Abbot have been sharing for weeks.

"Tell me something good," Jack said to you that first morning about a month ago, the sun illuminating your cheeks and the tip of your nose in a dewy blush. He'd asked you to join him after a particularly heavy night in the Pitt.

Gang violence haunted even the streets of Pittsburgh. The teenage boy who bled out in Trauma 2 three hours prior was proof of that. Jack had watched over the boy's labored chest as you knelt down beside him, squeezing his hand, an eye of comfort among the hurricane of horror.

"I-I don't wanna die," the boy had stammered while chaos whirred around him. Lap pads, gauze, needles everywhere, trying so desperately to stop the bleeding. 

"I know, Daniel," you'd said to him. "You just need to focus on breathing, honey, we'll get you out of this."

Jack had been the one to call it. Normally he'd make the resident in the room do it, but you were so angry, you'd kicked over an instrument stand and stormed out. Everyone in Trauma 2 had looked on with widened eyes. The hard losses always hit you hard, but you never did anything like this.

He should have gone after you right in that moment and made you call time of death. But the soft, protective part of Jack couldn't force you to do that. Not when he was worried it might be the thing to break you. 

"I don't have anything good to say," your eyes were glazed over, locked definitively on a crack in the concrete. Your face was ashen, sunken-in, a shell of the bright, lovely girl Jack had grown so fond of.

"I always like the way the sun peeks in through the trees like that," Jack said, pointing up at the grove of sugar maples and redbuds. The sun poked through and around the branches and the leaves, occupying the spaces they couldn't fill up.

You slowly turned your head to him. "Do you think I'm too soft for this?" You asked.

The question, the screeching halt in response to Jack's attempt to cheer you up, threw him for a loop. "For what, sunshine?"

"This," you gestured in the direction of the hospital. "Emergency medicine. I should be able to pack it all up, shouldn't I?"

"You're asking me if I think you shouldn't allow a little boy bleeding out in our emergency room to bother you?" Jack repeated your question back to you, hoping maybe you'd hear how ridiculous it sounded.

You nodded emphatically. "Yes, that's exactly what I'm asking!" Your chin wobbled, then you dragged your palms over your face. "How do you do this every night without…"

"Without wanting to launch myself off the roof at the end of it?" Jack finished for you. Your eyes grew wider at the blunt response, but then your shoulders drooped, and you nodded.

"It's just like anything," Jack rasped, and he could swear his voice sounded more gravelly than usual. "It has its ups and downs. But the wins rack up so many more points than the losses."

You leaned forward, bracing your forearms on your knees. Your head hung, back in a distinctive C shape that made Jack burn with the desire to reattach his prosthetic, scoop you up into his arms, and carry you far, far away from this wretched place.

Jack raised his hand then, poised to touch you. The nylon-covered plane of your back called out for him to rub it, pat it, something. But he couldn't give himself permission. He couldn't risk crossing a line like that with you. Not if you didn't want it.

And Jack didn't dare ask if you wanted it. Not when there was even a slim chance that you'd say no. He didn't know if he'd come back from a no from you.

His hand, more weathered and older but not wiser than yours, tremored in the air above you before falling back to his side.

Now, you sip at your tea while awaiting Abbot's answer. The veteran patient burrowed under his skin more than he's willing to admit, you think, which is why you breach that unspoken line and tug on his shirtsleeve. "Dr. Abbot?"

"Jack," he corrects with a light, fond impatience, eyes flicking briefly to where your fingers now rest on your thigh. "I've told you before, sunshine, when we're outside of that hellhole, I—"

"Yeah, yeah, you're Jack," you wave your hand dismissely, earning from him a bemused, sideways smile. "Tell me something good, Jack."

He rubs at his chin, up his jaw, the faint scratching of fingers against stubble reaching your ears. A perk of sitting this close to him, you think. 

"I, uh…" he shakes his head, gives a noncommittal shrug. "I heard Mateo's joining the nightshift?"

You lift your cup to your mouth. "Not what I was expecting, but that is some piping hot tea!" You grin.

"Is it? I thought surely it'd be cooled off by now," he says, which perplexes you until you realize his gaze is transfixed on the cup lingering by your lips.

"Wh— no," you laugh in an airy lilt, setting the cup down in the space between your criss-crossed legs. "I mean, the gossip about Mateo. It's 'tea'," you explain with airquotes around the term.

"Ah," he nods, clearly feigning interest for your entertainment. "One of your Gen Z slang terms."

"I'll get you up to speed, old man, don't worry," you're unable to resist teasing him. The morning breeze picks up a fraction just then, rustling his graying curls as if to emphasize your point.

Sometimes you imagine what it might be like to touch them, those curls, so dark and unique, like individual knots in an old oak tree.

You don't know how he'd feel about that comparison, but to you, it only illuminates the parts of him that make you feel safe: his sturdiness, his consistency, his protection from the unpredictable wind and rain and sun.

"Your turn," Abbot's voice cuts through your wandering thoughts, latching around you and pulling you back to this moment. 

"Something good?" You exhale long through your nose, rocking your head to the side to look at him properly. "You know the little girl we had the other night who super-glued her hands together making her dad a birthday card?" 

Abbot nods with a confirming murmur that reverberates through the bottom of your stomach. 

"Her mom sent me a text a little bit ago," you say, then tug your phone out of your pocket. Propping it up in the sliver of space between Abbot's body and yours, you open the messages to show the photo of the little girl. 

She's about seven, missing one of her front teeth, braided pigtails hanging by her ears. With concerted effort, she's presenting a comically large birthday card made of thick posterboard. It glitters with pink and blue sequins that spell out Happy Birthday Daddy! 

"She finished her card," you hum, a bemused smile lingering as Abbot leans his head in to take in the photo. 

"That's really cute," Abbot cradles his side of the phone, his fingers ghosting over yours. You swallow the heat in your cheeks. 

As you lower the phone, your head's still turned in at an angle to watch Abbot. The desire that's been building in you for weeks launches against your ribcage like a wild animal in captivity. You've barely admitted it to yourself, finding other things to think about, but in this moment, it's irrefutable. 

You want him. 

Your boss, who's nearly thirty years older than you, who's seen way more in life than you think you'd ever want to see. Who's been in battles —real, horrifying, unspeakably gory battles— and still chooses to work at a goddamn hospital. Who needs to be needed so badly that he represses all of his emotions. Who lets them out in little spurts every morning, over the course of one twelve-ounce coffee, in the park with you. 

"What are we doing here?" You whisper, anxiety tingling in your fingertips. 

"What do you mean?" Abbot's hazel eyes drag down to where your fingers dig into your thighs, then back to you. Your heart clenches tight in your chest. 

"Here," you say, gesturing fruitlessly at the bench. "Every morning. Talking. Like… like…"

"Friends?" He offers. The word does something in your tummy, churning around in a way you can't decide is a delightful surprise or horribly frustrating. 

Your gaze flicks to his lips, those scratchy, autumn-to-winter whiskers around them. You can't help but give in to the disappointment at the word. Friends. 

"Sunshine, are you…" Abbot raises a hand, lays his thumb between your chin and bottom lip. The assured touch shoots sparks up and down your arms. "Are you pouting?" 

When the tip of his thumb brushes against your bottom lip, heat flushes over you. "I am not," you insist, batting wildly at his arms until he yanks his touch away. 

"What, you don't wanna be my friend?" Abbot's little sideways smirk is cloying, testing some boundary he doesn't want to acknowledge outright. 

"You have plenty of friends," you point out stubbornly, pointing your nose in the air. "Why don't you have coffee in the park and talk about good things with them?" 

Verbally recognizing yours and Abbot's morning ritual, even in a mocking way, shoots arrows into your own heart. You've been coddling this time with Abbot, babying it and keeping it where it's comfortable for fear of losing it altogether. 

Abbot doesn't say anything. You can't tell if you've stunned him into silence, or if he's strategizing fake emergencies to get out of the conversation altogether. But then you realize his thumb's back on your outstretched lip, the rough, calloused tip sliding along the tackiness of your chapstick. 

Something possesses you. Call it the magic of the morning wind or sleep deprivation or the rare occurrence of doing something totally selfish. Whatever the case may be, you lean to the side, closing the gap between his head and yours, and kiss him. 

Your lips slot over his, the split second of rigid surprise in his shoulders giving way to melting, liquid as honey, into it. Jack's hand slides from your chin along the bottom of your jaw, urging you closer. 

It's so tender and sweet and slow, this kiss, like Sunday morning pancakes and the smell of a brand new book, like golden-toasted marshmallows and a commute that's all green lights. 

When you pull back to catch your breath, you're surprised to find your hand bravely cradling the back of his neck. 

His tongue juts out to lick his lips, and you swear you see a flicker of something akin to savoring. 

"Do you do that with your friends?" Your chest rises and falls heavily, like you just sprinted from one end of the hospital to the other.

Jack shakes his head slowly, applying pressure to where his palm cushions your jaw. "I was building up the nerve to do that, y'know," he admits, his voice low. Husky. 

Jesus Christ. 

"Yeah, well, you're not getting any younger," you snort. 

Jack pads the tips of his index and middle fingers at the shell of your ear. Squeezes your earlobe ever so gently. 

"You're trouble," Jack muses, slowly lowering his hand, squeezing your shoulder on the way back to his own bubble. 

The two of you look away from each other. You can't speak for Jack, but you have to look at something else so you don't scream at how complicated this whole thing just became. 

You decide, after a shuddering breath, you don't need to talk about it right now, the meaning behind it all. You convince yourself to be content, for now, without all the answers, with being one of the people on the planet who knows that Jack Abbot tastes like vanilla coffee creamer and sea salt.

“If this is all it takes to rile you up, wait until something actually goes wrong,” Dr. Park had scolded. “Now do you want me to go easy on you, or do you wanna get better, Crybaby?”

You stayed. And he made you better. But the nickname stuck.

Crybaby became a term of endearment, a symbol of how far you’d come since your interning days, and was shortened to Baby somewhere down the line. “Baby, take this patient down to CT for me, will you?” and “Cut me an ET tube, Baby, six millimeters,” and—

“Good luck getting that consult, baby,” Jack Abbot says from the opposite side of the exam room, with his strong arms crossed over his chest. The nickname sounds different spilling from his lips. It always has. “The OR’s backed up with Westbridge patients. It could be hours before we get a room booked.”

“She doesn’t have hours…” you murmur under your breath, squeezing past Whitaker and Ogilvie as you part from your unconscious patient. “Excuse me…”

“W-What are you doing?” the former boy stammers.

“Getting us a consult…” you say, half-distracted, as you reach for the red telephone on the wall. You press the cool plastic to your ear and dial the ortho extension.

Jack watches attentively from the sidelines as you make the call upstairs. 

“You already sound like you’re gonna say no, so I’m just gonna ask quickly,” you say. “I know, I know— Terrible timing. But we both know I’m your favorite, so just hear me out.”

“Favorite…?” Ogilvie murmurs. “Wait— Who is she calling?”

“Park the Shark,” Whitaker answers solemnly.

“Or as I like to call him— Doctor Dick,” Jack says with a cynical smile. “On account of him being a dick.”

Whitaker nods in concurrence. “To everyone but her.” 

You hang up the phone and return to your spot at the patient’s bedside. “Ortho consult’s on its way,” you tell them, half-distracted, as you check the ketamine levels in her IV drip.

“How’d you do that?” Ogilivie squints.

“I asked nicely,” you shrug.

Brendon Park comes into the emergency department barely five minutes later, and brings a tense air in with him that matches the unsmiling look on his narrow face. The way his dark blue eyes lock on you the second he walks in can only be described as sharklike. 

“What do we got, Baby?” he asks you, and only you, utterly ignoring the other bodies in the room as he makes a beeline to your side. He smells of sea salt and sandalwood when he towers just behind you, standing several inches taller.

Jack swallows down the anger that swells suddenly in his throat like bile.

“Ten-foot fall onto a metal fence,” you tell him. “Tib-fib amputation— Pretty clean cut.”

“Sliced right through the bone like a guillotine,” Whitaker adds.

Park turns slowly, dark eyes zeroing in on the mulleted boy. “Was I talking to you?”

The boy’s cheeks flare red. He clears his throat. “Uh— No. No, sir.” 

“Let me see the X-ray,” the attending says to you, much softer in comparison, and follows you the short distance to the bulky machine in the corner.

“See?” you hum. “Not too bad, right?”

His eyes flit from the x-ray to your hopeful gaze. The corner of his mouth flickers faintly upward as he nods once in response. “Yeah. Should be pretty fun— Where’s the leg?”

“Double bagged on ice.” You motion across the room. 

Whitaker watches the older man walk past him with an unblinking gaze. “I didn’t know he smiled…” he whispers incredulously under his breath.

“Yeah, me neither, kid,” Jack mumbles, swaying softly in place, as he keeps his eyes locked on the two of you. 

His jealousy is misplaced, but inevitable. Everyone had a certain soft spot for you, but he couldn’t quite stand it from Park — the man who didn’t seem to like anyone or anything but his work and you. Jack knows it makes a part of you feel special, you are special, but he wants to be the only one making you feel that way.

“Tell him how we prepped the limb, Ogilivie,” you tell the MS3.

“Oh, please, not me,” the curly-haired boy mumbles under his breath, looking instinctively to Whitaker for assistance. He swallows hard when Brendon’s dark eyes snap to his. “Uh— Sterile saline in the inner bag, ice water in the outer bag. No direct ice to skin contact.”

Park nods and turns away, unwrapping the severed leg on the table below. “Good…”

“Thank you.”

“I wasn’t talking about you,” the attending snaps. His eyes soften the second he turns to you. “Let me guess— You wrapped this?”

“How’d you know?” you grin.

“Because it’s neat,” Park quips drily as he pulls the bluing limb from the plastic. “And I don’t think Abbot suddenly developed fine motor skills.”

“Stop flirting with me, Shark,” Jack monotones.

“Antibiotics?” the man squints.

“Cefazolin and gent,” you answer. “And we’re already cleared her chest, abdomen, and pelvis.”

Park nods to himself, examining the severed leg with his gloved hands. “Clean wound… No rush injury… Rapid transport time…” he mumbles to himself, visibly pleased in a way that makes your stomach do a backflip. “Replantation is a go. I’ll go ahead and book an OR, get it taken care of for you.”

“Thanks…” you say, smiling a little wider than you realize. Because ever since the day he embarrassed you in front of all your coworkers, you’ve made it your personal mission to impress him.

“What’s the catch?” Jack quips from across the room. “You already got a packed OR so… What? You’re just doing us a favor out of the kindness of your heart?”

“Hell, no,” Brendon scoffs. “Baby’s gonna scrub in with me.”

Your breath hitches in your throat. You’re not sure whether to be happy or horrified, ‘cause you haven’t done a surgery with him since you were an intern.

“Holy shit— Really?”

“Yeah. As long as you promise not to fuck up again,” Park deadpans, though there’s something distinctly soft in his eyes as he quips, “And if you can keep your guard dog on a leash for a few hours.”

Your eyes turn instinctively to Jack. You find his features slightly hardened but mostly emotionless. He shrugs despite the distant searing in his chest.

“She doesn’t need my permission.”

“Then why are you glaring like I’m about to steal your favorite toy, old man?” Brendon scoffs.

Jack’s eyes widen. His head swivels slowly over his shoulder, as if he were looking for someone standing behind him. “I know you’re not talking about me,” he quips drily.

“I would love the opportunity to scrub in, Dr. Shark— I mean, Park,” you stammer.

“Alright, then. Let’s go,” he nods, pulling off his gloves with a low pop as he storms back towards the door. “The rest of you, irrigate the hell out of this with three liters.”

“Wait— three liters?” Whitaker blurts.

Park glares. “Of saline, genius.”

“I… I knew you meant saline…”

You stop short in the doorway with Jack at your side, right before you turn to follow Park into the elevator. You flash him a wide-eyed look full of hope and distant worry, “You’re not mad at me, are you? For doing this with Shark?”

“I couldn’t be,” Jack scoffs.

“Well, then, I’ll let you know how it goes later?” you murmur sheepishly, shifting on your feet like a shy child. “Over dinner?”

“Sure,” he nods. “I’ll take you somewhere nice. You know, to celebrate.”

He gives you a soft smile that fades the second you’ve turned the corner. He feels the weight of his own insecurity sitting heavy on his chest. The notion that he’s much too old for you tends to follow him like a shadow, but it rears its mean, green, ugly head a little extra now. 

“Hey…” Robby greets, then slows his stride when he walks past the tree men leaving the exam room. “What’s the long faces for?”

Abbot flashes him an unamused gaze. “Shark attack,” he deadpans.

Robby nods sympathetically. “Yeah, that’ll do it…”

The familiar chaos of the ED wraps around you like a blanket when you come down from the OR — the beeping monitors, the rolling stretchers, the hundred different conversations. It feels welcoming, in a strange sort of way; it fuels you in a way it hasn’t in a long, long time. It feels less like you’re surviving your shift now, and more like you could solve every medical inquiry in this hospital if someone asked you to. 

You feel ten feet tall and lighter than air as you weave your way through the crowded emergency department. Jack can see it from where he watches you at the workstation with an eagle-eyed stare. Your scrubs are creased from your hours in the OR; your eyes are as wild as the distant smile sitting crooked on the very edges of your mouth. 

You plant yourself at the computer next to his, and Abbot pretends like he hasn’t been waiting for you this whole time.

“How’d it go?” he asks distantly, trying to be casual.

“Great,” you nod with a proud smile. “Like really great. There was a twisted artery, and I was the only one who caught it. I got to reroute it all on my own— It was crazy.”

Jack feels himself smiling despite himself, basking in the rays of your sunshine disposition.

“Really?” he hums, nodding once. “Good job, baby.”

You couldn’t possibly count how many times you hear that nickname on a daily basis, but it’s different coming from Jack. It’s warmer, more familiar — makes your stomach do backflips like it’s the first time you’re hearing the word from his mouth. You go dizzy accordingly, as your fingers flit across the keyboard below.

“I’m just glad I didn’t make a total fool of myself like I did the first time,” you scoff.

“Yeah, me too,” a familiar voice quips from behind you.

You glance over your shoulder and catch a glimpse of Dr. Park as he appears suddenly behind you, dropping a file on the desk next to you mid-stride. His sea salt cologne pervades your senses instantly, clashing with Jack’s softer, muskier scent.

“I thought I heard the Jaws theme playing…” the older man quips in a dry monotone.

“You should be proud, Abbot— Your resident was a star in surgery today,” Park says with a knowing smirk hinting at the very corners of his mouth, so subtle it’s barely there. “Can’t wait for her to be my protégé in the OR someday.”

Jack’s frown deepens when the man claps him hard on the shoulder as he walks back for the elevator, though not without tossing a “let me know when you need a letter of rec for that fellowship, Baby,” over his shoulder as he goes. 

He watches the younger attending until he turns the corner, and looks back at you with his jaw clenched a little tighter than before. His chest sears at the distant smile on your face, as the flames of his jealousy burn white-hot behind his ribcage 

“Well,” Jack hums drily after a beat of silence. “You guys are getting awfully close, aren’t you?”

You scoff like it’s funny to you, because the thought of Park the Shark liking anyone is funny to you.

“What? No,” you laugh, then shrug at the unconvinced look Jack gives you in response. “He’s just nice to me. That’s all.”

Jack lets out a sharp exhale through his nose in place of a laugh. He turns back to his computer and deadpans, “Yeah. Because he likes you.”

You open your mouth to argue.

Jack beats you to the punch. 

“And I don’t blame him, either. I think it’d make me a hypocrite if I did.”

Your face flares as a red-hot heat crawls up your neck. Your adrenaline-induced confidence fades into something softer as you struggle suddenly to meet the older man’s gaze. You glance down at the chart Park left, unable to hide the small smile on your mouth when you peer at Jack again from beneath your lashes.

“Where are we going for dinner after this again?” you wonder, half-sheepish.

The expression on his scruffy face shifts slightly, less tense but mischievous still. “We aren’t,” he says and logs out of the computer.

Your eyes narrow into a suspicious squint as you watch the man round the front desk. “What happened to ‘I’ll take you somewhere nice?’”

“Yeah…” Jack nods slowly, huffing sympathetically, as his hands curl around either end of his stethoscope. “I think we’re gonna miss that reservation, baby.”

Your stomach does a backflip.

By the time you make it to Jack’s place, the adrenaline has worn off just enough to leave you pleasantly exhausted. 

He can feel it in your kiss, as you straddle him on his sunken couch in the middle of his dim living room — so quiet compared to the ER that it feels like stepping into a completely different world. You prop yourself over his lap with your palms cradling his silver scruff and lick into his parted mouth in slow, languid motions. 

You’ve been at it for a while now. So long that Jack can feel your spit down to his chin. You could kiss him for hours and hours and never get bored — a testament to your youth, perhaps, because Jack doesn’t think he’s made out with someone this long since he was in college.

But, for you, he keeps his head tipped back against the sofa and his mouth obediently parted, letting you kiss him however you want — for however long you want. His wide hands fidget with anticipation on either side of your bare thighs, from where your shirt rides up to your hips. 

You’d changed immediately into one of his old tees when you arrived, after a shower your body had been craving all day. You smell like his body wash and lotion as you sit on his lap, running your hands down his clothed chest like soft drops of summer rain. 

Your fingers brush the tie in his dark navy sweatpants, and he tenses on instinct. You don’t seem to notice, though, as you leave a trail of wet kisses down his scruffy neck.

“Are you gonna fuck me tonight?” you mumble into his pulse. “’S why we didn’t go out for dinner tonight, isn’t it? ‘Cause I’ve been thinking about it all day…”

Jack goes dizzy at your words — at the otherwise innocent mouth they spill from. His stomach warms, and he jerks back from you before he means to; his mouth wet and rosy from the intensity of your kisses.

“Yeah, fuck— Yeah, I just…” he trails off, though it’s more of a dismissal than a true affirmative. “I just gotta go to the bathroom real quick, yeah?”

“Okay,” you smile politely, unaware of his subdued panic that he’s learned to keep well-hidden. You slide off his lap and onto the other side of the couch. “Sure.”

Jack rises from the sunken sofa with a low grunt in the back of his throat. There’s a slight limp in his step from where the long day has taken a toll on his prosthetic. “Feel free to make yourself at home while I’m gone,” he tosses mindlessly over his shoulder, before he disappears down the dim hallway, making an immediate beeline for his lamplit bedroom.

There’s a bottle of sildenafil in his nightstand drawer, with only one pill taken out of it — which he thinks is somehow even more embarrassing. He’d only taken it to masturbate once, after his SSRIs plummeted his libido and he was itching for a release after a long day. 

The small orange bottle feels strangely heavy in his hands now, as he tips his head back to shake one of the tiny blue pills into his mouth before he can talk himself out of it. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows it dry. The pills rattle faintly when he sets the bottle down beside him again. 

He drops onto the edge of his bed, mattress squeaking under his weight. He rests his elbows on his knees and hunches over to dig his palms into his eyes. He tries to will himself hard for you, even though he knows that isn’t exactly how that works.

He thinks of you — all young and pretty and waiting for him out there — wasting your youth on an old man who can’t get hard to save his life. It leads to a cycle of self-hatred that prevents him from getting turned on at all. And it’s maddening.  

The ajar door creaks quietly as you push it open without knocking.

You slink inside the dim bedroom and freeze at the sight of the man on the bed, like you weren’t expecting to find him there. Jack’s head whips to your form across the room and spins when he finds your underwear peeking out from the bottom of his shirt — a soft orange color patterned with dark black bats, several months out of season.

“What are you doing?” he squints teasingly, blanketed half by shadow and half by golden lamplight.

“What are you doing?” you retort. “I’ve been waiting out there forever.”

“It’s only been five minutes,” Jack scoffs.

“Yeah, tell me about it…”

You’re all but skipping to his side then, bare feet padding along the thin carpet as you go. The thin fabric of his shirt swishes around your thighs when you walk to stand between his. When you wrap your arms loosely around his neck and duck down to kiss him, Jack tips his chin back and opens his mouth to welcome you — until the open drawer beside you catches your attention, as well as the orange pill bottle sitting on the corner of the nightstand, as if he’d just pulled it out of there.

“What’s that—?”

“Nothing,” Jack answers, a little too quickly, and reaches less than casually around you to chuck the bottle into the drawer again. The pills rattle loudly in the quiet bedroom when he shoves it shut a second later.

He can tell by the look in your eyes that you’ve already gotten a glimpse of the label. Your gaze is soft with sympathy and glittering with something wild that he can’t quite place.

Jack says nothing for several long moments, and instead waits for your response.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed…” you murmur when you catch his scruffy cheeks flaring a soft pink.

“I’m not embarrassed,” he blurts, less than convincingly, eyes shifting away and back again. “I’m just… selectively unthrilled with this timing…”

Your nose scrunches at the shy smile you give him. His warm hands settle again on your waist while your fingers twist in the silver curls at the nape of his neck. Your eyes soften with something tender when you wonder shyly, “Is that why… Is that why you haven’t wanted to… you know?”

“No,” Jack answers instantly, then tilts his head to think for a moment. “Well, I mean— a little, I guess, but… I only take ‘em ‘cause of my SSRIs, you know? It’s not… It’s not because of you or anything.”

“Okay…” you nod and struggle to meet his gaze when you ask, “Do you know, like, how long it takes to kick in… or whatever?”

“Last time I tried, it took about twenty minutes—”

“Last time?” you echo with raised brows.

“I was just trying it out!” Jack defends with a crooked smile, slightly egged on by your misplaced jealousy after stewing in his own all day. “I was by myself when I took it, if that makes you feel any better.”

“It does make me feel better, actually…”

Jack’s light eyes narrow. “What’s that look for, huh?”

“Nothin’…” you lilt quietly, with a poorly hidden smile. “I just… I think it’s kinda hot… That’s all…”

His expression flickers in an instant — surprise first, suspicion second, then something darker third. A white-hot desire threads through the distant embarrassment still swimming in his stomach.

“Yeah?” he presses lowly, with a voice like honey.

“Yeah…” you nod once, unable to take your eyes off his prying stare. 

He studies you for another beat, before huffing a quiet laugh of disbelief. 

“You’re somethin’ else, baby, you know that?” he mumbles with a shake of his head, smoothing his calloused palms slowly up your bare thighs until they disappear under his shirt.

“I know…” you mutter on bated breath, trying and failing to be casual when you ask, “What do you wanna do then, huh? You know, for the next twenty minutes, anyway?”

You fight back a shiver when his thumb brushes over the center of the delicate mound peeking beneath the hem of your t-shirt, concealed by the thin cotton panties you wear. 

Jack hears your breath catch in his throat. His darkened gaze flits from your Halloween-patterned underwear to your heavy eyes, now glazed over with a layer of honeyed desire. 

A sly smile curls at the corner of his mouth.

“I think I have a few ideas…”

And at the Pitt, you don’t have room for softness.

Jack Abbot notices everything about you. The way you triage with incredible efficiency. The way you steady shaking hands without making a show of it. The way you don’t flinch when someone yells.

He’s never noticed you squint.

Until today.

It happens mid-shift. A trauma rolls in, fast and loud and chaotic, and you’re at the bedside for nearly an hour straight. The air is dry. You blink too much. Your vision starts to blur at the edges. By the time you step out into the hall, your eyes are burning so badly you can barely keep them open.

You duck into the staff bathroom, hands braced on the sink.

“Not now,” you mutter.

The contacts have shifted and one is definitely torn. You recognize that scratchy, wrong sensation immediately. After washing your hands, you take them out carefully, blinking against the sting. The relief is instant—but so is the realization that hits you a second later.

You don’t have spares.

“Great,” you sigh, staring at your blurry reflection.

For a second, you consider just powering through it—squinting your way through the rest of the shift and pretending the sting in your eyes isn’t driving you insane. But you know better. You won’t last an hour like this, and the last thing you need is to misread a chart or medication label because you were too stubborn to grab your backup.

Which means leaving the safety of the bathroom.

You dry your hands slowly, take one last look at your unfocused reflection, and step back into the hallway. Without your contacts, everything feels slightly off-kilter—the lights too bright, the edges of people and gurneys a little too soft. 

You keep your gaze down as you walk toward the lockers, hoping no one stops you on the way.

When you get to the lockers it is mercifully empty. You crouch in front of your locker, fingers fumbling with the zipper of your bag until you find the hard case tucked into the side pocket. In it, wrapped in an old cleaning cloth, are your glasses.

You hesitate again before unfolding them.

They’re simple, with thin metal frames, a little too big for your face, the kind that make your eyes look wider and a touch more exposed. You slide them on and blink a few times as the world snaps back into sharp focus. The clarity is immediate, almost jarring.

There’s a small mirror on the inside of one of the lockers. You glance at yourself, head tilting slightly as you take in the difference. 

You look… different but not worse. Just less guarded somehow, like a layer you didn’t realize you were wearing has been peeled back.

You exhale slowly, straighten your shoulders, and throw the ruined contacts into a nearby trash bin, slide the glasses on, and step back into the chaos of the floor.

It takes exactly thirty seconds.

“Oh my God,” one of the nurses says dramatically. “You wear glasses?”

A couple of heads snap up from charts. Someone actually leans closer, squinting at you like they’re trying to confirm it’s really you.

Shen swivels in his chair, openly staring. “Wait, hold on. Since when have you been hiding these? This is a betrayal.”

“A betrayal?” You repeat flatly.

“Yes,” he insists. “We work twelve-hour shifts together. I thought we told each other things.”

You roll your eyes. “Can we focus on the patients instead of my face?”

“Sorry,” another nurse chimes in. “You just look… adorable.”

Adorable.

You groan. “If anyone says the word adorable again, I’m transferring departments.”

Ellis smirks at your irritation. “Noted. Adorable is off the table. We’ll workshop alternatives.”

There’s laughter. A few exaggerated double takes. Nothing malicious—just the kind of teasing that happens when something shifts in a place that rarely changes.

You try to brush past them, pretending none of this is getting to you, but the teasing follows like a wave. It isn’t cruel. It’s just new and impossible to ignore. And in a place where everything is routine and muscle memory, new stands out.

You adjust the bridge of your glasses self-consciously, wishing your face didn’t feel like it’s under a spotlight.

And then you feel it.

That shift in the air that has nothing to do with Shen or Ellis or any nurse.

You glance up almost immediately.

Jack is standing at the end of the nurses’ station with a chart half-lowered in his hand. He isn’t laughing or smirking or joining in. He’s just staring, his eyes fixed on you like he’s trying to recalibrate something he thought he understood.

His eyes drag over your face like he’s trying to recalibrate something. Like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“What?” You ask when you get closer, trying to keep your voice steady.

Jack doesn’t answer right away. He blinks, slow and deliberate, as if surfacing from somewhere else. “It’s just…” he trails off quietly. “I—”

His jaw flexes. You’ve seen that look before—usually right before he says something sharp or carefully controlled—but this isn’t sharp. It isn’t controlled, but instead stunned.

“You look…”

Your stomach flips despite yourself. 

“Different?” You offer, a hint of defensiveness creeping in.

His gaze softens, and the shift in it makes your pulse stutter. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Different.” A small pause stretches between you before he adds, lower, “Good different.”

The hallway noise seems to dim at the edges. Someone wolf-whistles from behind you. “Oh, he likes it.”

You feel heat climb all the way up your neck. “Can we not do this right now?”

But Jack doesn’t break eye contact, and that’s what makes it unbearable. 

Later, when the rush finally ebbs into something manageable, you find a computer at the end of the nurses’ station and start charting. The department hums around you—monitors beeping, phones ringing, Shen arguing with pharmacy over speaker—but it’s background noise now. 

Your glasses have stopped feeling foreign on your face, though you’re still hyper-aware of them every time you glance down at the screen.

You don’t notice Jack approach until the chair beside you scrapes softly against the floor.

He pulls out the chair beside you and sits—not across from you or at the next computer, but right next to you.

“You don’t wear them often,” he says after a moment, voice low enough that it doesn’t carry past the two of you.

You keep your eyes on the screen, pretending your pulse doesn’t immediately spike. “No. Contacts are easier.”

“For who?” He asks mildly.

“For me.” You huff a quiet laugh. “I get less comments about my sight—or lack thereof—this way.”

He hums at that, but he doesn’t look away. You can feel his gaze tracing over your profile, lingering at the bridge of your nose, the way the thin frames rest against your cheeks. It makes your fingers stumble over the keyboard.

“They suit you,” he says finally.

You snort softly, trying to deflect the sudden tightness in your chest. “That’s not what everyone else thinks.”

“I don’t care what everyone else thinks.”

The words land heavier than they should. You glance up at him, and immediately wish you hadn’t. He’s closer than you realized, one arm resting along the back of your chair, his knee angled slightly toward yours.

“I like seeing your eyes like this,” he continues, voice quieter now, steadier. “They look bigger.”

Your heart stumbles. “They’re the same eyes,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he says, holding your gaze. “But now I get to see them clearly.”

You swallow, suddenly very aware of how close he is, of how easily someone could glance over and notice the way he’s looking at you.

Your glasses slide slightly down your nose when you look back at the screen.

Without breaking eye contact, he reaches up. There’s a split second where his hand hovers, giving you time to pull away if you want to. You don’t. His fingers gently nudge the frames back into place, the touch light and careful.

It’s brief, but it lingers.

“You should wear them more,” he says quietly.

“So the entire department can keep bullying me?” You let out a small, shaky laugh. 

He almost smiles, something warm flickering in his eyes. “Let them,” he replies. “Gives me an excuse to stare.”

“You stare anyway,” you murmur before you can stop yourself, pulse ringing in your ears.

He doesn’t look embarrassed or caught. Just nods once, slow and certain.

“Yeah,” he admits. “I do.”

And the way he says it makes you think maybe the contacts weren’t the only thing that shifted today.

“Yo.” Shen caught your attention as you came out of Central 11. An empty cup of Dunkin in one hand, his phone in the other, he matched your lazy speed. “ETA on the food is 3 minutes.”

You held your open palm under the sanitiser dispenser, “Alright. Ready?”

Shen chuckled and tucked his phone under his armpit, “As ready as I’ll ever be.” He held out a closed fist the same time you did, “On three?”

You nodded and counted to three, throwing out a classic rock, confident it would land you another win compared to Shen’s four recent losses.

“Shit.” You hissed at the sight of Shen’s paper that he promptly wrapped around your fist to emphasise his winning round.

Shen shrugged, “Ooh. That was satisfying.” He backed away to check the board, “Godspeed, dude.”

Hands placed under the sanitizer dispenser out of habit, you scowled at Shen as he walked to the oval desk with a pep in his step, rubbing your hands together with vigour as you headed in the opposite direction to the Ambulance Bay.

Luck was on your side that evening, for one, there was no sight of an ambulance sliding into the bay and two, your Grubhub driver was already situated on the sidewalk with a motorcycle helmet still worn and a beige paper bag stapled with the receipt, in his hand.

You gave him a friendly wave, head turned to check the doors as you stepped into his space to retrieve the bag of hot food. You exchanged basic pleasantries, and then the delivery man hesitated to step away, his eyes visible through the visor as he stared, waiting for something additional in return.

A tip?

“Oh! Yeah, sorry—” You reached into your pocket and pulled out a button and a sturdy hair tie from Ellis, “Um…”

“Here you go, man.” A third voice.

The gravelled tone that both you and Shen tried to discreetly avoid amongst the several rendezvous‘ with your Grubhub driver. The one that belonged to the attending physician, that in line with technically being your boss, was also the one man at the centre of your little workplace crush.

You had met Dr. Abbot amidst the mass-casualty during PittFest. Assigned to the Red Zone, you worked amongst the seasoned professionals with a hindrance of confidence in the capability of your own hands. Not the time, nor the place to reach a movie-like flow of a meet-cute whilst performing CPR on an asystole patient with blood up to your elbows.

But you saw him. And, Jack Abbot definitely saw you.

That being said, under alternative circumstances, you’d have welcomed Dr. Jack Abbot’s presence in the Ambulance Bay.

Your body stiffened, the guilt riddled all over your face. No question as to who the Grubhub bag was for.

The driver gave a two-finger salute to the generous $20 tip and backed away to his motorcycle parked to the side. Jack would be sure to mention an abiding PennDot Motorcycle Safety Course user, to Robby at some point during hand-offs.

He slowly looked to you with mirth.

“I told him to take the pedestrian entrance?” Not convincing even yourself with the higher octave in which you spoke, pocketing the receipt in your scrubs to avoid Jack checking the order note at the bottom.

“Uh-huh.” Jack dipped his hand in the bag and pulled out three fries, “Jack Tax.”

With a hand held out to gesture you back inside, you gave a strained smile and obeyed his silent order to get back to work.

Shen was on the other side as you entered. “Better luck next time, Rock.”

2.

“What the hell are those?”

You looked down at your new scrubs. OK, you had pushed the boat out and bought a different shade of black, more complimentary to your seasonal colours with the undershirt to match. Maybe you hesitated in your car, singing lyrics as words of affirmation to beat the hesitancy that robbed yourself the joy of a new purchase.

(Being perceived was a sore spot for you.)

And then, the universe placed you in the PTMC with a specific co-worker that made it his full-time job to perceive his surroundings and outwardly share his candid thoughts without much effort for filtration. Aside from that being engrained in the speciality of being a physician, you still entered the PTMC with gritted teeth and a nervous disposition that Dr. Jack Abbot would pin the attention onto you.

Despite this, you looked up from your body and toward Jack, “My scrubs?” You reiterated verbally.

“No.” Jack reached for the earphones dangling around your neck like a stethoscope and tugged once, “These beat up things. They still sell them with the wires attached?”

Thank goodness it wasn’t the scrubs. You didn’t fancy using your credits already.

You jumped to their defence, “I like them having wires. Means I can keep track of both earphones.” You then added in deflation, “It’s not exactly in my budget.”

“If they’re on a leash?” Jack looked to Dr. Ellis with an expression that read: Are you hearing this shit? She shrugged. “You have got to get a new pair from this century, sweetheart.”

This century? You bit the insult harboured for the salt and pepper haired veteran turned senior attending. Sometimes things were best left un-personalised to save any feelings hurt.

In replacement, you deadpanned where Abbot smirked, slowly pulling the headphones from your neck to bunch them up and pinch them with a butterfly clip.

Dr. Ellis chuckled beside you, body leant against the desk, “Tell a girl how you really feel, Dr. Abbot.”

“I mean it.” Jack gestured to the knotted wires in your grasp, “Is the sound even high definition?”

“Out of one ear.” You mumbled quietly.

“Out of one ear.” Jack repeated with a curt nod and a playful laugh that translated to the idea that he proved his point in one conversation. “Alright, go drop those historical artefacts in your locker, I’ve got a patient in 10 for you.”

It took two days after that altercation for you to arrive at your locker at work, your trusted wire headphones miraculously MIA, meaning you had to persevere with the ambient noises of Pittsburgh on your walk to work. (All eyes pointing to Abbot and his security accomplice, Ahmad.)

Code punched in, you barely had time to blink the sleep from your eyes—your Circadian rhythm still adjusting with the new shift rotation—when you spotted a small white case haphazardly wrapped in…twine?

It look as if it were meant to be a bow. That alone was distracting, and very telling.

“What the—?” You plucked the case from the middle of your locker, the realisation making your ears ring before you slammed your locker shut and sauntered into the belly of the Pitt to find your culprit.

Jack was at the work station, refusing to sit as he bent at an awkward angle to read the words on the computer, when you found him with a little more aggravation than he had anticipated.

“Fucking AirPods?” You struck the atmosphere with a loud call. Lena—the charge nurse—peered over her glasses at your sudden outburst. Out of respect, you were quick to change the level of your tone, “Jack, these are like $250.”

His eyes darted up to you, nothing short of a serious expression on his face. “OK?”

You hesitated, “Are you—Are you playing a joke on me? I can’t accept these.”

“Well, that would be a little rude.” He sounded monotonous, uninterested as he scrolled down the page with the mouse in his hand.

You took a different route of reluctance to accept such a gift.

“How can you afford these?”

“Blood money.”

“Jack.”

Jack stood at full height, “Re-lax.” He folded his arms across his broad chest, “Consider it a welcome gift to the Night Shift.”

(Nobody put money in the make-believe pot but him.)

”I changed shift patterns, two weeks ago.” You retorted.

He corrected, “A belated welcome gift, then.” When you didn’t seem convinced, Jack went in for—what they called in bowling—a strike. “Accept the earphones from this century…you’re too pretty to be walking around with those battered old things.”

“What?” You blinked in disbelief. Jaw slack.

Did you just hear that correctly?

Jack didn’t bring forth any further compliments apart from a shit-eating grin that had you stuck in the mud, clutching earphones way beyond your price range. You heard Lena chuckle at her iPad, and you snapped back into reality, fingers curled around the gifted AirPods; because performing a surgery to be able to clutch your own heart beating triple the amount of beats it should be, per minute, was downright unrealistic.

“Thank you.” You said quietly before turning back on your heel to put the earphones in your locker for safe-keeping.

Jack and Lena watched you scurry away like a field mouse, Abbot failing to miss the knowing gaze from Lena peering over her glasses at him.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Dr. Abbot.” She spoke in a tone of amusement.

Jack gave a nod, “Oh, I know exactly what I’m doing.”

3.

The third time was on the lesser side of grand gestures such as brand new Generation 3 AirPods wrapped in a twine bow, but the outcome was more gratifying to both parties.

The shift had been considered one of your worst. From the moment you stepped into the PTMC—even before this, but you attempted to leave your personal life at the door—you were greeted with hurdles that you continued to get your foot stuck under, metaphorically grazing your chin as you landed face first into disaster.

In addition to this, you were notified of Louie’s passing in an insensitive, pass-off comment by one of the new residents, James Ogilvie. It was told to try maintain a professional barrier between you and the patient, don’t get intertwined in their life and make a best friend out of them. But, you adored Louie. Despite the reasons behind his visits, his face was a welcomed one with the abundance of kindness he brought for someone who was losing against his own demons.

You placed your head against the coolness of your locker, burning eyes shut after Dr. Ellis told you to take five after you delivered some harsh truths to a difficult woman who was labelled Dr. Google and had little belief in the medical care provided to her son.

The idea came to visit Louie in the Viewing Room, maybe have one last conversation with him, but the notion was thrown off when you came to terms with the knowledge that a one-sided conversation with your favourite patient would only make matters worse for you. You’d be sure to visit him once your emotions were wrangled.

You let out a shuddered breath that you had been withholding.

“Hey.”

Almost giving yourself whiplash at the speed that you turned your head, your heavy heart dropped at the sight of Jack Abbot standing a couple of steps away from you with an iced coffee in his hand. He looked empathetic, concerned after it was relayed to him about your outburst toward a patient’s family member.

You were never one for sudden outbursts. Especially toward visitors.

You crossed your arms in an attempt to close yourself off, “Hey, Dr. Abbot.”

“I heard about Dr. Google.” He took a step closer and you winced, prepped for a slap on the wrist moment. He would remind you at a later time. “You OK?”

“I’m fine. Just—” You rubbed at your eyes, “Having a bad day.”

“Preach.” Jack mused and extended the plastic coffee cup to you. He encouraged you to take it with a nod of his head, “I think I got your order right. Don’t get mad if it isn’t. I heard that’s your thing now.”

You took the cup by the lid and threw Jack a stern look, unable to conceal the growing smile. “Thanks.” You took a sip and revelled in the immediate caffeine hit, and subsequently, Jack getting your order right.

(He asked Shen to go through his order history that he knew you had shared.)

Jack bit back a smile.

“Jack Tax?” You offered the cup up to Jack.

He hesitated to take it—cross-contamination and all factors a doctor usually worries about—but then threw caution to the wind. Might be the closest he gets to kissing you. Or something along those lines.

Jack took the cup wet from condensation back, tilting the cup upward until the coffee hit his lips. His eyes pinned you to the spot and suddenly, the ceiling tiles needed your immediate attention.

You started to count them. Length by width to equate the amount in total. Twenty-six by fourteen would equal—

“Are you free tomorrow?”

Oh.

Your equation forgone, your solemn expression wiped and replaced with surprise. Your attention dropped to the male in front of you, almost missing the way his free hand shook at his thigh. The burning question left hanging in the air as you digested each syllable he had spoken as if it were sacred text to memorise by word of mouth.

Suddenly feeling sheepish, Jack realised that he had picked a sensitive time in your day to boldly ask the question he had been biding his time to get correct. His throat bobbed, fingers curled around your coffee cup as it dawned on him that he may be translating as a real jackass with little emotional maturity to understand that you may just want to be left alone.

There was no escaping it, he thought. That would just look ridiculous now.

He cleared his throat, “I’m sorry.” He scrunched one eye shut and waved his own question off, “I shouldn’t have asked you when you’re having a bad day.”

“No, no. It’s fine.” You let out a nervous chuckle, palms pressed into your back as you arched your back to stretch awkwardly, “Free as in…?”

“A date.”

The wind almost knocked out of you. Lips formed into an ‘O’ you began to laugh from feeling shy, “Yeah. Shit, Abbot. I am off tomorrow.”

He knew. He checked the schedule.

Jack finally took a breath. His hand outstretched again to hand you back the coffee he had bought you.

“Alright.” He nodded, backing away with his thumbs up, “You can explain to me the reference: There’s people dying, Kim, that you told to Dr. Google over some drinks.”

You grimaced with the coffee back in your hands. Nose scrunched, you spoke, “Yeah. Sounds good.”

4.

Chivalry wasn’t dead.

According to the dive bar on Babcock Blvd with Jack Abbot punching his four-digit code into the card machine with every round of drinks he—and eventually you—had purchased on your night in Pittsburgh together.

You had both agreed on ‘casual’. Casual place, for a casual—no pressure—date, wearing casual clothes that differed from the usual scrub-wearing outfits you never seemed to be able to peel off of your frame.

Jack arrived early after you politely declined his text in the morning after you left work, asking if he could pick you up. The bar wasn’t far from your apartment, and it would save Abbot the fuel money that he so flippantly spent on brand new AirPods on you.

(The pieces of the puzzles were all slowly coming together.)

Nervous wasn’t part of Jack’s vocabulary. Built on adrenaline rushes and catastrophic tragedies, there wasn’t a bone in his body that shook at the definition of nervous.

He sat at the bar with the sticky countertop, his curls dampened from the rain and his prosthetic leg causing irrefutable irritation from the way it caused him to ache uncomfortably. No, he wasn’t nervous—he couldn’t be—Jack just felt…overwhelmed.

At least that’s what he so stubbornly called it.

And then you walked in.

Shit. OK, call it what it was. Nerves.

With a sunny disposition, your head shielded by a sodden newspaper you undoubtedly ducked into a corner shop to purchase on your walk. Suddenly, Jack felt inadequate in all aspects as a man, who wanted a date with the most beautiful woman he had set eyes on in a long time. His clothes suddenly falling short along the themes of ‘casual’, he regretted choosing a basic black tee—because it showed off his muscular biceps—and dark blue jeans. You looked breathtaking, and you weren’t even trying.

Jack threw back the dregs of his alcoholic beverage, hand slammed on the countertop as he gave a nod and a gesture to the bartender to give him the same again. Just stronger.

He stood when you approached, a grimace on his lips that told everything a doctor who knew him on a more personal level would know.

(His leg was killing him.)

You shrugged your jacket off, “Bothering you?”

“Not anymore.” Jack mumbled, eyes set on you with some well-placed adoration. When he sat, he spoke again, “You look pretty.”

“Thank you.” You tilted your chin into your shoulder.

After that, Jack paid you six more compliments—seven after his fifth drink slammed to ail his nerves—and aside from his attentiveness and eyes boring into your skull, the date turned out better than either of you had anticipated. There was no shadow of a doubt that it wouldn’t have crashed and burned but as two doctors at the PTMC, it was in your nature to expect the worst but hope for the best.

The kiss came in between your last drink and Jack passing off his card to the bartender. Mid-conversation, you had spotted Jack becoming fidgety in the stool he was perched on and you had put it down to the buzz of the alcohol mixed with relief that you two were two kindred flames outside of the workplace.

And then, his mouth was on yours. His hand placed against your jaw, fingers curled at the back of your head, he pulled you in for a painstakingly languid kiss. Noses bumped, smiles mushed together, you eventually pulled away when the kiss became borderline inappropriate for a public display of affection.

It sent your head reeling, judgement clouded to where the casualness of the date at the dive bar followed you into the car park, where Jack Abbot was casually knee-deep in the passenger seat of his truck with your bare thighs constricting around his head.

When he had finished, the windows fogged with droplets of condensation drooling down the tempered glass, Jack sat on the floor of the passenger side with the door open as he refitted his leg with a triumphant grin on his face. You had managed to wrangle your outfit back onto your body, face hot from a concoction of euphoria and the remainder of the alcoholic buzz.

“I’ve ordered you an Uber.” Jack mentioned as he cracked his spine, “ETA is about 5 minutes.”

He wasn’t going to be presumptuous of the night. Satisfied that you had reached your climax, Jack kept a respectful distance to the idea of going home with you after a successful first date.

(Not that he didn’t want to. He respected boundaries. Plus, with work the next day, his scrubs were at his house across town.)

You stretched like a cat in the seat, “How much do I owe you?”

Jack chuckled as he stepped onto the tarmac, his body angled toward you as he brought you in for another sweet kiss. “This one’s on me.” He mumbled against your lips.

5.

“I’m sorry to miss this.” Jack gripped onto the steering wheel of his truck, face apologetic.

You applied your lipstick in the passenger mirror, brows pinched at his apology. The lid to your lipstick made a soft click as you spoke, “Girl’s night?”

Jack nodded once.

That’s cute.

You leant over the console and pressed a fleeting kiss to his lips. The relationship still fresh—and more important, under wraps—you would take any opportunity outside of work to spend together. In which, Jack Abbot had coincidentally discovered his newfound love for ‘Girl’s Night.’

With a handful of your friends having met the elusive senior attending doctor turned…a person that you shared a bed with from time to time—labels had yet to be discussed—Jack had been privy to the inner workings of a get together where the women in your life sat on your sofa and just talked.

A lot.

He ended up making himself useful, serving drinks and food with a stolen kiss that had all your friends beaming from ear to ear. It turned out that Jack enjoyed it. And, when he wasn’t needed, he’d retreat to the bedroom to watch some news reports on his phone; with one earphone flicked out incase you called for his assistance again.

You rubbed your hand to the nape of his neck, “With all due respect. You’re not invited. And, not just because you picked up a SWAT shift on the Fourth of July.”

“Yeah.” Jack drawled, “You look pretty.”

“Thank you.”

Jack gestured in a circular motion around his own lips. “I like the…lipstick.”

“Oh yeah?” You grinned, lapping up his compliments like a parched dog.

“Yeah.” Jack confirmed lowly. He took a moment to rake your frame with his hungry eyes, a fleeting thought passed in his mind as he began to fish into his back pocket for his wallet—he started to carry cash whenever you were around—and pulled out a thick wad of dollars, his thumb making handiwork to count out the bills. “Here. Before I forget.”

“I don’t want your money, Jack.” You argued when he began to hand the money over to you.

Jack insisted, “Come on. A couple of rounds on me. Please?”

You hesitated, but ultimately knew it was a dead end debate in which Jack’s generosity and stubbornness would prevail. Fingers pinched the cash, you—respectfully—counted how much he gave you.

You frowned at the amount. “Jack. You’ve given me $200.”

“Yeah.”

“Where do you think we’re drinking?” You let out a breathless laugh and went to hand back $150, only to be met with reluctance. You shook your head, “Drinks do not cost that much.”

”$100 for drinks.” Jack leaned back into the driver’s seat, “And $50 for new lipstick.”

“What?” You stared at his weathered features in surprise, “You just said you liked my lipstick. Now you want me to buy a new one?”

As if it were the most glaringly obvious statement in this side of Pittsburgh, Jack tilted his head with his brows furrowed, feigning innocence like you wouldn’t believe.

It made your stomach knot.

“To buy more of the same lipstick.” He shifted in his seat to lean toward you, his lips a hot breath away from yours. “Because, I’ll keep kissing that shit off of you.”

You visibly reeled.

+1

You found Jack on the rooftop, where you had been informed he would be. His frame outlined by the bleeding pink and orange hue of the sunrise that peeked above the horizon. Hands in his pockets, he stood at the precipice of the ceiling, his eyes scanned across the Pittsburgh skyline.

You allowed some grace. Hand clutched a familiar brown paper bag, watching as Jack took deep breaths to remind himself he was still human. Still apart of the Earth that kept spinning after another person was added to the death toll.

Another person he couldn’t save.

When you saw his feet shift, you called out. “Grubhub delivery for one handsome veteran?”

Jack tilted his head to your voice, chin meeting his shoulder, “I didn’t order anything.”

“Shit.” You took a step forward, “Must be the wrong roof. You’re still handsome though.” Your lightheartedness was met with a chuckle, you could see it in the way Abbot’s shoulders lightly bounced whilst he shook his head.

“What are you doing up here?” He asked. Not that he wasn’t inclined to savour more moments up with you. The rooftop just wasn’t your thing.

You approached the railing that separated you from Jack, “Your friend with the loose tongue told on you.”

In reference to the Chief Attending, Dr. Michael Robinavitch, who had every incline to believe that you and Jack Abbot were in the early stages of a blossoming relationship. The man was incredibly intuitive, and when Jack began to smell like aftershave masking the scent of a lavender laundry detergent that was awfully similar to the one that he happened to smell off of you whenever you were in close proximity doing hand-offs…well, everything seemed to make sense in his mind.

So, as any good friend would do, he had pulled you aside with the ruse of discussing patient care, when in fact—whilst sparing you the gory details—Dr. Robby had some wonderful insight about Dr. Abbot’s whereabouts coming to his shift ending.

“Snitch.” Jack muttered.

“Out of love.” You reminded him, “Coming through.” Your body already dipped to bend below the metal railing, only for Jack’s hand to prevent you from reaching full height on the other side.

He thumbed behind him, “Behind.”

You stepped back reluctantly, “Oh, so there’s a hierarchy up here?”

Jack grunted as he bent down, popping back up behind the railing, his exhaustion worn on his face didn’t prevent a smile seeping through the cracks as he looked at you.

(God, he was so fucking attractive.)

“With a girlfriend that is afraid of heights? I’ll take my chances with her behind the railing.” Jack kissed you, his knuckle brushing your chin as you both avoided the fact that he had just pinned the tail on the donkey and called you his girlfriend. He sniffed, “You’re much cuter when you’re not chicken soup on a gurney.”

He kissed you again to distract you from the confusing comparison.

In translation: Jack didn’t want you fainting off the side of the building.

Slightly amused, you pulled back from the kiss and waggled the bag of hot food in front of Jack’s face. He read the side of the bag with narrowed eyes, a low hum elicited from the back of his throat.

“Robby?”

You threw him a look of complete disdain. “Jack Abbot. I’m starting to believe you don’t think I have any money.”

“I know you do. I just don’t expect you to spend it on me.” Jack said with honest conviction. He took the bag anyway, hand already diving into to find a couple of loose fries at the bottom of the bag.

He offered you one and you bit it between your teeth with gratitude. Not wanting to overstep, you allowed the silence to blanket over the two of you—the distant wails of sirens the only ambient sound so close to the PTMC—knowing that when Jack wanted to confide in you about his troubling thoughts, he’d do it when he was ready.

For now, Dr. Robby would be the one privy to that information.

You watched the sunrise further up into the sky whilst Jack tucked into his food, occasionally offering you a bite which you’d take out of politeness as you hadn’t eaten since the start of your shift. As the colours of the sky bled into a watered down pink, you let out a sigh of relief.

What a fucking pain of a shift to have overcome. You knew Jack felt the same.

Jack watched you rather than the scenic view ahead. That familiar ache in his chest returning; the one that he had felt similar to when he first met his late wife.

Not a comparison. Just a feeling.

When you caught him in the act of admiration, you lifted a brow for him to fess up.

I think I’m falling in love with you. No. He’d tell you that in different circumstances. In your apartment, with a pizza box between you and a movie thrown on that you swore you let Jack choose.

So, Jack Abbot settled for the next best thing. Your secret love language. “How much do I owe you?”