caregiver jack abbot who coos at you when you shuffle into the living room with dried drool crusted by your lips and a blanket clutched in your fist. the arm not preoccupied with the book perched in his lap lifts almost as if on instinct, allowing you space to settle directly against his side.
“there’s my sleepyhead,” he teases lightheartedly, leaning in to kiss the top of your head despite the way his readers slip down the bridge of his nose. his tone earns a playfully fussy whine in reply although you’ve only half processed the words leaving his mouth.
water still clings to the silver curls plastered to jack’s forehead and the smell of his soap is a familiar comfort that tells you that he’s there without you really having to look at him. curled up beside him you feel smaller than ever, enveloped by the warmth of jack’s presence— the kind that lures you further away from the noisy part of your head.
your hand tangles loosely into the fabric of his black t shirt, face nudging further into the hideaway you’ve made for yourself. jack’s chest rumbles faintly from his own soft chatter, already quietly reading the lines from whatever novel he’d picked up to calm himself after a shift at the hospital.
he only pauses his reading to respond with an occasional “mhmm” and “yeah, s’that right?” when you manage to sleepily interject with an intelligible noise.
(or alternatively.. caregiver jack with little koala reader who can’t help but cling to him whenever possible)
