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Hellooo, for the blurb I was thinking of pranking robby or jack or dennis, or all 3 whichever you feel like, by making someone insult you as a joke and seeing how they would react. I remember reading a fic where this was used and jack was pranked by reader and shen and at the end he found out it was for a tiktok trend:))
protective - dennis whitaker x f!reader
summary: you and parker try to prank dennis and end up pranking the wrong guy.
pairings: dennis whitaker x f!reader, platonic!jack abbot x reader
cw/tags: no use of y/n, swearing, established relationship (reader and dennis are engaged). protective!jack, swearing, dennis and reader (mostly reader) are lowkey freakish, slightly suggestive content (maybe a little more than slightly...implied but not explicit smut, mild choking), mostly fluff vibes lmao
word count: 0.8k
this can be read as part of the hot shot series if you'd like!
masterlist
taglist
Your stomach buzzes as Ellis approaches you, a smug look on her face, tablet tucked beneath her arm. Her eyes flick past you, making sure that Dennis is within earshot, stifling a laugh into her hand.Ā
āHey,ā She greets. You casually look up from your computer, giving her a smile.Ā
āHi,ā You say.Ā
āNo makeup kindaā day, huh?ā She says. You let out a wavering exhale, keeping yourself from breaking before responding.Ā
āOh, uh, no,ā You say. āIām wearing makeup.ā
āSeriously?ā She asks, sounding as agog as possible. āDamn, rough night?ā
From behind you, Dennis looks towards the interaction, his brows furrowing at the out of character comments coming from Ellis. He frowns when he realizes that sheās talking to you, watching as you lean away from her and defensively cross your arms over your chest.Ā
āWhat do you mean?ā You ask, trying to act offended. āDoes it not look nice?ā
āI meanā¦ā She trails off, purposefully looking at Dennis again, just for a split second. āYouāve definitely had better days.ā
Dennis waits for your response, knowing that you can take care of yourself, but also having to fight the anger that grows in his chest. Ellis is your friend, is she not? Why the hell is she talking to you like this?
āWhat the fuck, Ellis?āĀ
You recognize the voice without needing to turn around, but even if you couldnāt, the look on Ellisā face would be a dead giveaway. Her eyes widen, and she ducks her head towards you.Ā
āSay nice things at my funeral,ā She mutters. You actually laugh, just in time for Jack to make his way over, aggressively setting a hand down on the counter to stop Ellis from going anywhere.Ā
āShouldnāt you be focused on handover?ā He asks, the veins in his forearms popping, a probing look on his face. Your eyes go wide, face heating up as you try to hold in another laugh when Ellis turns to you. āDonāt look at her.ā
āJesus, Abbot, it was just-ā
āI heard youāre applying for an ultrasound fellowship next year,ā He says, lowering his voice, cutting her off. āIāll be keeping the way you speak to your colleagues in mind when you ask for a recommendation letter.ā
āOh my god,ā You say, laughing through the words, your jaw dropping at the end of the sentence. āWe were just fucking around, Jack, I wanted to mess with Dennis a little. You werenāt even supposed to hear that.ā
His head snaps to look at you, brows still furrowed threateningly, but they slowly relax as he takes in your words.Ā
āWhat?ā He asks, tilting his head to the side, looking at Dennis. āYou hearing this, Whitaker?ā
Dennis clears his throat. āUhm, yeah, yes. I thought it seemed out of character, but-ā
āBut what?ā Jack asks. āYou were gonnaā let someone talk to her like that?ā
āJack!ā You exclaim, standing up, setting a hand on top of his. āYou kindaā stepped in before he had a chance.ā
He squints, looking back at Ellis. āYou didnāt mean it?ā
āAre you fucking kidding?ā She asks. āSheās who I think about whenever I hear āLips of an Angel.āā
You snort. āYouāre an idiot.ā
Dennis is standing behind you now, his hands on the back of your chair, his shoulders back slightly as though good posture will somehow convince Jack to not be mad at him. You sit back down, and his hands slip onto your shoulders, fingers tapping against you. Jack gives you and Ellis a final glare, then walks off to check on the most recent trauma patient.Ā
āSorry, you think you could take him in a fight?ā You ask. āYou know I love you, but youāre losing that one, babe.ā
āOh, why, cause he spends his free time carrying hay?ā She asks, sarcastically, lifting her arm up and flexing, her bicep bulging against her scrub top. āYouāre going down, funky music.ā
āLuckily we donāt have to find out,ā Dennis says. āBut now Abbot thinks Iām a wimp, so, thank you for that.ā
You look over your shoulder, smiling innocently. āHeās just protective, he actually really likes you.ā
Dennis scoffs, smiling back at you. āSure seems like it.ā
Later that night, long after the dayshift has gone home, Ellis checks her phone between patients, tapping on a notification from you. She canāt figure out what the picture is at first, but then she turns her brightness up, realizing itās Dennisā arm, bicep flexed and veins pressing against his skin.Ā
a flirty white lie to escape a creep gets out of control when you grab the nearest man... unfortunately, that man is dr. frank langdon. now you're stuck pretending to date the hospital's scariest ER doctor, who plays along a little too well.
bet u wanna meet the reader! āā .⦠°āā.ą³ąæ*:d
pairing: frank langdon x er!barbie!reader
warnings: fem!reader, barbie!reader, admin assistant reader, workplace harassment, unwanted attention, fake dating (impulsive af), protective langdon, kinda enemies to lovers, however they don't quite reach the lovers part, implied past addiction (langdon), sexual innuendos, langdon making a comment about ur ass, one-sided pining (or so she thinks), workplace romance, literally just one big HR violation <3
wc: 2.3k
You have a deep love for your office. Itās not far from the pit itself, just a left turn down the hallway, and itās not necessarily impressive, a shoebox filled with paperwork, cute pens, and arranged trinkets.
However, it might as well be Nirvana in the way it shelters you from the fluorescent lighting that makes your temples throb. From the metal-on-metal shriek of trauma carts. From the constant, looming threat of someone bleeding out within splatter range of your vintage suede ballet flats.
And you really hate blood. It hates you back, with passion.
An unfortunate dynamic for someone working as an administrative assistant in one of the busiest emergency departments on the eastern seaboard. But fate has always struck you as the kind of entity that laughs after delivering the punchline.
Today, the pit is practically foaming at the mouth. Before noon, someoneās child launched a juice box at you, the phone has been ringing off the hook with people demanding to speak to someone with actual authority (rude), and the discharge paperwork that you printed, you stapled (with a bow sticker, for morale), and you left in the outbox is apparently missing.
Which is how you find yourself back in the belly of the beast, bracing yourself as the noise and motion crash over you all at once.
You spot Danaās blonde ponytail across the sea of moving heads. Your girl. Your one-woman who once stitched up a guy with a fork sticking out of his thigh while telling you your blouse looked cute and asking if you brought cupcakes again.
If anyone will know where your papers went, itās her.
You take two steps toward salvation.
You do not make it to her.
āHey there. You just gonna walk past without saying hi?ā
You turn around with your usual default smile (the one you save for lost visitors and mildly terrifying surgeons), expecting someone familiar, or semi-familiar, or at least someone youāve exchanged passive aggressive breakroom eye contact with once or twice.
But the manās face that greets you doesnāt ring a bell. Heās got that aggressively forgettable look, like if you asked someone to draw a generic white guy from memory using only vague guesses and sad lighting. Pale. Tired-looking. Baseball cap pulled low over dull eyes. He could be someoneās uncle. He could be someoneās tax accountant. He could be a ghost.Ā
You blink at him, brows drawing together.Ā
āSorry ā do I⦠know you?ā you ask, like maybe you forgot a name or an appointment or an entire conversation, which, in your defense, does happen.
āNah,ā he says. āBut I swear, Iāve seen you in my dreams.ā His smile widens, showing slightly uneven teeth. āI didnāt think angels worked the day shift.ā
You laugh, because honestly, what else are you supposed to do? Itās not the worst pickup line youāve heard. Not even top ten.
This place is practically a petri dish for bad flirting and worst timing, a simmering stew of hormones, narcotics, and people whoāve been sitting in plastic chairs for six hours with nothing to do but stare and develop confidence they did not arrive with.Ā
Youāre pretty sure there was a study about it. Or maybe that was a tweet. Either way, it feels peer-reviewed by lived experience.
āThatās sweet,ā you say, defaulting to sugar-coating like your life depends on it, even though itās not sweet. Not at all. Itās weird. Itās deeply un-sweet. And you would very much like to disintegrate into a puff of strawberry-scented vapor and waft gently toward Danaās desk. āBut Iām pretty sure dream-me doesnāt work doubles. Sheās probably napping. Or retired. Or, I donāt know, on a yacht somewhere with a pina colada.ā
āDoubles, huh? I can tell,ā he says, eyes dipping, just briefly, but long enough to make your skin prickle. āYouāve got that worn-in look. Real cute on you.ā
Is that supposed to be a compliment?
Because worn-in sounds suspiciously close to run into the ground, and youāre not entirely convinced real cute is strong enough to save it. Itās like being called brave in a dress you didnāt realize was see-through.
You force a light laugh.
āWell, you know what they say,ā you chirp, breezy, harmless. āNo rest for the wicked.ā
āMaybe what you need is a little after-hours entertainment.āĀ Then, casually, āWhat time you get off tonight?ā
Your lip curls before you can stop it, and you have to mentally smooth it back into submission. Gross. The hospital air isnāt even sterile enough to filter out the way it sours between you, something rancid creeping in where banter (if you can even call it that) used to be.Ā
You donāt want to imagine what after-hours entertainment means to him, donāt want the visuals nor the explanation.Ā
But you do imagine what happens if you tell him to back off. Best case, youāre a bitch. Worst case, he follows you into the staff lot.
So you give him an out. Wrapped in politeness, sealed with a smile. Just enough plausible deniability to keep things from tipping. You tilt your head, shrug like itās nothing.
āTempting,ā you say. āBut my boyfriendās already booked me for after-hours entertainment.ā
You do not say that your boyfriend lives in your imagination. That heās cobbled together from soap opera plotlines, your worst instincts, and a half-formed mental sketch labeled man who could end someone.Ā
āYeah? Whereās he at then?ā
You should have expected that response. Men like this only register rejection if it arrives somene elseās fists.
So you switch tactics. Fast. Panic jumps a little in your chest, but you press it down. Flatten it. Replace it with a square of your shoulders.
āHe ā heās around,ā you say, lifting your chin. āHe works here. In the hospital. You know. With the⦠medicine.ā
Smooth. So smooth.
And of all the people in this very large, very populated hospital, your brain reaches into its little Rolodex and picks Dr. Frank Langdon.
Mr. Monosyllabic Trauma Bay. ER Ken with rage issues and cheekbones that could slice steel. Professional proof that repression is alive and well in the greater Pittsburgh area.
Probably the single worst option for a fake boyfriend. Heās the guy who barely looks at you unless youāre blocking his path, and even then itās just to sigh like youāve personally ruined his afternoon. Heās moody. Dry. Practically allergic to small talk.
And yet somehow your brain plasters his face across your internal romance billboard like heās the star instead of a guy who once told you to āget off the gurney, itās not a toy.ā
You tell yourself itās because heās convenient. Because no one would question a man like that defending you. He looks intimidating enough to scare off someone with a single glance.
But thatās not the truth. The truth is youāve always had a thing for fixer-uppers, for a challenge.
And Langdon is the epitome of a challenge: rehab, recent divorce, a kid he only sees on alternating weekends because addiction rearranged his life into neat, painful compartments.Ā
Heās locked behind walls youād very much like to scale, if only to prove you could.Ā
And despite your charm, your wit, your general tendency to leave people a little bit in love with you after three sentences, he remains immune.Ā
Still. Imagining him as your fake boyfriend has a certain appeal.
The manās gaze sharpens. āMust not be very good at his job if he lets guys talk to you like this.ā
You open your mouth to respond, something feminist and devastating in a fuck-you sort of way ā something about how your boyfriend respects your boundaries and believes in your agency and doesnāt need to play caveman to prove his love ā but then the universe does what it rarely, rarely does for you: it delivers.
A miracle in navy scrubs appears to your right. Langdon.Ā
You seize him. Thereās no other word for it, treating his bicep as your personal stress ball. You worry you might be a second away from popping a blood vessel.
āHeās excellent at his job,ā you blurt.
You are so going to hell for this. Straight to HR medical prison. Is that a thing? Doesnāt matter. You are definitely not passing Go, not collecting Frankās approval.Ā
He looks down at you, startled. āWhat āā
āArenāt you, honey?ā you chirp, turning to him with the most desperate approximation of casual affection, your eyes doing all the heavy lifting as you beg him, silently and with every fiber of your being, please donāt ruin this, Iām in too deep, Iāll knit you another scarf, Iāll stop calling you Doctor Daddy in public (for a week), just go with it.
Langdon looks at you, then over at the guy, then back at you.
āI mean,ā he finally says, in that same begrudgingly-human tone he uses when you ask him to open your pickle jars, āIād like to think so.ā
Heās still frowning. Youāre not sure he understands whatās going on.
āWell, arenāt you a lucky bastard,ā The man says, loud enough for the entire nurseās station to hear. His voice is thick with something slimy, all false cheer and veiled challenge. āGood for you, man. Youāre really punching up. Hope youāve got a good grip on her.ā
Langdon blinks once. Then again, slower. You can almost hear the internal gears clicking together, the pause where he reads between the lines and then draws a big red circle around the situation.
His head tilts, just barely, but enough that it radiates condescension, surgical grade.
āYeah,ā he says, voice dry as bone. āIām still adjusting to the burden of being this blessed.ā
āSee? This is why I keep him around. The self-awareness. The humility.ā You turn to the guy. āAnd the sarcasm? Complimentary. Limited time offer.ā
Langdon doesnāt say anything at first. Just shifts his weight a little closer, the edge of his arm brushing yours, hand drifting to the small of your back like a warning, youāve made your point, Barbie, letās not give this creep another reason to open his mouth.
āAlright,ā he says, āLetās head back before I start living up to the reputation.ā
You nod like youāve been programmed to obey, limbs still buzzing with aftershock as he guides you down the corridor.
Your heartās doing that fluttery, hummingbird thing it does when you almost trip in front of someone hot, or when Langdon says your name with too much gravel in his voice. Youāre riding the adrenaline high and trying to walk in a straight line, which is difficult because your knees? Fully made of Jell-O.
Then, from behind, sleazy and absolutely not whispered enough ā
āSheās even prettier from the back.ā
Before your brain can register rage or disgust or a comeback involving a clipboard to the jaw, Langdonās arm wraps around your waist.
He pulls you directly in front of him, his own body suddenly a full barrier between you and the hallway. Between you and that guy.
āBoyfriend privileges,ā he says without looking back, āThatās a restricted angle.ā
Interesting. Because that sounds a lot like proprietary language for someone who doesnāt notice you and definitely isnāt interested.
You try not to smile. Youāre a mix of emotions right now, a contradiction in every right of the word. Angry with the stranger, a little hot for Langdon.
Once youāre finally out of sight, and earshot, you let go of the breath youāve been holding. It escapes out of your lungs all at once, dramatic and overcompensating, and you immediately try to reel yourself back in.Ā
You slow your steps, glance at Langdon, and smirk. Itās shaky at first, but you smother it with sheer willpower.Ā
āPunching up,ā you repeat, āWow. I mean, congrats. That must be exhausting for you. Dating someone this far out of your league. Iām sure youāre doing your best.ā
He side-eyes you, brow ticking up like heās debating whether youāre worth engaging or just tolerating.
You can see the exact moment he gives in.
āYouāre right,ā he says flatly. āI shouldāve gone for someone more attainable. A woman like you is not worth the stress.ā
āThat sounds like an admission that Iād ruin you.ā
āYou wouldnāt.ā
āSo you think you could handle me?ā
āI could handle you without breaking a sweat,ā he says, too sharp, too fast.
āProve it.ā
Langdon goes still. The only part of him that betrays any reaction is his throat, tightening around a swallow so slow, you swear you can hear it. Like heās physically pushing the words down. Forcing them back.
And for one single, stupid second, your heart dares to hope. You swear he just might do it. You imagine him stepping in, crowding your space, that unreadable look in his eyes sharpening into something hungry. You imagine his hand braced your head and his voice wrecked when he says, āFine.ā You imagine a lot of things. Because you are you, and your brain is an unmedicated place set to a Lana Del Rey soundtrack.
But none of that happens.Ā
Instead he swallows again. Clears his throat. Refuses to meet your gaze. āThat⦠was hypothetical.ā
You donāt let him off so easy.Ā
āThatās crazy, because it didnāt sound hypothetical.ā You lean in. āBut if you want to pretend youāre not tempted, thatās between you and your therapist. Assuming you have one. Which⦠mm. Might explain a lot.ā
His jaw flexes. āIf I needed a therapist, itād be because of you.ā
You beam at him. āAw. Thatās the nicest thing youāve ever said to me.ā
āThatās not a compliment.āĀ
āDidnāt say it was. You can insult me as long as youāre thinking about me afterward.ā
He mutters something under his breath.
āIām not participating in this conversation any longer.ā He turns like thatās the end of it, then pauses. āAnd if that idiot tries something, come get me. Youāve got the situational awareness of a soap bubble.ā
Another insult. You can recognize that. You can also recognize that your whole body is doing that glittery, fizzy thing it does anytime heās around.
Because he just exists like that. Hot, mysterious, fundamentally allergic to saying what he means.
Anyway. Lost discharge papers. Terrible lighting. Emotional whiplash. Show must go on.
notes: this is like the first proper thing i've written in several years what am I doing back? idk but The Pitt has taken over my brain
"You must be Abby!" a musical voice says from the nurses' desk. You blink in confusion.
It's your first day at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Centre, you've just transferred down from Boston. And while you were nervous about starting your R2 year in a brand new hospital, having the support of your best friend is pretty helpful.
You meet Frank Langdon your first day of Med School. You end up sitting beside each other in a packed lecture hall. As soon as he sits down, you know he is competition. Your hands shoot up within seconds of one another when the professor asks a question in that first semester. But when Langdon finds you crying in the library, he got a bit, well, softer.
You were dating, Dale, a carryover from pre-med. He was in Law School, entirely competitive and entirely an asshole. But he swore he loved you. And you thought, at the time, that's what love was. But love wasn't supposed to make you cry. Not like this.
Langdon brings you for coffee (his treat), and the icy competition soon becomes friendly rivalry.
"You could do so much better than Dale," he tells you one afternoon as you lay in the quad soaking up some sun.
You snort, "Uh, huh. Like who?"
You roll onto your stomach, peering at Langdon over the frames of your sunglasses. And for once, the golden boy of Med School is silent. You blink, your mouth going dry as you realise the words that are left unspoken.
But you and Langdon aren't like that. Boys and girls can be friends. You tell everyone this. Especially when you move into your second year of Med School, and you have matching Halloween costumes. (It's Luke and Leia for god sake, they're siblings!) You're just best friends.
But best friends don't look at each other the way Langdon looks at you...Or you him.
It's the reason why one January night, Dale turfs you out. He's jealous of Frank. You snort. You've been having this argument since they first met almost a year ago now. You and Frank Langdon are nothing more than friends.
Except for one night. You're studying (likely place for two med students to be). You've swapped the library for Frank's dorm room and a selection of Red Bulls. You're pacing, trying to memorise...something. Your brain is so fried you can't even remember what you're supposed to be remembering. So you flop onto the floor beside Langdon, he has his eyes closed, and he's mouthing a passage of the thickest textbook you've had the misfortune of coming across.
"This is pointless!" you moan, slamming your hands over your eyes. "Let's just drop out and join the circus."
He laughs and rolls onto his side to look at you. You can feel the heat of his breath on your cheek. And you know you shouldn't...you really shouldn't, but you roll to face him. Your noses are touching, you're that close. His eyes are so blue. Have they always been this blue? They flit from yours to your lips and back again.
Studying has been abandoned, and you don't know who is the first one to move, but you do. You're going to kiss Frank fucking Langdon until there's a knock on the door. It jolts you from your reverie.
And after that, nothing happens; you don't even mention the near kiss after that night. So when Dale throws your shit onto the floor outside his apartment, you're in disbelief. The idea of Langdon being anything more than your best friend is crazy.
Right? Right!
It's a thought that circles your mind until Christmas break is over and you sit down beside him in your first lecture of the semester.
"Hey, are you busy tonight?" he asks you, and you immediately shake your head. Maybe you can be more than friends. New Year, New You!
It all sounds good, maybe too good, as you walk into the diner Langdon suggested, and you see him with a beautiful brunette woman. He introduces her as Abby. They met skiing over the winter break. You didn't know Langdon skied! But you grin and bear it and push down these newfound feelings for Langdon.
You tell yourself that you're just mourning your relationship with Dale. You needed a rebound. So you find one a few weeks later. But nothing sticks. You always imagine big blue eyes and strong, steady hands... While you're failing at finding a boyfriend, Abby and Frank (she calls him Frank) are going from strength to strength.
You're about to finish your third year in med school, you've just done a gruelling rotation with Langdon, and you're exhausted. You're sitting in the ambulance bay of the shitty County Hospital, you were both assigned decompressing after your last shift when he tells you.
"Abby's pregnant."
And with that, any secret glance, any fleeting smile, any brushing of hands or close encounter in the drug lock-up is gone. Any chance that you and Langdon could be anything more than friends disappears.
You're the first person he calls when Abby says yes to his proposal. You're the first person to visit Tanner (outside of their families). And of course, you're in the congregation as Abby and Frank say "I do".
And you let it go. You match with a hospital in Boston while Frank goes to Pittsburgh.
"Where the fuck is that?" you tease him.
You stay in contact, of course. He's still your best friend. And over time, things get easier. You miss seeing him everyday. And it's embarassing how quickly you jump at the chance to move to PTMC to be with your best friend for your R2 year.
Langdon meets you at the airport and drives you to your new apartment. He helps you settle in. It's like being back in med school all over again.
You giggle together as you fail to build a Billy Bookcase. You end up lying down on the floor of your partially furnished sitting room. Just like you did in the quad and Langdon's dorm room. And when you meet each other's gaze this time, you can feel the static in the air. His blue eyes are focused on your lips. Then his phone rings. Abby is asking when he'll be home.
You wave him off, of course. You like Abby. She's like a friend-in-law. And she likes you, as much as any sane woman likes their husband's girl best friend.
The morning of your first shift, you can't believe that he is waiting outside to drive you.
"You're ridiculous," you tease him as you sit in his passenger seat, your hands wrapped around a large to-go cup of your favourite coffee order.
And when you walk in giggling together, people take notice. They know a new doctor is starting today but they don't think that when they see Langdon walk in with his arm slung around a woman. Obviously they think...
"You must be Abby!" a musical voice says from the nurses' desk. "Abby Langdon!"
Your face blanches and Langdon jumps away from you as if he's been hit by electricity.
"Oh, um no! I'm the new resident starting today," you tell the red-headed nurse, whose name you soon learn is Lena.
"Old friend?" she asks nodding at Langdon who has scurried away to the lockers.
"Yea, yea. We went to Med School together," you explain. "I'm just happy to have a friendly face. Emergency medicine isn't all that friendly."
But you fit in, you soon make friends with Samira Mohan, a fellow R2. You go on a few dates. You let Dr Robby take you under his wing as you find your way around the Pitt. He likes how you mellow Langdon out, you bring him a peace that doesn't go unnoticed by the staff.
You settle into life in PTMC.
"You good?" you ask Langdon as he comes in one sunny September. He seems more agitated than usual. You know he's been having issues at home. He hurt his back a few months ago. Penny's arrival couldn't have come at a worse time. Abby has been spending more and more hours at work and the childcare bills were racking up.
You knew that the fellowship applications had been tough on both of you. Your boyfriend broke up with you in the middle of it all after one too many missed dates. You didn't blame him.
"You chase off another one?" Dr Abbot teased you about it a while after the wound from the heartbreak had scabbed over.
"Why? You offering?" you teased him right back.
Jack didn't miss the way Langdon's eyes flicked up, flitting between your face and the Attending.
"Inappropriate workplace relations," Abbot sighed. "Get back to me when you're a fellow."
Langdon let out a little huff and walked away which had both you and Jack falling into a fit of giggles.
But now you were worried about your friend, who was practically bouncing as he looked at the board. It had just gone 7am and you were concerned about how much caffeine he had already ingested.
Langdon ruffles your hair and smiles.
"Of course! Why are you always worrying about me?" he responds with that smile that always makes you just a little weak at the knees.
"Okay, well I'm off, FranƧois," you tease him in return. "We're still on for drinks tomorrow night?"
You're both off and it's the first time in so long you can both hang out not at work and not with his kids. You have no idea that Frank has lied to Abby about working a double so he can spend some time with you.
You go home and sleep. You've been on night shift for the past few weeks. You like Abbot, so you asked him for a letter of recommendation for your Fellowship. Hell, if you didn't think it would cause a commotion, you would ask him out for a drink. And hey, what if you've flirted a little bit with him every now and then? You knew that Collins and Robby dated when she was still an intern. You and Samira would giggle about Jack Abbot in the breakroom when you got a free minute. It usually had Langdon refusing to spend any time with the two of you for the rest of the shift.
You grumble, pressing pause on the trashy reality show you're watching as you try to get your body clock back to normal, when there's a knock on the door. Who the hell is at your door right now? You smooth down your Penguins t-shirt, you got it your first week in Pittsburgh when Langdon took you to a game. He immediately banned you from bringing up how dreamy Sidney Crosby was. When you open the door you take a step back... Frank Langdon is standing there. Did you dream him up? Why is he here?
"Your shift?" you ask in confusion taking him in. He looks worked up. "Wait is there an emergency? Do they need me to come in?"
Langdon just looks at you. He takes a deep breath, and then he's on you. His big hands cupping your face and his lips crash against yours. A kiss almost a decade in the making. It's not soft, like you imagined so many times. It's desperate, and he is pushing you back into your apartment. His hands move from your face to your hair as he pulls you closer. You can't help the moan that escapes your parted lips. He kicks your door shut before spinning you and pinning you against it. Neither of you breaks the kiss, your tongues exploring each other, something that should have happened back in Med School.
You have the wherewithal to lock your door before Langdon's hands slide down your sides to your hips and around to cup your ass. Finally he scoops you up and your legs hook around his waist. His lips break from yours to pepper kisses down the sensitive skin of your neck. This is what causes you to whimper out for the first time and you can feel Langdon smile against you.
"Yea, lemme hear ya baby," he breathes against your neck.
Your head is swimming you can't compute what is going on. Your fingers are running through Frank's dark hair, something you've fantasised about for, well, years. Your eyes lock and you don't need words. You've been beyond words for so long now. Langdon carries you to your bedroom and deposits you on the bed.
"I woulda cleaned up if I knew I was gonna have company," you exhale as your legs fall open for him. He stands at the end of your bed, just watching you. He deserves to admire you. He's waited for so long. You have no idea how many times he fantasised about this. And he knew now was bad. That new intern had figured him out within a few hours of her first shift. Robby had blown up on him. He might lose his job, be barred from practising medicine ever again. He's sure he was going to lose his marriage.
If he's going to hell, he might as well get what he wants first. His blue eyes are focused on the wet patch on your white panties that have little pink bows emblazoned over them. He can't help the groan that escapes his lips.
"That all for me, baby?" he asks as he pulls his scrub top over his head and crawls onto the bed.
If your head was screwed on properly, you would ask him why he left the Pitt before he dropped his scrubs off. But you're too turned on. Your brain isn't functioning, your tongue is too heavy.
Instead, you just nod in response to his question, which has him groaning. He immediately dips between your parted thighs. He presses open-mouthed kisses onto your clothed core. And you whimper and squirm under him. You hear the tear of the cloth more than feel it. But when his hot, wet mouth meets your sopping folds, you feel it. You buck off the bed.
"Oh baby, when's the last time someone touched you?" he growls between peppering kisses and hot licks on your cunt.
You just shake your head as you tangle a hand in his perfect hair. You have no idea how to answer him. But you can feel him smirk against you, satisfied with that answer. His attention goes straight to your clit. He has one goal - to make you cum. His blue eyes focus on your expression, screwed up in pure pleasure. And when you meet them, you have no other option, you cum with a scream. You don't care about your paper thin walls.
Langdon climbs up your body, dragging your oversized t-shirt up your sides and over your head. He lets out a practically feral groan as he sees that you're bare underneath it. He drops his forehead to your shoulder.
"You're even more perfect than I imagined," he growls against your skin.
He's kissing you again, the taste of yourself mingling with him. He tastes like Red Bull and mints and something that is just so Langdon. Your hands are all over him, dragging nails down his back, gripping his thick biceps, running through the hair on his chest.
"Need you," you finally breathe against his lips.
And Langdon, despite everything, is a gentleman. He shucks off his scrub bottoms and boxers in one swift movement. Your legs hook around his hips, giving him all the space he needs. He gives himself a few pumps, you try to move to touch him but he's already pressing his head to your sobbing core. You need him, he needs you. There are no words, no time to think, to talk. He finally pushes into you and finds a home in you. He lets out a soft, breathy moan, just one little, "Yes." This is where he was meant to be since that first day in college.
And you knew it too. You were both entirely fucked in that moment as Frank Langdon bottoms out in you. You know you can't take this back. You lock eyes and he presses his forehead against yours before he starts thrusting. He's like a man possessed. He hooks your legs behind your knees and presses them up so he can get deeper and deeper with each thrust. Your eyes are screwed up as he hits that sweet spot inside you. You don't expect him to pull out, you certainly don't expect him to flip you around onto your stomach. Where was this Langdon hiding?
He pulls you onto your knees, back onto his cock so he can start fucking you. His hand grips the back of your head, pushing your head down into your pillows. Your moans are muffled which clearly Langdon disagrees with as he is quick to pull at your hair and force your head up.
"Need to hear ya," he groans. "Need to hear ya when you cum over my cock. Cos you're gonna cum aren't ya?"
You don't know how he does that. How does he know you're on the brink?
"Cum for me, baby," he growls in your ear, and you can't deny him anymore. You cum for a second time, crying out his name.
Langdon has been holding back for a minute, thinking about a research paper he was working on. But when your pussy tightens around him, he's a goner. He knows he should pull out. He really does. And you know it too. But you're just so hot and wet and tight. He squeezes his eyes shut as he cums in you in hot spurts.
He releases you and you both tumble unceremoniously onto the bed. You both lie there, your chests heaving, you stare at the ceiling as your brain comes back together.
You and Frank Langdon have just slept together. Frank Langdon, your best friend. Frank Langdon, who is married to a beautiful, kind, smart woman. You turn to look at him but before you can speak, he sits up.
"Lemme clean you up," he breaths, before pushing off the bed. He cleans up the mess between your legs with your ripped up panties.
"Langdon," you breathe as he kneels between your legs. He doesn't look at you, just focuses at the task at hand.
"Langdon," you repeat, but nothing.
"Frank!" you exclaim, which has him finally meeting your gaze. "We need to-"
Both of your phones are buzzing. You look at him before grabbing yours. There are so many push notifications.
"There's an active shooter at Pittfest," you whisper, any thought of discussing what just transpired gone.
"What are you doing here?" Samira asks you rush into the Emergency Department.
"Saw the news," you respond as you get gowned up.
Robby's eyes find yours. He looks completely wrecked. You've never seen him look like that before.
"Glad to see you, kid," he tells you before he assigns you to the red zone.
You get to work alongside Jack Abbot, there's no flirting now. There's no time, there's no energy. There's so much death. You meet Langdon's eyes, confused as to why he seems to be avoiding Robby. Did something happen?
When things eventually calm down, Robby catches you and nods for you to come to the breakroom.
"I haven't clocked in, Robby. I won't ask for overtime. You needed hands and-" you begin but he shakes his head.
"Did you come in with Langdon?" he asks.
You nod, "Yea, yea. He came over to see me before we saw the news. Was he on a split shift? I thought-"
Robby interrupts again, "Doctor, you didn't know?"
"Know what?" you whisper, horror covering your face. What happened?
"Frank has been stealing controlled substances from this ED. And I know he's your friend. Did you know?" he asks plainly.
Your face blanches. Frank was fired for stealing drugs! Frank was fucking high when he came to your apartment! Frank fucked you because he was so out of it he probably thought you were Abby. Did he even say your name?
Tears prick your eyes, threatening to spill out. You can't trust yourself to speak. So instead, you just shake your head. Robby places a hand on your shoulder, he's always been there for you when things get too tough.
"I'm sorry, kid. I just needed to know," he said gently before leaving the room. He had so much shit to finish up.
You don't know how long you sat in the breakroom but you finally push yourself up and walk out of the ED. You don't say goodbye to anyone. You just leave. You're not scheduled on for that night.
You blink when you come face to face with Langdon in the ambulance bay. He looks flushed, like he's been yelling...
"Hey, I can drop you home," he tells you, catching your arm, the coldness of his wedding band pressing into your bare skin.
You pull away from him like he's burnt you. And you wouldn't be surprised if the ring has branded you.
"Are you high?" you hiss at him.
His whole face changes. You have no idea that he's just had another fight with Robby. He's exhausted, he's wired and he's scared. And you've just set him off again.
"What?" he snarls. "Are you fucking serious? Did Robby tell you some bullshit?"
You shake your head, "Were you high when you came to my apartment? Were you high when you fucked me?"
Langdon lets out a laugh then, taking a step back and scrubbing a hand over his face. Then he looks at you, his face completely closed off, cold, icy. You haven't seen him look like that since before you became friends.
"Yea," he says simply. "Only reason I'd ever fuck you is if I was high."
With that he turns on his heels and storms off, leaving you standing in the ambulance bay, with your broken heart in your hands.
ā part two ā
a/n: look it's been a while since I've written anything...so I hope you enjoy. I do have ideas for more Langdon...and even Jack Abbot, but it depends if you want that!
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Summary: You trust Jack with your patients, your career, and your life. Realizing you'd trust him with your heart is a much bigger problem.
Word count: 6k+
Warnings: fluff, medical terms
A/N:
can you guys tell I have a special spot for Trauma 2
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
You stand at the sink in Trauma Two, scrubbing blood from your hands long after it's already gone.
The trauma bay behind you is beginning to reset itself. Nurses strip bloodied sheets from the stretcher. Someone is already calling report on the next patient. The emergency department moves with a relentless sort of efficiency, consuming one crisis and immediately preparing for the next. There is no pause built into the system. No moment where everyone stops to breathe and process what happened.
Ordinarily, you appreciate that.
Today, it feels deeply unfair.
The blood disappeared after the first wash. You know that. You've spent enough years in hospitals to know exactly how long it takes soap and water to do their job. Yet somehow you're still standing there, staring down at the sink while hot water rushes over your hands. It takes several seconds before you realize you've been washing the same spot on your palm over and over again.
"No."
The word slips out before you can stop it.
You shut the faucet off and brace both hands against the edge of the sink. Water drips from your fingertips into the basin below.
"No. Absolutely not."
A moment later, Perlah squeezes past you on her way back into the department. She takes one look at your face and immediately slows.
"You okay?"
"Fine."
"You look like you're planning a murder."
You grab a paper towel with perhaps slightly more force than necessary.
"I'm considering several."
Perlah studies you for another second before nodding.
"You know what, yeah."
Then she's gone, leaving you alone with the growing certainty that your life has somehow become a practical joke.
Because this is ridiculous.
Not embarrassing. Not inconvenient.
Ridiculous.
You are a third-year emergency medicine resident. You work shifts that blur together until entire weeks disappear. Most days begin before sunrise and end long after dark. You survive on caffeine, stubbornness, and the increasingly fragile belief that residency will eventually end. You have career goals. Fellowship considerations. Research obligations. Student loans. More unfinished charting than any one human being should reasonably possess.
You do not have time for feelings.
You especially do not have time for feelings involving your attending.
The realization had arrived ten minutes ago with all the subtlety of blunt force trauma.
Not because Jack smiled at you.
Not because he looked good.
Not because of any of the things people usually point to when describing the moment they fall for someone.
It happened during a code.
One second you had been discussing a possible appendicitis workup. The next, alarms were sounding down the hall and everyone was moving. There had been no time to think. No time to hesitate. Just immediate action.
You can barely remember crossing the department.
You remember the rhythm instead.
The compression count.
The monitor.
The medication doses.
The familiar cadence of voices in a crowded room.
Most of all, you remember Jack.
Not in a romantic way. Not in the dramatic sense your brain seems determined to insist upon now.
You remember him because he was simply there, occupying his place in the room as naturally as if he'd always belonged there. Orders were exchanged before either of you had fully finished speaking. You knew what he needed before he asked. He knew what information you were gathering before you reported it. Months of working together had built something efficient between you, a kind of professional shorthand that made difficult situations feel manageable.
The patient got pulses back.
The room relaxed.
People dispersed.
And somewhere in the aftermath, while entering orders and trying to slow your own heart rate, you'd looked across the room and felt something shift.
The realization itself had been deceptively simple.
You trusted him.
Completely.
At first, that realization hadn't seemed particularly alarming. Trust was necessary in emergency medicine. Lives depended on it. Every day you trusted nurses to catch mistakes before they happened, residents to communicate important changes, attendings to make the right call when things became complicated. Trust wasn't remarkable. It was the foundation of the entire department.
The problem was that the thought refused to leave.
Even as you finished documenting the code and moved on to your next patient, it remained lodged somewhere in the back of your mind, irritating and persistent. And the longer it sat there, the more another uncomfortable truth began to emerge. You didn't just trust Jack. You trusted him more. More than other attendings. More than people you had known longer. More than was probably reasonable.
The realization spread through your mind with horrifying efficiency, illuminating things you had somehow managed to ignore for months. Suddenly every strange habit, every reaction you'd dismissed as professional admiration, seemed impossible to explain away. You thought about how your eyes automatically searched for him whenever you walked into the department, how his opinion carried a weight that nobody else's did, how criticism from him could linger for hours while a single compliment could improve an otherwise miserable shift. You thought about the strange sense of relief that settled over you when you saw his name on the schedule, the way difficult cases felt more manageable when he was nearby, and the fact that whenever something good happened, some part of you always wanted to tell him first.
One realization became several. Several became dozens. Before long, it felt as though your own brain had assembled a meticulous presentation entitled Evidence That You Are Completely and Irrevocably Screwed, complete with supporting data and peer-reviewed conclusions.
You closed your eyes and immediately searched for alternative explanations.
Exhaustion seemed like a reasonable place to start. You had worked six shifts in seven days and consumed an amount of caffeine that would probably concern a cardiologist. At some point that morning you had stared directly at a medication label and temporarily forgotten how to read. Your judgment was compromised. Your cognitive function was questionable. There had to be a physiological explanation for whatever was currently happening.
Maybe it was sleep deprivation. Maybe it was stress. Maybe residency had finally broken something important in your brain after years of threatening to do exactly that. Any of those possibilities would have been preferable to the obvious answer, which was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
Because the obvious answer was that somewhere between overnight shifts, trauma activations, endless charting, and months of standing shoulder to shoulder in crowded resuscitation rooms, you had fallen in love with Jack without noticing it.
The thought landed with enough force to make your stomach drop.
Your eyes flew open. For a moment you simply stared at your reflection in the steel basin, as though the exhausted woman looking back at you might offer a more reasonable explanation. Instead, all you saw were dark circles beneath your eyes, hair escaping from its ponytail, and the expression of someone experiencing a genuine personal betrayal.
"No."
The word sounded ridiculous even to your own ears.
You straightened slightly, pressing your palms against the edge of the sink as though physical stability might somehow compensate for the complete collapse of your emotional equilibrium. This was not happening. It simply wasn't. You refused to accept it.
You had survived medical school. You had survived surgical rotations, which should arguably qualify as a form of psychological warfare. Compared to those things, this should have been manageable. All you had to do was ignore it. Pretend it wasn't happening. Continue functioning exactly as you had before.
It was a solid plan.
Ignoring it lasts approximately thirty-seven minutes.
For thirty-seven whole minutes, you manage to convince yourself that whatever happened at the sink was nothing more than an unfortunate side effect of exhaustion. Residency has done stranger things to your brain. You've worked enough overnight shifts to know that sleep deprivation can make a person emotional, irrational, and occasionally incapable of distinguishing between a genuine crisis and a completely manufactured one. By the time you've finished documenting a trauma evaluation and worked through half your patient list, you've almost succeeded in talking yourself down.
Then you hear his voice.
"Dr. Y/N."
Your hands pause briefly over the keyboard before continuing to type.
"Mm."
The response is deliberately noncommittal. You don't look up. Instead, you focus intently on your chart, suddenly fascinated by documentation that had felt mind-numbingly boring only seconds earlier. If you acknowledge him, you'll have to look at him, and at the moment that feels like an unnecessary risk.
Unfortunately, Jack has never been particularly respectful of strategic avoidance.
A second later he appears beside your workstation, leaning one shoulder against the desk as though he has every right to occupy your personal space. The irritating part is not his presence. The irritating part is that you know he's there before you even glance up. Somewhere over the last year your brain has developed an alarming ability to track Jack's location without conscious effort, the same way it tracks monitor alarms or trauma activations. The awareness is immediate, automatic, and deeply unhelpful now that you've realized what it probably means.
"Trauma One."
Suspicion immediately replaces avoidance.
You finally look up.
"What about it?"
"You forgot to order repeat labs."
You stare at him.
"I did not."
"You did."
"I absolutely did not."
Jack doesn't argue. Instead, he reaches over, rotates your monitor slightly, and points toward the order set currently displayed on the screen. The movement is annoyingly confident, made worse by the fact that he already knows exactly what he's going to find. You follow his finger to the chart, scanning through the orders once, then twice.
There are no repeat labs.
For several seconds, you continue staring at the screen in the vague hope that the orders might spontaneously appear if you give them enough time.
They do not.
Beside you, Jack waits with the patience of a man who knows he's right and is enjoying the experience.
You lean back in your chair and let out a slow breath.
"...I may have forgotten the labs."
The corner of his mouth lifts immediately.
"That's not an apology, kid."
Under normal circumstances, being called kid would irritate you. Today it irritates you for an entirely different reason.
"You know what?" you say, pointing at the chart. "Maybe I forgot on purpose."
"Really?"
"Really. I wanted to experience what it feels like to forget something important. I figured attendings seem to enjoy it, so I'd broaden my horizons."
For a moment he simply looks at you. Then a laugh slips out before he can stop it.
The sound settles somewhere directly beneath your ribs.
That is new.
Or maybe it isn't new. Maybe the laugh has always affected you this way and you've only just become aware of it. The possibility is significantly worse.
Jack shakes his head, still smiling slightly.
"You've got a lot of confidence for somebody who forgot basic patient management."
"I learned from the best."
"That's not the insult you think it is."
"Damn."
The smile widens despite his obvious attempt to suppress it. Then he taps the edge of your monitor and says, "Order the labs."
You sigh heavily enough to qualify as performance art.
"Yes, grandpa."
"I'm not old enough to be your grandfather."
"You sure act like him."
His eyebrows rise.
"Careful."
The warning carries no actual threat behind it. That's the problem. Somewhere along the way the two of you established a rhythm that feels less like resident and attending and more like an argument that has been running continuously for months. You challenge him. He challenges you back. Neither of you seems particularly interested in stopping.
Looking back, you suspect that should have been your first clue.
Because the truth is that this is your favorite part of the day. Not trauma activations. Not procedures. Not difficult diagnoses. This. Standing at a workstation arguing about forgotten lab orders while the department buzzes around you. Trading sarcastic remarks. Making each other laugh. Existing together in a way that has become so familiar you stopped noticing how much you relied on it.
The realization lands quietly this time.
Not with panic.
Not with horror.
Just certainty.
This is why.
Not because he's attractive. Not because he's your attending. Not because of some dramatic moment lifted from a romance novel.
It's because somewhere between overnight shifts and impossible cases, he became your person.
The one you look for.
The one whose opinion matters most.
The one whose presence makes impossible days feel manageable.
Across the department, someone calls his name. Jack glances toward the trauma board, immediately shifting back into attending mode as another problem demands his attention.
"Order the labs, doctor."
You wave him away without looking up.
"Go save lives."
His eyes narrow slightly.
"You forgot the labs."
"You'll never let this go, will you?"
"Not a chance."
A moment later he's gone, disappearing back into the flow of the emergency department. You watch him leave for longer than necessary before forcing your attention back to the chart in front of you.
The realization arrives almost immediately.
You watched him leave. Again.
Your stupid heart follows right after him.
Traitor.
"So."
The voice appears so suddenly that you nearly drop from your chair.
You look up to find Santos leaning against the neighboring workstation with the unmistakable expression of someone who has witnessed something entertaining and intends to make it everybody else's problem. Whitaker is sitting a few feet away working on his charts, though the grin already tugging at the corner of his mouth suggests he knows exactly where this conversation is heading.
Immediately, you become suspicious.
"Guess we're flirting with our attendings now, huh?"
You don't bother looking away from your chart. Partly because you still have work to do, but mostly because looking up would require acknowledging that she may have a point, and you're not emotionally prepared for that conversation.
"I don't know," you reply, clicking through a patient's lab results. "Are we sleeping with trauma surgeons and pretending it doesn't suck the life out of us?"
The reaction is instantaneous.
Whitaker makes a strangled noise that sounds suspiciously like laughter disguised as a cough. Santos whirls around and points at him before he can contribute anything useful.
"Don't."
"I'm not saying anything."
"You're literally smiling."
"I can't control my face."
"You absolutely can."
Whitaker wisely returns his attention to the computer, though the grin lingering on his face suggests he's enjoying this far more than he should. Santos narrows her eyes at him for another second before turning back toward you with renewed focus, apparently remembering that she was in the middle of interrogating you.
"First of all, how dare you, bitch. Second of all, way to deflect. Not answering my question."
"What question?"
"The question where you were staring at Abbot like he personally hung the moon."
You scoff and finally look up from your chart. "I was not."
Neither Santos nor Whitaker appears remotely convinced. They exchange one of those infuriatingly knowing looks that people only seem capable of when they're absolutely certain they're right, and you immediately regret acknowledging either of them.
"You absolutely were," Santos says. "In fact, I think you've got a little drool right here."
Before you can stop her, she reaches toward your face. You slap her hand away on instinct.
"Get off me, you weirdo."
"I'm just trying to help."
"You're being extremely annoying today."
"And yet," Santos replies, entirely unbothered, "I'm still waiting for an explanation."
"There isn't one."
"Interesting, because from where I was standing, it looked a lot like flirting."
You return your attention to the chart, hoping silence will accomplish what logic apparently cannot. Unfortunately, Santos interprets your refusal to engage as confirmation. The dramatic gasp she lets out is loud enough that two nurses glance over from the desk.
"Oh my God."
"What?"
"You didn't deny it."
For reasons completely beyond your understanding, this immediately becomes the highlight of her evening. She looks genuinely delighted by the discovery while you rub a hand over your face and wonder whether transferring hospitals is still a realistic career option.
"I hate this department."
"No, you don't."
"I really do."
"No," Santos says with the absolute confidence of someone who has never once questioned her own conclusions. "You just hate that I, the smartest person here, noticed."
The worst part is that she's probably right. The even worse part is that before you can think of a comeback, your attention betrays you completely. It's automatic, lasting less than a second, but your gaze drifts toward the hallway Jack disappeared down a few minutes ago.
You catch yourself immediately.
Santos catches it faster.
The woman's ability to identify gossip-related developments borders on supernatural.
Her grin becomes unbearable.
"Oh, you've got it baaaad."
"Shut up."
"Bad."
"Santos."
"Really bad."
"Drop it."
By now Whitaker has abandoned any attempt at professionalism and is openly laughing into his coffee. You briefly consider throwing a chart at both of them, but before you can determine whether the resulting paperwork would be worth it, Mel appears seemingly out of nowhere and drops into the empty chair beside Santos.
"Hey," she says, looking between the three of you. "What are we laughing about?"
Santos doesn't even hesitate.
"Nothing. Just discussing how Miss Sunshine over here apparently enjoys doing charity work for the elderly."
Mel's eyes widen immediately.
And you begin seriously reevaluating the consequences of workplace violence.
The problem is that once you've noticed it, you can't seem to stop.
For the first few days, you tell yourself you're imagining things. You're hyperaware because of the realization, that's all. Anyone would be. If you spend enough time thinking about a person, naturally you'll start paying more attention to them. It's confirmation bias. Selective observation. A perfectly normal psychological phenomenon that definitely does not indicate you're catastrophically in love with your attending.
Unfortunately, that explanation starts to fall apart almost immediately.
The issue isn't that you're noticing new things about Jack. The issue is that you're suddenly recognizing the significance of things you've apparently been noticing all along.
You see it during overnight shifts, when the department finally quiets for a few precious minutes and exhaustion begins catching up with everyone. Most attendings disappear into offices when they get a chance to breathe. Jack usually stays on the floor. Sometimes you'll glance up from a chart and catch him rubbing a hand over his face, eyes closed for a brief second before the next patient pulls his attention away. The fatigue is obvious in those moments, written across his expression in a way he'd probably hate if he knew anyone had noticed. Yet somehow, no matter how exhausted he is, he never seems to let it affect the way he treats people.
You start seeing that everywhere.
You see it in the patience he shows family members asking the same question for the fourth time because they're scared and not really listening to the answer. You see it in the way he explains procedures, diagnoses, and risks without ever making people feel stupid for not understanding medical terminology. Most patients leave the emergency department remembering the diagnosis they received. Somehow, many of Jack's patients leave remembering how he made them feel.
The more attention you pay, the more examples you find.
A nurse mentions her son has been sick for several days. Three shifts later, Jack asks whether he's feeling better. A patient comes back to the department weeks after an initial visit, and Jack remembers the dog's name they'd spent half the appointment talking about. One morning he hands you a cup of coffee before shift change and, without thinking, orders it exactly the way you drink it. Not because you've reminded him recently. Not because you've mentioned it at all. Simply because he remembered.
The realization shouldn't affect you as much as it does.
Plenty of people are thoughtful. Plenty of people are kind.
But medicine has a way of grinding those qualities down. Long hours, impossible patient loads, endless administrative demands, and constant exhaustion tend to strip people down to their essentials. You've watched it happen to residents, attendings, nurses, and even yourself. Everyone becomes shorter on patience. Less generous with their energy. More focused on simply surviving the shift.
Yet somehow Jack remains stubbornly, frustratingly himself.
Even on terrible days, he stays late to help with difficult patients. He answers questions he doesn't technically have to answer. He takes responsibility when things go wrong and shares credit when things go right. He never asks residents to do work he wouldn't do himself, and you've lost count of the number of times you've found him transporting patients, helping nurses, or handling tasks that someone with his level of seniority could easily hand off to somebody else.
The worst part is that none of it feels performative.
He isn't trying to impress anyone.
Most of the time, he probably doesn't even realize you're watching.
But you are watching.
That's the problem.
You notice everything now, and every new observation feels less like discovering something about him and more like uncovering evidence that has been sitting in front of you for months. Each detail slots neatly into a picture you were somehow too blind to see before.
By the end of the week, you've reached a conclusion that is both humiliating and impossible to dispute.
You are paying far too much attention to Jack.
And the more attention you pay, the more hopelessly doomed you become.
Three weeks later, you're stitching a laceration on a sixteen-year-old's forehead when Jack walks into the room.
The patient, Dean, is recovering from what the chart diplomatically describes as a "fall from height," though the actual story involved a garage roof, a trampoline, and a level of confidence that far exceeded his coordination. Fortunately, the resulting injuries are limited to a forehead laceration, a badly bruised shoulder, and what will hopefully become a valuable lesson in decision-making. Unfortunately, Dean appears to have learned absolutely nothing.
"So how big is the scar gonna be?" he asks while you place another stitch.
"If you're lucky, barely noticeable."
"And if I'm not lucky?"
"Then you'll have a permanent reminder not to jump off buildings."
"I wasn't jumping off a building."
"You were on a roof."
"That's different."
His mother immediately disagrees from her chair in the corner. "It is literally the same thing, Dean."
While Dean launches into an argument that seems destined to continue indefinitely, you focus on the repair in front of you, grateful for the distraction. For the last several weeks, distractions have become increasingly valuable. Ever since the unfortunate revelation in Trauma Two, you've been attempting to proceed with your life as though nothing has changed. The strategy has been moderately successful right up until the moment Jack enters a room, at which point your brain abandons all professional objectives in favor of becoming deeply irritating.
The curtain shifts, and before you've even looked up, you know exactly who it is. That realization is becoming alarmingly common. Somewhere along the way, you've apparently memorized the rhythm of his voice, the sound of his footsteps, the way he moves through the department. It's information you never consciously decided to learn, yet it exists in your head anyway, filed away alongside medication dosages and trauma protocols.
"Hey," Jack says as he steps inside. "I'm Dr. Abbot. Just checking in. How's it going, Dean?" He glances briefly at the chart before looking back at the teenager. "Looks like you took quite a fall."
Dean immediately brightens. Patients tend to respond well to Jack. You've observed this often enough to stop finding it surprising, although you still find it mildly annoying. Children trust him. Parents trust him. Even the difficult patients who spend half their visit arguing usually soften after speaking with him for a few minutes. He has an irritating ability to make people feel heard, which unfortunately turns out to be an attractive quality.
"Yeah, but I'm okay now," Dean says. Then, after studying Jack for a moment, he adds, "Are you the boss of this hospital?"
Jack looks genuinely confused by the question. "No."
Dean points directly at you.
"She seems like the boss."
A laugh escapes before you can stop it. Across the room, Jack follows Dean's gesture, glances at you for a second, and then nods with the kind of certainty that suggests he's been waiting for an opportunity to say exactly that.
"Yeah," he agrees. "That sounds about right."
You roll your eyes, but Dean's attention has already sharpened. Teenagers possess an extraordinary ability to identify dynamics between people, especially when those dynamics would be embarrassing if acknowledged. You can practically see him studying the two of you, assembling information, drawing conclusions. The process is visible enough that a sense of dread begins creeping up your spine long before he actually opens his mouth.
His mother notices it too.
"Dean," she says warningly.
The fact that she says his name before he's spoken is not reassuring.
"What?" he asks.
Whatever instinct normally prevents people from saying inappropriate things appears to have completely abandoned him.
"You guys married?"
The question lands like a grenade.
For one terrible second, the room goes completely silent except for the monitor beeping beside the bed. Your hand actually pauses in the middle of tying a stitch. Dean's mother immediately closes her eyes as though she's reconsidering several major parenting decisions.
"Oh my God," she mutters.
"Absolutely not," you say at the exact same moment Jack says, "No."
The overlap only makes things worse.
Dean narrows his eyes.
You recognize that expression. It's the look of someone who believes they've discovered something interesting and intends to investigate further.
"That's very suspicious."
"It isn't," you say immediately.
"It kind of is."
"It really isn't."
"It definitely is."
You finish tying the stitch with perhaps slightly more force than necessary. "Dean, I am currently holding a needle."
His mother starts laughing. Jack is visibly trying not to. Neither response improves your mood.
The conversation somehow continues from there despite your best efforts to end it. Dean remains convinced he's uncovered a mystery. His mother continues apologizing. Jack contributes absolutely nothing helpful, choosing instead to stand there with the unmistakable expression of someone enjoying your suffering. By the time you've finished the final stitch and started explaining wound care instructions, the entire room has accepted that you're never going to hear the end of this.
What bothers you most is not the question itself. Teenagers say ridiculous things all the time. What bothers you is the tiny moment beforehand, the fraction of a second when Dean looked between you and Jack and apparently saw something worth asking about. The possibility lingers in the back of your mind throughout the rest of the procedure, unwelcome and impossible to dismiss.
When Jack finally heads toward the door, Dean calls after him with all the confidence of someone who has decided he's correct.
"Good luck, man."
Jack laughs, shakes his head, and disappears into the hallway.
You hate how long your gaze remains fixed on the doorway after he's gone.
You hate even more that Dean notices.
The breaking point arrives during a night shift.
Of course it does.
There is something about three o'clock in the morning that strips people down to their essentials. By then, the coffee has stopped helping, the adrenaline reserves are running low, and everyone in the emergency department is operating on habit, instinct, and sheer stubbornness. The waiting room is overflowing. A chest pain patient has become a STEMI halfway through an evaluation. One of the psychiatric patients has attempted to leave twice. A drunk college student managed to vomit directly onto your shoes and then had the audacity to apologize by calling you "bro."
You have been moving almost continuously for ten hours. You cannot remember the last thing you ate. You vaguely suspect it was yesterday.
By the time the twelve-year-old arrives, you're already exhausted.
The kid is struggling to breathe before he's even fully through the doors. Severe asthma exacerbation. Retractions. Tachypnea. Oxygen saturation dropping. The panic in his mother's face is somehow worse than the panic in his own. Cases like this always hit harder when they're children.
The next hour disappears into work.
Nebulizers. Steroids. Magnesium sulfate. Oxygen. Reassessment after reassessment. Watching every rise and fall of his chest. Listening to every breath sound. Waiting for improvement while trying not to think about all the ways things can go wrong.
Eventually, mercifully, they begin to go right.
The wheezing softens. His respiratory rate slows. The terrified look in his eyes begins to fade. By the end of the hour he's sitting upright in bed, exhausted but breathing comfortably, while his mother wipes tears from her face and thanks everyone in the room with the kind of overwhelming relief that only comes after genuine fear.
You give discharge planning another few minutes, answer questions, make sure they're both okay, and then finally step into the hallway.
The moment the door closes behind you, the adrenaline disappears.
Not gradually.
Completely.
The crash is so abrupt it almost makes you dizzy.
You lean back against the wall and close your eyes for what is intended to be only a second. Around you, the emergency department continues moving at its usual pace. Life continues exactly as it always does.
You simply no longer feel capable of keeping up with it.
"Hey."
You know the voice immediately.
How could you not?
Opening your eyes feels like a mistake, but you do it anyway. Jack is standing a few feet away, studying you with an expression that instantly makes you defensive.
"How long since you've eaten?"
You groan. "I'm not doing this."
"That's not an answer."
"I'm busy."
"So eat while you're busy."
"I don't have time, dr. Abbot."
Jack reaches into the paper bag he's carrying and holds out half a sandwich.
You stare at it.
Then at him.
Then back at the sandwich.
"What is this?"
"A sandwich."
"I know what a sandwich is."
"Congratulations."
You narrow your eyes.
Unfortunately, you're too tired to sustain proper indignation. After a few seconds you take the sandwich, mostly because arguing requires energy you no longer possess.
Jack settles against the wall beside you without asking permission. The gesture should probably feel strange. It doesn't. That's part of the problem. Somewhere over the last year, his presence has become so familiar that your brain accepts it automatically.
For a while neither of you says anything.
The silence isn't awkward. That's another problem.
It would be much easier if it were awkward.
Instead, the two of you stand there eating stale cafeteria food while the department moves around you, and somehow it feels more restful than the fifteen-minute breaks you've spent alone in the resident lounge.
After a minute, Jack nods toward the room you'd just left.
"You did good in there, kid."
The words settle heavily somewhere beneath your ribs. Anyone else would probably assume he was complimenting your medical management, and maybe he was, partially, but you've worked with him long enough to understand what he actually means. He's talking about the way you sat with the kid when he was scared, the way you stayed calm when his mother couldn't, and the fact that you always seem to carry difficult cases long after everyone else has moved on.
"You don't have to do that, you know."
Jack glances over. "Do what?"
"Act like every difficult patient is somehow my responsibility."
Something shifts in his expression then, not enough that most people would notice, but enough that you do.
"You know you can't save everybody."
The statement is gentle, which somehow makes it worse. You look away before he can see your reaction. Of course you know that. Every physician knows that. It's drilled into you from the beginning because it has to be. If you carry every loss, every complication, every patient you couldn't help, eventually the weight becomes impossible to bear. The problem has never been knowing it. The problem is believing it.
"You care too much."
A weak laugh escapes you.
"That's rich coming from you."
The corner of his mouth lifts, and some of the tension eases despite yourself. The conversation falls quiet after that and neither of you seems particularly interested in leaving. Your shoulder brushes his when someone pushes a stretcher past, and neither of you immediately moves away. Standing there in the middle of a crowded emergency department, exhausted enough that your usual defenses have finally worn thin, you realize something that should have occurred to you weeks ago.
For all the time you've spent treating your feelings like a problem to solve, you've never seriously considered the possibility that you weren't alone in them.
The thought hits hard enough to make your pulse stumble. You turn your head before you can stop yourself and immediately regret it. Jack is already looking at you.
That shouldn't matter. People look at each other during conversations all the time. You've worked entire shifts together. You've stood side by side through traumas, codes, procedures, and disasters of every imaginable variety. There is absolutely no logical reason his attention should affect you differently now than it did a month ago. Unfortunately, logic stopped being relevant somewhere around the moment you realized you were in love with him.
The emergency department continues moving around you, but it suddenly feels farther away. The overhead pages, monitor alarms, and constant movement blur into background noise as your brain focuses on one deeply unfortunate detail. Jack isn't looking at you because you're speaking. He isn't looking at you because he's waiting for an answer. He's looking at you because he wants to. The certainty settles into your chest with terrifying ease, bringing with it the quiet understanding that whatever has been growing between the two of you for months has not been happening exclusively inside your own head.
"No."
Jack blinks. "What?"
Horror arrives immediately. You actually said that out loud.
Years of education. Years of training. Countless high-pressure situations requiring calm, professional decision-making, and somehow this is the response your brain produces when confronted with mutual feelings. For a brief moment you consider pretending it never happened, but Jack knows you far too well for that.
Straightening abruptly, you shove the last bite of sandwich into your mouth and point at him with the kind of accusatory conviction usually reserved for criminal investigations.
"No."
His eyebrows rise.
"...No?"
"No."
What exactly am I being accused of?"
The fact that he's amused immediately makes everything worse.
"You know what."
"I genuinely don't."
"You absolutely do."
For a second he simply watches you, and then you see the exact moment understanding arrives. It appears first in his eyes and then in the slow curve of his mouth. It's not the grin he gives you when you're arguing with him or the expression he wears when you're being particularly stubborn. This is something quieter. Warmer. The kind of look that instantly confirms every suspicion you've spent weeks trying to suppress.
"Oh."
You close your eyes.
Of all the possible responses, somehow that one is the most infuriating.
"Oh is exactly what I'm trying to avoid."
His smile only widens.
"That's usually not how this goes."
Suspicion immediately replaces embarrassment.
"How what goes?"
"When people realize they have feelings for someone."
You nearly choke.
"There is no universe in which we're having this conversation."
"We're definitely having this conversation."
"I refuse."
"You already started it, sweetheart."
The betrayal is immediate and profound. You stare at him in disbelief, waiting for some indication that he's joking, but Jack simply looks back at you with infuriating patience. A second later he laughs, not politely or under his breath but genuinely, and the sound catches you completely off guard.
For weeks you've been carrying this realization around like a catastrophe waiting to happen. You've treated it like a problem that needed solving, an obstacle that needed eliminating before it could do any real damage. Every instinct you've had since that afternoon at the sink has been focused on containment. Ignore it. Suppress it. Outwork it. Pretend it isn't there. Yet standing here now, exhausted after a miserable shift and listening to Jack laugh at your complete inability to manage your own emotions, you discover that none of the disasters you'd been expecting have actually occurred. The hospital is still standing. The emergency department hasn't burst into flames. You have not died of embarrassment, despite several close calls.
Against your better judgment, a reluctant laugh escapes you too.
The feeling that follows is strange. The weight you've been carrying doesn't disappear entirely, but it shifts. For the first time it feels shared rather than hidden, acknowledged rather than buried. The fear is still there, but it's no longer yours alone.
When the laughter fades, Jack is still looking at you, and there is something in his expression that makes your chest ache. Affection, certainly. Understanding. Maybe even relief. Whatever it is, it strips away the last of your excuses. You should be terrified. Realistically, this is the point where panic would make the most sense. Instead, for the first time since this whole disaster began, you feel something unexpectedly steady.
Because this no longer feels like something happening to you against your will. It feels like a choice sitting quietly between the two of you, a possibility neither of you has touched yet but one that suddenly seems real enough to reach for.
Your first instinct remains exactly the same.
Absolutely not.
The problem is that, for the first time, you're no longer entirely convinced that's your final answer.
tags: jack abbot x younger fem!reader, fluff to the max, sweet feelings, jack finding and recognizing his second second half, reader's age is not specified
notes: i thought this would be a cute idea, so why not! this is smaller than my normal one shots, but i think keeping is short helps it along. i hope you all enjoy, and like always if you'd like to join my permanent taglist please comment on this post ! enjoy!
word count: 1.8k
The first time Jack had seen you read the morning paper after staying over, he thought that might have been a poke at his old age.Ā
But what else was he supposed to think when you literally stepped outside, grabbed the plastic covered paper, brought it over to the table, and actually opened it, your eyes scanning the lines with careful precision. Every so often, youād pick your mug up and take a sip of your straightĀ blackĀ coffee before going right back to the paper.Ā
He bit his lip, either to stifle a laugh or stop him from blurting out something so sarcastic it might sound mean.
Instead, he settled on, āYou know you donāt have to do that?āĀ
The paper crinkled as you folded it in half, your sleepy face pinched slightly in confusion. āDo what?āĀ
āRead the paper,ā he responded, running a nervous hand through his curls. āI get that my age is showing, but you donāt have to read the paper.āĀ
āOh.ā You looked down at the paper before looking back at him. āUm, no, I actually read the paper, honey. It slows my morning. Less phone time, less eye strain, yada yada yada.āĀ
His eye brows lifted. āOkay.āĀ
You covered a giggle. āSurprised?āĀ
Jack shook his head, mouth pulling to the side. āA bit. Just didnāt know people over the age of sixty-five read the paper.ā He walked over with two plates full of breakfast food and placed them on the table.Ā
A hum rumbled through your chest when he pressed a kiss to your forehead. āItās fine. I know itās a bit out of the blue, butāāĀ
āNo, sweetheart, I shouldnāt have said anything,ā he muttered, groaning as he sat in his chair next to you. āItās cute;Ā youāreĀ cute.āĀ
āThank you.āĀ
Heād never say it out loud, but he enjoyed seeing the hint of blush rise through your cheeks as he cut through the first bite of pancake. You had been right after all, he though while sitting there. The quiet morning was indeed nice and slow. Without the noise of a doomscroll or messages buzzing, he felt a sense of peace he hadnāt in a long time. He didnāt even care if he couldnāt see your face throughout the breakfast.Ā
When you finally placed the paper on the table, you smiled over at Jack, leaning in to plant a kiss to his cheek. āThanks for letting me read your paper, honey. My apartment canceled the paper sub two weeks ago.āĀ
And if Jack Abbot started hoarding his newspapers for the next time you slept over just to see you in your cute oversized glasses wearing just his shirt during breakfast? That was between him and the kid who threw the paper at his door at 6 a.m.Ā
_______________________
Now, the morning paper had been one thing, but Jack seeing you pull out a flip phone of all things was another. He couldnāt possibly comprehend the hot pink bedazzled thing you took from your scrub pocket and held between your fingers. Hell, he didnāt even know the last timeĀ heĀ used a flip phone.Ā
And he guessed he wasnāt the only one to noticed since Trinity stopped a few steps away and gawfed loudly, causing you to look up at her.Ā
āWhat?ā you asked. āNever seen one of these?āĀ
Trinity rolled her eyes. āOnly in movies that got released in like 2000-something. Why are you using that?ā
You sighed rather loudly. āMy iPhone fell in a puddle, and I needed something quick and easy. This bad boy was less than two-hundred bucks at Walmart, and I had a few rhinestones hanging around and thoughtĀ why not.āĀ Ā
The resident stepped closer and rounded your body, now peering over your shoulder. āHow do you even type with that?āĀ
āYou just push the button until you get to the letter you want.ā Jack watched you demonstrate. āAnd then send it off. See, not that hard. Rotary phones are kind of the same wayāāĀ
āRotary phones?ā Trinity giggled. āWhat are you, fifty-two?āĀ
Jack caught the way you glanced at him.Ā
āNah, Iām sixty and some change.āĀ
Trinity followed your eyes. āHear that, Dr. Abbot? You got yourself a cougar.āĀ
He chuckled softly and shook his head. āBasically a cradle robber at this point.āĀ
The flip phone shut with aĀ clickĀ before it disappeared back into your pocket, and for some reason, Jack was sad to see it go. Not that he was happy your iPhone was broken (he was already planning to upgrade it for you), but seeing you with something so simple and personalized, it was almost healing to his soul in a way.Ā
His late wife had had a flip phone.Ā
It wasnāt sparkle-ified like yours, quite the opposite actually. He remembered the black, scratchy feeling of the plastic whenever he needed to use it. If he thought long about it, he would remember that the same phone is sitting dead in his bedside drawer. The phone that was now in your pocket must have been a sign for something.
When Trinity walked away, he took the opportunity to side up next to you, arm brushing yours in a soft, controlled motion. āAm I going to have to ask you for your number again?ā he teased.Ā
You scrunched your face in mock contemplation. āShouldnāt it be the other way around since I robbed your cradle?āĀ
His arm raised and wrapped around your shoulder tightly, bringing you into his side. āMy favorite cougar. Whatās next? Am I going to be your sugar baby?āĀ
āEw, Jack!ā you squealed. āNot when you practically beg me to use your credit card all the time.āĀ
āWhat can I say, baby. I like taking care of my girl.āĀ
_______________________
In the middle of a massive cyber-attack after getting shotĀ atĀ was not the time for Jack to be so endeared by you to the point he wanted to squeeze you like one of those squishy dogs where the eyes pop out of socket.Ā
He handled the newspaper well, the flip phone even better (he thinks). However, nothingāand he really means nothing could have prepared him for the utter glee on your face when Dana hauled a fax machine out of nowhere.Ā
The machine had made a booting up noise, to which the newest shadowing-nurse Emma had questioned what it was.Ā
Dana, in all her spare sarcasm and patience, responded with, āUFO landed. Aliens are invading,ā as she placed a paper into the slot.Ā
Jack had pointed at it with a large smirk. āThatĀ is a fax machine.āĀ
Joy, one of Robbyās new daytime residents, peered over it at like it personally offended her. āThey still make those?āĀ
You giggled slightly. āI love fax machines.āĀ
Jack had barely heard you say that over the chaos of everything, but he still turned toward you with a questioning look. āWhen on earth did you learn to run a fax machine?āĀ
āProbably around the same time you were still writing charts by feathered quill and candle light.āĀ
That earned a snort from every person born before 1990 in the room. Even Robby looked surprised by the quip that had flown out of your mouth. Jack at least looked a bit stunned before he shook it off.Ā
āCareful, dear. I think I just heard your newspaper quiver.āĀ
āAnd I think I just heard your heated blanket frizz out.āĀ
Joy blinked over at you before looking at Jack. āI like her.āĀ
By the time Jack glanced over at you, you were already moving to help Dana run the fax machine, your hands carefully placing papers in the top to run through. He couldnāt help the smile that formed across his face.Ā
āYeah, me too.āĀ
_______________________
Some days, life was just hard.Ā
Jack knew that better than most. His shift had been filled with loss after loss after loss to the point he wanted to leave halfway through just to catch a break. Thankfully by sunrise, the Pitt wasnāt his problem anymore, but then his mind remembered that Robby was still on sabbatical, and his mood dropped even further.Ā
However, the moment he stepped inside and the smell of a plethora of baked goods hit his nose, he almost melted right then and there at the threshold. He paused, taking in the sight of his crutches that definitely were by the bed he left last night. You must have moved them for him with some supernatural ability to sense that heād want his prosthesis off immediately. He couldnāt even hold in the groan that rumbled through his chest the minute his stump was free to hang in the air.Ā
āJack?ā you called out.Ā
āYeah, baby,ā he grunted. āItās me.āĀ
His crutched clicked against the flooring in rhythmic sounds. The closer he got to the kitchen, the sweeter the smell got. His hazel eyes widened at the sight of his counter. Small loaves, cookies, and even a pie rested against the granite. He wondered how early youād been up, because one glance to the clock on the oven told him it wasnāt even 8 a.m. yet.Ā
āWhatās all this?ā he asked, crutching closer to you.Ā
You gently smiled and wrapped your arms around his middle, not caring that he still smelled like hospital and sweat. āWoke up antsy. Needed to get my mind off stuff.āĀ
Jack carefully leaned his crutches against the counter and held you close. āWanna talk about it?āĀ
A sigh pushed through your lungs. āMy grandpa died around this time a few years ago, and I always miss him a lot.ā You sniffed quietly. āHe practically raised me. Guess heās the influence as to why I do a bunch of old people stuff.āĀ
He stayed quiet while you talked, absorbing every word carefully.Ā
āHe always drank his coffee black; said the frou-frou stuff wasnāt necessary when you knew how to make a good cup of joe.ā You laughed softly, the sound full of fondness. āHe never knew how to use a smart phone, and Iād always want to play with the buttons on his.ā Your cheek pressed into Jackās chest so hard you could feel his heartbeat against your skin. āFax machine too. Could never get a computer to work, so I started faxing things over when I wanted to talk to him, especially when it got really bad, and he couldnāt move much.āĀ
Jack felt your shoulders raise just a bit before falling back down.Ā
āI miss him a lot.āĀ
Tears pricked your eyes when he kissed your forehead before leaning down to press one to your lips. When he pulled back, you were startled to see tears in his own eyes.Ā
āHe sounds like a good man,ā he whispered. āAnd I am so glad for the little things that you do.āĀ
The next sound out of your mouth sounded like a watery chuckle. āYeah? You donāt care that I act like Iām thirty years older than I actually am?āĀ
Jack shook his head. āJust means you got an old soul, sweetheart. And thereās nothing wrong with that.ā He hugged you tighter. āAbsolutely nothing.āĀ
āā ā . š Ģ . jack abbot x morgue tech!reader ; after your shift, you go upstairs to the er looking for jack and you run into a few of your boyfriend's coworkers, they bring to your attention just how large jack abbot really is ā 4.2k
field trip ā . š Ģ . to THE MORGUE
By the time you finished shift change down downstairs, the hospital had already begun its slow transition from night to morning. The morgue never changed much regardless of the hour.Ā
The fluorescent lights still hummed overhead with the same dull persistence they had at midnight. The air stilled smelled faintly of antiseptic and cold metal and the industrial cleaner the day shift janitors liked to use too heavily.Ā
The prep tables remained clean and pristine despite the three autopsies that you had preformed. It was peaceful for lack of a better word. But upstairs, however, the hospital would be just beginning to wake up.Ā
The emergency department at six in the morning was an entirely different beast than the morgue tucked neatly beneath it. This place moved fast even when exhausted.Ā
The whole floor pulsed with motion and noise and overstimulation.Ā
YouĀ hatedĀ it.Ā
Don't mistake your dislike for the environment for the dislike of the people inhabiting it. You wouldn't say you were friends with the ER staff, but you were on chit chatting terms with a lot of them since beginning dating Jack. But the sheer amount ofĀ everythingĀ put you especially at unease.Ā
Too many voices, too many bodies darting from one side of the ER to the other, and that meant too many opportunities for someone to accidentally touch you in passing.Ā
Which is why you usually stayed downstairs until Jack came to get you. That had become your routine somewhere along the line. Most mornings, by the time you clocked out and gathered your things, Jack was already leaning against your desk in the morgue office with that perpetually exhausted look on his face and a coffee in his hand.Ā
Then the two of you would leave together before either of your brains fully registered another twelve hour shift had passed.Ā
This morning, however, he hadn't shown. You were a little disappointed but you weren't outrageously upset about it. You knew that Jack got held up all the time and while this meant you would have to brave the ER again, it wasn't his fault.Ā
Trauma cases sometimes came in unexpectedly, shift hand off lasted longer when it was busier than usual, and you knew that Robby had a tendency to trap Jack into talking about things that didn't have anything to do with the hospital. Like his new on again, off again situationship with Noelle Hastings from social work.Ā
So after a few minutes, you simply slung your bag over your shoulder, grabbed your water bottle, and made your way upstairs. The elevator ride alone nearly convinced you to turn around.Ā
By the time the doors opened onto the ER floor, the department was already in full swing. Phones rang somewhere in the distance. Someone laughed too loudly near the nursesā station. A monitor beeped insistently from one of the trauma bays, while an exhausted nurse muttered something under her breath about needing a Red Bull.
You immediately regretted coming up here.Ā
Keeping your head down, you slipped towards the break room near the back hallway, careful not to drift into anybody's path. The last thing you wanted after twelve hours underground was to become collateral damage in the organized chaos of emergency medicine.Ā
You set your things down carefully on the small table inside the break room before leaning your head just barely out the doorway. To the left sat the employee lockers and a supply alcove. To the right was the command desk, where everyone eventually flocked and housed the patient boards.
Jack stood there with Robby and Dana, one hand braced against the edge of the counter while the other rested loosely on his hip.Ā
Even from across the department, you could easily see the exhaustion that sat heavily across his shoulders.Ā
The dark scrub top stretched across his back whenever he shifted slightly, and the dark wash cargo pants he wore instead of scrub bottoms sat low on his hips beneath the hem of his shirt.
You couldn't hear from where you were, but you could see Robby's mouth moving and Dana's wholly unimpressed look. You can only imagine what they were talking about. Jack, meanwhile, looked like a man mentally calculating how quickly he could escape the conversation.Ā
Whether he saw you immediately when you entered the ER or simply felts your stare, you didn't know, but his head turned after a moment.Ā
His eyes landed on you instantly and his whole expression changed, annoyance discarded and replaced with pure unadulterated affection. The change was small enough that most people wouldn't have noticed it. But you spent more time staring at Jack Abbot's face than most, so it was easy for you to spot.Ā
Jack's brows lifted slightly before he brought his hands together in a quick apologetic and his mouth formed the wordĀ sorryĀ from across the room. You smiled at him despite yourself. He glanced down at his watch before holding up five fingers.Ā
You nodded once. His mouth curved with something guilty and fond all at once before his expression returned to what it was before he saw you and he turned back towards Robby. It was almost comical how fast the stoicism settled over his face again like armor sliding back into place.Ā
You watched him for another moment longer than you probably should've. Long enough to notice the slight tension around his jaw. Long enough that you begun to wonder if his prosthetic was bothering him after being on it all night and then forced to stand there while Robby prodded him for dating advice.Ā
Long enough that the clap against your back caught you completely off guard and nearly sent your soul directly out of your body. You startled violently. "Oh my godā"
"Morning,Ā Morgie."Ā
You turned to find Trinity grinning at you like she'd just caught you with your pants down and your hand in the cookie jar. Dennis lingered behind her with the distinct energy of a man who already regretted participating in whatever conversation was about to occur.Ā
You exhaled slowly, trying to calm your pulse. "Hi, Dr. Santos."
"You headed out?" she asked, a mischievous look in her eye.Ā
"Trying to," you answered honestly.Ā
Trinity barely acknowledged the response. She leaned casually against the doorway beside you like the two of you were old friends instead of occasional workplace acquaintances who primarily exchanged polite nods in passing.Ā
You had known people like Trinity your entire life.Ā Loud people, you mean. People who filled silence immediately and naturally. People endlessly willing to push boundaries just to see what would happen. That wasn't to say you didn't like her.Ā
If anything, you suspected under different circumstances you could probably even be friends. Unfortunately, friendship required social energy you often did not possess after working nights in basement with dead people.Ā
Still, you tried. If not for your sake, then for Jack's. These were his coworkers and you were his girlfriend, you were bound to run into them more often than not, so a good relationship was paramount in your opinion.Ā
"How are you doing?" you asked politely. She had ignored the question entirely, opting for her own line of questioning. "So," she started, eye bright with mischief already, "you and Abbot are likeĀ a thing, right?"Ā
You stomach dropped. "What?" Never in a million years did you think that was going to be her question.Ā
Dennis looked like he wanted the floor to open and consume him whole. Trinity, meanwhile, looked absolutely delighted with herself. "Oh, come one," she said. "You guys are not subtle."
You blinked at her.Ā
You genuinely had not realized that people knew. You and Jack were not actively hiding your relationship persay. The two of you just simply hadn't announced it. You didn't exactly have a social circle to update, and Jack was not the type to stand in the middle of the ER making declarations about his personal life.Ā
But apparently none of that really mattered.Ā
Apparently the entire hospital had functioning eyeballs. Before you could figure out how to respond to that, Trinity continued. "But I gotta ask," she said lowering her voice slightly despite the wicked grin still pulling at her mouth, "is he packing? Because that man walks like it's heavy."
Your brain stalled completely.Ā
Packing? Walks like it, what?Ā Those were only some of the thoughts running through your head. You frowned in confusion. "What?"
Trinity stared at you, disbelieving. "You know," she waved her hands slightly as if that would suddenly make you understand what she was referring to.Ā
"No," you admitted slowly, "I actually don't."
For one horrifying second, you genuinely thought she was talkng about his prosthetic. You eyes flicked instinctively toward Jack again. He shifted slightly near the desk, probably trying to relieve pressure from standing too long.Ā
Concern immediately sparked in your chest.Ā Was his leg hurting him?
"Santos," Dennis whisper hissed, scandalized, "you cannot ask people stuff like that."
"What?" she asked. "I've beenĀ catching printĀ for the last hour. I'm curious!"
Now you were even more confused. What did that even mean,Ā catching print? Surely she wasn't referring to his prosthetic. You didn't have the greatest view of his leg as it was obscured by the other, but even so it was very difficult to notice it under his cargo pants even under the right circumstances.Ā
"Catching what?" you asked.
She blinked at you incredulously. Dennis covered his face with one hand. "You don't know what that means?" she asked.Ā
"Should I?"
In hindsight, the grin that spread across Trinity's face then should have terrified you, but all you felt was embarrassment beginning to creep up your neck. "Oh my god," she breathed. "Okay. Wait."
Before you could react, she stepped closer beside you and pointed subtly towards the command desk. You followed her gaze automatically. Jack still stood talking with Robby and Dana, completely unaware he was currently the subject of discussion.Ā
"I'm confusā"
"Wait for it," Trinity interrupted.Ā
Jack shifted his weight to his good leg, trying to relieve some of the pressure. You noticed immediately because you always noticed when he was compensating with his good leg after a long shift. You eyes dropped instinctively toward the prosthetic, mentally cataloguing the stiffness in his posture and the slight adjustment of his hips.Ā
Beside you, she groaned dramatically. "Higher," she muttered.Ā
Your brows furrowed but you did as you were told and slowly your gaze dragged upward. Past the heavy line of his thigh. Past the dark wash cargo pants that stretched tighter from the weight shift. You finally understood as your gaze landed on his crotch.Ā
Oh.
Oh.Ā
Your entire body stilled because now that you saw, there was no way for you to unsee it. The fabric across the front of his pants had pulled taut enough to reveal the unmistakable outline ofĀ himĀ beneath.Ā
It wasn't obscene or at all intentional. But it was incredibly, horribly noticeable once pointed out. Your stomach dropped directly into hell. Which is exactly where you felt you were.Ā Was it getting hot in here?
It wasn't like this was new information to you. It wasn't like you hadn't seen him naked plenty of times before. It was quite the contrary. You knew exact what Jack looked like beneath his clothes.Ā
You knew the weight of him in your palm, the way his hands gripped your hips when he lost control, you knew the vulgar things that came out of his mouth when he got worked up enough.Ā
This was different. This was public.Ā
This was your boyfriend standing in the middle of the emergency department discussing hospital operations while his coworkers apparently conducted active investigations into the outline of his dick.Ā
Another reason you hated the ER, pointless conversation about topics that were better left unspoken.
And to make matters worse, Jack clearly had no idea. Because you knew that had Jack been turned on right now, his neck would be flushed under his stubble, his fists would flex unconsciously, his shoulders would tense.Ā
Instead he remained entirely relaxed, still focused on whatever Robby was saying. Meaning that it was simply him. Your face went hot enough to physically hurt. Beside you, Trinity looked seconds away from tears from how hard she was trying not to laugh.Ā
You couldn't speak.Ā
You couldn't breath.Ā
Trinity watched your expression transform in real time and absolutely lit up with satisfaction. Because not only had she succeeded in getting her answer, she had effectively embarrassed the life out of you.Ā
"There it is."Ā
Your eyes remained locked on Jack against your will. Because now that you noticed, your brain seemed insistent on replaying memory after memory.Ā Dear God.Ā
Had it always been that noticeable?
You felt mildly sick and somehow even sicker knowing Trinity was watching you realize it. "I, um, have nothing to say on the matter." She finally broke and a loud laugh burst out of her before she slapped Dennis on the shoulder.Ā
"Come on, Huckleberry," she cackled, still grinning wildly. "We've ruined Morgie's morning enough." Then she simply walked away. Leaving you standing there in the break room doorway, staring at your boyfriend across the ER.Ā
You almost didn't answer the door.Ā
The thought had crossed your mind somewhere between your bed and the kitchen island, sometime after you'd buried yourself beneath your comforter and convinced yourself that if you ignored the problem it would eventually disappear.Ā
Unfortunately, simply not answering the door wouldn't make everything alright again, because Jack wasn't actually the problem.Ā
The problem wasĀ you.Ā
It was how Jack madeĀ youĀ feel.Ā
Jack was thoughtful and kind.Ā
The sort of man who noticed when you skipped meals, remembered your favorite takeout order and worried when you took the bus home when he was supposed to drive you.Ā
The sort of man currently standing in your apartment hallway balancing enough food to feed a small family. You chewed nervously on your lip for a moment as you stared through the peephole.Ā
You hesitated opening the door but ultimately unlocked the dead bolt and pulled open the heavy door. "Jack?" you questioned.Ā
The second the door opened, his attention settled on you. "Hey, pretty girl."
The greeting came naturally as if it had been your name forever rather than just for the last few months. His gaze moved over you quickly but it didn't feel invasive or scrutinizing. You could tell he was looking for signs of theĀ sicknessĀ you had told him you'd suddenly come down with.Ā
"Can I come in?"
You didn't really understand why but with those four words, your guilt doubled. Your stomach lurched as you stepped aside without argument. "You didn't have to do all this."
"Yeah, I did," he muttered.Ā
He leaned his crutches against the kitchen island as he began to pull out the various food items.Ā
The apartment suddenly felt smaller with him inside it, and it wasn't because his large frame took up most of your kitchen. His broad shoulders seemed to take up more space than physically possible. But more importantly, when he was here, it felt warmer and homey. Jack made your tiny studio feel different simply by existing in it.Ā
"You look better than I expected."
You could tell the statement was carefully curated. Meant to reassure himself of your state but not as to blatantly sayĀ I knew you were lying when you said you were sick.Ā
So you did what you do best in these situations. You doubled down. "I told you it wasn't serious," you explained.Ā
"Mhm." The hum could have meant absolutely anything and the different possibilities were making your head spin.Ā
You watched him continue unpacking the food. Container after container appeared. Then you also noticed the drink carrier and the large water bottle he pulled out from under his arm.Ā
"I didn't know what sounded good," he explained. "So I got options."
You stared. "Jack . . ," you trailed.Ā
"Breakfast sandwich. Turkey club, incase you were thinking lunch and chicken noodle, if you're feeling nauseous." Another container joined the lineup. "Hash browns, too."
"Jack, thats too much."
"I know you forget to eat sometimes and I am almost ninety nine percent sure that's what's making you feel sick." He finally glances over at you. "So please. Eat."
Your chest tightened because there it was again. That awful problem. The caring and the concern. The complete inability to stop looking after people.Ā
You had spent the entire bus ride home feeling ridiculous. Now you felt ridiculous and guilty. A terrible combination, especially when it came to you.Ā
"You sure your head's the only thing bothering you?" Your eyes snapped upward.Ā
Jack had settled on to the couch now, crutches leaned against the coffee table as he pulled off his prosthetic. Then leaned back against the cushions with the exhausted posture of a man who had spent twelve hours standing.Ā
He tilted his head back and rolled his neck. His legs spread as he shifted further into the couch. Your eyes gravitated towards his thighs and for the first time, you noticed he was wearing gray sweatpants. You immediately looked elsewhere.Ā
"I'm just tired," you said quickly, averting your eyes by any means necessary.Ā
"Baby, you've been tired before." His voice remained calm, very matter-of-fact. "This is different," he continued.Ā
You cursed yourself for letting this silly situation spiral like this. You cursed yourself for letting him in the door and most of all, you cursed yourself for being so damn readable.Ā
He had been in your apartment for all of ten minutes and he had already noticed the change in your behavior. VeryĀ Jack AbbotĀ of him and very much the bane of your existence.Ā
You groaned loudly, "Oh my god, I'm acting weird."
"A little." You hadn't expected him to agree with you so outright, so your face fell a little when you heard his words. Jack immediately softened. "Not bad weird. Just a little off."
The apartment fell quiet. You looked away. Suddenly finding everything else more interesting. The outside city noises. A dog barking somewhere down the street. The soft hum of your ancient refrigerator.Ā
"Honey?"
"Hm?" You respond but you definitely don't look towards him.
"Tell me what's going on."
You continued to stare stubbornly at the floor. If you didn't answer maybe he'd forget. At least that's what your were foolish enough to think. Unfortunately for you, Jack Abbot possessed the patience of a man who spent his life talking terrified patients through terrible situations.Ā
Silence didn't scare him. It merely encouraged him to wait longer. When you sill didn't answer, he sighed. A change in tactics was in store for you. "C'mere."Ā
You blinked, confused, "What?"
"Your shoulders are practically touching your ears." He tipped his chin towards the couch. "Sit down," he ordered.Ā
"I don't thinkā"
"Sit."
His command wasn't malicious or harsh. It wasn't even particularly forceful. Yet somehow you found yourself crossing the room anyway. He shifted immediately to make space for you. The moment you sat down, he maneuvered you until your back was facing him and his hands settled on your shoulders. You nearly folded in half at the feeling.Ā
"Oh my god."
"I told you." His thumbs worked slowly through the knots gathered at the base of your neck. You hadn't noticed how tense you'd gotten until this moment. How every muscle in your body had tightened up in your fucked up sense of self preservation.Ā
But as his hands continued to work over the area, the more you relaxed and in more ways than one. The problem was that Jack's hands felt entirely too good. The problem was also that Jack himself felt entirely too good. The problem was definitely not helped by the gray sweatpants and the fact that you were still very much in the proverbial doghouse you had put yourself in.Ā
"You're tight as hell," he mumbled and a strangled sound escaped before you could stop it. Jack froze, one eyebrow raised. "Okay, seriously. What is going on?"
You immediately covered your face as heat flooded your cheeks. "Hey." A hand squeezed your shoulder. "Come on, baby. We talked about communicating, it's important to me."
You groaned into your hands. "Ugh, it's so embarrassing. I don't wanna tell you."
"Well, now you have to," he teased. "It's just me."
"Exactly my point. It'sĀ you." You swear if he lifted his eyebrows any further they'd brush his hairline. "Alright, now I'm definitely confused."
You debated lying again. Considered a different excuse, something wholly more believable. But again, Jack had that way about him, which somehow made honesty inevitable.Ā
"While I was waiting for you," you finally muttered, "Santos came up to me and she saidā"
Jack straightened immediately. "What? If she crossed a line, I'll have a talk with her."
"No." You sat upright and turned to him so fast his hands slipped from your shoulders. "No. That wouldĀ definitelyĀ not help."
"Okay," he conceded, though suspicion still laced his voice. "Can you tell me what she said?"
You sighed. "She was just being . . ." You searched for the appropriate description. "Being Santos."
"That doesn't answer my question."
"No, I know." You looked down at your hands. "She asked if we were together."
Jack frowned. "Does that make you upset? That people know?"
"No." You almost shout, the answer coming immediately. You softened slightly. "I mean, I know we weren't necessarily hiding it. I just didn't realize how many people knew."
Understanding flickered across his face. Then disappeared almost as quick as it had appeared. "Alright," his voice gentled. "Then what's got you so twisted up?"
And there it was.
This was the moment. The point of no return.Ā
You stared at the wall. Then the floor. Then your hands. Anywhere except Jack. Finally, mortified beyond belief, you mumbled, "she asked if you were 'packing.'"
The silence that followed was immediate.
"What?"
You squeezed your eyes shut, mentally preparing for your next words. "And then she saidāand I quoteā'he walks like it's heavy.'"
For one glorious second, Jack looked too stunned to react. Then he laughed.
It wasn't a cruel laugh or mocking. Just genuinely surprised. Which somehow made it worse. "Oh my god." You buried your face in your hands. "You're laughing at me. I knew this was stupid."
"No, baby." He was still smiling but he was shaking his head and waving his hands. "I'm not laughing at you."
"You literally are," you said bluntly because he really was still laughing.Ā
"It's just kinda silly," he confessed.
"Silly?" you repeated. "What about this is silly?"
Jack shook his head. "So what if people noticed?"
"You don't understand."
"No. I do."
The corners of his mouth twitched. "So what ifĀ youĀ noticed? Ain't nothing you haven't seen before."
"Jack."
"What?"
His expression remained entirely too innocent. "It's the truth."
"Jack!" Your panicked voice earned another laugh. You groaned dramatically. "Stop laughing."
"I'm trying."Ā He absolutely was not.Ā The smile gave him away.Ā
"C'mere." His hand found your wrist before you could retreat again. The gesture was gentle and familiar. "Baby." The amusement faded slightly and he continued, "you're acting like this is some terrible thing."
"It is terrible."
"Why?"
"You weren't there."
"No." His thumb brushed across your skin."Sounds like I missed a hell of a conversation though," he joked.Ā
You glared. The effect was somewhat ruined by the fact that he looked unbearably fond. āI justā" you exhaled. "I know what you look like, okay?Ā Obviously. But that's private."
Your hand waved vaguely between the two of you. "That's ours."
For the first time since arriving, Jack's smile softened completely. "Then suddenly she points it out and now I'm standing there staring at your pants in the middle of the ER like some kind ofĀ pervert."
"Oh."
You narrowed your eyes. āWhat do you meanĀ oh?ā
The grin returned instantly. "Are you jealous other people noticed?"
"No!"
You stood without really thinking it through. This was how it was with you. Your instinct was always flight over fight. Unfortunately, Jack caught your wrist. "Nope." The grin widened. "You started this conversation. You're finishing it."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
His eyes lingered on your face. "You're embarrassed because Dr. Santos pointed out something you already spend a lotta time thinkin' about."
Your mouth dropped open.
"IĀ do not."
One eyebrow lifted. You immediately looked away. Which told him everything he needed to know.
His laugh returned. "Hey." Your eyes remained firmly fixed on the opposite wall. "Pretty girl."
"Jack, that's not helping."
"You know I like knowing you think about me like that, right?"
Your face somehow became hotter. "Stop."
"What?" His expression remained shameless. "Sweetheart, we've slept together. More than once."
"Please stop talking."
"There is nothin' embarrassing about bein' attracted to me." You stared. Jack shrugged. "Frankly, I'd be a little concerned if you weren't."
Despite everything. Despite the embarrassment. Despite Trinity Santos. Despite spending over two hours making yourself miserable, a laugh escaped.
The moment it did, Jack's expression softened.
"There she is."
You rolled your eyes. The words settled somewhere warm despite your best efforts to resist them.
And the knot that had been sitting in your chest since sunrise finally began to loosen.
summary: jack abbot has never been an unprofessional teacher to his med students or his residents, until his new intern starts on night shifts...
content/warnings: inaccurate medical details, inappropriate relationship, unspecified age gap, dirty talk, jack talks you through it, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected sex, no use of y/n NSFW + MDNI! 18+ ONLY!
wc: 5k
notes: my first time writing jack so be gentle
Jack Abbot had been an attending for almost two decades. He's taught dozens of student doctors and residents during that time. He's never had a problem keeping everything professional. He constantly ribbed Robby for his relationship with Heather Collins when she was an intern. In his defence, he wasn't the Chief of Emergency Medicine back then. Just a regular old Attending. And there wasn't really a huge age gap between the two of them. Well, it certainly wasn't inappropriate.
But Robby's romance with Heather fizzled out in the way that all of Robby's romances did. And Jack really didn't have time to concern himself with how his best friend went through women. Sometimes he would think about it in the lull around 1am on the nightshift. Was Robby running away from something rather than towards something with these women? Sometimes he would mention it to his therapist who would peer at him over the frames of her glasses.
"Is that what you really want to talk about right now, Jack?" she would query, and he would simply shake his head.
All this to say, Jack Abbot never had an issue with being professional with his residents. He likes training them up, he had overseen John Shen and Parker Ellis, who chose to stick around on the PTMC night shift. He likes nights, has ever since his wife passed away a decade ago. He used to fight with Robby about who would work day shifts, and then, after he came back to work, he asked Adamson if he could swap to nights permanently. No one questioned it. How could they? Jack had lost his wife and his unborn child.
Romance was not the top of Dr Jack Abbot's list. He had experienced it. And he had no intention of getting on the apps or dating or any of that shit. Anyway, his work schedule wasn't really compatible with dating.
"Brother?"
The voice shakes him from his thoughts. He turns and sees Robby approaching him across the roof.
"Rough night?" his friend asks as he leans against the railing.
Jack just shakes his head. Honestly, it hasn't been. He has no excuse to be up here watching the city of Pittsburgh awaken.
"Just needed to clear my head," he confesses before letting Robby bring him back downstairs.
Robby doesn't question why his friend needs to clear his head. He's been there. They've all been there. This place can suffocate you if you let it. He knows that all too well.
Unfortunately, Robby has no idea that the reason why Jack's head has been spinning isn't some disaster, some rough night, some difficult case. No, the reason why Jack has needed to take walks, take deep soothing breaths and avoid spending time in the on-call room is because of a new intern.
You are currently speaking to Trinity Santos and Samira Mohan, catching up on what has happened. You're currently on your night shift rotation after joining PTMC in the summer. Straight out of med school. You hug Mel when she appears, a little later than the other two. She had to drop her sister at her care facility, and there was an issue. You nod sympathetically as she rambles, before you place a hand on her arm to remind her to take a breath.
Jack is very aware of how much younger you are than him. He is very aware that he is your Attending, your mentor, your teacher. He is someone you look up to...literally. And you look at him through your lashes when he explains something to you he can feel his cock stir in interest. And he feels like a dirty old man. He cannot be doing this.
He would get in so much trouble!
Anyway, a pretty, young thing would never be interested in an old guy like him. So he shakes off his thoughts. He tries not to dream about the way you would squirm under him. He tries not to fist his cock, thinking about you as soon as he gets home from the shifts he shares with you.
You always ask him to walk you through every new procedure. It's something he usually does with the residents, regardless. But he can think of a thing or two that he would rather talk you through instead. You always move so close to him when he has to guide you, he can smell the perfume you always wear to your shift. He can feel the heat radiating from your body and he wants to touch you desperately.
"Dr Abbot," you call, catching him in his thoughts. "Will we do rounds before we get caught helping these guys out again?"
You never mind staying a little bit longer if it got busy in the mornings. You want a good evaluation at the end of the year, of course, from both Dr Robinavitch and Dr Abbot.
Jack blinks as he watches your open and eager face, just waiting for him to give you a command. Instead, he simply nods his head and leads you, Santos, Mohan, and Mel around the beds.
You manage to clock out and change out of your scrubs just after 7:30am. Not bad! You are fumbling with the zipper of your jacket as you walk out of the changing rooms when you walk straight into your Attending, Jack Abbot.
You are counting down the weeks until you're back on days. Dr Jack Abbot seems to hate you. And you can't understand why. Samira and Victoria had both told you that Dr Abbot was so much nicer than Robby. He rarely ever yells and he talks you through procedures, every step. He has a very different teaching style than Robby. But while Robby is always there to help you go through your charts, Abbot avoids you like a plague. He never wants to be around you it would seem.
He is only there when he needs to be. And usually, he's handing you off to Shen when the other Attending is on. You really have no clue what you did to make Abbot hate you like this.
You've worked your ass off to get here. Top of your class in pre-med and med school. That's why you got your first pick of this specific Emergency Department. It's one of the best in the country! In fact, you attended lectures both Robby and Abbot held when you were in college. This was it for you! And Robby always sang your praises.
You refused to have all your hard work get thrown away because your Night Shift Attending hates your guts.
You look up at him through your lashes when you bump into him. He grips your biceps to stop you from stumbling backwards. He's looking down at you, unimpressed, with his chin jutting out. God he hates you.
"S-Sorry, Doctor Abbot," you breathe. "I'll see you tomorrow...or I guess tonight."
He just nods and releases you. You miss how he flexes his hands after touching you just for the briefest moment. And you certainly don't know that he'll fantasise about that interaction in his shower later that morning.
No, you're convinced he hates you and it couldn't be further from the truth.
You trudge back into PTMC that night, 7pm sharp and Matteo is quick to hand you a Red Bull.
"My angel," you say with a smile as you crack it open immediately. It's going to be a long one. Especially when you see Jack Abbot round the corner and crack his neck.
Oh God. Was he coming over to yell at you? Did you do something wrong last night? But no, he ignores you entirely. And somehow that is worse.
You actually don't interact with Dr Abbot until about 2am when you have to help with a trauma. It's stressful, and you feel like your legs are going to collapse from under you.
"That's it, kid," he praises you, walking you through the procedure that has you wrist deep in a man's chest. "That's it. Just like that. Almost there, kid."
It's a nickname that is reserved only for you. He never hears him call any of the other interns, well Santos, that.
"That's it," he breathes again, his hot breath tickling your neck as he watches your every manoeuvre. "That's it. Good girl."
Your eyes flick up to meet his gaze. He's watching you with his chin tilted up just so, making your breathing hitch for just a second. You shake your head and focus back on your patient.
When Dr Walsh finally comes down to bring the patient up to the OR, you are on the brink of tears.
"Good job, kid. You just saved that man's life," Abbot tells you, giving you a half smile.
Your body is trumming with adrenaline. That is the only reasonable explanation for why you do what you do.
You turn to your Attending and throw your arms around him in a tight hug.
Jack freezes. He never expected to be this close to you, having your smaller frame wrapped around him. And his heart is thumping. He is willing, no demanding, his cock to behave. It's not long before you realise what you've done and jump away.
"Sorry! Sorry!" you repeat before pulling off your gown and gloves and rushing off.
Jack calms his breathing, tells Lena he's taking fifteen and heads up to one of the abandoned wards. He should not but doing this as he locks the door to one of the rooms. But it's not even five minutes later that his cock is loose and he is stroking himself thinking of you. He can still smell you on his skin. Even that brief interaction drove him mad. He swears as he cums in his hand, catching his load so it doesn't spill onto his scrubs. He can't go back down like that.
He takes a walk up and down the hall before going back down and finishing off his shift. As soon as Robby walks in, Jack ambushes him.
"Can we talk?" he asks.
Robby looks at his friend with weary eyes. He hasn't even had a second to put his bag down. But he allows it, letting Abbot bring him into the breakroom.
"I was thinking of releasing the Kid back to days," Jack says simply, busying himself by making coffee.
This surprises Robby, who leans against the countertop.
"She hasn't finished her rotation. It's her intern year, it's important that she completes everything," he reminds Jack.
Jack sniffs, twisting his mouth to the side and nods.
"Yep, but we run a tight ship here. And I think you need more hands on Day Shift. Anyway, no need to fuck up a good cicidian rhythm for the sake of rules," he says with a hand wave.
Robby watches the way his friend moves. Jack is usually all about eye contact, to an unnerving degree but Robby cannot catch the shorter man's eye this morning. And finally the pieces click into place.
"She's very young, Jack," he crows, a triumphant smirk on his face.
Finally something, or someone, has penetrated Jack's walls.
"I am aware, Robby. That is why I am asking you to do me a solid and remove her from the rotation," he grits out, finally meeting his friend's smirk.
While Robby agrees, neither man realises you are outside. You had made your way over after Langdon showed you another video of Penny crawling to grab your lunchbox. But all you heard was how your Attending was asking the Chief of the ED to do him a "solid" and get you kicked off night shift.
You turn on your heel and leave before anyone can stop you, lunchbox be damned.
You're dreading your next shift. You change into your scrubs slowly, you tie your hair back and finally make your way onto the ward. You tug at the sleeves of your grey undershirt and frown when your gaze lands on Abbot.
He nods at you, motioning for you to follow him. And you do. He walks you into an empty room and pulls the curtain.
"I know, you want me off nights," you say before he can start. You don't need to hear the whole song and dance from your boss who clearly hates you.
"Kid," he begins, but you shake your head.
"Don't call me kid. I'm not...I'm a good doctor. I'm still learning, I work so hard. I've never had any issues with any of the Attendings. So I'm really sorry that I have offended you in whatever way I have," you snap.
Jack sighs, "You can finish your shift and start back with Robby on Monday."
You nod and storm off, tears thick on your lashes. You have to take a few minutes to cool down before you start working.
You manage to avoid Jack Abbot for almost six months. Even when you have a double shift scheduled, Jack is always off. You do your rounds with Shen. He chuckles and shakes his head as you actively avoid dealing with the older man.
"He's not that bad," Shen says one night with a sparkle in his eyes.
"Uh huh," you say as you take the decaf iced coffee Shen has started to bring in for you when you're doing handover. "Not like he got me kicked off night shift."
"You really didn't wanna be stuck with us," Shen responds with a smile.
You roll your eyes. It's true, you didn't plan on staying on night shift permanently. But it was part of the job! You're concerned that his cutting your rotation short will affect your progress in your intern year! You grumble about it to Santos at least once a week.
At one point, she suggests you just "kiss and make up," and you throw a chest tube at her.
But one evening, you get a call from a very desperate Shen, Parker called out sick and they are scrambling for someone.
"Can't someone work a double?" you grouse.
You really, really don't want to work with Abbot. Not tonight! You've just gotten home from a day out with friends. Your hair is carefully curled and you even have makeup on. Something that rarely happens when you go to work. So your grumbling as you walk into the Pitt.
"It better be a quiet night," you point at Shen as you walk in with your bag slung over your shoulder.
Jack Abbot's eyes flick up when he hears your voice. He wasn't expecting to see you. And you take his breath away. Moreso than you do when you're running around the hospital in your scrubs that fit just a little too well. You're not even wearing anything fancy, just jeans and a form fitting tank top. That is worse than the scrubs. He swallows thickly trying not to swallow his tongue.
"Jack?" Lena is saying, following his gaze, before smirking to herself.
The only person that is oblivious to how Jack really feels about you is, well, you.
He shakes his head and returns to his chart and lets Lena walk him through what he's missed. But it's not long before you're back out on the floor, changed into your scrubs with your hair tied back now. But Jack can't stop tracking your every movement.
You're sure you've jinxed yourself when you demand a quiet night, but all things considered, you're not run off your feet. Until 5am rolls around and a crash comes in. It's tough and you just can't manage to figure out how to stop the internal bleeding.
"Hey! Look at me," Jack all but growls at you. "You need to focus. Breathe and fuckin' focus, kid."
You try, you fucking try your best but none of it matters. Doctor Park comes in and take up to OR but they lose him on the table. And it's your fault. You should have been able to stop the bleeding!
You're worked up and the day shift is slowly starting to trickle in so you climb up to the abandoned ward on the eighth floor. You just need to breathe. To think. And not have Dr Abbot watching every move you make, waiting for you to fuck up. Again.
You're pacing back and forth, trying to stop the tears that are threatening to overtake you from flowing down your face. And then you spot his shadow in the doorway.
"Kid?" Jack Abbot's husky voice asks.
He didn't plan to run into you. Obviously, he would rather avoid it, but he had seen movement when he was on his way to the roof to take a breather. He didn't want some lawsuit on his ass because he had ignored a squatter. But worse it was the intern he has been successfully avoiding for the better part of six months.
You still hadn't left his thoughts, though. Sometimes he would catch a glimpse of you if he came in early or when he came to meet Robby for lunch. He would sometimes find hints of your perfume around the ED and it made him stop dead in his tracks. And yes, he was still cumming into his hand, groaning out your name.
He really should speak to his therapist about it all. It was all so fucked up.
Your glassy eyes meet his gaze, and you just burst into tears. He's probably come up here to yell at you. Tell you that you can't just hide when something goes wrong.
Instead, he doesn't. Despite Jack Abbot's better judgement, he closes the door, crosses the room and bundles you up into a hug. He really shouldn't be doing that. But you're sobbing!
It takes you maybe 30 seconds before you realise what is going on and pull away from him. He steps back immediately, clasping his hands behind his back.
"I wasn't even supposed to be working tonight," you finally snap. "I cam in as a favour to Shen."
You say the other Attending's name pointedly.
"And if I need a second to compose myself after losing a patient, I'm going to take it. And I don't need you to come up here and tell me what a shitty doctor I am, I can do that on my own, thank you very much."
"I wasn't gonna-" Abbot begins but you're not finished on your tirade.
"I just don't understand why you hate me! I have worked so hard to be here!" you say finally looking at him, you face red with tears and from your yelling.
Jack had a half smirk on his face as you ranted, but it immediately fades at the idea of him hating you.
"You think I hate you?" he asks, cocking his head to the side in surprise.
You let out a small laugh.
"You asked Robby to move me off night shift," you remind him. "Because you run a tight ship."
His words still echo in your head all these months later. You wait for his response but there is none. He's still staring at you; the man loves nothing if not eye contact. But his mouth is screwed up in concern now.
"I don't hate you, kid," he finally breathes out, his voice soft and raspy. It makes you stomach twist in a way you didn't expect.
You open your mouth to argue back. How could he not hate you? But you don't get a chance because he has closed the space between you and pulled you into a searing kiss. A kiss that has your whole body feeling like you're static. You can't even think as his silver stubble rubs against your soft skin. Your tongue delves into his mouth and you let out a soft moan at his taste. You can't help yourself. You thought all this time he hated you. And yet his rough hands were grasping at your ass over your scrubs.
Your lips on his neck bring him back to this moment. You don't realise how hungry you are for him until he's presented in front of you. Your Attending, your Attending that you thought hated you is now groaning out for your kisses. You pull at his scrub top trying to see how far the freckles on his neck go. But he stops you.
Fuck. Have you gone too far?
But he's pulling you closer, kissing you again. He lifts you, easily and carries you to the unused bed in the corner.
"I don't hate you, kid," he growls as he lays you down.
Now its his turn to kiss down your silky neck, down to the swell of your breast. He laves at your hardened nipples over the fabric of the bra before he crawls over you and unhooks it. He lets out a groan as your breasts fall free and he dives between them, sucking and licking and biting. He focuses on the skin around your nipples before sucking and teasing each hardened peek. Your buzzing brain is wondering if you can cum by nipple play alone. And if Jack Abbot had more time, you were sure you could. By the time he's finished, you're covered in love marks.
He pulls away a smirk on his face as he kisses down your stomach down to the top of your scrub pants.
"You don't-" you begin which causes Jack to surge up and kiss you hard.
You take this chance to pull his scrub top off and let out your own appreciative groan at his freckle covered biceps and chest. He's spent a lot of time in the sun...without a shirt it would seem. You get dizzy thinking about him sweating as he chops wood in his back garden. As if the Adonious isn't in front of you right now.
"Like what you see, kid?" he asks with a cocky smirk.
Usually, you would roll your eyes, but all you can do is nod as he begins his journey back down your body once more. When he gets to your scrub bottoms, he pulls them and your soaking panties off in one swift move. He groans as he watches your wetness stick to you fabric of your underwear.
"All for me, baby?" he growls as he kisses over your mound. "You walkin' around the hospital like that every time we work together, huh? Cos I was hard enough to pound nails when I was working with you. Useda have t' come up here just to jerk off to the thought of you."
You whimper out at the filth coming out of his mouth.
"Been dreaming about what you would taste like," he breathes, blowing a warm stream of air over your cunt.
You writhe underneath him already and he hasn't even touched you. You whimper as he places a soft kiss over your weeping folds. You haven't been touched in so long. And Dr Jack Abbot knows what he's doing. He presses kisses over your pussy, peppering a few over your clit. And then he's pressing his tongue inside you, moving between that and lapping at your clit.
You can feel that familiar coil of pleaesure build and build and build. One rough hand comes up to tease your hardened nipple as he focuses his attention to your clit.
"Cum for me, baby," he demands as he spits onto your cunt. "Cum for me, now."
He focuses his efforts back down on your clit, moving his tongue in time with the fingers on your nipple and within seconds you're crying out his name as you absolutely soak his face.
Your release is sparkling over his lips, catching in his stubble. You go cross-eyed at the sight. He climbs up the bed to kiss you, claiming you desperately.
"Fuck, Jack, I need you," you beg him between kisses, your fingers tangling in his hair.
"Baby, we don't need to do anymore," he breathes, just happy to have made you cum like that.
You shake your head. You need more. You demand more.
"Need you inside me, please? Need you to fuck me," you beg.
You've never begged before, but the way Jack Abbot is on top of you, still gripping onto one of your thighs...well, you can't help but beg.
"Ya want me to fuck you, baby?" he coos all sweet. Hell, he even pouts.
You just nod, rubbing your thighs together as you dream about getting a sight of him. He's already tented against his scrub pants, and your eyes flick between his hazel eyes and his crotch. He gives you a cocky smirk, and by God has he earned that cockiness, and simply flips you onto your stomach. He gives the rounded flesh of your ass a smack as he presses his chest right onto your back.
"Hands and knees, baby," he growls into your ear, his teeth grazing over your lobe.
You scramble to do exactly as he tells you. It's a struggle with him kissing down your neck and over your shoulder. But you do it.
"Good girl," he praises as he sits back on his heels and pushes his scrub pants down his thigh.
Not enough to let the pretty, young intern see his prosthetic. He's not ashamed of it. But he doesn't need you asking questions...especially not right now. Now, he needs to be balls deep inside you. He pumps his angry cock that's dripping with pre-cum, admiring the view in front of him. You've arched your back just right, your legs spread enough for him to see how wet you are for him. Your slick has coated your thighs.
He can't help but reach out and land a sharp smack to your cunt.
"Ready, baby?" he asks as he moves forward.
You simply nod but that doesn't satisfy Jack. He gives your pussy another slap, earning him a little mewl from you.
"Words, baby," he growls.
"Yes," you manage to whimper as you hands twist into the sheets of the hospital bed.
He plants a kiss between your shoulder blades before he presses the blunt head of his cock against your folds. He lets out a grunt as he settles into you, slowly, torturously slow until he bottoms out inside you.
"Atta girl," he praises as he kneads at your ass.
He takes a second to adjust to you before he rocks his hips forward. Then he slowly starts picking up the pace, his hand grips your hair and pushes your face into the pillow. You never imagined that Jack Abbot would be loud in bed, but he's grunting and groaning over you.
"Wanna hear you," he demands, tugging your hair so your cheek is pressed against the pillow and your moans are finally unmuffled.
Jack closes his eyes and drinks in the sweet cries you make as he slams in and out of you.
"That's it, baby. You can take more, can't you?" he growls as he pulls you apart with each thrust.
It's like when he walks you through a procedure, so thorough...but so much hotter.
"I can feel that pretty pussy already pulsing. Are you gonna cum for me again? On my cock, pretty girl?" he gruffs out.
Honestly, his own orgasm is on the horizon. But he's a gentleman, and he won't finish before you. He's just gotta coach you throw it.
"Baby, I wanna feel you cum for me. Cum on my cock, huh?" he gruffs as he pulls your hair up.
He uses this leverage to pull you flush against his chest. One hand wraps around your waist to keep you upright as his thrusts get more and more erratic. But he manages to snake the rough palm up your body to paw at your breast. His other hand slides down to your clit.
"You're close, baby," he tells you, right into your ear. He kisses over your neck. "Can feel ya...ya got another one for me. Huh?"
You nod before you cry out his name. You drop your head back against his shoulder.
"I'm right there with ya, baby. Right there," he grunts, kissing over your face as best he can at this angle. "Fuck...fuck...that's it, baby."
You can feel him fill you with white, hot spurts of his cum.
"Take me, baby, take me. Gonna fill that pussy. Fuck," he growls.
He captures your lips in a heady kiss as you both come down from your highs. You feel him grow soft and he slides out of you with a wet pop. He grabs the blanket and gives his cock a quick clean before pulling up his pants. You collapse back onto the bed completely spent. He grabs his scrub top and redresses. He dips into the adjoining bathroom of the room to wet a cloth. He cleans up the mess he made between your legs. Your vision is still spotty so you let him. And let him kiss you once more.
You finally become more aware of what you just did. Who you just did it with. And where you just did it.
You sit up looking for your clothes, but Dr Abbot is already at the door.
"Our little secret, kid," he practically purrs, throwing you a wink before he disappears back down to the ED, leaving you alone with a lot to process.
Goodbye / Means that you're losing me for life / Can't call it love then call it quits / Can't shoot me down then shoot the shit / Did you forget that it was you who said / Goodbye / So you don't get to be the one who cries / Can't have your cake and eat it too / By walking out that means you choose / Goodbye
Overview: You loved Andrew, even if that meant accepting he would always be in love with someone else. But things changed between you before he went to jail. You thought that maybe you finally meant something. Then you get the letter he'd meant to send to Cath and you have to accept that he never saw you as anything but an easy lay.
You left the Codys behind years ago. Now, Pope's at your door and you don't know what to do with the story he's telling you.
wc: 9.2K
the end of my extravaganza
The first time it happened, you were at Andrewās house. Smurf had been pissed at the boys for a reason you canāt even remember. So theyād raided their brotherās house, used his pool, and thrown a party he hadnāt realized was happening until he got home with you.
Youād been out shopping with him all day. You were trying to help him find furniture to make his sterile house feel like a home.Ā
Youād laughed when you saw his brothers abusing their privileges and smoking by his pool. It had cut off when you saw how still heād gone at the mess theyād left. With a sigh, you took the shopping bags from his hands and walked into his living room.Ā
āI hate when they do this,ā he muttered, and you didnāt respond, knowing he wasnāt really talking to you. Just out loud so he could try to regulate himself before he got really angry.Ā
When he stayed quiet too long, you looked up and found him standing by the island. Face pinched with as close to visible anger as youād seen in a while.
āSmurf will forgive them soon,ā you reassured. His eyes shot up to yours, and you offered a weak smile. āThe novelty of raiding their big brotherās house will wear off.ā
Andrew rolled his eyes, and you bit back a smile as he walked over to help you with the bags. āI think that couch you ordered will look really nice with the blankets you got,ā you told him, cutting off the tags to throw them in the wash.Ā
āYou picked them,ā he reminded you, eyes darting up to meet yours before looking away. You hummed to yourself, a proud smile on your face as you realized that your touch would always be a part of what he called home.Ā
The peaceful bubble youād surrounded yourself with shattered as his sliding glass door opened. āOh.ā Your shoulders tensed as you recognized the voice. āYouāre home.ā Cath offered a stilted smile to Andrew as he froze where he was standing.Ā
You walked out of the laundry room and shot her a grin you hoped passed as friendly and not sick to your stomach. āWe went shopping today. Iām trying to make this place look less like a psych ward.ā
Cathās eyes narrowed as you loaded Andrewās new dishes into the dishwasher. He remained still beside you, fist clenched on the granite counter while he looked anywhere but at Cath.Ā
āI didnāt realize you moved in,ā she offered, something about her tone making you defensive. When you looked up, her brows were raised, a knowing look on her face that needled at your skin.Ā
āShe didnāt,ā Andrew interjected before you could. Your jaw snapped shut with a click as Cath scoffed.Ā
āI figured,ā she muttered, cutting you a look that had you clenching your fists so you didnāt hit her.Ā
The sliding door opened again and Craig lumbered in, brows raising when he saw the stand-off happening. He let out a low whistle, wet feet slapping across the floor as pool water dripped off him.
āWhatās going on?ā He chuckled, the shithead knowing exactly what was happening.Ā
He took a drag from the blunt in his hand, grin widening when he saw how Andrewās jaw clenched at the smoke billowing in his house. āWant some?ā He offered, holding it out.
You took it before Andrew could, needing something to calm you down. āYou know heās a dick about this shit,ā you snapped, taking a long drag.
It was cruel, you knew that. But nobody ever claimed hanging around the Cody men made someone less emotionally volatile.Ā
You headed toward the door, stripping off your clothes. Youād learned a while ago that it was better to just keep a bathing suit on underneath if you were hanging out with Andrew that day. You usually ended up at the pool or the beach; there was little in between.Ā
Craig chuckled behind you as you walked outside. āYeah, heās the dick,ā he muttered. You forced yourself to ignore the dig and headed down to the pool. You threw yourself onto the chair closest to Deran. He tended to just leave you alone, and his typically miserable demeanor deterred others from approaching, as well.Ā
Sucking in a sharp breath, you clenched your eyes shut and tried to pretend you were just tanning. Of course, Deran decided today was the day to test out being chatty. āHow was the little shopping spree with Pope?ā
Rolling your eyes, you tilted your head to look over at him. There was a knowing smirk on his face that had you tensing up. āFine,ā you grit out, hoping he might take the hint.Ā
āYou run into Cath?ā He taunts, clearly knowing the answer. The Cody family skill seems to be pissing you off.Ā
Flicking your sunglasses up, you shoot him a glare. āWhatāre you getting at, Deran?ā
He shrugs and relaxes back on his chair. āThat my brotherās a fucking idiot,ā he shoots back, tone casual.Ā
āAm I that obvious?ā
The snort he lets out is an answer enough. With a small smile, you lean back on the chair and shake your head. āI donāt get it, man,ā Deran continues; clearly, heās taken something thatās loosened his tongue. Heās not typically cold toward you, but the pair of you arenāt exactly close.Ā
āGet what?ā you mutter, trying to relax the tenseness in your muscles.Ā
āYou hang around him all the time. Put up with all his weird shit. You even do fucking shopping trips together.ā You peek an eye open and catch him shaking his head in disbelief. āCath canāt even look him in the eye.ā He scrubs a hand down his face. āI donāt know what goes on in his head.ā
āI donāt think anyone does,ā you scoff, biting back the burn rising in your throat.Ā
āNo, but youāve come the closest.ā You donāt think Deran understands just how much it hurts hearing him say all of this. Itās easy enough, lying to yourself and pretending youāre not obvious. That the reason Andrew doesnāt reciprocate is that you havenāt shown him how you feel.Ā
But when Deran- hell, when even Craig picks up on your hints- you know it has nothing to do with how obvious you are and everything to do with the fact that you are simply not the woman he wants.Ā
A minute later, a shadow descends over you. Frowning, you look up and see Andrew hovering, mouth pinched as he stares. Your nose wrinkles at the smell of Craigās weed wafting off him.
āDid you smoke?ā
He nods and you frown. āYou donāt smoke,ā you point out. Andrew takes the conversation as an invitation to perch at the end of your chair.Ā
āWhy not?ā He shrugs and it only serves to confuse you further. He holds the blunt out to you. You suck your teeth, but it only takes a second for you to accept. Some ridiculous part of you thinks about how his lips had been wrapped around it only a second before as you take a puff.Ā
Thatās how it happened the first time. Youād been pissy about his infatuation with Cath. Heād probably been hurt by a comment you hadnāt meant. You got high off weed, and youāre sure Craig had laced it with something else. The next morning, your head felt fuzzy, and memories of the day before came back to you slowly.Ā
It had taken you longer than youād like to admit to realize there was an arm slung around your waist. Then, Andrew had woken up, both of you frozen as you realized what youād done the night before.Ā
āHoly shit,ā you whispered, sheets pulled up around your naked chest as you stared down at your lap.Ā
Andrew flexed his hands, eyes not meeting yours as he glared at his comforter. āI donāt remember,ā he muttered.Ā
You shook your head, āI donāt either,ā but it was undeniable, considering that was your underwear thrown on his floor.Ā
āWe should try again.ā Your head whipped up and you ignored how it made your vision swim. He held your gaze, face deadly serious. Your jaw dropped, lips parting as you struggled for words.Ā
āWhat?ā You squeaked out.
āWe should try again,ā he repeated, just as blunt as he was the first time around. āNeither of us remembers anything.ā You donāt know why you almost said no. Almost denied what youād wanted since the day you met him. But something seemed to think this wasnāt right.Ā
Maybe you wanted it to be more romantic. Or for this to have happened after a date when you were actually sure he really cared about you as more than just a quick lay. But a part of you, deep down, knew that was likely to never happen. So youād nodded, eyes closing as he dipped his head, lips meeting yours hesitantly.Ā
It only took a slight tilt of your head, hands dropping the sheets from your chest as you moved toward him, for him to fully give in. His hands gripped your waist, tugging you onto his lap as you slung your arms over his shoulders. Thatās how the first time you actually remember happened.Ā
And then, it kept happening. Your friendship continued as it always had. Youād go out for lunch and dinner. Breakfast sometimes if you stayed the night.
The pair of you might go shopping for his new house or just to get away from his mother. Occasionally, it ended with sex. But that wasnāt always consistent.Ā
It both hurt and was reassuring. On the one hand, you wished he would want you as much as you wanted him. Not just when he needed a moment of reprieve.
But, at the very least, that meant he didnāt just see you as some sex toy now. He still cared about you the same way he did before. Youāre not sure if it made you happy or upset how little the sex changed your relationship with Andrew.Ā
When it did happen, youād pretend he wasnāt thinking about another woman. That it was just you in his mind, that he was okay, that it was you in his arms and not Cath. You could lie to yourself that it didnāt bother you. That you were okay with this as long as you had some piece of him.Ā
It was never enough to stop the hurt from seeping through.Ā
You remember one time, a few months after this new thing with Andrew started, Smurf invited you out. It was clear enough that Smurf didnāt like you. But she hadnāt minded as much when you were just an occasional presence in her house.Ā
However, when you and Andrew got more physical, you were at her place a lot more than you had been before. The sex had changed little about your relationship except that you became clingier than you would have liked to be.
You started hanging around with him more, waiting for that little extra bit of attention he occasionally spared you. It was pathetic; you knew that, but you were hopeless when it came to Andrew. You always had been.Ā
His arm was slung around you while you watched some brutal animal documentary on some beast called a Shoebill. Youād been cringing at the way it was staring down the lens of the camera when Smurf had walked in.Ā
āWell,ā she rasped, a tight smile on her face. āIsnāt this cute?ā
Andrewās arm had tensed around you as he drew you closer, eyes pointedly kept on the screen. Her glare narrowed as she walked down the steps to the living room. āYouāve been around a bit more, hun.ā
You shifted uncomfortably under her stare, hand tightening in Andrewās shirt as you shrugged, offering a half-hearted smile. āI guess so.ā
Her head tilted and she kept walking until she was standing just right to block the TV. āAre you two finally dating?ā
āNo,ā Andrew was quick to answer. You bit your lip, swallowing down the hurt as you tried to shift away. He didnāt seem to notice, his arm just as tight around you as he straightened up.
āWeāre not dating,ā he doubled down, and you resisted the urge to crawl away and hide in some dark corner.Ā
Smurf hummed, clearly unconvinced. āāCourse not,ā she reassured, her voice sickeningly sweet. Her attention drifted back to you.
You grit your teeth, pretending like you werenāt just the slightest bit afraid. Not necessarily of her, but of the hold you knew she had on Andrew. It wouldnāt take much for her to wrench the two of you apart.Ā
āYou have plans this Saturday, sweetie?ā
You grew cold as Andrew withdrew his touch. He leaned forward, his glare steady on his mother, and you frowned. āDon't,ā he warned, his lips a tense line of irritation.Ā
Her gaze snapped to his, brows furrowing with consideration before she redirected her attention. āWell?ā
āUh,ā you swallowed roughly and spared Andrew a glance before shaking your head. āNo, no plans.ā
āPerfect,ā she hummed. āYou can join Pope and me then.ā
āSmurf,ā he tried again, getting to his feet. You stared up at him in surprise. He didnāt typically butt heads with her like this.Ā
āThatās enough, baby. Donāt be rude.ā Smurf fixed him with a firm look before stalking back out of the room. Your brows furrowed as you waited for him to sit back down. Instead, he glared down at the coffee table, fists clenched at his sides.Ā
āAndrew,ā you tried, getting to your feet. You reached for his arm, but he jerked away.Ā
āLetās go,ā he demanded, already heading to the front door. You followed after him, but he didnāt give you any more answers. Just drove you to his house.Ā
He still seemed out of character when he took you to his bed that night. Strangely desperate, more handsy than usual. Like he was afraid you might slip away in the middle of the night, change your mind about the whole deal.Ā
Like you ever would. The idea was laughable.Ā
Andrew drove you on Saturday. To where, you couldnāt say. You got lost when paved roads turned to gravel, and it started to look like he was driving you out to some warehouse to be murdered in.Ā
When heād stopped on a random cemented piece of land with trucks and bikes scatteringly parked, you almost didnāt get out. But you trusted him. As much as you probably shouldnāt. So, youād let him open your door, help you out of the car, and followed behind.Ā
He didnāt speak. He hadnāt the whole morning. Just kept his eyes pointed anywhere but your face. Still, he seemed to linger more than normal. Hand staying wrapped around yours. Walking closer than he typically does.Ā
The odd behavior, even from an already odd man, had you on edge. Smurf being behind this whole thing didnāt help soothe you at all. No, the closer you got to what sounded like loud, drunken cheering, the more your stomach soured.Ā
āWhen are you going to tell me what weāre doing?āĀ
Andrew paused, head dipping between his shoulders as he sucked in a sharp breath. You waited with bated breath, the prolonged silence making you antsy to just get the hell out of there. āI need you to-ā
āThere you are!ā Smurf walked up, a malicious grin on her face. Her oversized sunglasses hid her eyes, but you still felt the ill intent in her gaze.
āHere I thought you werenāt going to show. I shouldāve known better.ā She reached forward and squeezed Andrewās shoulder, drawing him away from you as she draped herself over him. Your nose wrinkled with poorly hidden disgust. āMy baby boy doesnāt disappoint.ā
You offered a weak chuckle to try to disguise the visceral hatred you felt toward the woman. It only got worse when you saw how Andrew couldnāt meet your eyes, unable to get out from under her touch.Ā
It didnāt matter if it was a stranger, a friend, even her own daughter; Smurf didnāt play nice with other women. Desperate to be the only one in her boysā lives. Whatever she had planned for you today was certain to be an attempt at kicking you out of Andrewās.Ā
Sucking in a sharp breath, you motioned for her to lead the way. You were determined not to let her win this time.Ā
Andrew needed a win; you werenāt about to be another disappointment.Ā
Though that conviction of yours weakened the closer you got to the cheering. It was gone by the time you realized what exactly she was having him do today. Inside a metal cage, two men were beating each other bloody, the people watching screaming insults as cash was traded between different hands.Ā
āGod dammit,ā you muttered, ripping your gaze away at the sound of a wet crunch as one of the men dropped to the ground.Ā
āWeak stomach?ā Smurf taunted, shoving Pope forward before he could say anything to you. A burly man covered in tattoos jerked him forward by the neck, bending to whisper something in his ear.Ā
You bit your lip and turned toward Smurf. She had seated herself in a foldable chair. It could have been confused for a throne with how comfortable she looked in it. āNo,ā you responded, refusing to let her twisted little games beat you out.Ā
āYouāll have one by the end,ā she promised, taking a swig from her flask as she turned her attention toward the cage match. Seeing as she hadnāt deigned to provide you a place to sit, you moved closer to the crowd. You werenāt keen on being so close to her, anyway. Youād rather be in the spray-zone of blood than have to stomach her company much longer.Ā
Pope walked into the ring, knuckles wrapped and eyes boring only into his opponent. He didnāt look outside the cage, not to you, not to his mother. You supposed it was for the best that neither of you got in his head while he was beating another man to a pulp.Ā
You closed your eyes for a moment, jumping as a bell rang and the small crowd started cheering. You kept them closed, right up until you heard the first sound of flesh breaking against flesh. With a rough swallow, you forced yourself to look as Andrew was shoved into the metal chain, ducking just before the other manās fist connected with his face.Ā
Taking a step back, you tried not to grimace as he spit blood onto the cage floor. You could do this for him. You could handle a little while of blood and violence, if only to make sure Smurf doesnāt get to enjoy the victory of chasing you away.Ā
Nails biting into your palms, you forced yourself to be still. To not react to the blood and teeth that went flying. Or the way you could already see welts and bruises forming along Andrewās ribs. You made your way through it, right up until the end of the match, when Andrew was standing over the other man, chest heaving and bare chest covered in marks that made you hurt for him.Ā
Then, in your peripheral, you saw Smurf walking up to the man running the match. Her gaze met yours as she whispered something to him. Your heart dropped as you realized she wasnāt going to let this stop until you or Andrew tapped out.Ā
Head whipping back to him, you felt yourself go light-headed as an even bigger man than the last walked in. He hardly waited for the bell to ring before he was swinging at Andrew. You watched as he dropped to the ground, shaking the ringing from his ears as he ducked away from another punch.Ā
You didnāt want to give Smurf the satisfaction of seeing you run scared. But you also werenāt going to be the reason Andrew was beaten bloody just so she could prove a point. With the best terrified expression you could muster, you went running, ignoring the barb of fury as Smurf smirked, completely victorious. You didnāt stop until you reached Andrewās truck.Ā
Guilt twisted your stomach into knots. He might not have been looking at you, but it wouldnāt take long to realize you were gone. You knew him, knew that he would be quick to assume the worst. But that was better than having to watch him lie bloody in the cage.Ā
With a sharp breath, you leaned against his truck, head tipped back as you waited for this to be over. It took about another half hour before you saw him approaching. His head was down, pace furious as he undid the wrap around his knuckles.Ā
You jolted up, lips pinched as your stomach twisted. He stopped short when he finally saw you waiting, and you offered a tentative smile that probably read more like a grimace. His brows furrowed as he closed the distance between you. Hands flexing at his sides, you felt like he wanted to reach out; maybe you were projecting, but you took the leap anyway.Ā
āHow bad does it hurt?ā You asked, taking his hand in yours and frowning at the split skin of his knuckles.Ā
āI thought you left,ā he muttered, stepping even closer.Ā
You already knew he would expect the worst, but the lack of faith still hurt. āSmurf clearly wanted me gone. I figured sheād be done with it if she thought I ran scared.āĀ
āBut you didnāt.ā He stared at you, eyes narrowed like he didnāt quite believe you.Ā
āI didnāt,ā you smiled softly. āNow, keys, I donāt trust that you donāt have a concussion.ā He didnāt argue as he placed them in your palm, leaning into you when you reached up to press a kiss to the unmarred spot on his cheek. āLet's get you home,ā you murmured, rounding the front of his truck.Ā
The ride, like that morning, was quiet. You didnāt push, letting him stew until you pulled up his driveway. āCome on,ā you motioned him inside, guiding him toward his bathroom so you could clean him up a bit.Ā
He took a seat on the rim of his tub, eyes intent on tracking you as you dug around under the sink for the first-aid supplies. You spent so much time at his house that it was practically more familiar to you than your own place.Ā
It was when you were kneeling down in front of him that he finally spoke. āI didnāt want you to see that,ā he admitted, eyes glaring down at his bathmat. Your hand hovered over his cheek.Ā
You dipped your head to meet his gaze and grinned. āWhy? Because that second guy knocked you on your ass?ā He let out a little huff and you figured thatās the closest to a laugh youād get today. āIām not scared of you, Andrew,ā you promised, putting the alcohol swab to the side for a moment.Ā
When he still wouldnāt meet your eye, you lifted your hand, careful of his cuts as you cupped his cheek. Gently, you tilted his face toward yours, imploring him to just listen to you, for once. His eyes darted between yours, expression tightening before it slowly softened. He nodded, letting his weight rest in your hand.Ā
You stayed the night, slept beside him, his arms tight around you while you held him back. You didnāt have sex, but you think that was better than if you had. Andrew needed something gentle in his life. A relationship that gave without anything expected in return. You never had any problems being that for him.Ā
āSo,ā you glanced around the restaurant, feeling more than a little out of place. āWhy the change of plans?ā You turned your attention back to Andrew, hoping you didnāt look as uncomfortable as you felt.Ā
Tonight, you were supposed to have dinner at his place. Possibly convince him to watch the new horror movie that just came out so you wouldnāt have to suffer through it alone. Instead, heād told you to wear something nice and dragged you to a restaurant so fancy there was a chandelier over your table.Ā
It should be telling you donāt belong here if you think a chandelier is the epitome of class.Ā
Nails drumming along the table, your eyes dart between the nicely dressed couples and waiters with better posture than your own. The Codys had money, sure, but that didnāt mean class. And youād known Andrew before theyād made a name for themselves. This wasnāt your sort of place, and you knew it wasnāt Andrewās.Ā
āI thought you might like it,ā Andrew answered, his voice low as he stared down at the menu. Your brows furrowed, but you decided not to push. He was clearly trying to make an effort. You didnāt want him to feel bad because the judgmental glares of the staff made you want to crawl out of your skin.Ā
āWell,ā you hummed, struggling for a kind word. āItās nice,ā you settled on lamely.Ā Ā
His brows rose and you let out a stiff chuckle. āYou donāt like it.ā You must have an even worse poker face than you thought.Ā
Shrugging, you lean back in your seat. āIt just doesnāt seem like your sort of place.ā
Andrew frowns and you worry you might have offended him. āI thought youād be sick of my sort of place.ā
Scoffing, you shake your head. āWhy would you think that?ā
He lets out a hefty sigh, hand scrubbing along his jaw. āItās just something Baz told me.ā Well, his first mistake was ever taking advice from Baz. āWhen he and Cath started dating, he said she didnāt like just hanging out at the house all the time.ā
Jaw tightening, you suck your teeth, forcing your face to remain kind. āIām not Cath,ā you remind him, though youāre sure youāre both bitter about that fact.Ā
His eyes shoot up to meet yours, his frown deepening at the expression on your face. āI know that-ā
āThen donāt try to treat me like her,ā you cut in, your tone far more venomous than youād meant. Andrew draws back, and you suck in a sharp breath. āI want to leave,ā you tell him, tossing your napkin on the table and finding it difficult to meet his eyes. You donāt wait for him, getting to your feet and collecting your bag before youād even had a chance to order.Ā
Andrew hurries to follow behind you as you storm out of the restaurant. You know youāre too sensitive about these things. But one night with him- where you might even be able to pretend youāre on a date like a proper couple. Is that so much to ask for? Just a night without the reminder youāre barely even a second choice.Ā
Deciding you need to calm down, you walk off the sidewalk of the restaurant and head down toward the beach. Andrew catches up to you quickly, hovering at your side, unsure what to say. You grab hold of his arm, leaning against him while you undo the straps of your heels.Ā
āLetās walk,ā you mutter, caught off guard when he reaches over to take your shoes from you. Lifting the hem of your dress, you trudge through the sand. Andrew doesnāt shake off your hold, just lets you use him for balance.Ā
Itās not uncommon that he allows you to be touchier with him than most people. But heās not usually this tolerant. He already doesnāt like the feel of sand, the way it pools in his shoes and inevitably ends up trailing through his home.
Normally, heād have gone stiff, trying to silently tell you to back off. But heās leaning into you know, hand drifting along your waist as you listen to the soft crash of waves in the distance.Ā
āIām sorry.ā He finally breaks the silence.Ā
You bite your lip and shake your head. āI shouldnāt have just left like that. It was nice,ā you reluctantly admit. He frowns down at you. With a huff, you clarify, āThe restaurant idea was nice. It just wasnāt for me.ā It was for the woman you actually want to be with.Ā
Andrew just nods, gaze pensive as he stares off into the dark waters. āI wasnātā¦ā
āHm?ā
He shakes his head, hand tightening around your waist as he leads you back toward his home. āNever mind,ā he mutters, brows furrowed as he stares down at the sand. You frown but decide itās better not to push. Youāve already gotten your feelings hurt once tonight; no need to risk any more.Ā
When you make it to his home, you almost debate asking for a ride home. Youāre not hungry anymore; you donāt want to watch a stupid movie with him. Heās made it more than clear that all you are is a placeholder until he gets what he really wants. Now, all you want is to just be left alone.Ā
āCome on,ā he mutters, already opening the door before you muster the backbone to leave. You hover at the threshold and he pauses, turning back with a frown. āWhatās wrong?ā
You almost back up, almost leave. Instead, you shake your head. āNothing, never mind. Iām just tired,ā you whisper, following after him. The door closes and his hand finds its way to your back.Ā
He turns you to face him, calloused hand drifting up to push back a strand of hair. Youāve been conditioned to lean in just as he starts to. To push closer as he wraps his arms around you and tugs you toward him.Ā
You wrap your arm around his shoulders, head tilting as his lips brush softly against yours. Once, twice, you wait for the third pass, when he lets go of his reservations. Grips you tighter and pushes you toward his bedroom, hungry for something only you can give him.Ā
But it never comes. He stays soft, hands drifting up and down your sides as he holds you by the door. Youāre not complaining, enjoying the tender intimacy of the moment. He never changes pace, just takes his time, savors the moment. And you.Ā
You could get used to feeling so desired by him as he slowly begins leading you back to his bedroom. Itās not that heās never like this. Occasionally, you get moments of softness with him. But this is different, somehow. Like he really means it, and isnāt just giving you gentleness as a courtesy.Ā
His hand works on the zipper of your dress, fingers dragging along your spine as you slip your arms from the sleeves. It falls down your body, and he lifts you, picking you up before it trips you. You tighten your legs around him, smiling when he drops you on his bed.Ā
Itās different that night, the way he is with you. You could almost pretend he loves you just the same as you love him. Pretend that this wasnāt his own desperate need for connection with someone else. Allowing the illusion, just once, couldnāt hurt.Ā
That was the last night you were together. You didnāt know- he didnāt tell you- about the bank job he and his family had planned for the next day. You couldnāt have known how badly it wouldāve gone, that Andrew would end up taking the fall for Baz.Ā
Because Baz has a family, Deran had explained afterward. Pope doesnāt have anyone.Ā
He had you. Clearly, though, you didnāt count for anything in their eyes. You almost wonder if Baz had messed up on purpose. If heād done this to get Andrew out of the way so he could take over. It wouldnāt surprise you, given how quick he was to take Andrewās place as the eldest son.Ā
What shocked you the most, though, was that Smurf just let him. Baz wasnāt even hers and she still let him slip into Andrewās place. Like heād never been there at all.Ā
You werenāt allowed at the trial; youāre not even sure if youād want to be there. But Smurf had made it abundantly clear that with Andrew gone, your place in her home would soon become nonexistent.Ā
You still hung around, mainly with Deran. Purely for updates on Andrew. Try as you might, each attempt at reaching out seemed to go ignored or just not work out. You sent letters. A lot of letters. At least twice a month.Ā
Sometimes, you couldnāt believe yourself. Andrew had been sentenced to six years. What? Were you just going to wait around for him that long? How much more pathetic could you possibly get?
A lot more, you thought to yourself, penning another letter for the third time that month.Ā
Andrew,
I really donāt know if youāre getting any of these. I hope you are. Smurf had me taken off the visitors list, so I canāt come and see you now. I swear, I would if she didnāt hate me so much.Ā
Iām sorry. Sorry I canāt see you. And sorry about how your familyās acting. They sold your house. I was going to try to buy it with the money you gave me, but Smurf figured out it was me and stopped the deal.Ā
Thereās no guarantee when theyāll let you go. But whenever youāre free, wherever I am, thereāll be a place for you. Iāll leave my key in the plant hanging by my door if you get there before me.Ā
You continue on, talking about your life, struggling to decide whether or not you should ask about his. Heās in prison; you doubt thereās anything particularly exciting heād like to share. If there was, surely he would have responded by now.Ā
But he never did. For two years, you kept up your letters. Kept up hope that, despite the fact he wasnāt responding, some part of him still cares for you. Deran had told you no one else was getting any letters either. But you didnāt think they were sending any or reaching out, either.Ā
It shouldnāt have been, but it was astounding just how little his brothers seemed to care about his absence. If anything, they seemed more at ease. Big brother wasnāt there to keep them in check anymore. Baz let them just run free, just as eager to be careless as they were.Ā
For two years, you loved Andrew when everyone else seemed so content with forgetting him. And two years is exactly how long Smurfās patience lasted before she finally grew sick of you. You werenāt a threat, not anymore, but that didnāt mean she liked you any more than she did before.Ā
You were lounging at the pool with Deran, prattling on about your new boss while he smoked. She walked up with a cruel smirk on her lips. Which should have been your first sign to cut loose and run.Ā
āHey, sweetheart.ā She pulled an envelope from the pocket of her jeans and you leapt up. Water dripped from your legs as you climbed the stairs of the pool. āI think this might be for you.ā
You hastily dried your hands off on your towel, taking the letter from her with trembling hands. Two years, and he was finally letting you hear from him again. Smurf let out a little laugh, crossing her arms as you eagerly ripped open the envelope. Your second sign that you should have just ignored her.Ā
It was a letter, but not to you. He didnāt say her name at first. But you caught on quick enough. Mainly, when he started telling her how jealous he was of Baz. How Baz wasnāt good enough for her. She could do so much better. He could treat her so much better. He wouldnāt play around with her; he would take care of her like she deserved.Ā
Your throat tightened to the point it felt like you were being strangled the longer you read. Tears burned against your lashes, but you refused to let Smurf see them fall. You could barely stomach half of the letter- drawing the line at him declaring his love for Cath- before you were folding it back up.Ā
āItās not for me,ā you whispered, your voice breaking around the words as Deran finally lifted his head. He frowned at the look on your face while Smurf stepped closer. She took the letter from your hands, cupping your shoulder as she leaned toward your ear.Ā
āHe didn't want anything except whatās between your legs. I donāt want you, and my family doesnāt. Leave, or Iām going to have to make you, honey.ā
And you did, just like she ordered. But you didnāt just leave her house; that wasnāt enough for you. You had to leave every reminder of the Codys behind completely.Ā
Deran helped you, just a little, by giving you some of the money Andrew had stashed away before he was arrested. You didnāt want to take it. How could you start fresh if he was funding your future?Ā
But you didnāt have a choice. You were working a dead-end job and barely making minimum wage. So, reluctantly, you took the cash and moved a few hours out of Oceanside. A cute place, right by the beach.Ā
It was a relatively small town, quaint and filled with retirees. The type of quiet you were desperate for. Smurf bought up your old place without you knowing. Youād just made a blind deal, desperate for more money and a quick way out.Ā
Which meant she got the one letter Andrew ever bothered to send.Ā
Theyāre letting me out on good behavior. I want to see you. Sheād scoffed as sheād tossed it in her fireplace, smiling as she thought about getting her boy back. Without any distractions in the way. Youād been dealt with. Cath wouldnāt be so hard to get rid of.Ā
Pope didnāt expect his family to be waiting outside the prison for him. Heād only told one person he was getting out. And heād been hoping to see you, but he wasnāt surprised when you werenāt there. Just a little disappointed. He was sure there was a reason for it, itās not like youād miss something so big on purpose.Ā
But you hadnāt been waiting for him at Smurfās either. Youād already warned him theyād sold his home. But you didnāt tell him theyād given his room away to his twin sisterās kid. No one had even bothered to tell him Julia had died.Ā
He sat in the living room, feeling more out of place than he ever had before. Cath couldnāt look at him. Baz seemed angry that he had even made it out. The kid, J, was just pissing him off more, a painful reminder of the sister heād lost. Smurf seemed on edge, with tight smiles and cloying words, while she tried to keep him placated.Ā
There was one person very clearly missing. Someone they were pointedly not bringing up. You were never a huge part of the Cody family, but you were important to him and they knew that. But you werenāt here. And your letters had stopped a year ago. He had never figured out why, but heād held out hope for a long time that a guard would bring him one again.Ā
He had never written back. There was never anything more to be said. He couldnāt talk about being shoved in solitary. Or the way the guards used to beat and humiliate him. That was never something he wanted you to know. It wasn't the way he wanted you to think of him.
So he had just greedily accepted your letters, your stories. But he never thought his silence would be enough to finally push you away.Ā
Pope broke the tense silence of the living room. āWhere is she?ā He stared down at his hands, knees jumping beneath his arms as he tried to keep himself calm.Ā
Smurf shook her head and he shot her a glare. She knew exactly who he was talking about. āOh.ā Smurf rolled her eyes, reaching over to stroke his hair. He tried not to grimace, hating the way it felt. The only person he wanted that from right now was you.Ā
āForget about her, baby. She ran out a while ago. Took some of our money with her,ā her voice tightens, gaze cutting to Deran, who wouldnāt look his way. His eyes narrow at that, his shoulders tensing at the discomfort on his brother's face.
āJust another skank looking for a quick fix,ā Smurf callously dismissed. As if you hadnāt been there since theyād rebranded him Pope. Like you werenāt the only constant in his life, the only person he could actually rely on.Ā
He knew you. You werenāt an addict. You werenāt like Ren, hooked on Craig because theyād both shot each other up one too many times. Youād never cared about the money he mightāve given you. You've only ever dealt with his shit and his family for him.Ā
Pope refused to believe that youād just left. That you wouldnāt have sent a letter explaining your absence. Or at least have waited until he got out to say goodbyeĀ
But Pope gave Smurf what she wanted. He nodded, pretending you were just some chick he liked to fuck sometimes. He let her believe the lie until he finally got a minute alone.Ā
He tried to check all your socials, but youād deleted them. He went through friends of yours and checked their posts to see if youād ever popped up in any of them. He paced his room and spoke softly to himself while he tried to figure out where the hell you could have gone. Why would you have left?Ā
Smurf had a hand in it; he was sure of that. But youād survived her for years. Why would you suddenly give up, now?
He checked all of the letters youād sent him. But the return address remained the same right until the last one. Pope racked his mind for any places you mentioned wanting to visit, but none of them seemed feasible for you to simply disappear to.Ā
When all other options had been exhausted, he went another route.
Deran
He cornered him by the pool, eyes narrowing at the way Deran refused to meet his stare. āWhere is she?ā
āWhat the fuck are you talking-ā
Pope shoved him back and Deran let out a low hiss as his spine slammed against the corner of the bar. āDonāt play dumb, Deran. You know exactly who Iām fucking talking about.ā
Deran shot Pope a harsh glare, rubbing his bruising back. āLook, man, I promised her I wouldnāt tell anyone.ā
Pope tilted his head with a frown. āEven me?ā
Deran scoffed and sneered. āYou're kidding me? Especially you.ā
What the fuck was that supposed to mean?
āDo you really want to do this?ā Pope snapped, hands balling into fists at his side. He had a lot to work out. The majority of it was anger, most of that directed at his family. He wouldnāt mind making his little brother bleed if it got him what he wanted.Ā
Deran seemed to realize that, too, disappointingly. āFucks sake,ā he huffed. Itās not like you and Deran were ever very close. Pope's not sure why you thought he would be a good choice to keep your secrets. Or why you were trying to keep secrets from him. But he could figure all that out when he saw you.Ā
Because he would, now, as Deran wrote down your address and pressed the slip of paper into his palm.Ā
Youād moved a few hours outside of Oceanside. Clearly desperate to get away. But that hadnāt been something Deran had been able to give a reason for. You kept a few things from him, it seemed.Ā
The town was small, decent, and safe enough. It seemed to be full of retirees rather than anyone close to your age. He parked downtown, fiddling with the GPS on his phone while he tried to work out the best way to get to your place.Ā
As luck would have it, heād parked in front of the store you seem to frequent for groceries. Pope looked up just as you walked out of the store. His hand tightened around the steering wheel until the leather was creaking.Ā
Heād imagined seeing you again a lot in prison. But the memory of you had begun to fade the longer he went without.Ā
You seemed surreal as he watched you. Like something he dreamed up as you loaded your car with your bags. His hand dropped to the handle of his door. He wanted to jump out, hound you for an answer on why you left. Kiss you and take you right in the middle of the parking lot. He didnāt give a shit who saw; he just wanted you.Ā
But he stopped himself. Kept himself locked in his car while he watched you. His chest was tight as you closed your trunk, hopping into your car and pulling out of your parking spot. Andrew started his truck back up, carefully, as he pulled up behind you.Ā
He forced himself to stay back, to keep enough distance that you didnāt grow suspicious. He watched as you ran your errands. A stop by the general store where you picked up some tools. A few minutes in a boutique before you were walking out with empty hands. He watched it all, growing increasingly more frustrated that you seemed completely unaware someone was following you.Ā
By the time you made it home, his patience was gone. He watched you head inside. Watched the lights flick on behind your curtains. How your silhouette moved through the house before you turned off the living room lights. You moved through the house, a light flicking off the closer you got to your bedroom. Andrewās leg bounced as he watched the last one go off.Ā
Then, he couldnāt hold himself back anymore. He jumped from his truck, storming up the steps of your porch. He pulled his pick from his pocket, using his body to block anyoneās view as he pushed it into your lock.Ā
His hands paused, though, when he remembered one of the first letters youād sent him. A promise of a place always waiting for him with you. His eyes darted around the porch, chest tightening when he saw a hanging plant in the corner.
He walked over, glancing over his shoulder as his hand dug through the dirt. Heād almost given up hope when he felt the smooth metal of a key beneath his fingers.Ā
He couldnāt decide whether to be upset or relieved. It was stupid of you to grant such easy access to your home. At the very least, though, this meant you still had to feel something for him.Ā
He slipped through your door quietly. Toeing off his boots, he took care not to step on any creaking wood as he made his way through the house.Ā
The interior was what you would expect from a beach bungalow, nice enough. Even with the limited light streaming through the curtains, he still spotted touches of you. Little pieces of color that he had missed while heād been gone.Ā
Heās aware this is probably the wrong way to go about the reunion. But he canāt trust that you wonāt just avoid him if he tries to approach you naturally. Itās not like you to just disappear without a warning. He couldnāt stand seeing your face as you told him to stay out of your life. Heād rather deal with that rejection in the dark, when he doesnāt have to see the hatred in your eyes.Ā
At the end of the hall is your bedroom. The door is cracked open slightly. Pope carefully pushes through, taking care to make sure the whining hinges donāt preemptively announce him.Ā
You donāt move, sprawled across your bed as a sound machine blasts at top volume, and half your face is obscured by an eye mask. He crosses his arms with a scoff. You have made it incredibly easy to break in.Ā
Pope shakes his head and steps further inside until heās hovering over you. His brow furrows, his expression softening as he relearns the slopes of your face. Thereās a smile growing on his face when you suddenly shoot up in bed.Ā
He jolts back as your head swivels wildly. Suddenly, youāre ripping off your mask. He grimaces at the shrill scream you let out, slipping across your bed until your body is thudding against the wood.Ā
He tries to say your name, but youāre jumping back up, a metal bat now in your hands. At least youāre marginally prepared.Ā
āItās me,ā he calls out.Ā
āWhat?ā You snap, reaching for your lamp. He squints against the sudden light as you shove your hair out of your eyes. āAndrew?ā You gasp, the bat slipping from your fingers.Ā
āHey,ā he offers. He waits for you to hug him, to yell at him, or maybe to scream at him to get the hell out of your life. But you donāt; you just stand there, jaw dropped. He whispers your name, and you jolt back to life, shaking your head.Ā
āWhat- how are you-" You press a hand to your temple and stutter out nonsense. He rounds the bed, slowly taking your hands in his as he leads you to sit back down.
You suck in a sharp breath, hands tensing in his hold, but you donāt jerk away. You also wonāt meet his eyes. āWhy are you here, Andrew?ā He hates that thereās no familiar warmth when you say his name.Ā
āWhat do you mean?ā Where else would he be?
āI mean,ā you snap, finally meeting his eye. But itās cold, the way you look at him. āWhy are you here? In my house,ā you grit out, eyes wide as you gesture toward your bedroom.Ā
Pope rubs the back of his neck. This is a slightly better reaction than what heād been preparing for. But he canāt tell if catching you off guard was the right call.Ā
āI told you I was coming back.ā
You narrow your eyes and shake your head. āWhen?ā You huff.Ā
Andrew frowns. āIn my letter,ā heās sure he mustāve seen it before you moved. Or, at the very least, one of his family wouldāve given it to you.Ā
āOh,ā you scoff and jump to your feet. āNo, I never got a letter from you, Andrew. Just one person did.ā You smile as Andrew frowns, shaking his head helplessly. āCath,ā you elaborate, patience running thin.Ā
āI never sent her a letter,ā he insists, not having a goddamn idea what youāre talking about. He just wants you to sit down again. The way youāre eyeing that bat is disconcerting.Ā
āAre you seriously trying to lie to me right now?ā You demand, pacing in front of him.Ā
He snaps your name and you freeze, forcing yourself to look at him. Pope stands, but you take a step back. It's hard to ignore how much that hurts.
āI never sent anyone any letters, alright? I- I couldnāt. I couldnāt talk about what was happening, so I never sent anything. But I told you I was coming back.ā
A part of you softens. Youāre still not happy, but you seem more inclined to believe him. āIām sorry.ā You shake your head. āI never got anything. When did you send it?ā
āA few months ago.ā
āNo,ā you bite your lip, glaring down at the floor. āIād already moved. Smurf wouldāve-ā
You cut yourself off with a low hiss as you slump back into your bed. Pope hovers in front of you, unsure what to do now. āGod, that fucking bitch. Goddamn control freak,ā you snap.Ā
Your eyes shoot up to his, āDid you ever, in your life, write Cath a letter?ā
Pope grimaced, thinking about it. āYeah, when we were kids.ā You let out a bitter laugh, head falling into your hands. Hesitatingly, he took a seat beside you.Ā
āAre you mad at me?āĀ
Your head shoots up and you stare at him for a long time. Long enough for him to grow uncomfortable. āNo,ā you finally whisper and something inside of him finally relaxes. āNo, Iām not mad at you.ā
He reaches out, eager to finally hold you again, but you hold up your hand, jerking away. āBut I canāt do this again. Iām so glad youāre out, I really am. But I canāt go back to being what we were.ā
Pope shakes his head, drawing back into himself. āWhat we were?ā
āYou canāt just come back and expect me to be your fuck buddy again, Andrew.ā
āThatās not what we were,ā he snaps. How could you debase it like that? Just like Smurf had.
āYou never called to anything else,ā you scoff, brows drawing together with irritation. Were you always so volatile?Ā
āI never called it anything.ā
āExactly,ā you snap. āAndrew, I donāt know how else to make it clear. I wrote to you for two years, without ever getting anything back. Iāve been in love with you for so long. But you donāt get to come back into my life and offer nothing but sex. Itās not fair.ā
His chest aches as you cut yourself off, your voice trembling. Is that what youāve thought? All this time, you just thought that the way he treats you is how heād ever treat anyone else?
āIt was never just sex.ā He pauses, completely unsure if he even has the words to properly convey how he feels about you. āI love you,ā he admits, and your breath hitches painfully. āI thought you knew that. How could you not know?ā It's embarrassing, the way his voice breaks.
āHow would I?ā You scoff, watery eyes lifting to meet his. āItās not like we talk about our emotions a lot.ā
Pope swallows roughly. This isnāt how he works. He canāt just spew off romantic words of undying love. He just isnāt good at that. Always better at showing others how he feels. Though clearly that isnāt working either.Ā
āI love you,ā he promises. āIāve waited three years to see you. And when you werenāt at the house today, I thoughtā¦ā he canāt finish. Heād had a hundred thoughts of the worst possible explanations for your absence. And each one had hurt worse than the last.Ā
You let out a rough sigh, and Andrew waits for you to tell him to get out. He jolts when he feels your arm around him. You pull him closer and he seeks your warmth immediately, his head falling into the crook of your neck as he winds his arm around you.Ā
You let out a small laugh, stroking his back as he sinks his weight against you. āI never stopped loving you,ā you whisper. āI was pissed off for a while. But, infuriatingly, youāve always stayed with me.ā He pulls back and you nod. āAlways,ā you swear, frowning at the look in his eyes.Ā
āPlease,ā he whispers, hardly even caring heās this close to getting on his knees and begging. āCan I stay here tonight?āĀ
You frown and shake your head. āOf course,ā you lean down, lips soft as they press against his temple. āAs long as you want.ā Heās sure you have no idea just how long you're signing up for.Ā
Or, maybe you were. You seem to have been waiting for this as long as he has. Heās not planning on giving you up anytime soon. Not again.Ā
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this is for my writing challenge! you can find the masterlist here!
summary: you and deran were close friends, which was how you ended up scoring a babysitting gig for his niece, lena. you were "hired" one day without pope's knowledge. deran figured that he would be okay with it because you were close to the family and they all trusted you. pope saw this as an opportunity to finally get closer to the woman he couldn't stop thinking about lately.
contains: same old! pope, babysitter! reader, implied age difference, fem/afab! reader, au where pope has custody over lena, baz and cath not in the picture, pope is weak for his girls, eventual smut, pope LOVES kissing you, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), very sensual sex
word count: 5.3k
you were sitting by the poolside while lena was testing to see how far she could make it across the pool in one breath. you applauded as she made it at least halfway across, her little legs kicking her through the water with all their might. her smile is triumphant as she beams up at you.
"i got so far!"
she exclaims as she swims over to the edge of the pool by you, her arms resting on the warm pavement.
"you sure did! keep on practicing and you'll make it all the way across in no time at all."
you speak encouragingly, watching her eyes light up with hope. a throat is cleared behind you, causing both you and lena to look over in the direction of the gate. you both spot a stern-looking pope, but his face seems to soften as soon as his eyes land on lena in the pool. it wasn't easy for him, taking lena under his wing after what happened to her parents. he sees the smile on the little girl's face, then glances at you, then back at her, and he feels something shift within him.
"she'll be out in the ocean learning how to surf like you guys soon."
you smile softly as you talk to him, which causes an unfamiliar sense of warmth to settle in his chest. he nods at you before walking over to lena, he crouches down as he meets her gaze.
"ten more minutes, then shower before dinner's ready."
his voice was rough, but it had an uncharacteristic softness to it as he spoke to lena. she nodded, her big eyes staring at him like he hung the stars in the sky. it made your heart swell, seeing how the two of them bonded so well, especially given all the shit they'd been through. pope cody wasn't comforting to anyone except for lena, at least that's what you'd thought at first. as lena swims away and busies herself, pope stands to his full height and turns around to look at you.
"what are you doing here?"
he hadn't meant for the question to sound so harsh and bothered. he saw the way your face scrunched a bit at his tone and immediately regretted his choice of words.
"i'm watching over lena while you take care of your personal things."
"i didn't ask you to do that."
"deran said you could use the extra help."
he stands there for a moment, blinking at you. he hadn't realized that it wasn't realistic for deran and craig to watch lena when pope couldn't, especially since they were often away from home more than he was. he nods slowly, now that everything was starting to make sense once again. he glances over his shoulder at lena, who's now wearing a particularly suspicious grin as she watches the two of you interact. he turns back to you, eyes briefly drifting toward your light green tank top. he could just barely see inside your shirt, the shadow almost highlighting your cleavage. he snaps himself out of the trance and meets your gaze again.
"how much do you want for it?"
you shrug at his question, glancing over at lena who has started cleaning up her pool toys. you clearly hadn't thought about it yet, not really worried about the money as much as you were about lena.
"i don't need to be paid, i have a job. i'm just here to watch lena when you aren't able to."
he looks slightly taken aback by your answer. why were you so willing to help them out without being paid? he searches your expression for any sort of hint otherwise, but he finds nothing.
"i mean- being fed would be nice."
a slight scoff escapes his lips at your words. he just nods and makes his way back inside. a couple minutes later, lena goes inside to wash up before dinner. you make your way inside, your nostrils immediately filled with the smell of something delicious. you watch as pope busies himself in the kitchen, making what looked to be lasagna.
"looks good..."
you try to talk casually, but are met with a deadpan look.
"haven't cooked any of it yet."
his tone was flat, almost questioning as he looked at you. you let out a heavy sigh and made your way toward the living room to rest on the couch. pope mentally slaps himself for being so cut and dry with you. he'd never admit it out loud, but he wanted you to be around. he wanted to know more about you. he'd seen you here and there whenever you were helping deran with something or attending one of his pool parties. he'd always thought you were pretty, probably too young for him, but that never stopped his mind from wandering.
he continues to work on making dinner, his mind lost in a sea of thoughts that all revolved around you. especially how happy lena had looked while being with you. it almost mirrored the way she looked when she was with pope. he wondered what it would be like, if maybe you and him could be her new and improved parents. no... you were basically a stranger to him he can't be thinking of starting a family like this. lena's soft voice jars him out of his mind.
"can i have a soda with dinner?"
"yeah, but that's your only one for the day."
she nods, a giddy smile on her face as she bounces off toward the living room, presumably to join you. she plops down next to you on the couch, resting her head on your arm as she watches the cartoon you're playing on the TV. she glances up at you, a toothy grin spreading across her face. you look down at her, a bit wary at what this could mean.
"what's that look for?"
you watch as she tries to hold back the giggles.
"uncle pope thinks you're really pretty."
you can't help but roll your eyes and laugh at the little girl. part of you wondered if she was telling the truth. kids were always more perceptive than anyone liked to give them credit for.
"yeah? did he tell you that?"
you chuckle at her while her eyes are fixated on the cartoon.
"yeah... he told me one day on the way to school."
you pause at that. because now this was all starting to sound real. did he really think you were pretty? hell, you'd always been attracted to him too, but never in a million years did you think it would be a mutual feeling. before you have any more time to think about it, pope is calling you guys into the kitchen for dinner. you and lena set the dining room table while pope brings out the lasagna dish. lena sits between you and pope at the table, unable to help herself as she steals glances at both of you while eating.
"uncle pope, we talked about starting a garden today."
pope looks curiously at his niece, then up at you.
"what kind of garden?"
his eyebrows are furrowed like he's almost a bit hesitant to know the answer.
"i thought that maybe we could try a vegetable or fruit garden, make some of our own stuff. it's fun and could mean less money spent on groceries."
you chime in, watching as lena's eyes light up. she looks over at you with a bright smile.
"does that mean we can grow lemons?"
you blink, raising an eyebrow at her.
"that's what you want to grow first?"
"to make lemonade! if we have lemons we'll never run out of lemonade!"
this time, you and pope both chuckle at her exclamation.
"we'll have to buy the tree, otherwise it'll take forever to grow from the seed. that just means lemons will come first."
you smile at the little girl who happily bounces in her seat while finishing her dinner. you glance up at pope, who can't decide if he wants to see lena's excited expression, or your soft one as you think about how to start the garden.
"i mean- as long as it's okay with you."
you nod at him, forgetting that you guys likely needed his approval before creating a garden.
"just don't make me water it. and i'm not being blamed if anything in there dies or gets eaten by rabbits."
you smirk at him, knowing damn well that if lena asked he would help you out with the garden. or maybe, she'd use it as an attempt to get you and pope alone so everything can go according to her little master plan.
after about a week of planting and rearranging soil, lena's garden was finally starting to come together. you'd been around every day to help her with, teaching her the best watering techniques. you let her pick out what she wanted to grow, and then helped her organize based on what plants needed more sunlight. the whole time, pope busies himself with watching over the two of you. his rationalization is that gardening can be very dangerous, and he doesn't want either of you getting hurt. the real reason was because watching you with lena, the way you brought out the brightest in the little girl, it felt right to him. like you were meant to be here with the two of them, nowhere else.
lena notices him and waves him over to show him the final product. he steps out of the sliding glass door and makes his way over to the new garden.
"we did it, uncle pope! we have our own garden!"
lena jumps up and down excitedly, pointing at the freshly laid soil and some of the pre-grown trees you had helped her plant.
"you guys did great."
he nods slowly, looking over at you. your face was glistening with sweat after working in the heat for the past couple hours. he couldn't take his eyes off of you, you were glowing. then he saw your genuine smile as you watched lena get excited about the garden. he wanted to be another reason that you could smile like that. he watches from nearby as you help lena water for the first time. you were patient with her, letting her do most of it on her own and only helping when she asked. lena looks over at pope with the brightest smile he's seen from her in a long time. looks like they both really needed to keep you around.
once you were finished watering, pope ushered the two of you inside. he was getting worried that you were out in the sun for too long. earlier, he had definitely hounded the two of you about wearing enough sunscreen. he gives you both a glass of water, watching shamelessly as you lift the glass to your lips and take a few swallows of the cold liquid. it was like he was in a trance every time he watched you, unable to peel his eyes away, even if you were doing the most mundane things. lena's giggles bring him back to center, he glances over at her and sees the knowing look in her eyes.
"c'mon, stinker... let's go get washed up. i'll help you pick out your clothes."
she nods, hopping out of the stool and walking off toward her room with you. once you help her find her clothes, you walk back out to the kitchen, now alone with the man you found yourself growing increasingly fond of.
"you can use mine."
he spoke gruffly, watching as you rested against the countertop.
"use your what?"
you look up at him curiously.
"my shower... i'll get you a towel and stuff."
he walks off toward the bathroom and grabs you a towel and washcloth. you also see a pair of old gym shorts and a t-shirt folded neatly next to them. you smile and thank him as you step into the bathroom. he stands there for a moment, looking at you. you are also just standing there, and you're unsure if the room was filled with tension or awkwardness at this point.
"thank you..."
you tell him again, and he seems to get the hint. but right before he can step out of the bathroom, he turns to you.
"lena... really likes having you around."
"i like being around... with both of you."
you nod slowly, and you can see the small hint of surprise on his face at your words. it was true, you'd gotten used to being around both of them all the time. it felt like more of a routine than you'd ever had before, but best of all, it felt like home. he could see the way your expressioned softened completely, feeling his cheeks heat because of how much he enjoyed the sight. you finally look up at him, breath hitching slightly when you see the dazed, wanting look in his eyes. you step closer to him and he doesn't back away. but before he allows himself to give in, pope clears his throat.
"i'll make lunch while you get cleaned up."
he doesn't miss the flicker of disappointment in your eyes, but he ultimately leaves the room anyway. you sigh, stripping out of your clothes and stepping into a nice, cool shower. once you're finished you step out of the shower and slip into his clothes he left for you. they smelled like him, which made you feel a little hotter than you cared to admit. you look at yourself in the mirror, chuckling at the way his old clothes looked on you. it didn't really matter, you weren't sweaty and gross anymore. you walk back out toward the kitchen, smiling when you see lena eating on the couch.
"come back and sit with me, please!"
she calls out to you, you nod, and continue until you're in the kitchen. pope's back was to you, but when he heard your footsteps, he turned around. he froze, not expecting you to look so... domestic... in his clothes like that. he started to imagine how you'd look in his clothes, post-shower after you two just had the most mind-blowing sex of all time. a soft smile appears on his lips as he slides your plate across the counter to you.
"you should come hang out with me and lena."
you lean against the counter as you take the plate. he just nods and follows you to the living room where lena was. you both sit on either side of her, causing her to smile while she's mid-bite into her sandwich. you glance over at pope, who's already looking at you. you feel your skin heat at the eye contact, quickly looking back at the TV. he also faces forward, leaving everyone to eat their lunch in comfortable silence. after a while, lena yawns and snuggles into pope's side. he wraps an arm around her and holds her close, watching as her breath starts to even out. you smile at the sight, quietly taking out your phone and snapping a picture when he wasn't looking.
eventually, he carries lena to her room and lays her in her bed. he shuts the door quietly before returning to the living room with you. you look over at him, eyes tracing along his strong jawline and the slope of his nose. fuck, he'd be trouble if he ever realized how beautiful he was. his dark auburn curls looked soft, and you found yourself wanting to run your hands through them. he finally looks at you, catching you right in the act of staring. his hardened hazel eyes almost seemed to soften when they landed on you, but you were sure that was just your imagination. you stand up from the couch, grabbing your plate and lena's. pope follows suit, following you out to the kitchen.
"i'll wash these."
his gruff voice sends a shiver down your spine, but you nod. you set the dishes in the sink and move out of his way.
"so i was thinking..."
you speak up, resting against the counter next to the sink. he glances up at you for a moment, freezing when he realized how close you were standing to him.
"what if we took lena out to dinner tonight? maybe somewhere on the shore or something so we can watch the sunset?"
he ponders for a moment, thinking about how beautiful you would look in the warm and bright colors of the setting sun. he's nodding almost enthusiastically now, going back to washing the dishes. you smile and watch as he goes back to work. damn those stupid yellow gloves for hiding the way his fingers were probably gripping and flexing over the dishes. you were beginning to feel like a victorian man seeing a woman's ankle for the first time. you stand there, enjoying this somewhat intimate moment between the two of you. once he's finished, he looks over at you while sliding off the gloves. you can hardly focus as you watch the yellow rubber fall from his hands, revealing the tantalizing digits that you dreamed about quite often.
he holds one of his hands out to you, palm facing upward. you blink, unsure of what to do. he lets out an unsteady breath, reaching further until his hand wraps around your wrist ever so gently. you let him pull you toward his bedroom, your heart rate picking up the closer you get. he walks you inside, letting go of your wrists as he walks over to the closet. you stand still, afraid to move. you watch as he opens his closet, then he looks back to you.
"i wanna wear something nice. i need help finding it."
you let out a breath of relief you didn't know you were holding, walking over to the closet. you gently sift through his closet, most of his clothes being the same style and color shirt, same with the pants. however, you did manage to find a black polo that seemed to stand out. you take it out, finding the lightest pair of blue jeans he owned (which were still pretty dark) and pairing them together. you hand him the clothes and he assesses them skeptically. finally, he gives a nod of approval and lays them down on his bed. he turns back to face you, noticing the small smile on your face.
"what's funny?"
he glares at you, waiting for you to tease him about his wardrobe, or lack thereof.
"nothing's funny, i just think it's cool that you came to me for fashion advice."
he rolls his eyes at you, but he's not truly annoyed. he'd wanted to ask you for more than just fashion advice, but he wasn't feeling brave enough. a soft sigh escapes his lips as he walks toward the door.
"gonna clean the pool and work on the car some before we go."
you nod and watch him walk out without another word. you go off to the living room and find some way to pass the next couple hours.
you all were on the way to dinner, pope was driving his truck while you were in the passenger seat and lena was in the back. she was glancing out the window, watching the building on the street go by with a smile on her face.
"come on... can you please tell me where we're going?"
lena whines at you, causing you to chuckle. pope glances in the rearview, his eyes crinkling just a bit.
"we're almost there, lee. i told you it's a surprise!"
she groans in protest, flopping her head back against the car seat. but, as you promised, you shortly afterwards pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant. pope got out, helping lena from her carseat. he frowns at you when he sees that you got out of the car by yourself, which makes you laugh. he grunts, watching lena take your hand as you walk toward the front door. he holds the door for you two, his hand ghosting the small of your back before he walks in behind you. you're all seated outside on the patio of the restaurant, admiring the view of the ocean from there. lena's eyes are wide with excitement as she takes in the view of the setting sun.
"best surprise ever!"
she wraps her little arms around you with a big grin. you return the embrace, running a hand over her hair. she sits back in her seat when it's time to order food. pope sits across from you and lena, meaning he could just watch you two interact for the next couple hours. you looked even more beautiful than he could imagine, the way the colors of the sunset made your skin glow. the way it all reflected in your eyes, he couldn't get enough of the view. he'd hardly even thought about the sunset when he had you right in front of him. as suspected, dinner went swimmingly and lena was already getting sleepy again.
"wanna walk on the beach for a couple minutes?"
you look over at lena, whose head is resting on your arm. she nods sleepily, little hands wrapped around your arm. you chuckle, looking over at pope who looked the most calm he ever had since you met him. he nods as well, getting up from his chair. he walks around the table to lena, gently lifting her into his arms, holding out his free hand to you. you smile and take his hand, walking down the wooden steps and into the sand. you walk closer to the shore, the view stealing the breath from your lungs. you look over at pope and lena, watching the way their expressions almost matched in awe. pope was still holding onto your hand tightly, the other firmly holding lena. these were the moments that pope thought he'd only be able to dream of, but yet here the three of you were.
lena's eventually fast asleep in his arms, head resting on his shoulder. he gently squeezed your hand, causing you to look over at him. he's closer than you remember, and before you can second guess yourself, you lean in and plant a soft kiss on his lips. he returns it almost immediately, although it was a bit haphazard. you pull away, rubbing your free hand along his bicep and resting your chin on his shoulder.
"should probably head back before sleeping beauty gets cranky."
he nods at your words, leading you all back toward the truck. he gets lena into the carseat without her waking up. this time, he doesn't let go of you, meaning he could open the passenger side door for you. you laugh at him again, climbing into the seat and buckling your seatbelt. he shuts the door gently and rounds the car to get into the driver's side. you make it back to the house and get out of the car while pope grabs lena again. you hold the door for him this time as he carries her off to her bed. you wait in the kitchen for him, sitting at one of the stools. he returns a couple minutes later, standing next to your stool. he's the one to lean in this time, kissing you with more intention than the previous time. his arms slip around your waist while your hands rest on his chest.
you sigh into the kiss, pulling him in closer by his shoulders. he leans into you, clearly not willing to pull away any time soon. you stand from the stool pressing him back against the counter as your tongue slips into his mouth. a soft groan escapes from him, but his tongue begins to tangle with yours soon after. his hands slip lower, over the curve of your ass, causing you to smirk against his lips. one of your hands slides through his soft curls, and they felt even better than you'd imagined. he sighs against you, continuing to kiss you with all of his effort. he whimpers when you pull away from him, the sound sending a tingly feeling all over your body. you walk toward his bedroom and he immediately follows behind you like a puppy.
once you're in his room, he pulls you back against him, kissing you again with a renewed sense of hunger. you moan into his mouth, reaching down and sliding his shirt over his head. your hands slide all over his muscular chest, earning yourself soft groans from his lips. he pushes you backwards until you fall back onto the bed with a small yelp. he removes your shoes for you, then climbs on top of you. he gently rests his weight onto you, pressing soft kisses along the corners of your mouth and your jawline. you gently trace your nails along the skin of his back, the sensation making his hard cock strain even more through his jeans. you feel his erection pressing against your thigh, and it only adds to the heat pooling low in your belly. you weren't sure how you and pope had even gotten to this point, but you surely weren't going to complain either.
he removes your clothes for you, followed by taking off his jeans. he starts trailing kisses lower, down your neck and over the swell of your breasts. you feel your back arch off the bed when he takes one of your sensitive nipples into his mouth and sucks lightly before rubbing it with his tongue. he moves over to the other side, groaning against you as he feels how worked up you're getting. then, he moves lower, kissing over your soft tummy. he pauses right at the hem of your panties, glancing up at you as if for approval. you sit up on your elbows, looking down at him with a lustful haze in your eyes. you nod slowly and shiver as he slides your panties down your legs. he feels his brain go fuzzy at the mere sight and smell of your arousal. not wasting a second, he leans in and licks a long stripe up your aching cunt. your fingers grip the sheets with a soft whine. your noises encourage him to do more, he starts sucking at your clit. you thought it couldn't get any better until he slipped his middle finger inside of you. you moan softly, falling back against the bed as he adds another finger. how the fuck was he so good at this? wasn't he supposed to be super inexperienced?
well- he was relatively inexperienced. but once he was for sure about wanting to be with you, he'd definitely started doing his research. his (now deleted) search history would be very incriminating, but you didn't have to know about it just yet. he continues to work at you, now whining lowly against your slick folds while his fingers worked into you gently. he could feel the way you squirmed beneath him and it filled him with pride. he would do whatever it took to make sure you were fully satisfied.
"a-andrew... i'm gonna-"
he moans loudly against you at the sound of his real name on your lips. he speeds up and changes the angle just right to have you coming hard on his tongue and fingers. he withdraws his fingers, leaning back over you to kiss you again. you feel goosebumps erupt over your skin as you taste your essence on his tongue. he pulls back just enough to suck your juices off of his fingers, a sight you'd be thinking about before bed for a *long* time. while kissing you, he nudges his boxers down just enough for his leaking cock to spring out. you gasp at the sight of it when he pulls back to grab a condom from his nightstand. you were quite sure he was packing heat, but you weren't expecting the absolute girth of his cock. he rolls the condom on before lining up with you entrance.
"you okay...?"
he asks quietly as he looks down at you. you nod and watch where your bodies are about to meet. he slides the tip in, groaning at how tight you were. his hands rest on your hips, thumbs trying to rub soothingly over the soft skin in hopes that you can relax for him a little bit. he leans over, kissing you gently enough that he finally feels you loosen up so he can push all the way in. you both moan as he bottoms out inside you. you'd never felt this full of anything in your entire life, but it was a welcomed feeling. one hand slips beneath your head while the other rests on your waist as he starts to slowly move in and out of you. the drag of his thick cock against your walls made you whine with need. he rests his forehead against yours, thrusts speeding up just enough to set a steady pace.
"feels good..."
he rasps against your skin, his fingers gently rubbing against your scalp as he held you. this intimate moment made you wonder how you ever able to stay away from him in the first place. this time, you lean up and kiss him, moving your hips to meet his thrusts. his hips stutter slightly as he already feels himself getting close. to make sure you were getting close as well, his hand slips between your bodies and rubs circles into your sensitive clit. your thighs begin to tremble around him, so he grabs onto them tightly and thrusts into you harder than before. the feeling of him so deep in you has your eyes rolling back into your head. his name echoes against the wall as you moan it continuously. he doesn't stop until you're clenching him so tightly he might be forced to slip out. you come with a ragged cry, nails digging into his shoulders. he spills inside the condom at the same time, thrusting a couple more times to help you ride out your high.
he leans down again, kissing you softly before collapsing beside you and pulling you against him. he grabs one of your thighs and drapes it over his waist, keeping you close. your breath starts to calm as you rest against him, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. he stares at you, seeing the way your eyes were becoming heavy. he really wasn't interested in letting you go, so he tosses the covers over your bodies. he watches as you fall asleep in his arms, and suddenly everything felt as if it was all falling into place. at some point, even he falls asleep against you.
when you wake up the next morning, he's still next to you, but his eyes are open. he was clearly admiring you while you slept, but that didn't bother you in the slightest. you groan softly, feeling the soft ache between your legs as you move to stretch out your limbs. he runs a gentle hand over your hair, pressing a soft kiss to your lips before sitting up and getting out of the bed.
"i'll start breakfast..."
he spoke quietly and you nodded, getting out of the bed as well. you desperately wanted a shower, so you walk into the bathroom and do so. when you emerge from the bathroom, you walk into the kitchen and see a freshly woken lena sitting at one of the stools. she gets up and hugs you tightly, asking if you'd eat outside with her. you nodded with a soft smile and helped pope carry the food out to the picnic table in the backyard. you all enjoyed your meal in a comfortable silence. lena sat between the two of you, but pope still managed to rub your back every now and again. you smiled, feeling warm inside, like you could definitely get used to this family life with pope and lena.
a/n: IT'S SO FLUFFY I'M GONNA DIE!!!! sorry if this plot was buns guys i tried my best, but it felt off. maybe i'll write something similar to this in the future when i'm feeling more inspired. but anyway, THANK YOU FOR READING, LOVE YOU LOTS, AND STAY SEXAAAYYY!!!!!! <333
this was requested by these two lovely people: @mimiviolette and @nightpitt !!! thank you so much cuties <3
You take the duvet and your pillow just as Jack opens the bathroom door. He was getting ready for bed, beushing his teeth and so on, while you thought about your prank.
He stops moving just as he sees you. "Angel, what are you doing?"
"I'm sleeping on the couch tonight." You mumble out, fighting back the giddy grin.
"What?"
"I'm sleeping on the couch." You say a little slower, and Jack just shakes his head at you, still standing in the bathroom doorway.
"Why?" Jack's mind is raking through everything that could have happened today to get you to sleep there.
"Just because." You shrug, slowly inch closer towards hallway.
"Are you mad? Did I do something?" Jack finally moves, but stops before he gets too close to make you more upset or mad when you clearly don't want to be close to him.
"No. I just want to sleep on the couch."
"C'mon, doll, give me a real answer. We can just talk it out or-or I'll sleep on the couch. You sleep here." Jack tries to reason with you but for a reason Jack can't even fathom, you are set on on the couch.
"It's okay, handsome. I'll see you in the morning. Goodnight, love you." And then you are off, settling yourself on the couch as you giggle into your hand.
It takes Jack 10 minutes to lull over what he should do. You hear him turn off the bedside lamp and then the rustle of his duvet.
Jack's torn between giving you the space you need and between missing you. But the decision comes and you hear the sound of his crutches on the floor as he moves through the dark house.
You hear him stop next to the couch and you have to cover your mouth so he doesn't hear you giggle. It's quiet for a second before the cushions in front of you dip, and Jack slides in next to you.
"Oh my god, Jack. You're gonna fall." This time, you let the laugh escape you. Because this ridiculous man hold ons to you for dear life just so he doesn't fall on the ground.
"Don't care." He murmurs, practically manhandling you on top of him. "It's your fault, angel. You don't want to sleep next to me or communicate with me. So you're going to sleep like this."
That earns him another laugh from you, your chest shaking. "Okay, okay. Let's go to bed."
"Nope. You're mad. So we're both sleeping on the couch."
"Baby, it was a prank." You breath out in between chuckles, you can see him frown even through the darkness.
"I saw it on TikTok. I'm sorry." You're not really sorry because you are laughing your ass off as you see his reaction.
When his shock wears off, he's clutching you even tighter to him, head buried in your neck. "Oh thank god, sweetheart. You got me so worried."
"Awww, babe, why do you have to be so damn sweet?" Your laughter dies down. You just wanted to tease him a little, not to worry him like this.
"Because my sweetness needs to balance out the fact you are a little minx." There he is. Your Jack with his smart mouth and quick hands. He pinches your side and sits up as you yelp in surprise.
"Okay, come on now, doll. No more couch. My back can't handle sleeping on it." Jack mumbles out. He gets up on his crutches and somehow manages to grab your duvet as well.
"Okay, let's go old man." You tease him and then laugh some more as he shakes his head at you.
"You are really pushing it tonight, huh?" His voice dips deeper as he says it, and you are exactly where you want to be. Teasing him and then squirming under his knowing smirk is your speciality.
God. Maybe you should do pranks like this more often if it gets you this reaction.
summary: through your five years of residency at PTMC, you grew to hate Jack Abbot with all your might. Robby makes sure you come to terms with him, all of it having an unexpected turn as he sends you both to the medical conference in Washington.
warnings: 18+, undisclosed age gap, smut, unprotected sex (plan b mentioned), oral (f receiving), creampie, brief breeding kink, enemies to lovers, one bed trope, curse words, alcohol consumption
word count: 4.8k
āHe clearly doesnāt like me, Michael.ā You huffed, adjusting the stethoscope around your neck.
Michael Robinavitch was your mentor and also a best friend. You worked together for almost five years after you moved to Pittsburgh. And you were one of the few people who actually called him by his first name.
Robby looked through some papers on the chart, humming underneath his breath, his reading glasses hanging low.Ā
āYou are not listening.ā You rolled your eyes, walking over to the nurse station, looking through a chart.Ā
Dana glared up at you, shaking her head with a little smile.Ā
āArguing with Robby again?ā
You straightened your back a little and huffed. āI would call it an exchange of opinions.āĀ
Day and night shifts met for a quick briefing, Robby standing tall and serious. You were beside Mel, who looked anxious as always, stealing occasional looks at Langdon who were unusually smiley.Ā
Then your eyes flicked to the opposite, to who dared to stand beside your partner in crime. Jack Abbot with his arrogant and cocky energy.Ā
You scrunched your nose and he caught your stare, giving you a lopsided smile. He always enjoyed teasing you and you never held back.Ā
āSo, the thing is thereās this medical conference next week and I have to pick two of us who will represent the PTMC there.ā Robby started, he wasnāt a fan of those events so you knew exactly he wonāt be attending. You crossed your arms over your chest, curiosity took over your brain and you thought about who he should pick.
Frank raised his hand. āIāll go. I think Iām pretty capable of doing so.āĀ
Robby shook his head no. āNo. I already made my choice.ā And his gaze ended up on you. Oh no. Oh no. You knew where this was going.
Inhaling sharply, you were about to speak when he pointed at your figure adding: āYou and Abbot.āĀ
Jack raised his brows in surprise, but then his expression changed into an amused one, flashing a smirk at you. āOh, funny.ā
āYou canāt be serious, Michael.ā You growled, anger fuelling your body.
āThatās my final decision. I expect you two to behave like the professionals you are.ā Robby dismissed the meeting, others already whispering and giggling.Ā
You stomped on your feet, walking towards him all the while Jack still stood beside him.Ā
āI wonāt go.āĀ
Robby scribbled something onto a paper, clipping it onto a chart not caring about your words.
āCome on. Donāt be silly.ā Jack chuckled.
āIām not talking to you.ā You shot him a death glare and he just shook his head.Ā
Michael lifted his gaze to look at you, being all so serious. You know it's just a bullshit facade.
āIām giving you a chance to solve thisā this something, which I donāt understand what is, between you two. Talk it out, spend some time together, I donāt know, but donāt come back from that conference with unresolved issues you have with yourselves.ā And he was gone for a patient that just came through.Ā
The way you were pissed off was unbelievably bad. Jack crossed his arms over his chest.Ā
āWell, I wonāt be easy on you, so you better get ready.āĀ
āGo fuck yourself.ā You scoffed, trying to find yourself a useful thing to do, you decided to go triage.
Arriving into the hotel you were staying in Washington was another kind of shock.
After neverending bickering through the flight, you were excited to get some peace in your hotel room.
Only to find out there was a mistake with your booking and you ended up in the same room as your rival.Ā
One bed
Your worst nightmare, sharing the most intimate space with this unbelievable man.Ā
Jack shook his head when he put his suitcase against the wall, taking another glance at the bed as if he was able to divide it into two.
āRobby, you piece of shitā¦ā he muttered, but you heard it, shooting him an annoyed look.
āI will kill that man, with my bare HANDS.ā You were livid, pacing at the window.
āCalm down, itās okay. This bed is fucking huge, so thereās plenty space for us both.ā He was amused.Ā
āI donāt care what you think, Abbot. Iām getting my own room.ā You were determined.
Casually, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his pants. āYou heard the receptionist. Thereās no other room, because theyāre overbooked. Everybody is here for the medical conference. So be a professional and suck it up.āĀ
You hated how he was right.Ā
Jack was unbelievably gentle, standing tall beside you, chest puffed with pride when you spoke with other people representing the medical field. He took in how you were glowing while talking about things you loved.
When sitting at the table, you circled the leg of the champagne flute, watching it with an empty look.
āYou donāt fancy alcohol?ā His voice got you out of your mind.
āNot much.ā You murmured, taking a glance at the speaker on the podium.
Jack was listening to everything that was said, massaging his thigh above the prosthesis, it was one of those days he felt utterly exhausted by that damn thing.Ā
You didnāt care, trying to mind your own business, making some notes.
But Jack couldnāt help but steal occasional glances at your figure, the dress you were wearing was really enhancing you, as if you were born to wear that fabric. Clearing his throat, he shook his head to get back to his line of thinking.
You noticed he was staring, but said nothing, because you were already exhausted from dealing with him before, so there wasnāt a point in losing any more time with him. But you had to admit that he looked damn good in that suit, that white shirt under his blazer was really something, with those two buttons undone from the top revealing a little of his greyish chest hair. Swallowing hard, you felt your throat becoming dry, so this was the time you gulped the champagne.
Staying for the dinner and some evening chat with other doctors, one of them flirting with you, Jack decided he had enough and he excused himself to go back to the hotel room. His leg was bothering him to the limits the same as that damn young doctor trying to impress you with his successes through internships.Ā
āJesus Christ, what the hell?ā You huffed when you arrived at the hotel room, a little tipsy, spotting a prosthetic leg casually resting against the wall near the bedside table.
Jack lifted his gaze lazily from the tv show he was watching, already tucked in the spacious bed.Ā
āScared by an innocent part of a leg? Get a grip.ā He scoffed, but there was that sarcastic undertone you couldnāt unhear.Ā
āPff⦠I donāt have limbs scattered across my flat, soā¦ā you rolled your eyes, trying to take off your heels, but it was already a struggle given to your tired state.
He noticed your fight with the tiny straps and he sat up on the bed. āCome here, you clumsy thing.āĀ
And you did, landing on your ass on the edge of the bed and he gestured for you to lift your leg up so he could reach for it. Once his large hands wrapped around your ankle, your guts did a flip, the one you didnāt expect.Ā
Jack was focused on the small fastening that was stuck. With the surgical precision he undid it and relieved your foot from the tight grip of the heel.Ā
Then you lifted your other leg and he did the same. Now you had your legs on his lap and he ran his fingers over the curves of your insteps, pressing a little into the marks from the straps.
āYou should consider stopping wearing those damn heels. Not good for your feet and back.ā His voice soothed something in the depths of your soul, you started to melt under his skilled touch.Ā
āKeep it to yourself, doctor Abbot.ā You muttered and moved down to rest on your elbows, the dress hanging on your figure, your skin growing annoyed of the fabric.
Jack let out a soft chuckle, pressing his thumb to your sole causing you to groan in utter satisfaction.Ā
āFucking hellā¦ā a soft mutter escaped your lips, your head falling back with a deep sigh.
āI know what Iām doing.āĀ
The way he massaged your feet was astounding and embarrassingly great. You thought that you could never admit this to Robby. Ever.
āSure you doā¦āĀ
Jack hummed, tracing your ankle with his thumb. āI have an idea. Go take a shower and Iāll massage your feet even more, you can fall asleep comfortably. Hm?āĀ
You turned your head back to stare at him in disbelief, awaiting something mischievous behind it but his face was soft and full of honesty.
āOkay.ā You whispered softly, getting off the bed, already missing his warm touch. Collecting your toiletry bag and pajamas, you disappeared into the bathroom.
After a while you were out, fresh as a daisy, a tired expression written all over your face. A scent of your shampoo hit his nose and he cleared his throat.Ā
Climbing into the bed under the sheets, you lay your head on the pillow, looking up at how he was seated against the headboard.Ā
āWere you serious or you were making fun of me?āĀ
Jack patted his lap again, your legs moving instinctively towards him and he moved a little closer to you for you to be more comfortable. You could smell him, feel the heat radiating from his body, but you didnāt feel nervous or scared. It brought you peace and comfort.Ā
āIs this okay?ā He asked for your permission in a low tone, giving you a concerned look.
You nodded, eyes closing as he massaged your feet gently.Ā
For you it was a very intimate act. And with your sworn enemy?Ā
āThank you.ā Your murmur was barely heard, but he caught it, smiling to himself, working on your toes.
āI would take care of you every day if you were mine.ā Jack sighed into the silence of the room, while you were already out, deeply asleep.
The first sunrays peeked through the curtains of the hotel room, having you stirring in the bed. Something heavy was draped over your upper body, heat radiating at your back. A soft hum of approval escaped your mouth, but then you opened your eyes slowly, confused a little.Ā
Jack had his arm draped over you, holding you close to his chest while his breath trickled your hair on your neck as he was still asleep.Ā
Your mind yelled at you to jump out of the bed immediately, but you decided to shift a little, your stare taking in his skin.Ā
Counting the freckles on his forearm, you actually felt good, safe even.Ā
Until you felt another thing poking into your back, blush was creeping up your cheeks.Ā
āJack. Hey. We have to get up.ā You tried to gently nudge him but all he did was wrap his arms around you tight, his face buried in the crook of your neck, exhaling heavily.Ā
āA few more minutes, babyā¦ā he hummed, grinding his hips into you.Ā
Eyes wide you jumped out of the bed, heart thumping in your chest. āAbbot. Wake up, you dang idiot!ā Your voice surely caused him to open his eyes lazily, looking at you and then he shifted to lay on his back.Ā
āWhatās the rush, huh?ā His voice was hoarse and now you could see clearly the tent formed between his legs.Ā
āJesus Christ, you have no decency.ā You huffed, grabbing your clothes to disappear into the bathroom.Ā
Jack peeked under the cover to seek his morning wood only to grin. āThatās a sign my body is working well.āĀ
Doing your skincare, you still felt the ache in your lower belly, the one that you desperately tried to keep at bay with your own skilled hands. Thereās no way you would want to have sex with your enemy. No.Ā
Maybe⦠a little. Yeah. No.Ā
You shook your head and once being ready, you fled out of the bathroom, taking a glance at him with the corner of your eye.Ā
Jack struggled to put on his leg, grunting and cursing under his breath.Ā
āNeed a hand?ā You were all sarcastic but in your mind you pitied this man.Ā
āActually, yeah.ā He ran a hand through his messy grey curls and you put down your phone, walking to him. Jack noticed youāre wearing a dress, again, but this time it was a nice summer one with flowers on it.
āYou look good.ā He hummed out and you just got onto your knees completely ignoring him as you focused on the task and that was clasping his leg on where it has to be.Ā
āTell me what to do?ā You lifted your gaze and you caught his expression. Sucking in a breath he got out of the trance, showing you exactly what he needed help with.
You nodded, trying your best, your dainty fingers helping but that prosthetic bitch had its own mind.Ā
āShitā¦ā you cursed and Jack propped himself back on his hands.Ā
āFuck. I hate this.āĀ
You sat back on your heels, taking in his frustrated expression and your eyes wandered down south.Ā
āAbbot, are you fucking kidding me?ā You breathed out at the sight of his erection again.
His gaze fell down and he smirked a little.Ā
āWell, you're on your kneesā¦āĀ
Your eyes went wide, mouth open agape when you wanted to insult him but your brain was numb. You could use some relief, a man hasnāt touched you in ages.Ā
āYou're an unbelievable asshole.āĀ
āReally? Then why are you blushing? Why are you so flushed, princess?ā He mocked you and you noticed his dick twitching in his shorts.Ā
Acting more on instinct, you managed to rip your panties off you and throwing them at him with annoyed grunt. Catching them swiftly, he brought them to his nose, inhaling your sweet scent.
āGuess weāre gonna need to prolong our stay.ā His voice was suddenly so deep.
Your hands grabbed his thighs, a longing sigh escaping your mouth. āHow do we play this out?āĀ
Jack was still mesmerised by the piece of fabric that used to hug your pussy, but he gave you a look full of lust.Ā
āRobby wants us to get our frustrations out. So, use me. Ride me. Whatever you like. Because I know youāre secretly thinking about all the things youād do to me.ā His body leaned closer to where you kneeled, whispering against your lips as his fingers tipped your chin. You were like a moth caught by the flame, your lips parted slightly, trembling, you were needy as hell.
Not giving you time to speak, he captured your lips in some kinda soft kiss, like testing the waters if youāre gonna kiss him back. And you waited no more. Literally jumping onto him, you wrapped your legs around his hips, his one hand keeping you steady in place while the other was a little behind him to not fall on his back.
āEager girl.ā He muttered in between kisses, gasping when he felt you grinding against his groin.Ā
āCan you shut up for a moment?ā You breathed out heavily, arms around his neck, staring into his eyes.
āNever.āĀ
That goddamn smirk that was driving you crazy.Ā
āI hate you.ā You gritted through your teeth, your hand traveling down between your bodies, into his shorts to finally take a hold of his girth. And holy shit, girl, your hand suddenly felt very small.
Jack could see it in your eyes, the surprise and warmth of your arousal when you found out how blessed he actually was.
āSo, what are we saying?ā His hand casually fell down to the curve of your ass, underneath the soft fabric of your dress.Ā
āIām not gonna praise your cock.ā You huffed, palming him, trying not to salivate at how much you wanted to have your mouth stuffed with him. But you wonāt give him that satisfaction. Not yet.
Being so focused on that, you almost didnāt notice his hand on your ass moving towards your pussy, his fingers smearing in your wetness.Ā
āOh, ohhhā¦ā you jolted forward into his chest, whining in process.Ā
āJesus, love, I think we both need me to be inside you soon as possible, hm?ā Jack was starting to get frustrated, expecting you to be more denying as usual but you nodded fast and shifted your hips to navigate his tip to your aching folds. All that while you were holding his gaze, you were shaking at the anticipation and he helped you with both his hands to guide you down.
Once his cock started to stretch through your velvet walls, your eyes rolled back into your skull, mouth letting out a loud gasp, your consciousness faltering slowly.
āEasy, baby, easy⦠fuck, youāre so tight.ā He got you, slowly getting you lower and lower on his length, biting his lip to hold back the pathetic moan at how you clenched around him heavenly.
After a while, you were sitting fully on him, his shaft being swallowed whole by your hungry pussy and you held onto him tight, like you didnāt want to fall off. You didnāt even have a single thought to talk.
āSo this is what it gets for you to finally be quiet, huh?ā His arm holding you close on his lap, while his other hand reached out to brush a strand of your hair from your face to look at you, to note how you were out of your mind, so pliant and soft.Ā
Then it struck him that you were still wearing that dress and he pushed the straps down your shoulders to reveal your breasts. Licking his lips, he then took your right nipple into his mouth, giving it a proper care, sucking it as if there was no tomorrow.Ā
āJ-Jackā¦ā you whimpered, losing your mind through being full by him.Ā
Trailing his way up your neck to your ear, he chuckled smugly. āCome on, baby girl, ride me.āĀ
Lifting your hips, you slammed back, over and over, his hands gripping your hips to help you with your moves.Ā
Face flushed, eyes rolled back, you couldnāt breathe from how much you loved the moment. He was absolutely perfect for you, matching your desire, holding you exactly how you expected from a man.Ā
Sweat formed on your forehead, hair sticking to it, you were riding this man with all your might. And he was there, for you, watching you, without any biting remark, he was enjoying himself too.Ā
Suddenly he stopped you, halting you fully onto his cock. You inhaled sharply, mind dizzy from the lack of oxygen, but you noticed his trembling lower lip, his features tight.Ā
āHuh?āĀ
āIām gonna come, sweetheart, andāā you interrupted him.
āDonāt care. Gonna take a plan b. Just fucking fill me, Abbot.ā ah, there it was, the fire in your eyes was back.Ā
Something dark flashed across his gaze and he nodded. Quickly, he moved you on the bed, flat on stomach, and he did his best to climb on you, slapping your ass gently.Ā
Settling between your ass cheeks, he rubbed his dick through your folds, only to fill you again. It was really hard for him to keep his balance, so he leaned forwards onto his hands.
Your hands gripped the sheets, drooling into the fabric, muffling your moans as he pounded into your relentlessly.
āFuck, fuck, fuck, oh baby, ohā¦ā he whimpered, it was like music to your ears and finally you felt his dick twitching with release, his thick cum coating your inner walls.
Breathing heavily, you buried your face into the mattress when Jack collapsed onto your back, peppering your bare shoulder in kisses.
āSo good for meā¦ā whispering, it gave you shivers.
āFuck youā¦ā you mumbled and he chuckled.
Jack carefully slid out of you, body still thrumming with post orgasmic flow, and his strong hand flipped you onto your back.
Gasping in surprise, you stared at him when he moved between your legs, laying on his stomach, one of his hands settled on your hip and the other cupped your ruined pussy. He was mesmerised by the way his precious frosting dripped out of you. Carefully, he scooped a little by his fingers, only to push it back into you, causing you to whine in overstimulation.Ā
āShhh⦠I almost forgot about you, how wrong of meā¦ā he darted out his tongue and licked a long stripe to your clit, all the while his fingers were curling in your clenching cunt.
āJack⦠pleaseāā you moaned, face frowned and eyes full of tears.Ā
āWhat is it, baby?ā He held you in place, noticing how your hips tried to escape from him even though you ached to come.
āT-too muchāā you gasped when he latched onto your clit with his lips, suckling sounds filling the room and your eyes went wide.
āFuckā gonna kill youāā it was all you had to say when your hands flew to his hair, to tug it rough, making him grunt into your core.
āOf course.ā His voice vibrated your folds to the point you were going crazy, your pussy making all those lewd sounds of arousal.Ā
Then he let go of you, blowing a little air onto your petal, chuckling at your squirming figure. Pulling out his fingers, having them coated with a mix of your juices and his cum, he propped himself onto his hand to bring them to your lips.Ā
You shook your head no, brows furrowing in annoyance.
āOpen your mouth. I want you to taste us.ā His voice was commanding and you let out a shuddered breath. You were a mess, you wanted to come already, to be over with it, but you had to play his game.
Holding his gaze, you obeyed, parting your lips and he waited no more, pushing his fingers onto your tongue. Inhaling sharply, your tongue swirled eagerly, moaning quietly at how intoxicating taste it was.Ā
Jack grinned victoriously, getting back to your painfully edged cunt, delving his fingers back into your depths.
āLook at you, taking me so well, who would have thought that youāre such a good girl. So fucking good. Mhm⦠come on⦠give it to me, all you have is mine, princessā¦āĀ
The way he talked, you couldnāt take it, your body screaming in utmost pleasure and pain from the overwhelming sensations.
āYouād be so hot being round and soft with my baby. You were made to be filled by meā¦ā he continued and you were bewildered by this and you shot him a shocked glare.
āStopā donāt sayā holyā Jack!āĀ
But it was all you needed to actually reach your highest of the high, coming around his fingers, sucking him tight with your velvet walls.
Jack laughed softly, feeling so proud that his little talk made you come hard.Ā
Giving your pussy a soft tap, he moved to lay beside you, enjoying your panting breaths, grinning how ruined you looked, sweaty and done.
Fingers grazed their way between your breasts to your neck, ending up on your jaw.Ā
āYouāre beautiful like this.āĀ
Turning your head to look at him, you let out a sigh.Ā
āDonāt start with thisā¦āĀ
āIām just saying whatās true.ā His features softened while caressing your cheek.
You leaned into his touch, closing your eyes for a moment. You wanted to savour every possible second of it.
āRobby canāt know about this.ā You shot your eyes open with an amused expression.
Jack was smug, running his hand through the strands of your damp hair.Ā
āHeās gonna be so nosy. Prepare for it.āĀ
A soft laugh slipped past your lips, you were staring into the ceiling.Ā
āThank you.ā
He cocked his brow. āFor what?āĀ
āGood fuck?ā You looked at him again.
āAnytime.ā He shrugged and moved to sit on the edge of the bed, reaching for his leg. This time he put it on the right way.Ā
āMotherfucker.ā He cursed under his breath and then he turned to see you over his shoulder.Ā
āYou have to get yourself cleaned up. I can help.ā He offered you his hand and you took it without any hesitation. Still having your dress scrunched up around your waist you took it off and walked to the bathroom with him.Ā
Jack grabbed a towel to clean himself quickly, not bothering about anything else and then he gestured for you to step under the spray of hot water.Ā
While you were cleaning your skin he watched you intently, leaning against the vanity counter until he sat down on the closed lid of the toilet.Ā
After you stepped out, wrapped into a fluffy towel, you let out a sigh of relief. His hand suddenly reached out for yours, bringing you to stand between his open legs.Ā
āI donāt want this to be a one time thing. Iām not a man like this.ā His thumb brushed over your knuckles.
That took you aback. āI⦠Jackā¦āĀ
āSorry, I⦠I just want you to know that I didnāt hate you. I donāt hate you. You captivated me from the moment you entered that damn hospital in Pittsburgh. You and your attitude just didnāt give me much choice.ā He chuckled and his words tugged on your chest.
You placed a hand on his shoulder and he lifted his gaze to meet your eyes.
āI was so irritated by your cocky behaviour, I knew men like you. But⦠it appears that I didnāt know you at all.ā Your hand moved to his cheek, cupping it.
A shaky breath went through his mouth. āYouāre so insufferable, you canāt imagine.āĀ
Rolling your eyes, you squeezed his hand instinctively. āOh believe me. I can.ā
āSo, I suggest we come back and take it easy. No rush. We have to be careful around others on our shifts. What do you think?ā Jack stood up, flinching a little, shifting his leg, but still holding your hand.
āSounds good to me.ā You nodded with a smile, while he leaned forward to press a kiss against your forehead.
āLetās get you that morning after pill.āĀ
A day shift was in full swing when about three in the afternoon Jack clocked in and his eyes were searching for you through the space.
You were on a case with Robby, finished with the patient to be sent to the OR.
Taking off your bloodied gloves, you huffed at something Robby was talking about behind you.Ā
āYeah, clearly Iām not in the best shape, okay?āĀ
Robby noticed Jack standing at the computer at the nurse station, already watching you both. āWell, maybe you should think about switching for the night since you warmed up with our daddy one leg.ā The last three words he whispered near you to tease you and you smacked his arm.
āFuck you, Michael.āĀ
āAh, so, Iām not wrong with my assumption, huh?ā He followed after you, when you hurried towards the charts.
āWhatās the hush?ā Jack smirked, taking a slow step forward Robby, who was eyeing him with amusement.
āMichael here just called you the daddy one leg.ā You wiggled your brows in amusement, sipping coffee from your cup.
Jack feigned a little gasp, placing a hand on his chest. āYou just hurt me, a war veteran, an amputee, Robby.āĀ
Robby just scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief, a wide grin spread across his face. āIām just trying to find whatās behind this little alliance you two made all of sudden. What the fuck happened at that conference, hm?āĀ
Both you and Jack met with your gazes, but he decided to speak. āWell, you said we have to discuss the shit between us, and we sorted it out, case closed. Whatās the matter with that?āĀ
āThat you both almost bit your head off and all of sudden youāre cooperating without a fuss. Itās weirdly hard to believe that you just discussed it out.ā Robby bounced on his feet, irritation evident from his voice as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his scrubs.
āGet out of your head, Michael. Youāre spending too much time there.ā You chuckled at your own joke, Jack trying so hard to not laugh.Ā
Later that day, when you were about to clock out of your shift, you stood beside Dana, who was scribbling something down, staring through her readers. Robby was discussing a case with Ellis and Shen who arrived just in time to relieve the dayās, while Jack stood close to them, somehow watching you again.Ā
āSo, whatās he like in bed, huh?ā Dana nudged your arm, looking in the direction where Jack stood.Ā
You bit the inside of your cheek with a little sigh. āUnbelievable, Dana. Fucking unbelievableā¦āĀ
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Summary: When you moved halfway across the world to work nights at PTMC, the last thing you expected was for your soulmate string to lead straight to Dr. Jack Abbotāwhoās already happily married to his own soulmate. So you bury your feelings beneath friendship, trauma shifts, and years of silence⦠until tragedy changes everything, and both of you begin to realize that maybe soulmates were never about fate, but choice. Or, the Soulmate AU with Jack Abbot.
Pairing: Jack Abbot x FilipinaNurseFem!Reader (Can still be read by anyone! Itās not super specific)
Warnings: 18+ Soulmate String AU, Unrequited Love to Requited Love, Age-Gap Romance (Not Specified), Hospitals, ER, ANGST, Fluff, Crush, Blood, Friends-to-Lovers, Slow(ish) Burn, Eventual Hurt-to-Comfort, Longing, YEARNING, Major Character Death, The Pitt AU, Grief, Tragic Heroine, Tragic Hero, Widow!Abbot, Depressed!Abbot, Anger, Crying, GSW, Happily Ever After, COVID-19, Kissing,Ā
Word Count: 22.5k
A/N: We're gonna take a break from Ducky and Robby for a bit. Welcome, Jack Abbot. You are in my domain now >:D ALSO, I HIT THE LIMIT ON SPACING SOOO THE FORMAT MIGHT BE FUCKED IDK. Sorry :(((
Side note: Gif in the moodboard from @/keeryscupid. Iām not a doctor or a nurse. Iām dyslexic, and English isnāt my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!
Songs: Orbiter by Noah Kahan, Brush Fire by Gracie Abrams, and If You Let Me by Maisie Peters (with Marcus Mumford)
| Jack Abbot Masterlist | Main Masterlist |
2018
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT ā NIGHT
The first thing you notice about the Pitt isnāt the noise.
Itās the pace.
Everything moves fast, but no one looks rushed. People pass each other like theyāve done this a thousand times, sliding through narrow spaces without looking, voices overlapping in half-finished sentences, monitors beeping in uneven rhythms that somehow donāt throw anyone off.
Organized disaster is exactly what an emergency department should feel like. You tighten your grip on the strap of your bag as you follow Lena down the hall, trying not to stare at everything like itās your first day on Earth.
New country, New hospital, New job.
Night shift.
Your body still hasnāt figured out what time zone itās supposed to be in, but adrenaline is already kicking in, that familiar hum under your skin that always comes when you step into an ER. You tell yourself youāve handled worse. That youāve worked typhoon nights, mass casualty drills, and overcrowded government hospitals with half the supplies you needed.
You can handle this.
Lena pushes the double doors open with her shoulder, not even breaking stride. āERās through here,ā she says. āYou said you worked trauma before, right?ā
āYes, maāam,ā you answer automatically.
She glances back at you immediately, āDrop the maāam. Youāll make everyone feel old.ā
Heat creeps up your neck, āSorry. Habit.ā
āYouāll fit in,ā she mutters, half amused, half distracted as she scans the room.
You step through the doors behind herāand the sound hits all at once. Phones ringing, a monitor alarming somewhere in the back, sharp and insistent. A patient down the hall is yelling that heās been waiting for three hours and heās going to sue somebody.
Itās loud and crowded, but very alive and all too familiar. Your shoulders drop just a little, tension you didnāt realize you were holding easing out of your spine.
Lena stops near the central desk, scanning the board, then jerks her chin toward the far side of the room, āThatās Dr. Jack Abbot. Heās on trauma tonight, so youāll probably be with him most of the shift.ā
You follow her gaze without thinking.
He stands near the counter, scrolling through a chart on an iPad, stethoscope hanging loose around his neck like he forgot it was there. Curly salt and pepper hair slightly messy, the kind of tired that comes from too many night shifts in a row.
He looks up when someone calls his name, and the moment your eyes land on him, your wrist burns.
You suck in a small breath, instinctively looking down. Thereās a red string looped around your wrist, thin, bright, and impossible to miss.
Your stomach drops so fast it makes you dizzy. Because what the actual fuck? No. Not here. Not now.
At some point, youād convinced yourself maybe you simply didnāt have one. Maybe the universe skipped you.
The thread pulls slightly, like something on the other end just moved, and your fingers curl around it before you even realize what youāre doing. A voice in your head tells you not to look⦠but you look anyway. The string stretches across the room, weaving through people and stretchers and equipment like it doesnāt care about physics; it never has.
Your breath gets stuck in your throat as you follow it as it leads straight to himāJack Abbot.
Your heart stutters hard enough that you feel it in your ears.
No.
No, no, no.
Lena is still talking beside you, something about assignments, but the words blur together. āā¦good with procedures, just donāt let him skip charting, he triesā Abbot!ā
He looks up again, this time, at you. The string pulls tight between your wrists. For a second, neither of you moves. Then he walks over, casual, pumping sanitizer on his hands like this is just another shift, just another new nurse, nothing important happening at all.
Heās taller up close.
Tired-looking in a way that somehow makes him seem softer instead of intimidating. Curly salt-and-pepper hair slightly messy, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stethoscope hanging around his neck like he forgot it was there hours ago.
āYou the new one?ā he asks. His voice is warm and easy. Maybe a little rough around the edges from too much coffee and too many overnight shifts.
You force your brain to function.
āYeah,ā you manage. āFirst night.ā
He nods once, then holds out his hand.
āJack Abbot.ā
Your hand hesitates for half a second before you take it. The second your skin touches hisāthe string snaps tight. It feels like something deep in your bones clicks violently into place.
Your pulse jumps hard beneath your skin, and for one horrifying second you think maybe he can feel it too.
But Jack just smiles politely, completely unaffected.
Because he canāt see it, not fully. The thread only loops faintly around his wrist before disappearing, incomplete and one-sided.
You swallow hard, āNice to meet you.ā
āWelcome to the Pitt,ā he says. āTry not to run.ā You let out a shaky laugh before you can stop yourself, āToo late for that.ā
A faint smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, like he likes your answer. By God, that tiny expression alone nearly kills you.
Then he shifts the iPad under his armāand you see the ring.Ā
A silver band on his left hand.
Your entire body goes cold.
For a second, you genuinely canāt process what youāre looking at. Of course, heās married. Because, yes, the universe would do something this cruel.
You force yourself to look away before your face gives you awayāand thatās when you notice her.
A woman stands near Central holding a paper bag against her hip, looking around the department with the comfortable familiarity of someone whoās been here a hundred times before.
Waiting for him.
Jack notices her immediately, and his whole face changes. It softens enough for you to understand instantly how much he loves her. āHey,ā he says quietly, already walking toward her.
The incomplete thread around his wrist brightens faintly.
She smiles the second he reaches her, āYou forgot dinner again.ā Jack laughs softly, taking the bag from her, āI was busy.ā
āYouāre always busy.ā
āOccupational hazard.ā
She rolls her eyes affectionately, and he leans down automatically to kiss her cheek. Itās absent-minded and natural. The kind of intimacy built over years. Loving her is as easy as breathing. Suddenly, the red string around your own wrist feels unbearably tight. Because the universe already choseāitās not you. Never you.
Lena nudges your shoulder lightly, āYou good?ā
You blink quickly, forcing your expression back under control before anyone notices the way your soul feels like itās collapsing inward. āYeah,ā you say, your voice almost sounds steady. āJust jet lag.ā
Lena nods distractedly and turns back toward the board.
Across the room, Jack says something under his breath that makes his wife laugh. The warm and happy sound carries across the department.
You look down at the string around your wrist one last time before pulling your sleeve over it completely.
You can do thisāyouāve survived harder things than heartbreak.
You square your shoulders, take the iPad Lena hands you, and step fully into the chaos of the Pitt.
So when Jack glances back at you a moment later, smiling like youāre just another coworker starting a shift, you smile back, pretending that your heart didnāt just fall through the floor.
A FEW MONTHS LATERā¦
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT ā NIGHT SHIFT
By the time the Pitt starts feeling familiar, itās already too late.Ā You know the rhythm of the department now, the same way you know your own breathing. Which monitor is about to alarm before it starts screaming. Which psych patient is one bad interaction away from throwing a urinal at security, or a resident is about to panic during a difficult intubation.
You know the trauma bay doors stick when it rains, and Lena hides the good coffee above the Pyxis because Ellis steals the decent stuff first, and the fluorescent lights over Hallway C flicker around three in the morning like theyāre barely holding on, and you know Jack Abbotās footsteps before you even see him.
Well, to be honest, that part happens slowly. Shift after shift. Trauma after trauma. Somewhere between your first week and your third month, working beside him stops feeling intimidating and starts feeling natural.
You know how he likes his trauma setups organized. You know he taps his pen twice against the desk when heās thinking too hard. You know he rubs the back of his neck when heās exhausted and trying not to show it. And worseāhe knows you too.
āLifeline!ā Ellisā voice cuts across the department as you walk out of Trauma Two carrying an empty suture tray. You stop mid-step. āYou people are never letting that nickname die, are you?ā
Ellis swivels around in her chair with a grin. āAbsolutely not.ā
The nickname started during your second week after a pediatric code that had gone catastrophically wrong.
A seven-year-old nearly drownedāno pulse on arrival. The room had dissolved into controlled chaos within secondsārespiratory trying to secure the airway while one of the newer residents nearly froze trying to place an IO line.
Shen, still early enough into residency that panic sometimes beat experience, had looked one second away from completely spiraling.
But through all of it, you had stayed calm.
Youād guided Shen through the tibial IO placement while simultaneously pushing epinephrine prep toward Jack and coordinating compression rotations so nobody burned out too early.
At one point, Ellis had looked up from the monitor and muttered, āJesus Christ. Sheās everybodyās lifeline in here.ā
Unfortunately for you, the name stuck. Now, half the ED used it more than your actual name.
āLifeline, Trauma Two,ā Lena calls without looking up from the board.
āOn my way.ā
Jack steps out of the trauma bay at the same time you do, peeling bloody gloves off his hands. āYou steal my nurse again?ā he asks Lena.
Lena snorts. āYou donāt own her, Abbot.ā
āThatās not what I said.ā
Thereās something easy in the exchange that makes warmth spread unexpectedly through you.
Jack falls into step beside you automatically as you head toward Trauma Two.
āYou eat yet?ā he asks.
You glance at him suspiciously. āAre you asking because you care or because you need me conscious enough to survive this shift?ā
āA little of both.ā
You huff out a laugh. Because thatās the problem with Jack. Heās kind in ways that sneak up on you, a quiet attentiveness that drives you nuts. He notices when you havenāt sat down in seven hours or when your hands shake after a bad pediatric trauma and when youāre pushing yourself too hard, and casually hands you a granola bar like he didnāt specifically go looking for one because he knew you skipped dinner.
The kind of doctor who stays with family members after delivering bad news instead of disappearing the second the conversation gets uncomfortable, and the kind of man who wears his wedding ring like it means something sacred.
Which somehow makes all of this hurt even more. Because every soft look. Every quiet joke at three in the morning or moment beside him in a trauma bayābelongs to someone else.
And you know that.
The universe reminds you every single day that the red string hidden beneath the cuff of your scrub jacket pulls tight whenever he gets too close.
Youāve gotten good at ignoring it or pretending to.
TRAUMA ONE ā NIGHT
Tonightās MVA is a disaster. Twenty-six-year-old male. Ejected through the windshield. Hypotensive on arrival. The second EMS wheels him through the ambulance bay doors, and the department shifts gears instantly.
āBP seventy over forty,ā Ellis says from the monitor. āHeart rate one-forty.ā
āBreath sounds diminished on the left,ā Shen adds quickly, trying to keep up.
āAlright, letās move,ā Jack says sharply.
Youāre already there.
Trauma shears cut through blood-soaked clothing while respiratory preps for intubation. You place oxygen and start hanging fluids while Jack performs the FAST exam. Free fluid in Morrisonās pouch appears on the screen almost immediately. Internal bleeding, most likely splenic rupture.
āCall OR,ā Jack says. āHeās going upstairs.ā
āAlready on it,ā you answer, grabbing the phone before he even finishes speaking. Jack glances toward you over the patient. Thereās blood smeared across the sleeve of his scrub top, exhaustion pulled deep into the lines around his eyes. Yet stillāthat small flicker of trust when he looks at you. He knows youāll catch whatever he misses.
You hate how much that matters to you.
CENTRAL WORK AREA ā NIGHT
By four in the morning, the Pitt settles into its strange version of quiet. Youāre charting near Central when the elevator doors open.
Jackās wife walks out carrying six pizza boxes stacked in her arms.
The entire department visibly brightens.
āOh thank God,ā Ellis says dramatically. āAn angel sent from heaven.ā
āYou people are unbelievable,ā she laughs.
Ellis immediately takes two boxes from her. āRespectfully, I would die for you.ā
āThatās deeply concerning,ā Lena mutters.
āYouāre just jealous she likes me more.ā
āI absolutely am not.ā
You canāt help laughing softly under your breath. There it is againā that awful ache in your heart. Because sheās truly, genuinely wonderful. The universe couldāve at least made her cold, cruel, or difficult.
Instead, she remembers everyoneās coffee orders and asks about your family back home, and brings food for the night shift because she knows none of you remember to eat unless somebody forces you.
āYou must be Lifeline.ā
You blink, startled when you realize sheās suddenly standing beside you.
Up close, her smile is warm and effortless. You force yourself to smile back. āThat obvious, huh?ā
āOh, very,ā she says easily. āJack talks about you all the time.ā
Your heart stumbles painfully against your ribs.
Before you can recover, she continues casually, āApparently, youāre the only reason this department functions after midnight.ā
You laugh weakly. āThat gives me way too much credit. Obviously, Lena holds everything down.ā
āHave you met these people?ā she asks quietly, glancing around Central. āIām pretty sure Shen would eat expired yogurt if left unsupervised.ā
āThat happened one time,ā Shen shouts.
āYou were hallucinating by hour two,ā Ellis replies.
You laugh again before you can stop yourself, and somehow, talking to her is easy. Isnāt that cruel? Because you like her immediately, she asks about the Philippines, about your family, and how you plan on surviving Pittsburgh winters.
Youāre halfway through explaining that black ice feels like a personal attack when Jack walks out of Trauma Two. He tosses his gloves into the biohazard bin before sanitizing his hands automatically. His curls are damp with sweat at the temples now, scrub top wrinkled from the shift.
Then he looks up to find the two of you talking and smilesāsoft around the edges in a way that makes your eyes water.
āWell,ā his wife says immediately, āthere he is.ā
Jack points toward the pizza boxes. āYou bribing my staff again?ā
āYour staff?ā Lena repeats flatly from across the desk.
Jack ignores her completely.
His wife gestures toward you. āLifeline and I decided youāre actually the problem in this department.ā You blink. āWe did?ā
āWe did now.ā
Jack looks genuinely betrayed, āThat was fast.ā
āSheās nice,ā his wife says simply. Jackās eyes flick toward you for half a second, warm and amused. āYeah,ā he says quietly. āShe is.ā
Your pulse skips hard enough you nearly miss it. Coward, coward, coward.
You look away first while his wife grins triumphantly. āSee? I win.ā
āYou gang up on me constantly.ā
āBecause youāre easy to bully,ā you say before thinking.
Jack stares at you in mock offense. āWow. Okay.ā
āYou walked into that one,ā Ellis says.
āYouāre all terrible people.ā
His wife reaches up automatically to straighten the collar of his scrub shirt. Such a small gesture, absent-minded and intimate. The kind of touch that only exists between people who know each other completely.
Your wrist aches beneath your sleeve as the string pulls tighter. Still connected to him. So very impossible and still wrong. But somehow, standing there laughing with both of them at four in the morning, you realize something infinitely more dangerous than loving him.
Youāre becoming part of their lives.
CENTRAL WORK AREA ā LATER
The shift slows near dawn as youāre charting near Central when Jack drops into the chair beside you with a tired exhale.
āYou ever think about leaving emergency medicine?ā he asks suddenly. You glance sideways. āEvery shift.ā
āThatās healthy.ā
āI think about becoming a florist at least twice a week.ā
Jack huffs out a tired laugh. āYouād last six days.ā
āRude.ā
āYou yelled at a surgeon yesterday.ā
āHe was wrong.ā You pointed out.
āHe was technically right.ā
āHe was spiritually wrong.ā
That earns a real laugh from him, the low and warm kind. God. You hold onto sounds like that more than you should. Silence settles comfortably between you afterwardāthe kind that only exists between people who know each other well. Then, almost absentmindedly, Jack asks, āHave you met your soulmate yet?ā
Your fingers stop over the keyboard. For one horrible second, your entire body forgets how to function. But your face stays calm, because years in emergency medicine have made you terrifyingly good at composure. You keep typing as you reply, āNope.ā
Jack glances sideways at you. āAt all?ā You shrug lightly, forcing your voice steady. āMight just not be in the cards for me.ā
Something softens in his expression immediately. Jack looks at people like he wants to understand them, not fix them. āI doubt that,ā he says quietly. You stare at the chart on the screen because looking at him feels too dangerous. The red string hidden beneath your sleeve suddenly feels impossibly heavy.
āI mean it,ā he continues softly. āWhoever ends up with you is gonna be lucky.ā
Your throat tightens painfully as you force a laugh under your breath before the emotion can show on your face. āSmooth.ā
āIām serious.ā
The worst part isāhe means it. You finally risk looking at him. His eyes are tired and honest in that devastating way that makes lying to him feel terrible.
āI hope whoever you loveā¦ā he says quietly, almost like heās thinking out loud, āloves you back just as much.ā
The cruel irony nearly splits you open. Because you already know exactly what loving him feels like. It feels like swallowing it down every single day, pretending friendship is enough because it has to be, while standing three feet away from your soulmate, while he talks about his wife with soft eyes and absolute devotion.
Your eyes sting suddenly, and you blink hard before he notices. āMe too, Jack,ā you whisper. You mean it so much it hurts.
āMe too.ā
2020, COVID PANDEMIC
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT ā NIGHT
The world changes fast. One week, people are joking about a virus overseas between trauma calls and coffee runs, and then the next week, the Pitt is overflowing.
Then, suddenly, every hallway smells like bleach and sanitizer, strong enough to burn your nose through the mask. Every shift feels like drowningāN95s cutting grooves into your skin, face shields fogging every time you breathe, and isolation gowns crackling every time you move.
The emergency department transforms into something unrecognizable almost overnight. There are no visitors or waiting rooms full of family. Alarms, intubations, oxygen sats dropping, and the sound of ventilators become part of the background noise of your life. Everyone starts looking exhausted, and then everyone starts looking haunted. You stop recognizing your coworkers without PPE. Even you stop recognizing yourself.
Through all of it, Jack keeps working.
You think maybe the entire world could collapse around him and heād still show up for trauma shift fifteen minutes early with coffee in one hand and exhaustion carved into his face. Some nights, the two of you barely talk beyond patient updates. There isnāt time. Not anymore. Every room is full, and the waiting room looks like a war zone; people are dying faster than you can process. But even through the masks and face shields and layers of plastic, you still know him.
You know the crease between his brows when heās worried and the exhaustion in his posture. The look in his eyes when a patient reminds him too much of somebody else.
To add to that, around the beginning of the pandemic, his wife dies. Not from COVID, which somehow makes it more merciless.
Pedestrian versus drunk driverāDOA. The call comes in just after midnight. You donāt know itās her at first. Female in her late thirties. Severe head trauma. Massive internal injuries. CPR in progress.
The paramedics wheel her through the doors while respiratory rushes to clear Trauma One. For one horrible second, before you even see her face, the red string around Jackās wrist burns.
You freeze, not because you understand yet. Because something deep inside you already does.Ā
Then Jack steps into the trauma room, and everything stops. You watch recognition hit him in real time, the way his body locks up and how color drains from his face beneath the mask.
āNo,ā he says immediately, as if he says it softly enough, maybe reality will change its mind.
āNo.ā
Lena moves first.
āJackāā
āThatās my wife.ā
The room goes dead silent. Even with monitors alarming and compressions ongoing, along with Shen asking for another round of epi.
It all disappears under the sound of Jackās voice breaking.
Youāve seen grief beforeāyou work in emergency medicine, so you see it every day. But nothing prepares you for the sound a person makes when their entire life shatters in front of them. Jack tries to step forward, but Lena catches him immediately. āJack.ā
āNo, let meāā
āJack.ā
āSheās still warmāā
His voice cracks apart on the words. The paramedic quietly says they found no pulse on scene. Prolonged downtime. Non-survivable head trauma. You canāt breatheānobody can.
Jack looks at his wife lying on the trauma bed like he genuinely cannot understand what heās seeing; his brain refuses to process it. Blood in her hair and on the sheet, with her wedding ring still on her hand. Suddenly, the red string around your own wrist pulls painfully tightābefore snapping loose.
Jack stares at his own wrist instinctively. The string tied thereāgone. His face crumples. All thatās left is a man realizing the universe just took something from him that it can never give back.
COVID restrictions mean none of you are allowed at the funeral. No gathering or reception. No sitting beside him in church or placing a hand on his shoulder in comfort; bringing food to his house while relatives fill the rooms with noise and stories and grief.
Only Zoom.
Fucking Zoom.
You sit alone in your apartment at three in the afternoon after night shift, still in scrubs because you were too tired to change, laptop balanced on your kitchen table.
Everyoneās little squares flicker on-screen. Lena is crying silently, Ellis is muted, while Shen is trying and failing not to cry. Multiple other night shift staff are trying their best to pull themselves togetherāto be brave for Jack.
While Jack is sitting alone in a black button-down shirt in a house that suddenly looks too empty.
He looks hollow. Thatās the only word for it. Hollowed out from the inside. You realize halfway through the service that he hasnāt stopped twisting his wedding ring around his finger once. Maybe he believes that if he keeps touching it, maybe sheās still here somehow.
You cry with your microphone muted.
Afterward, nobody knows what to say. There are no casseroles or hugs. No standing together in shared grief. Only little squares blink off one by one until Jack is the last person left in the call.
You stay after everyone disconnects. āYou should sleep,ā you say quietly. Jack lets out a humorless laugh, āYeah.ā
But he doesnāt move, and neither do you. Finally, he says, āI didnāt even get to say goodbye.ā
There it is⦠the unbearable part, because she died instantlyāno final words or closure. She was there one secondāgone the next.
You press your lips together hard enough that they hurt as you faintly say, āIām so sorry, Jack.ā
He nods once because heās heard it too many times already. Then his face folds inward suddenly, grief cracking through whatever fragile composure heās been holding together. Youāve never seen him cry before, not really. Now he looks destroyed by it.Ā
āI keep thinking sheās gonna walk through the door,ā he whispers. āI keep forgetting for like⦠five seconds.ā
Your lungs ache so violently that it feels unbearable.
Because despite everythingādespite the string and the guilt and all the ways you tried to keep your distanceāyou love him. And loving someone means you cannot stand there and watch them suffer alone.
Not him.
Never him.
So you stay.
At first casually, then constantly, you start checking on him between shifts. You bring coffee, he forgets to drink, and force him to eat crackers during overnight shifts because grief has hollowed him thin. You sit beside him in the break room when he canāt sleep between traumas.
Some nights he talks, and there are nights he doesnāt. Later on, you learn grief has moods. Some days heās numb, and some days heās angry. Or days, a patient wearing the same perfume as his wife nearly sends him spiraling mid-shift. Once, after losing a COVID patient around his wifeās age, Jack locks himself in the stairwell for twenty minutes.
You find him there eventually. Still in PPE with his face shield shoved onto the top of his head, breathing hard like heās trying not to come apart.
You sit beside him without saying anything. For a long time, neither of you speaks. The stairwell is cold through your scrub pants, concrete hard beneath you. Somewhere beyond the heavy metal door, the hospital keeps moving. Monitors alarming. Phones ringing. Ventilators hissing.
Life continued like his world didnāt just end.
Jack sits one step below you, elbows braced against his knees, surgical cap shoved halfway off his head. His N95 hangs loose around his neck now, leaving angry red pressure marks across his skin. He appears worn out in a manner unrelated to sleep. The type of tiredness that becomes bone-deep.
For a while, all you hear is his controlled breathing, but then, you know, if he lets himself lose control for even a second, heāll never stop. Then quietly, without looking at you, Jack says, āI donāt know who I am without her.ā
You nearly shatter at his confession, because itās proof he loved her so completely. You saw it every day in small, ordinary ways. In the way his face softened when she walked into the department carrying takeout, or the absent-minded way he leaned toward her without realizing it. In the wedding ring, he twisted whenever he talked about her during quieter shifts. He loved her with the kind of certainty people spend their whole lives searching for, and somehow that only makes you love him more.
You look down at your hands, clasped tightly in your lap.
āAt work?ā you say softly after a moment. āYouāre still Jack.ā A weak laugh escapes him, humorless and tired, āVery inspirational speech.ā
āIām serious.ā
You glance toward him carefully. Even now, heās still wearing blood on the sleeve of his isolation gown from the code downstairs. His curls are damp with sweat, exhaustion carved deep into the lines around his eyes.
"When everything hurts," you say carefully, "you don't have to figure out how to survive the next ten years."
Jack finally looks up, with his eyes bloodshot, red-rimmed, and devastatingly tired. "You just find the next thing." His brow furrows slightly as you keep going, "The next cup of coffee that tastes okay."
A faint huff of breath leaves him.
"The next shift." You offer a small smile. "The next stupid joke Shen makes that isn't actually funny."
That earns the ghost of an eye rollāyou take it.
"The next hour. The next day." Your throat tightens, but you push through it, "And eventually..." Your voice softens. "Eventually you realize you've made it farther than you thought you could."
Jack stares at you, fully paying attention and listening.
"The pain doesn't disappear," you admit quietly. "Some losses stay with you forever. But one day you wake up, and it isn't the first thing you feel."
The stairwell falls silent again, and you watch as Jack's eyes close briefly as if the possibility of hope hurts. When he opens them again, there's something unbearably raw thereāsomething stripped bare. "You really believe that?" The question comes out almost broken, and you don't hesitate as you reply, "Yes."
Because you have to, for him, for yourself, and for every patient you've ever watched claw their way through impossible things.
"Yes," you repeat softly. Jack studies your face for a long momentāsearching for something there. Maybe hope or permission. Or proof that somebody still sees him underneath all the grief. Then he gives one small, fragile nod, because he's trying very hard to believe you, too.
A softer shared silence settles between you again afterward. You remain beside him on the stairwell steps while the hospital hums around you. Two exhausted healthcare workers in the middle of a pandemic. One grieving the loss of the love of his life. The other grieving quietly beside him. Then, after a long time, you speak again.
Your voice barely rises above a whisper, "I don't think there's such a thing as a good goodbye." Jack doesn't look away, but you stare at the concrete floor.
"People say it gets easier. That you find closure. That eventually you make peace with it." Your fingers tighten together. "But I think losing someone just becomes part of you. You learn how to carry it." Your throat burns, "There are days when you think you're okay. Days when you laugh and work and breathe normally." You glance toward him. "And then something happens. A song, a smell, maybe a memory.ā Blinking back your tears, you revealed, "The grief finds you again."
Jack's eyes shine slightly as you continue softly, "Not because you failed to move on." Your voice wavers. "But because they mattered."
A long silence follows. Then, quietlyā"So what am I supposed to do?" When he asks the question, it sounds incredibly trivial.
You look at Jackāat the man who spent years helping everyone else survive. He stayed with frightened soldiers, and loved his wife so completely that even death couldn't erase her from him.
"Keep loving her," you say softly, and Jack's breath catches. "Just don't let her be the reason you stop living, too."
The silence that follows feels sacred, somewhere beneath your sleeve, hidden from the world, the red string wrapped around your wrist aches. Not because it hurts, but because for the first time since she died, you realize you would carry his grief with him for as long as he needed.
Even if he never knew.
2021
YOUR APARTMENT ā NIGHT
By late 2021, you recognize the symptoms almost immediately. The exhaustion first. Not normal exhaustionāthe kind every ER nurse carries around like a second heartbeatābut something meaner. The sort that becomes deeply ingrained in your bones and wears you out just by standing straight.
Then the fever, then itās the cough that follows soon after, and the body aches that feel like somebody took a hammer to every joint you have.
You take the rapid test in your bathroom with trembling hands, already knowing what the result will be before the second line even appears.
Positive.
You stare at it for a long moment anyway, āFuck.ā
Youād been vaccinated months ago. Healthcare workers got priority access early on, one of the very few benefits of spending every shift neck-deep in a pandemic. And thank God for that, because without it, youāre almost certain this wouldāve landed you intubated in an ICU somewhere.
Stillāit hits you hard.
Your immune system has never exactly been reliable. Too many years of stress, skipped meals, night shifts, and pushing yourself past exhaustion had seen to that long before COVID ever existed.
So you quarantine immediately with no qualms or arguments. Immediately, you text Lena and Dana to tell them that youāve contracted COVID-19. Then you lock yourself inside your apartment and prepare to wait it out.
The loneliness settles in fast after that. The first day isnāt terrible, but the second day is worse. By the third day, you genuinely feel like youāre losing your mind. Your apartment suddenly feels too small and too quiet. Every surface smells faintly of disinfectant and cough drops. Empty Gatorade bottles and medication wrappers clutter your coffee table because youāre too exhausted to clean properly.
You sleep in fragments. Wake up drenched in sweat. Cough until your ribs ache. Then fall asleep again, only to wake up disoriented an hour later. You try texting your family back home once, but hearing your motherās worried voice over FaceTime nearly makes you cry, so you stop answering calls after that.
You tell everyone youāre fine. Youāre not.
One particularly bad night, you sit on the bathroom floor wrapped in a blanket because the cold tiles feel good against your feverish skin, genuinely debating at what oxygen saturation youād finally call an ambulance.
Ninety-three? Ninety-two?
You know too muchā¦thatās the problem. Youāre aware exactly how quickly patients can crash, and what respiratory distress looks like. You know what COVID sounds like when it starts settling deeper into the lungs. And alone in your apartment at two in the morning, feverish and exhausted and struggling not to spiral, you think: If this gets worse, Iām gonna end up at Presby or PTMC.
By day five, your phone is full of unread texts. Lena is checking in, Shen is sending memes, and Ellis is threatening to physically fight you if you donāt hydrate. But then thereās Jack calling twice⦠then three times.
You donāt answer any of them. Not intentionally. Your brain feels too foggy to function most of the time. Looking at your phone takes effort you barely have energy for. So when thereās suddenly a knock at your apartment door that evening, you frown from beneath your blanket without moving.
Probably the wrong apartment.
Another knock. Thenāyour real name, muffled through the door in a voice youād recognize half-asleep.
āHey.ā
Your stomach drops.
No.
Absolutely not.
You push yourself upright too quickly and immediately regret it when dizziness crashes over you. You stumble toward the door anyway, coughing into your elbow before peeking through the peephole.
And there he is.
Jack Abbot. Standing outside your apartment in full PPE. N95. Face shield. Gloves. Isolation gown. Holding a plastic takeout bag in one hand. You stare at him in complete disbelief before yanking yourself back from the door. āJack?!ā
āOh, good,ā his voice comes through the other side, dry with relief. āYouāre alive.ā
āWhat the hell are you doing here?ā you hiss through the door. āHow did you even find where I live?ā
āLena told me⦠and Dana.ā
Traitors.
You lean your forehead briefly against the door, exhausted. āYou canāt be here,ā you argue weakly. āYou could get sick.ā Jack snorts softly from the hallway, āLifeline, we work in an emergency department.ā
āThat is not comforting!ā
āAlso,ā he continues, ignoring you completely, āis there a reason youāve been ignoring my texts and calls?ā
You close your eyes briefly. Honestly, you hadnāt even realized how many messages you missed.
āJackāā
āOpen the door.ā
You blink as you screech, āAre you fucking insane? No.ā His voice lowers slightly then, gentler but firmer somehow. āLifeline.ā
Somewhere behind your ribs, the moniker settles heated and perilous.
āOpen the door.ā
You stare at the wood for a long moment. Then, against every ounce of common sense you possess, you unlock it. The second the door cracks open, Jackās eyes immediately scan over you clinically. You can practically see the ER doctor in him assessing your flushed skin, fatigue, and mild shortness of breath. The way youāre subtly bracing yourself against the wall to stay upright. In an instant, his face tightens.
"Oh," he murmurs. Somehow, that soft little sound embarrasses you more than if heād outright said you looked terrible. You cross your arms defensively, āI look worse than I feel.ā
āThatās concerning, because you look awful.ā
You let out a tired laugh despite yourself, immediately coughing afterward. Jackās eyes narrow behind the face shield, āHow highās the fever?ā
āItās fine.ā
āTemperature.ā
āOne-oh-one earlier.ā
āAnd oxygen?ā
You hesitate half a second too long, and Jack notices immediately, āLifeline.ā
āNinety-four. Iāve been checking my Apple Watch.ā
His jaw tightens, āOkay.ā
You step aside reluctantly. āThereās hand sanitizer and ethyl alcohol everywhere. Iāve been disinfecting the place whenever I can.ā
Jack walks inside carefully, setting the takeout bag down near the kitchen counter. Your apartment suddenly feels unbearably small with him standing in it. Messy blankets on the couch. Medications scattered across the coffee table. Laundry youāve been too sick to fold. You suddenly want the earth to swallow you whole. āSorry,ā you mutter. āItās kind of a disaster.ā
Jack glances around once before looking back at you. āIāve seen residents cry over missing lab results. This is nothing.ā That earns another weak laugh out of you while he pulls out one of the dining chairs and gestures toward it, āSit down before you fall down.ā
āItās not that bad.ā
āYou almost passed out opening the door.ā
Rude.
You sit anyway because standing suddenly feels impossible, and Jack immediately starts fussing. Taking your temperature again. Checking your pulse ox. Asking when you last ate.
In a manner that hurts your core, it's somehow intimate. After observing him in silence for a while, you gently inquire, "Why are you here?"
Jack pauses before he shrugs one shoulder like the answer should be obvious. āBecause I know you.ā
āYou donāt have family here,ā he continues quietly. āNo roommates. No neighbors youāre close enough with to help if things go bad.ā He leans back slightly in the chair across from you.
āYou moved halfway across the world by yourself,ā he says. āSo yeah. I came to do a welfare check.ā Something warm and painful twists in your chest all at once, so you try covering it with humor. āAm I that unlucky or just that special?ā
Jack looks at you for a long moment. Then, softly, he replies, āJust that special.ā The room goes very still while your pulse stutters painfully against your ribs. Jack clears his throat first, looking away. āHow are you feeling?ā
āIām fine.ā
He gives you a tired, unimpressed look immediately, āDonāt start with me.ā You sigh, shoulders slumping. āI feelā¦ā You swallow hard. āHonestly? Like I got hit by a truck.ā
Jack nods once like he expected that answer. āMy chest hurts when I cough,ā you admit quietly. āAnd Iām exhausted all the time. Walking to the bathroom feels like running a 10k.ā
Jackās expression softens instantly to concern. āOkay,ā he says gently. āThat sounds about right for breakthrough COVID.ā
You laugh weakly, āReassuring.ā
āYouāre vaccinated. Your sats are holding. Fever sucks, but youāre stable.ā His voice shifts into that calm doctor cadence youāve heard him use with terrified patients a hundred times before.
āYouāre gonna feel miserable for a little while,ā he says softly. āBut youāre not dying.ā
The ridiculous thing isāyou believe him immediately. Maybe because itās Jack, he always sounds certain even when the world is falling apart. Or maybe because after spending almost a week alone in your apartment feeling terrified and sick and invisibleāhaving somebody show up for you feels dangerously close to relief.
Somewhere beneath the fever and exhaustion and the red string hidden under your sleeve, you realize this is the first time since his wife died that Jack has willingly stepped into somebody elseās home again.
The thought nearly breaks your heart.
Grief has a way of shrinking people's worldsāyou'd watched it happen to Jack in real time. After his wife died, he stopped inviting people over. Stopped talking about home or lingering after conversations that might eventually end with someone asking how he was doing outside of work. The walls had gone up slowly. Brick by brick. Most people probably never noticed, but you did. Yet here he is, standing in your cluttered apartment with a stethoscope in one hand and a grocery bag full of electrolyte drinks in the other.
"Drink."
You stare at the bottle he shoves toward you, "You're very bossy outside the hospital."
"Drink." He insists.
"Is this because I ignored your texts?"Jack gives you a look, the one he usually reserves for patients actively making terrible decisions. "Partly."
You sigh dramatically and take the bottle, "Happy?"
"No."
That catches your attention. You look up, and Jack is standing near the kitchen counter, arms folded across his chest. The concern on his face isn't hidden anymore. Hasn't been since he walked through the door. "You should've told somebody you were this sick." Your laugh comes out hoarse, "I did."
"No." Jack shakes his head, "You told people you were fine."
"...I was trying not to worry anyone."
"You had a one-oh-one fever and couldn't walk to your bathroom without getting winded."
You look away because when he says it like that, it sounds bad. "It sounds worse when you say it."
"That's because it is worse."
You can't help smiling, but that only seems to annoy him more.
"Why are you smiling?"
"You care."
Jack stares and then immediately looks away. Your fever-addled brain doesn't miss the faint flush creeping up his neck. "Of course I care."
The answer comes too naturally, and for some reason, that makes something warm settle beneath your body. The television murmurs faintly in the background, forgotten as Jack eventually disappears into your kitchen. You hear cabinets opening and then closing. A frustrated sigh leaves him, "How do you have absolutely no food?"
"I have food."
"You have soy sauce and olive oil."
"That's food-adjacent."
Jack pinches the bridge of his nose. "You work in healthcare."
"So do you."
"I know."
"Have you seen what doctors eat?"
He points at you from across the room, "Deflection."
You grin while Jack shakes his head again, but he opens the takeout containers anyway and pours you soup. Then make sure you actually eat it and wait until you're halfway through before finally sitting down. The quiet and unexpected realization sneaks up on him that somehowāhe likes taking care of you. Because it shouldn't feel this good. It shouldn't feel this natural to be here. To fuss over your fever, refill your water glass, and check your pulse ox every twenty minutes because he doesn't trust you not to lie about your symptoms.
Yet every time he glances up and sees you curled beneath a blanket on the couch, alive and stubborn and complainingāsomething in his heart eases. The same feeling he gets when a trauma patient finally stabilizes. When someone he was worried about turns out okay. Only different. This time, itās more personal and complicated.
You cough suddenly, and Jack is moving before he even realizes it, quickly handing you water. Waiting until the coughing fit passes. Your eyes lift toward him over the rim of the glass. Itās soft and sleepy. "Thank you." Your words are quiet and sincere.
And God help himāthat does something to him. Something he doesn't examine too closely.
Because if he doesāhe might have to ask himself questions he's not ready to answer. Questions like why spending an afternoon taking care of you feels better than spending it anywhere else, or why your apartment already feels strangely familiar. Why did the idea of you being here alone all week bother him so much?
Instead, he focuses on something saferāannoyance. "You know," he says, sitting back in his chair, "your soulmate's doing a terrible job."
You blink at that, frowning, "What?" Jack shrugs, "If they're out there somewhere, they're slacking." A surprised laugh escapes you. "What does that even mean?"
"It means," he says, gesturing vaguely toward your blanket burrito state, "you're sick. Alone. Living on cough drops and spite."
"I had soup."
"You had olive oil."
"That was one time."
Jack rolls his eyes, "My point stands." A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "They should've shown up by now." The joke is spoken carelessly, and he doesn't know it nearly stops your heart.
You look away first, toward the rain-streaked window, literally anywhere but him. Because if you look at Jack right nowāif you look at the man sitting in your apartment, taking care of you, worrying over you, complaining about a soulmate who never appearedāyou might break.
The red string hidden beneath your sleeve suddenly feels impossibly burdensome. But Jack doesn't notice, he's too busy opening another bottle of water and making sure your fever isn't climbing again. Somewhere in the quiet warmth of your apartment, he doesnāt realize the irony. Jack is sitting exactly where he should be. Doing exactly what he was supposed to do, and somehow, he canāt see it yet.
2023
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT ā NIGHT
Five years ago, you were the new nurse from the Philippines. Now you're simply part of the Pitt. Nobody really introduces you anymore. You're just there, part of the machinery. You know where everything is and everyone's habits. Or when Ellis is pretending to chart and is actually looking for the next best place to nap for her double. You know when Shen is about to spiral before he even realizes it himself. By now, you have memorized Lena's "I'm not mad, I'm disappointed" face is significantly more terrifying than actual anger.
Somewhere along the wayāyou became one of the safest places in Jack's life. Neither of you meant for that to happen.
It just did.
There are hundreds of tiny moments, none of which seem important on their own. But together, they're devastating. A patient's husband is screaming in the hallway after a failed resuscitation. Security is trying to de-escalate, family members are crying, and the entire department feels tense. Then, appearing devastated, Jack leaves the room but not in a noticeable way. Most people wouldn't recognize it, but you do.
You don't say anything; instead, you simply hand him a cup of coffee. Exactly how he takes it. He looks down at it, then at you. "Mind reader?" You shrug, "You looked like you needed caffeine." The corner of his mouth twitches, "Thanks."
Somehow, that small smile stays with him the rest of the shift.
Another night, itās three in the morning. Everyone's fucking exhausted. You're sitting on the floor of the supply room because it's the only place nobody can find you for five minutes. Jack opens the door and stops. He finds you sitting there cross-legged, eating stale vending machine pretzels. "You hiding?"
"No."
"You are literally hiding."
You hold up a pretzel, defensive, "This is self-care." Jack stares at you, then, to your horror, he sits beside you on the floor. Like it's completely normal. "You know we're adults, right?" he asks.
"Says the man eating peanut butter crackers for dinner." Jack looks offended; he scoffs, "I had a protein bar." You roll your eyes at that, "Oh. Well, that's different."
His laugh echoes through the tiny room. Itās warm and unrestrained. The sound settles somewhere dangerous inside your chest. Then the days keep passing by, and then the days turn into months, then itās another shift, another trauma.
Another impossible night.
A frightened little girl refuses to let go of your hand while waiting for stitches. You're sitting beside her bed, explaining every step of the procedure. Making balloon animals out of gloves while telling ridiculous stories.
By the time you're finished, she's laughing. You don't notice Jack standing in the doorway watching or the expression on his face either. The one that lingers long after he walks away. Because somewhere over the years, admiration has quietly become affection.
Affection has started becoming something elseāsomething he doesn't have a name for yet. Jack's issue is that he doesn't immediately feel things. Without thinking, he simply begins searching for you first.
A difficult trauma comes in? His eyes automatically find yours. A bad shift? He looks for you at Central. A joke occurs to him? He wants to tell you. A patient reminds him of something sad? Somehow, you're the person he ends up talking to.Ā
It happens gradually enough that neither of you notices.
Until everyone else does.
"You know Abbot's gonna have a breakdown if Lifeline ever leaves, right?" Ellis says it casually while charting. You nearly choke on your coffee, "What?" Across the desk, Shen immediately nods. "Oh, absolutely."
"Parker."
"I'm serious."
You point threateningly, "Stop." Parker raises both hands. "Hey, I don't make the rules."
You refuse to acknowledge the strange warmth crawling up your neck. Because if you acknowledge itāyou'll have to acknowledge the way your heart still skips whenever Jack smiles at you. After all these years, that feels pathetic.
2024
PTMC, MAIN ENTRANCE ā DAY
The rain starts sometime around six in the morning. Not a drizzleāa proper Pittsburgh downpour. The kind that turns streets silver and pounds against windows hard enough to drown out conversation.
After twelve hours of chaos, the entire department begins filtering out toward the parking garage and bus stops. You finally clock out around sevenāexhausted and half-awake, absolutely ready for sleep.
When you step outside, you immediately spot Jack standing beneath the small emergency department awning.
Watching the rain⦠alone with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. Looking at him, you pause, "You're still here?"
Jack glances over, "My car's in the shop."
That explains it.
"How'd you get here?"
"Rideshare."
You look out toward the street, and the rain is somehow worse now. Jack follows your gaze, "Trying to decide how miserable walking home is gonna be." You glance over, "What happened to your ride?"
Jack lets out a tired breath, "Canceled."
"What?"
"Driver got stuck downtown." You wince at that, and he pulls his phone from his pocket and turns the screen toward you. The rideshare app is a disasterāsurge pricing, long wait times. One estimate says thirty-eight minutes, while another says unavailable. Apparently, every exhausted healthcare worker in Pittsburgh had the same idea after shift. "You've got to be kidding me."
"Yeah." Jack stuffs his phone away again. "I've been refreshing it for ten minutes."
You look back toward the rain, then down at the umbrella dangling from your wrist, and then back at him. You ask, "No umbrella?"
"Nope."
You stare at him, then at the rain⦠and then at the very obvious lack of any workable plan. So, without thinking twice, you hold the umbrella out. Jack blinks, looks at the umbrella, and then at you. Then back at the umbrella. It's baby pink and covered in tiny Miffy rabbits. The ears are even printed around the trimāthe thing looks aggressively cheerful.
"You serious?"
"Very."
A laugh escapes him, a real one. Low and surprised and completely unguarded. It's probably the first genuine laugh you've heard from him all shift, maybe longer. You feel absurdly proud of yourself as you snort, "Sorry about the color."
Jack studies the umbrella again, "I think I'll survive."
"You sure? Might destroy your reputation."
"My reputation was already questionable."
"Fair."
You press the handle into his hand without hesitation, because that's just who you are. Someone needs help, so you help; it's that simple. Jack looks genuinely baffled. "Wait."
You pause.
"What about you?" He asks, concerned. You shrug. The rain is cold, and the morning is gray. You've worked twelve hours, and your back hurts, along with your feet. But somehow none of that feels important. "I live closer than you do."
"Lifeline."
"Jack."
"You'll get soaked."
You smile, bright and softly. The same smile you've given frightened patients, overwhelmed residents, and grieving family members. You shrug, "It's rain."
His brow furrows, "You say that like hypothermia isn't a thing." You laugh at that, "I'm from the Philippines. Rain and I have a long-standing relationship."
"That's not remotely reassuring."
"It shouldn't be."
Jack shakes his head, but he's smiling now, which gives you a bit of peace. His eyes linger on you a second too long. Or maybe you're imagining it. You probably areāyou usually are. Then you add quietly, "Besides, sometimes life is easier when you stop trying to avoid every uncomfortable thing."
Jack's expression softens, and you glance toward the rain. "Sometimes you just accept you're gonna get soaked and go home anyway." Neither of you says anything for a little bit. Because you both know that your words aren't really about the rain, neither of you acknowledges it. A laugh escapes him again, and he shakes his head, "You always have an answer for everything."
"No." You step backward toward the edge of the awning, and the cold rain immediately spatters against your scrub pants while you grin. "You just have to trust you'll be okay once you get there."
That gets another laugh out of him, the kind that reaches his eyes. You would do almost anything to keep hearing that sound. The umbrella remains clutched in his hand. Pink, ridiculous, and entirely yours. But for some reason, he can't stop staring at it. Or at you, standing in the rain, completely unapologetically yourself. No performance or hidden agenda. Only your kindness offered freely, as if giving away the only thing keeping you dry is the most natural decision in the world.
The thing isāJack has spent years watching people take. Watching grief take, life and death take. And you...You are always giving⦠your time, your patience, and your terrible vending machine snacks.Ā Your heart, if someone needed it badly enough. Now, itās your umbrella.
Something warm twists unexpectedly inside of him, and he feels tingling all over his skin, as well as his mouth begins to dry. You lift a hand in farewell, "See you tomorrow, Dr. Abbot."
Then you turn and jog into the rain, water immediately drenches your hair, and you laugh when your shoe splashes into a puddle. You keep running anyway. While Jack just stands thereāwatching, until you disappear around the corner. Long after you're gone, he remains beneath the awning with your pink umbrella still hanging from his hand.
The rideshare app was forgotten entirely, and the rain pounded against the pavement as the morning traffic crawled by. For the first time in a very long timeāthe thought of going home doesn't feel quite as lonely. He looks down at the ridiculous little umbrella again. Then, despite himself, he smiles. Because somehow the damn thing feels exactly like you.
2025
NIGHTCLUB, PITTSBURGH ā NIGHT
The music is loud enough to vibrate through your ribs. Honestly, you're having fun, a rare occurrence these days. Between night shifts and overtime and trying to maintain some semblance of a social life outside of the Pitt, opportunities to be a normal twenty-something are increasingly rare.
So when a few friends invited you out, you said yes. You danced, drank, and laughed. You let yourself forget about work for a few hours, and somewhere between your second drink and the realization that your feet hurt, you discovered a very important problem.
Your apartment keys were goneācompletely vanished, you checked your purse three times. Your jacket pockets twice, then the bathroom counter, next the bar, and still nothing. Which is how you found yourself sitting in a booth near the back of the club with your phone pressed to your ear.
Waiting for Jack to answer.
He picks up on the second ring, "Everything okay?" You immediately relax, which is probably a problem. "Maybe."
Jack sighs, the sound of a man who has known you far too long, "What happened?" You look mournfully into your drink, "I lost my keys." A pause on the other end, and then, "You what?"
"They're gone."
"Lifeline."
"They disappeared."
"Keys don't disappear."
"They absolutely do."
The music swells around you, and someone screams happily near the dance floor. Through the phone, Jack suddenly goes quiet. He asks, "Where are you?"
You blink, "Huh?"
"Where are you?"
You frown, then glance up at the neon sign hanging over the bar, "Oh." You tell him the club's name. The silence on the other end lasts approximately two seconds before you hear him ask, "How are you getting home?"
You wave a hand vaguely despite the fact he can't see you, "M'gonna Uber." The words come out more slurred than intended. Silence... a long silence, then you hear him sigh,Ā "Jesus Christ."
"Itās not that badā"
"No."
You open your mouth to argue, but Jack beats you to it. "I'm picking you up." You immediately sober, exclaiming, "What?"
"Do not leave with anybody."
"Jackā"
"Do not get into a stranger's car."
"That's literally what Uber is." You throw back in response.
"Lifeline." The warning in his voice makes you sit up straighter. "I'm serious. Stay where you are."
"Jackā"
"I'm already grabbing my keys."
Your stomach flips unexpectedly as you point out, "You're working tomorrow."
"So are you."
"Jack."
His voice drops lower, gentler as he begs, "Please." And that ends the argument before it starts. You stare at your drink and reluctantly reply, "...Okay."
"Good." A beat and then you hear, "Don't hang up."
Twenty-five minutes later, Jack walks into the club and promptly forgets how to breathe, because he has never seen you like this before. At work, you're always in scrubs, with your hair pulled back, minimal makeup, and practical shoes.
Tonightātonight you look nothing like the nurse who steals his coffee and argues with surgeons. Your hair is down, and your makeup catches the flashing lights every time you move. The outfit you're wearing should probably be illegalāat least that's what his traitorous brain immediately decides. Far too much skin and too beautifulātoo distracting.
Jack stares for half a second too long, but then immediately hates himself for it. Because he's Jack and you're you. You're his friend, and he's forty-something years old and should absolutely know better. But the sudden realization that other people are staring at you, too, fills him with an entirely unreasonable amount of irritation. There are multiple reasons he hates that realizationānone of them are good. You spot him immediately, and relief floods your face, "Jack!"
Somehow that's worseābecause you're happy to see him, you always are. Jack pushes through the crowd toward your booth. He asks, "You okay?"Ā
You grin, a little tipsy and a little tired, "Hi."
"That's not an answer."
"I lost my keys."
"You mentioned."
You immediately point at him, "I looked."
"I believe you."
"I looked everywhere."
Jack softens despite himself, "I know."
Just like that, some of the tension leaves your shoulders. The amount of trust you've placed in him over the yearsāit sneaks up on him sometimes, along with the amount he's placed in you. Neither of you ever talks about itāit's just simply there.
"Where are your friends?"
You blink.
"Oh."
You glance toward the dance floor, where your group has completely disappeared into the crowd. One of them is standing on a platform dancing with a stranger. Another appears to be attempting karaoke despite there being no karaoke machine. Honestly, nobody looks remotely concerned about your whereabouts.Ā You point vaguely, "Over there." Jack follows your finger, and immediately regrets it. "Jesus."Ā
You laugh, "They're having fun."
"They look like a liability."
"They are." A pause, then you smile warmly at him. The kind of smile that's become increasingly difficult for him to ignore lately.
"You ready to head home?" The question comes out gentler than he intended. Your expression softens immediately. "Mhm."
Thereās no argument because the answer was always going to be yes. After all, it's him asking. Something in Jack's chest tightens unexpectedly. You climb out of the booth and wobble slightly when your heel catches on the edge of the floor. His hand is on your elbow before either of you thinks about it. Itās steady and instinctiveāthe contact lasts barely a second, but you both notice. Your eyes flick down to his hand, then back up to his face. Neither of you says anything, and Jack clears his throat first before he lets go, "You good?"Ā
You nod immediately, "Mhm. Yep." Then point at him. "I need to go tell them I'm not being kidnapped by you."
The laugh that escapes him is helpless, "You go do that."
You grin, "Okay.ā Before turning toward the dance floor, you lightly tap his arm. Itās a small gesture, mindless and affectionate. The kind of touch friends make without thinking. Yet Jack feels it long after you've disappeared into the crowd. He watches you weave through the dancers. Watch you throw your arms around one of your friends.
You laugh at something that makes your whole face light up, and standing there in the middle of a crowded nightclub, surrounded by strangers and flashing lights and music loud enough to shake the floorāJack suddenly realizes he's smiling. He's smiling because you're happy and somewhere deep down, in a place he has been carefully avoiding for a very long timeāhe knows that's becoming a problem.
You weave your way through the crowd, dodging dancers and spilled drinks, until you finally find your friends near the center of the dance floor. One of them immediately grabs your arm, "There you are!" You laugh, "Apparently, I'm leaving."
"What?" another groans theatrically. "Already?"
You point toward the edge of the clubātoward Jack. Standing near the entrance with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, waiting. The second your friends spot him, several heads swivel at once. Then all of them turn suspiciously slowly back toward you.
"Ohhh."
You immediately know that tone, you shake your head, "No."
"That's the doctor."
"No."
"The hot doctor."
You cover your face, "Oh my God." One of them leans closer, asking, "Is he your boyfriend?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Very."
"Because he definitely looks like he's here to pick up his girlfriend." Heat floods your face instantly, "No, he does not."
Across the room, Jack glances over, as if sensing he's being talked about. But when he spots you, his expression visibly relaxes. And unfortunately, your friends see that too. "Oh my God."
You groan, "Stop."
"He likes you."
"He does not."
"He drove here to rescue you from yourself."
"That's called friendship."
"That's called middle-aged pining." You nearly choke, "Please never say those words again."
Laughter follows you all the way back toward the entrance, and Jack looks mildly concerned the closer you get. "You okay?"
"Apparently not."
He narrows his eyes at your response, "What happened?"
"My friends are terrible people."
"Fair."
You point at him, "Don't encourage them."
"I'm not encouraging anybody."
"Liar."
The corner of his mouth twitches, and just like that, some of the tension leaves your shoulders. The simple fact that he's here has solved half the problem already. Then you take two steps toward the exit, but Jack is moving before he even thinks about it. One hand catches your elbow, and the other settles briefly at your waist, steadying you. The contact is innocent, but your breath catches anyway. Itās practical and necessary, at least that's what both of you tell yourselves.
"Whoa there." Jack says, and you blink up at him, then immediately start laughing, "I think the floor moved."
"The floor did not move."
"It absolutely moved."
"Lifeline."
"I'm just saying." Jack shakes his head, and his hand doesn't immediately leave your waist. Neither of you seems to notice. Or maybe both of you notice too much. "Come on."
You allow him to guide you outside, and the cool night air hits immediately. Rain lingers on the pavement, turning the streets into rivers of reflected neon. You inhale deeply, then sway again. Jack catches you before it becomes a problem. His hand settles more firmly against your side this time, and your body immediately relaxes into the contact like it's familiar.
Jack notices that too. "You good?" He asked, and you nod, "Mhm." A beat, and then you add, "The ground's still suspicious."
That earns a real laugh out of him, and you love that sound.
The parking lot isn't far, but Jack keeps his hand on your waist the entire walk there. Just in case⦠well, at least that's what he tells himself. Not because he likes the feeling of you beside him or how perfectly you fit there.
Just in case. That's allā¦. at least for tonight.
Jack sighs. The long-suffering sigh of a man who spends his life dealing with stubborn people. "Come on."
You allow him to guide you⦠well. at least until you nearly walk directly into a group of people entering the club. Jack catches your shoulder and redirects you gently, "Okay."
"What?"
His hand settles more firmly against your back, "Maybe we're graduating from independent walking." You gasp dramatically, "I am fully capable." But your words come out slightly slurred.
Jack raises an eyebrow, "You just tried to walk through three people."
"They were in my way."
A laugh escapes him. God. You're something truly special.
Now he has a new problem. Namely, getting you safely into his truck before you attempt something stupid.
The passenger-side door swings open, and you stare at it, then back at the seat. Jack immediately knows what's happening. "Need help?"
"No." A pause as you squint at the truck suspiciously. "Maybe."
"It's higher than it looked five seconds ago, isn't it?"
"It definitely wasn't this tall before."
Jack bites the inside of his cheek, hard, trying not to laugh.
"Okay."
Before you can protest, his firm hands settle at your waist, and suddenly you're being lifted just enough to get into the passenger seat. The whole thing takes maybe two seconds, except neither of you feels normal afterward. You freeze, and Jack also freezes. His hands are still on your waist, and you're looking directly at each otherāfar too close.
For a brief, dangerous moment, neither of you moves. Then Jack clears his throat, immediately stepping back. "Seatbelt."
Your brain takes several seconds to reboot, "What?"
"Seatbelt."
"Oh."
Of course, duh. You fumble with it and miss the buckle twice before Jack reaches over and clicks it into place. His face is suddenly very near again. Near enough to see the tiny scar near his jaw, and that your heart starts doing things it absolutely should not be doing. "There." His voice comes out lower than usual. You swallow, "Thanks."
Neither of you acknowledges how strange the moment felt and the warmth lingering where his hands had been. Or the way Jack has to grip the steering wheel a little tighter once he's behind it. Because some things are easier left alone. At least for now.
JACK ABBOTāS APARTMENT ā NIGHT
The drive back to your apartment is quieter than the nightclub. The city has settled into that strange hour between night and morning, when the roads are mostly empty, and the traffic lights seem to change for no one. Rain taps softly against the windshield as Jack drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. You are attempting to stay awake. Attempting being the important word here. Every few minutes, your head tips toward the window before jerking upright again.
Jack notices every single time, "You can sleep."
"I'm not sleeping."
"You were asleep thirty seconds ago."
"I was thinking."
"You were drooling."
You gasp in offense, and Jack doesn't even look at you as he commands, "Go to sleep."
"You're mean." A laugh escapes him at your comment. He realizes that heās been doing it a lot when heās around you.
By the time you arrive at your apartment, youāre humming a song, trying to stay awake. Then Jack pats his pocket, and freezes when he realizes, "...Shit."
You blink, "What?" He closes his eyes, "I forgot your spare key." You stare, then immediately start laughing.
Jack groans, "Oh my God."
"You drove all the way there."
āDonāt.ā
"You forgot the whole reason you picked me up."
"Don't."Ā
Your laughter gets worse, and for the first time in years, Jack lets out a full belly laugh too. He begins to drive to his apartment, and since itās late, he offers for you to crash at his place.Ā
By the time he pulls into his apartment complex, you're visibly losing the fight against exhaustion and alcoholāmostly alcohol. The second you step through the front door, you kick your heels off exaggeratedly. One lands near the couch, and the other somehow ends up halfway down the hallway. Jack silently watches this happen. Then watches you attempt to unbuckle whatever complicated contraption is keeping your outfit together. "Okay," he says immediately.
"What?"
"Maybe let's not do that."
You frown at him, "Why?"
Because you're drunkāvery drunk, and apparently completely unaware that you're standing in the middle of his apartment trying to peel yourself out of an outfit that has occupied far too much of his attention already. Jack suddenly finds the ceiling fascinating, the wall too. Actually, maybe the floor. Anywhere except you.
"Because," he says carefully, "you need pajamas."
"Oh." You consider this, then nod solemnly. "Pajamas are smart."
"Thank you."
"I am smart."
"You are." He nods, and you point at him, "I knew you'd agree."
Jack presses his lips together. God help him. Somehow, over the years, you've become one of his favorite people. A few minutes later, after much negotiation and several failed attempts to convince you that sleeping in sequins is a terrible idea, Jack disappears into his bedroom closet. He returns holding an old Army shirtāworn soft with age, the fabric faded from years of washing, along with a pair of boxers. You stare, then grin. "These yours?" Jack immediately regrets everything, "Yes."
"Cool."
Then, before he can stop youāyou start changing.
"Jesus Christ."
You blink, "What?"
Jack is staring firmly at the opposite wall. "You could've warned me."
"Why?"
Because you're still drunk enough that embarrassment hasn't caught up with you yet. Meanwhile, Jack is discovering entirely new levels of self-control.
"Bathroom," he says.
"Right." You pause, then gesture wildly. "The bathroom."
"Correct."
Five minutes later, you emerge wearing the oversized shirt. The hem brushes your thighs while sleeves hang past your hands. The sight nearly kills him, because you look comfortableālike you belong here. Which is a thought he immediately shoves into a locked box and throws into the ocean. Nope. Not touching that. Absolutely not. Thatās reserved for a future therapy session. Boy, is his therapist going to love that.
"Sit."
You immediately sit on the edge of his bed.
"Drink."
You obediently accept the water bottle, and Jack blinks, "That's new."
"What?"
"You listened."
You point at him, "You're bossy."
"Drink the water."
You drink the water, then he hands you a spare toothbrush and makes sure you actually use it. Then spends several minutes making certain you don't accidentally fall asleep face-first into the sink. By the time he's satisfied you're hydrated and functional enough not to accidentally die overnight, you're sitting cross-legged on the edge of his bed, wrapped in one of his old shirts and looking increasingly sleepy.
You dig through your purse. "There are makeup wipes in here."
Jack pauses, asks, "You carry those around?"
"My eyeliner smudges." You shrug. "My mascara too."
Jack shakes his head, "Prepared for everything."
"It's literally why we carry purses."
"Pretty sure that's not why."
"It absolutely is."
He finds the packet eventually and pulls one free, then gestures to you, "Come here." You blink, dazed, "What?"
"Your mascara's halfway down your face."
Well, thatās fucking mortifyingāimmediately you cover your face, "Oh my God." Jack laughs softly; the sound is low and warm. "You're fine."
"No, I'm not."
"You really are."
Gently, he pulls your hand away and carefully brushes the wipe across your cheek. His touch is light, patient, and unhurried. The same hands that place chest tubes and suture wounds and perform procedures under pressure somehow become impossibly gentle. They always do around people he cares about. You go strangely still, and the room suddenly feels too quiet and small. Jack is close enough that the details become impossible to ignore. The silver was woven through his hair. The exhaustion that never quite leaves his eyes. The traces of loss he carries with him even now. And still, despite all of itāor maybe because of itāhe remains devastatingly, painfully beautiful.
"You've done this before." The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.
Jack's hand stills briefly, then resumes. "Mmm." His voice is soft, a little distant. "She hated taking her makeup off."
The ache arrives instantlyāitās deep and familiar.
"She'd fall asleep on the couch." A small smile touches his mouth. "Every time." His gaze drops to the wipe in his hand, "Eventually, it was easier to do it myself."
A tender silence settles over the room, and suddenly your eyes sting. Because even nowāall these years laterāhe still misses her. Of course he does, he always will.
"Jack." He looks up, and you swallow hard. "I'm sorry."Ā
His hand pauses, and he asks, "For what?"
Your throat tightens painfully, "I know you miss her." The words come out small, but completely honest, and are barely above a whisper. Jack looks at you, and what he sees nearly unravels him. Because you're crying for himānot for yourself, or because you're drunk. You're crying because his pain hurts you. Because somehow you've always carried pieces of everyone else's heartbreak as if it belongs to you too.
A tear slips down your cheek, and before you can wipe it away, Jack reaches up, his thumb tenderly brushes gently across your skin.
The touch lingers slightly.
"Hey." His voice is impossibly soft, "Don't cry, honey."
The endearment slips out before he can stop it. The second it does, the room changes. Your breath catches, and Jack freezes. Neither of you moves. For one suspended second, the entire world narrows to that single point of contact. His hand against your cheek, your eyes locked on his. The silence between you is suddenly filled with things neither of you knows how to say. Then Jack does the only thing he can think ofāhe opens his arms, and you go willingly. The hug is immediate, warm, and safe. Your forehead presses against his shoulder, and his strong arms wrap around you while you melt into him without hesitation. Trusting him completely, the way you always have. Fuckāthat might be the most dangerous thing of all. For a moment, neither of you lets go, because none of you wants to. Jack can feel your heartbeat through the thin cotton of his shirt and feel your breathing gradually slowing. He can feel himself becoming far too aware of how perfectly you fit against him.
He closes his eyes for a second.
A mistake.
Because the truth waits for him thereāthe truth that somewhere along the way, you stopped being just his friend and just his favorite nurse. Stopped being just the person he trusted most and became something he doesn't know what to do with.
Eventually, your breathing evens out. Then slowsā¦.then slows again. Jack glances down and realizes you've fallen asleep curled against him. Carefully, he shifts and lowers you onto the bed, pulls the blanket over you, and tucks it beneath your shoulder. The motion is automatic, and for a moment, guilt rises sharp and sudden. Not because you remind him of his late wife. You don't, and you never have. You never will. But somehow that realization doesn't hurt. It simply feels true. You are differentāentirely your own person. Entirely your own place in his life. Jack stands there for a long moment, watching you sleep peacefully. Then quietly, he reaches for his crutches resting beside the nightstand.
The apartment is dark now, silent, as he pauses at the doorway, looks back one last time, at you sleeping in his bed. Wrapped in his shirt, breathing softly against his pillow, and despite every effort not toāJack smiles. Then he switches off the light and heads toward the couch. Completely unaware that he's already fallen far deeper than he ever intended to.
JACK ABBOT'S APARTMENT ā MORNING
The first thing you notice when you wake up is that you're comfortable. Suspiciously comfortable. Wrapped in sheets that smell faintly of clean laundry and something familiar you can't quite place. For a few blissful seconds, you remain exactly where you are, half-buried beneath the blankets, eyes still closed. Then your brain starts working slowly⦠like an old computer booting up. Your mouth is dry, your head hurts, and you have absolutely no idea where the hell you are.
You crack one eye open, and a ceiling you don't recognize stares back. Your stomach immediately drops. "Oh no."
Then the memories start returning. The nightclub, losing your keys, calling Jack⦠Jack picking you up. The drive to his apartment, the makeup wipes, and the hug. Oh God. The hug.
Your eyes fly open, fully awake now. Mortification floods your entire body with terrifying speed. "No, no, no, no..."Ā
You immediately bury your face in your hands. Maybe if you stay here long enough, you'll evaporate, and the earth will open up and swallow you whole. Maybe cardiac arrestāyou'd accept cardiac arrest. Slowly, you peek out from between your fingers, and a glass of water sits on the nightstand. Beside it is a bottle of ibuprofen and a neatly folded note in Jack's handwriting.
Drink water before standing up.
Your heart does something deeply unhelpful as you groan, "Oh, my God."
Because that's such a Jack thing to do, heās practical, thoughtful, and annoyingly sweet. You whimper and flop backward onto the pillow.
Unfortunately, reality remainsāand reality is that you are currently in Jack Abbot's bed. His bedāhis actual bed, the place where he sleeps. The place whereāYou immediately shove that thought into a dumpster and set it on fire. Nope. Absolutely not. Not going there.
You drag yourself upright before your imagination can make things worse. The oversized Army shirt hanging off your shoulders shifts as you move. Your eyes immediately drop. Jack's shirt. You are wearing Jack's shirt. You consider throwing yourself out of the nearest window.
The bathroom is somehow worse. Because now you're sober, fully sober. Which means you remember everything⦠mostly. You splash cold water onto your face repeatedly. Trying to wash away the embarrassment and the memory of crying. The image of him calling you honey and you falling asleep against him.
"Oh, I'm never recovering from this." You groan into the sink before you force yourself to look in the mirror. You survive trauma shifts and twelve-hour nights. You went through fucking COVID. So⦠you can survive breakfast. Probably.
After one final pep talk that accomplishes absolutely nothing, you step out of the bathroom and immediately stop. A framed photograph sits atop the dresser, Jack and his wife, both smiling. The picture looks old, well-loved, the edges slightly worn. Guilt arrives like a punch to the ribs. Because no matter how much time has passed, she's still here. In photographs, memories, and the quiet spaces, he doesn't talk about. You stare at the picture for a moment longer, then look away. The guilt lingers anyway.
The smell hits you before you reach the living room. Coffee, eggs, and toast, along with something frying in a pan. Your stomach growls traitorously, then you turn the corner, and nearly walk directly into a wall. Because Jack is standing at the stove, shirtless. You stop functioning completely. Gone. No thoughts. Head empty. Just panic. Because somehow, in all the years you've known him, you've never actually seen him like this.
At work, he's always covered by scrubs, layers, a jacket, and PPE. Nowānow he's standing barefoot in his kitchen wearing nothing but athletic shorts and his prosthetic. Morning sunlight spills through the apartment windows. Across broad shoulders, freckled skin, and muscle earned through years of physical therapy, stubbornness, and sheer determination. The prosthetic is already attached as part of him, as familiar and unremarkable as breathing. You know the story and what happened, and understand now the work it takes to live with it.
Stillāseeing him outside the hospital feels strangely intimate, and very human. Your jaw nearly hits the floor as Jack turns. He immediately catches your expression, and to his eternal satisfaction, you look horrified. Not by him, but by being caught staring.Ā His mouth twitches, "Morning."
You blink once, then twice, and you begin rapidly looking anywhere else.
"Morning." Your voice cracks. Well, thatās spectacular. Jack's eyebrow rises, "Rough landing?" You clear your throat. "Oh, absolutely."
His smile grows slightly. "There are worse hangovers."
"Don't."
"You called me at midnight because you lost your keys."
"Jack."
"You accused the floor of moving."
"Jack."
"You tried to negotiate with a coat rack."
Your eyes widen as you sputter, "I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"Oh my fucking God."
Jack laughsāthere it is again, a little lighter than it used to be. "Come eat." You hesitate, still standing awkwardly in his shirt, and painfully aware you're in his apartmentāhis space. Then Jack glances over his shoulder, "You need food before your headache gets worse."
There it is. His doctor voiceāthe one that brooks absolutely no argument. You sigh dramatically and obey. Because apparently that's become a habit. Jack places a plate in front of you. Eggs, toast, fruit, and a giant glass of water.
You stare, and then at him, then back at the plate, "You made breakfast."
"You sound surprised."
"You made breakfast."
"You were hungover." You blink because he says it so simply, as if taking care of you is the most natural thing in the world, and maybe that's what gets you. It's how easy it seems for himāthe quiet way he shows up. Again, and again. So instead of saying any of that, you pick up a piece of toast. "Thanks." Jack glances up from his coffee, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. "Anytime, Lifeline."
You lower your gaze quickly and focus on your breakfast instead. Unfortunately, that only makes things worse because now you're sitting at Jack's dining table, in Jack's apartmentāwearing Jack's shirt.
Eating breakfast, he made for you. The domesticity of it settles wrong inside your conscience. Not because you or him have done anything wrong. But because it feels like you're standing in a place that once belonged to someone else. Your eyes drift toward the bookshelf across the room. A framed photograph sits among the books, showing Jack and his late wife. Theyāre smiling and happy.
The familiar guilt immediately curls around your throat. You look away, and your appetite suddenly harder to find. Jack notices and asks, "You okay?"
You force a smile, "Mhm." Jack raises an eyebrow. The same look he gives patients who claim their pain is a three out of ten while actively dying. "Lifeline."
You sigh at being caught, again. "It's stupid."
"If you're saying that, it probably isn't."
The concern in his voice makes the guilt worse. You stare down at your plate, picking apart a piece of toast. "You've done so much for me."
Jack frowns immediately, "Okay."
"And I kind of crashed into your life last night."Ā
His confusion visibly increases as he points out the obvious, "You lost your keys."
"I know."
"You called me."
"I know."
Jack waits as you groan softly because this sounds ridiculous out loud. "It just feels like I'm imposing."
Jack's expression softens as he says, "Lifeline." You hate it when he says your nickname like thatāas if he's trying to talk you down from something.
"You are not imposing."
You look away, stubbornly mutter, "Still."
"No." His answer comes immediately.
You glance up, and Jack is looking directly at you now. Completely serious. "You called because you needed help. That's what people do."
"Butā"
"It's not a burden."
You open your mouth; however, Jack cuts you off again. "You would've done the same thing for me."
And unfortunatelyāhe's right. You would've, without hesitation. At three in the morning, or in the middle of a thunderstorm. Without a second thought.
Jack sees the realization cross your face. A faint smile touches the corner of his mouth.
"Exactly."
You look back down at your plate, suddenly embarrassed. Because he's making it sound so simple. Meanwhile, your brain is spiraling. You risk a glance upward and immediately regret it. Because Jack is leaning against the counter. Coffee mug in hand. Morning sunlight spilling through the kitchen windows behind him. Now that you're sober, you're trying very hard not to notice things. Like the freckles scattered across his shoulders. Or the way years of physical therapy and hospital shifts have built quiet strength into him. Maybe the fact that he looks unfairly good for someone standing barefoot in his kitchen at eight in the morning. Your eyes immediately dart back to your eggs because youāre a coward.
"So." Jack takes another sip of coffee. The amusement in his voice is impossible to miss. "You gonna keep staring at your breakfast like itās inedible?"
You nearly choke, "What?"
"The eggs."
"Oh." Your face feels suspiciously warm. "They're intimidating."
Jack stares at you, then laughs.
Somehow and somewhere along the way, Jack stopped being your soulmate, the impossible person at the end of a red string, and became Jack. The man who remembers your coffee order, and the one who checked on you when you had COVID, who keeps spare electrolyte packets in his kitchen because he knows you're terrible at taking care of yourself. The man who made you breakfast because you were hungover, and the man who still loves his wife. The guilt returns instantly. You glance toward the photograph again. Jack follows your gaze this time. His expression changes subtly. The smile faded into something quieter, more thoughtful. Neither of you says anything for a moment. The apartment settles into a small, comfortable, sad silence. The kind that comes from old grief that never fully disappears. Finally, you clear your throat. "I'm sorry."
Jack immediately looks confused. "For what?" You gesture vaguely around the apartment. "Sleeping in your room." His expression somehow becomes even more confused. "Lifeline."
"I'm serious."
"Why?"
You stare at him, "Because it's your room."
"Correct."
"And your bed."
"Also correct."
You narrow your eyes because Jack is enjoying this. The asshole. "Jack."
"What?"
"I feel bad."
His expression softens immediately into a quiet gentleness. "It's fine." He replied. You shake your head, "Butā"
"No." His voice is calm. "I wasn't going to wake you up so you could sleep on the couch." You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again.Ā You try to rebut, "Butā" Jack points toward your coffee, "You would've fallen asleep sitting upright."
"That's not true."
"It absolutely is."
"It happened one time."
"It happened three times."
"Allegedly."
Jack laughs into his coffee, and for a moment, just a moment, the guilt eases. Because he's looking at you like you're welcome here. As if your presence isn't an intrusion or that helping you wasn't an obligation. It was just something he wanted to do. That realization follows you for the rest of breakfast. Maybe that's why loving him has always felt so dangerous. It's the spare apartment key he keeps on his keyring. The electrolyte packets in his kitchen because he knows you're terrible at remembering to drink water. The bottle of ibuprofen is waiting on the nightstand before you even wake up. The way he remembersāhe doesn't even realize he's doing it.
Eventually, breakfast ends, and you help carry plates to the sink despite Jack's protests. "I'm perfectly capable of washing a plate."
"I know."
"You sounded doubtful."
"I wasn't."
"You were."
Jack rolls his eyes, and you grin.
For a moment, it feels normal. As if this is something the two of you do all the time. Then Jack glances toward the hallway. "I should shower."
Your eyes immediately dart away.
Why are you suddenly embarrassed? You've seen this man covered in blood during trauma activations, and somehow, showering is what's awkward.
"Okay." Jack nods, then pauses, a small frown appearing. "You don't have clothes."
You blink, "Oh." You hadn't actually thought that far ahead. Your club outfit is currently somewhere in the apartment and likely smells like spilled alcohol, perfume, and poor decisions.
Jack disappears down the hallway before you can offer a solution. A moment later he returns carrying a pair of gray sweatpants and another shirt. You immediately recognize the Army logo faded across the front. "Here."
You stare at him, then back at the clothes. "I can't take your clothes."
"You're already wearing my clothes." Unfortunately, he has a point. You glance down at the oversized shirt hanging off your shoulders. Jack's mouth twitches, "The sweats have a drawstring."
"Oh, good."
"They should fit."
"Should?"
"Mostly." You narrow your eyes, but Jack looks entirely unapologetic. "You can keep the shirt." Your heart immediately forgets how to function, breathless, "What?" Jack casually shrugs, "It's old." You canāt fucking breathe, so you settle for, "Oh."
The thought of keeping it, taking it home, and sleeping in it. Smelling his laundry detergent every time you wear it is incredibly intimate. "Thanks."
Across his expression is as soft as his response,Ā "You're welcome." Then he gestures toward the hallway. "I'm gonna shower."
You nod, "Okay."
"The shower chair's in my bathroom, so I'll be in there awhile." The statement is matter-of-fact and unremarkable. The same way he always talks about it. Not because it doesn't matter. But because Jack long ago learned there was no point treating every accommodation like a tragedy. It's simply part of his lifeāpart of him. You nod again, "Take your time."
Jack studies you for a second; he's checking for lingering hangover symptoms. Then apparently decides you'll survive. "I'll drive you home after."
"Sounds good." You agree. Thereās a pause before Jack says, "Try not to break anything while I'm gone." Your gasp is immediate, "Rude."
"I know you."
"You wound me."
Jack laughs, then walks down the hallway. A few moments later, you hear the bathroom door close. The apartment becomes quietāthe one that only exists in the homes of people who live alone. You wander slowlyāabsolutely not snooping. You were observing, there's a difference. The apartment itself feels like Jack. Comfortable, practical, and unpretentious. Bookshelves line one wall of the living room. Medical textbooks, military history, and novels with dog-eared pages. A few framed photographs scattered throughout the apartmentāfriends, coworkers, and people who matter.
You pause near one shelf. A photograph sits there. Jack and his late wife, when they were younger, were laughing. The picture caught in the middle of a moment rather than a pose. She has her head tipped toward him, and Jack is looking at her like she hung the moon.
Your stomach lurches. Because even nowāyears laterāshe still belongs here. Of course she does. This was their home, their life. You gently set the frame back exactly where you found it. Suddenly feeling like an intruder again, your gaze drifts around the apartment. There are signs of her everywhere if you know where to look. It isnāt overwhelming or frozen in time. Thereās a photograph, a ceramic mug, and a framed postcard tucked between books. Evidence that she existed, and you hate yourself a little. Because standing here, wrapped in Jack's clothes, waiting for him to finish showering, part of you wishes things were different. Part of you wishes you weren't standing in the aftermath of someone else's great love story. The guilt settles heavily, along with the red string hidden beneath your sleeve. You glance toward the hallway, and the sound of running water. Toward the man you've loved for years. Because no matter how badly you want himāyou've never wanted to replace her. Not for a second. Never. You just...wanted him to be happy, even if it was never with you.
The drive back to your apartment is quiet, but not uncomfortable. You sit curled into the passenger seat, your folded dress resting on your lap alongside your heels. The sleeves of Jack's old Army shirt hang past your wrists, and the sweatpants are too big with the drawstring pulled tight enough to keep them from falling. You feel ridiculous, like a child playing dress-up. Outside the window, Pittsburgh drifts by in shades of gray. You keep your eyes fixed on it. Because every time you glance at Jack, your heart hurts. Especially after last night⦠the makeup wipes, the hug, his hand on your face, honey. You don't trust yourself anymore, not even a little. Beside you, Jack steals another glance. You're unusually quiet, and that alone is enough to make him nervous. Normally, even hungover, you'd be talking, making terrible jokes, or complaining about your headache.
Instead, you're staring out the window like you're already somewhere else. His fingers tighten slightly on the steering wheel as he asks, "You okay?" You nod immediately, humming, "Mhm."
A lie that Jack recognizes instantly, but he lets it go for now. When he finally pulls up in front of your apartment building, neither of you moves immediately. The truck idles softly as silence stretches, then you suddenly unbuckle. Before Jack can process what's happening, you lean across the center console and wrap your arms around him. The hug catches him completely off guard, and for a moment, he freezes. Then instinct takes over. His arms come around you automatically. Your face presses briefly against his shoulder. Jack's heart does something strange and painful. Because it feels like goodbye, and he has absolutely no idea why.
"Hey." His voice comes out softer than intended. You squeeze him once before you let go, because if you hold on any longer, you won't be able to leave.
"Thanks," you whisper. Your eyes sting immediately, but you force a smile anyway. "For everything." The words shouldn't sound final, but they do. "Anytime, honey." The endearment slips out effortlessly and naturally now. Neither of you acknowledges it. Jack studies your face, trying to figure out what's wrong, to understand why you suddenly look like you're trying not to cry. So he asks carefully, "I'll see you later at work, yeah?"
Your throat tightens while you nod. "Mhm." It's not technically a lie. The second you step out of the truck, you don't look back. You can't. Because if you do, you'll stay. So you practically run inside your apartment building.
Leaving Jack staring after you, confused, worried, and somehow strangely unsettled.
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT ā DAY
Dana and Lena listen quietly. The three of you sit in an empty conference room before shift change. You make it approximately halfway through your explanation before you start crying. Not graceful tears, pretty tears, but the ugly kind. The tears you've spent years swallowing, "I'm sorry."
Dana immediately reaches for you, "Hey." You shake your head, "I'm sorry."
"Hon." Dana rubs circles against your back, her voice gentle, maternal. "Why are you apologizing?" You laugh through your tears because the answer feels obvious and impossible. "Because I'm in love with him."
The room falls silent as Lena and Dana exchange a glance. A look. One that says they already knew. Everyone always knows except the people involved. "It's just for a little while," you whisper while you wipe furiously at your face. "I just need some space." Dana's expression softens. She asks, "And what about your heart?"
That's the problem, isn't it? Your heartāyour stupid, stubborn heart. You stare down at your hands, "Until it relearns how to stop beating for him." Then quietly you hear Lena ask,Ā "So you're not gonna tell him?" You shake your head immediately, "I can't."
Because how do you tell someone that you've been tethered to them for seven years? That you've loved them through a marriage, grief, and loss. Through healing. How do you tell someone that? Especially when he never chose you. So you don't.
THREE DAYS LATERā¦
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT ā NIGHT
Three days later, Jack notices immediately, the second he walks into the ED, you're gone. No coffee sitting beside your workstation and sarcastic comments from Centralāthereās no you. He finds Lena first and asks, "Where is she?" Lena doesn't even look up from her charting, "Where's who?ā Jack stares, "Lifeline."
"Oh." She clicks something on her computer. "Day shift." His stomach drops, "What?"
"She switched."
"When?" Lena shrugs at him, "A few days ago."Ā
Jack blinks slowly. "Why?"
"Ask Dana." Suddenly, Lena becomes very interested in her chart.
A week passes, then two, and Jack begins losing his mind. Because you are avoiding him, deliberately and aggressively. You leave before he arrives, or arrive before he leaves. You disappear down hallways and take lunch at different times. Find literally any excuse not to be alone with him. The few times he manages to catch sight of youāyou smile and wave.
Then vanish again, like smoke, as if you're afraid of him, and that hurts. Because Jack keeps replaying that night. The club, his apartment, the hug, and the morning after. What did he miss? What did he do? Did he cross a line? Did he make you uncomfortable? Did he somehow ruin the one friendship he can't bear to lose? Every answer leads nowhere, and every day you drift a little farther away. Three weeks later, during shift change, Jack finally spots you. Walking quickly through the corridor, badge swinging from the clip of your scrub pocket, and iced coffee in hand.
He immediately changes direction. "Lifeline." You freeze for a second, then keep walking. Fuck. Jack follows and calls after you, "Lifeline." Your pace somehow gets faster, and now he's genuinely irritated and hurt. "Hey."
Finally, you stop, turning around, with a careful smile already in place, too careful. But not him, never him, not until now. "Hi, Jack." The distance between you feels enormous as he asks, "What is going on?" Nothing. Everything. You force a shrug, "Nothing."
Thatās bullshit, and Jack knows it's bullshit. You know he knows, but neither of you says it. Then somebody calls your name from down the hallway, and relief floods your face at escaping him. The realization dawns on him like a punch.
"I gotta go."
"Lifelineā"
"See you around." Then you're gone, again. Practically running.
That's when it happensāJack stares after you, heart pounding, confused, angry, and hurt. Suddenlyāpain flares around his wrist. Itās sharp and hot. He physically flinches, "What theā"
A red thread appears beneath his skin, bright and impossible, but all too real. Jack freezes as the world tilts. No. No. No. The string winds itself slowly around his wrist. As it has always belonged there, it was simply waiting.
His breath catches because he knows what it is; everybody knows what it is. His pulse begins hammering. The thread stretches down the hallway, past nurses, residents, and stretchers, straight towardāYou. Jack stumbles, his hand slamming against the wall to keep himself upright as the hallway blurs and his vision tunnels.
No. No, that's impossible. His heart pounds so hard it hurts. The red string glows softly between his wrist and yours, unbroken. Years⦠all these years. Every conversation, every shift, every cup of coffee, and every moment. Every time you'd looked at him and then looked away, or when you'd disappeared when things became too close. All the times you'd chosen distance. The truth crashes into him all at once. You knew. Oh God. You knew, and somewhere down the hallwayācompletely unfazedāyou kept walking.
While Jack stands frozen in place, one hand braced against the wall, staring at the impossible thread connecting him to the woman he's been desperately trying not to admit he's fallen in love with.
2025
6:00 PM
PTMC, CENTRAL WORK AREA ā DAY
The emergency department shifts from busy to catastrophic in less than thirty seconds. One moment, people are charting the nextāevery television screen in the department lights up with breaking news.
Thereās an active shooter at PittFestāmass casualty incident. Every healthcare worker in the room recognizes it instantly. The moment before impact⦠before disaster arrives.
"Hey, what's going on?" McKay asks.
Robby strides into Central, already moving and planning. Carrying the weight of what is coming. "Mass casualty at PittFest."
Samira looks up sharply, "How many victims?"
"We don't know." Robby's face is grim. "Expect the worst.ā A terrible silence settles, while someone else immediately reaches for a phone. "Did the police find David?" McKay asks. Robby shakes his head, then raises his voice, "Okay, everybody, listen up."
Every head turns to pay attention to Robby.
"There is an active shooter at PittFest. As the nearest trauma center, we are going to be getting the majority of the victims." The room goes completely still. "We don't know yet how many we're getting, but we are instituting hospital-wide emergency protocols. We need to move every patient out of here. Either home, upstairs, or Family Medicine. Call your loved ones now if you need to."
Robby glances toward the windows, toward the city. Towards the disaster unfolding somewhere beyond it. "I can guarantee cell service will soon be overwhelmed. Eat something. Stay hydrated. Use the bathroom while there's time and meet back here for a full briefing in five minutes."
Then his gaze lands on someone entering through the ambulance bay doors, relief flashes across his face.Ā
"Brother." Robby exhales. "I'm so fucking glad to see you." Jack, carrying his backpack and wearing his black scrubs, briefly hugs Robby, "Heard it on the scanner."
Jack drops his bag onto a workstation. "How many are we expecting?"
"I don't know." Robby's expression darkens. "But it doesn't sound good."
After placing his things down, Jack looks up directly at you. The breath leaves your lungs. Already focused entirely on you.
Your stomach drops. Oh no. No. No. No. He knows. The realization slams into you so hard it feels physical. You don't know how or when. But something in his expression tells you immediately.
He knows about the stringāyour secret. The thing you've spent seven years burying. Your pulse begins hammering, and blood rushes up to your ears. Across Central, Jack doesn't look away; his jaw flexes, hard, angry. You know that lookāyou've seen it directed at negligent parents, reckless drivers, people who made choices that hurt others.
Five minutes. That's all you have before the briefing. Before the entire hospital erupts into chaos. Apparently five minutes is all Jack needs. The second he catches you alone, a hand closes firmly around your elbow. "Lifeline." You freeze, your heart immediately dropping into your stomach. "Jackā"
"We need to talk." The words come out low and controlled. He steers you toward an empty supply room. A narrow space lined with IV fluids and sterile procedure kits. The door swings shut behind you, and the silence is deafening.
You turn toward him, trying to keep your face neutral, and completely fall apart. "What's going on?" The question sounds pathetic even to your own ears. Jack stares, and for a moment, he says nothing. Which makes everything worse, because his eyes are furious.
Furious at being hurt and at being lied to. At realizing something important happened without him knowing. His jaw clenches, "You knew." Your vision immediately blurs, "Jackā"
"You knew." The repetition is softer, devastated. You feel your tears threatening already.
"Don't." Your voice cracks. "Don't look at me like that." Something flashes across his faceāpain, but then anger returns to cover it. "So what was the plan?" His words come out sharp.Ā
"Jackā"
"What?" His voice rises, years of confusion finally boiling over. "What were you doing?"
You flinch, and Jack immediately hates himself for it, but he can't stop, not now. "Were you just waiting?" The accusation hangs between you, ugly, unfair, and born entirely from hurt. "Were you waiting for your chance?"
Your eyes widen as the tears come instantly, and suddenly you're angry too. Years of restraint snap all at once.
"No." The word echoes off the walls. "No." You step toward him, furious, heartbroken, and shaking.Ā
"I buried it." Your voice breaks. "I buried every part of it." Jack freezes as you keep going, "You don't get to stand there and act like I wanted this." The tears are falling freely now. Itās hot and humiliating. "I buried every chance of loving you so deep I could barely breathe around it."
The room goes silent as Jack stares while you choke on the next words, because they're true, every single one. "I buried my wanting for you." Your voice cracks again. "And don't you dare accuse me of waiting." The anger disappears, leaving only raw, ancient grief. "You don't get to accuse me of that when I respected it."
Jack's face changes back to confusion and regret. But you're not finished, "I respected her." The words nearly destroy you while you wipe at your face, failing miserably. "I respected both of you."
A photograph flashes through your mind. Then she laughed in the department, bringing Jack lunch, loving him. Being loved by him, the woman you'd genuinely cared about. The woman who had never done anything except be kind to you.
"She was brilliant." You laugh bitterly as another tear slips free. "Beautiful. And I knew I'd never measure up."
Jack physically recoils, as if you'd struck him. "What?" The word comes out strangled. You look away because you can't bear seeing his face. "I know that."
"No." Pain flashes across his expression. "No, you don't." You laugh again, broken, "I do." Then quietly, you add, "The first time I saw the end of the string." Jack goes completely still at your admission.
"The first time I saw it unfinished." Your voice drops, barely above a whisper. "I knew I was going to lose you either way."
Silenceāabsolute silence. Jack feels like the floor has vanished beneath him, because suddenly, he understands. All those years, smiles, retreats, your careful boundaries. How you'd chosen distance instead of possibility. You weren't waiting. You were grieving the entire time.
The supply room door suddenly swings open, and Robby appears, already halfway through speaking. "Abbot, I needā"
Then he stops, immediately, because you're crying, and Jack looks wrecked. The tension in the room is thick enough to choke on.
"...Whoa." Robby looks between both of you a few times, then decides he absolutely does not want whatever this is. "What the hell isā"
You move first, past Robby and Jack. Past all of it. Your shoulder brushes the doorframe as you leave. You don't stop, and canāt look back. Because if you do, you'll fall apart. While Jack just stands there, watching you go, understanding too late. For the first time in seven years, understanding exactly how much it must have hurt. Then, somewhere outside the roomāan overhead page sounds. The first ambulances are arriving, signaling that the mass casualty has begun. However, the conversation isn't over. Not even close.
7:00 PM
CENTRAL WORK AREA ā NIGHT
All at once, the emergency department is already overflowing. Trauma bays filled, hallways lined with stretchers, and blood smeared across floors that Environmental Services doesn't have time to clean. The overhead speakers haven't stopped paging for nearly twenty minutes. Victims keep coming. Gunshot wounds, shrapnel injuries, and crush injuries from the stampede that followed.
The air feels thick with adrenaline and fear. Every single person in the department is running on instinct, training, and experience.
You haven't looked at Jack since the supply room, not really. You can feel him occasionally, like a gravitational force somewhere at the edge of your awareness. A pull you refuse to acknowledge. Every time your eyes accidentally find his across Central, you immediately look away. You don't have the luxury of falling apart right now, because people are dying, you know that, and so does Jack.
So, whatever happened between you has been shoved aside by necessity.
"Let's go!" Langdon's voice cuts through the noise. Another victim on a gurney in Central. Male, approximately late twenties, multiple injuries, semi-conscious, and blood soaking through his shirt. Samira immediately moves to the stretcher, "Who do you have?"
"Semi-conscious. Responds only to pain. Decent carotid."
"Strip him." Mateo reaches for trauma shears, and so does Tim, "Let's go." The team descends immediately, beginning to cut clothing, assessing injuries, checking his airway, and breathing. Everything is moving with practiced efficiency. Thenāsomething feels wrong. You don't know why, itās just a feeling. A prickling sensation along the back of your neck.
The patient suddenly jerks, and the nurses yelp. A hand disappears beneath the shredded remains of his shirt. Langdon freezes, then shouts. "Whoa!" Everything happens at once.
"Gun!" The word detonates through Central. "Gun! He's going for his gun!"
Every person in the room reacts instantly; some hit the floor, and others dive behind workstations. The patient somehow manages to yank a handgun free. His eyes are wild, disoriented, and terrified. The muzzle swings wildly across the room and lands directly toward Robby and Jack.
Time slows for you as you watch. Later, you'll never be able to explain why you moved, whether it was instinct, training, love⦠or something much darker. A part of you wonders if maybe you were simply tiredātired of carrying this, of loving him, maybe of being afraid. You never figure it out, because your body moves before your brain does.
One second, you're standing near Central, the next you're running.
The gun fires, and the sound is deafening. A violent crack that echoes through the department. For one suspended momentānobody moves or breathes. Then pain explodes through you, white-hot, blinding.
You stagger as your knees immediately buckle while the floor rushes upward. Somewhere nearby, people are screaming while others are shouting for security. The world becomes noise, blurred shapes, bloodātoo much blood. Then, you hear Jack scream your name, and it tears straight out of him. Raw, animal, nothing like you've ever heard before. The resident beside him barely has time to react before Jack is already moving. Heās runningāignoring everyone and everything. None of it matters, not anymore. Because you're on the floor, and you're bleeding. Suddenly, the worst thing Jack has ever imagined is happening right in front of him.Again.
He drops to his knees beside you, not caring that his stump is aching, hands immediately searching, assessing, locating the wound, trying to stop the bleeding while SWAT restrains the man who shot you. His trauma training takes over automatically, even while the rest of him is breaking apart.
"Pressure!" Somebody throws him gauze, Jack slams it hard against the wound. Too much bloodāso much fucking blood, and the sight makes his stomach turn. "No."
Your vision swims, and you can barely focus. But somehowāsomehowāJack is all you see. Always him, maybe it was always going to be him. His face is pale, terrifiedāmore terrified than you've ever seen him, and somehow that hurts worse than the bullet.
You manage a weak laugh, and blood touches your lips. Jack immediately hates the sound, "Don't." Your eyes find his, and for the first time in years, you stop hiding. "It was painful."
Jack freezes, "Lifelineā"
"When you looked at me." Your voice trembles, blood continues soaking through the gauze. "When you smiled at me."
"No." His hands shake, just slightly, but you feel it. "When you believed in me." Tears blur your vision. "It hurt."
Jack's face completely crumples because now he understands all of it.
"It tore me apart." The words barely make it out, and an unfiltered sob escapes him. Because you're dying, and he just found you. He spent seven years standing beside you without seeing it. "No." His voice breaks. "No, no, no."
Someone is calling for Trauma One and bringing a stretcher. The department is moving around him. But Jack doesn't care, because the world has narrowed to youāonly you.
"I just got you." The words rip from his throat, his eyes shine, desperate, furious, and every bit terrified. "I just got you." Your breath catches. You love him, you always will. So maybeāmaybe honesty won't kill you now. "I love you."
Jack closes his eyes, as if the words physically hurt. You smile weakly, doubling down, "I love you, Jack Abbot."
Silence for a moment, then, firmly, "No." The answer comes instantly, violently, as if he's rejecting reality itself. "No." His forehead presses briefly against yours. "You're not doing this."
Tears slide down his face, but he doesn't even notice. "You hear me?" His voice cracks. "You're not doing this to me."
The stretcher arrives, and Robby appears, blood on his gloves. Panic hidden beneath professionalism. "Jack." Nothing⦠Jack doesn't move. "Jack." Still nothing.
"Abbot!" Finally, Jack looks up, and Robby immediately understands. Oh. Oh no. "We need Trauma One." Robby's voice softens. "Now."
Jack nods once, then helps lift you onto the stretcher himself. Refuses to let go or step away. He refuses to leave your side as they race down the hallway. Trauma One is already being prepared. Blood products, thoracotomy tray, massive transfusion protocolāEverything and anything. Whatever it takes.
Dana meets them at the door, and one look at Jack's face tells her everything, every awful piece of it. "Oh, honey." Jack doesn't even hear her; his eyes never leave you, not once. Dana steps close, careful. "Jack." No response from him, so she tries again, "You need to let them work."
His jaw tightens, "No."
"Jack."
"No." His voice breaks again. Because he knowsāhe knows exactly how bad this is. Knows every possible complication, terrible outcome, and statistic. Every nightmare, and he cannot survive another one. Not you, God, please, especially not after all thisāafter finally finding you.
The trauma team begins crowding around the bed. Voices overlap, orders fly, blood pressure dropping, airway concerns, surgical consult from Garcia, massive transfusion. Yet, Jack refuses to move, standing beside your stretcher, his hand wrapped around yours. As if letting go might somehow allow death to take you, or sheer stubbornness can keep you here.
As if love might finally be enough this time around.
PTMC, ICU ā DAY
The surgery lasts hoursātoo many hours, long enough for the adrenaline to burn away, and for exhaustion to settle into everyone's bones. Long enough for Jack to memorize every crack in the ICU waiting room floor.
The bullet had done catastrophic damage. A through-and-through gunshot wound with massive internal bleeding. Multiple units of blood transfused. Emergency surgery. Complications halfway through that had nearly sent the entire operating room into a panic. At one point, Robby had physically forced Jack to sit down because he looked seconds away from collapsing. Jack couldn't remember most of it afterward, only fragments. Your blood on his hands. Your voice. I love you, Jack Abbot.
The terror of watching your blood pressure disappear from the monitor. The awful realization that he might lose you before he'd ever gotten the chance to tell youāI love you too. But somehow, you survive. The surgeons manage to stop the bleeding and repair the damage. They brought you back. It feels less like medicine and more like a miracle.Ā
Three days later, you're still asleep, intubated, and hooked to enough machines to make the room hum softly around you. But you're alive, and right now, that's enough.
Jack hasn't left at all. Dana, Robby, Lena, and even Whitakerāall of them fail. Because every time someone tells him to go home, he looks at you lying in that hospital bed and refuses. The man is impossible when he decides on something, and he decided he was staying.
So he stays, wearing scrubs more often than not. Surviving almost entirely on hospital coffee and vending machine food, and sleeping in the uncomfortable chair beside your bed. If you could see him, you'd probably yell at him. Tell him he's being ridiculous, and that he should shower. To stop looking like a man who personally lost a fight against a tornado. Unfortunately, you're unconscious, which means nobody can stop him.
The red string remains, that impossible thread winding around his wrist before disappearing into yours, completely visible now. Neither of you is hiding anymore. Sometimes Jack simply stares at it, as if he's afraid it'll disappearāa chance he'll wake up and discover this was some cruel fever dream. Because for years he believed he'd had his soulmate, then he lost her. And nowānow the universe has somehow handed him another sacred thing. A second chance he never expected. One he's terrified of losing before it even begins.
The ICU room is quiet that afternoon as sunlight spills through the window. Your face is pale against the white pillow. Your hair is messy, and there's bruising along your neck from procedures, tape securing lines, and dressings. Evidence of how close death came for you. Jack reaches forward, his fingers brushing gently through your hair. The movement reverent, as if touching something precious. Something fragile and almost lost.
His thumb traces softly across your cheek. "You scared the hell out of me." His voice is rough, sleep-deprived, and broken around the edges. You don't answer, but that never stops him.
The door opens quietly as Robby steps inside, coffee in one hand and concern written all over his face. He pauses immediately, taking in the scene. Jack slumped beside your bed, wearing his scrubs, faintly stained with bloodāyour blood. His hand wrapped around yours, and the red string was visible between them. For a moment, Robby says nothing, simply watches. Understanding settling over him piece by piece. Then finally, he asks, "How's she doing?"
Jack glances up. His eyes are bloodshot and exhausted. "Stable." The word comes out cautious. Because saying it too loudly might somehow jinx everything.
Robby nods, steps closer, looking down at you, at the monitors, then at Jack. A realization flickers across his face. "Is she also..." His voice softens. "...your soulmate?"
The question hangs quietly between them, and Jack's gaze immediately drops to your hand. To the red thread wrapped around both wrists. He can't speak for a little while, then he nods once.Ā
"I think so." The words sound ridiculous even now. "I didn't think..." His voice catches as he looks down at you. At the woman he'd spent seven years loving without understanding why it felt different. Not understanding why losing your friendship hurt more than it should, or why seeing you happy mattered so much. Why he'd kept showing up, again and again. "I didn't think it was possible."
Robby remains silent, letting him continue as Jack swallows. "I didn't think it would happen to me." The confession comes out almost embarrassedāhe's admitting something shameful. Robby exhales slowly, nods. "There've been a few reports."
Jack glances up.
"A few studies." Robby shrugs. "The theory is that some soulmate bonds don't form immediately." His eyes drift toward the red string, toward your intertwined hands. "Sometimes they form after loss."
The room falls quiet, neither of them says the obvious thing. That his late had been Jack's soulmate too, and loving her had been real, complete, and true. That none of this erased her.
Jack looks back at your sleeping face, the rise and fall of your chest, and the steady rhythm on the monitor. Alive and still here. His fingers slide gently through your hair again, careful not to disturb anything, as his hand cups your cheek. The gesture impossibly tender. Robby immediately looks away, because some moments aren't meant for witnesses.
Jack leans forward, pressing a kiss against your forehead, lingering there for a second, eyes closed and relieved. Terrified and very in love. When he finally pulls back, his thumb brushes across your skin. And for the first time since the shooting, a small smile appears. Fragile, hopeful, like he's allowing himself to believe it. Just a little.
"Come back to me, Lifeline." His voice is barely above a whisper. The red string glows softly between your wrists, and Jack squeezes your hand gently, as if you're already listening. As if somewhere beneath the machines and medications and healing wounds, you can hear him. Maybe, for the first time in a very long time, he isn't asking fate for anything. He's only asking for you.
PTMC, ICU ā DAY
The first thing you become aware of is discomfort, not pain, well, not yet anyway, just wrongness. A strange pressure lodged in your throatāsomething foreign. Your eyelids feel impossibly heavy, as if someone glued them shut. The effort required to open them feels monumental. Slowly, painstakinglyāyou manage it, and the world arrives in fragments. White ceiling, muted sunlight, the rhythmic beeping of monitors, and the steady hiss of oxygen.
A hospital roomāyour hospital room, and immediately your nursing brain starts putting pieces together. ICU, you're in the ICU, which meansāOh. Oh no, the shooting. Memory crashes back all at once: the gun, Jack, blood, Trauma One. I love you, Jack Abbot.
Your eyes widen immediately as panic flares. Because there is definitely a tube down your throat, a ventilator tube, and suddenly every survival instinct in your body starts screaming. You try to moveāa mistake, as pain explodes through your abdomen. Pain that says somebody has spent several hours trying very hard to keep you alive. A strangled sound leaves you; your heart monitor immediately speeds up.
Then you feel it, a hand, wrapped around yours. You turn your head, slowly, and there he is⦠Jack. Curled awkwardly in the chair beside your bed, wearing his black scrubs, asleep. His head was resting against folded arms near your mattress, one hand tangled with yours, the red string winding quietly between your wrists. For a moment, you just stare because he looks awful. His curls are a mess, dark circles shadow his eyes, his jaw is covered in stubble, his scrubs are wrinkled because he hasn't slept properly in days, and he hasn't left. This whole time, he stayed. Your fingers twitch, weakly, barely enough movement to count. Then you squeeze his hand.
Jack jerks awake instantly, years of emergency medicine, and years of sleeping lightly. His head snaps upward, disoriented and confused. Then his eyes land on yours, and the entire world stops. For a moment, he doesn't move or breathe. Doesn't seem capable of either. He just stares, afraid you're another dream, or another hallucination born from exhaustion.
"Hey." The word comes out rough, barely audible, and your eyes immediately fill with tears. Because he's crying, relief floods his face so quickly it looks painful. His hand tightens around yours.
"My Lifeline." His voice cracks completely, and suddenly, tears are sliding down his cheeks, unashamed. Jack laughs once, a choked sound halfway between a sob and a prayer. "Oh, my God."
You try to answer, then immediately regret it, because the tube is still there. Panic spikes again.Ā
Jack notices instantly, "Hey." His hand cups the side of your face, gentle and grounding.Ā "Hey, hey." His thumb brushes your cheek, "You're okay." Your breathing becomes faster, the ventilator alarms immediately begin protesting. "You're okay." Jack is already reaching for the call button, never taking his eyes off you. "You're okay."
Within seconds, the room fills with people. Garcia arrives first. Followed by respiratory therapy, a nurse, and half the ICU, apparently. "Well, look at that." Garcia's grin is immediate. "About time."Ā
You want to roll your eyes, but unfortunately, you still have a breathing tube. The respiratory therapist immediately begins assessing and following commands. Checking your neurological status. Making sure you're strong enough for extubation. You squeeze hands, follow fingers with your eyes, nod appropriately. All while Jack hovers nearby. Trying desperately not to interfere, and failing miserably.
"She's ready." The therapist glances toward Garcia, and then Garcia nods. "Let's do it."
Jack immediately moves closer, instinctively. Like he physically cannot help himself. The ventilator disconnects, the securing device is removed, and the respiratory therapist gives instructions. You barely hear any of them; your entire focus is on the tube. Thenāit's out. Immediately, you cough violently because your throat burns. Every breath feels strange and uncomfortable, but you're breathing on your own.
Jack is already helping support you upright, one arm behind your shoulders, the other holding a cup with ice chips. "Easy." His voice is impossibly soft. "Slow down."
You cough again, eyes watering. Jack looks ready to fight somebody on your behalf. Possibly the tube or the entire ICU. Eventually, the coughing settles enough for you to breathe comfortably, and the monitors stabilize, everyone visibly relaxing.
Garcia steps forward, professional mode fully activated. "Okay. The surgery went well." She begins carefully. "You sustained a gunshot wound to the abdomen." Jack's jaw tightens visibly as she continues,Ā "There was significant internal bleeding." Garcia continues. "We had to perform an emergency exploratory laparotomy."
Your nurse brain immediately fills in blanks, searching for damage, complications, and probabilities. Garcia notices this and says, "We repaired injuries to your small bowel and controlled several bleeding vessels."
Stableāthe most beautiful word in medicine. You glance toward Jack; he's staring at the floor, hearing the details physically hurts. Garcia notices that, too, a tiny smile appears. One that says she understands far more than she's commenting on.
"Recovery's going to suck." You manage a weak laugh; the sound comes out raspy. Garcia points immediately. "There she is. Don't make me regret taking that tube out."
For the first time since waking, you actually smile. Garcia gathers her chart and steps toward the door, then pauses, looking between you. Then Jack, the red string, then back again.
"Oh." A knowing expression crosses her face. "Right."
Jack immediately looks uncomfortable, which is almost impressive considering everything that's happened.
Garcia grins. "Try not to stress her out." Then she points at you. "And try not to get shot again."
The door closes behind her, and the room suddenly feels much quieter. Much smaller and more intimate. Silence settles; neither of you quite knows what to say. Because there are too many things, seven years' worth.
Jack remains seated beside the bed, his hand never leaving yours, not once. He's afraid the second he lets go, you'll disappear again.
Your throat hurtsāeverything hurts, but somehow none of it matters right now. Because Jack is looking at you, really looking at you, and there are tears still caught in his eyelashes. Evidence of how terrified he'd been, your fingers tighten weakly around his. "Hi." The word comes out hoarse, barely audible. A wet laugh escapes him, disbelieving, and relieved. "Hi."
His thumb brushes across your knuckles, again and again. As if he needs the contactāhe needs proof. Then Jack lowers his head, pressing his forehead gently against your joined hands, his eyes closing. Breathing shakily, and in that moment, you realize he was just as afraid of losing you as you'd always been of losing him.
Finally, Jack swallows hard, then asks quietly, "How long?" You know exactly what he means, not the shooting or the string. All of it. You stare down at your intertwined hands. At the red thread winding around both wrists, then back at him, and answer honestly. "Since my first day.ā
Jack blinks, once and twice. He genuinely thought he'd misheard you, "Your first day?" You nod, a sad laugh escaping. "Yeah."
His mouth opens, then closes, and opens again. The physician in him is clearly attempting to process impossible information. Unfortunately for him, he's currently operating as a man in love, not a doctor, which means none of this is going well.
"Seven years?" The words come out strangled, and you give a tiny nod. Jack leans back in his chair, looking dizzy. "Jesus Christ."
A weak laugh escapes you. "That was more or less my reaction too." His hand tightens around yours to reassure himself.
"Why didn't you tell me?" The question is quiet, not accusing anymore, only hurt. Heās trying to understand. You look away first, toward the window. Because this part is harder. "You were married." The words are simple, obvious, and true, Jack's expression immediately softens.Ā
"You loved her." You smile sadly. "Of course you did." Because he had, you'd seen it, every day, in every smile or phone call, at the mere mention of her.Ā
"I wasn't going to be the woman who showed up and destroyed that." Your voice trembles. "I couldn't. It's why I never said anything." A tear slips free, and you don't bother wiping it away.Ā
"I respected her too much." Your laugh cracks. "And honestly?" You finally look at him, unwaveringly, you admit, "I loved you too much.ā Jack closes his eyes, processing the truth of it all. "I knew you were happy." You smile weakly. "I thought⦠I thought if I couldn't be the person you loved, then I'd settle for being someone you trusted."
Jack stares at you, completely speechless. Suddenly, every memory makes sense, every retreat or careful boundary. You chose distance over possibility. You weren't waiting. You weren't hoping for his wife to die. Goddamit. The thought makes him sick now. You were protecting himāprotecting both of them, at the expense of yourself, for seven years.
"That's insane." The words slip out before he can stop them. You blink, offended. "Excuse me?" Jack actually laughs, a wet, exhausted sound. "You loved me for seven years."
"You make it sound like a disease." You frowned.
"It kind of is."
You point weakly, "I got shot."
"Exactly." For the first time since waking upāyou both laugh. The sound fades slowly, leaving only the truth behind. Jack shifts closer, his chair scrapes softly against the floor, until he's sitting right beside the bed, close to you, so that there's nowhere left to hide.
"I need you to understand something." His voice lowers, gentler now, and more vulnerable than you've ever heard it. Jack looks down briefly, then back up. "She was my soulmate." The words settle softly between you, simply true and not at all cruel. You nod, because you knowāyou've always known.
"I loved her." His eyes shine, "I'll always love her."
You squeeze his hand, "I know." Jack exhales shakily, then continues, "But somewhere along the way..." His voice falters, and you canāt recall if you've ever seen him this scared. His thumb brushes your cheek, the same way it did the night you almost died. "You became my favorite part of the day. The first person I wanted to talk to." Another stroke of his thumb. "The person I looked for first." His eyes never leave yours. "And when you started avoiding me..."
He laughs once, humorless and every bit painful. "It felt like somebody was ripping pieces off me." The confession steals the air from your lungs, and Jack leans forward slightly, and your heart starts racing.
"I thought I was losing my mind." A tiny smile appears at the corners of his mouth. "Turns out I was just in love with you."
Everything disappearsāleaving just him and tears blur your vision instantly.
"Oh." It's all you can manage. Jack smiles, soft, beautiful, itās entirely his. "Yeah."
Suddenly, you're crying. Because after seven yearsāafter all that grief and silence and fearāhe chose you. Not because of the string or fate. Or because destiny told him to. But because he loved you.
"You idiot." Your words wobble and Jack laughs, "I know."
"You absolute idiot."
"I've been told."
You laugh through your tears, and somehow, he wipes them away before they can fall. The gentlest touch imaginable, as if you're something precious. Then his forehead rests against yours, and neither of you speaks. You don't need to. The red string glows softly between your wrists, a silent witness, and for the first timeāit doesn't feel like a chain. It feels like a beginning.
Jack's gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then immediately back to your eyes. Giving you every opportunity to stop him. Every opportunity to say no. You don't. Not even a little.
So, he kisses you, softly, as if you're something holy. Something he spent seven years searching for without realizing it. His hand cups your cheek, while yours finds his wrist. Right where the string wraps around him, the kiss is gentle and tender. A promise rather than a fire.
When he finally pulls back, neither of you moves very far, foreheads touching, breathing the same air. Jack smiles, the kind of smile you've spent years secretly collecting. "Hi."
A laugh escapes you, "Hi." Then his eyes soften, filled with something warm enough to last a lifetime. "There you are."
After seven years of loving him in silenceāyou finally get to stay.
End Notes:
Where do I even begin? This idea has been cooking in my head for MONTHS. I couldnāt for the life of me figure out how I wanted this story to go. But then you know how things just suddenly click and fall into place? Thatās exactly what happened.
It was absolutely euphoricāonce I got the plot beats down, I just couldnāt stop writing lol.
I wanted you, the reader, to know how much you respected Jackās wife and that you werenāt trying to replace her.
Also.. do you get it? Lifeline = Line = Stringā¦. Ha ha ha. You are his Lineā¦
Everyone blame Noah Kahan for making me cry to Orbiter.
LOWKEY, wasnāt expecting a lot of people to read thisā¦Ā
this is certainly being written as a personal service⦠but pope cody definitely loves himself a chubby girl. iāve written about this before, but i need more. minors dni. 18+ only
pope cody experienced a shift in attraction after catherine and amy. it had been a while since he had a ācrush' and after a year or two, he felt as though no one would waltz into his life and tug his heart strings enough to tie him down.
he would go to strip clubs with craig. follow him around like a sick puppy, eager to go home and do absolutely nothing. he would get lap dances by women craig deemed 'sexy enough for the cover of vogue.' they were always thināthe only difference among each woman was the size of their boobs and assess.
he would also go to bars with his brothers and watch them flirt. he would just sit there quietly, observing and realizing how pathetic everyone looked, waiting around for someone to come up to them; or drifting into the depths of their drunk mind to temporarily silence whatever waited for them outside.
pope never fully entertained these women. neither would he agree to the plans his brothers had for him that contained stepping out of his comfort zone to become a man whore.
"iām not like you, craig," heād say. "iām perfectly content with being std-free."
when they would nearly beg him, heād say, "someone will come. one day. or maybe not. whatever."
he repeated these words in his brain. over and over again.
and then he met you.
you were unlike catherine and amy. younger than them with a different attitude and style. you also had a tummy.
pope thought about bodies when heād jerk off late at night. not in the degrading way, though. he wasnāt making fun of bodies. but he would think about women with pudges, thick arms and legs while he pumped his cock. he would get off to the thought of sinking his fingers into big thighs with stretch marks dancing along the fatty parts of hips. he would get hard ons while thinking about a faceless woman with precious rolls riding him ā his cock, his face, his legs.
sure, he occasionally had sex dreams of catherine or amy, but their bodies and faces only remained as they were in real life for a few minutes. after a solid five minutes, theyād morph into someone else.
once pope met you, he thought that woman in his dreams was you, and it was the worlds way of notifying him that you were on your way.
pope cody was absolutely enamored by you from the jump.
he loved the way your shirt would ride up and expose your stomach that would try to sneak out of your bottoms. he loved how large your thighs were, and how theyād eat up your shorts when youād sit down. heād even sink his hands in between them for heat when heād get too cold. he loved how your body would move when heād fuck you from the back. he loved counting your stretch marks and running his fingers over them before clutching at your love handles.
he always made sure to let you know how beautiful you were when youād voice slight insecurities. if you complained about your arms being too big, heād say something corny youād usually hate hearing from anyone else.
"i think your arms are beautiful. i donāt think anything other than how strong they are, and how delicious they look in those little tank tops you wear.ā
if you complained about having thick legs, heād give some dirty responses.
"if i were sick and they offered me assisted death or something, iād ask them to let me die in between your thighs. iād want you to suffocate me."
youād probably swat at him and tell him that was terrible, but heād just shrug and say, "i love being in between your thighs. that would be the perfect way to go."
if youād take pictures and complain about your stomach being 'too big,' heād kiss all over it and grip it while he fucked you in missionary. he would throw your legs onto his shoulders while his hands clutched at your tits and stomach. he would thrust so deep inside of you that youād forget why you were insecure to begin with.
pope cody would also love the weird things a lot of chubby girls hate. the little fat that crawls out of certain tops that dip too low near the armpit. if you were to say, āi hate tops like this! my boobs look weird and the cut makes me look bigger," heād roll his eyes and tell you to stop throwing a tantrum because he likes that shit. he likes when parts of you pool out of your clothing.
letās just say⦠pope cody would be on his hands and knees for a thick girl. heād want your tummy out all the time. heād want your thighs out all the time. if itās warm, he wants them out.
heās the most body positive person out there. heād buy you a million bathing suits. heād take all your bathing suit pictures on his phone and most likely jerk off to them when youāre away.
pope cody is a thickkk man, and he for sure would want a thick woman.