Just the Stories, Ma'am

Without a word, you grabbed him by the collar of his scrubs and began dragging him toward the ambulance bay. He was too stunned to resist as you pulled him through the double doors and down the winding exterior path of the hospital, seeking the silence of the concrete walls away from the sirens.

Once you reached a secluded alcove, you shoved him back. He stumbled, catching himself against a stone pillar, and turned toward you with wild, disbelieving eyes. He opened his mouth to bark a protest, but you beat him to it.

“What the fuck did you just say to me?” you demanded, your finger poking hard against the center of his chest. “You don’t speak to me like that. You want something done? You ask nicely. Yelling doesn’t get you anywhere in this hospital, especially with me.”

Jack stood there, momentarily stunned into submission by the sheer force of your fury. Your chest was heaving, and your hair had begun to tumble out of its clip, framing a face that was flushed with adrenaline.

“You’re right,” he finally snapped back, his voice low and frustrated. “But holy fuck you are infuriating. Everything I order or say, you contradict. It’s like you don’t want this ER to run smoothly. You are the bane of my night. Every day I come in here and I cannot even fathom the ways you will try to undermine me.”

He began taking slow, deliberate steps toward you until your back was flush against the cool stone of the wall. He moved until the space between you disappeared.

“No, I don’t!” you stammered, the words losing their edge. The sheer closeness of him, the heat radiating off his body, was breaking you down. It was quickly eroding that cool no nonsense exterior you worked tirelessly to keep.

Up close, he smelled incredibly good, just as he always did.

“Yes, you do. And I think you like it. You like seeing me squirm”. His eyes locked onto yours, challenging you.

Your gaze dropped instinctively to his lips. In that moment, you decided that the only way to end this intense, insane tension that had been building between you for weeks was to finally lean into it. You were out of cares and fucks to give.

You dove in first.

It didn't take long for his hands to find your jaw, gripping you with a desperation that matched your own. The kiss was fiery, intense, and so heated that your teeth bumped, but neither of you cared.

“This is what you wanted, huh? This is what you’ve always wanted,” he panted against your lips.

“Shut the fuck up and kiss me,” you breathed.

He didn't need to be told twice. His hands roamed over your body, pinching at your waist before dropping lower to palm your ass. 

Jack’s hands were now frantic as they tangled in your hair, pulling you closer.

When Jack finally moaned your name against your lips, a sound that seemed to go through his entire chest, it was more delicious than any victory you’d ever won over him in the ER.

The way he licked into your mouth sent electric tingles racing down your spine, hitting you right where you needed it most. 

The sound of an inhaled gasp cut through the silence. You both froze, breaking apart just enough to see Dr. Mel standing there, her eyes wide and her face pale under the flickering exterior lights. She looked at the two of you, your flushed faces, your disheveled scrubs and then turned away with a swiftness.

"I’m… I’m sorry," Mel stammered, her voice high and tight as she stared fixedly at a distant brick wall. "Dr. Abbot, we… we need you in Trauma 1. Now."

He didn't look at Mel. Instead, he reached out and gave your arm a firm, lingering squeeze before he turned and sprinted back toward the ER doors.

You stood there for a second, trying to steady your breathing and smooth down your hair, but you weren't more than a few paces behind him. As you moved to follow him back into the heat of the hospital, Mel walked back toward the entrance, pausing to give you an unreadable, odd look.

You didn't let her speak.

"Don’t even say a word," you said, brushing past her and back into the chaos of the shift.

……………………………………………….

[07:14 AM] Jack: Just saw you clock out. You didn't wait.

[07:15 AM] Y/N: I’ve been on my feet for twelve hours, Abbot. If I stayed one more minute, I was going to fall asleep standing up in the lobby.

[07:17 AM] Jack: I’m only five minutes behind you. I'm already in my car.

[07:18 AM] Y/N: Good for you. Hope your bed is as comfortable as mine is about to be.

[07:20 AM] Jack: That’s the problem. I don't think I'm going to be able to sleep at my place.

[07:21 AM] Y/N: And whose fault is that?

[07:23 AM] Jack: Yours. Entirely yours.

[07:24 AM] Jack: Look... I'm tired of fighting you. Can I come over?

[07:27 AM] Jack: I’m asking to come over and put you to bed. Properly. 

[07:28 AM] Y/N: ...

[07:28 AM] Jack: Please?

[07:30 AM] Y/N: You finally learned how to ask nicely.

[07:31 AM] Y/N: Door’s unlocked. Don’t make me regret it.

Three weeks later, Derek had zero matches.

Not a disappointing handful. Zero. 

You on the other hand, had not bothered to download any apps.

You hadn't really meant to make a statement with this. It had just been a busy three weeks. You'd finished a full sleeve on a regular, taken three new consultations, and rearranged the whole studio. There simply hadn't been time to curate a selection of photos for a profile.

This was what you told Trinity on Thursday night, sitting in the back room of your shop, eating takeout.

"You haven't downloaded any apps," Trinity said, around a mouthful of noodles, "because you don't actually want to do this."

"I've been busy."

"You know what you haven't done?" She pointed her fork at you. "Anything. You have done nothing. Derek is out there failing spectacularly at the thing he begged you for and you are pretending this is a scheduling issue."

"I just don't think apps are really my.."

"Y/N."

"..thing, I'm more of an organic.."

"Y/N."

"..meeting people naturally kind of.."

"Y/N."

You looked up.

Trinity had put down her fork, which was how you knew she was serious.  "You have been with Derek since you were twenty. You have never, as an adult, gone on a date with anyone who wasn't Derek. You don't know what you like because you stopped asking yourself that question before your prefrontal cortex finished developing."

You opened your mouth.

"I love you," Trinity continued. "Derek is someone you have outgrown. You know it and I know it and I think somewhere in the part of him that isn't currently refreshing Hinge, he knows it too. This open relationship thing isn't evolution."

The shop was quiet around you. The flash art on the walls looked down from their frames.

"So," Trinity picked her fork back up. "Saturday. You and me. Roomie Dennis is meeting us at Dillon's at nine. You're going to put on something that isn't a work hoodie, you're going to go to a bar like a normal adult woman, and you are going to at least look at other human men and remember that they exist."

"I know men exist."

You thought about saying something. Several things, actually, arranged in a pretty solid argument about how you were fine, how the situation was fine, how you didn't need to go to a bar to prove you were a person. "Fine," you said.

"Saturday. Nine o'clock. Wear the black top." 

…

Dillon's was a bar that had been there forever. Dark wood, low lighting, a jukebox in the corner that still worked if you fed it right, and a bartender named Pete who remembered what you ordered after the second visit. It smelled like old leather and something hoppy and wasn't trying to be anything other than exactly what it was.

You had been here maybe a hundred times. You had never once come here with the intention of meeting someone.

"You look like you're waiting for a root canal." Dennis said, appearing with a fresh drink and an easy grin. Dennis was beautiful and knew it. But he used it as a resource for other people rather than a mirror for himself. He handed you the drink. "Relax. You're not here to find a husband. You're here to remember you are your own person."

"Trinity's been talking to you."

"Trinity texts me a lot of things." He clinked his glass against yours. "Drink. Look around. Remember that the world is full of people who aren't Derek."

You drank. The world was, in fact, full of people who weren't Derek. You weren't sure what to do with that.

The three of you had claimed a corner of the bar around nine, and for a while it was just good.  Trinity in her off duty clothes looking like someone had cut her loose and handed her a gin and tonic, Dennis telling a story about their neighbor's emotional support peacock that had genuinely no business being as long as it was, you laughing until something in your chest loosened a little. 

This was fine. 

Then, around eleven, Trinity met someone.

She was tall, with close cropped hair and had cheekbones that belonged in a museum, and she was looking at Trinity from three feet away like she had already made several decisions about the rest of their night. Trinity looked back. Something passed between them that was frankly none of your business.

"Go," you said.

"I'm not going to just leave you."

"Trinity." You pointed. "Go."

She did pause long enough to squeeze your arm and say "text me when you're home" and then she was gone, absorbed into the low light of the bar with the tall woman.

Dennis lasted another twenty minutes before he ran into someone he knew from his climbing gym, and then there were two of them, and then there were four, and then there was a whole situation happening at the other end of the bar that Dennis was at the center of like he always was, like a very charming sun with a small solar system of people around him.

You were alone at a bar for the first time in approximately a decade, with a drink that was three quarters gone and no particular plan for the next hour of your life.

You thought about going home. Derek would be awake, probably on his phone. You thought about what Trinity had said and the ten years that had quietly passed while you were busy building a life that was genuinely yours in every way except the one that mattered most.

You went to the bar top and ordered another drink.

"That's either a good sign or a bad one," said a voice to your left, "depending on what you're drinking."

The man settled onto the barstool next to you. He was older than you, late forties maybe, with salt and pepper hair that looked like it had started the evening neater than this.

He nodded at your glass. "Whiskey sour?"

"Whiskey sour" you confirmed.

"Good sign then." He caught the bartenders attention. "I'll have whatever she's having."

You should have looked back at your drink. That would have been the sensible thing. Instead you said, "Long night?"

He glanced at you, and there was something in it. A brief recalibration, like he'd expected to be left alone and had just revised his preference. "Long week," he said. "You?"

"Long decade, honestly."

The corner of his mouth moved. "That specific?"

"Very."

Once his drink came, he turned it once on the bar, a slow rotation. You noticed his hands. Large, careful, the hands of someone who used them precisely. You noticed other things too, cataloguing details. The slight wear at the collar of his shirt. The way he held himself, upright without being rigid, comfortable in his body.

"Jack," he said, and offered his hand.

"Y/N," you said, and shook it.

His grip was warm and brief. "So," he said, settling back. "The decade."

"I wasn't actually going to elaborate on that."

You looked at him. He looked back at you, and there it was the thing you hadn't been expecting, the thing that made you stay on your barstool instead of picking up your drink and relocating. He had the kind of eyes that were paying attention. Not performing attention. Actually, specifically, interested in you.

It had been a long time since someone had looked at you like you were something worth figuring out.

"Ten years with someone," you said, because apparently you were doing this. "We opened the relationship three weeks ago. His idea. He has zero matches thus far."

Jack considered this. "And you?”

"Didn’t download them. Instead, I cleaned my autoclave more times than necessary. If that gives you any indication of how I’m handling it."

Then the smile arrived "You're a surgeon?"

"Tattoo artist."

Something shifted in his expression, interest sharpening. His eyes moved briefly to your arms, to the ink there, the way people's eyes always did, and then back to your face, and unlike most people he didn't immediately start asking you what they meant or whether they hurt. 

"What do you do?" you asked.

"ER attending." He paused. "And some other stuff."

"Some other stuff," you repeated.

"SWAT medic shifts. When I'm needed."

No shit. You looked at him for a moment. His strong muscles pulling at his shirt. "So.. long week."

You talked for three hours.

Not continuously but always back to each other, always the thread of it intact. He told you about his army medic deployment without making it a hero story, just a thing that had happened to him that had made him who he was. You told him about opening your studio at twenty four with nine thousand dollars and a business plan you'd written on graph paper. He asked you questions like he actually wanted the answers. 

At some point you stopped thinking about the open relationship and Derek. You stopped thinking about going home. You were just here, at this bar, on this barstool, talking to this man who laughed at your jokes and it felt like something you hadn't known you'd been hungry for.

Which was exactly why, at half past one, when the bar was thinning out and the jukebox had cycled back around to something slow, you picked up your jacket. "I should go."

He didn't argue, just nodded in agreement. "Yeah."

You slid off the barstool and he stood when you did, the reflex of someone who'd been raised a certain way and hadn't bothered to unlearn it and you were suddenly aware of how much space he occupied when he was standing. How solid he was.

How close.

"It was good to meet you, Jack," you said.

"You too, Y/N."

You waited for him to ask for your number, but he didn't. He just looked at you with those eyes, easy and steady, and said "Don't forget my name."

You thought about saying something smart. Something that matched it.

Instead you just nodded, once, and walked out into the night air with your heart doing something complicated in your chest that you absolutely were not going to examine until you were home.

..

Your favorite coffee shop was four blocks from your shop, which meant you went there approximately every day and had therefore developed a loyalty that was less about the coffee and more about the fact that the barista at the counter knew your order.

Tuesday morning. Six days after the bar and you were waiting for your order, scrolling through a client's reference photos on your phone with one hand and thinking about how to translate a very detailed Japanese woodblock print into something that would read well on a shoulder, when someone stepped up to the counter beside you.

"Medium dark roast. Black."

Every single hair on your arms stood up. You looked up slowly, hoping very much to be wrong about what you were about to see.

Jack Abbot was standing inches away from you in what appeared to be post shift clothes. Dark pants, a grey fitted shirt with the sleeves pushed up. His hair was slightly disheveled. There was a tiredness around his eyes that hadn't been there at the bar.

He looked good and that was deeply inconvenient.

He turned and his eyes landed on you and did the same thing yours had just done. A half second of processing and then something that settled into warmth.

"Tattoo artist," he said.

"ER attending," you said back. 

The corner of his mouth moved the way it had at the bar, that almost smile. "Small city."

"Very small, apparently."

The barista set your coffee on the counter. You picked it up and held it with both hands and tried to look like a normal person.

"How's apps going for the boyfriend?" he asked.

"Still nothing."

"And you?"

"Nope." you said. Holding your tongue back from saying and it might have something to do with you. This person standing in front of me that I can’t seem to stop thinking about. 

He laughed and you couldn't stop yourself from enjoying it. Didn't want to.

His order came up. He took it, and for a moment you were both just standing there in the morning light of the coffee shop with your respective drinks, and it should have been awkward, but it wasn't. 

"How's the composition coming?" he asked.

You blinked. "What?"

"The shoulder piece. You were looking at reference photos." He nodded at your phone. 

You stared at him. "You could see that from over there?"

"I have good eyes." He looked down at his cup and smiled. "And..I was looking."

There it was again. That quality of attention. He'd just been looking, so he said so. Straightforward. 

"The reference is very detailed. Too much for the placement. I need to pull out what matters and let the rest go."

You were embarrassed then. By how much you were talking, but with him it felt easy. Felt like he wanted to hear it. 

"I have to get back," you said.

"Me too. Just got off a shift and my bed is calling my name. " He lifted his cup briefly. "Good to see you, Y/N."

"You too, Jack."

You made it exactly half a block before you stopped on the sidewalk in the thin morning sun and pressed your free hand briefly over your face and stood there for a moment, just breathing.

…

You didn't tell Trinity.

This was not a decision you made consciously. It was more that every time you opened your mouth to bring it up you got as far as so a weird thing happened and then something stopped you.

You couldn't name what the something was. Which was its own kind of answer, probably.

Derek had finally gotten a match on Hinge. He told you about it over Thai food from a spot he'd found near his office. He was nervous in the way he got when he wanted your permission for something and was working up to asking for it, and you gave it before he got there because it was easier and because part of you was simply, unexpectedly, relieved.

He went on the date on Friday. You worked late, finished a geometric back piece on a client who fell asleep halfway through.

You pulled out your phone. Derek had texted a photo from what appeared to be a rooftop bar, his arm around a woman with a bright smile, the caption reading she's really cool! Hope your night is good. 

...

You were between clients on a Thursday afternoon when the bell above your shop door announced someone.

This happened sometimes. The by appointment or by chance on the door was genuine. You believed in leaving room for the unplanned, for the person who walked past a window and felt something pull at them and followed it inside.

Some of your best work had come from chance clients. Your assistant, Bella,  handled walk ins on most days, did a quick consultation, got them on the books.

You were not prepared for the specific walk in that came through your door just now. 

Jack stepped inside and stopped. You'd designed the space with the same intention you brought to everything, It looked like a place that felt like home. People felt that when they walked in.

Jack felt it. You could see him feeling it, his eyes moving slowly around the room, taking it in.

Bella looked up from the front desk. Looked at him and then looked at you. 

"I've got it," you said.

She went back to her computer with the poorly concealed vibe of someone who was going to have questions. and lots of them.

You crossed the floor and stopped in front of him and waited for him to finish looking. His eyes landed on a woman's face in profile. One you'd drawn at twenty three. He looked at it for a long moment. "Yours?" he said.

"All of it's mine."

He nodded slowly. Then he looked at you "I was in the neighborhood." he said.

You looked at him and quirked a brow. "You were in the neighborhood?"

"Broadly speaking."

"The hospital is eleven blocks away."

"It's a big neighborhood." Not even a flicker of embarrassment. "I wanted to see your shop."

You stood there for a moment looking at this man who had walked eleven blocks out of his way on a Thursday afternoon and was telling you so without any apparent intention of making it smaller than it was.

Something in your chest made the decision your brain was still debating. "Let me show you around."

He asked questions that showed he'd already been thinking. About the difference between styles, about how you decided what went on the walls versus what stayed in your portfolio, about whether the design process started with the client or with you.

You answered them. All of them. More than you usually did.

He stopped at your station and studied it. "Organized," he said.

"Everything has a place."

"Same in an ER." He looked at the tray. "You have to be able to reach what you need without looking."

"Exactly." You paused. "Although my tools are slightly less.."

"High stakes?"

"I was going to say scary, but sure."

He laughed and you walked him back to the front and he stopped at the door and you were close enough that you were suddenly aware of the particular gravity of him, the way a room organized itself slightly around where he was standing.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card and then turned it over and wrote ten digits on the back and he held it out. "In case you need it." he said. "For anything."

You looked at the number and smiled. “Anything?”

The almost smile arrived fully this time, unhurried and genuine and just slightly devastating. "Anything."

The bell above the door announced his exit and you stood at the front of your shop turning the card over and over in your hand.

Bella appeared from the back. "Who," she said, "was that."

"Just a walk in.” you help the card up to your lips, tapping it against the smile that refused to go away.

…

It happened on a Wednesday, which felt wrong somehow. Momentous things should happen on weekends, or at least on a Friday when the week had built to something. Wednesday was for grocery runs and laundry.

And yet.

It started with a broken pipe.

Your upstairs neighbor had a pipe situation at seven in the evening that became a ceiling situation in your apartment at seven fifteen, which became a you cannot stay here tonight situation by seven thirty when the super looked at the spreading water stain above your bedroom, calculating how much this was going to cost him personally.

Derek was in Portland.

This was the other thing that had happened, quietly, over the past two weeks. Derek had matched with the rooftop bar woman, whose name was Sienna, and Sienna lived in Portland, and Derek had mentioned a visit, informing you of a decision already made. You had said have fun and meant it, or at least a part of you had meant it, and now he was in Portland and you were standing in your hallway with a go bag and nowhere obvious to go.

Trinity was on a double shift. You knew this without checking because Trinity's schedule was a fixed star in your sky, reliable and brutal. And plus she and Dennis didn’t have that much room to start with and you felt like a burden.

You sat in your car outside your building for ten minutes, bag in the passenger seat, and considered your options. You took the card out of your wallet. You had looked at it more times than you were going to admit to anyone, including yourself.

Without thinking too hard about it you said a simple fuck it and you called him.

He picked up on the second ring. "Y/N."

Just your name. Like it fit naturally.

"Hi," you said. "I have a weird situation."

"Tell me."

When you finished there was a brief pause. "I have a guest room," he said. "It has a bed and a lamp and I think a spare toothbrush somewhere. It's not exciting but it's dry."

"Jack, I cant.."

"I’m off tonight and I was going to eat leftover soup and watch something forgettable on television," he said. "You'd be doing me a favor. I hate eating soup alone."

That got a laugh from you. You sat in your car in the dark and catalogued all the reasons this was a complicated idea. There were several. They were legitimate. You thought about the water stain and about Derek in Portland with Sienna, who seemed nice, genuinely.

"I like soup." you said finally.

"Then come over."

…

His apartment was on the fourth floor of a building that was older than it looked and better than it had any right to be. High ceilings, good bones, the comfort of a space that had been lived in deliberately. Books on actual shelves, not for decoration. A kitchen that showed evidence of real use. A couch that was deep and worn in exactly the right places.

It looked like him. Everything was where it was for a reason.

You stood in his entryway with your bag and felt suddenly like you were seeing something private.

"Soup's already on the stove," he said from the kitchen. "Chicken and rice. Hope that works."

"That's..yes." You set your bag down. "You actually made soup."

"I said I had leftover soup."

"I thought that was a.." you stopped. "Never mind."

He appeared in the kitchen doorway with a dish towel over one shoulder, looking at you. "Why would that be a figure of speech?"

"People say things they don't mean."

"I don't."

He disappeared back into the kitchen, and you stood in his entryway another moment, holding that statement in the quiet.

You hung up your jacket and followed him in.

…

You ate at his kitchen table with an ease that should have required more history than you had. He told you about his recent shift. Some small victories. And you told him about the back piece you'd finished the week prior, the client who'd fallen asleep halfway through, the way people sometimes came in for ink and what they actually needed was to be still for a few hours while someone took care of them.

"That's most people," he said.

"The falling asleep part?"

"The needing someone to take care of them part." He turned his spoon once in his bowl. "People don't let themselves have that enough."

You thought about ten years of being the one who smoothed things over. Who held the shape of everything together so it didn't come apart. You thought about when the last time was that you had simply let someone take care of you.

You set your spoon down. Looked at the table for a moment, then back at him. "I want to stay tonight," you said. "Not the guest room."

His expression shifted slightly, but he didn't say anything yet, just waited, because he could tell you weren't finished.

"I'm still with Derek," you continued, keeping your voice even. "The arrangement is..we're open, that's real, I'm allowed to do this. But I need you to know that's what this is. I'm not..I can't offer you more than tonight. I don't want you to think this is something it isn't."

You held his gaze while you said it because you'd made this decision and you weren't going to look away from it now.

Understanding arrived and something careful behind it. "I'm not asking you for more than tonight," he said quietly. Then, after a second, softer, "But I want you to be sure."

"I'm sure."

He looked at you for one more moment. "Okay," he said.

…

He was unhurried in a way. Like a deliberate kindness, even as he pinned your wrists above your head with one hand.

He shifted his weight, his limb unbuckled and cast aside on the floor, leaving him balanced over you. He moved with practiced strength, using his leg to help brace his torso as he loomed over you. "You've been looking at me like you're afraid I'll break," he rasped, his voice dropping low that made your toes curl. "Stop thinking. Just feel how much I want you."

He asked without asking. It wasn't in words, but in the way he moved. He reached down, his fingers slicking through your folds.

"You're so fucking wet for me," he murmured, a smirk playing on his lips when he heard your breath hitch. "Tell me you want it. Tell me you want me inside you."

You tried to say something, a nervous joke to break the mounting intensity, but it came out as a desperate whimper. He laughed and the sound of it against your skin made the air feel safe in a way you hadn't known you needed.

"Good girl." he whispered, the praise hitting harder than the touch. "Stay right there. Don't move a muscle for me."

The sheer size of him felt like a promise kept. He positioned himself at your entrance and he paused for a heartbeat, watching your face, before he drove home in one devastating motion.

You couldn’t help your back arching off the sheets as he filled you to the absolute limit. It wasn't a sharp spike. It was a swell, an all encompassing heat that filled every hollow place you’d been hiding.

His rhythm was a punishingly beautiful cadence. Because of his reach, he leaned heavily into you, his chest crushed against yours, his skin slick with sweat. He pulled nearly all the way out before sinking back in, each stroke hitting deeper, harder, grinding his hips against yours until you were sobbing his name.

"I’ve got you," his hand leaving your wrists to cup your face, forcing you to look at him while he wrecked you. "Take it. Take all of it."

Your walls clamped down around him, the friction becoming unbearable. He didn't speed up. He simply pushed harder, his movements becoming more urgent. The tension finally snapped, shattering into a thousand points of warmth. You shook beneath him and he followed you a second later, a groan escaping him as he buried himself to the hilt.

...

It was Friday morning, two days after you’d got up and left Jack’s place early in the morning without a goodbye when he texted. 

Jack: Hope your ceiling situation is getting sorted.

He was giving you an out, a way to be normal about it all. You stared at the blue bubble for a long time, the memory of his question still echoing in the back of your mind.

You: Ceiling is getting sorted. Thank you again.

His response came while you were in the middle of setting up for your first client of the day.

Jack: For you? Anytime.

An open invitation, or you guess, a door to him? You felt a traitorous curve of your lips before you could stop it.

"Stop smiling at your phone." Bella said. She was across the room, snapping on a pair of nitrile gloves.

"I'm not!" you said, quickly locking the screen and sliding the phone into your pocket.

…

Just when you thought you’d finally managed to stop the constant loop of him in your head, the texts would come in.

They were always casual, aggressively so, but they still did something to you. They made a warm feeling stir in your belly. 

Jack: How are you doing?

"Fine." you typed back. Then, you paused. "Fine" felt dishonest, and for some reason, he was the last person you wanted to be dishonest with.

You: Better than fine. How are you?

Jack: Just got off. Long night. Good coffee though. Small victories.

You: Very small.

Jack: The smallest. Get some sleep tonight.

It felt mundane. The assumption that you probably hadn't been sleeping. Which you hadn't.

You: you too.

Jack: Already on it.

…

Then, a photo. A medium sized dog of indeterminate breed standing outside the hospital entrance, wearing a bright yellow raincoat. 

You laughed out loud in your empty apartment. 

You: Why is he dressed like that.

Jack: It's raining!

You: It is not raining enough for that.

Jack: Tell that to his owner.

…

This one almost did you in. A voice note, which surprised you. You stood outside in the afternoon sun with your phone pressed to your ear, listening to his voice.

"I'm outside a bookshop. There's a display in the window. Botanical illustration, old prints, the kind with the Latin names at the bottom. It's on the block past the coffee place. Thought you should know it exists."

You listened to it three more times before replying.

…

It was late Friday night. You were still up, not for any particular reason, just the insomnia of a brain that wouldn't stop moving, when your phone buzzed.

Jack: Are you awake?

You: yep. are you working?

Jack: I am. Thinking about food though. There's a place near my apartment that does breakfast at midnight. Eggs and everything. I've been going for years.

You looked at the text, the intimacy of the routine bleeding through the screen.

You: That's either the best or worst thing I've ever heard.

Jack: Best. Definitely best. You'd like it.

You: I do appreciate eggs at midnight.

Jack: I knew it. Then, sometime?

You: Sometime.

Jack: Good. Go to sleep.

…

The last one before everything changed came on a Thursday evening. It was ordinary in every way except that it wasn't. You were locking up the shop, keys in hand, when the phone buzzed.

Jack: I know you said that it was one night, but I would be upset with myself if I didn’t say this once. I'd like to keep seeing you. In whatever way you will have me. I just wanted to say it once. Just so you know.

You just stood there. Keys in hand. Mouth agape. 

…

Derek came back from Portland all smiles. He hugged you at the door, and the first thing you noticed was the scent. An unfamiliar floral of someone else’s laundry detergent clinging to his jacket.

Over dinner, he talked about Sienna. He did it with an enthusiasm that was trying very hard to be considerate of your feelings, but his carefulness mostly just confirmed the obvious. His heart hadn't made the return flight. It was still somewhere in Portland, tucked away in a coffee shop or a rainy park with a girl you had never met.

For some reason, you did not tell him about Jack.

You were allowed to.

That was the whole point of the arrangement, the freedom you had both negotiated to keep the edges of your relationship from fraying into resentment. There was no rule against telling him. In fact, there was an implicit expectation of honesty. A pact that neither of you would have to carry the weight of a secret.

And yet, you still didn't tell him.

The words stayed locked in your throat, not because you were afraid of his reaction, but because telling him would make Jack part of the arrangement. It would categorize what was happening between you and the doctor, making it something manageable and defined. And for some reason, you weren't ready to let Derek touch whatever it was that was growing in those texts and shared photos.

…

Jack asked you to lunch a week later.

Jack: I have a two hour window free before my shift. Lunch? There's a place near your shop I've been told has good noodles.

Jack was already there when you arrived, hair tousled and he had a little tiredness settling around his eyes.

"You look tired." you said, sitting down across from him.

"I am. But feeling better now for some reason." he said smiling, his voice seemed to settle right under your skin.

He slid a menu across the table toward you. "How many times have you been here?" you asked.

He picked up his own menu, his eyes meeting yours. "A lot. I'm a creature of habit when I find something worth repeating."

A thrill went through your spine at the way he said it. You were starting to understand that with Jack, almost nothing was a throwaway line. 

The pho arrived, steaming and fragrant. It was extraordinary, and when you told him so, he looked quietly pleased, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You ate for a while in a comfortable quiet that you still hadn't fully gotten used to. The fact that silence with him didn't require anything from you.

"Can I ask you something?"

He looked up. "Anything."

"The army." You kept your voice even, curious rather than probing. "How long?"

"Eight years." He set his chopsticks down. "Enlisted at twenty two. Medic."

"What made you stay in medicine after?"

"I didn't know how not to," he said finally. He looked down at his hands. Those large, careful hands, then back at you. "It wasn't a career decision, exactly. It was just the thing that made sense to do." He paused searching your face. "You understand that."

"Yeah," you said quietly. "I do."

"When did you know?" he asked. "That it was going to be tattoo work."

"Sixteen," you said, a small smile forming. "I watched an artist work at a shop near my mom's house. Just through the window, I never went in. I went back every day for two weeks." You could almost feel the cold glass against your forehead. "She finally came out and said, 'Are you going to come in or just haunt the place?'"

Jack laughed "And?"

"I went in. I watched her work for three hours. She let me try a practice stroke on a piece of fake skin and I was terrible at it." You turned your chopsticks over in your hand, lost in the memory. "I knew right then that I was going to do it until I wasn't terrible at it."

"How long until you weren't terrible?"

"Two years of being pretty bad. One year of being okay. Then something clicked." The afternoon light moved across the table between you. "Do you miss it?" you asked. "The army."

He turned his water glass once on the table. "Parts of it. The clarity of it, sometimes. Knowing exactly what the job was. The people, too."

"The SWAT shifts.." you said. "What’s that about?"

He looked at you, and his expression shifted, hardened slightly. "The ER is..it's good work. Important work. But you're always waiting for the thing to come to you." He considered his words. "The other work, you go to it. There's a difference in how that feels."

"You like going toward things." you said.

His eyes held yours across the table, dark and certain. "Yes."

…

Outside, the afternoon was shifting into evening. His shift would be starting soon.

"Same time next week?" he said.

This was supposed to be a one time thing. You were not supposed to be in Jack Abbot’s orbit anymore. You were supposed to be safe in your own lane, tending to your own life. But as you looked at him, you found it very hard to come up with a single reason why you shouldn’t.

And you could think of more than one reason why you should. The top one, the one that caused your heart to swell when you looked at him, was simply because you wanted to.

"Yeah." you said, the word feeling like a small, reckless surrender. "Okay."

He nodded once, his smile softening the hard lines of his face. "I'll find somewhere new."

…

Trinity showed up at your apartment with a bag of groceries and the clear intention of spending her day off horizontally on your couch with bad television and zero obligations. You took one look at her and knew that you were going to tell her.

You waited until she was settled. Feet up, blanket appropriated. From the kitchen, you started the coffee. You kept your back to her, it felt safer that way. "I have to tell you something."

"Okay.." Trinity said. Her voice had shifted into that careful, neutral tone of someone who had learned in residency to assess a situation before reacting to it.

"I met someone."

"Define met."

"At the bar. The night we went to Dillon’s." You heard the rustle of the blanket as she sat up. "After you left."

"Y/N. That was six weeks ago."

"I know."

"You've known something for six weeks and you're telling me now?"

You poured the coffee into two mugs. Your hands were steady, which surprised you. "It wasn't..I didn't know what it was. I still don’t entirely know what it is."

You brought the coffee into the living room and sat on the opposite end of the couch. Trinity had pushed the blanket off, her feet were flat on the floor, fully turned towards you. "Tell me." she said.

Trinity listened. She was very good at listening when she wanted to. When you finished, the silence in the room stretched out. Then Trinity asked, "What's his name?"

"Jack." you said. "Jack Abbot."

Trinity went completely still. "ER attending?"

You looked at her, something curious moving through your chest. "How did you.."

"Y/N." Trinity set her coffee down very carefully on the coaster. "Jack Abbot is an attending at my hospital."

"He’s..what?"

"PTMC. He’s been there for years." She stopped. She pressed her hand briefly over her mouth and looked at you with disbelief, hilarity, and something almost reverent. "How bad is it?" she asked. It wasn't really a question.

"I drew his hands." you said. "From memory. So do with that what you will."

Trinity closed her eyes briefly. "And Derek?"

"Derek is in love with someone in Portland," you said. "He doesn’t know it yet. Or he does, and he’s waiting for me to..I don’t know. Release him." You looked at your hands. "It’s what we’ve been doing for a long time, I think. Waiting for the other one to say it first."

Trinity remained quiet, letting you find the rest of it.

You turned the mug in your hands, feeling the lingering warmth of the ceramic. "I think I’m the one who has to. I think I’ve been ready for longer than I want to admit, and I just didn’t have a reason to know it."

"And now you have one." 

…

Derek came home in a mood you didn't recognize at first.

He came through the door, put his keys down, and stood in the entryway for a moment longer than necessary. It made you look up from the couch. "You okay?" you asked.

"Yeah." He came in, but he didn't sit next to you. He sat across from you at the kitchen table. "Sienna, uh.." He stopped, rubbing the back of his neck. "She met someone. Someone in Portland. So she ended it, with me."

"I'm sorry." You meant it. You were not a person who wanted Derek to hurt, even now, even with everything shifting beneath your feet.

He nodded, eyes fixed on the grain of the wood. "It's fine. It was.." he exhaled, a tired sound. "I don't know. It’s fine."

You’d ordered takeout earlier, optimistically, and the containers sat on the counter. You looked at Derek and he looked lost. Like someone who had reached for something and come back empty handed, unsure of what to do with his hands now.

The old version of you would have moved to fix it. You would have smoothed it over, sat beside him, and made it easier without being asked.

But you stayed where you were. "Derek." 

He looked up.

"I need to tell you something."

A wariness arrived in his expression.

"I met someone," you said. "A while ago. Before Portland, before any of it got serious for you." You kept your voice even. "It started as one night. That’s all it was supposed to be. And then it just.." you paused, finding the honest word. "It grew. Into something I wasn't expecting. Something I realized I actually wanted."

Derek was very still. "Who?"

"That doesn't matter right now."

"Who." His voice was harder this time, an edge of demand bleeding through.

"His name is Jack. He’s a doctor. I met him at a bar." You held his gaze. "He's a good man. He makes me feel like someone worth paying attention to."

"That’s what this is supposed to be." Derek’s voice snapped, tight and frustrated. "It’s casual. It’s just dating, it’s just.." he stopped, shaking his head. "We were always going to come back to each other. That was always the deal."

You looked at him, the word echoing in the small kitchen. "What deal?" you asked quietly.

"That’s..you know what I mean. That’s what this was. We try things, we come back. That’s how it works."

"Derek." You kept your voice gentle. This wasn't about winning. "That wasn't a deal we made. That was an assumption you had."

"We’ve been together for ten years."

"I know how long we’ve been together."

"So you can't just.." he gestured, a frustrated, sweeping movement. "You can't just check out because you met someone at a bar."

"I'm not checking out because I met someone at a bar," you said. "I'm checking out because I spent ten years not knowing what I was missing, and then I found out. And what I'm missing isn't Jack specifically." You couldn’t help but laugh a little. "It’s being chosen. It’s someone who notices me. It’s feeling like I matter in my own relationship.”

Derek looked like he’d been slapped. "That’s not fair," he said. "I love you."

"I know you do," you said. "I love you too. But love isn't.." you started again. "You suggested this because you wanted the freedom to look around while keeping everything exactly the same at home. And I said yes because I always say yes. But I looked around, too. And what I found was a relationship that looks completely different from what we have. And I think I've wanted that for a long time."

Derek was quiet for a while. You let the silence take up the space it needed. "When did it go wrong?" he asked finally.

The honest answer was a thousand small moments where you had made yourself smaller to fit a shape that no longer fit either of you.

"I think it was over the moment you suggested this," you said gently. "Because that was the moment it became clear we were wanting completely different things."

His jaw worked. His eyes were bright, holding himself together like a man who intended to fall apart later, in private. "So that’s it?" he said.

"I think so." you said.

You reached across the table and put your hand over his. He looked at it for a moment, then turned his over and held yours, briefly. Ten years, the good parts and the long middle and the quiet end, closing softly in a kitchen on a Tuesday night.

…

Trinity: I need you to bring me my sweater. It’s an emergency. The grey one. From your apartment.

You: Why is your sweater at my apartment???

Trinity: Y/N it’s an emergency. I'm freezing.

You looked around your apartment. You were in the middle of doing nothing in particular, which was a feeling you were still getting used to. The wide open quiet of an evening that belonged entirely to you. Just you and whatever you wanted to do with it.

You found the sweater draped over your desk chair. Grey, soft, unmistakably Trinity’s. She left things at your place all the time like breadcrumbs, a trail of her belongings scattered across your life.

You: fineeee I’ll drop it off.

At the ER, you saw her turn around the corridor and spot you. She was in her usual scrubs, stethoscope around her neck, looking not even remotely cold.

"You texted me for a sweater and it feels eighty degrees in here."

"I run cold!"

A sound came from down the corridor. A laugh that you were starting to know well. A laugh you loved in fact. 

You turned slowly, and there he was. Thirty feet away, in scrubs, chart in hand, laughing at something the woman beside him had said. He turned, his eyes found you, and he went still. You could see the math happening in his eyes as he walked over.

His voice was even, but his eyes were warm and confused. "How do you.." He looked at Trinity.

Trinity extended her hand. "I hear we have a person in common. Y/N’s best friend in the entire world, nice to meet you."

Jack looked at her. "Santos, I know who you are." 

"She didn't know." Trinity said. "Until recently that you worked here. With me."

Jack looked at you. And you just tried to look as normal as you could. You could feel the heat crawling up your neck. "Small world," he said softly.

"Apparently." you managed.

Trinity finally took the sweater from you hands. "You're such a good friend!” Then she made it a point to speak directly to Jack. “We're taking Y/N out tonight. She broke up with her boyfriend."

You watched Jack’s face. He didn’t say anything at first. But the smile that broke across his face was quietly, deeply pleased. He absolutely could not hide it. "Have fun." he said. 

Trinity was already taking your arm, steering you toward the exit. "Goodnight, Dr. Abbot!" she called.

You looked back once. He was still standing there, still smiling, and when he caught you looking, he didn't look away. You let Trinity pull you through the doors. "You are the worst person I know."

"I'm the best person you know," she said. "Also, you're welcome."

…

Jack, true to his word, had let you be the one to come to him. He’d been patient this whole time while your world shifted. 

Finally, you decided you’d had enough of waiting, so you called him. 

"Hi," you said. "Are you home?"

"Just got in. You okay?"

"Yes." You sat on your couch in your apartment. Fiddling with the loose fibers in the seats. "I want to see you.”

"When?" he said.

"This week. Whenever you’re free. I don’t.." You paused, laughing slightly at the nerves you hadn’t expected. "I’m not usually like this."

"Like what?"

"Nervous."

"You're nervous?" he said. There was something in his voice, a smile that wasn't laughing at you, but with you. "I find that extremely reassuring."

"You’re nervous too?"

"I’ve been nervous since the day I met you." he said.

You couldn’t help but smile. Biting your bottom lip between your teeth. "Friday?" you said. "Dinner. Somewhere I pick this time. And Jack?"

"Yeah?"

"This isn't a one night thing."

"No." he said quietly. "It isn’t."

…

Dinner was the most fun you'd had in a long time and after, Jack walked you to your car. He reached up and tucked a piece of hair back from your face. "I'd like to take you out again." he said. "As many times as you’ll let me."

"That could be a lot of times." you said.

"Good." His hand dropped to your jaw, warm. "I told you. I’m thorough.”

…

The door hadn't even fully latched before Jack had you pinned against it. The air in his apartment was cool, but his body was a furnace against yours. There was only the sound of your combined breathing and the frantic slide of hands over skin.

He guided you to the sofa, his mouth never leaving yours, tasting like the red wine from dinner and the promise he’d been making you with his eyes all night. He pushed you back onto the cushions and dropped to his knees, parting your legs with a force that made your heart hammer against your ribs.

"I’ve been thinking about this all night." he said, his voice thick and rough.

He didn't waste time. He stripped you and when he saw you, he let out a sound of approval. He leaned in, his hot breath ghosting over your sensitive skin. "Your pussy is so wet, sweetheart. So beautiful."

Then he moved in, eating you like a man starved. He used his tongue with a relentless, lapping intensity, broad strokes followed by sharp, flicking pressure that had you crying out and arching your back off the sofa. He didn't stop when you shook. He gripped your thighs tighter, drinking you in until you shattered against his mouth.

You were still gasping, your senses blurred, when he pulled you to your feet. He didn't lead you to the bedroom. He didn't want the comfort of a mattress, he wanted you right here.

"Lean over.” You obeyed, gripping the back of the sofa, your knuckles white. You heard the sharp sound of his zipper, and then the heat of him was pressing against your opening.

He drove into you in one steady, uncompromising motion. He filled you so completely it took your breath away. "You are mine." he said into your ear, his hands finding your hips to anchor you.

He began to fuck you slowly. It was deep and deliberate, each thrust a claim. He reached around to find where you were most sensitive, his fingers working in tandem with the slide of his cock, pushing you toward a second, even more delicious peak. You watched your own reflection in the darkened window, seeing the way he moved behind you, until the world narrowed down to just the friction and the heat.

…

Two hours later, the adrenaline had faded into a delicious ache. You woke up in the master suite and followed the sound of hissing water to the bathroom. Jack was sitting in the shower, his built in chair positioned under the spray. 

He didn't say a word, just reached out, his hand wrapping around your waist to pull you toward him. Joining him under the warmth.

Being seated gave him a different vantage point, his eyes level with your chest, dark and appreciative. He pulled you into the space between his knees, his hands sliding up your thighs.

He guided you to straddle his lap, your knees resting on the edges of the chair. As you lowered yourself, he reached down to guide his cock into you in one deep, unhurried slide.

"You feel even better like this," he moaned, his fingers digging into your hips.

He used his arms to pull you down onto him while thrusting upward, a dual pressure that made every nerve ending scream. The chair was solid beneath you, providing a grounded leverage that let him fuck you without worry.

The water sluiced over both of you, masking your gasps as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his movements becoming faster and more urgent until he filled you completely.

…

In the morning, Jack was at the stove, shirtless, the muscles of his back working as he moved. You were wrapped in one of his heavy button downs, sitting at the kitchen island.

He set a plate of eggs in front of you, but he didn't pick up his own fork. Instead, he watched you take a bite, his gaze dropping to your bare legs.

"Jack, eat your breakfast," you murmured, though your voice lacked any real conviction.

He pushed you to lay flat against the island and parted the hem of the shirt.

The cold air hit you for only a second before his mouth replaced it.

Right there in the morning light, with the coffee steaming and the sun rising, he went down on you again.

He was relentless, his tongue finding every sensitive spot with the ease of a man who intended to spend the rest of his life learning exactly how to make you come.

You gripped the marble edge of the counter, your breakfast forgotten, as he claimed you for the third time. 

…

one year later

You had tattooed a lot of things on a lot of people.

You had never once been nervous doing it, until now. 

"You're holding my hand very tightly for someone who is about to put a needle in it." Jack said.

"I'm positioning you." You looked up at him. He was watching you with those eyes, completely unbothered, which was both reassuring and deeply annoying. "You're not nervous at all?"

"No."

"This is permanent, Jack."

"I know what a tattoo is, Y/N."

"I just want to make sure you've.."

"Hey." His free hand came up and tilted your chin gently. "I know what I want." 

You looked at him for a moment. Then you looked back down at his hand in yours, his left hand, ring finger, the spot you'd cleaned and prepped and stenciled with a single clean letter. Your initial. Small and precise and permanent.

He didn't flinch. You hadn't expected him to, this was a man who had been through things that made a tattoo needle a deeply unremarkable experience, but still.

Something in your chest did the warm aching thing it did sometimes when Jack was being exactly himself.

You finished in two minutes. Clean lines, your steadiest work.

You wrapped it. Told him the aftercare instructions he didn't need because he was a doctor and knew perfectly well how wounds healed, but you told him anyway because it was your job and also because you needed something to do with your mouth that wasn't saying something embarrassing.

When you finished your own and wrapped it, you looked at your finger. His initial. Small and clean and permanent.

He brought your hand up and pressed his mouth to your knuckles, just above the fresh ink, careful not to touch it.

…

Trinity and Dennis came over a few weeks later. 

This had become a thing, somehow, over the past few months. A loose gathering at your apartment that involved whatever food Dennis decided to bring, which was always something excellent.

"These are incredible," Trinity said, around a dumpling. "Where did you get these."

"A place." Dennis said, a man who protected his sources.

"That's not an answer."

"That's the only answer you're getting."

You smiled at your drafting table. Jack appeared from the kitchen with two mugs and set one beside you.

When you reached for it, Trinity stopped and stared at your hand wrapped around the mug. "What is on your finger."

"Nothing," you said.

Trinity sat up fully pointing at your left hand "Is that a J?"

Dennis looked up. "Let me see." 

Jack came out of the kitchen. Dennis looked at him. Looked at his left hand and then at yours.

"Is that.." Trinity started.

"Those are.." Dennis said.

"Y/N! Are you married to Jack Abbot?" Trinity grabbed your hand now, fully staring down at it. 

You looked at your finger. The small clean J sitting there.

You looked at Jack and the smile that moved across his face was warm and held a mix of pride and mischief and you felt the matching one on your own face bloom and made no effort at all to stop it.

Yeah, you were married to Jack Abbot.

He turned to you with those sad eyes and immediately pulled you into his arms. “Thank you for coming in. It’s been…a day.”

“I gathered.” You wrapped your arms around him to return the hug. “You okay?”

“Better now.”

The two of you parted and he gave you a quick rundown of the patients and the situation in chairs. While you worked you made a habit of finding Robby whenever you could. Your fingers would find the hair at the nape of his neck and rub gently. It was a self soothing gesture he’d done since he was a kid. One you’d picked up on to help him when he was really stressed. You calming him better than he could ever do by himself.

Every time he closed his eyes and just let himself sink into the sensation for a moment. Neither of you thought much of it, having done the routine for years at this point.

Jack returned from his SWAT run expecting to find you still in bed or maybe curled up on the couch. Instead, he found a note stating you’d headed into work. He frowned then got ready to follow you. He wasn’t sitting around the house by himself.

His eyes scanned the ED taking in the chaos before falling on you standing behind Robby while he sat at one of the computers. Jack’s gaze narrowed at the sight of your fingers playing with the fringe of hair on Robby’s neck.

He walked over to the hub. “What are you two doing?” he asked, not sounding at all accusatory. (This is a lie. Though the tone didn’t affect you and Robby in the least.)

Instead of answering, you gave Jack a small, sad smile and looked pointedly at the man in front of you. Jack studied him for a moment then he realized what this was. You were comforting Robby.

“Oh no.” Jack’s voice was little more than a whisper. “Carry on,” he stated louder before heading to the locker room.

“Did I call him in? I don’t remember calling him.” Robby asked as his friend walked away.

No one answered him.

A couple of hours passed, the end of shift growing ever closer. Night shift started to trickle in. Jack was moving past the hub when his gaze fell on Robby sitting at the desk, palms pressed against his eyes.

Jack’s gaze frantically moved around the department searching for you.

“She’s in a trauma,” Dana’s voice cut in.

He glanced over to find her gesturing toward Robby. ‘Do something,’ she mouthed.

Jack sucked in a breath, nodded once and moved up behind his best friend. His fingers attempted to replicate the comforting pattern that you’d long memorized.

Robby froze.

His hands dropped as he blinked. Once. Twice.

“Jack?” Robby drew out the word. “What are you doing?”

“She’s busy. I’m all you have. Deal with it.”

Robby huffed a laugh and tried to duck away, but Jack’s hand merely followed. “Believe it or not, it’s not near as comforting when you do it. In fact, it’s fucking strange. Knock it off.”

“No. Let me comfort you.” Jack was nothing if not stubborn.

Robby started to protest before just deflating. “Fine.” A pause. “Go a little higher.”

Melissa King walked past the hub, tablet in hand, nodding to the attendings as she passed. Then she stopped, processed and turned to face them. “I…um…I’m not certain that’s entirely appropriate.”

Her words caught Crus Henderson’s attention and he turned to see what had caught her attention. He grinned and stepped up beside her. “Oh, you don’t want to get in the middle of that. Trust me. Just keep moving.”

Jack narrowed his gaze. “I’m soothing him. Do you have a problem with that? I didn’t realize you were so closed minded, Dr King. What if he’s my husband? Have you considered that?”

Crus snorted and patted Mel’s shoulder. “Good luck.” Then he walked off and left her to the wolves—or rather the Abbot.

Mel stuttered, her brow furrowing. “No. I mean…” She huffed in annoyance. “Aren’t you already married to Dr. Abbot?”

“I am Dr. Abbot,” Jack answered, lips twitching as he fought his amusement.

You’d stepped out of the trauma room during the initial conversation and made your way over with a shake of your head.

Robby looked from Mel to you and glanced over his shoulder at Jack. “I’m keeping my last name. Three Abbots is too many.”

You shrugged. “I could always switch to Robinavitch.”

A resounding “No!” came from both men and you smiled.

You turned to Mel. “Ignore them. They’re just like this. It’s a problem really. Hand off your patients to Dr. Henderson, please.”

She nodded slowly, clutching the tablet to her chest as she walked away. She looked back once with a heavily furrowed brow as she tried to process what had just happened.

“You two are menaces,” you said to the men once she’d left.

“I’m soothing,” Jack insisted and Robby chuckled. A real smile was on his face for the first time all day.

You smirked and huffed a laugh. “You just going to keep letting him play with your hair all night or do want to do handoff?”

Robby straightened and brushed Jack’s hand away. “Stop it.”

“I mean, it’s fine. I don’t want to interrupt your bonding moment or anything,” you continued.

“Oh, shut up,” Robby said as he stood, cheeks flaming red.

Bonus:

As Mel gave Crus a rundown on her patients, she kept glancing back to the hub where the attendings were in conversation.

“Hey, you with me?” he asked drawing her attention back to him.

She startled and cleared her throat. “Yes, sorry. Yes.”

Crus chuckled as he flashed her a smile. “I take it you haven’t seen the three of them interact much.”

“Not really. No.”

“You’ll get used to it. They’re a little chaotic, but there is no one better to learn from.”

Mel nodded absently. “So, the Doctors Abbot are married and Dr. Robby is…”

Jack Abbot was good at noticing things. Picking up things others—except maybe Robby—wouldn’t. His hazel eyes stared across the ED observing more often than not. He knew things that people probably wanted to keep a secret or to themselves, and he made sure they stayed that way unless it involved danger in any way.

He picked up when people were in an off mood that wasn’t their usual self, he’d always make his voice a little softer—a brief grounding touch on the shoulder—send them for a break if needed. He knew when the coffee machine needed cleaned or new beans just by the smell alone. Never mind the taste that was somehow worse than it usually tasted. He could sense when a trauma was incoming or a person was behind him he’d feel the air shift around him, or the hair on the back of his neck and arms standing up. He knew when it was going to rain, another thing he could smell. He noticed when people were struggling, had a rough shift or simply just needed a breather.

But above all; he noticed you.

From the day you first stepped into that noisy ER he was silently clocking you—watching like he did with all newbies—but something about you made his chest twist in a way he hadn’t felt in years.

He noticed when you got new scrubs in a different color, all the different ways you did your hair each day. He looked forward to seeing what it would be every shift. He noticed which water bottle was yours, how you liked your coffee. The way you bit your bottom lip and furrowed your brows when you were thinking really hard. How gentle and soothing you were with patients, always calm and thorough. He noticed the way you’d snort quietly if you laughed hard enough. The way you painted your nails or added a small pin or accessory to your scrubs for each holiday.

He noticed your hovering hand when you’d squeeze past him, the small rub to his arm as a wordless ‘thank you.’ When his own arm was barely an inch from yours as you both leaned against the counter of the hub, talking to Dana. He could feel the heat of your skin, and he wondered if you could feel his too. He noticed if you had a ride to and from work every shift, he’d pay for your Uber or offer to drive you home if you didn’t.

So what if he hovered a little longer than usual to make sure you got in your Uber safely? Or memorized the license plate, make of the car and what driver looked like, just in case? So what if he ordered takeout from your favorite diner during a long and tiring shift? He was just looking out for you, right? He wanted all his coworkers to be safe. He’d do those things for anyone, wouldn’t he? He told himself that even when Dana suddenly spawned next to him, smirk on her lips and that look in her eye.

“Her car’s been gone for five minutes, how long are you gonna stand there and stare at the parking lot?”

“What?”, Jack’s head swiveled around way too fast; “I wasn’t-“

Dana hums; “Sure.”

“I was just taking a minute, waiting for Robby”, He tried.

Dana only laughed; “Robby’s been waiting for you at the hub for ten minutes.”

Shit. Were his ears as pink as they felt?

“Uh-yeah, right. Ok. Be right there.”

Dana mumbled something along the lines of “Stupid men worse than a teenager…” as she disappeared from his side and out of sight.

Even though Jack noticed things about you, the one thing he didn’t notice was how much you had noticed him too.

It was pretty much the same things; his mood, his coffee preference, things like that. But you also noticed the way his jaw clenched and ticked when he didn’t like something, the way his shoulders tensed, and pulled closer in on him when he was stressed. The way he scratched his stubble in deep thought. How he always stood with his bow legs apart, or how his hair always looked tousled like he’d run his fingers through it a million times that day. The soft smile and huff of a laugh that only a few people—like Robby and Dana—could get out of him. But then you started to notice you could bring it out of him too.

Most of all, you noticed when something was off about him. When he was trying to cover something up or hide something from everyone around him; like he had to in order to keep going.

─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─

You first noticed how tired he looked when he walked in through the ED doors at the beginning of your shared shift. The way his eyes were slightly more sunken and heavy, his shoulders stiff and jaw tight. The way his feet seemed to drag below him. The way he looked like he hadn’t slept at all on his day off. His stubble was slightly thicker and darker, only adding to his disheveled appearance as he got closer to you.

“Geez Jack, you look like hell, brother”, Robby’s voice comes from behind you.

Jack pauses for a second, so quick you almost missed it, and then keeps moving towards the staff room. He doesn’t laugh, doesn’t smile, only a small flick of his eyes at Robby.

“Thanks man”, It comes out low and gruff, like it physically hurts to talk.

When he’s out of earshot you turn back towards Dana and Robby, preparing for handoffs.

“What’s going on with him?”, You ask, low enough for only them to hear, careful not to overstep.

Robby lets out a deep sigh, hands in his hoodie pockets as he shrugs his shoulders, raising his eyebrows to his hairline; “Don’t know. Not exactly the easiest person to get to open up.”

You hear Dana scoff next to you; “You’re one to talk.”

Robby shoots her a brief glare, and a “Thank you, Dana”, before sipping on the last of his—now probably cold—coffee. One of his hands claps your shoulder as he moves past, bending down close to your ear.

“I already talked to Lena but, keep an eye on him, ok? He seems to trust you, maybe you can get him to talk.”

You don’t have time to respond as Jack appears beside the hub again, rolling his neck like it’s stiff before turning to Robby to do handoffs. You feel Dana’s hand on your lower back before you see her, turning you gently to come with her until you’re both out of earshot. She knew about your crush on him, hell she encouraged it. Not that she didn’t take any opportunity she could to tease you about it. But this wasn’t one of those times; she was serious.

“I caught him asleep in an on call room during his last shift”, Her voice is low, brow pinched together.

You look over at Jack briefly, then back at Dana; “Really?”

She hums in response; “I’ve never seen him like this. Usually I have to force him to take a break.”

Jack was stubborn. Headstrong. Everyone knew that. He rarely ever let his guard down—and when he did—it wasn’t for just anyone. As you looked him over, you couldn’t help but think how tired he looked. Already more prominent than when he’d walked in a few minutes prior.

You huffed softly; “I’ll see what I can get out of him”, you pat Dana’s shoulder; “If not, you’re up mom.”

Dana laughed; “That’s right, and don’t you forget it either.”

─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─

The shift starts how it usually does, a quick influx of patients has you and everyone else working on autopilot, practically speed walking everywhere, Dana had previously threatened to poke anyone she saw running between the eyes. Robby and Dana had long gone home, leaving the night shift to take over.

You don’t see Jack other than in quick passing until almost two hours into the shift. He’s walking up beside you as you both head for the ambulance bay, shoulders almost brushing together.

“Hey, you ok today?”, You ask softly.

It takes him off guard, his head whipping around to look at you so fast you don’t know how it didn’t hurt.

“Peachy, why?”, His voice is still gruff, not mean, just short and blunt. Like he doesn’t want to put too much thought into a coherent sentence.

You shrug; “Just seem tired today, wanted to make sure you’re ok.”

He forces a smile at that, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“M’fine, sweetheart. Just take care of you.”

You open your mouth to argue, but the arrival of the ambulance in front of you makes your words die before they reach your lips. You can’t help your eyes watching him as you roll the gurney through the ED and into a trauma room; watching him work. How his hands are just a little unsteady, not quite shaking but just slightly unsure of themselves. Still he moves with precision, but anyone who looked at him close enough would be able to tell something was off.

When you help him pull off his gown, Ellis is pulling you away to another patient before you can speak to him. But not without you seeing the hesitance in his step, his gait slightly wobbly, like he has to think about it before taking a step.

The moment you step into another patient’s room the thought is at the back of your mind. You can’t help your thoughts wandering to him each free second you get. You had shot Dana a text not long ago, filling her in on whatever you’d picked up on. The conversation did little to calm the apprehension crawling through your bones.

Somewhere across the ED, Jack steps out of another trauma, forcing himself around the corner before leaning up against a wall, forehead pressed to the cool paint as he inhales deeply. A shaky breath leaves his nose when he squeezes his eyes shut. It’s only for a minute—not long enough for anyone to catch—before he’s on the move again, gritting his teeth as he goes.

Later, you find him at the hub as you stop to check in with Lena. Your eyes drop to his feet where he has one foot—the prosthetic one—completely lifted off the ground, balancing all his weight on his good leg. Your heart hammers in your chest. Oh. He’s hurt.

You want to speak up, but not here. Instead you settle yourself at a computer to work on charting when his voice rings out, calling your name. You meet his gaze just in time to catch the sandwich he’d thrown at you.

“Eat.” It’s all he says before going on his way, not even fully stopping to talk.

Your chest pinches, even in pain Jack was still looking out for you. That’s just who Jack was. Everyone else before himself, no matter how much he might need something. Sleep, food, a moment of quiet? Not until everyone else had it.

“Jesus he’s stubborn”, Lena muses from behind you.

“Yeah”, You say, not fully paying attention, looking at the sandwich in your hands; “That he is.”

─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─

Six hours into shift there’s a lull, you let yourself sit in the break room, refill your coffee, breathe for a moment. As soon as you look through the windows out into the hall that peace is shattered. Jack’s leaning against the furthest wall from you, back turned your direction, head down like he’s trying really hard to compose himself. You see his hesitation as he keeps one hand along the wall for balance as he goes to move, the furrow in his brow. You flick your eyes back down before he catches you looking.

A half an hour later, his prosthetic stutters beneath him, he grabs a nearby cart to steady himself; knuckles white as he grips it. All eyes turn to him, a quick “I’m fine”, tumbling from his lips before anyone can say anything.

It only gets worse from there. Walls and counters become his lifeline, hand pressed against the cool surfaces to keep himself upright with each step. He winces when he stands from the roller chairs in a patient’s room. A small sheen of sweat lingers above his brows. If his scrubs weren’t black it would probably be visible there too.

His jaw stays almost permanently clenched. Frustration settling inside him. Fake smiles with patients and other doctors. Quick two or three word answers, sometimes just a huff or a grumble in response. You find yourself steadying him with a hand hovering at his back during a few procedures; he thankfully wasn’t leading them. Ellis shoots you a look, you can only return one that says ‘I’m working on it.’

The idea of Jack making himself suffer didn’t sit right with you. Your eyes lingered on him longer, clocked him more quickly. Followed his movements or lack there of. How he favored one foot, how he winced each time his prosthetic touched the ground. You’d spent the last hour or so internally fighting yourself about confronting him. But the next time he rounds the corner cements your decision.

You stand without hesitation, moving quickly to be by his side, a hand reaching up to his shoulder.

“Dr Abbot-“

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“It’s just a long shift, I’m fi-“

“Jack”, You say sternly, and he finally looks at you; “Your leg. You’re bleeding.”

He follows your gaze to his foot where a small puddle of blood has dripped onto the floor. He looks back to see a trail of droplets from where he’d just come from. A deep sigh leaves his lips, a frown settling on his face as he shuts his eyes.

“Fucking shit.”

You don’t let him argue any further, grabbing his wrist and pulling him with you; “You need a bed. Now.”

You call it out to Lena before Jack can argue. You know he’s strong enough to get out of your grip if he really wanted to, but he doesn’t even try. Practically forcing him onto the exam bed after shutting the privacy curtain, you wheel yourself over to him on one of the chairs; slipping a pair of gloves on. A shaky hand hovers over his knee, your eyes meeting his to ask for permission.

“Can I?”, You ask softly.

He hesitates before nodding.

You carefully roll up his pantleg, removing his prosthetic and setting it next to the bed. You meet his eyes before you reach for the sleeve, gently tugging it down to reveal the slip that keeps it in place. A tear sits at the bottom of it, crimson seeping through. You remove it with gentle hands, setting it aside to clean up later. He winces slightly, hand inching closer to yours. You feel your breath catch in your throat when his skin is exposed.

His residual limb is bright red, angry, chaffed and swollen. An open sore or laceration at the bottom, no doubt the cause of his bleeding.

“Oh, Jack…”, Your voice comes out barely a whisper.

He doesn’t answer, only the sound of a breath leaving his nose hits your ears. The laceration on his leg a few inches long, but deep. Like it’s been slowly getting worse with each step he took.

“You’re gonna need a few stitches for this.”

He only shrugs, watching through tired eyes as you move around the room, getting everything for the sutures. He winces once when you numb him, either from the shot or the feeling of contact with his angry leg. You start the first suture in silence, psyching yourself up to speak.

“Dana said you fell asleep in an on call room last shift”, you say it as more of a statement than a question.

He shrugs; “Yeah, what about it?”

“Don’t you go home after shift?”

He’s silent for a moment, watching you work; and then:

“Been sleeping here between shifts. No point in going home if i’m just gonna come back in a few hours. Figured it would be easier, shower here too.”

You can feel your face drop.

“Jack, you need real rest.”

He doesn’t answer, just has that blank look on his face. You add the second suture before speaking again.

“When was the last time you took care of your leg?”

You watch him fold his arms, can see the hesitation before he speaks.

“Don’t know. A week? I take it off for the five minutes I get to shower.”

“A week? Jack that’s not-“

You stop yourself with a deep inhale; “…Have you been sleeping with it on?”

He nods; “Easier to get up if i’m needed. Faster.”

You clench your own jaw at that, heart aching as heavy silence filling the air as you put in the last suture before bandaging him up. As you wrap his leg you can feel his eyes on you, watching you work, maybe thinking something more.

“You don’t have to overwork yourself to the point of injury”, You finally say.

You know he won’t answer, but needs to hear it anyways. When you finish with his bandage you stand and remove your gloves.

“No prosthetic for a week, at least. I’ll talk to Robby about your shifts.”

“No, I’m fine really-“

“You’re not. You need rest to heal. You’re done for tonight too, I’ll take you home.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but stops when he sees the look on your face. Stern, not wavering, beyond serious.

“I’ll get my spare bag from the locker room and your crutches. Call Shen in. You’re going home.”

You disappear behind the curtain, sighing once to push back the tears that pricked your eyes. Disbelief and desperation to help him feel better ache in your chest. The realization of how much pain he was causing himself just to keep pushing through settles heavy over you. How someone so beautiful could reduce themselves to so little, to think they didn’t matter enough to take care of themselves. Lena clocks it immediately, pulling you in for a hug.

“Hey, what’s going on?”

You explain everything to her. She listens with an intensity only she and Dana posses. Her face stern. Nobody knew it was that bad. Then she calls Shen for you, fills Ellis in. Before you know it you’ve got your extra bag slung over your shoulder, and Jack’s crutches in hand.

When you pull back the curtain, Jack’s sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. You hand him his crutches, stepping to help him when he stops you.

“I got it, please, let me do this.”

You step back and follow him out of the room; “Come on, we’ll take the back exit.”

He leads you to his truck, stopping to fish in his pockets when your voice cuts through again.

“Give me your keys.”

“What?”, His asks, his eyebrows raised.

“You’re not driving. Give me your keys.”

The look of amusement he gives you doesn’t get him very far, and next thing you know he’s tossing you his keys with a huff, letting you hold his crutches as he pulls himself up into the truck.

─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─

You pull into his driveway, letting his truck run for a moment before you switch it off. Looking over, you see his body slumped, head against the window, eyes shut and soft breaths leaving his mouth. Safely asleep in the passenger seat. So you let him sleep, pulling out your phone to occupy yourself until he stirs.

“Shit”, He says, voice groggy; “M’sorry.”

You shake your head; “Don’t be. You needed it.”

He stares at you, his jaw working like he’s thinking. Whatever it is he’s thinking about, he lets it go.

“How long was I out?”

You shrug; “Forty minutes, maybe.”

He doesn’t answer, just shifts in his seat before pushing his door open, looking back at you as he uses his crutches to lower himself out of the truck. A small hint of a smile on the corners of his lips.

“Cmon, it’s warmer inside.”

Jack’s apartment—or rather condo—is nicer than yours. Of course it should be with his attending salary. The outside is nice, each unit looking fairly similar. Inside is just as you’d expect his place to be, furnished but too clean to be super lived in. Barely decorated other than a few pictures here and there, a key bowl by the door. A row of his shoes by the welcome mat.

You’re immediately struck by how much his place smells like him. Musky and warm. Something sweet lingering underneath. He drops his own bag down by the front door, making his way further into the living room.

“I’m gonna go shower”, He says, then stops, scratching the back of his head; “You’re welcome to use it after. Just uh—make yourself at home.”

You mumble a soft ‘thank you’ as he disappears down the hallway. You flop down on his couch, realizing it’s way comfier than yours. You order a pizza for the two of you, and by the time it arrives, Jack is reemerging from the hallway; hair still damp and fluffy.

You can’t help but think how domestic he looks like this. Pajama pants and a white t-shirt. His freckled arms and face more prominent. His face slightly more vibrant and awake, like the shower fixed everything for him.

“I ordered a pizza for us, I hope that’s ok”, You tell him.

He offers you a small smile as sits down on the other end of the couch, already reaching for a slice.

“That’s actually perfect, thank you.”

You eat in silence, the hum of his tv in the background. It’s not charged or awkward, but rather…comfortable in a way you’d only ever get with him. You clean up after, despite Jack insisting on helping, you force him to take it easy.

“I’m gonna take you up on that shower now, if that’s ok.”

He nods, telling you where everything is. That the handle to the hot water sometimes sticks so you have to wiggle it. But he lets you go, eyes lingering on where your frame previously stood for a beat too long.

His shower is warm, spacious, inviting. You let the hot water run over you, washing extra diligently to get rid of any remaining traces of the hospital. The butterflies in your stomach and chest flutter to life as it finally hits you where you are. Jack’s apartment. Alone. With Jack. The attending you’ve had a crush on since you started at PTMC all that time ago.

There’s a fresh fluffy towel waiting for you when you exit the shower, shaky hands wiping the condensation off the mirror. You look at yourself for a moment; tired, bags under your eyes. Normal after a long shift. But you can’t help but think of Jack, how tired he looked today, how much it still shows on his face. You decide tonight’s mission is about making him comfortable and well rested. Making sure he’s ok.

You move to get dressed, realizing with a defeated sigh that there’s only a pair of shorts left in your bag. The shirt being tossed in your hamper a few weeks prior after your scrubs got stained during your shift. You never put one back in to replace it.

Sighing, towel wrapped up around your torso you peek out through the bathroom door.

“Jack?”, You call.

There’s a grunt and the click of his crutches against the floor before he peers in the doorway.

“Is everything ok? What’s wrong?”, Always too quick to worry.

“I um—I only had extra shorts in my bag…”

A look of realization flashes across his face as he nods, moving to dig through one of his drawers.

“Oh, that’s ok. You can borrow one of mine”, He fishes out an old grey shirt, the words ‘ARMY’ written across the front.

You hesitate, but he shakes his hand once, offering the shirt again, a laugh leaving his lips; “Cmon, I won’t bite.”

You finally take the shirt from him, smiling sheepishly as you disappear back into the bathroom. You slip the shirt—that smells ridiculously like him—over your head, brushing out your damp hair before pulling it up. When you open the door, Jack’s in his bed, already under the covers with his tv on.

You don’t see how Jack stops breathing for a moment at the sight of you in his shirt, heart beating against his ribcage as he searches for words, anything at all to say.

You stuff your scrubs back into your back before tossing it to the floor, hovering next to the bed awkwardly before clearing your throat.

“Well, I guess I’ll let you sleep. I’ll be on the couch if you need me”, You go to leave the room when his hand on your wrist stops you.

“Wait”, He says, looking up at you with those puppy dog hazel eyes, “Stay.”

You open your mouth but no words come out, so you force them; “I don’t want to intrude.”

Jack chuckles; “Don’t be silly. It’s a queen bed, plenty of room…Cmon, please?”

You sigh; “Ok.”

His bed is comfier than yours, feeling your body sink down into the mattress as soon as your back hits it. Jack’s scent surrounding you as he gently pulls the covers up to your waist. You leave enough room for another person between the two of you, fiddling with your hands under the comforter as he watches tv.

It stays like that for a while, just comfortable silence and his presence next to you. An occasional soft laugh rumbling from his chest. As the sun starts to rise he clicks the tv off, wiggling around a little to get himself comfortable. Then he inches closer to you—his head finding its way to rest against your torso—arms around your waist.

Your breath hitches at the sudden contact, the feeling of his calloused hands against your skin burning like fire in the best possible way. You tense under him for just a second, before letting go of the breath you were holding.

“Is this—is this ok?”, His question comes softly, voice quiet as you feel him move, scruff scratching against your—well his—shirt.

“Yeah”, you say, cause damn he was warm. Inviting and safe.

You let your fingers find his salt and pepper curls, raking through them softly. You feel his lashes flutter shut, a deep sigh leaving his nose as his muscles relax. Just one soft touch, and the grumpy attending was relaxing into you.

“I’m sorry”, He finally says into the darkness; “About earlier.”

You force him to look at you, guiding him by his chin.

“I just want you to be safe, Jack”, You tell him, pushing a curl from his forehead; “You’re burning yourself out for everyone else. You need to take care of yourself too.”

He nods, another breath leaving through his nose.

“I hate the idea of you making yourself hurt just to meet expectations you think are there. I hate that you think so little of yourself that your own wellbeing doesn’t matter. I hate that I can’t fix it or-“

You don’t realize you’re crying until he brushes his thumbs across your cheeks, wiping the stray tears away.

“Shh, hey…”, His voice soothes you, a brief hesitation before he pressed his forehead to yours, just for a moment. Silence in the air except for your breaths intertwining, eyes closed before you look at him again.

“You matter so much. Let me take care of you”, Your voice hits his ears suddenly, making him freeze.

He looks up at you again, eyes wide and chest heaving with each breath.

“I mean it, Jack”, You add, “Been wanting to since day one.”

You feel his body move on the mattress, his body hovering next to you now. He reaches a hand up to cup the side of your face, calloused thumb rubbing against your soft skin again. You remind yourself to breathe as he gets closer, stopping just before your noses touch.

“Can I?”, He asks softly, eyes searching your face like you’ll disappear if he moves too fast.

“Please”, and the next thing you know his lips are on yours.

It’s soft, tentative, not rushed. Just two people finally connecting in a way their hearts knew they needed to long before their brains caught up. All the longing and glances across the ED, the coffees and sandwiches from the break room, the lingering touches, all lead to this.

You almost want to protest when he pulls away, but the way he looks into your eyes would have your knees buckling if you were standing.

“Ok”, He says softly, breath hitting your face as he answers your earlier question.

Then he’s lying down again, head against your stomach and freckled arms around your waist. Pulling you in closer than before. You let your fingers find his curls again, feeling another sigh against your shirt as he lifts it up just an inch or two—before pressing his lips softly to your skin, almost a ghosting—but still enough to send shivers down your spine. You listen to his breathing even out, fingers not leaving his hair until you’re sure he’s out. Every fiber of your being screaming how much you want to take care of him and keep him safe. You knew then you were absolutely fucked, and so did he.

With a soft brush of a finger against his temple you knew he was asleep, letting your hand settle softly against his skin. Then quietly, into the darkness of his room;

“I’ve got you, Jack.”

“Look who finally decided to join us!” An all-too familiar voice jeers from a hightop table, making you snap your head to the left. 

Trinity is already out of her seat, arms up in the air to celebrate your arrival. Not that arriving at this dusty, cramped bar should be celebrated by anyone. It was the only bar that was open this late-- or early, depending on how you look at it. You’re wrapped up into a cinnamon-scented hug before you can protest, her arms squeezing tightly around your shoulders. 

Behind her, you see Dennis, Robby, Princess, and Jack all sitting in a booth. 

What the hell kind of grouping is this? You wonder silently as you double-take the crowd. 

“You’re like… really late!” Trinity shouts over the music as she pulls away, grabbing you by the elbow to drag you to the table. 

“I’m like… not here to see you!” You call back mockingly, but don’t force your arm away from her tight grip. Of course you’ll come over to say hi to your coworkers. Regardless of whether or not you’re being hauled by a small powerhouse of a woman. 

“Then who are you here to see?” She narrows her eyes. 

“Well, hopefully,” you start, then pause to scan the crowd until your eyes land on a guy with a dark buzzcut playing darts, “that guy over there.”

Her gaze follows yours and then she snorts out a laugh. 

“Cheap thrills tonight, doc?” The two of you are close enough to the table that Robby howls out a laugh. At the same time, he’s sliding closer to Princess in the booth to make room for you. Trinity waves her hand at them. “No need. She’s got her eyes on other company tonight. Didn’t come to see us.”

God, she’s too drunk and you’re too sober. Though, by the looks of the other four, they’re not any better than her. Another raspy laugh from Robby and Princess’ loud snort confirm that suspicion. 

You can’t help the way your eyes dart from them across the table to Jack. He’s sitting straight as ever, curls a little messy and eyes a little glassy as they dance between you and Trinity with amusement.

And God, he looks so good doing it. It’s impossible not to stare as he lifts the lip of a beer bottle to his mouth and tips it all the way up. There’s a little trail of gold liquid trailing from the corner of his mouth to his jaw. 

Pulling your lip between your teeth and averting your gaze is the only way you manage to keep from licking it clean.

“You look hot,” Princess says as she rakes her eyes over the outfit you chose with the specific intention of going home with someone tonight. 

A shocked laugh is the only thing you reply with, pinching the bridge of your nose with a shake of your head. 

“Oh yeah, stay away from the rad tech,” Robby chimes from next to her. At your frown, he continues. “He had some… things to say about you.”

Your chest tightens slightly as you cross your brows, trying to think about what wrongs you may have committed to have radiology venting about you over drinks with your attendings. 

“He wants to fuck you,” Princess stage-whispers across the table. 

With this information, you drop into the seat next to Robby, knocking a knee into Jack’s across from you as you settle in.

Trinity has found her way back between Jack and Dennis, the latter arguing with her over something minute as always. Beside you, Robby shifts, hooking an arm over the back of your seat. 

“I don’t think that was the exact verbage,” Jack corrects with a finger pointed to him. 

“Right, no. He asked if you were single,” Robby amends. 

That sends a memory flashing through your head. 

“Oh! Brown curly hair? Young guy, cute?” You ask, and Princess’ enthusiastic nod confirms. “Okay, yeah, yeah. I knew that already, he asked me out a few weeks ago.”

Her jaw drops, eyes widening to the size of saucers. 

“What?” She shouts, leaning over Robby to smack you on the arm. “How did nobody know about this? When did this happen?”

“Yeah, when did this happen?” Jack asks dryly from across the table, bringing the beer to his lips as he watches you through narrowed eyes. 

Giving him a confused look, you shrug. 

“Couple weeks ago, I guess. It was like a two-second interaction, I guess nobody saw it. He came up as I was charting and asked me to go to some theater thing,” you reply with a dismissive wave of your hand. 

“Theater?” Robby chortles. “That feels like a bold choice for a first date.”

Again, you shrug. It was genuinely the only conversation you’ve ever had with the man, and you hadn’t even seen him since. Really, you were incredibly surprised that he’d brought you up at all tonight after so long. 

Princess starts telling Robby something about how the nosebleeds are a great place to fool around without anyone seeing, and that’s your cue to go get a drink. Across from you, Jack pushes himself to his feet at the same time, a little unsteadier than you expect him to be. 

“Too much to drink, Abbot?” You tease, letting your eyes fall over him now that he’s standing. 

He’s wearing a black tee shirt that pulls taut across his chest, and a black and white flannel over it. The extra layer is probably contributing to the pink flush on his drunken cheeks. Through all the layers you can still see the bulge of his biceps as you take him in. You already know you’ll be staring at his ass in those blue jeans the moment you get the chance.

“Not enough for whatever conversation they’re havin’,” he jerks his head in the direction of the table as the two of you start walking away. “Didn’t know you knew the radiology guy.”

“I don’t. Him asking me out was the first and last conversation we ever had.” You eye him carefully. 

“Huh.” He hums, nodding as if not believing you.

Then he takes a final drag from his beer, tosses it in the trash, and breaks away from your path and toward the men’s bathroom. 

Weird. 

You continue walking to the bar, where the crowd is significantly more than you’d expect at 3 a.m. on a weekday. There’s one space where you can easily saddle up between two other people, so you do. 

As luck would have it, one of those people would be the man you pointed out to Trinity earlier. He’s cute, a bit of a firefighter look to him that you’re sure charms plenty of women. Strong, too, though in a way that’s more lean and less bulk. Handsome, strong, and judging by the amount of shots he’s buying right now, employed. 

Bumping into him, you pretend to act surprised, as if you hadn’t just orchestrated the move for the sole reason of getting his attention. As you planned, he turns to face you, arms darting out to steady you on your feet.

“I’m so sorry!” You call over the noise around you, resting a hand on his chest and pushing yourself up to your toes to get closer to his ear. “Are you ok?”

That puts a little grin on his face. His tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip and he nods, amusement written all over his features. 

“‘M fine. You good?” His eyes are moving up and down the outfit you’re wearing. Just like you hoped they would. Based on the long exhale he blows out, you’d say the mission was accomplished. 

“I’m good. Thank you!” You give a sweet smile and then turn back to face the bar, hoping he’ll--

“What’s your name?” 

Fuck yeah.

The typical flirty conversation carries on between the both of you while you stand there waiting for your turn to order drinks. His name is Brett and he is a firefighter. He’s twenty-nine and moved here from some city out West that you don’t much care to remember. 

Most importantly: he’s single. 

The two of you have two drinks at the bar while you talk. Eventually, you follow him back to his friends where he drops off the shots and then let him bring you to a high top closer to the bar. He pulls the chair out for you and you can only hope that his chivalry extends to the bedroom as well. 

“What do you like to do for fun?” He asks, standing next to your chair with his hand on your side. With the height of the stool, you’re about shoulder-height to him. 

“I could show y-”

Your worst nightmare comes true. 

“Hi! I’m Princess.” She’s cuddling up next to him. 

Brett furrows his brows for a moment, but upon seeing your knowing look, chuckles.

“Brett. You two know each other?” He wraps his arm around her and watches as you roll your eyes. 

“Princess, fuck all the way off,” you groan, nudging her with the toe of your shoe. 

She shakes her head, a sorry little smile appearing. Her leaning into your date while she does it sure does nothing to convey any sincerity. 

“Can’t. If I can get you to come back to the table I get $50. And if you let me stay here for longer than 3 minutes I get an extra $10 on top.”

Of fucking course she does. These people are gambling addicts. You didn’t even know that they were still here, let alone watching you. Grumpily, you bring your drink to your mouth and empty it. 

Brett laughs again, patting Princess on the back and then moving to stand behind your chair, placing both hands on your shoulders. 

“How about $100 and you let me take her back to my place?” He proposes. 

Your stomach twists, and you feel bile rise in your throat. He had been nice up until now, and you’re sure he probably didn’t mean for it to come out like he was paying to have sex with you. But holy fuck, you’ve never been turned off so fast. 

Princess is quiet, and you don’t look at her as you get out of your chair and grab your purse. 

“I probably should go back with my friends,” you excuse, giving a tight-lipped smile to the man who has so suddenly soured your night. “It was nice to meet you, Brett. Have a good night.”

Before either of them can say anything else, you’re throwing open the door to the women’s restroom and locking it. 

God, why did they have to ruin that? What the fuck were you even doing here? Why can’t you just sit at home and listen to fucking audio erotica to get your rocks off like the rest of the universe? Why do you have to put your faith into non-fictional men who make jokes about paying for sex with you?

And why the fuck are your friends so goddamn annoying?

Frustration tightens your chest in a way that makes you feel mean. The alcohol isn’t sitting well, it’s ready to bubble over into this stupid situation and make you lash out at what few friends you have because they made a stupid joke that ruined your stupid hookup.

You’re washing your hands as if you can cleanse the anger away. The water is cold, sobering, in a way, and you let it run over your skin to soothe the sting of anger.

Outside the door, muffled voices begin to spill in through the crack in the door. 

“You should just go, man.” It’s Jack that you hear outside. His tone makes you turn the water off to be able to hear better.

“I want to make sure she’s ok. I didn’t mean to-” It’s Brett.

“It’s over, kid. Have a good night.” 

Kid. Your cheeks grow hot as you let yourself become even more upset. That’s the fucking reason you’re here. Because Jack Abbot is the only man you’ve ever wanted to like you, and here he is calling a man older than yourself kid. 

You can’t be enough for him. Could never, no matter how hard you try, you’ll never be his age. Never have his experience. Never come close to breaking down those walls that guard him because he will never care about you enough to let you try. 

The urge to scream appears, and when you tamper it, it’s only replaced with the urge to hit something. 

Here we go again. It’s time to go home. 

As you barge into the hallway outside the bar, you don’t expect to trip over your own feet and right into Jack, who is alone now. 

“Whoa, hey. You okay?” His strong arms hold your waist. 

“Fuck off,” you mumble, pushing yourself off of his chest. But his grip on you is too tight. 

One hand stays on your waist while the other finds your jaw, lifting it from where you’ve locked your eyes on the wall over his shoulder. The thought of seeing his handsome face when you can’t have him feels like a lead weight in your bones. But his grip forces you to meet his eyes. They’re soft, searching in a way you’ve never seen him before. Not like he’s being a doctor, but a friend. 

There’s a neon sign above the bathroom door that shines all sorts of colors across his pretty grey curls. He’s ditched the flannel, too, now only clad in that tight black shirt that has your lips parting to get enough air.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” His question frustrates you to no end. 

“Let me go, Jack.”

“Tell me what’s wrong,” he insists, and you see the bit of desperation on his face. 

It’s far too intense for this situation, and too vulnerable for Jack. But he’s drunk, and these are some pretty typical drunken dramatics by any definition.

Rolling your eyes, you find your footing and move his hands from your body. They drop back to his sides with a thud against the wall behind him. You back away from him until you’re flush with the opposite wall so that you can breathe your own air. The first inhale feels cool, settling. 

Until you hear your name from down the hall. 

Brett is walking toward you, starting another apology when Jack steps up from the wall and blocks you from the other man. 

“I told you to leave,” he warns, and a shiver runs up your spine at the danger in his voice. 

“Dude, just let me-”

“Fuck off!” Jack shouts now, and you jump a little, shock and fear running through you all at once. 

Before you have much time to process anything, you’re being swept into Jack’s arms and into the women’s bathroom once again. He comes in with you and locks you both inside. Once he’s done that, he’s lowering you to your feet and grabbing your face with both of his hands. 

The pace of your heart is concerning. It’s hammering in your chest, and you wonder if Jack can feel it where his fingertips hold the bottom of your jaw. 

“Don’t forgive him,” he pleads, and you startle because what the fuck.

“What?” You ask dumbly, face a little squished by his palms.

“That guy. He-- I don’t-- just don’t.”

His hands go from smashing your face to cradling it, fingers curling around the nape of your neck and thumb stroking your cheekbone. It feels like you have whiplash. 

Why is your hot attending holding you in the women’s bathroom right now? Why did he just shout at your date? Why does he seem so invested in whatever is happening here right now?

“Jack,” you whisper, “I’m a little confused.”

A little laugh leaves his lips as he nods, then drops his head until his forehead meets yours. 

“I didn’t know you knew who I was,” he replies quietly. This surprises you, brows crinkling beneath him. “I saw you, with that guy. And I guess I made a face. Santos told me that you… like me.”

You’ve forgotten how to breathe.

“I didn’t send Princess. That was her own idea and I told her not to,” he assures quickly. “I just, I didn’t think you’d ever glance twice at the grumpy old guy who works the night shift. I didn’t know I had a chance, and I didn’t want to make you uncom-”

The words die as you press your lips to his. In their absence, his mouth melts against yours, tongue instantly darting out to reach for your bottom lip. With a soft sigh you part your lips for him, letting him deepen the kiss to explore your mouth. 

His hands tighten around your face, fingers curling into the hair at the base of your neck to hold you in place. At the slight tug he gives it, you whine, reaching out to grab him and finding his shirt bunched into your fists tightly to pull him closer. It’s futile. You’re as close as you can be without molding into one. 

Then your feet leave the ground, and he’s hoisting you up into his arms. Your legs wrap around his waist, expecting him to carry you somewhere, maybe to the countertop, but he just stands there, backing you into the wall and keeping you settled around his torso. 

“Jack,” you pant as his mouth dips to leave hot kisses down your neck. “Fuck you feel good.”

His breath is warm as he hums against your skin, working his way behind your ear and then along the shell of it. When he reaches the very peak, he pauses and drops his head against yours to whisper. 

“Needed this for so long, sweetheart.”

It’s raw, it’s fucking sexy. 

You’re running your hands all over him when his lips collide with yours in another heated kiss. As time passes, he gets more comfortable. Low moans rumble from his chest as you run your fingers through his hair. 

Then he’s pulling away, trailing chaste, sweet kisses across your face as he draws his head back. 

“Hmm, something wrong?” Your eyes flutter open, a lazy grin on your face when you see his deep flush and blown pupils. 

“Come home with me.” It’s not a question, really, but you nod anyway. 

You expect your feet to hit the floor, to wipe your lipstick from his neck and face and ears before going back out to face the rest of the bar. But, no. Jack keeps you held tightly against his waist as he carries you back to the table (still full of your coworkers), grabs his flannel and your purse, and then leaves wordlessly. 

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little proud, despite trying to hide your face in his neck the whole time (leaving lots of kisses there, of course). 

A girl your age doesn't know any better. Naive little thing. All you see is the handsome man that stands in front of you, who foots the bill when he takes you out to a nice restaurant or on a shopping spree. You see the way he stares down a guy who looks in your general direction a little too long and the way he walks just a step in front of you in a public setting, clearing a path of safety.

What young girl wouldn't want a man like that?

But what they don't see is the way you don't even flinch when you're riding shotgun in his truck and Andrew sets his pistol in your lap. They don't see the blade he'd bought for you—sharp and small, wedged right between your breasts every time you leave the house without him.

They don't see the way your skin prickles when he teaches you the proper way to shoot a gun, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, pointing the barrel at your reflection.

His hands are at your hips, thumbs resting at the elastic band of your pretty, red panties. Andrew's voice is low and slow in your ear. "Mm. Tuck your elbow in. Squeeze the handle a little harder. Yeah, there you go. Now put your finger on the trigger, baby. Just like that. And when you're ready, you just gotta pull it."

You breathe in slowly, and your finger presses down on the exhale.

The gun clicks.

"Yeah, that's it," he says, sliding his hands lower, beneath the crimson fabric. What he finds is unsurprising to him, of course. Arousal pooling between your thighs, your clit slick and swollen and desperate to be touched. He circles it slowly, tentatively, lovingly. "Again, sweetheart."

Andrew doesn't speak much on the rumors that go around about the two of you. He's sure even his brothers believe some of them.

It's to be expected, really, with that mousy demeanor of yours.

You put your hair up a different way one day and when Craig compliments you on it you get all shy, hiding behind Andrew's shoulder with your cheeks flaming.

He thinks it's real cute. The way you act all timid in front of them, murmuring a thank you with that soft voice of yours, unable to meet Craig's eyes all because he complimented you.

But only an hour later, Pope's undoing the clips in your hair while you look up at him from down on your knees, saying—begging, "Hit me."

And Pope does. Smacks you hard, one good time with his palm against your cheek. The sound is like lightning through the open air. He doesn't do it because he wants to, he does it because of that misty look in your eye, because of the way you moan at the impact.

Because of the way you look up at him through your lashes and smile real wide, giggles falling off your kiss-swollen lips, like there's no place you'd rather be.

He gives you just what you need, fucking your mouth until you're crying for it, burying himself at the back of your throat.

Each little gasp for air you make pushes him closer and closer to release, but what really does him in is the way your hand finds his thigh, tracing a little heart-shape into the denim of his jeans while you choke on his length.

Andrew finishes at the back of your mouth without warning, filling you until his release spills from the corners of your plush lips.

His cock still aches when he pulls himself out of you. Your pretty makeup that you spent all that time doing this morning runs down your cheeks now, and sticky webs of saliva and cum connect his cock to your tongue.

"You look so pretty, swallowing me down like that. My beautiful girl. Say it."

Your eyes are bloodshot and watery but filled with love as you look up at him. "I'm your beautiful girl," you say, smiling wide, sticking out your tongue to show him the mess he's made of you before swallowing hard.

"Yeah you are," he murmurs. "My sweetheart."

You've even got Smurf fooled.

They're having a family meeting one afternoon, planning out the details on how to rob a marijuana dispensary that pays its employees exclusively in cash.

While you're moving around easily in the kitchen, Smurf watches you from the living room with a drink in her hand.

Craig and Deran are bickering, trying to figure out a way to distract the night shift security guards that stand watch at the front entrance.

And then Smurf suddenly says, pointing with the rim of her crystal glass, "Her."

Pope shakes his head. "No. Not happening."

"Think about it," Smurf says. "You go in right as the last employee walks out. She walks up, begging to be let in, and says she'll pay extra. Girl like her? They won't expect anything. Just a pretty sweetheart looking to end her day with a little indica."

His brothers are quiet, looking between you and Pope, toeing the line of choice.

In the end, Andrew lets you choose. Makes it clear that if working a job with them makes you feel uncomfortable in any way, they'll figure something else out. He lays out the risks and the reward and reminds you to be honest about your feelings.

But you agree almost immediately and no amount of talking on Andrew's part sways you. It's over the moment you take his big hand, press his palm to your cheek and say, "I love you, Andrew. Even this part of you. Especially this part."

It melts his heart and fills him with this almost uncomfortable level of tenderness. He would kill for you, die for you—all to keep you here by his side.

The job goes perfectly. Andrew and his brothers are able to slip through the ceiling vents unseen, all because you're batting your eyelashes and making your shy little jokes to the guards out front.

They leave the warehouse with duffel bags full of cash and get away clean and undetected.

You're waiting three blocks away in Pope's truck, sitting casually behind the wheel, coating your lips in that pretty lipgloss while looking in the rearview mirror. But your phone is clutched tight in your hand waiting on a text of confirmation.

Pope makes Deran drop him off so he can set his eyes on you sooner rather than later.

And the moment you see him, your eyes light up in this way he knows all too well. Pope nods, adrenaline high as he lifts the clear plastic mask over his face just enough to set it on the top of his head. "We're good," he says.

The hesitant look on your face turns into a grin, soft giggles flitting off your tongue. You slide back across the cab to make room for Pope behind the wheel. You look past him, to Craig and Deran in the car with no plates full of stolen cash. "We'll see you at home," you tell them.

And maybe they don't understand at first, but Pope does. Of course he does—he can feel the way that wanting, lustful energy buzzes beneath your skin.

He puts the truck in drive and pulls out of the lot, but he doesn't make it two blocks before you're wrapping those sharp, painted nails around his bicep.

Pope just smiles as you kiss his shoulder repeatedly, nuzzling the cords of muscle through the fabric of his black hoodie. It seems like such an innocent, sweet touch. But he knows the truth—knows it's not only sweetness in your heart, it's hunger.

"Hang on, baby," he says, hand resting on the inside of your thigh, squeezing tightly. "Lemme pull over."

He finds a secluded alleyway that offers just enough darkness to remain undetected. And the minute he puts his truck in park, you're climbing into his lap.

Pope welcomes the taste of your hungry tongue. Lets you slide it into his mouth, over his teeth, licking and sucking like your life depends on it. He's already half hard in his jeans, but the second you tilt your hips, grinding yourself down against his bulge, he's done for.

"You look—god, you look so good," you whimper, hands around his neck. You don't squeeze, but rather just rest them there, thumbs feeling the quickening beat of his pulse through his jugular.

"Did such a great job today," Andrew says, fingers flexing hard around your hips. "My perfect girl. Such a sweetheart."

You whimper at the namesake, a term he'd coined just for you, his shy, gentle girl. "Andrew, please."

He knows what you're asking for. And who is he, after all, to deny a girl like you? Someone good and soft and so very desperate.

He reaches beneath you, between your legs to find the buckle of his belt. In one swift movement, he undoes it with a clink, and pushes his jeans and boxers down.

"Wait."

Andrew freezes.

At first he fears he might've done something wrong. Assumed wrong or maybe gone too far or pushed too hard. Like usual. Like usual.

His mind starts to spiral, because who could ever hurt you if not a monster? Sweet girl. Sweet heart.

He's a monster. He's a fucking—

And then you smile, and those invasive thoughts disappear as quickly as they'd manifested.

You bat your eyelashes at him with this innocent look on your face, and tug the plastic mask on the top of his head down.

Pope understands then. Of course he does—because you're his filthy, sweet girl. His.

Your clit pulses and he can feel it against his cock, even through the cotton barrier of your underwear.

Andrew tilts his head, watching you through slightly plastic-obstructed vision. He waits for you to move first.

And you do so by leaning forward and laying a wet, open-mouthed kiss against the mask, right over his lips.

It's the most erotic thing Pope has ever experienced.

Because he knows you want him—the awkward, quiet Andrew.

But right now, you're asking for a different version of him. A much more violent version of him; you want Pope.

The part that thieves and breaks and kills. The very worst of him. And not only do you want it, you're twitching for it. Breath coming out like a sigh, hands clutched tight, pussy aching for him.

And the realization—God. He could die. He could fucking die from how much he loves you.

He takes you right then and there. Pulls your underwear to the side beneath your skirt and sinks his cock into you in one hard, claiming thrust.

Pope holds your wrists together tightly behind your back and makes it hurt, because he knows good and well that's what you want. All the while your tongue laves against the plastic of his mask, breath fogging up the surface, a sick, perverted indulgence that drives him insane.

He circles your clit with his free hand, reveling in the way it throbs beneath his rough hands.

It doesn't take long. It never does. He feels the slick velvet of your center squeeze his cock like a vice. Pope doesn't let up, rubbing your clit until you lean back with your eyes squeezed tightly closed, chasing the release you've needed since the moment he'd asked you to help them on this job.

"Look at me," he demands. It's not a request but an order.

You do, mouth open to make room for the cute moans that echo in the cab of his truck. "I'm gonna—god, please please I'm gonna fucking cum—fuck—"

He doesn't say anything. Just tilts his head and watches you.

It hits a second later, and it's beautiful. The way you fall apart in his lap, thighs shaking, fingers flexing beneath his hold, fighting desperately to keep your brain tethered to the earth.

Andrew fucks you through it. Circles your clit until you're squeezing your thighs together, running from the sensitivity.

He finishes inside you a moment later, cock twitching as his orgasm settles low in his belly. And when he's finished, spasming with the aftershocks, you lift the plastic mask from his face and discard it on the floor of the passenger seat.

You smile and kiss him softly and say, "Let's go home. I'm hungry now."

Andrew knows the two of you will take one step into that house and they'll all know what you've gotten caught up doing. They'll see the mess of his curls and the flush on his face. They'll see your swollen lips and the spit drying at the corners and they'll think, 'Jesus, Pope. You can't get off that poor girl for even ten minutes?'

And he won't say anything, of course. He'll just let them go on believing the rumors, believing that he's the one who's insatiable for the shy girl who's gotten caught up in his gravitational pull.