thighsofbetrayal

With your pathetically trembling fingers, you reach down and dive into the wet heat of your swollen cunt once more. You let out a shuddered whimper when you find your clit.

You rub frantically, too quick in chasing the high. But hey, it's your pussy. You should be able to do whatever you want with it.

"Slower. I want you to watch your own fingers fuck your slutty pussy. Tell me what you see."

"I...I see myself...I see myself fucking myself for you."

You can't help but roll your hips as your pace quickens.

"Stop, Sleepy."

The word's a bullet as you freeze, fingers locked inside your cunt. You're practically hovering on the precipice of need. You can feel yourself going cold.

You watch Jack smile against your shoulder in the mirror.

"You don't get to finish, you're gonna stay right here. You'll forget your name before you cum."

His hands, thick and smug in movement, come around to tap and rub your stomach. His touch is wild on your skin. It's too easy to be.

How dare he?

He wanders to your tits with his breath hot.

"You're gonna get so close that you can feel your orgasm screaming, and then I want you to stop. Again. And Again. Okay?"

Jackie's true to his word. He's basically the narrator of your torture as he describes in graphic detail how your cunt feels as it glistens for the next two hours. He tells you how desperate your whines sound, how pathetic you look begging for the release he refuses to grant.

"You imagining when I finally decide you've suffered enough, kid? Gonna hammer my cock into you so hard you'll black out. I won't mind. Just fill you with so much cum you'll be leaking for days. You love that, huh?"

You nod, back curving into his chest as he humps you.

You hear the way he breathes you in.

"But not, kid. Not yet."

By the third hour, you're a fucking mess. You're crying a little, legs shaking so violently that Jack has to hold you by the waist because you can barely stand!

You're drenched in your own sweat...and juices.

More for your Jackie as you collapse against the mirror.

"Please, Jack! Fuck me already!"

And because you're so insanely, wetly wrecked, you don't notice Jack staring at you in the mirror. Unblinking, head leaning forward.

"...M'kay. Just give me a second. Better shut up and take it."

With the investment of one more person, notorious ortho surgeon and loaded PTMC coworker Brendon Park, their silly, drunken conversation quickly became a reality.

They bought a building.

They gutted it, Robby gladly using it as a hobby for the few months it remained under construction.

Once the layout was designed, all they had to do was fill it up...

And through blushed and flustered mutterings, like the confident and professional business partners they are, they all collectively decided to ask you.

You had found it odd when Dana, out of the blue, announced she'd put in her two weeks notice. You'd only known about it because your boss had asked you to deal with the paperwork, instantly rushing down to the ED when the ticket came through.

She didn't tell you the truth, not right away. They'd all agreed to...ease you into it gently. She laid it out simply, need for a change of scenery, bored of the lack of protection and salary to match her job description.

You’ve always been Dana’s favorite, your devotion to keeping her and the rest of the nurses safe, oftentimes working overtime to figure out how to get them the best vacation times, best resources to allocate for them, best coffee pods for the break room — she adores you.

She’s pleasantly surprised that the news of her departure has you acting the way that it does. You get into the habit of bringing her coffee every morning, the one from the break room cause there was no way you could afford coffee shop coffee every morning. Brought pastries you'd made over the weekend. Actually showed her that you cared, that you were going to miss her.

So when Robby told her they'd finished construction, she invited you out to lunch to show you their new business venture.

The club is underwhelming, the bare walls and empty spaces reverberating your shy footsteps as she pushes you forward, hands over your eyes. You can't help but giggle, especially as the butterflies in your stomach flutter violently every time her front meets your ass with each step forward.

"Now it's not ready yet, that's what I wanted to ask you, kid," her hands make a show of sliding down your cheeks and landing around your neck.

Your gaze shifts through the open space. A large bar to the right, an open dance floor in front of you, surrounded by strategically placed pillars to create the illusion of privacy, an elevator tucked at the far end.

You twist your head to look back and up at her through your lashes.

"How big is it?"

She scoffs playfully at your clear innuendo, the two glasses of whine you'd had with lunch definitely loosening your tongue.

"Alright, snarky," she nips playfully, tightening her grip on your neck and turning you back towards the emptiness. "It's four floors, three for the business, one for..." she tenses behind you. "It doesn't matter yet."

Her breath against your ear makes you flutter down to your core, instinctively tightening around nothing. Dana notices, of course she fucking does.

She steps forward into you, deliberately pressing her front to your back deliciously.

"First floor's just gonna be a regular nightclub, drinking and dancing and maybe some light hand stuff," you shiver against her as she repositions her hands, her left one wrapping around your neck, squeezing the sides gently while the other roams.

You nod desperately, brain so fuzzy you need to give your consent but words were definitely not going to come out of your mouth. Only then does she allow her right hand to wander lower, grazing your heaving chest and settling like a burning fire over your stomach, waiting.

"Second floor's where things get interesting," she whispers into your ear. "A little nudity, some consensual voyeurism, definitely some under the clothes—” her hand slithers under the waistband of your skirt, landing over your lacy underwear, right over your clit. "action. If our patrons like someone and they're willing to play, we move up to—”

Two fingers swiftly drag down your clothed folds until they reach your entrance, pushing the fabric aside and sliding into you without issue.

"So wet already," she presses a kiss to your ear, fleeting and mean. "My good girl."

You moan, the sound bouncing off the walls deliciously.

"The third floor, well, I think you're smart enough to know what will go down up there."

You nod, mouth hanging open as she works you slowly with her fingers, long, dragged out motions that hit that particular spot inside of you with every thrust.

You cling to her for dear life, nails digging into her delicate skin and definitely leaving behind your mark.

"Dana—” you whine.

"Whatdaya need baby?"

Words lose their meaning, sentences disappear, all that remains are carnal, needy noises.

She tuts sternly. "Use your big girl words."

Your entire body clenches, tightening around her deliciously. She chuckles, unrelenting, slowing down.

"No!" you scream, hips moving on their own, seeking out your much needed release.

Her grip on your neck tightens, a warning.

"None of that, baby," she corrects. “What do you need?”

“To cum.” It takes every single working braincell to mutter those two words.

“Good fucking girl.” 

With that, her fingers thrust back inside of you to the hilt, her movements no longer thrusting but rather wiggling inside of you, causing you to erupt into a chorus of moans and whimpers, your peak approaching quicker than before.

“Touch your clit for me, baby.”

You don’t know how you manage to do it, but you do, sliding one of your hands into your underwear and rubbing your throbbing bud in tandem with her movements.

It takes you no time after that for your stomach to clench.

“Fuck, Dana m’close—” you tighten everywhere, not even daring to breathe lest you come undone without her permission.

She lifts your gaze then, directly to face the mirror they’ve already installed behind the bar. The second you make eye contact with her, your disheveled appearance looking back at you, her devilish smirk—

“Cum, baby.”

And you fucking do.

The coil snaps, your body shaking against hers like an earthquake coursing through you. Wetness gushes out of you and drenches Dana’s hand. It drips down your legs sinfully, creating a puddle on the floor below you.

You’d be a little more embarrassed if you weren’t so fucked out, panting through the blurring of your vision, through the unbelievable pleasure making every nerve ending tingle.

It takes you a second to get yourself together, so much so that you don’t immediately feel the second pair of hands on you, stabilizing, allowing for Dana to pull away from you to clean herself up.

You watch through lidded eyes as she brings her right hand up to her mouth, tongue licking up your cum from her pruny fingers.

“Jesus fucking Christ, kid.” 

It’s only then that you notice the new addition to your intimate moment, heat flaring up your entire body as you suddenly remember where you are and what you were doing. 

“Don’t go shy on my account, sweetheart,” Jack flashes you one of his flirty smirks. “You did so fucking good for Dana.”

Your heart does a somersault in your chest, suddenly feeling the coolness of his touch, the stability of it, the possessive fire in his eyes. To hell with shyness.

“Thank you Jackie,” you hum, settling back against him while Dana scoffs playfully, walking to the other side of the bar and bringing out a packet of wet wipes.

“So,” he starts as his friend cleans you up. “Did Dana convince you or do you need a little more…persuasion?”

You giggle, brain finally catching up to your body.

“I mean…I’m no interior designer but I can give it a go.”

They both smirk devilishly at you.

Oh you’ll give it a go alright.

Two weeks later, you’ve quit your job at PTMC, have hired a team of interior designers with the gorgeous business black card that Jack has provided you, unlimited or whatever, and have practically furnished the entire first two floors.

The club is modern, Miami Vice inspired yet classy and sultry. They want to encourage patrons to go up the levels, to let themselves succumb to their desires in a safe and controlled environment, to have fucking fun.

You work on the legality of the service with Dana, making sure that whoever does become a member of the club has to go through a rigorous and thorough process, background check, credit check, liability waivers, all the works. You want everyone to be protected, safe, and this is the way to do it, so much so that you’ve signed on the dotted line first, after Dana made sure to add a whole clause about your…arrangement.

You find yourself on the second floor after the ink dried and she made you get her off with your mouth, profanities and praises blending into one on the private, VIP area you had so perfectly furnished.

The construction company is installing the polls, three separate stages strategically placed across the floor. The noise distracts you from the looming figure approaching you, you only feel it once it collides with your back.

You know who it is instantly. You’ve been privy to the four owners’s schedules for the past month, Brendon, Jack and Robby keeping their day jobs while you and Dana set everything up. You know the Shark is in surgery all day, Robby’s still on the day shift, and Dana’s stuck at a meeting with your lawyers, which can only mean—

“Hi Jackie,” you greet him, melting back into his hard chest.

You’ve only seen Dana and Jack at the club, the other two not having made an appearance yet but your body practically buzzes with excitement at the thought of opening night, of them taking advantage of the clause.

“Hi sweetheart,” he places a quick kiss to your cheek. “How’s it looking?”

You turn around, beaming. “Really good. The boys’ll be done with the floor in about an hour and Bren’s taking me bed shopping for the upstairs tomorrow.”

Jack’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. He knows what you’re doing, why you’re dropping that particular morsel of information now. It’s a test if anything, a soldier speeding through town, announcing an incoming storm.

“Is that right?” His eyes darken.

You bite your lip, nodding your head, rubbing your thighs to emphasize.

“Your office is ready if you want to—”

He doesn’t let you finish the sentence, grabbing a hold of your hand and pulling you towards the hidden side of the floor where he knows his and Dana’s offices are.

He groans audibly as he takes in the interior. Dark wood, sturdy furniture, very Harvard professor-esque. There’s a bookshelf wall behind his large desk, a leather office chair to match and two more on the other side. To the left a gorgeous bar built into the wall, to the right, a large, velvet green couch over a soft, dark rug.

“Do you like it?”

His gaze snaps back to you, fiddling with your fingers behind your back, looking delicious in your little pencil skirt and dark maroon blouse.

“C’mere sweetheart,” he coos, holding his hand out to you.

Like a fawn on shaky legs, you cross the room towards him, head already becoming fuzzy as he pulls you into his embrace.

“It’s perfect,” he states, both hands coming to cradle your face. If he’s just talking about the room, you honestly don’t know, but the fire in your stomach becomes alight once more as he dips down to kiss you.

You whine into his mouth, his lips soft and gentle, exploring and teasing while he pushes you back against his empty desk. You gasp when your ass meets the wood, the perfect opportunity for him to shove his tongue into your mouth.

The kiss devolves into a sloppy mess after that, needy and claiming, heeding the warning and taking his chance before anyone else gets to.

You hop onto the desk without being prompted, spreading your legs so that he can comfortably settle in between them. He does like it’s second nature, his front pressing into your thigh wantonly, the outline of his stiff erection causing another moan to slip past your lips and get swallowed by his.

He detaches himself from you then, lips puffy and smeared with your lipstick, a sinful display that only has you gushing even more slick between your thighs.

He smiles knowingly at you, his hands roaming the expanse of your arms to land on your hips, pressing into you to ground.

“I know you already gave your written consent,” he leans down to give you a peck on the lips as a reward and you beam up at him. “But we will always check in for it explicitly, am I clear?”

“Yes daddy.”

He groans again, pressing his forehead against yours.

“Fuck, what did we do to deserve you?”

You giggle then, your own touch exploring the vast expanse of his chest. He’s hard yet soft, age blending the two into the perfect package. He’s wearing a basic black t-shirt and jeans today, casual yet unbelievably sexy. Settling on wrapping yourself around his neck, you play with the weathered skin, massaging it as you bring him down to kiss you again.

He obliges without much fuss, just as eager as you to finally seal the deal.

His lips distract you again as his hands roll up your skirt, exposing your sinful, white cotton panties. The smell of your arousal hits him softly then all at once, forcing him to break apart the kiss as his gaze is drawn downward.

“You’re dripping, sweetheart.” He groans above you.

“Dana had to leave before—”

You don’t get another word in as he dive in, mouth devouring you over your underwear. You fall back against the desk, hands swiftly tangling themselves in his salt and pepper curls as he laps and bites up your swollen pussy lips.

“Jackie!” You whine, over and over and over again.

“You like that, sweetheart?”

“Need more.”

“Oh, does my sweet little girl need something?”

You nod, pulling on his hair, squishing him against you harder.

He chuckles against your clothed entrance.

“Fine, I’ll be kind today.”

You practically sigh with relief before he pulls your underwear to the side and his mouth now lands directly on you. His hot tongue laps up the wetness that overflows, drinking you up like a man parched.

You don’t hold back on the noises that bubble up from your chest, knowing fully well you designed the offices to be as soundproof because you knew they were never meant to be just about business.

“Oh baby, you are delicious.”

“Thank you daddy.” You hum contently as he takes his time, licking long stripes from your clit down to you entrance, rolling his tongue into you leisurely, teasing you until you’re putty in his hands before going back up to suck and nip at your clit.

His eyes watch you intently, catch the heaving, the panting, the way your face contorts into pleasure with each movement he makes.

“Daddy…” you whisper, barely there and definitely not coherent. “Wanna cum, please.”

He stops his movements entirely, causing you to screech in pain. He smacks the inside of your thigh, causing you to stop your whining, before he stands up, his back cracking ridiculously.

You smirk, eyes glossed over with desire to the point where he knows you’re simply not here anymore. His mouth hangs open in mock offense, causing you to laugh playfully now. The sound is music to his ears, a lifeline back to the land of the living after so many years of hiding his sorrows in the darkness.

“The only way you’re gonna cum is around my cock, sweetheart.”

You’re certain that killed you. You can barely register as he unbuckles his belt, unzipping his pants and pulling his stiff erection out of his underwear. It lands, hot and heavy against your mound, and you can’t help but stare at it, dumbfounded.

You want to touch it, lick it, shove it into your mouth until you gag, until there’s tears falling down your cheeks—

“Another time, I promise,” he smirks. “But right now I need to be inside of you.”

You nod, breaking free from the spell he’s got you under and swiftly turning your body to reach back and pull open the top drawer of his desk, pulling out a string of silver wrappers.

He laughs, unrestricted and free, delighted by your cheekiness. What? You’ve gotta be prepared, at least until you all get tested.

You tear a square with trembling fingers, pulling at the tab and taking out the sticky condom. You both moan as you grab his cock, teasing fingertips smearing the precum leaking from his tip over the sensitive head before you roll the latex down his length.

“You’re so pretty, daddy,” you compliment, giving him a gentle tug towards you once you’re done.

“Thank you baby,” he kisses your nose appreciatively. “You ready?”

You nod feverishly. “Please.”

He wasted no more time, pulling your wrecked underwear down your legs swiftly.

Between your own wetness and the lube, he slides inside of you in one swift thrust. The stretch is divine, perfectly filling. Your body buzzes with satisfaction, completion, legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him further against you greedily.

He obliges, settling down over you as he begins to roll his hips. You grab onto him like your life depends on it, like you need him carnally, because you do, just as much as he needs you.

“More.”

“Manners, sweetheart.”

“More, please daddy.”

That does him in, hips snapping into you sharply, with renewed abandon and lust. Wet, slapping sounds fill the space quickly, the air becoming heavy with your combined moans and grunts. You need to cum, both of you, need to cross over that threshold together, need, need, need.

“I’m close, baby,” Jack grunts into your ear. “Touch your clit for me.”

You nod, one hand letting go of him to snake between your bodies, fingers rolling over your clit as you lift up to meet his thrusts.

“Fuck yes, daddy, so good,” you cry out, feeling how his cheek warms up at the praise. “Need you to cum in me please, I need it so bad.”

“Oh baby, fuck, you can’t say shit like that to me.”

You smile against his ear, taking the lobe into your mouth and rolling your tongue over it.

“Why daddy?” You tease, the vixen you are. “Don’t you wanna fill me up and watch as you leak out of me?”

That does him in, movements become sloppy, the air being smacked out of your lungs.

“Fucking cum, cum with me right now!”

He commands and you follow, clenching tightly around him, forcing him to come undone with you. He grunts and curses into your ear, hot and delirious as he sheathes himself as far as he can inside of you. Your body buzzes with electricity, nerves snapping deliciously as your orgasm crashes through you, clinging to him like a lifeline.

He collapses on top of you soon after, both of you panting as you catch your breath. You run your fingers through his hair, nails softly raking the skin as his own run up and down your sides.

It’s perfect.

“You’re perfect, sweetheart.”

He kisses your mouth again, a soft kiss swiftly becoming needy and all consuming as you’re both determined to show your appreciation of the other through it.

This was definitely the best decision they could’ve ever made.

“D’ya wanna order lunch?”

You smile brightly. “I mean, we’ve already had dessert, it’s only fair.”

He bursts into laughter again, a sound you desperately want to bottle up and keep guarded for the rest of your life.

Brendon picks you up at 10 am sharp the next morning.

You’re already waiting for him outside the club, your light summer dress, which he requested, flowing easily with the wind as his sleek BMW comes to a stop at the curb.

You start to make your way towards the vehicle when the tinted window on the passenger side rolls down.

“Not another step, bunny,” he instructs, swiftly stepping out of the car and walking over to where you’re standing, still like a statue.

He scoops you in his arms instantly, lifting you off the ground as you wrap your arms around his neck and lean into his firm kiss.

Unlike Jack, Brendon is methodical and precise in his approach. He kisses you like he’s trying to figure out what’s the best way to make you crumble, like a puzzle he is determined to solve through information based action.

You don’t let him, your hands sneaking under his navy polo and raking your nails down his back. He growls into your mouth, in genuine warning, but you simply smile dopily, pulling back to settle yourself back on the ground.

“Hi,” you mumble.

He rolls his eyes affectionately, grabbing one of your hands to pull you towards his car while the other opens your door like the gentleman that he is. Once you’re settled, seatbelt fastened, he closes the door and rounds the car again, sliding into the driver’s seat with ease.

“How was your night?” He asks, the car roaring back to life underneath you before his hand slides over your thigh.

You turn to look at him, his sunglasses resting perfectly against his gorgeous nose. His hair is gel-free today, the slight curl to it making it look fuller. He looks delicious, shiny Rolex on his wrist, a silver chain around his neck, the charcoal slacks perfectly snug against his thick thighs, accentuating…certain assets.

You’ve dealt with Brendon your fair share back at the hospital, the majority of HR related disputes that involved him being thrown your way because the frightening man never once shook your confidence. He’d always been respectful, thoughtful and logical when you explained what had been filed against him and how to proceed. It all usually went away by having him apologize, which he mostly did to not keep dragging out conflict between coworkers that you had to mediate.

If you’re being honest, you’d expected him to ask you out at some point but he never did, ever respectful of your professional relationship under the hospital. But now, with every single line blurred beyond recognition, he was not holding back any longer.

“It was good,” you tell him. “I’m a little sore.”

He smiles, grip tightening, inching upward towards your pulsing core.

“I didn’t know Abbot still had it in him,” he teases, turning to look at you as the stop light turns red. “But I shouldn’t be surprised, I too would revert back into a horny twenty-year-old if I had you naked under me.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks in an instant, causing a Cheshire grin to spread over his lips.

You’re about to bite back when the car behind you honks obnoxiously. Brendon tenses, annoyance flooding his senses as he deliberately drags his movements, the car rolling down the street as if the two of you have nowhere better to be.

And the truth is, you don’t.

You’ve already picked out the beds, your assistant’s waiting for the delivery back at the club while you pretend to have a reason for wanting to spend time with Bren. You’re supposed to be driving to a warehouse about forty-five minutes away from the club, the perfect time to get yourself a little action, to push his buttons.

His head nurse at the OR had texted you when his surgery ended the night before to tell you it had been a doozy and that she expects him in two days with nothing but the calmest energy possible.

So you get to work quickly.

He’s concentrated on the drive but he feels you shifting, grabbing a hold of his hand and moving it higher up on your leg, under your dress this time.

A wicked grin blossoms once more and is instantly dropped as his loose demeanor swiftly shifts into piping hot desire the second his fingertips graze your bare folds.

“Oh bunny,” he tuts. “You spoil me.”

You hum contently as he begins to explore freely, pressing further into you and gathering the slick that has already leaked so he can slide his fingers through you easily.

You drop back against the cool leather seat, legs spreading ever so slightly to give him better access which he takes advantage of instantly, perfectly manicured fingers teasing your entrance as his palm settles against your clit.

“Oh fuck—”

His hand lifts off your pussy before you can even register it, smacking over your clit in punishment.

“Pretty girls don’t use bad words,” he chides, the rule instantly making your head fuzzy, your clit pulsing at the harsh stimulation. 

“‘M sorry, sir,” you slur, head falling agains this rock hard arm as he returns to his previous ministrations. He leans down quickly, placing a kiss to the top of your head, never once looking away from the road.

By the time you’re out of the city, you’re certain he’s created a puddle underneath your ass, your slick the only noise filling the car alongside the little noises that escape your lips.

“Sir,” you start.

“Yes bunny?”

“Can I…” you choke as he presses into you, thick fingers leisurely pumping against your walls. “May I touch you too?”

“Of course you may,” he hums. “Just be careful, don’t want to run us out of the road.”

You nod to appease him, but you’re definitely not going to listen to him.

You shift closer to him, the center console an annoyance in your path that you glare angrily at, causing him to huff out an amused laugh. Eager hands shoot out to the evident tent in his pants, aggressively large and demanding attention.

He groans at the contact and you’re certain he’s already leaking in his boxers. You make quick way of the button and zipper of his pants, your hand sliding under all the fabric with abandon as you pull out his dick.

He’s…big to say the least, thick in all the right places. Your mouth hangs open, saliva practically dripping from the corners as you pump him dryly a few times, eliciting deep rumblings from his chest every time.

You finally let the spit drip down on his head, the hiss that he emits sending you over the moon.

“May I suck you off, sir?” You look up at him with the biggest puppy eyes you can muster, your hand never once stopping its movements, now aided by your spit and his hot precum.

“Yes.”

It’s all you need to dive in, lips wrapping around his head like a lollipop and sucking him like you’re desperately trying to get to that bubblegum center. The car slows down slightly and you just know he’s thanking every god in existence for taking out the automatic vehicle, tinting the windows, and taking you up on the very obvious lie you’d fed him to get him out of his apartment.

You make it halfway down his shaft before you choke, hitting the back of your throat at the wrong angle and having to come up for air. You spit out the saliva that has pooled in your mouth instead of swallowing it, your hands catching it and continuing their movements sloppily.

“Fuck, princess,” he hisses through gritted teeth, doing the responsible thing and parking himself on the side of the road.

He pulls you off him long enough to unbuckle the two of you from your seatbelts and pushing his seat all the way back. You yelp loudly as he picks you up, placing you down on the space he’s made between his legs and the pedals.

Lust swiftly takes over as you get back up on your knees and take him back into your mouth, making quick work of breathing through your mouth as you take him further and further down your throat with each dip. Your hands and mouth work in tandem, ravenous for his noises, for the way his stomach clenches every time your tongue swipes over his slit.

His hands tangle into your hair, helping to guide your movements, slowly regaining control over you as his hips begin to buck upwards into your mouth. You gag and choke, all for the show of it, the pleasure coursing through his body palatable from just how much his thighs are shaking.

“I won’t last much longer if you keep going,” he pants, not once pretending to slow you down. Instead, you press further into him, deliberately removing your hands so that he can push you all the way down until your nose brushes his pubic bone.

The second he feels your breath on his skin, he’s a goner, a string of profanities filling the car as he shoots his spend down your throat. Your hands grip his thighs tightly, reveling in the feeling of the muscles trembling beneath you.

You swallow diligently, the feeling of your throat constricting around him only prolonging his orgasm. By the time he’s done and you’re slowly pulling off him, his hair is disheveled, a thin layer of sweat covering down to his neck and chest.

You flop down against his thigh, nuzzling into him as his hands stroke your hair and face gently, singing your praises and lips kissing the back of your hand reverently as his fingers interlace with yours.

“Do we still need to look at beds?” He asks, making sure he’s not about to actually ruin your work task for the day.

You shake your head. “I wouldn’t mind checking yours out though.”

Brendon’s never been less afraid of getting pulled over for speeding as he races back into the city after that.

Three months after Dana quit her job, the club opens its doors.

To say it’s a success would be an understatement.

The first floor is flooded with influencers, regular customers, basically every single person that got in line fast enough to get themselves into the cramped opening. The second floor is filled with colleagues and patrons that have been approved from the extensive waiting list. You’re not inaugurating the system yet, no, you think Javadi would have a heart attack if she knew what was meant to be going on other than the, honestly, classily underdressed dancers on the stages before you.

Laughter and joy explodes out of your little group, the older residents sitting to one side of the room while the first years ogle at the dancers, throw bills and drink to their hearts content.

You’re curled up on the couch, the sheer black dress you’ve chosen for the occasion hugging your curves perfectly, velvet patterns perfectly keeping your more intimate bits hidden tastefully. You watch them enjoy themselves, the stressful high of having worked so hard for this slowly settling into your bones. 

“So,” the couch dips to either side of you. “How’s this work exactly?”

You blink back into the present, finally noticing Shen and Ellis sandwiching you.

You roll your eyes at Shen’s question, knowing exactly what he’s asking.

“When we open…that part of the business,” you explain. “You’ll get to pick if you want to simply observe or…play.”

Ellis takes a sip of her drink, shifting closer to you while Shen looks practically dumbfounded.

“If we want to play,” Ellis starts. “Are you a part of the offerings?”

You turn to face her, a thrilling grin on your features as your arm drapes over her lap.

“That could be arranged.”

Shen’s eyes practically fall out of his sockets as he chokes on his drink, causing the two of you to laugh.

“Who do we have to talk to to…arrange that?”

You open your mouth to reply to him when Dana saunters into the section.

“Baby, could you go check on Robby please?”

You nod eagerly, turning to Ellis before getting up and pointing your head towards Dana to answer her previous question. Ellis grins dopily as you get off the couch, making a show of swaying your hips, stopping in front of Dana for the older woman to give you a quick peck on the side of your lips.

She’d told you early on that while her husband and her had an arrangement, she’d probably never cross that line to kiss you, which you respected dearly. Your relationship with her was different from the ones you had with Jack and Brendon, a mutual understanding of care that went beyond anything you could describe.

And then there was Robby.

You try not to take it personally every single time he purposefully avoids you. It’s no secret that the other three are taking every chance they have to be with you, to touch and tease and claim.

It’s what you all signed for at the end of the day.

Literally.

You make your way across the room, sliding your hand over Jack’s arm and telling him where you’ll be going. He nods, two of his army buddies smirking knowingly as he turns to give you a quick kiss on the lips, comforting and gentle. You catch the snickers and teases, all harmless and filled with love as you make your way over to Bren’s group with Walsh and Garcia.

“Trinity’s looking a little lonely, don’t you think?” You taunt Yoyo, sliding into Bren’s open arms and letting him nibble at your jaw possessively. The surgeon raises her eyebrows in mock offense before downing the rest of her drink and making her way over there.

You grin triumphantly, leaning up to press your lips to Bren’s in a kiss that takes both of your breath away before you’re trying to slide out of his embrace.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He questions against your mouth.

“Upstairs,” you whisper. “Dana sent me to get him.”

Brendon sighs, understanding. “Be gentle.”

“Aren’t I always?”

A laugh bursts from both him and Emery.

You simply roll your eyes, placing a kiss to his arm before leaving them to their bickering.

You nod to the security guards on either side of the elevator and they use their keycards to call up the elevator for you. The doors open almost instantly since guests from the first floor are not allowed up yet and the third floor is still closed up.

You press the button for the fourth floor, however, imputing the pin for the elevator to actually move.

They’d surprised you a week ago, Jack’s hands over your eyes as he led you up to the fourth floor. They’d been weirdly cryptic about it, not wanting you to go up there until it was finished, the final piece of the puzzle to your downtown building.

So imagine your shock when you step off the elevator to a fully renovated penthouse apartment.

The interior is warm and cozy, a large kitchen to your right, big enough for you and Bren to go crazy and cook up a storm. A jacuzzi and sun tanning deck across the vast living room right in the center, and three bedrooms down the hall to the left — the master bed for you and two extra guest bedrooms if any of them needed or wanted to spend the night.

“What do you think?” Jack murmurs into your ear as he pushes you further into the space. You’re so overwhelmed with emotions you literally can’t speak, turning around in his arms to show him the look of absolute gratitude taking over your features.

“I love it,” you manage after a while. “Thank you.”

You kissed him until your lungs burned and your lips were bruised, until the movers cleared their throat before they started to move your boxed up apartment into your new home.

A home. They had built you a home.

It was a few days after that when you got a call from Dana.

Something something pipe broke in Robby’s house, he needed to stay with you for a while.

You practically burst with happiness, the forced proximity making you giddy with excitement. He’d been avoiding you for months and maybe now he’d come to his senses since you had been terrible about putting together the guest bedrooms and he’d definitely be forced to share the master bed with you if he wanted a good night’s rest.

He slept on the couch.

Jack had been too good at picking out furniture and he’d bought the most comfortable pull out couch in existence.

You wanted to kill him.

The apartment is dark when you walk in, the little lamps you’ve purchased casting the perfect amount of ambient lighting, like a trail from the entrance to the bedroom. You take off your heels, following the sound of running water.

At least he’d taken to using the master bath, well, he was forced to since he literally does not fit in the other shower.

You take a second to look around. The bed is unmade meaning he’d definitely taken a nap after he got back from work and at the very least your sheets will smell like him when you go to sleep tonight. His gorgeous light blue suit is laid out over the sheets, still in its dry-cleaning bag. The window to the room is open, the loveseat you’ve strategically placed for…reasons angled towards it, an ashtray with a few cigarette buts and a half drank glass of whiskey beside it.

You take a seat, picking up his half finished cigarette and lighting it up. They’re comforting, taste and smell like him, make you feel warm and fuzzy, a temporary bandaid over the cracks already forming in your dam.

The door to the bathroom opens, steam seeps out into the main room and out he comes, like an adonis, towel wrapped around his waist, chest and belly naked for your salivating gaze.

“Hi handsome.”

He doesn’t flinch anymore, not like he did those first few days.

“Dana sent you?”

You nod, taking another drag and blowing the smoke towards the Pittsburgh streets.

“You’re sulking.”

“I am not.”

“Then you’re hiding, which is way worse.”

“I just—”

“It’s okay if you don’t want to go down,” you tell him. “I get it, you work with these people, you’re their boss, this is…”

“Highly unethical?”

You huff out a laugh. “I was gonna say really fucking weird.”

He cracks a smile, tired gaze shifting from your face to the floor every second.

You pat the loveseat, making space for him. “Join me then.”

His eyes snap to yours then, shock raining down on him like a tropical storm. You know you shouldn’t take it personally, but he just keeps chipping away at you every time he denies you.

“I shouldn’t…”

“Robby.”

“Honey.”

You sigh, exhausted yet understanding.

Only, this time you can’t control the tears.

They bubble out of you like a faucet you can’t turn off.

He’s on you in seconds, powerful steps crossing the room in a flash, crouching down in front of you.

He shushes you gently, one hand coming down on your thigh while the other takes the cigarette away from you, putting it out on the ashtray before he cups your cheek.

“Look at me, honey,” he pleads. “It’s not you. It’s never you.”

Your brows scrunch in further confusion, his words digging deeper. As if he’s hearing them clearly for the first time, he curses under his breath, shaking his head disappointingly at himself.

“What I mean is, it’s me. I’m the problem,” he tries to explain himself but you just don’t get it.

“But I want you,” you sob. “Why don’t you want me?”

That breaks Robby’s heart, forcing him to get up and settle next to you on the loveseat, pulling you onto him and holding you tightly against his slightly damp chest. You burrow your face in his neck, taking in the clean and warm smell of his—your—body wash.

“I do, I want you, honey, you don’t even know how much.”

“Then why?” You turn to look up at him, his own haunted expression staring back down at you like you’re the most precious thing in the world, like if he were to give himself up to you, you’ll simply disappear.

He opens his mouth to answer. Closes it a second later. He sighs deeply, choosing not to rush into any explanation but rather allowing himself the indulgence of holding you.

You understand, melting into him as he cuddles you further onto his body. Timid hands soon begin to roam the expanse of his exposed chest, running your fingers through the dark patches of hair. He shivers under your touch, jaw clenching as you tangle your grip around his necklace to give yourself the leverage you need to start kissing down his jaw.

Your touch is fleeting, barely there, only a whisper of what could be if he simply allowed it. You don’t leap, don’t take the mile, only accept the smallest offering. You know consent is the most important thing for him, for all of them, so you don’t push your luck. As much as they all care for you, Robby included, this is meant to be about care and intimacy and trust.

“I’m not…” he starts. “I don’t know how to do this.”

You don’t speak, just let him get the weight off his chest as he needs to.

“I don’t want to break your heart when this gets so real I…I don’t want you to leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper, certain and solid.

He shakes his head. “But I might.”

“Robby—”

“You’ll resent me for it.”

You open your mouth to speak but stop yourself. You’re not gonna hide behind half truths anymore.

“I would get over it,” you tell him. “I’ve got Jack and Bren and Dana, and honestly maybe even Shen and Ellis and who knows who else—”

He pulls back to look at you then, eyebrows raised in shock and a tinge of teasing. You crack a smile, smacking his chest lightly and rolling your eyes.

“The point is,” you put your foot down. “I’ll be okay, it’s what I sighed up for.”

He takes your hand then, pulling it up to press a kiss over the back of it.

“And who knows,” you poke. “Maybe your seven week itch can be cured with a little five on five action.”

It’s his turn to retaliate, biting down on the meat below your thumb strong enough to make it hurt.

You gasp, eyes glossing over instantly as the pain settles into your never ending pool of lust. Robby simply smirks around your flesh, tongue coming out to soothe the sting sloppily.

When he pulls back it’s like whatever animosity lingered between the two of you has been replaced by a carnal need to satisfy you.

“I gotta say, that list of kinks of yours—”

You burst out laughing, his teasing grin only broadening at that.

“You’re one to talk.”

“I am,” he states, plain and clear. “Maybe another day we’ll take ‘em for a spin.”

Your eyes sparkle with need and anticipation.

“Mikey,” you nod, mouth hanging open slightly, face angled upwards. “Please kiss me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice, his face coming down to smash his mouth against yours possessively. He doesn’t ask for any more permission, his tongue forcing your mouth open to take him in and you do, moaning desperately as you squirm in his embrace to straddle his lap.

You’re both unapologetic, greedy and needy in your approach. He bunches the fabric of your dress until it pools around your waist, fiddling with the zipper only for a second before he’s pulling it down, grabbing all of the offending fabric and pulling it over your head. It lands somewhere with a thud, causing the two of you to laugh against each other’s lips like two horny teenagers on prom night.

“Results came back,” he murmurs against your lips. “You’re clean, I’m clean—”

You don’t even have to think. “Please fuck me Mikey.”

You feel his cock twitch against the towel separating the two of you.

“With fucking pleasure, honey.”

You smile brightly, drunk on his promises already, managing to lift your ass off his lap long enough for him to tug his towel open, pull aside your lacy excuse of underwear to the side and lining himself up with your already dripping entrance.

You don’t even catch a glimpse at him, you just feel him as he sinks inside of you. He’s perfect, the middle ground between Jack and Bren, almost as good as Dana’s strap but don’t tell any of them.

You moan loudly, hands coming up to his shoulders to stabilize yourself, clenching around him involuntary. He hisses into your ear, holding you still as he desperately tires not to cum.

“Honey, I need you to let me go or else this will be over embarrassingly quick.”

You giggle, heat rising to your cheeks as you try to relax your muscles, letting him slide into you until your pelvises meet. He groans, satisfied, as you do. All the while, you’re practically panting, desperation making you impatient as all hell.

“Can I please move?” You whine, tears brimming your eyes once more.

“Oh honey,” he coos condescendingly and your stomach tightens into delicious shame. “Give your old man a second. Gotta make sure you don’t break me.”

You’re so close to bursting, to screaming and kicking and—

His hand lands on your ass with a loud smack. You whimper, falling into him, pliant and submissive before his other hand balances out your other cheek.

You clench around him in retaliation, earning you another two slaps until you settle down again, murmuring apologies onto his skin.

“It’s okay, honey,” he shushes you. “You can move now, ‘m ready.”

You nod against him, sniffing away the tears and sitting back up. His big hands come up to cup your cheeks, thumbs wiping away the wetness before he leans forward to kiss you gently.

“Thank you,” you whisper, getting rewarded with another kiss.

“Move, now.”

You plant your legs firmly on either side of Robby’s thighs, using his chest as leverage against as you slowly start to lift yourself off him, feeling the sting of his cock dragging along your walls, your combined wetness gushing as you do.

You whine, rolling your hips before slamming back down until your ass slaps against his legs. He curses, grabbing ahold of your love handles to help you bounce on him with more fervor. Your boobs jiggle tantalizingly in front of him, his depraved mind entranced by the sight, by the feeling of you around him, by the satisfaction of finally letting him have what he’s been craving for so long.

He leans forward, capturing one of your nipples in his mouth, rolling his tongue, hardening the bud before he bites down and tugs. The noises that erupt from you only make him pull harder, letting you go only when you wince in pain.

“Look at you, baby,” he grunts. “Bouncing on me like a needy little girl, so eager to have my cock inside of you that it’s made you so dumb.”

You moan, nodding feverishly.

“We should’ve known you’d like this, the way you always took such good care of us at the hospital, it was so obvious, so…right.”

Oh he read the list of kinks you provided, alright.

“This is what you were meant to do, isn’t that right? Being used and shared by a bunch of people old enough to be your parents, huh?”

He accentuates each word with a sharp thrust of his hips to meet you in the middle.

“Gonna let us share you? Gift you away to our friends and colleagues,” you clench around him and he beams. “Gonna let us watch?”

“Oh shit fuck—”

Your orgasm hits you out of nowhere, your entire body exploding in a burst of pleasure that has you shaking, unable to stop yourself from clenching around him like a vice, forcing him to cum with you in a haze of trembling limbs and warmth shooting up deep inside of you.

You fall into him again, hugging him tightly as he returns the action tenfold, as if needing to fuse your bodies together. You knew in the back of your mind that the second Robby let you in, it would be impossible to kick him out, like a street dog that gets shown love for the first time, he’s chosen you just as much as you’ve chosen him.

He peppers kisses all over your face, adoration deep and eager for forgiveness, for what, you simply do not know, but you give it to him, your touch so gentle and kind he truly doesn’t know what he did right in his life to deserve it.

When he’s finally able to think, he pulls the two of you up on shaking legs, managing to set you down on the bed before he’s forced to pull out of you, his flaccid cock no longer able to keep the two of you connected. You both whine at the loss of contact, a noise that quickly devolves into a choir of moans as he gets on his knees before you and dives face first into your sticky heat.

He runs his tongue along your slit, gathering up the mess that the two of you made together, licking and sucking as much of your spend into his mouth as he can before he lifts himself back up.

You open your mouth without him having to say a single word, and if he were thirty years younger, that would’ve gotten him rock hard once more.

He lets the liquid drip from his mouth into yours, the lewdness of it all keeping you in that perfect haze. You hum as it hits your tongue, salty and something else uniquely yours, together.

You swallow. “Thank you, Mikey.”

“Anytime, honey.”

You’re back down an hour later after having to shower twice because the first one did not count for shit. You’re wearing a different dress now, the fabric hiding the bruises that have already started to form on your skin, leaving your back exposed completely to make up for the lack of skin you’re now hiding.

Robby will not let you go, his hands always having to be on you. He looks gorgeous in his suit, the suspenders Dana chose for him instead of a belt to pull up his tummy causing your brain to short circuit every time you catch the sight.

“Behave, honey,” he grumbles into your ear as he catches you staring again. “Let’s go say hi to Duke and then I’ll let you go have fun.”

“But I’m having fun with you.”

He stops abruptly. You actually mean that, and for the first time in his life, he allows himself to believe it.

He smiles brightly, unabashedly leaning down to capture your lips with his.

“Alright then.”

He parades you around the room, introducing you to his mechanic friend and beaming brightly as the two of you engage in light small talk, and for the first time in years, the weight on his shoulders lightens, enough for his two friends to notice.

Dana bumps Jack with her elbow, her gaze traveling across the room and landing on the two of you. 

“Ow, what?” Jack whines as Dana crocks her head, catching Robby’s smile like a damn spotlight, shining so bright it might actually be blinding. “Oh hoho, good for him.”

“Good for us.”

Jack nods. “About damn time, we deserve it.”

“That we do.”

They clink their glasses, delightedly taking in their new life blissfully, only one thing on their minds—

Welcome to the Jackrabbit Club.

a/n: okay my loves, this is my new au. I've been toying with it for a while and honestly...fuck it, happy pride let's just go crazy. requests are open for them all, every other character is fair game too so request away. power dynamics are loosely inspired by @thykingdoncome's his best girl cause I love that series and need to shout it out every chance I get. basically, dana's the main boss, but jack, robby and park get free reign, anyone else needs explicit permission from one of them (and obviously consent from reader but let's be fucking honest). I will keep writing shit on the side, but will prioritize requests and asks <3

“good work today, chief.” dana tells him as she pats his back, ready to go home for the night now. “slow day but thank fucking god.” 

he snorts. “must be our lucky day, can’t say for the night shift.” 

“ha! you tell abbot that.” dana chuckles as she finally says goodbye to lena and the others as robby stares up to the central board, backpack on his shoulder, ready to leave as well. he’d already done the briefing with jack, so he doesn’t have anything else to do other than say his goodbyes or do an irish goodbye. today was a good but slow day. 

“bye lena, have a nice shift.” your airy voice flows through the room like the cool wind. robby’s gaze shifts to see you leaning against the nurse’s station while lena chats you up for a moment. you smile at her, all wide-eyed and sunshine in them. he doesn’t notice his lips tug up as he watches you wave your hand to whitaker, who awkwardly waves back, who’s still charting and munching on a sandwich. hopefully not leaving crumbs on his desk. 

and then your gaze sets to his, and he feels that pathetic tug on his heart which causes him to swallow it down. 

“dr. robby! you’re still here.” you lighten up even more, and he smiles… almost painfully. 

“yeah, still here.” he says. “just… uh, checking if we missed anything.” 

“i think we got everything right.” you say beside him, and he can smell your citrusy perfume, your signature scent. he slyly takes a good look at you, seeing you dressed up. he can’t help himself but enjoy these few minutes before you leave. 

“you going somewhere?” he asks. 

you turn to him, nodding. “couple of my girlfriends and i are going to the movies.” 

“well, don’t let me keep you here.” he sadly has to say as he smiles at you. “you did good today, by the way.” 

“i don’t know about that. nothing really happened today. which is weird, considering we’re always busy.” you laugh, and it sounded so nice to hear for him, especially after this slow shift. 

“you’re right. but you managed and taught most of our medical students today so you did good, sweetheart.” the nickname slips past his lips naturally. your smile sweetened at that, and he noticed it. all innocent and kind. 

“good enough for your recommendation letter, then?” you joked, and he rolled his eyes playfully. he couldn’t be prouder that you’re almost completing your residency. you’re the best resident he’s had other than langdon… which he doesn' t want to think about him right now. 

“don’t get too excited now, you still got another year stuck with me being your boss.” he smiled, eyes crinkling. 

“whatever you say, chief.” you giggled. “well, goodnight, dr. robby.” 

“yeah, goodnight. have fun.” he painfully has to say as you leave his side. the whiff of your citrus scent slowly leaves as well. he takes a deep breath as he sighs, still looking up to the central board, with no thoughts of checking it again. just quietly staring and brooding as he finally turns to leave the pitt.

・゜゜・．

the city lights of pittsburgh welcome him as he rides through the highway on his bike. helmet on today, which was a relief if anyone saw him. the wind blows through the night as he finally parks at a corner street before hopping off and walking towards where his guilty pleasure is. the sex shop was like a picture back in the 90’s, neon signs glowing: red, green, blue, pink, and that. the familiar provocative signage of a woman’s leg further deepens the shame in him as he adjusts his backpack on his back before heading in. 

it was dim, a few people are in here, most of them were sleazy looking men… just like him. well, maybe he’s the better half of that, but still a miserable and lonely man. he guessed some are married, some single, no wife and kids like him. others are teenage boys who are giggling in the far corner, browsing through the porno magazines. he’s surprised that they still sell that despite the decline because of the wonders of the internet and shit. 

he sets off to look around the endless shelves of magazines. wondering what his poison is for tonight or maybe he’ll head to the booths for some peep shows, jerk off and enjoy. as long as he doesn’t go home yet, and be met with silence he’s known since god knows when he started letting himself go. the women on the magazine are all dolled up in heavy makeup, tits out, poses that let him see everything, but he can’t feel the stir in his cock yet. 

well… he’s still not that old to have an erectile dysfunction, right? no, he’s old enough that maybe that’s the reason why he’s not turned on yet. or maybe it’s because the women on the covers are not- 

he stops himself for a moment with that impending thought. 

he habitually wipes his hand down his mouth and beard, a habit that he does when he’s trying to repress himself or calm down. he does not want to think about what he’s been trying to not imagine since… fuck him, he tells himself. trying to. he manages to joke miserably. he reluctantly grabs a random magazine, flicking through the pages as he tries to immerse himself in the pictures that are supposed to entice him. 

he should have just suckered up and watched porn on his phone. he thinks now. 

“didn’t know women came here. look.” one of the young boys whispers as he hears them from the side. 

“no shit, dude. what are you, 80?” one of the other boys says back sarcastically, and he can’t help but feel amused at that. he looks up… he should not have looked up actually. 

loe and behold were you…  

in the same sex shop. 

as him. 

you. 

his resident… his fucking resident. 

in a sex shop. in this sex shop. 

his eyes almost fell out as he quickly ducked to the other isle, much further from the entrance as he stayed still and hid there like a fucking idiot. fuck, fuck, fuck, she didn’t saw me, right? he panicked. and the most important question popped in his mind. 

what the hell were you doing here? 

i mean it was already self-explanatory… but you out of all people- he’d settle for whitaker or ogilvie, maybe even ellis or mckay…or anyone… but you?

he slyly looked up, peeking over the shelf, he’s tall enough to do that without his whole face showing as he tracks your every move. and there you are, walking in the other aisle, moving to the counter. face all serious and quiet as you ignore the several stares when you pass by those sleazy-looking men. he suddenly wants to kick their asses the way their eyes looked at you like you’re one of the magazines they’re holding in their hands. fucking pigs.

it’s really you. 

same cute outfit on, the one you wore after that slow shift. he’s definitely not hallucinating, it's you talking to the cashier at this instant. 

what happened to the movies with your girlfriends? he had to wonder… did the ‘movies’ entail this? he’s curious where you’re going as the cashier hands you something, and you move away. he follows his gaze where you’re going, and he’s utterly shocked to see you get in one of the booths for the peep shows. 

movies, huh? he lets out a low chuckle to himself as he wipes his face. fuck, he didn’t expect this at all. what was he expecting, really? you, the sunshine that you are. always greeting people with a shy smile, tending to patients so kindly that gloria can fuck-off with those ‘patient satisfaction scores’ when you’re already doing that. he never once heard about your romantic escapades no matter how cunning princess or perla are trying to suck it out of you. you’re a great doctor- one of the best that he’s had the opportunity to guide. 

and now he’s seen this new side of you. 

in a sex shop for fuck sakes. 

oh, god- he wonders… he wonders what you’re watching now behind the booth. behind that closed door. and he feels blood rush all over his body. to his ears, apples of his cheeks, neck, and… 

oh, fucking hell. he looks down, there’s a slight bulge in his pants. out of all instances- god, this was hilarious. a wash of shame envelops him. he can’t be thinking of what you’re watching right now- whatever porn movie you’re indulging in, he doesn’t have the right to know. it’s your privacy. and he doesn’t want to stay here any longer when you come out of the booth and see him here. 

see him being miserable and horny like these sleazy pigs. 

he walks out of the sex shop in a haste. he quickens his steps when he’s outside, being met with the cold air that doesn’t help his shame. 

what a night, huh? 

・゜゜・．

the day after was hard. 

really hard for him. 

he spent all night under the shower, a cold shower to get rid of his… problem. he’s mortified- mortified in a sense that his ‘reaction’ stemmed from the fact that he saw you in a place where he thinks you should not belong. was it the absurdity of it that made him hard as a fucking rock? that you, the kind woman that you are, who he thought of as innocent as a feather be in a place housed in filth and pleasure? 

sexist, much? the little voice in his head berates him. 

it was not like that… he tells himself. just that- it’s you. 

the woman he’s been trying hard not to think of. he’s already got a bad wrap in the dating scene. everyone in the hospital knows about his messy escapades. he’s a walking red flag, he knows that. he’ll get what he wants then leave when things get serious. he even got slapped in the face when this one nurse he was ‘dating’ told him how much of a asshole he was to fuck and run. and to add that, you’re his resident, who is almost completing your residency. 

and he would not do that to you. 

saviour-complex as they say. but isn’t he doing the bare minimum by leaving you alone? he doesn’t fucking know. all he knows is that he can’t, he won’t, and he needs to grow up and move on. 

and no matter how much he wanted to see you smile at him, just the two of you. hear your laughter near his ear as he buries his face in the warmth of neck. your citrusy scent enveloping his nostrils, making him feel all calm and at peace. or your gentle hands that will cup his face, telling him he deserves to be here. that he deserves to be with you. 

a man could only dream, right? 

now these thoughts sparked even more the fact that he’s got a glimpse of you’re hiding. that you have needs, needs that he can satisfy… and he wonders what you were watching. was it soft porn? do you like it soft and gentle? or maybe passionate and raw. or… fuck, maybe even hardcore and that kinky shit. hell, he can do that if you want to. 

no, no, no, no- he has to stop himself right now. 

the grip he has on the ipad he’s holding tightens as he sets it down on the desk. he removes his glasses, leaning back as he sighed. today’s shift was already busy, a complete opposite of yesterday. and he’s glad because that means he won’t be interacting much with you today. he’s got interns to teach, and you as well. with the number of trauma cases coming in, he hopes he won’t have to meet your eyes and feel the shame in him. or stand close near you and get a hard-on. 

“you’re looking rough today.” dana quipped behind him, busy looking at her own ipad. 

“aren’t i everyday?” robby manages to joke, almost mirthfully. 

dana looks at him through her own reading glasses, seeming to eye him up and down. “hmm, you’re right. but you look like you can use a drink with that face of yours, robinavitch.” 

he manages to huff out a laugh. “oh, you have no idea, dana.” he finally stands up, ready to take the day on and forget about last night. “you have no fucking idea…” 

dana casts him one last judging look before shrugging at him. he leaves, already being called to trauma 2 as he sighs. 

・゜゜・．

for the rest of the days that followed, he avoided you like the plague. maybe a quick ‘hello’ or consult here and there, but he didn’t linger longer than he used to do with you- joking and talking about whatever topic was in hand. he avoided you like you were gloria. some people wouldn’t mind about this sudden and actually very minuscule shift in the air. although, of course the one who noticed it happened to be the most known observant man in his life that will point it out to him out of the blue. he’s actually frightened the way jack does these things like this almost accurately.

“you’re very weird today.” is the opening liner jack says as they do their handoffs. 

“…i don’t know what you’re talking about.” is his most obvious reply that seals the deal with jack abbot’s accurate suspicions. 

“do i have to point it out in the open, brother?” jack stares at him, holding the chart in his hand that’s deprived of his attention. robby sighs as he pinches the bridge of his nose. 

so… he tells him in a whisper… in an empty trauma room for privacy. but his nerves are on fire as he looks out in the windows, hoping you’re not near. and all he got from jack was a hum and a very amused look. 

“am i fucked up?” robby asks him, worried. 

“100%.” jack immediately says, and robby glares at him. although point-taken. “i mean, i understand… why were you in a sex shop in the first place?” 

he shoots him a pointed look. 

“okay, okay. self-explanatory, i know.” jack raises his hands up in defense. “so… let me put this straight. you’re acting all weird around her because you saw her in that place. normal reaction, probably the most common. but… the other added reason, i might add, is that you get bricked up thinking about it? well, that’s… fucked up-“

“don’t have to be an asshole about it, i’m fucking dying here just- just thinking about it!” he stops himself from raising his voice. “it’s her… in that shop.”

“sheesh, i know you like the woman, man. didn’t know you liked her so much that you think she’s too innocent to be there.” jack whistles, very much liking hearing him getting tortured. “but hey, soon you’ll forget about it. try not to think about it most of the time.” 

“that’s the problem. are you even listening?” 

“excuse me, what else do you want me to say?” jack has the audacity to be offended. “should i say, ‘oh! yeah, man, of course. she shouldn’t be there in the first place. that’s why you’re like this.’ look, i’m not someone who’d shame anyone for tapping into their… sexual fucking needs.” 

robby lets out an exasperated sigh. jack was right, of course. all the time, in fact. 

“robby, my brother. i admire you for not jumping on her like you usually do with the poor women who’ve crossed your path. means she’s special, right?” jack consoles him, and robby nods. you are special. the most special thing he doesn’t want to fuck up. 

“she is.” robby whispers, and jack smiles at him. 

“well, don’t fuck it up if you ever want to actually be with her. this kind of thing… it’s normal to be weirded out, of course. you saw her in a new perspective. but you gotta get in your head that everyone does this shit. not just you going into a… sex shop.”

“you’re not gonna let this go, are you?” he eyes him, and jack shrugs before patting his shoulder. yeah, he’s not gonna let this go the next time robby teases him, and jack has something to fire on to ridicule him. 

“we all got our needs, man. no judgement here. just that you got pulled into a hilarious situation that you do know you can just forget about, and not be weird around her.” jack finally says before leaving him alone in the room. “you know… try to repress yourself if you can’t take it anymore.”

robby actually feels a little lighter. and by the window, he finally spots you by the nurse’s station. you greet jack with a smile before your gaze lands on him. his heart started to beat uncontrollably, thinking you know he was there that night. but no… you wave at him shyly. he can’t help but wave back, finally letting his shame go. letting the curiosity of what you watched that night go. you’re here, being normal with him. and you didn’t know he was there, and you certainly did not know about his… hard dilemma. 

it was that easy, told you so. jack’s voice echoed in his head as he finally exited the trauma room. with a plan set in motion of how he’ll regulate himself. 

・゜゜・．

he took it to heart what jack suggested. 

he distanced himself from all things sexually. from jerking off, watching porn, going to the sex shop, and thinking about you in that sense. he was doing good for the first few days… felt refreshing, like he’s transformed into a young man again. or maybe he finally accepted that he’s old and his dick’s not gonna work the same way it used to be. that he’s reached the state of pure nirvana and peace. matter fact, maybe he can switch careers, and become a priest or monk for how long he’s been celibate. 

yet… it got hard after talking to you in those days. 

really hard that whenever you look at him, he can’t help but think about what you’re doing behind closed doors… or booths. that he’s suddenly hyperaware of every blink of your lashes, tiny things that suddenly make him want to run to the nearest bathroom. how you wet your lips when you talk to him about this one patient who- who he gives no fucks right now, and just quietly admires your face. the face he wonders what it would look like if he drops down and eats you- okay, stop. 

he’s not ignoring you anymore, that was a good change. but the cost of that was him torturing himself that he thinks he might be into edging if this was the case. 

you’d like that, wouldn’t you? okay, stop, again. 

and now he turns to other mundane and boring things to avoid his hand from reaching down there when he’s home. he’s off on sundays, and he actually doesn’t work harder in the ED like he usually does because you’re there, so he starts jogging. he does wordle, rides around the city in his motorcycle more often, do some yoga (he finally listened to abbot but minus the nakedness), read more books, and maybe smoked a cig here and there just to busy himself. 

and like all hard times, he breaks. he’s just a man, after all. 

on a cold sunday night he drives downtown to the familiar place of sin. he did not want to go here again knowing you come here. but maybe that night was a one time thing, right? maybe you did it out of curiosity and need. a need he can satisfy- fucking hell. and all honesty, he does not know a similar sex shop like this one that houses the nostalgic magic of porn magazines and peep shows. or maybe deep inside, he thinks you’ll be here. but he quickly shuts down that thought, 

so, he goes in, feeling a little out of place after a week of repressing himself. he just needs to watch something, something that will scratch his hard itch, and he can go back to torturing himself. he heads straight to the counter, and inquires about the booths in an awkward manner. the young cashier looks at him with disinterest, and tells him the price and gives him this sort-of coin after he pays, saying that he’ll have to insert it into the machine once he gets in. and now he waits awkwardly outside one of the booths, it seems like a busy night considering all of the others are locked as well. 

so he waits… awkwardly. 

he considers buying a magazine and getting the hell out of here. but the sound of the door opening finally makes him feel relieved. until… 

“dr. r-robby?” he’s met your wide-eyed expression and soft voice of surprise. the smell of your perfume envelops his nose as his cheeks turned bright red. 

oh, fuck. 

he freezes, and stares right back at you with the same wide-eyed expression until moments later you pull him into the booth, and he still can’t process what just happened. the door clicks shut, and he quickly turns around to be with you in this dim space… with the sound of soft moans coming from the little glowing screen which makes his whole entire face get even warmer. he stares at the porn on the screen, the soft moans come from the man being fucked the hell out by the woman riding him. the woman berates the man under her, telling him how much of a filthy fuck he is. oh wow. this is what you like to watch? 

“i-i should go-“ robby turns away from the screen, gaze stuck to you, trying his best not to get affected by what he just watched. the porn you just watched. 

“this is awkward…” you finally say, back pressed against the door, and you eye him up and down. 

“listen, we can forget about this. i never saw you here, you never saw me here, i never saw you last-“ he has to stop himself with the way he just slipped out a crucial secret. but you immediately clock on to it as you raise a brow at him. freudian slip, as they say. 

“you saw me in here before?” 

if jack was here, he’d be laughing at his face right now. or worse… looking disappointed. 

“i-“ robby doesn’t know what to say. he’s too frazzled, knowing blood just rushed down to his cock when he notices a small smirk appear on your lips. “…yeah. i’m sorry. it’s a public space… i didn’t- i didn’t mean to see you here at all.” 

soft moans run in the background, and he feels ashamed as he tries to hide his hard-on from you in a discreet way. 

“…so that’s why you’ve been weird around me.” you hum, and took a step closer to him. robby stays still, looking at you carefully. he doesn’t see you grimace or get disgusted just by looking at him. your expression was hard to decipher. were you mad at him? 

“yeah… sorry.” he lets out an awkward huff of laughter. trying to appear calm and collected. you don’t say anything for a good minute, just quietly staring at him. 

“are you hard right now?” 

huh? 

“w-what?” he stuttered. you look at him with a blank stare before gesturing down his pants. 

“i asked… are you hard right now?” 

another flush of blood rushes down at your tone. he can feel his whole body turn hot. the little booth was suffocating, and if he takes one step closer, your chests could brush against each other. robby lets another awkward laugh as he scratches the back of his head. he looks down, and there’s an evident tent on his crotch which further makes him feel disgusting. here he was, inside a peep show booth with his resident, and he’s fucking hard as a rock. 

“i need to… go.” he finally says, dropping the coin on the ground as moves past you. your passive expression breaks as you reach for him, tugging on his sleeve, and he almost shudders when your fingers touch his skin. 

“robby, wait.” your soft voice further makes him want to leave. it’s gentle, laced with no malice whatsoever. but to him, he thinks the worst. 

“i-i’ll see you tomorrow, okay? and i’m sorry, sweetheart. i…i didn’t mean to-“ he cuts of his words as he exits the booth in a haste again, just like the first time. he can hear you call out for him, but he shakes his head, walking even faster to get on his motorcycle and drive away. 

and he leaves you standing outside of the sex shop, and doesn’t notice the glint in your eyes as you watch him ride away. 

・゜゜・．

he stands very still in a trauma room. watching closely as whitaker and javadi treat a patient who got in for chest pain, and long after had a heart attack as they predicted. he’s just waiting for garcia to come down here, and he can move on to the next patient. he’s been on edge all day after last night. he could not sleep thinking about you and him in that tiny booth. his mind can’t shake that moment… 

are you hard right now? 

if he could fling himself off the roof right now, that would end his suffering because he could not calm his dick down after that. the only thing that could keep his mind from repeating that was to work, and he has been working for the past 6 hours into his shift. and he has been very adamant on not passing by you at any point and time. but the problem? 

you seem to be normal and more present wherever the hell he is. but the ED is a small space, what was he expecting anyway? 

he gets out of the trauma room once he briefed garcia of the patient’s stats and passed on to her. he goes to every available room and ward he’s needed, and when he finally stops by the nurse’s station to check the central board… of course you were there as well. and he almost lets his emotions out of his serious facade when you greet him with a smile that didn’t seem so innocent as before. or maybe he’s just being paranoid. 

“hi, dr. robby.” you say, looking up to the board as well. he doesn’t say anything back, only a hum as he tries his best not to look at you. “you good?” 

he wants to kill himself. 

“never better.” he manages to say sarcastically without sounding pathetic like last night. from the corner of his eye, he can see you looking right at him with a smile. 

“good.” you grin, and pass by him with a touch on his shoulder. he feels the hair on his skin go up at your warm touch as you leave him alone. 

good? 

…good? there’s a million thoughts running through his mind about what you mean by that. he finally looks at your retreating figure, and sighs. he’s not gonna have a nice day, is he? 

half of the hours after that spent him avoiding you, but you manage to find him everywhere he goes. you smile at him, almost like cheshire cat filled with mischief, and stand too close whenever you get the chance to ask for a consultation. there’s one instance when the two of you are treating a trauma patient, and every brush of your shoulder to his, and the feel of your body next to him has his mind going in circles. and when you pull away, you always leave with a soft smile at him, and he knows he’s about to explode. 

he goes straight to the nearest bathroom an hour left before his shift ends. he can’t do this anymore as he tries to repress every thought of you away before the semi-bulge in his pants start to become more noticeable. were you trying to tease him? he thinks, but he doesn’t have a clear indication of that. he closes his eyes for a moment, thinking of anything that will turn him off. he feels so frustrated that he’s considering drowning himself in the toilet. 

the door suddenly opened, and his eyes widened. he forgot to lock it… again. 

“robby? you okay?” your soft voice makes him groan as he turns to you. feeling irritated as he lets out a sharp breath. 

“not the time.” he grits out, and you stand there, assessing him before shutting the bathroom door and locking it. what the fuck are you doing now?

“what are you doing-“ 

“you didn’t answer my question last night.” you cut him off. 

robby shakes his head in disbelief. “sweetheart, this is not the place we should be talking about that.” 

“when will we ever talk about it, then?” you eye him, and the softness of your tone turns serious. he suddenly stiffens. “it’s a yes or no question, robby.” 

he fights back, trying to stay rational and authoritative. “i’m your attending-“ 

“yes or no?” your voice drops with authority. that you're fed up with his nonsense. he blinks, his resolve finally breaking as he runs a hand down his mouth. 

“yes.” he breathes out. and the two of you fall quiet as he looks at your expression, yet your face remains passive just like last night. you stare at him, and he finally gets a semblance of what you’re feeling right now as your gaze falls down to his bulge.

“good.” you praise him at last, and his cock jumps at that. “see? that wasn’t so hard, was it?” 

“…this is completely inappropriate.” 

“shut up.” you glare at him, taking a step closer to where he’s standing. “i think we’re way past appropriate with the way you’ve acted around me since… forever, robby.”  

he genuinely feels ashamed. “i-“ 

“did you like what i was watching last night?” your airy tone comes back, and he has to say no and get the hell out of here. “answer me, robby.” 

but he nods. “yeah.” 

“good. you’ve been good now, aren’t you? answering me truthfully.” you cooed, and he likes the way you praise him. “…you know, i thought you were just being very kind, like the good man that you are. always there for your residents and patients, but you always had a soft spot for me, don’t ‘ya?” 

…fuck, you knew he likes you? since when? his thoughts spiral as you’re getting closer to him. 

“i really liked it, robby. i can say that i really liked you until you started acting weird all of the sudden. that pissed me off.” you pout, and he wants to say sorry, but he stays silent as he watches your every move until you’re so close to him, he can feel your breath. you like him? his heart beats loudly as his cheeks turn red. 

“then i understand now why you suddenly changed… i thought you were disgusted by me-“ 

“i could never be disgusted with you, sweetheart.” he replies almost instantly. he had to assure you because seeing you frown made him weak. “i’m the disgusting one-“ 

“shh, none of that.” you say as your hands cup his cheeks and he lets out a tiny breath. “…i really liked it when you’re like this… so obedient and willing. you needed a little push, huh?” 

“i-i-“ he doesn't know what to say, but the softness of your hands lulls him. 

“yeah, huh? i think you deserve something special from me.” you cooed, your hands dropping down to his chest. he stares at your lips as you grin at him. 

he lunges forward, taking you in a heated kiss as you let out a noise of surprise as you kiss him back with the same energy. he grips the back of your neck to keep you steady while your arms wrapped around his neck to pull him closer. his knees buckled as he held you close, desperate to taste you as his tongue nudged your lower lip to let him in. you moan as your tongues clash with each other. the kiss was so messy and hot that it made him feel like he had a fever. 

you like him. god, you like him. 

robby almost whines when you suddenly pull away. both of your chests are heaving as you look at each other with heavy gazes. you grin as you wipe your mouth, savoring his taste and he licks his lips. 

“i was waiting for so long for you to make a move… but i’ll settle for this.” you suddenly say, and robby almost laughs until you drop to your knees in front of him. 

“sweetheart, w-we still have an hour until- oh, fuck-“ your hands fumble with his belt. he clenches his fist as he lets you do whatever you’re doing that he knows is downright wrong to be doing in a hospital bathroom. 

“shut up or i’ll stop, okay?” you look up at him, and he nods desperately. you unclasp his belt then immediately unzipped him. you don’t waste time to tease him as you pull the band of his boxers down until his cock sprang out. he hears you let out a tiny breath of surprise, seeing his cock jump out red and angry. 

“oh my.” you laugh as you grip him. he stares down, seeing you admire his cock as you spit on his tip all of the sudden. he shudders, biting back a moan as your hand starts to jerk him off. good god, he hasn’t touched himself in a week, and he swears he’ll cum any moment at your ministrations. “it’s so big, robby. you’re so big.” 

he lets out a tiny groan in response as you continue to jerk him off with a smile. 

“aww, how long have you been holding yourself out? it’s so red on the tip and so hard…” you say sweetly as you kiss the head. 

robot stutters. “i-i’m not gonna last long. s-shit-“ 

you suddenly stop your movements, and look up at him disapprovingly. “don’t you dare or i won’t let you cum.” 

he panics. “i’ll be good! i promise… it’s just that i haven’t- uhm-“ he’s too embarrassed to say it. 

you giggle. “aww, then you’ll have to try harder not cum, okay?” 

robby nods sadly. “okay.” 

“good.” you praise him, and he twitched in your hand. you kiss his tip again, peppering kisses all over his cock as the other cups his heavy balls. he almost dies when you finally take his tip into your mouth and suck lightly. he had to bite down on his fist to not moan loudly. or else both of you are fired if anyone caught you two. a resident sucking off their attending, what an image. 

you welcome him into your mouth as his hands flies down to your head. not grabbing it, but only holding you gently to guide you. you bob your head, moaning around him, liking the way he feels on your tongue. all big and stuffed. he lets out tiny sounds of pleasure as you continue to suck him off. 

“i-i’m close, fuck, i’m so close. i’m sorry-“ tears wet his eyes at the immense pleasure you’re giving. 

your mouth pops when you pull back, and he lets out a low whine. “that’s okay, baby. you’ll just have to make it up for me later. you’re so good for saying sorry.” 

“y-yeah?” he asks breathlessly, and your hand moves up and down on his cock. it’s all sticky and messy from your mouth and his precum. your hands feel so good around him. 

“yeah.” you grin and take him in your mouth again. this time you suck him off more harshly making him groan as he holds your head gently. his hips buck as he mutters jumbled words as he feels his balls tighten, almost near. 

“oh god, yeah- yesyesyesyes, please-“ he whispers as you feel him shoot out his release. thick white hot ropes of cum keep flowing in your mouth as you swallowed it all. his chest heaved as knees buckled at the intensity of his release. he slowly pulls out of your mouth as you cough a little as he sees some of spend drip at the corners of your lips. he feels all warm and sweaty seeing you on your knees, mouth full of cum as you swallowed it all with a satisfied look on your face. 

he helps you stand up as he tucks his flaccid cock back in his pants. he suddenly feels all shy as you lean up to peck his lips. 

“you were so good, robby.” you tell him sweetly. “but i think you can do so much better than that, right?” 

he should be saying that this was wrong, but to hell with that now. “let me make it up to you, please.” he begs as he kisses you again. you grin against his lips as you smirk at him. it’s as if you planned this from the start. but robby’s too fucked-out and smitten with the way you’re in his arms right now. 

“take me home, then.” 

・゜゜・．

haha, edged y’all.

Chapter one - Kiddo

Summary: Jack takes care of you when you drop into subspace at work.

Chapter two - Cuddles

Summary: Going back to Jack's to unwind after shift and talk things through.

Chapter three - Daddy

Summary: Jack makes good on his promise to eat you for dinner and then some more.

Chapter four: Punishment

Summary: You don't mean to misbehave, but Jack still has to remind you of your place.

Asks/blurbs

Chomp

Drop

Either way, you're proud that the local establishment is now held in such high regard; particularly since you know the accomplishment means so much to so many.

You swing back around and continue on to the wooden door that'll lead you to the kitchen where your roommate should currently be.

Grant glances up from the assortment of ingredients he's currently considering for a taste test if he can combine them just so, when the kitchen door unexpectedly swings open and a strange young woman practically welcomes herself inside the private space.

He finds himself taken aback for a moment—someone barging into his kitchen with seemingly no hesitation is a first—before he springs into action. Tossing down the sharpened gourmet knife he holds with a clatter, he advances on you. "Excuse me! What the hell do you think you're doing back here?"

You open your mouth, but he cuts you off short before you can start pleading for a handout.

"The sign out front clearly stated closed. You're trespassing in a private establishment. You're lucky I don't call the police."

Grabbing you roughly by the forearm, he ushers you back out to the dining area.

You sputter all the while in an attempt to try and provide explanation. "I was just—my friend. She works here. My roommate. Andrea wanted me to—"

He turns you back around to him. "Andrea? My commis chef?"

You nod fervently and blink back the tears that're brimming in your eyes from fear. "She asked me to meet her so we could walk home together. I'm so sorry." You stumble back a step. "I'll—I'll go wait outside. Please don't be mad."

Just as you swivel on your heel to flee, Grant takes you firmly by the hand. "No, I am."

You still, then hesitate before finally turning around again.

"Sorry," he continues. "I should've given you a second to explain. It's just..." he shakes his head with a sigh. "Been a long day," he finishes while running long fingers through salt and pepper curls.

"I'm Grant. Reilly. Head Chef," he states with an extended hand, now that he's finally released your own.

You wait a moment then shake it—ignoring how yours still trembles.

It sends a wave of regret through him that he made you fearful in the first place.

"Y/N," you supply quietly. "I can just," you point a thumb over your shoulder, "Go wait on the bench outside."

He shakes his head, then wraps a steady arm around your shoulders and leads you over to a corner booth. "I'd rather you did so here. Safer for you than on the street."

Once you've plopped down in a plush seat, you tuck your bag away and consider a menu off to the side to give yourself something to do. Your phone is an option, but he's standing right there. Perusing their selection of wines will at least make you come off as interested in his flourishing business.

"Are you thirsty?" Grant asks with a far more gentle tone than the one he had a moment ago. "I could bring you a glass of water."

You shake your head, then pull a bottle from your bag and hold it up for inspection. "I've got it covered, but thank you."

Considering for a moment, Grant surveys your glittering eyes and soft lips. "Make yourself comfortable. We're prepping for tomorrow, so it may still be awhile yet."

You wave a hand dismissively, then toss a paperback novel from your shoulder bag onto the table. "I'll keep myself occupied," you remark with a reassuring nod.

He turns and leaves you to your reading material.

Once he's securely hidden away behind a solid stainless steel door, Grant rests calloused hands upon a gleaming metal countertop in an attempt to steady his heart. With his head hung heavily between his shoulders, he squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head.

You're here. For the first time, you're here.

And he nearly blew it.

You've never met—don't know one another from Adam, truthfully—but he's seen photos of you before on Andrea's lockscreen during the times she's pulled her cell out to check for notifications during her fleeting breaks. That, and in photos she's uploaded to her Instagram.

It was the only reason he followed her back to begin with: to be able to appreciate the sight of you, even from a distance.

He's not some infatuated stalker, though. No, just an admirer. The first time he ever saw you—ever heard your soft-spoken voice—had been in a short video she uploaded to her... What is the feature called again? Story? Reel?

They're always changing things.

Andrea had hidden behind the camera while she snuck into your room and filmed you hunched over a tiny desk. You'd been wholly oblivious not only to her presence, but the rest of the world it seemed as you typed furiously away on a laptop.

He'd assumed you were a college student, until she announced your name with gusto, followed up by "the next New York Times bestselling author!" You had tried desperately to hide your face from the camera in adorable mortification, but failed miserably when she tugged one of your hands away, revealing your warm smile beneath.

He's watched that video at least a dozen times. Has observed your towering bookshelf that was clearly organized with thoughtful care, and the trinkets you have arranged on small floating shelves above your workspace.

How did he fail to recognize you in person?

So much for first impressions...

Grant felt how your delicate hand trembled in his. As such, he needs to make this right.

"What's your friend's favorite food?" Grant demands with crossed arms while peering at Andrea from over the bridge of his nose.

Removing her attentions from a stack of carrots she's working her way through with a slicer, she blinks up at him. "What? Wait. She's here? Shit," she curses while making to tug her apron off.

He clicks his tongue. "I still need you to finish prepping. I want to make something for her, so give me a dish. Any dish. Now."

Her brows wrinkle together. "From the menu, or—"

"What does she eat a lot of at home?" he inquires.

She snorts quietly. "You're not gonna like the answer."

"Well, unless it's moldy bread—"

"Easy Mac," she retorts. "Rice-a-Roni, Ramen, frozen pizzas..."

He raises an incredulous brow. "She lives with you and that's the kind of..." He shouldn't judge. He's had them all himself. And he'd be lying if he claimed to hate every bite. Depending on the brand and flavor, they're not half bad. "That's what you let her eat?'

She rolls her eyes and returns to slicing carrots into thin strips. "I don't let her do anything. She's a grown woman. And I eat 'em, too. Makes for an easy meal sometimes, y'know?"

He rolls his eyes. "So, she likes macaroni."

"She should take stock in Kraft," she mumbles. "I've told her a hundred times to just get the damn boxes because she'd be buying more for less, but she likes having the little cups so that she doesn't have to wash a pot or bowl afterward."

Like a little kid, he muses with a smirk.

Fine. Dad will just have make you something filling to eat, then.

Turning a burner onto medium-high heat, Grant gets to work on preparing you the best damn macaroni you've ever had in your young life.

He boils a large pot of water first, then gets to work on whipping a bowl of cream cheese into smooth perfection. He follows it up with hand-grating three separate cheese blocks while the water heats. Once bubbles start popping on the surface, he pours a container of elbow pasta in and stirs until the noodles are al dente.

Once Grant has strained them, he pours the cream cheese into a pan, followed by noodles and more cream cheese and a couple cups of shredded cheese, along with a few odd spices for taste. He tops it off with a final thick layer of shredded cheese on top, then slips the dish into the oven with a tin foil cover to bake.

A very basic dish, yes, but one that will still hopefully serve to impress and endear you to him.

As the macaroni sits in the oven, he peers through the glass window at the top of the kitchen door and watches you flip through your novel.

Perhaps he should be embarrassed by his behavior. And not just that which he has and is currently exhibiting tonight, but the fact that he's already mildly infatuated with you.

He doesn't know why, really. He's never been able to place his finger on it.

Love at first sight?

But does that really count when it comes to curated social media?

Maybe he's just lonely in his latter years and has projected onto you. It's not that he has some great expectation in mind of who you are or what you're really like. He's just...enchanted by what little he's already seen.

But it's easy to fall for a mysterious stranger just by their looks.

A timer rings, and he returns to the oven to pull out a dish of golden-brown perfection.

You wrench your book back when a ceramic deep dish full of what appears to be baked macaroni is slid in front of you.

With your book clutched to your chest, you gaze up at Grant. "Oh. Hello again."

The corner of his lip twitches; wanting to verge into a smile on your account. "My way of apologizing," he explains with a nod toward the steaming dinner he's presenting you with. "For being an ass," he mutters as he takes the booth across from where you sit.

"No," you chirp, setting your book back in your bag. "It's okay. Really. I should've never barged in like that. It was inappropriate."

He purses his lips and shakes his head. "You did nothing wrong. My reaction was way out of line. So dinner's on me."

You study the melted golden-brown cheese on top. It's so incredibly kind that he took time out of his already late night to do this. "Well... It's your kitchen. Would be like someone barging into your home. Would you give them time to explain their motives before you jumped into action?"

He glances toward the ceiling in faux contemplation while bobbing his head back and forth, like he's silently debating with himself. "No," he replies while looking at you once more. "I'd probably grab my gun."

Your brows shoot up. "You have a gun?"

He chuckles while handing you a small plate. "I was in the Army some twenty-odd-years ago. So I have a few."

You take it from him and your cheeks warm when your fingertips brush against Grant's. "What did you do when you served?"

He glances to the steaming macaroni, then to you again in answer.

"You were a cook then, too?"

Grant nods. "Was where I got my start, in terms of making it into a career."

"Did you always know it's what you wanted to do?"

Pulling a silver fork out of a cloth napkin, he taps the end of it against the table. "Yes and no. I've always enjoyed cooking and baking. But it took me finally doing it for others—a lot of others—for me to realize that it was my true calling."

He stabs the fork into the mac and cheese, then lifts it toward you. "Blow," he instructs.

You do until steam disappears.

When you open, he eases the tines into your mouth, the sets the fork on your plate. "D'you like it?"

You take your time chewing and tasting before swallowing.

When you lick your lips, he feels a stirring below his belt.

"It's really good," you say with a grand smile that he can't help but return.

He's made you happy. And that fact makes him so very glad.

"Yeah?" he asks with a laugh.

"It's delicious," you say while scooping a heaping portion onto your plate. "What did you put in it?"

"Besides sugar, spice, and everything nice?" he asks sarcastically, which earns him a bubbly giggle. "Cream cheese, three different cheeses which I shredded by hand, and a few dashes of various spices."

He took care when making this for you.

"You did all this to say sorry?" you ask quietly.

He rests his shoe next to yours beneath the table. "I did."

Grant pulls out another fork. "So, am I forgiven?"

How odd for a stranger to care in the least what you think or feel. It's a welcome change, though, even if it's only temporary. Taking his fork from him, you return the gesture from earlier and feed him a bite as well.

Grant barely manages to keep his mouth closed long enough to chew because he's smiling so much.

"You are."

"Hey," Grant says, catching you and Andrea at the door before you head out for home.

He rests an easy palm against your back and you turn to meet his searching eyes.

"Come back and see me again some time," he encourages. Dropping his hand, he instead squeezes your fingers. "Next meal is on the house, just like tonight."

You smile, and nearly kiss him on the cheek for his kindness. "Thank you," you reply with a nod. "Have a good night, Grant."

His breath catches in his throat at you having finally said his name, and he watches you go—only turning back to the interior once you've disappeared.

What started as a hectic, nightmarish day has ended in perfection.

It's been almost two weeks and he's not seen hide or hair of you. Was the meal he prepared for you not as good as you let on? Was it him? Did he do too much, or not enough?

The two of you had only just met, so there's always a chance that he came on too strong; made you uncomfortable.

Living with the not knowing, however—his stomach squeezing painfully each time the restaurant door opens, only for him to fill with disappointment a moment later because it isn't the face he wants to see—is pure fucking torture.

He wants his girl back... Just one more time.

"Any reason she never took me up on my offer?" Grant questions with a low, gravely tone.

Andrea finishes tugging on her jacket before grabbing her purse and turning to look at her superior. "Huh? What?"

"Your roommate," he explains. He feels, for whatever reason, that using your name would make this seem too personal—would give him away too easily. As if pouting over your lack of presence doesn't already. "I offered her a free meal and—"

"Ah," she replies with a nod. "She's been busy. Picking up extra shifts at the library on the weekend."

And downing Easy Mac on the go, he presumes.

You deserve better than a microwavable snack.

He takes a step back while tossing a dishtowel over his strong shoulder. You're being an adult; working more for a bit of extra cash. And here he is, pining after you like a lovesick teen.

He's learned something new about you, at least: your occupation. Makes perfect sense with your passion for reading and apparent storytelling.

Suits you, Grant thinks.

Swiping up a ripe tomato to return to its rightful place across the kitchen, he nods. "Got it."

"Hey, so, you need to go back to the restaurant at some point," Andrea remarks from your apartment's dimly lit entryway.

Leaning back against the couch behind you, you pause your typing on a Bluetooth keyboard. Crappy makeshift computer set up—it, coupled with the small glass screen of your phone, that is—but you don't have much of another option right now with your laptop being away for diagnosis. And given it can be saved, subsequent treatment.

"What?" you ask while turning to face her with crossed legs.

"Grant," she explains while hanging up her jacket, then purse. "He asked about you tonight and why you haven't been by to take him up on his offer for free food or whatever."

Oh.

You'd nearly forgotten about that, you've been so preoccupied with other things.

So he was serious? You'd thought he was, of course, but the question being just how much? Had it just been meant as a passing comment in kind, or was it a genuine invitation he intended on you fulfilling your end of?

"Does he..." you begin hesitantly. "Feed a lot of girls for free?"

She plops down on the couch behind you. "Not that I'm aware of. I spend a lot of time staying late to help clean up and prep and this is the first I've ever seen of such behavior."

You glance back to the cheap LED keyboard.

"Was surprised he made you mac and cheese that night, tell you the truth. He's a great chef and a good boss—even if he can be a hard-ass—but he's never gone out of his way like that before."

She playfully taps your shoulder with her toes. "Must really like you. Probably wants you back there and bent over every surface he can find while you cry yes, Chef! yes, Chef! all the while," she thinks aloud with a snigger.

You quickly turn around to hide your embarrassment. "He's a little old for me."

She snorts while rising and padding toward her bedroom for a change of clothes before she showers. "That's what makes it all the hot-ter," she finishes with a sing-song voice. "Oh, turn up the heat, daddy!" Andrea cries from an open doorway.

You bury your face in your hands.

Once you're within the safe confines of an empty North & Vine again, you stand awkwardly near the door. You don't want to ambush Grant again by waltzing into the kitchen unexpectedly, so you finally opt to seat yourself at the same booth as last time instead.

You're sure he'll emerge eventually and catch sight of you.

Just when Grant pushes past the kitchen's heavy swinging door, he halts in his tracks.

You came back again.

Andrea must've said something.

He hopes you didn't feel pressured to return; to humor his boyish fancy. Letting things go might've been better for everyone, but he can't seem to get you off his mind no matter how hard he tries.

Coming nearer with slow, steady strides, he frowns at the sight of you so unhappy while you stare down at your cellphone. He never did ask if you were single. But if that's the cause for your displeasure tonight—some young asshole who doesn't know how to treat you—then he'll do all he can to set things right until you're content again.

"Everything okay?" Grant asks quietly. "Seem distracted tonight."

Quickly locking your phone, you glance up to him with a forced smile and a nod. "Oh. Yeah. It's not a big deal."

Grant considers for a moment while chewing the inside of his cheek. "Boyfriend problems?"

You snort. "Stopped bothering with those a long time ago."

Which is either very lucky, or very unlucky for him.

Taking the seat across from you like last time, he folds his hands together. "Anything I can help with?"

You shake your head. "No. It's just my laptop. Got a quote back from a repair shop for how much it'd cost to get it working again." Your eyes flit to his. "Might as well just buy a new computer," you grumble.

He wants to ask about your writing project, but then you'll wonder as to how he even knows about it in the first place. "Do you use it for work?"

"Not really," you reply while toying with a sea salt shaker. "Writing, mostly."

"You didn't lose anything—"

"No, thank God. I keep everything backed up on a cloud drive." You sigh and return the condiment to its rightful home at the back of the table. "I've been using a Bluetooth keyboard so I can write using my cell, but I hate having to use a smaller screen. And because the keyboard is, too, I keep making tons of typos."

You grow quiet for a moment.

He wants to offer to run out and get you a new one right now—whichever you'd like—but fears that such a gesture would make him come off way too strong.

He'll figure out another method to help his girl.

"Anyway," you say, now wanting to change the subject from your technical woes. "Andrea said you asked about me?"

He actually fucking flushes. Only because he's made his damn crush that apparent. "Just wanted to see you again," he replies with a casual shrug and a smile. Pulling a menu from a wooden holder, he drops it in front of you. "Choose whatever you like and I'll make it."

You blink a couple times in surprise. You knew it's what you were coming here for, but you still have yet to understand it. His wanting to cater to you must stem from an attraction, but it doesn't make this any less unconventional.

Should you consider this a date? Does he? What precisely are the two of you doing here?

Flipping the laminated menu open, you begin to peruse various hard-to-pronounce dishes. "Why, um... Why did you want me to—"

"Maybe I just like watching you eat," he interrupts with a smirk.

Shyly, you peer at him from over the top of the menu you hold before hiding behind it again.

He chuckles quietly at your adorable antics.

A cheeseburger.

You're a simple girl, he'll give you that much, but he was hoping for something that would require a bit more effort on his part than a seared patty and brioche bun. But as long as you leave here with a full belly and a thankful smile, he's content.

He did invite you back into the kitchen so that you could observe him in his element, though. All rolled-up sleeves, an apron which clings to his muscled chest, and sharp knives which slice through tomatoes as easy as a guillotine are the attractions he provides for your viewing pleasure.

"So," he begins while adjusting the gas burner on the stove with pinched fingertips. "Andrea tells me you work at a library around here."

"I do," you reply simply. "At the Boston Public Library. It's really nice there."

He hums in interest while patting ground beef into a plump, round patty. "But you want to be a writer," he states.

You shift on your feet from where you stand behind him. "If I ever manage to finish the book I'm working on." You shrug while toying with a loose string hanging from the hem of your top. "It gives me something to do in my spare time, at least."

He hates how defeated you sound—like you've resigned yourself to never accomplishing your dream. Is it because you're losing interest in the project, or because you don't think you're good enough and have what it takes?

"I'd love to read it," Grant says while placing the patty in a lightly oiled non-stick pan before stepping over to the sink to wash his hands. "Whenever it's finished."

You shrug. "You don't even know what it's about."

He turns back to you while drying his hands. "Do I need to? It's something you're passionate about. That's enough for me."

Your eyes flit between his until he turns back to the stove.

You watch as his shoulder blades shift beneath his thin white t-shirt as he flips the burger over.

"This is just something for you to keep in mind, but being in the culinary business, I know journalists—people in publishing. So if you're ever looking to get your foot in the door, I can help with that."

You're surprised by how selfless he seems. Thoughtful.

You understand then why Andrea has stuck around so long, despite the stressors of being in hospitality.

He's a good man.

"Thank you," you whisper.

Placing the medium-rare patty on a crispy bun, he lays a slice of cheddar cheese on top to begin melting, a tomato, pickles, and a bit of garnish, followed by the top bun. "Anytime."

He watches with utter satisfaction as you chow down. Had Grant had a bit more time to prepare, he would've made you up a plate of hand-cut seasoned fries as well, but given the size of the burger, he hopes it'll be enough to satiate your appetite.

"Good?" he asks while dragging a finger along the edge of your plate to gather a drop of mustard before popping it in his mouth.

You nod fervently while chewing.

"Have to give me an actual challenge next time. Comfort food is your favorite type of cuisine, though, isn't it?"

Another nod.

Could whip up some fried chicken next time. Not necessarily difficult to make, but rather to perfect. Just the right amount of crisp on the outside with a balance of seasoned sumptuousness on the in can be a difficult combo to achieve.

Honestly? Grants wants to make you everything on the whole damn menu.

Would certainly keep you coming back to him time and again if he did.

It's a tempting thought: feeding you every night when you come home from work. Especially from his own hand. He's replayed you taking a bite of macaroni from the fork he held the first time you met repeatedly.

He briefly considers how he could get you to suck melted chocolate off his fingers.

"What's yours?" you ask while dabbing at your lips with a freshly laundered napkin.

Grant leans back. Resting his tanned forearms atop the table, he thinks. "If you can believe it, I don't have one. When it comes to food, I make an effort to keep my options open. There's always something new to try. To make or taste. Guess I worry that if I develop a 'favorite' I'll start to limit myself by getting too comfortable with one particular food or handful of meals."

Makes sense to you. Hence your appreciation for cheap microwavable or oven-ready boxed food.

"Favorite thing to make, then?"

He grins. "Sort of the same answer. Convoluted dishes give me a challenge, but I still have an appreciation for the simple things in life," he states with a nod toward your slowly emptying plate.

"Seems like you enjoy keeping an open mind."

He leans in close while studying your lips with a smile. "I definitely do."

You're reticent to ask what tonight was. Why Grant seems to so enjoy watching you eat.

It's flattering, at least. A welcome change from past dates from long ago where you always wanted to order a salad, or turn away altogether so you couldn't be watched with a scrutinizing gaze as you ate.

Rocking onto the balls of your feet, you look up at Grant with a smile. "Thank you again."

He runs a rough palm down your arm. "Here to serve," he replies with a lopsided smile.

"Well... Goodnight," you chirp with a quick nod.

Leaning down, he brushes his lips over your soft cheek. "Goodnight, sweetheart."

"Sooo," Andrea drawls from the doorway of your bedroom. "Have you checked your email today?"

You pause Netflix and turn to her with furrowed brows. "This morning like I always do. Why?"

"Might wanna check it again," she states. "Grant asked me for your email today. Didn't say why, though," your roommate relays.

"Maybe it's just a recipe," you ponder. Grabbing your phone from the middle of the bed, you navigate to your email, find one from not quite two hours ago from the man in question, and when you open it, your jaw drops.

"Oooh, what is it? Dirty pictures involving whip cream and stacked donuts?"

You slam a palm against your forehead. "Oh God. He can't just—"

She pads around the side of your bed and takes the device from you before barking a ridiculous laugh. "A fucking grand?!" she cries.

You take the phone back from her. "It's for a local tech store." Your eyes scan the attached gift message. "For your time & your new computer. Remember that I get to read it first. — Grant"

Andrea folds her arms and frowns. "Does he mean your novel? Promised that privilege to me..." she pouts.

You stare at her. "You—Yes, you still can. But I—I have to send this back." Tossing off a throw blanket, you stand and begin to pace.

"Man, he wants that cookie bad."

You level her with a glare.

"Alright," she relents with raised palms of surrender. "No more food puns."

"Do you think it works like a check? Like, unless I use it the money stays in his account?" you ask while looking at her.

She shrugs. "Maybe. Sure wish he'd give me a damn thousand dollar bonus. What'd you do the last time you went a week ago?"

"I told you!" you shout hysterically. "He made me a cheeseburger. I ate it, then came back here. That's it."

"I eat in front of the old man every day. He's never wanted to reward me for it." She pinches her stomach, then shrugs. "Probably a good thing or you'd be rolling me out of here before long."

"I have to make him take it back or undo it," you say while heading in the direction of your closet so you can get changed. "This is too much."

"So he wants to be your sugar daddy—"

You narrow your eyes and jerk your head back in her direction.

"Not intended to be another pun. That's just the name for it," she mumbles. "As I was saying: I fail to see how it's a bad thing."

"I've been saving up. I don't—" You toss a loose ankle-length dress onto the bed. Something simple. You don't need to dress up. No, you need to get going before he locks up for the night. "That isn't me."

"Grant?" you shout into the empty restaurant. "Are you here?"

A smile curls lips lined by silver stubble and laugh lines bracket his mouth. Hanging his apron on a hook, Grant emerges from behind the kitchen door. Greeted by the sight of you in a simple, soft black dress that almost looks more like a comfortable nightgown, he grins. "Got your attention, huh?"

"You... You have to take it back. Cancel it or something," you plead.

Crossing the room to reach you, he reaches forward and brushes the pad of his thumb along your cheek. "No can do," he replies with a shake of his head.

"But—"

"You don't need to feel guilty," Grant tells you. "Guess just feeding you dinner wasn't enough for me." He shrugs. "Wanted to help take care of you another way."

Before this moment, you've only been around each other twice before. Two times. You absolutely refuse to believe that you made enough of an impression to justify him gifting you one thousand dollars!

You open your mouth to continue insisting, until he rests his palms heavily atop your shoulders. "You wanna repay me?"

You waver. "Yes..."

"Then let me teach you."

He begins tugging you along behind him toward the kitchen, and you gulp nervously.

Time for you to set the damn place on fire, apparently.

"Slow, sweetheart, slow," Grant mutters quietly against your ear. "Don't want to get it all over yourself or you'll be soaked."

After leading you back into the kitchen, Grant gathered all the ingredients required to teach you how to make an excellent traditional southern fried chicken recipe, which he said the pair of you could eat together.

At current, you're whisking together milk and lemon juice to prep your own homemade buttermilk.

With Grant pressed against your back, and his hands leading your own while he croons encouragement and instructions in your ear, you fear that this cooking lesson may soon end in disaster if you don't get yourself under control. And soon.

"Good," he coos. "Nice and smooth. Good girl."

You nearly whimper when you feel a fluttering start up between your legs.

"Alright, set that to the side, then grab the chicken next and we'll dip each section until it's dripping and coat them in flour."

You swallow thickly, nod, then slide the bowl across the counter to keep it far from you, lest you knock it over and make a mess. Grabbing a sheet of raw chicken, you pick up piece after piece and dip them in the liquid mixture, followed by dropping them into a thick paper bag and shaking until Grant tells you to stop. You then place each prepped piece of poultry onto a new sheet until you've completed the current step.

"Alright, wash your hands and I'll guide you on what to do next."

Without the heat of his body stationed behind you, you're made very aware of how a thin sheet of sweat has coated the back of your neck. As such, you take your time washing your hands. Enjoying the cold water, you don't stop scrubbing until your palms and fingers are sudsy and clean.

Grant motions for you to rejoin him once you've shut the faucet off.

Assuming your previous position, he stands impossibly closer. "Here," he whispers before pulling an apron on over your head. "Should've done this before we started. Sorry."

You stay silent as his hands trail just beneath your breasts to grab the ties at the front of the acorn-brown apron to circle them around your waist.

"There," Grant says while pressing a soft kiss to the back of your head. "I've got you covered."

"Now," he says while adjusting the burner. "Fill your skillet with vegetable oil. About a third of the way. I'll tell you when to stop."

Grabbing a glass bottle, you start to pour, but slowly. The oil spreads across the cast iron skillet, and after a beat, Grant speak again. "Alright, that's good. Plenty slick enough to cook with."

You draw in a deep breath, then eye the chicken. "How long do we—"

"Awhile," he interrupts while sliding his hands from your shoulders to your upper arms. "It needs to get hot." He turns his head. "Very hot," he rumbles against your ear. "Once the pieces are browned, we'll turn down the heat and let them simmer for awhile. About half an hour," he explains.

"What'll we do while we wait?" you ask breathlessly.

He chuckles. "Anything you like."

"Oh."

"I like this," Grant says while pulling the chicken closer for when the skillet is finally ready to be filled. "Teaching you. You're a good student."

Testing the waters, you lean back against his sturdy chest, and he doesn't move an inch. "I've got you, sweetheart. I'm right here."

Your eyes flutter closed for a moment. The silence is deafening—interrupted only the sound of his steady breathing, yours which has turned ragged, and quietly popping oil on the stovetop.

"Something I can do to help you while you work, besides leading you?" he asks.

Touch me, you think while rubbing your thighs together from beneath your dress.

"Hm?" he hums with a kiss at your temple.

"I dunno," you whimper.

"Grab your tongs and start arranging the chicken around the edges until the whole skillet is full," he directs.

The sheet of raw chicken is half empty when Grant finally brushes his thumb along the side of your clothed breast.

He notes how you forewent wearing a bra tonight.

"Your apron too tight?" he asks while tugging curiously against the front.

"M-Maybe," you stutter.

Moment of truth.

Cautiously, he slips his hands between your dress and apron and cups both your breasts in his large palms. You gasp sharply and nearly drop the utensil you're holding.

"Keep going," he orders. "You're almost there."

Yes, Chef, you muse.

Circling your nipples with his fingertips, he doesn't stop until they're pebbled. Grant begins to gently tug against their hardened peaks. "Good girl," he purrs. "You did perfect. Now, go ahead and flip the pieces over."

With vigilant determination, you turn the poultry from one side to the other.

After only three pieces, Grant maneuvers a hand past the neckline of your dress and grabs your naked breast with his bare hand.

"Oh God," you whine and your hips buck back against him.

"Just a few more and then we'll cover it and let it cook. Go on, sweetheart. Do what chef tells you to."

Unable to help yourself, you do as Grant says. But you sigh and whimper all the while as his callouses scratch pleasantly against and between your breasts.

Settling a lid atop the pan, you reach for a timer. "H-how long?" you pant.

"Half an hour. Should be enough time for us to finish."

Winding the dial, you point the arrow at 30, then set it down.

"Do you like this?" he rasps while shoving a second hand beneath the neck of your dress. "Does it feel good?"

You nod slowly. "Yes."

"Do you want more?"

"Please," you moan.

You almost sob when his hands retract. Until he gently spins you around to face him.

"How much more?" he asks while cupping your cheek comfortingly.

Your lips slightly part, but the thought of saying it... You don't always know how to be forward about your own desires.

"Because I want to taste you," Grant utters. "I have from the first."

Guiding you by the hips back to a sprawling, empty surface, he grabs you by the waist and hoists you up. "Is this okay?" he questions while trailing a palm from your calf to your knee.

"Yes," you whisper.

He goes higher, only stopping once his fingertips are prodding against the thin, slick material of your panties that're now sticking to your pussy. "Fuck," he curses. "You're so wet for me."

Rolling your dress up past your thighs, Grant hooks his fingers under the waistband of your panties. Kneeling on the floor, he stares up at you with reverence. "Do you want me to stop?"

You shake your head, then wiggle your hips. "More."

Leaning forward, he presses a firm kiss to your damp panties, drags his speared tongue along the soaked material, then tugs them down in one swift motion. Tucking them into his pocket, he encourages your thighs over his shoulders and swipes his tongue through your slick folds.

God, he's in Heaven. Here, with you now, he's exactly where he's supposed to be.

You suck in a sharp breath, then tangle your fingers in his silver hair to keep him close.

When you begin to rock your hips, he swirls his tongue over your swollen clit while easing two fingers between your warm, fluttering walls.

You taste better than he could've ever imagined. Are softer, wetter, and more needy than he anticipated you would be.

"You're so perfect," he mutters while kissing your inner thighs before returning to your fluttering cunt. "Better than I thought," he grates.

And he has one hell of a palate.

Planting a sweaty palm atop the cool countertop, you lean back and prop a foot atop it. You're sure the two of you are committing at least a dozen health-code violations right now, but you couldn't care less.

"O-oh my God," you stammer.

"Come for me," he demands while craning his head back. "Come on my tongue. Now."

Shoving his head back between your thighs, you squeal quietly when he returns to teasing your clit. When your walls begin to clench around his thick digits, he refuses to come up for air. You're so close and he needs to be the man to give you this.

Sucking your labia and fingering you with rapid abandon, your pussy squelches and leaves his palm and your ass both covered in arousal. Not even the finest fucking wine could compare to you. If he could bottle and drink you, he would.

Swear to God he would...

You bite your lip, tug against his sweaty curls, then shudder violently as your orgasm wracks through your body. "Oh my God, Grant," you cry while your mind circles and your arousal crashes through you.

He whimpers against your slick, swollen opening while palming himself over his black slacks.

Grant moans while kissing your pussy in thanks for what it's just given him in return.

Once you finally calm, you slide your leg back over the edge of the counter and go loose—your limbs now feeling weakened; like jelly.

Grabbing your face, Grant crushes his lips to yours. He makes wet smacking sounds while he fucks your mouth with his tongue—his saliva and your own slick pooling beneath your tongue. "You should know how good you taste," he pants.

Trailing kisses down your neck, you clutch helplessly at his chest as his coarse stubble scratches your sensitive skin.

"I wanna be inside of you," he rumbles while nudging your thighs further apart. Tilting your chin back, he stares into your eyes with feverish hunger. "Please let me have you."

Your jaw falls open and you grasp for words to explain. "I... I don't just—"

It's as if he can read your mind before you've even completed a thought. "After this, you're mine. I'm too old for playing games with the woman I want and have been waiting so long for."

"We'd be—"

"Together. Unless you ordered me away," Grant explains. "Fuck, Y/N, please. I'm begging you."

Reaching up, you tug the top of your dress down and let it pool around your waist, exposing your breasts to him.

And Grant drinks you in greedily.

Dipping his head, he sucks a taut nipple into his mouth, then laps at the opposite with his warm, wet tongue.

Grasping at his belt, you suddenly still.

Grant lifts his head and cups your cheek cautiously. "Do you wanna stop?"

"I'm not...on anything anymore. And I'm—" you gulp. "I'm ovulating right now."

He chuckles. "I might've guessed."

You raise a brow, questioning whether you should be offended by whatever he's implying.

"How wet you got for me," he continues. "I loved it. It was perfect."

You smile.

"I don't exactly keep condoms here in the kitchen," he says with a knowing look.

"I could... Wind up—"

"I know," he whispers while cupping the back of your head in one hand and wrapping the other securely around your naked waist. "And if that did happen, I'd take care of you. I—I want to anyway. I've been... I've been too married to my work. I don't regret it, but there are things I've missed out on." He kisses you tenderly. "Now here you are. Finally."

He pops a tine on his belt loose. "Do you want us to keep going?"

You nod slowly.

Grant unbuckles his belt, pops the button at the top of his pants, then unzips them. "Do you want me inside of you?" he questions while running a certain hand down your side.

"Yes," you sigh.

"If I do this, I can't pull out. It... It's you. I just can't, Y/N. I need you to understand what I'm telling you."

Wrapping an arm around his neck and another around his side, you cling to him. "I understand."

Shoving his pants and briefs down to his ankles, Grant takes himself in hand and pumps his cock a few times, runs the pad of his thumb over the leaking tip, then eases its girthy length between your slick, accommodating walls.

Once Grants has bottomed out against your perfect cunt, his hips stutter and he whimpers close to your ear while holding you suffocatingly close. "Fuck, sweetheart, I don't know how long I'm gonna last like this," he mutters while slowly rocking his hips.

Burying your face against his neck, your shake your head. "Do what you need to. I want you to finish."

Besides, you already have.

Pumping his thick, veiny cock between your stretchy walls, a whine crawls up Grant's throat, and halts there, until he gasps for air, and the breath his releases sounds more like a quiet cry.

Cradling the backs of each other's heads, his arm circles your waist while your hand claws at his covered back. Grant's naked skin slaps against yours while your legs gyrate on either side of his hips where they dangle over the edge of the counter. "O-Oh fuck," he moans. "I'm already close."

You kiss his neck. "Please, Grant," you whisper.

His cock twitches. "Feel's good?" he asks while thrusting his hips.

"So good," you mewl.

His testicles begin to tighten.

"Almost there," he rasps. "You're doing so well for me. But, baby, I'm—fuck, it's gonna be deep."

You nod. "It's okay. It's okay, you can cum inside me."

He sniffles quietly. "Thank you for finding me," he mutters.

Planting a palm against his naked ass, you encourage him to keep rocking his hips.

Rolling them to get impossibly deeper inside you, his thrusts become hard and fast. So fast that a metallic pounding begins from where his thighs are knocking against the steel countertop. A bowl clatters to the floor, but Grant holds firm when you jolt. "Don't," he barks. "Stay still." He shudders. "Good girl. That's my good little girl. Almost—almost—"

A container of utensils falls over next, but it doesn't even phase him.

Meanwhile, you keep him close. His arms have tightened like coils now. You're surrounded by his muscled limbs.

"Fuck!" he shouts suddenly. "I'm gonna—I'm gonna cum. Fuck, I'm gonna cum so deep inside you, baby girl."

"Please, Grant," you plead. Your clit is so overstiumlated that with only a few more thrusts—

"Oh God," he groans. "Oh God, sweetheart."

Pressing his lips to the curve of your shoulder, his cock spasms between your walls and his balls twitch as he empties a load of built-up semen inside of you. Scooting closer, he angles his hips upwards toward your cervix while thick, hot ropes of cum spurt and coat your fleshy walls.

You twitch repeatedly in his arms while your cunt contracts tightly around his member. Your orgasm is silent, and less eventful, but feels just as good as it washes over you.

Once it's all over, you continue holding one another. "Did you cum again?" Grant asks quietly, while massaging the base of your scalp with trembling fingers.

"I did," you murmur before yawning.

"Good," he says with quiet relief. "Such a good girl."

He stays inside of you, but leans back just enough to capture you in a slow, passionate kiss. "Tell me you belong to me," Grant demands between brushes of his lips over yours.

"I'm yours," you assure him. "I'm yours, Grant."

He swipes a thumb over your sensitive clit—just above where he still has you stretched open. "Yes, you are."

Dinner is mostly silent. Grant sits close to your side as the two of you steadily snack on a mountainous plate of delicious fried chicken. Between your thighs, you can still feel his cum leaking out of you.

Lying your sleepy head atop his shoulder, Grant kisses the crown of it. "I've wanted you since the first time I saw you," he states after taking a sip of ice water. "And heard your voice."

You snuggle against his side. "Really?"

Thinking many thoughts about this little clip and just how rabbot coded it is.

Maybe even, and walk with me here, boyfriends dads rabbot.

Maybe you’re staying with your boyfriend for a little while over summer break. Maybe some of those days said boyfriend still has tennis or perhaps soccer training meaning he's out for the majority of the morning/early afternoon.

And on those days, the only people still home just so happens to be his two hot, older dads.

You get along, always have since you first met the pair, but that doesn't quell the fuzzy feeling in your gut whenever they interact with you.

The pair find it endearing really, the way you'll slip sometimes, calling them Mr Abbot and Mr Robinavitch instead of Jack and Robby (or Micheal if you'd prefer it). You struggle to keep eye contact with them too, even more so when you trip your words up when responding to questions about yourself. Your degree, your hobbies, what you enjoy to eat, hell, they'll even how your relationship is going with their boy- they're just interested thats all!

But the thing that gets both Jack and Robby chubbing up in their pants like perverted old bastards the most?

How you've spent your time bouncing around the Robinavitch-Abbot household in what must be the skimpest of summer clothes. That bikini that barely covers your tits as you soak up the sun in their garden, or the denim shorts that hardly hides the line of your panties as you sit on the couch reading.

Theres guilt, of course there is, the pair of them perving over their sons girlfriend. But not nearly enough to make them stop thinking about you in ways they shouldn't be. Like how wet you get when worked up or how beautiful your body must be truly bare.

Robby always thinks your lips would look stretched around the girth of them, while Jack ponders the perfect whines you'd let free as you cum.

Its after a long day of sunbathing does everything finally come to a head though

Your skin glistens with a mix of sunscreen and sweat, heart thudding in your chest from the heat. You're boyfriends gone again, has been all day, leaving you, Jack and Robby at home soaking in the summer sun in the backyard.

At lunch you learnt Jack knows a thing or two about making cocktails, by almost dinner you're pretty confident he's got a mean pour.

The world floats by as you lounge on a chair, watching Robby stood by the grill cooking steaks with his own sweating beer. The glass on the table next to you half full, your.. Fourth? Maybe third? Fruity Margarita abandoned as you giggle about something that feels funnier than it is.

Thats the last thing you properly remember- the gruff laughter, the sundrunk haze, Jack and Robby drinking, grilling and hosting like regular older men.

When your eyes blink open again (did you shut them on purpose or did they flutter without you knowing?) the scene is vastly different.

Grey curls sit messily between your plush thighs, hazel eyes peering up lustblown and dark. It hits you then, the intense pleasure of a skilled mouth lapping and lavishing your pussy.

Its hot, wet, perfect and utterly wrong all in one, legs desperate to close around the older mans ears to little avail. Jacks big hands hold you open though, palms flat on your inner thighs, panties of your bathing suit crooked to the side and held steady by two thick fingers.

Your back arches from the lounger, a ragged, breathless gasp ripping from your heaving chest. "O-oh my god!"

The tongue flicks playfully against your clit, before plump lips suckle lewdly, a voice you recognize as Robbys chucking as he sits crouched beside you. "Mm, not quite sweetheart. You wanna that try again?"

The moan breaks with your voice, a hand flying down to those mused salt and pepper curls, tangling tight. "J-jack oh f-fuckk"

"Yeahhh, There you go" he grins wolfish, "s' he makin you feel good kid?"

The nod is jerky, the response even more so. Your hips bump up despite Jack's grip, brain unsure if to run or relish in the overwhelming feeling between your legs; at how fuckig wrong it is to let it continue. "M-mphm y-yeah"

Jack offers some reprive just a moment, unlatching his mouth for just a moment to gravel out "Got you squirmin like no ones done this before, s' our boy holdin out on you honey?"

The question only serves as a reminder these men are your boyfriends fathers, men decades older than you and him. Its wrong, sick, absolutely fucking vile to do to the man you love.. But fuck, his dads devouring you like your sloppy, slick pussy is the only thing left on earth to sustain him. Hes licking you with experience that only comes from enjoyment, suckling like every gasp and whine gives him air.

But in this moment, your hot. Hazy. Utterly drunk of bliss. So you mewl out the truth, jerking your hips to hump at Jack's face like the pleasures the only thing that will keep you alive. "M-mhm.. Says he.. He doesnt like it- fucking shit- that s' not enjoyable-"

"Doesn't like eatin this pretty pussy up, Christ, where'd we go wrong mi- mphmn" Jack murmers incredulous again your folds, stubble rubbing a heavenly kind of pain on your most intimate of areas, fumed point cut off by Robby reaching over a hand that pushes his partner back into your pussy so tight its a wonder he's able to breathe.

"Shhh jack, jus' keep goin. Shes gettin close huh honey?" Robby grins, hand sliding beneath the cups of your bikini top. Your nipples pert and tight as his calloused thumb offers a delightful friction. "Sides, we've gotta correct that bullshit ourselves hm, apologize to that sweet little pussy for everything she's been missin"

Your head is thrown back, hair mused against the chair, your body quivering as the bliss only draws tighter in your gut. Your eyes struggle to stay open between the now setting sun and the onslaught of pleasure. Those plush, still glistening thighs tremble against Jack's touch, one of his hands sliping down to press one, then two, thick digits inside.

You can feel the cool edge of his wedding band bump your hole with each slickened drive, every curl managing to rub at your g spot in a way that only pushes you closer to crumbling.

Then, as quick as Jack's mouth had appeared at your pussy, another sensation has your spine arching almost painfully. Robbys somehow pushed the cup of your top to the side, mouth hot on your skin, his own tongue flicking and teasing at your nipple. His peppered beard making you shake as it rubs your skin with every move he makes.

Its that combo that sends you over the edge with a wail of their names so perfect their chubbed up cocks throb and leak inside the confines of shorts now way too tight. It takes your breath away near violently, the orgasm hitting you so hard you're almost convinced you'll never come back down.

They both keep it up until tears slip down your cheeks, until you're pushing them off and your body is overwhelmingly sensitive. Blood thunders in your ears, hazing over the praise the pair murmer to you.

Jack rises with a groan, shuffling himself forward to meet your mouth in a messy, filthy kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue, feel the dampness on his stubble, letting yourself drown in the dopamine a moment longer before you know you'll have to address everything that's just happened..

That is, until hot breath fans over your twitching clit the same but different, you're eyes wide as you dart between Robby who you didn't even realise had moved and Jack.

Robby grins wolfish again, shuffled between your shaking thighs, a large hand pressing on your still heaving belly. Your eyes must look like saucers, lips pouty and bitten raw, peering down with the most doe- like expression.

"Nawh whats that look for?" he coos, pitiful and mocking, inhaling the sweet, musky scent of you in a way that makes your insided lurch. "S'it too much t' take sweetheart? Two old men wantin to lick your sweet pussy?"

"mhm.." you mewl, hand reaching blindly for the loungers edge- for Jack and some semblance of safety. "R-robby please..cant.."

The chuckle is mean, a rumble you feel in the deepest parts of you, hips shifting preemptively to little avail. Robbys gaze drops, as does his wiry haired jaw, his sentiment cut between a broken moan and the envelopement of your puffy clit into the cavern of his mouth.

“Your family’s in town?”

You’re at the nurses station, tucked into a corner with your head in your hands while Shen, of course, drinks what has to be his third Dunkin coffee of the day. Where he’s getting them is one of the world’s strangest unsolved mysteries. 

You can’t see his face, on account of the heels of your hands being pressed into your eyes so hard stars are bursting and swirling behind your eyelids, but you can hear the grimace in his tone. 

“Yeah. I moved out here to get away from them, but they decided to host the annual family dinner circuit here in Pittsburgh instead. My mom always complains about how it’s such a huge imposition to have the entire family fly out, but I never asked to do it and offered to just fly to them on multiple occasions. Apparently, my work schedule is too hard to work around.”

“Dinner circuit?”

You wave a hand. “It’s actually a lunch circuit now, since I work nights. Basically, for every single day that they’re here everybody has to attend a lunch, no matter what. Most of the time they’re at different restaurants, but sometimes my mom demands to have them at my place.”

“Yikes,” The attending says, sipping on the last bits of his coffee, “And the whole successful doctor thing doesn’t work on them? It got my parents off my back.”

You shake your head. “I’m the only doctor in the family, but they thought I should’ve been a hospitalist or go into general surgery.”

The sound of ice being shaken in a plastic cup rings in your ears. “There’s money in emergency medicine. Eventually.” 

“There’s money in all medicine eventually,” You groan, lifting your head and leaning against the wall, blinking dazedly up at the flickering fluorescent lights. “I’m sure if I'd picked general surgery they would’ve found a problem with that too.”

“So your fucked, basically.”

Your eyes slip shut again. “Yep. Anything short of showing up with a rich boyfriend and a promise of grandkids on the way won’t get my mom off my back.”

Shen clasps you on the shoulder. “Best of luck with that. You’re the only intern the night shift has got, so we’d rather you don’t off yourself via poisoned wine.” 

“I wouldn’t do poison. I’d choke on bread so they’d have to live with the guilt of not being able to save me.”

“Jesus fuck, man. I mean, clearly, they suck, but that’s brutal.”

You shrug. “Not as brutal as my mom not coming to my med school graduation.”

He gapes. “What reason could she have possibly had for not showing up?”

“I told her at dinner the night before that I was going into emergency medicine.”

“That’s…” Shen trails off, flabbergasted, “…Wow. Now I'm worried you’re going to kill one of them.”

“Way too much effort. They aren’t worth the jail time.”

The attending tosses his now empty coffee in a nearby trash can. “Well, if you snap and kill them all in a fit of extremely valid rage, please don’t call me. I can’t afford to be implicated.”

“You saying I can’t hide a body myself?”

“I’m saying I can’t hide a body.”

“Who’s hiding bodies?” Jack says, sidling up to the two of you with a tablet and a chart open in his hand. 

Shen jams a thumb in your direction. “She’s killing her parents later today.” 

You roll your eyes. “I’m not. Honestly, so long as I agree with whatever my mom says and don’t bring up any trigger topics, I’ll be fine.”

Jack snorts. “You’re describing being held hostage by someone mentally unstable.”

“Dr. Intern?” Ellis interrupts, using the stupid nickname Santos picked for you when she found out you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift, “There’s a woman in the lobby here to see you. Says she’s your mom.”

Your stomach drops to your feet and your heart seizes in your chest. “It’s six in the morning. Oh my god. Oh my god.”

Someone behind you says “Holy shit,” but you’re already gone. As you’re speed walking you whip out your phone, checking the dates of their flights that you’d only had a chance to skim and— fuck. They got in an hour ago. Why the fuck would she stop here? At the PTMC?

You practically slam the doors open and make eye contact with your mom across the crowded lobby. 

“Mom?” 

“There you are sweetie. I was trying to explain that there’s nothing wrong with me and I was here to see you, but they wouldn’t let me. Something about a security issue?”

“It’s not safe. We’ve had incidents in the past—“

She waves a hand, dismissing you. “I’m your mother. Honestly, I wouldn’t have had to come down here if you’d just respond to my texts.” 

“I’ve told you mom, I’m really busy here and I don’t get very much time to look at my phone—“

“Your brothers take the time out of their busy schedules to text me back,” She sighs, then continues on, “Did you get time off this week for dinner?”

You frown. “I thought we were having lunch.”

“Well, I figured since we’re all making it easier for your work schedule to come to you, you could manage to take a few days off for your family. But if we need to make an extra effort—“

“It’s fine, mom,” You tell her with a gritted-toothed smile, “I can make something work. Can you just send me the dates again?”

“It’s this Friday and Saturday.”

Before you can even open your mouth to respond, a large, warm hand settles on your shoulder. Accompanied by the hand is a steadying one on your lower back, a familiar, rich scent and a low voice. 

“Can I help you, ma’am?” 

Jack. 

Jack fucking Abbot. 

Hottest man in the ED. Probably in the world.

Your mom blinks, clearly caught off guard, before regaining her judgy senses and narrowing her eyes at him. 

“I’m trying to have a conversation with my daughter. Don’t tell me you’re security.”

You know for a fact that Jack has his stethoscope around his neck and his keycard in his scrub pocket that says ‘DOCTOR’ on it, so your mom’s just being bitchy. Figures. 

Jack’s hand in your shoulder gives you a tiny, reassuring squeeze before he speaks. 

“I’m Dr. Abbot,” He sticks out a hand for her to shake, the one that was on your shoulder, “I’m an attending here at the ED.”

And my boss, you mentally add. Your mom probably hears it anyway. 

“You work with my daughter?”

“Yes ma’am. She’s the most promising intern we have here on the night shift.”

Your lips twitch at his words. He’s joking. Testing your mother— you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift. If your mom remembers that, she’ll pick up on his joke. 

She doesn’t. She purses her lips for a moment before giving him one of her big, fake smiles. 

“Well that’s good to hear. We’re very proud of her.”

Proud of the money I send home, maybe. 

“If you’ll excuse us, I need her working on patients.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Your mom gushes, clearly already charmed by Jack. He has that effect on people. “I didn’t realize she was so important and busy here.“

You would if you’d ever let me talk about work before interrupting me and telling me what I should be doing better. 

Jack’s thumb makes tiny sweeping motions on your lower back, little tingling motions that distract you enough to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders. 

“I’ll text you as soon as I can, okay mom?”

Your mom sweeps you into a hug, a rare show of affection. Putting on a show for Jack, more than likely. 

“No rush. Whenever you get the chance, sweetheart.”

Jack gives her a parting nod, but you wait until your mom’s turned around and walking out of the lobby before allowing Jack to steer you back inside. 

The second the doors close behind you and you’re enveloped in the sounds and smells of the heart of the PTMC, you shut your eyes and release a long exhale. 

“I,” You start, “Am so sorry. I never thought she’d show up here, I got the flight times mixed up—“

“Hey,” Jack’s voice is low and steady, a much needed anchor. He uses the hand still on your lower back to turn you towards him, “None of that was your fault. We deal with patients like that every day. It is not your job to keep your mother in line.”

“I know. I know. Still, I’m sorry. She can be… difficult.”

He snorts. “Understatement of the year. But seriously. Don’t worry about it. If I didn’t want to get involved with her, I wouldn’t have swooped in there.”

You huff a laugh. “My hero. I’m pretty sure if you’d introduced yourself as my boyfriend she would’ve had an aneurysm. Or a heart attack.”

“Are those desired outcomes?”

“Mostly.”

He slides his hands into his pockets and leans against the opposite wall. “Might be worth a shot, then.”

It’s a very well kept secret that you’ve harbored an embarrassing, ‘think about him while you’re falling asleep at night’ crush on Jack. 

So naturally, your response is to laugh. Loudly. And semi-awkwardly. Because he has to be joking. Obviously.

“Yeah, right,” You say, looking down at your feet because eye-contact has never been your forte and Jack’s gaze is too intense, “Could even take you to dinner with me. Maybe my dad would have a heart attack too. Really just wipe out the whole family.”

“You could.”

“Wipe out my entire family?”

“Take me to dinner with you.”

Jack’s body is relaxed and his tone is even. Not light and humor-filled. There’s no mischievous uptick to the corner of his lips. He looks like he’s serious. 

“Are you joking?”

He can’t really be serious. He’s probably just fucking with you. He wouldn’t actually—

“No.”

You run a hand over your hair. “Yeah, sure, laugh it up, haha—“

“I’ll go to dinner with you. As your boyfriend.”

What. The. Fuck. 

“No.” You gape, incredulous. 

“No?” He raises an eyebrow. 

“No, I mean— fuck. Dr. Abbot—“

“Jack.” 

You purse your lips. “Jack. You can’t just… pretend to be my boyfriend at a family lunch.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” You sputter, “For one, we hardly know each other—“

“You’ve been working here for three months. We’re hardly strangers.”

“You’re my boss, your way older than me, you’re—“ You cut yourself off before you can say something embarrassing like ‘you’re ridiculously fucking hot and I haven’t washed my socks in months’, “It wouldn’t even be believable. How would we even have met?”

“In the ED, obviously.”

“How long have we been together?”

“Month and a half.”

“Why are we even dating?”

“Because you’re a beautiful and intelligent woman, not to mention a good doctor.”

Your mouth goes dry, and your stomach does an entire gymnastics routine. 

“Have you… thought about this?” 

He makes a noncommittal hum, tilts his head back a bit. “Would it work?”

“Are you rich?” 

There’s that devilish, pants dropping smile. 

“I’m a senior attending on night shifts in an emergency department. I’m comfortable.”

You worry your lip between your teeth. “I still can’t… I appreciate the offer, but I can’t subject you to my family. No one else should have to suffer through these lunches and dinners.”

“But you do?”

“They’re my family.” 

Jack doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t move off the wall and walk away either. Distantly, you really hope a patient isn’t coding somewhere. 

You sigh. “Why would you even offer, anyway?” 

“You need help, and I’m in a position to give it. Plus life has been kind of boring recently. My therapist told me to pick a new hobby that doesn’t involve people dying or getting shot at.”

“So you thought spending an evening being subjected to backhanded questions, comments, and not very subtle micro-aggressions was a good substitute?”

“Beats drinking beer in the park.”

You can’t say yes. It’s crazy. One, it would make your crush a million times worse and you might never recover on that fact alone, and two, when this inevitably blows up in your face, your family will never let you live it down and bring it up in literally every conversation for the rest of your life. 

On the other hand, if it works, it will work. Your mom would probably get off your back for a while. You wouldn’t be a complete and total disappointment. If it works, it would be a much needed win. 

“So. We’ve been dating for a month and a half?”

Jack nods, another smile playing at his lips. “I asked you out, of course.”

“Flowers?”

“Naturally.”

“You pay?” 

“For every meal.”

“What’s my favorite color?”

“Navy blue. Mine?” 

You roll your eyes. “Black. What are we going to tell my mom when she pokes at the age gap?”

Someone rushes by, pager beeping, and you both wordlessly start moseying towards your respective patients. 

“Will she really be that upset about it?”

“Probably not, but she’ll definitely ask about it. My dad will probably be angry, but he’s easier to placate than my mom is.”

Jack hums thoughtfully. “When’s the lunch today?”

“Twelve-thirty, at that Italian place that has that mussel dish.”

“How about this,” He starts, apparently not needing anymore clarification on the location, “Lets focus on finishing our shifts right now. Then go home, get some sleep, and I’ll pick you up at eleven so you can pick my brain for every detail that you want to make this work. Deal?”

Last chance to back out. Say hell no, this is a crazy idea, why would you even volunteer for it, I changed my mind. 

“Deal.”

—

Holy fucking shit. Jack Abbot is your boyfriend. 

Fake boyfriend. But for the next few hours, he’s as good as yours. Kind of.

In a way. 

You’re standing in front of your bathroom mirror, dressed in the outfit you picked out for the stupid lunch when your mom texted you the plane ticket details a month ago.

Neither your makeup nor your hair are cooperating and you really need them to because you have to be perfect, so you need your mascara and stop clumping and your hair to stop laying like that and you just don’t want to fucking go. 

Before frustration induced tears can ruin your half-done makeup, a knock sounds at the door. 

You rush through your apartment, nearly cracking your skull open on the corner of the couch when you trip over a stray shoe.

Shit, he’s here and you’re not ready, god he’s going to be so upset you have to make him wait it’s so rude—

“Hi!” You swing open the door and plaster what you hope is a cute-frazzled smile and not a panicked one. It’s a thin line between the two, “I’m almost ready, I’m so sorry, you can come in and sit down wherever, I promise I won’t take too long to finish up. Sorry.”

You turn, unable to bear the anger or frustration on his face and dart away (an old method— hiding and disappearing is much better for everyone in the long run) but a hand encircles your wrist before you can successfully escape. 

“Woah, easy girl. Nobody’s mad at you. We have time, remember?”

Your smile is definitely coming across as panicked. 

Your nails wander and find a hangnail to pick at while you talk. “I know, but that was so we’d have time to plan and it’s rude to make you wait and I really need time to plan, but I can’t get my makeup to look right—“

Jack nudges you into the house and you cut yourself off with another apology. Right. Cause he’s just standing in the hallway and you’re rambling on like someone deranged. God. Why can’t your brain just work? Get into gear? Actually function properly?

“First of all,” Jack starts, gently steering you towards your couch, “You look beautiful.”

Why does he have to say these things? Has he no care for what he’s doing to your heart? Is he unaware that Simone Biles would be impressed with the flip routine your stomach is currently doing? 

He places a throw pillow in your hands which were previously clenched in your lap. It’s your favorite throw pillow, actually, because the texture is very soothing. You squeeze it and rub your fingers across the grain. 

“Secondly, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I can go home and go to bed and if you want, I’ll never bring it up again. Not even to Robby.”

You crack a wobbly smile. “Not even to Nurse Evans?”

“She’d probably guess on her own, but I would never confirm her suspicions.” 

You tuck your feet under your legs, shrinking into the corner of your couch. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I already texted my mom to add a person to the reservation, and if I show up without a plus one there’ll be hell to pay.”

“You could swap me with someone else?”

“Do you think I would have agreed to let my boss be my fake boyfriend if I had someone else to bring?”

“Touché.” 

The corner thread of your throw pillow has begun unraveling, and your wandering fingers pull and tug at it erratically. 

“I’m sorry. I’m not usually this neurotic, I swear. My family brings out the worst in me.”

“I ain’t judging, sweetheart,” Jack soothes, “Besides. We’re ER doctors. We’re all a little neurotic.”

Steadfastly avoiding his gaze (again, just a little too knowing, like he can see every insecurity you’re trying to hide) you stand on shaky legs and rush to the bathroom. 

“I’ll just. Finish up. Sorry again.”

“I’m gonna start a tally of unnecessary sorry’s. You’re gonna owe me an hour of overtime for each one.”

Oddly enough, getting ready (the rest of the way) feels much more manageable and much less difficult with Jack nearby. He doesn’t critique how long it takes you, the fact that you change earrings three times, or tell you that you look good enough and should just go. 

He just hangs out in your living room, on the couch, practically oozing calm and nonchalance. The foolish, romance-starved part of you wants to cancel on your mom and spend the rest of the day curled up next to him on the couch, like a cat. Lazily dozing while Jack watches TV or something sounds like a much better way to spend your time after work than experiencing all five stages of grief over the course of one lunch. Repeatedly. 

Finally ready, and with your sanity intact thanks to Jack, you pause by the kitchen and debate the merits of taking a shot to loosen your nerves. Unfortunately, your mom would undoubtedly somehow smell the alcohol on you and no doubt chew you out for a minimum of twenty minutes. Heaven forbid you make the event bearable.

Ever the kind host, you peek your head around the kitchen wall. “Do you want a shot, Jack?”

“You’re aware that I’m fifty?”

Right. That's probably an unhinged question.

“Just thought I’d offer,” You say, meekly tucking the bottle back under the shelf, slightly embarrassed, “Sometimes alcohol is the only way I can survive these things.”

He’s leaned up against the couch, hands in his pockets when you exit the kitchen. “It was very considerate, thank you. But I think the days of vodka and tequila shots are behind me. I’m more of a whiskey man, anyways.”

“I’ll keep that in mind when we end up at a bar afterwards to drink away memories of the lunch.”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “You act like we’re going to be hung, drawn, and quartered after showing up.”

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Sorry. I just don’t want you to be unprepared, because they’re not always bad but when they’re bad they’re bad, you know? And I just don’t want to scare you off, and ruin the day you could be spending sleeping, and I really am thankful, by the way, I just don’t—“

“Do you always ramble when you’re worried?” Jack interrupts, tilting his head to the side.

“Um. No? I don’t know. I try not to. But like I said. My family brings out the worst in me.”

He searches your face for a moment, then taps the underside of your chin with a crooked finger, raising it slightly. 

“We got this, okay? I’m not easy to scare. Combat med vet, remember? Plus, if it really gets that bad, I’ll fake a call from the hospital. Say there was some horrible accident and we’re being called in.”

“Won’t my mom get wise when she never hears it on the news?”

Jack shrugs. “It’s the city. Something horrible is always happening here.”

He holds the front door open for you when you’ve got your shoes on and purse ready, but as you’re sliding past him, he leans down, the angle of his jaw almost brushing the side of your neck, and breathes in deeply. 

“You smell good.” 

Fuck the gymnastics routine. Your stomach is going for Olympic Gold. 

“Oh,” You exhale, a shiver running up your spine and a pleasant tingling sparking where your skin barely brushed his, “Uh— Thanks. Vanilla and spice. I like layering scents.”

“It’s nice. Suits you.” 

You manage to squeak out another awkward “Thanks” before hastily locking the door, hoping he can’t tell just how flustered he keeps making you. Judging by the smile playing at his lips, your hopes are in vain. 

The car ride to the restaurant is longer than it should be, on account of Pittsburgh traffic, but the time goes by quickly as you pepper Jack with questions to prepare for the million and one that your mother will no doubt ask. 

(“What should I say if she asks if we’ve slept together?”

“Do you really, honestly, truly think your mother is going to bring up the topic of sex at the table, in a nice restaurant, with your entire family present?”

“Fair point.”)

By the time you arrive, you’ve picked and torn every single hangnail and loose cuticle around your fingers down to raw flesh and tiny dots of blood. Jack parks the car (parallel parks easily in one go, no repositioning needed, in downtown Pittsburgh. It’s one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen in your life) a good distance away from the restaurant, so that your family wouldn’t be able to see you if you decided to flee to his car to escape them. 

At least, that’s what he says. 

“I want you to hang onto the car keys, okay? If they get too much, you can sneak out through the kitchen and go to the car. I’ll meet you there.”

You can’t help but smile at his efforts. “And what will you be doing while I’m sneaking out?”

“Singing your praises, of course.”

Exhaustion from the shift you worked in what seems like a lifetime ago lines your limbs, but as you step out of the car (through the door Jack insists on opening for you “In case they’re still watching,”) and loop your arm through Jack’s, you feel… almost capable. 

The lunch is going to suck. That’s a given. But Jack assured you he’s seen worse (“Probably done worse, sweetheart,”) and will not leave the lunch in a fit of rage and cause a scene. His arm is firm and solid —and fucking huge, how are his biceps that big— under your arm, and his presence is steadying. 

As you cross the street and begin your final walk towards the building, he un-loops his arm from yours, but after you make a questioning noise in your throat, worried you’d be completely untethered (how pathetic to already be this reliant on a man, but there’s no time to unpack that now) but instead he wraps his arm around your waist instead, drawing you to his side and effectively grounding you to his body. 

The entire left side of your body lights up at the contact, and if this were your apartment, it would be very difficult to refrain from climbing him like a tree or doing something equally embarrassing, like plastering yourself to his side and begging him to never stop touching you. 

You’ve almost managed to come off unaffected, but then he leans down, lips almost brushing your ear, and whispers: 

“You’ve got this, baby. And if you don’t, I do.”

Forget your family. Jack Abbot is going to be the death of you. 

When you walk into the restaurant, hyper-aware of Jack’s grip on your body (your delusional mind has you thinking how… possessive the hand almost feels, if you ignore the fact that this is all fake) your family is waiting in the foyer, talking amongst themselves. 

Your mother immediately zeroes in on you. “Honey, we’ve talked about you being on time to these things. You can’t be late to important family—“

You watch in real time as your mother’s gaze finally flicks to Jack, and the shades of recognition, shock, almost disgust, and confusion before settling back into forced pleasantness. 

Your father, however, looks downright murderous. Looks like the age gap isn’t going down too well. 

If Jack is at all nervous or put off by the several stares and outright glares from your family, he does not show it. He exudes cool confidence, the same unflappable energy he has during chaotic night shifts. The same calm that makes him so alluring to you in the first place. 

He sticks out his hand for your mother to shake, a mirror of earlier that day in the PTMC lobby. 

“I believe we’ve met before, but I’ll introduce myself again. I’m Dr. Jack Abbot.”

Your mother shakes his hand, but looks between the two of you like you’ve just spilled wine on her Persian rug that she can’t afford in the first place. 

“You’re my daughter’s plus one?”

Jack nods. “Her boyfriend, yes.”

Your brother’s gape. Your dad’s glare intensifies. You want to kiss Jack. 

“Honey,” Your mother says, gaze darting to you, “You didn’t say—“

“I didn’t want you to meet him at the hospital,” You tell her, hoping the lie doesn’t come across as too rehearsed, since you did rehearse it several times with Jack in the car on the way over, “The lobby of the hospital isn’t the best place to introduce people. And we really did have patients to get back to.”

Your mother purses her lips. “Why the last minute addition? If you’d told me that he was coming before today, it would’ve been easier to make the reservation.”

Jack is quicker to respond than you. “That’s my fault, actually. I didn’t think I was going to be able to come, what with my shifts as a senior attending, but when we met in the lobby I understood how important it was to make the time.”

You have to try hard not to smile at Jack’s not-so-subtle flex. Senior attending. 

“Yes, well. My daughter doesn’t always stress the importance of these things.” 

Jack’s grip on your waist tightens ever-so-slightly at the backhanded remark, and your mother’s gaze darts to the point of contact. But your father jerks his head towards the tables before she can say anything. “I’m starving.”

Everyone files in behind him, with you and Jack at the back of the line. Again, he leans down to whisper to you. 

“How’d I do?”

You elbow him in the side. “We’ll discuss your performance after this is over.”

“Looking forward to it.” 

The hostess leads everyone over to a large table near a window (your mother is particularly about seating) and everyone finds a seat. One of your brothers, either as a test or just to be a shit (your money’s on the latter) slides into the open seat next to you before Jack can. 

To his credit, Jack doesn’t cause a scene, but he doesn’t back down either. He just stares at your idiot brother for awhile before finally asking: 

“Do you really wanna do this right now?”

Your brother must sense that Jack Abbot is not a man to be fucked with (just a man you want to fuck), and scurries to his own seat, tail between his legs. 

Once everyone is seated and the food is ordered (you don’t bother ordering anything other than the salad; Jack orders the most expensive thing on their menu. He’s never seemed like one to care for finery and expensive Italian restaurants where you practically have to order in Italian, but again, his unfazed demeanor makes him fit in anywhere) your family immediately begins peppering him with questions. Questions you knew they’d ask and appropriately prepared him for. 

“So. Dr. Abbot—”

“Just Jack is fine.”

“—How long have the two of you been dating?”

“A month and a half.”

“Why’d you start dating?”

You take a generous gulp of your wine. 

“Because your daughter is an incredible woman and an even better doctor.”

“Do you think she’s pretty?” One of your brothers chimes in. 

Jack takes it in stride, despite that not being a question you prepared. “I’d have to be blind and stupid if I didn’t.”

You feel hot from the tips of your ears down to your toes. 

That’s going in the mental folder. 

“Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”

“Pretty much. Took a bit of a detour as a combat medic first, though.”

“Why’d you leave?” 

“Honorably discharged after I lost my right leg. Below the knee amputation.”

You drain the rest of your glass and inconspicuously motion to the waiter for more wine. 

The table is silent for the customary length of time after someone drops the “got a limb chopped off” bomb. Your family is clearly mildly uncomfortable, but Jack just keeps sipping his drink, his free hand drifting down and brushing the side of your thigh.

Your dad clears his throat. Here we go. Home stretch. Final questions before we’re in the clear. 

“Mr. Abbot—“

“Either Doctor or Jack works.” 

Ooo. There was some bite in that one. 

Your Dad frowns. He does not like to be interrupted or corrected. You’ve been on the receiving end of far too many hour long lectures (read: berating and borderline verbal abuse) to know better. 

But Jack isn’t his daughter. Jack is pretty much his equal. Actually, the fact that Jack not only served but is now a doctor places him above your father, by social conventions. 

This no doubt infuriates your father. He’s always hated it when he couldn’t tear somebody down to his level. A true coward. 

“Jack,” Your dad continues, a trademarked forced smile to save face, “You’re a smart man, yeah? Haven’t you ever considered the age difference between the two of you might be a little much?” 

Yikes. Questioning Jack’s competency is not the way to go. Jack is very competent. And smart. And capable. It’s really hot. 

Your fake-boyfriend just reaches over and grasps your hand, over the table, and looks at you with such devotion in his eyes that you forget how to breathe. 

“War doesn’t really lend to longevity. I’ve learned to hold on tight to things I care about.” 

For a moment, it doesn’t feel fake. There’s raw, punched emotion in his voice, and his thumb rubs your hand gently. Like he really does care that much. Like he wants to hold on. 

But then your brother fake-gags and your fake boyfriend looks away with that, he’s passed the tests, and the conversation moves onto to different topics. Jack laughs at all the right moments, doesn’t bring up any argument-starting topics, doesn’t rise to bait when it’s thrown his way. 

He’s perfect. 

Eventually lunch is drawn to a polite close. You have one last glass of wine while Jack settles the bill. Himself. With one card. He doesn’t even look. 

Your mom sends a smirk your way after he waves off your father’s attempt at splitting the bill or offering to pay. It’s probably the third time she’s actually looked at you for the entire duration of the lunch, but since it’s positive, you’ll let it slide. 

Pretty soon bags are grabbed, hands are shook, and Jack’s hand magically finds its way back to your lower back and you’re being (very gently) escorted out of the restaurant and to the car. 

“Wow,” You breathe as you slide into the passenger seat of his car. “I think that’s the smoothest a lunch with my family has ever gone in my entire life. You’re really good at this.”

Jack doesn’t respond though. Doesn’t make any kind of noise that he heard you. His hands are nearly white knuckled on the steering wheel and he’s staring straight ahead. 

“Jack?” 

“They didn’t even talk to you.”

You blink. 

“What?”

“Your family never tried to include you in the conversation. Didn’t even ask you any questions.”

You snort. “Trust me, it’s better that way.”

He hasn’t started the car yet, just keeps staring off into the middle ground. He can’t be old enough to start doing a thousand yard stare already, right?

“You ordered a salad.” He says, a very prominent frown on his lips. 

“So? It wasn’t too expensive, was it? I swear, if I knew you were gonna pay for the whole bill I would’ve looked at something cheaper, I don’t know why salads are so expensive—“

“Please don’t apologize for ordering a salad,” Jack says, voice pained, “Especially because I know you hate salads.”

Oh. 

“How do you know that?”

“I overheard you talking to Dr. King that time you two were discussing the merits of Olive Garden. You said the salad there was the only kind you like, because of the dressing and the pepperoncinis.”

Your cheeks heat. “I never said I hated all salads. I said I like that one in particular.”

“You hardly ate anything during lunch.”

“My family tends to have that effect on my appetite.”

Jack does not look placated. He doesn’t take the out that your little joke provides. Doesn't so much as huff. He looks upset. Distressed. 

Something about what he said goes ding! in your mind.

“…Mel and I had that conversation like, last month. You seriously remembered that?” 

He frowns harder, like the answer to your partly rhetorical question should be obvious.

(It’s not. Why would he remember that conversation? Why would he care at all?)

“Of course I remember.” 

There isn’t much to say after that. You’re not really sure what in particular has upset Jack, what possibly blunder or error you’ve made to incur him going completely monosyllabic and frowny. Ever eager to appease, you refrain from any attempts to cajole him, make conversation, breathe too loudly, or make any kind of indication that you’re still present. 

The tension in the car is thick and uncomfortable. It prickles at your skin and the hairs on the back of your neck, but the only thing you dare to do is scroll through Pinterest, only looking at the safest, basic boards in case Jack glances over (he doesn’t.)

But then he does glance over. He just doesn’t look at your phone. 

Jack just keeps looking at you. 

He’ll look over, eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something, and then he’ll look away. Over and over for almost the entire course of the drive. He only stops when you accidentally time your staring (monitoring) of him wrong and make eye contact. 

He parks by your place (he once again sexily parallel parks with ease) and then puts the car in park. And then he starts talking. 

“You’re so much more than them.” 

Jack has the heat on, but the air in the car suddenly feels cold. 

“What?”

“Your family,” Jack clarifies, like that was the confusing part “Your parents. I hated watching you… disappear like that. You deserve better than that. You are better than that.” 

You try to swallow, almost choking on the sudden lump in your throat. 

“Listen,” You start, unaware of how to even begin processing what he said, let alone formulating the best response because your brain is just flashing abort! Abort! Abort! in big neon letters,, “Thank you for today. I really appreciate it. But if this is all just too much, I can handle things from here. Really. I can say that someone called out and you had to cover shifts—“

“No.”

Jack says it with such vehemence, bordering on vitriol, that it startles you, and you flinch backwards ever so slightly. 

An old habit. 

Something flashes across his face —gone before you can decipher it— and he noticeably forces himself calmer.  

“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let you go alone again. Ever.” 

Your brain starts short-circuiting at his words. “I really can’t ask you to—“

“It’s a good thing you’re not asking me then.” 

“Jack—“

“Please.”

You’re stunned silent at the rawness in his tone— the pain. 

He said please. He said it like he was begging. He is begging. 

“I don’t know how you do it,” He continues, jaw working, “I can see it on you, plain as day. How you hate what they do, how it makes you hurt. But you keep going.”

You shrug uselessly. “Is there another option?” 

Jack reaches out for you, then falters, like he thought better. A tiny part of you wishes he’d followed through; bridged the yawning gap between the two of you that’s made up of the center console in his car, a couple decades, and your own unwillingness to try at vulnerability. 

“I’ll walk you to your door.” 

The walk to your door is a stark contrast to the walk to the restaurant. There’s no mischief on his face now, only a mask of stony distress. 

At the doorway to your apartment building, you pause. It seems customary. Appropriate. Necessary.

Really, you just want to look at Jack some more. Try to puzzle out why the lunch that felt like it went so well made him so upset. Where you’re getting signals wrong and crossing wires. Why success to you is failure to him. 

(As an ED resident, you’ve seen child abuse cases. You’ve seen foster care children littered with cigarette burns and criss-crossing scars of broken bottles and the corners of coffee tables and haunted eyes.  

You know your family isn’t great. But there aren’t any cigarette burns or glass scars or eyes that track fast movement.)

You have this burning inclination to apologize to Jack. Logically, you know you haven’t done something wrong, but you feel like you have because he’s upset so maybe you can make it better? 

“You have that look on your face.”

You frown. “What look?” 

“The ‘I’m gonna apologize for something stupid’ look.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were thinking about it,” Jack ducks down, catches your eyes, “Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.” 

“It’s freaky when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“You always know what I’m thinking.”

Jack just huffs; shoves his hands in his pockets. 

Emboldened by his reassurance, you ask: “Why are you upset?” 

“Because your family treats you like shit, and I want to fix it, but I can’t.” 

“Oh.” 

It’s not that bad. It can’t be that bad. You’ve seen bad. This isn’t it. It’s hard, but it’s not bad. 

He stays quiet, seemingly sensing the inner turmoil his words have sparked. That, or he really is that good at reading you. 

Jack nods towards your door. “We can talk later. Get some sleep. We both have shifts tonight.”

Right. Yeah. All of these events roughly occurred over the course of six hours. Time makes sense. 

Despite the fact that you are exhausted and desperately need to sleep if you have any chance of surviving your –quickly approaching– shift, you linger. 

“How am I supposed to repay you for all of this?” 

The question that’s been burning a hole in your pocket since he said I’ll do it. 

He just shakes his head. Like it’s simple. Easy. “This isn’t something I want repayment for. Now go. You’re no good to me as a zombie.” 

“I’ll just have some of Shen’s Dunkin.”

“He doesn’t share that shit. Besides, he’s off tomorrow.”

“Maybe I‘ll—“

“Sleep,” He points at your door, “Now.” 

You smile at his insistence. He’s sort of like cold coffee with sugar. Seems all bitter but then you get a bit of that sweet crunch, so it balances out. He balances out. 

Sometimes it feels like he balances you out. 

“Goodnight.”

He gives you a little smile of his own. 

“Goodnight.”

—

Jack Abbot does not take his own advice. Mostly because he knows if he doesn’t talk about what happened during that lunch from hell, he’s going to do something that will end in him being thrown in prison and having his medical license revoked. More importantly, if that happens, he won’t be around to take care of you. 

So instead he collapses on his couch, works his prosthetic off to give his stump a needed break, and dials the number at the top of his favorites in his contact list. 

“This really isn’t a good time—“

“Robby,” Jack starts, “They didn’t even fucking talk to her.” 

“Jesus, okay. Whitaker! Cover for me a sec, will you? I gotta deal with this.”

“They just…” Jack continues, genuinely at a loss for words. His vocabulary feels woefully unequipped to relay the depth of anger he feels about the events of the lunch, “…Ignored her. They talked over her, didn’t ask her questions, hardly ever let her finish speaking when she did finally get a chance to speak, and threw jabs at her constantly. It was fucking awful.“

The background noise quiets over the phone, and Jack knows Robby’s moved to either the break room or an empty patient room. 

“She fight back at all?”

“No. Just… grinned and beared it. It was fuckin’ unsettling, man. I’ve seen her yell back at rude patients, watched her stand her ground to EMT’s who think they know better. It was like she hollowed herself out to sit at that table.” 

“Christ.”

“She flinched away from me. Afterwards, in the car, when I raised my voice on accident.”

“Fuck. Do you think—“

“I don’t know. Maybe when she was younger. They don’t live in state, so if they are, she’s safe.” 

Jack scrubs a hand down his face. “God. I don’t know what to do, Robby. It doesn’t seem like she’s got… anybody. She didn’t even understand why I was upset. She doesn’t get why that would be upsetting.” 

“She’s friends with Mel and Santos, right?” 

“And Whitaker by extension, yeah. But those are recent friends. I’ve never heard her mention anybody from back home. No boyfriend or best friend or anything. She’s just been doing everything on her own.”

Jack can picture Robby nodding. “We’ve done our fair share of that.”

“Yeah, and look where that got us. I can’t just leave her here. Fuck, it was like watching someone kick a puppy, over and over.” 

“That bad?” 

“Yeah.” 

The line goes silent for a bit, both men stewing on the subject at hand. 

“She’s always had these habits. I thought they were just personality quirks, you know. I mean, we’re all fucked up, but watching it happen…”

“It’s different.” 

“You could say that,” Jack sighs, “She soaks up praise like a fucking sponge. She looks surprised every time I do something nice for her. And she keeps trying to make me happy.”

“You lost me on that last one.” 

“It doesn’t… She’s not doing it to make me happy, exactly. She just does everything she can to keep me from getting mad.” 

“Is there a difference?”

“There is. Eager to please versus eager to appease.”

“Are you sure you want to get involved?”

“Bit late for that.”

“You could pull back.”

“Fuck no, I can’t. Then I’d be kicking the puppy.”

“She is a grown woman.”

“Who happens to look like a kicked puppy.”

He scrubs a hand down his face, groaning into the microphone. 

“You finally realize how ridiculous you sound?”

Jack grunts. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction of answering that.”

The line crackles with the staticky sound of Robby chuckling. “That’s an answer in it of itself, and you know that.” 

He lets the line go quiet again, briefly debating just hanging up. 

“I don’t know, Robby. It’s just…”

“Worse than you expected?”

“Yeah.”

“Come on. You knew that was a possibility. Has it put you off, at all?”

“Fuck no.”

“Exactly. Now please, go to bed so I can get back to saving lives? Whitaker is covering for me and he’s only gone through two pairs of scrubs so far today. I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d bet money that he’s moved onto his third during this conversation.” 

“I save lives too.”

“You won’t save any if you fall asleep on the drive over and die.”

“I would never fall asleep behind the wheel.”

“That’s what they all say.” 

Jack really does hang up after that, plugging his phone in and rushing through everything he needs to do before bed. 

But even as exhaustion pulls his body down into deep, dreamless sleep, he can’t stop thinking about that hollow look on your face. And he knows, even half-asleep, that he won’t be able to let it go.

—

The next night at work is weird, because nothing has changed, except now you know what the inside of Jack’s car looks like and how his voice sounded when he begged you to let him help. 

It’s jarring, to say the least. Unsteadying and mildly world-rocking if you’re being honest. 

But gossip travels fast within the walls of the PTMC, so by the time night shift is halfway over, you’re convinced you’ve heard every variation in existence of the same two questions: 

“Did you and Jack go on a date yesterday?” 

And: 

“What’s Jack like on a date?” 

The answer to the first question is complicated and embarrassing, so you don’t answer it or any of it’s variants. The answer to the second question is not complicated but it does, however, stir some very complicated feelings, so you refrain from answering that one too. You just try to refrain from thinking about or seeing him in general.

You’re not avoiding Jack, per se. Just keeping busy. With other stuff. That’s conveniently nowhere near him. 

Ellis keeps shooting you entirely too knowing looks, Mckay, who’s pulling a double, pats your shoulder and tells you she’s there if you want to talk, Shen is absent as Jack said he would be, and Jack himself is acting like nothing happened and everything is normal and he’s never been to your apartment smelled your perfume. 

(“…I like layering scents.”

“It’s nice. Suits you.”)

It’s all too much.

Hence the avoiding.

You try to curb your own ridiculousness for the sake of your patients, but it’s oddly difficult. You’ve always been amazing at compartmentalizing. If your family gave you any kind of skill, it’s the ability to shove your feelings in a box, and then shove that box in a corner of your mind you won’t access consciously until you end up on public transportation with your headphones. You should be more than capable of gathering up all the loose feelings labeled ‘For: Jack Abbot’ and tucking them all nice and neat in that little box and then shove it in a dark mental corner. 

But you can’t. And along with the flurry of Jack Abbot causing a hurricane in your head, there’s a lesser storm that is the result of your family. More specifically, how they look to Jack. 

All roads lead back to Rome. Or, in your case, to Jack. 

You catch yourself during every spare moment or menial task that doesn’t require 100% of your brain power analyzing every interaction he had with them. Everything they said, everything they did, and how Jack would’ve taken it. And why. Because clearly, the act of dealing with them isn’t the problem. The ease and finesse in which he did so crosses that off the list. So it’s something else. 

It’s how they treat you. 

You understand, logically, that it would be upsetting, from his point of view. If you were in his place, you’d also probably be upset too. 

But this feels different. Jack’s reaction is different. Jack is different. 

It’s just never really been something that anyone should be upset over. Your family are who they are. Not great, but not truly bad either. You deal with them sparingly. You don’t even live in the same state anymore. It’s not a big deal. 

“Why are you hiding from me in a supply closet?” 

You whirl around, a box of gloves clutched in your hands.

“I’m not hiding from you.”

Jack crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. “This is the third time you’ve been here in two hours.”

“So? I just want to be… on top of things. I’m a productive person.” 

“You are,” He amends, “But all of your productivity tonight has been pretty strictly nowhere near me. Funny how that works.”

You sigh, placing the gloves back on the rack. “Things are just… weird, okay? I don’t know how you’re being so normal about all this?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Normal how?”

“You seemed pretty upset yesterday. You’re acting like nothing’s changed, but–”

“Nothing has changed.”

Your fingers wander and find a loose piece of skin on the edge of your cuticle, and you begin absent-mindedly picking at it. 

You can’t exactly disagree with him, right here, in the supply closet at the hospital. But you can’t quite bring yourself to agree either– because whether he acknowledges it or not, things have changed. Seeing him outside the hospital, perfectly placating your family into one of the most peaceful get-togethers you’ve had in years isn't just nothing. 

It’s everything. And you, for one, can’t just pretend that it didn’t happen. 

“Hey,” He calls your name softly, “What’s on your mind? What’s bugging you?” 

“Nothing.”

He snorts, pushing off the doorframe and shutting the door behind him, so it’s just the two of you alone. “Liar.”

He doesn’t probe any further, just leans against the now closed door with his hands in his pockets, eyes flitting over you like they’re looking for an answer. An answer you’re too hesitant to give. 

“I’m just worried.” 

“You? Worried? No.” 

You cut him a glare, “There’s a very real chance that this could all go horribly awry, you know.”

“Sure,” Jack dips his head, “But that’s not what you’re really worried about.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because that doesn’t address the fact that you’re avoiding me.”

You sigh, scrubbing a hand across your face. 

“Why do you care?” 

The question that’s been nagging at you since the beginning. The little itch in the back of your mind that you just can’t seem to get rid of. The puzzle you can’t figure out; the tune you can’t place. 

You’re a logic driven person. You like knowing how things works– why they work. Why things do the things they do. 

You like having the why. Having the why makes the world make sense. 

Nothing about Jack Abbot makes sense. 

“Why do I care about what?”

“This,” You gesture vaguely to the air, “Me. I don’t buy that you just didn’t have anything better to do or whatever it was you said. People don’t just… do that. You’re really ruining your life for an entire week for what? So I'm a little less uncomfortable? Me? At the end of the day, we’re just coworkers. I know how important your down time is for you, so I just don’t get why you’re so okay with being miserable just for my sake. I’m not that important. These stupid lunches aren’t that important.” 

It’s a stupid confession. Much too vulnerable for a supply closet and a man you’re harboring feelings for. 

He doesn’t respond right away. Hums, stares at his shoes for a bit. Re-adjusts so his prosthetic isn’t taking so much weight. 

“You are important. You’re important to me, to this hospital, to your patients. And for the record, I am not ‘ruining my week.’ If it was that easy for my week to be ruined, I never would have become a doctor, let alone joined the military.”

“But why?” 

“Jesus, you watched a lot of the science channel growing up, didn’t you?” 

You snort. “Guilty as charged.” 

Now it’s his turn to sigh. 

“You… seem to have this misguided belief that caring is reciprocal in nature.”

You frown. “It is.” 

“It isn’t. At least it shouldn’t be, but I don’t think anyone ever told you that.” 

You scoff. “So this is about my family.” 

He shrugs. “Amongst other things.”

“They’re not that bad.”

“They are.” 

“Other people have it worse.”

“It’s not a competition.” 

You resist the urge to throw your hands in the air. “Why is this such a big deal to you?” 

“Because it’s a big deal to you.” 

The air gets quiet and tense. Like the supply closet and all the medical supplies in it are holding their breath. If they were alive, if they were holding their breath, you’re convinced they’d all be looking at you. 

It’s Jack who speaks first though. 

“I can see it. You do everything yourself, get back up even when it’s hard. You look out for other people more than you look out for yourself. You’re selfless and kind and I don’t think very many people give that back to you.” 

A reflexive smile pulls at your lips, a habit you never quite managed to kick after years of people telling you ‘smile, look grateful, stop looking so upset, there’s nothing to cry about.’ It feels awkward and clunky on your mouth but you don’t know what else to do. There’s no pre-written protocol for something like this.

“I still don’t really get it.” You murmur, more to yourself than to Jack.

Jack sends you a light grin. “We’ll work on it.” 

“We will?” 

“Sure,” He shrugs, “Already started anyways.” 

“If you’re sure.” 

“I’m sure,” He opens the door, “Now get back out there. And bring the gloves too.”

You roll your eyes but comply, snagging the box off the shelf where you’d left it and following him out. 

The rest of your shift passes much smoother than before, even with the routine influx of patients as the time inches closer to morning. Jack doesn’t hover, but doesn’t pull the disappearing act that you (totally fairly) pulled on him either. He truly seems unfazed. Like it really, actually doesn’t bother him. 

Well. Correction. It does bother him, but not because it’s something he’s doing for you, the part that bothers him (apparently) is how all of this affects you. All this caring makes you feel like a deer in the headlights.

You recall something he said that night. Something that had made you shiver– something that hit the nail right on the head. 

“Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.” 

He always seems to know exactly what to say to you. How to act, what to do, what specific worry you’re feeling and the best course of action to soothe it. It’s great but it’s also difficult, because there’s a part of you that wants to let him keep doing it, but then there’s the part of you that bristles every time and wants to snap that you’re completely capable of doing things yourself. 

That probably wouldn’t even work. He’d just say something infuriating and sexy, like “I know, but I want to do this for you.” 

He would. He totally would. 

The thought is equal parts haunting and reassuring. 

(And maybe, also, a little, kind of really sweet?)

–

The next two lunches go great. Jack is still freakishly incredible at charming your family. And, with his help, you actually manage to hold a (mostly) civil conversation with your parents for the first time in… years. 

The lunches are fine, but the part you’ve started looking forward to is the before and after. Before, Jack comes to pick you up, and sometimes he comes early and helps prepare (which mostly involves him either talking you off the ledge, pouring a shot or two, or assuring you that your makeup and outfit look great. Not fine, great) or just to hang out. The hanging out part is nice, because he never comes with any sort of expectation. He’ll sit on your couch and scroll through his phone and entertain all the inane chatter you like to get out of your system beforehand but never had an outlet for before. 

The after is even more fun. You run through the highlights of the night and hate on all the annoying things your family said to you. This usually also involves stopping somewhere for food (only for you, Jack’s never hungry because he eats t=at the restaurants but you’re never allowed to order anything that isn’t a salad) and then the two fo you fight over who pays. You always insist since you’re the only one actually eating any of the food, but then Jack usually takes your card, puts it in his pocket, and uses his own. 

It’s as frustrating as it is hot. 

But for the most part, the lunches and your shifts at work have actually been pretty good– as good as night shifts in a trauma center can be, anyway. Jack’s presence is… steadying, even when he’s not physically there. He’s always present in some way– whether it’s little reminders he leaves at your favorite spot for charting (he only uses blue sticky notes) or a real lunch left for you in the breakroom fridge (you weren’t previously aware he actually knew how to cook, or that he knew how picky you are when it comes to what you’ll actually eat for lunch and how often you get too busy to properly make something.) Sometimes he’s there in your head; in little things he’s told or taught you that you remember in the moment. 

It’s nice. To have someone be around. Someone you can relax with, joke with– someone who hasn’t looked down on you for the the way you turned out. 

You were pretty ready to declare smooth sailing ahead, but then on the third lunch your mother shows up and is decidedly not in a good mood and the seas turn choppy and the boat smashes into the rocks below. 

At least, two peach bellinis in, that’s what it feels like. 

“Honestly,” Your mother puffs, “I don’t understand why making some simple appetizers could take so long. This is why I hate going to restaurants during lunch hours, the staff just gets so lazy. The menu is always better at dinner anyways.” 

You ignore the thinly veiled dig and instead choose to quietly drain the rest of your third peach bellini. They taste like juice and take a much needed edge (or two) of the evening. Lunch. What-fucking-ever. 

Jack, ever aware of the best way to survive these functions (somehow) whilst keeping his sanity, remains silent as your mom huffs and puffs, seeming to understand that trying to placate her when she gets in these moods is a fruitless endeavor that only leads  to your mom getting more upset and everyone else more annoyed. 

You, made slightly optimistic by the wonderful powers of alcohol, attempt to put her in a better mood. 

“I have the next three days off, mom. We’ll be able to do dinners instead.”

Your mother, however, only scoffs. “That’s no good to anyone now. We’ve already spent half this week dealing with poor restaurant service. I mean, no respectable job would have such a ridiculous schedule." 

“I’m a doctor, mom. It doesn’t get more respectable than that.” 

Jack nudges your leg with his, either a silent laugh, show of support, or quiet question of your sanity. Maybe all three. 

Another bellini appears in front of you, this one heavier on the alcohol than the last. Your server is getting a giant tip when this is all over. 

“You work in the emergency department, dear. That’s hardly stable, and stable is respectable,” Jack clears his throat, and your mother at least has the manners to look mildly sheepish, “No offense, Jack.” 

He smiles thinly. “None taken.” 

Conversation from there is stilted at best with even your brothers tip-toeing around your mother. No one wants to be the subject of a nitpicking lecture, even when the version she gives them is a slap on the wrist compared to what you endure. 

So you keep drinking your bellini’s and they keep coming. After your fourth, you think you should maybe slow down a little, but then your dad starts grilling Jack about his life (again) and you decide that alcohol is, in fact, necessary. 

“Have you ever been in a serious relationship before, Jack?” 

That one almost makes you ask the server for a shot of vodka, straight. That’s a question you ask a nineteen year-old pimple-faced boy, not a fucking fifty year old man. 

“I have, yes. But, like most things in life, they were learning experiences. I’ve moved on.” 

Your dad snorts, then gestures to you. “You could teach her a thing or two about moving on.” 

Your blood runs cold. 

Jack sets his glass down. “And what do you mean by that?”

It’s your mother who answers. Because one vulture circling your soon-to-be carcass wasn’t enough. 

“I’m surprised she hasn’t told you. It was all she ever talked about for years. She’s had exactly one boyfriend before you– what was his name honey?”

“Christopher,” You answer hollowly, stomach churning. 

Your dad snaps his fingers. “That’s it. It took ages for her to get her first boyfriend. We were fairly convinced it would never happen, but then one day she came home with Christopher. Whole family wanted to throw a party– finally found someone to put up with all that attitude!”

Your family laughs, but Jack doesn’t. 

“Where’s the funny part, in all this?”

Your mother clears her throat, just a tad awkward. “When she broke up with him it was awful. She refused to leave her room for works, cried all the time. Honestly, I would have understood if he had broken up with her, but it was all her decision.” 

Your dad nods in agreement. “We had to have a sit-down conversation with her about decisions and consequences before she finally stopped crying and hiding in her room. Christopher was such a nice boy, we hated to see him go.”

Jack opens his mouth, poised to fire something back and defend you, but you beat him to the punch. 

“He cheated on me with my best friend.” 

At that, your mother frowns. “That’s not what Christopher said. You were in your teen angst era, remember? Always picking fights? He told your brother that you were so distant with him he didn’t know you were still together.” 

“I wasn’t distant, I was really busy. I was studying for the MCAT. He knew that. He knew how important medical school was to me.” 

Your brother rolls his eyes. “Med school was all you talked about. It’s not like you were putting out.”

Your mother snaps her fingers once. “That is inappropriate talk for public. You know better.” 

“Come on, mom. It’s true. Everyone knows–”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Jack says, not at all sounding sorry, “But the hospital just texted. There’s an emergency, and we’re needed, so we have to go.” 

Jack does not wait for your mother or father to excuse him. He just stands, offering you his hand. It turns out that you need it, because there is, apparently, such a thing as too many peach bellinis. Your mom sends you a pointed glare as you stumble once, after which you make a concerted effort to look more sober. 

Neither you nor Jack bother saying proper goodbyes. Once he grabs your jacket and purse (and your vision stops swimming so much and you’re sure you can walk in a convincing approximation of a straight line) you’re both gone. You pass your server on the way out, who is slipped a very generous cash tip for the excellent bellini service. 

By the time you get to the car, you realize that you’re about to have to save patient lives and you are very, extremely, drunk. There is no way you are capable of doing any life-saving at the moment. 

“Jack,” You mumble, fumbling with your seatbelt, “I think I’m too drunk to go in. Did they say how serious the emergency was? Can I just get a banana bag?” 

“There is no emergency,” He says calmly, batting your hands away and buckling you in properly, “I made it up. I figured you’d be okay with ducking out of there.” 

“Oh. That was nice of you.” 

He clicks you in and gives you a wry grin. “Told you I would handle things.”

You nod, the movement exaggerated and lopsided. “I hate it when they bring up Christpher. They always take his side. Like, is there ever a situation where it’s okay to cheat on a girl with her best friend? I was studying for the MCAT. I didn’t even wallow or break up with him when I found out. I waited until after I took the exam so I didn’t fuck up my score.” 

“That’s my girl.” 

“Christopher was an asshole. He was a real dickhead. The whole situation sucked. I lost the only two people who I thought cared about me at the same time. My family acted like I was the fucking anti-christ for being upset about it, too. It was fucking terrible. I’m so glad I don’t live with them anymore. I mean, I still love them, and I care about them, cause they’re my family, but everything is just so much easier when they’re not around.” 

“You’re allowed to hate them, you know.” 

“I know,” You say, fiddling with a hangnail. “I know I probably should.” 

You sigh, tilting your head back against the headrest. “I always keep holding out hope, you know? That one day they’ll apologize, figure their shit out, care about me in a way that matters. I know it’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.” 

You frown. “It’s not? It kinda seems stupid. You’d think by now I would know better.” 

“No,” Jack eases the car out of the parking space, “We’re biologically wired to love our families. It’s the reason why they can fuck you up so bad. Your brain can’t compute why the people who are supposed to love you above all else just… don’t. Not in any of the right ways.” 

You blow air through your lips. “I think my parents fucked me up. I was so happy when I matched into the Pitt, because it was so far away. But then I got out here it just kind of hit me, all at once, that I was alone. My best friend was gone, my ex boyfriend sucked, and I was too busy in med school taking care of myself and my family to make any friends.”

Shit, that sounds so whiny. “But it turns out it wasn’t so bad. Now I've got Mell, and Santos, and I’m pretty sure I’m friends with Shen too. Mckay is nice too. I like her. She’s cool.” 

Jack huffs something that could be a laugh, and you turn to study him; the angles of his face awash in the glow of the red light you’re currently stopped at. From here, you can see the tiny bits of tension he carries in his face— a slight pinch in his brow, the tiniest downturn of his lips. It’s the only evidence that he’s not as unaffected by your family as he pretends to be.

Then the light turns green, and his face isn’t illuminated the same. 

“And what about me?” 

Oh. Well. That’s a loaded question.

The alcohol emboldens you to answer honestly. “I don’t know what to think about you.” 

“Oh really?” 

“Mmm. Nope.” 

“How come?” 

"You're so–” You gesture vaguely, “Confusing. I can’t figure you out. For a while there, I was pretty sure you hated me, but then you offered to help me with this and you keep saying you care so I think I’m wrong.” 

“You think you’re wrong?”

“Still can’t figure you out.” 

“And how can I show you that I mean it?” 

That’s. Hmm.

“I don’t know. I think what you’re doing is working,” You pause, debating the pros and cons of continuing to just say whatever the fuck you want before deciding you’re too tired to care, “It helps that you’re really hot.” 

His lips twitch. “Oh, does it now?” 

“Mhm. You’ve got this whole… capable thing about you. It’s hot. Competency is in.”

“If you say so.” 

“I do say so. I feel like if I had a problem I could call you or something and you would fix it. You’re so…”

“Competent?” 

“That’s the word.”

If he’s at all irritated, annoyed, or otherwise put off by your stupid rambling, he didn’t show it. 

“You should call me whenever you have a problem. Chances are, I can fix it.” 

“Are you like Bob the Builder?”

“I’m a doctor, so no.” 

“You’re kind of like Bob the Builder.” 

“Whatever you say,” He pauses at an empty intersection before continuing on, “Before I start heading towards your place, do you want to stop by mine? You didn’t even get to eat your salad, and I have leftovers. You can say no.”

“Are you gonna be mad at me if I say no?” 

“No.” 

‘Then yes.” 

“You sure? I wasn’t lying.” 

“I know. But I like your cooking.”

You spend the drive to Jack’s continuing to ramble about nothing and everything, to which he entertains with a seemingly endless amount of patience. The only time he interrupts is to hand you a bottle of Gatorade he procured from his back seat. Apparently, he bought a few to keep in his car after the first lunch. “For any alcohol excursions.” 

It’s freaky how prepared he is for every situation. 

When you arrive, he unbuckles your seatbelt for you (unbuckling is just as difficult as buckling when you’ve had an unknown amount of peach bellinis) and helps you up the stairs to his apartment. 

His gigantic apartment. 

“Woah,” You mumble as you shuffle through the doorway, pulled along by your hand in Jacks, “I didn’t know they made apartments this size.” 

“Its not that big.” 

“I think, like, four of my apartments could fit in here. Your living room is the size of my entire place.” 

You stumble once, heel catching on the little rug on the entry way, and he’s immediately motioning for you to sit on the little bench by the door and pats his thigh once. You clumsily raise your leg, barely managing to land your foot on the general area he gestures to. He pulls the first shoe off, then repeats with the second with an air of total calm. Like this is normal and he does this all the time for you. Like you regularly find yourself drunk in his apartment.

You decide to unpack the moment when you’re sober. 

“One, it’s not that big, and two, that’s what you get for renting a studio apartment.”

“Like you could afford better when you were an intern.” 

He snorts, leading you to his couch and gesturing for you to sit. “If you want to change clothes you can borrow some of mine.”

You chew on your lip. The outfits you choose to look nice for your mother are never exactly comfortable, and when else are you going to get the chance to privately live the scenario you fantasize about several times a week before falling asleep?

“Only if you don’t mind.” 

“I wouldn't have offered if I wasn’t. Stay there.” 

Jack’s only gone for a few minutes before he reappears with a dark grey sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants in a slightly lighter shade. The sweatshirt is oversized and looks well worn, but the sweatpants are suspiciously new, close to your size, and look eerily similar to a pair you changed into after a shift a few weeks ago.

He hands them to you. Neither of you mention the sweatpants. “You can change in the bathroom. Door locks from the inside. I’m gonna change too, and then I’ll heat up the food.” 

Jack shows you the bathroom (you don’t bother unpacking why exactly he felt the need to tell you that the door locks and from the inside, that’s for when you’re significantly more drunk than you are now and when you’re not in his fancy-ass apartment.) 

Because he’s a man and men take approximately three seconds to change, he’s already in the kitchen setting stuff on the counter by the time you emerge from the bathroom. His countertops are solid granite, because the apartment is clearly expensive and he’s a man. They’re an inky black color with  tiny flecks that sparkle when the light hits them just so. 

“What are you doing?” Jack asks when he turns from the fridge to find you tilting your head this way and that. 

“Looking at the sparkles.” 

“Oookay. Do you want me to heat up the vodka pasta or the chicken?”

“You made vodka pasta?” 

He shrugs. “You said you liked it.” 

You slide into a seat at the kitchen island, a flush creeping up your neck. “The pasta, please.” 

Suddenly exhausted now that you’re in soft, comfortable clothes that smell like Jack, you decide to just rest your head on your arms for a bit. And close your eyes. But you’re not going to fall asleep. You’re not. 

“Don’t fall asleep. You need to eat something first.” 

“M’ not fallin’ asleep.” 

“Mhm. Sure.” 

With great effort, you blink your eyes open and watch Jack while he heats up the pasta and prepares something else. A salad maybe?

“What’re’you’ making?”

“Just a little salad. In case the pasta is too heavy for you.” 

“Oh. How come?” 

“Because I don’t want you to throw up.” 

“I promise I won’t throw up on your furniture. I don’t usually throw up when I’m hungover.” 

“You drink often?” 

“No,” Your head lulls to the side, “I’m too busy. I’m actually not-so-secretly very boring. I don’t really like partying. I much prefer staying at home.” 

“Thought you went to that thing with King and Santos?” 

“Yeah, but that was ‘cause Trinity really wanted me to come and I felt bad and I didn’t want her to think I was a boring, uptight bitch.” 

“I see.” 

“Yeah. I kinda had fun, though. I wished you were there.”

“Really?” 

“Yeah,” You sigh, probably a hint too dreamily, “Makes me feel better when you’re around.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

He slides a little bowl with a light salad in it to you across the counter, and it's perfectly refreshing. Not at all heavy like the pasta ends up being. 

“Sorry I couldn’t finish it,” You say, forcing down a yawn and resisting the urge to burrow into your arms and go to sleep right there, “I feel bad that you went through the trouble of making it and heating it up.” 

“It wasn’t that much effort. Besides, now you can just eat it for lunch tomorrow instead. I’ll send it home with you.” 

“Mhm.” You hum, slowly inching your arms forward and down onto the counter, your head quickly following suit. 

Jack chuckles, and you can hear the light step of his feet as he rounds the corner of the island and nudges you in the arm. 

“Come on, sweetheart. You wanna get home to bed, don’t you?”

“No,” You shake your head, “I wanna sleep right here. It’s comfortable.”

“It won’t be when you wake up.”

You whine, curling away from him. 

He just puffs another little laugh. “You can either sleep in your bed, or my bed. You can’t sleep on the kitchen island.”

“Why not?” You finally lift your head, “And why is your bed an option?”

“One,” He lifts up one finger in front of your face and slowly drags it back and forth, “Because the kitchen island is not a bed. Two, I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”

“Why? Is your couch uncomfortable?”

“No,” He says, shuffling back over to where the leftovers are and tucking all the food away in the proper places, “It’s just not right to make a woman sleep on the couch.”

“I like sleeping on couches.”

He shoots you a look over his shoulder, “I’m sure you do. But you’re still a little drunk, and my bed is closer to the bathroom than the couch is.” 

You prop your head on your hand. “Who said I’m even staying here tonight?”

Jack closes the fridge. “Do you want to? Because I don’t care either way. We both have tomorrow off.”

“It’d be weird to wake up here.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re my boss.”

“And I’m faking being your boyfriend so your parents get off your back. Pretty sure we’re past coworkers.” 

“What would we even do in the morning?” 

“Sleep.”

“I don’t want to kick you out of your bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.” 

“You’re my guest–” 

“You’re already doing so much for me,” You blurt, stomach clenching, “I– You know me. I can only handle so much. Let me do this one thing? Please?” 

Jack glowers for a bit, then sighs. 

“Only because you asked nicely and I believe in rewarding good behavior. And because I know my couch isn’t uncomfortable. I’ll help you make it up.” 

Jack’s apartment is surprisingly tidy for the fact that a man lives in it (Christopher’s room at his parent’s house always looked like shit) and he pulls down a couple options for bedding. You go with the plain black sheet and its matching thick, fluffy comforter. He insists on making up the couch himself (despite the fact that the alcohol has mostly worn off by now) and even sets up a glass of water, a liquid IV packet, and a bucket– “Just in case those bellini’s don’t love you back.” 

The sight of it all is almost too much. It’s just so much care. All of it. The fact that he’s helping out with you and your disaster of a family, the way that despite the horribleness of it all he hasn’t judged you at all for how you deal with them. He refuses to let you drive yourself, always pays for every lunch for your entire family and the little snacks you get afterwards. Listens to you rant and he makes you food and gets you blankets and–

“You okay there?” 

“Mhm,” You hum, “Just thinkin’.” 

He leaves you be for a moment, busies himself with fixing your pillows and and tugging the comforter into its proper place.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn, throwing your arms around Jack’s middle and burying your face in his chest. 

“Thank you,” You say, voice muffled by the fabric, “For doing all of this. Thank you for looking out for me.” 

Jack is still for a second, just long enough for you to second guess initiating physical contact –a line you were previously too scared to cross– but then his hands come up and it's so, immediately, remarkably over. Because you’re never ever going to draw that line again. You can never go back to your life without having this. Without having him. 

Jack’s hands are big and deliciously warm as they slide up, around your waist, lingering to rub a few circles on the mid of your back before moving on. One arm stays, tightening around your waist and drawing you closer while his other glides further up, up, up, his callused palms sliding over the knob at the very base of your neck before his hand settles around your nape, fingers just barely brushing the edge of your hairline. 

You barely manage to suppress a whine at how warm and incredible it feels to be fully enveloped by him. You never want him to let go. Goosebumps erupt everywhere he touches, little sparks of electricity lingering under your skin in his wake.

“I will always,” He presses the lightest of kisses to your temple, just a feathering of his lips, “Look out for you, baby. I’m always gonna be right here.”

His arms tighten around you, drawing you in— closer, closer, closer. Wrapped up in everything that is Jack you can’t help but sag, going completely boneless in his grip and allowing yourself to just bask in him. 

“You smell good.” You mumble into his shirt, completely lost in the moment. 

“Do I?”

“Yeah. Good. Like man.” 

He chuckles, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your cheek. “Thank you sweetheart.” 

“Why do you call me sweetheart?” 

“Because you’re a sweetheart.” 

“I am?” 

“Don’t play dumb now,” He pulls back a little, just enough to get a good look at you, fingers curling in the fine hair at your nape and tugging down, angling your chin up so you’re forced to look at him, “You know you are.” 

You shrug, eyes darting to the side, your cheeks flushing, “I don’t know. I was just making sure.” 

“Mhm.” He hums, tone almost mocking, fingers tightening around your hair just before the precipice of pain.

You stay like that for a few moments of charged silence. Jack’s eyes shamelessly rove over the planes of your face, mapping it out in his mind. He keeps his grip on your hair, not completely forcing eye contact but keeping your head firmly in place. 

It’s possessive. Bold. Probably too intimate for two people who (supposedly) are not actually dating

And you love it. 

Jack only lets his hand (and your head) drop when your jaw opens in a splitting yawn. 

“Okay,” He huffs, taking a step back, “Time for bed. Get going.” 

Embarrassment is the only thing keeping you from whining at the loss of contact and impending reality of sleeping on the couch alone. But you made your bed (figuratively) so now you have to lie in it. 

The couch does look comfortable. Especially since Jack put all the blankets together. 

He waits until you’ve crawled under the comforter to bid you goodnight, followed by a parting reminder to “Wake him up if you start aspirating on vomit.” It’s a very Jack thing to say. 

You’re out almost the second Jack turns the lights off. You fall into deep, blissful sleep, dreaming of that final moment in the living room, your eyes boring into each other. 

Except in the dream, you tilt your head up those last few inches, and kiss your fake boyfriend as hard as you can. 

–

Generally, the annual lecture event ends with a massive blow out argument. Something dramatic and filled with expletives, after which your mother will refuse to answer any texts or calls you send before finally telling you that’s she’s sorry if (always if) something she said offended you, but talking to you is just so hard sometimes so she doesn’t want to unless you’re ready to be more civil. By the time the two of you are on neutral terms again, it’s time for the next annual lunch circuit. 

You’re a mess of nerves in the hours before the last one. Like usual, your mom requested that the last dinner be held at your place. “So it can feel like a real family dinner.” While you know that there isn’t any saying no to your mother, you also know that there is no way you’re cramming your entire family in your tiny ass studio apartment. It happened once. It will not happen again. 

You originally asked Jack during a last minute shift you both got called in to cover if he would help you move some of the furniture at your place to accommodate them, and then he’d gotten this incredulous look on his face and then told you to tell your mom that you’re having dinner at his place. 

“Jack,” You’d gaped at him, “It’s fine. My apartment isn’t that small, and you don’t have to help move the furniture if you don’t want to. I can ask Dennis to give me a hand instead. I really don’t think you want to host my family.” 

“Sweetheart, it’s just logic. You’ve seen my place.”

“Okay. No need to rub it in.” 

He’d just rolled his eyes and pinned you with a firm look. “Come on. You know this is the best option. If your mom throws a fit, tell her I insisted and give her my number.” 

“Do you have a death wish?” You hiss, “That’s asking for torture.” 

Jack had just shrugged. “Would having it at my place be easier for you?” 

“...Yes?” 

“Then we’ll do it there. You’re off in a bit, right?” 

You’d nodded. 

He fishes something small and shiny out of his pocket and tosses it to you. “That’s my spare key. I’ll be here later than you, so just let yourself in if you want to get there earlier to start setting up. I’ll be home soon.” 

Robby shouted his name soon after and Jack was whisked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the ED, holding the fucking spare key to his apartment, gaping like a fish. 

The line between real and fake has become so blurred you’re not sure if it ever was there to begin with. 

He’s started calling you sweetheart more and more often– sometimes when no one's around. No familial audience to be persuaded into the romantic lie you’re selling. Is it still a lie if it doesn’t feel like one anymore?

The question and accompanying feeling follows you all day. All throughout your harried dinner preparation. Even now, with a solid hour until your family is supposed to start showing up, you can’t help but pace the length of Jack’s kitchen, heeled feet clicking on his floor. Jack himself is similarly dressed up, wearing a pair of dark jeans (“I’m not wearing slacks in my own home, and I’m not old enough to start wearing khakis with everything.”) and a black button down shirt with the first two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He makes a very nice view and under other circumstances you might take the opportunity to climb him like a tree. But alas. Anxiety. 

“Take your shoes off if you’re going to pace. You’re gonna give yourself blisters.” 

You ignore him, chewing on an already stinging cuticle. 

“Things have been pretty good this far, right? Do you think she’s just waiting until the very end to bring up some secret thing that she’s upset about?”

Jack begins preparing the wine –your mother only likes red– for decanting. “I think if your mother were that upset about something she wouldn’t be able to hide it.” 

“True. But what if?”

“I’m not going to help you spiral.” 

“Why not?” You whine. 

He looks at you with a heavy glare and points to the shoe tray at the door. “Shoes. Off. You can put them back on when they get here.” 

You grumble under your breath the entire way but comply. Only because your feet were starting to hurt. 

When your family finally does arrive, it ends up being annoyingly anti-climactic. You spend the entire time on the edge of your seat (literally and figuratively) waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for conversation to turn sour, arguments to erupt, someone to choke on a piece of lettuce and die despite professional intervention. 

But the argument never starts, conversation remains what it usually is and becomes no worse (or better, unfortunately) and no one passes away due to unevenly chopped vegetables. 

The torture is over fairly quickly. Most everyone’s flight back home leaves early the next morning and your dad is paranoid about flight times. 

Pretty soon it’s all just… over. They leave, your mother bickering with your father on the way out about something that probably doesn’t matter, and then it’s just you and Jack and the entire scheme is just done. Finished. Just like that. 

There won't be anymore knee's brushing under the table, no more shared glances and pecks to the cheek when you make a joke that actually lands. No more excuses just to sit and watch him under the guise of playing the adoring girlfriend. No more late night milkshakes.

You'll just go back to being coworkers-- People who pretend not to know each other intimately. Jack probably won't struggle with it. But to you, right now, the idea of just not having him anymore seems like a another wound, right over top all the others.

You don't want him to become another person who used to know you.

You’ve been staring at the closed door for upwards of five full minutes, clenching and unclenching your fists when Jack comes up next to you. He hands you the same clothes you wore the last time you were there and jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom.  

“Why don’t you go and change, huh?”

Your lip wobbles a bit as you answer. “But I want to help you clean up.” 

“You can,” He soothes, “After you change.”

“But–”

“Hey,” He interrupts, “No. You’ve been stuck in those clothes for hours. Go change. I’ll wait for you.” 

Jack keeps his word. He’s leaned up against the kitchen island when you emerge, rubbing at your –now bare, having had the foresight to bring makeup wipes with you– face. 

He looks up when the door opens. “Better?” 

“Yeah. Thanks.” 

He just hums, heading back over to the kitchen table, stacking plates and cutlery. You follow in silence, and he thankfully doesn’t push for conversation. 

Cleaning up doesn’t take long enough. Jack has a fancy dishwasher (and probably doesn’t want to stay standing any more than he has to this late in the day) and there aren’t any leftovers to pack up. Your brothers are bottomless pits when it comes to free food. 

It can’t just be over like this. It can't.

When everything is finished and there isn't anything left to do, Jack wordlessly leads you to the couch and puts something quiet and calm on the TV. The white noise washes over you as you attempt to get comfortable, but the knowledge that it's all over proves to be an itch under your skin that you just can't seem to squash.

“So,” You say after the two of you are seated on opposite ends of the couch, “That’s it then.” 

“So it is.” 

“Guess I owe you big time, huh?” 

“I’ve already told you I don’t care about that.” 

“Right,” You look down at your lap, “Yeah. Sorry.” 

You lapse into silence. 

Jack sighs. “Sweetheart–”

“Was it fake to you?” You blurt, jiggling your knee, still staring at your lap, “Were you– did you mean it?”

It never felt fake. It never felt like pretending. 

It felt real.

It felt like, for the first time in your life, things could be easy.

Maybe easy isn't the right word. But it life sure as hell didn't feel as hard.

When you look up, uncomfortable in his silence and hoping there’s answers in his face, but instead of finding something like disappointment or irritation, he’s grinning. 

“What do you think?” 

“I don’t know.” 

He dips his head once. “Yes you do. You’re a smart girl, I think you can figure it out.” 

Your fingers are curled around the hem of his sweatshirt, white-knuckling the fabric as if to stabilize yourself. Like you’re liable to somehow float away if you don’t dig your heels into the couch and hold on tight. 

“What if I’m wrong?” 

“You won’t be.”

A scoff escapes your lips, “You can’t know for sure.” 

He taps his pointer finger on his leg in an unhurried rhythm. 

“You do.” 

Your stomach is rolling in a combination of leftover anxiety from the dinner that went better than it was supposed to and the weight of Jack’s gaze on you. 

“I think…” You pause, worry threatening to overwhelm you, and take a deep breath before continuing, “I think you might like me.” 

“You think,” He drawls, “I might.” 

“I don’t want to be wrong!” You cry. 

Jack huffs, throwing his head back in a good-natured sigh. 

“Come here.” 

You scoot further down the couch, sitting criss-cross right in front of him. This is not going the way you thought it would. You were almost certain you’d walk away shamed and embarrassed, forced to fake your death and flee the country out of the sheer humiliation of thinking your boss would actually have a crush on you. 

Jack does love to prove you wrong.

“Soo,” You start, still hesitant, “You do like me.” 

Jack props his head on his hand, his expression something you’re starting to recognize as fond. “Yes.”

“More than a little?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you weren’t faking anything. You were serious about the— You know.” 

“Use your words.” 

“The flirting.” You clarify, ears burning. 

“All correct,” He nods, “Though I would have said it differently.” 

You frown. “And how would you have put it?” 

“I would have said,” He reaches out, snagging your arm and tugging until you fall down onto his chest with a little oof, “That you have a hard time believing things that are good, so I had to audition for my role. Like old-fashioned courting.” 

You want to be offended, but unfortunately, it did work. 

You frown. 

Wait. 

“Have you known I liked you this whole time?” 

Jack snorts. “Overheard you talking to Whitaker about it during your second week.”

He’s known since the second week?

“Oh my god.” 

“Don’t worry, I didn’t tell anyone. Except Robby. He’s been hoping you would figure it out for awhile now.”

“Oh my god.”

“I thought it was cute,” He smoothes a hand over your hair, “You were so much more nervous back then. You’ve come a long way.” 

You shift uncomfortably at the praise, but Jack’s having none of it. He wraps his arms around you, holding you in place. 

“Can you take a compliment?” 

“No.” 

He re-positions under you, getting more comfortable. “We’ll try again later.” 

“Am I– Can I stay here tonight then?” 

“Of course,” he murmurs, “My one condition is that you’re not sleeping on the couch.”

“Fine,” You sigh, long and drawn out, “I suppose we can share.” 

“How kind of you to share my bed with me.” 

“I have been told I’m kind.” 

You both smile, and everything just feels so right and so perfect that you can't help but lean up, clearing the last few inches, and pressing a hesitant, gentle kiss to his lips. 

It’s just like your dream. 

Only this time, it’s real. And Jack is kissing you back.