You don’t turn around from the stove. You know that tone. Measured and suspicious. The same one he uses when a story from a patient doesn’t quite add up, or when he’s looking for you to notice what he has noticed in your words.

“I’m doing a detox,” you say, plating the pasta with unnecessary precision. “So—you know, yoga, no alcohol, no drugs, no screens, no shopping, no sex, no soda—”

“—right there,” he cuts in.

You pause, glancing over your shoulder. “…No soda?”

He doesn’t even blink. “No. The no sex.”

You turn back to the counter, like this is completely normal. “What, you can’t handle a month without sex?”

Jack doesn’t bite—doesn’t rise to it like someone your age would. He just watches you, lips pursed, arms folded, weight settled into one hip, expression flattening into something more deliberate.

“Not when it’s without you,” he says, simple.

You huff a small laugh, trying to shake off the way it lands somewhere inconvenient in your chest. “That’s flattering. That will get you very far.”

You slide his plate toward him. He doesn’t take it yet.

“It’s not like I won’t miss it,” you add, softer now. “Same as alcohol. Same as everything else.”

“Yeah,” he says, pushing off the counter finally, crossing the kitchen in a few easy steps. “Difference is alcohol’s not making you come in under ten minutes, and four times in an hour.”

You shoot him a look—sharp, immediate. 

He shrugs, already reaching past you into the fridge like he didn’t just say that. “It’s a valid comparison.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You love it,” he shrugged, knowing, grabbing the cheese. “Point is - you know, it’s a big difference.”

You try not to smile. You fail, a little.

“I just—” you sigh, taking the cheese from him, grating it over your pasta. “I want to do something that requires actual discipline. Reset a bit. Clear my head.”

“Hon,” he says, quieter now, leaning his shoulder against the counter beside you, close enough that his arm brushes yours, “you work ortho and you’re an R3. You’re up for thirty hours at a time, you operate on broken bones for fun, you look amazing, you’re healthy—what part of you needs more discipline?”

You glance at him. He’s looking at you properly now. Not teasing.

You soften a fraction. “It’s not about that.”

“Then what is it about?”

You hesitate. Just a second too long.

“…It’s just a month,” you settle on. “Four weeks. Thirty days. We’ll live.”

He studies you. You can feel it—clinical, almost. Like he’s trying to diagnose something you’re not saying out loud.

Then—

“And this is just penetration?” he asks.

You freeze.

Your silence is loud.

Jack exhales, slow, disbelieving, dragging a hand down over his mouth. “Goddamn.”

You busy yourself with the plates again. “It’s part of the program.”

“Program,” he repeats flatly. “Who the hell put you up to this?”

“Santos. and McKay. We all agreed to do it together.”

That earns you a look.

“…Santos,” he says, like he’s deeply reconsidering several life choices. “Of course this has Santos written all over it - getting you into a nun-cult thing.”

You laugh despite yourself, handing him his bowl. “It’s not a cult. It’s a detox.”

“It’s a sexless cult,” he mutters, taking the bowl.

You nudge his hip with yours. “You’ve survived longer droughts.”

“Yeah,” he shoots back immediately. “In the army.”

You grin. “Oh, here we go.”

“You’re really gonna do this to me?” he says, following you toward the couch. “Make the disabled veteran relive his worst years?”

“Your worst years were not lack of sex, be serious.”

“Debatable.”

You snort, dropping onto the couch, tucking your legs under you. He sits beside you, close—closer than necessary, knee knocking into yours, like he’s testing the boundaries of this already.

You hand him a fork.

“It’ll be good for us,” you say, softer now. “Builds character.”

He looks at you sidelong. “I have enough character.”

“You could always use more.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs.

His hand comes up—absent, habitual—resting warm at your knee, thumb brushing once, slow. Not even thinking about it. Your breath catches before you can stop it.

His mouth twitches, just slightly. Not quite a smile.

“…Fine. I’ll do whatever I can to support you in this… detox, thing,” he says.

You smile, even though his calloused hand is rubbing softly against your skin, warm, rough and inched maybe a little further onto your thigh. “I appreciate that.”

He leans back into the couch, finally picking up his fork, but his hand doesn’t move from your leg.

A pause.

Then—

“We can still watch Housewives?” he asks, like this is the real negotiation.

You let out a breath, tension cracking just enough to smile. “Housewives stays.”

“Right,” he nods. “Good. Thought you were gonna take everything from me.”

You roll your eyes, nudging him with your shoulder. “So you think you can handle this?”

“‘Course I can handle this.”

★★★

“I can’t handle this,” Jack says.

Robby doesn’t even look up as he checks his watch, pulling up his sleeves as they step outside, already smiling like he’s been waiting for this. “It’s just a month, man. Cool it.”

“It’s not just a month,” Jack shoots back, arms folded, pacing a tight line along the bay, outside the ED. “It’s a month without her. There’s a difference.”

Robby snorts. “Oh, I’m sure there is.”

“I’m serious,” Jack says, sharper now. “You don’t get it—you don’t—” he gestures vaguely, frustrated. “When you have her, she’s— she’s everything. It’s not just sex, it’s…. well, it is, but it's also more, it's... deeper? No, it's... you know, I mean—”

“—you were about to say something amazingly poetic and then ruined it,” Robby cuts in, amused.

“Yeah, well,” Jack mutters. “We have sex four to five times a week. Minimum three. And now?” He throws his hands up. “Nothing. She won’t even let me spoon her.”

Robby pauses.

Then looks up slowly.

“…Spooning.”

“Don’t,” Jack warns.

Robby’s grin breaks wide. “Jack Abbot. Spooning. Are you the big or little one? Or does it switch?”

“Oh, shut up.”

“That’s… wow,” Robby shakes his head, impressed. “It’s a cute image.”

Jack drags a hand over his face, already irritated. “Not even—nothing. It’s like I’m in a goddamn monastery.”

“Voluntarily celibate,” Robby nods. “Very spiritual of you.”

“I did not volunteer,” Jack snaps.

“You stayed,” Robby counters.

Jack glares at him, then looking out into the evening. “Where the hell are they? They said two minutes.”

“Relax,” Robby says, still enjoying this far too much. “Also— five times a week? Christ, having that kind of libido at your age?” He clicks his tongue, an exhale. “Impressive. You should get that checked out.”

“Forget that,” Jack mutters. “She’ll kill me if I’m talking about this.”

“Oh, so there’s still fear. Good. That’s healthy.”

Jack exhales sharply, jaw tight, eyes flicking back out toward the ambulance bay.

“How long’s it been since you two…?” Robby asks, vaguely gesturing, curious as to how his friend is already so wound up.

Jack hesitates.

“…Two days.”

There’s a beat.

Robby stares at him. “…Two days,” he repeats.

Jack doesn’t answer.

Robby lets out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “You’re kidding me.”

“I wish I was.”

“You’re like this after two days?”

Jack shrugs, already keyed up. “Look, I mean, that is including any kind of touch and sexual actions, alright—”

“That’s pathetic,” Robby says, still grinning.

“I know,” Jack snaps, pacing again now, faster. “I know, it’s—this is ridiculous. She won’t even kiss me, barely hugs me. She’s… walking around like nothing’s changed—”

“Yeah,” Robby hums. “Almost like she’s not the one with the problem. Just let her ride this out. You expect her to put on a nun costume?”

Jack shoots him a look. “You're not helping.”

“I’m not trying to,” Robby says easily.

Jack exhales, running a hand through his silver waves, agitation sitting just under the surface now. He glances out again, scanning for lights, for movement.

“Where the hell are they?” he mutters. “They said two minutes.”

Robby straightens a fraction, checking his watch again. “Traffic, maybe—”

“Ambulance crashed!”

The shout cuts through the bay, and their conversation is finished quickly as they race out with nurses to help.

★★★

Jack Abbot was a strong man, in many respects.

He’d seen enough—done enough—to have a working relationship with pain, with loss, with the kind of things that hollow people out if they let it. He wasn’t perfect, but he was… steady. More emotionally literate than most men he knew—Robby included, which wasn’t exactly a high bar, but still.

He knew how to sit in discomfort. Knew how to carry it. Knew how to endure.

But this. This thing you were doing…

The thing about you was, he’d never really had to hold back before.

From the moment you’d settled into his life—properly, fully, toothbrush next to his, your things in his drawers, your presence in every corner of his apartment—he’d made a decision: you get all of him. Whatever he has, whatever he can give, whenever you want, it’s yours.

That includes the easy things. The soft things.

And yeah—sex too.

It wasn’t the foundation of your relationship. Not even close. Two years together, six months living side by side, working different departments, different hours—you loved each other in ways that had nothing to do with sex.

But – Christ. It didn’t hurt that the sex was very good.

And you—young, bright, all sharp edges and softness in the right places—you’d woken something up in him he hadn’t realised had gone quiet. Made him feel… not younger, exactly, but awake. 

Kept him on his toes. Made him care, in small stupid ways—like going to the gym on his off days so he could keep up with you, so he didn’t feel like he was lagging behind when you dragged him out into the world.

You were tactile in a way that blurred the line between affection and need. Always finding him. You always managed to make him feel like the centre of any and all desires.

Hands on his arm when you passed. Fingers hooking into his belt loops when you walked past him in the kitchen. Leaning into him mid-conversation like gravity pulled you there. Curling into his side on the couch, half on top of him, legs tangled, absentmindedly tracing patterns over his chest like you didn’t even realise you were doing it.

You’d climb into his lap without asking. Kiss him just because you could. Start something in the middle of nowhere—half a joke, half not—just to see the way he’d react.

It didn’t go unnoticed. Robby had picked up on it within the first few weeks.

Some shitty bar down the road with shittier beer, end of shift, nothing special—and all Jack could do was watch you.

“The hell did you find her?” Robby asked, leaning against the bar, eyes flicking between Jack and where you were across the room, laughing too loud at something Ellis had said, drink loose in your hand.

Jack followed his line of sight without meaning to. It softened him, visibly.

“She found me,” he said, like that explained anything. Took a sip of his beer. “Cafeteria. First week at PTMC.”

Robby hummed, unconvinced. “Right. Of course she did.”

Jack shrugged, trying for casual. “She’s… enthusiastic.”

Robby glanced back at you, just in time to see the way your attention shifted mid-conversation—like something had tugged on you. Your eyes landed on Jack immediately.

Locked. And then—there it was. That smile. Not polite, not social. Specific.

“Yeah,” Robby muttered. “That’s one word for it.”

You were already moving.

Didn’t even finish whatever you were saying, just peeled off like the rest of the room had lost its relevance. Straight line to Jack, weaving through people without hesitation.

You slipped into his space like you belonged there, like you always had.

“Hi,” you said, bright, a little breathless. “Missed you.”

Jack blinked. “You’ve been gone fifteen minutes.”

“Felt longer,” you shrugged, already reaching for him—fingers brushing over his bicep, then squeezing, slow and appreciative, like you were reminding yourself he was real. “I love this shirt.”

Robby snorted into his drink. He knew that shirt. Cheap, slightly too tight on purpose. Jack had once tried to pretend it wasn’t a strategy. Apparently, it was working.

You didn’t move away. If anything, you leaned closer—hips brushing his, hand still on his arm, thumb dragging once like you couldn’t quite help it.

Robby watched the exact second Jack stopped pretending this wasn’t affecting him.

“You busy?” you asked, softer now.

You tilted your head, smiling like you already knew the answer.

Then you leaned in.

Close enough that Robby couldn’t hear, but not subtle about it either—your mouth brushing Jack’s ear, your hand tightening slightly on his arm as you murmured something low.

Whatever it was, Jack went still.Immediate. A shift. Shoulders tightening, breath catching, eyes dropping to you like he needed a second to recalibrate.

Robby raised a brow. You pulled back like nothing had happened, smile sweet, completely unbothered. Jack set his beer down.

“We’re heading out,” he said.

Robby stared at him. “You just got here.”

“Yeah,” Jack replied, already reaching for his jacket. “We’re done.”

Jack had called it the honeymoon phase. It wasn’t. It just… evolved.

You stayed exactly as enthusiastic as he’d first described—just more efficient about it. More integrated into the rhythm of your lives. Somehow worse, if you asked Robby.

And when you were stressed—which was often, given Ortho, given your hours, given you—it got worse. Or better, depending on who you asked.

You’d come home wired, exhausted, brain still running at full speed—and instead of shutting down, you’d go straight to him. Like he was the off-switch. Like being close to him, touching him, feeling him, was how you came back to yourself.

You didn’t overthink it. You didn’t ration it.

And now nothing. He’s not sure if he recognises you. 

It’s not just the sex. That’s the worst of it, sure. The obvious absence. But it’s everything else that’s starting to wear on him. You’re thorough with it. Annoyingly disciplined.

★★★

Day Six.

He gets home just after eight in the morning, dead on his feet, the kind of tired that sits behind his eyes and dulls everything out.

The apartment’s not quiet. That’s the first thing.

The second— You.

On the floor in the lounge, in the middle of a yoga mat, moving through a pose like this is something you’ve always done. You quit yoga a year ago. Said it was boring. Said you couldn’t sit still long enough.

And yet here you are. And Santos is with you. Which is… its own problem. There’s a lot to unpack there.

Why does Santos know where you live?

Why is Santos doing yoga?

Why are you wearing that—some tight, soft, barely-there athleisure set that looks like it was designed specifically to make his life harder?

“Hi, baby!” you call, bright, easy, like nothing’s changed, as you both move into cobra.

“Gross,” Santos mutters under her breath.

“Hey, hon,” Jack says, voice rough with fatigue as he steps in, toeing off his shoes.

The coffee table’s been shoved aside, the TV playing some overly calm instructor guiding you through it like this is a wellness retreat instead of his living room.

He walks over anyway—automatic, like always. Bends down, aiming for your mouth—

—and you shift just slightly.

It’s subtle. Anyone else wouldn’t clock it. But he does.

His kiss lands on your cheek instead.

You don’t even break the pose.

“No kisses during yoga, interrupts my zen,” you remind him lightly.

A beat.

“Right,” he says, quieter. “Forgot about that.”

There’s the faintest pause—just enough to feel it.

“Feels like it’s all the time lately,” he adds under his breath. Then, correcting himself, “But—yeah. I get it.”

You hum, already moving out of cobra like nothing’s happened.

He straightens, slower now, glancing at Santos.

She rolls her eyes.

“Next pose,” she says flatly.

You shift without hesitation.

“You should shower, then have some breakfast,” you tell him gently, already moving into child’s pose. “I made oats. They’re in the fridge.”

“Oats?” he repeats. “Since when do you eat oats?”

“It’s good for your gut, heart health, digestion, blood sugar,” Santos answers, not looking up. “Cleansing in some cultures.”

Jack blinks at her. “…Right. I’ve been a doctor for twenty years. Think I’ve got gut health covered, Trinity.”

“I don’t think your army rations count as a gut health plan,” she shoots back.

You let out a small laugh into the mat.

“I thought you said oats were for Victorian children and farmers who hate themselves,” Jack adds to you.

“They are,” you mumble. “But these have honey and cinnamon.”

Santos chimes. “And spite.”

Jack just stares at the two of you for a second.

Looking at you—folded into the pose, calm, deliberate. Not reaching for him. Not pulling him down. Like he’s background noise.

“Okay,” he says finally, a little clipped. “You two… have fun.” He drags a hand over his face. “I’m gonna sleep for about five hours.”

He turns, already heading for the bedroom, shoulders a little tighter than when he walked in.

You glance up, watching him go.

There’s a beat of silence.

Santos shifts beside you into a side plank, already shaking slightly. “Jesus Christ.”

You follow, steady.

“He seems… stable,” she says.

“He’s a bit grumpy,” you reply. “We haven’t touched in nearly a week.”

Santos’s head snaps toward you. “So?”

“We’re touchy people.”

“Right,” she nods once. “I hate happy couples.”

You huff a quiet laugh.

“This was your idea, by the way,” you remind her.

“Yeah, and it’s a good one,” she says immediately. “I needed to not text Garcia at 2AM and ruin my life again.”

“You could just… not text her.”

Santos looks at you like you’ve said something deeply stupid. “Oh, yeah. Genius. Why didn’t I think of that?”

You smile slightly.

“She blocked me last night,” Santos adds, flat.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. ‘For her peace.’” She makes air quotes with one hand, nearly losing balance. “Which is crazy, because I’m incredibly peaceful.”

“Well, this detox thing is a great idea. You’ll cleanse yourself of her.”

“Evil lesbians are not for the weak.”

“Hon, where are those scented candles?” Jack calls from the hallway, voice carrying through the apartment.

“I threw them out,” you call back. “They release benzene. Cleansing, remember?”

There’s a pause.

“…Of course you did,” he mutters, just loud enough.

Santos snorts as you both move into the next stretch, threading your arm under your body.

“Bit much, isn’t it?” she says.

You exhale into the mat. “I am going to be so aggressively cleansed by the end of this, you’d consider me the Virgin Mary.”

★★★

Day Nine.

Virgin Mary, my ass.

That’s all Jack can think as he leans in the doorway for a second too long, watching you at the counter. Pink, ridiculous, barely-there panties.

The ones from Valentine’s. His t-shirt hanging off you like it belongs there, cut just high enough that every small shift of your hips flashes skin he knows too well. Music hums low from the radio—something easy, something you’re half-swaying to as you chop vegetables like this is just… normal.

He’s been up maybe five minutes. Has to leave in thirty. And he’s already half-hard. He pushes off the doorway anyway. Walks up behind you like muscle memory.

His arms come around you slow, familiar—settling over your waist, pulling you back into him. He feels the way you soften immediately, that slight melt into his chest like your body still knows him, even if you’re being… whatever this is.

You startle just a little, then relax.

“Hey,” you murmur, turning your head slightly as he drops his chin to your shoulder. “You’re up.”

“Mhm,” he hums, already pressing his mouth to your neck.

He doesn’t even pretend restraint. Just goes for it—slow, lazy kisses wherever he can reach, nosing along your skin, breathing you in like he’s been deprived, because he has.Which—he has.

“What’re you making?” he asks against you, voice rougher than he means it to be.

“Food prep,” you say, though it comes out softer than that. A little breath slipping through when he finds that spot under your ear.

“Shit—Jack,” you add, quieter now, the knife slowing in your hand. “You can’t.”

He smiles against your skin. Not nice about it.

“I can’t,” he repeats, low. “Or you can’t?”

His hands move without asking—sliding under the hem of his shirt on you, palms warm against your stomach first. Familiar. Testing.

You inhale sharply. He doesn’t stop. Just keeps going—slow, deliberate—up over your ribs, feeling the curve of you, the heat of your skin, until his hands settle over your chest. Not rough. Not greedy. Like he belongs there. Because he does. Or he did.

Your hand stills completely on the counter.

“Jack,” you say again, but it’s weaker this time. Less conviction, more breath.

He presses another kiss just below your ear, voice dropping.

“Been real good about this,” he murmurs. “Haven’t I?”

You don’t answer.

Because he has. You're not making it easy, after Santos suggested to have more fun with it. So, sure, you go for panties and shirt, maybe even the barely there nightgowns you bought a while back, feeling as he is completely still besides you in bed.

His touch shifts just slightly—not pushing, not crossing a line, but close enough to remind you exactly how easily he could.

Your head tips back a fraction before you catch yourself.

“No,” you say, firmer now, even as your body lags behind. “Nope. No, can’t. I’m staying cleansed. My book says even too much contact can make you unfocused.”

He exhales slowly, like he’s dragging himself back by force.

“Unfocused.. alright,” he mutters. “Whatever you want.”

But his hands don’t move right away. You finally set the knife down, turning in his arms so you’re facing him. Big mistake.

Because now you’re looking at him properly—sleep-rough, hair a mess, jaw shadowed, eyes still heavy but fixed on you like you’re the only thing in the room. And you know that look. You’ve felt what follows it.

“You should get a hobby,” you tell him quietly.

“Yeah?” he says, not looking away.

“Maybe pottery,” you shrug. “Something that isn’t being a SWAT medic and—” you hesitate just slightly, “—fucking me or whatever.”

His hands slide down your sides, slower this time. Reluctant.

“But I really like my hobbies,” he says, voice low, rough around the edges. “Especially fucking you, or whatever.”

The way he looks at you when he says it—like he’s imagining you in the most vulgar of situations—makes heat climb straight up your neck. You hate that it works.

He doesn’t move.

“Jack.”

“Just one kiss?” He asks.

You open your mouth to say yes, but you bite your lip and think for a second. You lean in pressing a deliberate kiss to his cheek, hand up to his neck, feeling how he melts under your touch.

You fingers briefly fidget with the grey curls at the nape of his neck, as his fingers dig slightly into your hips. You pull back.

“I’ll try pottery,” he mutters.

You smile—small, controlled. Infuriating. Then he lets you go. Barely.

You watch him walk off toward the bedroom, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to shake it off, his own shirt fitted against him, rising, tight against his biceps, and the second he’s out of sight—

You exhale. Your grip tightens on the counter, head tipping forward for a second. This is... harder than you thought it’d be.

It’s him. The way he moves around you like it’s instinct. The way your body still answers before your brain catches up. The way one kiss feels like a warning.

If you touch him properly—if you let yourself lean into it even a little—you know exactly how it goes. There’s no halfway with him. There never has been. You've struggled to hold back with him.

You both work too hard, sleep too little. You orbit each other—shared meals, late-night TV, quiet mornings when they exist. He’s steady, solid, always there. And sex has always been part of that too. 

Easy, natural, constant, release. Escapism, almost. 

You press your lips together, shaking your head slightly as you keep chopping, trying to focus. You should’ve fought harder on the point about no sex, but Santos seemed so pitiful, you don’t have the heart to tell her you broke or to lie. 

Cleanse. Reset. Prove you’ve got discipline. Prove you’re not just running on impulse and instinct and whatever feels good in the moment. Focused...ness. All that.

It’s just you’ve never seen him like this. Not like this kind of worked up. Not this restless, this… needy. Your thighs press together instinctively, heat lingering, annoying and insistent.

“God,” you mutter under your breath, grabbing the knife again like that’ll ground you. “Pathetic.”

★★★

Day Twelve.

“I cannot tell if you’re being serious right now,” Robby says, standing beside Jack in the elevator as they head down from the roof.

Jack doesn’t even look at him. “It’s psychological warfare.”

Robby scoffs. “Oh my god.”

“I’m serious,” Jack insists, dragging a hand over his face. “I can’t think straight. It’s like… cognitive impairment. I should get tested.”

“You need to get a grip,” Robby replies.

“You don’t get it,” Jack mutters. “You haven’t had a relationship like this in—what, a decade? More? This isn’t casual. This is… routine. Structure. Stability.” He gestures vaguely. “We live together. We’ve got a system.”

“A system,” Robby repeats, flat.

“Yes,” Jack says, defensive. “And she’s dismantled it. Completely. No warning. Just—gone. Overnight. You know her, she's all over me usually. And I’m a touchy guy, man, I feel like a sunflower without sun. She is my sun.”

Robby exhales through his nose. “It’s been two weeks.”

“Twelve days,” Jack corrects. “That’s long enough to destabilise a man.”

The elevator dings. Doors open. A couple of nurses step in.

Jack lowers his voice, but not his intensity.

“She won’t even cuddle with me,” he mutters. “Do you understand that? Cuddling. Baseline intimacy. Gone. She almost slept on the couch the other night because she thought she might—”

He cuts himself off as one of the nurses glances over.

Robby stares straight ahead, deadpan. “Please stop talking.”

Jack exhales sharply, jaw ticking. “It’s like… all that energy I spent with her, is just… Like I’m all—”

“Do not say pent up,” Robby murmurs.

“I’m pent up, man,” Jack says anyway, under his breath. “I don’t—”

“Jesus Christ.”

“And she keeps wearing—”

“—and that’s our stop,” Robby cuts in quickly as the doors open.

They step out into the corridor, quieter now. Both hit the sanitiser on instinct.

Jack rubs his hands together, restless. “She’s doing it on purpose.”

“No, she isn’t.”

“She is,” Jack insists. “She knows exactly what I like. The shirts, the—lack of shirts. The shorts. The yoga. The fucking… tiny nightgowns. Sheer, too. Door open when she showers. It’s targeted.”

“Or,” Robby says, dry, “she’s a twenty-something woman existing in her own home.”

Jack ignores that. “And then—nothing. Won’t touch me. Won’t let me touch her. She kissed me on the cheek three days ago, and I was gonna… ruin my pants like an idiot. I feel like a teenager.”

Robby snorts. “You sound like one. She showers with the door open?”

“I’ve done tours,” Jack goes on, either ignoring or not hearing Robby’s query, quieter now, almost incredulous at himself. “I’ve been shot at. I’ve dealt with death at its worst. And somehow this is what’s got me pacing like a lunatic at three in the morning.”

Robby stops walking.

Grabs his shoulder.

“You hear yourself, right?”

“…Yeah,” Jack mutters. “Hearin' it.”

“Good,” Robby says. “Because it’s insane. And I’m tired of it, brother.”

Jack exhales, trying to reset—then his gaze shifts past Robby’s shoulder.

Locks. You.

At Central Four, mid-discussion with McKay and Mel, one hand braced lightly against a patient’s lower leg as you check the alignment on a fresh below-knee cast—thumbs pressing along the tibial crest, eyes flicking between the limb and the patient’s foot for perfusion. Focused. Calm. Explaining as you go, that steady, assured cadence you’ve grown into over the past couple years.

You look good. You always do, but—today is… worse. Yeah, he’s definitely pent up. Jack’s jaw tightens. Robby follows his line of sight, spots you, then looks back at him.

“You really look like a kicked puppy right now, bud.”

“Don’t.”

“I mean it,” Robby says. “It’s palpable.”

Jack exhales sharply. “I’ll be right back.”

“You aren’t going there.”

“I’m just gonna ask my girlfriend about her day.”

“No, you’re gonna say something deeply unprofessional to your girlfriend in the middle of a ward round,” Robby corrects. “While Shark is somewhere nearby, sensing weakness.”

“Right, ‘course, you’ve interrupted my plan to give her head in the middle of the ED,” Jack says, sarcastically, then a brief beat of thought. “God, If she asked me to I probably w-”

“-We need boundaries, man,” Robby says. “I don’t… You have fun with that.”

“Relax. It’s fine, we’re both clocking off now. Once she wraps up, we’re outta here.”

Jack glances back at you again. You laugh softly at something McKay says, adjusting the cast edge with careful fingers, smoothing it down. Your hand lingers just a second as you explain something to the patient—voice warm, easy, reassuring.

Mel nudges your shoulder, subtle, and tips her chin toward Jack.

You look up. Catch him. Smile. It’s small, but it lands.

Jack stiffens like he’s just been called to attention, gives you a tight nod—controlled, restrained—then abruptly turns and heads toward the station with Robby.

Robby snorts under his breath. “That was painful to watch.”

“I told you. Psychological warfare.”

McKay smirks a bit as she watches Jack retreat.

“What’s that about?” McKay murmurs, rolling her stool a little closer to the patient bed.

“Our detox program?” you say lightly, refocusing as you check distal circulation again. “Not a fan.” You glance to the patient. “Any numbness or tingling, ma’am?”

“No, love. Feels fine,” she says, half-distracted by her phone.

“Good,” you nod. “Let me know if that changes.”

McKay hums, folding her arms loosely. “Ah. The celibacy portion not going down well?”

You let out a quiet breath. “Not particularly. And I’m not being super easy on him about it either.”

“Yeah,” she says, dry. “Can’t imagine why.”

You suppress a smile, smoothing the cast. “Everything else is good, though. I’m committed now.”

“Mm,” McKay says. “Santos bullied us into it.”

“Santos encouraged it.”

“Santos got dumped and decided everyone else should suffer,” McKay corrects.

“That’s not—” you start, then pause. “…entirely inaccurate.”

Mel watches all of this with mild fascination, then looks back at the cast. “Um—can I try wrapping the next layer?”

You brighten a little. “Yeah, of course. Come here.”

You shift off the stool, making space. “Alright—support here,” you guide, hands hovering near hers. “Keep your tension even, don’t gap it.”

Mel nods seriously, concentrating.

McKay glances between you and the half-set cast, then back at you. “Are you feeling detoxed?”

You huff a quiet breath. “A little. More flexible, improved sleep, and a deeply irritated boyfriend.”

“Holistic wellness,” McKay deadpans.

You smile despite yourself. “And you?” you ask.

“Nope,” she sighs. “But Harrison’s loving the yoga mat, so at least someone’s thriving. And I wasn’t getting laid anyway, so—no real sacrifice on that front. But the no screens thing is doing wonders. I can feel my brain gaining another wrinkle.”

You snort softly, nudging Mel’s hand. “Smoother there—yeah, that’s it. Keep the overlap consistent.”

Mel adjusts, careful, precise, tongue just slightly between her teeth in concentration. McKay watches her for a second, then leans in a fraction closer to you, voice dropping just enough—

“He looks like he’s about five minutes from a breakdown.”

You don’t look over. “He’ll be fine.”

“Mm,” she hums. “He keeps looking at you between charts.”

“He always does that when I’m down here,” you say, a little softer.

“Yeah,” McKay replies. “Not like this.”

You ignore that, focusing instead on Mel’s technique. “Good—now just secure it there. Don’t pull too tight.”

Mel nods, finishing the wrap neatly. “Like that?”

“Perfect,” you say, genuinely pleased. “Nice work, Doctor King.”

Mel beams, small but proud. Behind you, you can feel it again—Jack’s attention, flicking back over, catching, lingering even when he forces it away.

You keep your eyes on the patient. But you’re aware of him. Constantly. And across the room, Jack shifts his weight, jaw tight, trying—and failing—not to look again.

Later, he finds you around the ED. You’re mid-conversation with Santos, focused, explaining something on the chart.

Jack walks up beside you, close enough that your arms brush. You don’t react. Don’t even break your sentence.

“…so we stabilise first, then reassess once imaging’s back—”

He waits. Nothing. Not even a glance. Santos clocks it immediately. Raises her brows.

“…Hi, Dr Abbot,” she says, dry.

You finally look up. “Oh—hey.”

He stares at you.

“…Hey, just... checking in,” he says, somewhat shy now.

You smile, polite. "All good here." Then turn straight back to Santos. “Anyway—like I was saying—”

He stands there for a second. Then another.

Robby, from across the station, watches the whole thing with poorly concealed amusement.

“…You gonna be okay?” he calls out.

Jack doesn’t look at him. “No,” he says flatly, before walking off.

★★★

Day Eighteen.

You’re supposed to be detoxing. Self-restraint. Discipline. Clarity.

Apparently, that also includes driving your boyfriend quietly insane in your living room.

“You need to be doing that right now?” Jack asks as he finally drops onto the couch, exhaustion dragging at him. Scrubs half-off, shirt discarded somewhere along the way before he drags a fresh one over his head, lazy, spent.

You don’t even look at him. “I can stop if you want,” you say, adjusting your stance—hands walking a little wider on the mat, hips tipping higher as you settle deeper into downward dog, covering a good half of the TV screen.

He watches the shift. The stretch. The way your shorts ride up just enough to be completely fucking useless.

He exhales slowly, dragging a hand over his face. “No, no—carry on. This is great. Very relaxing.”

You hum like you believe him. You don’t.

He leans back, head tipping against the couch as he reaches down, taking off his prosthetic with practiced ease, setting it aside. His body finally settles—but his eyes don’t.

They stay on you.

Track every adjustment.

You shift again—one leg lifting, extending behind you before you draw it through, slow, controlled, foot landing between your hands. Your back arches slightly as you ease into it. Jack’s jaw tightens.

“Park’s been on my ass lately,” you say, like this is normal conversation.

“Glad someone has,” Jack murmurs.

You shoot him a look. 

“I’m sorry, baby, I’m just… distracted, I don’t know” He says, somewhat earnestly, dryly. “What is it about Shark?”

“He’s not as bad as you guys make him seem, he’s just got tunnel vision," You try, slowly repositioning. “But he can be such a dick sometimes. No concept of tact. I missed one chart the other day, and he ripped me a new one in front of the med students.”

And then you slide down. Slow. Controlled.

One leg extending forward, the other back, lowering into a full split like it’s nothing—hips sinking, spine straight, hands resting lightly on your thighs.

Jack actually goes still. That’s new. 

“…Right,” he says, quieter now.

You keep talking. Like you haven’t just changed the entire atmosphere in the room.

“And I was gonna snap,” you continue, calm, measured, “but I did that breathing thing from the book. Actually worked. I didn’t react. I just… sat in it and breathed, five to two.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice a little rougher. “Looks like it’s working great.”

You shift out of it fluidly, folding in, then rolling onto your back—knees lifting, falling open as you stretch through your hips, one hand braced lightly on your stomach as you breathe through it.

Jack leans forward slightly before he catches himself, hand dragging over his jean clad thigh, like he’s trying to reset.

He’s trying to be good. You can see it.

Trying to sit still. Trying not to react. Trying not to reach for you.

You keep going anyway.

“So then Isla comes into the break room—did you know she’s getting divorced?” you say, drawing one knee closer, holding it there, breath catching just slightly at the stretch.

“Do you need help with that?” he asks, too quick.

“Nope,” you say immediately.

You don’t look at him.

Because you know exactly what that would do. You know exactly what this looks like from where he’s sitting. You know exactly what he’s thinking about, because you’re thinking about it too—the way he’s had you like this before, hands on you, holding you in place, your body not your own for a while.

You switch legs, pushing through it again, slower this time.

“Do you think he cheated?” you ask.

“Who?” His voice is tighter now.

“Isla’s husband.”

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “Maybe.”

You let your leg drop, exhaling as you roll up, sitting back on your knees. Arms stretch overhead, spine lengthening, chest lifting.

Jack looks away this time.

Briefly.

Then back.

Like he can’t help it.

“I taught her the breathing thing,” you go on. “She calmed down immediately. I could totally pivot into this, you know. Wellness, mindfulness—”

“Yeah,” he cuts in, too fast. “You should absolutely do that.”

You glance at him now.

“Yeah, I’ll give up years of med school and fixing bones to teach whiny people how to lock in,” You joke.

“Whatever you want to do, baby,” He nods, eyes looking down at you on the floor, mind literally anywhere else.

“You look like a kicked dog right now. Was the yoga too much?”

“I’m fine,” he insists. “Robby said the same thing. Maybe I just have a pitiful face.”

You don’t disagree with that.

You look at him. Really look.

He’s not relaxed. Not even close. Shoulders tight despite the way he’s sitting, fingers flexing once against his knee like he needs something to do with them. His gaze flicks over you, then away, then back again like it’s a losing battle.

You stand, cross the room, and settle beside him, curling your feet under you so you’re facing him properly.

He immediately turns his head slightly away, like that helps.

“Thank you for putting up with this,” you murmur, softer now, even though it’s just the two of you. Then, almost casually—“Have you touched yourself at all?”

His inhale is sharp enough to answer before he does.

“No,” he says. Then, like he’s committing to honesty instead of dignity: “Figured we’re in this together. Minus… everything else. I can’t not do a line of cocaine before I go into work.”

That earns a small smile from you.

“Responsible of you,” you say.

“Have you?” He asks.

“Nope.”

“Are you struggling at all? Because it’s… you know, you… you really seem very comfortable with all this. This cleansing thing.”

You inhale sharply. “I’m doing great.” You lie.

“I feel like you’re forgetting how good our sex is,” He says.

You raise your brows, give it thought. “Or… I’m free from such… baseless temptations.”

“Baseless temptations had me eating you out for three hours, three times a week. Which in our line of work is a lot. And, at my age, a cardio workout.” He reminds. 

Your tongue darts to your lips, eyes flicking away from him like it helps you regain control. It doesn’t.

“I should go,” you say, too casually. “Errands.”

Jack nods once, like he’s trying to behave. “Two more weeks.”

“Two more weeks,” you repeat.

You lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek.

It’s small. Controlled. Safe.

Except it isn’t, because it’s the first real contact in ten days and your body reacts like it’s been starved of oxygen. Like you didn’t realise how much you were holding your breath until you finally touched him again.

He turns his head slightly before you fully pull away.

Just enough. Just enough to trap you in that in-between space—faces inches apart, his breath warm against your mouth, his eyes locked on yours like he’s waiting to see if you’ll fold, head tilted, just a bit, curious.

You shouldn’t.

You press your mouth to his. It’s chaste, sweet, PG. Lasts maybe three seconds, and it’s not long enough for him as you pull away, as if you’ve rewarded him, but he can’t help but be greedy when it comes to you.

“You can do better than that, baby,” he says quietly.

“Mm,” you reply, steadying yourself. “I can’t.”

A pause.

“Promise I won’t do anything,” he adds.

You look at him for a second too long.

Then you nod.

His hand comes up immediately, settling at the back of your head—gentle, anchoring, familiar in a way your body reacts to before your brain does, mouth agape. His thumb brushes your cheek once, slowly, briefly moves to your jaw and chin, over your bottom lip, your mouth opening, almost instinctually, but he moves it back to your cheek, not entertaining it further.

You kiss him again properly.

It starts off controlled—your mouth on his, testing, like you’re still trying to keep it within the rules you made for yourself. The moment he kisses back, the rules seem very silly. No hesitation, no easing in—just straight into it, like your bodies already know exactly what they’re doing, falling into step all over again.

Your hand lifts like you’re going to hold him off, going to stop it but it just hangs there uselessly, mid-air.

His mouth is on yours harder now, deeper, tongue sliding in like he’s done waiting for permission. Slow, but not gentle. Familiar in a way that makes your stomach drop—like your body reacts before your brain even catches up. 

A small sound slips out of you without meaning to.

His hand at the back of your head tightens, fingers in your hair, not yanking but holding you exactly where he wants you. His other hand shifts at his crotch, you barely glance down at the corner of your eye, seeing as his palm moves over his hardening length beneath his jeans.

He exhales into your mouth, rough. “Damnit.”

You kiss him back harder, mouth opening more, his tongue dragging against yours again, slower this time but deeper, like he’s checking how far you’ll go if he just keeps pushing like this.

You make another sound—low, breathy—and he feels it immediately. You can tell by the way his hand tightens at the back of your neck, thumb pressing in like he’s grounding himself there, like he needs something solid to hold onto before he loses the plot completely.

“Mm—no more,” you manage, pulling back slightly, dazed. “No more. Errands. Oxygen. Meditation. Focus. Detox. Okay? Okay.”

“Okay,” he hums back, like he agrees, but he doesn’t move his eyes off you.

You’re both breathing heavier than you should be for a kiss that’s supposedly not doing anything.

He drags his tongue over his lips, slow, watching you properly now. Then his hand drops from your neck and he leans back a fraction—except he’s not actually done. He’s just shifting, exhaling through his nose like he’s trying to reset and failing.

You glance down.

He’s already adjusting himself, palming himself through his jeans, at the feeling and sight of you, far from subtle at all. His eyes flick between your face and your reaction like he’s half curious, half done pretending this isn’t affecting him.

You just stare for a second, hair slightly messier now from his grip, lips swollen, clearly trying to act normal and not really succeeding. Your eyes linger as you watch him become harder under the denim.

“Baseless temptation?” he echoes, dry, almost mocking, interested by your seeming entertainment.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter, swallowing, standing up like that fixes anything. “I’m going. Errands.”

“Mm,” he says, already unbuckling his belt properly now, like he’s given up on dignity for the moment. “That.”

You clear your throat, turning away too quickly. “Yeah. That.”

“Great detox, honey,” he calls after you, voice low, almost satisfied, like he’s both impressed and completely fucked by it.

You don’t look back when you walk out.

★★★

Day Twenty Two.

You were even stricter after your brief lapse on Day 18.

Santos had spiralled a bit after Garcia tried to re-enter her life—one text, then another, then a “just checking in” that meant absolutely nothing and everything at the same time. And Santos, for all her bite, was still soft where it counted. So she doubled down.

We resist.

You weren’t going to be the weak link in that. Not when she was white-knuckling her way through it.

So you didn’t argue. Didn’t say that your situation was devolving.

So. Yoga, reading, no screens—none of it was enough anymore. Not because you were failing, but because you’d started treating this like something to actually get through properly. 

So you added structure.

Cooking, mostly. Proper cooking, technically normal, but now with a kind of performative discipline to it. Whole-food, vegetarian-heavy meals that smell intense enough to make Jack pause in the doorway like he’s trying to decide if he’s being punished or supported.

You explained something about how Santos had plenty of recipe choices, these were the best. He dreaded knowing the worst.

You’ve always cooked. So has he. It’s part of your relationship—easy, domestic, something you both fall back on without thinking.

But wow, the past three or four days have been a steady rotation of “cleansing” meals that are aggressively healthy in a way that feels almost personal and cruel.

You’ve also tightened everything else.

Early nights. Early mornings. You’re not avoiding him exactly—you’re just very efficient with your time now. No lingering in shared spaces. No sitting too close on the couch “by accident.” No hand brushing his back when you pass him in the hallway, even though that one clearly takes effort.

The hardest part was that you kept missing out on Housewives.

“Hon, you sure?” Jack had tried one night, hovering in the doorway. “It’s the mid-season finale.”

Pitch black room. Eye mask on.

“Tell me about it tomorrow,” you’d said.

He’d watched it alone. Hated it.

Even the small stuff has become intentional.

You’ve started drinking herbal tea that tastes like wet grass just to prove a point to yourself.

He’s started making coffee louder than necessary just to annoy you.

And still—you function.

You were both high-energy people—incapable of just sitting still without developing a new hobby or mild personality trait. 

The apartment was proof: books half-read, yoga mats permanently out, easels you didn’t touch, Jack picking up SWAT shifts “for fun” like that’s a normal recreational activity. 

And, historically, you’d had a very reliable outlet for all that excess energy. Now that’s been… aggressively decommissioned. So it lingers. In your body, in his shoulders, in the space between you—tight, charged, and just annoying enough to make everything feel a little harder than it needs to be.

The call comes down fast and ugly—trauma bay already prepped, voices sharp, movement tighter than usual.

Open tib-fib. High-energy. Motorcycle versus ute, no helmet.

You’re already pulling gloves on as you move, snapping them tight against your wrists, pace quick to match the rhythm of the room. Doctor Park is a step ahead of you—of course he is—already at the bedside, already assessing, already ten steps into the problem.

Robby and Jack linger to the side, Whitaker working the patient while they observe, supervise. Robby’s still here past his shift—because of course he is.

“Walk me through it,” Park says without looking at you.

“Mid-shaft tibial and fibular fracture, likely comminuted,” you reply immediately, eyes scanning. “Significant displacement. Possible vascular compromise—foot looks pale, delayed cap refill.”

“Good,” Park says shortly. “Check dorsalis pedis. Posterior tibial.”

You nod, moving in.

The leg is… bad. Angulated wrong, skin stretched too tight over something that shouldn’t be pressing there. Blood everywhere, soaked through layers Whitaker is trying—earnestly—to keep under control.

You don’t flinch. You tilt your head slightly, studying it like a problem you already want to solve, something in you clicking into place.

“Dorsalis pedis faint,” you say, fingers pressing in. “Posterior tibial—hard to appreciate.”

“Mm,” Park hums. “We reduce now.”

Behind Whitaker, Jack stands with his hands clasped behind his back, posture loose but attention razor sharp. Tracking everything—monitor, patient, Park.

You.

He hasn’t seen you all day. You left before he got home—left him in a cold bed, a note about oats, and absolutely nothing else. And now, every time he does see you, it feels deliberate. Like you’re making it harder. 

Three weeks of this… discipline.

And now you’re here, calm, focused, humming under your breath like you haven’t been systematically ruining his life, like his muscles aren’t taut without getting to feel you under him or on him.

Jack’s jaw tightens.

“Traction,” Park says.

You nod, hands steady as you take hold above and below the fracture. “On you.”

“Now.”

You pull—firm, controlled. There’s a shift. A sickening, mechanical realignment as bone slides back into place.

Whitaker visibly winces.

“Better,” you murmur, almost satisfied.

Jack exhales through his nose. “Hold it,” he says, stepping in just slightly. “Pulse?”

Whitaker checks, brow furrowed. “Stronger. Still thready, but—better.”

“Good. Splint.”

You glance up—just briefly—and catch Jack already looking at you.

Not subtle. Not tonight. Something heavier in it. Sharper. Like he’s been holding onto something all shift and hasn’t decided where to put it.

You hold his gaze for half a second.

“Doctor,” you say, light.

He tilts his head a fraction. “Nice work,” he says, dry. Then, without missing a beat—“You leave that… green-orange situation in the fridge?”

You blink. “Are you—seriously?”

“I got four hours of sleep,” he shrugs. “I’m allowed one grievance.”

You briefly glance to Park who doesn’t seem to care or mind your minor chatter with Jack, looking at the monitors with a hardened gaze.

“It’s vegetable soup,” you say, adjusting your grip. “It’s good for you. Anti-inflammatory.”

Whitaker glances between you, confused. “Soup? Do you two live together?”

Jack ignores him completely. “Tastes like punishment.”

“Funny,” you say. “You seemed very into punishment a few weeks ago.”

Robby lets out a short, sharp laugh from the other side of the bed. “Oh, I’m awake now.”

“Not helpful,” Jack mutters, not even looking at him.

“You started it,” you shoot back, breath steady despite the strain in your arms. “Also, Robby likes my soup. Don’t you, Robinavitch?”

Robby raises both hands. “I’m not being... triangulated into whatever this is.”

“You’re making bone broth for my best friend now?” Jack goes on, like he didn’t hear that. “That’s where we’re at?”

“It’s not bone broth,” you correct. “And maybe I’d cook for you if you weren’t so moody—”

You cut yourself off, refocusing as the splint is brought in.

“Keep traction steady,” Jack says, tone snapping cleanly back to clinical—but there’s an edge under it now. “You’re drifting distal.”

You correct it immediately. “Better?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Don’t let it shorten.”

Park finally glances back down, unimpressed. “If you’re both done flirting—”

“This is not flirting,” Jack and you say at the same time.

A beat.

Whitaker frowns. “…What is happening?”

Robby snorts. “I’ll tell you about it later. Celibacy ritual.”

“Robby,” Jack says, warning.

“What?” Robby shrugs. “I’m just saying. There’s context.”

“You told Robby?” you shoot at Jack.

He opens his mouth—

“I heard from Santos,” Robby cuts in, enjoying this far too much. “And McKay. Whole department knows you’ve gone monk mode.”

You scoff. “It’s not monk mode, it’s a detox.”

“Yeah,” Robby nods. “Abbot’s detoxing from joy, from what I can tell.”

Jack exhales sharply. “Can we focus?”

“You are the one who brought up soup. Besides, this guy’s gonna be fine. If he wasn’t, Shark here would’ve bit one of your heads off,” Robby shoots back.

Whitaker looks even more lost, Park stands off the side, giving Robby a brief glare before nodding back to you to continue.

“Angle your wrist,” you tell him, cutting through it. “You’re losing medial pressure.”

“Oh—right—sorry—”

“It’s fine. Just don’t let him bleed out.”

“Right. Yeah. Prefer that.”

Jack hovers just behind your shoulder now—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the shift of his weight when you adjust yours.

He leans in slightly, voice low, for you.

“Breakfast tomorrow,” he murmurs. “Is it gonna be more… anti-inflammatory punishment?”

You don’t look at him. “Depends.”

“On?”

“How much you told Robby.”

He exhales a quiet, disbelieving breath, your words just for each other as the others get to work. “Just the basics. Nothing bad, just the weird bunny mask roleplay you’re into,” he jokes. “And I am not moody.”

“Debatable.”

“Reactionary to my dire circumstances some might say,” he mutters.

“You’re ridiculous.” You remark.

There’s the smallest pause. Then, softer, a bit quick, to make sure you know he means nothing bad by it—

“You look lovely, by the way. And I’d eat oxygen if you made it for me, promise. I love all your cleansing meals.”

You don’t respond to that. Not here, a small smile twitching at the corner of your lips.

“Secure it,” Park says, already moving on mentally. “Get him upstairs.”

You guide Whitaker through the final positioning, hands precise, controlled.

Jack steps back, watching you finish the job.

Still looking at you like that.

By the time you strip your gloves off, the room already shifting on, Robby’s watching you. Not subtle about it, an amused hint behind his tired eyes.

“When do you clock off?” you ask, tossing the gloves.

“An hour ago,” he says. “I stay for the live show now. Better than anything on TV.”

You huff. “How is he doing?”

Robby considers that, eyes narrowing like he’s actually weighing it up.

“Clinically?” he says. “Great. On top of it, always is. It’s annoying.”

“And not clinically?” you prompt.

He tilts his head. “Mm… a little rougher than usual,” he admits. “But he’s dramatic. You know ‘im.”

You grin. “Yeah, I do. It’s cute.”

“That’s certainly a word for it,” he mutters, jerking his chin subtly across the room. “Because he looks like he’s about to file a formal complaint with God.”

You follow the glance—Jack, shoulders tight, jaw set, mid-conversation with Park like he’s holding himself together out of sheer professionalism.

You look back, unfazed. “It’s temporary.”

Robby studies you for a beat, then huffs a laugh. “You’re enjoying this.”

You don’t even try to hide it. “A little bit. It’s fifty-fifty. It’s fun seeing him worked up, it’s annoying because we do have great sex. And I know that isn’t TMI for you because he tells me worse about your sex life.” You pause, then add, “Didn’t realise Hastings was so freaky.”

“Jesus,” Robby exhales, scratching at his beard. “You’ve been around him too long.”

“Occupational hazard,” you shrug.

He shakes his head, but there’s a smile tugging at it now despite himself.

There’s a small pause, then—more casually—

“Soup was good, by the way.”

You blink. “The vegetable one?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

“He called it punishment.”

“He’s wrong,” Robby shrugs. “I had two bowls.”

You brighten, just a fraction. “See? Someone has taste.”

“Let’s not get carried away,” he says. “It’s still soup.”

You laugh under your breath.

He glances around, then back to you. “I think Shark’s already ditched you,” he adds, nodding toward the empty space where Park had been.

You swear quietly. “Fuck. Whatever. Nice seeing you.”

“You too,” he says, stepping aside.

You pass Jack on your way out, offering him a light, professional smile like nothing’s off at all.

“See you at home in a few hours.”

He watches you go, something unreadable flickering across his face.

“Love you,” he calls after you anyway, voice a little rough, arms folded as the room empties out.

“Love you too,” you say as you hurry out, not turning back.

You’re gone. Whitaker stands there for a second, still blood-specked, brain clearly lagging behind everything that just happened.

“I’m… still a bit confused about—” he gestures vaguely between where you were and where Jack is now, “—that.”

Jack shoots him a look. Then Robby. Then just shakes his head, already walking. 

“Hey, what have you told her about me and Noelle?” Robby asks, following after, quiet, a bit antsy now.

Jack shakes his head immediately. “Nothing much, just the leash stuff you’re into. Anyway, I think you’re sleep deprived, man. Time to clock off, daywalkers.”

★★★

Day Twenty Nine.

“So, how’re we doing?” you ask, already halfway into the break room fridge like it’s part of your job description.

McKay and Santos are at the table with lunch. McKay looks as composed as ever—tired, but functional. Santos, on the other hand, looks like someone who has emotionally moved on from her entire relationship with Garcia but hasn’t informed her nervous system yet.

“Great,” Santos says immediately. Then, after a beat: “I stopped yoga.”

You glance over. “Why?”

“Pulled my calf,” she replies. “Turns out inner peace is physically unsafe.”

“Unfortunate,” you say, finding Jack’s labelled container and closing the fridge.

McKay watches you sit down. “That his lunch?”

“Yeah.”

“Doesn’t he need that later?” she asks.

“He’ll order takeout,” you say easily. “I’m doing him a favour. He keeps eating the stuff I make, even though I know he hates it, I think he thinks suffering is his virtue.”

Santos snorts. “He and Garcia would get along in a really unbearable way.”

You glance at her. “You miss her.”

She points at you with her fork. “Don’t.”

“You brought her up first.”

“That’s because you brought up food and suffering in the same sentence,” she shoots back. “It’s a trigger.”

McKay, calmly: “You both need to stop talking.”

You ignore her. You exhale, rubbing at your temple. You feel… weird. Wired. Like your body’s trying to replace one habit with ten others. You’ve thought about buying something three separate times this morning. Shoes, candles, a ridiculous blender you don’t need. You haven’t, obviously. Discipline. Wellness. Enlightenment.

“Where’s Robby?” you ask. “I can split this with him.”

“Talking to Gloria,” Santos says. “Looks like he’s in a mood. Snapped at Whitaker.”

“Great,” you mutter. “Two moody old attendings. Love that for you guys. I think Park might actually be more regulated than either of them.”

McKay doesn’t push it, just turns her attention back to you, calmer. “You’ve been very… consistent with this whole detox thing. Very controlled. Composed.”

Santos squints at you. “Almost spiritual, honestly. It’s impressive.”

You blink. “It’s just discipline.”

McKay hums. “Most people don’t call not having sex for a few weeks ‘discipline.’ They call it ‘being busy.’ Or just not having a high libido.”

You sigh, too quickly. “I’m just… glad it’s nearly over. I think Jack’s actually counting down the days.”

McKay tilts her head slightly at that but doesn’t bite yet, a slight purse in her lips. She makes eye contact with Santos. Santos bites back a smile. McKay begins to shake her head, as if reading her mind..

Santos, however, immediately does.

“So,” she says, leaning forward, “what’s he like?”

McKay shoots her a warning look over her fork.

“What?” Santos says, unbothered. “I’m curious. You thought of it too.”

“Like… personality-wise?” you try.

Santos waves a hand. “No. Don’t be boring.”

McKay mutters, “Oh God.”

Santos continues anyway, delighted now. “Like sex-wise. Come on. There has to be a reason he’s walking around like a man personally victimised by fucking… yoga and vegetables.”

You nearly choke. “Santos—”

“What?” she says. “I’m just saying. There’s clearly a secret here. He’s what, fifty-something? Night shift ED attending? You know how fucked you have to be to be the attending on night shift? Robby level fucked up. And you’re—” she gestures vaguely at you, “you. So either he’s got some hidden advantage or you’ve all been lying to yourselves.”

McKay, dry as ever: “Please stop talking.”

Santos ignores her. “Am I wrong?”

You stare at her. 

“That’s not an answer,” she says.

McKay finally looks at you properly now, faintly amused despite herself. “You do not have to answer that.”

“I’m not going to answer that,” you say immediately.

Santos leans back, offended. “Okay, so it’s missionary.”

You blink. “And that's my cue to leave.”

“Doggy?” she tries. “Am I warm? Am I cold?”

You stand up. “I’m very happy for you and your recovery from Garcia, truly.”

McKay actually smiles now. “This is why I eat alone.”

Then, casually—

“Do you guys have threesomes with Robby?” Santos adds. “Got a vibe there.”

You don’t even hesitate. “Constantly. He’s actually the glue holding the relationship together. Into weird shit.”

McKay exhales through her nose.

Santos tilts her head. “I don’t believe you.”

“That sounds like a you problem. We host swinger parties, come by next Thursday if you want.”

Santos rolls her eyes, somewhat disappointed by your sarcasm. At that exact moment, Dana walks in. She stops, looks between all of you, then sighs.

“Oh no,” she says, immediately clocking the energy. “We having a party? What are youse talkin’ about in here?”

“Nothing,” McKay says instantly.

Santos says at the same time, “Abbot’s sex life. Featuring Robby, too.”

Dana physically recoils. “Oh Jesus Christ, why?”

You look at her like salvation. “Help.”

Dana points at Santos without hesitation. “No. Absolutely not. I’m not bein’ dragged into whatever this is.”

Then she looks at you, and her whole face softens a little. She gives you a nod, as if to ask if you’re well. You give a nod back, a small smile.

Dana claps once, decisive. “Alright. Trauma two. You two. Now. Move it.”

Santos groans. “You’re ruining my research.”

Dana points again. “Move. It. Out.”

★★★

Day Thirty Two.

Your schedules have always been a mess.

Some weeks you overlap perfectly—same shifts, same hours, brushing past each other in hallways, stealing five minutes in empty consult rooms, syncing like it’s easy. Other weeks, like this one, you exist on completely different timelines.

Park needs you flexible. Jack is the schedule. So you miss each other.

You leave just as he’s getting in. He leaves while you’re dead asleep. Nights bleed into days, days into nights, and suddenly it’s been forty-eight hours of doubles and you’ve communicated more through texts and post-it notes than actual words.

Eat something.

You too.

Left food in the fridge.

Miss you.

Jack finally makes it back into the apartment, adrenaline high shaking in his veins, excited to finally see you, feel you.

He shuts the door behind him, exhales—and then pauses.

Something smells good. Really good. Definitely not green. Lacking salt, maybe, though.

“How are you cooking after working that long, baby?” he calls out, already loosening up as he moves toward the kitchen. “Challenge is over, I am going to give you the best damn head of your life and then cuddle like—”

“I’d cuddle with you,” Robby says from the stove, “but I’m busy right now. Preferably not the head part, though.”

Jack thinks for a moment, a slow nod.

“…You are not my girlfriend.”

Robby glances over his shoulder, unimpressed. “I like to think of us as work husbands, but yeah. Good observation.”

Jack just stares at him for a second, processing.

Then—“Why are you in my apartment?”

Robby sighs, turning back to the pot like this is his burden to bear. “This is not turning out well.”

He gestures vaguely at the spaghetti bolognese like it’s personally offended him.

“I followed her recipe,” he adds.

Jack moves further in, slower now, dropping his bag, still trying to catch up, somewhat antsy as he taps the counter repeatedly. “Where is she? She texted me she was home.”

“Shops,” Robby says. “Said she needed a few things. Asked me to start this because she didn’t wanna get changed and dirty her clothes, a surprise, or something.”

A beat.

“I think I’ve screwed this up,” he admits.

Jack sinks onto the stool at the island, scrubbing a hand over his face. “How do you fuck up spaghetti?”

Robby turns to him, dead serious. “Who puts that much sugar in a sauce?”

Jack doesn’t even hesitate. “She does. It’s good.”

Robby squints. “It feels offensive.”

“It’s not,” Jack mutters. “It’s… you know, balanced.”

Robby gestures at the pot again. “It’s dessert.”

Jack leans forward, peering into it like he’s assessing a trauma. “Did you reduce it?”

“…Did I what?”

Jack looks at him slowly. “Oh my God.”

“I stirred the thing, I don't know,” Robby defends.

“Yeah, I’m sure that helped,” Jack says dryly, already pushing himself up despite the protest in his leg. “Move.”

Robby steps aside with zero resistance. “Be my guest, chef.”

Jack takes over, grabbing a spoon, tasting it, making a face—not terrible, but not right.

“You didn’t salt it properly,” he says.

“I salted it.”

“You absolutely did not. I can even smell the absence of salt.”

Robby watches him work for a second, then glances at him sideways. “You look like shit, by the way.”

“Feel like it,” Jack mutters.

“You two haven’t seen each other?”

“Not properly.”

Robby nods once, like that explains everything. Then—casual, but not really—“Once you finally get laid and stop being so damn dramatic, I need help with Noelle. Bring your girl if you want, I told her the two of you’d meet. Tomorrow night?”

Jack doesn’t even look up. “My girl and I will be very busy, if all goes well, so, unlikely.”

“…I hate knowing things about you,” Robby mutters.

Jack huffs, stirring the sauce.

The front door clicks open. Both of them look up.

“Robby, you didn’t salt it—I can smell it,” you call out immediately as you step inside, toeing off your shoes.

“Salting it now, sweetheart,” Jack shoots back, not missing a beat. He flicks Robby a look. Robby scoffs.

You come in fully then, arms loaded with shopping bags—Victoria’s Secret, a couple of clothing stores, something small and overpriced in tissue paper. You were pretty keen to break that no shop rule, apparently.

“When’d you get back?” you ask.

“Five minutes ago,” Jack says, already moving toward you. “You walk? I would’ve picked you up.”

“I was trying to surprise you,” you say, smiling. “Robby wasn’t supposed to be part of it.”

“Shocking,” Robby mutters.

You barely register him—because Jack’s right there, closer now, and you really do not care about some cleansing shit anymore. You grab his shirt and pull him in, kissing him quick—warm, familiar, a little rushed like you’re making up for lost time in a single second.

You pull back just as fast.

“You look like shit,” you tell him, joking and dry.

“Yeah,” he says, softer now. “You look… really good.”

His hand slides up, brushing through your hair, lingering there a second longer than necessary.

You clear your throat, stepping away first. “Okay, how bad did he fuck the sauce?”

“I did not fuck the sauce that bad,” Robby says.

You move to the stove, peering in, grabbing a spoon. Taste. Pause.

“…It’s not that bad,” you admit. “Maybe a bit more sugar, not enough salt.”

Robby throws his hands up. “Of course it does. Why not throw chocolate in there while we’re at it?”

“Don’t tempt me,” you say lightly.

Robby exhales, grabbing his jacket. “Alright. I’m off. Dana’s gonna love that I delayed my shift because I was domestic here.”

“Tell her I said hi,” you call.

“I’m not telling her anything,” he mutters, heading out.

He pauses at the door, glances back at the two of you—at the way you’ve both unconsciously drifted closer again without noticing.

“Don’t give him a heart attack. At that age you never know,” he adds.

“Out!” Jack says.

Robby leaves.

The door shuts.

And just like that—

It’s quiet. No monitors. No pages. No interruptions. Just you and him. You don’t move at first, still standing by the stove, spoon in hand. He’s leaning against the island, watching you. Really watching you.

“Day Thirty Two, by the way,” he says.

“Really? Didn’t notice,” You shrug.

He nods, coming up besides you, watching as you stir the sauce.

“This is gonna take ages. He didn’t reduce anything. Useless,” You murmur, mostly sarcastic, as you look at it.

“Oh, you know Robby,” Jack sighs. “Can’t do anything right.”

You put the lid on top, lowering it to a simmer. You hum to yourself, feeling Jack’s eyes on you.

“C’mere,” he says.

You step in between his legs, your gaze dragging over him as his hands catch your waist, pulling you in. His grip is heavy, grounding, sliding over your hips like he’s relearning the shape of you after weeks of not touching.

“This alright?” he asks, quieter now—though his hand dips, squeezing your ass through the thin fabric of your dress.

You nod.

“Speak,” he adds, low.

“Yes.”

That does something to him. You see it—jaw tightening, breath shifting, his eyes darkening as they move over you slowly, deliberately. Chest. Lips. Eyes again.

“What am I gonna do with you?” he murmurs.

His hand comes up, sliding to the back of your neck, fingers spreading there, warm and steady. He tilts your face up, thumb brushing along your jaw, holding you in place like he’s taking his time deciding something.

You can’t quite read him. It’s too much at once.

His thumb drifts lower, pausing at your bottom lip. You hesitate—barely—but he notices.

“Go on,” he murmurs, giving a small nod.

You do. Tongue slow, tentative at first, wrapping your mouth around the digit, then steadier, your focus slipping as his breathing changes—subtle, but not enough to hide it. His shoulders pull back slightly, tension running through him like he’s holding himself in check.

He exhales, eyes still locked on you.

“Yeah,” he mutters under his breath.

“Want another?” he asks after a second, voice rougher now.

“Mhm.”

He moves his index and middle, thumb dropped to your chin, your saliva coating your jaw slightly as you suck the digits. He watches you for a beat longer, like he’s considering pushing it further—then drags his hand away instead, jaw tightening again.

“Bedroom,” he says, quieter, but it lands just as firm.

His other hand slides down your side, lifting the hem of your dress just enough to make his gaze dip—brief, restrained—before he turns you, your back to his chest, guiding you away.

“I’m running on an adrenaline high from work, I’m gonna fuck you, then we’re gonna cuddle and sleep for twelve hours,” he adds, voice low behind you. “That sound good to you?”

You turn your head, looking at him behind you. “Love you too,” You give him a quick kiss to his lips, feeling him smile from that. 

You head down the hall, already pulling the dress up and over your head, not looking back—but you can feel his eyes on you until you disappear.

Behind you, the stove clicks off.

A second later, you hear him move—quick now, like whatever control he had left is running out.

“You know, I was talking to Santos about our whole… challenge,” you start, slipping your dress off and draping it over the chair. You catch your reflection in the mirror, thumb swiping under your eye to fix the faint smudge of mascara. “Turns out she lasted all of ten days before she slept with Garcia.”

He huffs a quiet breath against your shoulder, voice rough where it meets your skin. “So all that torture for nothing?”

“Torture’s dramatic,” you murmur, but there’s a smile tugging at it.

“You did it on purpose,” he counters, hand sliding up to cup your tit, squeezing through the fabric of your bra like he’s testing a theory he already knows the answer to. “Walkin’ around in those… stupid shorts, the yoga, that little nightgown—won’t even kiss me, won’t even touch me.” His thumb drags slow, deliberate. “You know what that does to a man? That kind of taunting?”

You let your head tip back against his shoulder, soft, unbothered on the surface even as your breath shifts. “I think I’ve got an idea.”

“Yeah?” His mouth finds the space under your ear, kisses turning slower, heavier—less rushed now, more deliberate. He sucks at your neck, groaning low when you push back into him, feeling the way he’s already half-hard under your touch.

You turn suddenly, hands braced on his shoulders, guiding him back until his knees hit the mattress. “I lied,” you admit, pressing him down to sit. “About not touching myself.”

His brows lift, something amused and dark flickering there as his hands move instinctively—reaching behind you, unclipping your bra with practiced ease. “You? Lie?” he mutters, watching as you pull it off and toss it aside. “What happened to Miss Wellness Mary Magdalene?”

You barely get a breath out before his hands are back on you, over your tits, fingers pinching at your nipples, rougher now, less patient—palming, shaping, like he’s reacquainting himself. His mouth follows, pressing to your tits, tongue warm, stubble dragging just enough to make you jolt.

“It’s bullshit,” you breathe, the words breaking as he closes his mouth around your nipples, the sensation sharp and grounding all at once. “I was miserable the whole time.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm. The vegetable soup was shit. I miss my phone. Yoga is boring. I like tequila,” you say, feeling his chuckle vibrate against your skin as he kisses over your sternum.

“What else?”

“I like sex,” you tell him, whimpering as his teeth drag over your nipple briefly, the sharp tug making your core clench. His other hand travels over your stomach to the pink panties, fidgeting with the sides of the material over your hip. 

You climb onto him, knees spreading wide beside his thighs, your body hovering just above his. “I really like it when you touch me. I like touching you. I like when—” He cups your clothed pussy, his palm pressing firmly against the damp fabric.

“You like that?” he wonders, voice low and almost casual, watching as you moan at the contact, your arousal soaking through the panties instantly. “Speak, sweetheart.”

“You know I like that,” you gasp, grinding down against his hand instinctively.

He nods. “Damn right I do,” His fingers slip beneath the edge of your panties, tracing the slick folds of your pussy with deliberate slowness, teasing the entrance before pushing one thick digit inside you. 

The intrusion is warm and welcome, stretching you just enough to make you clench around him. He curls it slowly, stroking that sensitive spot deep within your walls, the pad of his finger rubbing in firm, unhurried circles that make your thighs tremble and your breath hitch. 

You rock against his hand, chasing the building pressure. He adds a second finger without warning, scissoring them gently to open you up, then pumping them in and out with deliberate thrusts—shallow at first, then deeper, his knuckles brushing your clit on every inward slide.

His thumb finds your clit, circling it with rough, insistent pressure, alternating between tight loops and light flicks that draw out breathy cries from your lips. The wet sounds of his fingers fucking you fill the room mingling with your moans as he watches your face intently, eyes dark with hunger, drinking in every twitch and gasp.

“How about this? You like it when I fuck you with my fingers?” he asks, his voice a gravelly rumble, free hand gripping your hip to steady your grinding.

“Mhm,” you whine, riding his hand harder now, your pussy fluttering around the invading digits as they twist and probe, hitting that spot again and again.

He slides in a third finger, gently stretching you out, the fullness making you gasp as he kisses at your neck, lips hot and sucking lightly on the skin. You moan into his mouth when he claims your lips in a messy kiss, tongues tangling as his fingers maintain their rhythm—curling, thrusting, spreading you wider with each pass. 

He varies the pace, slowing to a torturous drag that lets you feel every ridge and vein on his fingers, then speeding up to plunge deep and fast, his palm slapping wetly against your mound.

“That’s right, atta girl, doin’ so well, aren’t you?” he murmurs against your throat, nipping at the pulse point while his thumb resumes those relentless circles on your clit, pressing harder now, building the ache into something electric. 

He watches as you ride his fingers, your juices dripping down his wrist, the obscene squelch growing louder with every movement. 

“What’d you think of when you touched yourself, honey? You thinka me?”

You nod frantically, words caught up in your moans, your walls clenching tighter around him. “Uh-huh,” you whine as he curls his fingers deeper into you, hooking them to stroke that bundle of nerves with precision, his other hand sliding up to pinch and roll your nipple, adding sparks of sensation everywhere.

He keeps you teetering, easing off just when you get close—pulling his fingers almost all the way out before slamming them back in, thumb pausing its circles to let the tension simmer. Then he ramps it up again, fingers pistoning faster, thumb vibrating against your swollen clit. Sweat beads on your skin, your breaths coming in short, desperate pants as the coil in your belly winds impossibly tight.

“C’mon, baby, let go f’me,” he murmurs, kissing at your neck with open-mouthed presses, his teeth grazing your earlobe. 

He feels as you tense and tighten around his fingers, hips bucking erratically, thighs quivering you come undone, jaw agape as your body stills over him, warm and melting.

“You come when you touch yourself?” he asks, quieter now.

His hand leaves you, trailing over your hips as he guides you back onto the bed. You go easily, breath unsteady, the anticipation settling into something heavier as you lie there, bare and waiting.

You shake your head.

“You?” you ask, your hand drifting instinctively over yourself, fingers trailing over your core, testing the sensitivity, your eyes flicking back to him.

He gives a short shake of his head, rolling his neck once like he’s trying to keep himself together.

“Still got enough in you?” you murmur, a little teasing. “Or did that shift kill you?”

He huffs a breath—half laugh, half something tighter. “I’d find the energy,” he says, stepping out of his scrubs, not taking his eyes off you. “Don’t worry about that.”

You watch him move, slower now but deliberate, like he’s pacing himself instead of rushing it.

“You wanna take that off?” you start, glancing down to his prosthetic.

He follows your gaze, then looks back at you. “In a minute,” he says, already leaning over you again. “Wanna make sure I remember what you taste like first.”

He slides a pillow beneath your head, then gently eases your knees apart. You give a small nod. When his tongue traces slowly across your center, your body responds instantly—back arching, breath catching. His palm presses firmly against your stomach, keeping you anchored.

“Stay still f’me, can you, baby?” He murmurs against you, barely enough for you to hear.

You gasp his name between ragged breaths, managing to nod yes, your fingers threading through his salt-and-pepper curls. His mouth moves against you with deliberate patience—soft yet demanding—and your lungs empty completely, replaced by something molten and urgent.

 “Atta girl, you feel good yeah, baby?” He hums.

You nod fast. Your thighs tremble against his shoulders as he tastes you with unhurried determination, as though time has ceased to exist beyond this bed, beyond this moment. When his tongue finds that perfect rhythm, that perfect spot, coherent thought dissolves into desperate pleas that barely form words.

He groans against your center, vibrating against you as you claw at his nape, nails digging into his sun-kissed, freckled skin with desperate urgency. “God, fuck, I missed this,” you say, 

His tongue, slick and insistent, flicks against your clit, drawing out your orgasm with relentless precision. You feel the heat of your release coating his tongue, his lips, and he devours it hungrily, as if it's the sweetest nectar he's ever tasted.

“Please, please, fuck,” You mumble, brain foggy as his tongue sweeps over you with a kind of desperation of a starving man. 

His fingers digging into your hips, holding you in place as he feasts on you. You can feel his hot breath against your sensitive flesh, his tongue delving into every crevice, every fold as you come undone, moans loud to the point where you throw your hand over your mouth, biting down into your palm.

You let out a shaky breath, head back as he kisses your inner thighs, gentle, stubble coated in your orgasm before he climbs back over you, kissing you, deep, as you taste yourself on his tongue. 

“Once I wake up—after fucking you—obviously,” He murmurs against you, sloppy tongues colliding. “I’ll do that for three hours, until you can’t walk, alright?”

You moan at the thought, nodding. You believe him because he’s done it on many occasions. You think he just likes doing it to get you to go to sleep sometimes or knock you out and he can take care of you or something. That and he just entirely gets off on you.

“Fuck willpower,” He says against you as he briefly tests your folds with fingers over your sensitive clit, watching your mouth open in a small whine, lashes fluttering, another hand pulling your body even closer, as you wrap your legs around his waist. “Fuck being cleansed, alright?”

“Mm,” You say, watching as he swallows, you’re watching maybe the toll of his shift start to come back physically and you move your hands to his cheek, away from where’d he place them above your head. 

You don’t say anything, just still him briefly, eyes wide, a nod, a check in. He nods, mouth twitching in a smile.

He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, pushing them down with a practiced ease born from years of undressing after long shifts. His cock hard and eager, his breath hitching as you wrap your hand around his length, your touch sending electric shocks through him. 

You spit into your palm, the wet sound echoing in the quiet room, and he groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through him. Your hand moves over his cock, slick and smooth, your fingers tracing the veins, your thumb rubbing over the sensitive head. He curses under his breath, a string of words that would make a sailor blush, his hips jerking forward, seeking more of your touch.

“Shit… fucking hell– You keep doing that this is gonna a lot quicker than I mentally planned for.” He tells you.

“What’d you mentally plan for?” You chuckle, a low, sultry sound that sends shivers down his spine, your hand never pausing in its slow, torturous rhythm.

“Well, six hours of foreplay,” he moves his cock over your pussy, gliding it over your folds, amused by your gasp of a moan. “Six hours of shower sex, kitchen, couch, each. Obviously six… emotionally… intelligent, beautiful conversation about life and marriage. Ever thought about wanting a third?”

“I don’t know, have you?” You murmur, watching as he taunts you as he moves his cock over your pussy, the head slipping through your folds, coating itself in your wetness. You gasp, your back arching, your hips lifting to meet him. He groans, his eyes fluttering closed, savoring the feel of you.

“Christ,” He murmurs, absentmindedly, then, with a slow, steady push, he slides into you, his cock filling you completely. You moan, your nails digging into his back, your body arching into his. “Maybe. I don’t know. We can talk about this later.” 

He’s still for a moment, body hot and warm above you as his hand grips onto your hips. You let out a shaky breath and smile. “You alright there, old man?”

“Heavenly,” he says quite earnestly, leaning to kiss you down at your neck. “Missed this. God, it’s like you’re made for me. So goddamn perfect.”

You clench slightly at his words, hearing as he groans at that, vibrating against your skin. A moment passes before you start getting desperate for action.

“Please move, baby,” You ask, looking up at him with eagerness.

“‘Course, whatever you want, sweetheart,” He kisses your lips softly, before moving.

Pulling out slowly before sliding back in, his pace steady and sure. With each thrust, he swallows your moans with his kisses, his hands tangling in your hair, his body pressing you into the mattress. You can feel every inch of him, every ridge and vein, and it's perfect. 

His tongue dances with yours, exploring your mouth, tasting you. His hand tangles in your hair, his grip firm but not painful, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. You moan into his mouth, your body arching into his, your nails digging into his back. 

He pulls back, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with desire. "You feel so good," he murmurs, his voice hoarse. "So fucking good." 

You can only nod, your words lost in the pleasure that's coursing through your veins. He starts to move faster, his hips snapping forward, his cock sliding in and out of you with increasing urgency. You can feel the pleasure building, the tension coiling in your belly, your pussy clenching around him. 

His hand travels from your hair to your face, cupping your cheek, keeping your eyes on him. You gasp, your eyes fluttering closed, your body arching into his touch. He groans, his cock twitching inside you at the sight of you losing yourself in his touch. 

He gently moves two fingers down your chest and stomach, landing at your core, above where he fucks you. He circles your clit, his touch firm and steady, drawing tight circles that make your hips buck off the bed. You let out a low moan, your body tensing, your breath coming in short gasps. 

He can see your arousal coating his cock, your slick gathering around the base, and it spurs him on. He leans down, his lips finding your ear. "You like that, don't you?" he murmurs, his voice low and rough. "You like feeling me stretch you, filling you up?" 

“Yes, yes, mhm,” you try, nails moving from his back to his biceps, hard and taught beneath your touch.

He starts to move faster, his hips slamming into you, his cock sliding in and out of you with increasing urgency. You can feel the pleasure building, the tension coiling in your belly, your pussy clenching around him. 

His weight edges off just enough, bracing more through his arms and left side, breath going a touch uneven where it presses against your shoulder. Not stopping—he’d push through it if you let him—but compensating. You feel it.

Your hands slide up his back, slower now, anchoring “Take it off, baby,” you murmur softly, glancing down toward the prosthetic. “You’ve had it on too long.”

He eases to a stop, controlled, careful not to jostle you as he shifts his weight fully off. You guide him back with you, hands steady at his sides, both of you moving without needing to overthink it—this part practiced, familiar. 

He settles against the pillows with a small exhale, rolling his shoulder once as if resetting himself. You stay close, one hand resting at his hip, the other brushing briefly up his chest—grounding, not rushing him. 

He reaches down, undoing the prosthetic with efficient movements, years of muscle memory. There’s no awkwardness to it, no self-consciousness—just a small release in his face as it comes free. You take it from him without comment, setting it at the foot of the bed like you always do.

“Better?” you ask, thumb tracing idly along his side.

He nods once, eyes flicking back to you, something softer under the edge of want. “Yeah. C’mere.”

You shift back over him, settling in close again, your knees bracketing his hips, easy and familiar. You lean down to kiss him, long and sweet, less immodest as your other ones, maybe. Just maybe, as his hands immediately find your ass, helping your back arch into him, cock still hard as you slide over it, folds wet and sensitive.

“God, you’re–” He groans as you bite at his bottom lip, pulling it back, as you kiss down his chest. “Gonna be the death of me.”

You lean down, your tongue flicking out to taste his skin, tracing a path down his chest, over his stomach, until you reach the V that leads to his cock. You look up at him, your eyes meeting his, and you can see the anticipation in them. 

You take your time, your tongue sliding over his shaft, from base to tip, feeling him pulse under your touch. 

“Great way to go,” he murmurs as he watches you.

You take him into your mouth, feeling him slide over your tongue, your lips stretching to accommodate him. He groans, his hand finding your hair, not pulling, just gripping, as you take him deeper, your mouth warm and wet. You can feel him, hard and throbbing, and you know he's close, with how his arms tighten and tense, fingers tighter on your scalp. 

You pull back, your tongue flicking over the head of his cock, tasting the precum that beads at the tip. You sit back, straightening your spine, and look at him. His eyes are on you, hungry and intense. 

You spit on his cock, watching as the saliva slides down his shaft, making it glisten in the soft light. You rise up, your knees bracketing his hips, and lower yourself onto him, feeling him slide into you, inch by inch. 

“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck,” you whimper as you settle on top, nails over his chest.

He groans, his hands finding your hips, holding you in place as he thrusts up into you. You can feel him, deep and hard, filling you completely. You start to move, your body rolling and grinding against him, your hips moving in a slow, steady rhythm. 

His hands roam over your body, one staying on your hip, guiding your movements, the other trailing up your stomach, over your breasts, squeezing them, his thumb brushing over your nipple. You gasp, your head falling back.

His thumb circling your nipple, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. He starts to talk you through it, his voice slow and steady, a counterpoint to the fast, hard rhythm of your bodies. "You're so fucking beautiful, riding me like this. God- so tight and wet for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?" 

His words send a shiver through you, your body tensing, your breath hitching in your throat. 

“Yeah? Yeah, that’s right, that’s right," he mutters. “C’mon, baby, right there f’me, you’re doing so good.”

“Please,” you moan, hips grinding down against him.

“You need help, honey? Just ask,” He sits up, his chest pressing against yours, his breath hot on your neck. He reaches between you, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles over the sensitive bundle of nerves. 

You whine, your body arching into his touch, your hips moving in time with his fingers.

“C’mon, words for me,” he says, breathing heavily against you as he finds himself closer to the edge at how you clench down on him, tight and warm.

“Wanna cum,” you pant, your body tense, your breath coming in short gasps.

“Again? So greedy,” he mocks. “Go ‘head, you can do it”

His words push you over the edge. You move, your body rolling and grinding against him, your hips moving in a fast, frantic rhythm. You can feel it, the pleasure snapping, your body convulsing, your nails digging into his back, your mouth open in a silent scream.

"Good girl," he groans, his body tensing, his cock pulsing inside you. He follows you, his release hot and hard, filling you completely. 

You collapse onto his chest, your body spent, your heart pounding in your ears. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close, his body still trembling with the aftermath. You can feel his heart beating in time with yours, and you know, in this moment, everything is right.

You stay there a little longer than you mean to, half sprawled over him, your cheek pressed to his chest, skin still warm, damp, real. His arm is draped around you—loose now, heavy with exhaustion—but his fingers keep moving anyway, absentminded, tracing slow patterns over your back like he can’t quite stop touching you yet.

Like he doesn’t want to.

You draw lazy shapes over his shoulder, connecting freckles you already know by heart, like it’s something you’ve done a hundred times—because you have.

“I love baseless temptations,” you murmur.

Jack lets out a quiet laugh, the sound low in his chest, vibrating under your cheek. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough but easy. “Me too.”

There’s something softer in it now. Not the edge from before. Just… him.

You shift slightly, listening to his breathing settle, feeling the way his body gives into the mattress—finally. Like he’s been holding himself upright all day and only now gets to stop.

“Fourteen hours,” you mumble, almost to yourself, remembering your insane schedules. “And you still managed to—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” he cuts in, dry.

You grin against his skin. “I was gonna say ‘impress me.’”

“Sure you were.”

“I was,” you insist, lifting your head to look at him properly. “Honestly, I thought you’d pass out.”

He cracks one eye open at that. “Have a little faith.”

“I do,” you say, brushing your thumb over his jaw, softer now. “I also have eyes. You look like you got hit by a truck.”

“Feel like it,” he mutters.

“Mm.” You lean down, press a brief kiss to his chest—nothing urgent, just there. “Still did good.”

He exhales a quiet laugh at that, head tipping back. “Christ. It’s alright, I’ll probably crash in twenty minutes. Took tomorrow off, at least.

You watch him for a second—really watch him. The lines of tension finally easing out of his face, the way his shoulders have dropped, the way he looks… settled. Not asleep, not yet. Just here. With you.

It hits you again, softer this time, how much of him is usually in motion—pulled in a hundred directions, needed everywhere at once—and how rare it is to have him like this. Still. Letting himself be here, with you, without reaching for the next thing.

You smooth your hand over his chest, slower now, grounding.

“You gonna keep up the meditation thing?” he asks, voice rough with the edge of sleep.

You huff quietly. “Probably not.” A beat. “Unless you’re suddenly interested.”

“Mm. I think I’ll stick to therapy,” he murmurs. Then, after a second, a little more awake—“You still think I need other hobbies?”

You glance at him, mouth curving. “No. I’m actually very supportive of your current hobby.” You lean in, kiss him soft. “Big fan. Please continue exclusively.”

He laughs into it, low and tired, something easy settling back into him.

“I’ll be right back,” you add, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “Gonna clean up, check the spaghetti. You’ll eat something, then we’ll watch Housewives in bed. Deal?”

“I can help, I’ll—”

“—Stay,” you cut in gently, pressing him back into the pillows. “I’ve spent a stupid amount of money while I was out this morning, this is more for me than it is for you, trust.” You tell, already slipping out from under the sheets.

You move around the room in one of his old shirts, easy, familiar—tidying, grabbing what you need, the quiet domestic rhythm of it settling everything back into place. It’s almost meditative, in a way that none of the actual meditation ever was. This is the version that works for you: him in the bed, you in the room, the soft comedown of it all.

When you come back, he hasn’t moved much. One arm over his eyes, breathing slower now, like he’s finally letting himself drop. You sit beside him, brush your hand over his chest again, then pass him a bowl.

“Eat, quick, before it gets cold,” you say.

He obeys, because of course he does, getting through a few bites before setting it aside with a quiet exhale.

You keep going, perched cross-legged beside him, the normalcy of it comforting after a month of physically pushing him away to be cleansed, when ironically, you feel more cleansed than ever to be near him.

There’s a pause.

“So,” you begin. “What was that thing you said? Earlier? About a third?”

He chuckles. “I was just kidding, hon,” he says, a little rough, like he’s not fully back yet. He presses a lazy kiss to your head. “Why?”

You tilt your chin up slightly, watching him. “I don’t know.” Your head ring vaguely with Santos’ words from the other day. He reads pretty quickly where your train of thought is going.

“Hypothetically. If you had to pick someone.” You ask.

He looks at you properly now, narrowing his eyes just a fraction like he’s trying to read the angle. Like there’s definitely a wrong answer here and he’d quite like to avoid it.

You just hold his gaze, completely neutral.

A beat passes. Something unspoken flickers between you—quick, familiar.

Who would you pick?

Who do you think I’d pick?

Are we about to say the same name?

“…Robby,” you both say at the same time.

There’s a pause. Then Jack lets out a quiet, disbelieving huff of laughter, shaking his head against the pillow. “Jesus Christ.”

You grin a little, unable to help it. “I mean—objectively—”

“He’d be… fucking insufferable about it,” Jack cuts in immediately. “You know he would.”

You refrain from commenting, leaving your spaghetti aside, as you open your computer. Jack groans, dragging a hand over his face. “He’d give me notes or something.”

You’ve got Housewives on your computer. It’s obviously the New York one, still early days - Season 4.

“So what happened in the mid-season finale again?” You ask as you settle against him.

“I barely remember, honestly,” He sighs. “Ramona’s being difficult, someone brought the wrong wine, it’s a mess. Cindy is great, though.”

His arm tightens around you again, a quiet, grounding squeeze.

The episode keeps playing. His commentary gets more frequent—dry, half-interested, pretending he’s above it while very clearly tracking every single detail.

You let it happen, tucked into him, warm, fed, a little tired in the best way.

Cleansed, in a way none of the yoga or herbal tea ever managed. Just this—him, you, the low hum of something ridiculous on screen, and the easy, familiar weight of being exactly where you’re meant to be.

Your daughter had her whole doctor kit spread out around her like real surgical tools waiting for the next important case. The little pink stethoscope hung crookedly around her neck in a loose loop that looked ready to slide off at any second. Her dark curls had mostly escaped the ponytail you’d carefully tied earlier that afternoon, so soft strands bounced against her round cheeks every time she turned her head or reached for something. She wore the oversized plastic glasses from the toy set, they kept slipping all the way down to the very tip of her tiny nose, but she never seemed to notice or mind. She just looked exactly like a very important, highly credentialed doctor who meant business.

Jack rested his hands on his thighs and waited patiently, content to let her set the pace.

Finally she lifted her head and looked straight up at him, squinting through those sliding glasses with all the serious gravity of someone about to deliver very bad news to a patient.

“Papa,” she announced in her clearest, most official voice.

The corner of his mouth twitched upward in the tiniest smile. “Yes, doctor?”

She pushed herself up to standing, wobbling just a little on her small legs, then shuffled forward with the stethoscope swinging dramatically back and forth against her chest. She stopped right between his knees and tilted her head back to meet his eyes.

“You sick,” she declared firmly.

He blinked slowly, playing along. “I am?”

“Yesh.” She nodded with such fierce conviction that her curls bounced even more. “Vedy sick.”

He let out a quiet, thoughtful hum and leaned back deeper into the cushions, now as a patient who had just accepted the diagnosis and was ready to follow doctor’s orders. “Good thing I’ve got a doctor right here in the house then.”

From the nearby armchair, you watched the whole sweet scene unfold with your chin resting in your palm, not even trying to hide how completely your heart was melting. Earlier that evening she had assigned your role with great ceremony and seriousness, you were officially the nurse. And not any nurse, don’t be confused, you were Mama Nurse. That meant sitting beside the small pile of plastic medical supplies and handing things over whenever she demanded them, which you had been doing with perfect professionalism (tender smiles aside) and zero complaints.

Suddenly the toddler turned her head toward you, eyes wide and expectant.

“Mama Nuhs!”

You straightened up right away. “Yes, doctor?”

“Need… the…” She frowned down at the pile, brow scrunched in deep thought, lips pressed tight together while she searched. Then her little finger shot out. “Da beep-beep.”

You picked up the toy thermometer with careful gravity and passed it to her. “Thermometer, doctor.”

“Mmm-hm,” she agreed, already climbing up onto the couch beside Jack. She braced one tiny hand against his shoulder to keep her balance as she settled in next to him.

“Open mouf,” she ordered.

“Yes, ma’am.”

He parted his lips obediently. She pushed the thermometer toward his cheek in roughly the right direction and stared at him with huge, focused eyes while the imaginary reading happened, her little lips pursed, head tilted just so. You had seen that exact same look on her face plenty of times before: when she was stacking wobbly blocks into impossible towers, or when her shoes refused to go on the right feet. She came by it honestly.

More than one person had told you that Jack made the very same face when he was deep in thought at work.

After a few long seconds she pulled the thermometer away and her eyes went dramatically wide.

“Oh no,” she breathed, voice full of worry.

Jack tilted his head slightly. “Oh no?”

She gasped and pressed one hand to her chest like the news was almost too much. “You vedy, vedy sick!”

He pressed his lips together to keep from smiling too big. “That bad?”

“Yesh!” She scrambled off the couch in a hurry and dove back into the doctor kit with frantic energy, rummaging through everything like she was facing a real emergency that needed immediate action.

“Doctor,” you offered gently, “should we prepare some medicine?”

She nodded fast without looking up. “Medshin!”

Jack settled even deeper into the cushions, folding his arms across his chest in complete trust. “I trust your treatment plan completely.”

She came back holding the toy syringe and stopped right in front of his arm, looking up at him with the stern expression of someone who had done this procedure many times and understood exactly how serious it was. Even if, technically, she’d just gotten the doctor play set a couple of weeks ago. Turns out a couple of weeks is a lot of experience in toddlerhood.

“No move, Papa.”

“Understood.”

She pressed the rounded tip against his forearm and slowly pushed the plunger down. He flinched with real theatrical commitment to the bit, eyebrows shooting up, a sharp hiss of breath through his teeth.

“Ouch. That one really had some kick to it.”

She patted his arm right away with soft little pats. “Brave, Papa.”

Something warm and unguarded settled across his face then, the soft look that only ever appeared when he was safe at home with the two of you. “High praise coming from my physician.”

She accepted the compliment with a grave little nod and reached for the stethoscope again. It took her a moment to untangle the tubing from her curls, and Jack waited through it all. He knew there were some things in life simply that could not be hurried, and this was definitely one of them. It was just too precious to rush through.

When she finally got the plastic disc pressed somewhere near his collarbone and leaned in close, the whole room seemed to hush around them. Her little face hovered just inches from his chest, eyes wide with total concentration, one stray curl brushing lightly against his jaw. Whatever she was listening for inside him, she was listening with every bit of herself.

“Hmm,” she murmured seriously.

Jack glanced over the top of her head at you, his eyes soft and warm with something too gentle for any medical chart to name.

“Well?” he prompted quietly.

She lifted her head. “Your heart go boom boom.”

“Is that good?”

She thought about it with all the seriousness the question deserved. “Vedy loud boom boom.”

“Good loud or bad loud?”

“Gud.” She pulled the stethoscope away and then reached up to place both small hands on his cheeks, squishing his face gently between her palms so she could peer straight into his eyes from only a few inches away. “You need res,” she told him solemnly.

“Rest,” he agreed, not even trying to move his smooshed face.

“Yesh. And ninner.”

“Dinner too?”

“Yesh.”

“What will the dinner be, doctor?”

She let go of his cheeks to think hard about it, staring off into the middle distance with complete focus.

“Mac n cheese.”

He nodded with matching solemnity, it was so cute, how he played along with her without hesitation, you wanted to melt. “Excellent choice.”

Her face lit up bright. “An pish!”

“Fish too?”

“Pish!” she repeated proudly, and you couldn’t help laughing softly from the armchair before you caught yourself.

Jack glanced over at you with a small, amused smile. “Doctor seems very confident in her nutritional recommendations.”

“She graduated top of her class,” you told him seriously.

The toddler, happy that her treatment plan had official approval, turned back to her patient. Her gaze drifted down—like it had started doing more often lately—to the prosthetic leg that extended from below his knee. A few weeks ago she had begun noticing it, not with fear or upset, but the innocent curiosity of a child carefully learning the person she loved best. Her tiny finger reached out and traced the curve of it so gently, poking curiously at the black socket left visible now that he was wearing shorts, the same careful way she touched flowers or fragile toys she wanted to understand.

“Papa boo boo?” she asked softly.

His voice stayed even and calm. “Old one. All healed now, sweetheart.”

She studied it a moment longer, thinking it over. Then she leaned forward and pressed her lips to the prosthetic, carefully, exactly the way she kissed her plushies, her own little boo-booed fingers, or anything else that had ever been hurt and needed to know it was loved.

“There,” she said with satisfaction. “All better now.”

Jack went very still.

You watched the stillness settle, then fade along his whole body, how his shoulders eased down just a fraction, the tight line of his jaw softened, how something held tight inside him finally let go in the safety of this quiet room. His face didn’t give much away to most people, but you had spent long enough learning every small shift to recognize what it looked like when something reached him deep, past every defense he usually kept up.

“Best treatment I’ve ever had,” he said, genuinely meaning it.

She climbed straight into his lap without asking—because she had never once needed permission with her papa—and nestled herself against his chest like she was exactly where she belonged. He wrapped one strong arm around her small back, steady and automatic, and rested his chin lightly on top of her soft curls.

“Papa all better now,” she announced to the whole room.

“Because of you?”

“Yesh.” She sounded so pleased, so completely certain, and not even a little surprised, because in her world, this was simply how things worked. She took care of him, and he got better. It had never crossed her mind that it could happen any other way.

Jack pressed a quiet kiss to the top of her head. When he looked up at you again, that rare softness was still there on his face.

“Nuhs mama,” came the small, very authoritative voice from against his chest.

You raised an eyebrow. “Yes, doctor?”

“Papa need sweep soon,” she declared. “And wabbit story.”

“A rabbit story,” Jack confirmed, looking at you with that quiet, contented smile. “Doctor’s orders.”

You stood up slowly, reaching over to smooth one escaped curl back from her forehead. She turned her face into your hand for a second, just instinctive, trusting, the way she always did, before looking back up at Jack with total satisfaction.

“And cuddles.”

“Cuddles?”

“Wif mama.”

Or…trying to. 

It’s not really that convincing of an attempt, she seems too little and too unused to it for that. Still, her small foot drags by a few inches as she makes her way to the couch.

You just have the question of why she’s doing it. 

“Oh. Oh my God.”

But you look at who she’s walking to, and your heart swells with the answer. 

“Hey, what—”

You guess Jack’s not as fast as you in catching on, because when he notices Chubby’s “limp”, he’s off the couch. All the softness in his face is gone.

It seems to have been replaced by his jaw-clenching fatherly fear that heartens you like crazy.

“What happened?”

Jack’s baby, your baby, stops in the middle of the floor, but only to blink up at him before taking another dramatically uneven step. He’s crouching now. 

He says your name as its own question, and you have to press your palm to your mouth to stop yourself from smiling. 

“I think she’s okay.”

“She’s limping.” 

“I can see that.”

“Why are you smiling?”

Okay. So, you’ve failed, but only because you’re now trying not to laugh while Chubby starts the walk all over. 

“Jackie, Dad, Dr. Abbot—take a closer look at her walk.”

Jack stares at the way she restarts by walking back with her usual, perfect toddle. She does it just to make her shoulder dip again, and her foot slide across the hardwood. 

“...What the hell are you doing—”

He only looks away to eye his own stance. It takes him a moment to think about the last thirty seconds, the way he came into the room. 

The slight drag in his step that came along with him. 

He looks back at her proudly reproducing it.

…Jesus fucking Christ. 

Chubby smiles all her teeth. 

“Dada walk.”

You lose the laughing battle as well at that. Jack just kneels there, the way he had to relearn with a metal leg a long time ago, and felt fucking stupid for at the time. 

Face it right now. Your kid’s not coping out of mockery, Abbot. Not even really out of curiosity, you think. Just…love. 

Does that kill you?

“Is Dada’s walk so pretty that you just had to try it on for yourself?”

Chubby nods once and simply, like it’s common sense for her to do that, like it’s a right for her to turn Jack’s stomach inside-fucking-out with endearment and an aching and loving pain and the disbelief that he can be loved so perfectly and ten million other things. 

Well. Ten million and one when she walks into his body with the same limp, her tiny brows furrowed. 

He’s not proud of the way it takes him a while to find his voice. 

“...Baby.”

His baby stops with her belly against his knee. 

“She’s radiant with success. Are you radiant, pretty?”

“Dada walk.”

She says it again, but this time, she puts her hand on her hip and, God, Jack’s assuming that’s for emphasis.

"Well, you're radiant with Dada's walk too."

Demonstrating his scars like she’s happy to have learned a family skill. Pass on anything else.

“Mommy, Dada walk wifth me.”

“...I don’t think it’ll be as cute as when you do it.”

You wonder if, in all his attempt to keep his heart covered in the midst of this, Jack knows he’s not covering his face. You’re not sure if he’s about to cry, but that’s what it looks like to you. A painful bob of his beautiful throat and twitching brows—

“No, baby.”

He takes Chubby in his arms so quickly and kisses her cheek. She ‘mmmmms!!’ very loudly. 

She rests her rounded hand on his. 

“No?”

“No. You don’t need to do Dada’s walk.”

…You can never know what Jack’s thinking, but you watch the way his face presses briefly against your baby that you gave him, his head against her shoulder, and you can take a few guesses. 

All of them make you want to love the insecurity out of him, because Jack Abbot, Dr. Abbot, Jackie, Dada—he deserves to think of himself as perfect as his daughter does. 

“You don’t have to copy me.”

He’s carried the thing with the fact that it’s a part of him and that it’s sometimes a wound as much as it can be nothing but a part of him. He’s lived years feeling people look at the limp before they look at him. Enough damn years resisting pity, resisting becoming a symbol of the people who can be good at things despite the lack of limb. 

But baby's noticed his walk as Dada. 

How has his heart not fallen out of him yet? How are there more ways for his heart to be ruined after you?

Well. She’s your kid as much as she’s his. He should’ve fucking guessed. 

Chubby wriggles in Jack’s arms.

“I same.”

He’s had to spend so much of his life trying not to let the limp or metal leg or lack of one made of flesh be the first thing about him. Now he has to survive a mini, even more of an oddball version of you, cherishing those things as Dada?

How could he even come close to deserving this life with you, kiddo?

Jack swallows. 

“No, sweetheart. You do your walk.”

Chubby frowns. 

“No Dada walk?”

“You don’t need Dada’s walk.”

Chubby blinks. 

When she decides to listen to him, what she does is the only thing Jack finds humor in since she started to mimic him. 

She wiggles away from him and takes off back to her rabbit in a perfectly normal toddler toddle. 

You lower yourself beside him, watching her with him. 

“She wasn’t making fun of you.”

He twitches his mouth into a pained half-smile. 

“I know, kid.”

“She loves all of you. I assume that’s the whole problem.”

He laughs, finally. Because of the irony of you saying that, Sleepy? Hilarious. 

You’re trying—god, you’re trying—to focus on the needle driver, on the difference between a simple interrupted stitch and a running one and whatever else his sexy mouth is saying. But your eyes keep dragging away. You’re tracking the sharp line of his jaw, how his shoulders roll when he reaches for the pad, the faint scar that disappears under the waistband of his sweats. Dr. Jack Abbot in full 'competent doctor' mode is lethal as it is. Shirtless and half-smirking? It’s just downright mean.

He finishes the demo, tying off a knot with a series of precise flicks that make your stomach flip. He’s so good with his hands, what a delicious way to remind you. Then, he looks up. This time, the smirk is unmistakable.

“Paying attention?” he asks, dry and knowing.

“Yeah,” you lie way too fast. “Totally.”

He hums, clearly not buying it. “Good. Now you try.”

You take the instruments, your fingers brushing his, the heat of him zips straight up your arm. However, he doesn’t move back to his seat. Instead, as you bend over the pad to try and mimic his grace, he circles behind you.

His presence is immediate, solid, heavy, and way too close. One hand settles on your hip to steady you, while the other reaches around to adjust your grip on the needle driver. His bare chest is a hair's breadth from your back.

“Relax your wrist, baby,” he murmurs into your ear, breath a warm ruin against your skin. “You’re gripping it like you’re about to stab someone. It’s not a weapon.”

You let out a shaky, breathy laugh and try to focus, trying your best to imitate what he’d just taught you. Your stitches are crooked as hell, he could probably do better one handed. You can feel him hovering over your shoulder, and you can practically hear the quiet amusement in the way he exhales. He’s too kind to mock you, but he’s enjoying this far too much.

“There you go, sweetheart,” he says, his voice vibrating through your spine as his thumb brushes the back of your hand, guiding you through the next pass. “See? Even tension. You’re getting it.”

You aren’t getting anything except lightheaded and horny. Which he knows. He absolutely knows. And he’s letting you know with little tells, like the way he lingers a second too long, or how his fingers stay anchored to your hip, even the faint chuckle when your next stitch pulls too tight. Evil old man. This “lesson” stopped being about first aid ten minutes ago.

He leans in a fraction more, glasses still perched on the tip of his nose, his voice a soft, velvet tease against your hair. “You’re doing great, sweetheart… but if you keep looking at me like that instead of the pad, I’m going to have to supervise a lot closer.”

Your next stitch goes completely sideways this time. He laughs fully now, low, warm, and unfairly deep, and you realize you aren’t learning a single useful thing tonight.

“Fuck this,” you mutter.

his mouth was relentless, hot and slick and merciless, tongue flattening wide before curling tight around your swollen clit, dragging slow and deliberate like he wanted to taste every little pulse. wet sounds filled the room, the obscene, filthy little slurps and laps that made your cheeks burn hotter. he sucked you between his lips with a low, hungry groan that vibrated straight into your core, the rumble traveling up your spine and shattering behind your eyes.

your thighs trembled against his grip, muscles jumping and twitching as another thick wave of pleasure slammed into you. he didn't let you twist away though; instead, he spread you wider, thumbs digging crescents into the soft flesh of your inner thighs, holding your dripping pussy open so he could bury his face deeper. his nose pressed firm against your mound, rubbing in tight circles while his tongue speared inside you, fucking you with long, greedy strokes that curled and stroked every sensitive ridge.

you were soaked, embarrassingly so—your arousal coating his chin, dripping down to ruin the sheets even more—but he only hummed in approval, the vibration making your back bow hard off the bed. his free hand slid higher, rough fingertips finally capturing one aching nipple, rolling and pinching it in time with every devastating flick of his tongue. sparks shot from your chest straight down to where his mouth devoured you, the dual stimulation leaving you gasping, almost sobbing, fingers clawing uselessly at the damp cotton beneath you and at his gray curls.

he pulled back just enough to drag his tongue through your folds in one long, torturous stripe, collecting every drop of your slick mixed with his spit before sealing his lips around your clit again and sucking hard. your vision whited out at the edges, again, hips jerking helplessly against his unyielding hold as the pressure coiled tighter and tighter, threatening to snap you in half.

“jack, please—” the words tore out of you, cracked and desperate, barely more than a whimper, your voice was already raspy.

he hummed against your soaked cunt, the sound low and indulgent, and pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss right over your throbbing clit before answering.

“shhh, shhh… it’s okay, baby,” he murmured, voice rough, deepened by lust, lips brushing against your swollen folds with every word. his breath was scalding hot, teasing your highly oversensitive nerves. “just breathe for me.”

you tried to close your legs, overwhelmed, but he held you open easily, freckled arms flexing as he kept you pinned exactly where he wanted you. he licked another lazy, filthy stripe up your pussy, savoring the way you fluttered and leaked for him.

“let me have this, pretty girl,” he cooed, pressing the flat of his tongue against your clit and giving it a slow, heavy drag that made your toes curl. “i’m not done yet. not even close. you’re gonna let me keep eating this pretty pussy until i’ve had my fill… yeah?”

his voice was velvet-soft and teasing, dripping with lazy, adoring confidence while his mouth stayed cruel, so unlike his voice. sucking, licking, humming praises right into your pussy like he had all the time in the world—which in nights like these, when he needed to blow off some steam, he did.— every time your hips twitched too hard or your voice broke on another plea, he’d gentle you with another soft “shhh, baby, i got you,” only to immediately dive back in deeper, tongue diving deeper into you.

jack was starving.

there was no other word for it. the man was ravenous. he shifted his weight forward, pressing his broad chest and shoulders down over your lower body, blanketing you. he was careful to not crush you, just applying enough weight to be heavy enough to pin your hips flush to the mattress, trapping you completely under him while his arms stayed locked around your thighs, keeping you spread open for him.

his mouth never stopped. he licked a long, slow, filthy stripe from the very bottom of you, starting at your soaked, fluttering little hole, dragging all the way up through your dripping folds, over your entrance, and then higher still, teasing your sensitive clit before circling back down. the flat of his tongue painted every inch, collecting the slick that had leaked down to your ass and tasting it like it was the best thing he’d ever had.

“fuck, baby… you’re dripping all the way down here,” he groaned against you, voice wrecked and low. he pressed the tip of his tongue right there, right against that tight little ring, giving it one slow, deliberate swirl that made your whole body jolt. “so messy for me. leaking everywhere f’me.”

you whimpered, completely overwhelmed, trying to twist, but his weight held you perfectly still. he hummed in satisfaction at your reaction and dove back in harder, face buried so deep his nose rubbed against your clit. his jaw must’ve be aching by now, but if it was, he didn’t care.

“that’s it,” he murmured between long, hungry licks, lips shiny and slick with you. “don’t fight it, pretty girl. just let me eat. i’m not stopping until this sweet pussy stops twitching for me… and we both know that’s not happening anytime soon.”

he sealed his mouth around your clit again, sucking hard while two thick fingers slid down to tease your entrance, pressing just inside and curling mercilessly. his weight, his arms, his relentless mouth… all of it kept you pinned and spread and completely at his mercy.

“This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t undermined my calls in front of the whole floor.”

“If I hadn’t—” You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “My triage was sound, Abbot. You were moving too fast, skipping steps, making calls based on gut instinct when we had time to be methodical. And because you couldn’t hear that, we lost a patient.”

“We lost a patient because the situation was already a mess when they came through the doors.” His jaw was tight. “Not because of me.”

“You keep telling yourself that.”

Jack let out a dry, humorless sound —not quite a laugh— and shook his head, looking away. He pulled out the chair from beneath the counter and sat down heavily. “You’re so damn sure of yourself for a resident.”

Maybe you were. Perhaps you were as certain as he was immovable.

But you were also right. It wasn’t arrogance, your approach had been methodical, controlled, built on protocol and pattern recognition. Jack’s had been all instinct and speed, the kind of approach you took when you’d been doing this in a combat zone and didn’t have the luxury of time.

Jack’s calls were all aggression: rapid assessment, immediate intervention, full force. Even Robby had backed him in the moment.

Your calls were all strategy. Systematic. Prioritizing the most salvageable in sequence, working through the board steadily instead of attacking the loudest problem first. It took a fraction more time, but would’ve been more efficient. Less chaos. Better odds.

But Jack was immovable. Had refused to even entertain it.

“I was right, you know,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest and looking at him steadily. “Systematic triage was the right call.”

“Sure,” he said with a shrug, not looking at you. “If you wanted to move at a crawl while people bled out.”

“That’s not what happened and you know it.” Your voice stayed even. “A mass casualty isn’t a combat zone. I’m sorry, but you can’t just default to battlefield medicine every time volume spikes. The situations are different.”

“Are they?” He finally looked at you, and there was something sharp and certain in his expression. “Because from where I’m standing, chaos is chaos. You work efficiently, you work hard, you make the call and you move. Hesitation costs more than mistakes.”

“And recklessness costs more than caution.” Your tone rose slightly. “They weren’t all critical. Some of those patients could’ve waited four minutes. Four. But you had everyone sprinting, doubling up on rooms that didn’t need two people, leaving the actual criticals understaffed—”

“I had a system—”

“You had a reflex.” The word landed harder than you meant it to, but you didn’t take it back. “There’s a difference.”

Silence fell over the on-call room after that. He looked away. You did the same.

Things with Jack had always been like this. You two could never agree on approach, could never seem to get through a complicated case without ending up on opposite sides. Usually Robby or one of the charge nurses stepped in before it fully escalated.

But now it was just the two of you. With however many hours left to argue without anyone running interference.

It got boring. Really fast.

The lockdown was meant to get the two of you to talk. There were no charts, no phones, no computers. Someone had even taken the coffee maker’s power cord, which felt personal. Nothing to do but sit in the pale fluorescent hum of the on-call room and stew.

But talking was the last thing either of you wanted. So you found ways to pass the time, even in the limited space.

You were sitting cross-legged on the cot, running a pen cap absently between your fingers, end over end, just to give your hands something to do.

Jack, however, had exhausted the options available to him. He’d leaned back in the chair until it creaked, stared at the ceiling, stretched his neck, and was now just… sitting. Still. Watching you with the attention that came from a man who was very good at staying alert when there was nothing to be alert about.

“Are you just going to stare at me?” you asked, not looking up from the pen.

Jack clicked his tongue, but didn’t look away. “Why, does it bother you?”

You stilled for a moment, pen balanced between two fingers. Then you made yourself keep spinning it. “Try with annoying.”

“Right,” he said, with the smallest nod. “Your undying problem with me.”

“It’s not a problem with you,” you said, faster than you meant to. “You just happen to get under my skin.”

“Don’t like being contradicted?”

“Don’t like being dismissed.” You corrected, eyes still down. “There’s a difference.”

“I never dismissed you.” His voice was quieter now, the edge of it softer.

“You talked over me in front of the whole floor, Abbot.”

A pause.

“…Yeah,” he said, after a moment. “I did.”

You looked up at that, because you hadn’t expected it. He was looking at his hands, forearms on his knees, that same careful stillness.

“You say things like that,” you said, more quietly now, “and then I don’t know what to do with you.”

“You can’t stand me because I push back,” he said. “That’s all it is.”

“Which is the same reason you argue with me.”

“We wouldn’t argue if you’d slow down long enough to see that sometimes the instinct call is the right one.”

“And sometimes the methodical one is,” you returned, without heat. “Neither of us is always right, Jack.”

He looked at you then. And for a moment, neither of you said anything.

“Hard calls aren’t always the right ones,” you said, eventually.

“No,” he agreed, which surprised you again. “They’re not.”

That small honesty didn’t resolve anything, exactly, but it loosened something in the air. You both retreated into quiet for a while, and you ended up stretched out on the cot, not really sleeping, just resting your eyes.

“So,” you said eventually, loud enough to carry across the room. He shifted in the chair, indicating he was listening. “Why are you so intent on not hearing me out?”

“I hear you out.”

“You hear me talk,” you corrected. “That’s different.”

A pause. “…Fair.”

“All that experience and you can’t stand being challenged by a resident.”

“I can stand it fine.” A beat. “It’s more that you challenge me like you’re not a resident.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“It’s an observation.”

You turned your head to look at him. He was watching you, the way he did — steady, unreadable, but not unkind.

“When you’re not in combat mode,” you said, “you’re actually not terrible to work with.”

“High praise.”

“I mean it.”

He was quiet for a moment. “You’re a good doctor,” he said, simply, like he’d been sitting on it. “Better than most residents I’ve seen come through. That’s not nothing.”

You blinked. “…Thank you.”

“Don’t get used to it.” But there was something close to dry warmth in his voice.

“Are we in confession time right now?”

“Apparently.”

You stared at the ceiling again. “Okay then.” A breath. “That shift, two months ago—”

You felt him go still across the room before you even finished the sentence. You’d wondered when one of you was going to bring it up. Or if either of you would ever.

“The overnight after the pileup,” you said, since he wasn’t stopping you.

“Yeah,” he said, carefully. “I remember.”

“If Kwame hadn’t walked in when he did—”

“Don’t,” he said. Not harshly. Just quietly.

“I’m just asking.”

A long pause.

“I don’t know,” he said. Which meant he did.

FLASHBACK

It had been a brutal forty-eight hours.

The tail end of a double shift —your second in a row, covering for a sick colleague— and the ER had not let up. A multi-car pileup, a pediatric sepsis case that had everyone on edge, and somewhere in the middle of all of it, Jack had been in the thick of a SWAT callout that had gone longer and uglier than expected. He’d shown up at the end of the overnight still in tactical gear, blood on his sleeve that wasn’t his — mostly — and a gash along his forearm that he was absolutely refusing to acknowledge.

You’d noticed it when he reached past you for a chart.

“That needs to be looked at,” you said.

“It’s fine.”

“Abbot.”

“I said it’s fine.”

You’d looked at him directly, and he’d held your gaze for a second before his eyes cut away, the particular kind of surrender that wasn’t really surrender, just acknowledgment. He followed you to one of the empty curtained bays at the quieter end of the floor.

“Sit,” you said, snapping on a glove.

He sat on the edge of the bed, and you pulled the rolling stool close. This was the thing about Jack at the end of a long call — the combat-ready stillness was still there, but something underneath it was tired in a way he didn’t show anyone. You’d only seen it a handful of times.

You didn’t comment on it. Just worked.

You cleaned the gash carefully, assessing the depth, asking him in clipped clinical questions to keep him talking while you worked, not because you needed the distraction, but because silence with Jack at 4am felt like standing too close to something you didn’t have a name for yet.

“Hold still,” you murmured, repositioning slightly to get a better angle.

“I am holding still.”

“You’re tensing.”

“That’s just how my arm looks.”

You glanced up at him. He was watching you work, attentive and unhurried, and for a second your eyes met and neither of you looked away immediately.

You refocused.

“This is going to need a couple of sutures,” you said.

“Fine.”

“You’re not going to argue with me?”

“On this one,” he said quietly, “no.”

You worked in silence after that. The floor was dim, the curtain drawn, and the particular hush of a hospital at 4am had settled over everything. You were close enough to him that you could feel the warmth of him, closer than you’d needed to get, technically, but you hadn’t moved back.

His free hand had drifted, at some point, to rest near your knee on the stool — not touching, just near.

You tied off the last suture, and when you looked up he was already looking at you.

“There,” you said, softer than you meant to.

“Thanks,” he said, equally quiet.

Neither of you moved for a moment. The space between you was very small.

Then his hand did move, slow and deliberate to the edge of the stool, and when you didn’t pull back, he tilted forward slightly, just enough, and when your eyes met again there was a question in his that you answered by closing the distance first, just barely, and then his mouth was on yours.

It was careful at first. Unhurried. The kind of kiss that had been thought about more than either of you had been willing to admit to yourselves.

His hand came up to the side of your face, and you’d caught the front of his tactical shirt in your fingers, and the quiet of the floor seemed to seal around the two of you—

“Yo, has anyone seen—” Kwame’s voice preceded the curtain being yanked back by about half a second. He stopped. Stared. “Oh. Oh damn. I-my bad. Sorry. I’ll— yeah.” The curtain closed again.

You both pulled back.

Jack pressed his lips together, looking at a point just past your shoulder.

You let go of his shirt.

For a moment neither of you spoke.

“I should finish charting,” you said.

“Yeah,” he said.

You both looked everywhere but at each other as you gathered the suture kit.

END OF FLASHBACK.

You knew what the unfinished question in Jack’s voice had meant. The same question lived in your own chest, coming back at inopportune moments, quiet moments, end-of-shift moments, the moments when you found yourself in the same corridor as him and had to actively choose not to look.

If Kwame hadn’t walked in, you didn’t know exactly how it would have ended. But you knew neither of you would have stopped.

Instead, you’d both been interrupted, and then pretended —very, very badly— that it hadn’t happened. Things didn’t get easier after that. If anything the tension shifted into something harder to name, not the hot friction of a straight-up argument, but something underneath it. A current.

Sometimes, in the middle of a disagreement with him, when his voice got that low, firm quality and he leaned in slightly without realizing it, all you wanted to do was close the distance and settle it some other way. Which was an insane thing to want. You were a resident. He was an attending. It was already complicated enough.

And Jack —who was not prone to thinking about things he couldn’t act on—had found, to his own quiet frustration, that he thought about it anyway.

You’d announced you were taking a shower mostly to get some space. The bathroom was small enough that the hot water ran out in under five minutes, which was probably fine, you didn’t need long. You just needed to stop being in the same twelve square feet as Jack Abbot for a little while.

It didn’t help.

The moment you were alone with the sound of the water and nothing else to focus on, your mind went exactly where you’d been keeping it from going all night. The curtained bay. 4am. His hand on the side of your face.

Damn him for bringing it up.

You’d managed, more or less, to keep it in a locked room in the back of your head for two months. You’d been professional. You’d been focused. You’d argued with him about triage protocols and talked yourself into believing that was all there was between you: friction, disagreement, the particular frustration of two people who were too similar in the ways that caused problems.

You turned off the water and stood there for a second, dripping, trying to recalibrate.

You reached for where you’d left your clothes.

They weren’t there.

You stood very still.

They were on the cot. Where you’d left them before you got in, because the bathroom had no counter space and you’d been distracted and hadn’t thought it through.

You wrapped the towel firmly around yourself, tucked the corner in, and opened the door.

Jack was sitting on the edge of the cot, your clothes next to him, which meant he’d noticed, which meant he’d been aware of it the whole time and hadn’t said anything. His head turned toward you the moment the door opened, instinctive, and his eyes moved over you once before he looked away. Deliberate. Respectful.

You crossed the room toward him. He looked up again when you were close, and the careful neutrality on his face had the particular quality of someone working to maintain it.

You reached for your clothes.

He stood up. Not for any reason you could name —there was no reason, the room was small but not that small— he just stood, and now he was right there, and he was taller than you in a way you were suddenly very aware of.

You looked at him. He looked at you.

You took one step closer, slow, measuring. And that was all it took before the thread holding both of you back finally, decisively, snapped.

Jack’s lips met yours with a certainty that surprised you, not rough, not tentative, just decided. Like a call he’d already made and was done second-guessing. Both his hands came up to frame your face, and you kissed him back, your fingers curling into the front of his scrub top.

It wasn’t a small kiss. It was the kind of kiss that had been sitting in the back of a throat for two months, getting heavier.

He pulled you closer by your hip, the towel the only thing between his hand and your skin, his fingers pressing in like he was trying to feel through it. You caught his lower lip between your teeth and felt him exhale hard through his nose, his grip tightening.

His tongue slid against yours and you grabbed a fistful of his hair, and the sound he made against your mouth —low, involuntary— sent heat straight down your spine.

The kiss deepened. All the friction of the last however-many hours, all the clashing and the arguing and the careful distance, collapsed into it. You tugged at his hair and he groaned into your mouth, his arm pulling you flush against him, trying to close every last inch of space between you.

He was the one who broke it.

His hand stayed on your hip, deliberate, so you’d know, and he pulled back just far enough to look at you, his breathing uneven. His eyes moved from yours to your mouth, to the line of your throat, then back up. Darker than usual.

The question was there without him having to say it.

You nodded. Once, clear.

That was enough.

His mouth was back on yours with the same certainty as before, and this time neither of you were holding anything back. You worked at the hem of his scrub top, pulling it over his head without breaking the kiss for more than a second, and the towel hit the floor a moment later, leaving you bare—your tits heavy and nipples already tight from the cool air and the heat of his gaze. His eyes raked over them, then lower, lingering on the slickness already glistening between your thighs.

His hands moved over you, warm and unhurried now that he wasn’t reining himself in anymore—one palm cupping the swell of your breast, thumb brushing your nipple until you arched, the other sliding down to grip your ass and pull you tighter against the hard length of his cock straining through his scrubs.

You two found your way to the cot in a series of half-steps, his lips moving to your jaw, your neck, the curve of your shoulder. It was narrow —barely wide enough for one person, let alone two— but neither of you suggested the floor and neither of you suggested doing this differently.

Stubborn. Both of you, constitutionally incapable of the easier option.

He laid you back against it and followed, caging you in, and when his mouth moved lower, to your collarbone, the valley of your tits, he took one nipple between his lips, sucking hard enough to make you gasp, tongue flicking over the peak before switching to the other. Your hand stayed tangled in his hair, and you let yourself stop thinking about anything except this.

He was thorough. Annoyingly, devastatingly thorough, in the same way he was thorough about everything, like he was making up his mind about something and wasn’t going to be rushed. His mouth traced a slow path down your stomach and lower, spreading your thighs with steady hands. When his lips pressed to the inside of your thigh you made a sound that you immediately wanted to reclaim.

“Jack—”

“Yeah?” His breath was warm against your skin, so close to your cunt you could feel the heat of it.

“You know what.”

He pressed a kiss just below your knee. “Not sure I do.”

“Don’t—” He kissed the inside of your knee. “—be a—” the middle of your thigh— “—you know what you’re doing.”

You could feel him almost smiling against your skin. “I really don’t.”

His breath ghosted over your clit and you tried to close your legs on instinct, more out of principle than anything else. He stopped it easily with one forearm across your thighs, and when he looked up at you the expression on his face was the same one he got when he knew he’d made the right call and was waiting for you to admit it.

You hated it. You also needed him to keep going immediately.

“Fine,” you said, with as much dignity as you could manage flat on your back. “Please.”

“Was that so hard?”

“Incredibly.”

He laughed,— a real one, quiet and warm— and then his mouth was on your cunt, lips wrapping around your clit, sucking gently at first, then harder, tongue swirling slow circles before flicking fast over the swollen bud. His fingers parted your folds, sliding two thick ones inside your wet heat, curling against that spot while his tongue worked your clit relentlessly.

You were right at the edge embarrassingly fast, your breathing wrecked, your hips pressing toward his mouth without permission, cunt clenching around his fingers… when he stopped.

Pulled back. Completely.

“What—” you opened your eyes. “Are you serious right now?”

He was looking at you with that infuriating almost-smirk, his chin resting on the inside of your thigh like he had all the time in the world, lips shiny with your arousal.

“Jack.”

“You were saying?”

“I will actually never speak to you again.”

“Mm.” He pressed a single soft kiss to your inner thigh, then higher, tongue dipping once more into your cunt just to tease. “No you won’t.”

He was right, which made it worse. You grabbed his hair again in something that was closer to dragging than guiding, and he came willingly, his body covering yours, his mouth back on your throat.

“I hate you,” you told him.

“Yeah,” he said, against your collarbone. “You mentioned.”

“I mean it.”

“Sure.” His lips curved against your skin. “You want me to stop?”

“If you stop I will end you.”

He laughed again, and then his hips shifted against yours. He shoved his scrubs and boxers down just enough to free his cock—thick, hard, the head already slick—and dragged it through your folds, coating himself in your wetness, teasing your entrance and brushing your clit with every slow pass until you whimpered.

The pace he set wasn’t slow. Neither of you had the patience for slow at this point. He thrust in deep in one smooth stroke, filling your cunt completely, stretching you around his cock. The cot frame protested audibly with every movement, knocking rhythmically against the wall as he fucked into you hard and steady, and at some point one of the legs gave a sharp crack —not breaking, just threatening to— and you both stilled for half a second.

You looked at each other.

“If we break this cot,” you said, “I’m blaming you.”

“Obviously,” he said, and his hips rolled against yours again, cock driving deeper, hitting that spot that made your eyes roll back, and you forgot what you were going to say next.

He’d shifted the angle slightly, and you felt it differently now, his pelvic bone grinding against your clit with every thrust, his cock dragging along your walls, filling you over and over. Your nails found his back and stayed there, and he made a low sound that rumbled against your ear, and all the careful professional distance of the last two months burned off completely.

When you came it was with your cunt pulsing hard around his cock, walls clenching tight, thighs shaking, your face pressed into his shoulder and his name leaving your lips in a way you’d never said it before. He followed shortly after, thrusting deep one last time as he spilled inside you, hot and thick, his breath rough and uneven at your ear, cock twitching with each pulse.

Then everything went quiet except the two of you trying to remember how to breathe.

He didn’t immediately move off you. His weight settled, cock still softening inside your pussy, and you let it.

After a while he shifted to the side, which on a cot this narrow meant he was still pressed against you, one arm crooked behind his head, staring at the ceiling. You stayed where you were, recovering, feeling the slow drip of his cum leaking out of you.

“That was—” you started.

“Yeah,” he said.

“We’re going to have to talk about this.”

“I know.”

“Not right now.”

“No,” he agreed. “Not right now.”

You were quiet for a moment. The on-call room felt different than it had four hours ago. Smaller, warmer, the fluorescent hum somehow less hostile.

“You still think your triage call was right,” you said.

“I do,” he said. “You?”

“Yes.”

A pause.

“Good,” he hummed, and there was something almost satisfied in it. “I’d be worried if you’d changed your mind.”

You turned your head to look at him. He was already looking at you, that steady, attentive quality he had, the one that had annoyed you for months and that you understood now, in a different way.

“You’re impossible,” you told him.

“So are you,” he agreed. And then, quieter: “It’s not the worst thing.”

You looked at him for another moment. Then you settled back, shoulder against his, and stared at the water-stained ceiling of the on-call room.

“When they let us out of here,” you said, “this is going to be complicated.”

“Probably.”

“Are you worried about that?”

He considered it, the way he considered most things, fully, without rushing.

“No,”

You thought about it.

“Me neither,” you said.

Outside, the hospital kept going. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughed. A gurney wheel squeaked past the door. The shift went on without you.

now, rafe trails a few steps behind you, one hand lazily looped through the strap of your tote bag as you weave through the crowd like you own it. you’re all confidence and ease— head high, stride steady—completely at home in the hum of conversation, the beat of music rolling through the street.

he watches the way the sunlight catches in your hair, turning it gold at the edges, the way your fingers brush over handcrafted jewelry and woven textiles with quiet curiosity. he listens as you switch between english and spanish mid-sentence, fluid and unbothered, like it’s second nature, and for you, it is.

it’s something he’s never been able to mirror, not really. that easy grace, that warmth. he doesn’t try to fake it, either. he just watches you, content to exist in your orbit, quietly proud to be the one holding on to you.

there’s a little band playing salsa under one of the tents. the rhythm of the drums, the sharp blare of trumpets—it all pulls your attention like a magnet. you slow down, tugging at his hand.

“rafe,” you say, grinning over your shoulder. “come on.”

he arches a brow, but doesn’t budge. “come on what?”

you nod toward the music, toward the crowd of dancers moving like they’ve got fire in their veins. “dance with me.”

he snorts. “babe, i’ve got two left feet and a public image i’m barely holding together.”

“oh, please. you don’t have an image, you have a reputation,” you shoot back, already stepping closer, fingers lacing through his. “and i’m not asking for a full routine, just a little sway. bare minimum.”

“i don’t sway,” he says it like it’s beneath him, like it’s a moral stance. “i’m a stand-in-the-back-and-hold-a-drink kind of guy.”

“and i let you get away with that ninety percent of the time,” you say, inching closer, your smile too sweet to resist. “you owe me.”

rafe sighs like he’s being asked to walk into traffic. “god, i’m so whipped.”

“you are,” you agree cheerfully, giving his hand a squeeze. “but at least you’re hot.”

you pull him into the edge of the dancing crowd—not the center; you know better than to push him that far—and loop your arms around his neck, your body already falling into the rhythm. your smile is warm, teasing, but your eyes are steady on his.

“just follow my lead,” you murmur. “or at least try not to step on me.”

“i make no promises,” he says under his breath, but his hands are already on your waist, fingers slipping beneath your tank top like they belong there, like they’ve missed being there.

the music curls around you, alive and loud, but you don’t hear it the way everyone else does. it’s background noise now, what you feel is rafe’s hands, warm on your skin, the lazy drag of your hips, the heat of his gaze.

you move easily, your body responding to the music with an effortless sway, like it lives somewhere deep inside your chest. rafe tries to follow, too focused, too tense, until you lean in and murmur something soft and teasing in spanish, your breath brushing his ear. that’s when he loosens. his jaw unclenches, his grip changes—firmer now, more certain—and suddenly he’s not dancing next to you anymore, he’s dancing with you.

“you know,” he says, voice low, his eyes fixed on your mouth like it’s the world’s eight wonder, “if you ever started speaking spanish during a fight, i’d fold. instantly.”

you laugh quietly, the sound warming up his chest. “good to know, i’ll keep that in my back pocket.”

you stay like that, close, swaying in your own slow orbit, for longer than you meant to. it’s not really dancing, not really anything the band would write home about, but it’s yours. his thumb traces absent circles along the curve of your back, your fingers toy with the ends of his hair, his head dips closer like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, like the pull between you is muscle memory.

and even though he doesn’t know the words swirling around you, it doesn’t matter. he gets the meaning, he gets you. you teach him the important parts anyway. mi cielo. mi amor.

eventually, you peel away from the crowd, weaving through the maze of people with rafe in tow, and head straight for the row of food tents. the smell of fried dough, grilled meat, and something vaguely sweet clings to the air like a second skin. you make a beeline for a stand selling homemade empanadas, already chatting animatedly with the woman behind the counter before rafe can even catch up.

he tries to follow the conversation, catching maybe one word in five. but he doesn’t mind, you're glowing—hands moving with the rhythm of your words, eyes bright, mouth curved in that easy, familiar smile—and that’s more than enough to keep him enchanted.

you hand him one of the empanadas, still hot and wrapped in a napkin, then blow dramatically on yours before taking a bite. rafe eyes his suspiciously, trying to identify what’s inside without opening it up. he sniffs, squints, pokes at the corner, then gives up. “what’s in this?”

“magic,” you reply after swallowing, covering your mouth anyway. “just eat it, cameron.”

he takes a bite—and immediately groans in delight. “okay, fine. this is… fuck this is good, this is insane.”

you look smug. of course you do, you know his taste better than he does, and you knew he’d love it.

“see? it’s good, i don’t know why you act like i’ve ever steered you wrong.”

“you haven’t,” he concedes. “but you have handed me food i can’t even pronounce.”

“that’s not sabotage,” you say, biting into your empanada again. “that’s cultural education, baby.”

he snorts. “you’re setting me up to embarrass myself.”

“only a little. builds character.” you elbow him gently, leaning into his side, your head finding its place just under his jaw for a moment, rafe shifts without thinking, instinctively adjusting to hold you closer.

“i like this,” you say quietly, your voice soft, almost like a secret. “us, doing normal stuff, out in the open.”

rafe goes still for a beat, not like he’s panicking, but like the words hit somewhere deeper than he expected. it’s a little unfamiliar, this softness between you, but it feels good. like something he never knew he wanted.

“me too,” he finally says, his voice low, thoughtful. “even if i’m the least normal part of it.”

“don’t say that,” you chastise softly, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. you search his face, trying to make him understand. “you're not what other people think you are. not with me.”

the words settle over him in a way he doesn’t know how to process, something stirring deep inside him, something that makes him feel exposed but safe all at once. it’s not a feeling he’s used to, but it lingers, unnameable, in the space between you.

so, without warning, he leans in and kisses you—right there, in the middle of the bustling market, the music still playing in the background, sweat dampening his neck, and dough crumbs dusting his fingers. it’s not a clean kiss, not perfect or polished, but it’s real. soft and unbalanced, with you smiling against his lips, and him chasing yours like he doesn’t care if it’s messy. his hands tighten around your waist, pulling you closer, as if he’s afraid you might slip away if he doesn’t hold on.

you spend the rest of the afternoon meandering through the market, the world around you melting into a blur of color and sound. every so often, you test his spanish, grinning as you playfully coax him to say a word again. “say it again: queso fresco. no, slower.” his attempts are hilariously bad, but they only make him more endearing to you. you laugh, and he grumbles in frustration, but the smile never leaves his face.

as the sun begins to dip lower and cast a golden haze across the stalls, you slow your pace in front of a row of flower buckets; sunflowers, carnations, and roses all bunched together in wrinkled paper. you don’t say anything, just stop for a second to look.

but rafe notices.

without a word, he steps ahead of you, pulls out his wallet, and nods toward the sunflowers. “those please,” he says to the older woman running the stall, his voice low and a little rough from the day.

the flower vendor, somewhere in her late sixties, pauses her hands and looks at him—then at you. something in her face softens.

“¿para tu novia?” she asks gently, eyes crinkling like she already knows the answer.

rafe hesitates, but only for a moment. “sí.”

she hums, pleased, and begins wrapping the bouquet with delicate care, more care than you’d expect for something that’s going to be handed off and carried away.

when she finishes, she hands the flowers to rafe but doesn’t let go right away. instead, she rests her other hand lightly on his wrist.

“las flores no duran para siempre,” she says quietly, her gaze fond and firm. “pero si las das con el corazón, el recuerdo sí. el amor está en los pequeños gestos, mijo.”

(flowers don’t last forever, but if you give them with your heart, the memory does. love is in the small gestures, son.)

he nods, a little flustered to be caught so easily, was it really that obvious he’s head over heels with you? he thanks the lady and turns to you with the flowers in hand.

you laugh, a little taken aback by how full your chest feels. your cheeks are warm as rafe hands you the bouquet, trying to play it off like it’s no big deal. but it is, you know it is.

“i saw you looking,” he says, voice a little awkward, a little shy.

you press your face into the petals, smiling so wide it nearly hurts. “you’re a sap.”

he rolls his eyes but he’s not really annoyed. “say gracias, or i’m taking them back.”

“gracias, mi amor,” you echo, overdramatic and grinning, with a curtsy that earns you a shake of his head and a low laugh.

when the day finally winds down, and you’re both sun-drunk and full, rafe drives you home. he glances over at you every now and then from the driver’s seat, your sunglasses perched on your nose, your hair tangled from the breeze, the playlist on your phone filling the quiet with old, familiar tunes, one of your hands holding the bouquet against you. he feels this warmth spread through him, a kind of quiet contentment he never really thought he could have.

and all he can think is: i could get used to this. this version of me, this version of us.