Starry

Nurses turned to look at him and then back to you and Jack, un-sure of which immovable force was greater.

You only focused on the woman in front of you. Bruises up her arms, blood on her cut-away clothes, tubes coming out of her and into her, monitors beeping with life signs fleeting.

“It's a hypotensive pelvic bleed,” you said through your face screwed in concentration.

“A REBOA? Are you serious, right now?”

“I'm here, supervising, brother,” said Jack, still caved over you like he could protect you from Robby's wrath.

“You're not her attending,” Robby argued.

“No but I'm an attending.”

You could hear Robby's sharp inhale of breath, picture the clock of his head in annoyance and the tight pinch of his eyes. You knew every small give away of his that he didn't know he had. The tightness of his muscles when angers, the way he clutches at his chest for his star of David when silently scared.

The tension in the room chocked you.

Jack was still at your side, a comfort, a gentle wave against the sharp rocks. “Keep going.”

Robby said your name, an edge to it you'd never heard before.

Looking past Jack you found Robbie. He stood blocking the door, gowned up already, arms over his chest. His brows were pulled in, eyes dark as they levelled on you. He was danger dressed as a man.

But in front of you there was Jack, nodding encouragingly.

“Keep going.”

Your hands moved to carry on in spite of Robby's sigh.

“Okay... good...” said Jack as you pushed in the needle. “Femoral artery, couple inches. All right, let's guide wire and introduce the sheath.”

You pushed and did what Jack said, careful under his guidance.

Robby watched all the while, walking slowly around. He knew how well you preened under praise and careful instruction, like a cat purring at an owners touch. Robby knew because it was always him, ever since you began as a med student to intern to resident he'd been there to build you up, crafting you into a perfect doctor.

His perfect doctor.

Apparently he didn't like to share.

“How much saline have you pushed?” asked Robby.

“Five CC'S,” said Jack, without entertaining his attitude.

“Your carotid is weak,” said Robby. “Is it even there?”

“Yes,” you said.

Jack caught your gaze behind your goggles, pleading silently. You hadn't worked with him as much as you had Robby, or Langdon or almost anyone in the day shift but he seemed to catch on to your needs at once. “You know what to do.”

With his words you proceeded.

“Push another three CC'S of saline in the balloon,” you ordered.

“Injecting.”

There was a moment of silence as the saline was passed through tubes into the woman.

“How we looking?” asked Robby.

“Radial is up, pressure's up too- BP hundred-and-ten,” said Donnie.

For the first time since Jack dragged you into the trauma to teach you a REBOA, you looked at the patients face. At the blankness of it, the blood splattered at her cheek. There was colour returning to her.

“Check the wound,” said Jack.

You did so, the wound at her pelvis are that had been gushing on arrival had stopped bleeding.

“Looks okay,” you said.

Jack's gloved hand squeezed your gowned shoulder, blood of the woman passing between the two of you. However, it was the physical contact that broke you from your trance, pulling you up taller. “Good job, you saved her life, another couple minutes she wouldn't have made it.”

“She's still not out the woods yet,” said Robby.

You looked back at him with enough time to catch an un-characteristic roll of his eyes.

“Surgery can take her now,” said Jesse from the phone.

“Oh, finally they're ready for us?” teased Jack as he moved around the gurney. “Now that they've missed all the fun.” He passed you a wink that sent butterflies in your stomach rolling around.

The team pulled off gowns and gloves, pulling the gurney out the room.

“Wait-” said Robby, arm out stopping you as you went to follow.

The doors shut behind the gurney before Jack could understand you were behind, trapped in a room with a bear of a man who was failing at concealing his anger.

You waited for him to begin. Whether it were to be a lecture or an approval that you saved a woman's life, you wanted it over and done. The adrenaline was coursing through your body in crashing waves of red. You'd crash if you didn't calm. “There was no time for anything else-”

“- save it-”

“- there was no time for me to come and get you-”

“- stop!”

You stepped back, hands balled at your sides.

It wasn't un-common for any member of staff at PTMC to have Robby Robinavitch yell and demand the stars and moons from a person. It was scary to have him yelling at you, his deemed shadow and golden girl.

Since day one everyone knew you held a special place in Robby's heart.

“I saved a patient's life,” you defended. Was that not the most important thing to be doing? Could you not be attending to at least two other patients while he stood- imposing- in front of you.

“Doing an extremely risky procedure that is only reserved for the senior residents which you are not,” he scoffed out.

“Doctor Abbot was at my side the whole time, he talked me through every step.”

Robby shook his head, chuckling and looking around the room as if to be anywhere but with you. “Abbot-”

“- he believed me capable,” you said. “Don't you think I'm capable?”

His teeth bit into his bottom lip as he turned away from you, stretching his hand to the back of his head and flattening the hair there. When he turned back to you he took a step closer, watching the toes of his shoes meet yours.

“Do you know why I'm angry?”

No, you really didn't.

You took in a deep breath, meeting his eyes that lowered to yours. “Because I performed a high risk procedure.”

“A high risk procedure without me,” he corrected. “You're on day, not night. I'm your attending, not Jack. You get me when you're doing something like that, you understand?”

There was little room for argument. Your body trembled, the mixture of blood on your gloves and the beating of your heart heard in your ears. The lights of trauma two were suddenly too bright; walls too sterile. You nodded.

Robby tsked. “Do you understand?”

Every word was punctured with anger.

You rose to all your height. “Yes, I understand.”

He didn't dismiss you, only jutted his head back as he dragged a hand over his beard.

Without a word, you dismissed yourself.

“I just don't get why he was so.... angry,” you admit quietly.

The lights of the bar were dimmed in a golden light, casting sun set gazes around the bar Jack had told you was a good place to get a drink. He'd led you to a small table by a window with the blinds pulled down, his hand- the one that had saved so many lives- splayed out on the small of your back.

Somewhere along the night Jack's chair had scraped around closer to you. So close with every inhale you could catch the musk on him and his arm was comfortably slung around the back of your chair.

There were two empty whiskey glasses of Jack's and you were still cradling your first, down to the dregs.

“It's Robby,” said Jack with a shrug of his shoulders, but it didn't stop the crease in his brows.

“But he's never been like that with me.”

Was it the fact you'd seemingly lost your favouritism bothering you? More than you cared to admit. More so the fact you didn't understand why he'd yelled.

Why the flare of anger had burned brighter with you saving a life than anyone else?

Why your body had trembled at the rise of his voice.

Jack's body tilted toward yours, head bowed low as he looked up at you through his lashes. “Oh, come on....”

You slurped the last from your straw and looked at him. “What?”

“You don't have to play dumb with me.”

Your own body gravitated towards him. “Play dumb? I'm not playing dumb, what are you talking about?”

Jack chuckled, shaking his head to himself. He sipped the last of his drink. “Robby's...” he trailed off.

“Robby's...”

Jack levelled his gaze to yours. “He likes you.”

The words sat frozen in your brain. You knew Robby must have had some soft spot for you, you knew he liked you. But the way Jack said it, a teasing lift to his voice and the serious gaze of his eyes suggested it was more than the competence of your skills as a doctor that had Robby's affection.

“He doesn't,” you chuckled.

“He does,” said Jack, nodding along with your words.

“How would you know?”

Jack's cheeks dusted a faint pink, the rain on the window behind you dropping like mini thunderstorms. “Believe me, I know.”

You waited for more clarification.

“You have no idea the kind of effect you have on old men like us.”

Like us. Jack didn't just speak for Robby but himself. The pink in his cheeks, the hand on your back earlier. The heat from him was all different now. A wanting.

“Old men?” you smirked.

Jack's eyes darted between your eyes and lips. “Yeah, old men.”

“You're not that old, are you?”

Jack tilts his head side to side.

You peer closer at him as if trying to find the lines of age in his face. “Younger than Robby though, right?”

Jack nods. “Younger than Robby, if that makes any difference.”

“Any difference to what?” you asked, stirring the straw against the ice in one hand, the other holding your chin.

“To you.”

Under the table Jack's fingers traced over your knee, gently, as if he was trying to go un-noticed. You felt it anyhow. Felt as his fingers gripped your knee when you pushed your leg against his.

He watched you, analysing.

“Well,” you began, pushing your leg to kick over the other under the table and moving his hand further up your leg, till his all too eager fingers were splayed over your thigh. “What kind of effect is that?”

Jack was always a serious man at work. Competent and well kept. You didn't expect him to be so well versed in 'playing games'. “I dunno if I can tell you.”

“No?”

Jack shook his head, eyes lingering over his lips and his head tilted to the side, watching you. “I could show you?”

There was lip gloss stain over the straw in your glass, you saw it catch Jack's eyes as he pushed away your empty glasses to provide more space on the table.

“See any time you look at us, it's like-like a tingling sensation,” he said. “Like when you know someone's got their eyes on you.”

His hand that had been riding higher at your thigh darted away, leaving a sudden tremble of everything cold through your body. Instead, he rested his elbow at the table and beckoned your hand to his. He didn't hold it, instead, spread your fingers out and put palm to palm in a tender touch.

“And then when you touch us, it gets worse,” he uttered, eyes stuck on where your palms met. Jack's hand moved around yours, playing with your fingers.

“Worse?” you ask.

“A good worse. Good shivers,” said Jack, pulling at a finger.

“I touch you enough for you to gather all that?”

Jack's dark gaze found yours again. He bit down on his bottom lip. “Not nearly enough as I'd like.”

The door of the bar opened and a gush of wind cooled the heat on your skin. But Jack's eyes were like a furnace that you were sitting too close to, burning yourself and delighting in it. When the door shut again with an un-oiled squeak, Jack reached over.

He plucked the necklace charm from against your chest, the brush of his knuckles against your chest. “Pretty necklace.”

“Thank you,” you said, voice shaky un-characteristically.

“You get it yourself?”

“No, it was a present.”

It was almost as if he didn't have to ask who had gifted it to you. Whose hands had brushed back your hair in the middle of a shift and clasped it around the back of your neck.

Or maybe he just didn't want to know.

Jack's apartment was everything that made him.

As you passed the kitchen and he peeled off his jacket, keeping his lips close enough to breathe you in, you could smell the coffee from the morning plastered to the walls.

When he pressed you up to the sofa to shove his hands down your pants and slide a finger into your wet pussy your fingers scratched at some blanket he had thrown over the back of it.

You caught a glimpse of pictures around the place, a frame of meddles too but his place came to you in flashes and glimpses through pleasure.

“I'm gonna show you,” he uttered against your mouth as another finger slipped into you, worked inside of you. They curled up, your body moving into him at the feeling. “Just how I want to touch you.”

The car ride over had been torture enough. He could hardly get himself inside the car, stealing himself away from you. But your lips had been at his neck at every stop sign and red light. Your hand had ghosted over his crotch and the hardening length of him. As occupied as you'd been in each other in the front seats of his car you'd been beeped at twice.

“Jack,” your voice whispered, lips dragging against his as he slowly worked his fingers in and out of you, pulling at the seams of your panties.

“I'm gonna show you just how Robby wants to touch you.”

You wish the name didn't have the effect it did. That the fury you felt at him for how he yelled didn't turn to a throb in your core when Jack said his name.

“You're touching me, Jack,” you said, breathless.

“Yeah... yeah,” he said. “You like that I'm touching you?”

You nodded as his fingers retracted, finding your clit and wetting the bud of nerves, circling it.

“Say it,” said Jack. “Say it.”

“Yes, I like it.”

Jack grinned into the curve of your neck as his fingers plunged back in, working you open and spreading your wetness of the black of your panties. “God, you're making such a mess for me baby, aren't you?”

He worked you open a little longer, mumbling encouragement with every moan and throw back of your head. 'So pretty, arg, you're so pretty baby.'

By the time your stomach was coiling tight like a snake ready to pounce Jack removed his hand from your pants and kissed you again. It was a hard kiss, his clean hand grasping your cheek and keeping you still as he forcefully worked his lips against yours, like it had only just clocked in his head it was you he had on his lips, it was you he was turning to putty in his hand. Like he wanted to forge you into his lips

“Not done yet,” said Jack, hands sliding down to your hips as he guides his nose up and down your neck, breathing you in. “I wanna make you moan on my tongue, like Robby wishes he could, yeah?”

Your body betrayed you, shivering again in anticipation.

Jack's hands stirred you by the hips, urging you to his room. He pushed the door open over your head, licking into your mouth.

“Please... don't mention Robby right now,” you said as Jack fell slowly to his knees in front of you.

His brows rose. He kept his eyes on you as he pulled down your pants, helping you step out of them. “No? You don't want me to mention Robby?” he asked.

You shook your head, looking away from him. You knew you'd soaked yourself through by the small touches and passionate kisses from Jack. But you didn't need to see the realisation hit when he realised Robby's name had as much effect on you as Jack's own touches.

“Eyes on me, keep your eyes on me,” said Jack.

With a tight squeeze, you looked at him, seeing the attending of the night shift get closer to your heat.

“See, I think, you like when I say his name, huh?” his nose nudged your clothed clit. “Robby.”

Jack licked a stripe up your pussy, gathering your want through the cloth.

You were left, mouth agape, to catch your breath. Your hands didn't know where to go till Jack peeled off his shirt and guided your hands to his shoulders, your nails digging into the freckled skin there.

Jack wet his tongue with his spit before he rubbed it along your panties again, kissing you there. “I think you're so wet for me, but you're wet for Robby too, huh?”

“Jus-just you, Jack,” you gasped.

He swept a finger into your panties and let the elastic snap back against your skin.

Your body jolted in its wake.

“Not just me, don't lie,” he said, darkly.

In the morning would you realise what you'd done? Jack wasn't your attending but an attending none the less and Robby's friend- brother- at that. Although you and Robby were nothing more than colleagues, it didn't feel right to have Jack licking up your want with his name on his tongue.

“Liars don't get to come, you know,” he said. “So, you get this wet when you think about me?”

“Y-Yes.”

You could feel Jack's smile against your thigh as he pressed a kiss there.

Jack hooked two fingers around the bands of your panties and slowly dragged them down. “Do you get this wet when you think about our Doctor Robby?”

“Yes. Yes I do,” you gasped, your body curling up in the relief of letting go.

Yes, you liked Robby's extra attention. You couldn't even be left angry at his chastising you when it sent a wave of need through you, settling in your core. When you'd been at the bar with Jack, touching him in ways you'd thought about touching your own attending, almost wishing he would storm through the door and see the two of you.

“Good girl.”

Quickly Jack tilted his head back and found purchase in your pussy.

His tongue laid flat against your core.

It didn't stay in one place long. It explored all around you, tasting you for the first time and mapping out delicate spots. He slipped between your folds like he was always supposed to be there, moaning into you.

Your nails dug into his shoulders. “Mmh, Jack!”

He licked you up, spreading the mess of your want around and cleaning it up. “Taking my tongue so well,” he said against you. He dragged his lips down your thigh, wet tongue dragging up and down.

Your legs trembled as Jack spread the lips of your pussy and buried himself in there again. He pressed his thumb onto your clit, your body lurching at the pressure.

“Oh fuck, J-Jack!”

“Pull my hair, pull my hair,” he said into you.

Your did so. Your hand fell into the short strands of his salt and pepper hair, twirling into the strands and tugging just enough to rip a groan from him.

Jack buried himself into your further, his nose nudging into you deeper and deeper till he was almost trying to be inside of you.

Every time your eyes fluttered shut Jack pulled back, easing up on his work of your pussy and easing the orgasm that was slowly building up.

“No, no- eyes on me, keep your eyes on me, baby,” he said.

You looked down to him. “Jack, I want- I want to come.”

“I know, I know you do baby,” he said, flicking the tip of his tongue against your clit again. “You will, I promise, I promise.”

He eased himself up from his knees and helped off your shirt and peeled off your bra before he latched himself onto your breast.

Your back arched into him. His hands felt larger than ever as they curled around your waist and held you in. He groped at your breast, watching it jiggle as he moved before swirling his tongue around your nipple.

“Jack-”

“God, I wish Robby were here,” said Jack as he switched his attention to your other.

“Wh-what?” you didn't know if you'd heard him right.

Jack looked at your breasts instead of you, dedicating time to licking up each of them. “Wish Robby could see how good a girl you're being,” he muttered, almost to himself, like he wasn't talking to you. “How responsive you are. Would you like that? Would you like Robby to watch?”

You imagined it, closing your eyes.

Jack let you.

You pictured Robby sat on the bed, watching. Would he watch with his glasses perched low on the bridge of his nose? Would he keep his hands to himself or want to touch and play? You imagined how big he was, if he'd get hard watching.

If he'd touch. If he'd stand behind you while Jack kissed along your breasts. Would Robby dedicate enough time to the back of you?

“You want Robby?” asked Jack.

Anyone else eating you out or with hands on your chest wouldn't want another mans name on your lips.

Jack seemed to thrive on it.

“Yes,” you gasped.

Jack reached back up to you. “Yeah.... yeah...” his nose ghosted yours as he inched closer to kiss you.

In the slim lighting of his bed room you could see the shine of his lips from your arousal, the burn of red at his cheeks. There was a clink as he un-did his belt, throwing it behind him as he slowly pulled down his trousers.

First you saw the prosthetic of his leg before you trailed up, past the scars, to the heavy set of his cock. It flushed red at the tip, a leak of pre-cum running down. It stood tall onto the thin, greying hair down his sternum.

“Jack-” you reached for him, wrapping your hand around him.

“Ah- ahh fuck, baby,” he moaned as you slowly pumped him. “You feel so good. God, Robby doesn't know what he's missing.”

You tangled your tongue with his as you pumped, growing confident in every pump, in every leak of his cock, in ever groan of him into your mouth.

Would Robby guide you to holding Jack's man hood in your hand? Would his own hand wrap around your wrist and guide you up and down, muttering how good you were doing.

It was like you could hear him in your head.

'What a good girl doing what you're told, so responsive,' you imagined the heavy set of his tongue dragging over your pulse as you wrapped your arm around Jack's shoulders, smothering him in closer.

“I wish-” you said against his lips, making a mess out of you mouth as you squeezed his cock. “I wish Robby were here.”

“Yeah. Yeah, me too baby,” said Jack, slowly wrapping his fingers around your wrist and peeling back your hand. He pulled two of your fingers into his mouth, licking the taste of himself off and into the warmth of his mouth. “Next time.”

Jack eased you back on his bed, crawling over you.

You shuffled up, sitting up on his headboard. “Do you- do you want me to?”

Jack's brows pulled together as he brushed back your hair, tucking it behind your ear. “To what, baby?”

“To ride you? Would it be easier on your leg?”

Jack smiled, love sick. “That's very kind of you sweetheart. Next time, I'll let you ride me like I'm a damn horse,” he whispered as he slowly lowered you down. “Right now I want you to finish on my tongue. Then I'm gonna really fuck you like I've wanted to for so long.”

You watched with a bite to your lip as Jack rolled a condom over his cock before hovering over you.

He stirred the base of his cock against your pussy, rubbing the arousal of you over your slit.

“You want me to fuck you?”

“Yes, yes.”

Would Robby hold you against him, keep your legs spread for Jack? Or would Jack insist on Robby going first.

“Beg for it, baby.”

Before your words could leave your mouth the familiar buzz of your phone echoed between you.

Maybe anyone else would have ignored it, sent it to voicemail or let it ring. Except Jack- he moved down his bed, reaching for your pants and fishing out your phone. He smirked down at the contact before holding the phone out to you.

“Answer it.”

You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, looking at him. “Wh-what?”

“Answer him,” he said, grabbing your hand and putting the phone it in.

Robby.

You looked to Jack, having no time to ask if he was serious before he was descending on the bed again. His eyes were pointed, gaze locked on you.

You answered, holding the phone to your ear. “H-hey, Robby.”

“Hey. Is everything okay?”

Did he know you'd left the bar with Jack? Did he hear his name called from both your lips?

“Yeah, everything's okay.”

Jack smirked at you.

“I've been calling you all night, you didn't answer,” you could hear the slight accusation in his voice, the small anger you hadn't bowed and answered the phone when he called. He wasn't good at hiding it though maybe he thought he was.

“Sorry I-”

Jack slid two fingers inside of you at once and pumped them without warning.

You caught your breath in your throat. “- I was busy.”

“Busy?”

“Yeah,” you gasped.

Robby stirred down the line. “You okay?”

Jack was looming close enough to you, nodding for you to pull the phone back enough for him to hear.

“Yeah, it's just, cold in my apartment,” you lied.

Jack's brows rose, he mouthed the word, cold?

“Still haven't sorted that heating, huh?” Robby chuckled down the line. “You need someone to come sort that out for you.”

Jack withdrew his hand, dragging those two fingers from inside of you around you, before lowering himself back down. He spread you open, lying his tongue back in.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Want me to come take a look at it?” asked Robby.

“Not- not right now,” you pushed your phone back as Robby scoffed lightly. You sort Jack's attention, begging for the end of the torture he was inciting. His eyes were a haze of lust as he only watched you, shaking his head slowly to feel all around you.

His hand pushed your knee up to your chest, welcoming him in deeper.

“Are you still mad at me for earlier?”

“Y-yes!”

“You are?”

You'd forgot Robby down the line, forgot his question, could only feel the depth of Jack's tongue in you. You bit down on the bottom of your lip. “Yes! Yes! Yes, I am!”

“Okay- well, i'm sorry,” he said down the line. “You just have no idea what seeing you with Jack does to me.”

Jack moaned into you, sending vibrations through your body. His nose nudged against your clit, circling his tongue in you. Your mouth opened, a moan ripping through you that Jack managed to stifle quickly by slamming his hand over your mouth.

“- It's just, I think of you as one of mine,” Robby continued down the line, un-aware's to Jack tapping your phone on speaker and placing it next to you.

Jack dropped his mouth next to your ear, nipping at the lobe. “As mine,” he uttered.

“- seeing you with Jack, I can't stand it, you know I can't-”

Jack went back down to his work, two fingers working inside of you as he sucked in your clit. Your walls are like silk that his fingers thread through with ease, your mind blank with pleasure.

Your moans continued to be muffled by his mouth, he dared not move it.

“- you know I... you know I favour you over anybody else in that ER-”

Your hand reached out for your phone, sure you would come soon and needed to end the phone call.

Jack reached out for you. “Be nice, be nice.”

You picked up the phone and put it to your ear, Jack sucking diligently at your bundle of nerves. “Robby, I-”

“What is it? You sound like you're burning up? You need me?”

Yes, you needed him.

Jack curled his fingers up and you came with a loud gasp, ending the call abruptly as your world shattered in stars of want. Your back arched into Jack's mouth as he laid there open mouthed, taking what you could give him like a man dying of thirst.

Only when your breathing calmed and you could open your eyes to make sense of the world- and Jack's room- did Jack slowly move out his fingers, gently crawling up you body with kisses like butterflies.

You laughed when Jack reached your neck. “Oh god.”

“What?” he said, laughing along with you.

“I hung up on Robby.”

“O-okay, I’m sor- Ow! Ow, fuck!!” You blubbered at a particular thrust that felt uncomfortably deep.

"Oh, Shit. Baby, are you okay?" Robby asked urgently before immediately pulling out, holding you more gently against his chest. Both the palms of his hands are now resting against your ribs, gripping you as delicately as possible to keep you from falling onto the mattress.

You panted heavily with your eyes closed as you tried to catch your breath, waiting for the dull ache inside you to go away. Robby was getting desperate; your silence and lack of confirmation that you were okay were eating at him.

He gently grabbed your cheeks and forced you to turn your head back to face him behind your shoulder, needing eye contact to read you properly.

"Talk to me," Robby pleaded with a soothing tone, while his chocolate brown eyes bore into you. Anxious for an answer while trying not to stress you out, "Where does it hurt?"

"My-my-" you mewled softly as you made an effort to answer him properly. His encouraging nod helped you find the words you were looking for. "M-my cervix."

Robby tsked softly before leaning in to place a gentle kiss on your full cheek.

"I'm sorry, baby. I'm so sorry," He murmured, his salt and pepper beard scratching your skin as his lips brushed tenderly against your soft and sweaty skin. The gesture made your eyes flutter closed to enjoy the intimacy of the moment, making you feel closer to him than when he was inside you.

"Do you want to stop?" He cooed against your cheek, the immediate shake of your head to his suggestion made him chuckle softly.

"No, just s-slow down. Please?" Robby nodded before placing one more kiss on your cheek.

“Alright. I need to check your pretty pussy first, okay?” He cooed, not making a single move to position you until he got your consent.

You nodded gently, and he moved his grip down to your waist as he lowered you down carefully onto your stomach and flipped you over with ease. His strength always surprised you, given that his only workout consisted of being constantly on the go at the Pitt. Robby grabbed your knees and pushed them up until they were inches from your shoulders, pressing against your breasts.

“Hold it,” He ordered, his role as an attending physician bleeding into his dominance in the bedroom. Your brain began to go all fuzzy and slow to process his command. Robby sensed your hesitance and glanced up at you with an arched brow, making you quickly obey and place your hands behind your knee to hold your legs back for him.

“Good girl,” He growled lowly as he kept his gaze on your soaked folds.

As he continued his inspection, your cheeks began to flush in this position. It always made you feel a little shy despite the numerous occasions he’s fucked you in a mating press. Except now you were exposing yourself to him instead of being covered by his tall and burly build.

A startled gasp escaped your lips as you felt the pad of his thumb circle your bundle of nerves. It quickly snapped you out of your anxious thoughts. You noticed his eyes were trained on your folds with his brows furrowed in concentration.

“What-what are you do-” Robby interrupted you before you could finish your sentence.

“Need to lube you up before I check you properly,” He continued to stimulate your engorged clit with slow and controlled circles, not stopping until you were weeping. Despite this technically being a clinical check-in, you didn't even try to hold back the desperate mewling coming out of your parted lips. Robby was borderline teasing you, and it was driving you insane.

It wasn't until he glanced down and saw the wet spot forming under your ass from your arousal dripping down your folds and onto his sheets. He finally decided that you were wet enough, and he scooted closer on his knees before carefully working one thick finger into your folds. It was a tight fit, but he didn't stop until he circled the tip of his finger around for your cervical opening.

Robby grunted softly once he located your opening, feeling the small dent.

“How does that feel?” His cock twitched against his thigh at the soft feeling of your opening, a sign that you were ovulating.

“A-a little weird,” you strangled breathlessly as you clenched around his finger, feeling more turned on than before.

“Bad weird?” He inquired, trying his hardest not to pull his finger out and go back to fucking you until you were filled up.

“No-no, l-like awkward weird not painful w-weird,” you panted heavily as your thighs began to shake in your grip.

Robby nodded before pulling his finger out, watching your slit clench around nothing and your clit twitching for contact. He placed his palm on one of your knees and spread you further open, allowing you to release your hold one of the backs of your knees.

You watched as he fisted his cock at the base and pressed the tip of his circumcised shaft against your clit. The sensation sent a shiver through your body, your thighs shaking in his grip.

"You ready pretty girl?" Robby growled, his voice hoarse from the frantic need to be inside you again.

"Yes."

A broken moan escaped your parted lips as he pushed his length all the way in in one thrust.

"Fuck-" Robby groaned through clenched teeth.

"I'm not gonna last," He panted heavily, "touch your pretty little clit for me."

You nodded quickly before reaching down to circle your clit with your fingertips, watching him groan at the sight and the way your slit flutters around his cock. He quickened his pace with a groan while he kept his fist at the base of his cock. Despite the lustful monster in him taking over, he was not going to make the same mistake of almost bruising your cervix again.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck. Cum for me, baby, please. Fuck, I'm so fucking close," Robby practically begged before leaning in to latch his lips around your nipple and suck on the soft nub until it hardened against his tongue.

"Daddy! Fuck me!" You whined as you came around his cock, your cum leaking onto his sheets, and adding to the puddle below your ass.

"That's it, baby," He groaned against your nipple before burying his face between your breasts.

"Where do you want it? Tell me now."

"Inside. Inside me, please," you pleaded as you wrapped your legs around his hips and hooked your feet to keep him inside.

"FUCK." Robby growled against your chest as he buried as much of himself as he could. His cock pulsated inside you as he kept moving his hips in shallow thrusts to fuck his cum further into you.

You gasped as he collapsed his full weight on top of you, his face buried into your chest, and he panted heavily. He reached forward to wrap one of his arms around you, making you arch your back to allow him to snake his arm under and hold you.

A comfortable silence settled in the room; the only sounds were you both finally catching your breath, mingled with the busy streets at midnight in Pittsburgh.

“You know we’ll have to tell your old man.”

With wide eyes, you turned your head to catch his gaze. You stared in wonder at his sudden determination while he returned his gaze in awe and a playful smirk.

“Do you know what you’re saying?” You watched as he leaned in to suckle on your sweet spot, the place on your neck just above your collarbone. The feeling caused you to slide your hand up his shoulder and run your fingers through the hair on the back of his neck.

"Mikey," You whispered his name so lowly he almost didn't hear you.

“Mm?” Robby hummed without breaking contact from his lips on your neck, the sensation of his teeth biting down a little too hard made you clench around his softened length.

“He’s gonna look at you differently. As a friend and an employee-”

“I know,” Robby interrupted as he pulled away slightly to cup your face and leaned in to peck a kiss on your lips before murmuring, “I don’t care. I just want you in my life. Even with all the noise and bullshit. I've fucked enough cum into you and shared too much of myself to let you go.”

It was obvious now that this was more than sex. He didn't get his high off the secrecy and shame of fucking his supervisor’s daughter under the radar. Robby was getting his high from just being with you, touching, and connecting with every part of you that you were willing to give him. He couldn't get enough of it, and now he wanted the whole world to know.

“Maybe over dinner next Friday night?”

──────────۶ৎ───────────

Which was why he disengaged from the conversation and went home without asking for your number. There were a few moments he thought about asking Samira for it, but he knew he’d never hear the end of that. Then, he thought about asking Jack to ask Samira and by the time that thought popped into his head he realized he was being insane.

You had been sitting on the porch swing by yourself, beer in hand and the blue glow of your phone lighting up your face. He had told himself he would only come for a single beer, mostly because Jack had asked him to.

Samira was having—not a party, exactly—but she had invited anyone who was available for a few drinks and pizza at the house she was renting. He guessed it was more of a way for her to spend time with Jack without having to ask him directly. They were both still dancing around whatever thing was going on between them, pretending it was more casual than it was.

And you were sitting alone on the porch swing, the only face Robby didn’t recognize from the Pitt. Thinking maybe you were a new hire he had missed, he made his way over to you, “This seat taken?” He asked, gesturing to the empty spot on the swing next to you.

Slowly, you raised your eyes from your phone to look up at him, and then you peered around him, as if you were wondering if it were possible he was speaking to someone else.

Finally, you shrugged, “Nope.”

A smirk tugged at his lips, “I don’t want to bother you, I can sit somewhere else if you want to be alone—“

“No, sorry—“ You sighed and shook your head, “Sit, please. I should really stop being an unapproachable loner.”

He huffed a laugh as he sat down, “This is going to sound terrible, probably, but, uh… Are you… Did you start recently? At the Pitt? I don’t recognize you, so—“

“Oh—No,” You laughed, “No, I don’t work at the hospital. Samira and I did our undergrad together, we used to be roommates. I’m just visiting.”

“Ah,” He said and hung his head, “Well, that would explain it. Where are you visiting from?”

“Los Angeles.”

He let out a low whistle, “You from there?”

“Born and raised.”

“And you went to undergrad here?”

You nodded, “Yeah,” You looked up at the moon, “I miss the east coast.”

“Why’d you go back to California?”

You sighed, “Um, things just didn’t pan out here. The pandemic. Ran out of money. Had to go back to live with my parents.”

He nodded, “I’m sure you’ll end up back here. If it’s what you really want.”

He felt your eyes on him, the way they paved a path down his face to his hands, that were lazily tearing at the label on his beer bottle, “You must be Robby.”

He raised his eyebrows as he looked back up at you, “How’d you figure that out?”

You gave him a lopsided smirk and took a sip from your beer, “Samira talks about you a lot. It’s not hard to put the pieces together.”

He looked back down at his beer bottle. Fighting the disappointment that coursed through him, he rubbed at his beard, “Well, I imagine your perception of me isn’t all that favorable, then.”

You hummed, “She really looks up to you, you know?” You leaned a bit closer to him, close enough that he could smell the beer on your breath as it tangled with your cherry perfume in a way that made him dizzy. You whispered conspiratorily, “But as her friend, you think you could ease up on her?”

He turned his head to look at you and found that you looked almost surprised at how close your faces were, although it was you that had closed the distance. You bit your lip and in the moonlight he saw the way your pupils dilated as you looked at him. And then quickly, your eyes darted away from his and he knew he was fucked.

He cleared his throat, “I’m hard on her because she’s so good. I want her to be the best.”

“You ever hear of this thing called positive reinforcement?” 

He chuckled, “Yeah, okay, if it’s that important to you, I’ll try to be nicer to her.”

You raised your eyebrows, “Damn, it was that easy?” You shook your head, “She didn’t say you were such a softie.”

Robby sighed, “I’m not, normally.” He turned his head to look at you, “You must bring it out of me.”

You blinked a few times and then quickly broke eye contact, looking down at your hands. The movement got him a whiff of your shampoo and fuck if he wasn’t like a moth to a goddamn flame. It took all of his self control not to lean into you, not to push his knee against yours, just to see what you would do. 

But you were Samira’s friend. And you were far, far, too young for him. It would create mess and he hated mess. So he cleared his throat and stood, “Thank you for the conversation, I should be going.”

You opened your mouth as if to say something else, but he was already gone, disappeared into the house, leaving you dumbfounded.

“‘Thank you for the conversation…?’” You repeated and then laughed to yourself.

Later that night as you were relaying the interaction to Samira, she informed you that he had been flirting.

You raised your eyebrows and scoffed, “Right, yeah. He didn’t even ask for my name.”

Jack came up behind Samira and twined an arm around her waist and you watched as she flushed. It was sweet, seeing her like this. In the ten years you had been friends, you had never seen a man so casually fluster her.

“He was flirting.” Jack confirmed as he scooped Cheez Itz out of the plastic bowl between you, “He’s just a little rusty.”

Samira shrugged, “Doesn’t matter, you’re going back to LA soon anyway. But, it would have been nice to get Robby laid.” She sighed mournfully, “I bet he’s much nicer after a good fuck.”

Jack began to choke on a Cheez It and you chuckled as Samira banged on his back until it came back up, “Please… don’t talk about him like that in front of me, alright?” He said, rubbing at his throat.

Samira gave him a half hearted apology and then turned back to you, smirking once he had left, “He’s not really your type anyway, is he?”

He wasn’t. Not the usual guy you went for. You were into older, but usually not that much older. You were also into unstable and mean and heavily tattooed, which Robby appeared to be none of the above. But there had been a moment, fleeting, where you had wanted to kiss him. Where you had thought he wanted to kiss you. 

“Nope,” You sighed, “Not my type.”

Samira scrutinized you for a few moments and then sighed, “A shame. So I can’t give him your number if he asks?”

You laughed, “He won’t ask, but sure, you can give it to him.”

You were right. He didn’t ask. But not because he didn’t want to, because he didn’t think he should. He did, at least, manage to get your name from Samira. It ran laps around his brain for weeks after, and then it slowed, only reappearing every so often. And even though he knew you had gone back to LA, he found himself looking for you occasionally throughout the next year.

Until Jack told him you were back in Pittsburgh as a way to convince him to go to the Poconos getaway Samira was planning.

“She’s going?” Robby asked, eyebrows raised. They were on the roof, genuinely just getting some air. Robby hadn’t found Jack on the wrong side of the railing since he had started seeing Samira. The shifts were still hard, but he had someone to go home to after. And that seemed to make the difference.

Jack turned to him and smirked, “Oh, so now you wanna come, huh?”

Robby shook his head, “I didn’t say that.”

Almost all of his residents and Jack were going to the Poconos in August at Mohan’s invitation and Robby felt he had no business there. Jack was only going because of Samira. What excuse did he have? He would just make them all uncomfortable by being there. Who wanted their boss on their vacation?

“Samira said she asked if you were coming.”

Robby turned his head at that and then scoffed, “Don’t fuck with me.”

“I’m not.” Jack said, but had a self satisfied smirk on his face, “Honest to God.”

“And she lives here now.”

Jack nodded, “Started a new job here a month ago.”

Robby leaned over the railing on his forearms. He still wondered about you, still thought about whatever magnetism that existed between you that night. If it was just alcohol induced or if it really was something. And yes, you were way too fucking young for him. But Samira and Jack seemed to be happy. Maybe… Maybe he could at least try. You had asked after him, that had to mean something. That you still thought of him, too. 

And so that was how Robby ended up pulling into the driveway of the house on the edge of the lake a few weeks later.

After Samira had informed him of what room was his and he had set all his things down, he followed her and Jack out to the patio overlooking the lake, “Is she here yet?”

Samira smirked and looked down at her phone, “Should be pulling up any minute according to her location.” Just then, the distant roar of a car in distress grew louder and louder and Samira’s grin widened, “Yeah, that’s her.”

Robby raised his eyebrows, “Does she drive a fucking Ferrari?”

Samira frowned, “I don’t know what that means to you, but no, she drives a Yaris.”

He laughed, “A Yaris? Making all that racket? Jesus Christ.” And with that, he was heading to the driveway.

Sure enough, a bright red, ancient looking Yaris was idling in the driveway. You pushed your sunglasses onto the top of your head as you turned your car off and then looked up to see Robby standing a few feet away from your car. Frowning, you opened the door and stepped out, “...Hi.”

“Are you aware that your car sounds like the engine is about to explode?”

Your frown deepened, “I don’t know, sounds fine to me.” 

Robby circled your car, looking for other sources of the noise, until he got to the back of your car. Bending down, he saw your muffler was badly corroded, and was that… Chicken wire securing it to your car? He laughed softly to himself and stood again, “Do you know your muffler’s completely rusted out?”

You stared at him for a moment, pulling your bags out of the backseat of the car, “Uhh, no? Is that bad?”

He scratched the back of his head, “Someone wrapped some wire around it to try to keep it on, but it mostly fell off.”

“Oh,” You said slowly, “Yeah, I think my roommate did that for me.”

“You think?” Finally, he approached you to help with your bags, slinging one of your duffels over his shoulder.

You shrugged, “I don’t know, I know he said something was wrong with the car and that he fixed it temporarily. I can’t afford a mechanic right now. It’s okay to drive, though?”

“Well, yes.” They began walking towards the house, “It’ll just be… loud.”

“Okay,” You smiled at him, “I can handle loud.” 

He held the door of the house open awkwardly with one arm, which you ducked under to get in.

“I could, um,” He sighed, “I could fix it for you. Order you a new muffler and attach it when we’re back in Pittsburgh.”

“Oh, I—That’s really nice, but I couldn’t pay you—“

“For free, I meant.”

You paused in the entryway and took off your backpack, “Why would you do that?”

He shrugged and lowered your duffel to the floor, “Why not?”

You stared at him a moment longer, perplexed, before you turned to see Samira in the entryway, smirking.

Within seconds, you were both squealing and your arms were wrapped tightly around each other, “This place is insane,” You said to her, “How did you afford this?”

Samira opened and closed her mouth and then blushed, “Um… Jack and Robby split it, actually.”

When you spun to look at Robby, he smiled in confirmation, a hand on the back of his neck, “Oh. Cool. Thanks.” You turned back to Samira, “Where should I put my things…?”

“Yeah, about that, so… I ran into Trevor last week…”

You tilted your head to the side in question. Trevor, your ex roommate from when you and Samira were in undergrad, Trevor? Your years-long situationship, Trevor? The same Trevor whom you had ghosted once you moved back to LA?

“And…” You could read the fear on Samira’s face as she continued, “Jack may have, not knowing the situation, invited Trevor to come?”

“Mira,” You whined, “Seriously?”

“I know, I know,” She said quickly, “And unfortunately, Jack also invited him without considering that we were already out of rooms… So…”

She allowed you to fill in the blanks and your brain was beginning to short circuit, “Okay,” You laughed, “This is a joke, right? Are you saying I’m sharing a bed with him?”

“No, no. Separate beds, same room.”

You covered your face with your hands, “I think…” You sighed, “I think I might just drive home.”

“What? No, come on. It’ll be fine, I thought you and Trevor were good? You don’t even have to be in the room that much, just to sleep–”

“You could stay in my room.” You both started at Robby’s voice behind you, having forgotten he was still there. He cleared his throat, “I could stay in the room with… Trevor, is it?”

You sighed, “That’s… sweet of you, but Trevor snores. And besides, you paid for this place, I’m not going to kick you out of your own room–”

“Really, I don’t mind. Besides, it’ll be dark soon anyway and it’s a long drive back to Pittsburgh.”

He was looking at you almost a little desperately and you started to wonder if the only reason he had come in the first place was to see you. But that was insane, right? You didn’t even know each other.

And yeah, maybe the only reason you had come was because Samira assured you Robby would be here. Maybe that one interaction had played on a loop in your mind for the whole year until you started wondering if he had really looked at you with lust and awe that night or if it was just a trick of the light.

You bit your lip and then turned back to Samira, “I’m mad at you.” You said as you bent to pick up your backpack.

“But… You’re staying?”

Samira knew you could never stay mad at her. And she had never been able to stay mad at you, either. The few times you had had disagreements you had always been able to resolve them peacefully. It was part of the reason you adored being her friend, there was never any drama and always a shoulder to cry on if you needed it.

So you bit your lip and gave her a knowing look, “Yes, under duress.”

Robby slung your duffel back over his shoulder, “C’mon, I’ll show you the room.”

You trailed after him and up the stairs, still a bit apprehensive about this whole set up. He led you to a room with a king sized bed. The room was large with big windows on one wall and a long, brown leather couch that took up almost the entire wall opposite the bed. 

You stood in the threshold of the door, stunned, but Robby didn’t seem to notice. He placed your duffel on the floor and moved his bags from where he had put them on the bed.

“There’s an en suite bathroom over there,” He gestured to the door next to the couch, “So you don’t need to share with anyone.” 

“Robby,” You said breathlessly and then started shaking your head, “This is too much. You paid for this and it’s your vacation too, you shouldn’t have to share a room with Trevor—“

“What’s your deal with this guy? Trevor?”

You smirked and tilted your head a bit. Was that jealousy? “I don’t know if that’s your business.”

He shrugged, “Well, I just thought, since you’re feeling so guilty about taking my room this could be my payment.” He said lightly, the corners of his lips beginning to tug up into a grin.

“Ah,” You laughed, “Well, if you must know, he was mine and Samira’s roommate for about three years and then we slept together on and off for a few years afterward. Until I moved back to Los Angeles.”

He stared at you for a few moments, “Okay, so you occasionally slept together, but he’s not an ex boyfriend or anything?”

You shook your head, “Nope. But not for lack of trying on his end.”

He raised his eyebrows, “Oh? So you were the heartbreaker then?”

You smirked, “Oh, I don’t know about that. I’m sure he was just fine.”

“Why wasn’t he good enough for you?” Oh, so it was jealousy.

Good. You liked playing. Maybe this vacation wouldn’t be a total wash. “You worried you might make the same mistakes?”

His grin widened, and then he shook his head, “That wasn’t an answer.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, “I think I’ve answered enough of your questions for today.” You picked up his duffel from where it sat in front of him and pushed it into his arms.

“Are you kicking me out of my room?” He asked, still with that teasing lilt in his voice.

You moved close enough to him that he finally caught a whiff of your perfume. Still cherries. He thought his knees might buckle. “I thought it wasn’t your room anymore?” You said softly.

You pushed gently on his chest until he was out of the doorway and closed the door.

Robby stood out in the hallway for a moment, staring at the door with a stupid grin on his face. He had just given up his room to share one with some loser kid who had made the catastrophic mistake of fumbling you, and he had the toothiest smile on his face.

Maybe he’d end this vacation sleeping in that king sized bed with you.

***

Robby was trying very hard not to seem too desperate, but Trevor had arrived hours ago and you were still in your room.

The rest of his residents wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow, most of them having had to work a shift today, so it would just be you, Trevor, him, Mohan, and Abbot.

He had sized Trevor up immediately when he got here and, well, Robby was confused to say the least. The kid was scrawny, almost every inch of skin tatted up, and was a tattoo artist. He had long and dark hair that curled around his ears. He had a nose ring and a mustache.

It was mind boggling. If this is what you were into, why had you been flirting with him? You had been flirting with him, right? There’s no way that was your fucking baseline.

Samira was across the patio with Trevor and Robby sat with Abbot in front of the fire pit. One of Robby’s hands stroked his beard absently while he watched Trevor.

“Why’re you looking at that guy like you wish he’d give you a reason?”

Robby dragged his gaze away from Trevor and back to Jack who was fucking smirking, “This is your fault.”

He shrugged, “I didn’t know they had history, okay? Samira never mentioned.”

Before, Robby had been confident he’d win you over by the end of this week. Now, there was a roughly 5’10 problem that you were avoiding so diligently you were spending your first night of vacation hiding away.

“I’m gonna go talk to her.” He said finally, standing.

And that’s how he ended up back at your bedroom door, knuckles rapping gently against the wood.

A moment or two passed and then he heard the sound of feet padding across the floor. Then the door began to crack open, “Mira, I told you already, I don’t feel like seeing him ton–” You froze when you saw Robby standing there, “Oh. You’re not Mira.”

Robby’s mouth was slightly agape and he was, unfortunately staring at your bare legs and then back up to the skimpy sleep set you were wearing. A flowy pastel flowered camisole that fluttered just above your belly button and matching shorts that were so tiny, they may as well have been panties.

By some miracle between him and God himself, he managed to tear his eyes back up to yours. And you looked very smug right about now. He felt a flush begin to work his way up his neck and he cleared his throat, as if to push it back down, “Is it me you’re avoiding or Trevor?”

You hummed, “Why would I be avoiding you?”

He shrugged his shoulders up to his ears, “My irresistible charm and rogueish good looks?”

You choked out a laugh, “No, no, it’s Trevor I’m avoiding.”

“That’s a shame,” He sighed, “It’s really beautiful outside.”

You crossed your arms and smirked, “It’s the first night and you’re already trying to guilt me into having a drink with you?”

He scoffed, affronted, “I’m doing no such thing–”

“Fine, fine,” You said dramatically, “Twist my arm, why don’t you? Just let me change into something more… appropriate.”

A tragedy, really. He could stare at you for hours in that sleep set and never get tired of the view. Luckily, you closed the door before he said something stupid.

Five minutes later you were following him out onto the patio, a spiked seltzer in your hand.

Trevor immediately stood and made a big show of greeting you. Robby watched with some apprehension as his arms slid lower and lower down your back as he hugged you— Until you slapped his hands away, scowling at him.

Robby ran a hand over his mouth and beard to cover his smirk.

“What?” Trevor asked, laughing, “I can’t touch you now, either? I can’t text or call you? Had to find out from Mira’s boyfriend that you were back in town. Are we even friends anymore?”

“Trevor,” Samira inserted herself between you both, “You said you wouldn’t do this.”

“We were never friends,” You sneered, “You were always just biding your time until you could fuck me.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jack muttered softly from next to Robby.

“Really? And who led on who in the end?” 

“That’s enough!” Samira said sharply, looking back and forth between her friends, “Look,” She said, softer now, “We’re all adults here, okay? We used to have fun, the three of us. Can’t we just… put all that shit aside for one week so we can have fun? Like old times?”

You sighed heavily and looked at Trevor, “I have no problem with you as long as you keep it platonic.” 

He huffed a laugh and ran a hand over his jaw, “Don’t worry, message was received loud and clear when you ghosted me when you left.”

“Guys…” Samira said lowly in warning, still between them.

But you couldn’t stop the incredulous laugh that burst from your throat, “You waited until I flew across the country to text me—text! Not even call!—that you were in love with me and you think that warranted a response?”

Robby and Jack shared a look, attempted to hide their faces behind their respective drinks, and Samira grimaced before turning to Trevor, “Seriously? That’s kinda embarrassing.” She said softly.

You shook your head and started to walk over to sit near Robby.

“You don’t exactly make it easy for people to tell you what they’re feeling.” Trevor said, flushed.

“Yeah,” You took a sip from your drink as you settled next to Robby, “Or maybe you’re just a pussy.”

Samira sighed and looked at you, “Really?” 

But you only shrugged your shoulders. 

“Whatever, I don’t have to listen to this,” Trevor grumbled, “I’m going to bed.”

He muttered a goodnight to Samira and you waited for him to close the sliding door behind him before you gestured after him, “See? Pussy behavior.”

Jack and Robby were both fighting grins, but Samira frowned at you, “Can’t you try to be nicer?”

“That was me being nice. And he’s the one who started it, trying to fucking grab my ass like it hasn’t been, like, three years since we last spoke.”

Samira raised her eyebrows, “He tried to grab you?”

“He did,” Robby affirmed, “I saw it.”

“Well that’s not acceptable,” Samira looked towards the door that Trevor had disappeared into, “I’m gonna ask him to leave—“

“No,” You said immediately, “No, it’ll just create more of a mess. It’s fine.”

Samira stared at you for a moment longer, “Are you sure? Look, I’m sorry we invited him I didn’t realize— You’ll always come first for me. I will kick him out.”

The smile you gave Samira was adoring and tender. “I know,” You said softly, “It’s alright, I promise.”

Finally, she nodded, and went to sit next to Jack, sighing as she did. 

“The two of you ever fight like that?” Jack nodded to you and Samira.

You met Samira’s eyes over your drink and you both broke out into smiles, “No,” You said, “I think our biggest fight was when she took the last spot in the orgo class we were both trying to take sophomore year.”

Samira grinned at you, “Yeah and to make it up to you, you made me give you all my study materials the next semester, so I think it worked out for you.”

“What about you two,” You nodded towards Jack and Robby, “You guys seem like you’ve been friends for a long time. Any brawls?”

Robby chuckled, “No, definitely not.”

“Yeah, because he knows he’d lose.” Jack teased.

“Yeah, right,” Robby said and shook his head as he tossed back the rest of his beer, “Love you  brother, but I don’t think so.”

“Oh, really?” Jack chuckled and turned to Samira, “What d’you think? Who’d win?”

“Oh, come on,” Robby bemoaned, “Of course she’s gonna pick you.”

Samira looked affronted, “I resent the fact that you think I’m incapable of being objective just because we’re together.”

Robby raised his eyebrows, “Alright then, what’s the verdict?”

Samira’s eyes traveled back and forth between Jack’s wide pleading ones and Robby’s expecting ones until she sighed, “Jack. But only because he was in the military.”

“He was a medic.” Robby complained as Jack kissed on Samira’s neck in victory, causing her to squeal.

“Still went through basic training, brother.” Jack managed, adoring eyes still on Samira.

“And what about you?” Robby asked, turning to you.

“What about me?” 

“Who do you think would win, me or Jack?”

“Oh,” You laughed, “I don’t want to get in the middle of whatever weird hypermasculine competition you’ve got going on here.”

“That’s code for she doesn’t wanna hurt your feelings, Robby.” Jack said.

You scoffed, “That is not true,” Your eyes darted to Robby’s, “I have no problem hurting his feelings.”

A lie. You looked at the crinkles by his eyes, the flush in his cheeks when he smiled at you, and those big brown eyes that looked as warm as tree bark that had baked in the summer heat all day and your immediate thought was you’d rather drown yourself in this lake than hurt his feelings. 

Alternatively, you’d also rather drown in this lake than admit that that was true.

So where did that leave you?

You swallowed and looked at Samira, “I think Jack would win.”

Jack laughed loudly and Robby eyed you with disappointment as he shook his head.

It was teasing disappointment, but you were surprised by how much it bothered you. You were realizing quickly how desperately you wanted him to like you. 

“What?” You said to Robby, “He was in the military and he carries around a knife for fun. What’re you gonna do, hm? Blink your pretty doe eyes up at him and hope it distracts him long enough for you to run away?”

Slowly, a smile stretched across Robby’s face and he nudged his knee playfully against yours as he leaned his face down close to you. Your breath hitched in your throat at his closeness and he casually reached out to push a loose strand of your hair behind your ear.

When he spoke, lowly enough for just you to hear, his voice was husky and it sent chills across your arms, “You think my eyes are pretty?”

The laugh that escaped you was breathless and nervous and you quickly tore your eyes from his and looked down at your hands, trying not to think about the way his fingers, cold and wet from his beer bottle, felt against the shell of your ear or the way they dragged against the sensitive skin of your neck before he pulled away.

What the fuck was this guy doing to you? A man had never made you a giggly mess like this. This was bad. This was very, very bad.

“As if you didn’t know.” You said finally, as casually as you could manage, avoiding looking at him.

“You’re pretty hard to read, actually.”

Normally, that would be true. But with him, it felt different. It felt like you were shouting it at him with every lilt of your voice, every smile, every laugh. Every time he looked at you, you felt your skin heat. 

You looked over at Samira and Jack for a moment, thought about your friendship with Samira. Everything seemed to tumble forward, all the moments you were so painfully proud of her, but also envious. How you had both wanted the same things, once. She had gotten everything and you had tripped four hundred meters out from the finish line. She was incredible, intelligent, beautiful, ambitious. The whole package. It was no wonder Jack was so obsessed with her. 

Your eyes flitted back to Robby, who was no longer looking at you, but silently staring ahead. His knee was still touching yours. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d wanted someone this badly. Someone smart and capable, someone who seemed like he could take care of you if the conversation about your dumb muffler was any indicator, someone who would be good for you.

He deserved better than you, though, he deserved someone like Samira. And even if you just slept with him, you had the faintest inclination that he might ruin you for other men for good.

You cleared your throat, “I, um, I should go to bed.”

When you stood, he followed, “Are you okay?” He asked softly, blocking your exit with his broad chest.

Christ, you were going to fold so quickly if he kept this up, “I’m fine,” You forced a smile, “Just tired.”

You stepped around him, but still he followed, steps soft and careful as he traced your path up the stairs, “Did I say something wrong?” He asked once you were at the bedroom door.

“No,” You said and almost laughed as you turned to him, “No, it’s not you.”

“Then what?” His eyes carefully searched your face, “Because I can be patient if you’re just not ready, but–”

You shook your head, “I can’t. It’s not a good idea.”

He scoffed, “You see what I mean about being hard to read?” He tilted his head as he narrowed his eyes at you, “Is it… because I’m old?”

You smiled and bit your lip, “No, I think I actually really like that bit.”

He shook his head, “Can you just tell me what it is that’s bothering you? I’m pretty good at problem solving.”

You laughed again, “I don’t think I’m a problem that’s solvable, unfortunately.”

He watched you for a while longer before sighing heavily, “Okay, just to be clear, we’re not done with this conversation. But I’ll let you get some sleep. Goodnight.” He said softly and began to walk away, down the hall to where you assumed Trevor was.

You watched after him, fought an internal battle with yourself, and then sighed, “Robby, wait.”

He froze and turned back towards you. The look of hope on his face absolutely wrecked you, “I wasn’t kidding about Trevor,” You said, “He really does snore. Very loudly. You should stay in here. I’ll sleep on the couch,” You added quickly.

He shook his head, “I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”

You threw up your hands in exasperation, “Fine. You sleep on the couch, then. You’ll get more sleep than sleeping in the same room as Trevor.”

And so that’s how the two of you ended up awkwardly dancing around each other as you got ready for bed.

You were unable to tear your eyes away as he pulled his shirt over his head and you were granted a full view of his chest. Your mouth dried out as you stared. He was so large, but everything about him was soft, the tufts of hair that grew on his chest and by his belly button, the gentle curve of his stomach. All of this turned your yearning from a gentle smolder to a raging inferno.

But what your eyes snagged on were the two tattoos over the planes of his chest. On the right side of his chest read MEMENTO MORI and on the left side AMORI FATI.

When your eyes traveled back up, Robby was looking at you with a smug look on his face.

You cleared your throat and looked away, conscious of the way heat burned in your cheeks, “Your tattoos,” You gestured to your own chest, “You’re a fan of Stoicism?”

A slow smile stretched across his face, “You know what they mean?”

You nodded, “Memento mori: remember that you will die and amor fati: love thy fate.” You were a bit ashamed by how pleased with yourself you were when an impressed smile flitted across his face, “I took a few philosophy classes in undergrad.”

“And what did you think?”

You shrugged, embarrassed now and not wanting to seem like you were showing off, “I liked them. Once, I took an ancient Greek literature class at the same time and they tended to overlap a lot.” You nodded towards his tattoos, “Memento mori and amori fati always reminded me of my favorite line from the Iliad.”

“Which is?”

You hesitated, and then, shyly, you lifted your shirt just slightly so he could see the tattoo that decorated the side of your ribcage. 

An intricate tracing of Icarus and his infamous fall, a hand still stretching out towards the sun. On either side of his falling form, in delicate scrawl read:

Everything is more beautiful 

because we are doomed

Robby was close to you now, so he could better see your ink, and when he reached out his fingers and ghosted them over the skin of your ribcage. Your breath stuttered as goosebumps rose across your flesh.

Noting the way your breathing faltered he looked up at you and pulled his hand away, straightening. He cleared his throat, “It’s beautiful.”

You dropped your shirt, covering up the tattoo again, “Thank you.”

“What was your major in college anyway?”

“Biology.”

He frowned at that, “And you took classes for philosophy and ancient Greek lit?”

You dug through your duffel, looking for your toiletry bag, “At first, they were just electives, but then I took enough of them to grab a minor. My counselor said it would diversify me for med school or whatever,” You sighed, “Fat load of good that did me.”

Finally locating your toiletry bag, you pulled it out and turned back around to see Robby eyeing you curiously, “What?” 

“I—“ He scratched the back of his head, “Samira didn’t mention you went to med school.”

You hummed, “That’s because I didn’t.” You dug your toothbrush out of the bag, “I didn’t get in.”

When you looked up at him again, he was still staring at you, frowning. You could almost hear the glass breaking in his head. Whatever shiny impression he had of you shattering on impact. You weren’t good enough for med school, why would you be good enough for him?

“Well—“

“I’d really rather not talk about this right now, or ever, if you don’t mind.” You said softly and brushed past him to get into the bathroom.

Or, you meant to just brush past him. But he tried to brush past you at the same time, you assumed to allow you space to get into the bathroom. You both tried to shimmy sideways through the bathroom doorway and ended up chest to chest, stuck for a moment too long.

He had, in the time you had been talking, put a shirt back on. Still, as your breasts slid across his chest, you felt your nipples peak in response. 

Through the thin fabric of your shirt, it wasn’t hard to notice, even if he hadn’t already been hardwired to notice everything about you since he first saw you alone on that porch swing a year ago. You let out a sound that was halfway between a gasp and a moan as you desperately tried to sidle past him. 

Used to this sort of thing happening at work, he instinctually settled a firm hand on your hip to try to help you get by, but this only seemed to panic you further. In your rush to move away from him, you inadvertently pushed yourself harder against him, your other hip gliding over his crotch and causing him to hiss.

“Sorry, fuck–” You cursed and finally slid by him, breathing hard as if you had been running for miles instead of having just moved through a doorway. 

The moment passed. You were at the sink, putting toothpaste on your toothbrush with the focus of a surgeon. If you weren't desperately avoiding eye contact and trying to level your breathing, he might have assumed you weren’t affected at all.

And fuck him if his brain wasn’t immediately rushing to calculate all the ways he could get your body to react like that again. He thought of your pupils dilating in the moonlight the first time you met, the way you shivered whenever his fingers brushed across your skin earlier, the way you got flustered sometimes just when he looked at you intently enough, and now this. He wondered what sort of touches would make you writhe beneath him, cry out his name, rake your nails across his skin, beg him to go faster, harder.

Oh, he had been thinking for too long if the aching sensation in his pants was any indication. He cleared his throat and with a hand on the back of his neck he left the bathroom.

***

Robby was tracing the tattoo on your ribcage again, this time with his tongue. Your back arched up off the mattress and you were moaning his name. He kissed up until he reached your breasts, first taking a sensitive nipple between his fingers and pinching lightly until you gasped. He took it in his mouth, then, swirling the bud around his tongue.

His hard cock was pressed to your slick folds, sliding back and forth against you, his tip nudging your entrance, but never fully sinking in. You were begging now, a single tear escaped from your eye as you looked up at him. The only reason he was able to stop himself from fully sinking inside you was because he loved the sight of you like this, absolutely drenched and fucking ruined, at his mercy. No more coy looks, no more avoiding his gaze so you could pretend not to want him, no more pulling away from his touch in fear it would give you away.

No, you were completely, fully, his now and he needed to make sure you knew it. You would only cum if he decided you could. If you asked nicely, if you did what he asked, if you were the good girl he told you to be.

He slipped his fingers between your thighs and sank two of his digits into your hole, watched as you bit down on your lip to stop the moan from crawling out. Just as quickly as he started, he pulled out his fingers and ignored your whine at their absence, sliding his cock against you again.

He brought his fingers, now drenched in your juices, up to your face and gently pressed his thumb to your chin, “Open.” He commanded. You hesitated for just a moment before obeying, taking his fingers into your mouth. You looked up at him as you sucked the way he imagined you’d take his cock. He hadn’t even had you fully yet, but he thought he might cum just like this, with you humming against his fingers. He rutted his hips faster, barely registering it when you reached a hand between you to hold your folds tighter around him, creating more friction and Jesus fucking Christ he was going to cum–

Robby awoke to the sound of the box fan in the window. The sun hadn’t yet fully risen and he could hear your soft snores from the bed, less than ten feet away from him. As consciousness returned to him and he shifted on the couch, he registered the sticky dampness between his legs and his eyes flew open.

No fucking way. There was no fucking way he had– He pulled the blanket he had been using off and was confronted with an absolute mess in his boxers. He ran a hand down his face in frustration. What sort of fucking grown man came in their pants like that and over a woman sleeping not ten feet away that was at least two decades younger than him? 

He tried to quietly get up from the couch and escape to the bathroom, but the couch was leather and creaked loudly with his movement. He froze and waited, eyes closed, and sure enough, you stirred.

“Robby?” Your voice was heavy and rough with sleep and he tried to ignore how much he liked the sound of it, “S’that you?”

“Just going to the bathroom,” He said softly, “Go back to sleep, sweetheart.”

The endearment slipped from him without his permission and he hung his head when his brain caught up with his mouth. But you hadn’t seemed to register it, or perhaps didn’t mind, as you silently settled back against your pillow. He sighed quietly in relief and then headed to the bathroom to clean up.

If this was how it was going to be, if just seeing an inch of your skin and brushing up against you on the way to the bathroom was going to prompt wet dreams that had him coming in his pants, he had no idea how he was going to make it through this week without convincing you to let him in your bed.

And now his residents would be getting here today, would be witnessing him desperately trying to get laid by a girl who they’d played beer pong with once. Humiliating.

But as he stood in the bathroom and rolled that dream over in his head again, he thought it’d probably be worth it. If he could have you even once, just a taste, maybe it would satiate him long enough to move on when they got back to Pittsburgh. Maybe. 

Or maybe it would never be enough. Maybe there was something about you that would keep him coming back, keep trying to find new ways to make you laugh so you’d let him in, like a stray at the door looking for scraps.

There was only one way to find out.

***

“You slept with Robby last night?” Samira’s voice had you turning your head from the paperback in your hand.

The two of you were laying on the dock, sunbathing, along with Trevor. You and Trevor had called a truce that morning and so far, he had been abiding by the conditions. Of which, there was really only one: not to touch you in a way that wasn’t strictly platonic. 

Jack had gotten a new prosthetic extension that allowed him to swim properly (thoroughly researched and recommended by Samira) and was in the lake with Robby.

Trinity, Dennis, Victoria, and Parker had all arrived a couple of hours ago. Parker had set up a volleyball net nearby and the four of them were attempting to play a match.

“No,” You scoffed, “He slept on the couch because I knew this one would keep him up with all his snoring.” You playfully shoved Trevor’s shoulder next to you.

“Ow,” Trevor murmured, rubbing at his shoulder. Then he turned on his side to face you, “Mira, are you trying to set her up with your boss?”

Samira scoffed, “Didn’t have to try, they’ve been obsessed with each other since they met, but neither of them will admit it.”

You felt your cheeks heat up again and attempted to cover your face with your paperback, “I am not obsessed with him, I just think that… he’s kinda cool… and we… vibe.”

Samira and Trevor both looked at you blankly, “You are hearing yourself, right?” Samira said eventually.

You groaned, “Whatever! I’m not gonna sleep with him, it’s a bad idea.”

“And, pray tell, why is that?”

“I–” You quickly looked to see if anyone else was around, but Jack and Robby were still in the water and the other residents still preoccupied, “Because I’m not good with relationships, Trevor can attest.”

Trevor pursed his lips, “This feels like a trap,” He looked at Samira, “No comment.”

“Look, you don’t even know if he wants a relationship. At least sleep with him, just once. I know you’re dying to.” You rolled your eyes and didn’t respond. But you were dying to, especially after accidentally rubbing up against him like that last night and seeing him shirtless. “I don’t know what you said to him that first night you met him, but he was so nice to me, for like, weeks after. And you spoke to him for what? Five minutes? If you won’t do it for yourself, think of me! Do you know how nice he would be if he got to actually sleep with you?”

You sighed, “I will… consider it.”

Samira smiled, “Excellent.”

Just then, Jack swam up to the dock, to Samira, and rested his arms on the edge as he floated, “Samira, come swim with me.”

Samira wrinkled her nose as she considered, “It’s cold in there.”

“I’ll keep you warm,” He said lowly, leaning up to kiss her. Samira smiled against his mouth, laughed when he wrapped his arms around her middle and pulled her down into the water with him. They continued kissing, Samira’s legs wrapped around Jack’s waist.

You sighed and turned back to your book, “Gross.” You muttered to Trevor.

“You know, we could make out in the lake.” He said in a voice you knew to mean he was trying to be seductive. It used to work on you, but now it only grossed you out, “Give your new boyfriend something to worry about.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” You said, voice bored, “And I’m not interested.”

You heard splashes coming from the ladder and looked up in time to see Robby pulling himself out of the water and onto the dock. Your stomach flipped again, seeing him shirtless. The water had weighed down his bathing suit so that it hung dangerously low on his hips. You were shocked when the first thought that came into your mind was that you longed to bite his hips and you cleared your throat as if it would cleanse your impure thoughts. You turned back to your book.

A moment later, a giant shadow in the shape of a man was blocking your sun and you felt the cold lake water dripping all over your body, “You’re getting my book wet.” You said, trying to sound bored as you looked up at him.

He had a boyish grin on his face as he ran a hand through his hair, shaking it like a wet dog and causing more droplets to splatter all over you, “Sorry,” He said, sounding anything but.

It was such a childish thing to do, but he looked stupid handsome as he smirked at you and you wondered if this was the type of thing he used to pull when he was your age. How many girls had he gotten into bed with that gorgeous smile and big brown eyes?

“You can swim, right?”

You watched him for a moment before looking back down at your book, “Of course I can swim, I grew up in Los Angeles.”

“Come in the water with me.” He said, still blocking your sun.

“No thanks,” You turned the page of your book, “It’s too cold.”

“Oh, come on,” He whined, “It’s not so bad once you’re in. It’s not the Pacific Ocean, I’ll give you, that, but it’s still nice. Have some fun.”

It was certainly not the Pacific Ocean, but you were more so worried about being able to keep your hands to yourself once you were in the water with him. Once no one would be able to see your hands on his waist, or better yet, in his shorts–

You were determined to keep your eyes on your book, “No thank you.”

He let the silence hang there for a moment, then finally he sighed, “Fine. Could you hand me my towel, then?”

You placed your book down on your towel and leaned over Samira’s now empty one to grab one of the dry towels meant for Robby and Jack. 

In retrospect, you probably should’ve realized what he was about to do. It was the oldest trick in the book. But you also hadn’t been a teenager in many years and so hadn’t had to worry about boys pulling goofy shit to flirt with a girl.

So for half a second, when you reached out the towel to him and his hand clamped around your wrist rather than the towel, you were just confused. But then in the next moment, he had pulled the towel from your hand, and dropped it back down to the dock and it was then that you realized how you had fucked up.

You tried to wrench your wrist back, “Robby–”

Smirking, he pulled you by the wrist and with a bend of his knees, had thrown you over his shoulder and began walking.

You squealed, “Put me down.”

He stopped walking, “Okay,” You heard the smirk in his voice, and again realized your fatal error too late.

“Don’t you dare–”

You were suspended in the air for a moment, before you hit the water, cold and unforgiving. Your head plunged beneath the surface for a second before you got your bearings and broke the surface again. The water was shallow enough that you could stand and while you gasped for air, you saw that Robby had jumped back in and was wading over to you, smirk still on his face.

“See? Not so bad.” He said smugly.

You scowled at him, “I’m very upset with you.”

Even as you said it, you had to fight a smile. Jesus fucking Christ, it was pathetic the levels of infatuated you had achieved because if this were any other man, if it was, say, Trevor who had pulled this shit, you wouldn’t have spoken to him for the rest of the night. Maybe not even for the rest of the vacation.

But Robby had thrown you in the lake and with just a smile, you were on the verge of giggling again. Oh, you were so fucked. 

“Really?” He was close to you now, close enough to touch, “You don’t seem that upset.”

“Yeah, well, I’m furious.” You said mildly. It was dangerous to be this close, so you moved to take a step back, but your foot landed on a particularly slimy rock and you slipped—

“Woah—“ Robby secured an arm around your waist before you could slip under the water and pulled you flush to his chest, “Careful, it’s slippery right there.” He said, teasing.

You huffed and looked up at him, conscious of every place your bodies touched. He had draped your arms around his neck and was now looking at you innocently, like he hadn’t fully manufactured this.

Your tongue darted between your lips and you ran your hands through his wet hair, scratching lightly at his scalp, “You can let me go, now,” You said softly, “I won’t slip again.”

His eyes were heady with desire, “I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you.” He lowered his hands until they gripped the back of your thighs and then hiked you up until you were straddling his waist, ankles tangled behind his back. Like this, your face was level with his, and his jaw was clenched as he watched you. As if he was restraining himself from something. From you.

“What’re you doing?”

He smirked and nudged his nose into yours, your breaths intertwined in the minimal space between you. Even drenched in lake water, you still smelled faintly of cherries.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” He whispered.

He leaned towards you, mouth searching for yours, and you pulled back slightly, “C’mon sweetheart,” He said softly, “Enough of the games. Let me in.”

It wasn’t a game, not to you. And that’s what was so scary. Because it had always been a game to you. There had never been anyone you had wanted more seriously than that. With Trevor he only wanted something more when he realized you didn’t want him like that. He didn’t really love you and you had never loved him. But now you were staring at Robby, shivering in the frigid water and you thought maybe you could love him.

Nearly thirty, you had started to wonder if maybe you just weren’t capable of feeling that deeply for someone else. And still, you didn’t know if you were. But Robby was the first man that made you curious to find out.

“You might not like what you find.” Your voice wavered.

He tilted his head slightly, “Why don’t you let me worry about that?”

Let me worry about that. You thought about his offer yesterday to fix your car. Thought about his willingness to swap beds with you so you could be comfortable. Let me worry about that. What would it be like to have someone else to help take care of things? To lighten the load, even just a little?

So when he leaned in to kiss you again, this time you didn’t stop him. It felt like relief, with his mouth finally on yours. When you sighed into him, he took the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth and your nails dug into his shoulders in response.

You felt his hands tighten their grip on your legs under the water. He seemed torn between keeping you wrapped around his waist like this or dropping you so his hands could wander.

Before he could make a decision, a wolf whistle split the air and the both of you froze. Robby broke his mouth away from yours, turning his head to follow the sound and saw Jack smirking at the two of you, Samira also looking smug from behind him with her arms draped over his shoulders. A moment later, there was whooping coming from the rest of the residents who were playing volleyball near the shore.

Feeling your cheeks heat, you buried your face in Robby’s shoulder.

“Ignore them,” Robby said softly, “Do you want to go inside?”

You pulled your head back from his shoulder so you could see his face. He looked like he was seconds away from devouring you here, in the lake, with everyone watching. Seemingly so desperate for you, he didn’t mind all of his coworkers and subordinates watching. 

“Is that what you want?”

He gave you a knowing look, “I want you in whatever capacity you’ll allow. So, do you want to go inside?”

He had to know that now, having tasted him, you wouldn’t be able to deny yourself any longer. The dam you had built between you had sprung a leak. Several, in fact. It was only a matter of time before it was completely eviscerated.

“Yes.” You said eventually.

A giddy smile transformed Robby’s face and he leaned in to give you another quick kiss, “Get on my back.” He murmured against your mouth.

You laughed, “What?”

Rather than explain further, he shifted your weight, spinning you until you understood he wanted you on piggyback.

“You know,” You laughed, pressing kisses up the side of his neck, “I told you I can swim.”

“I know,” He said as he began wading to the shore, “But isn’t this more fun?”

It was a bit embarrassing, if you were honest, drawing more stares and attention from the others. Once close enough to the shore, Robby seemed to give the residents a look you couldn’t see, but must have been scathing as they all abruptly returned their attention back to their volleyball game.

Robby let you off his back and grabbed a dry towel for you, wrapping it around your shoulders and rubbing his hands over it to help dry you before grabbing his own towel.

“You kids be safe now,” Jack was leaning on the edge of the dock, Samira doing the same next to him, both of them smirking at you, “Wrap it before you tap it and all that.”

Robby sighed heavily, “She’s gonna change her mind if you don’t be quiet.”

“No she won’t.” Samira said, “I’ve never seen her this obsessed with anyone. Not even Trevor, whom she slept with for years.”

“Mira!” You hissed indignantly.

“Heard that,” Trevor called, “Hurtful and unnecessary.”

“Let’s go,” Robby draped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side and beginning to walk towards the house, “You’re obsessed with me, huh?” He said quietly.

You rolled your eyes, “Whatever. As if you’re not obsessed with me.”

“Of course I am,” He opened the back door of the house for you, waited for you to walk inside before following, “But I’m not ashamed of it.”

He blew past you as his words stopped you in your tracks. For the first time, it struck you what it all must’ve looked like to him. How you had been flirting with him, but then pushing him away, over and over. 

You trailed after him up the stairs, “I’m not—I’m not ashamed.”

At the top of the stairs, he turned to face you, “I don’t particularly want to have this conversation right now, when I’m finally about to have you naked in my bed—“

“My bed,” You teased, smirking, “Remember?”

He huffed a short laugh and shook his head, “You’re impossible.”

You pressed your lips together firmly, your eyes transfixed by his mouth, “Do you think you’ll still want me?” You asked quietly, your voice small, “After you’ve had me?”

He narrowed his eyes at you, “Is that what this is about? You’re worried I won’t like you after?”

It hadn’t been something you had thought about before, with other partners, because usually you didn’t care enough. You liked being desired, of course, who didn’t? But more often than not if partners disappeared afterwards, you shrugged it off and moved on to the next one. 

But with Robby… You had only really known each other for a day or so, but there was something that seemed to pull you to him. The chemistry was easy, effortless as it seemingly flowed back and forth, infinite. With him, you also had a desire to impress, to prove yourself. Like with the tattoos last night. You wanted him to think you were more than just someone to fuck. Another new feeling, one you weren’t used to. You wondered how badly it would hurt if he carelessly let you slip through his fingers and crash back to earth. 

He was looking at you now with the patience of a saint, never mind the fact that he had finally convinced you to let him touch you and you were making him wait again. It made you feel stupid, so you quickly shook your head. 

“Nothing, forget it. Forget I said anything. Kiss me, please.”

For a second, you thought he might refuse, might make you talk to him, but then he was kissing you again, hard and sloppy as he pushed you through the doorway of your shared room. Never taking his mouth off yours, he half carried, half pushed you towards the bathroom.

With his tongue in your mouth, you were desperate to feel him, to see how needy he was so you ran your hands down his chest and past his waist. When you palmed him over his bathing suit, he groaned and took your lip between his teeth, biting hard enough that you thought maybe he had drawn blood. He was big in your hand. You had thought he was probably packing just from the size of him, but he was bigger than you had imagined.

You swallowed hard as he reached behind you to turn on the shower with one hand and pulled your other hand off his cock, “You can’t be touching me like that yet,” He said, voice gravelly.

You smirked, “Worried you might… ejaculate prematurely?” You teased.

He stared at the warm spray from the shower as he temperature checked it with one hand, “Yeah, actually. And I plan to make you come at least twice before I even consider fucking you properly. I want you crying and begging me to stop because you’re too sensitive before I fill you up.” His eyes slowly looked back at yours, “Is that what you want? Because if not, you should probably tell me now. So we can stop.”

Your breathing faltered hearing him talk like that. Your stomach flipped and you felt yourself beginning to drip into your bathing suit. You swallowed and then nodded, “That’s what I want.”

He offered you a slow smile and then his gaze travelled down your body. He was just looking at you, but it felt filthy. Like he was already thinking about all the compromising positions he could put you in. 

You started to take off your bikini, but he stopped you, “Wait.” He said, and his voice dipped, “Haven’t gotten a proper look at you in it yet. Seems like a waste.”

You smirked, “You want me to do a quick spin for you?”

You had mostly been teasing, but he nodded, and so you obliged. Once your back was facing him, his hands came up to touch you. Warm and calloused, they ran down your waist to your ass, which he squeezed appreciatively before giving it a firm smack.

It didn’t hurt, but you gasped and he ran a soothing hand over the skin, “Sorry, I should’ve asked first. S’that okay?”

“Yes,” You said breathlessly.

He brushed the hair off the back of your neck and you automatically tilted your head to allow him access to kiss and suck on it, letting out a soft moan at the scratch of his beard against your skin. As he kissed you, he untied the top of your bathing suit and you felt him sigh as he peered over your shoulder at your bare tits.

“Fuck,” He cursed so softly, you didn’t know if it was even meant for you to hear. He brought his hands up to feel them, his rough palms immediately causing your nipples to harden. He pinched and pulled at them lightly and you moaned in earnest, pushing yourself further into his body behind you.

Your skin felt like it was on fire. Every touch and every kiss had you wondering what you wouldn’t do to keep his attention on you like this. To keep this burning low in your belly. He was so attentive, soft and rough at the same time, watching your reactions to everything so carefully. Just having his eyes on you alone felt like you were a supernova, on the edge of self destruction. You thought you would likely damn yourself to Hell if it meant he would keep touching you like this.

He guided you into the shower and you stepped out of your bottoms. It was a large walk in shower and easily fit the two of you without much effort. Immediately, he got on his knees in front of you. He gripped the backs of your thighs and kissed your stomach, and then made a path down. The way your hips pushed up into him was an involuntary reaction, really, but then he suddenly pulled his mouth away and you pouted.

When you looked down at him, he was grinning, “What’s this?” 

He ran a finger over a small tattoo on your upper hip that you tended to forget about a lot. It was almost always completely covered by panties or, in today’s case, a bathing suit. 

In messy, loopy cursive, it read bon appétit. 

You sighed, embarrassed, “It’s stupid, I got it when I was, like, twenty.”

He looked down at it again, ran his thumb over it, “Did… Did Trevor give you this?”

It felt like the wrong time to talk about this, which was why you hadn’t mentioned, but now that he was asking… “Yeah. He was practicing,” You gulped, “Do you hate it?”

“Hm?” He looked back up at you and then frowned, “Oh, no. No, of course not. I was just…” He sighed, “The juvenile answer is just that I hate that he’s seen you like this.”

You ran a hand over his hair, “If it makes you feel any better, the irony of him giving me this tattoo is that he never really liked eating me out anyway. I almost always had to ask for it, and even then he’d get frustrated if I didn’t come within a couple of minutes.”

He gave a short laugh, “Makes it worse, actually. That you slept with someone like that for years. You didn’t think you deserved better than that?”

You were shocked when you felt the beginning pinpricks of tears at the backs of your eyes. No, you didn’t, actually. It was why the more time you spent with Robby you realized it was him who was out of your league and not the other way around. Why you suspected he’d probably bolt after he slept with you. You thought you probably didn’t deserve someone better than Trevor and so you had resigned yourself to being alone instead.

You swallowed, “Can we stop talking about Trevor, please?”

He must’ve heard the tears in your voice because he looked up and immediately rose back up to standing, “Hey,” He cradled your face in his hands, tenderly kissed your cheeks and forehead, before pressing a long kiss to your mouth, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” He kept kissing you, deepened it again until you couldn’t think about anything other than the man in front of you, drunk on the taste of him. He kissed his way down your body until he was on his knees again, kissing and biting at your hips.

He hooked one of your legs over his shoulder and kissed your inner thigh, up until you felt him lapping at your folds. He was being so gentle and slow, avoiding your throbbing clit where you wanted him most, teasing on purpose you suspected. Deciding to take matters into your own hands, you grabbed at his hair and rutted your hips into him. He groaned into you and his nose rubbed against your clit exactly where you needed, but he was pulling away, securing his arms around your thighs to keep you still.

“Be good for me,” He said, looking up at you, “Let me take my time, taste you properly first, hm? Can you do that for me, baby?”

It didn’t seem like much of a choice, but you nodded eagerly anyway. He didn’t waste time beginning his assault on you again. It felt like minutes were passing and still, he purposely seemed to neglect the one place you were most needy for him. Tears were collecting at the corners of your eyes, “Please, Robby.” You whined, “Please, please, I’ve been so good, please.”

He took his mouth off you for a moment and looked up at you. When he saw the tears beginning to fall from your eyes, the smugness emanated from him in waves. “What do you want, sweetheart? You wanna cum on my tongue?” 

You nodded desperately, “Please.” It was the only word you seemed capable of saying.

He turned his attention back to your pussy, pushed a finger inside you and curled it upwards, slowly stroking that spongy spot that had your knees going weak. You thought your legs may have given out if it wasn’t for Robby holding you up. He added a finger and you were dizzy, the muscles tightening in your abdomen. Finally, he began swirling his tongue around your sensitive bud until you cried out, grinded yourself against him, let the sensation of his beard and mouth push you through your orgasm.

He left his fingers inside you as he rose to standing again, slowly pushing them in and out of you even as you came down. “You taste even better than I thought you would.” He said in your ear as his fingers kept slowly fucking you, pushing you into the wall behind you.

“Robby, I don’t,” You paused, wetting your lips. The slow movement of his fingers inside you was stirring that sensation inside you again, coiling like a spring, “I’m gonna cum again,” You said, shocked you were still able to string full sentences together, “If you keep going I’m gonna–”

He pressed a thumb to your clit and kissed up your neck to your earlobe, which he lightly took between his teeth. All coherent thought ceased, there was just the feeling of his mouth on your skin, his fingers inside you, his rough voice asking you to cum, “Go on then, cum all over my fingers like a good girl, you can do it.” The whine you let out sounded pathetic to your own ears as he moved his hand marginally faster until you were coming apart in his arms again, tears streaming down your cheeks in earnest now, “There you go,” He cooed, bringing his face back so he could see your tearstained cheeks.

Still, his fingers kept moving inside you and you whimpered, using your hands to push at his wrist uselessly. He stayed anchored inside you. You were so sensitive now, the pleasure was almost painful. “Oh, come on, baby,” He said, “You can give me one more, can’t you? You said this is what you wanted. You wouldn’t want to disappoint me, would you?”

You hiccupped and shook your head, no. He brought his other hand up to play with your nipples and the broken moan you let out sounded like a sob as you again felt yourself being pushed incrementally towards the edge of a cliff. “Kiss me,” You sighed desperately, “Kiss me, please.”

He hesitated for a moment before he kissed you and you wondered idly if maybe he knew you better, if this wasn’t the first time you were together like this, if he would’ve denied the request. If he was enjoying being a little mean and denying you what you wanted. The thought had you longing for more. You couldn’t take it now, you didn’t think, but the idea of doing this again with him was enough to get you to the precipice again. Your walls tightened around his fingers and he moaned into your mouth, “Go on, sweetheart. Can feel you’re there, give me one more.”

You thought you might black out when your orgasm ripped through you again. You shook in his arms, nails digging deep into the skin of his arms in a desperate attempt to anchor yourself. He murmured praises in your ear as you came down, gently pulled his fingers out of you and wiped away your tears.

He turned the shower off, dried you off, and in your fucked out haze he had to guide you to the bed. 

“You okay?” He asked gently, crawling over you, “We can stop.”

You shook your head slowly, a silent command, don’t stop. You looked down to see him putting a condom on himself as he watched you.

He swallowed, “You’re sure?” You nodded, and he chuckled, “Think you can use your words for me?”

You slid your tongue over your lips, “Yes,” You said slowly, “I’m sure.”

He lined up his tip with your soaked entrance and pushed in just an inch, “You’ll tell me if it’s too much?” He asked.

“Robby,” You laughed, “Are you gonna fuck me, or what?”

He fought a smirk and nodded before slowly easing himself inside you. You both sighed in relief when he filled you, “Jesus fucking Christ,” He moaned.

At first he was slow, gentle. He watched you carefully, as if he thought you were in danger of breaking. It would’ve made you laugh if it wasn’t so fucking sweet. When it was clear you were okay, were enjoying yourself even, he seemed to lose a bit of the careful restraint he’d been showing. 

He brought one of your legs up to his shoulder, pressed a kiss to your ankle before pressing into you again. His pace became relentless as he gripped your hips and he was so, so deep, you could feel him everywhere. Obscene, wet slapping sounds filled the space along with his pants and moans. 

“Harder,” You breathed and his eyes snapped to yours, surprised, “Please, I won’t break.”

“Oh, fuck,” He groaned and let your ankle fall back down, opting to fold himself over you instead to be closer. He kissed you sloppily, sucking your tongue into his mouth as he pounded into you, sucking up your moans like water. “Gonna cum,” He panted into your mouth.

You clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into skin. He was beautiful like this, you thought, on the verge of coming apart. If he hadn’t absolutely ruined you earlier, you would’ve liked to ride him yourself or make him come with your mouth. But this was a dream, more than you could have asked for, being able to see him like this. It felt like a gift, being allowed this peek into who he was when he was vulnerable. 

He buried his face in your neck when he came, groaning and breathless. His hips moved sporadically as his orgasm stuttered through him. You stroked a hand down the back of his head and kissed his cheek.

Still out of breath, he pulled his face back enough to kiss you again and you sighed contentedly into his mouth. 

“Still okay?” He asked.

You nodded, “Never better. You?”

He nodded and swallowed, “Yeah.”

After a moment, he pulled out of you and stood to rid himself of the condom. When he came back, he rolled back into bed and pulled you to him, pressing kisses on whatever bare skin he could reach.

He pressed a finger lightly into your cheek furthest from him to turn your head back to him. His eyes searched yours for just a moment before he kissed you on the mouth, long and slow. It made your toes curl. 

“I was thinking,” He said, “That we could shower again and then go watch the sunset on the shore. Share a bottle of wine. How does that sound?”

You smiled sleepily, “That sounds lovely.”

***

A little while later, you were sitting between Robby’s legs, your back pressed to his chest. It had cooled considerably since you had last been out here and Robby let you use one of his hoodies. 

You were still sleepy from the sex and the wine only made your limbs feel more languid and heavy as you passed the bottle back and forth.

“I’m going to ask you something,” Robby said eventually, “And I don’t want you to get mad when I do.”

You frowned, “Okay…?”

“You were premed? In undergrad?”

You sighed, “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you go to med school?”

You could feel yourself growing prickly and defensive, jaw clenching, “I applied twice within a couple of years. I didn’t get in. The pandemic hit, I lost my job, I ran out of money, I moved back home with my parents.” You shrugged, “I don’t know, I just… I didn’t see the point in trying again.”

It was more than that. The second time you didn’t get in, the failure had felt so visceral, you didn’t tell anyone for weeks. When you were forced into moving back to Los Angeles in the middle of the pandemic, the next year or so had felt unbearable with your failure seeming to loom above you, inescapable. Thinking back on it, you felt it was a wonder you had survived it at all.

“Do you still want to be a doctor?”

You shrugged, “I don’t know. Maybe. Probably. It doesn’t matter though, it’s too late.”

“Too late?” You felt Robby’s chest rumble with a laugh behind you, “How old are you? Twenty seven? Twenty eight?”

“Twenty nine.” 

He laughed again, “You’re a baby. It’s not too late for anything.”

Annoyed, you pushed off his chest and rose on your knees to face him, “I’m not doing it again, okay? So just drop it.”

He shook his head, “Why? Because you’re scared? I didn’t take you for a coward.”

You nodded and rubbed at your eyes, tried not to feel the punch to the gut his words were, “Yeah, well, you don’t really know me, do you?”

For a moment, there’s just his breathing and the gentle lap of the lake on the shore.

“I feel like I do.” He said softly, “And the girl who tattooed an Iliad quote on her body about how life is both beautiful and fragile strikes me as brave.”

Your eyes wandered back up to his and he had a tender look in his eyes as he met your gaze. 

You didn’t believe in love at first sight. You didn’t believe in love at first fuck, either. Whatever this was, whatever was causing your pulse to thrum erratically under your skin when he looked at you like that had to just be simple infatuation. It would pass. And Robby should have known better because he was in his damn fifties. You tore your gaze from his and stared at the tree line stubbornly. 

“I think,” Robby said after a few moments of silence, “That it’s never too late to do anything. And the worst that could happen is you try again and it doesn’t work out. You’re no worse off than when you started. What’s the harm?”

Your ego, for one. Not to mention the couple of thousands of dollars it would cost to retake the MCATs, order your transcripts, pay for each school’s application fee. Money you didn’t have. 

You shook your head slightly and crawled back over to him, placing a hand on the back of his neck to pull his face to yours. You kissed him hungrily and the surprised moan he let out sent chills down your spine.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” You murmured and slipped your free hand underneath the waist band of his shorts.

You watched as his eyes rolled back into his head when you touched him, felt him begin to swell against your palm, “You can’t–” He let out a pained groan, “There’s only so many times… I’ll let you fuck me to get out of a difficult conversation…”

You hummed, “What I’m hearing,” You said, leaning close to his ear, “is that it’s working.”

He cursed and slipped a hand behind your back before deftly flipping you so that you laid flat on the blanket you had been sitting on just moments earlier. 

“I’ll fuck you as many times as you need,” He said roughly, “But we will be finishing this conversation later.”

You were smirking up at him smugly and you could tell it was pissing him off with the way his jaw clenched and he tilted his head above you. 

“Now, open your mouth,” He said, and pressed his thumb to your chin.

***

It went like that for a couple of days. Robby would try discussing med school, where did you apply, where would you want to go now, did you have a specialty in mind, you should volunteer at the Pitt, he could write you a letter of recommendation, he could help you study for the MCATS, and on and on and on. 

Every time you would get increasingly more agitated and your attempts to distract him with sex were becoming less and less effective which only served to piss you off more.

You had spent the day on a boat outing, drinking in the sun, Robby’s hands all over you whenever he thought nobody was looking. Filthy mouth in your ear whispering all the things he was going to do to you once you got back to the house. 

He had fulfilled those promises and now you were fucked out and tired from being in the sun all day. Also you were a little grumpy that the group had planned to go out for drinks that night at a local bar. All you really wanted was to curl back up into Robby in bed and listen to the lull of the AC and Robby’s voice as he read aloud from the novel he had brought with him.

But you were here to be with friends, not just Robby. And you really enjoyed the company of the others as well, having met them a couple of times after moving back to Pittsburgh. They were always so sweet and welcoming to you, never making you feel like an outsider, even when the envy seemed to overtake you when they began telling stories about med school rotations or their latest shift.

So now you and Robby were in the shower, about to begin the task of getting ready for a night out when he brought it up again.

“You know, I know one of the professors at UPitt, I could get you an introduction, maybe a coffee even–”

“Robby,” You said sharply, “I don’t know how many fucking times I have to tell you, I don’t want to talk about it. I’m not going to apply to med school again. I’ve moved on.”

“Yeah, to some dead end job at a biotech company that some giant corporation will probably buy out in a couple of years.” He said it offhandedly, like he genuinely didn’t think it would hurt you. He didn’t even look up as he said it, just continued lathering his legs up with soap.

“Wow,” You scoffed, “Didn’t realize you thought I was such a loser. Thanks for clearing that up.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, you thought perhaps realizing his mistake too late, “That’s not what I meant–”

“Well what the fuck did you mean, then, hm?” You stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around yourself, desperate to create space and distance, “Why don’t you just fucking admit it?”

He stared at you through the glass, perplexed, “Admit what?”

“That you won’t fucking want me when we get back to Pittsburgh and I continue to be some loser who works at a ‘dead end’ job?”

He shook his head, “That’s not what I’m saying at all. I don’t care what you do, what I care about is that you feel happy and fulfilled and I’ve seen enough doctors in my life to recognize the… hunger, the drive. The need to be needed, the desire to fix and heal. And I see it in you and you’re fucking wasting it.”

You scoffed and turned away, “You’re still talking like you know me, but we only really met a few days ago.”

“Okay, so, fuck, the last few days count for nothing then? I’ve spent nearly every goddamn minute with you since we got here. You think I don’t know you because you won’t talk to me, but you don’t have to say anything. I see the way you look at Samira. You love her, but there’s a sadness behind it, like you’re mourning something. I see the way you deflate around my residents when they talk shop in front of you, like a fucking kid left out at the lunch table. You’re not that fucking difficult to understand.”

You braced your hands on the bathroom sink, “It seems like all you’ve found out is that I’m insecure, not exactly the discovery of the century.”

You heard him scoff, “No, what I found out is that you’re so fucking scared of maybe being a little uncomfortable that you’d rather be miserable your whole life than try.”

“I’m not scared.” 

The shower turned off and you heard him get out, wrap a towel around his waist, “You are, kid, and it’s making a coward out of you.”

You shook your head and started throwing your products back into your makeup bag, “Fuck you.” You said quietly and stormed out of the bathroom.

“And now you’re acting like a child,” he said, following you into the bedroom, “instead of having an adult conversation.”

“You’re not trying to have a conversation, you’re just being a condescending asshole.” You grabbed the outfit you planned on wearing tonight and all your makeup, “I’m going to get ready elsewhere.”

He ran a hand over the back of his head in frustration, “Yeah, keep running from it,” He murmured, “I’m sure that’ll solve it.”

You bit the inside of your cheek and walked out of the room, towel wrapped around you and all your makeup and clothes clutched to your chest.

When you knocked on Samira’s door, Jack answered, frowning down at you, “Are you… okay?”

“Who is it, Jack?”

Jack let the door open fully and you saw Samira sitting on the ground in front of a floor to ceiling mirror, makeup brush in hand, “Oh. Hi.”

You took a deep breath, “Can I get ready in here?”

Samira smiled and scooted to the side to make room for you in front of the mirror and you brushed past Jack to sit with her.

“What happened?” Samira asked as you got settled next to her.

You frowned, “Nothing, I just wanted to get ready with you. Like we used to.” You inhaled sharply and clapped your hands together, “You know, maybe we should do shots.”

She was still smiling at you, but watching you carefully, “Come on, I know you.” She said softly, “It’s always been easy to see when you’re upset.”

You swallowed and glanced at her out of the corner of your eye, starting to dot your tinted moisturizer onto your face with fingers.

“Robby and I had a fight.” You said finally.

Samira nodded, “About?”

Slowly, you both turned to look at Jack who was seated at the edge of the bed on his phone, pretending not to eavesdrop.

He looked up when he felt you both staring at him, “What?” You both raised your eyebrows and he sighed, standing, “Fine, I’ll go, but I’m hurt that you don’t consider me one of the girls.”

Samira smirked, “If Robby wasn’t your best friend, I’d let you stay.”

Jack shook his head as he left the room, “That guy’s always ruining things for me.” 

You and Samira both turned back to the mirror, “Continue.” Samira said.

You sighed as you blended out the moisturizer with your beauty blender, “He kept pushing and pushing about med school and I told him I wasn’t going to apply again and he basically implied that I was a loser at a dead end job and wasting my life.”

Samira frowned, “Surely he didn’t say it like that?”

You blinked and watched her face in the mirror, “Does it matter how he said it?”

She didn’t say anything for a few moments and you scoffed, “Oh my God,” You said slowly, “You agree with him.”

Samira shook her head, “No, it’s not—“ She sighed, “I definitely don’t think that you’re a loser. And I don’t think that you’re wasting your life… If you’re happy, but you’re not. I know you’re not.”

You didn’t say anything, picked up your concealer and did your best to blink away the burning in your eyes. It was annoying and hurtful to hear from Robby, but from Samira, your best friend of almost ten years, it made you nauseous.

“I just, I remember how badly you wanted it once. It was all we talked about. And now it’s like you’ve convinced yourself you never actually wanted it because you don’t want to get hurt again.” Samira said gently, “But you could still do it. You can do anything.”

She sounded so earnest, you wanted to believe her.

You sniffled and blended out your concealer, “I’m really proud of you, you know. I know sometimes I seem jealous, but—“

“I know that,” Samira said quickly, smiling at you in the mirror, “If the roles were reversed I’d be the same way. It doesn’t make you a bad friend.”

You gave her a watery smile, “You’re a really great friend for putting up with me all these years.”

Samira laughed and gently tugged at her waterline to apply eyeliner, “Please, I wouldn’t have survived med school without you.” She stopped smudging the eyeliner and met your eyes, “And when you get into med school, I’ll do the same for you.”

You inhaled slowly and purposefully, “When,” You murmured softly.

And for the first time in a long time, you allowed the hope to bloom in your chest.

***

The bar was crowded and loud. The back of your hand was sticky from the lime and salt you had put there when you, Samira, Parker, and Trinity had done tequila shots. Javadi and Whitaker had had to drive back to Pittsburgh the day before, not able to get as many days off as the rest of you. Trevor had also headed out once you got back from the boating trip. He said he had work, but Samira had suspected he was just tired of watching you make out with Robby, which had gratified you a little bit.

“Another round?” Trinity asked, eyebrows raised.

“Slow your roll, Santos,” Parker put a hand on her shoulder, “I think we could do with a little break.”

“Robby’s been staring at you for the last twenty minutes.” Samira said, smirking. Robby was across the room behind you, you knew. Samira stood in front of you and could see him over your shoulder, “Why don’t you go talk to him?”

You had done about three or four tequila shots since arriving (you’d already lost count) and to say you were feeling it would be putting it mildly. You were starting to feel mildly apologetic for how you’d been handling your conversations with Robby the last couple of days, especially after talking to Samira earlier. But you weren’t ready to admit that yet. And, besides, you were having fun hanging out with the girls.

You shrugged your shoulders, “I’m having fun over here.”

Just then, the opening chords of Earth, Wind & Fire’s September started blaring through the speakers and you and Samira locked eyes.

“No way.” Samira giggled, shaking her head.

This song was very intrinsic to your friendship. It had played at a freshman orientation mixer and the two of you had been the only ones to sing along, embarrassingly loud and off key. It had bonded you. And from then on, it had become a siren song of sorts. Whenever you had been bickering (it was only natural after years of living together) one of you would play the song over the house speakers when you were ready to apologize. You had both been very studious in undergrad, but every so often after you turned twenty one, you could both be convinced to go out dancing and September was always requested of the DJ. So many of your happiest moments with Samira could be traced back to this song.

So you grabbed her hand, “Let’s go,” and dragged her to the dance floor.

Laughing, hands on each other’s shoulders, you danced badly and sang the lyrics loudly and ignored everyone else. You were often happiest when you were with Samira and the last couple of years back in California, you had forgotten that. She was your person, your lighthouse, the sister you never had, but always wanted. 

When the song was over, breathlessly and arms wrapped around each other still, you walked back over to Trinity and Parker. In your absence, Jack had joined them, sipping a whiskey and looked at both you and Samira with amusement on his face.

Samira detached from you as you got closer and slid into Jack’s arms instead. You watched as he pressed his mouth to her ear, whispering something only she could hear and the smile on her face widened.

With Jack here, you couldn’t help but wonder what Robby was up to now and turned your head towards the direction you last saw him. He was still there, leaning against the bar and sipping a drink–

But there was a woman next to him, now, smiling at him with her hand on his forearm. You were drunk, and so there was a part of your brain that registered whatever you were feeling watching another woman touching him was overblown. But it didn’t soothe the twisting feeling you felt in your chest when you saw him laugh at something she had said. And he hadn’t removed his arm from her touch. 

She was older than you, you could see that much. Probably around forty or so, someone more acceptable for him. Someone people wouldn’t look at and wonder if he was her father or not. She was gorgeous in a red dress that hugged her curves tightly and curly hair that fell past her shoulders. It was likely she had her life together, knew what she wanted to do with it and didn’t let childish insecurities get in the way. She probably knew how to be vulnerable with someone else without feeling like they were attacking her.

You couldn’t say how long you were staring before you heard Jack call your name. When you turned, he had a sympathetic look on his face, “Don’t let that get to you, alright?” He said, eyes following your gaze, “If you just go talk to him, he’s yours, I promise.”

Samira was still in his arms, her brow furrowed with worry as she watched you.

You looked back at Robby and the older woman and saw he had covered her hand on his forearm with his own, thumb stroking back and forth over her skin.

There was a roaring in your ears when you turned back to the table, “Mira, I think I’m gonna throw up.” You said as you braced your hands on the high top table you were all gathered around.

Immediately, you felt her hand on your back and she lowered her head until she met your gaze, “Do you want some ice?” You shook your head, no.

“You know what I would do if I were you?” Trinity said, tossing the ice from her now empty drink into her mouth.

“She’s about to give the most unhinged advice you’ve ever heard.” Samira said, sighing.

Trinity seemed unfazed by Samira’s criticism and barrelled ahead anyway, “I would go in the bathroom, take an awesome picture of my tits, and text it to him. He goes to check his phone: boom, breasts. Instant boner.” She shrugged, “It works on sapphic women, anyway.”

Parker nodded behind her, “Yeah, that would work on me.”

You blinked blankly at them and looked at Samira, who, frighteningly, was not shooting down the idea.

Jack sighed, “If you just talk to him instead of playing these games–”

“Girls,” You said, standing up straight, “Let’s take a trip to the bathroom.”

***

Robby was trying to make you jealous. He realized the immaturity of it, that he was resorting to tactics he suspected you would employ yourself, but he couldn’t help it. Something about you made him feel like a college kid again, pining after the prettiest sorority girl who wouldn’t give him the time of day. 

He just wanted to talk to you. He had pushed too hard, like he tended to do. Giving tough love for a situation that maybe required gentler hands and a more receptive headspace. He didn’t think what he said had been wrong, exactly, but maybe it had been a bit harsher than he intended. And he would apologize for that. Once you admitted he was right.

But in the meantime, he couldn’t stand by any longer watching you dance around drunk in a too short dress that cupped your breasts just right and left your bare back exposed to the humid August air.

The fact that the woman was older, more age appropriate perhaps, truly hadn’t even crossed his mind. He hadn't intended to hurt you when he indulged her flirting, just maybe make you a little territorial so that you’d finally stop pretending like he wasn’t in the same room as you.

When he felt his phone buzz in his pocket and pulled it out, he honestly thought it was probably someone at the Pitt, asking some obscure admin related question.

It was a number outside of his contacts and he frowned at that before swiping it open–

And being absolutely blown away by the sight of your tits on his screen. It looked like you had taken it in the bathroom, the straps from your dress pushed down your shoulders so the fabric pooled at your waist. Your nipples were hardened, likely from the cold air of the AC in the bathroom.

Underneath the picture you had typed: do you wanna lick them? also open to some light nibbling if ur in the mood

He barked out a laugh and locked his phone, cracking his neck from side to side as he turned his attention back to the woman in front of him, apologizing for the interruption. He would not be won over so easily, despite the way he felt the blood rushing south and between his legs at the thought of your tits in his mouth. 

He was tired of you using sex to avoid deep conversation. He hadn’t been sure what he wanted from you when he got here, but he had decided since that it was more than just fucking. He wouldn’t settle for just easing the ache between your legs whenever you felt like it.

A few moments later, his phone buzzed again. Robby wanted to ignore it. If you wanted him, you could come over here and say so. But in the end, you won, and he picked up his phone again.

I’m not wearing any panties.

He squeezed his eyes shut and sighed deeply as he locked his phone.

“Is everything alright?”

He opened his eyes and looked at the woman in front of him, “Yeah, sorry, I, uh–” He lifted his phone, “I just have to take care of something, would you excuse me?”

Robby was already walking towards where he last saw you before the woman could reply. You were still there, looking smug as you bit on the straw of a long empty drink and stared at him. When he got to you, he wordlessly took the drink from your hand, dropped it on the table, and then secured a hand around your wrist before he began walking again, you trailing behind.

Once outside the bar, he checked for people before backing you against the wall, relishing in your little gasp when your back hit the brick. He kissed you hard and with all the annoyance he felt, sucking your lower lip into his mouth and biting down until you yelped. He began to pull away, to see if he had actually hurt you, but before he could get more than a few centimeters away, you crashed your mouth back into his.

He palmed your breast through the fabric of your dress and sighed when he felt the peak of your nipple. He needed to know if you had been serious about not wearing panties. The dress was fairly short, and it was loose and flowy from your waist down, so it would have been quite the risk. 

Robby spread your legs with his knee before reaching one of his hands between your thighs and up your dress. You were soaked and there was not a scrap of fabric to be found. He groaned into your mouth as he ran a finger down your folds, sucking your whimpers into his mouth like oxygen. 

He was so enamored, he nearly forgot that he was absolutely under no circumstances supposed to be doing this until the two of you could have a real conversation–

It was like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over his head. That’s right, he wasn’t supposed to be doing this.

He pulled away from you so abruptly, that when your mouth moved to chase his, you leaned over so far you lost your balance and he had to steady you.

“Too much to drink?” He asked, hands on your arms to keep you upright.

“What the fuck?” You whined.

When he thought there was no longer any danger of you falling over, he leaned away and shoved his hands in his pockets, “I told you, there are only so many times I’ll allow you to use sex to avoid having an actual conversation.”

You pouted, “Then why did you come out here?”

He shrugged, “Temporary breach of sanity,” His eyes wandered down to your chest and he swallowed, “Provoked by a perfect pair of tits.”

You poked your tongue out between your teeth, “You think they’re perfect?”

He shook his head and rolled his eyes, “Is this all you want from me? Because if it is, I need to know now.”

You frowned, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Is this just fucking to you?” He gestured to the space between you, “Is that all I am, just a good fuck?”

You felt your cheeks heat, “I–I don’t know, isn’t that what you want?”

“No,” He shook his head, “No, I–” He ran a hand over the back of his head, “I think I want more than that. I want–I want you. All of you. Not just a piece.”

You crossed your arms over your chest and shook your head slightly, “What about that woman at the bar?”

“I was just trying to make you jealous.”

You worried your lower lip between your teeth, “But she’s older and probably better at this whole thing and won’t send you a picture of her tits instead of apologizing.” 

You said it all in a rush and he gave you a small smile, “There are worse ways to apologize.”

“It’s not funny, Robby, I’m not good at this,” You threw up your hands in exasperation, “You’re right, I avoid anything that’s difficult, anything I’m worried I’ll fail at and–” You blinked rapidly, your eyes glinting wet with unshed tears, “And I’m terrified of disappointing you.”

He tilted his head and took a step to you, reaching a hand out to gently cradle your cheek in his palm, “Sweetheart, as long as you’re actually trying, you’re never going to disappoint me.”

Your breathing wavered slightly and you turned your head to kiss his palm, “I want to go to med school.” You said softly. It was a small concession, not quite an apology, but close enough.

“I know.” He pulled you to his chest and kissed the top of your head. His hands slid to either side of your neck and he tilted your head up so he could kiss you properly, the taste of tequila still on your tongue, “You ready to go back inside?”

You nodded and let him lead you back by the hand, smiling to yourself when his thumb stroked reassuring circles on the back of your hand. He kept a hand on you, whether it was on your hand, arm, hip, or thigh, for the rest of the night. The woman at the bar looked a bit miffed when she finally left, but Robby didn’t notice. He was too busy watching you.

***

The humidity was suffocating as you packed your bags in the back of your Yaris. You were dripping with sweat just from the walk from the house to the car. It was likely even hotter in Pittsburgh, a thought that had you second guessing why you had left Los Angeles in the first place. It may have been a desert, but at least it didn’t feel like you were drowning when you were outside.

“You got everything?” Robby came up behind you as you were closing your trunk, hands settling on your hips.

“Yep,” You spun in his arms once the trunk was shut. His face was red from the heat as well, skin damp with sweat, “You?”

“Think I’m just missing my… What do the kids call it? Passenger princess?” He leaned into you and pressed kisses to the side of your neck, making you giggle and push him away when he playfully bit the sensitive skin there.

“I told you,” You laughed, “I’m driving my own car.”

“Baby, it’s gonna be so loud with that useless muffler. You’re gonna hate it. Just let me call someone to tow it–”

“No,” You shook your head adamantly, “Thank you for offering, but no thank you.”

He sighed, “What if I said I just don’t want to drive back to Pittsburgh by myself?”

You smiled and kissed him. You didn’t think you’d ever tire of the taste of him, the feel of his beard against your skin, “We have plans to see each other two days from now. Aren’t you sick of me?”

He shook his head, “Not even close.” He kissed your forehead, “But, fine. Enjoy your drive, don’t come crying to me for an ENT referral when you rupture your eardrums.”

You laughed as he turned away from you, “That’s a bit dramatic, I think.”

He only shrugged as he headed to his own car and you headed to your driver’s side. Sliding into the hot seat, you put your key in the ignition and turned– There was a whine from the car, but no turnover. Frowning, you tried again. And again. And–

“Oh no,” Robby opened your driver’s side, “Looks like your car won’t start.”

You turned to scowl at him, “Did you do this?”

He laughed, “Of course not. But I can’t say I’m not a little pleased.”

You leaned your head against the steering wheel, “I can’t afford this.” You murmured. And it was true. Even after working at the new job for a while, you were still regaining your footing from all the moving costs.

“It’s probably just a dead battery or bad alternator. I’ll fix it when we get back.”

You looked up at him, “That’s too much.”

But he was already shaking his head, “I like doing it. Both working with cars and helping you. Now get in my car, please, so we can go home.”

It was strange, this feeling you got now when looking at him. When he was kind and generous with you, but had no ulterior motive. You had never met anyone like him. It had only been a week, and you had never been in love before, but you thought this must be what it felt like. When you were just on the precipice of it.

You got out of your car and rose on your toes to kiss him, “Thank you,” You whispered in his mouth.

“Get a room,” Jack teased as he walked outside, Samira in tow.

When you saw her you broke from Robby and went to wrap her up in a hug instead, “Thank you for inviting me, Mira.” You said into her shoulder.

Her arms tightened around you, “I’m just glad to have you back on the east coast.” She looked over your shoulder towards Robby, “And I’m glad that I’m such a good matchmaker.”

You laughed, “Yeah, if he’s ever mean to you again, you let me know.” 

“Oh, don’t worry,” She pulled away, “You’re on speed dial.”

Robby kept a hand on your thigh for most of the ride back to Pittsburgh, stroking a soothing pattern with his thumb until you were half asleep. The subtle smell of cherries was in his nose the entire drive back and when he occasionally looked back over at you, asleep in his passenger seat, he thought he finally understood what Jack had said to him when he started dating Samira.

It’s like I’ve been asleep at the wheel and she took it from my hands. I don’t wonder why I keep going anymore, I know it’s because she’s keeping me from veering off the road.

He certainly was no expert at relationships, but you made him want to try if it meant it would extend this feeling in his chest when he looked at you. Like everything would be okay as long as you were happy and breathing next to him.

“Is it unsaid if you say it?” Robby jokes with narrowed eyes and a crooked grin, half hidden behind the heavy scruff of his greying beard.

Your gloves get thrown out next, followed by the paper mask, which reveals the shy smile you wear beneath it. “Well, then, I guess I told you so,” you quip and fall into step with the man as you make a beeline for the hand sanitizer mounted on the wall.

Robby exhales a deep sigh. “Yeah, remind me to listen to you next time…”

“Just remember that smell in there, Robinavitch,” you shrug, lifting your hand to let the cool foam spit into your palm. You swipe your hands together and smile wider when your words make the older man wince. “You know, for the next time you’re being stubborn and refusing to listen to me.”

He nods once, with a lopsided grin and a soft look in his dark eyes. “Yes, ma’am—”

“Sorry to interrupt, lovebirds,” Dana croons in a gritty lilt as she saunters towards the two of you. Her clear glasses sit low on her narrow nose as she peers up at Robby. “Garcia’s lookin’ for you in Central 20. I don’t know what you did, Robinavitch, but she looked pissed.”

Robby’s chest deflates with a heavy breath — like a man who knows exactly what he did.

“Doesn’t she always?” he huffs lowly and turns on the heel of his worn sneaker to walk away.

Dana watches him go for a moment before her light eyes dart back to yours. Something mischievous swims in the deep blue of them that makes you brace yourself for her next words.

“What were the two of you talkin’ about over here?” she wonders lowly, deep voice raspy from decades of chainsmoking.

“Mr. Harvey’s necrotising fasciitis,” you tell her plainly, ‘cause you’re pretty sure she already knows the real answer. You hear the woman grimace as you walk with her the short distance to the work station. “The intertrigo caused the skin to erode under the folds of his stomach, and he didn’t realize until it started to smell, so… We’ve digging maggots out of the wounds for the past half hour. Give or take.”

“I’m sorry— Digging what?”

A feminine, vaguely familiar voice stops you in your tracks.

Your head snaps to where Nurse Noelle Hastings sits at the work desk; donned in her usual navy pantsuit and high ponytail, and clutching the tablet she carries around like another limb. She’s a longtime veteran of the PTMC but a newer edition to the emergency department, after Gloria banished her to Floor A to help manage patient flow and subsequent overcrowding. The attendings know her best — Robby most of all. The rest of you are still getting used to her unwavering presence.

You open your mouth to answer her.

Javadi beats you to the punch.

“Please, don’t…” the young girl blurts from the other side of the station, with a noticeable tremor in her soft voice. She slouches at the charting desk and struggles to recover from the sight in Central 8, which has since drained the color from her otherwise rich skin. (Med school can only prepare her for so much, turns out.)

She shrinks at the confused looks she gets in response. “Sorry. I just… I already can’t get the sight out of my head… Or the smell… And if I have to hear that word again, I’m scared I might actually puke.”

Dana meets the younger girl’s doe-eyed frown with a sympathetic grin. “Don’t sweat it, kid. You’ll get used to it. Eventually…”

“Oh, god— I hope not…” she wavers.

“We just have to get through a couple more hours, Crash…” Santos huffs from the adjoining desk, green eyes zeroed in on the computer screen ahead of her. “And then we’re all home free…”

“It’s barely noon,” Javadi squints.

Santos’ remaining optimism ebbs on an exhaled breath. “Yeah, don’t remind me…”

“I bet you’re excited,” Dana quips.

Her words don’t fully compute until you feel her elbow nudge your arm. You blink hard and turn away from the overhead monitor, watching her walk away with a confused look twisting your features. You scramble to follow her the short distance to the desk.

“About what?”

“You know what,” the older woman scoffs, bending slightly at the waist to log onto the desktop before her. “You’re about to leave us for three months.”

Nurse Hastings’ dark eyes follow you as you take the monitor on Dana’s other side. Her plush lips curl into a soft smile as she props her sun-kissed fist against his jaw. “I knew you had that pre-vacation glow about you, Doc…” she croons.

“Well, it’s… It’s not a vacation,” you correct with an awkward laugh, stammering hopelessly over yourself. “I’m just doing some research for my PhD— on traditional birth practices and reproductive health disparities in rural areas, so… I’ll just be studying the whole time. It’s not as fun as it sounds, I promise.”

“I think you keep saying that to make me feel less jealous,” Dana quips.

“Is it working?” you joke.

“Not really…”

“Am I missing something here?” Hastings wonders aloud, eyes darting back and forth between the two of you. She props her elbows on the desk and leans forward in her swivel chair when she gets the hint that there’s some sort of inside joke that she’s not in on.

“Robby’s going on his sabbatical for nine weeks, right?” Dana responds without taking her eyes off the screen ahead of her. Rogue strands of platinum blonde hair fall over her temples as she nods her head towards you. “And this one over here, put in her notice for eight weeks just to keep us off their scent.”

“And it would’ve worked if it weren’t for you meddling kids,” you joke drily, despite the way your face flares with misplaced embarrassment.

It wasn’t like your relationship with Robby was some deeply-held secret; you just didn’t go around parading it — and people finding out that the two of you were going away at the same time for three months straight felt like nothing short of parading.

So, when asked, you told everyone that the hospital was paying for your research fellowship, and that it was an opportunity you’d be an idiot to throw away. Robby’s leaving was just a happy coincidence, and certainly not strategically planned months beforehand.

“You’re going with Motorcycle Mike on his sabbatical,” Hastings presses, deep voice low like honey, and dark eyes wide like the notion surprises her. “Just the two of you? All alone for three months?”

The simple question takes you by surprise — her glaring use of his first name even more so. You rarely ever hear anybody calling him Michael, least of all Mike. Hell, you don’t even know if you’ve ever called him by his first name, and you’ve been dating him for the better part of a year. Something about it puts a strange, sick feeling in the pit of your stomach.

“Is that… Is that crazy?” you wonder with an awkward chuckle.

Noelle doesn’t say anything for several moments. Her brown eyes just flit up to Dana’s bluer ones, as they share a long look of telepathic communication. Your trembling smile ebbs accordingly.

“Oh, god, you do think it’s crazy, don’t you?”

“No! Not at all,” the woman blurts, ponytail swinging behind her as she shakes her head, perhaps a little too rapidly to be genuine. Her lips curl into a tender smile as she bounces a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “I’ve just… I’ve known Dr. Robby almost as long as you been alive, and…”

Her pretty grin turns into a faint grimace.

You lean forward in your seat as the woman trails off. “And?”

“Well, he’s… He’s always been known for his seven-week itch thing, you know?” Noelle murmurs with a scrunched nose. “He never learned how to settle down— I’m pretty sure that’s the exact reason he went into emergency medicine in the first place.”

“Amen to that,” Dana murmurs drily, still without looking up from her computer.

“Trust me, there is nothing an avoidant attachment man like that craves more than a profession with new faces every day, and a bunch of chaos that means he never has to be alone with his thoughts,” Noelle rambles, talking with her hands — a rich caramel color, painted with nude-pink polish. “I mean, the man sleeps with the TV on in his bedroom for chrissakes.”

She laughs like it’s funny. Like her words haven’t put a leaden weight the size of a small country in the pit of your stomach

You feel a little like Javadi right now, far closer to puking than you’d like to admit, though you’re not entirely sure why.

Because, of course, she knows certain things about Robby — she’s known him a lot longer than you have, which has undoubtedly given her ample opportunity to study the man’s many, many idiosyncrasies. Her knowing such intimate details about him shouldn’t bother you as much as it does, ‘cause it wasn’t like either of you had been completely celibate before you found each other.

You just thought you had more time, that’s all — more time to get to know him, to learn him outside the constant chaos of the Pitt. That’s why you were going away for three months together after all. But, if Robby really can’t stand the quiet like Nurse Hastings’ expert opinion claims then, by the end of it, he’ll have certainly fallen out of love with you. His seven-week itch thing will have prevailed, and Robby will inevitably go on to find a new favorite resident, or fall back into old habits with Noelle, as it were.

The thought of leaving now frightens you, where it once was the only thing holding you together.

Dana’s face twists like she’s tasted something sour.

“I’m not even gonna ask how you know that, Hastings…” she mutters, plucking a sheet of paper from the printer at her side and spinning on her heel to deliver it elsewhere.

“I’ve known the man for twenty years, Evans— I’ve learned a thing or two about him over the years, believe it or not,” the woman scoffs and rises from her chair with her iPad in tow.

Only then does she seem to notice your silence, and how your features are now weighed down by something much more pensive. Her dark hair falls around her jaw as she smiles down at you.

“Hey, don’t listen to me, alright? Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe Mike has changed— Maybe three months outside of here is exactly what he needs,” Noelle shrugs with a warm, tight-lipped grin that glitters mostly in her brown eyes. “Let’s just hope he finds what he’s looking for out there, right?”

She dismisses herself with a nod and a silent smile. Her dark hair and navy pantsuit flows behind her as she goes. You watch her leave and forget to blink until she’s turned the corner.

You’re not sure what she means — you don’t know what exactly Robby’s ‘looking for out there,’ in truth. You’d hoped that, maybe, it was you — that the point of leaving was to rediscover each other outside of the chaos you’ve framed your lives around. Now the thought of that scares you.

The absence of that chaos, and Robby ultimately realizing that he can’t love you without it, terrifies you.

Noelle’s words stick with you longer after she’s gone; long after she’s probably forgotten she’d even said them to you. You’re left ruminating to the point of futility — your charting goes undone as your anxious hands busy themselves with picking at the delicate skin of your thumb instead. You’re too far in your own head to realize how red and raging the skin has gone from the merciless assault, almost to the point of drawing blood.

The only thing that saves you from drowning in the riptide of unforgiving thought is the sudden scent of Robby’s familiar cologne, and the sudden warmth of his body as he kneels beside your desk to tie his shoes.

A grunt sounds quietly in the back of his throat on his way down. He loosens the already tied laces of his tattered sneakers with a pair of quick hands, then knots them again much more slowly. It’s always been his foolproof way of getting a moment to breathe, of giving himself a second to be close to you.

“You okay?” he asks without looking at you.

It takes you a second too long to respond as you blink the haze of contemplation away. “Yeah,” you answer, in a voice too high to be genuine. “Why?”

Robby’s fingers still on his laces as he tilts his scruffy chin to peer up at you. His chocolate-colored eyes glimmer with something mischievous that makes your swirling stomach do a backflip.

“You’re doing the thing,” he says with a soft smile, nodding to your hands.

“No, I’m not,” you mutter, despite the obvious, and bring your fingers to your lap to hide the evidence of your picking under the desk.

Robby laughs under his breath, shaking his head as he turns back to finish knotting his laces. “C’mon. Take a break.”

“I’m fine,” you tell him. “I swear. I just— I got distracted—”

“I’m not asking,” he says, stern in his way, but always very soft with you.

He braces his right hand on the edge of the desk to stand up straight again. You don’t realize until then that he’s got something curled inside his palm, which he leaves for you on the gray laminate surface as he goes — a plain white keycard, reserved for the on-call room.

Your wide eyes dart between it and the man now towering over you.

“Give me ten minutes, yeah?” he murmurs lowly, hardly audible over the noisy emergency department.

He leaves with a crooked grin and very little room for argument.

You’re left with a heavy pit in your stomach for a reason you can’t name.

The on-call room escapades used to excite you. They used to be the only way you could get through your grueling shifts, knowing that you’d get ten minutes alone with Robby — twenty, if you were real lucky — that would find you like a shot of espresso or a second wind. But now the thought of it makes you feel sort of sick.

Now you think maybe you and Robby have only survived his seven-week itch thing because the relationship still feels so new. He couldn’t get bored with you because the job was too demanding to let him. So what’s going to happen when the work is gone, and he’s stuck with you and only you for three months straight?

You don’t let yourself think about the answer.

You spend the next ten minutes having to physically shake your head to dismiss the cynical train of thought, until you inevitably leave to find Robby in the on-call room.

The keycard buzzes against the sensor. A crack of blue-white light from the hallway pervades the dimly lit room, before it inevitably returns to a lamplit darkness when the door clicks shut behind you. Robby wastes little time closing the distance between you, swaddling you in his strong arms and sweet-smelling cologne.

“Missed you,” he says as he smooths his calloused palms over your cheeks.

“It’s only been an hour,” you scoff, half shy.

“Yeah, tell me about it…”

His voice is low and smoother than honey, trailing off as he ducks down to kiss you, keeping you in place with his wide hands on either side of your jaw. His scruff brushes your delicate skin; his broad nose smushes into the side of yours. He tastes like a mixture of coffee and spearmint and toothpaste and home. But your mind is too preoccupied to melt into the familiarity of his languid kiss.

Robby notices almost immediately.

He can feel how stiff you are beneath him, when you would otherwise dissolve in his hands like sugar into tea. Your mouths click faintly when he parts from you, sporting a pensive twist to his weathered features — brows lowered and dark eyes darting back and forth between both of yours.

“You okay?”

You nod, too quickly to be casual. “Yeah,” you chirp. “I’m fine. Why?”

“Nothing,” Robby shrugs with an awkward chuckle. “You’re just… Your hands are just hangin’ there— like you’re kissing a total stranger or something.”

Only then do you realize that your trembling fingers are curled into fists at your sides. Your dull nails bite into the skin of your palm, like your body subconsciously longs for the distant stinging there, to relieve your mind from its never-ending turmoil.

“Oh. Shit. Sorry,” you stammer and bring your trembling hands to his broad shoulders. Your fingers fidget hopelessly over the fabric of his black scrubs despite yourself, unsure of what to do with them, and feeling very suddenly uncomfortable in your body.

Your sudden diffidence only worries him further.

“Hey… What’s wrong?” Robby coos, taking your anxious hands in his larger, warmer ones and ducking to meet your gaze when you look away. He meets your timid look with a softer smile. “And don’t say nothing, alright? Just tell me. I can’t help if you don’t tell me.”

You sigh hard through your nose and decide to be honest. Your anxieties leave your mouth in a single breath. “Me and Dana were talking about our trip, and Nurse Hastings overheard, and she made it seem like it was this totally crazy thing to do, because apparently you have this seven-week itch thing—”

Robby cuts you off with a quiet scoff. His lip twitches into an emotionless grin as he shakes his head. “Oh, god, she’s still on that?” he groans, dropping your hands to run his palms over his face.

Your brows pinch. “Wait— What do you mean still?”

“We used to— We used to have this… thing. A long time ago,” Robby confesses, running his hands up to swipe his fingers through his short brown locks. His bushy brows bounce as he exhales another humorless laugh. “And it never lasted longer than a couple months at a time because she was always sticking her nose where it didn’t belong—”

He exhales a heavy sigh and grimaces at himself when the words come out too mean. He scratches at the back of his neck, fidgeting just like you had been, made equally uneasy in his own anxieties.

“Sorry, I… I didn’t mean that,” he huffs. He gestures wildly with his hands as he rambles before you can get another word in edgewise. “She’s a good person, I just— I was going through a tough time when we were together, but I’m different now, and we’ve been together a lot longer than seven weeks, right?”

He waits for an immediate affirmative from you, an acquiescence, a reassurance.

Instead, all he gets is a pair of wet eyes that struggle to meet his unwavering stare. “I mean… I guess so, but—”

“But what?” he presses, more firmly than he means to.

“I was just thinking about what she said, you know, and… What if she was right?” you shrug, wringing your clammy hands into a knot. “I mean, look at us— the secret meetings, the sneaking around, the coded flirting in front of our friends?”

“Yeah, I’m not following.” Robby shakes his head, crossing his strong arms over his chest. His biceps strain against the green sleeves of his undershirt, now pushed up to his elbows.

“I just— I started to worry that… Maybe we only made it past the whole seven-week itch thing because everything still feels so new,” you confess, struggling to meet his eyes. “Maybe we’ve both just been so busy that you haven’t been able to get bored of me yet, you know? And I’m… I’m worried that if we go on this trip, you’ll realize that you are bored, and that you do want something new—”

“Why are you saying this?” Robby blurts, weathered features pinched into a pained look. “Where is this coming from? We’ve been doing just fine, and now you wanna— pour all this shit on me? Right before we’re about to leave?”

A searing feeling tears your chest in two at his glaring lack of sympathy, his inability to see where you’re coming from.

“You have a history, Robby! Everybody knows it!” you tell him, frowning deeper when he only scoffs in response. “Why would I be special enough to be treated any differently from your other girlfriends— or Nurse Hastings—”

“Oh, my God!” the man groans, laughing drily to himself. He shakes his head and turns on his heel, pacing the short distance in the opposite direction.“That’s what this is about? Noelle? I haven’t been with her in years if that’s what you’re worried about—”

“I’m worried—” you spit through gritted teeth, blinking back the tears that sting at the backs of your eyes. “—That if you could get bored with someone like her, why would I be the exception?”

“Because we love each other,” Robby shouts, a little louder than intended.

Your breath catches at his words.

It’s the first time he’s ever said them to you, ever used that word in front of you. But his voice is coated in a lot more vitriol than you’d expect, or otherwise want from someone saying they love you for the very first time out loud.

He softens when you flinch, but only slightly. He sighs hard through his nose and props his hands on his waist. “I mean… Do you even wanna go with me anymore? To the cabin?”

He holds his breath in the several moments it takes you to respond.

You swallow hard, averting your gaze to your hands, where you pick at the side of your aching thumb once more. In a fragile voice, coated with unshed tears, you tell him, “I just… I think that maybe… Maybe some space would do us some good, you know? So we can figure out what we want…”

It takes you a long moment to get the courage to look at him again. When your wet eyes finally meet his gaze, you find him wearing a foreign look of anger that makes you shrink like a scolded child.

“That’s bullshit,” Robby scoffs with a cynical smile that makes your chest ache. He shakes his head and walks past you for the door, arguing as he goes. “You’re the one who doesn’t know what you want, but I’m the one with commitment issues, right? That’s just… That’s rich, sweetheart.”

He yanks the door open with an aggressive hand and doesn’t look back at you once before it closes firmly behind him.

You think the universe must be trying to punish you in some way.

The afternoon rush prevents you from getting another glimpse of Robby after the argument in the on-call room, let alone another chance to have a conversation with him.

While you’re reeling from what feels like a breakup, you perform an emergency escharotomy on a burn victim that’s unlikely to survive the night, and walk the newer residents through a thoracotomy on a GSW to the lung. (Ogilvie learns the hard way that you can open up a chest cavity as easily as lifting the hood of a car.) It forces you to realize that life still goes on, even when it feels like your own little world has ended.

An eight-year-old girl named Marisol comes in with a TBI after a fall on the playground. Her pupils are dilated and unequal; her speech is slurred and unintelligible; she slips in and out of consciousness while you examine her. You realize that there must be a herniation in her brain and tell Nurse Jesse to page the O.R. accordingly. He tells you, with the phone still pressed to his ear, that there are no beds open upstairs.

In a crowd of nurses and R1’s, you’re left performing the decompressive craniotomy on your own — a “burr hole,” as it were, which you had only done once in med school. You fight through the distant panic and struggle to find your footing in your very sudden place of authority.

Robby, meanwhile, perks at the sight of chaos in the trauma room you’re in. He sneaks in through the glass door without you noticing and lingers at the very back of the crowded room. His distant anger slips from his body as he watches you work.

“Alright. Epicranium prep and drape— Sterile gowns all around,” you command. “We have to work fast here, folks.”

Joy helps dress you in your gloves, gown, and mask. Jesse preps the instrument table with the needed supplies, sterilizing the young girl’s olive skin while you slip the safety glasses over your eyes. They threaten to slip down your nose as you reach for the scalpel. You learned early on in your career not to let the commotion of the E.R. distract you, so you don’t even flinch when Nurse Hastings bursts suddenly into the room.

“This was our insurance transfer!” the woman exclaims. “She wasn’t supposed to leave the lobby— We’re still waiting for the paperwork from Westbridge to take her—”

“If I don’t do this right now, it’s not a question of if she will die—” You tell her in a strangely even voice, dragging the sharp blade down the girl’s temple with an equally steady hand. “—It’s when.”

You pass the bloody scalpel off to Jesse at your side, who replaces it with a mini drill in your gloved hand. The bit whirs loudly when turned on. Noelle shouts over it. “Her family’s insurance is with Westbridge, Doctor, so she needs to be treated at Westbridge—”

“Nurse Hastings, please let my resident do her job,” Robby snaps over the surrounding chaos. You freeze in place, not realizing he had been in the room until that very moment. The drill bit stills when it reaches the dura mater, too, as if it were a manifestation of your own shock. “You’re the case manager, so manage the damn case— In the meantime, we’re trying to save a life here. So if you're not here to help, you can see yourself out.”

Your eyes dart wildly between the two of them over the lenses of your glasses in the interim silence.

Noelle caves with a huff, slipping back through the door with a slow nod and typing wildly at the tablet cradled in her left arm.

You drain the fluid from the young girl’s brain without further interruption.

She’s awake and alert an hour later.

You, meanwhile, are still struggling to regain consciousness after the aftermath pushes you into a state of derealization. You peer up at the overhead monitor and struggle to free your mind from its sudden dreamlike disposition. It takes you several long moments to realize that Robby is standing next to you. He doesn’t say a word as he lingers at your side — he just stands there, a few inches away, in a silent reminder that he’s still there for you.

His presence finds you like a breath of fresh air.

“Did I do the right thing?” you wonder suddenly, so quiet he almost doesn’t catch it over the bustling E.R.

“Of course, you did,” Robby scoffs without a second thought, like it’s obvious to him. He folds his arms over his chest and nods to the trauma room behind you, where a smiling Marisol lies in bed between both of her parents. “That little girl in there is alive because of you. Because you did your job. Now Hastings can do hers.”

You nod slowly. Your first good breath all afternoon leaves your mouth in a heavy sigh. Without looking at the man beside you, you mutter, “Thank you for sticking up for me back there, by the way…”

“You’re my resident. That’s what I do,” Robby shrugs, then hisses through his teeth. “Plus, I’m kinda in love with you, turns out, so… I’m always gonna stick up for you. Even when you’re pissed at me.”

Your head swivels slowly on your shoulder to face the man. You find him already looking down at you, with something playful glinting in his dark eyes. You give him a shy smile in response and tell him, “I’m not pissed at you, Robby.”

“Good,” he chirps. “‘Cause I’m not pissed at you, either… I just— I think we have a lot to talk about…”

Your heart sinks.

“Do we?” you press tentatively.

“Oh, yeah,” he drawls with a slow nod that borders on playful. There’s a faux-solemn pinch to his features, too, as he jokes, “I think it’ll take us the next, say… Eight to nine weeks to hash it out. Give or two.”

Your smile returns. You try hopelessly to purse it to the side of your mouth, a feeble attempt to dim its brightness. “That’s so crazy— My schedule’s cleared for those exact days.”

“Really?” Robby hums, brows raised to his forehead. “What a coincidence.”

“I know, right?” you squint.

“I actually have a cabin we could stay at, not far from here— Just a quick drive up to Montana.” He chucks his thumb over his shoulder, like the cabin in question is up the road, and not a day’s drive halfway across the country.

“I think I’d like that, Dr. Robby,” you say with an airy giggle that fills the E.R. with sunshine.

The tension from before falls off of you like drops of summer rain — not gone, not entirely, just a little less heavy than before; and a lot less like the end of the world.

You somehow manage not to get totally sick of each other on the twenty-six-hour trip to Montana.

You make it there in record time — fueled by fast food burgers, minimal conversation, and a shared playlist that filled the bulk of the long drive. It’s past midnight when you arrive at the ancient cabin sitting high on a hill, blanketed by a sea of evergreen trees, and overlooking a small lake that sparkles a dark silver in the moonlight.

You step out of the car for the first time in several hours, stretching your aching limbs and cracking your taut spine. When your feet hit the aged pavement, you realize that you’re officially the furthest from the PTMC you’ve ever been, both in the literal and figurative sense — the notion both stresses and soothes you.

Inevitably, a part of you is distantly terrified that there’s an emergency at the Pitt at this very moment that’s requiring all hands on deck, and now they’re down two doctors. But the more logical side of you finds that it’s near impossible to truly worry about the work when you’re a time zone or more away from it all, unable to swoop in and help even if you wanted to.

You’re pretty sure this is the first time you’ve been able to turn your ringer off in years, ‘cause you’re always not-so-distantly waiting for an emergency call to summon you back to the E.R. Your phone is off for the first time in a long time, somewhere hidden inside the bags Robby carries in from the car.

“How long has it been since you’ve been here?” you wonder aloud from where you stand further inside the living room, admiring the high ceilings that make your voice echo slightly. Everything smells like the old wood that makes up the walls, and the distant smell of cigar smoke that seems to be stained on the furniture and the ornate rug beneath your feet.

“God, I don’t know…” Robby says on a long exhale as he drops your suitcases in the entryway with a heavy thud, only partially regretting his refusal to let you help. He slides his backpack off the shoulder of his brown jacket and shrugs. “Five— Six years, maybe?”

“That’s a long time…” you murmur quietly, scanning the knick-knacks collecting dust on the mantle, each of them likely older than you are.

There’s a golden frame sat between a snow globe and a wooden bear; a blurry photograph of a much younger Michael Robinavitch, smiling behind a candlelit birthday cake from many, many decades ago. You find yourself smiling back at the strange boy, looking much different than the one standing across from you now, but still familiar in all the ways that matter.

“I know…” he nods beneath the sound of his heavy boots thudding against the aged carpet. You feel his warmth towering behind you when he swipes a hand over the mantle, removing dust from the aged wood and flicking it from his fingertips. “That’s why I have the neighbors come by every once in a while to make sure no one’s robbed the place— or worse, been overrun by raccoons.”

You spin in place to face him, wearing a sheepish glint in your eyes as you peer up at him from beneath your lashes. “Can I ask you a silly question?” you wonder shyly, wringing your hands together.

“Hit me,” Robby nods, brows perked in intrigue.

“Have you ever… brought other girls here?”

You regret the question right after you ask it, ‘cause you’re not entirely sure you want to know the answer. You shrink inside yourself at the smile that curls slowly on Robby’s mouth beneath his greying beard.

“I’ve never brought anyone here,” he tells you, dark eyes swimming with a chocolate-colored sincerity. “Never had the time. Never made the time.”

“So you’re saying I’m special, then?” you quip, smoothing your hands over the zipper of the man’s heavy corduroy jacket until your arms curl loosely around his neck.

Robby nods once and splays his wide hands on your waist when your chest is flush against his. “Yeah, actually. That’s exactly what I’m saying—”

He gives you a brief tour, which consists mainly of him showing you various rooms and stating the obvious — “This is the kitchen. That’s the laundry room.” “Yes, Robby, I have eyes.” You notice that he’s not too keen on going too much into detail about his past and how it exists within the walls of this ancient cabin. You don’t press the subject now, not after two days of non-stop driving, but you make it your personal mission to get him to open up about it all before the sabbatical’s over.

The first time you part in three days is to take a quick shower, and to wash the remnants of the long trip from your tired bodies. The guest bathroom is narrow and adorned with green-yellow patterned tiles, like something straight out of a 1970s catalogue. While Robby finishes up in the upstairs bathroom, you create a mini-sanctuary out of the study, where you’ll undoubtedly spend most hours of your days.

You settle onto the plush leather sofa, so sunken in that it feels like it might swallow you whole, with your laptop propped on your bare thighs. Your oversized tee rides up to your hips from where your legs are crossed beneath you; the loose collar is slightly damp from your still-drying hair.

The computer screen bathes the dim room in a blue-white glow that contrasts sharply with the soft orange lamp on the desk by the window. The decor here, much like the rest of the cabin, is very obviously dated — having likely not been redone since sometime in the seventies. You find a strange comfort in the archaic color scheme, a mixture of bright greens and sunflower yellows and golden oranges, and in the distant scent of cigarette smoke and sunscreen stained on all the furniture.

“I thought we agreed you were gonna take the night off.”

Your heart lurches at the sudden sound of Robby’s voice as he passes through the opened doorway, now clad in a baggy white tee and a pair of grey sweatpants that sit low on his hips. He swipes a hand through his wild, wet hair and brings a waft of sea salt and creamy vanilla in with him as he goes.

Your head snaps in his direction, eyes widening behind the glasses perched on the bridge of your nose. It takes you several long moments to put yourself back in the real world after so long spent staring at the laptop screen ahead of you.

“This is me taking the night off,” you sigh and turn away to glance at the notes piled on the cushion beside you, which all look like gibberish to you now. “‘Cause I’m not actually writing anything, so…”

“How’s it coming along?” he wonders aloud, bare feet padding across the plush green carpet.

“Slowly…” you huff. “Very, very slowly.”

“Well, you still have plenty of time to figure it out, right?”

Robby drops gingerly onto the couch beside you, fitting his body in the long curve of the ancient sectional. He rests his heavy head on your outer thigh. You instinctively tilt the laptop to make room for him there, swiping your fingers through his damp, silky brown hair like it’s muscle memory to you.

“That almost sounds like a metaphor for something,” you quip.

Robby scoffs a tired laugh. “That wasn’t intentional, but… I guess it kinda is. In a way.”

His coarse scruff brushes your delicate skin when he tilts his head to look at you. He finds you’re already staring at him when his dark eyes lock with your softer ones.

“I’m sorry, by the way,” you murmur, scratching gently at the crown of his head. “For not talking to you after I talked to Hastings. I shouldn’t have just assumed—”

“It’s okay,” Robby assures with a quiet smile and a shake of his head. He props his scruffy cheek on one hand while his other curls warm around the bend of your knee, tracing shapes on your plush skin with his thumb. “I should’ve let you talk about it before storming out like an asshole, so… I’m sorry, too.”

“Wow…” you drawl sarcastically, lips curling into a slow smile. “Look at us. Being adults.”

“Yeah,” he scoffs. “Seven-week itch, my ass.”

The leather sofa squeaks under his weight as he shifts beside you. You duck down to meet him halfway when he attempts to close the distance between you. The chaste kiss he presses to your mouth tastes like mouthwash and the scent of shower gel blanketing the two of you. You kiss him once, then twice, then a third more languid time when he proves impossible to pull away from.

You slide the laptop from your thigh with the hand not cradling the back of his head, and pay no mind when it hits the well-organized notes beside you with a quiet thud. Robby’s fingers hold tighter to the plush skin of your thigh when you lick into his mouth, with a pink tongue softer than velvet as it ruts against his own. His free hand, still propping his weight on the sunken sofa, curls into a tight fist that trembles with the urge to hold you.

He sighs hard through his broad nose, reveling in the taste of you. The warm breath fans across your cupid’s bow. Yours hitches in a gasped breath a second later when his fingers creep between your inner thighs, knuckles brushing gently over the delicate bump behind your cotton underwear.

You feel his lips curling into a smile right before he pulls away from you. You slouch against the sofa with his scruffy face between your palms, grinning despite yourself at the mischievous look glimmering on the older man’s features.

“Are we getting into this now?” you joke, very visibly giddy.

“I think so,” Robby nods as his hand creeps closer towards the hem of your underwear. His fingers dance over the pretty silk bow there, just before dipping beneath it.

“In the study?” you croon. “How scandalous…”

“I fully plan on having every room in this house christened before we leave, honey,” he tells you — a threat and a promise rolled into one. His fingertips smooth past the thatch of hair above your pussy, down to where you need him most. You head drops against the back of the couch with a heavy sigh when his gently calloused fingers meet your sensitive clit, already soaked in a layer of liquid silk. “I think we could do it if we start now…”

“Then I guess you’d better get to it, Robinavitch,” you quip.

“Need to open you up first…” he murmurs lowly, slipping his middle finger through the velvety folds of your pussy, down to where your entrance clenches around nothing. “Make sure you’re ready for me…”

“‘M ready,” you assure him, pretty voice breaking into a whisper, as you trace the bridge of his nose with the tip of yours.

“Yeah?” he hums, almost sympathetically so. “Let me see…”

His long middle finger slips effortlessly within the satiny walls of your pussy, pulsing around him to suckle him in further. Your mouth parts in a silent moan that leaves in a heavy exhale that fans across his cheek.

Robby’s glimmering gaze darts from his fingers in your panties to the bliss coating your features. A slow smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

“Mm…” he hums at the feeling of you drenching his finger in heavy honey. He mumbles, almost sympathetically so, “You are ready for me, aren’t you? Don’t tell me you spent the whole drive all needy like this…”

“Don’t tease,” you beg with heavy-lidded eyes.

“Yes, ma’am,” Robby says with an obedient nod, though he’s still very obviously the one in charge, as he slips his fingers from your panties with one hand and sets your work onto the floor with the other.

You hold your breath and lie back on the cool leather couch, tilting your chin to keep his gaze when the man shifts to kneel on top of you — his left knee digs into the couch cushion while his right foot rests his weight on the carpeted floor. You prop yourself on your elbow and reach for him with your free hand, cupping his half-hard cock through the fabric of his sweats.

He sighs hard through his nose as he sucks your slick from his middle finger.

“Take it out for me, honey,” he commands lowly.

You obey without a word, curling your fingers in the hem of his grey sweatpants. You pull them down along with his boxers in one fell swoop, dragging the elastic down beneath his heavy balls. His stiffening cock rests along his left hip, longer than it is wide, curved slightly upward, and leaking pearls of precum from the strawberry-colored tip.

Robby spits into his calloused palm and uses that as lubricant to jerk himself the rest of the way hard. It doesn’t take him long — not with the way you’re looking up at him now, wide-eyed and eager to be filled.

He’s too much of a gentleman to keep you waiting long.

You fall back with him when he leans the rest of the way over you, propping himself on the arm of the couch next to where you rest your head. He slips your panties to the side with his free hand and smooths the tip of his cock up and down the length of your glittering pussy, coating himself in your slick.

“Please…” you sigh, and curl your arms around his shoulders. Your breath hitches a second later when he pierces you. Your eyes go glassy at the feeling — a distant stinging, a growing pressure, and then the relief of being filled when he’s sheathed fully inside of you.

Your whine fills the quiet study. Robby’s groan sounds in the base of his throat, buried into your neck when he ducks down to hide his face there. You feel his shoulders move up and down against your palms with each of his heavy breaths as he struggles to regain his composure. He feels the tension from the past several days — several weeks, more like — in a tight coil at the pit of his stomach, which he’s distantly terrified will snap far sooner than he’s ready to.

You buck your hips when he doesn’t move for several long moments. “Please, Robby…”

“Just— Hold on,” he snaps, a little meaner than he intends to, because your fluttering hole does little to ease his sensitivity. He relaxes with a sigh a second later and confesses against your skin, “I’ll cum too fast, baby… I need a second.”

“I don’t care about that,” you tell him, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Just wanna feel you…”

After a moment or more, Robby takes a deep breath and drags his hips back, slow and tentative, until only the head is left inside of you. He pushes back the rest of the way in with gritted teeth, allowing you to feel every ridge and vein as it brushes against your velvety walls. Your moan leaves your mouth in a broken whimper. Robby grumbles like a storm cloud at the pretty noise you give him.

He knows he has only a few good thrusts left in him before he bursts entirely, so he decides to make them count.

You mourn his warmth when he settles back on his haunches. Your fingers slip to his forearms when his wide hands slot in the curve of your hips. Your mouth opens to protest the sudden distance between you, but it gets lost somewhere along the way when his thumb presses hard on your clit. He rubs the sensitive button with a merciless haste as his thrusts go from deep and slow to shallow and rapid. A dull clapping sound fills the study.

Your head tips back against the arm of the couch; your nails dig crescent shapes in the pale skin of his hairy arms. Robby laughs comes out with a quiet moan when he feels your pussy clenching tighter around him.

“Yeah… There you go…” he teases between his choppy breaths.

He pauses briefly to readjust his angle, lifting your hips further up his thighs with one hand and swiping his other through his wild halo of wet hair. It gives you a moment to breathe before his relentless thrusts resume.

“Get there for me, baby,” he chants. “Get there, get there, get there—”

He’s almost mechanical with the way he fucks you, having memorized your body well enough to know exactly what buttons to press to make you orgasm in a flash. Besides, he figures he’ll have plenty of time to fuck you slow while you’re here — maybe one day he’ll pop a sildenafil and make you cum on his cock until you lose count. But, with his own orgasm tightening in the pit of his stomach now, he knows he doesn’t have time for that.

He needs you to cum for him. He needs you to cum for him now.

“You close?” he asks through panted breaths, though it sounds more like he’s pleading.

You nod wordlessly, with your head tipped back and your face screwed in a pained look of pleasure — almost terrified by the swiftness of your orgasm.

“Then let me have it, baby,” Robby sighs in a gruff voice, pressing harder at your clit until you keen. “Let me have it, honey, c’mon. Give me all of it—”

You whine as your pussy flutters around his cock, soaking his length in honey and milking him for all he’s worth. Robby grits his teeth and hangs his head. He fights off his orgasm until he can’t anymore — until it racks through his body in waves, until his twitching cock spits ropes of warm cum inside your pulsing pussy.

“Fuck…” Robby grunts into the quiet, lamplit office. He thrusts into you once, hard, and tenses on top of you until he stops trembling from the brutal aftershocks.

It takes him several long moments thereafter to realize how tightly he’s holding onto your hips — hard enough to etch bruises onto the delicate plush there. He grimaces at himself and loosens his hold on you, massaging gently at your burning skin. “Shit, baby… I’m sorry…”

You open your heavy eyes and shake your head against the couch with a dazed smile. “It’s okay… I like it,” you tell him in a slurred whisper.

Robby perks, lidded gaze glimmering. “Yeah?”

“Want you to leave a mark every time you fuck me,” you confess, holding onto his wrists as you buck your hips over his thighs. You whine when the thatch of hair above his cock rubs gently over your sensitive clit.

Robby grunts when you tighten around his softening cock, still jerking slightly within your pulsing confines. He smooths his calloused hands over your waist as he leans down over you again. He pushes your shirt up to your ribcage when he cups his wide palms over your breasts. You sigh hard through your nose when his thumbs tweak your pebbled nipples.

“Want me to give you a few more?” he wonders lowly, deep voice like honey and falling over your buzzing skin like stars

You nod until the words catch up to you. “Yes, please…”

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

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

“—right there,” he cuts in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shoot him a look—sharp, immediate. 

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

“You’re unbelievable.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then what is it about?”

You hesitate. Just a second too long.

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

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

Then—

“And this is just penetration?” he asks.

You freeze.

Your silence is loud.

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

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

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

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

That earns you a look.

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

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

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

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

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

You grin. “Oh, here we go.”

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

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

“Debatable.”

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

You hand him a fork.

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

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

“You could always use more.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs.

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

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

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

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

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

A pause.

Then—

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

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

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

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

“‘Course I can handle this.”

★★★

“I can’t handle this,” Jack says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Robby pauses.

Then looks up slowly.

“…Spooning.”

“Don’t,” Jack warns.

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

“Oh, shut up.”

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

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

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

“I did not volunteer,” Jack snaps.

“You stayed,” Robby counters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jack hesitates.

“…Two days.”

There’s a beat.

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

Jack doesn’t answer.

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

“I wish I was.”

“You’re like this after two days?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ambulance crashed!”

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

★★★

Jack Abbot was a strong man, in many respects.

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

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

But this. This thing you were doing…

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

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

That includes the easy things. The soft things.

And yeah—sex too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were already moving.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You busy?” you asked, softer now.

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

Then you leaned in.

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

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

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

“We’re heading out,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

★★★

Day Six.

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

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

The second— You.

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

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

Why does Santos know where you live?

Why is Santos doing yoga?

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

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

“Gross,” Santos mutters under her breath.

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

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

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

—and you shift just slightly.

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

His kiss lands on your cheek instead.

You don’t even break the pose.

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

A beat.

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

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

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

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

He straightens, slower now, glancing at Santos.

She rolls her eyes.

“Next pose,” she says flatly.

You shift without hesitation.

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

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

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

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

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

You let out a small laugh into the mat.

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

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

Santos chimes. “And spite.”

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

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

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

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

You glance up, watching him go.

There’s a beat of silence.

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

You follow, steady.

“He seems… stable,” she says.

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

Santos’s head snaps toward you. “So?”

“We’re touchy people.”

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

You huff a quiet laugh.

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

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

“You could just… not text her.”

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

You smile slightly.

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

“Oh.”

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

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

“Evil lesbians are not for the weak.”

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

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

There’s a pause.

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

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

“Bit much, isn’t it?” she says.

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

★★★

Day Nine.

Virgin Mary, my ass.

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

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

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

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

You startle just a little, then relax.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smiles against your skin. Not nice about it.

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

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

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

Your hand stills completely on the counter.

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

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

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

You don’t answer.

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

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

Your head tips back a fraction before you catch yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?” he says, not looking away.

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t move.

“Jack.”

“Just one kiss?” He asks.

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

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

“I’ll try pottery,” he mutters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

★★★

Day Twelve.

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

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

Robby scoffs. “Oh my god.”

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

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

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

“A system,” Robby repeats, flat.

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

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

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

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

Jack lowers his voice, but not his intensity.

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

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

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

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

“Do not say pent up,” Robby murmurs.

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

“Jesus Christ.”

“And she keeps wearing—”

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

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

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

“No, she isn’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

Robby stops walking.

Grabs his shoulder.

“You hear yourself, right?”

“…Yeah,” Jack mutters. “Hearin' it.”

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

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

Locks. You.

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

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

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

“Don’t.”

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

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

“You aren’t going there.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I told you. Psychological warfare.”

McKay smirks a bit as she watches Jack retreat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Santos encouraged it.”

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

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

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

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

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

Mel nods seriously, concentrating.

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

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

“Holistic wellness,” McKay deadpans.

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t look over. “He’ll be fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…Hi, Dr Abbot,” she says, dry.

You finally look up. “Oh—hey.”

He stares at you.

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

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

He stands there for a second. Then another.

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

“…You gonna be okay?” he calls out.

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

★★★

Day Eighteen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They stay on you.

Track every adjustment.

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

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

“Glad someone has,” Jack murmurs.

You shoot him a look. 

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

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

And then you slide down. Slow. Controlled.

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

Jack actually goes still. That’s new. 

“…Right,” he says, quieter now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You keep going anyway.

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

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

“Nope,” you say immediately.

You don’t look at him.

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

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

“Do you think he cheated?” you ask.

“Who?” His voice is tighter now.

“Isla’s husband.”

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

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

Jack looks away this time.

Briefly.

Then back.

Like he can’t help it.

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

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

You glance at him now.

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

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

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

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

You don’t disagree with that.

You look at him. Really look.

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

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

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

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

His inhale is sharp enough to answer before he does.

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

That earns a small smile from you.

“Responsible of you,” you say.

“Have you?” He asks.

“Nope.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Two more weeks,” you repeat.

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

It’s small. Controlled. Safe.

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

He turns his head slightly before you fully pull away.

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

You shouldn’t.

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

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

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

A pause.

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

You look at him for a second too long.

Then you nod.

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

You kiss him again properly.

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

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

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

A small sound slips out of you without meaning to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glance down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t look back when you walk out.

★★★

Day Twenty Two.

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

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

We resist.

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

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

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

So you added structure.

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

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

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

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

You’ve also tightened everything else.

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

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

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

Pitch black room. Eye mask on.

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

He’d watched it alone. Hated it.

Even the small stuff has become intentional.

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

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

And still—you function.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod, moving in.

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

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

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

“Mm,” Park hums. “We reduce now.”

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

You.

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

Three weeks of this… discipline.

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

Jack’s jaw tightens.

“Traction,” Park says.

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

“Now.”

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

Whitaker visibly winces.

“Better,” you murmur, almost satisfied.

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

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

“Good. Splint.”

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

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

You hold his gaze for half a second.

“Doctor,” you say, light.

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

You blink. “Are you—seriously?”

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

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

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

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

Jack ignores him completely. “Tastes like punishment.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You correct it immediately. “Better?”

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

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

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

A beat.

Whitaker frowns. “…What is happening?”

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

“Robby,” Jack says, warning.

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

“You told Robby?” you shoot at Jack.

He opens his mouth—

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

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

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

Jack exhales sharply. “Can we focus?”

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

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

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

“Oh—right—sorry—”

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

“Right. Yeah. Prefer that.”

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

He leans in slightly, voice low, for you.

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

You don’t look at him. “Depends.”

“On?”

“How much you told Robby.”

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

“Debatable.”

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

“You’re ridiculous.” You remark.

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

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

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

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

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

Jack steps back, watching you finish the job.

Still looking at you like that.

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

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

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

You huff. “How is he doing?”

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

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

“And not clinically?” you prompt.

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

You grin. “Yeah, I do. It’s cute.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Occupational hazard,” you shrug.

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

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

“Soup was good, by the way.”

You blink. “The vegetable one?”

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

“He called it punishment.”

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

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

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

You laugh under your breath.

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

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

“You too,” he says, stepping aside.

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

“See you at home in a few hours.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

★★★

Day Twenty Nine.

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

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

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

You glance over. “Why?”

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

You glance at her. “You miss her.”

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

“You brought her up first.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “It’s just discipline.”

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

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

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

Santos, however, immediately does.

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

McKay shoots her a warning look over her fork.

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

“Like… personality-wise?” you try.

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

McKay mutters, “Oh God.”

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

You nearly choke. “Santos—”

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

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

Santos ignores her. “Am I wrong?”

You stare at her. 

“That’s not an answer,” she says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, casually—

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

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

McKay exhales through her nose.

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

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

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

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

“Nothing,” McKay says instantly.

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

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

You look at her like salvation. “Help.”

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

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

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

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

Dana points again. “Move. It. Out.”

★★★

Day Thirty Two.

Your schedules have always been a mess.

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

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

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

Eat something.

You too.

Left food in the fridge.

Miss you.

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

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

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

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

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

Jack thinks for a moment, a slow nod.

“…You are not my girlfriend.”

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

Jack just stares at him for a second, processing.

Then—“Why are you in my apartment?”

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

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

“I followed her recipe,” he adds.

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

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

A beat.

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

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

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

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

Robby squints. “It feels offensive.”

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

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

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

“…Did I what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I salted it.”

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

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

“Feel like it,” Jack mutters.

“You two haven’t seen each other?”

“Not properly.”

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

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

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

Jack huffs, stirring the sauce.

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

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

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

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

“When’d you get back?” you ask.

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

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

“Shocking,” Robby mutters.

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

You pull back just as fast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t tempt me,” you say lightly.

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

“Tell her I said hi,” you call.

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

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

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

“Out!” Jack says.

Robby leaves.

The door shuts.

And just like that—

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

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

“Really? Didn’t notice,” You shrug.

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

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

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

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

“C’mere,” he says.

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

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

You nod.

“Speak,” he adds, low.

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He exhales, eyes still locked on you.

“Yeah,” he mutters under his breath.

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

“Mhm.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Behind you, the stove clicks off.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

“What else?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shake your head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like he doesn’t want to.

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

“I love baseless temptations,” you murmur.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure you were.”

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

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

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

“Feel like it,” he mutters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can help, I’ll—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s a pause.

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

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

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

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

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

You just hold his gaze, completely neutral.

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

Who would you pick?

Who do you think I’d pick?

Are we about to say the same name?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a/n: i love this song! I got this though from when i watched a robby x abbot tiktok edit to my man on willpower, and if im desperate for inspo i go to my tiktok edits and see if i can spur some ideas, and i was like, oh maybe abbot like not fucking you or something because of some self care thing and i was like, god he’d never do that. he’s fucking whenever, life is short, he would want to treat his partner as much as he can mentally and physically handle i think. And then i was like. Wait, lets switch the beat…. anyway i had to restrain myself from writing more orlike writing everyday and unpacking different interactions. i wrote a scene where'd try to seduce you with his "slutty pyjamas" (his army uniform) and you gaf or something but i felt too much 2nd hand embarrasment. im so tired i have triivia to go to now i have no idea if this is good i just want it done so i caan study and work on the lawyer series!

Victoria’s killing a bit of time in the main foyer before her shift starts one day when the two of you arrive. 

Dennis pulls the door open for you, as usual, holding it while you walk inside. He does the same with the inner door, despite having to speedwalk in order to get there before you. She notices that he’s carrying your backpack, the strap slung over the opposite shoulder from his own. He reaches out as you walk towards the elevators, fingers pinching the side of your shirt, gently pulling you closer to him. It’s subtle, and Victoria’s certain she’s the only one who notices that your hands now brush against eachother’s as you move. 

“You coming up?” You ask, reaching forwards, hitting the button. 

He checks his watch, then nods. “Still got time.”

You bite back a smile as you step into the elevator, doors closing behind you, blocking you from Victoria’s probing eyes. The ICU floor is much quieter than the ED, especially since it’s still early, most of the patients still sleeping as the hospital starts to wake up. You swipe your badge against the sensor, and then step through the double door together, like you always do. 

Dana’s standing at the central desk when you come in, talking to the charge nurse there, trying to get some boarders moved before dayshift officially takes over. She clocks both of you immediately, her sentence coming to a stop when she hears your soft laughter. She turns around, watching as you approach, smiling at her. 

“Dana,” You greet. “Are you finally leaving the ER to join us up here?”

“You wish,” She says, looking past your shoulder, where Dennis is waiting a half-step behind you. “Whitaker, fancy seeing you here.”

The ICU charge scoffs, laughing a bit. “What do you mean? He’s up here every morning.”

Dana raises an eyebrow, a tiny smirk on her face. “That so?”

He shrugs, cheeks flushing a light shade of pink, both bags on his back lifting with the motion. “Pretty much, yeah.”

You, wanting to save him from any further embarrassment, turn around and give him an opening. “I can take my bag, you can head downstairs.”

He frowns, shaking his head. “I got it, I’ll be right back.”

He walks over to the locker room, his figure disappearing through the door. One of the nightshift RT’s comes out of a room, and Dana doesn’t miss the way his eyes light up at the sight of you. He ignores everyone else at the desk as he approaches, saying your last name with way too much enthusiasm for six-thirty in the morning. 

“You should’ve seen this patient last night,” He starts, diving into the story as soon as your eyes are on him, a small smile on your face as you genuinely listen. 

Dennis comes back out of the locker room just as he takes your wrist in his hand, turning your arm so your palm faces the ceiling, gesturing to your forearm as he explains the IV situation the patient had. He mimes the action of fluids spewing, retelling the moment it came loose as he was in the middle of intubating. 

Your face scrunches, but you’re still smiling, and he’s pretty sure you say ‘oh, gross!” before slowly pulling your arm away, tucking both hands into your pockets. He comes up behind you, setting your stethoscope and water bottle on the desk. The other RT loses all steam at the sight of him, and he immediately takes a step back, stuttering over his words for a second. You feel a single finger twist into your waistband, making you look over your shoulder, seeing Dennis and your belongings. 

“Thank you,” You say, fully spinning around. He drops his hand back to his side, nodding. 

“Yeah, uh, no problem,” He says. “I’ll see you later?”

“Hopefully,” You say. “Good luck down there.”

“You too,” He says, then he heads back through the doors and down the hallway. You loop your stethoscope over your shoulders and put your water bottle by your workstation before returning to the nightshifter, a tablet in hand now. 

“Catch me up,” You say, the rest of his story long forgotten. 

Dana follows Dennis out, still smirking, putting both hands on his shoulders as she comes up beside him. 

“You’re a sweet kid, you know that?"

Around eleven that morning, the higher-ups send donuts down to the ED as a ‘thank you’ for all their hardwork. Robby’s in the breakroom when Dennis walks in, admiring the spread, trying to decide if he actually wants one or not. 

“Anything good, boss?” He asks, stepping closer to the tables, looking for something specific. 

Robby shrugs. “Would be nicer if they could just pay my staff what they deserve.”

“Oh, definitely,” Dennis says, spotting what he’s looking for, grabbing one of the napkins nearby. “Gotta’ take advantage though, right?”

He picks up a donut, setting it neatly on top of the napkin and putting it down on the table. He opens the fridge, pulling out his lunch and unzipping the bag. Robby watches as he places it on top of whatever’s in there, then puts it back in the fridge, brushing his hands off and closing the door. 

“Worthy of saving for later?” Robby asks, slightly teasing. Dennis lets out a small laugh, already halfway out the door. 

“Yeah, uhm, trying to be optimistic about getting a break today,” He jokes, stumbling over the words. He’s still getting used to joking around with his boss.

Robby shakes his head, following him back outside. “Oh, you know better than that by now, Whitaker.”

They step out just as the ambulance bay doors open, revealing two paramedics wheeling a gurney in. They both rush over as Dana directs them to an open trauma room, examining the patient while one of the paramedics gives handover. 

“Twenty-three year old male, motorcycle versus guardrail,” She says. “Helmet off at the scene, significant facial trauma, breathing on his own for now, but it’s not pretty.”

They swing the door to the trauma room open. Nurses flood in behind them, taking their usual spots around the room, clicking monitors on and hooking them up to the patient. 

“Hey, can you open your eyes for me?” Dennis asks, shining his penlight into them when he gets no response. “Pupils equal and reactive, GCS six.”

“Sats eighty-seven and falling,” Mateo says. 

“Bag him,” Dennis instructs, setting his stethoscope against his chest, moving it around. “Decreased breath sounds bilaterally.”

“This is gonna’ be a complex airway,” Frank says, having come in a moment after them. “Let’s get respiratory down here.”

You’re adjusting some vent settings for one of your patients when your pager goes off, making you pluck it off your scrub pocket, glancing down at the tiny screen. 

EMERG. DEPT. TRAUMA #3 - STAT PAGE

You shove the pager back into place, already running out of the room, calling for the other RT on shift to finish with your patient as you fly by. You take the stairs down to the ED, shoving the door open at the bottom, gripping your stethoscope in your hand so it doesn’t fall. You grab a pair of gloves before opening the trauma room door, trying to assess the situation as best you can in a few seconds. You can’t even see the patient from how many people are in there, crowding around the bed. 

“Sats down to seventy-nine,” Perlah says. Garcia already has sterile gloves on, holding her hands up and shaking her head as she looks over Dennis’ shoulder. He’s holding the laryngoscope, watching the monitor, trying to get a good view of the anatomy. 

“We need to crike,” She says. 

“Woah, hey, I’m here, what’s going on?” You say, grabbing a gown, shifting towards the head of the bed. You look towards the patient’s face, or what’s fucking left of it, exhaling sharply. “Jesus.”

“Motorcycle versus guardrail,” Frank says. “His jaw’s completely unstable, we couldn’t get a seal with the mask, he’s bleeding like crazy.”

“Move, please,” You say, kind but firm, needing to get a closer look. Dennis pulls the tool out, stepping back, his hands up so they don’t get caught on any of the IV lines. Mateo holds the suction as you do your exam, running through options in your head. He’s already using the biggest suction that he can, and the patient's sats are still falling. 

The room seems frozen around you as you think, everyone waiting on your next move. You nod to yourself when you decide on the best course of action, a small way to hype yourself up. 

“I’m going in through the nasal passage,” You say.

“Blind?” Frank asks. “That’s-”

“No, not blind,” You correct. “I need a lubricated three-point-five.”

The tube is placed into your hand five seconds later. “I’m gonna’ try and advance just past the tongue, see if I can use it as a guide.”

You glance up, making eye contact with Frank, then Robby, waiting to see if either will object to your plan. Robby gives you an affirmative nod. 

“Do it.”

You look to Dennis, who’s already watching you. “Could you listen for breath sounds please, Dr. Whitaker?”

“Oh, Dr. Whitaker,” Garcia repeats. “Is that what you call him in the bedroom?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” You shoot back, smirking. 

“Behave,” Robby says, but you don’t need to look at him to know that he’s fighting a smile. Dennis gets into place as you use your free hand to put your own stethoscope in, settling the diaphragm against the patient’s neck, moving it around until you hear what you’re looking for. Then, you slowly advance the tube through the nostril, eyes flicking towards the chest every few seconds to check for rise. 

You start to get some resistance at fourteen centimetres, and the chest twitches. You hear a small amount of air pass.

“Minimal movement,” Dennis says, focusing on what he’s hearing. 

“Bag it,” You instruct, and Jesse does, squeezing. The patient’s chest rises again, and Dennis looks back at you, nodding, confirming that he can hear at least some remnants of breath sounds. 

“Sats up to eighty-five,” Perlah announces. 

You shine your penlight into his mouth, studying the passage that the nasal tube is barely revealing, committing the location of his tracheal opening to memory each time the suction clears enough blood for you to see it. 

“I can intubate now,” You say.

“Are you sure?” Frank asks, taking a look himself, seeing nothing but blood and a small clearing where the tube sits. “You still can’t visualize most of the landmarks.”

“I don’t need all the landmarks,” You counter. “Do you want a real airway or not, Dr. Langdon?”

Dennis’ breath catches in his throat, eyes wide. You’re looking at Frank expectantly, waiting for a decision. He steps back, nodding. Garcia smirks, speaking before he can. 

“Blade to hot shot, please.” You take the tool in your hand, turning on the light and sliding it into place. You don’t bother looking towards the monitor, knowing that you won’t be able to see where you’re going. 

“Seven tube,” You say, reaching for it once it’s passed over, positioning it where the nasal tube already sits. You wait for the suction to expose the clearing again, not hesitating when it does, sliding the tube into the airway. You’re almost certain that it’s in the right place based on how it feels as it clears the epiglottis. “I’m in.”

The cuff is inflated, and Jesse moves the bag from the nasal tube onto the new one, nodding. “Yellow on end-tidal.”

“Good breath sounds bilaterally,” Dennis adds. 

“Sats up to ninety-four,” Perlah says. The tension in the room fades as you look at Dennis, failing to contain a grin when you make eye-contact. He gives you a tiny, proud smile and a subtle nod, silently saying ‘nice work.’

You don’t realize that everyone else catches it, too. 

“I’ll get him up to CT,” Garcia announces. “Glad you were here, hot shot.”

“Excellent work,” Robby says, followed by your last name. The patient is wheeled out of the room, and you’re all left behind, pulling off gowns and gloves. 

“Thanks,” You say. “It’s what I’m good for.”

Dennis holds the door for you as you leave, exhaling once you’re out. Frank holds his fist up. 

“Sorry for doubting you,” He says. You smile, tapping your knuckles against his. 

“No harm, no foul,” You insist, waving him off. The adrenaline of the trauma starts to wear off as you move towards one of the computers, wanting to get the charting out of the way before you go back to the ICU—as long as none of your patients crash. Goosebumps splinter over your arms, despite the long-sleeve you’re wearing under your scrub top, making you shiver. 

Dennis is shrugging his fleece off before you even sit down, handing it to you, already focused on the board to figure out where he should head first. He’s about to walk away when he remembers, spinning back around and leaning towards you over the desk. 

“Oh, hey, there’s something for you in my lunch,” He says, voice quiet, but everyone in the vicinity hears him. They started watching the second he passed you his jacket without a single word. “You can grab it before you head back up, if you want.”

You close your hand around his fleece, trying to get your brain to function again. All work is abandoned by the people around when, for the first time possibly ever, you’re speechless. Not because this is unusual behaviour, just because he’s never done it so…publicly before. 

“Okay,” You finally say, the single word breathy and faint. “Thank you.”

Everyone is staring at the two of you like it’s their favourite TV show. 

“Yeah, ‘course,” He says.

He walks off, you take a seat, pulling the fleece over your head and sticking your badge to the front pocket before logging on to the computer. Your heart is racing, but you do your best to hide it from your colleagues.

“You ever wonder how they ended up together?” Frank asks, watching the interaction from afar, the question aimed at Mel, who has no idea what he’s referring to.

“Who?” She asks, barely looking up from her tablet. 

“Whitaker and Hot Shot,” He clarifies. Mel looks up now, still confused. 

She says your real name like it’s a question. Frank nods. 

“Yeah, Hot Shot,” He emphasizes. 

Mel shrugs. “I didn’t know everyone called her that, I thought it was just Garcia.”

“Doesn’t matter,” He says, moving on. “Labs back for twelve yet?”

Trinity comes back into the department twenty minutes later, having gone outside for a breather, stopping just behind your chair as she walks by. She squints, realizing that you’re definitely wearing Whitaker’s quarter-zip, the one he wears pretty much every single day once it starts getting colder. She goes straight to Victoria, who’s talking to Cassie while they wait for one of their patients to get back from CT. 

“He gave her his fucking fleece,” She says, eyes drifting towards you. Victoria and Cassie look over. 

“Oh my god, that’s so cute,” Victoria says, pouting slightly. “He’s so sweet to her.”

“Have you seen her?” Trinity asks, rhetorical. “He’s got to be in order to keep her around.”

Cassie raises an eyebrow. “I think it’s probably just because he loves her.”

“Or he knows he’s punching above his weight,” Trinity counters. “I love the kid, but she’s practically a supermodel.”

“Well, maybe that’s what drew her to him,” Victoria suggests. “You know, she’s so used to people tripping over themselves to impress her, maybe she liked the fact that he doesn’t make a fool out of himself to get her attention.”

Trinity thinks about that for a second, cocking her head slightly as she looks at you. “Huh. Never thought about it like that.”

“Has no one considered the idea that she just thought he was attractive?” Cassie asks. “He’s a good looking guy!”

Victoria shrugs. “Doesn’t matter either way, they clearly love eachother.”

You barely even realize that your head’s starting to hurt before a pill cup and your favourite donut are placed on your desk. You tug your eyes away from the screen, almost done with your charting, blinking a few times to clear your fuzzy vision. There’s two ibuprofen tablets in the cup, and you see Dennis standing beside you, holding his water bottle out. Robby watches from his workstation a few feet away, smiling, remembering how he watched Dennis set that donut aside a couple hours ago. It wasn’t for him, it was for you. 

"Headache?" He asks.

“How…?” You ask, taking the bottle from him and opening the lid. 

“You’re blinking more than usual,” He says, as though anyone would’ve picked up on it.

“Oh,” You say. “Yeah, it's not too bad, though. Thank you.”

You take the pills and a few extra sips of water before passing it back to him. He sets it on the counter, folding his arms over his chest as he leans back. 

“You should eat something,” He suggests. 

You nod. “I’ll eat this in one second, thank you so much, Denny.”

Robby looks towards Dana, mouthing ‘Denny?’ to her, and she mouths ‘I know!’ back. 

Dennis nods, taking a seat at one of the computers across the hub. You finish your own charting a few minutes later, standing up and walking over to one of the nearby sinks, washing your hands thoroughly. You pick up the donut when you get back to the desk, tearing it in half, holding one side out towards him. 

He’s so wrapped up in his work that he barely glances up when he takes it, then he does a double take, brows furrowing before he looks at you. He’s about to protest when you give him a look, one that let’s him know that you’re well aware he hasn’t eaten since his shift started. He keeps his half raised up, tilting it towards you, and you tap your own portion against his. You both take a bite at the same time, and Princess raises an eyebrow. 

“Did they just…cheers with a donut?” She asks. 

“You haven’t seen ‘em do that before?” Dana asks. “They do it with everything—granola bars, apple slices, sandwiches. It’s sweet.”

“I saw them do it with goldfish once,” Mateo says, spinning around in his chair to face them. “Pretty sure they made them kiss.”

You stretch your arms above your head a few minutes later, leaning against the back of your chair. A few people glance over, hoping to get a glimpse of something, but Dennis’ fleece keeps everything covered. You gather a portion of your hair in your hands, reaching towards your wrist for a hair tie. 

It snaps when you go to loop it around, making you frown.

“Ow,” You murmur, dropping your hair. Victoria goes to offer you a new one, but she’s cut off by Dennis pulling one off his own arm, slingshotting it across the hub, a solid twenty feet or so. You catch it in your palm like it’s second nature, sticking it between your teeth, smoothing your hair back again. 

She malfunctions for a second, trying to see if anyone else witnessed that. Most people have gone back to work, eyes focused on screens or notepads, including Dennis. 

“I…how did you do that?” She asks. 

Dennis doesn’t even look over. “Do what?”

“The—the hair tie thing,” She stutters. He shrugs. 

“She’s always losing them,” He says, as if that remotely answers her question. She’s close enough to see his screen, catching a new secure chat rise to the top of the list that he’s working through answering. It’s your first and last name followed by ‘RRT,’ the profile photo you in scrubs, standing against a white wall.  

heading back up

She glances over at you, still sitting across the hub. You’re looking at your computer, scanning some new orders for your ICU patients, face neutral as you mess with your necklace. She looks back at Dennis’ screen. 

He signs the note he's working on before opening the conversation. 

Come here a second

You log off of the computer, pick up your stethoscope and walk over to him. It’s casual—comfortable. His hand lifts from the keyboard once you’re close enough, reaching over and flipping the collar of his fleece out from where it’s folded in on itself. You raise an eyebrow as he pats it twice, the simple touch of his palm to your collarbone intoxicating. 

“How long has that been bothering you?” You ask, teasing and quiet. The volume has picked back up in the department, so Victoria shuffles a bit closer to try and hear the conversation. 

He pretends to think, glancing at his watch. “How long ago did you put it on?”

You laugh under your breath. “I didn’t realize I was causing you such distress.”

“Yeah, you should probably be more careful,” He says, the corner of his mouth twitching up, but his eyes are wide with concern. “Are you warm enough? I think I have a long sleeve in my bag if you want it.”

You do want it, but not because you’re still cold. 

“No, I’m okay, thank you,” You say, trying to get your feet to move, but his presence is sucking you in. You’re tempted to wedge yourself into his side, knowing that he’d probably respond automatically, arms wrapping around you and his lips brushing your temple like they would at home. 

“Okay, just come grab it if you change your mind,” He says. Your pager beeps from your pocket, and you grimace, face scrunching up in disappointment. 

“I will,” You say, checking it quickly before putting it back. You’re still hesitating, not taking a step away from him. He smiles. 

“Go,” He insists, softly. “They need you.”

You look at him for another second, pursing your lips. “Yeah, alright, going now, Dr. Whitaker.”

Victoria’s eyes widen as she rereads the same line on her tablet for the millionth time. A blush blooms on Dennis’ neck, and he brings a hand up to try and cover it immediately, his blue eyes following you as you get closer to the doors, filled with adoration. 

He gets another secure chat five minutes later. Victoria squints to see what it says. 

made it :) don’t work too hard while im gone

He types back right away. 

Yes ma’am

Victoria gasps. Dennis glances back at her. 

She brings her elbow up to her face, pretending to cough a few times, clearing her throat once she’s done with the performance. 

“Sorry, dry in here today,” She says, trying to give him a reassuring smile. He nods once, unconvinced, but he doesn’t press her on it. 

Her own secure chat lights up. 

TRINITY SANTOS, MD smooth, crash

Seven finally rolls around, signalling the end of your shift. You go back downstairs, waiting outside the ER, like usual, backpack on and changed out of your scrubs. Dennis comes out ten minutes later with Trinity and Victoria trailing behind, his eyes softening when he sees you. 

“Hey, ready to go?” He asks, making you look up from your phone. You nod, greeting his friends before falling in step beside him, bumping your shoulder against his. 

“Oh, gross,” Trinity says, frowning at the heavy rain that’s pouring outside. “You want a ride, Crash?”

“Yes, please,” Victoria says, already bracing herself as Trinity opens the door, turning back to you and Dennis for a second. “Goodnight.”

“Night,” You both say, giving her a tiny wave as they step out into the rain, running to Trinity’s car. 

Dennis pulls his keys out of his backpack, squeezing your wrist quickly. “Stay here.”

You smile. “I know.”

He goes outside, rounding the corner and speedwalking away from the doors. You stay inside, waiting, until you feel someone stop beside you. 

“Waiting for Whitaker?” Robby asks. “I swore he left a few minutes ago.”

“Oh, yeah, he did,” You confirm. “He went to grab the car.”

Robby hums, chuckling. “Of course he did.”

You laugh. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs, hands in his pockets. “He just really loves you, is all.”

Your chest and neck start to heat up, making you look towards the ground, scuffing your shoes against the floor. “Yeah, he does.”

“Well, have a good night,” He says. 

You smile. “Goodnight, Robby.”

He walks off just as Dennis pulls the car in front of the doors, shifting it into park as he leans over, gripping the inside handle of the passenger side door. You tense up the moment you’re outside, rain pelting against you, thankful that you still have his fleece on as you run to the car. He opens the door right before you make it so you can just jump inside, slamming it shut behind you, wiping some water off your face. 

You’re both soaked, him more than you, obviously—but he doesn’t care. He leans over the centre console, hand looping around the back of your neck and pulling you close, kissing you. You kiss him back, smiling into it, wrapping your fingers around his wrist. He kisses your forehead after, then pecks your lips again for good measure. 

“Love you,” He says. 

“I love you,” You echo, still smiling. 

A/N - i love that u guys love dennis and hot shot bc i think about them constantly

tags:

he pulled it out, placing the food on the table, a pink post-it stuck on the foil. 'microwave meals are bad for you. i <3 you'

jack smiled, taking the post-it off, and after he'd finished eating, he stashed the note you left him in his nightstand.

the first time you thought about marrying jack was when you were lying on his couch, his hand stroking your hair, a movie playing on his tv that jack found fascinating, but when he turned his head to you to talk about it, you seemed to be more focused on your phone.

"what are you looking at?" jack mumbled against the side of your head, pressing a small kiss there as he looked at your phone screen. "apartments? you wanna move?"

"i don't exactly want to." you sighed, turning your head to face jack for a moment, pressing a kiss on the side of his lips, before turning back to your phone, "they're demolishing my building, and i'm trying to find something in my price range near my kindergarten, but everything i find looks less like a home and more like a place someone would go to score in."

"just move in with me." jack shrugged, and you let out a quiet snort, "sure."

jack brought his hand to your chin, turning your head so that you were facing him, "i'm serious."

your brows furrowed, "you... really mean that?"

"of course i mean it." jack cupped your cheek, stroking it with his thumb, "i've been thinking about living together for a while. this is perfect timing."

you could feel a weight roll off your chest as a wide smile took over your face, "i don't deserve-"

your sentence was cut off by jack pulling your lips to his.

the second time jack thought about marrying you was a while after you'd just moved in together.

jack had just returned from his shift, but as the man walked further into the apartment, he found you sleeping on the couch with your hair and face covered in sweat, shivering in your sleep, when usually, you'd be up by now, fussing over the classes you were to teach that day.

jack rushed to you, pulling you into his arms and bringing you to the bed while you were mumbling something, still half-asleep, but he was more focused on making you feel better.

after coaxing you to swallow a tylenol, jack placed an ice bag on your forehead and on the back of your neck. "i'm cold..." you mumbled. "it's good for you." jack wrapped his arm around you, pressing a kiss on the side of your head, "i promise."

the second time you thought about marrying jack was when you woke up to the sound of your boyfriend's angered voice coming from the living room, an ice bag melting on your forehead, the bedroom door left open; your head was hurting so much you thought it was going to explode if you thought too much. but you tried your best to listen in.

"like i said, she can't come in. she has a high fever, and it'd endanger the kids. yes. i'm an attending physician at pittsburgh trauma medical center. jack abbot. if you need-"

the time jack knew he wanted to marry you was when he realized he wanted to find you there whenever he came home. forever.

he found you snoring on your couch and smiled; you always tried to stay up until his shift was done but you always fell asleep on the couch.

you knew you wanted to marry jack the moment he suggested a weekend getaway at a lakeside cabin. bullshit. your friend had taken you on a spa date the day before, and it was 'on her'. you knew what was coming the moment your best friend talked you out of getting bunnies on your nails.

you stood at the patio overlooking the lake when you heard the door creak open, making you turn your head, "doesn't it look pretty?"

"it does. not as pretty as you, though." jack shrugged, moving to you and wrapping his arms around your waist.

if you weren't focusing on the move of his lips, you could've missed the words he mumbled against your skin 'marry me.'

"what'd you say?"you laughed softly, turning around in his arms.

jack finally raised his head from the crook of your neck, "marry me."

"about time." you giggled.

taglist: @kill3ill @eternalsobs @pequnopastel @raahosh

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You felt your own mouth curling into a quiet smile despite yourself. “So this must feel really nostalgic for you then, huh?”

“Extremely,” he deadpanned.

“Well…” you sighed. “Got any tips for me then, old man?”

Jack exhaled a heavy breath and turned to face you while the heavy machine beeped and buzzed beside you. He tucked his hands into the front pockets of his camo pants and shrugged his broad shoulders. “Well, look at it this way— Today is gonna suck, but… That means every shift from now can’t possibly get worse than this one, right?”

“Yeah,” you scoffed. “That, or we just… keep descending into another circle of hell every day.”

Jack smiled wider at your cynicism, patting you softly on the shoulder before sauntering off the way he came. “That’s the spirit, kid.”

You still feel his hand on you even now, wide and warm over your thick black scrubs, while you trudge through the rest of your charting. You hate the effect he has on you; you hate how often he plagues your every thought. It takes a great amount of muscle memory, you find, not to accidentally jot his name down as your hand moves the pen on autopilot. 

You don’t think it’d feel quite as pathetic if you thought that there might be an inkling he felt the same way about you. But now, all you are is an R4 with a stupid schoolgirl crush on her boss, and half a mental breakdown away from scribbling little hearts in her notes with his initials scrawled inside.

“You plan on getting in on this?” Santos asks in place of a greeting as she slides her swivel chair next to yours. She wears a faint smirk on her lips and a mischievous glint in her light eyes that gives you great pause.

Ink smudges on the inside of your wrist as you halt your scribbling to flash her a dubious look. “…On what?”

“Ahmad got bored after Princess won the last bet,” she tells you, reaching behind her to tighten the half-ponytail at the crown of her head. “Said the grid was too good to take down so soon, so… He started a new one.” 

You scoff a dry laugh and turn away again. 

“Yeah? What is it this time— Which one of us is gonna be the first to have a breakdown and quit? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure I’d win that one…”

“Close…” Trinity croons, leaning in like she’s about to tell you some sort of secret. Her eyes flit somewhere over your shoulder, in the vague direction of where Mohan stands with Jack across the room, before she confesses. “It’s about Abbot and Samira. I have it on good authority that they were getting pret-ty close in Central 4 together…”

“C-Close?” you echo on bated breath. 

Your head whips over your shoulder to the other side of the workstation, where Jack and Samira exchange information about one of her patients. You hadn’t given their closeness a second thought before now. It’s like you blinked, and now the sight of them together makes you feel sick. 

You hope Santos doesn’t see the hurt weighing down your features when you turn back to her. “What— What do you mean close?”

“I mean, Dr. Abbot was half naked while Samira was tending to his shoulder,” Trinity explains with a scoff and turns back to her own clipboard. “Honestly, I wouldn’t have thought anything about it until I heard her say, ‘It’s our little secret—’” 

She mocks in a high-pitched voice, which sounds nothing like Samira’s, before laughing to herself.

“—Like, c’mon. You guys could at least try to be subtle about it.”

You know she expects you to start laughing with her, but you struggle to find the energy to do so now.

“Yeah…” you sigh instead, hardly audible as you struggle to speak through the sudden tightening in your chest. “Right…”

“You should go place a bet,” she tells you, half-distracted by the files before her. “You could win back the money you lost and then some.”

“With what?” you joke with a sad scoff. “The three dollars I have left to my name?”

She flashes you a deadpanned look. “If that’s all you have to lose, I think I’d take those odds.”

You figure Trinity’s right. You have nothing more to lose, in truth — not after the shit day you’ve already had, and the money you’ve already lost, and the teenage heart inside of you that’s already broken. 

You finish up your charting, return the clipboard to the patient rack, and retrieve your wallet from the locker room. Because, as you see it, you’ll either leave this shift about a hundred dollars richer or with nothing at all; either totally vindicated or with a bank account just as empty as you feel on the inside.

You find Ahmad in the security room, and he flashes you a toothy grin as you slink through the doorway like a shy little storm cloud. He motions with the notepad he holds in a sun-kissed hand. “I knew you’d wanna get on the books, kid— What’d it take to convince you this time?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug with a mournful sigh. “I just… realized that I have nothing else to lose, I guess…”

Dr. Barker laughs from beside you.

“Well, that’s always the best reason to make a bet, in my experience,” he jokes with a pearly white smile, pushing the sleeves of his navy button-down up to his elbows to reveal the expanse of his tanned, scruffy forearms. 

Nick Barker stands quite a few inches taller than you — which you hadn’t expected before now, since he’d spent most of his time in the E.R. sitting behind the portable radiology machine. He has to look down at you from the bridge of his broad nose from this angle, with eyes so dark they’re almost black. 

He’s almost effortlessly handsome. Like, Disney prince sort of handsome. The kind of handsome that makes it impossible to look into his eyes without blushing like a schoolgirl.

“I’m normally a lot more responsible than this, but… I figured all things considered…” you trail off with a sheepish shrug.

“Yeah, you’re talkin’ to the girl who hasn’t taken a day off since I started here— Two years ago,” Ahmad scoffs. “I think you deserve to let loose every once in a while, Doc, all things considered.”

He taps you gently on the head with his notepad. You roll your eyes and reach into the pocket of your scrubs, cheeks burning under the weight of the sudden attention you’re getting. 

“Just put me down for $10—” you say, but cut yourself off when Ahmad hisses through his teeth. “…What is it?”

“Minimum this time twenty,” he grimaces.

Your shoulders deflate with a sigh. “Seriously?”

“We had to up the ante this time, kid— Rules of the game.”

“Then I guess put me down for twenty…” you huff and pluck your wallet from your scrub pockets. “For… unrequited…”

“Unrequited by who?” Ahmad presses with his brows raised to his hairline.

“I don’t know. Samira, I guess,” you shrug, half-timid, ‘cause it’s not like you totally believe it either. You’re just trying to take a page out of Trinity’s book, really, and manifest something good for yourself for a change — pretending that Abbot isn’t into her in the hopes that it’ll make it somehow real.

“What?” Ahmad laughs like it’s funny. “You’re telling me you don’t believe in love?”

You flash him a solemn look in return. “I’ll start believing in something again when the systems come back up,” you answer in a monotone.

“Touche…” he nods slowly while Dr. Barker exhales a quiet laugh through his nose. 

A familiar voice comes suddenly from the entrance:

“I think that is the single sanest answer I’ve heard all day,” Jack Abbot himself hums in a gritty deadpan. 

You nearly break your neck with how fast your head whips over your shoulder, finding the man leaning against the doorway with his toned arms crossed over his chest and a smug smirk dancing on his lips. 

Your skin prickles with a red-hot heat while your pounding heart drops to your stomach. If he wasn’t into you before, he certainly won’t be now — not with you making bets on his love life like a crazy person with nothing better to do. (Though, in many ways, that is exactly what you are.)

“Dr. Abbot…” Ahmad croons, trying to play casual despite knowing his secretive betting ring’s finally been found out. “That’s funny— We were just talking about you.”

“Robby may or may not have told me,” Jack confesses as he saunters slowly into the security room, boots heavy on the white linoleum. “Wanted me to tell him if there was something going on with Mohan and me, so he could recoup the money he lost in the last bet.”

“…Well, is there?” Nick wonders lowly.

“C’mon, Barker. Where’s the fun in that?” Jack scoffs a dry laugh, then goes strangely solemn again in a flicker. “Even though, as an attending, I think I have to say that I am very against this— I feel like this has H.R. violation written all over it.”

“Well, what Gloria doesn’t know, won’t hurt us, right?” Ahmad quips.

“I’ve been livin’ by those exact words for years, brother.”

Your hands are clammy and trembling for a reason you can’t name as you pull two crumpled bills from your wallet — a dingy, pastel Polly Pocket billfold you’ve had since you were twelve — as if you needed another reason to look any less cool in front of Jack. The pale pink interior is left glaringly empty, save for a few folded receipts and miscellaneous fortune-cookie slips.

“Wow…” you huff as you pass Ahmad the twenty. “That is all the cash I have to my name. I’m officially more broke than I was in med school— I didn’t even know that was possible.”

“I can take you out to dinner with my winnings, if you want,” Nick offers suddenly. 

Your head snaps in his direction, and his eyes widen, as though surprised by his own forwardness. He swallows hard, pronounced adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, scruffy with a five o’clock shadow. 

“You know, if you— if you wanna… let loose or whatever.”

Your lip flickers upward in a shy smile when Dr. Barker sighs and shakes his head to himself. A few rogue strands of dark hair fall from their gelled quaff and hang over his forehead until he pushes them back in place again. 

“Sorry, that, uh…” He chuckles awkwardly at himself. “That came out weird.”

“I might be stuck in charting jail for the rest of the night, actually,” you say with an apologetic grimace, wringing your clammy fingers into knots. “Can I get back to you on that?” 

“Yeah!” he blurts, a little quicker than he means to. He clears his throat and, in an octave lower, repeats himself. “Yeah. Totally. No worries.”

You dismiss yourself with a quiet smile and lack the courage to look Jack in the eye when you pass him on the way to the door. He watches you leave and waits for you to glance back at him with his heart in his throat. You never do. 

Still, though, he can’t help but feel a little proud of himself; after watching you turn down the handsome radiologist every woman on this floor has been fawning over all day. He turns back around and hisses through his teeth, trying not to look as smug as he feels. 

“Damn,” Jack deadpans. “That was cold, man…”

Nick’s dark eyes widen and flit wildly between the two men on either side of him. “Wait— Really?”

“Ice cold…” Ahmad affirms with a slow nod. “Girl said she’s broke, and you think she’s gonna say ‘no thanks’ to some free food? In this economy? Yeah… She’s not into you, man.”

Jack claps the solemn boy hard on the shoulder. “You win some, you lose some, kid… Don’t take it too hard.”

You forget all about the stupid bet and Nick’s offer some hours later, when Robby sticks you with Ogilvie and tells you to walk the MS4 through your canthotomy patient. 

You talk aloud as you slice your scalpel through the young girl’s eye, where the socket is raging red and bulging from the pressure behind it. The boy doesn’t say a word the whole time, just holds the plastic cup where the bright crimson blood drains from the eye, and doesn’t move a muscle until it stops.

“I think that’s the closest I’ve come to puking since I started med school,” the boy confesses when it’s done, standing just over your shoulder while you fill out the patient’s med slip. “I didn’t even get that close during cadaver lab, when all of us started craving meat from the formaldehyde— I’m pretty sure five people dropped out that day alone…”

His voice trails off when Samira catches your eye, rushing by the desk with her wild curls falling from her claw clip. She wears the hard shift all over as she makes a beeline directly for Jack, planting herself ahead of the older man; so close she has to tilt her chin to meet his gaze. 

Your hand freezes around the pen as you keep your eyes on the two of them, staring harder than you probably realize as you struggle to make out their conversation. Their words are drowned out by Ogilvie’s rambling, and the surrounding beep and chatter of the crowded E.R. 

Mohan talks wildly with her hands and says something about “a letter,” while Jack nods along sympathetically and says something along the lines of “give me your number.” 

Your chest flares with a white-hot feeling when you watch the man pass Samira his phone to plug her number into. It’s like the world has fallen out from under you and swallowed you whole, like you’re drowning in the fire of your own envy. 

You’re barely seven hours on the job, and you’ve already lost all your cash — you’ll be doomed to the three-day-old leftovers in the fridge, if the newfound heartache hasn’t already snatched your appetite for the evening. That means you’ll be running on fumes tomorrow morning — still broke, still hungry, still heartbroken.

Then you remember Dr. Barker — Disney prince Dr. Barker — and his offer of dinner from earlier in the security room. 

You make the terribly impulsive decision to take fate into your own hands and forget to properly dismiss yourself before dropping the finished order slip off across the room. Ogilivie is quick to follow close behind, lacking any real sense of personal space. He nearly trips over himself to keep from running into you when you freeze suddenly in place.

“You don’t have to follow me anymore,” you tell him.

“Oh… Well, then… What am I supposed to do?” the blonde boy shrugs.

“I don’t know. Do whatever you want…” you trail off and glance around the bustling work station. You spot Trinity standing at the chart rack and motion over to her. “Go help Dr. Santos with her next patient.”

The dark-haired girl turns at the sound of her name. 

“Oh, please don’t—” She cuts herself off with a sigh when Ogilvie makes his way towards her anyway. “Fuck. Fine…”

You continue your trek to the other side of the crowded work station, where the portable radiology machine takes up the majority of the room. You can smell the man’s expensive, musky cologne before he ever comes into view.

“Hey, Nick…” you greet, then wince at how weird it sounds a second later. “I mean, Dr. Barker— Sorry—”

He glances up from his work at the sound of your voice. “Nick is fine,” he assures with a kind grin and a pair of chocolate-colored eyes.

You try to smile back, but your nervousness makes it look more like a grimace. “It’s not, like, totally too late for me to take you up on that offer for dinner, is it?”

“No!” he blurts with a shake of his head. “Of course not!”

“Great…” you say with a relieved sigh.

“Yeah, I’ll— I’ll text you the details later.”

“Oh. Well, you don’t…” You scrunch the bridge of your nose in a sheepish look. “You don’t have my number…”

His mouth falls softly agape with the realization. “Oh. Right. Duh.”

You smile wider despite yourself, ‘cause he’s almost as awkward as you are, which you didn’t think was possible before now — especially not for someone as pretty as he is. 

You turn away and grab the nearest pen, clicking it on with your thumb before reaching for his arm. You scribble your number over the dark blue veins on his wrist with a newfound confidence — one that you never had before now, one spurred on by the man’s obvious shyness. 

You feel Nick’s eyes on you when you look away, flitting wildly across your profile. 

“This isn’t… This isn’t just because of the bet, is it?” he wonders with a waver in his voice.

Your brows furrow in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“You know, the whole thing you said about… losing all your money or whatever,” Dr. Barker explains with a sheepish laugh. “You’re not just going out with me for a free meal, are you?”

“Well, isn’t that kinda the point of going on dates? The free food?” you joke with a dry laugh, which fades instantly at the confused look Nick gives you in response. Your face floods with horror a second later. “I’m kidding! I’m totally kidding— Of course not.”

“Okay,…” Dr. Barker says with an awkward chuckle. “Good.”

“Good,” you echo with a sigh and rise to full height again.

“I’ll, uh— I’ll text you.”

“I’ll be waiting,” you chirp with a polite nod and a giddy grin, which ebbs the second you turn away from him. You shake your head as you slink back through the bustling emergency department, squeezing your eyes shut and murmuring under your breath in disgust, “I’ll be waiting—?”

You nearly trip over yourself when you ram suddenly into a firm body. Two calloused hands grasp gently at your elbows as you stumble backwards. You almost lose your breath when you find Jack Abbot towering over you.

“Shit… you huff. “Sorry, I— I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Where’ve you been hiding?” Jack squints. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Your shy smile fades into a disbelieving squint almost instantly; at the bitter reminder of Jack and Samira — of the seemingly intimate conversation they’d shared just minutes ago, and of the bet you know you’re bound to lose now.

“No, you weren’t,” you deadpan.

“I was,” he insists. “I feel like I always am, some way or another.”

Your chest warms at his words. You choke on the funny feeling when you force yourself to swallow it down. “I was just— walking one of the interns through a lateral canthotomy,” you stammer as you step back out of his hold.

“Gnarly,” Jack hums with a slow nod.

“Did you, uh… Did you need me for something?”

“Yeah, I have a patient over in Trauma 2— Sliced through his left hand with a circular saw,” Jack explains, staring down at you from the bridge of his nose as he crosses his strong arms over his chest. “But the crazy part is, he used his right hand to take the nail gun and—”

“Oh, my god,” you blurt before you mean to. “He tried to put his hand back on with the nail gun, didn’t he?”

“Close…” he hums with a knowing glint in his eyes. “He used the gun to fire two nails into his temple— Said he thought it would distract him from the pain in his hand. And the weird thing is, he’s walking and talking just fine.”

“Holy shit…” you mumble, wide-eyed. “Why do you always get the cool cases?”

“You can have it,” he assures you, with something soft swimming in his eyes. “That’s why I wanted to find you— so you could do it with me.”

Something about it feels way more intimate than being asked out for dinner.

You finish the rest of your shift as normal — feeling like a shell of your former self after hours of running on fumes; both excruciatingly tired and buzzing with white-hot adrenaline all at once. 

The only real difference between today and every other day before this one is that, for the first time in a long, long time, you actually have plans outside of work — almost like a real human person with a social life would.

You return home after the long day, only for an hour or so, to shower and change out of your scrubs. You wash away the scent of blood, sweat, and antiseptic from your skin, and only cut your knee once when you shave your legs for the first time in weeks. You pull out a nice top, a short skirt, and a real bra from the depths of your closet. You go as far as to break out the expensive perfume that you’ve had for years, ‘cause you only use it on extra special occasions, which tend to be few and far between for you.

You feel like an entirely different person when you meet Dr. Barker at the address he’d sent you a few hours ago — a nice bar, just a few blocks down from your apartment building, that you’d been meaning to visit for years but found every excuse in the book to stay home instead. You find the man sitting alone in a far booth in the dimly lit room, sipping slowly at the beer he nurses in his hand, and feel a little like a fraud when you slide into the vinyl seat across from him. 

Nick has only known you for the better part of a work shift, to be fair, not counting the handful of times you’d smiled politely in passing when you clocked out for the day. You know he’s got some version of you in his head already, like all men do — someone much cooler than you really are, someone much better at separating their work life from their personal life than you are.

You prove him wrong in record time, sharing a plate of loaded nachos between you and forgetting to eat any of it as you get too easily lost in your ramblings. You tell him of the long shift, and of the man you met with two nails in his skull, and fail to remember that not everyone can talk of blood and gore over a meal as easily as you can.

“—Honestly, I’m still surprised it didn’t hemorrhage! The X-Ray showed one of the nails was, like, half an inch away from nicking an artery,” you ramble with a giddy grin. “I pulled them out with some local anesthetic, and he was totally fine— Well, except for the hand, obviously. ‘Cause he did lose a few fingers, but… Dr. Abbot took care of that, so…”

“Did he?” Nick hums, hiding his smile behind the pint he brings to his mouth. 

He thinks this must be the fifth or so time you’ve brought up the man’s name tonight alone — not that you seem to notice. He doesn’t know whether that’s supposed to make him feel better or worse.

“Yeah— I always tell him he would’ve been an amazing surgeon if he didn’t have the hand-eye coordination of, like… A half-blind sloth,” you say, then swallow hard at the playful look Nick gives you in response. “‘Cause, you know, sloths are really clumsy, and they… Sometimes mistake their own limbs for branches, so… They fall a lot…”

You trail off and reach for the glass of water at your side, becoming very suddenly self-aware of your inability to stop rambling.

“You talk about him a lot,” Nick observes with a kind smile, licking the sheen of alcohol from his lips.

 “…Who?” you wonder with furrowed brows.

“Dr. Abbot.”

Your features flood with terror. “Do I?”

His broad nose scrunches with a breathy laugh. “A little bit, yeah.”

“Oh, god…” you groan and hide your face behind your hand. Nick’s laugh gets lost in the rock music playing overhead. “That’s so annoying. I’m sorry—”

Your phone glows to life as it buzzes against the wooden table it sits on. You reach over to flip it face down before you can read the message on the screen.

“I didn’t… I didn’t even notice… I’m so sorry.”

It vibrates again, twice more in quick succession.

Your stomach twists with the anticipation of what it might say.

“It’s whatever,” Dr. Barker shrugs, pushing the sleeves of his button-up to his elbows. “I get it. He’s your boss and everything, so…”

Your phone buzzes on the table once more, for longer this time, now with a phone call. 

You tense, but make no move to answer it, for fear of making this more awkward than you already have — though your pretending not to hear it doesn’t make it any better. 

The corner of Nick’s lip twitches into a sympathetic smile, ‘cause he can tell that you’re trying to be polite, even though you’re fidgeting at the thought of answering it. Because your friends usually only ever text you, so if someone’s calling, it’s bound to be important.

“You can get that if you need to—”

“Thank you,” you sigh before he’s properly gotten the words out, scrambling for your phone with anxious hands. “I’m so sorry. It’ll be quick, I swear. I’m sure it’s just… Fuck.”

The call ends before you can answer it. 

Nick’s eyes widen at your reaction. “Everything okay?”

“It’s Parker…” you answer with your eyes trained on the blue-white screen. Your chest deflates with a heavy sigh beneath your skin-tight top. “And I know it’s serious because she despises double-texting and she just sent me four back to back, so…”

Your eyes are wet and preemptively apologetic when they dart to the man across the table, who meets the disaster of you with a tender grin.

“You gotta go back in, huh?” he squints.

“I do…” you sigh. “I’m so sorry—”

“Just make it up to me next time,” Nick shrugs, watching with kind eyes as you scramble for your phone and purse. “When I win that bet, I mean. I’ll take you out somewhere nice— We can do this for real. If you want.”

You slide out of the cracking vinyl booth with a grimace — equal parts unnerved at the idea of doing this a second time and half-surprised that Nick would even want to, after you did nothing but anxiously ramble before bailing on him out of nowhere.

“Yeah…” you waver anyway as you stand to full height again. “Yeah. Sure. Maybe.”

“Thank you again— I’d kiss you right now if I could,” Dr. Ellis tells you when you pass her in the ambulance bay, where she hurries out of the E.D. on long limbs. She calls over her shoulder, moments before she’s out of earshot. “You look hot, by the way!”

The passing reminder of what you’re showing up to work in hits you like a punch to the stomach. 

The double doors of the PTMC part for you, and the air-conditioned emergency room wraps its cold fingers around every inch of your exposed skin — your shaven legs, arms, and collarbones; all of which are normally concealed by your dark scrubs and undershirts. 

You can’t help but feel a bit like you’re doing the walk of shame as you race past the work station with your head bowed, barely noticing that the systems are up and running again as you go. You’re too busy trying to make yourself as small as possible on your way to the scrub dispenser down the hall.

Jack smells you before he sees you.

He gets a sudden whiff of something sweet and creamy, like whipped vanilla and fresh raspberries, something candied enough to eat. Then he looks over his shoulder, from where he’s stood at the front desk, and finds you rushing past him in a hurry. His neck nearly cracks with the strength of the double take he gives at the back of you — short skirt swishing around your thighs, tight shirt showing a sliver of your lower back. He feels a little like he’s in middle school again, going wild at the mere sight of a girl’s bare shoulder. 

By the time his brain starts working again to greet you, you’ve already turned the corner.

“Whoa, gotta hot date tonight?” he hears Shen ask as you walk by.

“Just left one, more like,” you scoff.

“Damn. Poor guy,” the man quips, then laughs when you flip him off.

“…What the hell?” Jack mutters under his breath, with his eyes still trained on the empty hall you’d just disappeared down.

“What? You didn’t hear?” McKay wonders aloud, from where she’s hunched over the monitor across from him, still closing down for the day now that the ED isn’t in analog hell anymore. She peers up at him with tired blue eyes, half-hidden beneath her wild fringe. “Don’t tell Princess, but apparently, she went out with that Dr. Barker guy from radiology.”

“Oh, really?” Jack hums, nodding slowly to feign interest. He hopes the hurt flaring in his chest doesn’t show all over his face as he turns back to his computer. “Sounds fun…”

Javadi eyes him from behind McKay’s shoulder. Her dark, observant stare traces the edges of his face as she twirls the string of her lavender jacket with her pointer finger. 

“Well, don’t look so upset about it, Dr. Abbot,” she jokes with a quiet laugh, half-dazed from the long day. “I have a lot riding on this bet about you and Mohan, you know—?”

Cassie flashes the younger girl a wordless look.

Victoria’s eyes go wide when they flit back to Jack’s. 

“—Which I wasn’t supposed to mention in front of you…” she blurts and fakes an awkward laugh. “There is no bet, actually. I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

Jack doesn’t ease the tension by telling her that he already knows; that he has known all day. He just flashes her a half-smile and a pair of squinted eyes as he steps back from the monitor. 

“Real smooth, kid…” he jokes before he walks away.

He leaves the work station and turns the corner to find you cradling a pair of black scrubs to your chest and making a beeline for the restroom nearest to the break room. He rushes on long legs to catch up with you, limping slightly from his prosthetic. You freeze at the sound of your name from his lips, echoing from down the long hall. Your skirt swishes around your thighs as you spin in place to face him.

“Hey…” Jack greets, only slightly out of breath when he towers finally over you.

Your brows lower in confusion at the sight of his flustered state, but you smile nonetheless. “Hey…?”

“How was the, uh… The date?”

“Date?” you scoff. “What date?”

“The one you had with Dr. Barker.”

His biceps strain against his scrubs when he crosses his arms over his chest, peering down at you from the bridge of his nose. Your cheeks flare instantly. You can’t help but feel like you’ve been caught, like he’s just found out you’ve been cheating on him or something — even though the two of you aren’t even together, even though it’s abundantly clear that he wants someone else.

“Well, it wasn’t— it wasn’t really a— a date,” you stammer and turn away. “It was just… dinner.”

“Right,” Jack scoffs and follows behind you the short distance to the bathroom. “Because the two of you weren’t flirting in the security room or anything.”

You huff an emotionless laugh and roll your eyes at him, even though you know he cannot see you. “Yeah, because you and Samira weren’t flirting in Central 4 this morning or anything…” you echo in a gritty monotone.

Jack catches the bathroom door before it can shut behind you. You glance over your shoulder when you hear it hit his palm. You find the man looming in the doorway with something mischievous glittering in his narrowed eyes.

“I’m trying to get changed,” you deadpan, despite the distant fluttering in your chest.

Jack passes through the threshold and lets the door shut behind him, leaving the two of you alone in the empty bathroom, where the white-blue fluorescent lights buzz overhead. 

“Am I hearing things, or do you sound a little jealous?” the older man quips, glittering eyes trained on the back of you as you duck into the singular stall across the room.

It clicks shut behind you. 

“Aren’t you the one who came chasing after me, Dr. Abbot?”

“Aren’t you the one who ran off from your date just to come back in?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” you laugh.

“C’mon,” Jack scoffs. “You know what.”

Your short skirt pools around your feet with a quiet thud. You step out of it and toe off your right shoe, sliding on the adjoining pant leg before slipping the sneaker back on again. You do the same for the left side, and Jack has to shake the visual of your half-naked body from his head.

“I thought we had… You know, I thought we had a thing going on…”

“A thing?” you repeat, half-muffled, as you slide your shirt over your head. You hang it over the stall before reaching for your scrub top. “I wouldn’t exactly consider flirty comments and lingering eye contact a thing.”

Jack catches a glimpse of your bare spine through the sliver in the door frame. He swallows hard and forces himself to look down at his feet.

“You say that like I don’t wish I could do more,” he tells you. “I’m an attending— I can’t just go around making moves on my residents. It’s not a good look.”

The stall door squeaks open again. You come into view, now dressed in your scrubs, and wearing a hardened scowl on your dolled-up face. “Well, that didn’t stop you from getting Samira’s number, did it?” you argue. “Or letting her patch you up this morning?”

“I gave her my number because she asked for a recommendation letter, and I told her I’d give her one,” Jack confesses, watching you with a glittering gaze as you storm past him with your clothes cradled to your chest. He makes room for you by the sink and fights back a grin while you scrub angrily at your hands. “And I was patching myself up, actually, until she walked in looking for her patient.”

“Well, how convenient…” you grumble.

Jack smiles wider. “You are jealous,” he croons.

“I am, actually,” you deadpan, with your eyes trained on the soap you suds between your fingers. Even still, you can see the man in your peripheral vision, standing in the mirror just behind you. You can feel the warmth radiating from his skin, and smell the cologne lingering on his clothes.

“So that’s why you went out with the Barker guy, huh?” Jack lilts. “You just wanted to make me jealous…”

“No, actually,” you tell him. “I went out with Nick because I figured I should probably stop chasing after a guy that obviously doesn’t want me.”

You turn off the faucet with your fist and reach for the paper towel dispenser at your side.

Jack follows your every move.

“Yeah?” he hums lowly. “And who said I didn’t want you?”

You turn around to glare at him despite the newfound heat swimming in the pit of your stomach. 

“Well, I think you’ve made it pretty clear, Dr. Abbot,” you deadpan. “I don’t think the entire floor would be betting on you and Samira otherwise.”

Jack takes a daring step closer, until you have to tilt your chin to keep his gaze when he towers suddenly over you. With his hands crossed over his chest, he bows his head and tells you, “Well, I don’t want Mohan. And I don’t care about that stupid bet. Is that clear enough for you?”

Your chest warms with a familiar feeling. Your features crumple under the weight of it as you murmur sheepishly, “Okay. I’m not even trying to be funny right now, but if you’re trying to tell me that you do like me, you’re going to have to say that outright, or else my brain won’t—”

You feel his hands on you, wide and warm around the outsides of your elbows. You feel your feet stumbling on the tile, and your chest colliding with his, and then his mouth pressing against yours. You feel his chapped lips, his coarse scruff, and his exhaled breath from his nose as it fans warm over your skin. 

You freeze against him, too stunned that he’s kissing you at all to remember to kiss him back.

Jack pulls away from you a dizzying second or more later. He peers down at you with a heavy gaze and smiles when he realizes you haven’t yet taken your eyes off him.

“I like you…” he tells you slowly, as though to make sure you’re really hearing him. “Are we clear now?”

You swallow hard and nod your head, licking at your kissed lips in a feeble attempt to taste him again. 

“Crystal,” you quip drily.

You rise to the tips of your toes and wrench your free hand in his scrub top, with every intention of kissing him again — for real this time. You flinch in a fleeting panic when the bathroom door squeaks open a second later. 

Samira slips inside, too distracted by the phone in her hand to see what she’s walking in on. You and Jack freeze against one another accordingly, as if being so still will somehow make you invisible.

The door closes behind her and muffles the never-ending chaos outside. Only when it clicks shut again does Samira look up from her phone, dark eyes wide as they flit wildly between the two of you.

“Holy shit…” she mumbles under her breath, almost as if she hadn’t meant to say it out loud at all.

You push the man away from you on instinct. 

“We weren’t doing anything!” you blurt, hardly convincing in the matter.

Jack’s soft eyes cut over to you. “Real smooth,” he mumbles.

Samira’s look of shock ebbs into a giddy smile. 

“I knew it!” she exclaims, voice ringing through the tiled restroom. “Ahmad looked at me like I was crazy when I put forty dollars on the two of you, but I knew I was right!”

Your brows furrow in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“The bet,” she shrugs with a smile. “I put mine on the two of you. Which means I just got a couple hundred dollars richer, at least.” 

  The realization hits you like a punch to the stomach. 

“Which means I just lost all of my money…”

“Well, I’m pretty sure I can spare some of my winnings. I mean, it’s only right, right?” Samira says with a pretty laugh. “You guys can go out for drinks or something special. My treat.”

It becomes suddenly very difficult to imagine yourself from five minutes ago — back when you were overcome with jealousy just by the sight of her alone — knowing now that she had been rooting for you this whole time. Jack seems to know this, too, based on the smug smile he gives you.

“This real nice of you, Mohan,” he says. “But if I’m taking my girl out for drinks on a first date, I’m gonna be the one payin’ for ‘em— No offense.”

“None taken,” she shakes her head. “Means more money for me.”

You’re still catching your breath in the meanwhile, ‘cause the newfound title has all but punched the breath from your lungs. My girl, he’d said, and god, you wanted nothing more than to be his girl.

“We should, uh—” You clear your throat when the words get stuck there. “We should probably get out of here before the others think something weird is going on…”

“Something weird is happening— The entire E.D. is betting on my love life,” Jack scoffs as he follows you out of the bathroom, where the chaos of the E.R. finds you almost instantly. “Sorry you lost, by the way. The bet, I mean…”

He catches himself nearly reaching out for your hand. He balls his own into a fist instead to fight the urge. You can see the longing to glittering in his eyes, anyway, when you turn to flash him a sheepish look in response.

“Well, I didn’t lose completely,” you lilt with a lazy shrug. 

“No?” Jack hums.

“No…” you grin. “I think I won where it mattered.”

You seem to be everywhere. Ever since that first day, he hasn’t been able to shake you. Any corner he turns, every trauma room he enters, there you are. Even when he can’t see you, you still haunt him. He picks up the faint smell of your shampoo, sometimes. Hears your laughter ringing somewhere in the halls and can't help but turn his head towards it.

It’s worse when you’re next to him. You’re great at what you do, there's no denying that. But it's been difficult to work alongside you, elbows and arms brushing while you crowd over whatever patient is bleeding out on the table in front of him. His brain just can't keep up, sometimes. Not with the warmth of your body next to his. Commands come out a little slower than usual. He hesitates for a second longer than he usually does.

However, it's the worst when you’re batting your eyelashes at him when you finally have a moment of downtime. Handing him some coffee from the break room, letting your fingers linger on his for just a beat too long. Casually laying a hand on his bicep when you talk to him, leaving him tingling for an embarrassing amount of time after you leave. He knows exactly what you’re doing. That you know exactly what it does to him. He’s got scars older than you, but that doesn't stop his gaze from following you as you flit around the ER. And he knows you feel it. You’re real young, you’re real fucking pretty and you’re real fucking capable.

Which is why it feels like a cruel joke that you’re always flirting with him. Especially since he’s pretty sure you’d never actually see him in the way that he sees you. Honestly, it makes this inconvenient attraction he has towards you all the more complicated. Jack can't help but notice the way you chew your lip when you’re deep into charting. The curve of your neck when you adjust your hair. When you look up at him with those big eyes, just eagerly waiting for him to tell you what to do next.

Fuck, he’s hard just thinking about it.

His thoughts always wander in that direction when it comes to you. He finds himself at home, thinking of the way that you looked at him earlier in the day or when you swept a slow thumb over your bottom lip absentmindedly, lost in thought. Jack feels filthy when he thinks of you like this, but he still can't help but palm himself through his pants when the thoughts come. Which is more often than he'd like to admit.

When he thinks of you outside of that, however, he’s not entirely sure how he feels. It’s more than just something carnal. He wants to take care of you. And he does, sometimes. Leaves a protein bar by your hand when he hears you complain about how hungry you are, and steps in when patients start being rowdy or handsy with you. 

It’s an entirely different feeling while he watches a doctor get handsy with you instead.

It's the early hours of the morning, and the day shift has started to trickle in. It was always interesting, crossing paths with them. The night shift attracted a certain kind of person. Someone who prefers working under the cover of darkness. Jack noticed that the people on the night shift always played their cards closer to their chests, had a little more hidden depth. Maybe that's why they all worked well together, moving like a unit, fluid and unspoken. 

The day shift on the other hand was, well, bright, in a sense. They were all dazzling smiles and caffeinated energy, bouncing from one patient to the next. They clashed like nobody’s business, bold and brash. There were exceptions of course, like Mohan, who Jack had grown fond of and even attempted to convince to join the night shift on more than a few occasions. (She always said no.)

Then there were the textbook examples. And no one embodies the day shift more than Robby’s prodigal son, Frank Langdon. 

Frank Langdon, who was standing just a little too close to you, elbow propped on the nurse’s station as he gave you one of his signature smiles. Jack was too far away to hear exactly what he was saying, but he didn't miss the way his fingers played with your badge, the light glinting off it as he fiddled with it and examined your photo. Jealousy twists in Jack’s gut, but he can't make himself turn away. He just grips his tablet harder, listening to you giggle at whatever Langdon had to say. It’s the same giggle that you give him when he's just a little too sarcastic in an attempt to make you laugh. That was his giggle.

A hand on his shoulder snaps him out of his daze.

“What'd the tablet do to you?” It’s Robby, looking at Jack expectantly to begin their hand off for the day. Jack can't curb his jealousy fast enough and the other man follows his gaze right over to you and Langdon. He can see the gears turning in Robby’s mind, piecing everything together until he barks out a laugh and shakes his head. “You’re so screwed, brother.”

“I don't know what you’re talking about.” Jack grumbles, and Robby raises a disbelieving eyebrow at him. He’s still gripping onto the tablet, probably moments away from cracking the damn thing in half.

“Right…” Robby has to basically wrestle it out of his grip and Jack finally drags his eyes over to his friend, who looks thoroughly unimpressed. “So you’re just here, burning holes into Langdon for no reason.”

“I’m not,” Jack says, a little too indignantly for his liking. “He’s married. He shouldn't be flirting like that.” Robby laughs at him again, which is really starting to get on his nerves. He knows that it’s a terrible lie, but his mind is too foggy from his overnight shift to think of a better one. He wishes his friend would cut him a little slack here.

“Sure. And it’s got nothing to do with her, I’m guessing,” Robby nods over in your direction, and Langdon is still there. He’s leaning on the nurses station, still talking away while you nod, full attention on him. Doesn’t this guy have a job to do? A beat of silence passes, and Jack doesn't answer. “Okay, well, good luck with that then.”

With that, Robby takes his leave, but not before he grabs Langdon by the scrubs, wordlessly hauling him away. You seem shocked at the sudden intrusion, waving goodbye to the dark haired doctor just a moment too late.

It seems like his best friend can cut him some slack, after all.

—

You’re already two drinks deep when Jack Abbot walks through the door.

You’re in the day shift’s favourite bar, squished into the booth seat next to Trinity. She’s yapping away and gesturing wildly to Robby and Garcia who are sitting across from you, looking equally as squished. Truthfully, you’d tuned her out a few minutes ago; it was a story about Dennis and the farm girl she’s told you a million times before.

Your eyes are wandering across the bar, drifting over your friends who are scattered around as if they own the place. Samira and Cassie are perched on stools at the bar, Parker is trying and failing to teach Dennis how to play pool. Movement catches your eye and your gaze drifts towards the door, where John strides in, with Jack in tow.

You can't even pretend to notice Shen, not when Jack catches your eye right away. He’s got his typical black shirt on, tight in all the right places. His hands are shoved into his pockets as he saunters in, looking confident as always. You swear that you’ve never seen him look out of place before. Everywhere he enters, it feels like all heads turn in his direction.

Well, yours does at least.

And it’s really irritating how fucking good he looks all the time. Scrubbed up, in his civvies and in that unbelievably hot uniform that he rolled up in on the fourth of July. He really has you feeling a lot of things you definitely shouldn’t be, considering that he’s your attending. But that still doesn’t stop your eyes from wandering across his broad frame, up his freckled arms to the grey stubble on his jaw. You practically have to physically stop yourself from biting your lip.

“Oh my God, drool much?” Trinity says in a low voice. She’s clearly stopped telling her story, as Robby and Garcia are now engaged in a conversation of their own. Trinity has caught you checking out Abbot on multiple occasions and she never gives up an opportunity to bemoan you about it. “He’s like, geriatric.”

“Not geriatric. Kind of like, silver foxy?” You laugh, shaking your head. “Plus, I thought we kind of had a thing for older people?” You gesture not-so-subtly at Garcia, who’s taking a sip of her drink and nodding along to whatever Robby is saying. Trinity rolls her eyes at your comment and slips past you, out of the booth.

“Okay, well, I’m gonna get another drink,” She tells you, waving her empty glass. Before she leaves, she sneaks a peek over her shoulder and then leans in closer to you, her breath tickling your ear. “He’s heading your way. So try not to cream your pants, huh?”

That makes you sit up straight as Trinity saunters off and Jack comes into view. He’s looking down at you in a way that makes you squeeze your thighs together. He stares, but only for a moment before sliding into the booth across from you, next to Robby. Garcia seems to have slipped off to get another drink as well. What a coincidence.

‘Well, look who finally made it!” Robby gives Jack a slap on the shoulder as he settles in, whiskey glass in hand. He gives his friend a nod, glass extended in an invitation. Robby accepts, clinks his bottle against his cup and both the men take a sip. You can’t help but be drawn to Jack’s hands, much like you always were during surgery. There was just something about them — the way his fingers were nice and thick maybe, and you couldn’t help but wonder what exactly they would feel like skimming your body. 

You almost let your gaze trail down to his mouth, but you shake your head in a daze as Jack sets down his drink. He still catches you though, the ends of his lips quirked up in an almost smirk. Your heart pounds in your chest as you look down at your hands to avoid any further eye contact, but you can still feel the heat of his gaze on you. It’s dangerously enticing and fuck, are you enticed.

He opens his mouth to say something to you but Dennis plops himself in the spot next to you, interrupting. He’s looking around, beer hugged close to his chest. “I think if I missed one more time, Ellis would have actually killed me.” He says, and you glance over at the pool table where Shen has gracefully slipped into Whitaker's role instead, much to Ellis’ delight.

The conversation takes off again and you can't help but wonder what exactly Jack was going to say to you. He’s wrapped up with Robby and Samira, who has floated her way down to your booth and is looking as angelic as ever. She’s perched on the corner of the table, all long legs and sweet smiles. You watch the way Jack talks to her; smooth, easy and familiar. You’re sure your smile twitches and you give Dennis a tap on the shoulder.

“I think I’m going to get another drink too.” You say, both to Dennis and to no one in particular. You stand and Samira gives you just a bit of a liquored up grin as she helps you adjust your short dress. You thank her with a smile of your own, turning around. There’s hope blooming in your chest at what feels like Jack’s eyes on your back as you walk away, but you're too cowardly to look back and see for yourself.

Trinity is standing at the bar, looking about as dishevelled as you expected. She quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything as you approach.

“Your drink is taking a long time, huh?” You nudge her with your shoulder and she just rolls her eyes. Ignoring her attitude, you rest your elbows on the bar, trying to get a look at where the bartender fucked off to. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Trinity is reapplying her lipgloss and attempting to tame her hair, using her phone to assess her reflection. You try to help and she gives you a grateful smile in return. She nods towards the bartender, who is still kind of ignoring you. “I already got one for you.”

“You’re the best,” You’re still smoothing down her hair, giving her a big smile back. “Should we, like, kiss?” You fake going in for a kiss, and she pushes you away with a laugh.

“Please. You wish,” The bartender finally slides two drinks towards Trinity, who hands you one of the glasses. The chill from the glass is definitely welcome against your warm flesh, flushed from the drinks previous. Trinity shoots you a smirk as she grabs your hand to lead you back to the booth. “Besides, don’t you have a silver fox to catch?”

The two of you arrive at the booth and in the short time you’ve been gone, the people seem to have rearranged themselves. Robby and Whitaker have disappeared and Samira has taken your place, McKay beside her. On the other side is still Abbot, nursing his whiskey. Heads turn at your presence and the pair of you are greeting with excited chatter and big smiles from the girls.

It takes you a minute to realize that the only open spot is next to Jack.

Trinity gives you a small push and you claim the seat next to him. Trinity slides in after you and it’s a bit of a tight squeeze, leaving you thigh to thigh with the attending you definitely don’t have an inappropriate workplace crush on. You can feel the heat radiating off him — his arms, his thighs. You swear you feel him stiffen for a second, but the moment is over as quickly as it happened. He smells woody and warm, and it’s got you basically swooning. Is that just the way he smells, or is it cologne, body wash? You resist the weird, perverted urge to take a sniff of his neck and take a sip of your drink instead.

Conversation comes easy for you guys, especially as the drinks continue to flow. People come and go: Ellis, Shen, Dennis — everyone shuffles through, exchanging seats and manoeuvring around each other as easy as they do on the floor of the hospital.

You and Jack though, you don’t move.

Your two stay pressed together, even when Trinity is long gone. Eventually, everyone thins out and spreads across the bar instead, leaving you and Jack alone together. It’s getting hard to ignore the mirth swimming in his eyes, your faces just a little too close together for the conversation you two are having.

You trace what’s left of the condensation from your empty glass with your finger, savouring the feel of the cool water. Is it hot in here? Or is it just you?

“How about I get you another drink?” Jack offers, the timbre of his voice lower than usual. “On me?”

 It feels like he’s getting closer, close enough that you can smell the whiskey on his breath. It’s probably inappropriate to want to kiss your boss, right? Especially one almost twice your age? The prospect of the situation makes you almost dizzy with want, especially when he’s looking at you like that. Or maybe that’s just the alcohol rushing to your head.

Yeah, it’s definitely just you.

“Actually, I think I need a smoke.” You manage to utter, like the responsible adult you are. You need to remove yourself from the situation, fast. He retreats from your space slowly, and you immediately feel the absence. It takes everything in you to suppress the urge to lean back into him again, instead giving him a shy smile as you exit the booth. Jack lets you leave wordlessly, and this time you’re certain his eyes are on you as you walk away. 

The cool breeze outside is a welcome reprieve from the overwhelming heat inside and you take a moment to let it wash over you. You press your back against the brick of the bar and pull out your pack from your purse and stick a cigarette between your lips, fishing around for your lighter. After some digging, you finally find what you were looking for and you cup your hand around the cigarette, flicking the lighter on until you see the familiar cherry red at the end. Things seem a bit less hazy when you take a deep inhale and exhale slowly, grey smoke curling around the dark sky.

You close your eyes and rest your head against the wall, feeling the tension leave your shoulders. Taking another long drag, you review the night in your head. You’ve always enjoyed flirting with Jack, sure, but Jack also flirts with anything that has a pulse. You never really expected anything to come of it, except maybe something to think about later in the night while you were alone. Lately though, it’s been feeling different. He’s always brushing against you, placing his hand on the small of your back as he squeezes past you. The way he looks at you recently is glimmering with something you can’t exactly place. The way he looked at you when Langdon was trying to charm you.

You lift your hand to take another drag when the cigarette is suddenly plucked from between your fingers. Your eyes flutter open and there stands the subject of your thoughts, Jack Abbot, who has your cigarette between his lips now. 

“Whiskey makes Jack a bold boy, eh?” You tease, watching as he takes a drag. It’s unfair how good he makes it look. He gives a small chuckle at your comment but doesn’t reply, letting silence settle between the two of you. Instead, he extends the cigarette towards you and you take it back. Something is painted on his face, like he’s mulling something over, but you don’t ask. You two continue this for a while, just enjoying each other’s company for a moment, taking turns until you finally hit the filter. It’s easy to admire him in the quiet you share. The flex of his biceps, the way he shifts his weight between his prosthetic and his good leg. He’s so broad and handsome, especially when he’s in his tight shirt and cargos. It’s got you wanting to drop to your knees right then and there.

You don’t miss the way he’s looking at you either, though. It’s common knowledge that Jack’s got a staring problem. It makes you flustered at the best of times and wet at the worst, but this stare was different. You can see the want in his eyes as his hazel eyes basically bore into your soul. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say that he was giving you bedroom eyes. Every so often his eyes flicker down to your lips instinctively, especially when they’re wrapped around the cigarette the two of you are sharing. You’re sure that you’re probably doing the same.

“So, can I buy you that drink now?” He asks huskily as you put out the smoke, tossing it into the garbage can behind you. Your eyes flick between the door of the bar and your phone; the numbers flashing at you indicate that you’ve been out longer than you’ve anticipated and it was late.

“I was actually kind of thinking of pulling an Irish goodbye. I live pretty close,” You say sheepishly, tucking your phone back into your purse. He almost looks disappointed, and you revel in the feeling. You’re not sure if it’s the drinks you’ve had or the way that he was staring at Langdon like he wanted to strangle him with his bare hands for flirting with you the other day, but the words slip out of your mouth before you can really think it through. “Want to walk me home?”

Your tone is shy but warm, an airy lilt at the end of the invitation. Or at least that’s what you aimed for. Realization spreads across his face, until it’s replaced with a smirk. You know it’s an offer he can’t really deny. Even if he didn’t want to fuck you, Jack Abbot was nothing short of a gentleman. He’d never let you walk home alone so late at night. “Of course.”

“Why thank you, Doctor Abbot.” You give him a smirk of your own as you push off the wall, enjoying the way that he watches you move languidly. He scoffs at your joking use of the professional title you call him at work, tongue darting out to wet his lips. You adjust your dress and you two look at each other for a moment; him staring down at you with that obnoxiously smug look on his face, and you staring up at him half lidded like you don’t know what you’re doing.

“Lead the way, sweetheart.” He gestures with a sweep of his arm, breaking your staring contest. You start off in the direction of your apartment, shooting him a cheeky look over your shoulder as he takes a minute to follow behind you.

“Think you can keep up, old man?”

—

He hangs back, just for a second, to admire the view as you flounce away, your heels clicking against the pavement. He can’t help but appreciate just how good you look, dress hugging your figure in all the right places. It doesn’t help that he caught a glimpse of your panties earlier when you left the booth, and he’s been thinking about taking another peek ever since. He’s so distracted that he barely catches the words you throw at him.

“Watch it, kid.” He warns, starting off after you. The night is just cool enough that he can feel the alcohol flowing hot through his veins as he reaches you, matching your stride. The nickname was just a slip of the tongue, something he calls you when you’ve made the right call when treating a patient or when you’re offering to refill his coffee in the break room. You give him that look that you’ve been giving him all night, the one that’s got him in this mess in the first place. Blinking through your eyelashes, like you want to climb him like a tree. It does make him feel like a bit of an old man in a way, chasing after a girl basically half his age. 

But you’re the one that invited him, right?

“I’m not sure what you mean.” You say innocently, another flutter of your eyelashes. He gives a chuckle at that, rolling his eyes. The night is quiet at this hour and the tension is thick between you two as you walk alongside each other. Jack’s got his hands tucked into his pockets, watching as you walk a bit unsteadily and he’s not sure if it’s the drinks you’ve had or the shoes that you were wearing. Before he could ponder on it any longer, your heel skids and you stumble over a small lift in the sidewalk.

He grabs your waist instinctively, catching you before you go down. You’re closer to him now and the scent that he’s become so familiar with fills the air, masked a bit by the perfume you wear, all floral and ambery. The proximity between you two almost makes him stumble as well. 

“Careful, sweetheart,” He says, voice low, still affected by just how close you are. “Don’t think you’d like to make a detour back to work before your next shift.” He hauls you upright and you give him another sweet smile. Jack can’t help but give you one back.

“Why would I need to?” You recover much faster from the stumble than he does, smoothing your dress down with the palms of your hands. “You wouldn’t patch me up? I’d be in very capable hands, no?” You tease, smirking. He knows you’re joking but the idea of getting his hands on you, being able to touch you beyond the feather light touches you have shared, makes his heart beat in want.

“Yeah, you think so?” He smirks and you slow to a stop in front of a building that he assumes must be your place. You answer his question with a small nod, suddenly shy. He can see you scanning his face, looking for some kind of answer in it. You press your lips in a thin line and finally speak in a small voice.

“Walk me up?”

He should say no. Any sort of gentleman would leave it here, say good night. Especially one as old as he is.You’re staring at him, not breaking eye contact as you await his response. He should definitely say no.

“Sure.”

Goddamn it.

You give him a smile as you turn, pulling the door to your building and he grabs it, holding it open for you. The climb to your place is quiet, the click of your heels against the stairs punctuating the terrible choice he’s making. But the choice doesn’t feel as terrible as it should when he gets to watch you climb the flights of stairs, getting the flash of your panties that he was desperately wishing for earlier.

You approach your door, fumbling with your keys for a second before he hears the soft click of the lock. He’s got his forearm resting against your doorframe, watching as you slowly pull the door open. Jack catches a glimpse into your apartment for a second before you face him; it’s a small studio, lived in and inviting. It smells like you.

You’re just staring at him for a moment and he’s staring right back. The thought that this is a terrible idea is swirling in his mind somewhere, but the heat pooling in his gut as you look at him seems to be all he can focus on right now. You cock your head and enter your apartment, door still wide open. Jack’s body moves before he can even think about it, one foot after the other, crossing the threshold. Something he can’t take back.

He closes the door behind him with a gentle hand, like any loud noise might snap one of you out of a trance. You’ve got your windows open and you’re bathed in the moonlight, the same way you were outside the bar. That exact vision of you has hijacked his better judgement tonight and landed him in the apartment of a pretty young girl. He tries to push the thought aside.

Jack opens his mouth to speak, maybe even tell you how bad of an idea this is, but you’ve already hooked your fingers in his belt loops, pressing your lips against his before he can get a word out. He can taste your lip gloss and it makes his knees buckle a bit, the words suddenly dying on his tongue. You don’t hold back, all dirty and desperate, slipping your tongue into his mouth. He can feel you sigh and pull him closer, hands resting at his stomach now. Your nails scratch against the skin above his waistband and it makes all his blood rush downwards.

You let out a shaky moan into his mouth and his resolve just breaks. His hands finally move and take what he’s been wanting, cupping your jaw for a minute before moving down, rough, skimming down and pulling you flush against him, hands coming to a rest on the curve of your ass.

It’s intoxicating the way you kiss him, like you just can’t fucking get enough. Your hands are wound in his hair, carting through the grey curls. You pull away all too soon, chest rising and falling quickly in an attempt to catch your breath. It sends a shiver down his spine when he sees the sultry look on your face and you grab his hand and pull him deeper into your apartment.

He lets you lead him and come to a stop at your couch. Jack must be drunker than he thought, because you barely push his chest and he lands on the couch behind him. It’s a sight to see when you drop down to your knees without a word, dress rucking up at your waist. He can’t help the moan that slips out from between his lips as you look up at him, the same way you do at work. Waiting for him to tell you what to do. His legs part involuntarily and you slip yourself between them.

“Fuck, baby,” He can’t help but take in the moment, cupping your cheek as you lean into his touch. “ You want to suck my cock that fucking bad, huh?” 

You nod —eagerly, he can’t help but note— and he grabs a fistful of your hair loosely. He gives you a small nod, giving you permission to go ahead. Biting your lip, you trace a soft finger over the bulge in his pants and he can’t help but shiver. You take your time unzipping his pants and pulling him out, hand wrapped around the hard length of him. It’s fucking delicious watching you like this, pumping his cock slow, a wicked grin on your face.

You press a kiss to his tip and his hips stutter at the sensation and then you’re pressing the flat of your tongue against him, licking him from root to head. He lets out a loud groan, grip on your hair tightening ever so slightly. He takes in the scene in front of him, you on your knees just for him. It feels perverted in a way, like he’s way too old to be this undone, especially for a woman so many years his junior. But then you place him between your soft lips, lip gloss all smeared from the sloppy kisses you two had shared earlier and he can’t really bring himself to care. Your hands skim down the sides of his bare legs, not even pausing when you feel the heat of skin turn into cool metal on one side.

Your mouth is so warm and wet and it’s got him wondering what your pussy will feel like if your mouth already feels this good. Honestly, he can’t remember the last time someone has had him like this. Your hand is soft where it grips him at his base, spit dripping onto your knuckles and you take him deeper and deeper, until he almost hits the back of your throat.

“Such a good girl for me.” He drawls, voice shaking as you swallow around him. You’ve settled into a rhythm now and Jack is happy to hold you by the hair and let you take control. It feels so fucking good that he can’t help but thrust into your mouth, a crooked grin forming when you gag and drool for him. He can't help but praise you. “You look so pretty on your knees, drooling all over your tits like that.”

That earns him a moan from you and he can feel the vibration of it around his cock. He thinks it can’t get any better than this, and then you look up into his eyes, lips still wrapped around him and a guttural moan rips its way from his chest. This seems to invigorate you as you begin to suck harder, cheeks hollowed as your other hand sneaks its way up to his balls, rolling them in your palm. It’s sloppy and wet and loud —the only sounds in your apartment are the loud, filthy way you’re taking him deep into your throat, and Jack's soft pants and utters of your name. His brows are burrowed in pleasure and it takes all of his focus to not cum in your mouth. He’s basically dripping from your spit, wet all the way down to his balls.

He pulls you up by your hair, rough. You let out a small whimper, like you’re real sad that he’s not letting you suck his dick like you were trying to suck his soul out of it. His lips are parted and his pupils are blown with lust, the hazel of his eyes barely visible around the black. His voice is husky when he speaks next.

“Get on the bed, sweetheart.” The apartment is small, and the bed is just behind him. You’re still wearing your heels and the sound of them reverberates in the cramped space. You don’t bother to pull your dress down this time and he soaks it all in as he pulls off his shirt, trying his best to kick off his boots and pants that have pooled around his ankles at the same time.

He catches up to you in no time and he knows you’re teasing him, walking all slow and sexy like that. Then he decides you’re teasing just a bit too much and he grabs you by the waist and tosses you onto the bed. You land with a soft bounce on the mattress and he crawls on right after you, pulling you towards him.

He’s nosing at your pussy through your panties, the dampness forming for him to see. You smell so fucking good that it makes him throb and he can’t help but wrap a fist around himself and pump loosely a few times.

“You’re soaked for me,” He says gruffly and you mewl, desperate for him to touch you more. “Should I have a taste?”

Now he’s running his fingertips over your covered slit, and your hips buck. Jack can feel the heat of you just under the thin cloth, radiating through the lace and he briefly wonders if you’ll let him keep them after.

“Yes…” You breathe, and he takes a peek at you from between your legs. You look absolutely wrecked, propped up on your forearms, staring down at him through half lidded eyes.

“Why don’t you ask me nicely?” He coos and you groan, head tipping back. He loves having you like this, nice and pliant under his hands. You’re better than he imagined when he was alone, touching himself to the thought of you. “Tell me how bad you want it.”

“Please, Jack,” Your voice cracks as you plead, hips rolling, craving some kind, any kind of friction. “I want it so fucking bad, please…” 

“You always listen so well to me, sweetheart. So obedient.” Jack can’t deny you when you whine for him all breathy like that, so he pulls your panties to the side and does exactly what he said he would do, taking a taste. He laps at your pussy like a man starved, your wetness smearing all over his chin, gathering in his stubble.

He feels your hands grip his hair as you pull him in deeper, wordlessly asking for more. Obliging, he dips his tongue into your cunt and you tighten around the muscle, making Jack’s eyes roll back into his head. He’s sure he’s moaning just as much as you are, one hand on your hip, the other one stroking his cock roughly.

Once he’s had his fill of fucking you with his tongue he lets his fingers take over, sliding two of them into your sopping entrance. Your hips buck again at the intrusion and he lets out a deep growl. “You taste so good, baby —could eat you all fucking night. You like having my fingers buried deep in your cunt?”

The whiskey has worn off by now but he’s drunk with lust, his head spinning as he ducks his head back down, sucking your clit softly. He can feel you fluttering around his fingers, getting tighter as he fucks you rough. He’s caught you staring at them more than once and your little comment about his hands earlier hadn’t gone unnoticed by him.

He can tell you’re close by the way you’re moaning and the way you’re gripping his fingers; he can barely pull them out. The pace he sets is brutal and then you’re coming on his hand and face before he even realizes. The taste of your cum is heady and he’s licking it all up like it’s his last meal.

You’re catching your breath and he flips you over without a word, ass up for him. His hands are rough and calloused on your soft skin, pulling down the top of your dress to expose your breasts. You both moan as he tweaks a nipple between his fingers, before palming your ass and yanking your soaking panties down your thighs.

“Fuck…” Jack curses. He’s rutting against you, coating his cock with your cum, moving infuriatingly slow. You’re pushing against him, pleas falling from your lips as he places a hand on your bare back, pushing you deeper into the mattress. Jack has half a mind to hope that your apartment walls aren’t as thin as he thinks they are. He’s busy trying to sear this moment into his memories to care all that much about it though; you’re under him, moaning his name, begging for him. “Still think I’m an old man? That I can’t keep up?”

He’s throwing your words back at you, the frantic shakes of your head as you rut back into him going straight to his ego and his dick. Jack can't resist the sight any longer as he drags himself up and down your entrance, tapping on your clit a few times and loving the way you jump at the sensation. He’s barely got the tip in when you start moaning for him again, breathy and desperate. Ignoring your begging for him to start moving faster, he pushes in nice and slow instead, mesmerized by the way your pussy just sucks him in.

Gripping fabric of your dress that has bunched up around your waist, he sinks in deeper until he’s fully bottomed out. He stays still for a moment, letting you adjust to his size and schooling his breathing so he doesn’t cum embarrassingly fast. You’re so tight and he can’t help but think you’re one hundred percent better than what he imagined and one thousand percent better than his fist that he fucks into when he thinks of you. Sharp pain interrupts his thoughts, your nails scratching at his thighs as you try to get him to finally move.

“Feels like you’re made for me, sweetheart. So fucking tight for me.” Thoughts are spilling out now, pleasure taking over and loosening his filter. As much as he wants to savour this, savour you, he’s on the fringes of his self control. You’re gripping his cock in a way that makes his head spin and your small pants have him feeling downright sinful. He tries to start slow, he really does, but he just can’t resist. He’s been thinking about having you for so long, the way you would look under him, and now that he has you, he’s not letting you think about anyone else again. Jack wants you to think about him every time you crawl into bed without him.

He fucks you in earnest, the wet slap of skin on skin just spurring him on. He buries a fist in your hair again, yanking your head up so you’re on all fours for him, back curved. The frame of your bed creaks quickly in time with his thrusts, the same way his thrusts are punching small gasps out of you each time. He loves listening to the noises you make and he pulls your hips up higher, balls slapping your clit as he buries himself deeper. Your moans are getting louder, walls squeezing him tight and he pulls out quickly before his vision goes white.

“Jack, please!” He can tell you’re getting tired of the way he’s been teasing you all night, thinking that he just might edge you all night. But really, he just wants to see what your face looks like when you cum around his cock. He flips you over easily, biceps flexing. Before you can even muster out a squeal he’s back inside you, filling you up to the hilt. Your lips part and your eyes roll back into your head, and he can’t help but smirk as he begins to move once more.

This time the pace he sets is punishing, determined to make you cum before even thinking about chasing his own high. Jack can tell by the way that you’re squeezing him like you don’t want to let him go that it won’t be long. He allows his eyes to sweep over your body appreciatively, your thighs, your stomach, the way your breasts bounce, how absolutely blissed out your face looks.

It’s hard to resist the temptation to splay a hand just below your neck, gauge your reaction, so he doesn’t. His hand is so large against the base of your throat and the way your eyes flutter in pleasure makes his dick twitch. He lets it rest there for a moment, then dips two fingers between your lips, tongue swirling around the tips of them like it was around his dick just a little while ago.

Leaving a wet trail down your chest, he makes his way down to your clit, drawing tight circles around with rough fingertips. He lets out a growl at the noise you make, deep and primal. He glances down, noticing the cream gathering around the base of his cock, his happy trail covered in your slick. His legs shake at the sight, his climax suddenly a lot closer than he anticipated. He can guess that yours is too, judging from the way your cunt is fluttering around him and that you’ve seemed to stop caring who can hear just how good he’s making you feel. 

“You gonna cum on my cock, baby?” You’re nodding loosely, like you barely even registered the question. He loves seeing such a capable girl come apart in his hands like this. “Yeah? Cum for me then.”

And you do, as he should have expected, since you always do what he tells you to.

Your cunt is milking his orgasm out of him, and he can feel his hips stutter. He barely squeezes out the words, asking you where he should finish, half aware that he’s not wearing a condom. You look up with shiny wet eyes, fingers tangling in the curls at the base of his neck  and he nearly cums at the sight.

“I want you to fill me up.” You say, and yeah, that makes him want to cum even more. A few more messy thrusts and he gives a low groan, spilling deep inside you. He’s hutched over your form, body shaking in pleasure, loving the heat that’s radiating from your body. After a few moments the haze of sex dissipates and you two are left chest to chest, your nipples brushing his chest with every breath.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, sweetheart.”

—

Jack cleans you up, all nice and sweet, with a warm rag from your bathroom. The action is tender, especially compared to the way he just wrecked you. It makes you feel taken care of, which is not something you would admit aloud to him for now. You’re a little confused about the position that this puts you in with your attending. The only thing you can really make sense of is that the entire situation has gotten about a million times more complicated than it was eight hours ago.

But when Jack looks at you, eyes soft in a way you’ve never seen before when you offer to help him remove his prosthetic, you decide that you don’t really care. You’d give anything to have him look at you that way again.

And now he’s here in your bed, freckled back to you and breathing even. He’d fallen asleep soon after you asked him to stay the night, which you thought was sweet. Old man was up way past his bedtime.

Your phone vibrates on your nightstand and you flip it over, squinting at the bright light. You’d pretty much ignored it when you left the bar with Jack, pretty one track minded. You’d miss a flurry of text messages from everyone else: Garcia asking if she could bum a smoke, Samira asking if you left and then following up asking you to let her know you got home safe, Robby wondering if you had seen Abbot anywhere, Dennis just sending you a blurry picture of the bar floor, which you assumed was a drunken accident.

Trinity has sent you the most recent text, sitting atop of your stack of notifications.

"Oh shit," you hear another voice approach from your left, Javadi resting her elbows on the desk you and Santos occupy.

"Yeah," you grumble, downing another sip like it's a shot. You wish it was. "Just another asshole wanting to get in my pants, only for him to care just about himself when I so stupidly let him."

You roll your eyes at yourself, your need for validation, any sort of affection taking over and picking these clowns against your better judgement.

"Classic," Javadi says, her own eyes rolling back, knowing all too well what you've been going through.

You've been able to bond with the newer staff in the past year over this, the trials and tribulations of your love lives. Whitaker joins in too sometimes, albeit against his will.

"You could always follow my lead," Santos suggests sarcastically. "Y'know, hook up with someone you work with in secret."

You stifle a chuckle, tipping your can back to your lips. You shake your head incredulously. "I can't believe those are my only options," you groan, your forehead falling to your hands.

"I just feel like there's nobody for me, you know?" You ponder aloud. "Like, if this is all that's out there, then I don't even know if it's even worth it? Ugh, that sounds so stupid and melodramatic," you massage your temples with your fingers, embarrassed by your out-flux of emotion.

"No, it's not," Javadi says in comfort. "I feel the same way sometimes. It's exhausting. These men- sorry, boys- have no idea what they're doing. All they care about is getting their dick wet."

You nod in agreement, another sardonic laugh escaping your lips. "Seriously," you mutter. "I don't even know why I keep trying. I have my vibrator, I might as well just use that for the rest of my life. At least those actually get me to finish."

Your heart stops, regretting your words immediately as you watch Santos' eyes widen, her posture stiff, a telltale sign that one of your superiors is behind you. You can only pray it's someone understanding, like Mohan or McKay.

Of course, you're not so lucky. You turn to find an achingly familiar navy hoodie, paired strong, veiny arms sticking out of the pockets.

Your face burns, your heart beating against your chest as you try to process that your boss, the senior attending partially responsible for your employment, just heard you talk about vibrators and orgasms.

"Sir," you breathe, unsure of what else to say.

His gaze flits to the ground the second yours finds him, and you swear you can make out just a bit of red on the apples of his cheeks.

He clears his throat, a hand coming up to the back of his neck before saying, "I can only assume this is not work related."

The look on his face is pointed, an awkward tension filling the space between you, the girls, and your boss. You shake your head, a pathetic, "sorrysir" spilling out of your mouth.

You watch him adjust on his feet, once again avoiding your gaze. He runs his finger in a circle, referencing the busy ER in which you stand.

"Get back to it," he huffs out, and the three of you scatter like he'd just dropped a bomb.

You flee with Javadi, your arm linking through hers as you keep your heads down, stifling giggles like school children.

"Oh. My. God," you breathe, embarrassment flooding through you like a tsunami.

You part ways when you make it to a turn in the hallway, splitting up to check on your respective patients, eager to run away from whatever just happened.

Hour eight comes and goes, as busy as ever. The only difference, though, is in the way Robby is treating you. Each bark of an order, every harsh correction like tiny needles pricking at the back of your neck.

It starts in triage, where you pop out to spot any incoming traffic. It feels nice, the fresh summer air wafting through the ambulence bay, a welcome contrast to the stuffiness of the ER.

You jump when the door opens behind you, Robby rubbing hand sanitizer into his skin. You avert your gaze, anywhere but the manipulation of his large hands. Santos' words from earlier ring in your head, 'just date someone you work with in secret.'

It feels ridiculous, thoughts of your senior attending ping ponging around your head. You feel dizzy at the consuming thoughts, unwilling to believe that this is where your disastrous dating life has led you- fantasizing about your senior attending while he's standing a foot away from you.

His closeness brings you back to life, the sharp exhale he exudes making you flinch. His eyes widen at your reaction, brows raising like he's waiting on you.

"Well? Did you hear me?" He asks, crossing his veiny forearms over his chest.

You will yourself to look away, your heart picking up speed at the flex of his muscles.

"I'm sorry, what was it?" You ask, your voice flighty and airy.

You fiddle with your hands, desperate to outrun this Molotov cocktail of embarrassment and desire. He's going to kill you by the end of this shift, you're convinced.

"I said," he starts, pointedly, "that you're staying with me for the rest of the day. Word on the street is that Pittsburgh Memorial is at max capacity. Something to do with a pile up on the service drive. So, you're on my team until you clock out," he grumbles into your ear.

His proximity stuns you, the deep growl of his voice crawling down your spine, settling low in your belly. A certain realization dawns on you, then, a chilling reality that settles deep in your bones.

Is this because of what he overheard earlier? Does he feel the need to keep an eye on you, so you don't go off embarrassing the team with your loud mouth? The possibility straightens your posture, tightens your jaw.

"Okay," you mumble, unable to meet his gaze. "We're on the first patient that comes through?"

You work up the courage to actually look at him, your gaze dragging along the scruff of his beard, the tint of gray weaknening your knees. An unsettling frustration rests at the base of your throat, threatening to burst through, to demand he says what's on his mind.

He just nods, though, his eyes trained on the entrance of the bay. Your breath comes out in short puffs, a fuzziness taking over as Robby's forearm grazes yours. The tickle of the hair on his body unzips a chill down your spine, so overpowering you have to close your eyes, to shake yourself out of this feeling.

He sees. You know he does. His gaze is peripheral, catching the way you react to him out of the corner of his eye. Though it's just a glance, it's enough to set your veins on fire, the want to reach out and touch him electrifying.

Silence blankets you, thick and suffocating. You rock on the balls of your feet, he wrings his hands together. You glance over at him again, unable to really keep your eyes off him for long. He doesn't look back, but his cheeks turn pink. You face foward once more, your lips curling into a smile.

The wail of an ambulance slices through the tension wafting through the bay, a wave of relief briefly washing over. You immediately snap into action, assessing the patient rolling in on the stretcher.

Robby is relentless in his questioning, and the world starts to spin around you as you flit from patient to attending, from asking to answering. Regardless of the familiar chaos, your stomach manages to flip at Robby's approval- the validation he gives at each right answer.

It's addictive, the way his brown eyes find yours, the subtle nod of his head. Time stops when he looks at you, you're convinced.

Once the patient is assessed and stabilized, you manage to document the patient's history and current symptoms without interruption.

You turn from the computer, looking over to see Robby, completely engaged with the patient. It's an older woman, a few years more so than Robby, who is putting on the ultimate display of charm. She's eating it up, as they all do.

You can't help but smile at the show, your heart speeding up in your chest. His ability to connect with those that are hurting, in pain, never ceases to amaze you. In moments like these, you remember why it is you decided to stay in emergency medicine. The teaching. The teacher, to be more specific.

A crash from the other side of the hallway pulls your attention away, and you whip your head around to see Langdon's hands full. He maneuvers around a stressed family, trying to care for his patient as best as he possibly can.

Without thinking, you take off to the other side of the room, putting on your best smile as you approach a teary mom, stressed father, and shy little girl.

"Hello!" You chirp, as cheerful as is appropriate when a family is watching their son be assessed in the ER. "I'm going to ask you give Dr. Langdon some space so he can work at the best of his ability. Please follow me and I can show you to our family room."

You start toward the exit, Langdon offering you a nod in thanks as you lead the family away from him. You catch Robby's gaze as you lead the family away, his teeth gritting at your disobedience. His eyes don't leave yours as you walk through the hospital, his cheeks glowing red like the human embodiment of anger.

You lead them through to the family room, your smile never leaving your face.

"Can I get you guys anything? Water, coffee, a snack?" You ask in the doorway. The gaunt father shakes his head, unable to look away from the tiled floors. You know this feeling, seen it many times in this room alone.

You turn to leave, when the mom speaks up, a tiny "uhm" leaving her lips. You stop on your heel, turning to her, your smile still there.

"Would you be willing to take Leah here for a snack?" She asks, referring to her daughter.

Your eyes find the little girl, a bunny stuffie clutched to her chest, a nervous thumb between her lips. Your heart softens at the sight, so you nod gently, offering your hand.

She only takes it when her mom gives her the okay, and she waddles to you dubiously. You take her hand in yours, offering her a soft greeting.

"Hello! It's so nice to meet you, Leah. Want to come see what snacks we have?" You ask, and can't help but giggle at her eager nod. "Okay, let's go, honeybun."

You lead her back into the ER, wavering through the chaos to get to the kitchen. You see Robby again on your way there, his eyes flitting to your new friend as you pass. His jaw does that tick again, though the rest of his face softens at the sight.

Annoyance flashes through his big brown eyes, frustration taking over his features. Your heart starts beating again, a rapid pitter pat against your ribcage. You keep your eyes forward, picking up your pace just slightly, as if you're escaping the flame of his gaze.

You shut the door once you're in the kitchen, and you stand on your tip toes to grab the kids' snacks that are stored in the top shelf. You lay out an array of goodies, from fruit snacks to Goldfish to Teddy Grahams.

Her eyes widen at the selection, the first smile you've seen from her curling her lips. You smile back, and she points at the fruit snacks.

"Good pick," you nod, opening the packet for her. "Here you go!"

She accepts the snack gratefully, munching on the gummy snack as she rests her head on the table. Poor thing, you think. Who knows how long she's been up.

The silence is cut by a tap on the glass window. You startle, causing Leah to sit up abruptly. You see that it's Dana, relaxing just slightly. You walk over to the door and pop your head out.

"Hey, what's up?" You ask.

"I'm takin' over with sweet girl over here. Get back to the boss man, he's not happy with ya," she tells you, and your heart sinks.

"Oh, okay," you open the door wider to let her in. "Hey, Leah," you start, and she looks up, her eyes widening at the new guest. "This is my friend Dana. She's going to be staying with you, okay? She's really nice. You guys will have fun with each other." You smile, turning to exit the kitchen.

"Mmph!" You muffle against cotton as you collide against a broad, rigid chest. "Jesus, Robby," you breathe out, taking a step to the side. Anything to escape the woody smell of his cologne.

He scoffs, the incredulous smile on his face flipping your stomach like a pancake. "Yeah, Jesus," he repeats, annoyance lacing his tone. "Find me in Exam Room 2 in five," he orders before stalking off.

You watch him walk, studying his frame as he saunters through the ER, using his broad shoulders to maneuver the crowd. It's pathetic, the way even his walk causes sweat to prick at your brow, your face heating with nerves. Curiosity pokes at your gut, Exam Room 2? It's a bizarre request from a senior attending, and you can only imagine how much trouble you've gotten yourself in.

You make your way to the exam rooms, your heart pounding louder with every step. You wring your hands together, the sweat accumulating there creating a slippery resistance. You let out a sigh as you reach the second room of the exam hallway, a green light indicating it's free usage.

You turn the knob, cracking it slightly to find Robby, hands on his head, facing the back wall. The door creaks as you push it open, and you clear your throat lightly to announce your presence. You press yourself against the door when it shuts, nerves so palpable you're surprised Robby can't feel it, can't taste it.

"Dr. Robby," you start, voice shaky, knowing he's about to hand you your ass. "I'm sorry I disobeyed your instruction-"

"Damn right you did," he cuts you off, arms crossed over his heaving chest. "You had a direct order to stay with me, so why did I find you with Langdon?" He stalks closer to you, just a step or two, though it feels like more.

"I-I just-" you fumble over your words, that damn cologne wafting through your nose again. "I saw a family, I thought I could help." It's a weak answer, but at least it's honest.

He nods, lips pursing together in thought.

"Guess I can't stay too mad about that," he admits, though his tone is clipped. He runs his palms over his forehead, his glasses pinched between his thumb and pointer finger as he rubs at his eyes.

You're not sure what to say next, treading carefully in the small, tense room. His silence eats at you, each second passing in agony. You watch your boss take deep, heavy breaths, committing the rise and fall of his chest to memory.

God, you wish you could rewind to a time where you weren't completely enthralled with Michael Robinavitch. Not being locked in a confine space with him would be helpful, too.

You shove your hands in your pockets, about to turn and leave when he stops you.

"Wait," he orders. You do as he says.

"I-about what I heard earlier…" he starts, and the breath is stolen from your lungs.

Your jaw drops, white hot embarrassment boiling deep in your stomach. This is what this is all about? Your cheeks burn, and you cover your face with your hands to escape his upending glare. You wish the ground would swallow you whole.

"Dr. Robby, I am so, so sorry about that," you stress, your eyes turning glassy. "It was entirely unprofessional, any patient could have heard me, and we shouldn't have been talking about that on the clock. I sincerely apologize, Sir-"

He cuts off your rambling with a sharp inhale, squeezing his eyes shut, almost as if your words pain him. He holds a hand up, glasses still in his grip. You take a moment, study the way his long, thick digits wrap around the metal.

"You can't- you can't call me that," he breathes out, a sarcastic laugh escaping his lips.

Your brows knit together in confusion, your mouth partially opened, unsure how to respond.

"I'm sorry?" You say, dumbly. It's all you can manage, shock at this new side of your boss taking over.

"You can't call me Sir. Not anymore," he avoids eye contact with you, the vein in his neck bulging.

"I'm sorry, did I do something to offend you, Dr. Robby? I promise I had no intention-"

"No-dammit," he cuts you off again, sweat starting to form at his brow. "Of course you didn't. You're one of my best nurses," he gruffs, almost annoyed at that.

"Thank you?" You respond, and he chuckles. It's a real one this time, a glint in his eye as he takes you in. Your own lips turn up in a smile.

"I just- I know it was a conversation I wasn't supposed to hear. It's just-" he plows five fingers through his hair as he struggles for the words. "All I've been able to think about since then is how I want to- you don't-you deserve so much better than that."

The last few words come out a whisper, and the world stops on its axis. Your mouth fully drops open, shock electrocuting your veins. The past few hours play back as a montage in your brain, his hesitation in the ambulance bay, the need to have you near him, his anger that you went to help Langdon.

Then, another realization dawns on you. A knowing laugh escapes your throat, and you palm your mouth closed. His brow quirks at you, red tinting his cheeks.

"Is that why I can't call you 'Sir'?" You ask, flirtation lacing your tone. "Because you want to help me out so badly?"

He pulls the collar of his sweatshirt away from his neck, fanning himself some as he once again avoids your gaze.

"Fuck!" He exclaims, ten fingers now raking their way through his mussed hair. "I can't- this is ridiculous, you're my nurse. This is entirely inappropriate-"

He rushes to the door, if only you weren't in the way. You stop him, a gentle hand on his forearm. The proximity is lethal, now. He's so close, you can hear his small pants, the tapping of his foot against linoleum.

"I mean, it would be inappropriate, yes," you start, allowing your fingers to graze his skin lightly. He shudders, and your smile is sinful. "If only I wasn't thinking about you all day, too."

His eyes snap to yours at the admission, and you can't help but flit your gaze to his lips. They're slightly chapped, the nippy fall air starting to mark its territory on his skin. They're plump all the same, though, and you wish you could brand the way he licks them onto your skin.

"Robinavitch!" Dana shouts, and you two flinch against each other.

The reality of this situation dawns on both of you, panic now taking place of the tension rumbling between you. Robby presses his fingers to his temples, eyes falling shut for a brief moment.

He pushes you toward the corner of the room, where you'd be hidden once the door opens.

"Stay here," he whispers, and the shoulder where he grips you may as well be on fire. "Give it five minutes. Then go. We can't-I-I'm sorry. I shouldn't have…" he murmurs under his breath as he swings the door open, his quick gait finding Dana at the end of the hallway.

Silence settles over you like a winter's chill. You roll your shoulders, attempting to shake out any remnants of Michael Robinavitch. You take your hair out of its clip, mussing it lightly to try to at least appear like you've been working.

You take a deep breath in, pushing it out before swinging the door open yourself, finding Robby once again delighting a patient in his special way. Your stomach churns with desire at the sight. Now that you know he wants you, too, all bets are off.

The rest of your shift is a blur, darkness soon settling over PTMC like a blanket. Your tasks feel menial, painfully routine when Robby looks at you the way he is. He's living in the back of your mind until hour twelve blissfully arrives.

It all replays in your head as you walk to the lockers, the glimmer in his eye when he looks at you, the way his knees buckle when you continuously call him 'Sir'. You swing the door open, nodding to the night shift nurses while you collect your things.

You're halfway through the vestibule, the parking lot in near distance, the sweet freedom of home calling your name. Something calls louder, though, and your head swings to the noise.

It's the door to the roof, shutting abruptly. You hear heavy footsteps clunking up the staircase, and you know all too well who it is. You stand there, the angel and devil on your shoulder debating whether or not to follow him.

You think back to the moment you guys had in the exam room, his breathlessness when you called him sir, his knees buckling when you grazed his arm with your fingers. Hell, the man blushed. More than once. You follow him.

You take a moment to appreciate the view once you're up there. The colorful leaves paint a beautiful autumnal skyline. You huff out a breath, a small puff wafting through the crisp air.

You set your bag down, slinking your arms through your pink sweatshirt. It's cold up here. Sobering. You can tell why Robby likes it up here.

"Hey," you start, and he jumps.

It makes you giggle, the pressure of being on the clock no longer pushing down on the two of you.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, rubbing his forehead with his palm. "How'd you find me up here, huh?" He asks, a playful glint in his eye.

"Just a hunch," you smile sinfully, eyes trained on the October sky in front of you. "It's beautiful up here," you remark, as if the tension isn't suffocating.

"Yeah," he remarks, his eyes burning a hole through your cheek. "Yeah, it is."

You have a feeling he's not talking about the view.

"Robby-" you start, but it's not long before his lips are on yours.

The kiss takes your breath away, the firm press of his soft lips is a delicious contrast, enough to make you dizzy. You grip his biceps, your fingers squeezing the tough muscle there. He grunts against your lips and you ease up a little, rubbing soothing circles in apology.

"Do you know," he mutters between kisses, his hands finding your skin under your sweatshirt and scrubs, "how much," he kisses down your cheek, your neck, "I want you?" He pulls away at this question, his eyes finding yours, bewildered at his confession. He presses a kiss to your nose before pulling you closer to him again.

Your head buries into his chest, his hands relentless, exploring every square inch of your body he can reach, his lips following suit. It's you that kisses him this time, gripping his jaw and pulling him to you with a whine.

"You taste so fucking good," he groans, tongue peeking out, testing the waters.

The slide of his tongue against yours is delectable, butterflies flooding your stomach in record speed. You grip the hair at the nape of his neck, pressing him even closer to you. Your knees buckle, falling further into him as he wraps more of himself around you.

He sighs into the kiss as he hoists you around his waist, pulling you out of sight behind a wall lining the roof. Your back hits the hard cement, and Robby's hand resting on the area beside your head. His forehead presses into yours, his breathing coming out quick and shallow. Yours matches his, and you can't help but rake your nails up his stomach to his chest, reveling in the way he shivers at the contact.

"I want you so fucking bad," he grumbles, rocking his hips into yours against the wall.

"You have me," you mutter, "I'm yours."

He groans at that, a loud, pained sound that rumbles somewhere deep in your stomach. He shakes his head, then, and your heart drops.

"Not here," he pants, pressing his body further into you. You moan at the contact, his hips jerking in response. "Fuck."

He kisses you once more, then again, and again. "After what I heard today…" he trails off, pressing kisses all over your face, "about how you're only satisfied with your vibrator…" more kisses, "it made me crazy. Can't believe these idiots your age don't know what to do with a woman like you."

Heat rushes through your veins at his words, desire burning at dangerous temperatures. His kisses grow more frantic as you feel him plumping up through his pants. Your knees buckle around him, and you thrust your own hips up to meet his.

"Robby, please. I need you to at least touch me," you whisper, not above begging for this man.

Your heart clutches when he shakes his head no, though his brows are knit together in pleasure, his lips parted in a perfect 'o'. He's on the brink of snapping, you can tell. You think you know exactly what'll get him, too.

"Sir, please. I need it," you plead, widening your eyes and jutting out your bottom lip.

A groan rips out of Robby's throat, his frantic hands pushing your scrubs down just below your ass. His fingers find your folds in record time, slowly sliding up and down, collecting your wetness. You bite your lip at the contact, your eyes never leaving his.

His brows jump at your pained expression, fingers stopping for a brief moment. "This okay?" He ensures, and you nod, whining and desperate for him to move again.

"Nuh-uh," he swats your thigh and you yelp. "Is this okay? Yes or no," he demands, and you fall even limper in his arms.

"Yes, it's okay Robby," you breathe out, your hands gripping his wrist, guiding him back to you. He smiles sardonically as he finds your clit, his index finger rubbing slightly.

"Oh God," you moan, arching your back off the wall. "Faster, please faster ohmygod," you whimper out, keening when his speed picks up.

"Yeah?" He asks, a faux pity lacing his tone. "This where you use your vibrator?"

You moan in response, and he chuckles.

"Yeaahh," he draws out, a teasing gasp leaving his lips at the jerk of your hips. "You press it on this pretty clit? Make yourself cum after some asshole can't do it for you?"

You nod shamelessly, hands reaching for his biceps once again. "Please Robby, make me cum, please Sir."

A finger enters you at that, pushing a squeal out of you. He breathes another chuckle, moving his middle finger in and out slowly, trying to find a rhythm. It's hard, given your lack of space, and you wiggle your hips to try and give him a better angle.

He huffs out a breath, muttering "fuck it," before dropping to his knees, pulling your scrubs down to your ankles. You squeal at the sudden movement, his arms scooping under your legs and ass, holding you upright as his tongue finds your clit.

Heat boils in your stomach as he swirls circles into your clit. His spit and your arousal create a tantalizing friction against your most sensitive spot. You bury your hands in his hair, gripping and tugging, the vibrations of his groan against your pussy like a reward.

"So fucking delicious, holy shit," he mutters against your skin, his middle finger able to slide in easier now at this angle. He sucks your clit into his mouth, letting it go with a wet pop.

"God, Robby. Feels so good, never been this good," you whine, scraping your nails through his scalp. He shudders at this.

"Yeah? These fucking boys don't deserve you. I don't even fucking deserve you, shit-" he palms at his pants, pressing a kiss to your clit as he adds his ring finger. "Least I can do is make you cum."

Your eyes squeeze shut as white hot pressure builds in your stomach, almost too much to take. Your legs flail involuntarily, and he shushes you with sweet kisses to your clit.

"Shh, shh," he soothes, lessening his assault on your pussy. "You're okay, you can let go, I love the taste of you. So fucking delicious, can't wait to taste you."

You snap, intense waves of pleasure relentless as you writhe in his grasp, a high pitched moan wrestling its way out of your throat.

"Oh God Sir, I'm coming," you exclaim, his own groan vibrates against you, pushing you farther off the edge.

Your vision is spotty as you come down, taking advantage of the cool night air you breathe in. It takes a moment for you to set yourself back down on the ground, shaky legs beneath you like a baby deer.

Tension settles over you two once more as you take each other in. He's gorgeous- hair mussed, lips puffy, nose shining from your wetness. You can't help but smile, prompting his own in return. You take a small step forward, eyeing the obvious bulge in his pants. You raise your brows once, twice.

"Well," you start, reaching for him, "can I return the favor?"

"I can't believe I'm going to say this, but no," Robby says, and it stops you dead in your tracks.

Tears spring to your eyes, and he's quick to the damage control.

"No, no, no, it's not like that," he reassures, his hands coming to rest on your shoulders.

"I just-" he shakes his head, eyes finding his feet, then flitting back to you, "if I get my dick out in any way tonight, I'm going to end up fucking you."

You throw your hands up, unsure what the problem is there. He chuckles again.

"We're not fucking until I can treat you to a proper date. I'm not going to be one of those assholes that's just trying to get their dick wet. Can I take you out?" He asks, and it's almost bashful.

Butterflies erupt in your stomach again, your cheeks heating at his loving gaze. You nod your head, lips pursed together.

"Yeah," you mutter, "yeah. That sounds nice."

He leans in to kiss you gently on the lips. You pull him back for one more, which turns into two, three, four.

"Can I pick you up Friday? Are you working then?" He asks, and you shake your head no. He smiles, pressing another kiss to your lips.

He slips a piece of paper out of his pocket and places it in your hands, wrapping your fist closed around it.

"Text me your address. I'll be there at 7. Don't be late," he punctuates this with a kiss on the cheek before walking off.

The room doesn’t stop when you do— instead, Jack takes over from where you were standing, and you’re promptly brushed aside as everyone continues to work around you.

Wordlessly, you rip your gown and gloves off, throwing them harshly into the trash before shoving the doors open, disregarding the curious looks at the sight of a doctor storming out of the department.

You don’t stop until you’ve reached the ambulance bay, only then letting out the breath you didn’t realize you were holding in. 

It had been a simple procedure– a fucking intubation. You had done hundreds of them, only this time something had gone wrong and the patient had been put in jeopardy. All because you had panicked like a damn intern on their first day.

As a senior resident you had more authority than the people that had been in the room with you at the time, and it had been your call. You could admit that you messed up– you should have done better, not made rookie mistakes at such a critical time.

Still, Jack had never pulled rank on you– not like that, and especially not in front of others.

You know it’s silly, being this affected by a simple scolding. Had it been a med-student and you were the one supervising, you would have done the same.

But coming from him?

It stung a lot worse than you thought it would.

The automated doors in the bay slide open, and you can hear the slightly uneven steps, already knowing who it is before turning to face him.

Jack stands a couple feet away, hands crossed over his chest and looking slightly more regretful than when you had last seen him.

Yeah, when he had yelled at you–

Shaking your head to get rid of the bitter thoughts, you clear your throat–  a tense smile etched onto your face.

“I was just getting some air,” you explain, though you doubt he actually cares.

Jack nods, running a hand through his locks before they land on each end of the stethoscope wrapped around his neck.

“Yeah, no– that's fine,” he mutters, and another moment of silence follows.

Your lips part like you’re about to speak, anything to fill the awkward pause that had ensued, but Jack beats you to it.

“Look, I’m sorry for snapping at you in there,” he sighs out, “...I shouldn’t have done that in front of everyone,”

You purse your lips at his apology, still feeling that small fire in the bottom of your stomach from the verbal lashing you had gotten.

…Sorry?

Yeah, he will be.

“It’s really fine, Doctor Abbot,”

Jack’s head jerks up at that, and you force your face to remain passive, despite the urge to smirk growing stronger at his reaction. He exhales, slow and measured, like he’s actively choosing not to react. His hands drop from where they were earlier now settling on his hips instead.

“...I understand if you’re still upset–”

“I’m not upset,” you cut him off, voice bright and the expression on your face seems unbothered– but for some reason, it still feels…

Off.

“Oh. That’s– yeah– uh, that's good. But I mean, if you were–”

“I’m not,” you once again don’t let him finish his sentence.

Jack nods, a flash of what you can identify as irritation crossing his face, but it’s gone as soon as it comes. 

“Good. Great– just…head inside when you’re ready then–”

You instantly straighten up, eyes widening as soon as he says the last word.

“Oh of course, Doctor Abbot. You’re the boss!” you say compliantly, giving him a final smile before heading back into the emergency department.

“No, I didn’t mean–” Jack’s words die on his tongue as he watches your retreating frame making its way back inside the building. “...right away,” he sighs out, rubbing his face as he groans.

He had a bad feeling about this.

1. 

The sound of your melodious laughter echoes in the otherwise calm central station. The sky had fallen, the chairs were manageable, and for once, there were even some empty beds, ready to be occupied if necessary.

Jack had treated himself to some cafeteria coffee instead of his usual cup from the shared breakroom down here, and when he returned, the sight of his residents and fellow attending surrounding the hub greets him.

There, right in the center of attention is you, hands waving frantically as you share a story about god knows what. Just from watching, Jack could tell it must’ve been something dramatic, that stuck in your head. Or not. You had a habit of making things up in the name of a good story.

And a good story it must be, since there isn’t a single pair of eyes aren’t on you. Shen is leaning across the counter, that trademark orange straw in his mouth as he sips on his watered down Dunkin’ Donuts coffee. Parker is sitting in a chair, elbows resting on her knees as she laughs at something you’re saying. At least Crus is pretending to work, standing by the computer and typing one word per minute, listening more than he’s charting, and Nazely…well, she’s just staring at you.

Jack doesn’t think twice of it when he comes to a halt by the rest of the nightcrawlers, pretending to look at some labs on a spare ipad.

Only that it goes completely silent when he does.

Jack glances up from the ipad, his eyebrow quirking up when the noise suddenly disappears– like someone hitting the mute button on a television.

Huh, he thinks to himself– then, he’s distracted by the fact that he grabbed the wrong ipad. Turning around, Jack makes it about ten feet away, before the laughter and storytelling is back.

He stops, turns around and stares towards the direction of the ruckus.

Walking back to the hub, the commotion stops. Jack feels his eye twitch when he watches it happen again– like clockwork— whenever he steps just far enough. 

One step closer– silence.

Three steps back, and the laughter is back in full force. 

Jack just stands there for a second, staring at linoleum floors, wondering if years of PTSD has finally made him lose his mind.

“…The fuck?” he mutters under his breath. Finally, he exhales, shaking his head once. “No,”

He walks back to the hub, picks the ipad up again, even though he doesn’t look at it.

“What are we talking about!” he exclaims forcefully, and watches as five pairs of eyes land on him. Just as Shen is about to say something, you frown, suddenly looking down at your wrist watch.

“Crap, I forgot to run those labs I ordered–” you huff, not sparing him a glance as you walk past him.

Parker stifles a laugh behind a weak cough, and Jack whirls around to glare at her.

“What’s so funny?” he sneers, straightening up as his narrowed gaze flits between his residents.

A hush falls over the area.

“…Sorry man, you’re on your own,” Crus gives him a regretful smile, patting his shoulder before leaving.

“There’s something going on with her,” 

Parker Ellis flinches, nearly dropping her tub of leftover chinese food as she stands by the microwave in the breakroom.

“Holy shit–”

Jack stands in the doorway, arms crossed and gaze unyielding— like he hadn’t just nearly scared the life out of her.

“I mean– you saw that, right?” he scoffs, following Parker as she sets her steaming lunch box onto the table. Pulling out a chair, her face twists up in disbelief when Jack slumps into the seat. Her hands shoot up in exasperation, barely able to hold back the irritation growing at sight her aloof attending.

“Sure, yeah– join me, why don't you?” she mutters under her breath, already pulling out a second chair and sitting down in it.

Jack ignores it, because he has bigger problems at hand. Like why you’re suddenly nowhere to be found, when just a day ago, he couldn’t get you to leave his side.

“She just left as soon as I joined you guys to what– run labs? We don’t run labs!”

Parker thought the mandated thirty-minute break was to rejuvenate them, so that they to would be able to provide the best care they possibly could for the patients– not to help her fifty year old boss figure out why his crush was avoiding him. She sighs, shaking her head as she stabs the single piece of broccoli in her chow mein, blowing at the steaming vegetable, far too hungry and tired to think about what she’s saying. 

“I mean, you did kinda rip her a new one in front of half the staff,”

Jack stills in his chair, before spluttering a flustered breath.

“I’ve scolded you plenty of times too,”

“Uh-huh, yeah, no– not like that. Besides, you know how she gets when it comes to you,” Parker rolls her eyes, wincing as the broccoli burns the roof of her mouth.

Jack's interest piqued at that and suddenly he’s sitting straighter, chest puffing out slightly at the words.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean–” she says while chewing her food. 

“Parker,” Jack warns, and the night-shift resident groans, putting her utensils down.

“She like, idolizes you, Abbot,” Parker begins, holding the older man's gaze while she speaks. 

“...She does?” he asks, his chest swelling with pride and doing a terrible job at hiding it.

Parker resists the urge to roll her eyes once again at how easy men are.

“Mhm,” she confirms, before sighing loudly, shaking her head dramatically. “I just feel bad for her, man,”

“Why?” the attending leans closer, practically falling out of his chair in suspense.

He had to know what you thought of him.

“Well…she did say thought it would be better if she switched to the day shift for a couple of weeks, you know– to not make you feel uncomfortable because you dislike her.”

The words are registered in slow motion, Jack’s ears starting to ring. He’s so dumbfounded by the sudden revelation that he misses the way Parker smirks at his reaction to her words.

Hook, line and sinker.

2.

“Shen, I need you to do something for me,” 

Jack finds him sitting on a rolling chair by the nurses station, loudly slurping the drops of coffee left in the plastic cup. Glancing up from his phone, the younger male grimaces, already planning his escape.

“Uh, actually I forgot about this one thing I need to–” 

“You do this for me and I’ll pretend I didn't see you on ‘flip-flop, instead of charting,” he says, pulling his own phone out as he squints at the screen, pressing some buttons with his index finger.

John gapes, then closes his mouth again– trying to gauge whether he was being messed with or this was actually real life. 

“...Tik-Tok,” he says slowly, as if he’s speaking to a child.

Jack grunts, peering up from his phone momentarily to try and understand the nonsense he was spouting.

“What?” he barks, before going back to his phone.

“It’s called Tik-Tok,”

Jack waves a hand dismissively, not even looking up.

“Yeah, whatever– Kick-Flip. Listen,”

John stares at him, eyebrows furrowing as he whispers to himself in disbelief at his aloofness. Jack was not that old.

“…That’s not even close,”

“Shen,”

John straightens in his chair immediately, shoving his phone into his pocket and finally accepting defeat.

“What do you need,” he sighs.

Jack glances around the nurses’ station, making sure you’re not anywhere nearby, before pushing his phone into John’s hands.

John blinks when he’s met with the Dunkin' Donuts website, orange and pink hues blessing his eyes.

“What is this?” he asks apprehensively– was this some kind of trap? 

Jack sighs, good leg bouncing impatiently.

“What do you mean what is this, it’s that shitty coffee place you like so much,” he retorts sarcastically, rolling his eyes. 

John leans back in his seat, giving Jack a head-to-toe scan to see if he can pinpoint any sudden illnesses in his boss. When he’s unable to find anything out of the ordinary, except maybe an extra sour mood, he relaxes.

“You want to order some ‘Dunkies?”

Jack gives him a disappointed look– Dunkin Donuts did not need an even worse nickname. 

“I’m trying to make up for something, alright? I know you know her order, so just do this for me,”

The puppy dog eyes John gives him makes him shiver in discomfort, and has him rubbing his eyes tiredly, waving a hand in defeat. Anything to stop him from looking at him like that.

“...Order something for yourself as well,”

In hindsight, Jack should have known better than to leave his phone, which has his wallet automatically linked already, unattended in John Shen’s hands. 

Because the station was now buzzing with nightshift staff, nurses and doctors alike– every single one of them giving him a “thanks”, paired with a pat on the back as they grab a donut and a coffee– not just regular, but iced ones as well, some with extra shots, some with oat milk, others with various amounts of syrups– from the cart that had magically appeared when not one, but two Postmates drivers walked in through the ambulance bay. 

“Is there no more 'glazed’?” someone calls out, and Jack physically has to bite his tongue. There were at least a dozen boxes of donuts currently residing in the emergency department. 

“We got chocolate ones in the breakroom!” Shen confirms so confidently you’d think he’s calling out codes. Which they should be doing. 

Because it's a hospital.

You return after a brief check on your patients in triage, eyes widening at the sight before you.

Shen spots you before you even have the chance to ask what the hell is going on. He grabs a cup from the cart– your cup, of course.

“I believe this is yours,” he says, holding it out.

The tired smile you were sporting earlier, now turns into something more genuine at the sight of your favorite drink. Your entire face brightens, and Jack makes a mental note to have Shen text him your order before he leaves in the morning. 

After seeing your smile, he doesn’t even remember what he was mad about in the first place. 

3. 

The coffee had done its job in making you feel better, but it wasn’t like you knew Jack had bought it for you– in contrast, Jack had been forced to watch as you gave Shen a hug for, quote: “...Getting me my favorite”.

And for a moment, it was great. You were caffeinated, the patients had been dealt with and everyone had a bed.

Until it was time to chart. The computer was acting up, and the hospital's supposed 24/7 on-call engineer was in fact not working 24/7–  forcing you to use outdated, medieval, inefficient methods. 

Writing them by hand.

You sigh for the nth time, dropping the pen in your hand and flexing it as you try to prevent a cramp from forming. Behind you, footsteps approach, but you’re too busy feeling sorry for yourself to notice.

Jack stops beside your chair, glancing down at the mess of handwritten notes, the stack of half-filled charts and the pen you’ve started glaring at.

“Is the computer still not working?”

“I’m about to develop carpal tunnel and will be forced to stop practicing medicine, meaning my student debt will be for nothing,” you mutter dramatically, face scrunching in discomfort as you press into a particularly sore spot on your palm.

He’ll take that as a yes. 

Jack watches the way you bite your lip the next time your digits dig into your palm, before deciding he can’t just stand there.

Pulling up a chair, he sits down beside you, holding his hand out to you.

“Let me see,”

You blink at him, head tilting slightly.

“...What?”

“Your hand,” he responds immediately, thick fingers wrapping around your wrist as he pulls it into his warm palm. He applies steady pressure along your palm, thumb digging into your tendons.

Your eyes flicker across his face, taking in the way his eyebrows furrow as he concentrates, the way his jaw clenches slightly.

It shouldn’t feel as good as it does– it really shouldn’t.

You swallow, forcing your stare away, instead of at him.

His thumb travels over the wide expanse of your palm, each finger straightened by it, before it presses over your wrist. Jack feels your pulse throb under his touch.

Eventually, his fingers slow their motions, before they finally still completely. It still takes a while until Jack lets go of your hand, placing it back in your lap.

“Take a break,” he says, voice deeper than it had been earlier. You look up, eyes locking with his hazel ones.

Wordlessly, you nod, unable to find your voice and disregard his directive.

When you return a couple minutes later, your desk is free of the stack of charts that had earlier been occupying the space.

4. 

By some miracle, you manage to slip away to the roof to watch the sunrise on the horizon. The city is half-asleep beneath you, the proof being in empty streets and lack of on-coming traffic being heard. Looking straight ahead, the first light, a line of orange, breaks through the endless dark blue that had occupied the sky at night.

You rest your hands on the railing, letting the cool metal ground you as you take a deep breath of the fresh air– the first of the new day.

Deciding that you’ve been slacking off enough, you turn back to head into the hospital again and finish the last of your shift.

Though when you turn around, you’re met with the sight of Jack leaning against the wall, eyes already locked in on you.

You halt for a moment, before walking up to him slowly.

“Didn’t hear you come up,” you say quietly, slightly embarrassed at being caught in such a vulnerable state.

“I haven’t been here that long” he says, though his amused gaze betrays his words. 

You hold back a smile, shaking your head instead. A soft breeze can be felt, tousling your tresses before you firmly tuck some behind your ear. Still, the wind is relentless in its pursuit of messing up your hair.

Jack watches the action, only to finally reach out himself and brush the stray strand out of your face properly.

You’re suddenly aware of the close proximity you’ve ended up in, and you blame the early hour and the pretty sunrise for being the reason you've let your guard down. 

“Parker told me you’re asking to be moved to day-shift?” he says quietly, his hand dropping back to his side. “I just wanted to say that, you know…”

He clears his throat, suddenly feeling incredibly silly for having such a hard time talking to you when you had a sunrise behind you. “If it’s because of me, then–”

His sentence trails off when he hears a soft giggle bubble past your lips.

Not because he forgets what he was saying, but because he hears you laugh– that same, soft melodious laughter he had been denied all night. 

Beautiful, but completely the wrong timing for whatever serious point he was trying to make.

His eyes narrow slightly, flitting across your face warily.

“What?”

You shake your head quickly, still smiling like you’re trying to hide it and failing miserably.

“Jack–”

Jack isn't completely settled, but nonetheless exhales through his nose, already regretting thinking about this moment all night, when your idea of the heart-to-heart you’re about to have clearly wasn’t on par with his. 

“I’m serious,” he says, not listening to you “If you’re switching to day-shift because of–”

You laugh again, interrupting his apology.

“Jack, I’m not switching to days,”

His head lifts so fast you’re afraid he’ll get whiplash. His eyebrows furrow in confusion, recalling what Parker had said in the breakroom just a few hours ago.

You can’t stop the wide smile forming on your face, feeling guilty at the confused look on his face, but so incredibly content that you had pulled it off for an entire shift.

“I’m so sorry, Jack–” you manage to get out through your fit of giggles.

Just then, something clicks in his mind.

The color drains from his face, his eyes widening in disbelief. 

No–no way– Jack refused to believe he had been tricked.

“Oh, oh you’re a sick, twisted person–” he begins, spluttering in bewilderment. “You did all this because I scolded you?”

You let out another laugh– still riding the relief of it all, the ridiculousness of the entire night finally catching up in full force.

“Nuh-uh, not because you scolded me,” you correct, still smiling as you step closer. “You yelled at me, Abbot,”

Jack is stunned.

“...I bought the entire department coffee,”

“Okay, that was on Shen, not me–” you retort, still smiling.

“I wrote all your charts by hand!” he exclaims, crowding you until you’re pressed against the door.

“...That one might be on me,” you admit reluctantly, though you don’t look regretful in the slightest. You smile again, entirely unbothered, even as the door presses lightly into your back and he’s very much in your space now– blocking any way exit, not that you’re concerned with finding one.

“But I didn’t make you do the charts,” you add cheekily.

“I thought you were about to quit,” he huffs, though not actually upset– his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a reaction he doesn’t want to give you.

Despite being happy with the outcome of your plan, you can’t help but feel slightly bad for him.

So just this once, you’ll make it up to him.

Pushing yourself onto your toes, you press a single, gentle kiss to his cheek, lingering for a moment just to hear his breath hitch.

“I’m not that easy to get rid of,” you say quietly against his cheek.

Then, you’re pulling away and giving him a cheeky grin, before finally turning on your heels and walking back into the hospital to finish the last of your shift. 

The door closes behind you, leaving him alone on the roof, and for once, not for a bad reason. 

He presses a hand briefly to the spot on his cheek like he can still feel the aftermath of your lips against it, then he shakes his head, unable to hold back the smile forming on his face.

“Fuck me,” he mutters breathlessly, before finally following you back inside. 

Pope could only think of you after the horrible comment Baz had made to him.

No one is ever going to have a kid with you. Ever.

He wasn’t sure why it affected him so much, why it dug deep under his chest into a part of him he hadn’t even realized was there.

Pope wasn’t as socially inept as most people might think and he knew exactly why his brother would say something like that to him, the truth behind it undeniable. He was off putting and had the strange ability to creep people out even when he was being as genuine as he possibly could be.

He’d seen it happen time and time again, a slightly crooked smiled that made people take a step back or an overly blunt statement that hurt somebody without the intent.

But never with you.

You’d been around for as long as Pope could remember, the daughter of one of Smurfs greatest connects who was constantly spending the night with Julia or helping Smurf around the house once you got a little older.

They all liked you, the younger boys would follow behind you while you did chores or ask you to help tuck them in long past the age they needed it. Baz wasn’t shy with his affection either even though his methods made Popes stomach tighten with the same type of jealously and anger he felt when it was directed at his sister.

Lucky for him, and to everyone’s confusion, you had a clear favorite when it came to Pope.

You never once treated him any different or acted like you were scared of him for even a moment. You’d keep that gentle and patient smile on your face when he didn’t deserve it and you wrote to him almost every single day when he was in prison, sending him photos that he’d stick under his pillows and doing your best to draw the sea and the shape of Lena’s eyes so he wouldn’t forget.