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synopsis: jack abbot is obsessed with you and he's going to make it everybody else's problem
- or -
5 moments the night shift (and co) observes between you and jack + the 1 they don't
contains: bsf night shift crew!! dana & the pittlings cameo, he fell first AND he fell harder, age gap (reader is in her 20's), suggestive at times, everyone calls reader sweets, no use of y/n, jack is probably ooc but i refuse to believe that man does not yearn deeply and he is written so, and most importantly: NIGHT SHIFT SUPREMACY
note: first fic for the pitt because i think i might have actually read my way through every fic on here and i crave more pls be nice to me :') this started off as a completely different fic and then it became this instead so there's a half written part 2 (and a part 3 …) if anyone really wants it. yes i did write this instead of the giant piles of actual work i have to do i hope you enjoy <3
dividers by @uzmacchiato <3
1. The Crush
It’s been exactly one week since you joined the night shift. Six days, twenty three hours, and thirty one minutes technically speaking but who was counting.
In that time you’d made yourself indispensable. You were one of the most competent nurses to ever walk through the doors of the PTMC. You were practically hard wired to thrive in the absolute chaos of the night. And, best of all, you’d become Shen’s caffeine addicted partner in crime. Five out of your last seven days you’d dragged him into a pre-shift coffee run and he always complied with your demands.
The night shift wasn’t easy for just anyone to take to. It was hard and yet here you were, doing it all flawlessly. And Jack couldn’t look away. Not that he’d ever want to.
It’d taken no time at all, about five hours into your first shift, for him to become borderline obsessed. All it took was one conversation in the ambulance bay just after midnight. A joke cracked under the light of the full moon, one that broke through the stern expression he’d had on with no hesitation at all, for Jack to want to know every single little detail that made up who you were.
In a normal way of course.
Now here he was. Watching. Eyes following you as you walked into the ED beside Shen, both of you carrying trays piled high with various hot and iced drinks. He can’t imagine how much even one of those things cost.
Within moments most of the drinks are gone, taken by Ellis and Lena and whoever else had placed their order with the two of you the night before. Jack, for just a moment, regrets not having done so. Not that he even likes the sugary sweet monstrosities you always chug your way through before midnight, always somehow armed with another one to get you through your second half of the night.
He’d pretend though. Especially if it meant you’d stop and smile at him and maybe even talk to him for just a couple seconds about something not medicine related before diving into the mayhem.
“Hey!” Your voice isn’t a hallucination, Jack determines when he sees you walking up to him with a smile.
He tries not to look too surprised. Or flustered. Or excited. “Hi.”
Nailed it.
“I brought you something.”
Jack thinks he might melt into the floor.
You hold out a drink, one clearly meant for him. It’s green on top and pink on bottom with strawberry slices floating above the ice.
“You didn’t have to.” He takes it from you and relishes in the brief moment that his hand touches yours. You need to calm down, he thinks to himself.
“I know, I wanted to. It’s on me.” You say it so easily and Jack thinks now might be a good time to excuse himself and go jump off the roof because he can feel his whole body warming in a way it shouldn’t be at the sentiment.
You’d thought of him. Part of him wonders how long you’d been doing that for and if it was for as long as he’d been thinking of you. Day and night. Hour after hour. In ways he definitely shouldn’t be.
“I just figured you could use a little caffeine that wasn’t the stale black coffee in the break room for once,” You shrug like it’s nothing but it means everything to him. “As a certified drink specialist I thought you might like this one. Shen said I was crazy for picking it but I spent every minute I was awake looking through the cafe's menu debating and I think I finally narrowed down something to live up to your incredibly high standards.”
Jack had stopped listening as soon as you looked up at him. Wide eyed and a little nervous but with that sweet smile he was maybe just a little bit obsessed with already. “What is it?”
Frankly, he didn’t really care. He’d love it no matter what because you’d been the one to hand it to him. You’d put effort into finding something you thought he’d like and that was more than enough for him.
“An iced strawberry oat milk matcha. It’s not too sweet but definitely a step up from a black coffee. I,” You stop yourself for a second, hesitating a little. One look from him though, one that practically begged you to continue, and you kept going. “I see the face you make when you drink it even when it’s fresh so I thought we’d switch it up a little.”
You’d noticed him. He was one more observation away from imploding. He swirled the drink around to distract himself from the fact and then took a huge gulp.
“Holy shit,” His eyes went wide as he took a second to savor the drink. It was good. Really good. He had no clue how you’d figured him out so perfectly. Part of him was hopeful enough to think that you just knew him. Saw him. He took another sip.
“You like it?” You were beaming at him now, satisfied and proud of yourself.
He couldn’t be more obsessed with you if he tried. He was tempted to propose marriage right then and there. Instead all he said was, “This is phenomenal.”
Jack couldn’t help himself. He looked directly at you and hoped that maybe these abilities of yours to read him perfectly well extended past the drinks and you’d be able to look into his head to see what he really wanted to say. You’re phenomenal. I like you. Probably more than is healthy. Never leave me, actually.
“Oh you’re kidding,” Jack had almost forgotten where he was until Shen walked over, handing you a half drunk iced coffee along with a fresh one for later, just like usual. “He liked it?”
“Just like I said,” You held up your hand for a high five, which Shen gave you despite dropping his head and groaning. “Which means you’re buying for me tomorrow.”
Jack rolled his eyes at the sight of the two of you. His smile pushed through the serious facade he was trying to put on. Nothing could ruin his mood right now he was positive of it.
“Is it that surprising?” Jack held his drink a little tighter and held back the urge to take another sip of it. He was seriously already starting to understand your guys' shared obsession with always having some kind of drink on you.
“No, it’s just,” Shen paused for a moment and it hit him all at once. Abbot was in a good mood. And all it’d taken was a personal delivery straight from you. He was wearing a smile, a genuine one. Best of all, his eyes kept straying back to you. Like you were some kind of magnet pulling him in against his will. Oh yeah, he’s obsessed. “I’m glad you found something you like.”
Jack heard it. The tone. His eyes snapped back to Shen and narrowed the slightest bit. All he did in response was wink at him and take a sip of his first coffee of the night.
He could see right through him.
2. The Confession
It had been three days of this and every time Jack saw you he felt the question at the tip of his tongue. And every time something else came out instead. So here he was. Two weeks into your time here and he was obsessed with you. That much he could admit.
If he wasn’t he wouldn’t be lingering by the nurses desk, pretending to look at a stack of papers he was pretty sure were blank. Every few seconds he glances up to where you were deep in a conversation with Ellis and Walsh. The three of you had gotten yourself partnered on the same case and were taking advantage of the fact that your patient was doing perfectly after surgery to actually talk about something normal while you could since you found yourselves with a little downtime.
“You don’t have to hover, you know.”
Jack freezes.
He thinks he might’ve actually stopped breathing. He knows exactly what Lena’s talking about though and he’s determined to lie his way through it.
“What?”
Okay, maybe not the best start. He doesn’t look up from where he’s pretending to flip through whatever papers were in front of him. Definitely not eavesdropping.
“Oh, please,” Lena rolls her eyes and leans back in her chair. “She’s not gonna disappear into thin air. You can get work done and I promise she’ll be there after.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Jack betrays himself when he glances back over in your direction. He smiles to himself when he sees you laugh, a beaming grin on your face. When he looks back towards Lena she’s already staring at him with her arms crossed.
“I think you just might be the world's worst liar,” Lena leans forward conspiratorially. Her voice drops when she asks, “So when are you gonna ask her on a date instead of moping around?”
Jack freezes again, “What are you talking about?”
“Seriously?” She lets out a disbelieving laugh at his bad attempt at faking innocence. “You’re worse than a kid with their first crush, it’s a miracle she hasn’t noticed yet.”
Okay so maybe she had a point, Jack could admit that much. He remembers the first time he’d seen you here clearly. He’d felt some kind of pull towards you the moment you entered the PTMC just over a year ago. It’d been easy to ignore then, though. You’d just graduated and had been doing an emergency medicine residency program under Dana during the day shift and it was only every now and then he’d be there at the same time too. Yet every time he did happen to work with you, even for a fleeting moment, it was like the entire place shifted a little bit.
Dana had even stopped him one time, so casually that he hadn’t even questioned why she was calling him. “You better watch yourself, Abbot. That’s my girl, best one to come through here in ages. Last thing she needs is you distracting her.”
He’d scoffed at the statement at the time, claiming that it wasn’t like that. It had been exactly like that, though. He knew that now. You’d been easy to avoid when you were on day shift but now you were here all the time and he couldn’t imagine not finding every reason he could to stick to your side.
“She’s not one of yours, you know. She’s one of mine,” Lena’s voice brings him out of it. There’s an I told you so look on her face that he rolls his eyes at. “I’m just saying, the paperwork will be a lot easier to fill out.”
“Aren’t you a romantic,” He knows he can trust Lena, though. If it was really a bad idea she’d tell him so with zero hesitation. So finally, hesitantly, he says, “I’ll think about it.”
***
Jack barely needed time to think about it. He had made his choice quickly and it was eating him up inside. It was just past 7 AM and he could hear the day shift and night shift looking for you both. His time with you was running out and fast. It was just the two of you alone in the room, your patient had just miraculously gotten a bed upstairs and you’d been there to ensure a smooth transition. Maybe that was his sign that you’d say yes.
He stops you before you can pull the curtain open to let them know the room was now open. He reaches for your hand, grabs your waist, and spins you around to look at him in a single swift move. “When can I see you again?”
The question doesn’t phase you.
“In about twelve hours.” You answer him with a teasing smile, choosing to stay just a little bit too close to him instead of stepping back.
“You know what I mean, honey.”
And then you look at him in a way that’s new. Your smile turns less teasing and falls a bit. It makes you look a little more vulnerable. He watches your eyes flicker across his face and he knows you’re trying to see what he’s really made of. If he really means it. He wants to shout the truth to you in that moment. That he can’t get enough of you.
“Say it,” Your voice comes out soft and he wonders briefly if you can read his mind. You step a little bit closer to him. “Tell me what you really want from me.”
Jack is painfully aware of the voices and footsteps coming closer. They’ll walk in any moment now, he knows it. He glances towards the door and when he looks back he can see you about to step away, thinking he wasn’t going to tell you the truth. He blurts it out before you can.
“Everything.” He says it so easily that it makes your breath hitch a little bit, he can see it happen. “I want to take you on a real date again and then take you home with me because you will not believe how hard it is to sleep without you next to me. When I wake up I want to just lay there looking at you for a little bit wondering how the hell you agreed to all of that. And then I want to do that over and over again until you get sick of me.”
You don’t say anything after his confession. A few seconds pass where you just let the words sink in and then, “Only if your plan includes taking me to that cute little cafe down the street too.”
“Whenever you want.” Jack’s never agreed to anything so fast in his life.
“Right answer,” You finally will yourself to step away and swing the curtain open. Before you walk away you look at him again and the teasing smile is back. “I’ll meet you outside in a bit?”
He walks towards you again and he’s really pushing it when he stands so close you can feel the heat of him. “Odds we can sneak out of here before they can stop us?”
“Abbot!” Dana's voice.
You laugh at the way he groans as his head falls onto your shoulder briefly. “Not likely.”
3. The Kiss
It’d only taken a month for everything the night shift knew about Jack to change. It had also been a month since you’d joined them. The two things had to be related. They just couldn’t prove it yet.
“Hey,” Ellis whispered as she practically ran to where Shen and Lena were deep in a conversation. There was an uneasy look in her eyes as she looked around, as if she was expecting someone to overhear what she was about to say. “Is he being weird?”
They look towards where she had subtly nodded and found Jack. He was in an exam room laughing with a patient as he finished stitching him up. Laughing.
Night shift chief attending Dr. Jack Abbot was in a good mood. For the first time maybe ever, as far as they knew. At least publicly in a good mood. He was never like this at work, always opting for serious and stoic with his patients because he needed to be at a job like this.
But this was his third patient in a row now that he made easy conversation with. It was a lot more than pleasantries and small talk, it was real conversations. Questions about themselves and their lives and jokes traded back and forth. It was unsettling, frankly.
“Thank you! I told you something was up with him,” Shen slams a hand down on the counter before looking at Lena and leaning forward the same way Ellis was, mocking concern. “ Have we tested him for any substance use lately?”
“Alright drama queens,” Lena rolls her eyes at them and leans back in her chair. “Why can’t he just be having a good night?”
Ellis shakes her head at that, nose scrunching as she disagrees, “No, I think he might actually be physically incapable of that.”
“Well what do you think it is then?”
“I think he got laid,” She says it confidently and with zero hesitation at all. Shen chokes on his drink and Lena’s eyes go wide as saucers. “What? He’s all glowy and shit, there is literally no other explanation?”
“Explanation for what?” Your voice comes out of nowhere and Ellis and Shen nearly jump out of their skin.
“For,” Ellis recovers faster and quickly glances at Lena and Shen, neither of which provide any help. “For why Shen’s guy in south 18 is really concussed.”
“Oh he’s having an affair with his neighbor for sure,” You set your tablet down and swipe your badge along the card reader at one of the computers. “This guy shows up with his pants backwards, shirt inside out, and his left shoe missing and he expects us to believe he just tripped while on a late night walk?”
It’s at that moment that Shen notices it. There’s no iced coffee in your usual place. It’s always right there, tucked in the corner of the desk Lena sits behind. You always reach for it every time you’re nearby, it’s how you make your way through it faster than almost anyone else. He watches carefully as you reach in that exact direction subconsciously before pulling your hand back. Empty.
“Where’s your drink?” He blurts the question out suddenly and you glance up at him.
“What?”
“Your drink,” He glances at Ellis and Lena and they can see the real question in his eyes. “You always leave it right there. It’s barely nine, there’s no way you’ve had enough downtime to finish it already.”
“Oh,” You go back to the computer screen and shrug. “I just woke up late, didn’t have time to stop.”
“Right,” Shen’s eyes narrow at you but he doesn’t say anything else. That’s when he notices Jack leave his patient's room and walk in the direction of the break room. “Hey, my second one is in the fridge if you want it?”
You sit up instantly and immediately a little bit of life fills you again. So maybe you both had a little bit of an addiction. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, don’t worry about it.” And that’s all he has to say before you’re making a beeline to the break room, steps faltering just the slightest bit when you see Jack disappear through the door. Then you glance back at them, smile, and disappear in the same direction.
“No,” Shen shakes his head immediately. “It's a coincidence. There’s no way.”
“And what makes you so sure?” Lena, admittedly, is invested now.
“Uh, because Sweets is my best friend in the whole wide world and would have told me obviously,” He rolls his eyes like it's obvious. “Plus there’s no way Abbot would admit how deep he is in his feelings already. He’s due for at least another couple weeks of yearning from afar.”
“I don’t know, he might’ve,” Lena shrugs as she recalls all the little things she’s witnessed the last few weeks. “This is intense, even for him.”
“Besides, look who we’re talking about,” Ellis points out the fact that they all know is right. You were sunshine personified. The piece they didn’t even realise the night shift was missing. And it was just like Jack Abbot to want you all to himself. “He’d be crazy if he didn’t.”
“Wait,” Lena pieces it together first. The missing coffee. The good moods. The hesitation before your smile, the one that was just a little bit different than usual. Softer. “Didn’t they walk in together today?”
There’s a moment of silence as they all realize the same thing at the same time.
“First one to find out pays for the others drinks for the next two weeks?”
“Deal.”
“You’re on.”
***
“You’re insane.”
Jack only grins at you as he locks the door of the supply closet behind him. He wastes no time at all and immediately wraps you up in his arms, skipping all formalities and letting his mouth fall to your neck. “I thought that’s why you liked me”
He knows now how easy you are to distract. One glance at you and how your eyes have fluttered shut already confirms that. You let out a content little sigh as you pull him closer to you, “Among other reasons.”
The noise that fills the pitt disappears and suddenly all you know is Jack. His hands wandering underneath your shirt. His mouth on every bit of skin he can reach. The way he cages you in between his body and the shelf behind you and holds you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
“Jack seriously,” It takes every bit of your self control to pull yourself back and attempt to look at him for real. “We can’t do this here.”
“We're alone, honey. No one has to know,” He doesn’t even look at you, eyes trained on your lips instead. He slips your scrub top over your head leaving you in just the thin, see-through, white undershirt. You're both quickly losing all sense of rationality.
“Someone’s gonna come looking for us”
“I'm their boss, I'll make them go away,” One of his hands tangles in your hair this time and he pulls your head back so he can look into your eyes. Blown out pupils, breaths falling heavy, lips swollen from how you’d been biting them in an effort to keep quiet. He groans a little bit at the sight. “Just this once, baby, I swear,” He kisses you. Really kisses you. Long and slow and deep. Enough to make your thoughts go blurry and your knees weak. He pulls away the slightest bit and smirks when you chase the feeling of him. “Promise.”
“You know, somehow I don’t believe you.” He laughs then, pretending he doesn’t notice you start to push his own shirt up little by little. Your hands are cold on the warm, bare skin of his chest and he shivers a little bit, smiling even wider. He's addicted to you, he thinks.
“Can you blame me?” Another kiss, this time picking up where he left off before. “You’re perfect.”
Someone pulls on the door seconds later, just as his hands start wandering lower.
“Why is this door locked!”
You slip your scrub shirt back on in record time and Jack pushes you behind him when he goes to open the door as Ellis starts pounding on it. “I swear to god I -”
She doesn’t see you when he opens it. Not at first.
“Can I help you?” Jack asks the question like nothing is wrong in the slightest.
Ellis looks around for a second, trying to determine if anyone else was seeing this or if she had finally entered a state of hallucination. “I just need -”
That’s when she sees you. Tucked behind Jack, clothes a little crooked on your body and a little more disheveled than before. You’re smiling at her, only the slightest bit shy but mostly looking a little pleased. “I - hi?”
She doesn’t know what else to say to you.
“Hi,” You smile at her and step around Jack. “What did you need to grab?”
“I just - I just need a suture kit.”
You grab one off the shelf next to you and step around Jack, stopping for just a second to shoot him a smile. She watches him return the smile, absolutely noticing the way he reaches for you. His fingers barely skim against you when you step just a little too close to him, like even that feather light touch will get him through the rest of the night. You turn back towards her like nothing happened. “Do you want any help?”
“Uh, yeah. Sure.” Ellis tries not to stare when Jack grabs your hand for real, pulling you back and kissing you again, modestly this time. On your forehead as he whispers something to you that she can’t hear.
It’s not until you’ve walked further away from the storage closet that she leans a little closer to you. “Hey, are you two…you know?”
You laugh a little bit at the question. “Dating? I thought it was kinda obvious after that.”
“I didn’t want to assume.” Ellis laughs along with you and shakes her head, leading you in the direction of one of the rooms. Then she notices Shen and Lena out of the corner of her eye again and stops. “Hey, can you get started? I need to check with Lena about some lab results real quick.”
“Yeah, go for it! Take your time.”
Ellis watches you pull the curtain of the room closed. Then she waits until Jack has disappeared into another room on the other side of the ED, the most smug looking grin on his face, before she practically runs to the nurses desk. “They’re dating, I told you so.”
“What?”
“And we’re just supposed to believe you? How do you know?”
“I asked,” She pauses for a moment before leaning closer. “And I found them both in the supply closet with the door locked, you connect the dots.”
Shen’s face scrunches in disgust. “Ew.”
Lena on the other hand only lets out a sigh. “We’re gonna have to keep an eye on them aren't we?”
“Probably.” Ellis looks incredibly pleased as she starts walking back to the room you’d gone into. “I’ll send you guys my drink order before next shift.”
4. The Reveal
The day shift doesn’t usually notice when the night shift starts to trickle in. You remember it clearly, the way it feels like every single person with every single ailment known to mankind seems to congregate in the pitt all at once right before it’s time for shift change. That’s something you don’t miss. By the time you guys come in it feels settled. Or maybe you all just like to think so.
Either way, they definitely don’t notice when you and Jack walk in together, your bag slung over his shoulder. They’re too distracted by the drinks Shen and Lena walked in with, relegated to delivery service after losing some bet to Ellis.
All the noise is forgotten quickly. This, the rare quiet moment in the staff locker room where it feels like the whole world comes to a stand still, is Jack’s time to breathe. He watches you throw all your things into his locker, somehow getting to the point of sharing custody of one now in the last couple of weeks.
He knows you’re saying something. He can hear the sound of your voice but you’re also tying your hair up so it’s out of your way for the night and he loses all ability to think straight. Some kind of pavlovian response overtakes him and this feeling fills him up inside and suddenly he can’t help himself.
He stands up and it's like his hands move on their own without him meaning for them to. They set themselves firmly on your hips and pull them back, completely flush against him. He bunches the scrub top up and settles his hands underneath the long sleeve shirt you’re wearing under it. Your skin is warm under them and the little noise he lets out is perfectly content.
“Can I help you?” He can hear the smile you’re wearing when you ask the question and he can picture it perfectly.
“No,” Jack shakes his head a little and kisses your cheek. It lingers for a second before he starts moving down the expanse of your neck. “I’m fine. What were you saying?”
“You're so needy, you know that?”
“Are you complaining?” He doesn’t get a response from you. Instead your arms settle over his and you relax into his hold. He smirks. “That’s what I thought.”
You don’t get very long to escape into the moment.
“There you are. Robby’s looking for - woah,” The exhausted look on Santos' face turns into a shit-eating grin in a fraction of a second. “What’s going on here?”
Jack frowns when you wiggle out of his hold to turn to look at her.
“Hey,” You smile at her like she hadn’t just seen what she clearly just did. She shares a look with both Javadi and Whitaker who’d walked in with her. “How was your shift?”
“Uh, I'm sorry,” Javadi laughs in disbelief a little as she looks between the two of you. You, smiling brightly at her in the way she misses seeing so much on the day shift, and Jack, who looks like he’s never hated three people more. She’s pretty sure he’s committing their murders in his head. “What is this? When did this happen?”
Jack all of a sudden feels protective in that moment. Over your relationship that very much fuels his will to live and over you. Part of him is surprised you hadn’t told them yet. The first friends you’d made here, probably some of your closest, clearly had no idea about you and him. Then he remembers your opposite schedules and the constant cycle of work and being completely enveloped by the so-called honeymoon phase of your relationship he thinks might actually never end.
“Wait, did I not tell you guys?” You’re trying your hardest to trace back every moment of the last few weeks. Jack takes it upon himself to hand you your drink and grab his before shutting his locker, taking a second to just listen. One of his arms wraps around your waist again.
“You did not, sweets,” Santos shakes her head and speaks slowly, trying to push through her absolute shock at this revelation. And trying very hard not to stare at the casual display of affection from Jack Abbot of all people.
Whitaker is the one who recalls the last real interaction you’d had with them fastest. Somehow he’s the least surprised. “You spent all of breakfast the other day telling us about that kid you patched up with Ellis. The one who slipped off the fire escape trying to sneak into his girlfriend's room."
“You told Mel, Samira, and Langdon," Jack says it in between sips of his matcha like it’s nothing. “When you had them over for dinner at yours your last night off. You sent me a picture of their reactions.”
“Right!” You try your hardest to hold in a laugh at the recollection. Samira had shouted into a pillow. Mel had asked a lot of questions, incredibly excitedly. Frank had decided he needed to take a walk to process and stood on your balcony for ten minutes. “I guess I forgot, everything kinda blurs together. They didn’t tell you?”
“Sweets, I think you told the three least nosy people in the ED,” Santos makes a mental note to yell at all of them for keeping this from everyone else. “Of course they didn’t.”
Then your attention slips from Jack completely when Javadi prompts Whitaker to tell you about something that happened earlier. He stops listening completely, now perfectly distracted by the excited look in your eyes and the way you smile at them. And okay so maybe he’s a little bit clingy.
Jack wraps himself around you from behind again, arms now fully circling your waist. He does not hesitate in the slightest to pull you flush against him again either. He does exercise a little bit of self control though. There’s no kiss this time. Instead he let out a soft sigh and let his head fall onto your shoulder, chin resting against it silently as you talk.
He doesn’t notice the way Javadi covers her mouth with one hand to hold back the comment she wants to make out loud. Instead she points at the sight as subtly as she can and mouths “oh my god!” you only grin at her. You roll your eyes, pretending to be annoyed at Jack’s display, but you settle back into him anyway.
He also doesn’t notice the way Whitaker stares at him, eyes narrowed in his direction and head tipped to the side curiously, debating to himself whether or not Jack was actually in the room with them. Physically or mentally.
Santos, ever curious, is the one who finally cracks and breaks him out of his self induced trance. “Okay, I have to know. How did this even -”
“Hey!” Ellis cuts in before she can even ask the question all the way. She pops her head in the door, eyes skipping past everyone until they land on you and Jack. She doesn’t look phased by the sight in the slightest. She nods at you with a smile in greeting before looking at Jack. “If you don’t get out there in the next five seconds for hand-offs, Robby might just track down a guillotine and use it on you.”
“Alright, alright,” Jack rolls his eyes and takes his time standing up straight again. He lingers for as long as humanly possible. Another kiss, to your forehead this time, before he very begrudgingly lets you go one arm at a time. “I’ll see you out there.”
Jack keeps holding your hand as he walks out of the room, not letting a single second go to waste. He holds on until he takes a step too far and lets it fall out of his own. An absolutely devastating moment in his eyes.
“Later, kids.” He just barely glances at Whitaker, Javadi, and Santos, saluting them with two fingers before taking another sip of his drink and walking out of the locker room with Ellis, who hands him a tablet.
The silence sinks in around you. In those few moments your friends realize that Abbot’s whole little display is evidently very much normal for the night shift. And then -
“Since when does Abbot drink matcha?”
5. The Declaration
It was bordering on 2 AM when the trauma came in. A young girl, who’d just wanted some pancakes and coffee while pulling an all nighter studying for her upcoming SAT exam. She’d been hit by a drunk driver on her way home from the diner and was in rough shape.
The room was already tense. She’d coded in the ambulance and they’d only just managed to get her stable. Every single one of you held your breath as you all did everything in your power to try to save her.
It was really with no hesitation that everyone else took a backseat to you and Jack moving easily around each other. The two of you were the girls best bet at surviving, a well oiled machine at this point. In every sense of the phrase. You could anticipate what he was about to do before he even said it. All he’d have to do is give you a look and you just knew, you’d hand him whatever he needed, or ask someone else if your hands were full, and you were right every single time.
“Honestly I think the rest of us can go home,” Walsh, who’d been paged to consult and make sure the girl was stable enough for surgery, said from where she stood on the other side of the hospital bed from you and Jack. She was watching closely and honestly, was more than a little impressed. Especially when you pointed something out to Jack that he’d missed right before she could. “Our sweet little angel face over there has this whole place locked down.”
“Including Abbot,” Shen watches from beside Walsh, looking on curiously at the silent understanding between the two of you. “It’s like they have some freaky mind meld thing going on.”
“You think its contagious?” Walsh puts up her side of the bed railing, seeing that Jack was just about done.
“Hopefully not,” Shen makes a face at the thought. “I'm more than happy letting her be the one to keep him too busy to yell at the rest of us.”
Neither one of you notice their conversation in the slightest, too involved in each other even in a trauma room. It’s almost unsettling. The small little smiles and the bedroom eyes and whispered comments passed between the two of you. The way Jack pauses for just the briefest moment mid procedure to turn and send you a wink that makes you roll your eyes and grin back at him.
Walsh watches the whole interaction, positive the two of you have forgotten everyone else is the room. “This can't possibly be normal. Are they like this their whole shifts?”
Shen thinks for a moment before shaking his head, “It’s usually worse. Boarding on an HR violation is their normal.”
A moment passes where Walsh realizes that yeah, that kinda tracks considering the moments she’s been witness to up until this point. Then, to Shen’s horror, she smiles. “Hey, do you wanna see something funny?”
His eyes narrow at her but ultimately his curiosity gets the better of him. “I’m not taking responsibility for your funeral expenses if this goes badly.”
That only makes her smile wider.
Walsh maneuvers her way to your other side, taking the place of one of the other nurses that was there. Shen’s eyes go wide when she looks at him again. She speaks before he can shake his head to stop her, breaking you and Jack out of the little bubble you’d put yourselves in.
“You know you’re really good at this, Sweets,” Walsh grins when you look over at her instead and Jack hesitates for just a second. “When can I steal you to help me in the OR? You’d be amazing in there.”
“Anytime,” You meet her smile easily. “I’m always down for a change in scenery.”
“Perfect,” She smirks a little at your answer. “Name a day and time and I'll steal you all for myself.”
“Done,” The other side of the railing snaps up, maybe a little more harsh than it needs to be. Jack looks up, not a hint of the smile he’d been using with you left when he looks at Walsh. “You can go now.”
Walsh looks more than pleased by his reaction. She looks at Shen who’s trying his absolute hardest not to laugh giddily at what he just witnessed.
“Down, boy,” She unlocks the wheels of the hospital bed and smirks even wider when Jack removes his gloves and loops his fingers into the hem of your scrub top, pulling you back into his side. It’s completely subconscious, she realizes, when neither one of you seems to even notice it happens. “Even when I steal her from you for my OR you’ll still get to take her home at the end of the night.”
“Wait, hang on, that’s where I draw the line,” Shen unlocks the wheels on the other side and starts wheeling the bed out with her. “You are not taking our best nurse all for yourself. Especially not when she’s the one who also brings us our caffeine every shift.”
“You know, you’re only giving me more reasons to steal her.”
Neither one of them notices that you don’t follow. Instead, the room empties out and then it’s just you and Jack. The silence settles between you as Jack unties the back of your surgical gown. When you turn to face him again he speaks softly.
“You could go, you know. To the OR. If you wanted to.” Jack says it before you can say anything about it. “Walsh is right, you’d be a natural up there.”
“Jack -”
“You don’t have to stay here forever. I mean, Shen is also right. We’d miss you down here. It hasn’t even been a couple months yet and it feels like you were made to be here with m- with everyone -”
“Jack -”
“Even if you just wanted to try it out. I think you should. I mean it’s-”
You kiss him. Not in the storage closet or the locker room or in an on call room or behind a curtain like usual. Right there in the middle of a trauma room, windows wide open and the ED buzzing all around you.
Jack melts into you immediately. Hands moving to your hips to pull you closer before one moves to the back of your neck to deepen the kiss. A small groan leaves him when you pull away, the sweetest, most innocent smile on your lips.
“You talk too much,” A moment passes where you just stare at him, making sure he’s really listening to what you’re saying. “I’m not leaving the ED,” and then you add a little quieter, a little more shy, “You’re here.”
“I love you.”
Jack doesn’t know what possesses him to say it out loud here and now of all places for the very first time. But he feels it and he acknowledges it and there’s no way he can hold it in after that. There’s a need that settles deep in his bones and he knows he’s never going to want anything less than you right there with him always. Forever. He doesn’t know how he’d survive otherwise.
It takes a moment for what he said to sink in. You can see the intensity in his eyes, how much he feels it and means it. You really wish you were anywhere but the ED right now. Maybe if you wished really really hard you could somehow will everyone and everything to slow down long enough for you to sneak away with Jack for just a little bit.
Jack Abbot who loves you. The knowledge of that fact makes you feel warm all over.
“I love you too.”
+1. The Move
Jack is obsessed. He knows that for sure now.
With the way you kiss him and how you look at him after. With the way you let him be as attached to you as he needs to be at any given moment and you don’t mind at all. With the way you hold his hand and pretend not to notice when he moves his fingers to rest on your pulse point out of instinct. And especially with moments like these.
It’s pushing ten am and the two of you have only just left the hospital. A morning rush hour pileup meant that not only was there an influx of trauma’s coming in right before 7 but also that a good chunk of the staff were stuck behind the backed up traffic.
Despite the fifteen hour shift, you’re still happily nodding your head along to the soft music that fills Jack’s car. He watches you out of the corner of his eye. You’re mumbling the words to the song playing and taking sips out of the drink he’d just bought you, your third one of the day. His drink is sitting the cup holder. His second one, your habits had rubbed off on him.
The song switches once and then twice. By the time it switches a third time he’s watching you frown as you reach the bottom of your drink.
“Honey, don’t take this the wrong way,” He looks at you for a moment before looking back at the road. “But I think you might have a problem.”
“I do not!” You feign offense and turn towards him in your seat. “God forbid I treat myself to something nice after a long day.”
“What were the other two for then?”
“A treat for going to work and a pick me up for halfway, clearly.”
“Clearly.” Jack shakes his head as stops at a light. Silently, he drops one hand from the wheel and sets it palm side up on the center console. Almost immediately you’re placing your hand in his, the exact way he was craving.
The light turns green and he makes the split second decision then. He turns right, the direction that’ll let him turn around to head towards his place, instead of continuing straight, the direction that would take him to yours.
You watch as he does so, driving further and further away from your apartment. “Jack, what are you doing?”
He kisses the back of your hand. “Taking you back to mine since you’re clearly not planning on sleeping after all that caffeine.”
“Okay, one,” You turn to face him again, even while he’s driving. “I’ve built up a tolerance. This is nothing. And two, I've been out of clean clothes for like a week. I can only wash the ones I have there so many times.”
“So steal some of mine.” Jack shrugs and maybe the thought of you in his clothes is a little bit for him too.
“Bad idea, cause then neither of us will ever have clean clothes again.”
“I’ll buy you new ones then.”
“Not if I don’t let you.”
“Good luck stopping me.”
He’s winning and you both know it. So instead you say, “I have to stay at my place sometimes, what’s the point of even having it if I give in and always let you win these fun little arguments.”
The stop is sudden. Jack pulls over into the first empty spot he sees on the side of the road and turns to face you fully before you can ask him what he’s doing.
“You know what, honey? You’re right,” He leans towards you, fully leaning on the center console until he’s close enough to kiss you if he really wanted to. “There’s really no point in you paying for an apartment you’re barely ever in so I think it’s the perfect time for you to let me move you in with me.”
For a second you’re not sure if you heard him right. Maybe he was right and the cocktail of caffeine and sleep deprivation was finally making you imagine things. “What?”
“Move in with me.”
So you definitely heard him right.
“You’re not serious.”
“What makes you think I’m not?”
“It’s barely been three months,” You shake your head as if that should explain everything. “And we haven’t even technically been dating for that entire time.”
“What can I say, I know what I want,” You’re still looking at him in disbelief so Jack takes your hand again and he sounds more serious when he says it plainly. “What I want is you. Every morning, every night, every shift, every minute you’ll let me. If you’ll have me.”
“It’s too fast.” You’re only trying to convince yourself at this point.
Jack smiles at you, softer than before. “You’re forgetting I’ve been pining over you for more than a year now.”
You catch the implication immediately. It went way further back than just three months. All the way back to the day you walked through the doors of the PTMC halfway through him going through shift change. He’d lingered a lot longer than necessary and you had thought it was just normal for him.
“You’re crazy.”
“That’s why you love me.”
And he’s right. It’s the reason why you finally give in. “Will you at least let me split the rent with you?”
“I own the place.” Jack shrugs and you know for a fact that he’s not sorry in the slightest.
“Mortgage then.”
“Already paid off.”
“Bills?”
“Paid in advance for the next three months.”
“Groceries?”
“Not a chance.”
“50 50?”
“90 10.”
You huff a little and pout at him. He doesn’t fall for it, only pausing for a second to kiss the look off your face. “Are you ever going to let me win one of these arguments?”
“Not unless it’s in your best interest.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And you love me for that too.”
Jack finally thinks for a moment and that’s when his eyes land on the drinks in the cupholder between the two of you, his half full one and your empty one. “How about I let you pay for my drink every time we stop for one?”
You light up at his proposition. “Will you let me pay for mine?”
“Only after the first one. First one I’m paying for,” He leans in a little bit closer, knowing he’s got you on his side now. “Consider it a compromise.”
“Works for me.”
“You can pay for Shen’s too,” He adds quickly before you can agree. “I refuse to fund his addiction, he’s worse than you.”
“Deal.” That makes you laugh and you finally lean in and kiss him, sealing everything in place.
He can taste the sugary vanilla drink that still lingers on your tongue and it makes him smile against your lips. “Will you let me take you to our home now?”
“Okay,” You kiss him again. You really can’t help it. “Take me to our place.”
summary: a collection of their first times together. connected to my other shy!reader fic, but can be read as a standalone!
content: explicit 18+ MDNI. smut, oral (f receiving), tad of dry humping, unprotected p in v. brief mention of sexual assault (a patient, not reader), reader is a SANE.
wc: 8.9k
notes: thank u for the love on my first fic!! i thought id write a lil extra fic of this dynamic bc i also adore them.
masterlists
First Date
Jack is a traditional man, you’ve come to realise.
After the kiss, the invisible boundary stopping him from taking care of you the way he wanted had been broken, and he promises to care for you to the fullest extent, for as long as you’d let him.
Your schedules never seemed to align to both have a day off, and Jack was getting antsy at the prospect that he had kissed you days ago, but couldn’t take his girl out for a date.
A particularly stressful case one evening broke his patience.
An MVC trauma case had rolled in just before his shift was about to end, the man was in his late-thirties and the crash seemed to have paralysed his lower limbs. He worked to treat the most imminent problems, but Jack could tell the man knew what had happened to his legs, and was grieving silently.
Not long after he’s finished treating the man, a tall, blonde woman rushes into the trauma room just as Jack was about to exit, and the look on her face was fear followed by complete devastation. He watches her sob as she rounds the table to sit next to her partner, moving strands of hair away from his face so she can lean in and press her forehead against his.
Jack stands off to the side watching the scene unfolds, and his breath hitches as he hears the couples’ cries, their pleas of love for one another, the fear that she had almost lost him; lost him before they could finally get married, he overhears.
The woman promises that nothing could ever change the love she has for him, begging to scrap the big, fancy wedding they’d planned, wanting to elope, not bearing to waste another day of not being married to him.
Something twists low in his chest, patience wearing thin and excuses himself from the room, desperately needing to find you.
He couldn’t wait.
Jack’s shoulders are tight when he exits the trauma room, shaking his head and searching for you, hoping you hadn’t left for the day.
───
You’re zipping your bag up where it rests on your chair, when a low, familiar voice startles you from behind.
“What are you doing right now?”
“Uh, going home and sleeping. You should try it sometime, y’know–” You begin to tease back, turning to look at him, but his face is serious, tight, making you falter. You’re about to ask what had happened, never having seen him so disturbed.
He speaks before you can ask, shaking his head and commanding,
“No. C’mon, we’re grabbing food.” His voice is gravelly as he grabs your bag, slinging it over his shoulder, before picking up your coat holding it out for you to slip into it. Your heart warms at the sweet, domestic gesture. Nervously, and heavily blushing, you turn, and let him drape you in the coat. You move to take the bag from Jack, but he shakes his head, holding it tighter.
“Let’s go.” His voice is low, and you feel his hand rest on the small of your back, guiding you to the exit. You almost just let yourself fall into the comfort of allowing Jack to take over, enjoying not having to think for once.
“Jack– hold on.” You say a little flabbergasted. Shen and Lena give you both an amused look as you pass, clearly they seem to know what’s going on whilst you’re left in the dark.
“We’re exhausted, I look a mess right now– we just finished a 12 hour shift!” You try and reason with him as he hurriedly leads you to his truck.
“So?” He gives you a look that implies what you said has no grounds for protest, whatsoever.
You scoff, completely taken aback, and swivel to face him once you reach his truck, searching his face for an inkling of an idea as to what’s up with him.
“Jack–” You try, but he just leans past you, and opens the truck door for you, nodding his head signalling for you to hop in.
“First of all. You ain’t a mess, sweetheart.” He says, almost offended by the notion.
Once you’ve climbed into the seat, you watch as he reaches for the seatbelt and buckles you in, and before pulling away, he rests his forehead on yours and whispers, “You looking fuckin’ amazing all the time.”
You can't help but let out a flustered whine at his praise, blush covering your face as you meet his intense stare. His expression begins to soften once he looks you over, realising you’re finally here with him. He softly brushes a strand of hair away from your face.
“Diner food okay, doll?”
───
You feel the car come to a stop across the street from a 24/7 diner downtown, it’s cutesy, it has a retro feel to it. You go to open the door, but his hand gently catches your wrist mid-movement.
“Ah ah. Stay.” He commands with a soft-but-stern tone, willing you to obey.
You smile to yourself as you watch him round the hood of the truck, you’ve never received this kind of princess treatment, and your heart clenches. You thrum with anxiety as you wait for him to open your door, begging yourself to not make a fool of yourself and somehow faceplanting out of the truck.
Checking that no cars are passing, he opens the door and holds his hand out for you to take. You can’t stop your smile from growing or the heat covering your face, utterly touched by his gentlemanly gestures.
“You don’t have to do all this, you know?” Your voice is quiet, but slightly teasing as you hop out of the truck, holding his hand. “I already like you.”
Jack sighs when looks down at you, wrapping an arm around you to rest on your hip before moving you to the inner side of the sidewalk, away from the road.
“I ain’t doing this to impress ya.” He grumbles out, bringing his lips to your temple. “It’s how you deserve to be treated, honey.”
You’re speechless.
He needs to stop making you blush, you’re already flustered and overwhelmed by all of his actions within the short span of time you’ve left the ER, and the date has barely begun.
You’re barely able to focus or think straight, which is why when you reach the doors to the diner, you mistakenly make a move to open the door, and Jack almost hangs his head in soft frustration
“Sweetheart, c’mon.” He says in disbelief. You look up at him with a confused expression, watching as he enters your space, and opens the door for you. God, he’s so traditional. Your grin is wide as you stare at him, unable to keep it off your face as you enter the Diner.
You let him order first, as you stare up at the menu above the counter. You’d heard him order a savory dish, something with eggs. It’s healthy, and though you’d wanted something sweet like pancakes you start overthinking, not wanting to look unhealthy or childish in front of Jack, completely baseless worries.
He turns to look at you, seeing your brows are furrowed and a worried look paints your face as you’re trying to decide. He reaches back, squeezing your hand tilting his head. “Honey, get whatever ya want, yeah?”
Your smile is tight and shy again when you order the pancakes, nerves wracking your body for no good reason, just another moment anxiety seems to spike randomly.
“Will that be separate or together?” The cashier asks about payment whilst finishing up the order, and both you and Jack speak at the same time.
“Separate–”
“Together.”
His tone is final as he looks at you with an incredulous expression that you even tried to offer to pay on your first date. You begin to shake your head, feeling guilty about making him pay for you, but he taps his card and gives you a stern look.
While you’re waiting for the food he wraps you in his arms and whispers into your hair.
“Let me take care of you. Please.” His voice is gentle but pleading.
Your heart clenches as you look up at him from where you’re wrapped around him, face touching his chest. Vulnerability flickers in your eyes, unsure if you should admit to Jack just yet, how hard it is for you to let go and be cared for.
But he just smiles, patting your hair, and silently, you think he already knows.
Grabbing your food, you look for a place to sit, but you notice Jack is… walking out? You frown again, catching up to him with confusion painting your face. Did he not want to eat together? Had you completely misinterpreted this as a date? Maybe he just wanted to grab food before going home.
He snorts at the confusion, back tracking a little and cupping your face with one hand, a thumb stroking back and forth across your cheek.
“You think I was gonna take ya to a diner for our first date?” He croons, a smirk tugging at his lips.
“Jesus, kid, who have you been hanging around with before me?”
───
What you hadn’t expected was for him to bring you to a remote spot that overlooked the city. It was still early in the morning, a fresh spring fog coating the city from above as you sat on a bench and had breakfast.
You’re too in your own head, you know this. But you can’t stop. You’re painfully aware that this is a date, you want to act the right way, say the right things, be charming, be funny. But it inevitably leads to complete silence from you and jumpy eyes darting around focusing on anywhere but him.
Sighing, he sets his takeout container on the bench beside him, before scooting closer to you.
“Hey, what’cha worrying about over there?” He nudges his knee with yours. He meets your eyes and finds insecurity and so much shyness. He tilts your head up using his fingers on your chin, making sure you really hear him when he speaks.
“You still get me so nervous.” You breathe out shakily, laughing a little at the prospect knowing he’d already kissed you stupid days ago.
“You got no one to impress, yeah? S’just me.” He teases a little, recalling your words from earlier.
“Plus, I already got a taste of those lips, doll.” This raises a shy laugh from you and you groan while you nudge his knee back playfully, clearly calming down. He has a way of easing you, making you comfortable around him like no one ever has. You lean your head down against his shoulder, bringing your hand to trace patterns on his scrubs.
In the comfortable lull between you both, you break the silence.
“What happened today? Why were you so… worked up?” You ask cautiously, not wanting to break the serenity of the moment by bringing up negative emotions.
Jack pauses, you feel him tense beside you. But he places a hand on your thigh and rubs his thumb back and forth comfortingly, searching for the right words.
“I just… didn’t wanna waste any time.” He admits softly, breathing out a sigh of relief.
“I know what I want, and we’ll go as slow as you want– but I’m not waiting around to miss key moments with you.” He leans down to where you rest on his shoulder and places a gentle kiss on your forehead, lingering there for a moment after his admission.
Your breath hitches at his intensity, realising how serious he is, that he really wants this, wants you.
“Now,” he pauses, using his hand to lift your head off his shoulder. “I’ve been dreamin’ about kissing you again for days.” His rough voice whispers, searching your eyes for permission, any indication you want this as much as he does.
You don’t give him time to find it.
Immediately, you lean in and crash your lips to his, faster and passionate than your first.
Jack is genuinely taken aback by your little show of confidence, and he makes a surprised whine at feeling your lips again.
You pull back, wide eyed and shocked at what you had done. “Fuck–”
He growls at you having broken the kiss. You don’t get time to sit with embarrassment at how desperately you’d kissed him, you notice how blown out his pupils are and he immediately cups your face bringing you back in.
He had so effortlessly taken over, comforting you and pleasing you with one kiss that your worries dissipate, your body relaxes into him, and you let yourself feel it.
For the second time, Jack had kissed you stupid.
First Personality Shifts
Slowly, but surely, Jack was getting you to come out of your shell. He was discovering parts of you he hadn’t known existed, and loved it.
He was encouraging you to grow, to flourish, which is how he discovered how sassy you could get.
The night shift were working overtime, wrapping up cases here and there, during a particularly brutal shift. You’d been working around 15 hours now, exhausted but powering through.
You and Emma, a day shift nurse, were assisting a trauma case led by Jack and Dr. Robby, much to the dismay of Shen and Ellis. It was a particularly tricky case, you’d all been in that room for ages, holding your breath during a risky procedure as the room stays silent.
After a while, you watch Jack and Robby step back from the patient, letting out a breath of relief before Robby raises his thumbs, signalling everything went perfectly. You see them smile, their eyes crinkling from under the mask.
Small cheers and laughs filter through the room, the tension easing out.
“You’ve still got it, man.” Jack praises Robby.
Robby almost looks reluctant to accept the approval.
“Nah man, that’s all you.” Robby retorts, his hand patting Jack’s back whilst Robby went to leave the room.
“Take the compliment, Robby.” Jack raises his voice to reach where Robby was leaving the room, knowing how his friend gets. Robby pauses in the doorway turning to face Jack.
“No, seriously, brother. Everyone could learn a thing or two from you.” Robby says loudly enough so his residents can hear, making it a point.
You hear them go back and forth for a while, your brain is finally slowing down from exhaustion, they do this all the goddamn time, which is why you don’t even process it when you blurt out your next sentence.
“Careful, Jack’s ego is inflated enough as is.” Your voice is somewhat quiet, you really meant it for just Robby and Jack.
The room erupts in small giggles, Robby’s eyebrows lifting in surprise and smirking at Jack. He can’t help but let out a laugh.
“Oof, damn girl.” You hear Ellis joke from behind you.
Your wide eyes shoot up to meet Jack’s, your tired brain catching up and afraid you’d offended him. But he’s stood there, completely still, and grinning so hard. He almost looks proud.
Jack didn’t think he could fall for you any harder.
He was wrong.
───
You had finally gotten comfortable enough to ask for his comfort.
Before you met Jack, you couldn’t imagine asking for help for the littlest of things, afraid of inconveniencing people. Jack had reassured you, time and again, that he wants to be the person you go to when you need help.
So you do.
At first, it was adorable for Jack trying to get you to ask for help. Being a slight tease about it, encouraging you to use your words.
You’d had a rough shift, you weren’t meant to be going to Jack’s place after work, but god did you need him today more than ever.
You’d been in the room for a few trauma cases, neither of which had ended with the patients pulling through, one being a pediatric case. You’d also opted to do an evidence collection for a sexual assault patient, knowing how busy Lena had been tonight, the floor needing her more than ever, so you’d taken over for her.
Safe to say, by the end of the night, you were a wreck. You felt on the verge of tears for hours, like the littlest thing could set you off. You were emotionally depleted, you wanted to just switch off, and you knew Jack could help.
So you approached him quietly, anxiously, your hands fidgeting. He was grabbing his bag out of his locker, so you slid in next to him, your back against the lockers next to him searching his face, checking if he’s too tired, because you wouldn’t want to be a burden.
“Hey, baby.” He smiles at your appearance next to him, glancing over at you.
“Everything okay?” He says gently after noticing your stature. He can tell you’re anxious. He pauses from where he’s gathering his stuff in his lockers, turning to face you fully now. You’re staring into his eyes, you’re hesitant.
“Talk to me.” He commands gently, his hand coming to yours to break apart your nervous fidgeting.
You swallow the lump in your throat, asking for help always ended with tears for you and you didn’t want to cry. Not here, not now.
“Jack.” You just whine, silently begging that he’d understand what you need without you having to vocalise it. Your eyes water slightly, needing his comfort desperately.
“C’mon, baby, use your words.” He coaxes, his hand cupping your cheek. “You can do it.” His thumb brushes back and forth across the apple of your cheek, catching any tears if they fell.
“I need you.” Your voice is shaky, broken. It’s all you can manage without completely breaking down at work.
“Yeah?” His voice is so gentle, like he’s trying not to spook you, but a smirk tugs at his lips. “Atta girl.” His praise causes an involuntary, but quiet whine to leave you.
He’ll stop the teasing for tonight, he sees how much you need him and the fact you had even verbalised your need for him was progress. He’s so proud of you.
“You need me, baby? C’mere.” He opens his arms for you, beckoning you into his hold. You’re a little embarrassed as you hug him, worried someone will find you like this, all vulnerable and mushy.
“You did so good, baby, asking me for help.” He strokes your hair, comforting you. “C’mon. I’ll bring you home.”
A protesting whine escapes you before you realise, the idea of him dropping you home alone upsetting you. You had just said you needed him, hadn’t you?
“Hey, hey.” He says quickly, needing to settle you down before you get more upset. “I meant home. Our home. You’re mine, baby. Imma take care of you now.”
───
However, one particular night, he uncovered an unexpected, but one of his favourite sides of you.
It’d been a rare evening where most of the night shift were off for the day, well at least those fun enough to drink with.
You and Jack hadn’t even bothered to try and hide your relationship around your coworkers, they knew too much. It wasn’t much of a problem anyways, not that either of you were overly affectionate at work.
Lena supported you, but continued to encourage you to err on the side of caution, worried you’ll get hurt. Shen, however, lived for teasing you both.
With a few drinks in your bloodstream, you had shuffled closer to Jack within the booth, searching for his touch. Shen, sitting opposite you both kept giving you knowing looks. It’d started with your thigh against his under the table, a gentle, grounding presence. But drink after drink, it hadn’t been enough. You wrap your arms around his forearm, your head on his shoulder now.
You’re definitely feeling the drinks, tipsy if not drunk, and you’re practically all over Jack. It's like you wanted to crawl into his skin. He’s definitely enjoying how clingy you’re being tonight. He leaves soft kisses in your hair from time-to-time, not trying to go full on PDA in front of his friends. But you were making it very hard for him to keep his cool.
The drinks get to your head, making you both loose-lipped and a little sleepy.
Your eyes fall to his hands. His fingers idly trace around the condensation on his glass as he politely listens to a story Ellis is telling. Truthfully, you hadn’t been clocked into the conversation for a while now, Jack occupying so much space in your mind. Jack. Jack. Jack.
His hands just looked so good. They were so big and veiny, and his fingers were so thick. You don’t know what had gotten into you, but you were so incredibly entranced by his hands.
Without thinking, you slide your hand that rested on his bicep, down his arm until it landed on his hand, gently pulling it away from his glass. He lets you, doesn’t even look down to see what you’re doing, assuming you wanna hold his hand. But you just turn his hand over, palm facing up, and reject his attempt at intertwining your hands together.
You let out a small, short whine in protest. Keeping his hand laying flat on the table while you take your nails and gently trace your fingers in his palm, up his fingers and back down. They were so worn, tough. Nothing like your soft hands.
This touch from you makes him shiver, goosebumps erupting all over his skin. He glances down at your face, your eyes are glazed over and you seem completely infatuated by his hand. He watches you turn over his hand again, and you begin to trace his veins, like you’re completely hypnotised.
His breath comes out shakily, now completely zoned out of Ellis’ conversation.
“What’ya doing, honey?” He whispers quietly into your hair, ensuring no one else can hear him.
You peek up at him from where you rest on his shoulder. God, you’re drunk. He’s so beautiful.
“Your hands are realllyyyy hot.” You blurt out, drunkenly as you continue to toy with his hands. By the power of the universe, the table had erupted into laughter at Ellis’ story at the same time you’d blurted that out, such that no one heard.
He stills at your comment and almost barks out a laugh. He holds it in, not wanting you to get all shy on him. Not when his shy girl has gotten so confident.
“Is that so, baby?” He practically growls into your ear, lifting a drink to hide his smirk.
“Mhmmm.” You hum in affirmation. Your focus shifts from his arm to wrapping both hands around his bicep, it flexes slightly as he brings his drink to his lips. “Y’r arms too. Soooo big. Wanna bite ‘em.”
He genuinely chokes on his drink at that, something possessive stirring in his chest. His shy, sweet girl, completely fawning over Jack.
He blinks around, making sure no one heard what you said, he couldn’t stand the thought of someone else hearing your desired rambles for him. Looking up, he notices Shen’s cocky smirk as he glances between the two of you. Jack’s about to tell him to mind his own business, but you beat him to it, by doubling down.
“Like it's unfairrrrr.” You mumble into his bicep.
“Unfair?” Jack asks, confused.
“How are you sooo– ugh!”
He tilts your chin to look at him, wanting to know where all this flattery is coming from, and you have a lovestruck tired expression.
You pout as you take him in, his curls, his scruff, his face.
Oh.
Something more present and aware flashes in your eyes the longer you stare at him, like you’re realising you spoke the words out loud. Your eyes widen slowly, mortified, and heat rushes to your face as you stare at him silently, replaying everything you just said. In public.
You dart your face around the table and make eye contact with Shen who's laughing under his breath. Oh fuck. You probably just embarrassed Jack and yourself.
You detach from him so quickly it gives him whiplash.
“Oh my god, I’m so–” Your voice is incredibly apologetic, horrified, and you won't even look at him in the face.
“No, hey. none of that.” Jack’s voice is firm. He brings his hands to cup your face, making you look into his eyes. “I like you like this, cheeky, confident.”
You want to be happy at his words, but you can’t help but feel guilt and nausea stir in your stomach. Your drunk brain is making it very hard to think straight. You bite your lip anxiously.
“Do you…” You hesitate, looking into his eyes. “Do you wish I was more like that?” You have to ask. Maybe sober you wouldn’t feel so insecure, but you’re tired and your mouth is still feeling braver than your brain.
“God, no, honey–” He pauses trying to find the right words, his thumb absentmindedly stroking your cheek. “I mean– Don’t apologise for this. I want you, every version of you.” His tone is pleading. You calm down a little at his words, feeling silly at how quick your mind jumped to the worst case.
“Want you even when you’re drunk outta your mind and thirsting over me like this–” He teases which gets cut off by a groan from you. You can’t help but smile as you hide your face into his neck again.
First Time
You’d been dating Jack for a little while now, but you still hadn’t had your first time together. Jack waited for your signal, he wouldn’t push, he’d wait until you were comfortable enough to be with him.
Which you were. You wanted to be intimate with Jack for so long, but there’s a nagging feeling at the back of your brain, stopping you from initiating.
Your past relationships, as Jack had slowly realised, weren’t exactly the best. You weren’t ever cared for like you are with Jack, which extended to sex. Sex had never really been about you and your partner, it’d always been about his pleasure, his needs.
And now you’re with the most perfect guy, you don’t know how to navigate being intimate in a way that isn’t focused only on him.
This thought was really getting to you one evening. You and Jack were at his place, just having finished dinner, and now you sit on the couch with your legs in his lap as you absentmindedly watch TV. His hand is giving you gentle strokes up and down your leg, and you can’t stop thinking about needing to warn him about your relationship with sex.
“Jack?” You ask gently. He doesn’t look over, he continues stroking your leg whilst humming in response.
You bite your lip anxiously.
“Um– I need to tell you something.” Jack’s hand falters his motions on your leg and he turns his head quickly, concern flashing on his features. Your tone, so nervous and anxious, had worried him, his chest twisting.
“Baby, what’s going on?” He coos, but he’s definitely on edge.
“It’s nothing, really. Um–” You pause, realising you hadn’t thought about a way to approach this with him. “I just really wanna have sex with you–” You blurt out.
Oh for fuck’s sake. You wince and close your eyes in embarrassment. That’s definitely not the right way to do this
Jack’s face is even more confused, amusement flashing his features.
“Right. Baby, I’ve been waiting for you…” He reminds you gently.
“No, no, I know.” You huff frustrated. “I– it’s about that. I just– fuck.” Your frustration builds at yourself for not being able to articulate your words well.
Jack sits up now, sensing your discomfort. He brings you closer to him, leaning on his shoulder now.
“Honey, focus, you’re okay. You can tell me anything.” His voice is immediately grounding. You breathe out shakily.
Silence hangs between you both, before you finally admit it.
“I can’t finish during sex.”
Silence continues to permeate the room. You’re so mortified. You don’t turn to look at his face. You can’t.
“You mean– you haven’t or you can’t?” His voice is gentle, a hand coming to stroke your hair. He’s definitely suspicious of your confession.
“I dunno… both, I guess. I’m not saying this to make it a challenge– people have done that before and it just makes it worse. I’m just warning you beforehand my body is wired differently and I don’t want you to feel bad if you can’t make it happen–”
“Oh, honey, is this why you’ve been hesitant to have sex?” He asks softly, interrupting your rambling.
You just hum in affirmation, embarrassed.
Jack mulls over your words, he won’t argue and tell you he will make you finish but he seriously thinks this is a product of your previous boyfriends being inattentive and careless with you. Anger twists in his chest thinking about you thinking you’re somehow inadequate when it was your boyfriends who just took and took.
“Listen to me, baby.” He tilts your face to look at him now. “I don’t care about that y’hear me?” He watches your expression falter, eyes full of vulnerability.
“If you can’t? Fine. I don’t want you any less, I just wanna make you feel loved, baby.” He can tell you’re still hesitant, but you nod.
You smile shyly and cuddle into his side, resting your head on his lap as he plays with your hair.
The days following your conversation you think over his words more, and a few days later, you tell him you wanna do it– be with him.
He checks in multiple times throughout the day, making sure you’re okay, that you’re absolutely sure. But you also notice how much more often his touches linger. You can’t tell if it’s intentional or not, but you can’t stop thinking about him. Everything about him that day is so much more gentle and careful with you.
That evening, when he leads you onto the couch your body is thrumming with anxiety. You know what's about to happen, he knows. Why are you so scared? You’ve never been more tense, more afraid of something going wrong. This is the man you love.
When you both sit on the couch, cuddling like you always do, he doesn’t make a move. Maybe he’s waiting for you. Your leg shakes as you try to figure out what’s meant to happen, what you’re supposed to do.
Before you can overthink it, you drape yourself over his lap and crash your lips to kiss, a hungry desperate kiss.
He returns it, a grunt of surprise before melting into it. Hands coming to gently rest on your face. The kiss is almost rough, your tongue intertwining with his. You can do this, you can make him feel good. Your brain already slips into making sure he’s pleased, unable to shake the habit from the past.
You move against his lap, and he groans in pleasure. The noise he makes thrills you, wanting to hear it again, you’ve never heard him like this. You try to grind again but he pulls away breathless, shaking his head.
“Baby, slow down.” He practically laughs caressing your cheek. He can’t lose his cool already, not when he plans to make you feel good.
Fuck.
Shame floods your chest and your cheeks heat, climbing off of him and curl up next to him. You somehow messed this up, you want the couch to open and swallow you up.
“Oh, my sweet girl. C’mere.” He coos, turning to face you. He realises how his words may have come across like a rejection, and that’s the last thing he wants you to think.
“I don’t wanna rush this” He places a hand on your thigh, dipping his head trying to find your eyes. He can tell how nervous you are, how much you’re overthinking this. “Lemme take over, yeah?” He asks softly.
You meekly lift your head to meet his eyes before nodding. His eyes are blown out, he looks hungry. But there's an edge of restraint, he's holding back.
You don’t even have time to feel guilty before he cups your face and brings your lips to his again, slow, passionate.
He leans forward, crowding you back against the couch until he’s lying over you. Your heart jumps at the closeness, the position you’re in.
You become breathless, almost gasping for air between each kiss.
Jack moves from your lips, placing sweet kisses down your jaw. Your body erupts in goosebumps, you’re practically shivering at the contact. You don’t even register your hand lifting to comb through his hair, pulling him down onto your jaw for more.
You feel his lips twitch into a smirk.
“That feel good, baby?” He rasps. The low grumble of his voice has you bucking your hips into him, desperate for him. You get completely lost in his kisses–
“Words, baby.” He commands pulling away to look into your eyes. He smirks smugly as he sees how wrecked he’s made you with just his kisses.
You blink processing his request, breathless and annoyed he’s stopped kissing you.
“Yeah– please, Jack. Don’t st– ah!” You’re cut off by his lips attaching to a sensitive spot on your neck, just below your ear. You whine as he sucks on your skin, for sure leaving a mark. Your body shivers again with the thought of him marking you that you involuntarily tug at his hair, which provokes a growl from Jack.
He detaches from your neck breathlessly dipping his head like you’ve just wrecked him with a simple tug.
“Do that again.” He commands low, before hungrily returning to your neck sucking more spots over and over.
A surge of confidence fills you knowing you have the capacity to make him feel just as wrecked as he does you. You continue to rake your hands through his curls, tugging occasionally loving his whines, as he sucks spots lower and lower down your collarbone and chest.
His hand trails under your shirt, his cold hand making contact with your tummy and you tense involuntarily. He pauses looking up from where his head rests on your chest.
“You need to slow down?” His tone is so soft, gentle, it almost makes you cry.
“Nononon– please keep going,” you almost beg “Your hand was just cold.” You laugh embarrassed while stroking his hair.
He smirks at your neediness trying not to tease you more.
He holds eye contact while his hands trail up your torso, goosebumps erupting throughout your body once again. You get flustered as he stares so intensely and you try to look away.
“Eyes on me.” He coos, bringing his fingers to tilt your head back to face him. Heat rushes in your face, your body practically shakes with anticipation.
He lifts your top off so slowly, that you almost just beg for him to hurry up, for him to touch you. His hand slowly slides up from your hips up to your breasts, a hand coming to cup you over your bra as he returns to sucking spots at your collarbone. You get lost in the sensation once more, not noticing his other hand working at removing your bra. Once you peel it off he just stares. You almost go to hide, feeling self-conscious under his stare.
“So fuckin’ pretty.” He groans before directly leaning down and taking a nipple into his mouth.
Your hands grip the couch roughly and your back arches into him involuntarily.
“Fuck– ohmygod–” you whine at the sensation of his tongue swirling your nipples. You feel jack smirk against your breast, cocky fucker, before returning to suck on them hard.
You don’t think you’ve ever felt this good, you had no idea kisses and touches like this could wreck you.
His teeth unexpectedly grazes your nipple and you moan. Your body shakes with overwhelm, you bring your hands to cup jacks face needing him to pause.
His lips detach from your nipple and his pupils are black. He looks like a man starved. He tries to go back to sucking but you hold his face steady.
“Need– fuck– need a break, feels too good.” You pant.
Jack blinks and his cocky smirk returns.
“Oh yeah?” He rasps, with a mock condescending tone.
You want to even the playing field a bit so you paw at his shirt, needing him to take it off, which he complies by ripping it clean off so quickly you barely register it. He leans down to capture your lips again, but you push your body upwards into his to manoeuvre you both into sitting position. You’re on top of him now, your turn to wreck him.
His eyes narrow and smiles at your little show of dominance, and he’ll let you think you have the upper hand, for now.
You lean down to return the kisses he gave you. You test out his sensitive spots, kissing and sucking spots along his neck whilst raking your nails along his biceps, his back, his chest.
His breathing is shallow and you hear him whine.
Bingo.
You continue sucking in that spot on his neck, one hand tugging in his hair and another raking nails on his bicep. You love the sound of him falling apart.
You feel his hips involuntarily buck into your and you know you have him under your finger. It’s your turn to smirk against his neck, peppering small kisses up his jaw before locking eyes with him and grinding down straight into his lap.
His hands jolt to your waist, not roughly, but a firm presence. He holds you down as he groans loudly, coming to rest his head on your chest. You try to move again but his hands on your waists prevent it, and he sounds destroyed.
Your smug, cocky victory is short lived.
His hands are on your thighs in an instant and you’re suddenly jolted upwards, your legs wrap around his torso as you let out a startled yelp. He’s carrying you.
“You’re a fuckin’ tease, baby.” He murmurs into your neck as he carries you towards his bedroom.
You’re plopped down onto his bed and you bounce a little. You don’t even get time to speak before he’s on you again, his kisses desperate.
His hands paw at your bottoms, sliding them off in one quick go before he cups your panties.
“You enjoy almost getting me to blow my load in my pants, hmmm?” He teases feeling how wet you are already. “Making me feel like a fucking teenager again–” He growls before latching onto your breast again.
His hand slides your panties off as he sucks you, and it all feels too good you whine as you paw at his belt, wanting him to take his pants off too, to be on equal playing ground.
Groaning, he reluctantly detaches again before quickly working at his belt. The sound of the clink and him sliding it through the loops has your stomach flipping as you breathlessly stare at him from the bed.
As soon as they’re off he’s on you again, his fingers coming to your clit, spreading the wetness from your folds up and making small circles. You jolt a little at the feeling, not expecting his touch there.
“Jack– fuck– what’r you doing? You don’t have to–” You begin to tell him to not waste his time on you, you already know you won't be able to cum.
“M’working you up, baby.” He coos, not slowing his motions. “No pressure to finish, yeah? Just wanna make sure it doesn’t hurt.”
You hesitate, staring into his eyes and you realise he’s being sincere. You swallow a lump in your throat, feeling extra vulnerable at the lengths of care you feel he’s taking for you. You nod before falling back against the bed, just letting yourself enjoy the feeling of his touches.
You feel the way his fingers move slow circles against your clit, how they adjust every time your breath hitches, as he’s searching for the right tempo and pressure to make you feel good.
You can hear how wet you are, you almost feel embarrassed how his fingers glide through your folds so easily. He continues to pepper gentle kisses down your neck as his fingers stroke you, they move lower and lower until they reach your entrance.
You gasp as he pushes his fingers inside you, feeling full.
You let out small whines of pleasure as he thrusts his fingers inside you. He shushes you by placing his soft lips to yours, continuing to mumble sweet words.
“Just let go for me, baby.”
“Thaaaats it.”
“Rub your clit for me.”
You reach down to add pressure to your clit and immediately jolt at the feeling. It feels different. The pressure from his fingers inside you, curling upwards and continuously thrusting at a consistent pace is getting to you.
Your lower stomach twists, he sucks on your neck as he rubs against the spongy spot inside you, you realise the pressure feels good. That the way you’re rubbing yourself as he thrusts into you while whispering is working. You try so hard to keep it there. Keep rubbing. Keep focused on the feeling. Focusing on his words–
It disappears.
“Fuck!” You huff frustrated, tears welling in your eyes. He pulls his fingers out immediately, worried he’s hurt you and you curl up into yourself. “I can’t do it.” Your voice is wobbly as you berate yourself, wiping a tear off your face.
“Hey, easy, baby.” He soothes by rubbing a hand on your back. His heart clenches at the sight of your teary eyes.
“M’sorry, Jack,” you sniffle. “You spent so much time on me and I couldn’t–”
“No. Hey.” He stops you, firmly. “No apologies. M’not mad, not upset.” He coos, moving your hair away from your face.
“I did all of that because I wanted to. You didn’t ruin anything, y’hear me?” He cups your face making you look into his eyes.
You nod shyly, but you’re still feeling low about it, he can tell.
“Jack– It’s okay if you wanna just fuck me now. M’ready. I want it too.” You whisper looking up into his eyes, still on the verge of tears.
He’s shaking his head before you even finish your sentence.
“No.” His tone is final.
He has an inkling that you’re in your own head too much, putting too much pressure on yourself to perform even when he told you there’s no expectations. He can feel your frustration, just wanting to fix this for you. An idea lands in his head.
“I’m not done with you.” He says gently whilst moving down your body again. “If you’ll let me, I wanna try something else, yeah?”
“But–” You begin to protest, feeling guilty he has to try so hard on you.
“It’s for me. Not for you. Humour me, okay?” He asks so politely, you don’t wanna deprive him of something he enjoys. So you nod.
“Lay back for me completely, baby.” You oblige, breathing heavily.
You feel his fingers in your folds again, they linger on your clit before he gently thrusts them back inside you. You lie back, continuing to feel the pressure but you can’t shake the guilt.
You feel his hot breath ghost over your mound. You jerk your head up, he’s staring directly at you before he places his lips directly on your clit and sucks.
Your body jolts, arching your back off the bed, your hand landing in his hair once more. You were not expecting this.
“Jack– ohgod.” You breathe as he simultaneously works his fingers inside you and tongues your clit. He smirks at your reaction.
“That feel good?” He’s cocky, but he’s also checking in on you. You nod fervently and guide his head back down. He obliges wordlessly and gets back to working your clit. You’ve never been made to finish with someone else's fingers, but no one has ever tried this.
He hears your small whines and it takes all the restraint in his body to keep focused on you, as much as he wants to just take his cock and slide it inside you, to watch your eyes widen as he fills you up, he wants you to feel good.
You feel the familiar pressure build in your lower stomach.
You start squirming, your lower half somehow both chasing his mouth but trying to get away from it. You’re getting overwhelmed, your body experiencing too much at once, and this is where you usually tap out, where it dissipates.
Jack senses it. He feels you clenching around his fingers. Feels your whines becoming more high pitched and breathless. He doesn’t want you to think too much about finishing, can’t have you waiting for the build because it’s gonna drive it away.
He doesn’t change his pace, his fingers continue thrusting, and his tongue doesn’t speed up on your clit, he keeps everything consistent.
“Jack–” You whine, feeling overwhelmed but knowing it’s not going to work, edging towards overstimulation.
He glances up to meet your eyes but doesn’t stop his motions, searching your face. He can see you’re wrecked. He’s desperate for you to fall off the edge, you’re right there.
So he distracts you.
In one smooth motion, he removes his mouth. You almost whine in sadness before he replaces them with his fingers, eliciting a stronger reaction from you, and he says, in the most casual tone:
“You finish your charting?”
What?
“My– Jack– what?” You huff out breathlessly but he doesn’t slow his fingers from toying with your clit and thrusting inside you
You try to answer his question, racking your brain.
But you can’t think.
It feels too good.
Your mind goes completely blank.
And you let go.
You fall apart completely. You clench around his fingers and your legs shake involuntarily.
“Fuck–!” You moan loudly. Jack continues to work you through your orgasm, not stopping for a minute.
He pulls the pleasure from your body, the only thing you register is the waves of pleasure crashing down on your body. Your back is arched off the bed and your eyes are squeezed shut as Jack manages the impossible.
You didn’t know it could feel this good.
You finally start squirming trying to get away, and he eases his fingers out of you. You’re practically shaking, breaths coming out heavily as you lay on the bed completely destroyed.
You feel him slide up the bed, tucking himself under you so your head rests in his lap and he just strokes your head, moving strands of hair out of your face from where they’ve stuck to you as you’ve gotten sweaty.
You slowly calm down, coming back to yourself and shyly open your eyes. He’s already staring down at you, smiling so wide.
Despite yourself, you blush. Like he hadn’t just made you completely fall apart.
“My sweet girl.” He coos, stroking your cheek.
You try to hide your face in your arms, feeling impossibly shy at his words.
“Oh, c’mere, baby.” He coaxes you out of hiding. “Y’getting all shy? After I just made you cum so hard?” He teases gently and you groan, turning around to sit in his lap, resting your head in his neck.
“Jaaaaack.” You whine.
“Okay, I hear ya, baby. No more teasin’,” he rubs a hand down your back, then his tone gets impossible quiet, like you’ve never heard before. “That was okay, right, sweetheart?” His puppy dog eyes meet yours.
You can’t help but laugh.
“Okay?” You scoff.
“Jack, that was– everything.” You tell him, kissing his cheek.
He settles down a little after that, the brief shyness leaving him.
“My turn, please.” You beg whilst reaching down to his crotch where you can feel the erection poking through from where you’re sat above him.
He grabs your wrists as you touch the waist band of his shorts, stopping you, you frown.
“Darlin’, believe me. Any other night, absolutely,” He pauses stroking your cheek. “But I need you so bad right now, need to be inside you.”
“Oh.” You whisper, a shy smile coating your face as you realise how wrecked he is. Rising from his lap and allowing him to remove his boxers, you settle back down onto the bed. He’s on top of you in an instant. “Jack– I can get on top, wanna ride you.” You say shyly.
“Fucccck,” he groans. “Baby, I want that, but I’m not gonna last. Next time. Let me feel you this way. Please.” He begs while positioning himself between your legs.
You wrap your legs around him as the tip of his cock slides through your folds. Your breath hitches when it nudges against your clit, the feel of your wet folds sliding against his cock makes it twitch against you, and he lets out a low groan at the feeling. Jack repeats the motion a few times before bringing the tip to your entrance.
You instinctively brace, knowing how painful it always is. Jack sees this, leaning down to kiss your neck and calming you down, relaxing you.
“S’okay, relax.” He coos before dipping his head into your neck, and pushing in.
He pushes in slowly, so slowly he’s losing his restraint.
But it doesn’t hurt.
He’d worked you open so well, kept you so relaxed, you just feel full.
You moan as he bottoms out, a hand tugging at his curls and the other gripping his bicep. You nod fervently,
“You can move, please, move–” You don’t even finish your begs, your permission is all he needs to start letting go and thrusting into you.
You swear you’ve never felt so good in your life, the level of intimacy is unmatched.
“Fuck, baby, you feel so good.” He whines
His eyes meet yours as he thrusts, and as always his stare is intense. His pupils are blown and he looks destroyed.
He fits so perfectly inside you, you’re so full, you can’t help but moan.
You’re clenching around him so perfectly, your breasts bouncing with every thrust and he can’t take his eyes off you.
“You’re doing so good f’me.” He praises even though he looks like he’s on the edge.
Holding himself up on one arm to continue his movements, he brings a second to your clit.
You don’t expect his touch once more, so lost in how full you feel, how heavenly it all is, that you hadn’t realised how close you were again, and his simple touch pulls a second orgasm from you.
You fall apart even more, gripping his hair, nails leaving marks on his bicep as you shake around him, clenching.
That’s all he needs to finish.
Your beautiful moans, the way you don’t break eye contact, the feel of you coming undone on his cock, he’s gone.
His thrusts stagger, becoming more desperate and frantic, his hold on your waist tightens as he grips onto you bringing you down onto his cock. His head lulls next to your head, hot breath in your ear as he groans, his seed spilling inside you.
He’s completely wrecked, his last few after-orgasm thrusts jolt you, overstimulating. He lets his body go and completely crashes down onto you like a weighted blanket, leaving sloppy kisses down your neck.
You’re both breathing so heavily, he’s still inside you as your aftershocks move through you, clenching involuntarily, but he seems to enjoy the feeling even as sensitive as he is.
“Y’were perfect for me, baby.” He whispers into your ear.
Your heart clenches at his words, how soft he’d been with you the whole time. He was so caring, so focused on you, praising you throughout the whole thing, he never took, he just kept giving and giving. He made sure it didn’t hurt. You realise that you’ve been accepting subpar treatment your whole life and just brushing it off.
In your post-orgasmic blank brain, you can’t process the emotions and a few silent tears spill from your eyes at the complete overwhelm of emotions.
Your sniffles are what alert Jack, finally lifting his head to meet your eyes. His heart drops into his stomach, panic flooding him.
“Hey, hey, talk to me.” His tone is so soft you feel guilty for worrying him. He moves to pull out, but you’re not thinking straight and you lock your legs around him, not wanting him to leave.
You just reach around and koala-bear hug him. He settles a little knowing he hasn’t hurt you, that you still wanted him touching you.
“Gotta talk to me, baby.” He pleads, cupping your face.
You’re not silent for much longer, calming down enough to stop his worry.
“You– felt so good.” Your voice is high pitched, almost shy. “You cared for me.” You sniffle.
Jack’s heart practically breaks.
“Oh, baby.” He coos, bringing you into his chest. Peppering many kisses into your hair. “M’always gonna take care of you.” He says so gently you can’t help but let out another tear, but you’re smiling now.
“I love you.” You whisper, eyes full of tears, him still inside you.
He breathes out a sigh of relief.
“Baby you got no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that.” He kisses you, soft, passionately.
summary: after a risqué encounter with you at the bar, jack abbot can’t get you out of his head. and then you show up in one of his lectures as his student. and then you two navigate an interesting 'casual' relationship, until your emotionally avoidant asses get, well... attached.
wc: 13k words
warnings: 18+, dom!jack & sub!reader, switching pov, lots of fingering, rubbing over underwear, premature ejaculation (coming in pants), mentions of oral (fem!receiving), guiding through a blowjob, loss of virginity, sex on a table, calling him dr abbot, sir + brief daddy kink, light choking, all of the sexy stuff happens in his office. jack is a widow, brief angst in the middle but love confessions later (!!), hurt/comfort, jack is jealous and possessive but has an #ethicaldilemma: the fic
a/n: i tried to be vague with the backstory, but reader craves academic validation, doesn’t have many friends, has implied familial issues and is introverted and avoidant. seeing the pics of him literally sent me into heat i fear i’ll never recover and so naturally i churned out this incredibly self indulgent fic during my finals aha can u tell i'm suffering from academic stress? #anyways have fun pls be nice. not beta read. | divider credits: @strangergraphics | soundtrack: fuck it i love you by lana del ray
Jack Abbot had always been a man of remarkable composure, the sort of composure that had been his armour, carefully built after the death of his wife, reinforced brick by brick through routine, discipline, and relentless work.
While other men sought comfort in distractions, Jack prided himself in the fact that he buried himself in academia. Entire nights disappeared beneath journal articles, lecture plans, and grading sociology essays, until the loneliness that waited for him at home was little more than a dull ache he could almost ignore.
Last week at the bar, well, that had been a mistake. A brief lapse in judgement, that's all. One too many whiskeys after a particularly long week and a pretty young thing asking him for help with some creep who wouldn't leave her alone - what exactly had he been supposed to do? Ignore her? Tell her she was on her own? Any decent man would've stepped in, at least that's what Jack keeps telling himself.
The problem is that a week later, he still can't get you out of his head.
He remembers the dress first. God, that dress. The dark fabric had clung to your figure, hugging every curve, and he'd spent the entire evening irritated with himself for noticing at all.
He remembers the way the dip of your waist had fit beneath his palm when he'd guided you behind him, the startling softness of you, the instinctive way you'd moved closer when the man started getting aggressive. The tiny stutter in your breathing as he'd told the asshole to ‘fuck off and stop bothering his girl’ in a gruff voice, the way you'd looked up at him with those wide eyes, somewhere between embarrassed and grateful, as though he had done something remarkable when all he'd really done was the bare minimum.
Worst of all, he hates that he remembers the warmth of your body as he pinned you against the wall of the men's bathroom, mouths hovering over each other, not kissing, but breathing in wine-tinted lips.
God, the way your warm walls stretched around his fingers, your clit under his thumb, still made him achingly hard. Jerking off in the shower had been futile ever since that night, ever since he felt your soft fingers around his cock, your moans spilling into his mouth. And your soft whines when he called you a good girl, fuck. He’s hard, again, in the middle of reading through the PHD proposals sent his way. He sighs, pulling his cock out his pants.
It was becoming ridiculous. Which is precisely why he is looking forward to the start of semester.
But the universe has a fucked up way of derailing his plans. By the time he arrives at the lecture hall the next morning, coffee balanced in one hand and laptop tucked beneath his arm, he's almost managed to convince himself that the entire thing was behind him.
Then he walks through the door. The lecture hall blurs into meaningless shapes and colours, and in the centre of it sits you.
The girl he couldn’t take out of his brain for the past seven days.
Jack forces his legs forward, somehow making it to the front of the room without visibly embarrassing himself. He places his coffee on the desk. Sets down his laptop. Connects the HDMI cable twice because he misses the port the first time. His fingers feel too clammy, his pulse too fast.
Jack opens his mouth to introduce himself.
"My name is-"
But the words die there. Because he makes the mistake of looking back at you, again.
Those same eyes he'd spent an entire week trying to unsuccessfully forget are fixed directly on his, wide with disbelief.
For a fraction of a second his mind goes entirely blank. Then your eyebrows lift. Just slightly.
And he realises with a jolt of horror that you've noticed the way his words catch. Jesus Christ.
He clears his throat and looks away, pretending to adjust something on his laptop despite the fact that absolutely nothing needs adjusting, acutely aware of the warmth crawling up the back of his neck, and onto his cheeks. It's ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.
He's a respected academic pushing fifty years old, not some nervous graduate tutor fumbling his way through his first class.
"My name is Dr Jack Abbot," he says again, his voice steadier this time, lower too, the words settling more naturally now that he's managed to regain some semblance of control. "I'm the lead lecturer for the sociology department.”
His eyes catch yours.
“It'll be my greatest pleasure to work with all of you this semester."
You’re this close to fucking shitting your pants.
The sexy old man that had fucked the shit out of you with his fingers, while you could barely wrap your hands around his girthy cock in the corner of a dingy bathroom, was your professor. He was in front of you speaking in a voice too gravelly for his own good, and donned in what you’d deem an outfit way too slutty.
Tweed blazer that somehow actually showed how broad he was, how fat and juicy his biceps were. A soft wool polo underneath that stretched around his fat pecs.
And those brown pants, for fucks sake, those pants should be an abobination. You could see the bulge of his dick, the print, as he moved around the room.
What’s worse though? His fat fucking fingers. As he gesticulates while talking about the content, which you don’t give a fuck about, all you can think about is how they felt inside of you, curling up to reach that sweet spot, and making you come faster and harder than your vibrator.
As the flashbacks of him pounding into you fade, and you focus, you see something black and shiny glinting as it catches the overhead lights. You blink. Adorning one of those delicious fingers, is a ring. Fuck. It’s a wedding ring.
You stare at it for a second too long before immediately snapping your gaze back to your laptop. Heat floods your face. You rack your brain trying to remember whether he'd been wearing it that night. You don't think so, you're almost certain he wasn't. Yeah, he definitely didn’t have it on that night in the bar, you would’ve felt it against your pussy, that fucking slut.
You clench your jaw and look away, typing away to start making notes. You’d hooked up with an older married geratric. Yeah, maybe you should just drop out. Hurl yourself off the chair and out the door and withdraw from your course and fade into the abyss and die in a hole.
But what's worse is the way your cunt is clenching around nothing at the thought of this older man fucking you with his fingers while he had a wife at home- no, stop. How deeply unfeminist of you. You cunt.
Yet still, when you look up and accidentally make eye contact with Jack Abbot, it feels like a punch to the vagina.
By the time the lecture ends, Jack has spent nearly two hours forcing himself not to look at you. It has been a miserable failure. Not an obvious one, nobody in the room would have noticed. Years of teaching and having to discreetly catch students on their phones have made him an expert at disguising where his attention is actually resting.
But every time his gaze swept across the theatre, every time a student asked a question, every time laughter rippled through the room, some part of him remained acutely aware of where you were sitting.
Which is precisely why, as students begin packing their bags and filtering towards the exits, he decides to do something incredibly stupid.
He tells himself it isn't stupid. He tells himself it's necessary. Professional, even.
After all, the two of you know each other in some capacity. There was the bar, there was what occurred inside of that bar, that lapse in judgement. There is now the unfortunate reality that you are one of his students. A conversation needs to happen. Boundaries need to be established, expectations clarified.
At least that's the excuse he gives himself. The truth is considerably less flattering. The truth is that he wants an excuse to speak to you.
He calls out your name. The words leave his mouth before he can reconsider them.
You freeze halfway through sliding your laptop into your bag. For a second you look almost startled that he's addressed you directly. Then your eyes meet his, startled.
"Could you stay for a moment?"
Several students glance between the two of you before continuing out the door. Jack immediately regrets saying it publicly. Excellent start, Abbot.
By the time the last student leaves, you're making your way slowly towards the front of the room, one loop of your backpack slung on your shoulder.
As you slow to a stop in front of him, his eyes map your face. Your wide eyes, your slightly messy hair, the shape of your lips- Stop. Jesus Christ.
He forcibly redirects his gaze towards his laptop on the podium. Professional. Remember, professional.
"You wanted to see me?" you ask softly.
Jack clears his throat.
"Right. Yes."
Very articulate.
"I just thought it would be best if we acknowledged..." He gestures vaguely between the two of you. "The situation."
You blink.
"The situation?"
"The fact that we've met before."
"Oh."
You glance down at the strap of your bag, fingers tightening around it.
"Yeah. I noticed."
The dry response catches him completely off guard. A smile threatens at the corner of his mouth.
"Um, sorry, Dr Abbot," you add quickly, stumbling over the words. "I didn't mean to make things weird."
Jack immediately shakes his head.
"No, it's okay. You're good."
Dr Abbot. Dr Abbot. His brain plays your lips wrapping around his name again and again, perhaps in more precarious positions. He rubs his neck, looking away, willing for his cock to stop fucking stiffening.
"I just wanted to clarify," he starts carefully, "I'd appreciate it if what happened stayed private."
Your eyes immediately narrow, apparently offended.
"Dr Abbot, I'm not stupid."
His eyebrows lift at your sudden confidence. He puts his hands out in front of him in defence.
"I wasn't suggesting-"
"No, I know," you interrupt. Then your eyes widen, immediately looking mortified for interrupting him. "Sorry. I just mean... I'm not exactly planning on standing up in tutorials and announcing that I fu- I met my professor in a bar."
Jack closes his mouth. Fair point. And suddenly he becomes aware of how ridiculous he sounds.
You aren't the problem here. You haven't done anything. If anything, you're handling this better than he is. This sort of “casualness” is probably the usual for someone as beautiful as you, as young and brilliant.
"Right," he says finally.
A silence settles between you as he continues staring you down.
You shift your weight awkwardly beneath his gaze, looking everywhere except directly at him now, and suddenly he's struck by how young you seem standing there.
Then, before he can stop himself, in some hope to keep you standing there in front of him, he hears himself say, "If you ever need help with coursework, though, my office hours are listed on the syllabus."
The second the words leave his mouth, he knows they weren't necessary. Your eyes flicker up to his face in shock, before immediately dropping back down again. Interesting.
For someone who'd managed to argue with him thirty seconds ago, you seem remarkably incapable of holding eye contact for more than a few moments.
Then you nod, still staring at the floor.
"Okay."
"Okay. Yeah, good."
Another silence. Neither of you moves, seems entirely unsure on how to end the conversation. Eventually you shift your bag higher up, and take a small step backwards.
"I should go."
"Yes, thank you for staying back."
You hesitate for a second, then whisper as you turn and walk away from him.
“Goodbye, Dr Abbot.”
Jack stares at your ass through your jeans as you depart, he can’t help it. You sick, sick old man, Abbot.
The second you're gone, he drops his head down, groans, rubs a hand over his scruff.
That conversation was supposed to make things better, supposed to reassure him that whatever happened at that bar was firmly in the past.
Instead, all it has accomplished is proving that being around you is a nightmare.
It's been four weeks since that conversation and you cannot get him out of your head. Every time you enter those lectures where he stands in the front of the room with another blazer, another pair of form fitting pants, twice a week, you leave with a pool of slick.
You refuse to acknowledge the way he looked at you when you let your attitude slip, his furrowed brows, hazel eyes narrowing. He looked… mad almost. Like he wanted to tame you. Of course you're being delusional, he has a wife for fucks sake.
And weeks of observing him has made you realise that he has an immense proclivity for eye contact, with everyone. Basically, you’re not special.
And, so your avoidant ass refuses to take him up on that offer to see him at his office. You’re doing well academically, you presume, in all your subjects. Which is not surprising given it's the only thing you’ve got going for you, being an antisocial chud, but these days, rather than studying, a lot of your time is spent replaying that night in the bar. The sense of comfort you felt pinned against the wall by him, the way he’d protected you against that creep. Nobody had done that for you before.
God you sound fucking pathetic.
And specifically, his suggestive line of “my office hours are listed on the syllabus” reverberates around your skull, like the start of those Wattpad stories you used to read as a teen. And so, you and your vibrator have the time of your life at all odd hours of the day, imagining him and you in those situations.
In hindsight, being overtaken by lust to distract from your crippling loneliness was a poor decision to make, that much you clock when you receive one of your midterms back today. With a big fat fucking 60% written on the front. In Dr Abbot’s class at that too.
Humiliation takes over you, cheeks warm as he walks by to return the paper, refusing to look at him but feeling his gaze on your face.
Around you, students are already discussing their marks, complaining about feedback, celebrating distinctions, debating whether certain deductions were fair, while you're busy boring holes into the godforsaken paper with your eyes as though sheer hatred might cause it to burst into flames.
As someone who quite literally had nothing going on for them other than academic success, it's a stab to the heart to realise you’ve fallen off in any capacity. For your wretched brain, one poor mark isn't just a mark, it's indicative of you falling behind, lacking in the one thing that defines you.
Academics have always been your thing, the one area of your life you've been able to control through sheer stubbornness and hard work, the one thing you've quietly built your entire sense of self around. You aren't particularly outgoing. You don't have a huge social circle. You don't possess some secret hidden talent waiting to be discovered.
And now a bright red sixty is staring back at you from the top of the page like a personal attack.
The feedback only makes it worse.
Critical analysis underdeveloped.
Needs greater engagement with course material.
More depth required.
Each comment feels less like academic criticism and more like somebody taking a hammer to your ribcage.
Especially because you've spent the last month thinking about fuckass Jack Abbot far more than you've spent thinking about sociology. You've replayed conversations that lasted less than five minutes. Analysed glances that probably meant absolutely nothing, and constructed entire fictional narratives from harmless comments that any reasonable person would've forgotten weeks ago.
Meanwhile half your readings have been sitting untouched in a browser tab.
You stare down at the paper again, jaw tightening.
Perhaps this is the universe intervening. Perhaps this is your sign to get a grip. Perhaps this is your sign to finally take him up on that offer he'd made four weeks ago.
Not because you're harbouring some pathetic crush. Absolutely not.
Purely for academic reasons. You need to know what went wrong and you need to know how to fix it before your anxiety makes this into something worse and you have another one of your depressive episodes.
And if that means sitting in Dr Jack Abbot's office while he explains why your argument was underdeveloped and your analysis lacked depth, then so be it.
The thought alone makes your stomach perform an alarming little flip, which is deeply unfortunate.
Because that's probably another sign that you're not thinking nearly enough about sociology.
After stalking the stupid university website you’ve discovered that Dr Jack Abbot apparently remains on campus until after five o'clock most evenings, like some sort of psycho freak.
Doesn’t he have a wife to go home to? Surely no sane person voluntarily spends that much time at a university.
Still, at 5:17 PM, you're standing outside his office clutching your assignment paper so tightly it's beginning to crumple around the edges.
You knock on the door and hear his gruff voice let out a “come in”. You walk in.
Fuck your life.
His blazer is off, sleeves of his beige shirt rolled up to show veiny forearms, as he types away on his laptop.
“Oh it's you. Hello sweetheart.” He winces at the slip of the pet name.
“Sorry Miss-” he pauses. “Um, just have a seat, please.”
You hope to God that he can't hear the beating of your heart as you step in, closing the door shut behind you, avoiding eye contact as you sit on the seat opposite him.
You set your paper on his desk and mumble.
“I just wanted to review the feedback I got on this.”
“Yeah of course, what’d you want to ask?”
You hesitate, his soft tone suddenly making you want to spill everything.
"I just..." You stare at the desk. "I thought I'd done better than this. So I wanted more clarity on all the comments you made."
He nods and picks up the paper, starts reading through it, then squints.
He sighs.
“Wait, let me get my readers on.”
You sneak a glance up.
Oh fuck.
He puts his readers on. Some fucking high prescription glasses that enunciate the size of his stupid hazel boba eyes and delicious eye wrinkles.
Yeah, pussy exploded.
You look back down on the table, and inhale to calm your heart.
When Jack finally finishes, he sets the paper on the desk.
"You know," he says carefully, tapping one section of the essay, "the reason this stood out to me wasn't because the writing is bad."
Your eyes lift despite yourself. He slides the paper slightly closer.
"It's actually the opposite."
“What?"
"The writing is strong, and your arguments are quite clear. You've obviously got the ability."
The knot in your chest loosens slightly. Only slightly.
"But?" you whisper.
His mouth twitches.
"But I don't think you pushed yourself."
Jack studies your expression for a moment before leaning back slightly in his chair.
"You understand the material," he continues. "I don't have concerns about that. What I'm seeing is somebody who's engaging with the content at a surface level when they're capable of going much deeper.”
Right, so you’re failing. You ridden with lust, and doing god knows what in hopes to distract yourself from the sheer loneliness and mundanity of your life and now you can’t even understand the content the way you want to understand it and-
“Hey sweetheart, are you feelin’ okay?”
You look up at him in confusion and realise your breaths are heavy, uneven. Your hands are trembling slightly where they're resting on your lap.
Fuck, the beginnings of a panic attack.
“I’m so sorry Dr Abbot, I just- I’ve never done poorly in a test really, and so this is all so…” your voice cracks. “I don't even know what I’m saying I just-”
He gets up and walks over to you as you break off, letting out a shaky laugh that sounds suspiciously close to a sob.
He leans against his desk, in front of you, bending to reach your eyes.
“Hey, it's okay angel, breathe for me.”
He inhales.
“Look, follow my breathing.”
You try to, but it comes out stuttered.
"Fuck, I'm sorry."
"Nothin’ to apologise for, sweetheart, just keep trying. C’mon, take a deep breath in, and out."
He holds your hand and brings it to his chest. You feel his heart beat steadily under your palm. He exaggerates his breathing to help you.
“In, and out, just like that.”
It seems nice to just let go. To have someone else take over your brain, follow their instructions and shut the noise, the anxieties and the worries.
Once your breathing slows, he moves your hand away from his chest.
“You breathin’ better now?”
You nod slowly, still feeling shaky, still mortified by the fact that you've just had what can only be described as a minor psychological collapse in your professor's office.
“I’m so, so sorry you saw me like that Dr Abbot, I didn’t mean to-”
“Hey, it’s okay, sweet girl.”
He pauses, seems occupied gathering his thoughts.
You busy yourself staring at the floor. Then he exhales softly through his nose and settles back against the edge of his desk.
"After my wife passed away, I used to get them all the time."
The words are so unexpected that your head lifts immediately.
Jack's gaze remains fixed somewhere over your shoulder rather than directly on you, his expression thoughtful.
"My therapist taught me a few tricks," he says with a small shrug. "Matching breathing patterns was one of them."
Your heart races again, for different reasons this time. The ring, the fucking black ring. He’s a widower. You don’t know whether to laugh or scream at the fact that he’s not married, and you aren’t a homewrecker. But then you feel real fucking horrible for different reasons, youre brain sabotaging again.
“I’m sorry about your wife. I’m sorry if that reminded you of back then, or whenever it happened I don’t know, I don't want to assume-”
“Shh, take a deep breath for me. You’re good, sweetheart.
He brings a palm to your cheek, engulfing it.
“Yeah? It’s okay. Don’t worry ‘bout it. It was a long time ago.”
You breathe in slowly for the fucking hundredth time that night, calming down.
“You feelin’ better now?” He asks gently.
You nod, biting your tongue to stop from apologising again.
“Yes, thank you.”
It slips out before he can stop it.
“Good girl.”
Your thighs instinctively clench, and you see him stiffen as he notices. You both stare at each other, feeling tension coil in the air between you. A moment passes.
“I could help you, you know.”
You blink, confused.
He rubs your cheek gently, eyes boring into yours. His expression is blank, neutral.
“I could help you relax, get out of your brain for a little.”
He pauses.
“Like that night in the bar. You liked that, didn't you? Somebody taking control.”
Your breath hitches, and you mumble a “yes.”
“Louder, sweetheart. If we’re gonna do this, you need to speak clearly.”
His voice is stern, gravelly. And your brain is calm for the first time in weeks, since that night. The validation you crave so desperately, the sense of comfort that would help with escaping your brain, perhaps it is held in the palm of Jack Abbot’s hands.
Slowly, you nod.
“Yes Dr Abbot, I’d like you to help me.”
He smirks, the edges of lips pulling up.
“Atta girl. C’mon then, get up for me.”
You follow his lead, mind hazy as he holds your hands and guides you to his chair.
“I’m gonna sit, then you're gonna sit right here, on my lap. And then I’ll help you, yeah?”
You nod again.
“Words, sweetheart.”
“Yes, Dr Abbot.”
He smiles, proudly. Your brain turns to mush again, pussy fluttering.
He’s so handsome.
Pulling you onto his lap sideways, your legs draping over his thighs, he caresses your hair. Fuck, it feels so good. You nuzzle your head into his neck, whimpering softly as he coos, "such a good girl, my smart girl, yeah? smartest in the whole damn class.”
Then he brings his fat fingers to your skirt, tracing circles on yout thighs near the hem. Inching close, but never slipping under.
“Please, please Dr Abbot, touch me.”
“Yeah, you want me to touch that little pussy? Want me to make you feel good? So you can rest your pretty brain?”
He taps your head.
You whine ‘yes, yes please sir.’
You feel his cock jerk up under you. He groans.
“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart. Say that again.”
“Please, Sir, please touch me.”
“Whatever you want, pretty girl.”
Then he finally flips your skirt up, and starts rubbing slowly over your panties. On your lips, your folds, through your soaked underwear. You wrap your arms around his neck, begging him, please.
He brings a finger to your clit, mutters lowly, “right here sweetheart?” and you nod, whining.
He rubs gentle circles on your clit, your slick helping his finger move smoothly even over your panties. Buries his face in your hair as he continues rubbing. He breathily exhales, as if simply your pleasure was turning him on .
“That’s it, just let go sweetheart. Let me take care of you, yeah?”
“Fuck- right there.”
You buck up in his hold.
And he stops, a hand splaying over your thighs to stop you from squirming.
“Fuckin’ stop that, or this is going to be over a lot quicker thank you’d like.”
You feel the hardness of his cock under you, prodding below your ass. Your brain is mush, the words slipping by themself.
You nod tucking your head in his neck, “Yeah, yeah sir I’ll stop, please- fuck. Please keep going.”
“That’s my good girl.”
And he starts rubbing over your clit again, kissing down your cheeks, down your neck, murmuring “yeah? yeah” as he inhaled your musk.
You whimper, arching your neck as you get closer to your release, feeling it build up low in your stomach the faster his circles get.
“Fuck I’m going to come! Pl- please let me come sir.”
“Yeah? Is my good girl gonna come? You gonna come for Dr Abbot?” He groans, low and husky.
And fuck, that gets you. You close your eyes as your orgasm hits you, pleasure washing over.
You mutter whimpers of his name as you come, squirming as much as he lets you, clenching your thighs in his palm.
In the haze of your orgasm, you hear him, moaning. He jerks up, moaning in your ear, face pressed against your hair, babbling.
“Fuck- sweetheart, did so good for me, fucking coming all over my fingers, fuck!”
The last word comes out as something resembling a whine. His hips buck up once, twice, before you feel warmth spreading under you.
Did he just… orgasm?
Both of you pant harshly, him into your hair, forehead pressed against your head. And you look down, seeing your soaking panties, his hands splayed over your thighs. A smile overtakes your face, god, you felt alive.
And he came. In his pants. God, you love old men. But as a giggle bubbles up in your throat, he stiffens.
You see his hands leave you, and before you can even process what's happening, he's gently but firmly moving you off his lap, tugging your skirt back into place.
"Fuck."
The curse leaves him under his breath, as he immediately turns away in his chair, one hand dragging through his curls.
You stand there, still dazed as he refuses to look at you.
“Fuck, um. You should leave and I- I think-”
The words die halfway through. You watch him struggle to find them.
“Yeah, you should leave,” he awkwardly mutters as he covers the wet patch on his pants. You're still breathing heavily, and furrow your brows.
What the fuck?
You’re so utterly mortified. Still in the post orgasmic haze, standing there feeling horribly exposed, your brain sluggish and foggy and vulnerable.
And through that stupid fog you pick your bag up from the seat, smooth out your skirt. Avoiding eye contact, you wobble out of the room, tears pooling in your eyes.
Fuck old men. You hate old men.
After hours of sobbing into your pillow, and spiralling about how people will use you for your body, and nobody will be able to save you, and you’re going to die alone, you reached a conclusion. Probably a delusional conclusion, but a conclusion nonetheless.
He was embarrassed, that’s all. The man had simply come in his pants. Which, admittedly, would be humiliating for anyone. You’re so young and sexy that he was embarrassed he came in his pants. He definitely still wants you.
The thought soothed you enough to stop crying, enough to prevent you from throwing yourself dramatically into the nearest body of water.
It's when you’re holed up in your dorm room, buried under the blankets reading a fic, when your spiral begins again.
Because you get a text from an unknown number.
Hi. I wanted to apologise for yesterday.
That was incredibly impolite of me, I got way in over my head.
Then two minutes later.
And I wanted to check in.
Are you feeling better?
Chat, what if you fucking killed yourself?
The perfect grammar and punctuation made your stomach churn in lust. The way you could hear him grumble that out in his husky voice, gravelly warmth beneath every syllable.
Stop.
Objectively speaking, this man had sent you into an emotional crisis less than twenty-four hours ago. He basically kicked you out after giving you another toe curling orgasm.
And yet somehow all it takes is three perfectly punctuated texts and you're smiling into your pillow like an idiot. Whatever, stay nonchalant.
So you ignore his apology and reply to the latter half.
Hey, i’m okay thanks
Wow, look at you go.
His reply is almost immediate.
Good.
Good girl.
You take a deep breath in, pull your blanket over your head. Fuck. Fuck this stupid old man and his ability to make your pussy throb with two words.
You genuinely have no clue what to reply, stupid. Stupid woman who can’t even formulate a reply and be flirtatious.
You type something.
Delete it.
Type something else.
Delete that too.
Your chest develops a familiar buzzing anxiety. This, by the way, is exactly why maintaining relationships has always felt so difficult. Everyone else seems to possess some innate understanding of social interaction that you're missing entirely.
What are you supposed to say?
Thanks for checking on me after kicking me out?
Sorry for crying in your office?
Please stop being unexpectedly kind after making me come so hard because it's making this significantly harder?
After two minutes of spiralling, or five, or ten, you don’t even fucking know at this point, your phone buzzes again.
Can I see you?
Please.
Your breath stutters.
yeah sure
When do your classes finish today?
At 3pm
Okay. I’ll meet you at Sapphos.
Fuck, you hate how he doesn’t ask you. Just makes a statement, tells you what to do. You hate how that turns you on, and even worse, how good it feels to not have to make decisions for yourself, for once.
But also, that cafe was off campus. Realistically, should you be potentially jeopardising your academic career with this emotionally unavailable older man, who will definitely be using you for your body if this continues? No, but are you lonely and so fucking bored with the stangancy of your life? Well, yes.
And so unfortunately, rational thought has never stood much of a chance against loneliness. Against the quiet ache that follows you home every evening, and the possibility of spending a few hours with somebody who sees you.
Sitting and staring out the window of some cafe he randomly picked, Jack doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. He doesn't know how many times a man can call something a lapse in judgement before it stops being a ‘lapse’ and starts becoming a conscious choice.
He got in way over his head after making you come on his lap, spiralling. Yes, it was the sheer humiliation of coming in his pants (which was a nightmare to clean off, by the way) but also, there was the humiliation of losing control of himself after years of carefully maintaining it, the mortifying reality of having to go home and sit alone with the consequences of it all.
What was worse was somewhere along the way you'd managed to reach inside him and pull loose something from his heart he'd thought had calcified years ago, something he'd buried beneath research papers, lecture halls, and the endless routines he'd constructed around himself after his wife died.
And he knows, he knows, you deserve someone better. He was a widow for Christ's sake, probably three decades or somewhere very close to that, older than you. And you’re young. Thoughtful. Young enough that your entire life still seems stretched out in front of you. Even your anxieties, the things that weigh you down, feel temporary in a way his never will.
You still have time to become whoever you're meant to be.
Jack feels as though he's already become whoever he's going to be.
He thinks about the way you looked during your panic attack, how hard you'd been trying to keep it together even as everything was falling apart. He thinks about how quickly you apologised for taking up space, for having feelings, for being overwhelmed.
And he didn't pity you, God, no. It wasn't that. He understood it. The loneliness. The exhaustion. The feeling that if you stopped holding yourself together for even a second, everything might collapse.
But he also saw the way your brain shut down, the way you trusted him. It made something ache inside his chest, a warm ache, the sort that spread through his ribs and settled somewhere dangerously close to hope.
And hope was precisely the problem. Because he couldn't give you anything. Not with the grief and sense of routine buried in him before his teaching, in the chasm of his heart, since his time in the godforsaken military where half his limb was gone.
He can't offer you anything but his fingers, or his mouth, between your legs, and you deserve someone better than that.
But if that was the only way he’d be able to get you out of his head, then so be it.
And so despite all of that, despite every logical argument he could construct, despite every fucking university regulation he was violating right now, his eyes keep drifting towards the café entrance every few seconds.
Jack exhales heavily and rubs a hand across his jaw.
And then you enter. Looking around with an adorably confused look before you spot him, and dare he say, your eyes light up.
Abbot, no.
But the words slip out as you reach him.
“Hey sweetheart.”
“Hi Dr Abbot.”
You sit opposite him, glancing up at him briefly before staring back down at the table. He hates how endearing he finds it, how he wants to reach across the sticky table and pull your jaw, hold it, and force you to look at him. He wants to see your eyes glaze over the way they did the day prior.
He chooses instead to slide the menu across to you, and once you order, he leans back.
“Did you have a nice morning?”
He withholds a wince at the awkwardness.
“Um, yes. Classes were okay. Thank you?”
The end of the sentence rises almost into a question, as though you're unsure whether that's the correct answer, and something about it makes his chest tighten.
“Good, that’s good.”
Then an awkward pause. Jack sits there like a complete fucking idiot.
For Christ's sake he’d called you here. And now that you're sitting in front of him, he can't seem to form a coherent sentence.
Get your shit together, Abbot.
"Look," he begins, rubbing a hand across his jaw. "I wanted to apologise for yesterday."
Your eyes finally lift from the table.
“It was wrong of me to let you go like that. Quite frankly I don’t even have an excuse I just…”
He trails off, looking behind you out the window for a second. What exactly is he supposed to say?
That the sight of you crying made me feel physically sick? That for one terrifying second I’d felt something dangerously close to happiness sitting in that office with you? That after years of carefully maintaining the same dull routine I’d somehow started structuring entire days around whether I’d see you?
None of those seem particularly appropriate, too intense.
"See, no man my age enjoys being reminded that he's still capable of behaving like a teenager."
That makes you smirk a little. His heart warms.
“You mean, you.. coming in your pants?”
Jack groans softly and drags a hand down his face.
“I didn't want to put it so crudely, but well... yes."
"I thought so."
You giggle. And the sound catches him off guard enough that he finds himself smiling despite the mortification currently trying to consume him.
"To be honest," you continue, "I think I understood once I calmed down."
His shoulders loosen slightly.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
You shrug.
"But I'm not going to lie, it didn't feel very good. You kicking me out like that."
The honesty makes him wince.
"And that's exactly why I wanted to apologise, sweetheart." His gaze settles on you properly. Giving you a look that he hoped was earnest. "That was real shitty of me. I’m truly very sorry.”
You look at him for a few moments in silence, mapping his face. Then once seemingly finding what you were looking for, you reply.
“Apology accepted.”
The waitress arrives then, setting down your coffee, some monstrosity involving whipped cream and probably enough sugar to send him into cardiac arrest.
Jack eyes it suspiciously, humorously.
"What?" you question.
"That isn't coffee."
"It literally is."
"Sweetheart, that looks like it barely has any caffeine."
You let out a giggle, again. God, you’ve got to fucking stop that if you want his heart to survive.
"It has espresso."
"Buried beneath, what? Three inches of whipped cream."
"Whatever, you’re just old and grumpy."
You grin. The grin grows wider when he continues staring at the drink with visible disappointment.
For some reason that finally breaks whatever lingering awkwardness remains between the two of you. The conversation begins flowing after that.
He makes a witty remark, you giggle. And you manage to make him laugh as well, coming out of your shell.
Then the conversation shifts to that night at the bar.
“Yeah so if he wasn't that buff and scary, I wouldn't even have called you over. I would've told him to suck my strap and choke.”
Jack nearly chokes on his coffee, coughing violently. You immediately burst into soft laughter. He wipes his lips with a napkin, grinning.
"Sweetheart."
"What?"
"Please give me some warning before you say things like that."
Your grin grows, eyes sparkling.
"Why?"
"Because I'm fifty."
That seems to make your eyes widen imperceptibly, and you look down towards the coffee you ordered, chugging it.
Interesting.
Neither of you acknowledge the elephant in the room, instead you continue talking, skirting around the edges. Circling the obvious without ever touching it.
And eventually your drinks are empty. People around you start leaving.
Yet neither of you seems particularly eager to end the conversation.
Jack glances at his watch. Then back at you. He really, really shouldn't. But he wants to give you a way out. While still offering you a choice.
"I don't have any classes after tomorrow's lecture."
The words leave his mouth casually.
Your eyes flicker up.
"Oh."
A pause.
"I could come see you."
"In my office?"
You immediately look embarrassed.
"Only if that's okay."
God. There it is again, that instinct you have to ask permission for existing.
"Sweetheart."
Your eyes lift.
"It's okay."
The relief that flashes across your face is so immediate it almost hurts to look at.
"Okay."
"Okay."
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
When the bill eventually arrives, he picks it up before you can.
"Dr Abbot-"
"No."
"I can pay for myself."
"I know."
"Then-"
"I know, I know you’re a self sufficient woman. You’re brilliant. But let me. I’ll pay for it."
Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Jack watches the entire internal battle play across your face.
Then you nod softly, muttering an “okay, thank you”.
Jack's heart clenches again. Genuinely fuck his life.
So you think you’ve somehow ended up in a situationship or whatever the fuck with your fifty year old professor.
Over the course of the past five weeks, you show up in his office after the lectures, and even a few times throughout the week, and he sets you on his lap, or on his desk while he laps at your cunt.
Occasionally, he lets you pull out his cock and suck it. Sometimes under his desk, riding his boot as he's grading papers, God, his fucking whimpers when he comes.
Unsurprisingly, he also does help you with understanding the content and doing your assignments. Has his own unique methods of doing so.
Jack had you sitting on his lap, back to his chest, completely clothed while you were naked, bare.
He hooked his face on your shoulder, whispering filth in your ears, telling you to “focus” as he rubbed slow circles over your pussy. Smearing the slick oozing out your cunt over your folds, avoiding your clit.
You whined and tried to clench your thighs, whispering against his stubbled cheek.
“Please, pl- touch me, Dr Abbot.”
But he'd splayed one wide palm, tightly, over your thigh.
“No. Type out the rest of the essay, c’mon. Then you can come, pretty girl,” he’d muttered in a low voice.
And once you did, he'd shoved his fat fingers inside of you, thrusting fast, the other hand alternating between your neck and your nipples, pinching, squeezing.
You’d squirted that day, for the first time, creating a mess of his pants, some landing on his desk.
He’d made you lick it off.
Surprisingly, however, you hadn’t kissed, not even once. Nor had you fucked, in the penetrative sense.
The latter you’re grateful for, because you were a virgin. It was too humiliating of a thought to ever bring up in your twenties now, but thankfully he never brings it up either. You suspect he knows though, from the little details you've unveiled to him over the course of the past few weeks.
Talking about your feelings has always been.. difficult. The words choke up and clog the back of your throat when you go to speak. Entire relationships - well, lack of relationships - have been built around your inability to say what you need.
But it's easy, sometimes, with Jack. When your brain shuts off in a post orgasmic haze, and you sit in other's company, his hand resting in your hair, or his head buried in your chest, the words bubble out of you.
Snippets of memories of your family that you left behind, of the few friends back home, the lack of romance. When you stop speaking halfway through a sentence because you've forgotten how to explain yourself, he simply waits.
Surely he's put two and two together.
And you think he has some avoidant issues of his own, the old fuck.
He'll spend forty minutes analysing a political institution and somehow avoid answering a direct question about his own feelings.
Yet occasionally things slip through the cracks.
A memory about his wife. An offhand comment about the military that lingers in your mind long after he's moved on to another topic.
You'd had a lengthy conversation one day about that, your radical opinions spilling out before you could stop them, about systemic exploitation and imperialism, about how much you despised the military as an institution. You’d accuse institutions of manipulating vulnerable people; He agreed more than you'd expected him to. Told you about his journey of basically being forced into it to help his family, about the machinery of poverty and patriotism that pushed kids toward enlistment before they were old enough to understand what they were signing away.
He takes your ideas seriously, but he also looks genuinely delighted when you disagree with him.
And god, that’s what you were starting to like most about him. The intellect. Yes he has a girthy cock that would probably annihilate you in the best way when (if) the time came, and incredible arms, and his fat pecs. But his brain. Wow.
Intelligence has always been your love language, whether you've admitted it or not. And Jack speaks it fluently. There’s a sense of strange intimacy and letting others hear your thoughts and opinions. And the ability to be able to talk and have someone just listen, or banter with you – it was rare. Especially for someone as reclusive as you.
Unfortunately, you're also smart enough to recognise reality. Whatever this is, it isn't heading anywhere permanent. Because Jack never talks about the future, never makes promises, or gives any indication that he's looking for something lasting.
And honestly? You aren't sure he can. Not after everything he's lost, not with the gap of decades between you. So you tell yourself you're enjoying things exactly as they are. You tell yourself that spending time with him is enough.
And for now, maybe it is.
The problem is that every time he looks at you like you've said something brilliant, every time he remembers some tiny detail about your life, every time his face softens when you walk into a room – this lie gets a little harder to believe.
Five weeks. Jack’s ‘brief’ lapse in judgement has lasted five fucking weeks.
Every time he sees you enter the lecture, you exchange a secret look, your eyes fluttering, him blushing. He feels like he’s twenty again. It's exhilarating.
But the ‘ethical dilemma’ of it all sat permanently in the back of his mind, festering like an untreated wound.
He knows that every time he let himself enjoy your company, every time he answered one of your messages, every time he found himself smiling at something you'd said hours after the conversation had ended, he was stepping further into territory he had absolutely no business occupying.
The way you trusted him, allowing him to lick into your cunt or set you on his lap and caress you, felt nice. It felt real fucking good to be wanted and desired in some capacity, especially after being touch starved for nearly a decade since his wife.
And seeing you under him sucking his cock, fuck.
“Dr Abbot….” you whined in a teasing tone, laced with humour.
He groaned, placing his forehead on your back from where you sat on his lap. You definitely wanted something.
“What?” he huffed out.
Still facing your laptop, you breathed out your next words.
“When are you going to let me suck your cock?”
He jolted, hips thrusting up.
“Jesus Christ sweetheart, warn a guy.”
You said his name again, more firmly.
“Stop dodging the question.”
He paused.
“This whole… us. It's about you, about helping you relax so you can focus on studying. It’s not about me or my pleasure or-”
“Jack.”
He lifted his head from your back, stilling. You’d never said his first name before.
“What if doing it would give me pleasure, hm? What then?”
He stayed silent.
You twisted in his lap, neck twisting to face him.
“I want to taste you, please.”
Widening your eyes, and pouting, you all but begged him. Brought a hand to his stubbled cheek.
“Please, Dr Abbot. Let me do it.”
He sighed. Jack Abbot was a weak, pathetic man when it came to you.
“Fine,” he grumbled.
“Get off, c’mon.”
Yeah, it was worth it for the blinding smile you gave him, kissing his cheek.
He gently lifted you off his lap, and pulled his chair back to give you some room.
Jack nodded, glancing down pointedly.
“If you want it, you gotta do it yourself.”
You kneeled immediately, settling yourself in the gap between his desk, between his open thighs.
Unbuckling his belt, staring at his bulge with those doe eyes the entire time, you slowly pulled his cock out.
It was hard, leaking, tip red and aching. Your soft hands wrapping around his dick made a drop of precum roll down. He moaned, a low sound emanating from deep in his chest.
You slowly twisted your hand up and down his cock, fingers barely stretching around.
Jack couldn’t wait. He gripped your hair, not too hard, but enough to lift your head up to face him.
“You gonna put your mouth on it or do I need to shove it in?”
You smirked, you vixen.
“Shove it in, I dare you.”
He groaned, muttering “you fuckin’ brat” as he pushed your hands off his cock.
“Open up, sweetheart.”
You did, tongue lolling out. A drop of drool dripped onto his thighs, and he moaned under his breath.
He couldn’t wait any longer. Gripping his cock, he fed it into your mouth. Inch by inch.
Until you gagged.
Feeling your soft throat close around him, he couldn't help but groan your name.
“Fuckin’ hell.”
Your hands came up to stroke whatever didn't fit in - which truth be told, was more than half his cock, but it's okay, he'd train you eventually.
“Can I help you, sweetheart? Teach you how to take your professor's cock down your throat?”
You nodded quickly, moaning, his cock still in your mouth.
Then he guided you through it, holding your head as you sucked him. Muttered praises, filth, to guide you.
“Just like that, sweetheart”.
“Yeah, grip it harder”.
“Suck the tip, just like that.”
And right before he came, he ripped you off him and wrapped a hand around himself. He whimpered as jerked off furiously over you, until drops of his pearly cum splattered over your tongue.
He had never come that hard in his life.
Panting harshly, he patted your head.
“Swallow.”
Other than the sex, there were also the days where you'd walk into his office and start talking about some article you'd read, your entire face lighting up with excitement, and everything in him would melt. He’d pull you onto his lap, or set you in front of him, on his desk, and let you talk, feeling the softness of your thighs under his palm as he traced small circles. It was nice to let someone in, fill the void and the silence in his life.
There wasn’t a label on what you two were, if you even were anything.
While at first he’d thought it was common for you to be used to this sort of ‘causalness’ or a friends-with-benefit type situation (or whatever the fuck somebody born two generations after him would call it), he'd come to realise you were actually the opposite. Not that he’d have any issue with either.
But from the scattered stories you'd told him about your past, the way you spoke about relationships, and the cautious vulnerability that appeared whenever the subject drifted too close to ‘feelings’, he'd begun piecing together a picture of someone who felt things deeply and trusted people slowly.
He could calculate you were likely a virgin. And so he never pressurised you, never made the first move to initiate sex, kept his cock to himself, waiting for you. No matter how much he wanted to feel the tightness of your pussy around him.
However, his patience is wearing thin, growing precarious with every instance of you bringing another small thing that wedges itself beneath his ribs and refuses to leave.
Now he's left with the deeply inconvenient problem of wanting things he really shouldn’t want. Not just a warm body near him, but wanting your company, your attention. He wants those afternoons in his office where you do nothing but talk to last a little longer.
All of this wanting, this yearning, is quite frankly, far more than he has any right to want.
Which is exactly why today is proving so unbearable.
He often feels a pit of something bitter bubble in his chest when you interact with someone other than him. Not that it happens frequently - you're quite reserved. But not today. Today, specifically, you seem to be chatting up a boy.
When he enters the lecture this morning, you aren’t sitting alone like usual, but instead, there’s some boy next to you. Some boy your age. Dressed in some sort of hideous baggy outfit that hangs off his lanky frame. Is that fashion now? God that fucking punk.
Why was he sitting next to you? Distracting you?
As he sets up his laptop on the podium, seething under his breath, he hears a giggle. Your breathy giggle, the one he thought only came out with him.
His jaw tightens. The lecture hasn't even started, for Christ's sake.
Jack spends the next five minutes attempting to focus on setting up his stupid slides while simultaneously becoming aware of every interaction occurring in your vicinity.
Looking up, he realises it's a grave mistake. Because now you're touching. Touching that punk’s arm.
Fuck.
Something ugly immediately twists in Jack's stomach, his brows furrowing. Anger bubbles up in his chest.
But he can’t do anything but continue on, beginning his lecture, as if he isn’t seething with jealousy.
Halfway through the lecture, he catches himself directing a question towards your side of the room and immediately wants to launch himself into the sun.
Because you answer, of course, brilliantly as usual. But the boy next to you looks at you with stars in his eyes.
Yeah, Jack wants him expelled.
After a torturous two hours, students begin filing out of the room. Normally, this is the part where he'd catch your eye, maybe exchange some silent look that promised you'd be appearing in his office within the next ten minutes.
Instead, you're still standing beside that boy. And the little prick is making you laugh now. Then you reach out and lightly smack his arm, again.
Jack immediately decides prison might be worth it.
He shoves his laptop into his satchel with considerably more force than necessary, and effectively storms out of the room without giving you a second glance.
If you wanted to fuck about with some kid your age, then fine, Jack was not going to stop you.
By the time he reaches his office he's practically fuming, throwing his bag onto his desk and immediately hating himself for it.
Because what exactly are you guilty of?
Making a friend? Talking to somebody?
The answer is nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Yet that doesn't stop the ugly feeling sitting beneath his ribs. Yeah, he’s going to commit a fucking crime tonight.
Jack Abbot has managed to elicit yet another strange emotion in you. You're staring at the doorway he'd just disappeared through, confused as fuck.
He'd packed up and left so quickly you'd barely had time to process it, when usually, you walk to his office together.
Once James - the man you were talking to - leaves with your Instagram to “organise a study session”, a strange sinking feeling begins to settle in your stomach.
You gather your things slowly, trying not to overthink it but failing spectacularly.
The thing is, you had actually been excited, embarrassingly excited. Somehow, after weeks of mostly keeping to yourself, after spending the majority of your university experience drifting between classes and then disappearing home, you'd accidentally made a friend today randomly. For the first time somebody actually came and fucking sat next you and talked to you.
And the first person you'd wanted to tell was Jack. Which was probably concerning. You know how ridiculous it is that every interesting thing that happens in your day somehow circles back to him.
You'd actually spent the last ten minutes of class thinking about it, thinking about walking into his office and saying, "I made a friend today." And hearing whatever sarcastic response he'd inevitably come up with as he pulled you into his lap. Maybe teasing you about finally socialising - a topic he often teased you about - or maybe pretending to be shocked.
Instead he'd practically fled the room.
By the time you reach his office, the excitement has mostly dissolved into uncertainty, and a sick, sick feeling. Your brain convinces you he hates you, he’s sick of you. The affair with the pretty young thing is over.
Your hand hovers over the door, then knocks.
A gruff voice immediately answers.
"Come in."
You push the door open, and there he is standing beside his desk.
His jaw is clenched, his shoulders rigid.
And suddenly you're no longer excited to tell him anything. Instead you're left standing there wondering what exactly you did wrong.
He stalks up to you, and shuts the door behind you with enough force to make you jump. For a moment he simply stands there, broad chest rising and falling, staring at you as though he's trying to decide whether to throttle you or kiss you.
“Who the fuck was that boy?”
You’re confused.
“Who?”
“Don't play games with me, sweetheart.”
“James?” you ask, tilting your head. “Oh he’s just a… friend I made. We decided to share notes for the course.”
His jaw visibly tenses.
“The fuck you mean you ‘share notes’?” He exaggerates the last two words, mocking the phrase in a deliberately high-pitched voice. “Don’t I give you enough notes to go off? I'm not teachin’ you well enough, so now you gotta go to some punk to share notes?
“Jack, it’s not like that, I just-”
“Dr Abbot.” He interrupts.
The correction slices straight through you.
“What?”
He walks up closer to you, until your back hits the door and you’re pinned against it. He tilts his head down to peer at you.
“It’s Dr Abbot when you’re in my office, sweetheart,” His voice drops lower. “I’m still your professor.”
You scoff at that, hurt. It’s not hot to you, no. In that moment your brain forces you to think about how every moment you've spent together has happened in this room, only in this room. And maybe that's all there is, and maybe that's all there ever was. You convince you that you guys can’t exist out of this space, this dynamic that exists between the two of you.
Can he just not have a civil conversation? Why is pretending to act jealous? If he wanted to fuck you he could just ask.
You swallow hard.
“Right,” you say lowly. “My professor.”
The words taste bitter.
“The one who only seems to want me when we're in here.”
His brows furrow immediately.
“That's not what-”
“No, it’s okay. Let me finish. The one who shoves his face between my thighs when he feels lonely to cure whatever fucked up grief he keeps bottled up inside of him. The one who refuses to see me outside the four walls of this godforsaken office-”
“Enough.”
You see something that resembles hurt flash across his face, his brows creasing. The lines around his eyes deepen.
“Is that really what you think of me?” He whispers, staring at you.
You twitch uncomfortably under him, looking at the floor, confidence evaporating now that you've actually said out loud what you’ve been spiralling over ever since this began.
“I just...” Your voice cracks slightly. “Look, you don't have to act possessive, okay? Whatever we have this- this thing. I know it doesn’t mean much to you.”
Jack immediately opens his mouth, but you keep rambling.
“Which is fine. Seriously. I'm okay with that.” Your hands shake slightly at your sides. “But just don’t give me false hope. I’m happy with you being my professor, or my dom, or whatever the fuck. And I like that you help me study and talk and get out of my head and feel good, but there’s no need to act like you- like you care. I can't handle feeling like you care one minute and then being reminded none of this is real the next.”
You're panting hard by the end of your rant, still refusing to look at him.
“Sweetheart, look at me.”
You shake your head, tears of frustration welling up at letting yourself be seen like this, vulnerable. You promised yourself you wouldn’t ever tell him. Stupid.
Sex, that’s easy. It’s the meshing of two bodies, it’s clinical - you orgasm, your brain feels hazy and good while he drives you there. But this, talking, about feelings of all things, fuck. You can’t let anyone see you like that. Because then, they get sick of you, and then they leave.
“C’mon, look at me,” he pleads.
You wipe your eyes, about to tell him to move back so you can leave, but then he says your name. Softly. Not sweetheart. Not pretty girl. But your actual name.
“Please.”
You look up then, tears pooling in your eyes. And your breath catches.
Because Jack looks devastated. His eyes are red around the edges, and his mouth is pulled into a frown.
His hand rises slowly, cupping your cheek. He gently swipes a thumb under your eye.
“Hey, I need you to know - this is real. To me.”
His voice cracks.
“I’m not using you as some sort of placeholder or whatever self sabotaging bullshit you’ve created in your head okay?”
Then he inhales deeply.
“You've become the best part of my day. I wake up and mentally map my days around you. Hearing you talk loosens the constant ache I feel.”
Jack closes his eyes briefly.
Then opens them again. His hand tightens against your cheek.
“Sweetheart, I love you.”
You still.
Your lip quivers as you stare at him.
You bring your own hand up to cup his, and look up through your lashes.
The words get stuck in your throat. God. He loves you. Somebody loves you. Somebody saw through rot and the cage around your heart, and said he fucking loves you.
“I do. Too. That thing,” you wince at your awkwardness. “I just, I want to say it but I-"
“Hey pretty girl, it’s okay.”
Jack smiles sadly. He leans his forehead down to yours.
“I do,” you whisper desperately. “I do. I just-”
“Shh.”
His mouth nearly presses against you as he whispers again.
“I love you. And I’ll wait however long you need me to say it back, okay?”
Your breath shudders as he says that, a sob catching in your throat. Because for the first time in a very long time, nobody leaves.
Your eyes squeeze shut. Tears roll down your cheek, overwhelmed.
You barely register them before you feel Jack’s lips against your skin, kissing your tears. He mutters soft, ‘I love you’s as he presses kisses all over your face, cradling it. He presses one last one on your forehead before he tucks you into him.
Your cheek rests on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
You wrap your arms around his waist. And you genuinely think you can control it, for about ten seconds at most, then you sob. Uncontrollably, for the first time in years in front of another human.
Because God. You have spent so much of your life believing that love was something you had to earn, something you had to perform correctly for your family, the people around you, to accept you. Something that disappeared the second you became too much, too emotional, too difficult, too needy.
But he stayed. And he saw you.
You stand there, wrapped in each other's embrace until the tears slow. Jack gently wipes your cheeks with both hands.
“Sorry for making you cry, princess,” he pouts, lip jutting out exaggerately.
A watery laugh leaves you at that, and you cup his cheek. Jack immediately leans into your palm.
Jack watches you with an expression so openly adoring it nearly steals the breath from your lungs. As though he's still struggling to believe you're real.
Your thumb traces the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, mapped with years lived longer than you.
Then your hand drifts lower, brushing against the silver-grey scruff along his jaw, littered with specks of auburn, and you rub it gently, feeling the coarseness between your fingertips.
That was it, was it not? The stark difference between you, the thing that made all this so exhilarating.
Jack had lived a life that existed before you. And somehow, impossibly, it had still found its way to yours. As though he's spent years wandering through darkness and has suddenly found something worth staying for.
And perhaps, you realise, so have you.
That’s when you know.
“I’m ready,” you breathe out.
Jack's eyes widen, his hand coming to hold yours where it rests on his jaw.
“Are you sure? I don’t want you to feel pressured into it.”
“Jack. I’m sure. I want this, I want you.”
He shudders, exhaling hard, bringing his face down to yours.
“Yeah?” He whispers against your lips, brushing them.
“Yeah.”
Then his lips slam down onto yours, for the first time.
And God, its everything you fucking imagined.
His mouth presses against yours and soft whimpers escape the both of you. There’s a certain desperation in the way his mouth moves against yours, in the way your tongues immediately find each other.
After a few brutal minutes of grinding against each other, moaning, Jack succumbs. He lifts you into his hands, your thighs wrapping around his waist, as he carries you to his desk and sets you on it.
Mouth still pressed against yours, he rips your shirt off, pulls your jeans and panties off, shoving them to the floor.
He whines as you detach your lips from his to pull his blazer off. Looking up at him, naked on his desk, you unbutton his shirt. Trail your fingers down the dusting of salt and pepper chest hair, down, over his pecs, slightly raking your nails over his nipples.
“Fuck yeah, use your nails on my chest,” he grunts out as he unzips his pants.
You moan, pressing against him harder.
“I can’t wait any longer, fuck. Please, sweetheart, let me fuck you.”
You nod.
“I’m ready, Dr Abbot.”
He groans mutters ‘you fucking minx’ as he pulls his pants and boxers down, standing bare in front of you.
His cock hits his soft stomach, curving to the left, precum coating the tip, the way you love.
You glance down at his prosthetic.
“You sure you want to do this here, Jack? We can go on the sofa if you want.”
He looks at you with so much adoration, a soft smile gracing his face.
“No sweetheart, I'll keep it on for now. Wanna fuck you on my desk. ”
Then he pinches your nipples as he leans in.
“And I still need to fuck the brat out of you.”
You whine.
“What are you waiting for then?”
He brings a hand down your stomach, fingers pressing up against you.
“Gonna finger you a little bit, yeah? Get you ready for your professor's cock, s’not gonna fit in this tight pussy otherwise.”
A whimper escapes you at his crude words, god can this old man dirty talk.
He slowly slips two fingers inside of you, thrusting, then three once you’re ready. Circles your clit softly, the way he’s learnt after many nights on this same desk.
Whispers filth against your lips, kissing you, desperate now that he knows what your lips taste like after many weeks.
Once you come, he finally presses his cock against you. Rubs the tip over your folds, coating it in your slick.
“Yeah? You ready sweetheart?”
You nod, whisper a soft ‘please’ against his lips.
Then he pushes his tip into you. And oh fuck. He’s just so fucking thick.
He immediately brings a hand up to hold his base to stave off his orgasm, puts his head on your shoulder. Breathing harshly.
It hurts a little but you want more, you crave the feeling of him pressed up against you. So you buck your hips.
“Please, Jack, fuck. Put it in,” you whine.
“Oh- oh shit. Fucking stop that.”
He lays a hand flat on your thigh. Breathes deeply.
“I’m trying not to blow my load here, sweetheart, gimme a sec.”
You giggle softly, pleased. Having this old man at your mercy, your dreams come true.
“Take your time, old man.”
He stills at that, grips your waist harshly.
Looks up at you, his eyes darkening.
“Fuck you,” he snarls.
Then he presses into you, inch by inch, until all of him is buried inside. His thighs shake with the effort of not coming, and you breathe deeply through the pinch of pain.
“Fuck princess, so tight for me, my good fucking girl,” he babbles in your ear.
You whimper against him, waiting for the pain to subside.
Then you nod. And he begins thrusting, slowly. And it's so fucking euphoric, the feeling of sex. It makes sense why they call orgasms ‘a little death’ in French, because god, you know your body will leave your soul once he starts properly fucking you.
With every deep thrust of his cock into you, his grey pubes brush against your clit. You both moan softly. He grips your waist, shoving faster, harder.
“Only man that’s ever gonna be in this pussy yeah? Yeah?”
You’re half gone drooling against his neck, letting out high pitched whines.
“Nod for me, c’mon. I haven’t fucked the brains outta you yet.”
Jack grips your hair tight, pulling your head away from where it was buried against his neck.
You nod, slurring your words.
“Yeah Dr Abbot, s’only your pussy.”
“That’s it, good fucking girl.”
Then he starts thrusting, faster. Your hands rest on his shoulders, his face buried in your neck. His body slamming into yours is so hard it makes the table squeak under you.
When he brings a hand to your clit, you whimper loudly. He covers your mouth with his palm, and stops immediately.
“Quiet, you don’t want anyone to hear right?”
He roughly pants, trailing a line of kisses up your neck.
“Don’t want them to know your professor’s fucking you, right?”
You shake your head, words muffled under his palm.
“I’ll be quiet please, fuck please!”
He starts thrusting against faster, the table shaking. You toss your head back in pleasure, his cock reaching a spot deep inside you. He stares at you, at your face twisted in pleasure, the way your tits bounce as he thrusts into you.
“Yeah that is it, baby, good fucking girl.”
God it feels so good, and you’re there, you're nearly there, egged on by his rough groans and whimpers in your ear. You bring a hand down to your clit, starting to rub it to reach your orgasm but he shoves it off. Pushes you onto the table, your back hitting the desk.
“That’s my job sweetheart. This pussy is mine.”
Then he hovers over you, eyes boring into yours as he fucks you harder, rubbing circles on your clit. The pleasure is so, so overwhelming and you close your eyes.
He pulls your head towards him, gripping your jaw.
“C’mon, look at me sweetheart.”
You open your eyes, moaning.
“Say it,” he grunts. “Say you’re mine. Say it.”
“Fuck- Dr Abbot, I’m yours.”
He moans gutturally then pushes his lips onto yours again. You both moan into each other's mouths, sloppily kissing as you build towards your peak.
“Fuck yeah sweetheart, just like that- good girl, so fucking tight.”
He continues to mutter filth against you while all you can do is softly moan. Your brain is mush, filled with thoughts of him, jackjackjack.
You clench tightly around him when he bites your bottom lip.
“C’mon tell me how good you feel,” he pants, nearing his own orgasm.
“Fuck, Daddy, feels so good.”
His hips buck once, harshly, then he stills.
“What’d you just call me?”
Your eyes come into focus. The fog clearing a bit.
You stammer, “Um nothing, sir, I was just-”
“No. Repeat it.”
He trails a hand to your neck, squeezing gently once, then more harshly
“What did you call me?”
“Daddy,” you whisper out.
He pouts mockingly.
“Yeah? Daddy makin’ you feel good, baby? That’s why you're grippin’ this cock so tight, right?”
And then he starts thrusting, harder than before.
“Just. Let. Daddy. Take Care. Of. You,” He harshly thrusts between each word, one hand covering your mouth as your moans get louder.
Then you feel your orgasm approaching, the flutter building up again, clenching around him.
He looks into your eyes, only a thin ring of hazel left, his pupils so dilated.
“You gonna come for your Daddy? Yeah?”
You nod, whining, then you bite his palm. Hard.
His hips stutter and you feel the warmth of his spend pooling in your cunt. He whimpers and babbles your name as he comes, “fuck, fuck I love you. I love you so fucking much.”
You moan at his words. But you still have to come.
“Jack please, please keep going.”
He groans gutterly as his cock begins to soften, overstimulated but he continues thrusting jerkily.
He grips your chin in his palm.
“Fuckin’ come for me. Now,” he grunts out, pinching your clit roughly.
And then it happens. You write, moaning under his hands as the coil of pleasure snaps, closing your eyes.
He whimpers soft praises and coos of “I love you, did so good for me” as his cock spurts out more cum, twitching.
You pant against each other's mouths for a few long moments, his scruff tickling your chin, his forehead resting against yours, both of you trying and failing to steady your breathing.
“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart,” he murmurs, a breathless laugh escaping him. “That live up to your expectations?”
You laugh softly nodding.
“Mhm.”
He leans his head back to look at you properly once he’s cooled down, and holds your face in his palms.
After a few long seconds of just staring, something grave passed over his face.
“Don’t think I got a lot of years left, sweetheart.”
Your brows immediately furrow.
“Jack-”
He presses a finger to your lips when you go to interrupt, shushing you.
“Let me speak.”
You sigh, but nod.
“I've spent most of my life thinkin' there'd only ever be one great love for me,” he says quietly, his thumb brushing beneath your eye. “And after I lost her, I figured that was it. Figured whatever part of me knew how to belong to somebody had gone with her.”
Your breath stutters.
“Then you came along. In that fucking bar, wearing that tiny dress, asking me to help you. ”
A watery laugh escapes you.
“And whatever years I have left, I wanna spend them with you. I wanna hear every thought that gets trapped in that head of yours. I wanna know what articles you're reading, what you're writing, what you're dreamin’ about at three in the morning.”
He pauses.
“I wanna be the person you come home to.”
Your breath catches.
“As your other. If you’d want.”
You breathe out, seeing his face dimly lit by the lamp in his office. Mapping out his wrinkles near his eyes, the silver threaded in his slight beard and his soft smile. And suddenly it comes spilling out of you before anxiety can stop it.
“I love you.”
Jack stills completely. His eyes pool with tears.
“Yeah?” He whispers, half surprised, half in awe.
You nod, leaning up and brushing your nose against his.
“And I’d love to be yours.”
Relief washes over his face so intensely it almost hurts to witness. His eyes glisten as he kisses you softly, a slow, reverent press of his lips against yours for a few quiet moments.
Then he moves back to start cleaning up, cock still inside you.
As he leans up, his back cracks, loudly.
You both still. Before you burst out laughing.
“You’re so fucking old… yeah you’re not making it very long, I can’t lie.”
He groans dramatically, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.
“Fuck you, shut up.”
You bite your lip. His gaze travels there.
“Make me, Dr Abbot,” you say, exaggerating a whimper, only half serious.
His eyes darken, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumps beneath the skin. Yet despite the stern look he's trying to give you, a pink flush begins creeping across his cheeks, spreading over the tops of them and disappearing beneath the scruff along his jaw.
“Yeah sweetheart, about that… I’m not gonna be able to get it up for a while.”
You break, laughing harder as he laments. He’s so fucking old.
Once you calm down, he slowly pulls his cock out of you, both of you moaning, you at the loss of the fullness, him at your shared cum oozing out.
“But my mouth still works,” he smirks.
Your breath hitches as he plugs you with his fingers to stop more of your cum from spilling out. Leans in close, and whispers.
“My leg’s killing me, sweetheart,” he begins, breath fanning over your face. “But I'm going to lie on that sofa right there. And you're gonna ride my face till you come. Again. And again.”
You whimper softly against his mouth.
“Okay.”
“Okay, who, pretty girl?”
“Okay, Daddy.”
He grins.
“Good girl.”
omg hi u made it ! guys when i tell you this is so personal to me, from the dialgoue to the experimental (?) writing style. i need this man to be my father figure SO FUCKING BAD i have had such a week.
anyways per usual thank you to @tempestfawn for perving out with me and tolerating me, and salima for being horny over this man among other things #fullhomo
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୨ৎ summary .ᐟ.ᐟ everyone in the pitt knows how inseparable you and jack were. jack had believed that himself too. so, when one particular case leaves you rattled, he finds it in himself to jump into action. what he didn't expect was to realize he didn't know you quite as well as he thought.
୨ৎ tags/warnings .ᐟ.ᐟ female reader, no use of y/n, no physical description, jack and reader refer to each as 'blackbird' and 'raven,' lena refers to reader as 'jill,' angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of death (including child patients), near-death experience (reader), implications of suicide, suicidal ideation, mental health crisis, traumatic death and grief, ptsd, medical professional burnout, medical inaccuracy potentially
୨ৎ authors note .ᐟ.ᐟ helloo! this is literally my first piece of work on here, so can't wait to see how this goes. nervous? very.
update: part two is here .ᐟ.ᐟ magnetic force of a man
୨ৎ word count .ᐟ.ᐟ 14.3k
“So, when will she come back?” Dana questioned, her eyes set on the tablet in her hand. She donned her reading glasses that sat on the brim of her nose.
Jack hummed, furrowing his brows as he cast her a glance. Dana barely turned his direction before the utterance of your name followed from her lips. Jack still wasn’t sure he was prepared to hear that. He had repeated it to himself, like a word he was trying to remember the meaning of, but it still felt odd.
Jack shrugged, trying to regain his composure as he typed on the keyboard. “I don’t know. Have you asked Robby?”
Dana chuckled, finally lifting her head as she pressed the device into her abdomen. Dana cocked her head to the side, “I thought she was your person.”
“My person?” Jack repeated, as if it had been the first time anyone reminded him of that fact.
You were the only attending besides Robby and Jack, up to three months ago. After completing your pediatric fellowship and accepting the attending position in the ER, Robby had assigned you mostly to the night shift, but he welcomed your help during the day shift every once in a while. It certainly would’ve been helpful now. Jack was aware that this day would be a hard one for Robby to stomach since the ER department’s loss of Dr. Adamson.
But you had your own shadows you were running from.
Dana took off her glasses, opting to lean her hip against the edge of the nursing station. “Look, I’m not in the mood for games. Rumor has it her first shift back is tonight, with you off. Are you sure she can handle it?”
Jack’s fingers had stopped moving a long time ago. He could pretend this conversation wasn’t hitting him in places he wished they didn’t, but they were. He was too smart to hide it from Dana of all people. The question itself was one he had asked himself the week leading up to tonight.
Your skill was never an issue. For someone younger than both attendings in the ER, you excelled in ways neither had before. You were quiet and calculated in the workplace, but you never forgot how to be human around the nurses and students. He should’ve known earlier that you might’ve wanted to be recognized as the same.
Jack chewed the inside of his cheek. “What do you mean?”
Dana shrugged, watchful eyes on the ER staff floating around for shift passover. Always the mother hen of the rowdy coup in the hospital. “You two used to be attached at the hip. Suddenly, she leaves and agrees to come back on the one day you're off. Was she okay when she left?”
No, he thought. Everything was far from okay. His skin shivered at the idea of the night he had found out how wrong he had been about you. He was a man very familiar with torment, and to this day, he still thinks he should’ve noticed you sooner. He has yet to admit that out loud, though.
“Maybe she doesn't want me watching her every move.” Jack shrugged. He quickly signed off the computer, turning to Dana with undivided attention. Imposing his stare typically would be the appropriate move if he were trying to convince someone of a lie.
He was too predictable to get past Dana. With her chin raised, she gave him a once-over, nodding–although she didn't totally believe his lie. “It’ll be nice to have her around again, right?”
Jack simply nodded, brushing past Dana. The shaky breath he let out meant the opposite. Packing his things in his backpack felt like a bad fever dream. The movement of the ER replicated that of the chilly department last fall, and if Jack had known then what he knew now, he would’ve told himself to be quicker.
His movements were slow that morning during passover. The shift hadn’t been anything he hadn’t faced before, but there was no medal for being strangely accustomed to death. Yet, this shift was memorable for more than one reason.
The first being the strained smile you had on your face before coming in. There was a tightness in your face he couldn’t explain. You usually strolled in, bright colored backpack catching his attention as you headed to your locker. You were more than just a warm body walking around the ER. So when you came up to the nursing station, staring at the patient board in deep thought, he felt an unsettling sensation.
“Ready to tackle tonight, raven?” Jack teased, his loopsided grin trying to ease you up from across the nursing station.
You were taken out of your thoughts, looking at him with a stare he might’ve remembered from his army days. If he had thought about that a little longer, he would’ve seen a fellow veteran from his support group. Your tense shoulders and slimy hands gripping together a tad too tightly tried to appear normal. Then, the tight smile. You gave him one firm nod. “As always, blackbird.”
The call sign felt tepid, and before he could question it, your name was called off from a distance. Dr. Mohan had needed a second opinion on a case, and off you went gratefully. Watching your back walk away, the chillness started to form a black pit in his stomach.
Then four hours later, things were brewing. A trauma was called from Lena. He had barely reached the nursing station when he saw a figure similar to yours jump into action and head towards the ambulance entrance. Shen, your prized senior resident, was on your heel, easily matching your movement as a gurney was wheeled in. He only stood long enough to see what looked like a middle-aged woman being wheeled into trauma 1.
He would’ve joined had you two not settled on your ‘zone’ strategy. You would be assigned to trauma and central rooms, while he took over the north and south rooms. The residents and med students would be split up from there, finding some place to join the excitement. Jack stopped in front of the trauma doors, watching you in the midst of all the nurses taking vitals and Shen doing initial evaluations. You stalked around the trauma room, taking a back seat as you watched your residents work together.
His intense look caught your attention, causing you to lift your head, looking back at him through the glass. You curtly nodded, affirming the silent question of his raised eyebrow. Your focus left him when Walsh came from the other door behind you.
Two hours later, he came to the realization that you were avoiding him. It was now 1 am, and by then, he would’ve smelled the brew of your coffee somewhere in the ED. He had exited south 17 after treating a drunk 30-year-old man who had slipped on the sidewalk and fractured his wrist when he started looking for you. He approached the patient board, hoping to stall long enough to find out where you had gone.
“Jack, where’s your Jill?” Lena joked, making her way around the nursing station with a chart in her hand.
“I was just about to ask the same question,” Jack muttered, hands on his hips as he stretched out the kink in his neck.
Shen, passing behind Jack, said your name out loud, which caught his attention. “I haven’t seen her since the MVA with that family. Sad case. I think she was waiting to speak with the extended family.”
Jack’s lips pressed into a thin line. Sad was one way to put it. Tragic felt better suited to describe that scene. The last thing any of you expected was a family falling victim to drunk driving–and you still had half the shift to go. A small sigh came from Lena, a hand pressed to her chest. “The poor wife. Waking up to your baby and husband gone like that is just tragic.”
Shen simply nodded before walking away to approach Ellis, heading towards a hallway. Jack approached closer to Lena, hands braced against the desk. “Did they take them to the viewing room?”
Lena nodded, “I don’t think the family will want to see them that way, but who knows, it might bring them comfort.”
A fellow nurse called out for Lena’s attention, turning her away from Jack. He waited a beat, sparing the central hub one more look before pushing away with a mission. He weaved around the staff, approaching the double doors that led to the viewing room. When he saw the plaque, he stopped right at the door. He leaned in closer to the wooden door, holding his breath to listen to the noise in the room. All that he could pick up was the rustling of clothes.
He knocked first. A beat. His hand traveled to the cold, metal handle. He twisted it down, preparing to open it first. In one instance, the door swung open, revealing you. He took a step back, eyes widening from the shock of the quickness. The puffy skin under your eyes was just as alarming. He opened his mouth to speak, but you beat him to the punch.
“Sorry, I was returning a personal belonging that EVS found from the deceased.” You said, clipped and even. You had quickly pulled the door shut behind you, wiping your palms against your scrub pants.
Jack's silence had you turning back to look at him. The second time around, he could see the small red mark on your forearm, as if you had scratched or pinched your skin raw. Jack came closer, a hand placed on your shoulder. He didn’t miss the shiver that came from the contact. “Are you okay?”
Your glossy eyes stared at him. The warning signs and red lights should’ve gone through in his mind. He should’ve brought you in closer and held you tighter. He wouldn’t have doubted that choice if he felt it was appropriate. When the tremble of your lip came through, he definitely should’ve reconsidered.
“I’m just tired. Pretty exhausting shift so far.” You brushed off, another tense smile. Except that the curvature of your lips held no strength. It was obvious something was overcoming your mind, and therefore the debilitation extended to your physical self.
“Well, I’m here if you need anything, okay?” He reminded softly, squeezing your shoulder reassuringly.
You pursed your lips, nodding, yet never meeting his eyes the same. You moved first, storming through the double doors as you’d rather be anywhere else but in the quiet moment. Jack watched through the small window of the doors. You walked past the nursing station, never once lifting your head. The loose strand of your hair was flying back as you disappeared into another hall.
When the full morning had hit, Jack walked out of the restroom, noticing his night shift staff start to disappear after the shift change. Jack had pretty much packed his bag, pulled on his quarter zip, and made himself a coffee to go, yet he still floated around the central hub. Robby looked over at him through the rims of his glasses. Casually looking back down at the device in his hand. “Looking to pull a double?”
Jack shook his head, letting out a scoff. “Brother, day shift is all yours. I am looking forward to taking off this leg and going to bed.”
“You’re not the only one, that’s for sure,” Robby muttered, leaning forward on the edge of the desk. He pulled off his glasses, looking at Jack with furrowed brows. “What happened tonight?”
Jack hummed, adjusting his backpack to sit on one shoulder. He furrowed his eyebrows at Robby, who stared at him, confused. He glanced around cautiously before saying your name. “She seemed pretty out of it. I heard about the MVA. Sure she’s alright after that?”
Jack shrugged, shoving his hands into his pocket. He looked around to see what was left of the night shift. He saw nurses trickling out, but most of the residents were gone–and you were nowhere to be found. “Deceased father and daughter. Mother made it out of surgery all right. Last I heard, she was still unconscious.”
“The last thing the father saw was his deceased daughter. Shen said the father passed holding her hand.” Jack added, readjusting his shoulder. He didn’t want to appear dismissive, but the thought was haunting enough.
“Hits close to home.” The two attendings heard Dana approaching them. She was readjusting her badge on her scrub top when she glanced at the two men. “During the pandemic, she extubated a mother and her daughter. Let them pass in each other's arms.”
“I remember that,” Robby said softly, clearing his throat and looking away.
“She never told me that,” Jack mentioned, frowning as he gazed at Dana.
Dana shook her head, sighing. “No one wants to remember the plague. I don’t blame her, so you shouldn’t either.”
He never could. All the hopelessness surrounding the department during that time was hidden among them. The stories of loss and despair were hidden in the depths of their minds, poured into the bottles, or flushed out on someone’s couch. As a new attending, making that call must have been hard, and watching it unfold? Grueling.
Dana’s eyes landed somewhere in the direction of the ambulance bay. When Jack followed her line of sight, your red backpack was staring back at him. He saw the concerned look on Samira’s face as you attempted to walk past her. With her astute empathy, she noticed, reaching a hand out to halt your movement. He could see her try to utter something, but you abruptly dismissed her, peeling yourself away.
Before Samira could recover, Jack was approaching her, eyebrows heavy and forehead creased. “What was that about?”
“I don’t know.” Samira sighed, her arms falling to her side in defeat. She shook her head, eyebrows curved downward. “She just looked sad.”
Jack replicated the nod of a soldier taking a command. His hand gripped tighter to the strap of his bag more tightly as his heavy feet led him to the ambulance bay. The sun was still rising from the east. It blinded him when he moved from under the shade. He almost missed your figure rounding the corner in the direction of the main street.
He was careful not to tread too closely. He didn’t mean to stalk your movement, but he wasn’t sure he could approach you, with your head bowed, looking at something on your phone.
You stopped in your tracks, and Jack did the same ten feet away. He halted his breath, hiding his presence through the bustling sounds of the cars. There was an uneasiness coming from your breathing. The rise and fall of your shoulders was displaced and panicky.
The hand holding your phone came up to your ear. When you began moving forward with your head bowed, Jack hurried his feet. The sudden laboured breathing he could see from your back extended to him. Your attention to the movement of your feet instead of the traffic in front of you was like a movie with anticipation building into a nauseating climax.
Suddenly, he was jogging towards you. His tunnel vision made the twelve-foot distance feel longer, and the sirens in his head were blaring two times over. When you reached the curb of the sidewalk, leading straight into oncoming traffic, the ringing in his ears started.
He called out your name, hoping to see your face when you turned around. He was suddenly praying to some force that you’d hear the sound of his voice and come to reason. And in the split second your foot extended over the curb, Jack didn’t think of the possibility existing.
Ghosting over the asphalt, a horn blared from your left. You had finally lifted your head when you felt yourself stumbling back into a firm embrace. You tripped on your feet, leaning your stiff body mass onto the person behind you. Your phone clattered to the ground, landing face down onto the pavement.
You felt a shaky breath escape you, body rattling from the power of the exhalation. When you finally felt the sensation of your feet on the safety of the sidewalk, you tried to hold yourself up, legs shaking like a doe learning to walk.
The voice calling your name, sounding miles away and echoing, grew louder. He was panicked and worried, telling you to breathe. You were cautiously pulled further back from the edge, tethered to a stronger, more alert figure.
Jack turned you from your shoulder, looking down at your aghast expression. Your skin paled with the sudden scare, and the tremors all up and down your body didn’t halt. He brushed the hairs sticking to your forehead. “You’re okay.”
“I’m sorry,” You blabbered, as if walking into oncoming traffic was the equivalent of breaking a glass cup. You shook your head, lip quivering and eyes glazed. The exhaustion from the shift was evident, but Jack saw more beyond your thousand-yard stare.
It was the same frightening stare his closest friends saw before he had agreed to therapy. It was the look he had when honorably discharged home, stuck in the walls of his quiet home. He was adjusting to the amputation, and the weight of what led him to his bed was harder to carry than he’d like to admit.
Or the look in his eyes when he sat in the front pew of the church, staring aimlessly at the casket on the platform. The printed photo of his late wife smiling at him, frozen in time.
“Sorry for what?” Jack questioned softly, readjusting the bag slipping down his arm.
You shook your head, squeezing your lips shut, terrified to let what was plaguing you come to life in the form of words. If you said it, then it’d be a chilling reality to fear. Not if things would spill over the brim, but when you’d ultimately decide it was too much. Fearing action over thoughts.
You shook your head, your eyes distant and still not entirely present. Jack kept searching your face for any sign of you waking up to the situation. “My phone.”
Jack looked around on the ground, spotting the flowery print of your phone case. He carefully maneuvered around you, trying to stay close for any sudden movement. He grunted when he reached down for the phone. When he caught a look at the intact screen, he saw a caller ID.
Dr. Rick Shuman.
It was an active call, and it seemed like you just remembered that because you snatched the phone from Jack. You brought it up to your ear, eyes squeezed shut. You were listening to the voice speaking through the phone.
“I’m fine, I was just distracted.” You noticed Jack's furrowed brows; his gaze was watching you with a heavy concern that felt suffocating for someone in your position. Otherwise, you might’ve been endeared by it. “I’m fine to make it home. I’ll call you later.”
A brief pause before you hang up and stuff the phone in your pocket. Jack took a step closer, one hand on your shoulder as he turned your back from the street. “Must have been one hell of a phone call to have you miss the oncoming traffic.”
You froze, eyes glued to the ground. You inhaled a sharp breath. “I was rescheduling an appointment. Got lost in thought.”
Jack scoffed, stuffing his hand into his scrub pockets. His eyes flickered across your face, imposing his charming persona despite the fact that you wouldn’t want to have this conversation. “Dr. Shuman from Psychiatry?”
You let out a heavy sigh, suddenly realizing you had started walking with Jack down the alley you just came out of. You could barely hear the noise from the passing cars and lively sidewalk. The silence that came between the apartment complexes and the hospital was deafening. “It’s a long story.”
“I have time.” Jack casually metioned, turning to look at you. His sincerity was evident as the smirk softened to an encouraging smile. He was metaphorically extending a hand that said, ‘Let me do this.’
“I can walk you back to your place. Make sure you don’t get distracted anymore.”
It was meant to be a punchy joke, like the moment was as embarrassing as slipping or tripping over something. In reality, it was he who threw his anchor over your ship. The integrity of your anchor had been lost for years now, slowly eroding with the debris that came from the salty ocean. You hadn’t stopped from throwing it over, but it was false hope.
You quickly looked away from Jack, refusing to cry at the basic empathy he was demonstrating to you. Jack craned his head, refusing to lose eye contact, among other things. “Let me do this, at least.”
You pursed your lips, holding in the small pain in your chest, wanting to choke out a sob. You nodded, fluttering your tears away. Spinning on your heels, wiping your tears with the sleeve of your jacket.
When you reached the street again, you sharply turned left, walking with Jack closest to the open road. Although people needed to maneuver around you both, walking in the opposite direction, Jack didn’t dare let his steps slow down. He’d pressed closer against you, arms brushing as your feet stepped in tandem.
“Dr. Shuman is good, from what I’ve heard,” Jack stated easily, bowing his head so you can hear him. You both stopped at an intersection, waiting for the pedestrian crossing signal.
You let out a breathless chuckle. You were still shaken up, ears plugged, and the sound of the city traffic was barely hindering your thoughts. “You're not the only one at PTMC to think so.”
The crossing signal from the other corner turned on. Jack took one step forward, inches away from the asphalt. His shoulder felt cold, and when he turned to look over his shoulder, he realized you stared ahead eerily. You cautiously stepped back, hands clammy in your jacket pocket.
“Hey,” Jack whispered, standing before you, but you kept staring through a phantom in his place. “I didn't mean to pry–”
“I can’t talk about it.” You breathily mumbled.
“It might help.” Jack proposed, imposing his size on your space. He craned his neck down, watching you try to hide your face. “I mean, until you have time to sit down with Dr. Shuman.”
Jack heard the sound of the traffic moving again. Your opportunity to cross ended. Jack pursed his lips, looking around at where you guys were in the city. “Look, there’s this dinner a couple of blocks the other direction. If you're not too tired, we can sit, eat, and not talk about it, if you want.”
His reasoning might’ve been enough because you complied much more easily than letting him walk you home. Or maybe you didn’t want to face the silence of your solitary apartment, which he didn’t like either.
Then the bell rang above your head when he held the door open for you. A waitress welcomed you in from behind the bar. You stood at the entryway till Jack confidently walked over to a booth in a quiet corner.
Swinging off his bag with a groan and tossed it into the corner of the booth. You followed suit, body caving into yourself as you fiddled with your hands. The same blonde waitress walked over, notepad and pen in hand. “Welcome in, doctor. The usual?”
Jack chuckled, arms folded onto the table and leaning forward. “Yeah, Gladys. Make those two for my friend.”
The women nodded, walking away promptly. You glanced at her back, watching her attend another customer with easy familiarity. “You come here often?”
“On days when I shouldn’t go back to my lonely house.” He sighed, nodding. “Those days are many.”
His fingers tapped against his biceps quietly as he watched you from across the table. You were comfortable in his presence; the countless shifts the two of you spent wordless working around one another. It was military precision, Ellis always joked. When you first joined, there were questions on whether you had been a veteran like Jack from how easily you hit it off.
Right now, you feel scrutinized, like a patient in your behavioral room, cast for everyone to see.
“I’ve been meeting with Dr. Shuman for two years now. After he started his private practice. ” You started speaking clinically, like you were giving a report on the inner moment of your life. Jack would’ve encouraged you to speak to him like a friend, but he understood the instinct. “He took in a lot of employees since leaving PTMC.”
Jack nodded, while two coffees and plates of all-American breakfast were settled in front of you. Pancakes, eggs, and bacon. You both thanked the waitress. Jack was the first to grab his coffee. “So, I've heard. I would've if I wasn’t already seeing someone.”
You ripped off a piece of bacon, chewing on it slowly. “Dr. Jefferson referred me to him.”
“How’s that been?” Jack asked, his utensils scratching against his plate. He was more engaged in the conversation than in his food.
Your eyes roamed his face, looking for something to deceive him. Pretty much everyone was aware Jack had a therapist, making jokes about suggestions on healthy habits for emotional regulation and decompression. Jack certainly interpreted the recommendations as he saw fit in his life, but he was well adjusted.
He wasn’t confused, let alone shock from the fact that you had been seeing a therapist. His recovery with questions that proved he cared about you more than anything. There wasn’t humiliation for seeking out professional help. He didn’t think of you as lesser than before. He was simply a man sitting with a colleague, whom he considered a good friend, talking.
“I should’ve known it wouldn’t completely rid me of these nightmares.” You whispered, suddenly sick from the taste of the bacon. You slightly push the plate away, grossed out from the sight alone.
“It doesn’t mean that it doesn’t work,” Jack whispered, chucking another piece of pancake into his mouth. He put down his utensils, folding his arms on the table as he watched you pensively.
Breakfast was a worthy distraction, but it was beyond pleasantries at this point. Your eyes had heavy floaters in them, replaying a horror scene right on the table. Jack was only grateful you weren’t spacing out in the middle of a trauma where a life hangs in the balance.
“Dana mentioned something that happened during the pandemic.” His quiet voice grumbled, the tone coming deep from his throat. He tilted his head slightly. “Do you want to talk about it?”
It was palpable, the severity of the moment, for you most of all. Confronting ghosts you thought were properly buried–when instead–you hid them in the back of a dresser like an old t-shirt. The grisly fondness of the cotton in your hand, that comes with the smell and the sensation combined. Except, it was antiseptic, the rustling of the protective suits as you stood watching a mother and daughter hold each other.
Their bodies had already resigned to the illness sweeping them from under the rug.
“We had many patients, but I took care of this one mother and daughter.” You blinked a couple of times aggressively, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes. “They were already on vents. The question was quality over quantity.”
You sighed out, a small choke escaping you. When you removed your hands, looking at Jack with the raw intensity of living that memory in front of him—your somber eyes as you watched it occur. “The mother knew her daughter wasn’t going to make it out. She had asked to let them pass while holding each other, so they may not be separated afterward."
You vigorously wiped the tears rolling down your face with whatever dignity you had left. Willing to stop crying in some diner over your untouched breakfast. “So when Robby made the call to remove the vents to spare for other patients, I made the arrangements. I couldn’t sleep that night.”
“She was 12, with her whole life ahead, and the last thing her mother saw was tubes and wires attached to her.” You had leaned back, arms hugging yourself as you once did when you stood outside the room watching them take their final breaths.
Transferring their bodies was a sickening sight. When you came in the next morning shift, you were physically ill. The smell had reminded you of the day before, and you ran into the bathroom to puke up the dinner you had forcibly eaten.
“Did you know the husband sent me a letter to the hospital?” You whispered, sinking into your seat. You had managed to forget about the outside world, and so had Jack, if you had noticed. His food was far from warm. “I couldn’t bear to read it until a couple of days ago.”
Jack let his body sag. It would’ve been your night off, and the daunting conclusion rattled him. You sniffled, your lips wobbling. “I tried to find how to contact him. Searched his name and found his obituary instead.”
You let out a disassociative laugh, “It was my fault for waiting so long.”
“No,” Jack whispered, leaning closer to the table, head bowed. “You couldn’t have known.”
“I see people die all the time, Jack.” Your voice suddenly grew louder, fueled by the guilt brewing in you over the past two days.
The sight of the obituary caused you to shut your laptop and hide away in your apartment until you were forced back in the hospital—the start of it all. Your hands clenched onto your biceps, “I let his letter sit at the bottom of a drawer for a year, because I was scared to accept a thank you? Because I felt too inadequate to put aside my pride and console a widow?”
“You were in a terrible position.” Jack clarified, his eyes more intense than before. “You took the time you needed to address that. He wouldn't blame you for it.”
“I hope he did.” You sat up quickly, face meeting Jack's at the center of the table.
Jack shook his head, his breathing even. His therapist had told him not to treat conflict as a war he needed to survive. Some problems will come and go. He could see you were letting this misfortune eat you alive, needing to validate the idea of the problem being you.
“Hey,” Jack whispered, putting his hand down at the center of the table. Welcoming, willing, and able. “Give yourself a break. People have died on all of us, but we do a lot of good.”
“That man knew you took care of his wife and daughter in the bleakest moment of their lives. You respected their wish, and they passed in peace.” His firm voice rolled out, and the words he knew were facts still felt like myths to your ears. He was a light at the end of the tunnel, where you were sitting and hugging your knees. “And today, that father got to hold his daughter, forgetting about the pain he was in for a moment.”
You shook your head, letting it land onto your arms on the table. The rattle of your body shook the table, and Jack didn’t care. With your head down, you didn't see Jack's careful movement. It wasn’t till you felt a body scoot up beside you on the booth.
The warmth of Jack’s muscles brushed against your sides. You jolted a bit, but relaxed as an arm came up around your shoulders, hugging you from the side. He held you, his chin resting on top of your head.
His head bobbed as the sobs you were keeping silent sounded audibly. His grip was steadier, firmer, and stronger. Not the type that was possessive or malicious, but tender and merciful. Careful and wise, coming from the years of his own inexperience with handling the pain. Standing over a rooftop, trying to recite every reason he came back into the Pitt. The difference was that you weren’t physically standing over that edge; you were towing a line that was nearly gone.
“You are an excellent doctor. You have yet to realize how much these people needed you, and still do.” Jack affirmed into your hair, refraining from shedding his own tears. He clenched his jaw, keeping some composure for your well-being.
What he wanted to say was that he needed you. You, who kept him afloat whenever certain shifts were hitting him harder than before. You had managed to crack his shell and reveal a softer, more unrestrained attitude with the night shift. You, who he felt resembled his late wife, filled the small part of his life with something resembling joy. The Pitt was less direful because of you.
“I need a break.”
It was one of the last few words he heard you say that morning, before Dr. Shuman called. He knew his job was done, paid the bill for the untouched breakfast, and called an Uber to take you back home safely. He remembered standing under the morning sun, praying to some higher authority that you’d survive it all better than he had all those years ago.
Jack should’ve taken the warning more seriously. He kept a keener eye on you, verbally checking in with you for a couple of weeks after. He tried to lighten your load and even spoke with Robby to have you exclusively on the night shift with him. Robby presumed his little crush was getting the best of him. Robby complied with no argument. Jack didn’t elaborate on the reason either.
He made more effort outside of work. Walking you to your car, or arranging carpool schedules whenever assigned the same shifts. The two of you strolled into the ED with a kinship unique to each other. Shen and Ellis would share knowing looks. Robby shook his head, and Dana would always take the opportunity to jab at Jack.
You relied on him more often than not. It wasn’t incompetence, but after your discussion in the diner, it was like you had finally realized you needed help. Jack would check in with you before your sessions, treating you to coffee or breakfast as a way to commend yourself enough to continue going.
From Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year's, there was a bond fortifying with the passing of time. He could argue no one knew you better than him.
Jack didn’t mean to impose on your life, obsessing over your every mood, but he silently promised to watch over you. If anyone else noticed the sudden care Jack had over your professional life, or the intimately private conversation the two of you had, no one mentioned it, but they all noticed.
So when your mood improved a couple of months later, Jack was more than elated. You suddenly smiled brighter, made more jokes, and the spark returned. Jack didn’t feel entitled enough to assume he had anything to do with it. He was certainly relieved that things were changing for the better.
From a distance, he heard you laugh at something Langdon said while finishing charting. With your hair tied back, the simple sight of your profile brought a smile to his face.
Jack Abbot must have looked completely smitten to ignore the fact that Robby had stopped right across from him at the central station. Abbot’s focus led him straight to you, engrossed in a conversation.
“How’s all that ‘team bonding’ going by the way?” Robby quoted indirectly, causing Abbot to tear his eyes away reluctantly.
His friend glanced at him before he pretended to remember he was busy. Abbot stretched his neck from side to side, hiding the smile on his face. “Improving department performance one night at a time. Have you seen our patient satisfaction scores combined?”
“I’ve seen, and she’s carrying most of the weight for you, blackbird.” Robby shook his head, leaning against the station. Throwing the nickname only you used teasingly. Robby saw the small heat from the back of Jack’s neck. “Won’t have her overall satisfaction scores to brandish for a while.”
“Did you manage to convince her to move to the day shift?” Jack mumbled, eyes on the computer screen. His tone came out cool, but deep down, he was confused by Robby’s comment.
“Considering she’s leaving for a sabbatical soon, you and I will have our work cut out for us. I’m sure your residents will be tired of you after a month.” Robby stepped back to look up at the patient board, skimming over those currently in the room and those waiting in chairs.
What Robby missed was the incredulous look on Jack’s face. Sabbatical? You had never mentioned a sabbatical. He had spent the better half of three months invested in your every moment, and you had never mentioned stepping away from the Pitt.
“What do you mean?”
Robby hummed, arms crossed as he looked back at Jack. His movement had stopped, and he froze, mortified. Shit, he didn’t know. Robby whipped his head towards you, blissfully unaware of what was happening across the floor. Robby cursed under his breath, “I thought she told you.”
“What sabbatical, Robby?” Jack pressed, a firm wall of his professionalism and peace crumpling.
Robby rubbed his hands together before nervously scratching the back of his head. “She told admin before the beginning of the year. Said she was taking some personal time.”
“How much time?” Jack followed up with no hesitation. Antsy eyes and uptight muscles. Jack was uncomfortable in his skin, facing a situation that he wished were imaginary.
“Five months, which she got, not without a fight.” Robby sighed, bracing his hands on the edge of the counter, stretching nervously. “I think admin had doubts she’d want to come back.”
Abbot bit the inside of his mouth, hardly paying his friend any attention. He was now anxiously awaiting a moment alone with you. With most of the nightshift clocking out, you were bound to log off soon.
Robby must have been saying something Jack hadn’t caught, because the only reason he walked away was when Collins had called for his assistance. Jack stood rigid, the blood pumping through his body, yet he was shivering numb. When you finally stood from your chair, you walked over to the lockers, disappearing into the hall. Jack wasted no time, leaving Robby desolate. Jack was a man on a mission, dedicatedly, while ignoring the irritation his prosthetic was causing.
Before turning the corner, he stopped, inhaling deeply. You hadn’t told him for a reason, and Jack couldn’t comprehend it. In the ten minutes from when Robby told him to now, he kept going over it in his head. You had planned this over months ago.
Personal time, in god knows where. Family for you was across the country, away from Pittsburgh, the PTMC, and him. A five-month sabbatical, the admin reluctantly gave you. Their doubts were reasonable because suddenly the reality of your leaving scared him again.
The sight of you, head bowed, walking into the oncoming traffic, hadn’t left his memory. At least then, he had a choice of pulling you back to safety. He holds you in his arms and vows to never let you go through all that alone. If you leave, never looking back at the past, he’d be forgotten. The next time you’d find yourself on the edge, who would you turn to then?
He finally turned the corner and saw you rummaging through your locker, stuffing your red backpack. You heard the dragging of feet, turning your head to the left, and when you smiled, he almost forgot why he was coming towards you.
“You survived yet another shift, blackbird.” You called out, zipping up your backpack before slipping it on your shoulders. You pulled off your fire engine red Littmann stethoscope, putting it in your locker. “Now you can pretend you have healthy habits, like catching up on sleep and not pulling some random shift with S.W.A.T.”
Jack nodded, lips pursed. He kept looking at you, searching for the deceitfulness that had existed for months. He had hoped this was all a sick prank. Some twisted way to push Jack into your arms, orchestrated all by Robby, but with your doe-like eyes looking at him, you were none the wiser.
With the shutting of your locker, you stayed still in front of him. He was stuck in thought for too long, and you stared up at him, bemused. “Hey, are you okay?”
You were concerned. Typically, it was Jack asking with an open ear, avid on helping you in whatever way. His body jolted awake when he felt your hand hover over his arm, centering him to reality. Jack shook his head, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Your face fell, your movement freezing. With the question out in the open, it had confirmed what Robby said. You retracted your hand, bowing your head in shame. “I was planning to.”
“When? With your foot out the door?” Jack questioned quietly, head cocking to one side so you’d hear him better. “I have to hear from Robby that for almost three months, you had planned to leave for half the year.”
“Jack, I swear, I planned to tell you.” You opened your mouth to elaborate, quickly shutting it when a day-shift nurse passed by the two of you in the hallway. If they noticed the tension between the two night-shift attendings, they kept it to themselves and scurried away.
You let out a sigh, stuffing your hands into the pockets of your fleece jacket. “But, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to leave until a couple of weeks ago.”
“So, casually asking admin to grant you a five-month sabbatical was what? Securing your options?”
You dejectedly sagged your shoulders. Jack didn’t look away, even when you stared down at your feet. With your strident silence–and the ringing in his ears–nothing had ever felt as suffocating as this moment for Jack.
Arms crossed, trying to deflate the thick presence in the hallway, Jack caved his body in like a dog with his tail between his legs. “Look, I’m sorry if I’ve imposed myself in your life so much that you couldn’t tell me, I just want to help.”
You flicked the few tears that rolled down your cheek, looking up at Jack with open vulnerability as you had openly done in recent times. “And you have so much.”
“When I spoke with my mom in January, I couldn’t remember why I wanted to continue being here, especially after the pandemic.” You motioned to the walls around you.
The burnout was clear among their own staff. Doctors like Dr. Shuman moved away from public health, taking reins of their work. Others retired or left healthcare, opting not to gamble on their luck.
And the loss of those infected, being treated by their own colleagues, hadn’t yet been healed by time. Jack remembered having the talk with Robby about what to do if the time ever came for them, as it did for Adamson.
“When I’m not here, I don’t know where I belong,” You earnestly explained, your voice cracking towards the end. “But, when I am here, I feel my soul isn’t strong enough to bear another goddamn test, like the world is smiting me.”
Squaring your shoulder, you raised your chin higher. Might was the invisible strength of yours, Jack always admired it. He never considered that he could have mistaken your helplessness for resilience.
With a shaky hand sitting on your chest, you tried to calm the ache of your heart with every beat. “I need to know I can come back to this place and not agonize on whether tonight will be the one that ruins me.”
“And if you can’t?” Jack whispered, knowingly afraid of the ‘ifs’ in this situation. That’s the only reason he and Robby probably haven’t attempted it yet. The fear of trying and finding no rope to grasp.
“I’ll come back and figure it out.”
The assurance should’ve eased him. For five months, you’d be taken care of and safe from the grime in the hospital that stuck to your shoes and followed you home. You surround yourself with a different love, distinct from that in the Pitt, escaping from chains on your feet. Yet, he felt awful being ripped from that photograph.
Before Jack knew it, you pulled him into a hug, arms snaking under his arms. You rested your chin on his shoulder, standing on your toes. The warmth of your body, the lavender scent of your detergent, and the sensation of your hair brushing his temple made his skin shiver.
You leaned your head against his, basking in his firm hold. The fear and uncertainty were loud in the silence of the embrace; neither of you pulled apart to address. The masses of muscles in his arms compressed you, like a precious value he was shielding from everyone else. The hands used to survive a combat zone, to then move effortlessly as a mentor in a renowned hospital, were rubbing circles on your back.
If Jack had to describe the feeling, it was nostalgic. For half a decade, he spent it memorizing details. He had yet to hold you in the manner he did now. It was all bittersweet.
“You’ll survive while I’m gone,” You whispered to him. The instinct to want to care for him is stronger than your own will to take care of yourself. He felt ashamed that he had normalized that. “And I’ll come back looking for you. So don’t do anything stupid.”
“I could say the same.” Jack tried to joke, his body growing weary and tired.
Peeling your body off him, hands soothing his arms, smiling dopily up at him. He wanted to think that this is how happy you’ll be when you come back. Eager to return to your place, walking along beside him. “You got it, Jack.”
“Five months will fly by in no time, just you see.” You said in a sing-song voice to Ellis, who was dramatically slumped on the central hub. She rested her cheek on her fist, exhausted from the shift, even more glum by the idea of this being your last shift for the next five months. “You’re only a second-year resident anyway, Dr. Ellis. I still have plenty of time to teach you all my tricks.”
“Have you ever thought that maybe we like you more than Abbot?” Ellis sighed, eyebrows curved downward as she appeased your self-effacing benevolence.
“I don't see why,” You chuckled, eyes crinkling even though you were focused on the last few emails of your last night in the Pitt. “I expect the same performance Dr. Abbot does, if not more, from you and the other residents.”
“Yeah, but when have you ever seen Abbot take it easy on us?” Ellis asked rhetorically, looking at you through hooded eyes.
You clicked your tongue, eyes widened from the audacity. You thought it was funny, “All I’m hearing is I need to be riding on my residents more.”
“Please don't, actually.” Ellis pleaded silently, back straightening.
Abbot was agreeable a fun attending, compared to Robby, but with you in the equation, you were perfectly commiserative and sensible. Dr. Abbot enjoyed pushing the intern’s and second-year residents. He’d randomly push them into the fray, all and every case he thought someone of their level should know. Intern year was rough for Ellis.
Yet with you, she felt known.
When she came to Pitt for the first time, it was in the aftermath of the pandemic. Most of the stricter safety regulations were lifted, with hospitals returning to their usual capacity. She walked in, bumping into you. Gracefully, you offered your assistance in finding the attending physician for the night shift. Ellis cursed herself for not looking down at your badge clipped to your pants—but she always claimed you did that on purpose. You had given her a tour of the ED, still “helping” her, trying to figure out why she chose emergency medicine and if she had goals for after.
It wasn’t until making an entire round of the floor, going back to where you both started, that Abbot addressed you out loud. Ellis stared at your mouth agape, having recalled everything you said, including some overly honest comments about previous instructors. She’s seen you do the exact same thing with other residents, as a form of ritual, but it helped you develop them professionally.
“Don't what?” Shen asked, approaching both of you with the coffee he had brought in. He had stored it in the fridge halfway through the shift, even if the ice had already melted and the liquid resembled that of swamp water.
“Ellis has been giving me pointers on my teaching methods. Apparently, I’ve been too lax.” You smirked at Ellis, elbows on the desk as you leaned forward teasingly. You were menacing with your students when you wanted to be. They all blamed Jack for that.
Shen glared at Ellis, who stared at you, mouth agape. Shen put down the chart in his hand. “Seriously? Right when I was about to ask her for a rec letter?”
Ellis's hands fell to her sides in resignation. You snickered, leaning back in your chair. “I’m sure Abbot will be happy to do it. His opinion of your performance will be earnest enough, since I’m too easy on you.”
The look you gave your residents had them both caving in on themselves like scolded puppies. Neither seemed amused by your commitment to the bit, and they feared you might actually give them hell when you came back. Shen awkwardly stared at you, fiddling with the orange straw. “So, that's a no on the rec letter for the attending position?”
“Shen, have you looked in your inbox?”
Shen shook his head. You leaned down sluggishly, unzipping your backpack before pulling out a large yellow envelope. You held it out to Shen, who brightened up at the sight. “Here’s a physical copy. I had this in the drafts for a while. Glad it’ll see the light of day.”
“See?” Ellis spoke up, pointing to the envelope Shen eagerly took to him, then to you. “No one else is as considerate and amazing as you.”
“If I knew the idea of leaving you would have you appeasing me at every corner, I would've done it ages ago.” You shrugged, stretching your fingers out before leaning over the keyboard again.
“Oh, not if Jack can help it.”
You turned in your chair at the sound of Robby’s voice. He came up beside you, holding a chart in one arm, his coffee in the other. You crossed your arms, squinting your eyes up at him. “You sure you’re not talking about yourself?”
He chuckled, his grin wide, creasing his smile lines and crow's feet. “Now, where did you get that idea?”
You rolled your eyes, turning back to look at Shen, who still held the envelope. You pointed a finger at him, “The next time I see you, you will be an attending here. If not, I will hunt you down, Dr. Shen.”
Shen nodded, playfully saluting you. His cheesy smile warmed your heart. Shen was personable, remaining astute in the most dire of situations. You observed him during enough trauma cases to trust his unbiased judgment. Your eyes flipped over to Ellis, “And you, don’t give Abbot a hard time. I'd better hear only good things about my new third-year resident.”
Ellis reluctantly nodded in obedience, but the sad smile on her face betrayed her. Shen patted her on the back playfully. He lifted the envelope, waving it gently. “If we don’t see you before you leave, have fun and don’t miss us too much.”
You waved them off to start the passover with the day shift. Watching their back walk away, you bit the inside of your cheek, fingers tapping on the desk.
“Getting cold feet?” Robby asked, having watched the entire interaction from a safe distance. Jack always told him how much of a soft spot the residents had for you. Hell, Jack’s knees even buckled for you on occasion. Something about you changed his inhibitions.
He heard the shaky exhale that left your body. You briefly bowed your head before brushing the hairs sticking against your face. You graced Robby with a tight-lipped smile, shaking your head. “No, but I know there is a betting pool on if I’ll walk out of here crying, so consider this me trying to screw you all over one last time royally.”
Robby cocked his head slightly. You finished the last sentences of the email–a final confirmation of the details of your sabbatical to the admin. Clicking send emphatically, you quickly logged off. “I had Jack place an opposing bet. We’re splitting the winnings, 70-30.”
“Who gets what?” Robby questioned, brushing past you to look up at the patient board. Great. An eventful shift was definitely waiting for him.
You shrugged, “I thought I should leave Jack a little parting gift. Soften the blow.”
“That's why he's been moody.” Robby shook his head, a low laugh following. He glanced around, suddenly remembering Jack could be hiding behind any corner. “He’s got separation anxiety, you know? I’m not sure even he knows what to do with himself when working alone on the night shift anymore.”
“Oh, he’ll survive.” You cooed playfully, putting some things away in your backpack. You grabbed a protein bar from the side pocket, generously biting a piece off. “They all will. They won't even notice I’m gone.”
“Who are you trying to convince of that?”
The protein bar traveled down your throat, barely chewed enough to pass through without entirely choking. The question more serious than the earlier tone. Robby knew something pushed you to this point, making a secret arrangement with admin to plan a sudden sabbatical. The concern wasn’t the fact that you were leaving. What concerned him was how little anyone knew, especially Jack.
The only details everyone knew was you were taking personal time off. Some people heard you talking about visiting family. Others overheard something about an extensive road trip across the country. Some rumors started flying around about you reaching out to other physicians for potential transfers.
When Robby tried to press Jack for answers, he didnt let anything slip. From the creases in his forehead, he figured out Jack didn't know anything either. What Jack didn't know was silently gnawing at a weakness. He was on edge, fidgeting even in place in the days leading up to your final shift.
That was confirmed in Robby’s mind when he saw Jack walking out of trauma 1, Dr. Crus on his tail. Like a pair of magnets, Jack's eyes fixated on you on instinct. Robby noticed the tick in his jaw, and instead of approaching you like he always would, he guided Crus over the other end of the central hub. He took the route farthest from you.
You had busied yourself, speaking with Dana and Collins, whispering small ‘best wishes’ and ‘take care.’ Distracted by the day shift staff coming up to you, offering hugs and kind words to take with you, Robby slipped away towards the direction Jack had walked to,
Roaming around the rooms, peeking through the glass before disappearing down another hallway, Robby eventually made it to the break room. He almost missed Jack, leaning against the round table, staring down into a box of donuts.
He skidded to a halt, walking backwards to stand at the doorway. Both hands held to the frame, stretching his shoulders, feeling the tense muscles in Jack’s back. “Admin?”
Jack hummed, looking at Robby from over his shoulder. He weakly offered him a tight smile before letting your name slip out. “She bought them for everyone to enjoy. Feels like it should be the other way around.”
Robby scoffed, hands slipping into his jacket pockets. He raised his shoulders, walking cautiously towards Jack. “She’s not leaving for good. It’s just a few months. She’ll be back.”
“I don't know, man.”
Robby froze, neck craning to get a better look at Jack. He had turned away, knuckles now white from the strength of his grip. A beat had passed before Jack could look at Robby, and the hesitations he had about your sabbatical were more prominent than ever.
Jack clicked his tongue, “She’s had it rough, Robby. We talked about this vacation of hers, and it’s like she doesn’t know if she’s coming back sometimes.”
“What do you mean?” Robby questioned, pulling a chair out to sit for a clear view of his friend’s face. If he had to describe Jack’s current state, he’d need a word stronger than afraid.
His arms crossed over his chest, openly distraught. His eyes kept shifting from the ground to Robby. “I mean, what if she leaves? Figures she’s meant to be somewhere else?”
Robby thumped his knuckle against the table, bushy eyebrows furrowed. “And if she’s happy somewhere else? Can you blame her for taking that chance?”
“And if she isn’t?” Jack questioned. He wanted to start pacing, but flinched when he took his first step back. Instead, he decided to pull out the other chair, reaching down to soothe his amputated foot. “What if she does something she can’t take back?”
“She doesn’t seem like they type.” Robby tried to reason, a bit apprehensive from Jack. “And if she did, she’d found another way to show us up.”
Jack glared at Robby through his eyelashes. His peppered hair was tussled from the hand he threaded through it. “Not helpful.”
“Look,” Robby leaned forward, elbows on his knee. Jack avoided his heated look, chin turning upward. “I just heard her talk to Shen and Ellis, about what she expects when she comes back. She doesn’t make promises she doesn’t plan to keep.”
“She’s been telling them that all month. She thinks she’s doing me a favor.” Jack mumbled. Robby didn’t think he’d see the day he was irritated by anything you did.
Robby had subtly made a bet with Dana that Jack would lose his other foot before ever taking anything out on you.
“Look, she’s doing the one thing neither of us dares to do,” Robby sighed, suddenly exhausted. His shift hadn’t even properly started. “If you’re really worried about her, man, why haven’t you told her?”
Jack shook his head, brushing his question off. Ridiculous, he thought. He was the one person you confided in about how being alone scared you sometimes. Or how you’d pinch your skin when you were anxious to regulate yourself and not break down in public.
Hell, he had even started to tell you about the war stories that still gave him nightmares, leaving him cold and trembling in bed.
What type of friend stops you for his own selfish need? Maybe he wasn’t your friend at all.
“If I don’t let her do this, I’m worried about what that might do to her. Staying and pretending everything is fine.” Jack groaned lightly, externally frustrated from the dilemma he’s tossed in his head.
From the look Robby was giving him, he was certainly judging him for the grave he’s dug himself.
“I think you don’t need me to tell you what to do.” The chair scraped against the floor as Robby slowly stood tall. He scratched at his beard, shrugging. “Go wish her luck and convince her to come back. For all our sakes. I’d hate to see how miserable you get.”
Robby patted Jack on the shoulder, turning away to head for the door. Jack tapped his real foot on the ground, “I know about the other betting pool.”
That stopped him, making Robby toss his head back. Jack groaned as he stood, bracing one hand on the table. Robby spun, shaking his head with a boyish grin. “I’m not going to kiss her or profess my undying love for her, or whatever Dana put 75$ on.”
Jack swerved around his friend, sparing one look before walking ahead out of the break room.
He’d attempt to make a move on you if he thought that might help the situation. Yet, he thinks you might run farther away if he imposed some weird situation for you to leave and process. Jack fiddled with his hands, making his way to the central hub. He dragged his feet when he saw you embracing Lena, bag on her shoulder, hesitating to say goodbye.
You, attempting to hold back tears, laughed. Lena was forcibly pulling herself away, escorted out by Vivi, arms linked together.
Spinning around, you caught wind of Jack looking back at you. Langdon had saddled up with Mohan, both offering their own versions of goodbyes. Jack could see how your heart broke a little more, drinking in everyone’s faces, like you were preparing yourself for the possibility of never seeing them again.
Jack quickly packed his bag, eyes warily watching you move around the ED, waving goodbye and putting on your brightest smile. You had been packed up, teetering along the line of continuously doing ‘one last thing’ before leaving. He followed the red backpack around in circles, waiting till you hovered near the ambulance bay.
Jack quickly paid his own farewells to the night shift he will see twelve hours from now. With Dana’s brisk call of an incoming patient via ambulance, Jack slowly followed you out to the ambulance bay.
He called out your name, which immediately had you turning back to look at him. You smiled sincerely. “I thought you had left. Lost you towards the end.”
“And miss your big farewells?” Jack questioned, his tone a bit punchier. He tried to hide it with a coy smile. His hand gripped the strap of his army backpack, clammy and nerve-wrecked.
You leaned back and forth on your feet, skin flushed from how flustered the attention left you. You probably preferred that over being a blubbering mess. “I don’t see the big deal. Assuming no one else is moving away besides the few senior residents, I’ll see all of you when I come back.”
Jack pressed his lips, as if the words you said were no longer reliable coming from your mouth. He hated feeling left out, omitted from a part you seemed afraid to confront yourself. “We’ll be here waiting for you.”
You stared straight at him, your face giving away concern from his tone. “Jack, is there something we need to talk about?”
Straightforward and simple. You knew. He knew he couldn’t hide the resentment like sentiment in his chest. He shouldn’t be so ticked off by this, but he was, strangely. “Yeah, I think you’re trying to run away in the least confrontational way possible.”
You blinked at him, all active thoughts shut off as you stared blankly now. You made something of a humming sound, trying to understand. “Wait, you really think I won’t come back?”
Jack shrugged, frowning as he looked directly at you, waiting for you to tell him how unreasonable all of this was. Shake his shoulders and tell him to snap out of the horrid daydream he was stuck in. “I don’t know. All I know is you look at me and everyone in there like you won’t.”
“You talk about wanting to see Ellis and Shen become better doctors in the time you’ll be gone, but I don’t know if you believe you’ll see that,” Jack whispered, simmering his zealous fixation on the matter.
You nervously laugh, hands outstretched in disbelief. “I’m not going to kill myself, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Jack’s face scrunched, “That’s not what I meant.”
The sounds of sirens cried louder as Jack saw an ambulance approaching the bay. The emergency vehicle swiftly passes you both, abruptly stopping. You both heard the commotion of the doors opening wide, gurney wheels rattling as bring out an elderly woman. The paramedics caught sight of both of you. Jack shook his head while you pointed to the ambulance entrance. Nodding, they headed straight into the Pitt.
Jack put an arm on your elbow, softly guiding you off to the side. Hiding behind a wall that shielded you both, “I feel like you might be setting people up with the best so you can feel less guilty if you move on.”
You are prepared to make some sort of argument, probably to deny the allegation. Jack simply lifted his hand, silently begging for a moment to relieve the ache in his chest. Get it all out, Jack, before it’s too late. When you shut your mouth, he inhaled sharply, “I know you mean well-- going to visit your family--but a lot can happen in five months.”
“I just need you to know, we will always need you here.” Jack clearly stated, leaving no doubt in the statement. “Shen, Ellis, even Robby, if he hates to admit it.”
“I need you here.” Jack's hand motioned to the ground. If he had to spell it out for you, he would. Everyone had a point when they joked about how inseparable the two of you were. Jack was caving in ways he hadn’t done in years.
“I know that’s selfish and unfair of me to say.” Jack acknowledged, eyes squinting in half shame and desperation. “But, you go out there and find your will to come back, okay? Because I’ll be waiting for you.”
Jack’s heart was thumping at a speed he knew exceeded normal sinus rhythm. Each inhale of breath was thinner than the last, barely filling his lungs with enough air. Jack watched your face contort to confuse to relief to something close to exhilaration. You hung on his words, while the breeze flew by the two of you.
Before processing your movement, your arms were around him. Pulled down from the back of his neck, Jack fumbled forward a bit. His hands went for your waist, trying to hold you in place so you wouldn't topple over each other.
You realized that your foot landed on his foot, stepping firmly on the stiff curve of the shoe. “Sorry!”
Despite trying to pull away, Jack brought you in impossibly closer. Your hands, as if it was instinct, held on. “It’s the prosthetic, sweetheart.”
You chuckled in his ear, and the sound of that reverberated in his mind. He played that sound over to memorize during the shifts he wouldn’t have you around. He felt your head nuzzle beside his. With his face dug into the crevice of your neck, the warmth of your body, and the signature scent that lingered wherever you went was sticking to his jacket.
He had to remember to put this aside for a while.
You kissed the temple of his head, your hands slithering to the sides of his head. Your fingers brushed the soft curls, caressing his stubble. His real foot almost buckled from the softness of your touch. His brain committed the ghost-like touches to memory to dream about in the future.
“Don’t be a stranger.” You whispered softly, eyes remembering every crease and freckle of his face. “You call if you need to.”
He nodded, letting you initiate the departure for what felt like minutes. You felt like sand slipping from his finger as you walked away. Your red backpack and your badge stared back at him. He noticed the small photo of you, smiling back at him, and he knew it would only be a matter of time.
Code Triage. Emergency Department, Now.
The overhead speaker rang loud in the midst of chaos. It was the impending doom bell before the massive influx of victims had yet to fill the ED. Jack, whilst hurriedly emptying the disaster bins, was whispering words of wisdom under his breath. He knew what a mass casualty brought. Blood, wails, and death. These innocent people, trying to enjoy a festival, were hunted down like clueless prey and left to bleed on green mowed grass that didn’t resemble a war zone at all. Soon enough, the Pitt would be the secondary location for those crimes.
When he walked out of the behavioral health room, he saw the waves of multicolored scrubs, organizing the emergency department in accordance with their protocols. Everyone acted quickly and efficiently, which is the least they can ask for, considering all types of organization would be thrown out the window once the first wave of victims rolled in.
Once Robby rolled around with the surgeons, primary roles were assigned to departments, and their collective breathing felt heavier. All the residents and med students who have yet to live the severity of the situation seemed doe-eyed in Jack’s perspective. All the nurses who knew their night was seconds away from being their nightmare reincarnated awaited anxiously in the huddle of staff. Jack and Robby, despite spearheading the entire operation, were not expecting today, of all days, to have to guide all their staff through the mess.
“Communicate,” Robby emphasized after going over the different zones and roles of those in his department. “Ask for help if you need it.”
“Trust your attendings.” He turned to Jack, offering a solid fist to collide in shared unison. “We will get through this together.”
“Damn right we will,” Jack added on.
Robby dismissed the group, pulling aside three of the additions to the day shift. With the rest of the staff dispersing and preparing, Jack had begun to don his own PPE, then pulled on his orange vest.
“Primary attending suits you, blackbird.”
Jack turned around immediately, hands stilling at the bottom of the vest, the zipper slipping from his fingers. You were approaching him from the ambulance entrance, hands resting easily on the straps of your bag. You graced him with an easy smile. Black scrub bottoms, a compressed shirt instead of a scrub top, and those bright red shoes you adored.
You had dropped your bag on a chair, reaching over and grabbing a gown of your own to put on. “So much for a welcome party, huh?”
“What are you doing here?” Was the first question that escaped Jack. Albeit, he didn’t think before he spoke, but when he came to his senses, it was a redundant question.
“Well, I was planning to come in early for my shift when I got the mass alert.” You responded with a shrug.
You seemed pretty alive compared to the last time he saw you. Your wet face and red, swollen eyes were now much brighter. The color on your skin is prominent, and he would have thought you found the fountain of youth if you weren’t already so juvenile and adoring to look at.
Adjusting the sleeves of your gown, you turned your back to Jack, eyes brows raised in silent question. He graciously began to tie the neck whilst glancing around. He sighed, “You should’ve turned the other way.”
“And leave you and Robby as the only attending to supervise?” You question, adjusting the gloves over the sleeves.
“Well, Shen is now an attending, taking point in triage,” Jack informed, finishing the tie around your back. When he said that aloud, he realized how much time had passed. You had missed all of that.
You had turned around with a proud look in your eye, a smile much wider and brighter. Jack missed all of that. As if on cue, Shen caught sight of you. With his Dunkin’ in hand, he made his way around, eyes blown by your presence. “Hey, haven’t seen you around.”
He wrapped his available arm around you, and you appreciated the hug, basking in the open welcoming. Jack watched as you pulled away, captivated by the new Dr. Shen with the orange vest. “It’s good to see you, too. I hear you’ve been promoted to attending. Congrats, buddy.”
Shen nodded bashfully, taking a brief sip of his coffee. “You didn’t miss much apart from that. Ellis has been miserable with you gone, though. Don’t tell her I said that.”
“John, I’m going to help you get started on triage.” You all heard the voice passing by you.
Shen had immediately caught the message, nodding with a coolness totally unfazed by the chaos. With Shen walking in Robby’s direction, he noticed you, standing in the flesh. He furrowed his brows, glancing at Jack before shifting back to you. He called your name, which in turn made you lift your head. “Hey, you chose a hell of a day to come back.”
“Kind of spoiled my plan for a surprise.” You made your way around Jack, hand briefly grazing his arm as you stood in front of Robby, a faint smirk on your face. “Sorry, I missed the assignments, but where do you need me?”
Robby carefully looked back at Jack, pretending not to listen to your conversation as he began instructing nurses where to go and what to bring. When they caught each other's eyes, he saw the small clench in Jack’s jaw, subtle but restrained as he took a quiet look at you. Robby shook his head, anxiously eyeing the ambulance entrance. “I’ll have you manning the red zone for overflow with Jack and Dr. Mohan. I could use two sets of eyes on the most critical patients.”
You gave him two thumbs up, turning back around, letting out a steady breath. Jack casually faced you, hands on his hips, as he looked at you with raised eyebrows. You subtly nodded to him, confidence he recognized. “Ready to tackle tonight, Blackbird?”
Jack was a professional under pressure. Admirable whilst also pulling out occasional wild stunts that left residents like Mohan speechless by his technique. Yet, he wasn’t the only one earning collective praise.
His eyes always followed you when the moment allowed. He’d spin around in the trauma room, eyes looking out to the overflow of the red zone, looking for any glimpse of you. You'd be hunched over a gurney, efficiently working whilst assisting Mohan. He’d hear the snippy remarks from Garcia and Walsh, sharing smirks and winks as if time hadn’t passed.
Jack was starting to feel the same.
With time to reflect, he realized he only knew you in the depths of your despair. Most of your time at the Pitt had been surrounded by the one moment. It was like a bad omen, looming and settling in the department walls, crushing your spirit with time. Every loss since then surrounded itself with your first lapse of agony.
But whatever low point you left on, doubting your existence and place outside the hospital, didn’t exist in your present self. You seemed rejuvenated, light on your feet, bouncy to the point you were running to assist all throughout the floor.
He recalled the whispers of an ED staff trying to relieve intracranial pressure from a yellow-zone patient with an IO drill. The new med students and residents from the day shift watched in horror and admiration when you pulled the stunt. You hadn’t even bothered to introduce yourself to the new faces huddled around the patient.
They almost tried to stop you, confused why the nurse holding the patient's head didn’t react, minus the cringe she made when the drill went into the head.
Walsh hadn’t been too please when you smiled back at her after removing all he blood with syringes. The patient stirred awake after, top of the list for the next available OR.
Jack has silently applauded you as he overheard Javadi asking McKay who you were.
What he had prematurely thought was sure to be a triggering event had been an opportunity to demonstrate how much you flourished.
Five months.
He didn’t know all that you had been up to. The one time he reached out, you were in your hometown. He remembered the photo you sent of you and your extended family hanging around a backyard on Fourth of July weekend. You had a bright smile, flushed skin, sitting beside your mother and cousins. He could see the weight of the hospital had been lifted. Your jean shorts and red tank-top looked different on you compared to the hospital scrubs.
The fear of you never returning solidified to stone.
Your presence was missed from the night shift, but you hadn’t left in his memory, and now you were back in his life.
A couple of hours of soiled gowns and gloves had come and gone. Blood staining the linoleum floors slowly mopped up. The evidence of surviving and death was being wiped clean from the Pitt in the same fashion the pandemic had left them, tearing down the plastic coverings.
“Dude, I need to meet your dog.” Ellis gushed, tablet in hand, as the two of you walked around the Pitt, making rounds. Ellis had been trying to catch up with your new life, and the new creature inhabiting your heart and bed.
You chuckled, glancing down to skim the intake before examining the patient from a distance. “She's a cutie. Massive cuddler. You’ll love her.”
As you both were making your way towards the central hub, you noticed Jack collecting his backpack, speaking in hushed voices with Lena. You walked ahead of Ellis, coming short in front of the pair. Lena looked up, a warm smile on her face. “Oh, how good it is to see you back!”
You leaned on the counter, a cheesy smile on your face. “Oh, mother hen, how I’ve missed you, too.”
“You’ve left me alone with this ER cowboy for too long. He was starting to brood.” Lena joked, bumping her shoulder with his.
Jack shook his head, mouth pressed tightly as he awkwardly avoided your eyes. “I don’t brood.”
“Yeah, and Shen hates Dunkin,” Ellis muttered, head bowed as she aimlessly scrolled on the tablet in her hand.
You raised your eyebrows at Jack. “Apparently, you do when you miss me.”
Jack's eyes followed as you made your way on the other side of the desk. You pulled out a chair, logging into a computer. “You plan on catching up on sleep tonight?”
Jack shrugged, slowly creeping up beside you, staring at your face from up close. “Depends on how tonight goes. Was planning on coming around by 2:00 for relief.”
You spun in your chair, furrowing your brows. “With two attending, Shen and I should be able to manage. Have you caught him up on our plays?”
“Well, Shen is still new, so he has yet to learn all our tricks. Plus, it’s hard to replace someone like you.” Jack let slip, the familiar grumbling of his voice warming you internally.
You tapped your foot against the floor, waiting patiently for Jack to push for all the answers he yearned for. Jack clicked his tongue, “And with everything that happened tonight, some help won’t hurt.”
You slowly nodded, propping up your head with your fist. The subtle suggestion didn’t go unnoticed. It wasn’t doubt, but an invitation for dialogue. Your reassuring smile was honest, “You’re right, but I'd hate to pull you in on your night off. If nothing's changed since I’ve been gone, tonight will be as good a night as any to dip my toes in again.”
“Speaking of you being gone,” Jack leaned forward, arms planted on the desk, bicep fairly in your view. When he gauged your reaction, you held in a slight breath, but remained seated, unflinched. “We have a lot to catch up on.”
“Yes, we do.” Spinning in your chair, facing the computer screen, he didn’t miss the quirk of your lip. “I’m glad you reached out.”
Jack scoffed, flustered by the coolness of your voice. It was an impulsive text. He had come in that holiday shift, watching the staff celebrate in their own way. He had even worn the red, white, and blue striped socks you bought him when he told you he didn’t have any “American flag” memorabilia.
It was way past midnight, and the sounds of the booming fireworks echoed from outside. He was missing you. Not that he wasn’t before, but on a night when you’d try to console those working with your gleam or late-night snack, there was a disturbance to the department.
So, he texted you.
He should’ve known that with the time difference, you’d be awake. You responded after half an hour, explaining how you were busy watching your cousin’s kid do all these tricks in their family pool. His response was brief, a simple ‘just checking in, glad you’re having fun,’ opposed to rambling about how he might not survive another couple of months with you gone.
You made sure he was okay, not subconsciously looking for a tether to hold on to. He secretly wondered if you’d come back had he told you the truth. That’s when you sent the photo—the only one you hadn’t posted on social media.
He hated to admit he stared at the photo almost every day before coming into his shift, in the silence of his car, like he did with his wife whenever deployed.
“Parker kept wondering if you were even alive, and Shen was nervous you were pulling an Irish goodbye.” Jack joked, “He wasn’t prepared to fill your shoes.”
You laughed at that, as if the idea of your role being much too big for just anyone to fill was absurd. “I’m sure he’d be fine, but I appreciate the compliment.”
You noticed Ellis and Shen passing you by. Lifting your head, you blew out a quick whistle, which caught Shen’s attention. “Round up everyone, I want to do a quick huddle.”
Shen gave you a thumbs-up, sipping from his Dunkin’ coffee. Jack took a step back as you scooted from the desk to stand, stretching back, arms up, and sighing dramatically, “Check in on Robby for me. I know none of us were expecting today to go like this.”
He nodded, taking the command seriously. He didn’t want to worry you about the fact that he had already talked him off the ledge, so he kept quiet. Your hands landed on his shoulder, “And go home, eat, and do some yoga. Don’t think about this place for a bit. You deserve the break after today.”
Jack wanted to argue that it wasn’t possible to leave this place behind, but you did. Despite all that, you came back with a newfound spirit, once again proving the impossible possible. Your arms slid around his neck, pulling him down into a firm embrace.
When he inhaled the scent of your shampoo and body mist, his body felt at ease. It felt like coming home after deployment to be welcomed by all the love that had been left behind, cultivating a peaceful place to come back and rest in. The months and days of doubt and uncertainty if he’d ever feel the way again were over, and you were better at the end of it. His free arm snaked around your waist, molding around your shape.
As if on cue, Robby came out of a hallway, backpack hanging on one shoulder. The two shared a look. Amused, Robby sent him a pointed look, eyes wide at the shameless sight. Jack glared at him, subtly daring him to ruin his perfect ending to the tiresome night he was looking forward to forgetting.
When you pulled away, stuffing your hands into your scrub pockets, you noticed Jack staring at something behind you. You spun around, watching Robby smile tiredly at his friend, silently conversing with looks and raised eyebrows.
Jack flippantly flipped Robby off with your back turned to him. You none the wiser looked up at Robby, trying to shake off the laugh escaping him. “Nice speech earlier, by the way. I think all the residents and med students needed that.”
Robby’s tight-lipped smile made you do a double-take, looking for some sign of his current emotional state. Your smile was gentler. “You did pretty great. Not that you need me to tell you. Thanks for leading us.”
Shaking his head, he glanced behind you, where Jack was creeping up. “Good luck tonight. I’m sure Jack will be back in a few hours after some tossing and turning.”
“I hope not.”
Glancing over your shoulder, you teasingly glared at him. He shrugged his shoulders, feigning naivety. When you turned back around, you found Shen huddled with the other residents, students, and a few nurses.
You crossed your arms, “Well, this was short-lived. Get some sleep, you two. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
One last glance to both attendings, eyes lingering a bit longer on Jack, before you jogged over to the group. The beaming smile on your face extended from ear to ear. Shen introduced you to the new residents and the few med students stuck on your rotation.
You introduced yourself before standing in the center of the small circle. Jack stood close enough to hear the praise and gratitude you extended to all the staff who witnessed the tragedy.
There was hope in your eyes. It believed in the idea of walking away from honoring those hurt and lost while also looking forward to helping more people. This wasn’t a stone wall, but a mountain you were ready to climb up.
“She seems well-adjusted,” Robby whispered, awed at how your spirits uplifted everyone else’s. “Five months away and suddenly she’s changed.”
Jack heard the familiar mantra leave the night shift’s lips. We are the weirdest and wildest of them all. Jack shook his head, smiling to himself as the two walked by, heading for the ER waiting room. “She’s back where she wants to be."
Jack Abbott and you are brought together by the loss of your brother, Wes, Jack’s best friend. Over time, you fall in love and gradually build a life together. This slice-of-life series follows snapshots of your shared moments, capturing, everyday experiences of your relationship.
(Each fic can be read as a standalone)
Warning: Age Gap (Mid 30s/Early 50s), death of a family member
Summary: The epilogue brings Jack, you, June, and Otis home in the softest way. On an ordinary morning after a long night shift, the house is warm with coffee, cinnamon rolls, baby noises, dog hair, and the kind of love that no longer has to ask permission to stay.
It is quiet. It is chaotic. It is theirs.
Warnings / Content Notes:
references to foster/adoption uncertainty and Safe Haven placement aftermath
adoption
happy emotional overwhelm
newborn/infant care
and references to past loneliness.
I don’t really know how to say goodbye to this story.
Writing Jack and Reader has been one of the most unexpected, emotional, and meaningful creative journeys I’ve ever had. What started as a story about coffee, cinnamon rolls, shift changes, and two people trying very hard not to want each other too much somehow became something so much bigger. It became a story about home, found family, healing, being seen, letting yourself be loved, and learning that sometimes life does not arrive in the right order — but it can still be yours.
To everyone who read, commented, reblogged, messaged me, screamed with me, cried with me, loved Otis, loved June Bug, loved Robby, and loved Jack and Reader through every soft, messy, impossible moment: thank you.
The support and love this story received was something I never expected. It has meant more to me than I can explain. You made this feel like a safe place for my art and my craft, and I will always be grateful for that.
This story also gave me something I didn’t fully see coming: the courage to start dreaming bigger. Writing Pulse Point has inspired me to begin working toward an original novel — something born from the same love of romance, emotional healing, found family, and the kind of ordinary life that feels sacred because of who you get to share it with.
So while this is the end of Jack and Reader’s main story, it is not the end of what this story gave me.
Thank you for staying until the porch light.
Thank you for loving this little family.
And thank you, truly, for helping me believe in my writing a little more.
Xoxo, Del
Epilogue: Where The Life Is
The adoption decree had been framed for three weeks, and Jack still looked at it as proof that was worth checking twice.
He never said that.
Of course, he didn’t.
Jack Abbot did not announce his fears unless cornered, exhausted, or emotionally ambushed by someone under twenty pounds.
But you knew him.
You knew the way his eyes moved to the bookshelf whenever he passed through the living room. Knew the pause in his step, the brief stillness of his hands, the way his gaze found the black letters printed neatly beneath the county seal.
June Michaela Abbot.
A name.
A real one.
Not Baby Jane Doe.
Not a temporary label.
Not a hope written carefully into forms no one could promise would become anything.
June Michaela Abbot.
Your daughter.
His daughter.
Yours.
The decree sat in a simple wooden frame beside a photo from your wedding day: you and Jack in the garden, his hand at your waist, June asleep in Robby’s arms, Otis sitting proudly at the front as if he had personally officiated. Next to that sat the tiny keepsake box with June’s ivory dress folded safely inside, the sash made from your wedding dress fabric tucked over the top.
Jack had arranged the shelf himself.
Then rearranged it.
Then pretended he had not.
You let him.
Some things were better left unteased until they could bear the weight of it.
This morning, though, Jack was not standing in front of the bookshelf. For once, he was asleep. Really asleep. Upstairs, behind a half-closed bedroom door, after an extra-long night shift that had turned into fourteen hours, three traumas, one septic workup that refused to behave, and a nine-thirty a.m. phone call where he had said, voice scraped raw with exhaustion, I’m leaving now. Don’t start the coffee until I get there.
You had started the coffee anyway. It was your day off, you could do as you pleased. Now the kitchen smelled like brown sugar, oat milk, cinnamon, and the kind of morning you used to think only existed in other people’s houses. The cinnamon rolls were in the oven, rising into golden spirals beneath a sheet of foil. Jack’s good mug waited beside the coffee maker. The baby monitor glowed softly near the sink, even though June was in the kitchen with you, sitting on the changing pad you had spread over the kitchen floor because sometimes parenting meant surrendering to the nearest flat surface. Otis lay at your feet with his chin on his paws, pretending not to monitor the baby’s every breath.
June stared up at you with her usual severe expression. Dark hair, thicker and longer now, stuck up slightly at the crown no matter what you did. Blue-gray eyes watched everything. Long lashes. Rosy cheeks. A solemn little mouth that made her look like she was three complaints away from filing with hospital administration. Seven months old, legally yours, and still somehow the most judgmental person in the house.
You held up the tiny black biker jacket.
June blinked.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you whispered. “Your uncle Robby is going to cry.”
June kicked one foot. A foot currently wearing a tiny sock covered in motorcycles.
Also from Robby.
“You’re right,” you said. “He did this to himself.”
The jacket had been ridiculous when Robby bought it. June had still been impossibly small then, tucked into soft sleepers and swaddles, her whole body fitting against Jack’s chest like a question none of you were allowed to answer yet. The sleeves had swallowed her arms. The tiny zipper had looked absurdly bold against her newborn softness.
Robby had said, “I saw it and thought…someday.”
Jack had said, “Over my dead body will my daughter ever get on a motorcycle.”
Now the jacket fits.
That was what got you.
Not perfectly. The sleeves still bunched a little. The collar sat crooked because June had no interest in helping. But it fit well enough that when you zipped it over her little white onesie and smoothed one hand down the front, your throat tightened. She had grown into it. Into the jacket. Into the house. Into her name. Into the places all of you had been afraid to make for her too early.
You reached for the tiny jeans next. June kicked again.
“Excuse me,” you said. “This is fashion.”
She opened her mouth and made a low, serious babble.
“Exactly. Strong point.” You nod at her.
Otis thumped his tail once without lifting his head. You pulled the tiny stretchy jeans over June’s legs and adjusted her motorcycle socks. One was already starting to slide down. Naturally, you fixed it. Then you reached for the two tiny black bows waiting beside the changing pad. June stared at them.
“Don’t judge me,” you whispered. “This is a milestone.”
Her hair was finally long enough for two tiny pigtails. Barely. It was still fine and soft around the edges, thicker at the crown, dark and stubborn in a way that made every attempt at symmetry feel like a negotiation. You parted it with the focus of a surgeon and the emotional stability of someone who had waited months to put bows in her daughter’s hair. The first pigtail leaned slightly left. The second one had opinions. You secured the tiny black bows anyway. “There,” you said, smoothing a wisp back from her forehead. “Perfect.”
June blinked at you with grave disapproval.
“I know,” you said. “Beauty is a burden.”
From upstairs, a floorboard creaked. Otis’s head came up instantly. June went still. You looked toward the ceiling. Another slow creak. Then the faint sound of Jack moving around the bedroom.
You smiled before you could stop yourself. “I think your dad is awake June,” you murmured.
Otis stood and trotted toward the doorway, then stopped halfway, torn between greeting Jack and maintaining his official post by the baby.
June slapped one palm against the changing pad.
“Agreed,” you told her. “He’s taking forever.”
Jack appeared in the kitchen twenty minutes later, looking like a man who had slept hard and not nearly long enough. His hair was crushed on one side. His T-shirt was wrinkled. His sweatpants hung low on his hips. Sleep still pulled at the edges of his face, softening the creases around his eyes and mouth. He had not shaved. He had one hand braced briefly on the doorframe, the other rubbing over his jaw like he was trying to convince his body to fully join the day.
But his eyes found June immediately. Of course they did. Before the coffee. Before you. Before anything.
They found her.
You lifted June carefully from the changing pad and settled her on your hip, tiny jacket creaking softly as she moved.
Then you turned her toward him. “Say hi to Daddy.”
Jack stopped in the kitchen doorway. The word still did that to him.
Daddy.
Even now. Even with the adoption decree framed on the bookshelf, and her last name finally matching yours and Jack’s.
His face changed in a way that was small enough that someone else might have missed it. You didn’t. June stared at him with grave suspicion, dark hair sticking up between the two little bows, one motorcycle-socked foot kicking lightly against your hip.
Then she opened her mouth and said, very clearly, “Da.”
The kitchen went still. Jack did not move.
You gasped. “June.”
Jack looked at you.
You turned her slightly toward yourself, scandalized. “No, ma’am. Say ma.”
June blinked at you. Jack’s mouth started to curve.
“Don’t,” you warned him.
June looked back at Jack. “Da,” she said again.
Jack’s smile went fully smug. “Interesting,” he said.
You narrowed your eyes. “It is a normal developmental sound.”
“Twice,” Jack replies.
“Randomly.” You argue.
Jack grins at June, “Directed.”
“You are insufferable.” You reply, rolling your eyes.
Jack crossed the kitchen, still looking far too pleased with himself, and bent to kiss June’s soft dark hair. “Morning, Bug,” he murmured. His voice was rough from sleep.
June grabbed a fistful of his T-shirt like she had been expecting him. Which, legally and emotionally, she had every right to do. Jack’s smugness softened immediately into something much more dangerous. Something quiet. Something overwhelmed.
Then he looked at you. “She said it twice.”
“I heard her.” You grumble.
Jack smirks, “Just making sure.”
“I can still divorce you.” You shoot back.
His eyes warmed. “You won’t.”
He was right.
He kissed you then, sleep-warm and smiling, one hand at your waist and the other still carefully supporting June’s back where she leaned between you. Not a wedding kiss. Not a hallway kiss. Not a kiss that asked for anything. A kitchen kiss.
A husband kiss.
A father standing barefoot in the morning with his daughter between you and his whole life written all over his face.
When he pulled back, June babbled again.
Jack looked down at her. “Exactly.”
“You don’t even know what she said.” You say with a laugh.
Jack nods at June, “She agreed with me.”
“She is seven months old.” You point out.
“And discerning.”
June blinked up at him, serious and unimpressed.
“See?” he said. “Discerning.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too hard for it to land.
Jack’s gaze moved over her then. Slowly. The tiny jeans. The motorcycle socks. The black jacket. The two tiny bows perched in her dark hair like punctuation marks on an already bad idea.
His expression shifted. “What did you do to her hair?”
You straightened immediately. “Her hair is finally long enough for me to do it. Let me have this.”
Jack looked from June’s tiny pigtails to your face. Whatever he had been about to say changed shape before it left him.
His mouth softened. “I didn’t say it was bad.”
You glare at him, “You said it with your face.”
“My face has been misinterpreted,” Jack replies.
You shake your head, “Your face is very clear.”
June babbled once, solemn and sharp. You pointed gently toward her. “She agrees with me.”
Jack looked down at June. One pigtail leaned left. The other stuck almost straight out.
His mouth twitched. “She looks like she knows something we don’t.”
You nod, “She always does.”
“Yeah,” he said, softer. “She does.”
Then he bent and kissed one tiny bow, then June’s hair. “Perfect,” he murmured.
He straightened and looked at the jacket. “Still no motorcycle.”
You widened your eyes. “What?”
“Why is my daughter dressed like Robby had influence?” Jack asks.
You try to look innocent. “She’s just wearing the outfit because Robby is coming over.”
“That sentence is not comforting,” Jack grumbles.
You tilt your head, “It’s his day off.”
“Still not comforting,” Jack murmurs.
You bounced June once on your hip. “You’re being dramatic.”
Jack gives you a look, “I’m being observant.”
“You’re being threatened by baby outerwear.” You correct him.
Jack points at June, “That jacket has an agenda.”
June slapped her hand against his chest.
Jack looked down. “Don’t defend it.”
She babbled at him, eyebrows lifting in a way that looked so judgmental you had to turn your face into your shoulder to laugh.
Jack saw. His eyes narrowed. “She gets that from you.”
You laugh but narrow your eyes at him, “She gets that from you.”
“She gets it from Robby,” Jack says, smiling softly.
You nod, “She does love Robby.”
“That’s a separate problem,” Jack replies, smoothing a hand down the back of June’s head. June kicked both feet at the sound of Robby’s name, one motorcycle sock immediately sliding halfway off her heel.
Jack pointed at it. “Even the socks are unstable.”
You reached down to fix it. “The socks are adorable.”
“They have motorcycles on them.” Jack deadpans.
“Yes.” You agree.
He shakes his head once. “No.”
You looked up at him. “You keep saying no like it will change something.”
Jack looked at June. Then at you. Then at the tiny jacket again.
His mouth twitched as he sighed, “I’m tired.”
“I know.” You reply.
“My defenses are compromised.” He continued.
You smile, “I know.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed, “You planned this.”
“Yes.”
His eyes warmed despite himself. “You’re trouble.”
You smiled. “Still?”
His hand shifted at your waist, thumb brushing over your shirt. “Always.”
The cinnamon rolls saved you from answering. The oven timer chirped. June startled, then frowned toward the noise like appliances had personally offended her.
Otis barked once.
Jack said, “Report received.”
You handed June to him so you could grab oven mitts. He took her automatically, settling her against his chest with one arm while reaching for his coffee with the other.
“Careful,” you said.
Jack stopped mid-reach. His brows lifted. “With coffee?”
“With June. She’s been flinging her arms all morning.”
“I perform life-saving procedures,” he said. “I think I can handle drinking coffee and holding a baby at the same time.”
June chose that exact moment to throw one arm out with the dramatic force of a tiny conductor. Her fist bumped his wrist. The coffee mug shifted half an inch.
Jack froze.
You pointed at them. “See?”
He looked down at June. June stared back at him, deeply unimpressed.
“Hey bug,” Jack said to her. “Remember, you’re on Team Dad.”
You scoffed. “No. Team Mom.”
June looked from Jack to you. Then turned her head toward Otis. Otis thumped his tail once.
Jack’s mouth flattened. “She chose the dog.”
You smiled. “Smart girl.”
Jack looked offended. “Betrayal before coffee.”
June babbled. You reached for his mug and moved it out of range. “Team Mom handles risk management.”
“Team Dad performs life-saving procedures,” Jack replies.
You click your tongue, “Team Otis has her full attention.”
Otis wagged again, proud of himself for reasons he did not understand. You laughed as you pulled the cinnamon rolls from the oven. The kitchen filled instantly with warmth. Cinnamon. Brown sugar. Butter. The smell of every ridiculous, tender, impossible thing that had somehow become a foundation.
Jack went quiet.
You noticed as you set the pan on the stove. He stood near the island with June tucked against him, coffee still untouched, eyes on the cinnamon rolls like they had carried him across the past 2 years. Maybe they had.
June pulled at the collar of his shirt. Otis sat at his feet. The baby monitor glowed on the counter even though the nursery was empty. The adoption decree waited on the bookshelf. Your rings caught the morning light as you set the oven mitts down. Jack looked around the kitchen. Really looked. And you saw the old shadow pass near him. Not through him. Not this time. Just near.
The memory of all the years he had believed ordinary happiness belonged to other people. That it was something he visited briefly between disasters. Something borrowed. Temporary. For other houses. Other men. Other lives.
Then June babbled against his chest. “Da.”
Jack blinked. The shadow went. You did not say anything. You only reached for his coffee and slid it toward him. “Here.”
He looked at it. Then at you. “You started it before I got home.”
“You told me not to.” You reply.
“I did.” He says.
You smirk, “I ignored you.”
His mouth softened. “Good.”
You cut into the cinnamon rolls, spreading icing over the tops while they were still warm enough for it to melt into every spiral. June watched with the fixed intensity of a baby who could not have sugar and knew injustice when she saw it.
“You are not getting cinnamon rolls,” Jack told her.
June stared.
“You can judge me all you want.” She reached for his chin. He let her. Of course he did.
“Robby will be here soon,” you said.
Jack closed his eyes briefly. “Do we have to let him in?”
“He’s your best friend.” You reply.
Jack sighs, “He’s June’s legal namesake. He’s gotten enough.”
You turned, spatula in hand. “You agreed to Michaela.”
“I was emotionally compromised,” Jack grumbles.
You raise a brow, “You cried.”
“I did not,” Jack responds immediately.
“Jack.” Your tone indicated that you were not playing this game.
“I had a reaction,” Jack grumbles, taking a sip of his coffee.
“You cried.” You repeat.
June babbled.
You smiled sweetly. “She remembers.”
Jack looks down at her, “She was at the hearing for twelve minutes before falling asleep.”
“She is very intuitive.” You shrug.
Jack looks at you, “She is seven months old.”
You look over at June, then back at Jack. “She said da.”
Jack’s face rearranged itself into unbearable smugness again. “Twice,” he said.
You pointed the spatula at him. “Do not weaponize the baby.”
Jack looks at June, “She started it.”
Before you could respond, the low rumble of a motorcycle rolled up the street.
Jack’s head turned toward the front window. His entire expression changed. “No.”
You glanced toward the driveway, then back at him. “It’s Robby.”
“That is the problem,” Jack responds.
June kicked both feet. Otis trotted to the front door, tail wagging, because unlike Jack, he had accepted Robby as a necessary part of household ecology. The motorcycle cut off. A second later, footsteps came up the porch. Then a knock. Not the doorbell. Robby had learned that the doorbell woke June once and never recovered from the shame. You went to answer it before Jack could decide not to. Robby stood on the porch in jeans, boots, and his leather jacket, helmet tucked under one arm, hair flattened from the ride, and a grin already halfway to unbearable.
“Good morning to my favorite family,” he said.
Jack called from the kitchen, “No.”
Robby’s grin widened. “He sounds rested.”
“He worked fourteen hours and slept four,” you said, stepping aside.
“So emotionally delicate,” Robby says, shaking his head.
You huff a laugh, “Correct.”
Robby walked in, then stopped dead in the entryway. His eyes found June. Tiny black jacket. Tiny jeans. Motorcycle socks. Two tiny black bows. Serious face. For once, no immediate joke came.
His hand went to his chest. “She’s dressed for me.”
Jack appeared behind you with June now on his hip, looking deeply unimpressed. “Unfortunately.”
Robby looked at June like she had personally rewritten the morning. “June Michaela Abbot,” he said, solemn as a proclamation. “Named after excellence.”
Jack looked at him. “Named despite you.”
“Revisionist history,” Robby replied.
June reached for the zipper on Robby’s jacket. Robby looked triumphant. “She knows.”
Jack deadpans, “She wants the zipper.”
“She wants family.” Robby corrected.
Jack shoots back, “She wants the shiny thing.”
“Both can be true,” Robby says with a shrug.
You laughed and took June from Jack before the two of them could turn this into a deposition.
Robby stepped closer, his eyes still soft on June. “Hi, Bug.”
June stared at him. Then made a sharp little babble that sounded like an accusation.
Robby nodded gravely. “Completely fair.”
You passed June to him, and Robby received her with the same careful awe he had never really lost, even now that she was bigger and sturdier and fully capable of grabbing his collar with alarming force. He held her against his chest and looked down at the jacket. “She grew into it.”
The words were soft. For a second, no one teased him. Not even Jack.
Robby blinked once, fast. Then he cleared his throat. “Terrible for my composure.”
Jack muttered, “You never had any.”
Robby turned towards him, “I heard that.”
“I intended that,” Jack replies, taking a long gulp of coffee.
Robby ignored him and looked back at June. “Your father is threatened by style.”
June slapped Robby’s zipper.
You leaned against the counter, watching them. Jack moved behind you, one hand finding your waist out of habit, his coffee in the other now that June was safely out of range.
“You did plan this,” he murmured.
You looked up at him. “Maybe.”
His eyes narrowed, but the warmth in them ruined the effect. “What else did you plan?”
You smiled. Then turned back toward Robby and June.
“Okay,” you said brightly. “Ready for your first motorcycle ride, June Bug?”
Jack turned so fast his coffee sloshed dangerously close to the rim. “No.”
Robby’s face lit with immediate, catastrophic delight.
You turned towards your husband.
Jack stared at you. Flat. Unamused. Entirely awake now.
You lasted three seconds. Then you laughed. “Seriously, Jack, what kind of mother do you think I am? I’m kidding. It’s just a picture. The bike is off. Robby will hold her.”
Jack looks from you to Robby. “Robby is the part I’m concerned about.”
Robby pressed one hand to June’s back, offended. “I have excellent baby reviews.”
“From who?” Jack asks.
Robby lifts June slightly, “The baby.”
June babbled. Robby lifted his brows. “See?”
Jack pointed at both of them. “That was not a review.”
Robby shrugs, “It sounded positive.”
“It sounded like drool,” Jack grumbles.
Robby glared, “You hate joy.”
“I hate motorcycles near infants.” Jack corrects him.
“Parked motorcycles,” you corrected.
“Near infants,” Jack says. “Our infant.” He added quietly.
Robby shifted June carefully to one arm and reached into the pocket of his leather jacket.
Jack pointed at him immediately. “Whatever that is, no.”
Robby paused, deeply wounded. “You don’t even know what it is.”
“I know you,” Jack says.
Robby pulled out tiny baby aviator sunglasses.
You gasped with delight.
Jack said, “Absolutely not.”
June stared at the sunglasses with the grave suspicion of a tiny federal judge.
“They’re UV-protective,” Robby said.
Jack looked at June, “She is not going on the road.”
“They’re for the photo,” Robby replies.
Jack narrows his eyes, “She does not need aviators for a photo.”
“You don’t know that,” Robby says, offended.
Jack gives him a look, “I very much do.”
You took the tiny sunglasses from Robby’s hand and turned them over. They were absurd. Tiny. Black. Completely unnecessary.
Perfect.
You looked at June. She stared back. “Just for the picture?” you asked.
June blinked.
Jack said, “She cannot consent to eyewear.”
You slipped the aviators gently onto June’s face. She went completely still. For one full second, everyone waited. Then June turned her head slowly toward Jack from behind the tiny dark lenses. Robby made a wounded sound. You covered your mouth. Jack stared at her.
His mouth twitched once. Then flattened immediately. “No.”
You burst out laughing.
Robby pointed at her, voice reverent. “Look at her.”
“I am looking,” Jack replies.
Robby touches June’s pigtails, “She’s perfect.”
“She looks like she’s about to reject a plea bargain,” Jack says, fighting a smile and failing.
Robby grins, “Exactly. Perfect.”
Otis barked once from the door. Robby nodded. “Even Otis agrees.”
Otis did not know what he agreed to, but he wagged anyway. The cinnamon rolls cooled on the counter while the four of you migrated outside. The morning was bright and mild, the porch light off now because daylight had finally taken over. The driveway still held the faint warmth of Robby’s motorcycle engine, but the bike was off, kickstand down, stable and silent.
Jack checked all three of those things. Twice. You noticed. Robby noticed too, but for once, he did not say anything.
Smart man.
Robby sat on the motorcycle first, both boots planted firmly on the ground, helmet set safely aside. Then he held out his arms.
Jack looked at you.
You smiled sweetly. “It’s a picture.”
“It becomes evidence,” Jack replies.
“Of what?” You ask.
Jack gives the motorcycle a disapproving look. “Poor judgment.”
You kissed his cheek before taking June from your hip and passing her to Robby. Jack hovered within immediate catching distance. Robby settled June securely against his chest, one arm around her body, one hand supporting her carefully, the way Eileen had taught everyone and Jack had corrected until the entire household developed a complex. June sat solemnly in her tiny jeans, black jacket, motorcycle socks, black bows, and baby aviators, staring into the middle distance like she had seen the open road and found it lacking.
Otis stationed himself beside the front tire.
Jack pointed at him. “Good.”
Otis wagged.
Robby looked down at June. “You hear that, June Michaela? Your father is a hater.”
Jack said, “Your father is standing close enough to stop this nonsense at any second.”
Robby groans, “You are ruining the vibe.”
“I am protecting the baby.” Jack corrects.
Robby shakes his head. “The bike is off.”
“You keep saying that like it addresses the jacket,” Jack replies.
You lifted your phone, laughing too hard to hold it completely steady. “Okay,” you said. “Smile.”
Robby grinned immediately. June remained deeply serious behind the aviators. Otis looked directly at the camera. Jack stood in the edge of the frame, arms crossed, coffee in one hand, face set in the expression of a man who had lost control of his household and was pretending it was new information.
“Jack,” you said.
Jack replies instantly, “No.”
“You’re in the picture.” You say.
“I am supervising.” He responds.
“You are sulking.” You correct him.
Jack looks over at you. “I am supervising with concerns.”
Robby leaned slightly toward June. “He gets like this.”
“Robby,” Jack warns.
June babbled. It sounded suspiciously like agreement. You took the photo right as Jack looked personally betrayed by his own daughter.
Perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
The picture caught all of it.
Robby is smug and soft-eyed. June solemn in her tiny aviators. Otis is on guard by the tire. Jack half in frame, exhausted and offended, and already moving closer because even when he protested, he could not keep himself away from the life.
You looked at the screen and immediately started laughing again.
Jack stepped beside you. “Let me see.”
You tilted the phone toward him. He looked. For one second, his expression stayed flat. Then it softened. Slowly. Helplessly. The way it always did when June was involved. The way it did when he thought no one was watching, the life got under his skin. In the photo, June’s tiny hand was curled around Robby’s jacket. Otis’s ears were perked. Robby looked like he had never been prouder of anything in his life. And Jack, half-caught at the edge of the frame, was looking at them like he was two seconds away from saying no and one second away from smiling.
You looked up at him. He was still staring at the picture. The morning held around you. Cinnamon rolls are cooling inside. Coffee was going cold in his hand. The adoption decree was framed on the bookshelf. The baby monitor is glowing on the kitchen counter. Robby was in the driveway, making himself at home in the middle of the family he had helped hold together.
Otis was guarding the motorcycle as if it were now part of his jurisdiction. June Michaela Abbot, wearing a baby biker jacket, tiny bows, and aviators, unimpressed by the entire world except for the people she had decided were hers.
Jack waited. You could see it. Not because he wanted to. Because some part of him always expected the old feeling to show up. The one that told him lives like this belonged to other people. That happiness was borrowed. That home was temporary. That love stayed only until it understood what it had gotten itself into.
He waited.
And nothing came. No warning. No catch. No voice telling him he had misunderstood. Only the morning. Only his wife beside him. Only his daughter in Robby’s arms. Only their dog at their feet. Only the warm smell of cinnamon and coffee drifting through the open front door. Jack looked from the photo to the driveway. Robby was carefully trying to convince June to wave. June was not convinced. Otis sneezed at the front tire. You leaned into Jack’s side. His arm came around you automatically.
“You okay?” you asked softly.
Jack looked down at you.
Then at June.
Then at the house.
His house.
His wife.
His daughter.
His ridiculous dog.
His best friend teaching his baby how to remain emotionally unimpressed while riding a parked motorcycle.
The life crowded, warm, and loud, and impossible around him.
This time, when he answered, he did not hesitate.
“Yeah,” he said.
His mouth curved as June grabbed for Robby’s zipper again and Robby declared it “advanced mechanical interest.”
Jack’s arm tightened around you. “I am.”
You smiled and rested your head against his shoulder. Inside, the cinnamon rolls waited. By the door, the porch light slept in the morning sun, no longer needed but still there, ready for nightfall. And Jack stood in the middle of the life he had once thought belonged to other people, holding you close while his daughter babbled in the driveway. Not borrowed. Not temporary. Not almost.
F - fluff S - smut A - angst
♡ - series ☆ - one shot ◇ - imagines and drabbles
yeri's favourites
last updated - 06/06/2026
⤷ fic count - 40
fic recs : one - two - three - four - five
@afterdarkbydel ——————————
♡ source material | S.
⤷ jack knows you read smut. what he does not know is that the red tabs in your books are not innocent little quotes or favorite scenes. they are ideas. a whole organized, color-coded archive of things you wanted to feel, things you wanted to do to him, and things you wanted to explore together. when he finds one of those red tabs and realizes a certain throne scene has already made its way into your marriage, jack has questions. several, actually. should he be jealous? grateful? offended? you are more than happy to explain.
⤷ [ part 2 - page 212 ]
@barnesdreamcatcher ——————————
◇ casual dominance with jack abbot | F. S.
@beccasdoll ——————————
☆ jack abbot x shy!reader | S.
⤷ a collection of their first times together. connected to my other shy!reader fic, but can be read as a standalone!
@fanficwritinggirl ——————————
☆ due to weather | F.
⤷ snowed in after a conference, you and jack abbott are forced to share a hotel room, where one bed, a power outage, and months of unspoken tension make “professional courtesy” harder to believe.
@fangirl-dot-com ——————————
☆ young at age, old at soul | F.
⤷ jack finding and recognizing his second second half
@filmetcs ——————————
☆ headphones on | A.
⤷ it’s an extra stressful shift at ptmc and doctor abbot notices how it’s affected you. you show him how you cope with the stress by putting him on your favourite music album
☆ obvious | F. A.
⤷ jack doesn't feel "jealous" after watching you complain about another first date gone wrong.
@imaginesofwonder ——————————
☆ gold digger | F.
⤷ workplace banter turns into a debate about marriage, money, and shared finances.
@in77rainbows
☆ expecting angel | F.
⤷ jack persuades a heavily pregnant angel to take a well deserved break during her double shift.
@inkdrinkerworld ——————————
☆ jack abbot x reader | S.
⤷ jack knows you’ve had a horrible day and he tries to rectify it by finding you fresh out of the shower, applying lotion on your skin.
☆ jack abbot x reader | F.
⤷ jack loves your night time routine when you’re both home for him to witness it.
@isbellah ——————————
☆ code blue | A.
⤷ jack abbot thought he stopped noticing people a long time ago. the hospital had a way of sanding grief down into routine - overnight shifts, cold coffee, fluorescent lights that made everyone look half-dead before they even were. but every night for a week, he notices the same woman sitting outside room 214. the last person he expects to find in that hallway is you - the woman he once loved in the aftermath of losing everything. now you're keeping vigil beside the hospital room of the ex-husband who broke your heart, and jack is forced to confront the ghosts the two of you never really buried. a hospital grief fic about widowhood, loss, oncology wards, and the terrifying intimacy of being understood by someone who survived the same kind of devastation you did.
@jacksabbotts ——————————
♡ good girl confessions | F. S. A.
⤷ working nights in the morgue means you’ve gotten used to being overlooked. quiet ones always are. but dr. jack abbot notices you anyway. he notices your careful hands, your lowered eyes, the way you fluster when he says your name. and somewhere between late-night charting, fluorescent lights, and exhausted confessions whispered in empty hallways, jack realizes he wants something he probably shouldn’t.
@kirbydreamssss ——————————
♡ i'm on fire | F. S. A.
⤷ when pitt fest goes horribly wrong, PTMC is sent into a panic. better yet, they're down one senior resident. as always, charge nurse dana has a trick up her sleeve. ger niece, dr. caroline evans, is an emergency medicine doctor back in boston—but she just happens to be visiting for a while. dr. evans swoops in to help the pitt crew, a carbon copy of her aunt, and as expected, everyone takes a shine to her. dr. abbot, however, is in deep shit. he finds himself staring just a bit too long, finding her mouth too sharp and wit too quick. then he does the most reckless thing he could've possibly done—he gives her a way to stay. caroline, on the other hand, is running from something. she hasn't told a single soul, not even her nosy aunt. instead, she's in pittsburgh under the guise of a little "break." but when you're running from life, you tend to do stupid things, like flirt with the stupidly attractive attending, or even sign on to work with said ungodly rugged attending. but hey, how bad could it be?
@loves-alibi ——————————
♡ jack "i'll pay for it" abbot (a.k.a. the sugar daddy-verse) | F. S.
⤷ afab!reader, sugar daddy/sugar baby dynamic, age gap
@maekarsmistress ——————————
☆ dog with a bone | A.
⤷ maybe it was irrational or self-destruction, but after hearing jack describe the life he once had with rose, you started seeing your future with him as something that would eventually demand pieces of yourself you were unwilling to surrender.
@mast3rbait3r ——————————
☆ not all heroes wear capes | F. S.
⤷ you desperately needed an escape from this painfully terrible date. so while on a trip to the bathroom, you manage to call your boss whom you know is available. he immediately agrees to come get you.
☆ anything for her | S.
⤷ when jack realizes that he's pissed off his favorite resident, he'll do anything to get back in her good graces.
@mcybank ——————————
☆ white feather hawk | S. A.
⤷ loving jack always had a price. you just assumed you’d seen the worst of it.
@midnightgardentales ——————————
☆ your doctor boyfriend | F.
⤷ growing up, jack abbot was always told to ‘rub some dirt on it’ anytime he got hurt. that mindset has followed him into his adult life, but not into his relationship.
@moodyabbott ——————————
☆ that bungalow by the sea | F. S.
⤷ thinking about how the golden kissed beach felt like it belonged to another world entirely. like a world where where time moved slower, softened at the seams, and forgot to be demanding.
@namesabbot ——————————
☆ sweater weather | S.
⤷ what starts as you “borrowing” jack’s hoodie turns into heated confessions, desperate kisses, and him fucking you on the counter like he’s been waiting all this time to claim you.
@ofthepitt ——————————
◇ hc. married & having kids with jack abbot
☆ daddy, right? jack abbott. | F.
⤷ includes accidental identity crises after children discover their father has a government name, dramatic sulking from a grown man called “jack abbott” instead of “daddy,” and two tiny chaos gremlins weaponizing new information for entertainment.
@p1stach-io ——————————
☆ love you less | A.
⤷ loving jack is the closest you’ve ever come to feeling safe. but safety is a terrifying concept for someone who expects the floor to collapse at any moment, and your defenses are running him ragged.
@pencil-n-pen ——————————
☆ i'm always on my own | F. A.
⤷ your family is in town for the annual ‘parents berating their kids for their decisions’ get together. jack overhears you talking about how much easier it would be if you had a boyfriend to shove in their face, and offers his services. no strings attached, of course.
@richeeduvie ——————————
☆ jack abbot x postpartum!reader | S.
⤷ after the birth of your beautiful baby that jack put inside you, your old body is gone. sorely missed, really. but jack? he has no interest in helping you find it again.
☆ silver-haired fantasy | S.
⤷ every time you go crazy over how much you love jack's grey curls, the guy tries (and fails miserably) to forget about the time when you complimented robby's slight grey. this was before he had you.
@sole-jpeg ——————————
☆ wherever you go | F. A.
⤷ after another exhausting night shift, jack comes home completely drained. you’ve taken the day off to surprise him with a warm breakfast and a slow, quiet morning together.
@softtachycardia ——————————
☆ again and again | A.
⤷ when a new resident's comments about your relationship with jack cause old anxieties to resurface. you start to wonder if your differences in education, age, or money mean you might not be enough for him. in the aftermath of a long shift and the comfort of normalcy, you reveal your fears to jack, and he reveals some of his too.
@spikedfearn ——————————
☆ for what it's worth | S.
⤷ you’re used to handling things alone, even if handling them means skipping meals, ignoring problems, and laughing before anyone can see where it stings. yhen jack abbot starts noticing too much. he pays attention in that quiet, maddening way of his, all dry comments and practical solutions, until calling him your sugar daddy stops feeling like a joke and starts feeling like the only safe label for something you’re too terrified to name. because the problem with jack abbot isn’t that he wants to take care of you. it’s that you want to let him.
@taknbythewind ——————————
☆ perception is the key, it's evident to me | F.
⤷ maybe things between you and jack aren’t as professional as you thought…
@the-shedevil-writes ——————————
☆ baby showers | F.
⤷ at your cousin's baby shower, you're bringing a partner to meet your family for the first time. it turns out jack abbot is the perfect person to bring.
@theetherealbloom ——————————
☆ i'm an astronaut, you're the moon | F. A.
⤷ when you moved halfway across the world to work nights at PTMC, the last thing you expected was for your soulmate string to lead straight to dr. jack abbot—who’s already happily married to his own soulmate. so you bury your feelings beneath friendship, trauma shifts, and years of silence… until tragedy changes everything, and both of you begin to realize that maybe soulmates were never about fate, but choice.or, the soulmate AU with jack abbot.
@thefictionalmanswhxre ——————————
☆ you're my future | S. A.
⤷ jack finding out his gf and robby used to fuck around long before they started dating but they kept it secret so it wouldn’t ruin anything
☆ her too? | F. A.
⤷ jack and resident reader have been in a friends with benefits situation, both trying to ignore that they’re in love with one another thinking the other has no feelings. so they’ve been trying to ignore each other’s feelings and after reader overhears the whole scene with samira and jack she thinks that he’s in the same situation with sam as her and starts to ignore him and blah blah he admits his feelings and they live happily ever after!!!
@voidsagent ——————————
☆ caught in the rain | F.
⤷ jack takes a big leap after you both get stuck in a surprise rain storm.
@weird-is-life ——————————
☆ i'll take the couch | F.
⤷ you prank jack with the 'i'm sleeping on the couch tonight'
☆ throwing hands | F.
⤷ you show up at the pitt with throbbing, red knuckles, surprising your colleagues and your boyfriend, jack
@yesimfinewhydoyouask ——————————
☆ the work wife | F. A.
⤷ you pay your husband jack a visit at the ptmc to drop off some snacks for him and the other nightcrawlers. before you can find him, though, you run into one of his coworkers, who refers to herself as his work wife and gushes about how special he is to her.
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summary: you're called into the ED on a rare friday night off, saving you from a disastrous first date. throughout your shift, dr. jack abbot can't keep his eyes off you and lends a helping hand when he notices you're in pain.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, undefined age gap, hint at power imbalance, swearing, slight suggestive content, no smut, smutty thoughts, slow burn (hehe oops), mutual attraction/pining, bad dating experiences, the pitt loves to gossip, santos is a terrible matchmaker, misogynistic/derogatory men (no one from the pitt), slight hurt/mainly comfort, jackie boy and his miracle hands 🙂↕️, dual pov (kinda?), jack & dana call reader kid, sweetheart said once, no use of y/n, reader wears a dress, reader has had knee surgery (and the scars to prove it), partly proofread, medical inaccuracies no doubt, let me know if i missed anything 🤠
word count: 7k
authors note: first crack at writing jack abbot! yes, this is self indulgent, yes my knee is hurting like a b lately. (goldi on a man hating agenda? say it ain't so!). reminder that i live to give ai two big middle fingers 🫶 400 followers celebration - hello what???
song inspo: sweet serotonin - amber mark
divider credits: red line divider by @/omi-resources, medical divider by @/sisterlucifergraphics
part two
read on ao3
Right on time, taking me by surprise
Must have been in your eyes, like me, oh, my
Where you been my whole life?
Where you been my whole life? Oh-oh
Dating had always felt like a chore—a time consuming, anxiety riddled, unsatisfying chore. Most of the men you matched with on dating apps made it abundantly clear that they were only interested in casual, no strings attached fun. It was never fun for you—maybe in the beginning, when you would exchange a handful of flirty texts that had butterflies flapping in your stomach and a giddy smile blooming across your face. But then, once they had you where they wanted—laid out on their questionable smelling sheets, straddling them on their lumpy, faded couch—all the promises they had made over the phone suddenly vanished.
Nine times out of ten they didn't even bother with foreplay, hitting you with "does that feel good?" before spilling in a condom within two minutes of sporadically thrusting into you. You never lied, never bothered with faking a moan—let alone an orgasm—just to satisfy their ego. They were shit at taking care of a woman's needs, and you weren't going to spare their feelings just because it was polite.
So, why you were on a date on your rare Friday night off from working in the ED was fucking beyond you.
You wanted to blame Santos, she was the one who had set the date up after all. She claimed she was sick of hearing you bitch and moan about your dry spell, saying that if you weren't going to get back on the apps then she would find someone for you. And honestly, after working at PTMC for a few years—getting increasingly frustrated after every twelve hour shift you spent with Dr. Abbot—you owed it to yourself to give dating one more try. Maybe this would be the guy that would finally touch you right, finally make you feel something more, scratch that itch that you couldn't reach yourself.
He was your type, just as Santos had raved. Well, your new type. At some point, maybe around month two of swapping to the night shift, your thumb had slipped and the dating apps started showing you men at least fifteen years your senior. Men with fine lines crinkling their eyes, salt and pepper scruff lining their jaws, their terribly posed selfies accentuating their age.
But, surely, these men would be experienced enough to care for a woman's pleasure, right?
Wrong.
God, you were so wrong.
You gave up after two failed dates—one ending shortly after the appetisers because he was still married, the other ending when he got aggravated because his dick was staying semi-hard and had an ego too big to take viagra. Oh, and he refused to make you feel good if he wasn't getting anything in return.
You deleted the apps in the uber on your way home. You tried to convince yourself that it was these men that you kept picking and not you. You sure as hell weren't the problem. Comparing them to your extremely off-limits attending had nothing to do with it, either.
Santos said he was a regular at her gym, no mark on his left hand where a wedding band may have been, with an enticing smile and deep eyes that promised a good time. If only she had spoken to him for more than a couple of sentences.
You internally cheered when your phone vibrated on the table in front of you with an incoming call. You didn’t even bother checking caller ID, you would gladly take a call from a scammer if it meant it got you out of one of the top five worst dates you’ve been on in your life.
“Excuse me,” you muttered to the man sitting across from you before lifting the phone to your ear. He rolled his eyes and gave you a dismissive wave, sipping on the ridiculously expensive whiskey he’d ordered for himself.
“Hey, hon,” Dana’s urgent voice came through the line. “Sorry to interrupt your night off, but we need you in the ER. Ellis has come down with a nasty stomach bug, and the place is about to overflow with patients from a multiple MVC. Night shift needs you, kid.”
You couldn’t resist the sigh of relief you let out. Being elbows deep in traumas sounded a lot better than continuing your date with the misogynistic asshole in front of you.
“I’m on my way,” you replied to Dana, ending the call and gathering your clutch. You offered a fake apologetic smile to your date as you stood up from your chair.
“I’m really sorry,” you weren’t, “but I’ve been called into work. Life of being an ED doctor.” You offered an awkward chuckle.
He let out a sigh, not bothering to hide his annoyance. “So you’re not coming home with me, then?” Your eye twitched. “Least you can do is pay for your half of the bill.”
And there it was. The disgusting norm that comes with modern dating—the man only footing the bill if he knows he’s getting his dick wet.
You pulled a twenty dollar note out of your wallet, slapping it onto the table with more force than necessary. You shot him a sickly sweet smile before turning on your heel.
“Have a nice life, dick.” You muttered to yourself, pushing open the door to the restaurant. You pulled out your phone, ordering an uber straight to PTMC.
“Holy fuckin' smokes!” Dana exclaimed, her eyes locked on the sliding doors to the ambulance bay.
Despite the chaos engulfing the Pitt, her outburst caught the attention of the nurses and doctors hanging around the hub. Half of the day shift had their bags hanging off their shoulder, midway through saying their goodbyes.
It was almost cartoonish, the way they slowly spun, their eyes following the path of Dana's. A couple pairs of eyes bulged, a med student's jaw slightly dropped, and a smug smirk curved Santos' lips.
"Oh damn," Princess whispered, McKay and Mateo humming and nodding their agreement.
They had seen you plenty of times before—right before the start of a long shift when you were bright-eyed and eager, at the end of a double when you were sunken and hollow, stumbling into an uber after one too many at the local bar. But, they had never seen you like this.
There was a shift in the air, one that you seemed completely oblivious to. You were walking the path from the ambulance bay to the staff lockers, mind focused on getting into your spare pair of scrubs and out of your stupidly uncomfortable shoes. You briefly wondered how long into your shift it would take for your knee to start twinging, for the muscles around it to start straining because you decided to wear nice shoes instead of practical ones.
They were shoes you had bought to match the dress that had been hanging sadly in your closet for the past four months. It was a nice dress, one that you had been eager to wear and finally you had a reason to. Now you were regretting wasting it on that douchebag.
It wasn't just the dress that everyone was taking notice of, wasn't the only thing that had the room momentarily holding its breath. You looked…different. Still like yourself, but with your best features highlighted—making you stand out in a crowd. Not that you even noticed the attention on you.
Dr. Jack Abbot was leaning his elbows on a desk in the Hub, his back turned in your direction. Dana's abrupt—but not unusual—outburst had him looking over his shoulder, doing a double take when he realised it was you that had Dana swearing. He straightened his posture instinctively, turning and folding his hands behind his back like a soldier standing to attention. His eyes followed you as you kept walking towards the group of fleetingly stunned medical professionals.
He always noticed you, more than he cared to admit. He gravitated towards you from the second he saw you on your first day shift years ago, drawn to you like a moth to a flame. You were intelligent, quick-witted, determined but you were also kind, compassionate, empathetic—all important attributes for a doctor to have. You were his best resident. And you were beautiful.
It was a matter of fact to him, that you were pretty in a way that had his pulse tumbling and breath hitching. He knew it was dangerous for him to be attracted to you—his resident that was way too young and had way too much of her life ahead of her. So, he never did anything about it. He kept things strictly professional, pretending like he didn't have a file cabinet tucked away in his brain where he stored every little detail about you.
He convinced himself that every detail he knew served a purpose, that it made him a better attending and in turn made you a better resident. It was to help you, which then meant you could help patients.
Knowing the exact way you liked your coffee? That was so you were well caffeinated and less grumpy towards patients when the four am low hit.
Noticing when you took more frequent deep sighs, accompanied with rubbing your temples? That's when he knew you needed fresh air to ward off an incoming headache, and then you would be fine to treat more patients.
Carefully watching the way your face lit up when he bought your favourite snacks? Just confirmation that you were getting sustenance, so you would have the energy to continue your hard work as an ED doctor.
It was habit for him to catalogue everything about you, and now you were giving him details to store that had nothing to do with improving your work as a doctor. The way the light reflected off your lip gloss, how you filled out your dress and made it look like it was designed just for you, the sway of your hips thanks to the shoes you were wearing.
He couldn't control the drag of his eyes down your body even if he wanted to. And that's when he saw it—the three faint scars on your left knee. The fluorescent lights above made them stand out more, and his eyes were glued to them. Two were barely an inch long, laying in horizontal slits either side of your kneecap—keyhole scars. The third one was more noticeable, running in a clean vertical line along the very top of your shin. He recognised the surgical scars immediately.
“I feel sorry for the poor bastard we dragged you away from.” Dana's raised voice knocked him out of his trance, the sounds from the ED around him rushing back into his ears.
He turned back to the desk, back to his charting before anyone could see how he had been looking at you—before you could see. His eyes still flicked back to you over his shoulder, observing how your pretty glossy lips were pulled in an out of place pout and your brows were furrowed in what looked like annoyance.
You sighed at Dana's comment, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. He wasn't a poor bastard at all, he deserved being walked out on. Before you could reply to the day charge nurse, Santos let out a long low whistle from her spot leaning against the Hub, right next to Dr. Abbot.
Whatever pleasantries you always had loaded for your coworkers disappeared in an instant, anger and irritation flaring hot in your chest. Your jaw clenched and your eyes narrowed in a glare, a single finger raising to point accusingly at your fellow resident and friend.
"Don't you fucking dare, Trinity." You seethed, pulling more attention towards you.
Whitaker froze in his spot, his hand's pausing on the keyboard where he had been finishing up his charting for the day.
"Oh, shit," he whispered, worried. "You never call her Trinity."
It was true. She was only ever Santos or Trin to you, Trinity was saved for the extremely rare occasion that you were mad at her.
Perlah and Princess stopped in their tracks, exchanging knowing looks with growing grins on their faces. They could wait a few more minutes before heading home.
Santos' eyes widened briefly, surprise flooding through her—she wasn't the one who had called you in and ended your date early.
"What did I do? Not my fault there's a ten car pile up." She raised her hands in mock defense.
"You're the one who set me up with a misogynistic prick!" You couldn't help but exclaim, your hands starting to shake with the unleashed anger you had been feeling since the second you sat down at dinner.
The group gathered around the Hub went still, eyes darting towards each other as they watched the rare scene of you losing your temper. The women around you shared a collective wince, immediately understanding your situation. They didn't even need you to explain what happened, they already knew how awful men could be—especially in your line of work.
Jack couldn't stop the protectiveness that ran deep through his bones at your statement, couldn't stop the jealousy souring his gut at the fact you were out with another man. A man that apparently did not deserve your time, did not deserve how beautiful you looked. He didn't think any man deserved you, even himself.
He wanted to know what happened, wanted to know who deserved a beating for treating you poorly. The possessive rage bleeding in his veins was new and incredibly dangerous.
The doors to the ambulance bay split open, a handful of paramedics rushing in with gurneys carrying bloodied victims from the MVC Dana called you in to help with.
Robby emerged from Trauma one, glancing around at his staff loitering while chaos rushed around them.
"Hey! What are you all doing standing around? Get to work!"
Everyone shifted into gear at his yell, splitting off to assess the new patients and to prepare rooms for their treatment. The day shifts with one foot out the door already slowly inched towards the exits.
You passed Dana as you rushed towards the staff lockers to quickly change, her hand briefly squeezing your shoulder.
"I'll be here if you need to vent, hon." She threw you her signature mother bear smile. "God knows I've dealt with my fair share of misogynistic pricks." And she had the battle scars to prove it, too.
The frustration from your awful date lingered, only being subdued during the frantic hours you treated the patients from the car crash. You focused on what you knew best, on providing the utmost medical care you could.
Even after the influx of injured and critical patients from the crash, you had to handle the day patients that had been waiting for hours. The last of the day shift went home by ten pm, looking like zombies and talking about a goodnight drink at the park before they split ways. Just after midnight, multiple dirt ridden trucks pulled up into the ambulance bay—dumping off a load of drunks that had ruined their faces and fists by starting a bar fight.
Your frustration rose back up to the surface as you tried your best to treat the belligerent drunks, their acrid breath hurling derogatory insults at you despite how you were helping. Some nights this behaviour was easy enough brush off, to file away for you to scream about later. Not this night though, you were already feeling torn down by a date's outdated and chauvinistic views and now it was just more fuel to the fire.
Dr. Abbot was standing next to you, observing as you examined a drunk's head lac, asking questions to determine the best plan of action.
He was standing next to you when the drunk grumbled out loud, his glazed eyes glued on your scrub covered chest. "Don't think you belong here with those."
Jack watched as your hand faltered, a grimace flexing your jaw at the crude comment. He opened his mouth, whether to tell the asshole off or to reassure you he wasn't sure, but you met him with a sharp look and shake of your head.
He was next to you again, letting you take the lead on a hip dislocation. Unfortunately, it was another one of the bar fight idiots—an old man who slipped from standing on the bar. You treated him how you would any other patient—your hands in the exact same position.
"Bit further up, sweet cheeks. That's where I need your hands most." He leered with a sleazy grin.
Your hands slipped, a flare of disgust and rage tearing up your chest. Your breathing grew heavy, coming out in quick audible bursts. Angry tears started to fill your waterline.
Why were men so fucking awful?
Dr. Abbot stepped in from behind you, adjusting his stance to block you from the drunks invasive eyes. He gripped the man harder than necessary, leaning down with an authoritative, deadly glare.
"Shut your fucking mouth," he simmered, pushing the man's hip into place with more force than required.
After exiting the room you leaned against the wall to take a breath, pinching the bridge of your nose as you willed yourself to calm down.
"Hey," Dr. Abbot's low voice mumbled in front of you. You lifted your head to find him peering down at you, worry softening his hard features.
"You doing okay?"
He watched you visibly collect yourself, pulling in a deep breath and squaring your shoulders. The faint tremble in your jaw gave you away, though.
"I'm fine. Nothing I can't handle," you muttered, crossing your arms across your chest. You couldn't break down over a couple brass comments, not when you've witnessed much worse happen to your fellow female colleagues.
He lowered his chin towards you, his shoulders dropping. He spoke in a soft, private tone. "Doesn't mean it's okay, kid."
He sighed and took half a step closer, careful not to invade your personal space. "You've had a long few hours of dealing with pricks tonight." He paused, a faint smile gracing his lips. "I promise we're not all bad."
You rolled your eyes with an amused scoff. "Yeah, that's what they all say."
Still, you couldn't help but feel hope at his words—because you knew they weren't all bad, you were reminded of that every time you worked with him. And the other men who worked in the Pitt alongside you. But, you always noticed the good qualities in him more than anyone else.
You noticed how he never flaunted his money, yet was always the first to pull his phone out to call an uber for a struggling patient. How he often door-dashed dinner for the ED staff, careful to make sure everyone's dietary requirements were catered for. You noticed the way he positioned himself between an aggressive patient and female staff, becoming an immovable shield. And you sure as hell noticed how gentle he was with the younger patients, how his voice softened as he put them at ease.
You hated how much you noticed about him. Hated how hours, days, weeks later a warmth still curled in the pit of your gut. You hated how much you wanted him, hated how his soft hazel eyes and hardened lines threw your world off its axis.
What you hated most was that you knew you would never find a man like him. You were stuck dating assholes because the one man you wanted was the last man you were allowed to have.
He kept his eyes on you as you pushed away from the wall, heading towards one of the day shift patients in the West rooms. His eyes tracked the subtle hitch in your step, the way you shifted more weight onto your right leg. It was something he had noticed before, when the sun would breach across the horizon signaling the end of the night shift. He never focused on it too much, filing it away as tightness after being on your feet for twelve hours straight. But now, after seeing the scars your scrub pants kept hidden he knew it was more than that, and you were only halfway through your shift. It was obvious your knee was bothering you. He felt his own knee twinge in sympathy.
"So," Mateo started, leaning back in one of the swivel chairs at Central. "What happened on your awful date?"
You didn't have to look up from your charting to see the cheeky grin on his face, you could hear it bleeding through his voice.
"You've spent too much time with Princess," you muttered in reply.
Shen peered up from his spot in the Hub, his ears perking at the mention of a date—the man loved to gossip, especially with a dunkin coffee in his hand. He grabbed the tablet he was working on, his lips pursed around his straw as he walked over to you two. You felt his presence before you heard him.
"What's this I hear about a date?" He leaned his hip on the desk next to you, raising his eyebrows in interest and slurping his coffee.
You sighed, bringing a hand to your left thigh to rub a twitching muscle—you were really paying for those stupid shoes you wore earlier.
"Why is it that I'm always surrounded by men?"
"Hey!" Lena exclaimed as her and Bridget walked past you three. "We're still here—and we want to hear the date story too!"
You didn't even remember them being near you when you first got to work, seething at Santos about her awful blind date set up—gossip traveled fast at the Pitt, especially at shift change when the nurses overlapped.
After taking a look at the relatively calm board, the two women came back to Central with matching curious grins. It was nearing the end of the three am witching hour, when the influx of crazies quietened down and the exhaustion started to creep into your bones. You had just over three hours of your shift left and you figured venting about the thing that had been simmering in your chest wouldn't do you any more harm.
You didn't notice Dr. Abbot hovering in the doorway to Central nine, midway through removing his gloves when the unmistakable sound of gossip reached his ears.
He was curious, he couldn't help the way he shifted closer—focusing on your voice over the other sounds filling the ER.
"Where do I even start," you muttered, lifting your head to meet the intrigued eyes of Mateo sitting across from you.
"Firstly, he didn't hold the door open for me as we entered the restaurant—just let it swing into my face." You chuckled bitterly, "should've taken that as the first red flag."
Lena and Bridget nodded along sympathetically, knowing the worst was still yet to come.
"He then proceeded to order for me—both my drink and food when we had barely spoken a word to each other."
Shen shrugged next to you, and you focused a glare on him. "He ordered me clams. I fucking hate seafood." That made the man wince.
Jack drifted closer to the conversation, standing a few feet behind you. You were too caught up in the annoyance that lingered from your date to notice his quietly commanding presence.
"When I told him what I do for work, he went on a five minute monologue about how the ED is no place for a woman."
That gained a collective eye roll and groan from everyone gathered, even pulling silent wince and twitch of the mouth from Jack.
"You stayed after that?" Lena questioned, her face showing how incredulous she found the situation.
You groaned in response, lowering your head into your hands. "I know, don't remind me." Your voice was muffled by your palms.
You took a breath and lowered your hands, loosely crossing your arms over your chest to ground yourself. "That wasn't even the worst part…" you trailed off.
"After bragging about his job as some finance hotshot, he said that because it takes him all over the world—by that, he meant he goes to Canada sometimes—he needs to have romantic partners in every city he travels to."
"Yikes," Mateo blurted with a wince.
"Said that it's his right as a man to have multiple partners, but that the women he's seeing can only exclusively date him."
Jack couldn't stay quiet any longer. There was a deep burning in his chest the more he listened to you.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered with a humourless chuckle. "Where the hell did you find this guy?"
You whipped around quickly, shocked and flustered that your attending had heard all about your terrible date. You expected him to be annoyed at you all for sitting around gossiping, but you could only find disgust and another unreadable emotion clenching his jaw.
"I didn't find him," you mumbled with a shrug. "Santos set it up. Said he's a regular at her gym."
"I'm surprised you weren't more mad at her earlier."
"I was actually relieved when I got Dana's call asking me to come in." You let out a small laugh, feeling ridiculous that you preferred the night shift chaos over a date with an attractive man—well, he was attractive until he opened his mouth.
Jack felt a misplaced sense of pride blooming in his chest at your admission. He took it personally when you said you would rather be with him—the night shift—than on a date.
"To top it all off, he made me pay for my half of the bill when he realised—"
The rest of your vent was cut off by one of the medical assistants wheeling in a patient from chairs.
"This is Mr. Wilson, mid sixties, he's been erect for the last eight hours."
The irony of the situation didn't get lost on you, a small snort slipping from you. Shen patted your shoulder before straightening up.
"I got this." He had the decency to leave his dunkin coffee behind as he walked over to the patient.
"So, Mr. Wilson. Did you take anything that might have lead to this condition?"
Five minutes later you were sat alone at Central, some of the lingering frustration now eased from your shoulders. A freckled arm appeared in front of you, placing a cup of coffee and your favourite protein bar next to the keyboard you were typing on.
You looked up in time to see Dr. Abbot's face tilted towards you, a soft smile smoothing his features.
"Thanks, Doc." You breathed with your own faint smile.
He responded with a smooth wink, one side of his mouth quirking up before he turned and headed towards South.
You watched as he left, noting how his gait shifted to accommodate his prosthetic leg. Your eyes trailed up his back, watching the subtle shift of his muscles beneath his scrub top, lingering on the freckles sprinkling his neck before landing on his silver curls. God, how you wanted to tug on those curls. A rush of warmth flooded your body as images flashed through your mind unprompted, unwanted. Images of you running your fingers through the curls while his head was between your thighs, hazel eyes dark with his own desire.
You spun back around before anyone caught you staring, quickly chugging your coffee and burning the roof of your mouth in the process. You took it as a much needed distraction to the heat gathering in your core. All he did was give you a goddamn coffee and snack.
It was just after five am when your knee buckled, straining from the long night and making you audibly wince. You were back at the Hub, hands clenching the counter as you tilted your foot against the half wall trying to stretch the tight muscles pulling on your knee.
It offered you temporary relief, one of the knots on your lower calf slightly easing. But it wasn't enough—the hard to get knots clustered on your upper calf were too deep, too close to the joint to get any relief from a quick stretch. You sighed as you felt the joint start to throb, a clear indication that the inflammation was flaring up.
That steady presence you quickly came to admire fell next to you once again, a veiny hand placing a tablet on the counter. You tried resisting following the lines of veins up his forearm, but you knew it was a losing battle so early in the morning. The fluorescent lights were still bright above you, but the early hour made everything feel soft—like the calm before the day shift storm.
"ACL reconstruction?" Dr. Abbot's voice grumbled low next to you.
"Huh?" You questioned, your brows scrunched in confusion. The patient you had just seen was a young teen with a fever that wouldn't break, possible meningitis.
Dr. Abbot tilted his head towards your leg that was still in a half stretch position.
"Your knee, I saw the scars when you came in earlier. Is it giving you trouble?" A line appeared between his brows, his cute mouth curving downward in a concerned frown.
He knew it was giving you trouble, he didn't need to ask. He had observed you the whole shift, feeling concerned when you stilled with a huff and changed your stance to accommodate the pain. He knew the pain of an injured joint all too well, could feel his own leg starting to scream at him after ignoring the tenderness for over ten hours. His fingers itched to help you, to offer you some comfort and take away your pain. He told himself it was because you were his resident—he couldn't have you hurting and disrupting your job as a doctor.
You straightened under his watchful gaze, distributing your weight evenly on both legs—a jolt of pain had you shifting to your right with a subtle wince.
"Reconstruction and a meniscal repair, too." You answered his first question. "Nothing I can't handle," you repeated your earlier statement, trying to brush off the obvious discomfort you were feeling.
He shot you a deadpan look, not buying your bullshit. He crossed his arms across his chest, leveling you with his quiet, intense authority that had fire tingling under your skin.
"What happened?" He asked gruffly.
You sighed out of habit—it really wasn't that big a deal.
"A not-so-friendly soccer match in high school." You shrugged, looking away from his unwavering stare. "Hurt like a bitch, but it's been over ten years. I've learnt to deal with it."
He grasped your elbow gently, leading you away from the Hub despite your complaints. He lead you to an empty patient room in North.
"Dr. Abbot, what are you—my patients—"
"Shen and Crus have it covered, you're allowed to take a break." He let go of your elbow, turning to close the curtain halfway—giving a slight semblance of privacy.
You stood awkwardly near the patient bed, feeling flustered from his attention and stubborn to prove you were fine.
He shot you another look, something between amused and impatient.
"You're in pain. Sit."
Again with that goddamn commanding tone, the one that always had you shutting your mouth and obeying.
You sat down on the edge tentatively, not missing the faint smirk twitching his cheek.
He was enjoying this.
You couldn't focus on the thought for long—your attention being seized by him grabbing stool and rolling it in front of you.
"What are you doing?" You asked with a single brow raised, watching as he sat down on the stool and patted his leg.
"I'm helping my resident," he said nonchalantly, like this was something he did all the time. "Now lift your leg. Doctor's orders."
You huffed with an eye roll, succumbing to his authoritative charm. You placed your ankle in his lap, careful to not rest the full weight on him. You weren't sure whether this was crossing a professional line—it felt just shy of being intimate, of being more than just your attending helping you with an old injury.
You could feel the strength of his thighs beneath your leg, how they were pure hard muscle. It was something a resident shouldn't notice about her attending—something she definitely shouldn't store away for later, when she was home alone with her hands between her thighs.
His hands gently grabbed the bottom of your scrub pants, slowly pushing the fabric up your leg. It felt way too intimate for such a simple act—his bare hands brushing against your skin, eliciting a path of fire and goosebumps in their wake. You no longer had control over your eyes as they dropped to watch his hands, catching sight of the wedding ring he still wore. He rolled the pant leg above your knee, his eyes darting up to yours for consent—moving his hands down at your small nod.
His hands gently pressed around your inflamed joint, the heat radiating up to his skin before he even touched you.
He gave a disappointing shake of his head. "You need to ice this, kid."
"I will when I get home, promise." Your voice was low, quiet. "It's not usually this bad—it's, just…it's been a long night." You don't know why you were explaining more than necessary, maybe you didn't like feeling like you had disappointed him.
Even with the door wide open, the noises of the ED fell away around you—fading into a faint hum as you looked into his hazel eyes.
"Why is tonight any different? I don't think I saw you limp once on the Fourth of July."
Your breath hitched without your permission—he was paying enough attention to you to make note of that?
His hands traveled down from your knee, fingertips lingering briefly on your scars before wrapping around your lower calf. His calloused fingers pressed into your skin, feeling around for the tight knots.
A steady stream of shocks ran up your leg from his touch, gathering in a simmering warmth in the pit of your belly. His hands on you felt way too good, you started to regret accepting his help. You would not be forgetting his hands on you any time soon.
Jack was doing his best to keep his head clear—repeating to himself that this was to relieve your pain. But, god, your soft skin and the smell of your lotion cutting through the usual antiseptic was making it hard to focus on anything else. Add in the way you were looking at him with big, trusting eyes and he was a goner.
His mind betrayed him further, thoughts of how you prepared for your date earlier clouding his mind. Was your smooth, tempting smelling skin just a coincidence, or were you planning for more? He remembered the dress you wore—how could he ever forget it?—and his thoughts strayed to what you might've been wearing under it, what you may be wearing under your scrubs. It was a seriously dangerous train of thought to have, especially with your leg in his lap.
He watched your face carefully, looking for the slightest wince to indicate you were in pain. He pressed harder, rolling a knot and catching the way your body tensed in response.
"I didn't wear the most sensible shoes earlier," you mumbled. There was something about the two of you alone in here, with his hands carefully tending to you that made you more…vulnerable. Open. "Wasn't expecting to work a twelve hour shift—I went with shoes that matched the dress." You finished with a small shrug, looking away from his piercing eyes.
"Ah. The date that keeps on giving," he grumbled bitterly.
His hands pressed further up, reaching your mid calf. You felt the cool band of his wedding ring press into your skin, and it made this feel even more personal and intimate.
"What were you saying earlier? When he made you pay half the bill…" Dr. Abbot's voice trailed off, eyeing you expectantly with raised brows.
You scoffed, the disgust you felt almost twelve hours before still sitting on your tongue.
"Yeah, that. He said the least I could do was pay my half since I wasn't going home with him."
Jack's brain short-circuited for a brief second, his grip on your calf tightening a fraction.
"That's…awful. I'm sorry."
You looked away from his intense gaze again, your heart doing something stupid in your chest. It was hard to miss the mix of anger and concern swimming in his eyes, the way his jaw clenched and shoulders tensed.
"That's modern dating for you." You let out a humourless chuckle, "some assholes even try to claim it's for the sake of feminism." You rolled your eyes with a sigh. "It's part of the reason I gave up on dating, I was hoping the guy today was going to be different." You couldn't help the self deprecating chuckle that slipped out.
"God, I didn't realise how bad it was out there."
Jack didn't know what else to say, couldn't think of much past the rage boiling his blood. A man had really said that to you? He wanted to show you that there were some redeemable men in the world, but by the sounds of it this wasn't this first time a man had said something like this to you.
His thumb swept across your shin soothingly, a motion he wasn't even aware of. But you were. It was all your body could focus on, every nerve ending rushing to the spot his rough skin was rubbing tenderly against yours.
"You reckon there'll be new gossip for people to focus on by my next shift?" It was your attempt at deflecting the conversation, talking to Dr. Abbot about your lackluster dating life wasn't exactly on your list of favourite things to do.
Jack jokingly checked his watch. "You're next shift is in what, fourteen hours?" He shot you a cheeky smile. "I'll make sure there's something else to talk about by then," he finished with a smooth wink.
It's something you've seen countless times—Dr Abbot's inherently flirty nature. You've seen it in the way he smiles at Samira, how he easily asked Dr. Al-Hashimi out for drinks when he first met her. You knew not to take it personally, he handed flirtatious comments out like they were as necessary as breathing.
Still didn't stop the hoards of butterflies wrecking havoc in your stomach.
"Thanks," you muttered, suddenly self-conscious from his gaze. It felt like he could see right through you, and you added it to the long list of things you hated about Dr. Jack Abbot.
"Don't mention it."
You both fell quiet as he continued his massage, the conversation coming to a natural end. His fingers reached the most sensitive part of your calf, right behind your knee where the muscles pulled on the joint. He pressed down on a knot, your hand shooting to his shoulder for stability as pain flashed from the tender muscle. He focused on the spot more, watching your face as a small whimper slipped through your lips. Your leg spasmed in his hold from the pain.
"That's the spot," he muttered absentmindedly.
He continued his ministrations, finding a handful of small knots just below your knee that provoked similar responses. Your hand didn't leave his shoulder, clutching his shirt tighter when he pressed on an extra sensitive spot. He started to file away new details that had nothing to do with your jobs or the hospital. The faint pained whimpers you let loose, the pinch in your brow when he worked on a sore spot, the way your breathing had shallowed. Those were all things that were making his scrub pants sit a bit too tight. Gradually, your leg relaxed in his hold and the pain evaporated from your facial expressions.
He rolled your scrub pant down your leg, the act feeling just as heightened as before. He gave your clothed shin an affectionate pat before lowering your leg to the ground. He stood from the stool and walked to the curtain, pulling it fully open. He needed to get back to work, needed to do something with his hands so he could get rid of the itch to touch you again.
"Thank you, Dr. Abbot." You said as you stood up, relief washing over you as the throbbing in your knee eased to manageable. You almost forgot what it felt like when it wasn't in pain.
"No problem, sweetheart."
Your head shot up to him at the term of endearment, another dangerous burst of heat rushing through your body—the feeling of sweet serotonin flooding your system. Your eyes bulged as you noticed the dusting of red climbing up his neck and cheeks. He cleared his throat and made his way to the open door, stopping with one foot out in the ED. He looked at you over his shoulder, still frozen next to the bed.
"Come find me next time it flares up, alright?"
You briefly nodded, feeling slightly light-headed from the whole ordeal.
"Yes, sir."
His shoulders tensed at your choice of words, a primal part deep down in his gut rearing it's head. He felt his cock twitch in interest and he knew he was fucked. You really shouldn't have said that to him.
He took a breath and rolled his shoulders back, a small limp to his step as he made his way back to the Hub.
You watched him as he left, a heavy feeling of dread and hopelessness washing over you. This was now past the point of an innocent crush on your attending. This was something you had to cautiously keep in check or else it could derail your whole career, ruin your reputation as an upstanding resident at this hospital.
Why the fuck did he have to be so hot, and be a decent guy on top of that. It wasn't fucking fair.
soooo...smutty part 2 anyone ?
jack abbot taglist: @lovelexi717 @buckysdecaflove @moonstoneandmoonlight @sheriff-bodecker + want to be added?
You’re a regular office worker born with the ability to “see” how dangerous a person is with a number scale of 1-10 above their heads. A toddler would be a 1, while a skilled soldier with a firearm may score a 7. Today, you notice the reserved new guy at the office measures a 10.
You decide it’s best to find out what you can about this person. Cautiously, you approach his desk. He’s a handsome man, tall, but with a disarming smile. How could such a friendly guy with such cute, dorky glasses be dangerous?
You extend your hand. “I noticed you’re new here. What’s your name?”
He shakes your hand warmly. His gaze is piercing, as if he’s looking right through you. “The name’s Clark,” he says. “So, how long have you worked for the Daily Planet?”
It’s been a few weeks, and one of Clark’s friends shows up. She’s pretty and all, enough muscle that she must work out. First thought would be that she should be maybe a 6.
Clark’s introducing her around. “This is my good friend, Diana, she’s in from out of town.”
You blink, and take a step back in fear. You’ve never seen an 11 before.
The day Bruce Wayne shows up for his long promised interview with Lois Lane, you can’t help it, the mug your holding drops from your fingers and sends a shock of hot coffee and ceramic shards across the floor.
Clark stops a few feet away and squints at you worriedly from behind those ridiculous glasses you’re 99% sure he doesn’t actually need, and asks tentatively, “Everything all right?”
You ignore him in favor of staring at the inky dark numerals hovering over the beaming fool gesticulating some fantastic yacht story for a gaggle of secretaries and minor columnists.
That’s it. Your gift has officially gone haywire. There is no other explanation. Because there is absolutely no way that Brucie Wayne is a 10.
At this point, you’ve seen it all. Miled manner reporters and billionaires at a 10 and a model-like woman at 11. You were really starting to doubt your power. The day you really stopped believeing in it was when Bruce Wayne came for another visit, and this time with a kid. The kid couldn’t be more than 10 years old, a bit on the short side.
The day you started believing in it again was when you saw on tv the formation of something called the justice league.
There were those same numbers over superman, batman, wonder woman and robin. That’s when you put two and two together. You wonder how nobody at the daily planet noticed that Clarke was Superman with glasses. You wonder why you didn’t notice. You wonder why nobody put two and two together that Diana Prince and Wonder Woman looked exactly the same. You look in the mirror as the realization hit you and you see your own number change from a 3 to a 9.
Summary: Clayton Emerson is in need of a house sitter while he's off on business on one of the other islands. Who better for the job than his much younger situationship?
Word Count: 7k
Warnings: Age gap (mid 20s x 50s), implied power imbalance, yearning, angst, unrequited love, spanking, oral sex (performed on reader), fingering (performed on reader), penetrative sex (piv), unprotected sex, cream pie, mention of death, mention of divorce.
Author's Note: This is my first (published) fanfic since 2020 so please be kind to me. I'm a little rusty. I obviously don't know much about living in Hawaii or being a life guard so take all of that with a grain of salt. This is mostly just for funsies anyway! I also plan on writing a part two so don't hate me too much with that ending. Enjoy!
You didn't know exactly what you were expecting to come out of Clayton Emerson's mouth as the two of you were laid up in a tangle of limbs and bare flesh in your bed but it definitely wasn't "Will you house sit for me while I'm in Hilo?"
Never once in the two years since you started whatever this thing was between you, had he ever personally invited you into his home.
It was always hotel rooms outside of town or in the back of his Jeep in some remote location out in the forest where no one would walk by and see the Mayor of Honolulu fucking someone over twenty years younger than he was and definitely shouldn't be with in that regard.
You had even started having him at your place when your roommate went on her monthly "work trips" with her boss. It made you feel guilty to keep her in the dark given that she and her boss were having a full blown affair and probably wouldn't judge you in the slightest.
But you just couldn't bring yourself to tell her that you let the man who runs this town come inside you several times a week. And that maybe you were starting to develop feelings you shouldn't be.
You found out quickly that you loved him there, in your bedroom, best. Under the dull glow of your fairy lights, amongst the things that showcased who you were to your core.
He'd taken his time his first visit studying all the photos scattered in various surfaces of your room. The life you lived outside of your little bubble, family photos from a childhood that felt so far away now. Posters from bands you no longer listened to but still kept up for nostalgia mingled with ones of artists that now frequented your music apps and of movies you loved.
You watched him make his way through the museum of your life, his face softening on a picture of you as a child with your siblings, your front teeth missing but that hadn't stopped you from smiling so hard your face might split.
Clayton had always been attractive to you. It drove you mad most days. You knew from the moment you saw him that you had to have him in some way. Any way he was willing to give himself. But he'd never been more mesmerizing than here in this room.
It wasn't lost on you how out of place he was amongst your things. Realistically he shouldn't be there at all, the definition of taboo and crossing lines, but you couldn't help the warm feeling that came over you. Especially when he looked at you with so much adoration and heat.
You'd rode him to madness that night, letting whatever animal dwelled inside you free. You couldn't get enough, each wave of pleasure he'd pounded into your body making you crave more.
And he always matched your energy, always knew what your body needed before you even knew yourself. The two of you just fit so perfectly and you figured it was why you could never really put an end to things.
You both had tried on a few occasions, knowing deep down things could never really work long term but it only took a couple weeks of being away from each other for one of you to cave and end up back here.
But never had he extended things to his personal home. Not even his office in town. It was a line he had drawn firmly when you two started seeing each other. At the time you had no problem with it, perfectly content to be his dirty little secret and meeting up at whatever address he'd text you to be at.
This was doomed from the start. But you never once hesitated when he called and definitely never let yourself believe that just because he had grown softer in the last two years that it changed anything.
You'd been in his home exactly one time, a few months into your rendezvous, for an appreciation dinner he hosted for the North Shore rescue unit. It had been an eventful but over all successful summer. The death count that year had been the lowest it had been in the last fifteen years and the Mayor thought it was worth the recognition.
You thought about not going, remembering the hard boundary he had made a few months prior. Technically you were invited, the whole unit had been and it might raise more questions if you bailed on an event hosted by the most important man in town. Deciding to just go in the end, you tried your best to keep scarce and out of his way, not wanting to draw too much attention to yourself.
He had been cold with you that night, his usually softened demeanor around you was replaced with a stoic and guarded one, eyes like ice and face like stone. Only directed at you and you couldn't help the pinch in your chest being on the receiving end of it.
When he wasn't shooting daggers at you, he was pretending that you didn't exist. Like the two of you didn't know each other's bodies inside and out by then. You reminded yourself that you knew what this was from the beginning, that he wasn't the gentle, romantic relationship type. That the two of you were merely using each other as a way to find release.
It was all you'd ever be to each other and you had half a thought that this was him reminding you of that fact.
You had cut out early, having made your appearance and just wanted to get out of those clothes and hunker down in the comfort of your home. Your shower was extra long that night, taking your time to scrub away the day so you could start anew, refreshed and clean.
What you weren't expecting was the five texts and three missed phone calls from Clayton Emerson when you got out.
C.E.: Did you leave already?
C.E.: You didn't even say goodbye.
C.E.: Are you ignoring me now?
C.E.: If you're upset I would much rather you tell me instead of whatever this silent treatment is.
C.E.: Listen, I'm sorry. Please come over and let me make it up to you. I'm at our usual spot. Please don't keep me waiting.
You did in fact, keep him waiting. Not having the mental strength to face him. Exhaustion was gnawing at your bones and you decided that you'd face him when you were better rested and prepared for whatever he would throw your way.
Plus, you couldn't really have that much of an affect on him, could you? He was the fucking mayor, a good looking one at that. He probably had a line of willing potential partners he could fill his time with. Your stomach turned to acid at the thought and you banished it as quickly as it came.
You learned the next day how wrong you were when he had shown up at your work under the guise of checking in and making sure any comments or concerns could be addressed.
He couldn't keep his eyes off you, ones that you noticed were a little wild and out of control. His usually perfectly kept hair was disheveled, like he'd tossed and turned all night and hadn't bothered to tame it before he left the house. Even his navy blue Hawaiian shirt was wrinkled and the buttons weren't perfectly lined up.
Something was wrong and you cursed whatever it was for pulling at your heart strings.
You were loading up your car to head out for the day when suddenly he was there, standing so close you could make out every color that was encased in his eyes. Butterflies started doing laps in your stomach and just being this close to him always made heat pool deep within you.
"You never showed up. Never answered my texts or calls." His voice was shaking, like he was trying with all his power not to completely lose it.
"I was tired and didn't feel like talking. Sorry." You shrugged, stowing away a pair of life jackets in the back seat.
"Then be tired and quiet where I can at least see you." You paused at the words, not used to the man being vulnerable. His eyes took on that puppy dog look and you felt your walls slowly chipping away.
"You getting soft on me, Emerson?" Your heart clenched at the idea of him caring more about you than he'd always led on.
"I just…..don't like the idea of you being upset. Especially not with me. I know I'm an asshole, my son tells me any chance he can. His mother too. And I know I was coming on strong last night but…." He stopped, his features twisting in a battle of emotions.
This was hard for him, being so exposed emotionally. You wondered how many people got to see this side of him.
"But what?" You prodded, looking at him with encouragement.
"But I have a hard time controlling myself when you're around. You looked so beautiful and all I wanted to do was throw you over my shoulder, take you to my room and fuck you until the sun came up. Not sit around and talk about the same old issues I hear about twenty times a day. Or about the weather or sports or any of that mundane nonsense. And having you there, looking like absolute sin and not being able to do anything about it made me wanna rip my hair out."
You were embarrassed by how quickly you'd caved. Telling him to come over later that night so you could really talk it out. Except there was nothing to talk about, you'd already decided to forgive him.
The sex that night had been unreal. Something had shifted with his confession. His body moved differently, the aching sweetness of his aftercare and the way he held onto you like you might disappear as you slept. And that had been the norm for you from then on.
"You want me to house sit?" You repeated, shifting your head so you could look him in the eyes.
"Yes." He stated simply, like this wasn't a huge deal.
"You want me in your house?" You had a hard time convincing yourself you'd indeed heard him correctly.
"You've been in my house before." He frowned, running his fingertips up and down your spine.
"Once. And you weren't exactly warm and welcoming then." His frown deepened, his hand pausing for a moment before continuing.
"A fact that I feel I've more than made up for." He had, he really fucking had.
"Don't you have people already who can watch your house while you're gone?"
"I do, but I've been meaning to give them some time off. And I already asked Kainalu and that was a flat out no. You're the only other person I trust."
"My plan to steal all your belongings and sell them on Facebook Marketplace and Criagslist is all coming together." You rubbed your palms together and let out mock maniacal laughter. He chuckled in return, placing a kiss on the crown of your head.
"Take it all, my ex wife picked out most of that stuff anyway." You kept your body from reacting. The subject of his ex had been a sore one, something he didn't really like getting into but had let slip from time to time.
You respected that, honestly not in any mood to hear about the woman he'd once promised forever to, had a child with. It made your chest ache in ways you had never experienced before for reasons you'd likely never admit to him.
"You really trust me with this?" You peered up at him and he peered back at you for a moment before a soft smile stretched on his face.
"I do."
And that's where you now found yourself, alone in that big house of his. He'd shown you around briefly, giving you a set of rules and expectations and numbers to the front gate where his security would be. He'd had the fridge and pantry fully stocked for you to use, every streaming service under the sun at your disposal. All he asked was that you water the plants and keep things tidy.
The seriousness of his face and the professional air of his tone was deeply amusing to you. You found yourself swallowing back laughter and grinning as soon as his back was turned.
You couldn't shake the look of tenderness on his face or the intensity of the way he'd kissed you goodbye before he'd left. Or the way he said he'd selfishly wanted you here so he knew where you'd be and he didn't have to worry so much while he was miles away and couldn't reach you as easily. You thought it was silly since you risked your life daily for a living but you let him have it.
It wasn't the first time he'd shown that side of himself to you but it always caught you off guard. Made you believe that maybe he did have feelings for you, wanted something more than just sex. You never let yourself fall too deeply into that train of thought. You knew better than to actually think that would be true.
When you weren't out on the beach pulling people out of near death experiences, patching up wounds and filling out paperwork, you were basking in the comfortable silence of Clayton's home.
You had to travel about two miles through his farm land to reach the house, nestled away near the tree line of the forest. The closest neighbor was about four miles away and with the temporary dismissal of his staff, aside from a few security guards, you were completely alone.
You utilized the massive kitchen, one you'd dreamed of having one day when you saved up enough money to set down roots somewhere. You loved to cook and bake just as much as you loved being out in those waters and helping people. It was in your blood, a perfect mix of both of your parents.
Your father was a chef, owned his own restaurant on the other side of the island and taught you his craft from the time you could hold a spatula firmly in your little hand. Your mother had been a Life Guard, spent time up here in her youth doing the same line of work before heading down south to settle down and raise a family. She had been your inspiration to follow the same path.
You'd been meaning to try out a few recipes you'd seen online but didn't have the patience or time to do in your little apartment kitchen. But with all this space, you figured why not? You quickly wondered why you'd deprived yourself of this joy. It made you miss your father and you made a mental note to give him a call the following day.
When you were done, you'd nuzzle up on the couch and watched movies you'd been meaning to watch but again, never found the time to settle in.
I could get used to this. The thought was there before you could stop it, your chest tightening and your face heating. You shook your head in hopes it would magically make the thought disappear. Stupid, there's nothing to get used to. He'll be rushing you out of here the second he gets back.
You were careful not to get too comfortable after that.
You had opted for the guest bedroom, even though he said you could take his bed. You didn't want to be amongst his things, his scent surely lingering on those sheets. It would make you miss him more than you already did, a feeling you should not be having. Best to keep some level of separation.
Clayton would check in twice a day. Once in the morning before you headed out to work, you wondered how he knew to time it so perfectly, and once after dinner.
The conversations never lasted long and he didn't bother with small talk. Just wanted to know if there was any concerns or things he should know about before wishing you a good day or night and hanging up. You tried not to let it affect you, you were used to his frigidness by now.
About two weeks into your house sitting gig, you'd had a particularly bad day. It started with a stubbed toe on your way out the door, after you were late getting up and it had spiraled out of control from there.
The waves were violent that day. People were stupid enough to think they could handle them when in reality, they couldn't. You and your team had pulled out a dozen people that day, one of them hadn't made it.
You took a bath that night. Bubbles, Epsom salt, the works. The water so hot even the Devil would be concerned. You stayed in there so long your body was practically a raisin, scrubbed red and raw.
When you got out, you decided to do something you hadn't dared to once during your time here. But the events of the day had worn down your mental walls and you just wanted to be close to him.
You slowly opened his bedroom door, peaking your head around to peer into the dark space, like you were expecting him to be there and catch you in the act. It was empty, obviously, the bed made up and untouched. The glow of the moon bathed the room in silver, coming in through the row of windows above his bed.
You didn't let your eyes linger on it for too long, you had a mission.
Opening the door all the way and flicking on the light, you slowly entered. Your eyes landed on a set of double doors and you made your way over to them, opening them to see your intuition had been correct.
There hung a neat row of Hawaiian shirts, all the same color pallette of blue but each with their own unique patterns. Your heart melted at the sight of them, you hadn't realized how much you had missed them. You picked a random one from the middle, unbuttoning it and slipping it on.
You didn't bother buttoning it up again nor did you put anything else on. You brought the fabric up to your nose, inhaling deeply and you swore you could weep as his scent hit you.
You quietly exited, not wanting to linger any longer in the room and padded down the hall to the living room. The air against your practically bare flesh felt good after your bath, your nipples starting to harden beneath the fabric of Clayton's shirt.
Without even thinking, you found yourself in front of his shelves full of records. Your fingers ran along the spines, eyes moving slowly along with them until you found something that piqued your interest.
It was on the third shelf that you found exactly what would do the trick. You carefully pulled it out of its spot, not wanting anything to damage it. Slipping it out of its casing, you placed it into the record player, adjusted the needle to where you wanted it and turned it on.
The intro beats to Hall & Oat's Out of Touch began to sound through the speakers and it was like the music possessed you. It started in your hips, swinging and circling back and fourth to the sound. Then your body began to roll, arms stretched up into the air. You spun around the room, letting the music move through you.
You threw your head back and began to belt out the words, moving into the kitchen to make yourself a before bed treat. You began taking out the necessary ingredients and setting off to work.
You were so in your element, on a whole other planet, that you didn't hear the sound of tires coming up the drive, the slam of a driver's side door nor the opening and closing of the front entrance. Not even the stomping of boots coming down the corridor.
What broke your spell had been the feeling on the back of your neck that you were being watched. Not necessarily in a concerning way but you knew that you weren't alone.
You looked around, your eyes catching on a figure lounging with a shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed and a smirk on it's face. It took you a moment to register what, or rather who, you were looking at.
You stopped abruptly, your breath hitching and heart began to thump against your ribcage.
You had forgotten in the last several days exactly what he had looked like. It was like the image in your mind didn't perfectly describe the different shades of gray that made up that head of thick curls, how deep the lines on his face were or the exact pattern of freckles that splattered across his skin.
Devastatingly handsome and here. There was no stopping the storm of butterflies raging through your stomach or the fact that being so exposed and perceived had made you wet in an instant.
"You're home. I thought you'd be gone for another week at least." You barely made out, not able to take your eyes off of the man.
"Luckily we got what we needed and were able to wrap things up early." He replied, pushing off the doorframe and coming closer, eyes like a predator that had locked in on it's prey.
"That's g-good!" You stammered, busying yourself with cleaning up the mess you'd made of the kitchen, trying to settle your heart as he stepped closer and closer. "I'll just tidy up and be out of your hair. I'm sure you're exhausted and want some quiet."
You yelped when you felt a set of rough palms against the flesh of your hips. Suddenly pressed firmly against his front, his breath so close you could smell the saltiness of the ocean, mint and a hint of bourbon. It made your head swim and you found yourself once again locked by his gaze.
"Surely you're not trying to leave. Not after that show you just put on." His octave had lowered into something sensual and raspy and his eyes had gone completely black. His right hand had moved from your hip, fingers running over the material of his shirt that didn't do a very good job at covering your body. "This looks good on you."
"It's very comfortable. I get why you own a million of them." Clayton chucked, both hands now moving their way up your torso, past your stomach and ribcage, parting the fabric more so your nipples were exposed to him. Involuntarily your chest pressed forward, a silent plea for him to wrap those pretty lips around the sensitive flesh.
His smile widened at the action, his eyes flicking up to yours for a brief moment before dipping back down to your breasts. But his lips didn't go where you so badly wanted them to, instead you jolted in shock when his mouth was suddenly against yours. His tongue caressed your bottom lip and you didn't hesitate to part them to let him in.
He groaned like a man starved, hands coming around to smooth down the column of your back until they gripped firmly on your ass. Your answering moan set him to action and suddenly you were airborne, legs wrapped around his waist as he moved in a direction you couldn't be bothered to figure out.
You heard the opening of a door and then your back against something soft and padded. He broke the kiss then to admire you laid out on what you now realized was his bed. He studied you for a moment, eyes roaming over every inch.
"You drive me insane, you know that?" He said after a beat of silence.
"Is that so?" You blushed, not bothering to fight the grin on your face.
"You know you do. I can't get you out of my head. Took everything in me not to race back here every time I heard your voice on the damn phone." He had his palms on your feet now, massaging all the way up to your calves.
"That explains the formality of those calls then." You rested the bottoms of your feet against his chest as he worked the knots out of your muscles.
"If I'd let myself stay on the phone longer than that, I never would've gotten anything done." He'd continued his journey north, reaching the spot where your knees bent and slowly spreading your legs. That wild look in his eyes he'd get when he had you like this was present, though there was a hint of something else there that you couldn't pin point.
"Do I really affect you that much?" It took everything in you to keep your voice level while he dropped to his knees before you, hands gripping under your hips and sliding your ass to the edge of the bed. Your core clenched at the anticipation and the way he starting planting lazy kisses on the insides of your thighs.
He didn't answer, too lost in his mission now. He slowly drew closer to that spot between your thighs that now ached with need. You tried to suppress your huffs of impatience, your hips tilting up in hopes it would speed things along.
It did the opposite, he took even longer. Switching to your other thigh and repeating the action seemingly even slower this time. His eyes were on you, a small tug at the corner of his mouth told you he was thoroughly enjoying torturing you.
"Did you miss me?" He drawled between kisses, sucking on your skin in a way that you knew would leave behind a trail of marks.
"Not at all." Your voice was thick, weak with lust.
"Fucking. Liar." He growled, biting down lightly on your flesh but hard enough to make you squeak with surprise. "Let's try that again. Did. You. Miss. Me?"
His movements paused just over your slick center, you could feel the hotness of his breath there as he exhaled. He rose a brow in challenge, daring you to lie again. In no mood to be a brat tonight, you nodded your head.
"Uh, uh. I need to hear you say it, sweetheart."
"I missed you." The words had barely left your lips when he descended on you. Tongue sweeping out to lick from your asshole, up your folds to your clit and back down. He repeated the action a few times, warming you up.
You threw your head back when he took your clit into his mouth and started sucking, a palm spread out over the expanse of your stomach holding you in place. His other hand gripped onto your thigh and keeping you from trying to close your legs.
You let out a guttural whine, his thumb replacing his tongue so it could plunge itself inside you and lap at your entrance like it was water and he'd walked through a desert to find it. You laced your fingers through his silver curls, massaging your finger tips against his scalp. You felt his groan of approval vibrate through you.
Soon his thick fingers took place of his tongue, pushing into you and hooking one at a time. He stroked slowly at that spot inside of you, his lips once again sucking at your clit, before gradually increasing in pace.
It took no time at all to draw out your first orgasm and you didn't brother keeping quiet. You'd still been coming down from your high and hadn't processed that he'd moved away and started his ascent upwards. You whimpered as his mouth found the hard peaks of your breasts, finally giving them the attention they'd been craving.
Your hands gripped onto his shoulders, digging into the fabric there and it dawned on you then that he was still fully dressed, shoes and all. This simply won't do.
"Clayton." You practically whispered, your voice already starting to grow horse. All he'd responded with was a hmm? against your nipple.
"I'm feeling a bit over dressed right now." He lifted his head to look at you, confusion on his face until it dawn on him too. He pulled away from you, getting up off the bed with a grumble. Old man, you chuckled in your head.
He started pealing out of his layers in that same leisurely manner he'd been using all night. You propped up on your elbows, your legs still spread and ready to welcome back, and enjoyed the view.
You bit your lip once the solid plains of his chest came into view and the path of thick muscle leading in an arrow down to the band of his dress pants. He dropped down in a squat, started untying his laces and tugging of his shoes, never once breaking eye contact.
Your cheeks began to heat at the way he watched you, drifting back and fourth between your face and cunt, still so fucking wet and ready for him. You clenched around air, that ache pounding like a heartbeat at your core.
His grin grew, he'd seen it happened and was totally storing it wherever his ego was kept. He started to make work of his pants, still not in any hurry. He loved watching you squirm. Growing annoyed and desperate and ready to beg for him.
He stepped out of his pants, leaving him in nothing but a pair of tight navy boxer briefs. You could see the hard line of his length, already swollen and leaking. He hooked his thumbs in the elastic but didn't move to tug them off.
Your awaiting gaze lifted and you found him staring at you, eyes impossibly darker. You began fidgeting under his heated stare, breathing heavily. You knew what he wanted and you were so god damn prepared to give it to him.
"Please give me your cock, Sir." You pouted, legs parting wider for him.
"Good girl." He drew his boxers down, exposing the patch of trimmed salt and pepper hair there, your mouth beginning to water. You let out a soft gasp as his cock sprang free, your walls squeezing together like your pussy was greeting him like an old friend.
He threw the fabric somewhere out of your line of vision, and prowled back to where you laid on the bed. Then he was over you, his head coming down to claim your lips again, your tongues twisting in tandem. He pressed his body against yours and the friction against your nipples made your eyes roll.
You felt the hot weight of his length laying on your stomach, slowly sliding down as he began to shift his hips. You lifted yours slightly, positioning your core so it was in the direct path of his tip. He slid up the length of you, nudging against your clit. You whimpered as he repeated the action until you had to reiterate your earlier request.
"Please give me your cock, Sir." You panted into his mouth, palms gliding down the expanse of his back.
"I haven't forgotten, sweetheart." And there he was, pressing his tip against your entrance but not moving forward. He lifted his head away from your kiss, watching your face intently. You watched him back, reveling in the way the moonlight brightened the color of his hazel eyes. He was breathtaking and devastating all at once and-
Your train of though was cut short by the cry of pleasure that ripped out of your chest as he fully sheathed himself inside of you. His slow tempo gone with the wind, he pulled back and rolled his hips forward and he was off.
The only sound in the room was the wetness of his cock plunging in and out of you, the smack of bare skin on bare skin and heavy breathing.
You weren't entirely sure where to put your hands, gripping onto anything you could as that familiar wave of pleasure crashed over you. You'd missed this, swore you could spend a life time getting lost in it.
He threw your legs over his shoulders, pulling back so he could watch your face screwed up in euphoria as he fucked you deeper. "That good, baby? You like that?"
"Fuck yes." You weren't even sure if you were speaking clearly but you knew he was hitting that spot inside of you dead on and it wouldn't be long before you were clenching around his girth.
"Oh yes, baby. There it is." He didn't stop pounding into you as you came undone. He dipped his head to plant chaste kisses on your cheeks, nose and lastly your lips. "Such a good girl, aren't you?"
You nodded your head in a drunken daze, his voice sounded distant but you knew he was right there with you, ready to catch you if you fell into madness. He slowed his pace, kissing his way down your throat to your collarbones and back again.
"I want to ride you. Please let me ride you." You begged, kissing his shoulder. You squeaked as he flipped the two of you over, his cock staying buried inside you. You adjusted yourself on top of him and his hands were firmly back on your ass, slowly massaging his finger tips into the skin there.
Once you felt you'd gotten yourself into a comfortable position, you steadied your hands on his chest and slowly rolled your hips forward, then off to the left, down, right and back forward again.
Clayton's hands slid up to rest on your hips, helping to guide yourself against his cock. "C'mon, baby. I know you can do better than that."
You looked down at him with a shit eating grin. "I don't know. You should probably take it easy, Old Man. I think I noticed a new wrinkle on your face and your hair is looking more white than gray these days."
He bucked his hips up in a solid swift motion, his thighs smacking hard against your ass. The sound reverberated through the room followed by your surprised gasp. You grumbled, pressing down on his chest and shooting him a glare.
"I think you're forgetting this isn't exactly our first rodeo." He shot back, his hips thrusting again, gentler this time.
"Hmmm, I don't think I can recall. But if you're sure you can handle me," You shrugged, positioning yourself forward and lifted yourself off of him until all that was left inside you was the tip of his cock. "So be it."
You slammed down on his length hard and fast, lifting your self back up and doing it again. You'd messed around with different speeds until you found one you could keep up with.
Clayton's hold on you was so strong you wouldn't be surprised if his hand prints were visible there in the morning. You came at the sound of him whimpering uncontrollably, unable to form words. You threw your head back, grind yourself down on him as you came back down.
"Turn around. Get on your hands and knees." It was an order and you could feel your heart beat in your ears. He was about the thoroughly ruin you.
You wasted no time getting into position, your spine curving inward so your ass was perked up perfectly for him. You could feel him shifting behind you, positioning himself back at your entrance.
He spread his hand out at the small of your back, the other coming around to draw slow circles against your clit. You hummed contently, nudging your ass back a fraction. There was a sharp slap against your ass cheek that made your pussy clench at the sting.
"So fucking impatient." He said it so tenderly, like it was a praise instead of the scold you knew it was.
You kept yourself still despite wanting nothing more than to press back and onto his cock. He didn't make you wait long before he bent over you, planting soft kisses down your spine and slowly pressed himself between your folds.
You both let out a sigh in unison as he sank back into your wet heat. He rested his forehead against your shoulder, cursing and mumbling as he fucked you into near delirium.
He used his knee to spread your legs father apart and forced your head down into the mattress. The position and the speed in which he was pounding into you made his balls swing and slap perfectly against your clit.
Another orgasm ripped out of you but you barely had enough time to stew in it before he had you on your back again.
You could tell he was close, his thrusts growing sloppy and less calculated. He was also getting louder, your name like a prayer or an answer so some unknown question on his lips.
Watching him come undone like this was your favorite sight in the whole world. You could get drunk off if it, spend the rest of your days just like this. You didn't want anything, anyone more than you wanted him.
It scared you, overwhelmed you so deeply that you could feel tears pool at your eyes and slide down your cheeks. He leaned forward, licking your tears away before resting his forehead against yours.
The eye contact. The thoughts racing through your head. The death you'd encountered earlier that day making you realize just how short life was. The fact that he was finally taking you in the one place he swore he never would. The wave of another orgasm. The feeling of him spilling inside of you. It all became too much.
You couldn't stop the words that shot out of you if you tried.
"I love you."
It was like someone hit pause on the world, this moment. Everything stilled and quieted and you swore the violent beat of your heart could be heard through the entire island.
You dared a look at his face and froze. A mask void of emotion, glacial and removed and looking somewhere past you.
"C-Clayton?" Your voice shook, the rest of your body following suit and it had nothing to do with your climax.
His eyes slowly focused on you again, but there was no change in his face. He slowly pealed himself off of you, the loss of him leaving you raw and empty.
He put distance between himself and the bed where you laid still as a rock. "You need to leave."
"Clayton." You whispered, sitting up and trying to cover yourself with his shirt that was now hanging off your shoulders.
"Now." You realized then you'd never actually seen him be cold and distant. All those other times you could still feel some sort of ardency underneath the surface.
But this, it was like he'd completely switched himself off.
"Please. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I just got caught up in the moment." You tried to plead but it fell on deaf ears.
"I'll get one of the security guards to drive you home. You have ten minutes." He turned and left the room without another word.
Violent sobs wracked through you, vision going blurry from tears. You adjusted his shirt so you were as covered as possible, his scent stinging your nose and making you nauseous as you made a beeline for the guest room.
It was like you blacked out. Suddenly fully dressed, your duffel bag packed and swinging over your shoulder. You barreled out of the bedroom and didn't stop until you felt the cool air of the outdoors fan over you.
You gasped for breath, struggling to get air into your lungs. You heard the opening of the front door and a distant voice which sent you bolting away to escape from this hell you'd put yourself in.
You heard a car door, moving gravel and the sound of an engine coming up behind you. Lights stretched out around you and you wanted to scream until your head exploded.
"Where the fuck are you going?" Clayton demanded from somewhere next to you.
"You t-told me to leave so I'm l-leaving." You muttered between sobs.
"I told you I'd have security take you back."
"I don't want your fucking security. I don't want anything from you." It was a lie and you both knew it and you wanted so badly to hit something. Anything that would release the fire building inside you.
"You're not walking home. It'll take you hours to get to your place." You stopped abruptly, swinging to face him. He made quick time in hitting the breaks and halting the car.
You stepped up to his window, leaning forward and got in his face.
"I never want to see you again, do you understand me? Don't fucking follow me or I swear to God I will ruin you." You'd never spoken to anyone with so much venom and distaste in your life.
He had the audacity to look wounded and regretful, his mouth opening to say something but closed again at the silent warning on your face.
You turned away, continuing your walk of shame. You heard the car rolling backwards and turn around back up the drive to the house.
Your heart ripped apart in your chest as he once again disappointed you.
He truly didn't love you, wasn't ever going to fight for you and that reality drove a knife into your heart and stayed with you long after you crawled into bed and everything went dark.
You wouldn't realize until you'd awoken after almost a full day of sleep that you were still wearing that stupid Hawaiian shirt.
Summary: Jack Abbot books an oceanfront vacation house in the Outer Banks and insists every suspiciously luxurious feature is simply “for the house.” The private pool. The hot tub. The king bed facing the ocean. The indoor shower with the bench. The outdoor shower. It’s all very practical. Obviously. Except Jack has had this whole week planned from the start, and with no shifts, no alarms, no pagers, and nowhere else to be, all that focus, patience, and husbandly devotion has exactly one place to go. You.
Warnings: 18+ only, smut, oral sex f/m receiving, intercourse, outdoor shower sex, implied/mentioned sex in multiple places, married couple being obsessed with each other, vacation Jack is a menace, soft aftercare, body worship, prosthetic/accessibility mention, lots of consent/check-ins, excessive use of the word vacation.
Author’s Note: Vacation Jack has entered the chat, and he is everyone’s problem. This is married Jack, soft Jack, smug Jack, worships-his-wife-like-it-is-his-life’s-work Jack. I hope you enjoy him taking vacation extremely seriously.
Xoxo, Del
Jack had been weird since the airport. Not the kind of weird that meant he was standing in a security line while mentally triaging three patients who were not in front of him. Worse. Relaxed weird. He had moved through the terminal with one hand curled around the handle of his suitcase and the other settled at the small of your back, calm as anything. No pager. No phone call from the hospital. No schedule to double-check. No crease between his brows while he thought five steps ahead of everyone else. Just Jack in a soft gray T-shirt, sunglasses tucked into the collar, wedding ring catching the fluorescent airport light every time his hand shifted against you. It was unsettling.
“You keep looking at me,” Jack said from the seat beside you, his voice low enough not to carry.
You turned away from the plane window and looked at him properly. “Because you’re being weird.”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “Weird?”
“Calm,” you said, like the evidence was obvious.
His thumb moved once over your thigh, lazy and warm where his hand rested above your knee. “That’s weird?”
“For you?” You gave him a look. “Yes.”
Jack’s smile deepened. “I’m on vacation.”
“You keep saying that like it explains everything,” you said.
“It explains a lot,” Jack replied, his hand still warm on your leg.
You narrowed your eyes at him. Jack leaned closer, his shoulder brushing yours. “Hey, baby.”
Absolutely not. You knew that tone. You had been married to that tone. You had folded laundry with that tone. You had woken up to that tone pressed against the back of your neck and immediately lost whatever argument you had planned about needing sleep. You turned your head slowly. “Why did you say that like you’re about to be annoying?”
Jack’s mouth curved wider. “You in the mile-high club?”
You stared at him. “Jack Abbot.”
“That’s not an answer,” he said.
You leaned back against your seat. “Absolutely not.”
Jack sat back too, completely unbothered. “Worth a shot.”
“We have been on vacation for forty-seven minutes,” you said.
Jack glanced at his watch. “Strong start.”
“You are not serious,” you said, fighting the smile already pulling at your mouth.
“I’m very serious,” Jack said, his thumb sweeping over your thigh again. “I planned a whole week.”
“You planned a whole week, so naturally your first thought was sex in an airplane bathroom?” you asked.
“No,” Jack said, calm as anything. “That was my second thought.”
You pressed your lips together, trying very hard not to smile. Jack looked at your mouth, then back to your eyes. “You’re enjoying vacation Jack.”
“I’m concerned about vacation Jack,” you said.
“Good,” Jack replied.
“That was not the reassurance you thought it was,” you told him.
Jack lifted your hand, brought your knuckles to his mouth, and kissed them like he had all the time in the world. Which, unfortunately, he did. That was the problem. At home, there was always something. Work. Laundry. Groceries. A shift starting too early or ending too late. Jack coming home exhausted but still kissing you in the kitchen like he could not help himself. You falling asleep against his shoulder on the couch because you both had the best intentions and the worst schedules. At home, loving each other sometimes came in pieces. A hand on your hip while one of you reached for coffee. A kiss before sunrise. A shower taken together because it was the only private twenty minutes you could steal. Jack’s fingers brushing yours under a table. Your face tucked into his neck for exactly thirty seconds before one of your phones went off. This was different. This was Jack with no alarm set. Jack with his shoulders loose. Jack with nowhere else to be. Jack with an entire week and a look in his eyes that made you wonder, briefly and sincerely, if you had made a mistake getting on this plane with him.
By the time you landed in North Carolina, picked up the rental car, and started driving toward the Outer Banks, the feeling had only gotten worse. The windows were down. The air had gone warm and salty, slipping through the car and lifting the ends of your hair. Jack drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting over your thigh, his thumb moving every now and then like he was not even thinking about it. You, unfortunately, were thinking about it a lot. You were thinking about his hand. His forearm. The way his shirt stretched when he turned the wheel. The quiet contentment on his face as the road opened in front of you and the sky went wide and blue above the water.
“You’re doing it again,” Jack said, eyes still on the road.
You blinked. “Doing what?”
His thumb dragged once over your thigh. “Looking at me.”
“I’m allowed to look at my husband,” you said, turning slightly in your seat.
Jack glanced over just long enough for you to catch the curve of his mouth. “You’re allowed to do a lot of things with your husband.”
You let your head fall back against the seat. “See? That. That is what I mean.”
His hand tightened on your thigh, warm and amused. “What?”
“Vacation Jack,” you said, pointing at him like the evidence was obvious.
Jack looked back at the road. “He sounds nice.”
“He sounds like a menace,” you said.
Jack’s smile deepened. “He rented you a beach house.”
“You rented us a beach house,” you corrected.
Jack shrugged one shoulder. “Same thing.”
That should have been your first warning. Not the mile-high joke. Not the hand on your thigh. Not even the way he kept saying vacation like it was both an explanation and a threat. That sentence. He rented you a beach house. Because when Jack finally pulled into the long driveway, gravel crunching beneath the tires, and the house came into view, you realized with sudden, full-body clarity that your husband had not rented a beach house. He had rented a house. A house. Oceanfront. Tall windows. Wide decks. Pale wood and white trim and a private path disappearing through dune grass toward the beach. It looked like something from an architectural magazine. The kind of house people stayed in when they owned linen pants unironically and knew how to arrange lemons in a bowl. You sat in the passenger seat and stared. Jack put the car in park. You did not move.
He glanced over. “You okay?”
“Jack,” you said, still looking at the house.
His hand paused on the gearshift. “What?”
“This is a house.”
Jack looked through the windshield. “That was the goal.”
“No.” You turned to him. “This is a house.”
“It had good reviews,” Jack said.
You stared at him. He added, “And beach access.”
“Jack.”
“And a kitchen,” he said.
“You’re not helping yourself,” you told him.
His expression stayed perfectly composed, but you knew him too well. You saw the smugness hiding at the corner of his mouth. You saw the way he looked at you instead of the house, like he had been waiting for this exact reaction. Your chest softened before you could stop it.
“Oh my god,” you said quietly. “You’re proud of yourself.”
Jack took the keys from the ignition. “I made a good choice.”
“You made an insane choice,” you said.
“I made a good insane choice,” he replied.
You got out of the car slowly, still staring up at the house as warm coastal air wrapped around you. Jack came around the back, opened the trunk, and started pulling out luggage like this was normal. Like he had not driven you up to a house with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of the ocean glittering behind it. You followed him up the steps to the front door in a daze. “Before we go in,” you said, stopping behind him, “I need you to know that I am suspicious.”
Jack unlocked the door. “Of the house?”
“Of you,” you said.
He pushed the door open. “That’s fair.”
You forgot the rest of your sentence. The house opened wide in front of you, bright and airy and flooded with light. Pale floors stretched toward the back wall, which was almost entirely glass. Beyond it, the ocean moved blue and endless, sunlight breaking across the water in bright pieces. There was a living room with soft white couches, a huge kitchen to the left, and a deck beyond the glass doors that looked like it had been built specifically for long mornings, bare feet, and coffee gone cold because you were too busy watching the waves. For a second, you did not accuse Jack of anything. You just stood there. Jack set the bags down inside the door and came up behind you. His hand settled at your waist, careful and warm.
“Good?” he asked.
You swallowed. “Jack.”
His voice softened. “Yeah?”
“This is beautiful,” you said.
He did not say anything right away. When you turned your head, he was not looking at the ocean. He was looking at you. Like this had been the view he had actually been waiting for. Something tender pressed behind your ribs. Then Jack’s thumb moved against your waist, and the faintest hint of a smile returned to his face. “If we’re doing vacation,” he said, “we’re doing it right.”
You let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “That sounds like something a man says before revealing he spent too much money.”
“It was a reasonable amount of money,” Jack said.
You tilted your head. “Do not lie to me in this beautiful house.”
His mouth curved. “Vacation.”
“There it is,” you said.
Jack kissed the side of your head, then stepped around you and picked up two of the bags. “Come on.”
“You’re giving me a tour?” you asked, following him.
“I am,” Jack said.
“Should I be afraid?”
He looked back at you. “Probably.”
You followed him into the kitchen first. It was ridiculous. Huge island. Stone counters. Ocean view. A stove that looked nicer than your entire apartment had when you and Jack had first moved in together. There were glass-front cabinets, a farmhouse sink, and enough counter space to host a cooking show. You stopped beside the island. “This kitchen is bigger than our living room.”
Jack set one bag down near the pantry. “Good for cooking.”
“Are we cooking?” you asked.
“Probably,” he said.
You looked over at him. “That was vague.”
Jack came back to you and leaned one hip against the island, arms folding loosely over his chest, looking entirely too comfortable in a kitchen he had absolutely not chosen for practical reasons alone. You looked at him. He looked back. Your eyes narrowed. “Here?”
Jack’s eyebrows lifted. “Here what?”
“You know what,” you said.
His mouth twitched. “I pictured coffee.”
You stared at him. “You rented this kitchen for coffee?”
“Breakfast too,” Jack said.
“How domestic.”
His hand reached out, fingers hooking lightly around your waist to draw you a step closer. “You sitting right there while I cook.”
You followed his gaze to the wide stretch of counter beside him. “On the island?”
“Mm-hm,” Jack said.
You looked back at him. “That sounds innocent.”
“It started that way,” he said.
Your breath caught before you could stop it. Jack noticed. He smiled like he had not done a single thing wrong. “Coffee first.”
“You are being smug,” you said.
“I’m being honest,” Jack replied.
“You are being honest smugly.”
He leaned in and kissed you once, quick and warm. “Vacation.”
You pointed at him as soon as he pulled back. “You cannot keep using that as a defense.”
“I can,” Jack said.
“You can’t.”
“I am,” he said, stepping away before you could decide whether to pull him back or yell at him. Both felt appropriate. The tour continued through the living room, where Jack said he pictured you curled into the corner of the couch with a book and your feet in his lap. That one was sweet enough that you almost let your guard down. Almost. Then he opened the glass doors to the deck, and the ocean air rushed in. Outside, the house became even more outrageous. There was a private pool tucked into the deck below, blue water flashing beneath the sun. A hot tub sat beneath a covered section, shaded and close enough to the doors to be convenient. Beyond that, a path wound through sea grass toward the beach. There were chaise lounges lined up near the pool, angled toward the water, with tall privacy hedges and fencing positioned in a way that felt less accidental the longer you looked at it. You stepped onto the deck. Jack followed behind you. You looked at the pool. Then the loungers. Then the hot tub. Then Jack.
“No,” you said.
His mouth twitched. “No?”
“Absolutely not,” you said, pointing toward the pool.
Jack stepped beside you. “You don’t even know what I pictured.”
“I know exactly what you pictured,” you said.
“You’re projecting,” he replied.
“You picked a house with privacy hedges around the chaise lounges.”
“For shade,” Jack said.
You turned your head slowly. “For crimes.”
Jack laughed then, low and surprised, and the sound moved through you warmer than the sun. He caught your hand and pulled you closer, his arm sliding around your waist from behind as you both looked out over the deck. “Out there,” Jack said, nodding toward the chaise lounges, “I pictured you with a book.”
“That sounds sweet,” you said.
“It was,” he replied.
Your eyes narrowed. “Was?”
“And sunscreen,” Jack said.
You closed your eyes. “Jack.”
“What?” His mouth brushed your shoulder. “Sunscreen is important.”
“You are weaponizing responsibility,” you said.
“I’m taking care of my wife,” he said.
“You always say that right before doing something suspicious.”
Jack’s mouth curved against your shoulder. “You always like it.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Jack hummed, pleased and infuriating, and pointed toward the pool. “I pictured you in there, too.”
“Swimming?” you asked.
“Sometimes,” he said.
“Jack.”
“You asked for the tour,” he reminded you.
“I did not ask for the director’s commentary.”
“You’re getting it anyway,” he said.
You looked toward the hot tub. “And that?”
Jack followed your gaze. For once, he did not immediately make a joke. The hot tub sat under the covered deck, tucked into its own little pocket of shade and privacy. From there, you would be able to hear the ocean without seeing anything but the water, the sky, and each other. “That one was quiet,” he said.
You blinked. “Quiet?”
His hand spread over your stomach, pulling your back a little more securely against his chest. “You. Me. The ocean loud enough that we don’t have to be.”
Your stomach dipped. “Jack,” you said, his name coming out softer than you meant it to.
His voice stayed calm, but his mouth was close to your ear now. “You asked what I pictured.”
You leaned back against him because your knees had gotten a little unreliable. “I’m starting to regret that.”
Jack’s hand tightened gently at your waist. “No, you’re not.”
The worst part was that he was right. Then you saw the small structure tucked off to the side of the pool, its white door propped open to reveal shelves stacked with towels and beach chairs. You pointed. “Is that a pool house?”
“Storage,” Jack said.
You turned in his arms. “Storage?”
“Towels,” he said. “Floats. Probably cleaning supplies.”
You raised your eyebrows. “And you were definitely thinking about pool chemicals when you booked it.”
Jack’s eyes warmed. “Mostly towels.”
“That was worse,” you said.
His hands stayed at your waist. “I pictured you pulling me in there.”
You blinked. “Me?”
“You get bossy when you’re relaxed,” Jack said.
“I do not,” you argued.
“You absolutely do.”
“I would never,” you said, trying to sound offended.
Jack leaned closer, his voice dropping just enough to make your pulse jump. “I’m counting on it.”
For a second, you forgot how to answer him. He smiled, kissed the corner of your mouth, and then had the audacity to step back and continue the tour. By the time he brought the bags upstairs, you were starting to understand the full scope of your situation. This was not a house. This was a map. Jack had not just booked somewhere pretty. He had walked through the listing photos and imagined a whole week of you and him. Coffee and sunlight. Books by the pool. Salt on your skin. His hands on your body. Dinner on the deck. Sleeping late. No phones. No alarms. No one needing either of you before you had even opened your eyes. You were still processing that when you reached the primary bedroom. Then you stopped in the doorway. “Oh,” you said.
The bedroom was worse. Not worse, technically. Beautiful. Soft white bedding. Pale curtains. Glass doors that opened onto a private deck. A king bed facing the ocean, like whoever designed the room had personally declared subtlety dead. Sunlight moved over the sheets in warm, shifting bands, and beyond the windows, the water stretched wide and blue and endless. Jack set the suitcases near the dresser and came to stand behind you. He did not touch you right away. That somehow made it worse.
“And here?” you asked, quieter than you meant to.
Jack’s hand settled at your waist. His voice changed when he answered. Softer. Lower. Less teasing. “Here, I pictured you sleeping in.”
Your throat went tight.
“No alarm,” he said. “No phone. No shift. No one needing you before you even open your eyes.”
You stared at the bed, at the ocean beyond it, at the room he had chosen because he knew you. Because he knew how tired you got. Because he knew how often you woke already making lists in your head, already bracing for the day, already giving pieces of yourself away before breakfast. “That’s what you pictured?” you asked.
Jack stepped closer, his chest brushing your back. “Some of it.” There he was again.
You let out a shaky laugh. “Of course.”
His thumb traced a slow line along your hip. “I pictured this too.”
You looked over your shoulder. “What?”
He leaned down and kissed the side of your neck. Not rushed. Not hungry, not yet. Just warm and deliberate and certain. “Standing behind you,” Jack said against your skin. “Right here.”
Your eyes fluttered. He continued, “Watching you realize I planned this.”
“You are so smug,” you said.
“I am,” he replied.
“At least you admit it.”
His mouth moved higher, just beneath your ear. “I pictured you happy.”
That undid you more than anything else could have. Your hand found his over your waist. Jack’s fingers threaded through yours. “I pictured you rested,” he said. “Spoiled. A little sunburned even though I’m going to be annoying about sunscreen.”
You huffed a laugh. He smiled against your skin. “I pictured us here,” Jack said.
There it was. The whole thing. Not the pool. Not the hot tub. Not the ridiculous kitchen, the private deck, or the bed facing the water. Us. Your chest went so soft it almost hurt.
“You really thought about all of this,” you said.
“Yeah,” Jack answered.
You turned enough to look at him. “Every room?”
“Not every room,” he said.
“Liar.”
Jack’s mouth curved against your neck. “Fine. Most rooms.”
You turned fully in his arms, hands landing on his chest. “This house is insane.”
“No,” Jack said.
“No?” you asked.
His hands settled at your waist. “It’s exactly enough.”
You hated how easily he could do that. Take all your teasing and fold it into something earnest. Make you laugh one second and ache the next.
“You spent too much money,” you said, but there was no heat in it.
Jack’s expression softened. “I wanted you to have a week where nothing needed you.”
You looked up at him. His thumb moved once at your waist. “Nothing but you?” you asked.
Jack’s smile returned, slow and warm. “I’m allowed to need you a little.”
“A little?”
“Vacation,” he said.
You groaned. “You are impossible.”
“You married me.”
“I was young,” you said.
Jack laughed, and the sound loosened something in you. Then he kissed you. It was supposed to be quick. You could tell by the way he started it, soft and almost sweet, his hand lifting to your jaw while the ocean moved bright and endless beyond the windows. But then you kissed him back. And Jack, relaxed, rested, vacation Jack, did not rush. He kissed you like he had imagined this too. Like he had thought about getting you into this room, into this light, with nothing waiting for either of you except a whole week of time. His thumb brushed along your cheek. His other hand stayed low on your back, steady and warm, holding you close without trapping you there. When he pulled back, your breath had gone uneven.
Jack looked perfectly fine, which was unfair. “We should finish the tour,” he said.
You blinked at him. “There’s more?”
His smile turned dangerous. “Bathroom.”
“Oh no,” you said.
“Oh yes,” Jack replied.
The bathroom was somehow even more ridiculous than the bedroom. Double vanity. Huge mirror. Soft lighting. A tub positioned near a window overlooking the water. Smooth stone tile. A glass shower big enough for two people to move comfortably, with rainfall showerheads and a built-in bench along one wall. You stopped in the doorway. Jack stopped behind you. For a second, the joke rose automatically. A shower bench. Of course. Of course, Jack had seen that in the photos and gotten ideas. Of course, your husband, who loved showering with you on a normal Tuesday when both of you were half asleep and stealing time before work, would look at this gorgeous, oversized shower and imagine exactly—
Then you glanced at him. The teasing paused in your throat. Jack was looking at the bench. Not smugly this time. Not only that, anyway. Something quieter crossed his face. Practical. Honest. Familiar in a way that made your heart squeeze. Because it was not just another suspicious feature. It was space. Ease. A place for him to sit without balancing, without bracing himself against slick tile, without turning something as simple as a shower into a calculation.
“Oh,” you said softly. Jack looked at you. You reached for his hand. “Good.”
His brow lifted slightly. “Good?”
You nodded. “I want that for you.”
For a moment, he did not answer. Then his fingers tightened gently around yours. “Yeah,” Jack said. It was simple. Quiet. Enough. Then the corner of his mouth lifted. “I also pictured you in here.”
There he was. You stared at him. “Of course you did.”
“Wet,” Jack said.
“Jack.”
“Naked,” he added.
“Jack.”
“Letting me take care of you,” he said.
That got you quiet again. He stepped behind you and nodded toward the bench. “I pictured sitting there. Hot water on. You between my knees.” Your breath caught. His hands settled gently at your hips. “Washing your hair. Getting the sunscreen off your shoulders because you always miss right here.”
His fingers brushed the back of your arm, light and specific, and you hated that he was right.
“I do not always miss there,” you said.
“You always miss there,” Jack replied.
“I have survived this long.”
“Barely,” he said.
You laughed, but it came out thin because his mouth was near your neck again and his hands were warm through your shirt. “That’s what you pictured?” you asked.
“Some of it,” Jack said.
“You keep saying that.”
“I keep meaning it,” he replied.
You turned your head enough to look at him. “You love showering with your wife.”
Jack’s face did not change. “I do.”
“No shame?”
“None.”
“Not even a little?” you asked.
He leaned in, lips brushing your temple. “I love my wife wet and naked and close enough that I can put my hands on her. I also love when she lets me wash her hair because she makes that little sound when she relaxes.” Your mouth parted. Jack’s thumb slid beneath the hem of your shirt, just enough to touch warm skin. “So, no. No shame.”
You stared at him for a second. Then you pointed toward the bedroom. “You are dangerous in this house.”
“I’m dangerous at home too,” Jack said.
“At home, you have work.”
His gaze held yours. “Not this week.”
That sentence should not have affected you the way it did. It dropped low in your stomach and stayed there. Not this week. No shift. No alarm. No phone. No pager. No stolen pieces. A whole week. Jack kissed your shoulder once and then, cruelly, released you. “Come on,” he said.
You frowned. “There is still more?”
“One more thing,” Jack said.
You followed him because, apparently, you had learned nothing. He led you back through the bedroom, down the stairs, and out through the sliding doors. The deck was warm beneath your sandals. The ocean wind moved through your hair. Jack kept your hand in his as he guided you down the steps, past the pool, past the chaise lounges, past the hot tub you were absolutely not thinking about. Then he stopped near the outdoor shower. It was tucked against the side of the house behind a slatted privacy wall, open to the sky but hidden from the neighbors. Smooth wood. Brushed metal fixtures. Hooks for towels. A little shelf for soap and shampoo. Practical, beautiful, and so clearly part of Jack’s mental vacation itinerary that you almost laughed.
You looked at it. Then at him. “Sand?” you asked.
Jack nodded. “Sand.”
“And salt?” you asked.
“Definitely salt,” he said.
You crossed your arms. “And?” His mouth curved. You lifted your eyebrows. “Jack.”
He stepped closer, not touching you yet. “Water warming up.” Your breath caught because his voice had gone low again. “Your swimsuit still wet,” Jack said. “You accusing me of planning it.”
“You did plan it,” you said.
“I did,” he replied. No hesitation. No shame. Just Jack, standing in the sun, telling you exactly what he wanted because you were his wife and he knew you liked knowing.
Your pulse moved everywhere. “And then?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
Jack’s eyes warmed. Then he reached for you slowly, giving you every chance to step back. You did not. His hands found your waist. “Then,” he said, “I pictured kissing you before you could finish the accusation.”
“You think that would work?” you asked.
“I know it would,” Jack said.
“You are so full of yourself on vacation.”
“Only because I know my wife,” he said.
You opened your mouth to argue. Jack kissed you. It was not like the bedroom kiss. This one had heat under it immediately. Sunlight on your shoulders. Ocean air against your skin. His hands at your waist, steady and familiar. The outdoor shower beside you like a promise he had not cashed in yet. He kissed you once. Twice. A third time, slower, until your fingers curled into the front of his shirt and your body leaned toward his like it had already decided something your brain was still pretending to debate. When he pulled back, his mouth stayed close.
“See?” Jack murmured.
You took a breath. It did not help. “You’re being smug again,” you said.
“Yeah,” he replied.
“At least pretend to be sorry.”
“No,” Jack said.
You laughed, helpless and breathless, and tipped your forehead against his chest. Jack’s arms came around you, holding you there in the warm shade beside the house while the ocean moved beyond the dunes. For a moment, neither of you said anything. No phone rang. No one called his name. No one needed you. There was only the water, the wind, the house, his hands, your heartbeat, and the terrifying knowledge that Jack Abbot had planned an entire week with this much attention. Eventually, you lifted your head. “We should unpack,” you said.
Jack’s hands stayed on your waist. “We should.”
“Groceries,” you added.
“Eventually,” he said.
“Dinner.”
“Eventually,” Jack said again.
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re going to keep doing this all week, aren’t you?”
“Showing you what I pictured?” he asked.
You nodded. His thumb traced the edge of your jaw, gentle enough to make your breath catch all over again. “Only the parts you like,” Jack said. Your stomach flipped. “And only if you want me to,” he added.
There he was. Your Jack. Smug and impossible and gorgeous in the sun, but still your Jack. Still watching you closely. Still making sure. Still turning heat into something safe enough to melt into. You slid your hands up his chest. “Vacation Jack is a problem.”
His smile touched your mouth. “Vacation.”
“You are not allowed to say that anymore,” you said.
“I’m going to say it all week,” Jack replied.
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Jack kissed you again, slower this time, and you knew with sudden, humiliating certainty that groceries were not happening any time soon. Neither was unpacking. Dinner was looking unlikely, too. But Jack’s hands were warm. The ocean was loud. The house was empty. And for once, there was nowhere else either of you had to be.
Groceries did not happen. Unpacking barely happened. Dinner, as you had predicted, did not stand a chance. You made it back upstairs with two suitcases, one tote bag, and a truly admirable amount of denial. Jack carried most of it, because of course he did, one bag over his shoulder and another in his hand as he followed you into the bedroom. The sun had started to lower by then, warm gold spilling across the white bedding and catching in soft strips over the floor. Beyond the glass doors, the ocean moved steadily, loud enough to make the whole room feel separate from the rest of the world. You set your tote on the bench at the foot of the bed and opened it with purpose. “We are unpacking,” you said.
Jack set the suitcases near the dresser. “We are.”
You pulled out a folded shirt and set it on the bed. “We are being responsible adults.”
Jack leaned back against the dresser and watched you. “We are.”
You unfolded the shirt, refolded it badly, and pointed at him without looking up. “You’re doing it again.”
Jack’s voice stayed calm. “Doing what?”
“Looking at me like I’m another amenity,” you said, finally turning to face him.
His mouth curved. You should have known better than to give him that. Jack pushed away from the dresser and crossed the room slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. “You’re the reason I booked the amenities.”
Your fingers tightened in the shirt. “Jack.”
He stopped in front of you, close enough that you had to tip your chin up. “What?”
“You can’t say things like that when I’m trying to unpack.”
His hands settled at your waist. “You’re not trying very hard.”
You looked down at the shirt in your hand, then back at him. “That is not the point.”
Jack’s thumbs moved once over your hips. “No?”
“No,” you said, but your voice had already softened.
His gaze dipped to your mouth. “What’s the point?”
You swallowed. “That you’re distracting me.”
“I know.”
“You’re admitting it?”
Jack leaned in, brushing his mouth along your jaw instead of kissing you properly. “I’m looking at my wife in the room I pictured her in.” Your breath caught. His lips moved to the place just beneath your ear. “I’m allowed to be distracted.” The shirt slipped from your hand onto the bed. Jack noticed. His smile touched your skin. “There you go.”
“You are so smug,” you whispered.
His hands slid a little more securely around your waist. “Devoted.”
You huffed a laugh, but it came out uneven because his mouth had moved to your neck. “That is not the same thing.”
“It is tonight,” Jack said.
He kissed you then, slow and warm, one hand coming up to cup your jaw while the other stayed low on your back. You leaned into him without meaning to, your hands finding his chest, fingers pressing into soft cotton and the solid warmth beneath it. For a moment, it was just kissing. Just his mouth on yours, unhurried and familiar. His thumb brushing your cheek. The sound of the ocean filling the quiet spaces between your breaths. Then you tried to pull him closer. Jack let you for half a second. Then his hand tightened gently at your waist, slowing you.
You pulled back enough to glare at him. “Seriously?”
His eyes were warm. “We’re not in a hurry.”
“You keep saying that like it’s not a threat.”
Jack’s thumb traced the edge of your jaw. “It isn’t.”
“Jack.”
His mouth brushed yours. “It’s a promise.” That did something to you. Something obvious, apparently, because Jack watched your face change and went still in that careful way he had. Not uncertain. Not distant. Just attentive. “Still good?” he asked.
You nodded. Jack did not move. You exhaled. “Yes.”
His mouth curved, softer this time. “Good.” Then he kissed you again. Slower. Deeper. Like he had all night. Like he had all week. Like the entire house had gone quiet just to give him time to learn you again. His hands moved with infuriating patience, tracing your waist, your ribs, the line of your back. He touched you like none of it was routine. Like every inch of you had been missed. Like he had spent too many mornings kissing you quickly before work and too many nights pulling you against him half-asleep and now he had finally been handed enough time to do it properly. You tried to make a sound that was not desperate. It failed.
Jack’s mouth paused against yours. “I know.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” you said.
His hand slid beneath the hem of your shirt, palm warm against your skin. “I know that sound.” Your eyes fluttered. He kissed the corner of your mouth. “I know what it means.”
You should have had a comeback for that. You had nothing. Jack took the silence for what it was and began to undress you slowly. Not in a practiced, showy way. Not like he was trying to prove anything. He just took his time, easing fabric over your head, letting his mouth follow where his hands had been. Your shoulder. Your collarbone. The soft curve beneath it. The inside of your wrist, when he lifted your hand and kissed there too, like even that deserved attention. By the time your shirt hit the floor, your breathing had changed. Jack heard it. His eyes lifted to yours. “There she is.”
You swallowed. “Don’t start.”
His hand smoothed over your side. “I haven’t even started.”
That was the problem. He had not. He had barely done anything, really. He had kissed you and touched you and watched you like he had nothing else in the world to do, and already you felt too warm, too aware, too seen. “You’re staring,” you said.
Jack’s hand settled over your hip. “I get to.”
Your mouth parted. He leaned in and kissed the center of your chest, then lower, then paused with his forehead resting lightly against you. His hands stayed gentle, thumbs moving in slow arcs against your skin. “I get you for a whole week,” he said. Your fingers slid into his hair. “No pages,” Jack said, kissing lower. “No alarms.”
“Jack,” you whispered.
“No one knocking on the door,” he continued, his mouth moving over your stomach. “No one needing either of us.”
You tried to steady yourself with a breath. “You sound very pleased about that.”
Jack looked up at you. “I am.”
“Smug,” you said.
His mouth touched your skin again. “Devoted.”
The word went straight through you. Jack guided you back until your legs met the edge of the bed. You sat because he wanted you to, because your knees were not doing much useful work anyway, and he sank down in front of you like the motion cost him nothing. Like this was exactly where he had intended to end up from the moment he walked you into the room. The ocean shifted blue and gold beyond the windows. Jack’s hands moved over your thighs. You looked down at him. “You pictured this too?”
He kissed just above your knee. “Some of it.”
“Of course you did.”
His eyes found yours. “I pictured taking my time.” Your stomach dipped. He kissed higher, still slow, still patient, his hands steady on you. “I pictured you letting me.”
Your fingers tightened in the bedding. Jack stopped immediately. His thumb swept over your thigh. “Still good?”
You nodded too quickly. “Yes.”
His gaze held yours for one more second. Then his mouth curved. “Good.”
He kept going. And he worshipped you. There was no other word for it. Jack kissed every place he uncovered. Every place his hands moved. Every place that made your breath change. He learned you as if he did not already know you, as if being married to you had only made him more interested, not less. Like familiarity had turned into devotion in his hands. You tried to stay clever. You really did. But Jack noticed everything. The hitch in your breath. The way your fingers twisted in the sheets. The little sound you made when his mouth found the inside of your thigh. The way you tried to swallow his name and failed. “Jack,” you breathed.
His mouth moved against your skin. “I know.”
“Please.”
“I’ve got you,” he murmured.
Your head tipped back. “Don’t stop.”
Jack’s hands tightened gently, holding you where he wanted you. “I’m not stopping.”
He did not. He took his time with you. That was the worst part. He did not rush, did not let you rush him, did not give in when your hips shifted restlessly beneath his hands. He only held you there, mouth warm and patient, learning every sound you tried to swallow until your body stopped pretending it could be reasonable. At some point, your hand found his hair. Jack made a low sound, pleased and rough, and your whole body reacted to it. “There,” he murmured against you. “That’s it.”
You shook your head, already too far gone to know what you were arguing against. “Jack.”
“I know, baby.”
“More,” you whispered.
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. “More?”
You nodded, breath catching. “Please. More.”
His hand slid over your hip, firm enough to ground you. “There you are.”
He gave you more. Not rushed. Never rushed. His mouth and tongue worked you up slowly, paying attention to every shift of your body, every uneven breath, every broken little sound you could not keep in. The room blurred around the edges. The ocean got louder. Or maybe that was your pulse. You could not tell anymore. All you knew was Jack. His hands. His mouth. His voice. “Jack,” you gasped, fingers twisting in the sheets. “Yes. Yes, please. Don’t stop.”
He stayed with you, steady and relentless in the gentlest way, his voice low against your skin. “I’m right here,” he murmured. “Let go.”
Your whole body tightened beneath his hands. “Jack,” you said, voice breaking. “I’m gonna—”
“I know,” he said, holding you through the first helpless tremor. “I’ve got you.”
You came with his name in your mouth. Jack stayed with you through it. He did not pull away. He did not hurry you along. He kept one hand firm at your hip and the other spread over your stomach, grounding you while pleasure moved through you in waves and left you shaking beneath him. For a while, he only let you breathe. His mouth pressed soft, unhurried kisses to your thigh, your hip, the sensitive skin beneath your navel. His hands gentled immediately, no longer asking anything from you, only keeping you close while your heartbeat slowly found its way back to normal. “There you go,” Jack murmured, his voice rougher than before. “Breathe for me.” You made a sound that was supposed to be a laugh, but failed completely. His mouth curved against your skin. “Good.”
You lifted your head just enough to look at him. “You are very pleased with yourself.”
Jack kissed your hip. “I’m pleased with you.”
That was unfair. You dropped your head back against the bed. “That was worse.”
He smiled against your skin. You should have known he was not done. You realized it in the way his hand slid back over your thigh. In the way his mouth returned to your skin. In the way he watched you now, careful and intent, waiting for the exact moment your body softened again instead of simply trembled. “Jack,” you said, already suspicious.
He lifted his head just enough to look at you. “What?”
“You’re not done.”
His thumb moved slowly over your hip. “No.”
Your stomach flipped. “I just—”
“I know,” Jack said, softer. “I was here.”
You stared at him. He lowered his mouth to your thigh again, his eyes still on yours. “I’m still here.”
Your hand found his hair before you could stop yourself. Jack’s gaze darkened. Then he started again. Slower at first. Careful. His fingers joined his mouth, slow and careful at first, and your breath caught so sharply that he paused. His eyes lifted immediately. “Still good?”
You nodded, already overwhelmed. Jack stilled. “Words, baby,” he said.
Your hands found the sheets. “Yes.”
His mouth curved against you. “Good.”
Then he took you apart again. The second time came slower. Deeper. Meaner, somehow, because Jack knew exactly what he was doing now. He knew which sounds meant keep going. He knew when your thighs started to tense. He knew when your hand flew back to his hair and when your voice broke around his name. He noticed everything. He always did. “Jack,” you said, but it barely sounded like his name anymore. His answer was a low hum against your skin. “Yes,” you gasped. “Yes, please.”
Jack’s hand pressed gently against your stomach, holding you there, keeping you present. “That’s it.”
Your breath broke. “Feels so good.”
“I know,” he murmured.
“Don’t stop.”
“I’m not stopping.”
You tried to say something else. Something clever. Something teasing. Something that sounded like you had not been reduced to nothing but want and his name. What came out instead was, “Jack.”
His grip tightened slightly. “I’ve got you.”
“More.” He gave you more. Your breath caught hard, then broke. “Jack,” you gasped, hand tightening in his hair. “I’m gonna come again.”
His answer was a low, rough sound against your skin. “That’s it,” he murmured. “Let me have it.”
You came apart again with his name in your mouth and his hands holding you steady, the ocean moving beyond the windows and sunlight going soft over the sheets. Jack stayed with you through that, too, slower now, careful as your body shook and then softened beneath him. When it was over, you felt boneless. Overheated. Completely ruined in a way that should have embarrassed you but did not, because Jack was already kissing his way back up your body like he had not finished loving any part of you. Your hands found his face before he could say anything smug enough to destroy you further. “Come here,” you whispered.
Jack paused above you, eyes searching yours. “Yeah?”
You nodded, drawing him down until his weight settled carefully over you. “I want you close.”
His expression changed. The smugness eased out of him, leaving only heat and tenderness and something so openly adoring that your chest ached with it. Jack kissed you once, softer than you expected. Then again. Then he settled between your thighs, careful with you, still watching. “Still good?” he asked.
You wrapped your arms around him. “Jack.”
His mouth brushed your cheek. “Words.”
“Yes,” you whispered. “Please.”
That was all he needed. He entered you slowly at first. Careful. Close. One hand braced beside your head, the other tangled with yours against the sheets. His forehead dipped to yours, and for a moment, neither of you said anything. There was only the sound of the ocean, your uneven breathing, and Jack’s mouth brushing yours every time you made a sound he wanted to keep. He set a deep, slow pace. “There you are,” he murmured.
You clung to him. “I love you.”
Jack’s rhythm faltered for half a breath. Then his forehead pressed more firmly to yours. “I love you too,” he said, voice rough. “So much.”
You pulled him closer, needing the weight of him, the warmth of him, the familiar shape of his body over yours. “Feels so good.”
Jack kissed you, and the kiss caught on your next breath. “Yeah?”
You nodded, already losing the thread again. “Don’t stop.”
“I’m not stopping,” he said.
He did not. He gave you what you asked for. Slow at first, then less so when your body answered him, when your legs tightened around his hips, when your hands slid over his back and your voice broke softly against his mouth. He stayed close through all of it, kissing you when you got too loud, then pulling back just enough to hear you when you tried to hide. At some point, your words dissolved again. Yes. More. Jack. Please. I love you.
He took each one like it meant something. Like every sound was a gift. Like every breathless, broken version of his name had gone straight through him. “You’re so beautiful,” he said against your mouth. Your eyes burned suddenly, overwhelmed by the room, by the ocean, by the way he was looking at you like this was not just sex. Like this was everything he had been trying to give you since he opened the front door.
“Jack,” you whispered.
“I know.” His hand tightened around yours. “I’ve got you.”
You believed him. You always believed him. Your body tightened around him, pleasure building again so fast it stole the breath from your lungs. “Jack,” you gasped, clutching at his back. “I’m gonna come.”
His rhythm faltered, then deepened, his mouth pressing hard to your jaw. “I know, baby,” he said, voice rough. “Me too.”
“Don’t stop,” you whispered.
“Not stopping.”
When you fell apart for the third time, Jack followed you over with his face tucked against your neck and your name pressed rough and quiet into your skin. He held you through it, shaking once, then going still and warm above you while the last of the sunlight faded across the bed. For a long moment, neither of you moved. You could feel his heartbeat against yours. You could hear the ocean. You could feel his mouth brushing your shoulder, once, twice, like he still had not found a place on you he did not want to kiss. Eventually, Jack shifted his weight carefully off you, but he did not go far. He stayed close, one arm still draped over your waist, his face turned into your neck. You stared at the ceiling and tried to remember your own name.
Jack pressed a kiss beneath your jaw. “You with me?”
You let out a weak sound. “Unfortunately.”
His laugh was quiet against your skin. “Unfortunately?”
You turned your head to look at him. “I had plans.”
Jack lifted his head, hair mussed, mouth soft, eyes far too pleased. “Unpacking?”
“Groceries,” you said.
His hand moved over your stomach. “Dinner.”
You pointed at him with as much authority as you could manage while naked and boneless beneath a sheet. “Do not act like you care about dinner.”
“I care deeply about dinner,” Jack said.
“You destroyed dinner.”
“I delayed dinner,” he corrected.
“You personally dismantled dinner as a concept.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “That seems dramatic.”
“I am weak,” you said. “I have earned drama.”
His expression softened immediately. “Water first.”
You groaned. “Do not say hydration.”
Jack sat up, entirely too beautiful in the fading light. “Hydration matters.”
“I hate vacation Jack.”
He leaned down and kissed your bare shoulder. “No, you don’t.”
You closed your eyes because he was right and because your body still felt like it had been poured into the mattress. “I’m too tired to argue.”
“Good,” Jack said.
You cracked one eye open. “Good?”
He brushed his thumb over your cheek. “I like winning.”
“You are a menace.”
Jack kissed your forehead before he got out of bed. “Devoted.”
You watched him cross the room, reach for his shorts, and pull them on with the relaxed confidence of a man who had thoroughly ruined your life and intended to order takeout afterward. He grabbed a bottle of water from one of the bags, opened it, and came back to the bed. When he held it out, you took it only because he lifted his eyebrows at you. “You are very bossy for a man on vacation,” you said before drinking.
Jack sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m taking care of my wife.”
You swallowed, then lowered the bottle to glare at him. “You keep saying that after ruining me.”
His hand came up, thumb brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “Both can be true,” Jack said. You hated that your heart went soft. You hated more that he saw it happen. Jack smiled, warm and insufferable, and leaned in to kiss you again. This one was slow. Quiet. Almost sweet. When he pulled back, you reached for him without thinking, and he came easily, settling beside you on top of the sheets. You tucked yourself against him, cheek on his chest, your body still humming and loose. Jack’s hand moved up and down your back. Outside, the sky had gone dusky over the water. Inside, the room was warm and dim and wrecked in small, obvious ways. Your shirt on the floor. His shoes abandoned near the dresser. One suitcase open, untouched. The bedcovers twisted around your legs. Dinner still had not happened. Groceries definitely were not happening. You tilted your face against his chest. “We need food.”
Jack’s hand paused on your back. “I’ll order.”
“You planned that too?”
“I planned options,” he said.
You lifted your head to look at him. “Of course you did.”
His mouth curved. “Vacation.”
You dropped your face back to his chest with a groan. Jack laughed and kissed the top of your head. You felt the sound under your cheek. You felt the warmth of him around you. You felt, with sudden, dangerous clarity, that this was only the first night. And Jack still had a whole week.
You woke up to the ocean. Not an alarm. Not Jack’s phone buzzing on the nightstand. Not the quiet, practiced sound of him trying to get out of bed without waking you before your shift. The ocean. For a few seconds, you did not move. You stayed exactly where you were, cheek pressed into the pillow, body warm beneath the sheets, light spilling soft and gold through the curtains. The glass doors were cracked open just enough to let the sound in, waves rolling steady beyond the deck, the air carrying the faintest trace of salt. Then you became aware of three things at once. One, you were naked. Two, you were sore. Three, your husband was not in bed. That last one was suspicious. You opened one eye. Jack’s side of the bed was rumpled and empty, the sheet still twisted from where he had slept close to you most of the night. His shirt was still on the floor near the suitcase. Your suitcase was still open and mostly untouched. Your clothes from yesterday had been moved to the chair, which meant Jack had cleaned up just enough to be annoying about it. You lifted your head. The bedroom door was open. From somewhere downstairs came the low sound of cabinets, then the quiet clink of a mug against the counter. Of course. You rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling. He had personally destroyed your ability to unpack, delayed dinner until takeout had been eaten in bed, made you drink an entire bottle of water while naked and boneless beneath the sheet, and now he was probably downstairs acting like a responsible adult because he had woken up first. You loved him. You hated him. You were going to marry him again. Slowly, carefully, you sat up. Your whole body protested. “Oh my god,” you whispered to the empty room.
From downstairs, Jack called, “You okay?”
You froze. Of course he heard you. Of course. You looked toward the open bedroom door. “Stop having doctor hearing.”
“I have husband hearing,” Jack called back.
You rubbed both hands over your face. “That is worse.”
“There’s coffee,” he said from somewhere near the kitchen.
You narrowed your eyes at the doorway. “Is that a peace offering?”
“No,” Jack called back. “It’s coffee.”
You tried not to smile. It took you a minute to find clothes. Not because you had unpacked, obviously, but because your husband had made an absolute ruin of any organized plan you had for this vacation. Eventually, you pulled on a soft pair of shorts and one of Jack’s T-shirts from the open suitcase, mostly because it was closest and partly because you knew exactly what it would do to him. You made your way downstairs slowly. Jack was in the kitchen. Barefoot. Hair still messy from sleep. Black sweatpants low on his hips. No shirt. Standing in front of the stove like he had not personally changed the chemical composition of your bones the night before. You stopped in the doorway. Jack looked over his shoulder, spatula in hand. “Morning.”
You stared at him. His eyes dipped once, taking in his shirt on your body, then returned to your face with a heat that did not belong anywhere near breakfast. You crossed your arms. “No.”
Jack’s brows lifted. “No?”
“You do not get to stand there like that.”
He looked down at himself. “Like what?”
“Shirtless,” you said.
Jack glanced back at the stove. “I’m making breakfast.”
“You are making threats,” you told him.
His mouth twitched. “Eggs.”
“Threatening eggs.”
Jack turned the burner lower, set the spatula down, and reached for the mug beside him. “Coffee?” You eyed him. He lifted a second mug from the counter. “Decaf for you if you want it. Regular if you want to live dangerously.”
You walked toward him, slow and careful. Jack noticed. His amusement softened immediately. “Sore?”
You stopped in front of him. “Do not sound proud.”
“I don’t,” Jack said.
“You do.”
His hand found your waist, gentle over the soft cotton of his shirt. “I sound concerned.”
“You sound like a man who caused a problem and then packed a first-aid kit.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “Hydration matters.”
You pointed at him. “You are not allowed to say that before nine in the morning.”
“It’s nine-thirty,” he said.
You glanced toward the clock on the stove. “That cannot be right.”
Jack handed you the mug. “You slept in.”
You took it slowly. For some reason, that was what got you. Not the house. Not the ocean. Not the ridiculous bedroom. Not even Jack standing shirtless in a sunlit kitchen making breakfast like some kind of vacation hallucination. You slept in. No alarm. No shift. No phone dragging you out of bed before your body was ready. No list already forming in your head before your eyes opened. Just sleep. Jack watched your face change. His thumb moved once at your waist. “Good?”
You looked down into the coffee. “Yeah.”
His voice softened. “Good.”
You took a sip, mostly so you would not have to respond right away. It was perfect. Of course it was. You lowered the mug and looked at him. “You’re very annoying.”
Jack’s eyes warmed. “I know.”
“You made good coffee,” you added.
“I did.”
You smiled softly. “You let me sleep.”
“You needed it,” Jack replied.
“You made breakfast.”
Jack turned back toward the stove. “Still making it.”
“And you’re shirtless,” you added.
He slid eggs onto a plate. “That part was for me.”
You laughed. “For you?”
Jack carried the plate to the island and set it in front of you. “I like when you look at me.”
Your stomach flipped because, apparently it had no loyalty to you whatsoever. You picked up your fork. “I’m eating.”
“You should,” Jack said.
Your eyes narrowed, “You are not distracting me from breakfast.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied.
You gave him a look. “You absolutely would.”
Jack reached for a glass and filled it with water. “I’m being responsible.”
You took the water when he slid it toward you. “You are being obscene with responsible vocabulary.”
His smile deepened. “Eat.”
You pointed your fork at him. “Bossy.”
“Concerned,” Jack said.
“Smug.”
“Devoted,” he corrected.
You hated that it still worked. Jack knew it did. He leaned across the island and kissed your temple before you could call him out for it. Breakfast was eggs, toast, fruit he had somehow remembered to pick up the night before when you had been half-asleep and wrapped in a sheet, and coffee that tasted better because you were drinking it in his shirt with the ocean visible through the windows. Jack ate standing at first, which lasted about thirty seconds before you pointed at the stool beside you. “Sit,” you said.
He looked at you over his mug. “I’m fine.”
“I did not ask if you were fine.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “No?”
You pointed again. “Sit down and eat like a normal vacation person.”
“A normal vacation person?” he asked.
“Yes,” you said. “The kind who does not hover shirtless in a kitchen after committing crimes against his wife.”
Jack sat, still smiling. “Crimes?”
You took another bite of toast. “Several.”
His knee brushed yours under the island. “You seemed enthusiastic.”
You nearly choked on your coffee. “Jack.”
He reached over and steadied your mug with one hand. “Careful.”
“You do not get to say things like that and then ‘careful’ me.”
“I can do both,” he said.
“You keep doing both.”
Jack’s hand settled on your thigh beneath the island, warm and familiar. “That’s marriage.”
You looked at him. “That is not the official definition.”
“It’s ours,” he said.
That softened you before you were ready for it. Jack saw that too, because he saw everything. His thumb moved once over your leg. You looked out through the windows instead of at him. The pool glimmered below the deck. The chaise lounges sat in neat rows in the morning sun. The hot tub was quiet beneath the shaded overhang. Beyond the dune grass, the ocean rolled on like it had nowhere else to be either.
By the second day, you stopped pretending the kitchen was only for cooking. It happened after breakfast, when you were rinsing plates at the sink, and Jack came up behind you with his hands warm on your hips. You had meant to be useful. You had meant to clean up, change, maybe go for a beach walk before the sun got too high. Jack had kissed the side of your neck instead. You had told him the dishes were not done. He had reached past you, turned off the water, and said, very calmly, “They can wait.”
Then he had turned you around, lifted you onto the island he had claimed was for coffee, and kissed you until you forgot there were dishes in the sink at all. It was not the bed. It was not slow in the same way the first night had been slow. It was Jack standing between your knees in the bright morning kitchen, your hands in his hair, his mouth on yours, the whole house quiet around you while the ocean moved beyond the windows. It was your shorts on the floor. His hands under his shirt on your body. Your back against cool stone and Jack’s voice at your ear, low and wrecked, telling you he had pictured this too. Afterward, while you sat on the counter with his forehead against your shoulder and your breath still coming too fast, Jack reached blindly for the dish towel. You lifted your head. “What are you doing?”
“Cleaning the counter,” he said, voice rough.
You stared at him. “Jack.”
He lifted his head, eyes warm and shameless. “Responsible.”
“You just had sex with me on the kitchen island.”
“And now I’m cleaning it.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Jack smiled. “Vacation.”
By the third night, you stopped letting Jack say hot tub without narrowing your eyes. The hot tub incident happened after dinner, when the sky had gone dark, and the deck lights glowed warm against the water. Jack had said it would be relaxing. You had believed him because, apparently, marriage did not make you smarter. It had started relaxing. Warm water. His arm around your waist. Your back against his chest. The ocean loud beyond the deck. His mouth at your shoulder while his hands moved under the water, slow and unhurried, until relaxing stopped being the correct word for any of it. You had turned in his lap to kiss him. That had been your mistake. Or his. Probably both. The kiss deepened. The water moved around you. Jack’s hands settled on your hips, guiding you closer until there was no space left between you. By the time you realized neither of you had any intention of stopping, your arms were around his neck and his mouth was at your throat, both of you tucked beneath the covered deck with only the ocean loud enough to swallow the sounds you were trying not to make.
“No one’s close enough to hear you,” Jack had murmured against your skin.
You had clutched at his shoulders. “Jack.”
His hand had tightened at your waist. “That was also a selling point.”
Afterward, wrapped in a towel and glaring at him across the deck, you said, “I almost drowned.”
Jack handed you a glass of water. “You did not almost drown.”
“Emotionally, I did.”
His mouth curved. “That’s not drowning.”
“It felt medically significant.”
“Good thing I’m a doctor,” he said.
You narrowed your eyes. “You are not my doctor on vacation.”
Jack leaned in, water still in his hand, and kissed the corner of your mouth. “Vacation.”
You took the glass from him because he was right about hydration and because your legs felt unreliable enough that pride was no longer useful.
The chaise lounge was worse. That had started with sunscreen, which Jack insisted on with the solemn focus of a man completing a surgical checklist. He had made you lie on your stomach by the pool with your book open beside you and the sun warm across your back. “Responsible,” Jack said, warming sunscreen between his palms.
You rested your cheek against your folded arms. “You are using that word loosely.”
His hands settled on your shoulders. “I’m protecting your skin.”
“You are enjoying yourself.”
“I can do both,” he said. He could. That was the problem. His hands moved with slow, thorough care, working sunscreen over your shoulders, down your back, along your arms. He was careful around the edges of your swimsuit, careful in a way that turned less careful the longer you stayed quiet beneath him. When his mouth eventually touched the back of your knee, you lifted your head.
“Jack,” you said.
His hand slid over your calf. “Missed a spot.”
“That is not where people put sunscreen.”
His mouth moved higher. “I’m being thorough.”
The book slid off the lounge and hit the deck. You did not pick it up. Jack kissed his way up the back of your thigh, turned you over with careful hands, and settled between your legs like the chaise lounge had been built for exactly this. He kept one hand spread over your stomach, holding you steady, while his mouth moved lower and the sun warmed every inch of skin he had just covered with sunscreen. You gripped the cushion. You said his name. Then you said it again, louder, because the privacy fence was apparently as private as the listing promised, and Jack loved proving a point.
Later, when you were lying boneless in the shade, and Jack was stretched out beside you looking entirely too pleased with himself, you turned your head and glared at him. “You said sunscreen first.”
“I applied sunscreen first,” Jack said.
“That does not make what happened afterward responsible.”
His sunglasses were low on his nose when he looked at you. “I disagree.”
“You would.”
He reached over and brushed his thumb along your wrist. “You liked it.”
You closed your eyes. “I loved it. That is not the point.”
“It feels like part of the point,” Jack said.
You hated how often he was right.
The indoor shower became a problem, too. That one was not fair, because it really was practical. The bench mattered. The space mattered. The ease of it mattered. You saw the difference in him the first time he used it, the way his shoulders loosened when he did not have to brace himself or calculate each movement against slick tile. So you did not make jokes at first. You sat on the bench because he asked you to, warm water running over both of you, steam softening the edges of the glass. Jack settled behind you, careful and steady, and washed the salt out of your hair with his fingers. For a while, it was sweet. It stayed sweet, even when his mouth found your shoulder. Even when his hands moved lower. Even when you reached back for him and heard his breath catch against your wet skin. Then you turned in his lap, water running over both of you, and kissed him until his hands tightened on your waist. The bench made everything easier. Safer. Close in a way that did not ask either of you to balance or brace or think past the next breath. Jack let you set the pace at first. Then he stopped being patient. By the time the water started cooling, your forehead was against his, your arms around his shoulders, his hands firm at your hips while he moved beneath you, and the shower glass had fogged so completely that the rest of the bathroom disappeared.
Afterward, wrapped in one of the absurdly soft white towels, you leaned against the vanity and watched Jack adjust his prosthetic with damp hair falling over his forehead. “That shower is a safety feature,” he said.
You pointed at him. “You are not allowed to weaponize accessibility.”
Jack looked up at you, mouth curving. “I was taking care of my wife.”
“You were doing several things to your wife.”
“Efficient,” he said.
You laughed so hard you had to sit down on the edge of the tub. Jack crossed the bathroom, still smiling, and kissed your wet forehead. “Worth the rental?” he asked.
You looked around the ridiculous bathroom, then back at him. “For the house.”
His laugh warmed the whole room.
By the fourth afternoon, you had stopped pretending Jack was the only problem. He was standing near the pool house, hair damp from the water, towel low on his hips, saying something completely innocent about grabbing another drink. You had taken one look at him and decided you were done being reasonable. “Come here,” you said.
Jack looked over, amused. “Need something?”
You hooked two fingers in the waistband of his swim trunks and pulled him toward the shade of the pool house. His amusement disappeared. “Oh,” Jack said, voice lower.
You smiled up at him. “Vacation.”
That time, Jack was the one who forgot how to argue. The pool house was cooler than the deck, shaded and private, the shelves stacked with towels behind him. You backed him against the closed door, kissed him once, and watched the last of his smugness disappear when you sank slowly in front of him. Jack’s hand found the wall. His head tipped back. For once, he was the one saying your name like it was the only word he had left.
The days started to blur after that. Not because nothing happened. Because everything did. Morning coffee on the deck with your feet in Jack’s lap. Beach walks with damp sand under your heels and his hand wrapped around yours. Long afternoons where you read three pages of your book and remembered none of them because Jack was stretched out beside the pool, sun-warmed and unfairly handsome, occasionally looking over at you like he was still picturing things. There were naps with the glass doors open. There were showers that took too long. There were groceries eventually, though Jack had kissed you against the rental car in the parking lot until you forgot half the list. There were dinners eaten outside while the sky turned pink and orange over the water. There were nights where Jack ordered food because neither of you felt like moving, and mornings where he made breakfast because he woke before you and apparently considered feeding you part of his vacation itinerary. There was water. So much water. Jack handed it to you constantly. At the pool. After the beach. After the hot tub. After sex. Before coffee. Beside the bed. On the deck. Once, insultingly, while you were brushing your teeth.
“You are obsessed,” you told him around your toothbrush.
Jack leaned against the bathroom doorway with a bottle in his hand. “You’re dehydrated.”
You spat into the sink and glared at him through the mirror. “Vacation Jack is a menace.”
His eyes met yours in the reflection. “Vacation Jack is keeping you alive.”
“Vacation Jack is the reason I need medical intervention.”
Jack held out the water. “Drink.”
You took it. Obviously.
By the fifth evening, you caught him in the kitchen again. He had one hand braced lightly on the counter while he looked into the fridge, his weight shifted in that subtle way you knew better than to comment on too directly. The day had been long in the sun. A good long. A beach-walk, pool-swim, shower-too-long kind of long. Jack was still moving like he intended to make dinner. Absolutely not. You crossed the kitchen and took the cutting board from his hand.
Jack looked down at it, then at you. “I was using that.”
“I know,” you said.
His brows lifted. “Do I get it back?”
“No.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Am I in trouble?”
“Sit down,” you said.
His expression changed, amusement softening into something more careful. “Baby, I’m fine.”
“I know.”
“I can cook,” Jack said.
“I know,” you repeated.
“Then why am I being banished?”
You set the cutting board on the counter behind you, rose onto your toes, and kissed him once. Slow enough to quiet him. Soft enough to mean it. When you pulled back, your hand stayed against his chest. “Because I want to take care of my husband.”
Jack went still. Not dramatically. Just enough that you felt the breath he did not quite take. Your thumb moved over his shirt. “You have taken very good care of me all week.”
His eyes softened. “Have I?”
You gave him a look. “Do not fish for compliments when you know exactly what you’ve done.”
Jack’s mouth curved again, but the tenderness stayed. “I know some of what I’ve done.”
“You know all of what you’ve done.”
“Most,” he said.
You pointed toward the patio doors. “Chair. Ocean view. Go.”
He glanced toward the patio. “You’re very bossy on vacation.”
You turned back to him. “You pictured that, remember?”
Jack looked back at you. For a second, his smile went quieter. “I did,” he said.
You pointed toward the patio again. “So go enjoy the accuracy of your imagination.”
He caught your hand before you could turn away and kissed your knuckles. “Thank you.”
You softened immediately. “For dinner?”
Jack’s thumb brushed over your wedding ring. “For knowing when to tell me to sit down.”
You hated how quickly your throat tightened. To cover it, you squeezed his hand and lifted your chin. “I’m very wise.”
“And bossy,” he said.
“You love that.”
Jack kissed your knuckles again. “I do.”
He went outside, finally, settling into one of the patio chairs with a view of the water. You watched him through the glass for a moment before you started dinner. He leaned back slowly, one hand resting on the arm of the chair, face turned toward the ocean. The evening light moved over him, softening the lines of his shoulders and catching in his hair. For once, he looked like he was letting himself be still. Not useful. Not on call. Not anticipating the next thing. Just Jack. Your Jack. The man who had built an entire week around giving you rest and laughter and ocean views and his full attention. The man who still needed to be reminded, sometimes, that he was allowed to receive those things too. So you made dinner. Nothing fancy. Pasta, a salad from whatever you had managed to buy at the store, bread warmed in the oven because Jack had insisted vacation bread was different from regular bread, and you had not had the energy to challenge him. You carried the plates outside as the sun lowered toward the water. Jack looked up when the patio door slid open. “That smells good.”
“You sound surprised,” you said, setting his plate in front of him.
“I sound grateful,” Jack said. His hand wrapped around your wrist before you could walk away. “Come here.”
You looked down at him. “I have to get my plate.”
“In a minute,” Jack said. You let him tug you closer. He looked up at you, warm and soft in the evening light. “Thank you.”
Your chest ached. “You already said that.”
Jack’s thumb brushed your wrist. “I’m saying it again.”
“For pasta?” you asked.
“For this,” Jack said. His thumb brushed your wrist. You knew what he meant. The chair. The ocean. The pause. The way you had noticed without making him explain. The way you had taken the knife from his hand and told him to rest like it was not up for debate. You leaned down and kissed him. Jack’s hand slid to your waist, gentle and familiar. When you pulled back, his eyes stayed on yours.
“You’re welcome,” you said softly.
His mouth curved. “Very wise.”
“And bossy,” you added.
“And bossy,” Jack agreed.
You touched his cheek once before stepping back. “Eat your dinner.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
You paused at the door and looked back. “Careful.”
Jack’s smile widened. “With what?”
“That tone.”
He leaned back in the chair, relaxed and too handsome for his own good. “Vacation.”
You pointed at him. “I am feeding you out of love.”
“I know,” he said.
You glared at him. “I can take it away.”
“You won’t,” Jack replied with a smirk.
You narrowed your eyes further. “You’re too confident.”
Jack picked up his fork, still smiling. “You love me.”
That was the problem. You did. So you got your own plate, came back outside, and sat beside him while the sky softened into pink and gold and the ocean kept moving below you. For a while, you ate in comfortable quiet. Jack’s foot brushed yours under the table.
You looked over at him. “Don’t start.”
He lifted his glass, eyes innocent. “I’m eating dinner.”
You watched his face. “You’re thinking.”
“I do that,” Jack said.
You sighed. “You’re thinking loudly.”
His mouth twitched. “I’m thinking this is nice.” That shut you up. He looked out toward the water. “You. Me. No plans.”
“We have plans,” you said after a second.
Jack turned back to you. “Do we?”
“Yes,” you said, gesturing with your fork. “Finish dinner. Clean up. Sit out here. Maybe actually watch the sunset like normal people.”
Jack nodded slowly. “Ambitious.”
“No detours,” you added.
His eyes warmed. “You sure?”
You pointed your fork at him. “I am taking care of you tonight.”
Something tender moved over his face. He set his glass down. “Okay.”
The ease of his answer made your heart hurt. “Okay?” you asked.
Jack reached across the small table and held out his hand. You slid yours into it. His thumb moved over your ring again. “Okay.”
So you watched the sunset. Actually watched it. The sky turned orange, then rose, then dusky purple at the edges. The ocean caught every color and broke it apart over the waves. Jack’s hand stayed around yours on the tabletop, warm and steady. Your plates emptied slowly. The air cooled enough that he went inside halfway through and came back with a sweatshirt for you without being asked. You took it from him, trying not to smile. “You are physically incapable of not taking care of me.”
Jack sat down again. “You looked cold.”
“I was cold,” you agreed.
Jack nodded once. “Then I was right.”
“You are very pleased when you’re right,” you said.
“I’m right a lot,” Jack replied.
You pulled the sweatshirt over your head. “That is deeply annoying.”
Jack’s eyes moved over you in his sweatshirt, and the look on his face made your stomach warm all over again. Then he seemed to catch himself. He picked up his water instead. You noticed. Your heart went soft. “Good choice,” you said.
Jack’s eyes flicked to yours over the rim of the glass. “I can behave.”
You laughed. “Since when?”
Jack lowered the glass. “Since you said you were taking care of me.”
That landed quietly between you. You reached across the table and touched his wrist. Jack turned his hand beneath yours, palm up. You threaded your fingers together. “Good,” you said.
His thumb moved over your knuckles. “Good?”
You looked at him, the man you loved, relaxed and sun-warmed and softened by the week, sitting still because you had asked him to. “Yeah,” you said. “Good.”
Jack brought your hand to his mouth and kissed your knuckles. For once, he did not make a joke. For once, you did not either. The sun disappeared behind the water. The deck lights clicked on around you. And for one whole evening, vacation meant dinner, quiet, ocean air, and Jack letting himself be loved back.
The beach did it. That was what you decided later. Not Jack. Not the house. Not the fact that he had been walking around all week looking sun-warmed and relaxed and married in a way that felt personally designed to weaken you. The beach. The beach was responsible. You had spent the afternoon in the water, letting the waves push against your legs while Jack stood close enough behind you to steady you every time the current pulled a little too hard. You had laughed when he caught your waist. He had laughed when you accused him of using the ocean as an excuse to put his hands on you. Then the sun had started to lower. The water had gone gold. Jack had kissed you in the surf with one hand at your back and the other at your jaw, salt on his mouth and ocean around your knees, and something about it had tipped the whole day sideways.
By the time you made it back up the private beach path, you were sandy, damp, warm, and too aware of him. Jack walked behind you, carrying the beach bag over one shoulder, his hair wet from the ocean, his chest bare, his swim trunks hanging low on his hips. His sunglasses were pushed into his hair. His skin was sun-warmed and salt-damp and unfairly golden in the late afternoon light. At the top of the path, you stopped beside the deck stairs and shook sand from one foot.
Jack came up behind you. “You good?”
You looked over your shoulder. “I have sand everywhere.”
His mouth curved. “That happens at the beach.”
“You know exactly what comes after beach,” you said.
Jack’s gaze flicked, very briefly, toward the side of the house. The outdoor shower. You pointed at him. “There.”
His face stayed innocent. “You need to rinse off.”
“You have been waiting all week to say that.”
Jack moved past you toward the side of the house. “Come on.”
You did not follow immediately. He stopped after three steps and looked back. The sun was behind him, low enough to catch along the edges of his shoulders and turn the wet ends of his hair gold. Beyond him, the outdoor shower waited behind the slatted privacy wall, practical and beautiful and ridiculous. Jack lifted his brows. “You coming?”
You stared at him. That was the problem. You had been, repeatedly, all week, and he knew it. His mouth twitched like he knew exactly where your mind had gone. You walked toward him mostly to prove you still had dignity. You did not. Jack set the beach bag on the low teak bench tucked beneath the towel hooks. He pulled out two towels and hung them neatly out of the spray. The normalcy of it made everything worse. He was just preparing. Just moving around the small space with the same quiet competence he brought to everything. Towels. Soap. Shampoo. His wedding ring flashing in the sun. Your swimsuit still damp against your skin. The privacy wall blocking the rest of the deck from view. The ocean loud beyond the dunes.
“You are very organized for a man about to be inappropriate,” you said.
Jack turned the shower knob. Water sputtered once, then streamed down against the wood slats and stone floor. He held one hand beneath it, testing the temperature. “I’m being responsible.”
“You keep saying that.”
He shrugged. “It keeps being true.”
You stepped into the shower space, arms crossed over your chest. “This is for sand.”
Jack looked at you over his shoulder. “And salt.”
“And?” you asked.
His hand stayed under the water. His eyes moved over you slowly. Not like the bedroom. Not patient. Not careful in the same soft, devotional way. This was sharper. Hungrier. Like the whole week had been building toward this exact moment and he was tired of pretending it had not.
“And this,” Jack said.
Then he reached for you. You had time to take one breath before his hands were on your waist and his mouth was on yours. The kiss was immediate. No slow beginning. No teasing pass. No careful little preview. Jack kissed you like he had spent the entire walk up from the beach thinking about it. Like the salt on your skin and the wet curve of your swimsuit and the warmth of the sun had all stacked up against him until even vacation Jack’s patience had limits. Your back hit the privacy wall with a soft thud. Jack’s hand came up behind your head before you could feel the wood, cushioning you automatically even while his mouth stayed urgent on yours.
That made it worse. The desperation. The care. The fact that even when he was losing control, he was still Jack. You grabbed at his shoulders and pulled him closer. He made a low sound into your mouth. The water ran beside you, splashing warm against the stone. Steam rose faintly where it hit sun-heated wood. Jack’s hand slid from your waist to your hip, then back again, like he could not decide where he wanted to touch you first and hated that he had to choose.
You broke the kiss only because you needed air. Jack did not go far. His mouth moved to your jaw, then your neck, salt and heat and pressure all at once. “You planned this,” you said, breathless.
His mouth dragged over the side of your throat. “I told you I did.”
You exhaled, “You admitted it too easily.”
Jack’s mouth moved lower.
Your stomach flipped. Jack’s hand found the tie of your swimsuit. He paused. His forehead pressed briefly to your temple. “Yes?”
You swallowed hard. “Yes.”
His fingers moved. The wet fabric loosened. Jack kissed the spot beneath your ear. “Tell me if you want me to slow down.”
You almost laughed. It came out as a shaky breath instead. “You’ve been slow all week.”
His mouth curved against your skin. “Not right now.”
“No,” you whispered. “Not right now.”
That was all he needed. He pulled you under the water with him. Warmth poured over your shoulders, down your back, over skin already hot from the sun and his hands. You gasped into his mouth when he kissed you again, and Jack caught the sound like he had been waiting for it. Your hands found his chest immediately. Saltwater. Warm skin. The steady beat of him under your palms. Jack looked down at you, breathing harder now, eyes darker than they had been all day.
“You,” he said.
It was not a sentence. It did not need to be. It was new enough to steal your breath. Jack, who always had a line. Jack, who could ruin you with three calm words and a raised eyebrow. Jack, who had spent the whole week walking you through exactly what he pictured. This Jack was looking at you like language had become inconvenient.
You pushed wet hair off his forehead. “Vacation Jack finally speechless?”
His hands tightened on your hips. “Not speechless.”
“No?”
His mouth came down hard against yours. “Busy.”
You laughed into the kiss, and then you stopped laughing because his hands moved with purpose. The water kept running. His mouth kept finding yours. Your swimsuit disappeared, guided away with hands that were both impatient and careful. Jack kissed each new place the water touched, but not with the unhurried reverence of the bedroom. This was needier. Messier. His mouth at your shoulder. Your collarbone. The top of your chest. His hands at your waist, your back, your hips, like he could not stand the thought of any part of you being out of reach.
“Jack,” you breathed. He hummed against your skin. You tipped your head back against the wall. “Oh my god.”
His mouth moved lower. Your hand flew to his hair. Jack looked up immediately. “Still good?” he asked, voice rough.
You nodded. His eyes held yours. You remembered what he needed. “Yes,” you said again. “Please.”
The heat in his face shifted. Not smug now. Not playful. Focused. Jack’s gaze dropped to the low teak bench beneath the towel hooks. Your breath caught before he said anything. His hand slid to your hip. “Sit.”
You looked from him to the bench. “Here?”
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “Here.”
The wood was warm from the sun when you sank onto it, water spilling over your shoulders and down your chest. Jack stepped between your knees, one hand braced against the slatted wall beside your head, the other sliding over your thigh.
For a second, he only looked at you. Wet. Bare. Breathless. His wife, exactly where he had pictured you. Then his mouth found your skin. Jack stayed standing between your thighs, bending to kiss the water from your stomach, your hip, the sensitive skin just beneath it. His hand hooked behind your knee, drawing you closer to the edge of the bench, and your fingers flew to his hair when his mouth and tongue moved lower. The sound you made was immediate and helpless and much too loud.
Jack’s grip flexed on your thigh. You looked down at him, water running over his shoulders, his eyes closed like he was the one being ruined by it. “Jack,” you gasped.
His answer was a low sound against your skin. You pressed one hand to the bench and the other into his wet hair, trying to breathe, trying to hold still, trying to survive him when he clearly had no interest in making that easy. This was not like the bedroom. The bedroom had been slow enough to make you ache with it. This was Jack taking what he had been imagining since the listing photos. This was salt on your skin and water over both of you and his patience finally fraying at the edges. He still noticed everything, but now he reacted faster. Greedier. The second your breath caught, he chased it. The second your hips shifted, he held you closer. The second his name broke in your mouth, he answered like he had been waiting for it.
“Jack,” you said again. “Yes. Yes, right there.”
His hand tightened at your thigh. You made a sound that did not even try to be quiet. The ocean was loud. The shower was louder. Jack loved that. You could tell by the way he looked up at you, eyes dark and wrecked, mouth still against you like he had no intention of stopping.
“You’re louder out here,” he murmured.
You tried to glare at him. It did not work. “You said no one could hear.”
His mouth curved. “I said no one was close enough.”
“Jack.”
“I like hearing you,” he said.
Then he lowered his mouth again before you could answer. Your thoughts scattered. Both hands went to his hair now, fingers slipping through wet strands, holding on because there was nowhere else for all of it to go. Jack kept you seated at the edge of the bench, one hand steady at your hip, the other sliding up your thigh with a kind of impatience that made your entire body go tight.
“Don’t stop,” you gasped. He did not. “Please.” He did not. “Jack, I’m—”
He groaned like he knew. Like he wanted it. Like the sound of you coming apart against his mouth was exactly what he had pictured when he stood in front of this shower for the first time and told you sand, salt, and. Your whole body tightened. “Jack,” you cried, hand fisting in his hair. “I’m gonna come.”
He held you harder. “Good,” he said, rough and low. “Let me have it.”
You came with the water running over you and his name breaking out of you, your thighs shaking around him, one hand in his hair and the other gripping the bench like it was the only solid thing left in the world. Jack stayed with you through it. He did not rush you. He did not pull away until your body softened beneath his hands and your breathing started to find a rhythm again. Then he straightened, one arm sliding around your waist before your balance could even think about failing. His mouth found yours, and you tasted salt and heat and him. You clung to him.
Jack kissed you like he was not done. You knew he was not done. You were not either. Your hands moved to his trunks. He made a sound against your mouth. You paused, breathless, fingers hooked at his waistband. “Yes?”
Jack’s eyes flashed to yours. For all his earlier desperation, he went still for that. Then he nodded once. “Yes.” Your fingers moved. His forehead dropped briefly to yours. “Baby,” he said, voice strained.
You kissed him. That seemed to be the end of his patience. Jack’s hands were on you again, guiding, lifting, turning just enough to get you both where he wanted without either of you slipping. Your back met the wall again, warm water streaming over your shoulders while the late sun burned gold through the slats. He checked you once more. Even then.
His mouth brushed your cheek. “Still with me?”
You wrapped your arms around his shoulders. “Yes.”
His hand slid beneath your thigh, urging it higher against his hip. “Tell me if you need me to stop.”
You shook your head. “Don’t stop.”
Jack’s breath broke. Then he was there. Close. Everywhere.
Your head tipped back against the wall, and Jack’s mouth found your throat at the exact moment your body took him in. The sound you made was not quiet. Jack’s hand slammed against the wall beside your head. “Fuck,” he breathed.
The word went straight through you. You clutched at him. “Jack.”
“I know.” His voice was rough now, almost unrecognizable. “I know.”
He moved carefully at first. Carefully because the floor was wet. Carefully because it was still Jack. But there was nothing patient about it. Not really. Not in the way his mouth kept dragging over your skin. Not in the way his hand gripped your thigh. Not in the way his breath kept catching against your neck every time you said his name. The shower poured over both of you. The ocean roared beyond the wall. His body was solid and hot against yours, pinning you there, holding you up, taking the weight you could not manage anymore.
You loved him. You loved him so much you could barely stand it. “I love you,” you gasped.
Jack’s rhythm faltered. His forehead pressed to your temple. “Say it again.”
You tightened your arms around him. “I love you.”
His mouth found yours, hard and desperate. “Again.”
“Jack.”
“Again,” he said, voice breaking around the word.
Your chest split open. “I love you,” you said into his mouth. “I love you, I love you.”
He groaned, rough and helpless, and buried his face in your neck. His hand shifted at your thigh, holding you closer, changing the angle just enough that your whole body jerked against him.
“Oh my god,” you gasped.
Jack’s mouth moved against your throat. “There?”
“Yes.” Your nails pressed into his shoulders. “Yes. More.”
He gave you more. The wall was solid behind you. Jack was solid in front of you. The water kept running over your skin, over his shoulders, between you, making everything slippery and hot and impossible to hold onto except him. You said his name again. Then yes. Then more. Then don’t stop.
Jack took every word like it hit him somewhere deep. He was not quiet either now. Not completely. His breath was rough at your ear. Your name slipped out of him once, then again, low and wrecked, like he was trying to keep himself together and failing because you were wrapped around him, wet and shaking and saying you loved him.
“Feels so good,” you whispered.
His hand tightened at your thigh. “Yeah?”
You nodded, forehead pressed to his. “So good.”
Jack kissed you hard enough to steal the rest of it. You felt yourself getting close again, too fast and not fast enough, pleasure building sharp and hot beneath your skin. Your fingers slipped on his wet shoulders. Your leg tightened around his hip. Your breath caught once, twice, and Jack knew. “I’ve got you,” he said.
You shook your head. “Jack.”
“I’ve got you,” he repeated, rougher this time.
“I’m gonna—”
“I know.” His mouth brushed yours. “Come for me.”
You did. You came hard, clinging to him, his name breaking out of you as the water ran over both of you and the ocean swallowed the sound. Jack followed almost immediately, one hand braced against the wall, the other holding you so close there was nowhere for either of you to go. For a moment, everything narrowed to heat and water and his mouth at your shoulder. Then slowly, Jack stilled. His breathing was ragged against your neck. Yours was not much better. You were both wet, shaking, and pressed against the wall of an outdoor shower in broad late-afternoon light like two people who had completely forgotten how vacations were supposed to work. Jack’s hand slid from the wall to the back of your head, cushioning you more gently now.
“Okay?” he asked. You tried to answer. Nothing came out. Jack lifted his head immediately. “Baby?”
You nodded quickly, then found your voice. “Yes.”
His face softened with relief, though his breathing was still uneven. “Yeah?”
You let your head fall back against the wall. “I think I saw god.”
Jack stared at you for half a second. Then he laughed, breathless and startled, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. You smiled up at the open sky. The shower kept running. His arms stayed around you. After a moment, Jack kissed your shoulder. “Can you stand?”
You frowned. “That is an offensive question.”
“It’s a practical question,” Jack replied.
You sighed. “It is offensively practical.”
His mouth curved against your skin. “I need to know if I should keep holding you.”
You tightened your arms around his neck. “You should keep holding me.”
Jack’s hand moved over your back. “Okay.”
For a while, he just held you under the water. No more urgency. No more desperate hands or frantic kisses. Just warm water, his body around yours, his breath slowly evening out against your temple. Eventually, Jack reached for the soap. You cracked one eye open. “Are you actually rinsing off now?”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “That was the original plan.”
You returned his smile. “You told me this was for sand.”
“It was,” he said.
“And salt,” you added.
He nodded. “Also true.”
“And?” you murmured.
He started washing your shoulder, gentle now, careful around skin he had just kissed like he was trying to memorize it. His eyes met yours. “And this,” he said.
Your heart flipped over itself. You let him wash the salt from your skin. Let him turn you carefully beneath the water. Let him smooth soap over your shoulders, your arms, your back. Let him be soft again because that was Jack too. Desperate one minute, devastatingly gentle the next. When he reached your hip, his thumb moved once, almost absent.
You looked up at him. “Do not start again.”
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours, innocent in a way that fooled exactly no one. “I’m rinsing you off.”
“You are thinking,” you replied.
Jack smirked. “I do that.”
You sighed. “You’re thinking loudly.”
His mouth curved. “I’m thinking we need dinner.”
You stared at him. “That is not what you were thinking.”
“No,” Jack admitted. “But we do need dinner.”
You laughed, tired and happy, and leaned forward until your forehead rested against his chest. Jack kissed your wet hair. “You okay?” he asked again, quieter.
You nodded against him. “Yeah.”
His hand moved over your back. “Good.”
You tipped your face up. “You?”
His eyes softened. “Yeah.”
“You sure?” you asked.
Jack’s smile turned smaller, warmer. “Very.”
You reached up and pushed wet hair off his forehead. For a second, he let you. No teasing. No smugness. Just Jack, standing with you beneath the outdoor shower, sun going soft around the privacy wall, water running over both of you while the ocean moved beyond the dunes.
Jack kissed you once more, slow and satisfied and warm under the water. This time, neither of you rushed. This time, the shower was actually for rinsing off. Mostly.
On the last morning, you woke to Jack still in bed. No coffee brewing downstairs. No suitcase zipped by the door. No quiet, careful attempt to start the day before you were ready. Just Jack behind you, warm and bare under the sheets, his hand spread over your stomach while the ocean moved beyond the cracked-open doors.
“You’re awake,” you murmured, your voice still rough with sleep.
Jack kissed your shoulder. “So are you.”
You shifted slightly against him. “You’re usually doing something by now.”
His thumb moved slowly over your skin. “I am doing something.”
You smiled into the pillow. “Holding me hostage?”
“Memorizing,” Jack said.
Your chest went soft. You turned in his arms enough to look at him. “Was it what you pictured?”
Jack’s eyes moved over your face, warm and tired and entirely too pleased with himself. “No.”
Your brows lifted. “No?”
His mouth curved. “Better.”
You groaned and tucked your face into his chest. “I need a vacation from vacation Jack.”
Jack’s hand slid over your back. “We can book another one.”
“Absolutely not,” you said against his skin.
“Different house,” he offered.
You lifted your head. “No.”
“Better shower,” Jack said.
“Jack.”
His smile widened. “Vacation.”
You laughed despite yourself, and Jack’s arms tightened around you. “You are not allowed to say vacation anymore,” you said.
His mouth brushed your temple. “Vacation.”
You pinched his side lightly. “I hate you.”
Jack laughed softly. “No, you don’t.”
No, you didn’t. Outside, the ocean kept moving. Inside, the suitcases stayed empty for a few more minutes, and Jack’s hand stayed warm at your waist.
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Sammy Bryant X Nanny Reader from my previous headcannon HERE
18+ obviously.
A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)
Ridiculously cuddly. Think Reader is getting out of bed anytime soon, think again. Sammy's got an arm wrapped around her holding her tight against his frame his lips pressing to every square inch of skin he can manage.
Reader will have to wrestle her way out of his grip insisting she's got to hit the bathroom. Lots of Reader reassuring him she'll be back to bed before he knows it, and besides doesn't he want to clean up too?
He will relent realizing he probably should ditch the condom at the very least and clean up a bit.
The second she gets back to bed though the man is snaking his arms around her waist and not letting go. He knows what he likes and what he likes after sex is to feel close to his partner. Lucky for him Reader likes to feel close to him too.
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
Reader will admit the first thing she noticed about Sammy Bryant was the hint of dimples he has when he smiles. She was as sucker for those.
She was rather fond of the hint of pudge he occasionally will get and won't lie, she's a little bummed when he spots it and comments it's time to start hitting the gym again.
She loves his curls; all the better to grip onto when he's eating her out.
She loves his butt. The man has a good backside. She could stare at it for hours. He has zero right having such a cute butt. And his thighs; he's got thick strong thighs even if he'll comment on the fact that he's bowlegged.
When it comes to Reader, Sammy is fond of her hips. He likes to grip onto them when she's riding him and rest his hand against them when he's simply cuddling behind her at the kitchen counter in the mornings while she makes coffee.
He's of course pretty in love with her breasts. He isn't going to pretend that he doesn't gawk at them if she happens to wear a lower cut shirt especially on date night. He could spend hours wrapping his lips around them and suckling and nipping. She's gently scolded him more than once for leaving a few dark hickeys on her breasts.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
Sammy already has a son with his ex wife....so when Reader and he get together he's not entirely ready to risk having another kid this quick.
He wants to wait until Nate is potty trained at the very least.
So, condoms are a must along with Reader taking a birth control pill. Better safe than sorry.
When they do reach the point in their relationship where they decide to give Nate a sibling, then Sammy is in heaven.
It's by far his favorite thing on the planet; finding release in a woman who loves him and loves his kid. Reader wants him that badly that she's asking for him to cum in her and give her a baby and Sammy is almost weeping tears of joy.
When they're still using condoms, Sammy does enjoy jerking off and cumming on her breasts or her stomach with her enthusiastic consent. It's a possessive move and he's relieved Reader is willing to entertain it.
She admits to him that she kind of finds it hard to say no. She finds it kind of hot; how he looks when he finally reaches his peak and shoots ropes of cum against her skin. There's something about the way he looks at her after the fact; like he's in awe of her. She feels worshiped in those moments.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
When Reader was first hired by Sammy as a nanny for Nate, Sammy would have wet dreams about Reader....like a worrisome amount of dirty filthy dreams.
He thought that it was just that he'd not gotten laid in a while...his lovelife had been a mess since his divorce.
He's gotten laid maybe twice in the past year and his attempts at an actual relationship have fizzled out.
Reader is so sweet and smart and pretty...so it makes sense that he's developed a schoolboy crush on her.
He's so ashamed though of where his brain seems to take him just about every night when he lies down and drifts off to sleep.
He's woken up to find himself humping the mattress desperately beyond frustrated a groan of her name leaving his lips.
He is pleased to find that the reality of making love to Reader knocks his dreams right out of the water...even the super filthy ones.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
Given Sammy is divorced he's got some experience under his belt. He had one or two girlfriends prior to Tammi. He was with Tammi for a long while though. They married young...probably too young to be honest.
Despite Tammi's tendency to seek partners outside of their marriage Sammy remained faithful. He might of been tempted but he stayed true to his wife.
After Tammi left him he was crushed. It was a real kick to the ego.
His friends encouraged him to get back in the game. He wasn't entirely willing or ready.
Finally his friends did convince him he needed to at least get his dick sucked or anything.
He did have a few awkward one night stands when on nights he could find a babysitter for Nate...it was less of a one night stand and more of a fuck and run.
He tried dating a little but his lovelife was a mess.
Reader was his first real relationship after his ex wife. She has definitely helped boost his confidence.
Reader has had a few boyfriends. She wouldn't say she's the most experienced girl on the planet. She's not naive to sex though.
She does have one traumatic experience prior to Sammy and she getting together with a date....and although it didn't go far it still has made her pretty antsy when it comes to intimacy.
Sammy proves to be pretty damn patient with her though. He was there for the aftermath of that traumatic experience.
In a lot of ways Sammy and Reader have been pretty healing for one another. She's shown him he's worth being loyal to and cherishing and he's shown her she's worth adoring and treating with care.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)
Sammy is pretty experimental. He's been known to google new positions to try out. Reader has experienced him coming to her with a little grin that is almost boyishly charming. She's open to trying whatever he brings to her. Though it can sometimes be more clumsy than pleasurable. They've learned to have a sense of humor in the bedroom.
Sammy finds a fave for him is when he sits on the edge of the bed and Reader straddles his lap and rides him. It's an intimate position and Sammy finds they can go for a long while in this position.
He also loves spooning. There's something really enjoyable about practically cuddling with her as he takes her from behind they both lying on their sides. He finds he enjoys allowing his hands to roam her body in this position. It puts him in a good spot to rub her clit and work more than a few orgasms out of Reader.
Reader loves cowgirl. When they first begin the intimate part of their relationship she finds it's helpful. It gives her a sense of control which is helpful given how anxious she is. Being the one straddling him and controlling what happens eases that anxiety.
As time goes on she kind of finds its still a personal fave though. She likes how Sammy stares up at her when she rides him. He stares at her like she's the most stunning creature on the planet. She feels worshiped in those moments. It's a sensation she's used to when it comes to Sammy Bryant; the sense of being worshiped by him.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
Sammy can be pretty silly during sex. He knows how anxious she was when their relationship took that direction...and honestly he was a little nervous too. He found keeping things playful and silly helped ease both of them.
He finds that he enjoys making her laugh during sex and not just because it feels pretty damn good when she jostles against him while he's buried in her.
When he's had a rough shift though; that's when he can get a little more serious. In times like that he just wants to focus on holding her and looking in her eyes. He needs to press his lips to hers in deep bruising kisses and run his hands along her skin. He needs to grip onto her hips and steady himself.
She understands what he needs in times like that and is willing to let himself find a sense of peace and control in her. She's happy to soothe him when he's had a shift from hell.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
Sammy keeps it neat downstairs. He's not going bare of course but he will carefully break out the scissors and keep things trim. He manscapes.
Reader has had boyfriends who have expected that she go full Brazilian and she's honestly sick of squatting and waxing. So, she's rebelled by going full bush by the time Sammy and she get together.
The first time they make love she's not entirely prepared. It sort of is an impulsive move for her...she's sick of feeling anxious about sex and wants him and just blurts it out.
She feels rather embarrassed when he takes her panties off and fully expects him to act the way most men have acted in reaction to pubic hair.
Sammy takes her by shock though sending her a look that reads pure lust and remarking that she's "Fucking beautiful."
The one time she mentions maybe thinking about waxing it all again he's pretty vocal about not wanting her to. He likes the cushion when he's thrusting he insists even though the comment makes her roll her eyes.
She does compromise with him by taking care of her bikini line and keeping things neat though.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
Sammy is a softie...his ex so did a number on him. Tammi didn't entirely appreciate Sammy's tendency to want to move at a more sensual pace. She got bored with him.
He's always been over romantic to the point of being clingy. He can't help it.
He almost expects Reader to think he's too much, but much to his relief she finds his clinginess to be sweet.
She enjoys the soft touches and the need to whisper I love yous.
Reader finds she's just as loving towards Sammy. He's easily more than her boyfriend. He's her protector and her best friend.
So, she's fully appreciative of more loving moves. She's just as clingy with him and is relieved that he seems to soak it up.
After that bad experience with her date before Sammy and she were officially a couple, Sammy's approach to sex is soothing for Reader. His softness is just what she needs.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
Probably a little too much for Sammy...especially after his divorce. He's become a single dad with full custody of his son. His dating life is a mess.
He's found that its easier to take matters into his own hands. Hiring Reader as his nanny only makes this habit of his all the worse and now she's the main character in what he's imagining in his alone time.
Reader has engaged in her own self love. She won't ever admit it but her new boss became something her mind flashed too during those moments much to her shame.
It's amusing really that the pair were both fantasizing about one another and totally feeling guilty about it. Had they known they probably would have gotten together much sooner.
After becoming a couple the self pleasure decreases. They're both ready and willing to find pleasure in one another. So, the need to take things into their own hands isn't as crucial.
When Reader and Sammy do eventually have kids of their own together, that first trimester for Sammy is spent getting himself off in the shower.
Reader is miserable and constantly dealing with morning sickness. So, he's not going to be selfish enough to expect to get laid when all she wants to do is nap in between barely getting crackers down.
The second trimester though that so ends any need for Sammy to take care of himself...Reader wants him enough that it's no longer needed.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
Sammy maybe enjoys being called "officer Bryant" in bed...he's embarrassed by it. The first time Reader does it she's just teasing him but the way his cock twitches tells her that he likes it a little too much.
Sammy maybe also loves him some sensory deprivation...They try a blindfold one time and Sammy loves it. There's something that just gets him off by having his sight blocked and Reader taking her time with him teasing him and leaving him guessing what is coming next, teasingly telling him to keep his hands to himself and not rush her.
Reader finds that she kind of enjoys temperature play from time to time. They'd brought a glass of ice to bed and Sammy has run an ice cube along her body letting it melt; teasing her nipples with it and suckling her skin.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
Sammy does fantasize about taking Reader bent over the back of his police cruiser....it'll never happen of course. He's not risking his career by getting caught doing something that outlandish.
When they eventually move into a place where they can have a garage though and Nate is down for a nap....well they've improvised by Sammy taking Reader while she's bent over his personal car.
It's no police cruiser but its still pretty enjoyable.
They like a good love making session in the shower though they've had some close calls with almost slipping.
Nothing beats their bed though as boring as the answer might seem. The bed is cozy and warm though and Sammy has once drowsily called it a little love nest much to Reader's amusement. He was half asleep and will claim he never said that.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
Every little thing Reader does gets to Sammy. He is down bad.
Shit that happened with Tammi was so brutal for him. He felt low after realizing just how unfaithful Tammi was. It really wrecked his self worth.
So realizing Reader only has eyes for him and absolutely adores him, so does it for him and gets him ready to go.
He will admit that seeing Reader with Nate does something for him too. She loves his son. She loved him when she was just his nanny and now that she's taken a maternal role in Nate's life, it's made Sammy adore her all the more.
Seeing Reader being so maternal and sweet gets Sammy a little hot and bothered.
He'd be more ashamed about it if he didn't know that Reader gets a little hot and bothered seeing him in dad-mode. There's something to be said about guys being good with kids being hot.
Reader is also quite fond of her man in his uniform...she's brought him lunch by the station before and will admit that she got a little hot and bothered seeing him in uniform.
She finds Sammy Bryant adorable though he'll grumble about that description. She's always fast to add on that he's adorable and incredibly sexy and she wants to jump his bones.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
Sammy would never once in a million years consider sharing Reader. No threesomes, no open relationships.
He was burned by Tammi hard and the thought of someone touching Reader makes bile rise in his throat.
He would never go for multiple partners. Much to his relief Reader has zero interest in doing anything of that nature.
Sammy is soft enough that he is not okay with anything he thinks might cause Reader discomfort. Given some of the circumstances that drew them together it's understandable. He wants Reader to feel comfortable and loved.
Reader would never try to make Sammy jealous to initate sex. She knows that loyalty is so important to him. She's not going to play with his emotions in that way.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
They've been known to 69, enough said.
Sammy has made jokes about being a messy eater. The man is an eater and does make a mess of his face. Reader is almost embarassed by how sloppy he gets when he eats her out. He's burying his face right in and moaning like he's feasting.
She makes sure to show just as much enthusiasm for sucking him off. She enjoys pleasuring him. It's the least she can do after he's eaten her out like she's his last meal. She's fully sucking his soul out through his dick and sucking his balls just how he likes.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
Sensual all the way. Sammy is lovesick for Reader and knows that a past experience has made her anxious about sex. So, he's moving slow and gentle with her.
He loves how sweet and lovely it feels. There's an innocent sweet quality to it that he's never really experienced with any other partner.
Reader does eventually become comfortable enough to get a little rougher but Sammy is determined to keep it loving. The pace might pick up but he's still praising her and pressing his lips to hers.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
They love a good quickie. Having a young kid in the house sometimes a quickie is all they can manage.
Intimacy is intimacy even when it might be a bit more rushed than they might prefer.
They've been known to make a game out of it. How quick can they get off before their alarm goes off in the morning? How fast can they get there before they know Nate is going to wake up from a nap?
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
Sammy isn't much of a risk taker. Given his career he can be paranoid. He might fantasize about fucking Reader bent over his police cruiser or taking her in some dirty back alley, but he knows the risk of being caught is too dangerous.
He's not about to catch a public indecency charge.
He will try new positions at least once. He's more often than not the one looking up the positions.
Reader is on his level as far as risk goes. She's open to experimenting within their comfort level.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
They both manage to have some good stamina and will often go at least twice.
They enjoy themselves as much as they can while balancing the responsibility of raising Nate.
Sammy gets off on how much Reader wants him and it motivates him to want her more than once.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
Reader owns a vibrator and she's mortified when she moves in with Sammy and he discovers it.
He does ask for a demonstration and even if it makes her blush she does take him up on the request with some gentle reassurance that he's serious and really wants to see.
Sammy fully supports his girl's use of her toy when he's got a far too late shift. He wants her to feel good.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
Sammy Bryant is the king of teasing. The man loves to sneak a squeeze to her backside and whisper what he plans on doing to her the second he gets her alone.
The sight of her blushing eggs him on.
Reader can give it back to him just as good. She loves to give him some lingering touches on date nights and accidentally brush her bottom against his crotch when they go out with friends and he's teaching her to play pool or they're ordering a beer at the bar.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
Muffled loud moans against one another's lips. They have a young child in the home. So, it occasionally means they have to bury their faces against pillows and one another to keep it down.
The nights that Reader's mom offers to watch over Nate though...oh man, it's on, loud dirty sex with Sammy babbling about how much he loves her and Reader moaning his name like it's all she knows how to say.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
Sammy becomes a little obsessed with getting Reader to squirt. He accidentally does it one time and spends months trying to figure out just how he managed it.
Reader was mortified when it happened even if Sammy insisted it was the hottest thing he'd ever seen in his life.
He spends way too long fingering her and overstimulating her trying to unlock the piece of the puzzle to figure out how he managed it the first time around.
When he finally finds success, he is far too proud of himself and Reader is once again embarrassed.
It does feel good, Sammy finally gets her to admit even if she turns tomato red as she whines over what a mess she made.
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
Average length but so thick. The man has to prep her for their first time and prep her he does.
Reader maybe can't stop staring at his dick after that first time dumbfounded with how in the hell it's supposed to fit in her.
It's a tight fit, but they figure it out.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
Pretty high. Sammy is proud to say that Reader has been his healthiest relationship. They enjoy their intimacy. They want one another and find comfort in each other.
Reader adores Sammy. She feels lucky to have him in her life. He means the world to her.
When he finally proposes she is certain she's the luckiest girl on the planet. She feels blessed that she gets to spend the rest of her life being loved and made love to by Sammy Bryant.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
They are sleepy sheepies. Once they manage to clean up and take care of any bathroom needs they are happy to cuddle and chat about their days.
Sleep always comes too fast for them both. They fight it of course; wanting to soak up the afterglow, but they always lose the fight.
They find that they sleep pretty damn well after making love. It's something about the comfort they feel with one another.
They are both thankful to have found each other and feel safe in one another's arms.
dailybridgerton
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baratheonpilled
jbbartram-illu
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