i'm in my 20s (so, please, Minors Do Not Interact) and a wanna-be writer. i've been on the tumblr scene a few times and no matter how many times i think i'm done, a new fandom pulls me back in.
if you wanna read what i've written, you can find my masterlist right here (it also details who i write/who you can request for)!
if you wanna be friends/wanna talk about OSI (our shared interests), here's a couple of things i'm loving right now (and always):
9-1-1 (abc, og)
the pitt (!!!)
steve harrington (<3)
pop music (specifically olivia dean and sabrina carpenter and laufey)
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may i politely request a santos x reader with a roommates to lovers trope? 🥰
eeeee this was so fun to write! i love my gf trinity santos <3
sorry this took so long!!
“Shit,” you muttered under your breath, sighing as you locked your phone and placed it back facedown on the table.
“You okay?” Dennis asks, taking another sip from his long island. “Who died?” At your frown his pulse quickens, worried he put his foot in his mouth. “Oh, my God. Please don’t tell me someone died.”
“No,” you say, exhaling a small laugh. “No one’s dead. But my will to live is slowly dwindling each passing day.”
“Amen,” Samira chimes in, pulling her wallet out of her bag.
“What happened?” Mel asks, picking hers and Samira’s checks up and handing her card to the bartender. “My treat,” she directs to Samira this time, speaking slowly to get through her friend’s slightly drunken state, “I invited you out.”
“My super emailed me, said the hot water’s out.”
“Jesus, your complex sucks,” Samira snorts into her glass, finishing off the rest of her Sex on the Beach, her speech slurring a little as she stumbles off her stool. You forget how much of a lightweight Mira is until she actually takes you guys up on your offer to go out. You’ll drop her off first, you think.
“Yeah,” you sigh again, shoulders slumping. “It does.” Last month, start of Summer, the central air was out. The past winter, the heat was out. You’ve complained about a leaky pipe in your kitchen for the last three weeks. You’re pretty sure there’s a rodent problem in the floor above you that’s slowly trickling down to your floor. “But my lease is up in, like, a month, and I’ve got like three potential other places lined up.”
“What are you gonna do in the meantime?” Dennis frowns, reaching a hand out to grab Samira’s bicep to steady her, getting off his stool to help maneuver her after sloppily signing his receipt.
“Crash with one of my awesome friends and coworkers?” You bat your eyes at Samira who only laughs and pokes your nose, causing you to laugh along with her.
“Oh, this is perfect!” Dennis calls, wrapping one of Samira’s arms around his shoulder to bear some of her weight as you all make your way toward the bar’s exit. “I can stay at Robby’s full time instead of just popping in to check things out. You can take my room while I’m gone. It’s another three month gig.”
“Bobby’s going on another vacation?”
“Robby, Mira,” Mel corrects her, holding the door open for everybody as they all spill out into the humid Pittsburgh air. “Robby’s going on another vacation. Leaves in a couple of weeks.”
“Yeah, I think his new girlfriend of the month is taking him to a spa, or something. For his birthday.”
“Which translates into him being holed up in an Air B and B for three months.” Dennis swears when Samira stumbles over her feet and steps on one of his.
“How about it, roomie?” Trinity finally chimes in, throwing an arm around your shoulders. “It’ll be like a three month long sleepover.”
“I’m in! Yay, roomie!” You wrap an arm around Trinity’s waist, squeezing her once.
Living with Trinity had its pros and cons. Pros: you can carpool to work, you’ve cut costs on groceries since you both split them, you’ve cut costs on nights out and have taken to you and Trinity hosting for dinner or game and movie nights, you’ve grown exceptionally closer to each other in the past two months. There really was only one con: you were very quickly falling in love with Trinity Santos.
After the first two weeks of living together, you two have taken turns sleeping in each other’s beds, taking turns clinging to each other the way you did the first time you slept over a few months ago. The biggest problem was you had no idea how Trinity felt. You know she was seeing Garcia at some point, but you’re pretty sure it fizzled out months ago, close to the time you two became friends.
“A Richard Gere feature again?” Trinity groans, plopping down on the couch next to you. “Your affinity for older men is concerning.” She squirms when you reach over to pinch her side before settling back next to you, your thighs touching.
“I also have an affinity for older women, thank you very much.”
“Oh yeah?” Trinity teases, even though she feels her hands begin to sweat. She can’t help but wonder if you also have an affinity for women your own age.
“Yeah, definitely,” you tease back, pivoting so your legs are slung over Trinity’s lap. “Why, you got someone in mind for me?”
Trinity’s hands settle on your calves, her thumb absentmindedly rubbing circles across your skin. “Maybe, what’s your type?” She tries to keep her voice casual as the movie plays in the background – you two have seen this one three times over the last two months.
“Mmm,” you pretend to think, one of your hands coming up to play with the ends of Trinity’s hair. “I like ‘em a little mean,” you say seriously, suppressing a smile when she nods. “Sarcastic. Big heart that she hides from people but still can’t help but open it up to people.”
“Sounds like you already have someone in mind,” she grumbles, taking a handful of popcorn and shoving it in her mouth to hide her distaste.
“Yeah? Did someone come to mind?” You fight the roll of your eyes when she shrugs, she’s obviously not getting your very obvious description of herself. “She’s someone who takes in a bunch of strays, actually,” you say with more emphasis, one of your feet lifting off her lap to nudge her a little.
“Sounds like a catch,” she says in a flat tone, trying to tune back into the movie. “You should totally go for it.”
“You think?” You say around a soft laugh, shifting on the couch when she shrugs non-committedly again. You pull your legs up onto the couch, tucking them underneath you and leaning too close into Trinity’s space. “Hey, Trin,” you call out quietly, smiling a little when she looks toward you and the double-take she gives you when she sees how close you are. “Let me know if I should stop,” you say in an almost whisper, the hand that was playing with her hair moving to lightly grasp the back of her neck to pull her into you.
“Oh,” she says breathlessly, moving on her own accord to close the gap. As soon as your lips touch hers, it’s like a switch flips in her chest. One of her hands comes up to cup your cheek, her face angling to deepen the kiss.
“You finally get the hint, dumbass?” You joke, breaking from the kiss to trail your mouth down her jaw, moving to suck gently against her neck.
“Think I need more clarity,” Trinity sighs, grinning when one of your legs goes over her hip so you’re straddling her. “Just a little more,” she practically begs, her fingers carding through your hair and giving you a small tug to bring your mouth back to hers.
Summary: Steve Harrington doesn’t need a girlfriend. He doesn’t feel lonely, he doesn’t yearn for some sort of routine that comes in the form of comfort. He hasn’t for years, not since he’d almost died in an underground alter dimension and his life was put into perspective and he learned to appreciate the life he had. Until you start as the English teacher at Hawkin's High, Steve feels something he hasn't felt in years. But he doesn't want to fall into his past mistakes of falling too hard, too fast. So he decides he needs to prioritize something else first: being your friend.
OR: Steve Harrington doesn’t realize he’s lonely until he meets you.
Pairing: Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader
A/N: i'm aiming for this to be a lil series so consider this chapter one and i hope you like it!! i miss my wife steve harrington xo
Steve Harrington doesn’t need a girlfriend. He doesn’t feel lonely or yearn for some sort of routine that comes in the form of comfort. He hasn’t for years, not since he’d almost died in an underground alter dimension and his life was put into perspective and he learned to appreciate the life he has.
Even after the kids he watched grow up are off to college. The kids he had spent years shoving behind him and taking the brunt of whatever monster was lurking around them, around the corner, human and non-human; they have all grown up and moved on to newer phases in their lives.
Even after most of his friends move out of state for college (Robin and, sure, Jonathan. He thinks he can call Jonathan a friend now. Trauma bonds.), or for jobs (Nancy and Eddie), whatever drags them away from their small town. A town he fought to protect and put a lot of love into rebuilding, so much so that he couldn’t find it in himself to leave and not reap the benefits of the sacrifices he and his friends made.
He has the new kids—his students, the players on his team. He still sees Jim and Joyce Hopper regularly, the matriarch inviting him over for barbecues and the occasional dinner. He visits with Mrs. Wheeler just as a courtesy to how kind she’s been to him all these years, and as a way to ease Nancy’s nerves of being away from home.
He has his weekly calls with Dustin and Lucas, especially to give Lucas updates on his newest student: the little (and, in Erica’s words, the better) Sinclair and to help him figure out what he did wrong this time with Max, though he feels like Max tortures him just because she likes when he grovels (Steve doesn’t give her play away, concluding that maybe it’s healthy for Lucas to sweat a little. Maybe it would have helped Steve in his previous relationships).
He and Dustin have gone on a trip together every spring and summer break, winter’s reserved for staying in Hawkins since that’s when everyone else is in town all at the same time for the holidays. They mostly visit Eddie, following him around the country sometimes whenever he has a gig.
He offers to read Mike’s first drafts, not being able to offer much feedback other than what he liked or asking for clarity for what might have confused him. He mostly reads them to have an excuse to call Mike and hear him talk extensively about his writing process for this next installment of stories.
He wingmanned for Will once at a gay bar on Will’s twenty-first birthday (Robin was supposed to be the wingman but it became incredibly obvious that she wasn’t good at it, especially after two to three too many drinks), having to politely decline other men’s advances toward him and redirect them to his younger friend.
Max sometimes enters skate competitions that Steve finds himself going whenever they’re within driving distance (he tried to convince her that the one four hours away was simply on the way to where he was spending his long weekend, but she knew he made that long journey for her and turned right back toward Hawkins once she won her place on a podium).
So, no. Steve Harrington doesn’t need a girlfriend. He’s content with his job and he feels fulfilled in life. He has his own routine, a routine that others might deem boring and, sure, maybe compared to fighting monsters or prior to that being King of Hawkins High, it was boring. He goes to work and comes straight home when he doesn’t have visiting people or grocery shopping on his calendar. He comes home to a quiet house and teaches himself a new recipe from the book Nancy gifted him when he finally bought the house he’d been eyeing since he started working at Hawkins High.
And he doesn’t mind coming home to a quiet house. He was used to it before, had grown accustomed to it, especially during Hawkins’ quarantine when he was left to his own devices when his parents left before lockdown. And after a day full of loud kids and having to be On all day, he welcomes a quiet night in. He’s content… really. He is.
He walks into the teacher staff room the first Monday after winter break, ready to pick up where he left off last semester. While plenty of his friends would find his routine lackluster, he appreciates the mundane in his life. Nothing lurking around dark corners, no more nightmares, he’s managed the migraines. Nothing surprises him anymore.
“Steve!” Mrs. Mundy calls out, reaching her arm out toward him. “Come meet our new English teacher!”
“New English teacher? What happened to Mr. Hauser?” Steve asks, his eyes lifting from his curriculum planner to give Mrs. Mundy his attention, but he’s distracted by you standing next to her with a smile directed right at him.
“Forced early retirement,” Mrs. Mundy shrugs. “Recovery from his surgery last year will be longer than the FMLA he’s got, so he just decided to retire early.” She introduces you to Steve, nudging you closer toward him. “Isn’t she cute? Your age, too,” she says boldly, giving him a wink. Steve internally groans, not finding the courage to look at you – though, if he had, he would’ve noticed the similar pink tint spreading across your skin the way it spread over his. Mrs. Mundy had been trying to set him up since he started working there. Most of the women working there tried to set him up, mostly with their nieces or neighbors.
“Right,” Steve said, clearing his throat as he finally glanced over to you again, extending his hand. “Steve Harrington. I teach, uh… Sex,” he coughs, nearly choking on his own spit, “Sex Education.”
“He also coaches the baseball team!” Mrs. Mundy coos. “So good with the little ones, kids love him.”
“Is that right?” You ask, a teasing undertone to your rhetorical question, a small smile on your face as your eyes never leave Steve’s, like you’re both sharing an inside joke.
“Oh, yeah,” he teases back, waving his free hand, “even used to be a babysitter. I could get some of my references to sing my praises to you if you don’t believe me”
“Oh, yes! Mrs. Hopper and Mrs. Wheeler’s kids just followed him around like little pups. They can vouch for him.” Steve and you stifle a laugh, only now noticing you two are still shaking the other’s hand. Steve lets go, the flush from earlier threatening to creep up his neck again. He nods toward Mrs. Mundy, stepping further into the lounge to get his cup of coffee started.
“Thanks for the glowing recommendation Mrs. Mundy,” he calls over his shoulder. “And, uh, yeah. Welcome to the team,” he aims at you, shooting you a small smile. “If you need anything–”
“What a great idea! You should show her around before the first bell.”
“Oh,” you and Steve say in unison, catching each other’s eye.
“What a gentleman you are, Steven,” she reaches out to pat Steve on the cheek, grabbing her own coffee cup and her purse before heading toward the door. “You’ll have the best first day, honey! Steve will make sure of it,” are her parting words, sending you both a smile and leaving you two alone.
“Well,” Steve says after a beat of silence, chuckling to himself. “Um, I don’t mind showing you around.”
“Oh, my God,” you say around a laugh of your own, fiddling with the strap of your tote bag. “You really don’t have to, I’m sure I can manage. I’m so sorry she did that.”
“Trust me, this wasn’t even the worst way she’s tried to set me up with someone,” he jokes, turning around fully to face you, leaning against the counter. “When I first started, she asked me to meet her in her room during lunch and then locked me in there with her recently divorced neighbor. This is tame for ol’Mundy.”
“Jesus,” you cringe, “you don’t give off too bad an aura of desperation,” you say jokingly. “You also don’t look like you would struggle getting a date.”
“Oh, yeah? What do I look like?” He asks smugly, smirking a little when you roll your eyes.
“My point is, what do you need all these older ladies pimping you out for?”
“Truth is,” he sighs, his shoulders slumping a little, “I haven’t really been… interested in dating. I guess. I’ve done it a lot,” he admits, nearly cringing thinking of all his failed attempts at a relationship that ended because most people his age aren’t really looking to settle down the way he is. He’s also been taking the time to discover what it is he really wants. So far he’s learning he doesn’t want the fleeting moments of catching someone’s eye across a bar, reaching for the same book at the library, all those cliches he used as a gameplan he’s been using since Scoops Ahoy. When he thinks about his relationship mishaps, he always relates them to the one that left the biggest impact: Nancy Wheeler. He can’t help but think that if he had just been Nancy’s friend first, maybe things would have been different. He isn’t pining for her anymore, not even a little bit, but when he comes back to his fear of relationships, a lot of it stems from that one and what went wrong. He just wants something that lasts, like Jim and Joyce and (surprisingly) Ted and Karen.
“Focusing on yourself?” You ask, breaking him out of his internal monologue.
“Something like that,” he mumbles. He wants to do this right, to have the next time he falls in love be something that takes root in his heart, something that tethers itself to him. So, when Steve looks at you, wide-eyed and with a smile that makes his chest pinch, he decides something that goes against his natural instinct when it comes to women: he’s going to be your friend. “So, how about that tour?”
does a request have to be from the writing prompts, or can it be anything? just wanted to ask to be sure :)
hi lovey!! requests do not have to be from the prompts, they can be anything!! :) just make sure you check out the requesting guidelines on my masterlist! thank you for asking <3
Trinity Santos x fem!reader with friends to lovers prompt 2 please 🙏🙏
writing prompts / masterlist
Trinity Santos didn’t make friends easily. Not because she couldn’t. She is just very selective of who she spends her time with, especially now as she navigates her second year of residency.
But, unfortunately, her plan to keep her personal and professional lives separated flew out of the window when she discovered Dennis Whitaker living in a room on an empty floor of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. She didn’t hesitate to offer up the second bedroom in her apartment, too familiar with being lost, alone and having to figure something out for herself. Far away from a home he’s felt detached from since he’d before he even left for med school, lonely but kind. Like a stray Trinity swore she’d only keep for a night until she could rehome him, except she’s given him a spare key and he steals all her fucking avocados.
Then there was the visceral aura of loneliness that darkened Melissa King’s usual glow, a loneliness Trinity grew up familiar with. A loneliness that isolates you and suffocates you, sinks its teeth into you and refuses to let go. So before it could get to that, Trinity Santos throws her a life preserver in the form of a night of karaoke at Trinity’s usual bar, the bar she found one night after Yolanda Garcia stood her up the first time, a bar that became a safe haven for her that she has now allowed Mel to call hers, too.
Then there was the youngest of the pittlings: Victoria Javadi. Suffocated in a different way; the weight of an overbearing mother she could never do right by. So she opens her home to another one of her co-workers. Invited her over for dinner to avoid the uncomfortable encounter with her mother at a three-person dining table. Convinces her to watch the movie they picked for movie night on the television in Trinity’s bedroom just so she falls asleep on the comfort of a mattress and not the awful couch she bought for fifty dollars on Facebook Marketplace.
And in all of that, she meets you. She’s less hesitant about this friendship when it eventually happens, already used to collecting pittlings and not bothering to fight the inevitable. It’s the same as Dennis, the same as Mel, as Victoria. Except you aren’t friends because of circumstance, it’s not because you need Trinity to save you from loneliness, not because you need something from her. In fact, it’s because you think she needs something from you.
Garcia is ghosting her, Dennis is spending all his spare time at the farm, Melissa and her aren’t friends yet and Victoria hasn’t become a frequent fixture in the apartment yet. Trinity is trying her hardest to stay as late as she possibly can at the Pitt, scared of going home and letting herself be alone because the darkness consuming her is too reminiscent of her childhood and the type of loneliness that stitched itself to her from foster home to foster home. But Robby refuses to let her stay and Abbot doesn’t think working a double would be good for her after she just pulled one not even two days ago, no matter how much he likes having Santos on nights.
So you find her on your way down from Surgery, clocking out of your shift after trading off with Emery Walsh and her night shift crew. You’ve seen Trinity before, when she comes up to visit Garcia, when you go down to shadow a consult with Walsh. You’ve spoken to her in passing since meeting her the first week of both of your first year at PTMC. You’re sure she’s wallowing on a staircase between the fourth and third floor because Garcia’s got a date with someone new to her roster.
“Tough shift, Santos?”
“Something like that,” she mumbles, letting her hands fall away from her face to look up at you at the top of the staircase.
“Hm,” you nod, walking down the steps until you’re standing on the one she’s perched on. You nudge her thigh with the toe of your shoe. “You hungry?”
So while Trinity Santos has learned that she actually makes friends a lot easier than she claims, she still hasn’t really grappled with the fact that sometimes friendships bleed into something more. It isn’t until the first time you sleep over at the apartment, months after that first time you invited her out after a rough shift. Dennis is spending the night at the farm and Victoria has taken over his room, refusing to sleep with Trinity because she gets cuddly in her sleep and she doesn’t think the couch is comfortable. When Trinity told you about her tendency to cling in her sleep, she offered to take the couch.
“Trinity, there’s worse things than you being a little touchy,” you promise, before you peel back her comforter and slide under the covers on the side you claim as yours for the night. Trinity hesitates, an argument on her tongue before she decides against it, liking too much the image of you in her bed. She tries not to dwell on that thought as she climbs in next to you, trying to keep a respectable distance to prevent the inevitable.
Maybe she should put a pillow between you? Maybe if she falls asleep on her back instead of her side, she’ll stay still. It’ll take her longer to fall asleep, she’s never been comfortable falling asleep on her back. Maybe if she waits it out until you fall asleep first then she can–
“I can hear you thinking from all the way over here,” you tease, shuffling closer toward her. “Really Trin, I don’t mind if you get a little cuddly in the middle of the night. Promise I won’t tell anyone. Wouldn’t want to wreck your reputation.”
“God forbid,” she grumbles. She tenses when she feels the heat of you grow closer, her breath hitching when your arms circle her waist from behind. “What are you doing?”
“This way you won’t have to worry about me being uncomfortable,” you whisper, tightening your grip around her. “See? Not so bad.”
Except it is. It’s so bad. The way she starts to feel warm underneath the covers despite the central AC blasting. The way she has to stop herself from pressing further back against you. The way she has to fight the urge to turn over and slant her mouth against yours.
These are not things you think about when your friend is in your bed. This is different.
“You okay?” You whisper, doubt creeping into your mind as your arms slacken around your waist. “Sorry, I just–”
“No! No,” she pushes out, one of her clammy hands coming up to intertwine with one of yours resting against her stomach. “No it’s nice… it’s… yeah. This is good,” she promises, giving your hand a squeeze, beginning to relax in your hold.
“It is good,” you tease, squeezing her once again before letting your forehead fall against her back and Trinity letting her eyes fall shut.
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here are a couple of *my* headcanons for andrew 'pope' cody after finishing animal kingdon (again: these are *my* headcanons so it's okay if you don't agree with them that's fine <3 but you don't have to tell me xo
tw: nsfw themes below the cut (my blog is 18+, mdni ever thank u), mention of smurf and baz (yes they deserve a warning)
the obvious one: doesn't want you to call him pope
he likes that when you met him after meeting you at deran's bar that you asked what he preferred to be called. he wants you to call and introduce him as andrew. he likes "andy", but he prefers for you to call him that when it's just you two. if you've been introduced to his family, he doesn't want them to be privy to any sort of intimacy between you two, which also includes terms of endearment. especially if he's seeing you when smurf is still alive - showing vulnerability even in something simple like nicknames could be used as a weak spot to smurf or a form of manipulation.
he swears he doesn't like baby, the word being sullied by smurf for his entire life. it takes him awhile to receive anything other than his name. but the first time you call him honey or your sweet boy when you're comforting him he's melting into your lap. you only really ever use them to comfort him. but after you accidentally slip out a breathy, high-pitched babyyyy in the middle of sex, his chest puffs out in pride of being able to make you feel so good you can't process an entire sentence. he okays the words but only in that context, when he's making you feel so good you can't think of anything else.
likes being introduced as your boyfriend after he hears you call him that for the first time
he's never really been anyone's boyfriend. cath chose baz, angela basically used him as a place to stay and a form of protection, his relationship with amy started under false pretenses and even then he was introduced as a friend from church. it comes out one morning at your place. he wakes up to the sound of his alarm, cringing when you whine from him detaching from you.
"no, come back," you pout, and andrew's chest pinches when you reach out for him. he promised he'd help deran out with some more deep cleaning in the kitchen today, but he needed to do it early before the lunch rush came in. right now he's cursing deran out in his head.
"i'll come back in two hours, if you want to see me."
"what?" you huff out a laugh, sitting up in your bed to watch him collect his clothes that you threw blindly last night.
andrew shrugs, buttoning his jeans as he watches you tilt your head to survey him. since the first time you two hooked up a couple of months ago, he's been spending most nights with you. he knows you work regular hours during the day, but he usually waits until you call him over before he sees you again, never wanting to intrude. he was a little confused the times you invited him over just to eat dinner or asked him to put on the documentary he'd told you about a couple days before, those times not even ending up with you two having sex. "don't want to assume you want me around."
"andrew, why wouldn't i want to see my boyfriend?"
he called deran exactly two minutes after that and told him to fuck off before removing the clothes he managed to put on and climbing back into bed with you.
prefers missionary when you're having sex
the times andrew's had sex it's because it's been paid for by one of his brothers (baz) or smurf. he used sex as a way to blow off steam or as a distraction, only really ever taking them from behind, not feeling worthy to look at them and seeing sex almost as a punishment than anything else. he'd had sex a couple times with angela, but it wasn't anything soft or loving - it was a distraction and subconsciously a fuck you to smurf, knowing how much she didn't like angela. the first time he did anything with amy it was because he needed to distract her for the job. then after that, it was to make her feel better from that problem with her brother, so she took charge and he let her do what she needed.
when you two have sex for the first time, it's after you convince him to take you home during one of craig and deran's parties at smurf's. you could tell he hated being there, needed to be somewhere quiet. when you invited him in, he just assumed that the tension he noticed between you both from the last month finally snapped for you, so he was ready to submit to whatever you needed. when you finally asked him if he wanted to go to bed, he expected you to climb on top of him. when you laid down, looking up at him expectantly, he assumed you wanted him to take charge. when he tried to flip you over to take you from behind you laughed a little, linking your hands behind his neck before pulling him down on top of you.
"want to look at you, andy," you murmur, kissing him so softly it made his stomach clench. you undressed him as slowly as you kissed him, letting your lips press against whatever exposed skin you could reach. when you both had finally rid yourselves of all your barriers and he pushed into you, he almost cried when you sighed out his name. your hands cupped his face to bring his attention back to you, your fingers combing through his curls and your legs wrapping around his waist to keep him close.
"so pretty," he mumbled, turning his head a little to kiss your palm. he almost came when you pulled him down to rest your forehead against his, your back arching to let him circle his arms around your waist to pull you impossibly closer to him.
since then, it's his favorite position. on the rare occasion when you two wants to switch it up, he has to be able to see your face or kiss you easily, it doesn't take much to convince you to get a full-body mirror in your room for those occasions.
Summary: Getting stuck with Steve in the van on crawl nights fucking sucks. Getting stranded in a snowstorm, forced to cuddle up next to the one person you cannot stand, all to share warmth and hopefully survive the night? You’re almost certain you’d rather freeze to death. Almost.
WC: 18k+
Includes: bitchy idiots to lovers. one bed & forced proximity tropes. hurt/comfort. angst w/ some fluff to balance it out. language. steve’s trauma. reader’s trust issues. smut- heavy petting, humping, oral (f receiving), PiV sex, dirty talk. reader has no descriptions beyond breasts & vagina, and she/her pronouns. fic takes place in the winter, pre s5. prob some inaccuracies re: treating hypothermia; everything I researched was conflicting with other info, so for the sake of the fic, pretend any errors work lmao. lmk if I forgot any tags. // MDNI 18+ as always with my fics, please respect that.
A/N: Said I wasn’t gonna even try to write a van fic, the fandom has enough, and then this idea slapped itself permanently into my brain after vol. 1, and unfortunately took me months to finish. So... sorry if you’re sick of the van fics, but here’s one more 😅 title is a lyric from hard - hayley williams, and the fic is loosely (very loosely lol) inspired by the song itself. dividers by @/cursed-carmine
♪ always ready for the piano to fall / always ready to be left out in the cold / armor’s heavy, never suited me at all / but it’s the devil I know ♬
This has to be the worst night for a crawl yet.
Much to your dismay, you're stuck with Steve in the van tonight.
Dustin's sick with the flu, Will is still restricted from ever leaving Joyce's sight at this point, and you were more knowledgeable on telemetry tracking than Jonathan.
Leaving you- alone- with your least favorite person, for the rest of the night.
Yeah, lucky you.
This isn't the first time you've been paired up with him, nor would it be the last, you're certain. However, tonight's forecast called for snow and plummeting temps; accurate as ever as the evening grew near, with grey-white clouds blanketing the skies, flurries fluffing up by the minute.
You tried warning the others about the weather, understanding that crawls were usually non-negotiable, keeping flexible to the military's burn schedules, unbeknownst to them.
It still had to happen; any chance to find and defeat Vecna is a chance to end this nightmare, once and for all.
And that's never your call to make.
Creaking the passenger side door open, the first greeting that hits you is a miffed grumble, "Jesus, took you long enough."
"Yeah, hi to you too, Steve," you deadpan, careful to climb in backwards, kicking as much snow off your boots as you can before shutting the door.
He gives you a once-over, poorly stifling an ill-fitted chuckle.
Rolling your eyes, you glare over at him. "What?"
"You look like that kid from A Christmas Story with all those layers."
"Ha-ha, very funny." You struggle to cross your arms, puffed up and padded down with your winter coat.
"There's heat in the van, y'know." Glancing over his shoulder, he throws a thumb to the back of the van. "That box of stuff is back there, too, but… kinda just a waste of space, don't you think?"
"Oh, for the love of—" you crawl between the front seats, shoving Steve's shoulder in the process. Reaching the medium-sized cardboard box, you drag a well-loved and worn blanket out. "We've been over this, Steve."
"We get it, your circulation sucks, or whatever. I don't see how that's anyone else's problem."
"If I have to put up with you leaving all those goddamn Boppers wrappers around, you can deal with the emergency box." Holding a hand up, you add, "Which, is for everyone, by the way."
"Yeah, well, a sleeping bag's a little much. And extra socks? A sweatshirt? C'mon—"
"Last week Dustin was glad I packed that sweatshirt when it dropped to 40 degrees at night," you settle in the back, unlocking the wheel on the ceiling. "Because you refused to shut your window."
Exasperated, he throws his arms up. "The cold keeps me awake! Sue me!" Steve turns around, lip curled upward in disgust. "Also it's gross you just… leave socks for other people to use."
"They're new and I wash them if they get used! I wash everything in here, you fucking mor—"
"Hey, guys, you good to go?" Robin's voice through the tinny speaker of the walkie disrupts the insults you had on standby for Steve.
Glaring at Steve while he reflects his own sharp stare, you respond, "As good as we're gonna get."
There's no room for Steve to bite back; you're already tugging the headphones over your ears, focused as you fidget with the knobs. Your main concern isn't him, it's tracking Hopper to keep this as successful and safe of a crawl as possible.
Steve's gaze lingers, but it softens, deflates into one of dejection. You feel his eyes on you, but ignore it, thinking he's still trying to hold out on the sign of animosity; it's not that.
Despondency plagues him whenever you're around, and he resorts to cynicism, trapped in its ugly cycle. You hate him, why should he play nice in return?
It's easier to allow bitterness to keep distance between the two of you. Easier to forget how you and Steve were just in reach of something more.
Until you just… left.
Friendship break-ups are sometimes harder than romantic ones.
No one ever talks about that weird gap, suspended between acquaintances and beyond, falling into potential friendship, drifting back off into something bitter, a bond you only shared, tip-toeing along a jagged edge.
You'd drift in, drift out.
Grew close, just enough for hope to thrive, only to push him away.
In, out.
All while longing for something more, desperate to ride out a wave that drifts back and builds momentum, only to crash ashore into nothing.
So you cough up water, take a few deep breaths, and dive back in again.
Turns out, that shit gets exhausting over time. Especially when you discover a grim truth, hidden from the start.
When you're not treading water to stay afloat, it's swimming through a naval minefield in murky waters; drift into one, and you're blasted into overthinking what went wrong, what stopped the bond from blooming. And all it takes is one 'what if?' to shift course and bump into one these mines, ruining your day completely.
What if you hadn't moved away after Starcourt's explosive demise, deciding on a fresh start by leaving this nightmare of a town behind?
What if you and Steve were able to become more, if not stay friends, and he had just been honest about the Upside Down from the beginning?
What if you allowed that friendship to swell into something more? Standing him up on a date that could've changed everything; a wave ready to ride out naturally, only to retreat. Withdraw like the ocean before returning full force as a tsunami; why follow the tide out just to trap yourself in the path of imminent destruction?
If you stayed… would it have been worth it?
The two of you were star-crossed; Steve was still hung up on Nancy when you discovered your feelings for him. When he moved on, you found someone else. It almost turned into a sad, little game; when one was ready, the other had been redirected elsewhere.
It was even pitiful, the way you two barely had a friendship to build on, because one wasn't ready, and the other got tired of waiting.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
Your time outside of Hawkins brought you steps away from turning fully into stone; get hurt enough times, you refuse welcoming anyone and everyone in so easily. One too many soured relationships had you settled on the idea that maybe you just weren't meant to share love like that.
That hurt transforms your body as a shield for your heart, ribs hardening into steel cages as an added last line of defense; you were one heartbreak away from adding electric barbed wire for good measure.
No one would get in again. Not if you could help it. Not like that.
Coming home wasn't an easy choice, but it was the only one that felt right. Your friends were still here, who you loved as family— bonded through unholy tragedies rather than blood, still family all the same; you had to check on them. You couldn't leave them hanging again.
Because your first thought upon hearing of the destruction, was what if any of them died?
Then you return to find out the worst what if came true: someone among the group died; Eddie's gone. And Max? Well… she's closer to a tragic ending than most of you.
You suffocated yourself in distractions, helping your parents to pack up and move out, promising you wouldn't be too far behind, that you needed to check on your friends immediately.
Unfortunately, coming home right before the town went into quarantine was not part of the plan.
Time away had you forget how downright stubborn Steve could be if he set his mind to something, and all he wanted was to break your walls down, at least to find common ground.
That was still far too much give, and not enough take for you. They're not uncharted waters, you just know you're not meant to navigate them, and know damn well Steve would just stand by and watch you sink.
Those what ifs of your past resurfaced, pulling you under, taunting you to open your mouth when there was nowhere to breathe.
The last place you needed to drown in emotions you couldn't afford was in a town under quarantine. Locked in, fenced off from the rest of the world, with someone you barely had a chance to build a friendship with. Someone you always yearned for more with, yet royally fucked up any chances with.
That more, those chances, they're thousands of meters below a rough, choppy surface, down to the pitch-black depths of the abyssal zone; it's just not in reach, and you've protected your heart this long, you didn't need all that effort to go to waste within a impulsive dive, head first into what would certainly make your heart implode.
You can only tread water for so long, though.
"Hop's going as slow as possible tonight, so we don't have to speed, alright?"
Steve only shoves an aggressive thumbs up over his head, tongue prodding into the side of his cheek.
"I mean, it'll pick up if he hitches a ride on a military truck for a while, but—"
"Yeah, yeah, I get it. Don't go fast unless necessary." He grumbles under his breath, "I'm not stupid."
And that stings, because you genuinely weren't insinuating that. In fact, you're certain you've never insinuated that before.
"Steve, I wasn't trying to—"
"Don't." His shoulders tense up, grumbling out, "Unless it's about this crawl, I don't wanna talk. You focus on your job, I'll focus on mine."
His flat tone and curt demeanor makes your stomach churn. Nights like these where you're forced together have you longing for the past. Before you knew of the Upside Down, before he was trapped in a bunker below Starcourt, before you left like a goddamn coward.
Ever since you returned to Hawkins, it's like he resents you for protecting yourself. Your peace. Your sanity.
What the hell was the point of continuing to stick around, pour your heart into a friendship that only opened if you brought the crowbar?
Despite the mutual loathing, you and Steve make a pretty solid team when kept strictly to business.
Keeping up with a telemetry tracker while stuck in a snow storm is tricky, to say the least. Neither of you have a problem blaming the other for what's outside of your control, though.
"Jesus, Steve, slow down." It's hard to sit upright as he keeps his speed— a speed that normally wouldn't be a problem, if it weren't for the slick roads. You hiss under your breath,"Fucking lead-foot."
He hears you, snapping back, "You wanna drive? Huh?" His eyes stay fixated on the road. The windshield becomes more obstructed as the snow gains momentum, falling heavily onto every surface within reach. "By all means, be my guest."
"God, you're such a bitch."
"Me?! Have you ever heard yourself talk for even, like, five seconds?" Steve's tempted to turn around to shout at you, but he keeps whatever cool he has left— which isn't much— and continues driving safely. "You're so fucking rude, and- god- you're so annoying, so fucking annoying."
"That's bold, coming from a pain in the ass like you…" you grumble, trailing off as the signal on the tracker drops; Hopper stopped moving. "Steve. Steve!"
"What?! Christ, can't you shut up—"
"Stop!"
"How come I have to stop, but you can keep bitching and moaning—"
"I meant the van, asshole!"
Steve slams on the brakes, hoping to skid to a stop, but the van keeps moving.
Gliding. Coasting. The van's skating on the slick road, completely out of control.
You throw the headphones aside, scrambling to the front to peer around Steve's seat. "Dude, what the fuck?!"
"Shit, shit, shit!"
Steve's death grip wraps around the wheel, knuckles turning white; he's ready to turn it toward the shoulder to get off the road, but you grab his arm and hold him in place. Eyes darting to the floor, you see his foot is still weighed down on the brake pedal.
"Wait— watch it! Harrington, keep the wheel straight!" Voice trembling from the frenzy. Steve's about to slam his foot down onto the brake when you panic, "Fuck, get your foot off the brake!"
Despite sliding, you don't spin. Snowfall rushes around the van, limiting visibility to just a few feet ahead. Even as the van slows, it fishtails. Steve frantically switches into low gear, breaths heavy and jagged as he releases control.
His right arm shoots out, bridging between the seats to brace himself and create a barrier to hold you back. Alarmed, he shouts, "Stay down!"
You don't move in time before impact, but you're projected into his arm with force, restraining you from hurtling over the seats and into the dashboard. The van's wheels rumble as it veers off the road, the ditch finally slowing you down to a halt.
Adrenaline rushing, you pant as you're frozen against his arm, processing that absolute disaster.
"Shit…" Steve gasps, trying to catch his breath. "… You okay?" Scanning over your figure, unable to find immediate concern beyond the fear on your expression, his shoulders begin to relax.
"Uh-huh," you rasp out, glancing up at him. "You?"
He nods firmly and swallows. "M'okay."
Static harshly shoves into the van, with Robin's voice following close behind.
She drones out, "Angry Lovebirds, do you copy? Hellooooo? Where the hell did you two go?"
You cringe at the code name, wishing you could shrink on the spot and disappear.
"Why the hell does she still call us that?" Steve gripes, running his hands over his face. "We've never— I don't even—"
Her voice drops to a mutter and cuts Steve off, asking as if the others aren't on the same channel, "Please tell me you two didn't kill each other."
"Oh my god," Steve rolls his eyes with a groan, head falling back against the seat.
In reluctant favor of answering Robin, you leave the warmth of Steve's side to grab the walkie. You curse yourself inwardly at the misplaced feelings.
Thumb jabbing in the talk button, you exhale a winded response, "We're good, we, uh…" Your eyes meet Steve's before darting away. "We hit black ice, though."
"Shit! Can you make it back safely?" She adds, "We were trying to get a hold of you guys, 'cus we had to call off the crawl. It didn't work out."
So the two of you slid on black ice… for nothing.
Fantastic.
"Um, hang— h- hold on." Turning to Steve, you noticed smoke rising on the other side from the van's hood. "Oh, fuck."
Steve jerks his head up, jumping into action. He kills the engine, immediately cutting off the warmth from the janky heater. Throwing his jacket on, he flings the driver's side door open and jumps out. Snowfall drifts sideways from the wind, and he winces as it pelts into his face.
"Guys?" Nancy's voice takes over now, concerned with the delay. "What's the status on the van?"
"Uh- well, it's actually—" You forget to release the talk button, shouting after Steve. "Wait! I'm coming with!"
Releasing it, a booming voice immediately floods through the speaker. "What the hell is going on out there?"
Hopper.
Oh, boy.
Meanwhile, Steve stands firm, shouting over the brutal, howling wind, "No, you're staying put!" He bites back on his own shivers, already creeping down his spine as he slams the door shut.
Well, can't say you didn't try.
Flicking your thumb against the talk button, your explanation comes to life with nervous laughter. "Hop! Hi. Soooooo… we're stuck in a ditch."
You can just imagine the drawn out sigh he lets out before responding, pinching the bridge of his nose, and all.
"Okay, where are you exactly?"
The glass of the back door window is freezing as you try to peek out. You huff your breath onto the glass, rubbing your sleeve against it to clear it up. It barely helps, with snow and frost beginning to coat it completely outside.
You squint through the narrow opening between patches of snow, gaze landing on the landmark in the near distance.
Groaning, you punch the talk button with your thumb. "The fuckin' cemetery."
"Language."
"Hey, I'm an adult! Last thing on my mind right now is censoring myself," you grumble into the walkie.
"How the hell did you two end up out there? That's not where I was in the Upside Down."
So, not only did the van throw you and Steve around like rag dolls on a failed crawl, but the tracker was off.
Way off.
"I- I don't know."
A frustrated shout cuts through the whistling squall outside. The van rocks as Steve kicks the bumper, cursing wildly at the shoddy engine.
"I thought you said you could handle tracking?"
Your blood begins to boil. Now's not the time for some trivial debate, not when you're possibly stranded in what's shaping up to be one of the worst snow storms Hawkins has seen yet.
There's no chance to respond when another voice, congested and hoarse, cuts in. "She can, she's actually good at this."
Dustin Henderson is a goddamn good egg, even while battling the flu.
You wish Hopper could see the smug grin on your face right now.
"I personally think Hop lost the tracker—" silence cuts in for a second, returning with Hopper scolding him; they have to be fighting over the damn walkie. "Watch it, kid. I didn't lose shit."
You slam your thumb down onto the talk button within another pause, mocking back, "Hey, Hopper? Language."
Another pause draws itself out, and eventually Robin returns with an exasperated huff. "You and Steve did nothing wrong. Hopper definitely lost the tracker."
"I didn't lose the fucking—"
The talk button is released on her end, abruptly interrupting Hopper's rant.
"Anyway… we're not that far from the station, right?"
"Five miles an hour in that van might take way longer, but you're not making it here on foot in this weather. It's not safe."
Woven into the wind is a muffled "son of a bitch!". The hood slams shut, jostling the van before Steve yanks the van door open, gracelessly stumbling inside.
Snow sticks to his hair, his clothes, slowly melting to leave him like a freezing, wet dog.
"This is fu- fuck, it's cold—!". Steve huffs out a mirthless chuckle, appearing nowhere near amused. "S'fucking ridiculous." His teeth chatter as he gripes, eyes falling on you, then to the walkie. "Give m- me that."
Steve's hand brushes against yours as he snatches the walkie from you, frigid and stiff. It takes a few tries to hit the talk button and hold it in successfully.
"Can anyone come get us? The van's f- fucked." With his jaw this tight, he's about to crush his teeth to dust. For a second, his eyes flicker to you, and you swear there's a flash of something genuine within the hazel. "Leaving the engine run is a d- disaster waiting to happen, so we can't use the h- heat."
There's silence on the other end; lack of an instant answer usually never fares well for any of you.
Scouring through the emergency box, you pick out a small, rolled towel, handing it over to Steve. For once, he doesn't look at you like you're nuts for keeping the damn box stocked.
He accepts it with a trembling hand, murmuring a both grateful yet defeated "Thanks".
"It's too dangerous for anyone to drive out, and way too dangerous for you two to try walking back. The nearest tunnel is at least a mile out from you, give or take on where you two ended up exactly in the cemetery."
Steve exhales roughly through his red, wind-bitten nose, handing the walkie back to you. "You t- take it. M'too pissed off to be nice ri- right now."
Nodding solemnly, you grab it back, responding to everyone. "Okay. We'll just… tough it out. I got some stuff to stay warm, so we should be okay for a few hours at least." Sighing, you glance up at Steve, laying out the now damp towel on the dashboard. "But the second it's safe enough, someone needs to come get us."
Hopper presses the talk button early, releasing a weary sigh first. "We'll try when we can."
That's not good enough, not for you, and not for Steve; the two of you cannot be stranded here overnight.
Together.
Alone.
"No, you'll do it when you can. I warned y'all the weather would be shit. You get us out of this mess the moment this storm slows down. Got it?"
A lengthy pause begins to irritate you the longer the seconds pass.
"Yeah, kid. I got it."
In defeat, you chuck the walkie aside, swallowing down the urge to scream.
It's no use to be angry now; best to bury those emotions and redirect that energy into something useful. Like helping Steve.
Even if he doesn't really deserve your help to begin with.
"Okay, Harrington, here's what's gonna happen." He turns slowly, heavy-lidded with fatigue settling into his expression. "I think the clothes in here are your size—"
"How the hell do y- you know what size clothes I wear?"
Would it kill him to be nice? Or quiet? For just five fucking seconds?
"To keep this shit on hand if we need it, and you're welcome, by the way." You toss a t-shirt with the radio's logo on it, wool socks, and sweatpants his way. "There's a reason I asked everyone what their sizes were months ago."
Steve catches it all, just barely, but he's left dumbfounded. Through chattering teeth, he snaps, "Wh- why the hell do I want these?"
"Are you kidding me? Dude, you can't stay in those clothes. You're gonna get hypothermia."
"Whatever," he starts peeling off his clothes, and you take that as a cue to turn around. A faint comment slips under his breath, "It'd be better than being stuck here."
It's still audible enough to you, clear enough to sting. You feel like a damn fool for thinking Steve was finally presenting something other than hatred, for once.
"You're not the only one who doesn't wanna be stuck here." Rubbing your eyes, you sigh.
There's no way you can last the night in here without killing one another; it's too long to put up with his bullshit.
Unless…
There might be one shred of hope left. And okay, sure, it's more a thin, fraying thread that could lead to nothing, but you won't know until you try.
You bundle yourself back up, zipping up your jacket, winding the scarf around your neck tightly, tugging your hat over your head. Steve notices when you're slipping your hands into a pair of mittens.
"Hey, whoa—" Now comfortably changed, he clambers to the back, a little too close for comfort. "No. What are you doing? You're not going out there."
But you ignore his concern, if it's even real to begin with. "That gas station's still down the road, right?"
"Maybe? I don't— that's not—" Frazzled, he stumbles over his thoughts. "You're not walking down there in the snow." His fingers fight against stiffness, winding around your wrist shielded under your coat. "You need to be safe."
"Why? So you don't get the blame if something bad happens?" Irritated, you yank your hand back. "Just… wait here. I'll be quick."
"Quick? Yeah, right. It's not that close by foot." Steve, still stiff from the cold, clumsily shoves in front of you to block the back doors. "Your circulation sucks, remember?"
His attempted smartass comment fails miserably as concern seeps through the cracks of his tone.
"And you said it wasn't your problem," you retort, shoving him aside. "Look, it's right down the road. Maybe we'll be lucky and they'll have coffee, or something hot. We both could use something like that right now—"
"You brought your thermos! I haven't seen you use it once." He runs a hand through his damp hair, sighing. "And even if they did have coffee, it'd be ice cold by the time you got back."
"Oh, you watching my every move now, Harrington?" Your voice drops low, dry, sick of this conversation. "That's precious."
He doesn't react, only argues, "What if it's closed?"
Your eyes dart away from him, faltering. "T- there's a pay phone outside," you really thought it'd be easier to shake him. "I can call someone to get us out—"
"No. Now you're just being ridiculous." One hand perches on his hip, while the other waves wildly as he speaks. "Who the hell's coming out after curfew? Especially in this?"
You shrug, shrinking into yourself with a weak lie. "… I might know a guy?"
"Cut the shit, what's out there that's worth freezing to death for, huh?"
"I'm trying to leave you the fuck alone, Steve!" Seething, the explosion silences Steve, guilt and shame softening his expression. "I'm not thrilled to be stranded here with you either, but I was willing to play nice! I was willing to get along, but you don't want that, and that—" You bite back tears, ones born of anger, maybe even a hint of rage. "That's fine. Just trying to make it easier for us both, give some space."
"Wh… what?" He's dumbfounded. "When I said I didn't want to be stuck here, that wasn't about you—"
"Oh, please. Like I buy that for a fucking second."
"I wish you would!" He exclaims, voice fracturing with panic. "You really think I want you to freeze to death 'cause we can't get along? That's the last thing I'd want."
"Yeah, well…" your hand lingers over the handle, glaring back at him, returning the jagged comment to sender. "It'd be better than being stuck here."
It's tempting to tack on "with you" at the end, but you bite your tongue. You're not even sure if you'd mean that.
Eyes set forward, you miss his sullen, wounded stare, etched into his features when you exit the van. You're plunging head first into regret once your boots hit the snow. Instead of swallowing your pride and climbing right back in, you feign indifference as you slam the doors shut without looking back.
The doors never reopen, and he never calls for you; it's clear how much of a relief the space is for both of you.
If you tell yourself enough times that it's better than being stuck in that doomed ice box on wheels with Steve all night, maybe you'll begin believing it.
Before the Upside Down, before losing his friends, losing Nancy, losing the cheap crown on his head in his fall from grace— Steve could fall asleep with ease. His head could hit the pillow and he'd be out.
The typical high school blues were enough to send any teenager into stress-induced sleep loss, but the Upside Down's daunting reminder that the fight was only dormant, forced full blown insomnia to become his closest friend.
Exhaustion would lead him to eventually sleep, but he'd fight it off as long as he could; you can only handle the bloodcurdling screams and cries of your friends dying in your dreams so many times before giving up on sleep completely.
Every creak in his house on nights home alone— loneliness all too common in that house— had him holding his breath, waiting for sudden movements to echo out again. Every light bulb, flickering on its way out for good, froze him in fear of who, or what, lay in wait on the other side. And if a detail, no matter how small, is enough to keep him from sleep, that's an open invitation for his mind to spiral.
Tonight, trying to rest in the van, he notices a gap; it's thin and barely noticeable, between the flimsy plywood floorboards underneath the shag carpet. Steve feels it every time he tosses and turns; it always digs into his left hip, slightly uneven from the other board it should be snug against.
He flips to the right, but no, that feels wrong; he's not a right side sleeper. That changed after '84, and he's not exactly sure why, but he sleeps better on the left side.
And on his back? He doesn't even dare, not after a sleep paralysis episode after those fucking bats attacked him. That one and only episode he felt pinned to the bed, like a bat was choking him all over again. His scars ached for hours after, the one around his throat singed through his skin like some god-awful, hellish rope-burn.
So, yeah, Steve can't sleep, clearly not from the cold; turns out, that sleeping bag of yours was a good idea. He won't outright admit that though. Or, how your emergency box actually was, and continues to be, useful.
He tries to rest, flip-flops between sides to get comfortable, but the minutes you're gone only accumulate in his mind to a concerning degree, like the heavy snowfall outside. Every second that ticks past is a second too long without you.
By car, the gas station is a few minutes away. By foot, in weather like this, bundled up in excessive layers? Shit, even he'd struggle to move quickly. He'd definitely get sick, too.
Time passes, snow builds, and Steve continues to overthink. Eventually, he wonders, Am I really that fucking awful to be stranded in the snow with?
What the answer would be to you, he already knows. You think he doesn't give a fuck, and it's not like he's done much to prove otherwise.
To you, Steve's fears to let you go out into the cold were only linked to the clear concept of: if you got hurt, he'd be to blame.
To Steve, though, it goes beyond blame; he's scared, now rueful, that he didn't fight harder to make you stay, because the thought of losing you more than he already had terrifies him.
The possibilities of what could go wrong were endless: you, losing your way, disoriented from the blizzard. What if you froze to death out there? Or got caught being out past curfew? Though, Steve's pretty sure the military doesn't give a fuck about two idiots stranded in the snow.
The wind howls and whistles, whipping around the van as the snow falls diagonally. Every now and then, he opens each door to slam it again, shaking off the snow outside; there's too much buildup to keep an eye out for you.
He checks his watch; you left about an hour ago. The footprints that trailed behind you are now covered over with fresh snow.
Steve's tempted to radio everyone at the station— assuming they stayed in for the night with the storm— but that means admitting he didn't stop you. He didn't protect you.
You're your own person, though. You don't need to be babied, or protected.
Sure doesn't stop Steve's protective side from caring about you.
It's not like anyone could come out to rescue either of you in the first place. But if you're gone and he says nothing, he'd never forgive himself if you got sick. Or worse.
Jesus, what if you're already freezing to death?
In the midst of internal panic, a thud! with fierce force slams against the van outside. Steve jolts upright, startled enough that it clears his damn sinuses while his heart races.
There's another thump, with a few more to follow, inching towards the passenger side door. It flings open, snow sprinkling in as you flop forward, face against the seat.
"Jesus Christ," is all Steve can manage to say, because he's grateful to see you, alive, but also, you're such a fucking idiot.
You crawl into the van, collapsing onto the floor. "'Idn't wanna get th'carpet wet," you mumble through your teeth, jaw rigid, struggling to close the door as the handle slips through your weak grip.
"C'mon, sit up for me." Steve guides you into the seat while you struggle, clumsy like you're intoxicated, yet your limbs are stiff. Under your freezing wet clothes, he can feel you shiver, practically vibrating uncontrollably.
When you're settled up right, he shoots an arm between the seat and wall, barely managing to grab the door handle and slam it shut.
"Ow… S'loud," you groan.
"Shit, sorry." He drags the box over, rummaging through it haphazardly. A pair of sweats and a sweater lay at the bottom, warm and ready to wear. He lays them aside, leaning over the seat to unzip your coat.
"D- damn, a'least flirt with me first," you slur, lips a muted shade from their normal lively color.
It's a joke, but not an invite for playful banter; Steve bites his tongue, quickly helping you out of your coat. He unwinds your scarf and tugs your hat off, dropping all of them to the driver side's floor.
Your clothes are soaked underneath, too. Though you're still pretty covered, he can see how strained your muscles are from stiffening.
Steve peels your puffy vest, hoodie, and sweater off next— Jesus, he forgot how layered you were. And it still didn't help.
"You're an idiot, you know that?" The fondness in his tone sneaks through the disapproval. When the air hits your skin, damp and frigid, gasp, face twisting from discomfort; it feels like sharp needles prickling along your arms.
"M'fine," yet you look far from it— hair tangled and soaked, frozen in spots, skin dull of its usual shine and shade, lids weighed down like you're drunk and sleepy, even a little puffy.
Funny how concerned you were of him getting hypothermia earlier, when you're already there.
And by funny, it's fucking scary, because there's no way to get you to a hospital tonight.
Really, he doesn't think it's that severe, but at any stage, hypothermia's nothing to fuck with; you're still suffering no matter what, and he hates to see you in pain.
Hates that he just admitted that to himself, too.
"Bullshit," he contends as he pulls another small towel from the box— seriously? You thought of everything with this box.
He'll thank you later. Maybe even apologize for being such a dick about it if it saves your asses.
Steve lays the towel over your head, gently tousling your hair against the fabric to help it dry. You shiver violently, "Hey, the sooner you get changed, the sooner you'll feel better."
"Said m'fine," you grit your teeth, attempting to shove him away, but your arms are still weak and stiff. "Jus' put the heat on."
"We can't run the engine, remember?" Steve throws the towel onto the driver's seat; that's a problem for future him. "C'mon, you can't stay in your clothes."
The moment the words leave his lips, he cringes, waiting for you to snidely remark, insinuate he's a pervert, but you're quiet.
Yeah, you're worse than he thought.
"I'm gonna help, okay?" There's no protest from you. He reaches down to the hem of your shirt, tugging up, but pausing before it passes your belly button. "This alright?"
"M'yeah, s'kay."
If you weren't tumbling into a life threatening condition, he'd poke fun at how wasted you sound.
Steve's perceptive, keeping an eye on your reaction, ensuring he's not hurting you. Prioritizing your safety doesn't make the reveal of you, half naked, any easier to deal with.
Shirt thrown to the side, Steve scrunches his eyes shut, scolds himself internally to behave, don't be a creep. He leans from behind the seat, over you to unbutton your jeans— Jesus Christ, why the fuck did you wear jeans? They're practically painted onto your form after all the ice and snow sunk into the denim.
He sucks in a breath, "Uh… can you get them off yourself?"
"S'okay, jus' leave 'em like this."
"It's really not," he sighs, climbing between the front seats and sliding down to the floor before you. The space is limited, incredibly limited, and he's contorting in a way he's never folded before, just to fit here. And for you, of all people.
He finds the chair's lever, shoving it back as far as it can go, though not much of a difference exists.
"Okay, c'mon, boots first."
Steve undresses you with care, tries not to notice the position you're both in, how close his face is to your core. How he's imagined on lonely, late nights, him kneeling for you, while he strokes himself, cock twitching as always while wondering what you taste like.
Every last ounce of self control is gathered up to keep his composure. You're in your underwear. Nothing else.
And your underwear? Yeah. That's wet, too; bra sticking flush to your chest, nipples peaked enough to reveal their shape through the fabric. He dares to take a lower peek when your eyes flutter shut as you sigh— out of concern, not pleasure, he reminds himself— and the fabric against your core is damp, hugging to the shape of your puffy lips.
He scrunches his eyes shut, runs a hand down over his mouth as he thinks … fuck me.
You shiver and twitch and whimper as the near-numbness finally settles into fucking freezing. It shatters whatever trance Steve was falling into.
"Honey," he frowns at himself immediately, because where the fuck did that come from? "You need to warm up."
There's no way to suggest sharing heat without sounding like a total pervert. Every choice of words could definitely be taken as suggestive, at best.
At worst? Steve's coming off as Hawkins' biggest douche-bag.
"Don't wanna," you whine, petulant and pained.
"It's this or freeze to death," he forces himself to deadpan, afraid of coming off as too concerned.
"You'd— bet that'd make y'happy."
He's not sure if he should file that comment under the usual banter the two of you have, or something worse.
"It wouldn't." Steve crawls up, hands gripping the sides of your seat as he tries respecting your space— the little bit left, at least. And still, he stumbles, catching himself right before he headbutts you. "Shit. Ah— shit, I- I'm sorry."
If he makes eye contact with you right now, it is game over. The whine you just released, though likely in pain, doesn't help his already wound-up, touch-starved thoughts.
"Okay. Okay," he sighs, more to himself, finding his balance again. "C'mon, we're gonna use that sleeping bag of yours to stay warm."
You're slow, painfully, agonizingly, moving at a snail's pace, while Steve moves you out of the seat. He's patient, cautious, already trying to press his body against yours to share warmth from the moment you begin trembling.
"Slow, take it easy," he guides you to the carpet while he murmurs softly. It's a miracle you make it to the back safely, considering how frozen stiff your joints are. "Doing okay?"
That's a dumb fucking question.
"Other th- than my t- t- tits freezing off, m'f- fine."
When you flash a curl of a smirk, just the tiniest one, Steve still feels relief. It's a speck of relief, but he'll gladly accept.
About to sit from your kneeling position, he grabs your hips to stop you. Steve clears his throat, awkwardly releasing you.
"Sorry, just, uh… your, uh… the—" he nods vaguely to your chest, eyes lingering for a second too long, wondering how soft you'd feel. By the time he peels his eyes away to drift lower, he gulps. "Those need to come off."
"Wh- why?" You pout, body violently trembling the longer you go without warmth.
"Just work with me, okay? Dry clothes aren't gonna warm you up enough on their own." He huffs, kneeling near you. "M'not trying anything funny, I promise."
Leaning close, Steve's face is near yours while his hands reach around your torso. His fingers skate up your cold skin, bringing about his own shivers, finding your bra clasp and unhooking it.
Poorly strangling a gasp, it still manages to slip past your lips, and he's almost certain it's because you're in pain. Nothing else.
But it sure sounds like it stems from another source.
Hovering his touch, he halts, eyes wide as they dart to meet yours. "Did I hurt you?"
"N- no, just co- c- cold." Teeth chattering, you grab onto his shoulders weakly as he removes your underwear. He bites back the urge to yelp from how bone chilling your touch is.
You hold your balance against him while shifting onto one knee, then the other, to step out of the soaked garment. "'Vry'thing hurts."
He hears you, knows you're hurting, but your panties, soaked and bunched up in his grip, make his cock twitch. The fabric is nowhere near his face, but your scent is dizzying; he wonders if they're only soaked from the snow, or yourself, too.
What stands between him and dirty thoughts is your fragile state; you need help, not him as… some horny creep.
Steve pushes past the tempting thoughts, for your sake.
"I know," he murmurs, heart aching, wishing he could take that pain away instantly. "It's gonna be okay, promise."
He guides you into the sleeping bag, eyes off and away from your figure out of respect. When you're settled, he rips his clothes off, save for his boxer briefs. One glance down his body and he's reminded how scarred he still is. He falters, swallowing thickly; what if you notice them? What if you're disgusted by him?
That's not like you, though; you've never been shallow like that.
Your teeth clatter together so loudly, it breaks him from those looming insecurities. With a deep breath, he finally slides in next to you.
Steve zips the sleeping bag up, arms hooking around your torso to pull you flush against him. He weaves his legs between yours, careful not to press his thigh against your core. He has to throw his thoughts as far away from you as possible; the last thing either of you need is a poorly timed hard-on.
He thinks of the time he broke his arm in sixth grade, falling off the seesaw at recess. Tries focusing on the concept of race cars and the specific tires they use. Forces himself to wonder how broccoli grows, or if it really matters to separate the dark garments from the lights when doing laundry.
That tangled trail of curiosity leads him to wonder what life outside of Hawkins must be like these days, and if they're forgotten to the rest of the world.
The last one's bleak, so he redirects to thinking about aquariums, and if fish sleep— they sleep, right?
God, he really wished he paid more attention in school. Did they even talk about any of this stuff? What the hell does he care if race cars use specific tires?
Whatever.
It's a challenge to keep his thoughts on a steady path away from you, because every time you breathe, your bare chest pushes against his, and that's— no. Just no.
The plush of your breasts squish up against him, nipples poking through his chest hair and into him like an accusing finger, shaming him for fighting off a natural response to a naked figure entwined with his own.
Doesn't make it any easier that your breaths are shallow, because logically, he knows it's because you're freezing. But every so often, you make these faint gasps as you shiver that sound closer to pleasure than pain.
That's not the case, and he feels guilty for letting his mind wander that far.
Okay, focus. Think about… concrete. Sure. That. Must be fascinating to pour that shit for sidewalks and—
"How come your underw- wear is on but not mine?"
Well, that's not fucking helping when you just out right ask it like that.
Steve's face burns up, rushing out, "Didn't wanna make you uncomfortable."
Your heart is pounding so viciously, he can feel the thumping against his own body.
Which, yeah— you have hypothermia. Of course your heart is working overtime. Just from that. Only that.
He reaches outside the bag to throw a worn, knitted blanket over your bodies, hoping for extra warmth while he's zipping the bag back up.
"Please tell me this shit is helping," he murmurs, fighting the urge to gently rub your back; this isn't supposed to be some kind of cute, intimate moment. And rubbing to create heat isn't helpful for hypothermia.
He doesn't remember why, just that it's unsafe for a situation like this.
"S'helpin'," you shudder against his skin, face tucked into the curve of his neck. Your lips brush against one of his sensitive spots, and he gulps, praying you don't notice. "I sh- shouldn't have lef-f- ft."
Steve doesn't scold you, but he doesn't disagree. "I really wish you didn't." He shivers, nowhere near as violently as you have, but exchanging body heat with someone in this state isn't all rainbows and sunshine. "I wish I didn't let you go. I should've gone with you, or had you stay here while I went out."
The words ache with more desperation than he intends.
"I'm a b- bi- big girl, s'my choice," your body involuntarily twitches, rutting into his bulge.
"A- ah—" Steve manages to swallow down the breathy moan before it can fill the van.
"Sor- sorry. Did I h- hurt you?"
He's quick to shush you, gently, rushing out, "I'm fine." One hand wanders to your head, delicately threading your damp hair through his fingers. "How are you feeling?"
"Fu- fucking cold."
"No shit," Steve dryly retorts. "You have hypothermia, dumbass."
You hum out what he thinks was a shaky hum. "Surprised y'even kn-know anything about i- it."
"At least something good came from me being a Boy Scout for one year," he snorts. "That, and I know how to start a fire... which, not very helpful while snowed into a van. Don't know much more than that."
You don't respond. Whenever he's shared something personal of his past, even just a passing comment, you groan and fuss about "learning Harrington lore against your will". The lack of that snarky response is just another sign of how unwell you're feeling.
Shifting cautiously, your arms bend slowly, snaking between the two of you. Steve's breath hitches, wondering what the fuck you're doing.
Your hands travel north, both to his relief and disappointment, cupping over your chest. "M'sorry, m- my tits hurt." And sure enough, the attention is brought to your stiff nipples, harder than minutes ago, brushing up against him through the gaps between your fingers.
Steve doesn't have the chance to panic, not when he fails to stifle a chuckle before it slips out. That comment was the last thing he expected to leave your lips.
"Be n- n- nice!"
"Sorry, sorry!" He relaxes against you again, tries not to dwell on how much of your figure he can feel against his. "Are you getting any warmer?"
"Why? You h- hate this?" Your tone is dry, but he can feel the curve of your smirk against his neck. "Want me to go back outside?"
The lighthearted energy drains quickly; Steve feels his heart drop just at the mere thought of you enduring the blizzard.
Like a fucking fool.
"Don't joke about that," he mutters, daring to speak aloud, "I thought you were dead."
The shrill, whistling wind draws out the lapse in conversation.
"… Didn't th- think you c- cared."
"I do, it's just—" Steve huffs, pausing. "We can talk about it when you're feeling better. Deal?" You nod slowly, sighing. "Do you think you could sit up? Just for a few seconds?"
You were feeling warmer, still cold, still aching, but nowhere near the severity you felt before your return. "Um… I g- guess?"
"Just hang tight okay? Where's your thermos?"
"S'up by th'cup h- holder," you nod to the front. As soon as Steve moves, you begin to harshly shiver again.
He's quick to snatch it, unscrewing the top to pour out whatever you had inside into it. The warm aroma hits him head on. "Hot cocoa? Damn, if I knew that, I woulda' stole some."
"You could h- have some f'ya' want."
"Maybe later, but you need to drink something warm." Steve slides a hand under your back, arm curling around to lift you upright. He tries to ignore the sleeping bag falling off your chest, leaving you exposed. "C'mon, just a few sips."
"N- no, m'cold, wanna get back in."
"I know, honey, I'm sorry." There it is again, a slip up without warning. Like it's natural, familiar.
You manage to sit up, resting against a crate on the shelf behind you. Reaching a shaky hand out, Steve gently pushes it aside. "I got you, try to keep still for me."
He eases the mug top to your lips, cautiously tilting it while you sip on the hot cocoa. It's slow, but Steve's relieved you're not at the severe stage, where you wouldn't be able to drink anything at all. "That's it, a little more… s'good for me."
Oh god. He's one step away from praising you with a 'good girl, and now is not the time or place for that.
"Promise it'll help," he assures, feeling horrible for dragging you out of the warm cocoon of the sleeping bag. Yet he's desperate to try everything, anything, as long as it brings your temperature back up.
You finish off the mug with a gasp. Steve takes it away, watching as that muted tone in your lips begin to fade. It's subtle, but it's a change for the better, nonetheless. A step in the right direction.
"Can't say th- that shit to me," you pant, forcing an airy, uneasy laugh. "I'm gonna start thinkin' y- you're— you like me, or something."
Oh, if only you knew.
"C'mere," Steve murmurs as he gently brings you close. Guiding you back into the sleeping bag, he slides in cautiously next to you, zipping it shut around the two of you. "Don't make this weird, okay?"
"Make wh- what weird?"
Arms winding around your waist, he reels you in, body flush against your own. It's like every goosebump on your skin brushing up along his he can feel. Every shiver runs out of you and into him, like an electrical current.
The gasp that leaves your lips is unexpected and sharp. "Fu— fuck, Steve, m'so c- c- cold."
"I know, sweetheart." He tangles his legs between yours, large hand reaching up to cradle the back of your head. You bury your face into his shoulder, shivering violently. "Just stay close to me."
"M'tryin'," you whimper as your hips shift closer. If Steve didn't know any better, he'd think you were trying to rock your hips against him, as if you're aching for relief, release.
The airy, shattered, "oh, god", sure doesn't help his imagination either. His cock twitches again.
"You're okay," he reassures, not just for you, but for his filthy mind to chill the fuck out. When you roll your hips again, he seizes them, grip tightening to end the attempt. "Don't— hey." You huff as he firmly holds you in place. "Hey, listen to me. No sudden movements."
"S- sorry, jus'thought friction would help," your teeth chatter as you force you words through them. "… Oh my god. Wait. Oh my god, no, wait."
You sound mortified.
"What?" Steve defaults to panic once more. "What's wrong?"
"I- I swear to go- god I didn't mean it like that." You untangle yourself from him, limbs haphazardly knocking into his own with the limited space in the bag. "I just— friction causes he- heat, and I didn't— I wasn't tr- tr- trying to—"
He nervously chuckles, not at you, just— well, shit. How should anyone react in a situation like this?
"S'okay, you're okay." The reassurance seems to help; you relax against him once more, still trembling from the cold in your bones, though. "Can't warm you up too quickly, it could make you feel worse."
"Well that's fu- fucking stupid."
He chuckles, taunting, "You're starting to sound more like yourself again." It's much more endearing than he wanted to sound.
There's no response, just your steady breaths in spite of your jitters. You hum, winding your embrace around his torso, burying your face into his neck again.
Steve's about to lose it; you've got to stop resting your lips on his skin.
Talk about something else. Anything.
"Hey… thanks for helping earlier," he mumbles. You lean back to meet his stare with a perplexed one of your own.
"Hm? Wi- with what?"
"The black ice," he clarifies. "I panicked and blanked out, forgot how to handle it. I could've fucked up real bad… could've wrapped us around a tree, or something."
"We still ended up in a ditch—"
"Alive. It sucks, being stranded in the storm sucks, but we're alive, thanks to you."
You shake your head, cuddling closer to him, still shivering, still unable to shake the cold. It's not warm in the van anymore, but it'd be more tolerable if you weren't recovering.
"You know how to dr- drive this damn t- thing," you quip, shuddering and clinging closer to Steve. "S'like a fuckin' boat."
Steve laughs heartily, tightening his embrace around you. "Guess we make a pretty good team."
"When we're n- not trying to ki- kill each other."
Emboldened, Steve's lips brush against the top of your head; it's not quite a kiss, but it's enough to be noticed. Enough to mean something. They linger as he takes a deep breath, voice rumbling low against your scalp.
"… We don't have to fight all the time," he suggests, fingers skating along the length of your spine. You arch your back, pushing the hardened peaks of your nipples against his chest. He swallows down a moan. "We don't have to hate each other."
"S'jus'easier," you slur, though, he's not sure it's from the cold.
"Yeah? Why's that?" Face still buried into his shoulder, you shake your head. "No, c'mon," he hopes the low, gentle rasp in his voice is enticing. "You can tell me."
It's quiet for a moment, swirling gusts of wind providing filler noise among your shallow breaths.
"'Cus liking you means letting you in," you're shuddering as the van sways, wind strong enough to sneak into the drafty vehicle. "Letting you in m- me- means this is real, and that's just a set up to be let down— be a let down to you, eventually."
He has to be hallucinating from the cold. Or maybe you're still delirious. There's no way you just said that.
"… What?"
Because since when do you care about letting him down?
"You've been hurt enough, I didn't want to add to that hurt." Steve feels you shift with a whimper, has to swallow back the cocky remark he'd make if you felt better. "Your heart's always g- gonna be elsewhere, anyway."
Steve would do anything— hike through this blizzard, move mountains, face a swarm of demo-bats— if it meant he could use a time machine, return to the moment things shattered before they could flourish. He'd do anything to fix it all.
"Even when it was elsewhere, it—" Your trembling brings him to a pause, a reminder how real this all is. After hoping for so long that you'd return, dwelling too much on the anger of you just… leaving, fleeing so quietly, so abruptly— you're here, in his arms. "You were always in it, but I didn't want hurt you, either."
And look where that got the two of you.
Steve's stunned into silence by your confession, tumbling out in unstoppable waves.
You trail off with a huff, tensing up; Steve's unsure if the cold's at fault, or if teasing went too far. "It's hard to… to trust. It scares the hell out of me."
"Scares me too, but look at you. You're trusting now."
"It was that or freeze to death, Harrington."
"Still chose to trust me after everything between us." His voice softens, moving on autopilot— courtesy of his heart— as he cradles the side of your face. His cheeks grow warm as he whispers your name, just loud enough to be heard over the howling winds outside. "Thank you. For trusting me."
The pads of your fingers press into his skin as you tighten your hold around him. "Thanks for not letting me die."
We're not out of the woods, yet, he thinks. But you should be able to keep warm now.
"I used to hate that you couldn't relate to what Robin and I went through last summer," Steve's got no reason to hide this anymore. "Truth is, I was relieved you called out sick that day."
An aching warmth bleeds through his chest with the confession, one that he hopes is enough to warm you up, even a little.
Or, maybe that's just because Steve's bare chest is pressed up against yours, still generating heat like a human furnace for you.
"I still have nightmares, and I—" He chokes up, arms tightening around you. You return the squeeze with reassurance, leaving patience and silence for him. "Sometimes, in them, they're hurting you, too… and I- I can't do anything but watch."
It feels like is heart is caving in all over again; he had done so well ignoring the hurt, but now…
Now he realizes he only bottled it up, shelved it away for darker times.
And dark times have arrived; here you both are, trapped in a goddamn, broken down, radio station van in the middle of a blizzard.
"Then you just… you left. You stood me up. You were gone not even a month later. We were finally getting close—"
"And I f- fucked it up." A sigh rumbles out of Steve; he doesn't agree or disagree, just… acknowledges it. "This is gonna sound so dumb, but I felt… guilty, for calling out that day. I should've been th—"
"No. I mean it. It's a relief you never went through that shit. And then in the spring…" Except, you came back. Right after the destruction, but you came back. Colder, yet braver than you left. "I get it. I don't blame you for leaving. You were scared." He swallows thickly. "… But so was I."
Scared is an understatement.
He's feared for his life before, the year prior, and before that. He was scared for Nancy, hell, even Jonathan, the night they tried to trap the Demogorgon in the Byers' home.
He was terrified in the junkyard, plastering on a brave face for the kids. No way in hell would he let them down; he was gonna succeed or die trying— to Steve, no other choices existed.
He was convinced he'd die down in that cursed bunker with Robin, and if it weren't Erica and Dustin— two children— that anticipated fate would've played out to truth.
And the Mind Flayer— Jesus Christ— that fuckin'… thing. A grotesque terror on monstrous legs; too many damn legs, arms, everything, if you ask Steve. He can't think too hard about what exactly it was made up of, who specifically turned essentially into human jam and—
Yeah. No. He really can't stomach it. Just like the nightmares of losing you leave him shaken for the rest of the waking day.
Most nights, Steve has to double, sometimes triple check the locks on the doors before he goes to sleep. He latches all the windows. Sometimes unlatches just to re-latch, jiggling the window's frame, just to be certain it's closed. Every room, every hallway, holds a night-light's subtle glow for peace of mind.
Peace of mind from what, exactly? A Demogorgon? Demodogs? The Mind Flayer? The Russian guards, and flayed former classmates? All this time later, he hasn't been able to pinpoint which exactly he wants peace from the most. They're all equally fucked up, all royally fucked him up.
Steve knows his efforts are not enough to stave off these fears forever. They never are.
And Vecna? He's still processing that. After all, it hasn't even been one year since it all happened.
Less than one year since Eddie died, slowly killing Dustin with each day that passes without him; the more Steve tries to be there for the kid, the more he's pushed away. It's taking a toll on Steve, trying to be mindful of Dustin's grieving, trying to remind this kid he's not alone.
Less than one year since Max technically, in clinical terms, died, for over a minute; even a second considered dead is way too fucking long, and for a kid her age? Too damn soon. If it weren't for El reviving her, the party would be in shambles— yet they're on the verge of crumbling while Max is in a coma, anyway.
If anything happened to any of these kids, it'd devastate the rest of them. It'd devastate anyone in this little, yet forever growing, found family Steve's tripped and fallen into years ago.
And you.
You— he can't even stomach the idea of your safety being threatened. It only circles back to the nightmares he still has of you. He fears one of these days losing you will come true, and… and—
It hits him like a nuclear missile, dead on.
He didn't want you to leave earlier, to go out into the storm, because he was afraid one of his greatest fears, losing you, again, would come true. This chance to fix everything, at least make peace with what never came to be, has been right in front of you both for months since you got home.
Instead, it's been spent stuck in a cycle of hate, giving and taking sharp glares and words only dripping in venom.
So much wasted time—
"Steve?"
Reality settles in around him again, eyes focusing on you, remorse taking hold of every thought crossing his mind.
Unexpectedly, even to him, Steve blurts out, "I'm sorry." When your brows furrow, the remorse floods out. "I- I'm sorry for not being honest from the start—"
"You were trying to protect me, I get that now." He feels the tension dissolve out of you. "I'm sorry too." Your voice trembles, not from the cold this time. "Can we… start over?"
A smug smirk curls along his face. "Um… we can, but it'd be pretty awkward to start over like this."
"Oh my god, Steve."
"What? I'm just saying!" He chuckles with a shrug. "When we met, I had strawberry ice cream stains on my shirt, and I got, like, maybe three hours of sleep the night before. This seems incredibly different, considering we're both naked."
"You're not the one fully naked." You stifle laughter, rolling your eyes.
"Oh, what, I'm sorry— did you want me to be blunt instead? Because I am really fucking sorry if I get hard." Flustered, he rambles as you blink up at him, wide-eyed. "Seriously, you keep rubbing against me like that and it's- I'm— fuck."
Your hips are rolling into him again as the corners of your lips gradually quirk upward. "Okay," you say simply, not matching your devious smile.
"… Okay?" Steve scoffs.
"I mean… it's not like you're the only one struggling here," you admit, brash and certain. "Can't tell you how wet I've been since you started holding me."
"Oh, trust me. I know." Steve bounces back, stifling a smug chuckle. "Felt it the whole time."
Mortification contorts its way into your face. You hide again, head falling forward to rest on his shoulder.
"Hey, nuh-uh, no hiding. I thought it was hot." His fingers trail down your spine, sweeping to your side. He rests his hand over the curve of your hip, drawing slow circles into your skin with his thumb. "… Still do."
A shrill, piercing whistle whirls past the van, leading in a wave of howling wind, rocking the van. The instant jostle nudges you against him completely, It taunts you and Steve as you dance around you feelings.
The van's frame sways and creaks as the blizzard continues. You shift, trying to get comfortable, until your thigh presses against Steve's bulge and he hisses under his breath.
"Fuck, shit, fuck—"
Yeah. He's hard.
He tangles himself into you, thick thigh flexing against your slick heat. All carnal desires aside, he's sure fucking relieved to feel some part of you completely warm.
Thinking of being warm, and staying that way, leads him to speaking unfiltered. "Might not be the worse way to keep each other from freezing to death."
"Uh-huh…" you sound breathy, the last of your animosity towards Steve long disintegrated by now. "S'good idea." A shiver down your spine sends your hips bucking forward; Steve's curious if it from the cold or not. "S- sorry, m'sorry, I keep—"
Steve shushes you delicately. "Don't be sorry, take what you need."
Your thighs tighten around his, clit throbbing against him. Arousal builds onto his bare skin the more you drag your cunt against him.
"Just go slow, okay?" His reminder is tender, faces close enough to touch, breaths picking up speed. "Slow, slow, sweetheart. I'm not going anywhere."
"Yeah but—" your fingers hook under his waistband teasingly, breaths growing shallower. "Want you n- now—"
Steve grabs your hands, pulling them up within eyesight. He needs you clear-headed. "Hey, I mean it. We gotta be smart about this."
He doesn't expect you to frown, ego visibly wounded in your expression; what did you hear out of what he said?
"We don't have to do anything if you're not into it."
"No, no, I'm—" Steve puffs his cheeks out, exhaling quickly. His arms rope you back in, pressing up against him with a gasp. "You were freezing to death less than an hour ago—"
"Not to death."
"Only 'cause you came back before it was too late." And that he kept you stable, but he's not seeking recognition for that. His hands rise to cradle your cheeks, forcing you to look him in the eye. "Last thing we need is your heart over-exerting itself."
"But you're the one who suggested—" you collect your thoughts with a deep breath. "You're sending mixed signals, Steve. Do you want this or not?"
"I do, but I want you safe and warm. So, let me take care of you, alright?"
"Okay…" Steve looks down as you trail off, noticing your mood shift. Concern draws your brows together, tugs your lips downward and hushes your voice to a whisper. A cold finger traces the scar around his neck, and he gulps. "When did this happen?"
He was dreading this, grateful you'd been so delirious while recovering that you didn't notice the freshly healed skin, taut and pink— now a little purple from the cold, he's sure; this kind of weather always promises to emphasize souvenirs of the past.
"Last year," he trembles; the more he focuses on trying to breathe steadily, the more he shakes. "… Bats."
"The same that…" He hears you hesitate, holding that one, brutal truth on the tip of your tongue, only to soften it for both of your sake. "Same ones that… that attacked Eddie?"
"Yeah, I guess." Steve shakes his head, "I don't know how I survived and he didn't." His voice drops, laden with guilt. "Kinda fucked up if you ask me."
"Do they hurt?" You ask so tenderly, sincerity woven within your words. It pricks hot tears in Steve's eyes, ones he blinks away quickly.
No one ever really asks Steve if he's okay. Not like this. Not when it comes to the Upside Down.
"Yeah," he croaks out. "Sometimes, yeah." Unprompted, he adds, "Not as much as the headaches, though."
"How often do you get them?" You ask, but Steve only shrugs. It's not enough to quell your concern. "Steve…"
He doesn't need you to know just how bad it gets sometimes. The warning signs leading up to a flare— like how his neck aches and stiffens, how his vision doubles, and the ringing in his ears only grows louder.
Steve doesn't want to worry you, or anyone, of the throbbing, consistent pain; how similar it feels to being cracked in the skull with a fist, something he's experienced more than once— one time too many. The agonizing throbbing that morphs into pounding, and sometimes he can feel it behind his left eye, like it's still swollen shut.
Sounds become unbearably sharp and jagged to his brain. Too much light enrages him. They're more than just headaches, he knows that. Yet he bottles it all up, because emotionally, he can't afford to not be okay. He has to show up for everyone else.
Acknowledging him, you hum softly; he's grateful you've never been one to push him too far on a subject he'd rather avoid. "Should I, um—" you clear your throat awkwardly, "avoid them? The scars, I mean."
Not like this one's much easier to talk about.
Steve's shoulder's tighten while his breath hitches, sharp and obvious and shit, he wishes he caught that in time. That wish strengthens when you grimace.
"I'm sorry. That's— I'm not trying to be rude, just wasn't sure since sometimes they hurt—"
"S'okay," he relaxes after a deep breath. "Don't worry about 'em."
You hum, tracing the one along his neck with your finger. The warmth left in the wake of your touch is another reminder he's safe with you.
It's when your fingertips trail up to his face, palm caressing his cheek before resting there, that his heart skips a beat. And when you gingerly sweep your thumb against his cheekbone, his breath hitches.
"Whenever your headaches start… you'll tell me, right?"
When that simple question, loaded with empathy and laced with tenderness, leaves your lips, something within Steve breaks.
"It's… it's okay, I can handle it on my own."
For the first time, those words aren't convincing enough to lie to himself.
"Steve," you whisper, head shaking as the color of your irises bore into the hazel of his. "You don't have to handle anything on your own."
It's so direct, so honest— how can he even respond to that?
There's so much to say— how he'd always put the kids before himself, no questions asked. How he wants to do his part and keep everyone safe, during crawls and beyond. How his trauma, chronic and relentless, stays bottled up and shelved away, only to have manifested into a physical curse on every nerve ending in his entire being— and he still keeps it hidden away.
The past you narrowly escaped while he was beaten to hell and back, that's not yours to carry, it's his.
"I won't let you handle it alone," you whisper, challenging his unspoken thoughts. "Not anymore."
Feelings for you that he forcefully sunk long ago, rush to the surface and consume Steve. It's overwhelming, and words aren't enough; he surges forward, his lips finding yours while you squeak with surprise.
Steve breaks away, presses his lips to your jaw, kisses down your neck while his hands caress the shape of your figure. His touch is gentle, yet sturdy. Firm, yet sweet.
You bite back a moan, teeth pinning your bottom lip down, but you still shiver. He knows he's making you feel good. If you won't say it, he certainly feels it in the way you grab him, anywhere you can find purchase; his hips, his arms, his back, leaving behind little divots from your finger tips, dug into his skin.
He moves lower, one hand pausing on your breast, kneading it tenderly, kissing down your chest to pause at the other side. His lips gently lingering against the sensitive, pebbled peak is all it takes to begin unraveling you.
The gasp that slips out is one beyond what Steve's dreams could even imagine. His cock kicks as he flicks his tongue on your nipple.
"Shit, Steve…"
He sucks softly, a distinct pop! filling the confined space when he pulls back. He looks up with a thread of spit tethering him to your skin, and you look wrecked already.
He can't even wrap his mind around how devastatingly fucked out you'll look when he's through with you.
"Coulda' kept each other warm all this time," Steve breathes, kissing across the valley between your breasts to the other side. His tongue flits out, lazily teasing your nipple while tweaking and pinching the other. "You just had to be stubborn, huh?"
"Only 'cause you- you— a- ah, fuck…" your hips roll up into his, cunt grazing against his clothed cock, sticky and warm and slick and god… if you weren't so fragile right now, Steve would love to ruin you immediately.
If, you know, you were into that.
His cock twitches as his mind drifts, curious as to what the hell you're even into, and if he'll be lucky enough to have more chances to find out.
The two of you just have to survive this night first.
"'Cause I what?" He should be a little softer, a little kinder, but the edge is returning, and only because of your wanton, needy squirming. "Finish the sentence."
You gasp as Steve nudges his knee between your legs, parting them to flex his thigh against your cunt. You're soaked enough to glide yourself effortlessly against him.
Except, Steve grabs your hips, hovering above you while pinning them in place.
"Finish. The. Sentence."
You clamp your legs tight around the one against your core, but he plants his hands on your thighs, pushing them apart to admire your glistening cunt.
"I wouldn't h- have left if you weren't so m- mean!"
"Yet you're a mess right now." He withdraws, only to use his thumbs to part your folds. "Look at you, dripping and pretending like you're not into this."
Steve licks his lips, one thumb casually gliding up from your hole through your folds, resting lightly over your clit. You jolt from even the slight pressure.
"Bet you were this wet before you left."
Your brows knit together. "I wasn't."
"No?" He taunts you, pad of his thumb circling your clit, so close to where you want him, yet so deliberately distant. "Hm… you sure?" Your hips twitch while you gasp, inflating his ego as he simpers. "Seemed like earlier you were pretty fuckin' soaked."
"From t- the snow!" The more flustered you become, the more Steve's confidence grows, bordering onto being cocky. "Jesus, I was outside in a blizzard, in case you forgot."
Steve laughs. He laughs; it's cruel and runs straight to your throbbing clit, adjacent to his teasing touch.
"I don't think so, sweetheart." With a smug grin, he adds, "Doubt the snow would make you smell this damn good either."
"Steve!" You gasp, taken aback. The line's almost tacky, straight out of a bad porno, but Jesus Christ, he can't help himself around you.
"In fact—" he reaches out of the bag, retrieving the garment in question. Reservations long buried under the snow, he brings the pair to his face, eyes rolling back as he huffs in your scent. A guttural groan tears through him, while you're left speechless. "Been wanting to do that all fuckin' night."
Jaw hanging ajar, you whisper, "Holy shit, Harrington."
The smug expression falters, "Too much?"
"No," you breathe out, "fuck, no."
Relief revives his smirk. "Good. I'm far from done with you."
Trailing wet, painfully paced kisses down your body, Steve begins unzipping the sleeping bag; he'd rather not suffocate in that while going down on you. If anything keeps him from breathing tonight, he prays it's only your slick cunt smothering his face.
He's gentle, mindful, caressing your sides slowly to keep you warm. It softens the mean streak he just held out for your sake.
Parting your legs, he glances up to you. "Doing okay?" His lips drag along the plush of your left thigh, gentle, pointed kisses trailing closer to your core. His strong grip digs into your thighs before switching to the right one. "Need to hear you, honey."
"Mhm, yeah, I'm—" Steve parts your slit, moaning softly as he takes you in. "M'good. Promise."
"Good," he husks, leaving a chaste, open mouth kiss over your core. "Don't wanna neglect this pretty pussy."
You huff with an affectionate eye roll. "Swear to god, Steve, if anyone else said shit like this to me, I'd leave instantly."
"So what you're saying is…" Steve's lips linger on your folds, tongue teasingly flitting out, barely meeting your clit. Your legs twitch while you whimper. "I'm the exception?"
"D- don't let it get to your head, Har—" Sharply, you gasp as he spreads your core apart with his thumbs, only to spit on your puffy clit. "Fuck."
He leans in, mouth working languidly as his lips meet your glistening slit. It's already written in stone that the taste of anyone else won't ever compare; you've effortlessly wrecked him.
And he's already ruined you with each drag of his tongue, leading to your clit to suckle tenderly. He looks up, hoping to see you slowly unravel, and he does; your eyes roll back in time while you clench around nothing, rolling your hips to chase his tongue.
The soft sounds from his mouth cause you to throb, feeling every hum and groan, hearing him lave at your arousal. Hooded stare weighed down with lust, he continues watching you fall apart on his tongue.
Steve's moans tremble through you, with gravelly murmurs in between; every oh shit, and fuck, and little praise in between is enough to roll waves of heat through you. He must be able to feel it.
"See? You just needed to get warmed up." Your hips jolt against his mouth as he laps at your clit, while a thick finger circles your hole. He grins smugly. "Be good for me, and I'll keep you warm."
Your clit throbs against his tongue, and Steve moans. It's almost as pornographic as the sound he let out minutes before. His arms hook around your thighs, tugging you flush against his mouth.
"Is this all it takes to shut you up?"
Though drained and still trembling, your fingers tangle through his hair, pulling to trap his mouth against your pussy. He notices the light pressure in your grasp, mindful of his mention of headaches earlier.
"I dunno, I- I should be asking you the same damn thing."
The switch is subtle, tiny, but it's enough to send Steve's eyes rolling back into his head, whimpering as he bucks into the floor of the van.
"Oh…" you grin deviously. "You're into that, huh?"
The ounce of power, that microscopic switch, falls apart instantly as Steve leans back. Warmth withdraws along with him, your hands fall away, and all pleasure ceases. He slides two fingers up the edge of your folds, spreading them apart to spit directly onto your clit; you twitch and gasp.
"Hey!" Exasperated, you yelp, "Why'd you stop?!"
Steve doesn't answer, only runs his hands along the back of your thighs, gently nudging your legs to fold closer to yourself. He reaches your hips, pushing up to throw a nearby blanket underneath your back.
"What— what are you—" His mouth is back on you, tongue delving into your slit, running around your clit before puckering his lips. "Ohmyfuckinggod— Steve—"
You gasp when he mouths sloppily at your cunt, making out with it, taking his time to explore this part of you he's already dreamed so much of.
This part, this sweet, tight, hot part of you that he's fucked his fist to the thought of almost every night since you've moved home.
Not even his wildest dreams could've conceived what you really taste like. Your scent. How soft you are. And pretty, so goddamn pretty.
And as your hardened personality thaws out, the real you— the one Steve's always pined over— finally melts through.
He's missed you. So, so much.
The obscene sounds, all of the slurping and suckling to make you fall apart, fill the van. Walls clenching around his fingers as they barely enter you, your body sucks him in greedily.
"Jesus Christ," Steve breathes, getting sloppier as you get louder. He angles his fingers differently, and with the way he's got you positioned, you're blindsided by an orgasm shattering through you.
"Oh my god, oh my god—" he brushes up against your sweet spot, triggering your legs to shake around his head. "Fuck!"
Your high's barely over as he kisses your inner thighs, eyeing up your puffy, dripping folds.
"Got one more in you?" His lips and chin glisten with your essence in the low light. You nod breathlessly, hand over your chest as it rises and falls rapidly. His demeanor softens. "Hey, look at me."
Dazed, your eyes flutter open. They lock with his, full of concern.
"Should we stop?" You shake your head, but the silent conformation isn't enough. "Need you to say it if you want it," there's a flash of dull pain as he nips at your inner thigh, kissing away the sting immediately. His hand pulls away, leaving you empty and needy.
"I- I want it."
"Want… what?"
Exasperated, you whine while throwing your head back, "Oh my god, Steve."
"C'mon, you can tell me." He begins taunting you, "Usually you have no problem running that mouth of yours."
"You're so fucking insufferable sometimes, I sw- swear to god." The tremble in your voice is more from aftershocks than the cold.
Even when you were nice, you had an edge, and he missed that, too.
Steve crawls over you, nose nudging against your own. His fingers feather and tease along your slit, retreating as you buck your hips to chase his touch.
"There she is," chuckling, he slips a finger back into you, leaning down to murmur against your lips, "There's my girl."
As you gasp, he takes the chance to kiss you, really kiss you this time. Your back arches while he pumps into your slick heat. Lips parted against your own, slotted together, tasting yourself on his tongue while he licks into your mouth— it's all so goddamn dizzying for the both of you.
You break apart when you palm him over his boxers, rendering Steve speechless for a moment.
"Who knew that'd shut you up so easily too," you snicker, giving a gentle squeeze to his bulge, eliciting a sweet gasp from him. "Fuck, Steve. You're…"
Cheeks heating up to a rosy pink, he freezes, eyes darting down between your bodies, then back to you. "What? What's wrong?"
"Nothing! Nothing's wrong. I- I just…" Keeping an airy touch, you trace a finger along his cock. He whines pathetically, head falling forward onto your shoulder. To muffle his sounds, he mouths at your skin. "You're so… big."
He sighs; yeah, he should've expected that.
"It's not a bad thing! No part of you is bad!" You're tumbling into a nervous ramble. "That stuff doesn't matter anyway, y'know, size and whatever. I just- I don't know—" you clear your throat with an awkward laugh, rushing out, "Idon'tknowifyou'llfit."
Steve blinks as the words sink in.
Oh.
"Hey, shh, s'okay," he chuckles softly, confidence flowing back. "We can try, if you want. But there's no pressure."
"I wanna, I really want to, it's— I'm— you—"
He cuts you off with a kiss. There's a soft hum reeled out of you, shaping his lips into a smirk against your own. It's short and sweet, resting his forehead on yours as you break apart.
"One step at a time, okay?"
He's back between your legs as before, allowing you both to relax as he tries to take this slow, almost at a lazy pace, but that lasts all of five seconds.
Because one more taste of you, and Steve's a fucking goner.
Steve juts his face into your cunt, tapering his tongue to fuck into you as you're grinding onto his face. He grants your wordless wish, sinking a finger into you again. In search of that sweet, sacred spot, he curls it, grazing somewhere inside that makes hips rock with desperation while you cry out.
"Harder," he grunts into your core, the rumble of his order going straight to your clit without direct touch. He yanks you closer to his face— as if it's even possible at this point— and his gaze travels away from you, rolling to the back of his head, groaning as you're the only taste on his tongue. In way too deep to speak, he just hums with satisfaction, laced with an air of praise.
Licking into you, the strong bridge of his nose nudges against your clit as it throbs. You buck forward accidentally, but he happily accepts, burying his face between your thighs. He slides another finger into you and smirks as your legs begin to quiver.
"Steve…" You cover your mouth, but he yanks your hand away, while leaning back to spit onto your cunt again.
In between flits and laves of his tongue, he husks, "Wanna hear you again." The vibrations of his gravelly voice are what send you to the edge, but his tender encouragement is what seals the deal. "It's just us, honey. C'mon," he coaxes. "Lemme hear those pretty sounds you make."
Steve works overtime, meticulous in the speed he pumps his fingers, while your essence drips down his hand. The curls and flattening of his tongue between your folds, lapping up every drop you have to offer. Eventually rubbing his nose against your clit while he both tongue and finger fucks you simultaneously.
Bliss rolls through your body, luring out whimpers of his name and babbles of praise.
"Steve—" you gasp, back arching up as your tangled fingers anchor him to you. "Fu- oh my god, fuck—!"
You tremble, you gush, you unravel at the seams, and he'd keep doing this, and only this, all night if you'd let him. Watching you fade into such a fucked out state has his cock throbbing, sandwiched between himself and the van's floor.
Steve feels sticky; that much he expected. But… his boxers are damp, tacky against his skin, along with his tummy, where the tip of his cock lay snug under the waistband.
Oh, no.
"So, uh…" he kisses your core, smirking as it clenches around nothing. Kissing your thigh, he peers up through his lashes at you. "… How hard is it to wash cum out of a sleeping bag?"
Dazed, you're still smiling, dopey and giddy and sighing, "Mmm, dunno. Can't be that difficult—" your eyes pop open before you study Steve, still between your legs. "… Why?"
"No reason, really, just— I'm just curious—"
"Steve."
"M'yeah?" His eyes shift away for a second, guilty.
"Were you— oh my god."
"What?!"
A taunting, victorious smirk comes to life. "Did you hump the fucking floor?"
"Well, when you put it like that…" Steve cringes, blushing intensely. "Kinda?" Your playful stare narrows down at him. "It's not like I was trying to! It just— I— you—" he groans, burying his face into the plush of your inner thigh.
The embarrassment's worth it to hear your laugh, genuine and breathy woven into your comedown. "Better on the damn bag than the actual rug."
He could fall asleep here, so cozy and warm between your legs. You card your fingers through his soft hair, gingerly scraping along his scalp, earning his content hum.
Steve lifts his head to be met with your longing stare, soft, weary smile. It's impossible to hide his own smile. "What?"
"Come back up," you shoot out grabby hands. "M'cold."
"Oh," he snorts, crawling back into your arms. "Is that all I'm good for?"
"Nah, your tongue is pretty great, too."
Rolling his eyes, a smile peeks out as he zips the bag back up, cuddling close to you. Your leg swings over his hip and he reels you in. Fatigue settles in, and it's not long before you're drifting off.
You're not cold anymore, with most symptoms finally fading or completely dissipated; he figures it's safe to sleep. Hell, he could use the rest, too.
It's not until the first, faint snore, that he realizes his goddamn, sticky boxers are still on, and he doesn't have the heart to move you.
A little discomfort is worth it if you're safe and sound in his arms, but… Jesus Christ, this is going to be one long fucking nap.
Steve's unsure when the two of you shifted in your sleep, but with the limited space in the bag, you've ended up spooning him.
It's… kinda nice. He's never been the little spoon before, not with anyone he's ever cuddled with.
By some higher power or sheer, dumb luck, you're warm— fucking finally. You're clinging onto him from behind and nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck.
Steve's breath hitches when your lips graze his neck. He chokes back a whine as you brush your soft figure against his back.
He gently murmurs your name into the dark while your arms tighten around his torso. You hum in return, soft and content.
Splaying out your fingers, they creep down his body, teasing around the waistband, dipping just below the elastic of his briefs.
"Mm—" Steve bites back some kind of pathetic sound. "Baby, what're'y'doin'?"
The pet name blooms heat under your cheeks. He hears you hum, feels you shrug. Your fingers sink a little lower, brushing up against the head of his cock.
"S'okay?"
"It- yeah, but—" Steve gasps when your thumb sweeps over the slit on his tip, still tacky from when he came in his boxers earlier. Now, on top of that, arousal weeps his slit on command by your touch.
"But?"
Your hand begins to retreat, until Steve grabs it, shoving it toward the base of his cock. His hips buck into your palm, groan rumbling deep from his throat.
Whether it's because Steve's been touch starved, or just really, really into you (both. it's totally both), your fingertips tracing down his shaft cause him to twitch.
He can feel himself pulsate into your palm as your grip winds around him. You only pump once, twice, three times, and he's quick to begin unraveling.
"I'm not gonna last if you keep doing that," Steve whines, bucking into your fist. "I can't— ah… f- fuck—" he grumbles, forcing out, "I— dammit, I can't afford to come in my pants again. I only have one pair!"
"Then take 'em off," you giggle. "Need you in me."
Any other circumstance, Steve would allow the teasing to drag on, but he can't take any more tension. He flips over to lean above you, switching positions; you're the little spoon now, and you're flustered from the sudden change.
As you roll to your left side, you lean on your elbow to prop yourself up. Steve hastily plucks a condom from his wallet, still in the crumpled, damp jeans he discarded earlier and within reach.
You keep your legs bent as Steve settles behind you, backside on full display to him. Glancing over your shoulder, you've got a perfect view of him, already reveling in the way he's struggling to keep himself together while rolling the condom down his length.
Hand at the thick base of his cock, he drags the ruddy tip between your folds, teasing your clit before catching at your entrance. He repeats the taunting motion, smirk building with each whimper and whine you set free. One last drag through your slick slit, Steve rests the head at your entrance, pushing in only a little bit.
"Still okay?" He asks, eyes flitting to yours. One might think he sounds groggy from a nap, but he's just pussy drunk already.
"Yeah, mhm," your breathy reply makes his cock kick in his hand and against you. "Ju- just go slow, okay?"'
Steve leans down, planting his lips on your forehead. "Promise I will."
And he does; inch by inch, he slides into you, stretching you out to a limit you've never reached before. In awe, he watches himself disappear inside of you, breath hitching the further he goes.
"Fuck— fuck, you're—" his eyes roll back, twitching against your tight, warm walls. Hips tilting, you push your ass back to help him ease in. All it does is make Steve a total wreck. Pathetically, he strains out through bated breath, "…Might need a minute."
"Yeah?" The teasing edge he secretly loves so much is returning; a sign you're feeling more like yourself. "You look like you could use ten."
"Keep it up," he huffs, "you're gonna need a few days 'til you can walk again."
Steve's hips reel back, dragging out torturously slow as you banter on. He leisurely slides back in, stretching you out. Again, he pulls out, even slower this time.
"We talkin' business days? 'Cause tomorrow's the weekend, and I'd love to not be in recovery—" He slams into you, bottoming out in one thrust. "— Christ, Steve! What the—"
Fully retreating, his shaft caresses your silky, slick walls. Fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, he teasingly glides the tip of his cock through your folds, dipping into your entrance.
With each push back, he pulls out; your desire is only met with taunting, dangling bliss just in reach.
"You done talking logistics yet?"
Though your jaw falls open to quip back, only a gasp tumbles out. With another snap of his hips against yours, he fills you again.
That stretch isn't dizzying on one end only; Steve has to gulp down steady breaths to relax. He's wanted this, wanted you, for years now.
No way is he fucking this up now with a pitifully swift finish.
"N'you were worried you couldn't take me," he patronizes, yet your walls clenching around him mercilessly wipe the smug grin off his face. "Jesus fuckin' christ."
"Maybe you can't take me," you dare to challenge him. The teasing ignites something deep within, and, well, you're the one who started a fire you most likely can't extinguish.
Steve lifts the leg closest to him to rest it against his torso. You roll a little more onto your back as he straddles your leg against the floor; similar to missionary, but the angle hits so sinfully as he sinks back in.
Then, without mercy, void of warning, he relentlessly pounds into you.
Already at a loss for words, all you have to offer are sharp gasps. The plush of your body bounces with each of his thrusts, enticing his grip of one hand to dig into your hip.
What he doesn't expect is your hand to glide down your form, conforming to your curves until your fingertips brush over his knuckles.
Steve's breath hitches, hips stuttering with a faltering pace. Hesitantly, he laces his fingers between yours, and to his surprise, your grip doesn't falter.
It tightens.
Just like the choke-hold his feelings for you have on his heart.
"Don't get sappy on me now," Steve teases, fighting off his own emotions. His eyes flicker down to your hands intertwined, cock twitching inside you when you tighten your hold on him.
The gesture is small, but his heart flutters; what's meaningful to Steve is something you're probably not even thinking twice about. He rolls his hips against you, slow and deep, hoping to distract from his feelings.
"Wouldn't dr— oh!" You gasp, eyes rolling back as he hits the spot that makes you weak. He hears you murmur his name, strung together with expletives under your breath. "W- wouldn't dream of it."
Fog blankets the windows as each thrust rocks the van on its frame. Sweat beads at your brow, and there's relief found in the sight. You feel so warm, only reminding him mere hours ago you were freezing to death.
But you're here, underneath him, closer than he ever imagined to be outside of his dreams. You're here, warm, coherent, safe.
Safe because of him. Alive, because you chose to trust him.
That plucks at his heartstrings, too.
"Steve?"
Your voice is breathy, but concern is laced throughout, tugging him back into the present. He locks eyes with you, but you're blurry. He registers your hand extending to rest on his cheek, instinctively leaning into your tender touch.
"Hey, slow down," you swipe your thumb across his cheek, and it glides against his skin with ease. Too much ease. "Baby, stop for a second. You're crying."
Baby.
Anytime he's been called that, it never felt right. But hearing it from your lips is a whole different story.
Wait, did you say he was crying?
"Sorry, I…" he trails off, glancing away and kissing your palm, panting heavily against it. "M'okay."
"Steve—"
"No, I swear. I'm just—" he shudders out a breath, one with relief. "I'm glad you're okay."
"So much for not getting sappy," you tease, but when Steve only halfheartedly smiles, you fall back into the energy he has. "Hey, I'm not going anywhere. I'm okay."
"I know." He nods, hair flopping in his face. "I know, I know that. I know."
Maybe if he repeats it enough, he'll believe it.
"St—"
He cuts you off abruptly with a kiss, insatiably slotting his lips against yours. His tongue runs along your bottom lip, silently pleading for more. When you oblige, parting your kiss-swollen, wind-bitten lips, he groans, thrusting without warning into you again.
You break the kiss reluctantly, grabbing his face. "Steve. You should—"
"I'm fine, I mean it," he whispers against your lips, sloppily rocking into you. "I'm okay. Promise."
And, really, he is, he just didn't think those emotions would sucker punch him right now.
You gasp again as he hits your sweet spot, eyes falling out of focus into a dazed stare. "M'gonna cum," you rasp out, staving off a strangled moan. "Steve, I'm— I—"
He unsheathes himself from you, and it pains him to do so, whimpering as the chill of the air around erases your warmth. He glances down to your cunt, watching it clench around nothing.
"Why'd you do that?" You're breathless as you manage to ask, and the heartbroken look on your face almost tempts Steve to give in. Instead, he runs a finger through your folds, dripping and enticing as his touch drags over your throbbing clit. "Oh my god, this is the second time tonight you've done that!"
"M'not letting you finish that easy," he teases.
You whine, tossing your head back against the worn pillow, now damp with sweat. He restrains himself from splitting you open again, ignoring how needy his cock is, throbbing, red, and leaking at the tip.
"Up," he orders, throwing the sleeping bag off your tangled forms. Eager for more, you sit up, a little too quickly for his liking. Immediately his tone softens with concern, "Okay, wait. Careful, slow— Don't need you passing out."
Steve's hand finds your cheek, lips planting on yours, kissing you so sweetly. He smiles against your lips before he rolls a blanket up while nodding to the carpet. "You okay on your knees?"
"Okay?" You climb onto all fours, teasing, "I'm pretty fuckin' great on my knees."
Steve shakes his head, though his smile doesn't fade, "Jesus Christ, and I had the bad lines?" He places the blanket under your tummy, hiking your hips up with the extra support. "That help?"
It's a small gesture, one he probably doesn't think twice about, but it sure sticks with you anyway. "Uh-huh." You wiggle your ass, impatiently eager to be filled again.
His large hands slide over the curve of your backside, squeezing and kneading the doughy flesh. Your core glistens with arousal, practically begging for indulgence.
And Steve? He's in a trance, mouth on you for the third time tonight; he can't get enough of you. No one has ever tasted like you. No one's ever felt as soft as you, been as soaked as you. No one sounds like you, or shows the tiny yet impactful levels of intimacy you do with him.
No one's like you. No one could even compare.
"Fuck…" he lowly sighs out, nose nudging between your folds. "Didn't think you'd get this wet again."
"I—" You cut yourself off with a strangled gasp as Steve's tongue flits out, curling at your entrance, but not quite dipping in. "Hhhohmygod."
Thick fingers drag through your folds as he pulls back, teasing in circles around your throbbing clit, never touching it directly. You push your ass back, but he grips your hip firmly, holding you still.
"Steve," you whine.
"I know, I know," he murmurs, leaning in to suck crudely on your clit, one final time. Lining up with your entrance, one hand roams to your hips, the other, guiding himself into you. "Gonna take real good care of you, honey."
You're already clenching with a gasp. "Can't be saying— a- ah!" Steve nudges the tip into you, barely past the head's flare when you whine out. Sinking in, the delicious stretch lures you both under its spell. "S- sayin' sweet shit to me like th- that."
"I mean it," he groans, eyes rolling back as your tight heat envelopes him again. "Every damn time, too."
"What, this isn't a h- heat of the moment kinda th- thing?"
"Not even close, sweetheart." He digs his grip into the plush of your ass, slowly entering you again. Hypnotized, he watches himself disappear inside of you with each thrust. "Jesus Christ… suckin' me right in."
You nudge back into him. Steve chokes on his breath as your ass slams into him. "I- I need more."
"Yeah?" Thumbs on your lower back circle softly on your skin. He watches the goosebumps rise with satisfaction. "How do we ask for more?"
"Jesus fuckin'—" irked, you grumble. You slump against the pillows beneath you, whining, "Please."
"Please… what?"
"Steve, I s- swear to god—"
"Go ahead," he juts his chin out, smirk strong as he feels a power trip within reach. He wishes you could see how smug he is from there. In a slow retreat, he drags himself out of you, leaving you empty, cold, miserable. "Keep up the attitude, we'll see what happens."
"You're such a—" Steve slams back into you, knocking a cry from your lungs. His cock kicks against your tightening walls. "Oh, fuck…" You clap a hand over your mouth, but Steve yanks it away.
He pins that arm behind your back, thrusting hard and deep.
"Such a what?"
"Nothing. Sh- shut up an' fuck me already." When he doesn't move, you breathe out reluctantly, "… please?"
Steve snaps his hips against your ass, bottoming out within you. The sudden stretch shoves a cry out from the back of your throat.
"Aw, see?” He drags himself out, tauntingly slow. “Not so hard to ask for what you need, huh?" He thrusts again, sinking in to the hilt, "Thaaaaaat's my girl." He moans, rumbling deeply as he fills and stretches you all over again.
The condescending comment should be that, only that, but instead your breath hitches. It's one that unexpectedly makes Steve's heart jump, his stomach flip; he wonders if you feel the same.
"I… Yours?"
Though you can't see him in this position, Steve's eyes flicker away, tongue darting out the corner of his mouth as he tries focusing on fucking you instead.
"Mhm, if…" He groans when your free hand reaches between your thighs, underneath you both to grip his balls and massage them. "Oh, shit, honey… s- so good…"
Fatigue still rests heavy in your limbs, and even with the pillow supporting underneath, you begin to sag down to the floor. It's not much help that you're not holding your own balance anymore.
"Hang on, I got ya'." It's such a basic phrase handled with care, passion coupling with his actions; a strong arm winds around your waist as his thrusts slow. He hoists you back into his lap, kneeling back on his heels while you're sat back onto him.
He moves again, and you cry out from the new angle, feeling him even deeper than moments before. It's almost toointense; your trembling legs are a sign of that.
"Hey, hey, shhh," Steve kisses your neck softly, leading up to your jaw. "Need a minute?" You shake your head, breaths rapid and shallow. "Wanna stop?"
"God, no," you nearly sob, tightly clenching around his cock, almost to keep him inside you.
"Okay, okay." He kisses your cheek, lips lingering against you as he demands gently, "Tell me what you need."
"Y- you."
Steve chuckles, nuzzling his nose against your jawbone, unable to keep his lips off of you. If this is the only time he has you, he wants to kiss every inch he can reach.
"I'm right here."
Your lips part, but your breath is taken away with each thrust; you can only manage a nod while you whine and gasp.
The smell of sex hanging heavy above you both, the plap plap plap of skin slapping on skin, filling the van alongside your filthy moans; the two of you could put a porn studio to goddamn shame.
And then, there's the mouth on Steve among all of this.
"This pussy all mine?" His head falls back with a throaty groan, hips twitching off-key as embers smolder low in his belly, a fire that's always been easy to build off of.
It's only fair to match his energy.
"Dunno…" You turn your head as he leans over your shoulder, holding you flush against him while relentlessly, sloppily fucking into you. "This cock all mine, Harrington?" You burst into giggles among the breathy sighs. "Got me saying the dumbest shit, that's h- how much I like you."
He doesn't just twitch inside of you, he kicks, with little room to move within your tight walls. The whimper that pairs is one too delicious to ever imagine once, just once.
No, he'll never get enough of you. Not now. Not ever.
"S'all yours, honey," his nose prods into your cheekbone when he kisses the round, soft side of your grin. Huffing and puffing, thrusting into you relentlessly, he adds, "M'all yours."
Steve drives his cock deep within your cunt, dizzy as the stretch barely lets up. The fingers gripped around your chin ease up, two teasing at your bottom lip, tracing it softly. You're so fucked out already, it doesn't register what he's trying to accomplish. Not until he pushes them past your lips. That's when you take him in.
Even just two fingers are thick enough to softly gag you, while your tongue licks and laves at his digits. Warm and wet, you leave him a wreck as he quietly imagines fucking your mouth instead.
God, he hopes this isn't a one time fling; he wants you like this all the time.
"Fuck, you're unreal."
You try and fail to whimper his name around his fingers, drooling onto yourself and his hand.
Steve's fingers slip away, hands sliding down your neck. He loosely holds, gives a gentle squeeze, pushing you right up to the edge. You lean into his palm, tightening around him as you give into trust. His thumb caresses the side of your neck
"St- Steve, m'gonna— I—" his other hand finds your clit, coaxing you to fall into bliss with a steady, tender touch.
"C'mon, come for me," he husks in your ear while his own thrusts stutter, cock pulsing as he follows you into a shared high. He slurs out, "Thas'it. Fu- fuck—"
He spills into you, and you gush around him, yet it's so much more than that. There's a closeness you've craved, finally satiated as you're intertwined and losing yourselves in well-overdue bliss.
Trying to anchor yourselves to one another, there's desperate grasping in tandem with sounds rooted in indulgence. You've got your arm curled behind to tangle your fingers through his hair. Steve's greedily planting his fingerprints everywhere he can reach, digging pressure into every muscle and curve. You pull, he squeezes; the two of you claim one another through frantically passionate touches.
Beyond the lust, this is what you've always longed for with Steve; even if it didn't pan out the way either of you wanted, maybe it was needed to all fall into place.
Wrapped around one another, sweat still drying, smell of sex finally fading, the two of you revel in the afterglow together. Any walls— built with years of spite, grudges, and loss— between you have been demolished.
That doesn't ease Steve's nerves, though.
"Would you…" Steve trails off as self doubt's choke hold tightens on his heart. You lift your head, chin resting on his chest as your eyes find his.
All animosity in your gaze vanishes; he never thought he'd see the day.
"Would you wanna, uh, go out?" Like he didn't just rail you into oblivion, shyness creeps in. He braces himself for rejection, and maybe this question should've waited until after you're dug out from the snow. "Like, on a date, I mean."
Eager, you tease, "Promise I won't stand you up this time."
"Not like you can leave town this time anyway."
Though you scoff, it's playful. There's a smile he never imagined he'd see again, paired perfectly with your sincere laughter that reassures him.
The light in your eyes that radiates a soothing warmth, like spring sunshine on his skin, is back.
"Not sure I'd leave if I even had the chance," you admit. "Not without you."
And the sincerity in those words, it comforts him. Grounds him. For once, just once, the two of you could have something stable, constant, that isn't a threat to your lives.
There's a comfortable silence between you; the blizzard's howling gusts don't sound so lonely and hollow anymore.
"Might be smart to get dressed before the morning." Steve grimaces, reaching between his legs to slide the condom off. "… and clean up first."
"You would ruin the moment with something like that," you groan as he ties it off, sliding an arm out of the sleeping bag to throw it into a small trash bin nearby. "Besides, we're warm and cozy, and—" he smirks, reaching for the zipper next while you whine. "Ugh, no, c'mon— don't open it!"
Steve shrugs, amused. "Then you can explain to whoever ends up rescuing us why we're naked in the middle of a—"
"Okay, okay!" You grumble, stretching over Steve to zip the bag open. Begrudgingly, you shimmy out, rushing to grab the emergency box for clothes.
Despite your protests, Steve helps you get dressed as you grumble over the soreness, no longer numb from the cold. With teamwork and grace, you're back in warm, dry clothes, and Steve follows suit. He helps you back into the sleeping bag, snuggling up next to you once zipped up.
It's effortless, though mindful, how you tangle yourselves around one another. Your leg is thrown over his thigh while you rest on your side. He faces you, slotting his leg between yours and reeling you into his embrace. You tuck your head under his chin, inviting him to kiss the top of your head— and he does.
"We're taking the weekend off," you murmur. It's not a question, it's a firm statement. "No crawls. Not unless they're absolutely certain we're ending this."
"No crawls," Steve agrees, chuckling softly into you hair. "Stay over this weekend? I know it's not the most ideal first date location, but we don't really have the greatest options right now, and—"
"Okay."
"Oh." He pauses, relieved there was no hesitancy from you. "Okay. Yeah. We'll do that."
This might take some getting used to, the whole not being at each other's throats all the time thing. He can't complain, in fact, it's a welcomed change.
"The others can wait, we got catching up to do," you nuzzle your face into his neck, voice vibrating against his throat. "And we'll be dry this time."
He hums with a chuckle low in his throat. "Not sure you could say that for yourself, but sure, okay."
"Steve."
The two of you are too wrapped up in one another to notice the snow finally slowing to something serene, teasing back and forth like you used to. This banter without venom, it's natural now, and he hopes it stays. He hopes you stay. By the way you're so at ease in his embrace, Steve knows you will.
Jack Abbot x F!Reader (DBF, MDNI 18+, no use of y/n)
Summary: Your car breaks down, so your dad sends you to his best friend for help. You weren’t expecting “Uncle” Jack to be the one fixing it…or to discover that somewhere along the way, he got really, really hot.
CW/TW: Explicit sexual content (18+), Dirty talk / phone sex, Mutual masturbation, Age gap (all characters are consenting adults), Reader insert (Female Reader)
Note: one-shot, not related to my longer fic Broken Mirrors
Your car wasn’t running. As you usually do, you called your dad and asked him what to do.
“Learn how to take care of the fucking thing to start off with,” he said jokingly, but you didn’t laugh.
He cleared his throat. “Look, call a tow truck, ANY tow truck, and have them tow it to Uncle Jack’s house. I’ll call him and let him know what’s up. He should be able to diagnose it and probably fix it.”
“Uncle Jack? I don’t really know him. You sure he’ll be okay with this?” you asked.
“You’ve talked to him when he calls me, right? He’s my best friend. Of course he’s gonna help you.”
“Uncle” Jack wasn’t your uncle at all. He was in the army with your dad. The two went through a lot together. Jack saved your dad’s life and your dad saved Jack’s life when Jack lost his leg.
Jack was around when you were a newborn, but you don’t remember that at all. After he got married and moved into the city, you rarely saw him again.
Your dad came and stayed with him for a few months when Jack’s wife passed away a few years ago now. You saw him a few times during that period and all you remember is him being really sad and grumpy, which was understandable.
Since then, it had only been a few awkward conversations on the phone or the occasional FaceTime when he called your dad. He awkwardly asked about school, and you awkwardly answered before asking about work.
You moved into the city a year ago after transferring to Pitt for your graduate degree.
Your dad kept telling you to visit “Uncle” Jack, but between school, your job in the student library, and (your now ex) boyfriend, you really didn’t have the time. Plus with Jack working nights, it was almost impossible.
“Dad, call Jack first. If he’s cool with it, then I’ll call the tow truck.”
“Fine I’ll call him now,” your dad said, annoyed.
“Thank you. Text me and let me know what he says.”
“He’s gonna say yes! But whatever. We’ll do it your way. Love ya kid.”
“Love you too, Dad,” you replied, smiling at how old and curmudgeonly your dad sounds on the phone now.
Your dad texts you a minute later.
“Uncle Jack said yes. Told you. He’s off tonight so have them take it now if they can. Use my credit card to pay for the tow.”
“Okay, thanks dad”
“Welcome. Love u”
“🩷”
You smile and start looking up tow companies.
—-
Quite a few hours later you arrive in the tow truck at Jack’s house.
The garage opens and Jack is standing there, using a rag to wipe something off his hands.
He walks out and waves.
As the tow driver maneuvers his way back and forth on the narrow street to reverse your car closer to Jack’s garage, you study Jack in the rear-view mirror.
He definitely looks older than the last time you saw him on FaceTime. He used to have tight, reddish curls. His hair is a lot grayer now and there are a lot more lines on his face.
But you noted that none of this looked bad on him. You thought he actually wore it very well.
You recall having a bit of a crush on him when you were younger, looking at pictures of him in his fatigues when they were deployed to Afghanistan. Probably because your dad always talked about him like he was some kind of superhero.
The driver finally gets your car lined up with the garage and Jack lifts his hand to signal him that it’s close enough.
Jack walks to your door and smiles before he opens it for you.
“Hey, beautiful,” he says. He puts his hand out to help you down.
You forgot that he called you that. Hearing it in his gruff, older voice gave you butterflies.
“What the fuck? Is Jack…hot?” you ask yourself.
The answer, as you see him even closer, is unequivocally: yes.
You notice his chest through his navy colored t-shirt, his biceps, his thick forearms with large veins snaking over them, leading down to his well-worked hands with thick fingers.
He was wearing gray cargo pants which were not fitted, but you couldn’t help but notice they were very snug against certain areas like his thighs, his ass, and his bulge.
You were still holding his hand, now a little longer than what would be considered normal. You let go and gave him an awkward hug.
The two of you laughed a little, both embarrassed at how unnatural this felt.
“Why don’t you wait over there, I’m going to go talk to this guy,” Jack said, gesturing toward the driver.
You stood beside the garage and watched Jack talking to the tow truck driver, coming up with a game plan to get the car all the way in the garage.
They talked for a while longer and you’re pretty sure you heard the mention of battalions which meant the driver was military. You had plenty of experience waiting for your dad to stop talking to fellow vets so you knew the wait was going to be a bit longer.
You scrolled a bit. Checked your email. It seemed like their conversation was dying down so you looked up just in time to see Jack dap up the driver and pull him in for the bro hug / back pound which was just one of those non-sexual things that guys did that you found so attractive.
Your car got lowered and together the three of you pushed it into Jack’s garage.
Jack shook the guy’s hand again and then the two of you were alone.
“So…you going to hang out here while I take a look? Sorry your dad wasn’t very clear on what was going on.”
“Yeah, I figured I’d wait for a diagnosis and then if the car is going to take a while I’ll just Uber back to my place.”
You think a little longer and with a sigh, add, “And then Uber to and from work and school until it’s ready, I guess?”
“That could get expensive. You don’t have someone who could give you rides?” he asked.
“No. I just moved into a friend’s place and she already shares the car with her boyfriend.”
“I thought your dad said you had a boyfriend. He can’t help you out?” Jack asked as he lifted the hood of your car.
“We broke up. He kept referring to someone he worked with as his ‘work wife’ even after I told him I wasn’t comfortable with that.”
Jack was still bent over the engine but he looked up at you, his raised eyebrows making deep lines in his forehead.
“He knows your dad was Special Forces?” Jack asked.
“Yeah, but I didn’t tell dad that’s why we broke up. Just told him that neither of us had much free time and were choosing to focus on school.”
“But you told me.”
You paused for a moment. Why did you tell Jack?
It should have felt strange trusting him this quickly. Instead, it felt oddly natural.
“Yeah, I guess I did. I guess you just make me feel comfortable. Maybe I can invoke doctor/patient confidentiality and you don’t tell my dad?”
Jack laughed, “Sorry, sweetheart. For that to apply you’d have to be my patient.”
The thought of playing doctor with Jack, especially after he called you sweetheart, sounds so enticing and you imagine it before you push it away.
“Well, my car is my baby and she’s your patient. Does that count?”
Jack stands up and wipes his hands on his rag again, drawing your eyes back to those thick fingers.
He pulls his mouth into a shape that reminds you of Robert DeNiro and nods his head.
“I think we can work with that.”
You smile and try not to stare at his forearm veins again.
“I know what’s wrong. I’m going to need a few parts I definitely do not have here. I could run out and get them, but it’s getting pretty late and I wouldn’t be able to work on it tonight. I like my neighbors and the noise would be a little too much for this time.”
“Okay. Do you know how long it would take you to fix?” you ask, worrying about being without your car for too long.
“I’m off the next two nights so I should be able to get it done within that time. I won’t know for sure until I can take her apart a little more.”
You sigh.
“Sounds good. Thank you so much for your help. I can send you money for the parts,” you say, holding up your phone.
“Don’t be silly. I’ll pay for it.”
“Are you sure? You’re already doing the labor for free.”
“Did we agree to that?” he asks, looking at you questioningly.
“Oh. Shit. Sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed,” you say, flustered.
“No, you shouldn’t have.”
You have no idea if he’s joking because he doesn’t smirk, or smile, or laugh at all.
Finally he breaks, “Sorry, I’m fucking with you. It is going to cost you though. Not money.”
“Umm…okay. What, then?”
“Let me drive you where you need to go the next few days.”
His answer catches you off guard.
You think about it and reply, “Where I’m staying is pretty far away from your place. Thank you, but it’s too much for me to ask of you.”
“You’re not asking. Humor me. Where are you staying? Weren’t you living with your boyfriend?”
“I’m staying on a friend’s couch,” you say. You explain where your friend lives.
“That is far. Not just from me, but from your school too. And your work. I’d be fine with it, but it might cut into the time I can work on your baby.”
“Yeah, I’ll just Uber.”
“No, that’s not what I meant. I’ve got a spare room. Just stay here,” Jack says with a shrug of his shoulders.
“That’s too much. I don’t want to put you out,” you say, even though it sounds like a perfect idea to you.
“Not putting me out at all. I insist. I have a spare toothbrush and I’ve got clothes that’ll fit you for tonight, but if you need to go home and grab stuff, I also don’t mind driving you right now.”
You thought about it for a while and answered.
“Do you mind taking me home? Then I can grab stuff like my hair brush and not traumatize you in the morning.”
“I work in the ED, sweetheart. Not much that traumatizes me, but I don’t mind taking you. Let me go grab my keys and I’ll meet you at the Jeep.”
You watch him disappear into his house. The thought of being alone in his Jeep unexpectedly excites you.
A few moments later the two of you are on the highway, Pearl Jam’s “Even Flow” playing on the radio.
You love watching the lines on his face as he pinches his eyes shut to hit the bigger notes. His raspy voice actually sounds pretty good.
You arrive at your place as “Jeremy” plays. You quickly run upstairs and let your roommate know what’s going on. You grab your toiletries and enough clothes to last a few days.
When you come out, Jack is outside the door, leaning against the railing, smiling. You wonder again, “when did he get so hot?”
Jack grabs the bag for you and carries it down the stairs to the Jeep.
On the ride home, you can’t help but look at his beefy thighs, his hands on the steering wheel, his forearms. You wonder, have you ever found these things attractive on a man before? You couldn’t think of a time.
“So, straight home or you need to pick anything up?” he asks.
“Don’t think I need to stop anywhere.”
“How about we make a pit stop at the ex boyfriend’s house? I have a few things I wouldn’t mind discussing with him.”
Jack doesn’t laugh, but you do. You don’t know what comes over you, but when you laugh, you put a hand on his thigh and squeeze.
You remove it quickly, but Jack looks at you and smiles.
You guys talk a little about your dad, school, your job. You go over your schedule for the next few days. Jack’s got a little vacation so he confirms he can drive you everywhere.
“I’ll gladly be your chauffeur. The only rule is: I pick the music.”
“Deal,” you say as you get back to Jack’s house.
You go upstairs and Jack shows you around his nice, but humble home.
“It isn’t much, but I love her,” he says.
“But a two-bedroom house with a garage this close to the city? Even though she isn’t huge, still must have cost you an arm and a leg,” you reply as you peek into the bathroom.
You realize what you said a second later and gasp.
“Oh fuck, Jack! I’m sorry! That was insensitive. I’m such an asshole.”
Jack smiles, “You’re fine, I know it’s just an expression and you didn’t mean anything by it. Calm down.”
You laugh and cover your face.
“Really, it’s fine. I’ll just cry myself to sleep tonight.”
You laugh and groan, “Nooo.”
—
A bit later, after you’ve both showered and had some dinner, you’re sitting on his couch, watching a movie and Jack’s ordering some of the car parts he already knows he’ll need for tomorrow.
“Hey, you’re missing it,” you tell him.
“It’s a rom-com. They end up together. I’m not missing anything.”
You laugh and roll your eyes.
“Fine,” you say and hit his arm with one of his pillows. “What kind of movies do you like? Let me guess, anything with Terminator, Predator, Rocky, or John Wick in the title?”
Jack snickers but sits silently for a moment.
“I prefer erotic thrillers,” he says, still looking down at his phone.
Your head snaps to the side to face him. You still can’t tell if he’s joking or not.
“Like 50 Shades of Gray?” you ask with a laugh.
His expression sours and he replies, “No. Everyone knows anything good was made pre-2000…present company excluded.”
You blush a little.
Jack continues, “More like Fatal Attraction, Basic Instinct…Body Heat, which is probably my favorite.”
“You’re serious? You like those movies?”
“What is not to like? Little bit of mystery, little bit of action, little bit of sex,” Jack says, lowering his voice a little at the last part.
You decide he’s either actually flirting with you or trying to make you uncomfortable and either way, you want to test this man.
“I wouldn’t mind watching one of those movies,” you say, scooting a little closer to him.
He lifts an eyebrow at you.
“I don’t think you’d like them. If this is what you like,” he says, gesturing towards the rom-com playing on the TV.
“I’m pretty open-minded,” you reply, moving even closer.
Jack shrugs. “Oh, really? Okay then, let’s start with Body Heat.”
—-
You’ve been moving slightly closer every few minutes and Jack’s been acting like he hasn’t noticed.
You’re wearing a comfortable pair of cotton sleep shorts and every time you move, they ride up a bit more.
On the screen, Kathleen Turner spills a red drink on her white blouse and tells William Hurt,
“Would you get me a paper towel or something? Dip it in some cold water.”
“I love her voice,” you say, so close now you can feel the heat of Jack’s body next to you. “So fucking sexy.”
William Hurt replies, “Right away. I'll even wipe it off for you.”
“Yeah? Certain voices turn you on?” he asks, looking down at your exposed thighs.
“Yeah. I love voices with character. Deep or voices that have some rasp to it.”
Kathleen Turner asks, “You don't want to lick it?”
You lift your hips a little and move closer still. Now your thighs are touching.
“…like your voice,” you say, your voice filled with lust.
You press up against Jack and you see a smirk on his face.
Jack turns to you and smiles. You brace for a kiss and part your lips, but instead Jack leans in and whispers in your ear,
“It’s late, beautiful. Hope you have sweet dreams. ‘Night.”
Jack keeps his devilish grin and walks…that walk into his bedroom and shuts the door.
You sit on the couch in disbelief.
—
After you compose yourself and hold back tears of both anger and embarrassment, you look at yourself in the bathroom mirror after you finish brushing your teeth.
You let out a little chuckle. Then a laugh and you shake your head.
“You idiot,” you tease yourself.
You question what came over you, but you know. Jack and his smile lines. Jack and his biceps. Jack and his thighs. That raspy voice. Those perfect curls. The way he sang in the car. The smutty movie.
He set you up and let you down.
Why? Did he want you and then have second thoughts? Or did he just get off on toying with you?
Your phone buzzes and you look down.
You have a voice message from Jack.
“What the fuck?” you whisper as you put in your AirPod and tap the message.
Jack’s voice plays directly in your ear.
“Hey beautiful. Hope you’re not too mad at me. There’s just some lines I’m not ready to cross. Not because I don’t want to.”
Your stomach flips at the sound of him. Your phone buzzes as another message comes in.
“I want you to know how badly I wanted to put my hand on your thigh…how badly I wanted to slip my fingers up into your little shorts and feel how wet you were for me. I bet you were so fucking wet.”
You feel your face get hot and you take a deep breath. Another buzz. You put your feet up on the bed and lean back against the headboard.
“I wish I could have felt how swollen your clit was. I wanted to play with it so badly and watch you squirm.”
Your toes grip the sheets as you continue listening.
“I wish I could’ve heard your breath hitch as I pushed a finger into your tight, wet hole. Mmmm fuuuuck I know that hole is so tight. It would’ve gripped my finger as I worked it in and out. I would’ve kissed your neck and watched your back arch. Then you beg me to slide in another.”
You grip your breasts through your shirt and pinch your nipple as you imagine it. Jack’s weathered voice was sending you over the edge.
“Are you touching yourself now? I’m imagining you on my bed. Your shorts pulled to the side, playing with your clit. Those delicate fingers that I want wrapped around my thick cock so bad, just furiously rubbing that wet slit as you listen to my voice. I imagine you making a mess of my sheets. If you are…leave it. I want to be the one to wash them in the morning so I can see what I did to you.”
You slide your fingers into your shorts, and your pussy is slick. So slick that it’s actually hard to get much friction on your clit. You make do and slide a finger into yourself as another text comes through. This time it’s a video.
It’s Jack’s POV, looking down at his own lap. He’s in boxer shorts and his very hard, and apparently very large, member is straining against the fabric.
“See what you do to me? Take a look babygirl. Look how fucking hard you make me,” he says as he reaches his hand into the slit of his boxers and pulls out his veiny cock.
He taps his finger to the tip so you can see that it’s covered in pre-cum.
“Look at the mess you’ve made of me, beautiful. Are you messy for me too? Is my voice making that pretty little pussy drip?”
In the video he starts to slowly stroke his cock.
You let out a moan and arch your back. You can feel your juices dripping down you and you know he was right. You’re going to make a mess on his bed.
Another voice message comes through and that rough, sandpaper voice rings in your ears.
“I want you to listen, beautiful.”
Jack grunts and then moans and you can hear the sound of his hand working his shaft.
“Fuck, I know you’d feel so good wrapped around me. I know you could take all of this.”
You take your fingers out of yourself and rub quick circles on your clit, increasing the pressure.
You fumble with your phone but manage to hit the audio button. The mic picks up the wet sounds as you pleasure yourself.
“Fuck, Jack,” you moan. “I’m so wet for you. I’m so close. You’re gonna make me cum!”
You moan and arch your back. Your body shakes and you feel your walls grip and release your fingers rapidly.
“Jack. Jack. JACK!” you cry out as you orgasm and writhe on the bed.
You manage to pull yourself together enough to send it. Before you drop your phone beside you.
You imagine how good it would feel to cum all over Jack’s perfect cock. You imagine how good you could make him feel, your pussy convulsing around him.
Suddenly, a buzz.
You grab the phone and look. It’s another video.
It’s Jack’s POV again. Stroking his hard cock much faster than the first video.
“Oh God yes, beautiful. You sounded so fucking sweet coming for me. Your pussy sounded so fucking wet. I just wish I could taste it. Such a good fucking girl. Now I’m going to cum for you. Imagining your body on top of me, riding my fat cock, letting me stretch you.”
His voice is getting a bit more desperate now as he nears his climax.
“Watching you take every fucking inch. Hearing you yell my name. Ugh fuck! Here it comes, beautiful. I wish I was inside of you!”
You watch as Jack’s lower stomach spasms and thick ropes of cum spill out onto his stomach and his thighs. You watch his cock buck and throb until he’s spent. He moans and whimpers and it makes you rub your fingers over your clit and bite your lip.
You can hear Jack breathing heavy in the video as he groans and grabs a Kleenex.
He cleans his thigh first, which you didn’t even notice until now was the first time you’d seen his leg without the prosthetic on. You touch it on the screen lovingly and smile.
The video ends.
One more buzz.
“Thank you, beautiful,” he says, his voice somehow so rough and so soothing at the same time. “I could hear you yell my name and I swear it was just what I needed. You’re so fucking sexy.”
His words made you blush and giggle.
“Good night, sweetheart,” he says softly.
You hug your phone to your chest. You’re a little worried about how awkward the morning is going to be, but you decide you’re just going to enjoy this for now.
You get up and peel the top sheet off of the bed, the large wet spot you made still very visible. You open the bedroom door and place it just outside so Jack sees it when he wakes up.
You think about it for a moment and then you pull off your soaked shorts too and leave them on the sheet.
You shut the door, unzip your bag and pull out some underwear and pajama pants and pull them on.
You turn on your side and press play on the last video again, a huge smile on your face.
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summary: you've always kept things casual. it's just easier that way. you've got a roster, a routine, and absolutely no intention of changing—until you realise you've made one very inconvenient mistake: falling in love with dr. jack abbot.
notes: okay, this took way longer than it should have because i burnt out trying to make all the "medical stuff" absolutely perfectly, then when i picked it back up i feel like the rhythm changed a little? hopefully for the better? i'm not sure if it's worth the wait, but i really hope y'all still enjoy! and as always, please let me know what you think!
warnings: swearing, blushing, italics, fwb type situation, jealousy, implied age gap, reader is in serious denial, medical descriptions, medical procedure descriptions (not graphic), most definitely incorrect medical information, sexual references, implied sexual relationships, making out (on shift), and one irritatingly handsome and unreasonably reasonable night shift attending.
word count: 15620
“Hey—oh, thank God.” You kick the door shut behind you. “Can you wait for me? I just need, like, five minutes.”
Ellis sighs. “Really? I was just about to leave.”
“Five minutes,” you say again, already moving toward your room.
You don’t bother shutting the door. You just drop your bag at the foot of your bed, pull the faded old U.S. Army shirt over your head, and shove your sweatpants down. Then you grab a fresh set of scrubs and pull them on, tying the drawstring quickly before opening your bag to check for your badge and stethoscope.
“Aren’t you gonna shower?” Ellis calls from the living room.
“We showered before I left,” you say, “but I didn’t have a clean pair of scrubs.”
Ellis gags. “Gross. Why’d you have to say ‘we’?”
You sling your bag over your shoulder as you step out of your room, grinning.
“Because we had some really great shower sex too.”
Ellis makes a dramatic vomiting noise as you both head out the door, her keys jingling as she turns to lock it.
“I thought Deran was your usual Thursday morning appointment,” she says.
You shrug. “Scheduling conflict.”
She turns and starts down the hall, glancing at you from the corner of her eye. “You are the schedule.”
“I’m restructuring,” you say lightly, falling into step beside her. “Don’t think Deran’s making the cut.”
Ellis doesn’t say anything else. She just watches you for a second—eyes narrowing, brows drawing a little tighter—before shaking her head and turning toward the fire stairs door. You both make your way down to the parking garage in silence, crossing the dimly lit basement until you reach Ellis’ car.
The drive to the hospital isn’t long. Ellis fills most of it complaining about a patient she handed off to McKay this morning who insisted his diagnosis was wrong because he’d googled it—and she’s still muttering angrily by the time she pulls into the hospital parking lot.
“I swear,” she says, yanking the parking brake a little too hard, “if I hear the words ‘but I googled it’ even once tonight, I’m going to lose my mind.”
You snort softly as you climb out of the car, slinging your bag over your shoulder before shutting the door. You both head inside through the ambulance bay, keeping out of the way of an arriving trauma as the paramedics wheel the gurney through—something about chest pain, you overhear.
“Trauma one’s open,” Dana calls.
“Dr. Toomarian, with me.”
Your head snaps up at the sound of Jack’s voice, your gaze landing on him beside the gurney as he guides it through the trauma bay doors, that familiar mask of focus already in place.
Then he looks at you, something flickering across his face.
“Hey—don’t disappear. I need to talk to you after this.”
You lift your hand, pointing a finger at yourself. “Me?”
He nods once before turning into the trauma bay, the glass door swinging shut behind him.
“Ooh,” Ellis murmurs as you both turn down the back hall. “You’re in trouble.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, right.”
“Maybe he’s restructuring,” she adds, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Think you’ll make the cut?”
You shoot her a flat look. “Very funny.”
Ellis smirks as she opens her locker, shrugging her bag off her shoulder and shoving it inside. You do the same—moving on autopilot as you sling your stethoscope around your neck, clip your badge at your hip, and stuff your backpack in your locker before shutting the door.
You head back toward the hub side by side, both peering into the trauma bay as you pass. The patient is stable now, half-conscious on the bed while Jack gives orders and Jesse preps for transfer to a room for monitoring. Dr. Robby is in there too now, looking as tired as always with his arms folded and protective glasses pushed up on top of his head.
“Evening, ladies,” Lena says from behind the nurses’ desk. “Get a good sleep?”
“Always,” Ellis replies as she grabs a tablet from the rack.
“Good enough,” you mutter, tipping your head back to read the board.
“Mm.” Lena peers at you over the top of her glasses. “Well, maybe you should start prioritising sleep over extracurriculars.”
Ellis snorts beside you.
“Lena,” you gasp, voice thick with mock offence. “I don’t—”
You stop short as Jack steps up beside you, offering Lena a polite nod before looking back at you.
“You have my badge.”
You frown. “What?”
“My badge,” he says again, already reaching for the badge at your hip.
He unclips it from your scrub pants and holds it up, brows lifting just slightly.
“Attending physician, huh?”
You shrug. “Thought it was time I got a promotion.”
He huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head as he fastens the badge to his scrub top and fishes your badge from his back pocket. Then he steps in closer, his fingers grazing your hip as he tugs on the waistband of your pants and clips the badge where his had been.
“Try to keep track of it,” he mutters, already turning away.
You don’t respond. You just roll your eyes and turn back to the nurses’ station, where Lena is still watching you over the rim of her glasses, utterly unimpressed.
“You didn’t even notice?” Ellis asks.
You lift one shoulder. “I just grabbed it off the floor.”
“Okay,” Lena mutters, glancing back down at her chart. “I’m choosing not to know.”
Ellis shakes her head. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I know,” you say, tipping your head back again to read the board. “But you love me.”
She snorts, not even looking up from her tablet.
“Come on.” You bump your shoulder against hers. “Let’s go check out the elbow dislocation in One.”
“Fine,” she sighs, “but I’m not doing traction.”
You roll your eyes for what feels like the umpteenth time as you start moving, heading toward the North corridor with Ellis at your heel. When you pull back the curtain at North One, the man lying there is exactly what you expected—mid-twenties, gym shorts, red with embarrassment and trying not to wince even though the shape of his shoulder is very wrong.
“Alright, Mr. Donovan,” you say, pulling on a pair of gloves. “Let’s have a look at that shoulder.”
His eyes flick up to your face, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Are you a doctor?”
“Sure am,” you reply as you step closer to the bed. “And with me is Dr. Ellis. She’s going to help me get that bone back in place, but first you’re going to have to tell us how you did it.”
He grimaces as you gently prod his upper arm.
“Yeah—uh—I was just at the gym,” he starts, voice strained.
“Benching?” Ellis asks.
He nods. “Yeah.”
“Let me guess—personal best?”
He nods again. “Yeah. How did you—”
“Happens more often than you think,” you cut in, your fingers finding the pulse at his wrist. “Move your fingers.”
He wriggles them slowly.
“Any numbness?”
He shakes his head.
“I was just putting the bar back,” he says. “My arm twisted a bit and it just… popped.”
You glance over your shoulder at Ellis, and she nods.
“Okay, Mr. Donovan—”
“You can call me Chase,” he interrupts, the corner of his mouth lifting a little higher.
You nod once. “Alright, Chase. We’re going to give you something for the pain and a muscle relaxant so it’s easier to get it back into place. Then Dr. Ellis and I are going to do the reduction.”
“Will it hurt?”
“Not much,” Ellis replies. “Maybe a little discomfort, but it’ll be quick.”
“Okay,” he mutters, wincing again as he tries to shift in the bed.
You look at Ellis. “Fentanyl and midaz?”
She nods, already turning away to find a workstation.
“We’ll be back in about five minutes,” you tell Chase. “Just as soon as a nurse administers the medication and it has enough time to kick in.”
“Five minutes, huh? That’s just enough time for me to figure out how to ask for your number.”
You snort. “Let’s just get your shoulder back in first, then see how you feel.”
“Ouch,” he chuckles. “Is that your subtle way of saying you have a boyfriend?”
You hesitate, taking half a step back from the bed.
“Uh—no,” you mutter. “No boyfriend.”
He smirks. “So I have a shot?”
You shake your head as you turn away, a faint smile pulling at your lips. “Like I said—let’s see how you feel after I manhandle your humerus back into its socket.”
He doesn’t say anything else—just lets out a quiet breath of laughter as you turn and step out of the room.
Your gaze flicks up as you reach for the curtain, and only then do you notice Jack standing there—arms folded, shoulders set, his hazel eyes fixed on you like he’s waiting for something.
“Oh—hey,” you say. “Need me?”
He shakes his head. “Nope. Just doing the rounds. Want a hand with the reduction?”
“Nah, I’ve got Ellis,” you reply, starting back toward Central. “But you’re more than welcome to supervise.”
He scoffs, falling into step beside you. “You don’t need supervising.”
“I know.” You glance at him from the corner of your eye, a smirk tugging at your lips. “But I know how you like to watch.”
His mouth quirks, like he’s trying not to laugh.
“Careful,” he murmurs.
“Or what?” you tease, stopping just before the nurses’ station.
His eyes are a little darker now, the tops of his cheeks dusted pink.
“You don’t want to find out,” he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear.
Something twists low in your belly—and you get the sudden, distinct feeling that you do, in fact, want to find out.
“Abbot,” Lena calls before you can say anything else. “Trauma inbound—cyclist versus vehicle, ETA three minutes.”
Jack pauses for a half a second—then nods. “Alright, let’s prep Trauma Two.” He looks at you. “You in?”
You pull a face, all mock disappointment. “Oh, I wish I could, but I’ve got that reduction…”
He gives you a flat look, the corner of his mouth pulling just slightly. “Mm. Tragic.”
“Good luck, though,” you add, flashing him a grin.
You turn away before he does, moving around the hub to grab a tablet and find your next patient. It isn’t long before the paramedics come crashing through the ambulance bay doors with a groaning patient on the gurney—and you take that as your cue to get back to the shoulder dislocation.
“Alright, Chase,” you say, pulling back the curtain. “Let’s do this.”
He gives you a lopsided smile. “I was hoping I’d see you again.”
Ellis snorts. “Midaz is working.”
You laugh softly as you step up beside his affected arm, adjusting the bed slightly before pulling on a pair of gloves. Ellis does the same, moving into position on the other side and bracing one hand against his good shoulder.
You look at her. “Ready?”
She nods once.
“Okay, Chase,” you say, one hand wrapping gently around his wrist. “Stay loose for me.”
You place your other hand at his elbow and bring his arm out from his body, easing it into position.
“Hey—relax,” Ellis says. “Don’t fight it.”
He lets out a breath, the tension in his body easing.
“That’s it,” you murmur, starting to pull his arm outward.
You feel the resistance from the dislocation, holding his arm steady until—his shoulder drops.
Ellis nods. “Good. Now rotate.”
You carefully rotate his arm out, slow and controlled, until you feel a small shift—the soft clunk of the bone slipping back into place. Chase flinches, inhaling sharply, then—
“Oh—” He blinks. “Oh, that’s—that’s way better.”
You give him a small smile as you guide his arm back in, keeping it supported while Ellis grabs the sling.
“Move your fingers,” you tell him.
He does.
“Any numbness?”
He shakes his head.
“Good.”
You move aside as Ellis steps in with the sling, fastening it over his shoulder before adjusting the bed again.
“Comfortable?” she asks.
Chase nods slowly. “‘M tired.”
“Then have a nap.”
You peel your gloves off and drop them in the waste bin, squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm as you turn back toward Chase.
“We’re going to keep you here for a bit, okay? Just to monitor you and get an X-ray to make sure everything’s back in place.”
“You’re leaving me?” he mumbles, eyes half-lidded.
You shake your head, letting out a quiet laugh. “I’ll be back in a bit to see how you’re feeling, alright?”
He mutters something else as his eyes slip shut, but it’s too soft for you to hear.
Then, after a beat, Ellis looks at you. “Gonna give him your number?”
You roll your eyes. “Um, no.”
“Why not?”
“Because I'm not—”
“Roster’s looking a little thin,” she says as she turns and steps out of the room.
You follow her, frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She shrugs. “Not that I’m keeping track, but… by my count, you’re down to one.”
You let out a short, disbelieving scoff. “Okay—well, not that it’s any of your business, but Andrew moved to Canada, and Craig got back with his ex.”
She glances at you from the corner of her eye. “And you dropped Deran, so—”
“Like I said,” you cut in, lifting your chin just slightly. “I’m restructuring.”
“Restructuring,” she repeats mildly, “or retiring?”
Before the words have even landed, she’s gone—slipping into North Five with her tablet in hand and that stupid little smirk still curled at the corner of her mouth. You can faintly hear her greet the patient as the door eases shut, leaving you confused and alone in the middle of the North corridor.
Retiring?
You blink, your brows drawing tighter.
Retiring?
What the hell is that supposed to mean? Retiring from what?
From having fun? Having casual sex? Blowing off a little steam in the most enjoyable way you know how?
It’s not like you’re some irresponsible party animal—you barely go out, you only drink on occasion, and the hardest drug you’ve done since starting med school is ibuprofen. In fact, you’d argue that you’re the opposite of irresponsible. You take your casual sex roster very seriously. You don’t take risks, you make sure every single one of your partners has regular sexual-health check-ups, and you make sure to actually get to know them before you even sign them up.
Which is exactly why you’re not going around giving out your number to random patients.
You need to know someone before you start something casual. You need to know that they’re not going to ask for more, that they’re going to be mature and understand exactly where you both stand.
You need to know that you can trust them not to be irresponsible.
Because the last thing you need is some trigger-happy idiot who isn’t wearing a condom getting caught up in the moment and finishing inside you. Not that you ever go without a condom.
Except for...
Well—except for Jack.
But that’s different. He knows what he’s doing. You trust him—and you’re on birth control.
So it doesn’t really matter if, occasionally, he finishes—
“You good, or are you just going to keep staring into space?”
Your head snaps up, heat flooding your cheeks as you meet Henderson’s gaze.
“Uh—yeah, sorry, I was just—”
He chuckles. “No need to apologise—but if you’re bored, I could use an extra set of hands in Eight.”
You tilt your head. “Worth it?”
“Forearm lac. Exposed tendon.”
You nod. “I’m in.”
The next few hours blur together in a steady stream of night shift weirdness—a woman with a mystery rash whose story evolves from laundry detergent to poison ivy, someone who decided Gorilla Glue was a reasonable substitute for hair gel, a fish hook through a hand with the fish still attached, and a DIY dentistry job with half the tooth left and a lot of blood.
You barely catch a break until your patient in Central Twelve—when you and Ellis absolutely have to leave the room before you both burst out laughing at the mortified man who insists he slipped and fell on a Buzz Lightyear action figure. Because how else would it get stuck up there?
In your defence, you had managed to maintain some semblance of professionalism right up until Ellis muttered under her breath, “To infinity and beyond, I guess.”
That’s when you lost it—muttering the first excuse you could think of before slipping out the door and doubling over with laughter.
“Oh my God,” Ellis says, wiping the corner of her eye. “I love the night shift.”
You press a hand to your stomach, still aching from the laughter.
“Stop—” you gasp, shaking your head. “I can’t go back in there.”
“In where?” Shen asks, appearing in front of you.
You and Ellis both go still for a second, the laughter dying down as you exchange a look.
“Actually,” Ellis says, turning back to Shen with a smirk. “I think this case might be perfect for you, Dr. Shen.”
You nod. “Oh, absolutely. We could really use your expertise on this one.”
Shen frowns. “What’s the case?”
“It’s hard to explain,” Ellis says quickly. “You’re better off seeing it for yourself.”
Shen isn’t stupid, obviously, but he is incredibly curious—as most doctors are. So despite the fact that both you and Ellis are doing a terrible job of hiding your amusement, he takes the tablet from your outstretched hand and opens the door to Central Twelve.
Ellis’ eyes go wide, but before either of you can say anything else, someone calls your name across the department.
“Trauma One—get in here,” Jack says, waving a hand.
You let out a sigh, tipping your head back for a split second before jogging across Central to meet the paramedics.
“Twenty-four-year-old male—fell onto a plastic prop sword,” the first paramedic says, guiding the gurney into Trauma One. “Penetrating injury to the left thigh, object still in situ. Bleeding controlled, pulses intact, GCS fifteen. Fentanyl given en route, vitals stable.”
You almost snort when you realise the man is dressed in a pirate costume, his plastic cutlass wedged about four inches into his anterolateral thigh.
“Alright, we’ll take it from here,” Jack says. “Can you tell us your name, sir?”
“Josh,” the patient replies, his voice strained.
“Stabilise the leg,” you tell Mateo, moving into position opposite him. “On my count—one, two, three.”
You shift the patient from gurney to bed, and the paramedics clear out.
“Josh!”
A young woman rushes into the room, clearly from the same party—wearing what can only be described as a very short, very inaccurate interpretation of a nurse’s uniform.
“Oh my God. Is he bleeding out?”
Jack glances up, his lips twitching when he spots the woman. “I don’t remember approving that uniform.”
You shoot him a look. “Very funny, Dr. Abbot.”
His eyes linger on you for a beat too long.
“Not that I’d object,” he murmurs.
You arch a brow. “The nurses might.”
“I’m not a nurse,” the woman says, indignant. “I’m a sexy doctor.”
You look her up and down again, your gaze catching on the small, laminated name badge pinned to her chest with ‘Dr. Feelgood’ printed in bold pink letters.
You hum. “Right.”
“Still not the sexiest doctor in the room,” Jack mutters as he moves around the bed.
Your eyes flick up, meeting his for half a second, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly before you catch yourself and turn back to Josh.
“Have you had anything to drink tonight, Josh?” you ask.
Somewhere behind you, Dr. Feelgood starts to answer for him, but Bridget quickly steps in and guides her out of the trauma bay.
“I’ve got a dorsalis pedis pulse,” Jack notes.
Josh groans, mumbling something unintelligible under his breath.
“We’re going to get you something for the pain, alright?” you say, watching Olive insert the IV. “But first, I need to know what happened and how much you’ve had to drink.”
Mateo carefully cuts up the leg of Josh’s pants, fully exposing the entry site.
“I—ngh—I fell on it—” Josh manages. “It’s not even—not even real—fuck—”
Mateo turns away quickly, hiding his amusement.
“What about alcohol?” you ask again.
“Like—two beers,” he replies.
“Any drugs?”
“No—ah—no drugs.”
You nod. “Okay. Let’s give another twenty-five of fent.”
“Can we get surgery down here?” Jack asks as he steps back from the bed.
Mateo moves to grab the phone. “Calling now.”
Jack nods, folding his arms and lifting his head to look at you. “Alright. What’s next?”
“Repeat neurovascular exam, stabilise the object, don’t remove it, and get imaging before anyone touches it.”
He nods again. “Good.”
You try to ignore the way he’s watching you as you move to the foot of the bed, going through the motions of the neurovascular checks a little slower than he had just a minute ago.
“Pulses still intact. Cap refill under two. No numbness,” you report.
“Good,” he says again. “Keep checking. If that changes, we move faster.”
You nod once before turning back to Josh.
“Do you know when your last tetanus shot was, Josh?”
He shakes his head faintly. “No.”
“Okay, tetanus booster—” you glance up at Jack, “and antibiotics.”
“Which antibiotic?”
“Cefazolin?”
He watches you for a beat, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly—then he turns to Olive. “You heard the doctor. Get him some cefazolin.”
You drop your head, biting back a smile as you watch Mateo start to clean the entry site.
“Let’s flag contamination risk for surgery,” Jack says, pulling off his gloves. “And X-ray for—”
“Position and fragments,” you cut in, finishing for him. “And CTA left leg to clear the vessels before removal.”
He tosses his gloves in the bin and turns back toward you, brows raised.
“Alright,” he says, mildly amused. “I can see I’m no longer needed in here.”
You flash him a small, smug smile before turning back to the wound.
“Entry looks clean, bleeding’s controlled—let’s pack around it and get him to imaging.”
Mateo nods and moves to grab more gauze, helping you pack carefully around the plastic blade so it doesn’t shift during transport. Jack lingers just long enough to make sure you’ve got everything under control before he steps out of the room, slipping back into the quiet chaos of the night shift.
You and Mateo quickly finish stabilising the leg before the nurses prep him for imaging. They’re just about to wheel the bed out when Walsh arrives from the OR, fighting a smile when she sees the pirate impaled by his own sword. You give her a brief rundown as you pull your gloves off and squirt a pump of sanitiser into your hands. She nods along, asks a few questions, then mutters something about prepping an operating room while they wait for imaging.
When you finally step out of the trauma bay, you spot Jack standing with Lena at the nurses’ station. You don’t quite catch all of their conversation as you walk past to grab a tablet, but you do hear something about ETA three minutes and decide to make yourself scarce before you’re dragged into another trauma.
You scan the board briefly, pick your next patient, then head toward the South corridor, already pulling up the chart for South Twenty on your tablet. You’re halfway through the patient’s intake when—
You stop—then take two steps back, turning your head toward South Seventeen.
“Deran?”
The man in the bed glances up, blowing a lock of dark blond hair out of his eyes.
He smiles. “Hey, doc.”
“What’re you doing here?” you ask, despite the obvious.
He’s got his left hand cradled in his lap, wrapped loosely in an oil-stained rag that’s already soaked through in places, blood seeping into the fabric and drying in dark blotches. His knuckles underneath are split and swollen, his pinky finger sticking out at an odd angle, the rest of his hand already blown out around it.
“I was helping a friend with his truck,” he says, glancing back down at his mangled hand. “The prop rod slipped, and the hood came straight down.”
“Ouch,” you murmur, stepping forward.
He huffs out a short laugh. “Yeah. Ouch.”
“Mind if I take a look?”
“Go for it.”
You set your tablet at the foot of the bed and step up beside him, leaning in as you gently lift the rag to get a better look at what’s underneath. It’s not that deformed—just swollen, and his pinky finger is obviously broken, but otherwise it’s mostly just bruising and superficial cuts. At least he won’t need stitches—maybe some steri-strips and a splint—but you’re more concerned about the dirty rag he’s got wrapped around it.
“What d’you think?” he asks, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Am I going to make it?”
You tilt your head. “Maybe. If we act fast.”
He laughs softly, the sound ringing almost too familiar in your ears.
You straighten quickly, clearing your throat. “Do you—uh—have you seen a doctor yet?”
He shakes his head. “No. Just you.”
You nod once and pick up your tablet, flicking out of South Twenty’s chart.
“Cool. I’ll be your doctor—” You pause, glancing back at him. “Unless you think that’s a conflict of interest?”
His smile widens. “You mean the prettiest doctor in Pittsburgh’s gonna fix me up?”
You roll your eyes. “Just Pittsburgh, huh?”
“Well, I couldn’t say the world—that’d be way too cheesy.”
You snort. “All your lines are cheesy.”
He gasps. “All of them?”
“All of them,” you echo, keeping your eyes fixed firmly on your tablet.
“Wow,” he mutters. “Tough crowd.”
You shake your head, trying not to smile as you pull up his chart and make a quick note, effectively assigning yourself as his physician. Then you set the tablet back on the bed and turn to grab a pair of gloves.
“Alright, I just need to have a closer look before I can get you some pain relief.”
You nudge the stool closer to the bed and sit down, leaning in as Deran gingerly shifts his hand. You peel the rag back properly this time, murmuring an apology when he winces, and set the dirty thing aside before reaching for gauze and saline.
“This might sting a bit,” you say, already starting to clean the dried blood from his knuckles. “Let me know if you want me to stop.”
“Do I need a safe word?” he asks smugly.
Your gaze flicks up, unamused—then back down to his hand without a word.
“I’m gonna go with meatball,” he decides. “Because—”
“—your favourite thing in the world is a meatball sub from that deli on Carson,” you cut in. “I know.”
His brows lift. “Wow.”
Your eyes flick up again. “Wow what?”
He shrugs, wincing slightly as you turn his hand. “Nothing. I just… didn’t think you paid that much attention.”
You don’t look up this time, unsure what you could possibly say that wouldn’t turn this into a deeper conversation than you’re willing to have right now.
After a beat, Deran hums. “Still doing the whole unavailable thing, huh?”
You roll your eyes. “It’s not a thing, Deran. I work fifteen hours a day with hardly any phone reception, and my days off are spent catching up on paperwork and sleep. I am unavailable.”
“Yeah, I know,” he says, glancing back down at his hand. “I guess I just figured since I hadn’t heard from you in a while, maybe some lucky guy finally managed to sweep you off your feet.”
You scoff, focusing a little too hard on wrapping fresh gauze around his hand. “Yeah, well—you’d be wrong.”
He grimaces when you turn his hand again, being careful not to bump his pinky finger as you finish dressing the cuts. Then you gently set it back in his lap and start cleaning up, swivelling on your stool to toss the oily rag and all the bloodied gauze into the waste bin.
“Alright,” you say, turning back. “Lift your hand for me.”
He lifts it slowly.
“Can you move your fingers?”
His eyes go wide.
You give him a flat look. “Just try.”
His expression twists as he slowly flexes his fingers, letting out a low, pained groan.
“Okay, that’s enough,” you say, scooting forward again. “Any numbness or tingling?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
You reach out and press gently against the tip of his pinky—until it turns white—then watch the colour return beneath his nail.
“Cap refill’s good,” you mutter, more to yourself.
He winces again as he lowers his hand back into his lap.
“So, what’s the verdict—is my weekend ruined?”
You snort. “Not entirely. I’ll get you some pain relief and order an X-ray. We might have to reduce the pinky, but I want imaging before I touch it—I need to see exactly where the fracture is first.”
“Well then,” he says, smirking as he lifts his right hand and holds up just the index and middle finger. “Good thing I’m right-handed.”
It takes a moment for the joke to land. You tilt your head, frowning faintly as you stare at his fingers.
Then it clicks.
“Oh my God,” you laugh, grabbing his hand and forcing it back down. “What is wrong with you?”
He grins. “What? You said it yourself—my weekend isn’t entirely ruined.”
You shake your head. “I didn’t think you meant that.”
“Well,” he says slowly, leaning in, “I don’t have plans yet, but if you’ve got time between paperwork and sleeping, maybe we could—”
“Everything alright in here?”
You turn to see Jack stepping past the curtain. He stops at the foot of the bed and clasps his hands behind his back, eyes flicking curiously between you and Deran.
You straighten a little and nod. “Yep. All good.”
“Except my hand,” Deran adds, lifting his injured hand.
“Right.” You shake your head once. “Deran, this is Dr. Abbot—he’s the senior attending on shift tonight.”
Then you glance back at Jack.
“Crush injury to the left hand after a truck hood came down on it. Significant swelling through the fifth digit with an obvious deformity at the pinky, plus some superficial lacerations across the knuckles. Neurovascularly intact—cap refill’s good, no numbness or tingling. I’ve cleaned and dressed the cuts, and I was just about to send him for imaging before we decide if the finger needs reducing.”
Jack nods once. “Good. Any pain management?”
You stand and nudge the stool back, picking up your tablet from the end of the bed.
“I was just about to order some ibuprofen and Tylenol.”
He nods again. “Sounds like you’ve got everything under control.”
You give him a small smile before turning back to Deran. “Hang tight—I’ll come find you once I get your X-ray results.”
He pouts. “You’re just going to leave me here?”
You roll your eyes, already turning away. “Unavailable, remember.”
Jack slides the curtain shut before following you out, falling into step beside you as you head back toward Central.
“You know him?”
You glance up from your tablet. “Uh—yeah. Old friend.”
He lifts a brow. “Friend?”
You give him a look. “What do you want me to say?”
He shrugs, letting out a quiet laugh. “Friend works.”
“Good,” you mutter, stopping at one of the workstations and setting your tablet down.
Jack pauses beside you. “Meet me in Central Twelve once you’ve put the orders in.”
You frown. “Why?”
The corner of his mouth twitches.
“Because I’m your boss, that’s why.”
Then he’s gone, moving through the department with that faint hitch in his stride and an ass that absolutely should not look that good in scrubs.
You shake your head and turn your attention back to the computer in front of you, swiping your badge to log in. You quickly pull up Deran’s chart, make a few notes, and order the ibuprofen and Tylenol. Then, just because you can, you try to pull up Central Twelve’s chart—if only to annoy Jack by getting a head start—but there’s nothing in the system.
Great. Must be a brand-new patient.
You let out an irritated little sigh before logging off and grabbing your tablet again.
The door to Central Twelve is shut when you get there, which isn’t unusual, but immediately makes you fear the worst for whatever case Jack has waiting for you inside.
You take a breath, turn the handle—and freeze when you spot the empty bed.
“Shut the door,” Jack says, without looking up from the supply drawer he’s rummaging through.
You hesitate. “Am I in trouble?”
He sighs. “Do you ever just do what you’re told?”
You finally step into the room, shutting the door behind you before setting your tablet on the room cart.
“Sometimes,” you say. “Depends what’s in it for me.”
Jack straightens, turning toward you. “That’s a remarkably transactional approach to life.”
You shrug. “I believe in reciprocation.”
He takes a step closer. “That’s not what reciprocation means.”
“Really?” you ask. “Because last time I checked—in the shower, by the way—you were getting a pretty good deal.”
His mouth quirks. “Are you saying I owe you?”
You step forward. “Who’s keeping count?”
“Maybe I am,” he murmurs.
Before you can say anything else, his fingers catch the hem of your shirt and he tugs—just enough to pull you off balance. Then his mouth is on yours. Slow, deep, unhurried. As if there isn’t an entire emergency department waiting on the other side of that door.
He presses closer, his hand moving beneath your shirt, rough fingers digging into your hip as his mouth parts lazily against yours. His tongue slides along your bottom lip, pulling a breathy little sigh from the back of your throat as your fingers curl into the front of his scrub top. You tilt your head, leaning in, chasing more—and for a second it almost feels like he’s going to give it to you.
Then he pulls away.
Your lips follow instinctively, and he chuckles, taking a deliberate step back.
You blink. “What was that?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
He steps toward the door.
“Dr. Toomarian’s got a patient to present.”
You stare at him. “Seriously?”
He reaches for the handle.
“South Sixteen.”
Then he’s gone, and you’re left watching the door swing shut with something strange and unfamiliar stirring beneath your ribs.
That was weird.
Not unpleasant. Not by any means. Just... unusual.
It takes you a little longer than it should to remember how to move. How to suck in a full breath, pick up your tablet, and head back out into the chaos of the night shift past midnight.
The department is exactly as you’d left it. Patients complaining about pain that could have been prevented with a little common sense. Doctors running on nothing but caffeine and questionable protein snacks. And Lena in the middle of it all, her glasses perched low on her nose as she scans the tablet in her hand.
“Hey,” you say, stepping up to the nurses’ station. “Got anything easy for me?”
Lena glances over the top of her glasses. “Easy left three hours ago.”
You sigh. “Come on. There’s got to be something.”
Her eyes flick back down. “I’ve got a Ms. Callahan in Central Nine. Migraine, vitals are fine.”
“Perfect. I’ll—”
“I’ve got this one,” Jack says, appearing beside you. “Dr. Toomarian needs a resident in South Sixteen.”
You frown. “But I—”
“Now.”
You stare at him for a second, wondering how the hell a man can kiss you breathless one minute then start barking orders at you the next.
“Fine,” you mutter, gripping your tablet a little tighter. “But when I’m admitted for emotional whiplash, I want it documented that you’re the reason why.”
Then you turn and head for the South hall before you’re tempted to say something even less professional.
You don’t normally snap like that—especially not at an attending—but something about the last fifteen minutes has crawled beneath your skin and stayed there, impossible to ignore. Your pulse still hasn’t settled properly. Your cheeks are still warm. And every time you think about Jack’s stupid little half-smirk after he’d kissed you, you’re annoyed.
You just can’t figure out why.
He doesn’t normally kiss you in the middle of a shift.
He doesn’t normally order you around like you’re a lost med student.
And he definitely doesn’t volunteer to see migraine patients.
But you don’t normally get this irritated. Especially not at Jack. The two of you are always messing around. Playing games. Flirting. It’s what you do. So what’s so different about tonight?
“Hey.” Ellis grabs your arm, stopping you just outside of South Sixteen. “You good?”
You blink. “Yeah. Why?”
“You look like you’re contemplating homicide.”
“And if I am?”
“I’d be obliged to remind you that we’re here to save lives, not end them.”
“Damn. Guess I’ll just have to wait until after my shift.”
Her eyes narrow, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly. “Is this about who I thought I saw being taken up to imaging?”
You frown. “Who did you think you saw?”
“Deran.”
“Oh.”
You glance over her shoulder at the empty bed in South Seventeen.
“That was fast,” you mutter.
Her brows lift. “Wait. You’re his physician?”
You shrug. “Yeah.”
“Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”
“Isn’t my life a conflict of interest?”
She stares at you for a moment, amusement tugging at her mouth. “It’s one of those nights, huh?”
You sigh. “Yep.”
She puts a hand on your shoulder. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
Then she gives you a brief nod and continues down the hall, humming a tune you don’t recognise as if to rub it in that she’s having a far more pleasant shift than you are.
You spend the next half hour alongside Nazely, talking her through a chest pain workup and reassuring the patient who’s convinced every twinge in his left arm is the beginning of the end. By the time you’ve reviewed the ECG for the third time and convinced him that googling symptoms at two in the morning isn’t a substitute for medical advice, you’re finally able to move on.
The shift settles back into its usual rhythm after that. Patients. Notes. Consults. A never-ending stream of questions from the new med student stuck on nights and equally never-ending complaints from people who should have gone to bed instead of doing dumb things that landed them in the ED.
It isn’t until two a.m. that you finally find yourself back at the nurses’ station with Ellis, sipping a vending machine energy drink she’d forced into your hand while the department enjoys a rare moment of relative calm.
“Shen said the Butt Lightyear guy went up for surgery.”
Lena tilts her head. “Butt Lightyear?”
“You don’t want to know,” you murmur into your drink.
“They tried removing it manually but were worried about the wings,” Ellis explains.
“The wings?”
She smirks. “Yeah. You press a button and the wings pop out.”
You shut your eyes. “Ouch.”
“Let me guess,” Lena says, peering over the rim of her glasses. “He slipped?”
Ellis nods. “Yep. Total accident.”
“Yeah, and the toy just happened to be completely covered in lube too,” you add.
Lena sighs. “Every day I learn something new against my will.”
You and Ellis both laugh as Lena turns away, seemingly done with this conversation—and the people of Pittsburgh judging by the defeated look on her face. You’re about to reach for your tablet to pull up the X-ray images off poor Butt Lightyear when a bright laugh cuts through the quiet hum of the department, drawing your attention toward Central Nine.
You narrow your eyes. “Why is he still in there?”
Ellis shrugs. “Not sure. I thought it was just a migraine.”
“Laughing pretty hard for someone with a headache,” you mutter.
Ellis glances at you. “Do you know who she is?”
“Nope.”
“Huh.”
You look at her. “What?”
She shakes her head. “Nothing.”
“I have no idea who she is,” you say, grabbing your tablet. “And frankly? I don’t care.”
Ellis nods. “Okay.”
“Good.”
Then you turn away before she can say anything else, heading toward the North corridor even though you have no idea which patient you’re actually on your way to see.
It isn’t long before you find yourself passing through Central again, peering into Ms. Callahan’s room to see if she’s been discharged yet. Which she hasn’t—but at least Jack’s not in there anymore. Not that it really matters to you, but you can’t imagine the rest of the department is thrilled about an attending wasting half the night on a migraine patient.
Ten minutes later, you walk past Central Nine again. Not because you’re looking this time—you’re genuinely just passing on your way to find a free workstation—but she’s still in there. And she certainly doesn’t look like she’s in pain anymore.
If you were her, you’d be demanding discharge papers by now.
The third time you glance at Ms. Callahan, she catches your eye, and you offer her a small, awkward smile before quickly glancing back down at your chart. The same chart you’ve been pretending to work on for the better part of fifteen minutes without writing a single coherent sentence.
“You know that’s Abbot’s ex, right?”
You blink. “What?”
Shen nods toward Central Nine. “Ms. Callahan. She’s Abbot’s ex.”
You glance back at the gorgeous blonde woman scrolling through her phone, not at all looking like someone suffering from a migraine.
“Oh.”
Shen nods slowly. “Anyway. He’s looking for you.”
You frown. “Who?”
“Dr. Abbot.”
“Why?”
Shen shrugs. “Didn’t say.”
You sigh. “Great.”
He watches you curiously as you log out of the computer and push your chair back.
“Did he say where?” you ask.
“South.”
You nod once. “Thanks.”
Then you turn and head toward the South corridor, but not without one last glance at the woman in Central Nine. The woman who apparently used to date Jack. The woman who, for reasons you still don’t entirely understand, is suddenly very difficult to stop thinking about.
You spot Jack standing beside the workstations in the middle of the South hall, frowning at something on his tablet. He looks tired now, his curls standing at odd angles thanks to the way he drags his hand through them after every stressful trauma patient—and he’s leaning his left hip against the side of the desk, shifting the weight off his right leg because three a.m. is always when it starts aching. Not that he’ll admit it.
“Shen said you wanted to see me.”
He glances up. “Your friend’s imaging came back.”
“And?”
“Hand surgery wants him,” he says, offering you his tablet.
You take it, glancing down at the X-ray images. “Fracture and tendon damage. Fantastic.”
You flip through the images and skim over the surgeon’s review.
“Okay. I’ll send him up.”
Jack takes the tablet back, his brows pulling together slightly.
“Have you eaten?”
You frown. “What?”
“Have you eaten anything tonight?”
“I had an energy drink.”
He stares at you. “That’s not food.”
You shrug. “I haven’t had time.”
“Make time.”
You roll your eyes. “Fine. I didn’t bring anything.”
He lets out a quiet sigh, glancing down at the tablet as he flicks out of Deran’s X-rays and brings up another patient’s chart.
“There’s a container in the fridge.”
You blink. “What?”
“Top shelf. Left side. Blue lid.”
Your brows lift. “You brought me food?”
He glances up again. “I brought extra food. It’s that pasta you like.”
As if on cue, your stomach grumbles. Loudly.
“Go eat,” he says. “I doubt surgery’s coming to collect your friend in the next twenty minutes.”
You want to argue. You really do. Because you don’t need to be looked after. You don’t need him to bring you food and make sure you eat and be all quietly caring like this. But God is this man a good cook, and you’d have to be an idiot to turn down free pasta at three o’clock in the morning.
“Fine,” you mutter, already turning away. “I’ll eat.”
“You’re welcome.”
You don’t look back. Because if you do, you might see the stupidly smug look on his face and it might make you smile. Then he’ll know he was right, and you absolutely cannot give him that satisfaction. So instead, you drop your gaze and watch your shoes move against the speckled linoleum until you reach the break room door.
You don’t even notice that someone else is in there until you reach the fridge and finally glance up.
“Oh. Hey.”
Ellis waves her fork. “Hey.”
You pull the fridge door open and immediately spot Jack’s blue-lidded tupperware.
You don’t answer. Not explicitly, at least. You just glance over your shoulder with what could be considered a very brief nod, then turn back toward the microwave and set the container inside.
“She’s his ex, by the way,” you say without thinking.
“Huh?”
You press the start button on the microwave before turning to face Ellis properly, leaning back against the kitchenette counter.
“The woman in Central Nine. Shen just told me she’s Jack’s ex.”
“Oh. Yeah.” Ellis stabs a piece of broccoli with her fork. “I know.”
You tilt your head. “How do you know?”
“I asked Dr. Abbot how he knew the patient,” she says, as if it were obvious.
“Oh.”
You glance back at the microwave, still humming, Jack’s container rotating slowly inside.
“What’d he say?”
Ellis sighs, stabbing a piece of carrot this time. “Just that they dated about a year after his wife passed, but he realised he wasn’t ready to move on yet, so he ended it. It was amicable. Now they’re friends.”
You frown. “Friends? He’s never mentioned her to me.”
Ellis finally looks up, something sharpening in her expression. “Why would he?”
You hesitate. “Because we’re—well, you know…”
Her mouth twitches. “I thought it was casual.”
“It is,” you say quickly. “I just thought he would’ve mentioned—”
“Does Abbot know who Deran is?”
You blink. “What?”
Ellis smirks. “You know, the guy currently sitting in South Seventeen? Mr. Thursday mornings, or—” she tilts her head, “I guess it’s former Mr. Thursday mornings now.”
“Well—not exactly, but that’s—”
The sharp beeping of the microwave cuts you off, and you turn quickly to silence it.
“That’s different?” Ellis offers.
You grab the container out of the microwave, shut the door, then yank open the cutlery drawer to grab a fork before turning back to face her.
“Yes,” you say firmly. “It’s different. Jack knows we’re not exclusive, but he doesn’t need to know who the other guys are.”
Ellis snorts. “Or were.”
You glare at her.
“Alright,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “Then why do you need to know who she is?”
You stab a piece of pasta. “I don’t. I’m just... curious.”
“You mean jealous.”
Your head snaps up. “I’m not jealous. I don’t care what he does when he’s not with me. He can sleep with whoever he wants. He can sleep with every bottle-blonde in Pittsburgh for all I care.”
“I am not,” you protest. “It’s casual. We both know that. If he wants out, he can just say so. I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone. I mean, sure, it’s fun when they’re good, but I am perfectly fine on my own. I don’t need someone interfering with my life. With my routine. I’m happy exactly the way things are.”
Ellis nods slowly. “Okay, Miss Independent. I get it.”
“Thank you.”
“Just to be clear,” she says, pushing her chair back, “you’re standing here eating his food because he told you to. Right?”
You open your mouth to argue, but she keeps going.
“Your hair smells like his shampoo. You walked into our apartment this morning wearing his shirt, and I’m pretty sure those are his socks.” Her gaze drops briefly to your feet before returning to your face. “You haven’t slept in your own bed once this week and, unless I’m forgetting somebody, you haven’t seen another guy in...” She pauses, pretending to think. “Wow. Almost four months now.”
You stare at her.
“And when you got that stomach bug last month,” she says, grabbing her container as she stands, “he called out of work just to sit on the bathroom floor with you for eight hours.”
She steps up right beside you, dropping her container in the sink.
“That’s not casual.”
The water runs for a few seconds as she rinses the container beneath the tap, then she sets it beside the sink and turns toward the door.
“Anyway,” she says lightly, reaching for the handle. “Let me know when you’re ready to admit you’re in love with him.”
Then she’s gone, leaving you alone with your pasta and your rapidly fraying nervous system.
You don’t move. You just stare at the door, trying to remember how to breathe. Trying to think about anything that isn’t that strange and unfamiliar feeling lodged beneath your ribs, insistent on being felt.
No.
It’s not—
It can’t be—
You would know if you were in—
Fuck.
You turn quickly and drop your container of food beside the sink before it ends up on the floor. Then you press both palms into the edge of the counter, as if that might somehow ground you.
This is ridiculous.
Ellis is just messing with you. She has to be.
You’re not in—
God. You can’t even think about that word.
You drag in a deep breath and grab the fork again, lifting it to your mouth.
It’s almost annoying how good it is. Infuriating, really. Because apparently being an emergency doctor, a SWAT physician, offensively attractive and unfairly charming isn’t enough. No. Jack Abbot just has to be an excellent cook too.
Jerk.
You finish the rest of the pasta as quickly as you can, trying not to be disappointed when the container is empty. Then you rinse it beneath the tap and set it beside Ellis’ tupperware.
Your heart is still beating a little too fast when you step out of the break room, and you have to shove your hands into your scrub pockets to keep them from shaking. You keep your head down as you make your way back toward South Seventeen, trying to focus on what you’re going to say to Deran and not how you may or may not feel about your attending.
“Hey,” you say, pulling the curtain back. “How are you feeling?”
Deran glances up. “Hey, doc. Long time no see.”
You squirt a pump of sanitiser into your palm and rub your hands together as you step up beside the bed.
“Been busy,” you say. “Are the painkillers working?”
He lifts his hand, wincing. “A little.”
You glance at the clock on the wall. “You could probably get some more soon.”
His brows pull together slightly. “Is that your way of saying I’m not heading home any time soon?”
You sigh quietly, dragging the stool closer to the bed and dropping down onto it.
“Not tonight, no. I’m sorry.”
He groans, tipping his head back against the pillow.
“I know,” you murmur, leaning in. “But one of our hand surgeons reviewed the images, and you’ve got a fracture right here.” You gently tap the base of his little finger near the knuckle. “I was expecting a break, but it’s lower than we’d like and close enough to the joint that this isn’t something we can safely reduce and splint in the ED.”
He lifts his head.
“There’s also some concern about the tendon around it,” you continue. “The finger was pulled pretty hard out of position, and the surgeon’s worried it may have damaged one of the tendons that helps it move properly.”
“What does that mean?”
“They’ll take you upstairs, get better imaging if they need it, and most likely repair everything at the same time rather than risk you losing function later.”
His brows draw tighter. “Repair?”
“The fracture. The tendon. Anything else they find once they’re in there.”
He lets his head fall back again. “Great.”
“You’ll be okay.”
“I know,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Just not exactly how I pictured getting to spend more time with you.”
You roll your eyes. “Really?”
“Will you be here when I wake up?”
You snort. “Hopefully not. If all goes well, I’ll be at home asleep.”
He sighs. “Damn.”
You push the stool back and stand. “Any other questions before I sign you off to surgery?”
He lifts his head, frowning slightly. “Yeah, actually. I wanted to ask you about that guy.”
You tilt your head. “What guy?”
“The one that came in here before. The attending.”
Your stomach drops.
“What about him?”
“I thought he was your boss.”
You fold your arms. “He is.”
“Huh.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s just—” He hesitates. “I don’t know. You just don’t usually look at your boss like that.”
You stare at him for a moment, trying to ignore the rush of your pulse in your ears.
“You sure you didn’t hit your head?”
His brows lift. “Wait. Did I hit a nerve?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
Your eyes narrow. “Why don’t you just focus on the fact that you need surgery? Do you need me to call anyone?”
He shakes his head. “I already called my mom.”
“Good,” you mutter, already turning away. “Good luck in surgery.”
“Tell your boss I said hi.”
“Bye, Deran.”
His laughter follows you out into the hallway, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of looking back as you yank the curtain shut.
You shake your head as you start down the corridor toward Central, as if that might somehow knock your errant thoughts back into place. You can still hear your pulse, still feel the heat crawling beneath your skin, your scrub top suddenly too warm and too tight.
The lights overhead are almost painfully bright now, the way they always get in the late hours of the night shift—but tonight their glare feels personal. Offensive, even. As if those buzzing fluorescent bars are shining brightly on everything you’ve worked so hard not to acknowledge. Not to feel.
Not that you’re feeling anything.
At least, not whatever it is Ellis thinks you’re feeling.
You just need a minute. One minute of quiet to come up with perfectly reasonable explanations for every stupid little thing she pointed out. Then your mind can stop running circles and you can finish your shift, go home, and get some much-needed sleep.
By tomorrow, all of this is just going to feel ridiculous.
Because that’s exactly what it is.
Ridiculous.
“Dr. Abbot,” Bridget calls from behind the desk. “Can you take a look at this for me?”
You stop short halfway between South and Central, watching as Jack moves from one end of the nurses’ station to the other. Bridget is already holding up her tablet, pointing at something on the screen while Jack leans in, brow furrowing just slightly as he squints at it.
He needs to wear his glasses. You’ve told him this countless times. Yet for some reason, he insists on reserving them exclusively for news articles, novels, and recipes.
Apparently, the PTMC emergency department isn’t worthy of his clear vision.
Your stomach lurches as your traitorous thoughts remind you of the time he’d worn them during sex. The time he’d insisted on keeping them on as he settled between your legs because he wanted to see you properly. He wanted to see everything.
You shake your head again, trying to push the memory away.
Jack leans a little closer as Bridget starts explaining something you can’t quite make out. Not that you really care to hear what she’s saying. You’re too busy watching the way Jack’s left hand grips the edge of the desk, his weight shifting toward it, lessening the load on his right leg.
It must be really sore tonight.
He nods along, murmuring something low as he taps on the screen. You know what comes next before he even does it. He lifts that same hand and it drags across his jaw, tilting his head just slightly as he tries to concentrate on whatever it is Bridget’s asking—but he’s tired. You know he’s tired. From the set of his shoulders to the way he’s shifting almost all his weight off his right leg, you just know that he’s counting down the hours to the end of shift.
Maybe you should feel guilty for not letting him get enough sleep yesterday.
His left hand adjusts its grip, the tendon in his forearm flexing as it does and for some stupid reason, you forget how to breathe. Just for a second.
“You alright?”
You blink. “What?”
Henderson frowns slightly, suddenly standing beside you with his tablet in hand. “That’s the second time I've caught you completely zoned out tonight. What’s going on?”
“Uh—”
You glance back at Jack just as he looks up, his gaze meeting yours briefly, a small smile tugging at his lips—and your treacherous heart leaps. It actually leaps.
What the fuck?
You clear your throat. “Yeah. No. I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
Henderson—the perceptive bastard—glances toward the nurses’ station, and his eyes widen.
“Oh, shit. Did something happen between you two?”
Your stomach flips. “What?”
He gestures vaguely toward Jack. “You and Abbot. Did you break up or something?”
“What?” you say again, louder this time. “Why would you even—I mean, we’re not—we’ve never dated. Why would you think that?”
He tilts his head. “Really? I thought Ellis said—”
“Ellis?”
“Not just Ellis.”
Your eyes go wide. “Who else?”
He shrugs. “Everyone assumes you guys are together.”
“Together?”
He frowns. “You’re not?”
“No,” you say, almost too fast. “No. We’re not together, we’re just—it’s… casual.”
His brows lift, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Casual?”
“Yes,” you mutter, dropping your head into your hands. “Are you telling me the entire ED thinks Jack and I are dating?”
Henderson laughs. “Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve ever heard Shen mention it.”
Your head snaps up. “People talk about it?”
Henderson shrugs. “It’s gossip.”
You open your mouth, ready to deny everything, when—
“Trauma inbound,” Lena calls. “Male, twenties. Motorcycle crash. Hypotensive in the field. ETA two minutes.”
“Shit,” Henderson mutters. “That’s not gonna be fun.”
Jack glances over at you again, calling your name across the floor. “Trauma Two. Let’s go.”
You hesitate, taking a step back. “I—I can’t. Sorry.”
“It’s alright,” Henderson says quickly. “I can jump in.”
He’s already moving before he’s even finished speaking, weaving through the growing rush of staff converging on Trauma Two. You watch him for a second, taking another slow step back, then another—and just before you turn away, you glance at Jack.
He hasn’t moved. He’s still standing by the nurses’ station. Watching you.
Your stomach twists.
Then you turn away and keep walking down the corridor.
And fortunately for your rapidly deteriorating grip on reality, it isn’t long before Dr. Toomarian pulls you into a room to present a patient and you’re forced back into work mode.
The distraction helps, at first. You focus on the patient, answer questions, review scans, place orders, and for a few blessed minutes your brain remembers how to function. Then someone says Jack’s name and your pulse jumps for no reason. You hear a voice that sounds vaguely like Jack’s and your head snaps up. Someone calls for an attending and you catch yourself looking.
By the time you’re halfway through reviewing another chart, your pulse still hasn’t settled and you’re no closer to understanding what the hell is wrong with you, only increasingly certain that whatever it is, it’s getting worse.
Eventually you find yourself moving back through Central, your nose buried in your tablet as you scan the next patient’s intake form, determined to stay distracted. You’re just about to turn down the North corridor when you finally glance up—and there he is.
His brows lift, just slightly. “A word?”
Shit.
“Um. Sure.”
You tuck your tablet under one arm as you follow him around the corner toward the ambulance bay. Not quite all the way outside, but far enough from the nurses’ station that no one nosy can overhear.
When he finally stops and turns to face you, you’re reminded—quite aggressively—just how unfairly attractive Jack Abbot really is.
“What was that?”
You take a small step back. “What was what?”
He nods vaguely toward Central. “You completely dodged that trauma back there.”
“Yeah. Sorry.” You look away. “I just—I had a patient I needed to get back to.”
“We’ve all got patients,” he says, folding his arms. “But this is the ED. We treat the most critical patients first. That means traumas—you know that.”
You glance back at him, then down at your shoes. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m just... a little distracted tonight.”
“Distracted?” he echoes. “Is this about your friend?”
Your head snaps up. “My friend?”
“The one you just sent up to surgery.” His jaw tightens, just briefly. “If I’m being honest, I’m not even sure you should’ve been his physician.”
You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s a conflict of interest.”
You scoff. “A conflict of interest? Seriously?”
He folds his arms a little tighter, making the sleeves of his scrub top strain around his stupidly thick biceps in the most distracting way.
“Yes.”
You lift your chin. “Alright. How’s Ms. Callahan, then?”
He blinks. “Who?”
“Central Nine. Your ex.”
He stares at you for a second.
“Who told you that?”
“It doesn’t matter,” you say quickly. “What matters is if you can treat your ex without it being a conflict of interest, then I can treat some guy I used to sleep with.”
The corner of his mouth twitches.
“So he’s not just an old friend.”
You tilt your head. “You knew that, Jack.”
For a brief moment, neither of you says anything. You can feel your pulse in your throat now, fast and uneven, and judging by the way Jack’s looking at you, you’re not doing nearly as good a job of hiding it as you’d hoped.
“Look,” you say, desperate to end this interaction. “I’m sorry I ducked the trauma. Really, I am. But Henderson was right there—it’s not like I left you hanging. I knew he’d jump in.”
Jack rubs a hand across his jaw, looking away for a second before glancing back at you. “You’re right,” he says. “I’m sorry. Henderson was there, I could have called either of you.”
You nod once, the knot in your stomach finally easing slightly.
“Guess I should stop playing favourites, huh?”
You frown again. “Favourites?”
He lifts a shoulder. “You’re always the first person I look for when I need a second set of hands.”
Heat rushes up the back of your neck, but you refuse to let him see it.
“What about Dr. Robby?” you ask, shifting your tablet against your chest.
He leans in slightly. “I’d still choose you.”
The words hit you square in the chest, settling somewhere deep behind your ribs. For a second, your lungs forget how to work entirely, and by the time you finally figure out how to breathe again, Jack is already gone.
You stand there for a moment, staring after him, waiting for your brain to catch up with whatever the hell just happened. Waiting for those words to make sense. But they don’t. Not entirely. They stay lodged in your chest even as you clear your throat and press a hand against your sternum, turning slowly back toward the chaos of the ED.
Whatever.
Maybe they don’t mean anything.
You shake your head as you glance down at your tablet, pulling up the chart you’d been focused on before all this. Before Jack told you he’d still choose you over his own best friend, who also happens to have more experience, more qualifications, and significantly better judgement than you.
Ridiculous.
You spend the next half hour cleaning gravel out of a drunk college student’s knee after he fell down the porch steps at a house party. Then you help Henderson with a nine-year-old girl who split her forehead falling from the top bunk of her bed, distracting her while he does the sutures. After that, you work through a mild pneumonia case with Nazely before treating a middle-aged man with a kidney stone. The orders, pain meds, scans, and paperwork all blur together, and by the time you finally check the clock again it’s almost seven.
“Shit,” you murmur, dropping down at desk near the nurses’ station.
You need to catch up on your charting if you plan on getting out of here any time soon.
“Hey.” Henderson sits at the computer across from you. “Little girl with the forehead lac just got discharged.”
You glance over at him. “Oh. Nice.”
“Her mom wanted me to thank you for helping her.”
You snort. “Between the drunk college kid and the old guy coughing up half a lung, it was my pleasure.”
Henderson huffs a laugh. “Apparently she’s been saying she wants to be a doctor since she was six.”
Your brows lift. “Really?”
Henderson grins. “And now she wants to be a doctor just like you."
“Yeah? Did you tell her not to go into emergency medicine if she values her soul?”
“Assuming you had one to begin with,” Robby cuts in.
You glance up just as he walks past, wearing that familiar half-smile of weary amusement with a coffee in one hand and his bag slung over his shoulder.
“And here I was worried you’d be in a good mood this morning,” you say, smiling sweetly despite your words.
His eyes narrow, but the corner of his mouth lifts a little higher. “Careful.”
You roll your eyes playfully, turning back to the screen in front of you as he continues through Central.
It takes exactly eight minutes before you’re interrupted again. Bridget taps you on the shoulder asking for your signature on a prescription, and just as you hand it back to her, the red phone rings. You watch Lena answer it with a tired sigh, both Jack and Robby looking up to hear what kind of chaos is inbound.
“Alright,” Lena says as she hangs up the phone. “Male, forties. Single-vehicle MVC. Hypotensive in the field, positive seatbelt sign. ETA four minutes.”
“I’ll take it,” Robby says, setting his coffee down. “Let’s prep Trauma One.”
He glances around the unusually empty floor.
“I’ll jump in,” you offer, pushing your chair back.
Henderson shoots you a look as you stand and turn toward the nurses’ station, pulling a pair of gloves from a box. It’s not that you really want to jump in on another case ten minutes before the end of your shift, but you haven’t had a trauma since Captain Stabby and his sexy doctor friend, and you’re starting to feel a little guilty about it.
“See,” Robby says, pulling on his own gloves. “There’s hope for you yet.”
You roll your eyes again as you follow him out to the ambulance bay, and it isn’t long before you hear sirens.
The ambulance careens in and pulls up right in front of you, the back doors flying open as the first paramedic climbs out, holding a tearful young girl in his arms. She couldn’t be older than four.
“Thirty-eight-year-old male, restrained driver in a single-vehicle MVC versus a tree,” the paramedic says. “Positive seatbelt sign, abdominal pain, hypotensive on scene, improved with fluids. GCS fifteen. Two IVs in place. Daughter was restrained in the back seat and appears uninjured.”
The second paramedic circles the van from the driver’s side and starts helping Robby lower the gurney.
Robby nods toward the daughter. “You check her out?”
“We did a quick assessment on scene, but we’ve been focused on Dad,” the paramedic says, still holding her.
“Alright. We’ll get somebody to take a look at her.”
The young girl starts crying harder as Robby and the other paramedic begin wheeling the gurney inside. You stay beside them, one hand on the man’s forearm as you watch his eyelids droop.
“Stay with me, sir,” you say, squeezing his arm. “Can you tell me your name?”
“Barry,” he murmurs.
“Where does it hurt, Barry?”
He winces. “My—my stomach.”
The gurney rolls through the second set of doors, and suddenly you’re back under the bright fluorescent lights.
“Abbot,” Robby calls. “Can you take a look at the kid?”
Jack appears before you can even glance over your shoulder.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, his voice soft as he gently takes the daughter from the paramedic’s arms. “Your dad’s in good hands. Come on, let’s get you checked out too.”
You continue moving with the gurney into Trauma One, where Jesse and Olive are already prepping monitors and equipment.
The paramedics help shift the patient onto the trauma bed before clearing out, making room for Jesse to start attaching monitors.
“Pressure one-oh-four over sixty-eight,” he reports.
Olive quickly cuts Barry’s shirt open.
“Seatbelt sign across the lower abdomen,” you say, pressing gently along his stomach.
He grimaces when you reach his left side.
“Left’s worse.”
Robby holds out a hand. “Ultrasound.”
Jesse hands him the probe as you squirt gel onto Barry’s abdomen.
“RUQ,” Robby says.
You glance up at the ultrasound screen. “Clear.”
“LUQ.”
“Clear.”
“Pelvis.”
“Nothing obvious.”
“Good,” Robby says. “FAST negative. He’s stable enough for CT.”
You turn to Olive. “CT chest, abdo, pelvis with contrast.”
She nods, moving toward the phone as the whole room finally takes a breath. The negative FAST isn’t a guarantee, but it’s a promising start.
Barry groans, trying to lift his head. “Where’s my daughter? Where’s Ellie?”
You press a hand against his shoulder.
“Hey, don’t try to sit up. Your daughter’s okay—she’s just outside with another doctor.”
“She’s okay?”
You nod. “She’s okay.”
He lets out a strained breath, settling back against the mattress and tipping his head back.
“Hold on.”
You move closer, gently pushing his hair back.
“Forehead lac,” you tell Robby. “About three centimetres.”
He glances over. “Alright. We’ll close it up before he goes to imaging.”
He strips off his gloves and reaches for a new pair while Jesse preps the suture tray. Olive is already cleaning up around Barry as you reach for some gauze to start cleaning the cut, gently pushing his bloodied locks of hair out of the way.
“Lidocaine,” Robby says.
You grab the syringe from the tray and hand it to him, more than happy to let your attending do the work while your adrenaline wanes and that familiar end-of-shift exhaustion sets in.
“Stay still for us, Barry,” you murmur, cupping the crown of his head. “This might sting a little.”
He winces as Robby injects the anaesthetic.
“Saline,” Robby says.
You hand it over before carefully plucking the last few stuck strands of hair away from the wound.
“How’s the pain?” you ask.
“‘S okay,” Barry mumbles.
“Forceps.”
You hand Robby the forceps, then the needle driver before he can even ask.
“Light,” he murmurs.
You reach up and adjust the luminaire until he raises his hand, signalling that it’s in the right spot. Then he pinches the edge of the laceration with the forceps and slides the needle through the skin. Easy. Effortless. Boring.
You glance up at the monitor, noting that Barry’s heart rate has finally dropped below a hundred.
“Scissors,” Robby says.
You grab the scissors from the tray and hand them to him, then go back to reading Barry’s vitals.
“You with us, Barry?” Robby asks.
“Yeah,” Barry murmurs.
“Can’t feel the needle, can you?”
“No.”
“Good.”
You let your eyes move slowly around the room, already holding gauze for Robby before he can ask for it. You feel him take it from your hand just as you turn your head toward the glass doors, gazing out at the beginning chaos of morning handover.
But it isn’t Ellis and Langdon arguing about God knows what that gets your attention.
Just outside the trauma bay, perched on the edge of a bed parked beside the nurses’ station is Barry’s daughter. Ellie, apparently. Her eyes are still red and puffy, but she’s not crying anymore. She’s got a pink hospital gift shop teddy tucked under one arm and her other hand wrapped around the tubing of a black stethoscope.
Jack is sitting on a stool in front of her, gently helping put the earpieces in her tiny ears with a soft smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. Her little hands grip either side of the headset, adjusting it with a very focused look on her face.
Jack hands her the chest piece as he scoots a little closer to the bed, then points to his chest. You can’t hear what he’s saying, but you can make an educated guess.
Ellie’s tiny hand grips the bell as she presses the diaphragm against Jack’s chest, a small crease forming between her brows. Jack is watching her with that amused little half-smile, his gaze soft, one hand braced lightly on the mattress beside her so she doesn’t topple backwards.
Ellie says something, and Jack nods, schooling his expression.
She’s taking her job very seriously right now, and Jack is taking her very seriously.
“Doctor.”
You blink, glancing back at Robby.
“Yeah?”
He gives you a look. “Scissors. For the third time.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
You hand him the scissors and watch him snip the tail on the second-last suture, then you turn your attention back toward Jack and Ellie. She’s giggling now, with the diaphragm pressed to Jack’s cheek as he gently shakes his head, laughing too.
“Forceps.”
You grab the forceps and hand them to Robby.
His eyes flick up. “You alright?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“You’re smiling.”
“No, I’m—”
Oh my God.
You are smiling.
You turn back toward Jack, and your stomach drops.
Oh my God.
You’re in love with Jack Abbot.
“Alright, Barry,” Robby says, peeling his gloves off. “We’re gonna send you upstairs for some imaging now, make sure we didn’t miss anything.”
You take one unsteady step back from the bed.
“Can someone call my wife?” Barry asks, his voice strained.
Robby nods. “I'm sure somebody already has, but I’ll check.”
Your hands shake as you pull your gloves off.
“What about Ellie? Can I see her?”
“Of course,” Robby says. “She’s right outside.”
Barry lifts his head slightly. “Am I okay?”
“Well, you’re talking to me, your pressure’s holding, and your FAST was negative. Those are all good signs.” Robby looks at you. “Isn’t that right, doctor?”
Your head snaps up. “Hm?”
He frowns. “You sure you’re alright? You seem—”
“I’m fine,” you snap, tossing your gloves in the waste bin. “I just—I have charting to do.”
Then you turn and march right out of the trauma bay, keeping your head down as you take an immediate sharp left. Ignoring the familiar voice that calls your name and makes your pulse scatter.
You don’t stop until you reach the picture wall. Only then do you drop down onto the bench, squeeze your eyes shut, and bury your face in your hands. You can’t scream. Can’t shout. Can’t drop to the floor and have a panic attack right here in the middle of the ED. So you just… breathe.
Okay. Maybe you’re being a little dramatic—but can anyone blame you?
You don’t want this. You can’t want this. You don’t have time for this.
Casual sex is easy. No strings, no stress, no reason to worry about anything other than saving lives and finishing your residency. That’s all you want.
Or… all you wanted.
Now?
Now you’re not sure what you want.
Of course you still want to save lives and survive your residency, but now you can’t imagine doing either of those things without Jack.
You can’t imagine another shift without knowing Jack is somewhere in the department. Or getting a difficult case and not being able to talk through it with him. You can’t imagine going home and not immediately texting him. Or having a bad day and not being able to talk to him about it.
You can’t imagine anything without Jack.
Which is terrifying.
Because it isn’t just sex anymore. It isn’t flirting or late-night texts or teasing glances across the floor. It’s the way he’s somehow worked his way into every part of your life without you even noticing. Every shift. Every conversation. Every stupid little story you save up to tell him later. He’s just there. Everywhere.
And now... he matters.
You sit up and drag in a deep breath.
You need to pull it together. This isn’t the end of the world. It’s not even a thing. It’s only a thing if you let it be a thing, which… you’re not going to do.
With another deep breath, you push off the bench and start heading back toward Central. All you have to do is finish your charting, then you can leave. You can go home, turn your phone off, and talk yourself off the ledge.
You just need a little space. A little time away from the hospital, away from Jack, and all these ridiculous feelings will—
“Hey. You okay?”
Your heart lurches, but you don’t stop.
“I was going to come over there,” he says, keeping his voice low, “but I didn’t want to—”
“I’m fine,” you murmur, without even looking at him.
His hand closes gently around your wrist, and your stomach flips so hard it’s almost nauseating.
“You sure?”
You finally stop, glancing up at him. At the concerned crease between his brows and the little downward quirk at the corner of his mouth.
“I’m fine,” you say again, pulling your arm out of his grip. “Seriously.”
He gives you a look. Not one that says he’s offended or at all upset by your attitude, but one that says he doesn’t believe you. A look that makes you feel far too seen. Far too known.
“I need to finish my notes,” you mutter, turning away before he can say anything else.
You turn down the North corridor and don’t stop until you reach the desks just outside the break room. Then you drop into a chair, swipe your badge to log in, and force your trembling hands to steady themselves over the keyboard.
It takes a significant amount of effort to focus on your charting. You stare at the blinking cursor for minutes at a time before finally managing to squeeze out a few—mostly coherent—sentences. You type Jack’s name at least five times without meaning to, and every time you do, your heart thuds obnoxiously hard beneath your ribs.
Fortunately, no one tries to interrupt you this time, and after forty painstaking minutes of glaring at that computer screen and forcing your wayward thoughts to stay on track, you finally finish.
Now you just need to handover your patients.
You find Langdon by the nurses’ station, standing just below the workboard with his hands in his pockets as he reads through the list of patients and their ailments.
“Hey.” You step up beside him. “You got a minute for handover?”
He glances at you. “Oh. Hey. Didn’t know there were still any night crawlers left.”
You frown. “Everyone’s gone?”
“Everyone but Dr. Abbot,” he says. “And you.”
Your eyes go wide. “Ellis is gone?”
He nods. “Saw her head out about fifteen minutes ago.”
You scramble to grab your phone out of your pocket, unlocking it to find two new notifications from Ellis. Seventeen minutes ago.
Ellis: Abbot said he’s giving you a lift, so I’m headed out.
Ellis: Need anything from the store?
Your stomach drops.
“Everything alright?” Langdon asks.
“Uh—yeah. Fine.”
You tuck your phone back into your pocket.
“I’ve only got two patients. Can you take them?”
He nods. “Of course.”
“Alright. Central Twelve came in with chest pain. Trops negative, ECG’s clean, waiting on the repeat. If that’s negative too, he can go home.”
“Mhm.”
“And South Nineteen’s the pyelo. Got fluids, ceftriaxone, feeling better. Medicine said they’d come see her, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
Langdon snorts. “Got it.”
You nod. “Great. Thanks.”
“Anything else?”
“Nope.”
He smiles. “Great sign-out.”
“I try,” you mutter, already turning away.
You hurry across the floor toward the lockers, pulling your phone back out of your pocket to type a reply to Ellis as you walk.
You: You’re dead to me.
You: And toothpaste.
When you finally reach your locker, you quickly key in the code and pull the door open. You don’t bother removing your stethoscope or badge, or taking time to actually put your jacket on—you just gather everything into your arms and slam the door shut again. Then you turn and make a beeline for the ambulance bay.
Maybe you can catch a bus home. Or—hell—you’ll pay for an Uber if you have to.
“Hey, slow down,” Dana says as you rush past the nurses’ station. “What’s the hurry?”
“Sorry,” you call over your shoulder. “Just—really need to get home.”
You’re moving too quickly for her to press you any further. Thank God. Because the last thing you need right now is Dana and her infuriating habit of knowing things she has absolutely no business knowing.
You keep your head down until you make it all the way outside, and only then do you finally feel like you can breathe. You nod to a patient having a cigarette by the garden bed before turning the other way, pulling your phone out to order an Uber.
Only, you can’t remember the last time you ordered an Uber. Do you even have the app?
“You ready?”
You flinch. “Jesus Christ.”
Jack huffs a laugh. “Not quite.”
You glance back down at your phone, clutching it a little tighter.
“I’m this way,” he says, nodding toward the other side of the parking lot.
You hesitate. “I—uh—I was just going to grab an Uber.”
His brows lift, but he doesn’t look all that surprised. “You were?”
You nod. “Yeah. I’m good. Thanks.”
“You sure?”
“Yep.”
You turn away, but he doesn’t leave. He just stands there, waiting, one hand holding the strap of his backpack that’s slung over his shoulder, the other buried in his pocket.
“Is there something going on that I should know about?” he asks finally.
“Nope,” you reply, too fast.
Then, for some ridiculous reason, you start walking.
“Where are you going?”
“The bus stop,” you say, without looking back.
He follows you. Because of course he does.
“You’re going to catch a bus?”
“Yep.”
He laughs again, but this time it’s more disbelief than dry amusement.
“I’m offering you a perfectly good, no strings attached ride home, and you’d rather catch a bus?”
That makes you stop.
You turn around. “No strings attached?”
He lifts a shoulder. “If that’s what you want.”
“What I want?”
“If you want me to just drop you off, I’ll just drop you off.”
You stare at him for a second, your pulse pounding in your ears.
“Just drop me off?”
He nods slowly, his brow creasing slightly.
“And then what?” you ask.
He tilts his head. “What do you mean?”
“Then you just leave?”
“If that’s what you want.”
Your throat tightens. “Stop saying that.”
He frowns. “Saying what?”
“If that’s what I want.” You drag a hand through your hair. “You keep saying it like this is entirely up to me. Like none of this has anything to do with you. Like it’s my choice and you don’t get to say anything or—or feel anything, and that’s not fair.”
He studies you for a moment, folding his arms across his chest in the most irritatingly distracting way.
“What are we talking about here?”
“I don’t know!” You throw your hands up. “This. Us. Whatever this is. I don’t know what we’re doing anymore, Jack. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with any of this, and you just keep showing up being completely reasonable all the time, which is really fucking annoying.”
His eyes narrow. “I’m... too reasonable?”
“Yes! God—” You laugh once, sharp and humourless. “Why are you always like this? Why are you always so calm about everything? We never talk about what you want. We never talk about how you feel. We just keep pretending everything’s fine and maybe that’s worked up until now, but I don't think it’s working anymore.”
“Okay,” he says evenly. “Tell me what’s not working, and we can talk about it.”
“Talk about it?” You stare at him. “Talk about what? There’s nothing to talk about, because this—this isn’t anything. This is casual, Jack. It’s supposed to be casual. And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe we’ve spent too much time together. Maybe we just need some space or—or something.”
His brows lift. “Is that what you want?”
You fold your arms, trying to reclaim some semblance of control. “Yes.”
Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face, but he schools it quickly.
“Okay,” he says again. “If you want space, I can give you space.”
“Seriously?” You let out another sharp laugh. “Of course that’s your answer. Do you see what I mean? This is exactly what I mean. I stand here and tell you maybe we need some space, and you’re just... okay with it? Just like that? No questions, no argument, no nothing.”
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Do you want me to argue?”
“Maybe!” You throw your hands up again. “I don’t know, Jack! Maybe I want something. Anything. Just some indication that this means something to you. Because every time I say something, you just... accept it. You just nod and go along with it like none of this affects you at all. Like if I said I wanted space, you’d give me space. If I said I wanted to end this, you’d end it. If I said I never wanted to see you again, you’d just stand there being completely calm and reasonable and tell me that’s okay too.”
You let out a shaky laugh, shaking your head as you look away.
“And don’t tell me that’s not true, because you spent half the night in Central Nine with your ex and I spent the rest of the shift pretending I wasn’t paying attention to that, which is insane, by the way. Completely insane. She was a patient. You’re a doctor. I know that. I know I’m being irrational.”
You tip your head back, squeezing your eyes shut for just a second before looking back at him.
“And that’s the worst part, because I know none of this is actually about her. That’s the problem. It’s not about her at all. It’s about the fact that you’re always fine. You’re always so calm and so reasonable and so completely unbothered, and I don’t know how you do that.” You let out an unsteady breath. “It's like—like none of this matters to you. Like you don’t care. Like you could just walk away from everything, from me, and be completely fine.”
Your chest is rising and falling too fast now, your heart is beating so hard you’re almost sure he can hear it.
He doesn’t say anything right away. He just watches you, the corners of his mouth softened by something that looks suspiciously like fondness. And suddenly you’re struck by the horrible suspicion that he understands exactly what you’ve been trying so hard not to say.
“You think I could just walk away from this and be completely fine?” he asks, his voice soft. “You think I could walk away from you?”
He steps closer, the toes of his boots barely inches from yours now.
“When this started, it was casual. I knew that. I knew you were seeing other people. I knew you didn’t want a relationship—and if that’s still not what you want, then okay. I’m not going to pressure you into something you’re not ready for. I’m not trying to be overly reasonable, and I’m certainly not trying to make you feel like you’re losing your mind.”
The corner of his mouth twitches.
“When I ask you what you want, it’s not because I don’t care what happens. It’s because I do. It’s because I’d rather be patient than push you into something before you’re ready for it. And if space is what you need right now, then I’ll give you space.”
His gaze holds yours.
“But don’t mistake that for indifference. Because there’s no version of this where walking away from you is easy. There’s no version of this where I don’t care. And if one day you tell me that’s what you really want, then I’ll respect it. Not because it’s what I want. Not because what I feel doesn’t matter. But because I respect you.”
His expression softens again.
“Do you understand?”
You nod slowly, your throat suddenly too tight for words.
“Now listen to me.”
He lifts a hand and pinches your chin gently between his thumb and forefinger.
“I know you’ve had a long shift. I know you’re exhausted. I know you’re standing here trying to convince yourself you haven't completely lost your mind, and I’m not trying to make your day any harder than it already is—but I need you to hear this.”
His eyes search yours, earnest and unguarded.
“I love you too.”
For a moment, all you can do is stare at him. With your breath caught somewhere in your chest, your mouth slightly open, and your heart trying to punch its way through your ribcage.
His lips quirk. “You alright?”
“No,” you breathe.
And then you grab the front of his shirt and kiss him.
His hand drops from your chin to your neck, fingers pressing in just slightly as he kisses you back. Firm, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world and has decided, without hesitation, that he only wants to spend it on you.
He steps closer, tilting your head back as his mouth parts against yours. A soft, helpless little noise breaks at the back of your throat, and you can feel his lips curl in satisfaction. Then he kisses you harder, deeper, his other hand finding your waist as his tongue presses past your lips.
You step in until there’s nothing left between you. Nothing but hospital scrubs and the fact that you’re standing in the middle of a public parking lot right now.
And for a second, neither of you seems to care.
The hand at your waist slides higher, pulling you closer as his mouth moves slower. Not because he wants less, but because he knows he’s got you. Because after months of patience and uncertainty, he knows he can finally take his time.
Your fingers bunch tighter in the front of his shirt, and he smiles again.
“Don’t,” you murmur against his mouth.
He doesn’t say anything. He just kisses you again, gentler this time. A lingering press of his mouth against yours. Then another. His thumb brushes against your neck as he tilts his head, stealing one more kiss that feels almost unfairly tender after the way he’d just been holding you.
Then he pulls back completely.
You stare at him.
He stares back.
Your lips are still tingling, your hands are still fisted in the front of his shirt, and your heart is still beating hard enough to crack a rib.
The corner of his mouth lifts a little higher.
“Still catching the bus?”
You immediately let go of his shirt. “Shut up.”
He laughs properly then, letting you turn away and start marching toward one end of the parking lot.
“My car’s the other way,” he calls.
You stop, close your eyes, then slowly turn around.
Jack is still standing exactly where you left him, with his hands in his pockets and looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“Shut up,” you say again.
His smile only widens.
You roll your eyes and start walking again, brushing past him with as much dignity as someone can reasonably muster after having a complete emotional breakdown and then immediately making out with their boss.
You don’t need to look back to know he’s following you.
You just know.
And by the time you finally reach his car, you realise you’re smiling.
Description- There's no place that Sammy would rather be after a long day of work that at home. Especially when that home now includes the woman he's hopelessly in love with who loves his son like it's the most natural thing in the world
CW- Tammi is there for precisely one scene, discussion of Tammi using drugs and also being a bad mother, Sammy have a short temped re: Tammi, Sammy affectionately and jokingly slut shames Ben Sherman, allusions to the fact that sex exists. Honestly this is pure fluff, just with a sprinkling of the effects of Tammi being involved overtop
AN- can and likely should be read as a sequel to Getting Back on the Horse. there's a chance i'll read this again in the morning and hate it and change it, but that's always a chance, so who knows. too tired for thoughts rn, but enjoy and please be nice, i'm dying of sleep deprivation and this is all i've got going for me at the moment
Almost a year into your relationship with Sammy, you still felt like you were in the honeymoon period. You’d had your struggles, of course, with conflicting work schedules and managing the every-changing custody schedule that Tammi seemed to throw around however she wanted with little concern for anyone else, but you were still as happy as you’d been the day he’d finally asked you out. More so, if you were honest, because every day you got to know him a little more, and each day you fell a little harder for him.
He had been reluctant at first to introduce you to Nate. Not only was he worried that meeting his son would make things too real and send you running for the hills, he was worried about the effect it could have on his boy. All of his parenting books said that consistency was key, especially for kids with divorces parents. Since Tammi was the way she was, he had to be steady enough for the both of them. His son would want for nothing while he was around. He would go out of his way to make sure that he was prioritized, covering things for him that Tammi should have gotten on her own, but claimed to not be able to afford, or to not have time to do, or to just not understand, like that was a good enough excuse to be a lousy parent.
She was always after him in some way or another, always wanting more. More child support, more time with Nate, more, more, more. Sammy knew he was being taken advantage of. After years of an unhappy marriage the scales finally fell from his eyes to see her as she was, a leech that would never be satisfied, who would use their son, his son, as a bargaining chip if she thought for even a moment it would help her get what she wanted. It would be one thing to bring you further into his life if he was a single parent without a crazy ex, but Tammi was like a blackhole, slowly siphoning off his energy, time, and money until nothing was left.
And so, Sammy waited to introduce you to Nate. Better safe than sorry, he had reasoned, explaining gently that he didn’t want his boy to get attached to you too soon if things weren’t going to work out. He had rushed on to add that he thought that they would work out, but you had shushed him, giving him a warm smile and assurance that you understood.
Once you finally did meet Nate, after a few months of dating, you were instantly smitten. The little guy was so much like his father that it was impossible not to fall for his charm. He pouted the same way Sammy did when he didn’t get what he wanted, chubby cheeks puffed up as he frowned, skin turning pinker to match his fiery red hair. He had the same quick temper too, though you weren’t sure how much you were projecting onto the almost-two-year-old.
Sammy did his best to pretend seeing you doting on his child so naturally didn’t wreck a part of him. After months of fighting with Tammi over every little thing, it felt like he could finally exhale, seeing with his own eyes that he wasn’t crazy, that it really could be that simple to be there for the little bundle of joy he was honored to have played even a small role in creating. Every day he came home to find you curled up reading on the couch in sweatpants, his little boy curled up on your lap and gripping onto the pages of your book like he could understand the words on them if he just gripped them tightly enough, something warmed in his chest, burrowing under his ribs and find a home next to his heart.
Once you’d met Nate, it wasn’t long until Tammi came barreling into your life with the same whirlwind nature she brought to everything. She’d thrown every insult in the book at you, not caring that you were in public where innocent onlookers could see. She had no shame shrieking in the precinct parking lot, and the tired look on Sammy’s face made you wonder how many times she’d put him through this. She went on about how you were a homewrecking tramp out to steal her baby, that you were after Sammy just for his money and a sick kink for uniforms, that you were nothing more than a floozy that could never replace her, despite the fact that she was the one who had stepped out on him. She was about 45 seconds into her tirade when Sammy saw red, almost crushing the disposable travel mug of coffee you’d brought him on your day off as his fists clenched, jaw setting so tight it hurt. He almost yelled back at her, not caring if she had a camera hidden on her, wanting nothing more than to give in and give her the fight she so desperately wanted, consequences be damned. He was furious, not just for himself, but for you. How dare she show up and hurl insults at you when you’d been more of a mother to Nate in the few months you’d known him that she had since she’d carried him?
It was only your hand on his arm that kept him from taking the bait. Instead of matching Tammi’s volume, spitting back at her all the things she’d done wrong, he reluctantly let you pull him back as she stepped closer, gritting his teeth and trying to let the roar of blood in his ears drown out the way she screamed, hurling insults and threats like they were nothing, although not after throwing a few phrases back at her.
“It’s not worth it,” you’d cautioned, trying to keep your voice hushed as you spoke by his ear, but having to raise your voice to be heard over her loud volume, only growing louder the longer she was ignored. “Come on, Sammy, let her go. It’s not worth ruining your day. Let’s just get out of here. Come on, baby.”
It took a few more moments to calm him enough to listen, a steadying hand standing on his tensed bicep, a small tether to remind him of what was important and all that he stood to lose if he lost his temper. Everytime you’d thought he had calmed enough, Tammi would throw another barb at him, something she knew would get a rise out of him, carefully pointed at every chink in his armor that he’d once been trusting enough to let her see.
“She doesn’t get to do that,” he fumed as you walked away, still holding onto him, half afraid he would turn back if you didn’t. You followed him as he pushed into the building, still mindful enough to hold the swinging door open for you to walk through before releasing it and continuing his angry walking. “She can’t just show up whenever she wants spouting her bullshit!”
“I know.”
“Eight months. We’ve been together eight fucking months and she questions you being around? After she fucked around behind my back and shacked up with that loser hippie in my house?” He huffed angrily, a hand running through his short cut curls as he paced.
“It’s fucking bullshit. What, it’s okay for her to be high around Nate, doing whatever crazy shit she does, but I can’t have him meet my girlfriend? He fucking lives with her and Victor!” He spat out the name like it was coated in acid. “They don’t even have jobs, but, oh no, I’m the bad guy for letting him be around an actual adult with a job and more than a handful of brain cells.” He huffed angrily, unable to stand still.
You let out a quiet laugh and his eyes snapped to you, confusion crinkling the corners of the narrowed eyes.
“Oh gee,” you said, voice dripping with sarcastic sweetness as you stepped closer, halting his pacing to wind your arms around his neck. He lamented the loss of movement, but let you hold him, muscles still twitching with unexpressed energy. “You really think I have more than a handful of braincells?”
Sammy scoffed, but you could hear the faint humor in it. Your fingers wound through the curls at the nape of his neck.
“A rock has more brain cells than them,” he said stubbornly, still not quite meeting your gaze, his hands starting to drift over your back, more feeling than holding, reminding himself you were still there. “Even if you put them together. A grain of sand could outsmart them.”
You only hummed, knowing he was speaking more for his benefit than yours.
“You shouldn’t have had to see that,” he said after a moment, his anger finally starting to quell into something more manageable. He looked guilty, like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have.
“See what?”
He sighed heavily, letting his forehead fall against your shoulder. His hold on you tightened, just enough to pull you to his chest, letting you feel more of his weight.
“All of it. Me losing my shit, fucking Tammi, getting yelled at like that, called all those names. It’s not fair to you.”
“I’ll decide what's fair on my own, thank you very much.” The warm breath of Sammy’s scoff burned your skin where his head was buried in your neck. “We’ve all got shit, baby. And it’s not like I didn’t know she existed. You didn’t just spawn Nate out of nowhere.”
That earned a weak chuckle, and you smiled despite yourself.
“I wish I did,” Sammy admitted, lifting his head just enough to press his forehead to yours. “Or that I’d waited for the right woman.”
Your skin burned with an electric tinge as Sammy pressed his lips to your temple in a gentle kiss, seemingly unaware of how the air stilled in your lungs. His hand slipped down your arm to hold your own when he stepped back, giving you a soft smile that made your knees weak and almost brought tears to your eyes.
How did I ever get so lucky?
He squeezed your hand, taking a step backwards and tugging you to follow him further into the building. When your legs started working again and you moved to follow, ignoring the way you almost stumbled, he gave you a wider smile.
“Let me make this up to you?” He looked hopeful, big brown eyes fixed on yours. “Come over tonight. I’ll cook, and we can watch one of those chick flicks you like.” His eyes dipped to the side, a cocky grin pulling at his lips that you knew meant trouble. “Or not watch.”
He expected a playful slap to the chest, a hushed scolding not to embarrass you even more than you’d already been in the precinct parking lot. He was surprised, and delighted, to find he was wrong.
You pulled him closer by your still intertwined hands, throwing your free arm behind his neck to tug him down and kiss him. It was urgent, like you were seeing each other for the first time after weeks, the type usually reserved for train stations and airports, not in an oil-stained parking lot where you’d just been cussed out by an angry ex-wife and any of his coworkers could appear at any moment.
And yet Sammy didn’t care. His hand found your jaw, gently holding you like you were made of glass. He was a little out of breath when you broke apart, still pressed up against his chest as you beamed up at him.
“I love you, Sammy Bryant. No make ups needed.”
He tucked a stray strand of hair caught in the wind behind your ear. He ducked his head, pressing another deliberate kiss to your temple.
“Love you more,” he whispered against your skin.
You spent even more time together after meeting Tammi, something you found some small vengeful satisfaction in. She hadn’t been able to scare you off afterall, and if anything, the brief glimpse into what Sammy’s like had been like for so many years made you fall for him even quicker. It took a certain type of man to be married to someone so self-centered and selfish, and still fight to keep things civil for his son.
Things fell together in a comfortable rhythm after that day. Casual dates checking out new Mexican restaurants near your place or Sammy’s, coffee brought to him during his shifts when you had the time. He made it a point to still visit you at the gas station where you worked, sometimes playing the supportive boyfriend that he was, and sometimes making a game out of it and pretending not to know you and attempting to woo you all over again. It was silly, but sweet, just like him, and gave you something to talk about during your movie marathons on your shared days off, curled up together on his couch, your head resting on his chest with an arm slung around you, cradling you to him even when you dozed off. He would let you snore gently until the credits finished rolling and the screen turned black. Only then would he wake you, gently shaking your shoulder and softly calling your name, rousing you just enough to understand he was moving you to bed when he tucked his arms under you and hoisted you into the arm.
After a few movie-nights-turned-sleepover, he’d led you to his bedroom with the promise of a surprise. You’d rolled your eyes at him, teasing him right up until he shushed you, giving your ass a pat before he left your side and opened his dresser.
He beamed proudly as you took in the sight of the two entire drawers that he’d cleared out for you.
“Now you don’t have to worry about the commute back to yours,” he’d said smugly, giving you the adorable crooked smile you could never resist, arms wrapping around you and hugging you sideways against his chest. You’d hummed in response, the warm feeling behind your ribs growing only stronger the longer you looked at the empty drawers, soon to be filled with your own socks and shirts and shorts, right at home next to Sammy’s.
You turned in his arms, standing up taller to meet him in a soft kiss. It was so much more than two drawers. It was everything.
“I think you just want me around more,” you’d noted, knowing he could see right through you to the ooey gooey feelings you had for him that you didn’t have the words to describe. His hands splayed across your back, keeping you close.
“Hmm, you just think?” he teased, the tip of his nose brushing yours. “Guess I’d better step up my game then. Can’t have you doubting that even for a second.”
When Nate’s babysitter called Sammy crying, nearly giving him a heart attack three hours into his shift, you had been the first person he’d reached out to to help cover childcare.
“It’ll just be temporary,” he promised, phone pressed to his ear, ignoring the sideways glances Ben was giving him as he piloted them through the city. He should’ve considered himself lucky that it wasn’t another call from Tammi, screeching about something new she needed but couldn’t afford, or threatening to move out of state. “Her car got totaled, and she doesn’t have another way to get around until her insurance fixes it, but you don’t have to help the whole time. I can find someone else. I-I can figure this out.”
“Don’t even worry about it,” you’d said, throwing a few things into a bag before heading towards your front door. “These things happen. I’ll call in sick and we can figure something out for tomorrow. Is he going to be okay until I can get there? It’ll probably be a bit more than an hour with traffic being what it is, but I promise I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
“Don’t rush,” Sammy insisted. “Nate’ll be fine, he’s with the neighbor for now. And no speeding, sweetheart, I don’t mean to be a dick, but I’m kinda fucked for childcare if you get into an accident too.”
Your laugh came out staticy through the phone.
“And because you love me, right?”
Sammy smiled despite himself, exhaling something close to a laugh.
“And because I love you.”
“Good.” He could hear your front door slam shut behind you, a faint jingle that must have been you juggling your keys with your phone in hand. “Don’t worry, Sammy, I won’t speed that much. You’re the only cop I want the attention of.”
He laughed, a bit more spirit back to it knowing you were on your way.
“You better not get pulled over,” he teased. “I don’t want to have to play bad cop.”
“Ooh, tell me more, Officer Bryant.”
Ben rolled his eyes at the overly flirtatious tone. They really needed to find a way to make phone calls more private. Or better yet, he needed a partner that spent less time on the phone dealing with his personal life. Just when he was about to interrupt, a wiseacre remark already forming on the tip of his tongue, you spoke again.
“Alright, sweetheart, I’d better get going. Traffic’s going to be a nightmare, and I doubt Ben wants to hear much more of this today.”
Sammy scoffed, giving his partner an amused look. “You should hear the things I have to listen to all day. They’re enough to really turn your ears red.”
Ben barked out a short laugh. “Alright,” he said, swatting at his partner with one hand, trying and failing to smack his phone out of his hand. “That’s enough of that. Tell the missus goodbye before I throw that thing out the window.”
You giggled over the phone line, and Sammy only smiled more. He’d never get sick of that sound.
“I’ll take that as my cue. Drive safe, fellas! Sammy, I’ll call you when I get there and Nate’s with me, okay?”
“Or just text!” Ben interrupted.
“Alright, sweetheart,” Sammy said, ignoring his partner and leaning further away to shield his phone from his outburst. “Thank you for dropping everything like this. I’ll make sure to make it up to you when I get home.”
Ben groaned. “Hang up the damn phone, Bryant. We’re supposed to be making the world a safer place, not having phone sex in the squad car.”
You tried to keep the laugh out of your voice when you spoke again.
“I’ll see you tonight. I love you.” You raised your voice for a moment, wanting to be overheard by the man beside your boyfriend. “Ben, you look after Sammy for me, alright? He’s a stubborn jackass, but he’s my stubborn jackass. I need him to come home to me.”
Ben spoke back, grinning despite his dramatic show of annoyance. “If you want him so bad, he can come home now, spare me the telenovela I’ve been hearing.”
You laughed again, the bright sound filling the patrol car used to only cursing, threats, or worse.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time, Sherman.”
The line had barely beeped as it disconnected before Ben was on his ass.
“Jesus, how do you get anything done?”
Sammy scoffed.
“Really man. How many times did you just say I love you? Ten?” His grin grew, happy to see his partner out of the trench his divorce had left him in. “Do you just sit around telling each other how much you love each other on your days off? Braid each other's hair?”
Sammy grinned, giving him a smug look. “You don’t wanna know what I do on my days off, Sherman. You can’t handle what I do on my days off.”
Ben scoffed. “Right. Okay. Keep telling yourself that, cupid.”
“Oh, what do you know about love? You’re still banging your way through the state of California. Call me when you sleep in the same place two nights in a row.”
As it turned out, babysitting Nate was not a one time thing. A week and a half into pretending to have the flu and ducking calls from your boss at the gas station, Sammy asked what you thought about making the situation permanent.
“Why not?” he’d asked, giving you an easy smile as he pulled you onto his lap. He leaned back against the couch, looking unfairly handsome with his tired eyes after a long shift. “You’re good with him. He loves you, I love you. The stability is good for him anyway, having the same authority figures.” His thumb swept across the exposed skin of your hip, hand tucked under the hem of your loose shirt. “I can just pay you instead of finding another sitter.” He grinned. “I’d rather my money go to you anyway,” he confessed.
“I don’t know, Sammy. Doesn’t that feel like a big step?” Your finger twirled through the curls at the base of his neck. You wished he could grow them out, but he had to stick to the dress code for work. “I mean, working for you? Taking care of your son?”
He hummed, frowning faintly as he thought. “Maybe,” he admitted, gaze dropping for a second. “But not a bad one. I mean, I would like it. But I get it if you’re not there yet.”
You shook your head. “That’s not it,” you promised, tipping his head up by the chin to meet his eyes. Soft hazel eyes looked up at you, lips slightly parted. “I want all of this, every part of life with you. I just don’t want you to regret it.”
He frowned, confusion furrowing his brows.
You sighed heavily, tucking your legs up onto the couch to settle more securely against him.
“If I work for you, it complicates our relationship,” you explained. “And it might make things harder with Tammi. If she tries to pull something again, I’m sure her you’re screwing the babysitter line might turn some heads.”
Sammy scowled. His warm hand ran up and down your leg, goosebumps raising from the contrast between his body heat and the cool air conditioned air.
“You wouldn’t be the babysitter,” he retorted. “You’d be my girlfriend, just getting something for your time.”
“I know.”
“It’s okay if you don’t want to,” he said cautiously, head lowered. “I know it’s a lot, the house, the kid, a divorced man.”
“It’s just the right amount,” you shot back. You leaned forward, peppering his face with kisses, squealing when he caught your wrists in his hand to hold you still and kiss you properly, grinning against your lips. When you parted, you nestled against him, resting your cheek on his shoulder to look up at him.
“I’ll take any amount of ex-wife drama if it means I get to keep you too.”
Something softened in his face, the teasing pull of his smile melting away and leaving only adoration in its place. His hand took yours, holding it up to press a ginger kiss to the inside of your wrist before settling it back on your lap and intertwining his fingers with yours.
“I’ll do it.”
His face lit up, a broad open-mouthed grin spreading across his freckled cheeks.
“Really?” He looked like he could barely believe it, and you couldn’t help but lean forward to kiss him again.
“Really,” you confirmed, matching his grin. “What the hell. I never liked my job at the gas station, and it might be nice to actually like my boss for once.”
Sammy laughed.
“You’ll get all sorts of special treatment,” he teased, eyes flicking down to your lips again. You hummed smugly.
“You’re not paying me full rate though,” you insisted, cupping his cheek and letting your thumb trace patterns across his freckled skin. He opened his mouth to respond, brow already creased and ready to protest, but you cut him off. “Call it the Sweetheart Discount.” You gave him a sweet smile, enjoying the faint pink that rose to his cheeks at the praise. “You can pay me what I made at my old job, but nothing more, alright? You need to save your money to fight Tammi and look after Nate.”
“You help me look after Nate,” he argued.
“Yeah, but it’s not the same. You’re his dad, Sammy. He needs you more than I do. I can look after myself, but he only has you.” You rolled your eyes. “And me. To a lesser extent.”
Finally, Sammy sighed in defeat. The sound was heavy, like it cost him something. “Fine.” He gave you a small smile. “But I’m going to call it layaway.” Your brow quirked up questioningly, and his smile only grew, looking at you so sweetly it made your chest ache. “For when you live with us,” he offered in explanation, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “That’s where we’re going, right? You moving in someday? You, me, the little man, all together? One happy family?”
You couldn’t find words to describe the sudden, almost painful pang of love you felt for him, so you settled for patting his chest softly, just over his heart. You leaned closer, giving him a slow, lingering kiss that you hoped explained how you felt better than your words did.
“Yeah,” you whispered, the warm feeling in your sternum only growing at the soft smile Sammy gave you. “One day, baby. We’ll have it all.”
The thrill of coming home and finding you in his kitchen, humming along to a silly song you’d put on for Nate’s benefit as you moved around the house like you already belonged in it never faded for Sammy. If anything, the desire to keep things that way grew stronger by the day.
Sammy set his keys on the table by the door, smiling as he toed off his boots and tucked them to the side on the mat you’d insisted every house needed to truly be considered a home, taking a moment to just stand in the entryway and breathe. He could hear soft socked footsteps padding around the kitchen, faint humming and singing under your breath, fading away for a few moments as you got distracted before picking up the tune again. He could smell something cooking, and his stomach growled loudly, giving him away.
“Sammy?” Your voice echoed slightly as it traveled down the hallway.
The smile was on his face before he could stop it.
“Yeah, sweetheart,” he called back. “It’s just me.”
He slipped his coat off of his shoulders, sliding it in its place in the hall closet before drifting towards the kitchen to seek you out.
The sight of you standing there, freshly showered with hair still dripping down onto a worn t-shirt, the collar darkening and spreading down your back as you tidied up his kitchen, did something to him. By the time you stopped humming and looked over your shoulder towards him, his eyes were a little wet, looking at you like he’d never seen a sight so beautiful. He realized then that that was his old Pearl Jam shirt, with little holes scattered through the fabric from lighter mishaps in his high school days and a splotch of yellow on the chest from painting Nate’s nursery. He was certain it had never looked better than it did now.
“You alright?” you asked hesitantly. Sammy was many things, but quiet was not usually one of them.
He only smiled in return, that crooked smile that tugged at your heartstrings.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been this good,” he said, so earnest something in your gut twisted with unbearable fondness. He came closer when you held out a hand to him, accepting it without hesitation and drawing you nearer until you pressed against his chest, dipping his head to kiss your cheek, chuckling as you giggled from the scratch of his stubble, before resting his forehead against yours.
“Think you just about gave me a heart attack,” he murmured softly.
You bit your lip, trying to hide your small smile.
“Sammy,” you sighed bashfully, fingers dipping into the curls at the nape of his neck. His smile only widened, knowing you were going to put up a fight instead of accepting his praise.
“I ever tell you how beautiful you are?” Your head fell from his onto his shoulder, burying your neck into his neck, your hands trailing down to smooth over the skin exposed by his collar, but he was undeterred. “Really, I mean it,” he said over a soft chuckle, warm hands splayed across your back, gently caressing while holding you close. “How did I ever get so lucky?” His nose dipped into your hair, not caring that water clung to the tip of his nose. It was worth it to be close to you and smell the shampoo you’d bought to keep at his house.
Nate babbled from his high chair, clapping his hands together in the disjointed way that was becoming a little more purposeful every passing week.
You raised your head, looking over to the gleeful little boy with a fond smile.
“Are you jealous your daddy’s not giving you enough attention?” you cooed, ignoring the scoff Sammy let out and wiggling your fingers to the toddler in a small wave instead, giving him an exaggerated smile.
“He gets plenty of attention, at least while he’s here,” Sammy protested, giving your hips a final squeeze before releasing you and striding across the room to greet his son, a wide smile already on his face. He scooped Nate up, holding him in one strong arm as he talked to him. “Don’cha pal?” he said, bouncing up and down on his knees until his little boy was giggling, little laughs gurgling out of his mouth and sporting a grin that matched his father’s.
“He looks just like you,” you mused. You walked closer, pressing yourself against Sammy’s back and giving his shoulder a kiss, your arms wrapping around his waist and hugging him to you. “He’s going to be a great man someday too. How could he not be, with you as a father.”
Sammy swallowed with some effort, and you chose not to comment on it.
“How was work?” you asked instead. “You seemed a little heavy on your feet. Long day?”
He sighed, the full weight of his day leaving him a little through the sound. His hand smoothed over Nate’s back, holding his little bundle of joy a little more securely against him like someone might try to take him away.
“Isn’t it always?”
You frowned. You hated that, how the day stole so much of him and you had to fight to get him back. It was becoming easier the longer you knew him, rarely taking more than a gentle caress or a kiss to his temple while he held his son, but it still broke your heart. You slid your hands up his back to his shoulders, gingerly digging your thumbs into the tense muscles there and working soothing circles where you knew he needed it.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
Another sigh left him, quieter than the last.
“No,” he said, his free hand taking one of yours and ceasing your massaging. His thumb ran over your knuckles before bringing it closer, softly kissing the inside of your wrist. “No, you have nothing to be sorry for.” He ducked his head, turning your hand to press his lips again to your knuckles. “You make it better.” His words were muffled by your skin.
“I have something else that might help,” you confessed, free hand petting his pretty auburn curls. He shot you a curious look, and you offered a sly smile in return. You withdrew your hand from his, giving Nate’s little hand a gentle shake.
“What do you say little guy? Do you want to show daddy what you made today?”
Nate bounced on his dad’s hips, little feet kicking frantically and saying yesyesyesyesyes like he wasn’t sure where the word ended and began again. He held his arms out to you, grabbing with his stubby fingers like he could summon his handiwork from thin air if he tried hard enough.
“Alright buddy.” You leaned in to scoop him out of his father’s arms, groaning at the weight he’d gained since you’d first met him. “Oof, you’re getting big, Nate. We’re going to have to take you shopping for cars before we know it.”
Sammy groaned as if the thought pained him, squeezing his eyes shut and giving his head a firm shake, anxiously running a hand through his hair. “Please don’t say that,” he pleaded, hazel eyes sad and pitiful when they reopened. It didn’t take much to make him emotional about the idea of his son growing up.
You paused just long enough to give him a soft apologetic smile, despite the little boy in your arms who squirmed to be put down.
“Alright, alright, hold your horses,” you whispered to Nate as you lowered him down. “It’s in your room where you left it. Want to go grab it to show daddy?”
Nate was barreling down the hall before you could even finish, laughing in a way you would describe as maniacal if you didn’t know any better.
Sammy sighed softly. “He is getting big.”
You nodded, humming wistfully as you stepped closer, curling your hands into the fabric of your boyfriend’s shirt and leaning your cheek against him. His arms wrapped around you without a thought, cradling you to his chest gently.
Your brief moment of quiet was soon interrupted by a shrill shriek of laughter, followed by thundering footsteps as Nate came barreling back up the hall, caution and coordination thrown to the wind in his haste. He narrowly avoided catching his shoulder on the doorway as he came stomping back into the dining room, a piece of construction paper held over his head like he’d been victorious in battle.
“Look!”
He shoved the paper up to his dad, beaming with unadulterated joy.
“Let’s see what we’ve got here,” Sammy said, bending down to scoop up his son again. He always wanted to hold him more after a difficult shift. He adjusted his weight on his hip to hold the piece of paper in his free hand. The edges were crumpled from Nate gripping it too tightly. Sammy’s eyes prickled as he took in the black and white box surrounded by uncoordinated swirls of vibrant red and blue. A roughly shaped blob with what was clearly meant to be black boots, half the height of the almost-stick-figure, was next to it, a large smiley face drawn on under bright red hair.
“Oh, buddy.” Sammy’s voice caught in his throat, smiling wetly at his beautiful boy. “You did so well, Nate. This is beautiful! Is this me? Did you draw your old man?”
Nate beamed, nodding and pointing to the little figure of his dad, his finger landing on the shaky line of his smile.
“You!”
His breath caught in his throat.
“Yeah, sweetheart,” he said, pressing a kiss to his boy’s temple.
“I think the hair is my favorite part,” you offered softly. Sammy looked up, all wet eyes and crooked grin, laughing despite himself.
“Yeah. He gave me his color.”
You stepped closer, leaning against his shoulder to look at the drawing he’d been so proud of.
“Because he wants to be like you.”
Sammy sniffled, adjusting Nate so his weight was more balanced on his hip. “Yeah.”
Your fingers combed through Sammy’s hair, darkened with age. “For the record I love yours just as much as his,” you stage whispered, making Nate giggle.
Sammy wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, careful not to dampen his new favorite piece of art with his tears. He set it down on the table before turning back to you with a soft look.
“I should be the one complimenting you.” His voice was still thicker around the edges, but his smile was sincere, almost shy. “I like your new look, by the way.” His hand ran along your back, settling just above the waistband of your shorts. “You have a little makeover today?”
You shifted on your feet, giving him a sweet smile.
“Nate and I might have gotten carried away today and forgotten to switch the laundry,” you admitted shyly. “Figured you wouldn’t mind me wearing your old workout shirt.”
You had noticed that about your Sammy. He loved the domesticity that had made its home in your relationship. Small things like your hairbands on his nightstand, or your face wash on his bathroom sink made him smile softer when he thought you weren’t looking. Taking care of Nate was even better in his mind. There was nothing that made more sense to him in the world, or got him choked up, than the woman he loved caring for his son as if he was her own.
His brow quirked up. “Oh, Nate did that?” he teased. He turned to the little boy in his arm, giving him a bounce where he rested on his hip and feigning a scolding tone. “Did you forget the laundry?” He had to fight back a smile when his son laughed, chubby fingers smacking at his dad’s face in his excitement. “What am I gonna do with you, little man? Can’t be sabotaging my pretty lady when she’s just trying to help. It’s not gentlemanly.” He shook his head seriously, holding one of Nate’s tiny hands in his own to keep from getting slapped again.
Something in you warmed at the sight, the domesticity of your boyfriend holding his little boy and teasing you. It felt right, like a dream you’d always had without fully realizing it, standing before you now in flesh and blood and ginger curls in two different shades.
“To be fair, it’s not all his fault,” you said, rolling your eyes dramatically. Sammy’s easy smile only grew. “Technically I am the one that’s in charge. Or at least I’m supposed to be!” you chided, stepping closer to tickle Nate.
Sammy hummed. “You’ve met your match.”
You clicked your tongue, giving his shoulder a fond pat. “That I have. Now do me a favor and sit down. I’ll get you some dinner.”
After dinner had been eaten, you volunteered to wash the dishes. Sammy had protested, but you’d told him with a laugh that you got the easy job. You wished you luck in the form of a slightly smug kiss on the cheek before he slipped away to give Nate his bath and get the tired, cranky toddler to bed. You’d long finished scrubbing pots, deciding to gather the spare toys that were scattered about instead, by the time Sammy reappeared.
He blew out a deep breath, looking like a man returned from war as he settled against you, warm forehead resting on your shoulder and hands circling your waist. He groaned softly as you ran your hand over his cheek, the vibration traveling from his chest and through your back. He was still touchier than usual, you noted. Work must have been extra rough.
“That kid is part cyclone,” he murmured under his breath.
You only nodded. “That’s what he gets from Tammi.”
He barked out a short laugh. “As long as that’s all he gets from her,” he grouched. He lifted his head, chin resting on your shoulder, soft eyes traveling over your face. “He’s good, right?” You could hear the uncertainty under his words, the worry he didn’t want to sully the evening with.
You craned your neck awkwardly to meet his gaze. His eyes were dark with worry, lips pressed together in a flat line.
“Of course, sweetheart,” you soothed. “He’s great.”
“Yeah.” He nodded, trying to convince himself of it. “Of course. He’s the best.”
You offered a soft smile. “He really is. He’s his own person. Nothing like her. Except maybe in emotional maturity, but he’s still growing.”
Sammy laughed softly. “He’ll outgrow her by Christmas at this rate,” he said dryly. He stood fully, releasing you in favor of stretching his arms out. His brow furrowed when he noticed the way your eyes scanned around the room, a faint frown marring the face he found so beautiful.
“What is it?”
You sighed, fingers tapping on the back of a chair absentmindedly as you thought.
“My phone. I must have set it down somewhere and I don’t even know what room it’s in anymore.”
Sammy scoffed out a laugh, hand already going to his pocket to grab his phone.
“You’ve been here all day with no access to a phone? What if there was an emergency?” There was no real heat behind his words, but you shifted on your feet anyway, a bit embarrassed to have misplaced it. Sammy noticed, frowning as his brow furrowed, already stepping closer to wrap his free arm around you and pull you in for an awkward hug. His lips found your temple, smoothing away any worry lines that might have appeared.
“I’m just kidding, sweetheart,” he murmured, warm breath tickling your scalp. “I know you’d never let anything bad happen to him.”
You hummed, letting your head rest against his shoulder for a moment before pulling back to give him a sweet smile.
“I know,” you assured. “And I’d take him to the doctor if he got so much as a scratch. After calling you on the landline,” you added cheekily, giving him a quick peck on the lips. It was important that he knew Nate would always be safe with you, that you would never endanger him or put your needs above his. No matter what, Nate’s safety came first, even if you weren’t hopelessly in love with his father.
A faint dial sound came from Sammy’s phone when he hit call. You froze, ears perking up as you waited intently to hear the telltale ringing of a phone stuffed somewhere out of sight. You knew it must have wound up tucked into a blanket or somewhere equally as ridiculous, or you would have found it by now.
A muffled sound came from the living room. You dashed towards it, looking around to try to figure out which direction it came from before dropping onto the couch and digging through the cushions. You let out a triumphant sound when your fingers closed around the device, still vibrating and playing the ringtone you’d chosen specifically for Sammy. It was still ringing when Sammy joined you a moment later, leaning casually in the doorway.
“Find it?”
You nodded, grinning and holding up your phone proudly to show him.
“Yep! Thank you.”
He only smiled, about to remind you he didn’t need to be thanked, when he seemed to realize what song was playing. His smile flickered, confusion pulling at his handsome features.
“Is that Roxanne?”
You laughed, looking down at your phone, screen still showing the silly picture of him covered in globs of icing from Nate’s first birthday. It was one of two parties he’d had, one with his mom and one with his dad, after Tammi had refused to let Sammy see his son on his actual birthday. “Yeah,” you admitted, torn between embarrassment and pride at your bad joke.
His eyebrows raised. “Wanna tell me why your song for me is about prostitution?”
You laughed again, harder, finally declining the call and shoving your phone into your pocket so you could step closer and wind your arms around his neck. He kept his cautiously guarded look, waiting patiently for your explanation.
“Well it’s not because of that,” you all but giggled, kissing Sammy when he let out an unconvinced but amused hum. You smiled against his lips when his hands came to rest on your hips, holding you just a bit closer. You bit your lip as you pulled back, knowing he would find the joke just as ridiculous as you did. Beautiful hazel eyes searched yours, the fondness clear on his face, even with the skeptical look he was giving you, a small smile creasing the corners of his eyes.
You hummed, content as you settled closer, pressed against his chest.
“Who is the song by, my love?” you asked slowly. Sammy squinted, not thrilled by your slightly patronizing tone, but willing to play along. He hummed as he thought, gently rocking your whole body from side to side as he shifted on his feet. His eyes widened when the pieces came together, his shoulders deflating in obvious disappointment, even as he gave you a crooked grin that took up his whole face.
“Really?” he chided. “The Police? That’s the best I get?”
You laughed, nestling closer to his chest and squeezing his waist slightly as you peered up at him, looking too satisfied with yourself for his chest not to warm.
“Oh, you get a lot more than just that,” you pointed out, smirking up at him. Your hands drifted lower behind his back, one hand dropping enough to give his ass an appreciative squeeze.
“Okay, true,” he admitted, trying and failing to keep a laugh out of his voice. “But still, don’t they have any better songs? This makes me seem like a cheap whore.”
You clicked your tongue in feigned disapproval. “Nothing about you is cheap, baby.”
He exhaled sharply, stuck somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “That’s real comforting. Thank you.”
You pushed up on your tip toes to kiss him, his only half-meant complaints dying on his tongue, happily forgotten and replaced by the feel of you. He chased after you when you broke apart, both breathing a bit heavier.
“That’s so not fair,” he said softly, voice catching somewhere in his throat.
You only hummed. “I don’t know what you mean,” you said, looking at him as innocently as you could muster under his darkened gaze.
He smiled, huffing out a short laugh.
“You just about killed me wearing my clothes. Now this? I could almost think you’re after my pension.”
You laughed. “The pension you’re not old enough to cash in on? Wow, what a great plotter I am.”
Sammy chuckled, but something in his eyes softened. “Maybe you’re playing the long con.” His thumb ran gently over your cheekbone.
A rush of warmth ran through you, but you frowned with purpose, giving a decisive shake of your head.
“Nah. I’m no good at secret keeping.” You pecked his cheek. “I’m just here for the long haul. No con needed.”
The hand on your hip tightened slightly, pulling you just an inch closer. Sammy’s breath came hot against your lips, your noses almost brushing.
“You can’t say stuff like that when you look this good.”
You rolled your eyes, tempted to pull away and give yourself to cool off from the intense look he was giving you, but you didn’t have the strength.
“I look a mess right now, Sammy.”
He looked offended on your behalf.
“You do not. You look…well, I probably shouldn’t say with Nate in the next room.” You could feel your face heating, but he didn’t stop. His hand slipped a few inches lower, playing with the hem of the oversized shirt you wore.
“You look better in this than I ever did.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
Sammy tsked, voice infuriatingly level for a man driving you to the brink of insanity. “Nope. You’re gonna believe it even if I have to carry you to bed right now and make you.” He ignored the flush of your cheeks, save for the proud glint in his eye. He wasn’t one to make idle threats. “It looks good on you. Matter of fact, the whole house looks good on you.”
The familiar thrum of excitement went through you that always did when he said things like that.
“Careful now,” you tried to joke. “I might think you’re asking me something.”
He seemed to consider it for a moment, chewing on his button lip as he thought.
“What if I am?”
You stared at him for a moment, searching his face for any sign that he was joking.
“Really? You mean it?” you asked after a moment, voice coming out softer than you’d meant.
A smile flickered across his face, almost confused that you had to ask. “Yeah,” he said, matching your hushed tone. “I like having you here. So does Nate.” His thumb moved against your hip. “You make it feel like home.”
You laugh thickly, the noise getting caught somewhere in your throat. “You sure know how to choose a moment for important decisions.”
He shrugged, a small smirk pulling at his lips. “Anytime’s the right time with you.”
Your blush intensified.
“Okay.” The word came out quieter than you intended. You were almost surprised he could hear it at all.
His smile grew slightly, a humorous tilt to it. “Okay?” he repeated, eyes scrunching playfully.
You nodded, a slow grin spreading across your face. “Yeah,” you confirmed, leaning forward to kiss him. The press of his lips to yours was sweet but firm, a promise of a hundred more to come. “Okay. I’ll do it. I’ll move in with you.”
Sammy looked like something broke inside him in the best way.
“Really?” His voice caught, his smile trembling slightly, and you nodded again, kissing his face all over, determined not to miss a single freckle.
“Of course,” you spoke between kisses. “I love you. I love you so much.” You pulled back to look at him properly, cradling his face in both your hands, beaming at him while water collected at his waterline and threatened to drop down his cheeks. “I want to wake up with you every morning, Sammy. I want to have dinner with you every night. I want to be here to see Nate get bigger and go to school and see you cry because you’re so proud of him.”
Sammy choked on a laugh, his breathing turned shuddery.
“Why you gotta bring that up?” he choked out, still beaming as you laughed, unable to help from teasing him. His hands moved, strong arms snaking around you to close the small distance between you, burying his face in your neck and covering you with a flurry of kisses. He chuckled as you squirmed, pushing at his chest in vain to try to escape the tickling of his hot breath on your sensitive skin.
He hummed the tune of Roxanne as he gently swayed you back and forth in the living room, laughing at full volume every time you sang a lyric under your breath and pretending to be sorry when you’d playfully swat at his chest and remind him he had to be quiet.
“You’ll wake the baby,” you whispered dramatically, eyes darting to the wall as if Nate had developed superhuman hearing since being put to bed.
Sammy didn’t acknowledge the warm serge that went through him at your words, picturing them in another context a few years down the road. He chose instead to let the warmth sit in him, unspoken for now as he drew you closer, whispering an apology into your crown and smoothing back your hair to kiss your forehead, only to start up his humming again. Suddenly, he didn’t mind Roxanne being his ringtone, if it led to moments like this.
jack abbot + established relationship prompts clearing a drawer for them / asking them to move in 🫶🏼
writing prompts / masterlist
text key - Jack / You
When you finally got your day off, you didn’t expect yourself to feel so miserable. Since you started dating Jack, you’ve become a little obsessed with spending every free second you had with him. You would feel anxious of being too clingy with Jack if he wasn’t the exact same way with you. It was no surprise to anyone that Jack tried to keep himself as busy as possible, an adrenaline junkie who was scared of the quiet but found solace in the darkness.
But then he met you, and while his solace was still found in the dark since you joined the night shift, he also learned to appreciate the art of being home. It’d been awhile since he was in a relationship, the last real one he was in was his marriage. He was worried about re-learning how to date and the idea of having to figure out different places to take you. And then after the third-date sleepover, when you begged him to stay in bed all day and suggested you two have more lowkey date nights (because you were selfish and wanted Jack to yourself, but you never told him that), he felt like he was in heaven.
Since that discovery, Jack usually held you (willingly) captive in his house: dinners you two took turns cooking or cooked together, movie nights where he showed you one of his favorite older films and you showed him your favorite modern movies, trying new take-out mom and pop’s being built around his neighborhood. Anything you could do in the comfort of his home, you two did it.
But now you have a day off that doesn’t match with his for the first time in a long time and you feel lost, which should feel like a problem, but you’re too busy missing your boyfriend to notice. Plus, you’re used to being at his place, but you felt weird being at his place without him there since you didn’t technically live there, despite how often you were there. You’re interrupted from your thoughts momentarily by the sound of your phone going off.
Shift from hell. Glad you weren’t here to witness it, but seeing you would’ve made it a lot better.
You frown at the message, your fingers hovering to reply to Jack.
want me to come over after your shift?we can order in
You’re not there right now?
Your chest warms at Jack assuming you would be spending your day off lounging in his space. Your phone goes off again before you can reply.
Are you busy? Could you be there when I get home?Or maybe I can meet you at your place if you’re busy?
not busy. i’ll be there, Jackie :)
see you soon, love you
I love you.
See you soon.
You’re quick to grab your overnight bag you usually take when you stay with Jack, planning to just stay with him the rest of the weekend. But as you go to pack you realize everything you would take you already have an extra at his place: toothbrush, face wash, shampoo, conditioner, a hair brush.
Jack had surprised you after you spent your first full weekend at his place and hadn’t packed for it. The next time he stopped by your place to pick you up for date night, he purposefully showed up early and asked to use your restroom in order to take pictures of everything you stocked so he could stock it for you at his place, already anticipating keeping you hostage at his place more often than not.
You end up just packing enough clothes to get you through the next couple of days, opting out of pajamas since you’ll likely just steal something from Jack.
Forty minutes later, Jack walks through his front door to the sound of the TV in his living room and the faint smell of a barbecue chicken pizza, his shoulders drop and he can already feel the headache pulsing behind his eyes starting to dull. He silently lays his bag in front of the hallway closet, next to your empty weekend bag. He continues his routine, toeing off his shoes before removing his scrub top, leaving him in just his undershirt and scrub pants. When he wanders over toward the couch his breath stutters when he sees you in one of his shirts and a pair of his sweatpants, laying under your favorite throw of his. He always feels breathless when he sees you, but especially like this: soft and comfortable in his space, like you belong there. Because to him, you do.
“Hey, honey,” he calls softly, watching your head lift to glance at him, a small smile gracing your pretty features. “I’m home,” he sighs out, lifting your legs to sit down and placing them back on top of his lap.
“Wanna talk about it?” You frown when he shakes his head, one of his hands coming up to run over his face. He bends forward to grab a slice from the box that feels like it was just delivered under ten minutes ago, which means you timed ordering it so it would get here closer to when he got home.
“Later,” he promises, speaking around a bite of pizza, a groan leaving him as he sinks further into the couch, his free hand coming up to massage your thigh. “Just wanna be here with you. No hospital talk.” His head lulls to the side against the cushion so he can see you. “Missed you.”
“Missed you,” you say, your voice dropped to a whisper. “Wanna go to your bed?”
Jack frowns at the wording. “Our bed,” he chides softly, squeezing your thigh.
“Oh?” You laugh lightly, lifting one of your legs to nudge his thigh. “Our bed?”
“Yes,” he grunts out, lifting your other leg to get out from under you. “I’m going to shower. You go get comfy in our bed and wait for me, baby. I don’t plan on letting you out of it for the next twenty-four hours so plan accordingly,” he taps your refillable water bottle as a hint to hydrate, smiling when it pulls a laugh out of you.
You pick up your cup to refill and grab the pizza box to put in the fridge as Jack retreats into his room. When Jack walks into the room and sees the clothes he assumes you packed for the weekend sitting on the chair near the window, he frowns. You’ve stayed here plenty of times, but you never fully let yourself settle here with him. With a huff, he grabs your clothes and opens one of his drawers, emptying it out into the drawer below it before placing your clothes in the now empty one.
“Better,” he mumbles under his breath, smiling at more proof of your in his space before he gets back to the task of showering.
When he emerges from the bathroom no more than seven minutes later, he sees you in just his shirt now, pulling back the comforter and grabbing the remote for the blackout curtains so you two can nap together. You turn at the sound of Jack opening his underwear drawer.
“Where are you keeping my clothes hostage?”
“They’re in your drawer,” he says simply, tapping the top drawer next to him.
“I have a drawer and a bed here now?” You tease, but the flutter in your stomach makes you feel like you’re floating. “Maybe I should just move in.”
“Okay,” he replies, again way too easily.
“Jack!” You call out around a disbelieving laugh. “I was kidding.”
“I’m not,” he shrugs, leaning his crutch against the side table of his bed and shuffling into bed, sighing when his head hits the cool side of the pillow. When he notices you not getting into bed, he pivots so he’s facing you, reading the semi-shocked expression on your face. “What? The worst part of you staying here is that you end up leaving eventually,” he almost whines. His arm stretches out toward you, tugging you onto the bed when you wrap your hand around his.
“That’s the worst part?” You ask lightheartedly, pulling the comforter up and around both of you. “Not the hair I leave in the shower? Or when I forget to put the dishes in the dishwasher? Or when I leave the volume on your speaker too loud?”
“All signs of you being in the house,” he responds, a tired smile on his face as he wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you closer toward him so your fronts are basically pressed together. “The only part I hate is when you leave.” His hand drags from your waist to your thigh, hoisting it up so it wraps around his hip. “Clog my drain, never wash a dish, blow out my speaker. Just stop leaving,” he whispers, brushing his lips against yours. “Stay,” he basically begs, giving you a firmer kiss.
“Okay,” you try to say, but it’s muffled against the kiss so you just respond with a return kiss, your leg tightening around him and your hand coming up to rest against his throat.
“Okay?” He asks, pulling away to pepper kisses across your cheek and jaw, his grip on you tightening when you nod. “God, I love you.” He smiles against your skin when you yelp at him suddenly shifting on his back and pulling you to lay on top of him.
“I love you too,” you sigh, leaning down so your lips brush the shell of his ear, “roomie.”
but, i’ve updated my masterlist with requesting guidelines ! so take a look there before you request. i’m also opening up my requests to andrew cody :’)
Hi!! Can I request a Sammy Bryant fic?! Like when he is an officer again and one day he is on patrol and he sees you with this random guy. You and the guy are looking a bit too friendly to Sammy so he pulls the police car up to where you were and this whole commotion happens. Only for him to find out that the guy you were with was your brother
Sorry if this is too detailed. I never know how much detail to add to requests lol
so sorry about how long it took me to get to this !!
content: jealous!sammy, sammy is a little (very) irrational, angst, sammy fucks up big time!, possibly a part 2, etc.
-
sammy had no reason to distrust you.
from the moment he'd met you, he felt perfectly secure in your relationship. despite the trust issues tammi had instilled in him after her lengthy infidelity, sammy had managed to make it out the other side mostly unscathed.
or at least he thought so.
it had taken him a while to try and work through the endless distrust and insecurity his disastrous relationship with tammi had birthed in him. and even then, sammy still had his moments.
so even when sammy felt completely confident in your relationship, there was still that chip on his shoulder constantly screaming at him, warning him about the imminent heartbreak that was to come.
he tried his best to not listen to this voice. he'd go home to your shared apartment and find you there, receiving him with a smile and a hug and a warm meal and he'd forget about everything else.
but sometimes work was a little slow, and sometimes he was on patrol for too long and things reached a lull.
and then he'd think about it.
what were you doing at that moment? with who? should he call you just to check?
he'd shut these thoughts down soon after. he didn't want to be overbearing, and, really, he knew that they were just irrational fears that'd been born out of the trauma from tammi's cheating.
so he'd reign it in and remind himself about last night when you'd fallen asleep on his chest, or about the text you'd sent him during his break telling him you missed him.
day by day, his doubts eased little by little. each passing day, his stupid, irrational fears lessened and he felt more worthy the perfect relationship he now had.
and then he finally found a reason to justify what were meant to be irrational fears.
not so irrational now, he thought.
he'd parked the car before he could even think about it. he'd spotted you, zeroed in on you, and taken note of the man smiling as he walked next to you and began conjuring the worst scenarios in his head.
there was no rational reason as to why you could possibly be walking out on the street — a good twenty minutes away from your shared apartment — side by side with some loser he'd never seen before.
for one, you hadn't told him you'd be out today — which, you didn't have to tell him, but the omission only made it all more suspicious.
second of all, there was a dingy motel just two streets down, which seemed all too coincidental.
and lastly, you were behaving far too chummy with this guy. the laugh lines on your face were prominent in the way they only ever were when sammy clowned around to get them to come out. your nose scrunched, your cheeks puffed, all signs of that particular laugh that was supposed to be reserved for sammy only.
(not to mention the side hug you'd given that guy. who the hell was he to deserve a side hug from you and why hadn't you told sammy about your plans to side hug some guy now?)
had he made a mistake in opening up to you about tammi? did you cross-examine her tactics and your own and worked out a way to keep your cheating a better hidden secret than tammi had?
a combination of disappointment and anger boiled up in his body. it all came crashing down far too quickly for sammy to really think about what he was doing, but before he knew it, he was already throwing off his seatbelt and marching his way in your direction.
on his way towards you, the situation somehow got worse. you were playfully pushing at the guy, laughing hard enough for sammy to hear you. he was sure there must've been steam coming out of his ears by the time he made it into your eyeline.
"sammy? what are you doing here?"
but sammy's glare was moreso focused on the dumbass standing next to you. he looked to him in confusion, as if it was unexpected for sammy to approach his girlfriend.
sammy's body language could not be confused. his usual go-getter, approachable 'good-cop' persona was nowhere to be seen. he was out for blood.
"i was just about to ask you that," there was sardonic venom in his voice. he scoffed at the man next to you, tilting his chin with disdain in his direction.
sammy had never spoken to you with anything but sweetness in his tone, — other than when you were shooting the shit, or occasionally in bed at your request — and he could see that your reaction reflected that.
"sammy, what are you talking abou-"
"should've known you'd pull some shit like this sooner or later. it was too good to be true," he mumbled under his breath.
with squinted eyes and furrowed eyebrows, you looked to sammy in sheer confusion. there was an 'yeah, i caught you' air to his body language. he felt like he'd avoided the heartbreak, that he had the upper hand because, unlike with tammi, he'd caught you on the act before the hurt could simmer. you couldn't surprise him with it, because he'd gotten ahead of it all.
or so he thought, at least.
"what? sammy, i-"
"i mean, i'm lucky i didn't actually catch you in the act."
"is this the boyfriend you were telling me about? the cop?" the douchebag interrupted.
sammy scoffed, barely sparing him a glance before glaring at you again.
"oh, you told him about me?"
"sammy! stop, this isn't what you think!"
but sammy could not stand the thought of being mocked and humiliated like this again. not when he thought you were finally his breath of fresh air after the hell tammi had put him through.
"no? there's some swanky motel right around the block. what, you really want me to believe you were here to, what, buy some groceries? with some rando? yeah, okay."
"good guy you scored here, dude," the asshole rolled his eyes, as if he was allowed to speak here.
sammy looked in his direction, taking a few threatening steps towards him and closing in on him, "man, you do not want to try me right now."
"sammy, stop!"
you raised your voice, hands reaching out to his arm and making him feel like he burned at your touch. but, even then, he didn't pull away. he wouldn't beat your boyfriend up in public like that. he couldn't do that, not out in the open like this.
"he's my brother! we were heading to the diner down the street, not the fucking hotel!"
within the three seconds it took for those words to leave your lips, sammy felt his bravado deflate. within those mere seconds, sammy's heart dropped, as did the guard he'd put up in order to intimidate who he now knew was your brother and spew his immediate disdain at what he'd assumed had been your betrayal.
and within those seconds he also found mortification entering his body in replacement for the hatred that had boiled in him far too quickly. call it a defense mechanism. sammy did. but he directed it towards the person who least deserved it.
"what?"
his voice wasn't as strong anymore. he couldn't even allow himself to feel embarrassed by his mistaken assumption. because when he stepped back from your brother's personal space and looked your way, he didn't find confusion anymore. what he found was hurt.
"did you need her to repeat herself?" your brother grumbled, rightfully coming in your defense.
but sammy wasn't paying too much attention to him. of course he cared about your brother's opinion, but he had bigger, more urgent things to think about at that moment. he'd insulted you further than he'd ever meant to.
"knock it off," you mumbled to your brother before addressing sammy, "you really think i'd cheat on you?"
"no, no, baby, i-"
"i was there when everything with tammi fell apart, and you think i'd do the same thing to you?" disappointment and hurt seeped out of your words, and sammy could not blame you for it.
"i didn't-"
"you didn't even give me the benefit of the doubt," you continued, "you just marched up here and accused me."
sammy had no argument to defend himself. not when that had been exactly what he'd done, much less when you were looking at him with sheer hurt in your features.
you shook your head at him, scoffing lightly before turning to your brother.
calling your brother's name, you took a few slow steps back and away from sammy. his arm numbly reaching out towards you was completely useless as it stood between you.
"let's go," you said to your brother, "i guess i won't be introducing you to my boyfriend, anymore."
with those words you walked away, and sammy couldn't find it in himself to do anything to stop you. your brother glared at him on his way after you, leaving him standing there, dumbfounded and mortified at his actions.
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summary: After Park the Shark gets a little too forward with you in the ER Jack starts to question himself and your relationship.
contains: MDNI! Angst, Fluff, a little allusion to smut because I just can't help myself.
word count: 2.4k
author's note: just a short and sweet little jack fic-let to try and work myself out of a writers block. please leave a comment if this speaks to you in any way! having a little crisis of confidence over here lol
The ER hummed with anticipation as you waited for the waterpark victims to be wheeled into the ED. As the first ambulance pulls up Robby grabs you, motioning for Whitaker, and Ogilvie to follow, directing traffic towards trauma one.
“What do we have?” Whitaker asks.
“A fall from 10 feet onto a metal fence. Right below the knee. Unconscious, maybe from the pain. Good vitals.” Robby says.
“Good lung sliding right and left,” Whitaker says with this stethoscope pressed to her chest.
“Airway patent, breath sounds bilaterally.” You add, nodding in agreement with the R1 across from you.
“Two view tib-fib.” Robby says looking down at the patient.
“Pushing cefazolin and gent now,” you say, attaching the syringe to the IV, pumping the fluid in one at a time.
“Why do we take down the tourniquet, Whitaker?” Robby looks down at the R1.
“To give the residual limb blood flow,” Whitaker nods, “just two little pumpers.”
“A couple of figure eights ought to take care of those. Park,” Robby greets the ortho surgeon as he steps into the trauma room.
“Park the Shark, orthopedic surgeon.” Whitaker leans over to Ogilvie, speaking low. Park gives you a once over.
“What are you doing later?” He nods at you, a small smirk on his face.
“Not you.” You don’t even look up from the computer, Robby chuckles behind you, as you push the scans towards Park to show him the x-ray, “favorable amputation for reattachment, pretty clean cut. Fence sliced through like a guillotine.”
“Not too bad,” Park agrees, wandering towards where Whitaker and Ogilvie sit beside the patient.
“Just tying off a couple arterioles,” Whitaker offers.
“I'm not blind.” Park says flatly, “where's the amputated leg?"
“Double bagged on ice,” you say, watching him with a hand on your hip.
“Sterile saline on the inner bag. Ice water in the outer bag. No direct ice-on-skin contact.” Whitaker says as Park slips the leg out of the bag, examining it closely.
“We spent a lot of time prepping-” Ogilvie starts.
“He still needs to look,” Whitaker mumbles.
“Antibiotics?” Park asks curtly.
“Cefazolin and gent,” you say with the same affect, “we've cleared her chest, abdomen, and pelvis.”
“Clean wound, no crush injury, rapid transport time. Replantation is a go. I'll book an OR. Irrigate the hell out of this with 3 liters.” Shark nods at you, as if you had done the entire case alone.
“3 liters?” Whitaker confirms, confused by the large quantity.
“Of saline, genius.” Shark says, voice flat.
“Thanks, Shark.” Robby says.
“Bye doctor,” Park nods at you.
“Ok,” you say, not bothering to look up at him as he leaves.
“I knew he meant saline,” Whitaker looks between you and Robby asking for confirmation that you know he’s not an idiot.
“Ignore him,” you say, still sounding agitated at the whole interaction.
“Yeah, Shark doesn’t really like anyone,” Robby offers the two, slightly shaken, young doctors sitting in front of him.
“He seems to like her just fine,” Ogilvie points a gloved finger to you and you scoff.
“That’s just because he wants to f-” you cut yourself of realizing your chief attending is standing right next to you, “I think I hear someone calling my name out there, yeah no, I gotta-” you push out the door, everyone in the room knowing that no one was calling you.
“She was going to say fuck her,” Ogilvie says.
“Thank you for clarifying Ogilvie,” Robby says, giving a curt nod.
You don’t usually work the day shift but after McKay got a call from Harrison’s school she had to bow out for the day. Robby is certainly excited to work with you and get to know you a little better, you are his best friend's favorite resident, in more ways than one. Robby knows that Jack is seeing you, however the exact parameters of your relationship are unclear to the chief attending. He’s tried to spot slip ups between the two of you during hand-offs, any indication that you two are anything more than co-workers, but you are entirely unflappable and Jack is the same. He assumes the secrecy is because you and Jack want to keep things in your private lives private but the truth is Jack himself is unsure of the exact nature of your relationship.
The two of you are having sex, hot, passionate sex, on a regular basis. He feels like a teenager again, desperate to have his mouth on yours, his hands on your body, his cock in your tight pussy. The first shift after the two of you hooked up Jack could barely look at you, his ears flushing red every time he saw you, thinking of the day before when you were panting and whimpering beneath him, squeezing him like a vice, letting him come inside you... Over time he got better at staying composed. No one at the hospital had suspected anything, he maintained his cool outer shell without an issue, but for those first couple of weeks he had felt like he was melting inside. More recently the two of you started getting breakfast together after a shift, staying at each other’s places, lingering near one another in the ER…
“Your little resident is fiery, I like her for you,” Robby smirks as Jack stands next to him at the hub, the senior attendings preparing to start hand-offs.
“Oh yeah? What’d she do to get you so wound up?” The corner of Jack’s mouth curves up ever so slightly.
“Just put Shark in his place this afternoon,” Robby says, pushing his glasses up to rest on his head.
“Park? Why? Was he bothering her?” Jack’s mouth drops, imperceptible to a passerby but Robby notices. Shit. He had just meant to tease his friend a little, not wind him up before a shift.
“Nah he’s just- he just seems to be uh, interested, but she shut him down,” Jack gives him a look, waiting for Robby to elaborate, “no he just- he just asked her what she was doing later,”
“Well, what did she say?” Jack crosses his arms over his broad chest.
“Man, you should just talk to her,” Robby sighs, regretting saying anything.
“Robby,” Jack looks at him with a hard stare.
“She said ‘not you,’” Robby shrugs, “‘what are you doing later?’ ‘not you,’ that was it- it was funnier when she said it.”
Jack’s mouth is in a firm line.
“Fuckin’ ortho surgeons,” Jack mumbles.
“I mean… glass houses, brother.” Robby says, again without thinking.
Jack raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms over his chest, silently prompting Robby to explain himself.
“You, you have been known to try to charm the odd patient… or nurse… or doctor…” Robby tries to placate him.
“That's different.” Jack’s head pulls back slightly.
“Why?” Robby scrunches his eyebrows.
“Because- because I'm seeing her.” Jack says, dropping his voice low.
“You weren’t always seeing her.” Robby pauses, looking in the distance, “actually now that I think about it she’s the only person I haven’t seen you make eyes at."
“What do you mean? You don’t think she’s charmed by me?” Jack cocks an eyebrow.
“Yeah but you don’t do the whole Dr.-Jack-Abbot-thing with her, there’s no smoke or mirrors, you’re just… being Jack.”
“Hey,” you slide next to Jack where he stands at the hub, resting your hands on the desk dangerously close to his, “heard you’re taking Dr. Al for a beer, can you put in a good word for me?”
“With Al-Hashimi? Why?” Jack turns away from you, starting to walk towards the ambulance bay.
“Uh, because she’s a smart, assertive attending with a cool, humanitarian background? I mean the AI shit is lame but I don't know, I feel like I could learn some stuff from her,” you chatter away, following him closely, not entirely picking up on his foul mood. “Not that I don’t love to learn from you but- I don't know, men have been in charge of me my whole life, it would be nice to have another woman be a mentor figure. And I wanna do a slash trach.”
“Why don’t you ask Shark to teach you?” Jack says with a little bite once the two of you step outside.
“Shark? Yeah I’ll ask him for help if I ever need to use a hammer,” you breathe out a laugh, “He’s… how do i say this professionally….” you purse your lips and tap your chin, pretending to think, “he’s the worst.”
“Yeah well he thinks very highly of you,” Jack mutters.
“Oh my god. Has Robby been whispering in your ear? Jack, it was a non-event. He does it all the time. I’m used to brushing him off.” You say sympathetically.
“He does it all the time?” Jack head snaps to you.
“Not literally,” you sigh, “you have no reason to worry about Shark, I can't stand him, there’s nothing to be jealous about,”
“Maybe you’re the one who’s jealous,” Jack turns away from you slightly, his comment prompting you to let out a sharp breath as a laugh.
“Who am I supposed to be jealous of?” You say incredulously.
“I’m not having this conversation right now,” Jack rubs his hands over his face.
“Oh my god.” you let out a breathy laugh, “you want me to be jealous. Why?”
“You’re acting like a child.” He turns to you.
“Me? Are you serious right now?” You cross your arms, staring at him with your eyebrows raised. Jack says nothing, starting to turn back into the hospital.
“Jack,” you grab onto his arm, keeping him from walking inside, “talk. It's just me.”
“Yeah that’s the problem," Jack snaps, "you’re the problem."
Your face falls at his words.
“Wh-what did I do?” You say suddenly seeming very small.
“No- you didn’t-” Jack lets out a frustrated breath, rubbing his hands down his face, “look- you’re young- god- you’re so young, and I know dating has changed since I was doing it twenty years ago but I don’t know how to do this with you- I don’t know how to see more than one person-”
“I’m not seeing more than one person-” you cut Jack off from his spiral.
“What?” He looks at you blankly.
“I’m not seeing more than one person,” you say again, sounding a little more bold, a little more like yourself, “I'm only seeing you. I only want to see you. You thought I was seeing other people? Are you?”
“No- I don’t- I don’t know-” Jack stammers.
“You don’t know if you’re seeing other people?” You raise an eyebrow.
“No- of course I’m not- I just didn’t know if-” Jack struggles to articulate himself.
“Why didn’t you just talk to me?” You say gently.
“You seriously need to ask me that?” Jack finally turns to look at you, “I’m a widower, I’m a vet, I’m an amputee. I’m a night shift ER doctor, you should know what that says about me, better than most people. I’m twenty years older than you… I’m punching above my weight here… I- I figured I’d take what I could get.”
You don’t say anything. You can’t think of anything to say. That’s how he thinks of himself? Damaged goods? He is the most confident, borderline arrogant, doctor you know and he ought to be, he really is that good. And he’s just as good of a person. Sure, he had some walls up but slowly he was letting you in, showing you his entire self, something you felt privileged to have access to...
“Come with me,” you take his arm pulling him back towards the hospital. He pauses slightly, not exactly sure what you’re about to do, “Jack, can you just- please?”
He follows you silently to the elevator which takes the pair of you to the third floor where the orthopedics department is located. The ride up is silent as you tap your foot, arms crossed tightly across your chest. The elevator dings and you step out with a determined stride, scanning the floor. You spot Park standing with two other ortho surgeons.
“Park!” you shout across the room, “we need to talk.”
Park smirks as you beeline towards him. The poor sucker, Jack thinks, slowly following you at a safe distance, stopping at the nurses station, resting his elbows on the counter, not even bothering trying to hide his interest in this interaction. The other two surgeons skulk away, god, Jack wishes he could see your face right now
“Stop smiling,” you say as you stand in front of him and his smile immediately drops, “you need to stop asking me out. First, I’m with someone, and I’m not sure he’d like it if he knew you were bothering me every time you’re in the ER. Second, even if I was single it would never happen with you and me. If we were the last two people alive it wouldn’t happen. And third, it’s fucking unprofessional. I’m a doctor, not your groupie. Am I making myself clear?”
He swallows hard, then nods.
“Say: yes doctor,” you say, looking him right in the eyes.
“Yes, doctor, it won’t happen again,” Park looks almost sheepish. Jack can’t think of a time he’s seen him look like this… ever. Despite his imposing frame, Park seems so small right now.
“Good,” you smile and turn on your heels walking back towards the elevator where Jack stands with his mouth agape. You take his hand pulling him towards the stairwell, the door dropping shut behind you.
“Can I get in trouble for that?” You turn to Jack with a slightly anxious expression.
“I was with you for the last hour and didn’t even see you go up to Ortho.” Jack smirks at you.
“Hm,” you smirk back, grabbing the back of his neck, placing a quick kiss on his lips. He keeps leaning towards you as you pull back.
“Jack,” you smile, pushing him away lightly, stepping down one stair so he towers over you.
“So who’s this mysterious person you’re ‘with’?” He gazes down at you with his hands in his pockets as you bite your lip.
“Mm,” you hum, toying with his ID that sits against his hip, “he’s just this older guy, really fuckin’ smart, measured, competent…” you pull his badge toward you examining the photo, “he’s sexy, even when he gets a little jealous,” you let go of his ID badge letting it snap against him sharply, he winces slightly at the stinging sensation but keeps gazing down at you with adoration. Your eyes flick up to his.
“And I really like him,” you finish, a small smile on the corner of your lips. Jack takes a step down so you’re eye to eye.
“Am I allowed to just say we’re dating? All these code words ‘seeing,’ ‘with,’ ‘exclusive…’ I just-” Jack cuts himself off with a shake of his head.
“Mm it depends,” you hum, a playful grin on your face, “are we dating?”
“Yes,” he squeezes your hip.
“Then you’re allowed to say it,” you say, looking up and then down the stairs, seeing that you’re still alone, placing another more lingering kiss on his mouth, your lips soft against his. You pull back and see the tips of his ears turn bright red, making you blush as well.
“But we’re not telling anyone down there,” you clarify.
“Oh fuck no, they’re all crazy,” Jack scrunches his eyebrows in agreement.
