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wow i’m so not jealous. wow i wish this were me right now. wow i wish jack abbot were real and i wasn’t five thousand years younger than him. if anyone can hear me pls say here.
summary; andrew pope cody with a soft gf, one who treats him with so much kindness and patience, that he isn't sure how to accept it sometimes.
a/n; i just love my popey so much i cant help but write soft stuff about him, he deserves so much better </3 this is kind of a mini-birthday drabble, since pope's bday was not too long ago :3
warnings; some bad language, sm*rf mention (i hate her), some mentions of andrews bad childhood
The family Andrew grew up in was built on tough love. If he scraped a knee, he didn't expect comfort. If he made a mistake, he waited for the yelling to start. Year by year, his walls built higher and higher.
But somehow, you've managed to weasel in through the cracks. Always treating him with kindness and patience, never ever raising your voice around him. He fucks up? You say 'oh Andy, it's okay...' in the sweetest voice, heart clenching and the guilty look in his eyes.
Physical touch has always been a touchy topic for him. Smurf had a habit of weaponizing her love against her children, using each hug and kiss as a manipulation tactic. So when you, in bed, slowly curl up into Andrew's chest, soft, warm breaths hitting his collarbone? He freezes.
You do this kind of stuff all the time. In public, you'll let your hand curl into his sleeve, or hug his arm in crowds. At the start of your relationship, it always made him freeze up. But now, he waits for it. He doesn't often seek out contact first, just waits for you to do so.
But you've gotten good at reading him. His eyes keep darting to you every other second, when he wants you to curl up to him, and pull his arm over your shoulder. He'll anxiously tap his fingers when he wants to hold your hand.
And in bed, he always leaves enough room for you to curl up to him.
But what really did him in, was when one morning, he woke up without you in bed. Now, Andrew had a habit of waking up really early. He's always up hours before you, you've even joked about it. So, of course, he was worried. You out of bed before him?
He rushed to the kitchen, only to feel relief flood his veins as he saw you there. One of his shirts on, hem brushing against your thighs, as you hummed to the spatula in your hand, breakfast frying on the pan.
As if sensing him, you turned around, giving him the biggest grin possible. "G'morning, Andy!" You set the spatula down to scurry over to him, wrapping your arms around his neck for a tight hug, "Happy birthday! I got up early to make you breakfast."
His hands shook a little, before they dropped to your waist, slowly sliding to wrap around you, pulling you as close as he could. You got up early to make a birthday breakfast for him.
"Y'didn't need to do that." He murmured quietly, lips a little pursed, fighting a small smile, "I know how much you love sleep. I coulda' made breakfast.."
You knew he wasn't being ungrateful. That's just how his brain is wired. Nothing is free, that's what he learned growing up. But you keep showing up for him. Giving him love packed up in a plate of eggs and bacon. Never expecting anything back.
"It's okay..." You hummed, slowly pulling back to go back to the stove, "I can take a little nap later. I haven't made many plans for us today, just thought we could do what you wanna do. Could go surf. Or for a walk. Or jus' stay here." You offered options, carefully plating his breakfast.
Two fried eggs, an unhealthy amount of bacon (because in this house, food is measured with love!), of course some fruits and vegetables.
Setting his plate and your own down on the kitchen island, you tugged him closer by his hand. He'd practically been frozen in a trance the entire time.
"Mhm." He grunted, kissing your temple quickly before sitting down, eyes staying on you, until you sat down and started eating. "Jus' wanna be with you today. I don't really care what we do..."
He really means it too. He doesn't care what he does today, as long as you're by his side. Andrew would literally watch paint dry, if he got to sit with you while doing so.
The rest of breakfast was spent in comfortable silence, with non-stop eye contact. And somewhere between his second serving of eggs and third glass of orange juice, Andrew reached across the island, and placed his hand in yours.
AHHH! Congrats on your blog turning one!!! For my Summer vacation could I do Jack Abbot at the Beach and an insecure reader who doesn’t feel nearly as sexy as the women around her! Ty ty!!! 💚
You hadn't been completely insecure until Jack picked a spot to pitch the umbrella and lay down the towels right in front of a bunch of college kids playing volleyball. You wrapped your arms around yourself despite being covered by a long, baggy t-shirt, and tried to become invisible as Jack spread out the towels over the sand. You sat down gingerly on the towels, under the shade of the umbrella as Jack continued to busy himself with unpacking the cooler and grabbing the sunscreen. You curled up, knees to your chest and arms around your knees as you watched the beautiful, young, and skinny people jump and dive for the volleyball.
“Do you want something to drink honey?” Jack glanced over and stopped short when he saw you curled up under the umbrella like a vampire avoiding the sun.
“You okay?” Jack asked with a raised eyebrow and a comforting hand grazing over your back. It woke you out of your shame spiral and you did your best to give your boyfriend a convincing smile.
“Yeah, yeah I just-” You trailed off but Jacks open and reassuring expression had you feeling honest. “I just haven’t worn my bathing suit in a year and I look different and I really should have tried it on before we got on a plane and flew to another country but I forgot and now we’re here and I look-” You stopped before you said anything mean about yourself but Jack prompted you to continue with the brush of his knuckles over your spine.
“I don’t look like I did when I bought the suit.” The unspoken thing hung in the air, the silent admission that you’d gained weight, that your stomach and hips and thighs didn’t look like those college girls and you weren't happy with how you looked. Jack shifted closer and tilted your face towards his with a finger curled under your chin.
“I’m sorry if you feel uncomfortable and you’re welcome to stay covered up if that’s what you want, but if it makes you feel better, I happen to like you, all of you.” Your lips cracked the tiniest of smiles at the earnestness in Jacks voice and he took that as his opening.
“I mean all of you. And I would love to show you off to everyone at this beach so they know a gorgeous woman like you is taken.” The compliment fluttered happily in your stomach and you felt the foolish need to hide so you turned your head and dropped it to Jacks shoulder. Jack knew by your reaction he was breaking through so he continued.
"C'mon, let me show off my sexy ass girlfriend. I'm so proud that I was able to get a beautiful woman like you to even look my way, let me flaunt you a little." You smiled into Jacks shoulder and pulled back up to stare at him. He was wearing that irresistible, sexy smirk he wore whenever he flirted with you.
It was true that Jack had turned your head and gotten you to fall for him. And truthfully, you loved all of him just like he loved all of you, which included his softened muscles and round biceps and thick torso. He worked out but he definitely had more of a dad bod and stomach than abs. You loved all the bigger, softer parts of Jacks body and it felt suddenly like such a double standard that you felt self conscious about how you looked.
You leaned forward and gave Jack a grateful kiss before you guided his hands to the hem of your shirt.
"Do you want to do the honors?" You laughed at the way Jacks eyes lit up with excitement and desire before he took hold of the shirt and lifted it up to reveal the bikini underneath. The look on Jacks face conveyed nothing but love and appreciation for what he was seeing - stretch marks and rolls and dips and valleys. He looked at you in awe, like you were a piece of art or one of those Greek statues in museums.
Jack practically tackled you onto the towels, his lips finding yours as his hands grabbed your waist greedily and assuredly, making you break into a fit of giggles.
Description: Alexa, play ‘manchild’ by Sabrina. Or, 3 times Jack notices the incompetency of your new boyfriend and gets annoyed, and 1 time he does something about it.
Tags/warnings: big age gap (r is in 20's and abbot is 50), "ive got tattoos older than you" gets said, yes he has tats bcos i said so, size diff, mentions of concussion, medical inaccuracies (idk shit), (1) allusion to reader having a choking kink (💀), r has a used to have a massive crush on him, made ellis a lesbian bcos ofc, abbot life's goal is to make fun of r's bf, flirting (so much), bit of yearner!jack & dom!jack vibes, gets dialogue heavy at the end, angsty fights & confessions, suggestive themes, mentions of sex, sexual innuendos, i use loads of em dashes (dont even compare me to chatgpt bcos im better), pet names: kid, kiddo, sweetheart
Note: tysm for the love on my first ff, it means the world to me. Writing something longer made me lose all objectivity, and I genuinely cannot tell if it's good or great or whatever. Please give me feedback (PERSONALLY). Again, I tried to keep r neutral but you might see mentions of r having hair.
Enjoy. This is for the ones with a competency kink. And for the ones who def wanted him to call you “kid.” and the ones who love silver foxes (get checked) (ur girl incl)
1
“I told him not to take me here,” you mutter to Jack, who's checking for tenderness in your neck, his thick fingers pressing against the side, while you try not to think of his hands on your neck in a very different context.
“Let him. Something the boy can do right, hm?”
After checking for initial symptoms — making you walk in a straight line, and balancing yourself on a single foot, you're subjugated to the very hands-on physical examination. You're suddenly wondering how other patients remain composed when Dr. Abbot touches them like this.
Well, usually, attending physicians don't do a history check or a physical exam, but this one does. For you. Probably because you're his staff.
Focus.
You clock into the reality, realizing the dig he made at your “boy.”
“Yeah, she didn't wanna come, I kinda dragged her here. I was like, ‘babe, it may just be a light concussion but you're a nurse, not a doctor’ so, like, thanks, doc. We needed the big guns,” proudly speaks Noah standing against the wall, checking time on his phone for the 5th time since you've been in this room.
Jack's jaw tightens and he shoots him a look so dirty, Noah actually takes a step back.
“Watch it, kid, if it wasn't for nurses, American healthcare would be even fuckin’ worse.”
Abbot looks back at you, and raises an eyebrow as if to say “really? him?”
You should speak up in your boyfriend's defense, something — anything — to wipe that perceptive look on Jack's face, the smugness he isn't trying hard enough to hide. You might as well be in your birthday suit right now, for how bare you feel. How bare you always feel in his presence.
God knows how much you'd actually like to be — no, you have a boyfriend. A perfectly handsome, competent, and a caring one.
Handsome. Not rugged.
Competent. Doubtful.
Caring. Well, caring enough.
“Doctor Abbot…” you begin, voice stripped raw, breath coming uneasy, when his index brushes right over your thrumming pulse.
“Focus on the examination. Tsk, thought we taught you better here. Well, I at least did. Don't you agree, nurse?”
The air leaves your mouth in a little puff, leaving your throat dry, your lips soon following. You need a glass of —
“Need some water? You've been here a while,” Jack asks, tone becoming gravelly and intimate, eyebrows drawing closer seeing how pale you look.
He immediately turns to Noah — hands leaving your neck — without waiting for a response from you. His voice takes on its normal cadence. “Hey, son, grab her a bottle, would you? Vending machine is at the end of the corridor. Thanks.”
His ‘Thanks’ comes out in a slow drawl that makes you squirm in your seat.
Your attending has not even fully turned back to you yet, when your partner speaks up, “Uh, bottle of what?”
“A Pinot Noir, perhaps. Which one do you prefer?” His eyes find yours again, brows raising in deep amusement. Is he getting a kick out of humiliating your boyfriend — and by extension, you?
“Uh…” noah looks utterly confused. You feel almost bad for him. Almost.
“Water, son. Get your girl a bottle.” Noah makes a move to leave, complying immediately to the doctor. Has he ever even listened to you so quickly? God, men are such dicksuckers for each-other.
“A chapstick while you're at it, maybe,” Jack mutters, trying to keep the humour out of his voice. Noah stops in his tracks again, clearly deaf to the sarcasm.
Jack huffs. “Just go.”
You honestly don't understand why he dislikes Noah so much. You've only been dating him for 3 weeks.
Well.
Noah did try to make a “romantic” gesture by coming to pick you up from your shift. Except, he arrived an hour early as a “surprise” and cribbed because you couldn't leave early. And he did just undervalue your job as a nurse. And…of course, an hour ago, he accidentally hit you your head with a football while he was showing attempting a trick.
As Noah leaves, Jack lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Don't worry, I'll get you a chapstick,” he says, staring shamelessly at your trembling bottom-lip before making a slow way up again.
“Penlight. Incoming.”
You've barely had time to react when a sudden light shone in your eyes. Your face instinctively tries to move back, only to be stopped by a feather-light touch on your jaw. Jack's finger retracts as soon as it comes, leaving you starved for more. More than just the pad of his index.
You hold still for him, letting him sway the torch alternatively between your eyes. When the light is kept back with a soft clink, there are no more distractions as he stands up straight again.
The creases in his scrubs only increase when he folds his arms over his chest.
“So.” You mutter, your gaze trying to find something interesting on the floor.
“Nick seems like a good guy.”
“Noah.”
“Right. We should thank Nick for bringing you here right on time. Wouldn't wanna lose one of our best nurses.”
You scoff at his words. Your feet are moving in a slow back and forth rhythm, your eyes fixated on them.
“Let's not say things we don't mean for good staff satisfaction scores.”
“If you're trying to insult me by implying I care about that shit, good job. I'm slightly more offended than the time you implied I am too old for karaoke." He's slightly rocking himself back and forth on the balls of his feet.
“Didn't imply, actually. I think I was pretty direct.”
A huff of laughter leaves his lips. You don't want huffs or sarcastic laughs. You want his full belly-laugh. His happy laugh that you've only seen Robby drag out of him.
“I don't care about staff satisfaction scores,” he lightly shakes his head for a moment.
“Yes, you just sai —”
“Only care about yours.”
That makes you look up at him again with widened eyes and parted lips. Little shit, off-handedly throwing around words that gives you butterflies.
Dead butterflies, of course, just like your affections on him. Former crush. Yes.
You quickly regain your senses to retort.
“Satisfaction with your services? If so, thank you for checking me for a concussion.” The formality in your words completely betray the flush creeping up your cheeks.
“Of course, what else?” You hate the way he says your last name. The way it rolls off his tongue. The way it reeks of intent, and not casualty.
The sharp noise of metal rings dragging across a rod brings you out of your trance. Nic — Noah emerges from behind the privacy curtain, a bottle of water clutched in his right hand, and a simmering cup of black coffee in left. “Got you choices, babe.”
You smile thankfully at him, perhaps more grateful for the distraction. You extend your hand, your pointer gesturing at the water. You don't feel the same electricity when Noah's fingers brush against yours in the hand-off.
Jack takes a step back. He nods at you. “Rest. Hydrate. You know it.”
"Mhm, no big brain activity, limited screen time, don't avoid if symptoms worsen."
"Impressive. How does a civvie like you know the drill?" he asks, eyes widening in mock-surprise.
"Oh, I'm very smart. Could've easily been a nurse at your hospital," you can't help but smile.
"Shame. I'm sure you would've been terrific."
He nods at your boyfriend next, “Nick.”
“Uh, it's actually Noa —” but Jack's right hand has already caught the edge of the curtain, swiftly pulling it out of his way, and disappearing shortly after.
“She prefers lattes, by the way.”
2
Bzzzzzzz
“Doctor Ellis, I didn't know you allowed your staff to bring phones in a trauma bay. I would've brought mine to play some music while we inserted a chest tube inside this man.”
Ellis only grunts, too focused on work at hand.
Your cheeks heat at Doctor Garcia's comment, feeling the loud buzz against your thigh for the nth time today.
“I'm sorry — ” you had only just begun when Dr. Abbot's voice cut in, deadpan and dry.
“Yolanda, you listen to music?”
“Doesn't everyone?”
“Yeah, well, normal people do. Why?”
Garcia's sharp glare to the attending does nothing to his demeanor. His hands — controlled, precise, and so fucking practiced — don't stop for even a fraction of a second.
“Not everyone can have eccentric hobbies like nude yoga, Dr. Rabbit.”
Nude yoga? Nude? You force your mind to not conjure up an image of that. Especially not with your attending — who you have used to have a schoolgirl crush on — as the main character. Or, you'll be the one on the operation table instead of observing, breaking out in hives.
“I'm sorry, Dr. Garcia,” you complete.
“Apologise to the man on the table; It's not my life on line. No matter how much I wish whenever I work with you boy scouts.” You always cringe at the bluntness in her tone, but it's worse when directly aimed at you.
“Easy, Garcia,” Jack commanded, tone instantly gaining its authority, pausing a moment to shoot her a look. Yolanda doesn't deter, and two of your most-respected, highly-competent seniors seem to engage in a silent eye-conversation. It ends with a twitch of Garcia's lips as she glances at you, and your attending muttering, “shut it.”
Huh, Strange.
***
The biohazard bin shuts with a snap, and you rub your clammy hands, trying to get the feel of rubber gloves off them. Trauma bays are always stress-inducing, no matter —
Bzzzzzzzzz.
You're about to kill someone tonight. It's gonna be your boyfriend. And you're gonna enjoy it. And you're gonna go online, talk about it, and watch a number of supportive women tell you, “I support your rights, but also your wrongs. You go, bitch.”
The constant vibration against your thigh, the baby crying in pedes, and looking like a fool in a trauma bay…you heave a sigh. Has the ED always been so bright? It's like the lights are directly in your eyes.
You hate loud. So much.
You un-pocket your phone, letting it unlock before you start typing furiously, your mouth instinctively murmuring everything you're typing. Your feet carry you forward, muscle memory taking you to a quiet corner, where you can peacefully argue. And bang your head against the wall, if you're lucky. But you're not sure if there's a staff discount at The Pitt. And frankly, you're already struggling with rent and groceries.
Look at you being fiscally responsible.
“Fuck, sorry,” leaves your mouth as soon as you accidentally collide with someone. A single calloused palm settles on your hip, steadying you.
Your lips part to say something, but no words come out. It seems the entirety of blood in your body has rushed towards your hip to greet Dr. Abbot's hand, before it retracts.
“Been apologising a lot today. Forgot your training or have you rejoined pre-school?” His body moves to your front, effectively blocking the view of rapid-paced staff, and people in wheelchairs and gurneys.
“Just…one rookie mistake after another.” Your body sags sideways, taking support of the wall. As if on instinct, his posture mirrors yours, his entire side leaning against the wall as well. You deposit your phone back in your pocket.
“For what it's worth, you started out not too long ago. You are, technically, still a rookie,” he speaks.
In this slow corner, the lights seem dimmer and noise quieter. Your shoulders drop just a bit. You're not sure if it's the location or him. Your bet is on location.
You wonder how you must look to the others, a junior nurse and the person with the most seniority on this floor, tucked away in a hushed hallway. What would they think of you? Certainly not co-workers.
Your lips curl in a tired, soft smile. “Trying to make me feel better again, sir?”
“Trying to tell you trauma surgeons have a permanent stick up their ass. Shen and I have bets on whether she lives in an ice castle or a secluded cave.”
Your smile grows bigger, and his eyes crinkle. “It's not just her. In fact, I admire women with a mean mouth.”
“Only women?”
“Men already are. I can't think of any situations where they'd need to be more mean.”
“I can think of a few,” his voice dips even lower, rocks coated in honey. Your eyes find the fluttering pulse on his throat, and travel up his face, to find his gaze fixated on your lips. He looks up again. Slowly. Not in a rush.
In this low-lit corner and his head tilted down to adjust to your height, his curls — salt and pepper and presumably soft — brushed his forehead, creating shadows across his face.
You clear your throat, trying to erase some of the tension. “It's Noah. You met him the other day, if you haven't forgotten."
“Oh, I tried.”
You click your jaw, “He's a nice guy, sir.”
“Uh-huh. Is he blowing up your phone? What's wrong?” His brows furrow in concern, and you find his worry comforting. You're about to open your mouth to explain —
“Did he forget his Roblox password?”
You slightly shake your head, looking down at his shoes. “You…Dr. Abbot,” you trail off, looking up at him again to see the corner of his mouth twitching, eyes wide as if he's seriously expecting an answer.
“How do you even know what that is? And no, that's not it. He…sprained his ankle, hewasdoingaparkourjump,” you mumble the last part as quickly as you can, cheeks heating and eyes wandering.
Jack pauses, expression caught somewhere between humour and exasperation, “Wow, didn't know your boy was still in middle school. Tell me, were you trying to find a boyfriend or a son?”
You throw your head back, a light groan escaping your mouth. While you rub your eyes, you feel your attending move. After a second, he has a bottle of water in his hand.
You give him a look of gratitude and hold your fingers out. But before passing it to you, he twists off the cap with ease. For a moment, you let yourself enjoy the sight of his biceps straining against his scrub top.
You empty almost half the bottle, throat working the liquid down, flushed under the heavy gaze of the man standing in front of you who is currently shamelessly oggling your neck. He's quick to take the bottle off your hands once you're done.
You mutter a quiet “Thanks.” He holds out his free hand forward. You shoot him a confused look, your fingers come up, hovering centimeters away from his palm.
Does he want you to hold…?
“Your phone, nurse.”
Your eyes blink, realisation creeping with a smudge of cringe, “Oh, that makes more sense. Yeah.” But the embarrassment is quick to vanish when you think about what he said.
“What? No. I feel naked without my phone on me.”
His eyes drop to your chest the moment the word “naked” leaves your mouth. You're not sure you've stopped blushing in the last 2 minutes.
“You're not a teenager.”
“Well, I love my phone like one,” you defensively say, standing up straighter. Your right hand moves towards your pocket to protect your mobile.
Abbot rumbles your last name like a warning, his husky voice settling low in your belly, and your traitorous hand is fishing the phone out without a conscious thought.
Before you can even hand it to him, he slightly bends, prying it out of your fingers.
“Now, I feel like a teenager,” you pout.
He uses her corner of your phone to tap against your nose, “Then don't make me go all authoritative on you again, kid.”
With that, he pockets your phone and walks away. You watch him twist the cap off the bottle again and drink directly from the mouth of it. The mouth you just had your own lips wrapped around.
Kid.
You need a chair.
3
“Okay, instead of using this job as an excuse for a sad dating life, how about you guys just admit…y'all got no game,” Mateo knocks back the last sip of his drink, making this very, very bold claim.
“First of all, nobody was talking about dating life. We were talking about sex. Forget dates, when was the last time any of you got laid?” Ellis asks, using her glass to gesture vaguely around the table, a few droplets falling on the wood.
Your shift was hell. Well, everyone's was. Really, every shift is hell, so this one was no different. The only thing was that today, everyone decided to grab a drink. Not in the nearest park, no. Instead, they're all here, the nearest bar that's open at a time when a person should be doing a morning walk, not shots.
You're tucked between Mateo on your left and Jack on your right, in a worn-out brown leather booth, with Shen and Ellis across the table.
“I don't feel comfortable talking about the personal details of my married life with my colleagues,” replied Shen, sadly nodding his head.
Jack's voice, raspy from his whiskey, cuts in, “Oh, shut it, Shen.”
“I'd say 6 weeks since we slept together,” Shen gave up quickly. A series of sympathetic groans and nods went around the table.
Mateo juts his chin towards Ellis, raising his brows. “Hooked up with someone last week. Left before she woke up,” replied the woman.
“Didn't know you were a player, doc,” laughs your fellow nurse, before his head turns to you. “And you? Come on, we're the youngest and hottest, we gotta rub it in their faces. Besides, you have, uh, what's his name...”
You laugh nervously, tracing the rim of your glass with your index. While everyone’s lazy and heavy-lidded all around, you feel Abbot's fervent gaze burning a hole into the side of your head.
“Noah. And hate to disappoint, but it's been some while,” you admit. Not being able to hold back any longer, you finally turn your head to the right. Not taking his eyes off you, your attending takes a long sip of his whiskey.
“How much is a while?”
This is inappropriate. Your attending physician shouldn't be asking you this, you're sure of it. But nobody but you looks alarmed.
“I would say…none of your business, doc,” you softly murmur, the liquid courage making your tongue sharper.
“And what about you Dr. Abbot?” Mateo jumps in again.
It's your turn to look at Jack with the same intense gaze. He doesn't take his eyes off you, “been a while for me too,” he mutters so low, like he's only referring to you.
You lose. You lose the staring contest and let your eyes fall back to your glass. Thank god, you have some of your drink still left.
“Why, is it…old man stuff?” Mateo asks, and your eyes widen at his question. You bite the inside of your cheek to hold back your laugh. Ellis's rich chuckle fills the quiet bar. You finally bring your cup to your lips.
“I'm an attending, Mateo. We're always at the very top of our performance. Here to serve well. In or out of trauma bays.”
Your drink goes down the wrong pipe, and you break out into a violent cough. Why would he say it like that? You're pretty sure you look like a tomato.
You feel a strong hand on your back, beginning to rub small circles through the thin fabric of your shirt. “Easy,” Jack whispers into your right ear.
Is nobody watching this?
You look around to see Shen, Ellis, and Mateo have deeply engrossed themselves in a completely different conversation. You wonder for a second if it's intentional.
His heavy hand stops rubbing, instead patting the small of your back softly and rhythmically. Your coughs start dying down, and you wipe the underside of your watery eyes with your knuckle.
“Have trouble swallowing, kiddo?” His voice is right next to your ear, every breath rustling a tiny bit of your hair.
Oh. Oh. OH.
“Think I need some air, sir,” you mutter, voice dried. You feel floaty, and it has nothing to do with alcohol.
Jack rises from his seat with a low grunt, “Think we're gonna step outside for a moment,” he announces.
You quickly follow suit and walk out after him before you can see anyone's expressions. You're pretty sure you hear Shen's giggle.
***
You welcome the morning chill that greets your face as soon as you step out, double doors falling shut behind you. You close your eyes, tilting your head upwards, and take a deep breath, easing the night's tension out of your body.
“Hot date yesterday?” You're quickly brought back to reality, turning sideways. Abbot has his hands in pocket and hair ruffled from the wind.
“Oh, uh, yes. How'd you guess?”
“You clocked in yesterday wearing something…different.” His eyes drop to your chest, before lingering on your lips, and then meeting your eyes again.
Your cheeks burn. You didn't realise he saw you in your fancy clothes. It was bad enough that you were running late, and worse that you didn't get to change before clocking in with your date outfit still on.
“Yeah. Noah took me to dinner. I just signed a new lease. I'm moving out of my current dumphole to another dumphole, but it's nearer to work. So.”
“Congratulations, glad to have you close.”
“Thanks, sir.”
A comfortable silence falls over for a minute before he speaks again, “was the place nice and quiet?”
“Hm?”
“Where he took you. Nick.”
“Ah. No. It's kinda trendy right now, so, super loud…” you trail off with a sigh. Jack keeps looking at you, as if wanting you to say more, as if finally expecting you to spill the truth out: Noah doesn't know you.
“Hm. Didn't peg you for a gold person, either.”
“What?”
He gestures with his chin towards your neck, where a sliver of chain is peeking out from under your shirt. A new one, gold colored, gifted by your boyfriend yesterday.
“I'm an anything person, really.”
Jack doesn't say anything, only waits. And this time, it works.
“Well, silver, if I had to pick. I like silver,” you speak, your voice bordering on a whisper.
Jack finally stops looking at you, and with that, you finally breathe. He casts his gaze towards the sky.
“I know.”
He says your name.
Your first name that he rarely says. Your heart stutters. Every bit of fresh air you inhaled seems to leave your lungs all at once. Instead, a family of butterflies — so fucking alive — have swarmed in there, rendering you speechless.
Please say my name again.
“I know, kid.”
“I'm not a kid, Jack.” For a second, you watch his eyes get darker. He takes a step closer to you. Then another.
You crane your neck to look up at him. Suddenly, he turns his back to you. One of his hands peeks from his side, and tugs at the lower back of his shirt, pushing it down by an inch or two.
You stand confused, until you notice faint black ink — now visible — just below his neck. You suck in a sharp breath.
By the time Jack turns towards you again, you're barely holding yourself up. He leans forward, his nose only inches away from yours.
“I've got tattoos older than you,” he breathes, “kiddo.”
Your knees turn to jelly. A sharp heat travels straight into your belly, increasing the buzz between your legs. Your lips part, teeth sinking into your plush lower lip.
You can only numbly turn your body towards the door as he holds it open for you. There's not a hint of teasing or smugness in his expression. There is something else, though.
Desperation.
You walk in through the gate, mind already trying to think of a reason to break up with Noah. Unfortunately, or fortunately, it finds plenty.
+1
“Oh, honey, just take this right now. The doctor has told your mom the rest. You're gonna be just fine!” You give your brightest smile to the 6 year-old girl, looking all sad and tiny on the gurney.
You stand up straight again, your back protesting. For someone still “young”, you definitely have an old-person back.
The mom gives you a thankful smile that still doesn't hide her tiredness, “Thank you so much.”
“She's gonna be alright, mom.” You flash one last smile and turn to pull the privacy curtain. When you step out, you see Lena, your charge nurse, and Jack in a conversation at the charge nurse station.
Lena calls out to you, “All done in there, hun?” You nod and give a thumbs-up. You expect your attending to say something, a joke, or even glance at you, but he doesn't.
Your heart sinks. After the morning at the bar, you went home and planned how to break-up with your boyfriend. On the other hand, Jack apparently went home and came up with, “10 ways on how I will ignore my co-worker who I occasionally flirt with on purpose.”
For the past week, there have been no lingering looks, no cornering you to check in, and no making fun of you.
No point in dwelling. You start going on about your usual business, entering through another curtain, all while the back of your mind still calculates how to leave Noah.
You had prepared your speech and your reasons. But then, Noah lost his job the same day you were planning to have the talk. And 2 days later, he was leaving to visit his parents in California. Shouldn't you just wait until after the trip? It will be so much easier.
Yes, you're definitely delaying it because it makes sense, and not because you're scared that Noah will absolutely take it the wrong way. He's been miserable lately as is, and while you were trying to be sympathetic, you couldn't find it in yourself.
Noah had always been unobservant and insensitive to your needs, not doing anything till he's told. All while, he expected it all from you — emotional support, moral support, and now, financial support. You saw nothing wrong with being “needy” but didn't you deserve the same treatment from him?
As you leave another exam room, still conflicted, you see Lena waving you over, the telephone receiver pressed against her ear. You quickly walk over.
Lena brings down the handset, palming the mouthpiece so the other person can't hear. “Sweets, it's your boyfriend, he's all panicking over something. Do you wanna take this, or should I make an excuse?”
The color from your face drains. This is humiliating, Noah calling at your work because he can't take care of himself. You quickly un-pocket your phone, tapping the screen awake.
9 missed calls from Noah.
“Uh, I'll take it. Thank you, Lena. Sorry too.” She gives you a sympathetic smile and hands you the handset.
“Noah, you can't be calling me at work.” You whisper into the mouthpiece.
“Babe, did you think I wanted to? I called your phone like 3 times, but you didn't pick it up. It feels like you're ignoring me.”
“It's because I am ignoring you. I am at a fucking hospital, working the emergency department,” your voice is straining with the effort to keep it low.
“Oh, I knew you'd throw your job in my face because I'm unemployed. You're a nurse, not a doctor, babe. See, I remember things.”
You take a deep breath.
“What do you want?”
“I locked myself out of my house. The locksmith will come by in the morning. Can you swing by and drop your keys? You know, I lost my license recently, and my ankle is still not good enough to take the subway.”
“No.”
“Jesus, I'm stranded, just be a good girlfriend for once.”
That sends you over the edge. You put the telephone down with more than necessary force, cringing when a few people turn to look at you.
“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, tears of frustration welling up in your eyes.
“You okay, kid?” Lena asks sweetly, coming to stand closer to you. You're only able to nod at her. If you open your mouth, your voice will break. When your charge nurse finally steps away, you clear your throat, and blink back your tears.
When you look up with clear eyes, there's Dr. Abbot standing about 20 feet away from you, in a conversation with a nurse that he's not listening to. Because he's looking directly at you.
You quickly move your head, “Lena, mind if I take 5?”
“Take 10, hun.” You flash her a grateful smile and start walking towards the supply closet.
You twist the doorknob and walk into what must be a 6×6 feet room, and close the door behind you. Your phone is still in your hand, clutched tightly enough to be used as a weapon. You open Noah's chat.
This isn't working out. When the locksmith figures out your door, pack my things in a box and leave them outside my door. Have fun folding your own bedsheets. I'm changing my Netflix password!
Your thumb hovers over the send button. Is the message too unkind? Too cruel for you? You drop the phone in your pocket, with the text still sitting there.
You force yourself to take deep breaths, pressing the heel of your hands against your eyes, turning around to face the organized racks.
“Fuck, fuck, fuc —”
The door slams open, and then shuts behind you, making you jump around, your hands falling to your chest.
“Jesus, Jack.”
“Did you forget your manners?” His voice comes out stern, low enough to drop the temperature of the room.
Your hands fall to your side. You're not in the mood for this. You don't want him in here, no matter how quickly your body is gaining color in his presence.
“What do you want, sir?” your question comes out breathless.
“You know, we pay you to work, not to hide in supply closets when you have fights with your childish boyfriend.”
“I asked Lena first, and I should be out in 5.”
“A patient can need you in 1,” he deadpans.
“Good thing there's Mateo and a bunch of fucking nurses already out there! I'm not the only one, sir,” you frantically wave your hands around, voice rising in pitch.
“Yeah, you're the only one yelling at your attending,” he leans back against the door, looking like he's enjoying a goddamn show. His calm pisses you off even more.
In your frazzled state, the true words spill out before you can filter them.
“Yes, my attending who has spent the last couple of days icing me out, keeping his distance, like I broke into his house and stole his leg.”
He's eyeing your motioning hands cutting through the air. You must look like the crazy one, while he stands there all frickin’ composed, his lips twitching.
“That's dark. And I'm your attending, nurse, as you mentioned. I'm not your boyfriend,” he shakes his head slowly like he's talking to a dog.
“I know that. Do you?”
“Oh, I know I'm not Nick,” he snickers.
“FOR THE LAST —” your voice booms throughout the small room before you stop yourself. You pinch your nose, chest heaving up and down.
Deep breaths. In and out. You're not the only two people in the hospital, no matter how much it feels like that.
Nurse, there's people that are dying.
“For the last time, his name is Noah,” you calmly say, voice shaking with the effort of controlling your pitch.
“Right, sorry. I just forgot because he forgot to fill his name out on your discharge papers when he brought you in. It's okay, children make mistakes like that all the time. Even when the forms are very easy to navigate, and the font size is very large,” Jack mocks, laughing sardonically.
“Why do you care so much?”
“Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart. I care about all my staff.”
Sweetheart.
“You're killing me.”
“Trauma bay 1 is empty,” he deadpans, shrugging his shoulders.
A humorless laugh escapes you. Oh, he thinks he's so funny.
“Staff. Is that what I am? Then why do you look at me differently than you look at others? Why do you catch me in the hallways? Why are you always seeking me out? Why have you not walked out of this —”
You flinch at the sudden motion, hand moving towards your temple where something just knocked against it. You look down, where a box maybe twice the size of your hand, lies on the ground.
The rack behind you is still vibrating from when your right arm collided with it 2 seconds ago. You shouldn't have been waving your arms around so much.
“Ow,” you mutter, the heel of your impacted hand rubbing your temple, and eyes downcasted at the box, looking at it like it personally wronged you. Which it did.
Jack quickly moves towards you, his left hand shooting up to take hold of your fingers that are kneading your head — same fingers that smashed against the rack — and brings your conjoined hands down.
“Careful. Are you hurt?” With only inches between you, he bends his head down to examine where you took the hit. His free palm brushes your hair back gently, and you shiver at the touch of his warm skin.
Trapped between your torsos, your hands are still joined, his thumb stroking against your knuckles to soothe any pain you felt on the impact.
“I asked you something, kid.”
You've lost your voice. You look from your connected fingers to his eyes.
And, oh.
His eyes have softened, looking at you with concern. This man sees lacerations, head traumas, hematomas, and fractures every single day. You've never seen him look this worried, and all for a pathetic clash that didn't even leave a bruise behind.
He switches positions with you, and suddenly, his back faces the shaky rack, his form protectively towering over yours. All of your body protests when he moves back, his hands dropping to his own sides.
“You can continue yelling at me now.”
In and out. Deep breath.
“Why have you not walked out of this room yet? And why have you kept me at an arm's distance?” you say but your voice is anything but loud, it's small and quiet, breaking at the end.
“As I said —”
“Stop, stop, stop. Stop, Dr. Abbot, and don't lie to me.” You instinctively take a step forward, closing all the distance again.
A pause.
“I really thought you were gonna break up with him. That morning, I thought you finally regained your senses, and were gonna cut off the dead weight,” he admits, running a hand through his hair.
“Jac —”
“Shut up and let me speak. I thought you were gonna end it with him, and you would come to the next shift looking happy and bright again. Just like you used to before you let that boy date you. You.”
His eyes are boring into yours, and he looks breathless and affected, so opposite to how he was just a minute ago.
“Me? What about me?”
He laughs humourlessly, “let's not fish for compliments. You know what you are. And if you don't, it makes me wonder what kind of limpdicks you have been with.”
You suck in a sharp breath, at a loss of words. Your cheeks burn, and your heart does a backflip.
He thinks that?
Jack turns around, so his back is facing you. Both his hands brush his hair back, and you can see the expansion and contraction of his back as he takes deep breaths.
“What if I had broken up? Nothing would've changed. It's not like you would've done anything. You would've continued to eye-fuck me across gurneys, and flash a smile once a day,” you speak up, voice rising in pitch again.
He turns back sharply, walking even closer to you, his chest colliding with yours.
“Oh, you know it's more complicated than that,” he retorts, eyes narrowing.
“What? You're my senior, you're older —”
He says your name. Low. Authoritative. You feel a traitorous sensation between your thighs.
“I'm not just older, I am old. Period. And I know just how old I am, because I feel it everyday when I strap my leg, and wake up with a new pain every day."
You don't know how to respond. Your gaze falls to his lips, and before you know what you're doing, you're withdrawing your phone from your pocket.
You take a tiny step back to make space, and tap your screen awake. It directly opens to Noah's chat, your message still sitting there in the type box.
You turn your screen towards Jack. His eyes move back and forth, reading your draft. When his eyes meet you again, they're intense, frantic, and what do you know…excited.
“Why haven't you sent it?”
“Because he's already going through a lot. He doesn't have a job, or a car, or…okay, I get it.”
Jack's fingers come up to grab your chin, holding it up. He looks like he's just had a shot of espresso and topped it off with another 3.
“Do it. Do it right now, in front of me, or you'll chicken out. He lost his job, his car, the next thing he loses is you. The one that's worth the most.”
With his breathless voice, taking the edge of desperation as every second ticks, you know you've lost. You bite your bottom lip.
His thumb moves from your chin, to your lower lip, freeing it from your teeth, “don't worry yourself over him.”
Deep breath. In and out.
You slowly look down at your screen, your thumb hovering over the little arrow.
Send.
You put the mobile back in your pocket and look up at Jack with hope, like a kid waiting for approval. Jack flashes you the biggest smile you've ever seen on him.
You did that. You.
“You did so good, sweetheart,” his thumb strokes your cheekbone, and you can't help but lean into his palm. You're high watching him smile, a similar one takes form on your lips.
He's so beautiful. He's the most beautiful man you've ever seen. He should be on TV, winning Emmy's for his grin.
But then you falter, “My…my minutes are up.”
“You can take another 5,” his face leans closer, and the tip of your nose kisses his.
“Patient might need me in 1,” you helplessly whisper, your breaths mingling.
“Well, consider me a patient, then. Your patient.”
You gulp. Your knees are growing weaker by the second and you can't stop staring at his soft lips. You let out a little pathetic whimper before lifting your chin, brushing your lips against his softly.
Fuck.
Your heart tries to escape your ribcage, palm operating with a brain of its own and landing right over his heart. His fluttering, excited, nervous heartbeat greets you, and your lips curve upwards.
Just as you try to move your lips against his —
“Not like this,” he murmurs against your mouth.
You let out an entirely pathetic whine, forehead crashing against his neck with a soft thunk. Your affectionate graze on his sternum turns into a punch — also, pathetic — and it makes him chuckle.
“How, then?” your mutter into his neck.
His arm comes around your waist, holding you up for him so you can let your weight go. His arm tightens as soon as he feels you melt.
“When I'll get you all the silver jewelry in the world,” he breathily replies in your ear.
“That's a lot.”
“What can I say? I like paying for things.”
His free fingers travel to the back of your neck, deftly working the hook of your golden chain with a single hand. You catch as the necklace falls down your chest, reluctantly taking your face out from his neck.
Note to self: Ask him what perfume he uses later.
“One hand, wow.”
“A lot of things I can unhook with one hand.”
He captures your wrist that you've held against his chest — index hatefully scratching, trying to harm him for not kissing you — and brings it to his lips.
He doesn't break eye-contact when he kisses the inside of your wrist. Then the middle of your palms, and finally the tips of your fingers.
You're grateful for his arm around your middle, otherwise you'd be on the floor, shrieking and screaming.
“Don't want to see that on you again,” he points with his chin towards your fist with the necklace inside it.
“Yes, doctor.”
He nods, heat swimming in his gaze. He finally extracts his arm from around your midriff, using it to pull out your phone from your pants and swiftly slipping it in his.
“No more worrying, hm? In return…” He empties his other pocket, taking out a set of keys. He brings your palm down from his face and puts them in it.
“Sit in my car at the end of the shift. You know which one. Turn the heating on, and wait for me,” he raises his eyebrows, awaiting confirmation.
“Yes, okay,” you gulp, closing your other fist as well. One holds your past, another, your future. Or, so you hope.
“Yes, what?” he asks, already side-stepping you and moving towards the door.
“Yes, doctor”
“Good girl,” he shoots you a wink, the door falling shut behind him.
Look at that, your 10 minutes are up.
I enjoyed writing this sm, and i hope you lovely people do too. again, feel free to glaze me in asks, comments, and dms. likes and reblogs appreciated much <3
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summary ... reader and trinity finally hang out while jack and robby have dinner together. each pair of friends have a deep conversation regarding jack and reader's relationship, and a very big feeling is confessed.
content warning ... drinking. that's it?
wc ... 7.3k (this was supposed to only be like 5k . oops)
a/n ... use of y/n once -- sorry, i try not to. i am pro hucklerobby so it is mentioned here. also, i feel like i need to mention that my bisexuality is like 95% women, 5% men. which is why i always make silly remarks about trinity's queerness -- i relate to her a lot. in many ways.
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Trinity Santos is like a child when it comes to talking about Jack: curious and asking questions a child shouldn’t be asking – like, “Is he a good kisser?”
You shove your fist into her left shoulder and gently push her body. “He’s down the hall; he might hear you,” you scold and put your finger up to your mouth to signal silence.
She rolls her eyes and continues oogling the framed photo booth pictures pinned to your hallway walls. She looks at one of you, the one of your mom and dad, then Jack, and your editor, whom she clearly takes a liking to. “It’s not like he cares,” she says while tapping her finger against the glass.
The frame shakes a little, and you reach out and balance it. Ever since she got here thirty minutes ago, you’ve been trying to adjust to her bluntness. You’re not struggling, per se, but her personality differs from the friends you’ve had before. Everyone has always been introverted, so even asking for an extra side of ranch or assistance in the supermarket's intimacy aisle turned into a debate over who had to do it. Trinity is very much not that kind of person; you’re able to tell with the shrug of her shoulders and the way she keeps tapping on the frame, asking ‘who is that?’ without saying it aloud.
“He’s your boss, though.”
“He’s not really my boss. Only when I pick up a night shift – which will never happen after the dumbest people came in when I covered last time,” she tells you, adding a scoff a second later, as if all the memories of said dumb people are scurrying to the front of her mind. “Also, who is this?”
“My editor,” you tell her, and place your hand on your shoulder again, moving her over an inch or two so you can move the frame over an inch or two, as well. “Maybe he’ll tell Robby.”
“Tell Robby what?” she chuckles. “That I’m curious? He loves when I have questions. Also, is she gay, by chance?”
“Yeah. They’re hanging out tonight – Jack and Robby.”
“Fun. Is she single?”
“I’d have to ask; we only ever talk about my book. She likes it that way.”
You move again and straighten the photo booth print of Jack, who’s smiling, wearing sunglasses, looking serious, and opening his mouth in surprise with a lipstick stain on his cheek. You have to smile, too, just looking at it. You remember the date clearly: you went to the city for the coffee shop with the photo booth inside and pleaded with him to make one funny face. He obviously didn’t listen, because the only ‘funny’ face he made was after you popped into the booth and kissed him with your berry lipstick. When you got home, you dug out a frame from your closet, grabbed the crossword puzzle he scribbled on the morning after your first date, and perfectly arranged it on the white cardboard inside.
“Please do,” she says, nearly begging. She moves over to the next photo on your wall, and the abundance of funky crosses despite you not going to church. She touches the edge of one and pulls her finger back like she was pricked by a thorn. “I wonder what old men talk about when they hang out.”
Jack steps out of your bedroom, smelling of musk and your laundry detergent and donned in black boots, dark wash jeans, a plaid button-up, and a white shirt peeking out of its three open buttons. “Not about you, Santos, that’s for sure,” he scoffs. He reaches you, fingers busy enough with his shirt not to hug you, but mouth free to peck at the side of your head.
“Oh, please. I wouldn’t want men talking about me anyway. I have Whitaker talking to everyone about how I’m always out late, the way my mom always did. I don’t need any more of that.”
“Good,” he confirms, and presses his lips together in a way that says he would continue talking, but he doesn’t know how to strike up a conversation with this resident just yet. He makes sure Trinity doesn’t realize this by turning and walking down the hall to the kitchen. You follow behind him while Trinity continues glossing over your memorabilia. Jack digs into his back pocket and grabs his wallet. He yanks it out and takes out two fifty-dollar bills. He sets them on the counter and taps one bill. “For wine,” he says, then taps the other one and adds, “For the food you’ll be getting tonight.”
You push back the bill for the food and say, “For you,” then take the bill for the wine and stuff it into your front pocket. “Thank you. I hope you guys have fun. What’s on the itinerary?”
“We’ll be experimenting with some drinks, and then Robby is going to try to cook.”
You chuckle. “Is he that bad?”
Jack shrugs. “I mean…” he says, his voice high-pitched towards the end. “Yes. Kind of. The last time he cooked for me was five months ago, though, so maybe he’s gotten better.”
“I can give you the fifty back in case it doesn’t go well,” you tell him, and make a move towards your pocket.
He shakes his head and holds a hand up. “That’s for you and Santos. Plus, you gave me the fifty back. So if anything goes wrong, I’ll be using it. Thank you, though,” he says, and steps up to you, pressing the tip of his nose against your hairline. He inhales the scent of your hair care, then lowers his lips onto your forehead. “I hope you have fun tonight. Make a friend, maybe a few more if you ask her about Whitaker and the other younglings on the day shift.”
You nod and grab his arms that lay awkwardly at his side. You wrap them around your waist and yours around his, and hug him tightly as though he might slip away. You hope he doesn’t after speaking with Robby later tonight. You’re sure the man doesn’t hate you, but you’re still worried after the multitude of questions he had for you when you broke your wrist.
How old are you? What do you do for a living? You know he works night shifts, right? Are you okay with him spending the majority of his time in a hospital? You know he has a lot of baggage, right? You’re twenty-five; you should consider all of that before stepping into a relationship with an old man.
This set of questions has been asked not only by Robby, but by others as well, once you told them you were seeing a much older man. For example, your parents, who took turns asking something when you finally told them whose car was always parked outside your house. You splurted the answer while your dad was replacing your old showerhead. You were going to get Jack to do it for you, but he had stepped in to help with the morning shift and would spend his free time afterwards snoring into his bedsheets.
You were explaining who he was at first – “His name is Jack, he’s an attending at PTMC’s emergency department…” – and they seemed enamoured without even having to meet him. Then your mom audibly gasped, and your dad dropped his tools when you said, “And he’s forty-five.”
“Jesus Christ.” Your mom swatted your dad’s arm and reminded him not to use the Lord’s name in vain. He muttered, “We haven’t gone to church in years… I think it’s okay this time,” and picked up his tools with shaky hands.
“That’s twenty years older than you, and fifteen years younger than us,” your mom said, still covering her mouth, as though every bodily fluid inside her might come up.
“It’s not a big deal,” you said, and began backing up against the bathroom door. You wanted a way out if they were going to persuade you to leave him.
Your mom made a face at you: eyebrows drawn, and now both hands were feathering her shoulder like you had said the most vile thing to her. “I just don’t think this is a good idea. I am sure he’s a good guy, but I do think he has lived a long life… and experienced a lot that you have yet to go through. You can’t offer advice if you’re still a kid,” she laughed, and you looked at your dad, who shrugged and turned around to properly align the shower head.
“Dad?” you asked, like a little girl who’d just gotten berated and needed the comfort of her other guardian, though he wouldn’t offer more than an “You know how she is.”
“I don’t know, sweetheart. But if he really makes you happy, I guess it doesn’t matter.”
You nodded, backed away into your living room, and waited for them to finish. Then you hugged them goodbye, shut the door, and cried once it was double-locked. You questioned your ability to care for Jack because of your age after they’d said that. Robby was one thing – he was a friend of Jack’s, not your parent. When your mom looked as though she’d been electrocuted and your dad had to turn away from you, it was worse than embarrassment. It felt like they had disowned you.
You should have talked to Jack about it, but you didn’t push it. You actually haven’t pushed it at all since then, though age has been brought up. It’s usually during extremely intimate moments, like when he has you deep into the mattress, hand over your throat while he pumps into you. You’ll call him your old man and seductively comment on the grays that are beginning to take over his auburn curls. He comes faster that way. But confessing about your insecure thoughts mid-fuck feels weird, so you’ve tucked it into one of your brain folds until it naturally comes to the surface.
Trinity pauses your spiral into insecure madness by grunting near your china cabinet and saying, “I don’t know whether to be happy that my half-boss is in L-word or annoyed that I’m witnessing a public display of affection.”
“This isn’t in public, Doctor Santos. You’re in the private comfort of this lovely lady’s home,” he murmurs against your forehead. He grabs your hands and slowly and sadly places them at your sides. He still holds your hand while he turns around and faces a very amused Trinity. “And you can feel whatever you usually feel whenever you’re at work.”
She raises a brow. “Dread?”
Jack shrugs. “Yeah sure, though I don’t know if I love that you hate being at work. I feel like your job should be something you're passionate about and excited to do.”
“Are you always passionate about and excited to do your job?”
“That’s my cue to leave,” he huffs and reaches out to pat Trinity’s shoulder. She nods and waves goodbye before he’s even stepped closer to the door.
“I’m about to be really gross and mushy with your half-boss right now; you might want to move to the living room,” you tell Triniy, and she rushes past you to your backyard without a word.
Jack chuckles as he grabs your waist and steps backwards towards the entryway. He rotates his body and holds you closer to him, then presses himself against the minuscule free space on your wall. “I’m going to miss you,” he whispers, and moves a hand from your waist to the back of your head, pulling you towards his lips.
He kisses you hard. You kiss him harder – tongue darting into his mouth and your hands grabbing onto the damp curls at the nape of his neck. He keeps up with your fast pace for a minute, but stills his movements shortly after, humming against your mouth with what sounds like, “Company.”
“What?” you ask, and slowly contain your fervor.
Jack’s thumbs appear on your mouth, trying to flatten out the wrinkles from your frown. “Although I’d love to continue this steamy moment, you have company, and” – he looks at his watch peeking from his button-up – “it’s 5:30, and I told him I’d be at his place by now.”
You nod and take his hands in yours, pulling them away and carefully setting them by his sides. “Have fun,” you tell him. “And come back tonight, alright?”
“Why would I not?” he asks, confused and curious.
You shrug and quickly face away from him, grabbing the doorknob and fiddling with the lock to avoid looking at his puppy-dog eyes. You hate how easy he can pry most things out of you because of them – always so glossy and full of desperation.
“I don’t know. I guess I just feel like Robby doesn’t like me, and he might try to persuade you not to come back?”
Jack pulls you away from the door and stands in front of it, his thumb now fiddling with the warm lock instead of yours. “He just doesn’t know you, is all. And even if he doesn’t like you, it wouldn’t matter because I –” He grunts, like a thorn has magically appeared in his throat and blocked any word from coming out. “I like you a lot. There is nothing his miserable ass can say to me that will stop me from coming back to you. You understand?”
You interlock your hands behind your back and let them fight one another, though they each fail from the sweat leaking from your palms. You look up at him – his face contorted into worry and sympathy for your aching thoughts – and shake your head up and down. “I understand.”
“Do you want to recap our days when I get back? Over some tea on your porch?”
You nod again. “Yes, please.”
Jack unlocks the door and pulls it open, his body moving with the widened door and walking right into your bubble. He leans down and pecks your lips. “Then we will. I’ll see you before midnight.”
“Bye-bye. Be safe.” You grab his unevenly folded collar and fix it for him before he backs into your porch. “And don’t let anyone flirt with you.”
“The only person that might flirt with me is Robby… and I don’t think I’m his type.”
“And who would be?” you chuckle.
He points at the cracked back door he can see from the front. “Ask your friend; she might know.”
You push him out and kiss, tell, and wave him goodbye. You keep saying ‘bye’ until he’s in his car and down the street. Then you shut the door and scratch your head, wondering what the hell he meant by ‘Ask your friend.’
The doorbell rings the second the smoke detector begins screaming into Robby’s questionably large studio apartment.
“Who is it?” he screams from the open patio door.
Jack heads to the door, scratching the back of his head as he tries to find a way to explain that he knew the food would turn out terrible, so he ordered wings nearly an hour ago. “Just, y’know, food,” he says, though he knows Robby can’t hear him over the beeping. He opens the door and takes the stack of wings, fries, and a tall bottle of soda from the worried delivery guy. He furrows his brows at the sound, nonverbally asking if the place is on fire. “He sucks at cooking,” he tells him, and hands him a fifty-dollar bill. The tip is more than the order itself, but the guy currently inhaling a burnt beef Wellington, and Jack is worried he might lose a lung because of it.
“You sure, man?” he asks.
“Yeah, of course. I hope your other deliveries aren’t as … hectic.”
“It’s all good. Thanks. Have a good night.”
Jack shuts the door and walks back into the kitchen. He sets the food down and grabs the burnt beef Wellington beside it, dumping it directly into the trash. “Food’s ready,” he shouts, right as the smoke detector shuts up. He smiles to himself as if he’s the reason it stopped, even if Robby did spend the past five minutes treating fanning with a rag like an arm workout.
“When did you order food?” Robby asks, sweaty and tired and smelling of burnt beef and caramelized onions.
Jack scratches his head again while the other picks up a fry from its steaming box. “Like an hour ago.”
Robby snatches the fry from his hand and shoves it into his mouth in annoyance. “An hour ago?” he exclaims. “This wasn’t a disaster an hour ago.”
“Well, I had a feeling this would turn into one the second you said you didn’t get a food thermometer. Oh! And when you kept replaying the same thirty seconds of the tutorial over and over again.”
Robby doesn’t argue despite being slightly offended and heads to the cupboards to grab plates and four large glasses – two for the soda and two for the drinks he’s going to make. It's stressful trying to whip up a dish that only skilled cooks can make when you can't even get pancake batter to the right consistency.
“What do you want to drink?” he asks, setting the glasses down to return for ice and his small bar cart.
“What do you have?”
“I have more alcohol and things to make alcoholic beverages with than food, so I can make you anything in the world.”
Jack chuckles and wipes his wing-stained mouth. “I think I actually have a drink or two I want to try in my notes app,” he tells him, and picks up his phone, unlocking it to open the shared note he has with you.
Robby peers over his shoulder and scoffs at the list of fruity cocktails, mojitos, and margaritas – some with your name on it, others with Jack’s, along with a multitude of exclamation marks and emojis. “You guys seem very together for a couple who is yet to be official,” he says with a laugh.
Jack rolls his eyes at his chuckles, then pushes his phone over and taps on a drink that sounds appealing for the evening heat. “She read about this drink in some newspaper at an antique shop. She wrote it down for herself, then read it to me in bed a couple of weeks ago. I thought it’d be delicious, so I made her put my name on it instead.”
“Cool,” is all Robby says for a solid minute while he grabs the ingredients from his fridge: grenadine, pineapple juice, limes, and more ice from the freezer. Once he has them laid out on the counter, with his wings getting colder by the second, he adds, “I like how you won’t say anything about my little remark.”
“What’s there to say? ‘I know’ is all.”
“Well, tell me about her. All I know is that you’re completely whipped, she’s an author, and she still has a broken wrist.”
Jack stumbles over a train of unorganized thoughts. He doesn’t know what to say because every corner of his mind is filled with you, and choosing a single thought feels like searching for the perfect gold nugget in a mine already overflowing with clones. He thinks about everything: your laugh when you scroll on social media with him at night, your arts and crafts dates in your backyard, your cute smile, and the way your nose crinkles. He thinks about the massages you give him after long shifts that start at his shoulders and end at both his stump and his feet – the kind that always draw tears out of him. He also thinks about the work lunches you make for him and the hectic mornings when he helps you after begging you not to do it alone. Even with all of this in mind, he can only think of one thing.
“I almost said I love you today.”
Robby chokes on his own spit and has to suck in as much air as he can before his lungs give out. “You almost said it?” he asks. “What stopped you?”
“The fact that we’re not together.”
He groans and doesn’t stop while he shakes the Planter’s Punch he’s making for Jack. “Waiting is overrated, you know?”
“Overrated?” Jack asks, baffled at the words coming out of his old friend’s mouth. The old friend that’s supposed to be miserable and have an incredibly negative outlook on relationships.
“Yeah. Why wait to be in a relationship to express how you feel? I can tell all that love is building up inside of you,” he says, then mumbles, “You might explode.”
Jack pushes his plate of food to the side and grabs the drink as soon as Robby is done pouring the liquid into the glass. A few droplets splash onto the counter when he takes a sip. “Who have you turned into? Has Whitaker turned you into a sap?”
“Shut the hell up,” Robby spits. “Maybe I was like this all along, and he just brought it out of me.”
Jack shrugs with an amused grin on his face. “I mean, good for you, man. As long as he makes you happy and you’re less of a grumpy asshole at work, I’m happy.”
“I am not a grumpy asshole at work.”
“Y/n thinks you hate her after your little spiel the night she came into the Pitt.”
“Really?” he asks, taken aback. “Well, shit. Now I have to turn into a good cook so I can make it up to her.”
“Or you can just take us out to dinner. That option sounds way better.”
“Deal,” he says, and takes the tray of fries from the center of the table.
He makes himself a plate and two drinks and begins eating. It’s quiet for a solid ten minutes – filled with quiet chewing and compliments from Jack about Robby’s bartending skills. This is how it usually is when Robby and Jack hang out: comfortable silence with food and drinks between them – sometimes while a movie or sports game blurs by in front of them. They make conversation, but for the longest time, it was just about annoying patients and nagging staff who hold onto them like toddlers. Now they have a lot to talk about; they just don’t know how to bring it up.
Robby speaks up while Jack does the most un-guest thing and washes the dishes. “I don’t hate her, you know. She seems really nice, and she’s making you glow like the fucking sun. I just don’t want you to get hurt again.”
Jack cocks his eyebrows and gives him the most cruel side eye. “Hurt again?”
“You know…” Robby tends to tiptoe around this subject. He always has, ever since he got close with Jack so many years ago. He never brings up his ex-wife Hannah, nor his complicated relationship with his family. It’s easier not to, because Jack quickly brushes it off and says, “It’s cool, don’t worry about it; I’m not worrying about it,” and it ends up making him feel like a jerk for bringing it up in the first place. “Your wife, your parents,” he mumbles once he’s got the courage to keep going.
Jack turns off the faucet and grabs the rag Robby used to fan the smoke detector. He dries his hands over and over again, then throws them onto the counter and pivots to face his overly worried friend. “Look, man, I have spent a long time by myself and in therapy understanding how these relationships have affected me. I have hiked up hills and mountains, and I’ve sat on cliffs and roofs trying to understand why my parents decided they didn’t want me once I lost my leg. I’ve questioned myself – my time in the military, in war, in med school – because if I had just listened to them and their requests for me to go to law school, I would still have my family. But once I realized our relationship wasn’t about love but about control, I decided it was best not to speak to them anymore. They’d just complain, tell me I fucked my life up because of my own stupid choices.” Jack laughs at himself as he remembers his parents crying to him about his decision to enlist, and when they asked him to find somewhere else to live once he got out of the combat hospital with one less limb. “As for Hannah, I was mourning her and our relationship while she was still alive, years before she even got sick. By the time she was gone, some part of me was already used to her absence.”
Robby grabs his Planter’s Punch he forgot to finish and downs the rest of it. He doesn’t know what to say, but before he can think of something good to say, his mouth has already opened and released the words bouncing off the walls of his brain.
“I don’t know what to say, man. Fuck.”
“I bare my soul to you, and all you say is, “I don’t know what to say?””
Robby throws his hands up and drops his head. “I was caught off-guard, Abbot! You don’t talk about your feelings all that much. You talk about the sports you’ve gotten into, the random jobs you want to take up, but you’ve never once gone so in-depth about your family. You’ve never even said that about Hannah, either.”
“Yeah, well, today is the day, I guess. You added too much rum in those drinks, and I don’t drink that often, so…”
Robby chuckles and reaches forward to grab Jack’s shoulder. He shakes him around and says, “I’m proud of you. Not only for opening up to me, but for loving someone new and not being scared of it.”
“I don’t think I have ever felt this loved before,” Jack confesses. He looks straight into Robby’s eyes, making sure he knows he’s telling the truth.
“Not even by … ”
Jack shakes his head. “I don’t think she loved me the way I loved her. I think she hated my ass towards the end, actually. She’d get mad at me about everything: the food I’d make her for work, the way I folded our clothes, or the way I’d sometimes get the wrong percentage of ground beef from the grocery store. Nothing I did made her content.”
“And now you’re happy,” Robby states.
“Now I don’t have that feeling in my chest that something will go wrong.”
“Is Robby gay?” you ask Trinity, who’s busy handling one of the bottles of wine she spent nearly an hour reading about.
“Something like that. I think he’s bisexual. I’m not sure.”
“What’s his type?”
She opens the bottle and pours a hefty amount of white wine into your glass. “Why are you asking? Is Abbot not doing it for you? I didn’t take you for a homie-hopper.”
You roll your eyes and grab the wine glass from the table. “Jack is doing it very well for me, thank you very much. I’m just asking because he said this funny thing before he left, and I wanted to ask you once we were settled and not in public.”
She raises a brow and slowly pours wine into her own glass. “You don’t want to talk about gay people in public?”
“I am not homophobic!” you exclaim and sip a large amount of wine before continuing your sentence. “I didn’t want to talk about it because what if someone knew who Robby was, overheard our conversation about his queerness, and spread it around. We don’t even know if he wants people to know.”
“I know that he doesn’t care if people know,” Trinity states.
“He’s told you?”
“Not exactly.”
You shake your head and lean over the table, your face now a few inches away from hers. “Then…”
“Dennis and Robby have been seeing – and sleeping – with each other since he started at the Pitt!”
“WHAT?”
“YEAH,” Trinity shouts along with you. “I live with Dennis, so not only do I hear about the man constantly, but I hear them going at it like fucking animals every other night. It’s driving me mad.”
“Doesn’t he have his own place?”
“Uh, yeah,” Trinity shouts again. It’s times like these when you’re happy you live in a house rather than an apartment. You’re sure gossiping over Robby’s love life at an alarmingly loud volume would’ve gotten you a noise complaint now. “I guess he just likes rubbing it in everyone’s face that his … y’know … still works.”
You slap your hands over your face and groan. “Please don’t talk about his y’know ever again. That is your boss.”
“And he’s having sex with my roommate – his resident, by the way – in my apartment. I think I can talk crudely about him.”
“Fair,” you say, shrugging while you take another sip of wine. “This is good, by the way. I usually just choose what looks the best. Or whatever my dad tells me is good – which is always a red wine.”
“Thanks,” she replies, and grabs an egg roll from the center of your living room coffee table. After finding your wine of choice, you sat in the liquor store parking lot naming a variety of cuisines to choose from: Chinese, Thai, Italian, Mexican, Vietnamese, Indian, and Mediterranean. You settled on cheap Chinese takeout from your favorite spot a few minutes outside of the city. “When I started med school, I was drinking a lot. Usually tequila or vodka, but it would always turn me into a monster. I would make out with women I didn’t know, stay out late, and wake up with the worst hangovers known to man. I also looked like a drinker… And after a while, my body couldn’t take it, but I still needed something to calm me down after extremely stressful weeks. So I started learning about wine.”
“It’s paying off,” you tell her, then narrow your eyes as she chomps down on a fat piece of broccoli. “And speaking of women, have you been seeing anyone lately?”
“I was. But she would only use me for sex and my fancy ramen. I cut her off once she started coming over smelling like other women.”
“You don’t do casual?” you ask.
“I tell myself I can.”
You scoot closer to Trinity, though she doesn’t look completely enamored by the idea. She looks like she wants to move, but she sits still on her heart-shaped pillow. “I think my editor would really like you. I can set you guys up, seriously.”
“You have to show me pictures.”
“Do looks matter that much? You can’t take my word for it that she’s a complete babe?”
“Nah, I just want to know if she’s a top, bottom, or switch.”
After two bottles of wine and four fortune cookies later, you’re back to talking about love because of a romance movie playing in front of you. Apparently, it was a country-wide hit, but Trinity stopped paying attention once an abundance of sex scenes played back to back.
Half an hour ago, you spent the majority of your first bottle Insta-stalking your editor, Mae, where you ended up making Trinity follow her on her account. Mae followed her shortly after, and Trinity begged you to stop talking about their potential date so you could make pom-pom garlands.
You spent the second bottle and third hour of your friend date watching tutorials and making copious amounts of garlands that will have to fight one another for every single spot in your house. They were just so fun to make, and you were occupied by Trinity’s book ideas. She ended up making two, one for herself, with the colors of the lesbian flag, and one for Dennis. His was just a bunch of random colors.
Now you’re surrounded by pom poms and string while nursing the smallest amount of wine in your glass.
“Dating apps aren’t for me,” Trinity groans, pausing the movie. “That might be the most realistic part of this movie.”
You throw your head back and laugh. While you might not relate to one another on many levels, dating apps are one thing you can certainly bond over. “I don’t think they’re for the majority of the universe. Sometimes I even wonder if the people who met on dating apps and are now in happy, loving relationships are just robots created in factories to try and spike the number of relationships that come from them.”
“Really?” she gushes and sits up on the couch. Her eyes are no longer seconds from shutting – they’re wide open and ready for you to explain this silly thought. “Why do you think so?”
You shrug and poke at a cold egg roll. “I rarely see couples who are happily married after meeting on dating apps. And every time someone shows me a picture of their friend and says, “My friend met her husband on a dating app,” it looks so fake! The proposal pictures, wedding pictures, and them in general! Maybe my brain isn’t letting me believe it after having such a shit experience with them, but I just don’t think it’s possible.”
"What do you think is more likely: finding the love of your life on a dating app or through a meet-cute?"
“Finding the love of your life through a meet-cute,” you exclaim. “Duh…”
Trinity hums and leans forward, way closer to you. “Why are you saying duh?”
You chuckle awkwardly and slap your hand against the back of your neck. The lingering coolness of the wine glass settles against your flushed skin, and you savor it until the heat overpowers it again. You realize now, in the moment where you’re breaking out into a cold sweat, that you haven’t told Trinity how you met Jack. She just knows that you’re together without a label yet, and he took your virginity – though that part was just a spot-on assumption without validation.
“‘Cause me and Jack had a meet-cute,” you tell her. “Sort of. I think.”
“How do you think? You’re a romance author; you should know what a meet-cute is,” she laughs.
“Yeah, well, now that I’m admitting that it was a meet-cute, I’m starting to second-guess myself.”
“Tell me how you met, and I’ll tell you if it’s one.”
You’re sure she’ll see you and her half-boss differently by the time you end the story, but she’s clearly begging to hear it. “So I was at a coffee shop writing my novel – well, trying to. I was actually struggling while writing the first sex scene because I was extremely inexperienced.”
“YOU WERE A VIRGIN?”
You shush loudly and lift your finger to your mouth. “The neighbors will hear!” you exclaim. “And yes, I was a virgin at the time. Anyways, I’m super stressed out while having my hundredth cup of coffee, and all of a sudden, Jack pops up in front of me. He’s like, “Can I ask why you’re so stressed out?” you say, mimicking his voice. “And at first, I don’t want to tell him, but he so kindly asks, so I do. Y’know, I’m struggling to write the first sex scene because I don’t know jack shit about how sex is supposed to really go down. And then he offers to help me get over my writer's block.”
“You’re joking,” she laughs. Well, snorts. This is confusingly humorous to her. “That is a meet-cute… but in a Fifty Shades of Grey universe.”
“Fuck you!” you say, laughing along with her. “I know if this were any other person, I would have told them to get the fuck away from me, but from the jump I knew Jack was a sweet guy.”
“So your relationship started with sex?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“And how’s it going now? Are you guys going at it like animals too? Is it only sex, or –”
“I think I love him.”
“Oh. You think?”
You keep scooting further into Trinity’s bubble. You grab her hands, though she jumps a little at the foreign act. She quickly settles and rubs your slightly trembling knuckles with her thumb. “I know I love him. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. And I know it might sound crazy because it’s only been three months, but I feel it so deep in my bones that this is the man for me. He will be it for the rest of my life.”
“Honestly, girl,” Trinity starts, her face going from painfully serious to cracking a big smirk. “I’ve said I love you by month two. It depends on the person and the relationship. If you feel it, you feel it. And you should definitely say it. Who knows, he might love you too.”
“I think he does…”
“Really?”
“I think he almost said it today, right before he left. I was being insecure – worried Robby would somehow persuade him to dump me – and he told me nothing he said would make him do that to me because he really likes me. But when he said ‘like,’ he stuttered a little. Like he was going to say ‘I love you.’”
“He was definitely going to say it,” Trinity tells you, and drops your hands to stand up. She grabs your glasses and empty wine bottles and runs to the kitchen. “We have to celebrate now. You have to have some liquor around here. Right?”
“I thought you hated liquor.”
“Not tonight. You’re in love – it’s necessary.”
Dennis picks Trinity up half an hour later. She had too much tequila and Chinese and ended up barfing in your spare bathroom.
When you settle her into the old sedan they share, Jack’s car pulls into your driveway. You and Trinity share a look, though hers is drunk while yours is nearly sober. “Are you going to tell him?”
“Maybe.”
“Tell him what?” Dennis asks.
You both immediately answer, “Nothing,” at the same time before bursting into laughter and playfully smacking each other’s limbs.
Dennis notices the exchange and chuckles with you. Then, a little awkwardly, yet confidently, he adds, “Would you want to come over next week and talk about it over drinks?”
“Deal.”
“Maybe we can go out for drinks. Go to a bar… Dance … You can even bring your lover.”
You roll your eyes and say, “Maybe,” then look at Dennis with a bit of concern coating both of your faces. “Please make sure she doesn’t vomit in her sleep or something. And once she’s up and fine, ask her for my number. We can set up a date and time.”
“Cool. Have a good night! Thanks for hanging out with her; she was really excited.”
You stand back and nod. “I was, too,” you say as Dennis rolls up Trinity’s window and slowly drives away from your house. It’s funny thinking about how worried you were that she wouldn’t want to spend time with you. That the second she stepped into your home and spoke to you for longer than an hour – under zero pain medication – she would realize you weren’t as cool as she thought. But after tonight, every negative thought has been yanked out and buried six feet under.
You slowly walk back to the porch while Jack gets out of his car. You don’t notice him holding a bouquet until you turn around and face him. You can’t contain your smile even if you tried. The remnants of the sips of tequila you took along with the wine aren’t going to let you lie – or stuff those three words away in the back of your mind.
“Hi, gorgeous,” Jack says, holding the bouquet against his heart.
“Hi, handsome. How’d it go?”
He skips onto your porch and backs you up into the screen door. “Good. I tried one of those drinks you put down in our shared note.”
“Was it good?”
He bites down on his lip, nods, and then leans in and kisses you. “Very. Can you taste it?”
“Mhm,” you say, then laugh. “And a bit of lemon pepper. What did you guys have to eat?”
“Well, he failed at making Chef Ramsey bullshit, so I ordered wings before the place burnt down.”
You chuckle and bring your hand up to your mouth. “What Chef Ramsey bullshit did he try to make?”
“Beef Wellington.”
“Not even I would dare to make that.”
“Me neither,” he says in a low tone, and then lifts the bouquet. He brings it up to his face, sheathing his nose and lips. His eyes crinkle, and you know he’s smiling. “These are for you, by the way.”
“Oh! Why, thank you. I thought Robby had gifted them to you.”
“He would buy me a drink, dinner, maybe cigarettes if I were desperate for one – but never flowers,” he jokes, shaking his head at the thought, like it’s too far from his reach. Though after their deep conversation tonight, it might be closer than he thinks.
You stare at the bundle of flowers: pink peonies mixed with baby's breath and a few green stems you can’t put a name to. “They’re beautiful. But it’s late; how’d you find such a pretty bouquet?”
“I have my people.”
You pull the bouquet away from his face and give him another round of kisses. Even though you taste of wine, tequila, and whatever you scarfed down while tipsy, it’s amazing – his soft lips that taste of cherry lip balm the more you take him into your mouth, and the peppered scruff that pricks at your cheeks and chin.
“I love them,” you whisper. You look down suddenly, between kisses, and stare at them a little longer. His lips land on your forehead, and his scruff once again glides along your skin. You’ve never once had a favorite flower. You choose a different one to favor each month – lavender, tulips, gardenias, or orchids – and this month you so happened to land on peonies. Specifically, pink peonies.
You said this to him a couple of nights ago over a cup of tea. “I know it’s mid-June, but I decided my favorite flower this month is pink peonies,” you told him while he was shutting an eye and drifting to sleep. You didn’t think he would remember, but he must have only shut his eyes, not his ears.
“You do?” he asks, even if he knows the answer. You’re spending more time looking at the arrangement than anything else, not even the mosquito hovering near your shoulder that wants a taste of you, too.
You look up at him and give a flirtatious incline of the head. “I love …” The last word catches in your throat, aching to be uttered. It feels like the perfect time to confess. He’slooking at you as if you’ve just hung the damn moon, and he came back when you were terrified he wouldn’t. He's also holding a bouquet of the exact flowers you love, as if every detail you’ve ever shared with him is permanently engraved in his brain. You want to tell him how he makes you feel – how effortlessly he calms every anxiety-ridden thought in your mind before it can swallow you whole. How he’s always patient with you, even when you’re bombarding him with medical questions you know will go in one ear and out the other. You want him to know that somewhere between his infinite reassurances and silent thoughtfulness, you fell completely in love with him.
Those three words sit on the tip of your tongue, pricking your taste buds as if you had just kissed a cactus. But you bite them back and swallow each spine.
You’ve had too much to drink, even if the alcohol is no longer numbing your limbs and prohibiting you from thinking straight. You’ll say those three words at one point, but only when you’re completely clear-headed. He deserves to hear them when they’re not warmed by wine and tequila.
“I love them,” you say instead. “Now c’mon, let’s put these in a cute little vase and debrief over a cup of tea.”
taglist: @pinksabotageveil
comment if you want to be added to the taglist. i had someone else ask but i genuinely cannot find the comment.
synopsis: micro twitter celebrity, yn, moves to Oceanside and meets Andrew “Pope” Cody at the bar. She’s too trusting for her own good and Pope finds her demeanor hard to ignore.
warnings: mention of age gap. reader just turned 25, and is brunette. she has a popular twitter account where she tweets out her unfiltered thoughts. reader has kinks/fetishes she talks about on her account. she is a virgin, he is not. pope is kinda vanilla but not due to the trauma from his mother (praise kink). will be slightly angsty in the future.
this story was in my drafts. time to let it see light!
anyways, i rlly wanted to make reader be clingy and a bit hyper. she will struggle with anxiety and attachment issues (basically the complete opposite of my jack abbot reader) and have a problem with trusting too much. Since she hasn’t done anything wrong to Pope, he keeps replying because he’s intrigued by the sudden but innocent normalcy ..
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authors note: hey… (i know it’s been exactly a month since the last chapter) how are yous doing… we’re back again hehehe. the end is nearly in sight (i’ve been spending weeks trying to make sure the chapters line up properly without jumping too much).
daniel's hands were warm on your waist, his touch predictable and familiar as he leaned over you in the dark.
the sheets beneath you were crisp, smelling faintly of the lavender detergent you always bought.
everything about your room, about the lighting, about the man shifting his weight above you, was calibrated for safety.
it was the exact life you had spent a little while trying to engineer—a life that was free of sharp edges, sudden drops, and volatile, unpredictable storms.
chase was now entirely back to full health, the hives long gone and her life completely back to its usual teenage rhythm.
she was currently fast asleep in her second bedroom across the city, completely safe. the crisis was long over and yet unfortunately the shift it had caused inside you hadn't settled a single inch since.
the terror of that night had receded from the house, but it remained firmly lodged under your ribs, a heavy, jagged stone that refused to dissolve.
daniel was saying something soft against your neck—something sweet, no doubt—his breathing shallow and patient as he tried to coax you into the rhythm of a moment you had actively initiated.
he was trying so hard.
he always tried.
his lips pressed against the sensitive skin beneath your ear, his touch light and undemanding, offering a steady, gentle warmth that should have been comforting.
you had your eyes squeezed shut, your fingers gripping his shoulders, consciously forcing yourself to stay present.
be here, you commanded your brain, the words repeating like a desperate, frantic mantra behind your eyelids. be here with the man who actually belongs in your life now. look at him. appreciate him. choose him.
but your mind was an absolute traitor.
every time daniel's hands shifted over your hips, your skin instinctively remembered a completely different, slightly heavier grip.
your nerves didn't fire instead they misfired, translating the gentle pressure into an agonizing phantom sensation of calloused hands that used trace your skin.
when daniel kissed your jaw, your chest didn't tighten or ache instead it remained completely flat.
but you weren't in your bedroom. well not mentally at least.
smells that you only associated with hospitals rushed back into your nose. you kept seeing the terrifying, deep rumble of jack's chest.
the way his frame had effortlessly shielded you from the chaos of the hospital lobby, the sheeer, unyielding force of his voice telling you i've got her, i won't let anything happen to her.
you remembered how the absolute terror of losing your daughter had been met by the immovable, terrifyingly solid wall of jack's presence.
he had been a force of nature that night, holding you together with nothing but the sheer weight of his grip, and breathing life back into a room that felt like it was running out of oxygen.
now daniel shifted, his weight pressing down on you, his lips finding yours. it was a good kiss. it was supposed to be intimate, a needed reassurance after a frantic, terrifying month.
it was the kind of kiss that belonged in a stable, healthy relationship.
but you felt entirely hollowed out, like a detached spectator in your own bedroom, watching your own body go through the motions from somewhere near the ceiling.
you were reaching for a feeling that simply wasn't there, desperately trying to project jack's sharp, intense gravity onto daniel's quiet, undeserving kindness.
you tried to force the spark, but failed instantly.
you were lying beneath a good man, wishing he was a completely different one.
when it was over, daniel rolled to the side, pulling the sheet over both of you and drawing you into his side.
he kissed the top of your head, his arm heavy but lax across your waist.
within minutes, he fell asleep, his chest rising and falling peacefully against his shoulder, entirely unaware of the wreckage occurring inches away from him.
you stared up at the dark ceiling for hours, the guilt pooling heavy, toxic, and hot in your stomach.
it wasn't fair to daniel, who loved you with a quiet, uncomplicated devotion, and the absolute weight of it was driving you insane.
you didn't want to want jack.
you had spent months building a meticulous fortress to keep him out, brick by agonizing brick, reinforcing the walls with logic, memory of your old fights, and the desperate need for peace.
and a single thursday night with an allergy scare had leveled it entirely to the ground.
a few hours in jack's orbit, and the fortress was nothing but dust.
you were irritable and furious that your own heart refused to cooperate, angry that months of progress could be obliterated by the simple memory of a man's hand on your back.
so three days later, you broke up with daniel.
it happened in the living room on a quiet sunday afternoon.
it was quiet, gentle, and devastatingly polite—which somehow made you find the whole situation even more infuriating.
he didn't yell or even demand any answers.
he just looked at you with a sad, knowing understanding in his eyes that made you feel like a monster.
he packed his small duffel bag, kissed your cheek, and walked out.
there was no closure in it, only the profound, hollow ache of failing at something that should have been simple.
you were officially alone again, and you were completely pissed off about it.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
the subsequent three weeks were an exercise in absolute exhaustion. you usually found solace in the rigid structure of your job in academia.
you usually graded papers and delivered lectures in ways that kept you grounded. instead, you found yourself staring blankly at student essays, the words blurring into a meaningless haze as twenty-one days of isolation slowly began to wear on your sanity.
max held out a paper cup of tea. behind him priya slipped into your cramped campus office, quietly closing the door and dropping a bakery bag onto your desk.
"croissants," priya announced gently. "because we know you haven't eaten a real meal since sunday. how are you holding up?"
you leaned back in your desk chair, rubbing your temples. "i'm fine. just... adjusting. it's been nearly a month, and the house is still entirely too quiet."
"it's quiet because you did the right thing, even if it feels awful," priya said, sitting on the edge of your desk. "daniel is a wonderful guy, but if the spark isn't there, keeping him around would have been cruel. you spared him a lot of long-term heartache."
"i still feel like a terrible person," you admitted, your voice dropping, the residual guilt of the breakup heavy in your chest. "he didn't do anything wrong. he was steady. he was exactly what i thought i wanted. and the guilt with chase is just killing me. i swore to myself that i wouldn't be that parent—the one introducing random men into her life only for them to turn out to be temporary fixtures. she liked him. she deserved stability, and i just disrupted her world again."
"how did she actually take it?" max asked softly.
"that's the weirdest part. she seemed... completely fine with it, surprisingly," you muttered, shaking your head in confusion.
"when i told her daniel and i were parting ways, she just nodded, gave me a hug, and went back to her homework. no questions. i thought she would be devastated, but she barely blinked."
what you didn't know—what you couldn't possibly see from inside your own blind spot—was that chase wasn't indifferent at all.
deep down, your teenage daughter was actively, desperately rooting for her parents to get back together.
she knew it was stupid to think so. she remembered the slamming doors from years ago, and she knew the statistics on divorced parents.
but chase was also the one who watched the two of you from the stairs and when you interacted behind closed doors when you thought she wasn't paying attention.
she knew that even when you and jack were being completely distant, cold, or fiercely closed off with each other, the room still practically hummed with electricity.
she saw the heavy, unsaid weight that hung in the air between her mother and her father every time they were in the same room.
daniel had been nice, but to chase, daniel had been a ghost in a house that still belonged to a storm.
"intensity isn't always a flaw," priya offered gently, reaching over to squeeze your hand, bringing you back to the present. "sometimes it just means the fire never actually went out. you spent a while trying to convince yourself that a quiet life was the same thing as a happy one. it's okay to admit that jack still holds the keys to the castle."
you couldn't answer.
the truth of priya's words felt like a physical weight in your chest, a truth you weren't ready to face, let alone voice aloud.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
to make matters more stressful, the house was about to get even quieter.
chase had been scheduled for an end-of-year school trip which was a three-day camping and hiking excursion.
you had been entirely reluctant to let her go. with the cashew allergy debacle still fresh in your mind, the thought of your daughter being hours away from the nearest hospital, surrounded by wilderness, made your stomach twist into violent knots.
you had nearly canceled her registration three times.
but you knew you couldn't keep her locked inside forever.
she was a growing teenager, yearning for independence, and jack had gently reminded you over a brief, strained phone call that "you can't wrap her in bubble wrap, as much as we both want to."
so, with a heavy heart and a backpack stuffed with four epipens, you had dropped her off at the school bus that morning.
the anxiety had settled into the empty house by midafternoon, wrapping around your throat until you were practically climbing the walls.
a sudden, sharp craving hit you out of nowhere—a desperate, phantom itch for a cigarette. you hadn't smoked in seven years.
back during the worst, most turbulent years of your marriage, you used to keep a secret pack hidden in the back of the pantry, slipping out into the dark of the back garden to smoke when jack wasn't looking, just to catch a single breath of artificial calm.
but jack had found out.
he hadn't yelled which you had kind of expected him to.
he had looked at you with this fiercely protective, agonizingly gentle worry, talking you out of it by quietly listing the health risks and gently pulling the lighter from your hand.
the memory made you scoff out loud in the empty kitchen, a wave of bitter irritation washing over you.
it was infuriating.
even your old, hidden vices were completely tangled up in him.
you couldn't even crave a bad habit without his memory standing there, blocking the doorway.
which made the events of the afternoon all the more confusing.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
the thunder rumbled low in the distance, a dark purple wall of bruised clouds rolling over the horizon, but the air remained heavy with pre-storm humidity.
inside the house, the atmosphere felt just as pressurized, the walls closing in on you as the afternoon light prematurely died.
you were in the kitchen, aggressively scrubbing a dish that was already perfectly clean, just to have something to do with the restless, angry energy vibrating violently under your skin.
the sponge rasped against the porcelain, the water running scalding hot over your hands, but nothing could distract you.
suddenly, the roar of a small, sputtering engine flared to life in your front yard, cutting through the quiet house like a chainsaw.
you froze, the sponge dripping soapy water onto the linoleum.
your chest instantly tightening, you threw the dish towel onto the counter and marched to the front window, ripping the blinds back with a sharp snap.
there was jack.
the sight of him hit you like a physical blow to the sternum.
he was wearing a faded, grey t-shirt that clung to the broad span of his back, the fabric stretched tight across his shoulders.
his greying curls were already damp with sweat, clinging to the nape of his neck as he pushed your old, temperamental lawnmower across the overgrown grass.
he moved with efficiency, his forearms flexing with every turn.
he wasn't supposed to be here.
chase was away.
it wasn't his weekend, he hadn't texted, and he certainly hadn't asked for permission.
he had simply showed up, an uninvited storm inside an already broken perimeter.
you yanked the front door open, stepping out onto the porch just as the first massive, heavy drops of rain began to slam violently into the dry dirt.
"jack!" you yelled over the deafening rumble of the engine, the wind picking up, whipping your hair across your face.
he didn't look up.
he just turned the mower around at the edge of the fence, his jaw set in a stubborn, rigid line that you knew all too well.
he kept his eyes locked on the path ahead, his frame leaning into the machine as if he could outrun the weather through sheer force of will.
"jack, stop!" you marched down the porch steps, the summer rain immediately soaking through your thin shirt, cold and sudden against your hot skin, plastering your hair to your forehead.
the storm was unleashing now, a wall of water descending on the neighborhood, but you didn't care.
you stopped right in front of the mower, crossing your arms and forcing him to either kill the engine or physically run you over.
jack clamped down on the safety lever, pulling the machine to a halt inches from your sneakers.
the motor sputtered and died with a heavy, mechanical shudder, leaving only the loud, rushing sound of the downpour beginning to unleash around you.
"what the hell are you doing?" you snapped, your voice sharp, laced with all the venom and irritation that had been building like a pressure cooker for weeks.
you were soaking wet, shivering despite the slight heat, and absolutely vibrating with a rage that had very little to do with the grass.
jack wiped a mix of sweat and rain from his eyes with the back of his forearm.
his gaze locked onto yours—dark and entirely unyielding.
"your grass was a foot high," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated beneath the sound of the rain. "the storm's gonna turn it into a swamp, and then it will take you a month to clear it with this piece of shit mower."
"i didn't ask you to do it!" you shouted back, the rain coming down harder now, bouncing violently off the hot metal of the mower between you, sending up small plumes of steam. "i don't need your help, jack. i don't want you here. leave the damn mower and just go home."
"i'm half-way done," he argued, his hands tightening on the rubber grip of the handle until his knuckles turned white, the veins in his forearms standing out in sharp relief. "go back inside before you freeze."
"it's eighty-five degrees out here, i'm not going to freeze. leave it now."
when he wouldn't listen frustration boiled over, hot and blinding.
you stepped around the machine, reaching down and grabbing his wet, solid wrist to physically pull him away from the handle.
the moment your fingers wrapped around his bare skin, the tension snapped. it was like touching a live wire.
jack exploded.
he yanked his arm back violently, dropping the mower handle entirely and grabbing your upper arms instead. his grip was firm, massive, but careful—never enough to hurt, but completely unmovable—as he pulled you a step closer, twisting his body to use his broad frame to physically shield your body from the driving, icy wind.
"i'm finishing the lawn." he still argued with you, his face inches from yours, his hot breath mixing with the cold rain that pooled in the hollows of his collarbones. "stop fighting me on every single thing i do."
"i am fighting you because you don't belong here." you screamed back, the lie tasting like ash in your mouth, your voice breaking against the sheets of water cascading around you.
jack stared at you, the rain streaming down the sharp, rugged angles of his face, catching on his eyelashes and dripping from his chin.
his eyes were burning with a raw, angry frustration that mirrored your own agony, a look that said he knew exactly how much of a lie that was.
for three agonizing seconds, neither of you moved, the heat radiating between your bodies thick enough to choke on despite the deluge.
then, the sky completely opened up in a blinding sheet of white water, a violent, deafening crack of lightning splitting the air directly overhead and rattling the windows of the house.
jack swore loudly under his breath, letting go of your arms only to catch your hand—his palm rough, scorching hot, and completely soaking wet—and yanked you toward the porch.
you didn't fight him this time. you couldn't.
you stumbled up the wooden steps, your wet sneakers slipping slightly before jack caught your waist, guiding you with an aggressive urgency. he kicked the front door open with the heel of his heavy boot, shoving you into the dry interior before slamming the heavy wood shut behind him, cutting off the roaring chaos of the storm in a single, definitive thud.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
the sudden silence of the house was suffocating.
the only sound was the frantic, heavy breathing of two people trapped in a space entirely too small for the energy between them.
you stood in the entryway, water pooling rapidly around your sneakers onto the hardwood floor, your clothes sticking translucent and heavy against your skin.
jack was a foot away, his back against the door, breathing hard.
his wet t-shirt was completely molded to his chest and abdomen, showing every ridge, every scar, every line of a body you used to know better than your own.
"you're a lunatic," you breathed, shaking your head as you tried to wring out the hem of your shirt, your fingers trembling with a mix of chill and sheer, unadulterated aggravation. "you're tracking mud everywhere. why can't you just leave things alone? why do you have to force your way into everything?"
"because you wouldn't have done it." jack snapped, tossing his wet truck keys onto the entryway table with a loud, aggressive clack that sounded like a gunshot in the quiet house. "you let everything pile up until you're drowning, and god forbid anyone tries to take a single thing off your plate."
"i was doing just fine. i've been doing fine without you playing the hero."
"yeah? is that why you broke up with the boyfriend?"
jack stepped directly into your space, the sudden movement cutting off your exit, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous frequency that made every single nerve ending in your body snap awake.
the sheer pheromonal weight of him pressed down on you. "because you're doing so great? i'm not blind, and i'm not stupid. lena told me you called the trauma desk asking about chase's follow-up paperwork three separate times when you could have just texted me. you're losing your mind, and you're taking it out on me."
"i am taking it out on you because you are the entire problem." you yelled, the dam inside you finally bursting, all the weeks of performance, all the hidden longing, all the sleepless nights turning into pure, unadulterated rage.
you stepped right up into his chest, your hands coming up to aggressively push against his shoulders. "you show up when whether i tell you to or not, you look at me like you still own me, you say things you shouldn't say—"
"i say things i mean." jack said, his hands coming up like lightning to catch your wrists mid-air.
he didn't push you away.
he pulled.
the collision was total.
your chest slammed hard against his, the raw heat radiating off his skin instantly cutting through the damp chill of your wet clothes.
the impact knocked the air straight out of your lungs, and before you could even draw a breath to argue, jack's mouth descended onto yours.
it wasn't a gentle kiss. it was a dam breaking after months of agonizing, suffocating pressure.
but as the initial shock faded, the desperation shifted into something devastatingly intimate.
his lips softened just enough to mold perfectly against yours, a familiar, agonizingly sweet fit that rushed through your memory like a flood.
this was the man who used to hold you in the quiet hours of the morning.
this was the mouth that had whispered promises in the dark before the world got too heavy and complicated for the two of you to carry.
the familiar scent of him swirled around you, pulling you back to a time when his touch was your anchor, not your undoing.
you let out a soft, broken sigh against his mouth, and jack groaned, taking the invitation.
his tongue slid past your teeth, deep, fluid, and fiercely possessive, yet carrying a profound, aching tenderness that made your knees instantly turn to water.
your hands, which had been meant to push him away, completely betrayed you.
they slid up his chest, feeling the frantic, hammering beat of his heart, before tangling deep into his wet curls to pull him down harder, destroying any semblance of regret or restraint.
jack's hands left your wrists, one wrapping securely around the back of your waist, his massive palm anchoring against your lower back to hoist you up against him, lifting you nearly off your feet.
his other hand cupped your jaw, his thumb digging into your cheekbone, holding you perfectly still for him as if he were trying to memorize the very shape of your soul through his fingertips.
he bit your lower lip before soothing the ache with his tongue, his kisses moving frantically from your mouth, dragging down the rigid line of your jaw, to the sensitive, pulsing skin right beneath your ear.
you arched into him, a soft, broken whimper escaping you as his heavy stubble scraped ruthlessly against your neck.
every single inch of your body was on fire.
this was what you had been starving for. this was the gravity you couldn't escape, the terrifyingly intense friction that made you feel alive in a way no one else ever could.
jack dragged his mouth back to yours, his kisses turning thicker, slower, and heavy with a desire that had been locked away, fermenting in the dark for over a year.
he pinned you ruthlessly against the hallway wall, the plaster cold against your back while he was nothing but pure, unadulterated heat.
his thigh forced its way between yours, anchoring your hips against the wall, tilting your pelvis up into his.
you could feel the rigid, hard line of him pressing directly against you through the damp fabric of your clothes, the sheer, overwhelming physical size of him completely consuming your senses.
your hands tore at the fabric of his wet shirt, gripping his shoulders, wanting skin, wanting the burning touch that used to be your everyday life.
you pulled your head back just an inch, both of you panting heavily, the air between you thick and scorching.
your lips were swollen, dark red, and wet, your chests heaving violently against one another in the dim light.
a massive, surging crest of adrenaline completely swallowed up any residual guilt.
your nerve endings were screaming, your brain short-circuiting under the sheer velocity of the moment.
you couldn't think about the past or the future; you just needed the friction to continue.
you needed to drown out the suffocating quiet of the last three weeks in the only safe harbor you had ever truly known.
"jack," you choked out, your hands gripping his soaking shoulders, your body moving on pure, unbridled impulse. "jack, just... come upstairs. let's just do this. let's get it out of our systems. please."
jack froze.
the sudden, rigid stillness in his posture was louder than the thunder crashing outside. it was a physical deceleration so violent it felt like a car crash.
his eyes, dark and heavy with a blatant, agonizing lust, stared down at yours. his chest was heaving, his muscles trembling under your fingers, and it was glaringly, terrifyingly obvious how badly he wanted to pick you up and carry you up those stairs. as he had so many times before even though you would tell him to think of the pressure he was putting on his leg.
he was practically vibrating with the urge to succumb.
but his hands slowly, agonizingly dropped from your waist.
his fingers uncurled from your hair, the wet strands falling back against your cheeks.
he took a heavy step back, then another, creating a cold, gaping void between your bodies in the narrow hallway.
the absence of his heat made you shiver instantly.
he looked down at you, his chest still rolling with heavy, jagged breaths, but the raw, unbridled heat in his eyes had instantly hardened into something sharp, fractured, and incredibly dark.
"get it out of our systems?" jack repeated, his voice dropping into a dangerously quiet, ragged whisper that cut deeper than any shout he had leveled at you in the yard.
"jack, we're losing our minds—"
"no," he cut you off, his jaw tight, a sharp muscle leaping violently in his cheek.
he looked at you with an overwhelming amount of respect, a gaze that was heavy with a protective, fierce care that extended even to protecting you from yourself.
"you don't get to do that to me. and i'm sure as hell not doing that to you. i know it's been three weeks, but you still just walked away from a relationship. you're exhausted, you're stressed out of your mind, and you are hurting."
"that's not what i meant," you whispered, the sudden shift freezing the blood in your veins.
you reached out a trembling hand for him, desperate to pull the warmth back, but he stepped back again, completely out of your reach, his back hitting the front door.
"that's exactly what you meant," jack said, his voice cracking with a raw, agonizing vulnerability that made your throat close up with tears.
he shook his head, his eyes glassy under the dim entryway light, staring at you with a profound, exhausting sadness. "if i go up those stairs with you tonight... if i touch you like that again, i'm all in. i don't know how to do it halfway with you. i never did. i would be yours completely, by tomorrow morning. i would be right back to where i was, completely at your mercy."
he took a sharp, shaky breath, his shoulders collapsing inward just a fraction as he looked at you, utterly defeated by his own honesty.
"and if we do it just to 'get it out of our systems,' tomorrow morning you're going to wake up, regret it, remember why we broke up, and build those walls right back up. i'd lose you all over again."
jack looked down at the floor, his voice dropping so low it was almost entirely swallowed by the sound of the rain punishing the house outside. "i barely survived losing you the first time. i can't afford to do it twice."
before you could say a single word, before you could even process the devastating, heavy weight of what he had just admitted, jack turned around.
he snatched his keys from the table, pulled the heavy front door open, and walked straight back out into the pouring rain, leaving you entirely alone, shivering in your quiet hallway.
hey guys i’ve been trying to write roadblock these past few days but i’ve genuinely hit a writers block. i’m stressed about finding a job, trying to fight depression, while trying to find enjoyment in writing. i’m slowly writing and surely the new chapter will be posted by the end of the week. pls bear with me lol.
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