⤿ JOHN LOGAN was a firm believer that love at first sight was fake, then he saw you get checked into the boards at full strength. That was enough to convince him you were his soulmate.
!! wc: 4.5k. fluff. fem!reader. yearner!logan. hockey player!reader. dean and tucker cameos of course. should i make a mini series about logan x hockey reader. taglist open. ENJOY. COMMENTS ENCOURAGED.
The rink smelled like cold air, sweat, and freshly resurfaced ice, the familiar combination settling heavily into your lungs every time you pushed off the bench and stepped back onto the surface.
Your legs already ached.
The game had turned aggressive halfway through the second period after one shitty call spiraled into another, and now every shift felt sharper around the edges. Faster. Meaner. The kind of game where players stopped caring about penalties and started caring about pride instead.
You preferred games like that, if you had to be honest.
Your ponytail stuck damply to the back of your neck beneath your helmet while you skated toward center ice, adjusting your grip against your stick as the referee dropped the puck between you and the opposing center.
The collision happened almost immediately after that.
Sticks clashed. Skates carved violently against the ice. Somebody shouted from the bench behind you while bodies slammed together hard enough to rattle the boards, but your focus narrowed the way it always did during games until the rest of the rink became background noise.
You stole the puck cleanly and pushed forward.
A defender cut toward you from the left.
You dipped your shoulder, trying to slip around her.
Instead, she drove straight into your side.
The impact sent you hard against the glass with a crack loud enough to echo through the arena, pain blooming sharply along your ribs as the boards shook beneath you.
The crowd reacted instantly, and so did your teammates.
But you barely had time to register any of it before irritation outweighed the pain completely.
You shoved off the glass immediately, stealing the puck back before the defender could recover properly, and skated straight down the ice with enough force behind your strides to make your thighs burn.
Somewhere behind the opposing bench, somebody yelled, âHoly shit.â
The puck left your stick seconds later, and the goal light flashed red.
You barely had time to breathe before gloves slammed against your helmet and arms wrapped around your shoulders, the team crowding around you near the bench while the arena noise swelled louder overhead.
âYouâre insane,â your captain laughed breathlessly against the side of your helmet.
You grinned despite yourself, adrenaline still racing violently through your system.
The celebration around you lasted only a few seconds before the line changed again and everybody scattered back into position, skates carving sharply across the ice while the energy in the rink climbed even higher after the goal.
You pushed a hand briefly against your ribs while skating backward toward center, testing the ache already beginning to settle beneath your padding.
It hurt.. not enough to matter, yet.
Across the arena, Logan still had not looked away from you.
He sat forward in his seat slowly, forearms resting against his knees while the rest of the crowd blurred into noise around him. The game continued moving at full speed beneath the arena lights, players shouting over one another while the referees reset the faceoff, but his attention stayed fixed entirely on you.
Dean noticed first, because of course he did.
âYou good, bro?â he asked, glancing sideways from his seat beside him.
Logan barely blinked. âWho is that?â
Dean followed his line of sight toward the ice where you were circling near center.
âThe defenseman?â
âThe one that just got launched into the glass.â
Tucker snorted from Loganâs other side. âThat doesn't narrow it down at all. They've been nasty tonight.â
Logan ignored him completely.
You pushed your helmet back slightly while talking to one of your teammates, visibly unfazed by the hit you had taken less than a minute earlier, and something about that seemed to irritate Logan further.
He wasn't irritated with you.
At the fact that nobody else on the ice appeared nearly as bothered by it as he was.
âSheâs fine,â Dean said casually, mid bite of his overpriced arena pretzel. âWomenâs team plays mean as hell.â
âThat wasnât a casual hit.â
Dean shrugged. âShe got back up.â
âNot the point.â Logan groaned, leaning back in his seat and letting his legs spread a bit.
Tucker looked over slowly then, eyebrows lifting slightly as realization started creeping into his expression.
âOh my God,â he muttered. âYouâre obsessed with her.â
Logan finally tore his eyes away from the ice long enough to glare at him.
âIâm not obsessed.â
âYou looked ready to fight somebody for checking her.â
âShe hit the glass hard.â
âShe also scored immediately after.â Dean piped up with a shrug and a wink.
Loganâs jaw tightened slightly.
The game resumed again before Dean could say anything else, but Loganâs attention kept drifting back toward you no matter how hard he tried to focus elsewhere. Every shift you played seemed sharper than everyone elseâs. Faster. More aggressive.
You didnât hesitate.
Most players slowed right before impact without even realizing they were doing it, bodies instinctively bracing against pain before collisions happened.
You didnât.
You kept driving forward like fear genuinely never occurred to you.
Halfway through the third period, you slammed another player into the boards hard enough that Tucker actually winced.
âJesus Christ,â he laughed. âSheâs terrifying.â
Logan said nothing.
Your helmet turned slightly while backing away from the boards afterward, and for a brief second the arena lights caught the side of your jersey clearly enough for him to see the number stretched across your back.
Twelve.
Before he could make out the name above it, you skated off toward the bench again.
Logan leaned forward immediately.
âTwelve,â he repeated.
Dean stared at him. âWhat?â
âHer number.â
Dean burst out laughing. âYouâre actually trying to identify her right now?â
Logan reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled his phone out without answering.
âOh, this is bad,â Tucker said, grinning openly now. âHeâs gone.â
Dean leaned over slightly while Logan opened the Briar womenâs hockey roster, scrolling quickly with his thumb while the game continued in the background.
âTwelve,â Logan muttered quietly to himself.
The roster loaded slowly.
Tucker watched him with open amusement. âYou donât even know this girl.â
Loganâs eyes stayed fixed on his phone. âWorking on it.â
Dean laughed under his breath. âYou got all this from one hit into the boards?â
Logan finally looked back toward the ice.
You were standing near the bench listening to your coach, one glove hanging loosely from your hand while you nodded along absently, cheeks flushed from exertion and baby hairs sticking damply to your forehead beneath your helmet.
Then you smiled at something one of your teammates said.
Five minutes ago you had looked vicious enough to start a fight in the middle of the rink. Now you looked warm and relaxed. The contrast was something that Logan understood and admired.. something that was also making him constantly reconnect his wifi in the hopes that it would load faster.
Logan looked back down at the roster immediately.
âThere,â Dean pointed suddenly, leaning closer. âNumber twelve.â
Loganâs thumb stopped scrolling.
Your name sat there on the screen beneath your player photo.
Defense. Junior. The same number stitched across your jersey.
For some reason, finally knowing your name only made the strange tight feeling in his chest worse.
Tucker looked between Logan and the phone before laughing again.
âYouâre done for, bro.â
Logan barely heard him.
Down on the ice, you stepped back into play again, completely unaware that a man several rows above the rink had just memorized your name like it was something important.
By the final stretch of the third period, Boston College had stopped looking organized and started looking frustrated.
Every pass they attempted felt rushed, every hit carried just a little too much irritation behind it, and Briar only seemed to feed off the shift in energy. The game had become brutal in the way rivalry games always did once pride got involved, fast and physical and loud enough that the sound of skates carving into the ice blended together with the roar of the crowd overhead.
Your lungs burned every time you pushed off into another sprint, exhaustion settling heavily into your legs beneath the adrenaline, but it barely registered anymore. The ache in your ribs from earlier pulsed every time you twisted too sharply, yet even that felt distant compared to the rush of momentum building around your team.
The scoreboard hanging above the rink read 5â1.
Boston looked furious about it.
You stole another pass near center ice before one of their forwards could recover properly, intercepting it so cleanly that she nearly lost her footing trying to turn around after you. The crowd reacted immediately, noise erupting through the arena while you accelerated down the ice with one of your teammates racing alongside you.
A defender moved toward you.
You waited until the very last second before sliding the puck across the ice.
Your teammate buried it immediately.
The red goal light flashed, and before you fully registered it, the arena exploded.
By the time you reached the boards again, your teammates were already swarming you, gloves smacking against your helmet and shoulders while somebody nearly crashed hard enough into your back to knock you forward.
You were laughing before you realized it, adrenaline making everything feel sharp and electric beneath your skin while the Boston goalie snapped her stick against the post in frustration somewhere behind you.
Several rows above the glass, Tucker stood abruptly from his seat with the kind of dramatic excitement only hockey players seemed capable of.
His hands coming together with immense force as his claps echoed alongside the rest of the cheers in the arena.
Dean laughed immediately beside him, though his attention shifted toward Logan a second later once he realized there had been absolutely no reaction.
Logan had not looked away from the ice.
Not once.
His forearms rested against his knees while his eyes tracked you, a small grin tugging at his lips despite the intent behind his eyes.
Dean noticed it first.
Or maybe he had noticed earlier and only now found it entertaining enough to comment on.
âY'know,â he said slowly, âmost people blink occasionally.â
Logan barely reacted.
âYouâre staring at her like youâre scouting for the NHL,â Tucker added, dropping back into his seat.
âSheâs good,â Logan answered simply.
It came out quieter than either of them expected.
Not dismissive. Not casual. He was just certain.
Dean glanced sideways at him then before looking back toward the ice again where you were circling near the bench waiting for the next line change.
âThat is not a normal amount of interest for someone youâve watched exactly one game of.â
Logan didnât answer immediately.
The truth was he had stopped paying attention to the rest of the game almost twenty minutes ago. Every time you stepped onto the ice, his focus shifted toward you without thinking. The speed, the aggression, the complete lack of hesitation every time another player came near you. You played like somebody who trusted herself completely, and there was something about that confidence that had rooted itself beneath his skin almost instantly.
The final buzzer sounded not long after.
Briar won 7â1.
The entire team spilled onto the ice immediately afterward while music blasted through the arena speakers and students crowded harder against the glass cheering. Your helmet disappeared during the celebration at some point, leaving your hair flattened messily around your face while one of your teammates jumped against your side hard enough to throw both of you off balance.
You caught her automatically, laughing hard enough that Logan could see it even from the stands.
Dean leaned back in his seat slowly.
âOh, you are fucked,â he muttered.
Logan finally dragged his attention away from the rink long enough to frown at him slightly. âFuck off." He shoved Dean's shoulder while the two of them laughed as Logan's eyes wandered back to the ice.
You were standing near the bench now talking to your coach, your gloves tucked beneath one arm while you nodded along absently. The arena lights reflected faintly against the sweat still shining along your forehead, and even exhausted, you still looked completely awake somehow. Alive in a way that made it difficult to stop looking at you once he started.
After a short victory lap, the team slowly started disappearing through the tunnel beneath the stands while the energy in the arena softened into postgame noise. You lingered near the ice longer than most of your teammates, still talking to someone through the glass while tossing a puck over for a kid with a little Briar hockey jersey on.
Then your head turned slightly toward the stands.
Toward him.
Logan went still.
Even from this far away, he could see the brief flicker of awareness cross your expression as your eyes passed over the crowd and paused for half a second too long in his direction.
It wasn't recognition, despite the fact that he wanted it to be. It was really just awareness.. like you had felt someone watching you.
Before either of you could hold the moment long enough for it to become anything real, one of your teammates grabbed your arm and dragged your attention away again, pulling you toward the tunnel with the rest of the team.
Logan kept looking toward the empty space you had left behind long after you disappeared from sight.
The next morning felt painfully slow after the energy of the game the night before.
Campus had settled back into its usual rhythm by the time Logan crossed the quad toward his lecture hall, students moving in uneven streams through the cold while coffee cups steamed between gloved hands and backpacks bumped against shoulders in crowded walkways.
He barely noticed any of it, all he could think about was crawling back into his bed after his classes wrapped up.
Not because anything was wrong, which honestly only irritated him more, but because every time he closed his eyes he kept replaying flashes from the game in frustratingly vivid detail. The sound of skates against the ice. Your laugh during the postgame celebration. The way you kept getting back up after every hit like it genuinely offended you to stay down.
Dean had called him pathetic three separate times already that morning.
Logan still wasnât entirely convinced he was wrong.
He pushed open the door to the lecture hall a few minutes before class started, stepping into the familiar low buzz of conversation and keyboards tapping. The room smelled faintly like coffee and winter air dragged in from outside, students already settling into seats while the projector glowed dimly against the front wall.
Logan started down the steps automatically, his hands settled in his pockets while he made his way towards the usual row he sat in.
Then, his steps came to a screeching halt.
Three rows from the front sat a navy blue Briar athlete backpack slouched beside one of the seats.
Womenâs hockey was embroidered, and small along the top of the front pocket.
His eyes caught on the small keychain hanging from the zipper almost instantly.
#12.
For a second, he just stared at it. Then his gaze lifted higher.
You sat half turned in your seat talking quietly to the girl beside you, one sleeve pulled over your hand while you absentmindedly highlighted something in your notebook with the other. Your hair was perfect, and despite being beneath a helmet earlier that morning for practice, he was sure it smelled like vanilla.
Without all the gear and arena lights around you, you looked softer somehow. Still pretty enough to make his chest tighten annoyingly hard. Just⌠real now. Close enough to touch.
Logan stood there long enough that somebody behind him had to awkwardly step around him to get down the stairs.
He moved automatically after that, though his attention stayed fixed on you the entire way down the aisle.
You still had not noticed him.
Part of him almost preferred it that way, because now that he was actually standing in the same room as you instead of watching from the stands, he realized he had absolutely no idea what to say.
Which was new.
Logan was not usually nervous around women. Confident, relaxed, occasionally arrogant if Dean was being honest, but never nervous.
Yet suddenly he was hyperaware of everything. The sound of his shoes against the lecture hall floor. The fact that his heartbeat felt stupidly loud. The way your fingers tapped absently against your pen while reading over your notes.
He passed your row. Kept walking. Then, immediately regretted it and pretended to take a phone call to abort back up a few rows.
By the time he dropped into a seat a few rows higher, Dean â who had walked in behind him at some point â looked close to losing his mind laughing.
âHoly shit,â he whispered while sitting beside him. âYou panicked.â
âI didnât fucking panic.â
âYou literally walked past her like a Victorian dude seeing an ankle.â
Logan stared straight ahead. âShut up.â
Dean leaned back in his chair, visibly delighted. âYouâre down horrendous.â
Logan ignored him, though not very successfully considering his attention had already drifted back toward you again.
You were still focused on your notebook completely unaware of the crisis currently happening several rows behind you.
Then, as if sensing it somehow, you glanced over your shoulder.
Your eyes landed on him immediately with a flicker of recognition swiping across your face almost instantly.
Logan watched the exact second you noticed him noticing you. You looked away first, and that was enough to make warmth crawl unexpectedly up the back of his neck.
Dean saw the entire interaction and looked ready to combust.
âYou made eye contact,â he whispered dramatically, his eyelashes batting in a playful fashion.
âPlease be quiet.â
âAre you in love?â
Logan rubbed a hand slowly over his face.
Class started before Dean could keep talking, though that honestly did not help much, considering Logan spent the first twenty minutes hearing absolutely none of the lecture.
His focus kept drifting. He noticed how you chewed lightly on the end of your pen while reading. The way you fidgeted with your necklace while listening to the professor. You wrote quickly, confidently, barely ever crossing things out or hesitating before moving onto the next line.
At one point, you stretched slightly in your seat and winced.
Subtle and quick. But Logan noticed immediately, of course he did, he was noticing everything you had done for the past 30 minutes.
Your ribs.
The hit from yesterday had clearly bruised you worse than youâd acted like it did. The thought of that was enough to bother him for the rest of class.
When the lecture finally ended, students started gathering their things immediately, backpacks zipping loudly while conversations picked up around the room.
Logan watched you zip your backpack shut carefully before standing. Then he watched two different guys notice you at exactly the same time.
One of them moved before he was able to finish fumbling to put his laptop away.
Of course he did.
Tall, confident-looking business major type. The kind of guy that was probably in a frat with a snap score of at least 2 million.
Logan felt irritation spark instantly.
The guy smiled at you while adjusting the strap of his backpack. âHey, youâre on the hockey team, right? You played last night?â
You looked up politely. âOh-.. uh, Yeah.â
âYou were really good.â
Logan hated how genuine the compliment sounded, he was expecting this douche to be superficial and just ask for your snap to add to his roster.
You smiled softly anyway. âThank you.â
The guy opened his mouth again, clearly gearing up to continue the conversation.
Then Logan stood.
Dean looked up immediately with the kind of excitement usually reserved for live sporting events.
âHo-ly shit,â he muttered.
Logan ignored him completely before heading down the stairs.
He wasnât entirely sure what his plan was, only that the idea of walking out of this room without talking to you suddenly felt impossible.
The guy was still talking by the time Logan reached the bottom of the stairs.
Something about study groups, or maybe coffee. Logan honestly was not listening closely enough to tell the difference.
Your attention stayed politely fixed on him while you adjusted the strap of your backpack higher onto your shoulder, though there was something slightly distracted about your expression, like your mind was already somewhere else entirely. Exhaustion lingered faintly beneath your eyes from the game the night before, softened only slightly by the fact that you still looked unfairly pretty standing there in your Briar hockey sweatshirt and sweatpants.
The small keychain hanging from your backpack zipper knocked lightly against the fabric every time you moved.
#12.
Loganâs eyes caught on it again before he could stop himself.
âYou play unbelievable, by the way,â the guy continued. âThat goal in the third period was insane.â
You smiled politely, surprised that this guy actually had gone to the game, and wasn't just using it as an excuse to hit on you. âThanks, Boston's never an easy opponent.â
The conversation should have ended there.
You clearly wanted to end it there.
But the guy kept standing in front of you anyway, lingering just enough that Logan recognized the strategy immediately. Stretch the interaction out long enough and eventually it becomes something else.
Normally he wouldnât have cared.
Except now he did, annoyingly so, at that.
Before he could overthink it, he stepped closer.
âYou should probably ice your ribs.â The words came out naturally, low and calm, though the moment they left his mouth, you turned toward him immediately.
Recognition crossed your face faster, and it wasn't just vague familiarity, but rather memory this time.
You had seen him in the stands last night, and Logan got to watch the exact second it clicked for you.
âThe guy from the game,â you smiled before seeming to realize you had spoken out loud.
Your voice sounded rougher than he expected, slightly worn at the edges from yelling over rink noise the night before.
Something about it settled heavily in his chest.
âYeah,â Logan answered quietly.
For a brief second, the other guy still standing beside you looked deeply confused by the interaction happening in front of him.
âYou know each other?â he asked.
âNo,â both of you answered at the exact same time.
That seemed to catch you off guard a little because your mouth twitched faintly afterward, like you were trying not to laugh.
Logan felt warmth spread unexpectedly through his chest at the sight of it.
The other guy looked between the two of you again before apparently deciding he was suddenly no longer part of the conversation.
âWell,â he said awkwardly, adjusting his backpack strap, âIâll see you around.â
You smiled politely again. âSee you.â
The second he disappeared into the crowd of students leaving the lecture hall, silence settled briefly between you and Logan.
Up close, he noticed details he hadnât been able to see clearly from the stands. A faint bruise near your jaw partially hidden beneath your hair. The exhaustion lingering beneath your eyes. The slight stiffness in your posture every time you shifted your weight too quickly.
You were definitely hurting more than you wanted people to notice.
âYou really should ice those ribs,â he repeated more quietly this time.
Your eyebrows lifted slightly. âYou could tell?â
âYou flinched during class.â The answer seemed to surprise you, no one besides your roommate paid enough attention to notice when you had an injury you were insistent on downplaying.
Heat crawled faintly into your expression before you looked away for half a second, adjusting the sleeve pulled over your hand.
âItâs fine,â you murmured. âJust bruised, at least nothing's broken. â
Logan frowned slightly. âThat hit looked bad.â
âIt was bad.â
âYet, you got right back up. Scoring after nearly breaking the glass is some insane shit.â
Something softer flickered briefly across your face then.
âKind of have to in hockey.â You shrugged in amusement, a smile tugging at your lips that was much more genuine than with the frat guy from a few moments ago.
And Logan was taking that as a win.
Students continued filtering loudly around the two of you while the lecture hall slowly emptied, but Logan barely registered any of it anymore. His attention stayed fixed entirely on you, on the way you shifted your backpack higher against your shoulder or how your fingers tapped absently against the strap while thinking.
âSo, you came to the game? There was more turnout than usual for our game's last night, it was fun.â you asked after a second.
The question sounded casual, though curiosity lingered beneath it.
Logan nodded once. âYeah, I went with some of my roommates, we decided last minute because one of them wanted a fucking pretzel.â
âAnd now youâre giving medical advice to strangers?â
A smile tugged unexpectedly at his mouth. âYou donât really feel like a stranger.â The sentence slipped out before he could stop it, and immediately his eyes squinted a bit in regret, and his brows furrowed.
Your eyes lifted back to his immediately.
For one horrible second, Logan considered the possibility that he had just sounded insane, but your expression softened instead in a very subtle way.
âWell,â you hummed quietly, âyou still donât know me.â
âI know your name.â
The moment he said it, your eyebrows lifted again.
âI-... uh, looked up the roster.â Logan had the decency to look slightly guilty as the words left his mouth.
You stared at him for half a second longer before laughing softly under your breath, and the sound hit him with the same force it had the night before in the arena.
It was soft and warm, to anyone else it would be like music to their ears, but to Logan? It was dangerous.
âThatâs a little insane,â you told him, playfully putting on a disapproving face that quickly dissolved into a smile.
âYeah, no, for sure.â
The honesty of the answer seemed to catch you off guard enough that you laughed again, shaking your head while starting toward the aisle leading out of the lecture hall.
Logan naturally fell into step beside you without thinking about it. From across the aisle, Dean held up two thumbs-ups and mouthed 'Fuck yeah,' which Logan was happy to drown out with the conversation that was slowly building between the two of you.
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when you receive your first ever daisy award, you insist that you donât need to have a pining ceremony. youâre used to celebrating your accomplishments quietly, on your own. you have your whole life. but jack abbot is determined to change that.
fic is based on this random thought i had
warnings/tags: nurse!reader, unspecified age gap, readerâs family is emotionally absent and unsupportive, minor angst, mentions of blood, mentions of pittfest and pittfest level injuries, reader is besties with cassie, possible medical inaccuracies, no physical descriptions, no use of y/n, not explicit but mdni!
flashbacks are in italics!
â・°âŠ
One of the earliest memories you can vividly recall from your childhood is a kindergarten spelling bee.
Halfway through the school year, you and a dozen or so other students were placed in an âacademically giftedâ class for children who were highly proficient in reading and writing for five year olds.
The day before school let out for summer break, your teacher thought it would be sweet to invite all of the parents to an end of the year class party and spelling bee, to celebrate how much everyone had learned since the beginning of the year.
Ironically enough, the final word was family, but none of your family was there to see you win when you spelled it correctly.
Your parents had to work. Thatâs what you had told your teacher and all of the other parents when they asked why yours couldnât attend. It wasnât really a lie. Both of your parents did have to work that day. What you didnât tell them is that you hadnât even bothered to give your parents the newsletter your teacher had sent home about the spelling bee, because you already knew the chances of them actually showing up were slim to none.
They likely would have to work. And if by some miracle one of them didnât have to work, theyâd have some other prior obligation that would take precedence over a school party. One of your grandparents would need help getting to a doctorâs appointment, or one of your siblings would be sick. There would be car troubles, or one or both of your parents would have an appointment that they just couldnât find a way out of.
As an adult, you now realize that their excuses were usually somewhat reasonable on the surface. But it wasnât ever the excuses themselves that hurt, it was the absence that you learned to expect. Damn near every time.
It only got worse with age. When you were little, they would at least tell you that they were going to make an effort to show up to whatever party, ceremony, recital, game or graduation you had coming up. But as soon as you started to approach your teen years, there seemed to be an unspoken agreement: you kept expectations low, and they stopped bullshitting you.
They came to the bigger events - the ones that their coworkers and acquaintances would side-eye them for missing, like high school and college graduations. But even then, they did the bare minimum of showing up. There were no parties thrown in your name, no thoughtful gifts or handwritten cards signed with love and well wishes for your future.
The closest thing you ever got to a celebration was the Facebook post that your mother made when you graduated from Penn Nursing. But that was for her. Not for you. She had to let everyone know that she raised someone smart enough to graduate from one of the most prestigious nursing schools in the world.
She didnât even bother to tag you in it. God forbid she gives you credit and takes the spotlight away from herself.
That was years ago, and the last time that you tried to include her (or anyone else in your family for that matter) in any life event that one would normally excitedly text or call their closest family members about.
Moving to Pittsburgh and getting your own apartment. Starting your first official âbig girlâ job at PTMC. Obtaining your SANE certification.
And, most recently, being nominated for your first Daisy award.
â・°âŠ
âHey,â Dana calls as she walks past where youâre staring up at the patient board, checking out exactly what youâve walked into this morning. âWalk with me for a sec.â
She doesnât wait for you to respond before sheâs walking in the opposite direction, leaving you to follow.
And follow. And follow. Until you reach the empty break room.
âListen,â you start, your thoughts spiraling with reasons she could be taking you somewhere private at the very beginning of the shift, âif this is about the anti-vax mom that didnât want to let her toddler get a tetanus shot after stepping on a rusty nail yesterday, I already told you. I did not call her stupid. I asked her if sheâs stupââ
âRelax,â Dana cuts in dryly. âWeâll deal with that later. This isnât about that.â She pauses, just long enough for confusion to grow on your face. âThis is about the little girl you gave blood to during the PittFest mass casualty.â
You blink in surprise, the eight year oldâs face appearing clear as day in your mind . âEllie? What aboutâ?â Your heart sinks to your stomach. Your voice rises an octave in panic. âWhat happened? Is she okay?â
âSheâs fine, thanks to you,â Dana assures. The momentary relief that washes over you when you hear that sheâs alright is quickly replaced by the fear of something else - something that has been looming in the back of your mind since the day of the mass casualty.
âLook,â you sigh, lowering your voice slightly when Cassie steps in to put her lunchbox in the fridge. âI know what I did was against protocol, but she was going to die. We were out of O-Neg and we didnât have time to wait for more to arrive. Her mother agreed, and Dr. Abbot gave me verbal consent toââ
âJesus,â Dana interrupts, shaking her head. Sheâs smirking with a kind of glint in her eyes that isnât out of the ordinary for Dana but you canât begin to decipher right now. âHas anyone ever told you that you have a tendency to jump to the worst possible conclusions? Iâm trying to tell you that Ellieâs family has nominated you for a Daisy Award.â
For a split-second, the room is filled with the kind of silence where a pin drop could be heard.
âWait. Iâm not in trouble?â
Dana scoffs. âNot unless you keep bullying anti-vaxxers.â
A Daisy Award. The last thing you expected when Dana pulled you into this room. Some nurses go their entire careers without ever receiving a Daisy, you never would have guessed that you would be nominated for one so early in yours.
It makes sense, you suppose. If breaking about a dozen different rules and protocols by donating your own blood to a dying child in the midst of a mass casualty incident didnât get you nominated for the award, then you doubt anything ever would have.
You exhale slowly, your brain still buffering. Youâve yet to take two sips of your coffee, so this is a lot for seven oâclock in the morning.
âWow,â you breathe, your face suddenly warm. âIâŚdonât even know what to say.â
âNo one ever does when theyâre receiving their first Daisy,â Dana shrugs with a proud smile. âI just wanted to give you a heads up before Robby gets in and makes a whole production out of it.â
Your stomach instantly sinks to the floor. You had been so taken off guard by the news that youâre receiving a Daisy Award that you had completely forgotten what receiving a Daisy Award normally entails.
A pinning ceremony. A speech from the chief or director. All of your coworkers. Everyone in the room, staring right at you. Clapping. Pictures. Congratulations, and congratulations, and more congratulations.
âOh, no.â You shake your head. âNo, that isnât necessary. He doesnât need to do all of that.â
Dana folds her arms, unimpressed. âAll of that is the standard procedure for a Daisy Award, kiddo.â
âReally, itâs fine,â you insist, trying to conceal the panic from your voice. âEveryone is busy enough as it is without stopping what theyâre doing for me. Robby can just give me the pin and certificate and whatever else when he has time in between patients. I donât needâŚâ You gesture vaguely, ââŚa whole thing.â
She stares at you for a moment, head tilted and lips pursed like sheâs trying to psychoanalyze you. âYou sure?â She finally asks. âThis is a big deal, you know. Itâs okay to let people celebrate you for a few minutes.â
You drop her gaze. âI justâŚdonât want an audience. Iâm good. Really.â
The look on her face says that she wants to protest, but the look on yours must convince her otherwise. âAlright,â she concedes. âWhatever you want. Iâll let Robby know before he drags half the department into the conference room.â
You exhale in relief, managing a small but grateful smile. âThanks, Dana.â
She wraps an arm around shoulders on your way out of the break room. âCongrats, kid. Weâre lucky to have ya.â
You just smile at her and nod, because those words sound like a foreign language that youâre still in the process of learning and arenât quite comfortable speaking yourself yet.
Cassie catches up to you just moments later, on your way back to the nurseâs station. You had noticed her slip into the break room while you and Dana were talking, and judging by the smirk on her face, she definitely overheard the gist of the conversation.
âHey, Daisy Girl,â Cassie hums under her breath as she catches up to you, lightly bumping her shoulder against yours. âCongratulations.â
You roll your eyes but the corners of your mouth threaten to betray you. âPlease donât call me that.â
âOh, Iâm absolutely calling you that,â she grins. âYou deserve it, you know.â
You shrug, choosing to look up at the patient board to avoid her stare that is entirely too motherly. âI donât know. It feels weird to be given an award for donating blood. People donate at blood drives all the time and get nothing in return.â
âI suppose,â she sighs. âPeople donât always donate blood while actively performing CPR on the recipient, though. In the middle of an unprecedented mass casualtyââ
âOkay, okay,â you shush her, looking around to make sure she isnât drawing anyoneâs attention. Princess and Perlah stand a few feet away, talking amongst themselves, and Jack sits at his desk, working on his charting from the night shift heâs finishing up.
As far as you can tell, he isnât paying any mind to the two of you, but the last thing you want is to draw any unnecessary attention - especially from the doctor who is perfectly within earshot. Your cheeks blaze at the thought. âYouâve made your point. Keep your voice down.â
She shakes with silent laughter, a knowing look in her eyes. She lowers her voice. âSo, what are you gonna do to celebrate?â
âNothing,â you mumble. âI just told Dana that I donât want a pinning ceremony or anything.â
âYeah, I heard that,â Cassie snorts. âI mean what are you going to do to celebrate yourself.â She raises her brows. âAn overpriced coffee? A pedicure? A new pair of those tennis shoes that youâre always hyping up? Take-out from your favorite restaurant? All of the above?â
You sigh, knowing that she wonât relent until you give in. âI have to buy groceries after I get off work tonight. Maybe Iâll get myself some flowers or something at Trader Joeâs.â
She smiles, accepting thatâs the best sheâs going to get from you. âGood. Start there.â
Dana calls her name and she walks away, leaving you alone with your thoughts for the first time since you stepped through the hospital doors this morning.
Of all the days that youâve worked here, PittFest is by far one of the most traumatic. But itâs also the day that Ellieâs life was saved. The day that a mother didnât have to watch her little girl bleed to death on an operating table. And thatâs thanks to you.
You, and Jack Abbot backing you up.
â・°âŠ
âSheâs lost too much blood. We need O-Neg stat!â Whitakerâs voice calls through all of the chaos surrounding you. He looks over his shoulder towards Dana. âWhatâs the ETA on the donor blood?â
She checks her radio, her face paling. âStill twenty minutes out.â
You stare at the monitors - at Ellieâs stats that are rapidly plummeting - and then at Ellie, motionless on the table, her skin growing grayer by the second. âShe doesnât have twenty minutes,â you murmur to Whitaker, too low for Ellieâs mom to hear you. âSheâs not going to make it that long. Thereâs no way.â
Whitaker looks around for an available attending or senior resident while you look to Ellieâs mother. âMs. Martin, do you know Ellieâs blood type?â
âB-Positive,â she manages through a sob. âSheâs - sheâs B-Positive.â
Youâre moving before the thought fully forms. Darting around the room, yanking open drawers, frantically searching for an empty blood bag, tubing, a sterile needle, everything that you could possibly needâ
âUhââ Whitaker freezes as you slam the supplies onto a rolling tray. âWhat are you doing?â
âSheâs B-Positive. Iâm B-Positive.â
âWe canât - we canât just give a patient unscreened blood,â he sputters, his voice as panicked as the expression on his face. âThereâs too many risksââ
âThe risk right now is her dying if she doesnât get blood immediately.â The words come out louder than you intend, earning another sob from Ms. Martin, and the attention of Dr. Abbot.
âFill me in.â
He isnât talking to anyone in particular. His focus is on the little girl laying on the gurney in front of him, taking in her current state - the gunshot wound in her abdomen and the increasingly concerning stats displayed on the screens beside her.
You open your mouth to answer, but Whitaker beats you to it. âEllie needs blood. She wants to donate hers. I told her we canâtââ
âPlease,â Ellieâs mother cries from behind him. âPlease let her. I canât lose her. Please, do whatever you can, whatever you need to do. Anything.â
You havenât worked with Dr. Abbot very much. Heâs covered a few day shifts here and there since you started at PTMC, and youâve worked a couple night shifts when needed, but for the most part, you donât see him outside of shift change in the mornings.
But youâve heard a lot about him. And in the years that youâve worked here, youâve never heard a negative word.
In fact, just earlier today, you overheard a conversation between Robby and Dr. Collins. You hadnât intended to eavesdrop, it just happened - clear as day, you heard the words from Robbyâs own lips: So, what are you saying? That Abbot low-balled his measurements to help a teen get the abortion that she wants?
If thatâs true - and youâre willing to bet that it is - then that tells you everything you need to know about the kind of doctor that Jack Abbot is.
The kind that not every patient is fortunate enough to have on their side. The kind who always has his patientâs health, safety, and best interest in mind - even if it breaks protocol, even if it goes against the standard of care, even if it later comes back to bite him in the ass.
If it were any other attending or senior resident standing here right now, you might shrink. You might think that arguing your case is a lost cause. Because Whitaker isnât wrong - there are risks with transfusing unscreened blood. It isnât standard protocol, and most doctors would probably shut it down.
But something in your gut tells you that Jack Abbot isnât most doctors.
âEllie is B-Positive like me.â You turn to Jack, looking up at him, earnest and pleading. âI donate blood every six months. Iâm clean. I donât do drugs, I donât smoke. The the donor blood is still twenty minutes out. She needs this now.â
Jack stares at you for one tense, loaded moment. You wouldnât be able to read his expression even if you had the free time to stand here and try to figure it out. Then, he gives you a tight-lipped, curt nod before looking to Ellie's mom for consent.
The following fifteen minutes feel like something out of a fever dream.
One minute Perlah is inserting a needle into your femoral vein so that you can still have use of both of your arms and the next, Whitaker is yelling that Ellie is crashing and youâre starting compressions while blood is still being siphoned from the lower half of your body.
Jack all but pulls you off of her to take over so that Perlah can withdraw the needle from your leg. Warm blood trickles down your thigh before she has a chance to press gauze hard against the site but you barely register anything except the sound of Jackâs voice speaking low to Ellie, telling her to hold on.
Suddenly, the room around you begins to go fuzzy. The people, the monitors, everything shifts and your ears start to ring, making the voices that youâre desperately trying to pay attention to sound like youâre listening through water.
âSit. Now,â Perlah orders, already guiding you to the closest empty stool while keeping pressure on your leg. The adrenaline that has been coursing through you for the last ten minutes begins to crash all at once, leaving your limbs feeling jellied and useless.
It takes every ounce of focus to register that Ellie has stabilized and the transfusion is now in progress. The pit of nausea in your stomach lessens the tiniest bit as Jack steps back, letting Whitaker and Cassie take over.
He turns to you now. Youâre slumped in the stool, sweating, with your pants still positioned awkwardly at mid-thigh as you hold the gauze in place while you wait for Perlah to return with a bandage.
âIâm fine,â you mumble automatically, but the words sound breathless and slurred. âIâve just gotta wait for Perlah to secure a bandage around this and then Iâll get back upââ
âNo way,â he breathes, crouching down to get a better look at you. âYouâre benched for twenty. You need fluids, andââ
âButââ
âNo buts.â His voice is gentle but firm, leaving no room for objections. âYou just lost a lot of blood in a very short amount of time. We need you out there, okay? I canât have you passing out on me.â
The intensity of his stare is enough to make the room spin all over again. So much that all you can do is nod.
âWhat you just did took a lot of guts,â he says, voice low. âAnd it took heart. You saved a life today. Ellieâs mom wonât ever forget that. And I know I wonât, either.â
â・°âŠ
At approximately 10:15 in the morning, youâre flushing an egregious amount of wax out of a ten year oldâs ear when you see Lupe walk past the room with a colossal bouquet of flowers.
Daisies, specifically.
It causes you to momentarily lose focus and accidentally spray the kid in the face.
Daisies. A giant bouquet of daisies, on the day that youâve received your first Daisy Award. It would be quite the coincidence if they were for someone other than you, now wouldnât it?
But who knows. Maybe theyâre not for you. Victoria has gone on a few dates with that one guy sheâs been telling you about at this point. Maybe daisies are her favorite flowers. Maybe itâs someoneâs anniversary and their husband sent them flowers, and they just happen to be daisies. Maybe they are for a sick patient. It is a hospital, after all.
All you know is that you donât have anyone who would send you flowers. Dana, maybe, if you hadnât already expressed your wishes to be as lowkey as possible with receiving your Daisy Award.
Word had still gotten around the ED, and there was no shortage of congratulations. Perlah and Princess, Whitaker and Santos, Victoria and Samira. You didnât mind the sweet sentiments, truly. You appreciated all of them, even if the special attention is unfamiliar.
But flowers? Would someone really send you flowers?
Your question is answered by the look on everyoneâs face as you walk towards the nurseâs station.
Dana, Perlah, Princess, Victoria and Santos are all huddled around the extravagant bouquet of daisies, babyâs breath and various greenery. You freeze when they all turn their attention to you, smirks and toothy grins confirming your suspicion before any of them can say a word.
âDonât worry,â Santos snorts, holding out a small envelope. âWe didnât read the card.â
âWe decided it would be much more fun to watch you open it,â Princess adds.
âAnd because it would be rude,â Dana says with a pointed glare.
You exhale before reluctantly taking the envelope from Santos. Your name is written across the front. Without saying a word, you open the tiny envelope and pull out the card stock note.
(And, because no one has ever done anything like send you flowers to your place of employment, your hands shake an embarrassing amount).
Your eyes skim over the words written on the note. And then you read them again. And again, and one more time for good measure.
You can buy yourself flowers, but you shouldnât have to.
You flip the card over, expecting a signature, but itâs completely blank.
You can feel five pairs of eyes staring holes into you, just waiting for an answer to the question that you have no more of an answer to than they do.
âThereâs no name, you noseys,â you sigh. âIt isnât signed.â
âWhat?â Princess gasps. âTheyâre anonymous? This bouquet had to cost more than my car insurance, and they arenât even going to take credit?â
âYou really donât know who theyâre from?â Victoria asks.
âNope. I mean, it has to be someone here, because I havenât told anyone outside of work, butâŚ.I donât know who.â You shrug, glancing back down at the handwriting you donât recognize. âLupe didnât say who brought them in?â
âSorry, kid,â Dana answers. âThe florist dropped them off. All she told Lupe is that theyâre for you. We know as much as you do.â She smirks, her eyes crinkling in the corners. âWhoever sent them must be really fond of ya.â
And have money to blow, you think to yourself.
To your relief, they all disperse and go back to doing their jobs, leaving you with the vase of dozens of daisies and an unsigned card. You stare at the words as if you can will them to change and reveal the identity of the sender.
You can buy yourself flowers, but you shouldnât have to.
Suddenly, your earlier conversation with Cassie echoes in your mind. In an attempt to appease her, you had told her that you might buy yourself some flowers when you go grocery shopping later today. You had no true intention of actually doing that, so you forgot the promise by the time you saw your first patient of the day.
You find her hunched over an iPad reading x-ray results.
You stand beside her, your elbows braced on the counter. âI take you didnât believe me when I said I was going to buy myself flowers?â
She freezes, cutting her eyes to you. âWhat are you talking about?â
You canât tell if sheâs fucking with you or not. You stare at her for a long moment to see if sheâs going to break composure. âThe shit ton of daisies at the nurseâs station? The card? You can buy yourself flowers but you shouldnât have to? Ringing any bells?â
Cassie straightens, looking over her shoulder in the direction of the nurseâs station, realization and amusement blooming across her face. She lowers her voice a smidge. âYou think those are from me?â
âWho the hell else would they be from?â
She laughs. âYour guess is as good as mine, but they arenât from me. I love you, but Iâm not in love with you.â
You groan, raking your hands down your face in frustration. If they arenât from Cassie, then you really donât fucking know.
âI assume thereâs no card?â
âThere is,â you sigh, pulling the card from the breast pocket of your scrubs. You lay it down on the counter. âItâs not signed. Lupe said the florist dropped them off at check in.â
Cassie stares at the words, her eyes narrowing in thought. âWas the florist a man by chance?â
âUh - no. I donât think so. Why?â
She snorts a laugh, turning her attention back to the clipboard in front of her. âBecause thatâs definitely man-writing.â
Man-writing. ManâŚhandwriting. The words replay over and over again in your mind for the next few hours.
Cassieâs right. The handwriting does appear to be on the more masculine side. It isnât illegible by any means - you can make out each word. But itâs somewhat scrawled and untidy in a way that reminds you of a stereotypical doctorâs scribble.
The thought occurs to you as youâre wheeling a patient to radiology. Man-writing. Doctorâs scribble.
Jack. Jack had been sitting at his desk this morning, just feet away as Cassie had so lovingly lectured you about treating yourself for receiving your first Daisy. She hadnât been talking too loudly, and Jack had given no indication that he had been listening to your conversation, but it isnât impossible. He could have overheard, even unintentionally.
But thatâs crazy, right?
Jack wouldnât send you such an extravagant bouquet of flowers. Would he? For that to even cross your mind as a possibility is simply wishful thinking.
Jack, who makes your brain short-circuit in ways that are entirely, utterly irrational every time he greets you in the mornings. Jack, whose mere occasional and fleeting presence makes you realize that itâs for the better that you typically work opposite shifts because you are unable to think straight when heâs near. Jack, who youâve had a big, fat, embarrassing crush on ever since he looked you in the eye and told you that he would never forget what you did for Ellie.
For a while, you were in complete denial that the way you feel about him is indeed a crush.
At first, you chalked it up to something in between appreciation and admiration. Appreciation because heâd given you the go ahead to donate your blood to Ellie when Whitaker had tried to stop you, and admiration because heâs one of the best doctors that youâve ever known.
Then, you even tried to blame the feelings on daddy issues, for lack of a better term, because that was easier than being honest with yourself about your feelings. An older man supporting you and vocalizing that heâs impressed with you? It makes perfect sense that would have a lasting emotional effect, seeing as your own father has the emotional range of a teaspoon.
But months have passed since the PittFest MCI and no amount of attempted rationalization or therapy has stopped your heart from racing a little faster anytime youâre in the same room as him.
â・°âŠ
Approximately sixteen hours into your double shift, youâre remembering exactly why you hardly ever volunteer for double shifts.
The day had been a series of unfortunate events since the moment you opened your eyes - nearly twenty minutes later than you were supposed to. You had forgotten to plug your phone into the charger and it died during the night, so your alarm didnât go off. You were in such a rush to make it to work on time that you left your lunch box sitting on your kitchen counter.
Then you realized your gas tank was damn near empty, so you had to stop for gas, and then you got stuck in traffic. So, you ended up being fifteen minutes late for work, anyway.
It didnât even dawn on you that you had left your lunch box at home until earlier this afternoon, when you managed to find five minutes in between patients to try to scarf down a few bites of the leftover lasagna you had packed. You opened the break room fridge to find only the same old McDonaldâs bag that has been sitting on the top shelf for the last month, a Tupperware of something that looks like a biohazard, and a camo lunchbox that definitely is not yours.
Therefore, it was cafeteria corn dogs for lunch. Now, itâs nearly midnight and your options are limited to vending machine snacks.
You end up settling on a bag of pistachios and a Slim Jim.
Youâre eating the last few nuts when Jack walks into the break room.
Heâs only a few hours into his shift and he already looks exhausted. Still as handsome as ever, but exhausted. You briefly wonder when his last full day off was, between being here at night and working with the swat team during the day.
He acknowledges you with a small nod and a tired smile before opening the fridge and pulling out the only lunch box inside.
âPlease tell me thatâs not your dinner.â
You glance up as youâre dumping the remaining pistachios into the palm of your hand. Heâs watching you from over the fridge door, his eyes darting between you and the empty Slim Jim wrapper on the table. The back of your neck suddenly burns hot.
You huff a tired laugh. âI woke up late this morning. I was in a rush and forgot my lunch box. Then I got talked into working a double when Mateo called out, soâŚâ You shrug. âIâm making do.â
He stares at you, a look that says âyouâre joking, right?â on his face as he unzips the lunch box without looking away from you. Then, he closes the fridge door and walks to the table, standing opposite of where you sit. He reaches in the sack, pulling out a sandwich in a ziploc bag.
âTake this,â he says, sliding it across the table.
You shake your head immediately. âNo, Iâm okay. Really. Iâll survive until morning.â You lean forward, pushing the sandwich back across the table. âThank you, though.â
You expect him to protest, but instead, he reaches back into the lunch box and pulls out something wrapped in wax paper.
âDo you like chocolate croissants?â
You snort a laugh. âI mean, yeahâŚbut Iâm fine. I donât want to take your food from youââ
âI packed two,â he says, pulling out another croissant, now holding one in each hand. âTake one. If you donât, I will eat both of them, and I do not need to eat both of them.â
You hesitate for a second longer, your stubbornness putting up a losing fight against the fact that you are, in fact, still starving.
âIf you insist,â you sigh, reaching for it. He smiles, obviously satisfied with the small win.
âYou wonât regret it. Best chocolate croissant youâll ever have.â
You unwrap it, revealing the flaky croissant with chocolate oozing out of the layers. âDid you make them yourself?â You ask, bringing the pastry to your lips.
âGod no.â He takes a seat in the empty chair across from you. âTheyâre from a bakery not too far from here. Madeleineâs. Theyâve been one of my favorite places for years.â
Youâre only halfway paying attention to what heâs saying because it tastes so fucking good. Your eyes close to savor the flavor, humming in approval.
âSee? Told you.â
You nod, mouth still too full to verbally agree. He stretches his legs out under the table and watches you chew, his face relaxing in a way that makes you think your ongoing streak of bad luck today has finally come to an end.
â・°âŠ
âYour secret admirer strikes again.â
Cassieâs voice makes you look up from your current task of restocking a crash cart. Your face must give away the surprise you feel at seeing the small brown paperboard box in her hands, because she looks thoroughly amused, unable to stop herself from giggling at you as she walks towards you.
âWhat the hell,â you sigh under your breath, taking a step closer to inspect the box. Thereâs a sticker on the lid that says Madeleine Bakery & Bistro. You instantly recognize the name to be a popular bakery here in Pittsburgh.
âHaving any luck figuring out who it is?â
âNot really,â you grumble as you lift the lid. âI mean, I have a suspicion, but thereâs no wayââ
You freeze mid sentence.
âWhat?â Cassie asks, confused by your abrupt pause. âWhat is it?â
âHoly shit.â
Inside the box lies a half dozen chocolate croissants.
Right away, your thoughts go back to that night in the break room only a month or so ago. The night you were sixteen hours into a double shift and making a meal out of vending machine snacks when Jack insisted that you take one of his chocolate croissants - the best chocolate croissant ever, as he had claimed.
The chocolate croissant from Madeleineâs.
Youâre staring at the pastries, mouth agape, when you notice a folded note taped to the inside of the box. You grab the note and unfold it, ignoring Cassie's continuous questions until youâve read the words written in the exact same handwriting as the note that came with the flowers you received.
Tradition says that Daisy recipients get cinnamon rolls. I donât know if you like cinnamon rolls, so these felt like a safer bet - J
âAre you gonna tell me whatâs going on? What does it say?â
You exhale a laugh in disbelief and hold up the note to let her read it. Her eyes skim the words, her brows furrowing together. âRemember when I told you to lower your voice this morning? Who had been sitting just a few feet away from us?â
âJâŚâ She murmurs, glancing back and forth between you and the note, the gears in her head turning as she pieces it together. Then, realization comes over her face - visible shock that mirrors your own.
âJack?â
â・°âŠ
Jack.
You were right. You couldnât fully believe it even as you were staring down at a box filled with chocolate croissants.
No, you didnât fully believe it until you read the note inside the box and saw that it was signed with a singular initial. J.
Thereâs no denying it now. The daisies and the chocolate croissants were both Jackâs doing, and thereâs no combination of words in the English language to accurately describe exactly how that makes you feel. The only word that begins to come close is surreal.
Surreal because no one has ever sent you flowers. No one has ever sent you baked goods. Let alone both on the same fucking day, and to your job. No one has ever gone out of their way to celebrate you so intentionally. The level of thoughtfulness is completely foreign.
So foreign, in fact, that you arenât even sure how to approach him about it.
Of course youâre going to say thank you. But should you call him? Text him? Wait until you see him in person again? He doesnât work tonight, so you wonât see him at shift change, and then youâre off work for the next several days. You wonât see him again until the beginning of next week at the earliest, and that feels like an awkward amount of time to wait to say thank you.
Thanks to a work group chat that Robby made forever ago so everyone could have easy access to coworkerâs phone numbers if anyone ever found themselves needing to get in touch with someone, you already have Jackâs number.
But youâve never texted him outside of messages exchanged in the group chat on rare occasion, so when you type a message in a private message thread, you read it at least twenty times before actually pressing send.
Hi. I hope itâs okay I got your number from the work group chat. I didnât want to wait until next week to tell you thank youâŚso thank you. For the flowers and the croissants. You really didnât have to do that, but it means a lot.
And then, like a fucking idiot, you send a second text clarifying that itâs you, as if he wouldnât be able to deduce that using context clues and common sense.
The message gets marked as read within a matter of seconds. Jesus, does this man ever sleep?
He types. And types. And then the dots at the bottom of your screen disappear. And then reappear, and he types some more. Itâs silly and childish, but your heart is racing as you wait for a response to come through. Youâre about to give up for the time being - youâve been sitting in the bathroom for so long that youâre surprised no one has come looking for you yet - when a new message finally appears in the thread.
Of course itâs okay. You donât have to thank me, but youâre welcome. Next time youâre planning to buy yourself flowers, just give me some advance notice.
Before you can even start to process that, a second text comes through.
How committed are you to your plans to go grocery shopping after work tonight?
Your phone falls out of your hands and clatters against the bathroom floor.
âShit,â you hiss under your breath, scrambling to pick it up.
Donât seem too eager. Donât seem too eager. Donât seem too eager. Be cool.
Well, my fridge is pretty bare bones right now, so Iâm only committed to those plans if I want to eat dinner tonight.
The bathroom door creaks open then, drawing your gaze away from your phone screen as you press send. Danaâs voice calls your name. âYou good in here? Or did you fall in?â
âYeah!â You squeak. âIâm here. Iâll be right there. Sorry, Iâm uhâŚlittle backed up.â
Dana is silent for an awkward, loaded second. Long enough for you to physically recoil at your choice of words. Really? Constipation? Thatâs your excuse?
âAlright,â she huffs, a noise somewhere between amusement and annoyance. You can so clearly picture the expression on her face at this moment. âSorry I asked.â
The door shuts a moment later. When you glance back down, your heart palpitates at the realization that Jack replied. Simple and straight to the point.
I could take you to dinner instead, if that sounds better than grocery shopping and cooking for yourself after a twelve hour shift.
â・°âŠ
You do let him take you to dinner, and it is far better than grocery shopping and cooking after a twelve hour shift.
Youâd be lying if you were to say that you hadnât been nervous. That your fingers didnât shake as you replied saying yes, and as you gave him your address, and as you agreed upon a time for him to pick you up.
Youâre out of practice as far as the dating game goes. When you first moved to Pittsburgh, you knew no one. Youâve made a few friends (okay, Cassie and a couple other coworkers), but for the most part, youâve kept to yourself. Focused on your career, furthered your education by becoming a Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner, and spent your free time investing in your hobbies and interests.
There have been a few random dates here and there, but nothing worth remembering. Nothing that made you desire a second date. They either talked too much about themselves and didnât seem interested in you as a person, or there simply wasnât that telltale spark that one hopes to feel on a first date.
Basically the complete opposite of this date with Jack so far.
He picked you up - right on time. Opened the car door for you, and the door at the restaurant he decided on - one that happens to serve your favorite kind of food. You arenât sure if that was a lucky guess on his part or if heâs overheard you talking about food that you enjoy at some point in the last few years and happened to remember, but either way, it gives you the kind of butterflies that you havenât felt in a long, long time.
The fact that he looks even more handsome in clothes that arenât scrubs certainly doesnât hurt, either.
Jack sets his drink down, fingers tapping lightly against the table like he wants to say something but canât find the right words. His mouth forms a nervous smile, but he doesnât break eye contact. He hesitates for a split-second more before speaking. âI have a small confession to make.â
Your stomach flutters, suddenly as nervous as he appears to be. âWhat is it?â You ask softly.
âThe day of PittFestâŚâ He trails off, shaking his head slightly. âYou inspired me.â
Your brows raise in surprise. Despite your actions during PittFest being the reason you received a Daisy Award - which lead to Jack sending you flowers, which then lead to the two of you being here right now - neither of you have actually mentioned that day until now.
âIâm O-Negative,â he continues simply. âIâve donated before. Plenty of times. But that day, in the middle of all that chaosâŚyou didnât even hesitate. You didnât care about rules, or protocol, or repercussions. All you cared about was saving a life. And it inspired me to do the same.â
The admission takes you completely off guard. âIt did?â
He nods. âAfter Ellie stabilized, I donated. Drew from my femoral vein while working on another patient. Just like you.â
For a moment, you can only stare at him, warmth settling into your bones at the revelation. âI didnât know that,â you murmur.
He gives a small shrug. âI just thought that now would be a good time to tell you. You deserve that award. For acting selflessly and saving Ellieâs life, of course. But you alsoâŚmade me a better doctor that day.â
Your throat tightens with emotion. You reach across the small table, placing your hand on top of his and giving it a gentle squeeze that you hope conveys just how much his words mean. âThank you,â you whisper. You donât pull your hand away. âI have a small confession of my own,â you add with a nervous laugh.
âOh, yeah?â He places his other hand on top of yours, sandwiching yours between his own and rubbing lazy circles over your skin with the pad of his thumb. âWhatâs that?â
You take a deep breath before speaking. âIâm not really used to this. Being celebrated. By myself or by others.â You glance down at where your hands are joined because itâs easier than looking him in the eye while you try to find the right words. Words youâve never really said out loud. âI usually just do what I need to do and move on. I donât let myself dwell on it for long enough to wonder if anyone else is going to be proud of me. Itâs easier that way. Saves me from a lot of disappointment.â
âI only told Cassie I would buy myself flowers because I knew sheâd keep nagging me about it if I didnât do something,â you admit with a humorless laugh. âI wasnât really going to.â
Jack remains quiet, giving you time and space to say whatever you want to say. His grip on your hand tightens ever so slightly. Just enough to let you know that heâs absorbing every word.
âBut then you sent flowers. And the croissants.â You look back up with a shy smile. âAnd it caught me off guard. In a good way. I didnât realize just how much I needed someone to notice me. Until you did.â
He leans forward, the tea light candle in the center of the table making his hazel eyes twinkle. The way he looks at you, so intensely and so sincere, makes you feel seen in a way that is entirely unfamiliar but not at all unwelcome.
âI would very much like to keep showing you just how much I notice you. If youâll let me.â
And for the first time maybe ever in your life, you think youâll let yourself want that, too.
â・°âŠ
thank you for reading!! if you comment/reblog i love you so much <3
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summary: when jack abbot runs into you at a bar after your shift on the fourth of july, he teaches you what it means to unwind and you teach him what it means to feel loved again. (6k)
characters: jack abbot / fem!loser!reader, trinity and mel at karaoke, baran al-hashimi
contents: friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, jealousy, age difference, power imbalance, so much yearning, jack abbot hasn't had sex in eight years confirmed cw for mentions of trauma and grief, and smut 18+ (MDNI)
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
The bar pulses like a living thing with a heartbeat. The buzzing of a hundred different conversations and the wailing of a distant guitar sting overhead presses hard on either side of you. If you concentrate real hard, you think you can still hear Mel and Trinity butchering another Alanis Morissette song back in the private karaoke room â which isnât nearly private enough, considering the way their drunken devotion bleeds out into the main hall.
You left them a while ago to order a drink, which melts slowly in the sweaty glass between your fingertips now. You bring it to your lips and try to take a sip, but something in your throat refuses. The taste feels wrong; the burn feels wrong. Actually, the more you think about it, everything feels wrong â like your body is still calibrated to the relentless rhythm of the ER, to the work you can never quite seem to leave behind.
Even now, as your eyes meet your reflection in the mirror behind the liquor bottles, you look like something you donât quite recognize â dressed in a velvet red number pulled from Trinity Santosâ closet instead of your usual scrubs; with your hair done instead of carelessly shoved back. Itâs like looking at a stranger wearing your own face.
âLong time, no see, Docââ A masculine voice cuts in, so familiar that you wonder if youâve been thinking about the PTMC so long that youâve begun to hallucinate your coworkers.
Your head snaps over your shoulder. Your tired eyes widen at the sight of your attending sliding in beside you. Jack Abbot is still donned in his scrubs, you find, as he leans against the bar â black uniform, brown undershirt, and navy pants â like he dressed himself in the dark before he came into work. His freckled biceps strain against the short sleeves as he folds them across the polished wood.Â
There are two glasses half-full of amber liquid before him. He lifts one in his right hand and eyes you over the top of it. âHow long has it been?â he quips with narrowed eyes before taking a quick sip.
You blink away the shock of seeing him here, all casual, like he wasnât just elbows deep in a trauma with you.
âAboutâŚâ You lilt and glance at the clock behind the bar. âHalf an hour ago, I think?â
His mouth curves with a slow, suspicious smile as his steady gaze refuses to waver. âWhat are you doing here all by yourself, huh? Gotta hot date I donât know about?â
You scoff a quiet laugh and turn away, looking down at your untouched glass as you spin it in an anxious hand. âYeahâ If thatâs what you wanna call watching Trinity and Mel butcher Alanis Morisetteâs entire catalogâŚâ
Your head tilts to your shoulder to flash him a lazy grin, which falters at the edge when you catch his unflinching stare. You clear your throat, remember that youâre talking to an attending, and stammer out, âUh, whatâ What about you?â
Jack bounces a lazy shoulder and lifts the glass in his right hand. âThis was the nearest place to get a good whiskey, soâŚâ he trails off before taking another sip.
His eyes never leave yours as he peers at you from over the rim of the glass, studying you almost, analyzing you in a way that makes your skin feel too tight.
Your nose scrunches in protest of his staring. âWhy are you looking at me like that?â you wonder through a breathless chuckle.
âI donât knowâŚâ he admits, quieter now. âItâs just the first time Iâve seen you out of your scrubsâŚâ
His light eyes flicker over your form again â from your bare shoulders and exposed chest, to where your dress clings to your ass and stomach.Â
âItâs differentâŚâ he hums. âA good differentâŚâ
Heat crawls up your neck. You turn away on instinct, finding it very suddenly difficult to meet his stare, as a disbelieving laugh slips from your mouth.
âWhat are you laughing at?â Jack presses with a chuckle of his own.
âNothing,â you dismiss with a shake of your head. âI just⌠I think you might be a little tipsy there, Dr. AbbotâŚâ
âThis is only my second glass, Iâll have you know,â he argues, playfully offended. âWhat? You think I canât handle my alcohol.â
He straightens slightly and takes a step closer. Still leaving several inches of space between you, though it takes a lot of strength from you not to slide off your bar stool entirely.
âNo! I justââ You stumble over yourself as the words tangle on your tongue. âI just feel like you probably wouldnât be talking to me like this otherwise.â
âI talk to you every day,â he scoffs.
âWell, yeah, but you donât flirt with me every day.â
His brows raise as something short of amusement flickers across his face. âOh. So you think Iâm flirting with you?â
An awkward silence drops like a leaden weight upon you, like an anvil in one of those ancient cartoons. It knocks the breath out of you accordingly.
ââŚNo,â you answer after a few long moments. âOf course not.â
Your grip tightens on your drink as you turn away from him again. You hardly think twice before bringing it impulsively to your mouth, downing two long sips of the watered-down gin and tonic. Your face screws at the bitter taste and at the burning sensation on your tongue, which turns into a dull sparkle when it settles in the pit of your stomach.
âWell, I was, soâŚâ Jack quips, too casual for his own good. âI guess Iâm gonna have to try a little harder now, arenât I?â
His eyes cut to you, expecting you to laugh at him, or to stammer out another one of your painfully shy replies. You forget to respond entirely, though, too focused on the way the alcohol singes your tongue. (You spend a long moment debating whether or not itâs numb or swelling in your throat with a thousand-yard stare.)
Your silence is not reassuring.
âUnlessââ Jackâs voice tightens slightly as he clears his throat. His charming resolve slips as he stammers, âUnless you donât want me to. Obviously. Then I can just, you know, fuck offââ
âNo, itâs not that!â you blurt. âItâs justâŚâ
He leans in, just slightly. âJust what?â
You hesitate for a moment, calculating the words, though they seem to slip off your tingling tongue before you can stop them.
âI feel like I havenât⌠learned how to be a real person yet, you know?â you confess with a sheepish, lopsided grin. âLike⌠People my age are supposed to go out for drinks, and sing karaoke with their friends, and flirt with cute guysââ
You donât notice your slip-up, but Jack does, and he hides his smile behind his glass.
âBut I think Iâve just been working so much that⌠That I donât know how to do anything but work, you know?â
âYeahâŚâ he hums softly. âTrust me. I know the feelingââ
Thereâs a distant call of his name. A faint âAbbot,â half-swallowed by the thrumming music and surrounding conversation. Your head turns in the direction of the sound to find Dr. Al-Hashimi appearing from the crowd. Her fluffy brown curls are out of their usual clip, languishing now at her shoulders. Her lavender jacket is gone, too, to reveal her lean body beneath her slim scrub top.
You blink owlishly at her for a few moments, unused to the sight of her outside the white walls of the E.D.
âYou were supposed to be bringing me a drink,â the woman quips drily, smiling as she reaches for the touched whiskey next to Abbot. âNot holding it hostage.â
âShitâŚâ Jack exhales. âIâm sorry. I-I got distractedâŚâ
âDr. Al,â you greet with a waver in your voice. âI⌠I didnât know you were here.â
âYeah, wellâŚâ she shrugs. âI heard this was the best place to get a glass of whiskey, soâŚâ
You nod slowly, suddenly unsure of yourself â of what to do with your hands, your voice, with Jack. You swallow hard as your eyes flit wildly between the two attendings standing before you. You struggle to shake the feeling that youâve interrupted something.
âIâll, uhâ I guess Iâll get out of your hair thenâŚâ
You muster an artificial smile and abandon your gin and tonic as you slide off the bar stool.
Jack calls your name, but it gets lost in the crowd that swallows you whole as you disappear out of sight.
You stomach through one and a half more songs that Mel and Trinity shout into the void of the private karaoke room. They take a quick break from âYou Oughta Knowâ to sing a strikingly heartfelt rendition of âHead Over Feetâ that very nearly brings a tear to your eye.Â
Itâs not their sloppy singing, exactly, but rather the reminder of how alone you feel just now â the only audience member on the pleather sofa, bathed in the strobing neon glow from the overhead lights, watching the fun from afar while your friends forge an unlikely bond.Â
While Jack and Dr. Al laugh over drinks togetherâÂ
You rise abruptly and catch them between verses to tell them youâre heading out for the night. Their protests come wrapped in song.
âBut weâre having so much fun!â Trinity whines in drunken slurs, then locks in when the chorus hits. âYouâve already won me over, in spite of me! So donât be alarmed if I fall, head over feetâ!â
The song follows you the entire way out of the bar, where the night air outside washes over you like fine silk. You catch yourself humming the tune as you shrug on the brown bomber jacket you borrowed from Trinityâs closet â just in case you felt the need to hide. You falter when your fingers brush something in the front pocket.
You reach in with a pensive twist to your features, surprised to find a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a silver lighter shoved inside. You stare at it for several long moments and wonder briefly what it would feel like to smoke one. (Youâre unable to shake the impulsive thought from your brain until youâve done it.)
You pull one cig free and stick the orange filter between your lips. You flick the lighter three times before it finally strikes. You hold your free hand over the flame like they do in the movies and inhale when it finally lights.
You regret it instantly.Â
Grey smoke billows from your mouth as you cough. You double over on the worn sidewalk like a total loser, eyes watering and chest burning as your lungs rebel against your very poor life choices.
âThose things kill, you knowâ?â Jackâs voice cuts in again.
(He has a way of finding you in the most embarrassing situations, it seems.)
You blink away the tears in your eyes and turn to find the older man standing just a few feet away with his hands in his pockets. He watches you attentively, with something close to amusement twisting his scruffy face.
âI can tellââ you rasp as your coughing fit ebbs. âThereâs no way this is enjoyable for people.â
âEh,â he shrugs. âItâs not so bad when you get used to it.â
His sneakers scuff the cracked pavement as he saunters over to you, holding his hand out with a glittering look in his eye. âCan I?â
You donât think twice before passing him the lit cigarette.
âBy all means...â
Jack pinches the stick between his thumb and forefinger. He places his mouth around the filter, inhales once, holds the breath, and exhales through his nose a second or more later.Â
You canât seem to stop staring at the silver hair on his tilted chin; or the tendons in his corded neck; or the singular vein in his freckled forearm when he snuffs the cigarette out on the brick wall. He drops it into the receptacle there when heâs done.
âSoâŚâ He exhales the remaining smoke from his mouth, which leaves in grey wisps that hang in the air between you for a few lingering moments. âI guess youâre headed out now?â
âYeahâŚâ you sigh. âGuess soâŚâ
He observes the empty sidewalk for a moment before wondering casually, âWant me to walk you home?â
âNo, itâs okay,â you shrug. âYouâre busy, and I⌠I only live, like, a block down the road, soââ
âSo, then, itâll be quick?â Jack presses with raised brows.
Your eyes narrow. ââŚYouâre not gonna take no for an answer here, are you?â
Jack shakes his head, lips smoothing into a knowing grin. âNot this time, kid. No.â
The walk back to your place feels borderline suffocating, though you canât exactly place why. The air is made of thick satin as the heat of the day washes away, leaving something silken and breathable in its wake, as the wind ripples in your dress. Everything smells very distinctly of summer â of dewy grass, and gunpowder from distant fireworks, and the faint sweetness of something thatâs just been barbecued.Â
You can hear the fireworks crackling somewhere in the distance, though you struggle to see them from the buildings overhead. You can feel each thundered boom in your chest, along with the heavy bass of a passing car playing music far too loud as it barrels by.
Thereâs something oddly peaceful about it. Intimate, even, as your shoulder brushes Jackâs broader one with each step. The silence is not particularly awkward, but you canât shake the feeling that you should say something. You rack your brain for a conversation starter, and end up blurting out the one thing you didnât want to say out loudâÂ
âSoâŚâ you lilt, tripping over the conversation like a loose wire. âYou and Dr. AlâŚ?â
ââŚAre very good coworkers, yeah,â Jack nods, silver curls turning gold beneath the amber streetlights. He catches your uncertain gaze and shrugs. âShe had a tough first day, you know? Figured Iâd treat her to a few drinks.â
âThatâs niceâŚâ you murmur with an averted gaze.
âIt was nothing,â Jack assures you.
Your apartment building comes into view around the corner, painted a garish canary yellow with vivid orange doors, aptly named Sunset Tower. It used to be a motel, you assume from the layout, probably before you were born; and was renovated into an apartment complex likely not too long after you were born.
You donât think twice before starting up the rusty staircase to your third-floor apartment â not until you notice the slight hitch in Jackâs step as he follows behind you, favoring his prosthetic limb more than he realizes. It must be hurting him, you figure, after being on it for hours at the PTMC.Â
âShit,â you huff. âIâm sorry. I shouldâve told you.â
âTold me about what?â Jack scoffs despite his grimacing as he swings his leg another step. âI can handle a few stairsâŚâ
âI canât make it up on my own, if youââ
âHey,â he snaps, a little harsher than he means to, as he glances in your direction. A far-off firework glimmers in your gaze, soft and sympathetic around the edges in a way that makes his chest ache. âIâm good. Donât worry about me, alright?â
You continue the ascent despite your better judgment, despite the way Jackâs steps lose rhythm just beside you. You catch him stumbling in the corner of your eye when he steps up a beat too early. His prosthetic twists unnaturally, angering the already raging skin of his amputated knee.Â
Youâre at his side without blinking. Your hands reach for his arm, steady him with your fingers cradling his wrist and elbow.Â
Jack nearly protests, but stops himself short.
You hold onto him the rest of the way up.
Your place is exactly how he imagined it would be â not that heâd been picturing what the inside of your apartment looked like, of course, because heâs not a total creep. He just finds a very apt representation of you wedged with the quaint walls of the old, old building. Itâs cluttered but not messy; with numerous blankets and books and potted plants strewn about. There are half-used candles littered on just about every surface, filling the air with a sweet scent of musky-vanilla-raspberry.
The grass green couch pushed against the wall caves under his weight when you ease him down onto it. It smells like a mixture of your perfume and the side of the road you mustâve pulled it from when you moved in.
âWowâŚâ Jack hums, if only to conceal his wincing as he adjusts himself on the cushion. âNice placeâŚâ
âNo, itâs not,â you scoff an awkward laugh and stand to full height above him, adjusting the skirt of your dress from where it had ridden up. âDo you, uhâ Need anything?âÂ
âNo. Iâm good.â
ââCause I have some first aid supplies if your prosthetic is bothering youââ
âReally. Iâm good,â he echoes. âYou donât mind if I take it off, though, do you?â
âOf course not!â you blurt. âIâll, um⌠Iâll go get you some water.â
You scurry the short distance to the kitchen. The hissing faucet pervades the silence as you fill two glasses at the sink, along with the soft clanking of the heavy prosthetic as Jack unscrews it from the limb. You find him massaging the scar when you return.
âDo youâ Do you need me to call you an Uber, orâŚ?â
Jack tilts his chin to smile up at you. A playful laugh tumbles from his mouth. âWow⌠Trying to get rid of me already, huh?â
Your face floods with horror. âNo! O-Of course not! I justâ With your leg, Iâ I donât want you to walk all the way home, you know?â
âI think I can make it, sweetheart,â he tells you, and only vaguely notices his slip-up. âI just needed a second⌠Thank youââ He nods in appreciation when you set the water down on the coffee table in front of him.
You keep several inches between you on the sunken couches as you sit gingerly at his side â very palpably tense, like youâre a stranger in your own home. You wring your clammy hands together in your lap as a long silence stretches thin between you.
âAnd I wasnâtâ I wasnât trying to⌠kick you out. Or anything,â you add, softer now.
âI know, kid,â Jack assures.
âGoodâŚâ you breathe a sigh of relief. ââCause Iâ I donât want you to leave⌠Wait, that sounded weirdâ I just meant that⌠I like your company. Iâm not, like, trying to hold you hostage or whatever, I swear.â
Another awkward laugh spills from your mouth.
Jackâs lip quirks with a smile as he sits up straight again. âI wouldnât mind it if you were, to be honestâŚâ he hums, only halfway joking. âBut unfortunately, I do have SWAT early in the morning, so⌠If you could free me around 6 a.m, thatâd be great.â
âOh, right,â you scoff and bring your water to your mouth. âThe side hustle where you get shot at for fun?â
âItâs good to have a hobby,â Jack shrugs and leans back against the sofa, throwing a strong arm around the back of it, as he studies you with narrowed eyes. âWhat do you do for fun, hm? Outside of work, I mean.â
You think for a long moment, spinning the glass between your fingers. ââŚI once watched Love Island for thirty-one straight hours. That was pretty fun.â
Jack snorts. âSo what Iâm hearing is, you donât have any hobbies?â
âWork is my hobby.â
âSo what do you do to⌠unwind?â
ââŚHave panic attacks in the supply closet at work,â you confess. âWhat about you?â
âGet shot at,â Jack quips in the same gritty tone.
âWell, at least you get to do something outside of the E.DâŚâ you monotone with a far-off stare. âThis is the first time in months Iâve been somewhere other than here and the PTMC. I mean, I have my groceries delivered nowâ Iâm too boring to even go shopping...â
âWhat do you mean?â he scoffs. âYouâre youngâ You should be going out every weekend.â
âWell, I donâtâŚâ you huff mournfully and slouch back against the sofa. The thin sleeve of your velvet dress slips off your shoulder, giving Jack a brief glance of the top of your breast before you adjust it back over your collarbone again.
âWhat about dates?â he presses with his chin to his shoulder. âYou donât go on any of the apps?â
âWell, first of all, no one calls it the apps. And second of all, god no,â you laugh drily, then flash him a sheepish look from the corner of your eye. âWhat about you?â
âNahâŚâ Jack shakes his head. âI havenât been on a date in about⌠Eight yearsââ
âEight years?!â you blurt before he can properly get the words out, leaning forward with wide eyes. âJesus. How does a guy like you go around without getting hit on for eight whole years?â
(Youâre starting to think those three sips of gin from before are getting to you now.)
âWell, itâs a lot easier than you think,â the older man deadpans. âCause itâs not like he was actively avoiding dates; he just wasnât exactly seeking them out.Â
He lost the urge to after his wife died, and then, when the urge to live came back around, heâd catch himself flirting every now and then, but never wanting to do much more than that. Then he blinked, and eight years had passed without him noticing.
Eight years with nothing but his own hand to get himself off â though, it only starts to seem pathetic when you look at it that way.
âWhat about you?â
âWhat about me?â you scoff. âThe last time a guy showed even a modicum of interest in me was⌠in med school, probably.â
âOkay, well, thatâs just not true,â Jack argues. âThat vitrectomy patient from earlier definitely had a crush on you.â
Your eyes narrow in a cynical squint. âHe was drunk. With half a bottle rocket stuck in his eye. That hardly counts.â
âWell, Iâve had⌠About a whiskey and a half,â Jack calculates. âDo I still count?â
The air thins in an instant, or maybe his words have just knocked it all straight out of your lungs.
Your skin burns red hot beneath the dress that feels suddenly way too tight, âcause you think he must be joking â that taking the piss out of your obvious crush on him is his idea of playing around.
âThatâs not funny,â you tell him with a wavering smile.
âIâm not trying to be funny,â the man insists with a scoff. âI havenât been funny since 1994.â
Another laugh sputters from your mouth. A real one this time â not the fake ones youâve been giving him just to fill the silence, or to try to seem less nervous than you really are. It makes him smile wider than he probably realizes.
âThere you goâŚâ Jack hums with a proud nod.
âThere I go, what?â
âYouâre unwindingâŚâ
You scoff, still grinning wide despite yourself. âAm I?â
âYeah,â he hums. âAnd youâre doing a great job so farâ a solid B-minus.â
âB-minus?â you echo. âIâve had a 4.0 GPA since I was in fourth grade.â
âWellâŚâ Jack shrugs with a knowing grin. âBetter step it up then, kid.â
Something inside you tips in that moment. Itâs his teasing, maybe, or just the way heâs looking at you. Either way, you catch yourself leaning forward before your brain has properly thought it through. You close the distance between you in a flicker â brushing a chaste kiss to his mouth before pulling away just as fast.
You can feel your pulse pounding in your throat as you quip, âWhat does that get me?â
Jack blinks for a second, momentarily caught off guard. He fights the urge to lick his lips, to try and actually taste you. âProbably a couple HR violations?â he jokes after a few moments.
Your stomach drops. You find yourself praying that this old couch swallows you whole, or that the world would just end altogether, because even that would be a kinder fate than this.
âOh. Shit. I-I thought thatâ I thought we were... Fuck, I totally misread this whole thingââ
You turn away entirely and drop your face in your hands, utterly mortified.Â
His laughter doesnât make it any better.
You feel the sofa caving beneath you as Jack shifts to your side. His hands are warm and softly calloused as they cradle your wrists in a firm and gentle grip, urging them downward so he can see your face again. He ducks his head to meet your wet eyes and flashes you a reassuring smile.
âYou didnât misread a damn thing,â he assures you with a shake of his head, voice lower and smoother than honey. âOf course, I want to kiss youâ I always want to kiss you.â
The mournful twist in your features never wavers. âThen why donât you?â
âBecause itâd be wrong,â he shrugs. âIâm your attending. I wouldnât want anyone thinking that Iâ that I pressured you into something.â
âWell⌠We both know you didnât, right?â you argue softly, eyes glittering with hope as they dart back and forth between his. âAnd, I mean⌠Itâs not like anyone else would have to know. Weâre not getting married, weâre just⌠unwinding. Right?â
ââŚYeah,â Jack hums, softer now, with something mischievous squinting his gaze. âRight...â
Youâre not making it easy for him.
Jackâs trying not to cum in his pants before youâve ever even touched him, and youâre making it damn near impossible.Â
He drags you into his lap when you lean in to kiss him again â for real this time, licking sweetly into his mouth so he can taste you truly â and you knee him right in the thigh before you can straddle him properly. You pull away with a smack when he groans in pain against your mouth.
âShitâŚâ you pant with his spit still on your lips. âIâm sorry.â
Jack shakes his head until the words catch up to him. âItâs okay,â he assures through uneven breaths, knotting his fingers in your hair to pull you into him once more. He kisses you again, hard, like itâs muscle memory for him â from a life he hasnât let himself live in a long, long time.
He cradles one hand over the crown of your head and the other just over your spine, where your dress dips down in the back. He keeps your warm weight pressed flush against him while the kiss turns languid and heavy, full of tongue and teeth and spit. You curl your fingers into his greying curls to keep him impossibly close all the while.
You feel his chest hitch with a startled breath beneath you when you grind down over his lap. Your velvet dress rises over your hips from the angle as you move down his thighs and up again â you can feel the ghost of his erection hardening beneath his scrubs with every pass.Â
Thereâs a noticeable hesitance in the way you move. Itâs not graceful or entirely practiced. Itâs laced with a palpable uncertainty, rather, as you struggle to navigate the honeyed moment youâve stumbled so suddenly into.
And Jack can hardly take it. âCause hasnât let himself want like this in years; he hasnât let himself reach out for anything other than his grief or his work. For so long, his life has been defined by restraint and the careful art of not needing anything. And now youâre here, moving clumsily on top of him, completely undoing him.
It hits him all at once, how suddenly sensitive he is, after so long ignoring the touch of another. The friction, the pressure; the smell of you, the taste of you. Itâs all too much. He knows he wonât last long if he keeps going this way, so he pulls back.
And he hates himself for it.
âHeyââ He clears his throat when the word comes out a little rough. His adamâs apple bobs in his throat as he swallows. His glassy eyes dart back and forth between both of yours as he peers up at you through a layer of honey. âHey, you⌠You have condoms, right?â
You blink back at him for a long moment, slightly dazed at the sight of your spit on his rosy mouth. You nod with a stuttered breath. âUh, yeah. Yeahâ I thinkâ SomewhereâŚâ
(Thereâs an unopened box collecting dust under the sink in the bathroom, but he doesnât need to know that.)
He mourns your warmth when you slide off his lap, rushing off down the hall with your dress still caught around your hips. The sight of your plain cotton underwear cradling the curve of your ass makes his chest tighten as you disappear down the dim hallway. You toe off your shoes halfway down, and the sound of your padding footsteps echoes in the quiet.
âJesus ChristâŚâ Jack huffs and slouches further into the couch.Â
He drags his hands down his face and tries to regulate his breathing, tries to think of anything other than the aching erection in his pants. He stares up at the ceiling and attempts to will his body into something resembling composure when you return.
Your dress has fallen back down over your hips, but the right sleeve is still slipping down your shoulder when you stand before him. Youâre not sure what to do with the condom in your hand, so you toss it to him over the coffee table. Jack catches it against his chest.
âTake that dress offâŚâ he tells you with a voice like honey. âI wanna see you.â
You try and fail to reach for the zipper, which Mel had helped you with at Trinityâs place before you left for the bar. So, instead, you worm your arms out of the sleeves and shove the fabric down your hips with trembling hands. It hits the floor around your bare feet with a dull thud, leaving you in a heart-patterned bra youâve had since high school and a pair of plain pink panties.
Youâre hardly a thing worth looking at, really, but Jack didnât seem to get that memo.
He beckons you forward with heavy eyes. âCâmereâŚâ he murmurs.
You take slow, tentative steps towards him.
His calloused hands are warm and slightly trembling when they curl around the backs of your thighs. He leans in to press his mouth to the silk bow in the middle of your underwear, and his mouth waters at the wet spot gathering in the center of the cotton.
His scruffy chin brushes your stomach when he turns to look up at you, lidded eyes glimmering with a desire you didnât know you were capable of drawing out of a person.
âI wanna make you cum with my mouth,â Jack murmurs. âCan I?â
You nod wordlessly, and canât shake the feeling that youâre dreaming when his pointer finger hooks through the hem of your panties. You feel a little cold when he slides the cotton to the side, only for him to press his warm mouth there a second later.Â
Your knees threaten to buckle when his tongue slots through your silken folds, and Jack doesnât miss a beat. He braces your ass in one wide hand while his other slips down to the bend of your knee, urging you to prop your foot on the couch beside him. Your moan swells throughout your empty apartment at the new angle, which allows him to lick at your sensitive clit with greater precision.
He forgets to take things slow with you, too busy trying to make up for this time. He drags an orgasm out of you like the worldâs soon to end, and the last thing he wants to do on this earth is to taste you on his tongue.Â
You cum on his mouth with your head tipped back and with your fingers knotted in his hair. Heâs wearing your glittering slick down to his chin when heâs done with you.
You fall gracelessly into his lap when your legs turn to jell-o. You straddle his waist, ball his shirt into your fists, and bury your burning face into his neck â still whimpering as your high is slow to ebb.Â
Jack cradles you against him the entire length of your comedown, running his warm hands up and down your spine. His scruff brushes the delicate skin of your shoulder when he presses a chaste kiss there.
âThat wasnât too much, was it?â he pants into your ear.
You shake your head until the words catch up to you. âNo⌠No, it wasâ It was goodâŚâ you stammer through uneven breaths, and pull just far enough away to meet his eyes. âI wanna ride you now⌠Is that okay?â
And who is Jack to deny you of a damn thing?
You brace yourself on his shoulder with one hand and use your free one to line his bulbous tip at the entrance of your weeping pussy. His cock drools an embarrassing amount of pearly precum â he can feel it all underneath the condom â and heâs momentarily grateful that you canât see any of it.Â
You exhale a wavering, punched-out breath as you sink down over him and take a long moment to get used to the distant stinging sensation.
Jackâs grateful for that, too.
His jaw hardens to choke down the groan that rumbles in the bottom of his throat. He tilts his head against the back of the couch and squeezes his eyes shut to fight away the overwhelming desire to explode entirely. He holds you in place when you try to move again, with fingers that threaten to leave bruises on your thighs.
âYou okay?â you pant, eyes darting wildly over the pained twist on his scruffy features.
Jack nods, jaw clenched tight. His words come out half-strangled.Â
âYeah, yeah. I just⌠I wasnât lying about the whole eight-year thing.â He exhales a hard breath through his nose thatâs supposed to be a laugh, though there isnât really a smile to accompany it. âI donât wanna⌠I donât wanna cum too soon, you know? I wannaâ make it good for you. Thatâs all.â
Your fingers brush over his temple and through his silver curls, in a touch so gentle it nearly makes him cum right then.
âItâs already good for me,â you assure him. âI want it to be good for you, too.â
You grind over him with the same hesitance from before, down his thighs and back again, slowly finding your rhythm. Jackâs hands grip hard at your hips, like itâs the only thing keeping him tethered. He can just barely find the strength to keep his eyes open to watch you chase your orgasm on top of him.
His eyes flit from your blissed-out features to where his cock disappears inside of you. The thatch of curls above his cock glistens with your honey â he can feel it wetting the hem of his scrubs from where theyâre shoved beneath his heavy balls. Youâre bound to cum just as quickly as he is, no doubt.Â
He can feel it in the way your pussy flutters around his twitching length â in the way your pacing falters slightly on top of him.
âNuh-huh. Donât run away from me,â Jack mutters in your ear as he shifts underneath you, slouching further to hit somewhere deep inside of you. He cradles your head with one hand and grips hard at your ass with another, helping you move on top of him.Â
Your whine gets buried in his sweat-slick neck.
Jack smiles into your hair. âYeah. There it is, honey. There you goâŚâ
He feels a little proud of himself when he manages to hold off just long enough to feel you cumming around him, twitching against his chest and tugging hard at his silver curls. He follows right after â going rigid underneath you a second later as his cock jerks wildly within your fluttering confines.
His groan mixes with your whining as you milk him of his orgasm, in a sinful symphony that swells throughout your silent apartment.
Then the room goes quiet, with only the sound of your heavy breathing to fill it. You rise and fall with each of Jackâs panted breaths beneath you. Your limbs are loose and borderline boneless; tension ebbs from your body like an unwinding thread. You think youâd turn into a puddle on top of him without his hands smoothing up and down your back, molding you back together again.
Itâs the only way Jack can stay anchored, really â with his hands on you, and with your weight settled on top of him. Itâs foreign and familiar all the same: the strange absence of urgency he feels underneath you. The way his body, usually wound tight with panic, dissolves in time with yours. For the first time in eight years, he feels his heartbeat finally steady.
Until a far-off firework rattles the walls and sends the two of you jerking against each other.
The honeyed moment shatters in an instant. Jack holds you tighter when you flinch on top of him, laughing through a grumbling moan as you clench instinctively around his softening cock.Â
âYou okay?â Jack mumbles against you, before pressing a brief kiss to your temple.
âYeah. Yeah, Iâm okay,â you nod, half-breathless, as you pull away from him for the first time in several minutes.Â
You blink away the haze of your dwindling orgasm while Jack swipes drool from the corner of your mouth with his thumb. You lean instinctively into his palm and exhale a breathless laugh.Â
âI just⌠I donât know what normal people do in this situationâŚâ you confess through uneven pants. âLike, I feel like we should⌠high-five or something.âÂ
Jack scoffs a tired breath but doesnât say a word.
Thereâs a fleeting moment, then, where you worry youâre maybe being too much. Your stomach aches with it, too, because you think your stupid half-joke wouldâve ruined the moment for anyone else. Anyone other than Jack. His hand slips from your back and lifts lazily for a high-five without a second thought.Â
You cage your bottom lip between your teeth and clap your palm against his.
Your breathless laughter fills the quiet apartment.
âWe make a good team, donât we, Doc?â Jack hums with heavy eyes.
âWell, you make a good teacherâŚâ you answer sheepishly, pulling at a rogue thread in his scrub top. âYou know, helping me unwind, or whateverâŚâ
âRight, wellâŚâ Jack trails off, mouth curling into a sly half-smirk as his eyes narrow into thin slits. Your stomach pools with red-hot warmth once more at the look he gives you, then, and at the words that spill from his lips like honey. âI think I still got a few more lessons in the chamber, sweetheartâŚâ
pairing fratboy! rafe cameron x kook!sororitygirl! reader
rating explicit 18+
summary when rafeâs friends bet that he canât charm you into sleeping with him, he canât say no to the challenge. he has no idea that you decide to make a game out of his advances. you have a secret bet to win, too. and youâre determined to break his heart.
tags college au. âit was all a betâ trope. reader is a maneater with a reputation for being bitchy. she feels nothing/he feels everything dynamic. substance use. smut. mentions of parental abandonment.
The front door is only steps away.
Your shoes stick to the stuffy frat houseâs floor, temples throbbing in response to the earsplitting music and overlapping conversations. You cup your sorority sisterâs elbow as she walks ahead of you to not get separated within the tight crowd.
You enjoy parties. Until they get to this point. Itâs way past midnight, when most people are so wasted that they can hardly speak, when your fatigue catches up with you and demands that you lie down.
Jada swings open the door and the night breeze presses against your cheeks, offering you a hint of relief. But itâs ruined once you feel a nudge against your shoulder, followed by a frigid wave of moisture down your back.
You stiffen, anger flooding through you, realizing someone just spilled their drink on you. And then you hear it. Heâs laughing.
âShit,â a man chuckles behind you.
âHowâd that even happen?â another guy shouts over him through a drunken laugh.
You turn to see the person responsible for dunking you in what smells like beer. He towers over you, throwing his head back in defeated amusement, a sloppy grin on his face and a half-empty solo cup in his hand.
Itâs the same guy you grew up around back home on the island. The same guy you spent so much of your life avoiding. A grade ahead of you, close enough to always be around, but just far enough that your worlds never really intersected.
You were thankful for the distance. Because, clearly, Rafe Cameronâs reputation for being an immature asshole precedes him; instead of apologizing like a decent person, he finds this funny.
Itâs infuriating. That and the fact that of all the colleges he couldâve chosen, he picked yours. Youâre a sophomore now, but you still remember the first time you spotted him back in Kildare wearing a shirt stamped with the emblem of your topâchoice school.
At least itâs a massive campus. And even though heâs in a frat and youâre in a sorority and your social circles overlap a lot, youâve managed to avoid crossing paths with him. Until now.
âYouâre not even going to say sorry?â you snap loudly, glaring up at him.
His brows raise a little, the laughter of his friends lifting over the noise. Frustration trickles into his features, but itâs quickly replaced with amusement again.
âAre you always so sensitive?â he chides. His attempt to make his friends laugh, to get them on his side again, works. He grins as he looks back at them, just another fratboy eager to please his social circle. What a loser.
You refuse to let it slide. Before you can think twice, you tip the cup towards Rafe, watching whatâs left of his drink stain the front of his white t-shirt.
His jaw tightens. You smirk and make your way outside, muttering to Jada about what a waste of breath he is.
ăťăťăťăťăť
âWhat a bitch,â Mac hollers the last word loudly as they step out onto the front porch.
Rafeâs eyes land on your back as you pace away from the frat house and reach the sidewalk. His damp shirt sticks to his abdomen and when you look over your shoulder to give him and his friends a death stare, heâs sure itâs in response to Macâs insult.
And heâs glad you heard.
He tripped. It wasnât on purpose. You didnât have to spill the rest of his drink on him, but he should have expected as much from you.
âYeah, everyone says that about her,â Rafe replies, purposely just as loud.
He and his friends have finally made it outside after talking about going out to smoke for the last ten minutes. What luck to trip into you on the way out.
Even though youâre constantly orbiting each other here just like you did back home, youâve never spoken.
Youâre both on a campus hundreds of miles south from the island, somewhere hotter and brighter, but thatâs the only thing thatâs different. The way you dodge each other is exactly the same.
âOh, yeah,â Cooper recalls, his eyes following you. Rafe had mentioned that he knew you a while ago when Cooper pointed you out at a party with the plan to approach you. Rafe huffed a laugh and told him all about your reputation. âYou know her.â
âWere you guys together or something?â Mac asks.
âFuck no,â Rafe mutters with a laugh.
Heâd be a liar if he said he never thought about it. All the Kooks back home know you for being a stuck-up princess, but he can admit that youâre insanely hot and your attitude wouldnât keep him from having some fun with you if you let him.
âSo, what happened?â Mac presses. He lights a joint, taking a deep inhale before passing it over to him.
âNothinâ,â Rafe responds with a shrug. âSheâs always been like that. She has a stick up her ass and she makes it everyoneâs problem.â
âSheâs bad, though,â Cooper murmurs, taking the joint from Rafe when he offers it.
âThe crazy ones always are,â Mac adds.
Rafe looks back out towards the avenue lit up by streetlights again, watching your silhouette as you continue down Greek Row with your friend.
Heâs still pissed off at your stupid little rebuttal, but the liquor blurring the edges of his senses and the lingering effect of you talking to him, of looking at him so with such intensity for the first time, is numbing it.
Youâre untouchable. Always have been. You hardly ever gave any of the guys back home any attention, and if you did, you strung them along just to drop them. Everyone knows you as the girl who either wastes a guyâs time or snaps at him for even saying hi.
Rafe always kept his distance. It wasnât worth the trouble when he can practically get any girl. The way they light up when he gives them even half a second of attention tells him everything. Heâs used to getting what he wants without having to work for it.
But when Cooper pointed you out at that party a while back, Rafe let his familiar desire pull to the surface. He always thought you were a perfect ten. And youâre ungettable. And a deep part of him has always wanted what he canât have.
âShe just needs some fun,â Rafe says with a smirk, indulging in the fantasy.
âWhat, with you?â Cooper asks.
He looks over at his friends, both staring at him with cocked brows. A competitive fire burns in him suddenly, not liking the apprehension in their faces. Rafeâs never handled doubt well.
âYou donât think I could get her?â Rafe says.
âBro, were you not there?â Mac says, pointing to the front door behind them where you had your tantrum. âShe hates you.â
Rafe smirks, the promise of a challenge burning through him. Heâs always loved a chase, a thrill. Itâs what keeps him going in every way.
âWanna bet?â Rafe asks.
Mac chuckles again, squinting in thought as he takes another pull from the joint.
âFifty bucks says you canât hook up with her,â he says.
Rafe snorts in amusement. He doesnât need money. But heâll take every chance he gets to prove himself.
âDeal.â
âI mean all the way,â Mac clarifies.
Rafe breathes a chuckle, imagining it. Imagining his hands on you. Imagining your pretty face softening into pleasure. He wants it so bad that his pulse picks up.
âEasy,â he agrees.
âGood luck,â Cooper says.
Rafe is sure he doesnât need it.
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Itâs the Friday night before fall break and youâre back in Kildare. The air is cool, but not cold enough to keep anyone home. People are everywhere, scattered across the sand, most of them back from their mainland colleges.
The mid-October breeze coming off the water has a bite to it, but itâs comforting. The sea wind drifts over your face, reminding you of how youâd grown up on these beaches, of how much you loved being close to the ocean.
You came closer to the shoreline to fill up your drink at the keg, but now, youâre taking a second to gaze out at the setting sun and the funneling waves before you head back to your friends.
âHey.â
You look up at whoever just interrupted your moment of peace. Rafe is gazing down at you, blue eyes lingering. Your chest twists with frustration, thrown right back to last weekend, when he laughed and jeered at you.
âWhat?â you say sharply.
The corner of his mouth curls into a small smirk. He adjusts the dark blue baseball hat sitting backwards on his head, the brim brushing the edge of the hoodie heâs wearing. He looks out at the water for just a second, then back down at you, noticing the full cup at your hand.
âCan we talk?â he says. âWithout spilling any drinks this time?â
You scoff and shift to return to your friends, but he steps in front of you, tall and broad and annoying.
âListen, Iâm sorry about the other night,â he says. Heâs flashing a cocky smirk, as if he can soften you to forgive him.
âItâs not going to work on me,â you respond.
âWhat?â he says, still wearing that stupid grin.
âYour sad attempt at charming me.â
Rafe tilts his head.
âYou think Iâm charminâ you?â
âThatâs exactly my point. I donât.â
He breathes a soft laugh, and you hate that you notice how nice of a smile he has.
âI was wasted, alright?â he says. âI tripped. I shouldâve said sorry.â
âNext time, donât trip,â you reply. âThat way, you wonât have to say anything to me.â
You step to the side, but he does the same, blocking you again and rasping your name.
âIâll make it up to you,â he says.
âDonât bullshit me. I heard your friend call me a bitch, and I heard you agree,â you reply. âIf you really want to make it up to me, fuck off.â
You donât look at his reaction as you brush past him and find your way back to Ivy and Alayna.
âWhat did he want?â Ivy asks as you approach, clearly having seen your unexpected encounter with Rafe by the shoreline.
âHe spilled a drink on me at a party a while ago and laughed about it,â you explain. âHe just gave me a half-assed apology and said that he wants to make it up to me.â
âAnd?â
âAnd I told him to fuck off.â
âReally?â Alayna says, gazing past your shoulder. âBut heâs hot.â
âHeâs psychotic,â you reply. âAnd heâs not that hot.â
âMe when I lie,â Alayna says.
You shake your head. Fine. You wonât admit to it out loud, but Rafe is easily one of the best looking guys youâve ever seen. He always has been. But he ruins it with his personality.
âIâm not interested,â you mutter. As you take a sip of your beer, Ivy squints in thought as she stares at you.
âBut he is,â she says. âHe obviously likes you if he forced out an apology.â
âLucky me,â you scoff.
âWhat if you went along with it?â Ivy says. âLike, if you dated him as a joke?â
You grimace in confusion.
âOh, my God,â Alayna laughs. âI love this idea.â
Youâre speechless, your gaze darting between them.
âYouâre always talking about how much guys like him never get whatâs coming to them,â Ivy says with a shrug. âYou could humble him.â
âYou make me sound so spiteful,â you respond amusedly.
âIâm the same way.â
You nod in agreement. Ivy has had her fair share of heartbreak. Watching one of your best friends go through so much pain over the years made it feel like your own at times. Youâre convinced men do nothing but lie.
And sheâs right; youâve complained a lot about how most guys, specifically the wealthy ones on this island, are assholes who never face any consequences.
âWouldnât it feel good to mess with him?â she continues.
âI can tell youâre trying to manipulate me,â you say with a playful scowl.
âIs it working?â Alayna asks.
You chuckle as you roll your eyes.
âYou guys know me,â you remind them. Youâve had meaningless flings and noncommittal hookups, but relationships have always been off the table for you. âI donât date. Especially not assholes like Rafe.â
âThatâs why heâll never see it coming,â Ivy says. âItâd be so satisfying to watch you break his heart.â
âI doubt he even has one,â you huff, but admittedly, the idea is intriguing.
âWell, itâs not like he could break yours,â Ivy continues. âIf anyone can do it, itâs you. Whatever happens, youâd walk away without a scratch.â
You finally look over your shoulder. In the distance, Rafe is in the crowd with his buddies now, in a different social circle like heâs always been. You donât know them that well, but enough to be certain theyâre all jerks.
You always stayed close to your girlfriends. Especially Ivy and Alayna. They were around when you found out your dad cheated on your mom. When he left.
Even though they were with you through it all, you never talk about how deep the wound it left in you is.
Itâs why Ivyâs right. Youâd walk away unharmed if you started something with Rafe. Because you learned at a young age not to trust men. Not to let anyone into your heart. Youâve always kept your distance, having your fun and leaving guys before they can leave you.
But isnât going along with this letting Rafe think he did charm you? You could tell with the way he approached you just now that he thought that an apology and an offer to make it up to you would have you swooning.
âThis is a guy who thinks he can get everything he wants,â you murmur to your friends. âGiving into him just validates that.â
You tilt your head, considering it. Teasing him would be easy. Entertaining. You bet heâs so used to girls folding that the idea of not giving him exactly what he expects ignites something in you.
âUnless I donât give him everything,â you add.
Ivy laughs, clearly agreeing.
You continue to watch Rafe, chuckling at something one of his friends said. Heâs attractive, but heâs a total asshole.
Youâve seen his outbursts. Youâve noticed how he carries himself like heâs entitled to whatever he wants. Youâve even heard about how he starts fights with guys from the Cut, simply because they werenât born into wealth. He genuinely thinks heâs better than them.
You quietly stare at him, letting yourself dip into the thought of how satisfying it would be to hurt him.
And how getting close to him with no strings attached would be hot as hell. You hate everything about Rafe, but you could look past it for the physical pleasure that youâre sure heâd be happy to give you.
This would be easy. Emotional detachment comes naturally. Your friends joke about wanting lessons from you on how to not care about guys. Thereâs nothing to lose here. Like every other fling, your heart wouldnât be in it at all.
âSheâs considering it,â Alayna sing-songs.
You canât help but chuckle at the way sheâs narrating, looking back at your friends again.
âYou know what?â you say. âFine. Whatever. I bet I can do it.â
âIâm not betting against you,â Ivy says. âBut, sure. Letâs just say I am.â
âOnly if he keeps annoying me, though,â you clarify. âIâm not chasing after him.â
âOf course,â Ivy agrees. âHeâs chasing after you.â
âYeah,â Alayna says in amusement. âWaste his time.â
âThis is so stupid,â you laugh, but the excitement curling in your stomach keeps building.
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This is Rafeâs favorite part of being in a frat. Thereâs always a party to go to, always noise to block his thoughts out. And when heâs back on campus and notices you from across the packed living room, heâs glad to have another opportunity to approach you.
Youâre with a couple of girls, probably from the same sorority as you, talking and looking so good that itâs kind of driving him crazy.
Heâs going to have to play the long game. You glared up at him with so much anger the other night at the beach that he could tell it wonât be easy to get you to like him.
Admittedly, it bruised his ego. But heâs not one to take a loss and simper away to lick his wounds. Heâll just have to play this carefully. You want all the power. Heâll let you think that you have it, but at the same time, he canât let you walk all over him.
Itâs going to be a game of manipulation, but Rafeâs a good liar. Itâs how he hides the truth from his friends.
He pretends to be the type to like shallow hook-ups with random girls, that this bet is the kind of shit he does all the time, but truthfully, the rush he gets from meaningless sex has always been short-lived.
He prefers to feel something real. Sex is different when the way a girl touches him means something. And he hates it about himself. How goddamned soft he is.
He just wants to be treated like he matters and thatâs what makes him such a pussy. His dad has always told him to toughen up. The advice will stick some day. It has to. If he keeps acting like he doesnât care about anything, itâll become the truth.
He shakes away the thought and downs the rest of his drink. He tells his friends heâll be right back, spotting a game of beer pong before he reaches you.
Rafe gently brushes his fingers against your forearm, then pulls away, knowing by now that he canât be too forward with you. Your smile fades when you turn to realize itâs him.
âHey,â he says, just loud enough to be heard over the music. âYou still mad at me?â
You stare up at Rafe. Your instinct is to dismiss him like you did last time. But the bet you have with your friends back home spins in your memory. You canât blow him off. You need to give him a hint of an opening.
âDepends,â you respond. âDo you always drink so much that you canât even stand?â
He flashes that confident smile of his, framed by deep dimples. Itâs irritating how it makes your stomach twist. You can keep your emotions locked up easily, but the pull of lust has always been hard to ignore.
Rafe licks his lips, reminding himself that his usual way of flirting wonât work with you. He likes to tease, but right now, he needs to be agreeable.
âNot always,â he responds. âHow good are you at beer pong?â
Your brows furrow as you ask, âWhy?â
âI need a teammate.â
You huff, his arrogance irritating you once again. Heâs so sure youâll do what he wants.
âAsk one of your loser friends,â you reply.
âCome on,â Rafe says, the gentle whine to his tone making your core curl with heat again. You did always find a little bit of desperation hot. It means a guy will be easy to toy with.
You cross your arms and it takes everything in him not to stare at your chest, where your shirt has dipped over the swell over your breasts. Now that heâs this close to you again, youâre even hotter than he realized. The way you carry yourself is something else entirely.
âIs that supposed to convince me?â you ask.
Rafe chuckles, stepping an inch closer, towering over you.
âPlease?â he says, his deep, low voice just a little sweetened.
If it werenât for the bet, youâd laugh in his face. But you sigh and agree, holding up your forefinger to your friends to tell them you wonât be gone long.
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Your arms are crossed again as Rafe sets up the solo cups on your end of the table. If heâs going to drag you into this game, he can do all the work.
âWas it hard to pick?â he asks over the noise, briefly looking over his shoulder.
âPick what?â you ask as you gaze at the way his shirt stretches over his back.
âYour sorority.â
Itâs strange to hear him asking a genuine question. You know how to play this; you always give enough information to intrigue a guy, but never enough for him to learn anything too personal.
âItâs more like⌠they picked me,â you reply. âYou know what I mean?â
âNah,â he replies with a chuckle.
His rush week was over two years ago now, but he still gets irritated thinking about it. A lot of frats care way too much about academics and event planning. He hated pretending like those things matter to him.
And he figures if heâs going to get you to put your guard down, heâs going to have to be sincere when he can.
âIt was a bitch to get recruited,â he says.
âYou love that word, huh?â you respond.
He straightens and turns to face you all the way. Youâre thinking about Macâs comment the other night.
âI shouldâve told him to shut up,â Rafe replies, shaking his head.
âSure,â you say, not bothering to pretend you believe he would. Guys like him only care about what their stupid friends think.
Youâre expressionless as you brush past him to pick up a ping pong ball. The couple on the other side of the table has finished setting up.
The game begins, and itâs even for the most part. With every point the other team scores, you get Rafe to drink instead of you. He obeys.
Once thereâs only a couple of cups left on both sides of the table, your team and theirs miss a few times. Until you donât, sinking a ball into one of their cups and earning their defeated groans.
Your skin pricks when you feel big, warm hands on your waist. Sharp cologne wafts over you as he grips gently, leaning closer from behind you to murmur, âI knew youâd be good at this.â
While the guy on the other team downs his drink, you turn to look up at Rafe. He immediately lifts his hands off you, as if heâs worried about how you might react.
âHow does bullshit come so easy for you?â you murmur, cocking your head.
âWhat do you think Iâm bullshitting?â
âI think you talk to every girl the same way youâre talking to me,â you respond.
You said it to challenge him. To give him a sense that he needs to prove himself to you. But he doesnât take the bait. Instead, Rafe says something that strikes a nerve.
âWhat, you think I donât like you?â
âThatâs not what I said,â you respond with a laugh, playing it off and looking ahead.
The deeply buried truth is that heâs right. Youâve always quietly feared that nobody would like the real you. Men like the persona you put on, they like the way you look, but they donât see you. You never give them the chance to.
âHey,â Rafe says. You tilt your chin up towards him and meet his heavy gaze again. His eyes soften, his smirk teasing. âI like you. Even though youâre mean.â
Thereâs truth there. Heâd take brutal honesty over fakeness every day. But while his attraction to you is undeniable, heâs lying about liking you.
Heâd never like a girl who acts like sheâs doing him a favor by talking to him. Feeling inferior is something he runs from, not chases. The way to win this bet is to get you in his bed, though, so heâll say what he needs to.
You chuckle and roll your eyes in response. Mean. Itâs a compliment. If a man thinks youâre mean, he knows that you donât care about his opinion of you.
âI know we never really talked before,â he adds, âbut I always wanted us to.â
âThat makes one of us,â you say, but a small smile tugs on your lips to show youâre messing with him.
Warmth rises through Rafe, desire stirring in him. Youâre undoubtedly flirting, and even with all the assumptions heâs made about you, it feels really damn good to be getting your attention like this.
You linger in the moment together, the charge between you palpable, until a ping pong ball falls at your feet. The couple on the other side missed. With only one of their cups left, Rafe throws the ball. And he wins the game.
He shouts in celebration and it reminds you of all the things youâve seen back home. This is boisterous, cruel Rafe. Heâs just trying to sweeten you up now. And the best thing you can do is to leave him wanting more.
âAlright,â you sigh with a shrug, turning on your heels. âIâll see you around.â
Rafeâs brows furrow. He trails you as you push through the crowd towards the staircase where you left your friends.
âI donât have your number,â he says, catching up to you.
You stop to look up at him, his face partly shadowed by the frat houseâs dim lights, your ears ringing from the music and the noise of the party surrounding you.
âMaybe you can get it another time,â you reply. âIâm going back to my friends now.â
A faint sting of being dismissed settles in Rafeâs chest as you walk away. Heâs left alone, wondering how the fuck heâs supposed to get past your attitude. Because clearly, youâre not going to make it easy for him.
(to be continued)
this series will be cross-posted on ao3 starting next week!! new parts come out every friday at 8-9 pm est. if you want notifications on when i post my fics, follow @xorafe-library and turn on notifications đ
Warnings: heavy angst, medical emergency, diabetic ketoacidosis (DKA), needles, medical neglect, emotional exhaustion.
Summary: Being a nurse on a 12-hour shift can be stressful, and consequently, ignoring your illness is something Jack is not happy about.
⨠Based on this request and being an "antonym" of this medical emergency â¨
Jack's mind was stuck on your interaction from hours ago. Heâd found you slumped over a desk, your head resting on your arms. When heâd asked you if you were okay, concerned by the pallor of your skin, youâd barely offered him a lopsided smile.
"Just sleepy, Jack," youâd murmured, your voice was slow. "Hard shift. Iâm fine."
Heâd let it go. Heâd let himself believe you.
"We need help!"
He was elbow deep in a chart, his mind already calculating the supply of stimpaks for the next shift when the shouting started. "She just dropped mid-sentence!"
Jack didn't look up immediately, distractions were a luxury he didn't permit himself, until he heard your name. His pen snapped.
He was over you in two seconds. Your head was lolled back, your skin a sickly pallid color that looked wrong under the fluorescents. Your breathing was what caught his clinical ear first: deep and labored, like your lungs were trying to run a marathon while you slept.
"Get her on a trauma 2! Now!" Jack screamed in a way that sent the junior medics scrambling.
He leaned over you, his fingers pressing into the side of your neck. Your pulse was frantic under his touch. "Talk to me, c'mon." he commanded, though he knew you couldn't. He peeled back an eyelid; your pupil was sluggish, staring vacantly at something you couldn't see.
Then, the smell hit him. A sweet chemical scent on your breathâlike rotting fruit and acetone.
His stomach dropped into a cold, hollow pit.
Ketoacidosis.
"I need a finger stick," he snapped, his hands moving with a mechanical precision that masked the tremor in his chest. "And get me her bag. Someone find her kit."
He watched a nurse prick your finger. The small digital screen blinked for a moment before flashing a single word: HIGH.
Jack closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, anger lancing through his body. He knew you. He knew the meticulous care heâd taken to secure your insulin supply in a place where such things were worth more than gold.
Heâd trusted you when you told him your numbers were stable. Heâd trusted you when you said youâd taken your morning dose while working.
"The kit is unused," Santos murmured, tossing your bag at the foot of the bed.
Jack rifled through it. No used pen. No used finger sticks. The last log was four days ago.
"Damn it," he hissed, the sound more of a broken prayer than a curse.
"Start an IV. I need an insulin drip ready in ten seconds. Move!"
He looked at your body, searching for the tell-tale bruising of recent injections, but found nothing but unmarked skin.
Youâd been lying to him.
The logs you showed him, the stable numbers you told him about over breakfast was all a ghost story. Youâd been walking around with sugar thickened blood, your organs screaming for the insulin youâd forgotten to give them and youâd looked him in the eye and told him you were just sleepy.
"You idiot," he whispered as he adjusted the oxygen mask over your face. "You absolute idiot."
He was the best doctor at ER, a man who could stitch a soul back together with nothing but rusty tools. But as he watched you, he felt powerless.
He didn't leave your side. He didn't even take off his gloves. He just sat there, his eyes fixed on the monitor, waiting for the person he loved to wake up so he could tell her exactly how much he hated her for making him watch her almost die.
-
The steady sound of the heart monitor was the only thing keeping Jack from losing his mind. He hadn't moved away from you for hours.
When your eyelids finally flickered, you groaned and your hand drifted toward the oxygen mask over your face.
"Don't touch that," Jackâs voice cracked through the silence.
It wasn't gentle. It was like a whip.
You blinked. Your head felt like it was filled with wet sand and your tongue was a lead weight in your mouth. "Jack?" you croaked. "Where⌠what time is it?"
"Itâs one in the morning," he said, standing up. He didn't lean in to kiss your forehead. He didn't squeeze your hand. He stood at the foot of the bed, his arms crossed over his chest, looking down at you with a gaze that could have melted steel. "Youâve been unconscious for hours."
You tried to sit up but the world tilted violently. "I⌠I was telling Dana about some kid with a rare cough. I must have fainted." You looked around, confusion clouding your eyes. "I just need some water. Iâll sleep it off."
"You aren't going anywhere," Jack snapped. He stepped forward, grabbing the medical chart from the foot of the bed. "You didn't faint because you were tired. You fainted because your blood was literally turning into acid. Your glucose was over 600. And I have no doubt that it has been like that for days. Do you have any idea how close you were to a coma? To your heart just⌠stopping?"
A sigh left your throat, the harshness of his tone hitting you harder than the physical illness. "I⌠Iâve been busy, Jack. You know how it gets here sometimes. I probably just missed a dose. I don't really remember."
Jack let out a cynical laugh that lacked any humor. "yeah? You told me you were just sleepy. I asked you to your face if your numbers were okay and you lied."
"I didn't mean toâ"
"I found your kit." he roared. "Or rather, I found your unused kit. No logs for days. You weren't forgetting, you were stopping. You didn't track your numbers for days and just⌠what? Decided you are not diabetic anymore?"
The silence that followed was suffocating. You looked down at your hands, tears stinging your eyes. The truth was: work was exhausting. Managing a chronic illness in a place where stress was constant had finally broken you. You had stopped caring because it was easier than fighting.
"You are a nurse, for God's shake." Jack whispered.
"Jack, pleaseâ"
"The IV and insulin drip stays until your results are stable. You aren't leaving this bed without my signature," he said, regaining his cold professional mask. "And until you decide you actually want to stay alive, don't expect me to talk to you as anything other than your doctor."
He turned on his heel and walked out.
-
Jack tried to work. Heâd spent the last hours attending his patients but his mind only focused on replaying the sight of your pale face.
When he came back, he didn't check the monitors first.
He looked at you.
You were curled on your side, as much as the IV would allow, your shoulders shaking in silent tremors. The pillow was wet and your eyes were swollen and bloodshot.
The sight of you, not as a patient, but as the woman who held his cold heart in her hands, broke him.
"Sweetheart..."
"Hi..." you whispered. "Iâm sorry about this. I just... some days, Iâm just so tired. The patients, the noise, the shifts... and then this. I just wanted to stop thinking about it for a second. I just wanted to live without the needles or having to track my numbers."
Jack didnât say anything at first. He sat down and reached out, his hand settling over yours.
He let the weight of his palm anchor you to the present.
"This is a part of you. You know that. I know that. We can fight for every thing of normal we can get from this, but you can't survive it by ignoring it." he said.
"I know," you choked out, a tear trailing through your cheek. "But it's every single day, Jack. Every meal, every hour. Sometimes I just... I forget because I don't want to think about it."
Jack let out a breath. The anger was still there but it was being drowned out by your explanation of how much weight you had been carrying lately.
"If you're tired, tell me," he pleaded. "If you forget to check, I'll remind you. If you're too exhausted to think how many units are for a sandwich, I'll do the math. But don't ever hide from me again. Not this. Especially not this."
He reached up, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek.
"I can't lose you," he muttered. "Let me help you."
You nodded, a sob catching in your throat as you reached out to catch his hand.
"Okay," you whispered. "I will tell you next time I forget."
-
Later, Jack set a tray on the rolling table and checked your vitals one last time.
"Your numbers are better," he murmured. "And you need to eat. Slowly."
He sat on the edge of the bed, pulling a new insulin pen from his pocket. He didn't hand it to you immediately; he held it between his fingers, looking at it as if it were both a weapon and a lifeline.
"Weâre going to do this together," he said firmly. "I've brought you some freshly made applesauce."
He watched as you reached for the pen. He didn't intervene, he stayed close enough that his shoulder brushed yours. As you dialed the dose, he let out the breath heâd been holding.
You injected yourself with the required units and for the first time in weeks, it didn't feel like a chore you were too tired to finish. Jack waited, counting the seconds with you before you finished the injection.
"Good," he whispered. He picked up the spoon, dipping it into the applesauce and holding it out to you. "Now, eat. Iâm not leaving until the bowl is empty."
jack abbot x ex!situationship!fem!reader after things fall out between you and jack, you do your best to stay away from him when you can. but that doesn't mean that you don't wish that things were different, and it certainly doesn't mean that jack enjoys seeing nurse mateo diaz flirt with you.
tags: angsty and yearning, comedic moments, allusions to smut, implied age gap but not defined, mateo aka utah, besties trinity and dennis and javadi, devil's advocate robby, jack abbot / shawn hatosy is so sexy i just can't help it
you and jack were...something. something that was good. something more real than either of you were ready to admit. you could lie and say that the first time was an accident, that it was just the alcohol that made him choose to walk you home, that it was the only reason you chose to invite him in for a drink. but you also both knew that you both had sobered up by the time he ended up in your bed. the absence of a hangover the next morning was proof enough for him, but he also couldnât be happier that it wasnât just a dream to find you in the kitchen cooking in just his shirt.
maybe if it was just that one time, the both of you wouldnât be where you are now. but it wasnât just that one time. what was meant to be a casual, convenient, fun way to blow off steam turned into spending the night more often than not. it was âfive more minutesâ in bed together, kissing in the car before walking in separately into work, and wordless coffee drop offs when charting.
jack couldnât get you out of his head. he found himself seeking you out more than he knew he should, but he wanted to. he wanted to be the one you went to after a good shift or a bad one. he wanted to keep making you laugh. he liked buying you things and taking care of you. he just wanted you. that's how he knew he was getting in too deep, but he was your superior, your boss, technically speaking, and the lines were becoming blurry. he wasnât ready, or at least he thought he wasnât. so he started to pull away. he put boundaries up.
you didnât put up a fight, you even beat him to the punch by ending it before he could under the guise of âkeeping things professionalâ. you switched to day shift when you could, but that wasnât working out too well for you. he didnât want to lose you, but it seemed like it was going to happen anyway so at that time he didnât protest.
you couldnât avoid him altogether, after all he was still your boss and you had a lot to lose career wise if you messed up, but boy if you didnât try. it didnât work too well for you when an attending was needed though.
âi need an attending for my case in trauma 2, are you free?â you waltz up to the charting station, internally hoping that robby could help you out.
âiâm a little tied up right now, but looks like Abbot is about to be free?â he answers, giving you a knowing look.
ârobby.â you respond back flatly, trying to control your face and voice from breaking out into protest. trinity, whoâs watching from the other side of the station, laughs and you raise your hand to hit her but she backs away.
âyou need an attending, heâs an attending, is he not?â robby doesnât back down, instead he crosses his arms across his chest momentarily to stand his ground. âcanât avoid him all the time, doctor.â he says with a slightly lowered, but stern, voice to you before getting up and diverting his attention to other matters.
before you can protest again, jack walks over.
"someone need an attending?" he asks, his eyes floating from robby to land on you. his gaze doesn't waver and it's soft and warm, it always is, and you hate it.
"i do, but it can wait, if you're busy?" you sigh, but you can't take your eyes off of him either.
"always got time for you." he smiles all smug, and you hate that too.
you open the chart for your patient, angling it towards him. he leans into your space anyway, a hand on your lower back that is just barely there, as an acknowledgment that he's listening. but he's actually flirting when you're trying to be professional. you don't know if you want to kiss him or yell at him.
"if the cut is a deep as you say, flush it out then put a few dissolvable stitches underneath and then some lighter stitches on top to minimize scarring. i'll check on it after you're done to sign off." jack advises you. he got a quick look at the patient when they came in, and he trusts your skills.
"got it. thank you, dr.abbot." you emphasize "doctor" as to make a point that this is supposed to be professional. the hand that was on your lower back now moves to squeeze your shoulder as he crosses to the other side of the ER.
jack still wants you. he just hasn't gotten over his pride yet to do anything about it except flirt with you. you won't be the one to force him.
you temporarily shove your face into your arms as you lean against the nurses station.
"so...are you guys like back together or..." trinity speaks up again and you manage to actually hit her this time. "hey! this is workplace violence!"
"we would have to had been something to be anything now. which we are not. he is an attending, that is all." you hiss, but there is no denying that the atmosphere is charged even if with jack out of your current line of sight.
"i would normally insert myself here and tell you how wrong you are, but thought you'd like to know who's coming." princess interupts, gently directing your attention to mateo, who is walking towards you with a smile and an extra coffee in hand.
you glare at trinity and princess, signaling to them to zip it as you change your expression to greet him.
"nurse diaz, you're early for your night shift." you joke lightly, smiling as he approaches.
"i thought i'd take my chances to see my favorite day shift doctor." he teases, handing you a coffee. you take it, ignoring the purposeful brush of hands from him.
"you didn't have to bring this for me, again, you know."
"i know, but i am the one who switched to a night shift today which messed up our plans. it's the least i can do for missing out on taking you out." mateo points out, and it's hard to deflect his teasing.
"i already told you that it's no big deal. we'll reschedule, right?" you offer, trying not to grimace as the words leave your mouth.
" 'course. as if i'd miss the chance to see you outside this ER." he smiles, leaning into your space a bit and shoving your arm playfully. it does get a laugh out of you though.
mateo is sweet. when you're on the same shift, if trinity is taking longer than usual or whitaker is planning to go to the farm and you don't feel like waiting for them, mateo brings you home. or he comes over for dinner. sometimes joining you, trinity, and whitaker for it. sometimes just you and him.
you guess you could say you're seeing each other? it's only been a few outside of work hangouts, or dates, that have occured in the last couple weeks since whatever it is with you and jack came to an end. it's unlabeled and you're trying to keep it that way for as long as you can. you don't sleep at mateo's, but once or twice you guys have fallen asleep watching a movie in the living room at your place. he's kissed you, polite and soft, on your doorstep once or twice. you decided to ignore that you felt nothing after.
he's uncomplicated. he's close in age. he's going at this pace because you set it. you should like him. you should. but do you?
"just don't let these patients get to you. they're fiesty today. something about the holiday brings out the worst in people" you brush him off, again, but not without a convincing smile.
from across the ED, just out of your sight, jack watches the whole interaction. he watches the passing of coffee, the way nurse diaz makes you laugh and you nervously brush your hair behind your ear. it creates this uncomfortable tightness in his chest. for weeks, he has convinced himself that he was doing the right thing by stepping back, even if every part of him was screaming to pull you close instead of push you away. he has no right to feel any type of way about you seemingly moving on. but he does, and he's feeling his regrets extra hard right now.
"dr.abbot you're bending that ng-tube." robby says from behind him. jack snaps out of whatever daze he was in and relaxes his grip on the tube. "you were glaring by the way."
"i don't know what you're talking about." jack scoffs, returning to what he was doing while still sneaking glances at you.
"fine. it's none of my business. but for what it's worth i don't think they're serious. " robby slides that last part in there casually, and jack perks up.
"you keeping up with hospital gossip now?" he teases before glancing back at you and back to robby "what have you heard?"
"you're in deep, brother." robby laughs shaking his head. "according to santos, he's been over at their place a few times. but santos says that your girl isnât wanting more from whatever it is between them and itâs more friendly than anything."
jack mulls that over for a bit as he watches mateo leave to go on rounds. he thinks that he could possibly take his chance to go talk to you.
robby places a hand on jack's shoulder, looking over at you as well.
"normally i wouldn't be in favor of a workplace romance between two of my doctors, but i can see how much you care about her. and i do think you were out of your mind to let her go, but if there's any chance you can get your head out of your ass and get her back then i think you need to.â
robby leaves jack alone, hoping that heâs gotten through to him.
jack positions himself slightly closer to your side of the ED, still out of your view but now in earshot of the conversation youâre now having with whitaker, santos, and javadi.
âhow long are we gonna pretend that he doesnât like you?â whitaker says helping you scan charts since the electronic system is now up and working.
âuntil she admits that she doesnât like him, huckleberry.â santos puts bluntly as she starts shredding.
âheâs really nice!â
âbut heâs not you know who.â javadi says softly, lightly resting her head on your shoulder as she comes up next to you, earning a sigh from you.
âyou know who, doesnât want me. am i supposed to wait around until they do? after all, i was probably the one who thought it was more than what it was.â
upon hearing this part, jack has to hold himself back. you think he doesnât want you? you thought you were the only one that wanted more, or felt like it was more?
âif he doesnât want you then why does he still flirt with you? why does he always linger? maybe cuz heâs old he doesnât know how to handle you cuz youâre young and hot.â santos adds once again. he pretends not be offended at the use of âoldâ but everything else sheâs said is true. he does want you. more than he can explain.
âi donât know guys. iâm not saying i need some grand gesture, but itâs gonna have to be more than lingering and flirting from you know who for me to believe that it would go anywhere beyond what it was. even if i want that.â you explain finishing up your shredding before getting up to check on a patient.
jack watches you go, but as he does javadi and santos notice him. he makes a particular kind of eye contact with them that says something like if you donât do something then youâre gonna miss your chance.
so he waits. waits until there's no disasters coming in and you're not tied up with a patient, and he comes to you.
"hey, i heard there's a trauma coming in, can you come out to the ambulance bay with me?" he asks you. no flirtation in his voice, no hand touching you. you narrow your eyes at him, not quite believing that there's a trauma coming in. you look to your fellow doctors watching, and they shrug, so against your better judgement you follow him.
you know right away there is no trauma incoming when you get outside. but you don't leave immediately either because this is the only true time you've been alone with him in some weeks.
"well, dr.abbot, now that i can see there's no trauma coming, what is it that you really brought me out here for?" you cross your arms over your chest in an effort to protect yourself from the emotions you're feeling. it certainly doesn't help that the way he towers over you and looks at you still has your heart beating faster than normal.
"i just need five minutes for you to hear me out." jack starts, and maybe if you were more mad you'd shut him down, but you don't and you listen.
"for weeks, i have been trying to convince myself it was for the best that we didn't continue what we were. and i know that you're probably thinking that's bullshit, it's just that i'm finally realizing that it is bullshit. it is bullshit because i can't stop thinking about you. i haven't stopped thinking about you from the minute i found you in the kitchen that first morning after. " he's sincere, and the thought of that night and the morning after, every night and morning shared, brings heat to your cheeks. he takes that as a good sign so he continues.
"it was never just casual for me. i wanted more. i still do. i wish i never gave you up in the first place because maybe we'd actually be together by now. i didn't think i was ready, and that's not an excuse, but it is the truth. and i'm sorry that i didn't say that before. i also might be jealous of a certain nurse i've happened to hear that you're seeing...as embarrassing as that is to admit too. "
you laugh a bit as he scratches the back of his neck.
"you, jealous, of mateo?"
"maybe. yeah. it's embarrassing, but it just may have been the last thing to push me to get my head out of my ass and tell you that i miss you. "
"oh." you aren't quite sure what to say to that last part. it's nice to hear, it's what you've been wanting to hear. but taking it in right now is a bit unexpected.
"if you have a good thing going with him, i'm not going to get in your way. i just wanted you to know how i really feel, and on the off chance you still want to be with me, i'll hang around a bit longer after the shift ends and we can figure that out."
"i'll think about it." and you mean that. it's just a lot.
"good. that's good. i'll be here." he turns his head to look at you and he musters up a smile. you smile too but only before returning to check on some remaining patients.
upon your return, you try to get through the rest of the shift without thinking too hard. you find yourself comparing jack and mateo, but truthfully you and your close friends know that your heart isn't in it with mateo anyway. you don't need them to tell you that, but the pitiful look whitaker gives you when you walk back in is enough for you.
before the end of your shift, you tell mateo you think it'd be better if you guys remain friends. he understands, because of course he does, and he promises to not make it weird. you feel relief almost instantly, which leaves just one thing.
you grab your stuff and head back outside. not to your surprise at all, jack is leaning up against his truck waiting for you. he tries not to smile but can't help it the closer you get.
"offer still good?" you say to jack as you approach, a smile creeping up on your face too.
"if it means i get to keep you." he jokes, pushing up off the truck and meeting you half the distance.
"i think we could come to an agreement." you grin now and you don't stop yourself from letting your arms wrap over his shoulders and around his neck.
"i think so too." jack smirks, his bag hands pulling you in by your waist before kissing you. you donât have any complaints.
maybe for once both of you will stay.
â.á
a/n: yoooooo idk what happened here or if it makes any sense but yet another fic i made cuz i was listening to a song...plz lmk your thoughts! i love jack abbot heheh <3
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summary: good things happen to those who are found crying in the supply closet by their hot, older, maybe flirty boss-slash-mentor.
wc: 14.5k (i have no idea how that happened)
tags/tropes: age gap (duh), slow burn with an insane amount of tension, lowkey very emotionally rife, hurt/comfort, not-so-unrealistic amounts of crying, langdonmel in the background if you squint (you donât have to squint very hard i love them so much guys im sorry) vaguely referenced but not subtlety implied bad childhood, gratuitous and frankly ridiculous medical inaccuracies because i took a lot of creative liberty, reader is an ode to Matilda by Harry Styles and Youâre Gonna Go Far by Noah Kahan, Pitt Crew becomes readerâs family :)
a/n: this was supposed to be a sort-of drabble for @leeknowpegger. idk what happened. pegger iâm sorry iâve been so dead recently (always) will you take this as an apology. If youâd like more cohesive tags, more context, extra details, and more in depth warnings, this fic has been cross-posted on ao3, and will be linked below :]
NOT-SO-FRIENDLY-PSA: Any comments asking me to write more, post another chapter, or anything of the sort will be deleted. Please do not send an ask into my inbox either. Screaming in my inbox (not about wanting more, general screaming) is totally fine though!
You have been the perfect day shift intern for five months. Five freaking months of listening to mostly constructive criticism, five months of adapting and learning on the go with not a single complaint voiced, five months of diligent note-taking, studying, and practice. Five months of weaseling your way into the list of interns-slash-young-doctors that your residents actually respect. Five months of grueling shifts, hard losses, and never saying no when someone needs you to do something.
Five months of being the untouchable, âperfectâ intern. Robbyâs newest addition to his growing list of âwork-wards.â
Five months of unflinching effort and dedication and it took four hours of your third night-shift to reduce you to a miserable, snotty mess on the supply closet floor. Tucked into the space between the two shelves, just the toes of your blood and snot and god knows what else covered shoes peeking out, the rest of you obscured.
Five months, four hours, and back to back fuck-ups that escalated into Dr. Jack Abbot, the man you may or may not have had the hugest crush on since beginning your intern year, removing you from a case. Five months, four hours, and two parents screaming at Dr. Abbot, telling him that youâre not fit to be a doctor.
Tonight isnât the first night a patient has yelled at you. Tonight isnât even the first time youâve been removed from a case. Itâs not the first time Dr. Abbot has had to correct you, and itâs certainly not the first time youâve made a mistake.
Youâre an intern. Itâs your job to fuck up, learn from it, and keep going. Thatâs what Dr. Mohan said to one of the other interns awhile back. Theyâd ended up flunking out, but oh well. It was good advice. It wasnât meant for you, but hell if you donât say it to yourself every night like a prayer.
But right now, the usual calming mantra is doing absolutely nothing. Youâre stifling ugly sobs into the tops of your knees, arms wrapped around and squeezing as tight as you can, your chest shaking and shuddering with the force of your complete and total freak-out.
The patient isnât dead. Despite your mistakes, they didnât die. Thereâs really nothing to cry about. Nothing to hide in the supply closet for.
And yet, here you are.
Your first mistake wasnât terrible, but it was ridiculously stupid and incredibly embarrassing. Triage room, emergency measures being taken. And you, tired and off kilter from being so used to the day-shift, broke the sterile field. Like some dumb medical student, not a fairly seasoned intern whoâs drilled sterile protocol into her head until itâs muscle memory.
For a scalpel. You dropped a scalpel. Arguably the worst thing to drop. And then, like an idiot, you picked it back up.
And, well. Thereâs no time to re-scrub, so there wasnât a need for you in the triage room anymore.
Your second mistake was equally stupid and avoidable, if youâd focused more. Dr. Garcia was kind enough to let you scrub in on an emergency appendectomy.
It was a test. Not your first.
And you ripped the fucking purse strings.
Once again, you were unceremoniously booted from the room (being kicked out of an OR feels a hell of a lot worse than being kicked out of a triage room) and sent back to the pit. Dr. Abbot immediately caught wind of it and demoted you to scut work until âyou get your head back in the game.â
And, well. You tried really hard to devote yourself to your new task, but you had to keep blinking tears out of your eyes every five seconds and you absolutely refuse to cry in front of literally any of your coworkers, lest they think you some weak-willed weak-stomached intern who canât handle some criticism and correction. Youâre a hard worker. Youâre good at this. You have to be.
So yeah. Crying in the supply closet.
Youâve always been a frustrated cryer, which is annoying on a good day and downright awful on a bad one (case in point.)
Youâre just so upset with yourself. Youâre better than this. You know you are. Youâve proven that you are. You donât drop scalpels. You donât break the sterile field. You donât rip purse strings.
But you did tonight. And maybe one day youâll laugh, but today is not that day.
You just donât get it. Day shift? Incredible. Manageable. Youâre on top of things, put together, and worthy of Dr. Robbyâs respect.
But tonight? Quite literally the exact opposite.
You canât be burning out, right? Thatâs not how burn out works. Thereâs like, signs, and you start to feel terrible and awful and exhausted and sure you definitely feel all of those things, but thatâs because you work in medicine. And youâre an intern. Youâre supposed to feel terrible and awful and exhausted. But maybe youâre not? You do enjoy your work, and itâs exhilarating, especially when you try something for the first time and execute it well, because you always do, you always get things right on the first try, obviously, so that means that this canât be burn out. You donât burn out. Thatâs not you. Right? No. Of course not.
You gasp a particularly rough sob into your knees, air feeling like knives as you inhale, making you cough horrendously. You must be quite a sight.
Unfortunately, due to your alternating hacking coughs and dramatic crying, you donât quite hear the door open.
You do, however, hear the quiet âOh.â thatâs mumbled a few moments later.
Of-fucking-course.
You scramble upright, aggressively wiping at your face and attempting to make it look like you werenât just crying on the ground.
âDr. Abbot! Iâm so sorry, this is very unprofessional and I know you have me on scut work but I promise Iâm still working on itââ
He holds up a hand, and you slam your jaw shut with an audible click.
âJust needed some four by fours, kid.â
Always one to be helpful (especially to the guy you have a crush on who also happens to be your boss, aka the same person who professionally told you to get your shit together about forty minutes ago) you reach beside yourself and hand him the package of gauze, an awkward smile fixed on your face.
ââŚThose are three by threes.â
Bitch. Motherfucker. Fuck your life.
âRight,â You mumble, dragging your hand down your face. âIâll just get out of your way. Sorry.â
You turn to walk past him, attempting to go quick enough that he might not notice the new tears shining in your eyes before a hand lands on your shoulder.
âLook,â Dr. Abbot starts. âYouâre one of Robbyâs adopted interns, right? Robby-Junior?â
âThat is one of the rumors Santos has been spreading, yes.â
His hand is on your shoulder. His hand is on your shoulder. (!!!)
You donât know what to do. Heâs looking at you. Your boss doesnât fluster you. Youâre chill. Youâre normal. Youâre cool as a cucumber, yep yep yep.
âRobby doesnât adopt interns lightly. Donât let one bad shift mess you up. It happens to everyone.â
You purse your lips. You should let it go. Take his advice. Thank him.
The all-consuming-guilt and ever-present-need to prove yourself itches too painfully to ignore.
Dr. Abbot seems to notice, and he catches your gaze again.
âWhat, it doesnât happen to you?â
A jolt of panic stabs your chest. âNo! Of course it happens to me, I didnât mean to imply that Iâm like, above making mistakes or having bad shifts at allââ
Genuinely what is wrong with you. Why the fuck does he do this you. Youâre a smart, confident woman who apparently chucks her brain into the garbage bin whenever her boss is around.
Dr. Abbot, probably picking up on a pattern of behavior by now, levels you with another look that shuts you up fairly quickly. Heâs got a sort of impish grin on his face, and it shouldnât be hot, but heâs got his hand on your shoulder and youâre having a ridiculously shitty night. Does anything matter anymore?
âUsually, we try to mix up interns schedules so you donât get into a rhythm on one specific shift so that when you inevitably switch, the change doesnât mess up your flow. But I'm sure your knack for keeping your head down and doing good work let you fall through the cracks.â
He takes his hand off your shoulder and shoves it into his pocket, but you almost donât notice because he said you do good work.
Abbot gives you another grin. âAnd I didnât stick you on scut as a punishment. Mindless work tends to be calming, which in turn helps focus your mind.â
âBut I ripped the purse strings,â You blurt like a Catholic school girl in a particularly rife confessional, âLike an idiot.â
âYou ripped them like an intern doing something for the first time.â
âI practiced hundreds of times to make sure it didnât happen!â
He tilts his head, almost cat-like. âDid you also practice on a live person in a higher stakes situation while your body is messed up from a sudden and huge sleep schedule change?â
ââŚNo?â
He snorts. âExactly. Dr. Garcia probably wonât hold it against you. Sheâll give you shit for it, but itâs not like sheâs never going to give you another chance.â
You wipe the last bit of wetness of your cheeks with the back of your hand, embarrassment heating your face. Despite the awfulness of being caught crying in the supply closet, the beginnings of pleasant warmth is spreading through your chest, Dr. Abbotâs reassurances echoing in your head.
âThank you, Dr. Abbot. Um. Sorry about the crying. I promise I donât usually do that.â
Dr. Abbot snorts as he saunters towards the door. âWouldnât judge you if you did, kid.â
â
Dr. Jack Abbot is bored.
He has his work, which is great. He became a doctor after being discharged because heâs always been the kind of man that needs something to do. Something to mind, something to watch, something to fix. Robby and him and much the same in this way.
Working at the ED was enough for a while. There was a certain challenge to it, an unpredictability that itch sated, kept him sane. And, well. Now heâs an attending. Night shift lead.
He started to get restless again.
He thought a pet might work. He was going to get a dog, but it didnât sit right with him to get an animal built for companionship and then leave it at home for over twelve hours a day. Then he thought a cat might do the trick. He looked online first, saw beautiful, well bred felines that could probably compete and win for best in show for whatever the cat equivalent is for the Westminster Dog Show.
And then he made the mistake of going to the shelter and seeing an old, one eared tuxedo cat that stared at him with something in between fear and spite and its eyes. And well. The shelter attendants assured him that the cat in question prefers being left alone and having its own space, but might warm up eventually, and he brought him home that day.
And then it was just Jack, occasionally Robby, and now his asshole cat who might not love him back.
That also worked for a while. Having Charlie was fun. It was nice having another living creature in his house that wasnât him. Even if he did have a habit of chewing on power cords when left unattended and eventually progressed into attempting to destroy Jackâs stethoscope if he left it anywhere he could find.
Minding the cat gave him something to do that wasnât tedious, and it was a special sort of bonus to wake up every now and then and see the cat sprawled at the foot of the bed, snoring away. He didnât actually know cats could snore like that.
Around the time that the itch came back and Jack was considering adopting a second cat from the shelter (well on his path to becoming a crazy cat lady, as Robby said in the park over beers) he met you for the first time.
Sometimes Jack slips quietly into the ED and watches the chaos of day shiftâs conclusions. Heâs picked up a very special language of gauging what heâs getting into based on the body language and behavior of the rest of the hospital staff. Robby had told him about the latest internâ a motivated, stubborn sort of girl that frequently went toe-to-toe with Santos but without any of the pushback when receiving correction or criticism. Heâd heard that you were smart, capable, and well on your way of becoming a great doctor.
Robby failed to mention that you were pretty.
Heâd watch you, comparing notes with Mohan with a certain intense focus on your face, worrying your lip between your teeth and repeatedly tucking a piece of hair behind your ear because itâd fallen out of your disheveled pony tail he thinks âOh.â
And then, a few months later, he finds you crying in a closet, subtly confessing fears of failure and falling short of expectations, and then he thinks âWell, thereâs something to do.â
Jack tries not to think about you, at first. You, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes, bottom lip jutted out just a bit, hugging your knees. He tries not to think about how youâd looked at him when heâd assured you that you did good work, the awkward thank you, and the way that for the rest of the shift, all the annoying menial tasks that get forgotten in the chaos were all mysteriously taken care of.
He tells himself that heâs just going to keep an eye on you. For Robbyâs sake. Heâd do the same for Whitaker.
The next time you have a night shift, youâre clearly more prepared for the exhaustion, and when he finally sees you in true, proper action, he understands immediately why Robby likes you and Mohan frequently attaches you to her cases. Skill, patience, and focus.
When he watches you trach a patient with a certain ease that only comes from practicing hundreds of times, Ellis shoots him a knowing look. Raised eyebrows and smirk. When she passes him in the hall a few hours later, she jabs her thumb behind her shoulder at where youâre diligently filling out a chart.
âThat one yours, then?â
Jack shakes his head. âItâs not like that. You make me sound like a creep.â
Another raised eyebrow. âSure it isnât.â
âSheâs Robbyâs intern.â
âMhm.â
âSheâs way too young.â
Parker shrugs. âSheâs good.â
âShe is.â
The senior resident cuts a glance back to you. âThink sheâll burn out?â
âMaybe.â
Parker crosses his arms. âAre you gonna let it happen?â
âSheâs not my intern.â
Up to three Parker Ellis looks and counting.
âItâs an HR nightmare.â
Parker shrugs. âYou just said sheâs not your intern.â
He narrows his eyes. âYou know what I meant.â
âDo I? Itâs been awhile, Jack. No one would really judge you for having some fun.â
âParker.â
âJack.â
He shakes his head, walks towards the boards. âYouâre the worst.â
Parker just laughs. âSure I am.â
To your credit, he doesnât find you crying in a supply closet again to see evidence of you doing so for a solid few weeks. But, like most things in the ED, the peace doesnât last.
You came into work soaking wet, which is odd, considering the fact that he knows you drive, and the walk to the parking lot isnât far enough to account how youâre shivering in your freshly changed scrubs. He brushes it off, chalks it up to freakish Pittsburg weather.
Some night shifts are relatively slow and mild. Tonight is not one of those shifts. Patients are extra irritable at late hours, which is to be expected, but what heâs not expecting is to walk by South 15 and see a 50-something year old man slap you.
Jack blinks, and in the next second heâs in the room, standing in between you and the patient.
âExcuse me, what the fuck is going on here?â
Gloria will probably give him shit for his language later, but right now all he can think about is the startled look on your face and the echo that the contact made.
âI said I want a real doctor, not this fuckingââ
âGet the fuck out of my hospital.â
Shen peaks his head in. âSecurityâs on their way.â
Jack reaches behind him to where youâre still standing, your hand covering your cheek, and gently pushes you towards Shen, towards the door. You stumble over your feet a bit, but truly, Jackâs never been more thankful for his residents because then Parker is right there, ushering you out the door with a hand on your shoulder. Jack resolutely ignores your mumbled âIâm fine, really, he just surprised me.â
Thankfully, security doesnât take that long to get to the room, and the second Jack is finished explaining, heâs out the door and scanning the ED for your face. Nurse Young jerks her head towards the break room, and he thinks he manages to give her what he hopes is a thankful smile before heâs beelining for it.
When he opens the door, youâre sitting on the floor again, holding an ice pack to your cheek with one hand and dabbing at your lip with a paper towel. Like youâve never heard of medical protocol in your entire life.
âWhat the fuck are you doing?â
You jerk your head up, a kid caught with its hand in the cookie jar.
âDr. Abbot!â
Lowering himself to the ground is awkward, physically. Prosthetics donât lend to much mobility and heâs too old to be doing this, but he just. There are little beads of blood collecting and then sliding down your chin, dripping onto the leg of your scrubs. At the same angle of the split in your lip, thereâs a little cut he can see peaking out from under the ice pack.
He reaches forward, fingers itching towards the deep scarlet dripping steadily. He pauses, remembering things like words and questions and sees the wild look in your eyes.
âCan IâŚ?â Jackâs voice trails off, the words clunky and useless in this bubble thatâs seemed to form around the two of you, on the probably disgusting floor of the ED break room.
You slowly drop the napkin, let the ice pack lower to your lap and nod.
âHe had a ring on. I guess it caught me. I didnât really notice until I got here.â
âParker and Shen didnât notice?â
You look at your lap. âI told them I was fine⌠And covered it with my hand. There are other patients. Itâs just a little cut.â
Jackâs fingers finally reach your face, and he almost takes them back when you flinch on the initial contact, shaking ever so slightly.
But then, with noticeable effort, you relax into his palm, his fingers curling around the side of your jaw. He should grab gloves. He should get up, take his hand off your face.
Anyone could walk in right now and call Gloria on his ass.
His thumb sweeps across your cheekbone, just below the cut, which does have some faint bruising around it. And truthfully, the split in your lip doesnât look that bad either.
But thereâs still little dots and trails of scarlet and he doesnât think heâs going to be able to calm down until he fixes it. He needs to fix something.
âIf I leave you here so I can get supplies,â He starts, voice a little rough, âCan I trust that youâll stay here and not do anything stupid?â
âUh, yes? Should I move to a real chair though?â
Jack huffs as he hauls himself to his feet. âThatâd be preferable.â
Later, when heâs at home in his bed, heâll assure himself that the night shift wasnât truly that busy and he trusts his residents to handle things while heâs busy.
No one stops him on his way to the medical supply closet (the irony of the location is not lost on him) and he makes it back without interruption. Upon opening the door, you have in fact moved to a chair, and it seems the bleeding slowed in his absence.
What he should do is sit down in the chair opposite of you and handle this situation like a professional, like the Dr. Abbot, night shift attending, not Jack whoâs got a thing for fixing.
He does try to remove his emotions and feelings from the situation, he really does. Itâs something heâs generally very good at âwhich is where he and Robby differ; Robby would prefer to feel too much and Jack would prefer to feel nothing at allâ but youâre looking up at him and thereâs something really dangerous in the air and it mustâve gotten into your blood stream or something cause itâs swimming in your eyes and he realizes that removing his feelings is not going to be possible.
He decides he could at least tone it down. Youâre an intern. Robbyâs intern. So what if youâre bleeding all over the break room? Jackâs just doing his job as the attending to look after the doctors and nurses under his jurisdiction or whatever. Thatâs all.
âTilt your head up.â
He sets to work cleaning up the cut and split as detached and clinically as possible, even puts on gloves so thereâs no skin to skin contact, just protocol, but he can feel the warmth of your skin through the latex and you keep sucking in these tiny little breathes when something stings and he canât get the sound of the slap out of his head and itâs all just kind of a lot.
He readjusts his hand on the side of your face, sort of holding your forehead now to have better access and control over the cut on your cheek and wow. Your skin is really warm. It kind of feels like youâre burning up.
Jack tosses the piece of gauze he was using and rests the back of his hand against your forehead. Shit, you are burning up.
He thinks back to you, walking in today, soaked to the bone.
âDid you walk to work today?â
You wince. âMy car kind of died? On the way here? I was only a mile away. But I called a towing company, so I didnât just leave my car in the middle of the road.â
He blinks.
âYour car died, so you had it towed and walked a mile to work, in the rain, late at night, and didnât tell anybody?â
You just keep staring at him, brows furrowed.
âYeah? I carry a knife and Iâve taken self defense classes, and my car was just towed back to my place, so. I had a shift to work.â
Thereâs⌠a lot to unpack in your answer.
âKid,â He starts, wondering why Robby never thought to give him a heads up before you started working more night shifts, âWhat was your plan to get home?â
âWalk, probably. I was thinking about taking the bus. Dr. King knows the bus schedule, so Iâm probably going to text her.â
Jack decides to just finish cleaning you up, before he does something stupid like shake you by your shoulders and ask why you didnât think to let your boss know that your car broke down and youâd be walking home in the rain. Or that when a patient slapped you in the face, his ring cut your face and lip open.
God.
âItâs really fine though,â You say, gesticulating animatedly with your hands. âMy place isnât that far, and itâs not the first time my carâs died. The batteryâs kind of shot, but I guess my car has a weird battery, and itâs like, crazy expensive to get a new one, so. Besides, I like walking. Iâve been meaning to catch up on my audiobooks.â
He wishes youâd stop talking so heâd stop hearing things that make him want to do things he canât and shouldnât do. Like find out what car you drive so he can buy you a new battery. Or buy you a new car all together.
Christ, you have him wrapped around your fucking finger.
âIâll drive you home. If youâre fine with that.â
Jack has to fight a grin at how comically wide your eyes grow at his suggestion.
âOh no, you really donât have to. I promise Iâmââ
âPlease stop saying you're fine,â He begs, âYou donât have a working car, a patient slapped you in the face, and I think youâre coming down with something.â
The smile thatâs seemed permanently fixed on your face since he came into the break room falters, for a bit.
âWell,â You grimace, hands fisting the hem of your scrub top, âThings certainly arenât⌠great, but Iâll survive. Iâm not like, incapable, or anything.â
Jacks quiet for a bit, not just mulling over your words but the way you said them; the cadence and tone.
He hums. âIs that what you think? That I or someone else here will think youâre not competent or that youâre weak if you take a break or ask for help?â
Your face falters again. âNo, no, of course not I just⌠I donât know. Iâm an intern. Itâs my job, supposedly, to mess up and have to be looked after in case I accidentally kill someone and stuff like that. I just donât want to be someone that people think they have to worry about. I needâ internships are competitive. Theyâre competitions, really. And I want to win.â
Jack Abbot knows what itâs like to want to win. That need to prove yourself, prove that youâre capable and strong and unfailing.
So Jack also knows how quickly that can all go south.
âYouâre a smart kid,â He says, voice ever so slightly soft in the quiet tension of the break room, empty except for the two of you, âAnd youâre going to make a great resident, and one day, a damn good attending. But none of that means shit if you burn out or get run yourself into the ground before you get there.â
He avoids eye-contact while he carefully applies the bandage to your cheek. âThis industry will chew you up and spit you back out if you donât take care of yourself. I get it. Weâre doctors. We make the worst patients. But you got slapped in the face during a shitty day. Itâs okay to⌠not be okay for a minute.â
You huff a watery laugh. âIsnât that what energy drinks are for?â
He shakes his head. âWhat, trying to die faster?â
âAnything to shake those student loans. Canât be in debt if youâre dead.â
âDonât they just pass it to your family? Next of kin or whatever?â
âI donât think they can give student loans to a cactus. I mean, I consider her my daughter, but I hardly think itâll hold up in court.â
Jack mentally files that information away for later. What later is, he isnât sure.
He stands, pulls off his gloves and tosses all the used gauze and shit in the trash can.
âI gotta get back out there,â He jams his thumb towards the door, âBut feel free to take five. No oneâs judging you. Matter of fact, as your boss, Iâm telling you to take a break.â
You roll your eyes. âWhatever you say, Dr. Abbot. But thank you. For theâŚâ
You gesture to your bandaged cheek and lip. ââŚAnd for the advice.â
He shrugs, like taking care of you hasnât become a persona fantasy he may or may not fall asleep imagining most nights. Like it doesnât matter, like heâs just doing his job.
âOffer for the rideâs still open. Just let me know by the end of shift.â
And with that, heâs out the door.
Itâs the end of shift, and youâre staring at the double doors that lead to the outside world, and beyond that, absolutely fucking miserable weather for walking, a dead car, and cold as shit apartment.
Youâre not exactly rushing out the door.
Youâre clutching at the strap of your bag, regular clothes on, still damp despite the fact that itâs been over thirteen hours since you originally took them off, begging the universe to strike you down where you stand. Spontaneous lightning bolts happen indoors too, right?
The doors just stare back at you, unchanging in their miserable-ness, and after a solid ten minutes of staring, you feel rather than see Jack sidle up next to you.
âStill raining out there?â
âYep. Looks worse now.â
âNot great weather to walk in. Especially considering the low-grade fever.â
âMhm.â
âDid you text Dr. King for the bus schedule?â
âNo. I didnât want to wake her up.â
Jack huffs a breath, then jerks his head towards the doors that lead to the employee parking lot.
âCome on, kid.â
The ride is quiet and awkward. Well. Dr. Abbot probably doesnât think itâs awkward, because he seems like the kind of man not to be bothered by long stretches of silence. Or silence at all.
Heâd been kind enough to turn the heat on full blast (you started shivering the moment you stepped outside) and the radio is softly playing, and itâs only thanks to Sabrina Carpenterâs voice that you donât feel like completely freaking out.
You mouth along to the lyrics, quietly humming the chorus under your breath.
ââI get wet at the thought of you being a responsible guyââ
ââTreating me like youâre supposed to do, tears run down my thighsââ
By the time youâve realized that perhaps this isnât the best song choice to sing along to, considering the situation and whoâs car youâre currently riding in, the words âI get wetâ have already left your mouth so thereâs no real point in stopping.
On a completely unrelated note, Dr. Abbot starts smiling a little bit when you hum.
Pittsburgh traffic is terrible, so the drive kind of drags on. The radio is playing Chappell Roan now. Casual specifically. Youâre considering changing the radio station because god.
âSo,â You start, just to say anything that drowns out âknee-deep in the passenger seat and youâre eating me out, is it casual now?â, âDid you⌠have a good shift?â
That was a terrible question. Jesus. What the hell is wrong with you? How did you get through medical school?
Dr. Abbot snorts. âShouldnât I be asking you that question?â
Ah. Right. The Incident.
âI told you Iâmââ
âDidnât I tell you to stop saying that?â
Your lap has never looked more interesting. Wow, is that a loose thread on your sweats?
He continues. âFine or not, a patient assaulted you. Even if he didnât leave a mark, thatâs still shitty.â
âHave you been hit by a patient before?â
He huffs. âHell yeah. It happens to everyone eventually. Itâll happen again. You get better at keeping your cool.â
âSorry you had to step in. Iâve been hit by a patient before and I was fine.â
âOh yeah?â
You nod. âIt was during my Pedes rotation, actually. Iâve always known working with kids probably wasnât going to be for me, but, well. Kid came in for intussusception, and she was screaming and writhing in pain, and I failed to restrain her properly.â
âWhat, did she slap you too?â
âNope. Kicked me in the chin. Ended up biting almost clean through my tongue.â
âFucking hell, kid. Whatâd you do?â
You shrug. âKept my blood in my mouth until we finished sedating the patient. Ended up with three stitches.â
Dr. Abbot lets out a low whistle. âAlways the patients you least expect.â
âThe importance of proper patient restraint was thoroughly impressed upon me, I assure you.â
The silence after your short conversation is slightly more comfortable, and thankfully the radio station has decided to play less pointed music.
Between the warmth of the car, the smell permeating the seats that smells distinctly like Dr. Abbot, and the drumming of rain outside, it doesnât take long for drowsiness to begin to overtake you.
Your last thought before falling asleep is that you donât remember if you gave Dr. Abbot your address or not.
Someone is gently shaking your shoulder, and you feel like shit.
âWhat?â You attempt to say, but the side of your mouth is pressed against the seatbelt and your shoulder so it comes out sounding like: âWhamfgh?â
Opening your eyes is a herculean task, like someone sewed miniature weights to your eyelids while you were asleep. Youâre absolutely freezing, despite the steady hum of the car's heat, still on high, and you vaguely recognize the street the car is currently parked on.
Oh right, your apartment.
âOh,â You yawn, hauling yourself semi-upright, aiming for woman who has it together, and less disheveled swooning woman in a Baroque painting.
Dr. Abbot is staring at you with equal parts humor and concern.
You rub at your eyes. âHow long have I been asleep?â
âLittle over forty minutes. You looked like you needed it.â
âIt doesnât take that long to drive to my place, even with traffic.â
Your brain is moving like molasses, so it takes you a second to catch up with the implication of his statement.
âDid you just⌠park in front of my house? So I could keep sleeping?â
He just shrugs. âLike I said. You looked like you needed it.â
Embarrassment and a touch of something else floods through your body, hot and cold at the same time.
âSorry. You didnât have to wait.â
âIf I didnât want to, I wouldnât have.â
Still moving slowly, you gather up your bag from where it partially spilled on the floor all over your feet, shoving old receipts and pads and chapstick back in with the reckless abandon of a person who isnât nearly aware enough of social cues to be in a car alone with their hot boss.
Whilst you're grabbing and shoving, Dr. Abbot reaches into his back seat, rifles around for a bit, and then drops something rather unceremoniously over your head and shoulders. After a quiet âheyâ you pull it into your lap, and then that hot feeling is back in full force.
Itâs a rain jacket. Clearly Dr. Abbotâs. You can see his name written on the inside pocket. Itâs nice too. Definitely not the kind of rain jacket you could afford on an internâs budget.
âFor the next time your car dies,â He clarifies, as if the jacketâs purpose is the thing thatâs stupefied you, not the fact that heâs the one giving it to you, âIn case of rain.â
âYou really donât have to,â your words are rushed and clunky in your mouth, tumbling over each other in your haste to say something, anything, âI mean, I can just buy my ownââ
âFirst of all,â He cuts you off, voice smooth and rough at the same time, âDo I seem to be the kind of guy in the habit of doing things I donât want to? And second of allâŚâ
He tilts his head, gaze sharp. âAre you really going to buy one for yourself?â
Your mouth goes dry.
âI was planning on looking onlineââ
Dr. Abbot interrupts you. âNow you donât have to.â
Like itâs that easy. Does he want it to be?
âDr. Abbot, Iââ
âJack.â
His grin goes from mild to shit-eating as you stare at him, obviously radiating confusion.
âJack,â you start, testing out the name in your mouth, hearing how it sounds in the air. âI can take care of myself. You donât need to give me your jacket. Iâve been doing just fine on my own.â
âKidââ
The prickling of perceived weakness makes anger spark in your chest.
âDonât call me kid like Iâm stupid.â
Dr. Abbâ Jack seems simultaneously impressed that you interrupted him for a change and vaguely put out.
He holds up a finger, effectively silencing anything else you were thinking of saying.
âI donât call you kid because I think youâre stupid. I donât think youâre stupid. Youâd know if I thought you were stupid, because I would tell you. âKidâ is aâŚâ He trails off, free hand tapping thoughtful rhythms on the steering wheel, ââŚNickname. Term of endearment. Whatever you want to call it, but itâs not derogatory.â
Jack holds up a second finger.
âYou have not been taking care of yourself. If you were, you wouldnât have a low grade fever, and you wouldâve called me as your boss or one of your friends to drive you instead of walking after your car died. Youâve been surviving. Thereâs a difference.â
Shame burns white hot through youâ all your recent failings laid out by the person you want least to notice them. Clearly, he has.
Possibly out of pity in response to your no doubt miserable expression, Jack continues.
âDonât beat yourself up about it. Itâd be an honest-to-god miracle if any intern managed to properly take care of themself. Hell, residents donât do it either, and neither do attendings. Does Robby strike you as the kind of man who takes perfect care of himself?â
âThat depends. Is my answer going to make it back to him?â
Jack huffs a quiet laugh. âExactly. Doctors make the worst patients, in and out of a hospital setting. Knowing better doesnât actually make us all that inclined to do better. Terrible misconception.â
He nudges the jacket on your lap. âSo just take the jacket. One less thing to worry about.â
Emboldened by his recent streak of kindness towards you and the flush of fever running through your veins, you look over to him.
âYou worry about me?â
Something dances in his eyes for a split second, gone before you can blink.
âI worry about all the interns and residents on my service, but especially the ones my best friend has taken a liking to.â
Right. Of course. He only cares because of Robby. And Robby only cares so he can add another doctor to the already short-staffed PTMC. Itâs not like Jack actually likes you or anything.
You clutch the jacket to your stomach, finally finding the energy to get out of the car. Jackâs car.
âWell. Thanks for the ride, Dr. Abbot. And the jacket.â
âNo problem, kid.â
And if later on that evening, in the safety of your tiny apartment, you take in the deep, fresh, almost spicy smell that makes up Jack, lingering on the jacket, thatâs no oneâs business but yours.
â
From that night on, it feels like Jack Abbot is everywhere.
Whether itâs something heâs doing on purpose or youâve just developed a heightened sense to his whereaboutsâ it doesnât matter. Sometimes itâs a whiff of his cologne (eerily similar to Dior Sauvage, which makes you shudder. Certainly he didnât choose a cologne similar to the number one male manipulator scent on purpose?) or seeing his handwriting on a whiteboard or his notes in a chart, heâs there.
Youâre being scheduled for night shifts fairly regularly now, in addition to the 24-hour shifts you have the pleasure of being put on as an intern.
Working a double isnât horrific, really. Exhausting, sure, but Robby and Jackâs solid presence makes the shifts more bearable. Plus, youâre quickly becoming friends with the fresher residents, Whitaker and Santos, plus some of the older residents like Mohan and King. Even Dr. Langdon gives pretty solid advice and mentorship, despite the tension in the air whenever he happens to be working with or near Robby.
Normally, 24 hour shifts are grueling, but not impossible. Somewhere around the 15 or 16 hour mark, the sleep deprivation hits, and you can just coast on stress-induced inertia and a healthy does of energy drinks and mania.
Today, though, has been particularly fucking awful. Maybe itâs the fact that the fever never really went away, or the fact that you started your period the day before (being sick on your period should be illegal.) Itâs probably both of those things.
But there isnât really anything to do but grin and bear it. The day will pass, and you have the next two days off anyways. Just survive the next however-many hours of the shift and then you can go home, dress in exclusively fluffy clothes, and binge watch tv whilst eating heart-stopping junk food.
Youâre distracted from your charting, propped up on the counter at the nurses station by a light tap on your shoulder and someone saying your name.
Dr. Langdon has sidled up next you, voice hushed.
âHey, uh. I just wanted to let you know that you seem to have⌠bled through.â
If a spontaneous earthquake could open a chasm beneath your feet and swallow you whole, now would be the time.
âFuck fuck-ity fuck fuck,â You mumble, wiping your hands down your face. âRight. Yeah. Of course. Thank you for letting me know.â
In a moment that is as mortifying as it is kind of sweet, Langdon passes you a hoodie that is clearly his.
âTo tie around your waist,â He clarifies, holding the object out across the meager space between the two of you, voice a bit awkward and stilted, like you might decide to spit in his face or something.
You donât actually know what it is that Dr. Langdon did before your arrival that makes the break room go quiet when he walks in (unless Dr. King is there) but you donât particularly care. If it was truly something horrific that you should be worried about, he wouldnât be working here. Robby wouldnât let that kind of thing slide.
So you take the offered hoodie with a strained smile (can this shift just be over) and speed-walk to the break room, praying no one decides to snag you on the way there.
What you should do is go to your locker where your stash of pads, tampons, spare underwear, and extra scrubs are, and then probably the bathroom to get changed, so you can keep on going but you also just saw Dr. King go into the break room and you just really need a hit of her specific brand of optimism.
The woman in question perks up when she notices your arrival, hastily eating the same snack she always eats around this timeâ a tiny bag of pretzels.
She watches as you collapse into the chair across from her, letting your head thunk onto the table.
âBad shift?â
âBad life,â You grumble. âDr. Langdon had to give me his hoodie to tie around my waist because I bled through onto my scrubs. Like a middle schooler who doesnât know what pad sizes are for.â
Dr. King nods thoughtfully. âHe asked me if it would be weird of him to let you know and offer his hoodie. To which I replied that periods are a normal bodily function and heâs a doctor.â
âHere here,â You half-heartedly cheer, any actual cheer or enthusiasm severely lacking in your voice. âHow did you survive your intern year, Dr. King?â
âWeâve been working together for awhile, you can call me Mel,â
She pops another pretzel in her mouth before answering. âBut to answer your question, I mostly just kept telling myself that failing wasnât an option. Which. Probably isnât helpful, or good advice, but it worked for me. Something thatâs nice is if you have a fellow intern or doctor that you enjoy working with. I know the other two interns who matched into the PTMC dropped out of the course, so itâs just you, but you have Dr. Robby, right?â
You nod, picking absently at a spot on the table and ignoring the way that it wasnât Robby who popped into your head, but Jack.
Your teeny, ignorable crush on him has become a full-blown thing, with semi-weekly dreams about him in various⌠situations, and casual daydreams at all hours of the day of what it would be like to just be with him, or hear him, in any capacity that couldnât be qualified as work or a boss checking on his employee. Intern. Whatever.
Hormonal and fever-ish, you suddenly feel like youâre going to explode and die if you donât have someone to confide in right this very second. You havenât heard Mel really talk about anyone you work with outside of professional doctor-to-doctor conversation, not even about Dr. Langdon, who she seems almost suspiciously close with.
âMel,â You start, voice a little too thick and watery to just be talking about your stupid, annoying, one-sided workplace crush, âCan I tell you a secret?â
She seems to consider the pros and cons first, and looks fairly caught off guard, but she answers. âUm. Sure?â
âHave you ever had a crush on a coworker before? Or like, a boss or mentor?â
Mel sets down her bag of pretzels. âIs this about Dr.ââ
âI have the biggest crush on Dr. Abbot and I think itâs ruining my life.â
The words burst out of you all at once, and Melâs expression goes from shocked, to confused, before finally settling in abject amusement.
âAh,â She says, sliding the pretzels across to you. âUm. Well I personally donât have a crush on Dr. Abbot, but I think I understand the sentiment.â
You bury your face into your hands and groan. âItâs awful. Itâs so cliche. Itâs so fucking Greyâs Anatomy.â
âIâve never actually seen that show. Becca likes it though.â
Mel allows you a few moments of wallowing and pretzel eating before she speaks again.
âHave you⌠acted on it?â
âNo!â You snap your head up. âI mean. No, I havenât. Iâm not naive enough to think that he would reciprocate. Heâs an attending and Iâm an intern.â
She leans in. âButâŚ?â
âBut sometimes⌠I wonder? I donât know. Iâm probably crazy. He drove me home the other day, cause my car died, and it was raining, and I got slapped by a patient, and that was when I first came down with this stupid fever, and like, thatâs normal, right?â
Mel nods. âFrâ Langdon drives me to work when we share shifts, and sometimes when we donât. I think Dr. Santos and Dr. Whitaker carpool too. So maybe?â
âRight. Yeah.â
She takes the pretzel bag back. âIs there more evidence that makes you feel crazy?â
Your skin flushes hot at the memory alone.
âHe gave me his rain jacket. To keep.â
âOh.â
âYeah.â
Mel once again takes a few minutes, and the rest of her pretzels before responding.
âIâm honestly not the best person to ask for advice about this. Iâve been told I can be⌠dense when it comes to romantic endeavors.â
You shrug. âYouâre a great listener, and you havenât steered me wrong in the past.â
She brightens. âThatâs good! I think my advice would be to talk to Dr. Mohan. She has experience with your⌠particular situation.â
Mel tosses the empty pretzel bag and heads toward the door. âIâll let Robby know youâre taking ten, so donât worry about someone looking for you while youâre changing.â
âYouâre the best. I love you.â
The resident flushes at your gratitude, and then ducks out the door, leaving you alone to stew on her advice.
â
Talking to Dr. Mohan proves difficult, at first. How exactly do you start that conversation? âHey, I heard you had advice on having a world-ending crush on your boss, got any tips?â
Additionally, sheâs kind of hard to track down. You greatly respect Dr. Mohanâs work ethic and truly aspire to her unflinching devotion to patient care at the PTMC.
After a few days (which turns into a few weeks, because you are an emotional coward) of trying (and failing) to find a moment to talk, Dr. Mohan actually ends up finding you.
âHey!â She jogs up to you as youâre walking to your car, a too-bright smile on her face for the fact that you both just got off a fourteen hour shift.
âSorry to be that annoying coworker who talks to you in the parking lot, but I wanted to catch you before you left. Mel said you wanted to talk to me?â
âRight!â You stammer, slightly mortified. You admire Dr. Mohan so much and really want her to think youâre capable but you really need some advice on Jack Abbot as a whole, and it sounds like sheâs the only expert around. âYes. That. Itâs a really normal question, you know.â
Dr. Mohan just nods, a smile still fixed on her face, like this is a totally normal conversation. âUh, sure?â
Thereâs a beat of silence where you both stare at each other, and then she gasps.
âThis is about Abbot, isnât it?â
You groan, throwing your head back in defeat. âAm I that obvious?â
She laughs goodnaturedly. âNo. Probably not. Youâre just the only intern in the ED right now so I try to make it a habit to keep an eye on you. Plus, Mel is literally the only person in the world who knows about my now-dead crush on him, so. I just connected the dots.â
âHeâs so hot, Dr. Mohan. I feel like Iâm dying.â
She makes a noise of sympathy. âHe is. Itâs fucking annoying, at a certain point.â
âThank you!â You shout, âLike itâs just so there. It should be illegal to just walk around and look like that. I should be focusing on like, studying and learning, but instead Iâm just harboring this stupid crush on an attending.â
âHave you ever seen Greyâsââ
âYes. I know. I canât be Meredith. Meredith was like, always a mess. Am I a mess?â
Mohan purses her lips. âWell. You did just say you felt like you were dying.â
âI know,â You sigh. âIt makes me feel⌠shallow. I like being a doctor. I was so excited to get matched into the PTMC, and this stupid crush is throwing me off my game.â
âIt canât be that bad.â
âOn my first night shift rotation I dropped a scalpel, picked it back up, and then ripped the purse strings on my first appendectomy.â
She winces. âOh. Thatâs not⌠great.â
Your hand finds its way to your comfort necklace. âHe found me crying in the supply closet like some medical student, and then he comforted me. It was terrible.â
Mohan starts ambling towards the direction you assume her car is in. âWell, if itâs any consolation, Iâve been caught crying in the supply closet several times. I think itâs a right of passage. And as for that second partâŚâ
She shrugs. âAbbot gives credit where credit is due, but he wonât coddle you. If he actually offered real comfort or advice or whatever, then he meant it.â
âThatâs what he said. It just didnât really help the whole crush-on-him part. And then there was the slapping incident, and he drove me home, and now I have his rain jacket in my backseat in case my car dies again.â
Mohan actually looks taken back.
âOkay. It sounds to me like this is a situation that is in serious need of wine. Do you drink?â
âWhenever I have a spare twenty dollars.â
She grins. âI happen to have a couple bottles at home that might do the trick. Follow me back to my place?â
âYes please.â
Wine and, eventually, takeout at Samiraâs is much more enjoyable than you expectedâ considering the fact that youâre an intern and sheâs a resident. She confides that she doesnât have very many friends outside of the ED and was excited at the opportunity to have âreal girl-timeâ.
She shares how she weathered her own seemingly life-ending crush on Jack, gasps and screams at the appropriate times when you tell her about the slapping, the events that occurred in the break room afterwards, the drive home, and the jacket.
You leave her apartment feeling lighter than ever. Like life might be worth living. Like you could survive your intern year.
Maybe everything will be okay.
â
Everything is not okay.
Youâre now two full weeks into a never-ending fever, you keep getting stuck with shitty shifts (how many times a month can one person possibly be scheduled to work a double?) and top it all off, youâve been pissed on not once, but twice in the same fucking shift.
Santos snorts when she sees you go by in your third set of scrubs for the day.
You shoot her a look. âSupportive as ever, Dr. Santos.â
âI try.â
You sink into the chair next to hers, taking a moment to press the heels of your hands into your eyes and maybe, like, take a thirty second nap.
It doesnât help much.
Thereâs a particular misery in watching the day-shift rotation handoff with the night shift and not being able to join in the process. Because youâre still there. And will be, until you see them again for your handoff, in twelve fucking hours.
Patients tend to get bitchier the later it gets, and itâs one of those nights where every patient bleeds into the next in a never-ending sea of complaints, pain, and fixing.
The fixing is fine. You like the fixing.
Youâre just⌠having a hard time keeping up with everything while the fever perpetually runs you down. Itâs the kind of thing where no amount of sleep can help you. Unless it was for 48 hours straight and then you got another 48 hours off after that to relax while youâre awake, and then another 48 hours to be productive.
A vacation. A week off. Youâre describing taking a week off work. Itâs comical, actually. Imagine requesting a week off from work. Gloria or whoever it is would never grant that. Not as an intern.
You notice Jack lingering around your general vicinity, which is fairly normal on a night like tonight. Technically, as the only intern on shift, youâre the only liability he has to really worry about.
Somewhere around the eighteen hour mark, he slides into the chair next to you while youâre charting.
âYouâre flagging.â
Your eyes burn as you tap information into the tablet, then check on the computer in front of you. âIâm fine. I just need a Redbull or something.â
He slides the tablet out of your hands. âPart of being a good doctor is knowing when to take a break. Canât be a good doctor if youâre falling asleep during the exam, right?â
âI would never fall asleep during an exam.â
He shrugs. âIâve seen it happen.â
Jack jerks his head towards the break room. âTake five. Get an energy drink or whatever. Then I want you on chairs for at least an hour.â
âYes sir.â
He rolls his eyes. âGet going.â
Chairs don't prove to be as uneventful as you (and probably Jack) hoped it would be. You get vomited on by a teenage girl, who apologizes profusely when she finally manages to stop throwing up, narrowly avoid a swing from a patient that quickly becomes a behavioral case, and become an unwilling participant in another patientâs doctor fantasy.
Security had to get involved with that last one. It was. Something.
Your shift ends with little fanfare. Itâs honestly a miracle you survived. Youâre exhausted, achey, and still feverish. The only thing you can think about is crawling into your bed, indulging in a rare expense of turning your heat up, and sleeping until your next shift.
Walking into your apartment ends up being a slap in the face. First of all, itâs fucking freezing. As if you left every single window open while you were gone. Secondly, itâs dark. Like, not even the clock on the microwave is on.
âFuck,â you mumble under your breath, tears beginning to burn with unshed tears digging through your bag and fumbling with your phone, about to text your landlord when you see that heâs already texted.
Eric (Landlord): Power and AC is down. Might take some time to fix. Power should be back on by tonight.
And thatâs just the last straw, really.
You slam the door behind you, not even bothering to go inside your apartment at all, chest tight and face hot, you race down the stairs, trying to find Samiraâs contact through blurry eyes. When you think youâve found it you click call, collapsing on the curb with your body doubled over, crying like a crazy person into your knees, at something like nine in the morning.
The phone rings for a bit, and youâre about to give up when the line finally stops and somebody picks up.
âHello?â
Itâs not Samira who answers. Itâs Jack.
You sniffle. âWhy are you answering Samiraâs phone?â
âI didnât. I answered my phone. Because you called me. Are you okay?â
âOh,â You decide to ignore his question, âI meant to call Samira. Sorry.â
âWait,â Jackâs voice comes out all rough and tinny through the speaker, but even distorted through a phone, you could listen to it for hours, âAnswer the question. Are you okay?â
Your bottom lip wobbles dangerously.
âThe powerâs out in my building. And the heating went out too. My landlord said the power wonât be on until tonight, and I just wanted to go to sleep, but itâs cold and I'm tired and this stupid fever wonât go away.â
âDo you have a place to stay?â
Always a man of action, Jack is.
You shrug, then make a non-committal noise when you remember he canât see it. âI was supposed to call Samira and see if sheâd let me sleep on her couch.â
âI have a guest bedroom.â
The statement hangs in the crisp morning air. You think of Jackâs encouraging advice, Jackâs steady presence, Jackâs warm car and his nice smelling rain- jacket. Jack, Jack, Jack.
âJack?â
âYes?â
âWhatâs your address?â
The drive over involves bawling your eyes out to Vienna by Billy Joel. Itâs just that kind of day.
You have no problems finding parking (miraculously) and no one stops you as you head up to Jackâs apartment as directed.
Itâs⌠fancy. Like, polished floor lobby, lounge area adjacent to the front desk fancy.
The actual building itself isnât very tall, nothing like a skyscraper, so itâs not exactly surprising that Jackâs apartment is the penthouse. Itâs just suddenly very awkward standing in front of the door, in the same sweatshirt youâve had since high school, sweats that have seen better years, looking exactly like the kind of girl who sobbed on the ride over to Billy Joel.
Jack opens the door almost immediately after you knock, and.
If seeing him in scrubs was bad, it doesnât hold a fucking candle to him in a tight, army green shirt and grey sweatpants. Grey sweatpants. That couldnât have been intentional, right? Is he online enough to know these things? God.
His features soften when he takes in your tear-streaked face and disheveled appearance.
He makes a low noise in his throat.
âOh, you poor thing. Come here,â
Jack had actually been gesturing to the apartment, saying âcome insideâ but the dam breaks the moment he says âpoor thingâ and you donât have the wherewithal to think anything more complex than âJack=Comfort and Safety".
Your bag drops with a dull thud onto the ground and then youâre crashing into him, face pressed into his chest and arms wrapped around his middle. You can barely find it within yourself to be embarrassed.
Jack doesnât react at first, going completely stiff in your hold, and you think maybe youâve gone and fucked this up too, like everything good in your life, but right when you move to pull away a hand finds its way to the back of your head, and another rubs circles on your back.
âPoor girl,â he murmurs, voice a soothing rumble with your ear close to his chest, âThey been running you ragged?â
You nod uselessly, feeling raw and cut openâ like youâve been smashed against a rock and everything you keep tucked inside is spilling out and you canât stop it.
âIâm so tired.â You half-mumble-half-sob into him, a sentiment that feels too light to convey everything thatâs happened since you became an intern at the PTMC, and everything else you donât talk about that happened before.
âI know sweetheart, I know,â Jack is solid beneath your cheek and arms, a lifeboat in a storm. âHow about we get you inside and get you warm, huh? That sound nice?â
At the promise of warmth you finally detach from him, shame burning through you when you eye the wet spot on his shirt.
âSorry,â You say, voice barely above a whisper. âI think I got snot on your shirt.â
âTrust me kid, itâs seen worse.â
He grabs your bag before you can even make a move for it, and you trail behind him into his apartment, attempting to ground yourself by looking around his apartment.
Itâs nice. Lived in, not sterile. It doesnât, actually, look the inside of a dentistâs office, like you were half expecting. Most new apartments have that doctorâs office lobby feel. Not exactly comfortable when youâre a doctor and the goal of home is to not remind you of your job.
Jack hangs your bag on a hook by the door, right next to his own. Something twinges in your chest at the sight.
Thereâs a feeling under your skin you canât place as you shuffle into his apartment, something warm and skittish that aches for this to not be a one time thing, to be able to compare the pale morning light youâre watching now to late afternoon sun. To know where he keeps his mugs, what drawer the silverware is in, if heâs got a junk drawer with random shit in it, and what the random shit is. What it feels like to be in his kitchen, shoulders brushing.
But thatâs a lot of complicated things to name or voice just past the threshold of the foyer, so you wrap your arms around yourself and toe your shoes off, then pad quietly after him.
Jack isâ inviting, or maybe enticing; all those words that beckon the skittish thing closer and it feels just on the tip of danger to obediently sit on the couch he ushers you to.
âBy the way,â Jack says somewhere behind you, maybe in the kitchen? âI have a cat. His name is Charlie. He probably wonât come near you, but be warned, heâs an asshole when he wants to be.â
âOh, thatâs fine. I like cats. Especially the asshole ones.â
âThat explains a lot of things.â
His statement is kind of loaded, chock full of subtext you donât care to parse through at the moment.
âUm,â You start, feeling a bit unsteady, âIsâ Do you mind if I shower? I kind of smell gross probably, and I feel⌠grimy. Your apartment seems clean and Iâd hate to get my hospital grime on anything.â
Jack just chuckles. âOne, I wouldnât care if you got âhospital grimeâ on anything because that would be a very hypocritical thing to care about, and two, of course you can shower. Do you have spare clothes?â
âI mightâve forgotten to grab those.â
Another huffy laugh. âThatâs fine. You can borrow some of mine. Iâll leave them on the bed.â
Thatâs like. Wow. Yeah. Youâre just gonna borrow some clothes from him. From Jack. Youâre going to shower in Jackâs shower and use whatever bodywash he has (hopefully not 5-in-one) and then put on his clothes and you are totally capable of being Completely Normal about these things.
âI already started on dinner when you said you were coming over. Should be done by the time you get out of the shower. Chicken noodle okay?â
Damn Jack Abbot and damn your shitty emotional regulation and damn your life for putting you in these situations.
âYeah,â You croak, thinking about things like soup and family and being cold and strong and alone, âYeah thatâs fine. Thank you.â
Jack politely does not comment on the fact that soup is reducing you to a tangled heap of emotions and tears, and instead directs you to where his shower is and says to use whatever you want and take however long you want. He says want, not need. Youâre not sure if thereâs an intention behind the word choice.
Once in the shower, you allow yourself time to cry, to feel awful and self-pitying and all those things that are terrible to go through in front of another person. His shower is expensive and the water is warm and he does not have 5-in-one. Thereâs a litter box nestled next to the toilet, and itâs not funny, but it kind of is, because Jack would be the kind of guy to look at a litter box and put it right next to the toilet. Everything in its place.
Maybe thatâs your problem. You havenât felt like anything is in the right place in years.
You want to stay in the shower, in the bubble of protection it provides, but the idea of running up Jackâs water bill is enough to guilt you into getting out. You shiver, dry, aggressively attempt to make yourself look less like a wreck at the sink, and then tip-toe into the attached bedroom and carefully pull on the clothes Jack left for you on the bed; a faded, oversized college shirt, and a comfy pair of sweatpants.
They smell like him. You smell like him, like his body wash. The house smells like him. Everything you take in is a pleasant assault of Jack, Jack, Jack.
Enough guilt to fuel an entire room of ex-Catholicâs is the only thing keeping you from snooping around his room. The idea of stumbling upon something private or hidden away makes you feel slimy and gross, so you exit the bedroom and pretend like you donât feel like a foster dog on its first night home from the shelter.
(Do shelter dogs miss the shelter? Do they miss its familiarity? Do dogs miss anything at all?)
The apartment smells of more spices and good smelling food than you privately thought Jack capable of. Youâd read him as the kind of guy to subsist on takeout and maybe like, protein bars. But heâs dutifully stirring a metal pot with all the diligence of the military man that he once was.
Quietly, as if he might throw the wooden spoon heâs stirring with if you make too much noise or take up too much space, you carefully pull out a barstool in front of his kitchen island, the one closest to the door, and haul yourself onto it.
He gives you an examining glance over his shoulder, turns a knob on the stove, then rests his forearms on the island counter across from you. His rather delicious looking forearms, you might add.
âFeeling better after your shower?â
You hum an affirmation, folding your arms and resting your chin on them.
âIsnât it kind of weird to make soup for breakfast?â
He shrugs. âItâs dinner for us. Or, well, me. Iâm not sure your body knows what meal it is.â
He taps a pointer finger rhythmically on the counter. âAny word from your landlord?â
âNo. Sorry for⌠all of this. I know youâre tired.â
âI wish youâd stop apologizing for things I donât mind doing for you.â
You donât really know how to respond to that, or what to do with how it makes you feel, so you elect to save it for later. Good at compartmentalizing, ED doctors are.
You clear your throat. âI can call Samira whenever. Sheâd probably be excited to have girl time. So you know. Donât feel likeâ I have other options. If or when you want me to leave.â
âDo you want to leave?â
You wish heâd stop asking questions you donât want to answer.
You try to play it off, smother your fear and exhaustion with humor. Robbyâs kid, through and through.
âWell, I canât have you getting sick of me. Youâre the only person I know who has a very rob-able house if this whole internship doesnât pan out.â
Jack straightens, shoulders pulling and flexing. âWho said Iâd get sick of you? Maybe I like the idea of you in my house.â
âDo you?â
You ask the question before youâre aware of how terrified you are of the answer. But youâve already said it, and it feels nice to be the one asking the hard question instead.
Jack, likely experienced in this sort of thing, doesnât look outwardly bothered by it, but he gets a sort-of-sad look on his face, almost like heâs disappointed that you had to ask.
âHave I given you any reason to think otherwise?â
âI donât know,â You look down, picking at a hangnail to avoid his expression and his eyes and his everything, âI donât want to assume anything.â
âYouâve already assumed quite a bit.â
You scrunch your face. âThatâs different. Those are safe assumptions.â
âAre they?â
âObviously, itâs safer to assume that you donât want me to stay here, or at least not for very long, because if I assume that I do Iâll bother you and I want you toââ
You cut yourself off, jaw shutting with a firm click, but the end of the sentence hangs in the air unspoken anyways. Itâs not hard to figure out what you were going to say.
I want you to like me.
Jack sighs, and alarm blares are going off in your head and your chest starts to feel tight and cold despite the warmth of his apartment, and then heâs rounding the island and you turn your body to follow him ânever turn you back, never let your guard downâ and then heâs standing in front of you, over you, and youâre not sure if you want to run or metaphorically curl up at his feet, tail tucked.
Itâs pathetic. Itâs embarrassing. Itâs impossible to ignore.
(What does a shelter dog think, on that first night? Do they hope? Do dogs hope?)
He raises a hand, slowly, giving you a chance to lean away, and when you donât, it comes to rest on the side of your face, his thumb swiping at the barely-there wetness from earlier tears.
Itâs cleaning the cut from the slap, itâs a kindness you can curl into, and it might be a threat. Might be bad, might turn harsh and painful, might leave without a word.
Unlike that day in the break room, thereâs no fluorescent lights to suck any heat out of the room and no gloves as a barrier; as a reminder of who he is, of what you are, of how things work.
Itâs just you and Jack, in Jackâs apartment, wearing Jackâs clothes, and pretty soon youâre going to eat food that Jack made. Just for you.
And you think maybe, possibly, if he stops here you could kind of hold onto this moment for the rest of your life and it would get you through being alive and strong and alone, and youâd make it through this, whatever this is, if he stops here.
He doesnât. He starts talking.
âI like knowing that youâre safe. That youâre taken care of. I like knowing with certainty that these things are true because Iâm the one making sure of it.â
Your breath hitches in your chest.
âThatâs kind of a lot of work, though.â
He hums. âIt is. Luckily, I just so happen to be a pretty hard worker.â
Everything about the current situation is a lot and your nerves are over-taxed and dialed up to hundred, so itâs not surprising that you start crying again.
Jack brings up a second hand to the other side of your face and gently wipes away the tears as they come. It feels sort of like the physical version of everything heâs been doing for you since that day in the supply closet.
âYou donât have to do anything, or say anything, or make any kind of decision right now, okay? We can do whatever you want. Iâll do whatever you want.â
Thereâs the word choice again; want, not need. Is there a difference? What does the difference mean to him? What does he mean? Why is he doing any of this?
Jack's phone goes off in his pocket, and he steps back, drops his hands, and goes back to the stove.
Jack said you donât have to make a decision right now, but you kind of feel like if you donât do something youâre going to be sick with everything thatâs swirling and clawing inside you, threatening to burst. Like the very essence of you is going to explode, and your soul will be painted on Jackâs perfectly decorated walls.
That would be something, wouldnât it.
You stay seated at the island, turning to stare at Jackâs back while he adds the final touches to the soup. He doesnât talk anymore, but he keeps looking back every few minutes, like heâs making sure youâre still there.
Eventually Jack turns the stove off, dishes up a bowl of soup for you, and sets it gently in front of you. He uses his pinky to cushion the placing of the bowl, so thereâs no loud clinking noise when he sets the bowl down.
Thereâs a tiny sprig of parsley on top of the soup, right in the center. Like a Panera ad for soup in September.
You start crying again, in earnest.
âIâm sorry,â You gasp, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes. âIâm sorry, I donât know why Iâmâ I donât know. I donât know.â
Youâre hoping the last sentence encompasses an entire lifetime of events, accidents, mistakes, and memories that have never been able to find a place in your head except dead center, at the forefront of your mind at all times, stamped on your forehead for anyone with eyes to see.
Your life hasnât been wants or choices for a very long time. And here Jack is, giving you an array of both, and saying things like he wants you to want.
âIâll do whatever you want.â
âHey, hey hey hey, shhh,â Strong arms wrap around you, tucking your head into a warm chest, effectively shutting off all sensory input that isnât Jack. âYouâre okay, youâre safe, youâre okay, I got you.â
He rubs circles into your back, then switches to tracing shapes, and he lets you cry into him again and he doesnât tell you to stop, or to calm down, or youâre being too much too fast.
âYouâre okay, youâre gonna be okay sweetheart. Take your time. Iâm not going anywhere.â
âIâm not going anywhere.â
â
You, embarrassingly, fall asleep right there, sitting at the kitchen island over a bowl of soup and twenty-something years of holding up your life with hands that never quite seemed big enough to do it.
You wake up in Jackâs bed, his comforter pulled up to your chin and the clock at the bedside table reading 8:17 p.m. Thereâs the muffled sound of several voices coming from beyond the door.
Holy shit. What the fuck.
Deciding to ignore the implication that Jack carried you to bed, you mentally take stock of whatâs around you.
In front of the clock is your phone (plugged in to charge), a glass of water, and a note with Jackâs handwriting on it.
Kid-
Iâll probably be in the ED for the night shift by the time you wake up. I called Mohan (who called Mel, who was with Langdon, for reasons unknown) to go to your place and grab you some things. There may be people in the apartment when you wake up. You are in no way obligated to interact with them. They have to leave eventually.
Charlie is in the room with you because he hates strangers, but he probably wonât leave the bathroom. Probably. Drink water and eat something, if you can. Text me if you need anything.
The voices beyond the door are, more than likely, the aforementioned individuals who have now seen the glorified closet you call home. Itâs not ideal, but youâre wrung out and donât have the energy to really care. Besides, Samira and Mel are too nice to judge you that hard (you hope) and from what youâve heard, Langdon isnât really in a place to say anything.
On one hand, going out there requires socializing. Which, ew. On the other hand, Samira and Mel are the best. Langdon is maybe okay.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you shuffle out of bed and then continue shuffling to the door, hoping that whatever you look like isnât too terribly awful.
Samira, Mel, and Langdon are standing around the kitchen island, various takeout containers and bottles of alcohol littering the space. For some reason, Trinity, Dennis, and Robby are also present.
Samira and Langdon are engaged in what looks to be a rather animated discussion-slash-argument, and Mel is standing just a little closer to Langdon than what could be considered normal for friends. Trinity is very obviously ignoring Langdonâs general existence, bickering with Dennis on the couch, and Robby is seated in the armchair by the window, nursing a beer and watching both conversations unfold.
You sniff aggressively, and all heads snap to you.
âThere are more of you here then thereâs supposed to be,â You grumble, scrubbing at your face. âWhy are you all here?â
Mel is the first to speak.
âIt was Frank actually!â Trinity rolls her eyes, and part of you wants to share the sentiment, âHe figured Trinity would be upset that something happened to you and he knew and didnât tell her, so Trinity decided that me and Samira would get your stuff while everyone else stayed here in case you woke up before we came back!â
Wow, okay, thatâs. A Lot.
You squint. âThat doesnât explain why youâre all here. I mean it does, but only like, why youâre here physically.â
Robby frowns. âWe heard that you were going through a rough time and you had to stay with Jack, so we came.â
Trinity snorts on the couch and Dennis, next to her, looks like heâs about to have an aneurysm.
Robby shoots her a look, but continues. âWe care about you. Weâ I donât want you to feel like you have to do everything on your own. In or out of the ED.â
Trinity blows out a loud sigh and low whistle. âJee-zus Robby, give the woman some time to wake up before trying to induce tears again.â
Robby does look a little apologetic, maybe a teensy bit chastised (and annoyed that Trinity was the one doing the chastising) and turns his deep brown eyes back to you.
"Sorry. Can't help these Dad tendencies, you know."
Your face gets hot, maybe a tiny, wet prickle behind your eyes forms while Robby smiles, and the tension leaves the room all in one go, and you start to think that maybe things are in the right place.
â
At the ED, Jack Abbot, who's been checking his phone whenever he gets a free moment like a highschooler with a crush, opens the first text that pops up on his screen after hours of waiting.
It's a picture from Robby. You, with your head thrown back in a cackle of a laugh, not a single bit of stress evident in any of the lines of your body. There's one text accompanying the picture:
Please don't make me give you a shovel talk. I think you already know what's at stake here.
Jack snorts and pockets his phone, because yeah, he does.
â
When Jack finally gets back to his apartment, he's half-expecting to see the kind of mess that a large grouping of obnoxious people leave behind. Trash, maybe a few red solo cups, empty takeout containers, someone asleep on his couch, someone passed out on the floor.
He's not expecting to see a clean space. The only evidence that people were there at all is some rearranged pillows, a half-empty bottle of wine on the counter, and some new takeout menus on his fridge.
And then there's you. You're lying on the couch, eyes glued to the TV, watching a show he doesn't really recognize. There's a well-loved backpack on the floor, just under the coffee table. The shocking bit is Charlie, his resident asshole, is 'loafing' right on your chest, purring away.
You lift your head when you hear the jingle of his keys, a smile immediately brightening your face. He mentally takes a picture, right there, so he can remember this exact moment forever.
"What'd you bribe him with?" Jack says instead of something much more neurotic, like 'You don't have to go back to your place when the power comes back on.'
You shrug, unaware of his emotional and romantic pain. "You were right. He came out from under the bed after everybody left. He kind of growled at me for a little bit, but once I settled down here he just kind of... came right up."
You plant a little kiss to the top of his head, right in between furry ears. Great, now Jack's jealous of a senior cat with one ear who licks his own butt. "How could I resist this face? I see why you brought him home."
Jack rounds the end of the couch, shuffling by, and Charlie opens his eyes just enough to shoot him a look that Jack takes to mean: If you make her get up and move me, I will kill you in your sleep.
Jack does not disturb his cat as he sits down on the couch. There's a moment when things almost get hairy- you pull your legs back when he goes to sit, slightly jostling The Asshole, who pins his only ear back in annoyance.
Jack solves this problem by taking your legs, clad in some soft flannel pajama pants and pink fuzzy socks, and lays them across his lap. There. Problem solved.
The warmth of your legs on his lap and the look on your face is reward enough for him. He can't think of a way he'd rather spend his time.
Jack, in a rare show of mercy, does not tease you, and decides that you've probably had enough excitement for one day.
"So," He says instead, looking up at the TV and grimacing at the mutilated corpse on the screen, "What are we watching?"
He watches you shrink into yourself. He hates it when you do that. He hates that you feel like you have to.
"Uh, Bones. I can turn it off, though. I'm sure you don't want to watch this."
He doesn't answer the question you've not-subtly voiced, instead choosing to redirect the conversation.
"Why did you put it on?"
You start chewing on your lower lip. Your signature 'I don't want to answer this question so I'm going to think really hard about it' move.
"It's kind of my comfort show? I don't know. I watched it a lot growing up. We didn't have cable, but the hotels I stayed at sometimes did. I'd wait until my dad fell asleep and then I'd turn on the TV and watch from the sci-fi or drama channels. Watched a lot of Bones. Supernatural too, and sometimes Doctor Who, if it was on. But Bones was my favorite."
The characters on the screen are involved in some sort of car chase now, police siren flashing on a black SUV. Jack isn't paying attention to that at all, because this is the first time since the day you walked into the PTMC and introduced yourself that he's ever heard you talk about your childhood.
"How come?"
"I don't know. I've always liked procedural shows. Had a huge House MD phase. Death and bones and corpses and stuff has never really grossed me out, which is part of the reason I became a doctor. But also..."
You point to the male character. "You see him? That's Booth. Seeley Booth. They all have kind of crazy names. He's an FBI agent, and his partner is that woman there. Temperance Brennan. Booth calls her Bones."
"She doesn't look like an FBI agent."
You smile. "She's not. She's a forensic anthropologist, but she consults on murder cases and stuff like that because she's kind of a genius. She's smart, strong, and capable. She and Booth don't always get along, because they both can be headstrong and stubborn. But he respects and trusts her, implicitly. No matter what. They love each other."
Your throat bobs, but your voice is steady when you speak.
"And when Brennan needs him, if she's in trouble or she needs him by her side, even if she doesn't know she does, he's always there. He always saves her."
Jack can picture it, in his mind. You, small and alone, watching these characters on some shitty hotel TV and getting it into your head that this kind of thing only exists in TV shows. He pictures you dreaming of having a Booth, of having someone to be there for you, to pick you up when you fall. He thinks of you crying in the supply closet and how quietly you'd done it. Almost silent.
He thinks of what happens to a person to make them learn how to cry without making a sound.
He rests a hand on your ankle, fingers instinctively drifting towards the pulse point there- posterior tibial. He keeps two fingers on it, even though he can't feel it through your fuzzy socks. With his thumb he makes circles, because he's seen how you lean into Robby's shoulder grabs, how you preen at physical and verbal praise, how you'd slumped like a marionette with its strings cut into his arms just yesterday.
"Jack?" Your voice is tentative, unsure.
"Hmm?"
"Am I..." You start chewing your lip again, "Are youâ I don't to assume anything. So if I fuck this up and make you uncomfortableâ"
"I want to kiss you."
Jack has learned how to speak fluent you. He knows how to stop an incoming spiral, how to soothe old wounds rearing their heads.
He continues when you don't speak.
"I want you to wear my clothes. I want to take care of you. I want you, in whatever way you'll let me."
"Oh."
"I was laying it on pretty thick, kid."
You look away from him, and this is another moment he'd like to keep forever.
"I thought I was just reading into things!"
"Do you think I call every intern sweetheart?"
Jack is positive Charlie's presence on your stomach is the only thing keeping you from actively squirming in place.
"I thought maybe you were just one of those guys. Samira said it was possible!"
He rolls his eyes. "You can't ask Mohan for romantic advice. She's you in a different font."
"I'm going to take that as a compliment."
You turn back to your show, losing yourself in the plot for a while. When the murderer has been caught and the credits are playing, you look at him again.
"We don't. Um. Can we just keep doing this? For now?"
For the first time since meeting you, Jack gets to say exactly what he's thinking.
"We can do this forever. We can do whatever you want."
Synopsis: Youâre the newest ER resident, fighting to prove yourself under the relentless scrutiny of Doctor Langdon, brilliant, distant, and impossible to read. When a fellow residentâs unwanted attention starts crossing lines, Dr. Langdon begins to take notice.Â
Tags: Workplace Tension, Jealousy, Forced Proximity, Protective Langdon, Power Imbalance, Sharp Banter, Mutual Pining, Emotional Confrontation, Eventual Kissing
Warnings: **Unwanted Advances**, Workplace Stress, Cold calling, Power Dynamics, Emotional Distress, Medical Setting
Words: 10k~
A/N: I am not American and have the barely any knowledge of how US medical school works so please ignore any inaccuracies!!
You're a new resident in the ER, the bottom of the food chain, badge still shiny under fluorescent lights, white coat not yet saturated with antiseptic and exhaustion. Your handwriting is still neat, your pockets still organized: penlight, trauma shears, folded index cards with drug doses written in careful ink.
You don't report to him directly. Technically. But in the way gravity technically doesn't report to the sun, you still orbit Dr. Langdon. You work with him. Somewhat under him. He doesn't sign your evaluations, but he signs off on your decisions with a look. Working relationship? None in sight. In fact, there is no relationship at all.
Your first week, you were bright-faced and buzzing with nervous energy, practically vibrating with inexperience and caffeine. You came early, stayed late, introduced yourself to everyone, nurses, techs, environmental services, even the attending who barely glanced up. You practiced your greeting before approaching Langdon. Professional. Confident. Approachable. You found him at a workstation, scrolling through labs like they personally offended him, jaw set, blue-gray eyes moving fast over the screen. You stepped forward anyway.
"Hi, my name is-"
"I need an ECG for room 5."
It wasn't loud. It wasn't rude. It was simply... final. He brushed past you mid-sentence, shoulder almost clipping yours, eyes already locked on another screen. No smile. No acknowledgment. Not even a nod. Just a task.
You stood there half a second too long, blinking at the empty air where he'd been, your prepared words shriveling in your mouth. Okay. Maybe not the best first impression. But you've had ego-driven seniors before, surgeons who bark, residents who talk over you, fellows who treat interns like background noise. You told yourself it wouldn't get to you. Some doctors treat interns like walking clipboards. It's nothing personal
Except with Langdon⌠it feels personal.
Not because he snaps or belittles you, he doesn't. He simply erases you. He moves around you like you're part of the furniture, like the crash cart or the supply cabinet. You'll present a patient and he'll redirect his gaze to the monitor before you finish your second sentence. You'll stand beside him in a trauma and he'll hand instruments past you like you're a gap in space. He never mispronounces your name because he never says it. The only acknowledgment comes when he orders scans or assigns the tedious exams no one else wants: "Full neuro exam. Rectal. Document everything." No inflection. No praise. No irritation. Just efficiency.
You begin to wonder if you've offended him somehow, if you said something wrong in that half-finished introduction, if he's already decided you're incompetent.
And worse is when he decides to quiz you. In front of everyone. It happens without warning. You'll be mid-sentence presenting, heart pounding but voice steady, and suddenly: "What's the mechanism of action? What's the dose adjustment in renal impairment? Why are we not worried about this potassium?" The entire workstation goes quiet. Monitors beep, keyboards click somewhere distant, but around you there's silence. You can feel everyone watching, feel the heat climbing your neck before the question's even finished. And he stands there, arms crossed, head tilted slightly, not cruel, not mocking, but unrelenting. Observing you like a case study, like pressure applied to see where the structure cracks.
Sometimes you get it right. Relief flickers through your chest. Sometimes you stumble, your brain scrambling because under his gaze the information feels locked behind a door you can't open. And when you stumble, he doesn't rescue you. He waits. Eyes steady. Clinical. Almost like he gets off on watching your ears slowly turn red.
You hate that your body betrays you like that, heat creeping up your neck, settling in your cheeks. You hate that your pulse pounds so loud you're convinced he can hear it. You hate that he notices. Because he notices everything: your hesitations, your second guesses, the way you grip your pen too tight, the way your breathing changes when you're unsure. He doesn't smile when you're right, just a short nod and a quiet "Good," as if competence is the baseline and approval unnecessary. But when you miss something, his correction is precise and sharp: "You're thinking too small. Don't anchor. You're not listening." Not cruel. Just exact.
You go home some nights replaying his voice in your head more than your patients. You'll be brushing your teeth and suddenly hear, âDiagnosis?â You'll lie in bed thinking about the way he narrowed his eyes when you hesitated. You tell yourself it's educational, that this is how you get better. And the worst part? You can't even say you dislike him.
He's brilliant.
You've watched him drop central lines like it's muscle memory, smooth, controlled, no wasted movement. Watched him read an EKG in three seconds and call a cath lab activation before anyone else saw it. You've seen attendings defer to him without realizing they're doing it. He moves through the ER with sharp assurance, diving into cases with quick, bold moves. He thrives here. The chaos seems to hum in tune with him, like he's tuned to the same frequency as crashing vitals and overhead pages. He requires little to no supervision. He makes sound judgment calls. He is a natural. Patients stabilize under his hands. Nurses trust his orders. Other residents watch him the way you do, carefully.
And you? You are just trying not to drown. You're triple-checking doses, replaying histories in your head, second-guessing your differentials, trying to look composed while your insides buzz with constant self-evaluation.
You tell yourself it doesn't matter that he's never asked where you're from. Never asked how you're settling in. Never once used your name unless it's attached to a task. You tell yourself you don't care that when other attendings laugh at something you say, he doesn't even glance up. That when you stay late to finish notes, he leaves without looking back. You tell yourself it's better this way. Clean. Professional. Unattached.
Except safe is a lie you tell yourself when you don't want to admit you're lonely.
By the end of that first week, your throat is raw from swallowing questions. Your feet ache in a way that makes you feel older than you are. Youâve learned the geography of the department, where the crash carts hide, which nurses will teach you without making you beg, which attendings like bullet points instead of paragraphs. Youâve learned how to move quickly without looking like youâre running.
What you havenât learned is how to exist here as a person.
Because Langdon doesnât leave room for personhood. Around him, you become a set of tasks. A pair of hands. A voice delivering data. And when he erases you, you start erasing yourself too, tightening your smile, shrinking your presence, making yourself smaller so you can be overlooked on purpose instead of by accident.
So when someone finally looks at you like youâre not just another intern-shaped obstacle in the hallway it hits harder than it should.
The other intern starts paying you attention in a way that feels deliberate.
It begins so small you almost convince yourself you imagined it.
His chair nudges closer when youâre both charting. Not close-close, not touching, but enough that the wheels squeak and the gap between your elbows becomes a suggestion instead of a fact. He angles his screen a fraction toward you like youâre a team. He asks questions he could absolutely look up himself.
âHey,â he says one night shift, voice pitched low over the constant chorus of monitors and overhead paging, âwhat did you put for your differential on the syncope in 12?â
You blink at him. âUh. Orthostatic, arrhythmia, anemia⌠dehydration⌠PE because sheâs on oral contraceptives and -â
He grins. âSee, that. Your brain. I like it.â
You stare at the note youâre writing, suddenly unable to remember how to spell dehydration.
Dating is the last of your worries. Youâve got exams that sit like bricks in your stomach, the kind you canât chew through or swallow, just carry. Youâve got skills checklists. Youâve got a list of procedures youâre terrified youâll never get smooth at. Youâve got attendings with eyes like scalpels and nurses who have seen every brand-new intern fall apart at least once.
You do not have time for any of it.
âYouâre doing fine,â he adds, as if he can read the thought scrawled across your forehead. He swivels his chair another inch closer. âSeriously. First week is brutal. I nearly cried in the supply closet.â
You snort despite yourself. âYou?â
âYeah,â he says, leaning in like heâs telling you a secret. âBecause I couldnât find the right size IV catheter and a trauma rolled in and I thought Iâd end up on the news as âintern who killed a man with incompetence.ââ
Your laugh escapes you before you can trap it. It feels warm in your chest. Dangerous.
He keeps talking. About normal things. Safe things. The cafeteria coffee that tastes like someone tried to brew despair. The bizarre number of adults who come in convinced theyâre dying because they ate a gummy vitamin on an empty stomach. The way the overhead voice always sounds slightly disappointed in everyone.
You find yourself relaxing around him in the same way you relax when you finally take off shoes that have been pinching you all day. Itâs not romantic, you tell yourself. Itâs not like that.
It canât be like that.
Because the ER is a world that eats softness for breakfast.
And because Dr. Langdon is still moving through it like a blade.
Dr. Langdon notices.
You donât see it at first, because youâve trained yourself not to look at him unless you absolutely have to. Not because youâre terrified, though thereâs a small, humiliating part of you that is, but because attention from him has never meant anything good.
Attention from Langdon means scrutiny.
It means: Why didnât you order that? Why is this missing? Whatâs your plan?
It means: Say it. Out loud. In front of everyone.
It means the slow, creeping heat up your neck while the other interns suddenly become very interested in their keyboards.
So you adapt.
You keep your eyes on your work. On your patients. On the numbers. On the tiny order sets and lab trends and checkbox decisions that feel like they weigh a thousand pounds when youâre new and everything could be a mistake.
You make yourself smaller around him.
Efficient. Neutral. Unremarkable.
You do not look at him.
But you feel him anyway.
You feel him the way you feel a storm building, pressure shifting, air charged, something metallic under your tongue. The sense that if you glance up, youâll find his eyes already there.
Itâs subtle at first.
Youâre at the central station, charting. The department hums in the background, monitors beeping in uneven rhythms, a stretcher rattling past, the overhead pager clearing its throat before announcing another consult.
Evan slides his chair closer.
Not obvious. Not dramatic. Just enough that the wheels squeak softly against the floor.
His knee bumps yours under the desk.
âSorry,â he murmurs.
He doesnât move away.
âMm,â you reply, eyes fixed stubbornly on the screen like the sodium level in room twelve is the most fascinating thing youâve ever seen.
Evan leans slightly toward you, pointing at your note. âYouâre writing like⌠a lot.â
âItâs thorough,â you say defensively.
âItâs pretty,â he says, too earnest.
You roll your eyes, but your mouth betrays you and tilts upward. âThatâs not a word anyoneâs ever used for my documentation.â
He shrugs, smiling. âFirst time for everything.â
You both laugh, quiet, contained, like youâre not sure laughter is allowed here.
Itâs small. Harmless. Normal. And thatâs why it stands out.
Because normal doesnât live here very long.
Across the department, someone calls, "Trauma to bay two!" The world shifts instantly, chairs scrape, nurses move, someone swears, a monitor alarm spikes. You and Evan stand in tandem, chairs skittering back. Your pulse jumps ahead of you, already in trauma mode. You grab your stethoscope, brain switching gears so fast it almost hurts.
You jog toward the bay and nearly collide with Dr. Langdon.
He's moving in the opposite direction, purposeful and fast, like the chaos parts around him by instinct. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't slow. You misjudge the distance. Your shoulder clips his chest, solid, unyielding, and the impact sends a sharp jolt through you. Your balance tips backward, stomach dropping as your heels slide against the polished floor.
And then his hands are on you. Both of them. Firm and strong. One gripping your upper arm, the other catching your opposite shoulder, fingers spreading instinctively to steady you before you can tumble. The contact is automatic, reflexive, controlled, but solid enough that you feel it everywhere. Through the thin cotton of your scrubs, straight to your pulse. His grip is steady, grounding, decisive. For a breath, you're chest to chest, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that your brain blanks entirely.
You look up. He's already looking down at you. Not annoyed, not amused. Focused. His jaw tightens slightly, eyes scanning your face as if confirming you're upright, intact.
"You need to watch where you're going," he says, voice low and even. But there's something under it, sharper than irritation.
Your hands are still half-raised from the impact, fingers curled against the front of his scrub top. You hadn't realized you'd grabbed him.
"I- sorry," you breathe.
He doesnât release you immediately. His hands remain at your arms a fraction longer than necessary, like he's making sure you're steady, like he's reluctant to let go before he's certain you won't fall. Then, slowly, his grip loosens. His fingers slide away from your sleeves. The absence of his touch feels abrupt.
"Room five's ECG?" he asks.
Back to business. Back to clinical tone. But your skin is still buzzing where he held you. And you're suddenly very aware that in a department full of motion and noise, he was the only thing that didn't move. This time he's not looking past you. He's looking at you. Really looking.
"I ordered it," you say quickly, throat tight. "It should be-"
"It should be done," he cuts in. Same tone, same efficiency. Except his fingers don't leave your elbow right away. You become acutely aware of everything, how close he's standing, how steady his gaze is, how your skin feels too tight.
"Go," he says.
You nod, stepping out of his grip. The loss of contact is almost as noticeable as the touch itself.
Behind you, Evan says, "Hey-" and then stops, like he's just realized he shouldn't have spoken. You risk a glance back. Evan is staring at Langdon the way you stare at a dog that hasn't decided whether to bite. Langdon doesn't look at him at first. Then he does. Brief. A glance. But it's cold and direct and unmistakably territorial. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to.
He turns away, already moving toward trauma bay two with that confident, clipped stride, quick, bold, certain. Gloves snapping onto his hands as he walks. Voice cutting cleanly through the noise as he calls for airway equipment.
But as he passes the central station, his gaze sweeps the desk where you and Evan had been sitting. Where the chairs were too close. Where your knees had touched.
He slows. Just a fraction. Barely perceptible.
And then he's moving again.
The thing about Langdon is that he exists in two speeds, with no comfortable middle ground. One is absolute stillness, standing at the foot of a bed, hands in his pockets, watching monitors like they're about to confess something. The other is sudden, decisive action: gloves snapping on, voice cutting through chaos, ordering the room into obedience without ever raising it. You've seen him drop a central line like it was nothing, intubate like breathing, read an EKG and decide someone's fate in seconds. You've also seen him stare blankly when a patient cries, like he's waiting for the crying to finish so the real conversation can continue.
You don't know what he is right now, stillness or action. He's leaning against the nurse's station, coffee in hand, pretending to read a chart. But you know he saw. He saw Evan's chair close to yours. He saw Evan leaning in. He saw you laughing. It shouldn't matter. It's ridiculous that it does. But you feel the weight of his attention anyway, heavy and wordless, pressing against the back of your neck like a hand you can't brush away.
That night, you find yourself in the supply room, restocking IV kits. Itâs a small, quiet way of being helpful, trying to be useful, trying to be the kind of intern people donât regret letting into the room. The space is narrow and overbright, shelves stacked to the ceiling with gauze, syringes, saline flushes, and IV start kits in plastic-wrapped bundles that crinkle when you touch them. It smells faintly of antiseptic and cardboard, and the fluorescent light hums overhead like itâs tired too. You count under your breath as you stack the kits, one, two, three, because if your hands are busy, your brain doesnât spiral.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket, the sound too loud in the small room. You hesitate before pulling it out, as if you already know who it is. You coming to grab coffee after? â Evan. You stare at the message like itâs a trick question, like thereâs a correct answer and youâre about to choose wrong. You want to say no. You want to say you donât have time, that you have to go home and study and sleep and prepare for tomorrow like youâre about to climb a mountain barefoot. You want to be disciplined, focused, untouchable. But you also want to say yes. Because youâre lonely. Because the ER is loud and relentless, and youâre new and trying so hard not to make mistakes that youâve stopped breathing properly. Because every interaction with Langdon feels like a test you didnât know you were taking, while Evanâs attention feels easy. Dr. Langdonâs attention, on the other hand, feels like a spotlight you canât escape.
You type: Maybe. Iâm still on shift. The three dots appear almost immediately. Iâll wait. Your heart does something annoying and fluttery at that, something you donât have time for. You tuck the phone away quickly, as if someone might see it and confiscate it, and grab another box of saline flushes.
You step sideways to reach the upper shelf, and nearly walk right into Dr. Langdon. Heâs standing in the doorway, blocking most of the light like a cutout, like heâs been there long enough to watch you but not long enough for you to notice. Your pulse spikes. Heâs in navy scrubs, sleeves pushed up slightly, forearms bare. He looks less like a physician and more like something carved sharp and deliberate out of the chaos. His face is the same calm mask youâve come to resent, composed, impassive, unreadable, but his eyes flick briefly to your pocket, then back to your face.
âBusy?â he asks. You blink. âUh⌠no. Just restocking.â Your voice sounds thinner than youâd like. A pause stretches between you. He steps inside, and the room feels smaller instantly, the shelves feel closer. Youâre suddenly hyperaware of how narrow the space is, how thereâs nowhere to step without brushing against him. Your brain tries to supply a reason for him to be here and comes up empty. âI need a 20-gauge,â he says. You nod too quickly and point toward the upper drawer. âTop left.â
He doesnât move. Not immediately. Instead, he looks at you, not through you, but at you like heâs trying to read a label you forgot to attach.
âYouâre doing a lot of socializing,â he says. The words land hard. Not loud or angry, just extremely personal. It hits you like a slap, not because itâs cruel but because it means he noticed.
Your mouth opens and nothing comes out for a second. âIâm- what?â you manage. His gaze doesnât waver. âAt the station.â
Heat floods your face, immediate and humiliating. âWe were charting,â you say, defensive before you can stop yourself. âAnd talking. Itâs not, I mean, itâs not like Iâm neglecting patients.â
âI didnât say you were,â he replies. Thereâs a faint, dry edge to his tone, not mocking, not quite, but more like something sharpened and carefully controlled. âThough I can see why youâd jump to that conclusion.â Your nails dig into your palm. âWhy are you even-â
He moves then. Steps closer. Close enough that you have to shift backward slightly to avoid bumping into the shelving behind you. He reaches up past you to grab the 20-gauge catheter. Itâs on the top shelf, which means he has to lean in, one arm braced lightly against the metal shelving beside your head, the other reaching over your shoulder. His chest is inches from yours. You can feel the warmth radiating off him, the faint brush of fabric as his scrubs shift, the subtle scent of antiseptic and coffee and something clean and sharp that is just him.
Youâre in his bubble. Or maybe heâs in yours. Either way, itâs too close. Your breath catches. His fingers close around the catheter, but he doesnât rush to pull away. For a second, his arm is still braced beside you, his head angled slightly downward, close enough that if you tilted your chin up, youâdâŚ
You swallow hard. He straightens slowly, stepping back just enough to create space again. He slips the catheter into his pocket.
âYouâre new,â he says, voice quieter now, controlled. âDistractions donât help.â You stare at him.
âSo youâre what,â you say, pulse still unsteady. âGiving me advice?â
âIâm telling you to keep up,â he replies. There it is, the familiar tone. Cold. Professional. Precise.
He turns to leave, then stops in the doorway, like something invisible caught him by the collar. Without looking back, he adds, âEvanâs not as helpful as he looks.â You blink, thrown. âWhat does that mean?â His shoulders tense, just slightly, a small, betraying movement.
âIt means,â he says, voice flatter now, tighter, âthat not everyone who smiles at you is doing it for you.â The words hang in the air, heavy, layered. And then heâs gone. Just like that. You stand there among the saline flushes and IV kits and fluorescent hum, staring at the doorway like it might explain itself. Your pulse is still racing, your skin still buzzing where he leaned too close.
Your phone buzzes again. You almost drop it. Still alive? â Evan. You swallow. Your fingers hover over the screen longer than they should. Yeah. Just busy. You hit send. And you donât know why your hands are still shaking.
When you step back onto the floor from the supply room, the noise hits you all at once. Monitors chirp in uneven rhythms, someone argues with radiology over a delayed scan, a stretcher rattles past with a patient clutching an emesis bag. It should feel grounding, familiar chaos, something you can disappear into, but your skin still hums where Langdon leaned in, where his arm braced beside your head, where his voice dropped just enough to make his warning feel less like professional advice and more like something else entirely.
You tell yourself to shake it off. You adjust your badge, smooth the front of your coat, force your shoulders back into something resembling composure. You are fine. You are not a first-year med student flustered by proximity. You are a resident. You have patients waiting.
Evan is at the central station exactly where you left him, perched sideways in his chair with one elbow hooked over the back. He looks up immediately when you approach. His expression changes in a way thatâs almost imperceptible but unmistakable, his smile softens, his brows knit slightly.
âHey,â he says quietly. âYou look like you saw a ghost.â
You busy yourself with logging back into the computer, grateful for the barrier of the screen. âJust inventory,â you reply. âThrilling stuff.â
He doesnât laugh. He studies you instead. âWas he in there?â
You glance at him before you can stop yourself. âWho?â
Evanâs mouth tilts knowingly. âCome on.â
You donât answer, which is answer enough.
He swivels his chair closer, lowering his voice. âDid he say something?â
Your fingers hover over the keyboard. You could tell him. You could repeat Langdonâs line about distractions, about not everyone smiling at you for the right reasons. You could admit that it rattled you more than it should have. Instead, you shrug.
âIt was nothing,â you say. âHe needed a catheter.â
Evanâs jaw tightens just slightly. âOf course he did.â
Thereâs a beat of silence before he nudges a paper cup toward you across the counter. You hadnât noticed it sitting there.
âCoffee,â he says. âI grabbed you one earlier. Figured youâd say yes eventually.â
You stare at it. You hadnât agreed. Youâd said maybe. Thereâs something about that, about him assuming, that makes you hesitate.
âI donât know if Iâll be able to,â you say carefully. âAfter shift. I have notes. And I should probablyââ
âStudy,â he finishes for you, smiling gently. âYou always say that.â
You do hesitate. You feel it, how easy it would be to say no and retreat into the safe, disciplined version of yourself. But youâre tired. Your throat still feels tight from swallowing everything Langdon didnât quite say.
âMaybe,â you repeat, softer this time.
Evanâs smile widens. He takes it as encouragement, as progress. âIâll walk you to your car at least,â he says. âYou donât have to decide about coffee yet.â
Before you can respond, a voice cuts across the station.
âRoom twelveâs repeat labs?â
You recognize his voice before you register the words. It cuts cleanly through the background noise of the department, steady, level, impossible to ignore. You hadnât seen him approach. One second it was just you and Evan and the low murmur of shared conversation, and the next Langdon is there at the opposite end of the counter, close enough that his presence shifts the space.
He rests one hand lightly against the workstation, long fingers spread against the surface as he studies the patient board. He doesnât look at Evan. He doesnât even look at you at first. His gaze moves quickly over the columns of names and times and pending labs, absorbing everything in a way that makes you feel like the board itself is reporting to him.
âTheyâre pending,â you answer immediately, your voice sharper than you intend. You are suddenly very aware of how close Evanâs chair is to yours, how the paper coffee cup sits near your elbow like evidence.
Langdonâs eyes lift then.
Not the familiar quizzing look that pins you in place and demands an answer. Not the dissecting one that strips your plan down to bone. This is different. Quieter. Slower. His gaze settles on you with a kind of measured consideration that makes your stomach tighten.
âCall the lab,â he says. âTheyâve been slow all night.â
Thereâs nothing in his tone to object to. Itâs practical. Sensible. You nod and reach for the phone without argument, grateful for something concrete to do.
Beside you, Evan shifts. âI can callââ
âI asked her,â Langdon replies.
He doesnât raise his voice. He doesnât sharpen it. The words are delivered evenly, almost mildly, but they land with the weight of a closed door. Controlled. Clean. Final.
Evan stills.
You feel the change in atmosphere immediately, a subtle tightening that hums between them. Itâs the kind of shift that might go unnoticed by anyone not standing inside it, but you are standing inside it, and it makes your pulse stutter.
Langdonâs gaze drops briefly, and for a moment you think heâs returned to the board. He hasnât. His eyes flick downward, not to your face, but to the space between you and Evan. To the angle of your chairs. To the proximity that had felt harmless a minute ago. To the coffee cup by your hand.
Then his eyes return to you.
âRoom eight needs reassessment,â he says. âNow.â
You almost tell him you were about to go. The words rise instinctively to defend yourself, to prove youâre not distracted, not careless. But something in his expression holds you back. It isnât irritation. It isnât disappointment. Itâs something more tightly drawn, something that feels less like critique and more like containment.
âYes,â you say instead.
You push your chair back and stand. Evan stands too, instinctively falling into step with you. âIâll come withââ
âNo,â Langdon interjects smoothly. He shifts his attention to Evan for the first time, though he doesnât fully face him. âYouâre with me in bay three.â
Evan hesitates. âI thought I wasââ
âYouâre with me,â Langdon repeats, already turning away as if the matter is settled.
He doesnât look back at Evan again. He doesnât need to. The authority in his tone is enough.
You walk toward room eight with your heartbeat drumming faintly in your ears, acutely aware that Langdon didnât accuse you of anything. He didnât comment on the coffee. He didnât mention Evan by name. He didnât need to.
He simply rearranged the room.
And in doing so, he separated you.
Through the glass panels, you catch a glimpse of him in bay three. He stands beside Evan now, posture relaxed, one hand tucked into his pocket while the other gestures lightly toward the monitor. His voice carries in low, measured tones, the same voice he uses when heâs instructing, when heâs teaching without humiliation. Anyone watching would see nothing unusual. Just a senior resident guiding a junior.
But thereâs a tightness in his jaw that wasnât there before. A slight tension at the edge of his mouth.
Evan listens, nodding stiffly.
For a brief moment, Langdonâs eyes lift from the monitor and travel across the department.
They find you. It isnât accidental. It isnât wandering. Itâs deliberate.
His expression doesnât change, but thereâs no clinical distance in that look. No impersonal assessment. It feels direct in a way that makes your breath catch, as if heâs measuring something that has nothing to do with lab values or vital signs.
You look away first.
You tell yourself itâs because you have a patient waiting.
For the rest of the shift, the undercurrent remains. It isnât loud or explosive. Thereâs no confrontation. No raised voices. Just presence.
Langdon appears at your shoulder more often than strictly necessary, leaning in to review your notes and correcting details that are technically fine. He redirects you to different rooms whenever Evan drifts too close, assigning you tasks in that calm, unarguable tone. When he asks you questions, they sound casual to anyone listening, but thereâs weight beneath them, a focus that feels personal.
He doesnât touch you again. He doesnât mention Evan. But he watches.
And you can feel it, steady and unrelenting, like a hand hovering just at the small of your back.
Over the next few shifts, the changes are subtle enough that you can almost pretend they arenât happening.
Evanâs chair ends up beside yours more often than not. If thereâs an open workstation further down the counter, he ignores it. If someone else sits near you, he finds a reason to hover. It starts with proximity and the easy comfort youâd already let yourself accept. His knee brushes yours under the desk during charting, and at first you assume itâs accidental. The second time, he murmurs a soft apology without moving away. By the third time, you realize heâs angling his body toward you deliberately, his thigh resting just close enough that youâre aware of the contact even when youâre trying not to be.
When you pass charts back and forth, his fingers graze yours. The touch lingers half a second longer than necessary. He smiles each time, casual, like thereâs nothing loaded in the gesture at all. It would be easy to dismiss it as friendliness if you werenât starting to feel the pattern.
He compliments your work constantly, and at first itâs harmless. âYour notes are always the clearest.â âYou think through things better than most of us.â Itâs validating in a way that feels almost dangerous after the steady pressure of Langdonâs scrutiny. Where Langdon finds gaps, Evan highlights strengths. Where Langdon pushes, Evan reassures.
But then the compliments shift.
âYou know,â Evan says one night as youâre both reviewing labs, âyouâre wasted trying to get his approval.â
You glance at him. âWhat?â
He nods subtly toward the far end of the station where Langdon stands with a nurse, reviewing imaging. âYou work harder than anyone here. And he acts like youâre just barely keeping up.â
Your jaw tightens. âHe doesnât act like that.â
Evan raises an eyebrow. âHe doesnât even look at you unless heâs quizzing you.â
The words hit closer than you want them to.
You turn back to your screen. âHe looks at everyone like that.â
âNot like he looks at you,â Evan says quietly.
You donât respond, but you feel it settle somewhere uncomfortable in your chest.
Langdon does look at you differently. Youâve felt that shift. The attention that lingers a second too long. The quiet assessments that feel less clinical lately. The way he rearranges assignments without explanation.
You tell yourself itâs professional.
Evan doesnât seem to think so.
âYou deserve someone who actually sees you,â he continues, softer now. âNot someone who treats you like a project.â
The comment is too personal. It crosses a line you hadnât agreed to draw. You let out a short laugh to deflect. âIâm not looking for someone.â
âI know,â he says. âBut still.â
Thereâs something in his tone that makes your skin prickle.
Across the department, Langdon shifts position. You donât mean to look, but you do. Heâs no longer focused on the imaging. His posture has changed slightly, weight angled toward the station. His gaze isnât openly fixed on you, but it isnât random either. It passes over the counter, over the cluster of residents, and lands briefly on Evanâs hand where it rests too close to yours.
He doesnât say anything.
He doesnât have to.
The escalation continues in increments small enough that no one else would notice.
When youâre presenting a patient, Evan steps closer than necessary, shoulder brushing yours as he leans in to âadd context.â When Langdon moves into the space to ask a question, Evan shifts just slightly to remain between you and him, like itâs instinctive. Itâs subtle positioning, but you feel it every time.
One afternoon in the hallway outside radiology, Evan reaches for your elbow to steer you toward a case. His grip is light, but itâs firm enough that you stop walking. âYou donât have to impress him,â he murmurs. âYou know that, right?â
You pull your arm back gently. âIâm not trying to impress anyone.â
âYou always tense up when heâs around,â Evan says. âYou donât do that with me.â
Thereâs a reason for that. Being around Evan feels easy because thereâs no risk of humiliation. No sudden questions. No razor-sharp corrections. With Evan, youâre not constantly bracing.
With Langdon, you are always aware.
And lately, Langdon seems just as aware of you.
He appears beside you mid-conversation more frequently. He asks for updates directly from you, even when Evan has just spoken. When you and Evan are reviewing imaging together, Langdon inserts himself with quiet authority, leaning over your shoulder to point out a finding. His arm doesnât touch you, but the space between you shrinks until youâre hyperaware of the heat of him.
âYour interpretation?â he asks you, ignoring Evan entirely.
You answer. He listens. The intensity of his focus feels different now. Less about exposing flaws. More about pulling something from you specifically.
Evan notices.
You can see it in the way his jaw tightens when Langdon interrupts. In the way he lingers afterward, stepping back into your space the second Langdon walks away.
It becomes a pattern.
If Evan leans in, Langdon appears.
If Evan touches your wrist while handing you a pen, Langdon assigns you to a different room.
If Evan positions himself at your side during a trauma, Langdon directs him elsewhere with a calm, unarguable instruction.
âBay four,â heâll say, not looking at Evan. âYouâre needed.â
He never references you. He never mentions what heâs doing.
He just rearranges the board.
And every time, his gaze flicks to you afterward, measuring something.
The tension builds in layers. Easy warmth on one side. Controlled intensity on the other.
Evan grows more confident in his closeness. He stands a little nearer. Lets his hand rest at the small of your back when guiding you through a crowded hallway. Compliments your appearance once, casually, like itâs nothing. âYou look good today,â he says, eyes lingering just long enough to make it clear he means more than your documentation.
You laugh it off. You tell yourself itâs harmless. But youâre aware of the way Langdonâs attention sharpens when it happens.
He doesnât confront Evan. He doesnât confront you. He simply watches. And that might be worse than if he did.
Because thereâs no explosion. No scene. Just a steady tightening of something unspoken. His presence becomes heavier, his proximity more deliberate. When he stands beside you now, it feels intentional. When he corrects you, it feels personal.
Langdon offers pressure. Focus. A gaze that feels like it sees straight through you.
And the more Evan pushes, the more Langdonâs silence grows charged.
The shift is nearing its end when it happens. The waiting room has thinned, the chaos dulled into a tired hum. Itâs that strange hour where the ER exhales but never fully sleeps. The overhead lights feel harsher somehow, casting everything in pale fluorescence. You tell yourself you just need to get through the last few tasks, med reconciliation in room nine, discharge paperwork in twelve, restock the airway cart because no one else will.
You duck into the medication room to grab antiemetics for a patient who hasnât stopped vomiting since triage. The space is narrow and poorly ventilated, shelves packed with labeled drawers and locked cabinets. The lighting is softer in here, slightly dimmer than the hallway, giving everything a muted edge. The door swings shut behind you with a quiet click.
Youâre reaching for the ondansetron when you hear it open again.
You donât have to turn around to know who it is.
âHey,â Evan says quietly.
You glance over your shoulder. He closes the door more firmly this time, not aggressively, but enough that the latch catches.
âI just needed to grab something,â you say, gesturing vaguely at the shelves.
âYeah,â he replies, stepping inside. âI figured.â
Thereâs less space now. The room was small before. With him in it, it feels close.
You turn back to the cabinet, trying to keep it normal. âDid you need something?â
âActually,â he says, and his voice is different. Softer. Intentional. âI wanted to talk to you.â
You feel your shoulders tighten. âAbout?â
He exhales slowly, leaning back against the counter behind him. âAbout us.â
Your stomach drops.
âThere isnât an us,â you say lightly, trying to defuse whatever Ethan thinks is going on.
He smiles, but it doesnât quite reach his eyes. âCome on. Youâve been giving me a chance.â
You hesitate. That word. Chance. You remember the coffee. The maybe. The way you didnât shut him down cleanly because you didnât want to be harsh.
âI said maybe to coffee,â you reply carefully. âThatâs notââ
âItâs not nothing,â he interrupts gently. âYou didnât say no.â
He pushes off the counter and steps closer. Not abruptly. Not threateningly. Just closing the distance inch by inch.
âYouâve been leaning in,â he continues. âLaughing. Staying. You couldâve walked away.â
Your back brushes lightly against the shelving. You hadnât realized youâd stepped backward.
âI was just being friendly,â you say.
âAnd I was being more than that,â he says.
Thereâs something in his tone now that makes your pulse spike. Confidence. Assumption.
âYou deserve someone who actually sees you,â he adds quietly. âNot someone who only talks to you when he wants to correct you.â
Your chest tightens. You know who he means. The comparison feels like a hook under your skin.
âThatâs not fair,â you say, though youâre not entirely sure who youâre defending.
âI see you,â Evan says. âI see how hard you work. I see how he looks at you like youâre a problem to solve.â
You donât answer. He steps closer again. This time, thereâs no pretending itâs accidental.
Your brain blanks for half a second. Itâs not violent. Itâs not forceful. But itâs not invited either. The shock of it steals your breath. You freeze, muscles locked, trying to catch up with whatâs happening.
âYou donât have to impress him,â he murmurs. âYou donât have to prove anything.â
He leans in. You see it coming. You know what heâs about to do.
And still, you hesitate. Because you donât want to make a scene. Because you donât want to hurt him. Because you hate confrontation more than almost anything.
His other hand comes up to your shoulder, fingers curling gently but possessively. His face is inches from yours now.
And then he kisses you.
Itâs not rough. Not aggressive. But itâs claiming.
Your body doesnât respond. Thereâs no spark. No pull. No answering shift. Thereâs only heat flooding your face and the sudden, sharp realization that this is wrong.
In a spilt second you shove him back.
Itâs not dramatic. Itâs not a slap. Just a firm push against his chest that creates space between you.
âIâm sorry,â you blurt immediately, the words tumbling out on instinct. âI didnât meanâIâm sorry.â
He stares at you, stunned.
âWhy are you apologizing?â he asks.
âBecause I didnâtâI didnât mean to give you the wrong idea.â
âYou didnât,â he insists. âYou were into it.â
Your stomach twists.
âI wasnât,â you say, stepping sideways so youâre no longer pinned against the shelving. Your voice is quieter now, but steadier. âI wasnât.â
His expression hardens slightly, confusion edging toward defensiveness.
âI was tired,â you say, the embarrassment burning up your neck. âAnd I thought we were justââ
âJust what?â
âColleagues,â you finish.
Silence stretches between you.
You feel foolish. Guilty. Like youâve somehow created this misunderstanding even though you know you didnât ask for his hand on your waist.
âIâm sorry,â you repeat, because it feels easier than standing firm.
Evan exhales sharply. âI thought you wanted this.â
âI donât,â you say. The words land heavier than you expect.
He studies your face for a moment, searching for something, doubt, regret, invitation. Whatever heâs looking for, he doesnât find it.
âIs it him?â he asks quietly.
Your heart stumbles.
âWhat?â
âIs it because of him?â
You donât answer. The door handle rattles suddenly from the outside. Both of you look toward it instinctively.
And when it opens, it isnât a nurse who steps inside.
Itâs Langdon.
His gaze moves once, slow and deliberate.
He takes in Evanâs position first. The way Evan is standing too close to you. The way your back is angled toward the shelving instead of toward him. The small but unmistakable distance youâve created since pushing him away. The tension still held tight in your shoulders.
Then his eyes lift to your face. There is no surprise in them. No visible anger. No flare of temper. Only calculation.
For a moment, the three of you exist in a suspended pocket of silence. The ventilation hums softly overhead. The fluorescent light flickers faintly. Your pulse is loud in your own ears.
Langdon doesnât ask whatâs going on.
He doesnât look at Evan again immediately.
He looks at you.
âRoom nine is asking for you,â he says evenly.
His voice is steady, measured, perfectly professional. Anyone overhearing it would hear nothing but routine workflow. But you know the board. You know no one paged you for nine. The lie is clean enough that no one else would question it.
You swallow. âI was justââ
âI know,â he says.
The words are quiet, but they land with weight. Not accusatory. Not sympathetic. Just certain.
Evan shifts beside you. âSheâs with me.â
Langdonâs head tilts slightly, though he still hasnât fully turned toward him. Thereâs a faint tightening at the edge of his mouth, so small it would be easy to miss if you werenât watching him.
âYouâre needed in CT,â Langdon replies.
Itâs the same tone he uses when ordering imaging or redirecting a consult. Calm. Unimpeachable.
Evan frowns. âWe were in the middle of something.â
Now Langdon looks at him.
Itâs not a glare. Itâs not heated. Itâs colder than that. The kind of look that strips away assumption and leaves nothing but hierarchy.
âSheâs needed,â he repeats, and then his gaze shifts back to you.
âNow.â
He says it to you, not to Evan.
The emphasis is subtle, but unmistakable. His eyes hold yours when he says it, steady and unwavering, as if waiting to see which direction youâll move.
You donât hesitate this time. âOkay.â
The word feels small in your mouth, but you step forward anyway. As you move past him, youâre acutely aware of his presence in the doorway. He shifts slightly, not enough to block anyone outright, but enough that Evan would have to brush past him to follow.
Evan doesnât try.
Thereâs a flicker of irritation in his expression as he steps back. âFine,â he mutters.
Langdon doesnât acknowledge the tone. He doesnât need to. He simply turns and walks into the hallway, assuming you will follow.
You do.
The ER noise crashes back in around you, bright and unrelenting. A nurse near the station glances up as you and Langdon emerge from the med room together. Her eyes linger half a second too long, curiosity sparking. Another resident pauses mid-sentence, gaze shifting between the three of you.
No one says anything out loud.
But the shift is felt.
Langdon moves through it as if nothing is unusual. His posture is relaxed, shoulders loose, one hand slipping casually into the pocket of his scrubs. If someone were watching from a distance, they would see only a senior resident redirecting a junior. Efficient. Ordinary.
Except you were just inside that room.
You know it wasnât ordinary.
âRoom nine,â he says again, as if reinforcing the fiction. âTheyâve been waiting on reassessment.â
His tone leaves no space for debate.
You nod and move ahead, but he doesnât immediately peel away to another task. Instead, he remains within a few steps of you, close enough that you feel the steadiness of him at your back.
Evan reappears near the central station, jaw tight, watching. Langdon doesnât look at him. He doesnât address him again. The dismissal is complete.
As you reach the workstation to pull up room nineâs chart, Langdon stops beside you. He leans one hand on the counter, close but not touching, his gaze fixed on the screen.
âYou okay?â he asks quietly.
The question is almost clinical in delivery, but thereâs nothing clinical about the way his eyes flick over your face.
Itâs the first time heâs asked something like that.
You nod automatically. âIâm fine.â
His jaw shifts slightly, as if heâs weighing the truth of that statement.
âIf I wanted to embarrass you,â he says, voice low enough that it doesnât carry beyond the two of you, âI would have asked what was happening in there.â
Your breath catches.
âI didnât,â he continues. âThat was intentional.â
Thereâs no triumph in his tone. No self-congratulation. Just fact.
Heat spreads up your neck, but this time it isnât humiliation. Itâs something more complicated.
âI didnât need rescuing,â you reply, the defensiveness rising before you can stop it.
His gaze sharpens slightly at that.
âI know,â he says.
The simplicity of the answer unsettles you more than any argument would have.
âEthan mustâve missed the importance of the consent talk in medical school,â he says quietly, almost under his breath.
He saw enough. Not the kiss but enough to step in. And he did it without raising his voice, without making a scene, without staking a claim in words.
A nurse calls his name from across the station. âDr. Langdon, they need you upstairs. A helicopterâs arriving.â
His expression shifts instantly, smoothing back into its usual controlled neutrality, the personal sealed away behind professional focus. He nods once toward the nurse, already recalibrating.
Then his eyes return to you.
âWalk with me,â he says.
It isnât a request.
He doesnât wait to see if you hesitate. He turns, already moving toward the elevators, long strides confident and unhurried. For half a second you consider staying where you are, consider letting the moment dissolve back into workflow. But something in the way he said it, quiet, direct, deliberate, pulls you forward.
You follow.
The department parts around him as it always does. Nurses step aside without being asked. A tech moves a stretcher just enough to clear his path. You trail half a step behind at first, then fall into stride beside him. He doesnât look at you as you walk, but you are acutely aware of his presence. Of the contained energy in his movements, the tension held just beneath the surface.
When you reach the elevators, he presses the call button once. The doors open almost immediately.
He steps inside and turns, holding the door with one hand as it begins to slide closed.
âInside,â he says, his gaze locking onto yours.
You step in. The elevator doors slide shut with a muted thud, sealing you into a narrow metal box that suddenly feels far too small for both of you. The noise of the ER is cut off mid-breath. No monitors. No overhead paging. No nurses moving past with charts. Just the low mechanical hum as the car begins to descend.
Langdon stands opposite you at first, hands loosely at his sides, posture composed as ever. The fluorescent light overhead casts sharp lines across his face, emphasizing the hard set of his jaw. He doesnât look at you immediately. He presses the button for the lower floor with the same calm precision he uses to order imaging or start a procedure.
âYou canât let people corner you like that,â he says, tone level, controlled.
It sounds clinical. Detached. As if heâs discussing airway management.
You stare at the brushed steel wall instead of at him. âI wasnât cornered.â
He shifts his weight slightly, and you feel the movement even without looking. âYou were,â he replies. âAnd you didnât shut it down fast enough.â
Heat flares in your chest. âI handled it.â
âYou froze.â
The word lands hard.
You turn to face him fully. âYou donât get to dissect that.â
His eyes meet yours then. Steady. Assessing. Thereâs no mockery in them, no satisfaction at catching you off balance. If anything, thereâs tension threaded beneath the surface.
âYouâre here to work,â he continues. âNot to manage other peopleâs feelings.â
Something in you snaps.
âWhy do you care?â The question comes out sharper than you intended, but you donât pull it back.
His expression doesnât change. âI donât.â
Itâs automatic. Defensive. Too quick.
You let out a short, incredulous laugh. âRight.â
The elevator hums as it moves downward. You can feel the faint vibration through the soles of your shoes.
âIf you donât care,â you press, stepping closer despite yourself, âthen why do you always target me?â
That hits. You see it. The smallest tightening at the edge of his mouth. The brief flicker in his eyes that suggests youâve struck something real.
âI donât target you,â he says, but the certainty in his voice isnât as solid as it was a moment ago.
âYou quiz me in front of everyone. You call on me when you could call on anyone else. You make me feel like Iâm constantly one mistake away from being exposed.â Your voice is rising, not loud, but intense. âYou humiliate me in front of the entire station and then act like itâs teaching.â
The elevator jolts slightly as it slows, then continues moving. Neither of you look at the floor indicator.
âI push you because you can take it,â he says quietly.
âThatâs not an answer.â
âYou want an answer?â His composure fractures just enough for you to see the strain beneath it. âYouâre capable. More than you think. And you waste time trying to make people comfortable instead of being right.â
âYou think I care about making people comfortable?â
âI think you apologize when someone crosses a line instead of setting one.â
Your breath catches.
He steps closer.
Not abruptly. Not aggressively. Just enough that the space between you narrows from several feet to a breath and a half.
The elevator lurches and comes to a temporary halt between floors. The lights flicker once, then steady. The mechanical hum shifts into a strained whir.
You both feel it.
Neither of you mention it.
âYou warned me about him,â you say, your voice lower now, more deliberate. âWhy?â
His gaze sharpens. âBecause he doesnât see you.â
The answer is immediate.
You swallow. âHe does.â
âHe sees attention,â Langdon corrects. âHe sees access. He doesnât understand what you are.â
âAnd what am I?â you challenge.
He hesitates for the first time.
The pause is small but seismic.
âYouâre not naive,â he says finally. âBut you donât always recognize when someone is positioning themselves to own a piece of you.â
The words hang heavy between you.
âYou donât get to decide who gets me,â you reply, heart pounding so loudly youâre sure he can hear it.
His jaw tightens.
âI know.â
The admission is quieter than anything heâs said so far.
The elevator remains stalled, suspended in that strange mechanical limbo. The air feels warmer. Thicker.
You take another step forward before you can stop yourself. Now thereâs barely space between you. You can feel the heat of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest.
âYou act like Iâm incompetent,â you continue, but your voice has lost some of its edge. It sounds almost unsteady now. âLike Iâm a liability youâre constantly monitoring.â
His eyes darken slightly.
âIf you were incompetent,â he says, âI wouldnât waste my time.â
Itâs blunt. Unvarnished. Entirely him.
âThatâs not reassuring.â
âItâs not meant to be.â
Your breathing shifts. Youâre aware of it. A little faster. A little shallower.
He notices. Of course he does.
âI donât humiliate you,â he says, voice lower now. âI refuse to let you hide behind being new.â
âAnd what does that have to do with him?â you press.
His gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then returns to your eyes.
âI donât trust him with you.â
The honesty of it knocks the air from your lungs.
The elevator hum deepens as it prepares to move again, but the car remains suspended for a few more seconds that feel longer than they should.
âYou donât trust him,â you repeat slowly. âOr you donât trust yourself?â
The question lands harder than you expected.
His hand flexes slightly at his side.
âYou think this is about me?â he asks, but thereâs no heat in it. Only tension.
âI think you care,â you say. âAnd you donât know what to do with that.â
Silence fills the space between you. Dense. Charged.
The elevator jolts back into motion, but neither of you break eye contact.
âYou donât get to claim me because you noticed first,â you continue, voice barely above a whisper now. âYou donât get to decide who gets close.â
He inhales slowly.
âIâm not claiming you.â
The lie is softer this time.
The elevator slows as it approaches the next floor. The subtle deceleration shifts your balance forward slightly. Instinctively, his hand lifts, hovering near your waist as if to steady you, though he doesnât quite touch.
Your eyes drop to the space between you.
Then back up.
âYou stepped in,â you say. âYou redirected him. You separated us.â
âYes.â
No denial.
âAnd youâre telling me that wasnât personal?â
His jaw tightens again.
âIt was necessary.â
âFor what?â you demand.
His gaze burns into yours.
âFor you.â
The word lands in your chest like a weight.
Your breathing falters. The space between you shrinks further without either of you consciously deciding to close it. The elevator hum is the only sound now, mechanical and distant.
âI donât need protecting,â you whisper.
âI know.â
âBut you did it anyway.â
âYes.â
The silence between you stretches so tight it feels like it might snap.
The elevator hums as it descends, but the sound is distant, mechanical, nothing compared to the sound of your own breathing. You're standing too close now. You don't remember stepping forward, and yet there's barely an inch of space between your bodies. The fluorescent light above flickers faintly, washing his face in pale sharpness, jaw clenched, eyes darker than they were moments ago.
"You don't get to decide who gets me," you say again, but the edge in your voice has thinned into something more fragile. More honest.
His chest rises slowly, deliberately. "I know."
He says it like it costs him something.
You hold his gaze, refusing to look away this time. "Then stop acting like you do."
Something shifts in his expression then. Not anger. Not control. Something far more dangerous.
"You think I don't know that?" he asks quietly. His voice is lower now, rougher around the edges. "You think I don't know I don't get toâ"
He cuts himself off.
The elevator jolts slightly as it slows, the mechanical tension mirroring the strain in the air between you. You feel the deceleration pull you forward a fraction. His hand comes up instinctively to steady you, fingers wrapping around your waist before he can stop himself.
The contact is firm. Unthinking. You both freeze. His grip tightens.
For a split second, neither of you move. Your hands are hovering near his chest, your breath caught halfway between inhale and exhale. His thumb presses into the small of your back, anchoring you there.
His eyes drop to your mouth.
And something in him snaps.
His hand leaves your waist only to slide upward, fingers curling around your jaw. Not gentle. Not tentative. His palm is warm and solid against your skin as he tilts your face up toward his.
The kiss is sudden.
It isn't careful. It isn't sweet.
It crashes into you.
His mouth finds yours with a force that steals the air from your lungs. There's no soft lead-in, no hesitant brush. It's hunger and frustration and restraint breaking all at once. His grip on your jaw tightens just enough to hold you in place, to keep you there.
For half a second, you freeze.
Shock flares through you, bright and blinding.
And then you kiss him back.
Your hands fist into the front of his scrubs, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. The world narrows to heat and breath and the solid line of his body pressed against yours. The kiss deepens, not slow but desperate, like something long denied finally breaking free.
He makes a low sound against your mouth, almost angry, almost undone.
"Tell me to stop," he breathes, the words rough against your lips. But his mouth doesn't leave yours, can't leave yours, and his hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. "Tell me you don't want this."
You don't tell him anything. You can't. Your brain has stopped functioning entirely, reduced to nothing but sensation, the heat of his palm against your skin, the press of his body, the way his breath hitches when you tug him closer.
His other hand slides back to your waist, pulling you flush against him. You can feel the tension in him, the battle between control and want playing out in the way his fingers flex against your side. He kisses you again, harder this time, deeper, like he's trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, like he's been thinking about this far longer than he'll ever admit.
"You have no idea," he murmurs between kisses, voice frayed, "what it's been like. Watching you. Every single day."
His lips trail to the corner of your mouth, then to your jaw, hot and insistent.
"Watching him touch you."
His teeth graze your pulse point, just enough to make you gasp.
"Smile at you."
His hand presses harder against your lower back, arching you into him.
"While I stood there. Pretending I didn't notice."
You can barely breathe. Your fingers twist tighter into his scrubs, knuckles brushing the warm skin of his chest where the V-neck gaps.
"Dr Langdonâ"
The kiss slows then, just slightly. Just enough to feel every point of contact, every slide of tongue, every shared breath. His thumb traces slow circles against your hip, grounding you both.
It is not gentle. It is not careful. It is everything you both tried not to let happen.
The elevator dings.
The sharp chime slices through the heat between you, dragging reality back into the small metal box.
Langdon pulls away first.
Not gently. Not reluctantly.
Abruptly.
His hand drops from your face as if the contact has burned him. He steps back, putting a fraction more distance between you, though the air still feels charged and thin. His chest rises and falls harder than youâve ever seen outside of a code, breath controlled but not steady. His jaw is set tight, a muscle ticking faintly near his temple. His eyes are bright, too bright, and thereâs something raw there, something unguarded that he would hate anyone else seeing.
âThis is a mistake,â he says, voice rougher than usual, like the words have scraped their way out of him.
You donât trust yourself to speak. You nod, staring at the closed doors in front of you, trying to slow your breathing, trying to gather whatever professionalism you have left and stitch it back into place.
The doors slide open.
Noise floods in, voices overlapping, monitors chiming, the distant whir of a stretcher being rushed past.
You step out first.
He follows.
For a few steps, you walk side by side without touching, without speaking. He has already rebuilt the mask, shoulders squared, expression composed, the efficient senior resident returning to his post as if nothing has happened. If anyone were watching, they would see nothing but hierarchy restored.
You make it halfway down the corridor before curiosity gets the better of you.
You glance back. Just for a second. You expect to find him cold again. Distant. Regretful.
Instead, you catch him watching you.
And he is trying, very clearly trying, not to smile.
Itâs subtle at first. The faintest curve threatening the corner of his mouth. The tightness in his jaw isnât anger anymore; itâs restraint. Not of temper. Of amusement. Of satisfaction.
Your heart stumbles painfully in your chest.
For all his talk of mistakes, he doesnât look like a man who regrets what he just did.He looks like a man who has finally stopped pretending.
The sight cracks something in you. You feel it before you can stop it, the answering lift at the corner of your own mouth. You try to suppress it. You fail.
Your eyes meet fully this time and something unspoken passes between you. The tension breaks.
A quiet, breathless laugh escapes him first, low, almost disbelieving. It pulls a matching sound from you, soft and incredulous and a little wild. You both turn your faces slightly away as if that will make it less obvious, less dangerous, but the laughter lingers in your eyes.
No one around you notices.
To everyone else, this is just another shift. Another trauma incoming. Another page overhead.
But the axis has shifted.
He straightens, composure sliding back into place, though the ghost of that almost-smile remains.
âHelicopterâs landing in two,â he says, voice steady again, but warmer somehow.
You nod, pulse still racing.
Everything has changed.
And as you fall into step beside him, the chaos of the hospital helipad rushing up to meet you, one thought threads clean and undeniable through the noise.
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SOCIAL MEDIA!AU bad bunny x sainz!reader (fc: paulina chavez)
notes: i'm sorry for this. i'm also sorry for my badly translated spanish
notes pt2: accidentally posted this on the wrong account and had to copy and paste everything lol
⥠liked by badbunnypr, carlossainz55, charles_leclerc and 12,394 others
y/nsainz me encanta puerto rico (i love puerto rico)
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user1 my favourite couple
user2 they're so hot together i'm in love with both of them
⤡ user3 definition of bi panic
carlossainz55 ÂżmĂĄs que espaĂąa? (more than spain?)
⤡ y/nsainz esto no es una competición (this is not a competition)
user4 everytime i see you two on my fyp i start giggling and kicking my feet
user5 i love you two please don't ever break up
⥠liked by badbunnypr, carlossainz55, scuderiaferrari and 15,384 others
y/nsainz extraùÊ mi espaùa (i missed my spain)
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user6 posting that last picture in the same photo dump as ones with your brother is crazy work y/n
user7 that last picture of bad bunny is making me salivate
user8 oh y/n you've really won in life
user9 my heart is aching for a love like y/ns and benitos
user10 y/n including benito in every one of her posts is my kind of love
⥠liked by badbunnypr, carlossainz55, iamrebeccad and 14,948 others
y/nsainz citas nocturnas en espaĂąa (date nights in spain)
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user11 couple of the year award goes to y/n and benito
user12 spectacular give me fourteen of them
user13 their love is so beautiful
user14 both of them raw. next question
user15 they compliment each other so well <3
⥠liked by 283,484 people
celebsnews BREAKING NEWS: Y/N Sainz dies in a plane crash.
Click the link in our bio to read more about this article.
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user16 my heart is breaking...
user17 rest in peace y/n, i know you'll bright up heaven the same way you did here on earth
user18 i can't imagine what everyone's families are going through right now
user19 such devistating news, i hope the victims' families are taking their time to cope with their losses
user20 i'm in tears, this is absoluetly awful. we lost an angel way too soon
⥠liked by carlossainz55, charles_leclerc, iamrebeccad and 2.273.948 others
badbunnypr debĂ tirar mĂĄs fotos (i should've taken more photos)