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Youâd been with the 141 long enough that the team felt like homeâPriceâs cigars, Soapâs endless jokes, Gazâs easy laugh, and Ghost⊠well, Ghost was Ghost. Silent, broad-shouldered, always layered in black long sleeves and that damn mask. Youâd never seen an inch of skin. Not once.
Well, until today.
Youâd caught him in the gym, sleeves pushed up while he wiped down equipment. And oh GodâInk. A full sleeve on his left armâdark, intricate, covered from wrist to bicepâmaybe even higherâ in sharp lines and shadows. Skulls, barbed wire, something that looked like a grim reaper. It suited him perfectly, and the sight hit you low in the gut.
You couldnât stop staring. When he noticed, he tilted his head, that masked stare pinning you.
âSomething wrong, love?â
You swallowed. âYour arm. I didnât know you had any tattoos. Theyâre⊠really fucking cool.â
Ghost paused. âYou want a closer look?â His voice dropped, low and rough, a warning but.. you didnât catch it. âMight not be able to unsee it.â
You nodded without hesitation. âYeah. I want to see.â
You not catching that warning was more blessing than curseâ now youâre in his quarters, door locked, the only light a sad lamp casting shadows across the room. Your back is pressed to his chest, legs spread over his thighs as he fucks up into you from behindâslow, deep, relentless. The thick, tattooed arm hooked around you, and heâs got three fingers shoved deep in your mouth, stretching your lips, pressing down on your tongue, keeping you quiet.
You can see every inch of the ink.
The sleeve is even more detailed up closeâblack and gray, textured, the designs shifting with every flex of his forearm as he works his fingers in and out of your mouth in time with his cock. Saliva slicks his fingers, dripping down your chin, but you donât care. You moan around them, eyes locked on the tattoos, on the way his muscles move, on how hot the contrast is between the deadly ink and the way heâs using that hand to keep you quiet and full.
âFuckinâ asked if you were sure..â he growls against your ear, accent thick, breath hot through the mask he wonât remove. âNow look at you. Mouth stuffed with my fingers, cunt clenching every time you see somethinâ new. Dirty girl.â
He thrusts harder, hips snapping up, the wet sounds were obscene. His tattooed arm stays exactly where you can see itâfingers hooked in your cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip as he makes you take them deeper. You gag softly and he chuckles, low and dark, never slowing.
âThatâs it. Keep your eyes on it while I ruin you.â
Your hands grip his forearm, fingers tracing the lines of the tattoos as your orgasm builds fast and sharp. Ghost doesnât let upâhe fucks you through it, fingers muffling your cries, the full sleeve on display just for you like he promised.
When he finally pulls his fingers free, strings of spit connecting them to your lips, he drags the wet digits down your throat, over your chest, and presses the tattooed palm flat against your stomach so you can feel every inch of him still buried inside.
âNext time..â he murmurs, voice wrecked, âyouâll trace every line while Iâm balls deep. Yeah?â
âKnow I wanna beat it, wanna beat it bad
Oh, everyone looks happy in a photograph
I've crossed the county line, I cannot go back
I'm always on my own.â
-All Them Horses, Noah Kahan
summary: your family is in town for the annual âparents berating their kids for their decisionsâ get together. jack overhears you talking about how much easier it would be if you had a boyfriend to shove in their face, and offers his services. No strings attached, of course.
wc: 15.7k (steak is too juicy lobster is too buttery)
tags/tropes: jack falls first and harder, reader is an eldest daughter (but not the eldest child) to a large judgmental family who are constantly disappointed in her, jack pretty much uses the fake dating as a chance to show reader what a good boyfriend he COULD be to her if she let herself have nice things, jack 'i'll pay for it' abbot, jack is YEARNING in this one, a teeny bit of mean dom jack as a treat
a/n: how are we all feeling about the latest noah kahan album. Doors is great. i do NOT repeat timestamp 2:14-2:21 of All Them Horses. iâm normal and can be trusted with noah kahanâs discography. this fic was supposed to be crossposted on ao3 at the time of post but ao3 crashed and i lost all of my tagging and uploading process so im saving that. for later. when it is POSTED it will be linked below :)
acknowledgements: thank you @wesandresons for the amazing gif and @saradika-graphics, @chrisssiren, and @uzmacchiato for the dividers! and thank you @leeknowpegger for your work in keeping up morale and being deranged with me
masterlist
âYour familyâs in town?â
Youâre at the nurses station, tucked into a corner with your head in your hands while Shen, of course, drinks what has to be his third Dunkin coffee of the day. Where heâs getting them is one of the worldâs strangest unsolved mysteries.Â
You canât see his face, on account of the heels of your hands being pressed into your eyes so hard stars are bursting and swirling behind your eyelids, but you can hear the grimace in his tone.Â
âYeah. I moved out here to get away from them, but they decided to host the annual family dinner circuit here in Pittsburgh instead. My mom always complains about how itâs such a huge imposition to have the entire family fly out, but I never asked to do it and offered to just fly to them on multiple occasions. Apparently, my work schedule is too hard to work around.â
âDinner circuit?â
You wave a hand. âItâs actually a lunch circuit now, since I work nights. Basically, for every single day that theyâre here everybody has to attend a lunch, no matter what. Most of the time theyâre at different restaurants, but sometimes my mom demands to have them at my place.â
âYikes,â The attending says, sipping on the last bits of his coffee, âAnd the whole successful doctor thing doesnât work on them? It got my parents off my back.â
You shake your head. âIâm the only doctor in the family, but they thought I shouldâve been a hospitalist or go into general surgery.â
The sound of ice being shaken in a plastic cup rings in your ears. âThereâs money in emergency medicine. Eventually.âÂ
âThereâs money in all medicine eventually,â You groan, lifting your head and leaning against the wall, blinking dazedly up at the flickering fluorescent lights. âIâm sure if I'd picked general surgery they wouldâve found a problem with that too.â
âSo your fucked, basically.â
Your eyes slip shut again. âYep. Anything short of showing up with a rich boyfriend and a promise of grandkids on the way wonât get my mom off my back.â
Shen clasps you on the shoulder. âBest of luck with that. Youâre the only intern the night shift has got, so weâd rather you donât off yourself via poisoned wine.âÂ
âI wouldnât do poison. Iâd choke on bread so theyâd have to live with the guilt of not being able to save me.â
âJesus fuck, man. I mean, clearly, they suck, but thatâs brutal.â
You shrug. âNot as brutal as my mom not coming to my med school graduation.â
He gapes. âWhat reason could she have possibly had for not showing up?â
âI told her at dinner the night before that I was going into emergency medicine.â
âThatâsâŠâ Shen trails off, flabbergasted, ââŠWow. Now I'm worried youâre going to kill one of them.â
âWay too much effort. They arenât worth the jail time.â
The attending tosses his now empty coffee in a nearby trash can. âWell, if you snap and kill them all in a fit of extremely valid rage, please donât call me. I canât afford to be implicated.â
âYou saying I canât hide a body myself?â
âIâm saying I canât hide a body.â
âWhoâs hiding bodies?â Jack says, sidling up to the two of you with a tablet and a chart open in his hand.Â
Shen jams a thumb in your direction. âSheâs killing her parents later today.âÂ
You roll your eyes. âIâm not. Honestly, so long as I agree with whatever my mom says and donât bring up any trigger topics, Iâll be fine.â
Jack snorts. âYouâre describing being held hostage by someone mentally unstable.â
âDr. Intern?â Ellis interrupts, using the stupid nickname Santos picked for you when she found out youâre the only PGY1 on the night shift, âThereâs a woman in the lobby here to see you. Says sheâs your mom.â
Your stomach drops to your feet and your heart seizes in your chest. âItâs six in the morning. Oh my god. Oh my god.â
Someone behind you says âHoly shit,â but youâre already gone. As youâre speed walking you whip out your phone, checking the dates of their flights that youâd only had a chance to skim andâ fuck. They got in an hour ago. Why the fuck would she stop here? At the PTMC?
You practically slam the doors open and make eye contact with your mom across the crowded lobby.Â
âMom?âÂ
âThere you are sweetie. I was trying to explain that thereâs nothing wrong with me and I was here to see you, but they wouldnât let me. Something about a security issue?â
âItâs not safe. Weâve had incidents in the pastââ
She waves a hand, dismissing you. âIâm your mother. Honestly, I wouldnât have had to come down here if youâd just respond to my texts.âÂ
âIâve told you mom, Iâm really busy here and I donât get very much time to look at my phoneââ
âYour brothers take the time out of their busy schedules to text me back,â She sighs, then continues on, âDid you get time off this week for dinner?â
You frown. âI thought we were having lunch.â
âWell, I figured since weâre all making it easier for your work schedule to come to you, you could manage to take a few days off for your family. But if we need to make an extra effortââ
âItâs fine, mom,â You tell her with a gritted-toothed smile, âI can make something work. Can you just send me the dates again?â
âItâs this Friday and Saturday.â
Before you can even open your mouth to respond, a large, warm hand settles on your shoulder. Accompanied by the hand is a steadying one on your lower back, a familiar, rich scent and a low voice.Â
âCan I help you, maâam?âÂ
Jack.Â
Jack fucking Abbot.Â
Hottest man in the ED. Probably in the world.
Your mom blinks, clearly caught off guard, before regaining her judgy senses and narrowing her eyes at him.Â
âIâm trying to have a conversation with my daughter. Donât tell me youâre security.â
You know for a fact that Jack has his stethoscope around his neck and his keycard in his scrub pocket that says âDOCTORâ on it, so your momâs just being bitchy. Figures.Â
Jackâs hand in your shoulder gives you a tiny, reassuring squeeze before he speaks.Â
âIâm Dr. Abbot,â He sticks out a hand for her to shake, the one that was on your shoulder, âIâm an attending here at the ED.â
And my boss, you mentally add. Your mom probably hears it anyway.Â
âYou work with my daughter?â
âYes maâam. Sheâs the most promising intern we have here on the night shift.â
Your lips twitch at his words. Heâs joking. Testing your motherâ youâre the only PGY1 on the night shift. If your mom remembers that, sheâll pick up on his joke.Â
She doesnât. She purses her lips for a moment before giving him one of her big, fake smiles.Â
âWell thatâs good to hear. Weâre very proud of her.â
Proud of the money I send home, maybe.Â
âIf youâll excuse us, I need her working on patients.â
âOh yes, of course,â Your mom gushes, clearly already charmed by Jack. He has that effect on people. âI didnât realize she was so important and busy here.â
You would if youâd ever let me talk about work before interrupting me and telling me what I should be doing better.Â
Jackâs thumb makes tiny sweeping motions on your lower back, little tingling motions that distract you enough to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders.Â
âIâll text you as soon as I can, okay mom?â
Your mom sweeps you into a hug, a rare show of affection. Putting on a show for Jack, more than likely.Â
âNo rush. Whenever you get the chance, sweetheart.â
Jack gives her a parting nod, but you wait until your momâs turned around and walking out of the lobby before allowing Jack to steer you back inside.Â
The second the doors close behind you and youâre enveloped in the sounds and smells of the heart of the PTMC, you shut your eyes and release a long exhale.Â
âI,â You start, âAm so sorry. I never thought sheâd show up here, I got the flight times mixed upââ
âHey,â Jackâs voice is low and steady, a much needed anchor. He uses the hand still on your lower back to turn you towards him, âNone of that was your fault. We deal with patients like that every day. It is not your job to keep your mother in line.â
âI know. I know. Still, Iâm sorry. She can be⊠difficult.â
He snorts. âUnderstatement of the year. But seriously. Donât worry about it. If I didnât want to get involved with her, I wouldnât have swooped in there.â
You huff a laugh. âMy hero. Iâm pretty sure if youâd introduced yourself as my boyfriend she wouldâve had an aneurysm. Or a heart attack.â
âAre those desired outcomes?â
âMostly.â
He slides his hands into his pockets and leans against the opposite wall. âMight be worth a shot, then.â
Itâs a very well kept secret that youâve harbored an embarrassing, âthink about him while youâre falling asleep at nightâ crush on Jack.Â
So naturally, your response is to laugh. Loudly. And semi-awkwardly. Because he has to be joking. Obviously.
âYeah, right,â You say, looking down at your feet because eye-contact has never been your forte and Jackâs gaze is too intense, âCould even take you to dinner with me. Maybe my dad would have a heart attack too. Really just wipe out the whole family.â
âYou could.â
âWipe out my entire family?â
âTake me to dinner with you.â
Jackâs body is relaxed and his tone is even. Not light and humor-filled. Thereâs no mischievous uptick to the corner of his lips. He looks like heâs serious.Â
âAre you joking?â
He canât really be serious. Heâs probably just fucking with you. He wouldnât actuallyâ
âNo.â
You run a hand over your hair. âYeah, sure, laugh it up, hahaââ
âIâll go to dinner with you. As your boyfriend.â
What. The. Fuck.Â
âNo.â You gape, incredulous.Â
âNo?â He raises an eyebrow.Â
âNo, I meanâ fuck. Dr. Abbotââ
âJack.âÂ
You purse your lips. âJack. You canât just⊠pretend to be my boyfriend at a family lunch.â
âWhy not?â
âWhy not?â You sputter, âFor one, we hardly know each otherââ
âYouâve been working here for three months. Weâre hardly strangers.â
âYouâre my boss, your way older than me, youâreââ You cut yourself off before you can say something embarrassing like âyouâre ridiculously fucking hot and I havenât washed my socks in monthsâ, âIt wouldnât even be believable. How would we even have met?â
âIn the ED, obviously.â
âHow long have we been together?â
âMonth and a half.â
âWhy are we even dating?â
âBecause youâre a beautiful and intelligent woman, not to mention a good doctor.â
Your mouth goes dry, and your stomach does an entire gymnastics routine.Â
âHave you⊠thought about this?âÂ
He makes a noncommittal hum, tilts his head back a bit. âWould it work?â
âAre you rich?âÂ
Thereâs that devilish, pants dropping smile.Â
âIâm a senior attending on night shifts in an emergency department. Iâm comfortable.â
You worry your lip between your teeth. âI still canât⊠I appreciate the offer, but I canât subject you to my family. No one else should have to suffer through these lunches and dinners.â
âBut you do?â
âTheyâre my family.âÂ
Jack doesnât respond, but he doesnât move off the wall and walk away either. Distantly, you really hope a patient isnât coding somewhere.Â
You sigh. âWhy would you even offer, anyway?âÂ
âYou need help, and Iâm in a position to give it. Plus life has been kind of boring recently. My therapist told me to pick a new hobby that doesnât involve people dying or getting shot at.â
âSo you thought spending an evening being subjected to backhanded questions, comments, and not very subtle micro-aggressions was a good substitute?â
âBeats drinking beer in the park.â
You canât say yes. Itâs crazy. One, it would make your crush a million times worse and you might never recover on that fact alone, and two, when this inevitably blows up in your face, your family will never let you live it down and bring it up in literally every conversation for the rest of your life.Â
On the other hand, if it works, it will work. Your mom would probably get off your back for a while. You wouldnât be a complete and total disappointment. If it works, it would be a much needed win.Â
âSo. Weâve been dating for a month and a half?â
Jack nods, another smile playing at his lips. âI asked you out, of course.â
âFlowers?â
âNaturally.â
âYou pay?âÂ
âFor every meal.â
âWhatâs my favorite color?â
âNavy blue. Mine?âÂ
You roll your eyes. âBlack. What are we going to tell my mom when she pokes at the age gap?â
Someone rushes by, pager beeping, and you both wordlessly start moseying towards your respective patients.Â
âWill she really be that upset about it?â
âProbably not, but sheâll definitely ask about it. My dad will probably be angry, but heâs easier to placate than my mom is.â
Jack hums thoughtfully. âWhenâs the lunch today?â
âTwelve-thirty, at that Italian place that has that mussel dish.â
âHow about this,â He starts, apparently not needing anymore clarification on the location, âLets focus on finishing our shifts right now. Then go home, get some sleep, and Iâll pick you up at eleven so you can pick my brain for every detail that you want to make this work. Deal?â
Last chance to back out. Say hell no, this is a crazy idea, why would you even volunteer for it, I changed my mind.Â
âDeal.â
â
Holy fucking shit. Jack Abbot is your boyfriend.Â
Fake boyfriend. But for the next few hours, heâs as good as yours. Kind of.
In a way.Â
Youâre standing in front of your bathroom mirror, dressed in the outfit you picked out for the stupid lunch when your mom texted you the plane ticket details a month ago.
Neither your makeup nor your hair are cooperating and you really need them to because you have to be perfect, so you need your mascara and stop clumping and your hair to stop laying like that and you just donât want to fucking go.Â
Before frustration induced tears can ruin your half-done makeup, a knock sounds at the door.Â
You rush through your apartment, nearly cracking your skull open on the corner of the couch when you trip over a stray shoe.
Shit, heâs here and youâre not ready, god heâs going to be so upset you have to make him wait itâs so rudeâ
âHi!â You swing open the door and plaster what you hope is a cute-frazzled smile and not a panicked one. Itâs a thin line between the two, âIâm almost ready, Iâm so sorry, you can come in and sit down wherever, I promise I wonât take too long to finish up. Sorry.â
You turn, unable to bear the anger or frustration on his face and dart away (an old methodâ hiding and disappearing is much better for everyone in the long run) but a hand encircles your wrist before you can successfully escape.Â
âWoah, easy girl. Nobodyâs mad at you. We have time, remember?â
Your smile is definitely coming across as panicked.Â
Your nails wander and find a hangnail to pick at while you talk. âI know, but that was so weâd have time to plan and itâs rude to make you wait and I really need time to plan, but I canât get my makeup to look rightââ
Jack nudges you into the house and you cut yourself off with another apology. Right. Cause heâs just standing in the hallway and youâre rambling on like someone deranged. God. Why canât your brain just work? Get into gear? Actually function properly?
âFirst of all,â Jack starts, gently steering you towards your couch, âYou look beautiful.â
Why does he have to say these things? Has he no care for what heâs doing to your heart? Is he unaware that Simone Biles would be impressed with the flip routine your stomach is currently doing?Â
He places a throw pillow in your hands which were previously clenched in your lap. Itâs your favorite throw pillow, actually, because the texture is very soothing. You squeeze it and rub your fingers across the grain.Â
âSecondly, we donât have to do this if you donât want to. I can go home and go to bed and if you want, Iâll never bring it up again. Not even to Robby.â
You crack a wobbly smile. âNot even to Nurse Evans?â
âSheâd probably guess on her own, but I would never confirm her suspicions.âÂ
You tuck your feet under your legs, shrinking into the corner of your couch. âI couldnât even if I wanted to. I already texted my mom to add a person to the reservation, and if I show up without a plus one thereâll be hell to pay.â
âYou could swap me with someone else?â
âDo you think I would have agreed to let my boss be my fake boyfriend if I had someone else to bring?â
The corner thread of your throw pillow has begun unraveling, and your wandering fingers pull and tug at it erratically.Â
âIâm sorry. Iâm not usually this neurotic, I swear. My family brings out the worst in me.â
âI ainât judging, sweetheart,â Jack soothes, âBesides. Weâre ER doctors. Weâre all a little neurotic.â
Steadfastly avoiding his gaze (again, just a little too knowing, like he can see every insecurity youâre trying to hide) you stand on shaky legs and rush to the bathroom.Â
âIâll just. Finish up. Sorry again.â
âIâm gonna start a tally of unnecessary sorryâs. Youâre gonna owe me an hour of overtime for each one.â
Oddly enough, getting ready (the rest of the way) feels much more manageable and much less difficult with Jack nearby. He doesnât critique how long it takes you, the fact that you change earrings three times, or tell you that you look good enough and should just go.Â
He just hangs out in your living room, on the couch, practically oozing calm and nonchalance. The foolish, romance-starved part of you wants to cancel on your mom and spend the rest of the day curled up next to him on the couch, like a cat. Lazily dozing while Jack watches TV or something sounds like a much better way to spend your time after work than experiencing all five stages of grief over the course of one lunch. Repeatedly.Â
Finally ready, and with your sanity intact thanks to Jack, you pause by the kitchen and debate the merits of taking a shot to loosen your nerves. Unfortunately, your mom would undoubtedly somehow smell the alcohol on you and no doubt chew you out for a minimum of twenty minutes. Heaven forbid you make the event bearable.
Ever the kind host, you peek your head around the kitchen wall. âDo you want a shot, Jack?â
âYouâre aware that Iâm fifty?â
Right. That's probably an unhinged question.
âJust thought Iâd offer,â You say, meekly tucking the bottle back under the shelf, slightly embarrassed, âSometimes alcohol is the only way I can survive these things.â
Heâs leaned up against the couch, hands in his pockets when you exit the kitchen. âIt was very considerate, thank you. But I think the days of vodka and tequila shots are behind me. Iâm more of a whiskey man, anyways.â
âIâll keep that in mind when we end up at a bar afterwards to drink away memories of the lunch.â
Jack raises an eyebrow. âYou act like weâre going to be hung, drawn, and quartered after showing up.â
You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. âSorry. I just donât want you to be unprepared, because theyâre not always bad but when theyâre bad theyâre bad, you know? And I just donât want to scare you off, and ruin the day you could be spending sleeping, and I really am thankful, by the way, I just donâtââ
âDo you always ramble when youâre worried?â Jack interrupts, tilting his head to the side.
âUm. No? I donât know. I try not to. But like I said. My family brings out the worst in me.â
He searches your face for a moment, then taps the underside of your chin with a crooked finger, raising it slightly.Â
âWe got this, okay? Iâm not easy to scare. Combat med vet, remember? Plus, if it really gets that bad, Iâll fake a call from the hospital. Say there was some horrible accident and weâre being called in.â
âWonât my mom get wise when she never hears it on the news?â
Jack shrugs. âItâs the city. Something horrible is always happening here.â
He holds the front door open for you when youâve got your shoes on and purse ready, but as youâre sliding past him, he leans down, the angle of his jaw almost brushing the side of your neck, and breathes in deeply.Â
âYou smell good.âÂ
Fuck the gymnastics routine. Your stomach is going for Olympic Gold.Â
âOh,â You exhale, a shiver running up your spine and a pleasant tingling sparking where your skin barely brushed his, âUhâ Thanks. Vanilla and spice. I like layering scents.â
âItâs nice. Suits you.âÂ
You manage to squeak out another awkward âThanksâ before hastily locking the door, hoping he canât tell just how flustered he keeps making you. Judging by the smile playing at his lips, your hopes are in vain.Â
The car ride to the restaurant is longer than it should be, on account of Pittsburgh traffic, but the time goes by quickly as you pepper Jack with questions to prepare for the million and one that your mother will no doubt ask.Â
(âWhat should I say if she asks if weâve slept together?â
âDo you really, honestly, truly think your mother is going to bring up the topic of sex at the table, in a nice restaurant, with your entire family present?â
âFair point.â)
By the time you arrive, youâve picked and torn every single hangnail and loose cuticle around your fingers down to raw flesh and tiny dots of blood. Jack parks the car (parallel parks easily in one go, no repositioning needed, in downtown Pittsburgh. Itâs one of the hottest things youâve ever seen in your life) a good distance away from the restaurant, so that your family wouldnât be able to see you if you decided to flee to his car to escape them.Â
At least, thatâs what he says.Â
âI want you to hang onto the car keys, okay? If they get too much, you can sneak out through the kitchen and go to the car. Iâll meet you there.â
You canât help but smile at his efforts. âAnd what will you be doing while Iâm sneaking out?â
âSinging your praises, of course.â
Exhaustion from the shift you worked in what seems like a lifetime ago lines your limbs, but as you step out of the car (through the door Jack insists on opening for you âIn case theyâre still watching,â) and loop your arm through Jackâs, you feel⊠almost capable.Â
The lunch is going to suck. Thatâs a given. But Jack assured you heâs seen worse (âProbably done worse, sweetheart,â) and will not leave the lunch in a fit of rage and cause a scene. His arm is firm and solid âand fucking huge, how are his biceps that bigâ under your arm, and his presence is steadying.Â
As you cross the street and begin your final walk towards the building, he un-loops his arm from yours, but after you make a questioning noise in your throat, worried youâd be completely untethered (how pathetic to already be this reliant on a man, but thereâs no time to unpack that now) but instead he wraps his arm around your waist instead, drawing you to his side and effectively grounding you to his body.Â
The entire left side of your body lights up at the contact, and if this were your apartment, it would be very difficult to refrain from climbing him like a tree or doing something equally embarrassing, like plastering yourself to his side and begging him to never stop touching you.Â
Youâve almost managed to come off unaffected, but then he leans down, lips almost brushing your ear, and whispers:Â
âYouâve got this, baby. And if you donât, I do.â
Forget your family. Jack Abbot is going to be the death of you.Â
When you walk into the restaurant, hyper-aware of Jackâs grip on your body (your delusional mind has you thinking how⊠possessive the hand almost feels, if you ignore the fact that this is all fake) your family is waiting in the foyer, talking amongst themselves.Â
Your mother immediately zeroes in on you. âHoney, weâve talked about you being on time to these things. You canât be late to important familyââ
You watch in real time as your motherâs gaze finally flicks to Jack, and the shades of recognition, shock, almost disgust, and confusion before settling back into forced pleasantness.Â
Your father, however, looks downright murderous. Looks like the age gap isnât going down too well.Â
If Jack is at all nervous or put off by the several stares and outright glares from your family, he does not show it. He exudes cool confidence, the same unflappable energy he has during chaotic night shifts. The same calm that makes him so alluring to you in the first place.Â
He sticks out his hand for your mother to shake, a mirror of earlier that day in the PTMC lobby.Â
âI believe weâve met before, but Iâll introduce myself again. Iâm Dr. Jack Abbot.â
Your mother shakes his hand, but looks between the two of you like youâve just spilled wine on her Persian rug that she canât afford in the first place.Â
âYouâre my daughterâs plus one?â
Jack nods. âHer boyfriend, yes.â
Your brotherâs gape. Your dadâs glare intensifies. You want to kiss Jack.Â
âHoney,â Your mother says, gaze darting to you, âYou didnât sayââ
âI didnât want you to meet him at the hospital,â You tell her, hoping the lie doesnât come across as too rehearsed, since you did rehearse it several times with Jack in the car on the way over, âThe lobby of the hospital isnât the best place to introduce people. And we really did have patients to get back to.â
Your mother purses her lips. âWhy the last minute addition? If youâd told me that he was coming before today, it wouldâve been easier to make the reservation.â
Jack is quicker to respond than you. âThatâs my fault, actually. I didnât think I was going to be able to come, what with my shifts as a senior attending, but when we met in the lobby I understood how important it was to make the time.â
You have to try hard not to smile at Jackâs not-so-subtle flex. Senior attending.Â
âYes, well. My daughter doesnât always stress the importance of these things.âÂ
Jackâs grip on your waist tightens ever-so-slightly at the backhanded remark, and your motherâs gaze darts to the point of contact. But your father jerks his head towards the tables before she can say anything. âIâm starving.â
Everyone files in behind him, with you and Jack at the back of the line. Again, he leans down to whisper to you.Â
âHowâd I do?â
You elbow him in the side. âWeâll discuss your performance after this is over.â
âLooking forward to it.âÂ
The hostess leads everyone over to a large table near a window (your mother is particularly about seating) and everyone finds a seat. One of your brothers, either as a test or just to be a shit (your moneyâs on the latter) slides into the open seat next to you before Jack can.Â
To his credit, Jack doesnât cause a scene, but he doesnât back down either. He just stares at your idiot brother for awhile before finally asking:Â
âDo you really wanna do this right now?â
Your brother must sense that Jack Abbot is not a man to be fucked with (just a man you want to fuck), and scurries to his own seat, tail between his legs.Â
Once everyone is seated and the food is ordered (you donât bother ordering anything other than the salad; Jack orders the most expensive thing on their menu. Heâs never seemed like one to care for finery and expensive Italian restaurants where you practically have to order in Italian, but again, his unfazed demeanor makes him fit in anywhere) your family immediately begins peppering him with questions. Questions you knew theyâd ask and appropriately prepared him for.Â
âSo. Dr. Abbotââ
âJust Jack is fine.â
ââHow long have the two of you been dating?â
âA month and a half.â
âWhyâd you start dating?â
You take a generous gulp of your wine.Â
âBecause your daughter is an incredible woman and an even better doctor.â
âDo you think sheâs pretty?â One of your brothers chimes in.Â
Jack takes it in stride, despite that not being a question you prepared. âIâd have to be blind and stupid if I didnât.â
You feel hot from the tips of your ears down to your toes.Â
Thatâs going in the mental folder.Â
âHave you always wanted to be a doctor?â
âPretty much. Took a bit of a detour as a combat medic first, though.â
âWhyâd you leave?âÂ
âHonorably discharged after I lost my right leg. Below the knee amputation.â
You drain the rest of your glass and inconspicuously motion to the waiter for more wine.Â
The table is silent for the customary length of time after someone drops the âgot a limb chopped offâ bomb. Your family is clearly mildly uncomfortable, but Jack just keeps sipping his drink, his free hand drifting down and brushing the side of your thigh.
Your dad clears his throat. Here we go. Home stretch. Final questions before weâre in the clear.Â
âMr. Abbotââ
âEither Doctor or Jack works.âÂ
Ooo. There was some bite in that one.Â
Your Dad frowns. He does not like to be interrupted or corrected. Youâve been on the receiving end of far too many hour long lectures (read: berating and borderline verbal abuse) to know better.Â
But Jack isnât his daughter. Jack is pretty much his equal. Actually, the fact that Jack not only served but is now a doctor places him above your father, by social conventions.Â
This no doubt infuriates your father. Heâs always hated it when he couldnât tear somebody down to his level. A true coward.Â
âJack,â Your dad continues, a trademarked forced smile to save face, âYouâre a smart man, yeah? Havenât you ever considered the age difference between the two of you might be a little much?âÂ
Yikes. Questioning Jackâs competency is not the way to go. Jack is very competent. And smart. And capable. Itâs really hot.Â
Your fake-boyfriend just reaches over and grasps your hand, over the table, and looks at you with such devotion in his eyes that you forget how to breathe.Â
âWar doesnât really lend to longevity. Iâve learned to hold on tight to things I care about.âÂ
For a moment, it doesnât feel fake. Thereâs raw, punched emotion in his voice, and his thumb rubs your hand gently. Like he really does care that much. Like he wants to hold on.Â
But then your brother fake-gags and your fake boyfriend looks away with that, heâs passed the tests, and the conversation moves onto to different topics. Jack laughs at all the right moments, doesnât bring up any argument-starting topics, doesnât rise to bait when itâs thrown his way.Â
Heâs perfect.Â
Eventually lunch is drawn to a polite close. You have one last glass of wine while Jack settles the bill. Himself. With one card. He doesnât even look.Â
Your mom sends a smirk your way after he waves off your fatherâs attempt at splitting the bill or offering to pay. Itâs probably the third time sheâs actually looked at you for the entire duration of the lunch, but since itâs positive, youâll let it slide.Â
Pretty soon bags are grabbed, hands are shook, and Jackâs hand magically finds its way back to your lower back and youâre being (very gently) escorted out of the restaurant and to the car.Â
âWow,â You breathe as you slide into the passenger seat of his car. âI think thatâs the smoothest a lunch with my family has ever gone in my entire life. Youâre really good at this.â
Jack doesnât respond though. Doesnât make any kind of noise that he heard you. His hands are nearly white knuckled on the steering wheel and heâs staring straight ahead.Â
âJack?âÂ
âThey didnât even talk to you.â
You blink.Â
âWhat?â
âYour family never tried to include you in the conversation. Didnât even ask you any questions.â
You snort. âTrust me, itâs better that way.â
He hasnât started the car yet, just keeps staring off into the middle ground. He canât be old enough to start doing a thousand yard stare already, right?
âYou ordered a salad.â He says, a very prominent frown on his lips.Â
âSo? It wasnât too expensive, was it? I swear, if I knew you were gonna pay for the whole bill I wouldâve looked at something cheaper, I donât know why salads are so expensiveââ
âPlease donât apologize for ordering a salad,â Jack says, voice pained, âEspecially because I know you hate salads.â
Oh.Â
âHow do you know that?â
âI overheard you talking to Dr. King that time you two were discussing the merits of Olive Garden. You said the salad there was the only kind you like, because of the dressing and the pepperoncinis.â
Your cheeks heat. âI never said I hated all salads. I said I like that one in particular.â
âYou hardly ate anything during lunch.â
âMy family tends to have that effect on my appetite.â
Jack does not look placated. He doesnât take the out that your little joke provides. Doesn't so much as huff. He looks upset. Distressed.Â
Something about what he said goes ding! in your mind.
ââŠMel and I had that conversation like, last month. You seriously remembered that?âÂ
He frowns harder, like the answer to your partly rhetorical question should be obvious.
(Itâs not. Why would he remember that conversation? Why would he care at all?)
âOf course I remember.âÂ
There isnât much to say after that. Youâre not really sure what in particular has upset Jack, what possibly blunder or error youâve made to incur him going completely monosyllabic and frowny. Ever eager to appease, you refrain from any attempts to cajole him, make conversation, breathe too loudly, or make any kind of indication that youâre still present.Â
The tension in the car is thick and uncomfortable. It prickles at your skin and the hairs on the back of your neck, but the only thing you dare to do is scroll through Pinterest, only looking at the safest, basic boards in case Jack glances over (he doesnât.)
But then he does glance over. He just doesnât look at your phone.Â
Jack just keeps looking at you.Â
Heâll look over, eyes darting over your face like heâs looking for something, and then heâll look away. Over and over for almost the entire course of the drive. He only stops when you accidentally time your staring (monitoring) of him wrong and make eye contact.Â
He parks by your place (he once again sexily parallel parks with ease) and then puts the car in park. And then he starts talking.Â
âYouâre so much more than them.âÂ
Jack has the heat on, but the air in the car suddenly feels cold.Â
âWhat?â
âYour family,â Jack clarifies, like that was the confusing part âYour parents. I hated watching you⊠disappear like that. You deserve better than that. You are better than that.âÂ
You try to swallow, almost choking on the sudden lump in your throat.Â
âListen,â You start, unaware of how to even begin processing what he said, let alone formulating the best response because your brain is just flashing abort! Abort! Abort! in big neon letters,, âThank you for today. I really appreciate it. But if this is all just too much, I can handle things from here. Really. I can say that someone called out and you had to cover shiftsââ
âNo.â
Jack says it with such vehemence, bordering on vitriol, that it startles you, and you flinch backwards ever so slightly.Â
An old habit.Â
Something flashes across his face âgone before you can decipher itâ and he noticeably forces himself calmer. Â
âI wouldnât be able to live with myself if I let you go alone again. Ever.âÂ
Your brain starts short-circuiting at his words. âI really canât ask you toââ
âItâs a good thing youâre not asking me then.âÂ
âJackââ
âPlease.â
Youâre stunned silent at the rawness in his toneâ the pain.Â
He said please. He said it like he was begging. He is begging.Â
âI donât know how you do it,â He continues, jaw working, âI can see it on you, plain as day. How you hate what they do, how it makes you hurt. But you keep going.â
You shrug uselessly. âIs there another option?âÂ
Jack reaches out for you, then falters, like he thought better. A tiny part of you wishes heâd followed through; bridged the yawning gap between the two of you thatâs made up of the center console in his car, a couple decades, and your own unwillingness to try at vulnerability.Â
âIâll walk you to your door.âÂ
The walk to your door is a stark contrast to the walk to the restaurant. Thereâs no mischief on his face now, only a mask of stony distress.Â
At the doorway to your apartment building, you pause. It seems customary. Appropriate. Necessary.
Really, you just want to look at Jack some more. Try to puzzle out why the lunch that felt like it went so well made him so upset. Where youâre getting signals wrong and crossing wires. Why success to you is failure to him.Â
(As an ED resident, youâve seen child abuse cases. Youâve seen foster care children littered with cigarette burns and criss-crossing scars of broken bottles and the corners of coffee tables and haunted eyes. Â
You know your family isnât great. But there arenât any cigarette burns or glass scars or eyes that track fast movement.)
You have this burning inclination to apologize to Jack. Logically, you know you havenât done something wrong, but you feel like you have because heâs upset so maybe you can make it better?Â
âYou have that look on your face.â
You frown. âWhat look?âÂ
âThe âIâm gonna apologize for something stupidâ look.â
âI wasnât going to.â
âYou were thinking about it,â Jack ducks down, catches your eyes, âHey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.âÂ
âItâs freaky when you do that.â
âDo what?â
âYou always know what Iâm thinking.â
Jack just huffs; shoves his hands in his pockets.Â
Emboldened by his reassurance, you ask: âWhy are you upset?âÂ
âBecause your family treats you like shit, and I want to fix it, but I canât.âÂ
âOh.âÂ
Itâs not that bad. It canât be that bad. Youâve seen bad. This isnât it. Itâs hard, but itâs not bad.Â
He stays quiet, seemingly sensing the inner turmoil his words have sparked. That, or he really is that good at reading you.Â
Jack nods towards your door. âWe can talk later. Get some sleep. We both have shifts tonight.â
Right. Yeah. All of these events roughly occurred over the course of six hours. Time makes sense.Â
Despite the fact that you are exhausted and desperately need to sleep if you have any chance of surviving your âquickly approachingâ shift, you linger.Â
âHow am I supposed to repay you for all of this?âÂ
The question thatâs been burning a hole in your pocket since he said Iâll do it.Â
He just shakes his head. Like itâs simple. Easy. âThis isnât something I want repayment for. Now go. Youâre no good to me as a zombie.âÂ
âIâll just have some of Shenâs Dunkin.â
âHe doesnât share that shit. Besides, heâs off tomorrow.â
âMaybe Iâllââ
âSleep,â He points at your door, âNow.âÂ
You smile at his insistence. Heâs sort of like cold coffee with sugar. Seems all bitter but then you get a bit of that sweet crunch, so it balances out. He balances out.Â
Sometimes it feels like he balances you out.Â
âGoodnight.â
He gives you a little smile of his own.Â
âGoodnight.â
â
Jack Abbot does not take his own advice. Mostly because he knows if he doesnât talk about what happened during that lunch from hell, heâs going to do something that will end in him being thrown in prison and having his medical license revoked. More importantly, if that happens, he wonât be around to take care of you.Â
So instead he collapses on his couch, works his prosthetic off to give his stump a needed break, and dials the number at the top of his favorites in his contact list.Â
âThis really isnât a good timeââ
âRobby,â Jack starts, âThey didnât even fucking talk to her.âÂ
âJesus, okay. Whitaker! Cover for me a sec, will you? I gotta deal with this.â
âThey justâŠâ Jack continues, genuinely at a loss for words. His vocabulary feels woefully unequipped to relay the depth of anger he feels about the events of the lunch, ââŠIgnored her. They talked over her, didnât ask her questions, hardly ever let her finish speaking when she did finally get a chance to speak, and threw jabs at her constantly. It was fucking awful.â
The background noise quiets over the phone, and Jack knows Robbyâs moved to either the break room or an empty patient room.Â
âShe fight back at all?â
âNo. Just⊠grinned and beared it. It was fuckinâ unsettling, man. Iâve seen her yell back at rude patients, watched her stand her ground to EMTâs who think they know better. It was like she hollowed herself out to sit at that table.âÂ
âChrist.â
âShe flinched away from me. Afterwards, in the car, when I raised my voice on accident.â
âFuck. Do you thinkââ
âI donât know. Maybe when she was younger. They donât live in state, so if they are, sheâs safe.âÂ
Jack scrubs a hand down his face. âGod. I donât know what to do, Robby. It doesnât seem like sheâs got⊠anybody. She didnât even understand why I was upset. She doesnât get why that would be upsetting.âÂ
âSheâs friends with Mel and Santos, right?âÂ
âAnd Whitaker by extension, yeah. But those are recent friends. Iâve never heard her mention anybody from back home. No boyfriend or best friend or anything. Sheâs just been doing everything on her own.â
Jack can picture Robby nodding. âWeâve done our fair share of that.â
âYeah, and look where that got us. I canât just leave her here. Fuck, it was like watching someone kick a puppy, over and over.âÂ
âThat bad?âÂ
âYeah.âÂ
The line goes silent for a bit, both men stewing on the subject at hand.Â
âSheâs always had these habits. I thought they were just personality quirks, you know. I mean, weâre all fucked up, but watching it happenâŠâ
âItâs different.âÂ
âYou could say that,â Jack sighs, âShe soaks up praise like a fucking sponge. She looks surprised every time I do something nice for her. And she keeps trying to make me happy.â
âYou lost me on that last one.âÂ
âIt doesnât⊠Sheâs not doing it to make me happy, exactly. She just does everything she can to keep me from getting mad.âÂ
âIs there a difference?â
âThere is. Eager to please versus eager to appease.â
âAre you sure you want to get involved?â
âBit late for that.â
âYou could pull back.â
âFuck no, I canât. Then Iâd be kicking the puppy.â
âShe is a grown woman.â
âWho happens to look like a kicked puppy.â
He scrubs a hand down his face, groaning into the microphone.Â
âYou finally realize how ridiculous you sound?â
Jack grunts. âIâm not giving you the satisfaction of answering that.â
The line crackles with the staticky sound of Robby chuckling. âThatâs an answer in it of itself, and you know that.âÂ
He lets the line go quiet again, briefly debating just hanging up.Â
âI donât know, Robby. Itâs justâŠâ
âWorse than you expected?â
âYeah.â
âCome on. You knew that was a possibility. Has it put you off, at all?â
âFuck no.â
âExactly. Now please, go to bed so I can get back to saving lives? Whitaker is covering for me and heâs only gone through two pairs of scrubs so far today. Iâm not a betting man, but if I were, Iâd bet money that heâs moved onto his third during this conversation.âÂ
âI save lives too.â
âYou wonât save any if you fall asleep on the drive over and die.â
âI would never fall asleep behind the wheel.â
âThatâs what they all say.âÂ
Jack really does hang up after that, plugging his phone in and rushing through everything he needs to do before bed.Â
But even as exhaustion pulls his body down into deep, dreamless sleep, he canât stop thinking about that hollow look on your face. And he knows, even half-asleep, that he wonât be able to let it go.
â
The next night at work is weird, because nothing has changed, except now you know what the inside of Jackâs car looks like and how his voice sounded when he begged you to let him help.Â
Itâs jarring, to say the least. Unsteadying and mildly world-rocking if youâre being honest.Â
But gossip travels fast within the walls of the PTMC, so by the time night shift is halfway over, youâre convinced youâve heard every variation in existence of the same two questions:Â
âDid you and Jack go on a date yesterday?âÂ
And:Â
âWhatâs Jack like on a date?âÂ
The answer to the first question is complicated and embarrassing, so you donât answer it or any of itâs variants. The answer to the second question is not complicated but it does, however, stir some very complicated feelings, so you refrain from answering that one too. You just try to refrain from thinking about or seeing him in general.
Youâre not avoiding Jack, per se. Just keeping busy. With other stuff. Thatâs conveniently nowhere near him.Â
Ellis keeps shooting you entirely too knowing looks, Mckay, whoâs pulling a double, pats your shoulder and tells you sheâs there if you want to talk, Shen is absent as Jack said he would be, and Jack himself is acting like nothing happened and everything is normal and heâs never been to your apartment smelled your perfume.Â
(ââŠI like layering scents.â
âItâs nice. Suits you.â)
Itâs all too much.
Hence the avoiding.
You try to curb your own ridiculousness for the sake of your patients, but itâs oddly difficult. Youâve always been amazing at compartmentalizing. If your family gave you any kind of skill, itâs the ability to shove your feelings in a box, and then shove that box in a corner of your mind you wonât access consciously until you end up on public transportation with your headphones. You should be more than capable of gathering up all the loose feelings labeled âFor: Jack Abbotâ and tucking them all nice and neat in that little box and then shove it in a dark mental corner.Â
But you canât. And along with the flurry of Jack Abbot causing a hurricane in your head, thereâs a lesser storm that is the result of your family. More specifically, how they look to Jack.Â
All roads lead back to Rome. Or, in your case, to Jack.Â
You catch yourself during every spare moment or menial task that doesnât require 100% of your brain power analyzing every interaction he had with them. Everything they said, everything they did, and how Jack wouldâve taken it. And why. Because clearly, the act of dealing with them isnât the problem. The ease and finesse in which he did so crosses that off the list. So itâs something else.Â
Itâs how they treat you.Â
You understand, logically, that it would be upsetting, from his point of view. If you were in his place, youâd also probably be upset too.Â
But this feels different. Jackâs reaction is different. Jack is different.Â
Itâs just never really been something that anyone should be upset over. Your family are who they are. Not great, but not truly bad either. You deal with them sparingly. You donât even live in the same state anymore. Itâs not a big deal.Â
âWhy are you hiding from me in a supply closet?âÂ
You whirl around, a box of gloves clutched in your hands.
âIâm not hiding from you.â
Jack crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. âThis is the third time youâve been here in two hours.â
âSo? I just want to be⊠on top of things. Iâm a productive person.âÂ
âYou are,â He amends, âBut all of your productivity tonight has been pretty strictly nowhere near me. Funny how that works.â
You sigh, placing the gloves back on the rack. âThings are just⊠weird, okay? I donât know how youâre being so normal about all this?â
Your fingers wander and find a loose piece of skin on the edge of your cuticle, and you begin absent-mindedly picking at it.Â
You canât exactly disagree with him, right here, in the supply closet at the hospital. But you canât quite bring yourself to agree eitherâ because whether he acknowledges it or not, things have changed. Seeing him outside the hospital, perfectly placating your family into one of the most peaceful get-togethers youâve had in years isn't just nothing.Â
Itâs everything. And you, for one, canât just pretend that it didnât happen.Â
âHey,â He calls your name softly, âWhatâs on your mind? Whatâs bugging you?âÂ
âNothing.â
He snorts, pushing off the doorframe and shutting the door behind him, so itâs just the two of you alone. âLiar.â
He doesnât probe any further, just leans against the now closed door with his hands in his pockets, eyes flitting over you like theyâre looking for an answer. An answer youâre too hesitant to give.Â
âIâm just worried.âÂ
âYou? Worried? No.âÂ
You cut him a glare, âThereâs a very real chance that this could all go horribly awry, you know.â
âSure,â Jack dips his head, âBut thatâs not what youâre really worried about.â
âAnd how do you know that?â
âBecause that doesnât address the fact that youâre avoiding me.â
You sigh, scrubbing a hand across your face.Â
âWhy do you care?âÂ
The question thatâs been nagging at you since the beginning. The little itch in the back of your mind that you just canât seem to get rid of. The puzzle you canât figure out; the tune you canât place.Â
Youâre a logic driven person. You like knowing how things worksâ why they work. Why things do the things they do.Â
You like having the why. Having the why makes the world make sense.Â
Nothing about Jack Abbot makes sense.Â
âWhy do I care about what?â
âThis,â You gesture vaguely to the air, âMe. I donât buy that you just didnât have anything better to do or whatever it was you said. People donât just⊠do that. Youâre really ruining your life for an entire week for what? So I'm a little less uncomfortable? Me? At the end of the day, weâre just coworkers. I know how important your down time is for you, so I just donât get why youâre so okay with being miserable just for my sake. Iâm not that important. These stupid lunches arenât that important.âÂ
Itâs a stupid confession. Much too vulnerable for a supply closet and a man youâre harboring feelings for.Â
He doesnât respond right away. Hums, stares at his shoes for a bit. Re-adjusts so his prosthetic isnât taking so much weight.Â
âYou are important. Youâre important to me, to this hospital, to your patients. And for the record, I am not âruining my week.â If it was that easy for my week to be ruined, I never would have become a doctor, let alone joined the military.â
âBut why?âÂ
âJesus, you watched a lot of the science channel growing up, didnât you?âÂ
You snort. âGuilty as charged.âÂ
Now itâs his turn to sigh.Â
âYou⊠seem to have this misguided belief that caring is reciprocal in nature.â
You frown. âIt is.âÂ
âIt isnât. At least it shouldnât be, but I donât think anyone ever told you that.âÂ
You scoff. âSo this is about my family.âÂ
He shrugs. âAmongst other things.â
âTheyâre not that bad.â
âThey are.âÂ
âOther people have it worse.â
âItâs not a competition.âÂ
You resist the urge to throw your hands in the air. âWhy is this such a big deal to you?âÂ
âBecause itâs a big deal to you.âÂ
The air gets quiet and tense. Like the supply closet and all the medical supplies in it are holding their breath. If they were alive, if they were holding their breath, youâre convinced theyâd all be looking at you.Â
Itâs Jack who speaks first though.Â
âI can see it. You do everything yourself, get back up even when itâs hard. You look out for other people more than you look out for yourself. Youâre selfless and kind and I donât think very many people give that back to you.âÂ
A reflexive smile pulls at your lips, a habit you never quite managed to kick after years of people telling you âsmile, look grateful, stop looking so upset, thereâs nothing to cry about.â It feels awkward and clunky on your mouth but you donât know what else to do. Thereâs no pre-written protocol for something like this.
âI still donât really get it.â You murmur, more to yourself than to Jack.
Jack sends you a light grin. âWeâll work on it.âÂ
âWe will?âÂ
âSure,â He shrugs, âAlready started anyways.âÂ
âIf youâre sure.âÂ
âIâm sure,â He opens the door, âNow get back out there. And bring the gloves too.â
You roll your eyes but comply, snagging the box off the shelf where youâd left it and following him out.Â
The rest of your shift passes much smoother than before, even with the routine influx of patients as the time inches closer to morning. Jack doesnât hover, but doesnât pull the disappearing act that you (totally fairly) pulled on him either. He truly seems unfazed. Like it really, actually doesnât bother him.Â
Well. Correction. It does bother him, but not because itâs something heâs doing for you, the part that bothers him (apparently) is how all of this affects you. All this caring makes you feel like a deer in the headlights.
You recall something he said that night. Something that had made you shiverâ something that hit the nail right on the head.Â
âHey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.âÂ
He always seems to know exactly what to say to you. How to act, what to do, what specific worry youâre feeling and the best course of action to soothe it. Itâs great but itâs also difficult, because thereâs a part of you that wants to let him keep doing it, but then thereâs the part of you that bristles every time and wants to snap that youâre completely capable of doing things yourself.Â
That probably wouldnât even work. Heâd just say something infuriating and sexy, like âI know, but I want to do this for you.âÂ
He would. He totally would.Â
The thought is equal parts haunting and reassuring.Â
(And maybe, also, a little, kind of really sweet?)
â
The next two lunches go great. Jack is still freakishly incredible at charming your family. And, with his help, you actually manage to hold a (mostly) civil conversation with your parents for the first time in⊠years.Â
The lunches are fine, but the part youâve started looking forward to is the before and after. Before, Jack comes to pick you up, and sometimes he comes early and helps prepare (which mostly involves him either talking you off the ledge, pouring a shot or two, or assuring you that your makeup and outfit look great. Not fine, great) or just to hang out. The hanging out part is nice, because he never comes with any sort of expectation. Heâll sit on your couch and scroll through his phone and entertain all the inane chatter you like to get out of your system beforehand but never had an outlet for before.Â
The after is even more fun. You run through the highlights of the night and hate on all the annoying things your family said to you. This usually also involves stopping somewhere for food (only for you, Jackâs never hungry because he eats t=at the restaurants but youâre never allowed to order anything that isnât a salad) and then the two fo you fight over who pays. You always insist since youâre the only one actually eating any of the food, but then Jack usually takes your card, puts it in his pocket, and uses his own.Â
Itâs as frustrating as it is hot.Â
But for the most part, the lunches and your shifts at work have actually been pretty goodâ as good as night shifts in a trauma center can be, anyway. Jackâs presence is⊠steadying, even when heâs not physically there. Heâs always present in some wayâ whether itâs little reminders he leaves at your favorite spot for charting (he only uses blue sticky notes) or a real lunch left for you in the breakroom fridge (you werenât previously aware he actually knew how to cook, or that he knew how picky you are when it comes to what youâll actually eat for lunch and how often you get too busy to properly make something.) Sometimes heâs there in your head; in little things heâs told or taught you that you remember in the moment.Â
Itâs nice. To have someone be around. Someone you can relax with, joke withâ someone who hasnât looked down on you for the the way you turned out.Â
You were pretty ready to declare smooth sailing ahead, but then on the third lunch your mother shows up and is decidedly not in a good mood and the seas turn choppy and the boat smashes into the rocks below.Â
At least, two peach bellinis in, thatâs what it feels like.Â
âHonestly,â Your mother puffs, âI donât understand why making some simple appetizers could take so long. This is why I hate going to restaurants during lunch hours, the staff just gets so lazy. The menu is always better at dinner anyways.âÂ
You ignore the thinly veiled dig and instead choose to quietly drain the rest of your third peach bellini. They taste like juice and take a much needed edge (or two) of the evening. Lunch. What-fucking-ever.Â
Jack, ever aware of the best way to survive these functions (somehow) whilst keeping his sanity, remains silent as your mom huffs and puffs, seeming to understand that trying to placate her when she gets in these moods is a fruitless endeavor that only leads to your mom getting more upset and everyone else more annoyed.Â
You, made slightly optimistic by the wonderful powers of alcohol, attempt to put her in a better mood.Â
âI have the next three days off, mom. Weâll be able to do dinners instead.â
Your mother, however, only scoffs. âThatâs no good to anyone now. Weâve already spent half this week dealing with poor restaurant service. I mean, no respectable job would have such a ridiculous schedule."Â
âIâm a doctor, mom. It doesnât get more respectable than that.âÂ
Jack nudges your leg with his, either a silent laugh, show of support, or quiet question of your sanity. Maybe all three.Â
Another bellini appears in front of you, this one heavier on the alcohol than the last. Your server is getting a giant tip when this is all over.Â
âYou work in the emergency department, dear. Thatâs hardly stable, and stable is respectable,â Jack clears his throat, and your mother at least has the manners to look mildly sheepish, âNo offense, Jack.âÂ
He smiles thinly. âNone taken.âÂ
Conversation from there is stilted at best with even your brothers tip-toeing around your mother. No one wants to be the subject of a nitpicking lecture, even when the version she gives them is a slap on the wrist compared to what you endure.Â
So you keep drinking your belliniâs and they keep coming. After your fourth, you think you should maybe slow down a little, but then your dad starts grilling Jack about his life (again) and you decide that alcohol is, in fact, necessary.Â
âHave you ever been in a serious relationship before, Jack?âÂ
That one almost makes you ask the server for a shot of vodka, straight. Thatâs a question you ask a nineteen year-old pimple-faced boy, not a fucking fifty year old man.Â
âI have, yes. But, like most things in life, they were learning experiences. Iâve moved on.âÂ
Your dad snorts, then gestures to you. âYou could teach her a thing or two about moving on.âÂ
Your blood runs cold.Â
Jack sets his glass down. âAnd what do you mean by that?â
Itâs your mother who answers. Because one vulture circling your soon-to-be carcass wasnât enough.Â
âIâm surprised she hasnât told you. It was all she ever talked about for years. Sheâs had exactly one boyfriend before youâ what was his name honey?â
âChristopher,â You answer hollowly, stomach churning.Â
Your dad snaps his fingers. âThatâs it. It took ages for her to get her first boyfriend. We were fairly convinced it would never happen, but then one day she came home with Christopher. Whole family wanted to throw a partyâ finally found someone to put up with all that attitude!â
Your family laughs, but Jack doesnât.Â
âWhereâs the funny part, in all this?â
Your mother clears her throat, just a tad awkward. âWhen she broke up with him it was awful. She refused to leave her room for works, cried all the time. Honestly, I would have understood if he had broken up with her, but it was all her decision.âÂ
Your dad nods in agreement. âWe had to have a sit-down conversation with her about decisions and consequences before she finally stopped crying and hiding in her room. Christopher was such a nice boy, we hated to see him go.â
Jack opens his mouth, poised to fire something back and defend you, but you beat him to the punch.Â
âHe cheated on me with my best friend.âÂ
At that, your mother frowns. âThatâs not what Christopher said. You were in your teen angst era, remember? Always picking fights? He told your brother that you were so distant with him he didnât know you were still together.âÂ
âI wasnât distant, I was really busy. I was studying for the MCAT. He knew that. He knew how important medical school was to me.âÂ
Your brother rolls his eyes. âMed school was all you talked about. Itâs not like you were putting out.â
Your mother snaps her fingers once. âThat is inappropriate talk for public. You know better.âÂ
âCome on, mom. Itâs true. Everyone knowsââ
âSorry to interrupt,â Jack says, not at all sounding sorry, âBut the hospital just texted. Thereâs an emergency, and weâre needed, so we have to go.âÂ
Jack does not wait for your mother or father to excuse him. He just stands, offering you his hand. It turns out that you need it, because there is, apparently, such a thing as too many peach bellinis. Your mom sends you a pointed glare as you stumble once, after which you make a concerted effort to look more sober.Â
Neither you nor Jack bother saying proper goodbyes. Once he grabs your jacket and purse (and your vision stops swimming so much and youâre sure you can walk in a convincing approximation of a straight line) youâre both gone. You pass your server on the way out, who is slipped a very generous cash tip for the excellent bellini service.Â
By the time you get to the car, you realize that youâre about to have to save patient lives and you are very, extremely, drunk. There is no way you are capable of doing any life-saving at the moment.Â
âJack,â You mumble, fumbling with your seatbelt, âI think Iâm too drunk to go in. Did they say how serious the emergency was? Can I just get a banana bag?âÂ
âThere is no emergency,â He says calmly, batting your hands away and buckling you in properly, âI made it up. I figured youâd be okay with ducking out of there.âÂ
âOh. That was nice of you.âÂ
He clicks you in and gives you a wry grin. âTold you I would handle things.â
You nod, the movement exaggerated and lopsided. âI hate it when they bring up Christpher. They always take his side. Like, is there ever a situation where itâs okay to cheat on a girl with her best friend? I was studying for the MCAT. I didnât even wallow or break up with him when I found out. I waited until after I took the exam so I didnât fuck up my score.âÂ
âThatâs my girl.âÂ
âChristopher was an asshole. He was a real dickhead. The whole situation sucked. I lost the only two people who I thought cared about me at the same time. My family acted like I was the fucking anti-christ for being upset about it, too. It was fucking terrible. Iâm so glad I donât live with them anymore. I mean, I still love them, and I care about them, cause theyâre my family, but everything is just so much easier when theyâre not around.âÂ
âYouâre allowed to hate them, you know.âÂ
âI know,â You say, fiddling with a hangnail. âI know I probably should.âÂ
You sigh, tilting your head back against the headrest. âI always keep holding out hope, you know? That one day theyâll apologize, figure their shit out, care about me in a way that matters. I know itâs stupid.â
âItâs not stupid.âÂ
You frown. âItâs not? It kinda seems stupid. Youâd think by now I would know better.âÂ
âNo,â Jack eases the car out of the parking space, âWeâre biologically wired to love our families. Itâs the reason why they can fuck you up so bad. Your brain canât compute why the people who are supposed to love you above all else just⊠donât. Not in any of the right ways.âÂ
You blow air through your lips. âI think my parents fucked me up. I was so happy when I matched into the Pitt, because it was so far away. But then I got out here it just kind of hit me, all at once, that I was alone. My best friend was gone, my ex boyfriend sucked, and I was too busy in med school taking care of myself and my family to make any friends.â
Shit, that sounds so whiny. âBut it turns out it wasnât so bad. Now I've got Mell, and Santos, and Iâm pretty sure Iâm friends with Shen too. Mckay is nice too. I like her. Sheâs cool.âÂ
Jack huffs something that could be a laugh, and you turn to study him; the angles of his face awash in the glow of the red light youâre currently stopped at. From here, you can see the tiny bits of tension he carries in his faceâ a slight pinch in his brow, the tiniest downturn of his lips. Itâs the only evidence that heâs not as unaffected by your family as he pretends to be.
Then the light turns green, and his face isnât illuminated the same.Â
âAnd what about me?âÂ
Oh. Well. Thatâs a loaded question.
The alcohol emboldens you to answer honestly. âI donât know what to think about you.âÂ
âOh really?âÂ
âMmm. Nope.âÂ
âHow come?âÂ
"You're soââ You gesture vaguely, âConfusing. I canât figure you out. For a while there, I was pretty sure you hated me, but then you offered to help me with this and you keep saying you care so I think Iâm wrong.âÂ
âYou think youâre wrong?â
âStill canât figure you out.âÂ
âAnd how can I show you that I mean it?âÂ
Thatâs. Hmm.
âI donât know. I think what youâre doing is working,â You pause, debating the pros and cons of continuing to just say whatever the fuck you want before deciding youâre too tired to care, âIt helps that youâre really hot.âÂ
His lips twitch. âOh, does it now?âÂ
âMhm. Youâve got this whole⊠capable thing about you. Itâs hot. Competency is in.â
âIf you say so.âÂ
âI do say so. I feel like if I had a problem I could call you or something and you would fix it. Youâre soâŠâ
âCompetent?âÂ
âThatâs the word.â
If heâs at all irritated, annoyed, or otherwise put off by your stupid rambling, he didnât show it.Â
âYou should call me whenever you have a problem. Chances are, I can fix it.âÂ
âAre you like Bob the Builder?â
âIâm a doctor, so no.âÂ
âYouâre kind of like Bob the Builder.âÂ
âWhatever you say,â He pauses at an empty intersection before continuing on, âBefore I start heading towards your place, do you want to stop by mine? You didnât even get to eat your salad, and I have leftovers. You can say no.â
âAre you gonna be mad at me if I say no?âÂ
âNo.âÂ
âThen yes.âÂ
âYou sure? I wasnât lying.âÂ
âI know. But I like your cooking.â
You spend the drive to Jackâs continuing to ramble about nothing and everything, to which he entertains with a seemingly endless amount of patience. The only time he interrupts is to hand you a bottle of Gatorade he procured from his back seat. Apparently, he bought a few to keep in his car after the first lunch. âFor any alcohol excursions.âÂ
Itâs freaky how prepared he is for every situation.Â
When you arrive, he unbuckles your seatbelt for you (unbuckling is just as difficult as buckling when youâve had an unknown amount of peach bellinis) and helps you up the stairs to his apartment.Â
His gigantic apartment.Â
âWoah,â You mumble as you shuffle through the doorway, pulled along by your hand in Jacks, âI didnât know they made apartments this size.âÂ
âIts not that big.âÂ
âI think, like, four of my apartments could fit in here. Your living room is the size of my entire place.âÂ
You stumble once, heel catching on the little rug on the entry way, and heâs immediately motioning for you to sit on the little bench by the door and pats his thigh once. You clumsily raise your leg, barely managing to land your foot on the general area he gestures to. He pulls the first shoe off, then repeats with the second with an air of total calm. Like this is normal and he does this all the time for you. Like you regularly find yourself drunk in his apartment.
You decide to unpack the moment when youâre sober.Â
âOne, itâs not that big, and two, thatâs what you get for renting a studio apartment.â
âLike you could afford better when you were an intern.âÂ
He snorts, leading you to his couch and gesturing for you to sit. âIf you want to change clothes you can borrow some of mine.â
You chew on your lip. The outfits you choose to look nice for your mother are never exactly comfortable, and when else are you going to get the chance to privately live the scenario you fantasize about several times a week before falling asleep?
âOnly if you donât mind.âÂ
âI wouldn't have offered if I wasnât. Stay there.âÂ
Jackâs only gone for a few minutes before he reappears with a dark grey sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants in a slightly lighter shade. The sweatshirt is oversized and looks well worn, but the sweatpants are suspiciously new, close to your size, and look eerily similar to a pair you changed into after a shift a few weeks ago.
He hands them to you. Neither of you mention the sweatpants. âYou can change in the bathroom. Door locks from the inside. Iâm gonna change too, and then Iâll heat up the food.âÂ
Jack shows you the bathroom (you donât bother unpacking why exactly he felt the need to tell you that the door locks and from the inside, thatâs for when youâre significantly more drunk than you are now and when youâre not in his fancy-ass apartment.)Â
Because heâs a man and men take approximately three seconds to change, heâs already in the kitchen setting stuff on the counter by the time you emerge from the bathroom. His countertops are solid granite, because the apartment is clearly expensive and heâs a man. Theyâre an inky black color with tiny flecks that sparkle when the light hits them just so.Â
âWhat are you doing?â Jack asks when he turns from the fridge to find you tilting your head this way and that.Â
âLooking at the sparkles.âÂ
âOookay. Do you want me to heat up the vodka pasta or the chicken?â
âYou made vodka pasta?âÂ
He shrugs. âYou said you liked it.âÂ
You slide into a seat at the kitchen island, a flush creeping up your neck. âThe pasta, please.âÂ
Suddenly exhausted now that youâre in soft, comfortable clothes that smell like Jack, you decide to just rest your head on your arms for a bit. And close your eyes. But youâre not going to fall asleep. Youâre not.Â
âDonât fall asleep. You need to eat something first.âÂ
âMâ not fallinâ asleep.âÂ
âMhm. Sure.âÂ
With great effort, you blink your eyes open and watch Jack while he heats up the pasta and prepares something else. A salad maybe?
âWhatâreâyouâ making?â
âJust a little salad. In case the pasta is too heavy for you.âÂ
âOh. How come?âÂ
âBecause I donât want you to throw up.âÂ
âI promise I wonât throw up on your furniture. I donât usually throw up when Iâm hungover.âÂ
âYou drink often?âÂ
âNo,â Your head lulls to the side, âIâm too busy. Iâm actually not-so-secretly very boring. I donât really like partying. I much prefer staying at home.âÂ
âThought you went to that thing with King and Santos?âÂ
âYeah, but that was âcause Trinity really wanted me to come and I felt bad and I didnât want her to think I was a boring, uptight bitch.âÂ
âI see.âÂ
âYeah. I kinda had fun, though. I wished you were there.â
âReally?âÂ
âYeah,â You sigh, probably a hint too dreamily, âMakes me feel better when youâre around.âÂ
âIâll keep that in mind.âÂ
He slides a little bowl with a light salad in it to you across the counter, and it's perfectly refreshing. Not at all heavy like the pasta ends up being.Â
âSorry I couldnât finish it,â You say, forcing down a yawn and resisting the urge to burrow into your arms and go to sleep right there, âI feel bad that you went through the trouble of making it and heating it up.âÂ
âIt wasnât that much effort. Besides, now you can just eat it for lunch tomorrow instead. Iâll send it home with you.âÂ
âMhm.â You hum, slowly inching your arms forward and down onto the counter, your head quickly following suit.Â
Jack chuckles, and you can hear the light step of his feet as he rounds the corner of the island and nudges you in the arm.Â
âCome on, sweetheart. You wanna get home to bed, donât you?â
âNo,â You shake your head, âI wanna sleep right here. Itâs comfortable.â
âIt wonât be when you wake up.â
You whine, curling away from him.Â
He just puffs another little laugh. âYou can either sleep in your bed, or my bed. You canât sleep on the kitchen island.â
âWhy not?â You finally lift your head, âAnd why is your bed an option?â
âOne,â He lifts up one finger in front of your face and slowly drags it back and forth, âBecause the kitchen island is not a bed. Two, Iâm not letting you sleep on the couch.â
âWhy? Is your couch uncomfortable?â
âNo,â He says, shuffling back over to where the leftovers are and tucking all the food away in the proper places, âItâs just not right to make a woman sleep on the couch.â
âI like sleeping on couches.â
He shoots you a look over his shoulder, âIâm sure you do. But youâre still a little drunk, and my bed is closer to the bathroom than the couch is.âÂ
You prop your head on your hand. âWho said Iâm even staying here tonight?â
Jack closes the fridge. âDo you want to? Because I donât care either way. We both have tomorrow off.â
âItâd be weird to wake up here.â
âWhy?â
âBecause youâre my boss.â
âAnd Iâm faking being your boyfriend so your parents get off your back. Pretty sure weâre past coworkers.âÂ
âWhat would we even do in the morning?âÂ
âSleep.â
âI donât want to kick you out of your bed. Iâll sleep on the couch.âÂ
âYouâre my guestââÂ
âYouâre already doing so much for me,â You blurt, stomach clenching, âIâ You know me. I can only handle so much. Let me do this one thing? Please?âÂ
Jack glowers for a bit, then sighs.Â
âOnly because you asked nicely and I believe in rewarding good behavior. And because I know my couch isnât uncomfortable. Iâll help you make it up.âÂ
Jackâs apartment is surprisingly tidy for the fact that a man lives in it (Christopherâs room at his parentâs house always looked like shit) and he pulls down a couple options for bedding. You go with the plain black sheet and its matching thick, fluffy comforter. He insists on making up the couch himself (despite the fact that the alcohol has mostly worn off by now) and even sets up a glass of water, a liquid IV packet, and a bucketâ âJust in case those belliniâs donât love you back.âÂ
The sight of it all is almost too much. Itâs just so much care. All of it. The fact that heâs helping out with you and your disaster of a family, the way that despite the horribleness of it all he hasnât judged you at all for how you deal with them. He refuses to let you drive yourself, always pays for every lunch for your entire family and the little snacks you get afterwards. Listens to you rant and he makes you food and gets you blankets andâ
âYou okay there?âÂ
âMhm,â You hum, âJust thinkinâ.âÂ
He leaves you be for a moment, busies himself with fixing your pillows and and tugging the comforter into its proper place.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn, throwing your arms around Jackâs middle and burying your face in his chest.Â
âThank you,â You say, voice muffled by the fabric, âFor doing all of this. Thank you for looking out for me.âÂ
Jack is still for a second, just long enough for you to second guess initiating physical contact âa line you were previously too scared to crossâ but then his hands come up and it's so, immediately, remarkably over. Because youâre never ever going to draw that line again. You can never go back to your life without having this. Without having him.Â
Jackâs hands are big and deliciously warm as they slide up, around your waist, lingering to rub a few circles on the mid of your back before moving on. One arm stays, tightening around your waist and drawing you closer while his other glides further up, up, up, his callused palms sliding over the knob at the very base of your neck before his hand settles around your nape, fingers just barely brushing the edge of your hairline.Â
You barely manage to suppress a whine at how warm and incredible it feels to be fully enveloped by him. You never want him to let go. Goosebumps erupt everywhere he touches, little sparks of electricity lingering under your skin in his wake.
âI will always,â He presses the lightest of kisses to your temple, just a feathering of his lips, âLook out for you, baby. Iâm always gonna be right here.â
His arms tighten around you, drawing you inâ closer, closer, closer. Wrapped up in everything that is Jack you canât help but sag, going completely boneless in his grip and allowing yourself to just bask in him.Â
âYou smell good.â You mumble into his shirt, completely lost in the moment.Â
âDo I?â
âYeah. Good. Like man.âÂ
He chuckles, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your cheek. âThank you sweetheart.âÂ
âWhy do you call me sweetheart?âÂ
âBecause youâre a sweetheart.âÂ
âI am?âÂ
âDonât play dumb now,â He pulls back a little, just enough to get a good look at you, fingers curling in the fine hair at your nape and tugging down, angling your chin up so youâre forced to look at him, âYou know you are.âÂ
You shrug, eyes darting to the side, your cheeks flushing, âI donât know. I was just making sure.âÂ
âMhm.â He hums, tone almost mocking, fingers tightening around your hair just before the precipice of pain.
You stay like that for a few moments of charged silence. Jackâs eyes shamelessly rove over the planes of your face, mapping it out in his mind. He keeps his grip on your hair, not completely forcing eye contact but keeping your head firmly in place.Â
Itâs possessive. Bold. Probably too intimate for two people who (supposedly) are not actually dating
And you love it.Â
Jack only lets his hand (and your head) drop when your jaw opens in a splitting yawn.Â
âOkay,â He huffs, taking a step back, âTime for bed. Get going.âÂ
Embarrassment is the only thing keeping you from whining at the loss of contact and impending reality of sleeping on the couch alone. But you made your bed (figuratively) so now you have to lie in it.Â
The couch does look comfortable. Especially since Jack put all the blankets together.Â
He waits until youâve crawled under the comforter to bid you goodnight, followed by a parting reminder to âWake him up if you start aspirating on vomit.â Itâs a very Jack thing to say.Â
Youâre out almost the second Jack turns the lights off. You fall into deep, blissful sleep, dreaming of that final moment in the living room, your eyes boring into each other.Â
Except in the dream, you tilt your head up those last few inches, and kiss your fake boyfriend as hard as you can.Â
â
Generally, the annual lecture event ends with a massive blow out argument. Something dramatic and filled with expletives, after which your mother will refuse to answer any texts or calls you send before finally telling you thatâs sheâs sorry if (always if) something she said offended you, but talking to you is just so hard sometimes so she doesnât want to unless youâre ready to be more civil. By the time the two of you are on neutral terms again, itâs time for the next annual lunch circuit.Â
Youâre a mess of nerves in the hours before the last one. Like usual, your mom requested that the last dinner be held at your place. âSo it can feel like a real family dinner.â While you know that there isnât any saying no to your mother, you also know that there is no way youâre cramming your entire family in your tiny ass studio apartment. It happened once. It will not happen again.Â
You originally asked Jack during a last minute shift you both got called in to cover if he would help you move some of the furniture at your place to accommodate them, and then heâd gotten this incredulous look on his face and then told you to tell your mom that youâre having dinner at his place.Â
âJack,â Youâd gaped at him, âItâs fine. My apartment isnât that small, and you donât have to help move the furniture if you donât want to. I can ask Dennis to give me a hand instead. I really donât think you want to host my family.âÂ
âSweetheart, itâs just logic. Youâve seen my place.â
âOkay. No need to rub it in.âÂ
Heâd just rolled his eyes and pinned you with a firm look. âCome on. You know this is the best option. If your mom throws a fit, tell her I insisted and give her my number.âÂ
âDo you have a death wish?â You hiss, âThatâs asking for torture.âÂ
Jack had just shrugged. âWould having it at my place be easier for you?âÂ
â...Yes?âÂ
âThen weâll do it there. Youâre off in a bit, right?âÂ
Youâd nodded.Â
He fishes something small and shiny out of his pocket and tosses it to you. âThatâs my spare key. Iâll be here later than you, so just let yourself in if you want to get there earlier to start setting up. Iâll be home soon.âÂ
Robby shouted his name soon after and Jack was whisked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the ED, holding the fucking spare key to his apartment, gaping like a fish.Â
The line between real and fake has become so blurred youâre not sure if it ever was there to begin with.Â
Heâs started calling you sweetheart more and more oftenâ sometimes when no one's around. No familial audience to be persuaded into the romantic lie youâre selling. Is it still a lie if it doesnât feel like one anymore?
The question and accompanying feeling follows you all day. All throughout your harried dinner preparation. Even now, with a solid hour until your family is supposed to start showing up, you canât help but pace the length of Jackâs kitchen, heeled feet clicking on his floor. Jack himself is similarly dressed up, wearing a pair of dark jeans (âIâm not wearing slacks in my own home, and Iâm not old enough to start wearing khakis with everything.â) and a black button down shirt with the first two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He makes a very nice view and under other circumstances you might take the opportunity to climb him like a tree. But alas. Anxiety.Â
âTake your shoes off if youâre going to pace. Youâre gonna give yourself blisters.âÂ
You ignore him, chewing on an already stinging cuticle.Â
âThings have been pretty good this far, right? Do you think sheâs just waiting until the very end to bring up some secret thing that sheâs upset about?â
Jack begins preparing the wine âyour mother only likes redâ for decanting. âI think if your mother were that upset about something she wouldnât be able to hide it.âÂ
âTrue. But what if?â
âIâm not going to help you spiral.âÂ
âWhy not?â You whine.Â
He looks at you with a heavy glare and points to the shoe tray at the door. âShoes. Off. You can put them back on when they get here.âÂ
You grumble under your breath the entire way but comply. Only because your feet were starting to hurt.Â
When your family finally does arrive, it ends up being annoyingly anti-climactic. You spend the entire time on the edge of your seat (literally and figuratively) waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for conversation to turn sour, arguments to erupt, someone to choke on a piece of lettuce and die despite professional intervention.Â
But the argument never starts, conversation remains what it usually is and becomes no worse (or better, unfortunately) and no one passes away due to unevenly chopped vegetables.Â
The torture is over fairly quickly. Most everyoneâs flight back home leaves early the next morning and your dad is paranoid about flight times.Â
Pretty soon itâs all just⊠over. They leave, your mother bickering with your father on the way out about something that probably doesnât matter, and then itâs just you and Jack and the entire scheme is just done. Finished. Just like that.Â
There won't be anymore knee's brushing under the table, no more shared glances and pecks to the cheek when you make a joke that actually lands. No more excuses just to sit and watch him under the guise of playing the adoring girlfriend. No more late night milkshakes.
You'll just go back to being coworkers-- People who pretend not to know each other intimately. Jack probably won't struggle with it. But to you, right now, the idea of just not having him anymore seems like a another wound, right over top all the others.
You don't want him to become another person who used to know you.
Youâve been staring at the closed door for upwards of five full minutes, clenching and unclenching your fists when Jack comes up next to you. He hands you the same clothes you wore the last time you were there and jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom. Â
âWhy donât you go and change, huh?â
Your lip wobbles a bit as you answer. âBut I want to help you clean up.âÂ
âYou can,â He soothes, âAfter you change.â
âButââ
âHey,â He interrupts, âNo. Youâve been stuck in those clothes for hours. Go change. Iâll wait for you.âÂ
Jack keeps his word. Heâs leaned up against the kitchen island when you emerge, rubbing at your ânow bare, having had the foresight to bring makeup wipes with youâ face.Â
He looks up when the door opens. âBetter?âÂ
âYeah. Thanks.âÂ
He just hums, heading back over to the kitchen table, stacking plates and cutlery. You follow in silence, and he thankfully doesnât push for conversation.Â
Cleaning up doesnât take long enough. Jack has a fancy dishwasher (and probably doesnât want to stay standing any more than he has to this late in the day) and there arenât any leftovers to pack up. Your brothers are bottomless pits when it comes to free food.Â
It canât just be over like this. It can't.
When everything is finished and there isn't anything left to do, Jack wordlessly leads you to the couch and puts something quiet and calm on the TV. The white noise washes over you as you attempt to get comfortable, but the knowledge that it's all over proves to be an itch under your skin that you just can't seem to squash.
âSo,â You say after the two of you are seated on opposite ends of the couch, âThatâs it then.âÂ
âSo it is.âÂ
âGuess I owe you big time, huh?âÂ
âIâve already told you I donât care about that.âÂ
âRight,â You look down at your lap, âYeah. Sorry.âÂ
You lapse into silence.Â
Jack sighs. âSweetheartââ
âWas it fake to you?â You blurt, jiggling your knee, still staring at your lap, âWere youâ did you mean it?â
It never felt fake. It never felt like pretending.Â
It felt real.
It felt like, for the first time in your life, things could be easy.
Maybe easy isn't the right word. But it life sure as hell didn't feel as hard.
When you look up, uncomfortable in his silence and hoping thereâs answers in his face, but instead of finding something like disappointment or irritation, heâs grinning.Â
âWhat do you think?âÂ
âI donât know.âÂ
He dips his head once. âYes you do. Youâre a smart girl, I think you can figure it out.âÂ
Your fingers are curled around the hem of his sweatshirt, white-knuckling the fabric as if to stabilize yourself. Like youâre liable to somehow float away if you donât dig your heels into the couch and hold on tight.Â
âWhat if Iâm wrong?âÂ
âYou wonât be.â
A scoff escapes your lips, âYou canât know for sure.âÂ
He taps his pointer finger on his leg in an unhurried rhythm.Â
âYou do.âÂ
Your stomach is rolling in a combination of leftover anxiety from the dinner that went better than it was supposed to and the weight of Jackâs gaze on you.Â
âI thinkâŠâ You pause, worry threatening to overwhelm you, and take a deep breath before continuing, âI think you might like me.âÂ
âYou think,â He drawls, âI might.âÂ
âI donât want to be wrong!â You cry.Â
Jack huffs, throwing his head back in a good-natured sigh.Â
âCome here.âÂ
You scoot further down the couch, sitting criss-cross right in front of him. This is not going the way you thought it would. You were almost certain youâd walk away shamed and embarrassed, forced to fake your death and flee the country out of the sheer humiliation of thinking your boss would actually have a crush on you.Â
Jack does love to prove you wrong.
âSoo,â You start, still hesitant, âYou do like me.âÂ
Jack props his head on his hand, his expression something youâre starting to recognize as fond. âYes.â
âMore than a little?âÂ
âYes.âÂ
âAnd you werenât faking anything. You were serious about theâ You know.âÂ
âUse your words.âÂ
âThe flirting.â You clarify, ears burning.Â
âAll correct,â He nods, âThough I would have said it differently.âÂ
You frown. âAnd how would you have put it?âÂ
âI would have said,â He reaches out, snagging your arm and tugging until you fall down onto his chest with a little oof, âThat you have a hard time believing things that are good, so I had to audition for my role. Like old-fashioned courting.âÂ
You want to be offended, but unfortunately, it did work.Â
You frown.Â
Wait.Â
âHave you known I liked you this whole time?âÂ
Jack snorts. âOverheard you talking to Whitaker about it during your second week.â
Heâs known since the second week?
âOh my god.âÂ
âDonât worry, I didnât tell anyone. Except Robby. Heâs been hoping you would figure it out for awhile now.â
âOh my god.â
âI thought it was cute,â He smoothes a hand over your hair, âYou were so much more nervous back then. Youâve come a long way.âÂ
You shift uncomfortably at the praise, but Jackâs having none of it. He wraps his arms around you, holding you in place.Â
âCan you take a compliment?âÂ
âNo.âÂ
He re-positions under you, getting more comfortable. âWeâll try again later.âÂ
âAm Iâ Can I stay here tonight then?âÂ
âOf course,â he murmurs, âMy one condition is that youâre not sleeping on the couch.â
âFine,â You sigh, long and drawn out, âI suppose we can share.âÂ
âHow kind of you to share my bed with me.âÂ
âI have been told Iâm kind.âÂ
You both smile, and everything just feels so right and so perfect that you can't help but lean up, clearing the last few inches, and pressing a hesitant, gentle kiss to his lips.Â
Itâs just like your dream.Â
Only this time, itâs real. And Jack is kissing you back.Â
"how much time until ya find someone new when i'll die ?"
you stopped in your tracks, turning around to look at simon. you studied his face for a few seconds, looking for any signs of humor, you found none.
"simon" you walked closer to the bed, he was laying under the covers. "you just broke your leg, you're not gonna die" you chuckled, trying to warm the atmosphere a little.
he simply looked at you, watching you slip under the covers with him, cheek flat against his chest.
"no" he exclaimed urgently. "get up, ya gonna make it worse" he put his hands on your waist, preparing himself to push you away.
"make me" you jokingly said, hugging him even tighter. you giggled at his silence, you didnât even have to look up to know that he had given up. his arms now circling around your waist. it was funny to you how lieutnant simon riley was a huge baby when injured, he hated having to be helped for everything.
"'love ya" you heard him say with his hoarse voice, "love you too, simon".
"but i swear if ya find another bastard i'll fuckinâ kill" you cut him off by hitting his stomach slightly, earning a small huff from him. it was surprisingly enough to shut him up.
âź using ghost/simon as your own portable stand, mirror and chair wherever the two of you go.
it's almost routine now whenever the two of you leave the house, as soon as it hits the one hour mark you're opening your camera app and handing it over to him to hold, eyebrows furrowed in slight concentration as you touch up your lip liner and gloss. or when you turn to him and ask if you should fix your hair or clothing. "jus' a bit, love. you look perfect any'ow."
and if you're feet are feeling sore from walking for too long in your heels, simon's immediately finding a place to sit where he can pull you onto his lap instead of letting you sit directly onto the public space and messing up your pretty clothes with dust.
all the while, his eyes are practically gazing at your beauty in awe, not like some uncontrollably lovesick puppy, but there's a softness that only appears when he's admiring your beauty. so long as you give him that sweet smile of gratitude when you're done, he'll gladly let you have your way with him.
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âtell âem no carnations at my funeral. fuckinâ hate those.â
you sigh, for what felt like the millionth time in past three days. âsimonââ
âand promise me youâll at least wait a couple of decades before finding someone else.â
âsimon, for the love of god, youâre not dying. just drink the damn soup.â
he scrunched his face as if he had been deeply wronged by you, but he drank the soup from the spoon you had held near his mouth anyway, moaning and groaning after the slightest movements. âyou did not answer me, lovie. how long would you wait before finding another man after i am gone?â
simon had caught common cold and it happened three days ago. he had come home after running some errands and later, the same evening, the nasal congestion happened, and then the sneezing. oh god, the sneezing. he drank hot tea and had slept on the couch that night so you wouldnât catch cold too. he said itâd go away soon, that it was nothing.
only, it didnât go away. next day, he came down with proper cold. tiredness, headache, sore throat, light fever, coughâall that stuff.
and if simon wasnât the most dramatic version of himself while he was sick. it was a new experience entirely, watching the big, serious guy act like spongebob once he got sick. simon hadnât fallen sick before. not that you had witnessed anytime he did. but now that he did, you were seeing a totally different side of him.
heâd been acting as if he had a terminal disease instead of common cold. it was adorable in a way, really.
âhmm, letâs see⊠perhaps a year, i think?â you say, trying to hold back a smile. if he was going to be dramatic, you were definitely going to play along. âappropriate mourning period.â
âa year?â
âi mean, i am quite young, no? canât give up on love this young,â you explain, holding another spoonful of the warm soup near his mouth, which he slurped gently. âa woman has needs, after all.â
simon looked at you for a few seconds as if you had betrayed him, and then he pulled up the covers a bit, trying to get inside those fully and lay back down on the bed. âiâll come back as a ghost to haunt that man.â
now that almost makes you huff out a soft laughter, but you control it. âtwo years is the max i can do, love,â you say, trying your best to sound earnest, though you were miserably failing trying to hold back a smile.
âi donât like the thought of dying anymore,â he replies finally, sounding as though he had uttered those words after a lot of thinking, and laid back down on the bed. there even was a soft, pout on his face, as if he was deep in thought. it was all so comical.
âthatâs what iâve been telling you for the past three daysâand no you canât go back to sleep just yet,â you reprimand him mildly, splacing the cup of soup back on the nightstand before pulling him back up using all your strength. âfinish the soup first, itâs warm, good for the throat. then you have take the meds.â
âbut lovieââ
âsimon.â you just had to act strict to get him to listen. after he had finished the soup and taken the medicine, you fluffed up his pillow and let him lay back down on the bed.
âsleep tight, love.â you press a kiss on his forehead, tucking the hair strands back so they donât fall on his eyes.
you were just about to leave the room before he spoke up, voice hoarse and raspy due to cold. âlovie âm fucked, noseâs so blocked⊠can you spoon me? need yer hugs and kisses...â
you smile warmly at his request. there was a high chance you would catch cold too, but fuck it. it was just a cold. you could recover from it in a week, max. after all, itâs not everyday you get to cuddle with a dramatic simon. âsure thing. but no more talks of dying, okay?â
âmhm.â simon nods obediently, shifting aside on the bed to make space for you. and when you settle down beside him, he rests his head on your chest, finally content.
suddenly, he raises his head up to look at you. âto be clear, you were jokinâ, right?â
neighbor!simon riley who can't say no to you asking him for help (and still does things without you having to).
pt.1
ever since asking simon for help on your car, it's like a floodgate has opened up. first you're asking him for help on your car, and the next thing you know, he's in your house every few days with a new repair you've roped him into. he doesn't talk much. actually, you haven't been able to get another word out of him since he was on his back, under your car.
you've tried, you really have, but the bastard won't give in. you think he's just closed offâin reality, simon's heart is beating a mile a minute, and his mind is repeating over and over again not to make himself a fool in front of his pretty neighbor.
so you figured that asked him to help around your house would do the trick, luring him into your space in order to open him up. it's not like you'd get around to these tasks yourself. they just weren't your area of expertise.
and for a decently new house, you sure had a lot to be repaired.
first, it was those squeaky hinges on some of your doors. now, in the beginning, you were still hesitant to wander over to his front door to get his help, but after his eagerness the first time, it gave you the confidence to return. simon was in your house faster than you were, already taking a guess as to which door it wasâsince he knew his way around from bringing in groceries and such. armed with a lubricant and a few other tools, he got to work. within a few minutes, they were good as new. you couldn't thank the man before he was out the door.
it was off-putting, but you were still determined. it was unlucky that the first thing you asked him to do took only a few minutes of his time, and even less for cleanup.
with every day that passed, you were grasping at straws. how could you get this man over here? your house was in perfect condition, and you barely saw the recluse of a man, as he remained in his house most of the time. save for the times he takes in your groceries or takes your bins out, you don't see him.
until you notice something odd.
coming home from workâthis time, your car light remains offâyou get out of your car and notice a bit of chopped grass that's been left behind. with furrowed brows, you took a moment to look at your lawn.
what are the chances that, after living here for a few months, the grass doesn't decide to grow?
yeah, none. the bastard has been doing it for you, and you never noticed. he never mentioned or made a big deal out of it, and somehow, it got missed on your motion activated doorbell cameras that has a perfect view of the lawn. even the hedges are trimmed.
so what do you do? take the opportunity to stop over to his doorstep, rapping your fist on his door until he opens. eyebrows raised, ready to take on the next task at your house, he steps out and shuts the door behind him. with a nod, he gestures you to lead the way.
except you don't have a repair for him. "have you been mowing my lawn?" the words spill from your lips before you have a chance to reign yourself in. the absurdity of the situation is making you loose-lipped.
his eyes widen, and you swear you see a faint blush on the pale skin behind his balaclava. he just nods, gaze softening as he stares down at you.
"thank you." you sputter out, in shock at his brazen admission. he just nods again, and you're at a loss for words. how do you keep his attention, keep his eyes on you? "well, I'm gonna need your help planting flowers."
planting flowers? that's all you could come up with? your face flushes with embarrassment, bracing yourself for his reaction. the man could easily say no because mowing the lawn and changing your lightbulb and fixing your squeaky door hinges is considered masculine. you could've insulted his masculinity by suggesting he plants flowers.
but he just stares at you some more. "let m'know when," and he shuts the door in your face.
but you turn around with the goofiest smile on your face and pump your fist with a soft "yes" before skipping back down the path and road towards your house just next door. little do you know, simon's face wears a smile just like yours as he watches the dorky display.
âSimon,â you mumble, sitting up in bed and flicking on the bedside lamp. He doesnât move or shift, just sits there like a brick wall, his hands moving in the same rhythmic side to side motion. The sound of metal on the hand-held knife sharpener ringing loudly through the room.
"Simon, come on," you whisper. "Are you mad?"
He stilled for a moment, going more rigid than before. "No," He begins, "..'m not mad.."
"Right...so sharpening knives at 2 AM is a normal hobby-?"
He huffs, setting the knife down a little to hard on the bedside. "..'m not mad at you." his voice is gruff and snappy. Like he's teetering on the edge of fully exploding. He wouldn't, though, not around you...never at you either. He made that clear.
"So then, will you tell me what's wrong? Who your mad at?" Your voice is calm and soothing. Your body moves before your mind realizes, and you're behind him, arms wrapping around his torso. You nuzzle your nose into his neck, taking a breath and placing a small kiss there. "Whatever it is..you can tell me.." you pause "...you know that baby."
He lets out another huff, "Yeah...I do know that," he starts. "But this is different. This isn't..normal."
That makes your brows frown, and stomach drop a little bit. The room is quiet while you wait for him to talk again, but when he doesn't, you pull back slightly. "Simon, look at me," you say firmly. He moves back onto the bed fully, back up against the headboard, and hands clasped in his lap like he was waiting for a blow. Waiting for something to happen, but when nothing did, he relaxed slightly, and looked up at you. "..'m sorry..." He says quietly.
"No, no...shh...don't do that. Nothing is 'not normal' to be mad about, and there is nothing to be sorry about," you whisper gently. You move back to sit against the headboard next to him.
"come 'ere" you whisper, your arms open and inviting.
He moves without a thought. His arms wrap around your torso, and his head rests on your chest. He lets out a long breath, and you feel him relax.
"You don't have to tell me, but at least let me hold you. Okay?"
He only nods. Your hands run through his hair gently, and every once in a while, you kiss the top of his head. You whisper sweet words. Repeating that you love him no matter what, and that he's not alone.
You choose to ignore the warm wetness soaking into your shirt.
â SUMMARY:Â In a final and desperate attempt to try and revive your love life, you turn to a dating appâ only to have every attempt sabotaged by your boss.
â CONTAINS: Younger, fem!reader, touch starved reader, a down bad, jealous Jack and a patient that canât take a hint.
âAUTHORS NOTE:  I guess I have one more Sabrina Carpenter titled fanfic in meâŠNo, I'm just kidding, Iâm so thankful that you guys like the fics. Anyways, hereâs to manifesting away the bums in your life and getting an actual man/woman/other that respects you!
â PAGE DIVIDERS BY: @angeliicide
01:27 AM
You were tired of the dry spell you had been going through and as embarrassing as it was to admit, you needed to get laid.
So yes, youâd caved, and downloaded Hinge once again.
Unfortunately, being on your phone at work meant you had to be sneakyâ which you had clearly failed at, since John and Parker were currently crowding you as you scrolled through the app.
âOkay, what about him?â you say, turning the screen towards them. Two equally disturbed looks are sent your way and you wordlessly swipe left.
âIâm never getting laid at this point,â you whine, letting John take your phone as he starts swiping for you.
Parker sighs, leaning back in her chair as she crosses her arms, giving you a perplexed lookâ like it's your fault nothing is happening in the romance sector of your life.
âQuit moaningâ see, this is why you should date women,â she shrugs, as if you hadnât thought of that either.
âDonât you think I would if I could?â you retort, feeling less hopeful with each piece of advice given to you from your colleagues.Â
Parker raises her hands in defeat, though you donât miss the amused smirk on her face, clearly finding entertainment in your despair.
âYeah, these guys ain't itâ everyone is either a republican or holding a fish in their picturesââ John finally speaks up, grimacing in disgust, âAlso, this guy is thirty, who canât use âthere, their and they'reâ at that age?
Just as heâs about to hand your phone back, someone intercepts the action.
âIs there a reason three of my residents are huddled around like a football team instead of, you know, actually working?â
Jack quirks an eyebrow, glancing between the three of you, looking like you were caught with your hands in the cookie jar.Â
Squinting down at the screen of the phone, heâs confused when heâs met with the picture of a man, standing shirtless on what seems to be a fishing boat.
He glances up at John, before humming in surprise.
âDidnât know you swung that way Shenâ but hey, all the power to you. Iâm, uhâ whatâs it called? Rightâ an ally!ââ
âItâs not mine!â John exclaims, though you suspect heâs more offended over the fact that Jack thought he was into guys that fish, rather than assuming he's gay.Â
You hold back a laugh, shaking your head as you stretch your hand out towards Jack.
âItâs mine,â you say weakly, embarrassed that your boss caught you in such a vulnerable, degrading state.
Actively trying to score a date.
Jackâs expression shifts, not in a dramatic way, but you catch itâ that flicker of surprise that later turns to interest.
âOh,â he says, looking back down at the phone in his hand, then back at you. âDidnât peg you for the fishing-boat type,â
âIâm not,â you deadpan, reaching a little more insistently for your phone. âThatâs why he was getting rejected,â
He doesnât hand it back right away, instead tilting the screen again, eyes darting across like heâs assessing injuries on a patient.
You can feel the judgement radiating off him.
âOkay, enough about my non-existent love lifeâ can I have that back?â
âDoesnât seem that non-existent from here,â Jack mutters, tongue prodding the inside of his cheek as he turns to show you the DM sectionâ filled with messages you hadnât bothered replying to.
Oh, so he canât figure out how to lower the brightness on his phone, but he can work the Hinge DMâs?
âHey, thatâs private!â you blurt, making another grab for it, but Jack just lifts it slightly out of reach, the corner of his mouth twitching like heâs enjoying this far too much. âGive it back, Abbotââ
âNo, I think Iâll be keeping this actually,â he muses, promptly putting your phone into his pocket.
You blink, looking at Parker and John for help, but when you turn around, their chairs are empty.
Traitors.
Whirling back, you turn around just in time to see his retreating figure making its way towards the medicine dispenser.
âAre you serious right now?â you call after him, already moving to follow.
Jack doesnât even slow down, only stopping to press his pincode into the tiny screen on the automated medicine cabinet.Â
âYou canât be tinderingâ while on the clockââ
âIt was Hinge, and Iâm on my break!â you counter, annoyance growing at the way he wonât even look at you. Stepping between the cabinet and his frame, you cross your arms, hardening your gaze as much as you possibly could. âDo you want me to end up alone forever?â
Jack rolls his eyes at your hyperbole before glancing back at you. Youâre closeâ close enough that he can see the leftover from your lunch on the side of your mouth. Without thinking, he reaches up, wiping the corner of your lips with his thumb, then stepping back as if nothing had happened.
âI doubt thatâs going to happen.â he mutters dryly, his large hands landing on your shoulders as he gently pulls you out of the way. âYou can have it back once youâve assessed at least three patients in triage,â
Your brain short-circuits as his thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, the stroke quick, almost absentminded, followed by the warmth of his hands touching your bodyâ and fuck, you just realized how touch starved you actually are.
Because your boss beingâŠwell, himself, should not have this effect on you.
âThree patients?â you confirm, breaking out of your spiraling thoughts.
Youâd rather run the entire ER completely by yourself on Christmas, than to try and figure out why you were having fanny flutters after a glorified shove from your attending.
02:45 AM
Jack stands in the breakroom, pouring himself his third cup of coffee for the night when it vibrates again.
He tries to ignore, he really doesâ that insistent buzzing in the right pocket of his scrubs. Itâs almost 3 AMâ who in their right mind is texting at this time?
He knows itâs not his phone, no one texts him. Well, besides Robby, his psychologist, and at times, the pharmacy with a reminder for him to pick up his prescriptions.
Still, his curiosity gets the best of him, and before he knows it, heâs making sure the coast is clear and quickly digging your phone out of his pocket.
Just as he expectedâ several messages on your lock screen and all of them from Hinge. Jackâs eyes dart across the screen, each message sending him further reeling.
âR u up?â
âUr sooo hot,â
âDid it hurt when youââ
Yeah, okay, that's enough. Jesus, who are these douchebags in your phone?
Jack shakes his head, going to stuff your phone back into his pocket and try to ignore the weird pit that formed in his stomach at the thought of you actually giving any of these guys a chance.
Or anyone in general, his mind echoes, but he shakes the thoughts before they can take any actual form.
Instead, heâs staring at the influx of shitty pickup-lines and decides to do you a favor. His thumb swipes over the screen, deleting the first message.
âHe was short anyways,â Jack grumbles quietly to himself.
Deciding that he liked the feeling of âhelpingâ you, he keeps going and only stops when heâs contentâ which coincidentally happens when your lockscreen is clear again.
Holding back a smug grin, he takes a long sip of his coffee leaning back against the countertop.
Oops.
03:18 AM
Parker Ellis does a double take when she finds you ducking behind the counter by the hub. She leans over it, peering down at you suspiciously.
ââŠWhy are you crouching on the floor?â
You flinch in surprise, only relaxing when you look up and see that itâs just her.
âShit, you scared me. IâŠâ you huff, hesitating as you look over your shoulder before answering. âIâm hiding from a patient,â
Parker hums, not as fazed as you expected her to be at the revelation.
âYeah, been there, done that,â she reminisces, before looking at you incredulously. âBut you donât do that, so spill,â
Deciding against having to pay orthopedics a visit, you stand up straight again, still eyeing the surrounding area warily.
âWellâŠthereâs this one patient thatââ
âThere you are, doc!â
In an almost comedic timing, a voice loudly interrupts.
You stiffen, squeezing your eyes shut. Maybe if you pretend not to hear him heâll leave you alone?
âDoc!â the voice calls again, closer this time. âBeen lookinâ for you everywhere!â
That clearly did not work. You inhale slowly through your nose, taking a deep breath and forcing a smile onto your face as you turn around.Â
âMr. Williamsââ
âHey, I told you to just call me Henry,â he smirks, sauntering up to the counter and leaning against itâ awfully confident for a man currently dressed in a hospital gown. âAnywaysâ you left before we could pick a day that works for you,â
You laugh awkwardly, briefly glancing at Parker, as to signal help with your gaze.Â
âUhâ I would, I justâ I think Dr. Ellis here needed a second opinionââ
âOh, no, thatâs fine. By all means, go ahead and finish up here!â she chirps, stifling a delighted grin, as she looks between you and Henry expectantly.
You make a mental note of her betrayal, vowing to never cover her shifts again.
Henry perks up immediately, sending you what you can only assume is meant to be a sexy smolder.Â
âŠItâs not.
Henry leans in a little more, like heâs expecting you to meet him halfway, biting his lip, and you have to stop yourself from physically recoiling.
âIâm pretty flexible,â he adds, lowering his voice like itâs supposed to be charming. âYou just tell me when youâre free, and Iâll make it work,â
You laugh again and it comes out strained this time.
Fuck, is this the life youâre doomed to live? At this rate youâre going to end up alone. Maybe you should just suck it up and say yesâ
âIs there a problem here?âÂ
Your saving grace appears in the form of Jack Abbot, and you have never been more relieved to hear his voice.
Parkerâ the snakeâ chooses right now as her moment to chime in, placing a firm hand on Henryâs shoulder.
âCome on, Henry, let me take you back to your bed,â
âWait a minute, I still need toââ
Henryâs protests fade away as Parker leads him back to his room, thankfully in the west and furthest wing of the department.
Sighing in relief, you turn to Jack with a bright smile, about to thank him, when he decides to speak up.
âSeriously? I take your phone and you pounce on the first patient your age?â
Your smile drops instantly, an offended expression forming.
 âWhat? I was notââ
âWell, you sure as hell didnât shut it down, did you?â he grunts, eyebrows raised and a cynical look in his eyes.
Your mouth snaps shut, a sheepish look crossing your face, because yes, you did have a slight moment of weakness and debated hooking up with a patient.Â
A girlâs gotta eat, though!
âRobbyâs always nagging about patient satisfaction scores anyways,â you joke, but it falls flat, Jackâs unamused face making you have second thoughts.
âThat was a joke,â you clarify, thinking it was just the late hour getting to him.
âIt wasnât very funny,â he counters, rolling his eyes.
Jesus Christ, he's sassy tonightâÂ
Sighing, you dig the heel of your palms into your eyes while you speak up, voice laced in exasperation.
Youâd fight this battle another time.
âSure, whateverâ Iâve cleared three patients, can I have my phone back now?â
Jack purses his lips, and youâre confused about what the hold up is about. When he still doesnât reach into his pocket, you speak up again, face scrunching up in confusion.
âOkay, have I done something?â you ask, eyes flitting across his hardened face and closed off body language. Everything screams annoyed and you have no clue why he would be angry with you.
âNo, I just think you have terrible taste in menâ Jack mumbles, pointedly avoiding your gaze.
âReally?â you scoff, face twisting in disbelief. âThis is about my dating choices?â
âItâs about you bringing it to work when you should be clearing bedsââ
âWe have like, five rooms emptyââ you retort easily, which only seems to further agitate Jack.Â
âWell, we should have moreâ we would have more, if you would just focus and get to work!â he barks, before turning away and storming off.
You stand in the middle of the ER, mouth slightly ajar as you try to understand what just happened.
And despite everything that had just transpired, you realize you still havenât gotten your phone back.Â
03:36 AM
Jack regrets it as soon as he says it, but it's too late by thenâ heâs already stormed off and turning back and apologizing would probably reveal what heâs doing a terrible job of trying to hide.Â
He doesnât understand it, why someone as brilliant, beautiful and kind as you would settle for thoseâŠdisappointments.Â
You needed someone who would take care of youâ to make sure you ate something proper during work, an actual hearty meal, instead of those protein bars you claimed sustained you.
Someone who could understand where you were coming from when you complained about work and your patientsâ not an insecure idiot who would whine about the late hours you workedâ saving lives daily.
You definitely needed someone who would spoil you.
Maybe pick you up and drop you off at work, someone to wine and dine you, run you baths after a particularly grueling shift, to sit by the tub and rub your damp shoulders and neck, before slipping further andâ
Jack shakes his head, swallowing hard. Fuck, he was getting out of hand.Â
âGet it together, manâ he mutters under his breath. A passing nurse gives him a quick glance, and Jack quickly sends her a charming smile, like he wasnât just staring into nothing, thinking about you.
04:30 AM
You stretch your arms up, suppressing a yawn as you settle down in front of an available computer, tapping your ID badge on the card reader and logging in to finally start charting.
The screen flickers alive and for a moment, you just stare at the blank page, thinking about the events that had unfolded.
Jack took your phone. Then he cockblocked a potential hookup. Then he yelled at you, and even though youâd cleared more than three patients, you still hadn't gotten your phone back, which was throwing you completely off your game.
You hadnât even been able to do your five-minute doomscroll while on the toilet earlier.
A cup lands on your desk, stopping your train of thoughts. Blinking, your eyes snap towards the culprit.
Jack is already looking at you, before his gaze shifts to the empty screen in front of you.
â...You looked like you needed some caffeine,â he mumbles and lingers, despite his action being finished.Â
In your tired, barely conciliatory state of mindâ a snort slips past your lips.
You cover your mouth in horror.
Jackâs eyebrows raise in surprise, unable to resist the smile forming on his face. He points at you, and you wish the ground would open up and swallow you whole.
âWhat was that?â he wheezes out through breathy laughter.
âWhat was whatââ you say, voice unusually high pitched as you feign ignorance, though the way your cheeks turn red betray your words.
âThatâ you justâ did you just snort?âÂ
Itâs not loud, heâs clearly trying to keep it contained for your sake, but it breaks through anywayâ a sharp, surprised laugh that he clearly didnât plan on letting out.
Your cheeks redden further and you huff, standing up and quickly logging out of the computer.
âIâm leaving!â
Jack moves before his mind registers what he's doing, his hand shooting out and grabbing your wrist. You freeze at the touch, stiffening just a bit.
Heâs not too bothered about it, having a sudden surge of confidence, which was evident in the way he tugs you closer to him.
âHeyâ it was cute,â he says softly, a teasing glint in his eyes that makes your heart pound faster in your chest and your hands grow clammy.Â
âYouâre just making fun of me,â you shake your head, muttering weakly, though a bashful expression still sweeps over your face.
âIâm not,â he says and it comes out too fast. Then, like he hears himself and doesnât like how insincere it sounded, he tries to soften it. âIâm not making fun of you,â
Reluctantly, Jack lets go of your wrist and grabs the coffee cup he brought you earlier. He easily identifies the look on your face as hesitation, motioning towards the cup in his hand with his chin.
âYou know, you laugh at everything when youâre tired,â he says, biting his lip as he holds back another grin.
When you donât take it, he takes your hand and forces you to grab onto it.
You reluctantly let your fingers wrap around it, peeking into it.
âWeâre still not friends,â you huff petulantly.
âMaybe I donât want to be your friend,â he says, eyes lingering just a moment too longâ before turning around at the sound of his name being called.
At his departure, you to overthink every decision youâve ever made in your lifeâ the ones that have led you here.
To a reality where Jack Abbot flirts with you, then leaves like itâs nothing.
06:00 AM
Youâve spent the last hour and a half of your shift avoiding Jack, going as far to write your charts on the other end of the ER.
Itâs your own fault, really. Clearly being deprived of love and affection has left you overthinking everythingâ as if thereâs any actual chance that Jack Abbot has been flirting with you.
Noâ thereâs no way.Â
If you knew, youâd have done something about it way sooner, not wasted your time on dating apps, entertaining guys that eventually end up calling their exes when wasted, and ruining any chance they had with you.Â
All the good guys were either deceased or takenâ and the only exception to that could not be your boss.Â
Because if there was something thereâ anything real, anything intentionalâ you wouldâve seen it.
Youâre not oblivious, youâve dated enough, survived enough disappointments to know what interest looks like.
And Jack?
Jack is justâŠ
Your fingers hover over the keyboard, because the list that comes to mind doesnât help your argument.
Heâs attentive. Annoyingly so, at times.
Well, he has to be, heâs the attending, you reason.
But then you think back to the coffee he brought you, exactly the way you liked it and under the pretense in which he had brought it over. Heâ noticed that you were tiredâ that you laugh at things that arenât even funny, when thatâs the case.
Also, your phone.
When he eventually gave it back, you had no notifications. Not that youâre that popular anywhere, but you specifically remember there being some texts you were purposefully ignoring, from some sleazy guys on Hinge.Â
Did he delete them because heâŠ
You sit up straighter, now racking your brain for every interaction youâve ever had with the older male.
When he first realized it was your phone, the one opened and active on dating apps.
Henryâ the way he was unreasonably upset after that whole fiasco, snapping at you then storming off like a child, throwing a temper tantrum.
The brief, casual touches, like itâs second nature to him to take care of you.
The final nail in the coffin is when you decide to look up, searching for himâ just to end this once and for all, to convince yourself that the sleep deprivation was getting to youâ when you lock eyes with him from across the department.
He blushes, before fumbling with the ipad in his hands, and then justâŠtakes off, leaving you to stare at the spot he had just occupied.
Holy shit.
Jack Abbot liked you.
06:57 AM
The last few minutes of a shift are always the worst ones. Itâs like time moves in slow motion, wanting to prolong the suffering for as long as possible.
Your phone buzzes, and you donât think about it when you dig it out of your pocket, blinking sluggishly as you try to read the notice.
Huh, guess thereâs a warning for heavy rainâ
âAre you serious right now?âÂ
You flinch at the sharp tone of voice thatâs suddenly directed at you.
Jack stands at the opening of the locker room, jaw clenched and hands on his hips as he takes in the sight of you on your damn phone, yet again.
âItâs not even seven yet, and youâre still entertaining thoseâŠlosers?â
Now that you knew what his annoyance stemmed from, you could have some fun. You shrug, grabbing your jacket from the locker, and zipping it up as you speak.
âWhat? Itâs the perfect time to go on a breakfast dateââ
âYouâre not going on a fucking breakfast date,â he scoffs, walking towards you.
You smile innocently, tilting your head slightly as you blink up at him.
âGive me a better offer, then,â
Jack falters, stopping just a few feet away, annoyance slowly fading at your words.Â
You donât back down, looking at him expectantly.
âWell? If youâre going to reject everyone for me, then you might as well take me out as well,â
He gapes, eyes widening in realisation.Â
You knew.
He clears his throat, shoving his hands into his pockets, then taking them out again and crossing his arms.
Come on, manâ you're fidgeting like a dork!
âIâ yeah, sure,â he splutters out, wincing at how he sounds.
âThat doesn't sound very convincing, Jack,â you tease, enjoying the fact that he was a blushing mess because of you, far too much.
âGo out for breakfast with me,â he says instantly, voice breathless and hands falling to his sides, like he's ready to reach out and stop you if you try to leave now. âPlease,â he adds quickly.
The last bit of control heâs been holding onto all night slips, and Jack was ninety percent sure he would beg if you asked him to.
Luckily enough, you donât. Instead, you smile at himâ that radiant smile that makes his stomach flutter with what can only be described as butterfliesâ just to walk right past him.Â
He feels his heart drop, closing his eyes as he curses internally.
Of course you were only messing with himâ
âAre you coming or not?â you call out from where youâre leaning against the doorway, still sporting that same smile.
Waiting for him.
Jack has never walked faster in his life.Â
In the parking lot, he opens the passenger side door of his car for you, only to stop before he shuts itâ searching your gaze.
â...Youâve deleted your account, right?â
âEND NOTE: âA boy whoâs jack-ed and kindâ haha, get itâŠ? Also, this couldâve been great smut, but Iâm just not there yet. âEven though you bought the Quinn subscription to hear Shawn Hatosy moan in your earsââ WHO said that?
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You can say with certainty that you've never seen Simon this drunk before.
The drunk text you got from Soap was a step away from being complete gibberish, but you were able to understand that he was telling you it was probably a good idea to come pick up your boyfriend.
You had no idea what to expect, but when you show up at the pub, Simon is slumped in the booth and the smell of booze is so strong you worry about any open flame sparking up around him. The moment he sees you he nearly tumbles out of his seat altogether from how violently he reaches out to you.
"Oi, lovie," he says, his accent thick with the alcohol. His big, clumsy hands land on you far heavier than they ever would sober. "There's my bird, my fu-" his voice catches in his throat for a moment from either a hiccup, burp, or nausea, "fuckin' baby."
"Yes, Simon, hello. I think it's time to go home." You glance over at Soap who's barely any better off than the giant man actively trying to crawl into your lap while you still stand. The sergeant just smothers a poorly hidden laugh behind his hands.
"'m drunk," Simon says like he's telling you a secret.
"I can tell."
"Don't divorce me, luv," he mumbles with such a hangdog look on his face it takes you a moment to realize what he said.
"Well, we'd first have to be married to do that."
"Wo'?"
"What do you mean 'what?'"
"We're no' married?" he says, looking genuinely distraught.
"No, baby." The dawning look of horror has you biting back a smile, not wanting to laugh directly in his face.
"But you're my wife."
You splutter. "Since when?"
"Fuckin' always."
"That's news to me. You want me to be your wife?"
"Yeah!" he hollers before immediately catching himself and looking up at you with those big, watery, brown eyes of his. "Sorry fer yellin'. I love you."
You lose the battle and can't help the laugh that punches out of your chest. Your hands cup his scarred, flushed face.
"I love you too, you silly, silly man. Come on, time to go home. You're not going to feel very good tomorrow."
Through a precarious balancing act you manage to get him more or less upright and on his feet all while your sweet boy mumbles to himself, "Wha', i's just yer my bloody wife, yeah? 'S my girl."
summary: abbotâs hand shouldâve never ended up between your thighsâbecause now youâre both trying to pretend it meant nothing, and neither of you is getting very far. [can be read as a standalone, but it's a loose pt 2 of this fic]
warnings: smut! car sex, panties being ripped, abbot yearns to the point of concern because he's down BAD for reader, reader cheats at beer pong & UNO because she can, a lil bit of angst but they fuck nasty so it's ok! thumb sucking, a lil bit of drooling, BITING, age gap implied, bad decisions being made, creampie (dont be like them), sexual tension, reader can't decide what she wants so abbot natrually fucks the decision into her á°.á
wc: 7.9k
Abbot was certain you were avoiding him. It was the only explanation that made any kind of sense. Itâd be impressive if it werenât so annoying, the way you kept managing to be somewhere else the second he came into view. Turning corners like youâd just remembered something urgent, suddenly very invested in literally any patient that wasnât his.Â
He could stop it. Heâs your superior, he could just tell you to assist him with a patient, heâd even take the scraps of your attention if it was just to discuss something medical. All heâd have to do is say your name in that tone and youâd come over, all professional and tight around the edges, and help him like youâre supposed to.Â
He doesnât, though.
Which is its own kind of pathetic.
Because apparently the possibility of you looking at him like heâs something youâd rather not touch is enough to keep him quiet. Enough to have him standing there, fully aware of whatâs happening, and letting it happen anyway.
He knows why youâre doing it. Thereâs no mystery there, no confusion or theories he could hide behind. He crossed a line. A very clear, very avoidable line, and he crossed it like he wasnât thinking.Â
His hand shouldâve never ended up between your thighs.Â
For a lot of reasons. One, because heâs had the temptation for months and somehow managed to keep it under control until now, which makes this feel less like a mistake and more like a failure of character. And two, because he knewâknewâit was never going to be a one-off for him, no matter what the two of you said at the time.
Youâre not the kind of girl who should settle for something casual, and heâs too damn old to be the kind of man who makes you come and sends you on your way, like thatâs all there is to it. Heâd want to make you breakfast, take you out to dinner, make space for you. Literally. A drawer at the very least.Â
Which, when he actually thinks about it, is a problem in itself.
The whole thing was a bad idea from the start.
And judging by the way youâve been treating him since, youâve come to your own conclusion about it. Pretend it didnât happen, and hope it quietly dies if you starve it of attention.Â
And it pains him that you seem to be doing that so effortlessly.Â
Because he canât get away from it. Not at work, especially not at home, not even in the stupid in between moments where his brain should be empty for once.Â
His kitchen, for example, is now completely unusable in any normal, mentally stable way. Even when heâs making his coffee, all he can seem to hear are the breaths and whimpers of you coming on his fingers, and not at all the beans being ground.
His shower is something else entirely. He canât even wash in peace anymore, which feels like a new low. All it takes is one stray thought and heâs right back there, stuck on you admitting that you touched yourself in there.Â
He canât even pretend these thoughts are occasional either. Theyâre constant. Always there. Even when he tries his hardest to drown them out. Which, again, is not ideal, given his job requires a baseline level of focus he is currently failing to maintain.
âEarth to Abbot. What do you want to do?â Shen asks, eyebrows raised, elbows and gown smeared with blood. âYouâve just completely dissociated on me, man.â
Abbot blinks. âRight,â he clears his throat. âOkayâno, weâre not happy with that. Suction.â
Shen passes it without comment, though thereâs a look there. Curiosity? Mild concern?Â
âBP?â Abbot asks.
âEighty-five systolic and dropping.â
He exhales through his nose, refocusing. âWeâve still got a slow bleed somewhere. Pack that for a secondâno, properly, youâre not putting enough pressure on it. There.â He adjusts Shenâs hand without thinking. âHold it like you mean it.â
Abbot was getting increasingly irritated as the night dragged on.Â
Usually that irritation worked in his favour, making him quicker and more precise, less tolerant of mistakes, including his own. It was useful.Â
Not tonight though.Â
Tonight that irritation sat under his skin, and refused to morph into anything productive. He wasnât doing anything wrong, but nothing felt right either. And on top of that, there was an endless stream of patients, the usual rotation of problems that should be routine by now, but somehow tonight they felt entirely foreign. His hands didnât even feel like they were attached to him properly.Â
And his thoughts, all they seemed to do was circle back to you.Â
The worst part of it all was that you were the one who said it was a one-off, implying you could both return to some sense of normalcy after that night, but you were doing everything that made him feel the opposite.
âCome get me if anything changes,â he says, voice clipped enough that Diaz doesnât even try to say anything back, just nods like he knows better.Â
His gown comes off in a rough pull, fabric sticking slightly before it gives, not even close to white anymore. Gloves go next, snapped off quick, dropped wherever.
He doesnât even really think about where heâs going until he spots you. Your backâs turned, which means you havenât had the chance to clock him and disappear yet. Thereâs a second where he considers leaving it. Just walking the other way. But heâs never really been particularly good at making sensible decisions when it comes to you.Â
âYou got a sec?â he calls out.Â
You turn, distracted at first, and then do a double take when it clicks that, yes, heâs actually talking to you. âMe?â you ask, pointing at yourself. âSurgery has already been paged twice for my patient in bay one.â
He almost sighs at that. Not because itâs wrong, but because of course itâs something thatâs already spiralled into multiple specialties and escalating calls and everyone pretending theyâre not responsible for it.
âYeah,â he says anyway, stepping closer before he can overthink it, then lowers his voice. âNot about that.â
âRight,â you drag out slowly, like youâre trying to decide whether thatâs better or worse.Â
A trolley clatters somewhere behind you, someone swears, an alarm rings before itâs quickly switched off. The department keeps on moving like it always does, indifferent to anything happening between the two of you.Â
Abbot looks down the corridor, exhales through his nose and looks back at you. âJustâfive minutes. Somewhere that isnât here.â
You nod, fingers drifting up without thinking, fidgeting with a necklace tucked under your scrubs. Youâre wearing a yellow undershirt today. He tries not to think about that too much.
âBathroom?âÂ
You nod again. âYeah, okay. Lead the way.â
He does just that, hoping you donât vanish the second he turns his back to you.
You donât.
That alone feels like a small victory.Â
He pushes the door open, holds it long enough for you to slip in first, then follows after you, turning the lock.Â
Suddenly it feels a lot more intimate than Abbot intended, especially considering what happened the last time the two of you were left to your own devices. Youâre leaning against the sink and counter, thighs shifting slightly from the pressure of it, filling out your scrubs in a way that makes his mouth go dry for a second before he can stop it.
He drags his eyes back up to your face, hand scratching at his stubble. âYouâve been avoiding me.â Itâs meant to sound like an accusation, but it doesnât land as one. Instead it sounds like something heâs been holding in his mouth too long, wrong shaped and stripped of any pride.Â
âIânot intentionally. Itâs just been a busy week.â
âPlease donât lie to me.â
You break eye contact, hand falling from your necklace as you let out a small sigh.Â
âOkay,â you admit eventually, softer. âMaybe I have been.â
âWhy?â
âYou know why.â
He nods, swallowing. âDo you regret what happened that night?â he asks and you still canât quite meet his gaze.Â
You bite the inside of your cheek.Â
âDo you?â he presses, a little quicker now, like if he doesnât keep moving the question forward itâll get stuck in him. âBecause thatâs the only reason I can think of you going out of your way to avoid me. We canât even act professional at work?â
âI have been professional,â you argue reflexively.Â
âAre you going to answer my first question?â
He watches your face like he can find the answer there before you say it, like heâs already halfway convinced heâs not going to like it but needs you to say it anyway.
âBecause if you do,â he adds reluctantly, âthen I need to know. So I can stop making it worse for you.â
âOf course I donât regret it,â you answer like itâs the most obvious thing and he feels his chest loosen. âWe said itâd be a one-off and Iâm just trying to find the best way to work around that.â
âAnd you think this is the best solution?â
âObviously not if youâre cornering me in the bathroom.â
Itâs meant to be a joke but neither of you laugh.Â
âIâm sorry,â he says immediately. âI crossed a line that night and I shouldnât have done it and itâs completely my fault for even putting us in this position, Iââ
âDonât do that,â you cut him off and he raises his brow at the interruption. âDonât make this out to be something itâs not. It wasnât just you that crossed a line, I did too, more than you. Please stop making it sound like something I was forced into.â You pause, taking in a breath, wiping your palms on your thighs. âI donât regret what happened. The only regret I have is that it clearly canât happen again. And I'm sorry that Iâve been avoiding you. It's obviously not working in the way I intended.â
Clearly canât happen again.
Youâre not wrong. Youâre not. It canât happen, there are actual rules about this, policies written in language so dry it makes your eyes glaze over but still very real, still very much enforceable, and it would completely jeopardise your future if anyone got wind of the two of you. Whether it turned into something serious or stayed exactly what it was that night in his kitchen two weeks ago, it wouldnât matter. It would still be a problem. A big one.
He knows that. Of course he knows that.
Yet his brain doesnât quiteâŠstop there. Doesnât neatly file it under sensible and move on like it should. Instead it lingers on the wording, on the way you said it.
Canât.
Not donât want to. Not even shouldnât.
Your only regret is that you canât do it again.Â
Which might actually make him go clinically insane. Manic. Deranged. Because itâs clear now, isnât itâthe both of you want this, but canât have it without consequences that would only land on you.Â
âYeahâŠyouâre right.â Is all he manages at first, then scratches the back of his neck, and when he looks back up youâre actually meeting his gaze and holding it properly. Longer than you have in the past two weeks. âCan we find a way to move past it without you ignoring me?â
Your face warps slightly, an immediate telltale thing you do when youâre trying to bite back a smile.
âWhat is it?â he asks, narrowing his eyes.Â
You shake your head. âNothing.â
âYouâre laughing at me.â
You shrug. âIf Iâd known giving you the silent treatment was this effective, I wouldâve enforced it months ago.â
âGood to see youâre back to making jokes at my expense again.â
âClearly you missed it.â
Thereâs silence again, and if heâs serious about getting the two of you back to something resembling normal, heâs going to have to stop doing thatâletting every word you say lodge somewhere in his head and sit there, overanalysed to death. Because he did miss it, and he needs to stop acting soâŠweird about it.Â
âMaybe.â
You smile at him, pushing yourself off the sink. âYou going to Ellisâs housewarming this weekend?â
âWasnât planning to.â
âWhy not?â
He pulls a face, turning towards the door. âNot really my thing.â
âWell why donât you come,â you press lightly, âwe could hang. Be normal about things.â
His head tilts a fraction, like heâs checking he heard you right and also like heâs trying not to read into it at the same time. âHang?âÂ
âYes. Hang. Thatâs what friends slash work colleagues do. Hang out socially with other people.â
He nods, fingers finding the lock. âIâll try and stop by.âÂ
Even as he says it, thereâs still a brief sliver of doubt, because itâs probably not wise, but then again, what could possibly go wrong this time? What line could the two of you cross in a house full of people, full of noise and movement, nowhere private, nowhere for anything to accidentally tip into something else?
When Saturday finally came, Abbot didnât really get a chance to second-guess going because Shen was already outside his place, leaning on the horn like he couldnât cope with even a second of silence. Which would make sense if they were running late. They werenâtâŠShen just got the time wrong.Â
Ellis didnât seem to mind when the two of them turned up an hour before everyone else was meant to arrive though, not with how quickly she put both men to work helping her set up.
In fact, when people did start showing up, it sort of worked in Abbotâs favour. He could stay long enough for you to see heâd made an appearance, then slip out early with a perfectly reasonable excuse of being there early and helping set up.Â
Itâs a win-win, all thanks to Shenâs poor time management for once lining up in his favour.Â
Heâs halfway through nursing a lukewarm beer thatâs gone as flat as a puncture by the time you show up, a large basket balanced in your hands.
Everyone else had brought the usual, bottles and more bottles, nothing you have to think about too hard. But from where Abbotâs standing your basket was filled to the brim with actual things youâd need when moving into a new place. Blanket, food, cleaning supplies, probably an overpriced scented candle nestled somewhere in there.Â
Heâs not surprised. Youâre always showing up over-prepared for even the smallest of things. He takes another sip of the beer and quickly regrets it, eyes drifting back to you before he can stop them.
You donât notice him straight away, too busy unpacking the basket and explaining everything you brought to Ellis. She looks genuinely grateful, keeps nodding along, but about halfway through she cuts you off, takes the basket from you and dumps it on the counter, then grabs your wrist and drags you towards the drinks like sheâs saving you from yourself.
And he justâŠwatches.Â
Not in a weird way. He tells himself that at record speed. He just canât seem to help the habit thatâs formed of tracking you in every room.Â
Ellis pours you a glass of whatever Shenâs attempted to pass off as sangria, watching you take a sip, face scrunching up almost immediately.Â
He huffs quietly to himself, shifting his weight, fully aware of how this must look from the outside. Him standing off to the side, completely blanking Robby whoâs right there, still talking, mouth moving, hands doing something vaguely animated, and Abbot hasnât caught a single word of it. Not one.Â
âWe donât sleep with the residents, man.âÂ
Abbot does a double take, like heâs been caught mid-thought and dragged back too fast. âWhat?â
Robby doesnât even look at him, just tips his beer in your direction. âYouâre practically fucking her with your eyes and she hasnât even put her bag down.â
He scoffs, taking a sip of beer to buy him some time.Â
âIâve already got Gloria breathing down my neck about budgets and patient satisfaction,â Robby goes on, âI donât need her adding fraternisation to the list.â
âNothingâs happening.â
âYeah?â
âYeah.â
âShame,â Robby adds, almost idly. âBecause if this is you not doing anything, Iâd hate to see what it looks like when you actually are.â
âWhat, now youâre encouraging me?âÂ
Robby snorts, shaking his head. âNo. Iâm just sayingâif there is anything happening, keep it the hell out of the ER.â
âThereâs nothing going on, man. You can drop it,â he mutters, knocking back the rest of his beer as he spots you walking over, unsure whether thatâs the best decision with what Robbyâs currently insinuating.Â
âOkay, well, I donât need to be privy to this conversation,â Robby sighs, noticing you heading their way. âIâd like some plausible deniability.â
Robby gives you a quick nod as you pass him, then veers off towards Dana without another word, leaving Abbot standing there with absolutely nothing to hide behind, nowhere to look except you.Â
Youâre wearing a sundress again.Â
And his brain justâŠmalfunctions for a second. Thereâs a slight lag when his eyes fixate on the way the material sits against your hips, the neckline lower, the hem shorter than the one heâs seen you in before. Itâs stupid how quickly he notices it, how it registers before he can even think to stop it.
This is exactly what Robby was talking about, and heâs stood here proving him right, fully incapable of acting like a normal person for five seconds when youâre in front of him.
âEllis said you helped set up,â you say, coming up beside him. âThat was nice of you.â
âDidnât really have a choice, she had us working the second we stepped through the front door. Didnât even get a tour or anything.â
âIs that why you decided to give everyone alcohol poisoning with the sangria?â
Abbot laughs, setting his drink down on the fireplace. âThat was all Shen.â
Thereâs a stench of silence and it makes him realise how bad the two of you are now at this whole normalcy thing. There never used to be silences like this, not ones that felt like either person was thinking about something else. The obvious elephant in the room, even to Robby apparently.
âWeâre setting up a round of beer pong,â Shen announces, appearing out of nowhere with a red cup filled to the brim with his sangria. âNext round is me and Ellis against you twoââ he points between you and Abbot. âBe there or be square.â
Abbot glances at the cup, then back at Shen. âHow about you be sober since youâre my ride?â
âYou can just catch a ride with Robby,â Shen shrugs. âHe drove.â
He shakes his head because he knew this would happen. Shen is the least reliable method of transport known to man. Abbotâs half surprised he even makes it to his shifts on time.
âYou playing?â you ask, glancing between him and Shen.
âI wasnât planning on it.â
Shen groans. âYouâre both playing. Iâve already decided.â
Abbot has come to realise that youâre actually really good at beer pong. Whether thatâs down to your aim or just sheer desperation to avoid drinking whatever the hell Shenâs made, heâs not entirely sure. Either way, the two of you are winning.
Which should be what heâs focusing on.
It isnât.
Because you keep leaning forward to line up your shots, bending over the table, one hand braced against the edge, the other hovering with the ball, squinting like itâs a matter of life or death. And itâs endearing how focused you get, how your tongue presses against your teeth, how you donât even seem aware of anything else when youâre aiming.
And heâs meant to be watching the cups. The game. Literally anything else.Â
Instead his eyes keep catching on the same things. The way the hem of your dress shifts when you bend, the brief flash of skin at the back of your thighs when you straighten and then lean again, the way your legs move when you step forward to grab the ball.Â
He drags his gaze back to the table just as you release the ball. It arcs cleanly and drops straight into one of Shenâs cups with a splash.Â
âNo fucking way,â Shen scoffs. âWe need to step our game up.â He nudges Ellis like sheâs personally responsible.
âYou need to step your game up,â she shoots back, grabbing the cup. âIâve been carrying you this whole time.â
Abbot can feel eyes burning into the side of his head. He turns enough to see Robby watching him with a smirk, shaking his head, as though Abbotâs hitting every milestone on a very predictable recovery plan, like a patient progressing exactly as expected. Which is irritating, because Abbot is not, in fact, improving.
He rolls his eyes at him and turns back to face you. âNice shot.â
âYeah?â You glance over at him, mouth tipping at the corner. âYou sure you saw it? You seem a little distracted.â
âDistracted? No, not at all,â he manages, which makes him sound like he was, indeed, distracted.Â
You donât comment though, just take a small step back so youâre beside him, shoulder brushing his as the two of you watch Ellis down the drink with visible regret before sheâs reaches for another ball.Â
âJesus,â you mumble under your breath. âSheâs going to hate us in the morning.â
âI already hate you,â she calls back, giving herself a dramatic shake like that might undo the damage. Ellis aims her ball like sheâs about to shoot, but Abbot sees you stepping to the side.Â
âEl, your footâs over the line,â you call out, all sweet and helpful.
She freezes mid-aim. âWhat?â
âYour foot,â you repeat, pointing vaguely. âYouâre fully cheating.â
âI am notââ Ellis glances down, shifting her stance to check.
The second she looks away from the cups, you go still beside him, lips pressing together like youâre trying not to laugh.
âI was about toââ Ellis snaps, readjusting, rushing it now. She throws the ball too quickly. It hits the rim and bounces straight off the table.
âYouâre full of shit,â Abbot mutters, just to you, eyes still on the table. âHer foot was not over the line.â
âIâm driving tonight.â You shrug, giving him a smile. âA girlâs got to do what she has to do.â
Ellis and Shen argue in front of you two, voices overlapping, something about angles, and you rushed me and you distracted me.Â
Abbot scoffs, looking at you. âI donât think Iâve ever seen anyone cheat at beer pong.â
âItâs okay to say youâre impressed. I wonât tell anyone.â
âI prefer to win fairly.â
âOh yeah,â you hum tauntingly. âI forgot youâre such a rule stickler. Always doing the right thing. Never crossing any lines.â
âOuch,â he clicks his tongue. âYou always get like this when youâre caught cheating at frat boy games?â
âLike what?â
He tilts his head, crossing his arms as he studies you. âI think thereâs a vein of rage popping on your forehead.â
âYeah? Nice of you to notice instead of trying to look up my dress all evening.â You give him a bratty smile, grabbing a ball and pressing it to his chest.Â
âThere she is,â Abbot hums, satisfied, because this version of you is exactly what he was waiting for. With this version thereâs no awkward push to get back to normal, no weird pauses where it feels like one of you should say something just to prove everythingâs fine. This is easier. You push, he pushes back. You get sharp, he gets worse.
Youâre too nice at work. Too polite. Too put together, all neat edges and carefully chosen words and that calm voice you use with patients that makes everything sound under control even when itâs not. And he likes that, he does, but thisâŠthis is better. This is you slipping a little, dropping it, letting him see the part that doesnât behave, doesnât follow the rules you keep going on about.Â
âYour turn,â you say, pressing the ball into his chest again. âTry not to miss.â
He takes it from you, hand covering yours before the ball settles in his grip. âLots of attitude for someone who needed to cheat two minutes ago.â
âI didnât need to,â you correct promptly, following him as he steps up to the table. âI just wanted to.â
âRight. That definitely makes it better.âÂ
âMy eyes are up here,â you remind him, tapping two fingers from your chest up to your face.
He wasnât actually gawking this time, but thatâs a weak defence considering every other time he has been, so he doesnât bother arguing with you.
âWouldnât want you getting distracted and making us lose.â
Several hours later, youâre pulling into Abbotâs driveway, the solar lights along the path flicking on like theyâve been waiting for him specifically. The engine idles for a second before you switch it off.Â
âThere you go.â
He unclips his seatbelt, keeping a hold of it as it slides back into the mechanism, his thumb pressing into the fabric. âThanks,â he says, glancing at you. âYou didnât have to.â
âWell it wouldâve been rude not to. Shenâs asleep on Ellisâs kitchen floor and Robby disappeared without saying goodbye.â
âYeah. Hope Ellis doesnât trip over him in the morning.â
It was meant to be quick. In and out. Show face, have a drink and leave early. But the opposite of that ended up happening, the majority of the night crew sticking around longer than the day shift. Now itâs later than he planned, and youâre here, in his driveway, with neither of you moving.
He should get out.
But youâre genuinely smiling at him, and heâs not sure he has the willpower to leave.Â
âYou had fun,â he notes, quieter than before.
âI did,â you confirm blithely. âYou?â
âMm.â He nods once, like thatâs enough of an answer. He glances down without meaning to, tracking the line of your milkmaid neckline where it dips as you move in your seat, and thatâs when he catches it.Â
A black card with a white outline peeking above the fabric. Something that looks suspiciously like one of the UNO cards Whitaker had insisted everyone play with. A game you somehow won three times in a row.Â
He huffs out a breath, not sure whether to be amused or surprised that youâd go that far to win a cards game meant for eight year olds. âYouâre unbelievable.â
 âWhat?â
âYouâre absolutely unbelievable,â he laughs dryly, turning towards you in the passenger seat. âYou cheated.â
You raise your brows, and he watches you physically fight the grin trying to break through. âAt beer pong?â
âYes, that too.â he replies, narrowing his eyes. âDonât play dumb.â
âI donât quite know what you mean.â
He gestures vaguely towards you, unsure how to phrase it without sounding insane. âYouâve got a card tucked in yourââ he cuts himself off, dragging a hand over his jaw. âYou know what I mean.â
âBra?â you supply for him.
âYes.â
âFunny, I don't seem to be wearing one.â
âJesus Christ you need to stop doing that,â he hisses, words coming out harsher than he intends. You have to be doing it on purpose at this point, thereâs no way youâre not aware of what youâre saying, what that does to him, how it lands and then just sits there in his head, repeating, expanding, getting worse the more he tries to ignore it.
Because now thatâs all he can think about, not the card, not the game, not anything remotely normal, just that. The fact you said it so casually, like itâs nothing, like it doesnât drag his attention right back down again, like he hasnât already had to physically pull his eyes back up to your face several times tonight.
âYouâre accusing me of hiding cards in a piece of clothing Iâm not wearing.â
âI saw it. Donât try and twist it.â
âIâm not twisting anything,â you reply, but thereâs that look again that tells him you know exactly what youâre doing to him. And, frankly, it's cruel.Â
âYou cheated,â he repeats, leaning in. âEveryone thinks youâre all nice and polite andââ he lets out a short, disbelieving breath, shaking his head. âYouâre a cheater. A serial cheater.â
Your brows lift, but instead of being offended, thereâs something else there, something that almost looks like interest. You undo your seatbelt, tilting your head. âYeah? What else?â
âYouâre manipulative.â
âWhat are you going to do? Pull my dress down and check?â
âIs that what you want?â
âI donât think thatâs a normal activity friends slash work colleagues doââ
âYou know damn well nothingâs been normal between us since that night. Youâre the one who said it was a one-off,â he goes on, because itâs been sitting there waiting to come out. âBut then you look at me like this and say things like that and expect me to justâwhat, ignore it?â
Your tongue darts out to wet your bottom lip and his hand tightens where itâs resting against his leg, fingers pressing into his own palm. âI didnât say ignore it.â
âThen what did you say?â
âThat it couldnât happen again.â
âRight. And this is you⊠sticking to that?â
You donât answer him, but youâre breathing has picked up.Â
âYeah,â he mutters to himself. âThought so.â
And then he just moves, like a car running every red light. His hand comes up, fingers firm at your jaw as he pulls you in, rougher than he means to be. The kiss lands messily, noses knocking, teeth catching because neither of you slow down enough to make it neat. It starts all wrong, rushed and badly aimed, with no patience from either of you to do it properly.
Thereâs a moment where he registers what heâs doing, where his brain catches up enough to go this is a bad idea, but then youâre kissing him back, deepening it, and that thought doesnât stand a chance.Â
He exhales against your mouth, thumb pressing into your jaw as he pulls you closer, like the extra inch matters, and it does, because the angle changes and your mouths fit better this time.Â
âCome here,â he murmurs, one hand sliding from your jaw to your neck while the other drops to your waist as he shifts, pulling you towards him. You let him, moving over the console, the whole thing awkward and uncoordinated, things getting knocked in the process, your knee bumping into him, his elbow catching against the door.
He makes a frustrated sound when you finally settle into his lap, like the movement wasnât fast enough, like even now heâs impatient, still pulling you closer once youâre there, his cock aching for friction.Â
âStill think this is a one-off?â he mumbles, words uneven, breaking between kisses as they drop from your mouth to your jaw, then lower.
Your fingers bunch in the fabric of his shirt, tugging it up, chasing the heat of his skin. You pull it over his head, your hands coming to rest on his shoulders as his dig into your hips.
âYouâre not very good at sticking to your own rules,â he adds, leaning in to press another wet kiss beneath your jaw. He sucks at the delicate skin before swiping his tongue over it to soothe.Â
âWeâwe bothââ you start, breath catching when his hand comes to palm your breast, ââagreed itâd be a one off.â
âNu-uh,â he tuts. âYou said youâd be able to move past it. I told you I couldnât.â His fingers hook into your dress, tugging it down, the off-the-shoulder sleeves giving just enough for the fabric to slip, exposing your chest to him.
Heâs imagined you like this more times than heâd ever admit, and heâs almost surprised he even registers the small cascade of UNO cards slipping free. The cards hit him, light taps against his stomach before theyâre sliding down between the both of you.Â
âYouâre fucking joking.âÂ
You just shrug, like itâs nothing, like youâre not currently straddling him with evidence of your cheating scattered in his lap. You shift to reposition yourself, and he feels it immediately, his cock aching to be inside of you.
âUnbelievable.â His hand lifts, coming up to your chest, fingers closing around your nipple as he pinches it between his thumb and index finger, his eyes dragging over you, taking you in like he doesnât know where to look first, like he wants all of it at once. âYou cheat, you lie, and then you justâwhatâsit here like this?â
You tip your head back at the feeling, and he follows, bringing his mouth closer, tongue swiping over the nub as he watches you through his lashes.
âYou donât seem that upset,â you slur, hand digging into his shoulder as you roll your hips against him.
âBaby, with the view I have right now, I donât think Iâd notice if someone dropped dead in front of me.â
A soft sound slips out of you, half laugh, half moan, and it only makes his jeans tighten. He swears under his breath, pressing his forehead against your shoulder like that might help. He needs to control himself. He has to. Heâs already finished in his pants prematurely like some horny teenager once before, and he really doesnât fancy doing it again unless itâs inside you.
âNeed your jeans off,â you mumble, hands reaching for his waistband, fingers deftly working the buttons.Â
âYeah? Think we might struggle in here.â
You shake your head, lifting yourself, balancing on your knees, the absence hitting him, a brief void he feels but doesnât dwell on, not when your hands are right there, working each button open one by one.
Without warning, your hand dips under the denim, and Abbot inhales sharply as you palm him through his boxers.
âHuh,â you breathe, a smug edge to it, and he already knows what youâre about to say, can feel it in the way his precum has soaked through the fabric. âHave you been this worked up the whole night?â
He lets out a strained laugh because heâs been caught out and doesnât have the energy or focus to deny it. His head tips back against the seat, eyes squeezing shut before he looks back at you.Â
âAnswer the question,â you press, your hand slipping underneath his boxers. Thereâs not much room for you to move, but the second your hand wraps around his cock, his breathing turns frantic, his hands digging harder into your hips.
âYeah,â he grunts. âBeen like this since you walked in.â
Your brows lift, impressed, like you werenât expecting him to actually say it. âGood.âÂ
You lean in to kiss him, and he tries his best to reciprocate, but all he manages are sloppy pants because your hand is still doing its best to pump him and he canât concentrate.
âHelp me out,â you murmur, biting his lip as you pull away. Your hands move to the waistband at his hips as you tug, and Abbot pushes himself up, giving you just enough space to drag his jeans and boxers down halfway to his thighs.
Your hand grips him properly now, sliding up and down his length, your thumb brushing over the tip. Your mouth parts as you do it, like youâre getting drunk on the sight of it, on getting him off. He finds himself thinkingâbriefly, unhelpfullyâabout what it would feel like to have your mouth on him instead. Whether youâd look the same. Whether youâd get that same faraway, intent expression.
But thereâs no space for that in your cramped car.
And heâd rather feel your pussy swallowing his cock instead.Â
His hand closes around your wrist, stopping your ministrations in one decisive move. âWait,â he says, though he doesnât actually give you time to respond.
Because then his mouth is on you instead.
Your dress is already pushed up, bunched carelessly at your waist, and his hands follow without needing to think about it, sliding underneath the fabric, mapping their way upward along your thighs with a familiarity that feelsâŠearned.
He finds what heâs looking for.
Hooks his fingers into it.
Then pulls.
It gives immediately, the rip louder than it should be in the enclosed space.Â
âAbbot!â you gasp. âWhat the hell?â
âThey were in my way. Sorry, baby.â
You blink at him, still catching up. âThey were expensive.â
âIâll get you new ones.â
âHow am I meant to drive home?â
Thatâapparentlyâis the wrong question.
He pulls back to look at you, and then he scoffs, quiet and disbelieving, like youâve said something so wildly off-base it doesnât even deserve a serious response.
âDrive home?â he repeats.
Thereâs a beat.
âYou think you get to just leave?â The question isnât really a question. âNot a chance.â His thumb finds your clit, applying light, deliberate pressure. His mouth follows, pressing a tender kiss to your neck. âYouâre spending the night,â he murmurs against your skin. âIâve got plenty of boxers.â
Another kiss. Slower this time.
âOr,â he adds, like heâs genuinely considering alternatives, âyou can walk around without anything at all.â His thumb circles your clit again. âI donât mind.â
You wither against him, your body registering the touch before your brain has had a chance to catch up. âJack,â you start, but it falls apart halfway through, the rest of it never quite assembling into anything usable.
He hums delicately against your neck, like heâs listening, like he might even care.
He doesnât stop, his thumb moving in an achingly slow rhythm. âYouâre thinking too much.â
âMânotââ
âYou are.â
You shake your head anyway and he doesnât accept that. His free hand comes up to your face, settling at your jaw, thumb just beneath your cheekbone. Not rough but not optional either. âLook at me.â
You do. A little slower than usual. A little softer around the edges. Like youâre already halfway gone somewhere else and heâs pulling you back just enough to see it.
âYou are,â he repeats, nodding once like that settles it. As though itâs something observable, not arguable. His thumb picks up the pace and he watches the moment it lands. The way your expression shifts around it. The delay. The way your focus slips, then tries to come back.
Interesting.Â
Thereâs something almost clinical in the way he tracks it, the small details, the cause and effect. Detached, if it werenât for the fact that his own breathing has started to change, slower but heavier, like heâs not as removed from it as heâd maybe prefer to be.
âThat feel good?â
You nod.Â
âSee?â he says, voice dropping. His other thumb drags slowly across your lips, catching on the slight part of them. He stops there, just for a second, feeling the warmth of your breath, the softness of it, like heâs deciding something.
âStop arguing with me.â
Thereâs a pause.
Then he presses his thumb into your mouth.
He feels the moment you take it, the way your lips close around it, the faint pressure of your teeth as you bite down.
âSit up for me, baby.â He reluctantly pulls his hand away from your warmth, only for it to settle on your hip instead, guiding you up gently. You meet him halfway, lifting yourself and grabbing him again, both of you glancing down as you line him up.
You press the head of his cock against your clit, rocking yourself against it.Â
âJesus,â he bites out, his thumb slipping out from your mouth with a thin string of drool stretching between. âSlowlyâgo slow.â
You nod, as you ease down, taking him in bit by bit.
Your nails dig into his shoulders, sharp enough to make him suck in a breath, and for a second he thinks about telling you to keep going until you draw blood but heâs not sure thatâs wise in your dazed state.Â
âFuck,â you grit, stopping yourself before youâre even halfway down him.
âToo much?â
âMhm.â
âSâokay,â he slurs, focusing on your puffy clit again, drawing slow circles, helping you take all of him. âYou can do it.â
His grip tightens at your hip, thumb pressing in harder as he watches you, completely locked in, like if he looks away for even a second he might miss something important. The way your face pinches. The way your breathing shifts.Â
âThatâs it,â he murmurs, softer now, coaxing more than anything. âYouâve got it.â He watches every inch of it, the slow give, the way your body takes him, the hesitation that never quite turns into stopping.
âYeah⊠there you go.â
Youâve bottomed out now, all of him deep inside you, gripping him so tight heâs not even sure how much longer he can last, and you havenât even started moving yet. He goes still, in an attempt to chase composure.
âDonâtââ he starts when he feels you shift, then stops, jaw tightening as he recalibrates. âJustâstay there a second.â
His forehead dips forward, almost brushing yours, his eyes half-lidded as he tries to steady himself through it.
âTell me when,â you whisper.Â
That nearly undoes him more than anything else.
Thereâs something about the way you say it. Gentle. Willing. Like youâre handing the control back to him without even thinking about it. Trusting him with it.Â
He leans in for a kiss, and itâs slower than the ones before. Thought-out. Intentional. All that earlier hunger still there, but pulled tight beneath the surface now, tempered by the fact that heâs already inside you.
It changes things.
Makes it heavier.
He presses in deeper, tongue sliding against yours, and you let out a broken whimper into his mouth. âGo ahead,â he says, pulling back enough to take in the way youâre looking at him now.Â
You lift your hips, then lower yourself again, and he can feel the way your body adjusts around himâyour walls clinging to his cock as you start to find a pace that works for you.Â
Abbot searches for your hips, guiding you, pushing you down onto him when you reach the base again, the curls there brushing against your clit.Â
Your eyes are screwed shut and he takes this time to watch you shamelessly, The sheen of sweat starting to gather along your forehead, the way your breath hitches every time he pushes you down just a bit further.
Itâs fucking euphoric.Â
You keep moving, whiningâhalf-words, curses, his name slipping in and outâas you pick up the pace, losing whatever rhythm you started with in favour of something needier.
âSuch a greedy girl,â he mutters, watching the way a slick ring of wetness gathers and drags along his cock as you bounce up and down, your cunt squeezing him so tight heâs grasping at straws to make sure you finish before him.
His thumb finds that sweet spot, making you go limp against him, your forehead sprawling against his shoulder.
âYesâkeep doing that,â you mewl, and heâs the kind of man who follows orders, even when heâs not sure heâs got anything left to give.
Your teeth sink into his shoulder, and it pulls a husked sound out of him.
âYeah? Thatâs what you do?â His hips meet yours, as he plunges in and out of you, feeling your thighs tighten and shake around him. âDidnât take you for a biter,â he mocks, but thereâs no surprise in it, in fact he sounds pleased.Â
You say something incoherent back and he just laughs. âGo on,â he encourages, tilting his head to the side to give you better access. âIf youâre going to do it, donât halfââ
He cuts himself off with a sharp exhale when you do, the pressure of it shutting him up completely.
âChristââ
âMâclose, Jackâso close.â
His head drops again, eyes finding you like he needs to see it, needs to confirm itâs actually happening and not something heâs made up to torture himself with later. âYou like that? Thatâs what gets you going?â
âYesâfuck, yes.âÂ
Abbot feels you tense around him, your movements losing whatever shape they had, turning messy as the two of you dissolve into nothing but a tangle of limbs and half-formed sentences. Fragments of words, sounds that donât even belong to language anymore.
You come undone with a cry, muffled against his skin thatâs probably raw and marked now, something heâll notice later. Your whole body tightens, then gives, your grip on him turning desperate while it rushes through you.Â
It hardly takes Abbot a minute before he follows, the sight of youâlike this, because of himâpushing him past whatever control he thought he still had. His hips jerk with a force that pulls a string of curses from him that are grunted into your hair, his cock twitching inside you as he thrusts into you one last time.
Thereâs no other sound for a few minutes, other than the two of you trying to catch your breath. Abbot can hear your heartbeat where youâre pressed against him, feel his own still thudding hard in his chest.
He leans back, resting his head against the seat, eyes closing.
âFuck, Iâm so sorry.â
His eyes open immediately at that because you sound horrified, like somethingâs gone wrong, and his stomach drops at the off chance youâre regretting all of this already.
âWhat?â he starts, already bracing for the worst.Â
He then follows your line of sight, your gaze fixed on his shoulder and immediately relaxes. â...That?â he asks, glancing back at you.Â
You wince, reaching up like youâre not sure whether to touch it or not. âI didnât mean toâI justââ
âHeyâitâs fine.â
You look unconvinced.
âItâs not fine, IâJack, I think I actually made you bleedââ
âI know. I was there.â
That earns him an embarrassed huff. âI didnât even realise I was doing it.â
âI did,â he replies smugly. âDidnât hate it either.â
Thereâs a pause as you study him, like youâre trying to figure out if heâs serious or just trying to make you feel better. â...Youâre weird.â
âYeah, says the one who was doing all the chomping.â
Your mouth drops open. âOkay. Iâm leaving.â You pull your dress back up over your chest and try to shift up, since heâs still inside you, but Abbotâs hands clamp around your hips, holding you in place.
âNot a chance. I already told you youâre spending the night.â
You catch the inside of your cheek between your teeth. âDo you think thatâs wise?â
âProbably not,â he admits. âBut Iâm still not changing my mind.â He leans in, placing a kiss on your shoulder. âPlus youâre not exactly in a state to go anywhere.â
âI could,â you mutter.
He raises a brow.
ââŠI could try.â
He shakes his head, an amused exhale leaving him âStay. Just for tonight. Weâll figure the rest out tomorrow.â
Your body sags against him, the fight easing out of you as your fingers brush lightly over the his raw skin. âJust for tonight,â you repeat.
Though neither of you can really pretend this is just a one-off anymore.
soulmate first words au where Simon grew up with the words âoh my god, please, donât.â plastered across his arm in dark black ink. since the moment he could read, heâd been terrified of what that meant. heâd heard those words from him mother enough times when his dad came home drunk and swinging fists towards anything that moved, heâd heard them in back alleys while undercover, some poor woman being groped by a man twice her size, and heâd even heard it once or twice from the poor fucker heâd put a bullet in after interrogations gone wrong. Every time he flinches, wondering if that was his one shot at something good heâd just killed in cold blood. Fitting, for a bastard like him, or so he told himself.
It wasnât until a night off with the team in some sweaty, sticky bar that he runs into you. As much as he tries to ignore the girl on a shitty date who keeps pushing the manâs hands off her ass and fake laughing at his boring jokes, it grates at him for reasons he can quite grasp. Later, heâll catch the tail end of a screaming match outside the bar. One that has your date storming off, and you sinking onto the grimy concrete in your nicest outfit. Heâll watch from the shadows, flicking the ash off a cigarette before finally saying, âWant me to kill him for ya?â and when your eyes shoot up to the stranger in disbelief he tacks on, âfree of charge.â
He almost canât make it out through your laughter, wet with lingering tears. âoh my god, please, donât.â you chuckle, âi wouldnât last a day in prison.â between the burning on his arm, exactly where those dreaded words are, and the way the air feels like itâs been punched straight from his lungs, simon canât muster up a reply fast enough.
You, on the other hand, have a smile slowly forming as you rub your own burning mark. âDo you know how worried my parents were when they saw what this said? They put me in preemptive therapy and everything. Thought Iâd end up in a gang or something.â The man reaches a hand out, offering to help you stand. âYouâre not are you? In a gang I mean?â
Another puff of smoke leaves his lips in what you think might have been the beginning of a laugh. âNo, military. Close enough, though.â
Dusting yourself off, you sneak a closer look at the shadowed stranger. your soulmate, a voice inside flutters with childish glee. âWell damn, there go all my mob wife aspirations.â
He sighs, and steps closer to you, just within the light of a flickering street lamp. Now, you can make out his features. Scars cover every inch of exposed skin, twisting and mangling what might have once been a fair face. Under your gaze, he waits cautiously, âSorry to disappoint.â A double meaning you catch immediately.
You motion back to the bar the both of you had been in earlier, then close your fingers around his with a tug, âMake it up to me, then?â
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your favourite thing to do is raise your boyfriendâs blood pressure. you love stressing him out and seeing the way he fights so hard to not get frustrated because heâs aware just how much you hate any form of anger.
you scroll on your phone and see the perfect joke to pull on him, a grin tugging at the corner of your lips as you wait for him to come home from a quick visit to soapâs.
you hear the front door close, a quick yell of your name escaping him as he makes his way to the kitchen. you quickly jump off the bed, rushing downstairs to find him, an eager smile tugging at your lips.
he takes one brief glance at you and pauses, a furrow in his eyebrows as he tries to register your random excitement, âcanât have missed me that much lovie, was only gone about an hour or two.â
âno not that baby! yâknow how you were talking about getting your oil changed for your car?â you ramble and he nods slowly, carefully, almost as though heâs expecting this conversation to go south instantly.
âi saw online an easy way to do it so i did it for you!â you bounce on your feet and he freezes instantly. it takes everything you have to remain composure and not burst out laughing at the bewildered look that crosses his features.
heâs pacing the kitchen the moment the words fill the air, a hand tugging through his hair as he rushes out, âlike you went to a garage, hm? yeah?â
âgarage? no silly, i did it all myself,â you walk over to him and he inhales sharply. you can see the sheer confusion and slight panic overtaking him. you changed the carâs oil? you who still asks him how much your tank can fill despite having had the same car for 4 years.
âhow⊠how did you do that?â his eyes are calculating, staring intensely at you like heâs praying for some miracle, some reassurance that you havenât completely fucked up his car.
âso the guy was saying you can just like put some vegetableââ youâre not even able to finish the sentence when he splutters on air, interrupting your words with a practiced step towards you.
âlovie, i swear to fuck if you say you put vegetable oil in my car,â he trails off, eyes practically burning holes into you as he sighs, a loaded sound that shows heâs trying to keep his calm.
you try again to not laugh, a faux expression of concern plastered as you respond, âyeah well the man said it was like an easy life hack and we have so much vegetable oil at home because of that shopping deal so i thought it was perfect! is something wrong?â you blink up at him innocently.
heâs pacing again, âoh lovie, for fuckâs sake, how many times do i have to tell you these people online are con artists? you never listen to them without checking with me first.â
he holds his hand out and you read the gesture easily; heâs asking for his car keys. but youâre not done yet, you donât want him to check and realise youâre messing with him so instead of handing the keys over, you force a frown.
âi was only trying to help iâm sorry⊠are you mad? i just thought well, oil is oil,â you manage to murmur without giggling like a mad woman and he sighs again, moving to stand right in front of you.
he tilts your head up slowly, his hand massaging your jaw as he tried so hard to keep his calm. you can tell itâs damn near impossible for him but heâs doing it for you and you almost feel bad.
âi justâ fuck lovie, i wish youâd check these things with me first, yeah? âm not mad. i just didnât need that extra hassle to fix this shit,â he pauses, pulling you into his arms and tucking your head under his chin, ânot mad but jesus. vegetable oil baby? youâre smarter than that, iâve taught you better than that.â
heâs clearly concerned about his car but heâs put that aside to comfort you for a so called mistake you made. it makes you smile into his chest and he tenses the moment he feels the expression against him.
âjust because âm not fucking mad, doesnât mean itâs funny,â he releases his hold on you and suddenly everything feels empty.
you know youâre the one pranking him but the lost feeling when he lets you go makes your lower lip tremble. youâre just so ridiculously sensitive and the idea of him being pissed at you, even if you carefully planned it has you sad and regretting everything.
he presses his eyes shut at your emotional state, âokay didnât mean that, shite. donât cry, fuckâs sake, come here,â he pulls you into his big arms again, this time wrapping you up entirely.
and despite his worries for his precious car, you in his arms is far more precious so he kisses your forehead, âbaby, âs okay, donât cry, lovie. iâll fix it, yeah?â
âwas joking,â you finally sniffle, âjust pranking⊠âm not that stupid.â
he inhales deeply, a measure to grasp a hold of the situation before he replies, âgonna give me a bloody heart attack one day, raisinâ my blood pressure and shit. fucking menace huh? yânot stupid.â
he strokes your hair, heaving a sigh of relief as his eyes flicker down to you. heâs this bag mass of muscles and anger when it comes to anyone else but you? just fucking look at him, comforting you when youâre the one who had the clever idea to mess with him in the first place. he just hates seeing you anything but over the moon. whipped. so utterly and shamelessly whipped.