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The air was thick with salt and humidity, that particular heaviness that came with coastal evenings. Your skin felt sticky, and where your bare thighs pressed against Pope's jeans, you could feel the heat radiating between you. The sun had dipped below the horizon maybe twenty minutes ago, leaving behind streaks of pink and orange that were slowly fading to deep purple. A few early stars were beginning to prick through the darkening sky.

“This is perfect,” Pope murmured, his voice rumbling through his chest into your spine. His breath tickled your ear, warm and smelling faintly of weed and the mint gum he'd been chewing earlier. You felt him shift slightly beneath you, adjusting his position, and you became acutely aware of the solid warmth of his thighs, the way his body cradled yours.

“Mm-hmm.” You took another hit, held it, watching the smoke curl from your lips and dissipate into the salt air. Everything felt heightened, the sound of the waves was almost musical, each crash and retreat a perfect rhythm. The wicker chair creaked slightly as you both breathed, and you could hear the distant sound of someone's music playing down the beach, just a faint bass line carrying on the wind.

Pope's hands rested on the arms of the chair, his fingers drumming slightly to some internal beat. You noticed he was being very careful not to touch you, even though you were literally sitting in his lap. It was so Pope, respectful to the point of awkwardness, even in an intimate situation. You could feel the tension in his body, the way he was holding himself carefully still.

The weed was making you hyperaware of every sensation. The cotton of your tank top felt soft against your skin, and you weren't wearing a bra, hadn't bothered when Pope texted saying he was coming over. You could feel your nipples hardening slightly in the cooling evening air, and you wondered if he'd noticed. The thin fabric didn't hide much.

Your shorts were denim cutoffs, frayed at the edges, and they'd ridden up slightly when you'd settled into his lap. You could feel the rough texture of his jeans against the backs of your thighs, and the contrast between that roughness and the smooth warmth of his hands, even though he wasn't touching you, made you shiver slightly.

“You cold?” Pope asked immediately, his voice concerned.

“No,” you said, and your voice came out lower than you'd intended, almost husky. “Just... feeling good.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, and you felt him relax slightly behind you. “This is nice. I needed this. Been a crazy week.”

You hummed in agreement, taking another hit before passing the joint back to him. His fingers brushed yours as he took it, and even that small contact sent a little spark through you. The weed was definitely making you sensitive, making every touch feel more significant.

The ocean continued its endless rhythm, and you found yourself swaying slightly to it, your body moving in small circles. It was unconscious at first, just responding to the sound and the feeling of being high and relaxed. But then you became aware of it, aware of the way your ass was pressing against Pope's lap, the way the movement was creating friction between your bodies.

Pope's breath hitched slightly, and his hands tightened on the chair arms. You felt a little thrill run through you, he'd definitely noticed. You did it again, a little more deliberately this time, rolling your hips in a slow circle.

“You, uh...” Pope's voice cracked slightly, and he cleared his throat. “You good?”

“I'm great,” you said, and you let your head fall back against his shoulder, exposing the line of your throat. The movement pressed your body more firmly against his, and you felt him tense. “Really, really great.”

You could feel his heart beating faster against your back, could hear the slight change in his breathing. The joint had burned down to almost nothing, and he stubbed it out in the ashtray on the small table beside the chair. His hands returned immediately to the chair arms, gripping them like they were the only thing keeping him grounded.

You wiggled again, this time more obviously, grinding down slightly. The friction sent a pleasant tingle through your body, and you realized with a lazy, weed-hazed smile that you were getting turned on. The sensation was building slowly, a warm pressure between your legs that was becoming harder to ignore.

“Jesus,” Pope breathed, and you felt him shift beneath you, trying to adjust himself. That's when you felt it, the unmistakable hardness pressing against your ass. He was getting hard, and he was clearly embarrassed about it, trying to shift away without being obvious.

But there was nowhere for him to go, and every time he moved, it just created more friction, more awareness of his growing erection. You bit your lip, feeling a surge of arousal mixed with affection. He was trying so hard to be respectful, even as his body betrayed exactly what he was feeling.

“Andy.,” you said softly, turning your head so your lips were close to his ear. You could see his profile in the dim light, the strong line of his jaw, the way his throat worked as he swallowed hard. “It's okay.”

“What's okay?” he asked, his voice strained. “I'm not-I mean, I'm just-“

You wiggled again, deliberately this time, grinding down against the hardness you could feel pressing against you. He made a choked sound, somewhere between a gasp and a groan, and his hands finally left the chair arms, hovering uncertainly near your hips before returning to their safe position.

“You're so hard,” you murmured, and you felt him shudder. “I can feel you.”

“I'm sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn't mean to-you're just sitting there and you're so-and I can't help-fuck, I'm sorry.”

“Don't be sorry,” you said, and you pressed your nose against the side of his neck, inhaling the scent of him. He smelled like weed and ocean air and something distinctly Pope clean sweat and that expensive body wash he used, something woodsy and masculine. You let your lips brush against his skin, just barely, and felt him suck in a sharp breath.

His pulse was racing beneath your lips, and you could feel the heat of his skin. You kissed him again, a little more firmly this time, your lips pressing against the spot where his neck met his shoulder. His skin was slightly salty, and you let your tongue dart out, tasting him.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice rough and strained.

“Kissing you,” you said simply, doing it again. You dragged your lips up the column of his throat, feeling the vibration as he groaned. Your hands came up to rest on his thighs, and you felt the muscles tense beneath your palms.

“We're-we're high,” he said, like he was trying to convince himself of something. “And we're friends, and I don't want to-I don't want to take advantage or-“

“Andrew,” you interrupted, turning in his lap so you were straddling him, your knees on either side of his hips. The movement pressed your core directly against his erection, and you both gasped at the contact. His eyes were wide, pupils blown dark, and his lips were parted. He looked wrecked already, and you'd barely done anything. “I want this. Do you want this?”

“I-fuck-yes,” he admitted, his hands finally, finally coming to rest on your hips. His grip was tentative at first, like he was afraid you'd disappear if he held on too tight. “I've wanted this for so long, but I didn't think-I didn't know if you-“

You cut him off by rolling your hips against him, grinding down deliberately. The friction was delicious, the seam of your shorts pressing against your clit through your underwear, and you could feel how hard he was through his jeans. The layers of fabric between you were frustrating and arousing at the same time.

“Oh god,” Pope groaned, his head falling back against the chair. His hands tightened on your hips, and you could see him struggling with himself, wanting to pull you closer, wanting to maintain control. His neck was exposed, the tendons standing out, and you leaned forward to kiss along his throat.

You worked your way up to his jaw, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses, occasionally letting your teeth graze his skin. He was making these small sounds, almost whimpers, and each one sent a bolt of arousal straight through you. Your hands slid up his chest, feeling the warmth of him through his thin t-shirt, and you could feel his heart racing.

“You're killing me,” he breathed, and his hips jerked up involuntarily, seeking more friction. “You're actually killing me.”

“Good,” you murmured against his ear, then caught his earlobe between your teeth, tugging gently. He made a strangled sound, and his hands slid from your hips to your ass, gripping firmly. The touch sent electricity through you, and you ground down harder against him.

You could feel how wet you were getting, your underwear already damp, and the knowledge that he could probably feel it too through the layers of clothing made you even more aroused. You wanted him to know what he was doing to you, wanted him to feel how much you wanted this.

Your hands tangled in his hair, and you tugged slightly, angling his head so you could kiss along his jaw. He had a day or two of stubble, and the scratch of it against your lips was intoxicating. You kissed the corner of his mouth, teasing, and felt him turn his head, trying to capture your lips properly.

But you pulled back, smiling, and kissed down his neck instead. His hands were kneading your ass now, pulling you against him in a rhythm that matched the rolling of your hips. The friction was building, that pressure between your legs intensifying, and you knew if you kept this up you could probably come just from grinding against him.

“Please,” Pope groaned, and you weren't sure what he was begging for. “Please, I need-“

You kissed back up his neck, along his jaw, and finally pressed your lips to his. The kiss was immediately intense, all the pent-up tension exploding between you. His lips were soft and eager, if a little clumsy at first, but then he was kissing you back with increasing confidence, his tongue sliding against yours.

You moaned into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, one hand coming up to cup the back of your head, holding you to him. The kiss was deep and hungry, all teeth and tongue and breathless gasps. You could taste the weed on his tongue, and underneath that, something distinctly him.

Your hips were still moving, grinding against him in a steady rhythm, and you could feel him getting harder, if that was even possible. His jeans had to be painfully tight, and part of you wanted to reach down and free him, to feel him properly. But another part of you was enjoying this, the teasing, the building tension, the way he was completely losing control.

You broke the kiss to gasp for air, and immediately started kissing down his neck again. This time you didn't hold back, sucking hard enough to leave marks, wanting to see evidence of this tomorrow. He groaned, his hips bucking up hard, and you felt a surge of power at the response.

“Fuck, that feels so good,” he panted, his hands sliding under the hem of your tank top, finally touching bare skin. His palms were warm and slightly rough, and the touch sent shivers through you. He explored cautiously at first, his fingers tracing the curve of your waist, then growing bolder, sliding up your ribcage.

When his thumbs brushed the undersides of your breasts, you both froze for a moment. You weren't wearing a bra, and he clearly just realized it. His hands stilled, and you could practically hear him thinking, trying to decide if he should continue.

You made the decision for him, arching your back and pressing your breasts more firmly into his hands. “Touch me,” you breathed against his neck. “Please, Andy, touch me.”

His hands cupped your breasts, and you both moaned at the contact. His thumbs found your nipples, already hard and sensitive, and when he brushed over them, you gasped, your hips jerking against him. The dual sensation, his hands on your breasts, the friction against your clit, was almost overwhelming.

“You feel so good,” he murmured, his voice rough with arousal. “So fucking good. I can't believe-I've thought about this so many times, but I never-“

“What did you think about?” you asked, genuinely curious. You rolled your hips in a particularly deliberate circle, and he groaned.

“This,” he said, his thumbs circling your nipples. “Touching you. Kissing you. I thought about, fuck, I thought about what you'd taste like, what sounds you'd make. I thought about making you come.”

His words sent a bolt of heat through you, and you kissed him again, hard and desperate. Your hands slid under his shirt, needing to feel his skin, and he helped you pull it up slightly.

His chest was muscular and tanned, muscles defined from physical work, and you ran your hands over him appreciatively. His skin was warm and smooth, and you could feel his heart racing beneath your palm. You dragged your nails lightly down his chest, and he shuddered, his hips bucking up hard.

“Inside,” you gasped against his mouth, the need becoming urgent. “We need to-bedroom-“

“Yeah, yeah okay,” he panted, and then you were both standing, stumbling, still kissing frantically. His hands were everywhere now, your waist, your ass, sliding up under your shirt to touch bare skin. You knocked into the doorframe, then the couch, giggling between kisses, drunk on him and the weed and the overwhelming need.

The journey to your bedroom felt like it took forever and no time at all. You were vaguely aware of moving through your apartment, of Pope's hands on you, of the way he kept stopping to press you against walls and kiss you deeper. At one point he lifted you, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, grinding against him as he carried you.

“Fuck, you're so hot,” he groaned against your neck, his hands gripping your ass to support you. “I can feel how wet you are, even through your shorts. Are you wet for me?”

“Yes,” you gasped, the dirty talk sending another surge of arousal through you. “So wet. I've been wet since I started grinding on you outside.”

He made a sound that was almost a growl, and then he was moving faster, carrying you the rest of the way to your bedroom. When you finally reached it, he set you down, and you started to pull away, intending to fall back onto the bed. But his hands tightened on your hips, stopping you.

“No, no, wait,” he said, slightly breathless, his lips swollen from kissing. “Don't-don't lay on the bed with those clothes.”

You blinked at him, confused and aroused and impatient. “What?”

“They smell like weed,” he explained, and his hands were already moving to the hem of your tank top, his fingers brushing against your skin. “Gonna get your bedsheets all dirty and smoky, and then you'll have to wash them, and-“

He pulled your shirt up and over your head, dropping it on the floor, still talking in that earnest, practical way that was so quintessentially Pope. Your breasts were exposed now, and you saw his eyes drop to them, his words faltering for a moment before he continued.

“-and that's a pain in the ass, you know? Better to just-“ His hands went to the button of your shorts, and you realized with a thrill that he was undressing you without even seeming to realize what he was doing. He was so focused on his explanation, on the logic of it, that he didn't notice the way your breath had quickened, the way you were watching him with heavy-lidded eyes.

“-take them off now, and then the sheets stay clean, and-“ He popped the button and slowly dragged down the zipper, his knuckles brushing against your lower belly. The touch made you shiver, and you saw him swallow hard, his throat working. “-you won't have to do laundry tomorrow, which is good because laundry sucks, and-“

He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of your shorts and started pulling them down, kneeling as he did so. The position put his face level with your hips, and you saw his eyes darken as more of your skin was revealed. You were wearing simple cotton underwear, nothing fancy, but they were damp with arousal, and you knew he could see it.

“-the detergent you use is expensive, I've seen it in your bathroom, so it's better to not waste it on sheets that don't really need washing, and-“ Your shorts hit the floor, and his hands skimmed up your thighs, thumbs brushing the edge of your underwear. His face was inches from your core, and you could feel his breath, warm against your skin.

He finally seemed to register what he was doing, his eyes traveling up your body, taking in your underwear, your bare breasts, the expanse of skin he'd just exposed. His hands were still on your thighs, and you could feel them trembling slightly.

“Oh,” he said, his voice rough and low. “Fuck.”

You reached behind you and hooked your thumbs into your underwear, slowly sliding them down. His eyes were locked on the movement, watching as you revealed yourself to him completely. When you stepped out of them, kicking them aside, you were completely naked, and he was still kneeling in front of you, fully dressed, staring at you like you were something holy.

“You were saying something about keeping the sheets clean?” you asked, your voice teasing.

His eyes snapped up to yours, and the heat in them made your breath catch. “I, uh... I forgot.”

“Andrew,” you said, reaching down to cup his face, your thumb brushing over his lower lip. “Your clothes smell like weed too.”

“That's-yeah, that's a good point,” he managed, and then you were pulling at his shirt, and he was helping you, yanking it over his head. You'd already seen his chest, but seeing it again in the better light of your bedroom made you appreciate it more, the muscle, the tan skin, the way his stomach tensed as you ran your hands over it.

You made quick work of his jeans, unbuttoning them and pushing them down along with his boxers. His cock sprang free, hard and flushed, and you wrapped your hand around it, stroking slowly. He made a choked sound, his hips jerking forward involuntarily, and his hands came up to grip your shoulders for balance.

He was hot and hard in your hand, and you could feel him throbbing, could see the bead of precum at the tip. You swiped your thumb over it, spreading it, and he groaned, his head falling forward to rest against your stomach.

“Fuck, that feels good,” he panted against your skin. “But if you keep doing that, I'm gonna come way too fast, and I want-I need to-“

“What do you need?” you asked, still stroking him slowly.

“I need to taste you,” he said, his voice muffled against your stomach. “I've thought about it so many times. Please, can I-“

“Yes,” you said immediately, and then he was guiding you backward to the bed, his hands on your hips. When the backs of your knees hit the mattress, you sat, then lay back, and he followed you down, settling between your legs.

For a moment, he just looked at you, his eyes roaming over your body with an intensity that made you feel exposed and desired at the same time. Then he leaned down and kissed your inner thigh, his lips soft and warm against your skin.

“You're so beautiful,” he murmured, kissing higher. “So fucking beautiful. I can't believe I get to do this.”

He kissed his way up your thigh, taking his time, and the anticipation was almost unbearable. When he finally reached your core, he paused, his breath hot against your wet flesh, and then he licked a long, slow stripe up your slit.

You gasped, your hips jerking, and he made a sound of satisfaction, his hands gripping your thighs to hold you in place. He licked again, more firmly this time, and then his tongue found your clit, circling it slowly.

“Oh god,” you moaned, your hands tangling in his hair. “Andy, that's-fuck-“

He was enthusiastic if a little inexperienced, but what he lacked in technique he made up for in eagerness. He experimented, paying attention to your reactions, learning what made you gasp and moan. When he sucked your clit into his mouth, your back arched off the bed, and he did it again, harder this time.

“Yes, like that,” you panted, your fingers tightening in his hair. “Just like that, don't stop-“

He didn't stop. He worked your clit with his mouth, alternating between sucking and licking, and then you felt his finger at your entrance, pressing in slowly. The stretch was delicious, and you moaned, your hips rolling against his face.

He added a second finger, curling them inside you, searching for that spot that would make you see stars. When he found it, you cried out, your whole body tensing, and he focused there, his fingers moving in a steady rhythm while his mouth continued its assault on your clit.

The pleasure built quickly, that familiar tension coiling in your lower belly. You were making sounds you'd be embarrassed about later, but right now you didn't care. All you cared about was the feeling of his mouth on you, his fingers inside you, the way he was completely focused on your pleasure.

“I'm close,” you gasped, and you felt him double his efforts, his fingers moving faster, his mouth more insistent. “Andy, I'm gonna-oh fuck, I'm-“

Your orgasm hit you like a wave, pleasure washing through you in pulses. Your inner walls clenched around his fingers, and you heard him groan against you, the vibration prolonging your climax. He worked you through it, only slowing when you started to squirm from oversensitivity.

When you could breathe again, you looked down at him. His face was flushed, his lips wet and swollen, and he looked at you with such satisfaction and desire that it made you want him all over again.

“Come here,” you said, pulling him up for a kiss. You could taste yourself on his lips, and it made you want him even more. “I need you inside me.”

“Condom,” he said, pulling back slightly. “Do you have-“

“Nightstand,” you gestured, and he reached over, fumbling in the drawer until he found one. You watched as he rolled it on, his hands slightly shaky, and then he was positioning himself between your legs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance.

“Ready?” he asked, and you loved that he checked, even now, even when you were both desperate for it.

“Yes, fuck, yes-“

He pushed in slowly, and the stretch was perfect, filling you completely. You both groaned at the sensation, and he paused when he was fully seated inside you, his forehead dropping to yours. His arms were shaking slightly with the effort of holding still, and you could see the tension in his jaw.

“You feel so fucking good,” he breathed, his voice strained. “So tight and wet and perfect. I need a second or I'm gonna come right now.”

You clenched around him deliberately, and he made a choked sound, his hips jerking. “Don't-fuck-don't do that, I'm trying to-“

“Move,” you urged, wrapping your legs around his waist. “Andy, please move, I need-“

He pulled almost all the way out, then slid back in, and the friction was delicious. He started a slow rhythm, deep strokes that had you gasping, your nails digging into his shoulders. Each thrust hit something deep inside you, and you could feel the pleasure building again already.

“Harder,” you urged, and he obliged, his hips snapping forward with more force. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room along with your moans and his grunts. He shifted the angle slightly, and suddenly he was hitting that perfect spot inside you with every thrust.

“Oh god, right there, don't stop-“ You were babbling now, incoherent with pleasure, and he maintained that perfect angle, that perfect rhythm, driving you higher and higher.

“You feel so good,” he groaned, his face buried in your neck. “So fucking good. I've wanted this for so long. Wanted you for so long.”

His words sent a surge of emotion through you, mixing with the physical pleasure, and you pulled him down for a kiss. It was messy and desperate, all tongue and teeth, and you could feel him getting close, his rhythm starting to falter.

“Wait,” you said, pushing at his chest. “I want-can we-“

He pulled out, looking concerned. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” you assured him quickly. “I just want to be on top.”

His eyes darkened, and he rolled onto his back, pulling you with him. You straddled him, positioning yourself over his cock, and slowly sank down. From this angle, he went even deeper, and you both moaned at the sensation.

You started to move, rolling your hips in a slow grind, and his hands came up to grip your waist. From this position, he had a perfect view of your body, and you could see his eyes roaming over you, your breasts, your stomach, the place where your bodies were joined.

“Fuck, you're so hot,” he groaned, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts. “I love watching you ride me. I love seeing you take what you need.”

You increased your pace, bouncing on him now, and the pleasure was intense. You could feel him so deep, hitting all the right spots, and the friction against your clit was perfect. One of your hands came down to touch yourself, your fingers finding your clit, and Pope's eyes locked on the movement.

“That's so hot,” he panted, his hips thrusting up to meet yours. “Touch yourself. Make yourself come on my cock.”

The dirty talk was unexpected and incredibly arousing, and you rubbed your clit faster, chasing your orgasm. Pope's hands were on your hips now, helping you move, and you could feel him getting close, his cock throbbing inside you.

“I'm gonna come,” you gasped, your movements becoming erratic. “Andy, I'm-“

“Come for me,” he urged, his voice rough. “I want to feel you come. Want to feel you squeeze my cock.”

Your orgasm hit you hard, your whole body tensing, inner walls clenching around him rhythmically. The sensation triggered his own release, and he thrust up hard, groaning your name as he came. You could feel him pulsing inside you, and it prolonged your own pleasure, waves of sensation washing over you.

You collapsed forward onto his chest, both of you breathing hard, bodies slick with sweat. His arms came around you, holding you close, and you could feel his heart racing against your cheek.

For a long moment, you both just lay there, catching your breath, enjoying the afterglow. Then Pope carefully lifted you off him, disposing of the condom before pulling you back against his chest.

“That was...” he started, then trailed off, like he couldn't find the words.

“Yeah,” you agreed, pressing a kiss to his chest. “It really was.”

“I meant what I said,” he murmured, his fingers tracing patterns on your back. “About wanting you. This wasn't just... I mean, I really like you. Have for a while.”

You lifted your head to look at him, seeing the vulnerability in his eyes. “I really like you too,” you said softly. “This wasn't just a high hookup for me either.”

He smiled, that genuine, slightly awkward Pope smile that you loved, and pulled you in for a kiss. This one was slower, sweeter, full of promise.

“Stay,” you said when you broke apart. “Tonight. Stay with me.”

“Yeah,” he said, his arms tightening around you. “I'd like that.”

Outside, the ocean continued its endless rhythm, and inside, wrapped in Pope's arms, you felt perfectly, completely content. The high was starting to fade, but the feeling of rightness, of finally being where you were supposed to be, only grew stronger.

You dozed for a while, comfortable in the silence, but eventually you felt Pope stir beneath you. “Hey,” he said softly. “You awake?”

“Mmm,” you hummed, not quite ready to move.

“I was thinking...” he started, his hand sliding down your back to cup your ass. “We should probably shower. Get the weed smell off properly.”

You lifted your head, seeing the mischief in his eyes, and grinned. “Is that right?”

“Yeah,” he said, his hand squeezing gently. “Wouldn't want to smell like weed tomorrow. Very irresponsible.”

“So responsible of you,” you teased, sitting up. His eyes immediately dropped to your breasts, and you saw his cock twitch with interest. “Think you can go again?”

“With you?” he said, pulling you down for a kiss. “Definitely.”

The shower was long and steamy, full of soapy hands and slippery skin and Pope pressing you against the tile wall as he fucked you from behind, his hand over your mouth to muffle your moans. The water cascaded over you both, and when you came, it was with his name on your lips and his teeth on your shoulder.

Afterward, you dried off and climbed into bed properly, your sheets still clean just like Pope had wanted. He pulled you against him, your back to his chest, and you felt his lips press against your shoulder.

“This is perfect,” he murmured, echoing his words from earlier on the balcony.

And it was. It really, really was.

You didn't understand how you'd been able to score Jack Abbot.

Somehow, the universe decided that you'd be his match, the one he chose to go home to at the end of a bad shift, the one who'd been able to give him the most comfort during his darkest days. You knew what you'd be getting into: the PTSD, the depression, shifts where he felt more like your boss than your partner. But you believed you could get through it; Jack was older, and you liked to think you were mature enough to handle anything thrown your way.

For almost a year, your relationship bloomed in stolen glances across the Pitt, hidden moments in supply closets, and late-night baths spent at his house trying to bury yourself next to his heart. Jack was it for you, and you let yourself dream about a future, ring on your finger, possible children running around the house you shared. The two of you rarely fought, often choosing to apologize for anything under the sun before arguments grew too large for your feelings.

Never once did Jack make you feel inadequate, even if you had voiced early on that you truly didn't understand why he picked you. Compared to his gorgeous salt-and-pepper curls and freckled skin and large stature, you felt plain. Your hair was always pulled into a slick ponytail, makeup caused acne breakouts after 12-hour shifts, and what little time you had to yourself, you spent it at home, reading a book, instead of going out with friends and colleagues. People looked at you without so much as a second glance. Jack, on the other hand, made heads turn and nurses blush if they somehow caught his attention long enough for him to send a look their way. You couldn't remember the last time you went through a shift where a female (or sometimes male) patient failed to make a comment about the sexy, silver fox doctor.

You never made it more than it was: harmless flirting from people Jack would never think about again once they got discharged.

After, you and he had gone through the HR meetings, the contract signings, and the swearing that your relationship wouldn't get in the way of saving lives or have Jack start playing favorites. To further this, around the 9-month mark of being Jack's, they plucked you from the safety of the nightshift and dropped you right into Robby's hands. But this was how it was going to be from now on; there was no point in arguing as long as you got to keep Jack.

For three months, you persevered. Finding a groove with an already well-oiled shift proved to be harder than it looked. People talked. Nurses gossiped. Doctors speculated. You, through it all, kept your chin high. Their words didn't get to dictate your relationship. During handoffs, Jack still swept you into his arms and kissed you like a man coming back from war. He still told you that dinner was in the fridge once you got home and napped. He still continued to send updates during his shift, text messages from the separate night-shift group chat made after your departure chiming loudly while you ate. And most important of all, he still loved you.

However, nothing could have prepared you for the three times you felt the most unloved. I care, I care, I care, like perfume that you wear, I linger all the time, watchin', hidden in plain sight, ooh, I try, I try, I try, but it takes over my life, I see you everywhere, the sweetest torture one could bear "Hey, Dana," you called out while swimming through the chaos only brought on by a 4th of July shift.

At her name, Dana looked up over the thin frames of her glasses, pausing momentarily to look your way before going back to her board. "Please don't tell me that the 36 hot dog guy is back."

You shook your head, hands coming to rest on top of the vinyl counter. "Not that I'm aware of."

"Thank heavens. What can I do for ya, hun?"

Leaning in, you did a quick glance around the department. "I heard Jack was here early?"

Her eyebrows almost rose to her hairline. "Yeah; he came in with one of his SWAT buddies. GSW to the man's neck, but it looks like he's going to be okay." She reached over and grabbed a tablet. "Actually, can you find Jack for me? He wanted an update ASAP."

Your fingers drummed against the counter anxiously before you took the tablet from her. "I was just about to ask if you'd seen him."

Dana glanced over your shoulder and stuck out her chin in the same direction. "Saw him duck into Room 15. Might be taking a breather; Lord knows he needs one after that raid." She gave you a knowing look, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Maybe you're exactly what he needs."

A rush of heat flooded your face, eyes darting away from hers. "I'll see if I can find him."

You turned away before she could say anything more, hands desperately holding the tablet to your chest. Your shoes squeaked against the tile floor, steps bringing you closer to the room Jack was supposedly in. Once at the door, you raised a hand to draw the curtain away, but the sound of voices—plural—had you stopping. Saliva pooled between your teeth as you listened closely.

"—is the hospital going to pay for it?"

There was a pause before Jack clearly grumbled, "I'll pay for it."

You slowly moved to the side next to the wall where the curtain didn't completely cut the room off. Through the slot, your eyes widened at the sight of a Jack, shirt off, pale chest, wound-care swab twirling in his fingers with Samira sitting in one of the chairs. In the next beat, she stood and walked right past the curtain slot, completely oblivious that you were right behind it. She stopped near the wall and grabbed a pair of gloves before snapping them on.

His brows furrowed. "What are you doing?"

She smiled before rounding to stand behind him. "What you clearly can't."

Begrudgingly, he handed over the swab.

"Did you make a chart?" she asked while dipping the cotton end into a wound cream.

Jack crossed his arms, and his shoulders rolled and dipped. "No. This can stay off the books. Don't need the paperwork from the hospital or police department."

Samira paused. "Would you rather me go get Dr. [Name]? I'm sure she could do this much better than I could."

"No," Jack responded, shaking his head. "She'd just panic about this. There's no need to throw her off her game."

Your stomach flipped. He thought you'd panic? Sure, you'd be worried, but it wasn't like you hadn't seem him hurt before. Whatever wound he had on his back wouldn't be the worst thing he'd come home with after a SWAT shift.

"Isn't she your girlfriend?" She began dabbing at his back, the swab coming back bloodied.

"Yeah, but it's different with you. I don't have to worry about you taking your time or being indifferent about this." He winced at a deeper brush into the graze. "She's not like you, Dr. Mohan. She wears everything on her sleeve. Really, she could learn how to be more level headed like you, Dr. Mohan. I've seen the way you handle traumas. We wouldn't be so in the low if we had about 10 more of you."

He ended with a chuckle like what he just said didn't feel like a knives to your stomach.

Is that what he really thought about you? That you should be more like Samira and her ability to stay cool through anything thrown at her? With a blink, your eyes glossed over.

Jack turned his head, neck twisting to he could meet Samira's eyes. "You won't tell her about this, right? Our little secret?"

You didn't stay to hear what she said, choosing to turn around before you could watch any longer. It was incredible that you were able to stay for so long, submitting yourself to a new kind of torture. Walking back to the nurses station, your steps slowed as if molasses coated the floor, its stickiness clinging to your shoes.

At your oncoming presence, Dana looked over. "Did you find him, hun?"

You forced yourself to not look back at the closed curtain. "Yeah, but he's in the middle of something right now. I'll just catch up with him later."

The tablet gave a small thud as you placed it back into the holder, and you desperately tried to find another patient to busy yourself with, specifically one furthest from Room 15. However, before you could grab one, a hand wrapped around your elbow and tugged.

"Hey, I need you for the incoming trauma," Langdon said as he dragged you with him. "Twenty-year-old female, unconscious for an unknown matter of time."

You nodded silently, allowing him to keep walking you like a dog on a leash until he stopped in front of the ambulance bay sliding doors. Your lungs expanded in a deep, wavering breath.

Now was not the time to panic. You could do this. You could be like Samira. You could show Jack that you could handle a trauma.

During your internal pep talk, the doors slid open, giving way for the gurney and two paramedics.

"BP is 140-over-92 and climbing. No relevant medical history. She woke up once on the way over and vomited before passing out again."

You quickly followed Langdon into the first trauma room and helped transfer her over onto the bed. Immediately, numbers started being shouted while you started your initial exam.

When nothing seemed to blare any red flags, Langdon started impatient as the woman kept deteriorating. Through it all, you willed your hands to stay steady, your mind calm while you mentally went through what could be the matter. You took a step forward, body positioning near her head so you could look at her pupils one more time, and that's when you smelled it: the acrid, fruity smell puffing out of her mouth as she struggled to breath.

You jerked back quickly. "Dr. Langdon, is there a history of diabetes or hyperglycemia? Her breath smells like rotting fruit."

Langdon looked over at you before leaning toward her face. He hissed a curse before barking for a blood sugar test. Your eyes widened when the screen flashed a 450 mg/dL.

"She's experiencing diabetic ketoacidosis," you breathed.

"Let's get her on an insulin drip, now," Langdon hissed, face pinched until he looked over at you with a softer expression. "Great job catching that and staying calm." He chuckled slightly. "Never seen you like this but keep it up."

You knew his words were meant to be encouraging, but all they did was send bile up your throat. Without saying anything more, you tore off the gloves and shoved them deep into a biohazard bin. You wanted to cry, wanted to find the nearest restroom and tug at your hair.

But that's not what Samira would do your mind provided; the thought ugly and green. She'd shrug it all off and keep working like nothing was the matter.

Your teeth ground together, shoulders squaring in tandem. If everyone would rather have you calm, you'd be calm. You'd tuck your heart away rather than show it to the patients who needed someone that wore it on their sleeve. You picked up another tablet at the nurses station and got back to work.

The rest of the fourth went by in a tornado. Systems went down after a cyberattack; fireworks boomed off in the distance; you stayed busy. Each of your patients were in and out at a lightning speed, and by the start of the night shift, you were ready to go home and cry your heart out into a pillow.

You'd seen Samira every so often in between patients and a small lunch break. Like always, she smiled at you and waved and chatted when she could, but her actions made you want to wither up like a dead flower. You couldn't help but stare at her, thinking that you should be more like the woman in front of you, mind comparing your features to hers at a rapid speed you couldn't stop. She somehow looked like an angel in the middle of a place jokingly nicknamed one of the seven layers of hell, skin clear and hair somehow perfectly put in a bun. You tried your best to match her enthusiasm, but the poison had already been drank.

On the contrary, the only time you really saw Jack was at the start of handoffs. He had helped with one trauma before going to the on-call room for a needed nap, and you hadn't wanted to talk to him then, scared of how he'd act around you.

"There you are, sweetheart," you heard him say as you finished up converting with Lena about the man in Room 5. "I've been looking for you. Thought you might have left without saying goodbye."

You winced slightly. "No; I've just been busy."

Jack hummed and smiled warmly at you, but the expression was tainted by his words earlier. "I heard. Langdon's been nothing but praising you for earlier. I'm proud of you."

"Sure you are," you muttered too lowly for him to catch. Your lips thinly stretched into a smile that didn't meet your tired eyes. "Thank you, Jack," you settled on instead.

His hazel eyes scanned over your face, and his smile slightly dropped. "Are you okay, though? You look a little down."

"I'm fine," you shot out. "Today's just been long, and I'm ready to get home."

Jack nodded. "I left food in the fridge for you, so make sure you eat it after you sleep for a bit."

"Got it."

He looked at you expectantly before rolling his eyes. "Come here."

Like it had been etched into your DNA, you listened and fell into his open arms, face tucking into his chest. He squeezed you tightly before placing a kiss to your temple.

"Proud of you," he said. "You do such a good job. We need so many doctors like you, my perfect girl."

Perfect felt like a twist of the knife, because if you were so perfect, why had he told Samira that he wished you were more like her? I feel your compliments like bullets on skin. Dazzling starlet, Bardot reincarnate, well, aren't you the greatest thing to ever exist? As the weeks went on, Jack's words never left your soul, the damage irreparable in everything that you did.

Second guessing yourself had been a struggle you'd dealt with since an earlier age. Normally, Jack would be able to quiet all those thoughts; he had chosen you; he loved you. But now, as you second guessed everything you did, you also second guessed everything Jack said. You picked apart every encouragement, every compliment, every sweet promise he whispered in your ear.

What he said now couldn't be taken at face value, and you wondered if that feeling would ever go away. You'd asked him about the bullet graze a few days after the 4th, acting completely oblivious to what you knew. Like you thought, Jack assured you that he got it handled and for you to not worry about it, like that did anything to settle the rolling feelings in your stomach.

You tried your best to move on, knowing you'd only bring yourself down more if you dwelled too long about really how much Jack's words had affected you while he never said anything directly to your face. The idea that he wanted you to be like someone else made your heart clench tightly to the point you often wanted to call off work, hoping that you could just wallow in self pity for hours and hours.

But the Pitt did not care for you like that; it demanded twelve hour shifts and grueling doubles. So every day, you rolled out of bed before Jack got home and pulled up your big girl pants.

You worked through it. You'd learned how to stay calm, how to not panic under duress, and it killed you to admit that you'd become a better doctor because of it. You hardly ever hiccuped during a trauma, gaining compliments from the surgeons and Robby for your techniques that were close to flawless. For the smallest second, you would preen under their words before the ugly, repulsive reminder that they might not be real swallowed you down in a nasty gulp.

"Dr. [Name] follow me please," Robby called as he brushed past the nurses station where you were currently typing away at a chart, hands clutching a chart out in front of him to read. "Quickly."

You pushed up from the desk, chair rolling far behind you from the force of your legs. Not wanting to lose him, you rounded the counter and jumped into his long stride.

"Yes, Dr. Robby?" you asked.

As far as you knew, there weren't any incoming traumas and it was too late in the day for him to have questions about your patients that were currently waiting for a room.

Robby paused in front of an empty trauma room. "Jack just let me know that he found a man in need of medical attention and is bringing him in before handoffs, and I thought you could help him out." He handed you the tablet, already ready to go with updated information.

You took a quick glance over this. "Um, Dr. Robby, it looks like he'll need a pericardiocentesis."

"It's good that you know exactly what he'll need. What's the issue?"

Your eyes looked from the screen to his brown eyes. "I've never done one before."

He simply smiled at you and patted your shoulder. "That's why Jack's going to lead you through it. I would stay, but since he's coming in early, I'm going to head out."

You tried to quirk a smile. "Got a hot date waiting for you?"

A low chuckle shook his shoulders. "You got jokes. My bike needs some repairs, and today's the only day I can get it into the shop. But I know you'll be just fine. Your improvement in traumas will only grow if you step out of your comfort zone."

The automatic sliding doors slid open, and Jack plus a nurse wheeled a man through on a gurney. Jack's eyes lit up at the sight of you, but his brows pinched when he noticed Robby's bag slung over the taller man's shoulder.

"You leaving early, brother?" Jack questioned as he stepped past the two of you.

Robby's hand gently rested on your shoulder. "Yeah, but you two will have this handled."

You inhaled deeply, the weight of his hand and words pushing down on your chest.

Robby was counting on you. Don't fuck this up. Don't panic.

With the tablet tucked under your arm, you walked into the trauma room before pulling on a pair of gloves. Jack had already cut through the man's shirt.

"I need two 18-gage needles, one 9cm and one 15cm, a guidewire, dilator, and 8Fr pigtail catheter." He looked up toward Jesse. "Let's give him 10ml lignocaine 1%."

You quickly gather what he needed and placed him on the dressing that covered the side tray.

"Okay, Dr. [Name]," Jack said, lips twitching upwards at using your official name, "I need you to place an ECG electrode on the pericardiocentesis needle with a crocodile clip and insert. Once the tip touches the myocardium, the trace should show immediate ST elevation. Once that comes up, insert the wire to aspirate the fluid."

His words tumbled through your mind much too fast to the point that you wondered if he didn't know you'd never done this before. You pursed your lips as you tried to remember everything. In the grand scheme of things, your training provided everything that needed to be done.

Yet, there was a big difference between studying and actually doing the procedure.

You kept your breath steady as you readied the needle, clamping on a clip before turning the pointed end toward the man's chest. The first part went smoothly, and the needle went right through. However, instead of the consistent beeping that should have followed if the needle was in properly, an onslaught of alarms sounded through your ears.

You had missed something.

Jack whipped his head toward you and sneered. "You went too deep. I told you that the needle needed to touch the myocardium not go all the way through. Give it here."

He didn't even wait for you to transfer the needle over, hands already grabbing at it. His head bent down so he could see what was happening. With a practiced ease, he maneuvered the needle exactly where it should have been.

"Fuck," he whispered, "Robby wouldn't have done that. I don't know why he handed this off to you if he knew the patient would need a pericardiocentesis for tamponade."

You thickly swallowed pooling saliva to clear your throat. "Sorry."

"Just—" He closed his eyes and sucked in a breath. "I'll finish up here. You go home."

You jolted just a bit. Go home?

"Jack, I can still assist. You're going to need—"

"We have it covered. Catheter is in place, and you'd just be standing around. You're good."

Suddenly, a wave of anguish flowed through your body. It was happening again. Jack had just added fuel to the ever growing fire of jealousy and self-loathing. The feeling sized your chest, and you stepped back from the bed, shaky hands ripping off the nitrile gloves.

You couldn't help the stressed wheeze that pushed from your lungs.

Don't panic. Don't panic. He didn't mean it. He was just stressed. He didn't know that you'd never done that before.

Numbly, you walked back to the nurses station and sat back down in front of the computer, but your hands didn't raise to the keyboard. Your mind had already taken over, spewing rotten things about yourself that you could fix.

Be like Samira. Be like Robby. Jack won't keep wanting you if you aren't like them.

Your tongue ran across your dry lips in an attempt to wet them, but even your mouth had gone parched.

"Is charting really that bad?" you heard Dennis ask you as she sat down at a computer to your left. "You look like someone just told you they flushed your fish down the drain."

In a jerky motion, you turned towards him and did your best to compose yourself. "Oh no. I, uh, I didn't do well on a procedure with Dr. Abbot, and he asked me to leave."

Dennis at least had the decency to look sorry for you. "I bet you didn't do too bad. What was the procedure?"

"A pericardiocentesis," you said shyly.

He nodded slowly. " Shit, that's like one of the first things Robby let us do." He turned towards his own chart. "I could probably do them in my sleep by now."

Because he wasn't looking at you, Dennis missed the way your shoulders dropped and tears welled in your lash line. Jack's comment had been bad, but he just completely shattered any confidence you had left for the day.

"Right," you muttered. "Of course it'd be that easy if Robby taught you."

And you'd be right. On the night shift, patients like that rarely if not ever needed such a complex procedure. You could only think to one time that a woman came through almost needing one before they were able to use a different method to get her stable enough to be transferred to the OR.

With keys clacking loudly, you quickly finished up the chart before turning the whole thing off. You didn't even try to find Jack before you left, choosing to slip out before he even noticed you'd left without saying goodbye.

Once you were home, you stormed past the fridge and went straight to yours and Jack's shared room. Your scrubs hit the floor, and you didn't even bother to put on pajamas. The bed dipped under your weight as you pulled the duvet up over your body in a sad attempt at being comforted by its weight.

Sleep came quickly, only being interrupted by the door opening, a signal that Jack had gotten home. Blearily, you listened to him walk around the room before his edge of the bed sunk after he sat. The familiar hiss and pop of his prosthesis preceded him turning to lie down. You kept still as he scooted closer before wrapping an arm around your middle and molding your back to his chest.

"Sorry if I woke you up," he muttered sleepily. "Tried to find you before you left, but I guess I missed you. Wanted to say good job for that trauma. You helped so much."

You clamped your eyes shut, squeezing a fresh round of tears that dripped down your cheeks to puddle on your pillowcase.

After Samira, you had done your best to convince yourself it had been a slip of his tongue. But now after Robby, you weren't too sure that Jack would keep you around for much longer before finding someone better. Because there was no way you could ever amount to someone like Robby.

It was impossible. I care, I care, I care, like ribbons in your hair, my stomach's all in knots, you got the one thing that I want. Ooh, I try, I try, I try, try to rationalize people are people, but it's like you're made of angel dust. You were trying but failing to pretend Jack's words and comparisons hadn't left a giant, bleeding gap in your heart. Before everything happened, you never ever wondered if Jack loved you. Except now, you waited with bated breath for him to just drop the bucket and break up with you. You walked on eggshells around him.

Don't panic. Be put together. Keep your heart to yourself. Be calm like Samira. Don't fuck up. Know how to do your job. Be confident like Robby.

Those thought became your mantra and lifeline. No one seemed to think twice about your recent personality change. They loved the way they could count on you, the way you had an answer ready for everything. To the day and night shift, you were the epitome of composure. But behind closed doors, you were falling apart and into a pit you didn't think you'd be able to climb out of.

Jack didn't help with that either. You guessed he didn't even know what he had done to you, going on with his life like he hadn't given yours so many potholes that you couldn't continue on without falling behind. Everything you did was carefully thought out, every patient you talked to met a version of you that didn't reflect what you felt inside or outside.

You avoided mirrors the most, their reflections showing you exactly what you weren't. You weren't Samira with her lovely thick hair and clear skin. And you weren't Robby who carried years of trauma like it was apart of his body.

You were you, and you loathed it entirely.

You hated the glances you caught between Jack and Samira across the department. You hated the way they looked like they knew what the other was thinking before they spoke. You hated how you felt like on onlooker to a relationship that wasn't even happening.

You also hated the way Robby changed from a mentor to an idol. He had soon morphed into someone you wanted to so desperately be to the point you lost yourself in ambition.

And the worst part? You held nothing against them personally.

They didn't know what Jack had said. They didn't know that you were dying on the inside every time they raised you up during shifts. Bits of you crumbled away while they continued to glow.

Every morning you woke up, you wondered if the day would provide the straw that broke the camel's back with the way you felt like a stretched out rubber band waiting to fly.

A soft, savory aroma wafted through your kitchen. You absentmindedly stirred the spatula through the sauce, eyes glancing back and forth from the pan to the recipe. The instructions were written in beautiful, slanted cursive with curled letters that danced together. You'd found the card mixed in with a bunch of recipes Jack kept in his drawer. With a quick read told you that the owner of this one was his late wife, and the heart next to the title had you guessing if this was a favorite for the two of them.

Without thinking, you plucked it from the drawer and started working. After a week of back to back cases that ended in more loss than wins, a homemade meal was exactly what you and Jack needed after a day off. He was currently out getting his truck washed, and you wanted to be finished by the time he came home.

Quickly, the separate parts of the recipe—the chicken and veggies basting in the oven, the sauce on the stove top, and the wine chilling in the fridge—all came together right as Jack walked through the door.

"Hi, baby!" you called out as you pulled the pan from the oven. "Dinner's almost ready!"

You picked up on Jack's slightly clompy gate as he got farther into the house.

"Smells good," he said, walking over to stand behind you. "What did you make?"

Suddenly, you got nervous. What if it didn't taste correct? What if Jack didn't want you to make something so special between him and his wife. What if you ruined everything.

You didn't meet his eyes and poured the sauce over the top of the chicken. "Uh, a recipe from the drawer. It looked good, and we already had the ingredients."

He grabbed the card and held it up to his face, and you held your breath. When he didn't seem to get angry or sad, you counted it at a win.

"There's a bottle of white in the fridge if you want to get it out," you offered.

Jack stayed quiet. You didn't dare look even as the sound of a cork popping echoed in the room. While his immediate lack of response didn't cause concern to rise, your stomach still churned. To mirror him, you also didn't speak while you set the table.

He sat down, and so did you, your chairs facing the other like you'd done so many times in the past. Your heart pounded against your sternum as he took the first bite.

Loudly, he smacked his lips, setting his fork down at he chewed. The noise felt like nails on a chalkboard in the silence.

After a minute, he finally spoke. "Did you change anything in this?"

Your racing heart plummeted to your feet. "No. I kept it just like the card had it."

His brows furrowed. "Really? It tastes different than how I remembered it last."

You dug your nails into the fabric of the table running. "Does it not taste good?"

Jack looked up from his plate with wide, hazel eyes. "No, no, it's just different."

"But not good," you scoffed.

"I'm just trying to say that maybe you missed something. I know Alice's handwriting isn't the easiest to read."

"I know how to read cursive, Jack," you spat lowly. "I followed every single instruction on the card. It's the exact same recipe."

"It's not that big of a deal, sweetheart," he tried. "Maybe if you had a bit more practice like her, it might have come out the same. You're a good cook, don't get me wrong, but—"

Your hands slammed on the table in frustration, causing Jack's eyebrows to pinch as his words died in his mouth. He went to keep talking but stopped when he noticed the frustrated tears fall from your eyes.

"I'm done," you breathed, eyes darting around the room.

"Done?" Jack echoed. "What are you done with?"

"Everything," you hissed. "I'm done with this—" You gestured to the food with a wave of your hand. "I'm done with-with you. I'm done with it all."

You pushed up from the table and walked away, leaving Jack to scramble out of his chair and follow you.

"Sweetheart, what's going on?" he loudly asked, but you ignored him.

By the time he made it into the bedroom, you had already ripped out a suitcase from the closet and were pushing clothes into it without making them neat.

"Hey," Jack said gently. "Look, I'm sorry for saying that. I didn't think it'd upset you this much, but you don't have to leave."

You paused in a mid-throw of your shirts and spun to face him. A disbelieving laugh bubbled wetly through your throat. "That's the problem," you muttered, "you don't think."

He crossed his arms, biceps resting against his chest. A need to defend himself bloomed in his stomach. "What's that supposed to fucking mean."

You threw your arms up with an exasperated scoff. "Oh, so now you're concerned for what I'm saying. Maybe you should be concerned more with your words." You sucked in a deep breath. "Just go on and say it."

Jack took a step forward. "Say what?"

"That you'd rather me be someone else!" you screamed. "That-that I'm not enough by myself for you anymore." Pants heaved in your chest. "I'm sick and tired of standing here stuck listening to you compare me and wish that I'd be like or act like someone else."

Your words stole the breath from Jack's lungs as confusion and dread washed over him. "What?"

You closed your eyes and dropped your shoulders. "I heard you; I keep hearing you."

In another step forward, Jack was within two feet of you. He swallowed thickly, but you beat him to more words.

"On the fourth," you began to explain through tears, "I saw Samira patch you up, and I heard the way you told her that I could learn how to be more level headed like her."

A chill crept up Jack's spine. "Sweetheart—"

"Don't," you ordered. "Don't do that where you try to make it all better. I heard you loud and clear, Jack. And that's fine. I knew I could be more calm during traumas, so that's exactly what I did, but apparently—" You chocked out a laugh. "That wasn't enough for you."

He shook his head, hazel eyes swimming with guilt already.

"And I really thought that if I could be anything like Samira, your words wouldn't hurt as much. But then you had to go and tell me that you wished Robby had been there instead of me to do a pericardiocentesis." Your breath shuddered in the next exhale. "Did you even know that was the first time I'd ever been asked to do one? And instead of teaching at a teaching hospital, you threw me to the side saying Robby—the fucking chief attending—could have done the job. No fucking duh, Jack."

You threw a hand in the direction of the kitchen. "And now this? I thought that maybe I could be like Samira or study enough to be like Robby, but h-how am I supposed to compare to the woman who had your love first." You turned back toward the bed and haphazardly packed suitcase. "That's unfair to me. So, like I said, I'm done."

A pleading sound ripped from Jack's throat at the sound of your suitcase zipper closing.

"No, sweetheart, please. Let me fix this; tell me how to fix this," he begged.

"That's just it, Jack. I don't think this can be fixed. I've spent weeks with your words in my head wondering how I can be the perfect person for you. And I don't know if I can keep going on pretending."

Jack's body shook under a small sob as everything came crashing down. He absolutely had no clue what he had done to you, but thinking back, he understood that his careless words wracked irreparable damage to you and your personality.

"I'm sorry," he managed, voice breaking in a whisper.

"I know you are,' you responded, "and somehow that makes it hurt worse. Because while you were trying to compliment everyone else, you made me feel inadequate in every aspect of my life." Your fingers wrapped around the suitcase handle and tugged it off the bed. "I can't stay with someone who keeps hoping I'll be a conglomeration of all the best parts of others; that's not me. And I'll be honest, I don't even really know who me is anymore."

He inhaled sharply, eyes tearing from your face to look down at the floor. "So this is it? You're leaving?"

Another round of tears spilled down your cheeks as you choked on a sob of your own. "I don't want to, but I need to."

"But I love you," he croaked, eyes coming back up to meet yours.

"You love the best parts of me, Jack," you said, already moving to walk past him. "And that's never going to be enough to make me stay."

Your shoulder lightly brushed by his as you walked out of the room and all the way out the front door, leaving Jack behind in a house he realized he didn't want empty. You poison every little thing that I do, Lacy, oh, Lacy, I just loathe you lately, and I despise my jealous eyes and how hard they fell for you, yeah, I despise my rotten mind and how much it worships you Jack didn't truly realize what he'd done until almost six months after you left him crying in his bedroom.

Your absence in his life gave him a lot to think about, and the only conclusion he could come up with was that you were absolutely right. It didn't matter if he'd compared you to others unconsciously; he made you feel like that: worthless, in need of self change, inadequate; the list went on.

He'd seen the small changes too late.

The next shift he worked with you, Jack tracked every minuscule thing you did, and it felt like one big punch to the gut. He saw the way you constantly checked your hair, ponytail pulled tight enough to give you a headache, skin, and scrubs and the way you straightened your stethoscope so it rested perfectly across your collarbones.

His stomach dropped when he watched you pause before a trauma and gulp down air before heading inside like someone who needed to take control before it could get out of hand. Before him, you weren't like that. Yes, you could be nervous to mess up, but you didn't act like you had to be the smartest person in the room.

He did that to you. He made you feel the need to change. And it killed him. It killed him once he learned you transferred over to a specialty in orthopedics, and his mind made him think you did it just to get away from him.

He was slightly correct, but not entirely.

You needed a fresh start, somewhere where you knew no on had any high expectation of you. And somehow, orthopedics gave you just that. And you thrived in the environment, only coming down to the Pitt when they needed a transfer or second opinion. Sure, you had to accompany Park the Shark more than you'd liked to, but through your time there, the old you was coming back, the one who worked through her panic instead of shutting it down, the one who only got frazzled when she cared about patients and their needs.

It was never weakness you showed, and you had to learn that all over again.

Someone helped you see that along the way as well.

"What do got here?" Park asked while snapping on a pair of gloves, eyes predatory as he walked into Trauma Room 1.

Jack looked up with pinched brows when he realized that you didn't walk in behind the larger man. "Where's Dr. [Name]?"

Park didn't even acknowledge his question. "For fucks sake man, you didn't even pack this right."

"You should know how to put a detached leg together even if I missed the pressure of the wrapping by an inch," Jack shot back.

"Abbot, you should know that I can't fucking put your patient back together after you decided to play Barbies. It's not as easy as popping a joint back in place."

"Dr. [Name] could do it."

Except for the monitors, everyone went quiet. Jack tore his eyes away from Park and looked back down at his blood soaked gloves. Reality crashed down on him as he realized he just did to Park what he'd done to you. Even if he knew he probably didn't hurt Park's feelings at all, it sucked to know that he was still so quit to throw out words like that.

Park's shoulders rose in a shrug. "She could, but she isn't here right now. She switched shifts and won't be in until 7." He smirked. "Think she said she had plans with someone."

An ugly roar of jealousy clawed at Jack's insides, nails sinking deep in his gut.

You were with someone?

He went through the motions of his shift, mind still on the fact that you weren't on call because someone had taken your time and attention away from the hospital. His knuckles turned white around the tablet he held while going through handoffs. He didn't know if his body was still trained to look for you, forever waiting for your soft lips against his, but Jack couldn't help but keep his head on a swivel and ears open to catch the sound of your voice.

Like a laugh in his face from the universe, your laugh fluttered through the ER, and his head whipped hard enough that his neck hurt in order to find you. When he finally saw you walking in, his heart dropped to his feet, because there you were, smiling brighter than he'd seen in a long while, hand enclasped with a man's.

Jack swallowed thickly. He instantly hated the way his blood boiled at the sight. He looked back down at the tablet after your voice seemed to draw closer to where he was standing.

"Andy," you sighed wistfully, "you didn't have to walk me all the way in here. I know you're weary of the germs."

"I know," the man—Andy (you gave him a fucking nickname?)—muttered back, wide, hazel eyes looking down at you like you hung the moon. "But I wanted to."

You pouted playfully. "You're so sweet. Am I going to see you tomorrow morning, or are you working again?"

He hummed. "My morning's yours if you want it."

"You know I always do."

Jack watched the corner of the man's mouth twitch into an almost-there smile, and he had to look away when his head started leaning in toward yours.

The small smack of your lips on his made bile gurgle in Jack's stomach.

"Okay, you gotta go save lives."

You giggled again. "I just put people back together, and technically, Park's the one doing all the procedures. You know my hands start shaking."

From the corner of his eye, Jack watched him lift your hands to his lips and kiss the tops of your knuckles.

"Just breathe and know that you alone can do this. You were the one to get into the program, so they want you, shaky hands and all."

Jack's heart clenched to the point of a physical reaction to the pain. He should have been the one saying that to you, standing in your corner and building you up one compliment at a time.

But now, he had to stand on the sideline and watch a man (someone who scarily looked a bit like him) give you all the praise and love you deserved. And while Jack could do everything in his power to let people know how good of a doctor you were, it wouldn't ever be the same, forever stuck loathing the moment he lost you without knowing.

“Seriously?” He looked exasperated but amused by your pleading as you wiggled on his lap. “You want it that bad?”

“Yes,” you held up the small, silver hoop, turning it to let the low light of his living room catch it and throw sparks of light across his face. You’d chosen silver on purpose, wanting it to match his hair and stubble. “Just for a bit. Wanna see it on you.”

He sighed, his hands squeezing your hips. He really didn’t understand your fascination with this, but he really was a push over when it came to you.

“Fine,” you squealed with joy, but he caught your wrist before you could lunge for his ear. “But I’m taking it out after an hour. I’m not wearing it full time anymore. I’m 50, not 25, sweetheart.”

You were pretty confident you could get him to cave and wear it for you logner, but you didn’t argue.

“Can I put it in now?”

Jack smirked a little, resisting the urge to make a joke.

“Yeah, baby,” he turned his head, giving you the space to work. He dropped your wrist, both of his hands returning to your hips. “You can.”

You could see the small, nearly invisible hole where the earring would go. Keeping your touches light, you traced from the top of the cartilage down to the lobe with one finger. Beneath you, you could feel Jack shudder.

Interesting.

Unclasping the hoop, you took the lobe between two of your fingers, holding it steady. His breathing was picking up and his fingers were digging into your sides. You slowly slid the post of the hoop through his ear, leaning in close and letting your breath ghost over the shell of his ear.

You could feel him getting hard between your legs, and, subconsciously, his hands were starting to drag your hips over his. Leaning into it, you ground down on him as you closed the hinge, securing the little earring in place.

“So pretty,” you murmured as you sat back to admire him. Jack was flushed, eyes wide and pupils blown as he turned to look up at you. The shining glint of silver in his ear had your walls clenching and feeling much too empty.

“This what you wanted?” Jack pushed his hips up into yours, pulling you down against the his hard cock.

“No, this is,” your hands fell to the waistband of his sweats, pushing the fabric down just enough to free his length. You pumped him once, gathering the little drops of fluid already leaking from his head and spreading it down the rest of him. He sucked in a hard breath, his own hands shifting down to where your underwear barely kept you covered. 

“You wanna ride me while I look like a pirate, pretty girl? S’that what you’re into?”

You laughed, lifting your hips to allow him to yank your underwear to the side. His fingers dipped through your slit, finding you more than wet enough to take him without any prep.

“Well, you’ve already got the peg leg. You should probably just lean into your new aesthetic.”

Jack didn’t seem to think you were all that funny. His hand came down against your ass, jolting you forward and into him as you gasped.

“You gonna keep talking or are you solve the little problem you created?” He moved you again, lifting you up until the tip of his cock was aligned with your entrance. You slid down slowly, gasping as he stretched you around him.

“I don’t think I’d call it little,” you bit back a moan as you took him fully, settling down into his lap. Your hips rocked back and forth in small, stuttering grinds as you got used to him. “I’d say it’s pretty sizable.”

“Oh yeah?” Jack looked smug, like he always did when he first entered you. No matter how many times the two of you fucked, you always needed a moment to get used to the way he stretched you, more than any partner had before.

“Mhm,” you started rolling your hips, rising an inch or two up off him before sinking down and grinding your clit against him. Your hand twisted in his hair, pulling his head to the side so you could stare at the little sliver hoop. “We gotta get you an eyepatch. Really complete the look.”

“Will you shut up?” Jack slapped your ass again before using his hold on your hips to start moving you harder against him. 

Your teeth were itching for something to bite down on as Jack manipulated your body, driving deep into you. 

With your craving and just how tantalizing that little piece of jewelry looked, it was inevitable that you leaned forwards and grasped the thin metal with your teeth.

“Oh fuck!”

Jack’s hips jumped up, slamming into yours and forcing a cry from your lips, but you held on. Gently, you worked the lobe of his ear between your teeth, letting your tongue swipe over the soft skin and cold metal. 

He was working you harder, dragging you down against him and thrusting up into you with force you hadn’t seen from him before. Every collision of his hips against yours sent little moans flying from your mouth. They were muffled slightly by his flesh still trapped by your teeth, but every sound went straight from you and into his ear.

“Fuck,” Jack was panting, his head turned and ear presented to you like a prize. “Fuck you sound so good, feel so good. Keep doing that.”

You had no intention of stopping, but you did move. You released the lobe of his ear, letting your tongue swipe over the cartilage as you let your pants and whines out, not holding any back anymore.

When Jack’s fingers found your clit, circling the little bud faster than you were ready for, your whole body jerked. Your teeth bit down on the shell of his ear. A loud moan ripped out of you as Jack tugged you back down on him in response, bullying his cock fully inside you.

His whole body shook as the first warm spurts of his release filled you, seeping out around his cock and pooling in his lap. He didn’t stop his fingers, though, keeping up the pace and pushing you over the edge.

Your teeth let go as you came, not wanting to bite him too hard in your haze, but your head didn’t move. You kept it right there next to his ear, letting him hear every moan and whine and gasp as you came.

You clenched hard around him, rolling your hips and grinding between his fingers and his hard length, still filling you up. Your toes curled as the strongest waves passed through you, making your head pleasantly fuzzy.

When your orgasm had passed, you slumped against him, head buried in his shoulder and your hands weakly pushing his still circling fingers away from your core. He relented, moving his soaking fingers away and cradling you in his arms as the two of you panted and tried to recover.

“We should do that again,” your voice was almost completely muffled by his shirt.

“Do what again?”

“Dress you up like a pirate.”

Jack laughed, pulling your head away from him so he could look you in the eyes. He pressed a soft kiss to your lips.

“I didn’t know that was something you’d be into, baby.” 

You pouted, reaching out to tug at the hoop still in his ear. To your delight, his breathing hitched and the softening length of his cock, still buried deep inside you, twitched.

“And I didn’t know you’d be so into having your ears played with,” you ground down against him, swiveling your hips and fiddling with the earring between your fingers. Jack gasped, gritting his teeth as his cock began to fill out once again. “Guess this means you’ll have to keep wearing this pretty little hoop.”

“Not a chance, you evil little minx,” he held your hips still.

“Really?” You tugged again, thoroughly enjoying the way his eyes slid shut and his hips gave an aborted little thrust. 

You leaned forward again, until your lips were right next to the shell of his ear. Your tongue darted out, tracing over the ridges. He shuddered again and you could feel just how hard he was already.

so he can't help the surge of panic that surges through his body like a lit match when, a month after he's been out, he's out to lunch with you when he runs into his cellmate, vin.

"so, you must be the missus. huh?" he teases in snarky voice, his eyes raking over you in a slow perusal that makes andrew's blood boil hotter than the flush across his skin, his fist clenching to stop himself from lunging at him.

"the missus?" you ask, laughing a little as you glance at pope. your laugh dies down when you notice the intense look he's giving this guy and the red splotches across his neck. your attention is pulled back to whoever this random guy is when you hear your name come from him. "uh, yeah. that's me. sorry, do i know you?"

"oh, i'm sorry. i guess i ruined the surprise," vin lips his lips, nodding toward your hand. "guess popey here hasn't popped the question. just confused. he wouldn't shut up about you in there, only talked about getting back to his girl. he kept talking about finally cuffing you up when we were inside, just thought he'd do it pretty quickly after getting out. still just the girlfriend, then?"

"o-oh," you stutter out, your face flushing as you glance back at andrew. his face is pinched in that way it does when he's trying to calm himself down, remind himself to breathe. his focus on his cellmate doesn't break until he feels your fingers ghost down his arm. when he finally looks at you, your stomach turns at how quickly his expression softens.

you always thought there was something between you and pope. the first time you came to a cody party, you weren't at all prepared for how overwhelming it'd be. you had been hanging around the cody's for almost two months now after meeting deran at one of adrian's local surf competitions. it was also the day you accidentally walked in on him and adrian being... intimate. you reassured deran that you didn't care, you already knew about adrian being gay and you never told anyone about him so his secret would be safe with you, too.

the night of the party, you made it about an hour before deran completely ditched you to jump off the roof with craig into the pool, the activity quickly becoming competitive between the brothers. you decided you were over it before wandering inside, quickly isolating yourself in the one room you knew no one would find themselves in: andrew "pope" cody. you hadn't expected to find him there already, sitting rigidly on his bed, facing the window. his head snapped over toward his door when you opened it, his posture loosening when he noticed it was just you.

"you okay?" he asked quietly, his voice strained from not using it.

"s'too loud out there, and deran ditched me. i don't know anyone else." you walked further into the room, climbing into pope's bed after toeing your shoes off. "do you mind?" you suppressed your smile when he shook his head with no hesitation. he wordlessly grabbed a shirt and a pair of shorts from his drawer before tossing them at you.

"change." he demanded softly, frowning before adding, "please. outside clothes."

since that moment, you and pope had grown attached to the hip. you came over even without deran just to spend time with pope, which confused him at first considering you two mostly just either sat on the couch in silence of laid in his bed after you changed into his clothes. surely you had more fun with deran. but he never questioned you, afraid you would take it the wrong way and stop coming over.

but you didn't realize pope thought of you as his girlfriend. not that it bothered you.

"popey was a little loopy most days in there. was he talking out of his ass about his pretty, young thing?" vin interrupts the look between you and pope, bringing you back to the present.

"if pope said i'm his girlfriend, then that's what i am," you say easily, giving his hand a squeeze. he squeezes your hand back, tugging you a little closer toward him.

"well, s'nice to meet you, sweetheart," he gives you a wink, his gaze returning to pope. "give me a call sometime, pope. we've got some things to catch up on," he says pointedly, shoving his hands in his pockets and walking away, his shoulder brushing past pope's.

"vin was my cellmate," he offers quietly. "told him, everyone about... well, you. i-i'm sorry."

"for what?" you say softly, one of your hands coming up to brush through pope's steadily growing hair, the curls starting to take form again, much to your delight.

"you're not mad?" he frowns, his brows furrowing when you shake your head. "you're not gonna tell deran?"

"why would deran care?" you say, laughing a little.

"he's your actual boyfriend. i would care."

"what!" you shriek, rearing back in disbelief. "deran is not my boyfriend."

"he isn't?"

"pope, if deran was my boyfriend i'd be an awful girlfriend. i used to sleep with you in your bed. i'd sneak out of his room to sit with you on the couch whenever i did pass out in his room. i've thought about you everyday that last three years you've been away." you sidle up closer to him again, reaching over to grab his other hand so you were holding both of them. "if i'm anyone's girlfriend," you shrug, giving him a sheepish smile, "i'm yours."

"yeah?" he mumbles, letting you maneuver his hands to wrap around your waist, fighting the urge to pull you flush against him when your arms come up to wrap around his neck.

"yeah," you mumble back, leaning in to kiss his cheek. "now," you continue, your lip still pressed against his skin, "let's go get some lunch." your lips press against his cheek one more time before moving to hover just above the corner of his mouth. "i'm starving."

im thinking about prison doctor!reader who is just as fucked up as he is.

who takes care of pope after all of the abuse he suffers while inside. for 3 years, she is the only comfort he has, patching him up and putting him back together after every beating.

they fall in love. it's messy and taboo and very unhealthy for both of them. they're both obsessed.

im talking about reader who half asses pope's stitches or prescribes more medication than he needs so he has to stay longer in the infirmary.

and pope knows exactly what she's doing. he'd patched himself and his brothers up to know exactly what she is doing.

but she is sweet and smiles at him and she looks at him like he hung the stars in the sky.

so pope picks fights with the skinheads and the cartels and any other gang he can find, taunting them until they kick his ass. he's barely fighting back, putting up just enough of a defense to stop it from getting too bad. if he's too hurt, he'll get sent to the hospital, not to his girl.

but then he gets released early.

and he doesn't even need to ask her.

she's there, the day he gets out, waiting to pick him up with her bag packed and her resignation letter emailed to the warden.

and so he takes her home to oceanside. they settle into one of smurf's properties, a little house on the coast. it's sweet and domestic, at least from the outside.

on the inside? freedom and the lack of restrictions have done absolutely nothing to stop their mutual obsession.

it's hard to tell if they're having sex or getting into a physical altercation. they're throwing each other around, breaking things, growling, biting, it's aggressive and possessive. until suddenly they just stop.

they're holding each other tight, whispering about how much they love each other, all while surrounded by their chaos.

the next day, they clean everything up. neither of them talk very much, moving in contented silence, seemingly communicating telepathically.

and it doesn't stop with the sex.

both of them are stalking each other. he's running jobs with his family and she's working part time at clinic nearby. every free minute they have is spent following the other, cataloguing who they talk to, where they go.

and pope's brothers know there is probably something wrong with his new girlfriend, but she's a doctor. she fixes them up when something goes wrong. there's no need to go to mexico anymore now that they've got a doctor who's practically a Cody already.

but they don't know exactly how much is wrong with her until smurf starts to get sick.

it's slow, but over the course of several months her hair starts to fall out and she's losing weight. the doctors they take her to have no idea what's going on. it's not cancer, it's not an autoimmune disease, they are just simply at a loss.

and then, 8 months after pope got released, smurf dies.

everyone is conflicted, sad and relieved and confused. but pope seems shockingly fine with it. he sheds a few tears, pays his respects at the funeral, but he doesn't scream or breakdown or kill anyone.

because he knew exactly what happened. his girlfriend did it, with thallium, in the family compound. she didn't like how smurf used and discarded him when it suited her.

so she'd sat pope down and told him "im going to kill your mother."

he'd protested and told her no, but she'd convinced him, pointing out the abuse smurf had put him through, how she was the one to blame for julia's death, how she'd made him kill cath.

and when smurf finally died, he really did grieve, but there was a weight lifted off his chest.