gotta love a little angst

It had been a once-in-a-blue-moon kind of hunt where all the families had been invited. One sacrifice had been picked by Chester Danforth, who held the high seat. Each family had picked a representative for their family (or two, in the case of the twins).  

This hunt was the first time your parents had allowed you to be the representative for your family. You’d been preparing for it your whole life. And you were eager to prove yourself. 

Titus was eager for blood. 

He’d split off from Ursula to cover more ground. And he’d thought it was his lucky night when he’d seen the trail of blood leading into the greenhouse. But instead of finding his prey, wounded and hiding, he found you, knife embedded in the man’s neck. 

You didn’t even flinch as you pulled the blade out, blood spraying from the wound, across your face. There was only a proud glint in your eyes as the man crumpled to the ground. 

Titus wanted to be angry. He’d wanted the kill for himself. But seeing you there, that look in your eye matching his own when he took a life, stole the very breath from his lungs. You were beautiful even with blood spattered across your cheek. 

You finally looked up, meeting Titus’s eye. 

You’d really only heard stories about him. While you socialized in the same circles, you’d had little interaction beyond a polite greeting at events you both were required to be at. 

You shifted your weight from foot to foot. There was something heavy in his gaze, something you couldn’t quite decipher. But it made you nervous. And it made your stomach twist, heat curling between your legs. 

He looked down at the body in between the two of you. He nudged his leg with a heavy boot, looking for any sign of life. When there was none, he grunted in approval. “Two hours,” he said. It had only taken you two hours to find and kill him. “Impressive.”

And from that moment forward, he knew he had to have you. 

Two years later, you were only minutes away from truly being his forever – from becoming Mrs. Danforth. 

You stood in front of the full length mirror, adjusting the lace of your veil. You’d kicked all of your bridesmaids out along with your mother. All you wanted was a moment of peace and quiet before the ceremony to calm your nerves. 

You weren’t having second thoughts. Of course not. You were in love with Titus, desperately so. He completed you in a way you never thought was possible. Wedding planning had simply been taxing. And now that the day was finally here, it was catching up to you.

The sound of floorboards creaking pulled you from your thoughts. You glanced back, expecting it to be your mother telling you it was time. But it wasn’t. It was your groom. 

“Titus, you know you aren’t supposed to see me beforehand,” you chided despite the smile tugging at your lips. It was like he’d known exactly what you needed before you even knew – him. His presence seemed to shut your brain up. 

He shrugged. “That is a stupid tradition,” he said, stepping further into the room. His eyes roved over your dress, taking in the lace and beadwork with an appreciative hum. 

“Tradition is important.” Once he was close enough your hands found their way to his chest, trailing upwards to adjust his bowtie. You pressed a chaste kiss against his lips. “Now you need to go before my mother realizes you’ve been in here and blows a gasket.” 

 “I’ll see you at the altar, Mrs. Danforth,” he whispered before finally pulling away. 

Mrs. Danforth. The sound of that echoed through your brain as your father walked you down the aisle. There were a thousand eyes on you but the only pair you cared about were those hazel ones waiting for you. 

“We are gathered here today,” the officiant started the ceremony. 

You were practically buzzing with energy as you went through your vows. You were eager to be his wife, to be Mrs. Danforth. And soon enough he slipped the ring on your finger and you repeated the action on him. Your ‘I do’s’ were said. 

“You may kiss the bride.” 

And Titus did. 

His hands cradled your face, holding you like you were something precious, before he kissed you hard. He didn’t care who was watching as he devoured you. 

When he finally pulled away, you were both breathless. But he didn’t go far. He pressed his forehead against yours, eyes falling shut for just a moment. 

“Mrs. Danforth,” he whispered, breath ghosting against your skin. 

“Mr. Danforth.” You grinned. “Shall we?” 

“We shall.” 

The reception was perfect – just how you’d envisioned it. 

The night was finally winding down. The first of the guests had begun to leave. The rest were scattered around the gardens, a few still on the dance floor, the rest mingling in groups. 

Titus was sitting at your table, sipping on a glass of champagne. He looked around, searching for you. Every moment you’d been apart he’d spent looking at you. He couldn’t keep his eyes off of you. He watched intently as you conspired with your bridesmaids. You were clearly plotting something, all huddled together with hushed voices. 

It was even more evident that you had something up your sleeve as you peeled off from the group, a little grin on your lips. You made a beeline for your now-husband. 

“Hi,” you hummed as you sat next to him. 

“What are you up to?” he asked, straight to the point as always. 

“I have a surprise for you.” 

“A surprise?” 

“Yep,” you said, popping the ‘p’. “A surprise.”

“Hm.” 

He eyed you, tracking your movements as you slid a polaroid, face down, towards him. He picked it up. 

It was a photo of you, wearing white, lacy lingerie and the veil you currently had on. You were laying on his bed, ass up, back arched, with one hand stretched in front of you to show off your wedding ring. 

Titus inhaled sharply at the sight, his pants suddenly feeling tight. 

“D’you like it?” you asked. 

“Of course I like it,” he gritted out. It took every ounce of his self control not to pull you out of that chair and haul you inside. “Now, be a good girl and say goodbye to your guests, then we’re going inside.” 

You nodded eagerly, scrambling to your feet. He didn’t leave your side as the two of you made rounds, thanking your guests for coming. And the moment you were done? He was practically dragging you to the bedroom. 

“Fuckin’ tease,” he muttered, coming up behind you after locking the door. He toyed with the neckline of your dress.  “You have that set on under here?” 

“Yes,” you replied breathlessly. 

“Let’s get you out of this, yeah?” 

His hands meticulously undid the laces and buttons. If it were any other article of clothing, he wouldn’t bother. He’d have already ripped it off of you. But this was your wedding dress – the one you’d spent months grueling over. You’d probably suffocate him in his sleep if he ruined it. 

You stepped out of the dress as it pooled around your ankles. Titus picked it up, draping it across one of the chairs. 

“Get on the bed.” 

The silk comforter was cool against your back as you laid down. Titus approached slowly, like a predator sizing up his prey. He nudged your thighs apart. His eyes locked onto the wet spot on those lacy white panties of yours. They were practically see through now that you’d soaked them thoroughly. 

“Got yourself all worked up, huh?” He pulled your panties to the side. “Fuck, she’s dripping for me.” 

Your hips shifted unconsciously, seeking friction from those thick fingers of his. He rolled his eyes at the impatience but he decided to be nice. It was your wedding night after all. So he dragged a finger through your slick. 

He pulled a breathless noise from your lips as he finally sunk one finger into your aching hole. He pumped it slowly. In and out.

He pushed a second finger in, moving them in a ‘come-hither’ motion. Your head fell back against the pillows, his fingers curling against the spot that always had you seeing stars. He moved his fingers languidly, enjoying the feeling of your silky walls wrapped around him. 

“Titus,” you whined his name, hips bucking into his hand. “Please!”

“Please, what?” he asked, voice dripping with condescension. “Gotta tell me what you want, honey.”

“Want more.” He clicked his tongue. “Want your cock, please.”

“That’s better,” he crooned. 

He pulled his fingers from your cunt, bringing them up to your mouth. You opened up, licking your own arousal off his hand. With his free hand he worked open his pants, pushing them down far enough to free his aching cock. He hissed as your hand wrapped around him. 

You stroked him a few times, before lining his tip up with your entrance. His hips finally met your own. He pulled one of your legs over his shoulder, letting him slip even further in. The other he hooked around his waist. 

Each roll of his hips punched the air from your lungs. Nails dug into his broad shoulders in an attempt to ground yourself. 

“Fuck,” he groaned. The sound of skin against skin and moans filled the room. “So fuckin’ perfect. Such a good wife.” 

His hand slipped between your thighs, thumb landing on your engorged clit. He rubbed slow circles against the bundle of nerves. He could feel you clench around his length with every pass of his finger. 

“‘m gonna cum,” you said. 

“Cum for me, honey. Wanna feel you milk my cock.” His hips moved faster, trying to push you over the edge. And with a few more well angled thrusts he had the knot in your tummy snapping. But he didn’t stop, even as you began to squirm from the overstimulation. 

“Titus–” With his name on your lips, it didn’t take long for him to follow you over the edge, spilling inside of you. 

He stayed there, savoring the warmth of your cunt around his cock for a moment longer, before finally pulling out. You cringed as his cum spilled out of you, dirtying the sheets beneath you. 

Once you’d caught your breath, you started to move, but he clamped his hands down on your hips, keeping you still. 

“Titus,” you drawled. “‘m all sticky.” 

“You can’t move yet. Gotta let it take.” 

You raised an eyebrow. But he wasn’t even looking at you. He was completely transfixed, eyes on your weeping cunt. He lifted your hips slightly, putting a pillow under you to stop his cum from leaking out. 

He finally looked back up at you. “Don’t you want t’give me a baby, honey?”

Oh. Heat crept through your body at his words. 

Finally, you managed to nod. 

“Then we gotta start trying now.” You shifted slightly, already getting worked up all over again at the thought. Titus grinned at the movement. “Does my wife like that? Y’want me to fill you up again? Make certain you get pregnant, honey?” 

“Y-yes, please, Titus.” 

“How can I say no when you ask so nicely?” 

PARTS:

00. introductions

01. more than a feeling

02. night shift

03. gogo juice

04. no place like home

Becca moving out was supposed to be a relief. A decision made between the two sisters to ease the strain on their relationship. Independence for both of them. Instead, the R2 was left dissociating in her car for an unknown amount of time while her sister excitedly moved onto this new stage of her life, in the facility across the lot. She wanted her sister to be happy, and Becca deserved all the freedom she craved. Unfortunately for Mel, she hadn’t realized that in all her years of supporting her sister, she was leaning on her just as much. Now Becca was out there standing on her own with a sunshiny future on the horizon while she was left to stumble and fight for a new center of gravity. As she started the car, she reminded herself of all the positives. Back at the apartment, she’d begin trying everything she couldn’t before. She’d watch anything and everything she wanted on the TV. She’d leave work late without worrying. She’d get a boyfriend or whatever it was she was supposed to be doing at this age. Fuck it, she’d buy an Elf DVD and a baseball bat and work out every bit of pain and sleepless night until the disc was obliterated to mere dust.

But then she did get back home, and she was… hollow. Was this how adulthood was supposed to feel? Why didn’t an invigorating independence flow through her and drive her toward all the things she must have missed over the years? She simply went from lonely to outright alone, and that wasn’t exactly the big change she had intended—well, agreed to. It didn't matter how burned out she was, Mel wanted everything to stay the same, but the second that darn worker at Middle Hill brought up their Independent Living program, Becca was fixated on it. It was all she talked about, and despite all the selfish reasons she could list for why her sister should stay, of course she caved. All Mel wants is for her sister to have every need and want fulfilled, so during the time leading up to her moving out, Mel would think of reasons this would be good for her too. She'd fall asleep attempting to list all those things she surely missed out on or simply hadn't had the chance to try yet, and she told herself this would be a fantastic opportunity. Totally. Sure, she felt nauseated, but this would be good...

It would be good, she reminded herself from wherever her consciousness was floating above her body as it moved from the parking lot to the apartment. She snapped back into place along with the click of the apartment door shutting behind her, and all the good she promised herself melted. Mel was left with nothing but a distant awareness of her own heartbeat and the faint cough-and-rattle of the heat working throughout the building. So, she let her mind sink back into the pocket that turned everything into a blur and wrapped her arms around her middle, one hand rubbing the other arm. When her vision focused again and she was forced back into the world, she took in exactly what her world was made up of. All she saw were the empty spaces where Becca had previously kept her things. The whole universe felt like an empty space with her stuck at the very bottom, which was one of those prime feelings to set her spiraling. She had no one to eat dinner with, no one to keep her moving forward every day. Without Becca, actually, she was the empty space in the apartment. Whatever she had been made up of since their parents passed, it went right along with Becca out that door, and she was left with… nothing. Her breath was faster than she’d like it to be—personally, as a doctor, and as the person experiencing the way the back of her throat burned—but it just kept happening. She visibly cringed over the invisible, knowing the steps she needed to stop this, but she couldn’t reach that thought right now. Mel couldn’t hum with the way her stupid body was gasping for breath; she couldn’t look for something to fidget with, or pull out her phone and listen to music or white noise or watch that digital lava lamp. She was stuck there just past the threshold, seemingly incapable of breathing. Melly Bean … …big breaths …count to… A feminine voice she often worried she was forgetting rang somewhere in her skull; fragments of a song from her childhood in a tone blending maternal playfulness and concern. She squeezed her eyes shut as she twisted her arms and clutched her hands together, gradually working herself off that ledge. As soon as she could feel her legs again, she continued to quietly mutter the words she could remember, ducking her head down as she rushed to her bedroom where she could comfortably fall apart.

ʚɞ

“This could be… a…” Robby trailed off, rotating his hand as he searched for the right words. “…a great time for you, if you let it. You’ll get to just be a girl—woman—for once. Spend time with yourself. You’ll figure it out. Oh, hey! Whitaker, have you heard back about…” Mel jumped when he clapped a hand to her back before leaving, trailing words along with him as he went to discuss blood test results with Whitaker. Okay. Yes. This prompt again. Now Mel could figure out who she was outside of being a caregiver and a sister. Apparently. Did she not seem like her own person? Was it so obvious? This was distressing for her in a very unique way. Who was she? What did she like to do when she wasn’t working? When she was alone? If you asked, she wouldn’t even be able to pinpoint a favorite color, and it made her feel terribly behind in the most basic ways of being a person. She wasn’t necessarily prone to self-deprecation, but there were these moments when that inner voice asked the unfortunately valid question: how could she spend time with herself when no one else wanted to? And she didn’t like the total silence in the apartment as much as she thought she would. But she also didn’t want to be out all the time because she needed doses of isolation to recover from work. She missed the sense of another body in the apartment even if it was late and Becca was only sleeping in the other room. Or maybe doing something by herself. The prompt Robby presented gave her too much space to spiral even further on everything wrong. Poor Mel was uncharacteristically gloomy, to say the least, and, as if things couldn’t get any worse, she was hit with growing financial issues from living alone. This she hadn’t considered before as much as she should have. Her rent had been upped by $200 within the course of a few months since Becca moved out in late autumn. Her logical side argued this wasn’t too bad in comparison to some other landlords, but now that she was covering the cost alone as well as a good chunk of Middle Hill, it felt like they might as well have kicked her out already. At least before, some of Becca’s disability had gone toward the apartment. So, on top of her personal identity crises, she couldn’t stop thinking over the numbers. Every day she circled back to mentally debating with herself about if her sister moving out really had made a massive financial impact on her or if it simply felt that way. “What’s up with you today?” Santos asked, having assessed her coworker with frequent glances from her screen to Mel and back again for 10 minutes now. The near-R3 had been humming in a low tone to herself while staring blankly at her screen, constantly forgetting what she had been meaning to do. Typing. Scowling. Backspacing. “Hm?” “You’re all sad lately. You’re even bumming me out.” “I’m sorry.” “No, you don’t—you don’t have to be sorry. I’m asking what’s wrong,” Trinity reiterated with a breathless laugh, shaking her head over Mel’s response. She let out a breath and briefly made big eyes of exasperation at the screen. “Well, with Becca moving out, things have been kinda different in… not the best way…?” “Oh… damn,” Santos‘ lips pouted outward a bit as she frowned, still typing away. She paused to look over the monitors. “That sucks, I'm sorry. I’m sure you’ll get used to it soon. You might even get to have a life, Mel-aise.” Mel blinked and Trinity was focusing on her screen again, forever stuck in that cycle of catching up on her charts. At that, she circled in her spinning chair, slowly rotating then finally getting up with a sigh. She drifted off to look at the board above the nurse’s station. “Hey, wait, I was just..." Santos tried with a huff of a laugh, sounding distant behind all the noise in Mel’s head while she anxiously twisted her hands together. “Hey, kid,” she heard Dana say, something as simple as a greeting feeling like a magnet scraping a piece of metal through her insides.

“Hello,” she said flatly after a deep breath. She continued to hum to herself, barely catching whatever the charge nurse said next.

These interactions pretty much summed up the entirety of her shift, and most others, as time continued to pass without progress. In fact, it only got worse. With the added money stress, she gradually began breaking her own rule about overtime, forcing herself to work doubles here and there. She had a line drawn in the sand about overworking herself for a reason, after one too many bad experiences following what was usually her trying to prove her worth in a class or workplace. As expected, she was crashing earlier and harder every time until she was isolating in the stairwell again and again. Like… right now… unable to stop the tears as she buried her face in her hands, digging the heels of her palms into her eyes. Digging and digging and digging until the pressure on her eyes was too much and she had to stop, focusing on her breathing while blotches of color stained her sight. “Okay, you’re really freaking me out,” a voice came from behind her, making Mel jump. She looked up, adjusting her glasses to find a genuinely concerned Trinity Santos peeking out from behind that proverbial emotional wall of hers. “Mental breakdowns are unofficially reserved for the rest of us—not you. You’re supposed to be our ray of sunshine or whatever.” “Ray of sunshine?” Mel asked, gently surprised and maybe a little pleased even if she didn’t feel like a beam of warmth. She felt like a shaky, clammy weight of some sort. “What’s wrong?” Santos urged in place of an answer, leaning against the wall across from where Mel had curled herself up on the stairs. Mel had every intention to remain evasive, not wanting to make the mistake of saying too much, but it always turned into that when someone bothered to speak to her. By the time she was done ranting, her throat burned while she fought for air and she was squeezing her hands together so tightly they were blanching. “Well... if you get a roommate it would probably help,” Santos offered with a shrug. “I don’t know anyone,” she quavered, tone as miserable and pleading as the look in her doe eyes. “And I don’t want to invite a stranger in because that’s dangerous. I never understood how someone could put out an ad in the paper or online and take someone in. What if this person is a murderer or… or something? I don’t know. I won’t know until it’s already happening and I’ll be wishing I listened to my gut—" “Just… try online, okay? Like a legit site,” Santos encouraged again with a sigh, hands placatingly raised while she pushed away from the wall. “I’ve got some impatient douche in chairs to get to. Try to find a roommate. I’m sure it’ll work out.” “But I—” Mel started, but Santos was already going past the double doors, making her posture deflate. Her expression was slack and sad as she watched the doors creak shut again. ʚɞ “Hey, Mel… you check out any of those search sites I told you about? I texted you a couple links,” Santos said casually, tense as she ignored the eyebrow raise she felt radiating off of Whitaker just outside her periphery. “Oh, I, yes… er—not quite? I did look at them—I really appreciate you doing that; I don’t want to seem ungrateful. I just keep going to them and then I get… overwhelmed,” the blonde explained shakily, hands folded. “Do either of you need a place to stay or a roommate?” She asked in a soft, hopeful tone before she had to see the exasperation she expected from not utilizing the resources Santos was kind enough to send her way. “Sorry, no room at the inn,” Santos drew out her words playfully, lips pressed out in a thoughtful pout until her eyes slid over to Whitaker. The expression he responded with pulled out her teasing smile. Trinity tilted her head, clicking her tongue before adding: “That is, unless a certain someone is as dedicated as he seems to a dead guy’s wife and her baby—” Whitaker started with a playful sneer to compete against her smug frustration. “You’re—" “Then I’d have a room open, Mel-ediction.”

“You’re hilarious,” Whitaker retorted, lips pursed and face still bunched into that expression which was lighthearted deep down. Not that Mel could see that. “Thank you… I’m here all week.” Santos swirled her hand as if about to dip into a bow, instead remaining slouched at the computer with the exact posture she knew was the reason for many patients’ chronic pain. “Can I just… have an answer, please? Instead of listening to you two fight?” Mel asked quietly, nervously picking at the skin around her nails after having spent that whole time looking back and forth between the two. “We’re not fighting,” the pair said at the same time in the same clipped tone. They immediately shared a glare that embodied the “quit copying me” sibling energy that Mel never got to have the angst for. At that, she turned on her heels and walked off from the computers, humming to herself and gripping her hands together.

This was good, actually. Totally okay. A solid reminder that even if her coworkers had a spare room, she unfortunately did not want to be around that kind of bickering at home. Plus, living with them, or with just Santos, would mean moving in with them rather than them moving in since she was the desperate party here. And even if it wasn’t enough, even if it wasn’t what she craved deep down when she thought of “home,” that damn apartment was the only bit of consistency she had left tethering her to this earth. If Mel had to experience the process of moving ever again, she’d probably combust.

ʚɞ

“I thought you didn’t need a lot of sleep and all that crap about your metabolism,” Santos said loudly enough, with a hand clapped down on the staff room table, to make Mel jump in her seat. “I— sorry, uh-uhm..." she scrambled for even a single thought to spare, fixing her glasses from the odd angle they had settled into when she was slumped against the table. Was she drooling? She wiped at the corner of her mouth. Even Mel King wasn’t immune to passing out after yet another double shift, apparently. She hadn’t been this exhausted since medical school. “Alright, so I did some asking around and... I got a couple people who need a place to stay— don’t... make a big deal out of it, please. A simple confirmation of being interested is all I need,” Santos sighed. “I’m sorry?” Mel asked, blinking up at her, the words catching up in her mind by the time Santos was rolling her eyes. “Oh! Oh, you looked for a roommate for me?” “Like I said, don’t make a big deal out of it. It’s whatever. I know them too, so they’re Trinity Approved,” she awkwardly held up two thumbs with her lips pressed in a tight smile. “So, they’re normal. Or—at least not assholes.” “Okay… thank you. That’s really nice.” “It’s whatever. I do have a favorite, though. Maybe, if I’m lucky, you’ll choose her,” Trinity half-joked, reassuring Mel she was only kidding (again) when she saw that hesitant smile.

“Don’t worry, it’ll be great. I only took the most official routes for your sake, Mel-function. I got you, girl.”

ʚɞ

“anyone need a place to stay in Pitt, PA? about to put my coworker on a 72 hr hold if she can’t get a roommate within the next week lol” you read in her “friends only” story, oh-so formally displayed in purple Comic Sans. It was overlaid on a selfie of Trinity doing a duck face and a peace sign with the very dead eyes that confirmed she was still practicing medicine. Good to see she was sticking with it.

Some tiny text in the corner added: “really tho. serious inquiries onlyyy pls text me.”

It was funny in the sense that, of course, this was how the universe would serve you the answer to your prayers: in the form of Trinity Santos’ “LOL no but fr tho” brand of fuckery. It was also fall-to-your-knees-and-sob-in-relief unfunny because you’ve spent the last couple of months fighting to move from SE Pennsylvania to Pittsburgh, and it has been hell. Surely, you had once thought foolishly, it would be as simple as Googling “apartments in Pittsburgh.” Instead, you had been through a series of ghostings, overpriced bullshit, and a scattering of suspicious renters. You were starting to worry it was a sign that you weren’t meant to make this next step in your career, since the only reason you were moving was to work at a friend’s shop.

You had never responded to a story so fast in your life. Selfishly, you hoped that your history with Trin would be enough to get that open room. You could not care less who had the apartment; even if it was a man, you only cared about your half of the rent being doable and that you could stop worrying all day. Even someone obnoxious—you could put up with that.

I just need a roommate. Please. Please. Get me out of this place before I lose my mind.

That was on loop most days, bouncing around in your skull like that DVD screensaver. Right now it was bass-boosted on 3x speed as you paced back and forth in front of your bed, phone laid face up. Your whole body felt fuzzy with nerves like when a limb falls asleep, strangling a plush in your arms through all of this. All for one text to even confirm possibly meeting this person—you don’t think you’ve ever been this desperate for a text back from even a girlfriend before.

“hey! I didn’t realize yu were moving to pittsburgh?! we can suffer together agajn. when can you come meet mel?”

“oh her name’s mel. lol. i’m rushig cause i’m hiding in the bathroom at work 2 text you back.”

ʚɞ

Trinity would play the neutral party that tied you both together. She’d sit at the same table and drink probably a bit too much. That was fine, though, as long as this could work. You didn’t know what to expect. In a work environment like hers, Trin could’ve brought anyone, but you were imagining someone like the two of you if she got along so well with Mel. Maybe tattoos, whether they were small and rare black and grays like hers or scattered all over in passionate color like yours. Maybe piercings. Overall, maybe some presence of alternative style. Maybe none of it to match other than personality. An endearing attitude problem? Maybe a dark sense of humor?

Maybe none of it, but you soothed your queasy stomach with the likelihood that if Trin liked this girl, then you’d have an easy time connecting.

Then you got there and were presented with a nervous blonde, her virgin hair tucked away into a smooth braid. She wore a t-shirt with a small design over one breast of a little frog knight holding up a pencil like a sword and a stethoscope draped around its shoulders. “We chart at dawn!” was placed beside the design in a speech bubble. She ordered Sprite instead of alcohol, and she said things like “geez Louise” and “doozy.”

You still clung to hope, considering the way she smiled at you, but then her expression would become unreadable every time her attention strayed to your tattoos or your piercings. Had you known Mel, you would’ve known she was merely curious and distracted by all the colors and references to different pieces of media. But you didn’t, and you’d dealt with people before doing exactly what she was doing now to purposely make you feel observed and unwelcome.

ʚɞ

It was your fault, really, having attempted an awkward joke with a delivery just like Trinity’s—in that “heyyy, I hardly know you but I'm gonna crack this dumb joke like I know it’s dumb too so I’m totally lightening the mood, right?” kinda way.

Actually, scratch that: it wasn't your fault. Trinity knows exactly how you are and yet she still put you across the human embodiment of a bunny or a golden retriever puppy. So, naturally, as you all scrambled for a relaxed air at that old bar table, you found yourself pointing finger-guns at Mel and joking that having you as a roommate comes with the bonus of discounted piercings—free, if it’s her birthday.

This earned you no less than 20 minutes of piercing horror stories from the past 6 months of her working in the Emergency Department.

“I just never understood it…? I guess?“ Mel concluded her awkward rambling like it was a question, with a shy smile that didn't quite know how to pull at her lips. “Plus, heh, I could barely handle getting my ears pierced.”

Even her hands seemed to have minds of their own, constantly shifting like they also had no clue what to do with themselves. She went to settle her hands on the table for the millionth time, only to pull them away for the millionth time when assaulted by the physical reminder that the surface was still sticky. At some point during all her talking, she had even tried wiping the spot in front of herself, but the napkin stuck and tore, leaving a paper skin to become one with the table.

“No—no offense, I… yeah, that’s just what I know about body… modifications...”

You glanced at Trinity, who was sighing heavily through her nose and chugging her drink. All you could think was how you had been desperate for a place to stay… but maybe not this desperate. Maybe starting over at a new shop while continuing to be stuck at a hotel and anxiously apartment-hunting all at the same time would be okay. The grass is greener over the septic tank, or something like that…

“It’s alright, I guess… Makes sense since your knowledge on the matter is in a vacuum. When they’re done right, people don’t go to the ER because of their piercings,” you point out, your tone sharper than intended, but it did ease your internal tension a bit. Your initial politeness was worn down a little more every minute that blonde had gone on about infection… and nickel allergies… and unsanitary practices… and that one story an attending told her about someone’s abdominal wall being pierced after a very, very poorly executed navel piercing.

“I- well, yes,” Mel’s lips quirked to the side, and she squinted slightly as if physically pained by your accurate point; seeming to take this as yet another ignorant approach to her good and hardy medical knowledge. Her irritation was temporarily smothered by a brief, overwhelmed silence that came over her. She sipped at her Sprite.

This was honestly the last thing you needed, and you hadn’t expected someone Trin vouched for to be yet another ass about your career and, in turn, the way you look. Let me guess, if I or any of my friends showed up to your ER, you’d be assuming some sort of criminal background, you thought during the pause, visibly tapping out as you stared out the window of the bar.

Or pull that “Oh come on getting stuck one more time won’t be so bad! Look at all these tattoos and piercings you have!” crap.

“I’m sorry, I just-“ Mel stopped to let out a little breath, feeling like her skin was crawling over your not seeming to listen to her very valid points and experience. “I feel very aware of certain dangers…?”

“Jesus…” Trinity groaned through an exasperated laugh, getting up from her spot to order more drinks. Mel blinked her wide-eyed gaze at her coworker until she was out of sight, hands folded away from the table.

“I don’t see the appeal with such a high risk of infection and scarring, I guess, is what I mean. So… yeah.”

Sighing softly, you dragged your gaze back to her, looking her over again. Her posture was like that stereotypical lesson of imagining a string pulling you up from the top of your head. You were sure that if you left a stack of books on her head, they would be steady even while she went on and on… and on.

Mel’s hands, however, remained constantly busy being squeezed tightly together or gesturing; or she was toying with them, sometimes holding onto her glass until the sweat on its surface bothered her too much. She was talking again, you think, but her voice was a distant hum with the occasional word poking through as you took in her features, gears starting to turn in your mind.

“That sucks,” you finally spoke again, interrupting whatever she was saying now.

She blinked, tilted her head, and her lips parted like she meant to make some kind of questioning sound, but didn’t.

“You don’t want any piercings, but you have great anatomy for some of the coolest stuff. I had a client the other week who had been saving up for an industrial piercing, which goes through here,” you drew a line from the upper curve of your ear across to the innermost side. She didn’t do very well at hiding her cringe, if she even tried. “But she didn’t have the anatomy for it. You, however, have a very clear cartilage—sorry—helix ridge and…”

You leaned forward, the blonde flinching inward as you reached across the table to rest the pad of your pointer finger on the curve of her ear. She pressed into herself, looking to the side like if she went inward enough, she might be able to see what you were doing.

“You have a good shape to it, too. She unfortunately had an unusual curve to hers that got in the way. I could easily give you an industrial, though.”

“Well, I don’t- o-kay…” she started off strong only to dip down to a whisper once you kept talking.

“See, I could’ve pierced her even with that anatomical quirk. But,” you sighed with a touch of dramatics, arm drawn back again.

“I wouldn’t have been able to align the barbell the way I’d need to, and it would’ve rejected for sure. At best, it would’ve been inflamed until she got it taken out again. At worst, if the healing process was particularly bad—especially from messing with it and not following my aftercare instructions, which is unfortunately very common, doctor—it would’ve gotten infected.”

“I see…” she trails off, a pretty dusting of pink high on her cheekbones. That cute flushing almost made you feel bad about your attitude. Almost.

“So… you just sent her home?” She tentatively asked the simple, clarifying question like a peace offering, all while giving you those puppy eyes. Damn her for showing how guilty she feels for her social stumbling. It makes you feel like an ass for being irritated in the first place. But she had her tangent, shouldn’t you get yours too?

“I am so glad you asked,” you began, and she huffed out a small laugh, looking down at her lap as a half smile tugged at her slender lips.

“No. I couldn’t give her the traditional look, but I could create a similar effect with a few connected helix piercings. I was able to customize a bit, and with the right jewelry, she was happy.”

“‘S nice you could do that…” she nodded, briefly separating her hands to gesture.

“I can also give you a rundown of my supplies and my sterilization processes, if you want. What materials I work with… where I get my gloves… Oh! I’m sure I could really paint a picture with the sharps containers I’m sure you’re familiar with… let’s see…” you trailed off in faux thought, brows pinched together.

“Oh, my certifications on the wall, right next to the permits we have. From passing mandatory health inspections, for example. I could even tell you which candies I keep in case someone’s blood sugar might crash. I avoid the most common food allergens, too. If that helps.“

“No, no, it’s fine—”

“You sure? Cause I can.”

She rapidly shook her head, squeezing her lips together with her gaze cast down. She didn’t plan on looking up again, if ever after this, but that meant she missed the shift in your expression as you realized maybe you went a little too far with your attitude this time. Had she known you longer than the 30-40 minutes or so that she has, she might’ve known you could get snippy when you were stressed. Not to mention that she had unknowingly leaned into a sore spot.

She only raised her eyes again out of curiosity when her Sprite was being moved aside. You laid out a couple of unfolded napkins in front of her, draping a panel over the lip of the table facing her.

“Oh—okay,” she mumbled when you reached for her hands where she had them clutched together in front of her chest, guiding her by her wrists enough to urge her to set them down the way she had clearly wanted to. You then concluded with the sharp clack of the coaster and soda being placed back down in front of her. She jumped a bit from the sound, unsure what to really do with herself over this, but when she glanced at you, you simply pursed your lips at her.

She awkwardly leaned forward to sip from her straw. Then sat back again, her lips tightly pressed together to match yours as she flicked her gaze back up. Then:

“Uhm… Oh! So, do you sell regular earrings at your job…?” she tried in a brighter tone, features lit up by curiosity, and her glasses looking low on her nose with the way she raised her eyebrows so high.

ʚɞ

Two days later, Trinity texted you that Mel wanted to offer you that spare room if you were still interested, tacking on a “lol” before she disappeared into her shift.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ the photos and gif used in this post do not belong to me

The blonde sighed deeply and slumped against the door, dropping her bag in the foyer. The clock over the doorway ticked past the midnight mark. You rose from the couch, adjusting your ridden-up sleep shorts, and stalked towards her quietly, plucking her glasses from the bridge of her nose. You smiled softly and rubbed her temples, humming a careful, “Hi, Melly.”

Mel’s crystalline eyes fluttered open and you watched the stress slowly deflate from her muscles, the girl’s gaze softening within seconds. She mustered up a little grin and leaned into your touch. “Hi.”

“Bad day?”

“Bad, long, tiring, stressful. Every negative word.”

You cooed softly and reached behind her to tug the tie from her braid, hoping that loosening the hair wouldn't tug so hard on her pretty brain. Mel stepped off the door and cupped your cheeks, pressing her lips to yours without warning. You flushed a bit, furrowing your brow in concentration, and you let her take the comfort. She kissed you– well, eagerly wouldn't be the right word to use– something more like determined. Determined to experience one good thing, one thing she had control over, one thing that didn’t ask too much of her. Her mouth still tasted like gum, and she still smelled like body wash, just with a little tinge of sweat. Still prim and proper. Still Mel. 

When she pulled away, she pressed her forehead against yours. “I really missed you today.”

You frowned, chest squeezing. “I missed you too, baby.”

“Sometimes I wish I could just keep you at work. So I could have you nearby.”

“Like a stress toy?” You giggled.

Mel smiled at you and squeezed your hips, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Yeah, like a stress toy. Makes sense. You bring my cortisol down.”

“Well, I’m happy to be so useful,” you murmured, leaving little pecks along her jaw. “I made you dinner. Are you hungry?”

“A little. Gotta shower first.”

“I can help,” you offered, and when she gave you a cheeky little look, you blushed and added, “I meant that in a serious way.”

“You want to help me shower? Like, wash my hair?”

You nodded softly, walking her away from the wall. You grinned as she stumbled on her feet, and you waddled backwards, never looking away. “Sure. I’m good at it. I’ll wash it, brush it, feed you dinner…”

“Why?” Mel asked as you wrenched the bathroom door open. 

You finally let go of your grip on her hands to turn the shower on, and you took one more look at her sleepy eyes and run-down frame. She looked so small sometimes, and it made part of you hate that hospital, that ridiculous emergency department that kept her too long and let her go without care. You knew she loved the job, and you knew the doctors meant well. It was just an impossible profession. You admired what she was willing to put herself through, even when you didn’t like it. 

“I just want to take care of you, that’s all.”

Mel leaned against the sink and drew you back in, looping her arms around your waist. She tucked her face into your neck, smelling the leftover notes of your lotion and breathing softly. “You’re really good at it.”

“I know,” you stamped a kiss on her temple. Then, you curled your fingers under the hem of her scrubs. “Can I?”

Mel nodded and raised her arms, and you pulled her scrub top and undershirt off with ease. You let her step out of her own pants while you stripped down, and by the time you were ready, the water was hot. The two of you climbed into the steaming shower and you watched Mel melt under the warmth of the spray. 

You took a few minutes to work the suds of the shampoo through Mel’s hair. She smiled a little when you scratched the nape of her neck with your nails, almost like she was a dog. She just stood there, silent and grateful, as you washed her golden locks and conditioned them, passed the soap over her milky skin, kissed a few freckles here and there. Mel lost track of time as your hands touched her with intention, making sure to press out the knots forming in her back and to get all the product from her hair. You hummed quietly to yourself, some song she didn’t recognize but loved anyway, and when you turned the water off, she frowned. 

“What?”

“Over already?” Mel pouted.

You laughed softly and tugged the curtain open, stepping out to grab her a towel. “What, did you think I’d get tempted and keep you in there?”

The doctor shrugged sheepishly, stealing a glimpse of your supple frame before you cruelly wrapped it up in a towel. 

You only rolled your eyes. “Later, if you’re not too tired. You need to eat first.”

Mel huffed in fake petulance and trotted behind as you walked down the hall to the bedroom. There were fresh pajamas on the bed– something you always did when Mel wasn’t home at the time she was supposed to be. Her heart thumped as she dressed in them, and she admired the way you brushed your hair from the corner of her eye. After a moment, she crawled onto the bed behind you. “Let me do that.”

You snatched the brush back with a grin. “Nope.”

“C’mon,”

“No. I’m done anyway. Turn around.”

Mel grumbled but did as she was told, sitting on the mattress with her back to you. She felt your fingers in her hair once again, gathering it in a thick rope and beginning to pass the brush through it. 

“Do you want to tell me about your day?” You inquired, studying the sheen of the darker pieces lacing her natural color.  

Mel yawned, a bit lulled by your monotonous strokes, and shrugged again. “We had nearly fifteen traumas. There was a pile up on the highway. Another few were freak injuries. And then the computers went down again because admin refuses to replace them, and so all the charting on our tablets wasn’t uploading, and it took us hours after our shift to collect the files from the cloud base and download them into the system… and I forgot my lunch this morning. The soda machine broke. My socks kept slipping down and now I have blisters on my ankles from my sneakers. Just stupid, inconvenient stuff, over and over again.”

You listened as she complained, heart tugging with sympathy. “Jeez… it really just piled on, huh? Did you ever eat?”

“No,” Mel shook her head, “I never got a second.”

You frowned and let her combed hair fall down her back, wrapping your arms around her shoulders. “I’m sorry you had such a rough day, Melly.”

“It’s okay. It wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle,” she promised. “You made dinner, you said?”

“Mhm. Ziti. I’ll warm it up.”

Mel peeked over her shoulder at you. “Thank you.”

“Mhm,” you purred, leaning in to kiss her once more before clambering off the bed and disappearing through the doorway. 

Mel sat for a moment in the quiet of the room, rubbing her eyes and gathering her hair into a wet braid. She could still smell your skin, and she heard your footsteps in the apartment like a comforting ghost. You were always home when she needed you. Always there to take the reins when she’d been holding them too long. Sometimes she would think back to when she still lived with Becca, before the care home and before Becca moved in with Adam, and how there was no passenger seat for her in life. All there seemed to be was coming home to be another caretaker. It wasn't that she didn't love it, but the undeniable toll of never getting a break had nearly destroyed her. It was only when she met you that she realized it was okay to let people in. That maybe they could help, and that passing on responsibility was not necessarily a burden. At least, you never made her think so. You just cooked and smiled and kissed her with all the love in your body. She was so grateful that she couldn’t find it in her to contain it the same way she could keep everything else under wraps. 

Mel’s body buzzed with relief and exhaustion, hunger and need, and so she rose and padded into the kitchen where you stood before the microwave with a spoon in your mouth. Ice cream for you while her dinner heated. Mel quietly spun you around and pulled the spoon from your mouth, and she watched your lips curl like it was a movie frame. 

“I love you,” she whispered. 

Your throat clenched, and you pressed her nose like a button. “I love you too.”

“A lot.”

“How much?” You cocked your head, seeing how her eyes gleamed. Every now and again, Mel got overwhelmingly affectionate, and you would press it out of her like a grape. You adored it. 

“So much,” she cooed, kissing your jaw, your neck, combing through your wet hair with her fingers.

Butterflies rushed you like a wave, making you turn rosy and lean into her nudges. “Use more words,” you joked, breathless and swooning. 

“Sometimes I feel like I could explode,” Mel mumbled. 

You laughed softly and jumped when the microwave rudely interrupted. Mel swatted at you when you attempted to turn and get her food. “You need to eat!”

“Kiss me again,” she whined. 

You chuckled with weak exasperation and grabbed her face, trapping her in a deep kiss, feeling her jaw mold instantly to take all you gave her. She tasted the hint of mint on your tongue from the ice cream, and it made her entirely starving, but not for the plate in the microwave. When you pulled away, she pawed at you. 

“I mean it, Mel, you have to eat,” you urged, wriggling free and grabbing her dinner. You led her over to the couch like she wore a leash, and she crawled up next to you, taking the food dutifully. 

You clung to the fork and she stared at you, hand open. “Gimme.”

“I was gonna do it,” you said. 

“Feed me? I thought you were kidding.”

“Just one bite.”

Mel glanced away, suddenly a bit shy from all the care, but she opened her mouth without another word. You speared some and held it up to her lips, depositing the cheesy bite, and she grunted in approval. She loved your cooking, and for the moment, she put aside her other itch to eat. 

You passed the fork over and watched her, twirling the end of her braid around your finger while flipping through television channels for something boring. You landed on the History Channel, which was running some documentary on medieval castles– you knew she would want to see that, the little dork, so you left it on. Mel gave in and polished off her dinner, and she leaned against you, finally full and satisfied. 

“You should get some rest,” you advised as you took her dish and slid it onto the coffee table. You’d clean it later. 

“I want to see you a little longer.”

“I’m right here.”

“I know,” she smiled, draping herself over you. 

Your stomach fluttered, and you collected her into your arms and laid a bit more comfortably on the couch. It would only be minutes before she passed out, you could tell; it was in her drooping eyes and deep breaths. So, you kissed her forehead and settled in, keeping the remote handy to change the channel when she drifted off. 

“I have to set an alarm,” Mel slurred. 

“I already did, baby,” you whispered, petting her head. “Just close your eyes. I’ll get us to bed in a bit.”

“You’re like an angel,” she teased, and you laughed. 

“I do what I can.”

“I love you,”

“You already said that.”

“I know.”

The two of you laid for a while, Mel slowly succumbing to the weight of sleep, and you watched her lashes wink shut. When she rested, all that distress melted away, and you could see the girl that loved you, and the girl who cared for her patients. Just a warm, knowing face. Beautiful and unafraid. 

You really didn’t want to tell him. In fact, you purposefully avoided his phone calls all morning so he wouldn’t hear your sniffles and coughs.

You knew if he heard even a hint of how raspy you sounded, you knew it was game over—you didn’t mind Dennis being your own personal doctor by any means, but you also didn’t want him to worry himself to death.

But it only got worse, to the point you were somewhat struggling to breathe.

So now you find yourself stepping through the doors of PTMC, already mentally practicing your name repeatedly in your head.

Still, you have to say ‘Whitaker,’ though you hesitate for a moment.

The receptionist immediately connected the dots—so much for an Oscar winning performance.

“Please make sure he doesn’t know. He’ll make himself crazy.” You quickly blurt out, your voice hoarse.

She nods and gives a lopsided smile,

“Someone should come get you soon.”

A beat.

“It’s also nice to meet you—Whitaker loves to brag about you,” she says with admiration.

All you can do is grin back—even through the snot.

When you’re taken back and triaged, you wait in your hospital bed with your head lulled to the side. 107° fever with a strep and Covid test on the way.

The door creaks open and you slowly look up, sneezing almost on cue.

“Why didn’t you call me? Or text me? What if it’s pneumonia?”

You immediately know who it belongs to, especially when you feel a cool hand rest on your forehead which makes Dennis’s eyebrows shoot up the second your fever hits his fingertips.

You pout, sighing,

“Just because I got it when I was a kid doesn’t mean I’m on my death bed. I’m ok, really…”—another sneeze—“you’re working anyway.”

His voice dropped into that soft, worried tone—the one he used with scared patients.

That was especially you.

Even his 24/7 looming anxieties he outwardly expressed didn’t come nearly close to how much his mind truly ran.

“Baby,” he said quietly, already grabbing the stethoscope from around his neck like this wasn't even up for debate anymore.

“You are not okay if you are here. End of story.”

He listened to your lungs, short inhale through the scope.. and winced at how congested they sounded. Then came the sniffle and another sneeze almost right in his face.

Without flinching Dennis pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead before pulling back and frowning harder than ever.

“Yeah, you’re my patient now,” he murmured, already stepping off to the side to grab the chart—but he’s interrupted by Dana.

“Nope. You know better—besides, Robby just called for you to join an incoming MVA. I can take over. Santos has her, it’s fine.” She snaps while she steps in. He looks between you and Dana like a tennis match. For a solid three seconds, like his feet had turned to lead while huffing,

“Just… updates. Every 10 minutes—and tell them to speed up her labs.” He replies, his gaze flicking back to you one more time.

You weakly smile,

“Go do your job, I won’t disappear.” You reassure, Dennis slowly nodding.

Dennis didn’t want to leave. Not a little bit.

But Dana was right—he did know better. As much as he wanted to hover over you with ice packs and soup, an MVA victim wasn't going to wait while his wife snuggled into hospital blankets looking like a sad, feverish angel. With one last glance at your flushed cheeks and droopy eyes, Dennis exhaled sharply through his nose and turned on his heel. He hesitates by the door for half a second—long enough for Dana to give him that look,

“Get outta here, Romeo.” She shoves his shoulder and he finally moves again.

"Ten minutes," he repeated firmly—not just asking; demanding it like an order from God himself if needed.

And then he was gone in quick steps down the hall—the soft squeak of his sneakers fading fast toward Trauma Bay 1 where chaos surely awaited.

He hated leaving you. Hated that he couldn’t just sit right there and hold your hand until every test came back negative.

The second he stepped into the hallway though? He whipped out his pager from his scrubs pocket and typed rapidly:

‘Update me IMMEDIATELY on labs’

Then immediately after:

‘And say I love her.’

Because even during emergencies… Dennis Whitaker could never stop being extra.

“You married a good man, even if he’s a worry wart.” Dana muses while you chuckle, nodding,

“Eh, I know how to keep him reigned in.” You reply hoarsely, laying back against the covers again.

The door creaks open again, Santos stepping in,

“It’s only strep throat, Huckleberry can take a breather.” She announces, Dana shaking her head,

“I can guarantee you that he still insists she stays.” She teases while you blush and shrug, Santos scoffing,

“We need the bed. She will feel better at home—if he wants, maybe he can get out of here and play doctor at his own place.” She retorts while Dana rises, following Santos into the hall,

“We’re going to figure out a game plan, just sit tight, beautiful.” Dana reassures, gently shutting the door behind you.

You sigh, resting back again and almost immediately falling asleep again.

You wake to Dennis putting his cold hand on your flushed skin again, causing your eyes to open.

“Hey… I brought you a pudding..” he whispers, planting a kiss on your forehead. He helped prop you up a little better, fluffing your pillow with that obsessive care only Dennis could manage.

You smile and cough,

“Can I go home? They said it’s just strep. I’m taking a bed anyway.” You croak, reaching for the pudding and spoon. Dennis’s face lit up the second you smiled—even if it was weak and followed by a cough, that tiny curve of your lips hit him like sunshine.

He’d changed out of his scrubs, now in soft gray sweatpants and a faded PTMC hoodie. His fingers were still cool from the hospital fridge where he'd chilled them on purpose just to soothe your feverish skin.

"Yeah," he confirmed, nodding as you took the spoon. Then came the look—that sweet but stubborn doctor-husband hybrid expression that meant business.

“I’m coming with though—we’re gonna treat this. Antibiotics start tonight."

But then—because Dennis couldn't stay serious around sick-you for long as he gently wiped a bit of pudding off your chin with his thumb and kissed it away.

He grabbed the discharge papers from the clipboard at the foot of your bed and scanned them quickly (because even though Dana handled most things while he was gone, Dr. Whitaker still double-checked everything).

Then he leaned in again and kissed your nose gently before murmuring,

"Can we stop for chicken noodle soup on our way? You need real food."

You simply nod and smile,

“You’re the best.” You reply while he shrugs,

“Only for you.”

————————————————————

It was messy.

From the first night, the way you looked in Dennis’s direction and then back to your front door—he was quick to get the memo.

He was also quick to kiss your neck as you undo his jeans, rain still pattering on the window outside, though you tune it out when he’s breathing in your ear.

It’s casual—that’s what you tell him. Just sex from time to time, a secret between you and him. Invites to your place, telling Trinity he just wanted to go see some friends.

He knew better. His body didn’t—that’s what he tells himself. It was just pleasure. Relief from work. A way to unwind together. Though, nothing felt better than the weight of you in his arms, the sweet talk in bedsheets after heat.

It has to be casual. Even when his eyes burn your back at work, the way he goes out of his way to ensure you’re on surgeries together—he wants to be closer. You can tell. Of course you can—why else would you avoid a hookup for the last three weeks? You’ve avoided him entirely, in fact, you barely even exchange hello’s at work—enough others have started to notice.

You stand at a counter in triage, tablet in hand as you read, humming. You yawn and prop yourself onto your elbows, folding yourself over to stretch your back.

“What’s got you so tightly wound?” Dana muses, sliding next to you while you look up and shrug,

“Maybe it’s all catching up to me—I’ll be 80 before you know it.” You reply with a smirk, Dana only rolling her eyes with a grin.

Dennis rounded the corner with a stack of patient charts, slow and deliberate, he’d timed his route to pass by triage.

His eyes flicked up, catching you mid-stretch, hair tousled from leaning forward, eyes bright with that tired-but-amused look he knew too well. His breath hitched, just once, but you caught it anyway.

She nudged your shoulder playfully,

“Oh please. You’re not old yet.” Then she side-eyed Dennis as he paused nearby, pretending to reorganize his files even though they were perfectly neat already.

“What do you think, Dennis?” Dana blurts out while you straighten, shaking your head,

“Nah, leave huckleberry alone. I’m going to take a breather.” You cut in, turning off the tablet and setting it to the side. You quickly turn on your heels, darting away before an excuse even manifests in your mind—or a place to escape.

Dennis’s head snapped up as you bolted, like someone who’d just seen a ghost or remembered they left the stove on.

His mouth opened. Closed.

He didn’t say anything—not to Dana, not even a quiet ‘Hey’ that might’ve sounded casual enough. Just stood there with his stupid stack of files pressed against his chest like armor.

Dana watched you disappear around the corner and then slowly turned her gaze back to Dennis, one eyebrow climbing high.

A nurse passed by and smiled at him sweetly but he barely nodded in response.

Because all he could think about was you.

When the shift ends you make your way to the lounge, rubbing your eyes with your palms as you enter.

“God, you look like you got hit by a truck.” You hear Trinity muse as you drop your hands, shrugging,

“Maybe I should try that. Might fix the kink in my neck.” You chuckle, stepping toward your locker and typing the number into the keypad.

You can’t even side eye Dennis.

He knew about that little knot in your neck, he went out of his way to massage your back when he was with you, kissing the skin like he was worshipping it. He remembered every inch of skin. How it tensed under stress, how warm it got after he complimented you… how soft it was when he kissed it right below your hairline.

His gaze landed on you, then darted to Trinity… who smirked like she’d just won bingo.Trinity leaned against the lockers, arms crossed, watching you with that quiet intensity she reserved for when someone was lying through their teeth—she studied you—the dark circles under your eyes, the way you moved slower than usual.

Then he just watched you alongside her—back turned as you fished your bag from the locker—the air shifted. He froze mid-step.

Trinity glanced between both of you again and exhaled sharply through her nose.

“Well, see you two later.” You huff, throwing your backpack strap over your shoulder.

You give a second glance to Dennis, giving a weak smile as you turn on your heels and stepping out of the lounge entirely.

Dennis’s chest tightened.

That simple look—the one you gave him, quick and fleeting but undeniably there—sent a jolt through his whole body. Not rejection. Not anger. Just… hesitation? Hope?

He stood frozen again, fingers curled loosely around the strap of his bag like it was an anchor keeping him from doing something stupid—like calling after you or following you out the door right then. One look, he knew what that meant. He might actually see you tonight—but at least he knew he was still on your good side.

Maybe.

Trinity watched him watch you, her lips pressing into a thin line as she saw that dumbstruck expression—the same one he’d had for weeks now whenever your name came up in conversation or when someone mentioned your last surgery together (which, coincidentally, went flawlessly because Dennis kept checking every step of yours).

She sighed and shoved off the lockers toward him,

“Ready to get out of here?”

Dennis shook his head, rushing after you,

“Don’t wait up for me. I’ll get a way home.” He simply says, before stopping his steps in the hallway immediately again.

You were walking away still, that wasn’t the issue though—Robby was at your side—making you laugh. You were smiling, carefree as you kept pace with him.

Dennis’s stomach dropped.

Robby—Robby, with his easy grin and too-perfect hair, the fact he was your age—was walking beside you.

And you were laughing. Actually laughing, head tilted slightly as he said something that made your eyes crinkle at the corners.

It wasn’t fair.

You hadn’t laughed like that around Dennis in weeks—not since before everything got weird between you two. Not since before you stopped answering his texts.

His hands curled into fists inside his pockets as he stood there like an idiot in the middle of the hallway, half-hidden behind a potted plant

He wanted to march over there. Wanted to say something, all casual-like and maybe slide an arm around your shoulders—but Robby was already leaning into your space just a little too close for Dennis’s comfort.

Trinity joins Dennis, quickly connecting the dots. She whispers,

“Why don’t we talk in the car?” She says, Dennis slowly nodding as he forces himself to look away. Dennis let out a slow breath, shaky, finally starting his steps. Trinity didn’t say another word.

She grabbed Dennis’s elbow—gentle but firm—and steered him toward the exit, her grip like a lifeline keeping him from doing something impulsive. Like storming over there and glaring at Robby until he evaporated into thin air. She walked with that calm, no-nonsense stride of hers—she knew someone was about to have their heart broken or make a really dumb decision (usually both).

You weren’t mad at him… but you weren’t with him either. And now Robby was laughing with you down the hallways while Dennis sat here feeling stupid, hopeful and jealous all at once.

The cool evening air hit them as they pushed through the hospital doors. The lights buzzed overhead, the parking lot was quiet—most people had already left for the day. Only a few cars remained, including Trinity’s beat-up sedan with its cracked windshield—a casualty of last winter's ice storm.

Dennis slid into the passenger seat mechanically, staring straight ahead at nothing while Trinity started the car.

She turned slightly toward him after buckling up—not judging, not sarcastic this time—but just… waiting.

He slid into the passenger seat like he’d lost something important—because technically? He had.

She starts the engine and slowly backs out before she clears her throat,

“Are you two sleeping together?” Trinity bluntly asks, Dennis flaring red while his eyes snap wide.

Dennis choked.

Actually choked—like his throat had closed up entirely. His face went crimson red, spreading from his cheeks down to his neck like a wildfire.

Trinity didn’t blink. Just kept driving out of the hospital lot, one hand on the wheel, waiting for an answer that wasn’t coming because Dennis was too busy short-circuiting.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Swallowed hard. Opened it again—

"What? I mean—no! I-I don't… we weren't…" He stammered in a high-pitched whisper-squeak that sounded nothing like him—the usually soft-spoken but steady resident doctor who could calmly talk patients through panic attacks.

Then he realized she already knew.

“I’m not stupid. You’ve been going away for the weekends and come back with a big stupid grin—now you act all weird around her? You know I’m not blind. So spill.” Trinity flatly replies, looking over at Dennis as they stop at a red light.

He sank into the seat like he could disappear if he tried hard enough.

The light stayed red—forever, it felt—and Trinity’s sharp eyes locked onto him, unrelenting. No escape. No deflection.

He swallowed again, throat dry. His hands fidgeted in his lap—twisting the hem of his scrubs, then smoothing them flat like that would help.

"...We were," he admitted finally, voice quiet and raw.

A beat passed.

"And now you're not?" she pressed—not meanly this time. Just… curious? Concerned?

He shook his head slowly.

"We haven't… for three weeks."

Another pause. The light turns green.

"She's avoiding me."

Trinity nodded and gently pressed the gas, her fingers drumming along the wheel.

“Why is it just hooking up? Did she want it that way?” She asks, earning a nod from Dennis.

“Well… maybe she’s trying to push you away. Doesn’t want all the emotional shit.”

Dennis exhaled—long and shaky, like the truth had been sitting on his chest this whole time and only now did it finally move.

You wanted casual. Yeah. It was just hooking up. That’s what you both said from the start.

He… didn’t know what he wanted.

At first? Yeah. Sure. No-strings-attached sex with you? Dream scenario for a lonely resident who lived with Trinity and mostly ate microwave dinners alone.

But then he started noticing things, how you always left the coffee maker clean after your shift, how you hummed in triage when no one was looking, that tiny scar above your eyebrow from some childhood accident you’d never told him about but he’d seen once while kissing it. No labels. No promises.

Just late-night texts with vague plans, stolen kisses in your apartment between shifts, tangled sheets and hushed laughter before either of you remembered to turn off the lights.

And suddenly… casual wasn’t enough anymore.

Trinity glanced at him again as she turned onto her street—their apartment building coming into view.

Dennis and Trinity unwind on the couch side by side with reheated Chinese food.

He almost completely stops thinking about you—until his phone buzzes.

‘wanna come over? i’ll pay for an uber :)’

Casual.

So fucking casual.

So casual, like you hadn’t just walked off today with fucking Robby. Like you hadn’t been avoiding him. Like his heart hadn't been doing somersaults every time he saw you all week.

Dennis’s chopsticks froze mid-air. He didn’t move right away, just stared at the screen where your text glowed back at him like a neon sign.

Trinity glanced over from her spot on the couch, spotting your name on Dennis's locked screen—and immediately knowing what that meant.

Dennis didn’t answer right away.

His thumb hovered over the screen, hovering like his entire life depended on this one reply.

Yes.

No.

What are you doing?

Too aggressive.

Too cold.

Too eager.

He typed ‘Be there in 20’ and deleted it. Rewrote: ‘On my way,’ deleted that too—felt too eager again, like he’d sprint out the door if Trinity weren’t sitting right there watching him short-circuit.

Finally, he just tapped out,

‘k’

One letter. Neutral as hell. Not angry—not excited either.

Then he stood abruptly and headed for his room to change.

You knew damn well what that ‘k’ meant.

He was mad. It was rare—something you almost never saw—in fact, you had only seen it once in the past when you flaked on him when Trinity was out of town…

The missed calls, the fact he texted you almost 20 times wondering when you’d be there… just to never arrive.

You were in the metaphorical dog house, even as you sent him the uber information.

The Uber app pinged Dennis’s phone ten minutes later, but he doesn’t reply.

Just shoves his keys in his pocket, grabbing a hoodie off the back of a chair (the same one he always wore when he went to your place), and walked out without saying goodbye to Trinity.

She didn’t stop him. Just watched from the couch with her arms crossed—knowing that all of this meant trouble. Knowing you’d messed up… again.

The ride was silent.

Rain started falling lightly halfway there—a soft patter against the windows that mirrored Dennis's mood; quiet, cold irritation wrapped in something sadder underneath.

When you open the door to your place, you give a lopsided smile to Dennis.

“How are you? I ordered pizza if you want a bite.” You softly greet, stepping to the side to let him enter.

Dennis stepped inside, but didn’t return the smile. It wasn’t a cold stare—he couldn’t do that to you—but his expression was closed off. Carefully neutral. The kind of calm someone wears when they’re trying really hard not to say anything stupid.

He nodded at your words, voice flat,

"Thanks."

That was it.

No kiss on the cheek like he usually did.

No casual brush of hands as he passed by.

Nothing.

He shrugged off his hoodie and hung it neatly on the hook by your door—a habit from living with Trinity, who hated clutter—but kept his distance after that.

You closed the door behind him and cross your arms over your chest,

“Are you alright?” You whisper, reaching out to brush some hair from his face—only for him to shove your hand away. Not hard. Just enough.

The second your fingers touched his hair—soft, familiar—the instinct to flinch hit him like a reflex.

A sharp jerk of his shoulder that sent your hand falling back into the air between you.

It wasn’t anger—not fully—but it was hurt. Confusion. Three weeks of silence, avoidance at work, watching you laugh with Robby while Dennis drowned in texts you never replied to…

He looked at you and for once? There was no warmth in those pale blue eyes.

“You don’t get to play this back and forth game with me. I’m a human.” He snaps while you step back, shaking your head,

“I’m not trying to, far from it—I have stuff going on,” you reply, though Dennis gives a bitter laugh. He crosses his arms over his chest, looking away for a moment as he retorts,

"Stuff going on?" Dennis repeated, voice low but edged, like he was trying so hard not to raise it. He turned his head slowly to face you again, jaw tight. That bitter laugh hadn’t faded; it lingered like smoke after a fire.

"You avoid me for weeks," he said, each word deliberate.

"Don't answer texts. Barely speak at work unless someone's making small talk first."

A beat.

"And now you text me out of nowhere like nothing happened? Like I’m just… some guy you call when you're bored?"

His arms stayed crossed—not defensive in posture so much as bracing himself.

You give a look of disappointment, almost guilty. Slowly you make your way to him, almost in caution,

“I-I’m sorry I made you feel that way… just… you don’t have the whole picture.” You murmur, Dennis shaking his head again, his voice sharpening,

"Then give me the picture."

His voice cracked—just once—but it was there. A fracture in that quiet, controlled tone he always wore like armor. He didn’t step back when you approached. Didn’t flinch this time. But his arms stayed locked tight across his chest, like he was holding himself together by sheer will.

"You think I don't notice?" he said quietly now—hurt bleeding through the anger.

"You ignore me for weeks and then suddenly invite me over? After Robby?"

The name came out sharper than intended—not accusing exactly… but jealous as hell.

"And yeah," he added softly,

"I'm sorry too. But I’m not playing games either."

You scrub your face with your palms, tears filling your eyes,

“You don’t get it, Dennis, me and him aren’t like you and I,” you huff, shaking your head,

“I… needed advice. I don’t know what I’m doing.” You blurt out, your voice cracking as you do.

Dennis froze the second your voice cracked—actually cracked—his entire body unclenched. All the anger, the bitterness, the Robby-fueled jealousy? It evaporated like steam in cold air. His arms dropped to his sides, his shoulders sagged. And for a heartbeat—he just stared at you. At those tears welling up in your eyes. The way you were scrubbing your face like someone who was exhausted and confused and maybe… scared?

"Advice?" he repeated softly, all edges gone now—replaced by something tender and worried. He took one small step forward before hesitating again—not sure if touching you would help or make it worse.

You drop your hands and cross your arms, shielding yourself from him,

“I just… I don’t want to hurt you. I want… I’m pushing you away because…” you break down. Tears are streaming—a side of you Dennis has never seen.

His heart shattered. He’d never seen you cry like this—not ever. Not during surgeries gone wrong, not after long nights when patients didn’t make it… nothing.

And now here you were, strong as steel, blunt as a hammer—falling apart right in front of him because you were scared? Of hurting him?

His breath hitched.

In two strides he closed the distance between you and pulled you into his arms without asking. Tight. Firm—but gentle too, like he was holding something fragile that might break if squeezed too hard.

One hand cradled the back of your head while the other wrapped around your shoulders.

No words yet—just warmth.

“I’m scared if we had something real I’d ruin it.” You whisper through your sobs, melting into his arms and neck. The scent of his skin is a comfort—your heart almost immediately slows and your breathing steadies.

Dennis pressed his lips gently—so gently—to the crown of your head. Your sobs vibrated against his chest, muffled by the fabric of his shirt. He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Just held you there, rocking slightly without realizing it—like comforting a child or someone who’d finally let go after carrying too much alone.

The scent of you filled him too—the faint trace of hospital soap still clinging to your skin from today’s shift, mixed with that smell he loved but had never named aloud. His thumb brushed over your shoulder in slow circles.

You weren't running anymore.

You were here. Crying in his arms. Admitting fear. And damn… did that wreck him.

“I’m sorry…” you add, trying to pull away before he pulls you in tighter, almost squeezing you. He didn’t let you pull away. Not even an inch.

The second your shoulders tried to shift back, Dennis tightened his arms—firm, possessive in the gentlest way—and tucked your head right back against his chest like he could physically stop you from apologizing, from retreating again.

"Don't,” he murmured into your hair. His voice was thick now—not angry anymore. Soft. Shaky with emotion. No sarcasm. No bitterness.

Just pure, quiet love that had been sitting there for weeks and weeks, growing every time you avoid him at work… every time he saw Robby make you laugh…

And now? Now it’s spilled over.

His lips found yours, a tender kiss pressed gently to the top of your forehead before pulling back just enough to rest your cheeks together.

“Stay the night. Please. I want to try something real.” You say, looking away from Dennis with guilt and back to his eyes again.

“Did you tell Trinity…?” You ask after a moment, biting your lip.

Dennis’s eyes searched yours—soft now, all the storm from earlier completely gone.

The kiss on your forehead had been instinct. The hug was protection. But this? You are asking him to stay… wanting something real?

He nodded slowly at your question about Trinity—not fully answering, but enough that you’d know, yes, it slipped…

But then his thumb reached up and brushed over your lip where you’d bitten it—gentle—and suddenly he was kissing you.

Not a peck.

Not casual like before.

This one was slow.

Deepening almost immediately—the kind of kiss that said everything he was thinking.

“I’ve missed this," "I want this," "You’re mine."

And when you broke apart? He whispered,

"Yeah… I’ll stay."

Your slowly process, your face slamming into your palm,

“You told her or she found out?” You quickly ask, flaring red,

“I-I… fuck, what if she tells someone? Dennis, we could lose our jobs.”

Dennis’s expression shifted—concern flashing across his face the second he saw your panic. He grabbed both of your hands, squeezing them gently to ground you.

"No," he said quickly,

"I didn’t tell her. She figured it out."

A beat.

"She’s… really good at that."

He rubbed his thumb over your knuckles, trying to calm you down.

"And she wouldn't say anything. Not about this."

You slowly nod, biting your lip again,

“What if we can’t actually do this? What if I can’t actually do this?” You stammer out, your breath speeding again.

Dennis saw the panic rising again—the way your breath hitched, how your fingers trembled in his grip—and without hesitation, he cupped your face, forcing you to look at him.

"Hey," he said softly, no anger, no frustration—just steady focus like when he talked to a nervous patient through surgery prep.

His thumbs swept over your cheekbones, gentle as rain on glass.

"You don't have to figure it all out right now," he whispered.

"You don’t even have to know if you can do this tonight.

A small smile tugged at his lips—shy but sure.

"Just… let me stay."

You relax again, nodding and whispering,

“I think I would really like that.”

———————————————————————

Malcolm Todd's album so good I needed to write some painful fan fic.

You guys will be soooo happy now I’m back on my ISH!!!

Pope could only think of you after the horrible comment Baz had made to him.

No one is ever going to have a kid with you. Ever.

He wasn’t sure why it affected him so much, why it dug deep under his chest into a part of him he hadn’t even realized was there.

Pope wasn’t as socially inept as most people might think and he knew exactly why his brother would say something like that to him, the truth behind it undeniable. He was off putting and had the strange ability to creep people out even when he was being as genuine as he possibly could be.

He’d seen it happen time and time again, a slightly crooked smiled that made people take a step back or an overly blunt statement that hurt somebody without the intent.

But never with you.

You’d been around for as long as Pope could remember, the daughter of one of Smurfs greatest connects who was constantly spending the night with Julia or helping Smurf around the house once you got a little older.

They all liked you, the younger boys would follow behind you while you did chores or ask you to help tuck them in long past the age they needed it. Baz wasn’t shy with his affection either even though his methods made Popes stomach tighten with the same type of jealously and anger he felt when it was directed at his sister.

Lucky for him, and to everyone’s confusion, you had a clear favorite when it came to Pope.

You never once treated him any different or acted like you were scared of him for even a moment. You’d keep that gentle and patient smile on your face when he didn’t deserve it and you wrote to him almost every single day when he was in prison, sending him photos that he’d stick under his pillows and doing your best to draw the sea and the shape of Lena’s eyes so he wouldn’t forget.

You never went far even when he tried to push you away and that was exactly why he wanted to see you.

His knocks on the door were familiar, even though you’d given him a key a year ago when you first moved in. He kept it in his wallet but he never dared to use it incase you had ever changed your mind and didn’t tell him.

Your smile was as soft as always when you opened the door, the smell of the dinner you were cooking coming in waves from behind you. You looked as easily beautiful as always and his legs naturally carried him forward through the door way.

“Andrew.” You breathed it out softly and your hands went to his shoulders, pushing his jacket off and sliding it down his arms so you could help free him from it. “I was hoping you’d come.”

“It’s okay?” He asked lowly even though he knew the answer, he still liked to hear it from you directly.

You took his coat and hug it up on the hook near the door that only ever held his clothing, turning back to him with the same smile and taking both of his hands in yours so you could lead him closer to the kitchen.

“It’s always okay, I was actually making your favorite.” You explain softly and he can smell it now, too distracted by the sight of you and your warm touch to place the familiar spices before.

“Thank you.” He mumbled back and it wasn’t too uncharacteristic, in fact he often showed up and didn’t say a single word at all, but your steps slowed and your lips formed a frown.

“What’s wrong?”

It unnerved him the same amount everytime when you so easily were able to read him and his moods, the only person in the world that seemed to know exactly what he was thinking and feeling no matter how stoic his face was. He sometimes wanted to ask you how you could just tell but he thought that might be stupid, maybe evidence of another human trait he was simply missing.

“Nothing.” He dismissed your worries easily and now you dropped his hands, the lack of touch making him feel a surge of nausea. He shifted closer and you sighed in understanding before placing a palm back on him, resting against his bicep now.

“Don’t do that, not here.” You half pleaded with him but it was also scolding, a reminder of what you were to him. “You talk to me.”

It took him a few minutes of silence to recount what Baz had said to him and if hearing it hurt, then seeing the way your face fell was ten times worse. You were always so empathetic towards him, crying for him on nights he couldn’t feel anything other than emptiness and anger, yelling at him to stand up for himself when the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind.

And now you looked downright furious at the insult Pope had repeated in a low and hesitant voice.

“Baz doesn’t know anything.” You say back firmly with a shake of your head, a rare tone of voice from you considering you’re normally so gentle. “He’s a dick. He treats Lena terribly anyways so what does he know about being a father?”

Pope doesn’t say anything as you ramble on, his lips pursing as he resists the familiar frustrating urge to defend his brother. He isn’t sure why he still feels it after all this time but it’s like second nature, the same type of instinct that ended up with him in prison for three years.

“Andy, you know that’s not true right?” Your voice is back to its normal sweetness now as you duck down a little to try and get his eyes to focus on you, smiling faintly when it works.

“Do I?” It’s quiet and not really self deprecating, genuinely curious on what he’s supposed to feel in this situation.

“Any woman would be lucky to have kids with you.” Your eyebrows furrow like you’re confused on how he doesn’t understand that and your determination rattles him a little.

“Any woman?” He repeats it and your face falls a touch, his eyes narrowing as he tries to understand what emotion you’re attempting to cover up.

You give him a reassuring smile and nod but it doesn’t meet your eyes, sad sad eyes that make him want to throw up. He doesn’t understand what about that makes you so sad and he feels too stupid to ask for clarification, knowing he should just be able to read you like you so easily can read him.

He doesn’t get to reflect on it long before your arms go around his neck for a tight embrace and he returns it eagerly, locking his behind your lower back and tugging you close so tight your feet nearly lift off the ground.

“Needed you.” He whispers as he tucks into your neck and he can both feel and hear the small fond laugh you let out.

“I’m here.” You return and it’s so quiet it pains him, wishing he could ask you to scream it out so everyone could understand. Your head twists and your nose brushes his jaw in a way that makes his spine shiver. “Made your favorite, come eat.”

You eat dinner in silence but you don’t seem at all bothered by the quiet, understanding like always that he just needs to sink into his own head sometimes.

He almost can’t stand the feeling of being around you, the constant under the skin itching whenever you’re not touching him and the headache of trying to be someone he’s not to make himself easier to be around. It’s only a headache because it doesn’t work on you, you see through him immediately and encourage him to be himself despite that being the exact thing he’s always ran from.

You’re as relaxed as always while you do the dishes and he stares at the side of your face, like you’re not at all bothered by the intense glare.

Occasionally you glance over and smile softly when you find he’s still watching you closely.

He tenses when your phone rings, one look at the clock on your microwave telling him it’s an odd hour for anybody to be calling. You don’t get many calls in general, your family and upbringing being similar enough to his that you scarcely give out your number.

You’re stiff for the same reasons but your shoulders relax when you retrieve the device from your pocket and see the contact name, placing it to your ear and sending Pope a calming look.

“Hey Deran.” You greet neutrally and his back loses the tension although his eyebrows furrow in question. “No sorry, he’s not here. I’ll tell him to give you a call if I see him.”

Deran continues saying something muffled on the other line and you give Pope a hand gesture that insinuates he’s talking too much which would have made him huff a laugh if he wasn’t so irritated by his brother bothering you.

You hang up after a soft goodnight and dry your hands before approaching his stiff frame, rubbing your palms up his biceps until you reach his shoulders.

“Relax. He’s just wondering where you were staying tonight.” You explain in a whisper and his eyes close at the rubbing gesture. “He gets worried when you disappear. I wish you’d just tell him you’re with me.”

“Don’t want them knowing where you live.” He murmurs back instinctively truthful and you sigh, reading between the lines. You know he’s not actually worried about his brothers knowing where your apartment is or harming you at all.

“If Smurf wanted to know where I am then she’d already know.” You respond and his eyes snap open, although not necessarily surprised that you sourced out the true discomfort he was having.

He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds so you shift even closer, holding his face gently which makes him let out a deep breath.

Pope doesn’t think he’s ever been touched in the way you touch him. He’s felt Smurfs hands all over him even when she’s not in the room, prodding and poking and silently placing her control over his very being with her affection and he’s had a handful of pained sexual encounters that left him throwing up in alleyways afterwards but he’d never had this except for you.

So gentle and never demanding anything from him in return. You don’t want him to touch you back or give you some sort of pleasure, you don’t even want him to let his guard down or weaken for you. There’s just the comfort and reassurance of your presence when it’s easy to forget.

His eyes meet yours and you shake your head before he can start.

“I don’t want another lecture about not understanding your mom because I do.” You whisper it like Smurf could possibly be overhearing your conversation, a precaution that is more for his paranoia than your own. “I’m not downplaying what she can do. But I’m safe and even more so when you’re here with me.”

“I’m not always here.” He nearly growls out in his own frustration and your eyes somehow soften even more.

“But you are right now so please just…” You sigh and his heart clenches. “Be here with me and pretend that doesn’t exist for now.”

It’s easier said than done but Pope would do just about anything to please you so he tries his best, swallowing the urge to triple check the locks and windows even though he knows you wouldn’t judge him for it.

You don’t last long trying to finish up the dishes before you started to yawn and he encourages you to go to bed with a gentle hand on your lower back guiding you to the hallway, one of the rare times he initiates the contact.

He finishes them for you and then stands in the living room for a good twenty minutes, fingers drumming against his leg and jaw clenching until his teeth ache while he contemplates leaving.

He knows you hate when he leaves without saying goodbye first, hates when he leaves in general. You are probably laying in bed still wide awake just so you can hear the sound of the door closing, not shying away from telling him tomorrow how it disappoints you every time.

It takes a lot out of him to turn and head back down the dark hallway even though it’s all worth it when he sees the way your eyes light up when he makes a gruff noise indicating he wants you to scoot over and make room for him in the bed.

Pope can never sleep and he doesn’t expect it anymore, he’s used to the constant exhaustion headaches and the stiffness in his neck when he dozes off sitting up too many times. Like most things in his life, you’re the exception.

Maybe it’s the way your nails drag against his clothed back or the fact he can hear your breathing level out and know you’re safe and alive right beside him, but he’s only able to drift off when sleeping in your bed with you. The nightmares don’t ever let up but they’re much more manageable when he can jolt awake and find himself still in your room, your arms wrapped around him as you instinctively shift closer throughout the night.

Tonight, it’s not the nightmares that wake him up.

It’s the sharpness of your breath as you sit up, your hands rubbing over his chest to shake him lightly as you whisper his name. He’s hit with confusion and panic as he sits up but then he understands when he hears the sharp knocks coming from your front door.

You never have visitors in general that aren’t him but it’s nearing three in the morning now and nothing good can come out of the extensive knocking the continues impatiently.

Pope is up and out of bed, ignoring your whispers of protest as he grabs his gun from the chair in the corner of the room.

“Pope.” You stand up to chase after him but he turns around in the dark hallway and gives you a stern look, pointing silently back to the room and not walking towards the door until you deflate and nod in defeat.

He’s completely tense as he nears the front door where the knocking hasn’t ceased and he halfway considers just firing through the door and dealing with the consequences afterwards but he figures you’d be pissed if he ruined the welcome mat.

“Open the goddamn door already.”

His freezes for a completely different reason once the voice registers and now he can hear you scoffing and stomping down the hallway. You brush past him and throw open the door, glaring at the sight of his three brothers standing in the outdoor corridor.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” You’re practically hissing as they come inside like it’s not the middle of the night. You don’t even bother stopping Pope once he finally unfreezes and roughly shoves the nearest brother backwards, which happens to be Deran.

“We called you a hundred times man.” Baz shouts, wincing when you shush him aggressively and throw a pillow from your couch. “You said he wasn’t here.”

His finger points accusatorially at you for about half a second before Pope is smacking it out of the air and stepping in front of you, blocking you from the others line of vision.

You sigh from behind him and rub a hand up his arm gently, coaxing him to relax and take a few steps back before they end up fighting in the middle of your tiny living room.

Craig shoots a look at Deran when he notices the touch that neither of you miss and Pope glares at them both. He almost feels sick from the intrusion even though it’s completely selfish. His brothers know you’re close to each other and can see the bond you have but this is different.

This is supposed to be the place he can go to escape from it all, his own separate world with you where he doesn’t have to be Pope Cody but instead he can just be Andrew who gets his favorite dinner cooked for him by a beautiful girl before they go to sleep peacefully.

A sleep so brutally interrupted.

“Listen we didn’t want to come.” Baz softens and does that tone of voice he always does when he wants to control Pope easier, speaking slowly like he’s having to use all his energy to pretend they’re equals. “But it’s important. We need you at the house.”

Pope is frozen as he considers, distracted enough to not notice the way Craig is eyeing the untouched couch and your messy sleep hair. You raise your eyebrows at him which makes him finally break and start to laugh at the apparent absurdity of Pope clearly having been sleeping in your bed with you.

“Just go with them.” You say gently with a tired sigh, stepping back closer to him so you can touch his elbow lightly and get him to focus. “Call me when you’re done or use your key.”

You ignore Deran whispering something to Craig about the key comment, rolling your eyes when Pope tenses up again under your touch. Finally his eyes meet yours and he hesitates before nodding in agreement, nostrils flaring a little from his irritation.

You look so tired and understanding and he considers what it means that he’d probably kill his brothers if it meant he got to get back into bed with you for a few more hours.

It’s easy to forget about his own homicidal inner dialogue when you’re leaning up on your tiptoes to place a kiss against the corner of his mouth. You weren’t shy with your affection but that was a stretch, even for you, and for once the others don’t seem to want to laugh about it.

They looked just as thrown as Pope feels when you give him a sheepish smile and head back to your bedroom, trusting him to get them out of there and lock up before he leaves like it’s his apartment too.

—

Pope doesn’t call you that night and you don’t hear the lock turn at any point, no bed dipping under his weight or his arms around you when you wake up.

You try not to think much of it especially knowing how hesitate he can be, almost constantly shy even though you’ve known him for longer than you can remember. He’s not one to make the first move even if you had invited him back, most likely doubting himself on if you truly meant it for the entire night.

But two days passed and you started to feel like something was wrong.

It wasn’t completely unusual but typically he’d atleast let you know before he was going to get busy or he sent out of town on some random Smurf errand. His brothers hadn’t looked too spooked the night they came to get him but your mind was filling with possibilities.

Maybe it was a job gone wrong, either he’d gotten hurt or locked back up. You weren’t really sure how you’d be able to handle Pope being back in prison, knowing how hard it was for him the first time.

This line of thinking led to you heading over to the Cody house, something you tried to avoid now that you were an adult. Especially by yourself, unable to remember the last time you’d gone over there without your father or Pope to accompany or invite you.

Deran was in the kitchen when you walked in and he gave you a heavy look, riddled with such guilt that your stomach turned and you had to slow down to swallow the bile building in your throat.

“He’s here?” You croaked out and he nodded with a sigh, gesturing his arm back towards where Popes room was.

You hadn’t been down the hallway in a few years, unable to stand it when it was empty while he was locked up and recently he’d been solely coming over to your place. He’d told you one night quietly in bed that he didn’t want you around Smurf anymore, a desperate plea that you didn’t fully understand.

You knew what she could do and you knew her influence on Pope but you had your own blood running through Oceanside that left you a little bit more protected than most people. Smurf didn’t scare you but you knew she scared him so you did what he asked and stayed away.

He was standing up when you walked in, pulling a shirt over his head full of wet curls like he’d just gotten out of the shower. Your lips pursed as you stood in the doorway, unmoving as his eyes landed on you and he jumped a little.

You watched as he naturally relaxed at the sight of you before stiffening completely like he remembered the reason you’d be standing outside his room with that pained look on your face.

You’re across the room before he can say anything even though you figured he wasn’t going to speak much anyways, your typically gentle hands shoving roughly at his chest. He winces at the shove but doesn’t resist, barely budging until you push him one more time and he stumbles backwards a few steps.

“You disappear.” You shove again. “You don’t call, you don’t text me.” Each statement is emphasized with a push until he’s had enough, gripping your wrist tightly and huffing a little as he stares down at you.

Your eyes are pained and angry, an expression he hasn’t seen on your face in nearly a decade. You were the one touch of gentleness he had in this world and he felt terrible for pulling a gross emotion like this out of you.

“Do you even care that I worry about you?” You laughed bitterly as you stared up at him and his stoic face, searching for answers in the blank look. “Can you fucking say something?”

It takes him a few seconds, holding your wrist tightly still until you finally relax and let out a defeated breath. He only lets you go once he knows you’re not going to fight him anymore and you step away as soon as you’re freed from his grasp.

“I’m sorry.” He rasps it out and follows you as you try and create some distance, eyes a little pleading. You give him a stern look, wanting him to cut it out before you fold as easily as always when he gets like this.

“You can’t keep doing this to me Pope.” Your voice is as stern as it can be with the knowledge you’d let him do whatever he wanted for the rest of your lives.

He frowns deeply and you know why before he says it, knows how much he hates to hear that nickname from you. It slips sometimes when you’re not thinking, especially when you’re back in this nearly haunted house and so upset with him.

You feel bad despite your anger and stop walking backwards, letting him close the distance until your hands can run over his back. He tucks his head down into your neck and lets out a breath so heavy it makes the hairs on your arms raise.

“Should’ve called.” He whispers against your warm skin and you can fill in the blanks on your own.

You can see the bags under his eyes and the way his sheets are tucked neatly like nobody has touched them in weeks, the fact he was wincing while pulling his shirt on like something on his body was hurting more than usual.

You didn’t even want to hear him say what they’d been up to the last few days even though you knew he’d tell you as soon as you asked, never lying to you even if it hurt him to admit some things. The embarrassment and guilt on his face always made you regret asking, like a good dog who had bit somebody without meaning to.

He picks his head up at your silence and your eyes lock, pressing forward until your foreheads are leaned against each others. You sigh and bunch the fabric of his shirt up in your fist, making his breath stutter a little.

“Just come home okay?” You whisper as your eyes shut for a moment from sheer desperation.

There was no way to grow up in Oceanside without hearing something about the Cody family.

It was almost like being told a fairy tale, each story more far fetched than the last with ever changing details depending on who you asked what. Some versions were easy to roll your eyes at, not bothering to believe the more outlandish ones but there was never a way to be certain about what the Cody’s were really up to.

You got a particularly close access point to what could be the truth considering the fact you happened to be living in the house next door to theirs.

It was the sore spot and topic of conversation almost every single breakfast when you were a kid, listening to your dad rant endlessly about the loud parties and the shady looking people going in and out at all hours of the night. Your brother had asked sometime in your teen years why he didn’t just file a complaint if it bothered him so bad, your dad’s lips pursing and him falling silent in response.

You understood quickly why he had never complained about the disturbance when you first met the matriarch of the house next door.

You’d been specifically told to avoid that address when you were setting out to parade the neighborhood for donations to your college fund, a charity event your school had set up for the kids unlikely to receive scholarships.

Yet the sight of the shiny cars in the driveway and the dozen rejections you’d gotten so far had you steeling your nerves and knocking on the door with a firm hand.

Smurf was unlike anybody you’d ever met before and you felt a little ridiculous for the way the breath sucked out of you at the sight of her, something captivating beneath the intimidating energy she didn’t even seem to be trying to emit.

“You lost honey?” Her voice was as mocking as it could be, the sight of you standing there in your uniform clearly amusing to her, and you found yourself falling into a full nervous ramble about what you were trying to do.

She interrupted you before you even got two sentences out, barking over her shoulder for somebody you hadn’t even noticed to go and get her wallet for her.

The man returned, clearly a bit older than you but not aged enough to be her partner under any normal circumstances. He gave you a long stare that would have sent you running back home if it at all felt hardened, instead there was a sense of childlike curiosity about him and your head cocked just as she stepped over to block your view.

She’d lost the humor she had previously but still pressed a few crumbled but generous bills against your chest, sending you back a step or two as you thanked her. Your gratefulness was sent to the door halfway through as it slammed in your face.

You’d seen her a lot more over the years and that meant seeing the others too. At first you thought it was purely coincidence or maybe your parents had let go of their hatred for the neighbors but one sight of your dad leaving their garage with nervous sweats and an envelope told you that something else was going on.

Suddenly you were going to dinners at their house once a month, sitting as politely and silently as you could as the disturbing dynamics of Smurf and her sons made your head spin.

Your dad laughed too hard at jokes that weren’t funny and your mom barely moved at all, keeping half an eye on your brother and the other on the gate that had been shut behind you.

When you were nineteen you heard them fighting, voices loud and afraid as your mom scolded your dad for allowing your brother out with the Cody boys. She seemed more fearful than angry and you sunk back into your room as you once again considered the truth behind all the stories you’d heard.

You weren’t close enough to any of the sons but you did feel a particular sort of disappointment when you heard Pope had been arrested.

He didn’t speak nearly enough for you to consider him somebody you even really knew but there was a certain comfortability that came with both being equally as out of place in a room full of people. There was the lack of disrespectful and lewd comments that helped too, something his brothers couldn’t seem to help themselves from once you were an adult.

There had even been the handful of times that he had scolded them, a sharp glare or a hard hand against the back of their heads that made them hiss in annoyance.

You didn’t bother thanking him, figuring that would just make him uncomfortable anyways but you had hoped the look you’d send his way was enough for him to understand.

You were glad at least one of them wasn’t a creep, grateful there was someone else in the room who couldn’t quite seem to grasp what was going on.

Smurf either took a liking to you once you matured or the absence of her oldest son made her more willing to allow guest because you suddenly found yourself spending a lot more time there. There was a certain allure to the mystery around them and their close bonds, something your own home next door was severely lacking.

You even had your own little corner of belongings in one of the guest bedrooms, your favorite morning drink in the fridge and your clothes mixed into the piles outside the dryer.

Three years passed slowly with Pope gone and you could tell the family was conflicted with how to deal with it. Smurf almost seemed content despite how she claimed to be suffering the most without him there, the other brothers filled the void with each other and whatever else got their blood pumping.

Which was clearly not doing the dishes because you had been scrubbing for what felt like hours and still had yet to make a dent in the pile up. Normally Smurf kept things pretty close in order but she’d left earlier that morning to go pick up her grandson and asked, or demanded technically considering her tone, you make sure the house was decent for his arrival.

You liked the house a lot better when it was empty and you didn’t feel like somebody was always listening around the corners, voices dropping to whispers when you walked past adding a hint of paranoia.

The paranoia seemed to linger even when you were by yourself in the middle of the daytime however considering the soft noise from down the hall made your shoulders tense, breath catching and hands faltering with the dish for a split second.

You ignored it the best you could until it happened again and now you made a point of turning off the running water so you could hear the undeniable sound of footsteps clearer.

“Smurf?” You called and the way it echoed weirdly made your bones chill. The footsteps stopped completely and that only managed to make you feel worse, worse enough that you reached over as slowly as you could manage and gripped the handle of one of the kitchen knives.

You were nearly silent as you moved out of the kitchen and up the few stairs, barely getting to turn a corner before you were hitting a chest.

You weren’t sure if you dropped the knife on instinct or if the grip around your wrist was tight enough for you to lose feeling, the jerky motion you pulled being met with no lax made you believe it might be the second. You only felt a little bit of relief when you realized who it was and then it was followed by a new type of fear.

There had been plenty of people who warned you about the Cody’s and a dozen more who warned you about one of them specifically.

Pope wasn’t looking at you, eyes locked on where the knife had landed with a clatter in between your feet. He was closer than you had realized, the hold on your wrist stopping you from stumbling back when you had bumped into him.

“Pope.” It came out in a breath of surprise, eyes widening as your brain seemed to catch up with the fact he was supposed to be serving out a sentence miles from here.

“You’re here.” He said back and it was in that slow and calculated way he always spoke, low enough that it sounded threatening but too dazed to make you think he could be any real danger. You knew well enough by now to know that wasn’t true so you stayed stiff as that gaze finally landed on your face. “In my house.”

You had half a second where you wanted to question him for being there too before realizing why that would be incredibly stupid.

“Smurf will be back soon.” You landed on instead, voice as soft as you could possibly make it as your eyes shifted across his face for any sign he might relax. “Welcome home Pope.”

His grip loosened at that, lingering for another few seconds before he was letting you go. It stung a little where the pressure had released and you put it down to your side without looking to see if it was red or not, deciding it was better to check on it later.

Pope stepped to the side and walked around you, keeping his strong gaze on you the entire time until he turned the corner into the kitchen.

Smurf returned only a bit later to find you sitting at the island in the kitchen, dishes put away other than the one you were sipping vodka out of. She gave you a look of confusion that was interrupted by a light commotion coming from within the house, heading in the direction of where you figured Pope had disappeared too.

You were curious what her reaction to him being home early would be, if she would be relieved or disappointed. You never could make sense of her emotions and you didn’t think it was even worth trying with this one.

You’d gone home, nearly sneaking out in your efforts to not run into any of them again on your way. It was all futile considering you knew you’d be back again in a few hours for dinner but you found yourself craving the simple act of laying in your bed and wondering what exactly you were doing with your life.

The thought of ghosting the Cody’s completely was the main thing circulating your head as you made your way back up the driveway after the sun had set, sighing as you punched in the gate code. It was a bit of a relief to see things were relatively normal, Deran and Craig arguing about something and Baz in quiet conversation with the younger boy you assumed had to be the grandson.

You waved briefly before heading into the kitchen where you found Smurf pulling things out of the oven.

“Honey will you go get Pope for me?” She said in that weirdly maternal tone she would get sometimes and you faltered before nodding, debating for a second if you should tell her how much you didn’t really want to do that.

It was that you were necessarily scared of Pope despite the things you had heard. You’d known him for a while before he was locked up and you’d never even seen him raise his voice but there was a certain type of unhinged presence that came just from his stare and shaky voice.

You weren’t really sure where to begin looking so you tried his old room before realizing it had been given away, hesitating in the hallway before peeking behind a few more doors you rarely explored. It turned out you didn’t need to find him at all because he was suddenly right behind you when you fully turned to go back to Smurf in defeat.

“Oh.” You nearly gasped at the sight of him, eyes turned upwards at his face in the dark hallway. He was standing there silently, shoulders tensed and squared as he watched you.

“What are you doing?” He asked lowly and his head tilted as he spoke, slowly with each word.

“Looking for you actually.” You breathed out and you were surprised at how steady you managed to sound despite the nerves building back up in your stomach as he continued to just stare at you. His eyes narrowed in confusion at your words and you sighed softly. “Smurf sent me to get you for dinner.”

“Tell her I’m not hungry.” He said flatly and there was a hint of something bitter in his voice that made you think their first day back together hadn’t been going so well.

You gave him a long look, taking in the short crop of his hair and the way he had bulked up while locked away. By the time you met his stare again, he was already watching you closely which didn’t surprise you in the slightest and you sighed softly as your shoulders slumped.

“Please don’t make me tell her that.” You asked of him softly, making your voice drop low like you were telling him a secret.

It really wasn’t that big of a deal but you both knew Smurf would take personal offense to him willingly missing a meal and you also figured she was wanting to keep a close eye on him with a house full of people.

He didn’t reply for a long enough time for it to feel awkward and you felt a little bit like a kid who had gotten in trouble but you tried not to let that show on your face. You didn’t want to upset him and it was easy enough to convince yourself that feeling was for a simpler reason than it probably was.

“She scares you.” He rasped eventually and it came out like a statement and not a question, like he had just decided that for you.

You sighed again and your shoulders raised in a half shrug before you were glancing back to the end of the hallway like you’d somehow be able to escape this conversation sooner than later if you stared long enough.

“Not necessarily.” You answered quietly and he blinked at you when you stopped short. “I just don’t want to upset her, especially after…”

You trailed off before you could mention Julia, almost remembering all at once that she was his twin sister and not just another member of the family. There’d be little to no mention of her for as long as you’d known the Cody’s and it had taken you a few seconds to even recall who she was when you heard Baz whispering about it earlier today, the lack of emotion or real care in his voice not assisting you at all.

Pope’s jaw tightened at the empty space you’d left in the air and you knew he was smart enough to know exactly what you were referring to, especially given the guilt that was no doubt coating your face.

"yeah." he swallows hard. "yeah, okay." his voice comes out rough, unsteady. his warm brown eyes are fixed on you, wide, intense. focused entirely on your mouth like he's trying to memorize whatever you're about to show him.

you lean in to give him a small peck first, soft, barely there then look at him. he looks back at you before he copies you, leaning back in, and this time his lips aren't so stiff.

progress.

then you part your lips carefully, slanting your mouth over his until they're molding together, until his warm breath seeps into yours.

you swipe your tongue slow along his bottom lip and he sighs, low, shaky, his fingers dig harder into your thighs.

"you like that?" you pull back just enough to ask, breathless.

he stares at you. eyes heavy-lidded, mouth slightly parted, breathing ragged. "yeah."

so you do it again. and again. slow and patient, until he catches the rhythm, until his jaw unclenches and he stops thinking so damn hard about it, until his mouth finally moves with yours instead of against it. his hands skate over your thighs higher, trembling, squeezing the soft of them harder.

"andrew, stick out your tongue for me." he does it. listens to you without a second thought, without an ounce of shame, just pure, raw trust. "yeah, just like that, such a good boy."

you watch his pupils blow wide at the praise, his cheeks flush all the way to the tips of his ears. cute.

you lean in again and lave your tongue over his, slow and hot. tasting him, him tasting you, and he lets out this broken, pleased groan that vibrates deep in his chest and against your body. his hands spasm on your thighs, trying to tug you closer.

you push him back immediately and he actually chases your mouth for a second before yoy press a finger over his lips. "uh-uh. slower, baby. follow my lead."

"sorry." he mumbles, a little shy.

then, when you give him the go ahead, he leans back in, kisses you exactly as you showed him, setting the pace real slow. he breathes through his nose while he does it, groaning all ragged and needy, as your tongues swirl together, like you've been edging him for hours instead of kissing him for minutes.

and then pulls back just a fraction, his eyes desperately searching your face for approval. "am i doing good?" his face is trying so hard to stay flat, face blank, but the dark flush blotching down his neck like a fever and wrecked voice gives him away completely.

"mhm," your pussy pulses at the sight of him so desperate, so utterly helpless beneath you.

your fingers scratch fondly at his scalp, nails dragging through the auburn strands and he whimpers. "doing really good, popey."

he gets all twitchy when you call him that and his hips jerk up as he starts rutting against you like a dog in heat. and, oh, you can feel him. the growing bulge through the rough denim, pressing right against the damp seam of your thin panties.

he's so huge that the thick, heavy outline of him drags deliciously between your folds through the clothes, catching right on your puffy clit, and a embaressingly loud moan slips out of you before you can stop it.

the sound flips a switch in him and he moves before you can blink.

his hands clamp down on your waist, and suddenly you're the one being flipped down into his mattress, the breath knocked clean out of your lungs. the sheer strength of him makes something warm and desperate pool low in your belly.

his heavy body settles on top of yours, all solid muscle and desperate heat. the new angle has him pressing right against your pussy, the rough seam of his jeans dragging over your soaked panties, and you both groan at the friction.

"ah—popey, wait—" but he just kisses you again, muffling your protests, arms wrapping tight around your torso.

the air gets thicker, heavier and you realize not only is your boyfriend a fast learner but he's terrifyingly observant too—those sharp, dark eyes of his catching every micro-expression, filing away exactly what makes you whimper, what makes your spine arch, what makes you grind up harder into him. you can feel him learning your body in real-time, using your own reactions against you.

you’re whimpering against his tongue now, making pathetic, wet sounds you didn’t know you could make, melting into the mattress and rolling your hips up, chasing the friction against your aching clit, completely at his mercy.

and the sounds only spur him on.

"'taste too good." he whines as he sinks his tongue deeper into your mouth. turning the kiss sloppy and wet as he laps at you, licking into the roof of your mouth like he's starving, swallowing every needy moan he pulls from your chest.

he sucks at your bottom lip until it throbs, biting down just hard enough to sting. you let out a high, reedy whine before he licks over the hurt, obsessive and soothing.

"mmnh—'s too much, popey—"

he can't hear you or either he does and just doesn't care. his hands just slide down, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties, rolling them down slowly, too slowly, all the way to your ankles. and you hear the rustle of him unzipping his pants, the metal teeth parting loud in the quiet room before he presses his still clothed bulge against your bare pussy.

"oh."

so much for him being a bad kisser. huh?

but it's overwhelming, all too much, and you can hardly breathe. so you pull at his curls, hard, weakly pushing at his shoulders but he only groans low pleased at the feeling and presses you deeper into the mattress instead, one hand fisting in your hair to hold you exactly where he wants you.

he continues to tongue-fuck you stupid, devouring you until your eyes are rolling back and your lungs are burning, swallowing all your protests.

and his hips won't stay still either.

he's basically rutting against the slick folds of your pussy now, grinding down in these desperate, clumsy thrusts that bump against your clit every few seconds, making you jolt and whine each time. you can feel how wet you're making him, the fabric of his briefs damp where you're leaking through, and the filthy thought of it—of him wearing your slick, of marking him that way—makes you clench so hard your thighs shake.

only after what seems like hours, just when you're dizzy, about to black out from lack of oxygen, he finally pulls back. a thick string of spit connects your swollen, ruined mouths. he immediately leans in to lick it from the corner of your lips, greedy and hungry, panting heavily against your cheek.

"did– did i do good?" he asks all needy for praise, chin slick, those pretty brown eyes wide and utterly wrecked above you, his curls stuck to his sweaty forehead.

"mhm." is all you manage. a breathless sigh. your brain is mush, entirely fucked out from just the kiss.

he grins, a little too proud of himself. then he grinds into you. once.

"so can we fuck now?"

TAGLIST: @pr1d3ful @xreader1989 @mewmew222 @slaytheday711 @novausstuff @jujuondatbittt @dumbbandpoetic @sugarsunshine4 @marcswife21 @kmumori @ziggy0stardust @iiignoreee @girlokarina @localsams @bearymuchso @3w-guts @cosmosnkaz @silovicbaird @bubiblossom @jcks29 @amterasuu @alejunnie @jahmelat @just-write-that-shit @viviannagiorgini @heartsforts @cantbecreative @kaylajerks @gaypoetsblog @caterppillar @peachyfckingkeen @lov3bugss @zoleea-exultant @rayasromances @fembot-rot @jaelaconsuela @c00kiem0nsterinc @mxtokko @f0rlorn @aselstarr @short-potato @otteryougladimback @urlocalsaxplayer @2loveme-is2sufferme @aurora-makes-shyt @mel164 @harringtonsbowgirl @waverzzzzzzzz @pinkpantheris @tootstoots

Jack Abbot was soft and sin all wrapped into one thing, dangerous.

Beneath his handsome exterior was wit and charm that immediately had you hooked from the first day you met him in the pitt.

It was a mutual infatuation. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you if you both were in the same room. You were like a star that he couldn’t help but orbit.

You started having feelings for him, ones that teetered on the edge of love. But you couldn’t tell him that but that doesn’t mean you wouldn’t take what you could get. Even if it meant you could only have him in the quiet of his bed, or yours.

Even if it meant holding back your heart.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You’re running late. Not yet late to your shift but late on getting ready to go. You hold your towel up, toothbrush in your mouth as you dig through your overnight bag for your scrubs.

You’re bent over as you look and then a hand plants itself on your waist.

“Don’t stress yourself out sweetheart, they’ll be okay if you’re a few minutes late.”

A mumble comes out that Jack can’t make out.

He squeezes your hip “what’s that?”

You stand up and turn to face him, pulling the toothbrush from your mouth.

“I said, easy for you to say. You’re an attending and everyone happens to love you.”

He laughs a little at your statement.

“Well they love you too. I lo- They all love you too.”

Your heart skips a beat at how he seemed to almost say the phrase but doesn’t.

It’s always almost a slip of the tongue and then it’s nothing.

It’s always nothing.

His hand caresses your face, bringing you back in the moment.

“When can I see you again?” He whispers closely.

A mental sigh goes on in your head.

You wish it wasn’t this way.

Where you only time you see him outside of work is under his sheets but never anything more.

You’d tell him you love him if you weren’t so worried he’d turn you down and break your heart in the process.

You loved Jack Abbot.

But he didn’t seem to love you back.

So this is what it had to be.

What it would always be until it stopped.

You lean into his hand.

“I’m free Friday night. That okay?”

A smile appears on his face.

“Perfect. Meet me here at 7. And let’s do dinner first, if that’s okay?”

Your eyes widen a little.

Dinner?

For what?

You weren’t sure but this was more than being only his in bed. It was… progress maybe?

“Y-Yeah of course. Definitely okay.”

He gives you a quick kiss and pulls back.

“See you then, sweetheart.”

Maybe this was it.

Maybe this was your chance to admit how you felt.

And maybe he’d have something to say too.

The weekend couldn’t come fast enough.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Your shift is busy and you’re pulled back and forth amongst patients. All you can think about is a hot bath and the leftovers you have waiting for you when you leave the building.

“Day dreaming much?”

The voice pulls you from your thoughts at the supply cart.

“Oh uh, yeah. Just ready to go. It's been a day.”

Dana chuckles at your answer.

“So no daydreaming of a certain night attending?”

Your eyes widen and your face gets warm fast.

“W-Why would you say that? Cause I definitely don’t.”

She smiles in amusement at you.

“All I’m gonna say” she walks a bit closer to you “is that he’s just as gone for you as you are for him.”

Your head turns fast to face her.

“You’re serious? No, no there’s no way.”

She shrugs still with a smile.

“It’s just what I overheard from the man himself.”

Dana pats your shoulder before walking away.

You watch her walk away then turn back to the supply cart.

Did he really say that to someone about you?

—-

You continue the shift and continue stocking some carts. One is by an area of rooms that’s typically unoccupied unless there’s an overflow of patients.

Checking one you open the drawers to see what it needs when a familiar voice stops you in your tracks.

“Okay, our little secret.”

Samira?

Wonder who she’s talking to.

Then another voice joins in, one that makes your body freeze.

“Yeah, no one can know.”

Jack.

Your heart races at his words.

Wait, they're in there together?

You peek in the small opening of the curtain and see Jack shirtless with Samira standing in front of him, arms crossed with a bright smile on her face.

You feel sick.

Secret?

No one can know?

Is…is he sleeping with her too?

You guys weren’t anything official but you had assumed you guys were exclusive as a friends with benefits type thing.

You were only seeing Jack but you had never considered he was seeing another person.

Of course it would be Samira.

You couldn’t blame him.

She was amazing.

He should’ve told you though. That should’ve been brought up from the beginning.

And to think that Friday’s dinner may have been the start of something official. Something...real.

You don’t notice you had started crying until a tear rolls down your neck.

You quickly wipe it away and walk off, cart completely forgotten now.

Dana must’ve heard wrong.

He clearly didn’t have feelings for you.

Not the way you did for him.

Fuck Friday night dinner.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You continue to avoid Jack the next few days. Little to no texts or responses. Rainchecking your regular hookup schedule with him. Dodging him when he came looking for you in the pitt. Only talking if it was in a professional matter.

Maybe you should’ve confronted him for real answers instead of ignoring him but you were too hurt by the Samira and ‘our secret’ conversation to care.

Dana tried not so subtly to get you to open up but you politely deflected any conversation about Jack. 

—-

Today was Friday and you had the day off. You had planned to use the time to pamper yourself and get all dolled up for your dinner with Jack but that was no longer the case.

Currently you were laying on the couch in a way too big tshirt and your underwear, a pint of ice cream in hand.

You glance at your phone.

7:15pm.

You were supposed to have met at Jack’s apartment at 7.

He had texted five minutes after, probably caught off by you being late. You didn’t answer, not wanting to hash everything out over the phone. Not wanting to do anything but drown your sorrows in a container of cookies ‘n cream ice cream.

Just as your show starts a new episode, there’s a knock at the door. 

You pause the tv and stand to make your way over. It doesn’t take a genius to guess who it is. You crack the door slightly and see Jack standing there.

He’s dressed in a nice black button up and black pants.

God he’s so handsome.

Then you’re brought out of your trance by his speaking

“Sweetheart, is everything okay? Can I please come in?”

You stand there silently for a beat before opening the door wider to let him slip in.

He looks at your attire and the ice cream in your hand.

“Did you forget we had dinner honey?” he asked gently.

You huff and roll your eyes. 

“Oh no, I remembered. But I figured maybe you’d prefer Samira to show up instead. Would be a better time and make for a good secret.”

Jack looks at you confused.

“What are you talking about? What does Mohan have anything to do with this? Better yet, why have you been ignoring me all week?”

Your face twists in disbelief, the anger starting to rise.

“You know exactly what I'm talking about. You and Samira in that empty room. You shirtless with her in the room. The little ‘our secret’ thing. Why would I continue to entertain you when you’re fucking Samira too? I’m not a second choice. You don't get to use me when I'm convenient for you. You don’t get to use me when I fucking love you. You're such an-”

“Wait sweethe-”

“Don’t you ‘sweetheart’ me Jack Abbot” you cut him off.

You turn away from him with your hands clenching your hair.

“I cant believe I thought you liked me, more than just a fuck buddy. I’m so fucking stu-”

Hands land on your shoulders and turn you around.

“Hey!” Jack says loud enough to get your attention.

Your faces are a breath away from each other.

His face looks worried, distraught even.

“Please baby, let me explain. What you saw and heard is not what you thought. I swear on my life. Please…”

A tear falls down your cheek and he wipes it away as he now cradles your face in his large hands.

You wordlessly nod to him.

“Shit, okay. Thank you.” he lets out a breath

“That day I had volunteered to be a medic on the local SWAT team. A bullet had grazed me and I had my shirt off to try and clean the wound on the back of my shoulder.”

You don't break eye contact as he speaks

“Mohan had walked in looking for a patient that had apparently been in the same room but left. She was explaining his treatment, practically ignoring me and my injury. She only noticed because I struggled to clean it. I told her that I didn't want a chart and for the injury to be kept off the books. She said okay and that it would be our secret.”

Your heart races at the new information.

“My injury was the secret. Not any relationship of any kind with her. I can call her if you don't bel-”

You instantly wrap him in a hug.

“No, no it's okay J. I-I can't believe I thought that—Im so sorry.”

Jack feels your chest shake as you start to cry.

“Sweetheart, it's okay. Please dont cry.” he coos in your ear.

You sniff against his chest and then look at him.

“Is your shoulder okay?”

“Yeah sweetheart” he chuckles “It's on the mend.”

He pulls your face closer to his.

“Now what was what you said about loving me?” he smirks.

Warmth spreads across your face in shock as you remember what you said.

“Oh my god, I'm sorry. Please ignore me. I completely understand if you don't feel the same.”

“Oh honey,” his lips barely touch yours “Trust me, I definitely fucking love you too.”

Next thing you know, his lips are on yours, claiming you differently now.

You moan into his mouth as you slowly make out.

Jack pulls back a bit.

“Oh my god” you slap your forehead “I ruined dinner. Shit.”

“You didn't ruin dinner. You didn't ruin anything. I only planned dinner to tell you I love you and want you to be my girlfriend. I wanted you to see I was serious. We can still order in if you want?” he says rubbing your arms.

“Yes.” you breathe out.

“To ordering in?”

“To being your girlfriend.”

He smiles impossibly wide.

“Thank god for that.”

“But yes to dinner too J” you giggle.

He pulls you into another hug.

“I can work with that, my beautiful girlfriend.”

“Youre the best, my handsome boyfriend.”

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Starting your rotations at PTMC would have been terrifying if you didn’t get stuck with the group you follow now. On your first day, you came in off a terrible experience at Mercy upstate, and when you met the other R1s and fourth-year med students, they seemed to be familiar with each other. You were the odd man out. But Dennis was, too. While Mel reconnected with Samira and Trinity struck gold with Perlah and Princess– not to mention Victoria's parents literally being on the upstairs payroll– you two were the only ones who hadn’t made a connection. Well, some might say that your floundering was the connection. You hit it off in your first hour, and have been inseparable since. 

The year was hard on both of you during the transition from student to resident. You were intent on specializing in pediatric emergency medicine while Dennis had his sights set on being attending chief, just like Robby. Outside of the traumas, Dennis followed Robby for teaching, and you used each spare second to pick up younger patients and build on your study. 

You were working on an experimental treatment study that gave kids power over how they treated their pain– letting them choose their dosage, their care, their desired results. Children were more honest when they were trusted, you found, and it was all being done in the hopes of drawing attention not only to the sheer volume of peds cases that came through the ER, but the necessity of having a pediatric resident on at all times, and possibly even a pediatric attending physician. So, you and Dennis technically weren’t so different… Either way, it was a mountain of effort. 

Even though he didn’t have the same academic drive to make change, Dennis admired you helplessly. He thought you were a genius, an angel-doctor, someone who they should give awards to for how sweet you were with children and how devoted to improving patient care you could be. You made him want to be a better agent of change, not just a good doctor. 

While it took twelve months to get the hang of the place, you and Dennis were finally doing well. As a pair, you got accepted into the residency program at PTMC and were finally getting paid. You went in on a shitty downtown apartment with Trinity, hoping to save money by carpooling and splitting rent. And you were hopelessly, disgustingly in love. 

At first, Trinity couldn’t stand you two. It was easy enough to ignore at work, because in order to stay focused you and Dennis decided to be neutral around the hospital. It made your lives easier and avoided any potential teasing or prying, especially from the nurses, who were dead set on sniffing out everyone’s business. But the second you guys were off the clock, he had his arms wrapped around your waist and he was steering you, petting you, kissing you; it made her sick sometimes. The lip smacking, the little giggles. Sometimes she would purposely get a ride home with Mel just to beat you to the apartment and lock the door, if only to preserve her peace for a few measly minutes. The frustrated banging on the wood was better than hearing you guys canoodle. 

But once Trinity got together with Garcia, her frustrations were far and few between… and hard to even see anymore. She was never home. The girl had started keeping clothes and scrubs at Garcia’s place, and if she did come back, it was to do laundry or eat the fridge. So, you and Dennis finally had peace and quiet. After those long days in the emergency department full of staring eyes and stress and death, you could come home to each other and soak up the softness of each other’s silence. Like tonight.

It had been a particularly hard one– nearly seventeen hours on the clock. There was some freak toxic spill in a factory across town, and over twenty patients had come in with chemical burns and gashes from slipping and falling down stairs onto machinery. Hazmat came and closed off half the emergency wing, and everyone had to be cleared from quarantine and hosed down in the frigid air before coming or going. It was torture. Dennis drove home in his truck, the both of you soaked to the skin in paper-thin sterile scrubs, starving and shivering. 

You stumbled through the apartment door, dead on your feet. Dennis took your bag and trotted off to drop the belongings in the bedroom, while you veered into the kitchen, yawning and shaking out the shivers as you yanked the refrigerator open. 

“God,” you pouted, “We forgot to go shopping again.”

The soft patter of footsteps echoed down the hall, and a strong pair of arms wrapped around your middle. Dennis tucked his chin over your shoulder, squeezing your tummy. “I can call the Chinese place. They’re 24/7, right?”

“Think so,” you grumbled, rubbing your eyes. “I’m just hungry. And tired. And annoyed.”

“Anything else?” Dennis laughed, the rumble soothing your spine. You spun in his arms and faced him, leaning back against the counter and moping. 

The apartment was a mess. The kitchen hadn’t been cleaned in days. There were clothes and shoes littering the living room, and Santos had a pile of papers covering the coffee table. Your research scattered the work desk by the bookshelf. It just felt like you never had time to catch up anymore, to take two seconds to clean up; when you got a day off, you slept through it on Dennis’ chest or your sad and forgotten pillow, just in case it would be another week before you got the chance. As you looked around, you felt the overwhelm of it all rushing back, and you dropped your head on his shoulder.

Dennis sighed softly and pressed a few smooches to your hairline. “I can see your wheels turning.”

“Doesn’t it bother you?”

“Bee, I lived on a farm. I’m used to the mess.” 

You managed a tiny smile at the name, nodding to yourself. He was right. It could always be worse. You could still be living in the med student dorms, where the showers were riddled with mildew and your roommate slept with her boyfriend all night, forcing you to get no sleep. At least you had this privacy, and this man in front of you who ensured you kept it. 

“I’ll call in an order.”

You sighed quietly as he pulled away and wandered back to the bedroom to grab his phone. For all the things he admired about you, you admired that about him: his ability to let things roll off, to take the good and leave the bad. You let everything affect you, but he never failed to have a good sense about him. He was way too wise, and it was why patients adored him. That and maybe his warm eyes, or his gorgeous, crooked smile, or the way he said “ma’am” and “surely” with that midwestern charm. 

You rooted through the medicine cabinet to grab some acetaminophen as you listened to the dull babbling of Dennis on the phone, and you rested against the counter as you took the pills dry. Your feet ached, the black work shoes worn down from any support they once offered. You were still cold from the wet roots of your hair. You were in a miserable mood, and the apartment was lonely without his warmth. You closed your eyes and tried to take your mind off it all, and that was when you felt hands scooping you off your feet. 

“Oof– Dennie!” You squeaked, wrapping your arms around his neck in case he dropped you. 

Dennis grinned and hoisted your legs around his hips, bracing you against his chest. The pads of his fingers dimpled the soft, bunching skin of your thighs. “Yes?”

“Why am I being handled like a ragdoll?”

“Because you flail, and it’s cute.” 

“That’s not a good enough reason,” you laughed, and he readjusted so his palms could cradle you dubiously close to the spot where your legs jointed to your ass. “I think you just wanted to squeeze me.”

“That, too,” he hummed, kissing your cheek. 

“Put me down,” you mumbled, nosing his jaw. 

“Why?”

“I’m heavy.”

“You are not,” Dennis scoffed, giving you a comical look of offense.

“Yes I am! Come on,”

“No,” he frowned, and he squeezed the underside of your legs to drive the point home. “You’re lighter than a hay bale.”

“I really don’t think that’s possible.”

Dennis narrowed his gaze playfully and slid you onto the kitchen counter, caging you in. You huffed at the relief of being put down and ruffled his hair, to which he shook the mess out like a dog. 

“Did you get me an egg roll?”

“You’re not heavy,” he interjected. 

“Okay, I’m not heavy.”

“Good. Correct,” he confirmed, and with a tiny glint in his eye, Dennis slid his palms up your legs and sides, caressing the spots where you curved and rolled. The farmboy was quick to trap you in a soft, unassuming kiss, and you melted on the faux marble, coiling around him once again. 

Dennis grunted softly as he pressed close to the counter and wrapped his arms around your back, sneaking his fingers under your scrubs. Your mouths worked in tandem as he drew patterns down your spine with one hand and kneaded the pudge of your tummy with the other, making you squirm. 

“Just been so stressed,” you mumbled, trailing your kisses down his neck. 

“I know, honeybee,” he panted, nipping your ear and pressing you against the cabinets. 

“You always make it better,” you confided, tugging sluggishly at his shirt. 

“Come here.”

The air settled softly over the room as you two gave into the urge. It wasn’t a tense moment, not even a worked-up one. It was just like letting a breath out. His hands were so welcome on your hot skin as he freed your legs from the chafing prison of those hazmat-issued scrubs. Your mouth was so grateful for the traces of soap on his collarbone as you nibbled and suckled on the meat of his chest, caressing the ridges of the abs that formed in secrecy over the last year of hauling patients and volunteering at the shelters and community farms after hours. It was a simple exchange of love between two people who have been leaning on each other for over a year, and who simply didn’t want to function without their counterpart. The mesh of passion in a quiet little safe place.

Dennis tucked his thumb under the cotton lip of your panties, sinking the pad into the wet heat between your folds. He sought the throbbing nub that required his attention. You choked on a moan as your back straightened out, and you curled your fingers in his hair, breathing the air of his mouth as he began to encircle it. 

“I’m sorry you had a bad day,” he murmured, prodding softly at your clit, smearing the mess over your mound. 

“You had one, too,” you wheezed. 

“Yeah, but I’m not upset,” he purred, giving you a little nip and kitten lick at the juncture of your neck and jaw. His palm adjusted to let his greedy fingers tuck under the cloth, and you grunted as he cupped your cunt. “I hate seeing my girl so drained. You’re too pretty… too smart for that.”

“Dennie,” you moaned. 

“Yeah? Right there?” Dennis asked as he sunk two fingers past your entrance, feeling the pulse of your needy walls like a heartbeat around his knuckles. “Oh, baby… you’re so wet, sweetheart.”

“S’all your fault,” you whimpered, grinding gently onto his palm. 

Dennis hooked an arm behind your hips to help angle you forward, and he crooked his fingers inside your cunt, grinning as the familiar squelch gargled around the digits. Your face twisted with need, and he began to gently thrust, pressing the heel of his palm to your clit and working out circles. 

“That’s it, honeybee, come on– just take what you want,” he cooed, giving you every opportunity to rock against his fingers and use him up. “My little bee, yeah? You like it when I’m sweet.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, breathless and dizzy with pleasure. His hands should be exhausted from all the work he did on those trauma patients, but he made no show of it. The man’s fingers petted your g-spot like it deserved a treat. 

“You’re so pretty, baby, did I tell you today?” Dennis whispered, attaching his mouth to your neck. You felt the scrape of his teeth. “So, so pretty.”

“Dennieee,” you begged, feeling the heat building in your gut. The combination of his pressure on your bud and fingers stroking your walls was enough, but the words made it impossible to hold out. 

“Gonna cum, honeybee? Yeah? You can, don’t worry, baby. Come for me, let me see your face.”

Dennis always had that tone when you got desperate. Easy, gentle, as if you were a spooked horse. There was no fighting off the butterflies as they flitted happily around your spinning, floating orgasm, making you shiver and twitch as he wrought a crashing wave of pleasure down on your body. You moaned hoarsely and clung to the corded muscle of his arms, bucking into his palm and babbling weak, “Ah, ah, ah…”s. 

Dennis smiled against the curve of your neck and pulled his fingers free, sliding them between your lips and exploring the hot slick of your tongue. He watched your pouty lips close around them and suck, and his cock twitched in his pants. “That’s it. Good girl, honey.”

You flushed from the praise, body buzzing and shaking with stimulation. You reached down to cup his erection. Dennis tensed and hooked his fingers over your teeth, biting the inside of his cheek. “Jesus, baby.”

“You need it, too,” you pleaded, gently palming him, watching his cheeks burn and his lips part. 

“Fuck,” he moaned, and you tugged the string on the scrub bottoms free so he could shimmy them down. 

Dennis was not one to get greedy often, but it was so hard not to let the urge overcome him when you watched him with those bog doe eyes and begged to be fucked. Your legs wobbled like a calf as he dragged you to the edge of the counter and lined himself up, gliding the head of his cock through your folds to coat the pink, hungry skin in the residual slick. The two of you let out a freakish, synced sigh, and he pressed the tip in with impatience. He was met with no resistance– your cunt stretched dutifully for him, and soon enough he was grunting like an animal, pinning your hips to the counter and watching your breasts bounce from the force.

Your knees hitched around his hips as the deep, eager force of his length speared you, and you lolled your head back against the cabinets, clawing at the edge of the counter. “Dennie, baby, please, please…”

“You feel so good, baby,” he whined, thrusting harder, watching the creamy rings start to form around the base of his cock. “Fuck. Such a sweet girl, honeybee, such a good girl!”

“S-so… so…”

He chuckled weakly as you lost your train of thought. He thought you were pretty without fail, but there was something to you when he had you at the mercy of your own pleasure. You seemed to glow, skin shimmering with sweat, all your bountiful curves twisting and turning with marshmallow torque. He gasped hungrily as he dug his nails into the fat of your thighs and moaned, “So fucking beautiful… God, could just squeeze you ‘til you pop.”

The heat wrapping around your womb in vines was pernicious and unrelenting. You licked up a stray droplet of drool from his chin as he pounded into you, and you threaded your fingers into his hair, dragging him into a sloppy, wonderful kiss. Dennis’ lashes mingled with yours as you swirled your tongue past his lips, jolting with every thrust, milking him to his breaking point. The heat between your bodies was overwhelming, and it was so good, so deep–

“Hello? Guys, I’m home–”

The apartment door swung open, and Trinity was ambushed by the sight of Dennis fucking you like a jackrabbit on the kitchen counter, your scrubs pushed up over your tits and his pants at his ankles. The poor girl covered her eyes and swallowed a spontaneous upchuck reflex. “What the actual fuck?!”

Dennis didn’t stop, he only slowed. A mortified expression crossed his face as he begged, “Get out!”

“Yeah, no fucking shit!”

The door slammed, and Trinity could be heard barking and grumbling down the hall. Maybe Garcia had to cancel their plans tonight. Maybe God had planned to embarrass you. It didn’t matter now, though, because Dennis was spurred on by the intrusion, and he pumped into you hard enough to burst. The two of you fell into a messy fit of laughter and lost, climactic whimpers as his hips stuttered and warm, thick ropes clung to your insides. 

“Shit,” you wheezed, “She’s gonna kill us.”

“It’s our apartment, too,” he grinned, kissing your chin and resting his heavy forehead in the dip of your shoulder.

“Yeah,” you flushed. “Maybe you should go get her.”

Dennis lifted his head again and slipped two fingers into your mouth, shutting you up with drooping, sated eyes. “Just shut up and stop worrying about everything, honeybee… yeah?”

You could explode all over again. It was that stupid farmer’s voice. All the adrenaline and weight of the day dissipated again as you hummed around his fingers, a tiny “mhm.”

Dennis sighed happily and tugged you close again, feeling his cock jump inside your heat, and he kissed your cheek. “That’s my girl.” 

"So, Dr. Whitaker," you leaned back against the kitchen island, a teasing grin spreading across your face. "How does it feel to know your bedside manner was officially rated as 'worse than a wet piece of cardboard' by a seventy-year-old man?"

Dennis let out an exhausted sigh, tossing his keys onto the counter and locking his hands behind his head. He didn't look at you immediately, but the slight tightening of his jaw gave him away. "The patient was frustrated because of the wait time. It had nothing to do with me..."

"Oh, come on. He didn't just complain about the wait." You scoffed. "He looked you dead in the eye and called you an 'incompetent intern'." You let out a laugh, thoroughly enjoying the faint flush of annoyance creeping up his neck. "I was holding back tears. It was too funny."

"It was rude and uncalled for," he corrected quietly, leaning his palms against the counter, looking down, trying to breathe through the stress of this particular shift.

You hadn't stopped all afternoon, sending him teasing texts while he was trying to finish his charts, whispering shots in his ear as your paths crossed, and now that you were both back at his place, you had no intention of letting up.

You walked over, slipping your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek to his shoulder blades. "If it helps, I think you're very competent. You're a bit of a Debbie Downer, though. Pick your head up—"

Dennis turned around in your embrace, his eyes fixing on yours. The irritation simmering, replacing his typically calm and reserved nature. "Alright. You've had your fun. All day." He sighed. "Please, drop it."

"Or what?" You tilted your head up, deliberately pushing his buttons. "Are you going to chart my non-compliance, Doctor?"

That? That was his breaking point.

Before you could blink, Dennis’s hands gripped your hips, moving you backward until the small of your back hit the edge of the kitchen counter, your lips parted in shock.

He was directly in your space, his surprisingly tall frame completely eclipsing the light and trapping you between his body and the wood. His face was inches from yours, his expression dark, and entirely devoid of the patience he'd been clinging to all evening.

He murmured your name, voice dropping an octave, "quit it."

The proximity made your heart skip a beat, but instead of backing down, you smirked right into his face, your chest rising and falling against his. "And what if I don't? What're you gonna do, Dr. Whitaker?"

Dennis didn't answer. Not with words, anyway. A dark look crossed his features, hands sliding up from your hip, fingers tangling firmly into the hair at the back of your neck to tilt your head back, exposing the line of your throat.

His other hand slid down, catching the hem of your scrub top, his fingers warm against your now clammy skin as he pushed the fabric up. He didn't hesitate, his hand moving lower, slipping past the waistband of your bottoms, finding you already growing soaked.

You gasped, the warmth of his touch destroying your smug composure.

"Still funny?" Dennis whispered against your lips, his fingers finding your sweet spot, a firm pressure that made your knees go weak.

"Dennis—" you breathed, your hands clutching at his shoulders for balance as you pressed yourself further against the counter.

"That's not what you called me a second ago," he murmured, his fingers slipping past the damp patch of your underwear. He slid one finger inside you, making you cry out.

He didn't let up, thumb working in tandem as he curled his finger inside you, finding the exact spot that made you arch your back, trapping your whimper against his chest. "Tell me what you were saying. I'm listening."

"I—" You gasped, your head spinning as he increased the pace, his touch unyielding. You could feel yourself dripping down your leg as his fingers pumped in and out of you. "Dennis, wait, please—"

"Please what?" He nipped at your lower lip, his fingers moving faster, the friction building so quickly it made your vision blur. He added a second finger, stretching you open, his rhythm merciless.

"I'm sorry," you sobbed out, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as the tension coiled tight in your lower stomach. "I'm sorry, Dennis, I swear—"

"Say it right," he ordered, his breath hot against your ear, fingers driving into you. "Apologize."

"I'm sorry,"

"To who?"

"Shit. You—"

"Who am I?" he teased.

"Dennis—"

"Nuh-uh. Try again."

"C'mon, don't make me—"

"Who are you saying sorry to?" he cut you off with a particularly deep thrust of his fingers.

"Fuck!" you cried out. "I'm sorry, Dr. Whitaker," you whined, completely undone, the heat of the moment making the words spill out without a filter. "Please, I'll stop... I'm gonna—"

"Go ahead," he whispered, his thumb pressing down hard, sending you over the edge.

You clamped down around his fingers as an orgasm tore through you. You hid your face in his neck, sobbing softly, your entire body trembling against his. Dennis held you up, his fingers staying inside you for a few moments longer, feeling every last ripple of your release before he slowly withdrew.

You leaned heavily against the counter, panting, your eyes half-closed and your face grew hot from embarrassment now.

Dennis stepped back, completely unbothered. He looked down at you, a smirk breaking across his face.

He leaned in one last time, his voice dark with satisfaction. "It isn't so funny now, is it?"

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“It doesn't matter, I'm walking- running- running in,” you said breathless down your phone, busy stuffing your bag with whatever you'd need, none of which was food for the shift. You'd recently ran out of the energy bars Jack had recommended.

Everyday you said you'd prepare something nice, some risotto or something and take it in. Every morning you collapsed from exhaustion and ran out of time to make anything that resembled a 'meal'.

“ I've got it here, I'll be around in ten, ” Jack said.

Your bag slid down your shoulder as you paused. “Got it? Got what?”

“ Your address. ”

“How do you have my address?”

He chuckled down the line. “ Remember I ubered food to yours, two weeks ago? You've probably still got leftovers in your fridge. ”

Ah. You remembered. One of those times you let slip your terrible routine and he sort to fix it, sending you over prepped meals that- he was right- were still littered around your fridge.

“Right, yes. You should delete that.”

“ Comes in handy, sometimes. In emergencies, ” he said. “ I'll pick you up in ten, bye. ”

There was no time to argue as the call ended promptly after that.

Jack Abbot was a caring man. Something you were learning the hard way. You knew he'd given Ellis his spare room when she was evicted from her apartment, he'd even let her re-decorate, got her fresh blankets and sheets. You knew that Shen's favourites snacks were always stocked up in the lounge. You always knew that he was first to spot Lena getting tired and was always there with a coffee.

It was just like you knew he knew all those little things about you too.

He knew when your bus got in across from PCMT, always there to escort you over the road and back again at the end of the shift. No matter how long or gruelling it had been he would wait with you, rain or sun. He knew you had a bad sleeping habit so he told you herbal remedies in teas and even brought some for you. Annoyingly they worked and every time you had one you were forced to think of Jack.

You knew that if he said he was picking you up- he was.

There was nothing wrong with his affection.

You just didn't know what to do with it.

The night shift was still new to you. You'd only joined since their nights had gotten wilder, even too wild for the 'weirdest and wildest' to handle so you'd made the swap six months ago to help out. You were used to Robby's ways of doing things: of his careful watch over his residents with happy thumbs up or disapproving shakes of his head.

Jack trusted in his residents to take care of patients, but didn't when it came to themselves.

You rushed around, finding your pens and stethoscope and phone that you'd just put down for a second. Soon enough Jack had texted saying he was coming up (he somehow already had the code to your apartment complex).

His knuckles rattled softly and you rushed to grab the last of your things, including a book marked with 'Abbot, J' that you had yet to get round to reading.

“Hi,” you greeted.

You'd expected he'd come up just to be a gentleman, figuring the two of you would just head back down.

Jack squeezed by your attempt at baring him from your place and walked into your small and cramped apartment. “Hey.”

You tried not to be surprised, shutting the door behind him. “I've got everything, we- we can go.”

“I jussss wanna check-” the kitchen was just to the right and he opened your fridge door, grinning. “I was right. Still got the leftovers.”

There were many containers stacked, some full, others emptying. All marked in his handwriting from his meal prep he shared with you.

“Yeah, I haven't got round to sorting it,” you said. “Sorry, I didn't get around to eating everything. It's really good though.”

Jack smiled, reaching into your fridge like it was his own. “Hey, I made you a lot, didn't expect you to eat everything. Just wanted to make sure you had a choice. Did you like the Linguini? I tried a new recipe.”

Jack moved around your kitchen like he'd been living in your space forever. He was confident as he re-arranged your food, throwing what had gone out of date away and washing his hands in your sink, taking a towel hanging up by a cupboard like he knew it was there and drying.

“Er, yeah, it was nice, we can go, you know,” you said.

“You started reading it?” Jack asked, gesturing down to the book in your hands. “What do you think of it?”

“Oh, er, no. I haven't had the chance to start it. I was gonna give it back to you,” you said.

Jack shrugged. “It's yours, keep it.”

It was not yours. It was his. It was one of his favourites if the several dog-eared pages and annotations were anything to go by. It was a title he'd recommended to you and handed you a month ago but you'd only managed to flick through and get a vague understanding of the characters names only.

“But I mean- I don't know when I'll get round to reading it,” you said, loitering outside your kitchen.

“It's okay, I've read it a thousand times, keep it till you do.”

Wasn't he worried you may never get round to reading it and he might not ever get it back?, if your forgetful memory was anything to go by.

Jack finally abandoned your kitchen, passing by you. “Shall we?”

“Thanks for the lift. You really didn't have to,” you said as you left your apartment building, the sky already darkening and where others came in from their long days of work, yours was only just beginning.

“It's on my way,” he shrugged.

“It's out of your way,” you pointed out, knowing Jack was a complete different way to PCMT then you.

You saw his eyes roll as he opened the passenger door for you, nodding for you to get in.

“Just take the lift.”

“Thank you.”

“Word is you and Abbot arrived together,” said Dana.

You groaned.

There was a lot to like about the night shifts. It felt more of a team work than day did sometimes, you loved working with everyone just as much as you did day and you liked how still it got in the night sometimes. But you missed Dana who watched out for you like a mama bear. Still, she made time to always check in with you before she headed out.

Her jean jacket was thrown over her shoulders, her hair pinned back neater and keys in hand but she still greeted you like it was the start of the day.

“He gave me a lift, the buses are on strike.”

She smirked. “Nice of him.”

“I've told him not to do it again.”

“Oh yeah, how'd he take that?”

He'd shook his head and laughed, constantly brushing off every thanks you made and offer of any aid you could give. He seemed wholly un-bothered by the inconvenience you'd caused.

“Jack's a good guy,” said Dana.

“That he is.”

“You deserve someone like him.”

You weren't sure where Dana got that idea. You also didn't know why you couldn't believe her. Why every time Jack turned up when things were going bad, or why every time he showed he cared you felt scared.

And you'd never really had the time to un-pack that.

You looked up to Dana, folding your arms over on the counter. “And what about what he wants?”

“Well for that you'll have to ask him,” she said with the all knowing look in her eyes. Her hand was gentle on your shoulder as she squeezed. “I'll see you in the morning.”

“Night.”

You thought you'd have a chance to view the patient charts that were swapped over to night shift but Jack was next, standing in Dana's space.

“What did mamma bear have to say?” he asked.

“Oh you know, the usual,” you said. “Trying to give me life advice that I won't follow.”

He huffed a chuckle. “I could've told her that, saved her the time.”

“I listen to your advice-”

He levelled his gaze onto yours.

“- I try to.”

His brows rose up. “You brought anything in for food tonight?”

You were about to answer, ready to prove him wrong, finally.

Jack interrupted you. “Anything other than that caramel coffee you like?”

He could read you like a book. You don't know how he found the time to know so much about you, to observe such things you wouldn't even notice unless he pointed them out.

Your silence was an answer.

“I brought extra, we'll have it later.”

He said it so confidently, leaving little space for any arguing on your end.

“Will we?”

“Yeah,” he said, stretching out on the counter. “I'm thinking a midnight picnic, trauma two? Might even get lucky with a GSW as company.”

You laughed and when you looked at Jack he was smiling. It was a soft kind, the sort that smoothed his face and made him seem younger and lighter. The kind that you took home with you and re-played as you fell asleep slowly.

You would never admit how long Jack spends in your mind. Somehow it felt like he already knew.

“You, um, you didn't braid your hair today,” said Jack, straightening up and drumming his knuckles on the counter. His gaze only faltered on yours for a second.

This was something you knew you did, carefully creating a routine for washing your hair that meant you didn't have to do it every day after work. Enough baby powder or dry shampoo meant you could get away with two washes at best.

“No, I guess I didn't.”

“It's gonna annoy you, being in your face all day.”

“I'm sure I'll manage.”

Jack didn't listen. He picked up your wrist- the one you kept a hair tie around- and slid it onto his own before going behind you.

“Jack, what are you doing?” you asked.

“Helping you.”

“You don't have to, I'll shove it up.”

Jack grumbled. “Let me work.”

His fingers grazed your neck as he brushed back your hair, the callouses on his hands rough against you, eliciting some sort of warmth in your body. Thankfully he was behind you and couldn't see the blush absolutely coming to your cheeks.

Jack took care of those around him, but he'd never touched anyone else's hair, never stood in the middle of the nurses station where all could see to braid someone's hair.

You felt him work, the weight of his gaze on the back of your head and his fingers moving through your hair like a cool summer evening breeze.

Across the way, Lena peered over her glasses at you with a smile.

“Lena's staring,” you said, unable to focus on any work till Jack's fingers were out of your hair.

Jack hummed. You knew that concentration from the amount of times you've seen him focused. “Lena always stares.”

You noticed Crus and Matteo passing by, both watching and pointing. You were sure Crus made some obscene make-out gesture and only hoped Jack didn't see. You were sure, if anyone else had asked he'd have done the same.

Though you hadn't technically asked.

“I'm sure you have far more important things to do than braid my hair, Abbot.” The lights in the Pitt seemed brighter, burning down on you like spotlights.

“Nothing more important right now.”

Your neck stretched as Jack pulled at your hair lightly to get it all in place. Curiosity ate at you, wondering where he'd done this before but the idea of knowing- like you had any right to- shut you up before you could speak.

Eventually he finished and his hands fell on your shoulders.

“There. Ready to be a hero?” he asked, spinning you around to him.

Your feet scuffed along the floor. “What? Am I the Robin to your batman?”

His lips quirked up and he moved his head side to side like weighing up his options. “More like the Lois to my Super-man.”

You sadly weren't versed enough in comic to know if that was a good or bad thing.

Jack was attending to a young girl when you walked in. Honestly it was starting to get comical how you turned up around him or he you. Some would call it magnets and as you met Jacks gaze as you stepped in you knew the ‘people’ meant Jack.

He looked at you, taking a quick note of the fact you still had your braid in even hours into the night. Jack smiled.

“Miss mermaid this is who I was telling you about,” said Jack.

The young girl- maybe five, maybe six- looked up at you as Jack slowly pulled at the thread bringing the skin of her knee together.

The chart had told you she'd taken a nasty fall on the playground and her teacher had brought her in, still trying to get in contact with the parents while Jack kept her company, cleaning her scraped knees and the gash just below.

“Hello,” the little girl waved. There wasn't even any tear marks on her cheeks but there was a small mark of blood at her little lip and her hair was falling out around her face.

“Hello miss mermaid,” you greeted, realising quickly the name came from her little mermaid top she wore.

“We were just talking about you,” said Jack, glancing quickly at you.

You blushed, wondering what Jack had to say about you to a small child. “Oh?”

“You and Crus played mermaids that time at the beach, remember?”

The girl giggled and Jack smiled over her shoulder at you.

“It wasn't- it wasn't mermades,” you excused.

That day was one of sweltering heat and lingering gazes. The night shift had took a trip to the beach on one of the hottest days of the year, enjoying the day for the day-shifters that couldn't. You'd gotten a lift with Matteo who'd brough Victoria Javadi along as she had the day off anyhow.

There was sand in places you didn't know sand could get, beach balls that somehow were pierced before you could even blow them up and gazes shared with Jack.

Maybe it was the bikini you wore that was so different from the scrubs. Maybe it was the fact Jack was un-characteristically insecure about his prosthetic leg being exposed to all and you'd told him nobody cared, that everybody cared more that he couldn't enjoy himself. Something had changed that day, settling in you like a pebble at the bottom of a lake thrown from a great height.

Since then, you and Jack had never looked at each other the same way.

But you and Crus hadn't been playing mermaids.... exactly. You swam around a lot and sort to collect more sea shells than the other. You just didn't call it mermaids.

“Will I be able to play mermaids again?” asked the little girl brushing hair out of her face with clumsy hands.

“Absolutely,” said Jack with great enthusiasm.

“And run faster than all the boys in my class?”

Jack chuckled, so did you. “Of course, but you'll have to rest up first.”

“Give the boys a chance to catch up, huh?” you suggested, plucking a leaf out of her hair.

“I like running fast,” she said.

Jack worked on the stitching, back to concentrating.

You sat down on the other side of the bed, gently reaching over to pluck bits of leaf and dirt from her hair. “So do I but sometimes we got to take things slow to not get hurt.”

You hadn't realised the meanings of the words until Jack halted his movements, glancing at you.

So you supposed there was a double meaning.

Jack's gaze was heavy.

“Tell you what, miss mermaid, Doctor Abbot here is better at braiding hair than he is stitches,” you said after a clear of your throat.

“Rude,” Jack mumbled.

It took a little convincing but you managed to swap places with Jack, gloving up and taking the tread he'd started at. He took your space on the bed and gently worked the child's hair into something neat while you carried on her stitches, close enough to being finished.

The both of you worked in silence as you each concentrated on your separate endeavours. All the while the young girl sat in between you hummed to herself, some Disney song.

“That's my favourite,” said Jack half way through when he must have realised what song she was humming.

You were still trying to understand it when part way through they changed to 'Under the sea'. You had to all but hold her leg from swinging as she sang loudly, causing you to laugh.

“Why not singing?” asked the girl.

“Yeah, why not singing?” Jack asked

You shook your head. “I don't know the song.”

Jack made a 'pfft' sound like he didn't believe you and 'little miss mermaid' did the same, blowing a raspberry.

Eventually you finished up the stitching, coincidently the same time Jack finished with his braiding.

A nurse- Bridget- walked in with the young girls teacher, eying the two of you between her. “You braiding Matteo's hair next?” she teased with a glint of wicked amusement in her eyes.

Jack moved up from the bed just as you also stood, discarding of the tools you'd used. “Only if he asks nicely.”

“Her parents have been informed they're on their way,” said the girls teacher.

“Perfect,” said Jack, holding either end of his stethoscope slung around his neck. “We are going to leave you in the very capable hands of Bridget who knows many more Disney songs than we do. Don't go without giving me another song.”

The girl laughed, her new braid slung over her shoulder. “I won't.”

Jack smiled and held the door open for you as you left with a small wave and him trailing behind you.

Lena was at the nurses station, answering calls and dishing out work while others walked around the two of you, busy with their own nights that existed by itself in the Pitt.

You hadn't realised you and Jack were heading for the break room till his arm stretched out and he pushed the door open over you.

“Are you really telling me you didn't know the song she was singing?” he asked.

“Of course I knew the song. I wasn't going to sing and embarrass myself,” you said, pulling out the mug you always used and Jack's favourite, finding the coffee pot newly brewed.

“Like I'm any Phil Collins,” scoffed Jack as he pulled out two containers from the fridge.

You frowned, sitting at the table. “Who?”

Jack looked at you, swinging the door shut. His brows rose high, crinkling his forehead. “Phil Collins? Turn it out again.... In the air tonight... The music on Tarzan?”

“Is he the dad of Lily Collins?”

Jack slid into the seat across from you. “Who?” He passed you over a full container of some sort of quinoa. It wasn't just left overs, it was a carefully calculated portion to match his.

You stared down at it like you were trying to decide if it was poisoned while Jack had already had a spoonful of his own.

It felt strange, to be sitting in a secluded room of the chaos and eating with him. Though at work, it felt oddly domestic. It felt- annoyingly- like the right thing to do. You wanted to eat from his container and wash it, hand it back to him. You wanted to know where he kept all his Tupperware, the kind that fell from cupboards at every open of the door.

“You cooking for me now?”

Jack shrugged, not meeting your gaze. “It's quinoa. Hardly cooking.”

You took a careful spoon.

Like he'd been discreetly watching as soon as you swallowed he spoke.

“You like it?”

“It tastes... kind of...”

“Healthy?”

You looked at him, feigned aghast.

Jack smirked, jaw working as he ate his food. “Come on, if it weren't for me you'd still be living on pizza's and take aways. At least this way you save a couple bucks and eat good. For a doctor you should know how important that is.”

“What are you so worried about what I eat for?” you mumbled, more wondering to yourself.

“I like to take care of you.”

He admitted it softly, a slight shrug to his shoulders like it was nothing. Like looking after you, a simple colleague- maybe a friend if you were lucky enough- was a simple feat. As if you didn't struggle to take care of yourself. Jack worked the same shifts, even more as an attending and cooked for himself, did yoga in mornings and even went out as a SWAT team member.

“Why?” You pushed the grains around in the tub.

“Why what?” he asked.

Daring to glance at him, you found Jack looking at you, arms rested on the table, his freckled biceps pulling at his scrub top.

You shook your head, taking another spoon of the food.

Any other time some emergency would be called to save you. Nothing as such when you really needed it. Of course you were glad nobody was being rushed in hurt... but still.

“Why do I like looking after you?” Jack repeated. “Because it's you.”

At that, you smiled. Not through happiness, more sympathy. “Because I can't look after myself?”

You knew you slept a lot, didn't take as good care of yourself as you could have. There were healthy and easy meal ideas sat in a folder in your phone, gathering dust. There was always laundry in a pile, dirty and clean, to go to their respective homes. There were friends waiting to make arrangements you never got around to making. You weren't easy but you didn't think you were so bad someone else had to come in and save you.

Jack paused, his face falling. “That's not what I meant.”

“Sure it is, you can admit it,” you shrugged, the food he's kindly shared turned to ash in your mouth. “I know I might seem like a mess to you, to someone so put together and... older, but I really do have my life managed. You don't have to add me to your to do list.”

“Woah, woah, woah, I never said that. That's not what I meant at all.”

You laughed. It felt better than feeling so embarrassed. “It's okay-”

“- no, no, that's not what's supposed to be going on, I... ”

Jack cared for people, you knew that. It was just apart of himself.

So you were almost distraught inside when you realised he didn't like you anymore than Shen or Ellis. He just looked out for you cause it was something he had to do.

“I'm not actually very hungry right now,” you said, pushing the lid back on and leaving it for him.

Jack was just as quick as you were to his feet. “No, no, wait- wait, hey-”

His pushed the door closed as you only just opened it an inch.

You looked at him. Your stomach was tight, uncomfortably so.

“Let me- let me try again, okay? I didn't think this through.”

“There's nothing to think through, just wait-”

Shen appeared at the door, trying to get in but Jack was surprisingly strong in keeping the door barred. “I need my coffee.”

“Give us a minute, Shen,” said Jack with all his attending commanding voice.

“But-”

“- a minute!”

You caught sight of Shen looking to you for help before walking away, head down and probably with his bottom lip jutted out like a kicked puppy. “Shen won't get far without his coffee.”

“Shen can wait till we're done now listen,” he said and leant against the door, watching you close. “I like taking care of you, I do, I really do. Not because I think you're not capable of looking after yourself, you are, I know you are it's... I just...”

You waited.

There was nothing.

Jack looked at you with all wide eyes and tension held in his arms. It's like he wanted to say something but ... couldn't.

One more minute and Shen would tear the place apart for coffee.

“You're a nice guy, Jack, you just don't have to be that nice.”

Jack let his arm fall from the door and you evacuated.

The sun had started to rise and you were so close to getting out the door, so close to running from the day's problems. Day shift had turned up, somewhat bright eyed and bushy tailed to take the days stresses though you weren't sure they could take Jack's insistence to talk to you away.

You were inches away from leaving when Jack called for you.

There wasn't the desperation to talk to you, it was the sort he used in traumas, only.

“I need you, GSW to the chest!”

The both of you ran in, gowns pulling on and gloves next as you pushed through the doors.

It was all the usual to you: too many doctors in one room, so much talking and orders it fell on your ears like music you knew all the words to.

“Woman in her twenties, multiple GSW's,” Robby called out. “Pulse ox eighty!”

The doors shut behind and the team of you all took your roles like a practised routine.

“Three... two... one- move!”

All together you lifted her over.

There was blood blooming on her shirt, a tear in her jeans. There was a black eye and what looked like a broken nose if the cut over the bridge and the slant of it was anything to go by.

You'd seen enough of these to know when they were accidents and when they weren't.

Her back hit the bed and the sharp beep of life being lost echoed.

“We've lost her pulse!” shouted Robby.

Without being told you climbed up, hands coming together and hammering down on her chest. For a split second you felt the ghost of Jack's hands, helping you up before they were gone like a summers breeze.

Looming over her you could see the injuries better. And worse.

“GSW, right-sided, she needs a central line,” you announced.

Jack moved around you and the patient, already preparing himself for the central line before you'd called for one.

“BP's dropping out! Pulse Ox is eighty-five!” Robby called.

“She's got tension pneumo,” said Jack without shouting and everyone heard. Somewhere in the back of your mind you recognised that authority he demanded with the simple sound of his voice.

“Crash cart,” said Robby. “Charge to one hundred.”

You waited till you heard the buzz of the cart and felt the heat of the panels before moving.

“Clear!”

The sound of her pulse was quiet and the rhythm was odd but it was there, slight bumps in a green line.

You climbed down, landing next to Jack as he readied with a fourteen needle.

“BP's seventy Ox,” said Jesse.

“Day shifters trying to cramp our style,” said Jack as he slid in.

Robby tutted. “Trying to make sure you don't get all the fun.”

Jack straightened next to you. “Ok, I'm setting up the chest tube, you're gonna set me up with a thirty-two French. Get a mig of atropine and a need a unit of O-neg.”

Two units were hooked up.

“We need to get the chest tube in and stop the bleeding.”

It was all a flurry of hands and tools as the chest tube was in, as the chest was packed with gauze at the right flank where the bullet had tore through her chest. It was a close one, but the sort you could save with nimble hands and careful concentration.

“Okay,” Jack uttered as the both of you loomed over her. “I know we're fighting and I don't like that-”

“We're not fighting and now's not the time,” you said.

Robby was on the other side of the bed, giving the two of you a look. “I agree.”

Jack waved him off, focusing on you. “I'll strike you a deal, we save this woman's life. You get breakfast with me.”

You glanced up, wondering if anyone had heard, though you were sure by now Jack's attempts at asking you on a date was one of the worst kept secrets.

Robby was watching from the other side, arms over his chest and his brows raised.

“You strike a hard bargain there, Abbot,” you mumbled.

“May as well say yes, either way you're saving lives.”

“Why cause you'll die if I say no?”

Jack looked at you. As usual there was nothing giving away if he was joking or not. “Yeah.”

It would have been a pretty poor time to joke.

Five minutes later she was stable.

Blood bags hung slowly draining, rags and gauze of blood littered the ground and torn off gowns were thrown haphazardly around. The patients pulse was steady and beating with the promise of years of life ahead. There'd be challenges, you don't get shot and not have to face even more hardship.

But there was life.

And that was the most rewarding part of the job.

“Good job,” said Robby, peeling of his gloves. “I'm gonna get some air.”

“Then go home, right?” asked Jack as everyone slowly moved away.

Robby only made a rude gesture as the doors closed and left you and Abbott to peel away the blood stained gowns and gloves.

Jack turned to you, un-fazed at the life he'd saved. “You want to go from here or do you want me to drop you off at yours and let you change first?”

You stared at him.

It was almost unfair, his charisma in spite of it all. You didn't stand a chance. When Jack said he was going to save a life, he was going to do just that. It was an added bonus to take you on a date.

Your head was shaking but your lips were curling up.

Jack backed out of the room, leaving you with a thumbs up.

You didn't know why you lingered with the body. You were a resident who had one patient on the go, you should've picked up another. You should've left the trauma room for the surgical consultation.

Yet you wanted to start a chart, wanted to find a name for the girl.

As you walked over, checking her BP which sat safe at one hundred over sixty, her eyes fluttered open, dry lips parting and murmurs exiting.

“Hey,” you dropped your voice gently. “You're safe now, you're at the hospital. Can you hear me?”

You held her head steady as her eyes fluttered but didn't open wide enough to meet yours.

“Can you tell me your name?”

You listened close but got nothing from the grunts.

The doors to the trauma room pushed open.

A small girl stood there, early twenties or even late into her teens. She wore a hoody, blood soaking up the sleeves. She didn't introduce herself, instead, she stared.

“Is she alive?” she asked.

Beyond the broken nose you could see the resemblance in the unconscious on the bed and the one that stood ahead of you.

“Do you know her?” you asked.

“She's my sister.”

“Well your sister was shot in the chest, she's lost a lot of blood but she should make it-”

You heard the gunshots before you saw the gun.

Jack had stripped off the gown stained with blood and pulled off his gloves next, trashing them in a bin.

“That was some way to ask a girl out,” chuckled Robby as he followed his movements in yanking anything with blood on him off.

Jack shrugged. So far nothing that he'd planned the day had gone to plan, asides from saving lives yet that was his plan every day. When you'd called he was already at the hospital but you'd said about the buses and he put his keys back in at once. He thought finally. He'd been waiting for a sign to try to take you on a date, seeing's as the food and books and recommendations and days out weren't enough.

Now, he'd saved a life and got a date.

“So what's next?” asked Robby. “You perform a resuscitative thoracotomy and ask her to marry you?”

“If you have one let me know and I'll see.”

Robby chuckled, patting him on the back when three gunshots rang out.

Everyone ducked.

People screamed.

Where suddenly dozens of people stood everyone was down in lumps, covering heads and ducking for patients.

Jack hovered, not quite down but ready to move. Gun shots were nothing, enough to lull him to sleep. These shots were like any other but they echoed in his ears and richoeted in his heart.

They came from behind him.

From the room he'd just left.

“Where'd that come from?” he asked. He knew.

Robby's hand pushed at his chest, already moving past him. “Trauma two!”

You.

“No!”

The two of them took off toward the room.

A lady exited. It wasn't you. It wasn't the patient. It was a third un-familiar party.

She turned at the sound of heavy footsteps and rose her gun at the two.

“Gun!” someone screamed.

Robby was still holding onto Jack as the two of them skid to a stop in front of her. Somewhere someone was crashing and Jack couldn't see you or hear you.

There were three shots.

He knew three shots were enough to kill.

Jack raised his hands, showing he was harmless and helpless. “Please,” he begged. “Is she alive?”

The girls eyes were hard and full of hatred. The gun was steady in her hands. She was calm, completely but there was no doubt the gun shots were hers. “Not anymore.”

“Oh god-”

“Woah-Woah-” Robby caught Jack with one strong arm as his knees gave out.

You were dead? Some girl- hardly an adult- shot you? Why? To tear out his own heart?

It was already gone.

“Jack? Jack, brother, listen to me,” Robby was trying to talk to him but nothing was going through to him, like a signal lost.

The girl turned and left quickly, making sure everyone knew she had a gone when they all knew she wasn't afraid to use it. The shots must have rung out through the entire hospital.

Robby helped Jack up and as soon as the doors leaving the Pitt closed they rushed in.

The harsh sound of beeping was bouncing off the trauma walls where blood was splattered and a pool of that same blood dripped down into a puddle under the patient.

“Oh my god.” Jack found you at once, using the walls as a crutch as you stumbled your way through the room. He was at your side at once, arms around your trembling body and holding you- moving with you even as you tried to walk.

There was blood all over you and you'd paled dramatically.

Jack coaxed you into staying still, grabbing your cheeks to get your attention. He ignored the pain in his leg that had come from the run, the giving out and now as he crouched to get a look at you. “Hey, hey, hey, look at me- let me look at you. Are you hurt? Did she hurt you?”

Robby had already rushed to the patients side, what doctors and nurses that had gained control over themselves joining him in trying to save her life again. “Ah shit, looks like PEA! Amp of antropine, amp of Epi!”

Your eyes darted over to where the chaos ensued, even as Jack tried to get you to look at him.

“You won't ... won't get her back!” your voice was shaky and hoarse from a scream he hadn't heard. “Blew her god damn brains out.”

“Come here, okay, let's-let's-” Jack's arm was around your shoulder and he was moving you out, trying to help pulling off your bloody gloves while keeping an arm on you.

There was blood and something else on your gloves. Blew her brains out. And you'd tried to scoop them back in.

When the bright lights of the hospital met you your body grew still in his arm.

Jack was familiar with trembles, with blood and PTSD. He wasn't used to any of it in you. In everything he'd learnt about you, he hadn't learnt the subtle art of comfort. “Let's get you some air, let's get you cleaned up-”

You pushed out of Jack's arms, pulling and tugging at your scrub top soaked in blood and all but ran into the women's bathroom.

He heard retching as the door closed.

Jack shook his head, ready to follow you when Dana appeared in front of him, hand on his chest.

“Take it easy, take it easy, I'll check in on her.”

He could still hear you throwing up when Dana slipped in.

The sun was high in the sky, casting the roof of PCMT in an orange glow. The sky burnt in its colour but all you saw was red.

One moment the girl had been crashing, the monitor still beeped in your head. Her body had jerked up to the sky before you got a rhythm back and then- just as you did with any patient- you got hopeful. It seemed in the clear to do so, you'd helped patients come back from worse and you always had hope.

Nobody that worked in the ED could live without it.

Then- it had took three bangs for you to drop to the ground but not before being smeared in blood. You didn't even know what was happening as the ringing ran out in your ears. You'd met the ground with a hard thump to your head. When your vision cleared you saw the shoes rush out of the room.

Your guiding as a med student was doing no harm, saving lives and you'd dropped and put your life ahead of your patients.

What kind of doctor did that?

The cowardly type- you.

“You're in my spot,” said a voice coming closer.

Jack.

His voice soothed the nerves in your body that had been on edge since the accident. Everything made you jump, but him.

“It's a nice spot,” you said as loud as you could, knowing your voice still wasn't back. Or loud enough.

“Yeah,” he said, getting closer. “But usually I like to be on the other side of the rail. And on my feet.”

You were sat on the edge of the roof, not on the edge close enough for anyone to worry but apparently that didn't stop Jack.

He huffed, behind you now. “Please, I'm an older guy, my heart can't take it. Can you come over?”

If your feet weren't like weights pulling you down maybe you could have but you were struggling to feel any part of you.

You admitted as much, quietly. “I can't move.”

You'd moved quick when faced with the gun, dropping to save your own skin. Since then moving had been difficult, like you'd used every muscle in your body to push yourself and now you were locked.

Jack moved in a blur as he ducked under the rail and slowly set down next to you. He was silent, only his breathing calming you. “Did you get checked over with Robby?”

You nodded. “The ringing'll go away in a day or two.”

“Yeah.... it always does.”

You looked at him and Jack was looking at you. The grey stubble of his beard never looked greyer and his eyes were dull, small half moon bruises of sleep marked there. His hair was ruffled and he smelled dully of hospital.

This was a man that had saved more lives than you could count and severed in tours ... and he was taking time to check on you.

“I'm sorry,” you didn't know you had cried till Jack's arm was around your shoulder, bringing you in.

“Hey, hey,” he cooed, his arm tight on you. “What are you sorry for, huh?”

“I didn't save her, I-I should've tried. Should be reasoned with the shooter and I just-I just dropped down and you-” your breathing was ragged, the cries frequenting. “-you've done so much, lost your leg for damn sakes and I just dropped.”

“Hey,” he snapped. It wasn't un-kind. It was stern in ways he had to be in the as a night attending. “You did everthing you could.”

You looked at him. He really meant that though. “I dropped down!”

“You saved your life,” he reminded you. Jack's arm was still tight on your shoulders but his other hand held your cheek, making you focus on him. “You acted on instinct. If you hadn't your patient still would've shot and you-” Jack's breath caught. His eyes were glossed over. You'd missed the redness around his eyes. “- you'd have been shot and I couldn't live with that. I-I couldn't.”

Jack wiped away his tears, wiping yours next. He chuckled dryly at the both of your tears.

“I lost my leg in a tour,” said Jack. “Where guns and shooting is part of the job. It's not in a hospital. You did what you could.”

It still didn't feel right. It still felt like the cowards way of doing things.

“Look at me, look at me-” he nudged your gaze to his. His eyes were wide and implored you to look at him. Really look. “You did what you could and I know a patient died and I know-I know it's hard but...”

He sniffed.

“But what?” you mumbled. How could there be a but in any of this?

He held your cheeks tighter, smudging your cheeks just that little more. Jack let out a shaky exhale. “But I am so happy you're okay. I am so fucking glad.”

His dimples were hardly there as he gave you a sorry smile.

Your head fell into his chest and he brought his arms around you, holding you, shushing you as you cried. Cried for your patient, for the shooter, for the way you dropped. None of which maybe could be forgiven but all of which were valid.

Somewhere in the crying Jack held you tighter and moved the both of you back away from the ledge. You let him, even helped in scuffing your feet and pushing away till the railing hit both your backs.

“You're okay, I got you, I got you.”

I got you. He'd always had you, if he hadn't had you today what would you have done? Nothing crazy but you might have stayed up on the roof all day, be dead on your feet by the night. Jack had always had you and when he did you'd all but told him not to.

“I'm sorry.”

His hand ran over your hair. It had come lose but still remained in the braiding. “You don't have to be sorry, you don't.”

“No about earlier, in the lounge,” you said, holding onto him. “You were being nice, you've always been nice and I... I was horrible-”

“- you weren't horrible, no-”

“- you've been so kind to me and I don't even say thanks-”

“- you have actually, quite a few times- ”

“- I don't know why you put up with me-”

“- well, it helps that I love you-”

If there was one way to shut your rambling up, it was that.

You still had a vice on his scrub top but you looked up to him. For the first time- you think ever- Jack had to look away from you.

“What?” you asked.

Jack's jaw ticked and he clocked his head. “I didn't mean to say that.”

Disappointment chocked you. Of course it would just slip out, heck Jack was comforting you, he'd say anything.

“Oh.”

“I do love you,” he said and you looked at him with something akin to hope as you moved your head away. “That's why I've been looking after you, that's what you do when your- when your in love. My... my wife taught me that. I was just scared you know cause.... I haven't been in love since she died.”

It wasn't often Jack talked about his wife but when he did he talked. He'd talk anyone's ears off about her and once or twice you'd been that person.

“I'm sorry.” This time you weren't sure what you were apologising for, you just were.

Jack looked at you with a mocked frustration.

You cringed. “Sorry, I should- I should stop saying that.”

He hummed and nodded along with you, a tiny smile on his lips, the chapped parts cracking from the salt of his last tears. “I never meant to make you feel incapable, I know you can look after yourself. But I want to.”

You laughed at yourself, wiping at your cheeks and snot. “Why? I'm a mess.”

Jack took your cheek in the palm of his hand. “No, you're not. Not to me.”

Jack kissed you so slow and sweet on the edge of the roof with the sun praising upon the both of you. He didn't push his feelings into you, he let you feel them in the gentle press of his lips and the hold of his hands.

Parker scoffed a chuckle at that, the rest of the crew seemed to be thinking the same, furrowed brows as you stood out under the harsh fluorescent hospital lights .

“Team, I just wanted to introduce our newest recruit with legal. She’ll be working closely with the ER—handling complaints, risk management, patient disputes,” Gloria said, as the early morning day shift hovered around the nurses’ station. “She’ll be reviewing incident reports, advising on liability, and stepping in when anything escalates.”

A couple of them groaned quietly at that. Gloria ignored it.

“She’s your first point of contact for anything legal or ethical. Reports to the head office, but she’s based upstairs. Available during the day—and on nights if needed.”

You stood beside her, posture straight, hands clasped neatly in front of you—fingers fidgeting just slightly against each other, like you’re holding them there on purpose. Hair slightly messy in a way that felt unintentional, Mary Jane heels, peppered with pink and off-whites, skirt and all. Bright eyes. A smile that was just a touch too careful.

“Really nice to meet you all,” you said, well rehearsed, polite as ever. “I’ve interned at VA hospitals, children’s hospitals, so I’ve dealt with a... diverse range of people” You paused, a small, self-aware breath. “I’m just, you know, here to help keep things from turning into lawsuits, basically.”

That got a few more looks.

Gloria continued—something about OFIs—but most of them had checked out. Some nodded politely, some looked half-dead from night shift, others clung to their coffee like it was life support.

PTMC has a... somewhat sliming legal team. The budget is already parsed through to not be given to nurses and other staff.

Your eyes moved across the group, taking them in, assessing.

They landed on Jack. Just a second longer. Then moved on.

He frowned faintly, not thinking much of it as he leaned toward Ellis.

“Think she’ll last?” he murmured.

Parker shrugged, zipping her bag. “Maybe. Looks a bit uptight.”

“Probably why Gloria likes her,” he muttered.

He glanced back—caught you looking again.

You looked away quickly this time, your smile slipping for half a second before it reset, a little tighter.

★★★

He didn’t see you again for a few weeks.

He heard about you, though.

From both shifts. Little things.

You’d diffused a situation with a patient’s family threatening legal action. Sat in on a complaint review and apparently tore apart the timeline in ten minutes. Got someone to rewrite an incident report because, according to a nurse, “it read like a drunk text.”

You, in fact, had not been eaten alive. Despite the carefully put-together, polite, slightly squirrelly exterior, you were apparently… well-suited for PTMC.

Robby had filled him in one morning, leaning back in his chair with his coffee, eyes wide as if he were still in disbelief. “It’s ridiculous,” he said. “Some guy comes in complaining I nearly got his wife killed over the flu. He wants to sue for millions. I go up to her office—he’s there, she’s there—and twenty minutes later, it’s sorted. I even get to go back with time off because she noticed I’d been on sixteen hours. Nothing to hold against me, nothing to hold against the hospital.”

Jack furrowed his brows, amused, impressed, confused all at once. “Seriously?”

“Yup,” Robby said, leaning back further. “All my years here, I don’t think I’ve worked with a lawyer this young who can actually handle the shit we put up with without even cracking. Gotten used to... ambulance chasers and Gloria's pitbulls.”

Parker quickly changed her attitude on you when she'd come right up to your shared office, solely with the intent of trying to figure out where she could change her contract. You managed to negotiate her a pay rise with Gloria after a figuring out she'd had a particularly rough shift.

You existed somewhere in the building. Just not in the Pitt, not usually.

Until one night.

Sometime past 3AM, he's finishing a report when he hears you before he sees you. The soft, precise tap of heels against linoleum.

“Hey, sorry—um, I’m looking for Doctor Abbot?”

A nurse pointed across the floor. “Right over there, sweets.”

“Thanks!" You say quickly, already heading his way.

He straightened slightly as you approached.

“What can I do for you?” he asks, closing out his tab.

You smile, a little breathless but contained. “Hi—sorry, I don’t think we’ve properly met.” 

You hold your hand out.

He hesitates—not long, just enough to take you in properly this time.

Your hair’s come a little loose now—flyaways catching the light, a hint of frizz where it’s fallen out of whatever you did to tame it hours ago. There’s pen ink smudged across your fingers, even faintly along your forearm, like you’ve been working faster than you can keep up with.

Still neat. Still put-together. Maybe not quite holding as the night ticked away.

Your skirt sits just right, tailored and careful, and your button-up—something soft, a little too pretty for this place—has its sleeves pushed up to your elbows. Practical, but not by design. Like you didn’t plan to be here this long.

He shakes your hand. You give your full name, your title, crisp and practiced.

“Yeah,” he nods. “Know who you are.” He stepped around you, already moving. You followed immediately, hot on his heels. “Heard plenty.”

“Great,” you say, a small laugh. “Good things, I hope.”

“Bit late for you, isn’t it?” he mentions, stopping at a screen.

You nearly walk into him.

He glances down as you caught yourself, just a fraction too close before you stepped neatly to his side, smoothing your skirt like it didn’t happen.

“Right, uh—” you mutter, then recover. “Well. Sleep’s for losers.”

“That’s what I keep telling the day shift,” he remarks.

That got a real smile out of you. He couldn’t help but think of it as a win. This close, he can smell your perfume. It's far from the smell of sanitiser and every kind of bodily fluid of the ER. It's sweet, something with strawberries maybe. Whatever it is, it's made him want you around longer.

“Anyway,” you continue, reining yourself back in, “I realised we hadn’t actually met. You know, properly. I’ve been working mostly with Dr. Robinvatich—reviewing incident reports, flagging potential liability issues, sitting in on complaint escalations—so I thought it made sense to acquaint myself with the night attending as well. I've heard a lot about you as well.”

“Good things, I hope,” he echoes, scanning the screen, arms crossed over his chest.

Then he looks at you. You're already looking at him—open, curious, intent. He holds your gaze a second longer than necessary. A precise beat passes as his own curiosity gets the best of him. Bright eyed, seemingly angelic young lawyer... at PTMC.

“How old are you?”

You blink, caught off guard. “Sorry?”

“You mentioned you interned around. Don’t know many lawyers who do that unless they’re fresh out.”

“Right—yeah. I’m 24,” you answer. “I went straight into law school, then did about a year of hospital placements. I do want to specialise further—medical law, likely. I actually enjoy working with doctors, mostly, they can be… an acquired taste, but—” you gave a quick, self-conscious smile, remembering who you were speaking too. “—I think I’ve got the stomach for it.”

You stop, eventually, maybe a beat too late. "I didn't... I'm 24, is the point. Qualified, I swear it."

"I don't doubt it." He nods.

He watches it happen again—the shift. The way your confidence dips when you realise you’ve said too much.

Amused, he bites back a smile.

“You?” you add quickly. “I mean—how old are you? I heard you were military, so—”

“Guess.”

You let out a small laugh. “Older than me.”

“By a bit.”

"...40?" You try.

"Flattery will get you far, kid. 45." He corrects, chuckling at that. "But I'm not qualified for this. Just put on gloves and they let me at it."

You grin and nod. "'Course. You've got the look down. Could've convinced me."

He tilts his head a bit at that. He opens his mouth to respond, before he's interrupted.

“Abbot! Need you over here. Kid’s got some… centipede or some shit in his ear,” Parker calls out from Central 4.

Parker's face relaxes when she sees you, she calls your name out and gives a small wave. You give a polite wave back.

He exhales through his nose, already halfway moving. “Alright, be right there.”

He looks back at you, like a kid he’s been stuck with supervising.

“You’re welcome to… hang around,” he adds, a little rough around the edges. “Nurses won’t bite. Unless you ask ‘em to.”

There’s the faintest hint of something in his tone—dry, but not entirely joking.

You nod, a little too quickly. “Cool. Yep. I’ll just be… around here. I did actually need to speak to you about something, so, whenever you have the chance."

He gives you a once-over—quick, but not careless—then heads off, already scrubbing sanitiser into his hands. "I wouldn't wait up, sweetheart." He tells over his shoulder to you.

Your hand tightens slightly around the notebook in your hands at the petname.

It takes a while till you get the chance to chat with him again.

A call comes in, barely minutes later—car accident, five people, a few blocks out—and suddenly the whole floor shifts. People moving faster, voices sharper, stretchers rolling in before you’ve even fully registered what’s happening.

You stay. You tell yourself it’s observational. Useful. Context for your job. You probably should've just ditched for your own office at some point, leave the doctors to do their work. But it’s quiet in your office. You share it with two other people, and they aren’t exactly staying back till 3AM. 

You keep out of the way, mostly. Hover near the station, ask the occasional question, get a few curious looks in return.

At one point Shen ends up next to you, mid-charting, clearly thinking out loud.

“So if a patient refuses treatment but they’re being, like… objectively stupid about it—”

“That would not legally be discrimination,” you tell him, glancing up from the notes you’re pretending to read. “But it would be rude to tell them that they're being stupid... even if they are.”

He snorts. “Great. Good to know.”

“Also,” you add, a little primly, “document this. You’d be shocked how often ‘we told them’ doesn’t actually appear anywhere.”

“Got it, thanks,” he mutters, typing faster.

Across the room, Jack catches that.

Just a flash of it—your posture, the way you tilt your head when you’re explaining something, hands clasped like you’re holding yourself in place. Eventually, once the worst has passed, as it reaches 5AM, he manages to find his way back over to you.

Inbetween the flashes of bodies around you, people quickly going between patients, bandages, surgeons coming down to move patients.

"What did you wanna talk to me about, again?" He recalls to you as he's filling out a chart.

"Patient, three days, Ronny Jones. Remember him?" You ask quickly with this second of spare time he seems to have, notebook out.

"...Broken arm?" he tries.

"Yes. And..." You trail off as you try to translate your own handwriting.

He looks over at your notebook, squinting at your scrawl. You might not be a doctor but you have the handwriting of one, he notes. “...Compound fracture of the distal radius, open reduction internal fixation yesterday. Why? Something off with the chart?”

“Yep,” you say, flipping a few pages. “I was reviewing the incident report. It says he was discharged yesterday afternoon, but the orthopedic note says he needs post-op neurovascular checks every four hours. The discharge paperwork doesn’t reflect that. Liability risk if he comes back with... compartment syndrome or some sort of nerve compromise. I just need clarification—was the follow-up actually ordered, or did someone skip it?”

Jack straightens his back slightly, clearing his throat, tapping his pen onto his palm quickly. “Uh, the ortho team documented it in their EMR, but it didn’t make it onto the discharge instructions for nursing. That’s on me for not double-checking before signing out... Not ideal.”

You scribble quickly, biting your lip. “Right, okay. So legally, if Ronny returns with a preventable complication and the discharge instructions didn’t match the physician orders… technically, that’s a risk. Could be framed as a deviation from standard of care. I just want to make sure we document the corrective steps. Maybe an addendum or clarification note?”

Jack pauses, glancing at you, then back at the chart. He can’t really argue with that.

“Yeah, that’ll—” he nods once. “Sounds right. You need me to… sign anything, or—?”

“Yeah, once I draft it,” you say, already halfway through another note. “I’ll bring it down. I just—” you hesitate for a second, then add, almost as an afterthought, “I use my favourite printer. The formatting comes out cleaner.”

There’s a beat.

“…You have a favourite printer?”

You pause, pen hovering, like you’ve just realised how that sounds.

“…Mhm.”

Another beat. Jack exhales a quiet, amused breath, shaking his head. “Yeah. ‘Course you do," He says. "Good catch on the Ronny guy. Slipped my mind entirely."

You smile at that. "Thanks"

He shakes his head slightly, looking around the ER, seeing he is very much needed away from this conversation, as Emery calls out a code for their stroke patient past Central Six.

“Alright. I’ll put in the clarification note, and send an updated discharge instruction to nursing. That way, if he comes back with any problems, documentation's all straight.” He tells.

You relax a fraction, but only a fraction. “Perfect. Thanks, Doctor Abbot. I… I just want to make sure nobody gets blindsided.”

Jack smirks, stepping back into the flow of the ER. “Yeah, yeah. You’ve got that covered, kid.”

You watch him move through the chaos, sharp and efficient, and scribble a few more notes. Even in the middle of an ER storm, he’s methodical. Impressive. And exhausting.

You end up just finishing your work in a space set up for you at the nurses' station, making conversation whilst you write up documentation templates. You had to keep your head down at points to stop seeing people be brought in with their leg half off, crying and panic from people. Hearing doctors call out a million different solutions.

By the time it slows, it’s morning.

Not properly morning—grey light bleeding through the windows, fluorescent lights still doing most of the work—but enough that the edge comes off everything.

7AM creeps in quietly, Day Shift enters with ease.

People start peeling off.

Handovers. Half-finished coffees abandoned. The kind of tiredness that settles into bones.

Jack finishes his last chart, shoulders heavier now that he’s standing still. When he finally steps away from the computer, he spots you again. Still here.

Perched on the edge of a chair, one leg crossed over the other, heels dangling slightly off your foot now like you’ve given up on pretending to be fully put together. Your hair’s loose in places. There’s a crease in your skirt you probably don’t know about. You’ve managed to move most of your work down here, laptop out as you scramble something in your notebook.

You look… exhausted.

He walks over.

“You always stay this early,” he asks, voice low, “or am I just lucky?”

You look up, a second slower than before, like your brain has to catch up.

“Oh—hi.” A small blink. Then you straighten a bit, reflexively. “No, I—this is not standard practice. I promise I don’t just linger.”

“Shame,” he says.

If you had another brain cell available after being up for too long, you’d think that was a flirt. You hesitate, then huff a quiet laugh, rubbing at your eye before you remember you’re wearing makeup and stop halfway through.

“Yeah, well,” you murmur, “I got a bit sidetracked.”

He nods, glancing out over the floor.

“You saw the fun part.”

“That’s one word for it,” you say. Your voice is softer now, a little less tightly wound. “I think I prefer reading about it, actually.”

“Give it time,” he replies. “You’ll start missing it.”

You look at him like he’s insane. “I sincerely hope not. That looked stressful as fuck. Excuse my language.”

That gets a faint smile out of him.

A beat passes.

You shift slightly, slipping your heels back on properly, smoothing your skirt like you’re putting yourself back together piece by piece.

“I should probably head out,” you say. “Before I fall asleep on one of these chairs and become a liability issue.”

“Mhm,” he nods. “Paperwork on that’d be a nightmare.”

You smile—small, but sincere. “It was nice meeting you. Thanks for letting me… you know. Linger.”

“Any time,” he shrugs. “You alright to get home?”

“Uh-huh,” you say, standing, gathering your things. “Bus is always late, so.”

He nods, slowly. Watches you for a second too long—hair a little out of place now, smudged ink still on your wrist.

He speaks before he can overthink it.

“I’ll give you a lift.”

You blink. “No, really, I don’t—”

“—It’s no trouble. I insist,” he cuts in, not harsh, just firm. “Grab your things. I’ll be right outside.”

You hesitate.

It’s subtle—just a second. Fingers fidgeting with the edge of your notebook, your teeth catching your lower lip like you’re weighing it properly.

He notices that. Of course he does.

“…Fine,” you say finally, a little quieter. “Sure. Thank you, I mean.”

He gives a short nod, like it’s already settled, and turns to head out.

★★★

The morning air is colder than it looks.

He waits outside, sitting on a bench, arms folded, watching the automatic doors slide open and shut. Staff trickling out. Shift changes. The usual.

Then you.

You step out, messenger bag slung over your shoulder, pausing for half a second when you spot him—like you weren’t entirely convinced he’d actually be there.

He stays seated on the bench..

“You always take this long,” he asks, “or just keeping me waiting for fun?”

You huff a quiet laugh, walking over. “I was considering making a run for it, actually.” 

“Yeah?” he pushes himself up, a slight hitch in the movement, subtle, but there.

You notice it without really thinking, hand coming out instinctively, light on his arm for a second. “Oh—sorry, I—”

He steadies, more out of habit than need, glancing down at your hand briefly before looking back at you. “You wouldn’t get far in those shoes anyway.”

You pull your hand back, smoothing it over your skirt like you didn’t just do that. The two of you start toward his truck.

You glance down at your heels, then back at him.

“Watch it. These are Louboutin,” you point out as he opens the passenger door for you.

“My point stands.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile as you slide into the seat. He shuts the door behind you, walks around, gets in.

The car’s quiet when it starts. Low hum of the engine, early morning stillness bleeding in through the windows.

You give him your address—quick, efficient. He nods, pulls out.

A few minutes pass. You aren’t too far from the hospital. It’s not uncomfortable, exactly. Just… new. All your time working around doctors, and not one of them has ever offered to drive you home.

You sit a little straighter than you need to. Hands folded in your lap, then not, then back again—like you can’t quite decide how you’re meant to exist in this space.

"You don't seem forty five." You remark, seemingly out of nowhere.

He glances at you briefly, then back to the road, slowing at a red light.

“Is that right?” he hums.

“My dad hit fifty the other day,” you add. “He’s way grumpier.”

A beat.

“You’re a ray of sunshine in comparison.”

That gets something out of him—barely there, but real. The corner of his mouth pulls, just slightly.

He hums. “Give it time.”

You smile faintly at that, glancing over.

Up close like this, it’s different. You notice things you didn’t before—grey through his hair, not just at the sides. The lines around his eyes. The way he sits, solid, like he’s used to holding himself together through long hours. His arms. Just... he has nice arms, you note.

Your gaze drops—brief, unintentional—to his hands on the wheel.

You look back out the window quickly.

“You don’t act like it either,” you add, a little softer, like you’re correcting yourself.

“Act like what?”

“Forty five,” you say. “I mean—” you huff a small breath, already backtracking, “not that forty five is old, obviously, I just—”

He glances at you again, something almost amused there.

“No, really, go 'head,” he insists.

You press your lips together, trying not to smile. “I’m saying that… you know, you’re… I don’t know, a person. I’ve met a lot of doctors your age, they lose a lot of that humanity as they…”

“Get old as shit?” He finished as you trailed off.

“Yeah, that,” You sigh.

He nods, actually appreciative of that. “Never a met a lawyer who hangs around the Pitt willingly.”

You shrug. “It's lonely upstairs.” You say simply.

The light turns green. He pulls forward.

You shift slightly in your seat, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear, then immediately smoothing your skirt again like you’ve remembered yourself.

You go on, a little stiff. “Besides, it’s part of the job. I should understand what actually happens down there. Not just what ends up in reports.”

“Mm.”

“I mean, if I’m going to defend you people,” you add, a little more animated now, “I should probably know what I’m defending.”

“You people,” he repeats.

You wince slightly. “That came out wrong.”

“Did it?”

You look over at him, trying to read if he’s serious. He’s not giving you much.

“I just mean—doctors,” you say. “Not… you specifically.”

“You don't wanna defend me?” he wonders, teasing.

You snicker at that. You look at him properly this time. There’s something in your expression, curious, a little thrown, interested.

“Are you always this charming at seven in the morning?” You ask, sarcastic.

“Only when I haven’t slept,” he says.

“Ah. So this is you at your worst.”

“Pretty much.”

You nod, like you’re filing that away. “Good to know.”

A small silence settles again, but it’s lighter now. Easier.

The car slows as he pulls up outside your place. You unbuckle, but linger for half a second, fingers still on the seatbelt.

“Thank you,” you say. “Really, Doctor Abbot, I appreciate it. The lift, I mean.”

He nods. “Get some sleep. And just… Jack’s fine, sweetheart.”

“Alright. Thanks, Jack.”

You step out, shutting the door behind you.

He watches you briefly, making sure you get into the apartment building before driving off, your perfume lingering around his car.

part two | strawberry + part three | optics + part four | luck + part five | orbit

a/n: omg hi first the pitt fic… girls i truly finna be in the pitt, like put me in coach !! okay so havent seen season 2 yet. ANY of yall spoil shit for me i'm throwing a fit. i'm rewatching s1 now w my friend who hasnt seen, then we doing s2 together. i dont know much except that robby got a motorbike for whatever reason. anyway. this is just a lil cute thing, workshopping this. def wanna do like a little series of this or somethin like. idk. if yall are feeling it cool, if not.. im probably gonna do it regardless. i def wanna make a little moodboard for this lawyer girly reader, i fuck w her vibe heavy. im also in law school so manifesting this. except i dont wanna do health law that shit is messy. ok anyway ! have a good day/night :3